Chapter Text
“The Primarch has recalled you to your former rank. He has a task for you.” Standing aboard his new flagship - Resilient not being the best suited for his new duties and had been reassigned to other fronts - the words resounded in Titus’s head, circling around and chasing themselves around his brain. Hearing those words ought to have been the proudest of his life - for what loyal son so spurned the acclimation of the father? Yet the nature of the task sat heavily within him.
The task had come with new regalia. An Iron Halo such as he had not worn since Graia. A fur trimmed cloak that now lay heavily across his pauldrons. Leather pteruges tipped with the Ultima such that were only worn by the most esteemed within the Chapter. New shields and heraldry that adorned his armor. And the last - a new helm that he had yet to receive.
But Titus still retained at least some symbols of his journey to this point. For instance - in addition to several of his personal relics - he had kept his penance chain, but had switched it to the opposite arm without commenting to others as to the symbolism or reason. No longer did it mark his shame, now it served as a reminder to never so transgress again, a warning of what could happen should his arrogance rise to dangerous levels once more.
Now he stood in his new full regalia, waiting to be summoned for the beginning of the ceremony, that would confirm the Primarch’s orders, and signal Titus’s acceptance of the coming duty.
But such a duty, such a task handed down directly from the Primarch. Titus had been told - from the inspirational stories shared during his Aspirant and Neophyte stages, and from whispered tales spread across the galaxy since the Primarch’s Rebirth - of his gene-father’s strategic mind, his ability to hone in on the slightest flaw in the enemies plan, to strike at the most optimum chink in his opponent’s armor, yet Titus feared the task handed to him had less to do with grand strategy - but base vanity.
Back during the days of the Great Crusade, before the Heresy had ever burned across the Imperium - Roboute Guilliman had personally conquered a stretch of space known as “The Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar.” The Realm of Ultramar as a spatial entity still existed to be sure - held under the stewardship of the Ultramarines Chapter to the current day - but it was much diminished. Some parts had been broken off and gifted to other Chapters of the Primarch’s lineage to care for and govern. Some had been taken by xenos - tyranids, orks, Tau, and even Necrons. And some had been deemed to be so utterly lost to the xenos and the Ruinous Powers that they had been cleansed under the burning fire of Exterminatus.
The Primarch wanted it all back. The Five Hundred Worlds reunited. And he had tasked Titus to aid the four Tetrarchs in seeing it done.
Titus could not see the strategic vision in such a goal. Could not see how it served the greater goals of the Imperium, the Grand Design of the Emperor.
But did it even truly matter what he thought? It was not for a Space Marine to chose his duty, it was up to him to make the best effort and job of the duties granted to him. Titus did not know which way to turn, his hearts and head all bound up in knots.
Mortal footsteps approaching from behind brought him back to himself. “They await your presence, my Lord,” Shipmaster Lucinus Quinctinus intoned through his respirator mask, the sacred incense of the coming ceremony being corrosive to mortal lungs.
Titus only nodded in response, turning from the view to make his way to the Assembly Hall, the Shipmaster following behind. Here were the most solemn ceremonies held, the commemorations, the promotions. The grandest such site in all the Chapter’s holdings was of course the Temple of Correction back on Magragge - where the Reborn Primarch had spent his Long Slumber - but each ship in the Chapter’s fleets held space where the entire complement of warriors could gather and bear witness.
Before him knelt in solemn tribute the gathered ranks of an entire Company - his Company once more. Titus marched swiftly down the central aisle, the space perfumed by serfs scattering incense at regular intervals down the massive nave.
There, upon the dais, stood Metaurus - hale and whole, completely recovered from the injuries he had sustained on Zsah’Uj. He stood there as the eyes, ears, and hands of the Chapter Master, selected for such an august task in honor and tribute for the long history that existed between Titus and himself, and would remain seconded under Second Company’s command. “Welcome home,” the grizzled Veteran Sergeant boomed out over the entire congregation as the new Captain reached the dais.
Titus knelt before his former mentor, before the massive statue of their gene-sire that dominated the space. He could not falter now, not when the task had barely begun.
Titus raised his head, seeking reassurance from the old master, who had seen in a fractious and insolent youth the kernel of the Space Marine he had since become. Metaurus only smiled, and held out the Captain’s helm he carried, alike to any other, save for the Laurels of Victory that had been transferred over from the last helm Titus had worn.
Titus rose to his feet, and wordlessly accepted the helm - and the responsibilities and duties it symbolized. He took his place on the dais, facing out over the gathered warriors - his warriors now. He saluted his men, the tools by which he was to forge the solutions his Primarch demanded.
“Hail Demetrian Titus,” came the heralding cry of his old mentor, pitched to carry to all corners of the vast chamber. “Master of the Watch. Captain of the Second Company. Warden of Ultramar!”
“ULTRAMAR!!!” Second Company chanted back, having followed Titus in rising as he did. The crack of their simultaneous salute generating enough force and wind to cause some of the candles to gutter out.
Titus looked out over the space, soaking in the collective attention - and belief - of his men. They believed in him, Metarurus believed in him, Lord Calgar believed in him. And so did the Primarch.
Titus could not be the one to let down that faith, that boundless regard. His doubts were as nothing, in the face of it, in that palpable suffusion of energy. If the task were truly impossible, then a way would have to be found regardless to accomplish it. For he could not so gainsay his duty, not while he named himself an Ultramarine. His task was clear, his doubts banished. There was nothing more to say.