The Lion has been waiting for word that the Imperium still survives in some form. He has sent expeditionary ships out, and has astropaths screaming their silent messages into the void, but with every new system his forces find the message is the same: they have been isolated, they have been cut off, they have no knowledge of the wider galaxy. 

The Lion still desperately hopes that the Imperium survives, and that he has simply ended up in a part where the isolation and warp storms are particularly bad. Indeed, according to the rumours that run through the worlds he now protects, that is exactly why he is there: a champion to protect them in their time of greatest need. He does not comment on such speculation, because he still cannot truly say what drew him to Camarth in the first place, nor why he regained awareness at that time. 

However, another part of him worries. These people were desperate, they wanted a saviour and were only too happy to cast him in that role, but what happens if the Lion encounters a bastion of Imperial space, besieged but still resistant, in contact with other areas and holding firm to their old systems? Will they accept who he is? Or will whoever rules there, driven by genuine doubts or simple fears of losing their own authority  – or both  – denounce him as an imposter, and call for war against him? Against his protectorate? The Lion has not created an empire nor attempted to supplant the Imperium, but he fears how it might appear to suspicious outsiders. 

When word of the Imperium does come, it comes in a manner he had not expected. 

‘Translation!’ the auspex officer of the Lunar Knight shouts, as the Lion studies the damage reports of the fleet he led against the ork pirates that had been lurking in the asteroid fields near the world of Denerair. ‘Multiple warp wakes!’ 

‘Xenos?’ the Lion asks, dismissing the read-outs and bringing the tactical hololith online, as the bridge readies itself for a combat footing once more. 

‘Negative,’ the auspex officer says after a moment. ‘Bringing visual up for you now, my lord.’ 

The Lion frowns at the grainy image that appears. The shapes are difficult to make out, but it is a small fleet: several light cruisers clustered around a central capital ship. This, however, is not any of the Imperial battleships he has seen so far since his reawakening. This is something new, yet also familiar.

'That is a battle-barge,’ the Lion says. He raises his voice. ‘Do we have an ident?’ 

‘It’s reading as Baal’s Fury, my lord!’ the auspex officer reports. 

‘Blood Angels,’ the Lion breathes. The sons of his most beloved brother. A joyous sight… and yet potentially disastrous, if they do not accept his tale. 

‘They are hailing us, my lord,’ the vox-officer says. ‘They say their commander wishes to speak with you. They are asking for you by name.’ 

The bridge goes quiet. Everyone knows how significant this moment could be. 

‘We will receive them,’ the Lion says immediately. ‘All ships are to power down weapon systems. I do not want anyone in that force to think that we are not glad to see them.’ 

He turns, and leaves the bridge. Now he just has to hope that his brother’s sons give him no reason to regret his orders. 

The Lion stands on the deck of the hangar, with Zabriel to his left. The rest of his sons are commanding other forces and other fleets, lending their skill and experience to the protectorate, and with orders not to stray too far. All of the so-called Fallen are keen to prove their worth, but the Lion has impressed the need for caution upon them. Their only chance of survival is to stay in close contact, and be ready to aid each other if needed; the days of Dark Angels crusading fleets venturing into the unknown are long gone. 

But here are the Blood Angels in a trio of Thunderhawk gunships, sweeping in through the ion field that prevents the hangar’s atmosphere from leaking out into the void of space. They touch down as one, as neatly as if this were a parade ground back in the days of the Great Crusade – a flashback to a time before the twin knives of treachery and betrayal were buried into the Imperium’s heart. 

The Thunderhawks’ forward ramps lower, and warriors armoured in blood red descend them in unison. The Lion feels a pang of sorrow at seeing Sanguinius’ sons. It is one thing to know that his loyal brothers are gone, but quite another to see this reminder of one of them. Quite unexpectedly, the Lion feels a rush of guilt. Why should I have been the one to survive? Out of all of us, why should it have been me? 

However, another part of him is weighing and assessing what he is seeing. Sixty Space Marines is a potent force; even more so if they are armed, supplied, and organised by squads in a manner his sons cannot currently be. What he could do, if these sixty warriors were under his command! But of course, they are not. They are here to do him honour, plucked away from what must undoubtedly have been other vital engagements simply because of his status. 

And if their current commander decides that he is a fraud, then the Lion is under no illusion that these warriors are here to kill him. 

Then a new group of ten Space Marines emerge from the central gunship, and between them comes a warrior in incredibly ornate golden plate, with a jump pack rising from his back, and his face masked. 

The Lion’s eyes fall upon that mask, and rage fills him. 

‘Who are you?’ he demands, striding forward. The assembled Blood Angels, who had their weapons held neutrally in parade form, bring them up to ready positions as one, although they do not yet aim them. The Lion does not care. ‘Who are you,’ he repeats, louder and more angry, ‘to wear my brother’s face?’ They are Sanguinius’ features, cast in gold, and drawn in an expression of rage and grief that reaches out and tears at the Lion’s heart all over again. 

‘Stand down, brothers,’ the masked warrior orders, and the Blood Angels lower their weapons once more. Then the gold-armoured commander reaches up and removes his helm, revealing the face beneath. 

The Lion can see the distant echo of the Angel there, but greatly distilled by time. The warrior’s long hair which spills loose is jet black, but threaded with silver, and his pale skin is drawn tight over high cheekbones, with faint blue veins visible beneath it. For all the power and command this Space Marine radiates, the Lion can tell that he is ancient. 

‘I am Dante, commander of the Blood Angels,’ the golden-armoured warrior says. ‘I greet you, Lion El’Jonson, lord of the Dark Angels and son of the Emperor.’ The Blood Angels drop to one knee, just as smoothly as their Thunderhawks landed. The Lion frowns, abruptly feeling as though he has been wrong-footed. 

‘You are satisfied with my identity?’ 

‘If you will forgive me, lord, you are… older than I expected,’ Dante says, still on one knee. ‘But to have so readily and unprompted recognised the face of our gene-father says much. Besides, I have served the Emperor for over a thousand years, and I have yet to meet a being with the same bearing as a primarch, save for another primarch.’ 

The Lion blinks. Over a thousand years? Dante was ancient indeed! And– 

‘Wait,’ he says, his mouth dry. ‘Another primarch? Get up, all of you,’ he adds, ‘just tell me – one of my brothers yet lives?’ 

‘My apologies, my lord Lion,’ Dante says, rising back to his feet along with his warriors. ‘I assumed word had arrived ahead of us. Lord Guilliman of Ultramar was revived and healed from the stasis in which he had been locked for millennia, and has launched the Indomitus Crusade to take back the Imperium from its enemies. He fought his way through the Great Rift and came to the rescue of my Chapter and our blood-brothers, and brought reinforcements with him in the shape of the Primaris Marines, a new breed of warrior developed over ten thousand years.’ 

The Lion’s thoughts are whirling. The Imperium still exists. He is not being denounced as an imposter, and plunged into an ugly civil war against his brother’s sons. There are other bastions of humanity out there in the galaxy, with which he can link up and fight back the darkness. However, one thought rises to the surface above all others. 

Roboute. 

I am not alone.