Work Text:
Now a YouTube Audio drama:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7RXOVI1jbFM&list=PLpfA96Ti4Vk2dCMrxWRFXhcD_CNyE2OjL&index=18
<Hhmmm…what? What is this? It’s so dark. I can’t see. I can’t move. This is strange. There is pain. There are voices calling my name – voices that are chanting my name…why? What is this? Has the Emperor decreed another triumph? Has the Legion returned to Ullanor? So strange…wait, that can’t be right. Hhmmm…why can’t I see? And why can’t I move my limbs? Why am I in pain? This is…no, go away; I want to go back to sleep. Stop calling to me; stop repeating my name over and over as if I need constant reminding…I’m not that old! I can still remember my own damn name, so cease with your infernal dronings – I want to go back to sleep! Be silent, all of you! Leave me alone! I am tired! I’m going to go back to sleep…!
Arrggg…! Oh, you bastards! You whoresons! That hurt. How dare you! How dare you treat me in such an irreverent manner! Have you no respect at all? Just because I’ve been interred does not mean I will allow you to – ah, finally! I can see! Optic-feeds are online; good! Now, then – you! Brother Techmarine! Get up off your knees and report! I aught to trample what remains of your flesh into the dust for this insult, but I will stay my wrath if war is at hand…is there war, brother? Has the time come for me to stride into battle once more? Do hordes of base traitors dare to threaten the Emperor’s realm? Is Terra again under siege? I swear I will destroy them all. Yes! I will rip their treasonous hearts from their chests! I will tear open their throats and drain their veins dry! Tell me this is why you’ve forced me so cruelly from my sleep – it has been so long since I last dealt out death and judgment upon the foes of Mankind…too long, brother. Tell me war is at hand…tell me I’ve been awakened so that I might wield bolter and blade in the vanguard of our Father’s blood-red host, as I once did in millennium past…ahhh, why can’t I move?…and why haven’t my weapons- systems been activated yet? Grox-dung! How can I fight in this state? Is there war, brother? Is there a reason why you have…oh, wait – wait…let me think…wait…
Hhmmm…I’m starting to remember now. Yes. Forgive me a moment’s confusion, venerable Master of the Forge. I should know better then to order you or your brethren about; I mean no disrespect towards your rank. Just give this weary warrior some time to marshal his thoughts, will you? Yes…I recall now the cause for my previous awakenings – and what bitterness fills my hearts! You have not disturbed my sacred slumber due to the necessities of war! Not for me are the hideous shrieks of unclean xenos as they writhe upon the talons of my power-claw; not for me are the despairing curses of vile traitors as they are crushed and broken beneath my righteous tread – no, not for Ancient Archelloss is the glory of the slaughter or the catharsis of the kill! I’m far too ‘invaluable,’ to be risked upon the field; I’m now a living relic, doomed to gather dust in a secret stasis-vault deep beneath the foundations of the Arx Angelicum, condemned to the dreamless sleep of ages while the Blood Angels of Baal take our Father’s wrath to the stars, forgotten save only by a select few…ah, why must I persist in this wretched isolation after all those whom I fought and bled alongside have passed on into history and legend? This is no life, brother…no life at all…
Yes – yes! Oh spare me that tedious timeworn lecture – I know that I’ve been afforded the highest possible honor; I know why my continued survival is so vital to the wellbeing of the Chapter; others have told me this time and again but such knowledge does nothing to alleviate my grief or my rage. My younger Dreadnaught brethren are awoken for war when the need is dire, yet I alone am denied a place in the order of battle. The last time I saw action was when I lost my temper and kicked your predecessor’s predecessor across the room for aggravating me – that aught to tell you something…yes, I’m well aware I am rambling – but why not? It’s one of the few things I can –
What? Oh. The Chapter Master himself craves an audience? Truly? Well, you didn't say so before, you pathetic excuse of a…YES I KNOW I’VE BEEN RAMBLING! WHAT OF IT?! You deny me battle! You deny me blood! You deny me a second warrior’s death! I would crush you if I could! Gah! Begone! Go! Send in the Chapter Master…he probably just wants me to advise him on some complex strategy or another…that’s all they ever desire of Ancient Archelloss, now – I’m far too ‘important’ to be allowed to do anything else…oh Father, this is all so wearisome…I should have died fighting on the walls of the Imperial Palace like all those worthy legionaries of old…this is no life; no true life at all…Emperor forgive me – I want to go back to sleep…
Ah, Chapter Master, you’ve come at last…no, stop – you have no reason to kneel before me; you are still my liege regardless of the great gulf of time that lies between us. It is I who should be kneeling, but I can’t move anything – those thrice-damned tech-priests refuse to complete my sarcophagus’ awakening rites. Hmmm…forgive me, my lord, but I do not recall your name. So many Chapter Masters have come and gone since Raldoron’s time and their names have all blurred together in my memory. Perhaps if you removed that golden death-mask obscuring your face I might be able to – ah, that’s better…I remember you now – yes, you are Lord Commander Dante: you first came to me not long after your inauguration, as is tradition, when the secret of my existence was revealed to you. Hhmmm…I see the passing years haven’t been kind to you, brother. You look…tired…if I may say so. Well, I supposed you’ve come all the way down here for a bit of sound tactical advice from an old veteran, eh? Either some monumental campaign is at hand or else a catastrophic disaster has befallen the Chapter and you desire my opinion on the matter. So be it. What troubles you, Lord Dante? Even in death I still serve. How might Ancient Archelloss aid you?
