Strength of Mankind

In the months that followed, Memnos had become very well-acquainted with many of the iterators that had arrived with Lord Thorondor. They were well-spoken, highly educated and eager to share their experiences in exchange for learning about Baybar, something Memnos had taken advantage of. He learned that the iterators, in addition to being scholars, also served as educators and were masters of propaganda. Memnos had spent much time observing them educating the masses about the Imperium, the Emperor, the true nature of Hayreddin, and the Imperial Truth.

Memnos had been somewhat taken aback to learn that the Imperium had no tolerance for religion, superstition and spiritual beliefs. He had never been a particularly religious man, but he had believed in the spirits of course. To be told rather bluntly that it was not only nonsense, but also a weakness, had been rather rankling.

Memnos was not alone in feeling that way, but he did not feel as strong as others.

He stood with the crowd now, observing one of the iterators at work. She was a beautiful woman, with flowing red hair, a curvaceous figure, and a voice that carried clearly. Her name was Melissarius Yenticus. She was one of the chief iterators attached to the Storm Eagles. Memnos had spoken to her before, and found her charming and courteous. She was more tactful in regard to Baybarian spiritual beliefs than most of her colleagues.

Nevertheless, Memnos could feel the hostility in the crowd, angered over the dismissal of the spirits that most of them believed in their whole lives.

"You call us ignorant?!"

"You mock our beliefs?!"

"You blaspheme against the spirits! You mock the ones who have guided us all our lives!"

There were many more such calls, and far less restrained. Memnos watched carefully, eager to see how Melissarius would handle it.

The iterator raised her hands. "I know! I know! It is a hard thing, being told your beliefs are not true! I do not think you ignorant or foolish, neither does the Imperium, nor the Emperor, beloved by all! I know, in the darkest days of your lives, it is a comfort to think that there are spirits out there who watch over you and care for you while you suffer." Melissarius allowed the angry calls to wash over her for a moment, utterly serene, before raising her hands again. "But my friends, people of Nuba, of Baybar, think of everything you have endured! Think of everything your forefathers have endured! The dark days of constant piracy, the harshness of travelling the desert, enduring the wars of the desert tribes! Not only have you survived, you have thrived!"

There was thoughtful murmuring amongst the gathered crowd now.

Memnos smiled a little.

"Look at the world you have all built on Baybar," cried out Melissarius, her voice easily carrying to the listeners. "Who do you think is responsible for all of it? Whose hands, generation by generation, have painstakingly built this world? By the strength of whose backs, has suffering been endured, only to rise again, stronger than ever?"

"It was the spirits who gave us strength!" shouted someone.

Melissarius turned her eyes in the general direction of the one who had shouted, her eyes now blazing with passion.

"Nay, friend! Nay, brothers! Nay, sisters! Why give credit to beings created as crutches to comfort you in your darkest hours? Why not give credit to those who truly deserve it? It is you! You, you and you! All of you! This world has been built by your hands, by the strength of your backs, by your iron will!"

Silence followed Melissarius's words.

She spoke again, more softly now. "Why deny it? Why deny yourselves credit for what you have built? Why deny that you are strong, that you are powerful? Your belief in your spirits is a truly wonderful thing, but it is misplaced. It was not the spirits who built this world, it was not the spirits who got you through your trials and tribulations." Melissarius swept her arms out, indicating the crowd. "It was all of you. The time has come for you to believe in your own strength. In yourselves."

Finishing, she bowed respectfully to the crowd. An applause followed. Memnos smiled. He could still make out angry shouts in the crowd, but now it was matched by those cheering Melissarius's words. He knew she would repeat this process again and again over the coming days, winning more and more support, until only the most stubborn and pigheaded die-hards would remain.

Memnos made his way through the crowd to where Melissarius had just gotten down from the platform.

"Masterfully done, my lady," said Memnos.

The iterator turned to him and smiled widely. "Did you enjoy it, Lord Memnos?"

