Chapter 22: Interesting Stories on the Way Home
"Do you really believe this order carries any legitimacy, brother?" Francis asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Leman Russ closed his eyes as pain crossed his weathered features. "Belief or disbelief... it doesn't matter when facing a direct command from Terra. We have to execute it without question, without hesitation." His voice dropped to a whisper heavy with regret. "Forgive me, Magnus."
The Crimson King's remaining eye blazed with desperate fury as he took a combat stance. "I won't accept this madness! They're my sons, my gene-children! Every last one of them!"
"Stand down, brother," Leman Russ said, his hand moving reluctantly to the Spear of Russ. The weapon's ancient mechanisms responded to his touch, sensing the approaching conflict. "With so many Custodes and Silent Sisters aboard this vessel, any resistance would be pointless."
The Wolf King drew his legendary spear. Among all present, only he had the strength to match Magnus in battle; the responsibility fell to him alone.
Psychic energy began crackling around Magnus, and the scent of ozone filled the air, but Francis stepped calmly between them.
"Maybe we could have dinner before we come to blows?"
Both Primarchs stared at him in stunned silence.
"....."
"....."
The scene shifted to the warship's primary mess hall, where an unusual feast had been arranged.
Before Leman Russ lay two entire roasted Fenrisian cattle, mountains of perfectly prepared meat awaiting his attention, the Wolf King tore into the feast with typical enthusiasm before offering a massive leg portion to his brother.
"I don't eat beef, brother," Magnus declined with quiet dignity.
An awkward silence settled until Francis filled the void, seated before his own meal, a prime cut aged for two centuries, along with a weird beverage of his own creation.
"I've instructed the Soul Drinkers to retrieve all personnel from the Thousand Sons Legion," Francis announced between bites. "They should arrive shortly."
Leman Russ set down his meal, his expression growing serious. "Francis, you don't intend to defy the Emperor's will as well?"
"Defy? Never!" Francis replied, though his tone suggested deeper plans. "As I explained during our journey, this command bears the corruption of Horus's influence on the Warmaster's authority."
The claim made Leman Russ scowl deeply. On this matter, the Wolf King proved as immovable as Fenrisian stone, flexible when strength was needed, but rigid when flexibility would serve better.
"We Space Wolves know only duty," Leman Russ declared, biting down hard on a piece of sinew. "The mission the Emperor gave us will be completed!"
"Even the Emperor's commands aren't beyond question or error," Francis countered boldly.
"Francis! Watch your words!" A nearby Custodian immediately bristled with anger. "Such heretical talk is beneath a Primarch's station!"
"Really? And you are?" Francis found the golden warrior's arrogance almost amusing.
The warrior straightened with pride. "I serve as Shield-Captain of the Legio Custodes." Every gesture showed the supreme honour he found in his station, honour that came directly from the Emperor Himself, making Francis's words like suggesting the Master of Mankind could make mistakes.
"A Shield-Captain at such a young age, impressive indeed," Francis said with apparent admiration.
However, his tone shifted as he continued. "But the ancients spoke wisdom: 'To err is human.' This means that as long as someone has mortal flesh, they can make mistakes, unless they're divine. So you're suggesting the Emperor transcends humanity, that He is, in truth, a god."
Both Leman Russ and the Shield-Captain felt their hearts skip, because in their deepest thoughts, they did revere the Emperor as divine.
Francis pressed his advantage. "So you stand in direct violation of the Imperial Truth established by the Emperor Himself, you embrace heresy and betray His fundamental teachings."
Instantly, the colour drained from both warriors' faces as they whispered in horrified realisation, "Betray the Emperor? Impossible... but I..."
Magnus watched Francis with something like awe as a dangerous seed of worship quietly took root in his mind. Here was a brother who could turn Imperial doctrine into philosophical weapons.
As the two loyal Imperial servants wrestled with sudden doubt, the Astartes of the Thousand Sons arrived with confusion obvious in their bearing, wondering why they'd been summoned.
"Consider this," Francis continued smoothly. "If the Emperor really wanted the Thousand Sons eliminated, what would be His reasoning?"
The question hung in the air while the Thousand Sons exchanged nervous glances and Magnus remained speechless, unsure where this was going.
"The flesh-change mutations affecting the Legion, surely that would justify such drastic action?"
Caught in Francis's logical web, both Leman Russ and the Shield-Captain found themselves nodding unconsciously as Francis's smile turned predatory.
"Excellent. Then, determining whether the Emperor made an error becomes remarkably simple. Thousand Sons, disarm! All of you, completely!"
The Astartes stared in bewilderment. "What?"
"Disarm yourselves! Now! Why do you hesitate? When I give a command, you obey!"
