The Scion's Lament
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!"
The sounds around him, the sounds of war. He could hear them dimly as if from a great distance, but this was impossible. He had been standing in the statigarium of the Pride of the Emperor, preparing for the conflict to come, dictating strategy to his sons.
But now he was gone and plunged into darkness, the only sense left to him that of sound. He could not feel, he could not move. He could only listen to the sounds of conflict, the cries of war and the movement of titanic guns as they moved slowly away from him, leaving him bereft of even that.
It was maddening. It was horrendous!
His children needed him, his brother and father needed him. Whatever xenos trap this was he would escape, he had to, and so he started to struggle even though he could not move, fighting against the force with all his might. He strained without straining, pushed without pushing until at last he felt something
give!
He sight returned and he saw with shock that he was standing on sand, his arm raised above his head in his traditional salute, on the sands of Olmar II…his first victory while all around him were the legionaries of his brother seconded to him to command…no this was not Olmar…it was a facsimile, but he could tell the difference.
The scent, the sand…all of it was identical, but it was not the place of his triumph, he had drunk this image into his very being, immortalised it. This replica did not fool him.
A whirring sound appeared around him as the false landscape turned green, strange symbols appearing on the walls as he threw himself the side, to escape the clutching talons of a great mechanical machine that emerged from the ground.
Clutching the Fireblade…no, not the Fireblade, another facsimile - a fact that made his blood boil with rage. He charged, his stance and form impeccable, cleaving through its clutching claws and moving past it even as hundreds more emerged from the dunes.
He charged towards the horizon, and found that he soon ran into a wall, where the horizon became merely a projection. Sparing a thought for the marines of his brother he turned, mentally vowing that he would return for them at the head of his fleet, his whole legion if need be to rescue them.
Springing through the wall, he landed and beheld where he truly was: an underground complex of metal, more green symbols running along it like water and the same droning noise all around, although what held his attention were the…the exhibits. There were the sons of all his siblings, in various poses from their campaigns, some scenes he did not recognise at all. He curled his nose in irritation and even a small amount of confusion as strange metal soldiers emerged from alcoves in bursts of green lightning and levelled their weapons at him.
They were fast, but he was faster, cleaving their heads from their shoulders and their guns from their hands, dodging their attacks, even as he moved forwards, moving along exhibits, their contents changing and growing ever more alien as he went. In one instance he may behold entire art galleries filled with frozen individuals painstakingly positioned, and other times he may simply look upon small shacks, the inhabitant stuck in whatever task it was performing.
Whatever mad mind had created this place he did not know, but when he reached a section that seemed to be filled with nothing but xenos relics he found himself halted.
Silent and deadly, these new warriors were made of sterner stuff than what he had encountered before. They fought in lock step, with sword, scythe, and shield creating an impenetrable and ever attacking barrier that he found himself hard pressed to counter. Whatever he attempted, they always found a counter, one of their number stepping flawlessly up to intercept on their impenetrable shields, while their weapons were somehow able to hurt him even through his gilded panoply.
They were forcing him back, thousands of them, driving him into an empty exhibit, with nothing in it save a jewel encrusted gateway, when suddenly they stopped. They had him surrounded, but they halted as one, a small group of them parting in perfect lines letting through one clapping its metallic hands.
"Most impressive, Primarch. Most impressive. I admit I had thought the quick repairs I made to your arrangement would hold, but it seems I was incorrect."
He gritted his teeth, never had he known such hatred for another being in his life. This being would die, and he would make sure it was painful. "How dare you! How dare you, filthy creature. You have taken me from my legion and I will burn you and all you hold dear to ASHES!"
Instead of seeming afraid as another creature faced with a Primarch's wrath would, the being instead froze and then started to laugh, a dusty sepulchral thing, but laugh it was. "OH, he was not exaggerating. Truly I should have paid many times what I did for you!"
He froze. Payment…someone had sold him to him to this…creature. "If you feel in such a merry mood, then tell me who sold me to you so that I may have the pleasure of obliterating them."
The green eyes of the creature then narrowed upon him and then stated quite matter of factly "Why your son, Fabius of course, although later on you gave him the name of Bile."
He stood there. Frozen. It was a lie, Fabius was among the most loyal and dear of his children, the mere thought that he would betray him was unthinkable. Evidently some of his distress showed upon his face as the being laughed again.
"I would not worry, Primarch of the third Legion, your time is long gone and your legacy naught but ashes. I am your curator, Trazyn the Infinite. And as your curator I insist," his eyes widened, as a cold sensation over took his body, once again he was unable to move "That you return to your exhibit!"
