Chapter 84: Weapons in Hand, Marching to Death

"Pain is an illusion of the senses, fear is an illusion of the mind. Beyond that, only death awaits all, silent as a judge." — Mortarion.

In the dim corridor, silence walked.

It weaved, it gazed, it observed the souls, it brushed past the statues.

No one spoke, no one uttered, no one acted.

The weight of armor crashed to the ground, like souls plummeting, desperately seeking the hand of the divine.

Despair, panic, pleas, cries, but all in vain.

They couldn't raise their weapons, they couldn't roar at their enemies. With a ludicrous future upon them, what could they do but decay and bow?

The perpetual miasma shrouded the people of Barbarus, and the mountain lords toyed with all beneath them.

The endless plague corroded the Barbarans, and the benevolent father cherished all his playthings.

From the miasma-covered mountains, he descended, filled with rage, possessing nothing.

From the heaps of plague-ridden corpses, he departed, consumed by fear, utterly alone.

"Stand up!"

He raised the banner of rebellion.

"I am tired."

He relinquished the hope he clung to.

With the Barbarans, he overthrew all injustices!

With the Barbarans, he fell into the embrace of chaos and affection.

Father, father, father, if even you have succumbed, where should we turn?

Who would take in these emaciated farmers?

We are mired in mud, we are tainted.

Who would truly make a place for us in their hearts?

We are fearful, we are content as slaves.

Please, do not abandon us!

Father, if you choose to fall, take us with you.

Take us, it's the last thing we can do for you.

They looked up, and their father gazed back.

The corridor stretched endlessly, swallowing everything, fading into darkness.

"My sons,"

The towering figure of the Primarch stood there, his hood that hid his eyes was removed. He looked upon them all, weary, but still standing.

Mortarion took a deep breath, and after the respirator buzzed seven times, he reached out, bowed his head, and removed his mask.

Cracks of decay lined Mortarion's mouth, a gift from the poisonous air he breathed.

He spoke, "I once had nothing,"

We once had nothing,

"Nothing at all, I stood empty-handed, looking at the world with fear and anticipation."

We too once hoped for this world,

"At first, the world of Barbarus was not kind."

At first, Barbarus was our cage,

"But then I found you."

And we found you,

"Curious children looking at me, old women who averted their eyes, peers who reached out to help, warriors who followed me."

The pale king who descended from the mountain, with eyes aflame with rage,

"We never yielded, but before we could change anything, we had to silently endure the pain inflicted upon us."

Mortarion looked at his progeny, gazing down from above,

"The outside world is not kind, and neither are we. We are dirty, we toil endlessly."

"But the spark of rebellion still lies within each of us."

"I am grateful for the gift you've given me, a heart of rebellion."

All we could offer was a crown made of weeds and thorns from the fields,

"Meeting you made me realize, I was born for humanity."

"I was born to rebel."

He paused, the towering figure knelt down, looking at his kneeling progeny, like a father comforting his child.

The foremost Death Guard was a child from the foot of Mount Dedro, Carwin. Mortarion remembered him, standing by his brother's grave, silently holding a scythe.

These loyal followers, these people who gave Mortarion their last morsels of food, how could he not be moved?

They entrusted themselves to him.

He would grant them his mercy.

You won't be cast into the endless night, I swear.

Even if the end is a blazing inferno.

Mortarion blinked slowly,

"We've all seen it, the rot that is named the future."

"Plague, an endless cycle of torment for each of us."

"You saw me kneel, I surrendered."

Mortarion sighed softly,

"Yes, in that lightless future, I knelt."

"I betrayed our initial vows, I failed the trust you placed in me."

The words of the Primarch were like a gentle breeze, touching every ear, yet shaking the most steadfast of warriors.

"I won't argue against it."

"But please grant me a chance to make a request,"

They knelt, they stood, they silently accepted.

Mortarion's amber eyes stared intently,

"If I betray, if I yield, every single one of you has the duty to end me."

[If I too become corrupted, please end me.]

"Grant me the mercy of death."

Silence, absolute silence, even the faintest breath was halted.

Hades stood behind Mortarion, eyes narrowed, disbelievingly looking at the kneeling Primarch.

Mortarion looked up, staring at the end of the corridor, at the silent veterans who were still in shock.

Defend, rage, rebel, these were the roars they sent through their souls when Mortarion was lost in his visions.

They might not be as loyal as the Barbarans, but that made their resolve even lonelier.

"Please, defend the purity of the legion."

Mortarion looked at these standing warriors and slowly uttered the words.

Then, the Primarch stood.

"Please rise, my warriors."

"Only by standing can we grip our scythes."

"Only by standing can we control our fate."

The clashing of metal echoed, continuous, like a surging ocean in the narrow corridor.

Now, they all stood.

Mortarion looked contentedly at his progeny, his withered form standing before his silent children.

The Reaper sighed,

"My sons, I cannot grant you glory."

"I cannot deceive you with hollow glory. I know, those glittering medals mean nothing."

"I know, you'll be mired in filthy, muddy battlefields. Compared to the glorious battles described by historians, you'll face endless wars. You'll fight cunning xenos, greedy humans, and mad sorcerers."

"You might get stuck in the mud, you might lie helplessly on the bodies of your comrades, you might struggle to crawl out of piles of corpses."

"There's no glory on a muddy, filthy battlefield."

"I cannot grant you glory."

"But I promise you death."

"Everyone will die on the battlefield, including me."

"This is our fate, I won't deceive you with a false beautiful future."

"Before we march to our destined deaths, we will persevere through all the hardships we face."

"We will struggle in our hardships as we march to death."

"We are the Death Guard, we acknowledge death."

"But with every struggle, we leave a piece of land free from oppression for humanity."

"So,"

"Please, fight for humanity, fight for liberation."

"My sons."

It was a command, a sigh, and a blessing.

No one spoke, no one looked up, they were silent warriors, a procession moving silently through the mist.

Like ripples, they slowly spread, the

Death Guard began to leave on their own.

Their earlier rushing figures seemed to still be in the corridor, they patted their past selves, and silently departed.

Except for footsteps, the clanging of metal, there was no other sound.

Soon, the corridor was silent.

Balasin led the remaining captains, along with the chief thinkers, the master smiths, towards Mortarion.

Mortarion and Hades stood in place, looking at them.

It was time to act.

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