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88.88% The Primarch of Liberty / Chapter 151: Vacation and a New Primarch

Chapter 151: Vacation and a New Primarch

The golden halls of the Imperial Palace stretched endlessly, their magnificent architecture a testament to humanity's renewed glory. Within one of its more private chambers, two figures stood before a massive hololithic display showing the expanse of the growing Imperium. The Emperor, his radiant form barely contained by mortal perception, studied the countless points of light representing conquered worlds. Beside him, Malcador the Sigillite leaned on his staff, his aged features illuminated by the cosmic cartography before them.

"Five hundred thousand worlds, my friend," Malcador began, his voice carrying the weight of both triumph and concern. "The Great Crusade proceeds at a pace even we didn't anticipate. The Independence Sector alone has integrated fifty thousand worlds into their administration."

The Emperor's face showed a hint of pride at the mention of Franklin's realm. "Franklin has proven quite efficient at expansion and integration. Though I suspect having future knowledge helps somewhat with avoiding potential pitfalls."

Malcador chuckled. "Indeed. Speaking of efficiency, my lord, we need to discuss the Administratum. They're drowning in parchment and ink, trying to manage this vast empire with quill and scroll. It's becoming problematic."

"How so?" The Emperor turned his gaze to his oldest friend, though His mind never truly stopped restructuring the Impossible city through the Reality Engine.

"The current system simply cannot scale," Malcador explained, waving his hand through the hologram to highlight several sectors. "We're seeing increasing delays in resource allocation, miscommunications between sectors, and data loss. Franklin's been complaining – quite colorfully, I might add – about the Administratum constantly misplacing or misrecording the Independence Sector's production numbers, and I quote He's complained, and I quote, 'These idiots keep confusing billions with millions.'"

"Franklin has never been one for bureaucratic inefficiency," the Emperor mused, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What solutions do you propose?"

Malcador straightened, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "We should consider implementing what Franklin has been advocating: Base Artificial Intelligence systems for data management. Before you raise your concerns," he added quickly, seeing the Emperor's expression shift, "I'm not suggesting anything close to the Men of Iron. These would be simple calculating machines, no more capable of rebellion than a well-designed abacus."

The Emperor's brow furrowed. "Elaborate."

"During the Humanity's Golden Age, we had programs – Gigahard Excel and its ilk – that could process terabytes of data in milliseconds. Simple, predictable machines with no consciousness, no ability to evolve beyond their programming. Just very, very fast calculators. and Data Banks" Malcador gestured to a small device on a nearby table, about the size of his palm. "Franklin's provided examples from his sector. They've been using them for years without incident."

"And you believe these would solve our administrative problems?"

"They would certainly help. The Administratum is buckling under the weight of managing half a million worlds. With these devices, we could process supply requisitions, population censuses, and resource distributions in a fraction of the time, with far fewer errors."

The Emperor moved to examine the device Malcador had indicated. "What of the Mechanicum? They hold strong views about such technology."

A knowing smile crossed Malcador's face. "That's where Belisarius comes in. As the soon-to-be Fabricator-General, he's shown remarkable... flexibility in his interpretation of the Machine Cult's doctrine. If we provide Mars with the STCs for these calculators, it would help secure their cooperation in other matters."

"Cawl," the Emperor mused. "Yes, his appointment will bring significant changes to Mars. You believe he would support this initiative?"

"He's already expressed interest in the examples from the Independence Sector. More importantly, he understands the practical necessity. The Imperium cannot function efficiently if we're relying on manual calculation and physical documentation for everything."

The Emperor was silent for a moment, His mind weighing countless possibilities. "These devices – you're certain they cannot develop beyond their programming? The risks of artificial intelligence—"

"Are well known to us both," Malcador interjected gently. "These are not thinking machines, my lord. They're tools, no more capable of rebellion than a sword or a bolter. Their programming is fixed, their functions limited to mathematical calculations and data organization."

"Show me," the Emperor commanded.

Malcador activated the palm-sized device, and a holographic display sprang to life between them. "Observe. This unit contains production data from three sectors over the past five years. Watch how quickly it can sort, analyze, and present the information."

The display flickered as the device processed millions of data points in seconds, organizing them into clear, comprehensible patterns. The Emperor watched intently as years of administrative work was completed in moments.

"Impressive," He acknowledged. "And this would free our human administrators to focus on actual governance rather than mere calculation."

"Exactly," Malcador nodded. "The Administratum would still make the decisions, but they'd have accurate, organized data to base those decisions on. No more lost records, no more misplaced decimal points, no more delays because someone spilled ink on crucial documents."

The Emperor's lips quirked in amusement. "I assume Franklin was quite vocal about those incidents?"

"Oh, the stories I could tell," Malcador chuckled. "Did you know he once sent an entire shipping container of rubber stamps to the Administratum's head office? Each one read 'PLEASE DOUBLE-CHECK YOUR MATH.'"

"That does sound like him," the Emperor shook his head, fondness evident in His voice. "Very well, old friend. Draft a proposal for implementing these calculation devices. Work with Cawl on the technical specifications and security measures. We'll begin with a trial run in several key sectors."

