It was as if there was something important he could almost recall, but whenever he tried to reach for it, it would retreat into the depths of his consciousness. The sensation was disconcerting for one that never forgot—he could remember the pain of his awakening from the crashed pod, and every hit he landed on the alien raiders on the first day of his life—and yet now, there was something he ought to know, but didn't.

Suddenly, he rose from his chair, nearly turning over his desk. Data slates and paper scattered away from his hands, but he paid them no heed. Swiftly, almost as if charging at the door, he marched out of the room that now served as his office—he, Angron, the gladiator, had an office and had been using it for years, which never ceased to amaze him.

He wasn't a gladiator at all any more.

Sunlight warmed his face and shoulders, as he stepped out of the building. As always when he appeared, a ring of petitioners appeared. No matter how much he tried, he could never convince people not to treat him like some sort of a supernatural hero. It still irked him, and on this day in particular.

He looked up, half expecting to find something in the sky. For a moment, it seemed empty, and then… then, he noticed that there was something. A shape up high, one that likely no one else would notice. There was something large in the orbit.

When a young man rushed out to announce there were people from an Imperium of Mankind coming to Nuceria, Angron was hardly surprised at all.

Had it just been an Imperium of Mankind that found Nuceria matters would have been easier. It would have been politics—nothing personal. But life was never so easy. The man who named himself the Emperor of Mankind, also claimed to be Angron's father. The sun reflected from the golden plates of his armour, making him almost glow. Angron had to squint to look at him. A trickle of sweat dripped down his back, and his scalp itched under the mass of dreadlocks. The Emperor seemed unbothered, as if he had been born from the sun and the heat.

The air smelled of fuel, likely from the golden craft that brought the men in golden armour. Under his feet, through his sandals, Angron felt how hot the surface was. It was not a day for standing around in the sun and discussing politics.

Angron swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. His mind was full of questions, buzzing like angry flies around a carcass.

"Why didn't you come earlier?"

"Why did you abandon me?"

"I don't need a father any more."

"Are you trying to blind me with this armour?"

"Can we get inside before we drown in my sweat?"

But he never said any of it. Those were the words of a child that had long ago drowned in blood. The slave-boy clutching his axe tightly and watching his brothers and sisters die for the enjoyment of others. But the bitter child had grown up long ago, and learned that the world does not revolve around his needs and wants.

So, instead, he asked, "What's your name?"

It earned him an arched eyebrow, followed by a warm smile. The man who called himself Emperor and Angron's father shook his head, and said, "I've had too many for them to have any value."

"A man without a name has no identity," Angron replied. "A man who will not tell his name to his son, does not trust his son."

"Than there is two of us," the Emperor answered, an undertone of chiding in his voice. "You do not trust me, and will not call me father."

It was a valid observation, though Angron wondered if the man was trying to turn the tables on him, and make him lose his footing in the discussion. So, instead of trying retaliate with an accusation, he opted to use the simple truth instead.

"I've just met you," he replied. "I… know that I carry your genetic material, but that does not make you my father. My fathers and mothers died, while you were away. Perhaps it's not your fault. I don't know. Perhaps one day I will call you father. Not today."

The Emperor looked at him. It felt odd to find himself under such scrutiny, and with a start, Angron realized he expected others to be in awe with him. But now, now he was before someone who was something more than he was: buried under the ancient rubble of a tower that had once scraped the skies, being crushed by the weight of stones that ought to have crumbled to dust long ago.

Then, the sense of being dissected and valued passed, and Angron could reason again.

"I see," the Emperor said, and Angron fought the urge to shudder.

He did not stay for long on Nuceria. There had been no great celebrations to mark the day on which the planet officially joined the Imperium of Mankind. The XIIth was not a man given to ostentation, it seemed, and insisted that a public address by him and the Emperor would be enough. The Master of Mankind agreed—it was Angron's planet, not his. The newly rediscovered Primarch would know best.

The day had passed, and Angron was becoming acquainted with his Legion aboard the Conqueror. The Emperor saw no reason to accompany him during this—his son did not need to be held by his hand. Instead, he had retreated to the Imperator Somnis to consider his next steps.

In the end, he thought he had reasons to be satisfied with Angron. How he had conquered Nuceria may have not been ideal, but it had been efficient, and ruling a world seemed to have disabused him of some illusions at least. But he had made all of his sons to be strong-minded creatures, and so there were other naïve views that Angron had managed to cling to, which would make it harder for him to lead his Legion.

However, that could be remedied.

The man, who called himself the Emperor of Mankind, rose from an ornate chair, he had been occupying. He picked up a dataslate from his desk, fingers brushing against the ancient scarred wood. It was a solid piece of furniture with a long history. A lot of it was irrelevant, like the "But Mona Lisa just keeps on smiling" someone had scratched out with a nail ages ago on the wooden surface.

The display of the dataslate flickered to life, and a tree of data bloomed to life. Names of various Astartes of the War Hounds built a complex spider-web. Once he clicked on a name, more data appeared—noteworthy battles, won duels…

All of this would be provided to Angron as well. One could not lead a Legion if they did not know those he led. He would grow more experienced, but it did not guarantee that he would learn the lessons he needed to.

People said that some lessons one had to learn on his own, but rarely did they mention that there were those that one could only learn from others. The question he truly needed to consider was who would be the suitable teacher.

