You are the first.
They all say that.
She will also say that.
——————
"You are the first."
You still remember Cthonia, that homeworld you never chose to return to. You almost evasively fled from there. You fled from that land ravaged by blood feuds and crude firearms. You fled from that crisscrossing network of tunnels and ruins. You fled from the perpetually hazy, scattered clouds of that world.
But you know you cannot escape it. Just as you cannot escape batch after batch of new blood from Cthonia. They inherited your genes and strength. They came to your Legion. They spoke Cthonian dialects with the utmost reverence. They called you Father and Lord. They fought and died for you.
You naturally cannot let them down. You treated every person in the Legion as equally as possible. And when you saw the tattoos on their arms and backs, symbols of gang culture, you remembered your own past.
When you were not so powerful, when you were just a young cub leaving your homeworld, when you came to the radiant, sacred Terra, filled with nervousness and anticipation, everything you saw was so beautiful and dreamlike. Although you cannot recall more details now, you know that time was good.
Thinking of this, your brain felt a prickling pain. It was a trivial, annoying pain, as if someone was using a fragile silver needle, overconfidently trying to make you feel pain or a slight torment.
You remembered that excessively dazzling golden light. That radiant figure stood on a sand dune, or did he stand in his courtyard? You cannot remember clearly.
He wore that armor. His face held a genuine, joyful smile. He stepped forward. His footsteps were quick. He intimately patted your shoulder. He called you Son.
You still remember how excitedly you embraced him. Even the light of the stars shining on the world became more dazzling because of this father-son reunion. You remember how that light shone on his armor, appearing excessively dazzling.
In fact, you didn't clearly see his face.
Then, he embraced you. He introduced you to the person beside him. This time, you saw clearly: she was a silver-haired woman, a little shorter than you. She had a pair of calm, unruffled, greenish-blue eyes. She looked at you like a spoiled young lady watching her father bring home a pathetic little dog.
There was no malice, but also no respect. Instead, a natural desire for guidance and protection occupied a part of her pupils. She seemed to try hard to make herself look more serious, but you still caught that lazy aura.
She was so composed. It was as if she had already seen through you. You thought so. Then you smiled. You extended your hand.
She also extended her hand. Compared to yours, her fingers were slender and fragile. They were not the hands a warrior should possess. This made you proud.
Indeed, you were not the Father's true first-born. This left you somewhat disappointed. But this did not prevent you from smiling and greeting her.
Two hands clasped together.
"Horus."
"Morgana."
She smiled at you. A lazy smile. Yet it made one feel friendly.
"Congratulations, my brother."
"You are the first."
She seemed to say something else, but you didn't hear it clearly.
You could only feel that her smile indeed held a certain beauty.
Although her hand was cold, it also gave you a sense of reassurance.
——————
You joined this Great Crusade. You joined immediately. Your sons continuously crossed the stars to reunite with you. Before this, they had already earned the formidable reputation of the Shadow Wolves. You were very pleased with this name.
Your father was busy. He was always busy. He had endless tasks and plans. He traveled hurriedly between different star systems. Although he often fought alongside you, for example, on Rutilus, he protected you when you were unfortunately wounded, until reinforcements arrived.
But after that, he left. You also heard rumors from other brothers across the stars: Leman Russ, or perhaps Ferrus. You had seen them. They were either purely barbaric, or exuded a sharp, capable yet unlikable aura.
But fortunately, some remained.
Morgana. She was always with you.
You once believed she would never leave.
The Second Legion and the Sixteenth Legion were the closest comrades in arms. She was your blood kin, comrade, teacher, and strategist. You conquered countless worlds and kingdoms. You traversed between star systems, witnessing the brilliance of falling stars and the death of suns.
She taught you various languages. She taught you to observe the trajectories of stars and life. When you heard the myriad languages of countless people, you always thought of the knowledge she had shared with you.
She told you of the ten thousand emotions humans could possess, pouring out everything, without the slightest concealment. You could feel she held nothing back. Her words were always lazy, yet always sincere.
Sincerity. You liked sincerity.
You walked through star systems and worlds. War and death were always inevitable. But more often, you witnessed willing submission.
