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Chapter Text

Standing at the head of his hastily arranged honor guard, Fulgrim fights to suppress the flash of trepidation settling in his chest.

For all it may have been rather sudden, his newest brother being assigned under his tutelage could not be considered entirely unexpected. He himself had been mentored by Horus after being brought into the Imperium's fold, so it only made sense the same duty would fall to him eventually. In truth, he had, for the most part, even been looking forward to it. The idea of helping a newly found primarch find his footing in the Imperium, of potentially forging a truly close bond with another of his kin had sounded… enjoyable. Exciting, even.

Now, however, faced with the reality of his situation, Fulgrim finds his previous enthusiasm somewhat diminished.

The newly dubbed Konrad Curze, standing before him in one of the Andronius' many hangars, has little in common with those fanciful imaginings of his- or any of his other brother primarchs, for that matter. He is draped in a robe of black, tattered cloth, much of his skin - going far beyond even the extraordinary paleness of Fulgrim himself and into a gray far too reminiscent of an exsanguinated corpse - on display. Equally as visible are the man's numerous scars, stab and slash wounds writ into flesh. His face is mostly unmarred, he notices quickly; the skin around his eyes having healed where he had clawed on it. And yet, the memory stands out in Fulgrim's mind, doing nothing to improve his general sense of unease.

He remembers it with a discomfiting clarity- the choking dark, the smog filled streets, tinged with the smell of old, old blood. The figure of Konrad laughing, muttering statements from a possible future so horrifying Fulgrim wishes dearly he could wipe them from his mind. Konrad stained with blood and dirt, trying to rip his own eyes out over what his mind, his curse of premonition, had shown him. Konrad squinting, half blinded by the Emperor's radiance, face twisted in pain.

That same expression is on his face now, his black eyes narrowed into slits. Fulgrim thinks about established greeting protocols, about lights turned to their brightest to show off the beauty of the Emperor's Children's ships, and internally winces. That will have to be changed soon, if his brother is to stay here for the foreseeable future. If this arrangement is to work as he wants it to.

And he does want it to work out between them. Though Konrad is not whom he would have expected as a mentee, that does not mean he will not put in his full effort in introducing him to the Imperium's ways. Uncanny as he may be, Konrad is still his brother, and Fulgrim wants to foster a good relationship with him.

…Only, he is not entirely sure as to how. The man's psychic ability is something Fulgrim has no experience with, and his countenance seems oddly aggressive. If this were not a primarch he speaks of, he may have almost called him unstable. There is something sharp about Curze, like a sparking wire's sting, and he is uncertain as to how he should approach it.

But, no. There is a reason their Father paired them up this way, Fulgrim says to himself firmly, setting up that thought as a bulwark against his uncertainty. The similarities between their respective worlds and upbringings are undeniable, and though Konrad seems to have gotten the worse lot in life, he is nonetheless is determined to find some common ground. He is a brother, after all- surely they can find something to bond over.

With that faith in mind, Fulgrim steps forward, greeting Konrad with a genuine warmth while mercilessly stamping out his doubts. It will be an adjustment period for both of them, that much he is certain of, but he refuses to give up on what could be a prosperous brotherhood before it has even begun. Their first encounter may have been less than auspicious, but there is still time to fix things.

Though there wasn't time enough to set up anything too extravagant, Fulgrim had still managed to prepare a suitable welcome for his new brother. His quarters are being arranged as they speak, and once Konrad has had some time to acclimatize, Fulgrim will introduce him to his ship on the way to the dining hall, where the best feast their half-depleted stores can offer will be waiting.

It's a simple program, yes, but it should be perfect for an icebreaker. In the past, Fulgrim had negotiated much more complex situations than spending a few months' worth with his own brother. He will make this work.

It's all about getting off on the right foot- and if there is something his legion excels at, it's making a good impression.

Several hours later, Fulgrim is forced to admit his optimism may have been somewhat misplaced.

The first signs of trouble began almost right away, starting the moment Fulgrim leads Curze to what are to be his personal chambers for the foreseeable future- or until they reach Terra, at the least. Konrad eyed the space, its lights having been dimmed to the diurnal minimum, with a quiet, disdainful comment about excess, and the sharpness in his voice came as an unpleasant surprise. At that time, Fulgrim didn't think much of it; it is only natural their tastes would differ to some extent, and he did not take it personally.

Or, well- mostly. There was no need to be rude about it, at least.

Still, hoping to improve his brother's clearly sour mood a little, he had his personal attendants sent to Curze's chambers. Konrad would need his own eventually, of course, but the mortal servants Fulgrim has collected over the years are the best of the best, and he had no issue lending out their services for the moment. Then, confident in their skill and his success as a host, Fulgrim left, intent on seeing to other matters in the meantime.

Except he had barely had enough time to sit down in his own chambers when his attendants came rushing back, shaken up and indignant. His seamstress and stylist, a woman usually measured and dignified in all she does, appeared on the verge of collapse as she stood before him with a purpling, puffy bruise spreading across one side of her face, blood matting her hair. When questioned, the other three, who were fortunately unharmed, were quick to lay their blame at Konrad's feet.

They spoke of his brother's dismissiveness, of the primarch being overtaken by an odd fit, responding to Lullah's careful approach by lashing out before kicking them out for good. The woman's injury corroborated their words well enough, even if it was clear from her continued survival Konrad had not meant to attack her, not truly. Still, that sort of behavior came as a shock to them all, and a sense of indignation began growing in Fulgrim's chest then, casting a shadow on his previously pleasant mood.

That's just bad manners, he thought as he sent his seamstress to the medicae, not bothering to hide his frown. If their presence aggravated whatever prophetic gift it is he has, he could have simply sent them away. He speaks gothic well enough for it.

Despite this, Fulgrim still did not not let his hopes for a pleasant - or mostly pleasant, anyway - day evaporate entirely. The tour of the Andronius and the feast awaited them them still. That would be time enough to begin a decent conversation, to get acquainted in a more comfortable setting than the filthy streets of Nostramo.

However, to his disappointment and ever-rising ire, the walk around the ship's notable areas went no better. Quite the opposite, actually; for while his brief respite seemed to have improved Konrad's mood little, it had succeeded quite well in loosening his tongue. Fulgrim tried to be patient and gracious, he truly did, but somewhere around the fifth cutting remark about garish trinkets and worthless mementos, his patience was nearing its end.

And so, with little fanfare and only the stiffness of his posture betraying his mounting irritation, Fulgrim redirects them to the banquet hall some thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Plans and propriety be damned - he hopes, at the very least, some food in his mouth may silence his brother's venomous tongue for a time.

The hall, outlined on both sides by his sons standing at attention, is still bustling with final preparations when Fulgrim and Konrad enter. To his crew's credit, the serfs barely pause at the change in schedule, merely bowing before going about their work- albeit quicker than before. Fulgrim soothes them with a reassuring smile, before turning to his brother. "After you," he gestures to the seat right beside the head of the table, a courteous smile he does not feel arranged artfully across his features.

Konrad's dark eyes take in the space, with its marble carvings and paintings done in numerous styles, all blending together into an elegant tapestry of colors. His expression is as unfavorable as it's been the entire way over- though he does not, Fulgrim notes with some relief, comment on it in any way before sitting down. At this point, he'll be glad to get through this meal without a fight.

With his guest seated, Fulgrim takes the seat opposite to him; a courtesy, placing them at the same level. He hopes, quietly, that his brother will appreciate this gesture, at least. He really does not know what else he can do to settle Curze's mood.

Within a few moments, the serfs begin arriving with the first course- platters of cured meats and cheeses, various sliced fruits and cold salads. Were this the Pride of the Emperor, or had the Andronius not been months off from their last resupply, the meal would have been far more lavish; still, the chefs have done good work, and what it lacks in variety, it makes up for in quantity and quality. He'd been treated to something similar upon being introduced to the Imperium, and he hopes his brother will now find a similar welcome gratifying.

However, Fulgrim is dismayed to find Konrad's face clouding over more and more with each plate brought out. When an attendant goes to serve him, the lord of Nostramo looks seconds away from backhanding the man, scowling into his gold-bordered platter. The atmosphere grows tense, and Fulgrim has to suppress a frown of his own.

Try as he might, he cannot figure out what is angering his brother so. From what information he has managed to find on the topic, Nostramo does not have any forbidden foods, nor vastly divergent customs regarding dining. And yes, the meal could have been more lavish, but Fulgrim would by no means consider the fare on offer offensive…

Wishing to clarify, and potentially rectify, any misstep in conduct for the future, Fulgrim mulls over a polite way to inquire about it, only for Konrad to beat him to the punch. "What a grand place this is," he says eventually, unblinking black eyes boring into his own.

"Thank you," Fulgrim says easily, even though his brother's tone makes his statement sound less than favorable. Refuses to rise to his taunts, vaguely hoping to perhaps, miraculously, shame him into some manners of his own. "I have had-"

"What a grand, dramatic lie," Curze continues, basically spitting the words out. "To draw a fool's eye away from the knife in one's hand. To hide the ugly underbelly, paint over impurities it can never truly cover. What are you hiding, brother?"

