Vulkan

The setting sun cast long shadows across the war-torn streets as Franklin Valorian and Angron walked side by side through the newly compliant world. The evidence of recent battle still scarred the buildings, but already the people were emerging from their shelters, hope replacing fear in their eyes.

"You struck true today, brother," Franklin said, his voice carrying the warmth that had earned him such devotion among both his sons and the common people. "That tyrant won't be missed."

Angron's response was interrupted by the patter of small feet. A group of children, emboldened by their parents' presence nearby, came running toward the two towering demigods. Where once there might have been hesitation in Angron's movements, now there was only a moment's pause before he carefully lifted a small girl who had wrapped herself around his leg.

"Careful there, little warrior," Angron rumbled, his voice softer than most would believe possible. He watched as Franklin effortlessly gathered three children, settling one on each shoulder and cradling another in his free arm.

"How do you make it look so... natural?" Angron asked, adjusting his hold on the child who was now examining his armor with fascination.

Franklin laughed, the sound carrying down the street. "Perhaps because I don't overthink it, brother. Children see the truth in us more clearly than most adults. They don't care about our titles or our victories. They just see..." He paused, bouncing one of the children on his shoulder, eliciting a delighted giggle. "Well, they just see us."

A boy, no more than seven, looked up at Franklin with wide eyes. "I want to be just like you when I grow up!"

Franklin's eyes twinkled as he spotted the boy's father – a soldier in the planetary defense force – watching nearby. "Is that so, young man? Well, that's quite the ambition. But you know what it takes?"

"To be big and strong?" the boy asked eagerly.

"That's part of it," Franklin said, carefully setting the children down. He reached into his armor and produced an ornate Las pistol, its design reminiscent of ancient Terran firearms. "But more importantly, it takes discipline and wisdom." He looked directly at the boy's father, who straightened unconsciously under the Primarch's gaze.

"This is special, little one. It never runs out of shots, but remember – a weapon is a responsibility, not a toy. Watch your father; he'll show you how to use it properly."

Angron set down his own young charge, watching the interaction with thoughtful eyes. "You arm children, brother?"

"I arm future defenders," Franklin replied, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "This world has seen enough of tyrants. The next generation should know how to prevent them from rising again." He gestured to his men, who began helping the parents collect their children.

As the families moved away, Angron spoke again, his voice contemplative. "They don't fear us. Even after seeing what we did to their oppressors, they don't fear us."

"Fear is a poor foundation for loyalty, brother. You know this better than most." Franklin placed a hand on Angron's shoulder. "The nails they wanted to put in your head – they were instruments of fear. But look at you now, a liberator rather than just a conqueror."

Angron nodded slowly. "Sometimes I wonder... if Father hadn't arrived when he did, if you hadn't convinced him to save my brothers and sisters from Nuceria..."

"Then we wouldn't be having this conversation," Franklin finished. "But we are. And those children back there? They ran to you just as readily as they ran to me. They see in you what I've always seen – a warrior with a heart as great as his strength."

"You're becoming philosophical in your old age, brother," Angron said, but there was a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Someone has to be. Between Fulgrim's art and Russ's drinking songs, someone needs to maintain some perspective." Franklin grinned. "Speaking of which, I believe the local leadership has prepared a feast in honor of their liberation. Shall we show them how the sons of the Emperor celebrate victory?"

Angron's laugh was like distant thunder. "Lead the way, brother. But if you start giving away any more weapons, I'm telling father."

"As if he doesn't know already," Franklin chuckled as they turned toward the governor's palace, their massive forms silhouetted against the dying sun. Behind them, a boy clutched his new Las pistol, watching the giants depart with dreams of heroism dancing in his young mind.

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'I thought the Wolf King had fury,' said Ferrus, admiring the choleric spirit of his newfound brother, 'But this... Where did you find him?'

'A death world,' said the Emperor, His piercing gaze seeing more and ranging farther than any other on the battlefield and second battle line where He stood with His son, Ferrus Manus. 'One consumed by fire.'

Ferrus gave a snort of laughter.

They watched from the blasted hillock, the troops and his armored divisions arranged before them and ready for the Gorgon's command. His warriors, his Iron Hands. The Dragon led a company of them, and several cohorts of army auxilia. The scent of engines and hot metal from the idling artillery and heavy battle tanks wafted over the mustering, but peered out and was swallowed up by the stink of sweat and death by the time it reached the battle less than a few miles away.

The sound of power armor approaching drew their attention, though the Emperor's expression suggested He had known of the arrival long before. Franklin Valorian and Angron ascended the hillock, their massive forms casting long shadows in the battle-light. 

'Father,' Franklin nodded respectfully, then grinned at Ferrus. 'Brother. I see you're enjoying the show as well.'

