Horus duels Sanguinius upon the Arx Angelicum. A rewrite of Horus v Sanguinius' duel from The End and the Death II, with roles reversed.
A/N: A reversal of Horus v Sanguinius duel scene. And may it be just as brutal as its originator! One day, I will torture Abaddon too.
TW: Gore. Like...a lot of it. gore and violence.
"Don't do this." That voice once led armies, to salvation or to doom. You want to hear it scream.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. You glance down, at the armored form before you, and for a moment, there is nearly pity. Just long enough for longing, just short enough for sorrow, for a different fate, hoping against hope. You can almost see the tears in his bloodied eyes, praying for a different answer.
He knows he won’t get one.
The Encarmine plunges down.
Worldbreaker’s haft barely manages to stop the blade dead.
He still lives. Somehow. The jolt of the sheer force shudders through your brother, jarring his Terminator-clad form to the ground.
Nothing but hatred glints in your eyes. You can feel an ugly snarl forming, splintering your once-handsome face into grotesqueness, baring your bloodstained fangs in a snarl. How dare he live? You swing again, uncaring of the pain in your arms, uncaring of the bat wings falling to fly in the place where your feathers once were. Worldbreaker fends the thrust away and you shriek with divine rage. You shriek, and the Blood God shrieks with you, he fills you with his hate and you return the gesture with your rage.
He tries to flip your sword away, the head of the mace glancing against your crimson wings, your armored side, blows sundering against the scales that were your armor.
That fear. That pain. Those green eyes, now wide with sorrow. It’s gratifying to see one so prideful brought so low. You almost want to see if his blood will taste just as divine. He can’t comprehend how you are still fighting, still raging beyond even death, when his Talon had cut through your sinew and his maul through your bones.
That hate. That hate in you that confuses him now. It had always been there, Horus. It had always been there, festering, wounding, hating and hated. Ugly and loathsome and always the disgraced son. Your angels are bright still, but the brightest fell. Their lightbringer, their torchbearer, he fell. He fell in a shower of feathers and crimson droplets, and you were born in his place. You, the Great Angel. Go on, laugh. Did Lucifer not laugh as he fell from Heaven?
You were always Father’s favorite, Horus.
You know. You know now. You have always known. Horus, Horus, Horus, steadfast, charismatic, prideful Horus, it should have been him. It should have been him to bear this burden, the price of this fall.
“It should have been you.” You are screaming words, but he does not seem to hear them. Perhaps he is too badly wounded to care.
You offered him. They offered him. The true gods offered him, begged him even! Promised him everything, from his throne to his crown. Had he not wanted to rule, as the true Emperor of Mankind? Had he not wanted his pride? Hadn’t he been meant as the sacrifice, to be laid upon this altar instead of you? Shouldn’t this pain be his?
“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.”
You betrayed us, brother.
You betrayed us all.
He doesn’t hear your screams. There are no more words in your voice now, only rage. Only hate and bloodlust and the poisonous, promising future the Blood God once gave you.
Such a pity. Such an injustice. Such a waste. How could this be?
And such dishonor. You taught him what was right. You showed him the path he was meant to trod. The burden that was supposed to be his to bear, and not yours. It was supposed to be him, wasn’t it? It should have been his fault, his fall, his dishonor, but now you are the scapegoat for his sins-
And yet he spurned you. He, the Warmaster, in all his mocking glory, so high and mighty within the Imperium’s love, while treachery stains your very feathers. How could this be? How could fate - so cruel, so unkind - allow this?
It should’ve been you.
Heartless, treacherous, thankless wretch! Does he think himself a god? Does he think himself holy, for having rejected you? Oh, no, no, no. No one. No one escapes the hand of fate. Not even gods. Not even men.
You are playing with him now. You will kill him eventually, of course, but not now. You will see him bleed, bleed so abundantly that his now and future sons will forever grieve for his death. As revenge. As penance. The glorious, charismatic, loyal Warmaster Horus, torn apart at the hands of the Angel. May his sons hate his murderer with such fury, such crimson thirst, they will kill all, and then themselves, in their fury, forever searching for his butcher. It is only right. It is only fair. After all, it is only justice , in all its sick, black rage.
He is attacking, never defending. You have no doubt that he was never playing. He wants to kill you more than he wants to save himself, or his sons, or even his precious Emperor. Even now, Horus must think himself invincible.
You should have died on Davin.
But he lies. Horus always, always lied to you, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he failed to save you before this red haze, this bloodlust, this unending hate consumed you first? Shouldn’t it have been him to fall?
The prophecy broke the moment he proclaimed his loyalty. The dreams were lies. Apollo was blinded. And his favorite brother had paid the price for it. You, Sanguinius, have seen fate unspun, its demands unheeded, exceptions made.
For a moment, your lips curl up into a smile.
Even fate itself seems to have favored Horus, hasn’t it? Haven’t even the gods favored him over you? But fate is tired, tired of being thwarted, tired at this blatant display of lies and prevarications. There’s no happy ending. There’s no coming back. There is only Hell, and he should’ve been its ruler and its slave.
It should’ve been him to fall, not you. And for this you will never forgive him.
You charge, Encarmine gleaming. Its noble edges were serrated now, as if it had grown teeth. You can taste its bloodlust as your own. With every swing, it sings with murderous joy. Khorne has gazed upon you, and smiled.
He parries with Worldbreaker, but that is alright, you have never intended to skewer him so soon yet. The blade was only to distract him long enough for you to take into the air.
You fly, a daemon silhouetted against the dark, crimson eyes turned molten by the scent of blood. Your bat wings envelope him, encircle him, ready to bring death down from above.
You are an angel. A glorious, avenging angel, vengeful spirit turned to flesh and bone.
But then his Talon closes around your trailing ankle.
Your flight halts, as if Khorne’s fist had wrapped around your wings. For a moment, you hang suspended there, an angel caught in amber, your wings caught over your head.
And then he brings you down.
You fall like a hammerblow upon the bloodstained floor. Khorne roars in approval, for he cares not whether the blood that flows is yours or his. Your wings hang above your head for a moment, bat-like and grotesque as that damned Loyalist drags you down, your chitin splintering beneath his Talon. The snarl of your face, twisted and inhuman, former beauty turned to rage and hatred.
You fall.
The deck splinters beneath your weight. The shattering of bone, the grinding of your wings, their leathery surfaces straining and warping. Chitin-covered armor flexes and shatters. Your horns crack against the deck. Bones break. Encarmine slips from your claws, hurled away by the impact.
You laugh.
You laugh with the pain.
But he has not won. Quite the opposite. Instead, he has only brought you close, close enough to touch, close enough to feed. There is no stillness, no sign of pain from the daemonic face before him.
Only rage. Only pain.
And wild, murderous joy.
Had Lucifer laughed when he fell from Heaven?
There he stands, Worldbreaker poised to strike, a killing blow that would shatter your skull. You are weaponless. Unarmed. Broken. Wing, ankle, and ribs shattered. He is badly wounded, but you are dying. But you are not done yet.
You are already descending on him before he can bring the maul down. Your fangs have a brief, joyous moment as you tear into his armbrace, ripping off plate and flesh alike. Somehow, he manages to avoid your claws, dodging aside and tearing himself free. Worldbreaker cracks against your ribs again. You shrug it off. You are clawing at his head, his tubes, anything to reach at. You catch a handful of tubes. Sparks fly. His Talon glints for a moment before he swipes it through his own connectors, severing himself free from you. You roar in rage.You catch ahold of the Encarmine, snatching it from the ground. He blocks it with Worldbreaker. You lunge at him again, snapping, claws and sword inches from his throat before he knocks you away. He avoids your snapping charge, sweeping around your vicious swipes. He cannot comprehend how you are still standing on your feet, fighting back claw and tooth and nail. He simply cannot comprehend how this dead man stands before him, wearing the face of his betrayed brother.
