Neither a vegetable nor a fish, 18+. Currently into Warhammer, and this is likely to stay this way. Can write N*FW, but conditions apply. Requests are accepted, yet I'm not always fast with those.
I came across an old post about the reader being sick and I had an idea.
What about how our Primarch partners react to being sick?
Maybe some try to tough it out, some are the most needy babies about it, others are convinced theyre dying (Primarchs aren't known for getting sick usually), and who's isolating themselves from us because if its bad for them it would kill us (it wouldn't, its the common cold that snuck through their immune system)?
Lion El'Johnson: he's acting like everything is fine and for a few minutes it looks like it is. Then he start to give order to empty armors and crushing against the walls, so no is not fine. Lion mind gave him the option that he had may be poisoned but no, that's a cold and a bad one. He will complain all the time that he doesn't need to rest, that they need him, only to fall asleep so bad that he had his mouth open and snore like a chainsaw.
Fulgrim: he's ceying and lamenting that he's dying , that it is over and his only consolation is to die with you at his side. Only to be repremended by Fabius that he's having stomach bug, one strong enough to make a primarch fall ill for it (he'll stay for studying it) and to quit it out. Ypu'll be far more patient with him, even if he fear you may catch it from him and he's unsure of the strenght of this virus of it affect you. Yet, the promises of cuddles is enough to make him go back to his baby mode.
Perturabo: nonsense. He's a primarch, he doesn't get fever, he'll get to work and ignore it. Then they found him face down on the floor, passed out, so hot that you can cook an egg on it. His only order is to not let you in, he fear you may die for something that can make him fell ill. Yet, your presence is still felt in themmoment he see the honey sweets he likes and those flowers he try to not enjoy at all. Even if in bed, he'll still order his men around, he know no rest.
Jaghatai khan: when he stumbked across the tent, moving around like drunk, and felt his entire world spinning, he knew something was off. When the medicae started to treated him they just realized that it was...a cold? In a certain way, a strong one that could afflict a primarch. He sighed and feared their words of staying in bed and trying to relax...and that's was your cue. You had imagined many thing by being the wofe of the Khan, but having to ordered his sons to stop his continues edcaping attempts was ridiculous.
Leman Russ: everything tasted bad, nothing could stay in his stomach and even the Mjød tasted like shit! Why this has to happen?! What kind of sorcery was that?! Nothing could stop a primarch, then why a stomach bug had him in his bed, with fever and a sloppy soup made with plain rice and some herbs?! He tried to twll you that he's fine, that he doesn't need this treatment! You just shush him and gave him another spoon of the soup, now it's seems the only thing that can stay down on him. He had joked that of you kept on testing him he would like the idea of tasting you, but he had started to fear that even this act will be painfull to him. He'll fall asleep with Freki and Geri on the bed.
Rogal Dorn: you'll beed everyone help, this foolish brick has decided that it was such a great idea getting on work while whit a fever so high that scared both you and his entire legion. Thankfully, is a mere cold for a primarch a nd he'll be back on his feet in a few days. Yet, you still had to take away work from his hands (you're still trying to understand how did he had so many projects hiding around) and literally strap him down on bed so he could rest. He enjoy when you can read something to him, or just talk, he likes your voice.
Konrad Curze: is like tracking a wounded animal. You don't think he'll be dangerous, Sevatar would like do disagree. Once found, hiding in a make shift bed make with everything that could make it comfortable, he eefuse ro be touched, especially by you. For others is like showing weakness, forbl you is fear this may can kill you or hurt you. You refuse to leave and he doesn't have the strength to show you away, he'll end up sleeping on your tights completely exhausted. He'll claim he was at the edge of death, that he saw the end, all while you just reminded him that he started to get better once you feed him some soup.
Sanguinius: he's a crying mess. He cry because he think he's dying, that he's leaving you behind, that everything hurt, that everything burns ,that he's done and all is over whilebyou and Raldoron watch him with that int of worry and embarrassment. The first captain would like you to be away, feafing this virus may be contagious to baseline, but you assure him that whatever this illness is seems to afflict only the Primarch. And after the cries, complaints follows. Firstly is too cold, then it's too hot, then he's tired, then he want to get out, then he want to eat and then he goes on and on all day. You had never saw a Blood angel roll his eyes on his gene-sire,now you can say you saw at least 15 of them. It seemd the only way to let him rest is to be his personal plushie while he sleep, worh your hand in his hair scratching and caressing. The sacrifices you do for your lord...
Ferrus manus: he's not sick, he's not tired and he's not having a fever. He doesn't need to rest and clearly you are seeing thing that aren't there. This discourse had gone on and on all day while in the forge and you almost believed him...until he had took a seat on his stool, claiming he just needed to sit, and collapsed in a deep and absolutely needed rest. You knew he would refused to go back to his quarters, to get some proper rest, so you decided to take somr blankets, covered him up and allowed him to take a well deserved nap. You tried to caress his cheek just to check his temperature and you saw him, still unconscious, surrending himself to your touch. He was as difficult as sweet.
Angron: he had almost forget hwo to feel fear...untill today. He couldn't move from that old mattress they called bed, he couldn't even open his eyes properly towards the light and he didn't even noticed the people around him trying to understand what the hell was happening. It was only when you finally came and asked him, with your soft voice, what was happening that you realized the issue. A primarch with a stomach bug?....That was new... well, beside the surprise, there was so little everyone could do than wait. You suggested to leave him be and attend in hope thing would get better before his arms catched you in a vice grip. He wasn't trying to hurt you, you know from the way his hands holded you in place, andbhe murmured a pleading request for you to stay untill the pain was over. It was just like with the nails, just alittle....almost cuter.
Roboute Guilliman: When you found your shared bed drenched in his sweats and his face so red that for a moment you thought he was about to explode, you knew that something happened. He was sick, of something no one knew but he clearly showed the sign that leaded to a common flue for a baseline and the only remedy was peace and quiet. Better said than done, every ten minutes someone spotted thge Primarch, covered in a blanket and stumbling here and there, trying to reaching the office that you and your equerries were occupying to reduce his amount of job. You had to set one servo skull close to your shared chambers and a few of his sons ready to redirect him to bed. He just cannot stay down, but as soon as he'll meet the bed he's already gone in the world of dreams. If he could only understand how rest is necessary...
Mortarion: he knew even before anyone could notice and his first reaction is an annoyed sigh. Of course it has to happen and of course it has to be him. He had already arranged everything, everyone schedule, your temporary quarters untill he's not anymore a possible danger for you a d he even sent some sample to understand what kind of virus could afflict a primarch. He's awfully good at it and your only job is to make sure everything is in place. Yet, he do appreciate the small messages you had left him, they make him feel less lonely.
Magnus: he think he can fix this with psychic powers, his only results is several thousand sons now having a migraine even partially strong as his own. You had to remind him that a flu doesn't go away with magic but with rest and some sleep, he refuse and velieve he jad better thing to do that stay down and do nothing. The proposition of reading to him seems convincing enough to lead him in his quarters, then he mutter tuat he have a few books in mind for this time and you literally fight a red giant to stop him. Stubborn in every possible way, even with fever.
Horus Lupercal: everyone is worried for him, because since when a Primarch fell under a cold? And how it happened?! No one know, what they want is to give some respect and show how much they care for the Warmaster...wich could make thing worst. You insist that he needs rest, that he doesn't need thousands of followers going around him like flies and were able to convince Maloghurst to support you. Horus doesn't like the idea of not being able to fullfill his duties, but hes far too weak to fight you or the Mournival about it. He'll lament every second of it, telling that if his father got a word about it he'll have ao little regard about it. You'll remind him that is not the Emperor in a bed sick and he would surely understand. You'll stay at his side, while he hold you gently, fearing he may pass you this sickness.
Lorgar: he'll cry like a baby, not only because everything hurt but because he do believe ge's dying. He beoieve that this is a punishment, that he had done something terrible, he'll say that he's sorry because he's leaving you alone and he can't bear the thought of you alone. You'll listen, with patience and with a int of sadness for his sorry state, and you'll try to make him reason while you help the apothecaries to cure him. And even while explaining that he's not dying, that he'll be fine and no one is punishing him, he'll keep crying and beg you to forgive him for how pathetic he is. Hug him and tell him is fine, he'll cry in any case so no can do.
Vulkan: he want cuddles, he need them to get over his fever but is practically IMPOSSIBLE. He's already a burning walking furnace, now he's a walking inferno! No one expect the most brave of his sons can get closer to him to help him when is needed. They'll personally send your messages as they do with.the one from Vulkan's. Is as cute as silly.
Corvus Corax: clearly something is wrong when you can clearly see him in the corner of the room, trying to look menacingly. He just look overly sick. A fast explanation of what had happened is enough tow worry him that you may catch the same virus and being in a far worst condition than his own. His sons will immediately take you away and make sure you are safe and sound from that illness. But you're worried sick for your lover, whatvif something bad happen and you're not there with him? Then a craw catch your attention and those big black eyes stares at you waiting for instructions. He had sent he crows...well, at least you can check on him!
Alpharius// Omegon: know one would had notice. Their plan was to stay hidden, wait untill this stomach bug ended its cycle and then come back like nothing had happened, but noooo you had to entere in their quarters searching for that pen that you needed. You almost fainted expressing the fact that they looked like hell and seriously worry about them and yourself since this virus seemed pretty dangerous if a Primarch cannot hold it together of contaminated with it. Yet, their sorry state and their laments about "almost so close to be dead" made your heart soft for the two bastards. In the end, you decided to take care of them in the best way they could, even when they expressed the fact that this was a story that no one would ever believe you.
Im so sorry for two messages in two days, but I love your writing and I yearn for showing Primarchs the love and attention that they crave - so how would each of them react if their beloved woke them up with kisses and snuggling?
Hey anon, apologies for the wait!
Lion El’Jonson
He would wake up slowly, clearly aware of your actions even before he fully opens his eyes. Lion would go still for a moment, then let his arm settle around you like he has decided this is where you are staying. If he is especially fond of the mood, he might give you one quiet kiss back and keep you pinned there for quite a while...
Fulgrim
Fulgrim adores being adored, and waking up to kisses and snuggling would make him feel like he has been personally blessed by the universe. He would immediately return the affection, probably with a lot of flair and far too many compliments. Then he would try to turn the whole thing into a beautiful, decadent morning ritual.