For a moment, Fulgrim is speechless. Indignant anger does not take long to come, however, followed by confusion and a stab of pain somewhere deep within himself- one that he stamps down without mercy. "I do not understand what you are getting at, Konrad," he says, no longer smiling. It is only his personal discipline that keeps him from shouting. "I have not lied, nor hidden anything from you. The entire time, I have only sought to make you feel welcome amongst my legion. Whatever it is you may be seeing is only in your head."

Is it an undignified jab? Maybe so. But Fulgrim's grace is at its bitter end. He does not know where all this vitriol stems from, what has aggravated his new brother so. Whatever it may be, he will not sit here and be insulted any longer.

"Have you not?" Konrad barks, getting up from the table with a crash, sending his chair toppling to the floor. He waves his fork aggressively in the air, making it look more akin to a weapon than a utensil. "This pomp and pageantry, this feast and your honeyed words- you would proclaim they contain no poison, no ulterior motive?"

"Oh, for throne's sake-" Fulgrim exclaims, rising as well, though in a slightly more dignified manner, "yes! All I have done is make a genuine attempt to reach out, to- establish a familiarity between us, and here you are, scorning me and mine at every turn! What exactly, pray tell, is the issue you have with me?"

However, instead of replying, his brother laughs. It's an ugly, unhappy sound; the rattling wheeze of an old miner's dying lungs. The noise echoes unpleasantly through the lavish hall, and out of the corner of his eye, Fulgrim sees many a mortal flinch. "I do not believe you," he hisses. "For only he who has much to gain, or more to lose, will grovel and parade so. You would ply me with food, with a meal so grand most will never even see its like from a distance, and you claim simple hospitality? No," he shakes his head sharply, leaning forward to get up in Fulgrim's face. "So I ask again, brother- what do you want from this?"

"I wanted," Fulgrim states coldly, the last traces of his patience drained, "to have a pleasant dinner with my new brother, without being accused of treachery for the crime of having manners. As it stands, though," he continues, putting his chair back in place, "I have lost my appetite, as well as my patience."

"You may serve yourself," he snaps, not deigning to look in Curze's face as he does so, and turns to walk out of the hall while gesturing for his sons to follow. "As shocking as it may be for you, I won't have a guest starve on my ship. I swear on my name and honor none of it is poisoned, either."

With that, he leaves his infuriating brother behind, face set into a stony facade. At his back, the grand, gilded doors snap closed with a quiet, final click.

"Not that I expect you to believe me," Fulgrim mutters under his breath, frustrated beyond bearing. The urge to put his head in his hands is overpowering. He does not yield to it.

He can hardly imagine a way this could have gone any worse.

Suddenly feeling deeply tired, Fulgrim commands the first serf he comes across to prepare him a bath, and bring him his portion of what should have been tonight's brotherly evening meal to his chambers. Because really, at this point, there is nothing he can do to salvage this situation. He might as well make himself comfortable while he stews in his irritation, and works to figure out where to go from here.

Throne, what an utter shitshow.

The rows upon rows of industrial-grade freezers hum in unison, joining the sound of the ship's countless systems in an organized harmony. Aged, worn-down stoves line the back wall of the enormous galley, tarnished steel carts stacked against one another in their respective nooks. The entire place screams utility, with little room for beauty in its unlit corners.

It makes for quite a stark difference, compared to the kitchens on the topmost decks. The appliances here have never tasted fresh produce, and neither will the people whom this place will feed come morning shift. It's all canned food- not that the contents of those containers could really be called such. Mainly processed leftovers of actually edible things, sliced and diced and mashed into the smallest possible package. Old as the unification wars, if he had to guess, and with the flavor to match.

With a tiny, human sized fork held daintily in a hand utterly unsuitable for it, Fulgrim stabs a chunk of some unidentifiable meat-based material and brings is to his lips. The morsel, picked out of a ridiculously small tin, is gritty between his teeth, bringing with it the taste of sawdust, industry and rapid-growth hormones. He'd heated it on one of the stoves a few minutes back, which helped soften the meat some, but it is still a chewy affair, while at the same time remaining oddly textureless for something that had, supposedly, come from a living animal.

It is absolutely, unspeakably awful. It is also, despite everything, deeply comforting. Fulgrim sighs, shoulders drooping. Leans against the cracking tile wall at his back, and goes for another bite.

"Hello, Konrad," he says then, between swallows, eyes flicking for a moment to a shadow near the galley's entrance. Watches his brother step out of it, having been spotted, then turns back to his meal. He does not much feel like looking at him now. "Have you come to accuse me of putting lead in your water now? Perhaps narcotics in the air supply?" he drawls, knowing very well how petty he's being and caring not one bit. He's earned his share of sharp words, he thinks.

Black eyes stare, unblinking, from the dark. "You deny your pretense even now?" Konrad asks, but much of the venom of their previous conversation is gone. In its place remains primarily placid curiosity, tinged with only a touch of accusation. "When here you stand, scorning your extravagant halls and grand dinners for a slave's meal?"

Fulgrim is of half a mind to properly bristle, but he cannot find the energy for it. Though his body is a near-tireless thing, his spirit is much more susceptible to fatigue, and one screaming match was more than enough for the day. "First of all," he says, only a touch waspish, "having good taste and a sense for interior decor is no crime, no matter what you think of it. And furthermore-"

He pauses, breathes out. Evens out his tone slightly. "You mistake courtesy for pretense, I think. I suppose I can see how you would; as a person of power, many others will attempt to ply you with whatever they can afford to give, if only to curry the tiniest shred of favor. You no doubt have your own experiences with this, as the Lord of Nostramo, however-" he tips his head, takes a bite of his meaty sludge, "sometimes, brother, a dinner is just a dinner."

Konrad just stares, seemingly considering his words. After another swallow, Fulgrim takes the opportunity to fill the silence again. "I only wanted to make you feel welcome," he tries to genuinely explain. "We are family, Konrad- if not in spirit yet, then by blood at least. I simply wished to get to know you over a good meal; it is nothing less than you deserve, as my brother."

"And yet here you are," Konrad jerks his head, gesturing to his little meal, "consuming food fit for the common worker."

Now Fulgrim grins. "Ah, this?" he wiggles the can in his hand, comically small in his hand. "It's overprocessed dogshit," he chuckles, enjoying the way Konrad's twitches in surprise at the language. "Barely counts as food, to be entirely honest. But," he shrugs, twisting the tiny fork between his fingers, "it brings with it a certain nostalgia. Little cans like these were the greatest meal I got to know as a child. I filled my quotas well, so I received my rations mostly consistently. Still," he gestures between them, "a primarch grows fast. I was always hungry, and compared to hunting rats for stew or scraping bitter mold off the walls, prepared food was something to be savored."

His brother's brows have risen to his hairline. Even in the dark, Fulgrim can see the shine of grease in it. He will need to introduce him to hair oils at some point. "You were a laborer. You."

"You would struggle to guess it now, would you not?" Fulgrim smiles proudly. "My world has changed greatly through my rule, and I with it, but yes. Beneath the smog-choked sky of Chemos, I was found by the local, impoverished humans. Factory workers, three of countless thousands. My first years were spend toiling amidst machinery for scraps alongside the ones who had taken me in, despite having little to spare for a child. Let alone a child like me."

With a quiet sigh, he scrapes every piece of meat-paste out of his can, not leaving a single morsel behind. "There is something comforting in it still, no matter how awful it tastes to me now. Some old habits die hard, I suppose." He smiles, a little rueful. "You wanted a secret, brother? Here is one for you. You can repay me for it by not spreading it around; I would be dismayed to find it leaving the circle of family."

Konrad, for once, doesn't say anything. Instead, he ambles over to his side, gaze affixed intently to the can still in Fulgrim's hand. His posture has lost some of his tension and all of the hostility, leaving only a quiet sort of inquisitiveness behind. It's the most human he's ever seen Curze.

For a few surprisingly peaceful moments, there is only stillness. "Do you want a portion?" Fulgrim asks then; a quiet truce, an extended hand. There's another can prepared on the countertop beside him, slowly cooling in the dark. He'd been planning to eat it himself, something in the back of his mind always being soothed by having two in a row- a luxury unimaginable, back then.

But he supposes he does not mind sharing, not with family- no matter how infuriating certain members may be at times.

His brother seems to consider it. "Yes," he says eventually, with the barest touch of hesitation.

Fulgrim opens the can, and goes to get him a fork before settling back against his spot of the wall. After a second, Konrad copies him- a safe distance away, but still close enough to be almost companionable. He watches his brother scoop up a big piece of dubious meat sludge, shoving it past his sharp teeth with little finesse. If he has any opinions on the food, he does not express them.

"I have not tried rat stew," Konrad says eventually. He speaks with his mouth full, and Fulgrim winces a little at the sight. Another thing they'll have to work on, during their flight to Terra. "I have always eaten them raw. It sounds like worthless effort."

