Chapter 270: Help Him Keep His Dignity
[Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.]
—— Guilliman, quoting The Second Coming
On that day, Guilliman witnessed the thunderous collapse of a civilization.
It crumbled, exposing its rotting core.
And before he even had eyes to observe it, his brother had already raised the scythe.
. . . .
"This is an exciting and joyful moment. I am glad this day has finally arrived, even if some misunderstandings arose along the way."
Two giants walked beneath the sunlight. The white stone beneath their feet shimmered, spotless and clean, like fresh snow.
Two tiny figures moved across the vast forecourt corridor.
The Honour Guard of the Ultramarines and the Death Guard stood in perfect formation on either side of the square. They remained silent in the wind, letting the double-headed eagle standards in their hands snap and crackle.
But compared to the upright posture and gleaming armor of the Ultramarines, the Death Guard radiated a far more somber aura. They gazed gloomily upon the scene, as if ready to offer a funeral dirge for this civilization.
Just like their Primarch, who still dressed as though he were a bearer of death.
Mortarion followed Guilliman with slow steps, absent-mindedly humoring his ignorant brother. The Primarch's eyes swept across the square.
Good—at the first sign, the Death Guard could seize control of the entire site.
Hades was not present; he had gone to where he ought to be.
For nine days, under the pretext of ensuring security for the peace-treaty ceremony, the Death Guard had stationed squads at key points across the capital. Tanks sat idling in the streets and alleys, prompting frightened civilians to lodge complaints.
"They're not civilians," Mortarion scoffed.
But to keep things running smoothly, and to prevent their enemies from exploiting the rift between them, the Lord of Death begrudgingly traveled in person to the Macragge's Honour, where he explained to Guilliman the necessity of these precautionary detachments.
Through a half-mad sorcerer Hades had uncovered earlier, Mortarion clung tightly to the truth—that witches still lingered here.
The Legion had to maintain vigilance; otherwise, during the peace ceremony, those deranged sorcerers might rush out and detonate themselves.
In his talks with Guilliman, the Lord of Death displayed a rare flash of eloquence. Skillfully, he used the Death Guard's participation in the ceremony as leverage, shaping the event's arrangements into something he preferred.
Yet contrary to Mortarion's intentions, Guilliman misunderstood his brother's behavior. He believed his attempts to "reach" Mortarion had achieved a stage of success—at the very least, his brother no longer seemed quite so extreme.
Yes, the sudden deployment of troops would indeed make this civilization's integration more difficult afterward, but Guilliman reasoned that since the rulers had already completely submitted, such bumps could be tolerated. The price paid was simply the softened attitude of the Death Guard.
And so the two brothers, speaking past one another, forced the matter into an agreement that both sides found satisfactory.
Now, it was time to reap the victory. Guilliman thought with great satisfaction: what could be more joyous than the peaceful submission of a civilization?
The Primarch raised his eyes. The Queen stood at the very center of the square, clad in a lake-blue gown, silver embroidery shimmering across it like rippling water.
In her hands she held the codex symbolizing governance, surrounded by the ceremonial guard of Absyrtus.
The ritual itself was simple: the foreign Primarch would approach, the Queen would first deliver her speech—recounting Absyrtus's history and their oath of fealty—then Guilliman would accept the codex and deliver his speech on behalf of the Imperium.
Guilliman had once delicately asked Mortarion whether he wished to speak, and received a firm, decisive refusal.
Since Mortarion himself had no desire, Guilliman did not press the matter, though he knew that it would arouse political suspicion if he's the only one who spoke.
Remembrancers and recorders were already in place, ready to preserve for the Imperium the memory of this glorious and honorable occasion.
Mortarion was deeply displeased with Guilliman's plan to bring along Remembrancers. The Lord of Death had confronted him multiple times, demanding that he dismiss those "useless people who only drag everyone down."
Guilliman, however, patiently explained to Mortarion the political necessity of propaganda. He doubted his brother had listened to a single word. When Guilliman finally made it clear he would not yield, Mortarion stared at him and slowly spat out a few words:
"Fine. Then the Death Guard won't be responsible for them."
Guilliman could only smile wryly. Of course the Death Guard bore no responsibility—these were Ultramarine Remembrancers.
The double-headed eagle banners still snapped in the wind. Soon, they would reach the center of the square, and the first stage of the ceremony would begin.
Guilliman saw the stooped queen smile at them with relief. Inwardly, he offered his respect to her. Even when facing them, the lady still carried herself with noble dignity.
And she had wisely chosen the right path for her people. Often, the greatest obstacle to peace was not the populace but the rulers—those who could not bear the sudden humiliation of bowing to another's authority.
The queen's decision to surrender first only highlighted the rare worth of her spirit.
Guilliman reflected: the spark of humanity never truly fades, no matter where one goes.
Beside the Lord of Macragge, Mortarion stared in silence at that witch.
