Turning Sanguinius

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/24779374.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Categories: M/M, Multi
Fandom: Warhammer 40.000
Relationships: Horus/Sanguinius (WH40K), Fulgrim/Sanguinius (WH40k), Konrad
Curze/Fulgrim (WH40K), Fulgrim/Horus (WH40K)
Characters: Konrad Curze, Raldoron (WH40K), Fulgrim (WH40K), Horus
(WH40k), Sanguinius (WH40k), Magnus (WH40k)
Additional Tags: Angst, Fluff, Alternate Universe, Blood Kink, Hurt/Comfort, S&M,
Original Character(s), Nipple Torture
Language: English
Series: Part 3 of Traitor Primarchs Win AU
Collections: The Id of Terror
Stats: Published: 2020-06-17 Updated: 2023-01-04 Words: 10,926 Chapters:
19/?
 Turning Sanguinius
by BuddyWritesFic

Summary

Horus takes Terra. Then he and Fulgrim get busy trying to take Sanguinius as well.

Notes

5/4/2021, added new chapter as chapter 10

 Chapter 1

He had been taken from his place among the other prisoners, cleaned, and healed. The cultists
who bathed him had given him a white loin cloth. Although they had provided no other
cover, the loin cloth in itself was an unexpected mercy.

They fit heavy golden chains across his arms and legs and left his wings unbound. The
strength of gold was nothing to the strength of a primarch. Horus may as well have dressed
him in tissue paper and told him to keep it from tearing. He held as still as he could while he
waited, careful not to stretch the soft metal. The chains were tight enough that to stand
without disturbing them, he was obliged to keep his hands close together and bow his head.

He heard the clank of the door behind him, heard the hateful familiar footstep. He kept his
head down.

Horus put a heavy, ungloved hand on his naked shoulder. His breath stilled for a moment, but
he didn't flinch.

"I've missed you, little brother." His voice was fond and soft. Sanguinius made no reply.

He felt Horus's breath on the feathers of his wings, and he wrapped them closer around him,
hiding his gaze inside.

The hand reached up to play and tangle in his curls.

"You have fine sons," Horus said. "Gallant warriors. Like their father."

"Don't hurt them," Sanguinius begged in a hoarse whisper. "Please, don't hurt them."

"Sanguinius." Horus's tone was firm but kind. He reached past his tightly curled wings and
lifted up his chin to meet his eyes. "Little brother, I don't mean to harm them. I am hardly in a
position to throw away good astartes."

Tears leaked from the corners of Sanguinius's eyes. His breath came fast and shallow.

Horus continued. "Your Blood Angels nearly had my armies many times over. I'm not too
proud to admit it. A few different rolls of the dice, and who can say but that we might be
having a very different conversation right now, hm? I won't begrudge them a little difference
of opinion. On the contrary, their loyalty to their former master does you credit. But now the
matter's been settled, and it's time to regather our forces in defense of humanity. I ask your
aid now, as I've asked it many times before."

He took Sanguinius in a close embrace and whispered in his ear. "Be a good boy for me, little
brother?" he asked. "Bring your pretty angels to be once more my sword and shield, to crush
the enemies of Man between their mighty jaws. Be once more my general. Kneel at my side,
and be forgiven."
A long silence stretched between them. Sanguinius did not say no.
 Chapter 2

Fulgrim’s blood-covered body was pale and unmoving. Sanguinius’s hearts sank, and his
mind raced. He couldn’t remember a thing. He looked around. They were in his cell. They
were alone. Was someone coming? How much time did he have? And time to do what,
exactly?

Then Fulgrim stretched and opened his eyes and looked at him with a sleepy smile and said,
“Good morning, gorgeous.”

He jerked away, startled.

“Oh, it’s all right. Shh, it’s okay,” Fulgrim sat up and reached out a tender, clawed hand to
touch his arm. He looked around at the bloody mess. “Did you think you’d killed me?”

He didn’t feel there was a good answer to that, so he said nothing.

Fulgrim shook his head. “Baby, no. At the risk of sounding indelicate, I can lose a great deal
of fluids and still wake up in the morning. More now than before. I won’t go so far as to say
you couldn’t kill me, but you would at least need to be trying. You won’t kill me by accident
just because you’re hungry. All right?”

Sanguinius cringed in shame. He had always hated discussing his appetites.

“Do you remember last night?” Fulgrim asked.

He shook his head.

Fulgrim pulled him into his lap. His arms, patchy with vivid purple scales, were unnaturally
strong. “I came down here to feed you. I wanted to talk, and I know you think better on a full
stomach. Then I fell asleep. That’s all.” He started combing his delicate claws through
Sanguinius’s hair, untangling the curls. “That’s what I wanted to talk about, actually. Things
are different now. You’re allowed to want things, to enjoy things. You’re allowed to enjoy
blood.”

Sanguinius curled in and wrapped his wings around himself. “I want Father.”

Fulgrim gave a long, sibilant sigh. “Well, you’re allowed to want him, too. He isn’t coming
back, but you can want him as much as you like. I wonder, do you really, though?”

Tears spilled from Sanguinius’s eyes. He hid his face in his hands.

“Baby, were you happy when Father was here? Did you like being ignored? Did you like
fearing for your sons’ lives?”

“I was made for him,” Sanguinius said. “I was his. I was not meant to live without him.”
“I know. I know, honey, and it’s so hard. But you are alive. You’re still here, still the warrior
and general and father you were before. And big brother Horus is here, ready to take care of
you as he always has, because he loves you. And I love you.” He kissed Sanguinius on the
temple. It was the closest thing to his face that wasn’t covered by his hands. “Humanity is
still here. The galaxy is still here. The Gods are still here, as they always have been. Strength
and wisdom and endurance and joy still exist. It’s hard to accept, but Father was not wise in
his decision to oppose them.” His serpentine tongue curled around Sanguinius’s ear. “What
sane man could oppose joy? And, wise or not, sane or mad, he’s gone now. And you can feel
sad and angry, but you don’t need to withdraw from the course of history. We have work to
do for humanity. That hasn’t changed. We want your help.” He licked dried blood from
Sanguinius’s skin. “Poor darling. What are we going to do with you?”

“I know!” He conjured bondage from the warp. That was apparently one of the gifts his
patron had bestowed upon him, and he used it often and with enthusiasm. Chains of sparkling
pink energy pulled Sanguinius’s limbs straight and bound them to his body. His struggles
against them were useless. “I have a meeting with Horus and Magnus today. You’re going to
sit in.” He kissed his helpless brother’s furrowed brow. “You don’t need to worry about
whether you can countenance our continued existence, because you can’t do anything about it
right now. But you can talk. We’d like to talk.” He stood up and pulled Sanguinius from the
cell, his sorcery dragging him along, hovering about a foot off the ground. “This is going to
be fun! Magnus has missed you, you know.”

“You’re crazy,” Sanguinius said. “You’re all crazy. And you’re turning into a snake.”

“Well, you’re acting like a chicken,” Fulgrim said, and he stuck out his long, thin tongue.
 Chapter 3

“What do you think, darling?”

The question came from Fulgrim, of course. It had been Fulgrim’s idea to take him from his
cell and bring him bound hand, foot, and wing to some of the traitors’ less sensitive meetings
to ‘socialize’ him. Fulgrim wanted to hear his thoughts on global defense. Sanguinius was
certain no one else did.

