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This time it is not a vision – not the vision: the reoccurring vision which sees the Great Angel cast down in death, Horus’ talons twisting and tearing through his laboring hearts, his laughter and Sanguinius’ cries forming an intertwining hymn to the dark gods that heralds eternal night for the Emperor’s Imperium. This time he is merely dreaming, not vividly reliving a blow-by-blow, counter-strike-by-counter-strike precognitive vision of his final battle with the fallen Warmaster.
This time Sanguinius is alone, weaponless and armorless, crawling on hands and knees away from the site of some devastating conflict. A gold-tinged mist envelops him, the soft yet brilliant light obscuring his surroundings from view. His skin feels raw, his muscles and bones aching from the strain of a now-forgotten fight. The Angel’s wings hang limp at his sides like weights, dragging listlessly through the mist; he does not have the strength to fold them properly across his back.
The Blood Angels’ primarch is weary beyond all thought or reckoning. Too exhausted to risk standing, he resorts to a lowlier form of movement, not caring how humiliating his posture might appear. He is seeking a place to rest – somewhere he can curl up and sink peacefully into the shadows of oblivion, if only until it is time to face Horus yet again. Sanguinius knows this peace will not last; soon the mist will dissipate and he will be in the familiar corridors of the Vengeful Spirit again, striding towards the doors of the bridge where the traitorous Warmaster awaits him, his talons and his maul readied to rip and crush the life from the Angel once more. Sanguinius is tired of fighting, tired of suffering and dying over and over, never knowing if he made a difference, never knowing if his actions saved his Father or if he simply added his carcass to the ever-growing pile of bodies Horus has heaped to the stars on his campaign to conquer Terra and claim the Golden Throne for his own. The vision always ends with him dying, with the black rage that engulfs him as he is plunged into the darkness of dissolution without the assurance that his sacrifice changed anything. There is no hope; no surety. Death is the only promised outcome.
On and on Sanguinius crawls, hunting blindly through the swirling mists for someplace soft and comforting to lay his head, a secure haven where he can finally know some measure of peace, if such a thing still exists in the galaxy anymore. Abruptly he falls onto his left side, his left wing crumpling uselessly beneath him. The Angel suddenly becomes aware of the pain searing through his limbs, of blood streaming from the countless wounds scoring his entire naked body. Desperately Sanguinius struggles to rise but the last of his strength deserts him, robbing of what little agency he has and leaving him helpless amidst a golden sea that can offer him no protection for when the Warmaster comes.
For Horus is there, somewhere – he is always there, waiting for the brother he had once loved, waiting for the loyal primarch to challenge him while the fate of Terra and the survival of the Imperium stands poised between salvation and destruction. What if he should find the Angel now, with his strength fled and his sword missing, defenseless and unable to even face him on both feet? A new fear pierces Sanguinius’ mind from the outside, a fear that he will not simply relive his death once more but will suffer other, more profane things at the corrupted Warmaster’s hands. Bearing his fangs the Angel glares defiantly into the mist, his rage pushing against the slowly-growing despair mounting inside of him. A tall armored figure, far larger then a Space Marine, slowly strides through the golden vapor, its insignia and face indistinguishable even to Sanguinius’ enhanced vision. The Angel’s hearts clench and his breathing quickens involuntarily. Horus is coming. Horus has found him and this time there will be no proper battle, only prolonged pain and purposeful defilement. With a supreme effort of will Sanguinius forces himself to his knees, a bestial snarl held just behind his exposed teeth, his powerful hands curling into fists.
“I defy you, false brother,” he growls hatefully at the approaching figure. “I am the Emperor’s loyal son and I always will be. I am an instrument of His righteous wrath and I defy you.”
The figure halts, the shimmering tendrils of mist caressing its shoulders and head, keeping its features hidden from full view. Sanguinius’ muscles tense as combat hormones flood into his system and he mentally prepares to launch himself at Horus’ throat, quickly calculating trajectory and impact variables. He will get only one chance. If he fails the Warmaster will hurt him in ways that will make dissolution a boon when it finally comes. The Angel cannot give him that kind of satisfaction. Death alone is more then enough.
