Chapter 8: Since You Have Forgotten, Do Not Blame Me
By the third night, Lorgar was convinced.
Before Erebus, he had struggled alone to interpret the Emperor's will, forced to reconcile revelation with silence. Now, at last, there was guidance—however imperfect, however dangerous.
Erebus spoke with confidence. With certainty.
And certainty, Lorgar had learned, was intoxicating.
Together they spoke deep into the night. They argued, refined, discarded, and rebuilt. Lorgar began not merely to believe more strongly, but to organize belief. Hierarchy. Doctrine. Structure.
Faith required form.
"Do not concern yourself with whether others believe," Erebus told him. "Concern yourself with belief itself. Obedience follows belief. Always."
Lorgar wrote it down.
"If the Emperor says He is a man, then He is a man. If He denies divinity, then divinity must be denied. If he accepts worship, then worship becomes a duty. A believer does not choose—he obeys."
Lorgar wrote faster.
"The Emperor speaks rarely because He does not need to speak. When you see Him, you will understand."
More ink.
"There is an Imperial Truth," Erebus continued, pacing. "Truths can be revised. That does not make them false—it makes them useful."
Lorgar paused, then nodded, and kept writing.
There were moments—rare, awkward moments—when Erebus strayed too far.
"You are powerful," Erebus muttered once, exhausted. "But strength alone is never enough. There are things in this galaxy that will tear even you apart if you are unprepared."
That line was struck from the record.
Three days passed.
Three days without rest.
By the end of it, Lorgar stood radiant with purpose.
Erebus could barely keep his eyes open.
"And so," Lorgar said eagerly, "should we not eliminate dissenters? Quietly, at first. Pagans, apostates, those who resist the Emperor's will?"
Erebus stared at him.
"Did I say that?"
"Yes," Lorgar replied earnestly. "You spoke of four great enemies—one of knowledge, one of excess, one of war, and one of decay."
Erebus went very still.
What had he said?
He rubbed his face hard, then struck himself once, sharply, across the cheek.
Idiot.
A knock interrupted him.
"Enter," Lorgar said at once, closing his notebook.
A servant bowed.
"My lord. Kor Phaeron has awakened."
Lorgar stood.
"He appears to have… lost his memory."
Erebus's hand closed on Lorgar's shoulder.
"Lost his memory?" Erebus asked softly.
"Yes, lord."
Kor Phaeron lay pale upon the infirmary bed.
His eyes were alert—but empty.
"Father," Lorgar said, kneeling. "Look at me. It is I."
Kor Phaeron recoiled, shoving him away.
"I do not know you," he snapped. "Do not claim kinship with me, you giant brute."
Lorgar froze.
Erebus watched closely.
Interesting.
Erebus stepped forward.
"Your name is Kor Phaeron."
Kor Phaeron squinted. "Is it?"
"I am Erebus," he said calmly. "A servant of the Emperor. Tell me—do you recognize me?"
Kor Phaeron shook his head without hesitation.
Erebus scanned his eyes. No flicker. No delay.
Either the old man was a genius liar—
—or something had truly broken.
Erebus turned, removed a half-forgotten relief of a false god from the wall, and held it up.
"Do you know this?"
Kor Phaeron frowned. "No."
Erebus nodded.
"Good."
He turned to Lorgar.
"Write this down."
Kor Phaeron bristled. "Why?"
"Because if your memory returns," Erebus said evenly, "you will need proof of what you once said."
Kor Phaeron hesitated.
Erebus leaned closer.
"Repeat after me."
"I refuse."
"If you do not," Erebus said quietly, "your son will go without food tonight."
Kor Phaeron swallowed.
"Speak."
Erebus spoke carefully. Each word is deliberate. Each phrase is a trap.
"The false gods of the warp are liars. They promise truth, but feed only hunger. They cloak themselves in wisdom, glory, war, and comfort—but they are parasites upon the soul."
Kor Phaeron repeated it.
Without error.
Erebus smiled thinly.
"Again."
Kor Phaeron obeyed.
Erebus stepped back and clapped once.
"Excellent."
He looked to Lorgar.
"Ensure this is recorded."
Lorgar nodded, face pale, hand shaking as he wrote.
Erebus rested a hand on Kor Phaeron's shoulder.
"Believe in the Emperor," he said gently. "Perhaps, in time, He will return what you have lost."
As they left, Erebus allowed himself a small smile.
Whether the amnesia was real or feigned did not matter.
Either way, Kor Phaeron would have to explain these words to his gods.
And gods, Erebus knew well, were not forgiving.