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Within the next several days the awakened Primarch waged a brutal war against the tides of Chaos invading his planet. He had asked no further questions despite his condition, as the situation demanded his full attention, though as more and more things were revealed to him, it must've been impossible for him to not have become distraught.
Kronos knew of the feeling, the twisting edge of uncertainty as the reality of being transported to such a far away land and time set in. The Primarch, to his credit, was containing it far better than he would've thought. But then again, that was Guilliman's way. He'd never been one of the boastful, the loud-mouthed or the emotional, at least, never on the surface.
The first few frantic hours after the retaking of Hera had been spent waging war on every corner around Magna Civitas, the capital of Macragge. Kronos had no time to catch up with the Primarch or the rest of the important figures stationed there, though he did make note of each and every one of them, filing the information for later use.
Most curious among them had to be the Ynnari, an apparent subfaction to the Aeldari that he had no knowledge of, nor had encountered in any of the records he'd read during his stay in the Crescent Moon. He raised no objection to fighting alongside them, for they had apparently proved instrumental in the resurrection of Guilliman, but he never once trusted the xenos at any point, and that he doubted was ever going to change.
Another member of the mistmatched forces that had drawn his attention was Saint Celestine. He had read about the so-called Living Saints from the White Scars' archives. At the time, he did not know what to make of the phenomenon. So many of the cases of their appearance could be explained away as friendly forces seeing or mistaking things due to the effects of the Warp or even just plain battlefield hysteria. But some cases were far harder to disprove logically than others.
And now here stood an actual example of what millennia ago he would've considered an impossibility, fighting alongside him. Truly the 41st millennium had much to offer in terms of belittling everything he thought he knew.
Something which intrigued him more however, was the resemblance Celestine had to a certain vision he'd seen, the last time he had conversed with the Emperor's soul fragment. Whatever the case, he was certainly going to have to talk to her in private whenever he had the chance.
But that time was not now, as he now saw outside the open bays of a Thunderhawk. He had convinced the Primarch that his presence was far better suited to direct assaults rather than helping him strategically in the war room. He trusted a warrior that had conquered thousands of world more than enough to retake just one, especially when it was his own.
And so he sprinted off of the gunship, several Ultramarines following behind him with their Jump Packs engaged.
Days later, a council of giants was called upon a ramshackle room inside of the Fortress.
The toil of war demanded that resources be spent elsewhere, and so much of the massive structure still stood abandoned and wrecked from the enemy forces. Even the room they were discussing in was a former strategic operations command center repurposed to accommodate the couple dozen individuals responsible for the continuity of the war.
Macragge was already in the process of being freed. Nothing else could be expected from the tactical acumen of the Primarch reborn, leading his forces reenergized from the fervor of a living demigod fighting alongside them, like the time of old legends.
The liberation fleet provided by the Scions of Terra proved instrumental in riding the heart of Ultramar of Traitor Legion forces and their supporters, as the Chaos fleet now fled outside the system not just because of the massive build-up of Imperial forces, but also news of the resurrected Primarch. The stragglers would likely take months to fully remove however, both on the planet and around the system itself.
Now Kronos stood among the assembled, his armor still scorched and dirtied from the battles he'd already partaken in. He stood out from the rest of the gathering not just because of his size, comparable to the articulating giant at the center, but from his position. None strayed too near him, the only person within proximity being Gan, who had disengaged from his Centurion warplate at that point.
He saw the Primarch question and gleam every last iota of tactical data from every soul in the room, sans himself and Gan. An aura of unease hung around the both of them, Master of Macragge and Talon of the Emperor, as if neither were content with being the one to initiate the conversation.
Furthermore the aura around the Custodian in particular was not one the people around seemed willing to approach. He was a complete enigma to them all, Guilliman included, and his own men had done little to distill the rumors and speculations, instead simply going about their task of informing all the gathered about the critically pressing matters at hand.
However, as he saw the situation relax somewhat, the jaw of disaster unclenched from their necks slightly, even if for a little while, it seemed appropriate for him to finally give an explanation. The Primarch was going to be perhaps the most important being he would have relations with in this new millennium, and it was far better to start off on the right foot, for the sake of the Imperium and all within.
So it was that Kronos finally moved outside of the shaded corner of the room he had secluded himself to, sending a quick vox click to Gan for him not to follow. He caught the Primarch in the midst of speaking with a representative of the Ultramar Auxilia, a short rotund man with a bionic eye. The mortal soon enough became aware of the presence lurking behind him however, and moved out of the way, rather scared.
