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The interior of the Fist of Iron suits its commander: grim, forbidding, relying on the exposed shapes of its structure rather than ornamentation for its aesthetics. Lorgar has been given directions to the forge but no escort, and is unsure whether that's a sign of trust or contempt. Ferrus is one of the brothers he understands least; for all that Ferrus' passions are bold and and evident, he is a man as hard as his name, with little time for anything gentler than crushing the foe.
Still, he sent a summons to the Fidelitas Lex in the wake of Galadon Secondus' capitulation, and Lorgar would not be so cold as to refuse. Their Legions cooperated in taking the surface, after all.
As he descends into the deeper, more secret places of the ship, it is the heat that tells him his course is true. Ferrus' forge burns hot enough to be felt from two decks away, like a volcano harnessed and carried to the stars. Lorgar's mouth feels dry as he progresses and his robes cling damp to his skin.
The mouth of the forge is dark and cavernous, but the interior glows with the furnace's near unbearable heat. Ferrus stands at the anvil, stripped to the waist, pounding a blade into shape. The light paints liquid streaks of flame down his silver arms as he works. The object taking form in his hands is elegant in its very brutality, easy to imagine cleaving through armor, flesh, and bone in the hands of an eager warrior. That is what Ferrus creates: tools of destruction for eager warriors to wield.
No, that framing is unfair, and Lorgar seeks to temper it before he speaks. "Another devastating weapon in progress?"
Ferrus looks over his shoulder, silver eyes gleaming. "That's what warriors need," he says. He turns back to his work, smoothing the glowing metal with one impervious hand.
"Indeed," Lorgar says. He tries not to hear accusation in Ferrus' reply, but he knows that few of his brothers have any esteem for what he creates instead of tools of war. He watches for another moment. "You called for me, brother?"
"I did," Ferrus says. It sounds like a grudging admission of weakness. He sets down the blade he was working on and turns to Lorgar. His bare chest is covered in scars, though few come from blades; most are tiny pockmarks, pale against the brown of his skin, where droplets of molten metal splashed up during his work. The marks somehow add to his stoic nobility. "I have something for you."
Lorgar blinks. "What?" Of all the reasons he could have been summoned, this would never have occurred to him.
"It would insult my warriors to call your arrival a rescue. But all the same, your assistance in securing Galadon Secondus is appreciated."
"I would never be so bold as to call my aid a rescue," Lorgar says. He knows his brothers and their pride, and he has not the glory or esteem to risk insulting any of them—and especially one so short-tempered as Ferrus is said to be.
Ferrus grunts. It might be approval. He lifts a weapon off a nearby table. "In any case, this is for you. To show my gratitude." He tosses the weapon one-handed. Lorgar catches it likewise, trying not to flinch too obviously at the unexpected weight.
The thing Ferrus has made for him is beautiful. It is a maul, like the ones he has carried before, but in the way that a dragon is like a serpent, or a primarch like a man. The balance feels already familiar in his hand, and whatever exotic leather wraps the handle is exquisite. The shaft is plain, but it is as long as an Astartes is tall, and the surface is brushed to a subtle, handsome finish. All ornamentation is reserved for the head, which comprises a filigreed globe surrounded by spiked meridians that give the appearance of a sunburst.
"It's called Illuminarum," Ferrus says, already starting to turn away. "Take care of it."
"This is the finest thing anyone has ever given me," Lorgar says. He can't keep the emotion from his voice. "Thank you, Ferrus."
Ferrus turns back to him, skeptical. "You don't receive tribute from your—" he waves a silver hand dismissively— "believers?"
"My... Kor Phaeron decided what should be done with any such gifts," Lorgar says. He hefts Illuminarum, feeling how comfortable its balance and weight are. "But I don't believe any of them could have compared to this. Not only is the craftsmanship exquisite, but the thoughtfulness with which it's suited to me. It will be an honor to carry."
"You don't need to make so much of it," Ferrus says, annoyed or possibly embarrassed. "Use it on compliance and that's thanks enough."
Lorgar bows. He can see the tension in Ferrus' shoulders, the urge to get back to the forge. It's not so different from the way he feels when someone interrupts his writing. "I won't keep you any longer," he says. "Thank you again."
