Chapter 81 - Now, the Third Empire Truly Rises
~ Every 100 Power Stones = Bonus Chapter! Your votes keep this climbing. Thanks!
Tears slid down the Wolf God's cheeks.
He couldn't stop himself from comparing them, the smiling, whole Sanguinius before him, and the Sanguinius who had died on the Vengeful Spirit. The one whose skull had been caved in by Worldbreaker, swung by a version of himself that Chaos had turned into a puppet.
He remembered it clearly. The slain Great Angel's one remaining eye had found him in those final moments. No hatred. Only resolve, grief, regret, and a tenderness so gentle it broke something that couldn't be broken.
Now that living, whole brother was right in front of him.
Horus set Kaelen down gently, then turned and walked toward the sickbed.
His steps were heavy. Each one cost him something.
"I'm sorry..."
He stopped at the bedside. His massive arms trembled as they reached out and pulled Sanguinius close.
"I am so sorry."
"I was the one who didn't hold on. If I had endured just a little longer — held out just a little more — none of this would have happened."
"It was an absolute defilement. No one should be treated that way. Especially not you."
The Wolf God's mountain of a frame shook.
Sanguinius exhaled softly and patted him on the back.
"It's all right. I know that wasn't the real you." A quiet warmth in his voice. "We all did what we could, didn't we?"
Only after a long while did Horus slowly straighten. He dragged a rough hand across his face, smearing the tears, and stepped back half a pace.
Then came Guilliman.
The Lord of Ultramar stood at the foot of the bed, both hands locked around the hilt at his waist. His knuckles had gone white. He was a man famous for reason and restraint, and right now his azure eyes were full of water.
Sanguinius looked at him and laughed, soft and surprised.
"Roboute. This is the first time I've ever seen you grieve."
With some effort, the Great Angel opened his arms.
"No hug? My dear brother?"
Guilliman didn't hesitate for a single heartbeat. He leaned forward and held him tight.
"I came too late."
The Lord of Ultramar's voice was unsteady. This was the second time he had ever wept.
"I came too late. The Warp cut my fleet off from the Throneworld. I lied to you, brother. I told you to wait — and I couldn't get there in time to save you."
The self-reproach was drowning him.
He had been aboard the Macragge's Honour when his crew reported it: nearly 3,000 Vengeful Spirits, blocking every approach. The relief fleet couldn't break through no matter what they tried. Even then, he had kept sending messages to Sanguinius. Wait nine hours for me.
When he finally reached Terra, all he found was a cold body.
In that moment, only one thought had filled his mind: Why was it the perfect Sanguinius who died, and not Roboute Guilliman?
Sanguinius patted his back, the same as he had with Horus.
"I understand all of it." The Great Angel leaned close to his ear, his tone almost easy. "I even told Dorn at the time — if you couldn't make it, you would avenge us. You are the Avenging Son, Roboute."
He released his grip and settled back against the headboard, studying this Lord Regent from 10,000 years in the future.
His gaze stopped at Guilliman's neck. A hideous dark-red scar ran across it. The flesh had closed, but something foul still seeped from it, a faint, wrong presence that made the Great Angel's eyebrow lift.
"What happened to your neck?" He raised a hand and pointed at the scar.
Guilliman touched it, following the gesture. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Fulgrim. 10,000 years ago." He didn't try to hide the loss. "I couldn't beat him. I nearly died on that poisoned blade. My sons fought their way out and carried me back to Macragge, sealed me in a stasis field. I wasn't woken until recently, by Lord Kaelen and Cawl."
At the name Fulgrim, Sanguinius went quiet for half a second. Then the warmth of reunion swept the old grief aside.
"A blessing inside the misfortune. To be alive is to have hope." He shifted into a more comfortable position. "Have you seen Father? Brothers?"
Guilliman and Horus nodded together.
"We have seen Father. He has absolved me." Horus picked up the thread, then stopped.
He didn't know how to describe what came next. Because their creator's current state was, truly, beyond any words he had.
"I never imagined Father would end up like that." He rubbed his bald scalp. "If not for the voice coming through that communication device, I would have thought he had already become some unspeakable relic."
Sanguinius's gaze drifted to the doorway, where Cullen stood. The old knight snapped upright immediately and delivered a First Legion salute, textbook perfect, Great Crusade vintage.
"Lion's son. Cullen. My finest guard, and my friend." Horus made the introduction without being asked.
The Great Angel smiled and returned the nod.
Kaelen had been standing at the foot of the sickbed this whole time, arms crossed, doing absolutely nothing. He'd faded into the background so thoroughly he might as well have been furniture.
