Memories... yes he had those. But they seemed, distant in this place. Like they were only as real as a shadow. He could remember his memories being different before. He remembered remembering more vividly. That had, probably, been when he was still mortal. Fully mortal, no something dwelling in the twilight of reality like some vampire or revenant standing on the threshold waiting for the invitation of either.

Strange to remember remembering things how they were and remember remembering them different. It was madness, some inhalation of airborne toxins that clouded the mind and snared the senses, twisting perceptions of reality upon themselves until they made less than no sense and you even became unaware of your own death as you lay breathing a manifestation of asphyxiation. Now there was a memory of childhood. But such a time was dimmer than a shadows shadow and held even less weight in this place. Best not to think about such things, ever.

But what was it that had brought these thoughts on. Oh, yes. The scythe. He had always carried one. A scythe. Strange how such a prominent symbol of peace and plenty could inspire fear into untold millions the galaxy over. It was an instrument of dread in itself. Its ability to kill and maim held little to do with its physical shape anymore, its notched blade, its rust, its grime, its ground in putrid corpse meat. It even had a name of its own 'Manreaper'. It looked like it could not even cut cobwebs, but he had used it to calve through power armour and bodies like they were made of water.

Scythe... it went with the orbs. He had four of them. They were connected to his belt by a length of chain and they emitted clouds of toxic gasses the like of which no one should ever desire to breathe. They reeked, but on this world the stench of decay and death was so over universally overpowering that people would gladly take a long deep breath of it simply to break the horrible suffocating monotony.

He rested one talon on one them. They comforted him in a way that the chanting of the damned never could. He could hear them, even here. The chanters encircled the planets equator, constantly walking, shuffling in a big circuit that would never end until they died and became something like himself. He could hear their prayers and slow steady chants from hear, brought by some unholy reeking breeze. Even here on a throne that was as tall as a mountain. A mountain its heights covered in poisonous smog, the likes of which would flay a mans lungs from the inside and leaving coughing up a viscous crimson liquid inconsistent in texture that had once been working innards.

Another memory. Had that been his fate? To die in such a manner? If not for his father it would have been. That made him angry. His father should have just let him die all those years ago. It was his choice, his death right. He had done his purpose and brought a peace to a world that could not afford war, a twisted horrible world where the people were predated upon b half dead jackals from the tops of the mountains. perverted abominations that were not really alive but not dead enough, who brought only suffering and despair to those that their ancestors had sworn to guide and protect. It made him sick to think of it. But those people had been saved by him. He had shown them how to resist the half-dead warlords and their armies of rotting corpse-things. He had shown them ho to fight with what meagre ill-suited things they had; pitch forks, spades, hammers, sickles even scythes. They had not trusted him at first, walking down from the perpetual chocking smog of the mountains, breathing in its toxicity and remaining alive. But he had helped them bring in what little harvest there was on the scanty unsullied land. They had been his friends; the nearest he had ever had to a true family.

Something touched his contorted face. He reached up to examine it with one talon as clean as something dripping out of the bottom of a coffin. It glittered on his fingers in the light of the baleful red sun like the madness in the eyes of a god. It was a tear. It took his brain a moment to realize, even recognise this. A tear. But why? Had he cried when his brother and best friend died? No. Had he cried at his father's death? No. Had he cried when he lay dying on the side of a mountain chocking on smog as his nemesis stalked towards him? No. He had never cried. Not at such things. But hear was a tear, precious in its solitariness. When had he ever wept? The last, and only time, had been when he had been taken away from his world. Everyone he had ever known, snatched away from him. He had wanted to live and work grow, old and die amongst them. But his father had snatched that away from him. And he learnt he would never have grown old. But why a tear now? That world was long since dead. Its people now gone to the Beyond where no toxic ground or poisonous rain could bother them again.

And that shameful little thought. 'I'm sorry I never joined you.'

It was the ultimate perversity; possessing a name that meant 'child of death' and no longer being capable of dying.

Was it possible that he missed them, after all this time. But no, it could not be that. He had wept for that long ago. 'Is it because you betrayed them?'. The thought came unbidden into his mind like a shard of shattered glass digging into a twelve-day corpse.

But he had no choice. It had seemed obvious at the time that his charismatic larger brother was going to win. He had simply been going along with the crowd to undo as much of its damage as possible after the ensuring holocaust. He had never given over to chaos. Why would he have? It had nothing to bribe him with. He had never cared for anything other than other people. No ambition, no unnatural lust, no desire other than to keep people safe and free of despair. Had that been how they got him in the end? The subtle manipulations of the lord of decay and despair. Being stuck on a ship and watching his legion get infected by myriad diseases and contagions and mutagents until they were only recognisable as human in the grossest of ways. They had been his children in a way. They certainly shared some of his converted double helix. It had striped his sanity, having to watch that.

"I'm sorry." He whispers at the top of his mountainous throne of filth.

He looks down at himself, at the visage of his form. It disgusts him. He had never been pleasing to look upon, too gangly and pale and sickly looking, but now he was a manifestation of decay and infectious puss; A corpse-thing, neither living nor dead dwelling at the top of a mountain in a haze of lung blistering, eye dissolving smog.

Realization dawned. A cruel quip and jest of Chaos; he had become the thing he had most hated. And for what? A world of decay and entropy that festered in a realm where mad gods made a plaything out of reality. Who used him as a joke. A ten thousand year joke.

With bone creaking slowness he arose from his throne. A steely look of determination in his eyes. This was never as he had wanted. Never this. Elevated to being a Deamon Prince but not even worthy to help with the harvest by his own standards. The people of the Imperium needed him. Its dying people needed someone they could look to to deliver them from the lonely death. 'Child of death' but servant life. The duty was clear to him now. He would make himself worthy of his friends long gone, worthy to have helped them bring in that harvest so long ago. Chaos was going to pay dearly for its little witticism. One day the galaxy would once again praise the name Mortarion.