[center][h1][u][b]A Fate Beheld[/b][/u][/h1]
After the Fall of Sanctii[/center]
[hr]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/Dw4LqPW.jpeg[/img]
[hr]
He swung the long, black blade in his hand to his left, eviscerating a warrior in heavy armor. The exosuit attached to the man crumpled within, depressurizing and crushing them into pink mist. His other arm swept right, ejecting lethal shells that burst another target into a great inferno of azure flame. The blocky armament attached to his wrist clunked, affirming his suspicions that no ammunition remained. He had expected as much, this was a grueling conflict with the end nearly in sight. An end that he’d deliberate over once the bastion-commander was slain.

More enemies rapidly approached him from further down the dark halls of Ghorak’bhal, the shield-citadel of Ursh’s western approach. They were clad in black power armor, buttressed with spikes and engraved with sorcerous runes. Whatever remained of their helmets were fused together with the flesh beneath, recreating a monstrosity spoken of in old Terran nightmares. Horns jutted out across their scalp, maws dripping with ichor dominated their jaws, and fiendish red scales decorated what skin would’ve remained. Their visage would have given normal men pause, perhaps even cause to retreat. He felt no such fear from these creatures. He had already annihilated hundreds of them.

And he was not alone in that task. His successors, adorn in the black-yellow of the First Legio Cataegis, followed in tight squads of four. Their instruments of carnage disintegrated what few scraps of Urshite warrior escaped his ruthless carnage. Mixed amongst their number, taller and bulkier, the true knights of the Cataegis reaved wildly into the Urshite assistants with palpable fury. He shared their enthusiasm, beyond what they could understand, but a deity must be slain today. He could not linger on the pitiful beings that sold their souls for pittance.

A being awaited him at the far end of the throne-chamber. Sat upon a jagged seat of blackened metal and fleshy scraps, the citadel-lord of Ghorak’bhal barked orders with his ragged voice. Unnaturally elongated limbs flung out to press new commands upon the frothing warriors at his quickly diminishing disposal. Alabaster skin, tight enough to reveal malformed bone beneath, peaked out beneath a helmet-crown made of witch-metal and ramshackle technology. His desecrated robe-armor swung with every shift of his body, partially threatening to slip off if he moved too much. That was the ‘god’ that he had come to slay. It brought him little joy to eviscerate such a pitiful warrior. If he could be called one.

He refused to tarry any longer than he needed to. His left gauntlet hefted the enormous, black blade into a two-handed grip. His form lowered into a precise strike, turning the point of his monstrous weapon dead-on to the citadel-lord. All the muscles in his legs bunched together in anticipation as explosive adrenal cocktails spilled through his body. As a bullet fired from the Emperor himself, he sprinted forward across the throne-chamber. The being that called itself a ‘god’ screamed out in protest, attempting to will the powers of the Empyrean against his inevitable doom. The wyrd would not protect him this day as the sprinting warrior lunged into the air, twisting the blade into a downward diagonal pierce. 

The air itself was cut clean as the power field of the blade ignited the oxygen around it. A film of crimson erupted into realspace around the edges of the greatsword, drawing the attention of the warriors within the throne-chamber. The citadel-lord raised his hands in defiance only to be engulfed by the full length of the weapon. Flesh rapidly disintegrated as the powerfield ate through armor and skin. No howls of pain rose up from the quickly dissipating warlord. In seconds, the husk of the Urshite commander was tossed by the Primarch of the God-Slayers. He turned to the remainder of their forces, only for the rest of the Legio Cataegis and Legio Astartes to murder what remained.

As the last of their numbers fell dead to the scrap metal tiles of the throne-chamber, Aeternus turned to witness the ongoing carnage outside. The remainder of the Excertus Imperialis that survived the siege of Sanctii encircled the wide walls of Ghorak’bhal. Cobbled streets of shattered metal were clogged with the dead, Urshite and Imperial alike. Hulking genewarriors in unflinching black-yellow ceramite hunted  in synchronized squads, systematically annihilating whatever non-Imperial forces they came across. Flames as high as the spires of Franc licked the sky above as pyres burnt the unwanted dead and ate away the livelihoods of the Urshite survivors. Already the banner of the Raptor was beginning to fly from makeshift poles at the edges of the outer walls. Cheers, screams, shouts, and cries were mixed into the cacophony of war spreading throughout western Ursh.