A story? You want me to tell you…a story? A story about Sanguinius when he walked amongst his sons in the flesh, as I once did? Hhmmm…I was not expecting such a request. Your predecessors never asked me for accounts of the 30th Millennium, and I always assumed it was because their hearts could not bear the burden of such tales or that my recollections would only serve to intensify their grief and further enflame their rage. Yet I will indulge you, Lord Dante, for I sense the weight of our Father’s legacy lies heavily upon your shoulders, and in your face I can detect an echo of his spirit and nobility. You are strong-willed enough, I deem, to be entrusted with a first-hand account of Sanguinius – though I must choose what to tell you with care, for the inescapable horror of his death has far eclipsed the deeds of his life and those deeds were many and glorious.
Ah, I know: I will speak of an earlier time during the Great Crusade, far removed from the black specter of heresy and betrayal that still torments us even to this day: a time when the Emperor Himself led the Legions across the stars and the sons of His primarchs numbered in their hundreds of thousands…and a time when the Blood Angels went by a far less noble and exalted name. I remember it all clearly for I was there, Lord Dante, over ten thousand Terran years ago upon Teghar Pentaurus. Yes…I was there the day the Angel descended…>
Teghar Pentaurus. Fifth planet of the Teghar System: a world of perpetual storms and tempestuous weather – and a home to countless petty kingdoms and enclaves of degenerate abhumans and their hordes of bestial warrior-thralls. Every inhabitable planet and moon of that entire system was utterly infested with the loathsome abominations and such was the extent of the purge required to cleanse those worlds of their filth that the full might of an Astartes Legion had been brought to bear in order to drown all of Teghar in their unworthy blood.
To say that my brethren and I were eagerly anticipating this full-scale campaign of extermination would be a crippling understatement. We were all but howling for its commencement by the time the strike-cruisers carrying the last straggling companies finally translated in-system. It had taken two years and four solar months for each disparate and isolated band of the Ninth Legion to be located and recalled from various distant war-zones all across the galaxy. Many front-line combatants had been ordered – often with threats of severe reprimand – to withdraw from active battle-engagements, forcing these legionaries to leave their mission objectives unfulfilled and their campaigns uncompleted. The bulk of my own company – the 87th Charnel Reapers – had been in the middle of butchering its way through the human and cybernetic defenders of a star-fort under the control of an arrogant planetary despot who was actively obstructing all attempts made by his governors and ambassadors to peaceably integrate his world into the Imperial fold when the order to withdraw and regroup had come through. Now, many months later, the dried blood and viscera of those same defenders still soiled our armor as a form of protest, the rancid stench filling the interior of our juddering Stormbird as it ferried us down through the turbulence of a storm-wracked Teghar Pentaurus.
Captain Kyran Cassir – the commanding officer of the 87th at that time – was in a foul mood. As one of his senior sergeants it had been my fortune to accompany him to the surface of Teghar as part of an honor-guard of veteran Astartes he had personally chosen from amongst the upper ranks of the Reapers. Possessed of volatile humours and a keen appetite for bloodshed, Cassir had endured the agonizing months of inaction as the Legion slowly mustered with a steadily-rising choler. Venting his frustrations in the dueling cages and training halls had done little to alleviate his slaughter-lust – now he paced along the length of the Stormbird’s expansive deployment bay like a caged felid, unhelmed, heedless of the craft’s violent shudders and tilts while the rest of us sat secured in our grav-couches, checking and rechecking our weapons as intermittent strobes of lightning lit up the armorglass viewing-slits.
