The Last Cry of the Eagle

Chaos Franklin's scream echoed across the battlefield, a sound so primal and agonized that it caused even the most battle-hardened Liberty Eagles to pause in their assault. It was a cry that defied description, a blend of rage, disbelief, and pure, unadulterated pain.

The corrupted Primarch's massive frame contorted in ways that seemed to defy the laws of physics. His back arched at an impossible angle, muscles straining against his warped armor. Tendrils of warp energy, usually under his control, now lashed out wildly, responding to their master's distress.

Franklin, despite his own grievous wounds, couldn't help but let out a weak chuckle. "What's the matter, brother? Feeling a bit... twisted?"

Chaos Franklin's eyes, usually alight with malevolent glee, now bulged in their sockets. Veins pulsed visibly beneath his corrupted skin, mapping out a network of agony across his face. His mouth, moments ago twisted in a sneer, now gaped open in a silent scream that followed the first.

"You... you..." Chaos Franklin struggled to form words, each syllable seeming to intensify his torment. "What have you done?!"

Franklin, still impaled but now grinning through the pain, replied, "Just a little trick I picked up. You'd be surprised what you can learn when you keep an open mind."

Franklin, mustering the last of his strength, pushed himself off the corrupted blade. He stumbled backward, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his chest, the other still outstretched towards his writhing counterpart.

"You know," Franklin managed between ragged breaths, "there's a lesson here about the dangers of underestimating your opponent. But I suspect you're not in a learning mood right now."

Chaos Franklin could only respond with another agonized scream, his body convulsing as waves of pain continued to wash over him. The psychic torsion, amplified by Franklin's incredible willpower, showed no signs of abating.

Franklin struggled to his feet. His massive chest heaved with each labored breath, the grievous wound inflicted by his corrupted doppelganger slowly knitting itself closed. With a wet, hacking cough, he spat a mouthful of blood onto the war-torn ground, his eyes never leaving the form of Chaos Franklin.

As he stood, unsteady but defiant, Franklin felt the familiar hum of his mechsuit kick into overdrive. Micro-injectors whirred to life, pumping a cocktail of nutrients and stimulants directly into his bloodstream. The Primarch's superhuman physiology, bolstered by the marvels of technology, began to reassert itself.

Across the battlefield, Chaos Franklin had ceased his agonized writhing. Whether through the intervention of the Dark Gods or sheer force of will, he had managed to push past the excruciating pain inflicted by Franklin's unorthodox psychic attack. He rose to his full height, corrupted blade in hand, his eyes twin infernos of hatred and humiliation.

Franklin, despite the gravity of the situation, couldn't help but let out a low chuckle. It was a sound tinged with pain and weariness, but underlaid with an unbreakable spirit of defiance.

"Well, well," Franklin called out, his voice rough but gaining strength with each word. "Look who's back on his feet. I have to say, I'm impressed. Most men would still be curled up in a ball after what you just experienced."

Chaos Franklin's face contorted with rage, the corrupted flesh of his visage twisting into inhuman patterns. "You dare mock me?" he snarled, taking a menacing step forward. "Never in all my years, across countless battlefields and dimensions, have I been so... so..."

"Thoroughly owned?" Franklin supplied helpfully, a roguish grin spreading across his blood-stained features. "Completely bamboozled? Utterly discombobulated?"

The corrupted Primarch's grip on his blade tightened, the veins in his massive forearms bulging with barely contained fury. "I will flay the flesh from your bones for this insult," he growled.

Franklin raised an eyebrow, his stance casual despite the tension thrumming through his body. "Are you sure you want to do this again? Last time you tried to cross blades with me, as I recall, you ended up having to beat a hasty retreat. Right before I turned you into a lovely fireworks display."

Chaos Franklin's response was a wordless roar of rage as he charged forward, corrupted blade raised high. Franklin, however, stood his ground, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.

"That's right," the Liberator goaded, "keep that anger burning. At least you'll die angry instead of embarrassed. Though I suppose there's no reason you can't do both."

Just as Chaos Franklin closed the distance, he suddenly changed tactics. Instead of bringing his blade to bear against Franklin, he lashed out with a vicious kick. The blow connected not with Franklin, but with the Crone Sword lying nearby, sending the ancient weapon skittering across the battlefield and well out of Franklin's reach.

Petty bastard," Franklin muttered, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Chaos Franklin's lips curled into a triumphant sneer. "Not so confident without your little toy, are you?" he taunted, raising his corrupted blade. "Let's see how well you fare in a true test of skill and strength."

But Franklin's grin never faltered. Instead, he raised his hand, palm outstretched towards the distant Crone Sword. For a moment, nothing happened, and Chaos Franklin's sneer widened.

