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Perturabo decided not to say anything, to keep back his tongue. He could feel a subtle amount of anger rising and now of all times it would not be in his favor to exercise it. If he did, the worst that could happen would be the destruction of his Father’s Casket. Another, well, Perturabo realized that such an action would make whatever efforts his brother made pointless.
As such it was his brother TalOS who responded, “Those are sickening words to use against me. I understand your discomfort, even fear, but please do not vocalize them. It does not help anyone.”
“It does not help you is who it does not help.” Calliphone pointedly made. Her lungs seemed to regain a sliver of life as her personal fire of anger burned, “We had thought Bo to be the Child of the Gods. He was someone who might uplift the people of Olympia to greater heights. It seems we were wrong to think that he was of our Gods.”
‘Their gods’, ‘his gods’. Calliphone knew how much those words irritated Perturabo but she was sounding like a zealot with each parse of information. The title ‘Child of the Gods’ was one that Perturabo hated the most for it denied his true Father the agency in creating the Primarchs!
“You are, in some way, correct.” Of all the things Perturabo’s brother said that was one not to be expected, “The Primarchs were not made by the Gods of Olympia. They were made by the Emperor of Mankind with the assistance of Malcador the Sigillite and the Machine God. If we wanted to take in semantics and classifications, then indeed Perturabo was made by other Gods. If you call the Emperor such a thing he does not wish to be true.”
Calliphone, in her old age, looked upon them with widened eyes. As if she was now seeing the world in new eyes while gazing upon the pair that were before her. Perturabo had a nasty feeling within his chest as he gazed upon it.
“Then Perturabo was right.” Were the words said in what could be described as the most sickening of tone, “He told our Father so many times that he was not <span class="mu-i">of</span> Olympia and denied so many times to become one of us. But if he was indeed created to be such a thing than I can see why he would deny it. It is against his very nature.”
Anger flared as Perturabo wanted to rebuke her. His mind tried to rationalize what indeed was the parts of his life where he found himself assimilating into the culture that was Olympia. At first it was hard, for indeed so many times he had renounced what were traditions like granting oneself a new name at the coming of age.
But then he realized that there were aspects of Olympia that he accepted. His vessel, the Iron Blood, had at its center a theater dedicated to the artistry of war with so many pieces of art that were of Olympian style. That the times he wished to engage in things like improving the throne chambers of Dammekos were denied!
