Chapter Text
The atmosphere on the Iron Blood was tense, and Forrix needed no psychic powers to sense his fellow warsmiths’ unease. Kroeger kept his hands on his chain sword, eyes darting around as if he was expecting an attack at any second; Balban Falk, on the other hand, was more difficult to pinpoint. He had ventured underground and emerged different, his presence somehow fuller, and now he insisted the others call him the Warsmith. Despite being thoroughly covered in the terminator armour as the rest of the trident, something about his posture made Forrix think of a stormy sky ripe for a downpour.
Since Iron Blood had no windows, they used a projection to display the outside view. What loomed ahead was a black hole, its image flickering wildly as sensors struggled to make sense of its impossible geometry. Forrix would like to think this was the main source of their apprehension - they were about to do what no man has done before, after all - but try as he might, he knew this wasn't the truth.
The truth was standing right behind them, connected to command throne in a mass of cables, his armour making a series of anxious hisses as various cogs and pistons moved about. Perturabo had a severe look on his face, his brows pinched tight and his lips flattened to a displeased line. Every few seconds, a slight tremor would ripple across his face, making him tense up as if being shocked.
Something ailed him, there was no doubt, but Forrix was hesitant to ask. His primarch was in a difficult mood and he had no intention of repeating Berossus’ fate.
Still…
Forrix had never seen him look so terrible. The last time was when he ordered extermination in response to Olympia's rebellion, but even then, he had not been this pale. If Olympia had taught him that his primarch could be broken emotionally, then Iydris forced him to confront the truth that Perturabo was not physically invulnerable either.
“Perhaps a visit to the apothecary is in order,” he found himself saying.
“I am fine,” the Lord of Iron rasped. Forrix could sense he meant to snap, but the bark came out uncharacteristically soft, more like a hiss than a reprimand.
That made Kroeger whirl around too. The newest Triarch wasn't the brightest tool in the shed, and he could be rather oblivious in the face of danger, but the fact that even he felt alarmed spoke volumes of the urgency of their situation.
“Forrix is right,” he said. “The Phoenecian had wounded you gravely with his blade, Lord. The least you can do is to check it out.”
Perturabo’s brows drew even closer. “You heard what I said.”
“I did, Lord, but I insist,” Kroeger took a step forward. The ruthless part of Forrix wanted to sneer at Kroeger’s recklessness, yet all he felt was… relief. And, grudgingly, admiration. Great as his primarch might be, Perturabo had a habit of denying any truth that did not align with his expectations - especially when it concerned himself. He liked to think of himself as invulnerable. Once, Forrix would have agreed, had Ferrus’ murder not been so fresh in his mind.
Primarchs could die. That was the truth, no matter how he wished it wasn't the case. And Perturabo was teetering far too close to the edge. Someone should point that out and Forrix was glad that it wasn't him. Not to say he wouldn't when his Primarch’s life was on the line, but there was a reason he survived so long on Perturabo’s council when everyone else was either dead or demoted.
A low whirring filled the chamber, and Forrix saw Perturabo turn, the shadows cast by his collar guard swallowing his face. He must be glaring at Kroeger, Forrix knew, even if he couldn’t quite see his expression from this angle. It didn't stop him from feeling the weight of that gaze, though. The First Captain had been on its receiving end when Olympia fell - the cold, precise stare of a scalper, ready to peel a soul from its body.
Kroeger held up admirably, but then again, that man did lack a certain sense of self-preservation. For a moment Forrix almost thought he would be dispatched like his predecessor. But Perturabo didn't raise his hand; instead, all he did was to stand there, his wrist guns rotating in rapid, agitated clicks.
Eventually, whatever Perturabo saw in Kroeger’s face must have sufficed, for the primarch let out a disgruntled hmph and rose from his command throne. It was the closest thing to a concession given the mood he was in, and Forrix supposed, perhaps, just perhaps, he should begrudge Kroeger some merit.
The Triarchs fell into steps behind their lord immediately, and together they walked through the long, sturdily built corridors, finally arriving at the Apothecarion. Forrix noticed with a pang as a new face emerged from behind the door, remembering that Honourable Soulaka was no longer with them. The man was quite competent, and if anyone could fix their Lord's illness, it would be him.
The examination room was small, designed to optimise functionality over comfort, so there simply wasn't room for all three warriors in terminator armour plus their Lord encased in Logos. All of them had to strip. Under normal circumstances it was an efficient, almost routine process. But not today.