Perturabo
He would pretend to be annoyed for about two seconds, then fail completely. Perturabo is not very good at being caught off guard by tenderness, so he would go stiff first before easing into it. Once he realizes it is just you being affectionate, he would settle with a very quiet kind of contentment. Enjoy it while you can.
Jaghatai Khan
He would wake with a soft smile and immediate ease. Jaghatai is one of the few who would take the affection in stride and seem genuinely pleased by it rather than flustered. He would kiss you back, maybe tease you a little, and then just enjoy the warmth of the moment. He would be the sort to let the morning stretch on because for once he is in no rush to leave.
Leman Russ
He would wake up with a low laugh and probably pull you even closer. Russ is very responsive to affection, especially if it comes from someone he loves. He might act a little smug about being your chosen target first thing in the morning. Then he would be all over you in the most affectionate (slightly feral) way imaginable.
Rogal Dorn
He would wake up carefully, as if he does not want to break the moment. Dorn would be touched in a very restrained way, and his response would be quietly sincere. He would let you snuggle him, then return the affection with serious, deliberate tenderness. He is not the most expressive, but he would absolutely appreciate it more than he says.
Konrad Curze
He would be startled by how gentle it is. Curze is not used to affection, especially not first thing in the morning, so he would go very still before responding. He trusts you, so he would cling to the moment with almost aching intensity. He would not want to let it go once he realizes you are being soft with him on purpose.
Sanguinius
He would wake up beautifully soft, almost glowing with affection. Sanguinius is the kind of person who would look like he was made for this exact moment, all warmth and grace and quiet joy. He would return the kisses with a smile and probably cup your face like you have just given him the best possible start to the day.
Ferrus Manus
Spontaneous softness is not his natural habitat. But once Ferrus understands what you are doing, he would become very still and very present. He would show his appreciation in a maybe a brief kiss, maybe a firm arm around you, but the feeling underneath would be unmistakably fond.
Angron
At first he might be tense, almost confused, but then visibly relax once he realizes it is just affection. If he is having a good moment, he would lean into the snuggling like it is one of the few things in the world that makes sense. If not, well...at least you've tried.
Roboute Guilliman
He would wake up, register the kisses, and immediately become both pleased and distracted. Guilliman might give you a sleepy smile and a careful kiss back before trying to convince himself that he can get up soon. He probably cannot, though. Not while you are still there.
Mortarion
Mortarion is not used to affectionate wake-ups feeling safe, so he might react with a brief pause before letting himself relax into you. He would not be flowery about it, but he would settle into the snuggling with a surprising amount of quiet comfort. He would also probably act gruff afterward to hide how much he liked it.
Magnus the Red
Magnus would be delighted and likely make a soft, amused comment about how dangerous it is to startle the sorcerer. Then he would immediately forget any intention of getting up and just enjoy you. Magnus is always very affectionate in return, probably a little theatrical, but also genuinely tender.
Horus Lupercal
Horus likes being wanted, and being woken with kisses and snuggling would make him feel very loved and very smug about it. He would return the affection smoothly, making it all feel effortless. In the end Horus would absolutely act like this is exactly how his mornings should begin.
Lorgar Aurelian
He would take it almost devotionally. Lorgar would be deeply moved by affection that arrives so freely and lovingly, especially first thing in the morning. He would kiss you back with full sincerity and maybe linger in the moment a little too long because he finds it spiritually meaningful. To him, your affection would feel like a blessing.
Vulkan
Vulkan is one of the best at receiving tenderness, and he would welcome the snuggling like it was the most natural thing in the world. He would kiss you back gently, hold you close, and probably tell you how much he loves waking up to you like this.
Corvus Corax
He would wake quietly, but the response would be unmistakably soft. Corvus is not flashy with affection, so the fact that he lets you wake him this way says a lot already. He would return the kisses carefully and keep you tucked against him for as long as possible.
Alpharius Omegon
They would pretend to be half asleep and far more in control than they are. But the truth is that waking up to kisses and snuggling would completely disarm them in the best way. They would respond with teasing, a bit of misdirection, and probably a very knowing smile, while also making no effort to escape the cuddle pile. They would like it far more than they would admit.
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ok so. primarchs if the emperor used you as a backup plan for the Golden Throne and they had to see you trapped on it?
Well none of them will be taking it well. But also some are either dead or too far gone by the end of Heresy, so let's reimagine a few things.
Let's say the Emperor planned to put you on The Golden Throne at the very start of the Heresy or even prior to it. And like it or not you need to be a pretty powerful psyker for that to work.
And so…scene!
Lion El'Jonson
Lion is a fury to behold. Yes, he is loyal, but you are his. His partner, his lady, his love. He will go so far as to argue with his father that there must be another way. If the Throne requires a psyker to sit on it, then let Lion and his legion scout the wider Imperium for someone to fit this role. Just do not take you from his side.
Fulgrim
No, absolutely not. Even in the midst of demonic possession and influence, Fulgrim is lucid enough to want his muse, his masterpiece, and his...love by his side. The Imperium is not getting to keep you as a pet on the Throne, only Fulgrim is.
Perturabo
This is just another example of how they choose to insult him. And you, he supposes. The moment Perturabo gets even a whiff of his father's plan, you are stowed away in some vault-like location and you stay put until he finishes what was started. No one knows your location aside from your Lord of Iron, and that is how he knows you will be secure.
Jaghatai Khan
On one hand, Khan does not act until he has enough information. On the other, you may not have enough time to wait until he gathers it. So he chooses both. You are spirited far away so his father cannot get a hold on you quickly, and Khan gets to work uncovering the plan behind placing you on that golden monstrosity. Worry not, little hawk, he will be swift.
Leman Russ
He is conflicted and shaken to the core. Leman is fiercely loyal to the Imperium, but you are his mate, his heart. He cannot just give you up, even on his father's orders. He cannot. He places you on Fenris and commands rune priests to figure out the solution and his sons to keep you safe. And Leman? Leman stalls for time. It is the only thing he can do.
Rogal Dorn
Dorn does not take it well at all, because of course he does not. He is loyal, yes, but he is not blind, and the idea of placing you on that Throne reads to him as a failure of architecture, of governance, of foresight, of everything. He would be the one arguing that there must be another way, that the Imperium should not be built on your suffering, that if the Throne requires a sacrifice then the design is wrong. If the Emperor insists, Dorn would obey only after exhausting every possible alternative, and even then he would hate every second of it.
Konrad Curze
No. You are not going anywhere near that thing. He sees the future, and unsurprisingly it is grim. Konrad will steal you away, seal you away, and openly rebel. And if all else fails, he will consider ending your life himself. A far kinder fate than the one planned for you.
Sanguinius
He is searching every possible future to find the right chain of events to avoid placing you on that Throne. He has seen what happens if you sit on it. So he will spare no time and no effort to keep it from happening. Trust in him. He will find the right way.
Ferrus Manus
Ferrus would be furious in that cold, metallic way of his, because the idea is both insulting and inefficient, and the fact that it comes from the Emperor makes it worse. He would immediately start looking for other solutions, other mechanisms, other ways to power the Throne without reducing you to a living engine. If there is a technical answer, Ferrus will find it, or die trying.
Angron
So, the slaver finally stopped pretending he is anything but one. He takes, and he takes, and he takes. Well, not this time. Even the Nails do not hurt as badly as the thought of losing you, especially to the Emperor. So Angron will fight until his dying breath to keep this from happening. And he is very good at fighting.
Roboute Guilliman
Guilliman would be horrified, but in the way of a man who instantly sees the full administrative and human catastrophe of the idea. He would immediately begin searching for alternative structures, alternative psykers, alternative contingency plans, anything that preserves both the Imperium and your life. If the Emperor presents it as necessity, Guilliman will treat that necessity as something to be solved, not accepted. He would be calm on the surface, but this would be the sort of calm that means he is prepared to fight the system, and reality itself if that is what it takes to keep you away from the Throne.
Mortarion
Mortarion would be appalled in a deeply personal way, because the whole thing smells like rot to him. A body being turned into a machine, a loved one being offered up as fuel, the Emperor calling it duty, it would all read as another elegant form of slavery. If he can, he will take you somewhere hidden and poisonous to anyone else, somewhere the Imperium would not think to look, and he will keep you there until he can prove there is another way.
Magnus the Red
He refuses to believe that he and you cannot find another way to satisfy the conditions for the Throne. After all, this is his area of expertise. Maybe the two of you can find a way to generate enough energy together, maybe the Throne can use more lesser psykers to feed power into it and work in shifts? Truly, there are so many possibilities that have not been considered. Just let him take a crack at it.
Horus Lupercal
Horus would take it personally in the most dangerous way possible. He would understand the political necessity, yes, but understanding would not make it acceptable. The moment he realizes the Emperor might choose you for the Throne, your Warmaster would become smooth, watchful, and intensely focused on redirecting the entire situation somewhere else. He would not risk to openly challenge his father at first, but he would absolutely manipulate events, people, and outcomes to keep you out of reach. If that fails, then the warmth comes off and the warrior underneath shows through. You are his love, his chosen, his closest thing to peace, and the Emperor does not get to take that from him without consequence.
Lorgar Aurelian
Lorgar would react like he has witnessed a blasphemy. He is one of the Primarchs most likely to understand the symbolic horror of the Throne being fed by a living soul, and if that soul is yours, then the horror becomes unbearable. He would not accept it as mere function. He would see it as ritualized sacrifice, and he would immediately begin searching for theological, metaphysical, and practical alternatives. In his mind, you are not meant to be entombed as a mechanism. You are meant to be revered as a person. And with him.
Vulkan
Vulkan would be devastated. Not loud with it at first, but deeply, almost painfully so. The thought of you being placed on the Golden Throne would feel to him like the universe has finally crossed one line too many. He would immediately look for another way, because Vulkan is one of the few who would simply refuse to accept that love must be consumed to keep an empire running. If he cannot stop it outright, he would at least try to make the preparations gentler, safer, less monstrous, and that failure would haunt him.
