Work Text:
“When Konor Guilliman was young,”said Tarasha Euten,“he was famous for his temper—impulsive, fiery, and impossible to restrain. More than once he nearly came to blows in the Senate. He would smash the cups and furniture in his office when angered, and he once even flogged a lazy quartermaster in public. A man of immense energy, my old master.”
Marius Gage stood beside Euten, feeling a little uneasy. Whenever his primarch spoke of his foster father, it was always with the utmost reverence, and the image he painted was of a calm, patient, and rational statesman. Hearing this version of Konor was... dissonant. But that wasn’t the only reason for his discomfort.
They stood now before a vast marble wall in the Governor’s residence on Macragge. Gage found it hard to take his eyes off it. The wall was covered, from base to crown, with photographs and portraits of his gene-father’s childhood—images of Roboute Guilliman as an infant, a toddling child, then a bright-eyed young boy, and finally a slender, striking adolescent. The entire first decade of Guilliman’s life on Macragge was preserved there, fixed forever in still frames.
Gage did not believe that a primarch should have emerged from the machine womb as a towering, godlike being. And yet, to stand before this collection, to see Guilliman as a small, ordinary boy, long before he possessed the power to reshape worlds,felt strangely irreverent, almost like sacrilege. A trespass upon the sanctity of a demigod’s mortal years.
He could not understand why Euten had chosen this wall as the place for their conversation. It was as though the old woman had deliberately decided to parade her lord’s childhood diapers before him.
Euten, however, seemed completely unaware of Gage’s unease. She was seventy-six years old, though she looked older, more worn and frail than her years should have allowed. Just days before the Ultramarines’flagship returned to Macragge, she had fallen and broken her hip. During surgery, the physicians had discovered a tumor growing on her bone. The treatment had been successful enough, but they told her she would never again walk without a cane.
Euten herself seemed not to care.“It hardly matters,”she had said lightly.“I don’t have much time left anyway.”But Guilliman had not taken the news so calmly.
“He’s angry, isn’t he?”said Euten suddenly, as if resuming a casual thread of conversation.“He pretends not to be, but I can see it. He’s furious.”
She lifted her cane and, with very little reverence, pointed toward one of the photographs on the wall.
“See that? He was angry then, too.”
Gage followed her gesture. In the picture, Guilliman appeared to be about eight years old—though in truth, he had likely been no older than three. He sat at a small desk, hands neatly placed before him, staring intensely at something just beyond the frame. To Gage, all the photographs of his primarch’s childhood looked the same:a child wearing the solemn mask of a little adult at every stage of life.
But Euten, somehow, could read the subtleties in those expressions, as if she alone could see what hid behind that composure.
“He was very upset that day,”she went on.“Konor told him outright that passion and recklessness were his worst flaws. He didn’t agree, of course—but the more hotly he argued back, the more he proved Konor right. That made him angrier still. He’s the same now, isn’t he?”
Gage coughed, unnecessarily.
“My lord Guilliman is…concerned for your health,”he said.
“I’m not so easy to kill,”Euten replied.
“The physicians disagree,”said Gage evenly.“They told the primarch that if your attendant hadn’t found you when you fainted, the first news he would have received upon returning to Macragge would have been of your death.”
Euten turned away from the wall of baby, boy, and adolescent Guilliman, tilting her head back to meet the eyes of the towering First Master. Gage did not flinch.
“You,”she sighed.“So blunt. So honest. Just like him.”
“Thank you for the compliment,”said Gage.
“Did I say it was a compliment?”the old woman snapped.“Why didn’t he send Valentus Dolor to see me? At least that one knows how to listen.”
“Dolor is occupied—he’s taking command of the Vigil Opertii,”Gage replied.“He—”
“I didn’t ask for a military report,”she muttered, cutting him off. With a small grunt, she leaned on her cane and began to hobble toward the sitting room sofa.
Gage started to move ahead to clear the books and papers piled chaotically upon it,but he stopped himself. Remembering Guilliman’s own habits, he fell into step behind Euten instead, matching her slow, halting pace. It was an exercise in patience and balance,and it's harder, in its own way, than walking through a ship’s zero-gravity corridors during battle.
