Brothers

The observation deck of Etna offered a perfect view of Nuceria below, its surface still scarred from recent battles but already showing signs of reconstruction. Liberty Guard crews could be seen from orbit, their construction vehicles moving like ants across the ruined landscape. Two giants stood watching – one in Navy Blue armor adorned with eagles and stars, the other in blue and bone white marked with World Eater insignias.

Franklin Valorian noticed his brother studying the Liberty Eagles' colors with particular interest. Even after several days of celebration with Russ and planning with Fulgrim, Angron remained contemplative – a far cry from the berserker he might have become in another timeline.

"Your Legion," Angron began, his voice calm and steady, "they speak of something called 'managed democracy.' I've heard them discussing it with the reconstruction teams. What exactly does this mean?"

Franklin smiled, turning from the viewport to face his brother. "It's a system we developed on Nova Libertas. The core principle is simple – freedom requires structure, just as a warrior requires training to be effective. Too much freedom becomes chaos, too little becomes tyranny."

Angron nodded slowly, understanding filtering through his expression. "Like a gladiatorial school, but for governance? The strongest rise, but within rules that protect the whole?"

"Exactly!" Franklin's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Take Nova Libertas – every citizen has the right to vote, to speak, to pursue their dreams. But they also have responsibilities: mandatory civil service, education requirements for voting on complex issues, transparent wealth reporting. The system is designed to reward merit while preventing the accumulation of too much power in any one group."

Moving to a tactical display, Franklin brought up images of Nova Libertas's cities. "See these public forums? They're as important as our military bases. Every major decision is debated openly. But" – he raised a finger – "the debates have structure. Time limits. Evidence requirements. No High Rider can simply shout down their opposition or buy votes in the shadows."

Angron's eyes narrowed at the mention of High Riders, but his voice remained measured. "And how do you prevent the strong from simply taking what they want? In the arenas, there were always those who thought might made right."

"Through division of power and public service," Franklin explained. "Military service, civil service, industrial work – everyone serves the whole. Those who seek power must prove they can serve before they can lead. It's like..." he searched for a comparison his brother would appreciate, "like how a gladiator must prove their skill in lesser matches before fighting in the grand arena."

"But without the chains," Angron added softly.

"Without the chains," Franklin agreed. "Freedom isn't the absence of rules, brother. It's having rules that serve everyone equally."

Angron turned back to Nuceria, his massive hands clasped behind his back. For several minutes, he stood in silence, and Franklin let him think, recognizing the weight of the moment.

"I know what I want for Nuceria," Angron finally said. "Not the false strength of the High Riders, built on others' suffering. Not pure democracy – these people have never known freedom, they would drown in it. But a warrior society..." His voice grew stronger with conviction. "One built on honor, discipline, and service. Where strength serves justice, not tyranny."

Franklin nodded with approval. "The Spartans of Ancient Terra believed in something similar—each citizen a warrior, each warrior bound by a code of honor," he mused. But without the darker practices, Nuceria might find its own troubling customs in time. Humans truly are strange creatures, he reflected.

"Yes," Angron's eyes lit up with purpose. 

"And the Liberty Eagles will help," Franklin placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We'll provide advisors, resources, whatever you need. The Liberty Guard can train their PDF, our Techno-Seers can help establish education systems..."

"But it must come from them," Angron insisted. "No more outside masters, even well-meaning ones. They must build their own strength."

"Of course," Franklin agreed. "We'll help them stand, but they must walk their own path. Speaking of which..." he grinned, some of his usual playfulness returning, "have you thought about what to rename the capital?"

Angron actually smiled – a small expression, but genuine. "I have, brother. 'Libertaem.' In honor of the freedom you helped us win, and the liberty we must now learn to keep."

Franklin's grin widened. "Russ will say we're getting soft, naming cities after abstract concepts."

"Let him," Angron replied with a hint of amusement. "He named his capital after himself. At least we're being philosophical about it."

The brothers shared a moment of laughter, standing together as equals while below them, a world began the long process of healing.

