Summary: A routine medbay intervention turns into a hard lesson when Thressl’s instinctive compassion nearly worsens a psy-fracture, forcing him to confront the difference between healing through warmth and healing through restraint under Amonhep’s exacting gaze.
Warning: LMK if I need to add anything else. Medical trauma and emergency care, psychological distress and guilt, Psyker-related harm and Warp exposure, Power imbalance in mentorship, Emotional confrontation and self-blame.
Not infected — not yet — but strained. Thressl felt it the moment he stepped through the doors: a thin, metallic tang beneath the antiseptic, like overheated circuitry or burned copper. Psy-wound. Fresh.
“Station three,” Cedric said briskly. “You assist. Observe first.”
Thressl nodded, already moving. His armor was mag-locked open at the chest, vambraces stripped away so his hands were bare. He flexed his fingers as he approached the gurney, instinct rising like breath.
The patient was a Primaris from the Iron Hands. Pale. Too still. Auspex readings jittered — vitals stable, soul-state very much not.
Warp echo.
Thressl swallowed. “He’s fractured,” he murmured. “Not bleeding. Not possessed. Just… split.”
Cedric glanced at him. “Proceed.”
Thressl placed two fingers against the marine’s temple, the way he’d been taught on Fenris. Not to force — to invite. To ground through presence, through shared heat, through embodied will.
“Easy,” Thressl murmured, voice low and steady. “You’re still here. Breathe. Feel the weight of your body. Feel me.”
He reached — carefully, he thought — wrapping the patient’s scattered essence in something warm and familiar. Pack-presence. Anchor. The reaction was immediate. The Iron Hand convulsed, back arching violently. Alarms screamed as readings spiked.
“You didn’t listen,” came a calm voice from behind him.
The temperature shifted. Amonhep Rhan stepped into the triage space, helm clipped at his belt, eyes already assessing the patient. He did not rush. He did not raise his voice.
“He is not lost,” Amonhep said, lifting one hand. “But you are drowning him.”
Thressl bristled. “I was stabilizing—”
“You were embracing,” Amonhep corrected. “This soul is fragmented. It cannot tolerate intimacy.”
He moved closer to the gurney, fingers hovering just above the patient’s brow. The Warp responded — not with sound or color, but with alignment. The alarms softened. The convulsions slowed.
Amonhep spoke evenly, not to the patient, but to the fracture itself. No name. No invocation.
“Be still.”
The patient’s breathing evened.
Thressl stared.
“You see?” Amonhep said quietly, not looking at him. “You bring warmth where structure is required.”
“That’s how we keep them alive,” Thressl shot back. “We remind them who they are.”
“And in doing so,” Amonhep said, “you reminded him of everything he is not.”
The words landed like a blade between ribs. He steps back a little and he wants to growl- to bear his fangs- to bristle. But- Amonhep was able to do what he was not. He clenches his fists and looks away for a moment. He can do the normal apothecary work of flesh, bone, illness of the body. It’s that of the mind- for the Chaplains to work- and of the Soul that he’s still learning much to handle.
Cedric cleared his throat. “Status?”
“Stabilizing,” Amonhep replied. “He will recover, with monitoring.”
Cedric nodded once and stepped back, giving them space.
Thressl’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You didn’t have to undermine me in front of him.”
Amonhep finally turned. His expression was unreadable — not cold, not kind. Exact.
“I did not undermine you,” he said. “I prevented harm.”
Thressl opened his mouth, then closed it. The headache stirred faintly behind his eyes, a warning.
“You felt him resist,” Amonhep continued. “You felt the recoil. Why did you not stop?”
Thressl swallowed. “Because… because stopping feels like abandoning.”
Silence.
Amonhep regarded him for a long moment, something old and heavy flickering behind his gaze. There was something like understanding in his eyes. Ah- this youngster had the curse of the Apothecaries well- he cares. Something that he will need to nurture- to keep, but also make sure not wound himself with.
“Not all souls want to be held,” he said at last. “Some need distance to remember themselves.”
Thressl looked back at the patient — now calm, breathing steadily. Alive.
His shoulders sagged a fraction.
“…I made it worse,” he said.
“Yes,” Amonhep replied. No softness. No cruelty. Just truth.
Thressl expected more. Reprimand. Doctrine. Condemnation.
Instead, Amonhep added, “You also recognized the fracture correctly. That is not nothing.”
Thressl blinked.
