Death of a Shining Star, Birth of a Black Death
Arwyn Clay was a constant blur of movement, yet the emerald psychic energy crackling from his eyes was the only detail that any on either side of this madness could recognize. With every thrust and swipe of his burning force spear did he reap a toll of traitor astartes, daemons, mutants, and heretics. The IInd Primarch felt the unwelcome nostalgia of his decades long war to cleanse Arcadia of the taint of Chaos, and had to ignore the heartbreak he felt whenever he saw a marine of the XIth, XIVth, or XVIth legions twisted by the dark powers they had whored their souls to. Even after having fought and bested his now serpent-like brother Fulgrim, that twisted bastard swordsman of the IIIrd Lucius, the horrific changes imposed upon the traitors broke his heart. He hated this. He hated this war. He hated Lorgar for being swayed by the Dark Gods. He hated the Dark Gods for so easily manipulating his brothers and their genesons. He hated what his fallen brothers had become. He hated that all of this could have been prevented, if the Emperor had only listened to him, and allowed him to educate his brothers on the true dangers of the Warp. Was it arrogance to believe that he could have prevented all this sorrow by simply breaking his oath of silence and secrecy to the Emperor and Malcador? Perhaps, but no matter all the advanced genetic tailoring His father had done, Arwyn Clay was still human in nature. It was often easy for others to forget that, especially when Arwyn could use his psychic gifts to enhance his already superhuman strength and speed to even greater heights.
He leapt forward, just as a krak grenade detonated, adding the force of the shockwave to increase his momentum as he hurled himself towards a bloated marine in terminator plate in the colors of the XVIth Legion's elite. The Son of Horus was nearly the size of Alpharius, Arwyn's shortest brother, clutching a stolen and defiled one handed thunder hammer originally crafted by the Salamanders, with a storm bolter stolen from the Iron Hands in the other hand. The Son of Horus had a collection of chained skulls attached to his armor, each one defiled with markings dedicated to the Dark False Gods of the Warp, and Arwyn could hear their owners' souls howling in torment. Since the start of this war, Arwyn's sixth sense had been constantly stimulated to an almost overwhelming point for his post-human sense, and it was always worse when in the presence of the Sons of Horus. He quickly noted the gore clad World Eater howling in a charge towards him, with the speed and strength of lightning he kicked the XIIth legionary's head off. He then caught sight of a squad of five Iron Warriors trying to catch him in a pincer maneuver, and raised his arm mounted bolter, fired off five shots that each found purchase in the Iron Warriors' throats. All this he did mid leapt towards the Son of Horus, who Arwyn lanced through the chest with his spear, the momentum combined with the overwhelming weight of the IInd Primarch knocked the terminator over as the blade cut through the layered heavy armor as if it was nothing but paper. Arwyn landed atop the traitor, his boots pinned down his nephew's arms, as he pushed his spear deeper, and the Son of Horus roared in pain.
"May death be merciful to you," Arwyn spat through his helmet, "For I will not be!" He channeled psychic fire through his spear, and felt as the Son of Horus tried to writhe in agony as the flames ate his insides. He had performed this death upon many of the traitors, and none, not even the Thousands Sons, survived this immolation. This was how Arwyn excised his hatred whenever it had built too great, and every time the psychic fire finished claiming the life of a traitor Astartes, he felt relieved. His hatred became less venomous with every usage of this power, and made his sorrow less potent. In that brief moment of calm, he remembered the final psychic communion with his Father, before He, Dorn, and Sanguinius had left to confront Horus in orbit. It was the first time they had done a psychic communion since his trail after the costly victory at the end of Rangdan Xenocide, which ended with Arwyn admitting his guilt and submitting himself to the judgment of the Emperor, and sentenced to decades of penance under the direct supervision of fifty of the Legio Custodes. Yet unlike the communion after the Xenocide, where the Emperor had created the mindscape that emanated the cold disapproval befitting both a father and a warlord, this final communion resembled the old castle on Arcadia where they had negotiated.
The table reminded him of the great steel oak war table the Emperor and he had talked over, and the walls were a mismatch of near black cobblestones, with lit braziers that gave no heat haze. Arwyn was out of his power armor, back in his comfortable druidic garb of cloth and furs, while the Emperor stood tall wearing a gold silk robe that flattered his massive size. It took Arwen a moment to realize his Father had forced him into this place, and that they could talk for hours in here while mere heartbeats passed in the world of flesh. The Primarch gave the Emperor a defiant glare, which his Father either ignored or gave it no mind.
