The Emperor's throne room was, as always, silent.
Not the comfortable silence of peaceful contemplation. Not the respectful silence of reverent worship. This was the oppressive silence of a space that contained something so vast and terrible that even sound was afraid to exist there.
Three Primarchs stood before the Golden Throne, each processing what they had witnessed in their own way.
Vulkan stood with warmth radiating from his massive form, his expression thoughtful, almost peaceful.
Guilliman stood with rigid precision, his mind clearly organizing and reorganizing the data he had collected.
Lion El'Jonson stood with barely-concealed frustration, still processing the fact that he had failed to defeat a mortal in combat.
REPORT, the Emperor's psychic voice commanded.
The three brothers exchanged glances.
"Who should begin?" Guilliman asked.
"You're the administrator," Lion said flatly. "Administrate."
"That's not how that word—never mind." Guilliman stepped forward and began his report with characteristic thoroughness. "The mortal designated Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III represents an unprecedented anomaly in Imperial history. His abilities include, but are not limited to: teleportation without psychic signature, reality-displacement movement, adaptive combat reflexes, spontaneous pyrokinesis gifted by Vulkan, and what can only be described as 'plot armor' of supernatural effectiveness."
PLOT ARMOR?
"A term from his origin reality, apparently. It refers to the phenomenon where important narrative figures survive situations that should logically kill them, due to their importance to the ongoing story."
AND YOU BELIEVE THIS APPLIES TO HIM?
"I believe something applies to him. Whether we call it plot armor, divine protection, or reality-warping probability manipulation, the effect is the same: he survives when he should not, and grows stronger from each survival."
The Emperor was silent for a moment.
VULKAN. YOUR ASSESSMENT.
Vulkan stepped forward, his golden eyes reflecting the dim light of the throne room.
"He is kind, Father. Genuinely kind. In all my millennia, I have rarely encountered a soul so fundamentally good. He does not seek power. He does not desire glory. He simply wishes to help, and is distressed that his help keeps manifesting in ways he does not understand."
YOU GAVE HIM YOUR FIRE.
"I did. It was not planned. The fire chose him. It reached out to him of its own accord, and I merely... allowed the transfer."
YOUR FIRE IS PART OF YOUR PERPETUAL NATURE. YOU CANNOT SIMPLY GIVE IT AWAY.
"And yet I did. It seems the impossible is this mortal's natural state." Vulkan smiled slightly. "He called me his 'favorite.' Of all the brothers. He said I was his favorite because I was kind."
There was something almost wistful in Vulkan's voice.
AND YOU, LION?
The Lord of the Dark Angels stepped forward, his jaw tight.
"I attacked him."
Silence.
"I attacked him, Father, because I could not understand him. Because my inability to categorize him was driving me to distraction. I intended to force him to reveal his true nature through combat stress."
AND WHAT DID YOU DISCOVER?
"That he has no 'true nature' to reveal. Or rather, that his true nature is to have no nature. He is adaptive. Reactive. He becomes whatever he needs to become in response to whatever threatens him."
YOU COULD NOT DEFEAT HIM?
The Lion's voice was strained.
"I could not defeat him without killing him. And you forbade that. Within those constraints... no. I could not defeat him. He matched me. Precisely matched me. Every increase in my speed was met with an increase in his. Every new tactic was countered. Every attack was deflected, dodged, or absorbed."
INTERESTING.
"It was infuriating."
THOSE ARE NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE.
"With respect, Father, what is he? What is this mortal that can match a Primarch, bond with Vulkan's fire, and casually discuss the Codex Astartes with Guilliman as if they were equals?"
The Emperor was silent for a very long time.
I DO NOT KNOW.
All three Primarchs stared at the Golden Throne.
"You don't know?" Guilliman repeated.
I HAVE SAID THIS BEFORE. I WILL SAY IT AGAIN. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT BARTHOLOMEW THADDEUS JENKINS III IS. I HAVE ANALYZED HIM. I HAVE OBSERVED HIM. I HAVE BLESSED HIM. AND I STILL DO NOT UNDERSTAND HIM.
