Apologies for the lengthy delay in the uploading of this chapter, as I stated before I like to be at least two chatpers ahead of my upload schedule, and not only did this chapter take a great deal longer than the others to write up, but finding time to write became increasingly difficult. Also I've been deeply sadden by the death of Kevin Conroy, or as many would know him the voice actor for Batman in the 90's animated series. On some finer details about this story, I am not a native speaker or formally taught of Irish Gaelic, or the other unique Celtic tongues that we are so lucky to retain thanks to hard working individuals, so I hope any who are native speakers of any of the Celtic languages are willing to forgive any mistakes I make.
Chapter 8: War, Death, and Love
There is one thing I will never understand about the Emperor's great labor in making the Legiones Astartes, and it is the rumored sterilization of Space Marines. The truth is a rather complicated matter that I fail to muster the patience to recount in this record, but I will share a practice I started amongst my recruitment worlds. Those adolescent boys who wish to one day join the ranks of my Space Marines, would be encouraged to sire offspring, both before and during their selection training. For those who are puzzled by such a practice are blissfully unaware of the painstaking effort it was to not only find a suitable candidate but also to prepare one to become an Astartes. To be a perfect match for geneseed implantation is such a rarity that it makes we Primarchs seem commonplace. So to ensure there would be future generations of suitable candidates, it was only practical to have those already compatible to further their bloodlines, yet I left the details in the hands of respected members of the recruiting worlds' cultures.
These are the official reasons for the practice, but there is another that you will not find in any Imperial record, not because of some malicious secret, simply because it is none but our business. I have commanded and fought alongside all manner of warriors and soldiers, and in my experience those with families have a greater deal of empathy for those they fight alongside, while also doing all within their power to survive battles. Ferrus Manus has always believed that we Primarchs and our Astartes were beyond the "trappings" of standard humanity, and while I respect my brother's prowess, I will always oppose his belief that things such kith and kin are a weakness. Let him and his legion believe what they will, my sons and I will draw upon the strength in those flaws to fight with greater ferocity. Had not the love I had come to develop towards my three wives served me well in reclaiming Arcadia? Had their council and natural diplomatic abilities not benefited my legion? How can we Primarchs claim to be humanity's greatest potential made flesh if we deny what makes humanity so great? Mark me well my sons, those who would gleefully abandon their humanity or who would scorn those left amongst the mortal ranks will fail to understand their own failures, then shift blame onto something else. Perhaps that is why we work better alongside the White Scars and Salamanders legion, for both Jagahati and Vulkan have similar philosophies.
I would hesitate to ever call my memory eidetic, for while I can claim a more clear recall than the average human but there are still details of the past that are lost through the passage of time. Despite this truth, my recollections of my three wives have stood the test of this long crusade, and for that I will be eternally grateful, as the memories of them are one of their final gifts to me before their deaths. It might surprise some readers of this record to know that all three of my wives refused to partake in rejuvenation therapies, both that would extend their lives and prolong their youthful appearances. The reason is both a simple and heartfelt thing, they wished to live and die as nature intended, and also so that I would treasure the rare moments we shared all the more. I owe my wives a debt I fear I will never truly be able to repay, but I hope that my attempts to honor each of their memories. For my beloved Ceri, I had both my sons and mortal staff commit many of her original songs to memory, sung in the times of victory and Arcadian solstices, and most of them are calming melodies that soothe the soul after hard won victories. For my ever vigilant and intellectual Lowri, I have ensured that all of her discoveries and writings be properly honored throughout the Imperium, and statues in her likeness stand as a guardian over both the Librarius and Armories throughout the legion. Lastly, for Morrigan, my first mo gru, I granted Morrigu, a power sword she had designed, to the Legion's greatest swordsman, her totem of the crow became worn by my warriors who had wives of their own, and finally a life size statue of her in her wedding shroud but armed with a blade back in Annwn's crypt. I suspect many will accuse me of favoritism towards Morrigan over my other two wives, perhaps there is some truth to the accusation, but you must understand that she was the first of my brides, the first woman I ever came to love.
Allow me if you will to rewind the clock to a time before I fought for the Imperium, back to a much simpler time, when I was only worried with the protection of a single world. When the armor I wore did not hum with mighty power, when the only guns I favored were personalized wristmounted auto guns, and I would only occasionally have to worry about alien threats in favor of warp powered sorcerers. I had not yet met Celvyn, and still answered to the Wild Hunt's Council of Elders. I also enjoyed the company of my mentor. A mentor to whom I owed so much of who I am today, and yet for some reason I cannot recall his name. Is this a natural degradation of time, or was that orchestrated by my mentor for some unknown reason? I fear I will never know the answer to that question, and for some reason I am content with it.
Recently I had led the Hunt in successfully destroying the city of Droomich, which was under the cruel grip of Karlz I Sorcerer King of Danube, a devoted follower of the darkness, and a truly powerful black hearted sorcerer. His death was only possible after months of harassing his forces with guerilla tactics, and robbing his military's wealth of material for weaponry, and the absolute destruction of the families of his most loyal followers. All except for the Cailins, a family who had only ever given Karlz raw metallic ores to reforge into tools, never committing to his wars, debauched pageantries, or cannibalistic feasts, their sigil was that of a crow, and only a handful of their line had survived.
We had promised to attend to them, my mentor and myself, to inform them of what was to happen in the wake of Karlz's death, and the dismantling of his cancerous kingdom. At the time I was…well less patient than I am now, and could not understand why I had allowed my mentor to convince me to agree to this meeting. Forcing him to verbally remind me that if I was to become Arcadia's true liberator, then I could not simply leave the lands of the kingdom's I destroyed in absolute ruin, I would have to either assign new protectors or bring old families into the compliance of the clans. The Cailins were to be one of the first families to be offered such a mercy, for despite supplying Karlz's smiths with the ore to create weapons of war, they had consistently refrained from the degeneracy that plagued the rest of the Danube Kingdom. So they would be afforded certain leniencies, which my mentor insisted remain open to negotiation, spirits bless that old sage and his infinite patience for my brashness. Their familial home had fallen into slow ruin, and while it was a still functionable structure, the rest of the area had already begun to be retaken by the wilds of nature. Unlike the other noble homes we had destroyed, this one lacked any human guards, instead there were guard dogs whose barking signaled our arrival. We were then greeted by a tall long grey haired man, dressed in well worn yet elegant clothing, armed with an ancient lasrifle, thus I met Dealbhaoth de Cailins, surviving patriarch of his line.
He whistled for his dogs to be silent, and they obeyed him loyally, even sitting patiently as he stared at us in his yard. My mentor was dressed in a brown cloak, adorned in jewelry of gems and bones, and carried a gnarled old wooden staff lined with crystals that had been delicately embedded into its bark. While I was dressed in a piecemeal armor of plate, chains, leathers, and a dark green hooded cloak, a long sword strapped to my waist and a spear on my back. I admit we hardly appeared as the most pleasant guests, and while that seemed to both Dealbhaoth little, his gaze lingered on me before he spoke.
"You two are the derwydds sent by the Wild Hunt?" He asked steadily, and before I could respond my mentor cleared his throat.
