What Did We Do Wrong?

Signal interrupted.

Malakim closed his eyes.

He didn't want to see the final moment.

What he wants to remember are the better times: the sweat on the training field, the wine at victory celebrations, and the trust between his brothers fighting side by side.

But all he remembers is the betrayal.

The Minotaurs Chapter launched a surprise attack, and the warriors who had once called each other brothers turned their Bolter on them.

The Inquisition's cold verdict: a century of atonement, an eternal stain.

The other Chapter looked at them with eyes that avoided them like the plague.

Even the Blood Angels, their father organization, kept their distance.

Because those Lamenters are a product of the "Cursed Founding," a living reminder of that dark history.

Since most of the Chapter that Cursed Founding have defected, the remaining ones must also face suspicion.

That's not fair.

They fought, they sacrificed, and they upheld their oath to the Emperor.

They suppressed Red Thirst and Black Rage better than many Chapter.

They never wavered, even when abandoned by the entire Imperium.

But when has there ever been fairness in the Warhammer Universe?

Malakim opened his eyes again.

He forced himself to look at the Plague Marine who were closing in.

There were twenty, thirty, or maybe more.

Their armor was covered in living fungi, their weapons grew fleshy tentacles, and their bodies were a collection of various plagues and mutations.

Some people grew a second face on their stomachs, some had flowers that constantly oozed pus on their backs, and everyone exuded a sweet stench of death and decay.

Leading the group was an exceptionally large warrior, whose helmet had been modified into a giant fly's head, and whose compound eyes reflected the shattered figure of Malakim.

"Chapter Master Malakim Phoros,"

"The Abyss Watcher," said the fly-headed creature, its voice buzzing.

Destroyer Lord.

The last leader of the Lamenters.

Your loving father has prepared a special gift for you.

He took something out of his waist.

It was a heart, but it had been modified. Its surface was covered with fungi, and its blood vessels had turned into green tentacles. With each beat, it sprayed out tiny spores.

"Accept your father's love,"

The fly-head said, "Your suffering will end."

Your body will become part of the Garden of Nurgle, forever flourishing, forever decaying, forever changing.

Malakim smiled.

Laughter squeezed out of his wounded chest, tinged with blood and foam, hoarse and unpleasant.

"I refuse,"

He said, "I reject your god."

The fly's compound eyes flickered, as if in surprise.

Would you rather die in despair?

Would you rather your soldiers sacrifice themselves in vain?

Would you rather disappear forever, leaving not even Gene-seed behind?

"We will not disappear."

Malakim said he felt tears streaming down his face, mingling with rain and blood, "The blood of Sanguinius will not be broken."

Even if we all perish in battle, even if our names are forgotten, even if our sacrifice is not remembered, we will still be the Emperor's angels.

We are still --"

He couldn't continue.

It wasn't because I had no words, but because my throat was choked with sobs.

He didn't want to cry, didn't want to show weakness in front of these blasphemous monsters, but he couldn't control himself.

Tears kept flowing, hot tears, the last bit of warmth in his body.

He was crying.

We weep for our dead brothers, we weep for the unfulfilled atonement, we weep for the sky where Baal Farsight.

The Plague Marine watched him cry and chuckled with satisfaction.

"She cried,"

One said, "The angels are weeping."

"A loving father will like it,"

Another said, "Tears of despair are the sweetest offering."

The fly-head crouched down, looking directly at Malakim.

Upon closer inspection, his compound eyes are composed of countless facets, each reflecting Malakim's weeping face.

Do you know?

"We were loyal once," said Flyhead, his voice suddenly becoming almost gentle.

We chose life, not meaningless death.

We chose to accept change rather than stubbornly reject reality.

He lifted Malakim's chin with one finger—the fingernail had fallen off and been replaced by a cluster of writhing maggots.

"You can also choose."

Join us.

To live.

Feel the love of a loving father.

Appreciate the beauty of change.

You will find eternal life in eternal decay.

Malakim stared at the finger.

Watching the maggots wriggle around my fingernail.

Looking at the pair of crazed eyes behind the slits of the fly-head helmet.

He recalled Aelius's chest cavity stuffed with maggots.

He remembered Redma's shattered chest.

He remembered the boy's face being peeled off.

"No!"

"I choose to die with honor!"

He said, and then, with his last bit of strength, spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm onto Fly Head's face.

The sputum fell onto the compound eye, making a hissing, corrosive sound.

The fly took a step back, emitting an angry buzzing sound.

"Then die!"

He said he pulled a knife from his waist.

That wasn't a metal knife, but rather a piece of the rib bone of some kind of creature, its surface riddled with holes from which tiny tentacles protruded.

"But not soon; a loving father prefers long farewells."

He raised the knife.

The knife tip was aimed at Malakim's remaining heart.

Malakim watched the knife tip fall.

Time seemed to slow down.

He could see every hole in the blade, every tendril writhing within those holes, and the faint light reflected from the blade's tip.

That was a ray of sunlight shining through a gap in the clouds, perhaps the last ray of sunlight on this planet.

He remembered a prayer.

It was not a formal prayer from the sacred texts, but a private prayer that circulated among Lamenters and was never officially recognized.

That was written by the first chapter Chapter Master when he learned that his Chapter had been marked "Cursed Founding".

Sanguinius, you fell from the sky

We crawl on the ground

Your wings are broken

Our spine is bent

But the blood was still burning hot.

My heart is still beating.

The vow remains in my heart

Until the last drop of blood was drawn

Until the last heart stops beating

Until the last name is forgotten

We are still your sons

Malakim silently recited this in his heart.

He waited for the knife to pierce his chest, awaited the final pain, awaited the end.

Then he heard a sound.

It was not the gurgling of Plague Marine, not the dragging sound of slime, not the blasphemous prayer.

That's the sound of Bolter.

Crisp, loud, and rhythmic.

It is a standard model Bolter, well maintained, and with ample ammunition.

And there was the roar of engines.

It wasn't the sickly panting of Nurgle ship, but a powerful, stable, and efficient propulsion.

And a distinctive, sharp sound of something cutting through the air.