The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 126: Erda



Reality crystallized into stillness, the very atoms of existence holding their breath at the Emperor's command. The Stormbird's massive engines froze mid-ignition, their thermal wash captured in an eternal moment like amber preserving ancient insects. Even the dust motes hung motionless in the air, creating halos around the two titanic figures standing beneath the vessel's swept wings.

Franklin Valorian turned from the boarding ramp, his massive frame moving with casual grace that belied his supernatural origins. A knowing smirk played across features that entire worlds would one day commemorate in statuary, though few would capture the irreverent gleam in his eyes.

"Let me guess," Franklin drawled, leaning casually against the frozen Stormbird's hull. "You're about to tell me something so monumentally important that it merits stopping time itself just to have a chat? Must be end-of-the-world levels of dramatic." He paused, then added with a grin, "Or maybe you forgot to mention something during dinner last night?"

The Emperor, choosing to ignore His son's theatrical speculation, went straight to the point. "It's about your mother, Erda." His voice carried the weight of ages, yet held an unusual note of... hesitation? "There's more you should know. She was the one who scattered the Primarchs across the galaxy."

Franklin's eyebrows shot up, but his smirk didn't waver. "Well, that's one hell of a divorce settlement." He straightened slightly, his mind already connecting dots across millennia. "Though I'm sensing there's a 'but' coming. Let me guess - manipulation by outside forces?" "Yes," the Emperor confirmed, "though the choice was still ultimately hers."

Franklin nodded slowly, his expression growing more thoughtful. "Question, Pops - did you ever plan to let her be part of our lives? As children, I mean. Did you make any promises about that?"

The Emperor's silence was answer enough, but He spoke anyway. "No. Time was of the essence. The Great Crusade couldn't wait."

"And therein lies the problem," Franklin chuckled, though there was an edge to his laughter now. "Father, let me ask you something - how many women have you been with across your," he waved his hand vaguely, "incredibly long life?"

The Emperor's perfect features showed a flicker of pride. "Countless."

"All flings? Or did you leave a trail of demigod children across history?"

The Emperor's eyes narrowed slightly. "I believe, the old saying, that the pot is calling the kettle black. I've observed your own... relationships, my son. They haven't exactly been models of commitment."

Franklin raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Point taken! But here's the crucial detail you're missing, Dad - women, unlike us men, tend to be more emotionally invested. And when you prevent a mother from being part of her children's lives, especially after possibly promising her some role..." He shrugged expressively. "Well, women are gonna women."

The Emperor stared at His son with an expression that suggested He was witnessing either profound wisdom or complete irreverence - possibly both.

"Look," Franklin continued, "I'm not judging you. Well, maybe a little. But mostly I'm just pointing out that it's no wonder she went full psycho. Hell, regular custody battles get messy enough - throw in twenty demigod sons and immortality, and you're basically asking for galaxy-spanning drama."

The Emperor remained silent, His golden eyes unreadable as He processed His son's surprisingly insightful analysis of the situation.

"Don't worry though," Franklin added cheerfully, "I'll forgive her. Water under the bridge and all that. Though I might shoot her first, just on principle." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I mean, being old as dirt is no excuse for that level of irrational behavior. Made our jobs way harder than they needed to be."

"You're taking this remarkably well," the Emperor observed, studying His son's face.

"What can I say? I've got your genes for dramatic flair and her genes for making questionable life choices. It's a winning combination." Franklin straightened up from his casual lean."

Time resumed it's normal flow as the Emperor left.

The Sector Destroyer hung in Terra's stratosphere like a metal leviathan, its baroque architecture a testament to humanity's martial might. Within its labyrinthine depths, the Vintage Area stood as an anachronistic sanctuary - a chamber where ancient leather chairs and carved wooden panels defied the vessel's otherwise utilitarian aesthetic.

Franklin sprawled in one such chair with deliberate casualness a stark contradiction to his transhuman nature. The chair, reinforced to bear his mammoth frame, creaked slightly as he adjusted his position. Through the chamber's viewing port, the African continent spread below like a ancient tapestry, its restored ecology a patchwork of greens and golds. Somewhere in those vast expanses lay Geulb, and with it, answers to questions millennia in the making.