“You are not incompetent,” Amonhep said. “You are loud. Volume has its uses. This was not one of them.”
Thressl huffed a bitter laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is not,” Amonhep said. “If it was- then there would be far more Psy-apothecaries among those the Warp touches.”
The words slipped out before either of them could stop them.
The medbay seemed to hold its breath.
Amonhep straightened, composure snapping back into place like a sealed vault. “You are dismissed,” he said. “Return to observation duties.”
Thressl hesitated. Then nodded once and stepped away, jaw tight, chest aching with something that wasn’t pain.
As he reached the door, Amonhep spoke again — quieter this time.
“Rune Priest.”
Thressl turned.
“You do not lack compassion,” Amonhep said. “You lack restraint. That can be taught. If you stay.”
Thressl met his gaze. For once, he didn’t bare his teeth.
“…I’ll stay,” he said.
Amonhep inclined his head.
When Thressl left, the medbay returned to its rhythm — machines humming, life continuing. Amonhep remained by the gurney a moment longer, hand hovering where the fracture had been.
‘Too familiar,’ he thought.
Then he stepped back, already preparing for the next lesson — and the cost it would demand of them both.
Y'know, I don't remember seeing Fabius around here... Perhaps a nice, spooky seasonal pin-up for our beloved Primogenitor?
Fresh Fabius
Oh, I've drawn him a few times! He even was among the first for Marine Meat Monday!
But he's fun to draw, so have Fabius, freshly awoken from death (once again) in a nice, new body.
Plus quote, because canon:
Fabius rubbed his face. It was younger than he was used to. Firmer. His hair was thick, long and pale. It would be gone soon enough. It was inevitably the first thing to go. He caught sight of his distorted reflection, in the edge of the examination table. There was much of Fulgrim in that face – a tad sharper, perhaps. Less perfect. The aquiline beauty giving way to an almost vulpine savagery. The beast flesh, creeping back. He pushed away from the table and dropped to the deck. He stretched, feeling the strength in his new muscles.
Reynolds, Josh. Clonelord (Fabius Bile Book 2) . Kindle-Version.
I find it mildly amusing, that he's sharing the "eternal, just the next body"-feature with Lucius. Except that Fabius is his own god and is constantly fighting the gene-blight.
Sorry @alynnl
the answer to 🌿🗡️ is apothecary! therion, not olberic/alfyn
hope it isn't ur OTP
-after getting betrayed by Darius, Theri is found by Ogen and treated by him
-when he wakes up, Ogen tells him that it's a miracle he survived
-he would've died if Ogen didn't find him when he did, and it's more of a miracle that Ogen forgot himself and chose to heal Theri
-Theri takes out a gold pouch, and Ogen stops him
-"I don't need any ill-gotten gald. If you can get me some noxroot outside, I'll accept that as payment."
-Therion heads out, looking around. he finds a few weeds, and asks Ogen if they're what he's looking for
-Ogen shakes his head and tells Theri what he needs to look for: a purple plant with four leaves. he'll find it in the forest outside of the northern entrance
-Therion nods and makes his way over there
-after fighting many a monster, he finds a patch of this stuff and hides it in his pockets
-Theri presents it to Ogen, who sighs before handing him a satchel filled to the brim with junk
-he'll need it to make healing balms on the road for the scars from his cliff-jumping adventure
-he asks him how he does this
-he sighs. "You thieves don't get the most universal educations, huh? ...Don't take that as a no. Here, let me show you how to do it..."
-the day afterward, Theri chooses to stay in town until he's feeling better. he picks Ogens brain about how to make a bunch of crazy remedies and poisons, and Ogen makes him get the ingredients for each one
-an apothecary from the Riverlands stops by, and admires Therions work ethic
-he's learned a lot of salves for a guy who's not plannin' on going into this career!
-Ogen sees him and has a desperate look on his face. "Alfyn, I ended up saving this dope from a cliff-dive. I could tell he's a criminal, and I treated him anyways." He nods in approval of Therion's salve-making and faces Alfyn once more.
-he giggles. "Seems I've rubbed off on ya! I'm glad about that; this guy seems like a nice sort."
-Therion rolls his eye. He sneaks up behind Alfyn, takes his satchel, and puts it back where he found it. "Don't go off appearances alone, medicine man."
-Alfyn chuckles. "Bold thing for a guy who just gave back my satchel after stealing it to say!"
