Chapter Text
“Who the fuck do you think actually voted in favor of killing Lorgar!?” he ‘asked’ crudely, his deep, rumbling voice barely above a whisper, but shaking and so full of barely restrained anger that his fury and the instability that inevitably came with such overwhelming emotions, was clearly displayed for all to see. Gone was the even-toned, typically detached and reliably most rational one amongst them — even the unusually passionate but composed man pleading his case from minutes ago—a newly presented side of him in his own right—paled in comparison to this barely held together ball of impotent, azure rage.
“Roboute,” came the first among them to speak up. A voice even deeper, low and calm; the tone of a man more concerned with trying to bring his Brother back to reason than attempting to answer such a painful and pointless question.
“Don't you dare speak to me that way right now, Dorn,” the scathing hostility spewing from Roboute’s lips proved that he was in no mood to be patronized, nor willing to back down from the hill he stood upon.
The hill he was willing to die on, likely from Dorn’s vantage.
“I’m sure Konrad voted for it,” Roboute spat, the fingers of his right hand that he had been clenching and unfurling repeatedly now hovering precariously over the hilt of his sword. “Don’t you think? How he revels in suffering and bloodshed, not to mention this whole situation probably appeals to his weird and perverse sense of ‘justice’.” His nostrils flared as he continued to rant and rave, the cadence of his speech unusually fast. “Mortarion, constantly sulking and bitter, determined to keep his distance from all of us no matter our hospitality… Angron, violent insufferable brute that he is. Perturabo, always standoffish and terrible, petulant and determined to be the victim in every circumstance…”
“And that's your four votes, is it?” the Lion questioned, his rich voice cutting through the incessant rambling now that Roboute had made his assumptions crystal clear.
Roboute barely spared him a glance, but the scowl distorting his typically handsome features was still plainly visible.
“No Brother, you’re wrong,” Dorn said evenly, giving Lion a small, barely perceptible nod before refocusing his attention on Roboute, still patient and quiet though more determined to reach him than ever, as the situation was getting way out of hand.
“How so?” Roboute demanded disagreeably, teeth bared as his hand still remained scant inches above the hilt his fingers were shadowing.
“Konrad would never vote for such a thing, even if he doesn’t hide the fact that he doesn’t care much for Lorgar,” Dorn continued as if this conclusion were the most obvious thing in the galaxy.
“What?” Roboute asked, incredulous. It was clear he did not believe what Dorn was saying whatsoever, but at least his curiosity had momentarily cut through the haze clouding his judgment — for however long his attention could be diverted.
Dorn took a half-pace closer, his naturally incredibly low voice now a whisper too deep and indecipherable for any natural being to ever understand. Hopefully, it would be enough to keep more sensitive, nosy ears from discerning what it was he had to say. Under normal circumstances, such wishes would likely be futile — but as the rest of the gathering had broken off into similar small groups aside from those keeping to themselves, well… perhaps the strange and unusual din of concentrated Primarch voices would allow them a modicum of privacy.
Though the scene Roboute was apparently intent on making lowered those chances, despite Dorn’s efforts.
“Konrad is an outsider. He doesn’t fit in, and he knows it, Roboute. First Magnus, and now this? He probably already feels like he’s next on the chopping block. He might not get along with Lorgar, but he’s not going to do anything to set a precedent right now, especially if all of this coincides with one of his visions. Besides, isn’t it unfair to jump to such a conclusion? From Brothers simply not getting along, to one making an open call for the other's execution?”
Dorn’s attempts to appeal to his innate sense of logic were getting on Roboute’s nerves, and he didn’t have much more restraint left in him. “Well some of our Brothers obviously did call for Lorgar’s execution, Dorn. At least three, maybe four depending on how Malcador voted.”
“I think Malcador is essentially neutral. I suspect the only reason why he was included in the first place, was to make the number of ballots even. So that a split vote would be possible, though that obviously wasn’t even close to happening.”