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The private chambers aboard the Etna carried an atmosphere far removed from the martial grandeur of its command deck. Here, in a room furnished with well-worn leather chairs and ancient wooden tables, Franklin Valorian sat among his closest sons. The smoke from his Terran cigar curled lazily through the air, mingling with the rich aroma of aged amasec.

Denzel Washington, reclined in his chair with practiced ease, the legendary Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi and Totsuka-no-Tsurugi stored safely nearby. Steven Armstrong, massive even for an Astartes, had managed to find a chair that could support his bulk, while John Ezra maintained his characteristic alertness even in repose. Vladimir Mendelev, the Chief Librarian, sat cross-legged, his psychic presence a calming backdrop to the gathering and Henry Cavill – the man out of time – watched it all with the strange mix of familiarity and distance that came from knowing too much.

"Throne, I'm tired," Franklin sighed, sending a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. "And don't tell me I'm the only one. How many worlds is it now? How many negotiations, battles, revelations?"

"At least you didn't have to do it twice," Cavill quipped, earning a round of knowing chuckles.

Armstrong leaned forward, his massive armor creaking. "The men are holding up well, but I won't deny the pace is wearing. Even transhuman biology has its limits."

"Speaking of limits," Franklin took a long drink of amasec, "I just remembered something that's going to be a pain in my artificially-enhanced backside. I'm still the Hand of Khaine."

"Ah," Vladimir's smile was subtle. "Expecting pointed-eared visitors soon da?"

"Eventually. You know how they are with time. Could be tomorrow, could be a decade." Franklin gestured vaguely upward with a particular finger. "And while we're on the subject of supernatural complications – fuck Chaos."

"Which direction are you giving the bird to, sir?" Ezra asked with perfect deadpan delivery. "The Eye of Terror is actually more toward port."

"It's the thought that counts," Franklin grunted, adjusting his gesture slightly left.

The moment was interrupted by a crisp knock. A bridge officer entered, maintaining admirable composure at finding his command staff in such a casual setting.

"My lord, the Vengeful Spirit is requesting clearance to dock."

Franklin's chuckle was somewhere between amusement and resignation. "Speaking of complications... Well, here comes another problematic one."

The inner circle shared knowing looks. The weight of future knowledge – of betrayals that would never now come to pass – hung heavy in the air.

"Should we prepare the usual diplomatic protocols?" Denzel asked, though his slight smile suggested he knew better.

"Oh throne," Franklin suddenly sat up straighter. "The family portrait. I completely forgot to include Horus and Ferrus in the family portrait!"

"Horus will be easy enough," Cavill observed. "He never could resist a good photo opportunity."

"But Ferrus..." Armstrong shook his head. "That's going to be like trying to convince a Dreadnought to take dance lessons."

Franklin pinched the bridge of his nose. "Horus will actually be offended he wasn't in the first one. But Ferrus? Throne, getting him to stand still for a remembrancer... I've seen Orks easier to negotiate with."

"We could always tell him it's a tactical necessity," Vladimir suggested. "Or that his absence would give the Mechanicum political leverage somehow."

The bridge officer, still standing at attention, cleared his throat. "Shall I inform the Vengeful Spirit they have clearance to dock, my lord?"

"Yes, yes," Franklin waved his hand. "Tell them we'll receive them.

As the officer left, Franklin looked at his inner circle with a mix of affection and exasperation. "Well, gentlemen, back to work. Duty calls, and this time it's wearing a wolf pelt and enough gold to bankrupt a forge world."

"Should we hide the amasec?" Armstrong asked, already knowing the answer.

"Throne, no," Franklin stood, straightening his armor. "If I have to deal with Horus's ego and plan how to wrangle Ferrus into a family portrait, I'm doing it properly intoxicated"

The laughter that followed was genuine – the laughter of brothers in arms who carried the weight of destiny but refused to be crushed by it. 