"I did, it was most eloquently put together," answered Memnos, chuckling. "But I am no lord, Lady Melissarius."

"And I am no lady," replied Melissarius brightly. "Will you walk with me?"

"Gladly."

Melissarius took Memnos's arm and they walked leisurely on the direction of the administrative palace. Behind them, detaching themselves from the shadows, followed a pair of Astartes. The scribe had only noticed them when they moved. That such giants could move so silently was unnerving.

"Impressive, aren't they?"

Memnos turned his attention back to Melissarius. The iterator was smiling. She was truly a lovely woman; barely in her mid-thirties by Terran reckoning (though likely older, give the Imperium's juvenat technology), her red hair blazing like fire in the sun. Had he been forty years younger, Memnos would have tried to court her.

"The Astartes, they are impressive, yes?"

Melissarius's smile was knowing. Memnos cleared his throat to gather his composure, knowing he was fooling no one.

"Yes, they are. Have you seen them in combat before?"

"Throne of Terra, no!" Melissarius laughed. "My battle is one of hearts and minds, not of violence."

"Words can be a source of great violence," said Memnos.

"Not by themselves," Melissarius patted Memnos on the arm in assurance. "Rather the ideas that words express. In a way, ideas are just as important a weapon for the Great Crusade as a bolt gun or the warriors that wield them. But surely you understand that?"

"Perhaps I do, but nevertheless, why don't you enlighten me?" Memnos suggested. "You have a way with words that clarify things for this old man's ailing mind."

Melissarius laughed again, a clear, almost musical sound. "Flatterer. And you are hardly weak in the mind. But as you wish." She inclined her head towards the two Astartes following behind. "The Great Crusade...the term itself is martial in nature, don't you agree? Conjures up images of men in armour, charging at each other with swords, killing each other by millions. During the First Millenium of Terra, there were Crusades fought over whose God was the true God. Cities burned and the ground turned red with blood over the question."

"Was the question answered?"

The iterator shook her head sadly. "No. Millions died over the question; such a waste of life, don't you agree?" She looked Memnos in the eye. "But truthfully now, Master Scribe…" - Memnos chuckled at that - "...if one side had won, do you think that would make them right?"

Memnos shrugged. "The victor would declare their victory divinely ordained."

"Exactly, and the defeated would claim that lack of faith was the reason for their loss! And so, the vicious cycle continues."

"And the point, Lady Iterator?"

Melissarius smiled at the nickname. "Only this, you do not defeat a foe by force of arms alone, you defeat him when he is converted to your ideas."

Memnos nodded. "So, the Astartes, the Imperial Army, they are the force of arms of the Great Crusade. The iterators are the ideas."

"Yes, the Imperium has conquered hundreds of thousands of worlds. There is no force that can stand against the combined might of the Astartes and the Imperial Army. But when the Crusade moves on, what's to stop the conquered worlds from rising in rebellion? Pure conquest breeds resentment and fans the flames of hatred."

"And so, where the Astartes and the Imperial Army overcome armed resistance, it is the iterators who bring the conquered into the Imperium," Memnos concluded.

Melissarius nodded. "Not just the iterators, but essentially, yes. The conquered are not vassals of the Imperium, they are citizens of the Imperium. They have as much right as you and I to bear that with pride. But they must be shown that."

Memnos considered for a moment. "If we may circle back to the subject of deities...it seems to me, rather than advocate the existence of a God, the Imperium is instead championing the stance of the lack of God."

"That is so, yes."

"Yet, we have just agreed that when two religions go to war, victory does not make the victor right. Is this not the same? How does victory for the Imperium validate the absence of God?"

"Well said," laughed Melissarius. "You'd make a fine iterator, sir." Her face became serious. "There are worlds of Man who have suffered greatly before the Imperium came for them. Some suffer on Death Worlds; vicious environments, others enslaved by xenos. They endured unimaginable hardships and degradation, but they endured. Why? Because they are strong. That strength is within all Mankind."

"Perhaps that strength was granted by God?"

