Chapter Seven
Deacon Baldo Slyst stormed into in his private chambers located deep in the Ecclesiarchal Palace, dismissing the priests clamouring for his attention. They immediately stopped their pestering, bowed, and left. None tried to argue. The last time someone continued to speak to him after the order, a cardinal who had protested significant inconsistencies in the Ecclesiastical Purse, Slyst had the man flogged and stripped of his title. The cardinal was higher in the Church's hierarchy, but Slyst was the default ecclesiarch.
Slyst cocked his head, trying to remember the cardinal. The name escaped him, though he knew the man to be working in the Asteroid Belt mines, digging into ore deposits alongside murderers, rapists and other criminals. He smiled, picturing Fulgrim there.
That smile was only momentary before he refocused on matters. He had been hesitant about the primarch's return, praying that the Third Son would leave matters of governance to the High Lords, just as he had done so long ago. But this Fulgrim was a different creature than the one who fought in the Dornian Heresy. This one cared about matters of state. The union of the Othrys Cluster into the Palatinate was proof of that.
Slyst had much of Terra's upper priesthood in his pocket, a couple hundred of the Senate's Lords and Ladies, but only two on the High Lords. That lack of control would prevent the vote to go Slyst's way. He knew Hadaken, Terrell, and that damned three-eyed mutant Danisar would unequivocally throw their support behind the Phoenician. The deacon didn't know the Inquisition's stance. Inquires would have to be made, his agents contacted. He sat at his desk which housed a cogitator, entered its password, passed the retinal scan, and laid his palm on a slab where needles collected tissue and blood samples to authorise his use.
Deep into the night the deacon created and discarded strategies, attempting to find a way to deal with the ambitious Fulgrim. As the sun rose over Hy Brasil, filling the smoggy air with a blood-red colour, an idea came to him. It was bold, and beyond dangerous, but it might just work.
As he departed the room to rouse the puppet-ecclesiarch from slumber, Deacon Baldo Slyst murmured fiercely to himself, "I am the God-Emperor's Voice and therefore I am mighty."
Chapter Masters Sor Kadar and Geroq, respectively of the Fifty-Third and One Hundred and Twenty-Second Chapters, walked down the hallways leading to the Ecclesiarch's Throne Room. The Ecclesiastical Guard lined the corridor, the chosen elite drawn from hundreds of Frateris Templar regiments. Their armour was glossy black, the sigil of the Ministorum proudly displayed upon their chests. Hellguns were clutched tightly, their faces covered by helms that revealed nothing. The two Word Bearer officers approached the golden doors that led to their destination, its surface engraved with scripture taken from the Lectitio Divinitatus, the Book of Lorgar, and the Scriptures of the Dead, all holy works written by their primarch during his long life.
This was the first time Kadar had been summoned to the Ecclesiarch's Palace, despite having arrived to Sol three months ago as per the High Lord's call for Astartes. He had arrived, believing as all the others had, that the Space Marines were being readied for an offensive to combat one of the many threats assailing the Imperium. When he had found out otherwise, well, to say he had been displeased was undermining the fury that coursed through his veins. But he was an Angel of the Emperor, an instrument of His Will and a protector of His people and empire, and despite all their faults and corruption the High Lords of Terra were the interpreters of the Emperor's Will and they could act as they saw fit as long as particular mandates had not been violated, especially the Thorite Decrees.
Kadar looked at his brother, Geroq of the 122nd Chapter, the Crimson Arrows. Geroq's Chapter of five hundred Astartes had been the allotted Word Bearer Chapter on Terra when the Cicatrix Maledictum formed, preventing being relieved by another as most of the Legion was currently engaged in campaigns across the galaxy. A Chapter of the XVII was chosen at random to serve as the Chamber Militant of the Adeptus Ministorum on Terra and to be Representative of the Legion in the Imperial Senate, as had been custom and law since the Age of Apostasy, another change put into place during Sebastian Thor's brief tenure as ecclesiarch. While typically a prestigious honour, Kadar did not envy his brother. The current situation in the Church's hierarchy made things… complicated.
