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The first time Lotara Sarrin is formally introduced to Lord Aurelian, the Primarch of the Seventeenth Legion, is weeks after the changing of her own Primarch. Angron, never quite sane but in a hell of a lot more control than he is now, is still chained in the dungeons of The Conqueror.
Lord Aurelian pays his brother a visit and comes back with bloody gashes down the side of his face for his troubles.
Good, Lotara spitefully thinks. Serves him right. But she is being too harsh. Were it not for the other, Angron would have died to the Nails. Not even the Emperor could have helped him, but this man, his brother, could. Does he not deserve her gratitude for that?
"Thank you," the Primarch of the Word Bearers says, when she offers him ionised salve and clean clothes. "You surprise me, Captain Sarrin," he remarks while carefully wiping the blood from his face. "I thought for sure you would have harsh words for me. For what I have done to your Lord Primarch."
"The change is a surprise," Lotara admits, "But I understand its necessity. My ship will survive Lord Angron in all his forms."
Lord Aurelian gives her a look of mild surprise. What would have been a raise of eyebrows for someone else is translated as a stretching of tattoo'd alphabet script.
"Had our firstmost brother your understanding," he muses, passing back the dirtied cloths, "Do you have business with me, Captain Sarrin?"
"I mean only to convey my gratitude," she allows herself a wry smile, "However grudging it may be. Angron is alive because of your intervention, that much is clear."
"He is my brother," Lorgar says softly, "I would not have let him die." He blinks, remembering where they are, before stepping into the teleportation channel. "Goodbye, Captain Sarrin. Give my regards to my brother, if you've the chance."
She is dismissed with the wave of a hand and she bows, used to the difference in status. All the same, when she turns to walk away, it is with the surety of having made a positive impression upon the other.
-
"You spoke with Lorgar," Kharn says, as they're watching the construction of the requested skull throne.
"I did."
"What did you speak of?"
"I thanked him for saving Angron's life."
Kharn laughs at that. "Sometimes, Lotara, I forget how polite you've been brought up to be."
"It's not just politeness," she shakes her head, "I meant it."
Angron's equerry turns away from the formative pile of bones to look at her. "You also said you would pull the stomach of the bastard responsible out of his arse and then strangle him with your bare hands for the hell of it," he reminds her.
"That I did," she nods. "And I meant it too."
He snorts, laughing, before turning his head back.
"How is he?" Lotara asks, losing out to her own curiosity.
"Well enough to be asking for new furniture," Kharn shrugs.
"You know what I mean."
"He's alive," Kharn shrugs again, "And capable of speaking without -- " his own Nails act up there and he turns to the other side, pressing a hand to his drilled temples to quell the pain. It subsides, as it always does, and he turns back, blinking rapidly. "What was I saying?"
"Angron is capable of speaking without," Lotara prompts.
"Ah, yes. He's still got them. The Nails, I mean. But they're even more a part of him than they were before."
Lotara pauses, trying to parse such a description.
"Do you mean to move that thing to the dungeons?" she follows up.
"Hardly. He wants to sit on it here."
"You can't be serious."
"He's our Primarch, Lotara," Kharn sighs, "He's changed, of course, but he's still our Primarch. His will is our command, you have forgotten."
"And you forget this is my ship," she snaps. "Geller's Wave, why does he need to have an interest in the control room now of all times? He's never spent any time here before!"
Kharn knows her too well, able to tease out the real reason for her anger. He turns to her, surprise written over his unscarred features.
"You're scared."
"I'd be crazy not to be scared," she retorts, feeling her cheeks flush at the truth of it. Yes, she's scared. It's something Astartes aren't meant to feel, being better than human and all, but she's still her. Still fully human. And she feels plenty scared.
"You would be the last to be killed."
"I'm flattered."
The other is Astartes enough to see no reason to assuage her fears. Not that there's anything to placate in the first place, mind you. But he doesn't turn away from her, nor look upon her with revulsion, which is a hell of lot more leeway than other crewmembers get.
"I suppose you could try to move the captain's chair from the control room," Kharn says at last.
"No," Lotara shakes her head, "I'm scared shitless but I'm not going to run. If I'm to die, it'll be here."
-
The throne of skulls -- skulls of thralls, the majority of which were pillaged from the ship's burial antechambers -- is completed in two days' time.
Despite the World Eaters having no aptitude for pomp or circumstance, there is nonetheless a standing ceremony of sorts as their Primarch is freed from the dungeons for the second time (Lotara wonders if there'll be a third time).
Angron is as Kharn had said. Still in possession of the nails but a changed man altogether. The only way he resembles a man now is his upright form. Two arms and two legs and a head is more than the Third Legion can get, at any rate. He walks with a thundering swagger and Lotara thinks she can feel the floor beneath her quake. As soon as he enters the room, the stench of blood floods in and she fights to keep her nose from wrinkling.
"Finally," their Primarch booms, stomping his way over to the throne.
"Hmm... yes... yes..." he reaches out for the nearest crewmember -- Yilkaz Tenerif, a junior lieutenant who had served faithfully for seven years -- and cracks him in half as one might break a reed.
Lotara flinches, despite herself, as Tenerif's blood is used to paint the throne red.
"Perfect," Angron smiles, tossing the corpse to the side before seating himself down. "It is a fine offering, Kharn."
Kharn bows his head.
"What are you waiting for?" Angron asks, gesturing to the unattended array of instruments, "Does anyone else want to add their blood to the mix?"
Fast as lightning, the rest of them snap back to action.
Lotara is resuming her own navigational readings when Angron calls for her. She heaves a breath and pushes herself up, counting the steps to her Primarch's new throne.
Up close and personal, he is the god of death personified. She wants to wet herself and vomit in his presence, a sort of terror she had never felt before in the countless close calls her ship had had. He will kill you, every cell in her is screaming, he will kill you and think nothing of it, just like how he killed Tenerif.
"Lord Angron," she murmurs, approaching him from the front and dropping to her knees before him.
Angron tsk's, shaking one finger in a chiding motion. It's a nuance he would have never been capable of previously.
"How many times must I tell you? I'll have none of your titles."
"Angron."
"Good. Come closer."
She stands and takes two steps forward. He reaches to her and she thinks -- this is it, I'm going to die -- but rather than remove her head from her shoulders, he just... ruffles at her blond hair.
"I can smell your fear, little one," Angron tells her.
"Can you smell my relief too?" she counters.
He laughs, mussing her hair up even further before taking his hand back.
"Make a boon of me," he commands of her, "Whatever you wish."
Lotara remembers those words. They were the same words that had netted her command of the ship in the first place. Sadly, she doubts -- I already have everything I want, please don't kill me in a fit of rage -- is going to bode well, though she'd certainly ask for it if she could.
No, instead she looks him in the eye and smiles a mad smile of her own.
"When I die -- " she starts.
"Yes?" Angron continues, licking his lips.
"Make my skull a new addition to your throne."
Angron laughs, clapping his hands, "By your will, Captain Sarrin. At ease."
Lotara is permitted to return to her post in one grateful, albeit sweating, piece.
-
"See?" Kharn has the nerve to say, grinning, "What'd I tell you?"
She shakes her head, refusing to dignify that with a response.