Then, with a sound like reality itself being torn asunder, the Crone Sword leapt from the ground. It streaked across the battlefield, a blur of black and Divine energy. As it flew, it carved a path through the daemonic forces that had begun to encroach on their duel, banishing warp-spawned monstrosities back to the immaterium with each incidental touch.

Chaos Franklin's eyes widened in disbelief as the Crone Sword slammed into Franklin's waiting hand, the impact sending a shockwave across the war-torn landscape.

"You were saying?" Franklin quipped, settling into a ready stance, the Crone Sword humming with barely contained power.

For a moment, silence reigned on the battlefield. The two Primarchs, mirror images twisted by fate and choice, stood facing each other. One, a beacon of liberty and human potential; the other, a dark reflection of what might have been.

Chaos Franklin broke the silence first, his voice a low growl. "It matters not what tricks you employ. The Dark Gods have blessed me with power beyond your comprehension. I am immortal, unstoppable!"

Franklin rolled his eyes, twirling the Crone Sword with practiced ease. "Buddy, I just gave you the worst case of psychic blue balls in the history of the galaxy. I'd say your 'unstoppable' status is up for debate."

With a roar of pure hatred, Chaos Franklin charged once more. Franklin met him halfway, the Crone Sword clashing against its corrupted counterpart in a shower of sparks and warp energy.

As they traded blows, Franklin continued his verbal assault. "You know, for someone claiming to be my superior version, you sure do fall for the same tricks a lot. Didn't anyone ever teach you the definition of insanity?"

Chaos Franklin's attacks grew wilder, fueled by rage and wounded pride. "I will silence that insolent tongue of yours!"

Their duel had become a blur of motion, too fast for even the enhanced eyes of the watching Space Marines to fully comprehend. Franklin's technique was a marvel to behold, his bladework a perfect fusion of Primarch might and the ancient teachings of Khaine, the Aeldari God of War. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, creating a deadly dance that left no room for error.

Chaos Franklin, found himself once again on the back foot. "What's the matter, brother?" Franklin taunted, his voice steady despite the exertion. "Regretting the rematch?"

A roar of frustration was Chaos Franklin's only reply as he launched into another frenzied assault. But where his blade sought flesh, it found only air or a lethal parry. Franklin moved like smoke, always just out of reach, his own counterattacks leaving a myriad of cuts across his opponent's corrupted form.

Blood, both crimson and an unnatural black ichor, flowed freely from Chaos Franklin's wounds. If not for the unholy gifts bestowed upon him by the Ruinous Powers, he would have long since succumbed to the relentless onslaught. As it was, he had unwittingly set a grim record - the longest-surviving duelist to face Franklin Valorian in single combat.

But longevity did not equate to victory. With each exchange, with each near-miss and counterstrike, it became increasingly clear that this duel had only one possible outcome.

Franklin's eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light as he called upon the teachings of Khaine. The Crone Sword hummed in his grasp, resonating with the ancient power of the Aeldari war god. Time seemed to slow for the Liberator, each of Chaos Franklin's movements telegraphed as clear as day.

In a move too fast for mortal eyes to follow, Franklin feinted left, then struck from the right. Chaos Franklin, falling for the deception, moved to parry a blow that never came. In that split second of overextension, Franklin saw his opportunity.

The Crone Sword met the corrupted blade in a clash that sent shockwaves rippling across the battlefield. For a moment, it seemed as though reality itself held its breath. Then, with a sound like shattering glass amplified a thousandfold, Chaos Franklin's weapon broke apart.

A flash of lightning illuminated the scene, not from the storm-wracked sky above, but from the spiritual plane. In that instant, Franklin heard Khaine's voice resonate through his mind:

"The Greater Daemon within the blade is slain. Press your attack, Primarch! End this Fraud!"

Franklin needed no further encouragement. As fragments of the corrupted blade fell to the ground, he unleashed a flurry of attacks that defied mortal comprehension. The Crone Sword became a blur of motion, striking from angles that seemed to violate the very laws of physics.

Chaos Franklin's eyes widened in disbelief and growing terror as he found himself beset from all sides. Franklin's blade seemed to be everywhere at once, each strike coming from an impossible direction. It was as if the Liberator had multiplied, attacking from every conceivable angle simultaneously.

But there was no trickery here, no mere illusion. This was the true essence of Khaine's divine teachings—the mastery of war that transcended mortal understanding. The Divine Sword Art was not confined to the limits of the material realm; it bent space and time itself, where each strike made the impossible possible. Franklin wielded not just the blade, but the very fabric of the Empyrean, moving through its infinite layers with a grace that defied all laws of nature. Every motion was a dance between reality and the Warp, the embodiment of Khaine's power—war incarnate, where sword and psychic might became one, and the far could be brought near with a single stroke.

