Chapter 293: A Simple Vacation
When the swaying, battered vessel finally emerged above Terra, both Hades and Malcador let out a long breath of relief.
Even though the two of them shared plenty of common ground for complaints about this wretched world, those scattered bonds were no match for the nausea brought on by Malcador's strained effort to suppress Hades' Black Domain with his psychic might, just to keep the ship moving safely through the Warp.
Now, every time Malcador looked at Hades, he felt sick. For the first time, the patient and cunning psyker found his composure slightly shaken.
Such a powerful command of psychic force also meant heightened senses. Facing Hades, facing that cursed null aura of the Black Domain, it was only his loyalty to the Emperor and his duty to the Imperium that stopped the devoted psyker from tossing the wretched Hades out into the Warp mid-voyage.
Hades didn't fare any better. Compared to the Emperor's psychic suppression, Malcador's methods felt… cruder, more brute-force. Perhaps this was still a sign of Malcador's lack of refinement in psychic technique.
Throughout the Warp transit, Hades felt as though Malcador were holding him down with raw psychic force into a vast vat filled with vomit—lumpy chunks spraying slurry into his face, shrill nonsensical screeches ringing in his ears.
His Black Domain aura thrashed instinctively in resistance, while the last fragments of his reason strained to stop him from struggling too hard—lest the Warp spit him out entirely. That same fragile reason also kept him from slamming his fist straight into Malcador's face.
And he could see Malcador, too, hanging on to what little sanity he had left, resisting the urge to simply crack Hades' skull with his staff.
It wasn't until the final stretch of the journey that the exhausted Malcador and the near-departed Hades both felt the full weight of this universe's malice toward them.
The meeting of psyker and pariah was doomed to be a tragedy. Both of them understood that with absolute clarity.
Hades slumped against the tall viewport, drained. Outside, countless ships bustled around the radiant Throneworld, each of them performing their endless daily tasks.
There was no sea on Terra. It was a filthy brown world—something Hades had already realized on his first trip to Mars.
It was fundamentally different from the Earth of his memory.
But that didn't stir his soul in any profound way. He simply gazed at the barren, overcrowded planet with the weary relief of a man who had finally reached his destination alive.
He hated the Warp.
Malcador slowly stepped to Hades' side, his face betraying obvious disgust—and Hades mirrored that same expression. By tacit agreement, they both kept a cautious distance from each other.
And yet, despite that, the old man still began to introduce Terra to Hades. Whether it was out of Malcador's tireless sense of duty, or merely the courtesy of a host toward a guest, Hades could not tell.
"This is… very different from your home, isn't it?"
The old man spoke slowly.
Hades blinked. He wasn't sure whether Malcador meant Earth or Barbarus, but both were clearly very different from the Terra before him.
He nodded.
"Terra—the cradle of human civilization. It was not always so ugly."
Malcador sighed as he spoke. It seemed as though he was lamenting Terra's current state, but Hades felt that he was also mourning the state of humanity itself.
Malcador's gaze lingered on the brown planet. At the Emperor's call, they had unified it, and from here launched the Great Crusade that reshaped the history of mankind.
He had spent long years on Terra. He had poured much of himself into it.
To most humans, arriving at the Throneworld—at Terra—was a moment so overwhelming it left them trembling. They would praise Terra's holiness and beauty, praise the epic weight carried by every inch of its soil, praise the miracle of human history it embodied—
Only he and the Emperor knew that Terra had lost its beauty.
It had become filthy and ugly—the azure oceans gone, replaced by barren scorched earth.
And now… Malcador wondered, what would the outsider Hades think of Terra? Would he praise its holiness?
No. If Hades had once known a world that was brighter, one less steeped in despair than this one, he would never praise this place, never glorify its pitted scars and suffering.
—Would he feel sorrow instead? Would he recognize the hardship of mankind, realize that he was about to climb an endless path, one that demanded sacrifice by its very nature?
Malcador thought of the desolate heart of Bahar on Terra, a massive sprawl of slums. Even here, on Terra—the most sacred of all worlds—there was never a lack of human misery.
"Terra's oceans were stolen by a tyrant-queen. From then on, Terra lost its last sea."