Brightening up a little, Fulgrim is quick to shake his head. "I understand where you are coming from, but it really was quite the improvement, and well worth the time. Mixed with some lichen or mushrooms, it made for a solid, well digestible meal, especially for sick humans…"

Half an hour later, Fulgrim walks the night-dimmed halls of his ship, making for his quarters with unhurried steps. A little smile plays on his lips, owning only in part to the comfort a full stomach never fails to bring him.

It may not have been the dinner and conversation he'd envisioned, but it matters little. He had found common ground and managed to get to know his brother, even if only slightly. That is more than he'd expected, after the failed feast. It may not be much, true, but it is a start. A basis he can work with, can build off of.

And if there's anything Fulgrim excels at, it's building something beautiful out of scraps.

Chapter Text

Fulgrim first hears of the issue, as often tends to be the case, from the lips of his attendants.

It's the blessing of insight afforded to a servant, to a person of low rank and no official power. His little quartet, though known for being the primarch's personal human retinue, are still, in the end, only serfs. Four amongst thousands. Nobody important, to most minds.

And when nobody important is around, people start to talk.

"I've heard," Jacques begins, not pausing in meticulously brushing scented oils through Fulgrim's freshly washed hair, "there have been some unusual disturbances regarding Lord Curze in the past two days."

"So have I," pipes up Nathan, picking up his part of the usual song and dance while his strong, calloused hands knead Fulgrim's left trapezius muscle. Fulgrim does not open his eyes, his body relaxed, yet inwardly, his attention is piqued by the first thing of import he's hearing today. "His chambers have been utterly demolished, they say" the man continues, "and he wouldn't let the cleaning serfs in while he was inside."

On the velvet-lined settee to his left, a third voice chimes in. "Apparently, Lord Curze wanders the ship at night; dressed in ragged clothes, almost as if in a trance," Lullah hums over the quiet whisper of shifting fabric in her hands. "Like a phantom in the dark, he appears seemingly at random, then vanishes just as quickly. The crew have been talking, even more than usual."

"That's what I've heard as well," Jacques finishes the round, then falls silent. The only notable sound in the room remains the plucking of a harp in the corner, harmonic and elegant.

To tattle, to purposefully gather information on others is a serious thing- one that may curb displeasure and punishment from those officially reported on, and he would not ask his people to put themselves at risk. Gossip, on the other hand, is a much more innocuous thing. People talk, and others overhear; that is simply a part of shipboard life, no matter how hard some persons try to squash it.

Fulgrim, for his part, has never limited harmless chatter in his presence. It livens up the atmosphere, he always says. And if there is an ulterior motive behind his decision- well. That is his prerogative, in the end.

Some of the crew have caught on, and will seek out his four little gossipers on purpose- idly mentioning problems or grievances, in the hopes it might carry to the primarch's ear. Most are not bright enough to realize where his information comes from, and keep talking freely, offering up their information without their knowledge. Either way, it works out well enough.

With the important information imparted, he listens as their talk turn to much more innocuous topics - disputes amongst the tailors, a kitchen mishap - enjoying the pampering and soothing music before he must return to his duties. It's all idle chatter, really, but pleasant enough to listen to nonetheless. He does like to know what goes on around his ship, even if it doesn't concern him any.

He does open an eye, however, glances at the silent figure in the corner. Aevi, the fourth and final member of his personal human retinue, meets his gaze over her harp for just a second, nods, then looks back down at her hands. Satisfied, Fulgrim closes his eye again.

The quiet ones always hear the best, and the little musician's ear is sharper than most. He will question her for details later.

After he has gone to check on his brother, that is.

Over the course of their acquaintance, Fulgrim has learned Konrad is - and this is him putting it in the mildest possible words - an aggressively antisocial, ardently misanthropic man. He does not possess the social graces the universe gave an ant, has no experience in cooperating with anyone on any matter, and actively refuses to learn common manners at every turn. The Lord of Nostramo is a difficult person indeed, with all the patience of a live grenade and the temper to match.

Still, despite all that, his time under Fulgrim's tutelage has been going- if not outright well, than at least as well as could be reasonably expected.

Though Konrad had practically no basis for the skills required to one day lead his legion, he has shown himself to be quick learner when he wants to be, absorbing tactical theoreticals with ease befitting of a transhuman. His fighting skills have also improved greatly as he learns to battle against someone on his physical level, and though the few command drills they've ran with Fulgrim's sons had a long way to go until perfection, there was progress there nonetheless.

That is not to say there hasn't been a great deal of issues as well, however- Konrad's general temperament being one of them. There were days he would not listen at all, hissing insults or stewing in morose silence, staring off into the distance. A few times, he would refuse to join Fulgrim for their lessons at all. He had learned quickly enough when to push, and when to leave be, seeing as his brother gets outright aggressive when his space is invaded… and his teeth are, as he has well learned, as sharp as his tongue.

The delays these 'bad days' caused to Fulgrim's perfectly constructed schedule were unpleasant, but- well. He knows a losing battle when he sees it, and there is no use aggravating Konrad when he's feeling this reticent. An artist must adapt his methods to the material at hand, and Fulgrim is nothing if not flexible.

It's why he hadn't worried, when Konrad did not answer the door this morning, or the evening before. That day, Fulgrim had managed to coax his brother into an actual dinner, something of a redo of that initial failure. He had shown him how to correctly eat with cutlery and not to chew with his mouth open- something which, miraculously, Curze had reluctantly complied with. It ended up being a generally pleasant time, filled with occasional strands of amicable, almost brotherly conversation.

When Curze then did not come back for his evening lesson on administrative matters, Fulgrim had simply assumed his tolerance for social interaction to have been exhausted, and left him be. It would not have been the first time that happened, so he moved on to with other activities, not sparing it any further mind beyond rescheduling the day's lessons.

However, if his servants are to be believed - which they usually are - this may turn out something more troubling entirely.

Fulgrim comes to stand before the gilded doors to his brother's chambers, and knocks. There is no answer, no sound from beyond, no signs of life. "Konrad!" He calls out, waits for a moment. "Konrad, answer or I am coming in!"

At this point, were this the usual situation, his brother would be talking back, hissing at him like a cable snake being disturbed in its nest and chasing him away with language utterly unfit for polite company. Today, no response is forthcoming. Which means that, either Konrad isn't present, or he is so unwell as to be unable to muster a response. Either sounds like a good enough excuse for Fulgrim to enter- so with a small frown marring his features, he does.

The smell hits him first. Old food, long gone stale, mixed with the sharp, unmistakable tang of fear-sweat and sickness. Undercutting it all is the faint scent of blood; both primarch and human, old and faded with time.

"Konrad!" Fulgrim yells again as he steps further in, even if he doubts his brother is present. As predicted, he gets no answer. By how faint the blood-reek is, he can at least tell Konrad hadn't died in here, which is… well, it is something.

He sighs, face twisted in a combination of concern and disgust.

The once lavish chambers are, as his attendants said, in shambles. Most of the furniture has been turned into so much kindling - and what a waste, that was real wood - with what little hasn't been destroyed instead overturned and covered in claw marks. Teeth marks as well, Fulgrim muses to himself with a raised brow, bending closer to inspect the ornate chair lying on the floor in pieces. Parts of the armrests have been, quite literally, bitten in half. That is impressive, he does have to admit- in a distinctly Konrad way, at least.

The rest of his search fails to provide much further information. The sitting room seems to have taken the brunt of the damage, and Fulgrim is glad to find the rest of his furniture mostly unmolested. There are clothes strewn across the bedroom, reeking of unwashed transhuman and more of that sickly sweat along with the bedsheets. The cleansing chambers are intact, the expansive bath having accumulated a thin layer of dust.

His brother, however, is nowhere to be seen.

Typical Konrad, Fulgrim thinks, with no lack of exasperated concern, always making things more difficult than they have to be.

No matter. If his wayward sibling won't come back on his own, Fulgrim will simply have to find him instead.

The quiet scratch of his stylus is accompanied by a soft, complex tune emanating from the grand piano in one corner. A tiny wisp of a woman sits on the musician's stool, her hands flowing across the keys in perfect, measured motions.

"Lord Curze often wanders," Aevi says, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes fixed on the notes in front of her, "but so far he has always seemed lucid. Purposeful, according to the guards. Not so much this time."

Fulgrim writes his signature in an elegant swirl of his stylus, gesturing for the woman to continue as he reaches for the next data slate awaiting his attention. He does not have to do this, technically - it's an equerry's work, really - but he takes the time where he can. There is no better way to ensure everything is in perfect order than doing it himself.

"The lord primarch walks wrong, in staggering steps, appearing… lost," she says. "There is a reek of blood around him, and crimson on his hands."

"You have seen him," he says, and it is not a question.

His musician nods, never once pausing in her playing. "Yes, lord. For only a moment, when I was returning from the middle decks. He seemed…" she paused, contemplating her words, "hollowed out. Haunted by his own mind. You have said he… sees things, my lord. I do believe his own thoughts torment him now."