To the observers, it appeared as though Franklin was teleporting, his form blinking in and out of existence as he struck again and again. But to Chaos Franklin, the truth was far more terrifying. He saw his counterpart approaching from every direction at once, a hydra of blades and retribution that offered no escape.

"Impossible," Chaos Franklin gasped, his voice a mixture of awe and despair. "This cannot be!"

Franklin's only response was a grim smile as he continued his relentless assault. The Crone Sword sang as it carved through corrupted armor and tainted flesh, each strike precise and devastatingly effective. Chaos Franklin's unholy regeneration, once his saving grace, now served only to prolong his torment.

In a final, cataclysmic series of blows, Franklin brought the duel to its inevitable conclusion. The Crone Sword flashed horizontally, cleaving through Chaos Franklin's midsection with terrifying ease. Before the corrupted Primarch's bisected form could even begin to fall, Franklin reversed his grip and struck again.

The blade, guided by Franklin's superhuman reflexes and Khaine's ancient wisdom, described a perfect arc through the air. It met Chaos Franklin's neck with unerring accuracy, and for the second time in as many heartbeats, it encountered no resistance.

Time seemed to stand still as Chaos Franklin's head, its features frozen in an expression of shock and disbelief, separated from his shoulders. The corrupted Primarch's last thought, a mixture of disbelief and the crushing weight of failure, echoed through the psychic aether:

Impossible... I have failed...

--------------------------------

890.M30

The 3rd Rangdan Xenocides

The Purging of the 2nd and the 11th.

Consciousness returned to me like a tidal wave of agony and bitter defeat. The acrid stench of burning flesh and the metallic tang of spilt blood filled my nostrils as I opened my eyes to a world bathed in the sickly glow of daemonic fire. Above, the skies burned with unnatural hues, a demonstration to the veil between realms torn asunder by the violence of our conflict.

I raised my hand, staring at my palm where the broken blade of corruption flickered in and out of existence. It hadn't been a nightmare, then. The confrontation with my other self - that paragon of what I might have been - was real. And I had failed.

With a grunt of effort, I pushed myself to my feet, surveying the devastation around me. The once-proud citadel of my power lay in ruins, the corpses of my followers strewn about like discarded toys. In the distance, I could hear the savage howls of the Space Wolves and the measured, deadly advance of the Dark Angels. My brothers had come to deliver the Emperor's judgment.

A mirthless chuckle escaped my lips. The Emperor. No, the False Emperor. Even now, I could see the gleaming hull of the Bucephalus hanging in low orbit, a golden monument to his hypocrisy and lies.

I reached out, grasping a nearby power sword. Its weight felt unfamiliar, a pale imitation of the corrupted blade I had wielded with such deadly effect. The blessings of the Dark Gods, once a torrent of unholy might flowing through my veins, had diminished to a mere trickle. Gone was the power that had allowed me to survive the onslaught of my uncorrupted self, to return from the very brink of oblivion.

As I made my way to the throne room - my last bastion in this doomed world - the chants of my remaining cultists echoed through the halls. "Franklin! Franklin! Franklin!" they cried, their devotion unwavering even in the face of certain doom. Foolish, perhaps, but their faith stirred something within me. A reminder of the power I had wielded, of the terrible glory I had achieved in service to the Ruinous Powers.

I sank onto my throne of darkness, my mind racing. The Dark Gods had offered me one last chance at salvation, a task to redeem myself in their eyes. To drag my other self back into darkness, to unmake that shining timeline where I had broken free from the shackles of fate. But I had failed. That other Franklin, that best version of myself, had proven too strong, his will unbreakable.

For a moment, doubt crept into my thoughts. Was I the copy? A pale imitation of that glorious being who had defied destiny itself? No. I pushed the thought aside with vehement denial. I was the original. I had to be. My memories, my pain, my triumphs - they were real. Weren't they?

The thunderous crash of my chamber doors being breached snapped me from my reverie. As the dust settled, two towering figures stepped through the wreckage. My brothers. The Wolf and the Lion.

Leman Russ, the Emperor's Executioner, his face a mask of grim determination. And Lion El'Jonson, the so-called perfect Primarch, the Greatest Amongst the Primarchs, Greater Than Horus could ever be, his eyes cold and judging. A smirk played across my lips as I regarded them. Oh, the irony. In another time, another place, it was I who had been the perfect one. Franklin Valorian, the Great Eagle, greatest of the Emperor's sons.

