Editing The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Ten (section)

==0-057-001-M42==
“I AM GLAD TO HEAR OF IT,” the Emperor said tiredly, his voice echoing in the ears and minds of the six Primarchs who stood before him. “WHERE THE WARP IS CONCERNED, DEATH IS A TRIVIALITY, BUT EVEN SLAANESH CAN’T DENY THAT FULGRIM ACCOMPLISHED BASICALLY NOTHING. I DOUBT WE’LL SEE HIM AGAIN FOR A WHILE. CORAX, HOW’S THE ARM?”

“It hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt,” the black-haired Primarch managed. “Oh, hell, it’s like it’s melting off with the nerves attached still,” he said, his eyes narrowed to slits and teeth clenched in agony. A Salamanders Apothecary had injected Corax with painkillers, but nothing could stop the poison. Guilliman’s hunch had borne true: one of Fulgrim’s blades had been poisoned, and though he had been lucky enough to personally avoid getting hit by that blade, clearly Corax hadn’t. He was out of his Terminator armor now, wearing the carapace plate of his suit, and cradling his hand. The arm was turning black at the site of the cut, oozing even under the bandage. Guilliman’s own wound, when he fought Fulgrim long before, had been far more grave, and had been nearly beyond the help of the Eldar when the Emperor brought him to them. Corax, by contrast, was nowhere near as badly injured, but he lacked the benefit of stasis fields.

The Emperor had turned quiet at the news of his son’s injury, waiting for the six men to tell their stories. After hearing that Vulkan had delayed Draigo and the others from reaching the fight, he had been outwardly angry, but admitted to himself that he wasn’t sure he would not have done the same.

While Corax and the Emperor pondered Corax’s wound, Vulkan found himself gazing around the huge hall of the Throne. Aside from the dust on most surfaces, which a group of cleaning servitors was scrubbing away, the place didn’t honestly look all that different from the way it had when he had last visited, just nine and a half thousand years prior. The assortment of crates and shipping pallets had been cleared away, and no doubt carefully sealed in some protected storeroom somewhere, but the obvious difference was the absence of the Throne itself.

Jaghatai was having the same thought, it seemed. “Father, what’s keeping the Webway Gate behind the Throne sealed? The Throne’s gone.”

“INDEED IT IS, JAGHATAI. I SEALED IT SHUT MYSELF, WHEN I RETURNED HERE A FEW WEEKS AGO. THE TUNNEL BEYOND HAS COLLAPSED ENTIRELY, NATURALLY, BUT THE OMNIPRESENT THREAT OF THE WARP LINGERED. THAT WAS HOW I SUMMONED THE DAEMON I NOW CONTROL, IN FACT,” he replied.

“Right, but how is the Gate sealed? The Throne acted as a lock, if I recall correctly,” Jaghatai pressed.

“I FORCED IT SHUT, JAGHATAI, USING THE DAEMON’S OWN POWERS. THAT WAS THE FIRST THING I DID AFTER RETURNING, IN FACT, IN THE MOMENT BEFORE I TELEPORTED TO CADIA,” the Emperor explained.

“Can we discuss this later?” Corax asked his face taut with suppressed agony. “Father, is my poison that of the Warp? If so, I need to see a sanctionite, not an Apothecary.”

“I GENUINELY DO NOT THINK SO, SON,” the Emperor said, returning to the more pressing matter.

Draigo stood and walked over to Corax, who struck a stoic expression and stuck out his mangled hand. Draigo examined the hand critically for a moment, before nodding sagely and turning back to the Emperor. “It can be cured, my Lord, though I myself lack the…refinement of ability. I do, however, have a number of Apothecaries and Librarians in the Knights who could handle it.”

“EXCELLENT. ARE ANY OF THEM HERE ON TERRA?”

“Most, my Lord God,” Draigo responded. “The Knights who were summoned to protect the Palace while the Custodes were dispatched to the Hives to restore order are here still.”

“VERY WELL, SUMMON ONE. IN THE MEANTIME, MY LOYAL SONS, WE MUST DISCUSS THE FUTURE,” the Emperor said, as Draigo walked off, speaking urgently into his vox. “I KNOW THAT SINCE YOU ALL RETURNED, IN ONE FORM OR ANOTHER, I’VE ESSENTIALLY HAD YOU ALL ON OVERDRIVE. BELIEVE ME, IF ANY PEOPLE IN THE GALAXY DESERVED A VACATION, IT WOULD BE YOU SIX MEN.” Vulkan suppressed his grin.

“I THINK, HOWEVER, THAT IT WOULD BE MOST FITTING FOR YOU ALL TO RETURN TO THE FORTRESS-MONASTERIES OF YOUR CHAPTERS. THE IMPERIUM WAS NOT, AS I INITIALLY FEARED, DESTROYED FOR OUR ABSENCE, THOUGH NEVER HAS IT BEEN CLOSER THAN NOW. IN THE COMING YEARS, I SUSPECT THE IMPERIUM SHALL ENTER A NEW AGE OF RE-EXPANSION AND THE TIMES WILL BE BLOODY. I KNOW THAT I CAN COUNT ON ALL OF YOU WHEN THE TIME COMES. UNTIL THEN, FOCUS ON REBUILDING YOUR CHAPTERS,” the gigantic orange Emperor concluded.

“As you say, Father,” Russ said, his mind already back on Fenris, looking forward to the task.

“Aye, my Liege,” El’Jonson said, thinking about the trip already, and wondering what he would say to the Angels when he arrived.

“Yes, Father,” Vulkan said, anticipating the reunion on Nocturne.

“Yes, Sire,” Guilliman said, grinning wistfully at the thought of returning to his beloved Macragge.

“Yes, Sire,” Jaghatai echoed, wondering if he could convince the Mechanicum to restart Jetbike production.

“Yes, my Liege,” Corax said, cradling his hand. “It’ll be good be home.”

''Continued in [[The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Eleven]].

[[Category:The Tales of the Emperasque]]