Panting, winded, badly wounded, he's still magnificent. Oh, how excellent. His sons will be able to watch as majesty dies.
He is no longer so arrogant now, is he? No longer so boisterous, under that charisma and pride of his. Will his blood taste as divine as his father’s had?
You fly upon him with vicious speed. He barely has time to move. There is no Pantheon, no laughing gods, no divinity save for yours. You rake claws against his head, his throat, his chest, going for his ribs when you can find them, beating against him as he would have done upon you. The Encarmine shrieks with murderous joy as you open a line against his jaw and paints half-cresent marks against his scalp. Your claws find purchase upon the pipework of his neck and you tear it with no grace at all. You rip it like a hanged maiden, dangling at the end of her witchtrials, you dig your claws as deep in as they would go and yank. Blood spurts, and Horus roars, stumbling aside.
You scissor your claws down instead, blind and grasping, a wide, vicious slash that was no longer a dance. The Angel no longer knows how to dance.
His Talon would be no match for yours. Tipped claws at the ends of hooked fingernails, your perfect beauty turned to horror. Go on, laugh, Lupercal. Mock your brother as he bleeds the life from your veins. You rip through armor, plate, armor, flesh and meat, rending his midsection down to the sternum bone. Blood. Blood, red and beautiful, not sluggish and black like yours was. Jealously - was it jealously? Or something worse? - stabs you, and envy seizes you in its vengeful talons.
He is choking there, drowning on his own blood, spitting up bits of bone and steel. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, yet here you are, jealous of a dying man. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. You were supposed to be the angel. The angel, and look at what you have become. Worse than even the devil himself.
Entrails are protruding from the wound. You can see the ribcage, even as his flesh tries to stitch itself back together. How marvellous, the endurance of a Primarch. You can bleed him dry, and yet he still lives. He hiccups in pain, spasms once, Horus' smile wiped away for a grimace. He tries to take a shaky breath, and it draws out into a series of watery coughs as he hacks up bloody bile. It trails from his grimacing mouth in a line of slowly drying sludge. He has dropped the mace, its bladed head having rolled just out of reach. Mocking him, once last time, before his inevitable death.
This is the day. This is the day he dies.
For the second time, the Encarmine swings down. He tries to catch the blade. And he nearly succeeds, the Talon wrapping around the haft of its peer weapon, the blade jarring to a stop inches before his exposed chest. You feel your lips curling into a vicious smile. You snap at him again and he returns the gesture, trying to hurl you aside. He no longer has the strength. You let him bat uselessly at the sword for a few moments before you take to the air, dragging both yourself and the Encarmine out of his grasping Talon. His claws snap like pincers, seizing one ragged, bloody feather from the ankle of your trailing boot. It had been shed so long ago, replaced by the beautiful crimson scales of your bat wings, but you still wear your own feathers like a ragged cloak. There is no better way to remind him of what you once was. You hover in place as you watch his painstaking journey, dragging himself when his armor weighs his broken body down too much to stand.
He has finally found his mace. You idly wonder how he still has enough strength to lift the heavy weapon, when you were quite certain you had torn out too many of his ligaments for that. His Terminator armor was too unwieldy for him as he tries to scramble back up. He clings onto the walls like an old drunk as he staggers to a stand, mace still held in one trembling hand. The other has the Talon, still clasping that bloodied feather. The claws snap open and closed. It falls, eviserated in two.
You almost feel as if he deserved better. Something more akin to a swift executioner’s strike, instead of being torn apart limb from limb by the bare hands of a daemon. You were so honorable before, and he was so loyal in this fate, at least some heroism must be granted for the Warmaster.
But Horus lies. Horus has always lied, hadn’t he? He failed you, when Khorne took your mind and then your legion, it was you the Sacrificed King, not he. How could this be fair? How could such a blasphemy be what you deserve? The gods never lie, but men…oh yes, men betray brothers, betray themselves.
You were His angel, and look at what you have become, Sanguinius.
It is his fault. All of it. His fault.
Your lips peel back into a snarl, then to barking a guttural roar.
“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.”
It should have been you, Warmaster. It should have always been you.
He is looking up at the wreathed, ethereal form hovering there like a vengeful god. Zechariah had cowered before the angel, and now Horus should cower before you, if only he knew any better.
You are already descending upon him, bringing the Encarmine down, wings spread wide to kill.
Somehow, he braces himself. He knows he cannot dodge, he is not you, he has neither your speed nor your grace. Worldbreaker smashes against your charge. You swing at his head and the Talon parries your grasping blade. The Encarmine tastes blood and it rumbles in your hand, displeased. He sweeps Worldbreaker at you and you don’t even care to evade it, lunging for his throat with fangs bared and claws out.
No Encarmine. No unholy sword to bring him down. Only your hands, your bare hands.
You evade the snapping Talon and dig in around his guard. He barely manages to swat your fanged mouth away before you bite. You taste nothing but sheer metal and tubes as your fangs descend, and you shriek through a mouthful of stagnant blood.
He is still the favored son, even now. A little more, always a little ahead, somehow. Even fate has favored him. More than you can accept. His honor, his glamour, you will tear it down, for it does not belong to him, it was you who had been His angel!
How dare he? How dare he bask in stolen glory? Death has truly brought out the best in him.
Even now, he still thinks he’s the favored son.
You will disabuse him of that notion. It should’ve been him - HIM - to fall. You lunge, your lethal fangs bared, wings pumping as you drive your chitin covered form onto him-
- but light itself seems to have graced His favorite loyal abomination.
He cannot dodge. He cannot hide. And so, he fights.
He catches you by the throat like a man corralling a snarling dog, his other hand driving his Talon deep into your breastplate. Black blood gushes. He holds you high, impaled on his bladed fingers, green eyes staring into your raging crimson ones.
The Emperor is with him, and he thinks himself immortal.
But you. You are not with that false king. Khorne is with you, and you know you are immortal, and invincible with your rage. You seize him by his arm, unheeding of the blades piercing your flesh, and tug him closer, accepting this death if only it could mean his too. You'll die together with him, or not at all.
You catch him on an unflattering angle. Your claws dig into the artery on the side of his neck, your claws seizing through tubes and pipework, raking him until you feel the bone of his spine.
And you tear out his throat.
You silence that beautiful, damning, voice of his, that silver tongue to which he would have led half your brothers to treachery in another world. You silence him, now and forevermore. The Warmaster would never command his legion again, never speak a word to his sons, nevermore to charm and prevaricate and excuse. He will die, bloodied, ashamed and thoroughly broken.
Your wings do the rest.
Your wings, as heavy as scythes and twice as lethal, beat against the walls and the air, the limbs as vicious as you are brutal. You lift him with a roar, casting him first up and then down as you descend upon him, giving him a taste of what it must feel like to fly before you strike him down.
You take him flying, one last time.
And then you send him down.
His still-armored body crashes through the halls of the Arx Angelicum, carving a pass through its beautiful carvings and marble statues. A painting, delicately formed from thick oil paints and painstakingly laid inch by inch by silk brushes, shreds as he smashes through it. Shards of a statue of you in all of your past glory, with your still-feathered wings spread when he was crowned Warmaster, scatters around him.
