...the ancient blade carves through ceramite and flesh with unnatural ease. Dark flames wreath the length of corrupted Cthonian steel as the Black Legionnaire buries the tainted weapon deep in the chest of his wounded foe. The Lamenter cannot cry out, only choke on his lifeblood as it pours from his mouth. The Traitor Marines holding him immobile laugh like fiends. The Legionnaire twists the sword and slices downwards, opening up the Astartes from chest to groin. Disemboweled, they let him fall, watching as he writhes in a pool of his own gore, taunting him, mocking him, daring him to stand and fight...
...Temendar opens his eyes in the quiet solitude of his meditation cell to discover his hands are trembling. He blinks, and realizes his cheeks are wet. The Codicier has witnessed countless variations of his own death over the years, yet this vision is far too vivid – far too detailed and explicit – for him to dismiss as merely another half-glimpse into the realm of infinite futures and untold possibilities. He stands, his armor-joints purring smoothly, and exits his cell, leaning on his force-staff.
The Dawn Reaper is three hours into its night-cycle, the strike-cruiser's warp-drives thrumming vigorously as she plies the tides of the immaterium, making good speed with the rest of the fleet towards the Segmentum Obscurus. The few mortal personnel Temendar encounters step swiftly from his path, each man and woman averting their eyes out of instinct; although he is known to them, their innate fear of the psyker will always take precedence over their devotion to the Chapter. Temendar speaks to no-one as he makes his way to the training decks, his hearts heavy with sorrow and foreboding.
He finds his brother, Talendar, alone in a vacant sparring hall, its lumens dimmed low, preparing himself for the conflict ahead. Stripped to the waist, the Lamenter moves with all the fluid, lethal grace of a hunting felid as he engages three combat-servitors with his deactivated power-sword. Temendar watches his twin in silence, admiring the other warrior's flawless blade-work; Talendar's aura is burning brightly with the purity of purpose, untroubled by visions or premonitions of the horrors to come. Temendar closes his eyes against the pain seething within his soul. He has no right to do this. Not all destinies are written in stone...
...the tainted blade carving through ceramite and flesh...Horus' bastard sons laughing at his pain and humiliation...
"Temendar?"
The Codicier struggles to free his thoughts from the clinging residue of the vision. The combat-servitors stand still and slack-limbed, their blades pointed downwards, their programmed aggression aborted by a single command. Talendar strides towards him, his kind hazel eyes filled with concern. This is not the first time Temendar has sought out his twin in the aftermath of a particularly distressing flash of prescience. Not once has Talendar ever disregarded or turned his back on his birth-brother on account of his psychic abilities; without reservation or qualm he takes Temendar's unhelmed face in his hands, his calloused fingertips wetting themselves in the tears still streaking the Librarian's cheeks.
"Rough night, brother?" Talendar asks with a small smile, trying for levity.
"I...I had a vision." Temendar's throat closes up; he should not have come. This is not something Talendar needs to know. He makes to turn away; Talendar seizes him by the pauldrons, his expression firm and resolute.
"Only in death does duty end," he says solemnly, "You have foreseen your death so many times before, Temendar, and yet here you still stand, alive despite everything this vile galaxy has thrown at you. Do not weep – our brotherhood is about to embark on the greatest endeavor in the history of the Chapter. To stand as the bulwark against the Despoiler's ninth Black Crusade is an honor beyond compare; come, cast off your melancholy and together we shall make the Black Legion answer in blood for their crimes against humanity."
Talendar has always been the strong one; even with the powers of the warp at his command, Temendar has always known this to be an undeniable truth. His twin has always been there for him, even as boys when Temendar would awaken him in the middle of the night with his screams as he thrashed in the grip of terrifying dreams that were more than mere nightmares; no matter how often it happened Talendar would always attempt to comfort him, recalling the tale of some heroic saint, or reciting a child's simple prayer over him, beseeching the Emperor for protection.
And this is why I still come to you, brother, Temendar thinks as he regards the other Lamenter. This is why I still seek you out once the visions have passed. It is as if I am still a boy, looking to be comforted by the one person I truly cherish...
With a strangled groan, Temendar reaches out and embraces his twin, pulling Talendar close against his chest. The Space Marine's primary heart is beating with a slow and steady rhythm; Talendar is so calm, so steadfast, so filled with confidence and hope, his soul blazing like a star in the blackness of the void: a true paragon-son of the Martyred Primarch. Tears stream anew down Temendar's face as he touches his forehead to Talendar's for the last time.
The corrupted sword...blood flowing from his mouth...the traitors' mockery...
"It was not my death I foresaw, brother."