"I am the High Derwydd," my mentor answered, "This is Arwyn Clay, a Derwydd aye, but he is commander of the Wild Hunts army." Ever so slightly Cailin's grip on his rifle tightened, and I could feel a sharp dread take root in his soul.
"Be at peace Lord of Crows," I tried to assure him, "We intend you no harm, I have just not yet had time to return my weapons to my armory." He was not amused by my jest, though to be fair my humor then had not been refined into what it is today, but at the time I thought he was too intimidated by my presence. After all, we had just left a hard won battle, and I believe I had missed splatters of human blood on my armor in my hurried attempt to clean it.
"Come on in the both of ya," he nearly grunted, "Just try to track even more earth inside." I felt myself smiling at the jest, yet confused by the tension of his soul, he almost seemed more wary of me than the Sorcerer King. At the time I could not conceive as to why he would be, only later would I finally understand he feared that I would purge him for not openly rebelling the black hearted rein, condemning him a coward for choosing the survival of his family over the wellbeing of others. In truth if he had asked I would have named him braver than most, for while he never stopped the cruelty he had never joined in it, I dread to list the countless lords who pleaded for mercy or forgiveness for their crimes claiming they felt they had no choice. Whereas the Lord of Crows made no such excuses even for his own inactions, instead he only desired that his family be judged fairly.
He led us deeper into the ancestral home, until we arrived at a large dining room, decorated in fading painting, ancient ceremonial blades, and a large dark oak table. Gathered around the table was his family, Engema his wife, his three sons and their wives, and Ennau his youngest daughter, all of them possessed the dark hair of their family's founders. I had not yet seen Morrigan, yet I could sense there was another soul just out of ear shot, but mistaken it for a family servant and oh how delicious did my mentor find my surprise. We were offered to take seats, while my mentor graciously took the offer, I respectfully declined fearing I would break the antique furniture. I drew back my hood, revealing my woad painted face. I had shaved my face a week prior to have less flammable elements for my foes, yet ironically my long auburn red hair had been woven into warrior knots.
"You have by now heard of King Karlz's death," mentor stated, "And you are likely asking yourselves the question of what comes next." Even without the gift, their silence was the only confirmation we needed, that and the grim seriousness that marked each of their faces. I broke the silence, adopting the most gentle and kind tone I could muster.
"If you have any concerns or questions," I told them, "You can ask them freely. I am no king, merely an honest warrior and derwydd." I cannot say for certain if I used the gift to emphasize that I wished to hear the honest thoughts spoken from their lips, or if they had sensed no deception in my words, though I suppose it does not truly matter. As Dealbhoth answered my offer with harsh yet cautious honesty.
"If you shan't be king," he politely demanded, "Then who shall be ruler of these lands?" It was a fair enough question, and one I had come familiar to hear from the survivors of a victorious campaign. Yet no matter how many times I had answered it, every one of them had the same reaction.
"There will no longer be kings," I answered, "No more grand palaces or walled cities of vanity. The lands shall be returned to the hands of the people. Those people will form Clans, they shall protect their territories and their people." I felt how each of the Crows felt amazed by the sheer boldness of my declaration, even before the horror of Old Night, the number of times that Arcadia had belonged in the hands of all its people could be counted upon a single hand. They even reminded me of that fact, and I assured them that the Wild Hunt would ensure that tyrants no longer rose to claim any dominion, while also respecting the autonomy of the Clans.
We continued negotiations for another two hours, before we had gotten them to agree to not only form the first clan of their region, but to abandon their ruined ancestral home in favor of a new hearth that we would assist in construction. Then, Dealbhoth added a condition that no amount of time would have prepared me, indeed it left me speechless and my mentor chuckling in amusement.
"I wish for you to take my daughter as your wife." He said with utter seriousness and I could feel no amusement in any of his kin's souls. It is appropriate to say that was the first time in my memory that I ever panicked at another's words.
"Forgive Sir Cailin," I awkwardly recovered, "But your daughter seems barely into her adolescence, and regardless of whatever you have heard of me, I will not rob one of their childhood." He shook his head, and his sons chuckled in amusement at the tone in my voice.
"No, not Ennau," he corrected, "I refer to my oldest, and now widowed daughter. Morrigan, if you'd please." With that a set of doors to the right behind him gently opened, and for the first time I laid my eyes upon Morrigan. Her hair was black as the night sky, but shined beautifully in the faint light, and she was taller than most women, her flesh a healthy pale shade, dressed in a light weight purple dyed wool gown, a black veil over her face, yet her sapphire eyes pierced that dark veil. Even then before I had come to truly understand such things, I knew she was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever met, and she was barely in her second decade.
"You see Karlz had become tired of my absence in royal matters," Dealbhoth continued, "So he had demanded that my daughter be made the bride of that nightmare he called a son." Prince Sluagh, or he who hungers for souls, although he was born of Karlz blood, the creature was hardly recognizable as human. Indeed it had been rumored that Karlz had barraged with a fomori to grant him great power in exchange for providing a vessel for it to walk the world. While Sluagh had an undeniably handsome face, its mouth was filled with razor fangs, a black serpent tongue, bloated inhuman muscles, and with bronzed spikes growing out of his skin. The monster was truly a tough bastard who refused to die easily, and only truly died after I sundered his brain and heart with a stroke of my blade.
In his silent voice, my mentor reminded me that it was the custom of these lands to honor such arrangements between powerful families, nor did it matter that we had destroyed Karlz line and kingdom, Morrigan was now seen untouchable. It did not matter that she was still young and beautiful, she would forever be marked as a dark prince's promised bride. I felt the unrelenting uncertainty and fear that sang throughout her soul. I had grown up hearing horror stories of how in the past the noble families treated widowed or infertile members with scarce respect. While I had always hated such norms, I felt unable to simply to turn away from one who would suffer from my own actions. I sighed deeply.
"Very well," I relented, "I accept the union of our families. Do you wish for the High Derwydd to perform the ceremony?" Surprise flickered across all but my mentor, who was all too familiar with the impatience that ruled my bones, and a simple ceremony was held in the remains of their garden. If it had not been for my mentor, Morrigan's overwhelming discomfort towards the entire situation would have likely driven me to refuse exchanging a then hollow vow of marriage. Ah how interesting life develops beyond what you initially plan. Yet, now I find myself conflicted. I am tempted to lie, declare that despite how uncomfortable the situation was, I was an attentive husband, and that I worked tirelessly to ensure she was comfortable. Even on parchment those words would ring hollow.
No, the truth was I was a fairly distant and an indifferent creature towards her. Even though I was waging a war to reclaim Arcadia from cruel undeserving hands, I could have spared her more time than just dining together during our first year of marriage, but I was a young and arrogant soul then. I felt the loneliness that filled her soul as a result of her new life, but I was so unable to fathom how I could help. So it will surprise none when I tell you that after a full year of neglect, one night I returned to Castle Annwn and was informed Morrigan had fled the grounds. The news not only shocked me into silence, but worry, Morrigan was still unfamiliar to the castle's surroundings, and the predators, natural or otherwise, that stalked near our walls. So with an urgency that surprised even myself, I raced into the night searching for Morrigan, yet barring no weapons or armor. Even with my mastery of the gift, I relied on my physical senses as much as my sixth to find her tracks, and never before had I been so grateful to my enhanced perceptions.