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The primary reception deck of the Etna gleamed with a distinctly different character than the martial grandeur of the Vengeful Spirit. Where Horus's flagship embraced the gothic magnificence of Imperial architecture, Franklin's Forgeship married functionality with an aesthetic that spoke of innovation and efficiency. The difference was not lost on either Primarch as they greeted each other.

Horus cut an imposing figure as he strode forward, his armor adorned with the lupine imagery of his Legion and enough gold trim to make even Fulgrim pause. Behind him, Maloghurst and several other senior Luna Wolves maintained a respectful distance, their eyes scanning the hall with professional interest.

"Brother!" Franklin's voice carried genuine warmth tinged with his characteristic humor. "Welcome aboard. I see you're still keeping the gold merchants of Terra in business."

Horus's laugh was perfect – measured, charismatic, neither too loud nor too soft. "And I see you still haven't learned the value of proper decoration, Franklin. This hall could use a few more eagles."

"Any more eagles and we'd have to register as an aviary." Franklin gestured toward one of the side chambers. "Come, let's talk somewhere more comfortable. I believe I have some Calabrian vintage that even you might approve of."

As they walked, servants and officers bowed and saluted, but Franklin noticed Horus studying their efficiency, their equipment, the subtle signs of technological advancement that set the Liberty Eagles apart. Nothing escaped those calculating eyes. 

"Your crew seems remarkably comfortable in your presence, brother," Horus observed, his tone carefully neutral.

Franklin chuckled. "Hard to be intimidated by someone you've seen lose at regicide to a mortal, isn't it? Besides, fear makes for poor efficiency. Give me an officer who can think clearly over one who's too busy genuflecting to notice incoming fire."

They entered the officers' lounge, where preparations had already been made. A selection of finest amasec waited alongside tactical displays showing both fleets in orbit. Franklin gestured to a seat designed to accommodate their transhuman proportions.

"I heard our brothers Fulgrim and Angron have been in your company," Horus said as he settled into the chair. "Quite a responsibility, mentoring two Primarchs simultaneously."

"Mentoring?" Franklin laughed, pouring two measures of amasec. "I prefer to think of it as mutual exploration of potential. Fulgrim has an incredible vision for cultural enhancement, and Angron..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Angron understands brotherhood in ways some of us are still learning."

Horus accepted the drink, studying his brother over the rim of the glass. "The Emperor must trust your judgment greatly, to place such faith in your guidance."

"Or perhaps he simply recognizes that some lessons are better learned from brothers than fathers," Franklin replied smoothly. "Speaking of learning, I hear your campaigns in the Segmentum Pacificus have been remarkably successful. Ninety worlds in under a year? Impressive efficiency."

"Unity requires momentum," Horus said. "Though I wonder sometimes about the balance between speed and stability. Your own methods seem... more measured."

Franklin's eyes twinkled. "You mean slower?"

"I mean thorough," Horus corrected. "Your territories show remarkably low rates of rebellion or unrest. One might wonder about your methods."

"No mystery there – just good old-fashioned respect for human dignity combined with overwhelming firepower." Franklin grinned. "People tend to stay peaceful when they're both happy and aware that rebellion would be spectacularly unsuccessful."

"An interesting philosophy," Horus leaned forward slightly. "Though some might say it borders on dangerous independence. The Imperium's strength lies in unity, after all."

"Ah, but what is unity, brother?" Franklin's tone remained light, but his eyes sharpened. "Is it uniformity? Or is it strength through diversity, bound by shared purpose? The Emperor created twenty Primarchs, not twenty copies of the same one did he not?"

Horus smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "And what purpose would you say we share, Franklin?"

"Why, the Emperor's vision, of course." Franklin raised his glass. "A humanity free from the threats that would destroy it, united in purpose if not in method. Though I suspect we might have different interpretations of how to achieve that."

"Different interpretations can lead to dangerous divergences," Horus observed.

"Or to invaluable adaptability," Franklin countered. "The Imperium's strength lies not just in its unity, but in its ability to face any challenge. Different tools for different tasks, wouldn't you say?"