Fulgrim's lips twist. That had been his assumption as well, and to hear it corroborated by an outside source is a bitter pill to swallow. He had been hoping to avoid having to deal with this… affliction of Konrad's, having seen first hand what it induced in his brother. The memory of Konrad's twitching, his wheezing laughter, ragged nails digging into his eyes in helpless horror-

"Jacques spoke of some losses amongst the crew," he says instead of lingering on the images further, eyes flicking over the lines of text on his table without taking in much at all.

Another shallow nod. "There have been four I know of. One was purposeful; a lower decks officer had been attempting to…attack a serf woman," her pallid eyes harden at that, something sharp entering her tone. "The lord primarch had disemboweled him, they say, then left when the guards came to check on the source of the screams. As for the others, they seem to be accidents. The assumption is they startled the lord, and he, ah-"

"Lashed out," Fulgrim completes her sentence with a demonstrative swing of one hand to the side; a motion which, had he put even cursory force behind, could easily send a man flying. Aevi hums her affirmative.

Fulgrim clicks his tongue, shutting the data slate down and standing up from his carved mahogany desk. He has heard all he needs to, and the ship's artificial nighttime is slowly approaching. If he wants to find Konrad on the prowl, now is the time to start looking.

"Good work, Aevi," he says, putting his desk quickly in order before stepping away and to the doors. "You may retire now. I do not expect to be back before sunrise."

The woman pauses in her playing then, her eyes flicking ever so briefly to his face before moving away again. "I would like to take the time to practice some more, if you would allow me, lord Fulgrim."

He smiles, small, there-and-gone, but genuine. "Suit yourself," he says before walking away, never one to inhibit another's pursuit of perfection. As Fulgrim heads out, a new melody follows in his footsteps, slow and grim and haunting; a fitting backdrop to his unsettled thoughts.

Konrad is good at staying hidden. His eyes see clearly even in the deepest dark, and he had once made a life of haunting the streets of Nostramo, stalking his prey in the shadow, unseen and unheard. Had he been at his best, Fulgrim is genuinely not certain he could have found his brother in a timely manner, if at all.

Konrad is by no means at his best today.

It's the smell which gives him away. His brother reeks of human blood and viscera, the sour stink of fear and the rot of death, as well as the various contents of a man's entrails. Consequences of disemboweling a would-be rapist with his bare hands, no doubt. It marks an unmistakable trail for Fulgrim's keen senses to follow, eventually leading him to a deeply familiar set of corridors on the lower levels.

He finds his brother only a few hallways off from where they'd eaten together on that first, almost entirely unfortunate day. Konrad is curled on the floor in a defensive pose, a small something gripped in his bloodstained hand- a tin of that same meat paste they'd eaten together, Fulgrim realizes, and the knowledge carries a tender sort of ache with it.

There is something ragged about Konrad, now. It's less the sharpness of a primarch and more that of a wounded, bleeding animal, thrashing in a predator's teeth. His brother is caked in filth, blood and oil ancient dust from who-knows-where. His hair hangs in limp, oily clumps, a sight which sends a phantom itch through Fulgrim's own scalp.

Konrad looks, for the lack of a better word, like absolute shit.

"There you are," Fulgrim says gently, his ire having evaporated in the face of aching concern. "You've been giving my people quite the fright, you know."

Konrad's head jerks in his direction, his eyes widening, showing the tiniest slivers of white around his enormous pupils - and oh, that's a new sight. His face flashes through a myriad of emotions, fear-rage-despair-despair-despair eventually settling into his customary sneer, though somewhat lacking in its usual sharpness.

"Fulgrim," he says the word strangely, as if the name itself was a lie, and does not look him in the eye. His gaze is erratic, unfocused. Distant. Unsettling, even to Fulgrim's spirit. "Have you come to fetch me for the Warmaster again?"

A flash of trepidation hits Fulgrim before he can push it down, like a knife to the gut. Warmaster. There is nobody of such a title anywhere in the fleet, nor has there been in the past. Though perhaps, there is a future where it could be. The implications are…

"I have come," Fulgrim quickly says instead of contemplating it further, turning to the matter at hand, "to fetch you for a bath. Perhaps a proper dinner as well. You may not have noticed," he sniffs, tries to joke, though it does sound a touch weak even to his own ears, "but you have made quite the mess of yourself. You wouldn't want your brother looking like a terrible host, would you?"

Konrad blinks. His face goes through a series of painful looking spasms, and when his gaze finally meets Fulgrim's, a spark of lucidity has returned to his eye. "Brother," he says, his gaze roaming up and down. Curze takes a deep breath, seemingly sniffing him, and before Fulgrim has the time to get offended by the hypocrisy of it, he speaks again. "You are still you."

"I have spent my entire life being me, yes," Fulgrim redirects, violently stamping down any thoughts regarding that statement before they have the time to take root in his mind. It is a failed endeavor, he knows, but- not now. Not now. "Now, come on, up. No need to linger on the cold dirty floor."

He approaches his brother, keeping his movements even and his hands in sight. "I have had a bath prepared for you, and-"

"I don't want your little pets' pampering," Konrad hisses weakly, but he's finally starting to sound like himself again, if only a little. Fulgrim has never felt so relieved to be condescended to.

Humming quietly, he goes to help his brother primarch off the floor. Konrad jerks at his touch, but does not seek to escape; all the while, his eyes never once leave Fulgrim's face. His features are drawn, somehow even grayer than before, and in his gaze is a fatigue he'd only ever seen in labourers on their deathbed, with ash in their lungs and tumours blistering their skin. Still, he does look lucid now, mostly present, and Fulgrim will take any improvement he can get.

"How about me, then?" he asks gently, drags his brother into a standing position.

Konrad's head cocks, in a manner eerily resembling a dead man's broken neck. "What about you?"

"Would my help be acceptable in their stead?"

Curze stares for a moment, statue still, then breaks into one of those quiet, wheezing cackles, though even that sounds subdued. More bitter than sharp. "You would lower yourself to a serf's work now?"

"Konrad," Fulgrim admonishes, firm and gentle in equal measure. Looks into his dark, haunted eyes, and speaks with quiet, steadfast conviction. "You are my brother. We have been over this."

Konrad stops laughing, expression flattening out in a flash. Something behind his eyes shifts, ever so slightly- such a miniscule change Fulgrim barely catches it. Konrad does not answer his previous question, but he also does not refute him this time, which is, in its own way, an answer as well.

Fulgrim nods, more to himself than anything. "Come on, then," he says, nudging his brother forward. Konrad shakes his hand off after a few moments, but he does fall into step with him, silent as a grave. There is a concerning lack of steadiness to his movements, jerky and limp at the same time, his large black eyes fixed into an unseen distance- but he does not fall, and he follows, which is all Fulgrim can really ask for.

Contrary to what his current state may imply, Konrad does have a basic grasp of hygiene.

A comparatively tenuous one, yes, but most people do, compared to Fulgrim nowadays. Though it's quite easy to tell he's never used the bath, both by the dust found in it and Konrad's own appearance, he was never exactly filthy before today. If he had to guess, he would say his brother keeps to the methods he himself once used as a child- rag baths on a regular basis, accompanied by washing one's hair in a bucket or sink whenever there was any water to spare. Enough to not reek overmuch, and to avoid rashes or skin issues which may cripple one's functionality over time.

For Konrad, stealth would also likely count into his habit; one does not want their prey to smell them from five meters away, after all, and a primarch has a distinctly sharp odour. It would make sense, and fit well with what he knows of his brother.

Still, there is little comfort or pleasure to be found in a quick wipe-down; Fulgrim knows that well enough. Which, honestly, he thinks with a quick glance at the man beside him, are two things Konrad seems to be in dire need of. His brother appears on the verge of collapse. The majority of whatever fit he had gone through has passed, and it seems to have taken most of his energy along with it. Getting clean would serve him well, that much he is certain of.

It will also serve to spare Fulgrim's nose, if he's being honest. For all he can tolerate the stink of death and filth like any other warrior worth the name, that does not mean he enjoys it.

When the two of them walk into Konrad's chambers, everything has been put into order again. All the debris of his brother's rampage has been cleared away, and though certain areas remain emptier than they once were, most of the furniture has since been replaced. Even the air is nicer, having been ran through a replacement cycle, now carrying the unavoidable scent of metal and gentle, fragrant incense, originating from the little burner standing on the desk. From beyond the closed door leading to the en-suite, tiny wisps of steam escape, dancing gently upwards before dissipating into the air.

The bathing chambers, when he leads his brother inside, are already prepared, though the humans who have done so are long gone. Fulgrim had expected Konrad to reject their presence ahead of time; he really isn't fond of contact. Mainly out of lack of exposure, he's sure, though his unique personality likely has something to do with it as well.

He is letting Fulgrim guide him now, however. Brief touches to Konrad's shoulder, his back, have not been chased off with bared teeth. A spark of bright warmth settles between his hearts at that realization, but he keeps his face impassive. It wouldn't do to drive Konrad off with too much of that sentiment he acts so averse to.

"Here we are," Fulgrim hums, suppressing an utterly inelegant snort at the way his brother stares into the spacious pool. "Come on, get those awful rags off of you," he tugs at what was once one of the simple black robes he had made for Konrad, keeps his tone light and joking, "I reckon we will have to burn them after all that."