-Therion huffs after Alfyn leaves. "That guy made so many naive assumptions about me! I'm a petty thief... there isn't a single redeemable thing about me, whether that guy wants to admit it or not."
-Ogen shrugs, eyebrow raised. "You don't seem too bad to me."
-Theri groans. "Not you too!!! You both can't be that gullible: there's no way you haven't seen the dark side of people at your age."
-"Oh, I've seen it alright." He looks to the side, tears in his eyes. "There's more good out there than bad though. ...Alfyn showed me that."
-"whaddaya mean?"
-"I'm not gonna go into that can of worms. Let me show you how to concoct this..."
-Therion stays for a few months. He figures knowing every little facet of the apothecary trade will help him patch himself up in a rough scrape
-he finds out that there's a corrupt noble going around making people pay too much for basic necessities, and he plans a heist centered around robbing his money and these resources
-he convinces them that he's a doctor investigating the health and safety of the building, takes all the resources, and finds an injured person on the street
-he gains more personal satisfaction from healing this injured person than robbing from the rich and giving to the poor, and he's shocked by this revelation
-he keeps studying under Ogen, who jokingly calls Theri his apprentice
-Ogen treats Theri like a son, he hears, though he scarcely believes it
-one evening, Theri celebrates his birthday by stealing some apples and eating them in private. He lights a candle, singing himself a happy birthday in his native tongue, before Ogen knocks on his door
-"you were sayin something about having a birthday recently, so I had the baker make this, since you like apples and all."
-therion looks at a crispy, golden brown crust, encasing delicate, warm apples and a toasty cinnamon sauce
-"you got this... for me? I'm just some pathetic thief; I don't deserve this!"
-"Alfyn's right about you." Ogen gives Therion the pastry and some kitchen utensils. "You don't steal from anyone and everyone... hell, since you've started learning about salve-making, you've managed one heist! It was an impressive one, and it helped people an awful lot." He sits down, looking into Therions eye. "Yet, you found an ill person on the road that day, and you haven't tried to even sketch a floor plan since."
-"So what?" Therion raises his brow. "I never wanted to be a thief. When my ma died, I had no living relatives... it's not like I had a choice."
-"Why did you end up falling off that cliff?"
-"I trusted the wrong guy. I started performing my craft at his side, and as we grew older our relationship turned more... romantic. At least, until he threw me off a cliff when he got a promotion." Therion huffed. "I should've known... I never should've trusted him. Never should've trusted anyone."
-"If you never trusted anyone, you wouldn't have gotten hurt. ...That's what you're thinking, ain't it?" Ogen looks at the floor, anguish in his eyes. "I once treated another thief. I didn't think he was too bad of a guy; he wanted to move on and find a better occupation, he told me.
"The following day, I found my wife in a pool of her own blood. My patient had bloodlust in his eyes. I asked him why, and you know what he told me?" Therion looks at him intently as tears filled his eyes. "'You should've known better... than to trust a criminal.'"
"I spent 20 years roaming this continent, playing judge and jury on which of my patients live or die. I was a miserable man, kid... I didn't feel anything except hatred and a sense of self-righteousness.
Then, I met Alfyn Greengrass. He seemed a little too compassionate to me at the time. He refused to play judge, jury, and executioner. He found it sickening to do that. He treated another guy just like the one that made me a widower, he ended up killing that man in the woods surrounding that town.
Yet, when I fell ill, he saved my life. He slew an atrocious monster for my sake. I told him that I'm worthless, and yet he went on with it.
If you don't end up trusting others, you may not get hurt. But you know what?
You will miss out on a million healing experiences in the process."
-Therion looks down sadly. "Aren't all people willing to throw their companions off a cliff for the slightest chance at success, though? How is there good in that?"
-"Not all people are willing to do that: you've met more bad apples than good ones if that's what you think all people are about.
You mind if I surprise you with something good tomorrow? I'll let you take the spare bed in my house, if you don't mind."
-Therion responds with a small nod.
-he enters a small room. It has spruce flooring, baby blue walls, and white curtains covering round windows. Therion checks the white drawers for some clothes, and he finds some pajamas about his size. Soft purple pants and a crisp white shirt suit him; not a criminal's choice of clothing... it certainly suits the kindness and compassion he's found within himself as of late.
-before he crawls into the guest bedroom, he looks at Ogen curiously. "Which criminal ended up doing that to your wife? I may be able to use my old information routes to help you make a stand against 'im."
