Chapter 8.7 – Sorrows Unending
Horus opened his eyes. He looked up into the sky blue gaze of Sanguinius, the Great Angel's golden hair draped like a curtain along the edges of the coffin. He had a smile on his features, the kindest smile Horus had ever seen in his life. In that instant, Horus felt warm and content. He smiled back.
"Sanguinius?" said Horus, "I…"
Words failed him. He felt comfort, but something was not right. Something was… off. Something he could not vocalize.
He pushed up against the edge of the coffin, trying to sit up. Sanguinius grabbed his brother's back and aided him up.
"Take your time brother. You have been gone for a while. Do not rush yourself. Easy now."
Horus, now upright, looked around the room. He saw Lorgar, wide eyed and whispering a prayer, and beside him the Crimson King, Magnus grinning like a child who had built his first potato clock all by himself. He looked around at the wall, depicting his greatest triumphs, his meeting with the Emperor, his fight against the green skins on Ullanor…
"Ah!"
Horus grabbed his head. His temples pounded like a drum. He pulled himself on the edge of the coffin, desperate trying to stand.
"Slowly brother! Take your time!" urged Sanguinius, trying to do all he could to aid his brother's movements.
Leg by leg, Horus slowly moved until he was sat, perched on the edge of the coffin, both feet touching the marble floor.
The pain subsided. Horus let go of his head, and turned once more to look at Sanguinius.
He gave his brother the broad, wild smile that the Great Angel had missed for so long.
"Welcome back, brother," said Sanguinius, his voice catching in his voice, "I have missed you. I have missed you so much."
The Great Angel wrapped his lost brother in a hug. Horus accepted gladly.
His mind was still swimming, like the recovering from a long viral infection, but his senses were coming back to him. He knew who he was. He knew who Sanguinius was.
"There is much to catch up on," smiled the Great Angel, releasing Horus from the hug, "Things are not as they were when you slept."
Slept. Horus furrowed his brow. Had he been asleep? The last memory he had was of Ullanor.
"Sanguinius, what-"
Pain. Long sharp pain. A world of unending pain. Horus screamed and collapsed to the floor, his muscles tensing and tightening. Sanguinius, terrified, collapsed to the ground as well, holding his brother as he shook and convulsed in agony.
"MAGNUS! WHAT IS HAPPENING?! MAGNUS?!" roared the Great Angel in panic.
"Oh… dear…" muttered Magnus, rushing forward and grabbing the back of Horus' head. The Crimson King closed his eyes and reached into the mind and soul of his brother.
"The connections are coming apart…" hissed Magnus, "I don't understand. They were perfect. This shouldn't be happening."
Horus continued to scream. Sanguinius smashed a fist into Magnus' torso, causing the Crimson King to jolt in pain.
"FIX THIS MAGNUS!" howled the Warmaster in rage and terror, "FIX THIS OR I SHALL TEAR YOUR HEAD FROM YOUR SHOULDERS!"
"I'M TRYING!" yelled Magnus, desperately trying to focus. The problem wasn't the spirit. The spirit had taken nicely. The body.
The meat was rejecting the connections.
"Damn you Father," growled Magnus, "What are we made of?"
It wasn't all of the threads. The majority were holding. But at the edges, the connections were fraying. The meat was rebelling, shifting, like a thousand insects trapped together in a jar. Magnus tried one last force of will to restore the threads. It was no use. The body was pushing some of the threads out, like a wound pushing out a splinter of wood.
Magnus staggered back as a massive bladed horn speared out of Horus' head, slicing the Crimson King's hand. Sanguinius was forced to stagger back as spikes and spines erupted from Horus' skin. The armour plate which he had been buried in exploded off the body of the Lunar Wolf as new limbs and bones burst forth all over his body.
