Chapter Text
Bringing a new world into the Imperium almost reminded him of the days of the Great Crusade. While those hadn’t been exactly good days, in retrospect, they were certainly less nonsensical and stressful, somehow, than the modern Imperium. They were days of horrific atrocities, of a failed, desperate race to gain control and unite a species which didn’t want to be unified before Chaos struck, of lies and betrayal. They were also days where his mother still lived. They were days when his family was more intact, where he and his brothers were on the same side, where they all lived, where he believed, despite the brutality and cruelty of the present, that perhaps there would be a brighter tomorrow. Perhaps that was why he went down to inspect the newest addition to the Imperium personally.
For now, everything appeared to be progressing smoothly. The planetary leaders had capitulated almost immediately upon the defeat of the tyranid hive fleet. They had seen the horrors of the galaxy and decided they could not face them alone. The parade and public appearances had gone as planned, without even an assassination attempt to mar the day. In fact, everyone seemed quite thrilled to go along with Imperial and Ultramarian law.
Which was why Roboute decided he was not going to retire to his quarters for the short remainder of his stay.
Theoretical: when bringing a new world into the Imperium, there would be friction. There are currently no signs of dissent and every show of complete capitulation.
Practical: they are hiding something.
Of course, he had sent out agents to investigate along these lines as well, but he hoped his presence may make their job easier by drawing the attention. If the locals thought they only needed to keep up appearances around him and his Ultramarines and diplomats, they may allow their guard to be dropped elsewhere.
But more than that… he allowed his brow to furrow as he walked ahead of his astartes honor guard, making them quicken their pace to keep up. The custodes had seen no real threat to him on the planet below and he agreed with that assessment, at least he had then. He had a gut feeling—no facts, no reason, just pure intuition and instinct—that he needed to investigate further. That there was something here he was missing, something important, and he did not want to leave without putting the matter to rest.
From a distance, he heard a sound that made him pause, then change his route and pace. Despite standing at around thirteen feet in height, he was actually capable of moving stealthily, to some extent. So long as attention wasn’t drawn by the crowd, he could get close enough to see and eavesdrop but wouldn’t be able to get any closer without alerting his targets. He wasn’t Corvus, after all.
The thought sobered him up with a familiar dull ache of loneliness and fatigue. He wondered if there was any chance Corvus still lived, now millennia after he had thrown himself into the Eye, before dismissing the thought.
Theoretical: the warp is an unpredictable and dangerous place. Primarchs can withstand much, but we are not immortal and certainly not invulnerable.
Practical: while it is, in theory, possible Corvus survived, all probability overwhelmingly suggests he is not.
Theoretical: you know yourself and how you would act if there was any true hope of finding him alive in the warp. You know what you would do, how quickly you would throw yourself into the warp to find him, if there was a real chance he was alive.
Practical: for the good of the Imperium and Ultramar, do not give yourself that false hope.
He focused on following the sound, then found himself staring at a brutal scene.
Two men lay dead on the ground, blood spilling for tears and gashes. One, an aristocrat from his attire, had his chest carved open and heart thrown against the brick wall of an alleyway. Another, clearly a member of the planet’s law enforcement, had his throat slit. Two other guards still lived, and were awkwardly pointing their weapons between a frightened figure in handcuffs who was already inching away and a smaller figure who knelt over the aristocrat, hands drenched in blood. They wore a hood and had a cloth mask pulled up over their mouth and nose, so it was difficult to make out anything about them other than a wiry figure and dark eyes.
“Just shoot that damn thing!” one of the guards snapped at the other.
“You shoot the little demon!”
The figure laughed. It was a grating sound, halfway to hysterical, which made both guards flinch as the figure snapped back, “You’re the ones creating demons! He has done nothing wrong! You have no cause to arrest him, but I’m sure someone had plenty of reason to.” The figure ripped a lung out of the aristocrat on the ground. “You’re taking people and turning them into monsters!”
Roboute felt a mounting rage take him as he heard his honor guard catch up, hopefully all paying attention to the scene ahead of them. Those descriptions left a bad taste in his mouth for many reasons and confirmed his suspicions. The figure’s voice did nothing but fuel the growing fury due to how young it sounded. He didn’t know how old the boy was, but he didn’t sound older than a neophyte.
