Work Text:
"Be cautious, my lord," the mortal warned. "These passageways are narrow."
His manner of addressing me as "my lord" sounded forced and insincere. He avoided meeting my gaze, likely due to the scars that disfigured my head and face. Though he attempted to flatter me, I sensed a hint of contempt hidden beneath his words. I could not fault him for this, however. He was a survivor of the siege of Terra, and I knew how we Astartes were viewed by mortals nowadays.
He limped along, guiding me upstairs that groaned under my weight, across walkways that had long since fallen into disrepair, and past dilapidated walls. We were deep within a hive that had been abandoned early in the siege, and even now, it remained sparsely populated. He informed me that the forbidden item I had requested could only be kept here.
"Are we nearly there?" I checked the time on my armor's built-in clock. "Time is of the essence."
"Patience, my lord," the mortal replied, sneaking a sly glance at me from the corner of his eye. "...You couldn't have come from your……fort, or garrison often, could you?"
"I possess field clearance," I retorted, irritated by his clumsy attempts to pressure me or even blackmail me. "I have the authority to act. Cease this nonsense and show me where your storage is."
We arrived at a dark warehouse, where the dust fell like snowflakes. Before entering, I scanned the area carefully. I found nothing suspicious. There was no sign of chaos taint, weapon signatures, or unusual structures, although the scanty protections were far from adequate.
The mortal struggled to kneel before finally activating the hidden lumen and proceeding to enter the warehouse. He then lifted the floor to reveal several boxes and began to unpack one of them. As he did so, I caught sight of old Auxiliary recruitment materials featuring eager, determined young men and women. "The future of humanity needs you," read one of the slogans, while the other proclaimed, "For our own Imperium."
The mortal carelessly tossed those materials aside, treating them like garbage. Beneath these papers, his true merchandise was revealed. They were expertly and meticulously wrapped, each one measuring 685x373mm and very thin.
As I reached out to pick up one of them, the mortal snatched it away from me, fearful that my armored hands might damage his precious collection as I attempted to remove the outer covering. Once again, he showed disrespect, but I tolerated his actions.
"Be careful, my lord," he warned, "This might be the last one on Terra, or even in the entire galaxy!"
He delicately unwrapped the package with his battered bionic arm. After finishing his work, he presented the item to me with a fake sycophantic smile, "Is this what you are looking for, my lord?"
Before me was a calendar, its black border exuding a stately aura and bearing the date 998.M30. In the center of the calendar was a picture of a Space Marine, a Blood Angel that I did not recognize. He was not wearing his helmet, and his tuft of black curly hair fell on his brow. His expression was as cold as an ice statue, but his perfect and strikingly beautiful features were unmistakably those of a son of Sanguinius.
"The Blood Angels were always popular," remarked the mortal, "and they occupied half of my collection's covers. Would you like this, my lord?"
"Turn the page," I ordered.
The mortal complied, flipping through the pages for me. January, February, March, and the entire solar year of Terra, each month with its own page and accompanying photo of a Space Marine.
These were not the typical heavily-armed and majestic legionnaires seen in standard Imperium propaganda materials. Instead, each image depicted ordinary legionnaires without helmets, or only partially covering their faces. Some were not even fully armored, with their upper bodies exposed. I don't know how could these photos be taken.
Astartes in the calendar appeared to be selected for their presumed attractiveness to mortals. I saw a Thousand Sons with exotic olive complexions, a son of Guilliman with their trademark square jaw and inquiring blue eyes, and a White Scar with the noble features of a falcon, and a meaningful smile on his face. However, there were also images that I found difficult to understand human aesthetics. A Space Wolf with a long beard and braids bared his fangs in a growling or laughing expression, or the half-modified body of a son of Ferrus riddled with scars. Were these considered attractive to mortals?
This calendar had a rather serious High Gothic name, the Imperatoris Heroum Calendar. However, humans had given it a more appropriate name: the Hot Astartes Calendar.
I had heard of men and women attempting to flirt with Astartes out of sheer curiosity at social occasions, particularly those Legionaries who were more comfortable with human interaction. This calendar was the end product of that eccentricity: humans had snapped pictures of Astartes they found good-looking and sold them here and there. It was of course a product without the permission or consent of the Imperium. It must come from a few drunken Remembrancer and daring Auxiliary amateur photographers, printed by a whimsical publisher. It was nowhere near the quality of the Space Marine materials put out by the propaganda department of the Imperium. However, it was a hit when it was released, perhaps even exceeding the creator's expectations.
