(Shades of black came up as a joke on a 40k Discord and I made a joke about Shades of Black (Legion). It developed into something sillier and I could not resist writing something dumb to accompany the name. I apologize for everything and nothing.)

The Warmaster sighed heavily, his breath frosted the inside of the plas-steel oculus. For even the coldness of space was warmer than Abbadon’s core. Hooded eyes gazed dismally at the waves of ships clustered around the Vengeful Spirit. Gazing upon his baroque ships of war would have filled him with pride. The pure magnitude of destruction would have filled him with purpose. Yet he felt empty. Before he would have felt invigorated, being the head of a mighty war machine. Now, he felt something different. Despite being surrounded by a Legion, one more numerous than any during the Great Crusade, he felt something he never felt before. Again he sighed, a sound louder than a battle cry, more heavy than the pull of the Eye, more quiet than a dying man’s last breath,

“I am...worried.” Two heads turned to stare at the speaker, confusion and astonishment written plainly on their faces. “What,” the speaker replied defensively. Steel shod teeth glimmered in the lumen’s of the bridge and his tone of contemplation turned into a snarl. “You cannot say that you do not feel the same.”

“I am surprised that you can be worried,” replied the alabaster skinned one. A smile devoid of warmth or humor appeared at the steel toothed one’s growl. “No really, I thought the nails robbed you of worries and concerns. That they only kept the thirst and the rage, what use is worry to an eater of worlds?”

“Perhaps you should be worried then,” Lherovine hissed. “Worried about how you will still be smiling with my hands locked around your peacock’s neck-“

“Enough brothers.” The third spoke, voice dry from fatigue and desert winds. Iskandar looked at Lherovine and Telemachon in turn and they lapsed into silence. “Lherovine speaks the truth. I too am concerned over the Warmaster’s recent....disposition.”

“You would think he would be happier,” Telemachon sniffed, his fingers drifting over the hilt of his sword. The gentle scrape of ceramite over bone soothed him and rasped at the nerves of the others. “We grow stronger every day. The other Warlords of the Eye fall before us and soon another Crusade is to begin. What do you think bothers him so?”

“I can hear you.” The three Ezekarion stiffened, like scholam youths scolded by their master. Even seemingly drab and lifeless Abbadon’s voice carried the iron of command. It was voice that struck fear in the hearts of everyone, even those that know no fear. With a single word, his voice was either salvation or destruction and it was good to never forget that.

“I should hope so, we are close by and were not on private vox.” The former World Eater’s tone was forced jocularity. “It shows you are nowhere near decrepit yet.” The joke fell flat and the others winced at the inanity.

“You do seem...troubled.” Telemachon flinched when he felt the full force of Abbadon’s gaze. “You are more morose than one of the Corpse Emperor’s followers, crying judgement and castigation. I would think you would be pleased with our most recent efforts.”

Abbadon’s head turned and he stared out the oculus. “Pleased? Yes, I am pleased. You performed your duties to the letter.”

“What is it then?” Iskandar asked plainly, ignoring his fellow Ezekarions looks of surprise. “This is unlike you, a state of ennui. You need not be alone brother.”

The barest flicker of annoyance gave way to something more primal in Abbadon’s posture, a movement slight but pregnant with threat. The three marines flinched noticeably and confusion reappeared as Abbadon sighed again. “It is nothing, Leave me brothers for the moment. I must think and your magpie chatter irritates me.”

The three bowed, turning and leaving the Warmaster alone. He watched their reflections go, chafing at the lie on his lips. He felt no irritation, their words though misplaced did not bring him ill will. Yet that little feeling dominated his thoughts, consumed all others. He felt no fear for he was fear incarnate to the Imperium. He felt no disappointment for his war raged unchecked. He felt no camaraderie despite those he named brother. He felt no fury for his heart was cold and slow. Instead he felt loneliness. And that was a foe that he knew not how to fight.