Lorgar's violet eyes narrowed slightly, his slender fingers clenching unconsciously.
He was certain he had caught that fleeting disappointment in Caelan's eyes. That look was like a dull knife, slowly carving into his still-immature heart.
Why was Caelan looking at him like that?
'Had I… done something wrong?'
The Primarchs were all clever; Lorgar was no exception.
He realized Caelan's disappointment stemmed from his indifference to Kor Phaeron's orders, from his refusal to respond to the pleading gazes of the nomads.
'Did he want me to save them?'
He heard the sharp metallic clicks of flintlocks being cocked. The caravan guards were faithfully carrying out Kor Phaeron's command.
Kor Phaeron was a priest of the Covenant, their master. These nomads were outcasts, heretics; slaughtering them would cause the guards no burden of conscience.
Barefoot, Lorgar stepped across the scorching sand. He walked straight past the musket-bearing guards, placing himself between them and the terrified nomads.
The guards recoiled in fear, lowering their weapons. None dared aim at this holy child.
Even the lowest mortal could see the divinity glowing in his violet eyes.
The more devout the believer, the more terrified they were of desecration.
"Child, don't bother with those heretics, come to me!" Kor Phaeron's voice cracked with near-desperation. He stretched out his arms, yearning to clutch this divine child to his chest.
But Lorgar never once looked at him. Instead, his eyes, brimming with anticipation, fixed on Caelan, hoping, praying, to see the man's face break into a smile.
Kor Phaeron noticed that birdlike gaze of yearning, and his expression twisted. He jabbed a finger at Caelan and Erebus, shrieking in madness.
"Fire! I command you, kill them! I am your master!"
His bloodshot eyes bulged, veins writhing across his forehead like twisted worms. He was like a gambler who had lost everything, making one last desperate bet.
"Put down your guns. Do not harm them."
Lorgar's voice rang out. It was still tender, carrying the innocence of a child.
The guards immediately lowered their weapons, dropping to their knees before Lorgar, whispering prayers for forgiveness.
Kor Phaeron had gone mad. He could not believe that this God-given child did not belong to him!
"It's you, IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"
His voice cracked into a roar. Seizing a guard's pistol, Kor Phaeron leveled it at Caelan.
As though by killing him, everything would bend to his will.
"NO!" Lorgar screamed in panic.
The slaves' hearts broke. In desperation, they hurled themselves at Kor Phaeron, desperate to subdue the blasphemous madman.
But Kor Phaeron had already pulled the trigger. Six bullets shrieked through the air, shattering the silence, every round fired directly at Caelan.
Yet none struck him. None struck Erebus, who had found the courage to stand in front of him.
"You point a gun at me, and don't realize, I know kung fu?"
With a casual wave, Caelan dispersed his psychic shield. The bullets, robbed of momentum, tinked uselessly to the ground, sinking into the sand.
Kor Phaeron kept pulling the trigger, but the revolver was empty, only the click of the hammer striking.
Bang!
The slaves swarmed him, forcing him down, pinning his limbs so tightly he could not move.
Lorgar stumbled forward a few steps, then timidly grasped the hem of Caelan's trousers with his thin fingers.
He tilted his small, delicate face upward, violet eyes shimmering with tears like rain-drenched stars.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his childish voice soft, almost sticky with innocence.
Those three words seemed to drain every ounce of courage he possessed. His fingertips trembled against Caelan's clothing, too afraid to grip firmly, too afraid of being shaken off. Even his breathing turned cautious.
On his slender wrist still hung the charm the nomads had tied there for protection. Now it quivered with his trembling, scattering fragments of light in the sun.
A teardrop splashed onto Caelan's boot, spreading into a dark circle on the leather. Lorgar hurried to wipe it away with his sleeve, but more tears kept falling, unstoppable.
Caelan looked down at him, silent.
The Emperor's favorite son had been Horus, but the one who most resembled him in appearance was Lorgar.
Apart from the color of his eyes, he was the Emperor's mirror image.
The nomads and believers saw a noble prophet begging forgiveness, their hearts shattering in sympathy.
But Caelan saw something else: the child Emperor himself, clinging to his trousers, tearful eyes wide, nose flushed pink, whimpering like a small animal.
If Caelan hadn't kept his face stern, he wasn't sure what expression might have slipped out.
Caelan asked simply, "What did you do wrong?"
"I should have protected them."
Lorgar studied Caelan's reaction carefully. He was smart; he knew what Caelan wanted to hear.
And if Caelan didn't want to hear it, he would change his words without hesitation.
Caelan sighed.
'You cannot see the true shape of Mountain, because you are standing within the mountain itself.'
Every Primarch carried flaws. Curze's were his uncontrollable visions of the future. Lorgar's was embedded in his very genes, his obsession with authority, his compulsion toward absolute obedience. The behavior of the Word Bearers proved it: they were, to the core, authority's lapdogs.
In other Legions, if their Primarch were struck, his sons would fight tooth and nail to reclaim his honor. If he were gravely wounded, they would sacrifice everything to recover his broken body.
But with the Word Bearers, if Lorgar were beaten, his sons would cheer and immediately kneel to swear allegiance to the one who beat him.
Ironically, only after falling to Chaos did the Word Bearers show any real willingness to defend their gene-father with their lives.
And so, even without Caelan ever speaking to him, Lorgar had singled him out instantly from the crowd because he was the strongest.
Yet it was precisely this aspect of his nature that had led the Emperor to abandon him.
Even without any pact with the Dark Gods, the Emperor had foreseen that half his sons would betray him.
But the future was too fluid to see clearly, and which sons would fall could not be foretold. So he had abandoned some, whether deliberately or reluctantly. This perhaps explained his unequal treatment of the Primarchs and his occasional cold, mechanical choices.
Of the twenty, two forgotten Primarchs had already been discarded. Perturabo, Angron, and Lorgar were the next three forever on the chopping block.
Perhaps, in the Emperor's plans, even in the worst case, the odds would be ten against eight. With him and Malcador, twelve against eight.
He had not preemptively culled others as he had the Second and Eleventh, perhaps because some part of him still held hope, hope they might stay loyal. But this was classic wishful thinking: demanding the horse run fast, yet never feeding it.
Sometimes Caelan wondered: by teaching these Primarchs, was he actually making things worse?
Undoubtedly, yes.
But Caelan would rather make mistakes than do nothing.
He placed a hand on Lorgar's head and ruffled his hair firmly. "Lorgar, I'll only teach you this once. Do you understand?"
Lorgar nodded earnestly, eyes shining with expectation.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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