Mortarion stood outside the house, scythe in hand, gazing at the distant mountains shrouded in poisonous mist.
At the highest peak, within the densest poisonous fog, stood the castle of his foster father, Foster Father Nac'Lare.
That bastard... his father... Mortarion had sworn countless times: either he died, or I did.
Mortarion deeply feared his foster father and deeply hated him.
Ever since he could remember, abuse and curses had been part of daily life. He was forced to complete impossible tasks, then saved by his foster father's Psychic Power when he was on the verge of death.
When he was still weak, Mortarion had been made to climb cliffs through acid rain.
Or fight dozens of rock-corroding dogs before he had even learned to stand.
Or be thrown into poisonous swamps to tear and bite at Witchcraft corpses, their bodies rotting and crawling with disease.
There was no doubt about it. He was too weak, and he had failed every time.
"Useless thing."
"You can only howl in the mud, then wait for me to save you."
"How many more times do I have to save trash like you?"
That was what his father said.
"If you fail again, I'll snap your neck."
Yet Mortarion had never succeeded.
"You are a failed weapon, a freak. You are unlike every other creature here."
"You are the failed product of my witch experiments. I should have destroyed you back then."
"Forget it. A failed thing like you is only good for fighting wars against other lords."
"Be grateful for my mercy, my worthless son."
He was going to kill him.
Mortarion was going to kill his father.
He had sworn countless times that he would kill him.
When every bone in his body was broken, his lungs torn out, and he struggled trembling in the swamp, he swore it; when acid rain ate away his skin until it peeled off and his chest was pierced through, he swore it; when his limbs were torn off and he was nailed to a cliff, struggling, he swore it.
He swore, he swore, he swore that he would kill him.
Mortarion's world had once been simple: grow stronger, stronger, stronger still, until he could stand atop the most poisonous mountain peak on Barbarus, until he could tear his foster father's head from his body.
Other than killing his father, he thought of nothing else and desired nothing else.
His world consisted of slaughter, cages, rage, and fear.
In his countless fantasies, there had only ever been two endings for him: either he would be too weak and die in some battle, or he would become strong enough to kill his foster father.
He had no time to care about anything else.
—Until those two strange lowlanders appeared.
Yes, his foster father had forbidden him from interacting with the humans in the valley below. They were "lowlanders," living crops.
Before that, Mortarion had never encountered humans.
He did not know what "his own kind" meant.
But when that strange little boy stared directly at Mortarion through the poisonous mist, Mortarion's world was overturned in an instant.
He was human.
Mortarion was human.
Hades and Typhon shattered Mortarion's little world. They showed him an entirely different world, a world filled with his own kind.
Even if that world was far from perfect—fragile, crude, and rough.
People were deeply imprisoned by fear, raised as livestock by the lords upon the mountains. They were toys, consumables.
In them, Mortarion saw his own weak self.
That person struggling amid fear and unease.
But after meeting his own kind, he was no longer weak.
He was Mortarion. He was human. He would lead humanity in resistance,
Against all this oppression and injustice.
They would kill every oppressor.
Even if it required sacrifice, they would not hesitate.
If I had to choose one word to properly describe Mortarion, I would choose "resistance." Mortarion was a rebel, and that was destined to put him forever at odds with the "father" who represented "power and rule."
Unless he became the ruler himself, he would never submit.
But honestly, Old Morty was quite benevolent as a "father." He treated the Death Guard rather well. Setting aside Typhon, that "filially devoted son," he and the other Barbaran Death Guard were truly a case of a kind father and dutiful sons.
(Could that be one of the reasons Grandfather Nurgle took a liking to him...?)
Before you continue