Ferrus folded his silver arms, restive. They shimmered with an uncanny luster, the metal of their forging as miraculous as it was mysterious. A massive warhammer lay against one armored shoulder, a gift from Fulgrim and one he desired to bloody again.

'Draconic in both aspect and temperament,' he said, alluding to the savage scalloped war-plate worn by the Dragon.

The Emperor's gaze shifted to Franklin. 'Your assessment of your brother, Franklin?'

Franklin watched as Vulkan engaged a cluster of enemy heavy infantry, his hammer describing devastating arcs through their ranks. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"One thing's certain," Franklin said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I bet he gives hugs that could rival mine. Though, I'd probably suggest removing that particularly spiky pauldron first."

The Emperor's lips twitched in faint amusement at Franklin's comment, while Ferrus leveled a look that might have silenced someone with less resolve. Angron, however, released a low chuckle.

"Have you taught him much of your craft, Ferrus?" the Emperor asked.

"None, truly. He needed no guidance in that realm. By the time I reached the forge, he and the armor were already gone."

The Emperor looked pleased, as though watching one of His designs unfold just as intended. "And what is your assessment?"

"Overly flamboyant," Ferrus replied, raising a brow, "but it seems effective."

"Him, Ferrus, not his armor."

Ferrus raised an eyebrow and grunted, conceding the correction. "He fights like a Medusan ur-wyrm. Are they all like that where he hails from?"

"No, he is one of a kind. Just as you are."

Ferrus's silver fingers flexed unconsciously as he nodded. "Impressive," he admitted, though a hint of disdain crept in as he added, "but Russ, Horus, Angron even Fulgrim, match his prowess. I see nothing remarkable about him."

"Perhaps you're focusing on the wrong things, brother," Franklin interjected thoughtfully. "Look more closely at his movements. Every strike isn't only about doing damage—he's analyzing the metal, gauging its composition with each blow. He's still a craftsman, even in the heat of battle."

The Emperor turned to Franklin, His golden eyes sharp with curiosity. "Explain."

Franklin gestured toward the battlefield, where Vulkan had just delivered a crushing blow. "Notice how he adjusts each strike. Those aren't simply a warrior's attacks—they're the precise, calibrated strokes of a master craftsman. He's reading the battlefield as if it were his forge, Father. Every enemy's armor is new material to examine, every clash of weapons a lesson to absorb."

"An interesting observation," the Emperor noted, then turned to Angron. "And your assessment, my son?"

Angron stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied Vulkan's movements. "He holds back," Angron stated simply. "Not out of fear or hesitation, but consideration. Each blow could shatter his opponents utterly, yet he measures his strength precisely."

"Like a blacksmith tempering steel," Franklin added, nodding in agreement.

"More than that," Angron continued, his voice carrying the weight of someone who understood the burden of tremendous power. "He fights with the patience of someone who knows the cost of unchecked strength. I recognize that restraint – it's something I've had to learn myself."

The Emperor's expression remained neutral, but there was approval in His eyes. "Continue."

"His weapons and armor," Angron gestured, "they're extensions of himself, yes, but not in the way most warriors wear their war-plate. Each piece tells a story of its making. He doesn't just fight with them – he understands them completely because he forged them with his own hands."

Angron shook his head, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Only you, brother, would evaluate a warrior's worth by their capacity for embraces."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Franklin replied. "Besides, in my experience, the best warriors are often the ones who remember what they're fighting to protect. And our new brother down there? He's protecting something far more precious than just territory or glory."

The Emperor's gaze lingered on Franklin for a moment, and there was something like pride in His ancient eyes. "Indeed," He said simply, before turning His attention back to the battlefield where Vulkan continued his devastating yet carefully measured advance.

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In the forge-chambers of Ferrus's temporary command post, the rhythmic sound of hammer strikes punctuated their conversation. Ferrus worked as he spoke, his silver hands shaping metal with practiced precision while Angron stood nearby, studying the Gorgon's methodology.

"Our brother Franklin," Ferrus began, not looking up from his work, "he favors overwhelming firepower and precision strikes. But tell me, what would you do with this world?" The question was direct, characteristic of the Tenth Primarch's blunt nature.

Angron considered the tactical display showing their target - a world under assault by an Ork Waaagh. "A direct assault against the Ork Warboss," he answered. "Cut off the head, and the body will flounder."

Ferrus gave a grunt that might have been approval or dismissal - it was often hard to tell with the Gorgon. "And the civilians in the mining complexes?" Ferrus gestured to the structures that are currently under attack.

"Evacuate them first," Angron replied firmly. "I was taught that every civilian lost is a resource wasted. They know the terrain, the infrastructure. They're valuable."

