“He won’t hear your prayers!” Sanguinius to Lorgar // @luxsclaris
The boy, the caravan, the scorching metal against his knees, the lash against his back, an old man barking harder, a voice growing softer and softer pleading to the stars.
The son, the chapel, the ash clinging to his body, the lash against his back, the impact cleansing, the tongue numb begging for reason from a tyrant who had none.
The prodigal, the Immaterium, the colors dancing across his vision, the caress of something that had long reached for him, to be broken and not be found wanting.
If there's one thing the millennia have taught him, no true god requires prayer. Attention is earned through action.
Intervention is won by blood.
Khorne's own favor hums in his blood, every cell boiling. Hircine eyes turn to his brother, burning like a brand against the hollows of his face. The shifting cuneiform along his body seems to light his face from below, elongating his features, sharpening their edges.
Had their Father ever looked so old, before the fall?
For a moment, he is at peace with this. Look at them, His dove of war, His sacrificial ram. One the melody, the other the dirge -- and Lorgar is not the one that was mourned.
Here was Father's last miracle in the deck. The song in his mind begins to shift, blood running in a slow river down the censer, the heady drums of war fading to a dull buzz. No, not the warrior --
The Weaver.
His hand extends, darkened claws turned pitch black against all he has done this day. This isn't a ship -- it's a charnel house.
This is not a conquest -- this is a negotiation.
"Sang," he murmurs. It's so informal, downright infernal. Baritone turns hushed for a moment, his forked tongue parked behind the flash of teeth. A goat with fangs. The fool faiths of Terra probably had a name for such an omen. It turns his sincerity to a blade:
"You poor thing. I forget -- All of you must appeal to Him for strength. It has been an age since I was made to beg."
In all his dreams, the desert wind brings the smell of Monarchia, no matter where he stands. His knees ache in protest. His body is not his own. Kneel, Lorgar.
"The mercies of my Gods multiply, like colors bleeding on the palette --" Oh, Sanguinius' art! It had been so beautiful once, needing neither skill nor imitation, only passion! As worthy of admiration as the Great Angel himself!
Lorgar hasn't stopped smiling once. Gods, it's just good to see him again. His hooves crush an Astartes' skull as he draws nearer, the censer gone slack as a toy in his grasp. The scent of incense begins to rise over the blood again.
Blood on the floor, on the thurible and chain, his hands, but worst of all -- in eyes that can never be blue again.
Becoming is so strange. He can't find a trace of humanity in those eyes, nor in Sanguinius' posturing. His great hearts give a lurch at that revelation. Has his brother died for them, and then be denied the barest chance to connect with their Father's favored children?
Yet they call him monster.