Past
I think we need to talk... Mortarion.
Night had fallen deep. Starlight scattered across the shattered dome of the Imperial Palace on Terra. The Imperial Fists had already erected scaffolding around what had once been the palace's highest observatory.
It had been utterly destroyed by the Necron assassination.
Heavy breaths hissed from behind the gas mask, yet made no sound.
Roboute Guilliman swirled the wineglass in his hand. Moonlight fell across his blond hair, casting a faint pale sheen over it.
He raised his eyes toward the ruined summit of the palace.
What... exactly is he? I think you owe me an explanation, Mortarion.
...You could always ask him yourself, or ask his creator, the Emperor.
Guilliman gave a soft laugh, lowered his head, and took a sip of wine.
I don't think either of them can get close to the answer.
The Lord of the Imperium's voice sank as he looked at Mortarion, seven paces away.
He...
Guilliman softened his voice.
He and the Emperor are both pragmatists. Neither seeks the truth behind appearances—but I think you are different, Mortarion.
Mortarion kept his face hidden beneath his hood. The primarch did not say a word. Only strands of hair hung loose, silvered by the moonlight.
After all, I want to know what sort of existence could make the Necrons willing to go to war with the Imperium of Man just to eradicate it.
Now
"C'tan."
The Silent King spoke softly as he descended from his throne step by step.
"Once, the Necrontyr believed them to be masters of the logic of the physical world, gods embodied from logic and law."
"They were ignorant, like children wielding immense strength."
"The Necrontyr fashioned bodies for them. Once they were granted tangible forms, the C'tan gained clearer personalities and