Eventually, only one was left to tell, one last Primarch to warn of betrayal.
The most dangerous one.
The Emperor insisted on fifty Imperial Fists and fifty Ultramarines To stand witness to the arrival of Horus, the bright star, the favoured son. He also asked Marcus, Severus and their Terminators to come as well.
"I don't like this," Sergeant Varl said. He had insisted on standing with Severus; a bodyguard like no other. Severus took a money to consider hiss service with Varl.
Varl was a Sergeant at the same time Yan Rill was, and the most veteran of all the Space Marines of the Fourth. Indeed, there were few who had served longer than him in the Chapter, not even it's Chapter Master, Aldus Flynn (although Flynn was new). Carl had refused a dozen promotions to command other companies or join a Sternguard squad, feeling that the more ornate armour and weaponry didn't make a man any better at his job, and that 'where I am is enough for me'. Severus wondered why it had been him and not Varl who had been ordered to captain the Fourth when Yan Rill had died in the 13th Black Crusade, but then it was obvious: Varl had refused, again. Severus had a horrid moment of self doubt - he was just a second choice. But then he mastered himself.
"Ready?" he said to his men.
"We know no fear," Varl said softly.
"It's different now," Marcus said. "The great enemy approaches..."
They were all nervous. How could they not be? Here they would stand in the presence of the greatest enemy and traitor Mankind had ever known, the architect of the Imperium's shattering.
"We are ready, Brother Captain," the Terminator Sergeant said, startling Severus. He looked up at the man, whose bare head was a stark contrast to the four others. The Sergeant's name was Dion. Dion was a veteran of more wars than Severus could remember happening in his time, and was well respected by all the Company and indeed the Chapter. That he stood with them on Tires had been an honour. That he stood with Severus now was a blessing.
"I appreciate your presence brother," Severus said honestly. "I shall probably appreciate it more in a moment."
And with that, a noise sounded the arrival of an ornate Thunderhawk, one that bore the symbol of the Luna Wolves. It landed softly, and the side hatch hissed open with a start.
And then he stepped out. Roughly eight feet tall, power armoured and powerful. An ornate sword at one side, a lightning claw on the other. Horus the Warmaster, warrior and diplomat without peer. Simultaneously greatest hero and foulest villain of this time, depending precisely when you looked.
But Captain Jared Severus wasn't looking at that.
He was looking at the figure behind him. Smaller, even when Terminator armoured, with a long topknot.
The Emperor sensed it first, from all eight Revenants, but most of all from their Captain. For it was all well and good seeing Horus, the great enemy, but he was an ancient foe none cared to remember too much of when they could help it.
Abaddon was another matter.
"Despoiler," Severus growled, gripping his power mace. And then Abaddon looked over at him, and Severus remembered the burning of Cadia and a thousand other worlds.
It was a single stroke of bad fortune. Severus remembered the despair that had filled him and remembered the Despoiler's part in it, and something snapped and he didn't know why he was charging, and didn't care. All he knew was, he was charging, yelling the cry of "for Peace and the Emperor!" and Varl, loyal Varl, always stood by his side before and always would now. Marcus too charged, and before Severus knew it... he wasn't facing down the Despoiler, but an angry looking Primarch.
The sword of Horus raised, and Severus swore in that moment he was going to die, but didn't care... but then, Dion was there, blocking the blow, and speaking softly.
"Primarch or no, you shall not touch my Captain."
"Enough!" the Emperor yelled. "Severus, explain yourself."
Severus stood, his control regained, and stared straight at Abaddon, who just stared blandly at him.
"Despoiler," was all he said, and then he and his men marched off the platform.
The Emperor had explained everything to Horus. The favoured son of the Imperium's Master had asked to be excused, and gone to stand on a balcony somewhere. No doubt the news that destiny ha cast him as the villain was somewhat distressing, even to a Primarch. Now the Emperor had the rather more difficult - or remarkably simple, depending on attitude - duty of talking to the Revenants.
When he got to Severus' chamber, he was surprised at how sparse it was: and also by the little devotional candle, right by a small, hand drawn picture of the Emperor himself and a little Aquila pendant.
"I thought I told you, no worship," the Emperor said, forgetting his purpose in his annoyance.
"I was born worshipping the God-Emperor," Severus replied. "Every Imperial citizen - ostensibly - worships you. You are the saviour of Mankind, and suffer to keep our Imperium safe from..."
"I don't do anything of the sort," the Emperor snapped, his anger palpable on the air. Severus, unafraid, faced him.
"No you don't," he said. "And now you never will, because of my men and I. I suppose I'm grateful. But that leaves a big gap in our lives, and something must fill it."
"You are a Space Marine," the Emperor said. "Duty is your life."
"Yes," Severus said. "Duty to the God-Emperor, the saviour of mankind, Him on Earth. The trouble is," the Space Marine continued, softening his voice, "you aren't any of those. You claim you are just a man. You aren't. And if you're worried about worship, you should ask yourself what you'd rather we worshipped."
"I am not a God," the Emperor said, coldly. "And I never will be."
"To me, and to my men, you are," Severus replied. "And from what I can tell, to others you are as well. So the question is, Emperor, whether you're ready to take the responsibility a God must."
The Emperor turned on his heel and marched out. How dare he. How dare that thin blooded, faded little specimen of a Space Marine speak to him like that? Did he imagine that the Emperor did not know duty?
Not as the God-Emperor does, you don't. Imagine it, Anatolian: ten millennia of that. Could you endure? Ten thousand years of being so utterly alone, utterly powerless, your mind strained to try and save your people and all the while knowing you will fail...
He ignored the nasty little thought and marched to his throne room. Once there, he sat and sighed, sitting down in the chair he had prepared for himself. The little Marine was no trouble. A catalyst, nothing more. The Emperor would fob him off with an army to command and done.
There were more important matters at hand. The Emperor looked up, as eighteen sons entered the room.
"My sons," he said. "I'm glad you're here."
He sighed. Suddenly he felt old, older than he had ever felt.
"The events I have spoken of must not happen," he said. "To that end, we will remain here, until every grievance we have, every petty squabble, all you hold against your brothers - or even against me - is expunged and dealt with."
The Emperor sat. It was a long list.