He could feel his legs starting to move, against his will even as he commanded them to stop, to charge this Trazyn and destroy it.
But before he could do more than start to curse, something happened behind him and incredibly fast. First a faint popping noise, then a yell of rage from Trazyn. He felt something tug him backwards with immense force, dragging him towards and through the gateway, even as a strange blue green blast chased him although it vanished as an aperture snapped shut.
Then the coldness vanished with a tug on his spine. Using his new-found mobility he looked around to see nothing save a pathway forward. There was no sign of his rescuer, nothing except his thoughts, which were dark and clouded, the words of that xenos as false as they may be having shaken him.
And yet, even as he started to walk, there were too many things that did not add up. His last memory had been on his flagship, talking to Eidolon and then he had woken up during some vast conflict around that being and despite how much he did not want to admit it, Fabius was the best candidate.
He was his chief apothecary, his personal physician and one of the most knowledgeable on his physiology. If he had tried he might have been able to spike his food or wine with something strong enough to knock him out…but then what? How could he have been transported, however much distance all the way to whatever world that creature resided upon. It would be unthinkable that his siblings and father would have not launched an immediate search alongside his legion! Fabius would have barely been able to make it a light year before thousands of ships fell upon him.
And then there was that other comment…Bile. He had never given Fabius such a name, nor did he think he ever would. It was a name unworthy of him…but it implied things. It implied that he, a Primarch, had forgotten something. This would explain why his memory stopped and started in such a strange place, but in that case…what had he forgotten?
After what could have been minutes or weeks of walking in this impossible place with nothing but his own confused thoughts to occupy him, he saw something he had been hoping for: light. The light of day. Casting his thoughts aside he ran for the light and then out into the cold crisp air, beautiful snow falling all around him.
A more perfect moment he found hard to remember, maybe his smithing contest with Ferrus Manus…Regardless he intended to memorialise this moment in song and word forever! The joy of freedom, freedom from imprisonment, despair, and darkness!
Then his mind caught up with his body and he smelt it upon the air, the stench of war, and a cacophony of terror. Looking upwards he saw a city ablaze with purple flames, the screams of the innocent and the cries of their attackers as they laughed.
His feet moved before the rest of him truly caught up, sprinting towards the city. He would punish those responsible! Too long had he been denied victory and these people had suffered enough.
He came upon them, silently pink skinned mutants who stank of drugs and smoke, disgusting creatures one and all. He cut them down with barely a look, their blood not even staining his blade as he charged through them.
However, as he advanced the resistance began to become more organised, although nothing compared to what he had faced in the past. He was almost starting to think they would put up a challenge when he was forced to stop, a blast of screaming sonic energy shooting past him and he beheld a chilling sight.
A Space Marine…an Adeptus Astartes…but not.
Its armour was painted an astounding array of colours, but its flesh burst from them, its ears extruded from its helmet while its arms seemed to have melded with the massive sonic gun it carried, but that was not what held his attention.
It was the symbol on its shoulder…his symbol.
No…no not his symbol, it could not be his symbol. His symbol was perfect, the eagle talon of a golden eagle clutching a world. It symbolised his eternal devotion to the Emperor as well as his commitment to securing the stars for mankind.
This…this was an aberration. Serrated talons grafted onto it, the wing a muddy brown, and the background a strange eight-pointed star, not the hue of the midnight sky.
And yet this thing, knelt before him and as he looked all around him more were appearing, all wearing this twisted symbol, kneeling downwards, some collapsing to their knees in supplication. All astartes, but all wrong.
But one, clad in strange terminator armour approached him, still standing, yet hesitant. "My lord…is it truly you? Have you returned to us?"
The voice…it was unnatural like a child's, but somehow, he still recognised it. The voice of Galtianus, a young marine, who had only been inducted just before the Laeren campaign…
"What is this?" His voice was a murmur…a bare muttering, yet the thing that was Galtianus seemed to squeal in happiness.
"A sacrifice my lord! A sacrifice to you. For years and years, we've made such pyres in your honour, across the galaxy burning your name into the ground in hopes that you would return to us and at last you have." It quivered in delight, before suddenly its voice dropped into a hellish rumble "if you will but let us deal with the infidels that dare attempt to stop us then at last we will bask in your presence again father."
And with that his will snapped.
The false Fireblade snapped forwards, as he screamed in a soul deep pain.
"YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE!" Galtianus fell dead, and he slaughtered. He ripped apart these…these things that dared call themselves his children. They were not! They could not be! His children were the defenders of humanity, the perfect saviours, gallant and kind. They were not madmen, they did not slaughter the innocent, and they did not do so in his name. They could not validate the words of that xenos, it was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong!
He finally stopped once he was outside of the city, his blade and armour now thick with multicoloured blood. None of it was his, but he felt as though he had been stabbed a thousand times.
What nightmare had he woken into? What had happened.
Then he was struck in the chest with a blow like thunder his armour cracking open.
The force sent him flying towards the wall of the city where he was buried on impact. Pulling himself free he looked around with disoriented eyes and saw…a bike, with a very familiar figure riding it. His brother Jaghatai Khan, his face distorted into a figment of absolute fury as he charged him again, casting aside the remnants of a broken power lance, moving at speeds he had no chance of avoiding.
Instead of a lance, this time Jaghatai simply grabbed him with unreal strength and slammed him into the wall, his already damaged armour suffering immensely under the forces exerted upon it, glowing white hot even as he carved a massive gash into the wall. Finally, Jaghatai threw him, as he fell head over heels, listening to the sound of his bones snapping.
Gasping in pain and shock he turned over, unable to move his now very much destroyed legs. As he tried to drag himself away over the snow as Jaghatai brought his assault bike to a halt, drawing a massive curved sword which he placed on his neck.
"What are you, some daemon spawned for the twisted depths of Slaanesh's insanity? To dare take this mockery of my brother's form, traitor though he is."
His confusion guttered into anger and yet more confusion as he beheld his brother's visage. The red lightening bolt was there, but aside from that he was changed. Scars…trillions of scars covered every inch of flesh he could see. What kind of wound or torture must he have endured to have receive such terrible, all-encompassing wounds.
But his words…his words and deeds, these reignited his anger. His blade was gone, his amour broken, but he was still Fulgrim, Primarch of the Emperor's Children!
"I am no mockery, I am he you barbarous fool! I am Fulgrim and I will have a reckoning for this, I will set right whatever, this is!"
And as he said this he looked towards the city, the city burned in his name. Then he felt the blade dig into his neck.
"Your acting is superb I'll give you that, but Fulgrim is gone! Nought but a daemon and traitor now…and yet." He hesitated, and then reached forwards his gauntlet encompassing his entire head as a mental onslaught crashed into him.
Jaghatai, a Psyker! This was impossible, he had been in favour of them, but he was not one himself. He tried to focus his mind, but it was confused and broken, easy pickings for the calmer Khan who reached through his mental defences with an almost practised ease examining what he found within…then stopping.
Before he could even utter a single syllable, he felt a hard impact to his head…and all fell into darkness.
He awoke again, this time with complete albeit limited range of movement, not back in that twisted art gallery, but in a prison cell. His hands and legs were bound with mighty chains, his armour, gone and wounds healed.
He struggled upright and saw a table and two chairs one built for him…and one for another much larger and already occupied.
"Ah you're awake!"
That voice which rumbled through the air like a sleeping volcano, that form black as the void, towering high above him even outside of power armour. Vulkan, his eyes closed, bereft of armour or weapon. In his hands was a small box and aside him a much larger case.
He raised his arms, the chains rattling "What is the meaning of this brother? Why have you bound me here…" and then in a tone of despair and confusion "What is going on? What has happened that has led me to be dragged here?"
Sighing Vulkan motioned him to come closer, a grimace passing over his face even as his eyes remained shut, almost as if in a nightmare. "Come closer, Fulgrim, and eat first. I find having food is an excellent way to calm down even for us."
It was only then that he noticed a plate of food upon the interrogation table, a plate of Nocternian fire curry…like he had prepared for him when they first met. Bringing himself up he walked towards the table, the chains allowing for more than enough range of movement for this and started to eat, the curry burning its way down his gullet, distracting him from his confusion and pain, while cold salamander milk soothed it away again.
It was over before he realised it however, a hunger he had been keeping at bay for so long finally satisfied. In fact, he felt like he had never eaten before in his life.
"Good? I made it myself." He jerked up, so lost in the warmth and food that he had forgotten his sibling who now looked at him with open, blood red eyes. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Vulkan's lips curled in a slight smile, before it vanished again. "Jaghatai tells me the last thing you remember is the bridge of your ship before beginning the Laeran campaign, correct?" He nodded, the matter of Jaghatai's powers something he would be most…insistent on learning.
Vulkan nodded, as if to himself and then reached forwards a hand, "then I will show you what you are missing. Take your time, afterwards…it will be distressing."
