My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 415: Two Squatting, One Standing
Macragge was bustling at this hour.
Crowds surged through its broad streets—men, women, the elderly, children—moving in a steady flow toward their own destinations: a tavern perhaps, or the great port of Macragge.
Mortarion's eyes reflected the scene. He seemed to be contemplating something, or perhaps nothing at all. Silently, he committed to memory what he saw, what he observed.
…
Perhaps remaining here was not the correct choice.
A shadow passed through Mortarion's gaze, yet he said nothing. Casually, he leaned against a wall, holding the pancake-like snack he had "purchased." The fruit-filled flatbread, sized for mortals, looked like nothing more than a biscuit in his hand.
"Mortarion."
Guilliman's voice came through the vox channel, carrying a trace of restrained anger.
Mortarion very consciously shut off the communication, waiting for this brother—who always seemed to grow angry over the smallest matters—to arrive in person.
He watched indifferently as the gathered crowd scattered with startled cries. Soon after came the all-too-familiar blue armor. Mortarion raised a brow as he saw his brothers approaching.
As expected, Guilliman wore his standard polite smile. Mortarion could see the killing intent beneath it.
But the other one—
…Angron?
An unexpected presence. Mortarion did not care.
. . .
Guilliman drew in a deep breath. He turned his head slightly, glanced at the two beside him, then inhaled again before covering his eyes with one hand in quiet resignation.
The entire street had been cordoned off. Ultramarines patrolled the intersections, patiently directing pedestrians to take alternate routes.
And all of this was for—
Guilliman took another deep breath.
Beside him, two Primarchs were squatting by the roadside.
Mortarion and Angron crouched there, eating and chatting.
They displayed not the slightest awareness of their status as Primarchs—or of their image.
Guilliman breathed deeply, striving for composure. Of course he was willing for his brothers to tour the realm under his governance—
But not like this.
Not in a manner utterly devoid of Primarchal dignity. Guilliman felt a flush of embarrassment at standing on the same street as Mortarion at this moment.
His brothers ought to be noble and glorious figures—like Sanguinius, or Fulgrim. They were exemplary Primarchs who cared deeply about their personal bearing and the image of their Legions.
Even Russ—
No, not Russ, Guilliman corrected himself. That wolf might well charge into Macragge's streets and start roughhousing with his people.
Mortarion now ranked just behind Russ.
Guilliman fumed inwardly. And yet, due to the favorable first impression Angron had given him, Guilliman instinctively assumed it was Mortarion who had corrupted Angron—
Rather than recalling how, moments earlier, Angron had skillfully accepted a flatbread from Mortarion, glanced around to find no chairs sized for Primarchs, and then very naturally squatted down.
After Angron squatted, Mortarion had quietly done the same.
The two Primarchs turned their heads and looked up at Guilliman, who still stood there.
Guilliman maintained a flawless smile, like a statue.
The two lost interest in him and returned their focus to the Macragge specialties in their hands.
"What do you think of this place, brother?" Angron spoke as he examined the street flatbread personally selected by the Lord of Death and forcibly paid for by the Lord of Macragge.
It was a simple white-flour crepe, wrapped around cloudlike whipped cream, dotted with fresh red and purple berries. The sight reminded Angron of Nuceria. In the mountains of Nuceria, similar berries had once grown—he had seen that same hue used as decoration on the nobles' banquet tables.
Angron smiled faintly. All of that was in the past now.
He looked at the smiling canine shape seared into the crepe by uneven heat, then took a bite.
Mortarion, meanwhile, slowly inspected the flatbread he had chosen. He regarded food with less enthusiasm than he did a bolt shell. He looked almost anorexic in his indifference.
But long ago—when he had waited three consecutive days in his office without anyone delivering a meal, and had finally gone to kick open Hades' door—his gaze had not been like it was today.
"…Not good," Mortarion said.
He carefully plucked off a mint-like green leaf from the edge of the crepe and ate it. The mildly sweet, sharp flavor bloomed in his mouth. The expression on his face proved he did not enjoy sweets.
Guilliman turned his head. He smiled—brighter than the blazing sun of high summer. The anger in his eyes burned just as fiercely.
