The Primarch of Liberty

Within the crystalline spires of Craftworld Ulthwe, the Aeldari gathered at viewing ports and observation domes, their gazes fixed upon the titanic vessel that loomed alongside their home. The Sweet Liberty's colossal presence cast deep shadows across Ulthwe's elegant wraithbone structures, its cathedral-bridge a stark monolith of Tyranimite-Auramite, Blackstone and Adamantium against the endless void.

"Is that supposed to impress us?" scoffed a young Aeldari from the Path of the Sculptor, her tone laced with disdain. She leaned casually against the viewport, her sculptor's tools idly tapping against her palm. "Flying buttresses? A cathedral as a bridge? It's... gaudy. Do the mon-keigh ever do anything without drowning it in crude excess?" A ripple of haughty laughter followed from her companions.

A Ranger, clad in the muted garb of one who had wandered the galaxy's shadowed edges, offered a sardonic smile. "You mock their excess, yet you've never stood beneath such a vessel's shadow, young one." He gestured with a gloved hand toward the ship. "The humans call it 'gothic architecture.' Crude it may be, but look closer. The vessel is as long as Ulthwe itself, if not longer. Their excess has purpose."

The young sculptor rolled her eyes. "Purpose, perhaps, but no refinement. It's a monument to their brutish nature."

"Brutish, is it?" came a measured voice from behind them. An elder Aeldari approached, his presence commanding instant respect. His robes, marked with ancient glyphs of the Path of the Seer, shimmered faintly in the ethereal glow of the wraithbone. His every step seemed to carry the weight of millennia.

"Your youth blinds you," the seer intoned, his voice soft but resonant with wisdom. "You see ornamentation and dismiss it as vulgarity. That vessel is no mere ship. It carries the Hand of Khaine himself."

The younger Aeldari stilled, their casual scorn evaporating like mist under the dawn. The seer's words bore a gravity that demanded silence.

"The Hand of Khaine?" a young Aspect Warrior from the Path of the Dire Avenger murmured, her voice trembling with barely contained excitement. "You speak of the one they call Franklin Valorian? Is it true then, the rumors of Commorragh's fall?"

The elder seer's eyes grew distant, as though peering through the skeins of time and memory. "True, indeed. I witnessed it through the strands of fate. Sweet Liberty led the assault, The void itself screamed, and Commorragh..." His voice lowered, heavy with awe. "Commorragh burned."

The younger Aeldari exchanged wide-eyed glances, their disbelief tempered by the seer's unassailable authority. Whispers rippled among them, as though the fall of the Dark City had suddenly grown tangible.

"But how?" demanded a young Warlock, her tone both incredulous and defiant. "The defenses of Commorragh are unmatched, a labyrinth of malice and shadow. Not even Asuryan's light could pierce its depths."

"The Hand of Khaine wields Anaris," came the voice of a battle-worn Exarch from the Striking Scorpions, stepping forward with deliberate precision. Her emerald armor gleamed faintly, scarred by countless battles. "A blade forged in our god's fury. Where it strikes, even shadows flee. That ship," she gestured to the Sweet Liberty, "is not excess. It is war incarnate. Each spire conceals weapons to shatter worlds; its shields could laugh off the heat of suns."

The sculptor faltered, her arrogance giving way to reluctant awe. "So the architecture… it is not mere ornamentation?"

The elder seer nodded solemnly. "It is both functional and symbolic. The mon-keigh revere war as their religion, and that vessel is their cathedral. It carries not just warriors, but their god's chosen champion."

A deep hush settled over the gathering. The young sculptor turned back to the viewport, her earlier scorn replaced by silent contemplation.

"I heard," ventured a young Warlock, her voice barely a whisper, "that during the assault on Commorragh, the Hand of Khaine led the charge himself. They say he strode through the dark streets with Anaris blazing, and even the shadows burned in his wake."

The elder seer's expression grew grave. "You heard correctly. I have seen it in the threads of fate. He is no ordinary mon-keigh. His might is Khaine's, his blade blessed by the war god's fury. The Sweet Liberty is not merely a ship. It is a chariot of divine wrath. Pray that it remains our ally, for I have seen what befalls those who stand against it."

