You hold the needle, it is light in your hands, enlarged to fit them. The needle, so old, so practical. A long time ago you did it with your fingers, to sow together the enduring textile of fleshy skin. You did it so long ago solely for that, after you had taken their skin, after you had flayed them, you then tied it together into a tormented artistic expression. Fulgrim had called one of them marvelous, in the artistic sense, and even though his eyes had been kind he saw, in their deep purple beauty, a discomfort.
Understandable, no one had ever been comfortable with those pieces. No one ever had been comfortable around the skinned remains of their kind, and those who were, were no more human than he was…
Than he was….
He stopped the needle for a moment, and looked at the tapestry in his hands. It was no skin this time. It was a simple bundle of thread, a tapestry of silk made through the help of steel. It had yet to be finished but…
He didn't know. He felt something stirring in him, it was not the peace he usually felt in this craft, not the repetition that let his mind drift and focus at the same time.
He breathed a long drawn out breath, his onyx closing for the moment.
"Am I not? I advise you on your path without inhibition, I speak without deference when we stand in private. Just now you insulted my writing and I in turn made light of my weakness compared to your strengths."
Your mind repeats with that confused tone of his. It was strange… Melkor was strange, even though he was aware of that. If anything, he knew it far better than you know it yourself. After all, his memory apparently has slowly been reinvigorated according to his words. His memories of the past before he was there meekly frozen before your glory at the Kyroptera´s Council chamber. His past.
"I knew much about you then, enough to gamble my life that you would change. I was going to die so I took the chance and put my faith in you that you could change with some help."
"All men are monsters."
These words come to your mind like the annoyance they are. They will always be. The fact that you were destined to always be a monster, that all men are. That he knew that and still put his faith in you.
That he knew he could put his faith in you. That he knew about you.
Melkor had rarely indicated about his past, in fact if anything he knew of mankind´s past enough to use it as a weapon in his words. After all, Gilgamesh of Mesopotamia and Alexander of Macedonia were historical or presumed historical figures.
The first´s epic being the oldest recorded human tale that we still know off, and if an older one had been the one Old Night certainly buried even deeper, and Alexander was a general without peer in his age, though he inherited a strong foundation from his father, his conquest would remain in the pages of history as an undefeated warlord.
He knew about them, and few know of it in this age.
And yet he also knew of his upbringing enough to word his every sentence in a manner he would hear. He was smart, reckless, but smart. Prideful yet still humble enough to not lie on purpose.
He knew all of that and yet you knew barely anything about him. You had found what words he mumbled in his sleep, old terran words from an old dead terran language. Hardly surprising, yet the speech pattern, intonation were of a very specific timeframe.
From Old Europa around the beginning of the early third millennium. A language that was undoubtedly human.
Undoubtedly human. He was genetically as pure a human as one could be, if anything he was the only remaining human in the galaxy, taking in consideration the genetic diversion throughout the galaxy and the damage in the human genome incurred by the five millennia of Old Night. If anything, he perhaps was more human than any Terran. He was undoubtedly more human than any Nostraman.
Nostramans, genetically predisposed for a relatively enlarged visual light spectrum, their pupils massively oversized. Prey Sight was something all Astartes could have access to, his sons however never needed to learn how to use it, it was ingrained in their mind, for since birth they possessed a degree of it.
Melkor… It was strange to think of him, he knew barely anything about him. He knew he possessed knowledge of the impossible, the words he read, words written by him, both on the so-called Heresy he believes is unavoidable and of those things that not even humans truly understood. His knowledge of the Aeldari Pantheon, his knowledge of those Parasite Gods and the many other things he had yet to go over.
Many other things such as Noctilith, he was sure it was mentioned in his writing somewhere, but between reading about himself, some of his brothers, bothering himself with the politics of the eastern fringe and preparing for the eventuality of war he had not yet gone over everything.
He had purposely not gone over some of his brothers, or his father for he also had things written by Melkor on him. Even still, he hadn't gone over the Xenos in there spoken of, they were few, and one of them was the Eldar´s own kindred, which was divided into three kinds for some reason.
Melkor had written all of that, the information he had provided and the knowledge he had undoubtedly used when he met his brothers was impossible to know.
