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The Apothecaries were despairing of Brother-Captain Roshan. “I think we should be proud of ourselves for his still being alive,” he heard them say from a very long distance away. “He lost everything from the pelvis down. 37% blood loss. He has a bit of hipbone left; that’s all.”
“Augmetics?” someone else asked.
“Possible, of course.”
“Would interment in a dreadnought be preferable?”
Not a dreadnought, Roshan thought. He tried to open his mouth and say he’d prefer euthanasia, but his mouth wouldn’t work. There was something in it, and his throat, too. Please not a dreadnought. I don’t want to spend decades in the dark and cold. Roshan was from Baal Secundus, like the Primarch. His happiest memories were of running across the hot red sands, his linen robes snapping in the scorching breath of the wind, a kite rising above him. Please not the dark and cold.
“I’ll put him down as a possible candidate for dreadnought. We’ll pull his service record and make a decision.”
Augmetics. Please, the augmetics. There was no response. They couldn’t hear him. Then it was time to administer his analgesics, and Roshan fell into dreams.
He remembered his family. Some Legions encouraged their neophytes to forget all of their life before the Legion; the Blood Angels did not. Roshan dreamed of his parents and siblings living in their square clay house. He dreamed of holiday meals, the most special of which took place during the Conclave, to be offered to travelers passing by. He dreamed of stubborn capridae, and of loading them onto a truck with their horns in one hand and their filth-encrusted tails in another.
“Who is this?” a familiar voice asked. Whose voice? His father’s. Here?
“Brother-Sergeant Roshan, my lord. He’s a squad leader—“
“In 89th Company. I know the names of all my sons.”
Roshan heard rustling, then a warm, callused hand enfolded his. He could feel the hardness of rings. Roshan squeezed the hand with as much strength as he could muster, which he knew wasn’t much.
There was a pause. “Brother Roshan?” the familiar voice asked, “This is your primarch. Can you hear me? Squeeze my fingers if you can.”
The Angel! The Angel himself has come to my bedside! Obey me, fingers! Obey me, hand!
Roshan’s fingers squeezed those of his gene-father.
“He’s conscious.”
“We’ve been considering what to do with him.”
“I hope you haven’t been talking about it in his presence. He can hear us.”
“He—no, my lord.”
Lying to the primarch. How dare you?
“Brother Roshan?” Sanguinius’s voice addressed him again. “Do you want to live? Squeeze my hand for yes.”
Brother Roshan did.
“Can he take augmetics?”
“His recovery would be very long, my lord.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then have the techpriests prepare them.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Roshan had heard rumours that the Primarch could read hearts. At that moment, he believed that like a law of physics.
After that was confusion and pain. Roshan knew he’d been given blood transfusions, several of them. Things were done in his abdomen, where he knew his body now ended. He became strong enough to open his eyes and see the blindingly white ceiling of the apothecarium above him. Then the air in his lungs began to feel cold and unnatural and he left his body.
I will nurse him myself.
Who is that?
The pain disappeared, to be replaced by exhaustion. Roshan could deal with exhaustion, especially since he was also very comfortable. He knew he was drugged. That was acceptable. He was lying in bed. Not a normal bed; he opened his eyes and could see nothing but a white canopy close to his face. He wanted to reach up and touch the canopy but his arms were still too heavy.
He woke up again with his head turned to the side. To his right was a wall or some kind of barrier. It looked padded. Roshan rolled his head to the other side, with a sense of distinct triumph. He was awake. His eyes were open. He could move his head! The white canopy was still over him and to his left was…he wasn’t sure. He thought he could see some dark red fabric, but he was feeling very worn out and fell asleep again.
When Roshan woke up a third time, he couldn’t figure out where he was. He was in bed, apparently unclothed, with a sheet pulled up to his chest. The white canopy was at his chin. It was feathered.
Feathered. Lords of Baal, was he—?
Roshan raised his head, but the canopy was holding him down. He could now clearly see that it was a wing. A huge, white, wing, extended protectively over him. The wing was attached to a sleeping Primarch Sanguinius.
Roshan had the reaction most legionaries of the IXth would have had; he burst into tears at the sight. Sanguinius opened his eyes and pushed himself upward, then reached down to gather Roshan onto his lap.
“It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe now,” Sanguinius whispered to him in the Red Rock dialect of Baal Secundus. The Primarch was dressed in a flowing dark red linen robe, his long black hair loose to his waist. He cocooned Roshan in his wings.
“Wh-where am I?”
“You’re in my quarters. You’ve been fitted with augmetics, and I felt that you’d recover best with me to watch you.”
Roshan nodded. It was known that badly injured legionaries would sometimes be taken to recover with the primarch. Other legions occasionally did it too, as the presence of an Astartes’ own gene-sire was particularly comforting and healing.
“This is where you sleep?” The primarch’s bed was a round, flat-bottomed bowl. It was strewn with long bolsters and a few loose sheets and blankets.
“The big bird sleeps in a big nest,” Sanguinius said with one of his characteristic easy smiles. “Normal beds aren’t built for a person with wings. I fall off.”
“I never thought about that,” Roshan confessed.
The primarch kissed his forehead. “Go back to sleep now. I’ll talk to the Apothecaries about when you can start eating, and what.” Sanguinius lowered Roshan to the flat area and wrapped a blanket around him. He tucked a cushion under Roshan’s head, then lay down, facing away from him.
Sanguinius draped his wing over the wounded Astartes, and Roshan was asleep again without a further thought.