Silence fell once more as the Aeldari gazed upon the Sweet Liberty, their earlier derision now replaced by respect – and no small measure of unease. For in this dark millennium, even the pride of the Aeldari had to bow to the realities of a galaxy where gods walked among mortals.

In the crystal-spired chamber of prophecy aboard Ulthwe, the ancient Farseer's voice carried the weight of apocalyptic visions. His weathered hands traced patterns in the air that left lingering trails of psychic residue, each gesture emphasized by the distant silhouette of Sweet Liberty's cathedral-bridge looming beyond the wraithbone walls.

"When the Hand of Khaine arrives," the Farseer intoned, his voice resonating with the crystalline structures around them, "you must heed these warnings, lest your souls be scattered to the void." The gathered Aeldari youth leaned forward, their earlier dismissiveness replaced by growing unease as psychic pressure built in the chamber.

"Do not look into his eyes," the first warning fell like a hammer strike. "For in them burns the fury of a war god reborn, and few minds can withstand such terrible majesty." The air grew heavier, charged with the weight of prophecy. "Do not gaze upon Anaris, for it is not merely a blade – it is Khaine's own hatred given form, and its edge cuts deeper than mere flesh."

The Farseer's robes billowed in a wind that existed only in the realm of souls. "But above all, prepare yourselves for what comes next. Khaine himself will test you. Your mind's eye will be filled with war unending, with slaughter beyond measure, with murder given purpose and destruction made sacred." His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more weight than his previous pronouncements. "The dead will walk again, wreathed in divine flames. Perhaps you will see those you have lost, burning with Khaine's fury, fighting battles that echo across eternity."

A young Eldar, her hands still bearing the calluses of the Path of the Sculptor, stepped forward. Pride and skepticism warred in her features as she addressed the Farseer. "Are you asking us to kneel to a mon-keigh, Elder? To prostrate ourselves before one of their kind?" The words carried the arrogance of youth, of one who had not yet learned the cost of pride.

The Farseer's eyes blazed with inner fire as he turned to her. "Franklin Valorian is not merely another human warlord, young one. He is THE Hand of Khaine, the Champion of War itself. To show him respect is to venerate our own god of war." His fingers traced complex patterns in the air. "Perhaps you need to understand the price of doubting this truth."

With a gesture that cracked reality itself, the Farseer reached out and touched the young sculptor's brow. "Witness what befell those who questioned his authority in Altansar."

The vision slammed into her consciousness with the force of a dying sun:

She stood in Altansar's grand council chamber, where another Farseer stood in defiance. "We bow to no mon-keigh," that long-dead voice declared. "No matter what claims he makes to divine favor." The words had barely left his lips when reality fractured.

A tornado of living flame erupted in the chamber's heart, and within it strode a figure of such terrible majesty that reality itself seemed to recoil. Khaine, the Bloody-Handed God, manifested in all his horrific glory. The god's burning gaze fell upon the questioning Farseer, and in that moment, judgment was passed.

There was no ceremony, no grand declaration. There was only fire – holy, consuming fire that reduced the doubter to ash in seconds. The flames burned so hot they seared themselves into the skein of fate itself, a warning to all who would witness this moment in years to come.

The young sculptor stumbled as the vision released her, her face pale as wraithbone. The Farseer steadied her with a gentle hand, though his voice remained hard as steel.

"Remember this well, young one. Franklin Valorian walks a path blessed by not one, but two of our surviving gods. Cegorach, the Laughing God himself, has also marked him as chosen." The Farseer's gaze swept the chamber, ensuring every young Aeldari present felt the weight of his words. "The Harlequins themselves dance to celebrate his victories, their performances telling tales of a champion who bridges the gap between our peoples."

He gestured toward Sweet Liberty's silhouette. "That vessel carries more than just weapons of war. It carries hope – terrible, violent hope, but hope nonetheless. In an age where our gods lie dead or scattered, two have chosen this being. Do not make the mistake of dismissing this miracle because of your prejudices."

The chamber fell silent as the implications settled over the gathered Aeldari. The young sculptor bowed her head, her earlier pride transformed into understanding. "I... I thank you for this lesson, Elder. I begin to understand why the Black Library's gates opened for him."

The Farseer nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his ancient features. "Now you begin to grasp the truth. When he walks among us, you will see signs that cannot be ignored. The infinity circuits will pulse with renewed vigor. The Avatar of Khaine will stir in its shrine, responding to its master's champion. Even the wraithbone itself will sing in harmonies not heard since the Fall."