Corvus Corax
Corvus would not be dramatic about it, which somehow makes it worse. He would go quiet, dead quiet, and then start moving pieces into place immediately. He would steal you away if he had to. Hide you if he had to. Burn every plan and every route of access if that is what it takes to keep you away from the Throne. He understands cages. He understands what systems do to living things. And he would not stand by while the Imperium tries to turn you into one more hidden casualty of its survival.
Alpharius Omegon
They would be impossible to read at first, which is often how they are when the stakes are at their most lethal. But make no mistake, they would absolutely move to prevent it. The Golden Throne would be assessed as a problem, a leverage point, a trap, and a variable that cannot be allowed to settle. They would begin spreading false trails, alternative candidates, contradictory evidence, and perhaps even manufactured technical obstacles if that is what keeps you out of the mechanism. They would not trust the Emperor's framing for a second. If they can preserve you through confusion, misdirection, or outright sabotage, they will. And if they cannot, then the entire board is about to be turned over.
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Hey! I now have more here! (and here)
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You left because you wanted to do something that mattered in the world, ironic since your father is Bruce Wayne and Batman yet this wasn't enough.
You didn't leave because you felt neglected or hated, quite the contrary as you were probably the smartest of them all, outsmarting the Riddler in minutes, closing criminal cases faster than Tim coud blink. You were perfect but fighting crime wasn't enough.
You wanted to matter and feel like you truly changed the world.
Your departure was as sudden as it was hard for them, Bruce thought he didn't do enough, Dick was happy to see you go and be whoever you wanted but still, he was gonna miss you.
Tim would miss your input on his cases, sometimes taking too much time on purpose just so you'd intervene. Damian and Jason ? You didn't interact much with them but now who was gonna determine who was the better fighter ?
Anyway, for years you studied, earned diplomas after diplomas until you saw something you shouldn't have.
A squad of so called "MTF" soldiers fighting some kind of sentient fire whom you later learned was called SCP-457 and thanks to your quick thinking, you helped the soldiers recontain it by collapsing a water tower on it.
Standard Procedure stipulated three distinct course of action in case a civilian happened to see the activities of the Foundation. Administration of amnesiacs, summary execution or detention.
Fortunately for you, the commanding officer decided otherwise. You were still detained but the Foundation had eyes for talent and you were what they needed, a genius to combat and counter the threats they housed.
This marks your disappearance from the world and your introduction to the SCP foundation...
It was some time since I sent an ask, but lately I was thinking about my Primarch spouse OCs, and I have an ask: how Primarchs would react if they proposed to their lover, but their lover rejected the proposal. Not because they did not love their Primarch, but due to personal reasons, like bad previous relationship?
This is a fascinating scenario @acgames! Let's delve into it!
Lion El'Jonson
The ring would stay in Lion's hand, but the silence would stretch until it felt heavy enough to crush stone. Lion prizes loyalty above all, so a rejection feels like a breach, but he is intelligent enough to hear the your reason. He would ask, in that low, dangerously low voice, exactly what the previous relationship did to make you fear this. He wouldn't withdraw the offer; he would simply shelve it. "Then I will wait," he would say, and Lion would mean it like a vow of war against your past.
Fulgrim
It would shatter his ego first. Fulgrim equates being loved with being worthy, so a rejection feels like a stain on his perfection. He would be visibly hurt, perhaps even cold for a moment, asking if he wasn't "enough" to override the past. But once he understands it's fear, not lack of love, his attitude would shift to a desperate need to fix you. He would try to overwhelm the bad memories with such exquisite beauty and devotion that you forget them. He wouldn't take the ring back. He'd leave it on the table, a silent challenge: "One day, you will see that I am not them."
Perturabo
He would be angry, but not at you. Perturabo hates inefficiency, and he hates variables he can't control. He would likely scoff, "So you let a ghost dictate your future?" but there would be a bitter understanding there, because Perturabo knows what it is to be broken by things outside your control. He wouldn't push. He would retreat into his work, building something for you and you alone. He'd prove through utility that he is safe, even if he can't say it softly.
Jaghatai Khan
He would be the most patient. The Khan understands that some wounds do not heal on a schedule. He would likely smile, a sad, thin thing, and put the ring away without a word of pressure. "The wind does not force the gate," he will say. He would respect your autonomy enough to step back, but he wouldn't leave. He would just... ride beside you for as long as you allow it. He would wait for you to come to him, knowing that if he chases, you will only run further.
Leman Russ
He would be loud. Not in anger, but in sheer, baffled frustration. "I am not him!" Leman would roar, pacing the room like a caged wolf. He would take it personally, as if your past is insulting his honor. But once the noise settles, Russ knows what it is to be a beast feared by those who should love him. He would grunt, toss the ring onto a table, and say, "Fine. No ring. But I'm not going anywhere, my mate. You can't scare me off."
Rogal Dorn
He would be stoic, but devastated. Dorn views marriage as a fortress, a permanent structure of safety. To have that rejected would feel like a structural failure. He would analyze your reasons with cold logic, trying to find the flaw in the argument that leads to "no." But when he realizes it's emotional, he would freeze. Dorn doesn't know how to siege a feeling. He would likely just nod, put the ring away, and double down on proving he is unbreakable until you believe it.
Konrad Curze
He would expect it. In fact, he might be relieved that you finally saw the truth: that being with him is dangerous. He would laugh, a dry, humorless sound, and say, "Wise. You should fear me." But if you explained it was about past trauma, not him, Curze would go quiet. He knows the texture of fear better than anyone. He would retreat into the shadows, watching you from afar, convinced you are safer without him, but unable to actually leave you alone.
Sanguinius
He would be heartbreakingly gentle. Sanguinius would see the pain behind your refusal and prioritize that over his own desire. He would likely kneel still, taking your hand, and say, "I am not him. And I will spend every breath proving it." Almost-your-Angerl would be sad that you were hurt before you met him. He would keep the ring, not as a promise of marriage, but as a promise of patience. He would become your sanctuary, waiting for the day you feel safe enough to say yes.
Ferrus Manus
He would be blunt. "Then we fix it," Ferrus would say, as if your trauma is a broken bone that needs setting. He wouldn't understand the nuance of emotional scarring. He would be frustrated that you won't just accept his strength. But he wouldn't leave. He would stand there, solid and say, "I'm not going to break. And I'm not going to hurt you. Take your time." He would show up every day, a relentless, metallic presence that refuses to be shaken.
Angron
He would be volatile. The rejection might trigger the Nails, or at least make him restless and aggressive. He doesn't have the vocabulary for "trauma" in a healthy way. He might howl, "Why?!" and pace, terrified that you are leaving him. But if you explain, he would suddenly go very still. He knows what it is to be a victim. He would growl, low in his throat, and sit near you, not touching, just... guarding. He would understand fear better than love.
Roboute Guilliman
He would be pragmatic. Guilliman would view the rejection as a strategic setback, but he would respect the logic of your emotional state. He would likely draft a plan to "address the root causes of your hesitation." He wouldn't be pushy, but he would be present. Roboute would integrate himself into your life so thoroughly that you realize the structure is already built. He would wait, patiently, until the data supports a second proposal is obtained.
Mortarion
Mortarion expects rejection. He expects everyone to leave eventually. So this would just confirm his worldview. "I knew it," he would mutter, turning away. But if you stayed, if you explained it wasn't about him, he would pause. Mortarion knows what it is to carry rot inside you. He wouldn't ask again. He would just let you stay by his side, assuming that eventually, you'll realize nowhere else is safe either.
Magnus the Red
He would be sorrowful. Magnus would look into your soul and see the scars, and it would grieve him that he cannot magic them away. He would likely say, "I see the chains that bind you. I wish I could break them." He wouldn't pressure you. He would use his arts to make your life easier, softer, hoping to show you that magic can be safe. He would wait, reading the stars for a sign that the time is right.
Horus Lupercal
Horus hates losing, but he knows how to lose gracefully. He would smile, a sad, warm thing, and say, "I can wait. I have all the time in the world." But inside, he would be calculating. He would work to become so indispensable, so warm, that the past fades into irrelevance. Your Warmaster would court you without the ring, winning you over piece by piece until the answer has to be yes.
Lorgar Aurelian
He would be devastated, but he would spiritualize it. He would see your trauma as a test of faith. "We shall pray for healing," he would say, taking your hand with reverence. He wouldn't see it as a rejection of him, but as a wound in the universe that needs mending. Lorgar would become even more devoted, treating you like a broken saint that needs to be whole before the sacrament can be completed.
Vulkan
He would be the kindest. Vulkan would see your fear and immediately regret causing it. "I am sorry," he would say, putting the ring away. "I did not mean to frighten you." He would never bring it up again unless you did. He would just love you, loudly and warmly, cooking for you, building for you, being the safest thing in the galaxy. He would wait forever if it meant you felt safe for one day.
Corvus Corax
He would vanish. Not literally, but emotionally. He would retreat into his shell, assuming he moved too fast, that he was too much. Corvus would respect your boundary absolutely, perhaps too much. He would watch from the shadows, ensuring you are safe, but he wouldn't approach. He would wait for you to find him in the dark, knowing that if he comes out, he might scare you again.
Alpharius Omegon
They would be unreadable. They would smile, put the ring away, and say, "Understood." But they would already be working. They would investigate the past relationship, find the people who hurt you, and quietly remove them from the equation. They would engineer situations where you feel safe, where you are supported, where the answer naturally becomes "yes." They wouldn't ask again. They would just make sure the next time you think about it, there is no reason to say no.
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Summary: Cato and his brothers move deeper into the heart of the mountain where they hope to find Vallabha alive. But the cult has other plans for them.
A/N: Warp shenanigans Part 1 LET'S GOOOO!!!! I'm trying to give you guys an insight into the kind of fuckery that passes for horror in my lands, okay? Please act scared! 🥺😭
Chapter 15
In tenebras || Into the darkness
Aboard the Macragge’s Honour, for a few heartbeats after receiving the final message from a dying man, there is only the low thrum of the flagship beneath their feet, the murmur of cogitators, the faint click of data-spindles turning within brass housings. The hololith of Indus hangs above the tactical table in storm-veiled blue and gold, its holy cities reduced to points of light, its mountains to ridges of shadow, its hidden wounds invisible beneath atmosphere and distance.
Roboute Guilliman stands before it, both hands braced against the table’s rim as he watches Kashi glimmer beneath him.
