It was a thing of blood and iron, of bone and war. It roared, as it stumbled on legs that should not be able to support it, beating wings that could not carry it. The whip coiled around it, almost like a living being, lashing about it to clear its way.

The orks had no chance of defeating it, though they kept on trying long after it should have been clear for them they had no chance. That did not mean that their efforts were of no use—they simple were pointless for the orks themselves.

The Blood Angels and their Primarch, on the other hand, used the creatures distraction to strike. Botlers barked, followed by the hiss of plasma. The actinic glare faded, just as the Warp xeno begun to turn. With a speed that seemed impossible for a creature as large, its head twisting at an impossible angle, the being faced the oncoming assault.

Sanguinius didn't slow down. He flew past his Sanguinary Guard, and slashed with the Blade Encarmine against the blood-shot eyes of the monstrosity. Blood fountainted—far too much then it should have—staining his face, hair and armour crimson. The creature lashed out with its whip, but the attack never reached Sanguinius. He shot up into the air almost immediatelly.

But it did not mean there were no victims. The whip smashed into Virgilio, sending him careening into the ground. His body smashed against a cluster of orks, and the tangled mass of limbs, iron and ceramite tumbled away, crashing into more greenskins.

Blood flowed—towards the Warp creature. It trickled around its feet and up its legs.

Sanguinius noted this only peripheraly, as he struck again. Lightening-quick, he brought his blade down on the creatures whip-bearing arm. The Blade Encarmine clove through meat and bone, and the limb fell. It fell to the ground in a shower of gore, sloughing into a red puddle.

The Warp xeno stumbled, but only for a brief moment. Its remaining claw shot out, and met with Sanguinius's side. It gauged deep furrows through the metal of his armour, defacing the subtle decorations. But the attack did not have enough strength to push Sanguinius away, and he rallied immediattely. The Primarch stabbed the offending appandage, piercing it through.

The creature roared, as it's claw wrapped around the Blade Encarmine.

Then it let out a surprised yelp, not alike a dog may sound when hit with cold water. Ethereal lightening crackled over its body, making it jerk and spasm wildly, as if its body had neural paths which could be misfired by errant currents. The scent of burning hair and flesh filled the air—an unpleasant, chocking odour.

Sanguinius glimped red and white-and-blue figures marching towards the Warp creature. He had no time to pay attention to them—instead he slashed at at the creatures arm. His sword slashed through meat and bone again, separating the limb from the body.

The creature bellowed something, its voice sharp and unpleasant.

The smell of blood was overwhelming.

Pleasant.

No, that was not right.

This was a mistake.

A flaw.

Sanguinius lashed out, his swing wide and wild. Nevertheless, the creature barely evaded it, maimed as it was. The ethereal lightning and flames conjured by the Librarians held it contained, unable to run. It hissed and snapped with its teeth, trying to catch Sanguinius with its teeth.

It was still swift—inhumanly so, but not quick enough. The move unbalanced it, and having not found its target, the creature toppled down like a fallen tree. The Librarians scattered from it, but not all of them had enough time. Sanguinius didn't know if their armour was enough to protect them from the weight of the Warp creature.

The thought had barely formed, as he plunged down. His weight, in power armour no less, was a weapon in itself. The creatures cranium cracked and broke with the impact of his feet, but he stabbed viciously with the Blade Encarmine nonetheless.

Blood exploded.

An anatomical impossibility—no creature could have so much blood.

It spasmed, and squirmed, feet kicking against the ground. The movements were spasmodic and erreatic, until they died down completely.

There was a moment of absolute stillness, and then the creature started dissolving. Sanguinius took off before he could fall, and watch the carcass disappear.


Sanguinius sat on a a low stool, his wings spread out wide. He was no longer in armour, though he had not changed from the suit that interfaced with it. Behind him, a pair of dark-skinned men and one woman worked on cleaning his pinions of blood, and whatever else dirtied them during battle.

"Worried that you won't be pretty enough for the orks?" Angron asked, as he entered the tent.

"I don't want to hurt their feelings and demonstrate I can defeat them while scratching an itch with my sword," Sanguinius replied without missing a beat. He flashed a quick grin at his brother, but it faded quickly, and his next words were serious. "But banter isn't why you came here, is it?"

"Not the only reason," Angron replied, stopping in front of Sanguinius "A man must find ways of amusing himself—there is a limited amount of ork heads I can hack off."

Sanguinius arched his eyebrow and cocked his head to the side—clearly, this was not the right moment to cautiously approach the subject. Not that Angron ever had the patience to do so.

"How dangerous are the World Eaters' Librarians?" he asked for a moment standing absolutely still.

Sanguinius studied him for a moment, his expression solemn. "You are not asking about how much damage they can do the enemies of mankind." The statement was just that—a statement, not a question, so Angron waited for his brother to continue. "I'm also a psyker, you know?"

Angron paused. "I am not saying I do not trust you—I trust your judgement and this not a matter I know enough about. If I am to lead them, I must know this. I am sorry, if this is subject you do not like talking about, brother, but you're supposed to teach me."

"No more dangerous than a grenade that has not been primed," Sanguinius answered. One of his wings twitched, and the woman who had been cleaning it flinched away. The Primarch shot her an apologetic look, before turning back to Angron. "Or a nuclear plant with the cooling systems fully operational."

Angron nodded, folding his arms over his chest. His expression became thoughtful, as he considered what he had just heard. The implication of controlled danger was still there, but it did not sound as if the Librarians were ticking time-bombs like the untrained psyker had been.

"If this is unsatisfactory, you can do what the XIVth did, and let your Librarians and psychic initiates join other Legions," Sanguinius added. He did not sound as if the solution were to his liking.

Angron shook his head, this time less vehemently. "No. I want to know what I'm dealing with, but it doesn't mean I will throw people away just because one of them may one day fail."