He did not protest, he had no power here, and let Vulkan place his hand upon his head and then…an explosion. He saw the light of millions of weapons firing, Astartes fighting Astartes, the Sons of Horus, his own children, and many more firing upon Iron Hands, Salamanders, and Raven Guard. He could feel himself hefting a massive hammer, no not him Vulkan, and saw him pulp dozens of marines with a single flick.
But that was not what held his attention. He saw himself, standing with a strange silver blade, fighting Ferrus Manus…his closest friend. He saw himself through Vulkan's memories, cleave his head from his shoulders and heard Vulkan's shout of anguish as his own, even as nuclear fire started to rain down around him.
The vision changed, now he was standing in front of the body of Gulliman, grievous wounds in his neck and chest, who sat in repose in a stasis field. He heard the conversations around him, the weeping. The cursing of his name.
It changed one final time, Vulkan gazing out over a planet under a purple sky telling
him to show himself…and then it did. It was his voice that emerged from it, but it was not him. A snake like creature, with four arms and purple skin that came rushing towards and for his brother.
Vulkan retracted his hand and looked upon him. "Do you understand what you have seen?"
His control snapped. Tears started to pour forth from his eyes. He howled in despair, at the impossibility of this, at the impossibility of these all too real images that had flashed in front of his eyes as Vulkan sat there, looking on calmly.
He reached out across the table, grasping for him, but the chains stopped him before he could no matter how much he strained. "Please…this is a joke. Some cruel jape, a punishment for some crime I remember not, please…tell me?! I couldn't have killed
him!"
Vulkan shook his head and stood to his full height. He walked around the table and embraced him. Fulgrim sat in his brother's arms, tremors of grief shaking his body as he sank into the warmth emanating from him.
He was not sure how long he spent, simply crying, but when he finally stopped Vulkan released him and returned to his side of the table.
"I would ask that you let me explain what has happened Fulgrim and keep your questions until after I am finished. That will save us all a great deal of time." He nodded.
"You did kill Ferrus Manus," a statement that made him curl in on himself like a wounded beast "At the Istavan V drop site massacre. By that point you had been hopelessly corrupted by the Laeran blade. You gave yourself to Horus when he betrayed Father, and eventually became a literal monster, mortally wounding Guilliman. It has been nearly 15,000 years since then. The Imperium is gone. Father is dead."
He nodded, his mind blank. He didn't feel anything anymore.
"Your existence is something I did not anticipate, in fact nobody could have. Your memories told us that you emerged in the collection of Trayzn who said he acquired you from Fabius Bile. Bile's abilities at cloning even Primarchs are well known; during the Horus Heresy he cloned Ferrus Manus multiple times and afterwards he even managed to clone Horus. Creating one of Fulgrim, of you, from before your corruption…it is within what we know of his capabilities."
Vulkan then placed the two boxes he had brought with him upon the table. "There are two paths before you. The first is death." With that he opened the smaller box revealing a golden compass, that burned with power like father. "This talisman was intended to act as a Deadman's switch, but I never had time to install it. Despite that its power remains unrivalled as one of the most dangerous of my creations. If you wish I will use it to end you. It will be quick, painless, and absolute. A true death."
He was tempted…oh he was tempted. To just end it all, to end this nightmare he had been thrust into. But he waited.
Vulkan opened the second case, revealing a sword, one that he could tell at a glance was even more potent than the Fireblade his brother had given him. The work of an unmatched genius tempered by experience. "Or the path of redemption. We've done much to assure ourselves that you are not corrupt, you are not Fulgrim the Daemon Prince. If you wish, take up the blade and earn salvation. The choice is yours."
His eyes strayed towards the compass. He could almost hear rest calling him from its golden glow. The sword held nothing but pain and sorrow. A possibly eternal task of trying to redeem himself, in his own estimation if not in the eyes of others.
He closed his eyes and stretched forth his hand, trusting in his instincts to guide him, until he felt his fingers ghost over a cold metal hilt. Tightening his grip upon the blade he lifted it up, opening his eyes to gaze into its mirror like surface, before looking at Vulkan who gazed at him without a hint of judgement. Merely acceptance.
By some unseen mental command, the chains that bound him collapsed as Vulkan rose once again. "I will take you to Corvus, and he will fill you in on what you need to know."
And so Fulgrim, the Phoenician, rose and followed his brother towards a new day.
First thank you
@Andres110 for being epic and a beta.
Second
@Durin
Third, I am not even joking this is based on canon.
Suggestions, criticisms and everything welcome, but going to sleep soon (probably.)
