Editing Imperial Fists (section)

==What it means to be an Imperial Fist==
You are an Imperial Fist, a member of the VII Legion, you are charged with the defense of Terra, the seat of Imperial Power. When the news came to you that Horus had betrayed Mankind, it felt as if someone had placed a knife in your heart and left it there after twisting it and turning it. Horus, greatest of the Primarchs, had turned from the Emperor. This is impossible, he is either ill or deranged. The very core of your beliefs is rocked; if one such as he could turn, what about you? You steel yourself to do what must be done, trusting in your Primarch, who would never lead you astray. You slowly begin to tear down the Imperial Palace and in its place build a monstrosity of fire lanes, choke points, barricades, battlements, and gun pits. Razorwire replaces rose gardens; trenches replace esplanades, all by your hand. The Emperor is close but never seen; this makes you happy to know that He doesn’t see the horrors you commit to this edifice of His glory. You continue on for years until finally, the forces of the Warmaster are on the approach. Smashing aside all resistance, they fight their way to Terra and make orbit above the cradle of Mankind. You take your post, readying your mind to kill whatever comes, warriors whom you might know or have even shared a similar battlement with. The warriors of the Blood Angels and White Scars lend their aid, but in your heart you know it isn’t enough. You know you will not give in to your fear, for you '''are''' fear. The skies darken in an unnatural storm, the drop ships of the traitors speed towards the planet. Fiery comets of malice come not to conquer, but to destroy. What spills from the bellies of the Stormbirds and Thunderhawks are not the noble warriors of the Legions you once knew, but twisted and corrupted mockeries of Space Marines. Spikes and kill trophies of loyalists hang from their backs in a grisly spectacle. You hold the line, you fire magazine after magazine into them. Decaying members of the Death Guard plod towards you, soaking up every round you fire and shambling forward as if against a light breeze. World Eaters throw themselves into your fire zone, bodies piling one on top of another, having no more effect than to slow their traitorous brethren. Creatures from nightmares assail you from all angles, battlements being no more tangible to them than wind to your armored gauntlet. Your efforts are not enough and slowly, inch-by-inch, they gain on you until you have to retreat deeper and deeper into the palace. Now, you really feel the pressure, your enhanced psyche is pushed to its limits. Warp-spawned abominations do battle with your brothers, reaping terrible rents in your defenses, the great cannons of your hated rivals, the Iron Warriors, pound night and day without cease.

After months of this you still hold, you are still alive, you still are invigorated when the Primarch commands you. They will never take him from you, your rock and shelter. The Primarch will see you through this, he has never failed before, why should you now, at his greatest test, see him break. One day, you are swept up into a mob of your brothers. Horus has lowered his shields! The Emperor is leading a counter thrust! You grab whatever you can and continue in the fumbling ecstasy; this is your chance for revenge. This could end it all and the Great Crusade could begin again! Mankind will see even greater growth with the Emperor at its head, and you will live to see it; you must. Blood Angels, White Scars, Imperial Fists, Custodes, and even Imperial Soldiers fill the vast teleporter arrays. A green light fills your vision and when you are brought back to your senses the ship you once knew as the Vengeful Spirit lies before you. It has become a foul reflection of the ship you once walked through with your brothers from the Luna Wolves. You are alone, and for the first time in your life, physically scared. This is unlike anything you have ever seen or known. Monsters lay into you, the very material of the ship is anathema to you. In a great chamber you manage to link up with more loyalists. What luck! One of them knows where your group is located, and better yet the way to the last known rendezvous, Lupercal’s Court. Running through the corridors, you no longer take any notice of the battle around you, your combat reflexes take over and you fight on autopilot. You must get to the Primarch, he will know what to do. When you finally meet back up with him, it is not what you expect, it is what you feared. The Primarch lies weeping over the Emperor’s body, his ear pressed to the barely moving lips of the broken form of the Man at whose word worlds moved and stars died. First Captain Sigismund, his black and white heraldry gore-spattered and his armor rent from dozens of weapons, is being restrained by Captain Polux. Members of the Huscarls kneel around the Primarch, sharing tear-filled glances. The Primarch wordlessly lifts the Emperor’s body and signals for the remaining Imperials to be teleported back to the surface.

The Primarch is a broken man. Having donned the black armor of mourning, he waits for Guilliman and his Ultramarines, Jonson and his Angels, and Russ and his Wolves. When they arrive it is not the homecoming they want. How dare they come here after what you have been through and demand status updates and military courtesies? What have they done? Who have they lost? You were there when the Emperor fell; where were the Ultramarines, and the Dark Angels, and the Space Wolves? Everyone you know is dead, everyone. You are the only remaining member of your company, of the three companies that made up the great company. The Legion went from being a glorious manifestation of the Emperor's power, to a ghost of its former glory. Only those ruined at Istvaan could know this pain. The Space Wolves are insufferable. They camp on the sites where you lost everything. You even see one sneer at a trench where you fought tooth and nail with a dark champion of the World Eaters, curse them. The Dark Angels are morbid, aloof, quiet. After time, though, you can suffer that. You even begrudge them a recounting of the Emperor’s fall. You feel ashamed as you do it. It is wrong to even think about that horrible scene ever again. You decide that you won't tell it again. The Blood Angels have long since left, what can a Legion do without its Primarch? Doomed to a slow death, you hope that you may fight alongside them again before the end. Lord Dorn quickly relinquishes command of Terra to Guilliman. You and the rest of the Imperial Fists board the Phalanx, and the Scouring begins.