He put the dataslate down, and started toying with the old worn ring on his pinky finger. The Sagittary was worn, barely visible, but still there… Almost unconsciously, he smiled—he could not help but to remember Horus, with all his enthusiasm and easy charm. But as fond as he was of his Dreadful Sagittary, he had to admit that he would not be the best choice. Undoubtedly, he would win Angron in the end—had he not befriended Mortarion already? But it would take time to convince the former gladiator that he was more than a privileged child.

The same reasons forced him to discard Fulgrim—the Phoenician's charm was urbane, cultured, and Angron had been taught to associate ornamentation and sophistication with idleness and weakness.

No, charm would not win Angron. Something else would be needed, and the Emperor thought he knew who'd be the right one.

Wryly, Angron thought that some things never changed. The XIIth Legion might have been transhuman, but they were an army, and they needed to be addressed. They needed to see their new leader, and hear from him where they would be headed.

There would be changes.

His eyes roamed over the enormous chamber, where almost all of the Astartes on Adamant Resolve had gathered to listen to him. Save for the figures in blue and white, it was empty, its only adornment the banners with the emblems of the War Hounds and the Army regiments that fought at their side on the walls. A collared hound reared on many of them; a proud proclamation of blind devotion. The same symbol stood proudly on every left pauldron of the men gathered before him.

"You have searched for me, and you have found me," he said. All the eyes in the cavernous chamber were on him, staring with the same hope and wonder. Like children to a father. "From today on, the XIIth is no longer without a Primarch. I will lead you, so that we may liberate worlds from the misguided and the xeno."

He cast his gaze across the chamber once again, noting that the attention directed at him did not waver. Each and every Astartes watched him with undivided attention, their gazes keen, their posture indicating he was the most important being for them. "But you will not come to all those worlds as attack dogs, shackled and unleashed by a distant master. You are human, and you will think for yourselves. You will evaluate, you will question. I do not want hounds at my heel, I want human beings at my side."

There was a dissonance between his words and what he was about to do, but an army could not be lead by committee. It needed orders, it needed one leader at its head. Nevertheless, he did not intend to let this reality become an excuse to shackle others to himself. Especially not beings as eager to do as much at the mere word from him.

"When I lead my brothers and sisters on Nuceria, those who stood against us had called us Eaters of Cities. They saw us as blind force, destroyers and killers—but in the end, we have brought them to justice and shown that those who destroy can also create."

Though none of the Legionnaires had uttered a word since he had started speaking, somehow the chamber had grown even more silent. There was an expectation, an uncertainty in the air like an electric current running through all of the gathered warriors before him.

"This is why, you will no longer be War Hounds, but World Eaters," he said. "Let it be a name that those unfit to rule and join the Imperium fear, and one that will fill those that need us with a hope for a better future."

The warriors before him crossed their hands on their chests, making the sign of Aquila. They accepted his decision without questions or protest, and though the Emperor had told him he could rename his Legion, and that the other Primarchs had done so too, he still felt a pang of unease.

Just how easy was it to become a tyrant, if no one ever questioned you?

The Imperator Somnis left the system first, the Emperor's own fleet following behind. Incandescent light spilled into the Materium, as the Warp was torn open and bathed the ships of the 13th Expeditionary Fleet in its unreality. Like a pack of hounds following their master's command, the Adamant Resolve and her companion vessels powered into the Warp gate.

Though her viewports were hidden behind screens that shielded the crew from gazing into the unreality of the Immaterium, Angron's attention was fixed on one of them as they translated. Just moments ago, the world that had shaped him and which he had shaped in turn had been there, spinning in the darkness.

The Emperor had told him that were uncountable others that were just like Nuceria had been. Mankind was at the brink—a push, and it would be forgotten. A shove, and it would rise above all else.

He thought of the slender xenos raiders that had tried to end his life just as it had begun. He had destroyed them instead, but he still could easily imagine what happened with those that had neither his strength nor resilience.

United we stand, divided we fall.

How many times did Mankind repeat those words? And yet, they rang true now—and though he could not put his full trust in the Emperor, he was going to stand by him.

He turned away from the viewport and looked around the bridge. He wasn't sure what made him think back to the trial of the High Riders—perhaps the decorative uniform of the ships's captain? Would he have ruled differently today, and chosen to let them live as a necessary evil? Without the knowledge of economy, of law, of so many other complex concepts, the people of Nuceria had to stumble blindly, and learn what those in power had been taught as children for generations. Without them, there was chaos. They had to learn that just growing food was not enough to feed all. That those who only knew violence would not throw it away, and without an enemy without would find one within to turn upon. Those who had suffered, kept on lashing out at those who had not or had suffered less.

The fall of the new order had not been a seamless transition into a new one. Its children turned upon each other, seeking to take out their frustrations and quarrels in the guise of tearing the remains of the High Riders rule.

The woman had been right, all those years ago. There was blood on his hands—of his brothers and sisters, who died in battle, and later took their own lives, having lost the one reason to live they had. Of those who starved, and of those killed for having more than the others. Perhaps if he'd let a few of the High Riders live, the tally of his revolution would not have been as large.

He did not know the answer, nor did could he tell if he was making the right choice or the wrong. All that was left to him was to move forward and see where the road he had chosen would lead him.

AN: And so Angron learns cleaning up never ends.

Also, before you point it out-the flagship of the World Eaters was called Adamant Resolve, before it was called the Conqueror. And I decided with how Angron has developed he might find the name Conqueror to be one that sends the wrong message. I'm pretty sure no one will mention it makes little sense when you're Legion is called World Eaters.