Chapter 98 - Guilliman’s Request — Face to Face
~ Every 100 Power Stones = Bonus Chapter! Your votes keep this climbing. Thanks!
"Let's talk, brother."
Guilliman spoke first, breaking the silence.
The last time he and Curze had spoken was ten thousand years ago, when Curze stood trial in the courts of Macragge.
"Is this about the verdict for my crimes? Lord Justice of Macragge, oh, forgive me, I should address you as Your Highness the Regent now~"
Curze straightened from the leather sofa, a viciously twisted false smile cutting across his pale face.
Guilliman said nothing. The old Guilliman would have answered that smirk with a fist to the face of this flying Nostraman rat.
But Curze wasn't wrong. He was now the Regent of the Imperium of Mankind, appointed by the Emperor Himself. He could not afford to act on personal feeling.
"As for the verdict on your crimes," Guilliman said, "I gave my answer ten thousand years ago."
"But by my standards, it wasn't enough. You should have killed me."
Curze's voice was quiet.
"I will kill you."
Guilliman's reply was just as quiet.
"But not now. Death would be too light for you, wouldn't it?"
"You want to use me?! Use me — a sinner?!"
Curze's voice climbed, his pitch-black eyes flashing with savagery and contempt.
"You've changed, Roboute. The old you would have passed sentence without hesitation, not played the part of some grubby politician using a sinner to do his dirty work for political gain!"
"I preferred the old you! At least the old you respected law and order! Where is he, that just, rational Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds I once knew?!"
The Lord of Ultramar paused. Then he laughed.
"To hear the word 'preferred' from your mouth — that is truly an honor."
"And you're right. I do intend to use you."
His voice was calm, edged with the sorrow of a man with no other choice.
That stopped Curze in his tracks. He didn't know how to answer it. So instead, the Lord of the Night reached for the oldest wounds he could find, Guilliman's own, and dug his fingers in.
"Your sons, I killed quite a few of them. Especially the one called Augustus. I scooped out his entrails with my own hands... You don't resent me?"
"Oh — and your adoptive mother. Tarasha Euten."
When Curze spoke the name, he saw Guilliman's body twitch. It thrilled him.
"I almost had her. A pity those wolf-pups got in my way. Then the resurrected Vulkan stepped in and finished the interference."
"But I must admit, your mother was brave. Not a flicker of fear in front of me. I should never have killed you and the Lion outright. I should have let you watch her suffer first, Roboute. Such a waste."
The Lord of the Night put on the air of a man savoring a fine vintage, deliberately twisting the blade.
Guilliman didn't flinch. He remained calm.
That infuriated Curze. He opened his mouth to push further, and Guilliman spoke first.
"I'm curious. Why did you go after my adoptive mother?"
"Because in my visions I saw that Tarasha Euten was fated to die by my hand! I was only carrying out the future the prophecy showed me!"
"And had she committed any crime?"
Curze's mouth opened. No sound came out.
Tarasha Euten had no record. None. She was an exemplary elder in every sense of the word. And Curze's iron law on Nostramo had always been simple, the target must be guilty.
"Curze, my brother, before the Great Heresy, I heard of your deeds. And I could see it: a heart of justice in you, a refusal to tolerate any crime. I admired that."
"But in the end, you let yourself become a slave to prophecy. You betrayed your own creed."
"I was only walking the path the prophecy pointed me down!" Curze repeated, louder this time, trying to drown out the panic rising in his chest.
In truth, now that his mind was clear again, Curze regretted what he had done to Euten. Hunting an innocent, it made him no better than the gutter-trash gangers stalking Nostramo's streets.
"But your prophecy did not come to pass. My mother was saved. Prophecy can be changed, my brother."
"..."
Curze said nothing.
He couldn't deny it. It was, in fact, a textbook case of a prophecy's outcome being rewritten.
"Or perhaps," Guilliman said, "your motive back then was simpler than that. Were you jealous of me?"
Curze gave a cold laugh.
"Heh. So you do know. Yes, Roboute, many of us envied you. Envied your perfect upbringing. Your perfect adoptive parents."
"I won't deny it. Part of my motive then was jealousy!"
"Then if you were offered that chance now, care, family, kinship, would you refuse it, or would you take it?"
Guilliman extended his hand.
Curze stared at it as if it were a blade.
"You've lost your mind!"
"I am your enemy!"
"You are my brother. One of the few I have left."
Guilliman's voice was steady.
"My adoptive father died long ago. My adoptive mother, gone, lost to time. Ten thousand years have ground her to dust and folded her into history. All I have left now is our Father on the Throne. And you. All of you."
"The Imperium is no longer the Imperium we knew, Curze. Since I took up its governance, I have often found myself measuring you against it. And do you know what I've concluded?" He almost smiled. "You're the more endearing of the two."
The Imperial Regent couldn't quite keep the dry humor out of his voice. At the word endearing, the Lord of the Night nearly came off the sofa.
To have such a word attached to him was an insult of monumental proportions.
"You are mad," Guilliman went on, "but yours is a madness with principles. With limits. The Imperium's madness has long since left yours behind."
"Am I to take that as an admission that my terror tactics were effective?" Curze gave a cold snort.
"Hm... in hindsight, yes. Though I would much prefer you turn those tactics on our enemies from now on."
Guilliman sat down beside him. When he spoke again, his voice was almost a plea.
"I am asking for your help, Curze. Call it a favor. Call it exploitation. I don't care which. I only want to leave something, for our Father, for ourselves, for human civilization. The Imperium cannot be allowed to fall in the dark age that is coming. As Primarchs, as the Emperor's own sons, it is our duty to save her."
"I cannot do this alone. So I come to you. I have not forgotten what you have done. But I have not forgotten what you are capable of, either, and this era has need of it. The past is the past. What stands before us now is a war crueler than anything we have ever fought. And at the very least, I still know who is my enemy and who is my friend."
Looking into those azure eyes, the hamster of Macragge's eyes, still burning with the same justice, the same reason he remembered, the bat of Nostramo fell silent.
He saw it then. His brother was exhausted. Guilliman was tired. He needed more hands at the wheel.
Konrad wrestled with it. Thought. Finally, jaw clenched, teeth grinding, he answered.
"Fine."
"But, Roboute, you must pass sentence on me as you would on any sinner. Otherwise, I will not help you."
A strange demand.
Guilliman thought as much, but a great weight lifted from his chest all the same.
Compared to what the Imperium had become, Curze really wasn't so bad, was he?
(A very bad Nostraman kitty, nearly clawed my dad to death, IP: Phalanx)
(Tomorrow we kick off the Indomitus Crusade arc, time to go find the old man)
➤ Next: The Regent Seizes Power
— .—— .—— .—— .—— .——
Enjoying the story?
Read 60+ chapters ahead on Patreon.
Join the free community tier for early access to the latest updates:
patreon(.)com/DarkGolds