Mortarion's Choice

"Who the fuck are you?!"

"Get the hell out here!"

Mortarion staggered as he surveyed his surroundings, wildly vigilant as he swung the great scythe in his hand. Its edge, sharp enough to sever anything, cut through the flesh-moss plants spreading and multiplying around him.

The Barbarus native had once possessed a tall, lean frame, like a long, thin stalk. But now, the flesh beneath his power armor was swelling and bloating beyond his control. He looked as though he had been forcibly fattened several times over, becoming stiffer and more sluggish.

Filthy psychic energy was seeping into his body, beyond the reach of his will. The whispers of that dreadful being called Grandfather echoed in his ears every moment, calling for him to join this harmonious family.

Release...

Freedom...

Warmth...

Every seven seconds, a drawn-out whisper reached Mortarion's ears, like the final foul breath exhaled by an old man on his deathbed, yet also like the cry of an infant entering the world.

Even a primarch had limits. His willpower was formidable, but it was useless.

Grandfather's love could not be endured through sheer resistance.

Mortarion's furious rebuke received no response. The voice that had just called to him quickly fell silent, as though it were probing for something or avoiding something.

Instinctively, Mortarion's intuition told him that the owner of that voice bore no ill will.

But reason told him that was utterly absurd. In this damned, filthy garden, could anything possibly lack ill intent?

Yes, perhaps those daemons of Nurgle truly believed they bore no ill will. But their goodwill was the greatest malice imaginable to life in the material universe.

It was like a human child deciding that a pet was too cold, then boiling a kettle of scalding water to warm it. The child's kindness