“I...” He looked around the table his at his brothers, all of them mad, most of them showing
signs of daemonic transformation. What could he even say? “I think you should renounce the
dark gods. That’s what I’m always going to think. I don’t have other opinions on what you’re
doing, because serving the dark gods is such a big problem that you can’t fix anything else
until you fix that.”

Horus suppressed a smile. Magnus rolled his eye.

“Well, we aren’t going to take your suggestion,” Fulgrim said gently, “but we’re glad you’re
here to give it, all the same.”

“Why did you leave me alive?” Sanguinius asked. “There’s no place for me in this world. I
can’t help you.” He’d gone into the fight with Horus confident of his death. He’d fought in
defense of their Father, fallen to Horus’s attack, and been sickened and horrified to wake up
afterwards. The moral authority who guided his life was gone. He had no idea how to do the
right thing anymore, or what the right thing even was. He felt guilty for continuing to exist in
a world where he didn’t know how to be good. “Do you just want an audience? Is that why
I’m here?”

“You’re here because you’re our brother,” Fulgrim said, and he started petting him again.
“We love you.”

“If you loved me, you’d let me die.” Tears ran from his eyes and choked his voice.

Fulgrim drew him close, rubbing his back to console him. “Poor thing. It’s hard, isn’t it?
Here.” He cut his neck with a knife of ivory and guided Sanguinius’s lips to the wound. “This
will help.”

Sanguinius feared he was losing his mind. Fulgrim’s magic held him immobile, a helpless
witness to the destruction of everything their Father had worked to build. The shame was too
great to be borne. And he was hungry, and the blood was fresh and enticing and warm, and
his mouth was the only part of him that was free.

He may have wished to resist him, but he could not. He drank deeply of his brother. Terror
made him savage.

“There now, that’s better, isn’t it?” Fulgrim purred under the onslaught of Sanguinius’s fangs.
He slipped his hand into his robes to stimulate himself.
Night Haunter, seated at his other hand, bit him plaintively on the arm.

Fulgrim looked down fondly at him. “Are you hungry too?” He tilted his head to offer the
other side of his neck, and Konrad needed no further encouragement. He pierced Fulgrim’s
milky white skin and drew gasps and pleased sighs from his throat.

“Do you have to do that now?” Magnus asked. “Here?”

Fulgrim was lost in a haze of bliss and heeded him little. “They’re going to fuss if I don’t
feed them,” he said. “This is the nature of desire.”

“They wouldn’t be fussing if you hadn’t shown them blood.”

Fulgrim nodded. “This also is the nature of desire.”

“You heard him,” Horus said. “Can’t argue with Slaanesh about the nature of desire. I call a
thirty minute recess. I assume that will be sufficient?”

Fulgrim made no reply to him, too absorbed in getting drunk.

 Chapter 4

The sun was setting on the fortress-cities of storied Eurasia, staining the sky violent red.
Fulgrim had come to the most secure vault of the palace dungeons, Konrad in tow, to put
Sanguinius to bed for the night. A gesture of his clawed hand, and the sorcerous chains
shifted, forcing the prisoner into a new position. Fulgrim arranged him comfortably on his
front, knees tucked underneath him and arms hugging a pillow, wings wrapped around his
body for sleep, his head resting in the perfumed silk of Fulgrim’s lap. Another gesture, and a
little burning globe appeared, filling the room with the smoke of drowsy herbs.

“Today was difficult, wasn’t it?” Fulgrim spoke softly. He braided Sanguinius’s hair for the
night to protect his curls. “It’s hard to talk about running the Imperium without Father. It’s
frightening to see the galaxy without him. But you did so well, and I’m so proud of you. I
know Magnus was happy to see you again.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Sanguinius muttered. “He yelled at me for staining his books.” He burned
with shame that he had made a beast of himself in front of witnesses, and with rage that
Fulgrim had made him fall. And then shame that he was making excuses for his own weak
character. He wished he could hork up Fulgrim’s blood from his guts and cleanse his body of
its taint.

“That’s how Magnus says he missed you. He just speaks with an accent.” Fulgrim tied off the
last braid.

“We should kill him,” came a harsh voice from the shadows. Konrad’s hands flexed, his
claws aching to rend flesh. “If you let him live, he’ll kill us all. I’ve seen it.”

“You should kill me,” Sanguinius agreed. “I will absolutely kill you all. I’m thinking about it
right now.”

“See? He admits it,” Konrad said. “I’m not jealous.”

Fulgrim stood and tucked a pillow under Sanguinius’s head to replace the cushion of his legs.
He stepped through Konrad’s guard and stroked his chin with a violet scaled finger. “I know
you aren’t jealous, sweet child. Although I’d be flattered if you were.” These last words were
a whisper pressed against his brother’s lips. Konrad bit him, drew blood, and he shivered in
joy. “Mm. Very flattered.” He grabbed a handful of Konrad’s scraggly hair and forced him to
his knees. “You’re a good boy for protecting me. I’ll reward you once brother’s tucked in.”

Konrad fought against him. Fulgrim conjured more chains from the Warp -- heavy, leaden
things that tightened when he struggled and bent him low beneath their weight. Konrad
relaxed, pacified by the cruel chains.

“I know it is wise to fear you,” Fulgrim said. “You may harm me, and fear would save me
from death at your hand.” He draped a blanket over Sanguinius and tucked it close around his
curled form. “But fear will not save me from starvation. Only hunger can do that. Do you
understand?”
Sanguinius wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I am initiate to the wisdom of hunger. Attraction. It turns me toward good things and bids
me feed my heart upon them. It tells me with dread portent that I will love you or starve, and
I dare not disobey.”

“If you love me, grant mercy,” Sanguinius asked. “Grant a brother his request, and kill me.”

He shook his head. “There is no mercy for you. Hunger cares no more for your suffering than
for the threat you pose to my life. You are loved here. You are needed. You will live.” He
kissed the back of his head. “Rest now, brother. Pleasant dreams.”

He tugged on Konrad’s chain and dragged him from the cell, locking the door behind them.
Sanguinius lay in a panic of misery, loathing himself for being so weak as to be tempted by
the honeyed words of a madman.
 Chapter 5

“It’s hard for me, too.” Fulgrim sat embroidering in a chair facing his brother in his cell in the
Palace dungeon.

Sanguinius was perched on his cot, hugging his knees and holding his wings tight around
himself. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said.

“I loved Father. You know I did. And you know I wanted his love so much. So very much...”
His voice trailed off as the air around him thrummed with the glow of sorcery. He shook his
head, and it dispersed. “And I have to accept that I will never get it. That’s hard. It’s sad. I
wish things could have been different, but here we are.”

“Father loved me,” Sanguinius insisted.

“Did he? Because to me, it looked like he was ready to kill you and erase you from history
the moment you let a crack show in your perfect facade. He was ready to do that to any of us,
just like he did to… to…” He hissed savagely and threw his work to the ground. “I don’t
remember their names! I don’t remember if I loved them. He took that from me. He would
have taken you from me if you’d been a hairsbreadth worse at lying. That isn’t love!”

Sanguinius choked on a sob. “I was unworthy.”

“No, you weren’t! You’re great! You weren’t the problem!” He stood from his seat and began
to pace. “You were never the problem, because there’s nothing wrong with you. You just
disagree with people sometimes, and you like blood. In a normal family, you can disagree
with people and like blood! That was Father’s failing, not yours!” He put his hands on his
brother’s shoulders. “I know you drink blood. And I know you’re angry with me for treason
and patricide. And I want you here with me, all the same.”