He looked at the three of them, Guilliman, Horus, Sanguinius, standing together in this hospital room. Three primarchs in one place. And something completely unhinged bubbled up in his brain.
Horus was Imperial Warmaster. Guilliman was Imperial Regent. And Sanguinius could serve as a spiritual figurehead anywhere you dropped him.
This lineup could literally hang a sign on the door and declare the Third Empire right now.
Which meant the Lion was getting left out.
Old Nine, Old Thirteen! Kaelen thought. Weren't you two sworn to build the Second Empire together? What happened to that? You both just went and joined up with the Arch-Traitor and kicked him out of the group chat?
He let the mental image run. The Lion, waking from his coma, discovering that his two most loyal brothers had defected to Horus's side and hadn't even saved him a seat. The expression on the face of the First Legion's gene-father, twisted, jealous, furious, and deeply, personally offended.
Kaelen couldn't hold it. He snorted out loud.
Every head in the room turned.
Before he could explain himself, Horus's gaze swept sideways, and caught the other sickbed.
"Loken?"
His breath stopped.
One second he hadn't finished processing the joy of seeing Sanguinius alive. The next second, something hit him even harder.
Lying on that specially-built bed was his Lunar Wolf. The Crescent Moon of his Mournival. The son he had been proudest of.
Garviel Loken.
Kaelen cleared his throat and walked over to the bedside.
"I wasn't expecting much, honestly. While I was pulling Sanguinius out, I figured I'd try my luck, shouted at the top of my lungs in the Throne Room, offered to sacrifice 1,300 years off Abaddon's lifespan." He grinned, sharp and satisfied. "Turned out to be a double-yolker. Not bad odds, right?"
"Thank you."
Horus turned around. His eyes were full of tears.
There weren't words in a primarch's vocabulary for what was moving through him right now.
His own rebirth. Everything standing before him, enough to rewrite the entire hopeless history of the galaxy. All of it had come from this one mortal. This one friend. A debt Horus Lupercal could not repay if he spent every year of his life trying.
"In the past, I had the most elite Legion in the galaxy. Countless outstanding sons. A father who loved me. Brothers who respected me."
Horus crossed to Kaelen in three strides. Those hands, hands that could tear adamantium, closed around Kaelen's arm with absolute care.
"But none of that compares to now. You. Roboute. Sanguinius. Father. Loken and Cullen." His voice was steady, certain. "My friend, I have everything I need."
"To walk beside you, to call you friend, that is the greatest honor of my life. Kaelen."
Kaelen looked at this enormous, bald, completely overwhelmed man, and smiled. He patted the back of the primarch's hand.
"Cut it out. Same goes for me, Wolf God."
He said it simply. No ceremony.
A mortal receiving this kind of unreserved gratitude from a primarch, that had never happened in the history of this universe. Not once.
But Kaelen didn't feel overwhelmed. He just felt glad. Genuinely, quietly glad that his friend had gotten back the things that mattered to him.
Still.
He looked up at Horus's tear-streaked, grateful face. And the old man's roast from the Throne Room started playing on loop in the back of his skull, completely against his will.
The white Samoyed of Cthonia.
Oh no.
Because now, no matter how he looked at it, the Horus standing in front of him was absolutely a large, deeply emotional dog wagging its tail as hard as it could.
That mental image was never going away.
Then the monitors beeped. Short, sharp, insistent.
On the bed, the fingers of the figure in battered Mark IV power armor twitched. Just barely. Just once.
"Alright, enough of the sentimental stuff." Kaelen changed the subject fast, jerking his chin toward the bed. "Your good son Loken is about to wake up. You ready to explain all of this to him?"
Horus let go immediately. He turned and crossed to the bedside in two steps.
He stood there with his head bowed, expression caught between nerves and anticipation, like a father waiting for his child to open their eyes. He had a whole speech ready. He wanted to tell Loken that the Imperium hadn't fallen. That there was still a chance. That everything could be different this time.
"Loken?"
"Loken. Wake up."
On the bed, long lashes trembled.
With enormous effort, heavy eyelids cracked open.
Blurred. Then slowly, painfully, sharpening.
The first thing he saw was a face, very close.
A broad jaw. Resolute lines. That unmistakable bald head.
His gene-father.
Loken's mind went completely blank. It stayed that way for a full half-second.
"...Wolf God?"
➤ Next: This Is Your Uncle Kellen
— .—— .—— .—— .—— .——
Enjoying the story?
Read 60+ chapters ahead on Patreon.
Join the free community tier for early access to the latest updates:
patreon(.)com/DarkGolds