Chapter 324: Drink!
They hadn't managed to persuade one another with words—Vulkan was far more stubborn than expected. That might be a good thing, though; it meant he would not be easily swayed, even if the price was more of his sons' blood.
But during their conversation, Ferrus gradually realized something unsettling: Mortarion wasn't truly trying to convince Vulkan.
He was evaluating him—judging his words and behavior.
Why would he be so cautious, so wary of his own brother? Unless…
A deep dread crept up from Ferrus's logic processors—he didn't want to believe it. He would rather think Mortarion was simply insane.
But… could that be true?
Not long after they departed from the Flamewrought, the Lord of Medusa received an invitation from the Lord of Death.
Their conversation was far from over.
Unlike Mortarion—who would never step aboard another Legion's ship unless absolutely necessary—Ferrus was far less concerned with such matters, and thus accepted the invitation gladly.
. . .
The Endurance.
The Lord of Death sat comfortably in his personal chair. He looked far more at ease than he had aboard the Flamewrought.
On the other side, however, the Lord of Medusa seemed far less comfortable.
Just as Vulkan liked to decorate his ship with furnaces and flame, Mortarion preferred to fill his chambers with a soft, cloying haze of toxin. He had even removed his respirator—and only then did Ferrus realize that it wasn't a gas mask, but rather a poison mask.
Perhaps Mortarion truly was a madman.
"Welcome, my brother."
Mortarion spoke casually, raising a hand to signal a servitor to pour drinks for the two Primarchs.
In the rough-hewn copper goblets, the murky liquid reflected the room's barren dimness.
Ferrus slowly turned his gaze toward Mortarion.
"Forgive the austerity. Unlike those Legions who care about life's little comforts, the Death Guard don't concern themselves with anything beyond war."
Mortarion said indifferently, picking up a small flask from the servitor's tray and adding a dose of something into his cup.
Ferrus saw clearly that what poured out was pitch-black and foul-smelling, thick with strange black sediment.
At that moment, Ferrus decided Mortarion now topped his list of strangest Primarchs—and also demoted his trustworthiness rating by one full grade.
Noticing Ferrus's lingering stare, Mortarion finally spoke, his eyes still fixed on the cup:
"It's… a personal indulgence of mine. Slightly toxic."
Poisoned wine helped him to speak.
The sharp, corrosive liquid would sting his throat and cramp his gut—it reminded Mortarion of his years on Barbarus.
It reminded him that he was still enduring, still surviving—still growing harder.
It even improved his mood.
But for one who lived through pain, feeling "better" was never a good sign. Thus, Mortarion rarely drank.
He usually only did so when swearing oaths alongside his warriors—to ensure the moment would burn itself into his memory.
This was the second time he had shared a drink with a "brother."
The first had been with Horus—but that, to Mortarion, had tasted like nothing more than bland water.
This time, he wanted to try again.
To see if, perhaps, something different—some faint possibility—could emerge.
Ferrus watched him suspiciously, but Mortarion didn't care.
He took a shallow sip, feeling the cells in his mouth rupture in the poison's embrace—it was like swallowing a cloud of fine needles.
"We're all freaks."
Mortarion murmured slowly, swirling the cup in his hand.
"I once thought I had adapted to this… 'family'—this corner filled with tyrants, killers, and egomaniacs. But I was wrong. Vulkan's existence shocked me."
Ferrus cautiously raised his own cup, peered once at the murky liquid, and took a sip.
To his surprise, what struck him wasn't the rough texture but the pain—a searing, inexplicable burn that drowned out all other sensation.
The drink was absolutely, undeniably, poisoned.
And all the while, Mortarion watched his every move.
"You're not bad yourself."
Ferrus offered a fair and objective assessment.
Mortarion chuckled.
"At least both my hands aren't made of iron."
He said it, then took another large gulp.
Ferrus had long since grown used to Mortarion's occasional jabs. He flexed his metal fingers, and in the dim guest chamber of the Death Guard, even the steel sheen seemed muted.
He chose his words carefully, recalling their earlier conversation. Slowly, Mortarion's words and actions began to form a clear line in his mind.
"I suppose… I'm the first you've met?"
Mortarion paused for a moment—then smiled.
"The first who can actually hold a rational conversation."
Ferrus spoke in a low, rough tone.
"Then I assume your last encounter wasn't particularly pleasant."
Mortarion's smile deepened, though there was pain hidden beneath it.
"You guessed right. That's why I don't expect to find many sane people in this so-called 'family.'"
Ferrus took another sip.
The initial sting had dulled; now he was beginning to get used to the cloudy drink. The poisonous burn was fading, and he even started to find it… bland.
After all, he had survived his youth on Medusa eating carrion and rusted metal screws.
At least this brew was made from plants and proteins.
