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It was a small thing, a stray thought voiced out during the shared Compliance that would start the strangest of friendships between two primarchs nobody expected to connect.
Icessunder was but a desert, an endless, scorching desert with no signs of life for miles on end. At some point, it might have been a vibrant, flourishing world, but the local population destroyed their own paradise well before the Expeditionary Fleet found the planet, rare Hive fortresses rising up among the silver sands that gave no life. People chaffed under the rule of their warlords, cruel and despotic, and their tech-masters, and yet protected the walls of the Hives with zeal that reeked of desperation.
That Perturabo was given the tedious and thankless task of breaking the resistance of the fortress-cities of Icessunder was no surprise; his Legion’s grim resilience was well-suited to the long sieges. That Corvus Corax, the primarch of the Nineteenth Legion, was assigned as his partner was unexpected. Corvus favored stealth warfare and precise, surgical strikes; he’d much rather sneak into the fortress walls than break its front doors. Alas, even with the warlord of the first city slain by the precise shot, the people, haggard and broken, still rallied behind the warlord’s successor, stubbornly continuing their doomed defense.
“Your tactic was pointless from the start,” Perturabo commented condescendingly, the harsh expression on his face never faltering even as Corvus’ spine stiffened, “These people fully support their masters; they will keep fighting until completely crushed. And I intend to do just that.”
Perturabo’s pessimism and blatant disregard for the loss of lives this siege, all the sieges of the Hive fortresses would cause, would drive Corvus mad on a good day, and seeing the reports from his scouts about the exhausted, emaciated locals still dutifully obeying their cruel masters and prepping for tomorrow’s attack was enough for his patience to snap.
“They will keep fighting because the ruling caste of the city is the one controlling access to water! They can’t accept freedom from their masters when that freedom means their Hive’s welling system is destroyed.”
Perturabo’s gaze, cold and stoic, followed him as Corvus gestured at the map in agitation.
“That’s how the warlords keep them obedient. The only ones with the knowledge of how to create the wells, how to maintain them, are their tech-masters. Without them, the cities are doomed, so of course they fight to protect their masters, the techs and the warlords.”
Perturabo shrugged, seemingly unconcerned about the impending devastation of the Hive cities of Icessunder.
“What’s the point of ensuring compliance if they all die with no water?” Corvus asked him directly, shadow void of his black eyes piercing straight through the tempered steel, the primarch of Olympia liked to think as the armor protecting not only his body, but the very mind and soul.
In some other timeline, he would say nothing, and the bitter, devastating compliance would continue as planned, the Hive fortresses destroyed, the wells dried up, the people of Icessunder dying in droves as Corvus begrudgingly kept working beside his cold and detached brother.
In this one, Perturabo’s thoughts flickered to a project, long discarded and forgotten among the myriads of other projects he worked on during the long nights in the warp, only to be buried as they had no military applications.
“If it’s the wells they want, I can rebuild their aquifers,” he muttered, voice still low and brisk, and if Corvus was just slightly less observant, he wouldn’t have caught the tiniest hitch, the barest stiffening of Perturabo’s broad shoulders.
“You… can? Really?” Corvus asked uncertainly, noticing how Perturabo seemed to stiffen even further, his face becoming even more closed off and distrustful. And yet his older brother answered.
“I have the schematics for the artisanal wells built specifically for the post-nuclear desert conditions. It will not take much effort to adapt them to whatever system they have.”
“That would be great!” Corvus said enthusiastically, gears already turning in his head, “We just need to convince one city that your design is better, and spread the word to the rest, and there will be no need for sieges.”
This… this type of warfare was something he could support. Help the locals to overthrow their oppressors, give them clean water, and with it, hope, bring a better future with Imperial Compliance.
“It’s a waste of time,” Perturabo replied curtly, but there was a shade of hesitation in his eyes, “Suboptimal. We are warriors, not builders. We have orders.”
“Why can’t we be both?” Corvus offered, ruthlessly suppressing his instinctive bristling at Perturabo’s harsh attitude, “Can you show me the schematics?”
Perturabo’s attitude never improved, still brisk and uninviting, but he did show the designs for the wells. And their – alright, Corvus’ – plan worked. The seeds of rebellion planted with the smuggled schematics rose into brilliant flames, and this time, when his Ravens assassinated the new warlord and his tech-masters, they were met with a grateful population watching the legionnaires marching into the fortress with a barely concealed hope.