Kashi, where if the dying voice is to be believed, Vallabha languishes beneath the city, awaiting a ritual that might herald her end.
Then, his thoughts turn to the final part of the message… the rot has roots inside the Ordo. An accusation that would ensure execution as the kindest response.
No one speaks at first.
High Inquisitor Alexius looks as though outrage and fear have collided inside him and neither can decide which should rule his face. His fingers clutch the chain of his rosette; knuckles pale around the gold. His mouth opens once, closes, then opens again, but no words come out. For once, doctrine has not arrived quickly enough to rescue him.
Calgar stands at Guilliman’s right, one hand resting upon the haft of his weapon. His single eye has not left Halix.
Halix remains still; too composed beneath the weight of the message. He stands in his dark robes with his hands folded into his sleeves, his head inclined as if in solemn reflection. Concern shapes his face with the precision of a funerary mask. There is no panic in him, no visible offence, no rush to deny, accuse, or distance himself from the words that have just named his order as compromised.
Grief, Guilliman knows, is often untidy. Halix’s grief is immaculate.
“Replay the final segment,” Guilliman says.
The vox-officer obeys at once. His hands move across the console; runes flare; the dead voice returns.
“The rot is within the Ordo. Repeat, the rot is within the Ordo. The vessel is not the source. Vallabha lives. Gate beneath black lotus. Ritual sustained from hidden circle. Ordo access confirmed. Ordo access con...”
The message cuts away.
Again, the silence gathers.
Silence, when used the right way can reveal as much as conceal. And Guilliman lets it remain for the space of a breath. Then another. Men rush to fill it with the shape of themselves.
Alexius moves first.
“My lord,” he says, voice tight but recovering its familiar edge, “this message must be treated with extreme caution. It came through compromised civilian channels, from an agent whose identity we cannot confirm, under circumstances that suggest coercion or manipulation may have been involved. Heretics are fond of institutional fracture. They would profit greatly from suspicion between your command and the Holy Ordos.”
Calgar’s eye narrows.
“He died sending it,” the Chapter Master says.
Alexius’ jaw tightens. “That does not make the content accurate.”
“No,” Guilliman says. “And I am sure the Ordos would rather I disregard the death of a single seemingly insignificant human when it comes to the integrity of its institution.”
Alexius falters at the accurate accusation hidden in the words. Halix lifts his head then, smooth as a blade leaving a sheath.
“My lord,” he says softly.
Guilliman turns his gaze to him.
The whole chamber seems to tighten.
Halix bows, just deep enough as expected. “If I may.”
“You may.”
“The High Inquisitor is correct in one aspect. The message must be treated with caution. But caution does not mean we do not act at all.” His eyes move briefly to the hololith of Indus, to the storm-wrapped mountains below. “If Lady Vallabha is not the source, then Commander Sicarius may be descending toward a visible sanctum designed to misdirect him. He may kill every priest before him and still fail to collapse the rite.”
Alexius seizes on the argument at once. “Precisely. That is my concern. A Victrix strike force, however capable, is not a daemonological containment unit.”
Calgar’s gaze cuts to him.
Alexius presses on, emboldened by procedure, as always. “If the sustaining circle is hidden, then Ordo Malleus assets must be deployed. Hexagrammic restraints, warding reliquaries, null-shackles, exorcistic matrices. Proper tools, Lord Regent. Proper oversight.”
Guilliman does not look away from Halix. “And you can provide these.”
Halix inclines his head. “My cutter carries a compact containment suite. It was held in reserve in the event that the Indus matter proved more severe than palace politics and local cult activity. I request permission to descend toward the black lotus cistern and establish a warded perimeter.”
The words are reasonable, and it is the sensible response Guilliman should order.
Alexius nods sharply. “A sound recommendation.”
Calgar says nothing. His silence is far less approving.
Guilliman studies Halix for a long moment.
“You request permission to descend into a theatre where a dying agent has just warned me that Ordo clearance has been used by hostile actors.”
“I do.”
“You understand the appearance of that request.”
“I do.”
“And yet you make it.”
Halix’s face does not change. “If I remain aboard, I am useless. If I descend, I am suspect. There is no course before me that cannot be read darkly in the shadow of that transmission. Therefore, I ask to be judged by necessity rather than comfort.”
Alexius exhales, almost relieved. “My lord, whatever suspicion hangs over the wider Ordos, Halix has been measured throughout this affair. His intervention on Sicarius’ behalf alone should speak to his balance.”
Calgar’s mouth hardens at the subtle jab at his brother. Guilliman marks that too.
Halix lowers his eyes, as though Alexius’ praise burdens him. “The matter is not my reputation. It is the ritual. If the hidden circle exists, it must be contained before Commander Sicarius reaches the wrong conclusion with admirable violence.”
The faintest thread of distaste passes through Calgar’s expression.
Guilliman’s hands remain on the table. Beneath his palms, Indus turns. Kashi glitters. The storm over the mountain district thickens, cloud bands folding over one another like closing hands.
He can deny Halix and keep him in sight. Or, he can allow him to move and see where the movement points.
A serpent in a basket remains a serpent, but a serpent in motion shows the path to its nest.
“Very well,” Guilliman says.
Alexius straightens, relief colouring his pallid face.
Halix bows.
Calgar’s eye does not move from the Inquisitor’s face.
“You will file your descent vector with my command deck,” Guilliman continues. “You will maintain open telemetry. You will transmit every warding action before execution. You will accept passive escort beyond visual range.”
For the first time, something almost imperceptible shifts in Halix’s expression: Calculation.
“As you command, Lord Regent.”
“As I command,” Guilliman says.
Halix bows once more, then turns and leaves the strategium.
The doors close behind him with a sound like stone settling over a tomb.
Alexius lets out a breath. “A difficult necessity, my lord. But the correct one.”
Guilliman does not answer.
Calgar steps closer. His voice drops low enough that only the Primarch hears it.
“My lord… Far be it for me to question your wisdom but…You are letting him run.”
Guilliman watches the sealed doors.
“I am letting him lead.”
Calgar’s jaw shifts. “And if he leads us nowhere?”
“Then I will know he has prepared nowhere carefully.”
The Chapter Master’s eye gleams once as he understands the true intent of Guilliman. A subtle smile blooms, uninvited on the Chapter Master’s lips.
Guilliman turns to the command deck with a single imperative.
“Track him.”
The order moves like lightning through the chamber. Officers bend over consoles. Servitors twitch in their alcoves. Passive auspex arrays rotate beneath layers of armour and sanctified plating. The hololith shifts, Indus narrowing to the theatre above Kashi.
A white marker detaches from Macragge’s Honour: Halix’s cutter.
It descends with precise obedience, its transponder active, its route filed toward a plateau east of the black lotus cistern. Proper distance. Proper vector. Proper caution.
The proper theatre.
For several minutes, the signal holds.
Then it enters the storm, and the white marker flickers.
“Signal degradation,” an auspex officer reports. “Atmospheric interference over Kashi’s mountain district. Attempting to maintain lock.”
“Do so,” Guilliman says.
The marker splits into three.
The officer freezes for half a heartbeat. “Multiple returns.”
Calgar’s hand tightens on his weapon.
The three markers become seven.
“Refraction?” Alexius asks.
The officer’s voice is strained. “Not natural. Passive relay echoes seeded through the storm layer. They are carrying the cutter’s transponder signature.”
Guilliman’s face remains still.
The seven markers become twelve.
Then fourteen.
Fourteen Halix signatures fall toward Kashi, each wearing the same clearance, each moving along a plausible descent path, each surrounded by enough storm interference to blur engine heat and mass return.
The silent interceptors move to pursue.
One false return vanishes.
Then another.
Then five more bloom over the western ridge like spores shaken loose in darkness.
The command deck holds its breath.
“My lord,” the Master of Flight says, “we are losing positive identification.”
“Continue tracking all returns.”
“Aye, my lord.”
For twenty-seven seconds, the hololith becomes a swarm of white ghosts.
Then one by one, they die.
The last return drops toward the black lotus route and vanishes.
No explosion…no distress call…no plea for aid.
Only absence.
Alexius stares at the empty place where the marker had been. “This confirms hostile interference.”
“Yes,” Guilliman says.
The High Inquisitor turns toward him. “Then he may have been taken.”
“No.”
Calgar’s voice is granite. “He wanted us to lose him.”
Guilliman looks down at Kashi.
“He wanted us to know we had lost him.”
Alexius’ mouth works, but no argument finds its shape.
The Primarch straightens.
“Seal every Ordo vessel attached to this fleet. No departures. No unsanctioned transmissions. All astropathic traffic routes through my command deck until further notice.”
Alexius recoils as though struck. “My lord, that is an extraordinary overreach.”
Guilliman turns his head and regards Alexius with a cold stare.
“Yes.”
The word falls without heat and crushes the protest flat.
Below, Indus continues to turn.
And beneath the same storm that swallows Halix’s signal, another craft descends.
Cato Sicarius’ thunderhawk falls through the clouds like a blade thrown from orbit.
Lightning crawls over its wings, pale and furious. The hull shudders under atmospheric turbulence. Warning runes flash red across the interior bay. Restraint chains rattle. The air reeks of hot metal, oil, ozone, and the faint tang of rain dragged in through armour seams and pressure vents.
Cato Sicarius stands like cold rage made flesh and clothed in ceramite. It encloses him in familiar law. The gold trim catches the red lumen-flare with each violent shift of the gunship. His crimson cloak has been secured behind him, shortened for descent and battle, its edge snapping in the forced wind of the hold like a banner hungry for war. The Tempest Blade rests at his side, its machine-spirit quiet, but not sleeping.
Around him, his chosen brothers wait: Alcaeus sits in silence, bolter mag-locked across his knees, his helm turned slightly toward Cato. Daceus checks the same magazine for the third time, more out of contempt for fear than necessity. He murmurs a battle-cant under his breath, the words almost lost beneath the gunship’s roar.
Arjun sits strapped into a restraint never made for him, a mortal held among giants. His jaw is set. His eyes are bright with fear and determination, both honest enough that Cato respects him for neither hiding nor indulging either. At his throat, concealed beneath a fold of dark cloth, the vox bead rests against his skin.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the internal channel.
