"Is he worthy?" Death asked him.
The question echoed in the chamber where the memories of the greatest deeds and the bitterest losses were preserved. It was quiet, but it drowned out even the ghostly echoes of warriors' marches in stone. Dominigo felt Astorath the Grim's gaze on him, like an ant daring to carry neutrinos. He also felt the gazes of others in the chamber, awaiting an answer. The Lord Commander, hidden behind his mask, radiating patient attention. The other Chapter Masters, each expressing assessment, cold interest, indifference. His Red Right Hands, knowing that their fate depended on his words.
Mephistus echoed Death's question, like an echo returning the question to the questioner. It was not a rhetorical device. It was a sincere question, addressed inwardly, yet held up for all to judge.
His scarlet-gloved hand reached for his belt—not for the hilt of his katana, but for the chains that held its scabbard to his hip. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unfastened the clasps. With a clang, the weapon fell in its scabbard onto the pinkish marble floor.
He had no intention of drawing his blade. Not here. Not in front of him. If Astorath the Grim, Executioner of Sanguinius, made his decision, whatever it might be, Dominigo would not oppose it. For Astorath was not the kind of death any of Sanguinius's sons would resist. It was to be submitted to. It was to be accepted. It was to be sought for redemption.
He stepped forward, toward the High Chaplain's icy aura, leaving his weapon behind as unnecessary in this dispute.
"I could appeal to my own merits."
His gaze slid over the banners under which the Blood Eagles and Knights of Sanguinius had fallen.
"To the thousands of slain Genestealers, to their Magos, Patriarchs, and Broodlord. To the vanquished unknown beings who called themselves 'gods,' but fell before the onslaught of the Blood Angels, whom I aided in this."
He spoke evenly, without boasting, stating the facts like an archive entry—any of the Chapter Masters could surely read his biography if they so desired. Sure few could contain their curiosity upon learning that the aspirant was a member of the infamous Lamenters.
"But I will not do that. For what do the merits of one Space Marine mean in the face of eternity? They are dust in the winds of history. They do not make a man—or what he has been transformed into—worthy." They're merely evidence that he did what he had to do.
He paused, and in the silence of the hall, his next voice rang out even more nakedly.
"I could appeal to my experience."
His eyes met Dante's mask—one whose experience was measured in centuries of despair.
"To the hundreds of battles from which I emerged alive. To the dozen squads, made up of fighters from various Chapters, that I led to fight when was in Deathwatch. To all that organizational work and the titanic patience it demanded, especially when interacting with mortals and, I emphasize, their nobility."
A faint, almost invisible smile of weary understanding touched his lips.
"But I will not do that. For experience is but a tool. The sharpest blade in the hands of the unworthy will bring only shame and death to those who follow it. Experience is not a measure of worth. It is merely an opportunity to prove it."
Mephistus turned his gaze back to Astorath, to his axe with its spine-shaped handle, to the eyes that had watched the deaths of so many of Sanguinius's children. And many he had slain himself.
"I could appeal to time."
His scarlet-gloved hand gestured toward the line of his charges standing behind him.
"That only this will prove whether I am worthy of the words I speak, what the Red Right Hands will prove themselves to be under my leadership. That the strongest steel becomes so under the blows of fate's hammer."
You know what his next words will be.
"But I will not do that. For time is an unreliable witness. It could be stolen from us tomorrow. I have no right to postpone the answer until later. The answer must be given here and now."
Dominigo drew himself up to his full, considerable height, one and a half times taller than the Executioner, and froze in his pose. No, not the pose one would expect from a challenge, but that of one who has made a decision and is ready to bear responsibility for it.
"There is only one thing I can appeal to, Lord Astorath. Not the past, not the future. The present. A choice."
His voice was measured, calm, confident. The insecure Domingo who had initially set foot on Baal, the "fifty-year-old boy," faded away, giving way to a fighter ready to move forward and only forward.
"I do not ask the Brotherhood for a gift. I accept the burden bestowed upon me. The burden of command. The burden of leadership. The burden of being an example. The burden of answering for every drop of blood my brothers will shed, and for every drop they will shed."
He looked at the draped throne, then at the banners of the fallen Chapters.
"My worth lies not in what I've done. Nor in what you hope I will do. It lies in my decision to accept this burden, knowing its weight. Knowing that I might not bear it. Knowing that I might fall and drag down the sons of Sanguinius entrusted to me."
He turned back to Astorath, and his next words sounded not like a defense, but like a conclusion to his thought, a nod to ancient wisdom known to many in this hall.
"The Great Angel, our father, standing at the Gates of Eternity, did not ask whether he was worthy of life. And he made his choice not because he was doomed, but because it was right to confront the Archenemy."
Dominigo stepped forward, placing himself directly in front of the small platform, but did not ascend it. He remained below, facing the court.
"I cannot know whether I am worthy of the title of Chapter Master. That is not for me to decide. That is for you, those who guard the essence of our Brotherhood. But I can tell you whether I am ready."
He raised his red hand, clenched into a fist—all that was missing was a crown of thorns to repeat the symbol of his new chapter.
"I am ready to bear this burden. I am ready to fall under its weight, if it be the will of the Father, the Emperor, and this Brotherhood. I am ready for my name to join those"—his gaze slid again over the mournful banners—"who remain only on these banners of memory. Or to be erased from history altogether. But as long as I draw breath, I will lead the Red Right Hands as my duty and our shared oath dictate. 'None but us.' No one but us will stand in the way of darkness. No one but us will bear this blow. And if to achieve this I need to be not worthy, but simply ready… then I am ready. And when the question is asked, that special question… Will I run?… I will say only one word."
Mephistus paused for a moment, lowering his hand. Some might accuse him of excessive theatrics—but all he wanted was to allow those with a more vivid genetic memory than his to once again experience Sanguinius, that poignant moment where he revealed his essence, his naked brilliance, revealing the essence of others, making hearts beat faster and tears flow involuntarily. He gave his answer to death, and it was not a plea for leniency, not a list of merits, but a naked, unarmored confession of responsibility and a willingness to sacrifice. He presented himself for judgment, hiding only behind his own choice.
An excerpt from my role-playing episode, translated through Google Translate - so I apologize for any shortcomings.
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