You stood at the pinnacle of warships, overlooking yet another world being incorporated into the Imperium's territory. Humanity's great revival once again took a solid step forward.
In those days, the sunlight was always warm. Every person in the Legion could laugh heartily. Death and sacrifice were proudly remembered and mourned. You and she always liked to stand at the highest point, observing your sons.
You discussed them, listed the most outstanding, and competed with each other. You were always the one who won. Every time, her cheeks would puff out.
She would softly grumble about the embarrassing things you did when you first returned. She seemed to cherish everything you experienced with her, which made you proud.
Such days seemed to last forever. The two Legions advanced victoriously through the galaxy. She often stayed on the Vengeful Spirit. You specially built for her a living quarter identical to yours.
Similarly, on her flagship, you also received the same treatment. The warriors of both Legions grew accustomed to encountering another Primarch. Some bold individuals even made impudent jokes. You liked these young cubs.
Those were good days.
Such days lasted for thirty years... it seemed like twenty years.
Wait, it seemed like nineteen years.
Headache. You felt a headache again. When you tried to recall those specific numbers, a needle-like pain began to stubbornly harass your senses.
You felt annoyed. Your giant palm slammed down, shattering a side of the throne beside you. Your eyes caught Mascherotto startled by this scene. He wasn't so timid before.
But you still spoke. You apologized softly, like the most sincere father. But he froze. He seemed to have heard something strange in your words.
Forget it. He had been like this for a while now. Perhaps he was truly unsuitable for this position.
You also saw some warriors and mortals walking back and forth in the corners of the room. Some of them walked to Mascherotto's side and talked to him.
They seemed to call him Agnes? What a ridiculous mistake.
You smiled, but did not refute. Because some others were shocked by your smile. They knelt on the ground, trembling, not daring to make the slightest move.
And you only felt a faint sour taste in your mouth. This made your annoyance grow day by day. You seemed to hear a faint laughter echoing between the warship and the corridors. This made you frown.
You spoke solemnly. You ordered Mascherotto to resolve this matter. His footsteps, after receiving the order, were so hurried and panicked, as if fleeing a roaring beast.
You smiled again. You ignored him. Your gaze once again pierced through countless time and space. It returned to that most beautiful time.
You forgot when that was. In just a few short years, your brothers returned to the Imperium one by one: Fulgrim, Vulkan, Dorn, and Magnus. She took Vulkan, and left Fulgrim to you. When you saw her flagship and fleet disappear alone at Mandeville Point, you were stunned for a long time, until your son woke you.
That feeling was like a child leaving home, walking into the distance alone.
You felt lonely. Perhaps also a trace of excitement.
In any case, you began to get used to being alone. You began to teach Fulgrim. You began to try to recall how she had taught you. You would always go to the room you had prepared for her. You would quietly stay for a while, recalling the past.
You liked this.
Your brothers were still continuously returning. They were all so powerful and wise. You could feel your father diligently emphasizing your status. He always tried to include you when he welcomed back his sons. You liked this. Because at such times, you could reunite with your father and Morgana.
The three of you stayed together, just like in the past.
Brothers changed around her: Vulkan, Dorn, Perturabo...
Oh, and Roboute, Roboute Guilliman, your most ambitious brother. He was entrenched on his five hundred worlds. He was constantly plotting his schemes.
You always reminded yourself, always reminded yourself to guard against Guilliman's ambition and machinations from inciting rebellion against the Imperium. You knew this was inevitable.
After all, he envied you. He looked at everything you had with greedy eyes. He looked at your position as Warmaster. He looked at your intimate relationship with Morgana.
Guilliman always wanted to break all of this. So he encouraged her to establish her own kingdom. He constantly discussed strategies for governing mortals with her.
Damn it, why didn't he go to other brothers to discuss governing mortals and political planning? He even wanted to establish exchange and study abroad programs, and leave the mark of Ultramar on Morgana's kingdom.
Headache. The headache became more and more apparent. You involuntarily clutched your forehead. Your expression might be somewhat distorted. Because you heard that many people had already knelt around you. You even heard the sound of vomiting filth.
Perhaps they were truly frightened.
You wanted to apologize to them, but the headache prevented all of it.
You decided not to think about Guilliman anymore. After all, that kid always failed to accomplish anything. He always miscalculated one step in an unexpected place, turning a grand plan into a disaster.
