Chapter 89 - The Great Bat, the Great White Goose
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"So bored..."
Sanguinius stood on the palace's towering stargazing balcony, both hands braced against the cold carved railing, and sighed quietly to himself.
These past days he had practically become Terra's busiest mascot. As the only one of the three returned Primarchs who came with a built-in "holy aura," Guilliman had shoved him into the public spotlight without ceremony.
Go soothe the masses. Go play along with those zealot-mouthed Ecclesiarchy bishops and their religious propaganda spectacles.
Day after day, facing oceans of people, the Great Angel had no choice but to maintain his signature gentle smile, spread his sacred wings, and recite a few vague but emotionally stirring words of encouragement.
In truth, Sanguinius loathed this kind of prostrating worship from the bottom of his heart.
In the Great Crusade, even the most fanatical worlds had kept a thread of reason underneath. But look at the Imperium ten thousand years on — sealed airtight in ignorance and blind superstition.
Talking to the Ecclesiarchy was more exhausting than reasoning with Angron had been, back in the day.
If it weren't for supporting Roboute's consolidation of power, for the sake of Father and the catastrophic mess that was the Imperium, he'd have gone on strike and flown straight back to Baal long ago.
More crucially still, the Custodes had declared the palace a no-fly zone. No flapping around on his wings allowed.
The Great Angel grumbled at length, in the privacy of his own head, about those golden-armored guards. Their style was exactly Guilliman's, back in the day — forever restricting other people's freedom of movement on Macragge.
Sanguinius lifted his head and gazed up at Terra's sky, the stars smothered gray behind a veil of industrial exhaust.
He was searching for the Baal system.
A futile search. The Great Rift had cleaved the galaxy clean in two, and Baal was sealed away in the Imperium Nihilus.
At moments like this, he couldn't stop himself from thinking of his sons of old.
The prides who had stood at his side through the Great Crusade. Steady Raldoron. Loyal Azkaellon. Hot-tempered, valiant Amit. And Chief Librarian Calistarius.
They had won the Legion, and humanity, more honors and victories than he could count.
But everything had changed. Those familiar faces had long since fallen across 10,000 years of war. The once-vast Ninth Legion had been broken apart and scattered across the stars as separate Chapters.
Thinking of the Legion's dissolution, Sanguinius still nursed a small grudge against Guilliman.
He understood, though. After the Horus Heresy ended, the Imperium had been one massive open wound. What Roboute did was the only road left to maintaining order.
A few days back, during idle conversation, Kaelen had given him a briefing on the state of his sons after 10,000 years.
Dante, Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, who had served for a thousand years. The Chief Librarian called Mephiston. Many, many more.
What left the deepest mark on the Great Angel was a Chapter called the Lamenters.
When he'd pulled up the Imperial archives and seen the words "former traitors" stamped boldly across the file, the metal data-slate in his grip had cracked along several lines.
He'd read on, patiently. The truth was almost laughable.
The Lamenters had been forced into that position purely by other powers' machinations and abysmal luck, and at the end of it all, the High Lords had actually sentenced them to some godforsaken Penitent Crusade!
Rage burned in his chest for a while. What followed was deep, unshakable pride.
Mercy before slaughter. Protection above honor.
These children, cursed by misfortune, had inherited the spiritual core he valued most.
"Soon," Sanguinius murmured.
Roboute was already assembling the Indomitus Crusade, a force of unprecedented scale. Once every obstacle was swept aside and the warp lanes were open again, he could return to Baal and look upon those pitiable, admirable children with his own eyes.
Just as he was thinking it, the faintest scrape of metal sounded behind him.
Sanguinius did not turn.
He had specifically instructed the Custodes, no one was to disturb him in this part of the palace tonight. And yet here someone was.
The Great Angel sighed, long and inward.
Fine. Back to playing god.
He smoothed his expression in an instant, and that flawless face slipped back into its signature smile, warm, compassionate, like a spring breeze.
Sanguinius turned around.
No red-robed cardinal. No zealous representative of the faithful.
Kneeling on one knee was a woman with pure white feathered wings, her whole body wreathed in a sacred halo.
"Your Highness. Forgive my intrusion."
The Living Saint Celestine kept her head bowed, her tone tight with reserve and humility.
Sanguinius looked at this winged "colleague" of his, and his thoughts drifted briefly.
This was the living vessel of his father's present power. A chosen one, in other words. Except Sanguinius still refused, to this day, to acknowledge that his father was any kind of god.
"Miss Celestine, is it?" The Great Angel's voice was soft and level.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Please rise. No formalities are needed. My apologies — I was watching the stars, and didn't notice you."
