Chapter I.
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781.M31, Phalanx.
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The forsaken depths of the Phalanx were vast. Dripping water made for an echoing backdrop against towering, ancient steely corridors, populated scarcely by blind servitors and the occasional sewer rat. Damp, foreboding, and reeking of cordite and burnt ozone from prior battles. Dried blood spattered the floor grating like an awful wine-coloured camouflage, and the occasional bolt shell rolled across the grates as a pair of rats fought near the spent casings, all surrounding a single, odd device in a small crossroads between the maintenance shafts, brimming with pipes and bearing the visage of copper and iron plating, foregoing the gold-plated splendor and odor of burning incense for plain-coated, ugly pragmatism and steel.
The silence, beyond that infernal drip… drip… drip was interrupted abruptly as the air became cold. The two rats fighting over a rotting finger that had been pried from a corpse quickly made their escape as hoarfrost gathered along the pipes and bolts of orange electricity began snaking through the air, slowly coalescing around the teleport homer in the center of the crosswalk, spinning around in jagged, distinctly edged shapes as the device spooled itself up. A single, hushed whisper of some unholy Warp beast breathed through realspace before the air sucked into the space around the device, and prompty exploded outward with a burst of orange electricity, coursing across the metallic pipes and along the two figures hanging onto one another. The smaller figure took point, bearing a seagreen-blue coloured suit of artificer armour, the light refracting off the scaled surfaces that made up each plate of armour, their red helmet lenses flickering as they departed from their Warp transit, a glint shining across the finned serpents flanking their helmet and the hydra that arched up like a golden mohawk. A long, crackling spear was clutched near the head in one hand, shaft resting along the length of his arm, whilst a hulking, golden chainsword was held by the blunted length toward the grip.
The larger, imposing figure bled heavily as he fell to a knee, coughing and snarling. His pocked armour was resplendent, an auric beauty that practically glowed against the dim light of the maintenance chamber. His white hair was unkempt, his face a myriad of scars and weeping wounds that rapidly clotted as he slowly stood to his impressive height. The Imperial Aquila was broadly displayed at his back, and each shoulder held the head of an eagle. The smaller one spoke in a measured, straight tone as he surveyed the corridors.
"We have successfully boarded. We were not seen, nor heard, thank the stars. There is a resting point ahead, brother. Come." He marched forward, slowing as his head turned to find his large companion standing stock, the large brute's face enveloped by rage as he wiped the blood from his features.
"You speak as if you know this vessel better than me, traitor. I built half this vessel, and the other half I've explored so thoroughly I know it like my own hand," the gravelly, bellicose-toned voice of the giant rang out heavily in the seemingly endless expanse of corridors and catwalks in every direction. The smaller figure only stared for a moment.
"Is now truly the time for semantics, dear brother? You're without an arm and I hold your only weapon. Even a traitor as I am, I saved your life. Surely, you must have enough honour and intelligence to not think me so foolish as to save you from one death, only to lead you to another?" He cocked his head, as if curious, an invisible smile bleeding through his helmet. The giant could feel the smug arrogance radiating off the smaller, hydra-emblazoned figure. He only growled.
"I killed my brother, over Pluto, seven hundred years ago. You are just another one of his pawns, one of his wretched pawns wearing his face. Perhaps you want vengeance, or to weave me into some elaborate, debased plot to turn me against Father," the giant suggested with a snarl, yet limping forward despite his arguments. He knew where they were—it had barely taken a second for him to recognize the corridor, the crosswalk and the intricate carvings faintly made into the pipework. They were deep into the bloody star-fortress, in the vestigial sections that had made the groundwork for the gorgeous thing he had constructed from the hulk's hideous silhouette. As far as he knew, there may still have been scavengers and backwards tribes living off the fungus and mold deeper down. It was vast even before he had laid his Phalanx atop it.
"We can argue my loyalties another time, brother. I'd have not been there on that debased vessel to drag you off, sans an arm, were it not for Father," the "little" armoured man replied, garnering only a scoff as they passed through the elaborate maze.
"Besides, I am no more a traitor to you than Octazarus was to Father, brother, you should know this." A grin widened across the obscured face of the smaller giant as his taller sibling halted in his place, face twisting with confusion and bewilderment. He planted the bladed rear of his staff into the ground and leaned on it as his brother's expression contorted with effort.
"That name. That damned name, where have I heard it before?" He allowed his weight to fall against an alcove, frowning as he stumbled after attempting to ease himself down with a limb that no longer was there, the metals creaking beneath his bulk.
