"You are here to help me. What is this place? Where are we?"
Sanguinius had an endless stream of questions.
"Archangel, spread your wings while the sun is shining. We don't have much time."
Hearing this, Sanguinius instinctively unfurled his wings and followed the flickering fireflies. As he looked up, the golden sun hung high in the sky, its brilliance unmarred by clouds. The afternoon was clear and bright.
"What does this mean?" he asked, confused.
"The sun could set at any moment. Without its light, we cannot return to the material universe."
"Isn't this the real universe?" Sanguinius looked down at his hands. Everything seemed tangible, real. He could not believe he was still a wandering specter.
"This is not the world we know. It is the boundary between illusion and reality. But do not fear—I have come with a purpose, and I swear to guide you back to the Imperium."
"Archangel, move quickly. Time is running out."
In the dim glow, like that of a firefly, strange information streamed forth—knowledge even Sanguinius himself could not fully comprehend.
He did not understand why sunlight was crucial to escaping this realm, but he chose to believe.
"What must I do?"
"Just follow me."
Sanguinius beat his wings and pursued the guiding light toward the distant horizon.
A voice echoed faintly—an urgent call, imploring him to return. To reclaim his place in the salvation of the Imperium.
The voice resonated with him. It was familiar—majestic yet pained. But when he tried to listen closely, the sound dissipated, as if a great force sought to block it.
"Child, do you hear that voice? It calls to me as well."
As they flew, Sanguinius turned to his companion, wondering if they too could perceive the fragmented whispers.
"Many long for your return. The galaxy teeters on the brink of despair. Humanity needs you, but beware—the forces of darkness conspire to keep you trapped in the void."
Sanguinius nodded solemnly.
They pressed forward. The golden sunlight cast its radiance upon them, illuminating their path. All seemed smooth—until they reached the edge of the world.
In an instant, paradise was torn asunder.
Mountains morphed into jagged crystal spires that pierced the heavens like a colossal, inescapable prison. Verdant forests withered into fetid swamps, belching noxious fumes into the sky.
The air grew thick with acrid smoke. Rivers churned and boiled, spewing magma and flame. The very earth splintered apart, birthing yawning chasms from which blood seeped like a grotesque spring. Brass-forged abominations rose from the depths.
The creatures of the land, once serene, were twisted into obscene parodies of life. Goats stood upright, tongues lolling as their innocent gazes turned to expressions of blasphemous hunger.
The world decayed before Sanguinius's eyes.
Darkness loomed.
"What is happening?" he demanded.
The realm's only remaining light—the fireflies—glowed brighter in defiance of the encroaching nightmare.
"Do not falter, Archangel. Keep going."
The fire intensified, and a resolute voice rang out:
"I swear to guide you until you return to the material universe!"
In that voice, Sanguinius recognized something profound.
It was the voice of sacrifice, the same emotion that surged within him when his sons had given their lives for him.
"How can I let you, an innocent soul, perish for me?" His eyes shimmered with sorrow. Stopping mid-flight, he plucked a single feather from his mighty wings and offered it forward.
"It seems I cannot leave this place. Take this—it is my last hope."
"But—"
The firefly-light trembled, its voice laced with urgency. Behind them, a vast, formless shadow stretched outward.
The blasphemous whispers grew louder and louder, echoing in the ears of the two figures.
—"Come back, Varo!"
Suddenly, a majestic voice cut through the layers of whispers, resonating with absolute clarity.
At that moment, over a million flames ignited across the void, resembling stars in a desolate firmament.
With a sudden burst—
Each flame birthed a massive, unblinking eye, scanning the world with an unrelenting gaze.
Crimson fire surged forth, consuming the darkness that sought to engulf them, painting the surroundings in an infernal red glow.
From within the flames, a sacred entity emerged—a vast construct of interwoven, rotating wheels, adorned with countless eyes. A vision of divine wrath and judgment.
Drawn by the fire's presence, countless ember-like fragments coalesced back into the celestial construct. An eye within the flames flickered open.
Varo stood upon the great wheel, his gaze locking onto Sanguinius, who stood not far away.
A faint smile graced the archangel's face as he lifted a hand in farewell.
Yes, Sanguinius was not part of the wheel. He could not ascend it, nor could he force his way out.
"My Lord, this is not how it was meant to be. This is not the destined path," Varo murmured, unwillingness in his many-eyed gaze.
"That may be, but even so, our journey has not been in vain—"
The grand celestial construct responded, its voice resonating with the weight of a million wills.
As it spoke, the myriad burning eyes that had illuminated the world withdrew into the flaming wheels. Each eye, like Varo, carried its own sentience, its own will.
At the center of the celestial entity, a colossal eye snapped open. It cast its gaze upon the archangel, then shifted its focus toward the world itself.
A condensed beam of psychic force erupted forth, carving through the realm with divine retribution. Crystal mountains crumbled, toxic swamps ignited, rivers of molten rock were cleaved apart, and the grotesque, malformed creatures of Chaos were reduced to nothingness. All impurity was burned away.
