Chapter 312: Guilliman Forgotten at the Edge
Guilliman sat silently in his office.
The people of the Perfect City had all been handed over to the Remembrancers.
These mortals—who had once temporarily resided in the Ultramarines' ship harbors—would now be taken by the Remembrancers to their new home.
On the wall opposite Guilliman's desk, the two-headed eagle hung high, gleaming with a cold light, staring expressionlessly down at the Primarch.
He… he wanted to see Rogal again. It was an emotional, irrational desire.
But Guilliman slowly recalled the moment he had given the order. He remembered the innocent mortals who had been taught those things from birth—who never even knew they were wrong. Now, for those habits they believed to be right and natural, they were punished. Their homes burned in roaring flames.
Guilliman thought of the desperate, pleading screams of the Remembrancer that had come through the vox.
He had come within one step of fratricide—but it had been indirect, an order given… It wasn't…
Suddenly, he thought of Russ, the Emperor's executioner. When the Wolf King raised that massive axe—what had he been thinking then?
So this was what Russ had once faced—no, his pain must have been a thousand times worse than him.
Guilliman could perhaps understand the Emperor, understand the logic behind the Imperium's actions. He knew that sometimes a nation required correction—that it was necessary and inevitable. But emotionally… no, he could not accept it.
Perhaps, at some moment within the ashes of the Perfect City, Guilliman had already let go of any claim to the title of Warmaster. His armor, stained with the city's dust, could no longer shine as before. He felt he had done something wrong.
Guilliman let his thoughts drift. He remembered when the Emperor went to the Perfect City—how Malcador had looked at him, face filled with deep worry. Was that expression genuine, or just another mask worn by that old, calculating statesman?
The old man had sighed and said, "You think too much, Guilliman. You are too empathetic, too emotional. That is not a bad thing—but you must restrain it."
Guilliman did not think that was an objective judgment. Emotional? No—emotion was the first thing to be eliminated in any rational decision.
And empathy—if a ruler cannot truly understand the joys and sorrows of his people, then he is no true ruler.
Guilliman thought of his adoptive father, King Konor.
Perhaps he was overthinking. Perhaps he simply did not want to focus on the Perfect City. Guilliman and Malcador had discussed these things, but in the end, neither convinced the other.
…
"Guilliman always prides himself on being rational. He carefully lists data and examples to refute me. But in truth, he can never quantify the feelings in his own heart. The very methods he depends on to survive do not work in the soil of his own mind."
Malcador slowly sipped his tea. Across from him, Hades rested his chin on his hand, having run out of snacks, chatting idly with the old man.
Hades glanced at him casually and said, "Let me guess—you were talking to him about how to manage emotions, and he started countering you with numbers and logic, right?"
Though he didn't want to admit it, Malcador nodded heavily.
"He's an idealist. That idealism stems from his empathy. But more than that, his way of dealing with emotion is deeply tied to his old habits—those formed back on Macragge."
Hades paused.
"Malcador, you think very deeply about these things. But tell me—will the Emperor ever realize any of this? Or rather… will he take your words and actually try to talk to Guilliman about it?"
Malcador slowly shook his head. Hades immediately brightened up, slapping the armrest of the sofa.
"You've got to be kidding me, old Mal! Then I'm not sending the finger bone to the Emperor. What's the point if it's useless?"
Malcador's expression darkened.
"Hades—first of all, don't call me 'old Mal.' And second, his persuasion would have far greater effect than all of ours combined."
The old man looked helplessly at Hades' oddly disdainful expression—as though, upon realizing that he still had a role to play, and that neither the Emperor nor Malcador were as solemn as they seemed, Hades had begun, slowly and cautiously, to test their limits.
But the tactic worked. To his dismay, Malcador found that he had indeed grown far more tolerant of Hades' antics.
"I don't buy it, Malcador."
Malcador fell silent. He adjusted his phrasing, then spoke again.
