40k and characters belong to Games Workshop. Non-canonical embellishments my own.
Serena had stubbornly requested a room with viewports, and was faintly regretting her decision as the walls of her new studio shook with each barrage of fire from their pursuers. Ostian had sighed at her peculiarities in the face of utter destruction. She clung to him now, pride and vanity forgotten, as their world came crashing down around them.
In the weeks following Primarch Fulgrim's meeting with the Warmaster, all of the Remembrancers aboard the Pride of the Emperor had been quietly relocated to other, smaller ships of the fleet. Their works decorating the flagship itself had remained, nothing to cause untoward suspicion. In a fleet as welcoming of its merely human guests as the 28th, constant migration of artists between from ship to ship to explore whatever captivated their attention was hardly uncommon.
And trickled among them had come those of their peers fortunate enough to escape from the ships of the 63rd Expedition Fleet, bringing with them impossible tales of corruption. At first, she could not believe it – that the warriors who they had been sent to observe and exalt were subject to the same laughter and rage as mere mortals, that she had learned quickly enough. That they would be capable of such treachery was something that no citizen of the Imperium could ever have imagined.
For weeks, almost a month, the fleet waited, tension rising in the ranks in the calm before the storm. After the terrible evidence of Laer and the word of the Primarch himself upon meeting his brother, it was deemed that nothing was more dangerous than obliviousness to the truth, and every human in the fleet had been scrutinized, scanned, and probed for loyalty with the ruthless efficiency only the 28th could have achieved. Those not found wanting had been given the absolute truth of their plans and their purpose - their duty to discover as much information as they could about the traitors, and to survive to bear it home.
And now, the masquerade of normalcy had finally reached its breaking point. Smaller scout ships that had remained hidden from their erstwhile brethren since their arrival had already departed days ago; pitting one fleet against three was not valor but folly, and every captain had had impressed upon him the utter importance of the mission: flight and survival. Every captain, except those of the rearguard who would stall the enemy vessels long enough for the astropaths to break through the unnatural interference.
The bright bulk of the Pride of the Emperor was the center of that defensive line. The batteries of the great flagship roared, covering the retreat of the rest of the fleet as they fled. The enemy converged on it, intent upon tearing out the heart of the Legion, only to be blown apart by the escort frigates that had hidden, cloaked, around it. The discipline that was the trademark of the 28th Expedition Fleet stood them in good stead, even against the overwhelming difference in numbers. For a moment Serena began to hope that they would escape unscathed after all.
Then empty space twisted, emitting a wave of force that shuddered through the hull of the ship and nearly knocked her to the floor. The twisted behemoth that emerged undulated with a miasma of oily iridescence that made her skin crawl. Although Serena had no names for what she saw, she recognized its kinship with the things that had invaded their fleet from Laer. The same creatures that had nearly destroyed them, invoked by an overenthusiastic documentarist's examination of the artifacts of that alien race. The memory of the weeks spent hiding in her rooms paranoid of everything and everyone around her while the Astartes purged the alien creatures and those tainted by their corruption rose to her mind, and her grip on Ostian's hand tightened.
Other, similarly monstrous things rippled into visibility around the fleet, even as the first reached out long tendrils to grasp at the nearest frigate. Ignoring the cannon fire that strafed its sides, the thing latched onto the ship, its organic bulk melding with cold steel. Spikes and lesions erupted from the stern metal, the hull of the victim twisting and warping until it was indistinguishable from its attacker.
The rearguard of the 28th turned to engage this new threat, but their numbers were dwindling fast under the assault of both Warp-spawned monstrosities and the cannons of the traitors, even as each second signaled another successful escape. Serena bit her lip to keep herself from crying out in horror as one of the black things bore through the hail of fire and latched onto the Pride of the Emperor.
Memories of her time on board returned with a vengeance: their old studios, Bequa's recital, la Fenice, the majestic assembly of the officers and Astartes, hours spent painting for the Primarch himself. For a time Serena had been a part of a grand legend and walked among gods, and in the end she was helpless to do anything but watch it slip away. She could glimpse for a single moment the sudden burst of light erupting from its warp drive as the regal barge chose death over consumption. The explosion engulfed the dark ships and flooded her sight with a brilliant corona of fire like the heart of a dying star.
It was the last thing she saw before a sickening lurch tore the sight of normal space away from them, the combined efforts of the astropaths and the xenos-enhanced engines finally bearing them away from the battle.
Blinking fiercely against the tears and blinding aftereffects, Serena found herself drawn to the incomplete canvas of her master work. Her eyes met Ostian's, his face as tear-stained and miserable as her own must be, and saw understanding as his own gaze flickered to the corner of their shared studio, where pristine white marble awaited the touch of the sculptor's tools.
It was the task of the documentarists and iterators to tell the truth. To convince the other Legions and the Council of Terra that the unthinkable had occurred.
And it would be theirs to ensure that it was never forgotten.
-
The gentle arc of glass, marble, and steel suspended miles above the foliage below glimmered in the morning light. Mountains still cloaked in mist framed the domes of the memorial proper, and a sharp spring breeze whistled through the walkway. The long path to the Halls of Memory was every bit as solemn and picturesque as he remembered, and he marveled that his years of experiences and study of the most impressive monuments to the history of the Imperium had not robbed the sight of its wonder. It was fitting that this final, private moment of his graduation be at the shrine-museum that had first inspired his calling.
The first Remembrancers had sailed for the stars to document the Great Crusade; when the Heresy was finally over, those who survived returned with records of a different kind of conflict altogether. It was natural that the majority of their works came to rest upon Chemos, in honor of the fleet that established the Order as it now stood. The memorial built by the Legions in memory of those dark days were as grand as any of old Terra's cathedrals, second only to the sprawling fortresses of the Legions themselves. Bit by bit the memorial had expanded, smaller galleries and wings added carefully as generations of Remembrancers returned from service to add their masterpieces to the collection.
Pilgrims to the memorial came to view both wonders and horrors of alien worlds – and, most important of all, to know the face of the Great Enemy, to shatter its looming mysteries and drag it into the light, where human science and human means could dissect it for weakness and learn to face its terrors.
But facing the daemons could wait for another day; he would more than enough time to test his mettle when he departed for assignment. He made his way silently through the throngs of awestruck visitors, past grand statues and the panoramas of battle, to the smaller section of landscapes and portraits, and the one relic that had set him upon his path so many years ago.
The painting that adorned the alcove was simple, though no less famous for it. It was inevitable that the reverence accorded the Primarch upon his own homeworld was no less fervent than the religions of old, and if the Adepts noted that zeal, they allowed it as a measure of human frailty, the intrinsic need for faith a hard-learned lesson from those very wars. Proof that the human race was as yet not ready to transcend their ancestral natures.
The technique of the painter's art was flawless, but what had first captured his attention as a child was the simple humanity the artist had managed to convey to a figure of legend. There was pride and humility in equal measure, and he wondered if its contrast with the other, more extravagant depictions were a reflection of changes in the Primarch himself during his last days, or the vision of the artist who saw a different face beneath the glamour.
Slowly, reverently, he reached out to touch the faded nameplate. The painting itself had to be preserved behind its glass shell, but the white marble and scarred brass of the nameplate before it had been left clear by the artist's request. Something solid, something to touch for the generations who came after.
Serena D'Angelus, The Last Phoenix.