Chapter Text
On principle, Konrad doesn't carry much fondness in either heart for Terra. It isn't his home (reflexively, he sneers at the notion of a 'home'); the people that occupy the golden halls of the imperial palace are as alien as true xenos, the father to whom his fealty is owed is a hypocrite... No, Konrad does not much like Terra.
He likes it even less when he's summoned there with the explanation of "urgent matters" requiring his "immediate attention"— from half across the galaxy. He doesn't like it, but as the loyal dog he is, he returns when the chain is pulled.
"Tell the astropaths to route," he snarls at someone; he doesn't care which of his sons it is, or if they're particularly offended by the menial assignment, "we're headed back to Terra."
"We're in the middle of a bombardment." A very astute observation from Sevatar reminds Konrad why he was reconsidering making him his first captain. Sevatar is just grumpy because he didn't get to join the fray before their unfortunate recall.
"So we are. And now we're headed back to Terra."
"The men won't be happy." Another stunning observation. Dozens upon dozens of Night Lords have been deployed, each on their own quest to inspire a new terror into the errant hearts of man. At this point, separating them from their prey would be more cruel than whatever twisted machinations of the flesh they're doing on the surface.
Konrad has just his flagship on this endeavor. The planet has measly forces, not warranting anything close to a full legion of Space Marines; the rest are a planet away, purging sinners from the bloodied, much more defended world. Which means, like it or not, his sons will have to listen to his call if they do not want to burn in the hell raining down upon the scorched ground. Not that he anticipates them to not listen, that would be ludicrous. Gangsters and thugs they may be, they all are possessing in some manner of brains.
Konrad's lip twitches into a sneer as it does whenever his mind drifts to his sons. "They don't have to be happy, and it's hardly my concern. You're to relay this message, and ensure to emphasize to the ground troops what, exactly, awaits them, should they not heed your call."
Sevatar is smiling; even though his helmet, Konrad can tell. He's seen that cruel smirk enough times for it to become somewhat engrained in his mind. In his mind's eye, he sees it— bisected with the hideous scar that has yet to mar the first captain's alabaster flesh. An itch grows under Konrad's skin, and he almost offers to tell Sevatar how he dies. He knows Sevatar will decline, as he has every other time the offer has been laid bare.
Konrad doesn't make the offer. Instead, he turns on his heel. "I will be in my chambers. Do not disturb me."
"Yessir." Konrad ignores the sloppy, half-mocking salute Sevatar throws at him. He'd be obligated to do something about it if he saw, so he very much didn't, as, unfortunately, Sevatar remains his only son that he can even remotely tolerate on a good day. He trusts the recall to happen with brutal efficiency, even if it is done with some hurt feelings.
Konrad elected not to participate in this ground battle; someone must oversee the more tedious aspect sometimes, after all, regardless of how bereaving he may personally find it. There also is, truthfully, no need for him here. There's no sport to be had in executing heretic and alleged heretic and incidental person who happened to be standing in the wrong place in the wrong time in the same room as someone with insatiable bloodlust and a skinning knife in hand when his sons, veracious and eager as they are, certainly have all bases covered. Konrad is not debased enough to insist on participating to fulfill some personal desire when it would be an oversight of other duties.
As it were, those duties in this instance amount to glorified paperwork— Guilliman has insisted on a meticulous account of every military expenditure for a time indeterminate, so he can more accurately allocate resources. Or something of that sort. It means that, for the last several planets, Konrad has done nothing but hunch over his repurposed table to meticulously detail everything. He's taken a special glee in writing out the specifics on flaying corrupt governors alive.
He could, technically, delegate this task to someone else, as he knows most of his brothers certainly have done, if they have even bothered to comply at all. Angron and Mortarion, he doesn't need his gift of premonition to know Guilliman will receive no battle reports from them. Perhaps one of the Kyroptera could be entrusted with this; ultimately, Konrad doesn't particularly care if some of the details get fudged or omitted entirely, and his fits make the task of reading or writing especially tedious.
He isn't even entirely sure why he doesn't delegate. Var Jahan seems the sort to enjoy this monotony with questionable fervor; he'd certainly be quicker, as well. And less inclined to quantify used munitions with subjective terms such as "too many", or "an entire criminal syndicate on a hiveworld's worth". Oh, Guilliman will have an aneurysm trying to parse anything Konrad has written.
Staring at the singular ledger Konrad cares to know about aboard this entire ship is not a preoccupation he desires at current, so, with a vicious slam, he throws it off to one corner of his dark chambers.
Sighing, he lets his head drop to his hands, thumbs rubbing methodic circles into his temples. He's had a debilitating headache for what feels like an eternity, and no apothecary, should he even deign to trust them, would procure a solution. This pain is from an affliction altogether incurable.
