#imperial fists

sonofdorn-vii:

VII

The Seventh Primarch couldn’t sleep. Not that any of them really SLEPT like ordinary men, but he was restless. Rogal Dorn had been part of the Great Crusade for almost a year, after meeting his real father for the first time. It had been a time of change, difficult and challenging. He’d lead men for decades and understood the nature of leadership. But this was different. Thousands of soldiers, all genetically altered to be like him, to have a single spark of the raging inferno of his potential inside them. All needing leadership, guidance. All looking at him with… awe. Even on his own ship, the mighty Phalanx, he couldn’t escape the feeling of obligation, of all of them waiting for him to DO something.

It was the early hours of the morning, and wandering his ship in an effort to quiet his mind, Dorn turned randomly at corridor intersections and down grand promenades. Since declaring Phalanx to be the home of his Legion, the gargantuan ship was never fully quiet, never completely empty, even in the small hours of the night. His bodyguard kept their distance, giving him his space, allowing him to breathe. Turning a corner, Dorn’s enhanced hearing heard a low buzzing coming from a closed hatch up ahead. The hatch lead to the apothecarion in this section. As he approached, the hatch opened and a Legionary exited, wearing plain dark blue fatigues and heavy laced boots identical to Dorn’s own. Seeing the primarch, the Legionary’s eyes widened slightly and he leapt to attention, saluting with his fist over his primary heart. Pausing slightly, Dorn returned the salute, and indicated the Legionary should go on his way. Approaching the hatch, it sensed his genecode and irised open. Dorn entered, the light inside bright white compared to the dim approximation of ‘night’ in the rest of the ship. On the far side of the chamber, collecting together chrome tools including inky needles, was a large man. Big by astartes standards, his clothing was identical to the primarch, except for the pristine white lab coat over the top, and the pale surgical gloves he began peeling off. The fingertips were black like the needles he’d collected in a counterseptic bath. Hearing the Seventh primarch enter, he looked up and sprang to attention. 'Sire, I-…’

Dorn held up a hand.

'You were…tattooing…the man who just left.’ He could smell the ink and blood in the air, beneath the scent of cleaning compounds.

The apothecary said nothing.

'I have made my feelings on such things clear Apothecary Fane.’

The apothecary stiffened. That the primarch knew his NAME…

'I have decreed such unnecessary ostentation to be outlawed in my Legion…Yet here you are.’

Dorn traversed the length of the chamber, his long stride eating up the distance between them slowly. The room was low-ceilinged and clad in rectangular tiles of bare steel, scrubbed clean. Surgical bays off to either side were in darkness, and the room contained twenty four identically made beds, twelve on either side, none occupied.

'Do my men think themselves savages of Fenris or the scum gangs of Cthonia to be decorating their bodies in this manner?’ Dorn’s voice was low and dangerous. 'Speak freely apothecary, tell me why you’ve chosen to disobey my order. Don’t lie… I’ll know.’

'Sire, I would never lie to you,’ said Fane blushing slightly, 'I’m not sure I actually could.’

Dorn said nothing, his gaze unwaving, his disappointment threatening to tip into rage.

'Then speak, Fane. Now.’

'I understand that I am working against your wishes sire, as does every man who visits me for this purpose, ’ Fane began. 'The tattoos are a…symbol sire. A way of showing commitment to the Legion, to the Emperor, to you.’ The apothecary sighed slightly. 'Every single man who wears the Imperial gold of the Legion will die in service to you, sire. They will never see their homes or their families again. They know this, as do you. They are choosing that fate, that certainty, to be part of something greater.“

The apothecary shifted slightly as Dorn crossed his enormous arms over his chest.

'Our Legion draws it’s men from many different places, unlike the legions that recruit from a single world. Terra, Inwit, a half dozen other planets so far. The men of our Legion all look different, they all sound different, have different backgrounds and beliefs. The inkwork you so distain is a way of them… homogenising. Of declaring an allegiance to the single thing that ties them all together… which is you.’

Dorn looked taken aback suddenly, as the apothecary continued.

'YOUR blood sire, is the only thing that they, that WE, all have in common.’

Dorn’s eyes softened slightly.

'The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,’ quoted Fane, ’ the allegiance we CHOOSE is more important than where we came from.’

Dorn looked away, conflicted for the first time.

Fane said nothing, seconds passed.

Eventually, Dorn returned his gaze to the apothecary, 'Its not vanity,’ he said. A statement, not a question.

'No sire. The majority of the men I have marked have something simple; the Legion numerals, a squad number. Our bodies would reject the ink, push it out. Except if we mix the ink with the blood of a brother first’ Confessed Fane, 'Some have more complex designs of course, requiring multiple sessions. But not many. Your Legion is prideful sire, but pride and vanity aren’t necessarily the same thing.’

Dorn considered this for a long moment. A creeping realisation dawning that had eluded him for almost a year. He was PROUD of his Legion already, the men under his command were exemplary soldiers. But he’d never told them. He’d never shown them anything other than the cold decisive side of command, because he saw them AS soldiers; nothing more. He hadn’t considered how they viewed him, that they might have an opinion. He realised suddenly that was a mistake, they needed leadership, but not like any men he’d lead before. They weren’t his soldiers, they were his sons. Could this oversight, this OBVIOUS misstep on his part, be the reason for his discontent?

Apothecary Fane was correct, all of his men were from different places; had different lives and ideas and thoughts. They were choosing to be together, choosing to belong. He hadn’t realised at all, he hadn’t CHOSEN anything. The men under his command deserved better, they deserved a leader who was one of them.

Dorn approached Fane, and placed a huge hand on the apothecary’s shoulder.

'Thank you my son,’ he said. 'You have shown me an…error… for which I will ever be in your debt.’

Fane was too astonished to respond, merely looked into his primarch’s grey eyes, the colour of an approaching storm. The primarch smiled.

'I have something to ask of you, if I may.’

When he returned to his quarters sometime later, Dorn experienced his most complete rest in many months. Fane had used his own blood, at the Primarch’s insistence, to mix the ink for a new tattoo. The first, but not the last. Simple, but heavy with importance; the Legion numerals now marked the skin of the Seventh Primarch’s right shoulder.

I may be Chaos to the bone, but this perfection with words, even when applied to Loyalists, always fills my slaaneshi heart with joy.

Imperial Fists

By Martin Kirby

Black Legionnaires courting Imperial Fists and Black Templars, wanting a Sigismund to their Abaddon, Rogal Dorn to their Horus.

Because those two chapters are among the most stubbornly loyal, the rate of success is abysmal and the Loyalists often end up used as Daemon hosts or harvested for parts. Sigismund chose death over joining his ex boyfriend, after all.

Dark setting yo.