The citizens of the Imperium adore this calendar. They desired to display portraits of the unsung and handsome Space Marines in their residence, just as they would exhibit depictions of the Emperor on their cupboards and tables, albeit for entirely different reasons. Its sales figures increased every year, and although the War Council eventually caught wind of it, they chose to disregard it as it proved to be an effective morale booster.
Studying the calendar before me, I observe that beneath the photographs, each significant date is labeled. The anniversary of the Unification of Terra. The anniversary of the conversion of Europa. Imperial Charter Day. It had been put to use, and certain dates were stamped onto it: someone's birthday, a future date, a family dinner scheduled for another day. It was yellowed around the edges, but what disturbed me were the faded blood and burn marks on its final pages.
The mortal holding the calendar appeared to sense my discomfort. Nevertheless, he persisted in holding it out, as if seeking to use the darkly tragic markings to condemn us for our crime.
"It wasn't easy to find, my lord," he said. "Is this the one you seek?"
I shake my head. "Not this one. Show me another one."
He stooped down to retrieve another calendar, gently tearing the plastic wrap covering its surface. The cover of this book depicted a Raven Guard with black hair cascading down his shoulders, pale and melancholy, with a somber expression. Mortal preferences are peculiar.
"985.M30. This is the first time this calendar has been officially printed," he stated.
"Turn the page," I said.
He flipped through the calendar's pages. I gazed at the countenances of the Astartes who seemed to belong to a different epoch.
986.M30. 987.M30. He continued flipping through the pages of calendars of different years.
It was not surprising that certain legions appeared more frequently in the photographs than others. However, it was somewhat peculiar that the Blood Angels did not make as many appearances as I had anticipated. I was once told by someone that while Blood Angels were beautiful, they were also too ethereal and pure to be more than objects of aesthetic sensuality. It was difficult to form an emotional connection with their appearance, making them less ‘hot’ in a way.
Who had imparted this to me? Argenean?
I could not recollect.
Nevertheless, among those considered "hot”, several of my Imperial Fist brothers were depicted, even though I did not recognize them. Warriors of the Luna Wolf also made frequent appearances and were considered as charming as their gene-sire. I even inadvertently recognized an old acquaintance: Garviel Loken, who appeared in August of 988.M30, before he was inducted into the Mournival. Humans may have mistaken him for an ordinary Legionnaire as he appeared somewhat dazed about being photographed, which they might have found endearing.
Their criteria were truly unfathomable.
989.M30. 991.M30. I browsed more calendars. I watched as the mortal turned the pages of each calendar, displaying photographs of Astartes. "My lord," he said, casting a glance at the scar that marred my face and right eye, "I believe that if it weren't for that injury, you could also have been selected for this calendar."
I ignored his false flattery, knowing full well that I wasn't handsome, even before the injury.
"Turn the page," I just said.
These calendars were also a product of pure illusion. In my experience, humans were easily overwhelmed with fear when they witnessed us in battle. Even if they were not intimidated by us, they understood intellectually and emotionally that we were different creatures from them, despite our physical resemblance. This understanding left them feeling extremely disturbed, with some individuals even experiencing panic attacks. Most of the time, they tried to keep us at a distance, either with respect or disgust. This psychological phenomenon was even given a name - Transhuman Dread.
However, in photographs, our differences from normal humans were eased. On paper, we merely looked wider and larger, with tougher facial features. Otherwise, we were no different from human beings. Mortals didn't need to understand how this face was set in a giant body, nor realize how different our actions, expressions, and words were from theirs. They couldn't smell the gunpowder smoke and chemical odor on us. A printed Astartes was much more endearing than a moving one. I surmised that this was why the Hot Astartes Calendar sold so well, as it satisfied the fantasy of humans for Astartes, without the consequences of having to confront a real Astartes.
Did we care about these ridiculous calendars? Some of us did, but most, including myself, didn't give them a second thought. As long as mortals didn't interfere with our duties while taking pictures, we didn't mind.
Argenean might be an exception.
The mortal opened calendar after calendar for me with his bionic arm, but I still couldn't find what I was looking for.
These calendars became increasingly sophisticated, and it was rumored that in the best years, they sold tens of millions of copies on Terra. No wonder the War Council attempted to compete with them by creating Primarchs Calendars. However, the Primarchs Calendar was far less successful than the Hot Astartes Calendar. Just as print diminished the transhuman dread effect of the Astartes, so posed, stenciled, dignified, and ostentatious primarchs on two-dimensional surfaces failed to radiate the astonishing charisma that they have in reality.
Fulgrim spoke to Horus about this once, informing him that the Primarchs Calendars were not selling so well. At first, Horus was disappointed."I like my picture on the cover." He said. It was taken by the best photographer in the Imperium.
