A/N: Now this, this is a question that I tend to ask myself pretty regularly when having to do anything detailed about the Imperial Fists during the Great Crusade/The Horus Heresy timeline. And yes, I do read the books. But Dorn, if you truly regretted it so much, loved him so much, then why the fuck did you let him go? Fuck whatever Roboute had to say, you shouldn't have done it if it had hurt you that badly.

And now I need/wanted to finally write some angst-y fluff just to make myself feel better about it goddamn you. This internal conflict of mine has been on-going for years now! LEL.

There was a massive ache drumming painfully in the back of his skull, like an ice pick being slammed repeatedly against the bone, desperately trying to drive its way into the soft, gooey matter of his brain. And it wasn't long before it felt as if it were spreading out all across the rest of his body, the burn of the feeling scraping its way through him, flaring up in places where he was sure he had recently obtained a wound. All of it cut deep, wreaking havoc on his mind, his body spasming like in a seizure. It was as if the pain were a fast infesting plague, one conceived from the wretched filth of the Dark God, Nurgle, as it swept through him. With it was brought the heat of a fever, lazily engulfing him in a temperature he was unused to, and swelling with agony in his wounds. It was almost overwhelming, only if he wasn't already used to the pain.

He knew, he deserved it.

And in that last battle, he had died, he swore it. Swore that he was gone. Abaddon had won the duel, there was no doubt. Even now he still felt the sweeping stroke of the blade running through his armour. Biting into his flesh, slavering the blade with thick blood, and just as quickly as the damage was made, it had easily clotted into a new scar, healed. Super human. He had almost forgotten, he had once been human too. As a child...

Though it was still a victory for the enemy, one last loyalist to haunt them, even if more were to rise in his place, they wouldn't compare. His zeal, his faith in all his skill, his years of experience and training; all had been bested by a sword coated in a crust of powerful, murky corruption. Outmatching his own hand with a saber with the use of tainted steel and unyielding claws. His life had been ended, in a sluggish, harrowing death. So what were these recalling thoughts if he were truly gone; the tangible grips of reality that he could only fathom?

Just more failures to brand his name with, one after another creeping its way into his legacy. Cruel fate. Deciding to do so, he wondered while he could. Dwelling on the thoughts that lingered, the memories that stuck out the most.

He deserved this...

As his mind drifted back and forth, contained within the walls of his consciousness, he speculated, contemplating if he could have ever apologized for this. He knew he wouldn't though, never. Had he even done it then...? Yes, he always remembered. The outcome of that one mistake, he was a disgrace, and it was the first of many. Disowned, yet he would always remain with his loyalty and love without falter. All to him, always to him. Was he really so blind...?

There was a sudden sway and the heaving sounds of straining metal, and he become all too conscious of the intense ache swelling in the back of his head once more, pinging him with anguish as the numbness abandoned him. However, he felt warm, as if the fever had just passed. The sounds of battle casually dripped into his mind as if the noise were being fed to his senses from a feed tube in an Apothecarion; his hearing gradually returning to him. Another sway, this one more violent in swift movement. He could make out the sliding of polished gold metal plates, the fluid motions of another being, the hysterical screaming of a jammed chainsword, its teeth were caught with something.

Where was he?

He heard a voice, muffled, asking something. Was it his own? His vision was blurred and the flow of the activity of the other being made him sick. Warnings blinked annoyingly in the left side of his view, the other helmet optical visor had been shattered and he could make out the blurry images of Astartes, an array of colours blending together as the battle raged on around them, without him. Hyperventilating, he could feel the raggedness of his own breathing. The pain in his chest even outweighed the inferno in his shoulder. His mouth moved to speak, but he couldn't hear himself.

Why would you help me...?

"I don't deserve you..." he murmured, unsure if he had actually said anything.

Another screech was let loose from the weapon, the teeth finally breaking free from it's clog and roaring viciously, bloodthirsty to tear through more traitorous flesh. His vox was a mess of incoherent language, from orders to requests, death wails from both sides. It made him wonder, has his protector even spoken yet? The chaos of the assault made his helpless form feel isolated and out of place. His two hearts pounded within his chest, only adding to the pain, matching with the rhythm that was throbbing within his cranium, his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he cried, softly. Shamed. Rattled. "Forgive me, Lord Dorn...Please."

Sigismund's eyes shot open as his consciousness thrust itself back into the waking world as if he were awoken by a nightmare, his vision blinded by a bright light that hung from the ceiling and his hearing was filled with static. Swiftly he sat up, all too soon, too fast and he felt a distant twang of a cramp in his upper torso and left shoulder blade. The injuries, though probably gained some time ago at this point, had obviously been reopened for any number of reasons: checking, fixing of internal structures, making sure he was still fully operational. Likely without any feelings of sympathy, pity. It was his duty to live, another chance for a dead man to continue on, one less loyalist killed. One less victory for the enemy. He wasn't even rightfully worthy of passing away.

There was suddenly a hand placed firmly, but gently, against the center of his back, and it was notably much larger than any regular Astarte's. Nor did it bear the weighty haste of an Apothecary silently demanding him to stay put and to lay back down for more rest. Looking to see the face of his company, the blue sapphire marbles that were his eyes widen to the sight. His breath hitched with a soft gasp, unsure if he were truly beholding what he saw. The unnatural intake of his breath made him cough and wheeze for a moment, and his back was rubbed gently, kindly.

"Why...?" he demanded, catching his breath, trying to make his tone sound stern and commanding. The High Marshal of the Black Templars stared up at the all too familiar face, one that was a masterpiece sculpted out of the flesh and blood of human skin, muscle, and tissue, the face of a demi-god really. The sight of his former Lord, sitting next to his placement within the Apothecarion, caring for him, it almost made him want to weep. It was wrong. "I don't deserve this, I don't deserve you." His words were hissed, all of it trying to make himself feel better. He was disowned, he wasn't worthy for the care or attention of his Lord no matter what he thought, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself of it.

And it hurt.

"I know," the Primarch whispered, his voice soft with a soothing hum to it, a complete contrast to how he normally acted around others who weren't entirely his family. It made Sigismund clench his fists. "Nor do I deserve you, Sigismund." The former first Captain of the Imperial Fists was shocked to silence and his fists uncurled. "But I can't let you go, destroying yourself, for me."

"Then what will you do...?" There was a shakiness to his voice now, and his paranoia and stress started to flow freely from where it had been carefully pent up and contained for so long. He started to shake, trembling where he sat, but it wasn't from anger.

"I'll sit here, and stay with you for awhile. And maybe, just for awhile before I have to go, we'll enjoy each other's company." The Black Templar simply nodded and closed his eyes, a single tear finally breaking free from its well secured prison. Running down his cheek, following the line of an old scar that ran down from under his right eye down his cheek to his jaw. What did he even deserve anymore...?

A/N: For those who are really curious about my whole writing process.

Story Word Count: 1401

Time Worked On Story: Roughly 5 hours: 30 mins for drafting, about 3-4 hours of writing. About 30 mins for proof reading.