Vigil
He kneels before his father and he waits. After all that has been done, despite it all, his father should not be alone. Someone must wait with him until the end comes.
It is coming closer. The air is growing thin and cold, and the creaking groans of the dying ship grow ever louder.
Through the high compartment windows above them, only darkness is visible. The nightscape of space. There are a few specks of light, that might be stars or distant ships, but they are turning fast in a wild and uneven procession. The ship is shifting, uncontrolled, adrift, a broken shell slowly rotating in an orbital decay. There is no way to tell what its final fate will be. From the sounds of shearing collapse and structural failure, Loken suspects the Vengeful Spirit will soon suffer a critical loss of integrity and break up. But it may burn up before that, caught in Terra’s gravity, and dragged down to a fiery, stratospheric demise. Whole, or in a million fragments, it will light up the skies of the Throneworld like a meteor shower or a doomed comet.
‘I feel the hand of the ship upon me,’ Loken says. ‘You know that expression, father? Of course. You will have heard it many times. There was always that bond between us all. I miss those days. That’s why I stood where I stood. I make no apologies, and expect no forgiveness from you. But I stood where I stood to fight for what we used to have. It was a fine thing. The finest. It should never have been lost. So I fought for it. I fought for you.’
He looks at his father. Darkness gazes back from empty pits.
‘It’s true,’ Loken says. ‘I fought for you. Am I not a Luna Wolf? I fought for you, for the you that used to be. The father I loved, not the thing you became. I fought to get you back. I don’t know if you became what you became willingly, or if it was forced upon you. A little of both, I fear. I mean no recrimination. I have seen the other side of this world now. Like you, I have looked into eternity. I know that Chaos merely takes what we already are and uses us. You, father, you were strong, you were proud, and you were fierce. So that’s what it made from you. And no, I do not think I am better than you because I resisted where you did not. Father, the Old Four never came for me the way they came for you. You were Warmaster. You were always the prize worth stealing. So I fought for you, which meant I fought against you. I kept the oaths you broke. I fought to bring you back. I was fighting for you all along.’
He sighs.
‘And you did come back, didn’t you? Just for a moment. Just for a second. You saw it all, just like me. So… you understand. The old you, I mean. For that at least, I am thankful.’
A shudder runs through the deck, the most violent yet. There is a distant thump. Loken rises to his feet.
‘I do not think it will be long now,’ he says. ‘Not long at all. We can go together. I have nothing left to fight for, and you shouldn’t go alone.’
Another deep thump. A muffled, grinding whir. Loken sways as the deck tilts. In the hallway outside the chamber, there is a flash, and then another. Power, surging fitfully, lighting the passageway lamps and then shutting down again. The lamps go on, then off, then on.
Light shines in through the hatchway and shafts across the deck. Three figures step out of the light and into the chamber.
‘He’s dead,’ says Loken. ‘There’s nothing left.’
Abaddon stares at him. His war plate is gouged and cracked, and his cheek is caked in dried blood. His sword hangs in his hand. His eyes are sunken and lost, his cheeks drawn, his skin pale and feverish. He looks exhausted and famished, as though stricken by some wasting disease.
‘Dead,’ he echoes.
Loken nods.
‘Why are you here, Loken?’ Abaddon asks.
‘I stayed with him,’ says Loken. ‘He was alone.’
‘Not any more,’ whispers Sycar. The Master of the Justaerin is edging out to the left of Abaddon, and Baraxa is moving out to Abaddon’s right. They intend to encircle him. Abaddon is simply gazing at his father’s corpse.
‘No, not any more, Hellas,’ says Loken. ‘His sons are with him. I think he would be grateful for that.’
‘His sons, eh?’ Sycar rumbles.
‘Yes,’ says Loken. ‘Do you intend to fight me, Sycar? More blood, after all that’s been spent?’
‘Your blood,’ says Sycar. He has circled around almost to Loken’s right flank, and Baraxa is now on his left.
‘We’ll see, if we have to,’ says Loken. The Master of the Justaerin sees the look in Loken’s eyes.
‘This traitor should not be here,’ Sycar says to Abaddon.
‘Traitor?’ says Loken. He smiles. ‘Really? From your lips, Sycar?’
‘You know what you are,’ says Baraxa.
‘I do,’ says Loken. ‘I absolutely do, Azelas. Do you?’
Sycar begins his move, a telltale hum of his Terminator plate as it powers for a lunge.