His voice softened. “Father is gone, and he isn’t coming back. But there are other people in
the galaxy than Father. You have brothers and sons who love you. You don’t need to hide
from us.” He gathered Sanguinius into his arms, and he took the kindness like he’d taken the
blood that morning: thirsty and desperate for something to sustain him, thoughtless of his
shame.
 Chapter 6

Fulgrim stroked First Captain Raldoron’s back as he carried him through the halls of the
palace. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “We’re almost there. Your daddy will be glad to see
you. He’s missed you terribly.”

“We miss him too,” said Raldoron. He didn’t know why the increasingly snake-like traitor
Primarch insisted on carrying him. He didn’t especially like it, but if he got to see his gene-
sire, he’d put up with it. None of the Blood Angels had been allowed to see him in the weeks
since the fall of Terra. They only had Horus’s word that he still lived. He found himself
clinging tighter to his heretical uncle.

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Rouged lips pressed to his forehead; a long, forked tongue
touched his hair. “You’re good boys to be so patient.” They came to a great, gilded door set in
the marble wall. Fulgrim knocked. “Honey? Someone wants to see you.” He opened it
without waiting for an answer.

In an instant, Raldoron was caught up in strong, familiar arms and wrapped in familiar fluffy
wings. “My Lord!” He reached up to embrace his Primarch’s neck. His Primarch, who looked
right and smelled right and knew how to hold him, his Primarch was with him again.

Tears dripped on his head. “You’re alive,” Sanguinius said.

“Of course he is,” Fulgrim replied. “I told you he was all right.”

“You tell me a lot of things,” Sanguinius said. “I’d go mad if I believed them all. Are you
safe? Have they hurt you?”

“I… I’m well, my Lord.” He was conscious that Fulgrim was still in the room. “I’m
unharmed. They don’t keep us all together. They don’t say how many remain. I’ve seen forty-
six of my brothers with my own eyes. I’ve heard rumors of others. I wish I could give a better
report.”

“There are more than forty-seven of you, child, don’t fret,” Fulgrim said. “My brother has
always been enviably fertile. It would take more than a few bad days to deplete the ranks of
the Ninth. We’re just keeping you in small groups for now so you don’t get too rowdy.”

Sanguinius pressed his face to Raldoron’s hair and took a deep breath. “It’s all right. They
don’t give me numbers either. But they told me you were alive, and I’m glad you are.” He sat
down on the bed and cradled him close to his chest. Raldoron snuggled into the angel’s breast
and listened to the thump of his giant hearts and the deep, soft whisper of his breath.

He looked around the room. It was much like the rooms he and his brothers were kept in,
although the fixtures and furniture were larger to accommodate a Primarch. It was clean. The
air smelled of fragrant resins, and the walls were hung with pretty tapestries. A window
looked out on a secure courtyard where flowers bloomed in artificial daylight. It seemed that
at least the darker rumors were untrue, and Sanguinius wasn’t really kept in the dungeons.
Then the Primarch kissed him – his crown, his temple, his lips – and he gave no more thought
to the room.

Fulgrim sat down beside them on the bed. “You missed your baby, didn’t you?” he asked as
he rubbed Sanguinius’s back.

“More than anything,” Sanguinius said. “Thank you.” He held Raldoron tighter, as though
afraid he might be taken away again.

Fulgrim kissed him. “It was Horus’s idea. When I told him how good you’ve been, he said
you deserve a reward. And so does this little Angel.” He tickled Raldoron under his chin. “He
took such good care of his brothers while Daddy was getting better. Now we just have to play
nice and show Uncle Horus that you’re ready to see the rest of your babies, and you can all
be together again.”

Raldoron closed his eyes. It was hard to resist the sweet promises, especially now that he was
in his father’s arms again.
 Chapter 7

Pain. All throughout his body. Deep, screaming, echoing pain. Sanguinius woke up in a fluffy
cloud of endorphins that blocked out the voices and visions he usually met on waking. It was
peaceful in his cloud. He savored it.

He wasn’t sure where he was. He didn’t remember where he’d fallen asleep. He noticed that
he was trying to remember, and he dismissed the thought immediately. He focused on the
sharp, bright glow of agony and willed himself to forget he’d ever asked.

There, that was better. He’d been thinking about… pain? That sounded right. Someone or
some blessed thing had gouged out swaths of his backside and strained the joints of his arms
and wings to breaking. The pain rose up like the swell of a great wave and overcame him. He
felt dizzy. Like the ground was gone, and the air was gone, and his wings pressed against
formless vacuum, and he fell. The void was cold around him. He started to shiver. This
happened sometimes when he was injured. He’d gotten used to it. Actually, as the Heresy had
pressed on, he’d come to rely on the occasional vacation in shock to break up the dread-filled
monotony of his conscious life.

He smelled blood. Rich, living Primarch’s blood. And cum. And… pussy? Had there been a
woman? He didn’t remember that. The pussy faded as the blood flowed and pulsed anew,
perfuming the air. Something good was in his in his mouth, and he drank. The shaking
quieted. His wounds began to knit as his body fed on the vital fluid. Impressions and
sensations came along with the blood, sensations of Horus's tenderness for him. The taste of
his love. He opened his eyes.

Horus smiled down at him. He was holding him close, nestled between his slab-like arm and
his chest, feeding him from a chalice. “Feel better?” he asked. “You had me worried there.”

“I’m sorry.” He hadn’t meant to worry anyone. He felt worse about it because his brother was
being so kind. “I’m all right. Just cold.” He hoped he hadn’t done anything especially
foolhardy to cause concern, but he couldn’t remember. Who had they even been fighting?
Heretics?

Memories filtered in through the fog and slowly fit themselves into place. No, they wouldn’t
have fought Heretics, because Horus was a Heretic. And the war was over. Father was dead.
Horus had won. And more than that – “Wait, you don’t get to worry about me. You tortured
me in the first place!”

Horus reluctantly let him out of his arms. “I can do both.”

He was naked. Horus was in a dressing gown. They were in a bed chamber furnished with
colorful silks. To the left, there was a washroom with a marble basin in the floor and water
sprayers above it. Sanguinius stepped into the basin and turned the sprayers on, splashing
water on himself to loosen the clotted blood. He hated sticky feathers.
“Great,” he muttered. “You can do both. Is that my purpose in life now? To be tortured and
worried about over and over until you get tired of it?”

Horus sauntered over to help him groom, hands deft on the injured wings. “Who says I’ll get
tired?” He nuzzled his shoulder, and Sanguinius fluffed his wings aggressively with a spray
of bloody water. Horus thought better of his gown and let it fall to the floor.

“You don’t have to ask me what your purpose is,” he said. “That’s the point. That’s why we
fought a civil war. You can tell me. What is your purpose? What do you want to do?”

Sanguinius sighed, his shoulders slumping, tired and sick. “I really should kill you,” he said.
“Father would expect me to kill you. At the very least, I should try.”

“You don’t have to,” Horus said. “I won’t tell.” He stepped into the basin with him to get a
better angle for washing him.

“I’m glad it’s so amusing to you, but that’s not the solution you seem to think it is. He won’t
stay dead forever. You must know that.”

Horus shrugged. “He’s dead now,” he said, “which is further than anyone got before. I
consider it a work in progress.”

“Is that how you’re supposed to talk about patricide?”