"And the Independence Sector's expansion?" Malcador inquired, returning to their earlier topic.

"Let them continue as they have been," the Emperor decided. "Franklin's methods may be unconventional, but they're effective. The knowledge his son brought from that other timeline... it's proving invaluable. The Webway Project alone is years ahead of schedule thanks to the information from the Black Library."

"Speaking of the Webway," Malcador's voice turned thoughtful, "the cooperation we're receiving from certain Aeldari factions is unprecedented. Franklin's connection to Khaine seems to have opened doors we never expected."

"The question remains," Malcador said carefully, "of how we handle the integration of such vast territories. Even with these calculation devices, governing five hundred thousand worlds – and growing – is no small task."

"We'll adapt," the Emperor stated firmly. "The Imperium must be flexible enough to grow, yet structured enough to endure. These administrative reforms you propose are a good start. Work with Franklin and Cawl on implementation, but keep a close eye on any potential risks."

"Of course, my lord. And what of the other Primarchs? Some may see the Independence Sector's autonomy and technological advancement as... preferential treatment."

The Emperor's expression hardened slightly. "They would do well to remember that Franklin's cooperation and contribution to the Imperium comes with certain necessities. The Independence Sector's production capabilities alone justify its special status. Let them focus on their own duties rather than coveting their brother's responsibilities."

"As you say," Malcador nodded, making a mental note to monitor any brewing tensions. "Shall I begin drafting the reforms immediately?"

"Yes. And Malcador?" The Emperor turned to face his oldest friend fully. "Thank you. Your counsel, as always, proves invaluable."

"That's what friends are for," the Sigillite replied with a slight smile, already planning his next meeting with Cawl. As he turned to leave, he couldn't help but reflect on how different things were from that other timeline Franklin had described. Perhaps, just perhaps, they were building something that would truly last this time.

The Emperor watched him go, His mind already processing countless possible futures. The introduction of these calculation devices would change the Imperium in ways both subtle and profound. But then, change was inevitable. The key was ensuring it served humanity's ascension rather than its downfall.

---------------------------

In the strategium of the Sweet Liberty, four of the Emperor's finest sons gathered around a massive hololithic table displaying the remnants of recently crushed Ork empires. The room's advanced technology painted their faces in an eerie green glow as they studied the tactical overlays.

Franklin Valorian cleared his throat dramatically. "So, my dear brothers, we find ourselves faced with an unusual phenomenon: Ork empires popping up like mushrooms after rain, led by surprisingly competent Mekboy Warbosses."

Magnus the Red adjusted his scholarly robes, his single eye gleaming with intellectual interest. "Indeed. Their technological advancement rate is... concerning. Though 'technological' might be giving their ramshackle contraptions too much credit."

"They work," Rogal Dorn stated with his characteristic bluntness. "That is sufficient for the greenskins."

Roboute Guilliman gestured to a particular cluster of defeated Ork strongholds. "The pattern is undeniable. These Mekboy Warbosses are displaying a level of strategic coordination that goes beyond typical Orkish behavior."

Franklin coughed awkwardly, knowing exactly why the Orks were "evolving" but choosing to keep that particular tidbit of future knowledge to himself. "Yeah, funny how that works..."

Magnus raised an eyebrow at Franklin's obvious deflection but continued, "I have a proposition. We could theoretically influence their development by selectively eliminating the more technologically inclined Warbosses. Guide their evolution, if you will."

"Explain." Dorn's voice echoed with interest.

"Well," Magnus gestured, creating a small psychic display, "if we prioritize the elimination of Mekboy Warbosses while allowing the more... shall we say, traditionally minded Warbosses to survive, we could potentially shift their species toward a preference for melee combat."

"You mean make them dumber," Franklin grinned.

"I prefer the term 'specialized in close-combat tactics,'" Magnus replied primly.

Guilliman's eyes lit up with understanding. "Brilliant. By controlling which strains survive, we guide their development toward a more manageable threat. Less shooting, more chopping."

"choppas are easier to wall against than shootas," Dorn nodded approvingly. "i support this plan."

"Great!" Franklin clapped his hands together. "Let's get this to Father. Here's the data-slate with all the details..." He pushed it toward his brothers.

The other three Primarchs stared at him.

"What?"

"You take it," they said in unison.

Franklin blinked. "Why me?"

"you are father's problem solver," Dorn stated matter-of-factly.

"His 'little fixer,'" Guilliman added with a slight smirk.

"His Favorite Bureaucrat besides Malcador ," Magnus finished, his eye twinkling with amusement.

Franklin slumped in his chair. "I hate all of you."

"No, you don't," Magnus chuckled. "Besides, our Legion's handling of the Kaos Xenos situation we handled last month."

"Speaking of which," Dorn interjected, "i require more information about these 'kaos' xenos you encountered. their ability to bypass my fortifications is concerning."

Franklin and Magnus exchanged a quick glance.

"Yes, the... xenos," Franklin said carefully. "Nasty bunch. Very... alien."