You land. And walk after him. It was only fitting that he dies a dog’s death. Your golden hair is matted with blood. Your breastplate is charred and cracked. You walk, past the shattered statues, past the desecrated artworks, past the trails of crimson that has become your sanctuary, and look in upon the altar he had landed upon. You hide a smile.
Your visions have foreseen this. And you have made it perfect.
Too heavy to be wieldy, Horus has landed in a crumpled pose, half-curled on his size like a badly beaten dog, his bare head towards the altar, and his Talon splayed out beside him. His passage down has torn the paintings from their walls, and slashed deep gouges into priceless statues. Musical scores, tapestries, tomes made from your sons before their art turned to madness, lie scattered around him. Their sheaves of paper had fanned out around him like a broken angel’s wings, each papery feather slowly soaking with his blood.
You have offered Khorne nothing on this altar yet, nothing but the gorestreaked weapons of your sons reverently hanging upon the walls as decor, and the sacrificial slab of the soon to be Sacrificed King. For Horus, you ave prepared this.
He was supposed to be the sacrifice. Not you.
Steam and smoke and blood gouts from his armor. There are no candles here. You could have never stood the sight of them after Fate itself had seared your destiny into the black rage that was your mind now. They reminded you too much of your supposed death, your destined and righteous death.
Instead, there are feathers.
Hundreds of thousands of feathers, pure white and beautiful, finer than any dove’s. They line the rafters, they lie scattered on the floors, the tomes, the walls. Most of them yours, some of them your worthy sons, all of them so pure and noble and heroic that it was only fitting he died this way, with your old self’s feathers raining down upon him.
No candles. Only ghosts of a past and future you could have never had.
He twitches. Stirs a bit, so stubborn, so unwilling to admit defeat. The movement draws more blood out of his tattered throat. He no longer has the strength to even crawl in his armor, and it was doubtful he could have moved even if he had been unarmored. You note with amusement the fact your claws have also dug into the exposed skin of his shoulder, shredded away the fur pelt resting there and torn open the old wound - the one he had endured on Davin. The one he somehow survived, and you paid the price for.
He lies surrounded by your feathers, like a fallen angel. His blood is soaking into them, tainting their innocence, coloring them a gruesome crimson. His body is wracked with spasms. The Eye of Horus on his armor, once staring out of you in sharp accusation, is dull now, its pupil finally glazed over and so badly broken that the iris was nearly closed.
He will never be His favorite again.
The Warmaster would never command his legions, never speak with the voice of a god. His throat is ruined, the arteries frantically trying to seal itself, even drawing from the sus-an membrane to do so. Right now, as you watch the blood spread, his organs must be shutting down one by one, closer to death than even Davin. The sight of this crimson waste must excite Khorne, must please him on some, vicious level.
Come on. Get up. Get up! You prod him with a golden boot, unwilling to see this over, unwilling to let it end like this. His green eyes are closed, his skin drawn taunt over haggard flesh.
When he finally raises his head, unable to even move in the prison of his broken body and armor, the first thing he turns his gaze upon is not the blood on the walls, or the feathers, but upon the altar. A feather, dislodged from his passage, balances itself on the edge of his broken vambrace, yet he doesn’t even seem to notice.
You seem him recoil. Try to squirm. Try to tear himself away, but lacking the strength to do so. Oh, Horus, dear Horus, dear loyal Warmaster, what have you seen?
The altar is bare. No offerings, no candles, no sacrifice, and so covered with your past feathers that they look more like a pelt. Despite your legion’s art, it is bare and undecorated. No symbols, no sigils, no flair for the dramatic. It is carved from not quartz, nor marble, nor gold but simple unyielding bone, as would have pleased Khorne. There are no words, no litanies of loyalty, for those who speak but could not fight are fools in Khorne’s eye. Eight steps lead up to its warm embrace, so barren that it was nearly grotesque amid the great art of the Blood Angels.
There, on the final steps, lie its one and sole offering.
It takes centerstage, for it has no equal, not even in the reams of skulls you have collected. It is the one the Warmaster sees, for it has no companion.
A single skull, of titanic proportions, still crowned in the helm he had when he died. Gaping eyesockets, stuffed full of feathers, grin back. An X had been seared onto the bone of its brow, artistically decorated with small flourishes and flowers as if it could disguise the horror.
This was the end. And this was the death.
Horus tries to speak. Nothing comes out but a wretched gurgle from his split throat. But you understand, nonetheless.
Manus.
He had thought that he would be still so prideful, still so assured even in death. He had been, at least at the start, but this sight seems to have drained him of his usual gravitas. He simply has no more words to say, no silver tongue left to convince, or even wheedle and plea for his life.
You walk to stand behind him, your wings folded behind you, Encarmine trailing from one gore-streaked hand as your brother pumps his lifeblood out on the marble floor.
He may not have had your gift of prophecy, or Magnus' sorcery, but he knows. He knows this is the end, and this is his death. And it will be as he justly deserves.
You were supposed to be the sacrifice.
Time's up, Warmaster.
"It was supposed to be you."
He struggles, trying to turn around even enough to look at you, but you grasp him by the remains of his tubes and drag him, relishing the way the soft flesh gives away to first tear, and then split open as you drag him down. His Talon leaves gouges on the floors, but there is nothing to support his weight, nothing to cling onto.
It isn’t supposed to end like this.
Nevertheless, it does.
There is no time. There was never time, although he has eternity at his command.
Sanguinius no longer cares. He holds the weight of all rage in one hand, and his broken, bleeding brother in the other.
Horus’ voice is ruined, his body and armor shattered beyond repair, and yet he still holds himself with the confidence of a god. Even now, he refuses to die.
Sanguinius laughs. His voice is choked, low and insane, like the purring of a rabid beast. His eyes, crimson now, are wide and feral. In that broken mind of his, is it justice? Fairness? Revenge, even? Only a fool would have hazarded a guess, because nothing, least of all revenge, held sanity in the broken flesh of Sanguinius’ mind.
And it is too late, nonetheless. Held cradled in Sanguinius' claws, Horus can feel the sheer, choking hatred radiating off of him, the voiceless cruelty of the Old Four feasting with wild, maddened joy upon the would-be champion that had spurned them.
They have come for a show. And clearly, Sanguinnius was loathe to disappoint them.
One last time. One last dance.
But the Angel no longer knows how to dance.
He lifts them both off the ground, his wings splayed out, taking to the air with his brother for one final flight. Horus feels every tube, every shredded connector, every broken bone, howl as he is dragged upwards. Scabbed over wounds tear open, his mangled throat chokes with blood, and Sanguinius, delighted, takes a moment to savor the ichor that flows so freely now. He leans in, fangs bared, the Encarmine rises in one clawed hand.
Horus no longer has Worldbreaker. But he has his Talon.
Frenzied, wild and desperate, he lashes out with his clawed hand, driving desperate gouges into his brother’s handsome face. For a moment Horus holds him, held pincered between those massive claws, and Sanguinius shrieks with rage and hurls him down. Horus chokes back a bark of pain as he falls, crashing into the ground for the second time, and feels the soft snap of his clavicle and shoulder as it gives away. He pushes himself onto his kneels, trembling, before his armor tips him onto his side. He rests there for a moment, shivering softly with convulsions, each breath growing more watery and choked than the last as his throat tears open again.
Kneeling, beaten down by a traitor, this was no way for the Warmaster to die. He should die standing, facing Sanguinius, one last time-
But he is undeserving of such mercies.
