Chapter Twenty-Two: Rising from the Ashes (Part VI)
With the words of his creator echoing in his mind. Constantin Valdor pushed through the ever-growing waves of power pouring from the Primarch. Step by step, he pushed through distorted space/time and shrugged off eldritch energies. If the warp-rift he approached caused him any distress, Valdor did not show it. Imperial and Xeno alike were transfixed as the Captain-General marshaled his spear. Taking a battle stance, honed over decades of experience and centuries of genetic lore. Constantin Valdor leaped forward and plunged his Emperor-forged Guardian Spear into the gaping hole at the center of the psychic maelstrom the III Primarch had become.
For a moment nothing happened. Time seemed to slow and the bleak cacophony coming from the rift faded to a murmur. Then the hole in space/time that was once a Primarch detonated. As loud as a supernova and as gentle as a soap-bubble., it ruptured in a conflagration of impossible colors and sound. Pierced by a weapon forged with the Emperor's soul, it lost all pretense of form. A shockwave that defied proper description radiated out, sending Xenos flying, buffeted by warp-gales and forcing transhumans to the ground. Lanced like a festering boil, the Warp-Rift exploded violently. The stuff of manic imagination washed over Proxima and cut the strings of billions of walking corpses. Aeldari fled, scurrying into hastily summoned webway gates and fleeing whatever doom was to come. Astartes wordlessly begged for their Primarch, too stunned to do more than stand and watch the indescribable display before them.
As the wave of esoteric and figment-energy dissipated a grim sight came into view. Gone was the Warp-Rift. Forced shut by Valdor and his spear, shut in the most pragmatic way possible. Where once had been a seething rift was a mangled corpse. It was burnt and broken thing, barely a seared torso and head, impaled through its chest by the shining Apollonian Spear. The III Primarch had burned his mind, body, and soul to ash. His life extinguished and the Singers Talisman deactivated. Its golden disc embedded in the Primarch's blackened flesh.
A scream of despair filled the sooty air of Proxima. The III Legion rushed forward to there fallen genesire. Valdor pulled his spear from the Primarch and let his limp corpse fall. Turning to the Astartes, Valdor spoke. "The Emperor did not create the Primarchs to be frail things. Even less so for the two, he intends to last beyond eternity. My Spear is more than a weapon. It is a tool and a method of your Genesire's rebirth. If he is worthy of it."
Fulgurite formed from a cast-off bolt of the Emperor's light could kill or resurrect. In another timeline, it had been used for wonders and terrors. It had cured the madness of a tortured Salamander and killing immortal traitors. Those feats were accomplished by a piece of captured lightning. A literal hunk of sharpened rock in comparison to what pierced Iskandar. The Apollonian Spear was forged by the Master of Mankind and anointed with his very essence. At the Emperor's instruction, Valdor had impaled the III Primarch. Thrusting a spark of pure light into the broken demigod in the process.
That spark flowed through Iskandar, touching the shattered bits of his soul, pulling them together and healing him with his Father's love. Golden light flowed through the dead Primarch. The light only had to push the immortal biology and eternal soul of Iskandar back to its purpose. Like his younger brother Vulkan, Iskandar was a perpetual.
With a scream of life restored, the fallen Primarch breathed anew. Psychic light danced across his broken skin and ruined muscles like some celestial aurora. Flesh regrew and flames of golden light danced around Iskandar, steadily growing in intensity as life poured back into the Primarch. The Singers Talisman melted into his flesh. The Ur-Gold flowed through reborn veins and into the wound Valdor had inflicted. Transhuman flesh and micro-wafers of tesseract-etched gold came together, creating a mark of gold upon his breast roughly resembling the shape of flames while still retaining its countless inscriptions and connection to the warp.
Struggling to his fast regrowing feet, Iskandar held his hands out and cried a call of victory. Flames erupted from his body, flaring out from his arms in the shape of golden wings that were brighter than the sun and just as glorious. At that moment, the Primarch was more than that. He was a Phoenix. The light of rebirth heralding mankind's birth. The Emperor's Champion. His Phoenix Reborn.
