Chapter Text
‘When the gods intend to make a man pay for his crimes, they generally allow him to enjoy moments of success and a long period of impunity, so that he may feel his reverse of fortune, when it eventually comes, all the more keenly.’
— Contributed to a Terran warlord in the Age of Strife, died of assassination
When I first saw Luther he was a lone traveler. Not that his unstable state of mind was anything personal. Rather it was a common ailment among certain groups - in this universe utterly broken, ridden by war - those who do not dwell in or cannot be satisfied with just one place. I trusted that he belonged to the latter kind in characters. For he appeared nostalgic, to the point of being superstitious, about the planet where he was originally from. Which, made him - and me, more or less - feel a little bit sick. He was unusually articulated in High Gothic for a lord or knight, who owned a castle somewhere on a feudal world. I had not heard of such bizarre name of place despite having set foot in countless worlds; it must have been unremembered by most chroniclers, for reason.
Fabricating as much truth as lie upon his quickly fading, rigged memories, we spoke through the freezingly bitter blizzard that broke into the darkness of night. As it was in the midst of a bleak winter, he was drinking a pint of well-aged mulled cider around a long table in the tavern, made of the heart of an ancient oak, looking all tired and weary, like a great many of us, the strangers drawn together temporarily by fates, not knowing each other before this supposedly short encounter; but his eyes glistened under the fireplace when rubbing his palms against the texture of the wood. This somehow reminded him of home, that much I could tell from a distance.
‘So what happened on your last days in the Order, grand master?’ I asked, trying my upmost to be polite, even though unsure if I should irritate him with words, as much as I already did with my presence. It was impossible to read the situation when you were hiding your identity under a hooded cloak.
‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘Nothing worth noting, or of any meanings, had ever occurred to the Calibanites. We were on the fringe of an Empire, warded off by some like barbarians, living off the forests, hunting ineffable beasts and collecting scutage from the nearby villages we protected. Those were the olden times, of simpler days. The work had to be done, so that the crops could be grown, livestocks reared, and children fed. My brethren took great pride from the deepest bottom of their bosom in the deeds and duties performed for the folks. Then, the great and terrible angels descended, on the pinions of fire and light. They took everything, every tradition away from us. And the pure, undisturbed joy for an eternity beyond human reach. Shredded like paper, obscured from the eyes of history.’
‘So they snatched the real power from you? Not your title, glory, or legal codex of inheritance… Your resources: armies, bolt guns and powered armours, I mean.’
‘No. But the people decided - foolishly in my opinion - that they would be better off working in factories and purposely built facilities in city, therefore needed not to pay my men for their service anymore. And so the cavalry of Caliban no longer held the prestige they once had, or even a place in a world which had decided to progress, be productive, and move on as a society; we bade it farewell, packed up our things and left, like a bunch of serfs at the end of tenancy of their seasonal fields, which they sowed and tended to all summer regardlessly.’
‘Your forces remained loyal with their grand master, then. Where are your hosts, squires and page boys on such a dark, uncharted waters of the Imperium? I do not see them standing beside you. Did you go into your exile without your subjects?’
‘We had disputes about which ways to go forward and, were scattered by avarice over what had remained of those pathetically few legacies. A mere shadow to our former selves, they call us, split and dispersed across the galaxies, the Fallen Angels. To mock us. Those usurpers of the realm, the self-righteous “reformers”, teachers who enlighten - ’
‘What you wanted to say was, the First Legion, “Dark Angels”.’ I presumed.
‘I am sorry,’ the old man hesitated for a few seconds, at my seemingly innocent, carefree attitude, while making such correction for his expression, nonetheless, ‘but who are you?’ I shrugged, and said my last verdict,
‘My subordinates usually refer to my epithet, Primaris Angelus Mortis; as I was born to exterminate the Emperor’s foes. But, you can call me by any other names you like, for now in this occasion.’