Hi everyone...I'm back, in a manner of speaking. I'm painfully aware that my last update was over a year ago. But between work...and my latest pursuit in life...which involves my head getting bashed in a boxing ring...it's all not conducive for creative writing. And that damned thing known as writer's block.

In any case, to make up for it somewhat, I've released multiple chapters, though not very long ones I'm afraid, as a small consolation. Given my time constraints, again I can't promise that I'll update regularly (though hopefully far more frequently than my last update). But I will update multiple chapters from now on to make it up to you guys.

By the way, I'd like to thank all those who've continued to like and favourite the story, and those who've continued to message and review The Lost Primarchs. It's those small things that kept me writing (through guilt trip).

As always, I hope you'll like it.

Fate of A Legion

The Eternal Storm, like many other Legion flagships, had quarters for its Primarch. Since Primarchs spent much of their time on their flagships during the Crusade, their quarters effectively function as their homes and as such many were decorated in accordance of their Primarch's personality and upbringing. Fulgrim's quarters, for example, was a lavish affair, filled with many works of art and the finest furniture available in the Imperium. Sanguinius's was gilded with gold and blood-red rubies and filled with luxurious furniture that his attendants insisted upon despite the Angel's protests. Vulkan and Ferrus both had forges built into their quarters, while Guilliman's quarters was often described as a state room, where the Ultramarine Primarch hosted guests and officials in his various and freqient meetings.

By contrast, Thorondor's quarters was rather utilitarian. There were no decorations with the exception of the banner of the Thunder Warriors which the Emperor had gifted to the Storm Eagles. The bed was the largest on the ship to accommodate the Primarch's size, but it was no less hard than the beds used by the Astartes or Imperial Army soldier. In short, it was almost a standard billet, albeit a huge one. The only difference was a simple kitchen installed in the corner of the room. Thorondor would occasionally cook for himself or his captains whenever he felt like it.

However, adjoining Thorondor's quarters was a much larger room, and this one served a far more vital purpose. It was rectangular, and was empty save for several hololithic projection devices built into the floor. Thorondor stood alone silently in the centre of the room, waiting.

Before long, one of the hololithic devices flickered to life, projecting the image of Leman Russ. Even with the poor resolution of the flickering projection, Thorondor could easily make out the warm grin on his brother's face.

"Thor," said Russ, his voice a harsh crackle over the vox.

"Russ," returned Thorondor. "It's good to see you again."

"Aye, and you," answered Russ. His grin widened. "I heard from Gedrath that an Ork Warboss handed you your arse."

Thorondor chuckled, not at all insulted. "He did, but I'll be handing you his head, so I dare say I won. Once you see the size of it, I want you to look me in the eye and admit that even you can't take on a Warboss that big without getting hammered."

The Wolf King scoffed, and Thorondor grinned. "Remember Russ, the braggart is the lowest form of life, that's what you Wolves say."

Russ threw back his head and laughed and Thorondor joined in even as the other projection devices flickered to life. One by one, each device hosted a hololithic projection of Thorondor's brothers, and the Storm Lord greeted each one. Sanguinius, Horus and Vulkan received the warmest welcome, being the closest ones to Thorondor, aside from Russ. But it was not only the Primarchs that made their appearance.

A figure in robes the colour of rust, far taller than any mortal yet clearly not one of the Astartes, flickered to life. Glowing green eyes surveyed the room from a face hidden in the darkness of its hood. A series of cables and wires extended from beneath the folds of its robes and stretched out beyond the view of the hololithic projections. Despite being in the presence of the Emperor's sons, the figure stood tall with cold, mechanical confidence. This was none other than Kelbor-Hal, the Fabricator General of Mars, and the leader of the Mechanicum.

Moments later another tall figure, mortal, yet clearly gene-hanced far beyond the regular lifespan of most mortals appeared. He was dressed in an ornate uniform, bedecked with so many medals and decorations that Thorondor wondered how he was able to stand at all. This was the Lord Militant of Imperial Army. Other important figures also made their appearance: the Paternova of the Navis Nobilite, the Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica and Master of the Administratum.

