The Whisper of the Maddened Son

He remembered the door, a small, soft door made of the same steel that Nostramo´s hive shared. The door was scarred. It had been kicked in, bashed in, broken with hydraulic jaws, yet it was still the same old door he remembered, standing up against all odds and shielding the small home behind with its many locks.

There were a few times he dreamed of Nostramo, very few indeed. Sleep was not something he truly needed, he was a Primarch, they had been made to go weeks without rest. Yet, he still sleeps, not on his bed aboard the Nightfall, on his throne instead. Dreams were not something common for the Nighthaunter. It was occupied by something else, the same thing that he was cursed with. His visions came as often during his sleep as when he was awake, yet when he rested they never hurt quite as much, they came like a soft cushion that he couldn't unsee but it did not force itself to be seen. That was the true reason the 8th Primarch slept, yet he rarely dreamt, and just like that what he was seeing was no dream or vision, but a memory. Of his time before the Emperor had come to Nostramo.

And just as he remembered everything he had done in that sunless world, every criminal punished, every knife wound he had inflicted or gun wound he had received when young, he could hear the fans roaring behind the walls, in this memory of his. His trans-human sense picking up what mortals would not, and just as he could hear the fans, he could smell the sobbing mortal, the scent of trash in the home and coppery smell of blood on the other side.

He opened the door quietly, just as he remembered. Softly, quietly with all the care in the world to not break it more than it already was, unlocking the many remaining locks with his sharpened fingers, with a single careful metallic snap. It was a single room home, with a single window that stood open just as he´d remembered. They were in Nostramo´s lightless summer, and it was too hot for a mortal to be comfortably inside.

Just as remembered, her sobs died with his presence. She took in a hitching breath, removed her hands from her ears and turned to face the creature that had come into her sanctum. She kept her eyes closed for several seconds, listening to him breathe, quiet yet audible over the thundering fans a hundred thousand lives depended on.

"Night Haunter," she said, opening her eyes as she spoke the words. The same words he remembered, all those years ago.

"I have come for you," he answered, softly.

Life aboard the Pride of the Emperor was infinitely different than aboard the Nightfall, even taking into account the new position Melkor held. For a mortal, life on the Nightfall was all about serving the Nighthaunter in the best way possible, to not break any laws (no matter how minor), and to survive his volatile temper and that of his sons. Life on the Pride, as a mortal, was akin to being a king in a palace. Fulgrim was ever the patron of the arts, every single day in the later terran hours there concerts of various artists that lived aboard the Pride, every month to a month and a half a new exposition of art, from paintings to carved marble statues.

It was more a palace than a vessel crafted for war. Yet still in the times the 28th Expeditionary Fleet had needed to engage in void combat, the ship did a 180 in its stance for mortals. For safety reasons only military personnel or people with special clearance were allowed to wander the decks, like the Lord Primarch himself, 3rd legion Astartes, Archite Palatines, an Imperial Army detachment appointed to the expeditionary fleet, and notably Melkor. He was a Primarch´s representative, under all logic of diplomacy he should be put under heavy protection when danger is in sight, yet the Nighthaunter had invested him with all his authority, and no one, not even Fulgrim would disrespect his brother in this manner. He knew how isolated he was, he did not wish to alienate him more than his other brothers already had.

Rogal, Vulkan, Corax, and Horus had already voiced their concerns relating to the methods of the 8th Legion to the Emperor. Fulgrim knew Ferrus, Roboute, Leman, and Magnus had their own thoughts on the matter, though they chose to remain quiet on the subject, same as him. The others… Only Jaghatai knows Jaghatai´s thoughts, Sanguinius never spoke of Curze for some reason, always avoiding the subject and Angron… Who knows what the Red Angel thinks of his Nostraman brother, not even Fulgrim could guess that one.

None truly liked the Nighthaunter, unsurprisingly so, but even still, it left Fulgrim awfully down whenever he thought of him. He was like the black sheep of the Primarchs. He knew why he was isolated, and he knew why the others held him at arm's length (at best). He would have done the same, had he not been the one tasked by their father to integrate him into the Imperium, had he been not the one who thought him to at least act like a Lord of Men, how to dress for every occasion, how to notice social cues and understand the softness of politics, tho the latter was rather unneeded, the Nostraman tongue was infinitely harder to grasp that any politics he had ever been apart of. Even to this day there were concepts, and details he often missed or mispronounced whenever he heard or tried to speak the tongue of the sunless world.