He turned to gaze out at Sweet Liberty once more. "We are the Eldar, and we have walked the stars since before humanity learned to make fire. But even we must recognize when the gods themselves choose to reshape destiny. Franklin Valorian is such a reshaping – a weapon forged in humanity's furnace but tempered by our gods' own hands."

The younger Eldar gathered closer, their earlier skepticism replaced by a mix of awe and trepidation. They understood now that they stood at the cusp of something unprecedented – a moment where ancient prophecies were being rewritten, where the boundaries between their peoples were being redrawn by divine hands.

The Farseer's final words echoed in the chamber like a death knell: "Prepare yourselves, children of Ulthwe. War's champion approaches, and with him comes change that will echo across the stars themselves."

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The Stormbird's landing thrusters cast ethereal patterns across Ulthwé's crystalline hangar deck, its armored bulk descending with practiced precision. Despite its considerable mass, the vessel moved as if guided by an unseen hand, a blend of human engineering and divine intent. The ancient wraithbone pillars thrummed with psychic resonance as Franklin Valorian's transport touched down, as if the craftworld itself acknowledged the arrival of purpose made manifest.

The Hand of Khaine disembarked with ease, His armor, a masterpiece of Tryanimite-auramite, shimmered with a light that seemed to resonate with Ulthwé's infinity circuit, as though the craftworld and its guest shared a fleeting moment of synchronicity. Behind him, John Ezra followed like a living shadow, his silent presence a reminder that even demigods value guardianship.

Awaiting them stood Ulthwé's highest council—the Farseers arrayed in flowing robes that whispered of prophecy, their masked faces gleaming faintly under the crystalline light. At their center loomed Eldrad Ulthran, his centuries-worn visage hidden behind a mask that radiated authority. Beside him stood the Autarch, their war-mask frozen in an expression of eternal vigilance.

As one, the gathered Aeldari placed their hands on their chests and saluted, voices weaving a chorus that echoed both in reality and through the web of fate: "Hail Kaela Mensha Khaine!"

Franklin acknowledged the gesture with a casual wave, his demeanor exuding a confidence that rendered formality unnecessary. He strode forward with an ease that spoke of countless encounters with such august assemblies, his movements fluid yet commanding, like a tide that none could resist.

Eldrad met Franklin halfway, extending a hand in a gesture that was at once ancient and strangely human. 

"Good to see you, Eldrad," Franklin said, his voice a rich baritone that carried both the weight of command and the warmth of familiarity.

"And you, Franklin," Eldrad replied, his tone a careful balance of gravitas and dry wit. The Farseer's eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, as if he'd already glimpsed the Primarch's inevitable quip.

Franklin wasted no time. "Got your message," he said, cutting straight to the point with his characteristic directness. "What's this about a Krork? And don't give me some long-winded prophecy—I'm too busy for riddles." His hand brushed the hilt of Anaris as he spoke, the weapon thrumming faintly, as if eager for action. "We've been mopping up Ork Waaaghs left and right, including taking down the Prime-Ork Beast at Ullanor. Hell of a fight, by the way. Is this just another case of you seeing spooky shapes in the skein?"

Eldrad's lips twitched. "Franklin, I can assure you that if this were just 'spooky shapes,' I wouldn't have bothered calling you." He paused, tapping his staff lightly against the hangar floor, sending subtle ripples of psychic resonance through the wraithbone. "The visions I've seen..." He hesitated, uncharacteristically solemn. "Let's just say the Beast of Ullanor would look like a grot in comparison."

A ripple of unease passed through the gathered Farseers, their psychic connection thrumming with tension. Eldrad ignored it, his focus fixed solely on Franklin.

"The Krork," he continued, his voice low and deliberate, "are no mere greenskins. They were created as weapons of war in the days of the Old Ones, designed to challenge even the gods themselves. For millennia, that potential has been lost, eroded by time and degradation. But now, one of them remembers." His staff struck the ground again, this time with a force that resonated through the hangar like a clarion call.

Franklin's expression hardened, the faintest narrowing of his eyes betraying the furious calculations taking place within his mind. "Location?" he asked, his voice clipped and deadly serious.

