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Years later– many, many years, centuries at this point– he still remembers when he’d received the news.
The compliance had been all but finished for a good month, but Lorgar had wanted to be thorough. The planet’s alien tyrants had been slaughtered down to the last, but intelligence reports from both the extant rebels and the newly freed human population had indicated that there were a few small, mostly isolated sects of the xenos yet remaining. Leaving them would have been a lapse, and an affront, but removing them would require precision so as to not entirely destroy what areas they still occupied.
He’d been in the middle of a council when the herald had come. At first, the interruption had been unwelcome, but any annoyance Lorgar had felt had evaporated as soon as he’d heard the message.
“My lord. The Emperor has come.”
The Word Bearers hadn’t been blessed with the Master of Mankind’s presence in quite some time. It’s no secret that the XVII are more keen on building than fighting, and the Emperor’s martial might and presence was most often better served elsewhere, alongside His sons more diligently suited for soldiery. That He had chosen to pay a visit at the tail end of a compliance that had gone successfully with little issue, Lorgar can’t help but wonder about. Perhaps it was to issue new directives, but He had messengers to do that for Him.
Whatever his Father’s reason for visiting, Lorgar is eager to see Him. It’s been far too long. He’s heard his own sons express in no uncertain terms how much his own presence is missed when he’s with other expeditionary fleets, and he can imagine the feeling is a similar one. The urge, the craving, the need to just be in His presence again. To feel His radiance, to hear His voice.
His Father requests Lorgar’s presence aboard His flagship, and Lorgar is only too happy to obey. His Father requests, also, that he come alone; that his sons stay behind, regardless of how high in his esteem they are. Whatever words He has to share are meant for Lorgar’s ears only. Though it pains Lorgar to deny the most devout of his children the opportunity to stand in the Emperor’s divine presence, he can’t help but thrill at the privilege, of the worth implicit in his Father’s summons. Of the opportunity to spend time with Him, as both His son and devotee.
His hearts beat faster as he’s escorted through his Father’s ship, closer and closer to the interior, the Emperor’s sanctum away from Terra. He’s been here before, albeit rarely, but every time it takes his breath away. It feels like treading on holy ground; like a pilgrimage, of sorts. It’s a palatial craft, well-suited to the man who it shepherds across the stars.
He’d divested of his armor beforehand, the grey ceramite left in the hands of the finest of his artificers. There’s no danger now that he’s aboard, and the two of them are hardly about to hold a war council. The maintenance will be well-appreciated. He’s left in a simple grey himation, bound at his shoulder with a golden clasp. An outfit for dining, not warfare.
It’s comfortable. After so long in armor, it feels good to have an opportunity to not be so on guard.
His Father’s dining hall is as suitably decorated as anything else on His craft. The long table and fine chairs gleam gold and drip crimson, the light from a combination of soft lumens and flickering candles suffusing the entire room with a warm, welcoming aura. This is not a place built to demonstrate His power, inasmuch as it is one of comfort. Warriors, scholars, and generals– anyone blessed enough to receive the audience of the Master of Mankind has dined here.
Primarchs, too. On rare occasions. Lorgar smiles wryly.
At the end of the table is their meal. It’s not particularly grandiose, a fact which Lorgar appreciates. His tastes do not run to the excesses of some of his brothers. Lorgar refrains from sitting, clasping his hands behind his back and resisting the urge to shuffle from foot to foot, an instinct that makes him seem like the child he hasn’t been in decades. Anticipation is making him restless
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait too long. He’s on the verge of pacing when the door on the opposite end of the chamber opens with a quiet creak that can herald only one man. Lorgar turns, and a smile breaks out across his face.
“ Father.”
He is as He always is; overwhelming, in the best way possible. He’s as radiant as any sun Lorgar has ever stood under, and brighter and more magnificent than any he ever will. Even at a size smaller than Lorgar’s own, His presence seems to fill up any space He enters, the pressure of it probing at Lorgar’s mind like a gentle, grasping hand.
Lorgar’s immediate instinct sends him striding across the room and dropping to one knee. His Father’s hand is afore him, and without a second thought, he grasps it in his own, pressing his lips lightly, carefully, against the warm skin. A display of fealty he’d show few others.
“I have missed you,” he says, and as the words leave his lips he finally realizes the extent to which they’re true. Love, pure and simple, wells up in his chest, a warm knot situated between his hearts. He misses Him as a father, as a teacher, as a liege-lord, but also in much the same way as a blade of grass might miss the sun.