The Encarmine skewers him- but no, it is not even the Encarmine. It is his brother’s clawed hand, twisted from beauty to monstrosity. He feels it churn through plate and flesh alike, digging into the bones of his ribcage, flaying strips of flesh off his shoulder and spine. He is yanked backwards by the sheer brutality of the act, and feels fangs bite down upon his clavicle, the teeth snapping the bone like paper. Horus manages not to scream, because his torn vocal chords are no longer capable of making sound.
Sanguinius starts the bloody art of butchering him alive. There is art in this, some terrible, joyous martial skill that could only be born from delight in slaughter. It is the spitit of some horrible, blasphemous glee born only from the orgiastic act of murder. There is no patience, as if the performance could not wait one moment longer, as Sanguinius flays him alive. The Champion of Khorne shreds both armor and flesh. He gnaws through both collarbones, rips out a lung and then the second one. He leaves only the third, so Horus has just enough life left so that he could feel himself live just a little longer, as he was unmade by his brother’s hand. He tears out Horus’ second heart and holds it in his hand, running fingernails over the ruptured vesicles and where blood loss had strangled even the potent cells. The muscle spasms in his hand, blood pumping over his clenched hands. It then twitches in confused convulsions, before falling silent forever. He even lowers his lips to his brother’s shredded neck and digs in, tasting flesh and blood and partaking of both. When Horus slumps back, Sanguinius’ claws dig into his neck and wrench him upright.
Joyously, still drunk on his brother’s ichor, Sanguinius takes into the air, flying upwards until they were nearly the image of two angels in heaven, in some majestic embrace. Crimson eyes meet glazed over green ones, as the greatest instrument of Chaos greets the first-found instrument of the Emperor.
It should have been you, Horus.
Sanguinius lowers his fangs.
He is expecting some more pretty lies, as majestic as Horus had been, as sinful as the would-be Champion should have been. Some entreaty for vengeance to his sons and nephews, a glorious speech to mark the end of a heroic, fearless life lived loyally to its end. Something glorious, as grand and as suiting Horus himself.
But Horus has no more words. No more charisma left. He is only trying to draw breath through a tattered windpipe, without even enough air to speak.
His fangs sink down.
Horus’ flesh and blood tastes like betrayal, sanguine and divine.
There is nothing left but to wait. Blood drips from his face, down his immaculate features. It is done. It is done.
Sanguinius waits.
Still flying, he holds his brother’s corpse. Almost tenderly, he cradles the armored form, as if soothing Horus against all his wounds. Then, he opens his arms.
Horus falls for the last time. His brother’s corpse, so tattered and so stained with blood that he was unrecognizable, hits the deck with an ugly crash. The few bones still unbroken now pulverise beneath the impact. His Terminator-clad form bounces against the floor once, then collapses down again, his skull deforming as it strikes the corner of a statue and sends it toppling. Such an ugly end, for such a majestic man. It was just as he deserved.
It should have been you, Horus.
It should have been you.
Sanguinius smiles. And spreads his wings, to soar away.
In his absence, things crawl out from the shadows, things with glistening claws and glimmering fangs, ready to carve the body up and send him home. Horus was, after all, a little too heavy to nail up otherwise.
He tries to rise, trembling, weak. He wants to be on his feet when it happens. He wants to be standing when–
Worldbreaker catches him before he is even back on his knees. The clubbing blow breaks his left shoulder, ribs and left femur. He collapses, trying not to scream from the pain, and failing. Horus starts to bludgeon him, beating him repeatedly like a disobedient dog. There is no art in this any more. No martial skill. No patience. Worldbreaker shreds armour and flesh. It pulverises both collarbones. It ruptures a lung. A fine drizzle of blood fumes the air around the two figures, the brutal, beating giant and his prey. The sixth hammering impact twists Sanguinius’ head around, shattering his jaw, and transmitting such force that the skin on the left half of his face, from brow to chin, is flayed loose. It flutters, then drapes back like a slack mask.
As he falls forward, the Talon vices him again. It lifts the ruined, tattered Angel into the air, until he is face to face with the first-found instrument of Chaos.
Horus squeezes slowly. He is expecting some last word, some immortal and heroic declaration to mark the end of a majestic, noble life. It ought to be something good, something appropriate.
But Sanguinius is no longer capable of speech. He is drowning in his own blood.
The claws close. There is a double crack of spine and neck.
Horus waits. Blood drips. It’s done.
The Talon opens with a mechanical clack. His brother’s corpse, so loose and mangled it seems almost boneless, drops to the deck. An ugly sound of impact to mark an ugly ending.
The End and the Death, Horus v Sanguinius
He doesn't die like an angel. He dies like a dog, beaten and bloodied.
Once upon a time, there was a glorious, terrible man. He built horrors. He built wonders. He brought monsters up from the deep. He took a child from the arms of a horrified, weeping family, and raised him not as a boy but as a general. He took a child and ruined his future, He took a child and made him a king, a pet, a dog. He marched armies over the face of the ravaged earth, and trampled all that did not kneel before the weight of the storm. He burned tundras to ash and shook the mountains until they crumbled, He boiled the seas to mist and the skies to charcoal. And when the scouring was done, and the earth was entombed in ashes, He turned His dreaming, endless glare upon His own.
He strangled the thunder that had bore Him a throne, He sent the golden, the children stolen from their cradles, to plunge down long knives into turned backs raised so fervently before His regard. With their blood they had built Him a kingdom, and with their bones He crowned Himself a throne. And when Terra knelt, cowed, battered, in awe and in fear, He turned His gaze skywards.
And the stars felt His benevolent wrath.
He bore twenty sons, two of them sacrificed, and He unleashed them upon the earth, the skies, the stars. They hunted for Him, they loved Him, they adored Him, yet some had strayed too far from His light, some had gazed upon the man that would be a god with sullen, hungry eyes, doing His bidding, and knowing His wrath. They are those who were there when affection curdled to treachery.
There was no peace among the stars, no mercy, no rest, simply a slow, heartless drowning as the gold claimed them limb by limb, inch by inch, and swallowed them into the endless light.
And then war. Treachery, when the stars themselves were swallowed. When brother turned against brother, and father against son. When the Phoenix cleaved the Gorgon’s head from his shoulders, and the Immortal bashed in the Haunter with a hammer, when the Angel fell to the Traitor and He stained the Palace’s stones red with His son’s blood. When Horus burned, when the Angel shed his wings and the golden were shattered upon the anvil of betrayal, the Father fell to His son.
He was buried upon a rotting throne, screaming hollowly into the fading dark, the stars basking in His rage, His pity and His wrath. He was buried alive in a tomb made from gold, ashen bones ruling a decaying kingdom from the grave, dreaming forever of brighter days. Dreaming of His sons, and how He betrayed them first, how they betrayed Him, how they abandoned His bones. And finally could the golden rest, bathed in the heart of their greatest shame, enshrining the decaying dust of a master they had failed, in an empire He had forsaken.
That man was the Emperor. That corpse is the Emperor, golden, glorious, and decaying just like the slaves.
Do not think your bones different from a slave's. When you rot, your corpse will be indistinguishable from those of your servants.
Horus duels Sanguinius upon the Arx Angelicum. A rewrite of Horus v Sanguinius' duel from The End and the Death II, with roles reversed.
A/N: A reversal of Horus v Sanguinius duel scene. And may it be just as brutal as its originator! One day, I will torture Abaddon too.
TW: Gore. Like...a lot of it. gore and violence.
Ao3 Link
"Don't do this." That voice once led armies, to salvation or to doom. You want to hear it scream.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. You glance down, at the armored form before you, and for a moment, there is nearly pity. Just long enough for longing, just short enough for sorrow, for a different fate, hoping against hope. You can almost see the tears in his bloodied eyes, praying for a different answer.