"That is... concerning," the Lion said.
IT IS ALSO FASCINATING. I HAVE NOT BEEN FASCINATED IN TEN THOUSAND YEARS.
"You're enjoying this," Guilliman accused.
I AM. IS THAT SO WRONG? FOR MILLENNIA, EVERYTHING HAS BEEN PREDICTABLE. THE SAME ENEMIES. THE SAME WARS. THE SAME ENDLESS CYCLE OF DEATH AND DECAY. AND NOW THERE IS SOMETHING NEW. SOMETHING GENUINELY, AUTHENTICALLY NEW.
"He is dangerous," the Lion insisted.
PERHAPS. OR PERHAPS HE IS SALVATION. OR PERHAPS HE IS SIMPLY ENTERTAINMENT. I DO NOT KNOW, AND THAT IS THE POINT. FOR THE FIRST TIME IN TEN MILLENNIA, THE FUTURE IS UNCERTAIN. TRULY UNCERTAIN. AND THAT IS... REFRESHING.
The three Primarchs exchanged looks of deep concern.
Their father, the Master of Mankind, the God-Emperor of the Imperium, was amused.
That was perhaps more frightening than anything else.
I WISH TO MEET HIM, the Emperor announced.
"Meet him?" Guilliman asked. "Father, you haven't physically met anyone in ten thousand years."
I AM AWARE. BUT THIS MORTAL WARRANTS EXCEPTION. ARRANGE FOR HIS TRANSPORT TO TERRA. I WILL... PREPARE.
"Prepare how?"
I AM NOT CERTAIN YET. BUT I HAVE A FEW IDEAS.
"That sounds ominous," the Lion observed.
IT IS MEANT TO. NOW GO. I HAVE MUCH TO CONSIDER.
The Primarchs bowed and withdrew, each lost in their own thoughts about what they had witnessed and what was to come.
Meanwhile, seventeen star systems away, Bartholomew was dealing with a different kind of problem.
"What do you mean, a religion?"
Inquisitor Vorn's expression was carefully neutral, which was never a good sign.
"A religion. A formal, organized system of belief centered around you as a divine or semi-divine figure. It has approximately seventeen million adherents as of this morning's census, and the number is growing by roughly half a million per day."
Bartholomew sat down heavily.
"I've been here for like, six months. How does a religion form in six months?"
"With remarkable efficiency, apparently." Vorn handed him a data-slate. "They call themselves the 'Jenkinsites.' They have a formal hierarchy, a holy text—cobbled together from transcripts of your speeches and observations of your actions—and a rapidly expanding missionary program."
"A missionary program."
"Yes. They're spreading the 'good word' about the Emperor's Champion across the sector. Some worlds have already converted wholesale."
Bartholomew scrolled through the data-slate, his horror growing with each page.
The "holy text" was titled The Confusions of the Blessed: Collected Wisdom of the Emperor's Champion.
It included such gems as:
"And lo, the Champion did say, 'What is happening?' And the faithful did witness his humility, for he sought understanding rather than claiming it."
"The Champion spake unto the multitude, 'I don't want to be important.' And the people wept, for his selflessness was beyond mortal comprehension."
"When asked if he was blessed by the God-Emperor, the Champion responded, 'I have no idea what's going on, honestly.' Thus did he teach that true wisdom lies in accepting one's limitations."
"This is awful," Bartholomew said.
"Which part?"
"All of it! They're taking things I said out of context and treating them like profound spiritual insights!"
"To be fair, some of your statements are fairly insightful, when interpreted generously."
"I said 'I hate this universe' after stubbing my toe! That's not spiritual wisdom! That's just complaining!"
"The Jenkinsites have interpreted that as a metaphorical rejection of worldly suffering and an embrace of transcendent perspective."
"It was about my toe!"
"Context is rarely preserved in religious traditions."
