Son of Death (30k Mortarion Quest)

How do men on Barbarus prove their worth?

Such a simple sentence, and yet already the world seems bigger, the wonders and terrors within its bounds so much greater than anything you had thought to grasp. There are other worlds out there, populated by men and women you have never met and who cleave to entirely different systems of judgement, so many that the emperor comes here and is speaks with the ease of practice about conforming to merely "local" values. And yet the question is a fair one. When you came down from the mountain and looked upon the people that your father had deemed little more than livestock, you too acted in this way, watching and studying them to see how you might best prove your good intent. There, then, is your answer.

"Follow me," you say bluntly, picking your scythe back up in one hand and turning away. You do not give any further direction or invitation than that, but when the Emperor steps across the threshold of your property it is as if it means nothing at all.

"I have heard the stories the locals tell of you, Mortarion," he says, falling into step beside and half a pace behind you, "Of your campaign against the Overlords. Yet the people here know them only as grim and terrifying legends, grim spectres who used to cull their ranks like cattle. I would hear the tale from your own lips, if you would permit it."

"No," you grunt, and say nothing more. The Overlords are dead and gone, and if you have your way they will remain so, ground away by the turning of years until at last a man might live and die upon Barbarus without ever hearing their name. You'll not compromise that work by boasting of it to this outsider, no matter who he claims to be.

"I see," the Emperor replies, and if he is offended by your blunt dismissal he does not allow it to show in his voice. "It may interest you to know that my world once had a similar tradition. Damnatio Memoriae – the death of memory. A fate reserved for the most despised enemies and vile of traitors. Personally, I find it better to remember one's enemies, lest they return to haunt your steps in years to come."

"If they come back, you failed," you reply, shaking your head at the thought, "Never leave a job half-done."

On the third terrace grows a small orchard of heartfruit trees, the dark branches already bending low beneath the weight of their rust-red fruit. You drag over wagon from the nearby road, stacking it high with empty barrels and measuring the required volume with a practiced eye. Originally you had planned to do this the day after tomorrow, but now will do just as well.

"This is not a native plant," the stranger says, sounding intrigued as he studies the trees and their rich bounty of fruit, "you brought them here from a warmer clime, I think, and not for the aesthetic. A dietary supplement, then?"

"Iron," you nod, impressed that he was able to pick that up. Nobody else who has laid eyes upon your orchards has understood why you grow what you do. "Not many other ways to get it near here. Idea is that I grow a variant that doesn't need to be boiled and rendered down to not kill you."

Your work is a gem with a thousand facets, each equally important to the whole. Adversity may temper a man and good leadership bring out the strength he does not know he possesses, but a good diet and proper exercise will strengthen his body and remove impediments to his will, allowing him to rise higher with the same degree of effort. The triumphs of a lifetime are born in the efforts of a single day, and you'll tolerate no slacking from the people who you fought to save. They must not allow themselves to forget the greatness of which they are capable.

You work alone for a time, methodically checking each fruit on the first of the trees in your orchard and plucking those ripe enough to be taken, save for the few you leave behind for their seeds. The Emperor watches in silence, observing the meticulous care with which you inspect and then harvest each fruit, and then when you are about to move on to the second tree he lifts one hand as if in greeting. The air trembles, and with eerie precision every fruit upon the next tree twists itself free of the branch and floats through the air to settle in the barrel.

"Witchcraft," you growl, a fleck of your spittle hissing on the ground as you brandish a sickle at the creature who dares to mock you so, "I should kill you now for such twisted arts!"

"Oh? And what of Calas Typhon?" The stranger speaks the name of your friend and brother with a sly smile, seemingly unconcerned by the threat, "I have heard he holds similar gifts, yet you did not slaughter him."

"He earned the right!" You step forward, seizing the traveller from the stars by the front of his shirt. It looks like the sort of garment you might wear, but beneath your hand the fabric is clearly some strange and foreign craft, slick and smooth in a way no natural material could ever be. "He was tested and found worthy, but you stand here and use your tricks to defy the very test itself!"