"I would ask you to repeat what you just said, Mortarion."
No, Mortarion thought. We've already fought once. There's no point in doing it again.
"Very good," Mortarion amended calmly.
"From a purely aesthetic perspective."
He added the clarification, then turned away in boredom, unwilling to argue with someone who made a fuss over the most inexplicable things.
Mortarion did not understand Guilliman's obsession with personal image and glory, just as Guilliman did not understand that sometimes, for the sake of safety, one must necessarily sacrifice a measure of freedom and prosperity.
He will not understand.
At the very least, Guilliman needed to suffer a little. Mortarion would remind him—but the choice lay with the Lord of Macragge. After all, it was his Macragge.
Mortarion stared at the smiling canine stamped into the crepe.
This was not where he belonged.
He should be on the battlefield, not here idling away his existence in extravagant waste. He should be fighting xenos at the front, standing at the command table, leading from the foremost line. He could even be in a medical room.
Instead, he was crouched in confusion on a street in Macragge, wasting time with two fools who had no idea what was truly happening.
…Even Hades—habitually lazy as he could be—would not choose to relax at a time like this.
Angron blinked. The Red Angel sensed something.
He stared at his now-empty hand, savoring the lingering taste of Macragge.
Sweet and tart, with just the right softness. Macragge was a synonym for freshness and vitality. Everything here brimmed with life, hope, and energy.
But for certain people, it might be overstimulating.
"Are you tense?"
Angron asked suddenly. He did not look at Mortarion—even though Mortarion's abrupt turn of the head stirred a gust of wind across Angron's face.
"So you have everything under control, Angron? Fully aware of all that is happening?"
Mortarion's voice dripped with sarcasm.
Angron raised a hand in a placating gesture.
"I'm tense too," he said.
"We don't know what has happened. But we do know that something bad has happened."
Mortarion let out a cold sneer, openly mocking what he considered Angron's empty words.
Angron slowed his speech. He could feel each sentence linger in his mouth before it drifted away on the winds of Macragge.
"Mortarion."
His tone grew solemn.
"Right now, I sense something ominous. So I want to confirm one thing with you."
He heard Mortarion's breathing halt. After a long pause, the Lord of Death replied in a low, rapid murmur:
"I will answer."
It seemed he already understood what the Red Angel intended to ask.
Angron hesitated for a moment, almost as if in mourning.
"Is he still alive?"
That was Angron's question.
But the reply was not a statement.
"You sensed something as well?"
Angron turned his head and saw Mortarion staring at him fixedly. The flatbread in his hand trembled slightly; sunlight shimmered across the pale cream.
Angron nodded.
Mortarion released a sharp hiss of breath. Now Angron began to wonder whether Mortarion truly did suffer from some manner of respiratory illness.
Though the Lord of Death did not move and his expression did not change, the "corpse" of the flatbread in his hand seemed to give a silent scream. It had been crushed; filling oozed out between his fingers.
"Are you still going to eat that?"
Angron suddenly asked.
Mortarion, caught in the depths of his emotions, snapped back to awareness. Almost reflexively, he extended the ruined pastry toward Angron.
That alone proved Mortarion had not yet fully recovered himself.
Angron gave a simple word of thanks and finished it in a single bite. Sweets always improved his mood. He grinned broadly.
Then Angron rose and clapped Mortarion on the shoulder.
"I feel he's just successfully dealt with another enemy of the Imperium," Angron said.
"I was even thinking about attending the ceremony where the Imperium would award him. Then this warp nonsense happened on the way."
Mortarion slowly stood as well. Now he looked even more like a tall, gaunt stalk of straw.
"You need not be so hypocritical…" the Lord of Death rasped.
"The Death Guard do not flee from death. Nor do we mourn it."
He drew in a deep breath.
"…I only hope we can return to the battlefield as soon as possible."
"Remaining here," Mortarion continued, gazing into the distance. The pure blue of Macragge overlapped in his vision, blending into the green of Barbarus.
"To linger and rest here is disrespectful to the fallen."
On the other side, Guilliman was deep in thought—wondering whether the third person the two Primarchs kept referring to was Hades, and what exactly this "feeling" of theirs meant.
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