One of the guards raised his gun, pointing it at the boy and made ready to fire. The next instant, the guard was a mess of bloody chunks as the sound of a bolter resounded through the streets. The boy jumped back, staring at the distant primarch, then bolted. He managed to run away before the Ultramarines reached the scene. The surviving guard, however, did not and was quickly grabbed.
“Take them for questioning,” Roboute ordered as he reached the scene, but didn’t stop.
“My lord—”
“Question the civilians and treat the local guard with suspicion. Other than that, I trust your judgment.” He moved on ahead, nonverbally dismissing them to other activities, although he doubted any would allow him to be too far away. He also trusted their intelligence enough to know that most if not all had figured out what he was doing.
It didn’t take long to track him down, as he hadn’t gone too far. He hadn’t needed to, as a decently sized crack in a wall leading into a dark space had provided a reasonably defensible position and adequate hiding spot.
Roboute knelt down, peering into the opening outlined by crumbling brickwork. If he wanted, he could break it down in an instant. Even a particularly determined baseline with a hammer would make short work of enlarging the opening. The interior was not much better, the room small and without any other obvious exits still usable. For a moment, he could hear Dorn’s disapproval in his head and let the sad smile flicker onto his face before he pushed the thoughts away. “I can see you in there.”
A sharp hiss answered him, feral enough that he had to take a moment to realize it came from the child himself, curled up against the back wall with one hand braced on the ground and the other slightly raised, as if to attack at a moment’s notice. His mask hid the lower half of his face, but Roboute didn’t doubt his teeth were bared.
“The remaining guard was arrested, and an investigation and arrests will commence shortly thereafter,” Roboute continued. The boy had a sense of justice about him, or at least cared enough about the arrested man. The hissing stopped. Encouraged, he pressed on, keeping his voice soft and even, “Do you know who I am?”
“...the new ruler.” The boy’s voice was so low Roboute doubted a baseline would’ve heard him.
“You’re correct. I was told quite a lot of things during my meetings with the nobility, but I doubt I was ever being told the whole story. Would you be able to fill me in further?”
The child’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you care what I have to say?”
“Because I believe you’ve seen what really happens on this planet that people want to forget about. Because you care enough to tell me the truth. And because I want to make this right, whether or not you believe that.”
The child stayed silent for a while, then hissed, “They take people. They drag them off in the name of a law that does not apply, they take their land and property while spitting in the face of the spirit of the laws that let them, and they… they do things to them. They aren’t human at the end of it. They’re things with too many eyes and mouths and limbs and spikes that beg for death with whatever traces of sanity they have left and I oblige them! They let them loose on their enemies, their rivals, anyone they want rid of that they can’t just arrest in the name of a false justice!” His voice had started low just as before, but rose in emotion and volume until by the end he was screaming.
Roboute’s eyes hardened and he switched on his voxcaster with a subvocal command. “This is a message to all Ultramarines stationed planetside: treat the planetary government as hostile. Take as many prisoners as you can, but do not take unnecessary risks. Investigate where they send their prisoners. Look for signs of Chaos worship and corruption.” He waited until he got confirmation of his message being sent out before turning it off again.
As he spoke, he could see the boy’s eyes light up. He inched forward, his movement reminding Roboute of a wary felid. “The people they took weren’t guilty. Their charges were false. I used to collect evidence, to prove it. I stopped, but I still have some of it. I can show you.”
Roboute nodded, watching the boy’s demeanor. He was only about a foot away at this point and had a clear view of the primarch, but showed no signs of transhuman dread. Not of awe, not of terror. In fact, from the first moment, he had treated Roboute like another regular person. It was… curious, from one so young. “I believe you, but I will be glad to take a look.”
The child tilted his head owlishly. “...you aren’t lying.” He sounded surprised but said it like a fact. “You aren’t lying!” He didn’t leave the safety of his urban cave just yet, but hovered right next to the entrance. Roboute smiled, but internally his mind was racing.
Theoretical: he is not afraid. He is already adept at combat. He is living on a world which may become a battlefield if chaos corruption is discovered at its heart.
