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They were brothers, but they were not friends.
Uthizaar had told Phosis T’kar once that Ahriman thought that way. Phosis T’kar thought it wasn’t something he needed a bloody mind reader to tell him. Since Ohrmuzd’s death, Ahriman had kept everyone at a distance. He still called them all brother, as was custom among the legions, but it didn’t carry the same inflection.
What made a brother? Genetic heritage, their common father. They stood tall together under their banners, guarding one another’s lives with their own. They were proud to share the name of their legion, to share the blood of their father, proud of who they were and who they stood with and of what they stood for. Phosis T’kar thought it was something very much like a family, though he couldn’t remember having one before.
But they were not friends.
Phosis T’kar didn’t have to be an Athanaean to know there was a difference between the calculated relationship of a Thousand Son to a Thousand Son, and the warm bonds that existed between those that called each other brother in the legion of the Luna Wolves.
He had been drawn to that contrast when he first came amongst the Mournival. Hastur and Ezekyle were kindred souls to his own, and it touched him that they shared their bonds with him so openly. He had learned a lot from in their company, more than just how to lead and how to kill. He might have learned more of this friendly brotherhood as well, but the secrets of his legion held him apart.
Martial fraternity was a term he’d heard often during that time. He related to half of it. War was what he was made for, after all, what he lived for. He was less sure of brotherhood. The word was coloured by more than simple ties of blood or common purpose. To him, war was war; there was nothing familial in it. It was dispositions, calculations, concerted movement, and precision attacks. That was how a Thousand Son practised the art of war. Aside from an added passion for shouting and smiting, he’d thought the Luna Wolves approached it much the same way.
He had enjoyed his time with the XVI Legion, even the shouting. It was why he reminisced on it so often and fondly, much to the dismay of his brother-captains. Well, and who had told Uthizaar to agree to run with the Space Wolves, of all the the legions he could have chosen? Khalophis, at least, had come back from the Iron Warriors with good stories, but Phosis T’kar had never enjoyed his company much outside of drills and meetings. They were too similar in disposition to really get along. The likes of Ahriman and Hathor Maat, even the quiet Uthizaar, suited him better in his downtime. Magnus said it was a matter of balance.
Was that what a friend was?
The Rehati was nothing like the Mournival. Too much measurement and ceremony, too much of an undercurrent of competition thanks to the wax and wane of the cult powers. The Mournival served to influence their primarch, but their unity, their... brotherhood, affected the character of the legion as a whole. The availability of an equal with whom you could speak of anything to, who knew what you knew, who trusted and cared for you not out of duty but from genuine affection -- Phosis T’kar had not known it was something he lacked until it was taken away.
Phosis T’kar did trust his brothers. He knew them, sought them out, enjoyed their company. If he had secrets to tell, his brothers would keep them to the grave. Still, when they talked, there was always a barrier, a distance. Too many of them had died in those early years, and it was something they never discussed.
Perhaps it was the effect of controlling their powers. To channel the Great Ocean, the distance one kept from emotion must become as natural as breathing. Any captain or high-ranking Son achieved this mastery. It was a state of mind that didn’t allow for an intense, personal commitment to a brother. He found it hard enough to control his temper during the stress of combat; how much harder would it be to see a friend struck down?
He remembered when--
“Not this story again,” Hathor Maat said with an overly theatrical groan which, in Phosis T’kar’s opinion, he must have picked up from Fulgrim’s get.
They were resting in the shadow of Ahriman’s pavilion, dressed in light robes and watching flickers of light in the pale pink sky, the heat of Imperial warships leaving the planet’s atmosphere. They ate thick squares of dry bread dipped in honey, sipped wine from Ahriman’s latest vintage, and they talked of nothing of consequence. It reminded Phosis T’kar of the more relaxed meals in the mess on the Vengeful Spirit. With less sporadic friendly brawling.
“If you like them so much, you should petition to join their legion.” Hathor Maat eyed the sticky stains on Phosis T’kar’s tunic and wrinkled his nose. “You’d fit right in.”
Hathor Maat, of course, looked immaculate despite the past hour they’d all spent trying to prevent dripping honey from getting everywhere. Ahriman had insisted they not use their powers to do something as simple as eat. Serves him right, Phosis T’kar thought, that his fine linen rug get covered in crumbs, honey, and drink. He watched as a line of ants braved the valleys and peaks of the carpet to find their succour.
“I’m just saying,” Phosis T’kar started, then paused.
He remembered when one of Sejanus’s men went down. There’d been a spike of choler and sorrow so thick he’d staggered from its physicality, nearly throwing up a reflexive kine shield. Caught in the emotional surge, he joined the Wolves as they attacked with a vengeful ferocity, howling with them as they charged forward, blades drawn.
Later, he learned the fallen Astartes was a close friend of Sejanus’s, and he understood the relief he’d felt from killing those responsible. Later still, he’d stood in the back of the room, invited but uncomfortable, while the legion honoured their slain with quiet rituals and with more private salutes in smaller groups as they exchanged stories about their absent friends. Phosis T’kar wondered if his own brothers would remember him when he died, or if they would bury his memory and their emotions as deeply as they buried their legion’s secrets.
“What?”
“Nevermind,” he said, and a bread crumb flew off across the flattened plain, an ant clinging on desperately.
Hathor Maat watched it disappear over the horizon and raised a sculpted eyebrow.
Phosis T’kar shrugged and rubbed his hands together briskly, scattering more crumbs and ignoring Ahriman’s dirty look. “It’s nothing.” He stood, his robes tugging themselves straight. “I should get back, the latest bunch of neophytes can’t count past ten with their shoes on.” He ignored Uthizaar’s knowing smile -- mind readers!, he thought with a snort -- and left the shade of the pavilion at a quick walk.
It was pure jest, of course, the idea that a Thousand Son could ever wish to serve another primarch. Phosis T’kar knew this was true amongst all the legionnaires, an obvious insight that his scholarly brothers no doubt thought was beyond him. As if Phosis T’kar was as blunt and egotistic as Khalophis pretended to be. There were none of them dull-witted in this legion.
No, Phosis T’kar liked to bring up the Mournival because he hoped to encourage similar bonds with his own brothers, to have that feeling of brotherhood within their legion too.
And he had to admit: it was fun to work Hathor Maat into a snit by waxing poetic on Hastur Sejanus’s beauty and perfection. What were brothers or friends for, if not to amuse yourself with?
They were brothers already. They might still be friends, someday.