He knows he won’t get one.
The Encarmine plunges down.
Worldbreaker’s haft barely manages to stop the blade dead.
He still lives. Somehow. The jolt of the sheer force shudders through your brother, jarring his Terminator-clad form to the ground.
Nothing but hatred glints in your eyes. You can feel an ugly snarl forming, splintering your once-handsome face into grotesqueness, baring your bloodstained fangs in a snarl. How dare he live? You swing again, uncaring of the pain in your arms, uncaring of the bat wings falling to fly in the place where your feathers once were. Worldbreaker fends the thrust away and you shriek with divine rage. You shriek, and the Blood God shrieks with you, he fills you with his hate and you return the gesture with your rage.
He tries to flip your sword away, the head of the mace glancing against your crimson wings, your armored side, blows sundering against the scales that were your armor.
That fear. That pain. Those green eyes, now wide with sorrow. It’s gratifying to see one so prideful brought so low. You almost want to see if his blood will taste just as divine. He can’t comprehend how you are still fighting, still raging beyond even death, when his Talon had cut through your sinew and his maul through your bones.
That hate. That hate in you that confuses him now. It had always been there, Horus. It had always been there, festering, wounding, hating and hated. Ugly and loathsome and always the disgraced son. Your angels are bright still, but the brightest fell. Their lightbringer, their torchbearer, he fell. He fell in a shower of feathers and crimson droplets, and you were born in his place. You, the Great Angel. Go on, laugh. Did Lucifer not laugh as he fell from Heaven?
You were always Father’s favorite, Horus.
You know. You know now. You have always known. Horus, Horus, Horus, steadfast, charismatic, prideful Horus, it should have been him. It should have been him to bear this burden, the price of this fall.
“It should have been you.” You are screaming words, but he does not seem to hear them. Perhaps he is too badly wounded to care.
You offered him. They offered him. The true gods offered him, begged him even! Promised him everything, from his throne to his crown. Had he not wanted to rule, as the true Emperor of Mankind? Had he not wanted his pride? Hadn’t he been meant as the sacrifice, to be laid upon this altar instead of you? Shouldn’t this pain be his?
“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.”
You betrayed us, brother.
You betrayed us all.
He doesn’t hear your screams. There are no more words in your voice now, only rage. Only hate and bloodlust and the poisonous, promising future the Blood God once gave you.
Such a pity. Such an injustice. Such a waste. How could this be?
And such dishonor. You taught him what was right. You showed him the path he was meant to trod. The burden that was supposed to be his to bear, and not yours. It was supposed to be him, wasn’t it? It should have been his fault, his fall, his dishonor, but now you are the scapegoat for his sins-
And yet he spurned you. He, the Warmaster, in all his mocking glory, so high and mighty within the Imperium’s love, while treachery stains your very feathers. How could this be? How could fate - so cruel, so unkind - allow this?
It should’ve been you.
Heartless, treacherous, thankless wretch! Does he think himself a god? Does he think himself holy, for having rejected you? Oh, no, no, no. No one. No one escapes the hand of fate. Not even gods. Not even men.
You are playing with him now. You will kill him eventually, of course, but not now. You will see him bleed, bleed so abundantly that his now and future sons will forever grieve for his death. As revenge. As penance. The glorious, charismatic, loyal Warmaster Horus, torn apart at the hands of the Angel. May his sons hate his murderer with such fury, such crimson thirst, they will kill all, and then themselves, in their fury, forever searching for his butcher. It is only right. It is only fair. After all, it is only justice , in all its sick, black rage.
He is attacking, never defending. You have no doubt that he was never playing. He wants to kill you more than he wants to save himself, or his sons, or even his precious Emperor. Even now, Horus must think himself invincible.
You should have died on Davin.
But he lies. Horus always, always lied to you, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he failed to save you before this red haze, this bloodlust, this unending hate consumed you first? Shouldn’t it have been him to fall?
The prophecy broke the moment he proclaimed his loyalty. The dreams were lies. Apollo was blinded. And his favorite brother had paid the price for it. You, Sanguinius, have seen fate unspun, its demands unheeded, exceptions made.
For a moment, your lips curl up into a smile.
Even fate itself seems to have favored Horus, hasn’t it? Haven’t even the gods favored him over you? But fate is tired, tired of being thwarted, tired at this blatant display of lies and prevarications. There’s no happy ending. There’s no coming back. There is only Hell, and he should’ve been its ruler and its slave.
It should’ve been him to fall, not you. And for this you will never forgive him.
You charge, Encarmine gleaming. Its noble edges were serrated now, as if it had grown teeth. You can taste its bloodlust as your own. With every swing, it sings with murderous joy. Khorne has gazed upon you, and smiled.
He parries with Worldbreaker, but that is alright, you have never intended to skewer him so soon yet. The blade was only to distract him long enough for you to take into the air.
You fly, a daemon silhouetted against the dark, crimson eyes turned molten by the scent of blood. Your bat wings envelope him, encircle him, ready to bring death down from above.
You are an angel. A glorious, avenging angel, vengeful spirit turned to flesh and bone.
But then his Talon closes around your trailing ankle.
Your flight halts, as if Khorne’s fist had wrapped around your wings. For a moment, you hang suspended there, an angel caught in amber, your wings caught over your head.
And then he brings you down.
You fall like a hammerblow upon the bloodstained floor. Khorne roars in approval, for he cares not whether the blood that flows is yours or his. Your wings hang above your head for a moment, bat-like and grotesque as that damned Loyalist drags you down, your chitin splintering beneath his Talon. The snarl of your face, twisted and inhuman, former beauty turned to rage and hatred.
You fall.
The deck splinters beneath your weight. The shattering of bone, the grinding of your wings, their leathery surfaces straining and warping. Chitin-covered armor flexes and shatters. Your horns crack against the deck. Bones break. Encarmine slips from your claws, hurled away by the impact.
You laugh.
You laugh with the pain.
But he has not won. Quite the opposite. Instead, he has only brought you close, close enough to touch, close enough to feed. There is no stillness, no sign of pain from the daemonic face before him.
Only rage. Only pain.
And wild, murderous joy.
Had Lucifer laughed when he fell from Heaven?
There he stands, Worldbreaker poised to strike, a killing blow that would shatter your skull. You are weaponless. Unarmed. Broken. Wing, ankle, and ribs shattered. He is badly wounded, but you are dying. But you are not done yet.
You are already descending on him before he can bring the maul down. Your fangs have a brief, joyous moment as you tear into his armbrace, ripping off plate and flesh alike. Somehow, he manages to avoid your claws, dodging aside and tearing himself free. Worldbreaker cracks against your ribs again. You shrug it off. You are clawing at his head, his tubes, anything to reach at. You catch a handful of tubes. Sparks fly. His Talon glints for a moment before he swipes it through his own connectors, severing himself free from you. You roar in rage.You catch ahold of the Encarmine, snatching it from the ground. He blocks it with Worldbreaker. You lunge at him again, snapping, claws and sword inches from his throat before he knocks you away. He avoids your snapping charge, sweeping around your vicious swipes. He cannot comprehend how you are still standing on your feet, fighting back claw and tooth and nail. He simply cannot comprehend how this dead man stands before him, wearing the face of his betrayed brother.
Panting, winded, badly wounded, he's still magnificent. Oh, how excellent. His sons will be able to watch as majesty dies.
He is no longer so arrogant now, is he? No longer so boisterous, under that charisma and pride of his. Will his blood taste as divine as his father’s had?
