Editing /tg/ Heresy Writefaggotry (section)

===The Burning of Alessia===
His grey eyes flickered across the assembled data-screens, darting from one end of the cycling display to the other. The faint green backlight from the screens were all that illuminated the large circular chamber, with the logic engines and tactical displays making up the vast majority of the room's walls.

He drew in a slow breath, turning over this puzzle in his mind. This was his throne-room, his sanctum, his greatest hall—and today he had naught left to him but one final tribe, the eponymous Thunder Kings, where twelve ought together stand. He did not bear his sword and shield today, and the screens did not display the miasma of information he found so much beauty and truth in. There was nothing to command today, and his patience—infinite as it was—had long begun to set into weariness and bitterness.

Agrica had stood with him, solemn and silent as a statue throughout it all. The tall, fair-haired Astartes looked as if he might have been handsome once, but a lifetime of war had imparted upon him a steel jaw and plentiful other skin regrafts along his face. He'd kept his eyes forward for all these long weeks, imparting some small . . comfort to the brooding Primarch. He didn't have to stay. He should have gone, to fight for whomever he thought best, but he did.

It was a long while before Brennus finally spoke, his ordinarily calm, thunderous voice now sounding soft, and solemn.

“I know now my failure,” he said, looking towards Agrica. If the Astartes was alarmed, he gave no notice, and merely turned to straight back at his progenitor. “Where one legion should stand, I have created twelve. Respectively united by shared fraternity, perhaps—but what was I but their commander, in truth? Not a father.”

Agrica said nothing. Not yet.

Brennus continued, pausing only briefly to examine his son's expression. As he looked back towards the screens and continued, a wry smile now appeared on his face.

“It is fitting that only one tribe remains. Only one legion. Agrica, I am proud and flattered that you waited here, where you need not have. There must be one legion. One,” the Primarch spat out. His form shook as an uncharacteristic vehemence seized him, his throne groaning as he now—after weeks—finally stood.

“Not all that have fallen are vanquished,” faithfully intoned Agrica, bobbing his head slightly forward.

Brennus let out a withering sigh, each heavy step causing the machines around him to rattle. He stalked towards the heavy door leading out from his throne-room, pausing just one pace before it. Agrica now too moved forward, taking up a position beside his master. “We are not yet fallen,” Brennus whispered, “Not yet. I cannot forgive Selioax, however—and I cannot forgive Alessia. It must burn.”

And though it pained him, Agrica agreed.