Confidants
Asghar frowned as he reread the reports for the umphteenth time. He didn't know why he bothered; he had read it so thoroughly that he knew it by heart. The first report had covered the campaign in the Valahar system and the purging of the xenos, along with the discovery of what remained of the human civilisation the Blood Angels had found in the system. Asghar felt a twinge of envy; he wished that he could have been present to witness the Angel and the Storm Lord fighting side by side.
The second report however, simply stated that the Storm Lord was delaying his return to the main fleet due to being summoned to the Imperator Somnium for an undisclosed purpose and there were no estimates as to when the Primarch would return. Asghar's frown deepened as his mind explored the implications, coming up with various possibilities, but the problem was that they were just that: possibilities. He hated having no hard facts about whatever that was happening within his Legion and on the battlefield.
As a novitiate, Asghar had once read a quote somewhere that 'knowledge is power'. For some reason, the quote had made a strong impression on him. He studied entire libraries' worth of battle tactics and had spoken with many veterans, eagerly learning of their experiences to the point that his mind housed so many different tactics that he knew how to react to just about any situation on the field. But as he grew older, he came to understand that tactics alone were not enough; knowledge on enemy positions, their leaders, tactical and symbolic locations, morale, even the local opinions on the Imperium and local leadership, he pursued any and all information in order to win a war before it was even fought; another quote from one of ancient Terra's many warriors that had resonated with him. But he had also came to understand that information on his enemies was not enough, he also needed to know what was happening within his own Legion and his allies. So he had learned the various doctrines of the other Legions, the various tactics and protocols of the Imperial Army and Navy and had his various officers keep an eye on his own Legion so that he would always know what was going on. That was how he had climbed his way to the rank of First Captain and Legion Master.
The Storm Lord and the Tempestans however, waged war in a more instinctive way that had perplexed him. Many times during the planning stages of various campaigns, Asghar would propose a battle-plan and Thorondor would accept it, but would also make some changes that made no sense to the First Captain. However the changes made by the Storm Lord would prove to be crucial in winning decisive battles that would ultimately result in the end of a war. Not only that, at times, such as on Kalaborn, the Storm Lord would often take seemingly reckless and random actions that would turn out to be the deciding factor in the final victory. Mystified and intrigued, Asghar had attempted to pick his Primarch's brain about his knowledge on warfare that allowed him to make such vital changes to battle-plans. To his astonishment, Thorondor had smiled mysteriously and said that he had not acted on any prior knowledge, but rather on instinct after surveying the battle-plan. Unsatisfied, Asghar had insisted that such instinct could only be borne from experience on the battlefield, but he had been stonewalled by the Storm Lord's smile.
Not one to give up, Asghar had tried quizzing Gwaine instead. As the man who knew Thorondor best, Asghar believed that the Lightning Rider might have some insight. However, nothing Gwaine told him had carried answers, so Asghar had instead grilled the Commander of the Storm Riders on all his past battles alongside the Storm Lord during the unification of Tempestas. When this still failed to yield any answers, Asghar had insisted on going on the details of each battle; trying to find how the Storm Lord was able to win battles with seemingly whimsical decisions. Gwaine had finally had enough and had gone to Thorondor to complain and plead with his Primarch to stop the former Legion Master's near-obsession with the matter. Asghar had defended himself, claiming that anything he could learn would simply strengthen the Storm Eagles while Gwaine had accused him of being nosy.
Once Thorondor had wiped the tears from his eyes from laughing too hard, he had simply told Asghar that the reason he had no answer for the First Captain was simply because he did not truly understand it himself. All he had done was study the battle-plan and made changes where he had felt necessary. On the battlefield, Thorondor said that he would study the flow of battle and from that, he would know when and where to strike the winning blow.
When Asghar had asked how the Storm Lord would know such things, Thorondor had stonewalled him yet again with a charming but forceful smile. Ever since then, it had become something of an obsession for the First Captain to try and find out how the Storm Lord's mind worked in battle; spending hours studying battle reports and trying to be at his Primarch's side as much as possible.
Sighing, Asghar put the report down, knowing it was useless.
"Your Legion might have been reunited with your Primarch, but he must really dislike you lot if he spends so much time away."
Asghar smiled and looked over his shoulder.
The warrior approaching him was clad in fatigues. He had a clean-shaven face and like Asghar, his hair was cropped close to his skull. His features were proud and patrician, but he had a warm and teasing smile on his face.
