Rot

He had lived in the shadow of his father until now. Even after he had escaped, his existence had been defined by the Warlord. He struggled, he defied, but in the end it brought him only pain. He had nearly died in an act of defiance—against his adoptive father and the golden stranger.

He failed. It was a bitter pill to swallow, to know that even he could succumb to weakness. He was not invincible for all his power, his resistance and strength. In the end, he had needed someone stronger. In the end, he could not win on his own. He would have to live on, knowing that he had never come close to truly threatening the Warlord.

Slowly, he exhaled, feeling a burning in his throat and lungs. Even he could breathe too much poison it seemed. Painfully, he swallowed. Even those small actions, meant to chase the dark thoughts away only reinforced his failure. He would not escape it, would he?

"Mortarion?" a mellifluous voice rang behind him. The golden stranger, his true father, was back, it seemed. He didn't turn to face him.

"You have my service," he rasped, noting wearily that he sounded alien to himself. "As I had promised."

"Would you like to talk, my son?" the golden stranger asked.

"No," Mortarion replied. "All has been said."

Horus' words did not surprise him. Power corrupts. He had seen the end effect, on its throne high in the poisonous mists. His father, the Emperor, turned out to be no different after all. He would cast them away, once he had ascended. It was odd that a being of such intellect would not realize they would notice.

There was only one thing they could do. The cancer that was spreading through the newly born Imperium needed to be burnt out. They would replace the corrupt tyrant at the top. They would save their work. They would cast away the weak that were polluting the Imperium's highest echelons and replace them. The strong should lead the weak—not the other way around.

He did not need to place himself at the throne. It would be enough that Horus would take it. Horus, the brightest star—who was better to take the place of their fallen father? With him, they would not fail. They would not be stopped, powerless to face the tyrant. His past would not repeat itself.

Pain. Many of the warriors had thought they knew what the word meant. Now they could truly appreciate how wrong they have been. Rotting bodies littered the halls of Endurance and swarms of fat oily flies buzzed everywhere. They crawled over the dead and the still living alike, just like the maggots that bored into infected flesh.

Those that could still resist their agony saw the ghostly skeletal revenant their Primarch had become painfully drag himself through the halls. He leant heavily on his Manreaper for support, as much a shadow of his former self as they had become.

He had lived in shadows of his fathers. Against two, he had rebelled. Each time, he had thought that he had left the tyrant behind, that he had opened a new chapter of his life and each time, he had found himself following another. The first time, he had been conceited enough to believe he could sever the hydra's head—but then what did he know of that beast back than? He had not met it yet.

The second time, he had merely followed the one who could deliver the final blow. He had believed that his past would not be repeated, but it turned out that belief was not enough. The final blow fell, but the tyrant's legacy refused to die. His father took the brightest star with him and he was left with only the embrace of Nurgle.

One tyrant for another. Was there a point in fighting fate? There was no point in rebelling again. It was easier to just submit. What was there for him to fight for left? Barbarus was ash. Humanity had embraced their tyrant like blind sheep. He would not rebel again—experience taught him it was a doomed effort. Instead, he would follow the tyrant.

He had built a haven for himself: a Barbarus as it had been, with poisonous mists and valleys that could barely support life. Miserable diseased wretches came to try and eke out an existence below his fortress. They offended him. Their weakness, their petty little desire for acceptance galled him to the very core. They still clung to the illusion that they found a loving father in Nurgle, that they had escaped tyranny.

Others could claim to spread the joy and love of finally belonging. Not him. He was not going to be blinded—he was going to give despair and hate. It was all he had left to share. Why should he suffer alone? Why not spread it? Let others feel constant pain, let others curse their fate, powerless to resist it. Let them see that they traded one tyrant for another.

They never came to learn this lesson on their own. He had to send raids to the valleys to drag them to his fortress. In the end, they all found out that there was no escape. A son of tyrants would become a tyrant, and the servants of a monster would seek out another even as they tried to escape.

AN:

A story written for the Read in a Rush competition. The prompt was Anathema's song Judgement.