Loss
They were like a herd. Yes, a herd of frightened animals that is indeed what they were. Running through the forest, hoping their brown and green armor would shield them from their predators. Ah, they were so ignorant. Blind, foolish followers of the Imperium. They would not escape him nor would they escape his brothers. But what could you expect of the soldiers of the Imperial Guard? In the end they were just mortals, controlled by instinct and fear, with no comprehension for the consequences of their actions. The idea to share a single chromosome with these … things was absurd, disgusting even.
But yet, he could understand them. It must have been exhilarating to realize they could not beat their foes, their weapons ineffective against their enemies. He could envy them for that experience. They will lose. They will die. Ah, such an all-encompassing and fundamental realization must be truly thrilling. Such moments had become rare for him.
It also reminded him of the folly of his enemy. Would they only teach their soldiers properly the Imperium would be so much more effective. But no, they send their soldiers to fight enemies they did not, could not comprehend.
Knowledge is power.
Such a simple truth, really. And yet, only so few understood it and even fewer used it for the good of the universe. It had become so easy for him. He knew how the Imperial Guard would fight here. He knew how many troops they would send. He knew their equipment and he knew when they would be where. His enemies would call it sorcery. In truth it was just knowledge and its correct application. He also knew what the Guard would do after their defeat here: Send a overwhelmingly large army to crush him. And crush him they would, at least if he would still be here by then. He did not plan on doing that. He would take what he wanted and disappear and nothing would remain to speak of his presence here, well except for the remains of his victims of course.
A sudden rise in noise interrupted his thoughts. The familiar sound of bolter fire and the fizzling of imperial lasguns was coming from the woods. Two squads of imperial troopers were engaging one of his own, judging by the sounds.
Hopeless.
Even these mortals had to understand that they could not win this engagement. Or could it be...? Did these creatures have a hint of rudimentary intelligence? Were these two squads meant to be sacrificed to buy time for the rest to escape?
He was smiling. The pleasant feeling of curiosity was coursing through him. Now that was something warranting additional inquiry.
Without needing to voice a command his two terminator bodyguards were moving up to him to march side by side with their beloved brother towards the battle.
Aratosh, greatest quasi-mortal sorcerer after Magnus the Red, his beloved Primarch, would grace these imperial soldiers with his presence. He might even lower himself and honor one of these animals by killing it himself.
He did no get very far. There was something stuck in the ground. At first he assumed it to be nothing but a rock, but he quickly realized that he was mistaken. It was a lump of ceramite shaped in the unmistakable form of an Astartes power armor breastplate. The lump was weathered and there was nothing left of its original color. Ceramite was quite resilient and the climate of this world was not very aggressive. Only the Changer of the Ways himself might know how many times this lump was buried in the ground only to rise again to the surface.
But he was mistaken. Twice mistaken in such short time.
It was hard to see, but Aratosh would recognize it anywhere. Emblazoned on this armor was a bug, a scarab to be precise, a mythological creature from ancient Terra. He did know how long this thing was buried on this world. The strange feeling of recognition returned to him. He felt it first when he saw this planet from orbit. Now he remembered. All those memories buried in the darkest corner of his mind returned to him. He had been here before, long ago. In a time when the legion of the Thousand Sons was still united. A time when the Imperium of man still possessed greatness. A time when living gods walked on the battlefields of the great crusade. A time when the traitor was still known as the Emperor of mankind to him.
Slowly the sun rose above the horizon marking the beginning of a new day. The air was heavy with dust and fume faking a strange morning mist. The typical aftermath of a battle. A short one at that. A short war even. Once more the Thousand Sons had proven their ability to play the weakness of their enemy. This lost colony had denied the word of the emperor, denied their rightful place among the new Imperium. Or better their leaders had denied this. Those fools allowed their own hunger for power to deny the glory of the new age. They were willing to face an entire legion of Astartes. Such folly … one could almost forget that these barbarians could have no idea what it meant to fight the Astartes. Their entire political system was very strange: they elected individuals among the masses to act as their leaders. Was it any wonder that this "Senate" was a collection of incompetent fools? A good leader takes power as the Emperor had proven. These "politicians" had only limited sway over their people. It was easy to sow dissent among the masses. But they still had followers, full compliance could only be achieved through a show of force. Crushing their capital fortress from orbit would have been easy, but that was not necessary. Instead Magnus ordered two of his fellowships to assault the fortress that was guarding the only ground access to the capital. Meanwhile Magnus himself teleported into the senate chambers, slaying all those fools there. After hearing of these deeds all loyalist forces surrendered immediately. After all one of their armies was slaughtered by only a few hundred enemies while their leaders were killed by a red giant appearing out of thin air. That was simply too much for their faltering morale. This war ended no two hours after it started. Aratosh had been granted the command over the ground assault. His first command since he reached the rank of Epistolary. He had lost 21 brothers in the fight but the losses of the enemy forces numbered in the hundreds. Still many potential followers of the Imperium were spared this day. Aratosh shuddered thinking about the slaughter that would have occurred if another legion would have found this world. The World Eaters would have covered this world with a sea of blood and the Space Wolves would have simply ripped everything apart that would not immediately surrender to them. Sometimes it was strange to consider these legions as brothers.
