Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

There is no snow here, and the sound of the wind is like a blade cutting glass, scratching on the surface of the vast ice field.

Morse opened his five fingers and let the wind blow through them. His robe was blown up, with the windward side sticking to his legs, while the other side swelled into a dark void, and the sound of the black cloth merged with the sound of the wind.

"Are you cold, Perturabo?" he asked.

"I am the Primarch," Perturabo answered, the annoyance in his voice muted by the wind, blending into the natural chorus of heaven and earth.

"Want a chair, or are you just going to stand here?"

"Stand."

"Then I'll stand a moment, too," said Morse. "You have to know, Inwit reminds me of the Himalayas. Do you know this mountain?"

"I know the location of the Royal Palace of Terra."

"Of course." Morse whispered, his voice penetrating the wind like a very tough silk thread. "You want to leave your mark in the construction of the Terra Palace. So, do you know why they call it Himalaya?"

"I don't know." He responded quickly.

"Well, in ancient Terra, there is a language where this pronunciation means the hometown of snow." Morse drew a string of words in the air that looked like decorative patterns. "But up there, in the mountains above 5,000 meters, you sometimes find the snow bleeding a blood-red color."

In the snow under their feet, winding traces of blood gradually flowed out. Even though he knew that this was caused by Morse's magic, it still gave Perturabo the illusion that blood was oozing out of the Inwit land.

"What is this?" Perturabo moved away, "Why is this happening?"

"Chlamydomonas nivalis, Chlorococcus nivalis, and snow-grown fiber algae...forty degrees below zero is just the suitable temperature for these algae with blood-colored pigments. But do you want to guess that your father first encountered the Himalayas 30,000 years ago? What did he say when he saw Hongxue?”

"What did the Emperor say?"

"No, not the emperor. At that time, he was thinking silently every day that he would never be an emperor from now on, and he also led others to say that mankind does not need an emperor. Guess what the former mortal Neos said."

Perturabo's brain, which can calculate hundreds of millions of data in an instant, gave the answer after one second: "It's hard to guess."

"Ice and snow grieve, he said." Morse shook his head. "Nios was a third-rate poet at that time."

"Who are you implying?" Perturabo lowered his lips, "Excusing Rogal Dorn? Why have you become tolerant?"

"What did I say about him? No, I mean, the four men in the tent just now were sad. You, the Emperor, Rogal Dorn, and me."

Perturabo let the wind blow across his closed lips in silence. A trembling warmth ran through his heart.

"You became sad, not just because of me, but also because Rogal Dorn quickly turned you off after catching your fancy. You realized that someone who was about to become your friend was touching your... Bottom line. Do you feel cold before you gain?

"……A little."

Mors patted his gauntlet, and Perturabo flinched for a moment. It was the same hand that had wounded his brother.

In any case, the pleasant spring temperature of Olympia was poured into Morse's armor, and his face was no longer stiff from the cold.

"The Emperor stopped talking about him. He is always sad. I think he is tired." Morse said. "As for Dorne, in a sense, he is a little too nervous."

"What?" Perturabo's voice dropped.

"After his grandfather passed away, what followed was twenty years of living alone in the ice and snow. Suddenly one day, a brother of the same kind as him, a brother with similar interests and nature, came to the door without any warning. Come."

As Morse spoke, a microcosm of time flew before his eyes, and he relived every minute and second that had happened since Rogal Dorn met Perturabo.

"Rogal Dorn really wants to express himself in front of you, although he is not aware of his mentality. Re-read your memory, and you will find that everything is traceable."

Perturabo lowered his eyes. He didn't want to forgive Rogal Dorn now, so he didn't want to remember.

"What about you?" asked the Iron Lord. Why are you sad? "

"It's been a long time since I called you child, Perturabo," Morse said.

"Six years."

"Okay, six years." Morse folded his arms in front of his chest and tapped his left arm with his right index finger.

"Six years ago I officially considered you an adult. You have become mature, tall, and in your own right. You are the Lord of the Emperor's legions, the uncrowned king of Olympia and even the countless worlds you have conquered. You can handle the problems in your life. Everything - at least most things."

"To a certain extent, I think you have surpassed me, because I still have some understanding of my character. I have never been a normal-tempered person."