Magnus shouted anxiously, seized by an inexplicable certainty that this was necessary. Some instinct told him Francis's plan would save his sons.
Eventually, every member of the Thousand Sons Legion stood unclothed in the mess hall, maintaining perfect discipline despite their apparent confusion.
"Look! Do you see the flesh mutations that supposedly justify their destruction?" Francis gestured toward the assembled warriors. "Aren't these among the finest warriors the Imperium has ever produced?"
He glanced toward the Soul Drinkers watching the proceedings, and subtle eye contact conveyed that they, too, represented Imperial excellence. The Soul Drinkers straightened with visible pride at the implied compliment.
When Leman Russ and the Shield-Captain examined the assembled warriors, they found only battle scars and perfectly normal human physiology, not the slightest trace of corruption or mutation.
Francis let the silence stretch, allowing the evidence to speak for itself.
"So if this really represents the Emperor's will, then the Emperor was... mistaken?" Both whispered, their eyes reflecting deeper confusion than ever.
"Furthermore," Francis continued relentlessly, "wasn't the loss of a Primarch itself an error? Was selecting Horus as Warmaster necessarily correct? Didn't he also betray the very trust placed in him?"
Francis turned to Leman Russ directly. "Had the Emperor chosen you, Leman Russ, as Warmaster, none of this catastrophe would have happened."
These words cleared the fog from Leman Russ's mind like a Fenrisian wind. The Wolf King had always wondered, always questioned why Horus had been chosen over him, over any of the others who remained loyal.
He nodded slowly. "Francis, your logic makes sense. We should return them to Terra and seek clarification of the situation."
Magnus exhaled with visible relief, as did every Thousand Sons warrior present. Their gene-father's salvation had come from the most unexpected source.
The Shield-Captain, still struggling with the philosophical implications, tried to object, but Francis cut him off decisively. "The Emperor assigned you to ensure my protection; that remains your only mission."
"But surely you're well protected right now?" the Custodian asked, confused.
"Nonsense! I'm anything but well!" Francis suddenly clutched his abdomen. "My stomach burns with terrible pain! Oh, the agony! My stomach, my legs, my feet, every fibre of my being screams in torment!"
Francis shot a meaningful glance toward Magnus, and the Crimson King, despite his usual perceptiveness, caught the signal immediately.
"Apothecaries! Medicae! Quickly, the Primarch suffers from ailment!!
Amplified by psychic power, Magnus's voice echoed throughout the entire vessel.
Within moments, Francis found himself surrounded by concerned medical personnel who escorted him from the mess hall, feigning weakness. The Custodes and Silent Sisters followed immediately, after all, their primary duty was his protection.
As for eliminating the Thousand Sons Legion? That directive seemed suddenly far less pressing.
After understanding dawned, Leman Russ retrieved the weird Ork-brew Francis had crafted for him and settled in to enjoy his feast alone, thinking about the philosophical trap his brother had so masterfully laid.
In the ship's medical bay, various diagnostic instruments failed to identify any ailment affecting Francis while the assembled medicae and attendants scrambled about like headless chickens, their confusion mounting with each negative reading.
Francis, maintaining his performance of weakness, spoke with laboured breath. "These are... ancient maladies that respond only to... traditional healing methods from my homeworld."
"Primarch, name the required materials and we shall procure them immediately!" the Shield-Captain declared with anxious determination. If anything happened to Francis, he would have failed the Emperor's trust, and the dishonour would fall on the entire Custodian Guard.
"The requirements are simple," Francis whispered. "A basin of heated water, clean towels, and several attendants with... smooth palms."
"That's all? No exotic compounds or rare elements?" The Custodian seemed puzzled by the mundane nature of the request.
"This is an ancient ritual technique," Francis explained mysteriously. "I'll personally instruct the chosen attendants in its application. No others may observe, or the process will be disrupted with... severe consequences."
Hearing such ominous warnings, the Shield-Captain thought he found himself doubting, but he still didn't question further. Surely this only represented some secret healing art from the Dark Age of Technology.
He hurried to find suitable candidates for the mysterious treatment.
Once alone, Francis abandoned his performance and sat up with a satisfied expression.
"After all this exhausting diplomacy," he mused to himself, "it's past time I enjoyed some well-deserved relaxation."
The Thousand Sons were safe, Magnus remained free, the Custodes were busy with his "treatment," and somewhere in the dark between stars, Horus would find one less ally waiting for him when he came calling.
Francis smiled to himself, knowing that sometimes the greatest battles were won not with bolter and blade, but with words and philosophy. The Emperor had taught him that lesson long ago, though perhaps not in the way his father had intended.
[End of Chapter]
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