Euten freed one hand and, with slow, stubborn movements, began tossing the books back onto the table one by one. When the last of them slid into place, she settled comfortably into the sofa.
“I know why you’ve come,”she said.“You can go back and tell your primarch that I won’t be changing my mind. No matter how many benefits he lists, no matter whom he sends to persuade me, even if he orders me outright, I will not accept life-extension treatment. If he wants to throw a tantrum, let him. He’ll have plenty of chances in the future.”
Gage stood before her without moving, a statue carved from discipline and alloyed muscle.
“I can’t tell the primarch that,”he said quietly.
“And why not?”Euten snorted.“Because you’ll be punished for failing the task he gave you?”
“No,”Gage said.“Because I came here on my own accord. This is not by his order.”
By now, evening had come. Macragge’s second sun was sinking toward the horizon, and golden light streamed through the windows, stretching their shadows long across the floor.
Euten studied the scarred face before her—the heavy line carved down one cheek, the small golden aquila pin—until at last she sighed.
“Fine, fine. Can you sit down?”she said.“Having to crane my neck to look up at you is exhausting.”
Only then did Gage realize why Guilliman always stood a little farther from her when they spoke even when they were arguing. He stepped back lightly and lowered himself with solemn care onto the oversized couch designed for an Astartes.
“Say what you came to say,”Euten told him.
“…Since the primarch joined the Great Crusade, this is only the second time he has returned to Macragge,”said the Master of the First Chapter,“He has good reasons, of course—he must build the Five Hundred Worlds, replenish the Legion’s recruitment base, stabilize the Imperium’s eastern frontier. But even so, it is unusual. Many of the primarchs who have been reunited with the Emperor have never once set foot on their homeworld again.”
“Foolish,”Euten said.“Even if he never returned, this would always be his home.”
“You know perfectly well he worries that something like this will happen again—that you’ll collapse without anyone knowing.”Gage’s voice remained level,“Had he not returned early, you wouldn’t even have told him you were ill.”
“…I didn’t,”Euten said, sounding suddenly defensive,“I didn’t deliberately hide the surgery from him. I’ve seen what it looks like to send a message through astropaths—those choir members…I pity them. And I know he’s at war, he’s busy. I shouldn’t waste more lives and more time to send him something that would only distract him.”
“I don’t believe that was the right choice, ma’am,”Gage said.“Because, as you yourself noted, the primarch was furious when he learned of it.”
Euten gave a short, dismissive huff.
“He seems to hold himself together well enough in front of you lot. Quite the performance.”
Gage only just managed to keep his expression from twisting into an obvious, pained smile.
“We don’t understand the primarch’s thoughts as you do,”he said.“But when his mood is poor—no matter how hard he tries to hide it—we notice. After all, we’ve served beside him for twenty-two years.”
This struck Euten silent for a moment.
“Twenty-two years…”she murmured.“Yes. He’s been away from Macragge longer than he ever lived on it.”
“The primarch is still very young,”Gage said. Even now, speaking these words gave him a faint hesitation, though he had rehearsed them many times before coming.“I am older than he is, and so are many of our Legionaries. He will have many more spans of twenty-two years. But you will not. You will not have another. The surgeons cleared the cancer from your bone this time, but without Juvenat, you will go on aging. You will fall ill again, suffer other accidents. My lord lost his temper because he knows that for now he still has the luxury of losing it. But he also knows that one day he will return to Macragge and you will no longer be here. That…is what he fears, my lady.”
A dry, rasping laugh escaped Euten’s throat.
“I thought there was nothing he feared. He ought to be fearless”she whispered.“just like you all.”
“We simply do not fear for ourselves,”Gage replied.“But we do fear other things. As we should.‘Only by knowing fear can one rise above it.’”
“Don’t recite his notebooks at me; I’ve had my fill of his lectures.”Euten waved a hand dismissively, though there was no real anger in it.“What could you possibly have to fear?”
“We…”Gage began. He glanced at the wall beside them, at the photo of the young primarch glowering from across the decades. Now Gage could see it clearly:the boy had indeed been fuming with indignation.