Another figure also made an appearance, this one the height and size of an Astartes, yet Thorondor knew he was much more. He was dressed in golden power armour etched with many names. He bore a Guardian Spear in one hand and a conical helmet with red plume in the other. His face was hard, humourless and his head shaven except for a small dark patch than ran down the centre of his scalp. The warrior was Constantin Valdor, the Captain-General and Chief Custodian of the Legio Custodes, the Emperor's bodyguards.

Thorondor inclined his head to the Custodes and the gesture was reciprocated.

"Soon," answered Valdor. "The Lord Sigillite will inform us soon."

Small rumblings of conversation continued throughout the room as they waited. Before long, another hololithic device flickered to life, projecting the tall, robed image of Malcador the Sigillite, the Regent of Terra and the Emperor's closest advisor. Most of the Primarchs, Thorondor included, dipped their heads respectfully towards the ancient figure. The Sigillite bowed his hooded head and turned to face the end of the room, where the last hololithic projector was flickering to life.

Even with the poor resolution, the Emperor's magnificence still shone through, imposing his glorious presence on all in the room. As one, they all knelt, though Thorondor noticed that Kelbor-Hal was slowest to do so.

Those present within the room at that moment made up the ruling body of the Imperium, the War Council. Aside from the ten Primarchs, the Council also consisted of various people in positions of power in the Imperium: from the Fabricator General of Mars to Malcador the Sigillite. It was they who dictated the course of the Great Crusade and the future of the Imperium.

"My sons, and my lords of Terra," said the Emperor, his voice alone uncorrupted by the vox. "Let us begin."

As one, they all rose and all eyes immediately turned to Thorondor. Never taking his eyes of the Emperor, Thorondor began recounting the Tyron campaign: the devastating assault on the Sixty-Sixth Expedition, the Eleventh Legion's courageous stand against the Ork invasion, the reinforcement by the Second and Sixth Legions and the near-decimation of the Eleventh.

No one interrupted, but their faces grew grim at the news. When Thorondor finished, no one spoke for a moment.

"I think there is no other choice," said Guilliman at last. "The Eleventh must be recalled back to Terra in order to rebuild. Another battle like that would wipe out the Legion."

"To do so would be to dishonour the Eleventh Legion," replied Horus. "After everything they did, how could we ask them to go back to Terra while the other Legions continue the Great Crusade?"

Guilliman frowned. "We cannot afford to be sentimental about this. There is no honour in a Legion being completely wiped out."

"I'm afraid I must stand with Roboute on this," said Fulgrim. "The Legions are the embodiment of martial perfection for Mankind. To have one Legion wiped out could damage morale."

"When a unit is damaged or spent, it must be sent back for repairs or replenishment," came the toneless voice of Kelbor-Hal.

"We are speaking of warriors, not machines, Fabricator-General," answered Rogal Dorn coldly.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Dorn," replied Kelbor-Hal. "I only state this as fact; unless the Eleventh Legion is recalled to rebuild, they would not survive another large-scale battle as they simply lack the manpower."

"Unfortunately, he's right," said Vulkan.

"Regardless, there must be an inquiry as to how an entire expedition along with failed to detect an entire Ork horde coming," said Valdor.

"I agree," said Dorn. "We must find out how such a catastrophic failure occurred."

"Whatever the reason, I would believe that the Eleventh Legion is blameless in this," said Sanguinius.

"With respect Lord Sanguinius, I think it is too soon…" began Valdor but the Angel cut him off.

"Thor's word is good enough for me. And it should be good enough for everyone."

Silence followed Sanguinius's statement for a moment.

Finally, the Emperor spoke. "An inquiry will be held. All aspects of this campaign will be looked into. If the Eleventh Legion is at fault in this, then they have already been punished enough. The question now, is what to do with them. Honour or not, at the moment I am inclined to recall them from the Crusade."

Immediately, the members of the War Council spoke up, some like Guilliman, Ferrus, Kelbor-Hal and Valdor in favour of the notion while others like Horus, Sanguinius and Russ protesting it, insisting that such an action would dishonour the Eleventh.

