Just as Guilliman surrendered to a flicker of genuine joy, the Lord Commanders of the Solar Segmentum were collectively clutching their heads in frustration. The reports streaming in from the Imperial Navy were giving them migraines of tectonic proportions.
The colossal shadow in the Warp had once again descended upon Terra.
The Titan's Spear returned to the Holy Ground of the Imperium, wreathed in the crackling arcs of Warp-energy that bled from its massive Geller Field. While the myriad fleets of the Imperial Navy were now intimately acquainted with the combat prowess of these iron vessels, they had no choice but to maintain a cautious vigil nearby, even if they knew they stood no chance of victory should hostilities erupt.
The automata's mechanical vessels were already deeply entwined in Imperial affairs; their escort ships had already purged countless threats along the segmentum's trade routes for the Imperial tithe fleets. Yet, their unique brand of cold efficiency had left a deep, unsettling impression on the collective psyche of the Adeptus Terra.
No one truly knew what these piles of scrap were thinking. The specific details of the compact struck between Axion and the Imperium remained a secret shared only by Guilliman and the Emperor himself. To many, communicating with these Iron Men was no more taxing than dealing with the Adeptus Mechanicus, though with one crucial distinction: as long as you did not initiate hostilities, you generally didn't have to fear for your life.
If you offended a small-minded Magos, however, you had to watch your back; it was only a matter of time before the Skitarii of the Cult Mechanicus dragged you before a Mechanicus tribunal to face a litany of obscure charges before being processed into a servitor or a Penitent Engine.
…
Ranks of Imperial Fists stood in silent sentinel, guarding the Terran landing pads. As the heavy transport touched down, Guilliman waited at the edge of the apron, flanked by his Victrix Guard. To be honest, the Lord Regent was desperate to see his brother.
The massive boarding ramp lowered with a mechanical groan.
Thump. Thump.
A towering figure descended the slope. Guilliman's gaze pierced the shadows cast by the transport's bulk, finding that familiar, coal-black face and those eyes that glowed like twin burning embers. Even in the dim light, Vulkan's skin remained strikingly, unnaturally dark.
Guilliman stepped forward to meet his brother. The recent headaches caused by the Lion's political "reforms" had left him haggard, yet he managed to force a warm smile for Vulkan.
"Vulkan, my brother! After these long and harrowing years, it is finally good to see you again."
A flicker of warmth touched Vulkan's stoic, obsidian features. He opened his massive arms and pulled Guilliman into a bone-crushing embrace.
"Indeed, Roboute. The ages have not ground down our resolve, but they have made this bond of brotherhood run all the deeper."
The embrace carried a thousand unspoken words, a lament for the days when they fought side-by-side during the Great Crusade, and a shared acknowledgment of the burden they now carried for a fractured galaxy.
Nearby, the Sons of Dorn watched the reunion of the two Primarchs, their expressions a mix of profound awe and an emotion they couldn't quite name. Behind Guilliman, the Victrix Guard remained silent, though a quiet sense of relief rippled through them on behalf of their gene-father.
As they stepped back, Guilliman studied Vulkan with a discerning eye.
"My brother... you seem even more titan-like than before. What has transpired?"
Vulkan scratched his head, genuinely uncertain. Perhaps it was the Panacea, or perhaps it was a miracle wrought by the Emperor.
"It is... complicated, Roboute."
In this chaotic universe, no one could truly account for the changes wrought upon their being. Guilliman did not find the answer strange; though a Primarch undergoing a secondary growth spurt seemed impossible, in these times, it was a secondary concern.
"I have heard of your deeds and those of your Chapter," Guilliman continued. "In this dark hour, your endurance and your fire have been a beacon, illuminating a path of hope for the Imperium."
Vulkan knew what Guilliman was referring to. His eyes flickered with a trace of lingering guilt.
"I have not done enough, Roboute. To see our Father's Great Work so twisted... I did not know what path to take."
Guilliman understood his brother perfectly. Vulkan's inherent compassion and mercy had always been his cross to bear. More than once during the Great Crusade, Vulkan had told the Emperor he would rather spend his days at a forge on Terra than lead a conquest. He found the business of war to be a soul-crushing cruelty.
But the Emperor had wanted Vulkan to teach his brother Primarchs the necessity of humanity. Ultimately, he had been sent into the void at the head of a Legion he had struggled to accept. During the War of the Beast, Vulkan had not sought political power to steer the Imperium as Guilliman had; instead, he chose to bleed for humanity in his own way, the ultimate expression of his loyalty. He had led armies of mortals and post-humans into the fires of hell, allowing himself to be shattered for the sake of the species.
Guilliman placed a hand on Vulkan's pauldron.
"Do not despair, my brother. Though the darkness in the stars still threatens us, things are changing for the better. We have the assistance of ancient wisdom and forgotten power now."
Vulkan glanced back at the Iron Man transport that had yet to depart, then looked Guilliman in the eye.
"I have spoken with those machines. I know much of what has happened recently. But I must still counsel you to be cautious, Roboute. Using such a dangerous power... it is a perilous path."
Guilliman, unsurprised by the warning, gave a solemn nod. Seeing the weariness etched into Guilliman's determined features, Vulkan embraced his brother once more.
"I can feel your exhaustion, Roboute. The hardships of this journey cannot be described in mere words. But know this: you are no longer wandering through this darkness alone."
Guilliman remained silent, soaking in the comfort. The Lord of Drakes radiated a reassuring warmth, not the scorching heat of a forge, but the steady, comforting glow of a hearth in the dead of winter.
After a long silence, Guilliman looked up at Vulkan.
"Every decision I make weighs millions of lives. Every battle demands sacrifice. I fear that a single misstep on my part will drag the Imperium into an even deeper abyss."
Vulkan nodded. He understood that weight all too well. It was because he could not bear that responsibility that he had once chosen to lead his forces to Ullanor; he had been disappointed by the corruption of Imperial politics, and the crushing gravity of leadership had been stifling. But Guilliman had stayed to shoulder it all.
"Brother, you have done more than enough. We all falter. What matters is that we learn from the ashes and keep moving. The Imperium has suffered, but as long as we do not surrender, we will see the dawn."
"We are Primarchs. We possess strength and responsibility beyond the ken of mortals. But do not forget, we are brothers. When you are spent, lean on me. Lean on our bond. I will give everything I have."
"Just as I was reborn in the fires of Isstvan, the Imperium can be reborn in the fires of this war. And you, Roboute, may well be the key to that rebirth."
Guilliman took a deep breath, the steel returning to his gaze.
"Thank you, Vulkan. Your words have given me back my strength."
Vulkan smiled. "That is why brothers exist. Now, let us face these difficulties together. For the Imperium. For Humanity."
"Let us face them," Guilliman agreed.
With that, Guilliman led Vulkan directly toward the Adeptus Terra administrative spires. He was taking Vulkan to face one of the primary sources of his current difficulties: their other brother, the Lion, Lion El'Jonson.