Practical: take him with you and make him into an astartes, if he will agree.
But even more than that, there was… something. Something that he couldn’t quite place, something that screamed that he couldn’t leave this one behind, that he couldn’t lose him. He didn’t inherit precognition, at least not to the extent of Sanguinius or Curze, but he had learned enough to trust his deeper instincts on these matters.
“If you can tell when I’m lying, will you believe me if I promise I will not hurt you?” The boy tilted his head to the side, waiting. Roboute smiled, a little warmer this time. “I swear by my mother, I will not hurt you.”
The boy crept through the narrow opening, each movement practiced and familiar. “Martha wanted to take me in, be my mother. She kept offering whenever she’d give me bread from her bakery.”
Roboute nodded encouragingly. “She sounds kind.”
“She was. I had to carve what she became into tiny pieces and set those on fire before she finally died.” He sounded a little guilty as he added, “I think she thanked me then more than I ever thanked her.”
Oh sweet Terra, this boy needed a hug. Roboute turned on his voxcaster again. “Captain Sicarius, I would like to oversee some of the planet’s leaders’ sentencing or executions personally, or engage what conflict erupts. Keep me appraised of which set of skills I need to dust off.”
There was a trace of a laugh hurriedly covered up. “Of course, my lord.”
The boy looked up at Guilliman, inspecting him. “You remind me of my father,” he announced, then climbed up on Roboute’s knee.
Taking the opportunity, Roboute, oh so gently, picked up the malnourished baseline without resistance. “How so?”
He could see the child’s eyes furrow. “I don’t know. You feel similar.”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know, I don’t really remember him.” He tilted his head to the side nearly fifty degrees. “I know he named me. I know he didn’t want to leave me. I know he left me here.”
That brought up an interesting point, even as the matter-of-factness of it all made Roboute’s hearts ache. Even after all the tragedies and horrific fates this galaxy had to offer, hearing it so casually spoken from someone so young still hurt. “I haven’t introduced myself, have I?” The boy shook his head, looking curious. “I am Roboute Guilliman, primarch of the Ultramarines and Lord of Ultramar.” He waited to see if the boy would respond in kind, but when he didn’t prompted, “Could I know who it is that brought me this important intel?”
He saw those dark eyes brighten a bit more at the praise and small hands latched onto his armor, as if he was afraid Roboute would put him down. “Konrad.”
He didn’t let his expression falter. It was just a name, after all. A simple name that happened to be shared by the Night Haunter. “I am very fortunate to have met you, Konrad.” He saw those eyes all but literally shining at that comment.
Konrad pointed off in a direction. “My home is this way.” Roboute tried to set him down but Konrad squirmed and gripped his armor even tighter until he compromised by holding the baseline’s hand with a couple fingers. Eagerly, he led Roboute onward, deeper into the city. More than once he had to adjust and lead him down an alternate path to accommodate Roboute’s size. On the way, Konrad fed him more and more information to vox back to his Ultramarines, much of which they were already starting to verify for themselves. Eventually, Roboute handed Konrad a spare voxcaster to give reports directly to Sicarius, ones the boy was all too happy to give. It seemed he had a list of names he had all but memorized of various Chaos cultist ringleaders, not that he knew what Chaos was but his descriptions of their activities left no doubt. He alternated between sounding almost unsettlingly cheerful and rabidly furious.
They had reached a bridge when the skirmish started. The two of them were fine, but Roboute could hear the cacophony of battle sounding from the vox, and the howls and screams of whatever chaos spawn experimentation this planet had wrought upon its people. Konrad stopped and listened eagerly. Though Roboute couldn’t see anything but his eyes, those eyes were wide and upturned as if he was grinning wildly, entranced until Sicarius cut off his vox and all fell silent.
Konrad looked disappointed for a moment, then ran up to the edge of the drop the bridge gapped and lowered himself until he was hanging by his fingertips. He scuttled down and over into a hole in the wall far too small for Roboute to go through without damaging it, so he waited until Konrad climbed back out. He had with him a bag, evidently waterproofed as both it and Konrad were soaking wet.