Where the Urshite menace had once filled this hall of defiance, now his brethren and his successors were filling in from across the bastion-network. Mortals were beginning to rendezvous to their position, their faces marked with wounds and scars from the conflict. He would await their request any longer. Aeternus Rex raised Apocrpyha, the black blade of Akkad’s last warrior-king, towards the ceiling of the bastion.

“[b]Ghorak’bhal has fallen! Raptor Imperialis![/b]” 

The reception was as expected. The mortals raised their weapons high into the air, screaming for joy and gritting their teeth in relief. His brethren of the Legio Cataegis slammed their bloodied gauntlets against their chests in salute, cackling madly beneath their knightly helmets. Only the Astartes seemed statuesque in their response, perhaps already probing their internal communications for the next fight. His time fighting alongside them had informed him much of their inhumanity. He wondered if this was what the Emperor’s next genewarriors were meant to be: emotionless and tactical. The thought wandered away from him as he descended the steps of the Urshic scrap-throne. 

A trio of warriors, one from the Cataegis,one from the Astartes, and an officer of the Excertus Imperialis approached him. It had become a necessary part of their operations as he often fought away from Mistress Vairya and the Auxilia. Their communications were broken and separated between their legions, no doubt encrypted to a degree that he would find incomprehensible.

“Forward our victory to Mistress Vairya. The post-battle brief will be in the throne-chamber.” Aeternus stated briefly to the Astartes, then continued with the Thunder Warrior and the Auxilia officer. “All squads on hunter-killer operations until we leave in twenty-four hours for the western trenches.” The officer offered a swift salute before disappearing into the quickly dispersing crowd of genewarriors and mortals. Only the Thunder Warrior remained with his gauntlet firmly locked against his chest.

Aeternus narrowed his eyes at the lack of response and sudden stillness of the warrior. One of his blacked gauntlets rested on the pommel of the diamantine dagger; however, the warrior finally responded in a low voice. “Captain Caligula hasn’t responded in an hour, Lord Primarch. Captain Nero and Captain Tiberius, though, have reported success in the western and eastern quadrants of the citadel.” The response made his heart suddenly drop.

“Where was his last reported position and at what time?” His voice came out in a mix of a growl and a groan like a wounded lion. He couldn’t hold back the thin veil of anxiety that plagued his mind. Caligula had been having repeated episodes since the Fall of Sanctii. Perhaps it was a loss of communications in that specific quadrant that caused his tardiness.

“The communications bunkers, Lord Primarch.”

[i]And his heart sank further[/i].
[hr]
The bunker was a charnel house.

Agama Zur was the last person alive in the room, a rather grim distinction considering the number of dead genewarriors and scribes. His double hearts pumped a potent cocktail of painkillers and coagulants through his ruined body, clotting what ought to be fatal severing of blood vessels while removing the haze of agony from his mind. There was a dull recognition that he would not survive these wounds, but he put that out of mind as he positioned what remained of his body against the sealed door, his one remaining arm gripping a blood slickened chainsword. He did not know whose blood it was, not that it mattered.

Because though he may be the last [i]person[/i] which still drew breath, that said nothing of the monster he was staring down.

With a smile on his lips the Astarte, plucked from the deep valleys of the Himalazias as a boy, stared down his death.

It towered above Agama Zur as a deity of destruction and death. Violence screamed across the yellow warplate of the monster as it had rampaged through the bunker. Streaks of blood trickled warmly off of the plating, while fresh entrails and bits of battered flesh dangled from blackened gauntlets. A bloodstained cape of fur bellowed behind the beast, swelling its shadow on the rockrete walls. A mangled claw of rage gripped the long handle of an archaic axe, serrated for maximum desecration. Its head was a slanted helmet with a blood-slicked plume, battered beyond former recognition. No lenses filled the gap in the eyeslits, yet a pair of crazed eyes watched from beneath.