"Tools should still serve their intended purpose," Horus pressed. "Your technological innovations, for instance – they've drawn attention from Mars. Some might worry about the implications."

Franklin's laugh was genuine. "Oh, the Mechanicum! They're like that uncle at family gatherings who insists everyone's cooking is heretical except his. But they'll come around when they see the results. Speaking of family gatherings..." He pulled out a data-slate. "We recently took some family portraits. Fulgrim and Angron were there, along with Russ. I was actually hoping to arrange another session – we missed you and Ferrus."

The sudden shift in topic was characteristic of Franklin's conversational style, but Horus noted how it deftly redirected from the more sensitive subject of technology.

"A family portrait?" Horus raised an eyebrow. "Rather sentimental for warriors of the Great Crusade."

"Sometimes sentiment is exactly what warriors need," Franklin said. "Reminds us what we're fighting for. We're all sons of the Emperor, Horus. No higher, no lower, until our father says otherwise. The Independence Sector serves, in its own way, just as the Luna Wolves serve in theirs."

Horus studied him for a long moment. "You've gathered quite a following among our brothers. Fulgrim speaks highly of you. Even Russ considers you a friend, and he trusts few outside his own Legion."

"I'm just helping where I can," Franklin shrugged. "Fulgrim needs support while he rebuilds his Legion. Angron needs stability after Nuceria, They're our brothers – wouldn't you do the same?"

"Of course," Horus smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Though I wonder... when they've finished 'learning' from you, will they share your particular interpretation of Imperial truth?"

"They'll make their own choices," Franklin replied firmly. "I'm not here to create copies of myself or my Legion. I'm here to help them reach their full potential, whatever form that takes."

"A noble goal," Horus raised his glass. "To potential, then. And to brotherhood."

"To brotherhood," Franklin echoed, clinking his glass against Horus's. "Speaking of which, I how about the Family Portrait? We recently took a family portrait – father and several brothers. But you and Ferrus were absent. We should arrange another session."

Horus's expression brightened genuinely for the first time. "A family portrait? Without the me? That won't do at all. Though getting Ferrus to participate..."

"I know," Franklin grinned. "I was thinking of telling him Fulgrim said he was too busy with his forge to attend."

Horus laughed, and for a moment, the tension in the room eased. "Devious, brother. Though effective, I'm sure."

As they continued talking, the dance of words and implications continued. Every joke carried a subtle probe, every compliment masked a test. Two sons of the Emperor, each powerful in their own right, each committed to their father's dream but understanding it differently.

In orbit above them, the Vengeful Spirit and the Sweet Liberty hung in space like mirror images – one adorned with wolves and laurels, the other with eagles and stars. Two visions of humanity's future, not yet in conflict, but perhaps someday...

"Tell me, brother," Horus asked as their meeting drew to a close, "do you ever wonder what the future holds for us? For the Imperium?"

Franklin's response was careful. "I prefer to focus on the present, Horus. The future has a way of taking care of itself when we do our duty today."

"Indeed," Horus stood, his massive frame casting a shadow in the chamber's light. "Though I sometimes dream of what we might achieve together – all of us, united under a single purpose."

"We are united," Franklin rose as well. "In our diversity, in our strength, in our service to humanity. Isn't that enough?"

Horus clasped his brother's arm in the warrior's grip. "For now, perhaps. For now."

Franklin released the grip, his tone shifting slightly. "Speaking of family, our father's been asking after you. Best make haste to Terra."

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

The Sanctum Imperialis gleamed with its usual golden splendor, though today its halls seemed unusually quiet. Malcador the Sigillite stood beside the Emperor's throne, his staff casting subtle shadows across ancient marble as he delivered his report.

"Horus has returned to Terra," Malcador's voice carried its usual measured tone. "He seeks immediate audience." A pause, perfectly timed. "Franklin apparently informed him that you were... looking for him."

The Emperor's golden eyes flickered briefly to the data-slate resting on the arm of his throne – the one containing ten thousand years of warnings about the son now approaching his chambers. A slight smile crossed his timeless features as understanding dawned.