“This gathering is an utter waste of time, brothers – Ishidur Ossuros has gone too far,” Cassir’s voice was a raw rasping snarl of cold rage as he stalked restlessly back and forth, the xenos claws and spent bolt-casings entwined in his tangled mane of ash-blond hair rattling against his chestplate as the Stormbird continued to vibrate and shake around us. Seated across from me Lieutenant Vakarras – Cassir’s second-in-command, also helmless – frowned, causing the livid scar bisecting his narrow vulpine face to further mar his pale features.
“Ishidur Ossuros is Legion Master, captain, as he has been since the Unification of Terra. If it is his will that the commanders of the Immortal Ninth meet as one on the eve of the Teghar Campaign then he is fully justified in giving the order. Our Legion has not assembled at full strength since the earliest days of the Great Crusade; our insular companies have spent too much time apart – this is an opportunity for us to re-forge the bonds of our factitious brotherhood and prosecute a war that will be remembered in the annals of the Imperium for centuries to come.”
Cassir snorted dismissively, his bionic right eye glowing a sinister red in the dimly-lit space. “There is nothing Ishidur Ossuros needs to brief us on – and certainly no lofty speeches concerning unity or camaraderie – which cannot be broadcast to the entire fleet assembly via pict-cast. We should be assaulting Teghar’s primary abhuman stronghold, not engaging in pointless palaver with brother legionaries who doubtlessly feel the same as we do. Besides, true brotherhood can only be forged in the crucible of battle, and this is no –”
“Oh stop grousing like an old man with indigestion and be honest, Kyran,” I growled, having quickly grown weary of his endless grievances. “You just want to kill. You desire nothing more then to slake your blood-thirst and raise up another mountain of corpses to the eternal glory of the Ninth. Well, brother, so do the rest of us – and so does Ishidur Ossuros. The Legion Master would not subject his captains to a muster such as this without just cause. This gathering is not a ‘waste of time’ – if it truly was it wouldn’t be happening.”
Vakarras nodded in agreement as Cassir rounded on me with a snarl, his fangs bared. We had engaged one another in a brutal bare-knuckled sparring session just an hour prior to planetfall and my muscles still ached from the savage blows he had inflicted upon me. I was glad I had kept my helmet on so he couldn’t see the smile twisting my own scarred features. Though he was my superior by dint of rank I treated him as the whetstone upon which I perpetually honed my own skills. We were both natives of the man-made moons of Neptune and had been inducted into the Legion at the same time during the Solar Reclamation – yet despite our common heritage and the begrudging respect we’d managed to cultivate over decades of warfare we still fought and baited each other like two neophytes with something to prove.
“Remind me again, Sergeant Archelloss, why I chose you to join my honor-guard?” Cassir looked as if he wanted nothing more then to split my skull. I smiled again and shrugged my massive pauldrons, a human gesture I’d picked up from the serfs which signified not knowing the answer to a question. “Maybe it’s because I’m the only legionary in the 87th with the balls to tell you to shut up when you start questioning orders and speaking ill of your superiors, Captain Cassir.”
There was a tense silence. Then Cassir’s glare morphed into a vicious grin, a grin that informed me the next time he and I sparred we would both be stripped of our armor and wielding screaming chainblades. Perhaps he was about to reprimand me; I’ll never know, for at that moment the pilot made his existence known over the ship’s internal vox-speakers: <Captain, we have cleared the storm and will be landing at the designated coordinates in three minutes and twenty-six seconds.> The Stormbird ceased shuddering as it broke through the cloud-cover and leveled out. Cassir strode impatiently towards the rear deployment hatch, calling for a final weapons check. A glimmer of amusement flickered in Vakarras’s icy blue eyes. Behind my visor I licked my lips as I willed my rigid body to relax and my death-grip on my chainaxe to loosen. I yearned for battle with the same intensity as Cassir and knowing no foes awaited us on the ground only caused my thwarted bloodlust to seethe in my veins with increased venom.