The witch gave him a triumphant smile, mocking the weakness of the Death Guard. She knew full well this civilization was a poisoned chalice. Yet, for the sake of appeasing the Ultramarines, the Death Guard had to pinch their noses and accept it, watching as the poison mingled into the great river of the Imperium.
Even when provoked by the people's taunts, the Death Guard had not fired a single shot. They endured the abuse in silence.
No, you are wrong, Mortarion thought to himself.
The Death Guard would not accept the witch's surrender. He would strip away their disguise.
He swore he would kindle the flames of war here.
The horns sounded, sharp in the wind. The queen, her lake-blue gown trailing, stepped forward with tears brimming in her eyes and began her speech:
"My subjects—"
Mortarion let out a scornful laugh beneath his respirator.
. . . . . .
Hades walked silently through the alleys of the slums, accompanied by servitors and Blanks clad in mortal armor.
Faint, hungry gazes seeped from the cracks of the darkness, greedily licking at his entourage.
Hades quietly raised the density of the Black Domain another notch. The result was shrieks and curses from the witch tied up at the rear.
But soon, the psyker's voice dwindled.
Hades ignored her and pressed steadily onward.
Before long, the path opened, and a clearing appeared before them. Hidden in the cramped and crowded slums was an altar, standing in distant symmetry to the royal palace.
Yet it was clear—this was the true altar. Untouched, unshifted, unbroken. Broken glass replaced gemstones, rags replaced silk, and dried blood smeared across its surface, scrawling blasphemous texts Hades could not decipher.
He lifted his head, scanning the site again. He dared not extend the Black Domain to probe it, for that would strip the place of its true meaning.
Originally, Hades had hoped to expose the sorcerers at the palace altar. But Mortarion had stopped him:
[That is not the true altar.]
The Lord of Death had brooded over the map, muttering to himself as he traced and circled. At last, he marked out the low-lying slums opposite the high palace and declared with utter certainty: It is here.
Hades knew Mortarion possessed a sensitivity to the warp.
But seeing his Primarch's confidence, he silently swallowed his own doubts about numerology.
We'll discuss it later. Still, he did caution Mortarion repeatedly not to engage directly with the warp.
And during their later scouting, they did indeed discover this altar, erased from the map by sorcery.
Hades completely withdrew his Black Domain. He gestured behind him, signaling the blanks to drag the witch forward.
She was the one he had captured in the slums, and she had played a small role in Mortarion's efforts to persuade Guilliman.
According to the Ultramarines' investigation, only the ruling class of Absyrtus—the royal family—were psykers.
No. They were wrong.
Everyone here was a psyker. Man or woman, old or young, every soul flickered with an ominous light. The place had long since fallen, though for some reason they had disguised themselves as a normal human civilization.
But under the Black Domain, no truth could be hidden.
The good news was that their faith in the same god bound their soul-flames tightly together. Strike one point, and the rest would collapse into ruin.
The corruption in the slums was worse—more brazen. Hades stared silently at the half-mad woman. Her face was identical to the queen's, but one eye was blind.
The other eye no longer held the cruelty and sharpness it once had when she was confined aboard ship. Now it was filled only with terror. She screamed, struggling to break free:
"Not here! No—not here!"
Hades quietly opened something like a black thermos. But inside there was no warm water—only pale gray ash lay still within.
He activated his comm-channel and issued the order.
Far away, out of Hades' sight, the Death Guard's security squads began their work. Blanks clambered nimbly into tanks, opened the sealed blackstone canisters stored inside, then quickly retreated to a safe distance.
Inside those canisters lay psykers—ground into powder.
Above Absyrtus, the air shimmered faintly, distorted. But it didn't matter—Death Guard drop pods and torpedoes were already primed.
Mortarion watched the queen with amusement as she continued her speech. Her grand, lofty words faltered for an instant—she was a psyker. Of course she sensed it.
At last, Mortarion found her lie-filled face just a little less loathsome.
He tightened his grip on his scythe and casually stepped forward, planting himself between Guilliman and the queen. Guilliman shot him a glance, uneasy and displeased, as if asking what bizarre thing Mortarion was about to do now.
Beneath hood and mask, Mortarion smiled at him. Just a little longer. Soon, Guilliman, you'll see everything—and you'll shut that mouth of yours that can only spout platitudes.
. . . .
Hades dragged the witch into the very center of the altar. Wordlessly, he began to scatter psyker ash over her body.
The sorcerers had likely never imagined that one day, they themselves would become vessels for their god's power.
Under the sudden surge of warp concentration, mutation began. Filthy blue feathers burst through her skin, slick with crimson blood.
She screamed for mercy, crying out to her master, clawing with her bound hands at the feathers, trying to tear them off—but they only grew faster, sprouting wildly everywhere, even forcing their way out of her eye sockets.