"Ah," he said simply. "Franklin understands his brothers well."

Malcador raised an eyebrow. "You weren't actually seeking Horus."

"No," the Emperor confirmed. "But Franklin knew that Horus would come seeking me if he thought I was seeking him. Pride and validation – the twin anchors of Horus's heart."

The Sigillite's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And now that he's here?"

The Emperor's hand moved to another data-slate, this one filled with carefully selected campaigns and objectives – missions that would challenge the Luna Wolves while stroking their Primarch's considerable ego. "Now we transform potential weakness into strength, old friend."

Before Malcador could respond, the chamber's massive doors swung open. Horus entered with his characteristic blend of martial pride and aristocratic grace, his armor gleaming white and polished to mirror perfection. Even among his brother Primarchs, Horus carried himself with exceptional presence.

"Father," he said, dropping to one knee with practiced precision. "I came as soon as I heard you were seeking me."

The Emperor rose from his throne, his psychic might carefully modulated to project exactly the right mix of power and paternal warmth. "Horus, my son. Your timing is perfect."

Horus looked up, his face showing carefully controlled anticipation. "Franklin mentioned you had need of me?"

"Indeed." The Emperor gestured for his son to rise, watching as Horus straightened to his full impressive height. "There are matters arising that require... unique attention."

He moved to a strategic display, Horus following with barely contained eagerness. The Emperor brought up a star chart, highlighting several systems with potential compliance issues. Each one had been carefully selected from the data-slate of future knowledge – worlds that would respond best to the Luna Wolves' particular approach.

"These situations," the Emperor continued, "require a special touch. Diplomacy backed by overwhelming force. Mercy offered from a position of undeniable strength." He turned to face his son directly. "The kind of compliance that only you and your Luna Wolves can achieve."

Horus studied the display, his tactical genius already analyzing potential approaches. "These worlds are scattered across different sectors. Coordinating their compliance will require extensive strategic planning."

"Indeed." The Emperor allowed a note of concern to enter his voice. "Perhaps it's too much to ask. I could assign some of these to your brothers—"

"No," Horus said quickly, exactly as expected. "The Luna Wolves can handle this. We'll show these worlds the glory of the Imperium, and the wisdom of compliance."

The Emperor nodded gravely. "I had hoped you would say that. Few others understand how to balance terror and mercy as you do, my son. These worlds need to see both the Imperium's might and its beneficence."

Pride swelled visibly in Horus's chest, though he tried to contain it. "We won't fail you, Father. The Luna Wolves will bring these worlds to compliance with minimal bloodshed, but absolute certainty."

"I know you will." The Emperor placed a hand on his son's shoulder, feeling the layers of meaning in the gesture. Here was the validation Horus craved, the special attention he needed, all while directing his considerable talents toward constructive ends. "That's why I needed you specifically for this task."

Malcador watched the exchange silently, understanding dawning in his ancient eyes. The future knowledge wasn't just about preventing disasters – it was about understanding the subtle currents of personality that could lead to them.

As Horus left the chamber, mission data already being transmitted to his flagship, the Emperor returned to his throne. The weight of ten thousand years of potential futures hung heavy in the air.

"Well played," Malcador said quietly. "You gave him exactly what he needed."

"What he needed and what he wanted," the Emperor corrected. "The trick is making them the same thing."

Together they watched as Horus's ship prepared for departure, carrying a son's pride and a father's careful manipulations out into the stars. The future was changing, one subtle adjustment at a time.

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

The forges of the Fist of Iron rang with the sound of creation, a symphony of hammers and machines that Ferrus Manus conducted like a maestro. His silver hands moved with practiced precision over a half-completed weapon, living metal flowing like quicksilver across adamantium.

"Brother," Fulgrim's melodious voice cut through the cacophony. "Still hiding in your forge, I see."

Ferrus didn't look up from his work. "I'm not hiding, Fulgrim. Unlike some, I prefer productivity to posing."