Nevertheless, Konrad beamed and presented it like a kitten dropping a dead rat at his feet. Roboute forced a smile and took the offered bag, opening it to see various papers stuffed inside. Some looked like official documents, others were clearly whatever scrap of paper the boy had been able to find to write on. He sealed it again so the water wouldn’t ruin anything before the information could be recorded in their own records. “Thank you, this will be helpful.” He hoped there would be details in here that could lead to a quicker identification of what exactly they were dealing with, or other valuable intel that could prevent the problem from spiraling to the point of exterminatus.
Konrad pounced on Roboute again, latching onto his leg and pulling himself up onto the primarch’s knee before Roboute caught him and lifted him up. This child…
Konrad took the opportunity to rest his head against Roboute’s armor, looking rather satisfied with himself. He didn’t seem bothered by having his face covered with a filthy cloth soaked with runoff that was likely full of muck and diseases. It was the casualness that really got to Roboute, so he asked, “Does your home flood often?”
Konrad nodded. “It rises and falls with the tide. There’s always a bit near the top that stays dry, I sleep up there.”
“And you never tried to find a drier place?”
“It’s safe, no one else tries to break in and take it from me, and the vermin that don’t drown are exhausted from swimming so they’re an easy meal.”
He was taking this one. He was taking this one and letting him stay at his side for at least a week before handing him over for training. “Konrad?”
“Yes?”
He had to approach this carefully. “You’ve done well, but this place won’t be safe for much longer. You heard the fighting, and it will do nothing but spread until this is over.”
He noticed the boy bristle. “I know where to hide. I know how to fight.”
“I can see that,” Roboute agreed. “But there are other options.”
Konrad tilted his head, demeanor turning warier. “How so.” His voice was frosty, tone turning into a drawling deadpan that made the hairs on the back of Roboute’s neck stand up. For a moment, he heard Curze’s voice in the back of his mind, how he sounded when he wasn’t on the verge of a mad breakdown.
He forced the memory aside. “If you would like, you can come with me.”
After the initial reaction, he was prepared for rejection, for shocked silence, for arguing, for Konrad to try to escape and run away. He was not prepared for the baseline, after a few moments’ pause, to twist around and latch onto his arm in a desperate hug, one that promised that he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon. Roboute smiled nonetheless. “Should I take that as a yes?” He got a nod in response.
It didn’t take much time to get a transport ready to bring him back to Macragge’s Honour, as at this point most of his honor guard desperately wanted him off the now-confirmed planet of Chaos-worshipping aristocrats. Colquan had taken the opportunity to curse him out over vox, especially after learning he was bringing a random street urchin back with him. Roboute let him voice his objections as they lifted off in the Thunderhawk, but kept his eyes on Konrad. The boy didn’t seem scared of liftoff but stayed glued to Roboute’s side. When one of his genesons had moved to try and extract the boy, he had hissed and looked almost ready to fight an astartes to remain right where he was. This had remained the case up until Roboute was able to retire to his private quarters back on the flagship.
As with everything else, Konrad had been alert and watchful when they boarded the ship, and Roboute didn’t bother to fight the smile that came to his face when he heard Konrad’s soft gasp of awe. But throughout it all, the boy had not let go. Roboute gave him a look now. “Konrad, I’m going to set you down.” He had already voxed ahead to arrange a new set of clothes for him, and he wanted his current diseased rags either thoroughly sanitized or burned. After the… incident… with Mortarion, he was in favor of burning.
Konrad made a whining noise and latched on even tighter, if that were possible. How exactly was a baseline this strong? Roboute sighed. “I will be right here, but you need a bath and a change of clothes. Both should be right through that doorway.”
Konrad looked up, suspicion evident. “...you aren’t leaving?”
“No, but I need you to clean up. Make sure to use soap.”
Konrad blinked slowly, then let go and climbed down. “Do I have to?” he sounded reluctant, but willing. At Roboute’s continued stare, he slipped into the bathing room, leaving the primarch to sigh and settle down at his desk to catch up on the work he had missed while on the planet. He would give him another day or so of this, but after he had to ensure Konrad would be able to transition into joining the other Ultramarine neophytes. Clinging to your primarch like a leech was not a particularly prized quality among the 13th legion, despite what taunts certain traitor and loyalist legions alike levied at his genesons. This was not to say he wouldn’t show affection to his genesons, far from it, but there was a difference between comfort and dependency. One was caring, the other was dangerous.