"He is not ignorant—quite the opposite. He sees far more than we ever could. Hades, words are not always reliable, nor are momentary displays. Too many betrayals have come after solemn vows. People do not remain constant; and when they change, all those earlier words become meaningless."
Hades wore a look of contemplation. Malcador hoped he was truly listening—and not merely wondering whether to have the servitor bring in more pastries.
Emperor preserve him, why did he have to put those two possibilities in the same mental space?
Malcador took another sip of tea and continued, "When we look at a man, we see his expressions, his posture, his words. But he looks at that man's past, his reflection in the Warp, his possible futures—and calculates how to move the tides of the Warp toward the direction he desires."
"So—"
Malcador paused.
"He is not as you imagine, Hades. Do not judge him by mortal standards. His wisdom surpasses all others."
Hades' vacant eyes drifted for a moment, then refocused on Malcador.
"Alright then—if we do look at him from a mortal's point of view, what would the Emperor actually say to Guilliman?"
Malcador froze. At last, the old man said slowly, "I cannot fathom my Lord's mind… but I imagine he would tell Guilliman to remain strong and loyal."
Across from him, Hades wore an expression that said plainly: we're doomed.
. . .
"You are doing the right thing, my son. Do not doubt your heart."
The Emperor sat casually on the chair beside Guilliman's desk. Though the seat was not in the center of the room, His mere presence made that single armchair unmistakably the seat of power.
The Emperor's sudden arrival caught Guilliman completely off guard. His true father was ever mysterious, ever distant—he would appear only to deliver orders, then depart again, as though something far more important was always waiting for Him elsewhere. And, of course, it always was.
…And yet, a small, whispering corner of Guilliman's heart admitted that, compared to the Luna Wolves, compared to the Emperor's Children, compared to the Imperial Fist—the Emperor's thoughts seemed rarely to dwell upon His thirteenth son.
Though Guilliman had found satisfaction ruling his Five Hundred Worlds, pouring his energies into Ultramar, and was not one to seek the Emperor's praise.
To Guilliman, perhaps a flourishing Five Hundred Worlds was treasure enough.
He fell silent, carefully choosing his words—even at the risk of offense.
"My Lord, forgive my boldness, but if I may—I wish to be permitted to know what error Lorgar and the Word Bearers committed… or what words You spoke to Lorgar in the Perfect City. Even if, afterward, I must submit to memory erasure."
He needed to know why. He needed to understand what kind of sin could possibly warrant the annihilation of an entire civilization.
The Emperor looked at him, brow slightly furrowed. Guilliman's heart sank. Just as he was about to apologize for his impertinence, the Emperor spoke.
"I had thought your relationship with Lorgar was not good, Guilliman."
The answer was unexpected—yet it struck directly at a quiet guilt buried deep in Guilliman's soul.
"I… indeed cannot agree with his faith. Religion represents ignorance—men who will not stand on their own feet, but instead place their existence upon the shoulders of some illusion. If a civilization wishes to advance, it must first cast aside the notion of relying upon anything beyond itself…"
"…But I believe Lorgar merely erred in making You his idol, deifying You to some extent. The world upon which he landed limited his thinking—it caused him to mistake his reverence for You as faith. And Your… method of dealing with him may have led him to further misunderstanding."
"Though my relationship with him has never been good, from my personal perspective—from the perspective of one who is also Your son, his brother—I still feel… a certain sadness for what he has endured."
Guilliman drew in a deep breath.
He suddenly realized that he had spoken all of it aloud.
His true father—the Emperor—always had a kind of gravity about Him: few words, unbending posture, eternally correct. In the presence of such a being, Guilliman always felt like a child again—a child who had done wrong, standing nervously in the corner, waiting for judgment.
The Emperor looked at him, eyes calm.
"I am glad that you still worry for your brother, Guilliman, even when your views differ."
Then He fell silent. The suffocating stillness returned to the room.
The Emperor exhaled softly—a sound that was startlingly distinct in the quiet.
When He closed His eyes and opened them again, Guilliman clearly saw the fatigue beneath them.