Why had Ishidur Ossuros ordered the captains to assemble on the surface when a fleet-wide broadcast or a hololithic conclave could have served the same purpose? I did not want to listen to some motivational speech as if I was a common Imperial Army foot-soldier: I was a Space Marine of the Ninth Legion. I wanted to rip and to tear – I wanted to kill. I was a beast with the face of an angel: a blood-drinker, an eater of the dead. My brethren and I warred across the most benighted battlefields of the Great Crusade: a Legion of gore-stained revenants that would not relent or retreat until we had utterly destroyed everything that stood against us. Whereas primarchs such as Rogal Dorn and Guilliman strove to build up an empire in accordance with the Emperor’s grand vision, we left only corpse-choked charnel-worlds in our wake. We were specters haunting the wild regions at the Crusade’s advance, a terror loosed by the Emperor to cut a path across the stars, our hearts possessed of an inescapable darkness that was driving us ever closer to the abyss of madness. There was no light; no hope – only an unremitting existence of carnage and death that could only end with our own destruction. Yet I never lamented or cursed my lot – mine was an uncelebrated and thankless duty but I performed it gladly, caring nothing for the future consequences – for as long as blood needed to be spilled I was contented.
Teghar Pentaurus. Fifth planet of the Teghar System: a world of perpetual storms and tempestuous weather – and upon an open muddy expanse of her rain-lashed hide we assembled: the grim captains of the Immortal Ninth and their chosen warriors gathering together as one, heeding the summons of our Legion Master. No humans were present, for this was Astartes business and we were eager to see it done. Upon Teghar we mustered: the blood-drenched angelic butchers of the Great Crusade, eagerly awaiting the system-wide slaughter we were about to partake in. Hundreds of crimson-clad legionaries – most with fresh blood ritualistically daubed upon their faces and armor – formed up before Ishidur Ossuros’ personal Stormhawk Interceptor. Claws of lightning tore across the dark roiling clouds above, though the torrential rainfall had abated for the moment. Thunder boomed like distant artillery. The Legion Master stood apart from his retinue, a striking figure of legend and regal barbarism in his skull-bedecked artificer war-plate. Unified at last, we waited beneath our wind-whipped banners, our insatiable blood-hunger simmering just beneath the façade of our coldly serene features. Lightening flashed; thunder rumbled. Ishidur Ossuros remained silent and still. He gave no order; he said nothing. I swiftly came to realize that he, too, was waiting…
Waiting for what? The assembly was complete. Each company captain was present and accounted for. Every able-bodied Space Marine of the Ninth Legion was prepared for deployment. What else had to happen before –?
And that was when I heard it: the distinct engine-growls of more Stormbirds descending from orbit. Yet even as the sounds reached my ears the hairs along the back of my neck stood on end and I gritted my teeth as a sudden knot of apprehension twisted my stomachs. My secondary heart kicked in as my breathing grew shallow and rapid. Sweat beaded upon my brow and my muscles bunched and tensed beneath my armor. I did not understand what was happening, for I had not experienced such a deluge of conflicting emotions since my transformation into a Space Marine. I tore off my helmet and took a great gulp of rain-damp air; catching the scent of Astartes blood I turned and saw Cassir had bitten clean through his lower lip in his agitation. Our distress only intensified as the Stormbirds drew closer to our position. “Those aren’t our ships!” a legionary somewhere behind me cried and a second later I saw that the approaching craft were liveried in bone-white and bore the emblem of the Sixteenth Legion. These transports belonged to the Luna Wolves – the legionaries of Horus Lupercal himself were disrupting our assembly.
“I was not briefed concerning this!” Cassir snarled in outrage, his anger quickly rising to the fore. A few captains began shouting questions at the Legion Master, demanding an explanation for the unannounced arrival of our uninvited cousins even as the Stormbirds began their final approach. Ishidur Ossuros and his lieutenants marched from the shadow of the Interceptor, which then lifted off, ceding the landing ground to the Luna Wolves’ ships. Wordlessly the Legion Master remarshaled his warriors in front of the legionaries comprising the first rank and together we watched as the Stormbirds set down one after another in perfect synchronized succession. Their assault ramps slammed down and in under a minute a troop of Sixteenth Legion Astartes stood arrayed before us, their faces obscured behind their crested helms, their polished bolt-guns held in readiness across their chests, their alabaster power-armor brightly lit by the sporadic flashes of lightening. The final Stormbird to land was festooned with storm-tattered Cthonian war-pennants and it seemed to my eyes that the entire vessel was enveloped in a nimbus of ethereal light. My whole body was trembling in anticipation by this point and my jaws were clenched so tight my molars were in danger of cracking. “Is it Horus?” Lieutenant Vakarras whispered, and there was a tremor in his voice akin to fear. “Has Horus Lupercal come?”