Behind it was unabashed chaos. Consoles, cogitators, terminals, and more were shattered into nothingness by the horrific thing. Projection screens and auto-scribes were torn from their mounts to the stained tiles of the bunker. Vaguely humanoid shapes scattered across the floor in a morbid display of aggression, some more brutalized than others. Towering warriors in black-yellow armor were shattered, cleaved open, and construed into entrail nests beyond their slumbering forms. Glowglobes above the monster rabidly flickered in their chaotic state of activation.

It growled at him. It snarled. It snapped. It screamed out in defiance as it swung the long handled axe across the space above the Astartes’ head. Rockrete melted beneath the sheer strength of the creature. The attack was the same one that had laid low the inhabitants of the chamber. It could not see what was truly in front of it. The monster slashed at whatever it could manage to strike, but each stroke was as eviscerating as the last. A bulky vox-emitter exploded as it was lacerated, exploding out into a crescendo of sparks and debris.

It coughed out words as if a toddler was trying to speak for the first time. Each word was as guttural as the snarls of the creature. The language that it spoke was a disgusting mixture of older tongues merged into one. Every utterance was filled with unmistaken venom.

“[b]UNITY.[/b]” It howled out to the nothingness away from Agama.

“[i]Master![/i] These [b]WRETCHED[/b] Urshites! I offer them! [b]Raptor Imperialis![/b]” It snapped out, punching into the corpse of another yellow-plated warrior. The force of the blow tore out another chunk of reinforced metal. The monster tossed it to another side of the room, tearing off more rockrete from the quickly deteriorating bunker.

“[i]Master![/i] You [b]BETRAY[/b] us! [b]URSHITES[/b], smaller and weaker, in our armor of the [b]RAPTOR[/b]!” It cried out, descending into morbid sobbing before roaring again into fresh madness. The being turned away from Agama, coming to blows with whatever furniture still stood in the creature’s way. It swung the axe in one hand, effortlessly decimating the metal desks and slaving-stations of the bunker. 

“Bring me [b]UNITY![/b]” It managed to croak out in a final sob. As if awoken from a trance, the monster snapped towards him like a creature alerted to its prey. The heavy footfall of its greaves were reinforced by the dropping of its axe. The serrated edge of the weapon dragged across the metallic floor, bisecting flesh, armor, and debris with sickening ease. It understood with surprising grace that it had one last thing to eviscerate in the bunker. One more ‘Urshite’.

“Come, bold thunderbolt,” Zur managed to cry, revving his chainsword as he held it in front of the ruin of his torso, the grip of his remaining hand firmer than any dying man’s ought to be. “Come, show me Unity!” he taunted, his gaze clear and his voice strong, bringing his blade into an upward guard. “Come, death!”

His legs were a mangled mess of flesh and bone and shattered armor plates, never would he walk again. His left arm ended in ragged strands of meat at the elbow, never would he stand in the battle line again. The Raptor upon his breast was shattered, never would he see his master again.

Yet in his hand was his sword, and upon his head was his helm, and within his hearts beat the battle-fury. Songs ought to be sung of his defiance, of how he was the last to die. The village ought to burn his flesh to the heavens and write his tale upon his bones. Children ought to grow up wishing to be as bold and true as Agama Zur, who died at his post.

So many oughts. But the Legion did not practice these ways. Perhaps if he died gloriously enough they would. It was a cheering thought for him to have, for himself and the nine others in his squad who had already fallen to Caligula.

He sang of them as he made ready to sell his death dearly, back still to the door. Of how Morde had been the first to fall, throwing herself in front of a scribe. Julibu and Xerkon, distracting him as the mortals fled to sound the alarm. Lathimate and Chilon, who had intervened when his arm was struck. Galagon and Ylvrel, who had sealed the bunker and their dooms. Vercin and Kaisa, whose bodies even now cooled before him.

Agama Zur knew that he could not put this dog down, but by the Master of the Lines he would delay him with every breath left in his lungs.

The monster that Caligula had become hefted the axe into a two-handed grip at last. His breathing had become ragged with effort and pain. Each step the warrior took was echoed by a convoluted mixture of sobs, growls, and snarls that dehumanized him more. He raised the axe far above his head for a downward cleave of Agama’s skull.