Corvus never knew that Iron Warriors could build. Judging by their bewildered gazes, neither did they, but they never disobeyed the order of their primarch, staying behind in the recently pacified Hive to build the wells as Corvus’ agents infiltrated the next fortress over.
It was the least bloody of the Iron Warriors’ Compliances, by an incredible margin, and throughout it, Corvus couldn’t help but acquire a grudging admiration for his brother’s efforts.
“You had these schematics just sitting there, never used? Why not?” he asked one day, as Perturabo labored over the drawing board.
“Civilian project. Not a priority, not needed,” was Perturabo’s brisk reply.
“Not needed? It’s water, clean, purified water in the desert, not poisoned by radiation or toxins. Do you know how many people would kill for it? Did kill for it, even on this planet? Dozens of worlds could have used this technology, hundreds! Even our brother’s Baal…”
“Sanguinius didn’t want me or my projects anywhere near Baal,” Perturabo interjected harshly, his shoulders stiff, the muscles on his neck bulging as his eyes snapped back to the drawing board, and Corvus paused, unsure.
The artesian wells geared towards a post-apocalyptic desert world dying of thirst and radioactive sickness. Their angelic brother, usually so mild and tempered in his manners, yet fiercely protective of his homeworld and its independence. And Perturabo, with his usual churlish curtness. He could see how that conversation must have ended.
“Alright, not Baal, the rest of the Imperium,” he amended, voice softening.
“Father didn’t want them either. My duty is to war, to the Crusade, not… this,” Perturabo replied, voice heavy, clipped, and just a touch hurt.
It was immeasurably sad, now that Corvus realized it. To create such a gift, only to have it rejected.
“I want it. And the Crusade… It’s for people. People who definitely want it. Here, on Icessundur. Out there, in the stars. Isn’t that what we are fighting for? To make life bearable for humankind?”
Perturabo was silent for a long, long while, his hands never stopping drawing the schematics for the aqueduct purifiers.
“There are more,” he finally said, voice so soft it might have as well been a whisper, the expression on his face almost ashamed with admission.
“More?” Corvus asked just as softly, coming closer, and Perturabo looked up, the look in his eyes still suspicious, distrustful, but also strangely fragile.
“Civilian… projects.”
“I want to see them all,” Corvus replied honestly, and watched Perturabo almost fidget.
Their Compliance on Icessundur was much slower than was typical for the Fourth Legion, but left behind a grateful world liberated from their cruel warlords, and thousands of volunteers for Iron Warriors auxiliary corps of civic builders that would stay behind on the recently conquered world to implement myriads of the long-forgotten projects Perturabo had drafted and abandoned in favor of the Great Crusade, and now dusted off at Corvus’ urging.
* * * * *
As another shared Compliance was assigned to them, Corvus watched in amazement as Perturabo, face as stony and severe as ever, presented him a model of a complete enclosed ecosystem under the crystal domes.
“It’s built with atmosphere-less planets in mind,” Perturabo finished the description, “Capable of producing enough food to support a city.”
“Or a Legion’s base of operation,” Corvus finished for him, “Like on Deliverance?”
Perturabo shrugged, but the minute twitch of his fingers as they held onto the precious model told Corvus all he needed to know.
“Over-reliance on the food supplies from Kiavahr affects the fortress’s survivability,” Perturabo noted stiffly, and Corvus could only smile, for once not fooled by the gruff tone.
“Thank you. It’s a priceless gift.”
Perturabo’s expression shifted, the same almost-fragility Corvus noticed before, suddenly much clearer, until it was gone again, hidden by the usual severity.
“It’s nothing,” he replied in his usual curt manner.
“It’s everything to me,” Corvus told him, “I think I need to apologize. I misjudged you. A lot.”
“Apologies are useless,” Perturabo’s voice was gruff, but at the depth of his eyes, there was almost nervousness.
“Then tell me how to make amends. You’ve proven yourself a man of honour and compassion, and I don’t want bad blood between us.”
“Compassion is a weakness,” Perturabo almost-whispered, voice low and harsh, but also desperate.