A serf entered the room, bringing requested food for both the primarch and future astartes before leaving. It was only ten minutes later that he heard the soft beat of footsteps running up to him, a figure barreling back into his arms, now dressed in Ultramarine blues and whites, his face shoved into Roboute’s cape. “Did you have a good bath?”
“I got clean.” His tone was answer enough. His hair was still rather tangled and matted in places, but almost all of the grime had washed off.
Roboute snorted. “My mother said I was a nightmare around bathtime when I was younger too. I grew to enjoy them.” Konrad made a rather skeptical noise. “Come now, there’s food for you.”
Konrad peaked over at the spread and sucked in a shuddering breath. “What part’s mine?”
“Whatever you’d like.”
Konrad sat up, staring at the food, and Roboute noticed he wasn’t wearing his mask or anything to replace it. Something about it made his throat tighten, but he couldn’t place the source of his unease. Something was familiar in a way that twisted his insides.
Then Konrad looked at him, eyes alight, and it all clicked into place in a fraction of a second.
Roboute Guilliman typically spent most of his time multitasking. Planning out improvements to the tithe collection process while cataloging fleet weaponry and resources, or creating rationing plans while in the middle of a battle. This was one of the few times that no background processes ran through his mind. The simultaneous silent static and internal screaming drowned out every other thought.
Konrad Curze.
Konrad. Curze. VIII. The eighth primarch. The Night Haunter.
It defied sense, it defied reason, but he recognized his brother, even in this younger version of him who was staring up at Roboute like he was the Emperor himself made flesh again.
Roboute had an instant to decide how to react. A part of him wanted to slam Curze against the wall and lock him away. A part of him wanted to interrogate him. And a part of him, the part that was lonely, and tired, and longing for his family won out as he smiled, reached out, and ruffled Konrad’s hair.
Theoretical: this child looks like Curze. Exactly like Curze. There was a chance it was a trick of Chaos, or a deranged experiment gone wrong, or it could actually be the deceased primarch.
Practical: try and verify if this is truly Curze, in soul, or if it is not, then what he actually is.
Konrad reached over a grabbed a piece of grox meat with his hands. Putting aside the fact that he was probably starving, Roboute was far too lost in thought to try and teach him table manners. And besides, teaching Konrad table manners didn’t go particularly well for Fulgrim. The third primarch, back then at least, certainly didn’t deserve the multitude of stab wounds that had been inflicted as a result of those efforts.
Theoretical: primarch souls are unique. He couldn’t identify souls, specifically, but primarchs could, to some extent, identify each other as primarchs. It was a psychic phenomenon so it could be concealed, as Alpharius used to love to abuse the warp out of that trick, but it was a start. To some extent, that uniqueness of soul also extended to behavior, but identifying it naturally could take some time.
Practical: in addition to medical exams, he could run his own tests against Konrad to see if he showed any signs of being a primarch.
He focused on Konrad, trying to look, to feel, for any indication that he would have when face-to-face with another primarch. Almost instantly, the headache hit him and he suppressed a wince. He had never been one of the more psychically attuned primarchs, and after the Emperor had possessed him… he forced down the memory. Suffice to say, he had not fully healed from that experience just yet.
Konrad finished off his third helping of grox meat and grabbed a fourth, then stared up and Roboute and offered up the seasoned flesh. “You’re not eating?”
Roboute forced a smile. “Eat your fill first.”
Evidently, that was the right thing to say as Konrad stared at him with stars in his eyes. It was deeply uncanny coming from the face of the Night Haunter. He scarfed down the food in only a few bites then curled up and flopped against Roboute’s chest.
The regent stared down at the small, potentially reborn primarch, then pulled him into an embrace and grabbed a dataslate, already entering orders to sequester a section of his own chambers into sleeping quarters for Konrad. Whether he was or wasn’t Curze, he needed to keep a close eye on him, for both his and everyone else’s safety.