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The door slides shut behind Ferrus and he lets out a deep, weary sigh. Another ceremonial gala something-or-other successfully endured, and now he’s finally where he has ached to be all evening – inside Fulgrim’s private apartments, which are forbidden even to the most favoured of his sons.
The decor is surprisingly minimalist, always reminding Ferrus more of the places Fulgrim has told him about living in during his early years on Chemos rather than the extravagance Ferrus associates with the III Legion. He doesn’t mind the simplicity at all, though, and most of all he appreciates that everything is built with a Primarch’s proportions in mind.
Whenever Ferrus comes here it’s liberating in a way he can’t describe to no longer have to deal with objects and furniture sized for mortals, or even for Astartes.
Fulgrim appears in the entryway, his hair loosely tied back, having long since exchanged his formal attire for a much more comfortable-looking casual outfit. He greets Ferrus with a warm, genuine smile and gives him a glass of water.
“You must be parched from all that time you spent not talking to any dignitaries and not dancing with anyone,” he says teasingly, but Ferrus understands, about as well as it’s possible for him to understand, the significance of a glass of cool clear water on Chemos and its value as a gesture of affection and hospitality.
“I’m not the one who sneaked off early,” Ferrus responds, his fingers brushing gently against Fulgrim’s as he takes the glass. The harshness of his words is entirely undermined by the amusement in his eyes, and Fulgrim simply laughs in response.
“Some of us are able to achieve our political goals well ahead of schedule,” he says, leading Ferrus into the sitting room.
“And with my work done, I am the Phoenician no longer,” he intones with a dramatic wave of his hand. “For the rest of tonight, anyway. It’s remarkably draining to be him sometimes.”
“The hair and makeup alone must take hours,” Ferrus replies.
“Oh, behold the Comedian of Medusa,” Fulgrim shoots back with no malice whatsoever. “The shower’s free, so get yourself cleaned up and then we,” he says with a significant look, “can do whatever we want.”
Whatever they want turns out to be tiredly not-really-watching a propaganda pictcast together on the couch, Ferrus lying with his head resting on Fulgrim’s lap and enjoying the feeling of his fingers stroking idly through his still-damp hair.
“As I said before, I’m sorry to inflict this on you,” Fulgrim says. “I told the remembrancers I would give it my official imprimatur.”
“That’s a big word,” Ferrus says dryly. “And I already told you it’s fine. It’s nice just to be together.”
Fulgrim smiles at him, unhurriedly and with the same warmth as his greeting at the door. It fits very differently on his face compared to the charming, star-bright diplomatic expression Ferrus has seen him switching on and off like a glowglobe all evening.
“Oh look, there he is,” Fulgrim says as his own gloriously-armoured image appears on the screen. “The almighty Phoenician. It was actually pouring with rain when we brought that particular world into compliance, though. I think I was wearing a kind of waterproof cape.”
“Good practical rainwear,” Ferrus replies judiciously. “I’d appreciate seeing that in a pict.”
When Fulgrim laughs, Ferrus can feel it as well as hear it, the sensation flowing through all of the places their bodies are in contact. It makes him feel very fortunate to be this close to Fulgrim, just the two of them, even if it’s just for this briefest of periods.
The pict-Phoenician is shown standing on the shattered walls of an enemy fortress with a purple-and-gold Emperor’s Children banner artfully positioned behind him as he raises Fireblade above his head in triumph, with the background music swelling to a heroic martial crescendo that makes both Primarchs cringe.
“Groxshit,” Ferrus pronounces gruffly.
“It’s what people expect,” Fulgrim replies. “There wouldn’t be anywhere near as much enthusiasm for a dramatisation of how I negotiated the compliance of the Laszlobiro Supermeritocracies over several weeks without a shot being fired, and I know that for a fact because I had the remembrancers carry out a survey. No takers whatsoever, but of course a three-hour epic in which Russ slaughters a million greenskins plays to packed houses.”
“Is that some jealousy I hear?” Ferrus asks, amused. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually sat down and watched any with me in them.”
“Don’t bother,” Fulgrim says. “They never get you right.”
Ferrus turns over to look up at him, smirking.
“Oh, so you’ve watched them, then?”
“Someone has to,” Fulgrim says, reaching down to stroke his jawline. After a few moments Fulgrim moves his hand once again to give him a brisk pat on the chest.
“I’m hungry,” he announces. “Do you want anything?”
Ferrus sits up to let Fulgrim leave the couch, considering. “I’ll just steal some bits of whatever you’re having.”
“That’s a dangerous risk to take,” Fulgrim says as he walks into the small private kitchen. “What if I’m eating some unimaginably highbrow concoction that you can’t stand?”
“Just as long as it isn’t too spicy.”
“Weakness!” Fulgrim calls back brightly. “Shameful weakness, Gorgon. I’ll win you over to the side of flavour if it takes me a hundred years.”