Reaching the door, they bowed their heads, muttering a brief prayer to the God-Emperor and Lorgar who stood by His side in heaven. Putting armoured hands on the door, together they pushed and entered the presence of His Holiness Gregorius XI.
The ecclesiarch sat on his throne, a gaudy thing of gold and platinum, bedecked with jewels and other riches taken from a thousand worlds. The ecclesiarch smiled at them, and Kadar felt a twinge of pity stir inside him. Gregorius XI had once been a man to admire, inspiration, devout, charismatic and fearless, leading the Imperial Faith to liberate hundreds of worlds fallen into darkness. But that had been years ago, now he was an old, wrinkled man, his pearl white and gold robes of office hanging loosely about him, the vitality having long drained from the man. Eyes that had once seen all the horrors the galaxy had to offer and refused to be cowed by them, now looked at the approaching Astartes with confusion and slow wit.
The man who all knew to have murdered the mind if not body of Gregorius XI stood at His Holiness' shoulder, acting the part of a trusted advisor.
"Noble and faithful Word Bearers, welcome!" began Baldo Slyst. The man's condescending tone irritated Kadar to no end. As he and Geroq knelt on the floor before Gregorius, Kadar truly wished Slyst would overstep his bounds and allow the XVII to purge him and his cronies from the God-Emperor's Church. Unfortunately, the Chamber Militant of the Adeptus Ministorum could not interfere with internal Church matters except in very specific cases. To violate them was to violate Church doctrine. So, despite the Legion's disgust with Slyst and his control over the ecclesiarch, nothing could be done. It could not appear that the Word Bearers controlled the Church itself, or even install someone it preferred, lest it violate the Thor's mandates.
They remained kneeling until Gregorius stuttered that they rise. Both legionnaires did so, coming to attention and waiting. Slyst bent down to Gregorius' ear, and the ecclesiarch nodded weakly, drool leaking down to his chin.
"My fellow members of our great Faith, I welcome you to these holy halls. His Holiness is not feeling well and has bid me to discuss matters of importance with you in his stead."
Kadar and Geroq did not move nor speak.
Slyst feigned a smile before speaking.
"My friends, the God-Emperor's Faith is under attack. Primarch Fulgrim has returned, and though I cheered for joy at hearing the return of one of His Sons, the primarch's recent demand for power and calling for 'reform' disturbs His Holiness and the Holy Synod most dearly."
Kadar glanced at Gregorius, who had slumped in his throne, snoring softly.
"What would you have us do?" demanded Geroq.
"I only ask that when in six days, the Senate reconvenes to vote on the matter of Fulgrim becoming sole Warmaster, that you remember your vows to protect His Church and its interests. This is the will of the ecclesiarch, the Holy Synod, and the Emperor Himself." Slyst pulled out a rolled up parchment paper, the Seal of the Holy Synod of Terra and the signatures of seventy-one of its members lying upon it.
Kadar gritted his teeth. By Legion law, custom, and duty, they were to abide by such an order.
"If the primarch refuses the Senate's decision and demands the office and all the dangerous power it can wield, then we must assume the primarch has become… changed since his disappearance. Mayhap his mind has been corrupted, influenced somehow. What if he has become another Arch-Traitor in the making?"
"How dare you," Kadar said, the words leaving his lips before he could stifle them.
Slyst's pale eyes focused on Kadar. "How dare I? How DARE I?! How dare you to question me! Fulgrim could become another Dorn. Do you not see the danger?!"
"Lord Fulgrim is loyal to the Emperor-" Kadar began.
Slyst interrupted, "As was Dorn, once, he who had been the Emperor's Praetorian, before he slaughtered loyal Space Marines in their thousands upon the black sands of Istvaan and plunging the Imperium in its seven year civil war for survival."
Kadar bit back a retort, knowing it to be true. He bowed his head. "Forgive me for my outburst."
Slyst took a deep breath, running his hand over his bald head. "His Holiness is most forgiving and of course forgives you, Chapter Master. You are only doing what you perceive to be your duty." Slyst turned and moved to stand beside the ecclesiarch, who had awoken due to the shouting, looking frightened. "Will you do as the Church asks of you? Will you follow the Emperor's Will?"
Geroq and Sor Kadar looked at one another before saluting, clenched fists over primary heart. "His Will be done," they stated solemnly.
