Chapter 418 After the War
Perturabo returned to his workshop on the ground floor of the Iron Blood after a long absence.
This was his first attempt to bring his hometown of Olympia into space some fifty years ago.
When he was still young, he always felt that this workshop was a little cramped, although he arranged his small private playroom exactly according to the layout in Lokos.
But in the later Space Fortress Cheorwon, he imitated Lokos's style - even though today's Lokos style has long been under the name "Perturabo Style". A wider handicraft production facility was built in the core ring, and he began to feel that the Iron Blood's workshop was more to his liking.
Although his beloved vintage workshop also experienced an unfortunate and stormy mass destruction.
That was forty-one years ago. It was in this unlucky place that Robert Guilliman grabbed Alpharius and launched an unprecedented fight between the original bodies, which ended with Rogal Dorn's death. Two punches set the tone, and it ended with two rags for the Primarch.
He shook his head, temporarily putting those messy memories away from his brain, and used the data cable to verify the permission to pass through the iron door. After seeing the scene inside, he raised his eyebrows.
"It's been a long time since I saw you here, Morse," said Perturabo.
Morse raised his hand from the table and rubbed the fingertips wrapped in black cloth: "You haven't been to your workshop for a long time, great general. Look here, it's all ashes. ”
"Will you clean it?"
Morse shrugged, found his own clean chair from the air, picked an open space and put it down. "Don't even think about it."
"Okay," Perturabo looked around the workshop.
He is the only one with access rights here. No mortals or servitors responsible for cleaning are allowed to enter.
Even though he had tried his best to keep this place isolated from outside pollution during the time he had previously focused on fighting, the dust was still pervasive enough to cast an almost layer of dust on all his completed or half-finished creations. Transparent gray gauze.
He first put the suitcase on the table, then went to the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water in the pipe flow first, completing a new cycle inside the water storage device.
Thanks to the quality of the work done here, the taps are still functioning. After a while, he wet the cloth used to wipe the table and returned to his seat.
"It seems you have something to do here." Morse said.
“Indeed.”
“And you were not in a good mood and didn’t even ask me why I showed up.”
Perturabo sighed softly, "Isn't it obvious enough? I assume you have something to say to me."
Morse shrugged: "I think you know why I let you Don't rush to find the Emperor, Perturabo."
Perturabo wiped his desk and chair, clearing a small area of clean space to start his next work. He could have done it all in his office, but he needed some ritual, private enough space, complete silence, to work alone on a job he was afraid he would never be able to do publicly.
Now, he found that he may have been forced to lose the environmental element of "quietness".
"Horus, Leon, Lorgar," said Perturabo, "when they returned from the Emperor, they no longer had any memory of the truth about the Angel Randan. If I were to see Emperor, will the same thing happen to me?"
"Good question, and unfortunately, my answer is yes," Morse replied, putting his hands on his knees.
"I vouched for you to the Emperor and left you the secret of the curse. But the Emperor was in a very unhappy mood at the time. If you bump into him face to face, I can't guarantee that he has any thoughts. Deal with the problems you will raise with him, rather than take the easier route of eliminating them."
Perturabo shook his head, his eyes scanning the gadgets on the table.
A jar of paraffin, a file, tweezers, pliers, polishing wheels, and carving knives of different sizes...
He does not need paraffin, which is equivalent to filling the natural body with foreign matter in things, and the objects he was about to handle had experienced enough of this.
The necessity of filing is not high and he does not need to do much shaping. The same goes for grinding wheels.
He picked out the smallest carving knife and tested its sharpness. After feeling that it still had the potential to damage the skin of his fingers, Perturabo began to disinfect the carving knife.
"I can understand the Emperor's decision," said Perturabo, "but - I thought that at least we could be trusted. Even, narrowing it down again, at least Horus could be trusted. "
"Perhaps the controversy involved is too central. You know how much he dislikes having others call him a god, the Emperor's child. Maybe he finally remembered that he should keep some...human beings for himself. Face." Morse replied.
"Why does he care so much about this matter?" Perturabo's carving knife slipped from between his fingers and made a thin bloody cut on the side of his index finger. He pressed his thumb against the wound and waited for it to heal.