"You are angry," It was not a question the Emperor uttered but an observation, "Angry at me." Arwyn nodded, knowing that any deception would be pointless and was too tired from the months of fighting to even make the effort.
"And you know why." He answered simply, not bothering to hide the frustration in his voice.
"I do not wish to argue or debate, my son." The Emperor said softly, and Arwyn could sense pained emotional anguish in His soul. That caught the Primarch off guard. Normally his Father's soul was too vague to read even on his most benevolent days, but this time there were no wards, no walls to block his intentions from cursory senses. Arwyn knew his Father well enough to know that this was no accident, and from the emotions he could feel, it was no calculated manipulation. His Father was being vulnerable, for the first time in all the centuries they had come to know each other, and it made Arwyn's blood go cold.
"I wanted to thank you, son," the Emperor said gently, "I asked so much of you, perhaps…even too much of you, and despite our differences you did them. You had more reason than any to turn your back on the Imperium, to me, yet you didn't." To say that some part of Arwyn had wished that either his Father or the Sigillite would utter thanks for his loyalty would be an understatement, but it felt uncomfortable to hear the Emperor speak in such a somber manner. It reminded Arwyn too much of his foster parents' final words to him before they had died, words riddled by finality and affection. It unnerved him to hear the Emperor sound so…so human.
"It's like I told you when we first met," Arwyn said, failing to hide his discomfort, "I fight for humanity and stand against those foul cancers in the Warp that call themselves Gods. They're nothing more than parasites desperately suckling at the myriad emotions and sensations of life, unwilling to let the material universe evolve beyond being anything more than fuel for their existence!" The Emperor smiled, a genuine smile that belonged to a father proudly looking upon his son, and Arwyn could not help but think it looked so unusual on His face.
"Of all the twenty you were the most surprising," He said fondly, "So similar yet different from myself and the others, but always staying true to yourself." Arwyn tried to look away, not wanting to show the Emperor the doubt that he knew was written in his eyes. His legion had been thrown the furthest from Istvaan system when Horus had enacted his declaration of open rebellion, before that Horus had not given him any new orders in years, all attempts of communication had been denied, and so he sent Tiberius with both the 1st and 2nd War Hosts to Terra. When word of the treachery at Istvaan reached him, his fleet made full burn to the system, yet the Warp's tide had nearly swallowed his fleet whole. He had learned it was a powerful daemon that orchestrated the turbulent tides, and banishing that beast required him to break the Edicts of Nikaea in secret, away from the eyes of his sons and human crew. When in the Istvaan system, his fleet coordinated with a fleet of the Raven Guard, after rescuing Corvus Corax and the remains of the now Shattered Legions, Arwyn had killed every last traitor Astartes left on the world. He overturned his legion's compliance to the Edicts of Nikea, but only after finding evidence of the Ruinous Powers. He split his forces again, sending three Hosts under the command of Selwyn to raise the defenses of Arcadia and the nine neighboring worlds, and lessened his fire power. He had been delayed in his quest to find and kill the traitors of Istvaan by the XIth Legion's fleet. Anytime Arwyn came closer to finding his bastard brother Lorgar, a Greater Daemon was summoned, he faced and bested them all, and regardless of the injuries he suffered, always pushing his fleet forward.
He had fought and killed men he had come to respect, some that he had even considered true nephews, but he cut them down regardless. They had made their choice, they had chosen to damn the human species to the powers festering in the Warp, that have ended the Eldar's reign of the galaxy, and condemned a myriad of worlds to their influence. He had been fighting those powers since his youth, and he had done what was considered the impossible, he removed their foul presence from blessed Arcadia completely. When the Emperor found him, he had sworn an oath to keep the truth of the Warp hidden from all including his own brothers, and to carry out his war against them hidden from all observers. It was the only compromise he had ever made, and Arwyn had always felt it had been a mistake, but he had been promised that Arcadia would progress at its own pace. Was it worth lying to his brothers to keep the world that raised him, that he had sacrificed so much to liberate from Chaos, be relatively unchanged by Imperial industries? On good days he had no good answer to that question, on his bad days, Arwyn cursed himself for condemning his brothers in his selfishness.
"If you hadn't punished the Word Bearers," Arwyn admitted suddenly, "I would've turned on you." The Emperor raised a brow in surprise, but did not say anything.
"I didn't kill entire populations of religious fanatics," the Primarch continued, "Just to watch a new religion raised in your fecking name." The Emperor chuckled.