You fly upon him with vicious speed. He barely has time to move. There is no Pantheon, no laughing gods, no divinity save for yours. You rake claws against his head, his throat, his chest, going for his ribs when you can find them, beating against him as he would have done upon you. The Encarmine shrieks with murderous joy as you open a line against his jaw and paints half-cresent marks against his scalp. Your claws find purchase upon the pipework of his neck and you tear it with no grace at all. You rip it like a hanged maiden, dangling at the end of her witchtrials, you dig your claws as deep in as they would go and yank. Blood spurts, and Horus roars, stumbling aside.
You scissor your claws down instead, blind and grasping, a wide, vicious slash that was no longer a dance. The Angel no longer knows how to dance.
His Talon would be no match for yours. Tipped claws at the ends of hooked fingernails, your perfect beauty turned to horror. Go on, laugh, Lupercal. Mock your brother as he bleeds the life from your veins. You rip through armor, plate, armor, flesh and meat, rending his midsection down to the sternum bone. Blood. Blood, red and beautiful, not sluggish and black like yours was. Jealously - was it jealously? Or something worse? - stabs you, and envy seizes you in its vengeful talons.
He is choking there, drowning on his own blood, spitting up bits of bone and steel. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, yet here you are, jealous of a dying man. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. You were supposed to be the angel. The angel, and look at what you have become. Worse than even the devil himself.
Entrails are protruding from the wound. You can see the ribcage, even as his flesh tries to stitch itself back together. How marvellous, the endurance of a Primarch. You can bleed him dry, and yet he still lives. He hiccups in pain, spasms once, Horus' smile wiped away for a grimace. He tries to take a shaky breath, and it draws out into a series of watery coughs as he hacks up bloody bile. It trails from his grimacing mouth in a line of slowly drying sludge. He has dropped the mace, its bladed head having rolled just out of reach. Mocking him, once last time, before his inevitable death.
This is the day. This is the day he dies.
For the second time, the Encarmine swings down. He tries to catch the blade. And he nearly succeeds, the Talon wrapping around the haft of its peer weapon, the blade jarring to a stop inches before his exposed chest. You feel your lips curling into a vicious smile. You snap at him again and he returns the gesture, trying to hurl you aside. He no longer has the strength. You let him bat uselessly at the sword for a few moments before you take to the air, dragging both yourself and the Encarmine out of his grasping Talon. His claws snap like pincers, seizing one ragged, bloody feather from the ankle of your trailing boot. It had been shed so long ago, replaced by the beautiful crimson scales of your bat wings, but you still wear your own feathers like a ragged cloak. There is no better way to remind him of what you once was. You hover in place as you watch his painstaking journey, dragging himself when his armor weighs his broken body down too much to stand.
He has finally found his mace. You idly wonder how he still has enough strength to lift the heavy weapon, when you were quite certain you had torn out too many of his ligaments for that. His Terminator armor was too unwieldy for him as he tries to scramble back up. He clings onto the walls like an old drunk as he staggers to a stand, mace still held in one trembling hand. The other has the Talon, still clasping that bloodied feather. The claws snap open and closed. It falls, eviscerated in two.
You almost feel as if he deserved better. Something more akin to a swift executioner’s strike, instead of being torn apart limb from limb by the bare hands of a daemon. You were so honorable before, and he was so loyal in this fate, at least some heroism must be granted for the Warmaster.
But Horus lies. Horus has always lied, hadn’t he? He failed you, when Khorne took your mind and then your legion, it was you the Sacrificed King, not he. How could this be fair? How could such a blasphemy be what you deserve? The gods never lie, but men…oh yes, men betray brothers, betray themselves.
You were His angel, and look at what you have become, Sanguinius.
It is his fault. All of it. His fault.
Your lips peel back into a snarl, then to a barking, guttural roar.
“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.”
It should have been you, Warmaster. It should have always been you.
He is looking up at the wreathed, ethereal form hovering there like a vengeful god. Zechariah had cowered before the angel, and now Horus should cower before you, if only he knew any better.
You are already descending upon him, bringing the Encarmine down, wings spread wide to kill.
Somehow, he braces himself. He knows he cannot dodge, he is not you, he has neither your speed nor your grace. Worldbreaker smashes against your charge. You swing at his head and the Talon parries your grasping blade. The Encarmine tastes only a trickle of blood and it rumbles in your hand, displeased. He sweeps Worldbreaker at you and you don’t even care to evade it, lunging for his throat with fangs bared and claws out.
No Encarmine. No unholy sword to bring him down. Only your hands, your bare hands.
You evade the snapping Talon and dig in around his guard. He barely manages to swat your fanged mouth away before you bite. You taste nothing but sheer metal and tubes as your fangs descend, and you shriek through a mouthful of stagnant blood.
He is still the favored son, even now. A little more, always a little ahead, somehow. Even fate has favored him. More than you can accept. His honor, his glamour, you will tear it down, for it does not belong to him, it was you who had been His angel!
How dare he? How dare he bask in stolen glory?
Even now, he still thinks he’s the favored son. Death has truly brought out the best in him.
You will disabuse him of that notion. It should’ve been him - HIM - to fall. You lunge, your lethal fangs bared, wings pumping as you drive your chitin covered form onto him-
- but light itself seems to have graced His favorite loyal abomination.
He cannot dodge. He cannot hide. And so, he fights.
He catches you by the throat like a man corralling a snarling dog, his other hand driving his Talon deep into your breastplate. Black blood gushes. He holds you high, impaled on his bladed fingers, green eyes staring into your raging crimson ones.
The Emperor is with him, and he thinks himself immortal.
But you. You are not with that false king. Khorne is with you, and you know you are immortal, and invincible with your rage. You seize him by his arm, unheeding of the blades piercing your flesh, and tug him closer, accepting this death if only it could mean his too. You'll die together with him, or not at all.
You catch him on an unflattering angle. Your claws dig into the artery on the side of his neck, your claws seizing through tubes and pipework, raking him until you feel the bone of his spine.
And you tear out his throat.
You silence that beautiful, damning, voice of his, that silver tongue to which he would have led half your brothers to treachery in another world. You silence him, now and forevermore. The Warmaster would never command his legion again, never speak a word to his sons, nevermore to charm and prevaricate and excuse. He will die, bloodied, ashamed and thoroughly broken.
Your wings do the rest.
Your wings, as heavy as scythes and twice as lethal, beat against the walls and the air, the limbs as vicious as you are brutal. You lift him with a roar, casting him first up and then down as you descend upon him, giving him a taste of what it must feel like to fly before you strike him down.
You take him flying, one last time.
And then you send him down.
His still-armored body crashes through the halls of the Arx Angelicum, carving a pass through its beautiful carvings and marble statues. A painting, delicately formed from thick oil paints and painstakingly laid inch by inch by silk brushes, shreds as he smashes through it. Shards of a statue of you in all of your past glory, with your still-feathered wings spread when he was crowned Warmaster, scatters around him.
You land. And walk after him. It was only fitting that he dies a dog’s death. Your golden hair is matted with blood. Your breastplate is charred and cracked. You walk, past the shattered statues, past the desecrated artworks, past the trails of crimson that has become your sanctuary, and look in upon the altar he had landed upon. You hide a smile.
Your visions have foreseen this. And you have made it perfect.
Too heavy to be wieldy, Horus has landed in a crumpled pose, half-curled on his side like a badly beaten dog, his bare head towards the altar, and his Talon splayed out beside him. His passage down has torn the paintings from their walls, and slashed deep gouges into priceless statues. Musical scores, tapestries, tomes made from your sons before their art turned to madness, lie scattered around him. Their sheaves of paper have fanned out around him like a broken angel’s wings, each papery feather slowly soaking with his blood.