After all, what small mortal would stare at a Primarch and call him a child, what mortal could endure Perturabo´s words and yet convince him of something. Something you truly did not care to order, but rather something Melkor insisted on happening.
Indeed Perturabo had confirmed he would come. Like a domino, Melkor words were moving pieces in a galactic chess board you have but a small idea of its purpose.
"Stand alongside another of your brothers…" He had said yesterday. Perhaps this was the brother he referred to. But why? Perturabo winned as much as he brought low indomitable fortresses. His mastery of steel and deeds of mind were incredible even as amongst Primarchs but he was not fit to work with him. Not in that way at least.
And the others were worse, the others that presumably would stand with Horus. Angron? A man who simply desires to die, and nothing more. A man that is dead yet is forced to live. Angron died the moment the Emperor took him from Nuceria.
Mortarion? You might get along with him, but the fact that you are a seer will sour that the moment he finds out, and in truth your bond is due to the fact both are outcasts of the brotherhood. Not from respect.
Fulgrim? You smirk at that thought. As if Fulgrim would ever betray the Emperor, he simply did not believe it, could not believe it. He tolerated the thought for the scenario Melkor was speaking about, but he could not believe it for a second that the Phoenician would stray from the Emperor's light. He couldn't bear the thought Fulgrim would fall to what Melkor´s words said.
He would rather chain fulgrim for eternity and render him impotent than see him fall to that, if it ever came to that.
Magnus? As if he would entertain your words for a moment. He already hates you, and he hates Melkor, or rather, he hates Melkor´s secrets.
And Alpharious´ choices were as secretive as his legion´s operation. Not that they were perfect. He would side with whoever he thought would be best for his intentions. Nothing more.
You feel a small but sharp sensation in your finger. You turn your gaze towards it. The needle bit into it, barely scratching. It tingled almost, so pathetically bothersome if not for the fact your mind had wondered.
You look at the tapestry. a tapestry with no desire for artistic expression, rather you had been trying to recreate something you had seen in your mind´s eye. One of the many visions your life had cursed you with.
Since that awful day where you had come to blows with Magnus for a second they had flowed through you like never before. No, not like never before, like they used to so long ago when you were smaller than Melkor was.
They had flowed through you and now your needle was crafting a tapestry of your mind.
A tapestry of war and murder, a tapestry where he and the lion fought, claws and blades clashing in the veiled twilight of a world´s barren rock. They fought alone, presumably a duel where neither legion had intervened yet both of their sons were in the distance.
He sighed. It didn't matter now. Melkor was as trustworthy as Shang and Sevetar, but the fact you did not know much of anything about him stung your heart. Like a thorn in your flesh.
Did the fact you did not know anything about him truly make him as trustworthy as your Equerry and First Captain? In actions, he might have saved you from yourself, but he also has withheld information for a time, pushed through agendas of his own using legion´s resources and overstepped in some matters. Like the entire Noctilith operation, if his words were to be believed.
Yet however every single of those actions possessed a laid out logical explanation. None had been done in such a way it would not benefit in some manner the legion, at least according to his words
He bit his lip, his fanged teeth piercing his lip as the inky iron scent of blood trickled down his mouth.
He breathed deeply once more, closing his eyes, visualising the scene he was trying to capture in his mind once more and let his hands flow through the silk until he finally finished. Until he finally finished.
He got up from his throne, raised the tapestry high, unveiling it to him.
"Sire, Lord Perturabo´s stormbird has landed," he heard Equerry Shang through the vox.
"Tell him to wait, I´ll speak with him shortly," he replied back as he hung the piece of silken cloth on the walls of his throne room.
.
.
When the Lord of Iron first set his gaze upon Nostramo, still adrift in the void, he found himself, if only for a moment, surprised.
A barren rock, ashen and lifeless, its surface broken only by the clustered spires of hive cities that clung to its equator. Thick clouds of pollution swirled above them, a churning veil of filth that shrouded the world from all but the keenest augmented eyes. It was a hive world, yes, but one more wretched than any he had yet seen. Even Terra, choked as it was, still clung to remnants of its past with Hy-Brazil's ancient forests, however diminished. But here?
Here, the only thing that lived was the shadow. The shadow and his brother.