“I fear,”he said slowly,“that beneath our primarch’s calm exterior lies a great reservoir of grief and fury. We fear that he will try to hide his confusion and pain behind composure.And when that happens, his mind and judgment will not be at their best. You know as well as I do.Such moments can determine the fate of a million lives, ten million, dozens of worlds…even an entire Legion.”
Euten stared at him without blinking.
“That is his weakness,”she said at last.
“It is,”Gage answered, gentle yet unshakably firm.“But it is not a weakness we feel any shame in.”
Euten turned her head away and sighed softly. Now the sun had truly slipped between the peaks of Calut and Andromache. The sky above Macragge had deepened into a serene and beautiful violet-blue.
“When Konor Guilliman was young,”she said after a while, as though unconsciously returning to the earlier thread,“he was famous for his temper—impulsive, fiery. Before your primarch fell from the heavens, Konor was perhaps the most ambitious man Macragge had ever known. Do you know where your primarch got his dream of rebuilding the Five Hundred Worlds? He inherited it from Konor—who had held that dream since boyhood. Konor spent the first half of his life striving for it; in the history of Ultramar, no one went further than he did. By the age of twenty-five, he had unified all of Macragge outside Illyrium.
But compared to the vast stellar realm of Ultramar, that was still so small. A single mortal life is far too short to achieve such things. And the older Konor grew, the more restless he became. He understood that no matter how hard he worked, he would never have enough years to realize the vision he treasured. That knowledge drove him to despair, and it made his temper sharper.In those days, everyone around him feared him.”
Euten paused.
“But later, that happened,”she said with a smile, lifting her cane again and pointing toward the wall of photographs.
The picture she indicated was in the upper left corner—surely the earliest of them all. A fair-haired infant peeked out over a man’s broad shoulder, bright blue eyes fixed on the world, with a vista of forested valleys behind him.
“Roboute came to him,”Euten said.“It was extraordinary, truly. Ever since Konor adopted the child he’d found in the Valley of Laponis, he changed. The Konor who had once worn a constant scowl, who would erupt in fury at the slightest provocation, could now spend hours discussing the most trivial matters with his son, trying to win over even the stubbornest foes, and tending—like teasing apart old cotton—to all the bureaucratic chores he had once despised. Do you know what changed him?”
“…To set an example for his adopted son?”Gage suggested.
“That was part of it,”Euten said with a wry smile.“If Konor had indulged his old temper, he would indeed have guided the boy toward worse habits. But that wasn’t the true reason. Konor knew his son was no ordinary child. As he watched that prodigiously gifted boy grow, gradually—perhaps even from the very beginning—he knew. The heights he himself could never reach, this child would someday conquer. The vision forever beyond his grasp, his son would one day see. So he no longer burned with impatience, nor trembled with anxiety. After all, how many in history have been so fortunate as to know with certainty that their dreams will be fulfilled after they are gone?”
“…Even if the great deeds are not built by Konor’s own hand, he still thinks himself fortunate?”Gage asked.
Euten sighed.
“Yes, yes,”she said gently.“Anyone else might have envied a son destined to surpass him. But for someone like Konor, the endurance of his ideals mattered more than the question of who would realize them. Besides…”She glanced at Gage’s time-worn face.“Marius, may I call you that? Your title feels too stiff. And I cannot call you‘my child,’since you’re older than I am.”
Gage allowed himself a small smile.
“Of course, ma’am,”he said.
“In this age, the last shred of pride left to mortals is to know their own limits and accept them with dignity,”Euten said calmly.“My old master Konor managed it. I hope I can do the same. I have not failed my life; do not make me fail my death as well.”
Gage’s smile froze. Her words had been prepared, he now realized; and at last he understood where his gene-father had learned his conversational stratagems.
“I do not oppose life-extension treatments,”the old woman continued, wearing a sorrowful smile.“Nor do I scorn them as an affront to humanity. But I cannot accept them for myself. I know my dear lord hopes I will live a little longer, but indulging him in that would be a kind of pampering. He has grown far too accustomed to everything around him bending to his commands and his designs. If I yield to him in all things—if even my lifespan is placed at his disposal—I fear he will one day come to regard death itself as a flaw in the human condition, something to be corrected. And that would be hubris, even for him.”