You have offered Khorne nothing on this altar yet, nothing but the gorestreaked weapons of your sons reverently hanging upon the walls as decor, and the sacrificial slab of the soon to be Sacrificed King. For Horus, you have prepared this.
He was supposed to be the sacrifice. Not you.
Steam and smoke and blood gouts from his armor. There are no candles here. You could have never stood the sight of them after Fate itself had seared your destiny into the black rage that was your mind now. They reminded you too much of your supposed death, your destined and righteous death.
Instead, there are feathers.
Hundreds of thousands of feathers, pure white and beautiful, finer than any dove’s. They line the rafters, they lie scattered on the floors, the tomes, the walls. Most of them yours, some of them your worthy sons, all of them so pure and noble and heroic that it was only fitting he died this way, with your old self’s feathers raining down upon him.
No candles. Only ghosts of a past and future you could have never had.
He twitches. Stirs a bit, so stubborn, so unwilling to admit defeat. The movement draws more blood out of his tattered throat. He no longer has the strength to even crawl in his armor, and it was doubtful he could have moved even if he had been unarmored. You note with amusement the fact your claws have also dug into the exposed skin of his shoulder, shredded away the fur pelt resting there and torn open the old wound - the one he had endured on Davin. The one he somehow survived, and you paid the price for.
He lies surrounded by your feathers, like a fallen angel. His blood is soaking into them, tainting their innocence, coloring them a gruesome crimson. His body is wracked with spasms. The Eye of Horus on his armor, once staring out at you in sharp accusation, is dull now, its pupil finally glazed over and so badly broken that the iris was nearly closed.
He will never be His favorite again.
The Warmaster would never command his legions, never speak with the voice of a god. His throat is ruined, the arteries frantically trying to seal itself, even drawing from the sus-an membrane to do so. Right now, as you watch the blood spread, his organs must be shutting down one by one, closer to death than even Davin. The sight of this crimson waste must excite Khorne, must please him on some ancient, vicious level.
Come on. Get up. Get up! You prod him with a golden boot, unwilling to see this over, unwilling to let it end like this. His green eyes are closed, his skin drawn taunt over haggard flesh.
When he finally raises his head, unable to even move in the prison of his broken body and armor, the first thing he turns his gaze upon is not the blood on the walls, or the feathers, but upon the altar. A feather, dislodged from his passage, balances itself on the edge of his broken vambrace, yet he doesn’t even seem to notice.
You see him recoil. Try to squirm. Try to tear himself away, but lacking the strength to do so. Oh, Horus, dear Horus, dear loyal Warmaster, what have you seen?
The altar is bare. No offerings, no candles, no sacrifice, and so covered with your past feathers that they look more like a pelt. Despite your legion’s art, it is bare and undecorated. No symbols, no sigils, no flair for the dramatic. It is carved from not quartz, nor marble, nor gold but simple unyielding bone, as would have pleased Khorne. There are no words, no litanies of loyalty, for those who speak but could not fight are fools in Khorne’s eye. Eight steps lead up to its warm embrace, so barren that it was nearly grotesque amid the great art of the Blood Angels.
There, on the final steps, lie its one and sole offering.
It takes centerstage, for it has no equal, not even in the reams of skulls you have collected. It is the one the Warmaster sees, for it has no companion.
A single skull, of titanic proportions, still crowned in the helm he had when he died. Gaping eyesockets, stuffed full of feathers, grin back. An X had been seared onto the bone of its brow, artistically decorated with small flourishes and flowers as if it could disguise the horror.
This was the end. And this was the death.
Horus tries to speak. Nothing comes out but a wretched gurgle from his split throat. But you understand, nonetheless.
Manus.
He had thought that he would be still so prideful, still so assured even in death. He had been, at least at the start, but this sight seems to have drained him of his usual gravitas. He simply has no more words to say, no silver tongue left to convince, or even wheedle and plea for his life.
He may not have had your gift of prophecy, or Magnus' sorcery, but he knows. He knows this is the end, and this is his death. And it will be as he justly deserves.
You walk to stand behind him, your wings folded behind you, Encarmine trailing from one gore-streaked hand as your brother pumps his lifeblood out on the marble floor.
You were supposed to be the sacrifice.
Time's up, Warmaster.
"It was supposed to be you."
He struggles, trying to turn around even enough to look at you, but you grasp him by the remains of his tubes and drag him, relishing the way the soft flesh gives away to first tear, and then split open as you drag him down. His Talon leaves gouges on the floors, but there is nothing to support his weight, nothing to cling onto.
It isn’t supposed to end like this.
Nevertheless, it does.
----
There is no time. There was never time, although he has eternity at his command.
Sanguinius no longer cares. He holds the weight of all rage in one hand, and his broken, bleeding brother in the other.
Horus’ voice is ruined, his body and armor shattered beyond repair, and yet he still holds himself with the confidence of a god. Even now, he refuses to die.
Sanguinius laughs. His voice is choked, low and insane, like the purring of a rabid beast. His eyes, crimson now, are wide and feral. In that broken mind of his, is it justice? Fairness? Revenge, even? Only a fool would have hazarded a guess, because nothing, least of all revenge, held sanity in the broken flesh of Sanguinius’ mind.
And it is too late, nonetheless. Held cradled in Sanguinius' claws, Horus can feel the sheer, choking hatred radiating off of him, the voiceless cruelty of the Old Four feasting with wild, maddened joy upon the would-be champion that had spurned them.
They have come for a show. And clearly, Sanguinnius was loathe to disappoint them.
One last time. One last dance.
But the Angel no longer knows how to dance.
He lifts them both off the ground, his wings splayed out, taking to the air with his brother for one final flight. Horus feels every tube, every shredded connector, every broken bone, howl as he is dragged upwards. Scabbed over wounds tear open, his mangled throat chokes with blood, and Sanguinius, delighted, takes a moment to savor the ichor that flows so freely now. He leans in, fangs bared. The Encarmine rises in one clawed hand.
Horus no longer has Worldbreaker. But he has his Talon.
Frenzied, wild and desperate, he lashes out with his clawed hand, driving desperate gouges into his brother’s handsome face. For a moment Horus holds him, held pincered between those massive claws, and Sanguinius shrieks with rage and hurls him down. Horus chokes back a bark of pain as he falls, crashing into the ground for the second time, and feels the soft snap of his arm and shoulder as it gives away. He pushes himself onto his knees, trembling, before his armor tips him onto his side. He rests there for a moment, shivering softly with convulsions, each breath growing more watery and choked than the last as his throat tears open again.
Kneeling, beaten down by a traitor, this was no way for the Warmaster to die. He should die standing, facing Sanguinius, one last time-
But he is undeserving of such mercies.
The Encarmine skewers him- but no, it is not even the Encarmine. It is his brother’s clawed hand, twisted from beauty to monstrosity. He feels it churn through plate and flesh alike, digging into the bones of his ribcage, flaying strips of flesh off his shoulder and spine. He is yanked backwards by the sheer brutality of the act, and feels fangs bite down upon his clavicle, the teeth snapping the bone like paper. Horus manages not to scream, because his torn vocal chords are no longer capable of making sound.