I remember not how long I raced through the forests, following Morrigan's tracks in a desperate desire to bring her home safe, and that was when I first realized that I considered the castle ours, not simply mine. I then silently questioned that if I consider the castle as ours, then why did I so miserably fail at making her feel welcomed or wanted. She had created impressively beautiful paintings that the castle staff would show me, and I had failed to voice how amazed I was by her skills with a brush or charcoal. I thought of how my own mother would have scolded me, likely cracking a stick over my head, for forgetting my manners and dishonoring a vow I made. Then the suggestions from my mentor to spend more time back home and to entrust more campaigns to my officers, suddenly clicked into place within my mind. I remember the bitter disappointment I felt towards myself, having failed to uphold not only an oath, but many of the founding principles of the Wild Hunt in celebrating our humanity. How could I expect to be seen as anything more than a war monger if I continued to fail to connect with my own humanity? I swore there and then, to the spirits of my dead parents, that I would be more attentive to Morrigan, and make it my mission to ensure she would never feel lonely in my presence.
I nearly halted my stride, my eyes wide in concern at the freshly made tracks of a predator. An Arth. Arth's are Arcadia's far distant descendants of the Terran mammals documented as Ursidae, more commonly referred to as bears by the average Terran. Although, an arth on Arcadia was significantly larger than their distant ancestors, with thicker hides, more dangerous claws, and far more territorial than any other creature on Arcadia. A single Arth could wipe out an entire lightly outfitted war party, and one was hunting Morrigan, for the sin of unwittingly trespassing. It was then painfully clear that I was naked of arms and armor, yet that bothered me little, instead it pushed me to run faster.
As I followed the two tracks, I began to smell the coppery tang of blood, human blood, and the scent made my legs surge with even more desperate strength. Then the scent of the beast's fur assailed my nostrils, its growls danced across the night air, and as I cleared a hill that sloped into a deep root ridden canyon, I caught sight of the creature. It was clawing a tightly woven bundle of roots, from which emitted Morrigan's cries of terror as the arth continued to open her shelter to claim her life. I did not slow my stride, blurring down the slope, before slamming into the arth's hulking form, I knocked it aside and placed myself between Morrigan and the predator. Its eyes burned in anger, and it growled hatred fueled challenge towards me. Yet my attention was on Morrigan, she was bleeding heavily, from a series of opened wounds that painted her beautifully pale skin. Tears trailed down her cheeks, her eyes red, while her visible fear was slowly consumed by disbelief by my appearance, and it filled me with a rage I was then unfamiliar with.
The arth charged me, dramatically hammering its paws into the ground before it stood to swipe its claws down upon me, but I held my ground waiting for its strike. With the rage burning across my muscles, I caught its arms in a powerful vice grip that locked both its claws above my head, and it only stood a head or two above me. It roared into my face, delivering the foul wet musky scent of its previous meal, and for some reason I roared back with a deafening sound that was both human yet more. It was stunned by the sound that escaped me, then I felt its fear, not for itself but the cubs it birthed and hunted for. I realized then that I did not have to fight it, and that was a truth I longed to ignore, but I relented my fury, sending an impulse to flee into the arth's mind. Once I was confident that the impulse had rooted itself into the beast's mind, I released my grip and watched it race back the way it came. My pulse drummed loudly in my ears, my muscles burned as if I had finished a fierce battle, but I remained standing, turning around to look towards Morrigan, and with a gentle usage of the gift, willed the tree roots to gently part aside. Giving me a clear view of her body, her skin glistened in sweat and blood, her beautiful hair was a disheveled mess, twigs and leaves nested into her locks, and relief filled my mind.
"Thank the spirits you are alive," I whispered breathily, "Thank the spirits." I felt her utter surprise at my words, but I tore off my own cloth and began binding her wounds to lessen further bleeding. I did so with more delicate care than I believed myself capable of, as if on some instinctive level I understood I could cause her more harm if I were not careful, and Morrigan's confusion intensified so greatly that she was in tears.
"Why?!" She cried, "Why did it take this for you to treat me in such a way?!" Her words cut through to my very core, and made me hesitate in my binding of her wounds, I felt ashamed. I hope I need not repeat why I felt so ashamed of myself, but the pained desperation of her voice made the shame stronger by ten fold. I am unsure what expression I wore before she spoke, but I felt my features soften with a gentle sadness at her tone, as I finished tending to her wounds.
"I…I'm a selfish fool," I admitted, "I've spent too long thinking about the spiritual and war, that I've failed to look beyond myself. I failed to see the harm I was causing you." She wept openly, I gently wrapped my arms around her form, and to my surprise she returned the gesture, before burying her face into my shoulder. I softly, yet audibly, whispered to her in hope of soothing her, all the while lifting her up off the ground still cradled in my arms.
"If you're willing," I said, starting to walk back towards Annwn, "I'd ask you to allow me a chance to start over. With the promise that I'll never again ignore you, or drive you to such lengths again. I want to be better, Morrigan." She did not answer me, at the time I could not tell if it was because she was overwhelmed by all the emotions she had suffered, or if she simply had no idea of what to say in response, but she continued to sob into shoulders the entire journey back. When we returned home, I silently refused to hand her over to the staff, instead I ordered them to retrieve my healer's kit as I would tend to her injuries myself. It always seems to surprise many to hear that I was trained as a healer atop my other learned skills, to which I have to remind them that on Arcadia derwydds are just as important to our society as our clan chieftains. Not only are we trained to harness the gift, but taught various rites, reading the weather, blessing the lands, and finally healing arts that although pale in comparison to the Imperial medical professionals, still we know how to suture and clean wounds.
With the cleanest fabrics, I delicately cleaned her wounds, gingerly removed foreign objects, and patiently sewed the wounds shut. Morrigan's bewilderment at my delicate touch was palpable, in truth it should have surprised me as well, it had been a time since I had last performed the role of a healer. Yet it had all come back to me as instinctive as running, paired with my new found gentleness, along with psychically numbing her pain receptors briefly, I ensured she felt no greater discomfort from the needle and thread. I am sure there are a few amongst my brothers who would laugh then call me a nursemaid if they ever saw me suturing a mortal's wounds, but I cannot say for certain which of them would only mean it as a light hearted jest.
I am sure Magnus or other psyckers would question why I did not simply use my gift to heal Morrigan, truthfully I never learned how to properly manipulate other people's flesh. Such power felt unbecoming of a Derwydd and so I focused my studies elsewhere, and relied upon the healing I could cause with my own hands. However, I could tell that she would need a transfusion to recover with greater speed, and please do not be so surprised that Arcadia had the knowledge for creating and maintaining blood transfusions. It is theorized that the vessel that first brought the human settlers were given enough material to be self-sufficient without aid from others, and so there are many hidden archives scattered across my home.