It was a sad sight. Curze was not truly evil, perhaps he was meant to be the most just of them all, but just like his childhood on Chemos shaped him… Konrad´s childhood on Nostramo shaped him also...

The thought wandered in his mind for a second before he banished it for the moment. It was not good to dwell on them, not alone. He was here to listen to the new spectacle his favorite orchestra had made. It was the debut of these pieces.

He was in the wide opera hall of his flagship, perhaps the only area one could call less opulent in his palatial vessel. It had been made by him and Ferrus. Masterfully designed to spread sound from stage as if all seats were equidistant, by his brother. The seat arrangement, the chemosian silk used to furbish them and the Calibanite wood chosen to carve them from.

As the orchestra entered the center stage, he heard, a few hundred meters in the opal hallway, the light footsteps of the only one who would sit beside him in his personal viewing chamber where he and other Primarchs enjoyed the music aboard the Pride of the Emperor. He had never sat upon it without the Phoenician there, always being careful to not overstay his welcome. His name was Melkor, the mortal his lonely brother chose to give his authority to whenever he was not present.

Melkor walked calmly through the halls, greeting any he passed through with either a word or a head movement, the latter he knew through observation. His Gothic accent was unique as far as he ever knew. He had yet to find a world who spoke a tongue his accent may originate from. He had been awfully evasive about his home, or his past before meeting his brother.

This bothered Fulgrim slightly, but not much. Curze had always known a liar when he met one, Nostramo was riddled with liars. It had taken but minutes for him to learn how to distinguish the liars from few honest men in his world, and if Curze trusted Melkor. There was no need to worry about his evasiveness.

Almost on queue for the Primarch, the door behind opened with a smooth silent sound that only his post-human sense could pick up. Another of Ferrus´ crafts. It had taken awfully long for him to convince his brother to do this project. He still remembers Ferrus´ face of refusal once he asked him the first time… Fortunately, it had only taken asking him thrice to convince him to do it. He relished that memory.

Melkor walked through the door and took the only remaining seat, one furbished with the finest chemosian silks and gems, the former a product that only came after Fulgrim reformed the planet, the latter one that always existed on the planet, though less sought for compared to the rare earth metals the planet possessed in relative abundance.

The place Melkor sat was a chair made for a Primarch, one of the many he had for him and his brothers (and father). In truth the only reason he sat on such a large chair for him was that there was no chair made for a mortal to be in this view port, any chair would make him unable to see the spectacle that was about to begin, and for Fulgrim, as the host of Melkor, that was unacceptable.

The Phoenician, could hear Melkor´s breath, his beating heart quickening. He was going to speak to him.

"Do you not have a more adequate chair, Lord Fulgrim?" he asked, and Fulgrim could feel the distaste of honorifics in his voice though he hid it well enough. "Something more of my size?"

"Not at the moment, Melkor." The Phoenician replied with all the grace he was known for, with a comforting smile on his face to ease the awkwardness between them. "I have put a request to artisans in the fleet to make something more adequate, but for the foreseeable future you will have to enjoy the spectacles from a seat made with my brothers in mind." He grabbed a bottle of sweet peach juice, something the Pheonician noticed Melkor appreciated in the first days he was aboard the vessel, and poured a glass for him. Melkor took the cup, it looked pitifully small in the Primarch´s hand.

"Thank you." he took a sip. "I look forward to the music, everyone here says that their performances are a once in a lifetime experience."

Fulgrim let a small laugh at those words. "Well, then you will live many lifetimes, Melkor."

The curtains opened, and the lights fell down in intensity. The orchestra was about to start.

The music was indeed a once of a lifetime performance, songs new and old being played seemingless, as if they fit in a single track. A performance as bright as the light the Imperium brought to the worlds lost to Old Night, but Fulgrim did not solely appreciate the music.

The Pheonician's sight was greater than any in the room, the darkness that they were in, for the sake of the performance, was not in truth impeding him at all. He took glances at his companion from time to time, carefully observing every detail he could. From Melkor´s heartbeat, rising with his enjoyment to the almost predatory smile he absent mindedly made. And above all else, he noted Melkor´s familiarity faltering knowledge of certain songs. Almost as if he had heard different versions of them. Fulgrim was most curious about this.