Sanguinius starts the bloody art of butchering him alive. There is art in this, some terrible, joyous martial skill that could only be born from delight in slaughter. It is the spirit of some horrible, blasphemous glee taken only from the orgiastic act of murder. There is no patience, as if the performance could not wait one moment longer, as Sanguinius flays him alive. The Champion of Khorne shreds both armor and flesh. He gnaws through both collarbones, rips out a lung and then the second one. He leaves only the third, so Horus has just enough life left so that he could feel himself suffer just a little longer, as he was unmade by his brother’s hand. He tears out Horus’ second heart and holds it in his hand, running fingernails over the ruptured vesicles and where blood loss had strangled even the potent cells. The muscle spasms in his hand, blood pumping over his clenched fingers. It then twitches in confused convulsions, before falling silent forever. He even lowers his lips to his brother’s shredded neck and digs in, tasting flesh and blood and partaking of both. When Horus slumps back, Sanguinius’ claws dig into his neck and wrench him upright.
Joyously, still drunk on his brother’s ichor, Sanguinius takes into the air, flying upwards until they were nearly the image of two angels in heaven, in some majestic embrace. Crimson eyes meet glazed over green ones, as the greatest instrument of Chaos greets the first-found instrument of the Emperor.
It should have been you, Horus.
Sanguinius lowers his fangs.
He is expecting some more pretty lies, as majestic as Horus had been, as sinful as the would-be Champion should have been. Some entreaty for vengeance to his sons and nephews, a glorious speech to mark the end of a heroic, fearless life lived loyally to its end. Something glorious, as grand and as suiting Horus himself.
But Horus has no more words. No more charisma left. He is only drowning on his own blood, trying to draw breath through a tattered windpipe, without even enough air to speak.
His fangs sink down.
Horus’ flesh and blood tastes like betrayal, sanguine and divine.
----
There is nothing left but to wait. Blood drips from his face, down his immaculate features. It is done. It is done.
Sanguinius waits.
Still flying, he holds his brother’s corpse. Almost tenderly, he cradles the armored form, as if soothing Horus against all his wounds. Then, he opens his arms.
Horus falls for the last time. His brother’s corpse, so tattered and so stained with blood that he was unrecognizable, hits the deck with an ugly crash. The few bones still unbroken now pulverise beneath the impact. His Terminator-clad form bounces against the floor once, then collapses down again, his skull deforming as it strikes the corner of a statue and sends it toppling. Such an ugly end, for such a majestic man. It was just as he deserved.
It should have been you, Horus.
It should have been you.
Sanguinius smiles. And spreads his wings, to soar away.
In his absence, things crawl out from the shadows, things with glistening claws and glimmering fangs, ready to carve the body up and send him home. Horus was, after all, a little too heavy to nail up otherwise.
In case y’all haven’t noticed…this is primarily a torture/angst/whump Drukhari account run by Vect’s #1 champion. ψ(｀∇´)ψ
Romance and ships are on the side, and ONLY if I can propagate the Pain and Angst agenda.
List of horrible ways I’ve devised to kill your beloved blorbos(Physical, not Emotional Edition):
TW: Gore
1) Rip out their spine from the neck. Extra points if ribcage gets torn straight off.
2) Drown them in molten metal. Extra points if it gets pumped into their organs and solidified(metalmancy, maybe?)
3) Suffocating and covered in candlewax. Extra points if it’s boiling.
4) Eye trauma. Soooooo good.
5) Skinning is a tradition at this point. But how about rubbing in dirty rags/infectious materials into the wounds, and letting them die from gangrene?
6) Removal of vital organs one by one…while they’re still alive. Just take them out, don’t even detach them. Let ‘em watch their insides become outsides!
can we get more shard!reader and valdor PLEEEEEEEAAASEEE im scratching at your front door like a feral cat i need to see her get rawdogged or SOMETHINGGGG
Yandere Valdor would be more of an asexual character….so no rawdogging or penetrative sex from Valdor's "guardian spear". But plently of other options! ψ(｀∇´)ψ
And to be honest, I've been working on Vulkan guro. I can also disembowel Valdor too, if you want. Multiple times, even, the Drukhari aren’t picky.
Kyraraq of the Cult of Last Waltz, Champion of Seventy-Seven victories, the Daughter of the Dancing Delight, she perishes then. She effortlessly weaves beneath his first blow, and laughs at him, her voice beautiful and lilting. Then his second blow crunches down, and she sees the fist enlarging, its knuckles monstrous and ceramite-plated, she feels it slam and snap her face to the side, hitting her just beneath the cheekbone. The flesh splits to the side from the sheer force, her slender neck snapping back like a reed in a storm. Her skull splinters in five places, jabbing in bone shards into the soft tissue of her brain. She reels, her graceful leap disrupted as Faramund thrashes her like a ragdoll, crushing her bones with one hand and pummeling her with the other. He aims for her face, her beautiful, broken face. The fist smashes into her jaw - reducing her teeth to powder - it clips her neck and nails into her stomach. She convulses in mid-air, no longer dancing, no longer so beautiful beneath all the savagery. One, two, three more blows and a backhand from Faramund sends her flying, her teeth cracking like fibers as her slender form spasms from the sheer force. For a moment she is sailing like a crippled bird through the air, suspended in the altered gravity of the obsidian arena, and then she is crumpling against its far wall, her body ragdolling past the barbed spikes lining the curved arena walls.
She gargles, choking in blood and fluid and tries to crawl for her weapon. She cannot. A massive boot crunches down upon her fingerbones as she twitches, one ceramite hand curling into a hateful fist and crushing against her sternum, hurling her delicate form again. She skids against the bone-white walls, painting a trail of blood against the blades, hearing herself die to the cheers and boos of the crowd, feeling the grating of broken bones crumbling within her. She dies sometime between this blow and the next, her brain whipping back and forth inside a shattered skull like a ragged piece of meat, dying before Faramund’s boot stomps on her beautiful, broken face with vengeful abaddon, pressing down with crushing force before dragging the heel across the remnants of her snapped throat and spine. The Blood Angel stomps on her body one last time before kicking it aside, the pulverized flesh of her face having been reduced to a sluggish, red paste with jutting cheekbones and a grinning, bared smile full of broken teeth, eyelids slack over hollow sockets.
He stands, bloodied, lips drawn over a thin, humorless grin. The Blood Angel’s emblem was all but covered by gristle now. He absently wipes it aside, revealing the wings, smiling to seemingly no one but himself.
Rest easy, my brothers. I have avenged you.
“I am Faramund Raith, Captain of the Blood Angels, son of Sanguinius. And in the name of the Emperor and Sanguinius, I will not die today!” He shouts, and raises the crushed, mangled corpse of the gladiator before his head. He laughs with wild, murderous joy. He can taste blood in his mouth and rage in his mind. Rage, black and beautiful and hungry. “Bring me your soldiers, pitiful spawn! Bring your servants, bring your kin and bring your brethren! And I will kill them all, I will kill them in honor, in blood, in Sanguinius, in our father’s name, and I will live tonight!"
They were cheering. By Sanguinius’ wings, he had just killed one of their gladiators in blood and brutality, and they were cheering. He could hear the Archon laugh, her voice sharp and musical, her withered form invigorated by the carnage as she leaned forwards, like a slobbering hound towards a meal, itching to not forget even a single second of this carnage. He could see the inky sclera of her eyes, her pupils black and dilated and full of that rampant, murderous joy.
“FOR I AM FARAMUND RAITH,” Faramund roars, and he hurls the corpse in his hand. It splatters against the walls, and he hears the Archon yip in sharp, vicious amusement. “I AM A SON OF SANGUINIUS, AND I WILL NOT DIE TODAY!”
His words were greedily taken, drowned out, and celebrated by the delighted roar of the crowd.
2087
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
gamechangershow
gummygunk
