Chapter 266: Shouldn't Be the Ultramarines
"My father gave the Imperium a vision, and endowed it with unbreakable strength. Once this vision is applied to all social, cultural, and military organizations, it will surely inspire a cohesion that transcends personal ambition."
— Guilliman, On Loyalty, 45.22.xiv
Hades stared in silence at those lines, words properly set upon paper, resting quietly in a gold-framed display book, gazing down at him from the wall—gazing down at a Death Guard.
Everything here matched what Hades had once imagined of the Ultramarines. And yet, his mood was far from delightful.
Stepping aboard the Macragge's Honour, Hades carried a heavy heart. Mortarion still did not fully understand what had transpired, and the Lord of Death was never eager to step aboard another Legion's flagship. Yet Hades bore himself with even greater gravity than before, and—
Mortarion realized that Hades seemed to very much wish to communicate with the Ultramarines. Had he discovered something? A fracture beneath their radiant exterior? Or was there some deeper secret to this world—or perhaps both?
After much deliberation, and once assured that the Ultramarines would not suddenly turn on them, the Death Lord permitted his commander to board the Macragge's Honour to seek out more information—whether about Absyrtus, or about the Ultramarines themselves.
Compared to the dim austerity of the Endurance, Macragge's Honour was bathed in gleaming brilliance. Orderly and glorious, its pure blues and whites covered every corner, touched here and there with bright gold, symbols of victory.
Led by Marius Gage, Hades and the Death Guard passed through halls carved with countless figures, through galleries displaying Guilliman's writings, through a sea of blue and white, until they arrived at the audience chamber.
The chamber carried forward the ship's style: vast tapestries hung down, woven in sapphire hues with depictions of Ultramarine triumphs. Quotations from Guilliman's works were taken and mounted proudly upon walls of pristine white.
Light poured down, soaking the entire hall in radiant grandeur.
Roboute Guilliman himself sat there, wearing an almost flawless, benevolent smile.
Hades' gaze shifted from Guilliman's maxims to Guilliman in the flesh.
Well then.
A trace of guilt welled within him—for upon realizing the identity of the world before them, to meet Guilliman's eyes, to fall into the illusion of Macragge, was suddenly a difficult task.
Everything was perfect—yet it could not be this world.
It must not be this world!
No, no, perhaps this world was not the one Hades remembered. In truth, the sequence of events had already begun to shift: from the White Scars' absence at the Drune campaign, to the sudden appearance of Ultramarines in what should have been Absyrtus' annihilation—already things were diverging from what Hades knew.
He swallowed hard in silence.
Roboute Guilliman, of course, did not hear Hades' frantic inner thoughts. With zero psychic aptitude, he naturally could not hear another's thoughts.
He sat there, his neatly trimmed golden hair gleaming beneath the light. A wreath of olive leaves symbolized the Lord of Macragge's authority. His sapphire-blue armor shone smooth and immaculate, and upon it rested a radiant golden U-shaped emblem, as if smiling at Hades.
Suppressing the frantic storm of thoughts in his mind—Hades nonetheless forced a perfect, politician's smile onto his face.
"Good day, Lord Guilliman. I am Hades, commander of the Death Guard. The Lord of Death has sent me to represent the Fourteenth Legion in negotiations with the Thirteenth."
As soon as Hades finished speaking, Guilliman appeared slightly surprised. But then his smile softened, becoming even warmer and more sincere.
"I had not expected my brother to send you to speak with the Ultramarines. I remember you. Back at the banquet—your conduct left me with quite the impression."
Guilliman recalled the figure who had stood among the ranks of the Thousand Sons. This Death Guard commander clearly possessed formidable strength.
Yet, Guilliman had originally assumed that this warrior would share Mortarion's ill-tempered nature. But from what he had just witnessed, perhaps that was not the case?
To Guilliman, Hades felt more like a statesman—or a deft diplomat—than a dour, brooding killer. And such qualities struck Guilliman with a faint sense of familiarity.
He reflected: Mortarion and his Legion had yet to undergo a campaign of conquest free from violence. The Lord of Macragge, however, wished to grant his brother such an experience—one marked not by slaughter and blood, but by mutual understanding and compromise between civilizations.
Imperial conquest was not always written in blood and tears. Depending on the preferences of each Primarch, many Legions often chose diplomacy. Whole human civilizations were preserved this way, bloodless victories, cultures absorbed seamlessly into the rhythm of the Imperium.