“Commander, narrow-band packet from Macragge’s Honour. Degraded but readable.”
Cato turns his helm toward the cockpit.
“Play it.”
Static bursts through the hold.
Then Guilliman’s voice emerges, broken by storm but unmistakable.
“Commander Sicarius. Intelligence received from Kashi confirms Vallabha lives. Repeat, Vallabha lives.”
Cato’s hand closes around the restraint rail above him.
The metal dents beneath his gauntlet. No one dares comment.
The message continues, “Ritual confirmed to begin soon. Suspected hidden circle beneath or beyond black lotus cistern. Ordo clearance has been used by hostile actors. Treat all non-Ultramarine authority below as compromised until proven otherwise.”
Arjun’s head lifts sharply at the mention of black lotus.
Cato does not move.
“Your primary objective remains extraction of Lady Vallabha. Secondary objective, identify true agent behind it if possible. Do not allow rage to choose your route. Do not allow certainty to be sold to you by the enemy. Trust Arjun’s local knowledge. Trust your brothers. Advance.”
Static gnaws at the edges of the words.
Then, softer, almost buried beneath the storm:
“Cato. Bring her back alive.”
The channel collapses.
For a moment, there is only thunder.
Vallabha lives.
The words slide around his hearts, between grief and fury like a whetstone drawn down steel. Every image he has carried since the cavern returns with brutal clarity: Estakhr’s stone pedestal, the child too still in dead hands, Vallabha wrapped in his crimson cape, the false pyre in Cypress Garden, Adi’s terrified eyes, the rebel cavern emptied by fire and cowardice. Every failure rises, eager to be counted.
Do not allow rage to choose your route. His Primarch knows him all too well. Cato lets out a dark chuckle as he releases his hold over the restraint rail.
“Black lotus,” Arjun says, voice rough. “The old cistern beneath the temple quarter. If the cult uses that route, then they are moving through the city’s bones.”
Cato looks to him. “Can you reach the rebels from there?”
“Not from the main cut. From the lower waterworks, yes. There is a fork before the old ritual road. One path takes you deeper. Another bends toward the rebel warrens, if the stones have not collapsed.”
“If?”
Arjun bares his teeth in something that is almost a smile. “Kashi is old, Commander. She keeps some doors open out of spite.”
Daceus gives a low chuckle. “I begin to like this city.”
“You would not, my lord, if the ones who truly run her these days decide to like you back,” Arjun says.
Despite the storm and the plunge and the words still burning through the hold, the brief exchange loosens something in the air. A human breath, found for one second before battle consumes it.
Cato steps closer to Arjun.
“When we reach the fork, you take the waterworks route. Find whoever remains. Gather them. Approach the ritual site from the far side.”
Arjun’s eyes narrow. “And if they are too few?”
“Then you become enough.”
“That is poor mathematics, my lord.”
“It is what works in war.”
Arjun absorbs that, then nods once.
“The signal?” he asks.
“Courage.”
Arjun looks at the Ultramarines around him, then back to Cato.
“And honour.”
Cato holds his gaze. “You do not attack until my command. If the vox fails, you wait for the agreed count from first contact, then move.”
“Will this work?” Arjun asks, suddenly sounding much younger than the age he projects to the world.
Alcaeus’ helm turns a fraction, as though observing what Cato’s reply would be.
Cato’s voice lowers. “We will make it work.” His words are girded in steel as he fixes the younger man with a steady gaze. And then, he adds, as though sensing something Arjun has left unsaid, “Arjun. I will bring her back. I swear it on the Emperor. But I will not have you or anyone else come to harm. So, you are not to die proving the courage you have already shown.”
For a heartbeat, the rebel has no answer. Irritation flashes first, because pride must defend itself. Then surprise. Then something quieter and more difficult. He looks away before it settles openly on his face.
“I will try not to inconvenience your strategy with my death.”
“See that you do not.”
Alcaeus sits motionless as ever. Daceus, meanwhile coughs into his gauntlet before fixing his helmet over his head.
The pilot’s voice breaks the silence through the vox channel, “Twenty seconds to landing, brother commander. Hostile fire from ridge emplacements. Auspex unreliable. Mountain cut visible.”
Then on cue, the Thunderhawk drops hard.
Impact rounds detonate against the outer shields. The hold flashes white. Arjun’s restraint jerks against his chest; his teeth snap shut with an audible click. The Victrix do not move except to rise as one.
Cato draws the Tempest Blade; its power field ignites with a blue snarl.
Light pours down the blade and catches on every helm, every oath-paper, every scar carved into armour. The gunship’s red lumen gives way before that cold azure burn. In its glow, Cato appears less like a man descending toward battle and more like a judgment the mountain has delayed too long.
“Brothers,” he says over the squad channel, “the enemy waits beneath Kashi with lies, rites, stolen authority, and Lady Vallabha in chains. We answer with discipline. We answer with steel.”
The Thunderhawk pitches.
He does not sway.
“Lady Vallabha lives. We bring her out. And whatever sustains this cult, we extinguish it in the flames of our wrath.”
Alcaeus rises. “Courage and honour.”
The Victrix answer, one by one, their voices filling the hold.
“Courage and honour.”
Arjun’s mouth tightens.
Then, quietly, he says it with them.
“Courage and honour.”
The retros fire and the Thunderhawk slams into the landing zone with a force that reverberates through the gunship’s insides. The ramp drops before the shock has fully passed through the hull.
Night and rain rush in as above, somewhere beyond the clouds and false signals, Halix vanishes into the black lotus path.
And below, Cato Sicarius steps into Indus with the Tempest Blade burning blue in his hand.
Cato’s armoured boots strike the rocky ground of Kashi’s mountains as lightning tears open the sky, and rain lashes his armour like thrown gravel.
The mountain cut yawns before him, black and jagged, its mouth lit from within by a faint, sickly glow. Wind drives sheets of water across the landing zone, turning dust to mud beneath ceramite boots. Behind him, the Thunderhawk’s engines scream, heat boiling rain into white vapour along the ramp. Above, another fork of lightning turns the world briefly silver.
Then the first cultist emplacement opens fire.
Rounds spit from the ridge. Auto-gun flashes blink between wet rocks, and a heavy stubber coughs above the cave mouth, tracers stitching sparks across the Thunderhawk’s flank.
But Cato does not slow.
“Suppress the ridge,” he orders, and his brothers answer before his voice has finished echoing through the vox. Bolters rise as they answer the firing with their wrath.
Shells tear through stone and flesh. The ridge vomits sparks, dust, and blood. A masked gunner tumbles from his nest and vanishes into the rain. Another emplacement swings too late toward the Ultramarines’ advance. Retius Daceus puts a bolt through the gunner’s chest, bursting him backward in a red mist and taking the weapon’s feed mechanism with him.
Arjun flinches once at the violence, suddenly feeling inadequate in the presence of the Emperor’s Angel in action. Then he ducks low and runs after Cato, one hand clamped over the vox bead at his throat, the other gripping the curved blade the rebels gave him before departure. Mud splashes up his legs. Rain plasters his hair to his skull. Between giants, he looks painfully mortal.
However, he does not fall behind. Cato marks that without turning.
“Left approach,” Arjun calls over the short-range channel, breath sharp and steady. “Drainage shelf beneath the cave mouth. Cultists will expect you to take the main path.”
“Will it hold our weight?” Alcaeus asks.
Arjun glances at him. “For men, yes.”
Daceus cuts down a cultist sprinting from behind a boulder. “That is not an answer, boy.”
“We never got the chance to test with Astartes, my lord. They’re quite rate to come by, I fear.”
As Daceus chortles at the irreverent reply, Cato angles his helm toward the left.
The main cave mouth lies ahead, broad enough for a gunship to scrape through, half-hidden by wet creepers and broken prayer flags. It is too obvious, too open… The cult has left it lit, and that alone is insult enough. Braziers burn green beside the entrance, untouched by rain. Around them, skulls hang from copper wire, each marked with a blackened lotus drawn upon the brow with soot.
An invitation. A trap.
The drainage shelf that Arjun had indicated is barely visible beneath the slant of rock. Water pours over it in a silver sheet before disappearing into a crack in the mountain’s side.
“Take the shelf,” Cato says. “Daceus, mark pursuit. Alcaeus, with me.”
His brothers shift formation as though the command has been waiting in their bones.
Cato reaches the shelf first; his boot finds stone beneath water. It groans as he puts more of his weight on it but holds. The cliff face presses close on one side; the drop falls into rain and darkness on the other. The glow from the main entrance flickers behind them, throwing long shadows across wet rock.
Arjun hesitates for half a heartbeat at the ledge. When Daceus reaches for him, perhaps to haul him across bodily, Arjun bares his teeth.
“I can walk, my lord.”
“Then walk faster, boy.”
As they progress further into the darkness of the mountain, the shelf narrows midway. Cato is forced to turn sideways, one pauldron scraping stone hard enough to throw sparks through the rain. His armour grinds against the mountain, harsh and intimate, as the inbuilt servos whirl and whine to compensate for the effort.
Below them, something screams. The sound rises from the ravine beneath the shelf, layered with hunger and laughter. Arjun’s face tightens. Daceus looks down, then returns his focus to the path.
“Ignore it,” Cato says.
“I intended to,” Daceus answers. “With great conviction.”
They reach the crack in the mountain.
It is no natural fissure. Cato sees it the moment he steps within. The edges have been cut, long ago, by hands older than the Mechanicus. The stone is worked with shallow carvings nearly erased by water and time: lotus petals, river waves, wheel patterns, fragments of script in the elegant curves of Indus’ sacred languages. Once, this passage belonged to something holy. Or something that believed itself so.
Now black ash fills the grooves.
Eight-pointed marks smear over the old symbols in oil and blood.
Cato’s grip tightens on the Tempest Blade.
The passage ahead descends sharply.
Behind them, the Thunderhawk lifts with a roar, banking through tracer fire. Its guns answer once, a brutal flare across the ridge, before it rises into the storm and disappears. The sound of its engines fades, swallowed by rain, mountain, and war.
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy. The mountain closes around them. They are truly on their own now.