“Wait, Sanguinius; be still.” The figure holds up a placating hand and takes three steps closer. His voice is not that of Horus as the Angel remembers it; instead it is the familiar voice of a brother he has spent years ruling a false empire alongside of, a brother who even now shares in the travails of the Ruinstorm as they struggle to reach distant Terra. One more step and Sanguinius belatedly recognizes the Avenging Son as he approaches him, an uncommon expression of pained concern on his coldly regal face.
“Roboute? Is it really you?” the Angel asks in shock as the primarch of the Ultramarines kneels down and reaches for him, hardly believing what he is seeing. Trembling with relief he allows Guilliman to gather him into his arms, heedless of the pain of his injuries, barely able to accept what is happening. Despite being fully armored Guilliman cradles Sanguinius with surprising ease and gentleness, even as the Angel’s wings sag awkwardly at odd angles. Reaching out a tentative hand Sanguinius grips his brother’s right pauldron and rests his head against Guilliman’s ornate breastplate, feeling a measure of stability and security return to him. Even knowing this is merely another part of the dream he allows himself the freedom to bask in the majesty and strength of the Avenging Son’s presence. Guilliman’s hearts are beating strong and steadily and his body resounds with suppressed vigor and power. Let Horus try and slay him now; let fate dare to deprive the Imperium of the Angel of Baal. Held in Guilliman’s secure grip, Sanguinius allows his thoughts to idly drift, longer paying any heed to the pain and death the future has decreed for him. Slowly Guilliman begins to rock him and the Angel closes his eyes with a sigh of contentment. Here at last is peace; here, after so long, is pure unadulterated comfort.
“Try not to get too comfortable now, brother,” Sanguinius’ eyes snap back open and he looks up in amazement. Looming over Guilliman’s shoulder, clad in armor blacker then all the galaxy’s darkest secrets, a soft teasing smile playing across his otherwise pale desolate face, Lion El’Jonson, primarch of the Dark Angels, regards him with a keen ever-watchful eye, his unbound mane of ash-blond hair spilling across his powerful shoulders. As he comes around to kneel down across from Guilliman the Angel sees he is carrying a plain plasteel bucket filled with steaming water, a few sponges floating in the clear liquid. The Lion’s lips curl over his teeth in quiet anger as he marks Sanguinius’ blood-streaked skin and disheveled wings, a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat.
“What has happened to you?” he demands as Guilliman gently eases Sanguinius off his lap and holds him upright by the shoulders, the primarch's own eyes hardening at the condition of the Angel’s normally flawless musculature. Sanguinius draws in a deep breath, refusing to allow his inner torment to overwhelm him. “Horus keeps killing me,” he tells his brothers simply, and because this is a dream they do not question his reasoning or condemn his logic or debate him concerning the statement’s factual impossibility.
“That bastard will not touch you while we’re here,” Guilliman promises resolutely as the Lion briskly removes his gauntlets and sets them to one side before retrieving and wringing out a wash cloth. A faint gasp escapes Sanguinius as the Lord of Caliban applies the warm wet sponge to the torn skin between the bases of his wings, slowly drawing it across the weeping wounds that mar his back. There is nothing crude or inexperienced in the movements; the Lion washes him with all the consideration and finesse of any well-practiced apothecary or chapter serf aboard the Red Tear. There is pain, but the sentiment and thoughtfulness behind the deed outweighs all discomfort. The Angel arches his spine and stretches out his wings to give his brother easier access, allowing a single tear to run down his cheek. With great care Guilliman takes Sanguinius’ face in both hands and touches his forehead to the angelic primarch’s, his grip as reverent as a lover’s and as strong as a god’s.
“Rest, Sanguinius. Be at peace. Let this moment sustain you until you reach Terra. The journey will be dark and full of peril, but you and I shall see each other again before the end. Deny the daemons; deny their temptations. Return to Me, for against us neither Horus nor the Powers that enslave him shall triumph.”
