My Life as A Death Guard

“Pain is an illusion of the senses, fear is an illusion of the mind, beyond these only death waits as silent judge over all.” — Mortarion.

In the dim corridor, silence walks.

It moves through, eyes cast downward, gazing at each soul, brushing past lifeless statues.

No one speaks, no one moves, no one acts.

The weighty armor strikes the ground like the fall of a soul, desperately pleading for the hand of a higher power.

Despair, panic, supplication, cries—but none of it matters.

They cannot raise their weapons.

They cannot unleash their wrath upon their enemies.

The absurd future has arrived, and aside from decay, aside from bowing their heads, what else can they do?

The eternal shroud of poison mist envelopes the Barbarusians, while the Overlords of the mountaintops toy with their slaves.

The ceaseless plagues corrode the Barbarusians, as the supreme “Father” dotes on his toys.

From the poisoned mountains, he descended, heart burning with fury, yet holding nothing.

From the plague-infested mounds of corpses, he emerged, fear gnawing at him, utterly alone.

“Stand up!”

He raised the banner calling for rebellion.

“I am tired.”

He lowered the hope he had so desperately clung to.

He led the Barbarusians to overthrow all injustice and inequality!

He led the Barbarusians into the chaotic embrace of “Father’s” love.

Father, Father, Father, if even you have surrendered, where should we go?

Who will take in us, these emaciated farmers?

We are covered in mud, filthy beyond salvation.

Who would truly reserve a place for us in their hearts?

We are afraid, cowardly, content to be slaves.

Please, don’t abandon us. Please don’t abandon us!

Father, if you insist on falling, take us with you.

Please take us with you; this is the last thing we can do for you.

They look up. Their Father gazes back at them.

The deep corridor stretches infinitely toward the distance, devouring everything, gradually fading into darkness.

“My sons.”

The towering figure of the Primarch stands there. The hood that veils his eyes is removed, revealing his weary gaze, yet he remains standing.

Mortarion takes a deep breath. After the respirator hums its seven beats, he reaches up, lowers his head, and removes his disguise.

Dry, cracked lines creep across Mortarion’s lips—his gift for breathing poison.

He speaks:

“I once had nothing.”

We once had nothing.

“Nothing at all. I stood empty-handed, looking at the world in fear and expectation.”

We too once hoped for the world.

“At the beginning, Barbarus was far from beautiful.”

At the beginning, Barbarus was our prison.

“But then I met you.”

But we met you.

“Curious children who glanced at me, elderly who closed their eyes to avoid me, comrades who extended a helping hand, warriors who steadfastly followed me.”

The Pale King descending from the mountains bore the raging flames of fury in his eyes.

“We never surrendered. But before we could change it all, we had to endure the pain inflicted upon us in silence.”

Mortarion looks at his sons, lowering his gaze to survey them from above.

“The outside world is far from kind, and neither are we. We are filthy. We toil endlessly every day.”

“But the spark of rebellion still lies buried in every heart.”

“I am grateful to you for giving me this gift—a heart that rebels.”

Other than a crown made of weeds and thorns from the field, we could give you nothing else.

“Meeting you showed me that I was born for humanity.”

“I was born for rebellion.”

He paused. The Primarch’s towering figure sank to one knee, gazing intently at his kneeling sons, as if a cautious father comforting his children.

At the forefront of the Death Guard knelt a child of Diderot Mountain—Calvin. Mortarion remembered him well, the boy who once stood silently at his brother’s grave, clutching a scythe in his arms.

These loyal followers, these people who had nothing, yet gave Mortarion the last scraps of their food—how could he not be moved?

They entrusted themselves to him.

And he would grant them his mercy.

You will not be lost to the endless night, I swear.

Even if the final end is the fire.

Mortarion slowly blinked.

“We have all seen it—that decay disguised as the future.”

“Plague, the eternal cycle that torments every one of us.”

“You have seen me kneel. You saw me surrender.”

Mortarion exhaled softly, his raspy voice cutting through the silence.

“Yes, in that lightless future, I knelt.”

“I betrayed our original oath. I failed the trust you placed in me.”

His words, like a powerless breeze, swept past the ears of his soldiers yet shook even the most resolute warriors to their cores.

“For that, I offer no excuse.”

“But please grant me the chance to make one request.”

They knelt. They stood. They silently accepted.

Mortarion’s piercing amber eyes fixed upon them.

“If I betray, if I surrender, then each and every one of you bears the responsibility to kill me.”

“Grant me the mercy of death.”

!!!

Breathless silence—absolute suffocation. Even the faintest whispers of breathing ceased.

Behind Mortarion stood Hades, his pupils constricting in disbelief at the sight of the Primarch kneeling before his soldiers.

Mortarion raised his head, his gaze piercing to the end of the corridor where veterans stood in mute shock, unable to process what they had witnessed.

Defiance, anger, rebellion—these were the silent screams of their souls as Mortarion fell into despair.

They were not like the oath-bound Barbarusians, but their loneliness forged an even more steadfast resilience.

“Protect the purity of the Legion.”

Mortarion stared at the warriors who still stood and spoke slowly, deliberately.

Then the Primarch rose to his feet.

“Rise, my warriors.”

“Only by standing can we grip our scythes tightly.”

“Only by standing can we seize our fate.”

The clash of metal echoed endlessly, like a surging tide roaring through the narrow corridor.

Now, they all stood.

Mortarion looked upon his sons with satisfaction, his weathered figure standing tall before their silent ranks.

The Primarch sighed.

“My sons, I cannot grant you glory.”

“I cannot deceive you with hollow honors. I know all too well that those gilded medals offer you nothing.”

“I know you will wade into filthy, muddy battlefields, not the glorious skirmishes the scribes romanticize.”

“You will face endless wars, fight cunning xenos, greedy humans, and deranged sorcerers.”

“You may find yourselves sinking into the mud, helplessly sprawled atop your comrades’ corpses, or clawing your way out of piles of the dead.”

“On a battlefield of filth and despair, there is no glory.”

“I cannot grant you glory.”

“But I can promise you death.”

“Each of us will die on the battlefield, myself included.”

“This is our fate. I will not deceive you with the illusion of a beautiful future.”

“Before we march to our destined death, we will endure all the hardships life throws at us.”

“We will struggle through torment on our path to death.”

“We are the Death Guard. We acknowledge death.”

“But every struggle we endure will leave humanity a land free from oppression.”

“So,”

“Fight for humanity. Fight for liberation.”

“My sons.”

It was a command, a sigh, and a blessing.

No one spoke. No one looked up. They were silent warriors, a procession moving through the fog without a sound.

Like ripples spreading outward, the Death Guard began to leave of their own accord.

Their rushing figures seemed to linger in the corridor, their presence bidding farewell to their past selves before fading into the shadows.

Only footsteps and the clinking of metal broke the silence.

Soon, the corridor fell quiet.

Barasine led the remaining captains, the Chief Librarian, and the Master of the Forge toward Mortarion.

Mortarion and Hades stood still, watching them approach.

It was time to act.