Venus IX was a world that was considered the beauty of the sector.
It had been brought into compliance with no bloodshed: the people of this world had accepted that the Emperor of Mankind was the rightful and just ruler of the heavens and the worlds within his aegis, and saw no need to fire a single shot in anger.
When the mighty Imperial Fists had claimed this world in the name of the Emperor the populace had celebrated and feasted for days on end. The sons of Dorn had, for once, managed to bring a world to illumination with no loss of life; a shame it was not always like that.
For over thirty years Venus IX, known for its blue skies, white clouds and verdant forests, the clean crisp seas free from poisons and toxic waste, home to creatures that were descended from those long extinct on Holy Terra, had been a world loyal to the Imperium and a recruiting ground for the Imperial Fists themselves. She had raised seven Imperial Army units, all of whom fought alongside the Fists as their own detachment, bringing much honour and rewards to the people back home.
The governor, a former commander of the Mercia III light infantry, straightened his uniform, allowing the medals given to him in service to the Emperor and the Imperium to straighten.
He brushed them with his fingertips ensuring that there was not one speck of dust on them. His uniform was pressed to the highest standards, with creases down his trousers so sharp you could get a cut from them. His boots shone to the highest shine, to the extent that he fancied he could see his reflection in them.
He stood straighter as his attendant clasped his cloak into place. Everything had to be right today; today was the first time in a decade that the sons of Dorn had returned here, and not only that, Rogal Dorn himself was coming.
One did not appear before the Primarch of the Imperial Fists, the Emperor's Champion, looking like a recruit just awakened for early muster. He shooed away his attendant, a small fussy individual who had tutted over aspects of the governor's attire even when the governor himself was pleased with how he looked.
"Enough Jerome," he harshly spoke, "any more preening and I will look like a prize peacock. I am respectable."
"I just do not want you to be missing anything sir," Jerome replied with a nervous edge to his voice.
Governor Jarus Kelnick did not blame him one bit for his nervousness: the Phalanx, the mighty Imperial Fists vessel, had entered their space an hour ago, and if he said he did not feel nervous he would be a liar.
Who would not be nervous when they were about to come face to face with a demi-god?
He sat upon his throne. Closing his eyes and listening to the heart of his mighty starship, bigger than any other that had ever been seen, this floating monastery-city that housed his sons in all their number.
From serfs to crew and his own gene-enhanced sons, the Imperial Fists, this was their home. The Phalanx. A vessel so mighty that even from the ground it could easily be seen with the naked eye; and that was enough to cause any heart to stop in fear. For when the home of the Imperial Fists, the sons of the Emperors own Praetorian, came calling it was time to re-think and surrender.
He let his mind wander back, back to the Imperial Palace's inner sanctum in the place that the Emperor called his private peace. He had been locked underground working on a project that had taken him away from the crusade, away from the Imperium and away from his sons.
What had surprised him more was that upon his return there were only seven of his brothers present, and he had been puzzled by the non-inclusion of the others. Still, his father had welcomed them all with great hugs of affection.
He himself had been concerned, and when he saw the master of the Night Lords standing side-by-side with the father of the Dark Angels and the Phoenix of the Emperor's Children, a slight sense of dread had begun to sit in the pit of his stomach.
"Rogal," his father's voice, deeper than any of theirs and yet currently soft and filled with genuine affection, could be heard clear across the room, "Konrad," the Emperor turned to the pale master of Nostramo clad all in black, "it is time for you both to forget your differences."
The lord of the Imperial Fists and the father of night glared at each other, but it was only Dorn who felt the slight tremble in his hands as he faced the one brother who had almost killed him a few months ago.
"Come on now boys;" the Emperor placed his huge hands on their shoulders, Dorn holding his head high at his father's affection, Curze flinching visibly, unused to such a show of affection from his father, "kiss and make up, as they said in Galfstrian times."
Dorn could see Curze's eyes flicker a little and then, with a slight hesitation, he held his hand out. Knowing how much it must have took for his silent brother to do even that gesture, Dorn held his hand in the warrior grip.
The Emperor seemed pleased by the act and bid them to sit down. He gazed amongst them all and nodded to himself, almost as if he was pleased by what he had seen.
"Father," Dorn was surprised to find that it was his voice that now broke the expectant silence, "where are Horus and the others?"