I had no idea that my refusal of having anyone else present to assist me would have impacted Morrigan's life in such a dramatic matter, as I used my own blood for her transfusion, and for those curious regular humans injected with the blood of space marines are reportedly able to live longer at the cost of becoming sterile. So I ask you this, what would happen if a regular human was given the blood from one of the twenty Primarchs? Firstly, the patient develops fever-like symptoms that will last for at most a week, secondly their immune system becomes far stronger, and lastly their aging process is slowed considerably. To give you an idea of how much the process is slowed, I met Morrigan two decades before I met my second wife or Celvyn, and at the time of death she still looked to be in her mid-late thirties. If you find these years do not line up with the Imperial's documented timeframes, I will remind you that my brothers and I had been scattered across the cosmos, while the galaxy was experiencing a sage of violent warp storms, which have been documented to have strange effects on the passage of time. I also believe I have mentioned before that Arcadia was plagued by warp anomalies and invaders, until the latter part of my crusade to liberate it from darkness.
"What about your wounds?" She asked suddenly.
"My what?" I then quickly inspected my skin, and noticed that not only did I have countless small cuts scattered across my flesh, but that my feet were bleeding. It then dawned on me that in my adrenaline filled race to find Morrigan, I had completely ignored everything else, only now feeling the stones and thorns that had bite into my naked soles.
"Ah," I sighed, "I didn't even realize I'd gotten hurt, to be honest." She gave me this weakened yet resounding expression of disappointment, and taking up some of my healing instruments began cleaning my wounds. I confess, I was shocked, not even my mother had tended to my injuries during the earliest days of my youth, and that was simply because I healed faster than most. She no doubt saw that the wounds had already begun to close on their own, but she ignored it and saw to my injuries with the same gentility I had shown hers. She deliberately ignored my protests that I would heal shortly and there would not even be a scar come first light, she did not care that I was seemingly superhuman. She even told me as much, albeit in more intricate words.
"If you think," she huffed in annoyance, "I'll allow you to hold full sway in our relationship, then you're twice the fool Arwyn Clay. If you wish for our marriage to truly work, and avoid repeats of this night, then you'll allow your wife to see your injuries cleaned." I had led hundreds of warriors, been advised by no small number of generals and elders, yet none of them had ever spoken to me as she had in that moment. I was at a loss, too stunned by the sudden strength of her character despite the lingering traces of stress from her earlier cries upon her face. Later it occurred to me that she had demonstrated a truth I had been so blind to until then, that even when we are at our lowest we can still muster the full measure of our strengths. It was humbling to say the least, I also remember my mentor chuckling in amusement when I told him of that night and my revelation.
"Took you long enough, boy." I had no way of knowing that was to be one of my last encounters with him. A decade later my mentor had vanished, apparently taking his name from all memories with him, but leaving me his title of High Derwydd. He had left a letter behind, in it he assured me that I was finally ready to take over the Hunt, and that it was in no small part to Morrigan having finally shown me more aspects of humanity. He wished me luck, and that if the future was kind, we would one day meet again.
Now then onto why I have taken the time to tell this portion of my early life, I will tell you of my greatest failure. Not the legion's failure, my failure. A failure that even haunts me now, over a full century after my darkest day in the Great Crusade to date. I will tell you of the ambush, and deaths I failed to prevent on 34-17 a planet we had previously believed to have been peacefully integrated into the Imperium. The year was 850.M30. Our orders were simple: garrison the planet until we could be relieved by elements of the IVth Legion and then proceed back to our main theater of the Crusade in the Obscura Segmentum. Malcador himself would join us planetside, officially to assess the integration of Imperial edicts, and unofficially he was ensuring that my legion was still true to the Imperium, free of darker influences. At that point we had claimed roughly thirteen worlds for legion recruitment, the numbers of warriors clad in our colors was a staggering twenty one thousand, and while by no means the largest of the space marines legions, our reliability was a match for the Ultramarines and Imperial Fists.
Across hundreds of worlds the legend of the Bale Hounds and the Silver Hunter, a moniker given to me by various populations, had spread even into the warp itself. Whenever I joined a squadron in a teleportation assault, I could hear whispers of that name in the warp, sung by both the neverborn and dead alike, that alone should have warned me that nothing was as it seemed. Yet as I stated, my rune fighting under the banner of the Imperial Truth had made me careless, I had begun to forget the cunning of the dark ones. If one were to believe all the whiskers of the Warp then they would fall sway to madness, but that does not mean it pays to know what they say. Prophecy, while unreliable, is often heeded by those most desperate souls who want to fulfill its vague passages, and all too often that knowledge has squashed the plans of our foes, simply because we knew what they believed. Consequently, it was around that time that many of those more ignorant and fearful crying out that those who used our psychic gifts were performing "unholy witchcraft" and that such power had no place in the Great Crusade.
I found these claims both ironic and moronic, regardless that Leman was one of the most vocal of these naysayers, or that they used my brother Magnus the Red and his legion as the primary targets of the accusations. Make no mistake, I have a deeper kinship with Magnus than most of my other brothers, for he and I alone have inherited the diversity of psychic abilities similar to our father, but that was why I found the claims ironic. How truly ignorant these claims were if they did not realize how truly vital the use of psychic abilities were in the creation of our Imperium. Not only did they deny the truth that the Emperor himself was a psycker, but that our long range communications relied upon the strength of astropaths, and that the Navigators themselves used psychic abilities to sail our vessels. Magnus once told me that which others would label as magic, are simply sciences we have yet to fully understand, and those that failed to recognize that truth clung to the ancient ignorance that the Imperium was built to destroy. To a degree I agree with him, there is a fine line between unpredictable psychic "sorcery" and the honed disciplined deployment of psychic power, I only hope Magnus does not accidentally cross that line.
Malcador suggested that I ferry the 3rd, 17th, and 21st Hosts in Arcadia Retribution, and it was no mystery as to why he had done so. As I have stated before the 3rd Host was filled completely with Arcadian Bale Hounds, they called themselves the Wyld Hunters, a fitting name in my opinion. The 17th Host, known as Paladins of Velora, had recruited its warriors from a feudal death world that had suffered from warp twisted nightmares, whose knightley military joined us in purifying their home of the cancerous touch from beyond the warp. The 21st was composed of brothers drawn from the techno tribes of Mictlan V, who assisted us in removing the infernal presence of chaos worshipers, they called themselves Blood Hawks of Mictlan. These three Hosts represented the three legion recruiting worlds that knew the truth of the warp, and Malcador had warned me before I joined the Crusade, that he would keep an eye on my legion.
Taking them with me would avoid Malcador using his more subtle methods of inquiry, and I remind you that I fear Malcador more than the Emperor, so I followed his suggestion. 34-17 was housed in a truly mineral rich star system, and the fifth of nine planets in the orbit of a bright blue sun. The populace had originally been in the throes of a civil war, requiring only the presence of the Imperial Army to tip the scales into the scientifically moderate faction's favor and earn their allegiance to the Imperium of Man. According to official reports, the war had ended a few standard months ago, and High Command wished to show the Imperium's gratitude along with our military support for the planetary governing body. While I do not enjoy political grandstanding, I suspected that Malcador would find that a poor excuse for my absence, and I had no wish to give the Sigillite another reason to distrust me.