“Not for me. I cherish your compassion, as I cherish your dedication, hard work, and devotion to your creations. I’m glad you considered my world to be worthy of one of them.”
Perturabo looked uncomfortable in his own skin at this stream of praise, and on a hunch, Corvus reached over to put a hand over his tightly clutched fist resting on the table by the glittering model of the crystal domes. A tiny, almost imperceptible gasp from Perturabo made him take a second look.
His brother was starved. Starved for attention, for affection, for praise, and for touch. Always dutiful and never thanked for it. Breaking his back in another thankless siege, and never acknowledged. Who even cared to ask? Has anyone ever wondered what his brother wanted, what he dreamed of, beyond the endless trenches of war?
It wasn’t fair, nor was it just, and if there was something Corvus hated, it was unfairness. His brother deserved thanks for his endless toils, just like everybody else, deserved support and help in his campaigns, and deserved praise not just for his military acumen, but for these exquisite, wondrous, and oh-so-peaceful projects.
Perturabo wanted to give Deliverance crystal gardens full of light and life just because he didn’t want his brother to get trapped in a fortress with no food supplies. But he also made them beautiful, if the little model on the table was any indication.
Gently, very gently, and very slowly, Corvus moved to hug the broad shoulders of his brother, and wasn’t in the least surprised when Perturabo sagged into him, body seeking warmth even if his brain hadn’t caught up yet.
“Thank you,” Corvus whispered against Perturabo’s temple, and felt an almost imperceptible shudder.
“I haven’t built it yet. Nothing to thank for,” Perturabo replied, voice uncharacteristically soft, almost weak.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
Perturabo didn’t say a word, but his hands suddenly came up, holding onto Corvus with almost feverish desperation.
The tempo of Perturabo’s conquests slowed down with Iron Warriors staying behind to assist the auxiliary corps of civil builders, but since they weren’t leaving behind as much devastation, and much more compliant and satisfied worlds, the War Council of Terra reluctantly approved the delays. If it also meant more downtime for the Legion to regroup and recuperate, nobody said a word, though Perturabo had his suspicions.
“We are getting reinforcements,” he noted dully, setting up the miniatures as Corvus settled across from him, skimming over the rules of the ancient Olympian wargame.
“Is it bad?”
“We never got reinforcements or resources before. Fourth legion is self-sufficient; we make do with what we acquire.”
Corvus just shrugged, a shadow of a smile on his face.
“I know it is your doing,” Perturabo’s voice sounded almost accusatory, but by now Corvus could read the subtlest modulations and knew his brother meant no offense. More likely, he was confused.
“You care for my legion, build the gardens for Ravenspire, upgrade the industrial complex on Kiavahr, forge me wings to rival Sanguinius’. Is it that strange that I’d care for you and yours?”
“Iron within, iron without, we endure. You don’t have to coddle me.”
“Maybe I want to?” Corvus turned a miniature in hands. The craftsmanship was truly impressive, the tiniest details so perfectly precise and yet elegant. Yet another little side-project of Perturabo’s, and he didn’t miss the slightly anxious look that turned pleased as Corvus gently put the miniature on the board, lining up his made-up army.
“I grew up a slave,” he said suddenly as Perturabo’s face scrunched up in confusion, “With very little to my name. No resources, and yet a weight of great expectations of those around me that I would deliver them. Deliver us all. So I made do with what I could acquire, too, and persevered, but I don’t have to anymore. And neither do you.”
Perturabo made his move, but he looked conflicted, lost in thought, almost not paying attention to the game.
“What do you want from me?” he finally muttered, voice unsure, almost shaken, “If I give it to you, will you leave me alone?”
Corvus just shrugged, making another move. He didn’t yet know how to convince his brother that his company was enough of a reward, so the easiest way was to show it with his actions.
And Perturabo didn’t kick him out, so Corvus counted it as a win.
* * * * *
“I made something else,” Perturabo told him one day, his voice still gruff, but by now Corvus could easily recognize nervousness. His brother’s pessimism and the ever-present assumption that everybody was out to ridicule him were truly heartwrenching. Even now, his hard-earned trust was so fragile, ephemeral. Not that Corvus ever intended to break it.
