THE MAGICIAN
---REMEMBRANCER ARCHIVE 412.005---
+++ GLORIANNA-CLASS BATTLESHIP MACRAGGE’S HONOUR+++
+++ORBITING MACRAGGE+++
+++ULTRAMAR SECTOR+++
+++ULTIMA SEGMENTUM+++
+++42nd MILLENIA+++
+++IMPERIUM OF MAN+++
---THE EMPEROR PROTECTS---
In the Bridge of Guilliman's flagship, two figures talk without obvious urgency.
“You told him that, sire?”
“I did.”
“So the God-Emperor sent you on the Indomitus Crusade?”
The Primarch looks at his equerry, tasting the words in his mouth. Indomitus Crusade. A boast and an anchor. Guilliman yearns to go back to his marble pillars, to his books and his barrel.
Looking for an honest man.
“No. I declared it.”
“Why, sire?”
“Who else would?”
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
It has not yet been a minute since the Primarch stands in the Presence, but already his existence unravels. The air around him is a haze, flakes of skin and ceramite borne upon unnatural winds. Bones grind, breath fails and flesh disintegrates. No wonder none had ever spoken with the Emperor in ten thousand years. An instant of His full attention would reduce mighty Herakles to ash.
Not so His favoured sons, built to withstand this burden.
“They have named me Lord Commander of the Imperium. If naught else, I ask that you lend me the service of the Legio Custodes. They are peerless warriors, of little use to you.”
Guilliman does not say that only the Custodes will be able to keep the Chapters and the High Lords in line when he forces them to accept Cawl’s Primaris and his new policies. He is under no illusions: Like the Rome of old from which he was moulded, he must claim the position of Dictator. The Custodes are trained in politics and finesse; they are Emperor’s mouthpiece, the unwavering foundation of the Adeptus Terra. Roboute, superhuman though he is, knows it will take decades for him to command an ounce of such respect. Where the Custodes tread, all others follow.
THEY ARE YOURS.
The Lord Commander dips his head in gratitude. He knows the Emperor sees through him, sees through his reason and decision. He refrains to speak not out of practical considerations, but out of respect for the arts of Man that he so appreciates. We are political animals, Guilliman tells himself, and thus ends the audience.
LORD COMMANDER. WE HAVE NOT GIVEN YOU LEAVE.
The Primarch cannot rise. No muscle obeys his command, and he feels the slow collapse of his lungs as he sucks breath through broken teeth. He has left it too late. This is the Presence unbound.
FOR TEN THOUSAND YEARS NONE HAVE LOOKED UPON US.
If the Voice was but a whisper before, now it becomes Heaven’s Choir, no longer signifier but signified, an imposition upon the Real that cannot be denied.
TELL US…
The Primarch recites a litany of worthless words, he must tell the Emperor, Tell tell tell, but he knows not what. The incomplete phrase stings at his being and he is nothing and Father demands and heaven is so far-
WHAT DO YOU SEE?
The Thirteenth looks up, his eyelids snapping open to force a full measure of the Occupant. He thinks he dies, but Primarchs are made of sturdier stuff. Guilliman faints for the first and last time in in his life.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
“What did you see?”
Guilliman ignores the man's words, his gaze focused on the Hololith detailing the ongoing Plague Wars. Eventually, he speaks:
“Do you know why I chose you as my equerry?”
The diminutive human figure in front of the Primarch runs his hand through his hair, feeling the scar of the Famulus Implant on the left side of his skull.
“Why, sire?”
A) “You were a heretic who spoke true.”
B) “You were a guardsman who advanced.”
C) “You were a Tech-Priest who changed”
D) “You were Dark Eldar captive who survived.”
E) “You were a Redemptionist who illuminated.” (Unavailable due to previous decisions)
