"I still cannot forget the day the Imperium descended upon Baal."
Iven's quill paused slightly upon the parchment, ink bleeding faintly into the characters for Imperium.
"A thousand steel warships pierced Baal's heavens. Even the light of the sun seemed dim beside them."
"They brought hope, but they also took the angels away."
…
"How magnificent!"
Fulgrim gazed at the fleet that blotted out the sky. Each warship's armor shimmered beneath the starlight, cold metal gleaming with lethal brilliance.
This vast armada, composed of the Imperium's finest vessels and warriors, had now assembled, all for them.
Sanguinius said softly, "Because we are Primarchs."
Honor did not depend upon pretentious spectacle; those grand ceremonies were merely fruit borne naturally from the tree of glory.
The honor of a Primarch was like the radiance of a star, needing no display to illuminate the world.
Fulgrim might feel vexed at the order of their return, yet the earlier-returned brothers had already proven to mankind what a Primarch truly was through their deeds in the Great Crusade.
For the Primarchs who returned later, no matter how poorly they might perform, their power and honor were undeniable.
Even without a single achievement, the people believed they would bring great victories to the Imperium.
It was not boasting.
It was expectation, heavy and sincere.
The Emperor's golden vessel tore across the sky, descending in the glow of plasma exhaust onto scorched earth.
His master-crafted golden armor shimmered with halos of ancient sigils. The sacred radiance it emitted was enough to dim all else.
When the Master of Mankind stood before the two Primarchs, even their pure white wings seemed dust-strewn.
Even the proudest soul, facing His majesty, could not help but feel small before Him.
But Primarchs would not feel shame.
They understood who He was.
He was the guardian of human civilization and its enlightener.
His entire life had been spent guarding and guiding human civilization. His watch and dedication had existed since time immemorial, enduring for tens of thousands of years without rest
The sacrifices He had made for mankind far surpassed any imagination.
The Primarchs were only three years old.
One day, they too would forge legends of their own.
But for now, they still looked upward to the Master of Mankind.
"Father."
The two Primarchs bowed their heads. Caelan was their father, but the Emperor was their gene-father.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed the Neoth's eyes.
Caelan had raised them well.
They understood reverence and humility.
They understood their mission.
This spared Him long lectures about the Great Crusade's purpose or endless dialectics about truth.
But when those necessary rites were omitted, what remained between Him and His sons?
His gaze passed over the Angels perfect faces.
They were father and son by blood.
They called Him father.
Yet what He felt was not familial warmth, but the cold order of sovereign and subject.
They felt neither belonging nor attachment towards him.
They spoke the word father, yet their eyes held no filial devotion, only respect and distance toward the Master of Mankind.
And He felt neither disappointment nor hesitation.
Beyond the concept of humanity itself, nothing else mattered.
In the eternal river of time, the survival of human civilization was the only worthy objective.
All else was dust.
Even His sons, even Himself, were but one of countless pieces fulfilling his grand vision.
Yet when His gaze touched Caelan, standing between the two Primarchs, the stern majesty softened into something like dawn.
"Shall we talk?" Caelan asked.
"Let us talk," Neoth replied.
They walked side by side. The setting sun stretched their shadows long across the wasteland, silhouettes crossing in silence.
Behind them, Fulgrim and Sanguinius exchanged a knowing glance and followed at a respectful distance, silently trailing behind them.
"They feel more attachment to you than to me,"
"Because I treat them as sons," Caelan answered calmly. "You treat them as finely crafted tools."
In the Imperium of cannon, few of the Primarchs truly regarded the Emperor as a father.
They called Him "Father," yet genuine paternal affection was rare between them. To many, the Emperor was not a parent but a creator, a progenitor, a model to emulate, or a sovereign to serve. Sanguinius protected humanity and the Imperium, and in doing so, protected the Emperor as well, but his devotion was closer to reverence than familial intimacy.
Among the loyalists, the Khan only seemed to understand the idea of fatherhood after the Emperor's fall upon the Golden Throne.
For others, the relationship resembled ruler and subject far more than parent and child. Ferrus Manus and Perturabo accepted their roles as instruments of His will. Vulkan loved humanity more deeply than he loved the one who made him.
And within Horus's heart, Malcador may have felt more like a father than the Emperor ever did.
The Lion acknowledged the Emperor as his father and, on occasion, shared something resembling familial moments with Him. Aside from Vulkan, he may have been the most fortunate in that regard.
From beginning to end, those who never received warmth yet still called the Emperor "Father" were perhaps only Guilliman and Corax. They were given no real paternal affection, only purpose, and relied entirely upon their own conviction to fill the absence.
"I am the same."
"In your eyes, everyone is a tool."
"Precious tools deserve careful preservation."
"Are they?"
"Now they are."
Silence spread between them. Caelan's gaze swept across the wasteland, landing on the horizon.
"What do you see over there?"
"The horizon."
"Think again."
"The sun."
"Again."
"The wasteland?"
Caelan shook his head, "The future."
