{oOo}

The echoing hall had once been lined with fluted columns and bedecked with hundreds of banners heralding the triumphs of Horus Lupercal, Primarch and Warmaster. While it could have been ascribed to egotism on the part of the arch-traitor, the fact was that the chamber had been furnished entirely at the behest of his sister, as a museum to exhibit his accomplishments to the Terran masses.

Now the columns (fortunately more ornamental than structural) had mostly been smashed, the banners torn down and the tens of thousands of artifacts ravaged.

When news of the Heresy had been confirmed, thousands of those who had once walked through the galleries had returned and visited the petty vengeance that they could upon the representation of Horus. And then the avaricious had descended to strip away the gems and precious metals before the forces of law and order (curiously absent) stepped in to prevent further anarchy.

Probably most of those who profited from the vandalism were dead now.

The vast frame hung from the wall at one end of the hall had once held a vast oil portraiture of Horus and Serenity, the Primarch standing in full armour behind the Anima's chair. Half of the oil painting was still slightly in evidence, though much burned, but the half portraying the Emperor's Daughter had been torn away.

Horus briefly wondered where it was.

There were a thousand feet treading the scored and savaged marble of the museum once more, debris from the mob's leavings and from more than a year without repair to the gaping holes that had once been stained glass windows under their boots. The hall could have played host to a crowd of ten thousand men and women and often had, but with more than five hundred armoured space marines it felt crowded enough.

The armour was not the pale green Mark IV or Mark V suits that Horus was accustomed to seeing around him. A few of the one-time Sons of Horus had reverted to the ivory and the former name of his legion, but none of them stood amongst that crowd. They were the handful who had held true when all about them had not and they had no place here in a broken hall with broken men.

Broken in faith.

Broken in soul.

Broken, in many cases, in body.

But injured, heartbroken or simply foresworn of allegiance of first Loyalist and then of the Traitors, survivors of the Sons of Horus, of the Emperor's Children, of the Word Bearers and even in some rare cases the Alpha Legion had gathered in this hall and donned battleplate from the relatively well-stocked armoury now contained within the few weatherproof rooms in the structure.

Mark II and Mark III armour without exception, the suits were piecemeal but functional, a handful of technically skilled marines having supplemented individual capability. But they were uniform in one other respect.

Each was black, without marking of rank or status save for an engraved X or C in the brow of certain amongst them. Leaders of ten or a hundred, Sergeants or Captains as the other Legions would have it.

Even Horus wore the same unadorned plate, albeit armour always intended for his frame, notably larger than that a space marine. This, like all the suits of power armour and the weapons that accompanied them, had been provided to him by Rogal Dorn.

"You are not forgiven," the Emperor's Praetorian had told him flatly when he accompanied the shipment. "I have no brother by your name."

Filthy from days wandering the ruined galleries, eyes red from tears such as he had never thought to shed, knuckles actually raw from beating at the walls until one wing had collapsed outright upon him, Horus had merely stared at the wargear in confusion.

Dorn's jaw had worked for a moment before he spoke again. "The Emperor still speaks, sometimes. Scribes take it all down."

Well of course they would.

"'Horus Lupercal shall perish leading his black legion in crusade'," the Primarch of the Imperial Fists had recited with relish. "Guilleman and the others may believe that death is too good for you, but I have no such illusions. Death and whatever waits for you there is a fitting punishment for treason. And something must be done for those of your followers who claim to be repentant."

And so they stood there. Not even a single Great Company in size, many of them still bearing wounds of battles fought in his name and that of...

Horus shook his head and rose to his feet. It was time.

But before he could say a word there was the sound of armoured feet and marines turned (the older models of their armour not allowing their helmets to turn at all) to see the new arrivals filing through the doors.

Unlike those already arrived, these marines wore dark green and where not obscured with hasty daubs of paint it was clear that they had once worn the winged sword of a legion.

None of Horus' men were armed with more than bolt pistols or knives but all those arriving carried full wargear, a vastly superior panoply. Though outnumbered five to one, they would pose a formidable threat if they came in violence.

But no.

To Horus it was all too plain, even through their armour. These men were lost, looking not for enemies but for a road to follow. And the man in the lead was...

Stalking quickly through the crowd, he brought the new arrival's advance to a halt. There was no mistaking Horus after all.

No more than there was mistaking the sword carried by their leader.

His hands went first to the butts of the pistols at his hips, not to the blade. It was not his sword to draw. That he even carried it spoke poorly of the Dark Angels' circumstances.

There was a rustle amongst the crowd and four space marines moved to flank Horus, each wearing a C upon their helm. Reluctantly, he stepped back as the Dark Angel removed his helm, revealing a weary face.

"We are the Mournival," the four spoke as one.

"I am Cypher."

Horus' own helm was bare of any marking.

He who had once led would now follow.

Until his sister was saved, his father's promise could not be allowed to come to fruition.

{oOo}

AN: In a universe where Horus still fell, but was saved by Serenity, I guess you could fit it into the continuity of "The Scattering of Serenity", if you squint.