As the flames settled, the III Legion knelt before the Primarch. The statuesque demigod walked through the dying flames and beckoned his sons to stand. With a pulse of telekinesis, Iskandar plucked the Uru-Blade from the ground and held it up. Breathing deep and examining himself, Iskandar let out a small chuckle. "A Phoenix indeed. Well played, Father.."
Bowing in gratitude to Valdor, the Primarch spoke. "Thank you my kin. I owe my life and sanity to you. I am his Phoenix Blade, I shall burn bright and strike hard for the Emperor. Now and forever."
Valdor only nodded curtly. His own mind was flooded with a psychic backlash from Iskandar. His spear pulled memories and emotions from all he killed. Such was its burden and power. In that moment of the Primarch's first death, some of his essence touched Valdor. The Captain-General had been shocked by what he felt. Love, love for the Emperor and love by the Emperor towards his son. It was a primitive and brutish thing compared to the loyalty of a Custodes to the Emperor, but it struck Valdor with its sheer intensity. At that moment, he understood something. The Primarchs were far more dangerous than he could ever imagine. That love could so easily turn to hate, and it left a weakness in his Master's armor. Yet, something deep within the Custodian was moved. Some parts of himself felt that connection and wondered if the Primarchs might be more than he could imagine.
Raising his sword, Iskandar spoke to his legionaries: "Hear me my sons! From the Ashes of War! We rise! From this day on, we are the Phoenix Blades. The Champions of the Imperium. In his name, we shall be the flame that burns away the darkness and lights the future!"
A cheer erupted from his sons. All raising their bloody and blunted weapons. At that moment the sky ignited in plasma-fire. Ripping from the Immaterial in a risky Warp-Jump was the Bucephalus. Ignoring its own safety the ship had arrived straight from the Warp and into Proximan orbit. Any lesser vessel would have been dragged into the gravity well or buried in an astral body. The Cognatu Ferrum had used all of its formidable intellect to propel the Emperor's chariot to its wounded master. Looking up, Iskandar watched a flock of landing craft and drop-pods rain from the ship. The Imperium had come and the Emperor was safe.
At Valdor's direction, the still sleeping form of the Emperor was ferried onto a Custodes landing craft that promptly took him to a hidden sanctum within the Bucephalus. It was a place of peace and meditation where the Master of Mankind could heal. Iskandar cloaked his naked form in a procured robe and started giving orders. The Centauri Cluster would be firmly in Imperial hands by the time his father awoke. Moving to a landing craft to take up command upon the Bucephalus, the Primarch paused. Turning back he approached the splintered remains of the Solitaires who had driven him to his first death. The bodies were in too poor condition for Omophageaic use. Soaked in Warp-taint and stinking of the Dark Prince's desire. Instead, they could fulfill another purpose.
Across the Cluster all 52 systems of the Centauri Cluster a message was beamed. The appearance of the Many Colored King's "Angels" and their true identity. How they were scheming Xeno's who had killed all of Proxima rather than let the Emperor expose them. Iterator spun truth and propaganda together artfully. Telling of the Aeldari Fall and its consequences upon the galaxy. Within a Terran month, 90% of temples to the Many-Colored King would be ruined.
Location: The Warp
Date: ~884.M30 (Impossible to accurately measure)
It had been close to three Terran weeks. The Emperor had slept within his private chambers for that entire time, all the while pulling his molecules back together and consolidating his soul. Cegorach had failed to kill him. The clown god had put on a show for him and his servants. He had watched the battle from his undying slumber with bitter fury. The entire thing was a mockery of the God-Emperor and his Imperium. A chastising message meant for the Emperor alone. Informing him that Cegorach knew of the timelines shift and that any attempt to change it further would be pointless.