They approached in silence, weapons at the ready. I could see it in their eyes - the mixture of sorrow, anger, and grim resolve. They had come to end this, to excise the cancer that I represented from the Imperium's flesh.

I rose from my throne, power sword held high. "COME!" I roared, my voice carrying the echo of battlefields past and glories long faded. "END ME! IF YOU CAN! ONLY ONE SIDE WILL LEAVE THIS ROOM ALIVE!"

The battle erupted in a frenzy of superhuman speed and strength. My blade met Leman's Spear in a shower of sparks, while I narrowly avoided the whistling sweep of Lion's sword. We danced a deadly waltz, three sons of the Emperor locked in a conflict that would decide the fate of worlds.

But even as I fought, I knew the truth. Without the full blessings of the Dark Gods, I was outmatched. My strikes, once capable of sundering reality itself, now barely penetrated my brothers' defenses. My speed, once rivaling that of thought, had slowed to a mere blur.

As we fought, memories flashed before my eyes. The burning Aeldari Craftworlds, their spirits shrieking as I consigned them to the maw of the Prince of Pleasure. The exhilaration of casting off the False Emperor's leash, of embracing the true power that had always been my birthright. I did not regret my choices, even now at the end. The Aeldari had been the architects of my fall, and I had repaid them a thousandfold in blood and fire.

A misstep. A moment of distraction. It was all it took. Leman's spear, the legendary Spear of Russ, found its mark. I felt the burning cold of its tip pierce my primary heart, and I knew that this time, there would be no resurrection.

As I fell to my knees, my gaze locked with Leman's. His eyes were cold, calculating—not a flicker of emotion crossed his features. "Brother," he said, his voice like iron, devoid of warmth, "what have you become?"

I laughed, blood spilling from my lips, the taste of iron sharp on my tongue. "I became what I was always destined to be, Wolf King. The greatest of us all."

The Lion stepped forward, his sword raised with the precision of a machine, his face an unreadable mask. "You were meant for more than this, Franklin. You were meant to soar, not fall."

Even with the weight of defeat crushing down, I forced a grin, baring bloodstained teeth. "I soared higher than any of you ever will. I touched the face of gods and bent reality to my will. Can you say the same, my perfect brother?"

The Lion's face hardened, and I saw his muscles tense for the final strike. But it was Leman who delivered the coup de grace, driving his spear deeper, ensuring a true death.

As darkness closed in around me, I had one final thought. In another timeline, a better Franklin lived on. A Franklin who had escaped the cage of destiny, who had remained true to the ideals of liberty and progress. And perhaps, in some small way, a part of me lived on through him.

The 11th Primarch, Franklin Valorian, Daemon Prince and fallen son of the Emperor, breathed his last. And with his passing, the 3rd Rangdan Xenocides - that brutal conflict that had seen the purging of the 2nd and the 11th Legion - came to its bloody conclusion.

In the end, as oblivion claimed me, I wondered if, somewhere out there, my other self would remember this moment. Would he feel the echo of my passing? Would he understand the price of freedom, the weight of the choices that defined us both?

These questions, like so many others, would remain unanswered. For in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war. And I, Franklin Valorian, had played my part in that eternal conflict.

As the darkness closed in, as the last embers of my corrupted existence flickered and faded, a sound pierced through the encroaching void. A cry, proud and defiant, echoing across the vastness of space and time. The cry of an eagle.

In that moment, suspended between life and oblivion, my thoughts turned to the question my other self had asked. Could I still hear it? Could I still recognize that primal call that had once defined my very being?

Yes. Oh, yes.

Despite the corruption, despite the taint of Chaos that had twisted my form and warped my mind, I could hear it. Clear as the day I first took flight, as pure as the moment I first embraced the mantle of the Eagle of Liberty.

It was a cry of freedom, of defiance against the very fabric of fate. It was the sound of hope, of potential unrealized in this timeline but flourishing in another. It was a reminder of what I had been, what I could have been, what I still was at the very core of my being.

In that cry, I heard echoes of Nova Libertas, of battles won and brothers stood beside. I heard the laughter of my sons, the Liberty Eagles, as they soared through star-streaked skies. I heard the dreams of a united humanity, free from the shackles of ignorance and fear.

As my consciousness began to fade, as the last vestiges of my existence unraveled, I clung to that sound. The cry of the eagle, soaring one last time.

In the end, corrupted and fallen as I was, I was still Franklin Valorian. Still the Eagle. I was never a Chimera.

And with that thought, I let go, allowing myself to be carried away on wings unseen, towards whatever lay beyond.

The eagle's cry faded, and I with it.

