Horus' final act of cruelty towards his angelic brother was to banish Sanguinius' soul deep within the Warp. Never again to see the realms of real space. Forever damned to float endlessly amongst the crashing waves and hurricane streams of a hellish landscape of negative emotion and thought.
Sanguinius of course knew what would inevitably transpire when he faced the former Warmaster. His foresight and visions had grown nothing but more and more clear as the days etched ever closer to their final meeting upon Horus' flagship, the Vengeful Spirit, high above war torn Terra.
Sanguinius had seen his death at the hands of his brother countless times before - every time the Primarch closed his eyes he saw the hatred within his brother's eyes, the corrupting influence the Warp had taken upon his body, and his great power maul crashing down towards his chest, crumbling his intricately-worked artificer armour as if it were made of frail granite. His visions both haunted and enlightened the Primarch.
Like his father, Sanguinius was gifted with the power of prescient vision, and had long been able to foresee what events lay ahead. His soul was pure, and the prophecies he spoke of inevitably came to be.
Death was Sanguinius' destiny.
The Primarch of the Blood Angels was content with his choice, however. His visions carried further than his own demise - he foresaw his Father's duel with his favorite son, the battle whose outcome would echo throughout the millenniums. The battle in which his Father emerged victorious, though at great cost. The battle that could not be won without the chink he himself had made in Horus' daemonic armour - finally ending the Heresy that ravaged the Imperium he loved so.
And thus, Sanguinius was at peace, as his shattered soul wandered across the unending horrors of the Warp. Forever lost to the desolate flames of hate and corruption, bound to the unholy realm and doomed to become nothing more but a plaything to the laughter of thirsting Gods.
/
Until one day, it wasn't.
/
He opened his eyes, and the sight that met his gaze wasn't of fire, brimstone and hellscape, but of calm blue skies and soft, rolling green hills. A muted, gentle sun touched the ground beneath his armoured feet - the light peering through the tall trees and thick branches that stretched outward in every direction, as far out as his genetically enhanced eyes could see.
"Curious," The Great Angel muttered, utterly stunned. "Very curious indeed."
He inspected his gauntlets - they were whole, of matter and material. Not of energy or essence. The same could be said of the rest of his form. Corporeal and whole, the golden plates of his artificer armour shone bright and vivid - the reinforced adamantium having not a scratch nor blemish adhering its surface. No battle scars. No wear. No signs of his ill-fated duel with his brother Horus.
His flesh shared the same quality - muscles and tendons tensed with electrical synapse as both of his hearts still pumped life giving blood which flowed freely within his veins. He flexed his wings, giving his mutated appendages a gentle flap to test their status. A strengthened gust of wind drifted across his form, sending dust and fallen leaves upwards to skies above. His feathers were no longer blood soaked, but rather of a pure, marble white and as majestic as the first day he took flight. Even his body - which was once fatigued and broken from his solitary defense of the Eternity Gate - was now fresh and rested.
He was untouched. Unscathed. Perfect.
It was wrong. All of it - so, so wrong.
Towards Sanguinius' waistline, his hands traveled. Delicate, empyrean fingers wrapped around an ornate hilt hidden inside its equally elaborate scabbard. Drawing his sword to bear, Blade Encarmine crackled to life within his armoured palms. A soft, whispered hum echoed across the field as the master-crafted sword glowed brightly with it's matter disruption field. The blade's aura - red and gold, just like the flames of his father's own weapon, reflected off the Primarch's glazed eyes, only dying once the sword was returned to its scabbard. In his hand, he held his trusted lance - the Spear of Telesto - gifted to him by the Emperor himself. He had carried the relic spear into his fated duel with Horus - it should have been lost with him.
This cannot be… The Angel racked his consciousness for answers. His memories were misaligned and unfocused. Clarity escaped him. My last thoughts were of Horus striking me down, of my broken soul being routed to the Warp, damned for eternity…
His fists clenched, armoured tips groaning in objection as ceramite and adamantium strained under the inhuman pressure and strength.
I should not be alive…
"And yet, here I am." Sanguinius sighed to himself as a gust of wind ghosted his wingtips, ruffling feathers and gently tossing his hair to and from. "I had died, and yet here I remain - alive and unharmed."
He closed his eyes
Whispering at the back of his mind, Sanguinius called out across the endless seas - echoing throughout the eternity of the Warp, desperate to reach a being that he could only hope would offer his salvation.
Father… Sanguinius mentally begged. Father, if you can hear me - I am alive. I am alive and I require your guidance…
Nothing but the silence answered him.
Father! Please, heed my call…! The Great Angel all but cried out within his own subconscious. Dormant psyker gifts laboured and strived to reach out from across the untold seas of the immaterium. Yet no answer came, it was for naught. His gifts were uncontrolled and passive - merely visions that came and went whenever they saw fit. He had no control over the powers he held within his mind, within his soul. He was not accustomed to the mystic ways of telepaths or librarians. He did not possess the 'gifts' of his traitorous brother, Magnus, nor did he obtain the infinite power and cosmic might of his Father. He was alone here.
Alone, but not incapable.
Isolated, but not submissive.
He was Sanguinius, Primarch of the IX Legion, a son of the Emperor and the Great Angel of the Imperium of Mankind. He would find the answers he sought. He would find a way to return to his home. To his brothers and his people. To his Father. To his sons.
He would succeed in this, or he would die in the attempt.
With thundering crack, the Angel vaulted high into the sky. The sun's god rays beat down upon his great wings he rose, the very clouds above breaking in a scatter to avoid the greater being of light and radiance as the Primarch became but a streak of golden fire, searing the very heavens above.
Where he once stood, a single feather - pure and dazzling white - settled slowly to the ground below.