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Sanguinius paced the elegant nursery.
The tiny, cherub like form of his infant son lay peacefully in his bassinet, a cradle of gold bars and red silks. One of his sons- the 7 foot tall astartes variety, not to be confused- had created the bed for his newest brother of sorts when Sanguinius announced that their Legion Mother was with child. They had all been so excited, and excited more when the baby was born with two little feathered wings, like Sanguinius himself.
The Greatest Angel, they jokingly called his son, playing off Sanguinius’ own moniker of The Great Angel.
He stepped to the bassinet's side once more, carefully leaning over and stroking the chubby cheek of his sleeping child. Little wings splayed, cherub-like cheeks and golden curls so much like his own. The only thing he'd gotten from the Legion Mother was his eyes.
Sanguinius wondered how else his son would be like him. Would he be creative? Empathetic and kind? Would he be wracked with the deep, gnawing rage Sanguinius had to constantly subdue? Or worse, would his dreams be plauged with visions of things yet come to pass? Things the Angel now grew increasingly concerned were going to happen, instead of his normal omens of things that may or may not.
No, these new dreams were far too specific. No vauge metaphor, no blurry half remembered shapes. A clear, defined vision of his brother, the warmaster himself, standing over Sanguinius’ corpse.
Would he see his sons first birthday, he wondered. He knelt beside the cradle, laying his arms and head on the side so he could watch the tiny movement of the baby's belly as he breathed.
His wife had explained many of her homeland traditions for children, and a first birthday was a large celebration. She already was planning for it, and their child was only a month old.
He gently pet his son's gold curls. Maybe the vision of his death happens centuries from now. Maybe his son will become a strong, grown man before he is forced to handle his father's demise. Or maybe it happens soon, and he misses all the milestones a baby goes through as they to navigate their new bodies and the world around them.
When his wife told him she was pregnant, one of his first thoughts was how excited he was to have someone to fly with- if the child had wings, she had told him with a gentle smile. But of course his child would have wings, he had told her, they will be more of an angel than he ever had been. He wouldn't have been surprised if they'd have come out with a golden halo of light to match.
Flying lessons. He hoped he got to give his son flying lessons someday. It had been trial and error for him. A lot of jumping off things and not quite making it. His primarch durability helped, but they didn't know the extent that his son inherited that resilience. If he couldn't teach him the tricks to taking off and landing, would he have to repeat Sanguinius’ methods? He imagined the little cherub flinging himself off a tall rock, flapping his wings and crashing to the sands. A smile crossed the Great Angel’s face at the thought of the little boy finally staying in the air for a moment before falling once more. He'd be so excited, just like the first time Sanguinius had managed to flap mid air.
He'd write a guide, he thought. Just in case. A manual to flying, assuming his son had similar wings to his own. Then he could at least have guidance while his poor mother watched him careen himself off of cliffs.
He swallowed back a growing lump in his throat, reminding himself he had no idea if he'd be gone sooner or later. It was just as likely that he expirenced all the wonders and tribulations of fatherhood as not, he lied to himself. The growing bookshelf of handwritten tomes in the corner of the nursery were just safeguards.
There was a good chance his son would never need to sit by the little library and read his father's notes on dealing with a red thirst, should he inherit it. Hardly a chance the boy would borrow a leatherbound tome from the Legion Mother's desk, then sit in his fathers old office, a tear stained journal page open, reading about his father meticulously sculpting a rose from gold to present to his wife as his son painted his mother a picture of the flower for her birthday.
A tear fell to the bed, discoloring the deep red silks of the baby's sheets. Sanguinius sighed, dabbing his eyes and composing himself. He gently leaned in an kissed the infant's tiny forehead before crossing the elaborately decorated nursery and sitting back at the little writing table he'd brought in. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before picking his pen up once more and returning to the almost filled pages of another leatherbound book. What had he wanted to write? Ah, yes- he thought, as he titled the top of the page “Lessons in flying”.
Sanguinius turned back a moment, eyeing the strewn toys of the nursery. The walls were decorated in the finest gifts his genesons had been showering the child with. Many paintings depicting a cherub in golden light. One statue was a recreation of the baby in his fathers arms, moments after being born. A large, hand sewn plush bear sat in a corner, guarding the babe from bad dreams.
There was very little chance his son would need these notes and lessons and journals, he once again lied to himself. He should be relaxing, maybe spoiling his wife, maybe trying to get his own neglected work done. He watched the baby breathe those tiny, fluttering breaths a moment more before turning back to his writing.
Just in case. He will write everything his son may need to ask a father. Just in case.