His Father’s face, looking down at him, is inscrutable.
“You may rise,” He says, simply. Lorgar obeys, and follows Him down to the end of the table. The Emperor takes His rightful seat at the head, His shape somehow perfectly adjusting to fit His thronelike chair. Lorgar sits beside Him. His own chair is unassuming, but it supports his weight easily, clearly made with either him or one of his brothers in mind.
“You wished to discuss something with me?” He prompts, hands resting carefully on his thighs.
“Eat first. There’s little rush, and it would be foolish to address anything of importance on an empty stomach.”
Lorgar isn’t terribly hungry, but nor is he willing to disobey. He takes some lighter fare– a few slices of a meat dish he recognizes as a Terran delicacy, and some fruit more reminiscent of that from his own homeworld. A goblet of wine as well, though not a full one.
They dine together in relative quiet. Lorgar has a hundred and one questions he’s itching to ask, but he shows his reverence by waiting for the Emperor to speak first. His Father has taken little, seemingly more content to watch His son eat than He is to imbibe Himself. He seems a little more solid now than He usually does, His presence grounded enough that Lorgar can look at Him without it being too terribly painful. It still hurts, but the hurt is bearable. He would endure far worse pains for his Father’s sake.
“The compliance is going well,” the Emperor says. It’s not a question, merely an affirmation of what they both know to be fact. Still, Lorgar basks in the implicit praise and acknowledgement of his achievements.
“It’s mostly finished,” he says. “We’re making sure to purge the last of the xenos before reconstruction can begin. There’s little sense in helping to rebuild this world if the enemy will simply tear it back down immediately after we leave.”
His Father watches him with a careful eye. “You have plans for rebuilding?”
“Of course.” When the Emperor doesn’t reply after a long moment, Lorgar takes it as a cue to supply more details. “We will remain here to establish the system of planetary governance and restore the capital city to something befitting one of the Imperium’s treasures. The finer details of how the planet is run will ultimately be left up to the governor, but it is important that they stay within Imperial standards. I could go over some of the plans–”
“That will not be necessary, Lorgar.”
The careful neutrality in his Father’s voice is almost cutting. Lorgar quiets immediately.
“As you say,” he finishes, lamely, and turns back to his food.
Despite the now-somewhat uncomfortable silence that settles over the two of them, the food is still quite good. Lorgar had hardly expected less. He takes a swig from his goblet, his enhanced sense of taste easily recognizing the vintage. It’s one he’s had before, one from Terra. One of the Emperor’s favorites, or at least one He prefers enough to have had on multiple occasions. It’s humbling to share with Him.
The dinner continues. The Emperor still hasn’t taken a bite, watching Lorgar with an inscrutable eye.
“I understand that the dissemination of knowledge about the Imperium is also left up to your discretion,” his Father eventually says.
Lorgar pauses, chewing slowly on the piece of meat in his mouth. It’s got a gamey kind of flavor– a hare of some sort, well-cooked. It’s not often he’s given an opportunity to eat for the pleasure of it. At his Father’s pointed query, it becomes heavier on his tongue. Gummy and hard to swallow.
“I am.”
“Were I to look at the materials this expeditionary fleet uses for that purpose, or to linger and observe your processes, I would not find anything objectionable,” the Emperor says, “would I?”
“No,” Lorgar replies immediately, taken aback. “Of course not, Father.”
Of course not, he thinks, furrowing his brow. What possible objection could the Emperor take with simply telling His people the truth?
The Emperor makes a soft humming noise, and picks up His knife and fork at last. There’s food on His plate already that He only deigns to touch now, carefully spearing a bit of fruit and raising it to his lips.
It’s strange, in some way, to have evidence that his Father eats. It’s something that feels too human, too mortal, for a being so ascendant.
Perhaps, Lorgar thinks, staring as the Emperor chews softly, He does it to make us feel more comfortable. He itches for his pen, the impulse to scrawl another passage of scripture presenting itself suddenly. He’s so eager to seem like one of us, despite it all.
“Lorgar,” his Father says, the insistence in His voice interrupting his train of thought. “Stop.”
“Hm?” It comes so out of nowhere that despite his superhuman senses, he’s not certain he’s heard correctly.
Lorgar puts his own silverware down, blinking slowly. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.
“Have I displeased you in some way, Father?” He asks, softly and carefully. His hearts beat faster in his chest; worry, that he may have overstepped some unstated boundary.