Since he had seen him, it had been impossible for Kronos to tell what the Primarch was feeling. His aura felt much like looking at a distant, dim star. No features could be discerned from it aside from it's simple brightness against the black backdrop of the void, and Guilliman's mere presence did make almost all around him like the emptiness of space.
Truly the Emperor's generals were as much a product of immaterial sorcery as material science, even if Kronos' mind instinctively flared in rejection of the former. He had to train that reflex out of himself. He was a walking proof of the realities of this new world they had all been shown so unfortunately in the wake of Magnus' Folly, and had continued defining the Imperium to this day.
Guilliman, ever aware, moved to meet him as he inclined his head, a simple gesture that he wished for a private audience. He dismissed the Honor Guard by his side, and both were distinctly aware of the stares being leveled at them as they exited the room. Neither particularly cared.
The walk was short, mercifully. Kronos allowed Guilliman to lead them, though he suspected the Primarch found himself as befuddled by the current state of the Fortress as any soul who had never laid eyes upon it's interior, even if he wasn't exactly going to get them lost.
At last they arrived at some nondescript chamber, now wrecked beyond imagination under the wrath the Fortress had endured. Statues, displays and more, instead of decorating the entire room now did so only to the floor, mostly as piles of rubble.
"Why here?" the Custodian broke the silence.
"This is the nearest chamber without any surviving audio surveillance. I checked," the Primarch responded flatly, as he turned to face the golden warrior now.
Kronos took off his helm. It was only cordial to regard each-other eye to eye.
"I have much to share, as you might imagine. Perhaps more than I can articulate. But I know that the war room awaits you still, so I will keep this brief," he preemptively took a breath he did not need for what was to come. "I am sure you've heard the rumors and analyzed them all. Not just that, but the reports of my troops as well. And after all, I don't think my appearance makes me very inconspicuous."
"What is your point Custodian?"
"I am not an ordinary warrior of the Emperor, Primarch. This much I can tell you know. What you may not know, is that I come from the same time as you do. When the stars were alight with the Arch-traitor's folly, when brother met brother in war for the first time. Like you, I was torn from that era, and placed here, by pure chance."
"I've heard similar from associates of yours I've already spoken to. I am still deciding on whether I believe so."
"What reason would I have to lie?"
"What reason would the Emperor have to lie?"
The venom raised from those words was unexpected, at first, though after a pause, it started to make sense. After all, Guilliman, while loyal to a fault, at least from the records Kronos had read during his voyage concerning his involvement in the Horus Heresy, was always one to voice his dismissal of the Emperor as a father. In the end, he turned out to be among the more correct of his brothers.
The Master of Mankind had never considered his gene-forged generals his sons, merely putting on a facade to encourage them and their loyalty. The Ten Thousand were among the few who were made knowledgeable on the fact, for if the rest of the Imperium were to learn, several of it's greatest assets would be demoralized beyond hope, transhuman demigods as they were.
Guilliman never had that problem. Or at least Kronos never thought he would. But unreturned trust from a figure that in some begrudging way he did in fact admire seemed to have caught him now regardless. The state of the Imperium around him had likely not helped in that regard.
"What reason would he have to retain the truth from us, all those years ago? A lie that swerved our dreams to damnation, that made our brothers and sons spit on the vows they'd made to our empire?" Guilliman continued, his face remaining vaguely the same, though his voice was telling of his conflict.
Kronos considered his query. His all too justifiable query. Something that a Primarch would all but be certain to ask, especially in such a situation.
"I do not know," he answered truthfully. He had his guesses of course. But that was all they were. He was never personally confided in, for he was never one among the best of his brethren, worthy of their sire's full interest and trust. "I cannot gaze into the mind of the Emperor. Forgive my wording, for I know you must be as sick of hearing it as I am, but I think it would be downright heretical to consider as such. I cannot give you your vindication Primarch. I can only offer you my help."
Guilliman gave him a once-over again, though seemed hesitant, or perhaps more accurately conflicted, in what to say next.
"You do not trust me. That I understand. However, for what is to come, we have to aid each-other. The galaxy breaks in two, the fight goes on. War rages as always, and I think we can find common ground in that if nothing else."
"Fight a war, as always?" he said, his emotions finally bleeding through his mask of assuredness, a sullen look spoiling his patrician features. "And for what, pray tell?"