“No,”Gage said.“I don’t believe—”
Euten did not let him finish. She rose once more and walked back to the photograph wall.
“Now you can see it, can’t you?”she said softly, pointing at the earliest images of Guilliman.“Roboute was least lovable at this age. Ill-tempered, unsmiling, scornful of the petty flaws of humanity.Truly intimidating. Later, as he grew ever more unlike that of an ordinary man—you see, in this group photo he is already two heads taller than his father, and you cannot imagine how much he could eat then—yet his expression gentled rather than hardened.”
Gage nodded. He could indeed see it now:the older the child in the photographs, the more he resembled the man Gage knew today—solemn yet sincere; strict, certainly, but also considerate.
“All the photographs here were taken because Konor insisted on it,”Euten continued.“Roboute always treated posing at his father’s request as a tiresome obligation, and he was embarrassed that Konor kept all these images of him as a child on the wall. But Konor was adamant. He was every inch a foolishly proud father who wants to show off his son. Later I realized he hadn’t done it for his own pleasure. All of these were meant to be left to his son—meant for the Roboute of the future.”
“…Why?”Gage asked quietly.
“So that one day he might embarrass people like you, of course. What else?”Euten said sharply, then smiled.“No, my apologies, Marius. Konor knew he would not always remain at his son’s side. And when that day came, something had to remain, something that would tell Roboute where his life began.”
Gage regarded her.
“You see, from the start, Konor was preparing Roboute for the days when he would have to be without him. And so was I,”Euten said.“Though Konor was not his true father, nor I his true mother, people always make ready for the day their children walk forward alone. One day, Roboute will also prepare for the time when he can no longer remain beside you.”
“…That will not happen,”the First Master of the Ultramarines said, almost reflexively.
“Don’t be so sure. I think you simply cannot bear to imagine that day,”Euten said wearily.“But Roboute will prepare, when he is old enough, or wise enough, though I suppose his way of preparing for it will be to write you all a large, heavy handbook.”
She paused, then looked again at the First Master.“And he is not truly alone now. He has his father, his brothers, and he has all of you. I can see it—he relies on you.”
“Yes. And I consider it an honor,”Gage replied.“But that is precisely why I had to come to you. We cannot take your place, just as you cannot take ours. You are unique to him. He has never hidden that, not even before his brothers.”
“That is the problem, isn’t it?”Euten said with a bitter smile.“Dependence only grows with time.Tell me, Marius Gage—do you truly want your primarch, after living for centuries, to still be a foolish, sentimental boy who keeps looking back at his homeworld no matter how far he travels, hoping to hear some old crone tell him something he does not yet know?”
Gage rose to his feet again, the blue-and-gold uniform of the Ultramarines whispering softly as it shifted over his massive frame.
“If I misunderstand you, forgive me. But are you suggesting,”he asked,“that you remaining longer at the primarch’s side would make him weaker than he is now?”
Euten turned away.
“If one day Lord Guilliman leaves us…”Gage began. Euten was right:even now he found it difficult to imagine such a day, though for a very different reason.“No. You know that all of us Astartes have lived through the absence of our fathers. We endured. But it is only when the primarch returned that we were reborn as a legion; only his presence could wholly reshape us.”
“That is because you are tied by blood.”
“Not every bond of blood yields good results,”Gage replied, looking at the old woman.“Many think only the harshest environment can forge the toughest soldiers. But my primarch does not believe that. Hardship and sorrow can shape greatness, but greatness need not rely on hardship and sorrow. Rather than hellish upbringings and mortal struggle, he has more faith in sound training, efficient governance, and disciplined logistics. Because we follow this creed, our legion grew so swiftly in merely twenty years, conquered so much territory.
“He is able to think this way because that is how he was raised. Even when his foster father was murdered, he conquered hatred with reason—because he had been raised not to be scarred by hostility, nor swayed by envy; not to wither in doubt, nor suffer from insecurity. Humanity does not require the death of those they love in order to grow. Our primarch stands as the clearest proof of that. It is what he has taught us. So I cannot believe that you, who taught it to him, would ever choose to burden him with regret and grief simply to make him colder and stronger.”