“I tire of this charade.” Flattening His hands on the table, his Father stands. The look upon His patrician features is stony and severe; a far cry from the gentle-eyed warmth there not too terribly long ago. “I can take no more of this. I intercepted your fleet to speak with you, in the hopes that what your brothers whispered about you was untrue. But I find you stuck, spinning your wheels in the same mire of ignorance that has held you since first we were reunited.”
In an instant, Lorgar feels his mouth go dry.
“Father, I can assure you,” he starts, speaking quietly and carefully, “I and my legion are doing our utmost to bring the Imperium’s light to–”
“You would play the fool with me?”
A spike of pain drills its way into his head transorbitally, and Lorgar winces, baring his teeth. Somehow he resists the urge to grab at his skull; he knows he would find no injury to speak of there.
I know what you think of me. I know what you’ve been saying about me. His Father’s words are projected directly into his mind, rather than spoken. Have I not told you ten, twenty, a hundred times before to stop this nonsense?
“’Nonsense’?” Lorgar repeats, out loud. He fights his instinct to block out the invading presence, and instead lets his mind open to his Father’s probing. Let Him search; He’ll find nothing but proof that Lorgar is the most devoted of His children.
That’s exactly what I fear, my son.
Lorgar winces. There’s an edge to the words, ever so slightly painful. “I don’t see how it could possibly be as bad as you make it seem,” he says. “You value our loyalty. You cultivate the unconditional, all-giving love of your people. The people whose worship you so easily dismiss– they would die for you! A hundred times over!”
“I have ever fought to elevate them from ignorance.” His Father’s chair scrapes along the floor as He stands. Lorgar watches Him, brow furrowing in deep lines. “An ignorance you would happily see them return to.”
“I refuse to lie to them, Father. They should not be deluded into thinking you are a normal man when you are anything but.” He feels his jaw set, lips pursing into an unbidden frown.
“You are far from a normal man either, Lorgar. Does that make you a god?” The Emperor walks closer, His steps near-silent even as His presence looms. “Are your sons minor deities themselves? Something being set above morals does not inherently make it divine.”
All these words have been said before. Always the same, his Father denying the most obvious truth, insisting Lorgar is the fool for acknowledging what He will not. Lorgar has never known for certain if his Father truly does not believe in His own divinity, or if every debate is designed to test his own strength of faith. He’s erred towards the latter more than the former, refusing to believe the Emperor so ignorant of His power.
“I don’t wish to argue with you,” he says.
“Nor I you. I am giving you another chance to renounce this… misguided belief you cling to.” His father is close enough now to touch, and He reaches a hand out, placing it gently on Lorgar’s shoulder. His skin is richly warm. Lorgar doesn’t fight his urge to lean into it, finding solace in a paternal gesture that feels like a blessing, even as his Father’s words cut him like a knife. “Your devotion is a commendable quality, but it does not change the truth. I am not a god, and believing otherwise will not make it so. The sooner you accept this, the sooner you can do as you were made to do.”
It is– it has always been– nearly impossible to deny his Father a single thing. But…
With effort, he turns his gaze away, staring off into the distance.
“I can’t,” he says, quietly.
The Emperor’s silence is deafening. Lorgar can’t look at Him, can’t bear to see the inevitable disappointment in His golden eyes.
For what? Because I can see what the others refuse to?
“ Lorgar.”
Of course, the Emperor is privy to those thoughts as well. Distress makes them harder to hide, his usual barriers weak, crumbling.
“Father–” he starts, about to plead his case.
“Enough.”
The single word, at the same time that it’s spoken, stabs directly into his mind in a psychic onslaught Lorgar is entirely not prepared for. He grasps at his head, only barely restraining himself from leaving gouges, and the sound of pain that rips its way out of his throat is horrible and animal in nature.
HurtsHURTShurts–
He feels something solid beneath him, and it takes a moment for him to realize he’s fallen to his knees, the pain too overwhelming, too sudden for him to keep standing. When his eyes open, his vision is blurry, and he can’t tell if it’s because of something his Father has done to him, or because of the tears he can feel dripping down his cheeks.
Despite the pain, Lorgar forces himself to look up, and that beautiful golden face shimmers into view, almost agonizing to see. It’s impossible to make out His features, save for the contemptuous disappointment writ upon them, an impression that makes Lorgar want to press his forehead to the ground and beg forgiveness.