Magnus the Red, the Crimson King, the Blind Seer, and a collection of other titles and monikers, stood inside his private sanctum within the Whispering Tower, clasped in a robe coloured red and gold. He walked over to the balcony and looked out over the City of Sight, itself a sub-section of the continent-spanning Imperial Palace. Across from the fortress-monastery of the Thousand Sons stood the Obsidian Keep, headquarters of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, but beyond it all, deeper into the Himalazia Mountains, atop the highest and most formidable peak Terra had ever known, stood the Fortress of the Astronomican. His father's resting place, but also the site of Magnus' greatest failure.
Thinking of it deflated him more so than usual; his demeanour that had once been so confident and arrogant now was gone, replaced by misery and self-doubt. Ten thousand years of searching, of accumulating the immortal sons and daughters of the Emperor, Magnus' 'brothers and sisters,' and it all became a waste.
If he had eyes, he would close them. Instead, he searched himself, remembering the ritual in exacting detail, thinking on what he could have done to ensure its success. No matter how hard he thought it over, he knew there was simply nothing else he could have done. The ritual sacrifice of the Emperor's natural-born children, the Grey Knights as he had called them, had failed. Now the blood of one hundred and twelve innocent men and women were on his hands. Compared to the trillions of lives his actions had affected, whether it be as a primarch of a Legiones Astartes or as Master of the Astronomican, it was trifle; nothing more than a drop of murder in an ever growing ocean of blood, yet his failure spelled doom for all Mankind.
The attempt to revive the Emperor had failed. For over nine thousand years, his creator had communed with Magnus. Originally entire conversations, they had become shortened and more cryptic as the centuries trudged onwards, with the last few hundred years the Emperor had only communed with bloodcurdling screams and visions of death. But this Dark Millennium's last century had seen the Master of Mankind become silent and the Astronomican grow dim, fading from the outer edges of the galaxy.
Magnus knew he had to hurry, and hunted down the last few remaining Grey Knights still left, and ushered them to Terra in complete secrecy that not even his own sons on the Rehati knew. Despite all the secrecy, lies, and half-truths, the attempt had failed and the Emperor remained silent. He had failed his father, and in turn the Imperium and Mankind, and that devastated him, crushing his soul.
When the Great Rift scarred the galaxy, Magnus knew the end was approaching. Too many in the Imperium distrusted him and his progeny, sometimes rightfully so, but more oft than not it was due to superstition and fear of psykers. In his many sojourns away from the Legion, the Imperium had become decadent and intolerant. Maybe if he had been around more… No. It was useless to ponder the what-ifs and what should be rather than reality.
The simple truth was Magnus was ready to die. He had considered killing himself, even a primarch would die with a bolt round to the skull, but Magnus knew he could not abandon his sons and humanity in their greatest hour of need. He would stay, watch the end commence, and die along with the rest of the species.
He had prepared for this… but then Fulgrim had returned.
Magnus had never loved Fulgrim, not like he had Horus, Lorgar or Perturabo, but he did respect him, admired even in some ways. The loss of the Phoenician mere centuries after the Heresy had wounded the Imperium in ways that were difficult to fully express.
Yet he had returned, whispered to have been saved by their creator. And he restored hope wherever he tread. Already word of the Third Primarch's return had reignited a thin veneer of hope, communicated to him via the Astropathic Choir that resided in this very tower. Armies and fleets traversed the void, whispering of the Imperium's salvation, women named their children after great heroes of the III, and soldiers fought on battlefields, clutching phoenix pendants alongside the Aquila and the crossed thunderbolt.
A last fateful breath of life had been given to the dying body of the Imperium by his brother's return, and it might be enough to-
No, he clamped down on the thought.
Whatever hope and faith in survival Fulgrim's return had brought, it was lacking when compared to the enormity of the Emperor's death, the Astronomican being guided by nothing more than the last echoes of His soul.
The-
Magnus stopped and turned, sensing the blazing beacon of power marching towards this very chamber. Magnus could perceive the soul-power of most living beings, and he knew his primarch brothers blazed brighter than almost all others, their souls partially constructed with warp-matter. Even non-psychic brothers like Mortarion and Horus blazed with enough strength to make even warp-sensitive individuals recognise the aura that they unconsciously emitted.