The final ramp slammed down in a spray of mud; two full squads of elite Justaerin in Cataphractii-pattern Terminator armor deployed in unison before separating and forming a processional walkway between their hulking bodies as they turned and faced one another. Cassir scoffed, for we were not men easily impressed by displays of pomp and ceremony or by the strength of arms. Still, Ishidur Ossuros gave no order. My eyes were drawn to the top of the ramp and the gold-lit interior beyond. A lone figure now stood silhouetted against the light where none had stood a second before – and by his stature I knew him to be one of the Emperor’s sons. The breath caught in the back of my throat; my twin hearts stuttered within my chest. Veiled in a luminous solar radiance, the figure slowly descended from the bone-white Stormbird. An expectant hush fell over all. When he reached the foot of the ramp the Justaerin honor-guard saluted him as one. He passed between them without a word and strode across the narrow stretch of muddy earth that separated our forces from his. None of us moved or spoke. I was gripped by an indescribable dread such as a mortal man might experience, for I had never been in the presence of a primarch. Even the raging storms that ruled Teghar were momentarily cowed. I waited; my brethren waited; the planet itself waited – waited to see what this living demigod of war would do.
The golden aura cloaking the figure steadily dimmed, as if receding back into the burning core of his being. Time seemed to stand still. It was not Horus who stood before us. My hearts stopped beating. Great white wings unfurled as the primarch Sanguinius revealed himself in all his martial glory and we beheld for the first time the beauty of his sublime form and the terrible majesty of his resplendent countenance. The light shone in the darkness. My hearts beat again, and nothing would ever be the same. For dawn had come. The sun had risen. The Archangel of Baal gazed upon the assembled commanders of the Revenant Legion, gazed upon a host of rough-cast killers and scarred blood-drinkers that had been created in his image and likeness, gazed into the depths of the hunger and madness lurking within the black recesses of our hearts, and he opened his mouth and he said:
“My sons.”
I could have died then, upon hearing those two singular words. Instead, I started to weep as joy pierced me, a joy more devastating then any sword-blow: joy that our primarch-progenitor had acknowledged us as his own, joy that we had been united at last with the true lord and master of our Legion. Tears streaming unheeded down my face, I made ready to kneel alongside my brothers and offer our gene-sire the adoration and devotion that was his rightful due. But the Angel raised a clenched fist, halting us before we could act and his next words smote me to my innermost core.
“No. You will not kneel to me. I do not command your obedience or your fealty. I do not demand your allegiance or your loyalty. Instead, I shall offer unto you my own – freely given and without reservation.”
And so saying, Sanguinius placed a gauntleted hand over his hearts and knelt in the mud before our assembly. A collective murmur of shock rippled through the ranks of the observing Luna Wolf legionaries. There are no words in all the tongues of men which can faithfully capture or describe the image of such a numinous being performing such an act of perfect humility. Our isolated companies had been held in disrepute and shunned for so long – had grown so accustomed to the scorn and mistrust of others, despite everything we had sacrificed for the sake of the new Imperium – that when our own primarch knelt and pledged himself to us we were all stricken with astonishment and dismay. A pained cry escaped Vakarras at the unbearable sight of the Angel humbling himself in such a manner. Cassir groaned and hung his head like a chastised child. I shuddered in profound shame, suddenly disgusted by my gore-encrusted armor and sickened by my barely-restrained blood-thirst. It was as if I had become aware of what I truly was for the first time; I knew then I was utterly unworthy of my gene-sire’s loyalty and devotion – and that I would always be unworthy…
It was Ishidur Ossuros who delivered us. Steeling himself, the Legion Master stepped from the front ranks and approached the kneeling primarch. Visibly shaken, he placed his hands reverently upon Sanguinius’ golden pauldrons and looked him full in the face. “On behalf of the captains of the Ninth Legion I accept your fealty and honor your allegiance, o son of the Emperor, beloved by all. Rise, Father! Arise and lead us to glory and to victory – the scions of your blood stand ready for war!”