"Merir Astelan," said Asghar, feigning disgust in his voice. "Which abysmal fool let you on my ship?"
The Chapter Master of the First Legion shook his head with mock disappointment. "My dear Asghar, I think you'd know by now that the Second Legion's pathetic excuse for security is hardly enough to stop me from boarding you unnoticed. If I were so inclined, I'd be able to take over this entire vessel before you've even finished reading your report."
"Ah, and I see that you still suffer from a severe case of delusion," commented Asghar as he stood to face the other warrior. "I think a good bash on the skull would be the perfect cure for that."
"Perhaps, if your aim is good enough."
"I'd hardly have to aim; your head is too big for even a blind man to miss."
Astelan laughed and the two warriors clasped each other by the wrist in greeting.
Following standing orders after Thorondor's temporary departure from the Storm Eagles' main fleet, Asghar had led the fleet to several systems in search for any signs of noteworthy worlds to add to the growing Imperium. Finding none, the fleet had then proceeded to the nearest Imperium outpost to refuel and resupply.
To Asghar's surprise and delight, they had encountered a detachment from the First Legion, led by his long-time rival and friend, Chapter Master Merir Astelan. Having competed and fought alongside each other on countless campaigns in service to the Emperor, the two warriors had an unshakeable bond of friendship forged in the fires of war and strengthened through shedding blood by side by side.
When the Storm Eagles had been reunited with their Primarch, Astelan had been among the first to congratulate them; expressing his admiration for the Storm Lord and his envy of the Second Legion. He had also been quick to boast that the First Legion would quickly catch up and surpass the Storm Eagles once they found their own Primarch. The insults, arguments and banters were simply how Asghar and Astelan expressed their friendship.
"Even after finding my Primarch, he knows he can leave the Legion from time to time because I'm here to keep things running," said Asghar.
"Ha! More likely, he probably found you so insufferable that he'd rather risk letting you run his Legion into the ground just so he can take some respite," retorted Astelan.
The two warriors laughed again, the sound rumbling throughout the chamber.
"So what can I do for you, Astelan?" asked Asghar once their mirth subsided.
"My fleet will be departing soon and I'll be too busy overseeing things," answered Astelan. He patted the sword at his side. "How about one last bout?"
Asghar smiled. "You must be a glutton for punishment, Chapter Master."
"Bring your best, Storm Eagle," retorted Astelan.
II II II
As with all their previous duels, the contest between Asghar and Astelan proved to be a close, long and gruelling affair. Both were skilled swordsmen, but Asghar had the edge in brute strength while Astelan was faster. The match ended when Astelan managed to sidestep a vicious downswing from Asghar and land a hard solid blow with the handle of his sword in the First Captain's ribs, driving the wind out of him and sending him crashing to the floor.
"You're getting slow, Asghar," commented Astelan, helping him to his feet.
Asghar spat out a clot of blood from his mouth. "I nearly had you."
"Nearly doesn't count."
The two Astartes exited the training cages and sat down on one of the nearby benches, wiping the sweat from their bare torsos as they cooled off.
"I was wondering why you don't use the glaives that your Storm Riders use," asked Astelan curiously after a moment. "Isn't it supposed to be the weapon of your elites?"
"You're saying I'm not one of the elite?" replied Asghar with mock-anger in his voice, making Astelan chuckle. "I have one, but purely for ceremonial purposes. I prefer the sword; faster, versatile and lighter."
"The Storm Lord doesn't enforce the use of the glaives?"
"The Storm Lord wants us to fight at our best, Astelan. I'm at my best with the sword, not with the glaive."
Astelan nodded. "The same concept with the Eagles?"
Asghar grimaced. "Lord Thorondor originally intended that all the Captains be partnered to an Eagle but that proved to be difficult; it's hard to lead your men when you're soaring above them. I prefer to keep my feet on the ground anyway. Eventually the Storm Lord decided to drop the idea. The Tempestan captains still have their Eagles though; Adalgrim, Gunnar, Storr and Bard."
"You don't sound too fond of the Eagles."
"Don't misunderstand me; they're deadly beasts, fiercely loyal to their riders and incredibly useful. But they're also universally bad-tempered and very arrogant."
Astelan raised an eyebrow. "You've experienced this first-hand." It wasn't a statement.
Asghar sighed. "You should see how Garuda looks at me; half the time I'm convinced that damned bird wants to either tear my head off or pick me up and drop me from the highest point of any world. I seem to offend the Eagle just by existing."