Horus collapsed to the ground, his entire body shifting. All that remained of his proud form was his face, as the rest of his body warped and twisted, shifting and change with limbs appearing and disappearing. Eyes opened and closed, mouths with rows of razor sharp teeth snapped open and vanished. Tentacles lashed out, along with spider-like arms and lizard legs.
"MAGNUS!" screamed Sanguinius, "DO SOMETHING!"
"I can't…" whispered Magnus, "His body is out of control. Its not made of pure material essence. Its something far more complex. It will take me months to fully understand it."
"San… guin..i…us…" garbled Horus, "Help… me… The… pain… pleeeasee..."
Sanguinius tried to reach Horus but the flesh rebelled, snapping at the Great Angel like a rabid dog.
"Stop... the... pain... Pleeease…"
"You have to do something!" insisted Sanguinius, "We cannot leave him like this!"
"I told you!" growled Magnus, "I cannot fix this without study! You have but two options, Warmaster. Either you let him remain as he is, right now, until I can complete my work. Or, we return him to eternal slumber, and attempt to revive him again later when I have the knowledge I require!"
"You mean… kill him?" exclaimed Sanguinius, his eyes wide with shock.
"Kill… mee…" mumbled Horus, "The… Pain…"
"The decision is yours, Warmaster," snapped Magnus, "I can fix this. But I need time."
Lorgar watch on, wrapped in morbid fascination. It wasn't just the soul the Emperor had forged with warp-stuff, it was the literal cells of each Primarch too.
"I'm so sorry," whispered Sanguinius to the form of Horus, "I am… so… sorry…"
"Re… lease… me… San… gui…ni…us… pleeease..."
The Great Angel took a step back, the blood tears flowing once more.
"So this is it…" he whispered, "I must… I must kill Horus once more. What have I done. WHAT WAS THIS ALL FOR?!"
The rage of the Great Angel turned on Magnus.
"YOU!" screamed Sanguinius, "YOU USELESS WRETCH! YOU MISERABLE EXCUSE OF A SORCERER! I required you to perform ONE task, and you have UTTERLY failed! I will do what must be done, and YOU will learn your errors and correct them, but mark my words, Magnus. There SHALL be a reckoning for YOU!"
Magnus simply stared back blankly. His thoughts were now on the next phase. Understanding Primarch biology on a level he had never understood before. There was much to learn, which in a way was exciting. He would get it right next time.
Sanguinius stormed to the door of the Chapel of Dreams, snatching the Spear Telesto from Askaellon who stood there, concern written all over his features of his Sanguinary Guard.
Taking the Spear, he roared and lunged at the mutated form of Horus, screaming as the blood tears ran like rivers down his face. The Spear dug deep into the flesh, the energies of the weapon burning away everything inside. Horus let out a short gasp, then fell silent.
The flesh receded. Limbs retracted and the original body of Horus Lupercal fell to the floor once more.
"Horus?" wept Sanguinius, holding the head of his now twice dying brother in his lap, "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"
"S… top…" whispered Horus, "No… more…"
His body fell limp. He eyes closed again, and Horus was dead to the universe once more.
Sanguinius howled in anguish, letting out yet another psychic scream of pain and torment which was the greatest of them all. The Astartes outside collapsed to the ground, clasping their heads.
Lorgar winced but held on as Magnus once more turned his eyes to the screaming Angel.
"That's it… THAT'S IT!" roared the Crimson King, turning to see the Warmaster's despair.
Grasping the Primordial Essence, Magnus stormed over to Sanguinius, forcing with psychic might the sphere of raw warp energy into the Great Angel's chest.
Sanguinius' scream changed octave, this was no longer just a scream of despair, physical pain now infused it.
"MAGNUS! STOP THIS!" cried Sanguinius attempting to fight away the Crimson King.
"NO BROTHER!" roared Magnus, "I SEE IT NOW! THIS IS THE MISSING PIECE! WHAT IS NEEDED TO COMPLETE THE PRIMORDIAL ESSENCE!"
Sanguinius began to push Magnus away, but Lorgar rushed forward and held the Great Angel back.
