[ An ecstatic shudder floods his body as those words draw an old memory up from the muck. Though the memory of an Astartes should be flawless, millennia of narcotics and the ethereal energies of the Eye have worn away at his mind until too many have begun to blur at the edges; and yet, this one blooms in his mind's eye with perfect clarity, its horror and ecstasy forcing a breathless gasp from Lucius' lungs. He remembers that day, so so so long ago, when he had turned his blade on his father for fear that his mind was not his own, and the utter surety that he would die in a breath if Fulgrim willed it.

And yet, he has come so far since that day, hasn't he? The thought that he could beat Fulgrim—the image of it slides down his spine like a hot iron rod, the pleasure the image brings him no less masochistic than the thought of ignoble death at his hand. It's plainly ridiculous, of course, but to indulge the idea as a mere fantasy—

He can no longer sit still. Not realizing the way his limbs have begun to tremble, abruptly, he all but leaps to his feet. ]

Ah, but there is the trick — Fulgrim no longer dwells within the material world! [ Whether or not Eridanus allows Lucius to go, he laughs, the sound gasping. ] He reached his apotheosis long ago, my Archmage, and become something far greater than he had been even as a Primarch. Slaanesh has deemed him worthy to join the ranks of the Great Game as one of His most beloved, and we wait as his children for the day he returns to unite the Legion beneath his hands once more.

[ The words rush from him, and Lucius thinks nothing of what sense they may make to Eridanus. His face is flushed, as if he had imbibed a great deal more wine than he has. ]

It may be better, I suppose, to say that I am the greatest duelist until then.

[ Frankly, it's a miracle that he even remembered the original point being made. ]