The vision, when it comes, is not as surprising as it usually may be.
"I didn't want this," a smooth voice, wrought with some emotion Konrad cannot place, catches him in its grasp. He looks up, meeting Fulgrim's stony gaze, and says nothing.
"We must make the best of it, I suppose." Fulgrim sighs, dropping down next to Konrad.
When he starts laughing, he cannot stop, and on that wave of mania—
Bitterness, sharp to the point of near agony, is almost overwhelming. He's standing in his chambers, devoid of even a bodyglove, hands flexing and contracting. His nails pierce the flesh of his palms, and within moments, the injuries are gone.
On his hooks, an unfortunate body swings, soul long since departed. The blood is fresh from gaping wounds, and all limbs are conspicuously absent. There's a restless energy thrumming through his veins, causing his twin hearts to race— an energy even such a sport did not abate.
How dare—?
Konrad's orifices are bleeding, dripping down on his mostly clean desk. A pity, that. He had so meticulously cleaned it a few years ago.
Once he regains his facilities, he leans back, staring at nothing for a great deal of time. At least his headache is gone now.
A long while later, Konrad is on the command bridge, dressed up in full power armor. He doesn't anticipate violence; he didn't forsee any as a result of his summons, but the constant prickle of paranoia will not let him be adorned in anything less.
Various Atramentar are scattered across the bridge, doing what appears to be nothing but casting unreadable glances at one another. Konrad knows they're communicating via private vox network. As their Primarch, he's well within his right to feel incensed at the slight, but he cares not. Whatever horrible little secrets they have are theirs to keep.
"The Pride of the Emperor is in orbit of Terra." Shang's voice, coarse and unwanted, breaks through Konrad's brooding. There's a question in his tone. "It has just arrived, I believe. Should we hail?"
Konrad, knowing of this already, says nothing. He stares out into the dead stars, and he wonders. "Do not bother."
"I think now is a good time to ask the... specifics of our recall." Sevatar isn't wearing his helmet anymore. Dark eyes as cold as obsidian glint in the faint light on the command bridge. Every bridge and room aboard Nightfall— and the rest of the ships in the legion, for that matter— have very little lighting. The Nostramo-born Astartes would suffer greatly any other way. Of course, this does serve as some deterrent for inter-legion cooperation, but the Night Lords rarely find themselves in a position where strict co-ordination with any of their cousin legions is necessary instead of simply an optional headache. "Were you given no reason? Or a time frame? Are we being reassigned elsewhere?"
Konrad casts Sevatar a lingering gaze from the corner of his eye. "I was not given a reason. The urgency of the matter, however, was greatly emphasized. There was a threat implied, should we fail to comply." He snorts. "As if such a thing were necessary. Are we not loyal servants to the Emperor and His will?"
"Of course we are," Sevatar says, dutifully. Whether he actually believes this or is just saying this for Konrad's benefit is unknown.
"Have a drop pod prepared. I want to make short work of this." He addresses the bridge at large; all eyes and ears are turned to him, so someone will follow through with the order.
"A drop pod? As in, a singular one?"
"Yes, Sev," Konrad sighs, "my father wishes to speak with me, on matters I couldn't guess at. Such matters are usually conducted privately, I've learned— but if it pleases you, you may keep vigil over your vox."
Sevatar, who was planning on doing so anyway, nods along, ignoring the trace of sarcasm in his Primarch's voice. "Terra doesn't agree with me much, as is. I am perfectly content to wait in orbit."
"Even with the brothers who you just plucked so viciously from their hunts?"
Perfectly straight-faced, Sevatar responds. "I am quite popular amongst my brothers, as luck would have it." There must be an inkling of truth there, as his position as first captain remains entirely uncontested and his posture confident and sure— as if he knows with certainty no knives will bury themselves between his shoulder blades. As if he knows with certainty no one will dare.
There is a strange sensation of envy curling in Konrad's gut. He dismisses it.
Fulgrim catches up with Konrad just inside the Imperial Palace's walls. Konrad knows he had been followed for some time; none of his brothers have ever or will ever manage to surprise him. Perhaps "followed" is not the proper word; it seems as if Fulgrim has the same trajectory as he, and just incidentally lagged behind because... of any myriad of reasons why he would. Fulgrim is Fulgrim. Perhaps he was appreciating the aesthetic beauty of the sparse trees that can be still found. Konrad doesn't feel any dangerous intent from his brother; from Fulgrim, he never has.
"Brother!" Fulgrim exclaims, as if seeing Konrad here is some great surprise, even though he most certainly was aware of Nightfall's arrival. "It has been ages since we last met."