As the debate continued, Thorondor remained silent, listening to all points and views. He kept his gaze on the Emperor, who silently returned the gaze.

You have already thought of a course of action.

The Emperor's voice spoke in Thorondor's mind, and the Primarch did his best not to flinch. It was always an uncomfortable experience whenever the Emperor communicated with him telepathically. Shaking off his discomfort, Thorondor nodded.

Then speak.

Thorondor straightened up. "My lords, my brothers…"

The room immediately fell silent. Thorondor rarely spoke whenever the War Council convened, preferring to listen. But such was the respect that his brothers had for him that they always stopped to listen whenever he did speak up.

"I believe that the answer to the Eleventh Legion's problem is simple as there is a precedent for this," continued Thorondor. He pointed. "Fulgrim."

For a moment, the Primarch of the Emperor's Children looked puzzled, a perfect eyebrow raised. Then, Fulgrim's full lips curved into a smile as understanding dawned.

"Of course," said Horus. "It worked with Fulgrim and the Third Legion. There's no reason to believe that it can't work for the Eleventh."

Prior to Fulgrim's arrival, the Third Legion had suffered a series of disasters that saw their stock of gene-seed nearly decimated. With only the Progenoid Glands of its dead warriors to harvest the gene-seed from, the growth of the Third Legion had stalled and indeed, its numbers had dwindled and for a time, its demise seemed inevitable. But then Fulgrim had been discovered and restored to his Legion. With their Primarch back in the fold, it was once again possible to create the Third Legion's gene-seed based on his genome. However, with only two hundred warriors left in the Legion, the Emperor had had Horus mentor his brother, effectively placing the Third Legion under the wing of the Luna Wolves. The Third Legion had not only rebuilt and flourished, but had also been able to continue partaking in the honour of the Great Crusade.

"But this is not exactly the same," pointed out Dorn. "The Primarch of the Eleventh Legion has not been found."

"But unlike with my Legion, the Eleventh's hasn't lost their stock of gene-seed," countered Fulgrim. "They'll be able to rebuild their Legion soon enough."

"And by placing them under Thor's wing, they'll be able to rebuild their strength without being denied the honour of fighting on in the Crusade," said Sanguinius, the smile on his face showing his approval of the idea. "It is only right, considering all they have done."

One by one, the Primarchs voiced their assent to the idea, as did the others. Thorondor turned his eyes to the Emperor and waited for his verdict. Above all others, it was the Emperor's decision that mattered.

With the smallest of smiles, the Emperor nodded.

II II II

The warm night air was filled with raucous cheering and the sounds of steel clashing against steel. A crowd of Astartes had gathered around a makeshift ring of sorts, watching the duel taking place inside. A Space Wolf and a War Hound, both stripped to the waist, circled each other. Both warriors were armed with axes, and every now and then darted in for a swing which the other warrior would dodge or parry. Warriors from the Second, Sixth and Twelfth Legions looked on, many calling out good-natured jibes or taunts while others commented on the techniques of the two warriors or placed wagers.

Gwaine watched the duel silently while his men socialised with the Astartes from other Legions. The Lightning Rider analysed the movements and techniques of both warriors, assessing their skill and mapping out how he would defeat both warriors.

The War Hound, growing impatient with constant dodging, went on the offensive, intent on ending the duel. The Space Wolf immediately reacted, swiftly side-stepping the other warrior and aimed a strike at his exposed back.

Only the War Hound was not there.

The warrior ducked under the blow, clearly having anticipated the move, and landed a strike across the Space Wolf's chest, drawing blood.

Gwaine nodded in appreciation of the War Hound's tactic.

"What do you think, Lightning Rider?"

Gwaine turned to see a Space Wolf settling down beside him. From the markings of the totem and his weathered face, Gwaine immediately recognised the much older warrior from the Kalaborn Campaign.

"Heoroth," greeted Gwaine. "It's good to see you again."

