The Pride of the Emperor hovered over the twinkling surface of Oassar III. Julius Kaesoron gazed out of the viewports through his helmet slits. There were people down there, people unaware of the Imperial Truth, people that had as good as asked for invasion. Kaesoron did his best to convince himself that was enough.
Ruen was leading the attack. Ruen was devoted to Slaanesh now, having embraced the god after Fulgrim had officially allowed it. Daimon was heading in the same direction, and Demeter…. Kaesoron feared it was his own speech that had pushed the Second Captain too far. His behavior was growing increasingly erratic as of late, presumably because of the exposure while watching the Warp; the Immaterium had an odd effect on the world. At least Demeter acted differently from those who had inhaled the Laeran temple's air.
Of those, Ruen had grown more crazed than Lucius had been. The former 13th Captain had merely entertained himself in sexual ways; Ruen was apparently trying to imitate Lord Commander Fabius, injecting various poisons and other chemicals into his body. His goal was to become immune from environmental influences, and he knew enough of what he was doing to survive, at least thus far. Daimon, meanwhile, practiced with his maul, developing a style of unrestrained assault. And Demeter - well, the Second Captain's mood swings were fast approaching Fulgrim's own, in severity if not in grace.
Kaesoron missed Korander, Tarvitz, even Krysander and Vairosean. More and more, it appeared Slaanesh, whose worship the Phoenician had been forced to accept, was getting its claws into the Legion and not planning to let go. There was no one to approve of or critique his actions anymore; everyone was a narcissist, and the web of respect from which Kaesoron drew his power - the Brotherhood of the Phoenix - was as good as gone, no matter how often it met.
But Fulgrim had to have a plan. The Phoenician had assured Kaesoron that this state of being was only a step on the path to perfection, and Kaesoron knew his paranoia was, in the end, just that.
"All we see is filtered through the lens of who we are," the First Captain quoted.
"And all we are is filtered through the lens of what we see," Ispequr Davars said, walking up behind his Captain. "Not Karkasky this time?"
"Anarae said this more truly," the Captain opined.
"Perhaps. Anyhow, I believe you desired to be reminded of a visit at this time?"
Kaesoron nodded. He had an appointment with Serena Opponit in a few minutes, yet another one of the many poets asking for Kaesoron's experiences and thoughts on her work. There were more and more of these times on the First Captain's schedule, as even the post-Laeran remembrancers saw their popularity among the Astartes diminish.
"Also," Davars observed, "I should probably note a rumor going around. Namely, that you're going insane."
"Why?"
"The helmet."
Kaesoron nodded. "Let them talk. I would rather take the helm off in battle than on this cursed vessel. There will be another Gellar breach yet, or something even worse; I guarantee you."
"You're slipping, Brother-Captain." This time Davars' voice was - agitated, even. "You're falling back into the paranoia. You said yourself that the Primarch - "
"The Phoenician will do everything in his power to prevent disaster. But there is still reason for caution, Davars; the Emperor may be a god, but he is not omnipotent."
Kaesoron waved off Davars' attempted reply and rushed down towards Opponit's studio.
The corridors flew past, the taint of the ship a tangible itch, much lighter than the one before the Gellar breach but there nevertheless. Other Captains hadn't felt it, but Kaesoron was fairly certain it was not a hallucination. It was too reminiscent for that.
He emerged in Opponit's office on time, of course; Davars had, as always, come slightly early. The remembrancer herself was already there, exhibiting a slightly raised heart rate from the stress.
"Captain Kaesoron," the remembrancer said.
"Yes?"
"Er-" Opponit looked at his helmet. Kaesoron did not respond, the seconds ticking by. At last, the remembrancer recognized his stubbornness and began the interview. "So, the campaign of Slodi's moon."
"It wasn't much of a campaign," Kaesoron noted. "But I will tell it."
To Opponit's mild nod, he responded with a tale.
The narrative wove on, purely truth - for this was not the time for poetic embellishment - but dramatic nonetheless. Opponit looked surprised and relieved at the correct moments, and expressed surprise at the presentation's objectivity and merit.
"So did you execute the prisoners in that way simply because of the orders?" Opponit asked.
"In a sense. I took the middle course because it was the only sensible one. Fulgrim is merciful, and would not want the station exterminated; but he gave his decree, and even if I disagreed with it, only a fool would disobey the Phoenician like that."
"Did you disagree with them?"
"No. Fulgrim is my Primarch." Another Captain would be growing angry by now, but Kaesoron had read enough of Ignace Karkasky to know questioning was a good thing in a war like the Crusade. Only in moderate amounts, of course, but a good thing nonetheless.
Serena Opponit's evident fright was therefore unnecessary. "Forgive me, I-"
"It doesn't matter."
Opponit nodded. "Then - would you like to listen to my work about Laeran?" Kaesoron signaled assent, and the remembrancer began.
It was a long tale, one sung more than it was spoken; a composer had certainly helped in Opponit's creation. It told of the Third Legion's devastation of the Laer and of their corruption at the verge of victory. It spoke of a Laeran ghost, rising from the abyss of history.
"Quite impressive," was all Kaesoron could say. "Who gave you the story?"
"Sergeant Votaequs of the Fourteenth Company, just after the battle. He told me to forget about it the next time we met, but by then I had begun and just couldn't stop. A lot of it is artistic interpretation, though."
"Quite impressive," Kaesoron repeated. "And there is a lot of truth in it, though perhaps too little faith. But I wouldn't sing it in public if I were you."