"Octazarus Atredian. Our brother. You don't remember, Rogal? I'm astonished, you've always had the better memory out of the two of us," his honeyed words, bold-faced lie they may have been, had the intended effect. Rogal's face only scrunched further as he reached into his mind and found himself scratching at mental blocks not of his own design. It stoked the dying embers of rage that had been spurred by the presence of Alpharius, nine-times damned traitor that the little rat was.
"The memories are kept from me. I do not remember him. Perhaps it was meant to stay that way… and perhaps I should stay my hand from listening to your treacherous tongue," Rogal spat in return. Alpharius only laughed.
"We have far too much time to waste on silence, brother. I was always in place to avoid such awful blocks, and I can gracefully say that no psyker has ever touched my mind other than myself. No daemon, no witch, no man. Ironic, that I would be the one to abstain from the dark arts, no?" Rogal could practically smell the arrogant whelp's groxshit-eating grin, but he held his tongue, his mind churning as he fought to remember the face behind the name. Barely vague shapes and flickering, fleeting memories met his inquiry, and he snarled. Alpharius seemed to see right through it, and sighed softly.
"A lesson in history, you need, my brother. Let us start at the beginning, all those millennia ago, before we saw each other as traitor and loyalist, and when the depravities of Chaos were but a glint in Father's eye, and before you had been brought into the fold, on a world known as Phyrr…"
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772.M30.
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The dark skies flickered with long, lazy streaks of lightning outside the windows of the wood and mortar home that sat alone along the stretch of the River Sphynx, the farmstead's empty fields painted a black-brown shade of dark, wet mud as rain pounded heavily against it.
Lucretia Atredian watched out the lone window as her husband strode quietly through the field. The foolish man had a procrastinating streak something fierce—and she had nearly struck him across the ear when she had seen that devious, guilty look in his eyes and the veritable giant of a man shrugged on his hand-stitched raincoat and stomped outside in his boots to clear the fields before the rain had drowned everything. Didn't he know better than to make his poor, pregnant wife so anxious? She let a small sigh escape her lips as she leaned on the windowsill, watching her dear husband toil away at the field, making sure all the little gizmos and inexplicable farming aids he had built over the past few years were unrooted and stowed in the shed. Lucretia giggled as she watched her husband slip in the mud and land on his rear, muddying his clothes. She could practically hear the swear from all the way up on the hill as he realized he'd be the one doing his wash this week. Soft footsteps drew the woman's eyes from the oaf that had put that bloody little ruby-capped silver ring on her finger almost two decades ago, and her eyes flicked back to the slow approaching form of her daughter.
Little Vinicia, with her gingery hair that she'd adopted from her mother, her bright, vibrant green eyes and her father's darker, bronze complexion, came shuffling up next to her mother, rubbing her eyes as she came to lean against her hip.
"What are you doing out of bed, Vinicia? It's late," her mother quietly asked, stroking the top of the littlest Atredian's head softly. She only whimpered softly and rubbed her eyes as her mother comforted her, leaning against her and finding calm in her presence.
"The storm woke me up," the little girl murmured into her mother's leg, prompting a titter from the woman as she scooped up her daughter onto her knee.
"Aww, is the little warrior princess scared of the lightning?" Her mother's teasing prompted the child to become indignant, puffing her cheeks out in an adorable little look of anger. Lucretia fought her urge to laugh at her daughter's expression.
"Nuh-uh! It just woke me up. It's louder than daddy when he sneezes," the little Vinicia replied, prompting a heartful laugh from her mother, hugging the child close to her. She was a feisty little one, always tagging along with her older brother when their father went to the city to meet with the Metallurgist, Varnava Holzer, or to speak with the Tyrant over whatever war the bastard ruler was waging these days and what her husband thought of his strategems. A coward relying on good men to win his battles, Lucretia had always disdained the bastard, and always would. The woman turned her attention from icky politics to the lovely bundle of ginger curls and curiosity that sat upon her knee, smiling as her daughter stared in awe at the crackling bolts of bright lightning that streaked across the dark clouds. Her eyes were full of that child-like innocence and curiosity that her age granted.
"Most children your age are afraid of the thunder, Vinicia. You definitely have your daddy's bravery…" and hopefully not his bullheadedness too. Her smile only brightened as her daughter looked back up at her with a grin, loudly proclaiming her thanks with a "Hehe! Thank you, mummy."
The two sat for a while, watching the rain and streaks of lightning dart across the sky while a dim tallow candle sat along the sill, providing warmth and light. Lucretia's eyes narrowed slightly as one of the bolts of lightning was bisected by a dark shadow, casting long in the low, blue-gray hues of the early night. The imposing shadow swept over the house and brought a startled gasp to Lucretia's mouth, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as she heard the large, oaken door beside her swing open, watching with a bated breath that only let itself out as her husband's muddied form came romping back inside. The glee on the face of little Vinicia melted the fear away from the woman's heart and she smiled softly at her husband as he stepped into the light.
