Hello everyone, hope all are having a nice day. A few weeks ago someone made a post about situations of loyalist Primarchs returning. Someone wrote an excellent reply about how the Lion would come back. I had an idea for another and wanted to exercise my writing. Comments and critiques are always welcome.

The Phalanx burned.

The Black Crusade had reached the edges of the Solar System, looking to succeed where the Heresy failed. Waves of ships aligned with the fell forces of Chaos battered at the defenses of the system. Slowly, with unrelenting drive, the ships drove their way through the outer defenses. Hideous loss of life afflicted both the Imperium and the Heretic Legions as the battle raged closer to Holy Terra. Finally the Black Legion, leading millions of Lost and Damned as well as war bands from the Traitor Legions, came within visual sight of the Throneworld itself. Standing between them was the remnants of the Segmentum Solar Battlefleet and the Phalanx.

A relic of the Great Crusade and the Horus Heresy, the mighty fortress ship stood against the foe. It was the final bastion, the last bulwark against the forces of Chaos in space. Fires consumed the towers on her surface. Weapons spat hatred at the traitors as they were destroyed. Her hull was rent all over, allowing boarding parties to invade. All knew that the Phalanx must be broken before Terra could be conquered. Should she fall, so would the Terra and the Emperor would follow soon after. She was undeniably hurt, but a wounded beast that had been backed into a corner is at its most dangerous.

Darnath Lysander, Captain of the Imperial Fist First Company, looked much like the Phalanx. His terminator armor was pierced, blood oozed and welled, dripping crimson on amber plate. He stood in the middle of the hall bellowing rage and defiance. The Hall of Heroes was once a majestic place. The main path to the central command center, statues of heroes lined the metal decking. Vast murals of scrimshaw and mosaics depicted bygone battles and legends of the Imperial Fists. Now much of it lay in ruin. Balls of furious plasma scored the murals and tapestries, the statues were blackened from flame and rent by bolt and chain blade. Bodies of the dead laid in violent repose, dressed in the colors of the serfs of the Fists and the rags and defaced uniforms of traitor guard. Larger bodies of fallen marines stood out like boulder among grass, many colored in heretic colors. Too many still wore the Imperial yellow and each fallen brother made Lysander’s anger grow.

“Hold!” he cried as his hammer smote another traitorous marine dressed in black and gold. “We are the last line, the last wall. We will not break, WE WILL NOT FALL!” A snarling face of scars upon plate of faded red leapt at him. The First Captain set his shoulder behind his storm shield, not moving an inch from the charging marine. He pushed and brought the edge of the shield down, brutally crushing the Word Bearer’s foot beneath the rim. The scarred face screamed and his teeth exploded as Lysander slammed the shield into the gaping maw. Shards of teeth mingled with tar black blood as the Heretic fell, his scream falling silent as the hammer crushed his skull.

Lysander was tired. Hours without break he had fought. Pockets of resistance fought the boarding parties all over the ship but entire sections were starting to fall to the unyielding tide. The majority of the first company fought here in the hall as well as marines and serfs cut off from their companies. Storm bolters boomed, lightning claws sparked, chain blades revved as each marine sold their lives dearly. The line of Imperial Fists bent slowly back, pushed despite Herculean effort and stubborn tenacity. “Make them pay!” Lysander raged as the hammer destroyed a chaos champion. “Every step they take will be paid with their blood. Deny them!”

A horrid screech tore the air and vast machines charged the amber line. Horrid amalgamations of daemon and metal slammed into the defenders. Bodies flew through the air and the sound of rending ceramite clashed with screams of pain and hate. His arm swung once, twice, three times and the biggest of the machines fell to its twisted legs, its head a flat ruin. Yet with the final swing Lysander knew he had over extended himself. Deep laughter filled with malice filled the air and he felt a blade pierce his side. Blessed with foul magic, the hellforged sword bit deep and Lysander was forced to his knees.

“So, the mighty First Captain can kneel.” The voice was merry and terrifying, a twisted face leered as it spoke. The daemon prince stood over Lysander, baroque armor colored in steel grey and daubed with chevrons of yellow and black encased a being twisted by chaotic power. “Long have I waited for this day. Long have I wished to pay you back for the indignation you bestowed upon me. I said you would die by my hand.”