The Rune Priest grinned, revealing canines far longer than the average Space Wolf. "So, what did you think?" He gestured to the ring, where the War Hound was acknowledging the cheers of his fellows with a raised fist.

Gwaine shrugged. "He feinted your Wolf brother into feinting. That gave him an opening. He's a skilled one."

"Aye, Macer Varren's one tough bastard," agreed Heoroth. "And very well-seasoned too, considering he's just a pup."

"Age is no guarantee of prowess."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Heoroth, chuckling. "I'm old enough to know a few tricks that could land you on your arse."

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe. Care to step in the ring with me to find out?" asked Heoroth, gesturing to the ring.

Gwaine studied the Rune Priest intently. The warrior was much older than Gwaine. Indeed, Heoroth was older than most Astartes, having hailed from Terra long before the Sixth Legion had been reunited with Leman Russ. He had fought on countless campaign, and as a Rune Priest, he had access to psychic powers, powers that he had without a doubt honed throughout his long service.

Gwaine was confident in his abilities; he knew that despite the disadvantage of being half-Astartes, he could outfight just about any true Astartes. He had fought enough psykers to know when and where to strike. Yet as a warrior, Gwaine possessed keen instincts that had served him well in combat.

At that moment, his instincts warned him that he would not be able to best Ulvurul Heoroth.

"Perhaps some other time, when we are both well rested," said Gwaine, preparing himself for the ribbing and taunts that would doubtlessly follow by refusing a challenge from a Wolf of Fenris.

Instead, the Rune Priest smiled. There was no mockery in it at all.

"You're wiser than I thought, Lightning Rider," said Heoroth, sounding pleasantly surprised.

"If it had been any other Wolf, I'd have thought you were mocking me," said Gwaine.

"What, you think I'm like these pups?" retorted Heoroth, gesturing vaguely to the crowd of Astartes surrounding them.

They both laughed for a while at that.

"So…" continued Heoroth, after they had finished. "What we talked about the last time we met…have you made peace with yourself?"

Gwaine's face instantly hardened. "Are you trying to read my thoughts?"

Heoroth snorted. "I told you before, your thoughts are loud. And your emotions colour them. I can still sense your resentment…deep down."

"I do my duty to the Storm Lord, to my Legion, to Tempestas."

There was a moment of silence before Heoroth spoke. "And the Imperium? The Allfather?"

"Of course, that goes without saying," snapped Gwaine.

"Words have power, Lightning Rider," said Heoroth. "That is why we speak our oaths, to affirm them, to give them meaning. It shows we have nothing to hide in our hearts." The Rune Priest fixed Gwaine with a long and penetrating stare. His eyes were the colour of a winter sky. "Are there things you hide in your heart?"

Gwaine looked away, refusing to answer the question. He knew what it was that he feared to voice, but no one must ever know them. After a moment, Heoroth turned away, apparently turning his attention on the next duel taking place in the ring. But Gwaine knew that the Rune Priest's attention was still very much on him, and what he was hiding.

It was something that Gwaine feared above all others.

I will never be good enough.

Angered by the thought, Gwaine snapped at the Rune Priest. "Why do you care so much? What business is it of yours?"

Heoroth stared back, not at all rattled by Gwaine's outburst. "We are all brothers here, Lightning Rider. As Rune Priest, I offer counsel to any who need, whether they are of the Rout or not."

"Well, I'm fine," growled Gwaine, trying to keep his emotions in check as he turned away.

The soft chuckle coming from Heoroth told him that he was doing a poor job of it.

"Lie to me, if you must. But you can't lie to yourself."

II II II

"I'm…not…good enough," whispered Mika Vukona. When he awoke, it was to agonizing pain, yet sleep brought him no relief. He saw his dead brothers in his sleep, the brave crew of ill-fated Sixty-Sixth Expedition. They all haunted him, blaming him. They had all died because he was not good enough.

"Legion Master?"

Vukona blinked and slowly rose, doing his best to hide the agony splitting his head. He fixed his remaining eye on the warriors standing at the foot of his bed. "Te Rangi?"