A fracture split the colossal shadow looming behind Sanguinius.
Then, as swiftly as it had come, the divine construct was consumed by its own flames, vanishing into the ether.
"Thank you for your service, Dukel and Varo," Sanguinius whispered, his voice gentle yet resolute.
He turned, his gaze sweeping across the shattered remnants of this realm.
With purposeful steps, the archangel ascended through the rent in the darkness, his wings unfurling, trailing divinity across the blighted land.
Above, four monstrous storm fronts churned, a convergence of ruinous powers blotting out the celestial light.
Without hesitation, Sanguinius ascended, piercing through the suffocating clouds, emerging once more beneath the golden radiance of the Emperor's sun.
The world bathed in this light remained untouched—verdant mountains, crystalline waters, a realm of warmth and tranquility.
Atop the grandest peak stood a majestic golden palace.
Sanguinius returned to its gates, his eyes lifting to the heavens, his gaze locked upon the brilliant sun.
"Father, forgive me. My choices may have disappointed you once more. But hope... hope does not perish with my decisions, does it?"
The sun did not answer. It merely bathed him in a gentler, warmer light.
Beneath the sacred ground of Baal, the eyes of Dukel and Varo opened in unison.
"My Lord, we were so close," Varo whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He recalled the solitary figure of the archangel, bidding him farewell, and his many eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "If only I were stronger... we would not have needed to trigger the contingency. I was born for this. Whether success or failure awaits, I will burn all that I am for this cause."
"You have done well, Varo," Dukel assured him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Sanguinius would not wish for the innocent to be sacrificed in his name."
If Varo had ignited his full essence in that realm, he would have perished utterly.
A fate far worse than death—true oblivion.
"Your Highness Dukel... our Holy Father..." Dante's voice wavered as he stepped forward, sorrow heavy in his tone.
Around them, the Blood Angels stood in solemn silence, heads bowed in grief.
The Primarch had returned. The Navigator had returned.
But Sanguinius... his body lay motionless, showing no signs of awakening.
"Your Highness... if even you cannot bring him back—?"
Dante's words faltered, despair creeping into his soul.
Dukel cut him off with quiet certainty.
"This mission was not in vain. There is still hope."
From within his robes, he produced a single white feather.
The feather was ethereal, its form not fully tethered to reality. Over a meter long, thicker than the arm of a Space Marine, it seemed to exist between dimensions.
With careful reverence, Dukel placed the feather upon Sanguinius's still form.
As it merged with the flesh, a radiant light surged forth. The wounds upon the Primarch's body began mending before their very eyes.
The gathered warriors held their breath, watching in silent awe as the brilliance intensified, consuming the archangel's form in blinding luminescence.
Dukel alone gazed into the heart of the radiance, his expression shifting from hope to something unreadable.
A faint fluttering sound echoed through the chamber.
The rhythmic beating of wings.
The Blood Angels, gripped by emotion, surged forward, their anticipation soaring.
As the divine light faded, a figure emerged from within.
Golden hair cascaded down.
White-feathered wings spread wide.
A presence both noble and pure, radiant with divine authority.
Yet—
Why was he so... small?
The figure before them stood just over a meter tall. Barely the size of a child. His features delicate, his purity overwhelming, his gender almost indistinct.
Dukel's thoughts raced. "Could it be... that he has truly become Sanguinius reborn?"
All Primarchs were undoubtedly male, yet in this universe, where reality bent and shifted unpredictably, nothing was truly impossible.
A collective silence fell over the Blood Angels.
Even Guilliman looked stunned.
Then, relief washed over Dukel as he sighed inwardly. "At least... he's still a boy."
"Holy Father?!"
"Our Father?!"
The Blood Angels erupted into joyous cries, swarming around their newly reborn lord.
Though the Primarch's resurrection had not unfolded as expected, the warriors of Baal felt something deeper—an elation beyond words.
Guilliman, stepping forward, murmured, "How... how did this happen?"
Dukel met his gaze. "Do you recall Horus?"
Guilliman's eyes narrowed. "What does Horus have to do with this?"
"Not directly," Dukel explained. "But once, Horus believed himself to be an ordinary man. And so, he was. Until the Emperor found him. Only then did he realize his purpose—and in that moment, he ascended."
"A Primarch's form is shaped as much by will as by flesh."
"So this form..." Guilliman mused. "It's not permanent?"
"No," Dukel confirmed. "This is but a fraction of Sanguinius's essence."
From within the Blood Angels' ranks, a small, childish voice broke the silence.
"...Brother?"
The gathered warriors turned as one, their eyes locked upon the childlike angel perched atop Dante's shoulders, pointing at Dukel and Guilliman.
For a long moment, silence reigned.
Then, Guilliman smiled. "He still remembers us."
And for the first time in ages, Dukel smiled as well.
…
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