But Fulgrim's was different than it had once been.
He had become more powerful.
Magnus left the balcony, moving to the thick chamber doors. Using telekinesis, he opened the doors. The Scarab Occult stood as still as statues, their helms ritually blindfolded, hieroglyphs and protection runes adorning their armour.
As Magnus opened the door, simultaneously Fulgrim rounded the corner, flanked by a squad of his finest. The Phoenician did not look surprised to see Magnus waiting.
"Brother, we need to talk," called the Third Son.
"Agreed," he said, voice rough with weeks of disuse. Not even during the Senate meeting had he talked, despite subtle promoting by Fulgrim.
+My sons, remain here. Be cordial with the Chemosians.+
His bodyguard pulsed back affirmation, the Phoenix Guard taking up position in the corridor's centre. His silver haired brother joined Magnus in his chambers.
Magnus closed the doors, using his hands, knowing psychic powers bothered the Phoenician. Turning, he saw Fulgrim admiring the stacked bookshelves lining the room. Prospero had been burned to a husk, its famous libraries destroyed, knowledge of ancient cultures, peoples, and species forever lost. But that had not stopped the Thousand Sons from pursuing and acquiring knowledge. There were a half-dozen great libraries within the Whispering Tower, and from them Magnus chose his favourite tomes and treatises alongside other select works, specifically those containing corrupting ideas and heretical practices that none should have to read.
Knowledge was power, but it was also dangerous. Something the XV had learned at great cost during the Heresy.
"So," he began, moving past his brother to his serpentwood desk. Likely the greatest concentration of Prospero's native tree left in the galaxy, "what would you like to talk about?"
"This," Fulgrim said.
A powerful primarch-sized boot kicked Magnus in lower back, sending him sprawling onto the ground, missing the priceless desk by centimetres.
Stunned, though not hurt, he rolled over only to be punched square in the jaw, followed by a cross hook. The Phoenician straddled him, landing blow after blow on Magnus' face. Sounds of a scuffle came from the hallway.
+No violence! Do not fight nor enter. Do not shed blood!+
He felt pulses of fierce protest but they complied nonetheless. Yet Fulgrim continued to hammer away at him, perfect face still as stone.
"Wake up, Magnus. Wake up! You need to feel. Feel! Anger, base emotions! Feel it, embrace it!" Fulgrim harshly enunciated. "Stop being an empty shell of the brother I used to know. Where is the Crimson King that defied a butcher?! Where is the Crimson King who delayed two Traitor Legions to Terra?! Where is the raw power?!"
Confusion turned to pain and pain turned to anger.
"Enough!" he yelled, the marble floor cracking under the sudden spike in psychic power, wrapping Fulgrim in invisible bands of psychic energy. He slammed Fulgrim against the wall, not kindly, books falling to the floor, and held him there, situated several metres off the floor.
"You come into my domain and assault me? Why, Fulgrim? By all reason, why?!"
Fulgrim was calm. "I am trying to wake you up."
"What?" Magnus snarled, rising from the ground, his enriched blood dripping to the floor from a broken nose. Already he had begun to heal himself in tandem with his primarch physiology at work. The nose popped back into place, and the stream of blood ceased.
"I am trying to wake you up," Fulgrim repeated, still calm despite being at the complete mercy of Magnus. "You have cut yourself off from the world. You relegate and delegate, instead of leading. You disappear for decades at a time, no notion of where you had gone. When your sons needed you, where were you?! When the Imperium needed you, where were you?!" Fulgrim's voice quietened. "When our brothers needed you, where were you?"
Magnus' rage dissipated, replaced with a heavy sense of guilt. The points were valid, and though the attempt was crude, it was effective. He dropped Fulgrim, who landed with ease, and walked over to his brother, hand extended.
"I will tell you where I was for all those years. I will tell you on the way."
"On the way to where?"
"The Astronomican."
