Hello everyone. This morning I saw a comment by /u/malumfectum on this post that got the creative oil flowing. So I came up with this and hopefully it entertains a few people. I really like ‘what if’ scenarios in lots of different universes and while this one is talked a lot, it’s still fun to me. Hopefully y’all enjoy and feedback is always welcome. Thanks for reading and have a wonderful day!

The command center was a riot of noise. Servitors chattered in dull voices, relaying messages and commands or droning in binary for waiting tech savants. Human messengers ran in and out, most unable to contain their panic and fear. Officers shouted over each other, trying to get their words heard. Voices rose louder and louder, reaching a fever pitch that made their ears ache.

At the center of the command center however there was a silence. It seemed to be apart from the rest of the room, an oasis of quiet that was out of place. However the silence was only a mask, a facade. Beneath the quiet a current could be felt, emotion intense enough to almost give it physical form. The source of the majority of the emotion was a giant figure encased in dull metal armor with emblems of chevroned black and yellow. Unpolished but not neglected, the plain metal shone in the lumens. The scarred face stared at the central oculus, teeth grinding almost audibly at what it revealed. It showed a world floating, details of ships, weapons platforms, defense stations, all rendered with stunning detail. In times of peace the colors were low and muted, odd choices of green and blue that were a throwback when Terra was not encased in metal and men.

Now the world was covered in angry reds and yellows. Enemy signatures, a thought once dismissed due to its inanity, surrounded the planet. Defense stations and friendly ships were slowly fading from bright green to dull grey before winking out of existence entirely. The enemy ships also suffered the same fate, but there were far more of them than the friendly green lights. Soon the planet would be ringed in red, fire and blood.

“What are you doing,” the iron figure whispered. He clenched his jaw with enough force to shatter bone. “Rotate faster and throw them back. You are wasting precious resources.”

“They are doing all they can, and it is all we can ask.”

The man turned, cables of metal shaking from his scalp as he glared at the other figure beside the oculus. This one was as giant as he though his armor was less bulky. Yet he made up for his slighter figure by being garbed in gold. It was a warm color, less bright and showy than the Custodians of the Palace yet it was showier than the former man’s dull metal armor, the sun against the moon. “They can do more, they can always do more.” The iron man sneered. “Perhaps this is why they fail, with you who led them incorrectly, inefficiently. They were to used to your soft hand, praetorian.”

The slightest twitch of an eyebrow gave away the gold armored man’s inner thoughts. “Perhaps, perhaps not. However, it is unbecoming of you Perturabo to denigrate their efforts. They are fighting and dying for us, for the Imperium. With their blood they are buying us time and threats and insults are hardly inspiring.”

Perturabo, lord of the IVth, Master of the Iron Warriors laughed. It had no mirth or happiness, with the personality of a shell being loaded into a barrel. “What are inspirations but words and wind? I am sure the enemy will retreat when they feel the power of our words.” He slammed his hand down and the table cracked from the blow. “Just like Istvaan, when our then wayward brothers listened to the words of the arch traitor right? Now they come here to trade even more words with us. Quite genteel of them would you agree? Words loaded on missile and lance, on bolt shell and plasma. When your words fail, brother,” he spat the word like an insult, “then you will be glad for my iron.”

Rogal Dorn’s eyes narrowed. The lord of the VII, the Imperial Fists, glared at Perturabo, more cracks appeared in the stone of his face. “I am glad for your iron brother, as well am I glad for the warriors within them. Are you forgetting what we are fighting for? This is not another theater, not another crusade. The traitors are here at the center of the Imperium, the heart. They mean to undo everything we have done, all our progress and gains. Your hard work even, when you say you do not receive enough accolades for. Or have you forgotten?”

Perturabo growled like an engine of a tank. “I forget nothing you pompous-“

A tap interrupted him, then another, and another. Both primarchs turned and watched a third approach them. This one was like them, far taller and broader than any human. His armor was pale ceramite, scarred by weapons and worse. The face was drawn and wasted, almost cadaverous and to any other they would look dead. Yet the eyes blazed with fire, as if they drew on the body’s nutrients to burn hotter than any fire. Mortarion, lord of the XIV, the Death Guard, stomped closer, leaning heavily on an immense scythe. The butt of the weapon tapped against the ground and the sound was rhythmic and unceasing until he stopped between the two.

“Enough,” Mortarion rasped. His voice was hoarse, a combination of a horrid cut across his throat and his already dour nature. “We do not have the time for this bickering. When we make it through this,” no one missed his choice of words, “when we have made our idiot brothers pay for their betrayal, when we restablish the Imperium, you two can fight it out. In fact I look forward to it.” He grunted sourly, pain and exasperation combined in the sound. “Anything to end this petty rivalry.”

Dorn nodded his head slightly, deferring to the survivor of Istvaan 5. Mortarion had made it off the world after the trap was sprung, and while loosing the majority of his landing force, managed to break the cordon around the planet by the traitor forces and bring word back to Terra. He had brought back irrefutable proof that fully half of the legions had rallied to the Traitor’s Banner, and paid the price for such information. Almost dead, Mortarion had managed to bring back the three shattered legions as well as recall other elements of his legion to reinforce Terra. While shadows of their former power, the survivors integrated well into the defenders and they would fight with particularly fury.

Perturabo snorted again. “Fine, when this is all over I will settle this with you.” Another snort at Dorn’s differential nod. “I will say that your words surprise me,” the lord of Iron said to the lord of Death. “You were never one for inspiring words before, no for your optimism.”

Mortarion smiled, a ghastly sight of barely restrained malice. “No I was not. I never saw the need for it. My warriors fought hard and always did, no matter the circumstance. However there is something to be said about why to fight, and for what reason. I used to fight to see my enemies fall before my abilities, to prove my worth.” He rested a scarred gauntleted hand on Perturabo’s shoulder. “Reasons I know you share.”

The scythe rested against his shoulder as he rested another hand on Rogal Dorn’s shoulder. “And like you I also saw it as my duty. To fight well, to do what is expected. To serve. Following orders, I led the retribution force to Istvaan. In the fires of Istvaan, I found a new reason to fight.” The hands fell and wrapped around the haft of the scythe. “I fight because of what is right now. I fight because the Traitors threw away decades of hard work and effort, threw away countless lives for their greed and their base desires. This is no longer a war for supremacy. This is a war for survival, a war of ideals.” The hands gripped the scythe tighter. “A war for revenge.”

He pointed at the globe with the gleaming blade. “Look at them, surrounding us like scavengers around a dying body. They think we are dead and come to divide the spoils. Yet we are not dead, not yet. We are dying, we are Death, and we will outlive them. We will make them suffer for their stupidity. They will die screaming, and we will survive and thrive. They may be a wave of fire and fury but we are the toughest armor, the immovable presence. None can bring us three down. No one.”

Dorn raised his chainsword, longer than a man is tall and gleaming with serrated teeth. He rested the sword against his brother’s scythe. “Agreed. The Imperial Fists fight alongside the Death Guard and the Iron Warriors willingly. The defenses raised by the Fists, perfected by the Warriors, manned by the Guard, none will bring us down.”

After a moment’s pause Perturabo raised the large warhammer to rest against the other two weapons. A last gift, sent by a brother who died for them, a reminder of what they have already lost. “When they waste themselves against us, when they tire from their impotence, we will grind them into nothingness. We will endure.”