When his Stormbird touched down upon the capital, he was met not by ceremony, nor by honor, but by the scent of heavy machinery. The acrid bite of smelting chemicals lingered thick in the air, clinging to his tongue like oil. It was breathable—but barely. Even this, he knew, was not the worst Nostramo had to offer. The great forges of Quintos would be worse.
Stepping from the ramp, Perturabo took a moment to survey the city. His brother's city. His brother's world.
It was dark.
Not simply dim, not simply polluted, but truly dark. The sky was an abyssal vault, utterly sunless, casting no natural illumination. The few lights that did exist were pale, ghostly blues, flickering like dying embers mixed with the enduring neon signs of street advertisements.
The architecture, at least, was practical. Cold steel and harsh angles, built for endurance, not beauty. He could respect that. Even if the execution was flawed, even if it lacked the efficiency he would have demanded, he could see the logic in it. It could have been better.
He exhaled sharply. No one had come.
No honor guard. No formality. No sign of his brother.
The wind stirred around him, bringing with it the scent of oil and metal, but no voices. No procession. Just silence.
His patience stretched thin. His fingers flexed at his sides. When, at last, a warrior clad in Night Lords plate approached, Perturabo turned his gaze upon him like a hammer falling.
"Where is my brother?" Perturabo demanded angrily, his hand clenching the hammer on hand. He didn't expect much from Curze, but he had expected him to be present, to meet him the moment he touched the ground and instead he received this utter lack of respect from his own brother.
The warrior approached him, he paused lifting his head to look at Perturabo´s face before removing his bat winged helm, revealing the ghostly pale face underneath as well as the sight of oversized pupils and hair as dark as midnight.
"Lord Curze bids you welcome to the Sunless world. He regrets not having been present on your arrival and bids you to wait a moment longer." His voice was cold, mixed with the sharpened Nostraman accent. Never had Perturabo heard such respectful words sound so much like contempt or even an insult.
"Who are you, soldier?" Perturabo asked, his voice stern as the very Iron that his legion revered so much.
"I am Shang, Equerry to Lord Curze, Lord of Olympia."
"Is this how my brother greets his guest, Equerry? Without any form of respect or due protocol?"
"Our Lord has judged much of the Legion unworthy, Lord Perturabo. The rest are busy ensuring his judgment does not fall upon them next. None could be spared to stand idle on a landing pad."
Perturabo glared at Shang as if weighing how best to break him. To grind him into dust. The gall of this Equerry, to speak so insolently when no less than four expeditionary fleets' worth of Eighth Legion vessels hung in orbit, was intolerable.
Perturabo clenched his fist.
"None could be spared? Equerry, there are more than four expeditionary fleets worth of your legion's vessels in orbit. And yet, not one Astartes could be pulled for an honor guard upon my arrival? Am I not your lord's brother?"
"You are, Lord." Shang said, unfazed. Even beneath the piercing gaze of the Lord of Iron, his expression remained unchanged. He had faced far worse.
For all of Perturabo's unyielding will, his presence was not that of the Nighthaunter. Perturabo was unbending, as cold and unrelenting as steel, a master of discipline and brutal efficiency. But he was not the embodiment of mankind's darkest fears. He was not the whisper in the dark, the nightmare lurking just beyond sight.
"Let my son be, brother."
The voice was cold, a silken whisper drifting from above, barely louder than the wind.
Both Equerry and Primarch turned their gaze upward, toward the palatial edge looming over them. The architecture was wrought in the stark, gothic artistry of Nostramo's pre-Imperial era, its edges jagged, its shadows deep. Behind a weathered stone gargoyle, something moved. A shape barely distinct from the darkness itself.
"None of my legion are worthy of standing guard in your honor, brother of mine."
The voice now came from below, beneath their very feat. Still soft, still cold like a winter´s dying breath.
"Is this how you greet your guest, Curze?" Perturabo questioned sternly. "I came at your request, and you waste my time skulking like a wretched thief? Do you fear to greet me as a brother, Konrad?"
"Yes?" Perturabo heard from behind. He turned his massive frame in the split of a second.
Staring before him was his brother, a tapestry almost their size in hand.
His fingers twitched around the haft of his hammer, his grip tightening. It would be so easy to strike, to put an end to this insufferable game. His patience was spent, his temper fraying.
And yet, Curze stood there, calm, untouched. The barest shift in stance, the minute distance that separated them, it was deliberate. As if the Nighthaunter had already foreseen the blow.