The Fortress of the Astronomican was interred in Terra's tallest mountain, once known in antiquity as Mount Everest. None called it that anymore. It was simply the home of the Astronomican, the Forbidden Mountain where only those authorised dared to even tread. Much of the Fortress was inside, but more than enough was exposed to the elements. Tall, imposing watch towers, sky-reaching vox and augur arrays, and thick battlements. At the peak was a massive dome glittering in the light of Sol.
As the three dropships of the Legiones Astartes approached, las-cluster turrets, SAM missile emplacements, Hydra flak cannons, servitor-slaved multi-barrelled autocannons, and all other assortments of deadly weaponry locked onto them without hesitation.
A gruff voice with a harsh Olympian accent spoke over the vox.
"Clearance code?"
The lead dropship's pilot rattled off the current code which was changed every six hours. The three Thunderhawks landed on a platform protruding from the mountainside. A platoon of Iron Warriors waited as an honour guard, though they doubled as a first reaction force in case whatever exited turned out to be unpleasant guests.
Magnus and Fulgrim exited the dropship, walking alone towards the Fourth Legion Astartes. They approached the commander, a captain, who stood in front his battle-brothers.
"Lord primarchs, welcome to the Astronomican. Purpose of visit?"
"We're here to see the Emperor," Magnus said.
The Iron Warrior did not look surprised. "I will lead you to the Wall."
The captain led the primarchs into the Fortress, the platoon following and taking up defensive positions inside the mountain. The ten metre thick adamantium gates began to close, pistons many metres below the gate churning slowly but consistently to shut them. It took nearly a minute and when they closed it was with a sound of finality.
The Iron Warrior led the Emperor's sons deep into the mountain, passing scores of checkpoints manned by squads of Iron Warriors, hulking combat-servitors, and even several of the Legio Cybernetica. As the two demigods neared their destination, more and more of the Fortress' defenders became that of the Legio Custodes. The First Wall, defended by one hundred Iron Warriors clad in Tartaros Tactical Dreadnought Armour and two hundred of the Emperor's Custodes, arrayed in ranks of fifty by four.
The captain stopped among his brothers, saluting as the primarchs passed, and the Custodes honoured their arrival with a strong pommel tap of their Guardian-Spears. A Custodian officer stepped forward.
"Gate Commander Caridex," Magnus said. "We need to see Him."
Caridex stared at the two primarchs, the room still and silent. Not even the primarch-sons of the Emperor of Mankind could see their father without the approval and careful supervision of the Legio Custodes. Magnus had told Fulgrim during the flight from the City of Sight to the Forbidden Fortress that he had been denied entry before and warned of the possibility.
After a moment, Caridex tapped his Guardian-Spear again upon the marbled floor again. The metres thick adamantium and auramite gate began to open.
"The captain-general grants you entry. He apologises for not being present. Other matters have come to his attention."
"We understand," the Crimson King said simply.
"One hour. No more."
"Understood."
The First Wall had finished opening and Caridex motioned them through. For another hour they continued inwards, security becoming heightened with every step. Fulgrim armour beeped repeatedly, its machine-spirit warning him of target locks and body scans. Past the First Wall were three others of equal thickness, with hundreds of Custodians and scores of warrior-women from the Silent Sisterhood standing alongside them.
Fulgrim noted Magnus clench his jaw in discomfort. Though the Sisters of Silence were the militant-arm of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, manning the Black Ships, and working alongside Thousand Son kill-teams to banish daemonic incursions, their mere presence hurt him. Fulgrim knew that prior to the Heresy, Magnus and the Sisterhood had despised one another, but their partnership in cleansing Terra of daemons after the Siege went a long way towards forging friendly cooperation. After Vandire's regime had ended, Magnus became the Master of the Astronomican, and from what Fulgrim had gleamed from his brother and other sources was that the Sisterhood accepted and approved of the Fifteenth Primarch, and for the last five thousand years had fought alongside the XV in a coordinated and effective manner.
Still, these Silent Sisters watched Magnus and Fulgrim warily, for though the Blind Seer was their titular commander, they only served one true master and He lay beyond the fifth and final wall, called the Last Wall.
As they passed through the Last Wall, the pressure that had been slowly building up in the base of his neck intensified ten-fold. Fulgrim winced at the sudden increase. Magnus saw the movement.
"It is natural in His presence. Be lucky you are not as… sensitive as I am to His aura."
