#coloursergeantbourne

The night draws in close, and they watch the Nucerian army light their fires from the cliffs of Desh’ea. His warriors are leaving him alone to think, as much as he is able, when the sound of translocation startles him violently. He seizes his axe and makes ready to strike when a group of armored men in blue and white appear, and the leader deflects his blow with a gauntlet, rocked back by the strength of the blow.

“Wait! My Lord!” The filtered voice gives him pause as the man kneels, ignoring the rent in his armor. He manages to change the trajectory of his axe, sending it whistling over his helmet and embeds it in the ground as the man, and his companions all kneel.

“Who are you.” He demands, stalking up to the leader. The man bows his head. “Ibram Ghreer, lord. I have been commanding your Legion until we found you.”

“My Legion.” Angron growls. “What use is a Legion to me? I die tomorrow against the high riders and tyrants of this world.”

“You don’t have to die.” One of the other men speaks up. Angron grunts at him, and he identifies himself. “Eighth Captain Kharn, my lord.”

“Don’t call me that.” Angron snaps, and Kharn inclines his head in apology.

“We are here to fight with you. To fight for you. To fight with your warriors.” Ghreer proclaims, and the accompanying men shout in agreement.

“We have defied the Emperor himself to come here, to help you. We would rather obey our Primarch, and die for you.”

Angron is… touched. His eyebrows crook and he shakes his head. “Get up.” He insists, stepping forward to grab the first man and drags him upwards. He’s large, larger than anyone Angron has met before. “No one kneels to me except my enemies. Get up!”

The men do, murmuring at each other in confusion.

“What will you do? What will you do for me?” He demands, and Ghreer takes his helmet off to look him in the eye. He could be a brother to Angron. It was bizarre.

“We will do whatever you command, M’L- sire.”

Angron lets him go as all the other captains stand and remove their helmets as well. They all look like they could be brothers to him. He looks in each of their faces in turn, and sees only determination, and faith.

“First, you will all come and eat with my warriors. We will sing the songs of those who will die tomorrow. Then, we attack at dawn.” He smacks one fist into the other, and the captains bang their fists against their breastplates in response.

“I will notify the Legion to begin their descent, so we will be ready, sire.” Ghreer responds, and Angron looks startled. “A Legion?”

“150,000 men at your command. We will all fight for you.”

For the first time, Angron’s eyes are alive with something new. Something like hope.

“Then we will show the high riders what we can do.”

The pacification of Nuceria is swift, bloody and thorough. The entirety of the ruling class is massacred, and their bodies are thrown into the infamous gladiatorial arenas and burned. Angron leaves the restructuring of their government to the administrators the Imperium sent in, and takes all those afflicted with the Nails with him, to fight and die honorably with their Astartes brothers. Working with the Legion they share their experience with the Astartes, some of whom take up the Nails in honor of their Primarch and his struggles.