He was a perfect bureaucrat, nothing more.
Speaking of this, you couldn't help but recall your rare disagreements with Morgana. You remembered that day, how she had smiled as she evaluated Guilliman in front of you. And you had merely chuckled at her conclusion.
A man who had built five hundred worlds. How could his wish be to be an old farmer? He wasn't Mortarion.
You two seemed to argue for a long time. You had never argued for so long. You still remembered Sanguinius, who had just returned, sitting beside you, holding a fruit plate.
He would interject a word or two when the atmosphere grew intense. You forgot when he integrated into your small circle, but you didn't dislike him. Who would dislike Sanguinius?
From that day on, you always seemed to be arguing. It was a rational and controllable argument. You didn't dislike this period of time. After all, it was rare. She also stayed on the Vengeful Spirit again. Her room had been empty for too long. Fortunately, you had always maintained the habit of cleaning it.
So, you, Morgana, and Sanguinius, a perfect combination, a perfect period of time. You felt as if you had returned to the days of wandering among the stars. But this time, the flames of war were a bit too much.
You conversed during the long nights under the moon. You missed those peaceful times. Most of the time, you were the one talking. Sanguinius always made unconstructive remarks.
But Morgana, for some reason, liked the feeling of leaping back and forth within your linguistic and logical loopholes. That teasing smile always accompanied her lips, as if the days away from you had been too long, and she wanted to make up for it all at once.
But in any case, those times were good. That was the second time you believed that days would continue like this.
You smiled. You could feel your smile. And at this moment, you realized your chin was a little wet. You lowered your head. You saw some viscous liquid dripping onto your breastplate. You frowned. You called a nearby attendant to clean it. But perhaps your voice was too soft. They just lowered their heads, saying nothing.
Perhaps you needed a new batch of mortal servants, even slightly more intelligent ones. You complained inwardly, but did not lose your temper. You empathized with this pathetic fellow: the war had been too long. So long that it could destroy the minds of these mortals.
But it didn't matter. You would end it soon.
——————
In the hundred years of the latter half of the Great Crusade, all you could remember was war.
Sanguinius left. And Morgana also left. She led her Legion to the edge of the galaxy. She went to participate in a war against the Rangdan. You once tried to persuade her not to interfere in such matters. The result was only your first genuine argument with her.
You even remembered her mockery.
"What are you worrying about?"
"What are you anxious about?"
"What are you jealous of?"
"My Horus, you avoided this war, yet you witnessed other brothers wielding the power to command multiple Legions. Does this make you uneasy? Does this make you feel a superfluous sense of threat?"
You did not speak. You were neither willing to refute nor to face it. You silently watched her fleet disappear once again into Mandeville Point. When she appeared before you again, it was thirty years later.
Scarred, exhausted.
You embraced her for a moment. You seemed to only be able to do this. You felt her head resting on your chest. The two of you stood silently like this. It was more powerful than a thousand words.
But this was not the beginning of a reunion. It was merely a fleeting glance.
Next, she went to another remote corner. It is said that she accompanied and taught the Night Haunter for twenty years. But you didn't think it was useful. Those Eighth Legion members still continued their performance art.
They just liked to carry a copy of the Codex Astartes compiled by their gene-father, reverently flipping through its rules and explanations, disemboweling those who met the criteria.
Then there was Angron. She spent a long time with that raving mad brother. But you still felt it was useless. After all, in the end, Angron and his sons were no different from the Space Wolves. And the world could see that his last shred of sanity was inevitably fading with time.
But she persisted. She traveled between the stars, becoming more and more like your father. Although you, Morgana, and your father still maintained the closest relationship, and still fought side-by-side when conditions allowed, you only felt an instinctive resistance to her becoming a figure identical to your father.
This resistance reached its peak after Ullanor.
When you learned that she supported Jonson as Warmaster, you genuinely felt angry. You almost abandoned your current tasks and rushed to her flagship.
You walked through corridors, through rooms, through the warriors of the Second Legion you no longer recognized. Everything here seemed foreign to you. But when you pushed open the last door, you entered the place where you had once discussed things together. It seemed no different from decades ago.