Fulgrim would have spoken but then he noticed the seated figure a kilometre away in the distance, inhaling sharply as a result. The seat was the Golden Throne upon a raised ebon dais, forearm-thick cables running to and fro, steam hissing from several vents laid about. Thick pillars held aloft the ceiling that disappeared into darkness above. Sculpted hands protruded from the pillars, holding glow-globes. That, combined with the several centimetres of fog covering the floor, gave the Chamber of the Astronomican an atmosphere of gloom. Standing at attention throughout the chamber were the three hundred members of the Hetaeron Guard, the Companions.
Unlike a majority of their brethren who donned the gold and crimson of their Legio, the Emperor's Companions wore the black of mourning, both in armour and cloak, leaving only their horsehair plumes its default blood-red. A ring of Custodians stood around the Golden Throne, facing outward. They were ever wary, ever ready to do battle; anything to protect the Master of Mankind.
Entombed upon the archeotech from the Dark Age of Technology sat the Emperor. As Fulgrim neared, each step growing more difficult, he lamented what had become of his father.
Gone was his long black hair of ancient kings, the formidable brow that bespoke strength, the Anatolian skin hue of his youth, and the eyes that never settled onto a single colour, though gold and dark brown were the most common. They had been eyes that had seen tens of thousands of years of human history; from the first murder, to the wheel, and to the many great and terrible things that followed.
All once-known features were gone, replaced by a skeletal figure, a thin layer of emaciated tissue still enduring but only just. The Emperor's eyes were closed, appearing as an old man who walked the line between life and death as he slept. After the Scouring, when the Imperium had been brought back from the brink, Fulgrim had visited this chamber once. So much had stayed the same, yet looking at his father's half-corpse it reminded him again of how much had changed.
The two primarchs walked in silence towards the Golden Throne. Fulgrim's eyes darted around, seeing ten thousand casket-pods layered upon the walls.
"There are so many," whispered Fulgrim.
"Yes," his brother replied sadly. "Father's power is mighty yet devastating, and as the years have gone on it has become more unstable. Ten thousand specially trained psykers called the Chosen help tame and project the Emperor's Light into the galaxy to guide Imperial voidships," several flickered from pale white to dark red, joining hundreds of other crimson pods, "and a thousand of them die daily. Life expectancy is gauged in weeks as the energy consumes their souls to fuel the Throne, and only a handful last a month. It is a gruelling process."
As they neared the dais, the Companions hesitantly parted.
"You brought them here?" Fulgrim asked Magnus. "Our kin?"
"Yes," admitted his brother. "The Custodes assisted me with their placement, ensuring none ran. Their deaths came swift and clean. I had hoped their soul-essence would combine with His, reinvigorating Him. But I, as I have been so many times before, was wrong. Their deaths had no physical, spiritual or psychic effect. He had told me what to do, to gather those I dubbed Grey Knights, yet I must have miscalculated, made some unforeseen error in my ritual."
The two demigods were only a metre from Him, the Sword of the Emperor sheathed and crossing His lap. Fulgrim stared at his father and felt an inkling of the despair Magnus must feel.
They watched in silence and their hour neared its end.
Just as they were about to turn, Fulgrim felt a… pull, coming from the entombed Emperor. Without thought Fulgrim reached out.
Magnus saw what he was doing. "No! Fulgrim you must not-"
Fulgrim's hand touched the Emperor's knee.
The world screamed.
The chamber disappeared, the Astronomican disappeared. All understanding vanished at the snap of a finger. Replacing it was a piercing wail echoing in the dark abyss. Fulgrim faded into and out of realities:
-an army of disease and decay marched under a banner of the corrupted tri-teardrop, a desecrated angel flying above-
-a great devourer prowled the deep, hungry tendrils consuming all-
-a double-headed eagle dragged itself across the floor, bleeding from deep wounds while a flock of predatory ravens cawed after it-
-soldiers infected with greed spat on their oaths, casting aside loyalty in exchange for power-
-the Destroyer parried and cut down half a squad of legionnaires in a single blow, urging his black-clad brothers forward-
-a cavern filled with millions of necrodermis husks suddenly coming to life, bathing the tomb in deathly green-
Were these currently happening or were they things to come?