Perturabo moved slowly, hesitantly, as though uncertain of his own body. When he stepped free of Logos, Forrix noticed the slight hunch in his back, the kind common to soldiers carrying a gut wound. Still, his gaze remained steely, his lips pressed into a hard line, and to any less observant eye the faint hitch in his gait would have gone unnoticed.
“What appears to be the issue, Lord?” The medic asked. Forrix had half a mind to berate the man for stating the obvious - there was a huge wound on his belly, for Olympia’s sake - but he held his tongue. The man was young, clearly inexperienced, and it felt hypocritical to fault him when Forrix himself was still unsettled by the pallor of his Lord.
“Just run the diagnostics,” he commanded instead. When faced with the unknown, numbers had always helped. They could quantify the threat - and anything that could be quantified could be reduced.
The medic nodded and began his work. To Forrix’s surprise, Perturabo offered no protest and made no move to dismiss the Triarchs. He simply lowered himself onto the examination table and stared up at the ceiling, his face stripped of all expression.
Forrix tried not to gawk, but it was hard when there was a giant gash in the middle of his Primarch’s abdomen. The medic had stripped away the tangled garments to give the machines unobstructed access, and Forrix found himself equally repulsed and fascinated by the sight.
There was blood, a lot of it, dripping down all over his pelvis, stark against the marble-white flesh. Most of it flowed from a narrow, slit-like sword wound, though some seeped from the surrounding cuts. Those were shallow, closer to paper nicks than true blade marks, branching outward like the limbs of a tree.
“That isn't natural,” Kroeger blurted out.
The medic glanced at him, then at Perturabo, as if waiting for an inevitable tongue-lashing. But Perturabo said nothing. Instead, he looked as if he didn't hear it, so focused on holding the pain in.
“Yes, it isn't,” the apothecary answered after a pause. “The readings… they made no sense. Look.”
He swung the display over and Forrix needed no special medical knowledge to know the rapid flickering wasn't normal. It looked like the device was glitching, if he was honest, but that couldn’t be. The Iron Warriors had a rigorous maintenance schedule, set by Forrix himself, and there were several more rounds of safety inspections to ensure that everything was up to standards.
“It is a mark,” said a voice from behind.
Barban Falk - or, the Warsmith - walked between them and gestured at the wound. His eyes were black but strangely mirror-like, and Forrix could see the mark's grotesque reflection against his gleaming pupils. “A sigil of the Dark Prince.”
“A what?” Forrix asked as a terrible realisation dawned inside him. If he believed in a higher power he would be praying right now. But he wasn't, and so he was left with the feeling of falling head first into the abyss, knowing the demise is inevitable and yet could do nothing against it.
The Dark Prince. Forrix had cursed their name once, when he was on the battlefield with rage burning in his heart. The ensuing nausea had taught him to never anger a jealous god, but it seemed that their pettiness went beyond what he thought possible.
“What does it do?” He swallowed hard.
“It drains his lifeforce unless we do something about it,” the Warsmith said. Forrix found himself both envious and thankful of his calmness. For all his new-found strangeness, Forrix was glad that Barban Falk could still be relied upon.
“Then do something,” Kroeger growled. “He’s not getting any better like this.”
“Of course. But what I propose is best kept among the Triarchs,” the Warsmith said, shooting a sharp look at the medic. The man took the hint and scurried away immediately, looking more relieved than chastised.
Krorger narrowed his eyes. “Well?”
“To remove the mark, we must first placate the Dark Prince,” the Warsmith said. His voice was calm, almost clinical, and Forrix would have believed him had his statement not turned out to be so outrageous.
“By that, I mean copulation.”
“What?”
Forrix was sure he had heard wrong. This… this was ridiculous! Absurd! Completely illogical! Never in his life -
“It is either that or he dies,” the Warsmith continued as if he was delivering a mission report, completely oblivious of the shock emanating from the other two tridents. “The Empyrean whispers it to me. The Dark Prince is displeased and they demand recompense; Refuse them, and they will take his soul.”
“And why are we listening to someone who consorts with sorcerous energies?” Kroeger snapped. “You’re lying.”
“I have no reason to lie to you,” the Warsmith replied evenly. “This is the domain of daemons, and we would be fools to not heed their warnings. Were you not also touched by its inhabitant, when you were fighting deep in Iydris’ bowels? I could see its claw marks all over your presence.”
Kroeger looked as if he was punched squarely on his face. He scowled, turned his head away, and said nothing more.
