Chapter Text
He is brought before you at last. The thirteenth son, the thirteenth brother. Unarmed, unarmoured, but unbound. He comes before you of his own choosing -- because you gave him the choice! You are not your Father (who you have cast down utterly, body and soul). You have allowed your brother the choice of life or death. And Roboute -- dear, clever, pragmatic Roboute, who you have always suspected only bent the knee to the Emperor of Mankind because he understood the consequences for his little fief had he resisted -- has chosen life.
He comes before you, with the injuries sustained in the course of his last stand all healed, and the scars all very nearly faded. He comes before you dressed in the fine silk and linen you had sent to his cell, garb that befit his station. His life, his health, his dignity, all at your will.
He sinks to his knees before your throne, and the sight fills your hearts with a rapacious glee.
"My Lord -- Horus," he says roughly. His pride must be in tatters, poor thing. The magnitude of his defeat. The failure of all of his theoreticals and practicals, leading him to take the wrong side of this grand conflict, and that his error cost him the lives of so many of his precious mortal subjects and treasured gene-sons. You will build him back up again. Not too much - he must still understand who is at the head of this new order, after all -- but enough. He will love you, before you are through.
"Roboute. Brother."
You offer him the back of your Talon, and he quails, if only for a heartsbeat. He knows full well, after all, that this is the weapon that gutted your failure Father, that tore the wings from the Great Angel. But he rallies, and presses his lips to the back of it. Pledging himself to your new order. Pulling away, he looks up at you, those pretty blue eyes red-rimmed and dark-circled, something like confusion on his face. Like he doesn't quite recognise you.
"Rise," you bid him, refusing to dwell on that strangeness, and he obeys.
"My lord," he repeats, each word another painful surrender. "Brother. I m - I would ask of you," he corrects himself, voice unsteady, "leave to return to Ultramar, to bear word of your triumph."
Oh. How precious. You smile, and he cannot stand to look at you. He averts his eyes. His weakness is delicious, and you lean forward, placing your less-lethal hand on his cheek. His hearts are beating so, so fast.
"Roboute. I know you must fear for your people. But there's no need. Lorgar and Angron have been recalled. Your little empire will be safe, as all worlds loyal to me will forever be. I have need of you here. And you need to be here." That gets his attention. He wants to know what you mean by that. "The galaxy will be a different place, from now on. And if you're to lead it with us, you need to understand how it works."
"You said that I did not need to pledge myself to your powers," he protests.
"And you don't," you reassure him. That is true. You will not force him to declare for any of the Four, so long as he serves you. But you look forward to the day when he makes his own choice. "But you still need to understand them."
He wants to argue. But he swallows it down for his lord. "Then what would you ask of me?"
"A year, and a day." Roboute's expression relaxes, just a little. That's all? he must be thinking. He still has so much to learn.
"A year and a day," he echoes.