Chapter 244: The Beginning of the Banquet
Without comparison, there is no harm.
As it turned out, it wasn't that the Imperials were being too ostentatious—rather, the barbarians from Barbarus simply did not understand art.
The dome arched overhead, flames descended from above accompanied by golden flakes, illuminating the hall. Darkness and light were balanced in just the right proportions, intertwined, casting a shimmering glow across the candlelit walls.
Beneath the chandeliers inlaid with pearls, gold, and silver stretched a sea of shining white silk. Tables and chairs rose and fell like waves, constructing a landscape that embodied the laws of the Empire.
The tallest tables and chairs naturally occupied the places surrounded by light and jewels, while those beneath them were like the fading ripples of a tide, encircling the giant at the center—bowing their heads, submitting, and resigning themselves to the role of adornment.
The rulers of mankind were always cruel; they could not tolerate sharing a room with others of equal standing, as though equality itself would kill them.
The cheapest joy, of course, was born from comparison. Looking down from on high held its own peculiar sweetness, the flattery of the crowd nurtured happiness, whereas conversation with equals only bred conflict.
Thus, though this was a gathering of Primarchs, there were also planetary governors from other worlds, diplomats from the garden planets. If a banquet were likened to an outing in the wilds, then these people were nothing more than birdsong or frog calls in nature.
Actors and dancers spun across the floor, harmonies floated from the stately, resonant strings, their beauty intoxicating. Chosen from among billions, they were no more than the playthings of the Imperial elite.
Yet even if their skill and allure could make a king cast aside his crown, or a hero break his sword, they were still not the stars of this feast.
In fact, most eyes and attention were not fixed upon the stage at all. Instead, hidden and restrained, they gathered at the very center—
A gaunt giant leaned upon the most secluded throne. His plainness bordered on desolation, clad in simple hues that evoked the storm-laden plains before a downpour: vast, oppressive, and bleak.
It was not as though people had never seen rulers who favored midnight tones, whose dark garb carried an air of mystery and severity. Yet even then, the details—the gemstones, the golden threads woven into the fabric—still satisfied their vanity.
But the Lord of Death's attire bore none of these markers of wealth or status. No jewels, no pearls, no intricate embellishments.
The only ornament was the bronze skull clasp fastening his cloak. Around it radiated a six-pointed glow, carved with the Roman numeral XIV, and stained with what seemed like traces of blood.
Such a figure, even at the funeral of the nobility, would have been deemed far too austere—insultingly so, as though deliberately slighting the hosts.
But he was a Primarch, a demigod, holding in his grasp the lifeblood of an entire Imperial military force. So people automatically found ways to rationalize his behavior.
After all, he was a Primarch.
The Lord of Death sat in silence at his seat, his very presence radiating a smoldering disdain for all around him. The dishes had already been served, yet he had not even removed his breathing mask.
A suffocating aura of death hung around Mortarion, and not even the boldest of administrators dared approach to strike up conversation.
Yet the maids and servants had no choice but to brave the oppressive air, for behind the Lord of Death sat one of his Astartes, who continually demanded more food.
Curiously enough, while Astartes generally mirrored their Primarch's temperament, the Death Guard warrior in question was an exception to that rule.
Garro's expression remained blank. He should have realized long ago that the commander of the Death Guard was not a normal man—but when he first chose the boy, he had failed to see it.
None of the other Legions had arrived yet; only the Death Guard had entered the great hall, though their arrival had been far from "normal."
Faced with the mortals' tedious and drawn-out processions of ceremony, Mortarion had done only one thing: ignore them.
He had acted no differently years ago, even before the Emperor's Custodes. The Primarch scorned all things gilded and hollow—and elaborate ritual was no exception.
So Garro had no choice but to watch as Mortarion barreled straight through the ceremonial guard, the Primarch ignoring the officer who rushed forward to apologize, and instead proceeding by the shortest route between two points.
Garro thought that poor ceremonial officer, spurned by the Legion's commander, was on the verge of drawing his sword and cutting his own throat—but fortunately, Hades restrained the miserable, bewildered man.
Garro quietly let out a sigh of relief. Since Hades had stepped in, at least he wouldn't have to handle it himself.
But that hardly made the situation any better. Garro had attended events like this before, and their conduct could not be described as polite or honorable; it was more like the behavior of intruders.