"Many certainly believed so. Some believed in deities in the form of beasts, others believed in spirits that dwell in holy mountains, others still believe in an unseen God. But then…" Melissarius's face grew sorrowful. "...Giant's Land. It was a world the Storm Eagles conquered shortly before coming here. A whole race of humans was reduced to cattle by xenos. Where was God then? Why did He not intervene to save them from that terrible atrocity?"

The iterator squeezed Memnos's arm gently. "Mankind is strong, Memnos. Not because of some absent deities, but because that strength is in all of us. From the lowliest serf, to the mightiest Astartes, that strength is within all Mankind. Our species has spread throughout the galaxy. From the mildest to the most inhospitable world, we have survived and thrived. It is time we stopped believing that this strength comes from some external source, and accept that it is within us all."

Memnos shook his head, smiling. "Melissarius Yenticus, you certainly have a way with words."

Melissarius smiled back. "You are kind, Memnos. But I was merely borrowing them. The words belong to Lord Thorondor."

XI II XI II

The air was tense, watchful. Even from his superior vantage point, Revan felt the strain. It was wearing away at his calm and focus, urging him to act rashly, as any other child might. But he was no mere child.

He was Revan; his father was an admiral, his grandfather a city governor, his great-grandparents legendary heroes, and his uncle the greatest hero in the world. They had taught him better.

Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself, concentrating. Soon enough, he could hear the steady footsteps, almost mechanical in their rhythm. Two Astartes passed beneath him. One wore a helmet, the other didn't, revealing his face.

Revan recognised the Astartes. It was Te Rangi, the Eleventh Legion's second-in-command. Though scarred, his face was still oddly youthful. And he wasn't as scary as Vukona. Revan had squeaked and hid himself behind Hayreddin when he first saw the Legion Master's disfigured face.

Te Rangi and the other Astartes passed below, not noticing Revan, who was perched up in the rafters. The boy grinned. Growing up in the administrative palace had highly developed his ability to sneak into places he wasn't supposed to be in. The rafters, roof, cellars; Revan knew them all like the back of his hand.

The Eleventh Legion had taken over the task of Hayreddin's security, much to the fury of the Sabaahan guards, who had guarded Hayreddin for decades. Vukona had insisted that no offence had been intended, but bluntly stated that the Eleventh Legion was simply better suited to the task. Outraged, the captain of the Sabaahan guard had demanded single combat to defend their honour. Vukona had accepted and named Te Rangi his champion.

Te Rangi had removed his armour, revealing a massive body with musculature that would be impossible for ordinary humans. He also had strange, dark sockets at certain points on his body, making some of the Sabaahan guard hiss and make warding gestures.

Te Rangi had stood before his challenger, stripped to the waist with his arms held out, unarmed. Infuriated, the Sabaahan guard had leaped at him, viciously striking with his spear. Te Rangi bobbed, ducked and weaved each attack with impossible speed. The Sabaahan guard had been fast, but could not touch Te Rangi. Howling with rage, the Sabaahan he thrusted his spear at the Astartes's body and finally scored a glancing blow as Te Rangi side-stepped, leaving a thin trail of blood. The Astartes responded with a slap that broke the other warrior's jaw and knocked him out cold.

There had been no more protests after that.

Revan watched as Te Rangi and the other Astartes turned the corner, and hurried off towards his destination. He nimbly skipped through the rafters, pausing whenever a patrol passed, or creeping along silently whenever he encountered a stationed guard.

Ever since the Eleventh Legion had taken over, it had been harder for Revan to see his Uncle. Hayreddin had been busier than ever, of course, but the Sabaahan guards had always let Revan pass with minimal fuss. The Astartes of the Eleventh Legion however, were not so accommodating.

Thus, the reason why Revan was sneaking around the rafters of his own home to see his Uncle.

When he reached the landing that led to Hayreddin's quarters, Revan's grin widened. There was a lone guard in front of the stairs leading up to the Primarch's private space. He had evaded all the guards thus far, so what was one more?