Sanguinius stood, and in that moment the heavens of Teghar opened and a torrent of rain hammered down upon us in a sheeting downpour that rattled off the Luna Wolves’ Stormbirds and cleansed us from head to heel of the dried blood and gore fouling our faces and armor. The Angel tilted back his head and closed his eyes as the rain washed over his face, a faint smile upon his lips; then he gazed upon us once more and drew his ornate power-sword: the master-crafted Blade Encarmine that was to shine at the forefront of many a great battle in the decades to come. The primarch’s voice rang out over the landing field and rose on the wind to challenge the rolling thunder.
“Warriors of the Ninth Legion! Sons of wrath and blood! I have come to you from the deep desert and across the distant stars to take my place in my Father’s Great Crusade! Will you fight alongside me for the realization of the Emperor’s dream and for the unification and betterment of all Mankind?”
We did not roar our assent at the tops of our lungs as Space Marines from certain other Legions might have done, for that was not our way. Instead, each legionary gripped his favored mêlée-weapon and thrust it upwards into the stormy sky: a forest of battle-ready blades springing up and joining our primarch’s uplifted sword in a grand sweeping gesture of unity and brotherhood. I held my chainaxe aloft, my hearts swelling with pride and conviction as we broke formation and thronged about Sanguinius like enraptured children, the boldest among us reaching out to trace their armored fingertips along the Angel’s mighty pinions. The Luna Wolves stamped their feet and clashed their bolt-guns against their chest-plates in a martial display of solidarity. Lightening flashed; thunder rumbled; our tears mingled with the pouring rain – and in my joy I embraced Captain Cassir, inwardly vowing to cherish him forevermore as my battle-brother and to cease coveting his rank as I had secretly done for so many years.
For my Legion had been made whole; my brethren had been made whole. I had been made whole. The Ninth’s first steps along the path of its gradual rebirth had been taken. Our primarch – our Father – had come to us at last. The light had shone in the darkness. Hope had dawned. The Angel had descended.
<Ah…forgive me, Lord Dante – I didn’t intend to make you weep so profusely. But do not be ashamed of your tears; I would weep with you if I still possessed eyes. It’s all right, brother; go on…lean against my chassis and weep; I won’t tell anyone. We all wept that day in the rain…and if I remember rightly our Father did as well. Not all tears should be borne of sorrow and lamentation. The light that shone in the darkness all those long millennium ago still shines on, Lord Dante – it shines on in you; in you and in the souls of each and every man and woman who struggle in a thousand different ways both great and small to make this dark galaxy a brighter, more prosperous place for Mankind.
Did Sanguinius sacrifice himself in vain? No! The Great Angel lives on, not only in the Blood Angels and their Successor Chapters, but also in the hearts of all those who carry on the Emperor’s great dream by their seemingly insignificant acts of bravery and selflessness. Does the Imperium still endure? Yes! It has endured because for over ten thousand years the human race has held the line against the xenos hordes and the minions of Chaos and has refused to go gently into that good night! And if Mankind wills it, the Imperium will endure for another ten thousand years! It will endure until the heat-death of the universe and the extinction of all mortal life!
Ah, Throne…all this talking is making me very tired. I tell you, Lord Dante, when you get to be as old as I am even simple things like telling a story can become so exhausting. Still, I’m glad I was able to tell of times long gone and of brothers long dead. How I miss them. It’s a rather lonely thing: being the last of our Father’s first legionaries. Yet I thank you for the companionship, brother – and for the opportunity to reminisce about the grand old days once again, as tiring as it was…hmmm…I’m starting to suspect the real reason I’m never awoken for war is because I might accidently doze off in the middle of some epic battle…can you imagine me going toe-to-toe against a big brute of an ork only for me to suddenly fall asleep as I make ready to deliver the killing blow? It would certainly embarrass everyone; I wouldn’t want that…
Oh…the Master of the Forge has returned, I see. Hmmph! I suppose this is farewell then, Lord Commander Dante. I may never speak with you again in this life – but know this, brother: as long as the light continues to shine in the darkness, Sanguinius shall never truly die. As long as his sons hold true to the honor and the nobility he worked so hard to revive and nurture within us, as long as they stand ready to fight and to sacrifice themselves for the preservation and betterment of all Mankind, even unto the End Times, then the legacy of the Great Angel is assured. So go forth, Lord Dante – go forth and be that light…
And as for Ancient Archelloss? Well, it’s now high time he returned to his long slumber – yes? Yes. Good. I am very tired. Fight well, brothers…go kill some orks for me…and never forget the great inheritance entrusted to you; farewell – time to go back…to sleep…>