"Why are you always silent?"
The Son of the Forest asked the lake.
He was the Son of the Forest, The King of the Forest, a wounded man who had forgotten his name, a hunter, someone's son, and the Protector of an Imperium.
He awoke in this misty forest, on the humus beneath the dim canopy.
In the forest, streams washed over stones, polishing them to a pristine smoothness like prehistoric eggs.
In the forest, distorted beasts lurked and hunted, only to be hunted by him.
Birds often flew through the forest, and he instinctively and warily dodged their gaze.
He wandered lost in the forest, not knowing who he was, where he came from, or where he was going.
He searched through the forest, guided by his hunting instincts, until he reached the lakeside, where he found the only other living being besides himself.
On the vast, seemingly infinite lake was a small boat, so rudimentary, made of decaying wood, unpainted, seemingly on the verge of collapsing with the passage of time.
An old man stood on the small boat; his face was withered, his skin, once brown like sweet dates, had become dull and lifeless, and the shape of his gums was imprinted on his sunken cheeks, making him look like a dried corpse.
This decrepitude did not seem like the natural result of aging, but rather as if he had been tormented into this state by endless violence, deceit, disease, and abuse.
The old man's hair might once have been as black as a long night, but now it was dry and dirty gray, and there was a circle on his head.
Though covered in grime, the Son of the Forest could faintly discern that it was a pure gold crown.
The old man held a fishing rod with his swollen, ugly hands, casting it into the water, his back hunched, fishing for something.
The Son of the Forest knew the answer to this question.
He had tried to communicate with the Fisher King, but the Fisher King remained silent, so the Son of the Forest ventured into the lake, and thus saw more.
Beneath the seemingly calm water lurked countless profane shadows, swirling beneath the surface, hungrily trying to tear the Fisher King apart, yet strangely fearing him, maintaining a stalemate.
Moreover, the Fisher King was injured; wounds pierced his entire body, and blood flowed ceaselessly from him, staining the water near the small boat.
Before the shadows could devour the Son of the Forest, he retreated from the lake, returning to the dry shore, yet still not knowing where to go.
He constantly wandered in the forest, often returning to the lakeside to try and communicate with the Fisher King.
But the Fisher King remained silent, merely hanging his head and staring at the lake.
+Because you haven't asked the right question.+
The King of the Forest vaguely knew the reason for the Fisher King's silence deep in his heart, though he didn't know why he knew.
However, the Fisher King wasn't entirely unchanging.
Not long ago, the Fisher King's wounds had inexplicably healed somewhat, and he seemed to have more vitality than before, occasionally even reaching out to scratch his backside.
Several times, he even produced some kind of round pastry from somewhere and ate it.
But he remained silent, never answering The King of the Forest's questions.
"What is the meaning of your silence?"
"What kind of questions should I ask?"
The King of the Forest asked again in a deep voice.
This was his two hundred and twenty-second question.
As before, the Fisher King remained silent, merely hanging his head and fishing, occasionally reaching out to scratch his backside.
The King of the Forest sighed, feeling that it was another fruitless attempt.
Suddenly, something was thrown at him from the surface of the lake.
The King of the Forest instinctively wanted to dodge, but for some reason, he didn't.
It was a glass petri dish, inside which some viscous fungal colonies seemed to be wriggling.
The glass petri dish shattered on The King of the Forest's face, and the viscous bacteria splattered onto his face, drilling into his skin and flesh in the blink of an eye.
But strangely, The King of the Forest felt no discomfort.
Instead, he felt his previously blurry consciousness become clearer, and memories continuously surged from his mind.
The Emperor, the Great Crusade, Luther, the Horus Heresy, the Second Imperium, the damned and dead Konrad Curze, the unkillable Vulkan, the damned but not dead Guilliman, the undeserving Sanguinius, the damned but hopefully not dead Leman Russ, the unexpected betrayal, the shattered Caliban.
And that blade, the blade that Luther had plunged into his body.
"I am..."
The King of the Forest muttered to himself in a low voice:
"I am... I am Lion El'Jonson, the Emperor's eldest son, the Primarch of the Dark Angels."
Burning Terra, burning Caliban, the Emperor on the Golden Throne, the fallen Luther—these sorrowful images surged from his memories, almost completely overwhelming him.
He looked up at the water's surface.
Beside the Fisher King's small boat, another figure appeared: a blue, shimmering tanuki, extending its fingerless, round hand, pointing in a direction, as if guiding Lion El'Jonson back to the world of the awakened.
The dense forest slowly parted, and a path shimmered in the mist.
After guiding Lion El'Jonson, the blue figure vanished, disappearing to an unknown place.
But Lion's hunting instinct told him that the path indicated by the blue figure was the correct one.
Blue... but not Tzeentch's trickery. Was it another one of Guilliman's crooked schemes?
Lion was unsure, but he didn't dwell on it.
If Guilliman was better at multitasking, then Lion's strength was finding the most crucial task among many.
Lion moved with agile steps, almost flying, walking along the suddenly appearing path with his hunting instincts, weaving through the mist.
Occasionally, giant beasts of the forest tried to block him, but the Lion tore them apart with ease.
As the mist before him grew thicker, he felt increasingly awake, and the forest before him gradually thinned.
Very close... Lion could smell reality; he was very close to where he needed to be, just a little more.
Suddenly, a fist emerged from the mist, striking Lion's face, making him grunt.
"Traitor, you don't deserve to return." A voice like the winter wind sounded in Lion's ear, and a figure emerged from the mist.
The figure had golden hair similar to Lion's once, but it was braided and hung over gray armor like a winter night, adorned with ancient, mystical runes and patterns.
He wore no helmet, and his incredibly familiar face was exposed before Lion—a face with wolf-like blue eyes and canine teeth showing between his lips.
The anger from being punched vanished in a blink, replaced by a surge of relief and euphoria, but he also harbored some doubt; his hunting instinct detected a scent of falsehood.
"Leman Russ?" the Lion asked tentatively.
"Shut up, traitor!!" the Wolf roared in response, his hands like claws reaching for Lion's neck.
Lion said nothing more; the accusation of being a traitor made him angry and hurt, especially coming from Leman Russ.
But his physical instincts remembered past battles.
He dodged, landing an uppercut on Leman Russ' jaw, a muffled grunt escaping Leman Russ' lips.
Then the Wolf's mouth turned down, revealing a cold and hateful expression, and he swung his fist, striking Lion's face.
Yet Lion couldn't help but laugh aloud.
Too many times, he and Leman Russ had fought, too many times they had argued; he knew Leman Russ, he knew the Wolf disguised as a barbarian.
"You're a liar!!"
Lion smiled, no longer hesitating or holding back:
"You're a fake, you're not Leman Russ! Leman Russ laughs out loud when he hits me, and you didn't!"