I’m sorry, he tries to say before swiftly realizing he cannot speak. The words form themselves in his head, a projection on the surface of his mind, willing and open now for his Father to read. I’m sorry my Father my Light my God I’m sorry I did not mean to offend I only wanted to prove to You the strength of my faith of my love I only ever wanted to love You–
“You refuse to listen to me still,” his Father says, out loud this time, presence receding from Lorgar’s mind just enough that the psychic pressure goes from unbearable to simply painful. “You are the most obedient of your brothers, the most eager to do as I ask of you, except when I demand this one simple task of you. Why?”
The last question forces its way into his mind like an icepick, and Lorgar feels the howl of pain ripped from him more than he hears it. Everything goes white for a second that feels like an eternity; his Father’s fury not mindless, feral rage, but a precise instrument, wielded for the expressed purpose of hurting him for his failures. His head is forced lower, near level with his knees.
How could I lie how can You be anything else You who are golden and perfect above all You who have shepherded me and guided Your flock You whose name I fight for whose creed I would die for You You You–
The pressure in his skull alleviates itself all at once, leaving him empty and gasping. The sudden change makes him feel almost sick, only a supreme effort of will keeping the nausea at bay. His hands come away from his head, and he turns his head upwards to face his Father once more, trembling.
Pain, he can handle. Fathers hurt him; they hurt him to make him prove he loves them. They hurt him to test him, because faith and love are just alike and neither means anything if it can be destroyed by something as laughably simple as pain. Lorgar understands this. He smiles weakly at his father, tears in the corners of his eyes. The Emperor will not find him lacking, will not find his faith in Him wavering. Looking at Him makes Lorgar’s teeth ache, and before too long he has to duck his head again, staring at the intricate pattern of the floor instead.
His Father sighs. “For a son of mine who so values knowledge, you prove near impossible to teach.”
Lorgar’s mouth twitches. “I try,” he ventures. His voice sounds pitiful to his own ears. “I want to learn, Father. I want… I want you to teach me. Please.”
For a moment, there’s silence in the hall. Lorgar can hear the staccato twin beats of his own hearts, and the whisper-quiet rustle of his Father’s robes. His feet are bare on the fine mosaic of the floor; the vital shade of His skin so much like Lorgar’s own. His steps are impossibly light when He doesn’t want to make noise.
Lorgar has heard the tale; echoed through a dozen false faiths, and even present in the older, more apocryphal of Colchis’ scriptures, of the woman who washed away her sins washing a messiah’s feet. If he’s sinned, if his crimes are so terrible, let him repent similarly. Let him worship the body of one so divine.
“Remove your clothes.”
Perhaps it’s just to be a beating, then. Lorgar wets his lips. It’s been some time since he’s had one, but he understands them well enough. A punishment for disobedience, a test of his virtue. His hands, still shaking, carefully undo the clasp of his himation, and he slides the garment off, letting it pool around his knees. The pose he enters is natural; engendered in him since early childhood. A penitent’s bow, on his knees, forearms braced on his thighs, neck and shoulders bent so he stares at the floor, offering his back to his Father, for the cane or the lash or whatever instrument He prefers.
When he feels his Father’s hand on his shoulder, his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment.
Then he’s pushed forwards with irresistible force, nearly sent sprawling before he can catch himself on the flats of his palms. The hands-and-knees position is far less dignified, and it becomes even worse when another shove to the back of his neck makes his arms buckle. His head slams against the floor, hard enough to leave a crack in the beautiful tile, hard enough to make him momentarily dizzy.
The shock of it hurts more than anything. Lorgar feels a thin trickle of blood on his temple, a small cut that heals as quickly as it opened. He scrambles to get his arms underneath him.
Stay down. If the absolute order wasn’t enough to keep him in place, the sheer, irresistible psychic force that accompanied it would have been. Lorgar stills, bent at the knees and the waist, the position slumped and undignified, like a dog presenting itself.
In a horrified instant, he realizes what’s about to happen to him.
Father, please–
White-hot pain scrambles his thoughts. His teeth clamp together, missing his tongue by centimeters.
I gave you every chance. His Father doesn’t even sound angry anymore. The voice in his head is tired. Sad. As if He regrets the violence He’s about to commit. As if Lorgar has forced His hand. Every chance to cease this foolishness, Lorgar. What am I meant to do with a son who claims to want nothing more than to do my will, and yet refuses to listen to me?
When that pain abates, the next thing he feels is hands on his waist, encircling him, pulling him closer. He wants to fight but he’s at war with both his Father’s terrible strength, and his own instinct to obey. This is how more savage conquerors treat their conquered, the last resort of someone interested only in humiliation and defiling, but some insidious part of him whispers that he deserves it. That whatever punishment his Father metes out can only be fair, only be warranted.
