Sacrifices Demanded

Jerod had been an admiral his whole life. He had not risen by virtue of his family connections and Hayreddin, he had truly earned his position. He was talented in tactics and strategy, management and he was a good leader.

In truth, however, he craved a challenge. He had been born long after the Pirate War, and had grown up in a time of peace. Other than a few skirmishes while on patrol, he had very little experience in actual battle. Hayreddin would disagree, but Jerod felt that some measure of conflict and chaos was needed for people to develop and grow. Total peace bred stagnation and complacency.

When Revan had told him that he wished to join the Great Crusade, it had been like a slap in the face for Jerod. He had been so proud that his son wanted to do something meaningful with his life, but with it, came the realisation that he yet to accomplish anything significant in his own.

Like his son, Jerod had grown up on the stories of Hayreddin's adventures, along with his grandparents Ravenna and Isan, and he wanted more than anything to become a legend himself. He wanted his name to resonate throughout the ages the same way Hayreddin's, Ravenna's and Isan's did.

And now, with the arrival of the Imperium, perhaps he would have his chance.

There was knock on the door, bringing Jerod out of his thoughts. He had been in his study, a modestly lavish room, mulling over the opportunities the Imperium have brought. Another series of knocks on the door.

"Come in," said Jerod.

Nisha, his wife, entered. His heart sank. Both of them had just had a huge argument when Revan had declared his intention to join the Great Crusade. Nisha had been upset, but had become absolutely furious when Jerod had supported his son's decision. He just knew that she'd argue HIS intention to also join the Crusade.

"Can we talk?" asked Nisha.

"We can," answered Jerod. "But if it's about Revan, my mind is made up. Let's not fight about it."

Anger and grief flashed across Nisha's face. "He's our only son, Jerod. You want to send him off to...other worlds?!"

"I don't want to send him. He wants to go."

"He's just a boy! He doesn't know what he wants!"

Jerod sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. "He won't be a boy forever, Nisha. And frankly...this may be better."

"Better how?" cried Nisha. "He'll be going off to spirits knows where! You heard what Lord Thorondor and the iterators say: it's constant war out there! What if he gets drafted into the army? He'll get himself killed! And even if he doesn't, we'll never see our son again! Don't you care about that?"

"What's the alternative, Nisha?" said Jerod. "He stays here, grows up, becomes an official, marries, pops out some children, grows old and die. Out there might be dangerous, but there is also opportunity, Nisha! A chance to be part of something greater! A chance to -"

"You're going too, aren't you?"

Tears were brimming in Nisha's eyes. The silence stretched between the two, dark and heavy.

"I...I am of Ravenna's line," Jerod's voice was quiet. "My grandfather was a companion of Hayreddin. He fought alongside him in the Siege of Ain and in the Pirate War. My grandmother was instrumental in the reforms of Baybar. Both of them have their names carved in our world's history. For as long as people remember Hayreddin, they will remember Ravenna and Isan." He clenched his fists. "Compared to them, what have I accomplished? I am an admiral with no wars to fight. Peace has been forged on their shoulders and I am merely maintaining what they have built. I'm nothing but a glorified peacekeeper. When I die, no one will remember me. But with the Great Crusade, I now have a chance. I have a chance to do something that matters. A chance to leave my mark in history."

Nisha walked forward and took Jerod's hand. "Those who keep the peace are just as important as those who fought for it. What use is winning peace if it falls apart after those who won it passes on? Your role is just as important."

"History remembers the builders, never the caretakers."

"But you have more now, more than your great-grandparents ever had!" Nisha was crying in earnest now. "You have a family, wealth, and all the time in the world to enjoy both! Isn't that enough? Aren't we enough?" Jerod could feel her hand shaking. "Isn't that why Hayreddin and your grandparents fought? So that we wouldn't have to?"

Jerod pulled away from her. "All my life, I have been afraid of achieving nothing. I am sick of living off the fruit of my grandparents' labours. My father might be content to do that, but I am not. I will take my chance...and if Revan wishes it, so will he."

Nisha was still crying, but her eyes had hardened. "If you do this, if you leave me and take my son away...then we are finished. We will no longer be man and wife."

Jerod stared at her, but there was no shock or anger on his face. Only cold, hard determination.