Horus laughed. “I don’t know. If there are etiquette guides, I’ll admit I haven’t read them.
How do you want me to talk about it?”

“Like you’re sad, maybe? Like you feel bad about it?”

“I don’t.”

“I know.”

They worked on his wings in silence, picking rusty red blood from his feathers and the
wounds on his back.

Horus spoke. “Well, leaving aside my monstrous filial impiety – ”

“I don’t think we can leave that aside.”

“ – leaving it aside for the moment, if you didn’t feel an obligation to kill me, what would
you want to do then?”

Sanguinius closed his eyes. The question was absurd. What could be done in a situation like
this? So many people depended on him, and he was helpless. “I’d want to go to Baal,” he
said. “If it still stands, as you told me. When he comes back, he’s going to go there. They’re
not safe. They’re not ready. If I had any input on the direction of my life, I’d go home and
protect my people from the mess you’ve made of the galaxy.”

“All right, so go to Baal.”

“What?” He bristled at the mockery.

“Go to Baal,” Horus repeated. “Take Magnus. Make a resurrection preparedness plan. That
sounds like a good idea, and I encourage it.”

He wrapped his dirty wings around himself. “It isn’t funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Why would you let me do that?” he asked.

“Because Baal is important to you, and you’re important to me.” He smiled with teeth now.
“And I’m the Emperor of Mankind. I can do what I like.”
 Chapter 8

His chest was ripped open, his heart pierced by lightning claws. And his boy, his darling
favorite met his eyes with seething hatred. Had he built him to be capable of such hatred,
such disloyalty? Surely someone must have tampered with his work. He opened his mouth to
speak, but only blood dribbled out. The puncture wounds had stolen his breath. His heart
sank as the future was snatched away, dripping off the end of Horus’s talons.

And Magnus was there?

“Hi.” His (other) traitor son gave him a reassuring smile. “You’re having a rough time, huh?
That’s okay. This happens sometimes. You’re going to be all right.”

He walked around the room, looking it over. He looked spliced into the scene somehow.
Brighter. As though he were lit by different light than the rest of the room, or held by
different gravity.

He turned to face him again. “Do you know where you are?”

He opened his mouth, and this time, words tumbled out with the blood. “I’m on the Vengeful
Spirit.”

Magnus nodded and frowned thoughtfully. “That’s where the Emperor is,” he said. “Do you
know where Sanguinius is?”

He looked over at the floor. “There.” Sanguinius lay crumpled unconscious with his throat
crushed. His failed protector.

“Let’s try this,” Magnus said. “Can you feel your hands?”

His body was failing, but the nerves hadn’t gone yet. He looked down at his hands in front of
him. They looked false. Immaterial, like colored light on a screen. “I’m… not sure.”

“Can you feel your wings?” Magnus asked.

“I don’t have – ” No, he did have wings. The dissonance made him dizzy. He splayed his
fingers out, trying to connect what he saw to the sensations of his body. It felt like falling. He
scrabbled for purchase, and his fingers found something soft.

“Ow. Hey – !”

He felt Magnus take him by the wrist and firmly remove his hands from his face. The room
snapped into focus around him. Ruined frescoes. Chipped gold. They were on the Red Tear.
He felt cold like death. His feathers stood on end, and he shivered violently.

“Easy. Take it easy.” Magnus grew larger and pulled Sanguinius into his arms. He dragged
him over to a couch and gathered him up in his lap. He felt warm. So very warm.
“Are you with me?” Magnus moved a finger across Sanguinius’s field of view, and he
tracked it with his eyes. “There you are. Hi. Welcome back.” Magnus rubbed his arms,
calling warming blood back to the skin. “You’re going to feel gross for a minute. That’s
normal. I’ll get us some tea.” He tapped a message to his equerry on his dataslate, tap-tap-
tap, red fingers moving quick across black glass.

As Sanguinius fell back into his own mind, shame rose up to threaten him. Magnus saw, it
said. Magnus knew.

“I know this is probably hard for you,” Magnus said. “But it’s not the end of the world, being
a psyker.”

He supposed it would be rude to disagree.

 Chapter 9

Marble arches stretched across the desert sky, supporting no cathedral but the endless blue. A
profusion of flowers and fruit trees grew in the network of oases that wound through the
dusty sand. Bright, playful birds sang and danced through the air, their chirping mixed with
the occasional human voice in low conversation or fond laughter. One never heard the
humans in detail. They were always at a distance.

Under the great arches, smaller structures dotted the gardens: monuments and golden statues,
painted walls rising up from the date palms, a memory of the late Imperial style. The
Emperor’s likeness was repeated many times, here with martial and stalwart countenance,
there tender and paternal.

Magnus was sure he’d seen darker expressions as well on the statues and paintings, from the
corner of his eye. When he turned to see them straight on, they smiled with all the virtues a
skilled artist could impute to them.

They’d been walking a long time. They’d flown for a little while, but the sky revealed no
more variation than the ground, so they were back to walking.

“Do you think we’re getting closer?” Sanguinius asked.

“It’s hard to say,” Magnus said. “It’s hard for me to say,” he corrected himself. “It’s your
mind. Do you feel like we’re getting closer?”

“I...” Sanguinius’s smile faltered. “...I’m sorry. I forgot what we were looking for.”

Magnus looked around at the sprawling gardens. “It might be a door,” he said, not for the first
time, “or a box. It could be a musical instrument, or even a paintbrush or chisel. For some
people, it wears the same appearance every time, and for some, it changes. It’s… a sense of
potential. Freedom. Power. Whatever that looks like to you, that’s the form your psychic
ability will take.”

“Or I might not be psychic,” Sanguinius suggested, not for the first time either.

“All right.” He sat on a quilt that had been left by the oasis. A group of swallows brought him
honeyed pomegranates and tea. He trailed his finger in the water. “Well, whatever non-
psychic ability lets you walk the minds of dead men, that’s the form it will take.”

Sanguinius sat down beside him and began to preen Magnus’s feathers. He was silent for a
time, and when he spoke, he spoke only softly. “What if I don’t want it?”

“Then it might be something dangerous, like a cup of poison, or a wild beast.”

A family of jerboas hopped up to the water’s edge and took dainty little bites of leaves that
grew there.
Magnus sighed. “Or it might be hidden in an endless labyrinth. It could always be that.”

A jungle cat padded out of the trees and climbed into his arms. He rubbed its head. “It’s all
right,” he said to the cat and to the landscape in general. “I’m not angry. I’m sure your
reasons for becoming an endless labyrinth were very compelling.”

The cat closed its eyes and purred.

 Chapter 10

“Daemons orbit the planet, Lord,” his First Minister said. “The people will want to know
why.”

“They will.” Sanguinus ran his hands over his face and took a deep breath. “They will, they
will. And I will tell them something. Something good.” He looked at her. “And you’ll want to
know too, and I’ll have to tell you something better than what I tell everyone else, because
you think about these things more seriously. I know.” His wings fell.

“I can say… that transfer of power is not always peaceful, between one leader and the next.
Between a father and a son. I wish it were, but it isn’t. And all the same, once it’s over, we
have to keep on with our lives and look after our world like we’re supposed to, because
there’s nothing else to do.”

Her face wore a thoughtful frown. It revealed very little, only that she attended to his words.

