Chapter 189: An Untrustworthy Brother
So… how exactly did it end up like this?
Hades stared blankly at the fruit on the table in front of him, then absentmindedly picked one up and began nibbling again.
He was currently sitting in a side chamber off the audience hall, facing two Luna Wolves who looked remarkably alike.
The other Deathshroud had been led outside by the Luna Wolves to wait.
Horus had pulled Mortarion into the main chamber for a private conversation, and Abaddon had brought Hades here to chat too—but halfway through the conversation, Abaddon had started calling for some other Luna Wolves to join in.
Now, seated before Hades were two members of the Mournival—half of the Luna Wolves' inner council.
Abaddon and Sejanus were present; Little Horus and Torgaddon were not.
The Mournival, also called the Mourners, were essentially Horus's personal strategic advisors and close confidants.
At this point in time, Sejanus was still alive.
So, Gavriel Loken—the future famed Captain—was still just the Tenth Company Captain of the Luna Wolves.
Hades glanced at Abaddon and Sejanus.
He knew what fate awaited both of them.
One would become an undefeated warlord in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy.
The other would die before the Heresy even began, during a tragic diplomatic incident.
With Sejanus gone, the Mournival lost a voice of reason and introspection.
Loken, though level-headed, lacked the seniority to command respect within the council, leaving a gap that would ultimately contribute to future tragedy.
After the Emperor returned to Terra, Erebus orchestrated an assassination plot.
Horus was wounded by a tainted blade, laced with Nurgle's poisons, leaving the Primarch on the brink of death.
Panicked, the Mournival followed Erebus's suggestion to take Horus to the temples of the Chaos Gods for healing.
There, he was corrupted.
And when he emerged from the temple, he was no longer the Horus they had known.
But if Sejanus had still been alive, perhaps he might have stopped them from making that fateful decision.
Perhaps.
Hades wasn't some kind of master tactician or prophet.
People make different choices depending on their state of mind and circumstances—no one stays perfectly rational forever.
Though he hoped the Luna Wolves wouldn't march toward tragedy, the key to changing their fate didn't lie with them.
If anything, it would rest with the Emperor—or maybe with the Word Bearers.
Besides, just pulling Mortarion back from the brink had already exhausted him.
He'd thought killing that xeno overlord Necare was the end of it—but one thing kept leading to another.
Who knew what else was coming?
From where Hades currently stood, he couldn't just walk up to Sejanus and say something absurd like:
"Don't go on any diplomatic missions."
Or:
"If you die, the rest of the Mournival loses their minds."
Hades mulled it over.
There was no immediate solution to this.
And certainly no magic phrase that would change everything.
It would be better for him to build good relationships with them first, and then act when the time comes.
—He also wondered whether the advice he once gave the War Hounds had ever reached Angron.
While Hades was lost in thought, chewing on fruit and internally cross-referencing the plotline, Abaddon—sitting opposite him—was sweating bullets.
Talking to this Death Guard was mentally exhausting.
Abaddon realized halfway through the conversation that he was falling behind, and had quickly dragged Sejanus into the room to avoid embarrassing the Luna Wolves.
It wasn't that Hades was confrontational, rather, it was… something else.
Something peculiar.
Hades had a way of approaching topics from angles Abaddon had never even considered.
Furthermore, this Death Guard didn't carry the usual pride or arrogance typical of Astartes.
Whenever they hit a topic Hades was interested in but didn't fully understand, he would fire question after question at Abaddon—like a relentless barrage.
At first, Abaddon had been rather pleased with himself as he explained battlefield strategies to Hades.
But as the conversation went on, the questions Hades asked grew increasingly tricky and in-depth—and worse, he started firing back with counter-questions and citing data and examples.
Abaddon gradually realized… that something wasn't right.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Wasn't this man supposed to be a Death Guard with only two battle campaigns under his belt?
In the end, Abaddon decisively roped in Sejanus to share the load of this unexpectedly taxing "casual" chat.
Now stuck with this duty, Sejanus sat beside Abaddon in silence, deep in thought.
He'd found himself genuinely inspired by the conversation.
Some of the perspectives Hades offered had opened new lines of thinking for him—perhaps even new solutions to old problems.
Seeing a rare break in the verbal exchange, Abaddon quickly filled the silence with small talk to ease the mood.
The Luna Wolves, of course, understood Hades's diplomatic value to the Death Guard.