The Primarch turned away from the Custodian, to gaze upon a crack in the ceiling of the chamber. Night had fallen by then, and through the gap, a miasma of wretched colors unnatural to the human eye, to any eye, stained the stars like the spilled corpse blood of a fallen god.
"Everything we already fought for. Every drop of blood spilled, every bone broken and limb snapped, every heart gouged and head cut...All the sacrifice, for nothing. An empire of ignorance, tyranny and fear where there should be reason and enlightenment. This is our legacy," Guilliman said, his head slanting forward. "Why do we still fight? How do we even still fight?"
"We fight because there is nothing else. We fight to preserve what is left, and to scavenge what we can out of the ashes. We fight because that is what we were made to do," Kronos replied mechanically. In truth, he still doubted what he said himself. The responsibility placed upon him, the wars he had waged and the ones yet to come, they still were not enough to bleach the desperation out of his mind. But ever onwards he would have to stride while he still had hope.
"The Imperium needs a savior, Guilliman. Mankind faces it's greatest crisis since the fall of the Dark Age and the beginning of Old Night. They need an idol. A leader. They need you."
A deathly silence settled around them then, neither man moving a muscle. In one of the rare occasions in his life, Kronos found himself completely at a loss at what the other was thinking. But with a resolute sigh from the Primarch, his doubts receded somewhat.
"And you are to be my chaperone during all this, then?" he asked, tone neutral.
"I do not know, in all honesty. My purpose is as always to serve my sire. What that fully entails in this new era, I cannot tell even now. But given that I was led here, right before your resurrection...Yes, I suppose you too are part of my duty Primarch. But beyond all, I am to return to Terra. Of that much I am certain."
Guilliman paused, nodded, then extended his arm, the one not gauntleted in the mighty Hand of Dominion.
"Then it appears we have an agreement of sorts. Of course," he said, sighing. "There will be time to explain yourself fully. But our priorities are set, now. We march on a path neither of us can predict."
Kronos rocked his hand firmly.
"Then I am glad to walk it alongside you, Primarch."
She had heard the stories of course. All children who had not been raised on complete backwaters, and even many who had, had heard them. Stories that they were required to echo well into their senility, for they were the sources from where all other stories they knew sprung from.
The tales of the Great Crusade, a period of obscurity yet of so much glory for their race, establishing the modern empire they all lived in. Great demigods of the Emperor's own design sailed the stars, their commands utterly absolute to millions of souls responsible for reclaiming the birthright of man. Legions of transhuman warriors so vast they blotted out the suns of the worlds they liberated. And most of all, the Master of Mankind Himself fighting alongside his Ten Thousand in the salvation of the galaxy.
There was one thing to believe in a tale ten millennia past however, and another altogether to witness such a visage for one's self.
Hundreds of Marines, most bearing the Ultima, some descendants of the Primarch, and others still of completely different bloodlines, all yet united in a show of force and cooperation, earned in blood and iron they had all spilled to save Macragge.
At the very center of the procession, figures which appeared downright mythological from afar conversed with each-other. Belisarius Cawl, Dominatus Dominus, Master of Masters, and one half of the equation responsible for the resurrection of the living avatar of the God-Emperor's wrath now among them, stood as the largest by far. His sheer augmented bulk made him easily the largest thing in the Temple of Correction, sans the Dreadnoughts standing at attention at the very back end of the room.
But he was far from the only figure of note: Saint Celestine, her angelic aura somehow shining through the hallowed darkness possessed by the room now, seemingly conversed with the Custodian. It was strange seeing the Saint in the flesh like this. She gave off an air of kindness and calm that contrasted hard with anyone who knew her history, the desperate and terrifying battles she had been apart of. Such was the gift of the Emperor's touch.
Her conversation partner couldn't be further from her, a figure of militant and physical might, with a face not necessarily stern but still obviously jaded, dwarfing her much like he did everything else, though the saint herself was not short by any means. What the very representation of God-Emperor's faithful and a Golden Legionary so utterly disgusted by the concept of worship itself could talk about was anyone's guess.
Rounding out the roster were two less fantastical, yet no less important figures. Katarinya Greyfax and the leader of the Ynnari, Yvraine. The first, a Puritan Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, an absolutely cold and callous woman that had been the end of many of her own peers, not much was needed to be said of a mere mortal that could still stand out among the assembled.