A faint unease stirred within him, growing until it reached its peak as they entered the grand hall. Their attire was utterly out of place here—jarringly so, like mourners at a funeral.
Garro wore the garments he usually used for diplomatic functions, but to match Mortarion's style, he had been forced to strip away all the sections adorned with fine embroidery.
Hades's attire, however, was even more peculiar. The Mechanicum of Graia had previously sent him a set of formal robes, and Hades had simply put them on.
Although he too had removed the more extravagant parts, Garro suspected that Hades did so only because he thought them ugly, not for any subtler reason.
The base color was dark, woven with muted crimson and a rasping moss-green, the patterns delineating the sigils of the Mechanicum and the Death Guard. The buttons were black stone, dull and lusterless.
Were it not for the possibility that the Iron Hands might appear here, Hades's attire would have been entirely inappropriate—for most of the time, the Mechanicum was far from welcome company.
But… it no longer mattered. They were here already. Garro glanced at Mortarion, who was staring blankly at his plate, and at Hades, who was still summoning serving girls to bring him more food.
Mortarion's gaze fixed on the beans floating in his bowl of soup as though he were watching toads rising and sinking in a swamp. He had not even removed his breathing mask.
For the first time, Garro thought that perhaps Vorx would have been better suited for this kind of setting, not him.
All he could do now was pray that the other participants in this banquet would not turn out to be the stronger, harder figures—
Garro abruptly rose to his feet and saluted, yanking Hades up with him. A moment ago, Hades had been devouring everything within reach, but in an instant he straightened into a mask of solemnity.
The blaring sound of horns rang out. The crowd pressed forward, voices breaking into glorious hymns, light dazzling as guests clad in gold and red stepped into the hall.
It was Rogal Dorn and Sanguinius.
Rogal Dorn was like a moving wall. A vivid saffron cloak draped across his shoulders, and his perfectly tailored formal garb emphasized the strength of his broad frame.
A halo of gold shone behind his stern, chiseled face, making the Primarch's marble-white cropped hair gleam all the brighter.
He was a true king—splendid, resplendent, and unbreakable.
Dorn should have commanded all eyes—were it not for the fact that—
The Angel, Sanguinius, walked beside him.
This was a true angel.
Great, white wings swept down, each feather flawless beyond compare, soft and full. From beneath the long primaries hung delicate chains of gold and red, inlaid with jewels that quivered faintly with each step the Primarch took.
A gentle halo burned about him, dazzling and holy. His slightly curled golden hair fell down, framing a face made leaner by sharpness, highlighting all the more the pair of crimson eyes within.
The Angel—Sanguinius—he seemed to shine with his own light, as though a river of radiance flowed quietly at his side.
All else paled before him. The blazing candles, the jewel-studded chandeliers—all of it dulled, all of it unbearable.
In the presence of true perfection, the flaws of mortal things were laid bare.
No one could resist Sanguinius. People unconsciously stopped whatever they were doing, their gazes fixed directly on the Angel—
Of course, except for Mortarion.
The Lord of Death did not rise to greet him. He remained seated upon his throne, his movements unchanged from before—except that he shifted his gaze from the bean-toads in his soup to the birdman's wings, with a faint trace of puzzlement.
As the two radiant Primarchs entered, they seemed to be deep in conversation. It did not appear to be a pleasant topic, for Garro noticed the faint crease of Rogal Dorn's brow.
Soon enough, both Primarchs turned their attention toward the Lord of Death. First, they were surprised—and then, the expression of the Seventh Legion's Primarch hardened into visible disapproval.
But while Dorn's eyes lingered sternly upon Mortarion, Sanguinius's gaze flickered, just for a moment, toward the seats behind him. No one noticed the subtle shift in the Angel's expression; it seemed as if his holy, serene countenance had never changed.
Yet the Blood Angels following him received a silent warning from their master: be cautious.
Dorn strode forward in a straight line toward Mortarion's table, while the Angel, smiling warmly, gestured for the entranced crowd to return to their duties.
Garro and Hades seized the chance to sit back down. The Imperial Fists and Blood Angels made their way toward their side of the hall; Garro busied himself trying to pick out familiar faces among them, while Hades happily took another sip of soup.
With the Angel present, there was far less to fear. Even if Dorn might quarrel with Mortarion, Sanguinius's presence smoothed the edges.