"But you yourself, Mortarion—you don't possess the qualities that make me trust you."
Mortarion didn't seem the slightest bit offended. He spoke lazily:
"This conversation is your opportunity, not mine, my brother. Have you not realized that yet? Don't test the limits of my remaining goodwill, Ferrus."
"I always thought that, between the three of us, only Vulkan had any goodwill to begin with."
Ferrus said quietly.
"Tell me, Mortarion—what do you want? Or rather, what must I offer to earn your so-called goodwill?"
He watched Mortarion mutter something under his breath before the Lord of Death lifted his cup and drank.
When he set it down again, only the black dregs remained.
"You'll have to prove your worth first, Ferrus. Stop hesitating. If you still think I'm toying with you, you're free to leave the Endurance anytime you wish."
Was that irritation in his voice—or was Mortarion simply drunk?
Ferrus said nothing. He drained his cup, then glanced at the small flask beside Mortarion.
"Still, I must point out—your hospitality leaves much to be desired, Mortarion. Not sharing the good stuff with your guest?"
For once, Mortarion blinked in surprise. Then he laughed, picking up the flask and pouring for Ferrus—and for himself—this time without diluting it.
"My mistake."
Wrinkles creased around his eyes as he smiled.
"I'd suggest you only take a sip at first—don't swallow right away. This is my special brew. Even for a Primarch, it's… stimulating."
Ferrus raised his cup.
"You underestimate me. Perhaps you don't know what it takes to survive on Medusa, only those who can swallow steel nails live long enough to tell the tale."
Then he drank—
Ferrus nearly spat it out.
His mouth was bleeding; he could taste the metallic sweetness mixing with the drink's bitterness—grotesque and wrong. But the sensation quickly faded, because the top layer of flesh on his tongue had melted into the liquor.
"Hrrgh."
Mortarion watched Ferrus's reaction with delight, silently counting the seconds. One… two… by the fifth second, Ferrus finally managed to swallow.
His toxin resistance was impressive, Mortarion admitted to himself.
Perhaps next time, he'd try cyanide.
Ferrus stared at him in disbelief.
"You drink this regularly? That's… that's excessive."
"Now you understand my flawless sense of hospitality, Ferrus."
Ferrus looked away, smacking his lips—as if trying to recall the sensation. Then, cautiously, he lifted the cup again, sniffed, and took a very small sip.
"It seems… I may have misjudged you earlier."
Ferrus could hear the screams of his own esophagus.
He could feel his stomach perforating, the icy liquid seeping through into his abdomen, pressing coldly against his intestines.
It hurt, but pain like that meant little to beings like them.
Ferrus took another deep swallow.
"So, Mortarion… it's not just one, is it? If you're being this cautious, then… it's not only… Vulkan?"
The pain in his gut dulled the pain in his soul.
The image of his dearest friend blurred within that agony, and that made speaking a little easier.
Mortarion ignored him, refilling his own cup for the third time.
"Go on."
He said flatly.
Ferrus clenched his jaw so hard his gums bled.
"Does he know? Have you spoken to him about it?"
Mortarion cast him a sidelong glance.
"I believe I mentioned from the start that this 'family' of ours is full of freaks. Tell me, how good do you think the father of such a family could possibly be?"
Then—
Mortarion leaned back into the couch, visibly displeased with his own words.
They crawled out of his mouth like slugs, thick and reluctant.
"Still… he's trustworthy. The only one we can trust. There's no other choice—most of them simply aren't."
"…Why?"
Mortarion's tone grew darker.
"Because my commander chose him. And I trust my commander."
The statement left Ferrus in long, heavy silence.
"Fine," he muttered at last, "I take back my apology. You are a freak, my brother."
Mortarion lifted his hand.
"You should remember him—Hades. He's the Head of the Silent Sisterhood of the Imperium. If you're not a fool, you understand what that title means."
Ferrus fell silent again.
He did remember Hades—their previous encounters, and the whispers from those who had returned from their training on Mars.
"I didn't see your commander during this campaign. Was he reassigned by the Imperium?"
Mortarion nodded once.
Ferrus exhaled in relief, lifting his cup for another sip.
"Then our father is still taking action. Good—"
But then his face went pale.
"Will he… dispose of the failures directly?"
Mortarion replied slowly, almost lazily:
"And what would you do, Ferrus?"
Ferrus opened his mouth—to speak, to argue, he didn't know.
He thought of Vulkan. He thought of the long years behind them.
In the end, he trembled and said:
"I just hope… that when the time comes, at least my memories will be wiped clean."
Mortarion burst out laughing.
"I like that answer. But seeing as I—and the Death Guard—are still here, I'd say he's not that unforgiving yet."
Ferrus lowered his head and reached directly for the flask—
But to his surprise, when he tipped it, not a single drop came out.
The flask was empty.
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