Revan crept along, as quiet as a mouse. Inch by inch, he drew closer to the stairs. Once he got passed the guard, there would be nothing to stop -

A skull popped up just inches away from his face.

Revan shrieked, scrabbling back, completely forgetting that he was up on the rafters. He lost his footing and fell -

- right into a pair of superhuman arms.

There was a rumble of deep-throated laughter. "Well, look what we have a here. A sneaky little rat." Revan was yanked up by the scruff of his collar. He found himself face to face with Te Rangi. The Astartes looked amused. "Haven't I kicked you out a dozen times already?"

Revan huffed. "This is my home, Hayreddin is my uncle, so I go where I please, and I will see him if I want!"

Te Rangi laughed again. The sound infuriated Revan and without thinking, he struck the Astartes right on the nose. It only made Revan's hand hurt and Te Rangi laugh louder.

"You have courage, little man. You're sloppy, but tenacious and resourceful."

"I snuck past your men."

The Astartes chuckled. "Is that what you think? We knew you were there the whole time."

"Then why didn't you stop me?"

"To see how far you'd go. And you weren't bad."

"Well, I want to see Uncle!"

Te Rangi snorted. "I think you've earned that much."

"Put me down!"

Te Rangi laughed and carried Revan up the stairs. They found Hayreddin cloistered with Mika Vukona and Thorondor. All of them looked up.

"Te Rangi, what's this?" asked Vukona.

"Just a little mouse sneaking around," answered Te Rangi. He held up Revan and shook him a little.

"Put him down, please," said Hayreddin.

"As you wish, my lord."

Te Rangi gently set Revan down on his feet. The boy quickly scurried off to stand next to Hayreddin.

"A boy snuck past our guards?" growled Vukona. "You're slipping, Te Rangi."

The other Astartes inclined his head. "With all due respect, Legion Master, we were aware of him the whole time. I just wanted to see how far he was willing to go."

"And?"

"He's a tenacious little man, and brave," Te Rangi was smiling.

Hayreddin looked down at Revan. "Why were you looking for me, Revan?"

Revan took a deep breath. "I heard you will leave Baybar, Uncle. That's not true, is it?"

The look on Hayreddin's face was one that Revan knew well; it was the face his Uncle always wore when he knew that Revan wouldn't like the answer.

"You are, aren't you?" Revan's voice was quiet.

"Yes."

Lord Thorondor's voice was gentle, but firm. It was the first time the other Primarch had ever spoken to him. Revan fought back the squeak in his throat as the Storm Lord approached him. The Primarch of the Storm Eagles was an altogether different proposition from his Uncle. Even to his young mind, he instinctively recognised that Thorondor was a man forged in war, so different from the gentler Hayreddin.

As the Primarch knelt before him, so they could meet face to face, Revan dropped his eyes, unable to meet the Storm Lord's gaze. The presence was overwhelming, suffocating.

"Look at me, Revan."

A massive hand that could easily envelope his head -a hand that has taken lives beyond count, he realise with a jolt- reached under his chin and tilted his head up.

Revan found himself staring into eyes the colour of storms. Those eyes were older than anything he had ever known. They were eyes that had seen countless worlds, looked upon the stars.

Eyes that have seen death beyond count.

"You are an intelligent boy, Revan," said Thorondor. "You understand what Hayreddin has done for Baybar, yes? There are many worlds out there that need him. Mankind is strong, but some still do not understand how strong they are. They wallow in suffering and oppression, under their own kind or under the yoke of xenos. They do not have a Primarch, the Imperium and the Emperor to guide them. That is why they need me, Hayreddin, our other brothers. We must be their strength. We must help them understand how strong they are. I know you love your Uncle and do not want him leave. But Mankind needs him. Do you understand?"

Revan couldn't breathe. Being in such close proximity to a Primarch, hearing his heartfelt words was too much. He was starting to hyperventilate when strong, gentle hands seized his shoulders and pulled him away.