"That's not your problem," Fulgrim replied. "When you think about it, no one wants to have a Roboute who looks like he is about to recite whole Principia Bellicosa in their living room all May, or an unhappy Perturabo all November."
Horus paused, then said, "No. I think it might be the armor. We're wearing too much armor. It’s what humans see in war news holograms, so it's not attractive. If we don't wear armor but robes, especially you and Sanguinius, and show a little more skin, I think the calendar will sell well." He laughed.
"Vulgar!" Fulgrim exclaimed, before also bursting into laughter.
It was recounted to me by Argenean, who overheard the conversation between the Primarchs at the time. However, I was skeptical of his story as Argenean often made unfunny things sound humorous. I couldn't be sure if Horus suggested the Primarchs pose bare-chested for the calendar or if Fulgrim found the idea absurd.
Part of me hoped that it was all a fabrication. They shouldn't be so carefree and jocular with one another. Their conversation couldn't have been so amusing, affectionate, and human. The fact that Horus and Fulgrim had once spoken like true brothers would be such an affront to us. It made my blood boil, and somehow more hateful than the many, many atrocious deeds they committed later.
Impatience and restlessness started to gnaw at me. Maybe I had been wrong all along, wasting my time.
When the mortal put down the 994.M30 year calendar he was holding, I couldn't resist asking, "Do you have any others?"
He snickered. "My lord," he said. "No one on Terra has a collection better than mine. Especially after..., you know."
He picked up another wall calendar, dated 995.M30.
"You see, the only copy I don’t have was a copy of 006.M31," he said flatly. "When it was released in 005.M31, the print run was very small. There are none left now. It's a shame. It’s the last one they produced."
Everyone knows what happened after 005.M31. He need not remind me, but he seemed to enjoy provoking me to the point of endangering his life.
He flipped through the calendar for me in the dim light, like an ancient Terra play that required shadows. More faces flashed before me.
As the mortal had said, these calendars were rare right now. After the Siege of Terra ended, nearly all surviving Hot Astartes Calendars were destroyed. This was not mandated by the Imperium but rather a spontaneous act of the people.
Because the humans of Terra finally saw the Space Marines with their own eyes.
They finally witnessed the ferocity and terror of Astartes, who they once thought of as mythical heroes.
The fantasy of the Astartes being hot was shattered.
Those who survived understood very clearly that the calendars were serving as a reminder that they were once so foolish to try and empathize with genetically modified killing machines. Furthermore, there were numerous images of legionnaires who had become traitors in these calendars.
So, they hunted down and destroyed any surviving calendars (if they hadn't already been destroyed in war or buried under the ruins). People gnashed their teeth, shed tears, spit on those calendars, tore them up, burned them, and destroyed them completely.
The mortal before me stared at me, holding a calendar in his hand. I wonder why he collects such things. Is he waiting for a ridiculous price from a buyer like me? Or has he become so enlightened that he finds human folly worth collecting?
"Turn the page," I said.
001.M31. 002.M31. 003.M31. 004.M31.
I heard that on worlds that have not suffered a similar fate as Terra, a different understanding of the Astartes is beginning to emerge. Since the Emperor has ascended to godhood, we are also his angels, carrying divine power beyond the material world. But this is just another illusion. When reality is too harsh, people are unable to return to reality. When one illusion was shattered, they just seek refuge in another one. Yet, in this illusion, I suppose this Hot Astartes Calendar is also blasphemy, something that cannot be allowed nor contemplated.
However, I still couldn't find what I was looking for and grew increasingly anxious. Perhaps I should not have wasted my time and effort on this.
The mortal then took out the last calendar - 005.M31. Created in 004.M31, after Horus had fallen, and before Prospero was reduced to ashes. The web of conspiracy was unraveling then, everything would be destroyed, and the galaxy would burn. But on Terra, people knew nothing of this. They were celebrating their victory and dreaming of a brighter future. They flocked to see the first sea on Terra in so many years and the first snowfall on the Himalayas. They sold and bought those calendars. Little did they know that the sea would boil and the snow would burn. They didn't know that when this calendar was made, many legionnaires on the calendar had become enemies of the Imperium.
As I watched the mortal turn the pages of the calendar from the first to the last, I felt disappointed.
"No," I said. "Not this one either！"
The sound must have been like a roar to a mortal, and he started and turned pale. However, he stood there motionless. "With all due respect, my lord," he said, "what on earth are you looking for in these calendars?"
"I'm looking for a Space Marine."
"These calendars are all about Space Marines."
"He was my friend."
The mortal looked at me. "Friend?" he asked.
He sounded as if he was questioning how beings like us could have friends.