Apart from bonding with Primarchs, they made it a point to befriend standout Astartes in other Legions as part of their broader diplomatic strategy.
"It's a pity that Torgaddon and Little Horus aren't around," Abaddon said casually.
"I think they'd enjoy meeting you."
Hades smiled politely and picked up the thread,
"I look forward to meeting more of the Luna Wolves' insightful warriors. Speaking with you both has been quite enlightening."
It's a lie.
Hades had spent half the conversation spacing out while staring at Abaddon's high ponytail, and the other half mentally stitching together plotlines from memory.
He'd basically played the entire interaction on "skip" and "auto-play."
Low-effort socializing like this was easy:
First, he would need to just pick out an unusual detail from whatever the other person said and ask a follow-up question about it.
Then, all he would need to do is to maintain a look of interested attentiveness and let them do all the talking.
It just so happened that Hades's background gave him a habit of spotting odd or novel points—which, unintentionally, gave Sejanus a lot to think about.
As Abaddon made small talk, Sejanus sat quietly, studying the pair of them.
What Hades didn't realize was this:
He had already piqued the interest of two of the Mournival.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Audience Hall – Main Chamber
"So, my brother—how does it feel to lead a Legion?"
Despite being a reception room for a Primarch, the decor was rather sparse.
Several alcoves had been carved into the walls to hold bottles of wine.
A slightly worn Luna Wolves banner hung in the center, and a desk beneath it was stacked with visibly well-thumbed books.
Mortarion, with his censer smoke extinguished, sat across from Horus.
He held a single game piece in hand, his eyes fixed on the board as he contemplated his next move.
Horus had just taught him a simplified naval strategy game popular in the Imperium.
Its finely-carved pieces moved across a deep blue board, and it had clearly caught Mortarion's attention.
After all, there wasn't much in the way of entertainment on Barbarus.
"...It brings me more joy than joining the Imperium ever has," Mortarion replied offhandedly.
Horus gave a wry smile.
From their earlier conversations, it was already clear this brother held deep misgivings toward both the Emperor and the Imperium.
"There are, admittedly, aspects of the Imperium that leave much to be desired."
"Perhaps one day, when you see the more distant star systems—worlds led by nobler, more just rulers—you'll come to admire the light humanity can shine."
"That is the true purpose of our Great Crusade: for the sake of humanity."
Horus smiled self-deprecatingly as he moved another piece on the board.
He often played with Sanguinius, so against a beginner like Mortarion, he had plenty of room to flex.
"Besides," he added, "mortals can't be expected to perform like us. Even our finest sons have flaws—how much more so those without gene-seed?"
"No."
Mortarion stared intently at the board, trying to figure out how to cut off his opponent's supply lines using a cruiser.
Horus was momentarily puzzled by the blunt denial.
He wasn't sure what exactly Mortarion was refuting.
But since his brother remained focused on the game, Horus decided not to press the matter.
Mortarion believed that moving his cruiser closer to the Mechanicum fleet would serve as a solid deterrent, so he did just that.
When he saw his fleet successfully thread its way into the enemy's formation, he lifted his head with satisfaction and said proudly,
"My finest sons do not make mistakes. But truly exceptional warriors should not be called sons—they are comrades, dependable allies on the battlefield."
But then he caught Horus's mildly incredulous smile.
"No one is without fault, my brother," Horus said gently.
"Even I would never claim to be mistake-free. Not even Fulgrim, who fancies himself the embodiment of perfection, would deny having erred."
"Tell me, Mortarion—have you truly never made a mistake? Even if we have not yet committed the kinds of errors that cannot be undone… little slip-ups are inevitable."
Before Horus even finished speaking, he noticed it—Just the slightest hesitation, barely perceptible, in Mortarion's breathing.
Errors that cannot be undone
That phrase had yanked Mortarion into a spiral of shameful recollections.
Visions of what might come—whispers from a potential future—reminded him constantly of the sins he might one day commit.
Even if he and Hades had purged the warp-taint from Barbarus, how could he be sure it was truly eradicated?
All they could do was continue reinforcing that hypothetical Pandora's Box, layering seal upon seal until the chains drowned out the cracks.
After a long pause, Mortarion let out a muffled grunt.
"...I've made mistakes."
Across from him, Horus watched with uncharacteristic caution.
"Are you alright, brother? You look… shaken. Perhaps some wine might help. I recently received a rather fine bottle from a mortal diplomat."
Not waiting for a response, Horus stood and casually plucked a bottle from a small alcove in the wall, pouring two glasses—one for himself, and one for Mortarion.
Mortarion stared blankly at the amber-red liquid. It even gave off a sweet, fragrant aroma.
He drank, of course—but not this kind of wine.
The Death Guard had their own rituals, their own culture.
After battles, Mortarion would choose one particularly brave warrior to share a drink of poison-wine.
These brews, strong enough to churn even a Space Marine's stomach, symbolized both defeat and death.
At first, he'd made his champion Calas drink with him daily on Barbarus.
Eventually, Calas had tapped out, overwhelmed by the intensity.
Mortarion had then moved on to Hades—but after seeing the man dry-heave every time he reached for a cup, Mortarion started picking others.
This wasn't because he thought Hades was cowardly—far from it.
He just assumed Hades couldn't handle the taste.
Mortarion saw no remedy for this.
He couldn't simply dilute the potency just to make it more palatable.
The wine, made from crushed beetles and fermented toxic plants, had a unique depth—and Mortarion liked that flavor.
But with Horus now watching him intently from behind, Mortarion sighed and reluctantly unfastened his breathing mask.
He lifted the glass and took a sip.
He smacked his lips. The wine was far too mild.
It was barely stronger than water.
He considered setting it down, but—respecting the gesture—chose instead to down the entire glass in one go.
Damn it.
Horus poured him another.
Mortarion quietly replaced his breathing mask.
He wasn't thirsty. He didn't want water.
Meanwhile, Horus watched in silent awe as toxic vapor began to seep out of Mortarion's mask.
This gas was far more concentrated than what drifted from the censer at his side.
He'd been breathing that in the whole time?
Horus had assumed Mortarion's respirator filtered in clean, purified air.
Not… whatever that was.
Horus realized this brother might be far more troubled than he had initially thought.
If Fulgrim were here, he'd likely already be gently correcting Mortarion's posture as he drank the wine.
As the first Primarch to be recovered, Horus was keenly aware that some of his brothers were far from perfect—especially the most recently recovered one, Angron.
From snippets the Emperor had let slip, Horus gathered that his brother was enduring unimaginable torment… and likely not fit for contact with the others.
And now, this peculiar reaction from Mortarion—the unfiltered poison gas in his respirator—made Horus feel an urgent need to better understand this new brother.
The Emperor was simply too busy to offer each of them the same level of attention and patience he gave Horus.
He took another sip of wine. This was one of his rarest vintages—only brought out to entertain fellow Primarchs. Its refined distillation process could satisfy even the most discerning palates.
Horus let the silence hang for a moment, setting the stage just right, before he spoke again.
"My brother, Mortarion… I know this might offend you."
"But I want to say—if you ever feel confused about the past, or disheartened by something in the present… you can talk to me."
His voice came softly from behind. Mortarion, seated before a chessboard, kept his eyes fixed on the empty space above it.
This… didn't feel good. He'd just wanted a simple game of chess, not to be drawn into some well-meaning interrogation.
But he knew Horus meant no harm.
This brother—this warm and brilliant brother—had given him more space and kindness than any of the others.
Unlike those who had come before, Horus didn't lord his accomplishments or battlefield glory over Mortarion. He didn't press in and shrink Mortarion's sense of self.
"Sometimes, it's good to have someone to confide in. But if you prefer mystery—"
Mortarion heard Horus chuckle softly.
"Then keep your mystery. It's... charming, isn't it?"
A carefully built atmosphere of ease, a sudden gentle prod, then a casual retreat—
Horus knew exactly how to wage war in conversation, how to besiege and win ground without raising a blade.
He heard Mortarion inhale. A quiet, steadying breath—the kind taken before launching into something long and difficult.
Horus smiled.
He would help his brother find his footing in the Imperium—even if none of them would admit it as help.
After all, very few Primarchs would ever confess to needing help.
Mortarion, for his part, thought about the confusing, terrifying visions he had witnessed.
He had once asked Malcador about them, but the man had only given vague answers: "The malice of the warp."
When Mortarion had pressed for more, the mortal had deflected.
All Mortarion really understood was that this was Chaos. But what had Chaos done to humanity in the past? What would it do in the future? He didn't know.
He had only seen what it could become—those visions from the deepest, foulest corners of his nightmares.
Mortarion leaned back into his chair.
Suddenly, he realized this might be a perfect opportunity.
