My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 411: Welcome to Macragge
"Macragge?"
Mortarion flung the documents Vorx had handed him onto the desk with a sharp slap. The stack of paper scattered slightly.
A harsh hiss escaped from beneath his rebreather. Almost unconsciously, he brushed a gauntleted hand over his armor—the faint traces of blood upon it bearing witness to his recent actions.
"…It seems my brother owes me an explanation as to why Macragge is the only place in the warp with a navigational beacon."
Mortarion spoke slowly, each word bitten off with restrained fury.
"I sincerely hope he truly requires aid and that he has not erected some glittering, warp-visible gravestone over Macragge for the sake of some trivial concern."
He had purged the Legion's internal traitors with urgency and ruthlessness. He had consolidated resources with brutal efficiency.
Not to waste time sailing toward a place like Macragge.
They should be heading toward a battlefield—not fertile, civilized soil.
Yet with the Astronomican in turmoil and warp currents in chaos, under the Navigators' direction, the Death Guard had little choice but to steer toward the one bright point shining within the warp.
Mortarion pressed a hand against his respirator and drew in a long breath.
Perhaps he should have simply ordered the fleet to drive straight toward the great wound that split the galaxy. At least there, he might find the origin of this catastrophe.
. . .
At least, for now, Roboute Guilliman would not glean from that brief communiqué the bloodshed and purges that had preceded the Death Guard's hasty departure.
He only knew one thing:
The Emperor had answered his unspoken wish—
But had sent the wrong person.
Anti-psyker expertise. The Death Guard. The Lord of Death, Mortarion, had responded to his plea.
At this moment, the sunlight over Macragge was perfect. Bright white rays gleamed upon sapphire-blue armor, making it shimmer brilliantly.
Guilliman stood upon the platform of the Fortress of Hera at the northern entrance of the grand plaza, clad in ceremonial armor. The banners of the Ultramarines and the Titan Legions fluttered proudly in the wind.
Before him stretched his Legion in solemn formation, standing upon a vast square paved with blue-green stone and marble quarried from Mount Kalut. The sunlight edged their blue helms in blazing gold.
They resembled an ocean of azure.
The Lord of Macragge spared no effort in displaying his army. It was an act of respect—and a reassurance to his people.
With the Astronomican extinguished and psykers driven mad, rumors had spread rapidly throughout Ultramar. Even with Guilliman's personal intervention, stability had not been fully restored.
Thus this grand reception and parade served a purpose.
He needed the people of Macragge to understand that they were safe.
Guilliman tilted his head slightly. Under the sunlight, his golden hair gleamed almost pearl-white.
Behind him stood Tarasha Euten. Today she wore a ceremonial gown of deep blue, its hem studded with tiny diamonds that sparkled in the light.
Guilliman swallowed subtly.
"I'm not certain this is truly a good thing," he murmured quietly, ensuring only Euten could hear him.
Euten smiled.
"Two Primarchs are always more reassuring than one," she said gently.
"Or are you worried about your other brother?"
Guilliman paused.
"Mortarion has… a peculiar temperament."
He stated it plainly. Even Mortarion himself would likely agree—and might even consider everyone else the abnormal ones.
"I worry he may interpret this display as provocation," Guilliman admitted.
"He is not a man who appreciates ceremony… I often cannot understand what he is thinking. He grips that scythe at all times, as though some monster might leap out at any moment. Aside from defense, he seems indifferent to nearly everything."
"A man perhaps overly cautious," Euten observed.
"That is not a flaw. When crisis strikes, he will react faster than anyone."
"So will I." Guilliman spoke quickly, "And I will not be extreme about it. I am concerned that…"
The Lord of Macragge's voice lowered. He was worried that Mortarion's tendency toward extremity might bring consequences to Macragge that he would rather avoid.
Through his mortal administrators, Guilliman had already learned that respirators and gas masks were selling briskly in Macragge's markets. It seemed his people had developed certain… rumors about the Death Guard.
Euten's reassuring voice sounded beside him.
"It will not come to that," she said softly.
"When he sees Macragge—when he sees this radiant jewel under your rule—he will understand your intentions. Perhaps his harsh upbringing made him cautious, but our world is a place of peace. Any weary soul would find rest and restoration here."
Guilliman smiled faintly.
"Hades once told me that Barbarus had a very harsh past. I was saddened to hear it."
Then he stopped. A mortal attendant at his side handed him a command slate.
"He has arrived."
Guilliman spoke quietly, eyes fixed on the notification blinking across the screen—the Death Guard requesting landing clearance.
He approved it.