They walked upon the road.
Their destination was the future.
"In your eyes," Neoth asked, "is humanity's future only a setting sun and barren earth?"
Caelan replied, "The world is round. Can you see what lies beyond the horizon?"
"No."
"Neither can I."
"And the sun?"
"Tomorrow, it rises again."
"Will tomorrow's sun be the same one as today's?"
Caelan stopped and looked at Neoth with amusement, "How did we drift into philosophy?"
"You asked me."
"And you asked me. This path leads nowhere. Let's return to the point."
"What is the point?"
"The future is there." Caelan gestured downward. "The road is beneath our feet."
"Are you teaching me now?"
"I do not think I am qualified to teach you. I am merely speaking my thoughts."
Most people love those who resemble themselves and resent those who differ.
Those who desire agreement and dislike disagreement do so out of a desire to stand out from the crowd.
One cannot wake someone pretending to sleep. They believe what they wish to believe.
This is true when people make mistakes, and even more so once they are on the right path.
Neoth walks on the right path.
Perhaps His methods were extreme, but none could deny His direction.
Caelan is not qualified to teach him either.
Just as he taught the Primarchs: if you have no goal, do nothing.
If you have no road, do not judge those who walk, even if they are deeply mired in a swamp, stumbling along.
Extend a hand.
Help them escape the swamp.
Even stepping on their shoulders to cross the mire is better than standing aside.
Neoth said quietly, "I am listening. The road is beneath our feet. What next?"
"Wait a moment. You changed the subject just now and made me forget."
"Then recall carefully."
"The road is beneath your feet. Since you are walking upon it, you should look at it."
"I have been looking."
"You are looking too far ahead. Sometimes you need to look down at your feet, lest you stumble over a stone."
"…Very well."
Caelan blinked in surprise.
'He agreed, is this still Neoth?'
"I do not waste words on mediocrities."
"And what am I?"
Neoth lifted his gaze, "Those who walk different paths cannot plan together."
Caelan smiled faintly, "A gentleman seeks harmony without conformity. A petty man seeks conformity without harmony."
Neoth said, "Then you are the gentleman."
"Am I?"
"I believe you are."
"Then I believe you are as well."
Neoth questioned, "A man like me can be called a gentleman?"
"A gentleman understands righteousness. A petty man understands profit. You pursue a greater righteousness. Why can you not be called a gentleman?"
"Then I must be the most foolish gentleman in existence."
"You're ruthless, even toward yourself."
"That is your assessment of me."
Caelan raised an eyebrow slightly.
It seemed it really was what he said. A wise and mighty dumbass.
"A gentleman and a fool are not opposites; even the most foolish gentleman surpasses the cleverest petty man."
"Because the petty man lacks righteousness?"
"If he possessed righteousness, he would not be petty."
A subtle gleam crossed Neoth's eyes, "I'll take your kind words."
"This counts as kind words?"
"It does."
"What about when I called you a dumbass?"
Neoth's expression was as calm, "Even if I am a dumbass, I am a wise and mighty dumbass.
"Nice."
.....
Fulgrim's eyes glowed warmly.
"Father is happy today."
"Which father?" Sanguinius asked gently.
"Why ask what you already know?"
"Because both are happy."
"His thoughts are too deep. I cannot see."
"Is it that you cannot see, or that you are unwilling to understand?"
"I cannot see."
Sanguinius said, "You are afraid."
"I am not."
"We are brothers. No one knows you better than I."
"I am the older brother!"
"Brother, if you don't admit it, you will regret it."
Fulgrim looked away toward the horizon, avoiding Sanguinius' knowing gaze like a sulking youth.
Was he afraid that one father would be taken by another?
…Yes.
Fulgrim refused to admit he was afraid.
But when Caelan and the Emperor walked side by side, their tacit understanding was terrifying, far surpassing that of father and son.
Their bond was not built upon their children.
If the children vanished, their bond would not change.
Then why need children at all?
The thought unsettled him.
But Fulgrim was not one to wallow in self-pity, nor would he live in constant fear because of this.
If their bond was not built upon sons, then he would join it.
He wasn't here to break up this family; he was here to join this family!
He understood the silent accord between the Emperor and Caelan, a unity rooted in humanity's destiny.
The Primarchs were forged as blades for that destiny.
Fulgrim accepted that.
If he must be a blade, then he would be the most radiant edge in Celan's hand.
None would outshine him.
Not even Sanguinius.
"My foolish brother," Sanguinius smiled faintly.
Fulgrim was still as easy to manipulate as ever.
With just a little trick, he could make Fulgrim as easy to control as an arm.
...
"When may we finally behold our Primarch?" Abdemon's voice trembled.
Thrallas was also gazing at the world outside.
The fleet was hovering in orbit around Baal's larger moon.
Whether Baal or its two moons, they were covered only in barren desert, with lethal radiation.
Even veteran Astartes could not endure long in those radiation zones without power armor.
And somewhere upon this hellscape, a Primarch had grown.
