The next time he awakens, he recognizes no one, and he knows with a sense keener than sight that everyone he ever knew is gone.
Russ, Jaghati, Rogal, Corvus, Vulkan, Lion, Ferrus, Sanguinius. His loyal brothers; all killed or missing. All presumed dead.
The Traitors, Angron, Logar, Fulgrim, Kurze, Alpharius Omegon, Mortarian, Magnus, and Horus. Also his brothers, also dead or else twisted into inhuman horrors such that it would be better if they had died.
His lord and sire, The Emperor of Mankind, trapped on his Golden Throne, sustained in perpetual agony by the souls of thousands of sacrificed innocents.
His sons, Caspean, Gage, Theil, Dolor, Auguston, and all the countless others who marched to their deaths at his command.
His people, lost in a hundred wars across the stars, dead on Monarchia, on Calth, on Arrigataon, during the Shadow Crusade, and the Iron Cage, on Thessala, and a thousand other worlds.
His mother, Tarasha Euten, lost to time and her own mortality.
He is all that's left. An unquiet vestige of a great and terrible past lingering long after his time, little better than a bloody corpse.
There is nothing for him here. Nothing tying him to the fortress save his duty to his sons and to his people. A duty that he is incapable of carrying out from the inside of his stasis chamber.
His bouts of consciousness become erratic. Without an anchor in the living world, his wakings come in fits, and starts. Short bursts of awareness, immediately swallowed up by the crushing expanse of darkness, or hours of silent watching with no relief in sight. Time is passing between awakenings; he knows this but he has no way of measuring how much save by watching, and even that is unreliable.
He opens his eyes to a young warrior, blinks, and that same man stands before him a sergeant or a captain, sometimes a chapter master. Sometimes there is no one he recognizes. They live out their lives in service to the Imperium, they fight for his honor and in his father's name, and he must be content to watch. A silent presence at the edges of their lives. Time passes for them, but he remains unchanging. They grow old, he does not. He almost hates them for it.
At first, he tries to learn their names and stories, but there are so many, and eventually, he loses track. Enhanced memory or not, his sons blur together in a haze of faces and voices that he cannot hope to differentiate.
It's too much and he retreats behind his mental barricades, walling himself off from his sons and the inevitable heartache. They will be dead the next time he wakes, why should he remember them? They are strangers in familiar armor, nothing more. He can't acknowledge them, not if he means to stay sane.
He is supposed to lead them, to protect and rule them. He was created to be a light in the darkness, a beacon of hope, the Avenging Son; who would help restore humanity to the Glory of the Dark Age. He was meant to be an example to mankind. Yet here he sits, throat ripped open, blood drenching the ruin of his breastplate, and the poison from Fulgrim's blade burning under his skin.
It occurs to him that it would be better if the darkness would take him permanently, to cut him off from reality completely. Punish him for his failures, let him die.
Theoretical: The people of the Imperium believe his brothers were unstoppable, heroes and saviors in equal measure. His people remember the proud leaders who led humanity at their height. They believe the lie that nothing can stand against a true Prince of the Imperium.
His survival threatens that belief, proving that Primarch can fail. His broken body shatters the facade of inhuman strength, the legend of his brothers' prowess. For if a true son of the Emperor of Mankind can fall against the forces that beset the Imperium, what chance does the common man have?
Better he had died as a martyr, than live, trapped as he is with no chance of healing. His sons shouldn't have to see their father frozen in agony, with his last breath still escaping his lungs. His people shouldn't know that their Lord failed in his duty to protect them from the ravages of the Dark Gods. The Imperium should remember his brother as heroes to aspire to, not as the broken men they were. They must believe that their heroes are just that, heroes.
Practical: He shouldn't be on display for all to see. His failures shouldn't be allowed to crush his peoples' ideals.
His sons should have let him die. Why didn't they let him die? Why won't they let him die?
"Please let me die."
...
...
Theoretical: They hold out hope.
He isn't sure where the idea comes from, but he clings to it like a drowning man.
The men in his halls, the marines who claim his lineage and wear his heraldry. The sons he has never met. The strangers with his blood in their veins. The men he overlooks as he stares out with unseeing eyes over the halls that were once his home.
They hold on to the hope that he lost so long ago.
It may be that he will never be healed, it is likely even. It is the cold reality that he will stay trapped in the stasis field, frozen in time until the power conduits that feed the Chamber are damaged enough to allow the field to collapse. Then he will die, choking on his own blood as Fulgrim's poison does its deadly work.
But it doesn't matter.
His sons believe he will live. They whole-heartedly believe that someday Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, Lord of Ultramar, and Prince of the Imperium will be healed of his wounds, rise from his tomb and once again lead them into glory. All they have to do is keep fighting, to keep holding the line until he does.
It is that thought that sparks something in him. His sons are counting on the fact that he will one day return. His is a driving force to their aims. He is the reason they struggle as hard as they do, the reason they fight. As long as he lives they have a touchstone from which they can orient themselves. He has a responsibility to them and to the people they protect. They haven't abandoned their duty, so how dare he?
Practical: Only in Death does Duty End.
He isn't dead, therefore his duty hasn't ended. What more reason does he need to keep holding on?
No one notices the change, although many hold the Primarch's stasis chamber in a bit more than awed reverence. They all know he'll wake up. Every soul in the Fortress of Hera knows it's only a matter of time, and so the rumors persist and the traditions are upheld.
"The Primarch chooses the heroes of the Chapter, honors those destined for some great glory, for his eyes see far and his judgment is divine. We must be ready."
Author's Note:
First off, Huge Thanks to everyone who's commented/given kudos. You're all amazing.
Second off,
GuysLord: The Age of Apostasy is coming up soon and Guilliman isn't going to be happy.
Toraach: I've got plans for everyone's favorite Eldar that I think you'll like.
Malgrath: Having so few rules and guidelines is both releasing and terrifying, on one hand, I can write more or less what I want, one the other, I have no idea what to write,
Third off, Please try to keep in mind that I'm still very much a novice when it comes to writing, so any constructive criticism/critique is welcome (and let's be honest, desperately needed). Please don't be shy. I need all the help I can get!
Last but certainly not least, a massive thanks to my wonderful beta Spooky-Cadet!