"He was tested, was he?" the Emperor says, as if tasting the words, and though he does not move your fingers release their grip all the same, your flesh betraying you at an outsider's whim. "And who would stand as judge for such a test, you? I came here to prove my character and argue for the sake of my vision, not to submit myself to the ego of a farmer demanding that I justify my very existence."

"Your character, your worth," you scowl, flexing your hand as you try to understand how it was made to betray you, "Two words for one thing. If you define yourself by those twisted gifts, how are you different from the Overlords?"

"They used their powers to create twisted monstrosities of undying flesh," the Emperor says dryly, still amused, still not taking you seriously, "I used mine to pick fruit. Do not pretend that you cannot see the gulf between one and the other, or that the distinction is meaningless. What would it have proved, had I refrained?"

"That you could understand the common man," you growl, the words coming out in a rasp now, the fruit trees all but forgotten. "I am not like them, but I understand what their life is like. I know the ache of tired muscles, the burn of poisoned air, the satisfaction of a day's work well done. The details change, but the experience remains the same. What do you know of such things?"

"Less than you, it seems," the Emperor inclines his head, conceding the point, "I am not, nor have I ever been, a common man. Nor will I limit myself so that I might pretend to be so. It would be insincere at best, and anyone who truly knows what such a life entails would know the truth of the matter at a glance. False humility is nothing but an insult to anyone but the ignorant."

"Pfagh," you scoff, shaking your head, "And yet you wish me to come with you? To fight some war across the stars, when you proudly boast you do not and never will understand where I came from?"

The Emperor shakes his head, his expression suddenly serious.

"I am neither common nor humble, Mortarion, but I am still a man," he says, holding out one hand with the palm up, as if to offer his heart for judgement like the ripe fruits all around you. "I have raged against my enemies and wept at the grave of worthy foes. I have feasted with my warriors and wiled away the quiet hours with naught but a friend by my side. I have loved, once, grandly, and terribly, and known the agony of heartbreak. This much I share with all men, from the highest lord in his castle to the lowliest farmer in his field. What more would you ask of me?"

You hesitate then, gritting your teeth and looking aside. The quiet camaraderie of fellow warriors preparing for battle, this you know, but the rest? Who would laugh with Mortarion, so grim and terrible? Who would invite you into their hearth save out of harshest obligation? And as for love… you have never seen it. Only those who had already known and lost such a thing joined your Death Guard, and those who yet had it held it close for fear of the world that might yet take it away. Is this man, this Emperor, this stranger from the stars… is he better than you?

"Just gather the fruit," you say at last, turning away from your visitor and back to the work at hand. The Emperor says nothing in return, merely nodding and moving it to your side, and in what must be a gesture of reconciliation uses his hands for at least some of the fruits. It is enough for you to overlook the speed with which he gathers the rest, the unnatural means employed, but not enough for you to speak. There is nothing companionable about this silence, only a kind of grudging admission of fair points made, and soon you have the wagon filled and the harness strapped across your shoulders. Barbarus is unkind to beasts of burden, especially so near the fog, but you are strong enough to suffice.

It is only when you are out beyond the borders of your farm that the Emperor speaks again, keeping easy pace alongside you.

"They have accepted you, it seems," he says, his voice filled with a soft and quiet compassion, "but you will never be one of them. You know this better than I. Why else are you all the way out here, so far from the town?"

"I needed space to work," you grunt, not looking at him. He talks a great game about love and loss and the warmth of a comrade's laughter, but such things are meaningless without proof. When you reach the town, you will see the truth of his claims.

"I am no farmer, but on every world I have visited those who are approach it as a community," your supposed father says, painfully reasonable, offensively gentle. As if your heart will bleed from simple words like these. "You may do the work of ten men, but why do you limit yourself to just ten? Why do you not live with friends and family, to share the honest work in the day and a warm meal at night?"

"If I only wished to farm, I would," you growl, casting through your memories for comrades who might be content to serve as a farmhand and keep you company if you asked. Calas would, surely, or perhaps Skorvall. That you think they deserve their own lives rather than existing as shadows of yours means nothing. "The true work cannot be shared. To clean the air, purify the ground, create the food for tomorrow… only I can see the path."