Arjun leads them now. He moves differently beneath stone. Above ground, he is a rebel captain among giants, brave and small in the open violence of the landing. Here, in the underways, something in him settles. His hand brushes the wall as he walks, fingers touching seams, hollows, old watermarks. He listens with his whole body, pausing at turns before sound reaches even Cato’s enhanced hearing.
“This route feeds into the lower pilgrim cisterns,” Arjun says. “Before the palace sealed half the old shrines, pilgrims used these paths during monsoon floods. Later, smugglers used them. Then rebels. Then no one, once the cult began marking the doors.”
“No one?” Alcaeus asks.
“No one sane.”
Daceus’ helm turns. “Then we are well suited.”
Arjun gives him a sideways look that might have become a smile in another world.
The tunnel narrows even further before it opens into a low gallery supported by lotus-carved pillars. Water drips from the ceiling in steady threads. Small lamps sit in wall niches, none burning with ordinary flame. Each gives off a dim blue-green glow, cold as corpse-light. Under that illumination, petals become claws. Carved dancers acquire too many arms.
Cato scans the chamber.
Empty… Too empty.
“Hold.”
They all halt as one. Arjun freezes.
Water. Armour. Breath.
Then Cato hears it: a scrape beneath the drip of water.
His blade comes up on instinct.
“Contact.”
The floor splits at the word. Hands thrust through the old stone grating, grey and slick, fingers hooked like roots. Corpses rise from the drainage channels beneath the gallery; their limbs wired together with copper and ritual thread. Some still wear court jewellery. Some wear the torn clothes of palace servants. Others are only stitched skin over bone. Their mouths are sewn shut, yet chanting leaks from them, low and wet and wrong.
Arjun swears in his mother tongue.
The first corpse-servitor lunges for him.
Cato cuts it in half before its fingers reach flesh.
The Tempest Blade tears through dead tissue and copper wire in a burst of blue light. The body collapses in two directions, both halves still twitching. Alcaeus crushes the skull beneath his boot. Daceus fires point-blank into another corpse rising at his flank, the bolt detonating inside its chest and painting the carved pillars black.
As they fell the unnatural foes that rise up to drown them, more come. They spill from channels, from behind pillars, from recesses that looked like shrines a heartbeat earlier. Slow, tireless, clawing for armour joints. Teeth break against ceramite. Dead hands scrape at seals and cabling.
“Keep them off Arjun,” Cato orders.
“I am not entirely helpless,” Arjun snaps, ducking beneath a grasping arm and driving his blade through a corpse’s throat.
The head lolls. The sewn mouth keeps chanting.
Arjun stares at it. “I retract that. This is offensive.”
Cato steps past him and drives the Tempest Blade through the corpse’s skull. The chanting cuts off.
“Head or spine,” he offers in advice.
“Yes, Commander.” The boy gasps as he watches a corpse drop from the ceiling onto Alcaeus’ back. Alcaeus reaches over one shoulder, grips its skull, and crushes it in his gauntlet.
The fight ends quickly; the gallery is left strewn with twitching pieces until Alcaeus and Daceus finish them with methodical brutality. Water runs dark around their boots. The cold lamps flicker, then steady again as though nothing has happened.
Arjun stands near one pillar, breathing harder than he wants anyone to hear. Blood, none of it his, streaks his cheek. His blade drips onto the stone.
Cato looks at the dead. Some of them are fresh, too fresh.
A woman’s severed hand lies near his boot; fingers still stained with turmeric around the nails. Palace household. Taken days ago, perhaps hours. The cult is using everything left behind.
Every corpse. Every symbol. Every grief.
“Let’s move on,” Cato says, voice colder than before.
They descend. The route becomes less a tunnel than the memory of one. Walls buckle inward. Roots pierce the ceiling. Old water has eaten steps into slopes slick with moss. Arjun guides them through places where the path seems to end, pressing hidden stones, lifting loose slabs, turning aside prayer wheels green with age.
Once, they pass a row of small statues set into the wall: all women, all seated in meditation, palms open, faces serene. Each one has been defaced. Black lines run from their carved eyes like tears. Iron nails pierce their mouths.
Cato notices Arjun’s face going still at the sight.
“Saints?” he asks.
“Queens,” Arjun says. “Older than compliance. Some older than the current Maharaja’s line. The people still leave flowers for them in secret. All fell to the Cult.”
Daceus studies the ruined statues. “The cult must fear their memory if they went out of their way to do this.”
“No,” Arjun says. “It feeds on memory. Each of these women had once been what our Lady is now.”
Cato says nothing as he thinks of Vallabha in the rebel caverns, speaking of lives stolen, deaths repeated, children taken from her arms. He thinks of his own voice answering her with the cruelty of disbelief.
This is madness.
The words come back to him in the dark, almost in a mocking tone. His hand tightens around his blade until the leather creaks.
They reach the fork an hour later, though time feels unreliable beneath Kashi.
The tunnel widens into a circular chamber where three paths meet under a broken dome. Rainwater drips through cracks far above, falling in bright threads into a shallow black pool. Around its rim, lotus petals have been carved into the stone. Half remains intact. The others have been scored through and reshaped into jagged star-points.
Two archways descend from the far wall: the left is narrow, old, half-choked by roots and collapsed brick. Faint air moves through it, carrying wet earth, smoke, and distant humanity. The right is broad and smooth, descending with unnatural regularity into the deeper dark. From it comes a pulse of chanting too low for mortal hearing, though Cato feels it in his teeth.
Arjun points left. “Waterworks. They bend toward the rebel warrens if the lower wells are still open. From there I can reach whoever survived.”
His voice changes on the last word. Survived.
Cato hears what is beneath it. Adi. The old women. The fighters who bowed their heads in shame when Vallabha was taken. The cavern emptied of her presence.
“And the right?” Alcaeus asks.
Arjun looks toward the broader descent.
“The old ritual road.”
The chamber seems to grow colder as he speaks. Cato steps to the right archway and studies the stone. The walls are too smooth, polished by repeated passage. Fresh ash marks the floor. Bare feet, many of them. Robed hems dragging. Something heavier has moved recently through the centre, leaving twin grooves in the damp residue.
A prisoner’s bier.
Or chains.
Cato’s vision narrows.
‘Do not allow rage to choose your route.’
He breathes once.
“Arjun.”
The rebel captain turns.
“You take the waterworks.”
Arjun’s jaw tightens. “I should guide you to the ritual site.”
“You have guided us far enough. Now gather your people.”
“You do not know those deeper roads.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you do not.” Arjun steps closer, anger sharpening his voice. “These tunnels lie. They fold back. They use sound. You may march straight and find yourself where you began, or worse, where the cult wants you.”
Cato turns his helm toward him.
“Then I will cut through where they want me and continue.”
“That is arrogance, Commander. Those words are brave, but it is still arrogance.”
Daceus makes a soft sound over the squad channel. “The boy knows you well, Sicarius.”
Cato ignores him.
Arjun presses on, “I am serious. If I leave you here, you may never reach her.”
“If you do not leave, the rebels never will.” Cato growls.
That stops him.
Cato steps closer and touches the small sealed vox bead that Arjun holds at his collar. It is a thing cased in dull black and no larger than a fingernail.
Arjun looks at Cato with an unwavering gaze as though he is beginning to understand the astartes’ plan.
“The channel is narrow and shielded,” Cato says. “It may fail in the deeper stone. If it holds, you wait for my signal.”
Arjun touches the bead at his collar, “And if it does not?”
“You count from first breach. The third hundred heartbeats after bolter fire reaches your position, you attack.”
“Heartbeats?” Arjun asks, incredulous.
“Count quickly if frightened.”
Arjun simply stares at him, unsure if that was a joke that left Cato Sicarius’ lips.
Daceus and Alcaeus turn away with great dignity.
Arjun ties up his collar tighter, securing the vox bead to his throat. His fingers are swift, though Cato notices the tremor in them. Anger. Grief. The burden of returning to survivors without Vallabha beside him.
“The signal phrase,” Arjun says.
“Courage.” Cato begins.
“And honour.” Arjun finishes.
The words settle between them, no longer merely Ultramarine battle cant. In Arjun’s mouth, they become something borrowed and reforged for the tunnels beneath Kashi.
Cato places one hand on Arjun’s shoulder. The gesture is brief, heavy, and wholly unexpected.
Arjun stills beneath it.
“Remember what I said. You are not to die proving courage you have already shown.”
For a moment, the rebel captain looks younger than he is. Caught without armour around some hidden part of himself.
Then he scoffs, because he is Arjun.
“You give terrible farewells, Commander.”
“That was an order.”
“That’s even worse.”
Cato removes his hand, his eyes beneath his helm shine with a subtle mirth even in these dark times.
Arjun looks toward the left passage. The darkness there carries the faint scent of smoke and old wells. He adjusts his grip on his blade, then looks past Cato toward the right-hand descent.
“Bring her back,” he says.
Cato’s answer is immediate.
“I will.”
Arjun studies him, as if weighing whether to challenge the certainty. Then he nods once.
“Courage,” Cato says.
Arjun’s expression changes, just slightly.
“And honour.”
He turns and disappears into the waterworks passage, swallowed by roots, shadow, and the soft rush of hidden air.
For several breaths, Cato listens to his footsteps recede, then they are gone.
The chamber feels emptier without him.
Daceus checks his bolter. “The boy’s got spirit, Cato. He’ll be fine.”
Alcaeus looks toward Cato. “You trust him.”
It is no question. Cato turns toward the ritual road, letting the statement settle before answering.
“Yes.”
The answer surprises him only after he has spoken it. His brothers don’t comment on it, thankfully.
The right-hand archway breathes cold across his armour. Somewhere deep below, chanting pulses through stone.
Cato raises the Tempest Blade, its blue light spills across defaced lotus petals and blackened star-marks.
“Formation,” he says.
Alcaeus and Daceus move around him.
Behind them lie the fork, the waterworks, Arjun, and the last chance of rebels moving unseen through the city’s bones.
Ahead lies the old ritual road.
Ahead lies Vallabha.
Cato Sicarius steps into the deeper dark, and the mountain closes its mouth behind him.
The old ritual road receives them like a throat closing around its prey. The archway narrows after the first dozen steps, stone pressing close until the astartes must move in disciplined file. The air grows colder with each step, a cold that slides between armour seals and settles against the flesh beneath.
