Chapter 325: Love from the Death Guard
If Hades could see other people's favorability toward him, he would no doubt be puzzled as to why Ferrus Manus, Lord of Medusa, kept gaining ten points of affection toward him from time to time.
However, even without being able to see such values, Hades could clearly tell that Malcador's patience with him was nearing its limit—so he wisely decided to speed up his speech.
"Old Mal, remember this well: Fulgrim's Blade of the Laer, Perturabo's mental issues, Curze's prophecy, Angron's nails—ah, that one I'm going to handle, never mind that then—Magnus, don't let him play with psychic powers; Horus, be careful after he becomes Warmaster; Lorgar… Lorgar needs psychological supervision too; and Alpharius and Omegon—don't let their Legion bite each other."
Hades bowed slightly, placing both hands on Malcador's shoulders and quickly rattled off what he wanted to say. The only response he got was Malcador's expression—one of mild impatience tinged with helplessness.
"Hades," the old man said slowly, "what's that you're carrying on your back?"
Hades blinked. "The Anathame."
"To help you understand, Hades, let me give you the simplest example," Malcador said quietly.
"Since even the Anathame has already deviated from its destined path, how can you expect the Blade of the Laer to still reach the place it once did?"
Hades froze for a moment.
"But at least several of those Primarchs I mentioned all have psychological issues… if properly guided—"
Malcador waved his hand, cutting him off.
"Hades, can you name even one Primarch who is mentally sound—or in other words, one who is hard to corrupt?"
Hades fell silent. After a long moment, he forced out a name between his teeth.
"…The Khan."
Malcador nodded… then shook his head.
"The Khan trusts neither the Imperium nor the Emperor. That is his flaw."
Hades stared at him.
"Shouldn't that be the problem of the Imperium and the Emperor—"
Malcador raised a hand, and arcs of psychic lightning crackled in his palm—a warning light of sorts. Hades, being sensible, smoothly changed the direction of his words.
"I still hope you can establish an administrative and supervisory mechanism between Terra and the Legions, Malcador—though I know that's not very realistic."
Malcador shook his head, the old man's wise yet weary gaze shining out from under his hood.
"Hades, a command sent from Terra takes at least a week to reach the nearest Legion, and the means of transmission is the Astropathic Choir. That means the tides of the Warp can easily interfere."
"And right now, the largest military force in the Imperium is the Legions. How would you limit the Imperium's greatest instrument of violence?"
Hades took a deep breath, then sighed.
"I know… I just… wish I could do a little more, before the storm arrives."
"At least I wish I could shout to the sailors on the sea—run, the storm's coming."
That rare hint of humanity in Hades moved Malcador—though only for about 0.1 seconds. Then Hades smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Old Mal, even if reality is bland, as long as we keep working hard, bigger blessings await us—"
"Get out," Malcador said softly.
"Get out, Hades. Don't make me say it a second time."
He struck his staff against the floor.
"I'll inspect the Legions as you asked, and I'll once again remind my Lord of your warnings. If necessary, I'll suggest that He speak with the Primarchs Himself—but don't expect that to change much, Hades."
Besides, Malcador thought silently to himself, the difficulties were not confined to one place. Some Primarchs interpreted the Emperor's and the Imperium's actions purely through the lens of politics and gain; others viewed everything entirely from a personal standpoint.
That meant every move the Emperor and Terra made would spark differing reactions—and not all of them would be good.
In times this dire, if it had been Malcador in Hades' place, he would have found no reason to smile—let alone the mood to joke.
Malcador fixed his gaze on Hades standing before him.
"You may go."
Hades blinked.
"I'll miss these fond memories aboard the Macragge's Honour—with Neoth, with Guilliman, and with you, old Mal."
"I am not 'old Mal.'"
"Alright then, old—Malcador."
Hades turned, ready to board the ship. Herila, Sister Nera, and Charon were waiting for him behind.