"We call it Terraforming," the outsider says with a nod, like a parent indulging a clever child, "the art of changing ecosystems and biosphere to better suit our purposes. The Imperial Geoengineering Corps consists of millions of scientists, technicians, and frontline specialists, drawing on knowledge and resources from across the galaxy. They will doubtless be fascinated to see what you have accomplished with such limited means, and only too happy to assist."

The straps to the harness creak in your hands. You say nothing. What is there to say? This is your life's work he speaks of, the gift that only you could bestow upon the people, the challenge only you could overcome… or it was yesterday. Today a man calling himself Emperor descends from the heavens and offers to do all you were working for in your place, and not even personally. He would delegate the work to a thousand-thousand others, and they would exceed your work in a fraction of the time. He does not say this, and yet it is clear from implication, and in your breast fury curdles like stagnant water. How dare he. How dare he do this to you.

And yet… how dare he not? Would you truly be happy, if he had the means to help and did not offer it, if he condescended to allow you to fumble your way to progress for the sake of your fragile ego? Would you truly reject such a gift out of spite and self-centred pride, leave children to gasp for breath and their parents to die with bloody lungs because it is better than admitting you are not unique? Are you truly so weak?

You say nothing, walking in silence and hauling the wagon full of heartfruit along behind you, and your father knows better than to press. Less than an hour later you reach your destination, and not a single word is spoken the entire time.

Once, every town and settlement on Barbarus had thick stone walls and watchful guards, and none built outside their sheltering confines save the mad and those who chose to offer themselves as sacrifice to the mists. Now the town – Gard's Reach by name, though nobody here really thinks of it as anything more than the town, not with travel between the valleys so challenging – boasts a number of fresh constructions outside the perimeter, and the people who dwell and labour on the open ground look curiously in your direction but do not flee for shelter at the sight of someone new by your side. Much has changed over the three years since you vanquished the last of the overlords, but some things remain constant, and the man standing sentinel over the gates is one among them.

"Hail, Mortarion!" calls Lhorgath with a grin, leaning against the battlement and setting down his rifle when he sees who you are. The Death Guardsman still wears the armour you forged for him, heavy and tarnished but unbroken in its pride, and when you look you see the sealed box with his respirator hanging from one hip. "We weren't expecting you for another two days!"

"Plans change," you call back, allowing yourself a brief smile. It is good to see Lhorgath again, better still to see that he remembers the lessons you drilled into his head. "Is the market running?"

"Started yesterday," your comrade says with a nod, and then his eyes stray to your unwanted companion, "Who is the new guy?"

"My father," you grunt, and take some small pleasure as Lhorgath almost falls off the wall in shock, "Let us in."

You pass through the gates and make your way through the narrow streets, black wooden spires built atop bunkers of heavy stone everywhere you go, and as you walk the whispers start up. It is always like this, whenever you come to town. People murmur to their neighbours, children hide behind their mothers' skirts, and everywhere there is the sound of your name. Spoken with respect, of course, sometimes reverence, but…

No. Something has changed.

They aren't looking at you. It is the man at your side who draws the gaze of the people, his broad shoulders and dark skin so unlike the normal build of a son of Barbarus, his easy smile and open expression like a torch brought forth against the cloying darkness of night. There is no fear in those whispers, no grim acknowledgement or grudging respect, not like there was for you. There is only wonder and admiration, as if all suspicion or doubt has simply become unthinkable. When you arrive at the market, the crowds thronging between the stalls and the shops turn towards your father like iron filings drawn to the magnet, and you grit your teeth at the sudden surge of envy that gnaws at your guts.

"Good people of Barbarus!" Your father calls, warm and honest joy in his voice as he addresses the crowd, both the shoppers at the market and the growing mass of bystanders seemingly compelled to follow you through the streets, "I am the Emperor of Mankind, and I salute you!"