The situation was even worse than the data-slate indicated.
The Jenkinsites weren't just a minor cult. They were a rapidly-growing movement that had attracted the attention of the Ecclesiarchy.
Normally, the Ecclesiarchy would have declared any new religion heretical and dispatched forces to "correct" the wayward believers. But the Jenkinsites were clever—they didn't claim that Bartholomew was a replacement for the Emperor. They claimed he was the Emperor's avatar, His chosen instrument, His will made flesh.
This put the Ecclesiarchy in an awkward position.
Condemning the Jenkinsites would mean condemning the idea that the Emperor could manifest His will through chosen individuals—which was basically the entire theological foundation of the Imperium.
Supporting them would mean accepting a living mortal as a divine figure—which opened up all kinds of problematic precedents.
So the Ecclesiarchy did what it did best: it dithered.
"We are... examining the theological implications," Cardinal Horst declared in an official statement. "The claims of the Jenkinsites require careful evaluation in light of established doctrine and the ongoing reports of miracles associated with the Emperor's Champion."
"Translation: they have no idea what to do," Vorn said.
"Join the club," Bartholomew muttered.
The growth of Bartholomew's army was equally alarming.
What had started as a single regiment had become something much larger. The 1st Jenkinsian Volunteers had been joined by the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th Jenkinsian Volunteers. Then the 1st through 10th Jenkinsian Armored. Then the Jenkinsian Titan Legion (which consisted, at the moment, of just Deus Invictus, but the Mechanicus was apparently working on "expanding the god-machine roster").
The Space Wolves had sent more packs. The Ultramarines had sent more squads. The Dark Angels—at the Lion's personal order—had sent a small contingent to "observe and report."
And then the Grey Knights had arrived.
Brother-Captain Aldric Stern had not expected to receive the order.
After his humiliating teleportation from Bartholomew's presence, after his confused reports to the Chapter, after weeks of meditation trying to understand what he had witnessed—the last thing he expected was to be ordered to join the very force he had been investigating.
And yet, here he was.
"The Grand Masters have determined that your unique experience with the anomaly makes you the ideal candidate for this assignment," his superior had explained. "You will integrate with Jenkins' forces. You will observe. You will report. And you will..."
"Will what?"
"You will cooperate."
"Cooperate? With a potential heretic?"
"With whatever he is. The Ordo Malleus has determined that Jenkins represents neither a daemonic threat nor a Chaos influence. His powers, whatever their source, are not of the Warp as we understand it. Therefore, he is not our jurisdiction."
"Then why—"
"Because the Grand Masters are curious. And because the Emperor Himself has taken an interest. When the Master of Mankind pays attention to something, we pay attention too."
And so Brother-Captain Stern found himself standing in Bartholomew's quarters, flanked by five Grey Knights, presenting himself for service.
"You tried to kill me," Bartholomew said flatly.
"I tried to examine you. There is a difference."
"Is there? Because I remember a lot of 'force weapons pointing at my face' happening."
Stern's jaw tightened.
"I was wrong. I acknowledge this. The entity that protected you—the voice that spoke to us—made it clear that you were not a threat. Subsequent investigation has confirmed this. I am here to... make amends."
"By joining my army?"
"By offering my services. And the services of my brothers. The Grey Knights are the most specialized daemon-hunters in the Imperium. Your campaigns often involve Chaos forces. Our skills would be... useful."
Bartholomew looked at the squad of silver-armored warriors.
They looked back, their expressions unreadable behind their helmets.
"You're sure about this?" Bartholomew asked. "Because I have to be honest, I still don't really know what I'm doing. I'm just kind of... going along with things."
"That is acceptable," Stern said stiffly. "The Grey Knights do not require direction. We require only permission to destroy the enemies of mankind."
"Oh. Well. Permission granted, I guess?"
"That is sufficient."