Guilliman, hailing from Macragge, clearly favored this approach. Unlike many of his brothers, he did not find satisfaction or glory in battle. His joy came from plans well executed, from goals achieved.
And naturally, Guilliman wished to share this joy—to let others see what lay behind it: civilizations surviving, unburned by the fires of war.
The Fourteenth Legion, however, had little experience with such things. The worlds assigned to them were rarely human in nature, and so they had scarcely felt, nor grown accustomed to, this process.
As far as Guilliman knew, the one human world entrusted to the Death Guard—Galaspar—was shrouded in fractured rumors of an unimaginable massacre.
Perhaps it was time they experienced the joy of being welcomed—not only the forced submission beneath a scythe. Guilliman thought: let the Death Guard feel the grace of civilization. They, too, were part of the great human species; understanding and inclusion were surely the better path.
Yet so far, the Lord of Death had shown little enthusiasm for the Ultramarines' accomplishments on Absyrtus. Guilliman felt an unease, sensing that this brother of his might, like many others, cling to certain peculiar obsessions with war.
He recalled what had happened at the banquet—the troubling qualities Mortarion had displayed. And yet, even then, the Lord of Death had hinted at a desire for dialogue. That meant there was still hope.
Though Guilliman did not fully understand why Mortarion harbored such bitter malice toward psykers, the Lord of Macragge strove to make sense of it. In the end, Guilliman concluded that Mortarion's hatred was directed not at all wielders of psychic power, but specifically at those sorcerers who debased themselves with profane witchcraft. In this way, even Mortarion remained a steadfast adherent of the Imperial Truth.
What gave Guilliman comfort was that, although the rulers of Absyrtus had once practiced psychic sorcery, when he earnestly explained the Imperial Truth to them, their queen had agreed to abandon witchcraft, altars, and all other practices forbidden by the Truth.
Guilliman rarely encountered such a compliant civilization. In his analysis and classification, the more alien a human society was to the Imperium, the greater its resistance to submission. And the Imperial Truth, in particular, completely overturned the logical foundations of those cultures that relied upon psychic power.
Yet they still chose to yield, swearing to abide by the strictures of the Truth.
The compliance program was carried out smoothly. Though Guilliman felt a fleeting disappointment that there was no need to activate any contingency plans, it was, in truth, nothing short of a miracle. In less than a week, the Ultramarines had brought an entire human world into compliance, and bound it to the tenets of the Imperial Truth.
He had worried, of course, that beneath this calm surface lurked hidden dangers—that perhaps this planet's surrender was feigned. But even after compliance, Absyrtus' armies made no suspicious moves. They remained quiet, obedient to the commands of the Ultramarines.
Everything had gone perfectly. Nine days later, the Ultramarines would stand in the great plaza of Absyrtus, representing the Imperium as they formally received that civilization's oath of fealty.
Naturally, Guilliman hoped the Death Guard would also participate in and bear witness to this ceremony.
The Lord of Macragge ran precise calculations in his mind, even as he continued conversing with the Death Guard's representative, Hades. Quickly, the image of this commander was being assembled in the Primarch's thoughts.
Compared with Mortarion, this commander clearly understood and observed the rules of social conduct. His command of the art of language was remarkable—logical, measured, and restrained.
Speaking with Hades was, for Guilliman, both reassuring and pleasant. Both of them were well-versed in the subtleties of human interaction, their dialogue producing a quiet rapport. Each probed the other in turns, yet maintained a rational restraint.
For the briefest of moments, Guilliman even found a fanciful, mischievous thought forming—that perhaps this Death Guard named Hades might… No. He cut the idea off at once, suppressing the absurdity.
On the other side, while Guilliman inwardly praised him, Hades remained exceedingly cautious.
The two were still locked in the long formalities of greeting, exchanging pleasantries about their respective Legions—their customs, their ways, trivialities that carried some information, but nothing essential.
Hades was inclined to call it a "Macragge-style greeting." It reminded him of the way elderly folk made small talk—opening every conversation with, "Have you eaten yet?"
But rather than what the Ultramarines ate, Hades was far more concerned with the true state of Absyrtus and what exactly was happening with the Ultramarines there.
Of course, by reflex, he kept up the polite back-and-forth, trading ritual courtesies with Guilliman all the same.
