Chapter 90: Konrad Curze
Terra
Imperial Palace
"Francis, how did you convince them to comply so readily?" Guilliman's question carried genuine bafflement.
He knew enough of the Dark Eldar, particularly the Blood Reavers, to understand they were fractured, volatile things, nearly impossible to negotiate with through conventional means.
"Simple. Watch this."
Francis produced a control glove with casual confidence and descended it over a Blood Reaver's skull. Instantly, the frenzied creature's eyes glazed over.
It stumbled forward with mechanical precision, its voice hollow and singsong: "Father's father is Grandpa~ Father's mother is Grandma..."
Guilliman "...".
Everyone "..."
Magnus, however, slapped his thigh with unrestrained laughter. "Hahaha! Francis, you're absolutely mad!"
"The Webway's development requires active thought and research," Guilliman pressed, pragmatic as always. "This method might prove... counterproductive."
"They've agreed to cooperate willingly," Francis countered. He released the controlled Reaver, who collapsed back into baseline sentience, though "baseline" was generous for anything involving the Blood Reavers.
The enormous flesh-construct behind him caused the attending Custodians to tense visibly, their posture shifting into lethal readiness.
"I'll grant you unfettered access to this specimen," Francis offered, gesturing to his grotesque companion. "In exchange for your assistance with the Emperor's Webway project. What do you think?"
"I have far more stimulating diversions at home," he continued smoothly.
Dozens of Blood Reavers surged forward in a writhing mass, pressing themselves against the Soul Drinker construct with single-minded fervor. Several went so far as to lacerate their own faces, severing noses to draw closer to the creature's scent.
"Hiss-ha Hiss-ha Ah~~~ This fragrance is exquisite! I consent!"
"Hiss-ha Ah Agreed! Ah~~ I cannot endure this any longer"
"Hiss-ha~..."
Lust kindled behind their eyes a dangerous, consuming thing. Hands reached for fasteners. Garments began to slip.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Francis intervened with surprising speed. "Not here! Have you no sense of propriety? Save that enthusiasm for later. Indoors. Understood?"
The Blood Reavers reluctantly refastened their clothing, though their trembling fingers fumbled with the task.
Guilliman stared baffled disgust "..."
An unexpected realization came in the Primarch's mind: perhaps the Eldar could be reasoned with, after all.
Under the relentless bombardment of Francis's complaints about poverty and lack of compensation, the Emperor himself saw fit to evict the entire contingent from the Hall of the Throne.
The other Primarchs exchanged unreadable glances.
"Look at this!" Francis wailed theatrically as they exited, spreading his arms wide in mock despair. "I labor without rest and receive nothing! Truly, my suffering knows no bounds!"
A few of them covered their faces, embarrassment radiating in waves.
"By the way, how is Konrad Curze doing in your custody?"
Sanguinius quickened his pace, positioning himself before Francis with deliberate grace. The question halted him mid-stride.
"He's... fine, I suppose. Why the sudden inquiry?" Color drained from Francis's face. He answered nervously, the voice of a man caught in an uncomfortable truth: he had forgotten about his him.
"The Night Lords Legion is conducting coordinated assaults against our border flotillas," Sanguinius said, his voice taking on the measured cadence of military briefing. "Their singular goal: Konrad Curze, their Primarch, whom you hold. Their rallying cry is 'Kill Francis, save the Primarch.'"
"They may well attempt your assassination."
Guilliman nodded in grim accord, his analytical mind already mapping contingencies.
Francis felt as though virtue itself had turned against him.
"There is another matter," Sanguinius continued, and Francis felt his scalp prickle with fresh dread. "Carlos remains your prisoner as well. Shall we visit him?"
Another name. Another obligation forgotten.
"No rush," Francis said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with transparent guilt. "Let's see Konrad Curze first."
The marble dome caught and refracted the light, golden and luminous, impossibly pristine. Soft radiance suffused the corridor.
"That...Francis. How did you acquire that halo?" Guilliman kept his gaze fixed on the luminous circlet hovering above Francis's head, something itching at the periphery of his perception. "I find it... aesthetically intriguing."
"Oh, that? Simple. Drink this."
Francis produced several potion bottle containing an iridescent, emerald-green liquid. The prospect of achieving the same luminous effect as their father proved irresistible temptation.
They drank.
Poof, poof, poof.
A discordant symphony erupted throughout the palace.
"Francis!"
"FRANCIS!!"
"FRANCIS!!!"
Guilliman, Lion, and Sanguinius surged toward him with barely restrained fury. Francis bolted, shouting over his shoulder: "Who keeps asking for freebies?! Tell me if it tastes good, at least!"