And–
Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes, not a threat as much as an inevitability. It’s going to hurt. It can only hurt. He’s wanted it before, hoped for it, prayed for it in moments of weak desperation, selfishly wanted his Father’s undivided attentions, and now he has them.
His Father mounts him like he’s nothing more than an animal, roughly, suddenly, uncaring of making it comfortable or pleasant for him. If it was merely the terrible pain of unprepared flesh, Lorgar could have borne it easily, but his Father feels different as He enters him, the radiant light that suffuses His entire being burning inside of him. His hands on Lorgar’s waist are as brands, searing their imprint into his skin. Lorgar cries out, a strangled sound that even despite how much it hurts is more despair than anything.
He’s wanted it before. Lorgar could lie to himself and say that he thought it would have been different, but he knows better than that.
His Father is completely silent while penetrating him, the only sounds in the chamber being Lorgar’s own, small sobs and broken little gasps. Is He enjoying it? Does He take pleasure in violating His own child? Even when they’re pressed together, as intimately as is possible in this position, there’s nothing. It would be better, less painful, less agonizing, to know He enjoys it. It would be service, then. It would be love. It would be worship.
I do not want your worship.
The words rake across the inside of his skull. Of course, his thoughts are not private even now. Especially now, when he’s trying so hard to simply endure what’s happening to him.
He tries to focus on the physical part of it. The violation of his body is less terrible by far than the violation of his mind. Every muscle in his body is tense, but that’s hardly a hindrance to his Father, who fucks him with awful, implacable force. It is not gentle; it is not kind. It is not meant to please him, and Lorgar thinks in a vague sense that it seems barely even meant to please his Father. It is not making love, or even just sex. It is rape, brutal and barbarous.
“No true god would treat you in this way,” his Father says, His voice quiet, even careful– like He’s discussing the weather, or a literary passage He found interesting.
Through his grinding, hoarse wheezing, Lorgar can’t help but bark out a laugh.
On Old Earth they had tales of those who had caught the attentions and affections of the gods, gods who knew to show affection only in violation, gods who would take the form of a spouse, a shepherd, a shower of rain to make love to their paramours in the most violent of manners. Gods who would steal young boys away from their families to keep as lover and slave. Gods who blessed a mortal woman by transforming into a bird and ravishing her as she lay upon the riverbank, helpless and terrified. Since time immemorial gods have brought ruin to mortals as assuredly as they’ve brought prosperity.
This is what he is. The queen of Old Earth is long dead, bones rotted into nothing but her story remains as a cautionary example of what it means for a god to love. He is her, lying helpless, the divine monster upon him, inside of him, loving him and raping him, cherishing him and ruining him.
What else but a god would treat him this way?
Lorgar buries his eyes in the crook of his elbow and sobs, a broken, hollow sound that aches equally of despair and love. He hates this; he craves this. However his body can be used to bring his god pleasure, he wants to be used in that way. He’s never wanted anything but that. Every slap of his Father’s hips against his, every sharp thrust of his Father’s cock inside of him-- it’s good, it’s right. It’s proof that his god wants him.
He’s hard; he must want this too.
I have always wanted this, he thinks, tears spiling down his cheeks. I deserve this.
His Father’s thrusts carve out space inside of him, boring a hole into his core. Lorgar feels His hand on his neck, holding him down as easily as if he were a child. His strength is overwhelming, but the apathy He shows Lorgar hurts more than anything physical, as if he’s a piece of mistreated furniture or a marital aid instead of His son. Lorgar can’t help but eke some miserable delight out of it anyway, at the attention, at having his Father touch him so intimately.
When he reaches under his body to take himself in hand, his Father says nothing. Lorgar doubts He doesn’t notice– little enough escapes His notice– but mercy of all mercies, he’s at least allowed to pleasure himself. It would be easy enough for Him to deny such a thing. He strokes his own cock, working the length of it feverishly in tandem with his Father’s movements.
Like this it’s more bearable. He curls his hand tighter, trying to stifle noises that aren’t quite pain and aren’t quite pleasure as heat builds and tension grows. There’s a sob in his chest, one that comes out more as a strangled noise of agony when he comes.