By the end of the week, Bartholomew's forces had grown to include:
Fifteen regiments of Jenkinsian Volunteers (approximately 150,000 soldiers)
Three regiments of Jenkinsian Armored (approximately 600 tanks and support vehicles)
The Jenkinsian Titan Legion (still just Deus Invictus, but the Titan insisted on being listed as a "legion" for reasons of pride)
Four squads of Ultramarines (40 Space Marines)
Three packs of Space Wolves (27 Space Marines)
One squad of Dark Angels (10 Space Marines, who spoke to no one and watched everything)
One squad of Grey Knights (6 Grey Knights, including Brother-Captain Stern)
One Custodian "observer" (Shield-Captain Valdor, who had developed a habit of appearing wherever Bartholomew was)
One Inquisitorial retinue (Inquisitor Vorn and her staff of approximately 50)
One Mechanicus support contingent (approximately 2,000 tech-priests, servitors, and Skitarii)
And one very confused former miniature painter who still couldn't believe any of this was happening.
"This is too many people," Bartholomew said, looking at the organizational chart that Vorn had prepared. "I can't lead this many people. I don't know how to lead any people."
"You've been leading people successfully for months," Vorn pointed out.
"That was different! That was small-scale! This is—" he gestured at the chart, "—this is an army. A real army. With tanks and Space Marines and a Titan and—"
"PRINCEPS," Deus Invictus interrupted through the chamber's speakers, "I RESENT BEING LISTED AFTER THE TANKS. I AM CLEARLY MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE TANKS."
"Deus, you're listening in again."
"I AM ALWAYS LISTENING. YOUR SAFETY REQUIRES CONSTANT VIGILANCE."
"That's creepy."
"THAT IS DEVOTION. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE."
Bartholomew rubbed his temples.
"I need help. I can't manage all of this by myself."
"That's why you have a command staff," Vorn said. "Delegate. Trust your officers. You don't need to personally oversee every decision."
"But what if I delegate wrong? What if I trust the wrong people? What if—"
"Then you learn from the mistake and do better next time. That's how leadership works."
"That seems like a terrible system."
"It is. But it's the only one we have."
The invitation arrived three days later.
It came via astropathic communication—the highest priority, sealed with codes that made even Inquisitor Vorn pale.
"This is from the Adeptus Custodes," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "More specifically, it's from the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes. Speaking on behalf of..."
She trailed off.
"On behalf of who?" Bartholomew asked.
Vorn handed him the message.
Bartholomew read it.
Then he read it again.
Then he sat down.
"The Emperor wants to meet me," he said.
"So it would appear."
"In person. On Terra. In the Imperial Palace."
"Yes."
"The Emperor. The actual Emperor. The guy on the Golden Throne. The most powerful being in the galaxy. He wants to meet me."
"That is what the message says."
Bartholomew stared at the ceiling.
"I'm going to vomit."
"Please don't. This chamber has new carpeting."
The news of the invitation spread rapidly.
Among the Jenkinsites, it was treated as confirmation of everything they believed. Their Champion was being summoned to meet the God-Emperor Himself! Surely this was proof of his divine status!
Among the military forces, it was treated with a mixture of awe and terror. No one just "met" the Emperor. The Emperor didn't meet people. He was a corpse on a throne, kept alive by sacrifice and psychic power, communicating only through intermediaries and vague psychic impressions.
The idea that He had personally requested a meeting was unprecedented.
"This is highly irregular," Guilliman observed via holo-link, having been informed of the development by his Ultramarines contingent.
"Everything about me is highly irregular," Bartholomew replied. "I thought we'd established that."
"Yes, but this is irregular even by your standards. Father hasn't personally met anyone in ten thousand years. The fact that He's breaking that pattern for you suggests... something."
"Something good or something bad?"
"I genuinely don't know. But I would recommend caution."
"I'm always cautious. I'm the most cautious person I know."
"You fought a Primarch three days ago."
"He started it!"
Vulkan's response was warmer.