The outer palace courtyard sprawled like a living gallery of art itself. Fountains carved with painstaking intricacy cascaded perpetually, their waters crystalline and immaculate. Rare xenos flora flanked the pathways, their petals luminescent beneath the artificial light, the air sweet with their alien fragrance.
In passing, they glimpsed rows of courtyards, twenty pristine, untouched spaces that bore no sign of habitation.
The Sun Gate yielded before them. They traversed the Avenue of Glory, now cleared of all traffic, until at last they reached the Abyss Howl.
The hatch descended with mechanical precision. Soul Drinkers greeted them, though their eyes carried questions as they took in the Primarchs' battered countenances.
"By Emperor Sir's, what happened to your faces?"
"A minor miscalculation in psychic practice with the Emperor," Francis explained, his words slightly slurred through swollen facce.
Guilliman and the others were equally disheveled, their eyes deliberately averted.
...
Konrad Curze's chamber lay beyond sealed doors.
Hiss.
White vapor dispersed. The room materialized: sparse, austere. A table. A bed.
Konrad Curze sat on the mattress, draped in a blue and white striped patient's gown, his eyes widening with recognition. "You've come."
He was notably rounder than before, the result of consistent sustenance and care.
"How do you fare? Still convinced of your inevitable doom?"
Francis donned the white coat that had hung waiting and settled into the chair before Konrad Curze with the ease of routine.
Konrad Curze stood in silence. The darkness around him was thick as oil, yet within his eyes something subtle shifted, as though he had glimpsed the threads of destiny itself and found them wanting.
Slowly, he shook his head. A faint smile, calm, mirthless, almost compassionate, touched his lips.
"No," he said quietly. "You were correct. Entirely correct."
His voice, low and cracked at first, grew steadier and clearer until it echoed like a solemn chant across the void.
"Cold winds sweep the Valley of the Fallen. The Cicada of Spring and Autumn cries, and youth returns. Beneath heaven and earth, all things are bound to rise and fall in turn."
The words were like a spell, and with each syllable, the shadow within him began to fracture.
The torment that had defined him, the conviction of inevitable ruin, split apart under the weight of something greater.
Conviction turned to clarity, and despair became understanding.
He looked upward, eyes burning with an inner fire, as though reflecting the dawn he had once forsaken.
"What is fate?" he murmured. "What is the future? Both are but cages we build for ourselves."
His voice rose, not in madness, but in revelation.
"I have walked through night eternal. I have seen the end of all things. And yet—"
"All can be changed." He straightened, each motion carrying the quiet defiance of a man reborn.
"I, Konrad Curze," he declared, as fire coiled in his gaze, "shall alter destiny itself."
The others exchanged glances. Clearly, something fundamental had shifted within the Night Haunter. Whether toward healing or toward a different affliction entirely remained an open question.
"Excellent! I support this endeavor!" Francis rose as well, matching Konrad's intensity. "But your sons are ravaging the Imperium's borders, destroying everything! What do you propose we do?"
"What else? We save them." Konrad's certainty brooked no argument. "We show them that fate can be rewritten. We depart immediately. They will listen to me."
The two men clasped arms, their eyes burning with shared purpose.
"My fate belongs to me, not to destiny! HA-HA-HA." Konrad Curze laughed, a sound unfamiliar and strange upon his lips. With that, he strode from the chamber.
Guilliman: "..."
Sanguinius: "..."
Lion: "..."
They were collectively convinced that Konrad Curze was, in fact, becoming progressively more unwell.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Francis seemed genuinely baffled by their expressions.
"Look, he's no longer fixated on self-destruction. Look at his confidence, his optimism! His renewed commitment to the Imperium, he's not even considering rebellion anymore. And you are looking at me as if I did something horrible to you."
Konrad Curze returned moments later, still clad in his patient's gown, scratching his head in confusion. "I lack transport. I shall require passage."
"Consider it done." Francis snapped his finger, signaling the Soul Drinkers to prepare for immediate departure.
The Night Lords Legion awaited retrieval at the Solar System's border, and with or without the Warp, they would arrive with sufficient speed.
The conference chamber held only the sound of their breathing.
Even Guilliman, whose mind operated across countless simultaneous calculations, found himself utterly confused. How the hell had Francis managed to do any of this? It defied logical thinking.
Sanguinius seemed unbothered, smiling with evident contentment.
Lion kept stealing glances at Francis, his mind already calculating whether another contender for Warmaster had emerged.
Konrad Curze, still in his striped gown, ventured quietly: "Do you have additional storybooks? I've nearly exhausted the collection you provided previously."
Only then did the full scope of Francis's undertaking become apparent: patient, persistent, absurdly methodical rehabilitation.
The Night Haunter was reading poetry.
And asking for more.
[End of Chapter]