Once the performance finished, the crew who performed such a magnificent spectacle saluted the crowd that had come to see them, and as it was custom when the Primarch was present, they asked if he wished to request a performance himself. Now, Fulgrim knew all the songs these artists ever attempted to perform, in or out of stage, and he normally chose those he knew they could do, out of respect for their craft. He knew that after all, practice was essential for their success, unlike him. These mortals did not have the finesse and skills of a Primarch, but Fulgrim was not alone in his view.

He got up from his seat and spoke. "As many of you already noticed, my brother Konrad Curze has sent me someone to speak in his name." Fulgrim heard Melkor´s heartbeat quicken. "He bears my brother's authority. So in my brother's honor this time, I shall not be the one asking for a song. It shall be him, my brother." Fulgrim turned to Melkor.

He slowly got up, not from his seat, he would be too small to be seen in that case. He stood on his seat, his feet where he had previously sat. Like this he was, surprisingly, almost the same height as the Phoenician. Melkor was not expecting this. His heartbeat was fast, as if many thoughts crossed the mind of the mortal, but in the end he managed to speak.

"Lord Fulgrim gives me a great honor." He said, staring at a point on the other side of the room without looking at anyone. "To choose a song we may all appreciate, in the name of his brother. But I confess to you. I do not know what song, my liege-" the word liege sounded wrong from his mouth, as if another had come first in thought and then corrected, "would choose."

He stopped for a moment, thinking. Fulgrim was most curious about what he would say. "But perhaps he would enjoy one I have heard before.'Those Who Wander', Lord Fulgrim." He turned to face the Phoenician´s face in that moment. "I believe he would enjoy that one, if its records survived the ages since it was first made."

Melkor sat once more, after this, and he was surprised that they indeed had in their records a song by that name, and even more that it was the one Melkor was thinking about exactly. A song predating the Imperium, a song that predated mankind´s first colony in the stars. Yet it still remained, twenty-eight thousand years after it had been made, and Melkor had first heard it.

The Phoenician had, also, heard this song before. He had heard every song the artists aboard his vessel had ever performed, including this one. This one was a song of loss, of someone wondering the vastness of reality in searching for a new meaning to its life. A song he appreciated, and one whose choice and comment by Melkor created more questions than answers.

He knew the song, and by his comment he was there when it had first been made. A curious thought, for this date of origin of this song had been lost in the Age of Strife, as far as he knew.

Those watching soon started clapping, the song having finished after nine full minutes of wandering alone in the darkness of one's mind. After wandering through the palatial walls of introspection.

Fulgrim thought of the reason Melkor may have chosen this song, for it fitted his brother just as much as it fitted the mortal. It was a curious thing, the Phoenican knew Melkor kept his past under wraps, having repeatedly refused his probing. Melkor once even almost shouted back at the Primarch. Almost, for he, Fulgrim, his hand tightened, face turned cold as snow and heart rage like a volcano, yet still the only words that came out of his mouth were "I will not speak of it." He hadn't forced the issue. He would not force the issue, he had kept his aura at a minimum whenever they were together, well, tried. Sometimes when he got excited it went out of his control for a millisecond, and all noticed it. He kept it that way, out of some strange respect he had for the mortal.

He had been the only one the Nighthaunter ever trusted with anything about him, outside the legion.

"Do you want some wine?" The Phoenician heard Melkor ask. They were the only ones remaining in the theater hall, and the mortal held the bottle of chemosian liquor in both hands, midway through the motion of pouring some in the Primarch´s glass. Fugrim turned his head to him and answered positively with a simple silent nod.

He must be truly deep in thought, to not have noticed the mortal moving, much less grabbing the wine bottle.

"Don't ask me to choose a song next time." He requested while pouring the wine into a glass cup fitted for a Primarch. "I do not like to impose my likes on others..."

"Nor do I like to have another´s likes imposed on me," was left unsaid between the two.

