Chapter 349: It's Him
"..."
Mortarion took a deep breath, first clearing from his mind the most common scene that always appeared—
A rustling noise rang out. He opened the door of his office and saw, in the dim corridor, a figure wrestling with the servitor that was delivering his meal.
Expressionless, Mortarion knocked on the doorframe. The dull echo spread through the hallway.
Hades whipped his head around, biting a spoon, and gave Mortarion a crooked grin. Then, with swaggering ease, he delivered the finishing blow to the servitor, grabbed the two lunch trays, and bolted into Mortarion's office like a rocket.
Because a certain inconsiderate being had eaten Mortarion's lunch, Mortarion took the portions belonging to Garro and Vorx instead.
And then he threw Hades—who was loudly proclaiming a holiday uprising in his office—right back out. Along with the Hades who was howling about the Armoury needing more funding.
Also the Hades who gnawed on metal scraps while denouncing Malcador, the Hades who performed some so-called "end-of-shift victory dance" in front of an overworked Garro, and the Hades who clung to a medical room bed refusing to return to work.
Lastly, Mortarion recalled the one who stood before a multitude of psykers—an existence who split the heavens open alone.
He silently laid that image atop Lorgar's words. The two figures began to overlap…
He should have realized all this sooner, instead of remembering Hades only as "the one who must be stopped from stealing my lunch."
Mortarion sullenly took a swig of wine, but a moment later slammed the glass down in irritation. He let it go, rummaged among the many bottles and jars at his waist, and pulled out a tin hip flask. He opened it and drank again.
"…It's him."
Mortarion said, "The one you call a charlatan acting like a god—my guess is that he is the commander of the Death Guard. Or rather, he should now be called the Head of the Silent Sisterhood."
In the distance, the Angel quietly sipped his drink. The Khan stared in silence at the armies below.
"A charlatan?"
Lorgar turned his head, staring at Mortarion without blinking. His violet eyes locked tightly onto him.
"With all due respect, Mortarion, you seem to have an allergy to any ritual or pursuit that carries spiritual meaning."
He cast a subtle glance at the filthy flask in Mortarion's hand—gun oil stains smeared across it, along with dark, unknown residue, possibly some kind of medicinal sediment.
Lorgar softened his tone, speaking before Mortarion could retort with mockery,
"But I don't intend to debate that with you, brother. How did you determine that the one I speak of is someone you know?"
He watched Mortarion silently tap the flask with his finger. Only after a long time did Mortarion speak again:
"Only he can create such a sensation on such a scale," Mortarion took another drink, cutting straight to the truth.
"Powerlessness. Displacement. Panic. Nausea. Your instinct is to get away from him—to flee his domain before you lose control of your body entirely."
Mortarion curled his lips in a mocking smile. The breath from his cracked mouth carried the scent of venom as he spoke lightly:
"No one knows that feeling better than I do."
Lorgar fell silent for a moment.
"But you cannot be certain others lack such power. It may be him—or it may not."
Mortarion coughed with laughter.
"True enough. Another Blank one might wield a similar aura. But—tell me—how many beings can make a Primarch feel oppressed?"
That near-death helplessness.
Yes—why hadn't Mortarion realized this sooner? Which Legion possessed someone who could exchange blows with a Primarch? Even the Stormseers of the White Scars or the Rune Priests of the Space Wolves couldn't overpower a Primarch through psychic force alone.
Yet in the Death Guard, there existed Hades—who could suppress at least two Primarchs using anti-psyker power.
He had taken all of this for granted. What step had he overlooked?
Had it begun when Hades first told him about the Warp?
Or when Hades gradually assembled the Zero Company?
To use an improper comparison—it was like suddenly discovering that the lazy, irreverent roommate who slept on the bunk above you was actually the top administrator of some national covert agency. Yes, he occasionally showed signs of being more capable than normal—but that face he made when ordering you to bring him meals and call him "big daddy" was so infuriatingly natural that you could never connect the two identities.
Mortarion abruptly realized that the Hades he knew had a severe sense of dissonance—
His character… no, his virtue, did not match his ability.
Hades was reliable—and yet, simultaneously utterly unreliable.
But Mortarion trusted him.
Not because of reliability, but because they had fought their way out of Barbarus together.
Hades had already proven that he was worthy of trust.
Mortarion had been deceived by his past.
He understood now—it wasn't their shared experience on Barbarus that built trust.
It was Hades himself—who naturally inspired trust in others.
Mortarion's thoughts churned in chaos.
So, the hardships on Barbarus… were actually Hades's process of earning his trust?
He recalled Guilliman's high regard for Hades.
He recalled… the Lorgar standing before him now.
He recalled that damned Malcador, and the Emperor.
And according to what Lorgar just said—his sons had not seen the white helms of the Death Guard, but helms as black as the night.
Mortarion's gaze went vacant.
He took another long drink.
The hip flask was more than half empty.
Without thinking, he pulled a new glass vial from his belt, poured its viscous fermented contents into the flask, then dumped the wine from his glass into it to thin it out.
He failed to notice Fulgrim behind him, about to scream like an alarm siren—only held down by Sanguinius, smiling elegantly while gripping his brother's arm with iron restraint.
For Sanguinius, the discussion between Lorgar and Mortarion was far more valuable than Fulgrim's shrieking could ever be.
Mortarion took another heavy swig—the brew now far harsher.
He thought gloomily:
Hades is from Barbarus—he can only be from Barbarus.
He is not a Terran.
Not a Macraggan.
Mortarion then realized he should perhaps be grateful that Hades wore a black helm rather than a blue one.
At least… not a golden one.
He fell silent.
He recalled the blue-and-white letter that always hung in his office.
Hadn't he already understood the truth long ago?
Yes.
He already had.
Mortarion shook the flask lightly, watching the grand armies parading in the distance.
"…It's him. It's absolutely him."
Mortarion murmured, alcohol and toxins corroding his reason.
"But he is absolutely not the being you claim he is, Lorgar. Why must you distort the essence of things?"
No matter how dignified Hades acted in front of other Legions, he was the one who truly knew what kind of person Hades was!
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