Euten turned back to Gage.
“Now I’m convinced you really did come here on your own,”she said.“Because he would never say these things. He hasn’t grown a thick enough skin for that.”
“As I understand it, you believe that because you have already raised the primarch into the man he is, you can now die without regret.”
“Of course!”Euten said, her tone sharpening.“When I sent him to join the Emperor’s fleet bound for Terra, I had already fulfilled my duty.”
“Then you believe you have been granted leave to withdraw from the field.”the First Master said.
“Is that wrong?”Euten struggled for a moment, then finally spoke.“He no longer needs my protection—let alone my guidance.”
“He is a primarch, a son of the Emperor. He never needed your protection or your guidance from the moment he was born. But he still needs you.”
“I have given him everything I could. There is nothing more I can offer.”
“Do you truly think Lord Guilliman keeps you at his side because he expects you to keep giving him things?”
Outside the room, night had fallen. Fomaska, the God’s Eye—the brightest of Macragge’s four moons—was rising. Its golden-crimson light cast a gentle, tranquil glow over the sky.
“I had already gathered the courage to face the end. Why are you trying to take that from me?”Euten said at last, her voice strained with pain.
Gage smiled.
“We once believed death was the end of duty as well.However,”he said.“Theoretical:you are not a soldier. Practical:you cared for the primarch for reasons far beyond duty. Besides…”
“Besides what?”
“These days duty does not end even when war does. The primarch is considering drafting a retirement plan for us,”Gage said.“He has already decided that I should one day become the overseer of Macragge’s local seafood market, because I keep trying to bargain with him.”
Euten stared at the First Chapter Master for a long moment. At last she smiled.
“Oh, that does suit you,”she said.“You are trying to bargain with me right now.”
“Then have I persuaded you to change your mind?”
“Is that the only way you people know how to ask questions? It’s no different from interrogation.”
“Very well, my lady,”Gage said.“Then I have just one more question. The last one.”
“Go on,”Euten sighed.“I’ve tolerated you this long.”
“Everything you’ve spoken of tonight has been about what the primarch needs, about whether he needs you. But what about your needs? What about your own wishes? Have you ever asked your own heart?”
Euten regarded Gage.
“What do you mean by that?”she asked.
“Do you want to stay with him a little longer?”Gage said.“Do you wish to remain by his side for a few more days?”
He’s still angry, Euten thought.
That night, she had been sitting on the sofa in the sitting room, staring at the wall of photographs, thinking about many things. And then she saw Guilliman stride in from outside. The doorframe had long been specially refitted to be tall enough, yet Guilliman still ducked his head out of habit when he entered. Euten rose to greet him; he frowned at her, waved a hand, and told her to remain seated.
Guilliman seemed at first to be trying to maintain the dignity and composure expected of the Master of the Ultramarines. But he could not hold it for long. Soon he began searching through the mountain-like piles of books and data-slates, and his displeasure became unmistakably obvious.
“Mam,”he began,“I wish to know where the draft for my twelfth volume of notes has been placed.”
“Probably in that stack by the wine cabinet,”Euten said.
“I’ve already searched it. It’s not there. I need that notebook for tomorrow’s meeting with the Chapter Masters.”
“Look again, patiently. It must be somewhere—it can’t simply vanish.”
“It has a blue-and-gold cover. Thick. Where did you put it?”
“That I can’t recall, my lord. You have far too many identical notebooks.”
Guilliman abandoned his search and straightened to look down at Euten from his full height.“I have repeated this to you many times, mam. When I am away, please try not to move my things. I know exactly where everything is placed—until you tidy, and then I can find nothing.”
“Is that an order, my lord?”
“If you insist on seeing it that way,”Guilliman said.
“Then perhaps you should stop using the sitting room as your study, my lord,”Euten said calmly.“You pile so many books here that guests cannot even find a place to sit. That is discourteous, so I can only put them in order for you. If you think that is wrong, then you ought to break the habit of leaving your books and data-slates scattered in every room of this Residency.”
Guilliman’s reply was to lift an entire stack of books, carry it to the door, and set it down with a thud.