Konrad allows himself to be pulled down in an appropriately tight hug. He doesn't even freeze too much at the proximity, which is commendable. Konrad is not used to the sensation of another body so close to his own. He stiffly returns the gesture, loosely wrapping his arms around Fulgrim's unarmored shoulders.
It's stupid of him, Konrad muses, to play as if he has no target on his back. Even here, in the Palace, Konrad does not feel the security Fulgrim must. Certainly not enough to be devoid of his armor. Certainly, he is not suicidal enough to arrive planetside at all without protection, and Fulgrim is strutting around without even a single one of his sons.
"What brings you here?" Unbothered by his silence, Fulgrim disentangles himself to ask.
"Father wishes to see me." Konrad barely keeps his distaste/apprehension/something else from his voice.
Fulgrim grins. He smells of expensive perfume. The scent doesn't agree with Konrad. "What a coincidence! He has also summoned me, though for what purpose, I do not know. Come, we should walk together."
"Is he aware of your presence already?"
Fulgrim laughs. "Brother mine, is there a ship that could enter this atmosphere without his knowledge? But yes, I did inform him. Well, Valdor, at least. Father seems pre-occupied, of late."
Konrad's lips peel back in a grimace. He deigns not to ask whether his invitation was a threat, or if that was a privilege reserved for him alone. Instead; "how far out were you when you received the summons? I was out near the fringes of the galaxy itself." There is an implied was he inconveniencing you as much as he was me tacked on to the question.
"I was only a handful of systems away, but..." Fulgrim waves a hand. "You understand how the warp is."
Konrad muses for a moment on the truly arbitrary nature of distance, when travel from a location thousands upon thousands of light-years away can transpire in the same time as travel from what is, comparatively, one's next door neighbor. The only distance that matters, ultimately, is that which is across physical ground. He finds this train of thought amusing for reasons unsaid, and doesn't bother stopping the grim smile from stretching his corpse-like features into a macabre parody of pleasure.
Fulgrim is watching him, he can tell. "How have you... been?" The question is uncharacteristically hesitant. Konrad hates him for that.
"Good," he responds shortly. He knows that isn't what Fulgrim really is wondering about; or, not entirely, at least.
By the troubled look on Fulgrim's face, he sees right through it. Konrad wonders how anyone can behold something like him and have it in them to care. Somehow, Fulgrim does. He's perhaps the only one in the universe to possess that naive tenderheartedness. This knowledge doesn't bring any comfort.
They walk in silence for some time, the splendor of the halls warranting no more than a precursor acknowledgement. It's awe-inspiring to regular mortals, and the first time one sets eyes upon it; Konrad had, initially, found the columns of gold so ostentatious and bright he could hardly stand to be in the Palace at all, but after so many centuries, it just seems profoundly unnecessary and about as noteworthy as the occasional servitor passing by.
"Are we to request an audience immediately?" Konrad suspects the question is posed solely to strike conversation once more. Fulgrim is not one for oppressive quiet. "Valdor did not say anything beyond a rudimentary acknowledgement of my arrival."
"In my summons, time seemed of the essence. That being said, I find it unlikely Father anticipated us to arrive approximately at the same time, given... the disparity in our distances." Konrad didn't bother with announcing his presence on Terra formally. It seems awfully redundant to do, when everyone who matters would already know well before he arrived. "However, I am inclined to get this over with."
Fulgrim inclines his head in acknowledgement. "As am I, honestly. And you know nothing of the nature?"
"I am not omnipotent, brother." Konrad licks his lips. "I had a... fit, during transit, which only illuminated me to your presence here. Nothing more."
"You're still getting those? I had assumed those would stop, after..." Fulgrim trails off, unable to find a suitable word. "Acclimation", perhaps. Or "domestication", if he were to channel a bit of Ferrus Manus' caustic spirit.
"Yes. I doubt they will ever cease." The cynical portion of his mind (which happens to be the large majority) notes how they've been getting worse, as of late. Just a few Terran years ago, Konrad suffered from a fit and subsequent seizure so severe he ripped apart the serfs unfortunate enough to be anywhere in his vacinity, and even took a chunk out of Sevatar's back before falling into a listless unconsciousness. He wonders how long such a state is tenable, even for a Primarch. Certainly not the duration of this endless crusade.
"That isn't ideal." A half-hearted attempt at levity to draw away from Fulgrim's painfully evident concern.
Konrad smiles nastily. "No, it isn't. But my lot in life has seemed to be much along that course."
They fall into silence once more, though this bout is significantly more tense. Eventually, they reach the throne room, guarded by several Custodes, who don't do as much as twitch a muscle at the sight of them.
"Our father," Konrad demands, "where is he?" He ignores Fulgrim's slightly chastising look entirely.
"He anticipated your arrival— admittedly, not quite this soon— but has some pressing matters to finish attending. You're free to wait here; it shouldn't be more than a day."