On worlds that you once fought to conquer in the name of the Emperor, you now fight to liberate again, although this time you fight those who fought alongside you the first time. The Scouring takes years. More of your brothers live and die, especially die. You no longer joke with your friends after battles, because you have no friends remaining; and why would you make new ones when they will all be killed eventually? But not you, no you will live forever in this endless cycle of death, you will endure, for you are an Imperial Fist and sacrifice is your nature. The High Lords have decreed that the Legions will be broken up, so that treason of this magnitude can never happen again. Dorn will not bow to these councilors and mortals who had no part in the War. These men are more concerned with reacquiring the taxes and tithes of the worlds lost to the traitors and xenos than returning the Imperium to its former glory. It comes to a head when Guilliman declares Dorn no better than the traitors and accuses him of power-mongering. In your wisdom, you can see Guilliman’s point: Lord Dorn has been on Crusade since the Siege, he has sat out the most important meeting and forfeited his vote on the matters at hand. Though he conceals it deep down, you can see the disdain Guilliman has for your Legion, he no doubt thinks that if it had been him, the Emperor and Sanguinius would still be alive. You hate him for that. He would have fared no better, what right has he to judge you! You, who fought day and night with no rest, no respite! You, who watched the same patch of ground for weeks, ever vigilant! You, who was there to see the Emperor’s greatest mistake.

Lord Dorn relents, but only on one condition: that Guilliman allow him to fight the thrice-cursed Perturabo, alone, at his Eternal Fortress. The last charge of the Imperial Fists Legion. The chance to cleanse yourself through sacrifice. The battle is more bitter than the Siege, it is the explosion of hatred held by both Legions. At first, it seemed as if the battle would be fought in noble virtue, with steel and fire. But Perturabo has different plans for you. First comes the explosions, trapping you on the planet, then the ambushes from well-concealed tunnels. You reap a bloody toll upon the traitors but their spite knows no bounds. They slowly and surely break you apart, until again you are all alone, surrounded by the piled bodies of your brothers and foes. Night and day you fight alone, crawling on your belly through the no-mans-land, trying to find anyone, friend or foe. The shelling is constant, the Iron Warriors have no lack of ammunition. The ground becomes an ever-changing bog, the blood mixing with the rain, eventually covering every part of your armor until the gold of the Legion is completely covered. The days blur together and you no longer know how long you have been crawling, until fate intervenes and again you find yourself in the presence of the Primarch. He is not as you remember. His black armor is pitted and scarred, the mud covers most of it. The rest of the first company shares the harrowed appearance of the Primarch. The once proud Templars of Sigismund, who used to wear the finest tabards of rich cream, their company heraldry displayed by devotion markings now show their devotion in scars and burns. Their bolters have long since been discarded and they now use bits of chain and razorwire to keep their swords fastened to their arms. Sigismund is no longer the Champion you remember hurling back the traitors single-handed, but a relentless whirlwind of destruction. All caution thrown to the wind, the First Company charges the traitors at every opportunity, their losses only driving them to greater heights of rage. The Iron Warriors fall before them like long grass to a scythe, the traitors' only recourse is to shell their own positions. The fighting continues as such for what seems like years, every firefight seems like a lifetime. All military objectives have long been abandoned, the only mission is to find Perturabo and destroy him. The senior captains call for a breakout, but the Primarch will not relent, he will kill Perturabo. You continue day and night until, one day, the tide turns. The Ultramarines have come. Their Thunderhawks bombard the traitor positions, their Battle Barges fire volley after volley into the central keep. Lord Dorn is incensed; when Guilliman makes landfall at your position you half expect the Primarch to strike him down, but it does not happen. As the last of your brothers board the Thunderhawk, Dorn takes one last look at the battlefield, and steps aboard wordlessly.

You leave over four hundred brothers un-recovered on the battlefield. That figure does not include the dead that have been brought back. The Legion is no more, it was able to end with its honor intact. The successors are formed, Lord Dorn gives Sigismund the first of the successors and commands him to keep true to the original virtues of the Astartes. The First Captain leads those still thirsty for vengeance on an Eternal Crusade, forever carrying the Legion's memory as a torch. Master Polux is given the other successor and takes the newest members of the Legion on Crusade as well, but not with the zeal of Sigismund’s Black Templars. Polux uses the bloodied fist as a metaphor for the Chapter. It symbolizes your tradition of sacrifice in the Emperor's name. The new Chapters take to the field in your Chapter's stead, winning much honor for the Primarch. You rebuild. It is a sombre process, few remain who fought at the Cage and fewer still who fought at the Siege. You see faces that might have been at there, but you aren’t sure. The Chapter slowly takes shape, with the Codex at its heart. You endure, ever more.

You continue on, true to the Emperor that was. When word reaches you of a Black Crusade driving into the heart of the Imperium, a chance for vengeance is at hand. The Primarch takes three hundred warriors to hold the forces of chaos back until the rest of the Chapter can join him. But, it does not happen. The Primarch is laid low, and you fight to recover his remains. It is the saddest moment of your life, the Primarch is gone, the Emperor is gone, and the Legion is gone. You bear his remains back to the Phalanx where they will rest for eternity. You endure. You relive your nightmares when Vandire causes a second Imperial Civil War, and you fight through the same corridors you once defended. The Tau menace is thwarted by you and the Ultramarines, fighting alongside each other once more. On Miral the horror of the Great Devourer is thrown back by your hand. You are there when First Captain Lysander returns in time to stop the Traitors from ruining the Imperium during the 13th Black Crusade. You fight across the bleak moors of Cadia, against the sons of the monster who crippled your Master so long ago; it is a wound that still drives so much of your being so many years later. You sacrifice and you believe. You will fight the enemies of the Emperor for all eternity, you endure, you sacrifice, you do not relent. That is what it is to be a Son of Dorn.