His second-in-command had an open, honest face that had somehow retained its youthfulness despite the scars that adorned it. "How are you feeling, Legion Master?"

"Like an Ork just tried to split my head with an axe," answered Vukona with a wry smile, doing his best to hide his agony. But he knew from the look on Te Rangi's face, that he was fooling no one.

"I'll get the medicae," said his second-in-command. "He'll get you something for the pain."

"No."

"But-"

"The pain is my penance, Te Rangi."

"Penance?"

"For my failure."

Te Rangi pursed his lips. "You did not fail us, sir. You led us to victory."

"The Second and Sixth Legions led us to victory," growled Vukona, the pain sparking his anger. "The Sixty-Sixth Expedition is destroyed and our Legion stands at the brink of destruction. How is this a victory?"

"We have not been destroyed, sir," answered Te Rangi stubbornly. "We are still here. We survived. We will rebuild."

Vukona ground his teeth together so hard that he inwardly marveled that none of them had cracked. "Why are you here, Te Rangi?"

"The other captains are worried, sir," answered Te Rangi. "About you, about the future of our Legion."

"I'm fine, as you can see," said Vukona. "As to the future of the Legion…I'm afraid that might be out of my hands."

"Sir?"

"Te Rangi, you can't expect me to continue leading the Eleventh after this disaster. Once the Storm Lord makes his report to the War Council, at best I will be stripped of my rank. At worse, I will be executed for my failure."

Te Rangi's stony face and silence showed that the same thought had been crossing his mind. After a moment, Vukona spoke again.

"Death is no more than I deserve. When the time comes, I will gladly give my life."

Te Rangi stared long and hard at the Legion Master, clearly thinking of arguing. Vukona stared back, waiting. The silence was broken when the door slid open and Captain Azan of the Storm Eagle's Second Company entered.

"Legion Master," greeted the Captain with a gruff but courteous voice. "I am glad to see that you are well."

"In a manner of speaking, Captain," returned Vukona. He indicated Te Rangi. "My second-in-command, Te Rangi."

Te Rangi and Azan greeted each other with respectful nods. "My thanks for your company's timely aid, Captain."

"It was our honour," returned Azan, turning to face Vukona. "I am sorry that we did not arrive sooner."

Vukona shook his head. "Captain, I think we both know that if you had not arrived, there would no longer be an Eleventh Legion at all. For that, I am grateful."

Vukona grimaced as a wave of agony struck him. Fighting it down, he spoke again. "Have you brought word from your Primarch?"

Azan shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm not privy to my Lord's inner circle."

"But you're Captain of the Second Company," said Te Rangi, looking surprised.

Azan nodded. "True. Technically, my authority is second only to Asghar within the Legion. However, each company operates independently of each other. Asghar, being the First Captain and whose company is assigned to the Primarch would naturally be the first to know everything. He would update us accordingly, but with our Legion being spread far apart…" Azan trailed off. "In short, no, as of yet, I don't know the War Council's decision. When the time comes, Lord Thorondor will let us know."

Vukona leaned back, shutting his eye. "Would you have done things differently?"

"Legion Master?"

"Captain, please call me Vukona. I'm asking if you had been in my place, would have you done anything differently?"

Azan didn't even blink. "If an Ork horde had descended on me undetected, there is a little I could have done differently."

"I see."

Azan tilted his head slightly, the only sign of his curiosity. "Do you have any idea how the xenos could have struck you undetected?"

Vukona shook his head. "None. I've gone through all the reports submitted prior to the invasion. Everything was normal; nothing was out of place, not our scanners, not the patrol patterns…nothing. It was as though they simply appeared out of nowhere."

The Legion Master shifted, fixing his single eye on Azan. "I try to find where I went wrong; how things could have been different…"

"With all due respect, Legion Master, that is an exercise in futility."

Vukona stared at Azan. "I beg your pardon?"

"By all means, you may try to find what went wrong so that you may learn from it, but there is no point dwelling on how things would have been different if you had acted differently in the past. It would not change your Legion's current circumstances. You did what you had to do; now you must think of what you must do for your Legion."