--------------------------

The acrid smell of spent promethium and ozone hung heavy in the air of Austeria Extremis. The once-pristine Knight World bore the scars of fierce battle, its landscape a patchwork of scorched earth and shattered war machines. Amidst this tableau of destruction, a single figure stood motionless, a statue of transhuman perfection silhouetted against the fading light of day.

Franklin stood at the precipice of victory. Before him, a swirling vortex of unnatural energies slowly collapsed in on itself, the portal to the Immaterium sealing shut like a healing wound in reality. The fierce battle for the Knight World was over, but for Franklin, a more personal conflict lingered.

His eyes, usually a warm brown, now glowed with an otherworldly golden light. To an outside observer, it might have seemed as if he was ensuring the portal's closure through sheer force of will. But the truth was far more complex, far more personal.

A whisper, barely audible even to his enhanced senses, escaped his lips. "Thanks, partner." his words meant for Khaine, the ancient god bound within the Crone Sword at his side. The blade pulsed once in response, a silent acknowledgment.

As the last tendrils of warp energy dissipated, Franklin's gaze remained fixed on the spot where the portal had been. In his mind's eye, he could still see the twisted visage of his other self - Chaos Franklin, the fallen eagle. A version of himself that had succumbed to the temptations of the Ruinous Powers, a dark reflection of what he might have become.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention, but only slightly. He could identify each of his sons by the rhythm of their gait alone. Denzel Washington, his First Captain and closest friend. Steven Armstrong, as unyielding as his name suggested. John Ezra, ever vigilant. And Vladimir Mendelev, his mind a fortress against the Warp's corruption.

They approached cautiously, sensing the weight of the moment. Franklin's stillness, his uncharacteristic silence, spoke volumes. This was not their boisterous Primarch, always ready with a quip or a laugh. This was Franklin Valorian, confronting the road not taken.

A single tear, glistening in the fading light, traced its way down Franklin's cheek. It fell to the scorched earth below, a tiny droplet of moisture on a world thirsting for renewal.

In that tear was contained a universe of emotion. Sorrow for the version of himself that had fallen. Gratitude for the twists of fate that had led him down a different path. The crushing weight of responsibility, knowing that but for a few key moments, their roles might have been reversed.

Franklin's mind raced through the events that had shaped him. His Unification of the Independence Cluster now known as the Independence Sector, a bastion of technology and freedom that had given him the strength to resist the lures of Chaos. Finding the Crone Sword, a chance that had paid off beyond his wildest dreams. The unwavering loyalty of his Liberty Eagles, whose faith in him had been a light in the darkest times.

He thought of the Emperor, his father, and the dream of a united humanity that had been entrusted to him and his brothers. How close had he come to betraying that dream? How thin was the line between loyalty and treachery?

As the last flickering energies of the portal faded away, Franklin felt something stir within him. A need to acknowledge the path not taken, to bid farewell to the self he might have been. Drawing upon the connection he shared with Khaine, he reached out with his mind, sending forth a psychic cry that echoed across realities.

It was the cry of an eagle - proud, defiant, and free. A sound that carried within it the essence of liberty, the promise of soaring heights and limitless horizons. But also, a note of mourning, a lament for a fallen brother.

In that moment, as the cry faded into the ether, Franklin felt a sense of closure. He had faced his darkest possible future and emerged victorious. Not just through strength of arms, but through the strength of his convictions, the bonds he had forged, and the choices he had made.

The golden glow faded from his eyes, and Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, turned to face his sons. A small smile, tinged with both sadness and hope, played across his lips.

"Well, boys," he said, his voice rough with emotion but gaining strength with each word, "I'd say that's another one for the history books. But let's not rest on our laurels. This world needs rebuilding, and I've got a feeling the best chapters of our story are still to come."

As his captains gathered around him, each offering silent support in their own way, Franklin cast one last glance at where the portal had been. The wound in reality had healed, leaving no trace of the battle that had raged or the glimpse into a darker future.

"Fly high, brother," he whispered, too softly for even his enhanced warriors to hear. "And know that your fall was not in vain. It's shown us the price of freedom, and the value of the path we've chosen."

With that final farewell, Franklin Valorian strode forward, his sons at his side. There was work to be done, a galaxy to defend, and a future to forge. And he would face it all with the unshakeable knowledge that he had seen the darkest version of himself and emerged unbroken.

The Eagle of Liberty spread his wings once more, ready to soar towards whatever challenges awaited. For in his heart, he carried not just the hopes of his Legion and the Imperium, but also the memory of a fallen self - a constant reminder of the vigilance required to maintain one's course in a universe of infinite possibilities.