"LORGAR! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" screamed Sanguinius.
"Just my part in the great plan…" murmured Lorgar, "Midwife to a new God. Praise be to the Four! Bring Forth the Fifth! Hallelujah!"
The Great Angel continued to scream as Magnus continued his work. As the Essence slowly engulfed the form of Sanguinius, his golden plate began to fade to grey, his skin and limbs began to stretch, all the colour faded for his form as he became monochrome. His face became a rictus mask of shock, horror, terror and despair.
Askaellon rushed in to try and aid his Primarch, but Erebus drew a blade from his waist and stabbed the Sanguinary Guard in the back.
"No interruptions!" crowed Erebus, forcing the Sanguinary Guard to the floor with repeated slashes of the blade, "Seems like I did have a part to play in this after all!"
Sanguinius slowly turned his white face to Askaellon, watching as his last loyal son was robbed of his life, the Great Angel unable to do anything but watch the cruel suffering of his beloved guardian.
Sorrow. Sorrow unending.
Then the universe went white.
Silence reigned.
In the beginning, there was nothing. Just the Four.
Then. Suddenly.
There was Five.
Many scholars would debate on the fall of Terra.
The massive warp storm comparable in size and make to the Eye of Terror, later known as the Tear of the Warmaster, exploded onto the face of the galaxy without warning.
Some claim it was the Golden Throne's explosion that caused the rend in the fabric of space, those that would become privy to the knowledge of its existence. Others claim some Dark Ritual was performed by the Nikaean Rebels on the planets surface that caused the warp rift. This became the generally accepted truth.
If one considers the Golden Throne like a glass of high proof alcohol, its collapse was like dropping a lit match into the glass. The birth of the Fifth Chaos God, was like taking that glass and dropping it in a bucket of flammable petrochemicals.
Terra, Mars and a vast swathe of the galaxy within Segmentum Solar would be engulf by the rift. Along with the Throne World and cradle of humanity, Cthonia would also become lost to the warp. Fenris would find itself the new front line against the forces of the Neverborn as the shamans found their power much enhanced by the 'spirit of Fenris'. But with that power came a greater threat of corruption, something that would plague Russ for millennia to come.
The Four Chaos Gods welcomed their brother, setting his place within the realm of Chaos for his coming. Khorne greeted him with 8 warriors in red. Nurgle greeted him with 7 in green. Tzeentch greeted him with 9 in blue. Slaanesh greeted him with 6 in violet. As the Fifth took his place amongst the constellation of Chaos, from the ether materialized 10 figures in grey, their long hoods hiding the void where a face would be seen. They carried scythes and spears, an aura of doom surrounding their forms.
And so, He Who Sorrows took his place amongst his brethren. The name Sanguinius had no more meaning to it than the name of a fish mattered to the fisherman who consumed it for his dinner. It took the essence of the Primarch's sorrow but nothing of the Warmaster remained, burned away in the force of creation.
His domain would stand beside the realms of Blood, Decay, Pleasure and Change. This would be the Domain of Sorrow. The centre of pure Nihilism.
The rage of a warrior gives him drive, gives him focus, it provides purpose for his life. The Decay of life brings an end to all things, but it is a natural end, sometimes found with joy or acceptance. Even in stagnation there is continuity, there can be comfort in consistency. Pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin, but both inflame the senses to act, to enjoy the delights or to fight against the suffering. Change brings something new. This can be good, or it can be bad, it is the constant shift of the game with the players either driving the alterations, or being driven by them.
But Sorrow is none of these.