"Stop it, Thorondor."

And suddenly, Revan could breathe again. He found himself in Hayreddin's arms and buried his face into his Uncle's shoulder. Now that he understood that Hayreddin was also a Primarch, he wondered how his Uncle's presence could be so different from Lord Thorondor's. Hayreddin's presence was like a balm, soothing and calming, easing the beat of his heart where Lord Thorondor's had just threatened to overwhelm him moments ago.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to scare him," Thorondor was saying.

"I...I want to…"

Revan's voice came out as a slight croak and he had to clear his throat.

"What was that, Revan?" asked Hayreddin, concerned.

Revan pulled away from his Uncle and drew himself to his full height, such as it was.

"I understand why you must go, Uncle. And I want to go to."

"Revan, I understand you want to follow me, but the galaxy is no place for a boy -"

Revan's voice was clear and firm. "Not just to follow you. I understand you are needed to build a future for Mankind. I want to help. I want to build a future for our people. I want to give everything I have for Mankind."

Thorondor's smile widened and he nodded at Revan. Te Rangi looked impressed, a feeling that was also expressed in what little humanity was left on Vukona's face. Hayreddin however, looked troubled.

"Revan, you don't really understand what you are asking…"

"Maybe I don't," said Revan in a rush. "But I know I want to do this. I want to help. Please, give me the chance, Unc...my lord."

Hayreddin fell silent, looking at the boy before him. Revan could not have known, however, at that moment, the two Primarchs and Astartes saw the man he would become.

"We'll discuss this later," said Hayreddin at last. "Te Rangi, would you kindly see Revan back to his room?"

Te Rangi bowed. "Of course, my lord." He beckoned to Revan. "Come, little man."

Hesitantly, Revan followed. Te Rangi took him by the shoulder and steered him down the stairs. Just before they went out of earshot, Revan heard one last word from Vukona.

"...aspirant."

II XI II XI

"What was that?" asked Hayreddin, staring at Vukona. The Legion Master met his gaze steadily.

"I said the boy would make a fine Aspirant, my lord."

"An Aspirant...you mean...one of you? An Astartes?"

"Yes, my lord," said Vukona. "He is just the right age. And he seems to have the tenacity, courage and determination to be one."

"I don't doubt that," said Hayreddin. "But it's just...he's still a boy. He should be allowed to just be a child."

"It is his decision, if he wishes it, my lord," answered Vukona. "He would sacrifice his childhood, yes. But the Crusade demands sacrifice. We have all done so, for the Imperium, for the Emperor...for Mankind."

Hayreddin stared at the Legion Master. It suddenly occurred to him that Mika Vukona had once been a boy, just like Revan. He wondered how long ago that was. Did Vukona remember his life before becoming an Astartes? Did he still have family? Did he still think of them?

"What do you think?" Hayreddin asked Thorondor.

"I think it is Revan's choice," answered Thorondor. "Give him time to think it over, then let him make the decision for himself." The unease must have still been showing on Hayreddin's face, because Thorondor then said: "He won't be a child forever, Hayreddin."

Hayreddin bowed his head. That much was true, Revan was growing up. He had stood proud and tall in the presence of two Primarchs and high-ranking Astartes and clearly stated his request. Revan had been so strong and firm in his conviction, more so than any ordinary man. It had made Hayreddin realise just how much Jerod's son had grown.

Perhaps he should respect Revan's decision.

But still…

"Both of you have told me much," said Hayreddin slowly. "But you haven't told me anything about the process of creating an Astartes." He noticed Vukona and Thorondor exchanging looks here. "I think it's time you tell me."

For once, the Legion Master looked hesitant. Hayreddin frowned. Something was wrong. Vukona had never hesitated to fulfill one of his requests before.

"Legion Master Vukona," said Hayreddin, and for the first time, there was steel in his voice. It was the voice of a man who commanded superhuman warriors. A voice that inspired the strength of Man.

The voice of a Primarch.

"Tell me everything."