“I’ll call a steward to help you move them,”Euten said.
“That’s unnecessary,”Guilliman answered.“Most of them have retired for the night. It’s past their duty hours.”
“Then I’ll move them.”
“No.”The Lord of Ultramar spoke sharply as he picked up another stack of data-slates.
“Why not? I am your chamberlain—it is exactly the sort of thing I should be doing.”
“Because you are old, Lady Euten. You are human and old. I do not know how much longer life will let you stand at my side.I cannot rely on you being here.*Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me for days now? That I must ultimately do everything myself, since you won’t be able to stay with me forever?”
He said this without turning his head, his tone cold.
He really is angry, Euten thought. He was sulking—sulking in the only way he could—and had just said to her the cruelest thing he could manage in his frustration.
So she said nothing, simply watching Guilliman shuttle back and forth like some little animal hauling winter stores, moving those teetering piles of treatises and notebooks from the table to the doorway.
As she watched, Euten felt herself slip into a daze again, because she remembered seeing this very scene before—was it when Guilliman was four, or seven? He had grown so tall now. And yet, even with this awe-inspiring giant working restlessly right before her eyes, she still felt an illusion:as though somewhere in this grand Residency, a much smaller Roboute still existed. That blond, blue-eyed child was right next door, hiding in the study, or in the garden, or along the marble corridors—pouting, barefoot, clutching his beloved notebook as he pattered across the teak floors.
She let out a soft sigh and rose from the sofa. Guilliman turned to stare at her, watching as she once again leaned on her cane and slowly crossed the room, pausing before the wall covered in photographs.
Euten’s own image appeared in very few of those photos, because she had always been the one behind the lens, taking pictures for Guilliman.
“Sometimes I wonder,”Euten said after a while,“and I’m sure your father must have wondered the same—what if the child he found in Valley of Laponis had been nothing more than an ordinary boy?”
“What if...?”Guilliman repeated the question, still clearly displeased. He had finished moving the books; he didn’t want to leave, but also couldn’t find a good reason to stay.
“It’s just a thought experiment,”Euten said, her eyes lingering on the photographs. She knew that the stern-faced child’s expression had grown softer with age only because he was always looking at her—at the one behind the camera.
“Suppose you had possessed no noble lineage. Suppose you didn’t learn to walk in three days, or speak in five days, or master Macragge’s language and writing by half a year old…Suppose you had been an ordinary, unremarkable child—maybe even worse than that. Suppose you were slow-witted, or frail from birth, and didn’t even have that cute round face…By Macragge’s traditions, after all, only children who are weak or defective are abandoned in the gorge. In that case—how would Konor have treated you? And how would I have treated you?”
Guilliman frowned.“I think—”he began, but Euten shook her head, cutting him off before his answer could turn into one of his habitual long speeches.
“Konor and I have thought about this many times,”she said.“And our conclusion is always the same:whether you were a prodigy or not, whether you would someday grow to three meters tall or not, we would have raised you all the same.”
“And in that case I’d have caused you far less trouble?”Guilliman asked stiffly.
“You foolish boy,”Euten said.“Whether a child is ordinary or a genius, raising him demands just as much effort and brings just as many worries. Even if you were short-lived, even if you were disabled, we would have given you no less than we did. However long you might have stayed in this world, we would have accompanied you to your life’s final moment.”
Guilliman looked at her—and as always, his expression softened.
“Yes,”he said quietly,“I know my father and you would have done that. But what is it that you’re trying to say, Tarasha?”
Euten smiled—a smile that admitted defeat, yet with utter willingness.
She hobbled over, tapping lightly on the back of Guilliman’s hand—the only part of him she could reach.
“I’m thinking,”she said,“if I wouldn’t abandon you for being weak or short-lived, if I wouldn’t reject you for being ugly or lacking talent…then why should I abandon you for being a genius? Why should I cast you aside for being extraordinary?”
Guilliman’s brow plates rose again, eyes widening.
“You mean—”
Euten let out a long, weary sigh.
“Call the doctors. I’ll review the rejuvenat treatments.”She looked up at towering primarch with a gentle smile.“If you’re willing…then let me trouble you a little longer, Roboute.”