Astelan chuckled.
"It's not funny," grumbled the former Legion Master. "When I spoke to Lord Thorondor about it, he insisted that it was only because I didn't know Garuda long enough. He changed his mind when Garuda decided to soil my boots with his droppings."
Astelan had a good long laugh over that; it was the first time he had heard that story. Asghar shook his head, but there was a smile on his face.
Once they quieted down, Astelan looked over to the training racks where some of the older and worn glaives were displayed for training.
"I wonder what changes my Primarch would make when we find him," remarked Astelan quietly. "Will he honour the traditions the First Legion had already established and incorporate it into the changes he will make? Or will he tear the old order down to make way for the new?"
"You're worried about that," stated Asghar.
Astelan shrugged. "I will follow my Primarch in all things when my Legion is reunited with him. But yes, I worry at times. The Wolves of Fenris are all but unrecognisable from the days when they were simply the Sixth Legion. Then there's also the Iron Hands; they were never particularly approachable, but I find their disdain of anything they consider weak since they found Lord Manus rankling."
"But there's also the Emperor's Children," countered Asghar. "They were a diminished Legion until Lord Fulgrim was returned to them. The Thousand Sons were doomed until the Crimson King saved them when he was found. There's also the Imperial Fists and the Ultramarines, whose Primarchs integrated the cultures of their own worlds perfectly with the pre-existing traditions. Your Primarch could very well bring renewal to your Legion when you find him."
"Like your Primarch?" asked Astelan, smiling at Asghar. "I think out of all the Legions, the Storm Eagles have done a marvellous job; blending the old ways with the new."
"Merir Astelan complementing the Second Legion?" remarked Asghar with mock-surprise. "Truly, a new age is upon us."
Astelan laughed. "Aye and a new age will come when the First Legion finds its Primarch. We will eclipse the Second once more, as is our right."
Asghar snorted and punched Astelan lightly on the shoulder.
II II II
The hall was warm not just from the machines that regulated the temperature or the warm glow that came from the magnificent chandeliers that hung from the roof; it was warm from the companionship of the gathered Primarchs, basking in the presence of the Emperor.
The initially formal dinner had become more relaxed as the food and wine took effect, and the Primarchs were simply enjoying each other's company.
Thorondor and Guilliman were both chuckling as they watched Russ trying to bait Dorn into a drinking contest; the Imperial Fist Primarch staunchly refusing despite the Wolf King's constant jibes and taunts from everything about Dorn's mother to his manhood.
Turning away from the entertaining sight, Thorondor saw Fulgrim, Ferrus and Vulkan in deep conversation at one end of the table. Fulgrim's pale face was flushed from the wine and his own exhilaration as he laughed at something that Vulkan had said, leaning his slender body against Ferrus lightly, who was shaking his head at whatever they were talking about.
At the head of the table were Sanguinius, Horus, Magnus and the Emperor. The three Primarchs were discussing something intently; Magnus and Horus were verbally sparring over some issue, both of them smiling slightly whenever Sanguinius quipped in every now and then. The Emperor himself said nothing, but simply watched and listened.
As Thorondor studied his father, he noted how different the Emperor looked that night. In all the years Thorondor had known his father, the Emperor was either a giant in golden armour with a radiance that rivalled the Sun of Terra, or a normal-sized man with overwhelming charisma, willpower and an intellect that dwarfed his diminished physical stature. But in whatever form the Emperor took, Thorondor could always sense the power within him; the power that was barely constrained into the Emperor's physical form, threatening to spill out and overwhelm all in his presence.
But that night, the power emanating from the Emperor was warm, comforting and nurturing the way the Sun of Terra warmed the birth-sphere. Though the magnitude of his presence and his majesty was still present, there was none of the sternness, the adamantium determination and unshakeable willpower that so characterised the Emperor that night.
It was as though the Emperor was simply enjoying himself.
Thorondor studied his father's plain face, seeing nothing of note until he saw the Emperor's eyes. As always, he saw the ancient wisdom reflected within them, but he also saw for the first time a hint of weariness. It was the weariness of a man who had laboured for a long time finally taking a moment of respite.
Sensing his gaze, the Emperor turned to look at Thorondor and smiled. Thorondor returned the gesture and bowed. The Emperor inclined his head and turned his attention back to the conversation before him.
"Thor!"