Fulgrim knew he would continue to see the travesties assailing the galaxy if he did not do something, forever trapped in an endless cycle of sorrow.
"Father!" he called into the void and reality shifted again, though this time he was in ethereal plains of his father. The golden light, once powerful enough to be considered limitless, had grown incredibly weak, slowly shrinking unto itself. Spaced throughout were small balls of light, drifting aimlessly through the sky, seemingly lost.
The primarch felt something call to him in the distance. The golden light situated there was the strongest, the origin of it all. Fulgrim rushed to it. He ran what must have been thousands of kilometres in mere seconds, or was it only a few hundred metres in several long hours. It was difficult to tell.
Arriving to the origin, he saw a large sphere of pure gold-white light being held fast by four chains. One stank of copper, another made of warp-magicks, one of infected, cyst covered muscles, and the last smelling of intoxicating perfume. He knew what they were, the malevolent beings that called themselves gods, or at least aspects of them. Only together could they even hope to entrap the Emperor's Light.
They held the sphere down, and from where the chains lodged themselves, filth expanded from them, causing the light to fade. He knew it was his father under attack, or at the very least a representation of His soul that Fulgrim could comprehend.
Fulgrim ran to the nearest chain, that reeking of sorcery. It was purple-blue, feathers and eyes watching him as he approached. Grabbing with both hands, Fulgrim saw a thousand futures, each more mad and harrowing than the last, but he suppressed them, purging them from his mind. Not even a primarch could bear witness to that and survive with his mind intact.
Using all his gene-forged strength and the fury of a dying empire, he pulled with all his might. But try as he could, the Chain of Tzeentch refused to budge. He could feel the Dark God laughing at his struggle, the attempt amusing the Lord of Change to no bounds. Before despair could set in, Fulgrim felt power coming from elsewhere. Turning, he saw one of the small balls of light attaching itself to him, replenishing then enhancing his vitality.
Still it wasn't enough.
"More. I need more," he realised. "Children of the Emperor, true-born sons and daughters, aid me! Aid our father! If not for Him, then for humanity! I beseech you, Grey Knights!"
And the immortal children of the Emperor answered the call. One hundred and eleven balls of light added to the first, increasing Fulgrim's strength. He pulled, and pulled, and pulled… and then… the chain broke, its vile embedded tip spat out, disappearing in the air. The laughter of a god quickly turned to surprise and horror.
The Emperor's soul-sphere glowed brightly, blinding the primarch. When the light's brightness had moderated, Fulgrim opened his eyes, noting none of the other gods' chains constrained the soul-sphere. More remarkable were those souls of the true Emperor's children, each already a fragment of their father, re-joining Him, healing the wounds the chains had made. The sphere multiplied in size and the plains of golden light expanded greatly before halting once again.
"Father?" he asked, falling to his knees in weariness. "Guide me."
The sphere hovered in the air. Fulgrim had a sense the Emperor was trying to speak but it was nearly impossible. Even with the shackles of Chaos destroyed and fragments of His soul returned, He was still incredibly weak.
"Tell me what to do. Guide me," he repeated.
The Emperor finally spoke after what felt like an eternity. As the Emperor's physical body had changed, so too had His soul. It was weary, weak, psychic tone grating and brutally direct in its attention.
+Unite them.+
And the gold light washed over him.
Fulgrim awoke suddenly, breathing laboured, only to see an activated Guardian-Spear aiming at his head.
"Don't shoot!" Magnus bellowed, forcing his way past a squad of Custodians, who aimed their weapons at the Fifteenth Primarch, readying to fire. "Tribune Heracleon, see reason! We-"
A wind that should not have existed swept through the Chamber of the Astronomican, and upon that wind whispered a voice, an echo of an echo, but nonetheless there.
+Unite them,+ it commanded.
All turned to the Golden Throne. Though the Emperor's physical state had not changed, Magnus was the first to see it.
"His aura," he cried out, relief intermingling with shock, "It's stronger." Magnus looked at Fulgrim. "Your eyes… they flashed gold, just for a second." Magnus looked to the Throne, then back to Fulgrim. "Tell me everything."
