He remembered the mechanical thunder of absolute betrayal, when he was stolen from the death he'd so richly earned. He remembered refusing to abandon his brothers and sisters, beneath a blue sky at high-sun, far from the city of Desh'ea. “He remembered being blinded by his father's light. Either way, his service was to the Emperor, and his service would be true to the end.” Alone, far away from his comrades and his Legion, dying from cruel wounds on some nameless rock, his passing as memorable as smoke. Then, briefly, he imagined another death. A great battle, upon which human culture would be based. Such an hour would become so ingrained in the minds of men that it would be the cornerstone of all that came after. Loken would battle, and die, and perhaps even Horus would die, to save the Emperor at the last. Primarch Horus would be there, of course. He imagined himself at the Emperor’s side, fighting some great, last stand against an unknown foe. Fabled, imaginary combats flashed through his mind. He tried to picture the manner of his own death. Men would cry out for Abaddon’s return, but he would never come. There would be a time when Abaddon no longer waged bloody war across the territories of humanity. Not even the great First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon would survive forever. “Loken tried to imagine the future, but the image would not form.
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