"So be it," said Jerod calmly.

Nisha wiped the tears from her face and drew herself to her full height. "Then farewell, Jerod." She turned towards the door. Her hand paused on the handle. "Will I at least have the chance to say goodbye to Revan?"

"You are his mother."

Nisha nodded and walked out of the room, out of Jerod's life.

II XI II XI

The stars shone brightly, like diamonds in the dark expanse of the sky. In ancient times, some cultures believed the stars to be the souls of loved ones, others believed them to be the souls of great kings. Others believed the stars to be gifts from the gods, to illuminate the darkness for Mankind's weak eyes.

Thorondor knew better of course.

"Did you know, Garuda?" he asked the mighty Storm Eagle nibbling at his hair. "More than any other Eagle, you flew above the Storm. You saw the stars. Did you know what they were?"

Garuda's answer was to nudge Thorondor's head. The Primarch chuckled and stroked the Eagle's beak. As his mount crooned at the touch, he turned his attention back to the stars.

Somewhere amongst those pinpricks of light, he knew Angron was leading his ravening horde in a world-encompassing bloodbath. Curze and his maniacs were descending on a resisting world, preparing to carve themselves into the populace's nightmares. They were the dark side of the Crusade, the violent, brutal necessity of it, though Thorondor found himself questioning that necessity more often than not.

But he also knew somewhere among the stars, Rogal Dorn and his Imperial Fists were building a better world alongside Roboute Guilliman and the Ultramarines. Somewhere, Lorgar was using his powerful oratory skills to bring whole worlds into Compliance while Vulkan and the Salamanders were selflessly protecting the weaker strands of Mankind from harm. Sanguinius, beautiful, perfect Sanguinius was out there, inspiring whole empires into embracing the Emperor's light. They were the light of the Crusade: those who rebuilt, protected and enlightened.

Bleakly, Thorondor wondered which side of the Crusade that he and his Legion fell on. It was a question that he had long known the answer to. He and the Storm Eagles were not architects or builders, like the Imperial Fists and the Ultramarines, or even the Iron Warriors. They were not cultured philosophers, the way the Word Bearers, the Thousand Sons or the Emperor's Children were.

Thorondor and the Storm Eagles were warriors. They existed solely for war; it was the only thing they excelled at. In that, they were similar to the Vlka Fenryka, the White Scars, the Death Guard and the Luna Wolves. The Imperial Fists and the Ultramarines left the worlds they conquered better places; the Storm Eagles left only destruction.

Thorondor gazed up at the stars again, knowing that somewhere out there, Asghar and Gwaine were leading the Storm Eagles to war alongside the Luna Wolves, White Scars and Iron Warriors. He wondered if the war was still being fought, or had they already won? It would be awhile before he received their report.

"Is it safe?"

Thorondor turned to see Hayreddin. The newly-discovered Primarch stood a fair distance away, eyeing Garuda warily. Thorondor smirked. Whatever he had been expecting, Hayreddin had not been it. The Eleventh Legion's Primarch was not bold, cautious and most unwarlike. He was unlike any other Primarch Thorondor had ever met. And yet, Thorondor liked him. What Hayreddin lacked in martial prowess, he made up for with keen diplomatic skills and a keener political mind. Despite his love for peace, Thorondor had learned that Hayreddin had a brilliant mind for strategy. The Storm Lord suspected that if Hayreddin had spent as much time at war as he did at diplomacy, he could have rivalled Guilliman and Dorn in terms of war tactics and strategy.

"Garuda won't harm you," assured Thorondor. "Not unless I give the order, or you prove yourself to be a threat." It was odd to see Hayreddin nervous; he had just seen the other Primarch command Vukona to reveal the problems with the Eleventh Legion's gene-seed. It was good though, it showed that Hayreddin had the necessary authority to command the Astartes.

Hayreddin shook his head as he approached. "I doubt I could harm you even if I tried my best."

Thorondor chuckled as the other Primarch reached his side. "Why do you put down your martial skills? You are the finest swordsman on this world, are you not?"

Hayreddin smiled. "The man who taught me also taught me how to measure my skills against another by sight alone."

"And how does your swordsmanship measure up to my fighting skills?"

Hayreddin shrugged. "I'm no match for you, Thorondor."

