Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 419 After the War
Perturabo returned to his workshop on the lower level of the Iron Blood after a long absence.

This was his first attempt to take his hometown of Olympia into space about fifty years ago.

When he was young, he always felt that the workshop was a little cramped, although he arranged his small private playroom exactly according to the layout in Lokos.

But when he later built the space fortress Ironforge, he imitated the style of Lokos - even though today's Lokos style has long been under the name of "Perturabo style", and built a more spacious handicraft production venue in the core ring. He began to feel that the workshop of Ironblood was more to his liking.

Although his beloved vintage workshop also experienced an unfortunate, stormy and massive destruction.

It was in this ill-fated place, forty-one years ago, that Robouti Guilliman had seized Alpharius in an unprecedented Primarch brawl, which ended with two blows from Rogal Dorn and two rags for the Primarch to use.

He shook his head, temporarily removing those messy memories from his mind, and verified the access rights to the iron gate with a data cable. After seeing the scene inside the room, he raised his eyebrows.

"I have not seen you here for a long time, Morse," Perturabo said.

Morse raised his hand from the table and rubbed the tips of his fingers wrapped in black cloth. "You haven't been to your workshop for a long time, great general. Look here, it's all dust."

“Will you clean it?”

Morse shrugged, pulled his own clean chair out of thin air, and placed it in an empty spot. "Don't even think about it."

"Well," Perturabo looked around the workshop.

He is the only one with access rights to this place, and 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 focused on fighting, the dust was still pervasive enough to cover all his completed or unfinished creations with an almost transparent gray veil.

He first put the portable box on the table, then went to the sink and turned on the faucet, allowing the water in the pipe to flow first, completing a new cycle inside the water storage device.

Thanks to the quality of the workmanship here, the faucet was still working. After a while, he wet the cloth he had used to wipe the tabletop and returned to his seat.

"You seem to have something to do here," said Morse.

"indeed."

"And you weren't in a good mood. You didn't even ask me why I showed up."

Perturabo sighed softly, "Isn't that obvious? I assume you have something to say to me."

Morse shrugged. "I think you know why I told you not to rush to the Emperor, Perturabo."

Perturabo wiped down his desk and chair, clearing a small area for his next work. He could have done it all in his office, but he needed some ritual, private, and completely quiet space to complete a task that he was afraid he would never be able to make public.

Now, he found himself perhaps forced to lose the environmental element of "quietness".

"Horus, Lion, Lorgar," Perturabo said, "after they returned from the Emperor's presence, they no longer had any memory of the truth about the Angels of Randan. If I were to go before the Emperor, would I experience the same thing?"

“Good question, and unfortunately, my answer is yes,” Morse replied, resting his hands on his knees.

"I pledged my services 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 had confronted him, I cannot guarantee that he would have been prepared to deal with the questions you would have asked him, rather than taking the simpler route to eliminate the problem."

Perturabo shook his head, his eyes running over the gadgets on the desk.

A can of paraffin wax, a file, tweezers, pliers, a polishing wheel, and carving knives of different sizes...

He had no need of wax, which would have been tantamount to filling a natural thing with a foreign substance, and the objects he was about to deal with had experienced that enough.

The need for a file is not high, it does not need much shaping. The same is true for a grinding wheel.

He picked out the smallest knife and tested its sharpness, and after feeling that it still had the potential to damage the skin of his fingers, Perturabo began to disinfect the knife.

"I can understand the Emperor's decision," Perturabo said, "but - I thought, at least we can be trusted. Even, narrowing the scope again, at least Horus can be trusted."

"Perhaps the arguments involved are too fundamental, child of the Emperor. You know how much he dislikes being called a god. Perhaps he has finally remembered that he should retain some...human dignity for himself," Morse replied.

"Why does he care so much about this?" Perturabo's carving knife slipped from his fingers, leaving 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," said Morse. "Now I begin to think there's more to it than just his personal likes and dislikes. But it seems I haven't had the pleasure of getting a confession from him on this little secret."