Lysander grunted, face pale from pain and with his organs trying to stem the loss of blood. “You...talk too much,” he gasped as he tried to raise his hammer. For the first time it felt heavy in his hand and he could barely raise the head from the deck. “End it, if you dare. You will not win.”

“We already have,” the prince sneered as it tore the blade from Lysander. It grinned, reveling in the captain’s cry of pain. “This is simply a bonus.” It raised the sword and Lysander could see his end coming. The cruel iron blade drank his blood greedily and despite that horror Lysander only felt remorse, that he would die before killing this monstrosity. “For the Primarch,” he whispered as the blade came screaming down.

A single roar cut through the noise and the blade flew out of line. An expert shot had hit the blade and knocked it from the deadly path. The daemon prince’s eyes widened at the new crater pitting the sword. His head turned and he glared at the bolt’s source. “Who dares?” it snarled, blade coming up. Another shot was his answer, the blade shivering again from a bolt carefully placed. A third, a fourth, delivered in short sequence and the blade came apart from the impacts. Wide mouthed, the prince glared at the figure standing in the open hatch. A practiced hand removed the empty clip and slotted a new magazine in. More bolts rang out, shot on single fire but swiftly and carefully aimed. The prince howled from pain, its legs giving way with knees destroyed. Giant holes appeared through leather wings and the prince’s head rolled back as a bolt exploded in its fanged maw.

Lysander’s eyes widened as he beheld his rescuer. Lysander was tall and broad for a marine, a giant presence when wearing his terminator armor. Yet this marine towered over him easily. The floor shook beneath his foot steps as the marine approached with measured paces. His hands held the large bolt gun with practiced ease and the daemon prince writhed from the gun’s attention. The marine’s armor was not the amber yellow of the Fists, it was golden in color. Not the bright and bold gold of the Sanguinary Guard, not even the polished and austere shining gold of the Custodes, but a warmer color. It was well worn and just shy of being tarnished, covered in signs of warfare. Lysander finally saw the marine’s face and his breath stopped. It cannot be...

The large bolter was secured against the wielder’s side and a hand that gleamed silver reached down, grasping the prince by the throat. The giant raised the prince easily, holding it above the deck. Slate grey eyes peered closely at the daemon, intense and wrathful. “I see you wear the colors of my brother.” The voice was low but heard perfectly, a deep sound that resonated from the depths of the figure. “I also hear when your kind is banished from this plane you go back to the warp. So, I commend you to take a message for me. Tell him that I am back, and we will finish this ludicrous rivalry once and for all. There is no cage of iron about me now, but a fist will encase him soon.” The silver metal hand clenched shut and the crack of the daemon prince’s breaking neck filled the air. The giant figure held the body of the prince until it dissipated into nothingness.

The shock of the giant’s coming was broken as the prince faded away. From where he came charged a tide of warriors in black. Ones who bore a cross of black on white on their shoulders sang as their blades cut the traitors apart. Others who bore a white gauntlet on their shoulders chanted deep roaring cadences, their guns punctuating their words. The forces of the traitors fell back under this new onslaught and the Imperial Fists cheered at the sudden reinforcements.

The giant held out a hand, one encased in gold, to Lysander and the First Captain hesitated before gripping it. As if completely ignoring the weight of the terminator armor the larger figure lifted the marine from the deck. “On your feet Captain,” he said and Lysander almost wept to hear the voice. It was nothing he could have imagined. Deeper, wilder, full of life, reserved behind a wall of discipline, warm. “You have done well, but I have need of you yet.”

“Where...were you. You are our father...are you not?”

Rogal Dorn did not smile exactly, but his features relaxed slightly. “I was lost for a long time. I went looking for my brothers, to bring them back. I did not find any I was looking for, yet found one that I had lost.” His gold armored hand touched his silver one, they gripped each other slightly. “He saved me, in the outer dark, and gave me the strength to return. Now that I have, it is time to set things right.” His grey eyes rested on the scarred Eye of a Black Legionnaire’s livery. “I see you now, though you are dressed in different colors Nephew. They tell me you slew my son.” A blade appeared in Dorn’s fist. Not the immense chain sword of his legend, but an ancient long sword the color of obsidian. “Allow me to pay your Father back in kind.”