But suddenly, a dazzling golden radiance flared across the wide deck, almost blinding. From within it, the Emperor emerged, stepping forward slowly.
"I am late," He said, and lifted His hand. In it He held a length of black woven cord.
"I replaced that wire for you, Hades. I told you I had rope."
Hades turned around sharply, a smile playing on his lips.
"I thought I was just going to leave like that. When will we meet again next time, Neoth?"
He reached out and naturally took the rope from the Emperor's hand, beginning to replace the old one.
"We will meet again," said the Emperor.
"For you, it will be a surprise."
Hades raised an eyebrow.
"Then I'll start looking forward to it."
The Emperor shook His head and said, "You should go now. The Twelfth Legion awaits you."
Hades froze for a moment.
"You might want to change how you phrase that, Neoth—they're your children, after all."
"It makes no difference," the Emperor replied calmly. "But if you insist—Angron's Legion awaits you."
Hades sighed.
"Talk with your sons more often, Neoth. It might save a few hundred million lives."
"I will. You should be more concerned about yourself, Hades."
Hades turned slightly, a smirk on his face.
"Don't worry, I'm first-class when it comes to being afraid of dying."
Malcador snorted, though it was unclear whether in agreement, disdain, or simple contempt.
They exchanged a few more perfunctory words—there wasn't much left to say—and then Hades boarded the ship and left.
Distance gave him courage. From the window, Hades pressed his face to the glass and shouted back, "Old Mal! Hey, old Mal!"—then went on yelling whatever else came to mind as the ship pulled away.
After Hades left, the Emperor turned His head toward Malcador.
"Why does he call you Old Mal, Malcador?"
Malcador felt his teeth grind together to the point of cracking.
"That's… just one of Hades' damned little jokes."
The Emperor seemed to ponder that for a moment.
. . .
Other than Mortarion and Ferrus, no one knew what exactly the Lord of Death and the Lord of Medusa had discussed that day—nor what sort of agreement they had reached.
But when Ferrus departed from the Endurance, he carried with him a faint, acrid scent… and a mask colder and harder than before.
Meanwhile, the Lord of Death sat comfortably in his chair, clearly satisfied with how the conversation had gone.
The three Legions lingered for a time upon the scorched black soil of Ibsen.
Vulkan stayed to honor the innocent dead; Ferrus stayed with him—the two Primarchs using that time to hold a deep conversation with their own souls.
As for the Death Guard, they seemed to have returned to the very place where the three Primarchs had once been trapped.
No one knew what Mortarion went there to do.
The Primarchs met once more afterward.
Vulkan, who loved gifting his brothers weapons, presented Mortarion with a great scythe.
Unlike Silence, the scythe Mortarion had wrested from his adoptive father's hands—a weapon wreathed in death and ill omen—Vulkan's creation, Mistletoe, seemed to radiate endless vitality.
Its engraved patterns curled along the blade like fresh leaves, evoking memories of dappled green branches in spring.
Interestingly, perhaps owing to the Salamanders Primarch's instinctive sensitivity in forging, Vulkan had chosen blackstone as the scythe's core material, blending in lead to enhance its ductility.
Though Mortarion rarely wielded this weapon—for he was far more at home with Silence—Mistletoe would rest quietly in the Death Guard's vault, waiting for the day when it was truly needed.
After submitting their campaign report to the Imperium—confirming that the planet would be untaxable for at least fifty years—the Death Guard, Iron Hands, and Salamanders all departed.
The Death Guard and Salamanders headed to their next battlefield, while the Iron Hands, led by their Primarch, made a brief visit to the Emperor's Children.
Yet Ferrus, once so open with Fulgrim, spoke nothing of his conversation with Mortarion.
Ferrus hoped that day would never come—that it had been an illusion, that Mortarion had simply been mad, and that perhaps he himself was just another fool who had chosen to believe the ramblings of a lunatic.
When facing Fulgrim, Ferrus never breathed a single word about that conversation.
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