Close to fully healed and with the Harlequin Assassins scattered into the Webway, it seemed time for the Emperor to confront the clown god. Diving into the Sea of Souls, the Emperor prepared a lure for his foe. Like a freediver of ancient Terran reef-people, he plunged deep into the Immaterium. His senses focused on a group of souls being pulled into the realm of Slaanesh. Thirteen Solitaires, each fighting desperately to escape the jaws of She who Thirsts. Struggling in the caustic depths, begging their god to rescue them. These damned souls felt the pull of Chaos and then something else… Something bright and terrible. Peering up with frightened witch-sight, a specter beyond comprehension filled the warp. Riding upon great wings of fire, a Raptor of hardened light and ordered thought came with outstretched talons.
In the form of a bird of prey, the Master of Mankind swept down into the realm of Chaos and plucked the Solitaires up in his mighty talons. With a great downbeat of innumerable wings, the Emperor ripped through the Warp up towards the shallows. Into the light of the Astronomicon. Like the cruel predator, this form was modeled after the Emperor smashed the stolen souls on a cliff-edge of solid light. Circling the traumatized souls with wings of fire, he spoke. "++ You hurt my child and arranged the deaths of so many of mankind. This will not go unanswered. Yet more pressing matters are at hand. You are tokens of parley. Pray to your performance of a deity he agrees to meet. If not, I will burn you all. It will hurt less than what the Great Enemy intended, but you will be snuffed from existence in considerable pain.++"
Almost on cue, an explosion of technicolor light came into being around the Emperor. A grinning mask of pale silver appeared. Forming the face of something cloaked in starlight and mystery. It very form an oscillating thing of broken images and stars. Cegorach had come.
A hand composed of iridescent streams swept across the cliff of light. Plucking the Solitaires up and fading away with them. Turning to face the Emperor, Cegorach bowed in an extravagant display of false respect. "--Oh great and glorious Anathema! What a wonder it is to see you! How goes the genocide, the pogroms, the atrocities beyond count my glorious overlord of righteousness. What business do you have with me? Oh! Is it about that little spat on Proxima? Please don't hold it against me. I just hoped to save the universe from eternal impossible torment.--"
Scowling through golden eyes, the Emperor observed the Clown-God and felt disgusted at the being's mockery. "++ You wear mask after mask ancient one. Dancing and distracting. I am a monster, a tyrant with the blood of countless on my hands. Yet you are so much worse. You prance about in the face of a God-Construct and pretend to be just an escaped entity like The Bloody Handed One and the Life-Mother. I know the truth of what you are. I pulled it from the minds of your Hrud toys. You are no god, natural or made. You are a creator of them. The Trickster, the last of the Old Ones.++"
For a split second the silver mask adorning the Clown "God" shifted. Its smile no longer one of mocking humor, but a snarl of bared fangs. "-- Oh I am one of the first, just not the last. Some of my comrades yet linger. One was even upon your prized blue-jewel the day of your birth. He watched the Shamans slit their throats atop the tallest mountain. That ritual would have failed without him. Yet another pack of near-animals dying in vain. Hoping to save themselves from the Primordial Annihilator. If the Craftsman had not guided them, you would have never been born. All that is left of him resides in your primitive soul. I guess… that makes me your kin of sorts.--"
Flaring his wings the Emperor flexed talons of cold gold: "++ You lie, Vaul is but a living tool like the rest of your created gods. A broken thing made to build and build. It could not interfere with another species, let alone help my creation ++"
A cackle emanated from the darkness and the Old One spoke "++ So bright and shiny, yet so dull! I speak not of the creator-god we built for the Aeldari. It was just another tool. I speak of the user of those tools. My kin-comrade the Craftsman. Oh he was glorious. Worlds, species, weapons, and so many wonders. All forged by his will. He made the universe brighter with every passing cycle. For you to be his final legacy.... disgraceful. An ignorant tyrant who would burn the universe in a temper tantrum rather than face the truth. --"
"++What truth would that be, Clown?++" roared back the Emperor. He knew he was a monster, he knew few beings in the universe who would commit more evil than him. Yet this failed relic of the first warp travelers dared to judge him. The Trickster and his kin had unleashed the Orks, the Enslavers, the Dark God, even the C'tan by their negligence.
