Chapter 28: A Letter to a Brother, Guilliman and Lorgar

In the afternoon, Aaron located their family’s luggage—the "Imperial property" so cherished by Malum—and used the craftsmanship he had learned from him to construct a lounge chair.

He reclined on it with smug satisfaction, waiting for the day to draw to a close. It would be delightful to continue lounging and cooling off after the sun had set. Aaron did not realize he was being somewhat lazy; he seemed to do nothing but eat and sleep, showing absolutely none of the talents expected of a son of Zeus. After all, Heracles could strangle giant serpents the moment he was born, while he, apart from being slightly handsome, had no other advantages.

Oh, being slightly handsome didn't help, either. Whenever his father was around, people always treated him like an annoying brat. Back in Thebes, it wasn't enough that girls his age would approach him to ask about his father's preferences; even his male playmates would slowly probe with jokes, trying to find out what that old man liked.

As for that donkey—the one that still had no name—it would occasionally flick its tongue against his face. Ever since the donkey realized it could bully Malum without the latter ever retaliating, it had developed some strange habits.

Aaron pushed the donkey’s tongue away and counted on his fingers: "Our family now consists of Father, Mother, me, Malum, and you. You are the fifth, so from now on, I’ll call you Number Five."

Number Five didn't speak, as it was merely a donkey and not a swift stallion of the plains.

Aaron grew excited. "It’s decided. From now on, you are Number Five, otherwise, I never have a name to call you by."

Number Five snorted, turned its head toward the nearby mares—creatures with magnificent builds and smooth, supple coats—and moved closer to them.

Aaron muttered to himself, "Hey, what are you doing? I’m trying to name you!"

Now, this was a fine mess: Malum was planning to leave after sunset to gather intelligence, and Number Five was too busy chasing after beautiful mares to pay him any mind. That old man, meanwhile, was lying in his tent, presumably up to something.

Aaron felt utterly bored, yet he couldn't fall asleep, which meant he couldn't go seek out his brother to foster some camaraderie. He simply climbed off his lounge chair and began rummaging through his father's tools—the molds for firing clay tablets, the levers, and the jars for mixing clay.

*I hope I haven't used this as a chamber pot before,* Aaron thought as he poured clear water into a jar and began to mix the clay.

Engraving on clay tablets was delicate work. If the clay was too wet, the handwriting wouldn't be clear; if it was too dry, it would crack, leaving unsightly fissures after firing. However, having watched his father fire tablets since he was a child, Aaron went about the task with practiced ease. After all, this was the only trade his father had ever taught him. For a blacksmith to be reduced to earning a living by firing clay tablets—it went to show that this craft was actually quite decent.

Of course, Aaron suspected that it was mostly the noblewomen who patronized the business. After all, some declarations of love were too mushy to speak aloud, so they would write them on papyrus and have his father personally carve them into clay. Aaron had never seen his father blush while carving those love notes; the old man seemed completely devoid of emotion.

According to Guilliman, his future father would become even less human, stripped of all humanity. That was why they had sent Malum back—hoping to preserve their father's humanity in the past.

He wrote Guilliman's name on the tablet, thinking he might write a letter to his brother. Aaron took the nail Lorgar had given him from his belt and began to write, finding the process surprisingly smooth:

"My brother Guilliman, I also wish your foster parents good health."

"This letter is being written in the past. I will bury it at a spot where, if you look up, you can see the three stars of Orion, which correspond to the three pyramids of Giza."

"I don't seem to have much to say; I'm just too bored right now. I don't know why you look so exhausted—is it from managing the mess Father left behind, or are you busy with the war against the demons?"

"By the way, I dreamed of another brother in my sleep, Lorgar Aurelian. He was in a place called Colchis. I thought it was Egypt, but when I arrived, I realized it wasn't."

"Lorgar is also a good boy; he has already promised me that when he sees Father, he will give him a good thrashing. The stylus I’m using to write these words is a piece broken off from Lorgar’s mace. Even though he is very handsome, he is bald, just like me. If you see Lorgar, perhaps you can think of a way to solve our family's affliction of thinning hair."

"I don't know what the relationship between you brothers is like in the future, but I hope it isn't too strained; it would be hard for me, as your older brother, to rest easy if it were."

"Reading these words is like seeing me in person, though I cannot guarantee you will even recognize this script."

"Anyway, dinner has arrived—roast beef, which I hear is provided for the warriors before the games."

"Your loving brother,"

"—Aaron Will."

Aaron carefully placed the clay tablet into the kiln and watched the servants of the Priest of Dalet bring in the roast beef. The servants were all concerned with when his father would emerge from the tent; no one cared about a warrior like him, who would soon have to face Erst in combat.

He felt disgruntled and tore off a piece of beef to chew on. Once the tablet had been fired to perfection, he hurriedly fished it out in a flustered state.

As the tablet cooled, he watched the servants open the tent, tending to his father's meal and washing his face as if they were serving an emperor. And that clean-shaven old man didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable, as if he were meant to be their master all along.

It was truly decadent; the old man was actually willing to open his mouth and let a handmaiden hold him while she cleaned his teeth with a toothpick. Aaron watched as the handmaidens’ eyes sparkled like stars, and the male servants were no different—it gave him goosebumps.

None of them even noticed Malum’s disappearance, nor did they care about him. Aaron fetched a shovel, slung the clay tablet over his shoulder, and went to find a place to bury it.

Could it be that his father was using his charm to distract the people so that Malum could gather intelligence smoothly? How could that be! That old man was the most selfish person alive!

Aaron felt sullen as he dug a hole about one arm’s length deep, just enough to fit the tablet, and placed it inside. It wasn't a coffin, after all; there was no need to dig it too large.

Covering it with earth, Aaron wiped away his sweat. "Whew—I wonder if Guilliman will be able to find this thing. Damn it, why am I not the least bit sleepy tonight? I can't even tell him the location of the tablet in his dreams."

Aaron shook his head and turned away.

Forty-two thousand six hundred years later, the *Macragge's Honour* was departing from the shipyards of Mars. The Adeptus Mechanicus had completed the repairs on the Gloriana-class battleship. The Primarch was to arrive at the moon of Luna first, then proceed to Mars to rendezvous before embarking for the front lines tens of thousands of light-years away.

There was a Tyranid infestation there—bugs everywhere, those wretched bugs—and, furthermore, traces of large-scale Word Bearer activity had been detected. Their goal might be to facilitate the manifestation of their long-bound Daemon Primarch into reality.

*Lorgar*—Guilliman thought to himself. The Empire’s intelligence agencies were convinced that Lorgar was trapped by something, which was why the Word Bearers had become so active.

As Guilliman was donning his Armor of Fate, he saw Cawl, who had been unusually quiet lately, and offered a rare bit of sarcasm: "It seems our actions have had some effect. The Emperor played a joke on you."

"I thought you would stay in your sanctuary for decades without coming out. I didn't expect you to take the initiative to see me off."

Cawl clicked his fingers together. "There have been new discoveries. You are busy with official business, and only have time to answer when you are putting on your armor before a campaign."

A servo-skull emitted a series of beeps, and several servants dragged a metal crate closer, which made a harsh hissing sound against the floor.

"One of the families of those unfortunate children, to express their apologies to me, sent over some relics of ancient Terra. As you know, because of the Ecclesiarchy, the private possession of such ancient artifacts is a grave crime. We have been unable to open this box without damaging its contents, but I felt it might be of use to you."

"Perhaps it is the guidance of the Omnissiah. You will find a way to open this box, and perhaps it will be beneficial to your war efforts."

The Primarch remained silent, waiting for the armor to be fully donned.