When Ferrus realizes he's keeping tabs on Lorgar, he almost throws his current project at the wall. It's become second nature, when the astropaths receive news of the other fleets, for him to listen for Lorgar's name. To keep track of where the Word Bearers have gone and how their compliances proceed. It's ridiculous of him.
He's always had the impression, bolstered by other primarchs' opinions, that Lorgar didn't have his priorities straight, dallying over compliant worlds instead of focusing on the ones that still need illumination. But the news coming from the astropathic choir portrays a man who wants to cast off that role, who is working hard to carry out his purpose. It almost makes it excusable for Ferrus to wonder how he's doing.
When his fleet exits the warp to find themselves off-course and at the edge of a system where Lorgar is fighting, he allows himself to act on the unreasonable impulse. He hails the Word Bearers flagship.
"You need some help over there?"
Grainy and distant on the hololith, Lorgar smiles. "I have faith that my sons could subdue this world. But the presence of your cannons would be a boon."
Ferrus snorts, recognizing the echo of his own words the last time they met. "Tell your commanders to expect us, then. We'll be in position to drop in about eight hours."
The Iron Hands drop on schedule and make contact with the enemy an hour after that. The enemy force—some unwholesome splicing of human and xenos genes—is dug in along the spine of their world, in fortified mountain holdings that offer little purchase for the Word Bearers assault companies that offered Ferrus such assistance on Galadon Secondus. It satisfies his pride in both his legion's way of war and his own standing with his brother when he can bombard those defenses and provide breaches for the combined infantry to exploit.
He catches up with Lorgar in the ruins of the largest stronghold, the Word Bearers primarch striding toward him through the wreckage with Illuminarum clutched in one hand. The head of the weapon is blackened and smoking, alien blood still burning off thanks to its power field. Good. Ferrus doesn't make weapons to be decorative.
"Brother," Lorgar says as he approaches. "My thanks for your aid. Your sons split the armor of this world with admirable skill."
"They were adequate," Ferrus allows. He offers his hand, and Lorgar clasps his wrist with a broad, grateful smile. Ferrus hesitates, seeking some appropriate response, the sort of thing that would come naturally to Fulgrim or Sanguinius or—or Lorgar himself, but is foreign to Ferrus' experience. "It is good to see you making use of your gift."
"My appreciation for your craft has only increased since I started carrying it to battle." He swings Illuminarum up to prop it over his shoulder, looking for once like a real warrior. "Would you care to join me on the Fidelitas Lex for dinner in celebration?"
"You or your legion?" Ferrus asks. He might be starting to tolerate Lorgar, but he can't imagine a meal with the XVII being anything other than an ordeal.
"I had envisaged a private occasion, but if you'd prefer something more formal—"
"No," Ferrus says before the offer can be completed. "Pomp and circumstance ill suit me."
"A simple and quiet meal, then."
That seems unlike most celebrations that Ferrus has known, but it's true that has known roughly as few as he could manage. "I suppose I could do that," he says, without being entirely sure why.
When Lorgar's smile is confident, he has an echo of the Emperor's grace about him. "Wonderful. In two hours' time?"
In two hours' time, Ferrus is disembarking his Thunderhawk onto the Fidelitas Lex. He has changed his full plate for a still-functional but less cumbersome set of leathers, and feels vindicated in that choice when Lorgar meets him wearing robes instead of bloodied armor. There is a dagger at Lorgar's belt, and the bare inch of its blade gleams like black stone; Ferrus could almost believe its purpose isn't ceremonial.
The ship itself is no better than he expected, but at least no worse. Most of his brothers indulge in more pointless decoration than he does. The halls of Lorgar's ship are decorated with bas reliefs of scenes that probably have allegorical meaning, golden figures reaching out to smaller supplicants that crowd around them. The air smells faintly of incense and sometimes a snatch of song reaches them from a far-off chamber.
The room that Lorgar leads him to has soft light, woven tapestries on the walls with repeating patterns instead of figures, and a plain table that sits low to the floor with an assortment of small dishes on it. Lorgar sits in the scatter of pillows on one side of the table, then gestures for Ferrus to take the other side.
Ferrus considers this for a second, then pushes the pillows out of the way and sits. He catches Lorgar stifling a smile as he does so. "What?"