His Father doesn’t finish nearly so quickly. His pace is a measured bit of brutality, perfectly, mercilessly even, and the only indication He gives before He climaxes is a sharp inhale, accompanied by him suddenly stilling. His grip tightens ever so slightly around Lorgar’s waist, keeping Him anchored, as if there’s any possibility Lorgar could get away. His seed is thick, heavy, sickeningly hot, and when He pulls out the excess of it spills down Lorgar’s backside and thighs, dripping from his abused hole uncontested. Another humiliation.
Without his Father keeping him upright, Lorgar collapses onto his side. Out of pure instinct, his body curls into itself, shoulders hunching, legs bent and tucked. He trembles; he hurts, the pain pervasive and terrible in a way it shouldn’t be for a primarch. His muscles spasm, and he can feel himself crying still, his face wet and throat tight.
The tales rarely told of this part. The myths and stories glossed over the immediate aftermath of deific ravishment. He feels sick, used, hollowed out. He must be awful to look at; a pathetic, floundering thing, bruised and naked and leaking his Father’s spend uncontrollably.
Distantly, as if he’s underwater, he can hear his Father redressing. Opening his eyes leads to a bleary vision of bare feet some half a meter away from him. The pain of looking upon Him is suddenly very little, compared to the ache of Lorgar’s entire existence.
The Emperor slips a golden corded belt around His waist, fastening His robes in place. He doesn’t acknowledge His son’s existence at all as He tidies Himself, and when He turns back around, it looks for all the world as if absolutely nothing has transpired. Not that Lorgar expected otherwise, but it might have soothed him somewhat if there was any evidence whatsoever that it had affected his Father at all.
“Thank me,” his Father says. There’s an impossible coldness in His eyes, the golden light in them devoid of anything resembling comfort, or love.
It’s a struggle to do much of anything, but Lorgar manages it. He pulls himself back up to a kneeling position, and bows, touching his forehead to the floor. Like this, the wetness between his thighs is worse. He might be bleeding; it’s impossible to tell.
“Thank you, Father,” he wheezes out. His voice is thin, stripped of any of its usual cadence and power by the soreness of his throat, and the meek hollowness of his words. “Thank you, for… for—”
He hesitates. There are a hundred and one ways he could have ended the sentence, but they all leave him at once. Most of them he’s certain if he gave voice to here and now would merit another punishment. The Emperor takes pity on him here, at the very least.
“For raising me from my ignorance.”
“For… raising me from my ignorance.” He presses his head down harder, feeling cold tile beneath it.
“For showing me the error of my beliefs.”
“For showing me the error of my beliefs.” Every word comes easier and easier. Lorgar can feel himself begin to cry again, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He squeezes them shut, unwilling to let them spill so easily, or to continue to look at his Father.
“For giving me another chance.”
“For giving me another chance.” His speech becomes a whisper, and his hands ball into fists. “Thank you, Father. Thank you.”
“Good.”
The barest hint of pride in the Emperor’s voice is enough to set Lorgar’s hearts aflutter. His shoulders tremble, sobs threatening them again.
Perhaps this was all a test, too. A lesser man could have been dissuaded by such galling violence. Perhaps– perhaps this was just another attempt to see if Lorgar’s faith could withstand trials. His Father may still be proud of him for enduring punishment without complaint, without trying to escape it. For still believing, even when he’s been given reason to doubt.
He doesn’t see the Emperor move away from him as much as he senses it, his Father’s attention turning to something else in an instant. It leaves him with a curious coldness in his chest, as if a cork had been pulled out of him and drained everything inside away.
“Do not linger on this planet longer than necessary,” the Emperor says, the weight of His words pressing Lorgar further into the ground. “I tasked you with executing this crusade. The job of administrating is for others, and is nothing but a waste of time and resources for someone with talents such as yours.” There’s a pause, and Lorgar can hear the slight whisper of His feet as He turns. “Do you understand?”
He’s expecting a response. Lorgar swallows.
“Yes, Father,” he says.
It feels a halfhearted answer at best, but the Emperor doesn’t press him for more, seemingly satisfied with his show of obeisance. “You will receive your next targets soon. And Lorgar, my son…”
Lorgar looks up. He’s stopped crying, gotten at least that part of him under control, but the sight of his Father’s face– beautiful and unknowable and radiating such a pernicious disappointment that Lorgar can feel it– threatens to undo him once again. His hearts seize, but he forces himself to keep looking, to keep his hastily reconstructed mental barriers in place.
What else but a god would look at him that way?
“What is it?” He asks, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice.
“Take these lessons to heart. If you fail me again, you may not be the only one who faces consequences.”