The Phoenician glided into the workshop, his perfect features arranged in an expression of mock hurt. His newly forged armor gleamed with masterwork artistry, though unlike before his discovery, it now bore subtle practicalities learned from his time with Franklin.

"Ah, but productivity and presentation aren't mutually exclusive, my dear Gorgon." Fulgrim leaned against a workbench, carefully avoiding the tools scattered across it. "Just look at what Franklin's done with Nova Libertas. Their forges are as efficient as they are beautiful."

Ferrus's silver hands paused briefly. "Franklin's outposts have proven... adequate for our Legion's resupply needs."

"'Adequate,' he says," Fulgrim chuckled. "Is that why the Iron Hands have established permanent supply lines through three of his Sector's major manufacturing hubs?"

"It's practical," Ferrus growled, though without real heat. "Their quality control meets my standards."

"High praise indeed." Fulgrim moved closer, examining the weapon his brother was crafting. "Speaking of our innovative brother, he's tasked me with a mission of vital importance."

"If it involves another propaganda pict-capture, I'm not interested."

"He prefers the term 'family portrait' actually," Fulgrim corrected, amusement dancing in his eyes. "And you don't have a choice, brother. The Emperor himself has approved it."

Ferrus finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting Fulgrim's perfect violet ones. "You're not serious."

"Completely serious. Franklin's organizing a gathering of all found Primarchs at Nova Libertas. Even Angron's agreed to come, and he's still adjusting to Legion life."

"Angron," Ferrus mused, returning to his work. "Franklin did well there."

"Indeed. Though I notice you're trying to change the subject." Fulgrim picked up a nearby tool, turning it over in his hands. "Remember when we first met? How you said my pursuit of perfection was impractical?"

"I remember you almost started a feud over it."

"Until Franklin intervened," Fulgrim agreed. "Showed us both how aesthetic excellence and practical efficiency could coexist. Now look at us – you're using my Legion's artisans for detail work, and I'm incorporating your practical designs into our armor."

Ferrus grunted, but there was a hint of acknowledgment in it. "Your Legion's work has improved. The decorative elements no longer compromise structural integrity."

"Such effusive praise!" Fulgrim pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. "Be careful, brother, or people might think you're growing sentimental."

"The portrait," Ferrus said, deliberately changing the subject. "Why is it so important to Franklin?"

Fulgrim's expression grew more serious. "He says it's about unity. Showing the Imperium that its leaders stand together. That we're not just conquerors, but family."

"Propaganda."

"Leadership," Fulgrim corrected. "The same reason you mark your best work with the Iron Hands symbol – it builds identity, loyalty, belonging."

Ferrus was quiet for a long moment, his silver hands stilling on his work. "He really got all the others to agree?"

"All the found Primarchs, yes. Even Russ, though he insisted on bringing his wolves." Fulgrim smiled. "Franklin says he's having special pict-capture equipment made just to handle the scale of it. Something about 'proper lighting for Primarch-sized subjects.'"

A low chuckle escaped Ferrus. "Of course he is. Probably designed it himself."

"So you'll come?"

Ferrus looked around his forge, at the projects in various stages of completion. Then he looked at his brother – his first brother, really, the one who had helped him see that perfection could take many forms.

"Fine," he growled. "But I'm not wearing any special decorative armor."

"Wouldn't dream of suggesting it," Fulgrim said smoothly, though his eyes twinkled. "Though perhaps we could polish the silver on your hands? For the lighting, of course. Purely practical considerations."

Ferrus pointed a gleaming finger at his brother. "Don't push it."

"I would never." Fulgrim's smile was radiant. "Now, shall we discuss transport arrangements? Franklin's sending one of his Juggernaut-class ships. Says the forges onboard might interest you..."

"Manipulative brothers," Ferrus muttered, but he was already reaching for his tool case. "Fine. But I'm bringing my own projects."

"I'm sure Franklin will be delighted to discuss them," Fulgrim said, watching as his brother began preparing for the journey. "He's setting up a special workshop for the gathering. Something about 'brotherly bonding through creative collaboration.'"