Chapter Text
This isn't the first time Azkaellon has woken from a nightmare, his chest heaving and every inch of his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat, far from it.
It seems since the conclusion of the last battle, still a painfully fresh wound, only days old, he jolts awake from them more nights than not, tangled in his bed sheets and night shirt plastered to his chest.
This is the first time that he has not awoken alone.
Long fingers are wound in his dampened hair, gently detangling the matted locks, while a familiar silhouette sits at the edge of his bed.
He knows this figure, almost better than he knows himself, knows the sound of his deep, even breaths, the steady heartbeats resounding in his ears. He knows that voice too, the soothing words, quiet shushing noises that fall from his lips.
He knows, just the same as he knows he doesn't deserve his lord to be here in the first place.
Azkaellon isn't sure how Sanguinius came to be in his chambers at so late an hour, but he files that question away for later, that's not what has captured his attention so completely.
Because he remembers, remembers how utterly unacceptably he has failed his father.
It is his only real job, the most important one, that of protecting him. Azkaellon knows this, he lives by this. His duties, his sole purpose, is ever at the forefront of his mind.
He had been distracted, momentarily, by the swinging of a blade that would have certainly pierced his side, the damage his armor had taken there only moments before, having weakened its integrity in a way that had exposed his vulnerable flesh.
But it was enough, and Sanguinius had paid the price for his negligence.
It wasn't a mortal wound, not for a primarch. But Azkaellon had heard the sharp gasp of pain the impact had drawn out from his father even as he continued fighting his way to Azkaellon, it echoes throughout every corner of his mind even now. And all the more so in those terrible visions he sees when he is forced by exhaustion to, at last, close his eyes.
Sanguinius had healed rapidly, of course. There is no sign he is in any pain now. His posture is relaxed where he sits, his wings no longer held stiffly against his back, it is as if nothing had befallen him at all.
Azkaellon cannot seem to ruminate on anything else.
He flinches away from the dulled nails that are gently scratching at his scalp, and Sanguinius, for his part, lets his hand fall away at the sign of obvious discomfort. In his eyes, though, there is a quickly concealed look of hurt.
That causes yet more guilt to well up in his gut.
He had done well enough avoiding Sanguinius until now, and it would have been better had his father not come at all, even if it would be a lie, were he to say he doesn't long to bask in his golden presence.
He must not allow himself to. Even in this, he has failed. He is the reason his sire is hurting, even if not physically anymore.
“My apologies, lord, I-” he begins, eager to make amends, without knowing what to say beyond that.
The ensuing stretch of silence seems to continue into eternity. Azkaellon doesn't think he's ever felt so vulnerable under his father's gaze, and in a desire to appear less so, he rights himself, pressing his back as firmly as he can against the headboard.
He knows he must look every part a cornered animal, but can't quite resist the urge to duck his head until it nearly rests atop his chest, afraid of what he will see reflected in Sanguinius’ expression.
There is the twitch of one great white wing at the edge of his vision, giving him the distinct impression that his lord is fighting the urge to reach for him.
He doesn't, and Azkaellon isn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“It is I who ought be sorry, my son. Making you uncomfortable was never my intention,” Sanguinius says, voice mournful in a way it should never be. “I will leave you, if you wish it. You were crying out, and I feared what could have been troubling you so. Your door was unlocked, but I see now that I have made myself an intruder.”
His father makes to stand, and before he can think better of it, Azkaellon's hand reaches out, his fingers closing around Sanguinius’ wrist.
It is hardly proper, touching his primarch without explicit consent, and Azkaellon regrets his rashness immediately.
But Sanguinius does not shake him off, settling back down on the bed obediently, feathers rustling as he allows his wings to relax once more.
“It is my fault, my lord. I have offended you.” And it is. Azkaellon can only blame himself for this, for everything.
But when he dares to meet his father's eyes, he sees no condemnation there, only something that he once would have readily named as love.
He can't bring himself to believe he deserves that now.