The Storm Lord laughed. "None of our brothers would admit to something like that so readily."

"Why not?" Hayreddin looked up at Thorondor. "I know my strengths and my weaknesses. I am no warrior. At least, not one that could measure up to the other Primarchs."

"Well, we have warriors aplenty," said Thorondor. "We only have a few capable of governing. I think you and Roboute will get along quite well."

"I look forward to meeting him."

Both Primarchs stared up at the night sky in silence for a long moment.

"Nine out of ten," said Hayreddin eventually. Thorondor knew exactly what he was talking about. "Nine out of ten die in the process of becoming an Eleventh Legion Astartes."

"Yes."

"And yet Vukona continued to proceed with the procedure? Despite the high fatality rate?"

"There was little else he could do, Hayreddin," said Thorondor. "Don't be too harsh on him. What could any of us have done?"

"I would have halted the creation of new Astartes until the problem was rectified."

"The Eleventh Legion was on the verge of destruction. They were desperate."

"No, I mean even before that. Before the Tyron campaign. How did the Emperor miss it?"

"The gene-seed across all the Legions were stable in the early stages," explained Thorondor. "Later on, some would develop...quirks? In any case, it is common enough for recruits to die during the implantation stage. That was why it was initially overlooked, I believe."

"Why didn't you tell the Emperor?"

Thorondor's smile faltered for a split second. "The Eleventh Legion and the Sixty-Sixth Expedition had given everything to protect Tyron from the Ork invasion. After the losses they suffered, the Emperor was already inclined to recall them from the Crusade. If he had known about their problems with their gene-seed, he would have definitely recalled them. It would dishonour them."

Hayreddin frowned. "Surely survival should have taken precedence over honour?"

"It's not so simple, Hayreddin," answered Thorondor. "The Legiones Astartes were created to face the greatest dangers in the galaxy. Dangers too great for mortal men to face alone. Where men fear to tread, the Astartes do. When faced with obstacles too great for men, the Astartes shatter it. When faced with insanity that would drive the bravest men to flight, the Astartes stand their ground and spit in its eye. The Legions are the bulwark of Mankind. Under the Primarchs, they push the frontier; they do not take a single step backwards. Not unless the Emperor Himself commanded it." Thorondor clenched his fists, then relaxed. "That is why, for a Legion to be recalled from the Crusade would be a grievous shame for them."

"Perhaps," conceded Hayreddin. "But that is the view of a warrior. If I am to lead the Eleventh Legion, I must be more than just a warrior. I must consider other factors." He shook his head. "I am inclined to halt the creation of new Astartes. Especially if most of them are going to die."

"That would be hasty," said Thorondor. "You know the gene-seed is implanted in nineteen phases over the course of a few years. The Eleventh Legion's gene-seed's fatalities occur mostly during the second last phase: the Progenoid Gland implantation. For the new batch of recruits from Baybar, that's still several years away. With you, the Eleventh Legion can cultivate new gene-seeds, hopefully more stable and safer ones."

"'Hopefully'? That's not good enough, Thorondor," said Hayreddin. "There must be more I can do...has this happened before? Are there any Legions that have had this kind of problem?"

Thorondor gave Hayreddin a look. "The Thousand Sons. But it's not quite the same."

"The Thousand Sons...that is Magnus's Legion, am I right?"

"Correct."

"I would like to speak with him."

Thorondor nodded. "You will, once you've met the Emperor."

Hayreddin shook his head. "The Emperor is not due here for a while. I can't wait that long." He looked up to the stars. "Take me to him."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You have a vessel, yes? Take me to the Emperor. I will pledge my allegiance."

Thorondor's smile widened. "Just like that?"

"You have given me no reason to distrust you," answered Hayreddin. "And...I believe that my whole life has been leading to this moment."

There was something knowing in Hayreddin's smile. Thorondor wondered what it was, but decided to let it go.

"Very well," said the Storm Lord. "First you must settle your affairs here. I will need to send word to the Emperor. At the earliest possible convenience, we will go."

II XI II XI

The noise was so subtle, that anyone else would not have been able to detect it. Even with his enhanced senses, Rueven Te Rangi barely detected it. It was at the peripheral of his hearing, like a half-heard whisper.