When the Retribution translated into the system, my tech marines, now calling themselves the Smiths, had crafted me a new suit of armor, as my original Martian forged armor had suffered too much damage from my last war zone. We had once again hurled ourselves against a tide of Orks, although we had achieved victory the greenskins had been even more resilient than normal. That could become a problem some day, but only time will tell if I am correct. The armor my smiths forged for me had been named Mantle of the Hunter, in low gothic, its color scheme was the same as my old armor, yet was far more elegantly crafted. Every plate of the armor had been decorated with Arcadian knots, runes, and symbols made of reinforced metal. Resting upon my pauldrons were lifelike golden metal casting of the animals whose totems stood tall back in Arcadian tradition, a falcon, stag, bear, and finally a hound. Falcons are seen as the wisest of predators, the stag embodied the endurance required for a long hunt, bears represent strength and resilience, and the hounds stood for loyalty and devotion to one's clan. I was honored, the smith's artistry rivaled those of the Machine Cult's, and had shaped the armor to be a modern rendition of ancient Terran knights. The leg armor plates and boots had been shaped perfectly to house my limbs and feet, they had also chemically treated a tabard to be fireproof and colored to mimic the kilt of clan Clay that had been tucked underneath the breastplate. They had replaced my helmet with a more modern Mark IV model, yet detailed the forehead with golden antlers and runes, with the old gem placed in the center, the faceplate had been painted black accented by silver, while the remaining surface was the familiar vermilion of the legion. The back collar was a stylized psychic hood formed to resemble tree branches stretching out to halo my skull, all of it clearly painstakingly hand crafted, and I nearly wept a silent tear at its beauty.
I was proud that my son's could overshadow me in certain trades, I never had Fulgrim, Vulkan, or Ferrus' patience for crafting artistic wonders of war, but I neither am ashamed by this shortcoming. It is simply another characteristic that makes each of us Primarchs unique from each other, and offers room for our sons to outshine us. I donned the Mantle and felt a rush of power as I interfaced with the armors systems, it was like awakening from a groggy dream only to find fresh strength surge throughout your body. I almost felt apologetic that the first showing this finely forged armor would be a simple diplomatic mission, now I look back on that moment and feel naive. All three of my wives wished to join me on the planet's surface, promising to wear not only simplistic yet regal garbs, but fashioned in the legion's colors and decorated in Arcadian markings. I allowed it, assigning each of them a personal guard of a terminator elite drawn from each Host, and gave them each a miniaturized shield generator disguised as jewelry. I also decided to take a ceremonial spear with me, to further look the part of a mighty general.
If you are perhaps wondering why I am going to such lengths in describing the legion's recent situation, orders, wargear, and security, then I shall tell you. It is to illustrate how despite every advantage of technology and taking various precautions, I would still fail on the surface 34-17 and the failure would not only scar me but my legion. We remained ignorant of the doom that stalked silently towards us, as we deployed to the planet's surface in a rain storm of gunships. To play the part of military parade marchers is not a common duty of my legion, yet they were well disciplined and understood that this was as much of an inspection as it was a display of Imperial might. In a rare display of showmanship, my landing craft was the last to touch down at a designated vast yet empty highway roughly a mile from the capital city's entrance. Civilians had gathered at the edges of the road, roaring their cheerful greetings to us as we formed a parade march, their excitement only seemed to grow at the sight of me leading a formation of three Paragons, terminator honor guards, and my beloved wives. I would be lying if I said I felt nothing as the crowd roared in joy at the sight of my warriors, pride was amongst the strongest emotions, and I believe my sons felt appreciated by the masses.
The captains of my legion do not wear the helmet plumes found amongst the other nineteen legions, instead they wore tufts of chemically treated hairs forming a short topknot on their helmets. So of those tufts we made from my own hair, given in respect for an officer's hard won accomplishments, and they swayed gently in the wind as we marched towards the heart of the capital. The locals called it Shintopi, the heart of progress, and its architecture was breathtakingly beautiful. Unlike the standard rigid uniform structures that had become common among the Imperium, theirs was softly curved and looked as if they had grown their buildings. Some part of me hoped to discover that the population had built them with the guide of a Standard Template Construct that could be easily shared throughout the Imperium, and that mystery haunts me to this day. An ocean of onlookers greeted our every step to the Shintopi's heart, their emotions were so overwhelming I had to close off my psychic to the outside world, yet another mistake that haunts me, with my face bare for all to see, I simply smiled and waved at them.
At the heart of the city stood an impressive four story building of reinforced glass and steel, the Parliament of Reason, waiting for us there were not just the planetary rulers, but Malcador and his retinue. Some of you may think that the Sigillite had been aware of what awaited us, yet chose to remain silent, but I assure you he was not. I know this because I tore the truth from him later in a duel of wills, he only used his immense power to protect his sanity and soul from my wrath, giving me free access to what I sought. Looking back I am surprised he was so lenient towards me, perhaps he understood the grief born rage that gripped me then, and in his own way be merciful to me. I shall have to apologize when I next see him, as I have not spoken a word to him since, and do not wish him to hold me in low regards, perhaps a gift will show him the sincerity of my desire. Decision for later.
The rulers of Shintopi were four differently dressed individuals, judging by their outward appearance none of their ancestors hailed from the same Terra's continent, yet here they stood unified by the very ideals the Imperium had been built to embody. In that moment I felt as though I was being offered the chance to be remembered as more than simply a hunter and warlord, but to take part in a more noble and peaceful page in the annals of history. I bowed my head to them before placing a closed fist over my heart in a warrior's salute, offering them my humble respect while acknowledging the importance of their roles. They were awestruck, I am not sure what they had been told about Primarchs, but clearly my appearance left them at a loss for words. The sight of my wives ignited either desire or envy in the men and women alike, I smiled a jovial greeting.
"I am Arwyn Clay," I introduced myself, "Primarch and leader of the Bale Hounds, IInd Legion of the Imperium's Space Marines. The three beauties behind me are my wives, Morrigan, Lowri, and Ceri Clay, and we are honored to join you in unity." After a moment, the four regal men and women recomposed themselves, and addressed themselves as the Ministers. They each thanked me for taking the time to appear for the celebration of their integration into the Imperium, , and then invited me to join the celebration within their parliament building. Godefray, a tall dark skinned man in his late middle ages, was the one who had first introduced himself and continued to speak both with an inviting yet formal tone.
"I assure you Lord Clay," Godefray continued, "You have never tasted anything like our food, nor have you heard music such as ours." I politely accepted the invitation, despite hating how they referred to me as a lord, and I had to refrain from replying with the jest that I worked for a living. Although I could tell that Malcador could tell that I was not entirely pleased, I am sure he was impressed by how well I could hide it from physical observation, but I will be the first to admit that the local food was indeed impressive. Yet, it was not solely the taste of their food that impressed me, but the portions that they handed out freely, far too often when I have attended such celebrations the food offered just bit sized morsels, but they offered full size entrees. Now these were not a full course meal, simply just one selection of either red or white meat, and everyone from the wealthiest trader to the dirtiest popper was in attendance, treated with dignity and fed properly. Minister Godefray told me he and his staff had formulated fifty different self-sustaining farming methods, all to ensure their people would never have to rely upon others to stop starvation.