"Yet you didn't strike down Nathaniel Garro," the Emperor pointed out, "Why?" Arwyn frowned, still finding the memory of the Terran XIVth legionary he had respected deeply having taken up the torch of religious devotion of his Father incredibly bitter. It had been difficult to accept, and he had contemplated executing Garro more than once.
"He still fights ultimately for mankind," Arwyn reluctantly admitted, "Nor was he attempting to convert others to his beliefs as the Word Bearers had…even then I admit I found myself irritated by his devotion, but I still trust him as a warrior if nothing else."
"You still do not see me as a God?" The Emperor smiled softly, and Arwyn felt his skin crawl.
"If I ever thought you were," Arwyn grunted, "I would have tried to kill you. You are the apex of humanity's potential and greatest psychic power of our species. These things are explainable through scientific reason, and common sense. To be a God, you need to loom over others more than physically, and your arrogance is that of a man with conviction not of a cruel God."
"Arrogance?"
"I've never been one to mince words with you, Father," Arwyn admitted, "Or did you forget how your entourage gasped when I first called your obsession with gold stupid?" The Emperor chuckled, actually chuckled, in amusement.
"I had nearly forgotten that day," He said, "Those socialites looked like they were going to piss themselves in fear." Arwyn had always longed for conversations like these with the Emperor, even if he never gave voice to that desire, and yet it was the somber tone in His voice that poisoned the moment for the Primarch.
"I feel your disquiet, Arwyn," He gently added after a pause, "I wish I had words to ease it, but…we both know I am hardly the ideal parent."
"You're going to try and "save" him," Arwyn stated coldly, "Aren't you?" The Emperor's silence was all the confirmation the IInd Primarch needed, and it made him chuckle sadly.
"Like I said the arrogance of a man," he paused and his next words were spoken in the soft pleading tone befitting a child, "We have lost so much already, don't add to that mountain needlessly Father."
Despite his reputation as the most sentimental of his brothers, Arwyn had not wished his Father luck, and many mistook this for confidence that the Emperor would have no need of it. In truth, he was just not ready to say goodbye to his Father, nor Dorn or Sangiunius. Now here he stood, sweat pouring into his body glove, surrounded by hundreds of his treacherous nephews, their bodies broken and bleeding into the Imperial Palace. His spear burned with psychic fire, his bolters had run out of ammo an hour ago, and he knew the fighting was not done yet. Even without his tactical vision, or his sixth sense, he would have still heard the thrumming of approaching power armor. His own power pack was starting to occasionally rattle, a result of all the damage his armor had sustained today. There was hardly any surface of his viridian breastplate that was not marked by battle damage, except for depiction of a noble stag wrought in cobalt adamantium; it had been the symbol he chose to wear since arriving on sacred Terra. By some miracle it was always the one part of his breastplate untouched by war, this had the unintended consequence of becoming a symbol of hope amongst the Imperial Army, and he had even caught a few of the Blackshields making crude renditions of it for their own armor.
Under different circumstances, Arwyn would have felt honored, but this war had done little but darken his mind these last few months. He barely cared what other soldiers and warriors found inspiration from so long as they fought hard until their last breath. He once thought he understood war, having fought countless enemies for nearly two centuries in the Great Crusade across the stars, but Horus' rebellion gave him a greater perspective. Now at last he finally had an idea of what those civilizations who stood against the might of the Legio Astartes felt when standing against ceramite clad warriors with bolt weapons. Truly, the Emperor had forever altered the course of mankind's capacity for warfare with the creation of the Legio Astartes, the gathering of Titan legions, and now Horus' rebellion has added the corruption of Chaos to the war to claim the stars. Some part of him was both horrified and grateful for the immense physical capabilities the Astartes and their Primarch had been engineered to perform, for while that was the cause of this level of destruction it was also the reason why it had yet to reach the worst it could achieve. The only way to stop a legion of space marines without astronomical losses was with another legion of space marines, and the same was true when it came to Primarchs.
