You have imagined this moment. You have savoured the prospect with an
almost greedy anticipation. Now it’s finally here.
So where, then, is your father’s wrath? Where is His horror? Where is
His… anything? You expected the chastising fury of an enraged patriarch,
or the anguished pleading of a heartbroken parent. But He just stands there,
staring at you.
Your glory is something to behold. You haven’t seen Him for a long time.
You’ve changed. You’ve grown. You’re not the child He remembers. Maybe
He needs a moment to accept that.
He’s changed too. He seems small. A shadow of His former self. In truth,
you were secretly afraid of this reunion. The father you remember was a
huge and terrible force of majesty. His presence always overwhelmed you.
At His side, long ago, during those thirty perfect years, you always felt safe
and scared in equal measure. He was everything. You adored Him with
every fibre of your being. You flinched every time He spoke a word.
But look at Him. Look at Him. Oh, He still appears impressive. The golden
armour glinting in its own sunlight. The mantle about His shoulders like a
cloak of silks cut from the finest damask nightfall and the richest royal
blood. The stature. The serenity. The long and gleaming black hair. The
noble, haloed face. The crown of radiance that rests upon Him. The
Imperial aspect.
But He does seem small. It’s the natural way of things, you presume. To a
child, a father seems an infallible, perfect giant. But the child grows up. He
begins to notice the flaws and imperfections. The child matures, and the
father grows ever smaller and more frail. You wonder that you were ever
cowed by Him. You have outgrown Him. This, this is what you were afraid
of? This, a man in antique armour, come to remonstrate with you and exert
His authority? He still thinks He can subdue you with the merest look or
utterance.
Not any more.
You realise you have always been afraid of what you thought He was, not
what He actually is. You hope His silence indicates that He has reached a
similar conclusion. It is time for Him to be afraid of you.
Perhaps He’s choosing his words carefully–
+You have killed my son.+
So now He speaks. It was clearly the shock that rendered Him dumb. Yes,
father. I have. I have nothing to hide. The body is there for all to see.
Consider it a statement of my intent.
You feel a pang of regret. If Sanguinius had not been quite so defiant, if he
had not been quite so Sanguinius, well, then this moment would have been
more satisfying.
‘I offered him a place beside me,’ you say, with a note of sadness that is
quite authentic. ‘I didn’t want to kill him. He could have stood at my side,
just as you can stand at my side. But he refused, to my regret. His refusal
made his death necessary. It was my only recourse. I know you understand,
father. You are an entirely rational man. I inherited my rationality from you.
Poor Sanguinius, his execution was the only rational–’
+You have killed my son.+
What is this? Is His trauma so deep that He can do nothing but repeat
Himself? Why is He not listening?
‘I offered him a position of power in the new order,’ you say, with less
compassion. Your father is beginning to aggravate you. You gesture,
proudly, at the five waiting thrones. ‘He could have sat at the right hand of
the incarnate,’ you say. ‘He did not see the way of it. He did not appreciate
the fundamental state-change of the cosmos. There is me, or there is
nothing. He chose to align himself with nothing, and death was the
consequence. I hope it’s not a mistake you will replicate, father. Again, I
cite the fact that you are a supremely rational man. Grasp your lack of
choice in this situation. Accept my offer, which I extend with a full heart. I
am the Master of Mankind now, father. I would gladly have you stand at my
right hand, so we can shape the future together. Nothing would make me
happier. We will be as we were, all those years ago, side by side. But this
time I can lift the bulk of that burden from you, and spare you the toil, so
that you may take ease and rest as your reward for a long life of service to
humanity. You need do nothing more than sit upon a throne–’
‘My King-of-Ages will not accede to your demands, or accept any offer to
surrender.’
What’s this now? Who dares–
Ah, He has brought others with Him. You spot them now. So insignificant,
you barely noticed them. If your father seems small, they seem like ants.
Where are your hosts, father? Where are your proud armies and conquering
Legions? You come here with, what, two Astartes Space Marines and a
single Custodian? Is that the best you could muster? Is that all that
survived? Oh, father. How are the mighty fallen.
The Custodes Sentinel is the one who spoke. He has stepped forward, still
smeared in Sanguinius’ blood, while one of the Astartes struggles to set
down the Angel’s corpse and the other cowers beside your father. Non-
entities. They have no place here.
‘My King-of-Ages demands your immediate surrender.’
The damn Custodian is becoming impertinent. He’s a proconsul, from his
armour. They were always so aloof and autocratic. You seize his name. It’s
floating in his surface thoughts. Caecaltus Dusk, a proud Hetaeron. He has
no business addressing you. This isn’t the Throne Room. This is your Court.