Each Minister apparently worked with the brightest minds in specific fields to tackle the most vital issues for their survival, Godefray was the agricultural minister, while his fellows handled social, economic, and military sciences respectively. My brides and I were invited to join the Ministers and their families' table, along with Malcador who discussed their world's future with them. Godefray's husband was a light skinned and walnut haired man, and their son was genetically created to have both of their genetics thanks to an artificial insemination process on donated eggs. Hames was their son's name, his skin was a perfect shade of both his fathers', and despite only being under a decade old, was incredibly well versed in gothic and literature. The boy's excited in comparing me and my marines to descriptions of fictional heroes of old, put a smile on Morrigan's face, and I was once again reminded how sorry I was that I could not give her a child. All of my wives loved how excited and awe struck Hames was by our presence, especially when he asked how he could become as strong as me. After a brief look to his fathers, I decided to jest with the boy, and tell him that I had eaten every meal my parents made me, regardless of the taste. Godefray and his husband shot a subtle yet grateful look of thanks, especially after I told him that my legion did the same thing.
Speaking of which, the Hosts had been allowed to mingle with the populace outside the event, and explore the city, while their Paragons and honor guard joined us inside the building. I believe that, and that alone was the only reason we managed to save any of the population from the fate that would befall their city. Many of the sergeants would later tell me that they had noticed a few suspicious individuals scattered throughout the crowds, and reflected how they wished our Librarians had been deployed with us. I had assured Malcador that I would present to the locals the most inspiring of my genesons, and even followed his request to leave behind my Librarians, as they had very limited interactions with high caliber psyckers. Another ignored sign that I had lost my edge throughout the Great Crusade, on Arcadia I would have brought derwyyds with me regardless to ensure there were no hidden agents of darkness waiting for us. I must reiterate that I understand and approve of the lie within the Imperial Truth, but I fear by that point I truly forgot how utterly terrifying those dark powers can be. At times I wished we did not need the lie, but humanity is not ready, nor are all of my brothers and their sons. Perhaps if we had been raised upon Terra by our Father, then disasters like the following would be prevented entirely.
34-17 was slated to be renamed Umbracil, and in my opinion, it would have been one of the greatest world's within the Imperial border, perhaps even a utopia that would rival the realm of Ultramar. Part of me blames myself for not joining the 34th Expedition's deployment to the world, maybe then we could have had an idea that their civil war had not truly ended. Shintopi's enemies called themselves the Clergy of Athos, they believed that only through ancient traditions could their planet's population survive and earn the favor of the gods called the Athos. After the Clergy realized they would be unable to win against the Shintopians in a traditional war thanks to the Imperial Army's support, they decided to adopt more clandestine methods. That which they worshiped had countless names throughout humanity's history, I had faced their "divine servants" back on Arcadia, and if I had not chosen to close off my psychic senses would have felt their foul presence. In Malcador's case, I blame the complacency he had developed, and the misbelief that the darkness would never be able to strike back against our efforts. The orchestra had been on the center stage, playing a song of indescribable serenity, when suddenly a hooded figure stepped onto the stage. They did not emerge from the crowd or from behind the stage's curtains, they simply appeared suddenly and I caught the all too familiar scent of discharged unnatural energy. My eyes went wide, as I reopened my senses of the gift, and felt the maddening chorus of darkness sour my senses. I used my gift to reach out to the minds of my legion and Malcador's surface thoughts, and ensured that the alarm I felt was conveyed to them
"Stand ready," I sent out silently, "The ancient foes are here!" I rose to my feet, the reinforced chair offered to me scattered backwards, I unclamped my spear and channeled my will through its shaft and blade, and ignited with emerald bale fire. The hooded figure revealed its face, and I could feel the dread and confusion dance across the crowd. They were once human, but now their eyes burned with a cancerous power, horned protrusion growing randomly across their body, their limbs were elongated, eye aching symbols tattooed and seared into their flesh. It gave a predator's grin, before slowly floating into the air, and spoke in a voice that I can only describe as an active insect hive of rasping voices.
"Greetings fleshlings," it declared, "I dedicate your deaths to the true Gods of this existence." Before it finished its boasting, I felt Malcador raise a protective psychic barrier around those nearby us, that alone prevent the Ministers' head exploding into fountains of gore and blood like the orchestra players and those unfortunate souls too far away from us. I had faced one such as that before, on Arcadia we called them Vessels of the Damned, Malcador said it was a Daemon Host, and I cannot help but find that a more suitable name. While I disdain from using terms that have any meaning to the divine or infernal of ancient terran religions, I cannot help but now see how fitting that suits the darkness we work against, and even now that realization tastes bitter on my tongue. I felt the immense weight of the power that Damned commanded, it thrashed violently against Malcador and mine's barriers like a caged rabid dog being denied a juicy slab of meat. Meanwhile, it looked both surprised and amused by our defiance, its predatory smile only split wider. I did not have to give the order, yet my legion opened fire upon the accursed specter, but their bolts detonated short of its flesh.
"Aaaaah," it grinned, "A child of Anthama, and his fragile old sage. I had not expected such prizes on this worthless rock. When I offer up both your souls as sacrifices to the powers, they will favor me above all other princes. I offer the blood of this city to feed the thralls of the war god." He flicked both his hands away from his torso, and sickly fire burned five separate arcane circles of summoning into the ground. The loose blood and organs were sucked towards the circles, slowly formed bubbling pools of molten blood, and what rose from the liquid defined logic. I did not need to use the gift to know that there were likely other arcane circles being unveiled calling forth invaders from beyond our reality, yet I could sense the tension of war outside the building. I knew then that my legion answered the threat as I had trained them, singing the songs of purity and focus to prevent the foes maddening presence from affecting them, protecting those they were able to and avenging those they could not.
"Protect the people!" I shouted, "Vox for a full wide city extraction!" The Paragons obeyed, and ordered their honor guard to spread out and protect the civilians, while Malcador's retinue began unholstering their hidden volkite guns, and opening fire upon the emerging red skinned monsters whose only concern was bloodshed. I leapt forward, blazing spear sinking and slashing into the unnatural invaders, and using telekinesis to hurl their burning blades into the bodies of their fellows. While I can recall more details of that battle, I fear there are only a few more that are important to this record, and one of them was I watched as Malcador with practiced ease pulled a red skinned creature apart into a red mist. The second one was despite the overwhelming chorus of the battle, I heard the screams of fear from both Ceri and others throats, followed by a sickening wet roar of a daemon. I turned my head, and my eyes went wide as tears started to form. Morrigan had used herself to shield Hames from the burning blade of a daemon, it had torn its way through her heart and bit into one of her lungs, and suddenly a booming scream shattered the chorus. So distracted by the sight, and the tears swelling down my cheeks that I did not realize that I was the one screaming until various glasses began shattering.