Familiarity. You felt familiarity.
She was waiting for you there. On the table were wine and a few books. You two were perhaps both furious at this moment. At least you were. But when you sat down, the past inevitably surfaced before each of your eyes with that action.
You smiled. She also smiled.
You drank wine. You discussed matters concerning Jonson and the Warmaster. You still disagreed with her views, but it was harmless now.
Anyway, the Warmaster position was yours.
And all the other things you wanted were also yours.
——————
Thinking back now, Ullanor felt like it was only decades ago. Perhaps twenty years?
You felt a headache again.
Finally, you stood up. You slowly walked to the tactical projector. You watched the slowly rotating planet in the projector. You watched it for a long time, until someone, you don't know who, whispered a reminder.
"Warmaster, this is the situation on Terra..."
Ah, right. This was Terra. The beginning and the end of everything.
It was also your next trophy.
But it wouldn't be the last.
You watched it. You watched its pockmarked surface. You watched the colossal Legions rampage across its lands. You watched Dorn's and Sanguinius's armies fruitlessly blocking before the Imperial Palace, waiting for an impossible miracle.
How could there be another miracle?
What were they waiting for? For Jonson and Curze? Their two Legions had long been corrupted by your provocations. Those loyal Night Lords had instigated a war between the two Legions. Your judicial brother was, after all, a clumsy administrator. If not for that obstinate brat named Sevatar, he would have controlled the entire Eighth Legion long ago.
As for now, they might have broken through the storm in the Ghoul Stars. The combined force of two Primarchs could indeed do that.
They might go to Guilliman. Then waste more time due to his foolishness. In any case, they would miss this war. Whether it was the Dark Angels, the Night Lords, or the Ultramarines, they were destined to be absent.
Thinking of this, you couldn't help but feel melancholy. If you had only convinced another brother to bring Angron back, perhaps your Legions would have already broken into the Imperial Palace by now. Fulgrim was a fool. He messed everything up. He even lost himself.
You felt a headache. An unprecedented headache. You clutched your head. You vaguely heard some sound echoing in the room, like the soft growl of the most terrifying monster.
What a pity.
You thought so.
If she had stood by your side, you would have won long ago. Perhaps three years ago, you would have won.
But this was destined to be a delusion.
You invited her. Almost the very moment you made up your mind, you sought her out. She didn't explicitly refuse or accept, but you knew it was a refusal.
Then... Then, she died. She died on Isstvan.
You still remember how she died. After all, you personally killed her. You destroyed her Legion. You remember the blood flowing on your claws. You remember her eyes looking at you in the end. There was no hatred in them.
Everyone screamed, especially Fulgrim, Perturabo, and Rogal Dorn. They almost rushed forward, turning against you. But some also laughed... You forgot who they were.
Headache...
Wait... Did she die?
She didn't die. She didn't die on Isstvan. She died on Prospero. Magnus killed her...
No, it wasn't there either. You seem to have killed her on Beta-Garmon. You cut off her head. Now it rests to your right...
No, did you kill her? That skull, was it Ferrus?
Magnus seemed to have said that she and her Legion were fighting in the Webway?
The headache intensified wildly. You took deep breaths. You tightly closed your eyes.
One second, two seconds, three seconds.
You opened your eyes again. The headache was gone.
You defeated it. Just as you had defeated countless challenges and difficulties before.
A smile returned to your face.
You were still troubled. But you no longer cared.
Even if she truly died, after all this ended, you would bring her back to your side.
She would never again be allowed to leave your side.
And if she was alive, then you were somewhat saddened. After all, at this point, she still refused to acknowledge the true reality of this world and come to your side.
But it didn't matter.
You were about to end all of this.
Whether it was Jonson, Curze, Guilliman, or Sanguinius and Morgana. The moment you killed the False Emperor, they would know how incredibly wrong they were.
They would kneel on the ground. They would beg for your forgiveness. You would, of course, forgive them. After all, the galaxy was vast. You still needed your brothers to rule with you. As long as they acknowledged your authority, you wouldn't mind being a benevolent master.
Of course, some people, or rather, she, had no future of independence. She had to stay by your side. You would not allow her to leave.
She would obey.
You had that power.
You also had that ability.
After all, you are the first.
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