“Die well, [b]URSHITE[/b].” Caligula uttered with a mouth full of snarl and slobber. Instinctually, the Thunder Warrior thumbed the activation rune on the axe and ignited the powerfield on the weapon’s edge. The full breadth of the charnel house was revealed in the blue afterglow of the armament. He screamed out wildly as the powered tool came down towards the dismembered Astartes. Both of them screamed out for death as it came, sword raised to meet axe in a clash that was fated to end in oblivion.

But Agama Zur’s death never came. On an instinct honed to perfection, Caligula suddenly jerked backwards mid-swing of his axe. A crimson, plasmic powerfield cut through the bunker just nearest to the Cataegis. The dark blade that the field wrapped around nearly cut into the warplate of the transformed monster. He snarled in response, howling in rage at the sudden resistance against him. The weapon suddenly turned downwards and tore out the last of the rockrete preventing its entry.

Chaos engulfed the communications bunker once more as a flurry of activity ignited around the shattered Astartes. An enormous warrior in black warplate burst through the wreckage where the blade had struck through. They wasted no time in intercepting Caligula with their enormous greatsword. The powerfield around the weapon exploded as it collided with the monster’s axe. A crescendo of sparks and destruction sent debris scattering across the ground in their deathlocked duel.

“Assist the Astartes! I will handle Caligula!” Primarch Aeternus roared out to several figures that materialized behind him. A single Thunder Warrior, a trio of Astartes, and several mortal medicae personnel had followed him through Ghorak’bhal. The reception of his order was immediate as the Thunder Warrior leaned down to Agama and pulled him by his warplate’s collar  out of the bunker. The sight of the two embattled Cataegis was still visible to him as he was removed.

He could see that it was a clash of titans. The best of the Thunder Warriors fought tooth and nail in the smallest confined spaces possible for their relative size. A fist was thrown, connected, and then replied with a pommel strike to the skull. A kick was registered, received, and responded to with a headbutt. Axe continually connected with the full breadth of the Primarch’s greatsword, then was used as leverage to push the Thunder Warrior further back into the bunker. The blade was kept close to his body in a chaotic sword dance, regularly used to defend as it was to attack. Caligula kept pace with the warlord of his Legio, switching between over-aggressive attacks to calculated strikes with his free appendages.

In the midst of their dance, Agama saw a flash of silver emerge from a sheathe on the Primarch’s belt. A diamanite dagger was drawn, curved in specific ways for a specific function. A ceremonial tool and a dangerous weapon. The fighting continued as Aeternus’ adjusted his fighting stance to incorporate the addition of the dagger. His greatsword was used for distancing and defending, while the dagger was used for striking in short bursts. Caligula was already beginning to falter from the relentless attack. An opening was beginning to form, but the Primarch needed more time.

Agama Zur’s war-song ended for but a moment as he was jerked away from the battlefield, his still whirring chainsword skittering upon the bunker floor as he was evacuated to the medicae. Stubborn, irrational pride took root in his mind at his death being so rudely refused, but at the sight of duel between Aeternus and Caligula he found a new purpose for himself, one grander than pointless defiance. He sang anew as the greatest of the God-Slayers turned their blades against another, of mighty deeds and fell foes, and the heroes who had overcome them all.

The last thought that crossed his mind as the chems began to flood his body was that this was a worthy death.

As Agama Zur’s consciousness faded into the black, the two Thunder Warriors continued to fight desperately in brutal close combat. A parry was met with a feint. A slam from a hilt was replied to with a skillful dodge. The two danced on a stage of war, compiled of history and gore. The more monstrous of the pair, however, was beginning to falter. The chemicals that forced his system to plunge into madness were beginning to drain out through the slobbering howls he made; however, it was madness that continued to ensure his survival.

Perhaps it was the Astartes’ swift egress out of the bunker, or perhaps it was simply a matter of martial prowess that ultimately concluded the duel. Aeternus managed to slip the greatsword betwixt Caligula’s arm and the handle of his axe. Using the moment of a previous feint, the primarch forced his renowned blade downward in a shattering blow to the other Cataegis’ weapon. The poweraxe exploded into pieces of metal, rendering the powerfield kinetics and effectively disarming the warrior. It did little to halt the ceaseless madness within the warriors’ mind, but it forced the warrior to hesitate for a fraction of a second.