Arwyn raised his head, and saw an approaching horde of Angron's Eaters of Worlds, felt the unnatural rage of the pain engines in their skulls combined with the volatile boons of the Blood God. He felt the prickling influence of that foul cancer, wanting him to explode his gene nephews' skulls, something that he could easily do, all it would take is the most minor adjustment of his psychic focus, and the energy would detonate the pain engines. He resisted. Like he always did. Mentally reciting the song of the Cold Calm, lessening the power the intrusive desire had, and allowing Arwyn to think with a clear head. He charged forward, the emerald psychic fire wreathing his spear's blade condensed itself, glowing brighter and hotter. As he cut, stabbed, and pummeled the murderous XIIth legionnaires, he killed them without spilling a drop of their blood. A few managed to score hits that did more than just chew at his ceramite armor, one had actually landed a blow that ate an inch into the inside of his elbow, and forced him to use his force spear one handed for exactly thirty nine seconds while his advanced gene tailored physiology repaired the damage. In the end it took him three minutes to kill the fifty World Eaters, and while he was never a man who prioritized excessive artistry in combat, fighting the horde of World Eaters felt as though he had to abandon all the training he had and just lash out to survive. He hated fighting the bastards. What little humanity or rationality they possessed always fell to raving blood lust in the heat of battle, and made them easy to face when they stood alone, but annoying when they attacked in disjointed unity.
"Aaaaaaagh!" Arwyn suddenly yelled in pain as he dropped his spear, and felt psychic energy stabbing into the bones of his wrists, his ribs, knees and ankles. Sorcery! Potent sorcery for it to affect him this greatly. The pain dulled his connection to his gifts, but found the source of his suffering with his sight. Some ways away, clad in scarlet armor with bronzed iconography he once felt nothing but fondness for, was a member of the Thousand Sons, but not just any of his nephews, Thotek H'Kett. Once a sworn oath brother to Paragon of the 3rd War Host of the Bale Hounds, Selwyn Issacs, and Arwyn's own godson. Thotek had been one of the rare psychic brothers of the XVth legion who studied the ways of an apothecary, and shortly after the Edicts of Nikaea Arwyn had taken the legionary under his wing to expand his knowledge on medicine and transhuman anatomy. He had almost considered the Thousand Son one of his own, now they stood on opposite sides of this war, and worst of all, Thotek grasped the pole of company standard which bore a crucified Bale Hound. They had stripped him of his warplate, allowing Arwyn to easily recognize his gene-son, Percivel Covlin, Captain of 3rd Company, and one of the rare surviving original Terran born legionnaires. Percivel was alive but had been impaled by crude rusted bronze spikes in every spot Arwyn felt the intense psychic pain in his own body, the spikes crackled with psychic energy causing the Captain to writhe in pain.
"Y-you tra-traitor!" Arwyn growled through clenched teeth, he wanted to say more but the pain stole the insults his mind roared at the Thousand Son.
"There was a time that bothered me, Lord Clay," Thotek said, though his helmet stole any emotion, "But I am well past that point, and I have my orders. Nothing quite has an effect on post-humans like blood magic. It took days to find Percivel, and the death of five squads to capture him alive in one piece. He tried to arrest both his hearts when he learned what I intended, but…you had taught me the proper mixtures to prevent such things." Percivel was howling in pain that his Primarch struggled to not mirror, and the apologies he wanted to voice died in his throat. There was a sudden shift in Thotek's mood, his dispassion fell away and something somber gripped him tightly.
"I am sorry, I wish things were different." The sorcerer approached slowly, unsheathed a ritual knife and Arwyn could see from the slight hitch in the traitor's stride that he believed his foul words. That angered the Primarch more than seeing one of his sons as a catalyst for a sorcerous ritual. How dare this traitor commit such atrocities upon the one legion that had always accepted the XVth, his legion, and then have the gall to apologize as though he had no choice in the matter. Thotek used his psychic gift to remove Arwyn's helmet, finally exposing the Primarch's handsome face now twisted into a snarl of pain.
"Al-Always…GAH-a-a choice!" Arwyn spat through his gritted teeth, as he felt the psychic energy of Thotek's spell lift him off the ground and force his body to mirror the pose Percivel was pinned in. He tried to resist, but the traitor was right, rituals fueled by such darkness were indeed powerful, and Arwyn had been fighting for so long that he was barely at half strength now. He cursed Thotek for his treacherous cunning, but still attempted to muster the strength to-
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Arwyn suddenly screamed as a massive wave of psychic anguish descended upon the battlefield, the traitor seemed to stagger, but Arwyn did not notice. He was consumed by the anguish, recognizing the psychic signature with heartbreaking clarity. Sanguinius. Memories that did not belong to the IInd Primarch flooded his mind. Fighting through the corridors of the Vengeful Spirit. Ripping apart Sons of Horus with his golden armor clad hands. Outmaneuvering foul daemons with flaps of his mighty wings. Finding Horus, Horus the Arch Traitor, Horus the Fallen Brother, Horus the most loved of them all. Pleads for the others' surrender uttered by them both, all the while anger boiled screaming behind his vision. Then the fighting, the clash of sword against maul, parrying the talons, the trading of wounds, the sickening pain as one of his wings was nearly snapped off, and then the cold hollow trickle of life leaving his body. Arwyn felt it all as if he was his Sanguinius.