"The XIVth will dispute that," Sanguinius sighed. "At length."

"You don't like him," Angron answered, as he started to pace. The tone his brother indicated as much—it was laced with a kind of long-suffering patience that spoke volumes. Not to mention he was not using the XIVth's name.

"He is... difficult," Sanguinius replied. For a moment, he seemed to be lost in thought. "I suppose I'm also jealous—like Horus and Magnus, he was mentored by out father."

Angron digested the information. Did this make him feel jealous? Worth less than the two others, of whom he only knew their names? Horus—he was the first one found, he recalled. Magnus Sanguinius had mentioned at a different point, with both fondness and exasperation.

"Perhaps he thought he shouldn't inflict the XIVth on anyone else?" he replied with a shrug. "Since he's... difficult." He grinned as he mimicked Sanguinius's pause, and his brother seemed to catch on the joke, since he smiled back.

"I am being uncharitable," Sanguinius said, shaking his head. "Mortarion probably has enough problems without me gossiping about him."

"Like being named Mortarion?" Angron snorted.

"Your name is Angron," Sanguinius pointed out.

"Makes you wonder if we don't all have 'let's name them something idiotic' field," Angron replied, grinning back.

"Speak for yourself, brother," Sanguinius replied, tossing his hair over his shoulder smugly. "My name is awe inspiring."

"And since I respond to Angron, changing my name just because you think it's amusing would be tedious," Angron replied, shrugging again.

Sanguinius appeared thoughtful again, but it was just for a moment. Angron wondered what in what he had said would make him introspective—was it something he should know, and so pry about? Or was it something that was of no concern to him? He couldn't tell—not with what was a fleeting moment and a guess.

"Do you have any other concerns about your Legion?" Sanguinius asked, before Angron could ask his own question.

"Concerns? No," Angron replied as he passed an ornate servitor. "Sometimes, they make me wonder why they need me at all."

Sanguinius smiled, but though the expression was warm, there was also something wistful about it. "They do need you. Not always as a general, but like sons need a father."

"They're adults," Angron protested, turning around to face Sanguinius again.

"They're of age," Sanguinius countered. "But maturity... varies from Astartes to Astartes, and from matter to matter. They do need you."

"The ideal soldiers with an ideal commander bound to him with ties stronger than a mere chains of command," Angron said, caught dead by the realisation. It was... both horrible and brilliant, in a ruthless way. He could not leave—not when thousands suffered as his brothers and sisters had, and yet, he was given command over...

No, he was disrespectful of those placed under his command. True, they were unreasonably loyal to him, but they were not children that were easily manipulated and lead astray.

He shook his head, and looked at Sanguinius, just as he dismissed the three that had been cleaning his wings. "Maturity varies in everyone, augmented or not."

"Really, brother," Sanguinius chided. "You've taken up your responsibility as a general—why are you avoiding that of a father?"

The answer was easy. "Because no father in his right mind will send his children to die."

'

It hit a nerve. Sanguinius flinched, but he did not turn away his gaze. His expression turned solemn. "If that were true, none of the chieftains back on Baal Secundus would have sired any sons. People do make this choice, brother, and suffer while making it, but it does not make them monsters. If you are responsible for others, then what they need becomes more important than what you do. That is why I accept that I am both commander and father to the Blood Angels—and this is why you should as well."

"It makes you a monster," Angron replied, as knelt down in front of Sanguinius so that their eyes were on the same level. "As I have been a monster. Sometimes, we convince ourselves that we are necessary monsters, but we are."

"You'd rather I cast away my sons?" Sanguinius asked. Angron wasn't sure if he could convince him that he was wrong, but he had to try. He could tell that his brother meant well, that he wanted the best—if only he could make him see that there was another way.

"I don't want you to suffer unnecessarily," Angron answered, placing his hands on Sanguinius's shoulders. "I don't want you to take up a role you do not need to out of a sense of mistaken obligation. I've seen so many of my brothers and sister break—it hadn't been pretty. I don't want this to happen to you, Sanguinius.

"Accept that you are leading adults—some of them immature and in need of guidance, but all of them capable of making their own choices."

"Maybe," Sanguinius replied, closing his eyes. For a moment, he was silent, and then, when he opened them again, he appeared as unconvinced as before. "But my blood flows in them. They are my sons. The blood endures. You cannot deny that."

"I can," Angron replied firmly. "Blood does not have to bind—common experience does. If you do not bring up a child, it is not your child. Can you say that you have watched over each and every Blood Angel when they were teething, or let them crawl into your bed when they were five and terrified of the monsters underneath their beds?"

"Of course not. It does not work that way." Sanguinius stood up abruptly and began pacing. "Not that any parent on Baal had the time or energy to coddle children so."

"This is it, isn't it?" Angron asked rising. "This is about your world, and what it made you."

"Are you not what your world made you?" Sanguinius shot back angrily.

"My world taught me about oppression, and about how easy it is to abuse power," Angron snarled. "If I do what you say, if I give the World Eaters what they want, I will be no better than the paper-skins that forced me to fight my brothers and sisters for their entrainment."

Sanguinius stopped his pacing and faced Angron again. For a moment, they stood like this measuring each other with their gazes. Then, Sanguinius seemed to calm down.

"I... see why you'd fear that," Sanguinius said. "I cannot see my sons the way you see your Legion, but I see that I was wrong to push my way on you."

This was not what Angron had wanted, but what he wanted would not come easily. One discussion would not change someone's world-view, especially so engrained. At best, he could hope that some of what he had said would be a seed of doubt that would grow into something more.

He offered Sanguinius a rueful smile. "I cannot promise I will not argue with you in the future, so it would be unfair of me to expect the same from you. But you are right—let's put this off until we're bored."