She had languished for so long. Her flesh withered and her blood rotted. The girl did not remember what it was like to live without rot. Every second, minute and hour was a continuous plague. Her mind was in ruins: she could not remember her life.

The only constant, the only life she knew was the rot, and the pain that came with it. Her nerves burned, her stomach ached, her vision swam.

All she had to do was give in, and it would stop. It would be so easy. A moment of pain, searing her worse than anything that had come before. A permanent rest would follow.

She did not know why she fought. Not truly. For some withered part of what she used to be, that she could not remember?

She knew only that to stop, even for a moment, meant a fate worse than death.

Her name was Millicent, and she had only known defeat.

She had lost the strength to stand, and lay curled in a fetal position. Outside the ruined chapel the kindred of rot scuttled to and fro. They did not dare to touch her. The pests afforded her an idolatrous adoration that only served to increase her disgust for them the more it grew.

Millicent did not know how much longer she could last. They scuttled ever nearer to her; their fearful adoration giving way to ever greater, disgusting reverence. They had grown so bold as to brush their pale, withered hands across her face.

Tonight was different. They had grown alert, clutching their spears and stalking about relentlessly. The pests seemed almost fearful, seldom going out if they numbered less than a dozen.

Something was coming. Coming for her. Millicent knew of no other reason why they would be so leery. Something marched in the distance. The wind had settled, the pattern of rain dried up; as though the world itself grew hushed in fear of what was to come. Millicent could hear a repetitive thudding, faint, but growing louder.

Her foul guardians stirred, and so did she. Millicent's breathing hitched. The Rot was terrible and vile, but intimate; she knew it like the back of her own hand. Whatever was approaching, with its great stamping footsteps, was not so familiar. Like anything unknown, Millicent feared it.

The kindred of rot sallied forth, leaving but one of their ranks to stand beside Millicent.

Whatever the sound was; it stopped as abruptly as it had come.

A trick of the wind, perhaps?

But there was no wind, Millicent remembered.

One of the Kindred of Rot screeched. It was in pain, afraid. She had never heard them wail like that before. The awful sound then vanished with a crunch, a string cut short. Millicent tensed, straining her hearing. A long period of silence stretched out. She heard nothing but the sound of her own breathing, and thundering heart.

Then another of the Kindred died. The giant was close. She could hear his thunderous strides drawing ever nearer. She strained to lift herself, enough to peek over the decrepit, half-ruined wall. The rest of the pests cried out as one, chittering and hissing. She knew not how many it had killed, but it was spotted now.

She caught a glimpse. A red giant, painted in flecks of gold. Something, some one, from the most wretched depths of Caelid.

Millicent settled back down with a shiver. Its great, wary stomps continued. It had seen her, and stared into her eyes with crimson slits. More blows and screams and crunches came. Millicent flinched at each one. The last of the rotten kindred waited, hiding, as she did. It grasped its spear, waiting for the moment the giant strode into its line of sight.

At last, it showed itself, striding forth in bloody gold. The pest lashed out with its spear, jumping from a place where it had thought itself hidden.

A gold-shod fist smashed into its conical skull. It was obliterated with casual ease, its chitinous body spasming without a brain to command it. The giant's gaze remained on her, stepping over the half-ruined wall.

It stepped into the church of plague, drenched in red. Its armor was not painted in that color, as she had initially thought. A layer of gore coated the plates of burnished gold. It wore the face of an angel, its expression wroth; its mouth curled into a snarl of righteous hate. It strode towards her, its right hand clutching an axe alive with lightning.

Strapped to its back was some massive, boxy contraption, festooned with wings. Bulky and graceless.

The giant approached to within a few feet of her, and halted.

"If you are wise," Millicent rasped, "you will leave me, immediately. My flesh writhes with scarlet rot. It is a curse. Not to be meddled with by man."

He strode closer to her, to the point she could see eyes behind those fearsome red lenses.

"You have found kindred spirits, then," the giant snorted, "for I am rotten as well." The terrible golden mask came off.