Curze stared at his brother's eyes. The bitter rage in them genuinely surprised him.
"I was finishing this," he said, bringing the tapestry up. "It's a welcoming gift for you."
That stopped Perturabo. That stopped the Lord of Iron.
.
.
Walking into the Nighthaunter´s Palace, the Lord of Iron could clearly see the obsidian chandelier, the tapestries covering the walls. All masterfully woven, all far too delicately crafted for it to come from mortal´s hands. They were made with silk as thin as hair and their colors shifted with each thread woven into it, making the bigger picture far grander than any mortal could achieve.
"You made these," The Lord of Iron stated to his brother as they walked further inwards.
Curze shrugged as if it was no big deal. "I have to spend my time somehow."
It was strange for the Lord of Iron to think of his brother as an artist. He was always so melodramatic, unstable and petulant even. But this Curze walking beside him was… Still dramatic but seemingly less self-pitying. He had not yet started to rant about justice which was a positive. If anything he seemed calm, the instability he had expected seemingly absent. He was still childish, that annoying entrance was more than proof of it, but he had never expected to see him just walking in his halls like a civilized person. At least in a way that wasn't clearly practiced theatrics.
After a while they reached a more secluded room, an office in truth, sized for a Primarch, with a hololithc table. Yet it also bore a sofa, covered in the colors of his legion but made from off world silk.
"You can sit on the office chair and leave the hammer beside the desk for now," Curze said as he laid on the sofa. "I don't know why you brought the hammer. Did you plan to hammer me to a wall incase I infuriated you too much?"
Perturabo´s face was as stern as steel when he spoke his next words. "Yes. If the mortal was truly using you. If he somehow had tricked you and manipulated one of us. I had to see it for myself."
Curze laughed. The sheer absurdity of a mortal man manipulating a Primarch. The very fact Perturabo had even entertained the idea Melkor was using him was infinitely entertaining for Curze.
"I talked to him about that before." He said as his laughter died down. "Brother of mine, I can assure you he wouldn't, he can't manipulate me. He can't manipulate any of us, unless we let ourselves be."
"Then you let him do as he does?"
"I do. Melkor is an incredibly valuable tool to me brother. After all he brought you here did he not?"
"No," Perturabo said, his inflection cold as stone. "I chose to come for your request. You wanted me to build upon Nostramo did you not?"
"I did, and yet if I had come to you would have rejected me wouldn't you?"
The Lord of Olympia clenched his fist, he did not appreciate what his brother was insinuating. He did not appreciate being told he let himself be played by someone anyone, less a mortal.
"What do you want me to build?" He said under gritted teeth. "What marvels from Olympia do you desire upon your dark, cold, joyless world."
Curze´s face lit up, as if completely unbothered by the fact his brother was internally seething. He got up and spoke with a voice more akin to the Phoenician mixed with Nostraman accent rather than his own.
"Whatever you so desire. If you desire to tear the palace down to raise up magnificent halls you may. If you desire to build mighty amphitheatres for the masses of my people you may. If you desire to remake the underhive´s ventilation system and install mastercrafted air purifiers you may." His hands moved as if it was a grand presentation, as if a magnanimous emperor was giving one dear to him an invaluable gift.
"Is this a joke to you Curze?" Perturabo said coldly, restrainfully coldly.
Curze stepped closer to him, his dark eyes and pale face now far softer.
"No," he said with an almost murderous caress. He was now an arm's length from Perturabo. "I just won't ask you to do anything you dont want. I don't want to impose anything on you. Just surprise me. Show me the genius that makes you Dorn´s rival"
Oh, this was enraging to Perturabo. He could see what Curze was doing now. He could see what he had been done, messing with him, goading. It was infuriating. It was outrageous, the fact Curze was toying with him in such a way. The fact he knew he was the target of a carefully woven manipulation.
"You are goading me Curze."
"No brother. I am just teasing you. You should relax, take your time to appreciate what you will do." Curze moved far faster than ever before in Perturabo´s presence, so fast that in the split second the Lord of Iron had lost him in the veiled darkness of this office he now felt arms over the chest and a head on his shoulder. Curze was hugging him.
That was surprising. More than surprising. It stunned him so completely that he didn't react.