Astartes have no human emotions. We don't cry, we don't laugh, we don't waver. We're just bolters and power swords that can walk and think on our own. How can we have friends?
But his thoughts didn't stop there. I looked at the mortal and knew he hated me from the bottom of his heart. Not just me as an individual, but all of us. All Astartes, all Space Marines, all Legionnaires. It's the hatred of one group for another, and it doesn't necessarily need a deep reason. Fear, worry, distrust, it's all there. We have no way to refute this hatred with the words "we fought to protect you" as an excuse. He and I both know that it was also the Astartes who trampled his homeland, killed his loved ones, and destroyed the vision and future of humans and the Imperium. No rational thought of him would be effective enough in separating me from those depraved traitors.
If I had friends, if Astartes could be friends with each other like humans, it would seem like an insult to his just and well-founded hatred.
Just as I would feel that the friendship between Horus and Fulgrim was an insult to me personally.
I swallowed the bitterness in my throat.
"We've known each other for a long time," I said simply.
The mortal tilted his head. "Perhaps you have missed it, my lord. Shall I go over it again for you?"
"I didn't miss it," I replied. I would have said mortals might, but we can't. But now, I'm not so sure. My memory isn't as sharp as it used to be.
"He told me he had been photographed. He told me his picture was going to be on the calendar," I said.
At least, that's what Argenean himself had told me. He was elated then and beaming as he spoke, "Someone took a picture of me. He said my picture should be on the calendar," he said, "Terra's calendar. This is something. I'll have to get myself a copy when I get a chance to go to Terra in the future."
I knew that if he had ever got a copy, he would have kept it in his room and his brothers would have thought he was out of his mind. But I also knew that he didn't want to show off. He simply took it as a good joke and would have laughed about the calendar and its absurd stories to anyone who would listen.
But is it true? Or is it just another funny story he made up?
I couldn't provide an answer. When I thought back, I couldn't even recall when Argenean mentioned being photographed. Was it during our first meeting？ Was it during the 28-1 conquest of 989.M30 or on Ullanor during our last encounter? My Astartes memory should be infallible, but during the siege of Terra, I was hit by a bullet in the head, almost killing me and obliterating half of my face. Although I was ultimately saved, my memory began to show inconsistencies. Initially, it was minor details, but over time, it progressed to the point where I couldn't remember some significant events. The symptoms only worsened, and no Apothecary could aid in its recovery.
"It doesn't matter when he was photographed," I equivocated, hoping to deflect the question. It was a plausible explanation. Navigating the warp was unpredictable, wars separated and united people, and there was no telling when they would return to Terra from the various fronts of the Great Crusade. A picture taken could show up on a calendar ten years or even twenty years later.
"Then your 'friend' might be on the 006.M31 calendar," the mortal suggested. "Oh well, that's life."
It was a possibility. However, it was equally probable that Argenean had lied to me. Maybe he was just showing off. Or perhaps the person who photographed him exaggerated his worth. It was also possible that the photo never even reached Terra's publishing house. All of these scenarios were possible, and I was foolish to disregard them.
I shouldn't have come here, wasting my time with this mortal. I wanted to leave, but instead, I lingered, feeling hollow and disappointed.
Suddenly, the mortal cried out, causing me to almost draw my bolter. However, he only appeared to recall something.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Wait a minute!"
He hurried to another corner of the room, tearing up the floorboards to reveal a smaller, older box. With excitement, he tipped the contents of the box onto the ground. They were books that would have been considered taboo both before and after the Horus Heresy. From the pile, he picked up a thin booklet and showed it to me, beaming.
"This one is an absolute treasure! It's the calendar of 984.M30!" he exclaimed, holding up the booklet.
"But you said the first calendar was of 985.M30," I said.
"Technically, that was when official printing began," he replied, ripping off the coverings with his bionic hand. "This one was a test run from a small workshop on a private printing press. It was a rough print, but it sold so well, so they decided to make more."
So, it was printed in 983.M30. Memories flooded back at the mention of that date.
"May I see it?" I asked.
He turned the pages for me. The booklet was noticeably smaller than previous calendars, with yellow, brittle paper that looked well-worn. The font was crooked, and ink marks were visible on the edge of the page. Two months were placed under one photo, probably because it was the product of a whim, it was not possible to find so many photos of Astarte for a while. The first page even featured Hathor Maat's notoriously arrogant face as a filler.
But as the mortal flipped to the third page, my heartbeats raced.
There he was.
Argenean.
