Malcador the Hero

Transcript

For the Imperium, for the survival of mankind, for the Emperor, I have neither the time nor patience frankly to interrogate Senquinius's curious silence. I turn to my impassive lord. Now, I ask.

He tells me yes. Already? Ah.

I sigh. It's foolish. I've been preparing for this moment since the day we realized that Magnus was no longer a viable candidate.

My lord had been unwavering in his reassurance to me. He believes me capable, and I trust, for our minds have been strangely entwined for a long time, long before he took up the title Emperor and I became a sigillite. It's not that I want it longer, I've had enough years, more than my fair share, but there is still so very much to do.

However, in truth, I wish that this had happened when I was younger and stronger and invulnerable with the recklessness of youth, rather than now, when I am so old and so tired. Not that it would have made any difference. Still, I am lost in my thoughts as I begin to limp my way towards the great dais, ordering my mind, settling my estates, frantically sending out last-moment thought notes and idea symbols, reminders and instructions, so that others can finish what I leave unfinished.

These sigillite messages swirl around me like a colony of bees, evicted from their hive, flying off piecemeal in every direction to find new homes. It is sloppy, haphazard work. I have no time left to be methodical, precise, or polite.

Everything just goes, dumped like ballast from my mind. I am so lost in my thoughts, I do not really pay attention to what's going on around me. I stop short when I hear a gasp.

It would not stop anyone to hear Primarchs gasp in surprise and dread, and hear them fall to their knees in abject obstinance. At the foot of the gleaming dais, I look up. I look up the exquisite steps that I will climb and never come down again.

The sun is in my eyes. My lord, my king of ages, my friend, my master of mankind. He stands.

He has risen from the golden throne. He stands above me like the god he isn't. He stands.

That in itself is a minor miracle, for he has not stood in a long time, and I was beginning to fear he could not. Cloth of golden light hangs from his frame and his arms, streaked with trace threads of crimson sunlight and scarlet dawn. Microclimate lightning sheets and shivers around him, corpse on sloths like blue ice from the arms of the throne at his back.

There is a halo of white radiance behind his noble head, bright as a full hunter's moon or a steadfast star. His face cast in shadow, in eclipse before that disk for the splendor of his eyes. How is that be? I had forgotten this.

I had forgotten his majesty. I had forgotten how tall he was. How astronomic, how wonderful, how terrible, how.

.. How did I ever think I could take his place? What kind of old and tired fool am I? I ought to bow.

I need to bow down. I need to abase myself and bury my face in the stones of the floor, for he is too bright to behold. I fuss and fumble clumsily, my old limbs too stiff to obey me.

I stumble, hands catch me, and at rest my fall before I crack my face against the lower steps of the dais. The sentinels, Uzcariel and Celestius, have swept from their posts at the moment of my misstep, but they have not reached me in time. The hands supporting me belong to Rogol and Sanguinius.

Vulcan is with them. His hands extended to help me upright. Constantine looms behind them, concern in his eyes.

Let me help you, says Sanguinius. Oh, forgiven old man, I mutter. Steady yourself, says Rogol.

I am steady as ever, my boy. I chuckle. They set me on my feet.

Vulcan hands me my staff. I look at them. They surround me.

They're worried for me showing in their faces. I shoo them away. I'm fine, I assure them.

These old legs, when you get to my age, eh? Sanguinius looks at me. His jaw tightens.

I'm fine, I insist. Valdor nods curtly. The two preconsuls step past the Primarchs and stand either side of me.

To guide me up the steps. They reach to take my arms to support me. Oh no, I tell them.

I'll climb these damn steps myself. Give us the honor, Lord, of escorting you, at least, says Uzakiel quietly. I huff and allow it.

I begin my climb up the steps of the plinth, squinting into the glare, pulling myself up each step with my staff as a prop clutched in both hands. It is a struggle for me, but nothing like the struggle that will follow. Above me, my king of ages waits.

He remains standing, motionless, silent, ignoring the awe that fills the throne room. All eyes upon him, eyes that never thought to see him stir stand again. They have longed for him to rise, and now they are terrified of what his rising signifies.

He looks only at me, right into my heart. Halfway up the steps, I pause. I glance at the dutiful sentinels either side of me.

That's far enough now, I say. I'll go the rest of the way alone. Their golden masks express no response.

You are both. .. ..

.Hetrion companions, yes? I ask them quietly. Likely, then, that one or both of you will go with him toward his fight in the final fight.

I ask you this, then. Do not fail him. We are not conditioned to fail, my regent.

Says Kakaltas. Oh, I know all that, my boy. I know all that.

I know how peerless you all are. I'm not talking about devotion, or duty, or ability. Those things are wired into you.

I'm talking about. .. ..

.about when it's all done. I mean, bring him back into his seats. You hear me? Bring him back alive.

You do all you do for him, but do this for me. Here, here. I lick the tip of my left index finger.

And with it, I draw my sigil upon the breast of Sesaltus's plates. The mark is gone as soon as it is made. Then, with another lick, I do the same to Iscario.

I leave my mark, the mark of myself, upon my plan. I whisper as I draw the shape. This is what will happen.

And with my hand, I signify it. It cannot be undone. Do this for me.

They make no reply. Staff braced, I resume my climb. The preconsuls stay where they are, respecting my request.

I near the top, the light around me. My lord and master moves. He steps down to me and offers me his hand in support.

That hand, that great and capable hand that has held the galaxy in its palm. I feel him close to my surprise. He permits me to share the private workings of his mind.

The signs I read there are clear. Don't be sad, I say. This is more painful than he expected it to be.

He is afraid he will never speak to me again. That there will be no more hours spent exchanging thoughts and words, configuring mankind's best fates. His memories are Antarctic brights, the day he first showed me.