-"He called himself Darius. He has red hair, pale skin, and a murderous glint in his teeth."
-"Darius?!"
-"What, you know 'im?"
-"Of course I do! I started thievin' at his side. He and I were really close... he was my first romantic partner." he fiercely balls his fists. "He threw me off a cliff for that promotion."
-"Both of our lives got destroyed by the same man."
-"That's a funny thing, ain't it?"
-"That, it certainly is." Ogen pats the empty bed. "Get some sleep tonight, OK? This surprise is gonna take a lot out of ya if you don't."
-Therion closes his eyes, dreaming of salves and apple pastries.
-The morning after, Therion inhaled Ogen's gift. It tasted like a splash of fresh fall air in a crispy, delicate crust.
-He stepped out of the room, eying the sign above it. "'Baby Theodore's Room'..." He glances over to a ceramic counter, Ogen placing two plates of bacon and eggs on it.
-"My wife was pregnant when Darius killed her."
-Therion ran his hands through his hair in anguish. "I wish I never worked with that coward..."
-"It's not your fault that you had poor luck with relationships, Theri. Now, for that surprise I was talking about..." he walks near a wardrobe, and pulls out a pair of dark gray cargo pants with silver buckles; this is complimented by a plain dress shirt. Ogen finds a purple vest with silver accents, and a new dark pink scarf to match.
-"How do you feel about becoming my apprentice?"
-Therions eyes are wide, tears beginning to form: his hands cover his mouth as he grins. "...I would be honored."
Assigned to one of several strike forces participating in the apocalyptic assault on the Palace of Thorns, Apothecary Novuther was attached to Zhrukal Androcles’ squadron in the dying hours of the Badab War. Though he parted ways with the good Captain to head a separate squad of Star Phantoms breaching teams as the drop strike came to its climax, ironically this would come to save the healer - distanced as he was from the final battle of the throne room, and the 9th Company Captain’s dying blow upon the Tyrant of Badab.
Pictured in standard issue Mark VII power armour of Apothecarion refit, Apothecary Novuther’s scheme is primarily that of his Chapter - the Star Phantoms, clad as they are in a get of white, need not apply the sub-colouration asked of the Apothecarion’s adepts, relying solely on helix signifers and ubiquitous wargear to denote their healers.
Summary: A wounded Space Wolves Rune Priest is forced into reluctant training under a loyalist Thousand Sons psyker-apothecary, setting the stage for a tense clash of instinct, discipline, and ancient Warp resonance.
Warning: Graphic medical/war injuries, Body horror (surgical scars, psyker damage), Psychological distress & coercive authority, Intense hostility between characters. LMK if I need to add anything.
Not because he feared it — Wolves feared nothing worth naming — but because stillness noticed him. Every ache, every lingering echo of Warp backlash, every place where his body and soul had not quite agreed to be whole again rose to the surface when he was forced to sit.
The medbay lights were low, deliberately so. Apothecaries knew better than to flood a recovering psyker with glare. Incense hung faintly in the air, threaded with antiseptic and machine oil. Thressl sat bare-armed on the edge of a plasteel cot, fingers flexing, braid beads clicking softly as he rolled his shoulders.
“Depth perception?” Cedric asked, slate in hand.
“Still off,” Thressl replied. “Only when I’m tired. Or annoyed.”
Cedric snorted. “So constantly.”
Thressl grinned, sharp and feral. “You wound me.”
Cedric didn’t rise to it. He stepped closer instead, peering into Thressl’s eyes as a scanner hummed softly. The Rune Priest resisted the urge to bare his teeth — reflex more than intent — and held still.
The machine chimed.
Cedric exhaled. “Your optic nerves are regenerating cleanly. No hemorrhaging. No Warp bleed.”
“That’s good,” Thressl said.
“It is,” Cedric agreed. Then, after a beat, “You’re still grounded from unsupervised projection.”
Thressl’s jaw tightened. “For how long.”
Cedric met his gaze evenly. “As long as it takes.”
Silence stretched between them. Thressl looked away first, nostrils flaring as he breathed through irritation that had nowhere useful to go.
“And duty?” he asked.
Cedric tapped the slate. “Limited. Apothecary shifts only. You assist. You do not lead.”
A pause.
“And my training,” Thressl said carefully.
Cedric hesitated — just a fraction too long.
Thressl’s eyes snapped back. “Ced.”
“You need control,” Cedric said. “Not belief. Not instinct. Control.”