The Phoenician sipped slowly from his cup, in graceful motion. The drink was refreshing, something that made him savor it all the more. He did not look at Melkor in those moments still, as he drank. He stared at the hall they were in. It was not La Fenice… That one was still in construction, and would be even more exuberant, but he felt sitting there, looking at the opaque onyx walls, a thought passed into his mind.

It had been a month since Melkor had come aboard his vessel, yet for some reason he had yet to show him his storeroom… Should he show him his storeroom? Perhaps, perhaps not. It was perhaps the grandest art collection in the fleet, with many paintings Melkor would surely like seeing them, and many trophies, which he surely would appreciate. Something flashed in his mind, something of silver and beautiful beyond compare. Perhaps, he should propose. He might enjoy it as he enjoyed the songs, after all.

He turned his head towards the mortal. Melkor was hunched over, putting the bottle of Chemosian liquor in its place, in a cabinet behind the chairs.

"I just remembered that I have yet to show you my storeroom." The Primarch´s voice was like honey, sweet and rich.

"Indeed you have not." Melkor answered, getting up and turning towards the Primarch. Fulgrim, in a singular motion, raised himself from his seat, turned towards the door of their viewport, opening it with his right hand and making a gesture of invitation with his left.

Melkor, while surprised, thanked the invitation, and he shadowed the Phoenician all the way to the store room. He at first did not know what said storeroom was likely to contain, until he witnessed the Gilded Panoply in an armor stand beside an immensely beautiful blade and a pistol. He may have known only one of those items there, put in the place of honor one besides the other, but Melkor was smart enough to put two and two together.

Fulgrim picked up the blade with care and brought it closer to Melkor, though he did not offer him to hold it. It seemed extremely light in the Primarch´s hand, yet it was easily two thirds of the mortal´s height. It was of shining gray steel, yet almost like silver. The guard of gold, simple and beautiful, and the handle wrapped in something Melkor was unsure if it was leather or some other material.

"This is Fireblade." The Primarch said with clear sentimentality.

"The blade Ferrus forged in your contest." Melkor spoke absentmindedly as he admired the blade´s construction. All of Fulgrim´s panoply of war held great beauty. Firebrand, the volkite charger the Phoenician used as a pistol he admired in its strikingly simple construction, like a pistol from an age where people thought they were fighting the last war. The War to End all Wars.

The blade he admired in its elegance and craftsmanship, he may not be a smith but he could appreciate a good sword when he saw one, and one made by a Primarch could hardly ever be called simply good, especially if the crafter is the lord of the Iron Tenth. The Phoenican´s war plate was perhaps the only thing he couldn't appreciate, too golden, too intricate, a flashy show of craftsmanship first and an armor second. Not that it was a bad thing being like that, but in Melkor´s mind it was highly pretentious.

The Phoenican could see the mortal´s reaction clear as day. He could see his eyes twitch in silent hidden enthusiasm as he fixated on Fireblade, his hand moving subconsciously acknowledging Firebrand and, and he could see the unmoving eyes of reality´s acceptance as he turned to the Gilded Panoply.

He put the blade in the pedestal it had been before, just beside his warplate and moved on to another piece, and there were many pieces.

For the storeroom was in truth the Primarch´s private collection. His many arms to wage war were there, as well as many paintings and sculptures of incredible artistic expression and trophies of the Third Legion's many compliances. So many in fact that one could spend their entire week going through them and only about half would they have seen.

Yet for all the things that were there they soon stopped in their tracks as soon as they reached the newest item in the compliance trophies section. A silver blade of unmistakable Xenos origin, sized for a Primarch strangely enough. This either meant the race they had brought down used wargear sized for a Primarch in terms of height or…

Melkor froze in place, and the Phoenician saw this. He himself was highly enamored by this piece and he sometimes used it, but he had never seen or noticed anyone as fixated by its appearance as Melkor. He picked the blade up, weaving it about, careful to note the reaction of his mortal companion, and then he put it back in its place. The blade never went out of his sight.

Melkor eyed the blade, something was going on in his mind, and the Primarch could see it. He could feel it. Like a storm brewing in the calm summer sea. He looked into his eyes and saw but a part of what happened. Like staring at a reflection of a reflection, distorted and blurred. Like a mosaic of green serenity shattered by the impact of a thunderous blow.