His hair was long, black as pitch, speckled gray by age. His skin stretched tight and leathery over his skull, perfect, save for the occasional wrinkle. His eyes were sunken amber. There was not a single scar on his face; save for a splotch of gray on his right cheek. The mark of the Rot, she knew. She had felt it all her life.

Millicent scoffed. "You are not rotten. Not as I am," she whispered. "It has scourged you, but you are recovering. I can sense it already." She shook her head. "My affliction is different. I have fought it all my life. No cure will suffice."

Like her, the giant had been fighting for a long, long time. She could not guess his age, but she knew he must have been ancient. He watched her

"It would be best if you left me here," Millicent croaked, shutting her eyes. "As I said; the Rot is not to be meddled with by the hands of men." She sighed. "Just let me die."

"Perhaps I should kill you, then," he mused. His voice came "It would be a mercy both to you and those around you, no?" The threat was not genuine. Not entirely.

The giant stepped closer. He saw the naked fear in her eyes. Was that guilt that she saw in his expression? It vanished as soon as it came, subsumed by the mask of the wary warrior.

"But you don't want to die, do you?" he asked.

Millicent shook her head.

"Then I will offer you what you have lacked for all your life."

Millicent watched him, perturbed.

"A choice." He reached out, and she flinched, expecting a blow that would end her.

He held out a golden needle. It was exquisite; not made by ordinary hands, but shoddily bound in the middle. Broken, and refashioned by an inferior craftsman.

"A needle?" she laughed, unable to believe her eyes. A strange warmth emanated from it, almost burning her. The heat was strong, yet not unpleasant. She took hold of it, struggling to keep it against her naked skin. "I am supposed to cure the rot with this?"

She stared at the point of the needle. It seemed too good to be true.

"Do you see any other way?" the giant asked.

She did not. "Look away, please," she whispered, undoing her shirt. She bore her withered, emaciated chest to the scalding, humid air. The needle warmed her palm, and the Rot

Millicent plunged the needle into her breast, and the world went dark.


Millicent stirred. The pain had faded. Her stomach ached from lack of food. Her nostrils filled with the scent of roasting flesh. Fat seared and popped; blood sizzled.

Food. She could not remember the last time she had smelt a hunk of meat.

The smell of cooking flesh was a torment to her, but one she welcomed and eagerly sought.

She remembered everything that had happened. The slaughter of the Kindred of Rot, the giant holding out the golden needle. Undoing her shirt, and impaling herself with it. Everything had gone black after that.

Millicent could not feel the Rot.

The golden giant tended the flames. The fearsome death mask covered his face once more. The viscera coating his armor had been scrubbed off.

"Thank you," Millicent said. "For saving me. For giving me the needle."

The giant did not speak, staring at the fire in silence. He acknowledged her thanks with a brief nod, but did not even deign to look in her direction.

"How long has it been?" She whispered, rising from her curled position on the ground.

"Fourteen hours," the giant said. "You fell unconscious, and I stood by you for some time. More of the xenos pests were coming our way. I was already weakened, and hungry, and I did not know how long it would take for you to recover. I could not take any chances. I saw the great tree in the distance, and I walked, until the land did not seem so poisonous."

"How long did you march?"
"Ten hours."

Millicent could see the sun now. The grass was green, the air. Birds fluttered and chirped. They were in a halfway point between Caelid, and richer, less treacherous lands. One one side she saw blue skies, the Erdtree glowing gold, the grass lush and green. On the other, a land scarred by the treachery of two demigods, never to recover.

She moved closer, scrutinizing him. He was tired, both in mind and body. Even his armor could not hide that, no matter how much he tried.

"You need to rest," Millicent argued, rising to her feet on shaking legs.

"It is my duty to protect the defenseless," he said. His gaze was all-but-locked to the blood sizzling, before he looked to his axe. "And I have endured worse in the past. Far worse."

"I am more than capable of defending myself!" Millicent protested. "I am not some helpless maiden."

He slowly turned his head towards her, observing her gaunt face and missing limb. He wore a mask, but she could imagine the contemptuous amusement on his face.