The Paragon's would later tell me that while I screamed, the enemy's foot soldiers seemed to fade in and out of reality as if suddenly reality was more painful for them, and the Daemon Host fled the battle. Malcador believes that this was another facet of the powers that the Emperor had sculpted into my genetics, in truth I did not care if he was correct. I could have been letting the powers of my gift run completely wild, and I would not have cared compared to the horrid sight I witnessed. Still screaming, I tore my way to Morrigan and using only my hands coated in bale fire, I tore the daemon apart until it disappeared into mist. I wanted to scream for an apothecary, I wanted to wake up and find this all to be nothing but a cruel nightmare, but instead I cradled her body before weeping.
"No." I muttered, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Not mo gra." My tears freely splashed onto Morrigan's perfect face, disturbed by a trickle of blood from her lips, and disbelief in her eyes. Ceri and Lowri would have been by my side, had their own terminator guards not stopped them, before extracting them from the battlefield, and despite how angry they were, I bestowed new honors onto their protectors. I doubt I could have survived that day if I did not have Ceri and Lowri alive and a part of my life while I mourned Morrigan's death. In my arms, blood spilling freely, Morrigan slowly raised her hand to caress my face, and gave me a sad smile before speaking the words that made both my heart and mind freeze.
"We knew this day would come," she softly but tearfully confessed, "You were always going to outlive us, despite the extra years your blood gave me, but take comfort that you kept your vow. You have been both mo gra and anam cara. Given me a life I could never have never dreamt, and if I could go back, I would do it all again. Please, don't rush to join me mo chroi." I wish I could say I gave her an equally heartfelt answer to her words, I wish I could say that I used my gifts to start repairing her damaged organs no matter how hopeless the effort would have been, but I did neither of these things. I promised to write the truth and so I shall give it to you. I knelt there, my heart broken, tears streaming down my eyes, my mind and soul screamed in a rare concert, and then I felt all my restraint snap. As I slowly handed Morrigan's dying form to her bodyguard, I felt the raw power of the warp racing through me, and I unleashed it upon the daemon's racing towards me. There was no disciplined power that I called upon, instead I simply created tears that spilled out the raw fires of the warp as they swallowed the dark unliving creatures in the fires of green sorrow. Hatred fueled these creatures, and even though sorrow can grow into hate, I flooded them with the overwhelming sorrow that was normally drowned in the warp's song, it ate at them tearing them apart while also infecting their very nature. I am sure that my actions will have unforeseeable consequences for infecting those born purely from hatred and bloodlust, but I will admit, I do not care. I lost my wife.
Can you honestly tell me that any other loving husband would not react in a similar fashion when losing his beloved spouse? When you do find such an example, I would be truly curious to meet them and learn how they dealt with their grief. After unleashing my sorrow upon our enemies, I am ashamed to say that much of what occurred before getting aboard an extraction transport is lost to my own recollection. According to my Paragons, the city had become flooded with warp spawn monsters, and even after destroying the summoning circles, they continued to invade our reality. Each of the Hosts lost their own share of squads and personnel, but they managed to evacuate a quarter of the population into gunships. Malcador had ordered our fleet to unleash planet killers onto the surface, yet wished for the atmosphere to remain, so experimental weapons were deployed, and a cover story that the Clergy of Athos had rigged alien doomsday weapons to prevent the planet from joining the Imperium of Mankind. There were rumors that the Daemon Host had escaped the destruction, and thus the official story was that a mutated psycker had escaped the planet before spring the Clergy's trap. I can safely say that the damned monster had survived and escaped, but would not find him again until the dreaded Rangdan Xenocide. It had allied itself with horrid alien slavers for some nefarious means, which I hope I prevented, as I devoted admittedly too many resources to stopping it. I believe both L'ionel and Salazar have not forgiven me for allowing our forces to suffer such casualties to be inflicted upon all three of our legions. For now they must think of me as an uncaring and reckless brother, but I could not let the creature cause us even more problems while fighting the Rangdan. Hopefully one day they will understand my actions, but that day is distant from the writing of this record.
I cannot say with any certainty what he did with the majority of the survivors, and I suspect that I do not wish to learn of their fate, unless I simply want to unleash my fury against the Sigillite. Something I assure you that I have no desire to do, call me a hypocrite if you must, but I have no desire to see how great his resources are. Thankfully, Malcador informed me that he was satisfied with my legion's spirit and performance, before leaving me to mourn Morrigan, whose body we had placed in a stasis casket. Aboard the Retribution, my legionnaires cleared out the Astartes mess hall, created a makeshift altar to lay her on, found flowers real and fake to surround the altar, while the apothecaries wrapped her body in a shroud, flowers, and a green ribbon. Ceri, Lowri, and myself dressed in our finest Arcadian garbs, while the legionnaires abstained from wearing their armor, and my surviving first Arcadian Astartes took to smoking tobacco to ward Morrigan's body. Yes, I understand that such a tradition may seem illogical, but we believe that the smell of smoke repels natural and unnatural predators alike, and would never wish the souls of the fallen to be preyed upon. Songs of Morrigan's bravery and kindness were sung from the throats of every single member of the crew aboard the Retribution, while Imperial officers offered their sorrows and sympathies to me and my wives. Ceri cried the entire ceremony, all while Lowri comforted her, and held back some of her own tears. I occasionally placed a gentle hand upon both of them, assuring them both that I would always be here for them, and they returned the gesture, knowing that I had known Morrigan longer than anyone.
Everyone from Space Marine, navy personnel, and even a few tech priests, left small offerings before Morrigan's casket. It was humbling to see that she had not only affected my life, but all these lives, as I felt sorrow in each soul that made offerings, including the tech priest. I could almost hear Morrigan sarcastically asking me what I thought she had been doing while waging war across the galaxy, and it gave me an ever so slight grin. I feel that despite the lingering sadness that clung to the room, there was a growing joy in the celebration of Morrigan's life, and no doubt the Arcadian spirits played a role in that. All of that was interrupted by the loud hiss of automated doors sliding open, and entering the room was one of the bridge's communications officers who looked like they were being held hostage.
"Primarch Clay, forgive me," they began awkwardly, "But we have a guest who asked to be brought before yo-" Selwyn interrupted them, with an irritated roar that mirrored my own reaction to this unwanted interruption.
"The Bale Hounds are in mourning of one of our Queens," he barked, "Who do you think has the right to interrupt our traditions." The figure that followed behind the officier sent the entire room silent and killed the irritation that was quickly spreading throughout the service. He wore a clean white robe, accented by red patterns, wrapped his feathered wings around his shoulders like a cloak, and his typically beautifully noble face wore a somber expression. He did not carry himself with the aura of a commander, nor a conqueror, but the aura of an apologetic pilgrim. That was the first time I had ever seen my brother Sanguinius, and I have to admit, if there was any of us who could outshine Horus, it is the Angel. His soul was more beautiful than anyone else's I had ever felt, and I doubt there was a single of my legion that was not struck in awe by his appearance.
"I apologize for disturbing this private gathering," he sincerely offered, "I only wished to offer my sympathies to my brother." By then I had heard vague stories of Sangiunius since he had been rediscovered and joined the Imperium, and thought the countless praise of his perfect humanity were simply exaggerations, but after seeing him in the flesh, I suspected that many of them were true. I did not care that he had angel-like wings, that would have marked him as a mutant in any society, I cared only about the character of his soul. I was not found lacking.