At his urging, Konrad begins stripping, showing no hint of shame. The tattered robe separates from his body with a crackling, peeling noise - several humans' worth of blood and viscera having long since dried on it - and Fulgrim wrinkles his nose. His brother drops it unceremoniously to the floor, then approaches the tub, looking at it quizzically.

"Well, get in," Fulgrim can't resist the huff of laughter then, "it is only water. Nicely warm as well- that's always a pleasure after an unpleasant day."

Konrad looks at him dubiously, but eventually does as he's told. In the quiet, Fulgrim can hear the way his breath stills. Old, nostalgic memories flicker through his mind, there-and-gone; the first bath he'd ever had, in a peeling tub he couldn't quite fit into, lukewarm water spilling all over. It had felt like the greatest luxury in the universe.

This is better, in comparison, incalculably so; he wonders what Konrad thinks of it. Whatever it may be, his brother does not seem inclined to share- he settles into the water like he's confronting a great predator, his black eyes settling on Fulgrim. Questioning; unsure what to do with himself, in the face of what is clearly an entirely new experience. And oh- for the first time he's seen, his sharp, predatory creature of a brother looks so lost. Suddenly, he wants to wrap his arms around Konrad's still too-gaunt frame, hold his head beneath his chin, filth and grease be damned. Let him know he's here, that he is alone no longer. That he is safe, at least in this moment.

Fulgrim does none of those things. Instead, he reaches for the various oils and products lined up along the tub's marble rim, picking out a body cleansing gel and a lightly scented mixture meant for hair. "Here," he says, keeping his voice quiet as he hands Konrad the former, "take a palmful of this, then wash your body- the blood will come off more easily, then. I will help you with your hair in the meantime."

Kneeling on the floor, with little regard for his clothing, he takes the shampoo, watches Konrad somewhat lethargically rubbing the gel between his crimson-stained hands. The water around him is already turning pink. The corners of Fulgrim's lips twitch. "Perhaps do several passes, now that I think of it. There's enough product to spare." And it will likely be necessary, he thinks, but does not voice out loud.

His brother does not reply, but he starts scrubbing his arms, which Fulgrim takes as answer enough. He still looks haggard and exhausted, but the tiniest sliver of tension had dropped from his shoulders due to the water's soothing warmth. Fulgrim lets himself feel proud of this idea while he lathers shampoo in his palms. "How long has it been since you last washed your hair?" he asks, reaching for his brother.

Konrad twitches, tensing for a second, but he does not move away as Fulgrim begins rubbing the fragrant foam into his matted hair. "What does it matter?" he replies flatly. His brother's hands dip into the water, and his black eyes follow the streams of filth as it's washed away.

"I suppose it matters little in the end- you will likely need several rinses regardless," Fulgrim hums. Pink begins staining his fingers as dried blood is loosened from black strands.

"You should take better care of yourself now, Konrad," he says gently. Coaxing, not admonishing. "I know your early life has been… difficult," which is an understatement, "but here, you have the resources for comfort. Wouldn't it be pleasant to-"

Now Konrad moves, jerking his head from under Fulgrim's hands to glare at him. "What does it matter?" he hisses, sharp and bitter, his eyes like the darkness of night yawning in a broken window. Fulgrim lifts his hands up, suddenly certain they are no longer talking about hygiene habits.

"Why would it not matter?" he says evenly, carefully.

"I have seen it," Konrad's fingers clench and unclench on his arms, jagged nails digging little grooves in his grey skin. There is something terribly hollow in his tone, and his body has regained all the tension it had managed to lose previously. "The war and darkness and hungry laughter, it never ends. It will come. So what does it matter. All this comfort you preach, so fleeting-" he grits out between teeth clenched tight. "What does anything matter?"

Fulgrim hesitates, feeling a quiet chill running down his back at the stone-cold certainty in his brother's voice. "Sanguinius says-"

"Sanguinius," Konrad interrupts, "is a naive fool. Clinging to hope, still. To pretty, poisoned lies."

Reaching out to his brother again, Fulgrim's hands return to cleaning his hair, giving himself time to think under Konrad's unblinking gaze. He brushes through the long strands, untangling clotted blood and strips of what is most likely skin out of his scalp.

"I cannot profess to have any first-hand knowledge of prophecy," he says eventually. "But I refuse to see my own fate as fixed, no matter what it may be. I cannot accept that, and I will not. However-" he says, bringing up a hand before Konrad can interrupt him, "even if you are indeed right… why wouldn't it matter?"

Looking up at him, Konrad stares, uncomprehending. Fulgrim attempts to explain. "Perhaps whatever horror you say is coming cannot be averted. Perhaps the galaxy will burn. But it is not gone yet, is it? Right now, you can enjoy a bath, and eat a hearty meal, or- I suppose you can brood in the dark, as you so enjoy," he chuckles quietly, and it almost comes out sounding even. "The fire of today shall warm your soul tomorrow - that's Aktinskiy, you may recognize the quote if you read the books I recommend you - but, yes. Even if the worst does come, the good things still happened. If nothing else will, the memories, at least, will remain."

That short speech seems to break through something in Konrad; just a little. Fulgrim watches a slew of emotion flicker in his eyes before they settle into blankness again, turning to the wall. "How sentimental," he says, and it does sound partly dismissive, but there is something layered beneath it in his tone as well. Consideration, certainly. Perhaps something almost approaching hope, if Fulgrim wants to act the optimist.

"If you wish to put it that way," he hums, tugging the last bits of viscera from his brother's hair. "And besides," he adds, halfway jokingly, wishing to move on from this unpleasant topic, "my mother always used to say one needs a clear body for a clear mind. Who knows- perhaps you may be able to find a solution somewhere down the line if you wash a little more often."

Konrad's gaze flicks to him, distinctly unamused, before he quietly goes back to cleaning himself. He does not, however, dispute his words any further. Fulgrim takes it for the small victory it is, and smiles where his brother cannot see it.

"Time to rinse," he says, pushing lightly on the top of Konrad's head. "Dunk, and then we'll see what else is needed."

His brother does so, submerging his entire head below the now somewhat murky water. Black hair spreads like ink below the surface, flaring where Konrad runs his hands through it, little threads of blood and dirt and oil washing away. Something about the sight feels oddly significant to Fulgrim, though he can't quite put a finger as to why.

When Konrad rises, his locks no longer weighed down and tangled through with filth and others' pain, Fulgrim finds his own mind feeling just a little lighter.

Chapter Text

He finds Konrad by one of the smaller viewports on the upper decks, his gaze affixed to the scene below.

Pasted against a backdrop of darkness, Terra's enormous hives carve out geometric shapes into the surface, their spires piercing the smoggy cover of its lower atmosphere and reaching for the stars. Like gleaming jewels, countless ships and satellites orbit the planet, from the tiniest signal relays to gloriana-class void vessels blotting out the sun's light with their mass. Fulgrim is glad to see the violet-enameled hull of his flagship amongst them; it means everything is progressing right on schedule.

"This is the famed Terra, then," his brother says, turning to meet Fulgrim's gaze and pulling him out of his busy thoughts. "The crowning jewel of the Imperium of man."

Then, his expression arranges into a distant, fanged cousin of a grin. "With how dusty it looks, I would say it could use a bit of polish."

The stupid, half-baked pun catches Fulgrim off guard, and he can't help himself- he snorts with laughter; an ugly, all too genuine sound. He puts a hand over his mouth immediately, but there is no taking it back- and Konrad seems so smugly proud over his little joke, he cannot be too upset with himself for the lapse in behavior.

It is a rare thing to see his brother in a generally favorable mood, let alone actually smiling for once. He's glad for it, even though it is at Fulgrim's own expense.

Fulgrim shakes his head with a smile of his own, even if internally, he cannot help but somewhat agree with Konrad's point of view. There is history on this world, and power, but- even Chemos still has its oceans, and an atmosphere not in need of constant, active scrubbing to remain breathable. Even Nostramo does, despite its aggressive adamantium industry and overall pollution. A jewel Terra may be in many ways, but- well. Konrad put it best, in the end.

"I would strongly advise against saying that to anybody there," he says instead of voicing any of that, however, going to pat Konrad on the shoulder. His brother glances at the carefully telegraphed gesture out the corner of his eye, but does not twitch or move away. Fulgrim absorbs that small victory as well, feeling a spark of somewhat triumphant warmth in his chest. "It would ruffle some feathers, to say the least."

Konrad snorts, wordlessly expressing his lack of concern with public opinion. Fulgrim decides against fighting him on it; he knows that is not a fight he could win, anyway.

"The palace is a true work of art, however," Fulgrim changes the subject, a touch of genuine excitement entering his voice. "We'll be above it within a few minutes; it is large enough to be spotted from orbit. It is- oh, you will see for yourself," he waves a hand, struggling to find the words for the magnificent halls and gardens, its galleries and libraries overflowing with wealth of beauty and information he never could have imagined during his life on Chemos.

