THE GREAT ANGEL

“do you think of me?” the angel speaks, and it’s as if his voice is the only sound in the room. it penetrates all other noise, like the ringing in your ears after years of ear-splitting gunfire. a holy figure indeed.

“never.” curze replies, his armoured fist clutching the feather that dangles from his side, a pure white contrast against the dark, grimy colours. a symbolic piece of a memory curze barely remembers.

sanguinius turns his head, his left side exposed now. amongst the striking blond colour of his hair, framed by an ever present light— stands a deep black, tangled in a braid just beneath his left ear. a stark contrast of the colours of his legion. of himself.

reminders.

curze, stares, as if he’s never seen it before. as if he himself, did not cut the hair from his head and braid it into divine curls in a moment of shared weakness.

his lip curls downward, and his fist clenches the feather so tightly it may crumble. his armour clanks as he shifts his weight, almost nervously on his feet.