"Cowards…" I snarl into the reeking darkness of the holding cell. "Cravens…thin-blooded curs…"

I strain against the corrosive-resistant chains securing me to the deck. My ragged nails tear slivers of plasteel from the floor as I look towards the door, a thick iron bulkhead that can only be opened from the outside. From the vibrations emanating from the battle-barge's realspace drives I know the vessel is in stationary orbit, likely holding position over a newly-contested world. My brother Revenants are perfecting the art of slaughter upon another foe while I languish here in chains – yet such is my punishment. Compassion is anathema to my kind. Execution would have been an underserved mercy.

"Come face me, come fight me!" My deranged challenges go unanswered. No one is listening. The bloodthirst boils through me, consuming me as it did on Paxoria. I sink elongated canines into the palm of my hand, lapping at my own vitae even as it clots. It is not enough. I roar and rage and damn my brothers to the deepest hells. Denied battle, denied bloodshed, I slip deeper into the crimson madness. I claw and gouge my naked flesh, desperate for release. Had they not taken my sword I would have fallen upon it.

Darkness sweeps across my mind and I lie panting on the filthy decking, drooling and barely cognitive. Time passes. The bloodthirst waxes and wanes. No one comes. No one will ever come. I will rot here, condemned and cast from the company of my kindred. I will never –

Footfalls echo in the corridor outside, the armored treads of transhuman legionaries. I push myself to my knees, hardly daring to hope. Perhaps they intend to kill me now. The bulkhead wheel begins to turn. My lips peel back from my teeth and I clench my fists in anticipation. Let them come!

The bulkhead is wrenched open with a protesting squeal of seldom-oiled hinges. Golden light spills in, banishing the blackness. I glare into the light through slitted eyes, poised for an attack.

An angel enters the cell.

I gasp and pull back as far as the chains allow. The angel halts just within the threshold, his form cloaked in light. I avert my face, hearts hammering as dread and awe overwhelm me, coiling around every atom of my being. My scarred body trembles. Is this fear? I hear the subtle rasp of a blade being drawn.

"What is your name?" the angel asks. His voice is beautiful. It is the voice of one I have been waiting all my life to hear. Tears sting my eyes.

"I am called Caer, lord."

"Look at me, Caer," the angel commands.

I cannot disobey. I raise my eyes. I look upon the sun. I look upon His son.

"Do you know what I am?" he asks.

I know. In my hearts, I know.

"You are our primarch," I say as I gaze upon a countenance so resplendent it defies description. "You are the true lord of the Ninth Legion."

A pair of vast white-feathered wings unfurl from the primarch's back. How can the cell contain him? The golden light fades. Now I can clearly see the naked sword he holds in his right hand. I know why he has come. Crawling forwards, I prostrate myself at his feet.

"I submit myself to your judgment, sire."

"What is your crime?"

My hearts clench. Surely he must know. My brothers would not have kept silent concerning the deed.

"I murdered my sergeant," I say; the words taste like ashes, "During the compliance of Paxoria. I lost control. I tore out his throat."

The primarch is silent. I close my eyes, muscles tensing as I await the killing blow.

The sword sings as it descends. Its edge strikes against the adamantium collar welded about my neck and it falls to the deck, cleaved cleanly in two. I do not move. I draw in my last breath. The next blow will take my head.

"Caer."

I expel my last breath. I take another. The sword does not fall. I do not understand. What is he waiting for? Why does he delay? I dare not look up.

"My judgment has been passed."

"Sire?" Confusion and dismay fill me. What judgment is this? I am still alive. Unless he intends to leave me to rot as my brothers did. He is our progenitor, after all; perhaps – like my brothers – he, too, considers death to be a mercy I do not deserve.

The sword sings again, this time cutting through the chains constraining my arms; the thick links are severed with contemptuous ease.

"Rise, my son."

The breath catches in my throat and for a moment I forget about blood and war and death.

His son…

He called me his son…

The angel sheathes his sword. "It is my will that you live, Caer. Now stand, and present yourself to me as a man."

I want to obey him. I want to do what is pleasing in his sight. Yet I have been imprisoned here for a long time, consigned to an existence more wretched than a beast's; the few human graces I retained after my ascension have been eroded to nothing by a lifetime of war, drowned over and over in oceans of blood. I forfeited my humanity centuries ago. I never truly learned what it means to be a man…

"Stand, Caer."

"I…I can't," I force the words out through gritted teeth. Tears are still running down my cheeks; I do not know why I keep on shedding them. "End me, sire. I am undeserving of your mercy. I am a kinslayer. I am not worthy to be called your son."

"No."

I hear the smooth purring of servo-joints as he moves and than his hands are gripping my upper arms. His armored fingers are warm against my skin and I feel the strength of multitudes lurking behind his gentle touch. A cry tears free of my chest; his primarch's aura is beyond my power to withstand. Because I cannot ascend he is forced to descend. I have caused my liege to kneel at my level like a servant. I have pulled the sun down out of the sky. My hearts are burning. I want to attack, to resist his power and die, defiant and blood-drenched, like a true Revenant – yet I want to be closer to him, to stand as a man before him, to rest and be at peace within the shadow and shelter of his wings…

Is this fear?

Is this love?

"Lord, I –"

The primarch pulls me to his chest, embracing me, holding me in his arms as if I am nothing more than a lost child in need of comfort. I lay my head against his breastplate and weep. Time passes. At last I am able to look upon his face once more. He smiles at me, his expression radiant; I bare my fangs in return; I do not really know how to smile.

"Are you ready now?" he asks.

"Yes."

My father rises.

And I rise with him.