‘Stop,’ says Abaddon.
‘But–’
‘Stop, Sycar. I said stop. You too, Baraxa. Just… stop.’
Baraxa lowers his blade, frowning. Sycar glares at the First Captain, and then takes a step back.
‘You want me for yourself, then, Ezekyle?’ Loken says.
Abaddon draws breath, and takes a pace forward. Face to face, they stare at each other.
Abaddon shakes his head.
‘No,’ he says. ‘No more killing. No more of it, Loken. There are far too few of us to turn on each other again.’
‘I agree,’ says Loken.
Abaddon isn’t really looking at him any more. His gaze is fixed on his father’s corpse.
‘You waited here?’ he asks.
‘As I said,’ says Loken.
‘Yes, of course,’ says Abaddon. He moves past Loken, and kneels. He gently places his hand on his father’s body. ‘That was the right thing to do. The respectful thing. A fine warrior is owed that, no matter what.’
He shakes his head. He withdraws his hand.
‘Horus was a fool,’ he says. ‘Our father was a fool.’
‘He was a puppet, Ezekyle,’ says Loken. ‘He was made a puppet. Chaos chose him, and used him, and discarded him.’
‘Discarded him?’
‘Yes, in the end.’
‘Because he wasn’t enough?’ asks Abaddon.
‘Because he was too much,’ says Loken. ‘He was the most terrible thing, Ezekyle. He was absolute and everything. But he was also Horus. He didn’t want gifts and tributes. He didn’t want to be a puppet, or some pawn of the Old Four. He wanted to rule. He wanted control.’
‘Control?’ Abaddon replies sharply. He looks at Loken. ‘Control?’
Loken nods. ‘It was the one thing they wouldn’t give him. Power, yes, but the authority to use that power, no. He was just a weapon to them. A weapon to kill the one thing that threatened them. A weapon to end the human race. They were never going to let us live. They were never going to let him rule anything.’
‘And you know this how?’ asks Sycar.
‘I was there,’ says Loken.
Abaddon rises to his feet.
‘Then he was a fool,’ he says. ‘He was a fool to have believed otherwise. I warned him. I feared for him. I tried to make him see sense. He wouldn’t listen.’
‘He was Horus Lupercal,’ says Loken. ‘I loved him, Ezekyle, but it was never easy to tell him things when his mind was set. And he had not set his mind himself. He was no fool, but he was played for one.’
Abaddon makes no reply.
‘Do not make the same mistake, Ezekyle,’ says Loken.
‘I will not,’ says Abaddon quietly. ‘I will not be made a fool. That is never going to happen to me.’
Abaddon turns to him. He clears his throat.
‘I believed in the Imperium, and it betrayed me,’ he says. ‘I believed in my father, and he disappointed me. I will never be beholden to anything or anyone again. I will follow no one, no primarch, no daemon. I will lead.’
‘Then lead wisely,’ says Loken. ‘And I ask you, Ezekyle… lead what?’
Abaddon stares at Loken for a second.
‘I have the authority now, Loken,’ he says. ‘As First Captain, I am the heir to command. Do you oppose that?’
‘No,’ says Loken.
‘We are trying to right the ship,’ says Abaddon. ‘To make some running repairs and restart the drives.’
‘That won’t be easy. The damage is severe.’
‘Indeed. Not easy at all. But the Vengeful Spirit has always been a resolute vessel. Strong, enduring. We have made a start. We will see how far we get.’
‘That’s your plan?’ asks Loken.
‘Would you advise differently?’ Abaddon asks.
‘I would advise surrender,’ says Loken. He hears Sycar snort.
‘We don’t surrender, Loken,’ says Abaddon.
‘No,’ says Loken. ‘But a coming to terms would be the best conclusion. There’s nowhere to run, not in a wounded ship, and the forces that are coming for you are fired with vengeance. This war will persist until the galaxy ends, unless one side lowers its guard. Chaos is fled. It’s gone. There will be others like you, Ezekyle. Others of your cause who regret their actions, or who were misled and duped, or who have simply seen the error of their ways. But if the First Captain of the Sixteenth sets an example, they would follow you.’
‘Guilliman will kill us,’ says Baraxa.
‘Guilliman wants the Imperium restored,’ says Loken. ‘He wants it whole again. I believe, if the terms were right, he would accept the return of Astartes brothers, and spare them. He doesn’t want to lose nine Legions. There was a mistake born of misunderstanding. Not all of your side are beyond redemption. So set an example. Begin the process. Bring others with you, and demonstrate your contrition.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ snaps Sycar.