The hammer struck harder this time. "Sentiment," Ferrus said, but there was no real criticism in his tone. "Though not without tactical merit. The weak must be protected so they may serve the strong." He paused his work, fixing Angron with his stern gaze. "But protection cannot breed weakness."

"What would you suggest then, brother?"

Ferrus's silver hands moved over the tactical display, manipulating it with mechanical precision. "Arm them. Train them. The mining complexes have thermal drills? Retrofit them into weapons. And the mining suits? Upgrade them into combat platforms. Let's make the civilians an asset, not a burden."

Angron's eyes sparked with recognition. "Convert their entire infrastructure into a weapon."

Ferrus gave a curt nod, returning to his work. "Precisely. The flesh is weak, but iron can make it strong. Together, our Legions and a militarized civilian force will give the Orks something they won't expect. They know how to fight a frontal assault—they don't know how to fight industry itself."

"Franklin would appreciate the strategy," Angron agreed. "Though he'd probably insist on even more firepower."

Ferrus's mouth twitched with a hint of irony. "Your mentor believes any problem can be solved with enough guns," he remarked dryly, a flicker of respect in his tone. "But sometimes the anvil must strike before the bullet flies."

A comfortable silence fell between them, punctuated by the steady rhythm of Ferrus's hammer. Two brothers, different in temperament but united in purpose, each gleaning insight from the other. Their goal was clear: to forge strength from weakness, and to bring yet another world into compliance through iron and blood.

"Now," Ferrus said, resuming their discussion, "show me how you'd position those mining suits."

---------------------------

Franklin stood in the center of his private training cage, Deathsword in hand, his chest bearing the phantom pain where Eldanesh's blade had found its mark. The motes of psychic light that had formed his legendary opponent dispersed like stardust in the void, leaving him alone with the presence of the War God.

"Twenty minutes," Khaine's voice resonated with barely contained violence. "Double our initial requirement of ten. You can defeat Eldanesh now, with your psychic abilities and my blessing. Why do you insist on this... what did you call it? 'Dark Souls difficulty'?"

Franklin chuckled, reaching for a cloth to wipe his face. "You know, there's something deeply amusing about the Aeldari God of War making video game references."

"I speak in terms you understand," Khaine replied, a hint of amusement coloring his usually stern tone. "Though I fail to see the humor in repeatedly dying to the same opponent whom you could already Vanquish"

Rising to his feet, Franklin began going through his cool-down exercises, his movements deliberate and measured. "Consider this scenario: what if I'm caught in a null field? Or fighting something that can dampen psychic abilities?"

"You would still have my power," Khaine stated firmly.

"And if the enemy found a way to sever that connection?" Franklin turned to face the burning reflection. "The galaxy is vast and full of surprises. The Necrons have technology we barely understand. The Chaos Gods are always scheming. I can't afford to rely solely on powers that could potentially be taken away."

Khaine fell Silent for a moment, reflecting the god's contemplation.

"You think too much like a mortal sometimes," Khaine observed, though there was no mockery in his tone. "But... I cannot fault your logic. Even gods can fall, as I know all too well."

Franklin swung the Deathsword, examining its edge. "Not failure - contingency. Every advantage I have is a tool, not a crutch. My psychic powers, your blessing, the technology of my Legion - these are all advantages I'm grateful for. But the core of who I am, my base abilities as a Primarch, that needs to be honed to perfection."

"Like tempering a blade," Khaine mused, understanding dawning in his burning voice.

"Exactly," Franklin smiled. "You of all beings should appreciate that. A sword isn't strong just because of enchantments or decorations. Its fundamental structure, the quality of its forging, that's what truly matters. Everything else builds upon that foundation."

The god's presence shifted, and Franklin could feel approval radiating from the War God. "You surprise me, young one. Most warriors I've known would gladly accept any advantage, any shortcut to victory."

"That's exactly why I don't," Franklin replied, beginning another set of practice forms. "Victory at any cost is sometimes necessary, but relying on that mentality makes you weak. It makes you forget the fundamentals. Besides," he grinned, "imagine the look on an enemy's face when they think they've stripped away all my advantages, only to find out they're facing someone who's beaten Eldanesh with pure skill."

--------------------------

The forges of the Liberty Eagles hummed with constant activity, but a respectful hush fell over the artificers, as Vulkan strode into Franklin's personal workshop. The Salamander's presence was impossible to ignore – not just because of his massive stature, but because of the warmth that seemed to radiate from him, both literally and metaphorically.

Franklin looked up from a hololithic display showing fleet movements, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Brother! I wasn't expecting you. Though I must say, your timing is impeccable – I was just about to have some refreshments brought in."