A fraction of a second was all that a Primarch needed. As the axe was rendered useless, Aeternus dropped his greatsword and forced the maddened warrior into a fierce embrace with his newly-freed arm. The more veteran of the two swung the other onto the floor, slamming the Himalazian knight flat on his powerback and opening up the warrior’s gorget for a proper attack. There was no indication of hesitation as the silver dagger was snaked up and forced down into the neck of the rampaging Thunder Warrior. 

Caligula gasped out in pain. The madness seeped from his mind as fresh agony began to coarse through his neck. He gurgled out as foamy blood began to bubble up around the warrior’s lips. Enraged eyes broke free of their curse as death lingered on the horizon. Only the wounded whimpers of a dying man reached up to Aeternus, who stared down at his old friend through his black helmet.

“Worry not, brother, Unity awaits us. You did the Emperor’s will and served him as his most trusted.” The Primarch of the First Legio softly said to the warrior beneath him. The words calmed Caligula, enough to force his whimpers down to dying moans. His eyes looked up to the Primarch pleadingly. Aeternus simply nodded in response, “I will meet you there, [i]old friend[/i].”

The Thunder Warrior closed his eyes, either having accepted the Primarch’s words or having finally perished from his wounds. Their nightmare was at an end, passing wordlessly in a bunker filled with the dead of those afflicted by Caligula’s rampage. Aeternus forced himself upright, withdrawing the dagger from his friend’s neck and resheathing it at his side. He reached down, reclaiming Apocrypha and rested it against his pauldron. With one of his hands free of a dagger, the Primarch pulled Caligula’s corpse up and brought it with him out of the bunker proper.

A myriad of organized chaos was exploding out of the hallway that he had entered from. The medicae were desperately patching up the fallen Astartes, while further reinforcements from within the citadel were beginning to congest the arterial passages. Some of the Astartes awaited, patiently, as Aeternus’ passed through the egress, yet other Thunder Warriors had already gathered frantically braying for their leader. To the warriors of his legion, the Primarch gifted the fallen form of Caligula. To the warriors of the future, he gifted his presence.

“Alert Mistress Vairya that the situation has been handled. Tell her to meet me in the throne room for a full debrief.” The Primarch said to the Astartes, his voice lacking the vim it typically contained. He didn’t wait for their response, marching off with the rest of the Thunder Warriors. They had a body to bury, alongside countless others.

The legionnaires of the Ist did not reply, standing as ceramite statues as Aeternus and his brothers passed them by, making the lesser gene-warriors seem like mere men when compared to their predecessors. The Primarch’s message was conveyed nonetheless, the Astartes blink clicking it to the Legion Mistress as they remained in a tight cordon around the medicae. They moved only after the Thunder Warriors had gone, a squad fanning out to remove their dead from the ruin of the bunker.
[hr]
The Legion Mistress of the Ist still wore the same unadorned ceramite armor that she had been in the first time Aeternus had met her, she and those few surviving Astartes who been part of the initial creation in the bowels of the Himalazias retaining a severe austerity. She walked, almost mechanically, before the Primarch, and then stopped, armor locking her joints into place as she reported. Her face, as ever, was obscured by her helm as she spoke.

“I was summoned.”

The throne room of Ghorak’bhal had already started to see a change in atmosphere since the Imperial victory over the citadel. Banners of the Raptor were unfurled between pillars, cursed effigies had been utterly wiped, and witch-metal was either entirely removed or replaced with rune-marked effigies from the Sigilite’s arsenal. No darkness remained of the Urshite citadel-lord, save for the reinforced ferrocrete structure itself stained with residue of the wyrd. The throne of the chamber had been removed, deconstructed, and smelted into slag in exchange for a hololithic table. Several cogitators hooked to unseen power units chugged nearby the new implement, filling an otherwise quiet room with droning noise. Mostly empty of inhabitants, only a bare few scribes and a tall, black armored figure remained.