He knelt on the floor to put a hand on her shoulder. “I can say to you, Miryam, that we
haven’t changed sides. We are on Baal’s side. I am on Baal’s side, as I have always been, for
you and your mothers and their mothers, before the coming of the first Emperor, since I first
drew breath on this world. I am on Baal’s side. And cooperation with the Imperium has been
good for us. We give them aid, and they respect our borders. We pay them fealty, and they
give us freedom in our laws and culture. We fought for the first Emperor, and he died, and the
second Emperor offered peace, and I took it. He offered Daemons to help us secure the
system, and I took them, because no other help is coming. I am not proud when my world
needs me. You and I, we can’t be proud.” He stared into her eyes, pleading that she
understand.

She sighed. “It’s not what I wanted to hear.”

He shook his head sympathetically. “I wouldn’t expect it was, no. If it helps at all, it’s not
what I wanted to tell you.”

“Have they ordered tribute?” she asked him. “Have they ordered sacrifice?”

“Not yet.”

“They will.”

“It’s likely.” He stood and walked to the window. The Capitol shone in the sun. “The first
Emperor did. It added up over time. More than a million. Sometimes it was every healthy
teenage boy we had. When the new government asks for their payment, we’ll weigh their
offer as we weighed that one, and we’ll make the best decision we can.”

She joined him by the window. Her frown had deepened. “Have you gotten worse at
speechmaking?” she asked.
“I know my audience,” he said. “This was your speech. It’s ugly and true, because you want
that in speeches. The next one will be prettier.”

“I hope so,” she said. She looked out over her city, over her world, the rippling deserts, and
the spaceships in the sky.
 Chapter 11

They met on the Vengeful Spirit, again. It was cleaned up since last time.

The door of the Stormbird opened. Sanguinius looked tired. His feathers were patchy, and he
smelled of cold sweat. He walked down the gangplank until he stood a couple feet off the
deck so his head was level with Horus. Then he grabbed him by the shoulders and bit his
neck.

“Ah!”

“You don’t get to complain,” Sanguinius said between gulps of blood. It spilled over Horus,
down his body, puddling on the floor. “I am stretched to my limit with the groxshit you put
into the galaxy, and if I’m going to see you, I need a stars-damned drink.”

“I’m not complaining,” Horus said. The sudden attack had surprised him, but he didn’t
begrudge his brother a few drops of his substance.

“Well, good, because I don’t want to hear it.” Sanguinius took a deep, long draught. “Why
are you here?”

“I came to see you. I wanted to check in. How fares the defense effort?”

“Weird,” Sanguinius snapped. “Is that what you want to hear? It fares weird. Magnus has me
in nerd therapy. It’s awful for everyone, it’s very heretical, and I’m probably falling to
Tzeentch.”

“Why are you in nerd therapy?” Horus asked.

“Because I have nerd problems! I have visions of the patricide you committed, and Magnus
thinks this will help me… I don’t know! Something! Something psychic I can’t understand!”

“I didn’t know you were psychic.”

“I’m not! I just have visions! Why does no one get that?”

“All right, it’s all right.” Horus rubbed his back. His body was tense and shaking. “Then I
didn’t know you had visions.”

There was a choked, quiet sound. Tears fell on his shoulder and mingled with the blood.

“I hate it,” Sanguinius said. “I didn’t want to see that once. Now I see it five times a day. It’s
getting worse.”

Horus clicked his tongue and smoothed down his brother’s feathers. “You’re fixating. Let’s
give you something else to think about. How about some tanna and a bath?” He held a hand
over his bleeding neck. He wanted a bath as well.
Sanguinius nodded. He followed him out of the landing bay quietly.
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

They met on the Red Tear this time, high in orbit around Terra. Sanguinius embraced him as
he stepped down from the Stormbird.

“My brother!” Horus held him tight. He stepped back to get a look at him. Sanguinius
seemed stronger than he had at their last meeting. His skin had some color to it, and his over-
plucked feathers had grown back.

“How fares...” he began to ask, but the sentence trailed off. How fares what?

He searched his mind, but it was fruitless. He had forgotten the planet’s name. He frowned.

“It’s on the tip of your tongue, right? And now it’s gone. Shelve the name for now, do you
know where it is? What sector?”

His frown deepened. Of course he knew. He had to. “You’re from…” As he thought, the
memory of remembering slipped away. What was it they were talking about? Was he
answering a question? “I’m sorry,” he said, “did you ask me something?”

“I asked about my world,” Sanguinius prompted.

He’d been to this place, wherever it was. He was sure he had. He’d spoken about it at length
with his brother and his nephews many times. But all he had were vague impressions,
whispers and spiderwebs. “It’s dry,” he said eventually. “You take sand baths when there isn’t
water.”

Sanguinius waved a hand. “Well, I’ll give you that. Still, not bad, right? There are billions of
dry, sandy planets. It could be anywhere. Anything else? Population, Compliance date,
economy and principal exports?”

Horus shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly.” Sanguinius grinned, baring his fangs. “No one does.”

“Is this Magnus’s work?” Horus asked.

He shook his head. “No, it’s mine. Turns out I’m great at it. Magnus says it’s ‘extroverted
repression.’”

His hearts grew bitter. “So that’s what you do now? Extroverted repression?”

Two years past, he’d killed a man who stole his memories, who stole his brothers out of
history. He’d thought that time was over. “Are you going to erase yourself, too?”
 The angel’s liveliness left him. His voice softened. “I could,” he said. “I thought about it. If I
have to someday, then I will. But right now, I don’t want to. Look, I came here to see you. I
had a successful mission. I secured an objective. My home world is safe. -er. Than it was
before. And that’s something. I want to celebrate, with –”

If he said ‘Warmaster,’ Horus was going to scream.

“– my Emperor.”

Horus stood stunned for a moment. Then he laughed. “You don’t make things easy,” he said.
“You know that?” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “All right, let’s celebrate. I’m
guessing you don’t want a parade?”

“This might not be a ‘parade’ kind of victory,” Sanguinius agreed. “No one would know why
they were there.” He reached out a hand. The movement was hesitant, wary. “Have a drink
with me, instead?”

Horus took his brother’s hand and kissed it. He guided it to rest on his arm. “I’d love to. Give
me wine I won’t remember from somewhere I’ve never heard of. Let’s toast to whoever.”

Chapter End Notes

Let's hear it for the vague blur.

 Chapter 13

“Ferrus?” Sanguinius asked. “Isn’t he dead?”

“Well, he was,” Fulgrim said, “but I want to move past that. Start a new chapter, you know?
Like you have. He listens to you.”

“It is so flattering that you think that.”

“You’re being modest.”

“I’m not. Please, Ferrus doesn’t listen to me. He doesn’t listen to anyone. He only liked me
because I never tried to tell him things. I don’t think I can--”

“And now you’re being defeatist! None of that, brother. You’re over that now. Just talk to
him about...” His violet eyes lost focus. “...how did we bring you around?” He frowned and
searched his memory. “It wasn’t sex, drugs, or affection. I recall very clearly my anger that
you wouldn’t respond to sex, drugs, or affection. I was incandescent. And I know it wasn’t
blood qua blood, you’re not that dreary. But I don’t recall...”

“It’s complicated,” said Sanguinius. “He wouldn’t get it.” Which was true. It may have been
true even if Ferrus could hold the concept of Baal in his mind for more than a second, which
he couldn’t, any more than Fulgrim could.