The mortal mind was such a wondrous thing, capable of holding a million memories of a million experiences, to remember a million things of a million scenes. A million ways to be deceived, for memories to be twisted and for words to be changed. Melkor´s mind was such a mortal one.

He was in an amphitheater he had not been in ages. One made in a time he no longer was in, made in a country that he knew to be but sand and irradiated dust in the now. It was a small amphitheater, with the walls and stage made of oak wood, the floor and curtain of deep blue, and he was in the same seat as he had been in that now forgotten age, listening to the same words, with the same people. He knew every face there, for he had spent eight years with them. Eight years of laughter, of pain, of shared experiences and of shared pride. And he was in the moment of his greatest regret, and he knew it. He lived it, and the memory still burned brightly in him even after all of these years.

The words were the same, words of rights, of obligations, but not duty. And just as he remembered when the one on stage asked who did not wish to have the privilege to take upon those rights and obligations. Melkor had raised in his, just as he did in the memory. He raised it in fear he would not be suited to such a thing. He raised it, and he expected the memory to go on as it should. To receive the question of why he was there if he did not wish this. He did receive it, and he expected his answer to be received with the silent nod of understanding it had before been.

Instead he was asked again. Asked if Melkor was sure with his decision. Asked in a tone he had never heard the man use, a non confrontational tone. Something was wrong. He breathed the air, not to ascertain if it smelled how it should, but rather if it smelled anything. He knew how his memories and dreams were. They were of sight, of hearing, but never of smell, and there was smell. Like something comforting, trying to make you sleep.

Melkor sneezed. His eyes felt heavy, and the man continued to ask him the same question that he never had.

"Are you sure?" he asked. Melkor´s mind was starting to drift in his own memory. As if he was but letting itself flow with the current, the regret leaving his spirit as the secrets of his mind opened like distorted glass. "Are you sure?" It repeated again. "Are you sure?"

He then heard a laughter, quiet and sniveling, like a predator delighting itself with its prey's own demise. He could see the things that awaited him. A bed to sleep till the end of his days, to never worry about a thing in the world, to be adored as he had never been, to be who he never was. Someone mightier, more talented and accomplished, and while he saw this it laughed.

The laughter, he heard the laughter and then something flashed before his weary eyes. A sound he knew and did not know. A sound of mirthless and howling laughter, a laughter to replace tears.

"NO!" He shouted, trying to fight the weariness that spread through his body.

It was barely working. Each syllable only just waking him enough to speak another.

He repeated the defiance, over and over and over. Almost as a mantra, when finally he shouted something different. He shouted not using his given name, he was no longer that man, this was a different time, a reality no one would ever hoped it came true, yet it did.

"I AM, THE VOICE OF THE MADDENED SON AND I REFUSE YOU."

"Are you sure?" It repeated again, and the laughter only continued.

"SHOW YOURSELF." Melkor cried out loud, "SHOW YOURSELF PARASITE." He concentrated on his mind, the once opening distorted glass, now halted from showing itself more. Like two people pushing a door, one to open, one to close, locked in a battle of strength over its state. Melkor was now in a battle of will to not keep its secrets alone, but to keep his self, and while the Thing laughed his sniveling laughter louder and louder, in pure mockery.

He went to shout again, but this time his voice was trapped in his throat. Like something that if allowed to leave would rip everything inside. He pushed it out. For defiance and for himself, in his mind´s eye he shouted a word. No, not a word. A sound. Deeper and far older than he himself.

"SHUT UP DEMON!" Fulgrim heard Melkor shout a few seconds after putting the blade on its pedestal. He turned towards the mortal in the blink of an eye. He was heavy with sweat, almost his body fought a war with itself. He could hardly keep himself standing, but before his legs failed on him the Phoenican caught him by his arms. Arms which were previously hidden by the long shirt he had been using, colored in the same midnight blue the legion he worked for adored, yet even hidden by this thin sheet of cloth the Phoenician would have noticed the blood.

Melkor coughed blood onto the ground and went limp, his arms splitting open as though an unseen blade had slashed through his flesh. Blood gushed from the exposed pit of meat, bone, and muscle, a sight not meant for the open air. The red liquid flowed freely, like a river of vitae, and then.

