"Brother… are you alright?"
Garviel Loken studied Raldoron with concern.
Raldoron blinked slowly.
"Of course. Why do you ask?"
"You look like you're dying from overwork."
Abaddon barked a laugh and slapped Raldoron's shoulder.
"Those dark circles could qualify as tactical eye protection."
Raldoron sighed.
The Sleepless Angel
Raldoron, Captain of the Blood Angels, exemplar of discipline, and Sanguinius' most trusted sons, was renowned across several Expeditionary Fleetyards.
Rumors praised him as:
a brilliant battlefield commander
unpredictable yet precise in maneuver warfare
a swordsman of flawless form
incorruptible in character
In some circles, he was already compared with Abaddon of the Luna Wolves and Sigismund of the Imperial Fists.
The three were occasionally dubbed:
"The Three Exemplars of the Great Crusade."
Raldoron hated the title.
He preferred to work quietly.
Friendship Through Proximity
Abaddon and Raldoron naturally became close.
Horus and Sanguinius were inseparable.
Their favored sons followed.
Campaigns overlapped.
War forged familiarity.
Respect followed.
Abaddon grinned at Loken.
"Relax, brother. He looks exhausted, but he's fine. He's conquered the need for sleep."
Raldoron paused.
"…Yes."
He did not elaborate.
He preferred not to explain the truth.
The Real Reason
Blood Angels carried a peculiar flaw.
Periods of overwhelming lethargy.
Almost narcotic sleep cycles.
A genetic echo.
Raldoron, however, had a different problem.
He snored.
Loudly.
Violently.
Catastrophically.
And somehow…
his own snoring woke him.
Every time.
Sleep.
Snore.
Wake.
Repeat.
An infinite loop of torment.
He had abandoned the effort entirely.
Better to remain awake.
Better to endure fatigue.
Better than reliving that absurd cycle.
So while his brothers slept in gene-forged serenity…
Raldoron lay awake.
Staring at the ceiling.
Eventually he followed Sanguinius' advice:
art calms the soul.
He began painting.
A Misunderstanding Becomes Legend
Sanguinius saw him working through the night.
At an easel.
Brush steady.
Eyes focused.
The Angel was moved.
At last, a son striving for mastery over the gene-curse through discipline and art.
He clasped Raldoron's hands.
"My son… why do you not rest?"
Raldoron hesitated.
"I…"
"You resist the thirst through devotion and beauty, just as I taught."
Those radiant eyes left no escape.
"…Yes."
The lie became destiny.
Soon the tale spread:
Raldoron, exemplar of discipline.
Raldoron, master of restraint.
Raldoron, who conquered genetic weakness through art and virtue.
The story traveled between Legions.
If the Imperium ever compiled its most inspirational heroes…
Raldoron would make the list.
He wanted to crawl into a drop pod and fire himself into the sun.
Loken asked cautiously:
"Is this healthy? Sleep deprivation can degrade performance."
Raldoron shook his head.
"Sleep is… like gambling for Abaddon. Unpleasant without it, but survivable."
Abaddon froze.
"Why am I the example?"
Raldoron replied evenly:
"I hear Sigismund has abandoned gaming entirely. You alone remain dedicated — despite consistent defeat."
Abaddon frowned.
"I do not lose."
"I'm told," Raldoron continued, "that when you lose, you claim strategic victory."
Loken coughed.
Raldoron added:
"I do not understand. What is your objective in playing?"
Abaddon snapped.
"It's been too long since we sparred."
"I'm painting."
"You—"
Loken watched them bicker and smiled.
So this was the reality behind legendary reputations.
They were brothers.
Nothing more complicated.
Nothing less.
He asked casually:
"By the way… what are our fathers discussing?"
Abaddon and Raldoron exchanged a look.
"You'll have to ask yours," Abaddon said.
Meanwhile — Strategic Philosophy
"He kills, I advance.
He retreats, I advance.
The more he kills, the more remain."
Mortarion spoke in a flat tone.
Horus leaned forward.
"…It cannot be that simple."
Mortarion replied:
"It is exactly that simple."
Imperial Compliance Doctrine
In most cases, compliant human worlds retained internal governance.
Submit.
Pay tithes.
Adopt the Imperial Truth.
Remain stable.
The Imperium valued efficiency.
Compliance without devastation was ideal.
Mortarion disagreed.
His first conquered world surrendered immediately.
By all doctrine, the matter was settled.
Mortarion instead ordered the execution of the ruling class.
The planetary governor panicked.
He had surrendered.
He had complied.
Why was he marked for death?
He ordered resistance actions to delay Mortarion's advance and secure escape.
It only prolonged the inevitable.
Barbarus Shaped Him
Mortarion saw:
laborers starving
workers clothed in rags
aristocrats indulging in luxury
Compared to Barbarus, the disparity enraged him.
Oppression wore different faces.
It remained oppression.
Mortarion chose the most direct solution:
eradication.
The Death Guard executed the nobility.
Resistance was crushed.
Mortarion personally hunted the governor.
When he cornered him—
Horus and Saguinius arrived.
The Intervention
Horus spoke first.
"They surrendered. If surrender brings death, future worlds will resist to the last. You endanger your own Legion."
Sanguinius added gently:
"The methods employed endangered civilians. Protection and destruction cannot coexist without cost."
Mortarion listened.
Silently.
He remembered Barbarus.
Children dead in gutters.
Toxic fog choking the weak.
Oppressors enthroned above suffering.
He looked at the trembling governor.
Mortarion raised his pistol.
The shot echoed once.
The governor fell.
Horus and Sanguinius did not protest.
The man deserved death.
That was not the question.
The question was understanding.
"Did you err?" Horus asked.
Mortarion's answer came without hesitation.
"I did nothing wrong."
The two Primarchs exchanged a glance.
Horus: We failed.
Sanguinius: This requires a gentler hand.
Horus exhaled slowly.
Yuki already carried the burdens of an empire.
Now another brother required guidance.
Far away, across the Imperium:
Guilliman sneezed.
Yuki smiled.
"Don't worry. Someone will help carry the weight."
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