"HOOOOOORUUUUUUUUS!" Arwyn screamed at a volume that should never be reached by a human or an Astartes, and it was accented by something that could only be described as primordial. Somehow Arwyn's feet returned to the ground, and he charged towards Thotek, all the while the psychic sorcery continued. Thotek could hardly believe what he was seeing. This spell had been tailored to deliver such pain to a target of the catalyst's bloodline, that even one of the newly twisted Death Guard would be brought to his knees howling in pain. It had previously worked well to stop Lord Clay, yet the Primarch was moving now in spite of the spell still being active, and the look in the IInd's eyes. Thotek had once seen the Primarch Angron before his mutation into a God's chosen avatar, seen the glints of savagery in the XIIth eyes when the Butcher's Nails took hold, but right now the expression Arwyn Clay, said to have been the most emotionally balanced of his nineteen brothers, put Angron's previous savagery to shame. There was not even a speck of the sagely man Thotek knew the IInd Primarch was, instead there was only pure hatred, blood lust and it felt as though a creature born of mindless righteous wrath stole Arwyn's skin.
"I'll kil-" Thotek's threat died as Arwyn's armored fist caved in the sorcerer's faceplate, the Primarch had crossed the distance between them faster than the traitor had ever seen the lord of the Bale Hounds move before, and it was only thanks to an instinctive bolster of biomancy that the sorcerer kept his head attached. The traitor lost his grip on the crucified IInd legionary, nearly thrown off his feet, but Arwyn dug his armored fingers into the black carapace with a single thrust, keeping the traitor on his feet. Arwyn clawed and gripped something inside Thotek's abdomen, then with an animal's snarl pulled it free, blood rushed from the wound, and the sorcerer's mind was consumed by pain. Arwyn punched him again, using the hand covered in gore, and whatever organ was in his grip exploded as the blow connected to the sorcerer's helmet. This time the blow shattered Thotek's helmet, scattering the fragments as the organ burst apart in Arwyn's grasp, and the sorcerer could not help but wonder why he was not dead yet. Unconsciousness finally took the sorcerer when felt something digging into his neck and touching into his proginoid gland, and then oblivion greeted him.
"Arny." That one voice washed away the overwhelming rage that had drowned out Arwyn's mind, and slowly he became aware of himself again. The voice reminded him of his three beloved brides, but they were long since dead. He looked around, gathering his senses one by one. He was standing, he smelled the nose wrinkling stench of Astartes blood mixed with ruptured organs, and saw both of his arms were completely coated in blood. Around him was not only Thotek's sundered corpse, but the mangled bodies of those from the Alpha Legion, Iron Warriors, World Eaters, Sons of Horus, and Word Bearers. His tongue stung with the wet dripping taste of copper, his lips and chin felt slick. He looked around, and found he did not recognize which part of the palace he was in. He was alone. Alone and surrounded by the dead. The dead. No. He remembered it now. He remembered the visions that had overwhelmed him.
"Sanguinius…my brother," Arwyn Clay wept, "No…you were the be-…you should've been able to defy fate…" He still felt the bite of confusion, the disorientation of not knowing how long he had lost control, but he knew one thing above all else. If he, the only loyal Primarch with psychic abilities, had been that impacted and lost from the psychic shockwave of Sanguinius' death, then the Blood Angels were suffering an even worse fate. Arwyn felt overwhelming guilt suddenly grip him. He had been the one who taught Sanguinius how to thread small threads of his soul into each member of his legion, to help them resist the pull of the Red Thirst, and to do this the Bale Hounds' Primarch had thread a small strand of his soul into his angelic brother, who had done the same to Arwyn. This had resulted in Arwyn's psychic connection to Sanguinius but it was far less intimate than that between the Blood Angels and their father. He could only guess what horrible affliction now befell the sons of the Emperor's Great Angel, and Arwyn felt responsible for his gene-nephews. He looked up and saw a set of statues, depicting the Emperor, Horus, and Sanguinius, Horus's head had been smashed long ago, and the siege had damaged the other statues, but enough of Sanguinius's face remained. Arwyn stared into artistic rendition of his strongest brother, his tears continued to flow, even as he spat the blood and meat from his mouth, he wept for Sanguinius.
"Brother…"