Many lesser scholars had put Sorrow in Nurgle's Domain, but this undermines the vast breadth of Sorrow. A child is sad at the loss of a balloon into the sky. He wishes for it back, he wishes for change, but his desires are forever out of reach. A lover scorned yearns for their beloved's touch once more. Again, this is not Stagnation, this is not simple Decay, this is the loss of Joy, the constant wish for its return. Nurgle grants relief to those in pain and suffering, and through Acceptance of Decay and Stagnation become one with him. Sorrow wallows in the eternal feeling of Grief and Emptiness, unable to ever Accept what is now unchangeable and true. There is no comfortable in constancy, only the gnawing hunger of what is missing, the desire for an impossible change to bring back what is gone, to keep reminding oneself of better days and refusing to let go and Accept the world as it is now and forever
It is the Obsession with Grief, with Sorrow, with the Loss. The constant holding onto the clothing of a lost family member, constantly remembering birthdays, anniversaries, dates of funerals and more. There is never Acceptance of the Loss, just the constant desire to alter time so that a terrible Loss never occurred. The Obsession with being somewhere else, someone else, a version of themselves that did not suffer the Loss. Constantly clinging to what can never be.
Sorrow has no hope. When there is no future, when there is no light. Sadness does not drive someone to act, only to wish for what was, forever trapped in the past. Depression leads the victim to the void, to nothingness. There is no value in what is, in the constancy of stagnation. There is no value in change for there no change that can save them beyond what is impossible. Utter hopelessness, not because things do not change, but because they HAVE changed and will never be again. The loss of a part of oneself which can never return again, and the inability to continue without it. Loss is the ultimate source of Sorrow.
Sorrow hates Khorne, as rage gives drive. Sorrow hates Nurgle, for in disease and stagnation there can at least be the peace of familiarity. Sorrow hates Slaanesh, for the pleasures are beyond tasting, and the pain of the body forces reaction. Sorrow hates Tzeentch, for it offers the closest thing to hope that exists, even if it is a false hope.
He Who Sorrows HATES his siblings. He hates them all. But he knows he is one of them. He knows he cannot escape them. He must play the game with them. Be one of them. Fight for power like them. Ally with them. How else can the Sadness and Grief spread, but through War, through Plague, through the loss the of Pleasure, through the Change that robs individuals of their meaning.
Sorrow is forever trapped with his siblings, the crushing inescapable sorrow of its very existence forming the very essence of its being.
Across the Imperium, entire worlds grieved. The starving wept as their children die in their arms. The families of warriors shed their tears as their sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters never came home. The fleeing survivors of Terra felt it too, an unending loss for their homes, their lives, the very heart of humanity gone forever. The cradle beyond reach forevermore. Terra was lost, and soul of the species wept.
The entire human species had become linked to their greatest emotion, the horrors of the Imperium's founding providing rich sustenance for He Who Sorrows. The siblings of He Who Sorrows clapped their hands in delight as the galaxy plunged into Chaos and Anarchy.
Aboard the Phalanx, a Golden Clad Warrior opens his eyes.
He feels the pull, the pull of He Who Sorrows.
He knows what this means. The Warrior knows across the galaxy his entire species is feeding yet another Chaos God. Every death makes him stronger, every tear shed is a tribute to his rise. The Warrior knows the doom this brings upon the species he has vainly and arrogantly chosen to protect alone. He knows there is not much time.
He knows he needs a new plan.
Author edit - for those complaining about Sorrow, Despair and Nurgle -
lexicanum com wiki Nurgle
"Nurgle coaxes new worshippers into his fold by stripping them of any other options, inflicting a spiritual taint upon the populace that is reflected outwardly as disease and pestilence. The desperate, ostracized and dying come to Nurgle to find alleviation from their pain. To these potential devotees, Nurgle provides not redemption from their ailments, but rather comfort within their suffering. Those blessed by Nurgle are granted relief from physical pain as well as a bizarre satisfaction in their depressive state. It is a twisting of a being's perceived reality, turning delusion and denial into truth and acceptance, just as self-respect and vanity turn into monstrous self-satisfaction"
Sounds like the opposite of Sorrow to me. You cannot be comfortable in sorrow. You cannot be satisfied in sadness. This is when you cannot accept grief.