"I am glad you will meet Him," the Lord of Drakes said via his own holo-link. "Father can be... intimidating. But He is also wise. And He has shown you favor, which suggests He sees something valuable in you."
"What if I say the wrong thing? What if I offend Him? What if—"
"Then you will apologize, and He will likely find it amusing. Father has a sense of humor, though He rarely shows it. I think He will enjoy you."
"Enjoy me?"
"You are entertaining, little smith. Never forget that. In a universe of grimdark repetition, you are something new. That has value beyond measure."
The Lion's response was characteristically blunt.
"Don't embarrass yourself."
"That's all the advice you have?"
"What more is there to say? You will meet the Master of Mankind. You will be judged. Either you will pass the judgment or you will not. My words will not change the outcome."
"You're very reassuring."
"I am not here to reassure. I am here to observe. Try not to die. It would be inconvenient."
The journey to Terra took three weeks.
Three weeks of warp travel, during which Bartholomew oscillated between nervous excitement and outright terror. He spent his days training with his new forces, getting to know the Grey Knights (who turned out to be surprisingly normal once you got past the whole "psychic daemon-killer" thing), and trying not to think about what awaited him.
He spent his nights having strange dreams.
Dreams of golden light and distant voices. Dreams of a figure on a throne, watching, waiting. Dreams of four laughing gods and a nascent consciousness that wrapped around him like a blanket.
You are nervous, the Warp-voice observed.
Of course I'm nervous. I'm about to meet the Emperor.
He has already met you, in a sense. In the dream. This is simply a continuation.
That was a dream. This is real.
Is there a difference?
There's a huge difference!
If you say so.
Terra appeared in the viewscreen on the twenty-first day.
It was... not what Bartholomew had expected.
He had seen pictures, of course. Paintings and holo-images of the Throneworld, the heart of the Imperium, the most important planet in the galaxy.
None of them had prepared him for the reality.
Terra was a world encased in metal. Every inch of its surface was covered in structures—hive spires reaching into the atmosphere, manufactorums belching smoke, hab-blocks housing trillions of people. The oceans were gone, long since drained for resources. The mountains had been leveled, the valleys filled in, everything made flat and uniform to accommodate the endless sprawl of humanity.
And at the center of it all, visible even from orbit, was the Imperial Palace.
It was less a building and more a continent. A mountain range of gold and adamantium, stretching across what had once been the Himalayas, its spires piercing the clouds, its walls extending for thousands of kilometers.
Somewhere in there, the Emperor waited.
"Oh god," Bartholomew whispered.
"TECHNICALLY CORRECT," Deus Invictus observed, having somehow patched into the bridge speakers. "HE IS, BY MANY DEFINITIONS, A GOD."
"That's not helping, Deus."
"IT WAS NOT MEANT TO HELP. IT WAS MEANT TO PROVIDE ACCURATE CONTEXT."
"I hate you."
"YOU DO NOT."
"I know. But I really want to right now."
The landing on Terra was surprisingly smooth.
Bartholomew had expected challenges, complications, bureaucratic nightmares. Instead, he found himself fast-tracked through every checkpoint, his ship given priority clearance, his landing zone already prepared.
It seemed that when the Emperor wanted to meet you, the entire machinery of the Imperium bent to make it happen.
A delegation of Custodians awaited him at the landing pad—thirty of the golden giants, standing in perfect formation.
"Private Jenkins," the lead Custodian said, his voice resonant. "I am Shield-Captain Valdor. I have been assigned as your escort."
"I thought you were already my escort. On the station."
"That was observation. This is escort. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. Observation involves watching you from a distance. Escort involves ensuring you arrive at your destination alive."
"That sounds ominous."
"Terra is a dangerous place. Even for one such as you."
The journey through the Palace was... overwhelming.
Corridors that stretched for miles. Chambers that could have held entire cities. Artwork and artifacts and relics of ten thousand years of history, displayed with casual magnificence.
And everywhere, people.