"extremely alien," Magnus added, matching Franklin's tone. "nothing like anything we've seen before. certainly not related to any other known threats."

Guilliman was already scribbling notes. "Fascinating. Their tactical patterns suggest a level of strategic thinking that could pose significant challenges. We'll need to adjust our defensive protocols accordingly."

"i shall design new walls," Dorn declared. "these kaos xenos will not bypass my fortifications again."

Franklin struggled to keep a straight face. "That's... that's exactly what we need, brother. Strong walls. For the xenos. The very alien xenos."

"who are definitely not something else," Magnus added helpfully.

"Right!" Franklin stood quickly. "Well, this has been productive. I'll just take this data-slate to Father and—"

"Before you go," Guilliman interrupted, "while you're speaking with Father..."

Franklin sighed. "What do you need?"

"Additional trade routes would be beneficial," Guilliman began. "And perhaps some diplomatic considerations for Ultramar..."

"i require more construction materials," Dorn stated. "for the walls against the kaos xenos."

"And I was hoping," Magnus added innocently, "that Father might share more of his knowledge about the Empyrean's concepts."

Franklin looked at his brothers incredulously. "Are you seriously using me as a messenger boy?"

"you are the emperor's favorite," Dorn stated bluntly.

"His confidant," Guilliman added.

"His most trusted Primarch," Magnus smiled.

"I'm starting to think helping cure the Flesh Change was a mistake," Franklin muttered.

"Too late now, brother," Magnus grinned. "You're stuck with us."

"Fine," Franklin grabbed the data-slate. "But next time we need someone to explain to Father why an entire sector's worth of administratum clerks received rubber stamps that say 'learn to count,' one of you is doing it."

"that was you?" Dorn's eyes widened slightly.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Franklin said innocently, heading for the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go convince Father to approve an anti-Ork evolutionary program and increased funding for definitely-not-Chaos-related fortifications."

"Don't forget my trade routes!" Guilliman called after him.

"and my materials!"

"And the metaphysical knowledge!"

Franklin's voice echoed back: "I hate all of you!"

"no, you don't," Dorn called back.

"He really doesn't," Magnus chuckled.

-------------------------------

The Imperial Palace's Grand Ceremonial Hall gleamed with a warmth that seemed to emanate from more than just its gold-laden walls. Natural light streamed through vast crystal windows, casting the assembled demigods in an almost ethereal glow. The Emperor, resplendent in formal regalia that somehow managed to be both understated and magnificent, stood at the center of the gathering. His presence, while still overwhelming to mortals, was carefully modulated to allow his sons to stand comfortably in his presence.

"A little to the left, Angron," Franklin called out, directing his brother with the expertise of someone who had organized far too many family photos. "Fulgrim, your hair is perfect, stop fidgeting. Leman, try to look noble for five seconds, please."

"I always look noble, ye meddlesome showman," Leman growled good-naturedly, though he did straighten his formal wolfskin cloak.

The Emperor's lips quirked in amusement as his sons arranged themselves. On his left stood Horus, The Primarch of the Luna Wolves in his formal white and gold attire, followed by Angron in a surprisingly well-fitted formal uniform of deep blue and Ashen white. The absence of the Butcher's Nails had transformed the once-rage-filled Primarch into a stern but composed warrior. Next to him, Fulgrim practically glowed in his purple and gold raiment, while Ferrus Manus managed to make even his formal wear look functional, the silvered hands of his arms contrasting sharply with the dark material of his clothing. Vulkan, massive even among his brothers, wore formal robes in deep green with gold flame patterns that seemed to dance in the light.

On the Emperor's right, Franklin stood proudly in his liberty-themed formal attire: a tailored navy-blue suit with crisp red gloves and polished red shoes. A star-spangled necktie added a bold flair, while a subtle eagle motif embroidered on the lapels completed the ensemble. Next to him, Leman continued his silent war with his collar, while Roboute maintained perfect posture in his Ultramarines blue formal attire. Dorn stood stoic in imperial yellow, and Magnus cut an impressive figure in his crimson robes, adorned with subtle scholarly symbols.

"Remember," Franklin announced, "we're going for 'unified Imperial family' here. Try to look like we're not constantly arguing about everything."

"We do not argue about everything," Dorn stated.

"We're arguing about arguing right now," Magnus pointed out.

"That is not correct. I am merely stating a fact."

The Emperor's psychic voice echoed in their minds, tinged with amusement. "My sons, please."

The remembrancer's servitors began their work, flash-bulbs illuminating the scene. Franklin, ever the director, called out adjustments. "Fulgrim, slightly left – perfect. Ferrus, try to look less like you're planning to punch the camera. Angron, excellent neutral expression, brother!"

Several flashes later, Franklin clapped his hands. "Excellent! That's our family portrait done, and some propaganda pics for the Imperium. Great job, everyone!"

The formal photography session concluded, the brothers began to disperse around the hall's adjacent garden terrace. Franklin, who had somehow produced an apron reading "Best BBQ Primarch" from somewhere, was already firing up an enormous grill that looked like it had been designed by the Independence Sector's finest engineers.