Yet they still couldn't confirm which Legion the Primarch on this world belonged to.
Was it the Third Legion or the Ninth Legion?
Thrallas didn't understand why the Emperor had summoned both Legions to Baal. Was it to let them wait in anxiety?
If the returning Primarch was theirs, Thrallas didn't know how to face him.
Would the Primarch be disappointed in him, or would he graciously forgive him?
If the Primarch was not theirs.
Would they feel relief?
Or loss?
A flicker of dark self-mockery passed through Thrallas's eyes. He could actually feel relief. How afraid he must be of his own Primarch!
Even if the Primarch returned, a sinner like him didn't deserve to stay in the Legion.
Thrallas murmured, "Abdemon, what kind of Legion are we now? The Primarch will probably have me executed to atone, I'm sure!"
Thrallas was never afraid of death.
He did not fear death.
If he could see his Primarch return and the Legion redeemed, death would be welcome.
What he feared was disappointment.
Two hundred warriors.
Two companies.
What could they offer?
Other Legions could bring honor to their Primarch upon his return. But the withered Third Legion would probably become the first Legion to disappoint their Primarch. They would be nailed to the Imperium's pillar of shame!
"Perhaps he will not blame you," Abdemon said.
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of Thrallas's mouth, "You need not comfort me. I know what they call me in whispers. Butcher. Perhaps it would be better for us to take our own lives before the Primarch returns?"
Abdemon remained silent.
He wanted to tell the Legion Master not to be so extreme, but was there really no one in the Legion harboring such dark thoughts?
Of course they were.
They simply dared not speak.
The Legion Master and the Apothecary had become outcasts.
Abdemon was almost unnervingly rational. He resented the executions as much as any other warrior, but he understood why they had to be carried out.
He could sympathize with the anger of his brothers. He felt it himself. In quiet moments, he too grieved helplessly for those condemned.
The Legion Master gave the orders without hesitation, his voice steady as he signed their deaths. To many, he seemed merciless. Yet none bore a heavier burden. Every execution carved into him, and beyond the weight of command, he also endured the Legion's suspicion and resentment.
Abdemon saw that pain. He understood the necessity behind the cruelty. That understanding allowed him to stand beside the Legion Master and the Apothecary when others would not.
But to the rest of the Legion, such understanding looked like betrayal.
And when the Primarch returned, whose truth would he choose to believe?
The Legion Master would never evade responsibility. If guilt had to be borne, he would step forward and confess it himself.
And if the Primarch chose to punish him, no one would speak in his defense.
He was the Legion Master, yet, in truth, he had long since been abandoned by his own Legion.
And there were the Custodes.
Abdemon's gaze shifted to the right. The golden warriors stood utterly motionless.
The Custodes were the Master of Mankind's emissaries… and, when necessary, His executioners.
The Third Legion had already bled itself nearly dry. It was unlikely the Custodes would be sent to destroy what little remained of it.
But the Ninth Legion… if their Primarch judged unworthy, the Custodes would show no mercy.
They were not brothers-in-arms. They obeyed only the Emperor's will.
And they were far beyond Astartes. Ordinary Astartes could hardly follow their movements; only the very finest could contest them for even a moment.
"Where is Fabius?" Thrallas asked.
"In the apothecarion," Abdemon replied.
Thrallas lowered his head in silence. If punishment came, both he and the Apothecary should die.
Fabius had merely devised the detection method. The order had been Thrallas's. The Apothecary should not bear the blame alone. Yet to quiet the Legion's anger, they would atone together.
He would not flee.
He only hoped Fabius understood that as well. If he did not… Thrallas would make certain he did.
Then the Custodian spoke, his voice like thunder.
"By command of the Master of Mankind: the Third Legion will assemble immediately and make planetfall upon Baal Secundus."
Thrallas shuddered. His armored gauntlet clenched involuntarily.
"Our Primarch… has he returned?"
"The Ninth Legion is also assembling."
Thrallas blinked, stunned. 'Why summon the Ninth as well?'
'Could there be… two Primarchs on Baal Secundus?'
His breath caught. The thought, absurd a moment before, the Mentor suddenly felt possible.
....
"Baal… has two Primarchs?" Ishidur whispered, breathing hard.
Never before, save the grim exception of the Eighth, had more than one Legion been summoned to greet a Primarch's return.
Yet now both the Third and Ninth were called. The withered Third Legion was far too depleted to serve as an honor guard, and the Ninth's grim reputation made them equally unsuitable. No Primarch would see such a reception as an honor; it would feel like an insult.
If ceremony were the goal, the First Legion alone would suffice. In numbers and prestige, none could rival them.
Ishidur felt a tremor of certainty.
There had to be more than one Primarch on Baal.
What unimaginable fortune.
Two Primarchs raised upon the same world, taught at the same time by the Mentor, an honor no Legion had ever known.
Even if the Third and Ninth had never before been close, from this day forward, they would be bound like brothers.
To witness such a moment in history… even if it ended in their destruction, he would count the price worthwhile.