It is not Guilliman’s voice the Angel hears. It has been so long since he last heard the voice of his Father that the gathered tears spill from his eyes unchecked as He speaks. The golden mist glows even more brightly at the Emperor’s words. Sanguinius wants to believe. Even with the Ruinstorm raging against their fleets and fighting their advance to the Throneworld, he wants to believe that his Father can still exert His will and commune with those still loyal to Him. In the end, Sanguinius allows neither belief nor disbelief to sway him; he simply soaks in the gift of the moment and draws sustenance from it. Guilliman kisses his brow and leans back, his hands leaving the Angel’s cheeks to resettle on his shoulders; Sanguinius bows his head. Thank you, Father. I will endure. I will return to You, and if sacrifice is needed I shall not shrink from it. I am your loyal son and I always will be.
A jolt of fresh pain shoots across the Angel’s back as the Lion probes at a deeper injury, causing an involuntary shudder to ripple through the primarch; Sanguinius clenches his jaw. “Easy,” Jonson murmurs distractedly, his ministrations now focusing on his brother’s lower back. Then, as if to himself, he snarls softy, “He dares. He dares do this to you. This will not stand. He will be made to answer for this – he will be made to pay for this.”
Except Sanguinius knows that neither the Lion nor Guilliman will be at his side during the last confrontation aboard the Vengeful Spirit. The Angel is fated to face Horus alone. His brother-primarchs cannot the fight the final battle for him. Each has their own path to walk, their own part to play. Sanguinius has no foreknowledge of what their fates hold in store for them. Perhaps they, too, are destined to die on the Throneworld, laying down their lives for the Emperor and the Imperium, their loyalty and their resolve proven and sealed only in death. Sanguinius’ eyes close as the last of his tears fall. His brothers are here, untroubled by the weighty affairs of state or the complex stratagems of war; they are here simply to give the Angel the comfort he has so desperately craved. He drifts away, luxuriating in the security and peace of the golden, Emperor-sent dream. In this moment there is no threat or cruel expectation of agony and destruction; there are only the loyal primarchs' considerate hands, their familiar scents and strong voices. The immortals are at rest and all is well with the world.
“Hold him, Jonson. Be still, Sanguinius.” At some point Guilliman removes his own gauntlets and the Lion passes him the bucket and spare sponges. Sanguinius tries to keep the pain from showing on his face as the Avenging Son dabs delicately at a gash on his abdomen. This is offset by a tingling wave of pleasure as the Lion begins to preen his left wing, his deft fingers smoothing and rearranging the tangled, disarrayed feathers with the same professional skill displayed by the high-ranking chapter serfs who normally preform the service. “Don’t stop,” Sanguinius implores Jonson as the primarch spreads his wings wider, his hands working their way slowly over each type of feather of the Angel's revered mutations. The blessed moment stretches into infinity as Guilliman and the Lion continue to wash and groom him; under their attentions the wounds close and disappear; he ruffles his wings and delights in the clean unified configuration of his feathers. The Lion growls playfully and embraces him carefully from behind and a smiling Guilliman ruffles his hair, his usually cold face lit with a happy boyish grin.
“Thank you, my brothers,” Sanguinius sighs, feeling as if his hearts are about to burst from overwhelming love and inexpressible sorrow, knowing he is thanking phantoms and shades, mere projections of wishes and wants that cannot be realized or satisfied in the waking world. In the realm of the real Guilliman and the Lion struggle with their own failures and suffer their past sins in their own ways, and they do so alone. No comfort is deliberately sought out; the primarchs cannot risk exposing themselves so intimately to one another - yet another casualty of Horus' betrayal. Jonson broods and nurses the burdens of his many secrets in silence. Guilliman looses himself in theoreticals and practicals because he cannot function any other way. The bonds of trust and brotherhood have been damaged beyond all salvaging. Only here, in the nebulous region between wakefulness and vision, can the possibilities of a different reality be brought to life.
The Angel allows himself to relax and go limp as the Lion cradles him close, his powerful arms wrapped protectively around the primarch’s waist, his chin resting lightly upon Sanguinius’ bare shoulder. Setting aside the bucket, Guilliman gently lifts and messages the Angel’s supple legs, his big battle-callused hands rhythmically kneading the iron-hard muscles of Sanguinius’ calves and thighs. Sanguinius closes his eyes again and leans his head back over the Lion’s shoulder with a deep sigh of bliss. The ineffable moment stretches on until it finally reaches its conclusion. It cannot last forever. Horus is waiting. The glowing firmament of the dreamscape wavers as the power sustaining it weakens; tendrils of darkness heralding the future sacrifice claw through the golden mist, seeking to recapture the Angel’s mind and reestablish their hold upon it. Desperately Sanguinius reaches his hands out to Guilliman who grasps and holds them firmly.