Octazarus Atredian, the star-born son of Septimius Atredian, the gentle giant of Zotteschot and Hero of the Tyrant's Army, smiled back at his wife as he trod into his home, his dark bronze skin glinting with rain and sweat, curly locks of dark hair glued to the back of his simple shirt and suspenders.
"Daddy!" Little Vinicia wriggled from her mother's strong arms and right at her muddy father. Lucretia roared at her young as the little girl slammed into her father's leg, smearing mud all over her white night gown. That bloody man only laughed and scooped up his daughter, giving his wife a cheeky grin.
"How is my little angel, hmm? Scared awake by the lightning again?" He smirked as the child puffed her cheeks and pouted.
"I was not scared! It was just so loud! Besides, mummy said I have your bravery, I can't be scared. You're never scared, daddy." She buried her face into the hulking neck of her father, and the oversized giant of a man only laughed mirthfully at her antics.
"You're right, pumpkin. Come now, why don't you go put on a clean gown and go lay down? I'll tell you one of my stories," he whispered to his daughter. Her excitement was visible as she practically slipped through his arms and darted into the other room of the candlelit wooden home. Octazarus turned to his wife with a smile.
"You are something else, you know that?" She crossed her arms over her chest with a shake of her head. Her husband only grinned back at her. Even with his immense height, he didn't peer down too far at his wife. The hearty peoples of Phyrr were giants among men, and it helped the Primarch fit in amongst the populace, though his towering height was still an impressive sight to behold. His broad arms came wrapping around his wife and she swore as the mud soaked into her gown. She groaned as the white fabric was thoroughly turned a dark shade of brown.
"Yes, indeed I am. Remember, you were the one who said yes," he reminded. Lucretia gasped in mock offense, and lightly pounded on his chest jovially. He smirked down at her, and there was a brief, pleasant silence as they stood with each other, before he gently leaned down. Lucretia leaned up, and the two shared a brief kiss before the woman untangled herself from her husband's arms.
"Now we're both covered in mud, look at what you've done, you oaf," Lucretia complained with a mirthful expression. Octazarus bellowed with laughter.
"Yes, yes we are. Let's get you into something nice and clean, and I'll get a shower. I'll tell Vinicia a nice story and then you and I can have some time to ourselves," Octazarus replied. His wife nodded and her smile became slightly somber.
"I'd like that. I haven't seen much of you, what with all the trips out to the city you've taken. Ermingard misses you greatly." Octazarus nodded and his tone came to match hers.
"I know. The big lug is worried about all the disappearances. Said he's building up the navy so that he can start constructing a great fleet of vessels to scour the skies and traverse the stars to take revenge on the Long-Spiked-Ears," Octazarus explained, the irritation clear in his tone as he rolled his eyes.
"He wouldn't know the basics of shipcraft if it struck him across the face. The raiders haven't attacked this continent for at least a century, so I can only hope he's wrong, though." Lucretia could see the worry in her husband's eyes, so she shuffled up and leaned against him. He visibly relaxed and brought an arm around her, sighing. She patted his chest and gave him a miffed look, detaching herself as she sidled over to the window.
"You worry so much about the city and that damned metal man. Sometimes I wonder if you care more for them than you do for us." Lucretia held her arms against her body and Octazarus only scoffed.
"Come now, Lucretia, don't be silly. I love you so very much, and little Vinicia, and Ermingard…" he approached with unnaturally quiet steps—a mark of his presence, and an ability of his that he used to startle and spook his dear wife to no end.
"It doesn't feel like that sometimes, Octazarus! Half the times it feels as if your eyes are on the stars. You use the damned tyrant's ambition as an excuse, every bloody time, leaving us to fear for your safety!" Lucretia replied, growing heated and irate. Her husband furrowed his brow.
"His ambitions are not mine, Lucretia. Please, you must understand, everything that I do, I do so that I can ensure that you are safe. Please, let's not argue over this," Octazarus pleaded, though his wife only scoffed.
"You enjoy it. The war. The fighting. I've seen the picts. I have never seen you quite so fitting like when you have a weapon. One day, you're going to have to choose between your family, or the sword, and you're going to make the wrong choice," Lucretia snapped. She paused at her own words a moment before grumbling and storming off to their bedroom. Octazarus blinked as he stood there, and let a quiet sigh escape his lips.