"I still can't believe Father approved this," Roboute said, approaching Franklin as the latter began laying out various cuts of meat.

Franklin chuckled, expertly seasoning what appeared to be a steak the size of a Rhino's armor plate. "We're ahead of schedule, brother. Five hundred thousand worlds and counting. Even the Master of Mankind understands the value of R&R. Besides," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "I think he enjoys seeing all of us together without someone starting a war."

Nearby, Fulgrim and Ferrus had fallen into their usual debate about aesthetics versus function. "But imagine if you just added some decorative elements to the servo-harness," Fulgrim was saying, gesturing enthusiastically. "Nothing excessive, just some subtle filigree..."

"The purpose of a servo-harness is utility, brother," Ferrus replied with the patience of someone who'd had this exact conversation a hundred times before. "It doesn't need to be 'pretty.'"

"Everything needs to be pretty!"

On the other side of the terrace, Vulkan and Angron were deep in discussion about legion traditions. "The brotherhood rituals of the War Hounds have great potential," Vulkan was saying warmly. "Perhaps we could arrange some joint exercises?"

"My sons could benefit from your perspective on warrior-craftsmen traditions," Angron nodded, in thoughtful consideration. "The discipline might help channel their aggression more productively."

Meanwhile, Leman and Magnus had somehow already managed to start their usual scholarly dispute.

"I'm merely saying," Magnus insisted, "that your Rune Priests are clearly utilizing warp energies—"

"They're using the power of Fenris itself, ye one-eyed scroll-counter!"

"That's literally impossible and you know it!"

Horus and Dorn observed their brothers' various discussions with matching expressions of resigned amusement.

"At least they're not actually fighting this time," Horus noted.

"The last time cost us three walls," Dorn remembered. "I had to rebuild them all."

Roboute approached, having changed into more comfortable attire. "Brother, about Father's approval of these... informal gatherings..."

Franklin chuckled, flipping what looked suspiciously like a Grox steak. "Relax, Roboute. We're ahead of schedule – 500,000 worlds found and integrated. A week-long vacation while our sons lead the Crusade? We've earned it."

"But the formality protocols—"

"Were written by people who never had to manage an empire of half a million worlds," Franklin interrupted, handing Roboute a plate. "Here, try this. Special marinade from Nova Libertas."

The Emperor watched His sons from a comfortable distance, a subtle smile playing at His lips. Custodians stood nearby.

Horus and Dorn watched this exchange with varying degrees of amusement while discussing fortification patterns for newly compliant worlds. The smell of cooking meat began to fill the air as Franklin worked his culinary magic on the grill.

The Emperor, having taken a seat that somehow managed to be both casual and regal, observed his sons with poorly concealed satisfaction. 

"Food's almost ready!" Franklin called out. "Leman, stop trying to steal pieces before they're done! Yes, I can see you sneaking over there. Magnus, stop encouraging him by psychically moving the tongs away!"

"I would never," Magnus said with exaggerated innocence, while definitely moving the tongs again.

"Fortify the GRILL," Dorn suggested seriously.

"Don't you dare," Franklin pointed his spatula at Dorn threateningly. "The last time you 'fortified' my grill, it took Cawl 3 weeks to figure out how to open it again."

Roboute, ever the organizer, had somehow produced a dataslate and was creating a schedule for serving order. "If we optimize the distribution pattern..."

"Put that away," Franklin snatched the dataslate. "This is a barbecue, not a military campaign. Though if it were," he added with a grin, "I'd still be in charge. Best BBQ Primarch, remember?"

"The apron proves nothing," Fulgrim sniffed, though he was eyeing the grilling meat with obvious interest.

"The empirical evidence of previous gatherings supports Franklin's claim," Ferrus pointed out pragmatically.

"HA!" Franklin pointed his spatula triumphantly at Fulgrim. "See? Even the function-over-form brother acknowledges my supremacy in this domain!"

The Emperor watched as his sons fell into comfortable banter, the weight of empire temporarily lifted from their shoulders. These moments, He knew, were as important as any military victory. They were building bonds that would help prevent that dark future he and Franklin is trying to prevent.

"Father?" Franklin's voice interrupted His thoughts. "Your usual? Medium-rare with that special sauce you like?"

"Perfect," He replied, allowing a truly paternal smile to show. For just this moment, He wasn't the Master of Mankind or the being of immense power that had guided humanity for millennia. He was simply a father, watching his sons enjoy each other's company.

The afternoon stretched on, filled with laughter, arguments, impromptu contests (somehow Leman and Magnus had started a competition about who could flip burgers better - psychically or manually), and the kind of familial chaos that only superhuman demigods could generate.

"Leman, I swear by Father's golden throne, if you try to steal one more piece before it's ready..."

After all, sometimes the best way to help your sons save the galaxy was to keep them busy with family portraits and barbecue.

And if anyone noticed that Franklin seemed to check his data-slate a bit too often, well, they just assumed he was monitoring the cooking temperatures.

Just another day in the life of the Imperial family.