Malcador explained this evenly. He caught the subtle movement of Hades' lips.
"If you have any thoughts, speak them freely, Hades. For personal reasons, I'm curious to know what you think of Terra."
Hades' eyes flicked uncertainly toward Malcador, as if asking, Are you sure?
Malcador answered him with steady silence.
Hades turned his gaze back to Terra. He studied the planet and said,
"I feel…"
Malcador waited. Hades was the one chosen by the Emperor, and he had met every expectation placed upon him. He was not the lost cause Malcador had once thought. Quite the opposite… a startling wisdom lay beneath Hades' rough exterior.
Malcador waited eagerly for his reply. This would help the old man read Hades more clearly, dissect him, and learn how best to deal with him in ways Hades himself would accept.
"…It's not as good as Macragge."
In the brief silence that followed, Malcador realized exactly what the damned man meant. And then, without letting thought intervene, he gave in to instinct.
Old grudges and fresh insults alike—Malcador had had enough.
He turned his staff into a club, reinforced himself with psychic strength and agility, and whacked Hades in the shin.
THUNK!!!
Hades let out an exaggerated howl, clutching his leg. He gave Malcador a wounded look.
"You said I could talk freely! You treacherous old man, you've got no honor!"
Malcador drew a deep breath. Then another. His disgust for Hades blossomed fully into anger.
"I recall… you've never even been to Macragge, have you?"
Hades immediately straightened and answered gravely:
"Guilliman gave me a tapestry embroidered with the scenery of Macragge. Of course I've seen it."
…For the first time in his life, Malcador felt genuine dislike toward Guilliman.
. . . .
Thanks entirely to Hades' exquisite "sense of humor," Malcador no longer discussed anything remotely cultural or philosophical in front of him.
When their shuttle descended to the surface, Hades looked on with disdain at Malcador's excessive taste for luxury. It was a noble's shuttle, lined with scarlet velvet carpets, inlaid with glittering diamonds and pearls.
Malcador ignored Hades' rebuke. The Ultramarines' ceremonial craft were far more extravagant than this.
After that, the Sigillite, stone-faced, led Hades around the usual sites favored by pilgrims, as well as several heavier, grander buildings that the old man had, with some excitement, chosen especially for the outsider.
He should have said something. A cunning politician would have wielded the art of words—Malcador could so easily stir the hearts of men. Such words usually inspired mournful loyalty, or solemn grief, all to better push them toward fulfilling their duty.
Even the weakest could be led to embrace heroic sacrifice once enough emotion was piled upon them.
At first, Malcador had thought to treat Hades the same way: bind the outsider with words, with humanity, with history and civilization, so that even after leaving the Death Guard, he would still strive and serve. The Emperor's choice to trust Hades outright had seemed to Malcador to lack all logic—
But Hades had made him realize something deeply: some people truly had no need for logic.
The Emperor was one.
And Hades, perhaps, another.
Malcador's logic and reason had already been shattered by Macragge. He suddenly realized that, in Hades' eyes, the outsider had seen straight through his attempt. With a single absurd joke, Hades had cut short the Sigillite's effort.
—Or perhaps Hades hadn't even realized any of it? Malcador couldn't tell. His mind was filled only with Macragge-blue.
He led Hades through the Winter Gallery, the Crystal Observatory, the Hall of Discipline—countless great and small landmarks.
Then, with a face of calm numbness, Malcador took Hades into a palace dining hall reserved for high nobility. Under the Sigillite's orders, no one else was being served today; the chefs had prepared the meal long in advance.
Malcador watched blankly as Hades' expression lit up with delight.
That suggestion, he recalled vaguely, had actually come from Jin on Mars.
It made him think of Mortarion—the Primarch who always seemed so detached, yet would, at the very mention of psykers, immediately seize the Lantern at his belt, or react the moment Malcador stepped before him.
Expressionless, Malcador stared at Hades as he admired the décor of the dining hall, and sealed his judgment.
…Birds of a feather.
. . . .
The palace dining hall was, of course, resplendent beyond mortal imagination. Everywhere gleamed with golden light. The faint, alluring scent of woods long extinct for millions of years lingered in the air—yet they were only the steps beneath one's feet.