Cato leads on, the Tempest Blade burns blue in his hand. Behind him Alcaeus and Retius Daceus follow, bolters raised, boots falling with such measured force, their echoes run ahead, return changed, and fade into deeper dark.
For a time, nothing moves. The cult should send defenders. Ambushes. Traps. Gunfire through murder-slits. Screaming zealots frothing themselves toward death. Cato would understand that. He would welcome it. Steel answers steel. Flesh answers bolt-shell. Faith, however twisted, still bleeds when cut.
The old ritual road instead, only offers silence; the walls watch them instead.
At first, the carvings are old Indus work. Lotus petals. River serpents. Women seated beneath trees, palms open, heads crowned by wheels of flame. Lines of scripture flow around them in graceful curves, so worn by water and age that even the lumen-enhancement in Cato’s helm struggles to separate word from stone. Arjun had said these paths were older than the palace, older than the Maharaja’s line, and now Cato believes him. There is a weight here no crown can claim.
Then, the defacement begins.
Black oil fills the petals. Serene faces are split from brow to chin. Wheels of flame are scored into jagged stars. Old hymns are overwritten with newer hands, clumsy at first, then more confident as the descent continues. Sanskrit curves warp into hooked runes. Avestan invocations break under marks that sting the eye. This is no random vandalism. This is a correction, a perverse rewriting. The patient cruelty of men who do not merely wish to kill a faith, who wish to force it to speak in their tongue before it dies.
Daceus pauses beside one carved queen whose mouth has been pinned shut with three iron nails.
“Charming hosts,” he says over the squad channel.
Alcaeus angles his bolter toward a side niche. “No movement.”
“Not what I meant.”
Cato looks at the defaced face, at the iron driven through stone lips, and thinks of Vallabha in the rebel caverns, speaking of lives stolen, deaths repeated, children taken from her arms. He thinks of Akshara laid out in quiet dignity. He thinks of the young court woman burned beneath Vallabha’s jewels so Kashi might be made to mourn a lie.
The cult does not merely murder people. It uses them… their memory, their flesh, their grief, their language, their faith.
Everything is fuel.
“Move,” he says.
They continue. The passage widens into a shrine hall half-swallowed by mineral growth. Pillars rise from the floor like old trees; their bases lost beneath shallow black water. Small lamps float across the surface in clay bowls, each flame burning green without oil. They drift without current, forming circles that widen and contract as the Ultramarines enter.
Cato lifts a fist, halting his brothers behind him.
For a moment, there is only silence. Then, they hear it… something whispers from the lamps.
Breath first. Then syllables. Then names.
‘Alcaeus.’
‘Daceus.’
‘Cato.’
The whispers come in voices no machine can catalogue. Male, female, soft as a child’s, hollowed with age. Each name is spoken with terrible familiarity, as if by someone standing too close behind the listener’s ear.
“Ignore it,” Cato says.
“Gladly,” Daceus answers, though his bolter tracks the floating lamps.
The circles tighten as the lamps drift toward the centre of the flooded hall, green flames merging into a single reflection. The black water trembles.
Something beneath it moves.
“Contact below,” Alcaeus says.
The water erupts.
Bodies rise with awful, rehearsed grace, standing from the black pool as if lifted by strings. Skeletons bound in the same copper wire and red thread. Fresher dead with grey faces, painted sigils, hair floating like drowned weeds. Their mouths hang open. From each throat comes the same chant.
Bolters fire and the hall becomes a cacophony of thunder and fire.
Shells tear through dead flesh, bone cracks, ribcages burst as the corpses fold, break, fall back into the pool, then rise again unless spine or skull is destroyed. Cato moves through them like the Emperor’s Wrath given form, the Tempest Blade cutting blue arcs through green-lit dark.
Alcaeus fires with steady economy. Daceus wades into the pool up to his greaves, gripping one corpse by the throat while firing point-blank through another’s face. Cato crushes a priest-crowned corpse beneath his boot until its chanting stops.
The last of the dead rises from the centre of the pool.
It is that of a child.
Small. Barefoot. Water streams from limbs too thin for life. A garland of blackened marigolds hangs around its neck. Its eyes have been replaced by polished obsidian. In its hands, it holds a clay lamp.
The Ultramarines do not fire as they feel their revulsion sharpen into a breath of silence.
The child opens its mouth, and it speaks with Vallabha’s voice.
“Cato.”
The sound pierces the hall more cruelly than any blade. For a moment, the silence drags on before Cato crosses the distance in three strides and cuts the thing in half.
The lamp falls into the water, and its green flames gutter out.
Darkness surges around them once more, broken only by the blue burn of the Tempest Blade and the red target-runes in their helms.
For a heartbeat, no one speaks.
Then Daceus says, quieter than before, “That was unkind.”
Cato looks down at the black water where the child-thing dissolves into ash, thread, and bone.
“No,” he says. “It was deliberate.”
His voice is cold, just like his wrath.
They leave the shrine hall behind, and press on deeper into the path beyond that is marked with hanging bells.
Hundreds of them.
Small bronze bells, temple bells, hand bells, anklet bells, fragments of larger bells broken and strung from wire. Some are ancient, green with age. Others are new and bright. One still has a strip of red thread tied to its handle, the sort, a child might knot there after a festival prayer.
None move. And then as if on cue, they all ring.
The sound begins as a tremor at the edge of hearing. It deepens as the Ultramarines pass beneath, layer upon layer of metallic whisper. It rings nearer, as though every bell rings inside the skull.
Daceus snarls and swipes one aside with the back of his gauntlet.
His hand passes through it as if through smoke, even as the ringing remains.
“Warp phantasm,” Alcaeus says.
“Thank you,” Daceus replies. “I was concerned it might be good news.”
Cato keeps walking.
The bells whisper barely decipherable words as they pass.
Late.
Failure.
Again.
The words repeat in different tones. A woman sobbing them. A child laughing them. A priest chanting them. Guilliman saying them with icy disappointment. Vallabha whispering them as she whispered his name through the wall aboard the Invictus Resolute, trapped in sleep and grief.
Late.
Failure.
Again.
Cato breathes in and out, as he remembers his Primarch’s words: ‘Do not allow rage to choose your route.’
Paying no heed to the taunting voices, he walks.
Eventually the sound falls behind, still ringing, still speaking, unable to halt what refuses to listen.
They pass through a broken gate and enter a corridor lined with prayer niches.
Each niche holds ash, some hold bones.
One holds a nose-pin made of gold.
For some inexplicable reason, Cato stops before it: the pin is shaped like a fully bloomed lotus.
For one impossible instant, the world narrows to that tiny glint. Gold against grey ash. Delicate petals. The faint suggestion of pearls. Placed carefully, waiting to be seen.
Vallabha had worn one like it in Kashi’s banquet hall.
Later, she had worn it in memory more than ornament, a piece of herself kept bright against every attempt to make her less than human.
Daceus sees where his commander’s gaze has fallen.
“Commander?”
Cato reaches toward the niche.
Alcaeus catches his wrist before he can touch the ornament. The grip is light, as though he only sought to remind his brother of reality.
Cato turns his helm very slightly, and Alcaeus meets the look without apology.
“Trap.” The single word lands cleanly.
Cato looks back at the niche.
The gold lotus shifts, and its petals open.
Inside, something wet pulses like an eye.
Cato withdraws his hand swiftly as the eye blinks.
Then every ash-filled niche along the corridor opens and the walls walls breathe out grey dust in a choking wave.
“Seal helms,” Cato orders, though every warrior has already done so.
Ash strikes their armour and clings. Auspex runes flicker. Shapes move in the dust. Living cultists this time, barefoot and masked, bodies painted black and red, knives held low. They move without battle-cries, striking at joints, vents, cable bundles, the thin places even power armour must possess.
Cato kills three in the first two seconds.
Alcaeus tears one from Daceus’ back before the blade can find the helm seal. Daceus breaks another against the wall and fires through two more shapes moving in the ash.
A fourth cultist dodges Cato’s blade with impossible agility, mask turning toward him as if in delight. The cultist’s mouth is visible beneath the painted veil, lips split in a smile.
“The blue sword returns,” the man hisses.
Cato drives the Tempest Blade through his chest.
The cultist laughs around the blade. Blood pours from his mouth.
“To the womb of the mountain.”
Cato twists the sword and tears it free.
The body falls. From the ash, other voices take up the phrase.
“The blue sword returns.”
Bolter fire answers.
“To the womb of the mountain.”
The cultists die swiftly, messily, with no poetry left in them once the body opens. Yet the words remain. The passage carries them. The walls repeat them. The old road seems to have learned the phrase and now murmurs it from stone to stone.
Cato hates it with surprising purity.
Because it includes him. Because the cult seeks to fold him into its rite, to make his rescue part of its prophecy, to turn love into a mechanism, duty into a lever, rage into oil poured upon their altar.
No.
The word does not leave his mouth.
It does not need to. By the time the ash thins, the corridor is carpeted with bodies.
The Ultramarines stand unbroken, though no longer untouched. Daceus’ helm is scored across the cheek-plate. Alcaeus has black ash caked over one side of his armour, dulling the blue until he seems half-buried already.
Cato looks at each of them.
“Report.”
“Functional,” Alcaeus says.
“Annoyed,” Daceus says.
“Then we continue.”
No one argues.
The tunnel beyond the ash corridor changes again.
Old stone gives way to black basalt veined with red mineral lines like arteries. The floor slopes downward in a smooth spiral. The air warms by degrees. Incense thickens, sour and fatty, like flowers left to rot. The chanting grows more distinct, though the words remain just beyond comprehension, as if the mind refuses to hold them.
They pass yet another mural carved into the curve of the spiral wall.
Cato slows. The image is old and newly ruined.
At its centre, a woman stands beneath a banyan tree, hands raised, face serene. Around her, four shadows kneel. They are bowing to her… or are set to devour her. Time has softened the original meaning, but the cult has supplied its own. Each shadow has been marked in fresh pigment: red, blue, green, blackened purple. Above the woman’s head, someone has carved a gate opening inward.
Beneath the mural, in Low Gothic, newly cut:
SHE RETURNS.
THE SWORD REMEMBERS.
THE FOUR SHALL SPEAK.
Daceus reads it and exhales, “I preferred the bells.”
