(This is a short fiction “commissioned” by @ladyoflucky pls enjoy)
Perturabo sat in his quarters of the massive cruiser flag-shipping the crusade fleet, the plasteel walls mostly barren saves few shelved with some small personal projects scattered about. He was at a desk in the center, armor off and in the robes of his culture from Olympia, reading reports of the couple century long campaign he fought along side his brother Sanguinius and the 9th legion.
The room was so deathly still you could hear the rumbles of the ship’s very organs at work. It had a pulse, he could hear it deep in the back of the ship, the rhythm of the engines thrumming keeping the ship in orbit. Then there was a knock.
4 taps. They were gentle but booming, like someone was trying to gently knock with a sledge hammer on his door. He pivots in his chair.
“Come in.” His voice was thunderous, each word like the roar of an artillery gun. He expected one of his sons to walk in with news, but he was… surprised by Sanguinius himself.
The angel smiled warmly like the dawning sun and gave a polite little wave.
“Am I interrupting anything, brother?” Sanguinius asked as the door behind him slid shut and latched closed.
“No. Do you need something?” He responds, turning back to the dataslates and paper reports
“Yes, and it may seem odd so I must ask you hear me..” There was a note of… fear felt too intense, unease felt too vague… trepidation. Perturabo’s attention now shifted to his brother proper as he turned his head and met his brother’s eyes. Sanguinius was in robes much similar to Perturabo’s but dyed in the deep rich reds of his legion, his face was contorted into nervous grimace like a child wanting a snack from a parent he just disobeyed
“Would you brush my wings?” He blurts out
“What?” Perturabo felt his own face grimace, nose wrinkle and lip curl upwards, eyes partially hidden behind dimples. It looked like anger, indignation, but really Perturabo was shocked such obviously warp-inclined mutations would require upkeep. He thought the feathers sort of just sorted themselves out.
Sanguinius approached the desk with a spare chair in hand grabbed conveniently from aside, footfalls nearly silent and with the grace of a gentle river
“My sons, for all their wanting to assist me in all things, are not very delicate. Usually it’s fine, but my wings are just So Damned sore I might snap at one of them. I will manage though, if this seems benea-“
“No, you’re already here.” Perturabo grumbles like a great siege engine hauling ordinance. He set aside the data slate and stacked the papers neatly, placing both next to each other with immortal precision, and motioned for the Angel to sit. Sanguinius beamed happily and set the chair down, sitting in it backwards with his arms resting of the back of the chair and his wings to his brother. He reached back and handed Perturabo a beautifully ornate brush with a mixture of stiff bristles to adjust and soft bristles to settle. It was … effective. Could’ve been less gaudy though in his opinion he did not share.
“So you believe I will fair better should you ‘snap’ at me?” Perturabo asked as he began, starting at the root of the plume and slowly working his way down, never pulling too hard on any knots or tangles. He was joking in a sense, but he certainly would’ve liked an answer.
“Hardly, brother. You have an eye for detail my sons simply cannot achieve, thus you are far more gentle than they are.”
“Really?” Perturabo felt a warmth sit in the center of his chest with the praising words of his brother, who simply flexed his wings and rested his head on his arms.
“Indeed. It’s why I was hesitant to ask you something so indulgent”
“You need not worry, anything is better than more Sieging.”
Perturabo’s hands glided through and on the plumes of his brother’s feathers with a gentleness very rarely expressed by the Lord of Iron. He felt like he was back home on Olympia helping Calliphone put on her best dress to woo a boy, the aches across his body from the life time of war he’d waged fading to almost silence as he worked. He listened to his brother breathe, watching his chest rise and fall through the narrow holes in the back of his robes for his wings, it almost sounded like the content chuffing of a great predatory beast.
Then he flinched.
Perturabo almost jumped as Sanguinius gasped sharply and arched his back, fluttering his wings a few times before they winced back down into Perturabo’s hands. The Lord of Iron found the spot he’d brushed that seemed to hurt and parted the spectral feathers to see a black spot sat squarely in the warp-flesh that made the Angel’s wings; the size of his fist and festering as if angry
“How old is that?”
“A year maybe by now? Not sure, I remember some fool screaming at me and firing a rocket launcher. Shell punched clean through my wing, made me land long enough to rip his head from his shoulders.”
“Have your Priests seen it?”
“Yes, brother, and your concern is heartwarming” the angel mused with a kind giggle. The Lord of Iron grunted a noise of acknowledgment and continued his task.
Enough time had passed that by the time Perturabo had finished Sanguinius was half asleep. The Angel dragged a deep sluggish breath in and stood, flapping his wings and bringing them to front to inspect his brother’s work.
“Truly brother, when they’re not tearing down walls, your hands are like that of gentle lovers entwining.”
“You flatter me, brother.” This was something Perturabo said often, and usually ironically to voice his despair with whoever he was speaking to, but here he meant it. He felt that obnoxious burn of pride surge out from his core and settle in his limbs desperate to do Something to get more of itself. He buried such impulses and silenced such wants.