Rogal Dorn—true strength incarnate, blunt speech in its purest form, and satisfaction in its extremity. This was the Primarch who likened himself to the Stone, a man who prized the truth of "say it all openly, and there will be no misunderstanding."
Now Dorn stood across the table from Mortarion, his shadow cast long and heavy, the pressure in the air rising sharply.
"You just caused a disturbance outside with the mortals of the ceremonial guard."
Dorn's voice was grave and unwavering.
"At an event of this scale, such conduct leads to disorder."
"If your actions were not driven by resentment toward any of them in particular, then you should at least respect their work."
Mortarion's gaze rose, locking straight onto Dorn. Amber eyes flared as though kindled with fire, glaring with open fury.
Respect? While they wasted his life with their endless, meaningless rituals?
His mouth opened to spill forth venom, but a hand suddenly extended, cutting through his thoughts.
The mutant—his presence was overwhelming. Mortarion instinctively shifted his focus to the Angel.
"Perhaps we should begin with introductions."
Sanguinius's smile was gentle, restrained. He spread his arms, cutting off the line of sight between the two.
Dorn glanced at the Angel, but Sanguinius was right. Introductions came first.
"Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Seventh Legion, the Imperial Fists."
"I am the father of the Ninth Legion, the Blood Angels. It is a pleasure to meet you—"
The Angel's polite gaze fell upon Mortarion.
"Mortarion. Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion, the Death Guard."
"You prefer a brief welcome, brother? Is that the custom of your homeworld?"
The Angel's flawless smile never faltered—gentle, tinged with just the right measure of curiosity—while he drew Dorn into his seat beside him.
The Angel wisely chose to sit between the two Primarchs, an obvious and correct decision.
Mortarion merely grunted in response, the sound barely passing for agreement.
Then Dorn spoke again:
"You must learn to adapt to the Imperium, Mortarion. Perhaps your vision should not remain confined to a single homeworld."
Always the same refrain.
Mortarion realized that no matter what happened, these glittering, ballroom-lamp–like "brothers" of his would always mock his homeworld, sneer at his origins.
Simply because he had not been raised among gold and thrones? Simply because he had clawed his way up from the muck of a savage swamp?
Ignorant. Shortsighted. Arrogant. Vain.
Mortarion cursed his so-called brothers with venom, but it did not matter. He had nothing in common with those who had never known the harsh truth, only wasting their time amidst jewels and silk, throwing their lives away.
Slowly, deliberately, Mortarion cast Dorn a glare filled with contempt. Then he turned his gaze away, back to his bowl of bean soup.
A strange brother indeed, thought Sanguinius. One with his own jagged, singular edge.
The Angel thought Mortarion looked wan—almost sickly. He was worried, yet Dorn's blunt words had already cut off the chance for dialogue. Mortarion had rejected conversation.
Sanguinius sensed that if he did not intervene, Dorn would speak again. Though he disliked playing such a role, neither did he want this banquet to unravel into disaster.
After all, he had already promised Horus.
Even with nearly all information locked away by the Imperium, some of the Primarchs had caught the scent of the blood spilled on the battlefield of Rangda.
The very thing Sanguinius dreaded most had already come to pass.
If the Wolf and the Lion could raise the Emperor's blade in slaughter once, then they might well have reason to do so again.
The flawed were meant to be culled. And yet—Sanguinius and his Legion stood closest of all to the flawed.
Beneath the perfect, serene façade lay an anxious, fearful soul.
But not a trace of change touched the smile at his lips.
The Angel spoke lightly with Dorn, and conversation with one so earnest was easy enough.
In truth, Sanguinius respected Dorn's bluntness.
Dorn had come here seeking to give the ashes left by flame a place to rest—but he had not yet understood that truth, and spoke with the Angel with lingering unease.
Mortarion was still at the table, so Sanguinius could only offer him the subtlest reassurances.
Horus had gone to see the Emperor and Malcador, and meanwhile had arranged this gathering so that his brothers might grow closer.
Naturally, the Executioner had not been invited.
Yet Sanguinius found some comfort in the fact that Mortarion showed little curiosity. The Death Guard were but an aftershock of this campaign; this new brother should not be permitted to know too much.
The Angel could sense Horus's warmth and concern toward Mortarion—that was why Mortarion was here at all. Horus wished for his taciturn brother to learn more of the Imperium's ways.
But… Sanguinius's attention flickered, just for the briefest moment, toward something behind the Primarch.
What was that?
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