Angron's eyes flickered open. The first thing he noticed was silence. True silence. His mind, once a cacophony of rage and agony, was calm. No screeching needles driving into his thoughts, no searing firestorm of pain coiling through his veins. He blinked, his gaze shifting upward to a sky so vividly blue it seemed almost unreal.
His breaths were slow, deliberate, as though relearning the act of simply existing without torment. For the first time in a long, long while, his thoughts were clear. No haze of anger clouded his mind. No incessant hunger for violence burned behind his eyes. He lay still, the soft pressure of the ground beneath him unfamiliar in its tranquility.
This was not a dream. He had long since stopped dreaming, his subconscious torn apart by the Butcher's Nails. No... someone had done the impossible. Somehow, the Nails were gone. He couldn't feel them. The constant grinding presence at the edges of his sanity had vanished.
His fingers flexed against the ground, his breath hitching slightly as realization struck. His brow furrowed as he blinked, staring up at the sky again. The golden tyrant, the so-called Emperor of Mankind – his so-called father – had never managed to do this. Even with all his mastery of gene-crafting, flesh-shaping, and the wonders of the ancient world, the Emperor had been unable to free him from the curse that had defined his existence.
Yet here he was. Free. Alive.
The realization was a strange weight, pressing and lifting all at once. Then, like a tide rolling back to reveal the wreckage it had left, the memories came.
Blood. Screams. The shattered remains of lives extinguished by his hand. Faces blurred together, indistinct but endless in number. He had killed and killed, butchering his way through armies and innocents alike. And even at his worst, in the depths of his madness, he had known. Known the cost. Known the scale of his atrocities.
Angron clenched his fists, his gaze narrowing on the bright blue sky above. How many had he slaughtered? How many worlds had burned because of his wrath?
And then, he noticed something else. The sky stretched endlessly, clear and unmarred by ash or smoke. The air smelled of salt and greenery, carried on a soft breeze that brushed against his face. He felt it, warm and alive, the scent foreign yet comforting. Slowly, he pushed himself up, muscles trembling faintly beneath his weight. Weakness. His limbs obeyed, but sluggishly, unsteady, as though they didn't quite belong to him.
He sat upright, glancing around. A cliff. It overlooked an endless expanse of verdant grasslands swaying in the breeze, framed by the deep azure of a vast ocean far below. Waves danced against the rocks, their gentle rhythm contrasting starkly with the violence he had known all his life. A golden sunrise crowned the horizon, light spilling across the waters in shimmering threads.
"Ah," came a voice from behind him, calm and unhurried. "I was starting to think you'd never wake up."
Angron stiffened, his head turning sharply. The voice was unfamiliar. His eyes fell upon a figure seated on a rock, silhouetted against the rising sun. The man looked like a Primarch. The resemblance was unmistakable – tall, regal, and powerful, though lacking the monstrous bulk of Angron's own frame. He wore no armor, only simple garments that caught the wind. His gaze was steady, impassive.
Angron's voice was low, gravelly. "Who are you? Where am I?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly, resting one arm on his knee.
"Doesn't matter who I am. Doesn't matter where this is." His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something else – finality, perhaps. "What matters is that you're dying."
Angron's brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. He pushed himself further upright, wobbling slightly as his legs protested. He steadied himself, ignoring the unfamiliar frailty that radiated through his body.
"Dying?" he repeated, his tone edged with suspicion.
The man tilted his head, watching him with an unreadable expression. "Yes. The body I made for you was perfect – down to the most minute detail. Every cell, every strand of genetic material, crafted to mirror the original flawlessly. But..." He trailed off, shrugging lightly. "The transfer? That was... less than perfect."
Angron narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharpening on the stranger. "Transfer."
The man gestured vaguely toward him, as though the explanation was self-evident. "Your soul. Your mind. They weren't designed to be separated from your original shell. And this new one? It's rejecting you. Slowly, but surely."
Angron glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers again. His palms felt alien, the sensation faintly hollow. He grunted, his voice low. "And what do you expect me to do about that?"
The man didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood, stepping down from the rock with an easy grace. The wind caught his hair, brushing it back as he turned to face Angron fully. His eyes were sharp, piercing, but lacked the coldness Angron had come to associate with power.
"I don't expect anything," he said finally. "I'm just letting you know. You don't have long."
Angron exhaled sharply through his nose. His gaze drifted toward the ocean, its waves still beckoning, tranquil and endless. For a moment, he was silent, his jaw tightening faintly.
"Then I suppose you're right," he said at last, his voice quieter than before.
He took a step forward, his boots sinking slightly into the soft grass. The sunlight warmed his skin, the salt breeze brushing past him again. He let his eyes fall closed for a moment, the sound of the waves filling his ears. For the first time in centuries, there was no rage. No pain. No torment clawing at the edges of his mind.
He breathed in deeply, holding it for a moment, before exhaling slowly.
"At least," Angron murmured, his voice barely audible, "it's a beautiful place to die."
"It is," the man replied, stepping closer. The sunlight caught the edges of his form, highlighting the faintly worn lines of his face, the weight in his gaze.
"My name is Argall," he added, his tone calm, steady. "I guess you could say we're... related. Consider this a gift."
Angron's brow twitched, the name settling in his mind with a strange familiarity. Argall. The syllables felt significant, though he couldn't place why. His gaze flicked to the man - this supposed sibling who seemed neither eager nor hostile.
"I'm sorry," Angron said after a pause, his voice low but clear. "For attacking when I did. I was... desperate."