The sound of a voice interrupted his thinking.
"Brother Aratosh!"
The voice belonged to one of his squad leaders who was walking up to him. Okisis was his name, good soldier, almost no psychic talent, he would rise no further in the legion. The Astartes was carrying his broken helmet in the crook of his arm. The weapons of these locals were primitive but still quite effective.
"Yes, brother?" Aratosh greeted his subordinate who immediately snapped to attention.
"All preparations are complete. We can move out whenever you wish." pleased that his orders were carried out with haste even outside of battle, Aratosh simply nodded in agreement. He expected no less.
"Furthermore" Okisis added "Chief Librarian Ahriman sends his regards. He also wishes to inform you of a curious collection of scripture he found in the local libraries. He hopes you will have opportunity to study them."
A hint of a smile was playing along Aratoshs lips. The war might be over but there were bound to be small pockets of resistance. Suppressing them would task Aratosh until the 28th would proceed to the next world. He decided to ignore Ahrimans teasing.
"We will move out as soon as the Spireguard arrives to secure this fortress. Meanwhile you will take some of our prisoners. Let them search for survivors and bury their dead. They deserve this honour."
Okisis acknowledged the order and turned to leave before he paused.
"The Emperor will be proud of us." he said. To Aratosh it sounded suspiciously like a question.
"The Emperor is proud of all of his sons. Do you doubt that, brother?"
The sergeant seemed to be uneasy with this. But both of them had fought side by side not long ago. There could be no secrets.
"Well, there are rumors. The voices that cry for our disbanding are getting louder with every day and some say the Emperor might heed their words. After all some of Magnus' brothers are among them. He could decide their words are more important to him than Magnus'."
"This is nonsense," answered Aratosh speaking deliberately louder than necessary " the Emperor considers all Primarchs equal. He would not abandon one of them."
Okisis still seemed uneasy, but he also seemed to understand that the dealing of the Primarchs was beyond his standing.
"Of course. The Emperor will be proud of us." he answered, this time making it sound like a statement. These words said he proceeded to carry out his orders.
Aratosh was pleased, after all the Emperor would never abandon them.
For a short moment Aratoshs mind returned to reality only to plunge into the depth of his memories again.
It was burning!
Prospero was burning!
The Silver Towers were burning!
The marble pyramids were burning!
The impossible had happened! The Home world of the Thousand Sons was under attack.
Aratosh could only watch in disbelief at the blazing inferno beneath him. He could only watch as the clusters of drop pods were raining down from the sky.
"These are the colors and insignias of the Space Wolves ." Codicier Amun-Sey simply observed.
"But why would they attack us? Are they lackeys of Horus?" Okisis wanted to know.
"No," assured him Aratosh "the Space Wolves are loyal."
The conclusion of this was obvious, but it was so shocking that none of the three Astartes could voice it. Finally Aratosh found his voice again.
"The Emperor send them to us."
Even for his super-human metabolism the heat was almost unbearable. The whole hall was ablaze. The wooden shelves were burning and with them all the books and scrolls stored on them. His brothers and he had tried to save as much as possible but it was simply too much. Less then half of the scriptures in this library could be saved. The rest was damned to burn here. The cursed Space Wolves had set everything ablaze. They putted irreplaceable knowledge to the torch. Aratosh tried to keep them away from this hall. But they were simply too many of them.
He had blown their bodies apart with his bolt pistol.
He had cleaved their ugly heads with his power sword.
He had ripped their infantile souls from their mortal shells.
But it was not enough. They had surrounded him, had broken his cover only to be slain by him. He could not remember how many he had killed. It seemed these berserkers were getting better but truth be told he was getting weaker.
For the moment it was calm.
He could rest now.
He was so tired.
Just kneel for a while.
Just pause for a moment.
His head was so heavy. Inevitably he lowered his gaze.
He was injured. He didn't realize this before. The breastplate of his armor was shattered and the red he saw was his own blood not the color that decorated all Thousand Sons armor. He could feel the pain now. Parts of his ribs were penetrating his lungs. There were other pains as well. A deep cut at his temple, a cracked skull, a shattered left hand and countless more. His whole body suddenly seemed to scream its pains at him. It was almost unbearable.
