Sanguinius stood silent, watching the holo-display. His wings tucked close, feathers trembling slightly, his eyes tracked the brutal carnage unfolding on the Conqueror. The red and green markers representing lives flickered, steadily disappearing in clusters as the World Eaters fell in droves. Each wave that Argall's Transhuman Warriors met was cut down without mercy, and the silence in the command deck weighed heavily. Dorn and Rus stood beside him, tense, watching every moment with narrowed eyes.
The World Eaters were dying, slaughtered by Argall's forces with precision and ease. The Prometheans moved through them like a silent storm, each blow deadly, each motion efficient. There was no rage in their fight, no bloodlust, only cold, calculated extermination. And Angron wasn't stopping it. He was hurling his warriors into the meat grinder, over and over, as if daring the Hyperboreans to break through. The same was happening to their ships, cut down by the Hyperborean weapons before they could do any damage – or anything of any tactical value for that matter.
Certainly, a few Hyperborean ships fell here and there, but they were few and far between and, as Dorn stated, were likely just drones and not men, which meant Argall's folk were hardly losing.
Sanguinius turned, watching his brothers' faces.
Dorn's brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a hard line. Rus, arms folded, tapped a gloved finger against his armor, his gaze sharp, but… distant. The both of them were clearly conflicted about this whole affair, though likely for entirely different reasons. Dorn likely felt so simply because duty and honor dictated that he help a fellow Primarch. Rus was conflicted for a similar reason, but also because he personally did not want to help Angron as the two of them never got along well enough to not insult each other at every chance they got.
Sanguinius looked back at the screen, his jaw tightening. And then, it clicked. And the Angel saw and understood just what his wayward brother was hoping to do – what Angron was hoping would happen.
"Angron's not holding back, but he's… not trying to win either," he murmured, almost to himself, but certainly still loud enough for his brothers to hear.
Dorn's head snapped towards him, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
Sanguinius glanced at Dorn, a grim certainty in his gaze. "He's sending them to die. No coordination, no restraint, just… wave after wave. And he's staying back, watching it happen. Even his fleet is uncoordinated. The World Eaters arrived and I'm rather certain Angron merely commanded told captains to attack and nothing else."
Dorn stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he took in Sanguinius' words. "You think he wants this?"
Sanguinius nodded, slowly. "Yes. Look. He's not trying to lead. He's not giving orders. Angron's waiting for Argall to reach him. He wants to die in one last glorious showdown of his own make."
Rus's mouth twisted into a hard line, the realization settling in. He glanced between his brothers, his fingers tightening into fists. "So the mad fool finally found a way out."
The silence stretched, heavy, as they each absorbed it.
"He's seeking his death," Sanguinius whispered, his voice barely audible as the realization fully sunk in. "Angron wants to die, and he's hoping Argall will be the one to do it."
Not that it was surprising. Angron had wished for death even before their father found him on Nuceria. But, Sanguinius had given in to hope – the hope that his father and Malcador might eventually find a way to separate Angron from the nails on his head, from the implants that turned a noble and righteous paragon into a creature of rage and blood lust.
Dorn's gaze darkened, his fists clenching. He turned back to the holo-display, watching the numbers of the World Eaters dwindle, the chaos of their mindless charge.
"Then why are we even here?" Dorn's voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet. "If he's set on this course… we'd only be delaying what he's brought upon himself."
Rus exhaled sharply, a look of reluctant agreement in his eyes.
"Angron's never been one to step back, never one to care if he or his warriors burn." He shook his head, a bitter smile flickering on his lips. "But he's our brother. I'd rather take his life myself than watch him be torn apart by Argall."
Sanguinius felt a pang of something close to sorrow, but he pushed it down.
"Angron chose this. He sent his warriors in without a plan, without even an attempt at strategy." His voice was tight, almost a whisper. "He knew it would lead to this. And… I think, deep down, he wanted it to."
Dorn's shoulders sagged, just for a moment. He folded his arms, watching the flickering display as Argall's forces closed in on the bridge. "Then this is his end. His final act of defiance, throwing himself into death's embrace."
Rus let out a slow breath, his gaze distant. "Do we… let him go? Let Argall do what he came to do? Father may chide us over this, but there is no saving that which wants to die."
Sanguinius's wings unfurled slightly, a soft, slow movement, his gaze never leaving the screen. A single moment of contemplation seemed to stretch on forever as he deliberated, within himself, the best course of action. And then, that eternal moment passed. And Sanguinius spoke.
"We stay back," he said, voice steady. The very thought of doing nothing while his brother died – a very distant and very troublesome brother, but a brother, nonetheless. Sanguinius hated it, but Dorn was clearly and ultimately indifferent. And Rus merely regretted the fact that he couldn't be the one to strike the fatal blow. The simple truth was that Angron had very few friends among the Primarchs if at all, even if his affliction came to him through no fault of his own. "We respect his choice. This is what he wanted. We give him that."
Dorn and Rus exchanged glances, then nodded, a shared understanding passing between them. They knew what it meant, this silent agreement. And, perhaps for the first time, they all shared the same thought: this was Angron's choice, his final decision, and it was one they couldn't take from him.