Fulgrim grabbed him suddenly and nuzzled his neck and feathers. “Lots of things are
complicated, but you get through to people anyway. Your men, others’ men, rebel worlds,
xenos. You talk, and they listen.” Fulgrim took his ear in his teeth now and then, tugging at it
while he pleaded. “You’re a genius, you always have been. I envy you that, my darling.”

“Fulgrim--” He tried to step away from the embrace.

“You’re the best of us, sugar.” The nuzzles turned to kisses, and the kisses turned to tongue.

“He won’t--” He tried to turn his head from the touch, but caresses met him on every side.
His skin flushed hot.

“Can’t you try, pretty baby?” Tender fingers stroked his hair. “For big brother?”

He shivered all over, and his feathers stood on end. “You’re… hard to argue with, but--”

“I’m so glad you agree!”

With that, Sanguinius was through a door, and the door was locked behind him.

“Hey! Fulgrim!” He banged on the adamantine door. “It’s not going to work!”

No answer came. He sighed and slumped his wings. “He wants me to talk to you,” he said in
a quiet, defeated voice.
“Ugh.” For a while, that was all Ferrus said. Eventually, he followed it with, “About…
Daemon shit?”

Sanguinius nodded. “Yeah. About Daemon shit.” He turned around and sat down on the floor,
head in his hands.

“Crazy bastard’s always on his Daemon shit,” Ferrus complained. He wasn’t wrong.
 Chapter 14

“I don’t know what he’s smoking that makes him think you’ll turn me to his side,” Ferrus
said after a long silence. Then he stood and yelled at the locked door. “HE’S THE GREAT
ANGEL, DIPSHIT!” he boomed, “THE BRIGHTEST ONE! HE WON’T TALK ANYONE
INTO TREASON! I BET YOU KNOW THAT! I BET YOU LOCKED HIM IN HERE
’CAUSE YOU THINK HE’LL GIVE ME COMFORT BLOWJOBS, AND YOU’RE
JACKING OFF YOUR TENTACLES RIGHT NOW!”

His fists rose up to join his voice’s assault against the door. Sanguinius dodged out of the
way.

“HE’S!” roared Ferrus, punctuating every word with a punch that could fell tanks, “NOT!
EVEN! ON! YOUR! SIDE! AAAAAAAAGH!” He exhausted himself with the final
thunderous blow and fell to join his brother on the floor.

Sanguinius waited. He didn’t want to interrupt if Ferrus weren’t finished talking.

He waited longer, to be sure.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine!” Ferrus spat. “I’m fine! Fulgrim’s an asshole, but he’s always an asshole, so I’m used
to it, so I’m fine!” He punched the door again for emphasis.

“Circumstances… being what they are, it’s still good to see you,” Sanguinius said. “I mean,
it’s good to see you intact.” He was still curious about the head thing.

“Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts,” Ferrus said, “’cause he’ll probably cut my head off again
in another five minutes.”

Fulgrim hadn’t seemed fratricidal when he’d spoken to Sanguinius. He’d seemed desperate,
and terrified of rejection, and very, very lonely. And turned on, and high, and rippling with
Daemonic power, and a snake, but those things were his baseline these days. He was always
those. “Fulgrim is upset,” Sanguinius said, “but I don’t think he’ll--”

“No?” said Ferrus. “You don’t? He’s cut my head off fifty-three times, but fifty-four is a
bridge too far, and this time he’ll show some restraint?”

“Fifty-three?” Sanguinius frowned. “Does he, like, se--”

“No, he doesn’t sew it back on!” Ferrus snapped. “He has his shitty kid clone me. He’s been
doing this for a year. I wake up with no idea where I am, Fulgrim says something weird, I
remember he’s a colossal asshole, and then he cuts my head off!”

“That’s awful!” Sanguinius said.

“You’re telling me! And when he’s not cutting my head off, he’s talking all kinds of groxshit
about how you’ve turned Traitor!”

“I haven’t--” Sanguinius felt the need to clarify.

“Of course you haven’t!” Ferrus said. “You never would!”

“--exactly,” he finished.

Ferrus frowned. “‘Exactly’ what?”

“I haven’t exactly turned Traitor.”

“What the fuck does that mean, not ‘exactly’ Traitor?” Ferrus rose to his feet again, and
Sanguinius thought it best to join him. “Are you a Traitor, or aren’t you?”

“I’m not. I fought against the coup. I haven’t taken any action to harm any surviving
Loyalists. I haven’t pledged myself to any Daemons.”

Ferrus relaxed. “Then you’re not a Traitor. Don’t scare me with things like ‘exactly.’ There’s
no ‘exactly’ about it.”

“Yes...” Sanguinius said.

“And stop looking guilty,” Ferrus said. “It pisses me off.”

Sanguinius immediately obliged him and stopped looking guilty.

Ferrus nodded his approval. “Fuck are we supposed to do in here, anyway?”

Sanguinius considered the options. Talking, as Fulgrim wished, was out of the question. He
wouldn’t know what to say, and frankly, he didn’t want to. Given his remark earlier, he
assumed Ferrus didn’t want any comfort blowjobs either.

He moved closer to his brother. Slowly, a little more slowly than usual. But careful not to
seem guilty or fearful of a (justified) physical attack. He put a hand on his shoulder. It was
hard as a rock. He probed the knotted muscles with his fingers, and Ferrus leaned into the
touch and gave a satisfied sigh.

“That’s good,” he said. He moved to sit on the floor again, but Sanguinius guided him to bed.
“Been a year since anyone rubbed my shoulders without tenta-groping my balls and spitting
treason in my ear at the same time.”

“No wonder you’re tense,” Sanguinius said. “Lay down, let me get at it properly.” This he
could do. He could be a good brother and offer sympathy and myofascial release and not
address the question of who served whom under the current Terran government or who killed
which relatives how many times. He didn’t know what he’d tell Fulgrim about the situation,
but he’d figure something out when he was asked.
 Chapter 15

“He’s mad about the patricide, and he wants you to stop cutting his head off,” Sanguinius
said.

“But I have stopped cutting his head off!” Fulgrim protested. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that
it’s still attached!”

“Well, maybe he needs time.” Sanguinius knew better than to ask how long it had been since
Fulgrim ‘stopped.’ He knew it couldn’t be that long, if the present clone were the fifty-third.
Fifty-fourth? He wasn't sure if they counted total clones or total Ferruses.

“He’s had time!” Fulgrim insisted, wings out in frustration, hair breaking its ribbons to fluff
up like a Chaotic dandelion. “It’s been two years! You’ve come around. You’ve adapted to
the new politico-religious reality. You and Horus are so happy, and I’m happy, but I’m
miserable, because I can’t make any progress with Ferrus! What am I doing wrong?” he
pleaded. “Why am I not enough? What can I fix to make this work??” He was weeping now,
genuine tears. “What worked for you? What made you decide to… to live?”

Sanguinius took a deep breath and sighed. “It’s a long story,” he said. “It’s complicated,” he
insisted, when instead of towering above him, his brother’s serpentine body now bent low
and looked up at him with pleading eyes. “It wouldn’t work for Ferrus!”

“But how do you know?” Fulgrim asked. “How do you know it won’t work if no one’s tried
it yet?”

“It’s about my homeworld, okay?” Sanguinius snapped. “And Ferrus doesn’t care about his,
so it won’t work.”

Fulgrim frowned in concentration. “Your homeworld...” he repeated. “I’m sorry, this is a

dreadful thing to forget, where are you from?”