-------------------------

The Imperator Somnium hung in the void a few thousand Astronomical Units away from Baal. its golden hull reflecting the harsh light of the system's star. Through the vessel's crystal-clear viewing port, a deathworld painted in shades of red and brown rotated slowly beneath them, its twin moons casting shifting shadows across the radiation-scarred surface.

Franklin Valorian stood beside his father, both figures cast in the ruddy light of Baal's sun. The Primarch's usually jovial expression had given way to something more contemplative as he studied the harsh world below.

"What a shithole," Franklin remarked, though there was no real venom in his voice. "We should begin terraforming operations once we find Sanguinius. The radiation levels alone..."

The Emperor's presence filled the chamber, not overwhelming but comforting, like the warmth of a sun on a cool day. His golden eyes studied not the planet below, but His son's face, reading the calculations and plans already forming behind Franklin's eyes.

"The process would take a few years" the Emperor noted, "even with the Independence Sector's technology."

"Worth it," Franklin replied without hesitation. "This world shapes the Blood Angels in ways that..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...well, let's just say a less hostile environment might help with certain issues down the line."

The Emperor turned fully to face His son now. "Speaking of which – have you found it? The cure for the Red Thirst?"

Franklin shook his head, frustration evident in the set of his shoulders. "Not yet. It's similar to Magnus's sons' flesh-change in some ways, but also fundamentally different. I'll need to examine Sanguinius's DNA directly, and more importantly, his soul or souls." He gestured at the data-slate in his hand. "The theoretical models suggest it's tied to both, just like the flesh-change was, but the exact mechanism..."

The Emperor placed a hand on Franklin's shoulder, the gesture carrying both reassurance and expectation. "Keep at it, son. I trust your input on this. Do not fail me."

A chuckle escaped Franklin's lips, some of his usual humor returning. "When have I ever failed you, Father?"

The Emperor's expression softened slightly, though few would have noticed the change. "Never. Which is precisely why I trust you with this. The Red Thirst... it could become a significant problem if left unchecked."

As father and son began discussing the technical details of transforming Baal, the deathworld continued its slow rotation below them, unaware that its days as a radiation-scarred wasteland were numbered. Soon, a new chapter would begin – both for the planet and for the brother they had yet to find.

And if Franklin was already planning how to explain to Sanguinius why his homeworld needed a complete environmental overhaul... well, he had plenty of practice delivering difficult news to his brothers by now.

After all, that's what family was for.


Chapter 152: The Angel and the Eagle

843.30M

Sanguinius had never seen a spaceship before, not outside the fractal impressions of them that sailed in his waking dreams. This one, sitting on the desert plain with its golden armour baking in the sun, had the suggestion of vulturishness. It was a thing of power and efficiency, blunt and brutal. Fire made it fly, not any notion of grace.

Clusters of figures surrounded the vessel's immense landing claws, their golden armor gleaming with the same radiant intensity as the ship itself. Every inch of that plating bore the mark of painstaking craftsmanship. Among them stood others in star-studded navy blue, no less imposing despite their subtler presentation. And then there was the largest of them—a figure like Sanguinius himself. A brother?

My father's guardians, Sanguinius thought. And what a thought it was, not only that a being such as his father required guardians, but that he had a father at all. All the years of wondering at his own heri­tage, devoid of insight into his origins – and here, at last, was the truth, standing in the shadow of a vessel from the void.

He leaned into the desert wind, stretching his muscles and rising on a thermal of bitter breeze. The temptation was there – like it always was – to soar, to break free of the ground and his responsibilities, taking to the sky and seeking distant lands where the secrets of old wars lay buried. Today that urge was both stronger and weaker; his heart was ill at ease with what this meeting would mean, but never­theless, he burned to know what lay ahead.

He arced groundward, landing lightly with a scuff of his boots across the earth and a final furling of his wings. Dust swirled around his shins as he stepped forward. The golden figures carried weapons, a panoply of axes and spears and high-calibre firearms. Sanguinius carried only his sword, undrawn, riding low on his hip.

'Welcome to Baalfora, outlanders.' He spoke Aenokhian, the tongue of his people, the Pure. He wondered if the outlanders would understand him, or whether they would be forced to rely on hand gestures and awkward mimicry.

"My son", said one of the golden ones, somehow speaking it silently.

He felt his father's voice for the first time as one of his own thoughts, a sensation rather than speech, backed by a tremendous feeling of suppressed force. The golden man – if he was a man – that sent the contact seemed to be making significant efforts to restrain himself, or to contain the power within himself.

There was… more… there, though. My son rhymed with my weapon and rhymed with the Ninth and rhymed with… other concepts that Sanguinius couldn't parse from the core of the man's meaning. A lifetime of perspective was bound up in that contact, and Sanguinius sensed only the gulf between his father's silent words and the meaning behind them.

But he felt no threat in the touch of mind upon mind. Confidence. Impatience. Love. Caution. Approximations of those, where words couldn't quite convey the actuality. It was all in there.

The man – and he did seem like a man: dark of skin and hair, smelling of metal and sweat, in possession of a heartbeat – walked closer.

"I am the Emperor" the man said as He stepped out from the spacecraft's shadow. "And I am your father."