"It's the civil war," Opponit asked, "isn't it? The war will be waged with words as well as guns, and everyone fears betrayal. Are you sure of even your Company's loyalty, Captain? Now consider the greatness of the Phoenician, and the greatness that fear must surely take within him."
"My Company is loyal to me," Kaesoron said. "They had the poison excised as well."
"I meant loyalty to the Emperor."
Kaesoron gave a shrug, though it was invisible below the power armor, and was about to comment further when the rune for a summons lit up on his retinal display. A check gave it as Ruen's arrival, though Kaesoron had no idea how the battle could be over already.
"I must leave," he said. "Have you talked to the remembrancers who were at Laeran?"
"Yes, though many of them seem mad."
"They are the exemplar of what that temple did to us, only slightly more advanced. And half the Legion was in it. Talk to them, examine them; and remember you could have been one of them. Farewell."
Kaesoron walked out of the remembrancers' decks and headed towards the hangar, striding the distance in nigh-leaps. He was always hurrying now as, it seemed, the only member of Legion command who actually did anything.
The deck was empty as he entered, but Demeter and Daimon soon followed. Daimon was fully armed, his flail hanging from a swinging hand. Demeter exhibited anticipation, clearly intrigued by Ruen's early return.
Kaesoron needed to make some free time on his schedule; he functioned best when idle. Perhaps then he would already have an idea for the unexpected arrival.
"Why do we have to greet him anyway?" Daimon complained.
"You do not have to," Demeter said. "But I, for one, wonder how the first campaign after Fulgrim's redirection went."
"True; perhaps we'll manage to learn something. Or what not to do." Thus satisfied, Daimon stayed in the hangar, even as Ruen's gunship crawled into the hull. It rolled across the white and gold surface slowly, friction bringing it to a stop some distance ahead of Kaesoron and Demeter.
It was then that the Phoenician entered. He leapt in from above, probably having jumped off some balcony; his off-white cloak billowed behind the Primarch as he landed next to the Captains.
"Lord Primarch," Demeter said, and knelt simultaneously with Kaesoron; Daimon followed moments later.
"Rise," Fulgrim said. "Ruen!"
The Twenty-First Captain remained in his Stormbird.
"Ruen, my son, where are you?" Fulgrim asked as he walked towards the Captain's vessel.
It took about twenty more seconds for the door to open, allowing Ruen onto the hangar floor. The Twenty-First Captain exited in grand fashion, his battle-plate painted in black blood; he bore a skull on his head as a crown, and each of his gauntlets held a moving human arm. They squirmed and spewed lightning, suggesting they had significant still-functioning mechanical components.
"My lord," Ruen said, kneeling.
"Welcome back," the Phoenician commented with a smile.
Demeter walked towards the Primarch, almost grinning. From the back, Kaesoron saw clearly the tattoos the Second Captain had arranged on the back of his scalp; they were many, an intricate design of ancient runes.
"What happened?" Kaesoron asked. "Why are you early, Ruen?"
"I had no need to capture the planet," the Twenty-First Captain explained. "My goal was enjoyment, and as it happened a few raids and… demonstrations… were sufficient to prove our domination. Oassar III is ours, lord father. Their senate should send you the surrender any time now."
"It already has," Fulgrim said, his angry fear at his son replaced by joy at the campaign. Then he turned to Demeter, Daimon, and Kaesoron. "This is what I was talking about in my call for pleasure and pain in battle. Pleasure to us, pain to them. An unplanned operation, one with the perfect goal of satisfaction yet victory undeniable."
Kaesoron could not imagine why the Primarch made no attempt to lessen Ruen's happiness. He could barely comprehend, too, why Demeter was now embracing Ruen, if with great uncertainty, rather than attacking him for his bloodthirsty methods. The unplanned attack (not that such a small operation required planning) had been effective, but cruel, and the First Captain doubted the planet would ever regain true loyalty to the Imperium - at most, it would fear it, but there would nevermore be love, and as soon as they did not fear immediate retribution another revolt.
It was a hollow victory, not perfect in the least.
Yet it was on the path the Primarch had set. Was he turning into what Demeter had been, to think the Legion was unerringly decaying?
Kaesoron considered the question in detail later, as he was walking to his training rooms through a hallway covered in symbols of Slaanesh. He thought best while idle, and he had cleared his schedule as planned. It had been necessary, for his sanity.
The religion was spreading through the Pride of the Emperor. And Kaesoron knew, like nothing else, that it was malevolent; if the changes wrought by the Laeran temple hadn't been proof enough, the changes to Demeter were. Thus, decay was indeed extending its grasp across the Legion.
Not for the first time, Kaesoron momentarily entertained the idea that Fulgrim was in truth part of the problem. Not for the first time, he discarded it. Kaesoron was loyal to his Primarch's vision.
Yet there was a problem, and Fulgrim wasn't sharing his solution. Kaesoron's thoughts once more took a heretical turn, considering the possibility that Fulgrim could be killed. He had heard rumors of Vulkan's death, after all; Primarchs were not immortal. Then the Legion - his Legion - would fall under Eidolon's command….
No. The impossible did not need to be considered. The chances that Kaesoron could survive his Primarch were insignificant. Perhaps he was simply upset that no one was reading his poetry? Considering such options, the First Captain picked up a chain-axe and hefted it, tracing the individual lines until he considered his humours balanced enough to begin practice.
In the training room, Julius Kaesoron, Captain of the Lions of Chemos, sang as he worked.
And though he tried hard to deny it, he sang a lament.