In that slightly blurred photo, Argenean wasn't the only Astartes without a helmet. However, the photographer captured what made him unique. He looked back at the camera. Unlike his brothers who typically grow their hair long or even braid it, Argenean's silver hair was shaved short like a young boy, and he also appeared to be like a teenager. There's a smile on his face, a perpetual expression of curiosity and undisguised pleasure that blurs the world around him.
"That's him," I whispered.
It was 983.M30, the day we first met on Cheraut. We followed our Primarchs in laying siege to the system, alongside Conrad Curze and his murderous hordes. When our Primarch was mortally wounded by mad Curze, the Legion fell into rage and grief. Argenean was the first of his brothers to come to my side, trying to comfort me.
He told me something interesting. He thought it was funny, which must have made me feel better. I responded by punching him.
What did he say?
He said, “Someone took a picture of me. He said my picture should be on the calendar..."
The mortal glanced at the picture of Argenean, and his expression changed. "He is one of them. He is an Emperor's Children," he said, almost out of breath.
Of course, he was. Even in that old picture, his purple and gold armor was still so dazzling. I understand the mortal's feelings. Among the traitors who deliberately committed atrocities against the people of Terra, the Emperor's Children's deeds would disturb even their fellows. Their violence was only for fun, and the colors represented cruelty and madness to the mortals of Terra.
An Imperial Fist befriending an Emperor's Children sounded like heresy and treason.
I could see the horror in the mortal’s eyes.
But I looked at him unwaveringly. "He's Barachiel Argenean. He belonged to the Tenth Company of the Emperor's Children, and he died on Istvaan III," I said softly.
The mortal's mouth opened slightly. He understood the meaning of this sentence. As the purge progresses, this name will become taboo and will no longer be mentioned. But for now, “He died on Istvaan III” still had a definite meaning for the man who had survived the Horus Heresy.
He never betrayed the Imperium.
"I'm sorry," he said, lowering his eyes.
"There's nothing to be sorry about," I said, holding out my hand. He pressed the thin, worn booklet into my palm without resistance. I lowered my head and stared at Argenean's face in the yellowed picture for a long time.
It was a face I thought I would never see again.
My brother, my friend.
I couldn't help but stretch out my finger and put it lightly on the photo as if trying to confirm his smile. I checked his eyebrows, the curvature of his mouth. I felt emotions well up in me that I hadn't felt in years. A bitter sourness congealed around my eyes. I was almost on the verge of tears.
The mortal was still staring at me, but for the first time, I felt a little less hostility toward me. For the first time, there were no mortals or Astartes in this dark warehouse, just two scarred souls who had survived the wars.
"I don't know what to say," said the wrinkled old man at last. "But I think it's a good thing your friend is on the calendar."
I looked at him.
"That at least indicates..." he paused and carefully chose his words, "He was once admired and loved, right?"
I nodded slightly.
"Yes," I replied.
We completed our transaction, exchanged goods and payment, and departed the ruins of the hive city in silence. I knew that I would not cross paths with this mortal again; we both had our reasons, and it would be foolish to reveal our dealings during these tumultuous times surrounding the Codex Astartes.
So I couldn't care less about lying to him.
I had claimed that Argenean had died on Istvaan III.
But the truth was, I did not know whether that was true.
Since bidding him farewell on Ullanor, I had not heard from him again. Although I was aware of his deep devotion to his Captain Saul Tarvitz, I also knew that he revered and loved his Primarch immensely.
I didn’t know whether he remained on battleships in orbit during the massacres or descended to the surface with Tarvitz.
I didn’t know the fate of Argenean whose youthful smile had once graced the page of the calendar.
Did he die a loyalist, or is he living as a corrupted monster?
I may never know.
However, what I am certain of is that I am forgetting more and more. The wound on my head is slowly erasing my memories, and one day, I may not even recognize Argenean's face.
But I will never forget him.
I don't want to forget him.
So I will take this calendar back, and I will look at it every day, and I will look at Argenean every day.
I want to keep his face in my mind.
If he truly was dead, then perhaps I am the last person in the world who still remembers him and recognizes his boyish smile. I will use this memory as a tribute to him.
And if he is still alive, I will recognize him as well. We will fight to the death, and I will kill him. I will pursue him across the stars, as I drive bolter bullets into his deformed armor, as he gasps his rotten breath beneath my chainsword, I will watch his face, remembering his true appearance.
My brother, my friend.
Mortals may forget that we were once flesh and blood, that we once smiled like human beings on print. We have become weapons, angels of death, and demigods, and we no longer have mortal emotions.
Perhaps that is true, I thought as I taped the calendar with Argenean's face on the wall of my room. He was indeed once admired, but it was a passion of mortals, a luxury that they did not fully comprehend.
And for us, caught between memory and death, it is the only way we can express our love.