At last, Guilliman concluded the lengthy preamble and moved to the point.
"The queen of Absyrtus welcomed the Ultramarines with great warmth. They have chosen to submit to the Imperium and to strictly follow the Imperial Truth," Guilliman said with no small pride.
"It is a rare thing indeed, for a people to abandon much of their own culture in order to embrace the Imperium's doctrine. Such a choice is to be encouraged—and celebrated."
This civilization had made remarkable concessions, and such deeds deserved recognition. The witness of two Legions would be most fitting.
Guilliman continued his impassioned address, the olive crown upon his brow gleaming under the lights as he moved, scattering beams of brilliance with each gesture.
"Hades, I know my brother despises psykers. But the psykers of this world have chosen to abandon their traditions and instead follow the Imperial Truth. I believe he would be more willing to see such behavior. Psykers are not beyond salvation—they, too, may shine with the light of human reason."
Guilliman's oratory soared, the natural talent of a statesman flowing through the Primarch's every word.
The Ultramarines and Death Guard present were already swept up by the Lord of Macragge's speech, their hearts swelling like balloons with trust in humanity, with the bright hope of mutual understanding.
All—except Hades.
The more Guilliman spoke, the more panic gnawed at him. His polite smile had already begun to twitch at the corners, yet he forced himself to maintain the image of one "inspired by Guilliman's words."
Truth be told, Hades was terrified.
In the original history, Absyrtus had surrendered as well. Even Mortarion—so condemned for his butchery at Galaspar—had, albeit begrudgingly, accepted the psykers' submission, demanding only that they uphold the Imperial Truth.
Just as now, those psykers had bent the knee, swearing the Truth before the very eyes of the Lord of Death.
But, because of Mortarion's childhood on Barbarus, and the corrupt tutelage of his foster father, Necare, he had always carried an extreme sensitivity to sorcery. Coupled with his naturally suspicious nature, he did not simply march away after Absyrtus' surrender.
Instead, Mortarion chose to walk its streets himself.
What he found unsettled him to his core.
It was not just the ruling elite who dabbled in psychic arts—the taint had seeped into every stratum of their society. Ominous chants masqueraded as lullabies mothers sang to their children, their syllables crawling across the ground like vermin.
When he encountered an old woman, half-mad and bearing signs of corruption, Mortarion's trauma flared violently. His heightened sensitivity to the warp showed him that shadows of sorcery clung to everything that seemed ordinary.
This world was already beyond saving. This was not a mere psychic society. They teetered on the very brink of corruption.
So what was there to debate? The Death Guard unleashed their first Cyclonic Torpedo.
Of course, all of this hinged on one fact—that Mortarion saw through the thin veneer of submission. And for any strategist, discerning such deception was no easy feat.
But now…
Hades stared at Guilliman, who was still speaking, already envisioning the future of the Great Crusade and how best to guide compliant human civilizations.
For the first time, Hades felt his scalp crawl.
There was nothing wrong with Guilliman. In fact, he was the best of them all—compassionate, merciful, striving to avoid war whenever possible, cherishing human civilization, rejecting exterminatus, radiation, and phosphor weapons whenever he could.
For humanity, negotiation was the right course. Brother should not slaughter brother. In some ways, Hades agreed deeply with Guilliman's principles.
But the problem was—this world. Guilliman was right, but he could not be right here. Not on Absyrtus!
In a grotesque twist, Hades realized that every virtue he had once praised in Guilliman—all of them—had now become walls, higher and thicker than any Imperial Fists bastion, standing in the Death Guard's way.
Damn it—why?
Hades thought bitterly: even Perturabo, even Lion El'Jonson, on Absyrtus they would have allowed—or at least not cared—if the Death Guard launched an exterminatus.
Why—why did it have to be the f***ing Ultramarines?
How could he possibly explain the danger of psykers to Guilliman? How could he breach that fortress of principle thicker than any citadel, make Guilliman see the necessity of war?
<+>
If you want to see more chapter of this story and don't mind paying $5 each month to read the latest posted chapter, please go to my Patreon [1]
Latest Posted Chapter in Patreon: Chapter 351: The Onlooker Sees More Clearly Than the Player[2]
Link to the latest posted chapter: https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520[3]
https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed[4]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl
[2] https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520
[3] https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520
[4] https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed