A spinoff of
The Coffin of Roboute and his 20 Sisters by
Brosef
Prologue 1: The Tomb of the Phoenix
Two figures moved between moments snatched out of time. The echoing sounds of metal on metal tracked their steps through an impossibly vast structure. Two legs and a cane made a rhytmic
tap taptap while insectile feet made a steady
clickclickclickclickclick. The scarce baleful illumination around them hid but hinted at the near-infinite space they occupied.
The first, a metallic skeletal figure gestured to row upon row of suits of armor built for giants and painted with differing combinations of color and heraldry.
"I do so appreciate how the Second Founding increased the amount of variety among the Imperium's Astartes. How the cultures that the worlds that each chapter recruits from is such a fascinating topic. And let's not forget how those chapters choose to adhere to or differentiate itself from its parent legion. I could go on for decades on the study of Astartes sub-culture." explained Trazyn, also called
the Infinite, to his guest. His perfect
high gothic was produced in a metallic voice.
Trazyn's guest was a giant much too tall for any of the armor on display. He was clad in his own similar armor, but crudely fashioned and painted in a shade of rich purple. The armored giant wore no helmet revealing flowing locks of silver hair. He glared at Trazyn with amethyst eyes set in the sockets of a face reminiscent of a marble statue. His angelic features were sculpted into an expression of contempt. The demigod was restrained upon a metal slab by some mechanism even his powerful mind could not comprehend. The slab was inclined such that he was nearly standing upright. It moved forward on mechanical spider-like legs. He was not deprived of the power of speech, but exercised silence as one of the few forms of protest available to him.
Unbothered, Trazyn proceeded to the next exhibit. Their pace never changed from its precise tempo. The pair moved between formations of warriors in bright yellow armor and ones armored in dull bare metal. "Here is one of the
Siege of Terra." continued Trazyn. Bolt-rounds hung in the air between the two armies, muzzle flashes, smoke trails, and impact detonations from weapons were preserved as an instant was stretched into eternity.
"I understand that you participated in it." this
museum's curator once again tried to engage with its unwilling patron. "I did my best to preserve the accuracy of such a momentous event in your species' history."
The giant's glare faltered as he studied the statue-still warfare surrounding them. "I've read as much, but recall no memories from it." spoke the giant as he took on a contemplative expression.
"Perhaps your creator cultivated your cells from genetic material harvested prior to this moment." mused Trazyn. "Genetic memory is a convenient phenomenon for biologicals such as yourself. Although not as robust as simply exchanging data." The metal skeleton produced a sound that could be interpreted as brief and haughty laughter.
"I can take great comfort in knowing that my exhibits can fill in the gaps in your knowledge of your Imperium's history." Trazyn proudly proclaimed.
The pair continued through similar recreations of battles fought during Horus' rebellion. Trazyn explained each exhibit with what could pass for enthusiasm in his metallic voice. Fulgrim read about these battles from the data-slates that his teacher and creator Fabius Bile had provided for him, some of them he apparently fought in, but seeing those did not trigger old memories like in prior instances aboard the
Vesalius.
The two of them came to a stop surrounded by astartes in the black of the Iron Hands and in the green of the Salamanders.
"This is the
Istvaan V exhibit! Here is where you will be staying." announced Trazyn.
Fulgrim looked around at the scene around him. He could remember conspiring with Horus and the other conspirators in preparation for the trap that they had set out for Ferrus, Corvus, Vulkan, and Jaghatai. But no memories of the battle itself came to him. He noticed a much larger black-armored warrior amongst the Iron Hands. Fulgrim tried to look as far away from it as his restricted movement allowed him.
"I'm sorry to say that I can't provide you or your brother with the genuine equipment you wielded at the time. For now we'll have to make do with the equipment you already have until I fashion a more authentic looking set." said the necron somewhat apologetically. "But I hope you can appreciate that I did manage to acquire Ferrus Manus' actual blade. Usually such relics of the primarchs are more revered by their legions, but I suppose it was a hectic time for your Imperium"
Even now, without seeing it, Fulgrim vividly recalled the feeling of his fingers curled around
Fireblade. He remembered the heat radiating onto his face as he held it. He remembered the craftsmanship that Ferrus put into it and how humbling it was to be even given the chance to hold it. But he also remembered Ferrus shattering it with
Forgebreaker. That was the last time he'd seen his brother when he failed to convince Ferrus to join their side. Ferrus couldn't have come to face him with a sword that should have been broken. There was no way Fulgrim could be driven to kill his brother. The thing that stole his name and wears his face is the one that killed Ferrus. Fulgrim vowed to make that usurper pay.
"I was hoping to obtain one of the tenth primarch's living clones, but your predecessor killed them before I could do so. I fashioned this one from the remains of the ones I could gather. Infusing necrodermis into organic matter is not difficult, but learning that the process had apparently occurred in an uncontrolled environment astounds even myself." continued Trazyn academically.
Still taking pains to look away, Fulgrim noticed an exhibit further ahead depicting astartes in a mix of purple, green, and marble-colored armor. Trazyn noticed the primarch's interest and eager as always to present his work he spoke. "That is my
Istvaan III exhibit. I hoped to have gathered more specimens, but only one of my tesseract labyrinths survived the orbital bombardment. It's unfortunate that I don't have any from the Death Guard in this collection so I'll have to be satisfied with the pre-heresy specimens of that legion in my Ullanor exhibit."
Fulgrim's expression grew pained as he recognized the faces of the legionaries clad in his colors. He remembered making that choice. He remembered leaving his sons to die on the surface Istvaan III then giving the order to bombard the planet. Having those memories resurface, and recalling how he felt as he made those choices, he finally understood that he could commit the later atrocities.
Two more necrons appeared and lifted Fulgrim from the metal slab that had carried him all this way. He could still not move his limbs as if the very air itself was restraining him. Trazyn's subordinates placed him in front of the other giant in black armor. He now noticed that the head and body were cleanly separated from each other. The severed head was floating about a hand-span above the flat surface made by the stump of the neck. Its eyes were unfocused and its expression was slack but Fulgrim recognized it for the face of his brother, primarch of the Iron Hands, Ferrus Manus. He had no memories of this moment or even setting foot on Istvaan V, but he can no longer deny that Ferrus was dead and that Fulgrim took each step towards slaying his brother himself.
The necron attendants closed Fulgrim's fingers around the large cleaver he had crudely fashioned for himself aboard the
Vesalius so that he was holding it two-handed They similarly did the same for Ferrus' own blade. Under Trazyn's careful supervision they arranged the two brothers' bodies and limbs such that both were in mid-swing. Ferrus was posed into a position that put his blade into an arc that would have bisected the Phoenician. Fulgrim was posed into the moment right after his massive blade would have separated the Gorgon's neck from his shoulders. The attendants were instructed to position Fulgrim's head such that he was face to face with his brothers recently severed head.
Fulgrim tried to look away, but his head was now transfixed in that position. He tried to shut his eyes, but the xenos somehow took that ability away from him too. His punishment for this crime would be to be frozen in the moment of committing it.
He wanted to deny that he was the creature known as Fulgrim. To denounce the crimes that the primarch commited against his father, brothers, and sons. That he was merely a copy that wore its face and had its memories, and take no responsibility for the unfathomable amount of suffering inflicted upon the galaxy thousands of years ago. But he could not deny that he thought in the same patterns and had the same impulses. He may not have been the one to make those mistakes in ages past, but he recognized that he was certainly capable of committing them all over again. But it was still too much to bear.
"I'M NOT HIM!" Fulgrim howled.
The primarch's superhuman lungs gave his shouts enough force to echo throughout the gargantuan complex.
"I'm nobody! I'm an imitation who's barely left a single room aboard a ship! I don't belong here! I'm not the one you want!"
Tears ran down his cheeks and ropes of mucous oozed out his nostrils.
"The real one is still out there. He's the one who did all this! Please don't make me pay for his crimes."
Fulgrim's wails turned into sobs. His pale complexion turned bright pink as his blood surged towards his face.
"If you let me out I swear I'll get him for you." he pleaded hopefully.
Trazyn grasped his metal chin with his equally metallic hand and took a moment to contemplate the primarch's offer. The moment lasted for what seemed like hours to Fulgrim as he waited for the necron's response.
"An interesting proposition" mused Trazyn. "How about this, I'll let you go if..." he began
Fulgrim waited unbearable eons for Trazyn to finish.
"...I find and capture him myself"
The stasis field activated, forever locking Fulgrim into the moment when he slew his most beloved of brothers. The necron looked at the expression of anguish set on Fulgrim's beautiful visage as the primarch's pained amethyst eyes looked at Ferrus' long-dead silver ones. Trazyn never altered the tenth primarch's expression into something other than the hollow expression of inert, lifeless meat it had when he collected it.
The Overlord of Solemnace tried remembering what it would have been like to have a face made of flesh that could express emotions. He could not; feelings were not stored in his memory engrams. His immortal mind and body was not capable of simulating emotions. The C'tan and biotransference had robbed his civilization of the capability to feel.
Trazyn turned away to oversee work on the preparation or maintenance of other exhibits. Although nowhere in the planet-sized museum was there an exhibit to prove that had he, Trazyn, had a soul, its testament to the size of the galaxy and its eons of history could at least attest to the probability that at some point in ages past, his soul existed.