‘It’s better that,’ says Loken, ‘than the alternative. A crusade to hunt you all down, to exterminate you all, to scour you from the stars. This civil war perpetuated under a new name. No mercy. No quarter. No forgiveness. Where would you even begin to run?’
‘I’ll think of somewhere,’ Abaddon replies.
‘Ezekyle–’
‘Azelas is right, Loken,’ Abaddon says. ‘Guilliman will kill us. He will never forgive what we have done. He will never accept that we were right, and our grievances justified.’
‘Guilliman wasn’t here,’ says Loken. ‘But Dorn was. He understands it better. He might listen. And he is the Praetorian, after all. Ezekyle, if you are prepared to commit to this course, truly prepared, I would go to him. I would speak to Dorn on behalf of the Sixteenth. I would make your case and negotiate terms. I mean it. I will swear an oath to it, if you want me to. He would listen to me. I know it.’
‘You would do that?’ Abaddon asks.
‘I’d do it for my Legion, and for the honour it once had. I would do it for our father as he was before this darkness fell.’
Loken stares down at the corpse.
‘And I think he would want me to,’ he says. ‘My life for Lupercal. I can’t give it to him now, but I can give it to his memory.’
Abaddon is silent for a moment.
‘And if I decide to reject your offer?’ he asks. ‘If I decide to fight on? Will you oppose me?’
‘I’m not in a position to, Ezekyle. Will you kill me?’
‘No, Garviel. No, I won’t. I can use all the brothers I can get.’
‘I won’t fight for you,’ Loken says. ‘And I won’t run with you. But I will come after you, at your heels, and remind you, every hour of every day, that my offer still stands.’
‘Some Mournival…’ Abaddon murmurs.
‘So?’ Loken asks.
‘You were always the idealist, Loken. Always. I was the pragmatist. The Legions built the Imperium, through blood and sacrifice, and the Emperor would have discarded us. He would have cut our throats to make way for the human ascendancy. They would have no Imperium but for us! The betrayal is unconscionable, and our outrage burns as bright as ever. I’m… sorry. This is a time for pragmatism. We’re going to run. Fight for our birthright. Fight for what is owed us. Fight for our lives, if we have to. That’s the way it is. My decision. You can come with us. Or you can go. I won’t stop you.’
Loken sighs. He starts to speak.
Blood comes out of his mouth in place of words.
Eyes wide, he falls forward into Abaddon. Abaddon catches him, and lowers him in horror to the deck.
‘What did you do?’ Abaddon snarls.
Erebus slides his athame out of Loken’s back, and whips blood from the blade with a flick of his wrist.
‘He opposed you from the start,’ says Erebus. ‘He wasn’t about to stop. He was a traitor to your Legion.’
Abaddon rises. His sword comes up and jabs against the Word Bearer’s throat. Erebus does not flinch.
‘What. Did. You. Do?’ Abaddon spits.
‘He stood against you, Abaddon,’ Erebus says. ‘What do you not understand about that? He would have killed you all, the moment the chance arose. Killed you, or betrayed you. Besides, he had to die.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He had to. He had to. To close the circle, and complete the cycle.’ Erebus smiles. ‘We have lost today,’ he says. ‘Horus has failed. But this isn’t the end. There will be other opportunities to do it, and do it better. We will learn from our mistakes. We will be stronger. We will be far greater than this. If it takes a thousand years, or ten thousand, we will triumph. And to do that, we need guidance. Do you know how daemons are born?’
‘Why would I know that?’ Abaddon growls.
‘It’s a thing you should learn,’ says Erebus. ‘A daemon may die long before it is born. Time is meaningless to them. A circle, you see? They come back because they never go away. And some of them are great powers of special significance. One of those played a vital role in this. It must exist to do that, just as it must exist to help us in our future efforts. So it had to be born, and this happened to be the moment.’
‘Speak sense,’ says Abaddon.
‘A daemon is born in the warp in response to an event here,’ says Erebus. ‘A death, for example. Something especially vindictive and abrupt. Something unjust, perhaps. A daemon was just born, Abaddon. You will come to know it well. It will be the footsteps at your back. It will be the one who walks behind you. It will be the only name you hear. Watch for it. Look out. It’s already here.’