“I don’t want to die,” the Angel whispers, the simple heartfelt confession so grief-imbued the entire firmament pulses as if in sympathy. The darkness creeps closer, tainting the dreamscape and causing Sanguinius’ hearts to shudder with a dread anticipation of what must come. Abruptly the Lion releases him and Guilliman stands, lifting the Angel up as he does so. “Be strong, brother,” the Avenging Son whispers, running a hand through the primarch’s silk-spun hair, his voice now truly his own. “Be steadfast. It is better to fulfill one’s oaths in defeat then forsake them for salvation. We love you, o Lord of Hosts; for you are what we can never be and will do for the Imperium what neither of us can. It is what fate decrees. What must be done will be done. Endure, Sanguinius, for all our sakes.”
“Oh Roboute…” the Angel lays his head on Guilliman’s shoulder, his muscles tensing as the solidity of the dream begins to retreat before the invading vision. “Brother,” the Lion growls softly; suddenly the pummel of a sword finds its way into Sanguinius’ hand. Jonson holds the naked steel of the Blade Encarmine in one gauntlet, his face solemn, his green eyes glistening with unshed tears. Sanguinius wraps his fingers around the hilt of his sword and a surge of new strength courses through his limbs. He raises the blade before his eyes and a fiery light envelops the steel, playing along its length in shivering sheets. “I will endure,” the Angel swears, his blue eyes blazing with a renewed purity of purpose. “I will return. I will be the sacrifice.”
“Hail to the Emperor’s Angel,” Guilliman intones, his deep regal voice rolling across the firmament like a gathering wave of thunder.
“Hail to the Lord of Hosts,” Lion El’Jonson chants, his rich baritone words echoing defiantly though the fading dreamscape.
The two primarchs circle around Sanguinius as he raises the Blade Encarmine high to emphasize his vow. They extend their hands again but do not touch the Angel’s gold-wreathed skin. Without making contact they move their hands over their brother’s chest and shoulders, passing them over his arms and legs, drawing them across his back, belly and hips. Light flows from their fingers and weaves itself about the Blood Angels’ primarch, enveloping him from foot to neck. It coalesces into segments of artificer power-armor, into the peerless golden battleplate that has seen him through thousands of battles. Under his brothers' attentions Sanguinius is re-armored for the coming conflict, arrayed in glory unblemished, radiant in the majesty and splendor only the Angel of Baal can embody.
As one, Guilliman and the Lion step back and draw their own weapons, saluting their resplendent angelic brother, their adoration growing in fervor.
“Hail to the Sacrificial Son!” Guilliman’s voice shakes the dissolving heavens.
“Hail to the All-Beloved One!” the Lion's words bite into the encroaching dark.
“For the glory of the Emperor and the Imperium!” Sanguinius’ battle cry sunders the false reality of the dream – for it is a dream and nothing more – and everything around him dissipates, shredded and torn, mangled and replaced by a far firmer, fatally truer reality. Horus will not be denied. Sanguinius’ feet are already moving, his boots ringing on the blood-slick deckplate, his lungs filling with the fetid air of the corrupted ship, the corridors of the Vengeful Spirit pulsating and breathing as the fanged maws, bulbous eyes and lashing tongues lurking in the walls glare and snap at the loyal primarch as he sprints towards the bridge, the Blade Encarmine scattering light into the gathering thickening darkness.
The Warmaster is waiting. He is always waiting. Death crouches wolflike before the Emperor’s most faithful son, its jaws opening wider and wider as the Great Angel hurls himself towards Horus’ readied blades like a shooting star flashing briefly across the undivided abyss of a measureless everlasting night.
I will be steadfast...I will endure…
I don’t want to die…
Father hear my cry…
Oh my brother...
The final set of doors are opened unto him. And once again Horus looms before Sanguinius in the gloom, laughing in scorn, a dark joy in his eyes, his talons raised to deliver the killing blow.