"Is it as ostentatious as your ship?" Konrad asks with a raised brow, sounding rather unimpressed by his words.

Fulgrim's lips arrange into a teasing smile. "Much more so, brother dearest."

His brother's answering groan sets him laughing again.

"Ah, settle down, it won't be so bad," he says, leaning closer to him as if sharing a secret. "It is a big place, and solitude will not be difficult to find, should you seek it. That aside, being such an old construct, there are plenty of little hiding places and concealed passageways for those who dare to look…"

A begrudgingly intrigued expression appears on Konrad's face, and Fulgrim smiles. He can already see his brother stalking through the servants' side passages, disturbing the poor baselines and lurking in shaded corners. That part, at least, he has no doubt Konrad will enjoy- he certainly has been doing so here, to the widespread unease from his crew and even some disgruntlement from his sons.

As for the other matters… "See, there you go," he claps his hands together, "Once you get past the parades and the gala, I'm sure you will have a rather pleasant time."

Fulgrim turns to leave, hoping to get a bit of a head start before- "What gala?" Konrad asks, the almost amicable tone of before dropping into a low hiss.

"Oh, no need to worry, I have had everything handled. Everything is already organized according to-" he keeps talking, walking just a touch faster than usual, fighting down a terribly impish grin.

Behind him, he can hear Konrad following, steps thunderous. "What gala? Brother, I was not told- Fulgrim!"

He loses his fight with laughter the moment his brother catches up to him, clawed fingers going up to Fulgrim's shoulders and digging in. Konrad's face fills up his vision, bearing a strong resemblance to a wild animal disturbed in its nest.

"Imperial tradition, brother- do not lay blame on my shoulders! A short parade upon landing for the people of Terra, followed by an evening soiree with your brothers and the scions of noble houses some days later," he says, gently but firmly prying Konrad's hands off. Somehow, Konrad manages to look even more enraged, and Fulgrim resigns himself to what is sure to be a shouting match for the ages.

Still, there is nothing for it. He did not lie about these proceedings being mandatory, and he is sure Konrad will see the inevitability of it eventually. Fulgrim had done what he could to make the process simple for his brother. All he needs now is the barest minimum of cooperation.

The ceremonial 'First Landing' has already been set for two days from now. That should be sufficient time for Konrad to settle down, but hopefully not enough to stew in his resentment too much.

Hopefully.

"Three minutes to touchdown, my lords," comes the pilot's voice from the ceremonial lander's speakers, its metallic undertones echoing around the closed compartment.

Though Fulgrim hears it, he has little space to acknowledge it- not when the entirety of his attention rests on his brother. His petulant, uncooperative, miserable little shit of a brother.

"I genuinely do not see the issue, Konrad. I am not asking for much. It will be over in less than ten minutes, please, for the love of-" he pauses, closes his eyes, breathes. In, out. When he opens them again, his brother's distinctly displeased countenance looks no less aggravating. "You will not even be asked to talk. Quite the opposite, in fact, so if you could simply-"

"Yes, yes, you have already said," Konrad grunts, messing with the fold of his midnight-black robe where it drapes over his shoulder. Decorative silver vambraces wrap around his arms, pairing well with the brooch on his shoulder and the buckles on his boots and belt. The ensemble is fairly simple yet sharply tailored, serving as something of a mirror to Fulgrim's own clothing- though his own is, of course, picked out in his legion's violet and gold. "Am I supposed to smile and wave too, like a side-alley whore at shift's end?"

His brother's statement is accompanied by what only a blind madman could call a grin, sharp teeth on display in a demonstratively petulant expression.

In a different circumstance, Fulgrim may have laughed at such a Konrad-typical simile, but in this moment, he is too irritated to find any humor in it. "Better not," he sighs, reaching over to correct the other man's robe for the fourth time during this flight alone. "Leave the smiles to me; I believe the best thing for you to do is simply to walk forward, head held high, as if all those present are beneath your notice.

"They are beneath my notice," Konrad mutters, but something in his posture has changed, if only slightly. If Fulgrim had to guess, he had finally accepted his fate.

"There you go," he says faux-brightly, a tired smile settling on his lips. "You already seem to have the spirit of it right."

The shuttle-wide vox hisses to life again. "My lords, one minute to landing."

Fulgrim takes a breath, his face quickly snapping back to authoritative neutrality. "Emperor's Children," he calls out firmly, this time addressing the three dozen other passengers, all chosen for this particular outing, "esteemed magos, admiral, attendants; begin taking your places now."

Rising from their seats, humans and astartes alike begin lining up on their assigned sides of the shuttle with mostly steady steps. Every minute detail had been debated upon, choreographed and practiced to perfection, and Fulgrim is glad to see it holding in practice. Two of his captains come to stand at the forefront, only a step behind where their primarchs will march at the speartip of their little procession. Behind them follow a few select men from the Andronius and the Pride of the Emperor both, dwarfing the baselines in beautifully polished battleplate, helms magnetized to their belts.

Next comes the flagship's Magos Domina, standing shoulder to shoulder with his Astra Militarum admiral, both cutting notable figures in ceremonial clothing of their respective stations. And, at the very end of what is to be the first introduction of Terran people to their new primarch, stand Fulgrim's little four. Their clothes, while well made, are rather bland in comparison everyone else's majestic ensembles, and Fulgrim is quite certainly they shall go easily overlooked by the masses waiting below- which is exactly the point. It will be easier, then, to watch and assess from the shadow, then report about the people's reactions and opinions.

Around them, the quiet thunk of landing echoes through the lander's walls. "We have landed, my lords. Permission to begin?"

Fulgrim squares his shoulders, looking over to his brother. "Are you ready?" He asks.

"If I must be," his brother says, looking entirely unhappy with his current situation. His expression is a mix of bitterness and irritation, before suddenly stiffening. For a brief moment, Konrad's cheeks seem hollowed out by something beyond his perception, and a series of twitches run up from his arm all the way to his face. Then it's gone, and Konrad's features arrange themselves back into their previous irritation, though Fulgrim cannot help but note an underlying touch of fatigue beneath it.

A fragment of a vision, he thinks, and internally curses. It's an utterly miserable time for one of those to occur, quite literally seconds away away from the doors opening.

Driven by a quiet worry, Fulgrim lets his picture-perfect posture soften, just for a moment, and he gives Konrad's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Stay by my side, follow my pace and you will be free soon enough." Then, hoping a distraction could help, he interjects with a bit of levity, "think of all the poor baselines you can startle by lurking in shaded corners once it is over, yes?"

It works. Konrad bristles, but his eyes lose that haunted look, even as he turns his sharp gaze on Fulgrim. "Do not patronize me, brother," he hisses, but his shoulders loosen a little, and Fulgrim nods to himself, knowing that's the best he is going to get.

Hand going to the vox-bead in his ear, he lets his voice carry across the numerous other thunderhawks and landers waiting for his word. "We are ready. Begin."

The hatch before them hisses, then starts raising up. It is a tense three seconds before it clicks into place, letting the artificially cleansed air of the palace grounds in. The murmur of hundreds of human hearts hums beyond, all racing overtime in anticipation of who is about to exit from the shuttle. Journalists, nobles, merchants; people of power, one and all, brimming with anticipation at the privilege of seeing the Emperor's sons.

Best not to keep them waiting, then.

"Go," Fulgrim commands, and steps out.

It is odd, not being in his battleplate during such an event. He'd always worn it before, feeling it suited the occasion, but this time around, some changes to the usual program had to be made. Mainly due to the state of Konrad's own armor- or, to be precise, its lack thereof. The Andronius' artificers have the means to maintain primarch armor, but not to construct an entirely new set from scratch. And to himself come armored while his brother walked without would be simply unacceptable. It would hint at an inequality between them, and he cannot allow that to be the people's first impression of Konrad.

As a result, the usual theme showcasing the Imperial might has been sidelined for a rather different approach, going for a more subtle display of unarmored confidence. Atypical for him it may be, true, but he considers the end result to be rather striking, in its own way.

And, judging by the amazed gasps and stares, the assembled mortals seem to agree.

Placed on two sides of the wide promenade, and kept there by periodically positioned Custodes, the people of Terra gape at the incoming primarchs. Fulgrim puts a smile on his face, regal yet welcoming, and reaches a hand out in a courtly wave. By his side, Konrad remains stormy faced and inexpressive, but that, too, is a statement- and together, they resemble two hands of the Imperium. The sugar and the whip. The elegance with a razor sharp edge, and the danger not blunted by pretense.

In the back of his mind, he registers the other thunderhawks disgorging their cargo- astartes and astra militarum officers, soldiers in parade uniforms, Collegio Titanica moderati and air squadron captains, all joining the speartip behind the two primarchs and their chosen retinue. It clearly makes for a breathtaking sight for Terra's people, because the noise from the crowd increases, countless picters raising into the air in shaking hands. Some, primarily the youngest of those present, appear on the verge of fainting; in contrast, the few faces Fulgrim recognizes as weathered palace remembrancers remain entirely calm, doing their job with the precision they were employed for.

