#raldoron

Has his conduct as recently promoted First Captain been so dissatisfactory as to demand a talk from the Primarch himself? Try as he may, he cannot think of any too grievous mistake; still, the events of the past two weeks begin replaying in his mind as makes for the Angel's sanctum. Had there been an issue with his orders, had he made some social blunder during the surrender negotiations?

His racing thoughts keep him occupied all the way to the Primarch's grand chambers, and he has to school his face into careful neutrality when he finally reaches their Father's door several minutes later. The four Sanguinary guards present let him pass without a word, and he walks through the large, ornate door, trying not to let his uncertainty show. Azkaellon is not present, which Raldoron considers a small blessing.

A part of him is at least glad to know the Sanguinary guard captain will not be here to witness- whatever is about to happen.

This is his first time entering the Angel's sanctum, and Raldoron's eyes cannot help but wander - to the white columns, the paintings littering the enormous, round chamber, the Primarch sized furniture - before alighting on the Angel himself. His Lord Father sits clad only in a simple robe of white and red, resting in a large, shallow depression in the floor. Unbidden, Raldoron comes closer, studying the odd interior piece- it seems plushly padded inside and on its edges, circular and rounded, flat like a soup bowl at the bottom. It almost looks like…

"Traditional beds are ill suited to one such as me," Sanguinius intones gently, his wings re-settling onto his nest-bed as he smiles. Raldoron mentally berates himself for his rudeness, but his Lord Father seems only amused, not offended. He is beckoned closer with a gesture which he follows without pause, confusion mounting the entire way.

This does not seem like an upcoming private reprimand, nor a war council. The Angel is clearly at rest, relaxed in a way Raldoron has never seen before; no data slates in hand, no weapons nearby, his golden armor hanging resplendent on the wall. Which means he has no clue as to what Sanguinius could require of him. "My lord," he hesitates, then asks the after only thing that he can think of, "is something the matter? Has my service been dissatisfactory in some way?"

The Primarch, fortunately, saves him the indignity of further floundering. "Be at peace, please, my son," he smiles, though there is something melancholy about it. "I have no reprimand for you, no punishment. You performed your duties more than admirably, have no fear," Sanguinius says, his voice gentle, reassuring. Raldoron relaxes, his earlier self-doubt replaced with a quiet pride at his father's regard. "I would only request your assistance, if you would give it."

"Of course, my lord," Raldoron says immediately, meaning every word, though his confusion has yet to lessen. "I will serve as needed."

"While I admire that," Sanguinius sighs, feathers rustling, "you are free to refuse my request. I will not order you, not for this. But, if you do not mind, I would ask you to help me with my wings."

Raldoron's mind flashes back to the very first day of the compliance, to heated projectiles and shrapnel shattering against the Angel's pristine wings. What had been posed as a willing negotiation had turned out to be a trap for their Primarch specifically. A trap which failed, of course, for no mere mortals could bring a son of the Emperor down, but he remembers the bright blood streaming down white feathers, their Lord Father's hiss of pain and anger, and pales.

"Have your wings healed badly? Do you have need of the apothecary, my lord?"

"No, no," the Primarch quickly answers, "nothing so grave. The flesh and bone have mended without issue. The problem, however, lies with the feathers. I can feel debris and filth scattered in between, the disarray battle has left them in. It is nothing dangerous to me, but it is, well- unpleasant, to say the least."

Now that he knows what to look for, Raldoron notes the restlessness in the Angel's wings. The way they settle and re-settle, feathers rustling against each other in unconscious, discomfited motions. He could imagine it feels akin to tangled, matted hair, and internally winces in sympathy. There is a reason he always goes to wash as soon as possible once the fighting is done.

His Lord Father sees the direction of his gaze, and his lips twist into a wry smile. "Typically, I would ask Azkaellon for assistance in this matter, but he is still healing from recent injuries, and I will not draw him away from his much-needed rest for something so banal. Instead, I would ask you, if you are amenable."

"It would be an honor, my lord," Raldoron says immediately, then hesitates when he sees the Primarch's face twist minutely.

Another image materializes in his head- humans across a dozen worlds, reaching up to trail curious hands over brilliant white wings, the tension in their lord's shoulders as he wordlessly tolerates the intrusion. The grasping fists of palace guards from this world's largest fiefdom, attempting to hold the Angel down as others aim weapons at his head. The Primarch fighting to free himself, ripping out handfuls of feathers in the process.

If Raldoron had to guess, the Angel is not fond of contact with his wings- an understandable notion, given the usual treatment the feathered appendages tend to receive. It feels wrong, doing something which would bring their Lord Father discomfort, but… he had asked, and Raldoron will assist as best he can.

Even if the very thought of it rankles somewhere deep in his hearts.

"What do you require of me?" he asks, coming to stand beside the Angel. With him sitting in his lowered bed and Raldoron standing, they are of a height.

Sanguinius beckons him to his side, then gestures for him to sit. "I have cleaned as much as I could on my own, but there are large parts on the back of my wings, and some on the front, which I cannot reach." Raldoron lowers himself to the nest-bed, finding it comfortably soft, as his Primarch continues. "If you could comb through the feathers, remove any dirt or shrapnel, smooth away any that seem out of place- from what Azkaellon tells me, it should be a largely intuitive process."