To ask his brother—someone the Emperor trusted, someone informed—what he knew.
Malcador might not approve. He might outright forbid such questioning.
But Horus had already made it clear: they weren't welcoming Malcador here.
Mortarion tried to untangle the knotted mess of his memories.
He recalled the Endurance—the twisted, rotting flesh writhing across its halls.
He remembered the souls of his sons, trapped inside putrid corpses.
He stared at the wall opposite him, his memories slowly aligning.
The cracked, diseased walls of the Endurance...
...They were overlapping with the pristine walls of the Vengeful Spirit in front of him.
Mortarion jolted upright.
Cold sweat broke across his skin.
A terrifying realization slammed into him—a conclusion so disturbing it made him physically recoil.
A truth he had been deliberately ignoring.
A possibility so chilling...
...it made him want to run.
Perhaps because Mortarion had stayed silent for too long, Horus stepped up from behind and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Are you alright, brother?"
Horus's voice grew distant and indistinct, as if Mortarion's mind were slipping.
His breathing threatened to spiral out of control.
Sensing something wrong, Horus gently pressed down on Mortarion's shoulder, as though encouraging him to turn and look at him.
But Mortarion didn't dare turn. He kept his head bowed low, eyes fixed on the dark blue chessboard before him, as if he could bury himself among the pieces.
He didn't want this.
He had finally met a brother who extended him genuine kindness—only to realize a horrifying truth:
If he, if the Death Guard, could fall to corruption…
Did that mean the other twenty Legions could be drawn into the same abyss?
Mortarion's pupils shrank. He stared at the black-and-white pieces. Aside from their color… they were identical.
Did Horus know? Did he know that even the Luna Wolves might one day fall?
Should Mortarion tell him?
Had they already fallen?
No—Hades hadn't reacted. That meant they hadn't. Not yet.
But should he tell Horus?
Mortarion remembered what had happened when he first encountered that cursed word—Chaos.
Words held power, a kind of dreadful allure.
The bland wine lingered on his tongue.
Everything was slipping out of control.
That fragile bond of brotherhood they had just begun to build… already turning to ash.
Only a cold, merciless truth remained:
He couldn't even guarantee his own Legion wouldn't fall into the pit.
How then could he trust any other?
Did the Luna Wolves even have anyone like Hades, an Untouchable?
If not—how could they stand against those things?
That was a unit unique to the Death Guard.
Did that mean the rest of the Legions were completely defenseless?
They might not even know they were exposed.
"Brother? Mortarion? Are you alright?"
Mortarion took a deep breath.
"No… I'm not."
Still facing away, he stood up—doing everything he could to avoid meeting Horus's eyes.
He knew those eyes could speak volumes, and he didn't want that to draw more words from him.
"But I hope you're well."
He lit his censer again. Toxic smoke wafted gently through the room.
Mortarion picked up a chess piece and watched as the fumes from his gauntlet's poison quickly tainted it.
"I suddenly remembered something I need to attend to. I'm afraid I won't be able to finish the game."
"You can forward me the strategic orders later. If I find them tactically sound, the Death Guard will act on them."
Due to the Death Guard's standing, Mortarion had only been designated as a support role in this campaign.
Horus stared in shock at Mortarion's sudden change.
It had happened so fast, Horus wasn't even sure what part of his usual well-honed conversational tactics had failed.
As Mortarion made for the exit, all Horus could do was call out to his brother's retreating, frayed gray cloak.
"Alright… but are you really okay, brother?"
"If something's wrong—please, come talk to me."
Mortarion reached for his scythe, Silence, by the door and stepped from the meeting chamber.
"I will."
The words dispersed as quickly as the toxic fog that clung to him.
"Hades, we're leaving."
Mortarion saw Hades stand, having just grabbed a few more fruits.
The two Luna Wolves accompanying Hades were visibly startled by Mortarion's sudden reappearance.
They stood up in a fluster, seemingly wanting to walk him out.
The Primarch casually lowered his scythe. The massive blade subtly cut off the two Luna Wolves' approach.
Mortarion frowned slightly—Hades was still chatting cluelessly with them.
They'd even arranged a meeting for next time.
He glanced at the fruit in Hades's hand.
"Stop eating those."
Mortarion said quietly.
Hades looked at him, stunned, clearly realizing something was wrong.
Mortarion didn't explain.
He simply led the Deathshrouds away—swiftly leaving Luna Wolf territory behind.
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