"No, Your Highness, I am the one who should apologize." Celestine stood, a faint flush in her cheeks. "I only... wanted to come up here to catch my breath. I noticed you here entirely by accident."
Catch my breath.
Hearing those three words, Sanguinius understood instantly.
In the Ecclesiarchy's propaganda machine, aside from himself, the freshly resurrected Primarch, the original centerpiece had been this very Living Saint.
So she'd also been worn thin by the endless rituals and parade circuits, and had snuck up here for a moment of peace.
Watching the uneasy Celestine before him, an utterly devious idea bloomed in the Great Angel's mind.
They both had wings.
They both glowed.
What was this? A perfect body double!
If he could con this Living Saint into taking over all the parade drudgery, while he himself stayed in some quiet side hall of the palace, showing off fruit all day, life would be unreasonably comfortable.
The thought made the Great Angel's smile brighter still.
"Did you need something from me, Miss Celestine?" Sanguinius asked, knowing full well.
"Ah... please forgive my forwardness, Your Highness. I truly was drawn here without meaning to be." Celestine lowered her head, embarrassed, and fumbled at her waist. "If it is permitted... could Your Highness sign this for me?"
She held out a thick sheet of parchment and an exquisite quill.
Sanguinius took the quill, signed his flowing name without the slightest hesitation, and handed it back.
In the instant the parchment left his fingers, the Great Angel suddenly remembered something.
Not long ago in the Throne Room, the Emperor had boasted to him through psychic communion, claiming He was playing a grand, sweeping game, scheming to use Celestine, or some Commorragh membership card, or something, to lock Kaelen down for good.
Sanguinius had no faith whatsoever in his father's terrible move. That didn't stop him from snacking on the gossip now that it was within reach.
"Miss Celestine." Sanguinius made it sound idle, casual. "What is your opinion of Mister Kaelen?"
Celestine blinked, clearly not expecting that question from a Primarch.
"Mister Kaelen, you mean?"
"Yes."
The Living Saint considered it carefully, then offered her verdict. "A plain and upright Imperial hero — though one who carries a few small, mortal selfish wants."
Sanguinius nodded, and dug deeper. "And how do you feel about him?"
A blunt question.
The Great Angel caught it sharply: this dignified, holy sister's gaze suddenly skittered sideways, and an unmistakable flush of panic crossed her pale face.
"How I feel?" Celestine's voice dropped. "I respect him, of course. I admire his decisiveness."
"Nothing more?" The Great Angel pressed.
"Um... that... nothing more." Celestine bowed her head lower still.
Watching the sister squirm so openly, the Great Angel leaned back against the railing and let an extremely satisfied auntie smile spread across his face.
So Father's scheme wasn't entirely without progress after all.
What a pity, then, that the boy Kaelen wasn't much for women.
Just as Sanguinius was thinking it, something pricked at his senses, and he looked up.
A pitch-black shuttle tore across the night sky, twin plumes of pale blue plasma streaming from its rear, descending fast toward the heavy landing pad at the palace's edge.
Horus and the others were back.
Sanguinius turned and exchanged a glance with the Living Saint.
To hell with the no-fly zone.
The Great Angel spread his wings, psychic power flooding into every feather. He launched skyward on the night wind, a blazing meteor cutting straight for the landing pad. Celestine followed close behind.
The two of them touched down on the broad adamantium deck of the pad.
The shuttle's hatch released with a dull HISS of decompression and lowered slowly.
Kaelen came out first, stretching, mid-yawn. Horus, Cullen, and Loken followed in step behind him.
The smile on Sanguinius's face deepened. He was about to stride forward, embrace his brother Horus, celebrate their safe return,
His feet stopped dead.
Through a gap between the figures, the Great Angel saw the black silhouette walking at the very rear of the group.
Hunched back. Skin pale as a corpse's. Sunken eye sockets pooled with shadow. Greasy black hair hanging tangled on either side of his face.
And that black silhouette, the moment it saw the Great Angel standing on the landing pad, also went visibly still.
"Curze?"
Sanguinius spoke the name softly.
Konrad Curze locked up where he stood, black pupils contracting violently as he stared at the perfect angel standing bathed in light ahead of him.
His gaze was almost insolent, the way an ordinary man might stare at a dead body, or at some monstrous thing pawing at his window.
"Sanguinius?"
He spoke.
"It's me, brother."
The Great Angel answered with a smile. So Horus and the others had succeeded.
But Curze still couldn't take it in. He pressed on.
"Is it really you?"
"It's me, brother. Genuine article."
"Then why aren't you dead yet, you arrogant little bird?"
The instant the words were out, the Great Bat received an extraordinarily warm and loving smile from the Great White Goose.
"I think someone wants to get thrown out to drift through space again."
➤ Next: He Will Forgive You
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