"I don't know," Morse said. "Now I'm beginning to think it's more than just his personal likes and dislikes. But it seems that I haven't been lucky enough to get an admission from him on this little secret."
"By the way, your Emperor will also erase the evolution of the Second Legion from the records. Remember not to mention it to the Iron Warriors or anyone else in the future - anyway. In the subsequent clearing work, there is no need to continue to know the angels of the second legion."
"I know," Perturabo said, "I think you can also complete yours. "My job?"
"What job do I have?"
"There must be thousands of documents containing words related to the Second Army, from economics to armaments to political bureaucracy. Doesn’t it need to be filtered and cleaned? ”
Morse snapped his fingers. "Poor Malcador - he won the bet this time."
"What?"
"I bet you wouldn't be so cruel as to let me go and cook with the Imperial Chancellor Documents, but Malcador said you would. Well, I can foresee the amount of documents I have to deal with when I return to Terra."
The craftsman stood up, walked to the original body, and took a picture. He patted the Primarch's broad shoulder. "Do what you want, Perturabo."
Morse left quietly, and Perturabo finally confirmed that he really just came to talk to him. In a sense, this kind of The veiled consolation was a rather novel move for Morse.
Or maybe Morse was taking the opportunity to comfort himself? Perturabo didn't know why he suddenly felt this way.
He shook his head, put aside his distracting thoughts, stared at the suitcase, and then opened it.
Inside is a black iron box, which still exudes a fragrant smell that has been exposed to incense all year round.
For many years, the black iron reliquary was placed in the center of the altar of the Wandering Temple. Each time, the Word Bearers brought the names of the deceased and prayed for the deceased under the gaze of the Emperor's icon. At this time, they would all see the box used to contain the finger bones of the original body under the four fire candles.
Now it seems that that is the only trace, the only remains, that the Second Primarch, and even the entire Second Legion, can leave in the real world.
"You have made a wrong decision, my brother," said Perturabo.
The black iron box had been sealed. Perturabo opened the cutting pen, confirmed its operation, and then began to reopen the box. Iron splattered under the high temperature of the pen tip, and the Primarch blinked. His retinas help him with the task of looking directly at this light.
"You actually chose to step into the alien cage for the sake of your heirs." He continued to speak softly.
“On the Square of Heroes, I questioned for a moment why the Emperor wanted to take away your name and deprive you of your honor.”
"Listen to what Malcador said, 'The empire will remember his achievements'... I regarded it as a sentence that is inevitable in the establishment of any empire in human history. The purpose of bright lies is to decorate one's own country. The brilliance of having it. ”
“Yes, I understand the need for it, even if I don’t feel like it – I’m doing something similar myself. ”
One side of the casket was cut open, and Perturabo carefully turned the reliquary, making sure that his cuts would not inadvertently damage its contents.
"But now, I have changed my view and put down my last doubt." He paused, "Because you did take the initiative to abandon your own glory and harmed the interests of the emperor and the glory of the empire. ."
"From the perspective of the human empire, my father's judgment is understandable. Even...he is tolerant."
While cutting the front of the black iron box, he was quiet for a while, focusing on his work.
The dust floated silently around him along with the airflow caused by his movements, drifting past those exquisite statues and designs that relied on strange engineering mechanics to maintain stability.
These were all things he cherished, but they would always have to give way to the empire's expedition, so that they had to sleep in the dark hall filled with ashes until the iron door of the workshop was opened again, and the man-made The sunshine and false scenery reappeared in front of the Lord of Iron.
Not long ago, his warsmith told him that he had been visited by Lorgar Aurelion during his temporary absence from the core of Randan.
He thought that Aurelion came to him to discuss the coming of the Emperor, but when he visited him later on the Law of Faith, Perturabo discovered that this was not the case.
After walking through the corridor of the flagship church, he arrived at the Wanderer's Church again.
There are many wooden boxes stored on both sides of the surrounding area, perhaps waiting for consecration. Four incense burners were lit, and light yellow frankincense was sprinkled in the burners, maintaining the light sacred smell.