Leman Russ's arm draped itself over Thorondor's shoulder, drawing his attention away from his father. Russ was holding a lanx of mjod in his other hand and was pointing it at Dorn accusingly.
"Help me loosen up this bastard," growled Russ. "Here we all are in the presence of the Allfather, and for the first time we're all allowed to have a good time, and our dear brother refuses to do so!"
"For the last time, Russ –"
"I thought you Imperial Fists prided yourself on complete obedience to the Allfather," snapped Russ. "Well, our father has told us to simply enjoy ourselves tonight, and that's the one thing you're not doing! Not very obedient, Dorn."
Thorondor and Guilliman both laughed at that while Dorn simply folded his arms across his chest and frowned at the Wolf King.
"Come on, Thor!" boomed Russ, grinning widely. "Let's teach him how to have a good time! I'll hold him down and you can pour the mjod down his throat!"
Thorondor laughed again. "I don't think so, Russ."
"Alright, you can hold him down and I'll pour the mjod down his throat!"
"As interesting as that sounds, I'll have to pass, Russ," answered Thorondor, pulling away from Russ and neatly evaded his brother's attempt to grab him again. He laughed as Russ practically pouted at him before turning away to join Fulgrim, Ferrus and Vulkan.
Behind him, he heard Russ again. "Fine then, Roboute, you help me!"
Shaking his head with amusement, Thorondor sat himself down beside Vulkan.
"Thor, excellent!" remarked Fulgrim with delight. "I was just asking both Ferrus and Vulkan here who they think is the better blacksmith."
"What was the answer?" asked Thorondor.
Fulgrim rolled his eyes. "Obviously Ferrus here believes he is, and while he didn't actually say it, Vulkan obviously thinks that he is."
"If you want me judge, you should know I've only used a weapon forged by Ferrus," answered Thorondor. "I've never wielded anything made by Vulkan before."
"How is the Stormblade?" asked Ferrus.
"The glaive you gave me? Don't worry Ferrus, it's still the finest weapon I've ever wielded," replied Thorondor, smiling at him before turning to Vulkan. "Unless you'd like to contest that?"
Vulkan smiled back and shook his head. "Would you like me to make something for you?"
"Oh, I think I'd like to see that," said Fulgrim. "Though I'm rather hurt that you've never made anything for me, Vulkan."
"You already have the Fireblade, one of the finest swords ever crafted," answered Vulkan, inclining his head towards Ferrus, who returned the gesture. "But I'd like to try to craft something for Thor…you'd like something related to your homeworld, don't you?"
Thorondor nodded. "I would."
"Tell us more about your life on Tempestas, Thor," said Fulgrim. "You've told me a lot about your world, but never about your time on it."
"Her."
"I'm sorry?"
"Tempestans refer to the Storm World as her," answered Thorondor. "Perhaps its superstition, but we believe – used to believe – that our homeworld is…alive in a way. The Eternal Storm is reflection of the will of Tempestas; her way of protecting us and punishing us."
Thorondor saw the sceptical look on Ferrus's and Fulgrim's faces. "Like I said, superstition, but we love our homeworld and some old habits of referring to her as a living being persists."
"I see," said Fulgrim. "Is it true that you refused to let the Mechanicum disperse the Storm even though they have the capability to do it?"
Thorondor nodded. "It's true."
"Why?"
Thorondor smiled. "The same reason Russ keeps Fenris the way it is, the same reason Ferrus and Vulkan maintain their worlds in their pre-Imperial state; it keeps our people strong."
Ferrus and Vulkan both nodded in understanding, but Fulgrim still wasn't satisfied. "Despite the benefits dispersing the Storm could offer?"
"The Eternal Storm is a central to our way of life on Tempestas, Fulgrim," answered Thorondor. "Its harshness makes us strong, resilient and survivors. In so many ways, our lives would be better without it, but in many more ways, it makes us who we are. There would be no Tempestas without the Eternal Storm…no Storm Eagles. While we've embraced many changes the Imperium brought to us…some things we just can't let go of, you understand?"
"I suppose," conceded Fulgrim. "Tell us about the people you knew on Tempestas?"
"Like who?"
"I heard you were raised by a woman, is this true?"
Thorondor's smile froze.
Since leaving Tempestas behind all those years ago, Thorondor had rarely allowed his thoughts to turn to Firiel. He had rarely spoken of her even to Gwaine and the Emperor, and never to his brother Primarchs, not even Russ, Horus or Sanguinius. The memory of his parting with his mother cut too deeply even as the years had passed.
