The Hanging Gardens
"You are bothered, my son."
"Forgive me, father, but I did not travel halfway across the galaxy to…" His lips curled in discussed, before the primarch said, "to smell the roses."
"Indeed? And why did you come here?"
Was it a trick question, Rogal Dorn wondered? His father knew the answer as well as he. And even if he be but one of twenty sons, his gene-sire surely knew that the primarch of the Imperial Fists was not inclined to word games.
"To fortify the Imperial Palace. To make it nigh impregnable. To raise its walls and reinforce its gates, to ensure its glory lasts longer than the sun."
Nevertheless, he answered as best he could. Though given the glint in the Emperor's eye, he suspected that he had answered incorrectly.
"So eloquent. Perhaps your tongue is more silver than you believe."
Dorn, trying to meet his father's gaze and failing, lowered his eyes. Whispered, "my tongue is irrelevant. My fists are my weapon."
"Or your mind."
That, Dorn supposed, was true. He trusted in his father. Trusted in His judgement. It was the Emperor of Mankind who had asked his seventh son, to reinforce the Imperial Palace. If Horus was to be warmaster, to be the sword of the Imperium, it was Rogal Dorn who had been anointed its shield.
He had obeyed the order without question. Answered the call without question. And kept hidden the awe and pride that he had been chosen.
"But perhaps you should smell the roses," the Emperor said, as they continued to walk through the Hanging Gardens. He plucked a white flower from its stem, and handed it to Dorn. "After all, you did travel halfway across the galaxy."
Dorn hesitated. Even from here, he could smell the roses. He'd spent the last fifteen minutes making all effort to not smell the roses, or any other exotic plant that the Emperor kept in His arboretum. His personal sanctuary, for Him alone, while the gardens of the Outer Palace were intended for all.
But even so, he took the rose and took a sniff.
Throne preserve me.
All manner of smells assaulted his senses. Smells that no normal human could ever hope to experience, smells that exceeded the senses of any insect that might pollinate such a thing. Handing the rose back to the Emperor, he glanced at the two Custodes who trailed them. Practically, there was nothing to fear inside the Palace, by all rights the most secure fortress in the galaxy. The man who tried to assassinate the Ruler of Humankind was, by definition, signing his own death warrant.
And yet Dorn demanded, and the Custodes obeyed. It was why even here, the primarch of the VII Legion wore his armour, even as the Emperor wore naught but a robe. The difference in height meant that Dorn stood a good head taller than his father.
"I know you would rather be elsewhere," the Emperor murmured.
And yet, his gene-sire commanded his attention and presence as no other could. When the Emperor spoke, you listened. When he looked at you, you lowered your head in reverence.
"Dorn, ever the soldier. Loyal warrior. My greatest siege-master."
Dorn couldn't help but smirk. "There are some who may dispute that."
"They may, and they would be wrong." The Emperor returned the rose to the vine. His hand glowed with a surreal light, if only for a few seconds. "And if they disagree, they may strive forever harder."
They? Dorn wondered. Or Perturabo?
He would not voice such thoughts, and hoped that the Emperor declined to read them. But even so, he wondered at times as to the temperament of his brothers. Rivalry was good, to a point. His battle-brothers had plenty of rivalries within the Legion, and the Fists were all the stronger for it. The Wolf and the Lion ever strove to outdo one another. And yet…
Perturabo. He watched as the Emperor withdrew his hand. Horus.
He could not fault his father's choice of warmaster. There were other primarchs who could, and did. Even this far from the Crusade, he heard the whispers of discontent. Whispers that he knew would remain naught but whispers, but whispers nonetheless.
The Emperor withdrew his hand. The rose had been returned to the vine. Its smell just as potent, its petals just as beautiful. To Dorn, it was no different than the countless plants of the countless worlds he'd trod upon – distractions. Yet to the Emperor?
He raised an eyebrow as he looked at his father. As the psyker looked at his own earth-coloured hand. His eyes no longer glowing with psychic energy, but rather something else.
"Father?" Dorn asked.
Sadness.
In silence, the Emperor stood there. In silence, the Emperor stared.