It was a couch night. He was fine with that… and she had a point, much as his superhuman mind wished to argue differently. Oh well. Octazarus found a fresh set of clothes outside their bedroom door, cementing his place in the doghouse, but he didn't waste time on it. He washed himself clean of the mud and grime and got changed, then sidled off to his daughter's room.
Little Vinicia's room was a simple affair—Octazarus valued humility, and he had taught it to their children early on through spartan living. They had their luxuries, the bed was a fine piece of work, but their rooms were kept simple, and they were taught to find enjoyment and comfort in simple living. The young, six-year-old girl was sitting on her bed, clutching the stuffed ram her father had sewn her, watching the lightning out a small window parallel with her bed, tucked against the wall. She caught the sound of her father opening the door and happily spun to see him, her toothy smile bringing joy to his face as he came to sit beside her bed on the floor.
"What story are you going to tell me tonight, daddy?" Her bright green eyes, unnaturally vibrant and full of eagerness were settled firmly on her father's.
"I think I will tell you the story of the boy who was born from the stars tonight," he replied. Vinicia gasped.
"The stars can't have babies!" She decried his nonsense with her child logic, prompting a low chuckle from her father, and a large hand coming up to ruffle the little girl's hair.
"No, they cannot, sweetheart. See, the boy was born very, very far away, in a palace, but his daddy had to send him away because it wasn't safe," Octazarus began, using his hands to gesture and express, enamoring his daughter in the story.
"The boy was only a baby, so he didn't even get to meet his daddy, which made him very sad. His daddy sent him reeeaaalllly far, across the stars, until he came to a place where the trees had orange leaves and the grass was red, where he was found by a farmer. The farmer had wanted a little boy like him for a long time, so he took him in like he was his own son." Vinicia gasped.
"Daddy… is this a story about Ermin?!" Octazarus smiled and shook his head, stroking his daughter's head as he tucked her in. She was getting tired, and it was growing obvious on her droopy little face.
"No, pumpkin. This story isn't about your brother. Where was I? Ah, yes. The little boy grew up to be bigger and stronger than the farmer, and he lived very happily with his new family, but one day, the evil king came knocking on their door, demanding the farmer come fight in his army." Vinicia gasped and clutched her little ram tighter.
"The farmer was getting old, and he wouldn't be able to fight, but the boy he had taken in as his own said that he would fight in his place, and so the boy went with the evil king, and fought in his army, winning many battles for the king." Octazarus could tell his daughter was on the verge, so he began to wrap it up.
"When he came home, he met a beautiful woman, and they fell in love and had two wonderful little children. The king offered the boy a place at his side, so they could rule together, but the boy refused. He loved his little children and the beautiful woman too much to be away from them for so long. The king didn't like this, but the boy was able to get all his friends from the army and force the king to accept, and so the boy then settled down on a little farm by the great river, with his two children and his lovely wife. The end," Octazarus finished. The droopy little girl smiled.
"It wasn't about Ermin, it was about you, daddy." Vinicia yawned and let her head drift to the side. "I love you, daddy. Good night…"
"Good night, pumpkin." Octazarus Atredian kissed his daughter on the forehead and quietly exited her room, finding the couch, his carving knife, and a block of wood to spend the long night.
OoOoO
Alpharius watched as the golden-clad Rogal processed the story with a nasty frown. The smaller Primarch had done what rudimentary field medicae work he could on the stump and his more major wounds, and as far as the seagreen-blue clad warrior knew, his larger sibling would live.
"That can't be right. He was… a Primarch, wasn't he? How could he settle for something so lowly as a mortal family?" Rogal's face contorted further into confusion, with inklings of rage seeping in.
"You are asking the wrong questions, brother. Try again." Rogal thought hard on the helmeted… Primarch… and his words. The memory block was no weaker, but it had let slip details and smaller memories, things he could work with. He could remember his face and his name. A few blurry pictures… There. Something solid. A memory worth more than blurry faces and jumbled gibberish nonsense. Wait…
"Why did he never speak of them if they were so important to him?" Alpharius snapped his fingers and nodded at his brother.
"Yes, if they were so important, why did he never speak of the sires he had? The woman he had taken? Why, why, why, Rogal Dorn?" Alpharius allowed a small laugh to escape the distorted, crackling vox speaker of his helmet.
"A story as important to the man as knowing his name, Rogal. Perhaps more-so. His third child had been born a mere two weeks after that, and the skies had been splotched with unnerving, dark clouds…"
A/N:
New story, here we go. Let's see how it is received! As usual, hope y'all enjoyed, your comments and criticisms are always appreciated.
Sincerely,
Commissar W.