“Yes, irrelevant,” Roboute remarked with no lack of sarcasm.
“That whole thing about being an outcast, and never feeling as though you’re a part of the family?”
“What of it?”
“That also applies to Mortarion. I don’t believe he voted for it either despite being so vocal when it came to speaking out against Magnus before," Dorn began, his voice even and quiet. "While he certainly doesn’t see eye to eye with Lorgar, likely in his view this entire situation of singling the odd ones out is becoming habitual. The way he was hunched in the corner the entire time, putting as much distance as possible between himself and us, looking as though he didn’t trust a single person in the room; as if he was the one being potentially condemned? Call it self-serving motivations if you insist, but I still believe it exonerates him entirely from your judgment.”
“Then what of Angron? He obviously has no fondness for Lorgar nor sense of self-preservation, indiscriminate beast that he is,” Roboute huffed, growing more frustrated by the second. He was loath to admit it, feeling as he did at the moment, but Dorn’s reasoning was sound. Despite himself, he was genuinely interested to learn if Dorn could possibly defend the worst of them or if he’d concede on at least one of Roboute’s suspicions.
“Angron absolutely voted no, Roboute.”
Roboute glared balefully at Dorn, growing quite tired of his no nonsense, matter-of-fact, blunt way of speaking — a quality he typically appreciated when it wasn’t taking the initiative in shooting down his every suggestion.
“Consider it. This entire meeting and the circumstances around it.” Dorn gestured with one hand. “Lorgar isn’t here to defend himself, despite the severity of the charges and the gravity of the decision that will be made here today. In fact, if the vote passed, he would be condemned to death. Right here, right now without being able to say a single word. Not only denied the ability to speak up in his own defense, but also denied the right to say goodbye to us, or even die on his own terms before some heretofore unchosen executioner is sent to his homeworld to take him out in secret, away from the eyes and ears of the Empire. Can you think of anything more unjust in Angron’s eyes?”
The longer Dorn spoke on these matters, the more defeated Roboute looked. Though the loss of deserving targets for his simmering fury made him no more peaceable nor any less dangerous.
“Don’t you even dare accuse me,” came a new voice from behind, immediately unpleasant and completely unmistakable, laced with bitterness and iron. “I know you detest me, but you're not the only one with a sense of right and wrong or a code of ethics around here, despite how lowly you apparently think of me.”
“I—” Roboute immediately jerked his head to the side and looked up, baffled as to how a man as large and augmented as Perturabo could move about so quietly.
“Save it,” Perturabo growled, shooting a look devoid of any warmth whatsoever in their direction, though oddly it didn’t seem entirely focused on Roboute himself, as if Perturabo was looking past him to something else unspecified. “Unless you’re the one on trial next time Roboute,” he grumbled disagreeably, not even stopping his stride long enough to wait for a reply as he stomped past.
Roboute exhaled sharply, looking towards the eldest of them for some sense of support. He felt even more alone upon realizing that the Lion had slipped away at some point in the conversation, barely speaking at all before unceremoniously taking his leave as if none of this even mattered…
“Maybe you should think again about that Lion you look up to so much,” Perturabo called out without bothering to slow down or turn his head as he quickly cleared the hall.
A despondent sigh left Roboute as he shook his head, uncertain if Perturabo genuinely held such suspicions or if he had said hurtful things solely because he had been watching and listening all this time, then took the opportunity to get his petty revenge for Roboute’s accusation towards him, as Lion himself appeared to be long gone. In truth, Roboute didn’t want to consider it.
He turned to Dorn once more, completely drained of the resolve he’d once had, just in time to see Dorn awkwardly running a hand over his shock of stark white hair, gaze aimed towards the hall, lingering on the space where Perturabo had once been, but no longer occupied.
Dorn cleared his throat loudly before turning again, looking past Roboute momentarily before making eye contact once more. “We should keep our voices down. You know, he was listening to every word. And that glare he gave me… I’m not sure what I said that offended him so much, but apparently he took as much offense to something he overheard me say, as your outright accusation of him.”