"If you really need a list, my suggestions are in this dataslate." Konrad said as he left the embrace. His face was now sterner, slightly more serious. "You should really allow yourself to feel something beyond your iron stolidity. You´re too solid."
"I am solid as Iron, for from Iron Cometh Strength" Perturabo replied, grabbing the dataslate in his hand.
"I know you don't like him, but Melkor once said to me that Iron will break before it bends."
"Is that part of the value of having a tool? To throw seemingly wise statements for you to repeat?"
"Partially. You would enjoy him, he is far wiser than he appears. He may not have our gifts but his knowledge is truly astounding."
"You make it sound as if he could match us in intellect."
Curze laughed. "If only. Magnus would be far too infuriated with his secretiveness if that was the case."
"Magnus already hates him, but you know that Konrad."
"I know," Curze replied dismissively.
"Yet if he is so secretive, why do you trust him? He must have shared partially his knowledge with you, but if he still keeps secrets with you, the lord he sworn too. Why should you trust him?"
Curze's face turned dark, the faint trace of amusement vanishing as if swallowed by Nostramo's eternal night. The shift was instant, unnatural in its starkness, as though the very thought had poisoned his mood.
"I have my reasons," he said, his voice softly cold, distant like the unceremonious dying breath of a star and barely above a whisper. "But they don't matter now, do they?"
What sort of reason must that be, for his brother to turn so dark. That was a question as intriguing as it was irrelevant to the Lord of Iron at that moment. Indeed what mattered now, in Perturabo´s rigidly ordered mind was to choose what to build. He took a glance at the dateslate, reading in gothic script. How considerate of Konrad, to not bother him to learn his native tongue.
Curiously, they were exactly in the same order. Amphitheatres, remaking the hive´s ventilation system, upgrading the air purifiers. After that was also a general overhaul of the world´s infrastructure, planet wide integration and other things.
"A regular mortal can barely see this planet of yours. I will start with the air purifiers, that will benefit the most people as well as start removing the pollution in this atmosphere. Giving your pet a bionic eye must have been an annoying decision with him stumbling everywhere."
"If you are concerned with light, ýou might as well move the planet closer to the sun."
Moving a planet… He could do that, it would certainly make this bare hunk of rock hotter. Yet it would be incredibly inefficient, the star it orbited was pitifully weak. For it to be noticeable the distance to move would be considerable, as well as the fact of readjusting Tenebor. But…
"By the Throne, Perturbo. You're actually considering?" Curze said, more than surprised. "Stop it, it was a joke."
Perturabo turned to him. "Don't suggest things rhetorically. I don't like my time wasted."
.
.
Above the void Melkor gazed at the world below, the moon below. It was like a pyre in the dark night of the void. Its forges shining with the intensity to illuminate itself even here in the void. The toxic fumes there would be monumental, like every gasp for air would be a war in itself.
He closed his eyes. Ulan Huda. Konrad´s personal forge world like Kiahvar was Corvus´. It was ironic how both Primarch had their cards arrayed by fate. One landed on a moon but got a world to forge for him, the other landed on a planet and got himself a moon. Ironic if he could say it.
Curze and Corax, he may have yet to meet Corvus but by his knowledge he knew that the two could have gotten along marvelously if one wasn't so mentally screwed and the other so uptight and hypocritical.
He fiddled with the dataslate on his hand. It was the proof he needed to survive the trial ahead. He was sure the Mechanicum desired his head. He was aware he disrespected them far too much alongside their practices for it.
This could either go very wrong or extremely well, luckily Melkor thought it would go the latter. After all Ullan Huda is thousands upon thousands of lightyears away from mars. We are at the Galaxy´s veritable border, and well beyond the Astronomicon just like Nostramo.
It was time to prove his undeniable guilt and use it to break Mars´ dogma, something that will absolutely have no consequences at all. He laughed to himself.
Here i come delivering unto your lap another piece for thy esteemed reader to partake in.
I have no idea how i managed to get it in the single week. Unfortunatly next one might take longer as i have tests next weeks (I love HTML and CSS, at least there is no Java (yet)).
Also having trouble imagining the trial proper, i have looked around the internet and asked people, but i havent found anything to use as a basis from existing lore. So if anyone has an idea on how it could reasonably go, im all hears.
So yeah. Till next time