A woman who had worked with him and his brothers on numerous occasions catches his gaze as they pass her by, and greets him with a courteous nod. Fulgrim is swift to return it, allowing his smile to turn more genuine for a moment. He will most likely get to talk with her again soon enough- with how grand of an event a new primarch's introduction is, her services will be in high demand.

In comparison to his own welcoming expression, Konrad remains impassive. His eyes cut through the crowd, and Fulgrim is certain every news source on Terra will have that unimpressed, piercing gaze plastered over their front pages come tomorrow. He looks majestic like this, with his void-black hair brushed and clothes neat. A phantom from ancient tales brought to life, having come to cast judgement of the souls of every human present and finding them wanting, one and all.

Fulgrim watches his brother holding his own, making an impression none here will ever forget, and he feels so proud of his brother it nearly aches.

All in all, it takes them some twelve minutes to reach the inner palace walls. One of the numerous gates leading into the inner areas slowly opens ahead of them, and Fulgrim takes a second to glance at his brother. "Almost done," he whispers underneath his breath, and is rewarded for his words by a minute loosening in Konrad's shoulders.

He resists the urge to outwardly congratulate his brother on his success- at least, while they are still in sight. The moment their little ceremonial speartip steps inside and out of view of the crowds, Fulgrim lets his stately smile drop in favor of a much more genuine one. He is of half a mind to wrap his arms around Konrad, but the expression marring his face advises against it. Still, he does put a hand on his shoulder, hoping it conveys his joy sufficiently.

"You have done magnificently," he says, beaming, refusing to be deterred by Konrad's unenthusiastic expression. "None will dare doubt your place amongst the Emperor's sons after this. You have earned the respect of many today, of that I have no doubt."

"You act as if I care what the rabble thinks of me," Konrad says, his tone dismissive, but the mighty scowl on his lips has lightened up some, and Fulgrim knows his praise was heard.

He shakes his head, giving a little laugh at Konrad's typically reticent behavior. "Accept the compliment, brother," he hums, fondly amused, "I promise it will not kill you."

Then, he gently pushes on Konrad's shoulder, guiding him deeper into the palace grounds. "Now, come- the rest will be coming in soon enough, and we need to get out of the way…"

Heavy drapes cover wide, ornate windows, leaving the expansive tailoring room lit just bright enough for the humans to work by. A whirlwind of seamstresses, tailors and their various assistants flutter about, attending to the primarchs in their midst. Their heartbeats race in the presence of two sons of the Emperor, with only a few seasoned workers remaining mostly calm and just the two members of his human retinue present being entirely unperturbed. Aevi's fingers pluck a soothing tune on a koto in one corner, though her efforts seem to be somewhat lacking in effect, given the-

"Konrad, I swear on our Father's name, if you do not stand still-"

"I will not stand here to be pricked and handled like a pet-"

"You would not be if you stopped moving!"

-well. Given the arguing, really.

One of the tailors, a man in his early mid-years, is subtly shaking as he attempts to pin fabric close to Konrad's body. His heart sounds as if it might spontaneously implode from its rapid pace, and the unpleasant sour-bitter scent of human terror suffuses the space, making Fulgrim wrinkle his nose. He is once again reminded of the reason he works primarily with his four- he'd gotten them used to his overwhelming presence years ago, and they'd never been particularly fearful in the first place. It's one of the reasons he picked them for their roles.

This man seems to lack their fortitude, however. Another wave of fear hits him when Konrad once again pulls away from the man's touch with his teeth bared. It's quite clear his brother is at his limit, the smell of terror no doubt making him twitchier than he typically would be and, no. No, this won't do at all.

"You," Fulgrim says suddenly, pointing at the man, "stop. Take your people and leave us. We are taking a twenty minute break."

The humans don't waste a moment to obey. As the palace tailors scramble over one another to escape, two small, familiar hands reach for his arm, returning it to its previous position. "Ah," Fulgrim turns to his seamstress, even as he uses his other hand to comb through his hair in irritation, "my apologies, Lullah."

The woman hums, returning back to pinning the trailing sleeve of what is soon to be his elaborate robe together. "It is no issue, my lord," she says, her words accompanied by a quiet click of the door as the last assistant leaves. With them all now gone, Fulgrim allows himself to relax a touch, a frown marring his features as he sighs.

What a disaster this day has been, honestly. And not only this one; Konrad's mood had been steadily declining sine the moment they touched down on Terra. He had grown aggravated, twitchy and tense, but if there is a reason - which Fulgrim is certain there is - he has flatly refused to share it. The encounters he'd had with the few brothers already present have been deeply uncomfortable affairs despite Fulgrim's best efforts, and though he hadn't been privy to the conversation between Konrad and their father, it was easy to deduce it hadn't gone any better.

It is almost like dealing with his brother in the earliest days of their acquaintance, and he is, quite frankly, both worried and irritated to see Konrad's state has regressed so far backwards. He is sure there is something that could be done to improve things, if only his brother could communicate like a civilized man-

And Fulgrim had been looking forward to their stay on Terra, too, is the matter of it. He likes talking to his brothers face to face, likes the palace's endless halls and ancient books, likes meeting the myriad of artists and remembrancers always fluttering about. He enjoys the chance to dress in fine clothes, take a rest from waging war to charm and ply his way through Terra's wealthiest mortals.

There is a certain fun to be had in playing the political game, and the results tend to be as gratifying as they are useful. After all, the Throneworld's nobility has notable resources under its thumb, and he is always glad to return to his fleet after having secured better rations for his crews, or perhaps more ceramite and ammunition- or really, any other things which improves either their efficiency or quality of life. It's a chance to work on perfecting his negotiating skills in the oldest, most cutthroat political arena, and under the usual circumstances, he would have been hard at work already.

Not this time, however- not with his brother's moods befouling the air like noxious fumes, leaving Fulgrim to clean up after him. It has been a shockingly busy, unpleasant two weeks, especially given how comfortable he and Konrad had gotten before all this began, and he is, quite frankly, nearing the end of his patience.

"Alright," Fulgrim says, cutting his though process there before he lets his disgruntlement drown him in bitterness, "what is the issue here, Konrad? And don't," Fulgrim lifts his free hand up as his brother opens his mouth, "say that it is because they keep pricking you. You know as well as I do that you can barely feel it."

Konrad turns to him, face twisted into a mighty scowl. "I," he says, "simply tire of this entire charade. I refuse to be draped in falsehoods, dressed up like a whore on display to curry favor with those who shall have nothing but hatred for me soon enough."

"So it is the clothes?" Fulgrim asks, exasperated. "We can make adjustment to those if they displease you so; it is a simple enough matter. Which I could have told you if you had told me what you issue was directly instead of throwing out dramatic statements-"

Konrad's face screws up into a challenging, unpleasant grin. "Oh, as if you have any right to speak of dramatic statements-

His words cut off mid sentence. Fulgrim watches with horror as a series of violent spasms runs through his brother's body, eyes turning wide and empty, gaping like that of a dead fish beached upon a polluted shore. A wordless wheeze of pain forces itself out from between his pale lips, and Fulgrim dives to his side just in time to support him as his body jerks all over, nearly sending him down to the floor.

At the unexpected physical contact, Konrad lashes out with his claws curled- uncoordinated, purely instinctive, but still lethally fast. Fulgrim catches the swing meant for his eyes with his forearm, lips pressing together as his brother's nails hold on, breaking skin and digging deep into the muscle. It hurts, of course, and may very possibly leave a scar, but it is nothing compared to the unbridled horror twisting Konrad's face; nothing to the knife-sharp worry squeezing tight in Fulgrim's breast.

He is struck with a bout of such awful helplessness it makes his jaw tighten, teeth grinding in futile rage at the universe as he holds his spasming sibling to his chest, gently but firmly keeping him from injuring himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his attendants crouched out of the way, and Fulgrim is suddenly glad for Konrad's previous outburst having chased the other humans away.

Then, in a flash of revelation, Fulgrim puts the pieces together. The outbursts, the bad moods and miserable comments- "Oh, Konrad," he says quietly, hearts bleeding, "what nightmares have you been living this entire time?" It started on the shuttle to Terra, he remembers now. The hollowness in his eyes returning, mingling with the irritation brought on by the parade. Konrad's rising fatigue over the past days, that which Fulgrim had attributed to the busy schedule and navigating an unfamiliar environment- fuck, If only he'd told him-

In his arms, his brother shivers, then wheezes out, "Do not… hhn… patronize me, Fulgrim." He tries to stand on his own, only for one of his knees to spasm beneath his weight, leaving him once again reliant of Fulgrim's hold. Konrad hisses in frustration, but it sounds weak. Fragile, almost. His eyes still look hollow, dead, and Fulgrim is forced to truly confront the possible future his brother sees in these fits of his.

Konrad never explains anything, never mentions much beyond eternal doom and gloom, nothing concrete- but for the sight of it to horrify his brother so, it must be terrible indeed.

"I am not," he says, keeping his voice even, quiet, even through his own internal struggle. "But I cannot help you if you do not tell me what you are struggling with in the first place."