‘Be silent,’ you tell him. ‘My father and I have business to discuss.’
+Why?+
What a strange question. What is it that your father doesn’t understand?
‘You ask me why?’ you say. ‘Why what?’
+Why?+
‘I think you have suffered too great a shock, father,’ you say gently. ‘You
are not making sense. What are you asking me? Why did I kill the Angel?
Or why do I offer–’
+Why?+
Oh yes, you see it now. Just like the old days. Those thirty years of
learning His shorthand, learning to read His gnomic comments. Thirty years
of Him expecting you to fill in the gaps and comprehend everything
intended by an inscrutable remark. Thirty years of being afraid to get it
wrong. He means why in the most fundamental sense.
‘Why are we at war?’ you ask. Have all those millennia taught Him
nothing? Or does He just want to hear you say it? Does He want to flex His
authority and make you say it? Well, appease Him. He deserves some
consideration.
‘Father, you know why,’ you say. ‘Something, perhaps some timidity,
made you stop short of binding the forces of Chaos. You could have
harnessed Chaos, but you merely aggravated it. You could have claimed
ultimate power for the good of mankind, but you did not. So I have. I have
done what you could or would not do. I have bound the powers of the warp,
and I will lead humanity where you could not lead it, to a new and endless
age of supremacy. I think it’s time you accepted my offer. I think it’s time
you acknowledged my triumph. Kneel, father, please, and I will spare you.
Then this will all be over.’
‘No man who ever lived can master Chaos.’
Again, the upstart proconsul, presuming to speak for his king.
‘I told you to be silent,’ you say.
‘You believe the Emperor weak not to have followed this course. Timid,
you said.’
Now it’s one of the Astartes! He steps forward, the Angel’s blood wet on
his hands.
‘Know your place!’ you bark at him.
‘This was my place,’ he replies.
Oh.
Oh, how a heart might break when a father sees his son again! After all
this time, a son so changed! It is Garviel. It is poor Garviel, who was once
your favourite.
You swallow. You did not expect this. You wish he didn’t have to see you
like this, or witness this moment. You could have embraced poor Loken to
your bosom later, when all this was over. Or perhaps it would have been
better that he died long-since and had never come here.
‘Garviel…’ you murmur.
‘You have deluded yourself, great Lupercal,’ Loken says to you. ‘You are
the servant of Chaos, not its master.’
‘What would you know of this, Garviel?’ you ask, stung by his words.
‘Everything, now, father,’ he replies.
This moment is spoiled. You didn’t want Loken here. Your heart aches. For
a father to see his son again, after all this time, and hear him speak such
words. And they think you’re the monster! You, with tears on your face at
the sight of your favourite child, and your father, your damn father, still
impassive and without affect despite the ruined corpse of His favoured son
on the deck at His heels!
‘Please relent,’ Loken says to you. ‘Now, before it is too late. You are
deluded.’
You try to ignore him. Your father has clearly recruited him and brought
him here to prey upon your emotions and get you to lower your guard. A
cheap trick. And look at Him! Your father, showing absolutely no emotion
of His own.
‘Speak!’ you hiss. ‘Speak, father. Say something. Say something relevant.
Say something that actually matters. Tell me you’re sorry for withholding
the truth from us! Tell me you’re sorry for causing this war! Say something!
Show me something! Kneel! At least you can do that! Kneel and submit!’
+Why?+
You’re going to have to kill Him. You suspected you might have to. You
thought you’d be sorry if it came to it. But you’re not sorry. Not at all. He
hasn’t changed. If anything, He’s worse. Just staring at you with those
expressionless eyes–
No. Not at you.
He’s not staring at you. This whole time, He hasn’t been looking at you at
all. And nothing He’s said, since He walked into your Court, has been
directed at you either. It’s as if you’re not even there.
He’s looking past you. He’s looking into the shadows behind you.
You turn to see what’s so damn fascinating that He can’t take His eyes off
it long enough to pay you the respect that is due–
And there they are. Of course. You knew they were there. You just didn’t
know anybody else could see them. Lurking there in the shadows, in the
psychofractal darkness that simmers behind you. The Old Four. All of them.
You’ve never seen them so close. You’ve never seen them manifest so
completely. They are huge. So beautiful. They’ve come to witness this
moment.
Your father has been talking to them. Watching them. When He said, ‘You
have killed my son,’ the fool hadn’t meant Sanguinius. He had been talking
to them about you.
He considers you dead. Dead and lost.
He’s not interested in you at all.
Well, father, you should be.
You raise your right hand, the claws drawn together. You hear Garviel and
the arrogant proconsul cry out a warning.
Your father will feel the true nature of your power. Then let them tell you
that you are deluded.
You let the power loose.
You strike your father down.