# The Price of the Past, a re worked former HOES entry



## gothik (May 29, 2010)

The Price of the Past​

_The one thing you can be certain off with the Lord Commander is that he is proud and vain; I do not mean that he is vain as in his looks; he is vain about his skill with a blade. I also recalled watching our father favour him and him alone for sword play.

Forget about everything you treasure and everything you remember, every sensation you have experienced. You must have a clear mind for any ***** and he will get it._

The Brother of The Heralds of Fulgrims 3rd Company known as The Rapture pondered his masters’ words as he had recalled them from his memory.

He had located his quarry on the world of Arthora, a demon world deep within the Eye of Terror. As he stood and watched the fight between what looked like a Black Legionnaire and him. He realised that even now, the Lord Commander was still, even now the most perfect swordsman ever created.

The Black Legion son had all the moves that he had when he was younger but his opponent was faster and cunning. He watched as the outcome was quite unexpected he had killed him, the brother of Abaddon had killed him.

His master and it seemed everyone else were wrong. He could be beaten. He turned away and walked off ready to leave. What he did not see was the Black Legion not celebrating their brothers’ victory, nor did he see the Lord Commanders retinue cheering.

_Appearances can be deceptive with him never forget that. But they are real and dangerous; nothing with him is ever that simple. It never was._

He had some time to kill before his master returned, so that is exactly what he did. He was revelling in excess to its limit, and that was never ending. He took pleasure from whores and boys in equal measure, he smoked everything that would have killed a normal human and tortured a woman to death.

His eyes rolled back as he recalled her screams for mercy. He had taken her apart piece by little piece eaten parts of her but always keeping her alive. He was no animal of Khorne he was more refined as a warrior. Her dying words were lost on him; he had been too over ruled by the excess of emotions and sights that had swirled behind his eyes at each heightened sensation.

He had soon lost his good humour when he saw his quarry walking down the road as if he had not just died. It was the effect of this planet, with a roar of approval and defiance he charged down the street drawing his sword and reading to attack.

At the last minute an arm whipped round and blocked the attack, the sparks flying off the blade as the metal clanged against each other. The brother of The Heralds of Fulgrim smiled despite himself, this Lord Commander had known he was there....very good.

_He fights with a skill that will make yours look like a novice, you will never have the upper hand with him, and all you have to do is knock him down, punch his nose and walk away._

He held onto his masters’ words, wondering if they were spoken with feeling of having been here before. He held his own admirably, every thrust and repost was blocked and parried. He was dimly aware of a circle of people watching, demons, humans and Astartes.

His quarry danced about laughing. He ripped his helmet from his head and roared with delight into the sky, this was perfection, not as perfect as he was but nevertheless this was how a duel should be, He beckoned the warrior towards him and battle was joined again.

The Brother stared as the Lord Commander watched apparently helplessly, watching the blade slide deep within him.

“What is your name warrior?” The Lord Commander asked.

“Trousan” He growled “My name is Constan Trousan...I have done it, what no other man could”

He waited until the light went from the Astartes eyes and then walked away.


Aboard the Heart of Pleasure, the vessel of the Rapture Trousan sat quietly drinking his wine and yet not partaking of the nightly pleasures. He didn't even show the slightest interest in his favourite sport with slaves. He lived for the torture moment when he slowly pushed a hot poker into a slave’s anus and driving it upwards.

He had been looking forward to this day ever since Istvaan III, ever since the bastard had killed his genetic brother when that pretty boy had conned Captain Demeter into slaughtering the loyalists around him.

Trousan sat back, his brother was no longer part of his legion but that butcher had no right taking his life. He started to laugh, a great laugh that boomed around the hall. The rest of the Astartes raised their heads as Trousan stood to his feet and punched the air in delight.

It didn't take long. The very moment Trousan took pleasure in the act that he had committed his fate was sealed. His body began to act on its own accord, twisting from the inside out causing him agony like he had never known before.

At first he revelled in the sensation, believing it to be the pleasure of the Dark Prince, but as soon as one agony ended another would begin. His body seemed to stretch outwards and upwards moulding itself to an unheard order.

Terrified he glanced in the mirror just across from him to see his hair, his luxurious white mane fall out in clumps faster then he could fire a bolter. Scars began appearing across his handsome face and his own soul began ebbing away, captured by another, remaking his body in the way he wanted.

As his soul began to shrivel and manifest on what was now the butchers’ armour screaming in agony for all eternity, he recalled his Lord Commander Jovotch final words.

_Do not under any circumstances take pleasure in his demise._

As Lucius the Eternal, The Scion of Chemos walked once more to the cheers of The Heralds of Fulgrims 3rd Company, Trousan would have eternity to reflect the folly of his actions.


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