“That’s what’s complicated,” Sanguinius said, now in gentler tones. Fulgrim took this as
license to push his head closer and ask for petting. Sanguinius rubbed the hair between his
horns. “The situation with my homeworld is complicated. But Ferrus doesn’t care about
Medusa, so you can’t use it as leverage with him.”

“I could try,” Fulgrim said, leaning into the headrubs. “Use your nails. Mmm… yes, that’s
good. You’re Sanguinius,” he mused, “so wherever you’re from, and whatever is
complicated, and whyever you won’t tell me the damned name, you… probably want to
protect them. Either from existential danger or from opprobrium. Or from existential danger
that follows from opprobrium.” He slithered out of his arms and began to slither-pace, so he
didn’t see the angel’s troubled expression behind him.

“You want them to be safe and happy,” he continued, “and beloved, that they might continue
in safety and happiness, and for everyone to know you did your best because you love them,
and they’re important. By analogy, Ferrus would want his Medusans to...” His six shoulders
slumped. “...turn into robots and die serving the Emperor. The first one.” He slithered back to
Sanguinius for comfort and nuzzled his hands until he skritched him.

“Yeah,” Sanguinius said, pushing down the thoughts of his own Heresy. He didn’t have to
think about that now. Fulgrim was right here considerately being a bigger mess than him, and
it would show ingratitude if he didn’t take the opportunity his brother offered to ignore his
own problems and focus on Fulgrim’s instead. “I’m sorry. But, hey,” he lifted his head up to
give him an encouraging look. “You haven’t cut his head off for, what--”

“Six days,” Fulgrim said.

“--six days, and that’s a start. Now you just have to do the same thing tomorrow, and that’ll
be a whole week.”

Fulgrim nodded, determined. “Yeah. I can do a week. I can do two weeks!”

“Of course you can!” Sanguinius agreed. “You’ve got this. You went longer than that without
beheading me.” Not that he thought prolonged sex-torture was the best tack (or with Ferrus,
maybe it would be?), but it at least was non-lethal.

“You never pissed me off this much,” Fulgrim admitted. “But I can do this! I’ve come this
far, and I can go further! And then… well, I won’t offer Ferrus a chance to protect his loved
ones, because he doesn’t have them. But maybe he’ll respond to a challenge. I’ll say I don’t
think he can do anything useful now that Father’s dead, and he’ll have to prove me wrong.”
The snarled, painful energy of his Daemonic aura untangled and glowed bright with
newfound vigor.

Sanguinius had several visions of how bad this could get, and he repressed them. “I… I guess
you could do that.”

Fulgrim embraced him, folding him up in arms and arms and wings and coils. “Of course I
could, darling. Thanks to you.” He tore his brother’s tunic like a paper wrapper and teased his
tits with his claws. “I’d say you’ve earned a reward, but you don’t want that.”

Sanguinius shivered and looked away from him.

He leaned in close. The perfume in his hair was intoxicating, and his breath was harsh and
chemical. “You need to be punished,” he whispered. He let one pointed claw pierce the flesh
of his nipple, drawing a gasp from the martyr. He tugged ruthlessly at the wound as he drew
his claw up to lick the blood from it.

Sanguinius took the distraction. It would be ingratitude not to.

 Chapter 16

“Well, I don’t want him,” said Nurgle. “He’s prissy.”

“No one asked,” said Slaanesh. Nurgle gave them herpes.

“Fragile, too,” Nurgle continued. “High maintenance.”

“Yes, beings that approach perfection require maintenance. We’re aware of your thoughts on
the matter, now shut up.” Slaanesh scratched one of their many pussies, which itched. He
scratched a little harder. She decided that she liked it.

“Shut up, you little bitch,” said Khorne. “It’s a crazy-ass berserker that drinks blood. It’s
mine. End of story.” He slammed the shaft of his axe hard on the ground, shaking it beneath
them.

“He’s a shameful flatterer with daddy issues, he’s mine! Besides, it looks so nice when he and
Fulgrim kiss.” She conjured into the air before them a vision of the two blond demigods in
ecstasy, Sanguinius weeping as Fulgrim pierced his tits.

“Of course the bonds of blood/cum are thick-and-thinnest at the source,” said Tzeentch. “A
riddle for another time. A riddle for the ages.”

Khorne glared at him. He took a solid guess at which of the many was his primary eye and
looked him straight in it. “Oh, I get it. You think he’s yours ’cause bird. You don’t own every
bird, Tzeentch! I own cassowaries and Sanguinius!”

A sigh came from one mouth, a laugh from another, a scream from a third on his back.
“Feathers now, and talons! I thought you knew but two body parts, and those only through
constant repetition! Whispers turn in violent desuetude. The axe severs what the pork-sword
seeks.”

Nurgle’s jolly face puckered in resentment. “I hate it when you talk like this,” he said. “Hell,
I just hate it when you talk.”

“A martyr’s burden, little brother, to be sure,” said Tzeentch. Other mouths cooed in sarcastic
sympathy. “In any case, a winning hand is worth two of a kind in a bird’s bush.”

“No, he waxes,” said Slaanesh, turning the angle of the vision to display his hairless body.
“See?”

“A metaphor is not your lover’s lover, cock-for-brains,” Tzeentch snapped at him. “The
puzzle pieces move as they will.”

“Whatever,” said Nurgle, oozing from the room. “This is a boring fight about a boring bird,
and I don’t care how you decide it. Call me when he gets cancer.”
“Cancer! Now there’s a thought.” Slaanesh began to edit the image and shape the bodies
within it. “He’d look darling with crab claws.”
 Chapter 17

"I don't want to fight you," Sanguinius said. Ka'Bandha had cornered him in the golden,
filigreed, recently be-tentacled hall outside Fulgrim's chambers. His massy red bulk blocked
the way, and he moved when Sanguinius moved, hemming him in. The smell of copper was
overpowering. It made Sanguinius tired.

"I mean, you do, though," said the Daemon. Voice like thunder, voice like brass. "You
literally do. Your hatred is palpable." He held out a clawed hand and felt the air. "Look, I'm
palpating it now."

Daemons of Khorne always made him feel sick. Panicky rage. Made his throat tight. He
didn't know if that was an aura they had or if he just really hated them. Either way, he didn't
need it. It clouded up his eyes, and he needed to see clearly. He tried to slip past him again. "I
don't want to deal with you at all," he said.

Ka'Bandha blocked him again. "But you are dealing with me. That piss you off?" he asked.

"I don't have to discuss that with you." Sanguinius said, turning away from him. If he couldn't
get away, and he couldn't shove him aside without joining battle and giving him what he
wanted, he at least didn't have to look him in the face.

"Make you wanna hit something?" Ka'Bandha continued.

"My personal feelings are my concern, and I'll thank you not to--"

"Make you wanna bite something?" The Daemon reached out to take Sanguinius's chin in his
hand and turned him to lock eyes. Obscenely, he was smiling. "Make your throat a little dry?"

"Oh my Unity, shut up!" Sanguinius pulled back and pushed his hand away. "This is why no
one likes you."

Ka'Bandha laughed. "Some Unity."

Sanguinius blushed. It was a stupid thing to say, the political climate being what it was. But
he didn't want to swear by gods he hated, and he hadn't come up with a better curse yet.

"You don't need to like me," said the Daemon. "You'd be crazy to like me, I'm a being of pure
hatred. That's fine. You just need to stop pretending to be something you're not."