"You are distrustful of comfort," Lorgar says. "I thought you might refuse the cushions. I suppose I'm pleased to be correct."
"Too much comfort is dangerous," Ferrus says, watching as Lorgar picks up a piece of flatbread and tears off a strip. "If you aren't careful you can lose your edge."
Lorgar uses the bread to pick up a few small, pickled fruits. "And a weapon that loses its edge is discarded," he says. "Or melted down to forge something better."
"Something like that." Ferrus gestures to the spread in front of him. "Come, now. What are these things you're offering me?"
Lorgar seems happy to take the cue. The meal is like one that caravans on his homeworld would have when they stopped at an oasis settlement: fruits either in dried strips or preserved in brine, salted meat from the mercenaries' kills, sharp cheese they'd trade for with the settled folk who had livestock, flatbread from ground roots, and all of it washed down with a tea made from the oasis herbs. There are a dozen dishes on the table, each falling into one of those categories; when Ferrus says it reminds him of scavenging, Lorgar doesn't take offense but rather agrees that it's the same principle made communal. When Lorgar then ventures that there is something uplifting about the human adaptability and determination that makes such ways of life possible, Ferrus decides not to argue. It's not that far from his own point of view.
By the end of the meal, Ferrus is feeling almost comfortable, despite the unfamiliar surroundings and the fey beauty that Lorgar doesn't seem to know he possesses. He can't even blame intoxicants, as there have been none on the table and certainly none that would affect a primarch. He's simply enjoying the moment. It's strange, but there it is.
"—even though I'm not really a warrior, like you, or most of the others," Lorgar is saying, in the middle of discussing how he's trying to do better on campaign.
Ferrus reaches out and grabs the hand Lorgar was gesturing with. Lorgar's pretty golden eyes go wide, but he doesn't try to pull away. "Here," Ferrus says, turning Lorgar's hand palm-up and tracing the line of calluses where palm and fingers meet. "This feels like the hand of a warrior to me."
Lorgar ducks his head as if that would hide his smile. Was that inappropriate? Ferrus starts to let go, but Lorgar catches his hand in turn and holds on. The golden tattoos reach all the way down Lorgar's fingertips, adding to the contrast between him and Ferrus' plain-but-silver hand.
"This warrior's hands," Lorgar asks, thumb tracing one of Ferrus' knuckles, "how much do they feel? They perform great feats, I know, but what is it like to touch with them?"
Is he being seduced? Ferrus isn't sure. He would never have considered Lorgar in that light, except that Lorgar has become somehow interesting since he started paying closer attention.
"I've had them almost my entire life," he says, watching Lorgar touch his hand. "I don't remember what it was like before. But they are sensitive." He pulls Lorgar's hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over Lorgar's knuckles. "I'd say this is comparable."
Lorgar stares at him with eyes wide, gold swallowed up by void black. Perhaps Ferrus is doing the seducing, accidentally. Lorgar's fingers unfold but don't withdraw, slowly stroking Ferrus' bottom lip and following the line of his jaw. The scars on his face—enough to earn him the name of Gorgon—are not enough to dissuade Lorgar, despite how much he surrounds himself with fine and handsome things.
Still a scavenger at some level, Ferrus thinks, but Lorgar's hand cups his face with such excruciating gentleness that he knows that isn't fair. This isn't the touch of a man who's taking what he can get out of desperation.
Lorgar leans forward across the table, pausing partway. Ferrus leans in too, eyes locked on Lorgar's. Slowly, cautiously, as if this moment is something neither of them want to startle, they close the distance between them until it's eradicated.
The lips pressing against Ferrus' are soft, but the kiss is firm, committed and unhesitating. Lorgar opens his mouth and his tongue meets Ferrus' in a slow, exploratory motion that still conveys his hunger. Ferrus makes a low sound of approval and he thinks Lorgar shivers in response. He finds himself aware of his body, his flesh, in a way he very rarely is.
Lorgar pulls back from the kiss, but not far, still watching Ferrus' face, their breath commingled. "I know I only said dinner," he says. His heartbeats are quick but steady. "But would you like to stay the night?"
Ferrus smiles, despite the scars that pull it crooked and the unfamiliar feeling of the expression. "Yes," he says. "I'd like that."