"This land is not as dangerous as Caelid," she continued. "It would not be some great risk if you allowed yourself to sleep. Besides," she patted a scimitar tucked at her waist, "whatever comes our way, I can handle them with this."

"So you say," the giant said in a doubtful tone, removing his helmet. He handed her a hare, skinned and cooked. Millicent could not smell any seasoning, but she did not care. She could not remember the last time she had eaten. The redhead began to gnaw at the carcass, uncaring at how bland and chewy it was.

Hunger, she had heard, was the best seasoning.

In one unsightly mouthful, he ate it all, and then laid down, shutting his eyes.

Caelid was a nightmare realm, but here, on the outskirts, normalcy raged to assert itself. The landscape was not so hostile, and there was food safe to eat.

"I searched for a man who called himself your father," he said. "Gowry was his name. He provided me with a remedy for the Rot," he held out the bag of preserving boluses. Millicent's nose wrinkled at its stench. "When I returned to where we first met, he was nowhere to be found. I do not know if he fled, or was slain by the abominations that lurk in Caelid. Perhaps both."

"Gowry," Millicent whispered. "I know the name. But… I do not know who that is. The Rot erodes even my memory." With a mournful face, she finished the last of the hare. Her mind remained a blank slate. The last thing she could remember was spoiling away inside the church, her guardians butchered by the giant. "Perhaps I will see him again, if fate permits."

"Perhaps," he said. "I do not trust him. He has not done me wrong, not yet. Still, he is not as he seems. He reeks of betrayal, and of alien inhumanity."

"Still, without him I have no one," she snorted, "not even my sisters…"

"You have sisters?" Dante asked.

Her face darkened. A memory surfaced, of a blade sawing into her arm. She grasped the stump of her missing limb. It ached with phantom pain. She knew almost nothing of what had come before, but she remembered them.

"I take it you are not on good terms?"

Millicent scoffed. "An understatement, if there ever was one. I would tell them to rot in hell, but they are already there." She rose on shaky legs. "I remember little; but I have not forgotten them. I hate them, and they hate me. That is all you must know."

He observed her in silence.

"Strange," he murmured. "Gowry said you were the last of his daughters."

Millicent shrugged, spitting out a bone. "I know not of their whereabouts; whether they are alive or dead. All I know is that I never want to see them again. I hate them; more than I could ever put into words."

He did not press the issue.

He devoured the deer's leg, crushing its bones like a rapacious hound. Millicent ceased to eat, even when he offered. She felt if she had any more, she would void her stomach. She laid down, across from the giant, staring at the flames.

"I wish to go north," Millicent said after a long silence. "To fulfill my destiny. Something awaits me there, I am sure, but I know not what."

He did not respond, but Millicent felt his gaze upon her then. Something about her words had seemed to strike him, like a dark and terrible memory.

"And what of you?" she asked. "What of your destiny?"

He finished the last of the meat. Juices trailed down his chin, which he wiped away with a cloth.

"My destiny?" the ancient giant paused. "In the months before my death, I read a prophecy; written by my primarch Sanguinius. It told of a warrior in gold, wearing his face; traveling on wings of flame. At the end of time, in the Imperium's darkest hour, he would defend the Emperor from a ravening hunger, and evil made flesh. His last stand would either delay the inevitable, or restore mankind to its ancient supremacy."

He took a deep breath. He could not help the bitterness in his voice.

"I had given everything, seen evils mankind cannot conceive of. I have slain millions, some deserving, and some not. Some by my own blade, and some from afar."

He paused.

"I lived this new life for fifteen centuries and more. I led an angelic host for more than a millennium." He sucked in a breath. "Those who first ascended with me are all gone; every last one of them. Despite all of it, I was not the warrior of promise, the angel of legend. My tale has finally come to an end."

He laid down on the ground, setting his helmet at his side, preparing to utter what he had always known, deep down.

"I am Luis, son of Arreas, a salt harvester of the deserts of Baal Secundus," he said. "Nothing more."