His fists clenched briefly at his sides. The words didn't come easily, but they carried no weight of shame, only a faint sadness.
"I did what I thought I had to."
Argall regarded him with an even expression, his arms folding loosely across his chest.
"There's no need for apologies," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Those things in your head – they drove you to do heinous things. You weren't in control. But..."
His eyes narrowed faintly, as though peering past the moment into some unseen horizon. "Not many will see things as I have. None of it matters now."
Angron's lips pressed into a thin line. He looked away briefly, letting his gaze settle on the sea, the waves tumbling endlessly toward the cliffs. For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind carried the scent of salt and grass, stirring the silence between them.
Argall's voice broke the quiet. "By my estimation, you have an hour left to live - maybe a little more."
The words landed with a strange finality, but Angron's expression didn't shift. He simply nodded, exhaling softly. Then, his gaze sharpened, and his lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"Then," he said, turning back to Argall, "consider this a gift."
Before Argall could question him, Angron reached inward, drawing on something long buried, nearly extinguished by the Butcher's Nails. It had been a faint ember for so long, dulled by the constant agony and rage. But now, without the Nails' interference, it burned brighter, surging forward.
Empathy.
The power had always been his, hidden beneath the fury. Not just the ability to feel, but to absorb. To take the emotions of others into himself, to bear their burdens as if they were his own. It was an ability he hadn't dared use for centuries – not until now.
Angron extended his hand, not physically, but through that intangible connection, reaching for Argall. He could feel it instantly—his sibling's tightly coiled emotions, the weight of self-doubt, the hesitation that lingered in the edges of his mind. Argall, for all his composure, carried the burden of uncertainty, the fear of failure, the crushing weight of responsibility.
Angron drew it all in.
Argall's breath hitched sharply. His posture stiffened, his arms falling to his sides as the sensation washed over him. He gasped, his eyes widening, his composure momentarily shattered.
"What was that?" he asked, his voice quieter, tinged with something he rarely showed – surprise.
Angron let the weight settle within himself, his chest rising and falling with the effort of containing it. It wasn't painful, not exactly. It was familiar. The weight of others' burdens was something he'd carried before, long ago, before the Nails had drowned it out.
He smiled faintly, his expression softening for the first time in what felt like lifetimes.
"Does it really matter?" he asked, his tone light, almost teasing.
Argall's gaze searched his face, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He didn't respond immediately, his mind turning over what had just happened. The doubt, the hesitation - it was gone, leaving clarity in its wake. For the first time in years, perhaps longer, his thoughts felt... unclouded.
Angron turned back to the sea, letting the breeze wash over him. His stance was relaxed, his shoulders loose.
"You'll need that clarity, brother," he said, his voice steady but firm. "The battles ahead won't forgive uncertainty. I do not claim to know what lies ahead of you, but I know that indecision will be of no aid."
Argall remained silent, watching him. The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of waves breaking against the cliffs. Whatever resentment he might have felt toward this lost sibling, this relic of rage and destruction, faded in that moment. Angron, for all his flaws, for all the horrors he had wrought, had just given him something no one else could.
"I'll remember this," Argall said at last, his voice quiet but resolute.
Angron chuckled softly, a deep, almost hollow sound.
"Good," he replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Then I've done enough."
A moment passed and Angron took a deep breath. "Will you stay with me until the end?"
Argall didn't answer immediately. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His boots pressed into the grass, the faint crunch of blades beneath them blending with the rustle of the wind. He came to stand beside Angron, his gaze fixed on the same horizon, the golden light of the rising sun reflecting in his sharp eyes.
"Yes," Argall said simply. "We are... brothers, are we not? It's the least I can do."
Angron's shoulders eased at the response, though his eyes never left the ocean. He inhaled deeply, the salt air filling his lungs, and then exhaled, his breath slow and measured. The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips, a ghost of the person he had once been – before the Nails, before the rage.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice quiet but steady.
The two stood in silence, the waves crashing softly below, their rhythm constant and unbroken. The wind swept around them, carrying the scent of salt and grass, the warmth of the sun touching their skin. The world, for all its chaos and destruction, seemed distant now – a mere backdrop to this singular moment.
Angron turned slightly, his legs trembling faintly beneath his weight. He moved with a deliberate slowness, lowering himself into a crouch. His massive frame folded gracefully, his arms resting on his thighs as he sat, the grass swaying gently around him. The light caught the edges of his features, softening them, as though the ocean breeze had worn down the rough edges of his soul.
He closed his eyes.
The faint smile remained, his face peaceful, serene. His breaths came slower now, the rise and fall of his chest gentle and unlabored. For the first time in centuries, there was no tension in his muscles, no storm of rage in his mind. There was only calm.
Argall watched him, his expression unreadable. He shifted his weight slightly, his stance firm yet relaxed, and turned his gaze back to the horizon. The sun climbed higher, its rays painting the ocean in shades of gold and blue. The waves continued their ceaseless dance, their music uninterrupted.
Angron's breathing grew fainter, each exhale softer than the last. His hands, resting loosely on his knees, relaxed completely, his fingers curling slightly into the grass. The faint glow of the sun's light brushed against his closed eyelids, and the smile on his lips lingered, unwavering.
The wind whispered around them, carrying the last breath of the World Eater into the endless expanse of the sea.
Argall stood motionless, the silence around him profound. He glanced down at Angron, his towering form now utterly still. The smile remained, a reminder of the peace that had eluded the once-mad Primarch for so long.
AN: Chapter 59 is out on (Pat)reon!