He claims dominion with a title and the people smile to hear it, whispering shyly to their neighbours or leaning in eagerly, and for a moment you are all but forgotten. Then the Emperor reaches back and takes you by the arm, drawing you forward to stand at his side, and lays a proud arm on your shoulder.

"My son, Mortarion, has spoken to me of your valour and your determination," he says, and there is none of the confusion you expected, none of the doubt or denial about your paternity, he speaks the words and the people accept it as truth, "He has spoken to me of how you welcomed him, how you listened to him, how he came to think of you as family! Well, I tell you now, that any who was a friend to my son is a friend to me! In days to come I shall bring the treasures of the galaxy here to reward you, but here and now I can give you only this – my thanks, and my respect!"

He bows, then. This man, this Emperor of the stars, stands before the common people of Barbarus and bows, one hand laid over his heart, and for this show of humility he is rewarded with cheers and chants and thundering applause that echoes from the stone of the mountains. They salute you both, respect and admiration for father and son alike in their eyes, but he is the one they cheer, he is the one they laugh and smile and rejoice to see. You, who had to labour for years to earn even a fraction of this high regard, are all but forgotten in the span of a moment.

You're not sure how much time passes before Lhorgath finds you, or how you found yourself standing on the edge of the market square, watching your father hold impromptu court at the base of the statue they raised to your triumph. He is answering questions and spinning tales, and you are left in silence and doubt, your hands balled into fists and your mood dark enough that only the man who stood with you against Necare dares to approach.

"Well," Lhorgath says, a speculative look on his face as he settles in next to you, setting his rifle down and rubbing his stubbled jaw with one hand, "That's a pile of shit, that is. Where was he, when the real war was happening?"

"Ha!" You bark the sound, bitter humour and sincere gratitude in your voice. Lhorgath is right – he may take all that you ever wished to have with no greater effort than it takes to stretch forth a hand and ask, but he cannot take the victories already won. "Fighting another one, apparently. A war across the stars. He wants me to join him. Apparently, there's other things like the Overlords out there."

"Huh," Lhorgath says, almost as eloquent as Skorvall in that moment, "You'll be going, then."

You look at him sharply, but there is no heat in your gaze and he meets it without fear. Of course you will be going. How can you go back to your farm, knowing what else might be out there? How can you keep striving for the love of your people, when you've seen how easily they grant it to anyone but you?

"I will," you admit, for though the Emperor did not pass your test of humility you cannot find it within yourself to claim that his way is worse. How can it be, when it achieves everything you wanted with such ease? "I haven't told him yet, but… what of the others?"

"Mortarion," Lhorgath frowns at you, before allowing himself a grim chuckle. "Do you even have to ask? We stand together. Unyielding and unbroken."

"Immortal," you say, and your comrade laughs, accepting the oldest joke of your brotherhood with a wry smile and a fond shake of the head. "Thank you, Lhorgath."

"Don't thank me yet," your Death Guard grins, "I'm going to make you regret not leaving me on this shithole to die, just you wait and see."

Article:

Mortarion has made the, somewhat prejudiced, decision to accept the Emperor's offer and depart Barbarus to join the Imperium and its Great Crusade. Who does he take with him?

[ ] The Unbroken Few. The seven comrades who stood with him against Necare, last survivors of a brotherhood chosen for their lack of remaining ties as much as their quality.

[ ] The Dauntless Host. Every man and woman who called themselves Death Guard will have a place by his side, if they wish to claim it.

[ ] Friends Without Number. No. Mortarion's trust is not without limit.

The Emperor does not wish to linger overlong on Barbarus, but he will not begrudge Mortarion the chance to bid his people farewell in a matter that seems fitting to him. How does the Son of Death choose to leave his birthplace behind?

[ ] A Thief in the Night. There will be no grand ceremony, no pointless festivities or flowery speeches. Let his deeds be his legacy, nothing more or less.

[ ] A Grim Reprise. Mortarion shall hold his own funeral, and that of all who follow him. Barbarus shall mourn the deaths of those who go to the stars, but they shall also be proud, for it will be a worthy end indeed.

[ ] Write in. He cannot fathom another way, but perhaps… perhaps that is the problem.