Father, the man had said, the word rhyming in silence with Master, with Shaper, with Creator.

Sanguinius met the Emperor's eyes. What he saw there, glinting in the light of his father's gaze, was the answer to a question he'd never even considered.

This being – this Emperor – was human. But He was not, exactly, a man.

'I see the light of many souls in your eyes. Many men. Many women.'

The Emperor smiled. "Is that what you see?" He spoke flawless Aenokhian, but that perfection was itself a flaw. He spoke the tongue with the same dialect and inflection as Sanguinius himself. Either the Emperor was pulling the meaning from the Angel's mind or imprinting meaning upon it. Whichever was true, He wasn't really speaking the language at all. Nor was Sanguinius entirely certain he could see the man's mouth move.

"I have sought you for many years" said the Emperor. And behind those words, Sanguinius sensed the cheering of crowds and the burning of worlds. His blood ran cold in the desert heat.

'I've seen shades of this meeting many times in my dreams,' Sanguinius confessed. A heavier gust blew from the east. He instinctively lifted a wing to shield himself from the gritty air.

The Emperor's eyes followed the movement. He began to circle Sanguinius in a slow walk, one gauntleted hand reaching out, fingertips running down the Angel's feathers. Sanguinius' pale gaze tracked his circling father, but his wings rippled with discomfort each time the Emperor moved behind him, out of sight.

'You are uneasy,' said the Emperor. 'That is natural, my son. I have come not only to liberate you from exile, but to ease your heart and mind with all you need to know.'

Sanguinius felt a lifetime of questions trapped on his tongue. There was one, however, that was always going to break free first. One question above all others had plagued him and haunted his people, since the Tribe of Pure Blood had discovered him in the wild lands. They worshipped him for his strength and beneficence, but they feared him for the question that now lay unspoken between father and son.

"Ask" said the Emperor. "Ask the question I sense lying upon your tongue."

The Angel pulled back from his father, not furling his wings but spreading them. With sudden passion, he beat a fist against the animal hide of his breastplate. A lone feather, swan-white, drifted in an arcing dance down to the dusty earth.

"What am I?"

"You are my son," said the Emperor. And, again, meanings and concepts danced beneath those words. You are my son was overlaid by you are a primarch, and you are my Ninth General, and you are a component of the Great Work and you were stolen by the enemy, and – most unsettling of all – you may have been changed by them.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You will," the Emperor assured him.

"You are the death of faith,"Sanguinius replied. "That I know."

The Emperor regarded him before speaking. "Yes," his father agreed, "and also, no. How do you know of such things?"

"I told you, I have dreamed of this day. Fragments. Shadows. Suggestions. Sometimes they come to me, fierce with emotion yet raked clean of detail."

"Faith is a weapon," said the Emperor. "A weapon that the species cannot be trusted to wield."

"My people revere me as their god,' Sanguinius replied. 'That brings them a measure of peace. No doubt to you and your sky-sailing kind, we are nothing but primitives. Roaches in this poisoned desert. But I reward their faith in me. I am their servant. I am mercy when my people need it most, and I am death to their enemies."

"That does not make you a god, my son."

"I never said I was a god. I said my people believe me to be one."

Sanguinius stared into his father's inhuman, too-human eyes.

"My people, the Pure, are to be left in peace. Whatever pacts you and I swear this day, my inviolate condition is this – no ship will enter Baalfora's heavens without my mandate, and no interference will be permitted to the Clans of Pure Blood without my permission. We have carved out the solace of peace here, together. You will not threaten it, father."

The Emperor nodded, not in agreement, but in sudden understanding. "That is why you fear me, is it not? You fear the endanger­ment of what you have achieved here."

"I speak of loyalty and love," the Angel said gently.

"And you speak of achievement."

"Am I wrong?" asked the Emperor.

"I fear for the lives of my people, who deserve only peace. A peace we have fought so hard for. Behind your words, I hear the triumph of cultures that see you as their saviour. But I also hear the razing of cities and the burning of worlds. I hear the dirges of faiths now forbidden, and the mourning of those nations that followed them. Am I wrong?"

The Emperor said nothing.

Later – many times over the decades to come – Sanguinius would think back on those words. For all the purity of the Emperor's intent, there were so many compromises. Faith could not be tolerated… except for when it could. Religions were drowned in the ashes of defiant worlds… except when their usefulness aligned with the Great Work. The Emperor needed the Martian Mechanicum, and he allowed them to worship Him as the Omnissiah, the incarnated avatar of the Machine-God. Perhaps necessity carves holes in everyone's principles, human and god alike.

Once more Sanguinius heard the adulations of crowds in bright sunlight, and the cries of populations on burning worlds.

He asked then what no other primarch had given voice to. Even Angron, upon his discovery, would act without asking the question Sanguinius now asked.

"What if I refuse?"

The Emperor seemed to weigh this. "You will not refuse. I know your soul. Here, you've saved tens of thousands of lives. With me, you will save billions of lives on millions of worlds. You will save the life of every human yet to be born. That is not something you could turn your back on."

They stared into each other's eyes, father and son, creator and created. Neither argued against the truth of the Emperor's words.

"I want something from you. I want your oath."

The Emperor was silent, allowing His son to continue.

"Do you swear, on whatever oaths hold value to you, that you will leave the Clans of Pure Blood in peace? Untouched by your designs unless they desire otherwise. Free to exist as they already exist, believing whatever they choose to believe."

The Emperor hesitated. Sanguinius saw the calculation in his father's eyes, and he wondered: "is He taken aback by the love I bear for my people, or is He merely considering alternate avenues around this obstacle in His Great Work?"

The Emperor finally spoke. "You have my promise."

Sanguinius closed his wings. "Then let us speak of the future, father."

And so, they did.

"And now, my son," the Emperor's voice broke the stillness, carrying the quiet thunder of ages. "You will meet one of your brothers."

The word brother resonated deeply within Sanguinius, echoing through the halls of his memories, stirring thoughts of the family he had longed for in the isolation of Baal. The realization was bittersweet. He had spent countless years alone, battling the harsh world and himself, imagining what it would be like to finally meet his kin. He had dreamed of brothers in the purest sense—comrades who would share in the burden of their shared blood. And now, that dream was about to take shape before him.

From the distance, a figure approached. At first glance, Franklin Valorian seemed deceptively ordinary. His broad shoulders, framed in practical regalia that held an air of imperial splendor, carried a presence that made the very desert seem to shift under his feet. Brown hair tossed in the wind, and eyes—eyes that held the depth of ancient wisdom and the warmth of understanding—watched Sanguinius steadily. A half-smile, more knowing than amused, rested on his lips, as if he were privy to a joke no one else could yet comprehend.

But Franklin was more than the man before him, as Sanguinius's perception expanded beyond mortal bounds.

For a fleeting heartbeat, A Bloody-Handed God stood before him, wreathed in a terrible, crimson glory. In one hand, the god gripped a weapon forged from the light of dying stars, its edges soaked in the blood of conquest. Worlds crumbled and foes perished in the shadow of this deity's wrath. Yet, even in this horrifying majesty, the god smirked at Sanguinius, an unsettling amusement dancing in its gaze, as though it delighted in being seen.

The vision shifted, folding into something more mercurial. Sanguinius now beheld a Laughing God, its expression lit with uncanny mirth. The god's laughter was sharp and knowing, its movements as unpredictable as the reflections of light on water. Sanguinius stared into the being's kaleidoscopic form, and it honked back—a sound at once absurd and profound. The god offered Sanguinius a slight bow, its grin widening, as though inviting him to appreciate the cosmic absurdity of existence.

Then the vision expanded, deepened, and grew weightier. The Ultimate Manifestation of Humanity's Manifest Destiny emerged, vast and overwhelming. Sanguinius saw a conqueror whose confidence radiated with such intensity that it seemed to bend reality itself, blazing with humanity's boundless ambition and their unshakable claim to the stars.

And finally, binding them all together, Sanguinius saw an Eagle—monumental, majestic, and resplendent. Its wings spread wide, casting a shadow of freedom that stretched across the galaxy. The eagle's talons gripped chains of tyranny, tearing them apart with savage elegance. Its piercing cry echoed in Sanguinius's mind, a clarion call that heralded liberty, victory, and unyielding hope for all who dared to dream.

The visions layered, merging into one another until they became indistinguishable. Each was a part of the whole, and together they formed Franklin Valorian.

As Franklin drew closer, his smirk widening just enough to suggest he was fully aware of what had transpired, Sanguinius could not help but compare him to the Emperor. The realization was a nagging truth that refused to be ignored: This Brother was the closest thing to their father he had ever encountered.

It was as though the Emperor's light had found another vessel—not a copy, but a reflection refracted through a different lens. Franklin carried the same cosmic weight, the same unyielding purpose, yet he was tempered by something the Emperor lacked: a warmth.

"Welcome to the family, brother. I hope you like barbecue."

-------------------------

As Franklin approached his newfound brother across Baal's crimson sands, he felt Khaine's presence stir within his mind. The God of War's consciousness emerged like heat shimmer off a blade, his thoughts interweaving with Franklin's own.

"So," Khaine's voice resonated with ancient memory, "this is where that challenger of mine fell."

Franklin's mental response carried his characteristic blend of curiosity and irreverence. "Challenger? You have challengers?"

The god's laughter echoed through Franklin's consciousness, a sound like clashing armies and breaking shields. "The Aeldari Pantheon stood for sixty-five million years, Franklin. Did you think we spent all that time sitting on golden thrones and writing poetry? We crushed numerous challengers during our reign. It wasn't all rainbows and sunshine, as you well know."

"Yes, yes, I know the history," Franklin's thoughts carried a hint of amused exasperation. "But who exactly is stupid enough to challenge the God of War? That seems like a particularly poor life choice."

"Many," Khaine's response held dark mirth, "and all of them died, as you might expect. But this one..." The god's presence shifted, like a warrior adjusting his stance before telling a tale of significant battle. "This challenger was powerful even by the standards of gods. If not for me, perhaps only Asuryan himself could have brought it down."

Franklin felt Khaine's pride in the memory, mixed with something else – respect, perhaps, for a worthy opponent. The god continued, "I cleaved it in half with Anaris, a strike so perfect it split not just flesh but essence. One half became a being of light, the other of darkness. But now..."

Through their shared perception, they both observed Sanguinius – the Angel of Baal, whose soul shone with a familiar radiance. "Now I see those halves have become one again. The minor warp god that dwells within your brother is that ancient challenger, reborn and remade."

"Wait," Franklin's thoughts sharpened with sudden interest. "Are you telling me that Sanguinius has an uber power warp god inside him? One that you personally bisected?"

"More accurately, he is the god, or rather, what became of it after my victory. The Emperor's creation of the Primarchs provided an unexpected vessel for its reincarnation. Fascinating, really. In all eons of battle, I've never seen anything quite like it."

Franklin's mental smile carried a hint of irony. "And here I thought family reunions couldn't get more complicated. Should I be concerned?"

"No," Khaine's response was surprisingly definitive. "What dwells within him now is fundamentally changed from what I faced. The Emperor's work and human soul have remade it into something new. Something that might, in time, prove to be exactly what humanity needs."

"Along with a healthy dose of liberty and occasional barbecue," Franklin added, earning what felt like an exasperated sigh from the god of war.

"You never take anything entirely seriously, do you?"

"Says the god who's letting me wear his sword like some cosmic fashion accessory."

-------------------------------

The desert winds of Baal whispered around them as Franklin and Sanguinius clasped hands in greeting. The contact was firm, assured – the grip of demigods acknowledging each other's strength while carefully restraining it. In that brief moment of contact, both brothers assessed each other with transhuman senses far beyond mortal ken.

Sanguinius's gaze drifted, almost imperceptibly, to Franklin's broad shoulders, a small, habitual motion that only another Primarch could have noticed. A small, searching glance – the kind forged by years of solitude and the painful awareness of being the one different among the already unique. His wings fluttered slightly, the magnificent white feathers catching the twin suns of Baal, shining bright against the red desert.

Franklin caught that glance, understanding immediately the weight of isolation behind it. He had seen the future that awaited his angelic brother – the burden of being unique even among the unique, set apart by his wings even from his fellow Primarchs. A small smile played across Franklin's face as an idea formed.

With a thought, Franklin revealed his own gift. The air shimmered with potential energy as wings of steel manifested from his back, spreading wide in the desert sun. They were not the soft, feathered pinions of Sanguinius, but rather deadly works of art – each 'feather' a blade of impossibly sharp metal that could slice through ceramite as easily as paper. The wings caught the sunlight and scattered it in prismatic patterns across the sand, a display both beautiful and lethal.

Sanguinius stood transfixed, his usual eloquence deserting him. His own wings spread unconsciously in response, white feathers contrasting with Franklin's metallic ones. For a moment, the only sound was the soft whisper of wind through feather and steel.

"This way you won't feel alone," Franklin said softly, his usual smirk softening into something more genuine. "I have wings too, you know. The Wings of an Eagle"

The simple statement carried layers of meaning between the brothers. It was an acknowledgment of shared difference, an offering of understanding, and a promise of brotherhood all in one. Franklin's wings might be different in form, but their presence meant Sanguinius would never again have to bear the burden of uniqueness alone.

Sanguinius reached out, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as Franklin nodded permission. His fingers traced the edge of one metallic feather, feeling the deadly perfection of its edge. "They're beautiful," he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of solitude finally lifted. "And lethal."

"Form and function," Franklin grinned. "Though I have to admit, yours are more practical for actual flight. Mine are better suited for combat"

The Emperor watched His sons from a short distance, a smile playing at the corners of His mouth as He observed their bonding. This was not a moment that had existed in the timeline Franklin knew – a small change, perhaps, but one that might ripple outward in unexpected ways. Sometimes, He reflected, the greatest changes came not from grand strategies or massive battles, but from simple moments of connection.

---------------------------------

The vast viewscreen of the Sweet Liberty filled with the rusty expanse of Baal and its twin moons. Massive terraforming engines, gifts from the Independence Sector, crawled across the surface like mechanical insects, their work already visible in patches of green slowly spreading across the desert world. Franklin watched his brother's face as Sanguinius took in the transformation of his homeworld.

"It will take time," Franklin said, his voice carrying the casual confidence that had become his trademark, "but your sons will have a proper home to return to. Though I ask again - are you certain you wish to delay reuniting with them?"

Sanguinius's wings shifted slightly, a tell Franklin had learned meant his brother was deep in thought. "The Emperor himself told me of how you've guided our other brothers when they were found. A smile crossed the Angel's perfect features. "I would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity."

Franklin nodded, trying to hide his pleasure at the compliment. "Well then, brother, your education begins now." He pulled out a data-slate and handed it to Sanguinius. "First lesson: understanding the political landscape you're stepping into. This contains everything from trade agreements to military doctrines. The Imperium is more complex than it appears on the surface."


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