Glaring through black eye-slits Cegorach sneered: "-- The truth you infantile Anathema is the only way for the Universe to live is for you to die. The Cabal is foolish, not able to see past their own notions. Humanity is not the danger. It. Is. You. As long as you live the Chaos Gods will feed on your sins and scheme to birth the Fifth of their number. You are nothing but the infection vector for Chaos. Deluding yourself that an impossible shining path will save you and your species. If you survive past your Genocidal Conquests then we are all doomed.--"
The Emperor responded softly: "++ The Shining Path is not impossible. If my people can walk it then Chaos can be destroyed and this universe and every universe will be saved ++"
In a voice that could shatter the heavens and drive mortals mad, the Trickster screamed back. "-- IF! IF! IF! IF! You walk a path you don't even fully know. One misstep, one mistake, and we all suffer worse than death. All it will take is a single flaw and you damn yourself and the universe. You failed once before, Anathema. What is to say you will not fail again?--"
To that, the Emperor had no answer, or at least not one he wished to give. Moving close to the Emperor the Trickster's mask became a weeping face and the anger dissipated. Instead was a soft almost pleading voice. "-- I need you to understand why you need to die. If you live to conquer this galaxy, everyone dies. If you butcher and burn your way to dominion the Warp will respond. The Four will find a way to set the birth of the Fifth into motion. You nearly died on Proxima, to a blatant trap. Anathema, just because your Godlings gestated in your sight does not mean they will not destroy you. I was there when Eldanesh died. I was there when his most loyal friend and creation gained that cursed bloody hand. You will not be any different. The fruit of your labor will poison you in the end. Eventually, something will break you. I doubt anything the Dark Gods can muster can truly kill you, but something will break you. It will wound you, Anathema. Then out of your broken body and soul, the Fifth god will be born. You met that abomination as it gripped its last bits of sanity and sent a message. The God-Emperor on the cusp of true and dreadful apotheosis. All roads lead to that or worse.--"
With a gentleness out of character for the crass Old One the Trickster spoke again: "-- That is the shining path you so boldly walk. Certain doom where the stakes are impossibly high. I offer you another option. Within you lies the power of the Anathema. The incarnate sanity of the galaxy. It's flames grow bright, with the souls of billions. Right now if you were to be truly extinguished. That energy would not be shackled to a Soul-Engine or warped by primitive prayer. It would be released. Burning the Warp in a way the Talisman of Seven Hammers could never dream. Your death will maim the Gods. Your soul unleashed into the warp with your death. If you were to die, truly die. The Chaos Gods would be banished from this existence in your funeral pyre. The ancient doom we set in motion all those millions of years ago to stop the C'tan finally ended. The Galaxy would be at peace.-- "
Silent, except for the roar of psychic flames the Emperor pondered this before asking: "++ That may be true, but what of the threats within the Material. Even with the Chaos Gods dead and their minions broken. The other abominations yet live. The Orks, The Rangda, not to mention the Yngir and the Hunger Between the Stars. What is your answer to the other dooms for my people? I would gladly die for mankind if it meant their safety. This plan of yours is flawed ++"
A smile deeper than an event horizon cut its way across the Tricksters mask: "-- You answer the question by asking it. The Orks and the Rangda are my people's creations. While I lack the control we once had, they are still puppets. With the Chaos Gods gone and you gone. The only species capable of conquering the galaxy will be the Ork and Rangda. Who will then fight for galactic supremacy. I will let neither of them win. For ten thousand years two of the most deadly and powerful organisms in creation will hone themselves upon each other. Becoming weapons beyond compare. So when the Yngir wake they will find a galaxy of war-thralls ready to crush them once and for all. They will be at the weakest when they awake and the Krorks were meant to fight them at their strongest. When the Great Devourer comes it will face a parasite cultivated over eons. The Rangda will cripple the Hive-Fleets for generations. Infesting them and wounding that great unfathomable intelligence. If the collective mind refuses to leave this galaxy it will face the combined wrath of the Orkish and Rangda oversouls. I was there when they were first built. I know just how to break them in such a way the ensuing destruction would lobotomize the Great Devourer along with the Orks and Rangda.--"