"You're the lord of the Blood Angels?" I asked hesitantly, and he smiled warmly before nodding to me.
"I am Sangiunius," he confirmed, "You must be Arwyn? I have always wanted to meet you.. I wish it had been under far better circumstances, but I felt that a familial presence would not go unwanted." I blinked in surprise. I confess, I never expected any of my brothers to ever offer such a human gesture, well except for Vulkan, but he was in the midst of protecting our outlying colonies. True, Horus had snuck away from his duties to meet me before I joined the Crusade, but Sangiunius and his Blood Angels had been practically half the galaxy away, yet here he was standing before me alone.
"Come in then," I finally said, "I'd ask you to be silent when others speak of Morrigan's life." He nodded, completely unphased and totally understanding.
"I would never dare to be so rude." He simply said before joining us, and taking a sip of the pear honey wine being served, Morrigan's favorite spirit on Arcadia, politely listened to every story shared about my first wife. I shared with the gathered the story of how we had met, and how we had become the couple we were, the entire time Sangiunius' gaze only ever shifted from me to Morrigan's casket, and tears filled his eyes. They were genuine, not sympathetic false tears, but honest tears of sadness. I was the last speaker, so I took over the duty of smoking in her presence as the rest of the gathered left to resume their duties, leaving me alone with my two wives and Sanginius who was still silently weeping. I took in a deep breath from the tobacco pipe before expelling the smoke from my body, and he approached me.
"I wish I had met her," he said gently, "It's clear that you loved her very deeply, brother."
"Aye," I answered, "She was both mo gra, and mo chroi." He was confused but his tone had not changed except for the curiosity that now rang in it.
"I'm very sorry but I'm afraid I don't understand those words?" I would have answered the question he had yet to air, but I was beaten to it.
"You wouldn't have any way of being familiar with it," Lowri replied, "They are Arcadian terms. Mo gra is what you call your lover or beloved spouse, and mo chroi means the love that is my heart." Many of my other brothers have met my wives, and they are not always pleased by the informal manner in which my wives addressed them. Sangiunius is not such a brother. He smiled gently at Lowri, and nodded.
"Those are truly beautiful then," he commented before returning his focus on me, "If there is anything I can do to aid you brother, please never hesitate to call upon me." It warmed my soul, truly, knowing that myself and Vulkan were not the only two capable of honest compassion, and judging the echoes of his soul, his offer was true. I could have asked him to help me scour the world that monster had run away to, and he would have committed his forces without question. For the first time since I had seen the beautiful dresses my wives had selected, I smiled honestly and to my brother, when something occurred to me.
"You said you felt I would need you here," I began, "Word has only just spread that 34-17 was lost, nevermind Morrigan's death. You foresaw this?"
"I only saw a vision of you in mourning," he admitted, "I had no way of knowing who died, but now I wish I had sent a warning to you."
"You are a seer." I simply said, and he nodded.
"Like our father I can see the strands of possibility," he explained, "But I felt that no matter what you would need the presence of a brother." I smiled, touched by his level of care towards me, who was in all rights a stranger. I suspect many would wonder why I was not outraged at him for not warning me, but you must remember I have never placed faith in prophecy, regardless of who it came from. I also feel that I must be honest, Sanginius was not the only one who offered me their sympathies, my brother Fulgrim abandoned a warzone to sail out and share a wine bottle from his prized collection, and exchanged tales of our wives. Yes, Fulgrim was married, and he mourned each of his passing, which has earned my respect. Not simply because he was willing to take wives, but that he cared deeply enough to mourn them with honest sorrow. He and I do not speak of those times we comforted each other after the death of another's wives, but we each appreciate it in a way that sadly none of our brothers can comprehend.
"Be honest brother," Sanginius asked, "Is there anything that I can do to help you right now?" In all honesty there was, I could have demanded that he scry the location of the daemon host so I could tear his essence asunder and make it so that it could never return to either realm. I could have asked for the name of who orchestrated the entire ambush, or asked him which warzone to avoid deploying my forces to, but in the end, there was only one thing I wanted him to glean from the future.
"The name of one who caused her death," I said softly, "I wish to know it." Before he could question if I was sure, I silently sent him the little faith I truly placed in prophecy, but wanted to trust him and his abilities. He nodded silently, before closing his eyes, I watched as his eyes danced behind their lids, and felt whispers of the warp playing out in my brother's mind. I felt that he was putting in great effort, and would later come to learn that he had to overcome a resistance he had never encountered. I suspected that this was because he had discovered the monster's true name, believe me when I say a dark ones' true name holds more power than you can possibly imagine.
"Canaing." He was still strained from the effort, but I thanked him honestly, offering him a bottle of Morrigan's favorite honey wine as payment. He refused to take it as payment, instead wanted it to be offered as a gift, from one brother to another, and wished to paint a portrait of myself and my surviving wives. The painting would not only be for the Retribution, but his legion's archive so that his genesons would have an accurate depiction of the IInd Primarch. Morrigan would have truly liked my angelic brother, and while it is no secret that Sanginius is practically loved by everyone, I believe that she would have loved his artistic talent and passion. True Fulgrim is passionate and talented at many of the arts, but she never did forgive him for calling her understanding for color fundamentally crude at worst. In private she liked to joke that Fulgrim was simply jealous that he did not have a beauty such as herself, and I enjoyed playing along with her comedy. Sanguinius encouraged everyone with artistic talent, regardless of skill level, seeking to teach when he could, and praised the painting that Morrigan had made, even asking if he could take a copy of one of old Castle Annwn back with him. I granted his request, and I would be lying if I said it was not largely because he had given me the name of her murderer.
A week later, Sanguinius had returned to his legion, and I returned to the Bale Hounds' main theater of war. I will not lie, I fought with less restraint than before for at least another three standard months, until I finally excised the initial sorrow and fury from her death. Yet, I never forgot the name my brother had given me, and made a vow that I would slay them with the very sword Morrigan had made. I allowed those of my Librarian's who were seers to begin recording their visions, albeit I had warned them to never be married to words of prophecy, and that took a time for them to fully understand, but it eventually happened. I also managed to find a bit of time to return to Arcadia and lay Morrigan to rest in the fortress' crypt, underneath the statue I described earlier. Anwill once gave me a prophecy that I wish were true, but I know will never happen.
"When the Eternal Hunger sets its sight on Arcadia, an ancient Queen of Crows will rise anew, and her King of Hunters will sail in its defense." As I said I do not believe in prophecy but I would be lying if I said I did not wish such a thing could come true. Yet none have any idea what this eternal hunger could be, perhaps some foe in the future.
In the future, maybe once I'm a few more chapters into this story, I'm seriously considering to start uploading the starts of my story of my take on the XIth Primarch, who I will admit I have started alluding to through this story. Also once I am ready to upload the 10th chapter of this story, I will probably take that chance to go through and edit any grammar mistakes or story errors in the previous chapters, and around that time I will also upload a segmented codex of the Bale Hounds' legion organization, history, battle honors, and notable personnel. Hopefully at some point in the future, I will upload tales of how the Legion's successors endure in the 40th Millennium.