Vulkan's deep laugh echoed through the workshop. "Our Father sends his regards, brother. And his instructions." He paused, red eyes gleaming with interest as they swept across the advanced machinery filling the space. "He believes I would learn more under your tutelage than His own."

Franklin blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Leman, Fulgrim, Angron, now you?" he mused aloud, scratching his chin. "I'm starting to think Father is using me as his personal mentoring service."

"The Father speaks highly of your mastery of warfare," Vulkan continued, "but more importantly, of your understanding of logistics and strategic planning. And..." his eyes swept the forge again, "he mentioned that your forges are among the finest in the Imperium."

'Ah yes,' Khaine's voice whispered in Franklin's mind, carrying the weight of ancient memory. 'This one reminds me of Vaul, though still young. Give him time, and he will create weapons of beauty and mass destruction in equal measure.'

Franklin watched as Vulkan moved through the workshop, noting how his brother's eyes lingered on various pieces of technology. But it was when Vulkan's gaze fell upon the Deathsword that everything changed. The Salamander's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing with the intensity of a master craftsman spotting an imperfection that only he could see.

"How long have you carried that blade, brother?"

Franklin's hand unconsciously moved to the sword's grip, feeling the familiar pulse of power within it. "A lifetime," he answered, then smiled wryly. "Though I suppose that means something different for beings like us."

"It's of Drukhari make?" Vulkan's tone carried a note of distaste.

"Aeldari actually," Franklin corrected quickly, noting the darkness that had crossed his brother's features. "The Crone Sword of Morai-Heg. And believe me, brother, I share your hatred for the Dark Eldar. I know what they've done to Nocturne's people." He paused, remembering the information from his future data-slate. "The raids, the suffering they've caused... they're monsters wearing eldar skin, nothing more."

'Well put,' Khaine approved in his mind. 'The Drukhari are a perversion of what my people should be.'

Vulkan nodded gravely, but his eyes remained fixed on the blade. "It's incomplete," he said finally.

'Incomplete?' Khaine's voice held genuine surprise in Franklin's mind. 'He does not think... but I am no blacksmith, and this is a sword forged by Vaul himself from Morai-Heg's fingers. How could it be incomplete?'

"Incomplete?" Franklin asked aloud, voicing both his and Khaine's curiosity.

"Yes," Vulkan confirmed, his expert craftsman's eye studying the weapon. "The core is sound - magnificent even. But there are resonances that aren't fully harmonized, potential that remains untapped." He looked up at Franklin. "May I?"

Franklin found himself mentally asking Khaine, 'What do you think? Would you submit to being reforged by my brother?'

There was a moment of contemplative silence before Khaine responded, 'I would see what this scion of the Emperor can do with a god's weapon. Let him try.'

With ceremonial gravity, Franklin drew the Deathsword and presented it to Vulkan. "Brother, I would be honored if you would complete what was begun. And..." he grinned, lightening the moment, "if you wouldn't mind, I could use a new sidearm as well."

Vulkan took the blade with appropriate reverence, his eyes already noting what would need to be done. "It will take time," he warned. "To work with such material properly..."

"Time we have," Franklin assured him. "And speaking of proper tools..." He activated a nearby holo-display, bringing up the schematics of a vessel. "Consider this a welcome gift to the family. A Juggernaut-class Forge Ship, customized to your specifications. I know it's not Nocturne's forges, but..."

This is... generous," he said carefully, though his excitement was evident in the increased glow of his eyes.

"Nonsense," Franklin waved off the protest. "I never like to receive without giving in return. Besides, you're doing me two favors now, and I suspect we'll be working together quite a bit in the future. Consider it an investment in our shared endeavors."

Vulkan finally looked up from his examination. "I will need to study the blade's properties thoroughly before beginning any work. And for your sidearm... do you have any preferences?"

"Something with style," Franklin grinned. "But practical. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all."

Vulkan nodded slowly, understanding passing between the brothers. "Then let us begin. There is much work to be done."

"Indeed there is," Franklin agreed, then couldn't help adding, "Though fair warning - if you're going to be studying under me, you should know that I believe in celebrating our successes as much as working toward them. I hope you can hold your drink as well as you hold that hammer."

Vulkan's booming laugh filled the forge once again. "Brother, I think we're going to get along just fine."

As they began discussing the details of their arrangement, Franklin couldn't help but think that perhaps the Emperor knew exactly what He was doing, bringing them together like this. Sometimes the best teachings came not from formal instruction, but from the simple act of brothers working side by side, each learning from the other's strengths.

'Just try not to let him add too many flames to my sword,' Khaine grumbled good-naturedly in his mind.

Franklin had to stifle a laugh. Somehow, he suspected that was one battle he'd already lost.