"Father, are you alright?" Dorn asked, steadying his beating heart. He was a primarch. He was above fear. Yet if something ailed the man who had brought him into this world…
"Forgive my indulgence," the Emperor murmured, as his hand lowered, and his gaze returned to his son. "These hands have shed so much blood, at times, I enjoy turning them to other pursuits as time permits.."
Dorn stared. The Emperor smiled. He knew that his gene-sire's appearance could be shifted at will. That the Master of Mankind presented himself to humans as He wished. But here, now, he saw no deception. Just the man, his eyes, his long black hair, and his golden crown, slightly dimmed.
"Do you understand, Dorn?"
He understood that the Emperor had razed entire cities to the ground in the Unification Wars. That he had led the Thunder Warriors against Terra's techno-barbarians, before finally uniting mankind's ancient homeworld. He understood that the Emperor had turned his attention to the primarchs, and even after the loss of his sons, had launched the Great Crusade. Had used force when necessary, and diplomacy when possible, the reunite humanity after 5000 years of darkness.
"Perhaps you do not. Alas."
If it was a slight, Dorn knew it was not his place to protest. Nor was it his place to object to his gene-sire as the Emperor continued to walk through the Hanging Gardens. Past roses, past ferns, past vines, past plants that he couldn't even identify.
"These gardens contain plants that once existed beyond these walls," the Emperor said. "Species that are now nowhere else to be found. Even before the Age of Strife, this world had been marred by war. By the swelling numbers of mankind, and the inability to travel the stars in any reasonable manner."
All true, Dorn supposed. How it was relevant, he could not say.
"Have you ever stood on the walls, my son? Stood, and simply stared?"
The Emperor had stopped walking. The Emperor was now looking at his son.
"Well?"
The Emperor demanded.
"Of course, father. I have surveyed the walls of the Palace, and-"
"I mean looked, Dorn. Truly looked. Beheld the world upon which you now stand."
"I…" He decided to be honest. "I cannot say that I have."
The Emperor nodded, his eyes carrying a weary sadness that gave Dorn pause. "I thought not."
I suppose you did. And why is that a problem?
Was there something in the plants causing his father to act this way? Possibly. He understood enough that they were 7000 metres above sea level (not that Terra really had any seas left), and that for the plants to grow here, artificial climate controls had to be used. Perhaps his father had altitude sickness, or was reacting negatively to the artificial atmosphere.
Of course. And you might grow a tail!
He shoved the asinine train of thought aside, and continued to follow his gene-sire. In the silence that followed, he returned his mind to the walls of the Palace. Built atop the mountains of Himalazia, he had beheld the clear skies of this part of the world. Of the space tether that had long ceased to function.
His father was right in a sense – Terra was a scarred world. There was indeed some beauty to be found this high up in the clouds, high above the teeming billions that called this world home, and the haze of pollution that smothered the air below them. Indeed, the Palace itself held billions, as the countless scribes of the Administratum endeavoured to keep the machinery of the Imperium turning. It was called the Imperial Palace, and yet, it was bigger than entire cities.
And in this place, towards the fortress's peak, was this piece of paradise. Where his father walked amongst the roses, high up in the clouds.
He understood what his father did. He had yet to understand why.
"The Hanging Gardens," the Emperor murmured, coming to a stop to run his hand along a fern. "Do you know why I chose this name, Dorn?"
The primarch lowered his gaze. "I would not question your decision, father."
"Perhaps you should. For there are those that do question, and I…" The Emperor looked at Dorn and smiled. "The Hanging Gardens were once part of a city called Babylon. Have you ever heard of it?"
Babylon? He recalled a planet named Babylon, where its people had entered a perverse alliance with alien species. His Legion had exterminated the xenos, and in turn, the humans who called the world home. But a city?
"No, father, I have not."
"I didn't think so. The city of which I speak is forever lost. Even before the splitting of the atom, even before the surly bonds of gravity were breached, this city was ancient."
Dorn remained silent. If you dug deep enough through Terra's crust, you could find countless ruins of countless cities built atop of each other. The discoveries made ranged from the curious, to the valuable – relics of the Golden Age of Technology. Yet nothing so far back as the so-called Age of Terra. Before mankind had mastered the Warp, and truly travelled the stars.