Konrad lets out a series of scattered hisses, and it takes Fulgrim a moment to decipher it as a distant, twisted cousin of laughter. "You cannot help me," he whispers, his hand going to his head. For a moment, Fulgrim fears those claws so close to his brother's eyes, but Konrad only clutches at his skull, features still occasionally twitching with pain.

"You will not even be… mnn… able to help yourself, before the end," he adds after a moment of labored breathing. and something within Fulgrim goes cold. The words are said with no spite not smugness; only an iron-strong certainty filled with an unexpected undertone of what sounds dangerously close to grief. "It does not-" another involuntary flinch, "matter. Nothing will."

It takes Fulgrim a moment to distinguish why this particular statement worries him so, but then he caches it- it is the finality of it. Before, Konrad had posed it as a question; now, he is not asking. It is a statement, and something within his brother sounds close to breaking as he says it.

Fulgrim is ashamed to admit, even to himself, he had been avoiding thinking too hard on the matter; avoiding what it meant for humanity, for his brothers, for himself. How they all, how he, must have failed so desperately in that future. But he cannot avoid it anymore; that time has passed, and he must face that possibility along with Konrad.

And- Fulgrim has to do something now, he is suddenly certain. Some unidentifiable, bright-gilded force within his spirit feels the pivotal nature of this day. It is a terrible weight, and another, darker part of him whispers to let it be; to forget about this, to soothe Konrad with empty platitudes and look away. To lie to himself as well as his brother, embracing the comfort of ignorance. The conflict hurts, on a soul deep level, and for a fraction of a second, his skull feels as if it may burst. He wonders, then, if this is the pain his brother suffers with, if this is a glint of premonition as well, or another psychic phenomenon rearing its ugly head.

Then Konrad hisses, pained, and moves as if to squirm free from his arms, and Fulgrim pushes it all aside. To use his vision-cursed sibling's words, it does not matter. His brother's state takes priority.

Fulgrim does not let him get away, wrapping his brother in a more comfortable embrace; guides his clammy forehead to rest against his throat, supports his unsteady weight with his arms. Konrad puts up a cursory struggle, but soon sags against him, exhausted beyond words. "On Nostramo," Fulgrim starts, and finds the words he'd struggled to properly express for weeks now flowing freely, "you were fixing things, were you not? Making society better, people's lives safer, yes?"

"I have fixed it," Konrad rasps, vehement, "I have made it better. I have hunted the foul and the violent, made them fear my name."

Fulgrim hums. "I see. But, answer me this; if nothing matters as you say, then why did you do it?"

"Because they needed to be punished. They were unjust, dangerous-"

"Yes, so you have said," Fulgrim continues, wanting to finish his thought before Konrad goes on one of his justice monologues. It would be entirely unhelpful, in this moment. "But if the galaxy is doomed to fire and agony, why did you bother? If you believe everything any of us may do is irrelevant, why go through the effort?"

His brother pauses, lifts his head from Fulgrim's shoulder. He can see the gears turning in his head, two clashing beliefs suddenly forced to meet, and doing so rather violently by the looks of it. Konrad does not answer, a conflicted frown creasing his features.

So Fulgrim answers for him, and hopes that his words reach through the turmoil. "I think," he starts, "a part of you does want your actions to matter; one that, in some way, believes you can make a difference. And you already have- the proof of it lives in Nostramo's people. And even if the world is to burn-"

"When," Konrad interjects, but it sounds weaker than usual to Fulgrim's ears.

"If," he says again, firmly, "the world is to burn, it will have mattered, still. One life, ten, a thousand; a better day, a good meal in the evening, a beautiful work of art made; it will all have mattered because somebody saw it, felt it, lived it. And I think somewhere within you, you know this. You would not have fought so hard for your principles otherwise."

Silence falls once more. Only two twin heartbeats remain echoing through the room- his attendants must have left somewhere during the conversation. Fulgrim is glad for the privacy as he considers his final words.

"There is hope in that, can you not see?" he says after a moment, with the fervor of a leader who once united scattered factory-cities and guided in a new age, yet with the gentleness of a man seeing a brother in pain. "I would ask you to hold onto it. Take the chance, Konrad, at least once- you may find it matters more than you think."

As close as they are, Fulgrim can feel Konrad swallow. Then, after a tense moment, his brother nods- only a minute jerk of his head, but real nonetheless. An odd lightness settles itself in Fulgrim's chest, and it feels like a universe's worth of relief.

"Thank you," he says quietly, and lets the moment settle like dusk after a bloodied day.

Minutes pass in a quiet blur. When the tailors return after their assigned twenty minutes, knocking nervously at the door, he sends them away entirely and takes his brother to one of the numerous smaller kitchens for a light meal. They spend almost an hour there, the cooks there quickly abandoning their post to give the two primarchs privacy. Fulgrim talks and talks about anything and everything, distracting his brother from his woes with light chatter, and when they do leave eventually, the barest spark of light has returned to Konrad's eyes.

The clothes, the politics, it can all wait for another day. Fulgrim will make sure of that.

A week later, barely two days before the gala, Fulgrim gets his first look at Konrad's finished ensemble, and his brows climb nearly up to his hairline. "Lullah, my friend," he says teasingly, without glancing at the seamstress or the man standing beside her, delight ringing clear in his tone, "you have been holding out on me."

The austere woman simply ducks her head. "You had your own designs and intentions for your esteemed brother's clothing, my lord," she says, tone even, though a quiet note of satisfaction lingers beneath her words, "I would not suggest you change your plans purely on my word."

It is a thoroughly polite way of saying he would not have listened to her out of hand, he notes quietly, suppressing a twitch at the corner of his lips. Fulgrim lets her have it- she was quite probably right, if he's being honest with himself. He had gotten… perhaps unduly excited at designing his brother's ensemble, both for the initial parade and the gala itself, that he had forgotten who exactly he was dealing with.

Konrad would never lead the way Fulgrim does. Carefully painted words would never be his strength, nor his style, the same as he himself would not make a good phantom in the dark. He had wanted to shape Konrad to Imperial standards, to help him earn favor the same way Fulgrim does, but that was an oversight; he would never conform in such a way. Konrad would always be non-traditional in certain matters, forging his own path- and if Fulgrim wants to have a good relationship with him, he will need to meet him halfway instead of purely pushing his brother into things that would never have worked out anyway.

It is only sensible his style, then, would be equally as unique as his approach- and Fulgrim cannot deny just how much this suits him, moreso than his own designs ever would have. It is a bitter pill to swallow, but he makes himself remember it anyway, so that he may alter his thinking to be more flexible in the future. It is not a mistake he will make again, after today.

The man Lullah had found to design Konrad's clothing, one Philias Andres, is a designer and tailor of moderate renown officially contracted to the van Callis spire family, though he does custom work for numerous members of the Terran elite. Mainly favored by the young and the eccentric, he had built his reputation with unique, often somewhat controversial pieces- which makes him ideal for his brother, really.

Staring at himself curiously in the grand mirror, Konrad is clad in a two piece ensemble that appears to be half armor, half clothing. Black leather and smooth, gleaming fabric of midnight blue dominate the piece, forming something that is fitted around the waist but looser around the shoulders and coupled with wide, flowing sleeves that almost resemble wings. Decorative lacing features prominently across the piece, and purely cosmetic silver vambraces, buckles, chains and a singular sharp should guard give it an air of danger, of combat-readiness. Completing the piece are details in bright, arterial-blood red, featuring heavily in the embroidery and fading in at the hems, giving the illusion of freshly spilled vitae.

It is beautiful, utterly scandalous by courtly standards, and yet so perfectly suited to Konrad temperament he cannot think of a single thing which he would change.

He will need to reward Lullah for this, he thinks. Perhaps a day off, or a fresh batch of assistants. Whatever she asks for within reason, really- she would deserve it, without a doubt.

"What is your verdict, my lord?" Philias asks, brimming with anticipation.

Konrad turns his shoulders a little, watching the light shifting across the blue fabric with mild interest. "It is… acceptable," he says after a moment, and Fulgrim grins at what is, by his brother's standards, practically a ringing endorsement. The tailor, apparently able to read between the lines as well, practically glows with delight.

The man had a liking of Konrad almost since the moment he came in for the first consultation, seemingly intrigued by his sharp mannerisms instead of put off like many others. Fulgrim had already begun formulating plans on how to poach him from the van Callixes without starting a diplomatic incident.

He steps closer to his brother, resplendent in his own robe of violets, golds and whites. Surprisingly enough, their images do not clash, instead complementing each other in a way that is hard to define, yet beautiful nonetheless. "It suits you, Konrad," he says, smiling. "You look rather fearsome like this."

His brother cocks his head, then looks into the mirror again, studying his reflection with renewed intensity. "I suppose I do," he says, sounding almost pleased about it- no doubt finding the concept of terrifying a bunch of Terran nobles an appealing one indeed. Beside him, Philias beams with pride, and even Lullah cracks a smile, unable to resist the infectious atmosphere.

Fulgrim watches it all, his brother's quiet satisfaction warming him from the inside, and feels deeply content.