The Warsmith turned his unsettling gaze back to Forrix. “With the rebirth of their champion, the Dark Prince is ascendant, and we cannot hope to fight a god in their lair.”
“This is our Primarch you are talking about,” Forrix said. His voice sounded weak, strangely distant.
“I am fully aware.”
This was worse than Olympia, Forrix thought. At least, during the extermination, there had been protocols to follow. Procedures. Orders. Something solid that he could cling to. And now? Now there was nothing. He was not Ahriman, damn it, and never in his life had he wished so fiercely for his friend’s presence. Ahriman would know what to do. Magnus would know what to do.
“And did you ask - hng - about my opinion?”
The voice of his Primarch pulled him out of his panic. Forrix had not thought it possible for a man to grow any paler, but Perturabo somehow managed it, his hands gripping the edge of the examination table so hard that they left five shallow groves behind.
“I will not submit to any god,” He spat.
“Then your soul will be forfeit,” the Warsmith said. “You will no longer be you, but a puppet of their will.”
A look of great consternation passed over his face. Perturabo squinted, lips pulling back to form a grimace, then looked away.
“The alternative is not something I am willing to entertain.”
“Why?”
“Because I will not be the one to debase my legion like my treacherous brother.”
“You had no trouble sending men to their deaths before,” the Warsmith said, narrowing his eyes. “Why balk at this?”
Forrix found himself bristling at the words. That was out of line, he wanted to snap. In the calculus of war, everyone had a role to play. Victory was never guaranteed; it was a convergence of cost and chance. He had thought the Barban Falk understood this, that he wouldn't make the mistake of fixating on minimising the cost at the expense of success, as so many did when accusing his primarch of cruelty.
Then he realised, with sudden clarity, that it wasn't the Warsmith’s intention to argue. His fellow Triarch was trying to goad Perturabo into saving his own life. A bold, if questionable, plan.
“It was to accomplish something,” Perturabo shot him an annoyed look. The urge to prove himself right briefly overrode the frailty of his flesh, and he rose, albeit for a fraction, just to better glare at his Triarch. “There is no evidence this will work. There is no estimate of success. And yet the risk is very real - you have seen with your own eyes how far the Third has fallen. I cannot command you to this, because the act itself lacks any provable basis.”
“What if we make the offer instead?” Kroeger asked. “What if we are willing to take the risk?”
“You say this out of obligation. Not because it is what you truly believe.”
“That's not true,” Forrix found himself mumbling.
Perturabo shot him a quizzical look. Still, he wasn't convinced. “I remember your designs. In what must have been Father’s workshop. You are biologically programmed to obey, so” - he winced - “there is no substance behind your claim.”
"What of me, then, Lord?” The Warsmith asked. “You know I am now more than what I was. And yet I, too, am willing to offer.”
“I do not know what to make of you.”
“If you do not trust me, then what of yourself? Do you not want to live?”
“What I want is irrelevant,” Perturabo muttered. His voice was quiet, almost subdued, and Forrix felt part of him break at the sound. It was as though he were looking directly into his own end, and still he could not find the words, even if speaking them might have saved him.
Fortunately, Kroeger said them for him.
“Look. You said you wanted a plain speaker on the council, so here I am. I am telling you that yes, I am willing. Not because I have to, and not because I was made that way. Because it's the only fucking way out of the mess.”
With that, he leaned in. Forrix was ready to restrain him the moment his Lord showed even the slightest hint of rejection, but Perturabo merely blinked. He said nothing when Kroeger kissed him, and Forrix found himself looking away, unused to seeing physical displays of affection. He wasn't repulsed, per se, (in fact, part of him was a little envious of Kroeger's directness), it was just that he hasn't recovered from the shock of their latest development.
He snuck a look at the Warsmith. “I require more specific parameters for the task at hand.”
“Of course. All you need to do is ejaculate into his vagina. The mark will wane if it is filled.”
“And… how many times…”
“That you need not worry,” the Warsmith waved him off.
Right. Forrix took a deep breath. He knew what to do. He had studied anatomy, and despite the fact that it was done with the intent of learning how to disable a foe in the most efficient way, he supposed the knowledge could be, uh, transferred. All he needed to do was to put theory into practice.
Which was easier said than done. But since when did that stop him from doing what he must?