"By the way, your Emperor will erase the evolution of the Second Legion from the records. Remember not to mention the relevant content to the Iron Warriors or anyone else in the future. Anyway, there is no need to continue to know the former Second Legion angels in the subsequent cleanup work."

"I see," said Perturabo. "You may, I suppose, finish your work?"

"What's my job?"

"From the economy to armaments to the political bureaucracy, there must be tens of thousands of documents containing words related to the Second Legion. Don't they need to be screened and cleaned up?"

Morse snapped his fingers. "Poor Malcador—he won the bet this time."

"what?"

"I bet you wouldn't be so cruel as to ask me to go and do paperwork with the Imperial Chancellor, but Malcador said you would. Well, I can see the magnitude of the paperwork I'll have to deal with when I return to Terra."

The Craftsman stood up, walked over to the Primarch, and patted his broad shoulder. "Do what you will, Perturabo."

Morse left quietly, and Perturabo finally confirmed that he really just came to talk to him. In a sense, this implicit comfort was a rather novel move for Morse.

Or was Morse also taking this opportunity to comfort himself? Perturabo didn't know why he suddenly had this feeling.

He shook his head, cleared his mind, stared at the suitcase, and then opened it.

Inside was a black iron box, still emitting a fragrant scent from being placed in an incense environment all year round.

For many years the black iron reliquary stood in the centre of the altar of the Wandering Temple, and every time the Word Bearers sent the name of the deceased and prayed for him before the gaze of the Emperor's holy image, they would see the reliquary containing the Primarch's finger bones, beneath the four burning candles.

Now it seems that it is the only trace and the only piece of remains left in the real world of the Second Primarch, and even the entire Second Legion.

"You made a wrong decision, my brother," Perturabo said.

The black iron box was sealed. Perturabo opened the cutting pen, confirmed its operation, and then began to reopen the box. Iron flowers flew under the high temperature of the pen tip, and the Primarch blinked. His retina could help him complete the task of looking directly at this light.

"You actually chose to step into the alien cage for the sake of your offspring." He continued softly.

"In the Forum of Heroes, I questioned for a moment why the Emperor wanted to take your name and strip you of your honor."

"Listen to what Malcador said, 'The Empire will remember his deeds'... I took it as one of those inevitable lies that are woven into the fabric of any empire in human history, meant to embellish the glory of one's own kingdom."

"Yes, I understand the necessity of all this, even if I don't like it - I do something similar myself. Our webway."

One side of the reliquary was cut open, and Perturabo turned the reliquary carefully, making sure his cuts did not inadvertently damage its contents.

"But now, I have changed my mind and put aside my last doubts." He paused, "Because you did take the initiative to abandon your own honor and harm the interests of the Emperor and the glory of the Empire."

"From the perspective of the human empire, my father's judgment is understandable. In fact... he is lenient."

While cutting the front of the black iron box, he was quiet for a while, concentrating on his work.

The dust floated silently around him, carried by the air currents created by his movements, drifting past the delicate statues and designs that relied on miraculous engineering mechanics to maintain stability.

These were all things he cherished, but they had to give way to the Empire's expedition forever, and had to sleep in dark halls filled with ashes until the iron door of the workshop opened again, and artificial sunlight and false scenery reappeared before the Lord of Iron.

His warsmith had told him some time ago that Lorgar Aurelion had come to visit him during his absence from the core of Randan.

He thought Aurelion had come to him to discuss the Emperor's coming, but when he visited him again aboard the Law of Faith, Perturabo discovered that this was not the case.

Walking through the corridor of the church's flagship, he arrived at the Wandering Church again.

There were many wooden boxes stored on both sides, perhaps waiting to be consecrated. Four incense burners were lit, and light yellow frankincense was sprinkled in the burners, maintaining the faint sacred scent.