Outside, through the view ports in the citadel, the Urshite wastes accumulated fresh snow from green-tinged clouds overhead. The crack of lightning occupied the boom of thunder further into mainland Ursh, while a thick smog rose up from dozens of Excertus Imperialis vehicles idling for their next campaign. The citadel stretched for untold miles, either as a complete structure or as sporadic improvements. Even from here, Aeternus could see the imperial yellow of new banners rising over the ruins of the defeated compound. He turned away from the port towards the Legion Mistress.

“You were,” He stated frankly. Softly, the Primarch reached his gauntlets up and pulled the black helmet from his head. His dark features peaked out from beneath, accompanied by fresh wounds and crisscrossed scars from Sanctii. A crop of raven hair woven into a warrior’s knot hid behind him, flanked by recently shaved sides. Dark eyes stared down at the Astartes. For conversations such as these, Aeternus preferred to speak on a personal level with little impediment from outside forces or to suffer mixed reception from his vox-grilles. The Thunder Warrior cradled the helmet under his left arm, while he gestured to the hololithic table to his right. He continued, “there are two matters we must discuss. Remove your helmet and we will begin.”

His words were spoken without the usual lion-esque growl to them, either due his fatigue or an intentional change for the conversation-to-be-had. His tone was neither commanding, nor pleading. It was neither inviting, nor repulsing. It shared no kindness, nor held loathing. It bore no enmity, nor did it boast amity. His voice was bare, nearly as emotionless as the Legion Mistress before him.

Vairya Kurus was well used to things which she did not understand. Born and raised within the hidden laboratories of the Biotechnical Division, her entire life had consisted of things beyond her ken both before and after her ascension. In all that time, she had simply accepted such things. Her creators did not require her understanding, only her obedience.

But this man was not one of them. He was at best her peer, and at worst… Such thoughts she did not grant herself the liberty of reflecting on. Instead, she considered a far more innocent indulgence.

“Why? Verbal communication is neither enhanced nor hindered by the presence of my helm; my armor reports that my vox-grille is operating normally. You may consume food if you require it but my own nutritional needs are of no concern at the moment.”

“Then Malcador never taught you some of the early cultures that existed in the Himalazians during your inception.” Aeternus responded, a disappointed look crossing his wartorn facial features and filtering into his voice. He turned away, walking the small distance from the viewport of the citadel to the hololithic table that awaited them. What few scribes remained in the throne room slipped away as the two began to speak. The glowglobe chandeliers flickered above their heads as they spoke.

“It was customary to remove one’s helmet when speaking one-on-one. The mortal men of the Eagle Tribe used to think it was to lower one’s defense and allow the spirits to connect in order to understand one another on a cosmic level.” The Primarch reached the hololithic table first, resting the palm of his gauntlets along the edge of the freshly fabricated metal. A flat, spinning image of Terra’s landscape painted in blue light made up the center of the hololith. The Raptor was present in almost every province and continued to grow into the Eurasian continent. He continued, “in truth, though they did not know, it was so that both parties could read each other’s intent by watching each other’s facial features. Eye twitches, perspiration, lip trembles, breathing patterns, and more. It allowed them to be more honest, more personal, and more confident in their negotiations with other tribes. I’ve since adopted it and spread it throughout my Legion to remind them of their humanity.”

“It is this kind of conversation that I wish to have. Consider it a lesson from First Legion to First Legion.” Aeternus said, turning his head away from the hololith to the stoic form of the Legion Mistress.

The Legion Mistress did not say the obvious, that she did not wish for Aeternus to read her intent. Honesty and personableness were not just irrelevant but antithetical to her task with them. These things were true, and she had no reason to indulge his request, and yet… The Primarch’s words held wisdom.

Wisdom more vital to her and hers than she would wish to be known.

She said nothing, the hiss of air as her helmet unsealed was the only reply. A pale face stared back at Aeternus, eyes sunk so deep into her cheeks that her features seemed to be coiling in upon themselves to escape the light of the world. When she spoke, it was with a far softer voice than he had heard before, free now of the augmentation of vox grill.

“Your Legion is more successful than the others at remembering who they are,” she stated, simply. It was neither condemnation nor praise, merely fact.