Every carved wall was studded with jewels: countless diamonds and pearls, amber and onyx. Fist-sized rubies glittered as the eyes of carved beasts, felled beneath silver-glaive-bearing warriors.
Everything here, even the faint trace of incense in the air, radiated wealth.
Malcador saw Hades suddenly whip his head toward him, eyes filled with hope.
"Wait… Malcador, this isn't going to be one of those fancy banquets where each dish is only a single bite, is it?"
"No."
Malcador replied calmly. He raised one hand in a casual gesture, signaling the servants to begin.
Though the Sigillite would never admit it, he had indeed grasped one of Hades' human weaknesses—
The scent of carefully roasted meat drifted in, layered with the richness of precious spices. Hades could already hear the faint sizzling crackle, the sound of flesh just pulled from the fire, singing its perfect aroma.
Malcador accepted a wineglass from a servitor. Inside, the crimson liquid shimmered with intoxicating fragrance.
The Sigillite took a light sip. The torment of the Black Domain aura left him no heart to savor it; even the richest vintage could only wash the sourness of nausea from his tongue.
Yet clearly, there were those who could keep their appetite even amidst the mutual loathing of psyker and pariah.
The main dish—a mountain of layered roasted meats—was hauled to the table by several servitors working together. The taut fibers gleamed with a slick sheen of oil; translucent juices clung to the ribs like crystal beads, catching the flickering light of the dining hall. Dried green herb leaves, roasted until crisp, lay quietly along the edges of the pristine plates, releasing a fragrance both complex and layered.
Malcador took another sip of wine. The richness only made him want to retch.
Taking Jin's advice, the Sigillite had ordered the servitors to serve everything at once. No ceremony, no sequence—Barbarus-born men had no patience for such things.
—More like Russ, really.
Malcador banished the errant thought and returned to watching Hades.
The Lord of the Underworld, the Specter of Barbarus, commander of the Death Guard, devourer of souls, Head of the Silent Sisterhood—Hades was plainly oblivious to all these titles and to how others regarded him.
With each new dish brought to the table, his eyes brightened just a little more. It was a rare, utterly pure joy.
A creamy broth simmering with giant fish, marinated seafood with its strange tang, puddings glazed in syrup so delicate they quivered at a touch, rice casseroles packed with rich ingredients…
Hades drew in a deep breath. He stared at the still-bubbling fish soup, steam rising from its surface, its eyes glimmering oddly in the light, and hesitated—what to eat first?
"Malcador, all of this is just for the two of us?"
Hades asked uncertainly.
"These are all yours," Malcador replied, sipping his wine with deliberate leisure.
"Due to the limits of the table, not all the dishes are here yet. You may check the menu and replace what you don't want."
He watched, satisfied, as Hades froze mid-motion. After the humiliation at Macragge, a subtle confidence returned to the Sigillite.
Hades looked ready to condemn Malcador for extravagance and waste—but confronted with the feast before him, the Head of the Silent Sisterhood nimbly adjusted his principles.
"Then I won't hold back."
The words flew out quickly. And then Malcador sat in mute astonishment as the food vanished at an incredible pace. The speed was so shocking that he began to wonder if the Black Domain could devour food as well, for Hades' movements were not even excessive—he ate with perfectly ordinary table manners.
Malcador thought a moment, then decided to ask directly. No more circling, no more subtle traps—otherwise this outsider might twist him around again, and the Sigillite would pay for it in riddles and mockery.
The old man spoke:
"What was your true motive at the start, Hades? And what is it that you want?"
Immersed in food, the Lord of the Underworld made no attempt at his usual damned humor. In good spirits, he answered plainly:
"Nothing complicated. If you really have to put it into words—say you're walking along and suddenly see a child fall into the water. My first instinct is to jump in and save him. You can't just not do it."
"It's not like I'd stop to think about loyalty or honor…"
Hades waved his hand, signaling the servitors to bring out another dish. Unlike those damned wasteful nobles, he swore he would never let food go to waste.
"When you've lived on Barbarus, you realize… things like that are just too far away."
Malcador's expression grew thoughtful.
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