One reason Thorondor had not returned to his homeworld since then was because he was certain that Firiel had died long ago, but if he were to return…it would make it real.
Thorondor did not want it to be real.
He stood abruptly, startling his brothers. Fulgrim looked at his face and realised that he had touched a sore spot.
"Thor, I'm sorry, I didn't…"
"It's alright, Fulgrim," answered Thorondor quietly. "I just need to clear my head a little."
Before anyone else could say anything, Thorondor left the room.
II II II
Thorondor wandered the many corridors and halls of the Imperator Somnium, immersed in his memories. It was as though Fulgrim's questioned had broken the dam he had built up in his mind, and his memories of Firiel came flooding back. He had tried to resist at first, but finally succumbed, allowing himself to remember.
"Ride on Garuda himself! The only thing you'll be riding is a hot bottom for standing out in this rain like a fool!"
"My boy, what would you do without me?"
"Don't you ever think that, foolish boy. Whether you came from the sky in an aircraft, or born of a woman, Tempestas is your home. You belong to her as much as I do. We are all equal beneath the Storm."
He remembered her hands cuffing him on the head for his mischief in the past. He remembered her scolding voice, the warm meals she cooked. He remembered the way she would touch his cheek whenever he was upset.
Most painful of all, he remembered their parting.
"Go, my foolish son."
Thorondor breathed in sharply and looked up.
He found that he had wandered into a huge chamber that he had never been in before. Like many of the chambers on the Imperator, it seemed to have been made of gold. At the far end of the chamber, directly opposite of the door he had just gone through, was a huge mural of the Emperor. In the painting, his father was clad in the golden armour that Thorondor was used to seeing him in, holding a blazing sword in one hand, and the galaxy in the other.
On the two walls adjacent to the painting, there were twenty canvasses; ten on each wall. Some were already painted, others were simply blank. His curiosity overriding his melancholy, Thorondor inspected them.
He saw numbers beneath each portrait and he realised that the paintings bore depictions of the Primarchs. There were ten empty canvasses; his brothers that have yet to be found and ten painted of the ones who had already been found.
As he explored them, Thorondor realised that each painting depicted its corresponding Primarch's meeting with their father. Some were fanciful portrayals; Thorondor doubted that Ferrus would be so quick to kneel to anyone, even the Emperor, and he knew the story about Russ's first meeting with their father; Russ still grumbled that the Emperor had cheated by using a power fist. Others were more or less accurate; Fulgrim kneeling before the Emperor on the twilight world of Chemos, Magnus meeting him on the steps of one the many pyramidical buildings of Tizca, the Emperor embracing Horus on Cthonia. Thorondor thought that the portrayal of Dorn and Guilliman kneeling before the Emperor looked oddly similar, as though the painter had used the same template. Sanguinius's depiction also had the Angel in a similar pose, kneeling before their father, but it was rendered with such loving detail that it outshone the others, though Thorondor thought that the flowers blooming where Sanguinius's tears fell was a tad too much. By far though, Vulkan's was the most interesting; it was a collage of the challenges he engaged with the Emperor surrounding the main drawing of him swearing his allegiance to his father.
When Thorondor reached his canvass, he took a good long look. Like with many of the others, he was portrayed as kneeling to the Emperor - Thorondor privately wondered if the paintings were all drawn by the same person; if it was then that person had very little imagination. But since that had actually happened, Thorondor couldn't complain. He studied the details the artist had put into drawing Tempestas as the background, approving of the accurate depiction. As his eyes roamed over the faceless crowd that surrounded him and the Emperor in the painting however, Thorondor's eyes found a woman among them. She alone had been rendered in perfect detail, the artist had put as much attention and effort into her as he did into painting Thorondor and the Emperor. Thorondor recognised the weathered lines of her face, the weary eyes and the wry smile that tugged at her lips.
It was Firiel.
Thorondor stared, wondering how on earth the artist had known about his mother to put her in the painting. He slowly reached up and lightly touched the painting.
"Who is she?"
Thorondor turned to see Sanguinius, surprised that his brother had managed to sneak up on him unnoticed.
"You were very distracted, brother," Sanguinius said in answer to his unspoken question, moving to get a closer look at the painting. "Is this accurate?"
"More or less," answered Thorondor, pointing towards Sanguinius's canvas. "Did flowers really sprout where your tears fell when you first met father?"