Denzel, moved through the chamber. His dark features held the perpetual alertness of a warrior who had survived countless campaigns, yet his movements as he poured the amasec carried the familiarity of long friendship. The crystalline decanter caught the light as he filled two glasses - two primarch sized glasses.

"Your thoughts on meeting her?" Denzel's voice carried the weight of centuries of shared battles and victories. He slid the larger glass across the marble-topped table between them. "The real mother, I mean."

Franklin's laugh echoed through the chamber, a sound that could inspire armies or terrify enemies. "First order of business? Probably shoot her." He lifted the glass, studying the amber liquid within. "Call it a courtesy tax for all the trouble. Having to patch up broken brothers isn't exactly how I planned to spend my centuries."

The amasec caught the light as he swirled it, creating patterns that mimicked the stellar formations visible through the viewport. "Though if we're being honest, she's more of a step-mother figure. Didn't exactly handle the day-to-day raising of any of us, did she?" Denzel's features shifted into an expression that few outside this room would ever witness - the look of a man about to challenge a demigod. "You know, Frank, one might say you're not entirely stable yourself."

"Crazy? Me?" Franklin's eyebrows rose with theatrical incredulity. "I'm perfectly normal."

"Normal?" Denzel's rich laughter filled the chamber. "Brother, in all our years of friendship, I've never once used that word to describe you." He leaned forward, his enhanced eyes reflecting the starlight. "You're not psychopath-crazy, I'll grant you that. But there's something... different about you. A kind of Machiavellian intelligence mixed with something fundamentally unhinged."

He took a measured sip of his amasec before continuing. "And let's not forget that smile when you kill. Could be sadism, could be your hubris showing through. Either way, it's not exactly standard Human behavior, but in any case we are no longer humans either" Franklin fell silent, an unusual occurrence that filled the chamber with a weight heavier than mere absence of sound. His fingers traced patterns on the glass as he considered his oldest

friend's words.

"Maybe you're right," he finally admitted, his voice carrying undertones that could shake mountains. "Maybe I am what you say. But then again," a familiar grin spread across his features, "in times like these, who's to say what's really sane? Less philosophizing about my mental state, more focus on the task at hand."

Denzel nodded, recognizing the deflection for what it was. This was his brother-in-arms, his Primarch, his friend - unhinged perhaps, but never without purpose. The First Captain had witnessed Franklin's methods enough times to know that behind every seemingly erratic action lay calculations deeper than the void between stars.

The African continent continued its slow rotation below them, each passing moment bringing them closer to their destination. In the distance, a flight of Eagles gunships conducted patrol maneuvers, their contrails painting white lines across the restored azure sky.

"You know," Denzel mused, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them, "most sons meeting their long-lost mother wouldn't plan to shoot her as an opening move." Franklin's grin widened. "Most sons weren't scattered across a galaxy by said mother." He drained his glass in one smooth motion. "Besides, she's a perpetual. She'll walk it off." "Speaking of your more explosive endeavors," Denzel began, his voice carrying the weight of recent intelligence reports, "there's some interesting developments regarding our Knife

Eared Victims."

Franklin's eyes gleamed with amused interest. "The Dark Eldar? Didn't I reduce their playground to ash?" He chuckled, the sound carrying echoes of burning Commoragh and screaming spires. "Rather definitively, as I recall."

"That's actually the interesting part," Denzel leaned forward, his primeborn enhancements allowing him to recall every detail with crystal clarity. "They've been trying to demolish your statue. Repeatedly. And failing."

"My statue?" Franklin's eyebrows rose with genuine surprise. "The one I left standing in their burning paradise? Me Flexing? How thoughtful of them to keep trying." His grin widened, becoming predatory. "I assume they're having about as much success as they did defending

their city?"

Denzel's expression carried the careful neutrality of a man delivering complex news. "None whatsoever. But that's not the most interesting part. Your little bonfire seems to have had some... unexpected consequences in their power structure."

He placed his glass down with deliberate care. "Asdrubael Vect - you remember him, the one who was supposed to become their supreme overlord eventually the one that was saved by Drazhar and you let him go- well, his carefully laid plans for ascending to power have gone up in smoke, quite literally."