"Babylon had its hanging gardens," the Emperor whispered. "A tower, too, where men and women of all tongues would meet, would question, would devise theories of the Earth and stars. They would laugh, they would sing, they would walk amongst the garden." He looked at Dorn. "And I, my son, would watch."
Dorn tried to keep his composure, and for the most part, failed. The Emperor was not a god. He had told his sons as much at every opportunity. Had even censored Lorgar for it. He was a psyker of extraordinary power, he was mortal, he was the best of Man, but he was not divine. So said the Emperor, and so it was writ in the Imperial Truth.
And yet, Dorn knew his gene-sire was something…more, than the countless billions he had encountered in his journey across the stars. Some bent the knee, some fought to the bitter end, some were cowards, a few he even called friend. Yet in the all the wonders and terrors of the galaxy, there were none like the Emperor.
What are you? He wondered. How long have those eyes beheld this world? Deciding against asking such questions, he instead asked, "so what of the gardens, father? What of this city?"
The Emperor scowled, and despite the climate-controls, Dorn felt a chill run down his spine. He watched as his father grabbed one of the leaves of the fern, and with a but a touch, incinerated it.
"What always happened, and what always would," the Emperor whispered. "Division. Discord. War. Those in the tower spoke ever divergent tongues. Those in the city turned to gods – dreamt of a hereafter, rather than dreaming of bettering the now." Another leaf was incinerated. "What happened, my son? War. Destruction. Madness. The city burnt. The gardens were lost. I beheld with my eyes how the best of mankind was supplanted by the worst. Again, and again, and again, where even after spreading amongst the stars, and reaching our apex, and standing united, we did naught but fall into strife." Another leaf was burnt, and he returned his gaze to Dorn. "Understand, my son, that we walk the narrow path, and we will not, cannot, deviate from it."
Dorn, for his part, understood, and nodded in affirmation. There were those amongst his brothers that had deviated…Lorgar, Magnus…and both had been brought to heel. And yet…
What of those who sully the path with bodies?
He had blood on his hands. He did, his father did, every primarch did, as did every battle-brother of the Twenty Legions. And yet some, he knew, were more reckless than others. Konrad. Angron. His lips twisted, as he thought of Perturabo. He dared not question his father, but even so, at times, he wondered why he had returned to Terra. Horus was as good a choice as any to be warmaster, but what could command the Emperor's attention that he spend so much time in the Palace?
He didn't know. Only that it almost certainly wasn't just to smell the roses.
"Terra will be restored," the Emperor murmured, as he ran his hand across the fern. "Its beauty shall be reclaimed. It seas will return, be it through tears or otherwise. But for now…" He withdrew his hand, away from the newly regenerated leaves. "For now, I have the Hanging Gardens. I may dream of the past, and imagine the future."
Dorn remained silent. Struggled, and managed, to maintain his composure as the Emperor put a hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you for listening to an old man talk."
Dorn simply nodded. Of all his decades, he could not recall ever seeing his gene-sire act this way.
"Now then," the Emperor said, withdrawing his hand, "shall we inspect the walls?"
And he doubted he ever would again. "Of course, father. I have already set the artisans to work."
The Emperor chuckled. "I imagine it. And indeed, it is just as well. For all we know, orks might descend from the sky this very minute and attempt to kill us all."
"They may," Dorn murmured. "And they would fail."
A statement of faith, in the ears of some. But to Dorn, a statement of fact. Even if xenos made it past the Luna defence batteries, even if they breached Terra's atmosphere and its host battlefleet, they would find the Palace impregnable. And all the more so as its defences were upgraded.
"Indeed. But for now, the walls, to which we make our way."
Dorn nodded, and with one last look at the roses, led his gene-sire to the Palace's edge.
He didn't know that he would live long enough to see those walls breached.
He didn't know that he would watch the Hanging Gardens burn.
A/N
So, there's brief reference to "hanging gardens" in the Imperial Palace in the short story Hands of the Emperor. Course, I may have got the details wrong (certainly the characterization here is arguably a stretch), but gave me the idea to drabble this up.