“What is it?” he asked curiously, and followed Perturabo into his brother’s private chambers, and even deeper, past the pressurized doors that quietly fizzled as the internal environment was resealed. As he stepped over the threshold, Corvus’ eyes widened in wonder. Multiple murals decorated the walls of the chamber, ancient history of Terra merging into a carefully depicted map of the Milky Way on the ceiling, the details of the paintings rivaling the best works of their other artistically-inclined brothers. And yet by now he could easily recognize Perturabo’s hand, the unique, almost hyper-realistic style, if not for the stylized borders and transitions between the murals’ panels. Shelves lined the walls, rolls of parchment carefully arranged and neatly catalogued, interspersed with glass displays containing the most intricate models of devices Corvus couldn’t even guess the function of. A series of branching doors leading further into the labyrinthine inner sanctum was decorated with colourful mosaics.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Corvus could see a shade of anxiousness on Perturabo’s usually stoic face. These were not the rooms he showed to the public often, in fact, Corvus did not even think any of his brothers even mentioned their existence before. Fulgrim, for sure, would have yapped for ages.
“This is a marvel,” he exclaimed, absolutely sincere, and watched in satisfaction as Perturabo’s shoulders sagged a bit in relaxation, his eyes becoming just a tad softer.
“Some of the manuscripts are too ancient and require a specific atmosphere, or hermetic seals, lest they rot. I don’t entertain guests here often,” he muttered, coming closer to the center of the room where a seemingly empty glass column set upon an ornately carved obsidian base, reaching higher than even primarchs were tall.
“Then I am honoured you shared it with me,” Corvus replied simply, coming closer, and looking curiously at the column, trying to divine its purpose, “What is this supposed to be?”
“Just a curio,” Perturabo shrugged, before pressing on a control panel to the side of the column, lighting the LED lights at the base. Suddenly, an influx of inky-black liquid sprang forward, filling the inner space of the column in intricate swirls and whorls.
No, Corvus realized suddenly. Not simply swirls and whorls. These were all sorts of corvidae birds native to Kiavahr, from tiny crows and ravens to larger roks, all flying in tandem to form a giant flock. Perturabo lightly touched the glass, the surface flashing silver under his fingers, and the direction of the flock’s flight changed, a new pattern established, no less complex and coordinated than before.
“Ferrofluid,” Perturabo commented as the very shape of the birds started changing into the wisps of black feathers and little spiky stars that never stopped their dance, “Reacts to the liquefied magnets mixed up with the glass polymers in a specific configuration. Touching the glass allows the change in shape and pattern, and the direction of the flow.”
“This is beautiful,” Corvus whispered, coming closer and indeed caressing the glass surface with his fingers, watching the stars turn back into ravens looping in blossoming fractal paths. Growing up in the grim cells of Lycaeus, he wasn’t often exposed to beautiful things. And later, when father found him, most of the ostentatious décor of the palaces, or his brothers’ ships, never seemed to match his rather more austere tastes. But this statue, if it could even be called such, was indeed a wonder.
“Beautiful. Yes,” Perturabo responded with an unreadable expression, his eyes dark and shadowed, “I made a celestial clock for Guilliman. Lion for… well, he never wanted his, so never finished that one. This one is for you.”
“Me?” Corvus repeated, dumbfounded, stopping right by Perturabo, who was looking even more tense, more unsure by the minute, the usual stoicism replaced with an almost wounded, brittle expression on the verge of shuttering.
Perturabo was many things, but he was never brittle. Iron within, iron without, he was never broken, always persevering. Corvus didn’t like that expression.
“Beautiful like you,” Perturabo finally whispered, averting his eyes until he was staring at the rising flock of artificial birds instead of eyes that were as black as the ferrous liquid that made up the tiny feathers.
Oh. Oooooooh.
Slowly, telegraphing every movement, Corvus raised his hand and took hold of Perturabo’s jaw, turning his face, and just as slowly and gently reached forward to brush against his lips in a short, almost chaste kiss. The sound Perturabo made was akin to the smallest whimpers, tortured and yet at the same time delighted, his whole body swaying towards Corvus as if he was just barely restraining himself.