Franklin's laughter echoed through the chamber, a sound that would have sent shivers down the spines of any Dark Eldar who heard it. "Oh, do tell. I love a good story about ruined

ambitions."

"According to our future data, he had this elaborate plan spanning millennia. By the 32nd millennium, he would have eliminated the noble houses through careful manipulation, paving his way to absolute power." Denzel's lips curved in a bitter smile. "Until we crashed

his party. Literally."

Franklin's laughter boomed through the chamber. "So we didn't just burn their city, we accidentally derailed their entire political timeline? Now that's what I call efficient." "When we left the ashes of Commoragh, We inadvertently rang the dinner bell for every ambitious knife-ear in the Webway. What's left of Commorragh - and its newer incarnation - has devolved into a feeding frenzy."

"Vect and his Kabal of the Black Heart are still in play, but they're just another shark in bloody waters now. The power vacuum we created has drawn out all the major players." Denzel's voice took on the measured tone of a military briefing. "The Flayed Skull, who've turned void-warfare into an art form. The Obsidian Rose, with their weapon-craft that would make even Martian tech-priests seem tame in comparison. The Last Hatred, driven by spite so pure it might as well be a Warp entity. and The Poisoned Tongue, whose webs of intrigue somehow

survived the flames."

"Ah," Franklin's eyes gleamed with recognition. "Vect's future ex. Lady Malys, wasn't it? The one who was supposed to become his consort when he finally claimed his throne?" "The very same. But now?" Denzel spread his hands in a gesture of cosmic irony. "She's just

another player in the game. No predetermined path to power through Vect's machinations. No carefully orchestrated rise to prominence."

"We gave them all a clean slate," Franklin mused, his voice carrying the weight of empires toppled and futures rewritten. "A chance to rise or fall on their own merits. How democratically destructive of us."

"These are the same players, just younger and hungrier," Denzel confirmed. "According to

our intelligence, they're positioning themselves as the new hierarchy. Unstable, but

persistent." Franklin's features settled into an expression that blended amusement with calculating interest. "So instead of letting Vect play his long game of carefully orchestrated

elimination..."

"We kicked over the board entirely," Denzel finished. "Now, instead of one supreme predator

emerging over millennia, we have multiple power centers tearing at each other's throats. Their raids against the Imperium will be less coordinated, more desperate." "Almost sounds like we did them a favor," Franklin's voice carried a note of mock consideration. "Gave them more opportunities for the violence and treachery they so love. Really, they should be thanking us."

"You know what's truly ironic?" Franklin finally spoke, his voice carrying an edge of dark

amusement. "In trying to destroy my statues, they're probably doing more damage to themselves than they ever could to me. All that infighting, all that delicious chaos..." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "To unintended consequences."

"To the butterfly effect," Denzel responded, raising his own glass. "Though in this case, the

butterfly was more of a thermonuclear explosion."

"Details, details." Franklin waved his hand dismissively. "The important thing is that we've

given an entire race of sadistic immortals an object lesson in chaos theory. That has to count for something in the grand scheme of things."

Their laughter echoed through the chamber once more, a sound that would have chilled the

blood of any Dark Eldar who heard it.

"Sometimes," Franklin mused, his voice carrying the weight of futures seen and altered, "the best strategies are the ones we stumble into backwards while setting something else on fire."

839.30M Mauritania, Guelb

The Sector Destroyer hung in the African sky like a metal leviathan, its shadow falling across the ancient sands in a kilometers-long shroud. Below, an oasis defied the desert's dominion - a splash of verdant life amid the endless dunes. At its heart stood a mansion that seemed ton/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

exist in deliberate defiance of both time and logic, its architecture a blend of ages that spoke of someone who had witnessed the rise and fall of countless civilizations. Liberty Guard units moved with mechanical precision, their exo-armor shining under the sun as they established a perimeter. Their presence transformed the peaceful oasis into a militarized zone, though they executed their duties with a peculiar restraint. Servants moved between their ranks like fish navigating between the legs of wading birds, neither party acknowledging the surreal nature of their coexistence.