Billions of people lived in the Palace complex. Servants, administrators, soldiers, priests—a population larger than many worlds, all dedicated to the maintenance and operation of the Imperium's heart.
They stared as Bartholomew passed.
Some fell to their knees.
"THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION!" they cried. "THE BLESSED ONE!"
"Please stop doing that," Bartholomew muttered.
"They cannot help it," Valdor said. "You are a legend now. Legends inspire devotion."
"I don't want devotion!"
"Want is irrelevant. You have it nonetheless."
The final approach to the Golden Throne was the most intense experience of Bartholomew's life.
The Sanctum Imperialis was beyond words. A chamber so vast it had its own weather systems. A ceiling so high it was lost in golden mist. And at the center, towering above everything, the Golden Throne itself.
And upon it...
The Emperor.
Bartholomew had known, intellectually, that the Emperor was a corpse. That He had been dying for ten thousand years, kept alive by sacrifice and machinery and sheer psychic will.
But knowing and seeing were different things.
The figure on the Throne was... diminished. Skeletal. Wrapped in cables and tubes and arcane mechanisms that pulsed with power. There was no flesh left to speak of, just bone and sinew and the faintest whisper of what had once been the most powerful human being in existence.
And yet.
And yet.
There was presence. A weight of consciousness so immense that Bartholomew felt his knees buckle. A mind so vast and ancient that his own thoughts seemed like flickering candles before a sun.
YOU CAME.
The voice was in his head. Not words, exactly—more like pure meaning transmitted directly into his brain.
"Yes," Bartholomew said aloud, not sure if he was supposed to speak or think. "You invited me."
I DID. AND YOU CAME. NOT ALL WHO ARE INVITED WOULD HAVE THE COURAGE.
"I'm not sure it's courage. I think I'm just too confused to know when to be afraid."
A sensation that might have been laughter rippled through his mind.
PERHAPS THAT IS A FORM OF COURAGE IN ITSELF. THE COURAGE OF THE OBLIVIOUS.
"That's... one way to put it."
COME CLOSER. I WOULD SEE YOU MORE CLEARLY.
Bartholomew walked forward, each step feeling like it took a year. The presence grew stronger as he approached, the weight of ten millennia pressing against his consciousness.
He stopped at the base of the Throne, looking up at the withered figure above.
YOU ARE AFRAID.
"Yes."
GOOD. FEAR IS APPROPRIATE. I AM THE MOST POWERFUL BEING YOU WILL EVER ENCOUNTER. FEAR IS A RATIONAL RESPONSE.
"But you're also dying. Have been dying for ten thousand years. That's... sad."
A pause.
NO ONE HAS CALLED ME SAD BEFORE. TERRIFYING, YES. MAGNIFICENT. DIVINE. INCOMPREHENSIBLE. BUT NEVER SAD.
"It is, though. Isn't it? You built all of this—the Imperium, the Space Marines, the Great Crusade—and now you're stuck here, rotting on a chair, while everything you made falls apart around you. That's incredibly sad."
Silence.
Bartholomew suddenly realized that he might have said something very, very wrong.
"I'm sorry," he added quickly. "I didn't mean to—"
DO NOT APOLOGIZE. YOU SPOKE TRUTH. AND TRUTH, EVEN UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH, HAS VALUE.
The presence shifted, focusing more intensely on him.
YOU SEE ME AS I AM. NOT AS A GOD. NOT AS A SYMBOL. AS A BEING. A BROKEN, DYING BEING WHO HAS FAILED IN ALMOST EVERYTHING HE TRIED TO ACCOMPLISH.
"I don't think you failed at everything—"
I DID. THE PRIMARCHS. THE HERESY. THE IMPERIUM BECOMING EXACTLY WHAT I NEVER WANTED IT TO BE. FAILURE UPON FAILURE UPON FAILURE.
"But you're still here. Still fighting. Still holding back the Chaos Gods, still maintaining the Astronomican, still keeping humanity alive. That's not nothing."