“May I touch you, dear one?”
The words take Azkaellon by surprise and it must show on his face, because Sanguinius offers him a faint smile. Amongst his troubled thoughts, he wonders how it is possible to be so kind, so beautiful, at once, and that he should deign to be in Azkaellon’s presence of all places, has unwanted tears welling in his eyes.
He does not deserve it, to be addressed by so sweet a name, to be so easily accepted back into his father's good graces.
Even so, Azkaellon finds himself nodding in spite of himself, and he forces himself to be still as a warm palm moves to cup his cheek.
He sees it even now, a thousand different ways that fateful battle could have ended, how much worse it could have been. Sanguinius had bled because of him, and he doesn't think he'll ever forgive himself in the way it seems his sire already has.
“You hold yourself responsible,” Sanguinius says, though it is not a question. The soft pad of his thumb begins to stroke lightly across Azkaellon’s cheekbone. “Why is that so?”
Azkaellon thinks it must be obvious, he could give a hundred answers, a thousand words that would never truly be able to express the depths of his sorrow.
All that comes out is a choked sob, a pathetic noise that causes a stray tear to spill from his eye. It stops at Sanguinius' hand, and Azkaellon wonders how disgusted his father must be at the obvious display of weakness.
At once, he releases the primarch’s wrist.
“I have failed you, my lord,” he answers with no small amount of confusion, voice thick with pain all his own. “You were injured because of me.”
That is true, surely Sanguinius could not deny that.
That ghost of a smile does not falter, though, and his lord reaches out to take hold of Azkaellon's hand, intertwining their fingers together. It feels like all he needs, and everything he fears all at once.
“Why do you think this, my son, when I do not?”
‘My son', Sanguinius calls him, he still considers Azkaellon his son, still speaks to him like he is something of value.
“You must answer me this.” And Azkaellon gives a jerky nod, the tone of his voice is not unkind, but it is an order all the same, and he knows Sanguinius expects to be obeyed. He could never refuse, even for as terrified as he is.
“Would I not have you protect yourself, just as you protect me?” That gives Azkaellon pause, even as his father continues. “How can you expect to keep me from harm, if you yourself fall in the process?”
There is wisdom in the words, and Azkaellon wishes he could share the sentiment. But he is not irreplaceable, none of Sanguinius' sons are, no matter their rank or how many are under their command.
“But, father-”
Sanguinius holds up his hand, and Azkaellon falls silent.
“You are ever so precious to me. I would not have you die, not over such a wound as I received, and you would not be so easily replaced. To lose you would be to take twin blades to my hearts.”
Briefly, Azkaellon wonders if Sanguinius could have read his mind, either that, or he must be just that easy to read.
“You did exactly as I would have you do. You were overwhelmed, Azkaellon, not easily, but you were. Your armor was damaged, and you did the best you could given the circumstances.”
Sanguinius then parts his sleep robes, just enough to reveal his side, the place where he had been struck. There is nothing now, only a pale, faded scar that looks like it well could have been there for years.
“I am well, dear heart, you have no need to shoulder this guilt. I would endeavor to take it from you, should you allow me.”
Azkaellon isn't sure how to go about doing that, if in fact he even really wants to. It feels safer this way, clinging to his guilt lest his father changes his mind, and decides he feels the same way.
But the tentative glance at that radiant face tells him just the opposite.
Sanguinius gestures for him to make room, and Azkaellon obeys, even though he is certain that, should he refuse, the primarch would allow him his space without question.
It surprises him, how fervently he wishes rather to be as close to Sanguinius as he can.
He moves over, and that is the only invitation needed for his father to slip an arm around his shoulders, while a wing slides in at his back, a plush cushion against the headboard.
Nothing else is said, but nothing else is needed.
Sanguinius is so very warm, smells so very much of the only home he has known, his home that is wherever his lord resides. Azkaellon cannot help but melt into his side like that is the only place he had ever belonged.
Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, this is how it feels to let go.