As the Stormbird's engines wound down, their roar diminishing to a whisper, sand settled around the craft like golden snow. Franklin descended the ramp with the casual grace of a predator, his massive frame making even the reinforced metal groan beneath his weight. Behind him Denzel.

It was then that Franklin's enhanced senses detected another presence - a different kind of transhuman power, familiar yet distinct. Before them stood a Space Marine in Mark II Crusade armor, the designation "Le 2" etched below his breastplate in High Gothic script. The armor was pristine, a testament to both care and skill, but it was what lay beneath that caught Franklin's attention.

The Primarch's lips curved into a knowing smile as genetic recognition sparked between them

- a connection that spoke of shared heritage and divided destiny. Here stood living proof of the Emperor's experiments, a being crafted from the same genetics that had birthed the Primarchs, yet shaped into something different.

"Hello, my half-brother," the Primarch's voice carried notes of genuine warmth mixed with

something darker. "Nice to meet you." He extended his hand - a gesture both welcoming and somehow threatening in its casualness.

Leetu took the offered hand with visible reluctance, his ceramite gauntlet engulfed by

Franklin's massive palm. "Brother..." The word emerged like a challenge. "What kind of brother brings an army to visit?"

Franklin's laughter rolled across the oasis like distant thunder. "Me." He moved past Leetu with deliberate nonchalance, leaving Denzel to block any potential pursuit. The tension between Primeborn and Prototype Space Marine crackled like static before a storm, two transhuman warriors measuring each other with the precision of targeting augurs.

The mansion's entrance forced even mortal men to duck; for Franklin, it required an almost comedic degree of stooping. Yet as he crossed the threshold, the interior space opened up like a cathedral, its dimensions suggesting architectural principles that owed more to art than

functionality.

"May I come in?" His voice carried perfectly calibrated politeness, a warrior-king playing at social niceties. "Come in." The response emerged from deeper within - a woman's voice that carried echoes of ages past and futures yet unrealized.

Franklin moved through the mansion with measured steps, each one bringing him closer to a meeting millennia in the making. In a room that seemed to exist in multiple dimensions at once, he found her - a figure seated with the stillness of mountains, her face obscured behind

a scarf that might have been woven from starlight.

The Primarch's smile shifted into something sharp enough to cut worlds in half. "Hello,

Mother Dearest," he said, the words falling like artillery shells in the quiet space. "Nice to finally meet face to face after you know..." He made a scattering gesture with one massive hand. "...throwing us across the galaxy."

The air within the mansion hung heavy with the weight of ages, each breath charged with

potential like the moment before a thunderstorm. Desert light filtered through windows that seemed to exist in multiple dimensions at once, casting strange shadows across the face of a woman who had helped birth demigods.

Erda's eyes, blue as the heart of glaciers, studied the transhuman colossus before her. Those ancient orbs had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, had gazed upon the face of humanity's Master when He was yet mortal, had seen the first breath of twenty sons who would reshape the galaxy. Now they fixed upon one of those sons - perhaps the most dangerous of them all.

"You carry yourself like Him," she said, her voice carrying echoes of lost ages. "Always right, ruthless, and astoundingly arrogant." The words fell between them like artillery shells, each one a calculated strike against the fortress of Franklin's composure. "Beneath that perpetual

smirk of yours, what lies hidden, I wonder?"

The question hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in maternal curiosity. Sand whispered

against the windows outside, nature's timekeeper marking the seconds between cosmic revelations. "Among the twenty," she continued, her gaze never wavering, "each one represents an aspect

of Him. What aspect do you embody-"

"Franklin Valorian," he interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of worlds conquered and futures rewritten. "The Eleventh. I embody Freedom, Liberty, and Autonomy."

A laugh escaped her then, sharp as broken glass. "You forgot two: Arrogance and Manifest

Destiny." "I'm not arrogant." The words emerged from Franklin's lips with practiced ease. "That's what all arrogant men say," Erda replied, millennia of observation lending weight to

her words. "Just like Him."

Franklin gestured toward the chair opposite her, a movement that somehow managed to be

both courteous and threatening. "May I?"

At her nod, he settled his massive frame into furniture that should have crumbled beneath his

weight yet somehow held firm. They sat face to face now, mother and son, creator and creation, each carrying burdens heavy enough to crush worlds.