Roboute Guilliman settled heavily into his new throne. The Primarch had despatchedall of his attendants and advisors, even sending his Honour Guard to wait outside the sanctum. At last he could allow a little of his sorrow, trauma and pain to show, and Guilliman let his mask drop with a sigh of relief. Whatever had been done to him to bring him back,it had left the Primarch with a constant, gnawing ache that radiated from deep within. He suspected that pain would never leave him.
Physical hurts were the least of Guilliman’s troubles. One by one,the Primarch had spoken with eachof the Celestinians, the lords of the Ultramarines, and even Yvraine of the Ynnari. Days had been spent in deep, earnest conversation, Guilliman using every iota of his statesman’s guile to set his guests at ease, to tease from themas much information as he could, and to hide his reactions to their words. Guilliman had thanked each of his visitors for their insights and their service to the Imperium, inwardly assessing each of his guests and showing them whatever aspect of his personality was surest to render them sympathetic and voluble.
Though he had not shown it, each fresh revelation struck the Primarch like acannon shell. He was exhausted fromstaving off bewilderment and horror, hollowed out by pain. Guilliman groanedand placed his head in his hands, his new suit of armour hissing and humming with the motion.
‘Millennia have passed,’ he murmured, unsure to whom he spoke. He knew only that he had to vocalise his situation before it drove him mad. Not for the first time since his return, Guilliman wished for one of his brothers to speak with. They, at least, might have understood.
‘Thousands of years,’ he said. ‘And look what has become of them. Of us. Idolatry. Ignorance. Suffering and squalor, in the name of a god who never desired the title’.
Guilliman shook his head and stood, pacing across the Chapter Master’s sanctum to stare up at the banners hanging on the western wall. Each was the height of an Imperial Knight, a cascade of masterfully woven cloth depicting the glories of the Ultramarines. Slain alien beasts, executed heretic despots, worlds saved and worlds burned. The Chapter’s proud iconography was much in evidence, but so was the aquila of the Imperium and there, presiding over several of the heraldic designs, a figure with throne and halo who must surely be the Emperor.
‘We failed, father,’ said Guilliman, his words tired and leaden with sorrow. ‘You failed your sons, and we, in our turn, failed you. And now, to compound our arrogance and vainglory, we have failed all of them, too. Did Horus not say that you sought godhood? He built a rebellion upon that claim. How he would gloat, tosee the Imperium now.’
Anger surged through the Lord of Ultramar, and he clenched his fists with the effort of self-restraint. He imagined destroying this chamber, tearing it apart and hurling its wreckage around like a wild beast. He dared not, lest these strangers in his Chapter’s livery see through his facade. Though he wrestled with despair, the Primarch knew that he could not let his weakness show. Calgar, Tigurius, Agemman, all the others – they looked at him as though he were the Emperor himself. Guilliman was painfully aware of his symbolic quality, and of how desperate and dark the hour had become. He must show nothing but strength to his gene-sons, lest his despair taint their hearts, too.
‘And yet, would it really matter,’ he sighed, turning his back on the banners and pacing across the chamber to stare through a stained glass window. Outthere, across the war-torn immensity ofthe Fortress of Hera, Guilliman saw the sweeping bulwark where his old chambers had once been. They had belonged to his father, even before him. He had laidhis plans there, spoken to his brothers,laughed and raged and – on one occasion– almost died. Now they were gone, buried beneath ugly agglomerations of buttressing and gun batteries. It was apt, he thought bitterly.
Guilliman’s anger spilled over, and hespan on his heel, staring up at the woven Emperor with accusing eyes.
‘Why do I still live,’ he snarled. ‘What more do you want from me? I gaveeverything I had to you, to them. Look what they’ve made of our dream. Thisbloated, rotting carcass of an empire is driven not by reason and hope but byfear, hate and ignorance. Better that we had all burned in the fires of Horus’ ambition than live to see this.’
Even as he said it, Guilliman heardthe lie in his words. Amongst his brothers, none had been more idealistic than Roboute Guilliman. None had envisioned a brighter future, not just for Mankind but also for the warriors of the Legiones Astartes. That flame of hope had been a part of him for as long as he had lived. Even now, as it was smotheredby darkness and woe, Guilliman realised that his flame endured.
‘There’s hope still,’ he told himself, turning back to the window and placing one armoured palm against it. He stared out at the work gangs, labouring to repair the damage of war, and the Ultramarines stood proud and determined upon the ramparts. They had been born into this dark millennium, and had known nothing but the hardship, suffering and despair of unending conflict. Yet still they struggled on unbowed, despite the countless enemies ranged against them.
Guilliman had seen a better age, one of hope and triumph. What right had he, a super human son of the Emperor himself, to show any less strength and courage than his followers born in darkness? Guilliman had seen what Humanity could achieve. Moreover, he knew what fruits Cawl’s labours had borne beneath the surface of Mars. He believed that a better future for the Imperium was still possible. But only if those who tormented Mankind were first defeated.
‘All of this misery,’ said Guilliman. ‘All of this suffering and pain. It is not the doing of Humanity, but of those who have betrayed us. Too long have the pawnsof Chaos dictated our species’ fate. That must end.’ Guilliman felt new strength fill him. Inspired by it, the Primarch took his pain, and his desolation, and locked themaway deep within his mind. But his rage he kept. That, he would have use for. Later there would be time to mourn, toreason, to plan anew. Now was the timeto fight, and to make his father’s enemies pay for every horror they had inflictedupon the Imperium
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