"I have not surpassed you," said Perturabo.

"Then let's be equals, okay?" Mors turned to look at Perturabo. The Primarch more than ten years ago was only as high as his waist.

"All in all, I thought I had finally forged an outstanding work, a unique and unreplicable treasure. I was happy, satisfied, and felt that I had no other needs except to complete the remaining work for the Emperor. But , until today, I finally discovered that I had made a self-righteous mistake again. "

Perturabo's hands curled up in his armor. "What's the mistake?" he asked.

"I thought I could fix everything, kid," Morse said.

"Although I haven't raised any offspring, I know that the way I treated you was not a normal way of raising children. I didn't like you, didn't love you. I thought you were a piece of material, a raw material, to make you grow the way I wanted. I made you doubt yourself, worry about gains and losses, and put the other pole of your emotions on me. As Don said, in the early days of your life, you were under my control."

"But it does make me better, doesn't it." Perturabo's voice broke in the wind, "One of the last things I want to do now is to admit that I was me ten years ago."

"You've become much better," Morse said, "I've become much better."

"One day I found that I had changed, maybe one day when I woke up and saw the green shadows of the olive trees swaying outside our double-glazed windows, and then I Thinking of you. You don't look like a raw material, you have become a more lively thing, youthful, vivid, powerful things; there are appearance, personality, a pair of impressive eyes, and never happy eyebrows. " How to appear in front of me and complain about the person I met, or brag about what good things you have done. Sride stopped, "Love you." Petraberg blinked. "So, some early problems were left." Moos took a breath and exhaled, and the cold air rolled over his tongue, "Regarding the problem of manipulation." Perturabo lowered his jaw slightly.

"I thought manipulation wouldn't be a problem because I stopped conscious control. I gave up hitting you, except for some jokes that I knew would have no effect - I would suffocate if I didn't say a little bit of sarcasm. I was honest with you and opened my defenses. I thought I could fix the mistakes. I think people are born to heal themselves."

"Perturabo, you look much better, you have found your confidence and your way of being in this world. But it turns out that breaking down people's defenses is one thing, and healing is something else. I am terrible at the latter."

"You did a good job." Perturabo couldn't help but say, "No one can do better than you."

"Look." Morse smiled and shook his head, "To this day, you still put me in a position that is too high. I have no intention of controlling you, I have no intention of doing so, but my words and deeds still achieve the effect of affecting your every move. No matter what good or bad words I say, you will react based on my will. Your struggle and hesitation have never stopped, and in a corner of your heart, you are still anxious about the shadow I have cast on you."

"Tell me, child, am I arrogant in this judgment?"

He couldn't answer yes or no. Perturabo thought.

Then he said, "You care about me, so I care about you."

"That's the worst part. Love's glorification of mistakes makes the problem hidden, but it can't justify mistakes." Morse sighed, "I have so much to say that I don't know where to start. You are getting uneasy again, don't be like this, you know I am not alienating you."

"If you won't use me," Perturabo said, it was hard for him to imagine that he would say such words one day, but after letting them come out of his heart through words, he felt a kind of sad lightness: "Then what does it matter?"

"I won't," Morse said, "but what if something happens, such as our separation? I can't let you give me the living part of you and take away the dead part."

"Will this happen?" Perturabo asked.

"I don't know." Morse said, "but the wind keeps blowing, cold, hurtful, leaving no room for warmth."

Perturabo couldn't say a word. Under his feet, bright red blood flowed in the ice and snow.

"But," Mors smiled, "still, I have something to thank you for. You can't imagine how happy I am to be protected by you. I have found the most real things between people here. I love this part, child."

Golden light enveloped him briefly. For the first time, Mors enlarged his body, turned into a giant as tall as the Primarch, and hugged Perturabo through the armor.

"There is only one thing you don't have to worry about." Mors said, "I will not take back my feelings."

Perturabo found that he had shed tears without knowing when, and the tears condensed into ice in the wind, and were wiped off his face by golden runes. It was a bit painful.

"You know me very well." Perturabo whispered.

"I just know this state well enough." Mors let go of Perturabo, but still held the Primarch's arms with both hands.

"I know how you feel. I haven't found a solution, Perturabo, you come."