The Emperor's eyes darkened. "They will not be coming," he rumbled, and for the first time since he had been reunited with his father, Dorn finally understood where Konrad Curze got his dark and intimidating voice.
The lord of the Phalanx now watched the world below his scrutinising gaze. He was not here to parley with the governor; at this moment the Primarch was waiting to see if what he had been sent for was really here.
He had his vox officer send word to the surface that he would be delayed, then, rising from his throne, retired into his strategium and stood, staring out his window. His eyes seemed to bore into the star field before him, but his mind was back on Terra.
The Emperor moved back to his throne and sat himself down beckoning his sons towards him. Now Dorn saw who else was in this strange and bewildering meeting.
There was the hulking form of the War Hound himself, the Red Angel, the father of the World Eaters, with his red hair tied into braids and his implants that heightened his already fearsome rage to killing heights. He always reminded Dorn of some ancient gladiatorial warrior from the Romani of old Terra legends.
He reminded himself that Angron had, of course, been a gladiator for a time, but for some reason he pictured him not on Nuceria, but in the old coliseums of Rome, fighting his emperor's enemies in the most bloodthirsty way he could. Then again, Angron was indeed a bloodthirsty killer held back by the sheer dint of being a Primarch - and yet, he could sense that none of that mattered, for when Angron was unleashed worlds trembled.
Beside him stood the lord of the Iron Hands, the Gorgon, the master craftsman with hands of flowering mercury. If each of his brothers was considered handsome on some level, Ferrus Manus was the opposite, though no less respected for it. As the embodiment of his adopted world Medusa, there was no one more attuned to the ways of that volcanic world then the master smith himself.
Fulgrim, the one of them all that apparently looked most like their father in his younger days, who - even with his snowy hair - was easily handsome enough to turn many heads. His pride showed in his Legion; a cruel accident had robbed him of the majority of his Legion before he even met them, and so, for a number of years, he had fought in Horus' shadow, until such a time that they were large enough in number to operate autonomously.
He was a prideful man, and that reflected in his legion; and he never tired of reminding people, when he deemed it necessary, that they and they alone bore the Aquila upon their breastplates. Sometimes Rogal despaired of his prideful brother, but like the others he was a fighter and a warrior-lord without peer.
His gaze fell upon Curze, the one brother who he was not altogether comfortable around and whose hand he had nearly died by. Konrad was murderous, there was no doubt about that. Still, their father had always waved away the excesses of the Night Lords, saying that they were like the World Eaters and the Rout: when a world would not comply or had fallen out of the growing Imperium's light, he would send the Night Lords in to bring the Emperors Justice to them all.
He moved his gaze, although not before those black eyes of the Night Haunter's locked gazes with him for a split second and a thin cruel smile crossed those bloodless lips, Dorn held the gaze for a moment and for added effect Curze flexed his talons. Dorn rolled his eyes and continued with his assessment. Despite appearances, there were some things that would never change.
Beside him there stood Lion El'Jonson, the lord of Caliban and in some ways the closest thing to a best friend that Curze had (to be honest, the only ones that Dorn knew he got along with were Mortarion, Fulgrim and the Lion). As ever the Lion remained poker-faced, his eyes nether flickering or giving away anything that might have given the lord of the Fists a clue as to what this strange gathering was all about.
Finally, beside the Emperor in his resplendent armour, his gold leaf painted face and charcoaled eyes gazing at their father in rapt and unhidden adoration, there was Lorgar, the prophet of Colchis, the Word being just two of his affectations; and right now he was looking at their father like he was a god.
"My sons." The Emperor spread his mighty arms wide. "Come follow me, and you will share what I have learnt and what I have done to enable man to rule the stars."
"The scouts report that all has been found, my lord," Sigismund spoke close to his father's ear. "They encountered little resistance, but the governor is now hailing us wanting answers; what I shall say to him?"
Rogal Dorn stared at the world below them and clasped his hands behind his back. "Teach them what it is like to hide important relics that belong to the lord of mankind away" he simply said. "Illuminate them."
Several hours later, as the Phalanx moved away, the last dying screams of Venus IX faded under the falling ash of a virus bomb, forevermore becoming a mere point of memory - the turning point for the Crusade.