The Eldar on the other hand, was a sore sight for any Imperial present there, truly the only thing actively harming the facade of the assembly, though for her role in the revival of the Primarch, she was begrudgingly accepted. Her peers lurked around the shadows, intending to let her harbor the spotlight for fear of more conflict arising from their presence. Even up there, her differences were obvious. She stuck out as much as the Archmagos Dominus did.
But of course, something or rather someone was yet missing from the grand convention, the very reason they were there, and likely the very reason they were still all alive. And with thunderous steps that silenced the murmurs flying around the cavernous chamber, he made himself known at last.
Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son, the Blade of Unity, the Master of Ultramar, strode forwards, flanked by his Honor Guard. His face betrayed nothing of his mood, as per usual, he possessed the same calculating, neutral expression as he always did.
Yet if Inquisitor Catherine had been observing the rest of the proceedings intently, she was not practically staring bug-eyed as the Primarch made his way through the room to his rightful throne. The effect of merely looking at him was like drinking the most intoxicating liquid in the world, dulling the senses to all else around.
The Astartes around, when she could still focus on them, seemed immune, which was to be expected. The few baseline humans among the gathered however, suffered much the same. Some she even saw collapse before her vision was entirely overcome by blue-colored ceramite, and an inhumanly beautiful face.
The occasions in her life when she had cried because of an overwhelming surge of emotions could barely be counted on both hands, with most of those being in her long-past youth. But now, against all odds, she did feel her eyes water, and soon her cheeks were shimmering with telltale wetness as well.
The Primarch of course, continued unperturbed, entirely ignorant of those around him, his eyes focused with an unknowable fire towards the massive throne. One by one, his Honor Guard slipped into the crowd, content with watching their liege from afar. They were not to be in the dais that would follow this historic moment.
There were no grandiose speeches. No proclamations from the others gathered around the throne. Aside from Guilliman's footsteps, no other sound pervaded throughout the Temple of Correction. It was as if an invisible force had coiled itself around the bodies of every individual within, buffering any noise from escaping them.
Whether it was all a fabrication of her skewed perception or not, she would never find out.
The Primarch at last, took his seat at the very center, surrounded by his peers, the grand monument of Imperial and Ultramarine might beginning to shine brightly behind him. The Custodian and the Saint, both approached him, and with a single move, raised an absolutely gargantuan Iron Halo above his head. Celestine's hands didn't even seem to touch the artifact, yet it was balanced on both sides.
At that point, Greyfax rolled out a great trail of parchment and did read something. In truth however, Catherine was not listening. She could barely keep track of the movements of her lips, something which would normally allow her to understand exactly what was being said. Her eyes were just drinking up the central sight before her, and they were not going to be sated.
Greyfax finished faster than what the sheer length of the document entailed, and immediately afterward the Custodian and the Saint, two dual symbols of His will made manifest, slowly lowered the Halo onto the Armor of Fate. Anchoring itself into the power armor, the artifact briefly flickered with energy as it's systems were connected with those of the ornate suit.
Guilliman's face was unreadable during the process, a shadow cast over it as it had slanted slightly forwards. Those in the front rows could probably have managed to glimpse his expression, but beyond that, the whole room remained expectant.
That expectation was answered however, when the Primarch raised his head, positioning his body into a more regal posture as the docking procedure of the Iron Halo was complete, and gazed upon the room with calm, yet resolute eyes. Each man, woman and Astartes on that day found their soul drilled by those ice blue embers, as if the Avenging Son was judging each of them individually.
With that, the Marines were the ones to break the spell first, raising their voices as the ceremony drew to a close. Then as time drew on, the humans present among them too started yelling their loyalties to the reborn Master of Ultramar. In a moment that would be forever burned into the memories of all there, and immortalized in painted dais that would travel the length of the Imperium, the Primarch stood dauntless and unyielding, his visage a prophecy of the unbreaking spirit that would be unleashed.
And at that very moment, Catherine found her voice being raised to levels she'd never reached before, as an overwhelming feeling engulfed her: hope.
Author's notes: I want to apologize for the delay in comparison to the other chapters for a suboptimal length. However, I was facing a severe writer's block with trying to go through the main meat of this thing and I'm just going to cut it off here to avoid driving myself to insanity.
I don't really have much to say this time except I just wanted this chapter outta my face and now it's done and I hope is good. That's all for now. See y'all later.