Sanguinius's response was a mysterious smile that was similar to the one Thorondor often used when he was being evasive.
"Don't try to dodge the question, Thor," said Sanguinius chidingly and Thorondor's lips quirked a little; his brother already knew his quirks and behaviours despite having only known him for a short period of time.
"So who is she?" pressed Sanguinius.
Thorondor hesitated a moment longer before he finally sighed. "My mother."
Sanguinius's eyebrows rose. "So it's true?"
"That I was raised by a woman? Yes."
"You don't talk about her much?"
Thorondor shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "She's gone now, what purpose would that serve?"
Sanguinius looked at Thorondor, who suddenly thought that the Angel's gaze was uncomfortably similar to the Emperor's; a penetrating stare that sought to lay Thorondor's entire soul bare.
"You're still grieving," stated Sanguinius quietly.
Thorondor looked away, not bothering to deny or confirm it; the Angel had seen right through him.
"Why hide it?" asked Sanguinius after a moment of silence.
"Who can I talk to?" replied Thorondor. "Russ? I love him, but he'd never understand. Dorn? Roboute? Magnus? You don't talk to Magnus; he picks what you're thinking from your mind."
"Vulkan or Fulgrim?" suggested Sanguinius. "You're close to them. What about Horus?"
Thorondor shook his head. "Vulkan might, but he'd expect me to be strong about it. Something about adversity making you stronger and all that, but the others…no. I can't talk to them about it without appearing weak."
"Weak?"
"We're Primarchs; we're the great warriors and generals dedicating our lives to the Great Crusade. How pathetic would it be: a Primarch pining over the loss of his surrogate mother?"
Sanguinius gently touched Thorondor on the arm. "It wouldn't be pathetic at all, Thor. What about father?"
"Father is trying to unify a galaxy," answered Thorondor. "It's not important Sanguinius; father doesn't need to be bothered with my personal problems. None of us need to bother him with our private problems."
As Thorondor spoke, he thought he saw a shadow briefly crossed Sanguinius's face. But it vanished so swiftly that he was convinced that he imagined it.
Almost.
"Well, what about me?" asked Sanguinius with a small smile. "You could always talk to me."
Thorondor stared at his brother, studying his features intently. There was no hint of judgment, condescension, disapproval, pity or even curiosity that he would have gotten had he approached any of them about the matter on Sanguinius's face. The Angel had only genuine concern on his face.
Thorondor thought back to when he had first met the Emperor; how he had been unable to hold anything back from his father. Sanguinius was affecting him the same way now, but where the Emperor's presence demanded that Thorondor held nothing back, Sanguinius's gentler presence simply asked that he unburdened his soul.
Thorondor found himself giving in.
Bowing his head, he allowed his smile to complete fade away, and began to tell Sanguinius about Firiel, and many other things that weighed on his soul.
II II II
Outside, his presence hidden from the two Primarchs was the Emperor. The door was closed, but he sensed everything that was being said inside between his two sons. His hand, seconds away from pushing the door open, fell back to his side as he turned away.
The Emperor knew that despite all their elevation above mortals, his sons were still human; with all the gifts and flaws that came with it. Some of them like Leman Russ, Vulkan, Dorn and Guilliman had accepted their fate and went with it unquestioningly. Others, like Magnus, chose to seek some deeper meaning in their existence. But of all his sons, it was perhaps Thorondor who displayed the most human characteristic of all: to wonder about one's purpose.
Though Thorondor had served loyally since being reunited with the Emperor, he had also questioned the Emperor's methods and decisions the most. While he would dutifully quash resistant civilisations with brute force when expected, Thorondor had often expressed his misgivings about the need to purge mutants and the necessity of annihilating whole populations too lost in their religious beliefs. While Thorondor did not shy away from war, he balked at the collateral damage to innocents that was inevitable whenever the Astartes were involved. Over the years, Thorondor had brought his concerns to the Emperor, who had repeatedly stressed the regrettable necessity of it all.
But the Emperor saw it weighing down on his son. Over time, with the discovery of the other Primarchs, Thorondor had grown more distant, and the demands of the Crusade took too much of the Emperor's attention.
Perhaps it was for the best that Thorondor had grown close to Sanguinius; a brother he could truly confide in, to show vulnerability without being seen as weak.
The Emperor turned and left.
He knew the purpose of his sons' existences better than they did. They were created for a life of war; he would let them have what little moments of peace they could find.