He smiled.

It was impressive, all things considered.

"I heard you, little man. Come out."

There was a pause, and the boy Revan emerged from the shadows of the rafters above, dropping lightly onto his feet. He had gotten closer than Te Rangi had realised.

"Quite the little sneak, aren't you?" remarked Te Rangi.

"I could not have been quieter," grumbled Revan. "How did you hear me?"

Te Rangi tapped his ears. "Astartes ears. We hear better than humans."

Revan cocked his head. "Why do you call us that?"

"Excuse me?"

"You always call people who aren't like you 'humans'. Aren't you human too?"

Te Rangi shrugged. "Only in the broadest sense of the word. The more accurate term would be 'post-human'."

"Post-human?"

"It means 'beyond human'. We Astartes are enhanced beyond ordinary humanity; not just physically, but mentally as well."

"Why?"

"Because we need to fight the battles that humans can't."

Revan looked thoughtful. "But you are still human. Even the post-human word still has 'human' in it."

That made Te Rangi smile. "I suppose."

"Could I become like you?" asked Revan abruptly.

Te Rangi stared at the boy thoughtfully. Vukona had mentioned earlier about Revan being a potential Aspirant for the Eleventh Legion. Studying him, Te Rangi could see the boy was strong and fit for his age. Physically, he was an ideal candidate. But an Astartes had to be strong both physically and mentally, and Te Rangi was not sure if the boy was strong enough mentally to become an Astartes.

The Legiones Astartes fought the hardest and most brutal wars in the galaxy. As such, the recruits for potential Astartes were taken from worlds and societies that bred the hardest and strongest men. These almost invariably came from Death Worlds, Feral Worlds or worlds with strong warrior and military cultures. The Vlka Fenryka recruited from the savages of Fenris, the Salamanders from the hardy people of Nocturne, the Luna Wolves from the gangsters of Cthonia, the Storm Eagles from the tenacious people of Tempestas and the Yndonesic Bloc of Terra. Baal, Caliban, Chogoris, Medusa, the worlds that produced men strong enough to become Astartes were often harsh and unforgiving homes, punishing weakness with death.

There were exceptions of course, most notably the Ultramarines. The Thirteenth Legion recruited from a large range of worlds, some of them Death Worlds, but some of them not, like Macragge, Calth and Armatura.

From what he's seen of Baybar, the only people who would make good candidates to become Astartes in Te Rangi's opinion, were the warriors of the desert tribes; hardy, fierce and skilled warriors. Recruitment amongst the tribes was already underway. The coastal cities produced decent soldiers by the world's reckoning, but life in the cities was easy and comfortable, making most of them ill-suited for the harsh rigours required to become a Space Marine.

Te Rangi knew that Revan was someone dear to Hayreddin. The boy had the honour of being raised by a Primarch, but he had grown up in a warm, loving environment. He had had a happy, relatively carefree childhood. To become an Astartes, Revan would have to be torn away from that, even the Primarch's love. He would have to be thrown into a brutal, regimented world where duty and sacrifice was the highest honour. Privately, Te Rangi did not think Revan could handle it.

But looking at the boy now, Te Rangi could see the gleaming determination in Revan's eyes. Maybe, if he were trained and survived the implantation process, he could become an Astartes.

"Maybe you could, little man," said Te Rangi softly. "But it is a hard road to become an Astartes. You'd have to leave everything you know."

"I can-"

"I mean everything, Revan. Your home, your friends, your family, even Lord Hayreddin as you knew him. You will never marry, never father your own children. You may not even survive the process. You could give up everything, and lose your life for nothing."

Te Rangi stood before Revan, a towering behemoth in unadorned, grey ceramite. "But if you survive it all, you will become a mighty warrior for Mankind. You will become a tool of the Emperor's will. You will march across thousands of worlds, bringing fire and death to all the enemies of Man. War will be all you know. War will be where you find peace. Knowing all this...do you still want to become an Astartes?"

Te Rangi saw fear and doubt flash across Revan's face for a brief moment. It was replaced by the determination he had seen in the boy's eyes earlier.

"I do." said Revan.

Te Rangi smiled. Whether Revan survived the process or not, the boy had earned a measure of Te Rangi's respect.

"So be it."