Fulgrim takes Konrad by the arm, sensing his rising ire. "Much appreciated. I believe some refreshments are in order, than we shall reconvene here."
Konrad lets himself be pulled away, and, once he gets a moment, sends Sevatar a vox message stating that he has been abducted for refreshments by Fulgrim, but the odds are in his favor and he should make it out alive.
Sevatar responds with, "I am ever relieved I am not down there with you right now, if I may be excused in saying so, my lord."
Fulgrim shoots him an amused glance, but says nothing. Konrad smirks in return, a dark glint in his eye saying Fulgrim will have hell to pay should anyone learn he has a sense of humor.
Over the course of the next twenty hours, Konrad reluctantly learns of Fulgrim's latest exploits, as well as gossip he couldn't care less about, often because he was already aware of it, and with a degree of truth Fulgrim's recounts are lacking.
"Horus is likely to be made Warmaster, when the time arrives."
Konrad lets out a noncommittal hum, nibbling at the first actual food he's eaten in years. It's far too rich; his enhanced senses allow him to taste every single ingredient and herb.
"One of Russ' sons was caught with a human woman. Quite the scandal."
"I'm sure." Konrad didn't know about that one. He could've gone without, actually.
"...Are you going to eat anything but meat?"
"Unlikely."
Unfortunately, all good things, and even the things that are neither particularly good nor bad, must come to an end, and this somewhat lukewarm occurance ends on the twenty-second hour, at which a Custodes arrives to inform them their father is ready to see them.
Within seconds, the knot of apprehension Konrad has resolutely been ignoring since his summons comes back with a vengeance. Sensing his mood, Fulfirm doesn't say a peep on the way, though if hand gently settles on his shoulder briefly, Konrad doesn't comment.
The ornate doors swing open ominously, and Konrad cannot help but feel this is a tiding of certain doom.
"My sons," the Emperor intones, "I have a grave matter to discuss with you. Please, take a seat."
Even as Fulgrim graciously slides into a chair a few yards away from their father, Konrad elects to remain a surly shadow in the corner of the room, arms folded before him. This earns him not even a glance.
"This is a direct intervention on your... manner of executing orders, Konrad." Anticipating interruption, the Emperor holds up one hand for silence. "Far too long have I turned a blind eye to your more unorthodox methods, and I regret that immensely. The ends justify the means, to an extent, but your means stray often into wanton cruelty for cruelty's sake. It's disturbing, frankly, and excessive."
Of all the things their father could've said, this is perhaps one of the worst. Konrad falls back on the rebuttal he's used every time his methodology is cast into question. "I am the tool you fashioned me to be. The scythe is not to blame for the manner in which the farmer wields it. I knew before you ever set foot on Nostramo the purpose you devised, and it was a purpose I did not much yearn, but I did so without comment. Such purpose is cosmic in nature and cannot be railed against, regardless of how much I may prefer otherwise."
"I never intended you to be a butcher. You are my blade, but even tempered metal must know some restraint. Your effectiveness is not hampered by cutting back on sadistic urges and reigning in your sons."
Konrad bares his teeth. "I am also your justice. Justice cannot be fulfilled if I do half-measures. Crime and sin must be punished, with the perpetuators made grim example of. How is order to be kept if there is no consequence?"
"Order can be kept through other means instead of fear. Your brother Roboute manages, as do Jaghatai, and Dorn, and most others. No, I do not believe even your sense of justice necessitates such acts of savagery."
"Why, then, do I permit it?"
"Question." Fulgrim raises one hand, interrupting what could have been a very introspective moment. "For what purpose am I here?"
"You are to be his restraint." Their father looks aged, suddenly. Decades put upon in moments. "As you once were his mentor centuries ago, you will again be so. Teach him a less... heavy touch. This arrangement will not be permanent, of course, as it would be highly inefficient, but for now, I would like you to imagine it as such."
Konrad suddenly doesn't want to hear anymore. And so, he doesn't.
Later, when Konrad and Fulgrim are just outside the palace walls, not quite looking at one another, with the former sprawled carelessly across the ground, Fulgrim speaks.
"It has never been my intent nor desire to intervene in places I am not wanted. Please do not hold this against me."
Konrad says nothing, chewing at his bottom lip until his chin is stained with blood.
He tries again. "I hope this will not put a wedge between us. I... I'm sorry."
Konrad snorts. Empty platitudes mean nothing. His autonomy and function are being stripped from him without warning, on what amounts to a whim, and Fulgrim will be the shackles around his wrists. "Words don't mean anything, Phoenician."
"Look. I didn't want this; we must make the best of it, I suppose." Fulgrim drops down beside him, the unceremonious action somehow still graceful when he does it.
When Konrad starts laughing, he cannot stop.