Feeling rather out of his depth, yet unwilling to be outdone by the Sanguinary guard captain, he nods, then reaches for the wing to his right. As he does so, he finds himself brimming with an undeniable curiosity which - if he wants to be honest with himself - he has felt ever since first laying eyes on the Primarch. With a careful hand, he lets his fingers make contact with the wall of white in front of him.

He starts at the top of the wing, where the signs of disarray are immediately obvious, and finds the feathers there to be unimaginably soft, feeling almost intangible against his fingertips. His hands sink all the way in as he brushes through them, cool on the top and growing warmer closer to the skin. Doing his best to right the small feathers, he tries to smooth them out into the orderly rows he can see they should be in, an almost childlike delight alighting in his chest at the sensation.

Then he remembers, once again, the discomfort on the Primarch's face in response to others' grasping hands, and the moment shatters. Pulling away, Raldoron mentally berates himself for the imposition, and when he next reaches for the feathers before him, it is with his best imitation of an apothecary treating an injury- quick, economical and impersonal.

For the next few minutes, Raldoron makes his way through the upper rows of the wing's feathers, as swiftly and unobtrusively as he can. Despite his best efforts, he feels as much as sees the Angel tensing, and he wordlessly berates himself for his failure, even if he has no idea what he's doing wrong. It isn't long before the Primarch sighs, turning his head to him with an expression that is both understanding and quietly melancholy. Raldoron winces a little, this time visibly, feeling horribly guilty.

"You are uncomfortable," the Angel states, quietly.

Raldoron shakes his head. "No, sire," he denies immediately, vehemently. "I simply wish to cause you as little discomfort as possible, to not intrude upon your person. I-"

"Uncomfortable?" Sanguinius blinks. "Ral, no, why would I be uncomfortable?"

Raldoron's hearts ache at the shortening of his name, and he mulls over his words before he answers. "We… I have seen your reaction whenever people reach for your wings, my lord. Forgive me if I misunderstood, but I was under the impression you considered it unpleasant. I simply did not wish to be another one in line to discomfort you so."

Immediately, the tension falls from his Lord Father's shoulders. "My son," he laughs, gently admonishing, "there is a difference between the grasping hands of strangers and that of my sons- whom I asked, at that, to help me. I assure you it is no bother; quite the opposite. It was I who did not wish to pressure you into something you would find unpleasant. My wings are a mutation, I am very much aware of it- for as many people show curiosity for them, just as many find them unnatural or outright repulsive."

Sanguinius smiles at him kindly, "It would seem there was a misunderstanding on both ends. Trust me when I say- you are doing me no harm."

Raldoron nods, then relaxes as well, the truth of his father's words settling in. "Thank you, then," he nods, "for helping me understand."

"Of course," Sanguinius says, then turns back as Raldoron's hands return to his wings again.

Now that his main worry has been dispelled, it doesn't take long for him to find his rhythm. Raldoron combs through his father's feathers attentively, finding the task not as difficult as he'd expected, as well as strangely meditative. It's deeply satisfying, to see the feathers fall in line, to pry bits of filth from between them, occasionally brushing out a loose one and putting in on the growing pile by his side.

It must be pleasant in some way for his father as well, for his entire posture loosens over time, the beat of his twin hearts slowing down drastically. The knowledge brings a soft sort of pride to Raldoron's chest- even if he is somewhat new to his position as First Captain, he has never been blind to the weight on their Primarch's shoulders. He is glad to be able to help in some way, even in such a minor matter. With how much their Lord Father does for them already…

"Is this sufficient?" Raldoron asks when he feels he has finished with one wing.

Sanguinius stretches it out languidly, once again reminding Raldoron of the sheer enormity of his wingspan. Humming contentedly, he soon folds it back against his side. "Much better," he says, softly, "Thank you, my son."

"Of course," Raldoron replies, once again awash with warmth at his father's approval, then moves onto the next wing.

For a while, the process continues much the same. Raldoron relaxes into the motions, letting himself be soothed by his father's proximity. The soft feathers of the upper wing slowly transition to harder, smoother shapes as he goes on - secondaries, if he isn't wrong - which is where he happens upon an issue. "These ones here are…"

"Ah, yes," Sanguinius hums, "the shrapnel bullets. I remember those doing some damage. If there are any feathers broken, simply remove them."

"Remove?" Raldoron asks, brows raising.

"Grasp them as close to the skin as possible, then quickly pull. And fear not," he adds in response to Raldoron's anxious silence, amusement clear in his tone, "it will not hurt much, and it is necessary. They will be half-loose anyway, and removing them will allow new ones to grow in more quickly."

Raldoron's lips twist a little, but he does not argue. It is not his place to; even if it does sound generally dubious and borderline blasphemous, to be plucking the Angel like some common poultry.