"I had not wished to speak of this with you, Guilliman—but you have shown me your light."
"As a warning, the Perfect City had to burn."
The Emperor's tone was even, almost detached.
"The faith of the Word Bearers carries poison within it. It is corrupting Lorgar and his sons. I must save him."
Guilliman froze… For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, carefully, he spoke again.
"You mean… among the Word Bearers, there are those whose faith does not follow Lorgar's creation… but rather, something else?"
"Something far more blasphemous."
The Emperor took up Guilliman's words as though they were His own.
"Guilliman, you may know this—before Lorgar began his wars of unification on his homeworld, that planet's faith was steeped in heresy and witchcraft."
"Only through his strength as a Primarch did Lorgar resist that corruption. He overthrew the cults and built a faith centered around Me—even though I never wished to see such a thing."
The Emperor said no more. But His gaze alone was enough for Guilliman to piece together the truth.
In his mind, Guilliman's thoughts raced. More intolerable than the Word Bearers' creation of a religion was the possibility that the core of that religion had never truly been the Emperor at all—but something else, something evil.
If they had worshiped the Emperor, Guilliman might at least have understood. But they did not.
"Father… then what of Lorgar and his Legion now?"
The word slipped out before he could stop it. He realized a heartbeat later that he had addressed the Emperor too familiarly—but the Emperor did not seem offended. Perhaps, in this moment, Guilliman was permitted to call Him "Father."
The Emperor shook His head gently, yet His gaze remained steady and assured.
"Not well. I have pointed out his fault—and punished it."
Guilliman could scarcely imagine it. To see Macragge itself reduced to ruin—to have everything he had built, everything he had believed in, declared wrong…
He could hardly fathom what Lorgar must now feel. It was too cruel. Too… inhuman.
Guilliman lifted his eyes again to the Emperor.
"…Speaking only for myself—as Lorgar's brother—I am deeply concerned for him. Can he, can his Legion, rise again after such a blow?"
To Guilliman's surprise, the Emperor rose from His seat, preparing to leave. A faint smile curved His lips.
"He will, Guilliman. He is my son."
The Emperor paused briefly before continuing.
"But he has yet to reach your height. He still needs encouragement—and support."
"So I have chosen, for now, to permit his former view of Me."
With that, the Emperor's figure vanished beyond the doorway, though His final words lingered in Guilliman's mind like a resonant echo:
"Roboute Guilliman, I am pleased to see your awakening. Civilization must advance—and I have devoted my life to that cause."
For a moment, Guilliman sat motionless. Then he suddenly rose to his feet, the items on his desk rattling with the motion.
He turned toward the door. For an instant, he could almost still see the Emperor's presence there. His mind spun, dazed and reeling—his beliefs, affirmed by the Emperor Himself. It was… unimaginable.
All told, the Emperor had spent less than half an hour in Guilliman's office.
Guilliman would never realize—could never know—that the Emperor who had spoken those heart-stirring words had come to him only because he lost a gamble.
In the reception chamber, Hades suddenly sneezed hard. He rubbed his nose and glanced at Malcador, who was giving him his usual look of weary disapproval.
"Someone's cursing me, Malcador. I'll bet it's Neoth—he's probably just finished talking to Guilliman, and it went terribly."
"No, Hades. I do not fail."
The Emperor's voice came from directly behind him. Calm, assured, unshaken.
Startled, Hades almost spilled his tea. He quickly steadied the cup, glaring over his shoulder.
"Then who's the one whose plan went bust, Neoth?"
The Emperor's smile did not falter by even a fraction. He sat down naturally in His former seat, as though He had been there all along.
"That was part of my plan, Hades."
Hades let out an exaggerated groan.
"So," he said loudly,
"I take it your talk with Guilliman went perfectly, then, didn't it, Neoth?"
"Naturally."
The Emperor took a slow sip of tea, utterly unmoved by Hades' tone.
"Because," He said simply, "I am the Emperor."
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