Chapter 7: The Other Bald Man in the Dream

When all the fish were cooked, Anda stood up.

The Theban robe resembled Greek style but was somewhat coarser than the later Roman gowns, which were artificially creased.

The robe hung over Anda’s shoulders, stained with dust from work and grease from cooking.

He retrieved a small knife and skillfully sliced the fish, removing the bones with exquisite precision.

Even the most masterful chefs of the Macrag could not achieve such perfection without damaging the delicate flesh.

After arranging the food for his son, Anda whispered,

“Go find Aaron. I can’t say much to him right now.”

Marum respectfully took the plate, puzzled.

“Master, perhaps you should go yourself. I’m curious—what strange curse makes it so difficult for you to speak with Aaron?”

Anda lifted his gaze to the endless starry sky and said calmly,

“I don’t know either. The battle with Horus, in the future, destroyed too much of what makes me.”

Marum could not correct the strange phrasing, sensing it was some kind of aftereffect.

“In any case,” Anda lowered his head, his eyes reflecting the highest human wisdom,

“Help me find the cause. See if it’s my future self influencing me now, or if I’ve always been the bastard Eldar described. Tell Kaol to explore the limits of that ritual—I must go to Egypt to craft a necklace for Kiliman.”

Marum exhausted the last of the barter quota for the beasthide skirt.

Delivering this crucial message back was vital.

“All right, tell that brat if he doesn’t get up for dinner, I’ll kick him all the way to the Nile tomorrow!” Anda shouted, slapping Marum on the shoulder.

The Emperor’s flesh touched mine!

Marum was overwhelmed with ecstatic joy and resolutely fulfilled his master’s command, rushing inside.

“Aaron! Aaron! Time to eat. We leave for Egypt early tomorrow!”

He swore never to let this skin suffer a scratch from now until death.

Aaron was awakened by the call. Looking at the fish on his plate, he was unimpressed by its craftsmanship—it was nothing new.

His father could do everything but refused to teach him; not a good father.

He ate heartily, wiping his mouth occasionally, handed a piece to Marum, and asked gloomily,

“How did you end up like this? Was it him? So, my father really is Zeus?”

Marum nodded.

“It is indeed so.”

Father, the ultimate warrior never lies. Forgive me.

Aaron’s expression darkened as he gnawed on the fish.

“Oh, so am I a demigod or a god?”

“Is my mother Eldar Hera, or just some poor mortal woman caught by this philanderer?”

“I really want to beat him up, but I can’t win.”

Sweat formed on Marum’s forehead. Does an Astartes sweat?

He didn’t know, but it felt like the brief experience he once had in his past human life.

He hurriedly said,

“Lady Eldar is the Mother of the Prototypes, your mother, and Hera as well.”

Well, the Emperor demanded he call him Zeus, so it was fine for Eldar to be Hera.

Aaron finished all the fish, looked out the window at his father tending the fire, then glanced at his own body—only slightly stronger than an ordinary man—and felt downhearted.

“Then he should find me a centaur teacher to teach me riding, archery, fighting in battle, and monster-slaying skills!”

“Just like Heracles!”

Marum fell silent. Kaol had mentioned that in the future state religion, the Emperor is the God-Emperor.

His sons, however, represent symbols from classical Greek mythology that contradict monotheism.

They are gods, but imperfect—causing trouble, petty and scheming like humans.

This eldest son of the Emperor, who is not a prototype.

Right, he seemed immune to all subspace corrosion and physically much stronger, but otherwise just an ordinary human to an Astartes.

He sighed,

“I can teach you swordsmanship, archery, and how to fight, Aaron. If you dream of Lord Kiliman, my father—your brother—uh, the master has twenty-one sons in the future, called the prototypes.”

“Please tell him, Marum will live up to the name of the ultimate warrior.”

He added, “Rest assured, Lady Eldar remains their mother.”

He could say no more about the future. Telling Aaron he would have many brothers was already the limit.

Aaron jumped from bed, picked up the plate, shaking his head.

“That’s good then—it means father and mother have reconciled. So the Kiliman in my dream is my brother.”

“So is Mount Olympus threatened by demons in the future? He’s seeking his father’s return in dreams. That old man must have run off somewhere else, hiding and laughing at his sons.”

“Like how all those noblewomen are so enamored with him but tell street kids they came for me. When their husbands came after me with swords, that was truly a tragedy worthy of Homer’s epics.”

Marum frowned deeply. These two, father and son, were certainly talkative.

And not at all like his own father, the great Robert Kiliman—logical and eloquent.

Understood. The Emperor is poor at communication, with only the runed Macrado as a close friend, and strained family relationships.

Such an Emperor was becoming more human.

“I’m full. I’m going to rest. The bed is big; you can squeeze up here if you want.”

Aaron, too tired to call his father to rest, climbed to the bed and pulled the woven blanket over himself.

He had been growing increasingly sleepy lately.

“Uh—haaah!”

The eldest yawned and fell into sleep.

Marum dared not disturb him. According to known intelligence, Father Kiliman communicates with his eldest son through dreams.

The Emperor’s eldest son again entered the realm of dreams—the serene, peaceful sea of souls, transcending time.

Eight pairs of eyes surrounded him from all directions, watching this sacred soul.

Finally, the son’s consciousness touched a star within a timeline, descending upon a barren land.

Looking around, in the distance was the shadow of a dark city, taller than Athena’s temple.

Only here was a clearing where towering pillars stretched from all sides, each crowned with blazing flames.

Many monks and priests were pilgrimaging toward the central altar of all the fires, kneeling step by step.

He was dreaming again, but this time his thoughts and awareness were clearer, as if he were truly here.

Aaron looked toward the fire’s center. At the head of the procession, a bald, shining head was supported by a giant figure wearing a robed garment resembling an ascetic’s priestly vestment.

This giant was almost as tall as Kiliman, and Marum’s armor looked childlike beside him.

“Holy fire! Guide me on the path to higher existence!”

The giant shouted, kneeling and chanting hymns that would shame even the gods:

“That one true God, our Father!”

“May we return to your chest, kiss your ankles, caress your—”

[The subsequent words were too saccharine and were blocked by the Emperor’s mighty power…]

Aaron shook his head, affected by the fire’s heat, thinking this man must also be his brother.

But Father and Mother both had hair, and Kiliman had short hair. So why were he and the giant both bald?

He stepped forward, touched his bald head, and mustering courage called out:

“Hi! My brother!”

He couldn’t wait to tell his brother that Father was a bastard who neglected his sons.

“You should beat him up, not try to kiss his feet.”