"As you say," he nods to himself, then locates one of the damaged feathers. The vane - easily as long as his forearm - is cracked nearly in half, ragged edges dyed pink with dried blood. He holds it as instructed, then tugs. His father shows no signs of pain when the feather comes loose, breaking apart fully in his grip when he goes to put it aside.

His father sighs, sounding pleased. "Good," he says simply, feathers lying down together where the broken one no longer catches on the rest. Releasing a tense breath, Raldoron slowly relaxes again and turns his attention to the next ruined secondary he can find.

Moving past the damaged zones once he has done all he could there, he gets to the edges of the wing. The feathers there are enormous, the biggest of them as long as a baseline human is tall, requiring some effort to move and clean. Unlike their smaller counterparts, the primaries lack any softness, instead being smooth as glass, yet still oddly pleasant to the touch. He thinks the edges may be sharp enough to cut, but does not move to try it. Even as relaxed as he now feels, his mind is not far enough gone for that.

"You are not of Baalfora, are you, Ral?" the Primarch asks suddenly, and as odd as the though feels to Raldoron, he cannot help but notice the Primarch sounds… unfocused. Almost sleepy.

Raldoron shakes his head, then realizes his father cannot see it. "No, sire. I come from Baal Primus."

The Angel nods. "I thought as much. Did you know," he trails off for a moment as one long feather is realigned, its siblings shifting around it, "that most large, predatory birds of Baalfora are semi-communal? Blood eagles may hunt alone, but they live in inter-generational flocks. Their wingspans are too large for them to tend to on their own, so they rely on their kin for help."

"You could always tell when a blood eagle has lost its flock, or been exiled," Sanguinius murmurs, his voice soft, aching with something Raldoron struggles to identify. Sympathy, he believes, as well as something deeply, immutably sad- something he does not want to give a name to, but which nonetheless makes his hearts hurt as if stabbed through. "It's always in the wings. It does not kill them," he continues, so very quietly, "but their separation consigns them to a life of discomfort. An existence without the peace that comes from kinship."

His father trails off, settling back into silence. Raldoron searches for any suitable words, aching on the inside, before giving up on the fruitless notion. Instead, he shifts his fingers through any feathers even slightly out of order, as slow and gentle as his hands, made for war, can be. It might be his imagination, but he thinks he may have felt his father push into the contact, just a little.

Not long after, when the entire wing has been put to order, Raldoron settles his hands back onto his thighs. "You said you required help with the front as well, father?"

"Yes, thank you, my son," Sanguinius says, laying a gentle hand on his arm as Raldoron gets up, walks around to face him, then kneels in front of the seated figure of his Primarch. His father's eyes are half-lidded with fatigue, looking upon him with such kindness that, for a moment, Raldoron feels unable to breathe.

He is quick to see the issue- while the rest of the wing looks tended to already, the area close to where the limbs meet his torso are still in disarray. Most likely too awkward to reach, for him.

Raldoron begins tending to the feathers, finding them warm from body heat as well as utterly soft to the touch, the smallest of them barely the size of his thumb. It feels different, doing it now, in Sanguinius' line of sight- his father's gaze rests upon him so very gently, filled with affection. The everpresent aura which cloaks his Primarch is akin to a heavy blanket now, all-encompassing and soothing at once. Something in between his hearts aches from the closeness to the Angel- the only father he has known, both in his life as a human and as a Blood Angel. Still, he keeps brushing through the feathers, helping them settle in place, trying to ignore the odd tightness in his stomach.

It is when he's almost done on the second wing that he feels it- long, thin fingers, carding oh-so-gently through his hair. He looks up with his eyes only, as to not disturb the Angel's ministrations, to find his father's gaze zeroed in on his scalp. Raldoron's hair, long since having dried from the showers, is carefully, painstakingly brushed into its usual place, the Primarch's hands impossibly gentle where they run over his head.

Communal preening, he remembers. Intergenerational flocks, family tending to family, he thinks, and feels a prickle in the corners of his eyes.

He finishes up with the wing he's tending to soon enough, Sanguinius still petting his hair like a parent bird tending to their hatchlings. Then, with a lump in his throat, Raldoron surrenders to an impulse which has been pulling on him for as long as he can remember, and rests his forehead on his father's chest.

instead of being pushed away, or struck, or simply rebuffed, gentle hands pull him closer. One comes to rest on the center of his spine, while the other slides down, ever so softly, to the back of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Raldoron can see the Angel's wings move, hears them rustle as they, too, move to envelop him, shrouding him in warm, comfortable darkness. Raldoron holds onto his father's shoulders as a cheek comes to rest on the top of his head, Sanguinius' breath lightly ruffling his hair.

Something almost almost forgotten inside of him, something painfully human, lets out a soundless sob, then curls almost desperately into the comfort Sanguinius freely offers. Raldoron keeps holding onto his father, and his father keeps holding him in turn.

Feeling at peace like never before, cradled by his father like something precious, his eyes begin to close.

-

Raldoron wakes some time later, feeling truly rested. The first thing he sees when opening his eyes is a white wing, covering his form like a blanket.

If Russ can be all wolfy, why is Sanguinius not very birdy? Well, I'm changing that a little bit!