A slightly faded red carpet stretched out straight from the entrance of the church, twisted and turned along the steps, and extended to the bottom of the black iron altar, like a quiet river flowing between life and death.

The bearer of the truth sat in the middle of the steps below the altar, dressed in a black robe, with his head bowed. From a distance, the reliquary in his hands almost blended into his clothes.

He stepped onto the red carpet and Aurelion stood up, nodding and smiling at him.

"Perturabo," he said, and took the initiative to walk down the steps and approach Perturabo with the box.

"Aurelian," Perturabo replied. "Do you have any questions?"

"No, I just want to give it to you." Lorgar held the black iron box in both hands and handed it to Perturabo. The light of the Sky Eagle Candlestick flickered behind him.

Perturabo knew what it was, but that didn't stop him from being surprised.

Lorgar read his mind. "You still remember who it came from, don't you?"

He spoke in a gentle voice, a noble sound that was often deceptive, enough to mask his fanaticism and the ruthlessness that followed in its wake in a pleasant silence. It was quiet and beautiful, anyway.

"Yes," Perturabo said. "I'm sorry I can't answer that."

"No need, my brother," Lorgar smiled, stretched out his right hand, and intimately pulled Perturabo's hand to the top cover of the reliquary. "This is His will. If you are the only one among us who is trusted, I will have no unnecessary doubts."

"This morning, when I returned to His Temple, the first thing I saw was this box. I don't know what it is or who it belongs to. But I don't know why it brings me such peace. Just by looking at it, a bright light comes over me, and I feel as if I were in the Celestial City, light and joyful."

"But I cannot remember it, Perturabo, and I am not entitled to know the secret. I know therefore that it is not mine."

Perturabo frowned slightly, he was not sure whether his future self would want to continue seeing this box and thus recall everything about the Second Primarch.

"Besides," Lorgar said, "this is the box the Iron Warriors used to store their collections. Perhaps I should have returned it to its original owner a long time ago."

On the way back to the Iron Won, Perturabo kept thinking about where to store the box and what to use it for so that it could achieve the purpose of commemoration in a moderate and not excessive way. Soon, he got the answer and turned to the Iron Blood.

The black iron box was opened by the cutting pen, and Perturabo removed the top cover and took out the unprotected finger bone from inside.

It was still the same squad 23—oh, the squad with only one survivor, Perturabo suddenly remembered—as it had been when it was brought back from the Randan bio-ship, pale and bloodshot.

Perturabo dipped it briefly in acid to remove any blood and lipids from the surface, then rinsed it with clean water, being careful not to damage the bone itself with the soft-bristled brush.

Then, he calmed down and held the carving knife above this piece of finger bone, ready to carve.

He didn't have much to carve; in fact, he hoped to do as little damage as possible to the only remaining piece of the original's bone in the world.

Perturabo picked and chose among several words, choosing a title suitable for the Second Primarch.

He would not allow Duncan's name to be left behind, as that was too contrary to the Emperor's will.

Moreover, even if a name is the simplest and most direct way to address someone, it may not be the best one, 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 own mumbling to interfere with the stability of the carving knife in his hand. There must be no mistakes.

The Empire will also remember your mistakes.

But what about you? What do you want to be remembered for?
Finally, Perturabo began to carve.

He used High Gothic and did not employ any additional decorations such as hollow borders, folds, or connections to add to the artistic quality of the text.

On the contrary, he weakened the foot of the font and strengthened the skeleton of the letters, making this ancient language particularly solemn and dignified.

The letters gradually took shape, with the front and back spacing aligned and the top and bottom flat, making it impossible to tell what the sculptor was feeling at the time.

This is not a work of art, and Perturabo does not need to express himself too much in it. He only wants to remember it itself, not additional comments and judgments.

Finally, Perturabo put down the carving knife, washed away the debris on the surface of the finger bone with clean water again, and stared at the bone carving with words.

"The Resurrected." He wrote a footnote for history.

(End of this chapter)