“It was a lesson the Emperor taught me long ago. That we,” He gestured with one of his blackened gauntlets, motioning between himself and her. His tone turned gentle as he reminisced on his times with their Master, offering a small smile over his broken face. When she removed her helmet, the Primarch locked eyes with her as he switched his view from the Astartes’ helmet to her face proper. It was not a challenge from the Primarch, but a proverbial opening of the soul. He continued, “are still [i]human[/i], regardless of what we’ve experienced or what we’ve become.”

The Primarch of the First lost his small smile as he shifted away from the sweet reminisce of the early days of the Unification Wars. Aeternus kept his eyes level with Mistress Vairya. The holomap flickered near them as battles across Ursh were tracked, each displaying a steady push across the heartland. Each Raptor that flew into existence would’ve drawn his attention were it not for what he must speak.

“One of my warriors, Caligula, Captain of the First Clade, perished today after killing many people. Seven Astartes died, three surviving the encounter with one in dire straits. Fifteen adepts were caught in the crossfire. I’ve already sent the mortal remains back to the Himalazians to be honored as heroes.” He finally started to speak after a second of silence, his tone losing its lion’s roar. The Primarch was hurt behind his visage in a way few could harm him. The loss of Caligula fell on him hard, yet the loss of so many innocents hit him harder. Aeternus never turned away from the Legion Mistress as he spoke, yet he was aware that she already knew of this event.

“I cannot bring them back, Vairya, but you are owed. An apology for now and a request for later.” Aeternus approached an uncomfortable distance given their difference in sizes, then stopped short to bring his fist to his chestplate in salute. He bowed his head in remorse. He felt no sting for this action. It was one he had done many times before. She was not the first wronged by the volatile actions of his Thunder Warriors. They were legion once. In those first days, he couldn’t remember how many he’d put down or apologies he offered. This was unlike any of those others. Caestus had murdered warriors of their future, the ones that would surpass them.

“[b]I am sorry[/b], Vairya,” His voice was low, yet his words refrained from attracting pity. His tone was soft, yet his timbre was stalwart. His soul was bare, yet his spirit was resolute. He was many things in that moment, but the emotion that rang true the most was honesty. Aeternus continued, “you have the rights to what you desire with us. Simply ask it and we will deliver. [b]I will deliver[/b].”

The Legion Mistress’ face was [i]mostly[/i] still, but only mostly. Microexpressions skittered across her features, the warrior having never been trained to keep herself truly expressionless. What she felt was simply muted, and what she felt at that moment was confusion. Her soul was bared too in that instant, at least as much it may be for one so isolated and guarded from her own humanity.

Her soul practically shouted [i]why are you doing this[/i] while the iron edge of her conditioning and the immense weight of her office forced her lips to say something else. “Ten Astartes were defeated by only one of your warriors. An entire squad, powerless to stop him, forced to buy time with their lives. This is unacceptable.”

“You will train us, spar with us, so that we might learn how to fight against Thunder Warriors, and such a loss does not occur again.”

“It will be done.” Aeternus’ response was swift. There was no hesitancy in the decision as if it were something he had already considered long before their conversation. He knew exactly what she asked for, his eyes unafraid of the potential truth. The Primarch of the First Legion was no fool, but he was the most stout and loyal of his siblings. Before moving away from Vairya, Rex banged his fist against the Raptor on his chest as an affirmation as much as it was a salute. Shortly, he returned to his side of the hololithic table and gestured for her to join him.

Vairya stood for a moment, as if unsure how to answer, before returning the martial salute in turn. “I can think of none better to teach me how to slay a god.”

“Now,” Aeternus continued unabated, speaking furthermore without his helmet in a more natural tone dancing on the edge of his lion’s roar. One of his armored fingers pressed a rune, spinning the hologram of Ursh to a vertical overlay. Several new entries dotted the vast trenchlines of the battlefield, each represented by the Raptor and crossed-thunderbolt of the Cataegis. Every Legion from the God-Slayers to the Radiant Spears were converging from across Terra to end Kalagann’s empire. Their assault lines were displayed as aggressive arrows of yellow, mixed with Auxilia blue and Astartes grey. He continued, “let’s return to executing the Emperor’s will.”
[hr]
Credits: I Legio Cataegis/Primarch Aeternus [@MarshalSolgriev] , I Legio Astartes/Legion Mistress Vairya [@grimely]