As the last of the World Eaters fell, the display flickered to show the advancing Hyperboreans nearing the bridge. Sanguinius watched, a tension in his wings, as the inevitable approached, as his brother's fate drew near.
"And his sons?" Rus suddenly asked. "Are we to let his Astartes die as well, simple because their father is a suicidal fool?"
Argall strode forward, a veritable river of blood and forest of ruined corpses behind him, as yet another Astartes charged him, roaring and frothing, wielding yet another one of their impractical chain axes. One of his Prometheans stepped forward, drenched in blood and gore, but Argall stopped him. When the son of Angron reached him, Argall, who had far longer reach, simply punched the Astartes with all the force he could muster and blasted apart the barbarian's battle armor and liquefying the transhuman abomination's organs to red mush and fracturing just about every single bone in its chest cavity.
Argall took in the scene before him with an unblinking, almost detached gaze. The corridor was thick with the smell of blood and the metallic tang of severed flesh. Corpses littered the floor, World Eaters crumpled and broken, their chainaxes and bolters lying scattered, splattered with gore. The Prometheans at his side moved with cold efficiency, their armor caked in the blood of the fallen. The silence between them was absolute, punctuated only by the quiet hum of his armor and the distant rumble of the Conqueror's engines.
They came upon a wide blast door, reinforced and flanked by twelve World Eaters clad in massive Terminator armor. These were no ordinary warriors, Argall immediately noted. Their armor was heavier, their weapons cruelly efficient, and the helmets bore the brutal visages of predatory beasts. They stood motionless, blocking the way to the bridge, their forms like statues of death and carnage. Argall wondered, however, if their heavier, bulkier armors were more of a detriment than an advantage.
Argall paused, studying them, his eyes narrowing in the slightest. His Prometheans shifted behind him, ready to move forward, but he held up a hand.
"No need," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. His gaze locked onto the hulking figures before him. "These ones… they're mine."
Argall raised his right arm, and with a crackling surge of energy, his Warscythe appeared in his hand, its form sleek, ominous, a weapon of impossible design. It glowed with an eerie green light, the edge shimmering with unnatural energy. The Warscythe was a gift from the Phaeron Khoteph, a weapon designed to cut through any material thing with utmost ease. Argall had yet to encounter any object that could withstand it.
The weapon felt weightless in his grip, an extension of his will. Phaeron Khoteph claimed that it was built specifically with Argall in mind, since a 'normal' Warscythe would be a tad bit too unbalanced for him. And, as far as he knew, Necron Weapons were programmed to phase out of existence without its wielder to ensure their enemies would have no access to their technology. Argall's Warscythe was programmed to phase directly into his grasp whenever he wished – and phase out just as quickly.
The larger-than-usual Astartes shifted, their silence broken only by the subtle movements of their heavy armor. One of them took a step forward, the ground shaking beneath its weight. They raised their weapons, chain axes whirring to life, each one a grinding promise of violence.
Argall moved first.
He darted forward, his Warscythe slicing through the air in a green arc of light. The first Astartes swung its chain axe, but Argall sidestepped, his movement mechanical and precise. The Warscythe's blade passed through the Devourer's chest plate, shearing through ceramite and flesh like paper. Sparks flew as the energy field of the Warscythe met the armor's circuits, and the World Eater dropped, a clean cut running from shoulder to hip, his body slumping to the floor in two halves.
The remaining Devourers charged, moving as a single unit. Argall met them head-on, his Warscythe whirling in deadly arcs. His strikes were exact, every swing controlled, every movement a study in precision. Another Devourer lunged, chainfist raised, but Argall stepped inside the arc, his Warscythe driving upward and carving a line through the armored giant's torso, bisecting it. The pieces clattered to the ground, smoke rising from the molten edges of the severed armor.
The remaining ten closed in, their movements slower than their lightly-armored kin, but no less unrelenting, each step a thunderous echo in the narrow corridor. Argall twisted, his Warscythe spinning as he sidestepped the next attack. A brutal upward slash, and another Astartes fell, his head separated cleanly from his body. The remaining nine circled him, their chain axes roaring and spitting sparks, but Argall moved with impossible speed, weaving between them, his Warscythe a blur of green light and energy.
One by one, the guardians fell. Each strike was lethal, each motion exact. Argall danced through them, his face impassive, his body an unyielding force of destruction. His Warscythe carved through their armor, the unnatural energy of the blade slicing through flesh and metal alike. Sparks flew, the air thick with the scent of blood and gore.
In moments, only one remained, standing between Argall and the blast doors to the bridge. The Astartes raised its weapon, chain axe humming, standing defiantly even as blood leaked right out of the gashes of its armor.
Argall tilted his head, his grip on the Warscythe tightening. He surged forward, his weapon coming down in a deadly arc, and with a single, final stroke, the last Astartes fell, body clattering to the ground in pieces.
He stepped back, his breathing steady, and looked down at the carnage around him. The corridor was littered with the remains of the World Eaters, their armor broken, their bodies still.
Argall turned to the blast doors, his Warscythe humming softly in his grip. He raised a hand, and with a thought, the doors began to grind open, the dim light of the bridge spilling out into the corridor.
Angron awaited him inside. Argall turned to his Prometheans and pointed towards the door. "Make an entrance for me."
AN: Chapter 54 is out on (Pat)reon!