“I have control.” He responds bristling a little bit.
“You had control,” Cedric corrected. “And then you nearly cooked your own brain trying to punch a Thousand Son through the Immaterium.”
Thressl opened his mouth, then closed it again. His headache throbbed in distant agreement.
Cedric continued, gentler now. “There are not enough Rune Priests on base. The ones we have are deployed or overwhelmed.”
“So I wait.” Thressl says jutting his chin out and narrowing his eyes.
“No.” Cedric replies with a shake of his head.
Thressl stiffened. “Then what.”
Cedric set the slate aside. “You train.”
The words should have been reassuring. They weren’t.
“With who,” Thressl asked. “Karlsor? He’s been training a whole bunch of firstborns and Primaris Marines Warp powers.”
Cedric held his gaze. Did not flinch.
“A good guess. But Karlsor has enough students. He’s not able to take on more. Also- he’s not trained in Biomancy. Or Apothecarium duties. However, there is a Librarius-adjacent specialist,” he said. “Psyker-apothecary. Loyalist. Pre-Heresy lineage.”
The medbay seemed to narrow a bit as his clever mind darts to who it could be.
Thressl’s lip curled. “You can’t be serious.”
“It is practical.” Cedric respond calmly.
“It is grox-shite.” Thressl barks out his teeth baring for a moment.
Cedric sighed. “You need instruction. He has space. End of equation.”
“Thousand Son,” Thressl growled, the word a challenge.
“Yes.” Cedric respond. “Loyalist. Pre-Heresy.”
The silence that followed was not explosive. It was heavy. Pressed down on Thressl’s shoulders, his chest, the place behind his eyes where memory and instinct tangled. He thought of the psy-wound. Of the calm, precise hands that had closed it. Of the way the Warp had listened.
“No,” Thressl said at last.
Cedric waited, tilting his head as he looks at Thressl. He understand the struggle Thressl is going through. About why he doesn’t want to work with a First Born Thousand son. Loyalist though he is.
Thressl clenched his fists, then forced them open again. “I’ll do the shifts,” he said. “I’ll follow the restrictions. But I will not be turned into—”
“You won’t be turned into anything,” Cedric interrupted. “You will be trained.”
Thressl searched his face for doubt. Found none.
“How long,” he asked.
Cedric’s voice softened. “As long as it takes.”
That again. Thressl looked down at his hands — scarred, steady, capable of healing and killing in equal measure. He exhaled through his teeth. He rubs at his gut- the scars there- from surgeries and battles he’s fought in the past.
“…Fine,” he said. “Temporary.”
Cedric nodded. “Temporary.”
As if summoned by the word, the medbay door slid open. The temperature shifted — not colder, but cleaner. Ordered. Thressl’s senses prickled before the man even spoke. If he had fur his hackles would rise. Oh- he really doesn’t like this at all, and just barely stops himself from baring his fangs and growling. Barely.
“I was told my presence was required,” came a calm, measured voice. Cultured. Ancient. “A Primaris Rune Priest requiring oversight.”
Thressl’s head snapped up.
The Thousand Son stood just inside the threshold, crimson and gold muted by the medbay’s light. His helm was mag-locked at his belt, revealing a face composed like carved stone — eyes dark, assessing, not unkind.
And in the Warp— Thressl sucked in a sharp breath. The resonance hit him like a struck bell. Not intrusion. Not dominance. Recognition. The Thousand Son paused. For the first time, something flickered across his expression. Even on Ancient Terra- where the Warp was trapped behind thick ice, slow as cold molasses. He can feel the other. And he doesn’t like it.
“…Ah,” he said quietly.
Cedric cleared his throat. “Thressl,” he said, “this is Apothecary Amonhep Rhan.”
Amonhep inclined his head. “Rune Priest.”
Thressl’s hackles rose. His teeth bared before he could stop them. He does not growl. Because of the look- mild though it would seem from others that Cedric is giving him. The flash of warning- something that could be jabbed into his veins to calm him down if he decides to cause a ruckus. Amonhep studied him — not as an enemy, not as a curiosity, but as a problem that deserved precision.
“This will be… educational,” the Thousand Son said at last.
Thressl snarled softly.
“Like hell it will,” he muttered.
Amonhep’s lips twitched — not quite a smile.
“We shall see,” he replied.
And somewhere, deep in the Warp, something old and patient stirred — not in hunger, but in recognition of a lesson that had not yet finished being taught.