Hades remained silent. He continued sprinkling the ashes, like a medieval villager piling wood for a witch-burning.
At last, as though realizing her end was near, the witch stopped calling to her master in words Hades could not understand. Instead, she shrieked in Low Gothic, her voice breaking with fury:
"What did we do wrong?! You invaded us!!! Ripped apart our flesh! Destroyed our faith! We did nothing but live as our ancestors did!!"
She cursed at him, screaming:
"Self-righteous invaders! Trash! Butchers! Tyrants!"
Yet silence was the only reply. Suddenly, she realized—ever since meeting Hades, since being captured by him, he had never once spoken a single word to her.
She broke into a fit of maniacal laughter.
"You despise us so much? You won't even—don't even dare—to speak to me?! Coward!"
The only reply she received was Hades' retreating figure—and the hiss of a grenade in his hand.
A blinding white light flared—
And in that instant of daze, she thought she heard:
"Pick a better universe next time."
. . . . . .
"SSSAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
Guilliman snapped his head around. In the southern sky, a massive blue phantom erupted into being, shrieking its curses.
His pupils narrowed.
"Wha—"
A heartbeat later, as though realization struck him, Guilliman flung up his arm to block. But Mortarion was faster—
The Lord of Death yanked him back, and a deafening clang exploded in front of them. Guilliman spun his head, only to see the great scythe halt less than an inch from his nose, its blade bristling with sharp blue feathers.
On the far side of the scythe writhed a human-shaped figure. The queen's blue gown seemed to melt into her flesh, with jagged feathers glimmering beneath.
That was the queen. The queen?!
Guilliman gasped, drawing his short blade Gladius Incandor in an instant, while simultaneously rallying the Ultramarines.
But as his attention swept across the battlefield, he realized the Death Guard had already moved—before the chaos erupted, they had shifted formation, flamers at the ready, herding the Ultramarines inward from the perimeter.
The square had dissolved into madness. The people of Absyrtus screamed as feathers erupted from their bodies, blood splattering the ground.
The Remembrancers, terrified by the hellish sight, shrieked and tried to cram themselves into the safety of the Ultramarine lines.
Overhead, engines thundered. Death Guard Stormbirds swept low across the sky. A warning crackled across the open channel:
[Emergency attack! The enemy has betrayed the Imperium!]
All of this had unfolded in less than ten seconds.
Guilliman's mind reeled. This made no sense. In all his countless scenarios and contingency drills, there was no plan for this. The enemy's actions served no rational interest—this wasn't part of any strategy.
But even so, within a single second of observation, Guilliman made the only correct decision:
[My sons! To arms! Coordinate with the Death Guard!]
Unlike the Ultramarines, still ignorant of most of the truth, the Death Guard were clearly prepared.
Mortarion's voice cut through the chaos:
"I'm glad to hear you say that, my brother."
He raised his weapon, its charging coils glowing, and fired again—blasting the crown clean off the queen's head.
"And I am glad you've finally revealed your true self, Lady Cirkesce."
A surge of psychic force enveloped the queen, so fierce that even Mortarion dared not approach carelessly.
"How dare you?! How dare you?! Laughable monsters! Do you truly believe that after awakening Absyrtus, you can defeat us?!"
The queen shrieked, a cry like blood bursting from her throat.
"You are nothing but filthy brutal savages!"
As though answering her wail, the blue phantom on the horizon erupted into a piercing scream. The shockwave was so vast it seemed almost visible to the naked eye.
Mortarion raised a brow, but kept up his fire.
Guilliman swallowed hard. At present, the Imperials clearly held the advantage—but what about that phantom at the edge of the sky?! Why was Mortarion acting as if it didn't even exist?!
Even Guilliman could see—that was the true monster that would decide the battle!
"It is you who are arrogant and foolish. You cling to the power of the warp and mistake it for your own strength."
"When you knelt to the warp, your defeat was already sealed."
The Lord of Death spoke softly, watching as the queen writhed in fury. Her once-slender frame had already grown larger than either of the Primarchs.
[Inside the tanks, the blackstone canisters flared with red light. Their lids sealed automatically as immense clouds of blackstone dust poured forth—along with the roar of a girl.]
At Mortarion's taunt, the queen gave a shrill, ragged scream. The blue phantom in the heavens echoed her. The people of Absyrtus wailed. The Remembrancers screamed.
"How dare you—"
A black, nameless colossus rose from the horizon, towering up into the sky. Cruel green lightning writhed through the storm clouds, and death descended in an instant.
The Lord of the Underworld gazed upon the corrupted land below. Compared to it, the blue phantom had been nothing more than a fleeting dream.
Souls quaked in terror.
Everyone turned to stare at the distance in disbelief. Some collapsed, trembling—
All except Mortarion and his Death Guard. Mortarion smiled, scythe in hand, and strode forward.
Now, silence. No more screams. Nothing at all.
The Lord of Death was pleased.
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