A slightly faded red carpet spreads out straight from the door of the church, twists and turns at the steps, and extends under the black iron altar, like a quiet river flowing between life and death.
The man who holds the true word is sitting in the middle of the steps below the altar, wearing a black robe, sitting quietly with his head bowed. From a distance, the reliquary in his hand almost blends in with his clothing.
He stepped onto the red carpet, and Aurelion stood up, nodding and smiling at him.
"Perturabo," he said, taking the initiative to walk down the steps and approaching Perturabo with the box.
"Aurelion," Perturabo answered. "Do you have any questions?"
"No, I just want to hand it to you." Lorgar held the black iron box in both hands and handed it to Perturabo. The light from the Aquila candlestick flickered behind him.
Perturabo knew what it was, but that didn't stop him from being surprised.
Logar read his heart. "You still remember who it came from, right?"
His voice is gentle, a noble voice that is often deceptive, enough to cover up his fanaticism and subsequent ruthless actions in a pleasant tranquility. No matter what, it is quiet and beautiful.
"Yes." Perturabo said, "Forgive me for not being able to answer."
"No need, my brother," Lorgar smiled, stretched out his right hand, and affectionately Perturabo's hand reached to the top cover of the reliquary, "This is His will. If you are the only one among us who can be trusted, I have no more doubts."
" This morning, when I returned to His sanctuary, I saw this box for the first time. I didn't know what it was or who it belonged to, but for some reason, it made me feel so peaceful just by looking at it. A bright light flooded my heart, making me feel as light and joyful as if I were in a heavenly city."
"But I cannot remember it, Perturabo, and I am not qualified to know the secret. I learned that it does not belong to me.”
Perturabo frowned slightly. He was not sure whether his future self would want to continue seeing this box and recall everything related to the Second Primarch.
"Besides," Lorgar said, "this is the box used by the Iron Warriors to store collected objects. Maybe I should have returned it to its original owner long ago."
Returning to Iron On the way to the original number, Perturabo kept thinking about where to store this box and what purpose it should be used for so that it can achieve the commemorative function appropriately but not excessively. Not long after, he had the answer and turned back to the Iron Blood.
The black iron box was opened by the cutting pen. Perturabo removed the upper cover and took out the unprotected phalanges from inside.
It is still the 23rd team - oh, the team with only one person surviving, Perturabo suddenly remembered this - the way it looked when it was brought back from the Randan biological ship, pale Dull, wrapped with bloodshot threads.
Perturabo briefly soaked it in acid to remove blood and lipids from the surface, then rinsed it with clean water, being careful to ensure that the soft-bristled brush did not damage the phalange itself.
Then, he calmed down and hung the carving knife above, preparing to carve on this phalanx.
He didn't have much to carve. In fact, he wanted to do as little damage as possible to the only remaining Primarch's remains in the world.
Perturabo picked through several words, choosing a title that suited the second primarch.
He would not allow Duncan's name to be left behind, it would be too contrary to the Emperor's will.
Moreover, even though a name is the simplest and most direct way to address someone, it may not be the best, nor may it be something a person can or is willing to choose.
The empire will remember your achievements, he said in his heart, not wanting his soliloquy to interfere with the stability of the carving knife in his hand. There can be no mistakes.
The Empire will also remember your mistakes.
But what about you? What would you like to be remembered as?
Finally, Perturabo began to carve.
He used High Gothic and did not use any hollow edges, folds or connecting additional decorations to add to the artistry of the text.
On the contrary, he weakened the foot of the font and strengthened the bones of the letters, making this ancient language particularly solemn and solemn.
The letters gradually took shape, with the front and back spacing aligned and the top and bottom flat, making it impossible to tell the state of mind of the carver at this time.
This is not a work of art and does not require Perturabo to express himself too much in it. What he wants is to remember itself, not additional comments and judgments.
Finally, Perturabo put down the carving knife, washed away the debris on the surface of the finger bone again with water, and stared at the carved bone carving.
"The Resurrection One." He wrote a footnote for history.
(End of this chapter)