"You don't know anything about me." Sanguinius said. He took heart at that. A Daemon who
didn't know him couldn't tempt him, and pretending to be something he wasn't was what he
was.

He felt less encouraged when he thought about it in those words. What an awful thing to be.

"Ugh," Ka'Bandha snorted. "And they call me bull-headed. Fine, if you don't want to fight,
I'll ask your sons."
"You'll stay the hell away from my sons." Sanguinius's voice was quiet and cold. His hands
were still.

Ka'Bandha warmed to the subject, appetite spurred by his reaction. "They know how to fight,
if you've forgotten. Never takes much to get them going."

He was trying to piss him off, and it was working. Sanguinius bit back bloodlust and forced it
down deeper. "Be quiet," he said in a voice with the pressure of diamonds. "Stop talking."

"What's that little skrunkle's name," Ka'Bandha asked, "Amit? Bet he can tangle."

"FORGET IT!" The words were an explosion, a roar. And Sanguinius thought, fuck, I'm
doing it, I'm falling. I'm really that easy. He was ready to get red in tooth and claw.

But a terrible stillness fell upon the Daemon. He looked up at the Bloodthirster's bovine face.
It was slack and blank. He moved his hand in front of it. The eyes didn't follow.

A creeping sense of shame rose in his gut. He hadn't meant to... cast spells? Is that what he'd
done? He hadn't meant to. He'd just wanted Ka'Bandha to stop.

Well, he had stopped. He'd stopped moving, but he was still blocking the hallway. Sanguinius
looked around him. There wasn't another way out. He picked the heavy beast up by the waist
and stuffed him in a decorative alcove so he could get by.

"Th'fuck?" came the Daemon's groggy voice.

"Don't worry about it." The words were quieter now, but they were big. Hard words. Words
with force, like before. It was bad, but he had to get away. It would be stupid to resort to
sorcery and then fall to Khorne anyway, hand to hand with the wretched Bloodthirster. Even
now, he was still thirsty for a bite. He had to get away before he gave in.

And Ka'Bandha, who for all his strength wasn't especially well protected against psykers,
stopped worrying.

Sanguinius cried quietly to himself on the Stormbird up to his waiting ship in orbit.

Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed.

 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

Contains fade-to-black mention of scat. Nurgle, what ya gonna do, right?

"I came to talk turkey." Nurgle's brothersister rarely visited the gardens. The hem of his skirts
dripped with filth, and the acidic sludge wore away the edges into ash. Seeing this, he
snipped off the colored silks at mid-thigh with one gleaming ivory claw and made it a mini
look instead. "Blond, big-boobied turkey, and the bothersome brothers that burn for him."

"Sanguinius? Why?" Nurgle held up a hand to forestall his sibling's speech. "I don't mean
'why do you think he's fuckable?' I mean, 'why do you think I care?'"

"Because Khorne is a bore, and Tzeentch is a more verbose bore, and I'm tired of them
getting their way! If he's Chaos Undivided, at least they can't make him as boring as them!"

Nurgle grumbled, mulling the unpleasant thought. He did hate Tzeentch. Then he shrugged
his pus-dripping shoulders. "I just don't want him. He's fragile. If you're so hot I should take
another pick, I'm taking Perturabo."

"You can have Perturabo," Slaanesh said.

"I will," Nurgle said smugly. "I like him. He tanks hits like a cutting board. I like cutting
boards."

"I know you do, buddy." They sighed as they pressed a claw to their elegant forehead.

"And he's depressed." Nurgle warmed to the subject. "Not just inhibited in his appetites, he's
full-on, crushed-under-the-weight-of-oceans depressed. I like depression."

"How can anyone like depression??" Slaanesh snapped, her limited self-control exhausted by
the absurdity of the statement. "Depression is only good as a goad. Depression is the thing
men run away from, into the arms of love or obsession or addiction or something nice."

Nurgle gave a hacking cough of a chuckle. "Yours run," he said. "Mine stay there and take it."

"Mine do run, don't they?" She nibbled on the tip of her hand, aroused at the thought of her
servants' speed. "So don't take Sanguinius. Don't bless him. He's rightfully mine, anyway.
Just... give him something to run from. You can do that, can't you, brother? For spite's sake?
For bloodymindedness?"

"I can give you the runs," Nurgle said. He was growing tired of his sibling's perfume. It
threatened to drown out the smell of rotting meat. He wanted them to leave.
Slaanesh tilted their graceful head in thought, then nodded like a queen granting a boon. "I
can get into that. Let's party." He hiked up the remainder of his skirts. They'd struck a deal, or
at least his hopeful heart thought they had, and it was time to celebrate.
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Sanguinius, no last name. Age, two hundred and six. Height, nine foot ten. Wingspan, twelve
feet (white, feathered). Eye color, red. Hair color, blond. Natural hair color, black.
Homeworld, unknown (somewhere hot and dry? they took dust baths). Has memory-erasing
psyker powers. Likes art and sculpture. Likes eating fruit. Likes drinking blood. Dislikes that
he likes drinking blood. Dislikes gods. Clever, warm, sweet. Laughs at my jokes. Masochistic,
people-pleasing. Submissive but has a stubborn side that he brings out at the worst possible
moments. Excels in melee combat. Favors sword and spear, especially effective with teeth.
Struggles to trust, has reasons. Kisses like he's starving to death. Hugs with his wings. Lord
of the IXth Legion, the Blood Angels. Is a good father. Was a good son. A good brother, but
it's complicated. Taken alive through the intervention of miracles. I fully expected one of us to
die (see: excels in melee combat), and every day I had him alive and in my arms felt like a
gift all over again.

Pict-caps appended.

Artist's rendering appended, because there's a line of his movement and a look in his eye that
the pict-caps don't get.

"I wrote down what I have," Horus said, pacing his chambers. "I don't think it will help. I'm
sure we had things written down about his homeworld, damned if I can hold them in my
mind now. But I thought..." He flopped down on the bed, exhausted, clutching the dataslate in
his hand. "I don't know what I thought. I thought I had to do something, and that's what I
came up with. I should have kept him tied to the bed. I should have never let him leave."

Lorgar put his arms around him, pressing his forehead to Horus's temple. "Hey. It's okay.
You'll get to tie him to the bed again."

"Is that a prophecy?" Horus hoped it was a prophecy. He'd like to have a prophecy to hold
onto.

"It's what I think, based on what I know. He's not gone forever."

"He could be," Horus said. "I did kill his Father."

"You killed all our Father, and bless you for it." Lorgar pressed a fond kiss to his cheek. "If he
wanted to, he could have erased our memories of him already. We know his powers work at a
distance. But he hasn't, because he's attached to you. He wants to come back. Or he wants
you to find him."

"But he left without saying goodbye." The words came out in a quiet, choked voice. A sad
thing to hear from a Chaos champion.
 "I know." Lorgar held him tighter. "I know."

They lay in silence for a while. Tears dripped from Horus's eye onto Lorgar's face.

Lorgar kissed him again. "I'll light the incense and run a bath. My sons will gather victims for
a sacrifice, and we can pray on it."

He went to stand, and Horus rose with him, arms wrapped tight around him. "Fine, but I'm
not letting you go."

Chapter End Notes

Horus has mostly been here to be a suave, confident dark fuck prince, but I think
Sanguinius storming off without a word would seriously trouble him, so I thought I'd
spend some time on his emotional reactions this chapter.
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!