Chapter 82 - This Is Your Uncle Kellen
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Loken remembered: his gene-father had been struck down, slain by the Emperor of Mankind himself.
So why was he standing here again, in the flesh, before his very eyes?
His first instinct was that this had to be some trick of Chaos. He was the first man in the XVIth Legion to truly open his eyes to the Warp, and he knew the powers of ruin too well to trust them. The gene-father before him still wore the face of the uncorrupted Lupercal, and that was precisely why Loken was certain. This was Chaos. This had to be Chaos.
The Lupercal he loved, the Wolf Shepherd he had sworn to serve unto death, was dead.
"Don't... deceive me again!"
Loken roared the words.
Fury twisted his face, and yet the tears came with it. He dragged together every last shred of strength to rise and tackle Horus to the ground — but the moment he moved, pain locked his whole body and shut him down.
His son's reaction left Horus at a loss.
As Loken began to topple back again, a firm hand reached in from the side and caught his power pauldron.
"Captain Loken. Don't throw your life away just yet. This isn't some rotten little Warp trick."
Kaelen put just enough pressure on the armor to steady him.
"Turn your head. Look at everyone else in this room before you decide anything."
Loken's breath came in violent heaves. He followed Kaelen's voice and turned, eyes sweeping the room.
One by one, those impossibly tall figures registered.
His pupils dilated, slowly.
"Lord Sanguinius?" His hoarse voice was raw with disbelief. "Lord Guilliman?"
From the sickbed beside him, the Great Angel, pure white wings folded against the cushions, smiled and gave a small wave. "Hey, Loken."
At the foot of the bed, the Lord of Ultramar stood with one hand resting on his sword and inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment.
Then Loken saw Kullen by the door. A veteran in black armor, a stranger by face, but the old-school Astartes bearing on him was unmistakable. That couldn't be faked.
The wariness in the room began to drain out of him.
"Is it really you? Sir?"
The question came tentative, trembling.
He looked at the towering figure before him, and there he was, still the flawless, perfect, quietly thunderous Wolf God of his memory.
Only now the gene-father's face carried something Loken had never seen on it before. A trace of sorrow. And alongside it, the joy of reunion.
"It's me, Loken." Horus stepped close in two long strides, reaching out and wrapping those broad hands around Loken's own.
"My son."
"It's me. Horus Lupercal."
He slowly lowered himself into a crouch, bringing his eyes level with the captain's.
"We're alive, Loken. We're inside the heart of the Imperial Palace, on Terra. This isn't a dying man's fantasy. It isn't some sick joke the Four Gods cooked up."
"This violates the Imperial Truth." Loken still could not believe it. He shook his head, murmuring more to himself than anyone else. "We all died in that rebellion. It was a dead end. There's no way out of it. How is something like this even supposed to make sense..."
"What can't be explained, you don't need to dissect," Kaelen put in from the side.
Loken looked up at the mortal.
"The Emperor placed a commission. He had me pull you and Sanguinius both back. Welcome to the final year of the 41st Millennium of the Imperium of Man." Kaelen spread his hands.
The 41st Millennium?
Loken's mind went blank.
A full ten thousand years had passed?
Horus smiled and patted the back of his son's hand.
"Stop staring. This is your... Uncle Kaelen." The Wolf Shepherd dropped the title onto the mortal as easily as a cloak. "He's my closest friend. Father entrusted him with the task of dragging the rest of us out of the mire."
Uncle Kaelen.
Hearing his magnificent gene-father bestow that word on a mortal, Loken's worldview took another hammer-blow.
"I know you can't process all of this at once." Horus dragged a metal chair over and sat down. "But this is the reality. And isn't the core of the Imperial Truth precisely this, to face what objectively exists?"
"Lie still, son. Let me tell you everything, slowly, from the beginning."
Horus lowered his voice and began to recount what he had seen and done since returning to the light.
He started with those awkward days of awakening in the lower hive. He spoke of the brutality of the Cadian Campaign, of the duel with Abaddon, and at last of the reunion on Macragge and the absolution granted upon the Throne of Terra.
Father and son stayed there at the bedside, the captain listening quiet and rapt to his gene-father's voice.
Kaelen didn't intrude on the tender scene.
He brushed off his clothes and wandered over to the other two Primarchs.
"The build of a gene-Primarch really is something to envy." Kaelen eyed the new flesh already scabbing over Sanguinius's chest. "At this rate, two or three days of rest and you'll be back at full health, Lord Sanguinius."
"All thanks to the mysterious elixir you provided." The Great Angel leaned slightly toward him, his voice carrying the most sincere gratitude. "Without your intervention, I doubt I would have survived the first ten minutes after returning. Master Kaelen, I will not forget this kindness."
"No need for all that." Kaelen waved it off. "If you really want to thank me, next time the chance comes around, could you let me try some fruit from Baal?"
The Great Angel blinked.
Then a smile spread across his face, stunning in its warmth.
"Of course. Though, Master Kaelen, you should prepare yourself in advance. The fruit on Baal grows under heavy radiation. Sweetness is not exactly its strong suit."
"That's fine. The fruit's really just an excuse." Kaelen grinned. "The real thing is, earlier, your other two brothers and I had a very serious discussion about something."
"Oh?" The Great Angel was clearly intrigued. He glanced at Guilliman. "Discussion about what?"
The Lord of Ultramar rubbed the bridge of his nose and declined to answer.
Kaelen cleared his throat.
"We came up with a very bold hypothesis."
"Suppose you poured untold effort into brewing a barrel of red wine from Baal's rarest, most precious grapes. And then Leman Russ wandered in, stole it, drank most of it, didn't finish it, and tossed the rest aside." Kaelen paused for effect. "Would you do what the Emperor did back in the day, just drop him with one punch?"
To Kaelen's surprise, the Great Angel actually considered the question. The cold white light of the sickroom reflected in those pure eyes.
After a moment, he shook his head gently.
"No. I wouldn't punch Russ."
"However..."
The smile on his face softened, became exceedingly gentle, exceedingly kind. The kind of kindness that put a chill down the spine.
"I would find those Fenrisian meads he treasures most. And I would mix a large, generous dose of sour, astringent grape must straight into his barrels."
"He loves his drink so dearly. I should give him more of it, naturally." Sanguinius spoke softly, almost tenderly. "And I'd pick a grand triumphal banquet for the occasion. In front of everyone, I'd watch him drain every last drop. After all — wasting food is such a shame, wouldn't you agree?"
The air held still for two whole seconds.
Then Kaelen lost it. He burst out laughing.
Even Guilliman, dignified, solemn Guilliman — had to turn his head away, the laugh fighting its way up his throat as he forced it back down.
Truly, the dark-hearted Angel.
Exactly the sort of thing he would do.
➤ Next: Beginning to Poach
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