He didn’t need to. In this, Corvus was happy to indulge, a hand around the powerful torso pulling Perturabo closer the moment he realized how much his brother didn’t mind, how desperate Perturabo was for the slightest connection. He had to be careful not to pull on the various cable ports attached to his brother’s head, but even then Corvus managed to gently maneuver him until Perturabo was fully leaning into his arms, a slightest caress eliciting a sharp gasp, or an aborted whimper, and a shudder wracking the powerful body.
How long has it been since Perturabo has permitted any gentle touch by another’s hand? Just how starved was he for the slivers of affection, approval? The ever-present guarded suspicion was gone from Perturabo’s eyes, replaced with pleading hunger and wonder as Corvus indulged him.
He never knew his brother could be so vulnerable, so open, and so desperate. Did anyone, or has no one ever cared to ask?
Just as no one ever cared to learn that Perturabo could be shy, and yet painfully earnest, yearning for every caress. Corvus could see how unused he was to gentleness, and to joy, and to pleasure, how afraid Perturabo was to touch in return as if already sure he would be rejected. He wasn’t experienced, of course, he wasn’t, but now Corvus knew it wasn’t the lack of interest, but rather the lack of trust. Perturabo wouldn’t lie with someone he couldn’t trust, and the list of such people in the galaxy was painfully short. Not that many even tried to gain that trust, as guarded and brisk as his brother was.
Perturabo also sighed and whimpered beautifully as Corvus whispered into his ear how much this trust mattered to him, how much Perturabo mattered, his genius, his generosity, his care. It was a joy to see his usually grim and stoic brother look at him so softly, wordlessly pleading for Corvus to stay, to make love to him, to caress the rough skin interspersed with scars as Perturabo shuddered in his arms.
“Stay,” Perturabo exhaled roughly, his arm already reflexively laying across Corvus’ waist to pin him in place.
“I’m heavy. Don’t want to crush you,” Corvus murmured, sliding off the heated body below him. Perturabo furrowed his brow as his arm was dislodged from the pale back, but then sighed contentedly as Corvus curled right next to him, using his brother’s wide shoulder as a pillow.
“I’m a primarch, very few things can crush me,” Perturabo still noted pedantically, and Corvus could only chuckle. Perturabo’s words were dry, but his eyes, full of wonder and desperate, almost despairing devotion, told a different story.
“Then I’ll hope that nothing ever does, but should it happen, I’ll be there with you to pick up the pieces,” Corvus told him sincerely, and watched Perturabo’s eyes mist over.
These words would prove prophetic.
* * * * *
It was probably owed to the taciturn nature of them both that very few of their brothers knew that the primarchs of the Fourth and Nineteenth legions were even in regular communication, and none guessed how deep the connection ran. So when Horus explained his strategy for the Gate Forty-Two of the Unsighted Kings citadel, it was to the surprise of the newly minted Warmaster and Leman Russ that Perturabo immediately huffed.
“Wasteful. A scalpel does not make for a good battering ram where a hammer is needed.”
Corvus agreed. His Legion’s surgical strikes were ill-suited for a frontal assault, more of Perturabo’s domain, but he couldn’t forget a brief shadow of confusion on Horus’ face when Perturabo not only refused to challenge Corvus’ alternative plan, but even backed his suggestions with an approving nod.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Horus pressed on with his battle assignments, and Leman backed Horus as their father’s chosen Warmaster. Perturabo might have considered the tactics of Lupercal wasteful, but accepted his orders with his usual grim determination, and Corvus had no choice but to do the same.
His Legion got decimated. As he and Perturabo looked at the map of the battle post-siege, neither could shake the feeling that this wasn’t just Horus’ mistake, nor his desire to put the youngest brother into place. Corvus’ troops taking on the role usually reserved for Perturabo’s own legion, and suffering the subsequent losses, was not coincidental.
“He was trying to court my favour there,” Perturabo muttered, “Just like the politicians on Olympia.”
“After stretching your Legion so thin, you have to leave but a handful of Astartes to man a fortress on hostile worlds?” Corvus countered, but couldn’t really deny Perturabo’s claim.
