#kether

Sanguinius, his massive form dwarfing the dainty chair he occupied, watched with a mixture of bemusement and growing concern as Kether sipped her "tea." The liquid in her cup was a vibrant shade of purple that no natural tea had any right to be, and it seemed to be gently smoking.

As he watched Kether take another sip of her questionable beverage, Sanguinius found himself grudgingly admitting that there was something almost... cute about the scene. The way her eyes lit up with mischievous glee, the delicate way she handled the fragile teacup despite her usual bull-in-a-ceramite-shop approach to life. It was oddly endearing.

But then, as with all things involving Kether, the moment of peace shattered spectacularly.

Kether's eyes suddenly widened, her pupils dilating to an alarming degree. The teacup slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor and spilling its purple contents across the priceless marble.

"Oopsie," Kether giggled, but the sound was off, almost manic. "Looks like I made a mess. Don't worry, Lord Sanguinius, I'll clean it up!"

Before Sanguinius could react, Kether had launched herself across the table, scattering teacups and pastries in her wake. She landed in his lap with all the grace of a drunken Ork, her face inches from his.

"You know." she slurred "You're really pretty up close. Has anyone ever told you that your feathers would make excellent pillow stuffing?"

Sanguinius, his transhuman reflexes kicking in, managed to catch Kether before she could make good on her apparent desire to pluck him like an oversized chicken. "Kether," he growled, his patience wearing thin, "what exactly was in that tea?"

Kether's grin widened to truly disturbing proportions. "Oh, you know, just the usual. Tea leaves, hot water, a smidge of sugar, a dollop of milk, and maybe just a teensy-weensy bit of that fancy combat stimm I take from the Eversor temple, my home. You know, for flavor!"

The Primarch's eyes narrowed. "You mean to tell me you've been drinking combat stimulants? At a tea party?"

"Well, duh," Kether replied, rolling her eyes as if Sanguinius was the one being unreasonable. "How else was I supposed to stay awake through all this boringness? Besides, it makes the little cakes taste like rainbows and violence!"

As if to demonstrate, Kether snatched a petit four from the scattered remains of their tea spread and shoved it into her mouth whole. Her eyes rolled back in apparent ecstasy as she chewed.

Sanguinius, for his part, was beginning to regret every life choice that had led him to this moment. He had faced down many things, but somehow, none of that had prepared him for the sheer chaos that was a stimm-addled Kether on a sugar high.

"Kether," he began, trying to keep his voice level, "I think perhaps we should end this... tea party. You clearly need to sleep this off, preferably in a padded cell under heavy guard."

But Kether wasn't listening. She had become fascinated by one of Sanguinius' primary feathers, stroking it with a reverence usually reserved for particularly sharp knives or especially potent poisons.

"So soft," she murmured, her eyes glazed. "Hey lord, you ever consider dyeing these? I bet you'd look fabulous in hot pink. Ooh, or maybe leopard print! We could start a new fashion trend, it'll be all the rage on Terra!"

The Primarch closed his eyes, counting slowly to ten in his head. When he opened them again, Kether had somehow produced a pair of scissors from... somewhere... and was eyeing his wings with an alarming gleam in her eye.

"Absolutely not." Sanguinius said firmly, plucking the scissors from Kether's grasp with ease. "No dyeing, no cutting, and definitely no fashion trend. Now, let's get you to the Apothecarion before you decide to redecorate the Imperial Palace with explosives."

Kether pouted, an expression that would have been more effective if her eyes weren't still spinning in different directions. "You're no fun, Lord. I bet Fulgrim would let me give him a makeover. Or maybe Konrad! He could use some color in his life. All that black and spiky bits, so last millennium."

As Sanguinius stood, easily lifting Kether in his arms, she continued to babble, her words becoming increasingly slurred and nonsensical.

The Primarch strode purposefully through the halls of the Imperial Palace, ignoring the startled looks and hasty salutes of the guards and servants they passed. Kether, for her part, seemed content to be carried, occasionally reaching up to pat Sanguinius' face or attempt to braid his hair.

"You know," she mused, her voice taking on a dreamy quality, "this isn't such a bad way to spend Valentine's Day. Just you, me, and enough stimms to kill a small Grox. We should do this more often!"

Sanguinius nearly stumbled, his usual grace deserting him for a moment. "Valentine's Day? Kether, we don't celebrate that in the Imperium. It's a relic of Old Terra, long forgotten."

Kether's eyes widened comically. "What? No Valentine's Day? But how do you show your special someone that you care? You know, with cards and chocolates and maybe the occasional assassination of their enemies?"

The Primarch sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of thousand years of dealing with Kether's particular brand of insanity. "In the Imperium, we show our devotion through service to the Emperor and loyalty to humanity."

"Booooring," Kether drawled "No wonder everyone's so grumpy all the time. You know what this place needs? A holiday. With explosions. Big explosions!"

Finally, mercifully, they reached their destination. The Apothecary on duty took one look at the giggling, twitching assassin in Sanguinius' arms and immediately prepared a sedative strong enough to drop a Warboss.

As Kether was settled onto a medical cot, her manic energy finally beginning to wane, she reached out and grabbed Sanguinius' hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong for someone who looked like she was about to pass out.

"Hey, Sangy." she slurred, her eyes struggling to focus on his face. "Thanks for the tea party. It was... it was really nice. Even if you wouldn't let me bedazzle your wings. Next time, okay?"

Before Sanguinius could formulate a response that wasn't an outright rejection (he had learned that telling Kether 'no' often just encouraged her), she had drifted off to sleep, snoring softly and occasionally mumbling about "bombs" and "die xenos."

The Primarch stood there for a moment, looking down at the sleeping assassin. Despite the chaos, the property damage, and the frankly alarming amount of combat stimms consumed, he found himself fighting back a smile.

Life was grim, dark, and full of constant war. But somehow, Kether managed to bring a spark of chaotic, often infuriating light to it all. It was almost... endearing. In a potentially heretical, definitely hazardous to one's health and sanity kind of way.

As he turned to leave, already dreading the reports he'd have to file about this incident, Sanguinius paused. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and gently ruffled Kether's hair.

"Happy Valentine's Day." he murmured, so softly that even the Apothecary couldn't hear.