He stripped away his body glove and placed one hand on his primarch's thigh. It felt cold to the touch, the flesh trembling under the heat of his palm, and as he ran his hands upward he noticed the strange way that the mark responded to his touch. It was glowing somehow, emanating a sickly, purplish hue, and as his fingers touched the edge it flared like glass caught in the light of the midday sun.
Perturabo went still. His lips parted and there was a sharp exhale, but the gasp was swallowed half-way by a resolute press of lips followed by a forceful bob of his throat. Sweat shone bright against his skin, which turned almost translucent, revealing a web of narrow, bluish veins.
Forrix decided that perhaps it was for the best that he refrained from touching the mark. Whatever the thing was, it seemed sentient, capable of “activating” at the proximity of another. Looking at it for too long and the lines would shift, resembling a tangle of purple snakes that writhe sluggishly in the depth of a muddy pit. He knew he should feel disgusted by the unholy undulations, but the way they moved was hypnotic, tempting him to look on longer. Just one moment more.
He snapped his gaze away before the strange pull could take hold, eyes watering at the prolonged exposure of dry air. Both of his hands seemed to have moved during that momentary lapse, and now they were hooked around his Primarch's knees, forcing them open by just the tiniest gap. The full, rounded curve of Perturabo’s quads obscured most of the view, but still he caught a glimpse of reddened flesh in between.
The sight of it completely short-circuited his mind. It wasn't that he was not prepared for it; on the contrary, the Warsmith's explanation was quite clear. Still… It was one thing to hear about it and another to see it for himself. For Olympia's sake, this was his Primarch he was staring at, and well - well -
Forrix snapped his gaze away as if being burned. It was just an organ. A normal part of human anatomy. He should not have been so affected, and he indeed would not, had this happened to any other. Was he not the master of compartmentalisation? He should be applying the technique now, do his duty and be done with it. He should not be feeling… whatever this was. He should not pay attention to the way his Lord's flesh folded under his grasp. He should not care about how the pale skin reddened after digging his fingers in. He should not be thinking about trailing his tongue down the naval and wondering what taste he would pick up.
From Iron cometh strength, he recited, desperately trying to regain any semblance of control. It was business, nothing more. Duty was what he was expected and duty was what he would perform. But his hands were shaking, his heart racing like a mad hare, and all his blood was rushing southward like a freight train with a broken brake.
He could feel the others’ gaze on him, and somehow that was what silenced his inner turmoil. The next moment he was pushing in, the glide smooth and impossibly warm, and the intimacy of it made his gut twist in the most treacherous way.
Perturabo’s legs snapped close around him, heels digging painfully into his calf. His lips are pressed tight, but his eyes were unfocused, and Forrix tried very hard not to read too much into it, to lose himself in the clearly unintended display of warmth. Of affection.
Because what was the point? The Lord of Iron had made it abundantly clear that he valued logic above all else, and Forrix was content to let it direct all his decisions. He served because it was what was expected of him, and because it was what he was good at. To wish for more was foolish. To hope was to be disappointed. Only detachment was safe - if one desired nothing that could not be given, then there was no risk of loss.
So why could he not rise above the situation like before?
He felt like a man strapped against a sinking ship, except that it wasn't the cold, dark sea he was being pulled towards, but the warm embrace of his Lord's flesh. Pain and despair he could handle, but not this. Not the blissful slickness around his length, nor the gentle, trusting way his Lord's flesh parted for him.
The pressure in his lower gut was becoming unbearable, and he resigned to it, preparing for the final escalade. What he didn't expect was the touch of his Lord's hand behind his head. It pushed him closer, in a gentle and yet irresistible way, and when Forrix looked up he was hit by how unguarded Perturabo looked. His eyes were blue but not icy, his lips freed from the perpetual scowl, and even the deep crease between his brows was no more a shallow, almost imperceptible dent. He looked like the fresh-faced Olympian during their first meeting, when he still had wonder in his eyes, before the wars had snuffed it out.
He came then, mind blank from everything but the closeness between him and his primarch. Darkness had never felt so liberating. With Perturabo’s palm was still pressed against his skull, Forrix finally permitted himself to relish the contact, to rid the shackles of reason and let his heart run free.
When his vision returned, the mark on Perturabo’s abdomen seemed to have changed. Its purplish glow flickered erratically, followed by a sharp spike of pressure, as though something were striking out. But it felt less like the lunge of a hidden predator than the content purr of a creature newly sated. Warmth settled over him like a blanket, suffusing his blood with a calm, steady stream of euphoria.
So Forrix girded himself within it, and for the first time in a very long while, he found peace.