Eldrad offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "Ah, that's the problem. The skein shows many possibilities, too many for even me to untangle. But one thing is clear: every path, every outcome, revolves around you, Hand of Khaine. You and that audacious monstrosity you call Sweet Liberty."

Franklin let out a dry chuckle, his smirk returning. "Great. Another mess I get to clean up. Alright, Eldrad, tell me everything."

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845.30M

Teghar Pentarus,

Thunder rolled across Teghar Pentaurus like artillery fire, nature's own bombardment accompanying the moment that would reshape destiny. The monsoon's fury lashed at the world below, turning the assembly grounds into a canvas of grey – water striking ceramite, mud churning beneath armored boots, lightning casting stark shadows across faces that would soon become legend.

Franklin Valorian, the Hand of Khaine, stood beside his brother as their gunship's ramp descended, steam rising where raindrops struck metal still hot from atmospheric entry. A knowing smirk played across his features as he gestured toward the assembled warriors below. "Here's the Revenant Legion," he announced, his voice carrying despite the storm's rage. "The Well-Armed Cannibals and my nephews – your sons."

Sanguinius remained silent, his perfect features frozen in an expression that spoke volumes to those who knew how to read it. Before him stood the Revenant Legion, soon to be renamed the Blood Angels, their grey armor drinking in the rain like thirsty stone. 

Before him, standing in ranks, stood the Revenant Legion. They waited in formation, statues at attention in the storm. Helmetless, they were graven in his image, several thousand faces resculpted through technomagical genetics to resemble that of the father they'd never met. Their various skin shades hid nothing, and variant colours and styles of hair didn't conceal the fact, either; each one of them bore his visage. Sanguinius had been cognisant of this possibility without truly expecting it. Many of Franklin's Liberty Eagles grew to take on his Toothy Smile as they ascended to the Astartes state, but it was by no means ubiquitous among the Legions. Here, Sanguinius looked not on mere similarity, but simulacrum. Horus' sons resembled their primarch as a son might take closely after a father. Sanguinius' sons resembled their gene-sire as his own face would look back at him in a cracked mirror. War had scarred them… but they were him, to the life.

And they were afraid of him.

He could read it in eyes that matched his own, and he could sense it in the tautness of features he knew so perfectly well. The torment of expectation had goaded him to believe his sons might rejoice at their first sight of him, but the reality was altogether more tense. They feared what he represented, and the many changes to come.

Free of the gunship's confines, he stretched his wings in the rain. Nothing more than instinct, the way someone might raise a hand against a breeze or roll their shoulders to prepare for a task. But when he did it, as his white-feathered pinions flexed, several warriors in the front rank flinched. They didn't just fear what he represented, Sanguinius realised. They feared him. Perhaps they feared the mutation he bore on his back, but the primarch didn't think it was anything so simple. They feared his very presence.

Why?

The rain slashed, unceasing, content to fill the terrible silence with the hiss of its impact. Sanguinius felt the gaze of the Liberty Eagles behind him as surely as he saw the stares of the Immortal Ninth facing him. Keeping his wings close to his body, for convenience rather than caution, he started walking along the rows of gathered warriors in their storm-washed grey. He met their eyes as he passed, and marked well the scars of war on their ceramite plate and transfigured flesh. In turn, they gazed up at him with the desperate hope he had been expecting, coupled with a defiance he had not. They wanted this, they'd ached for this moment, but everything rode upon it. The pressure was practically a physical thing, bearing down on all of them.

In their faces, he read their records of the Great Crusade. The drinking of blood and the eating of flesh: for tactical advantage, for survival, and rarely – but not rarely enough – for pleasure. He read the stories told by the scars that marred their beauty; the chronicles of subterranean campaigns against mutated hordes and scarcely human populations harvested for desperately needed reinforcements. In their narrowed, awed eyes, he saw the discretionary refusals of the Divisio Militaris to supply them with munitions and armour battalions to match the other newborn Legions, for fear of the Revenants' degeneracy. He saw the Imperial decrees breaking them apart to serve in splinter-fleets, fragments of fragments attached to other Legion forces; the primary reason it had taken so long to gather the Legion here in its entirety. He saw the hardships of their crusades and the compromises made when fate had forced their hands. In the tilt of their heads and the set of their lips, he saw the sanctions levied against them by other, nobler Legions. He saw the sins they'd committed against their own empire, and the scorn they'd endured because of it. He saw how they wore that disregard as a badge of unwanted honour.