With a gesture, the Trickster pulled up a thousand Webway portals and continued: "--Then as the dust settles my chosen will reclaim the galaxy. Thousands of species and cultures have been selected to survive this apocalypse. I will hide them deep within the Web Way under my protection. Growing strong and ready to reclaim the galaxy from the ashes. Mankind would be among them of course. My servants have long helped or observed the branches of your species who merit it. Interex, Khazukan, Auretian, Inwit, and many others. Worthy to ride out the storm and carry the name of Homo Sapiens into the distant future. I have protected my chosen from the Fall, the War in Heaven, the K'nib conflicts and so much more. Mankind will survive without you. It can only survive without you Anathema.--"
The Emperor responded with stoic composure. "++ You are correct, that would be the best and most efficient method to ensure the Galaxies survival. Kill the gods and Cauterize the warp, preventing them from being reborn in this timeline. Burn the galaxy and let those worthy ascend from the ashes. I will not allow it. Your plan would save our universe, but only our universe. The Great Enemy will still be out there. Feeding off countless realities. I walk the path that will kill them once and for all. I can do more than just save one universe. I can save them all. Mankind will Ascend. The Imperium under me will guide them on a path to surpass you and your get. Trickster, I have fought too long and too hard to let you run and hide with my people. ++"
Shedding the form of mighty raptor the Emperor took the form he considered his most natural. A simple man with bronze skin, and golden eyes. Looking up at the ancient Trickster-being he spoke. With a voice both calm and terribly, terribly cold. "++ If I fail, I can always start again. The God-Emperor reached back and gifted souls and knowledge to me. If I fail I will do the same as the God-Emperor. With each failure, I will grow in power, with each universe that slides towards dissolution I will learn. The souls of each timeline will be safe within me. Then all that suffering and horror will be worth it. I will exist in living death upon the Golden Throne for millions of years if I have to. I have to win once, and I have all the time possible.++"
The Trickster shuddered, its nebulous body recoiled from the idea of such horror. "-- That is madness. Every failure will birth another universe of horrors. I doubt actuality could handle the strain. All that death, all that pain. You could save only so many from each attempt. You would sentence quintillions to death for this impossible dream!? You play with forces beyond even your understanding Anathema. You are mad Atham the Revelator.-- "
Smiling up at the being that wore gods like masks, Revelation said: "++ I am not insane, I know that if the Shining Path succeeds just once, all will be worth it. All the evils of Chaos and every other horror possible will have never existed. For all your power Trickster, you can barely detect the shifting of time. You know the God-Emperor sent a message from the Grimdark future and it changed the course of history. What you do not know is how many times this has occurred. What attempt do you think I am on Trickster? How many times do you think I have listened to this patronizing argument? My plan is working Trickster, far better than yours. I hope for your sake. That when my son Magnus finally claims the Black Library from you, he is feeling merciful. If not, you will make a fine research specimen.++"
With those terrible words, the Emperor faded from this meeting place. Leaving the last true Old One shaken and scared. Speaking to none other than himself and his memories the Trickster said: "-- Oh Craftsman, what have you unleashed? What possessed you to help those hominids. They grew in the shadow of Chaos and C'tan, and you decided to hand them the keys to the cosmos.--"
Back upon the Bucephalus the Emperor awoke. His body healed and his soul restored. Rising from the crystalline altar within his chambers that focused psychic power. The Emperor opened his eyes and stared out across the cosmos. As attendants and Custodes rushed to him he remarked: "Still so much to do. The Great Work must go on."