With every day, he could see how much the endless sieges and trenches of the Great Crusade crushed Perturabo, who accepted his orders with the usual stoic determination. Yet by now Corvus could tell that Perturabo yearned to return to the drawing board, that his eyes only ever lit up when the Chief Architect of the Civic Builders was reporting on the progress on the planets Iron Warriors left behind in their never-ending duty. His brother was exhausted and battered by the perpetual war, and nobody but Corvus seemed to think it a problem. As if Perturabo could just continue, an unyielding war machine, with no breaks and no gratitude, until nothing remained.
Corvus tried to lend his hand as much as he could, even reaching out to Ashen Claws and Xeric’s divisions of Raven Guard on the edges of the Imperium to provide assistance to Iron Warriors, exerting whatever influence he had on High Lords of Terra, and on his Father, to prioritize the more civic projects assigned to the Fourth Legion, but he was but the youngest son, his reach short, his word not weighted as heavily as some of his older brothers.
That Perturabo was grateful for every crumb, every kind word, was devastating. The prideful and stubborn primarch would never admit to weakness in front of the rest of the galaxy, but to Corvus, he could confess the bitterness, the disappointment, and the toil the war was taking on him.
Perturabo was on the verge of shattering, and none but Corvus could see the cracks.
“Iron Warriors received the new Mark V armor. I sent it back, not enough heavy plating, ill-suited for frontal assault,” Perturabo told him once, looking at the schematics of the new armor sent to the primarchs by the tech-priests of Mars. “Horus still insists on the combat trial before scrapping the model. He was trying to manipulate me to send it your way.”
“Allow him,” Corvus replied quietly, coming to look at the annotations Perturabo added to the schematics. Just hanging out with his brother expanded his knowledge of the engineering solutions that went behind their weaponry tenfold, and he could already see how a model that would be subpar for a siege would perform much more favourably in the style of stealthy warfare his Legion preferred.
Perturabo frowned but said nothing. Their brother Horus was playing some dangerous game, but what it was, neither could foretell.
In but a handful of years, it would become clear. But by then, Perturabo’s sanity would finally snap, and Corvus would be left with the proverbial pieces.
* * * * *
He knew of Horus’ lies. Never trusted him after the faithful battle in Aukum-Sothos Cluster, always tracked the Warmaster’s orders. And yet even he couldn’t predict the betrayal of this magnitude. Father’s orders to march on Istvaan almost felt like vindication.
The first drop was brutal, the battle bloody, claiming even more lives of his already battered and bruised legion, and the only hope Corvus had was the rising reinforced walls of the Iron Warriors’ temporary encampment.
As his Ravens, Vulkan’s Salamanders, and Ferrus’ Iron Hands made their hasty retreat through the Urgall Depression, Corvus watched with mounting horror as Iron Warriors opened fire on Night Lords and Word Bearers.
“Horus’ betrayal runs deep. Konrad and Lorgar stand by his side,” Perturabo replied curtly to Corvus’ unasked question.
What was there to say? There was only one way for Perturabo to know to fire on the newly revealed traitor legions.
“What happened?” was the only thing he could think to ask.
And then Perturabo told him about Olympia.
“Father would never forgive me,” Perturabo forced out, his voice full of pain and sorrow, for once not hidden behind the usual stoicism, “I’ve seen his judgment on Monarchia, on Prospero. With our… we had two more brothers. Not anymore.”
Corvus could only stare at him, icy horror gripping his insides.
“You will never forgive me,” Perturabo whispered, in utter misery, his knees buckling as the primarch dropped heavily to the ground at Corvus’ feet, “You are too good. Too just.”
“Why save me?” Corvus said slowly, crouching down to his brother’s level, “Why betray Horus, then?”
“You would never march under Horus’ banner, and I am no Fulgrim,” Perturabo answered after a long silence, still not raising his eyes to look at Corvus, “My oaths to Father, to Horus… none of it matters anymore. My loyalty is yours to command. I’ll fight under your banner until I am no longer of use, and then accept whatever judgment you see fit. If it’s Father’s, be so.”
The pieces in Corvus’ hands cut sharply into the pale flesh, left him bleeding in the wake of Perturabo’s grief, and the horrors and devastation his rage inflicted, and yet he couldn’t let them go.
Iron Warriors and Raven Guard would march side by side as Horus Heresy unraveled.
For Perturabo looked at him, wordlessly pleading for delivery from his shame, and Corvus was ever Corax the Deliverer.