Then the Phonician lunged into action. He had no idea what happened, he heard but three words and the man whom his brother appointed to be his emissary fell to the floor, with wounds that no one had made, in a state of impending death. Melkor was not trans-human, he was but a mortal, he had few seconds if a minute at best to save his life. Well not his life, his relationship with his brother. He could imagine the fall out between them if Melkor perished in a room alone with him. Curze may not be his most beloved brother, but each was special to the Phoenician.

He reached for line and needle and some things to serve as a tourniquet, and then proceeded to sew back Melkor´s arms, with pieces pressuring this bond to remain. That was all he could do for now. He knew Melkor´s artery had been punctured, the one in the neck, that was where the coughing blood came from, but fortunately it would hold long enough for him to get to the medicae.

He grabbed his limp body, carefully, and ran, keeping the body of the dying stable in his quick movements thanks to his overwhelming body control.

He reached the medicae. It was a quiet austere room, perhaps the only one aboard his vessel, one dedicated to utility rather than opulence. It was empty of people, there had been very few wounded in the last campaign and his apothecaries had already dealt with it. The only thing to do in here so far without injury was to keep stock of what existed and what did not exist.

"Fabius!" He called out through the vox, instinctively demanding the presence of his chief apothecary while laying the mortal´s body on one of the beds. But in truth, he knew it would not come on time. His apothecary was not in the same vessel as him, he was elsewhere, doing something the Phoenican had told him.

Time was ticking, and ticking, and ticking, blood trickled still, thinly now, yet it still ran. Melkor was dying, and Fulgrim alone would be held responsible, even if he himself had not done anything. A blade does not kill without being wielded, and that blade was definitely not being wielded.

Time was running out, so Fulgrim did what he could. He quickly brought a stasis chamber and put Melkor inside it, freezing time for the wounded mortal. Now he had time… He had time, and the Primarch had much to do.

"I have come for you." He answered, softly. His body was swathed in black rags stitched together from the garments of a dozen looted corpses; no tailor on Nostramo would fit him willingly, and he was not one to steal.

"Why?" she said. She was too drained to feel fear, just as he remembered in his mind's eye. "I have done nothing wrong. I have lived all my life as well as I could."

"You did not dream of City's Edge?"

"Everyone dreams of City's Edge." she said, her voice small yet defiant. "I tried to make myself into someone who could go there. I failed. But I did no wrong in trying. I have never harmed anyone, or wished to. I have suffered life here without complaint. Why are you here?"

He approached her slowly, calmly, quietly. She was at the window´s edge, and he was now but a few centimeters from her, looming like a giant over her.

"The manner of your life is not my concern. It is the manner of your death. The manner of death you have chosen is a crime." he said softly, almost as if strangely trying to calm the woman in her despair. "There were, in ancient places, laws against self-murder. Suicides were buried without ceremony, in shame, and those caught attempting to kill themselves were often executed."

"Why?" She whispered in a single breath.

"There are no taboos against taking one's life here," the Nighthaunter remembered saying. "Many do. This is not a happy world. But it can be a better one. By killing yourself, you take the easy way out, you encourage others to do the same. You might think you add yourself to a statistic, but your self-murder is much more than that. Every suicide adds to the rot weakening your culture. Every life abandoned is a signal that change can never be effected. You throw your existence away, and in doing so lessen the value of humanity."

"I am going to save you. I am going to save you all." He continued softly. "The people of this world will rise above the station of beasts. I will make them. If I have to bathe in the blood of you all to make that happen, then so be it. Justice is my purpose. The only route to total justice is fear. Without fear there can be no order. You will suffer now to feed that fear, so that many others will live, and this decaying society takes the slow road to salvation."

He pulled out a long knife he had made himself. It was unlovely, a murderer's blade, but with it he could carve the most excruciating agonies. He pulled it out, and clear as day he remembered what was going to follow. Just like he remembered every single soul he tortured in this cursed world. Primarchs forgot nothing, and for that he remembered this world and many many others, where he employed the flaying knife instead of the glorious bombardments to bring it into the Imperium.

"Wait!" She said. The blade hissed through the air.

"Do not try," he said. "You plead for something you have already forfeited." Yet in a corner of his mind, as he revisited the memory on this night in this dream, he could feel faint words in the polluted air.

"I cannot condemn someone for something they haven't yet done."

His hand froze.

This, after all, was not a memory.

This was a dream.