Roboute shrugged halfheartedly, “with him who knows, he’s always offended about something.”
Dorn sighed. “Regardless, we should continue this conversation behind closed doors. I… want to tell you something in hopes you’ll finally understand.”
In all honesty, Roboute was beyond caring who heard them at this point, having half a mind to openly question every single one of their Brothers and perhaps even Malcador himself, not giving one single fuck about the sanctity or authority of an anonymous vote at the moment. Not when it came down to something like this. There was no honor, no justice, nothing of value to be gained, not here. Nothing could come of this but sorrow, and disappointment, and the impending dread that something elusive but irreplaceable had already been lost, this event in and of itself serving to fracture an already estranged and dysfunctional family, perhaps irreparably.
His hearts had never felt so heavy, leaden in his chest. Still, he found himself following Dorn into an unoccupied side room, if only to get whatever this was, over with, so he could begin the process of interrogating everyone to get to the bottom of this travesty. The door had barely clicked closed behind him, before the most unexpected statement in all the Five Hundred Worlds was levied at him, head-on from the one amongst them all that he trusted as his peer, the most.
“I voted for it, but not for the reasons you no doubt assume.”
In a single instant, Roboute was upon Dorn — an animalistic, primal growl reverberating in his throat as he glowered down at his significantly shorter Brother, both hands roughly clamped down atop his oversized golden pauldrons if only to keep the vengeful urge to draw his sword against his own blood at bay. His eyes shimmered with emotional and mental instability, brought down to a lamentable state only a single push away from losing his respectability and much lauded logic and self-mastery. And beneath the thin veneer of panic and outrage, at this vantage his true unresolved predicament was laid bare for Dorn to see. True worry, genuine fear — feelings no Primarch and certainly not the leader of Ultramar, should have ever been able to feel.
But the roiling, indignant rage that it coalesced as, was also real, and currently focused on the only tangible outlet Roboute had access to.
“Have you enjoyed making an utter fool of me all this time, you filthy despicable traitor?” Roboute said coldly, though the tremor in his voice proved that his icy hostility towards the one he’d confided in did very little to calm the fire in his soul. “And to think I took you into my confidence. Was it fun, mocking me? Were you going to allow me to check off every name on the list while conveniently avoiding your own hand in tearing this family apart?” Roboute ranted, his verbal tirade occasionally punctuated with a hard, firm shove against Dorn shoulders. “How could you? I trusted you! Your own Brother. Our Brother…” The longer Roboute spoke, the more distinctly his disappointment presented itself, his syllables breaking into rough, strained staccato dangerously approaching something akin to a dry sob, or as close to such a human expression of grief as one such as he could attain.
And it was as plain as the verdict, that if it had been any other among them aside from Dorn to confess such betrayal so easily to his face, that they'd already likely be dead.
Dorn appeared deeply concerned but remained entirely upright, steadfast and unmoved by both word and action, though an unusually soft tone accompanied his speech when next he spoke, perhaps as close to kindness as he could muster.
“Brother, did you see the way Father was looking at you when you spoke up in Lorgar’s defense? Did you feel the unease permeating every inch of that room from all angles from the very moment you started speaking? Because I did.” Dorn raised a hand to place it over one of Roboute’s — the one still remaining atop his pauldron, unfazed that the other had suddenly moved away to wrap around the hilt of his sword.
And both of those usually steady hands, were now clearly shaking within those blue gauntlets, stabilization servos straining to their maximum.
"Lorgar's life was never in any danger." Dorn led in carefully, metered and slow as he made unwavering eye contact. "His execution never would have passed the ballot. I had full faith in that. But can you even imagine what Father would have done to all of us if the vote had been unanimous to spare him?"
"To Lorgar?" Dorn narrowed his eyes, the register of his voice dropping even lower. "To you?"