In short, he saw them for what they were: cannibals and killers with the faces of angels.

Last of all, gleaming in their brazen stares was the knowledge of their own extinction. Their time was coming to an end. Even without Sanguinius here before their gathered ranks, the lifespan of the Immortal Ninth was decidedly mortal, after all. The other Legions, no matter their degrees of savagery, were reliable weapons in the Emperor's arsenal. To Uplift Sectors they send the Eleventh. To drown a rebellion in the blood of their own dead, he sent the Twelfth. The ruthlessness of these wild Legions was still contained within the framework of the Great Plan. But the Ninth… these bloodstained knights with their crimson rituals, these Eaters of the Dead… Already, they'd been broken up, unreliable in Legion force. Whole swathes of the expeditionary fleets refused to fight alongside them. Again and again they were ground down to near annihilation, repeatedly bringing themselves back from the brink with tides of desperate recruitment, sustaining themselves by elevating the genetic dregs of the species to a state of Imperial perfection. Their ways populated their ranks with men exalted in flesh yet still hollow in soul.

Duty could only carry a soldier so far. These transhuman men fought for the Imperium, but they cared for little, they loved nothing. There was nothing ennobling in their suffering, only pride in their capacity to endure.

The pride of a cornered animal is all they have left.

As soon as the thought occurred to him, Sanguinius dismissed it.

No. It's not all they have left, it's all they've ever had. It is all they were ever given.

How like the people of Baalfora they were, so vulnerable despite their fortitude, able to survive but never thrive. Sanguinius had been adopted by the Clans of Pure Blood and grew to become their champion. He could've ruled over them as the god-king they believed him to be, but he had always wanted nothing more than to protect them. He elevated the Pure Tribes from the travails of their rad-soaked homeland not through dominance over them, but by his service to them. And now, the Revenants' fear made sense.

It was so obvious once he'd witnessed it with his own eyes: a truth that no hololithic report could ever convey. What would this winged demigod demand of them? Could they ever live up to what he would ask? Would they even want to try, if they despised their new father and his vision?

Sanguinius kept walking, kept studying them. He thought of the oaths of fealty he could make them swear tonight. He thought of the glory he could promise them and of the pride he could convey, at the Emperor granting him command of his own Legion. He was their primarch, and he had every right to play out the moment the way his sons expected: by binding them to him with sacred oaths of their allegiance to him.

But the first words he spoke to his Legion were far from the bombastic speeches later chroniclers would describe.

"What is your name?" Sanguinius asked the closest Revenant, the first of his sons that he ever met face to face. His tone was gently firm, his curiosity evident.

The scarred warrior replied, lips wet with the rain. "Idamas."

Sanguinius saw the conflict in the man's dark eyes as the Astartes hesitated, unsure whether to add an honorific. "Thank you," Sanguinius replied. He turned to the next warrior in line. "And you? Your name?"

"Amit." Again, that hesitation, though Amit added a subdued, 'lord,' after a moment's pause.

"Thank you. And you?"

And on it went. Soon he wasn't going one by one anymore, instead beckoning them to break ranks and come forward in clusters. He looked each of them in the eye as they proclaimed their names to him, many of them shouting over the others as the adrenaline of the moment took hold, and he committed their identities to his preternatural memory. These were his first sons, and he would remember every one of them until the day of his death.

When it was done, silence descended once more, dense with expectation. Before, the Revenants had regarded him with that clash of anticipation and defiant fear. Now, the challenge in their stares bordered on feverish. Why had he asked their names? What did he intend to do with the knowledge?

Sanguinius saluted them, his fist against his heart. At last, he spoke. 'You have told me your names and I have read the records of your deeds. I know you, and I know how my father's Imperium – our Imperium – looks upon you. You have served with loyalty and been paid in gratitude and spite, both in equal measure. You have been given difficult tasks, only to find yourselves mistrusted for achieving them in the ways you believed best. I will not say you were wrong to act as you have acted, nor will I blame those that have come to fear you. That is the past, and this is our chance to step back from the edge of extinction. My first command is to bring you together once more. We will fight together as one bloodline. As of this moment, you are a broken Legion no longer.'