For him this battle was over, one way or another. The Space Wolves could simply come and slay him or he would die in the flames. He had no more ammunition, his power sword might be impaled in some Space Wolf corpse and his head was almost exploding. His only satisfaction was to take as many of these bastards with him as he could.
His slumbering to death was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of five gray armored Astartes. Strangely they were not attacking him outright. Did the ring of slain Space Wolves around him cautioned them? No, such considerations were surely beyond the mental capacity of these barbarians.
"Well fought, sorcerer." one of the Wolves said "But you will pay for your treachery. You will die now!"
Aratosh tried to focus his gaze on the speaker. His armor was adorned witch many of the grisly trophies the Wolves loved so much. Aratosh started to smile, at least he thought he did. He wasn't sure if his body still followed his commands. Seemed like he had drawn the attention of one of their company captains. What did he call him? Sorcerer? Traitor? Even in his weakened state Aratosh was fully aware of the bitter irony of this situation. A traitor speaking of treachery.
Something grew within him.
He let his gaze roam along the burning shelves.
All the knowledge.
All the wisdom.
All the sacrifices of his legion.
All that destroyed in the blink of an eye.
All that damned to insignificance.
These mad butchers attacked his home, slaughtered his brothers!
Destroyed everything the Thousand Sons had ever achieved.
They had thrown away the bonds of brotherhood between their legions without hesitation.
And they were speaking of treachery?
This miserable scum was speaking of treachery?!
Boundless rage grew within him.
Rage unlike he ever felt before.
Rage at the dogs that assaulted his home.
Rage at the man that send them to them.
Rage at the man he had sworn an oath of loyalty to.
Rage at the man who repaid centuries of loyal service with death and destruction.
The Rage was burning like a fire in his body.
It made him strong.
It let him forget his injuries.
It gave him new vigor.
One last time he rose.
"I will die."
With his intact hand he grabbed the combat knife at his belt. For the first time he would use it in battle.
"But not today."
He took one step. His sight was clear again and he could see the surprise in the faces of the dogs.
"In the name of all the powers in the universe..."
another step.
"...I swear that I will not die..."
and another step. Still the Wolves were not reacting to him.
"...until I have killed all of your treacherous kind!"
The expression in their faces changed into a mixture of surprise and amusement.
"Death to the Space Wolves!" he yelled while accelerating his steps.
"DEATH TO THE EMPEROR!" he screamed.
He was running.
The flood of memories ceased as sudden as it occurred. Slowly Aratosh rose to his feet again. His bodyguards were still standing next to him, silent and unmovable as always. Ahead of him he saw a squad of his men leaving the woods. He watched them, their cloddish movement, their stiff gait, the nothingness in their eyes. These were the remnants of his legion, mindless automatons subservient to their masters will.
Tools … weapons …
… comrades … brothers.
There was something in Aratoshs mind. What was it? A feeling? Yes, but what kind? Did he know it? Did he feel it before? Yes, but it was so long ago.
A single word formed in his mind: Loss.
For the fraction of a moment Aratoshs mind was filled with sadness and despair.
Not only because of what was done to him and his brothers eons ago but also because of the things he was forced to do now. Crimes unimaginable: Torture, Oppression, Genocide.
What the Thousand Sons once suffered they now did freely to others a thousand times over.
His guilt was immeasurable but the erstwhile treachery was nagging at his soul without cease. He would never be free of it.
And he didn't want to.
All that had remained of the human Aratosh had been flushed away by the boundless and pure hatred of the Chaoslord Aratosh. It was still the very same hatred that filled him the day Prospero burned. For ten millennia this hatred had kept him alive, did no let him falter. For ten millenia this hatred had nested in his mind, feeding of him like a parasite. That hatred had changed him, his self, his soul. Aratosh did no longer feel the hatred. He had become one with it, one being, on mind.
What he had done was insignificant. Nothing, absolutely nothing was comparable to the monstrosity that was done to his legion.
What are a million of human lives compared to the heretical destruction of knowledge?
What do the mortals know of pain? What is their agony compared to an eternity of exile and treachery?
Vengeance. Vengeance would be all that would count in the end. And he would have it. Completely or it would be worthless.
He would find Leman Russ wherever that spineless dog was hiding.
He would crush the corpse of the traitor emperor and pull his soul out of the depths of the warp as a gift to the Gods of Chaos. Their suffering would be infinite, without mercy. They deserved nothing less for their abhorrent crimes.
And if he would need to wait until eternity was no more. Vengeance will be his.
This world was a testament to the erstwhile naiveté of the Thousand Sons. For that it would burn. It was not allowed to exist, no longer, never more.
And just as he will cleanse this pathetic rock from the face of the universe he will cleanse the galaxy until there was nothing but Chaos and Chaos alone.
The weak shall perish. The galaxy shall burn. Chaos shall triumph.
But that was a long way from here. Right now, there was a world to be purged.