Fulgrim exits the kitchen holding a metal bowl of bright red apples along with a plate and a small, sharp paring knife.
“Are these too spicy, you great mewling infant?”
In response, Ferrus lunges forward to grab an apple from the bowl before Fulgrim can stop him and then takes a loud, aggressive crunch out of it. After a few moments of looking at an icily raised eyebrow he’s rewarded with another smile as Fulgrim’s composure breaks.
“Did you know apple trees were among the very first things humans brought with them when they left Terra?” he asks, sitting back down with the bowl in his lap.
“Makes sense,” Ferrus says. “I never saw any growing up, though.”
“Nor me. But I once saw a magos biologis gene-sequence an apple just like this one all the way back to its original Terran ancestor.”
“Is that where these are from?” Ferrus asks, watching as Fulgrim selects the perfect apple for whatever he has in mind.
“Oh, no,” he replies once he’s made his decision. “These are from Chemos. Our own locally developed varietal, in fact. The Chemosian Crimson apple.”
Fulgrim thinks for a moment, looking down at the fruit in his hand.
“They only grow in laboratory conditions, of course. The surface can’t support them yet. But one day it will, and when that day comes I want them to be plentiful. Enough, more than enough, for everyone.”
Fulgrim raises the knife and slices the apple into six neat symmetrical wedges, but when he just keeps looking at them instead of eating any Ferrus can no longer contain his curiosity.
“What are you up to?” he asks, taking a second Chemosian apple from the bowl.
“It’s a small thing, really,” Fulgrim responds quietly. “We grow them aboard our ships as well, and recently I happened to see a crewman on the Pride of the Emperor cutting one up for his children in a certain way that makes the slices look like lagomorphs. He called them bunny apples. I’d like to see if I can do it myself.”
“You could have just asked them how.”
“I could have,” Fulgrim agrees, “but somehow I suspect that having the Phoenician appear at family snack time asking for food preparation tips would have been a lot for them to take in. I thought it best to let them enjoy their time together.”
The propaganda pict goes on, ignored, as Ferrus watches the exacting, iterative method by which the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children determines how to make bunny apples.
It takes him precisely one unsuccessful attempt, which Ferrus gallantly deals with by eating it. After that Fulgrim is able to confidently turn out a row of five apple slices with a neat V of skin removed from one end and the remainder partially cut away to leave two points sticking up which, Ferrus has to admit, does in fact look quite lagomorphic.
Fulgrim pauses for a moment and then picks up one of the slices and uses the very tip of the knife to carve a frowning face into it.
“That’s you,” he says, holding it out to Ferrus. “A ferocious apple bunny.”
“Much appreciated,” Ferrus chuckles. “I think Gorgon of Medusa is still a more intimidating title, though.”
A comfortable silence falls as they watch the remainder of the pictcast, broken only by the sounds of Fulgrim converting the last few apples into additional bunnies as though he can’t stand to leave even this least consequential of tasks unfinished.
“I thought that would never end,” Ferrus grates out when it’s finally over.
“It’s necessary for the propaganda value,” Fulgrim says, every bit as worn-out by the painfully formulaic conclusion. “After the victory everyone has to be seen to get their just deserts, especially the mortals. The Auxilia, the fleet, even the Mechanicum, all with their allotted happy endings. It’s important to bring them with us, politically.”
Ferrus sighs as though trying to put a very complex idea into words.
“What about us, then?” he asks eventually. “You disappeared off somewhere else and then that Auxilia couple with the perfect teeth got to colonise whatever planet it was and start farming and popping out babies for the Imperium. Fine, probably the best thing for them, but... what’s the Primarch version of that?”
“We both already have thousands of sons, to be fair,” Fulgrim says lightly.
“You know what I mean,” Ferrus continues, undeterred. “Is that all we are to the Imperium?”
When he says the Imperium what he really means is the Emperor and Fulgrim knows this, instantly and without any doubt. His hand finds Ferrus’s and holds it tightly and reassuringly.
“I think we are uniquely placed in the galaxy,” Fulgrim says quietly. “We have our duties to bear, yes, but we also have opportunities very few others could hope for. Were we mortal, for example, we would never have lived long enough to meet one another, and so I would argue that our rewards are those we make for ourselves, like our time together. Our nights. They’re very precious to me.”
Fulgrim pauses and then gives a quick, rueful laugh.
“Forgive me. I’ve gone on enough to sound like a propagandist myself.”
In response, Ferrus merely returns the calm, gentle pressure on Fulgrim’s hand.
“They’re precious to me too,” he says. “Our nights. Always have been.”
Fulgrim blesses him with another smile, genuine and warm, and at some shared comfortable signal which has not needed to be spoken aloud for many years they move into the bedroom, hand in hand, to enjoy their remaining time together to the full before it ends.