The Revenants' eyes were upon him. He felt no doubts now. He knew exactly what he wanted to say.

"Swear me no oaths," he told them. "Make me no promises. Do not offer me your allegiance purely because my blood runs in your veins." Sanguinius laughed suddenly, the sound musical against the percussion of the storm. "In fact, do not offer me your allegiance at all. Not until you believe me worthy of it."

The primarch drew his sword, plunging it into the earth before the gathered ranks. He spread his wings, letting the rain sheet from them in pearlescent droplets. And then, to the amazed horror of his sons, he went to one knee in obeisance.

Even with his head down, his voice carried above the storm. "Instead, let me offer you my allegiance. Take my oath, here and now. I am Sanguinius, son of the Emperor, primarch of the Ninth Legion, and I make you this promise – I will stand with you in glory or die alongside you in shame. I come to you tonight not to enforce my ways upon all of you, but to learn your ways."

The Revenant Legion looked upon him with breathless amazement. The punishment and chastisements they had expected hadn't manifested. The self-righteous vows they'd anticipated, that they must reshape themselves in their new father's image, hadn't been spoken.

"This Legion is not mine," Sanguinius called out to his sons as he rose to his feet. "It is not a possession to be manipulated purely by my will. This Legion is ours. And though you are my sons, fated to answer to me, I am your primarch, and I will answer to you."

Sanguinius heard the Liberty Eagles's approval his Brother already nodding perhaps Franklin had anticipated his approach. It was not how these meetings were supposed to go. But every Primarch is different much like how Franklin had to give a tour to his Legion how he had to make them trust A.I once again.

The Angel drew his blade from the wet earth, raising his voice over the thunder. "Each one of you is a bloodied veteran of the Great Crusade. And I, too, have fought the Imperium's war, learning of our empire at my brother Franklin's side. But I am as new to my title as I am to the war we fight. In time, I will come to lead you. But for now? I ask you only to let me fight by your side. If you refuse me, I will leave with no grudge. I will break my pact with the Emperor and return to Baalfora. I will leave you to survive as you've survived thus far. But if you accept my offer… then let us learn, together, what our Legion will be. Let us write that story as a united bloodline."

Sanguinius let the rainfall clean his blade. He sheathed it in a smooth motion and rippled his wings against the storm's chill. 'The Emperor has charged us to take this world. He wants Teghar Pentaurus. He wants it compliant before the turn of the solar month. I have seen the plans. I've seen the Imperial Army communications pleading for the presence of the Liberty Eagles here, the formal requests that my brother's explosion loving sons remain to bring about the compliance the Ninth Legion cannot be trusted to achieve.'

The Revenants stirred, shifted, clutched weapons tighter. They had their pride. They had it in abundance, and it would make for a fine beginning.

"The Emperor wants this world, and the Liberty Eagles would love to be the ones to blow it up give it to Him.' Sanguinius paused, a half-smile on his beauteous features, the look of a man sharing a sly jest with his closest companions. 'It's my belief that we don't need our esteemed cousins and my brother, though. I believe we can take this planet without their aid, and in doing so we will write the first chapter of our Legion's true story."

He turned to the side, Franklin and the Liberty Eagles and the several thousand Revenants standing in broken ranks. Denzel looked faintly amused. Armstrong was fully grinning. 'What say you, warriors of the Ninth Legion?' Sanguinius called out. 'What say you, to my Noble brother of the Eleventh?'

Thousands of voices rose – a rolling thunder of mockery, refusal and defiance. The Revenant Legion shouted down the Liberty Eagles with that unified roar, succeeding also in outshouting the storm. Franklin stepped forward, raising his hands for quiet. It took some time to descend. Denzel moved with him, and as Armstrong nodded his head in respect to the quieting Revenants, the latter gave a teasing, courtly bow.

"Well then, Brother,' Franklin said, loud enough for the ranks of Astartes to hear. "It's the considered opinion of myself, and my dear Captains, that we can pull our Legion forces back and let the Ninth handle things."

Sanguinius thanked them both with his gaze, watched them moving to reboard their gunship, and then turned to face his new Legion once more. "My friends,' he said to the Revenants. "My sons. Let us make ready. We have our first war to win."

A/N: Ya'll might notice some of the parts of the Chapters previously are from Excerpts I took from books, those are Canon Events I like my fic having Canon events.