Moments later, the roar of Stormbirds thundered across Macragge's sky. Pale white and moss-green warships cast vast shadows overhead, carrying with them the scent of gunpowder—and something else that made one instinctively frown.
At that moment, Guilliman began to think his citizens had been prudent after all.
A low murmur rippled through the crowds gathered beyond the plaza. Ultramarines tasked with maintaining order attempted to quiet them, but when a single boot stepped down from the shadowed maw of the transport, the restless crowd fell into stunned silence.
They obediently closed their mouths. Necks shrank back instinctively, yet their eyes widened, fixed unblinking on the figure before them.
They seemed torn between retreat and fascination, leaning back even as they strained forward to look.
Guilliman allowed himself a small, wry smile.
"He has frightened them." He said it softly.
A gray-white cloak stirred without wind, its hem still marked by scorch and bullet tears from recent war.
Bone-white armor bore countless scratches; at some joints, blackened yellow dents remained. The moss-green shoulder guard looked aged and dulled, the six-ringed skull emblem staring unflinchingly at every soul unafraid of death.
A massive scythe scraped lightly across the red carpet. The weapon looked as though it had been pulled from a long-abandoned barn—oily, streaked with dried, dark crimson stains of uncertain origin.
Most striking of all were the amber eyes beneath the hood—burning with fierce emotion, like twin flames. The intensity made the Lord of Death's gaze appear almost pale gold.
For a fleeting moment, a thought surfaced unbidden in Guilliman's mind:
The probability that Mortarion might raise that scythe against him was not zero.
But Guilliman also reasoned that, since the Death Guard possessed a commander as capable as Hades, then surely Hades had advised Mortarion not to start cutting people down at a welcoming ceremony.
Guilliman sincerely hoped the Death Guard had at least a baseline standard for responding appropriately to normal social etiquette.
At the far end of the red carpet, Mortarion strode toward him.
Roboute Guilliman maintained his perfect smile and stepped forward as well.
All eyes were fixed upon the two Primarchs. Behind Mortarion, the Death Guard began forming ranks—simple battle formation, nothing ceremonial. The oppressive aura surrounding them caused many in the crowd to unconsciously avert their attention.
The brilliant sunlight made the red carpet shimmer with specks of light. It cast a warm white edge along Guilliman's armor.
For Mortarion, however, the blazing sun seemed less welcome—like harsh light beating down upon a damp, shadow-dwelling fungus.
At last, the two demigods met at the center of the carpet.
Guilliman's smile remained flawless. Had it been another politician standing here, the expression might already have stiffened into awkward professionalism.
But this was Roboute Guilliman.
His smile was warm and genuine, like the spontaneous, delighted curve of lips when greeting an old friend.
"Brother," Guilliman spoke first.
He extended his hand.
Beneath the shadow of the hood, Mortarion's gaze moved slowly, surveying the entire plaza.
The platform at the Fortress of Hera was immense—merely the entrance to the grand martial square. Beyond it lay other connected plazas, each vast enough to host the Titan Legions allied with the Ultramarines in full display.
The blue of sky and Legion reflected faintly in Mortarion's eyes. In the distant residential districts, citizens had voluntarily hung the banners of both Legions; they fluttered in the wind.
Guilliman's outstretched hand lingered awkwardly in the air.
For a moment, the enormous platform—along with the hundreds of thousands gathered upon it—fell utterly silent.
Mortarion's rebreather hissed softly.
The Lord of Death let out a low chuckle.
Then, as if recalling something particularly amusing, Mortarion began to laugh in earnest. He laughed—and reached up.
But not toward Guilliman.
Mortarion removed his hood. His dry, straw-like white hair flared out slightly. With practiced ease, he shifted his scythe onto his shoulder and used the same hand to remove his respirator, revealing cracked, parched lips.
He bent slightly—he was a little taller than Guilliman—and at last extended his hand.
His eyes curved with the shape of his smile, yet even Guilliman could not discern whether the Lord of Death's expression was mockery… or genuine goodwill.
"Brother."
Mortarion's voice rasped softly. He smiled.
"Macragge lives up to its reputation."
The tone was strange, it's difficult to interpret. The smile gathered faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
At this point, Guilliman could no longer tell whether Mortarion was praising him… or contemplating cutting him down.
For reasons he could not quite articulate, neither possibility felt particularly comforting.
Why couldn't it have been Hades?
Guilliman thought, even as the two Primarchs clasped hands—unaware that Mortarion was thinking the very same thing.
Also, Mortarion's grip was exceptionally strong. Guilliman could hear the faint creak of his gauntlet protesting under the pressure.
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