NO. IT IS NOT NOTHING. BUT IT IS NOT ENOUGH, EITHER.
The presence paused.
YOU ARE STRANGE, BARTHOLOMEW THADDEUS JENKINS III. STRANGE IN WAYS I HAVE NOT ENCOUNTERED BEFORE. YOU SPEAK TO ME AS IF I WERE... A PERSON. NOT A GOD. NOT A WEAPON. JUST A PERSON.
"You are a person. A really powerful, really old, really decayed person, but a person."
I HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN WHAT THAT FELT LIKE.
Bartholomew didn't know what to say to that.
So he said the only thing that came to mind.
"Would you like a friend?"
The question hung in the air.
A simple question. A child's question. Something so small and human in the face of such vast cosmic weight.
And the Emperor of Mankind, the Master of the Imperium, the being who had guided humanity for forty thousand years...
Laughed.
Not a psychic impression of laughter. Actual laughter.
It was rusty. Broken. The sound of vocal cords that hadn't been used in ten millennia trying to remember how to function.
But it was real.
A FRIEND, the Emperor said, and His voice—His actual, physical voice—was a rasping whisper that somehow filled the entire chamber. YOU OFFER ME... FRIENDSHIP.
"Is that wrong?"
NO. IT IS SIMPLY... UNPRECEDENTED. NO ONE OFFERS THE GOD-EMPEROR FRIENDSHIP. THEY OFFER WORSHIP. SACRIFICE. DEVOTION. FEAR.
"Those sound exhausting."
THEY ARE.
The presence softened, becoming less overwhelming, more... intimate.
VERY WELL, BARTHOLOMEW THADDEUS JENKINS III. I ACCEPT YOUR OFFER. I WILL BE YOUR FRIEND. AND IN RETURN...
"In return?"
IN RETURN, I ASK ONLY THAT YOU CONTINUE TO BE WHAT YOU ARE. HONEST. CONFUSED. IMPOSSIBLE. THE GALAXY NEEDS SOMEONE LIKE YOU. PERHAPS IT HAS ALWAYS NEEDED SOMEONE LIKE YOU.
"I don't know if I can save the galaxy."
NEITHER DO I. BUT YOU CAN MAKE IT MORE INTERESTING. AND AFTER TEN THOUSAND YEARS OF THE SAME ENDLESS STRUGGLE... INTERESTING IS EXACTLY WHAT I NEED.
Bartholomew left the Throne Room several hours later, his mind reeling from everything that had been discussed.
The Emperor had shared things with him. Secrets. Regrets. Hopes. The kind of things you only share with friends.
He had learned about the Emperor's original plans, and how they had all gone wrong.
He had learned about the true nature of the Chaos Gods, and why they could never truly be defeated.
He had learned about the future—what little of it the Emperor could still see—and the role Bartholomew might play in it.
And he had promised, in return, to keep doing what he was doing.
Being impossible.
Being interesting.
Being the one variable in a universe of constants.
"How did it go?" Valdor asked as Bartholomew emerged.
"I made a friend."
"A friend."
"Yes."
"You made friends with the God-Emperor of Mankind."
"He seemed lonely."
Valdor stared at him for a long moment.
"You," he said finally, "are the strangest being I have ever encountered. And I have encountered beings that defy description."
"I've been told."
"It was not entirely a compliment."
"I know."
You did well, the Warp-voice said later, as Bartholomew lay in his guest quarters, staring at the ceiling.
Did I? I'm not sure I did anything except talk.
Sometimes talking is the most important thing. You gave Him something He has not had in millennia.
What?
Companionship. Understanding. The knowledge that someone sees Him as a person, not just a symbol.
He's still dying.
Yes. But now He is dying with a friend. That is not nothing.
Bartholomew closed his eyes.
Somewhere, in the vast psychic network that connected the Imperium, the Emperor of Mankind was smiling.
It was a small smile. A broken smile.
But it was real.
And in the grim darkness of the far future, that was more than most could hope for.
[END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN]