"Children… would you like to paint with me?"
Sanguinius exhaled softly.
So this… is what it means to care for sons.
The Legion of Dread
Long before their Primarch's return, the Ninth Legion inspired fear rather than admiration.
They were efficient.
They were unstoppable.
They were terrifying.
On the battlefield they displayed a relentless hunger for slaughter — not cruelty for its own sake, but a brutal intensity that stripped war of any illusion of nobility. Grace was absent. Ceremony was absent. Mercy was irrelevant.
They existed to annihilate the Emperor's enemies.
And the Emperor had used them accordingly.
They accepted that role with cold pride.
Over time, unseen and unaddressed, ritualized practices formed — blood rites, battlefield devotions, and grim traditions born from proximity to death and the Legion's growing fixation on spilled lifeblood.
To Imperial citizens they became whispered legends.
To enemies they were nightmares given form.
To many Legions they were… unsettling allies.
But to Yuki, they were not monsters.
They were warriors awaiting salvation.
The Thirst
The flaw had emerged gradually.
A neurological and gene-seed instability that manifested in combat stress — an overwhelming blood hunger that could drag an Astartes into a killing frenzy.
Before solutions existed, containment had been necessary.
Thunder Warriors had once been stationed near Ninth Legion deployments — not as overseers, but as last-resort restraint should the frenzy overwhelm discipline.
At the same time, Yuki deliberately assigned other formations to fight alongside them. When the Zero Legion numbered barely five hundred, detachments were still dispatched to stand with the Ninth.
Isolation breeds monstrosity.
Brotherhood restores humanity.
Her measures worked.
Over the years, the whispered name ghouls faded.
Now, when the Imperium spoke of the Ninth, they spoke of dark-armored warriors who held the fiercest fronts and never broke.
Progress, Not Cure
Before Sanguinius's return, Yuki had achieved partial stabilization of the condition.
The flaw could not yet be eradicated.
But it could be restrained.
Those afflicted no longer lost themselves entirely.
That alone was a victory.
Sanguinius had been told everything.
Nothing was hidden from him.
A Father Meets His Sons
He had studied how Horus addressed the Luna Wolves.
He had memorized posture, tone, command presence.
He intended to be worthy.
Yet when he finally saw them — armor scarred, eyes bright with yearning — every rehearsed word vanished.
He chose honesty.
In the aftermath of a fortress assault, the Ninth had secured the breach and held it under impossible fire.
Storm Eagles roared overhead.
Ash fell like snow.
Sanguinius walked toward them alone.
Their helms turned.
Their eyes shone.
His voice, gentle yet resonant, carried through the wind:
"Do not swear yourselves to me because we share blood."
Silence fell.
"Swear only if you deem me worthy."
Then, before their stunned gaze, the Primarch of the Ninth drew his blade…
…and knelt.
"I pledge myself to you.
I will share your glory…
or your death.
Let me fight beside you.
If you refuse, I will depart without resentment — even should it cost me my father's trust.
If you accept me…
then let us write the future together."
Fourth Company Commander Amberlow of the Rising Angels stood nearby, remembering another day long ago.
A Ninth Legion warrior had bared blood-stained fangs and laughed bitterly:
"You come to save us?"
Amberlow had answered calmly:
"No one is abandoning you."
The warrior had replied:
"Even our Primarch would be ashamed of us."
Now Amberlow watched hardened Astartes weep openly as they knelt before their gene-sire.
See?
He has not abandoned you.
The Angel Returns
The decibel readings recorded during Sanguinius's Terra parade surpassed all previous Primarch returns.
Even the broadcast replay achieved unprecedented viewership across the Imperium.
Gold banners filled the air.
White wings glowed in the sunlight.
Hope had weight.
Hope had form.
Hope walked among them.
Horus slung an arm across Sanguinius's shoulders; the Angel subtly adjusted his wings to give him space.
"I thought the front lines would keep you away," Sanguinius said.
Horus laughed.
"How could I miss this?"
On the parade float they spoke like brothers reunited after lifetimes apart.
Nearby, Fulgrim leaned toward Ferrus Manus.
"He has wings too."
Ferrus studied them with analytical interest.
"I believed only our sister possessed such traits."
Fulgrim tilted his head.
"Why don't we have wings?"
Ferrus grimaced.
"They would interfere with forging."
Horus gestured:
"Fulgrim."
A graceful nod.
"Ferrus."
A firm one.
"Guilliman."
"We've already met."
"Dorn."
"I am Rogal Dorn."
(So he did come.)
Sanguinius smiled.
"I brought gifts for my brothers."
Gifts of Baal
At the banquet he arrived carrying a heavy satchel.
"Luminous stones and Baalite gemstones. Please — choose what you like."
Fulgrim approached with delighted curiosity.
Ferrus remained indifferent.
Fulgrim teased him mercilessly, likening him to a living siege engine.
Even Ferrus allowed a rare smile.
Dorn opened his mouth—
Horus immediately covered it.
"We'll discuss campaigns later."
Dorn nodded.
Silence resumed.
Across the hall, Guilliman observed a quieter scene.
Sanguinius lifted a circlet carved from a single crimson gemstone and placed it atop Yuki's head.
"It fits perfectly."
Then he leaned closer, whispering:
"You did not fully warn me about the Ninth Legion… did you?"
Yuki coughed.
"I mentioned it."
"'Still as a maiden, swift as a hare'?"
She straightened reflexively.
"Yes."
"…are you certain that is the proper usage?"
She scratched her cheek.
An Unexpected Side Effect
The Legion's blood thirst had diminished.
In its place…
another phenomenon emerged.
They slept.
Astartes normally required minimal rest.
The Ninth maintained impeccable sleep discipline.
The cause was simple.
Repeated emergency knockouts during early containment procedures had conditioned their neural responses.
Even later recruits adopted the pattern.
Strike. Subdue. Sleep.
A legacy of survival.
Sanguinius had planned to guide them through art, philosophy, and reflection.
Instead he found them… asleep.
Everywhere.
At any hour.
"How can you sleep like this?" he murmured.
"Children, shall we paint?"
"Yesss, Father… haa—"
Yawns rolled through the hall like distant thunder.
The Angel closed his eyes briefly.
Yes.
These are my sons.
Fury in battle.
Serenity in rest.
Better this than madness.
He could guide them.
In time.
Still, he could not let his sister escape unscathed.
In the corner, Yuki froze as Sanguinius approached carrying a heavy sack.
"…what are you doing?"
"These are jewelry pieces I crafted for you."
He opened the bag.
Hundreds of pieces gleamed.
"Try them."
"All of them?"
"They are a set."
She swallowed.
"…all at once?"
"Yes."
"…do you like them, sister?"
"I love them," she said through clenched teeth. "I love them dearly."
(╥﹏╥)
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