"Well said, Azan."

Every Astartes in the room turned to see Thorondor standing in the doorway.

Azan immediately knelt, as did Te Rangi.

Thorondor stepped into the room, touching Azan lightly on the shoulder, signaling for the Captain to rise and indicating that Te Rangi should do the same. The Primarch moved to stand over Vukona.

"My lord," said the Legion Master. "I am prepared for whatever fate that the Emperor has decreed for me."

"Are you?" asked Thorondor mildly.

"I am," answered Vukona firmly.

"Very well then. By the Emperor's decree, the Eleventh Legion shall henceforth be attached to the Second, and will continue to serve in the Crusade while rebuilding. This will continue until such a time that your Legion has recovered enough to operate independently once more."

"Truly?" blurted Te Rangi. "We are not recalled from the Crusade?"

"It was discussed, yes," answered Thorondor. "But it was agreed that after all you had sacrificed, the Eleventh deserves better."

"And my punishment, my lord?" asked Vukona quietly.

Thorondor regarded Vukona evenly. "There will be an inquiry as to what happened, of course. But the Emperor has decided that if the blame somehow lies with you, then what has happened to you in this campaign is punishment enough. As it is, you will continue to serve as Legion Master, Mika Vukona."

Vukona bowed his head. "This is far more than I deserve, my lord. I am most grateful. But I fear that rebuilding my Legion…"

"Vukona!" said Te Rangi suddenly, looking pale. Both Thorondor and Azan stared at him, surprised at the sudden lapse in protocol by Vukona's second-in-command.

Vukona hesitated for a moment. "They deserve to know the truth, Te Rangi. After the aid they've given us…and the aid they are about to give us, they deserve to know."

"What is it?" asked Thorondor, looking concerned.

Vukona looked as though he was fighting some deep internal struggle, and Te Rangi looked almost fearful. Finally, the Legion Master sighed, a defeated expression on his face. "My lord, there is a reason my Legion is one of the smallest."

Thorondor said nothing, but nodded for the Legion Master to continue.

"We…we've been trying to find the source of it for so long…but nothing. We can't find what's wrong…"

"What are you talking about, Legion Master?" asked Thorondor.

Vukona looked tried to look the Primarch in the eye, but failed. He instead found himself talking to Thorondor's feet.

"Our gene-seed, my lord. There is…some sort of flaw in it. On paper, everything seems fine. But for some reason, during the implantation in our recruits…it has an adverse and often fatal reaction. Many of our recruits die during that stage…that is why we have grown very slowly."

Thorondor stared long and hard at the Legion Master. "When you say 'many'…how many do you mean?"

Vukona swallowed. "Nine out of ten recruits die."

"And you told no one of this?" asked Azan, looking incredulous.

Te Rangi answered. "We thought it was a minor setback at first. We had our apothecaries and medicae teams look into it. We thought it could be fixed. As time wore on though…we were worried about what would happen to our Legion if the truth came out."

"We saw what happened when Lord Fulgrim and Lord Magnus were restored to their Legions," whispered Vukona. "We hoped…we still hope that things would change when we find our Primarch."

"Have your medicaes found anything? Anything at all?" asked Thorondor.

"Nothing, my lord."

Thorondor nodded. "Azan, call Asghar, Gwaine and Chief Apothecary Sarashi."

Azan nodded. "At once, my lord."

Thorondor turned back to face Vukona. "We will lend our aid in helping you uncover the root of your problem."

"Will you inform the Emperor?" asked Vukona, fear evident in his voice.

Thorondor hesitated, the first time that any of them had seen such a being do so before. "In time, perhaps. But if there's something we can do, then we will do it. And if that fails…and your salvation lies in your Legion finding your Primarch…" Thorondor placed a hand on Vukona's shoulder. "I promise you, by the Eternal Storm, by the Emperor, that I will help you rebuild your Legion. And I will help you find your Primarch."

Character notes:

Ulvurul 'Longfang' Heoroth, Rune Priest of Tra (appears in Prospero Burns)