Alcaeus mutters a warding oath.
Cato stares at the carved woman.
The cult has not given her Vallabha’s face. Not fully. The shape is older, more symbolic: a queen, a vessel, a memory rewritten over centuries. Yet the tilt of the head has been altered. The line of the jaw. The hair. Small changes made by recent hands.
Enough.
His hearts beat once, out of rhythm.
He looks away.
“They know we are here,” Alcaeus says.
“They knew before we landed,” Cato answers.
The spiral ends at a door.
No… It resembles a door only because the mind wants edges for what waits there.
The passage stops before a tall archway carved from the black basalt itself. There is no gate, no panel, no visible mechanism. Only darkness hanging inside the arch, flat and complete. The Tempest Blade’s light reaches it and dies at the threshold. Bolter-mounted lumens vanish against it. Auspex returns fail, flickering into static the instant they touch the space beyond.
Around the arch, four lines of script spiral inward from the surrounding stone, each cut in a different hand, each filled with a different substance.
One line is dark red and wet.
One gleams blue-white like crushed glass.
One is green with rot, furred at the edges.
One is black-violet and glistening, beautiful in a way that makes the eye recoil.
Cato lifts his blade. The darkness does not move and yet, he feels it notice him.
Alcaeus and Daceus form around him, bolters angled outward. No enemy emerges. No corpse rises. No bell rings. The silence is total.
Then Vallabha’s voice speaks from beyond the arch.
No scream. No plea. Only his name.
“Cato.”
His brothers go still.
Daceus’ bolter rises toward the darkness. “That is not her.”
“No,” Cato says.
The denial costs more than he wants it to.
The voice comes again, softer.
“Cato.”
The darkness within the arch ripples.
For a heartbeat, Cato sees nothing.
Then he sees too much.
Blood on chains. A woman’s hand reaching through smoke. A child’s cry cut short. Cypress trees burning. A lotus pond under moonlight. Vallabha’s eyes filled with fury. Vallabha’s eyes filled with tenderness. Vallabha’s eyes empty in death. Vallabha’s eyes watching him as if she has waited across lives and knives and ash for him to finally arrive.
The images vanish.
Cato stands before the arch, the Tempest Blade burning in his hand, armour streaked with ash, his brothers waiting behind him.
The road ends here. The test begins here.
Alcaeus steps closer. “Commander.”
The single word steadies the air.
Cato does not look back. “Hold formation. If I falter, you advance.”
Daceus’ voice comes rough over the vox. “If you falter, Commander, I will assume the mountain has ended.”
Cato breathes once.
Guilliman’s warning returns.
Do not allow rage to choose your route.
Do not allow certainty to be sold to you by the enemy.
Trust your brothers.
Advance.
Vallabha’s voice waits in the dark.
Cato steps toward it.
The arch swallows the blue light first. Then the blade. Then the hand that holds it.
Behind him, the old ritual road falls silent.
Before him, the four shadows open their eyes.
Me: How many Chaos-adjacent references can we fit into one chapter?
My Brain: ALL OF THEM!!
More shenanigans to come! I swear I don't enjoy making Cato Sicarius suffer but.... it is fun!!
Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope you'll enjoy the chapters to come where things finally speed on towards the end (of sorts)!
Lion El'Jonson
You are expected to be a perfect lady tending to the Lord's estate while he is indisposed. Logistics, provisions, domestic matters, everything is under your supervision and everything must stay exactly as Lion himself would have wanted it.
Fulgrim
Join the Father in his eternal debauchery. Be the most alluring, desirable, and wild thing that there is to offer in all the known galaxies. Not necessarily by his side, but always welcoming, always ravenous, always hoping for the next pleasure.
Perturabo
Abandon your flesh and become a metal voice by his side, calculating, meticulous, and unfeeling, just as he himself now is.
Jaghatai Khan
A wife of a great khan is expected to manage Chogoris to the best of her ability while the Khan himself is away. You will be expected to manage it as a well-oiled machine, manage domestic and dispute matters to the best of your ability, if not his.
Leman Russ
Matron Mother of all the wolves, you are the heart of the home, the presiding matron that conducts the feast, punisher of the guilty, and watcher over the next young generation. You are the heart, you are the home, you are the law.
Rogal Dorn
You are the structure, unyielding and unbending. Everything he was, you now represent. And you must stay unbroken until his return.
Konrad Curze
You are but an echo of his madness. Yet yours is still strong nonetheless. They do not specifically respect you, but they must fear you if you want to keep your head on your shoulders.
Sanguinius
Beloved one, you are venerated, you are exalted, you are adored, your tears mixed into their joining chalice. Your poetry is the psalms they learn by heart. Your beauty is the one they dedicate each victory to. Their father might be dead, but you are still here to provide any comfort you can.
Ferrus Manus
You are the iron in the forge, the steady hand that keeps the flame alive while the master is gone. You are expected to be practical, unyielding, and impossible to break. You are the reminder that duty does not soften, even when the heart does. You are the anvil upon which their resolve is tested, and you will not crack.
Angron
You are the bloodied crown, the living reminder of what he lost and what he might still become. You are the only thing that can quiet the rage, even for a moment. You are the tether, the anchor, the one thing that keeps the storm from swallowing everything in its path. You are not safe. You are necessary.
Roboute Guilliman
Most perfect lady of Ultramar, your word is law, your desire is law, everything you say is the law and it will be recorded. You are to stay at the helm until the father can be brought back from his stasis. And you are the only light that shines in their lives.
Mortarion
You are the silence in the poisoned air, the stillness in a world that rots. You are expected to endure, to withstand, to outlast. You are the cold wind that keeps the weak from growing complacent. You are the shadow that reminds them death is always watching.
Magnus the Red
You are the flame in the library, the whisper in the forbidden halls. You are the one who holds the knowledge he left behind, the one who speaks his name when the stars go dark. They do not just obey you, they seek you, because you are the closest thing to his voice that remains.
Horus Lupercal
You are both relic and the future, no longer needed and yet a must to have in daily life. You are not requred, but you are a symbol nonetheless.
Lorgar Aurelian
Join the exalted Father by His side in His cathedral. Sing His praises. Be His voice. Be His oracle. And they will follow you like no tomorrow.
Vulkan
You are the heat of the anvil, the heart of home, the sureness of tomorrow, the Lady Drake presiding above all of them, protecting them as Vulkan himself would have protected his heart. You are relentless, you are fire, and you will always be on guard.
Corvus Corax
You are the shadow that walks beside the light, the silent guardian of those who cannot protect themselves. You are not seen, but you are felt. You are the whisper in the dark that keeps the nightmares at bay. You are the watchful eye, the unseen hand, the one who ensures the flock survives even when the shepherd is gone.
Alpharius Omegon
You are the question without an answer, the riddle wrapped in silence. You are both seen and unseen, known and unknown. They do not know whether to follow you or fear you, and that is exactly how it should be. You are not a ruler. You are a variable. And variables change everything.
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Hey! I now have more here! (and here)
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+Taglist (if you want to be added - let me know, I suck at not-direct communications): @beckyninja, @the-mysterious-detective, @randomlyappearingartist, @nereidof40k, @bookandyarndragonwritesdark, @renegadesyx, @incrediblethirst, @omg1wanttidd1es-sb, @stpdeletacc, @baldieboi , @acgames, @veryspecificreason, @jackalwolfsoul, @hopefully-grimderp, @acexsmhking, @trackerkitsune, @catabibaz0n , @subtlepoisonknowledge, @yyourmotherr, @riokunova, @marcela2000, @f1shz , @rogalist-of-dorns, @aggresivemenace, @passionofthesith, @t-boneless, @tea-ring, @nightlordlover, @lithiummoonfox, @warhorny-on-main, @candorarchives, @mehiwilldoitlater, @boxguy2bear, @pippinsquishums, @loverofbumblebees, @aprofessionaln00b
Excuse me, I was wondering if you could draw a male serf being, protected or saved by a (loyalist) space marine that they serve, sorry if this request is a bit needy I just really want some art like this and I can’t find any at all and I really want some wholesome art.
I hope this request finds you well
I could not decide which loyalist space marine chapter to go with so I left them ambiguous!!ENJOY!
Lion El'Jonson
The Lion is above such frivolities. He is also about to be banished from your shared bedroom for a month.
Fulgrim
Do you even need to ask? There is a mountain of presents at the foot of your bed, a romantic breakfast, a romantic lunch, a romantic candlelit dinner, and a romantic stroll under the stars.
Perturabo
No. Do not pout, it will not work. Okay, it does. Here, you can sit with him at his workshop for a day. Happy?
Jaghatai Khan
Does a wild ride count as a present? To him, it does. And he has also prepared a picnic.
Leman Russ
A feast in your honor. He will also present you with a hand-carved horn of the last beast he killed. Also in your honor.
Rogal Dorn
You will have to sit down with him to explain the concept. Once he gets it, he builds you a palace. Just a little something.
Konrad Curze
Do you want to receive a human heart? Because this is how you receive a human heart.
Sanguinius
He writes you the most beautiful poem there is and takes you to the sky. It is all very tender. Until the night comes.
Ferrus Manus
You will have to sit down with him to explain the concept, part 2. Except you will have to do it a couple of times. In the end, he presents you with a dagger, one of his finest creations.
Angron
He is not above understanding the concept, but he does not care much for gestures of sentimentality these days. You are by his side, you are safe, protected. What more is required? He secretly prefers you to give him a token he can affix to his armor.
Roboute Guilliman
He has a reminder in his calendar, and so he prepares an appropriate gift. He also hopes for a kiss in return.
Mortarion
No. Unless you want poison. He can do poison.
Magnus the Red
His preferred gift to you is an insight into his mind, a melding of souls. But it can go either way. Perhaps you can convince him to settle for dinner?
Horus Lupercal
A parade in your honor. Need more be said?
Lorgar Aurelian
You are getting a prayer session. He stays true to who he is.
Vulkan
He forges you the most delicate yet durable jewelry chain. It is adorned with gems of your choice, of course. He also lets you watch the process.
Corvus Corax
The gift simply appears on your nightstand, even if Corvus is light-years away at the moment.
Alpharius Omegon
You get two gifts. One of them is a trap. Good luck.
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Hey! I now have more here! (and here)
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