He looks up at him, eyes wide with awe. His own soul needs more work before he can comprehend what he's seeing, but he's already twisted enough to find it all beautiful instead of horrifying.
"I've done what you desired," he says, head cocked to one side, "Haven't I?"
We're free now, he thinks. Free to be together without the weight of the Imperium crushing down on Guilliman. Free to stop worrying that he might leave and get diverted for so long that he returns to find Terry died waiting for him.
Guilliman bares his teeth, showing the tumult of his emotion in a huff of incense-scented breath. He draws back -- appalled at himself even as he moves, but not stopping, not wanting to stop, wanting to know how it feels and what it does to Terry, and he is already damned he is already damned -- and strikes his consort's face with the back of his hand.
"You have undone me. Everything that I have worked for --!"
The force of the strike smashes his skull, snaps his neck as he crumples to the ground. His only reaction to the pain is 'that's interesting'. A different sort of excruciating to their earlier encounter, and nowhere near as pleasing, but it's novel enough.
What actually bothers him is the anger. The thought that he may have done the wrong thing, but something else whispers sweet, soothing words in his ear every time he starts to doubt himself.
His skull reforms, his spine sets itself right. That, too, soothes him. It means Guilliman doesn't want him dead.
"Undone you?" he says, once again looking at him with awe, "But you are magnificent."
Horror, revelation, relief. For the second time he loses control of himself. For the second time he undoes his mistake, he pulls it all back from the brink. (And there is a thrill in that, isn't there? One of the few that he is well-acquainted with. The fear, the adrenaline, the pride when he manages the impossible once again.)
Terry is correct, at least, in his assessment of Roboute himself.
"Yes."
He will hardly argue about that. A monster, yes. But a magnificent one. "I had plans. There are things that must be done. Even now, they must be done. Do you expect me to accomplish them like this?"
"I expect that you can accomplish anything you want to."
Whether or not he will truly want to do it instead of just thinking it's necessary remains to be seen. The latter would be more difficult, but he won't mention that. He simply wants to shower praise upon his primarch.
Without hesitation, he approaches again, desiring to be close to him even if it means being smacked away once more.
At the very least -- at the least! -- it is a matter of pride, of proving that he can do what nobody else has done, not even his damned withered bastard of a creator. His empire lasted for ten thousand years as a jewel in the Imperium's dung heap. What more could it do, unshackled from their small-mindedness? Over seventy percent of active Astartes chapters bear his gene-seed. Every world of the Imperium regards him as a miracle, a messiah, the living son of their God-Emperor.
His gaze goes distant as that great mind of his, freed from modesty and mortal reason, calculates the possibilities. He just has to do it right. Has to be patient, and subtle, and superficially boring. The things that his brothers never could manage.
When he turns to look down at Terry, his eyes are shot through with that same gold as his body, burning molten as his mind whirls. Burning.
"I expect you are correct," he says softly, reaching out to grasp the man's chin with exaggerated care. "Such faith in me, Argentum. Was this part of your plan?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"I've done what you desired," he says, head cocked to one side, "Haven't I?"
We're free now, he thinks. Free to be together without the weight of the Imperium crushing down on Guilliman. Free to stop worrying that he might leave and get diverted for so long that he returns to find Terry died waiting for him.
no subject
"You have undone me. Everything that I have worked for --!"
no subject
What actually bothers him is the anger. The thought that he may have done the wrong thing, but something else whispers sweet, soothing words in his ear every time he starts to doubt himself.
His skull reforms, his spine sets itself right. That, too, soothes him. It means Guilliman doesn't want him dead.
"Undone you?" he says, once again looking at him with awe, "But you are magnificent."
no subject
Terry is correct, at least, in his assessment of Roboute himself.
"Yes."
He will hardly argue about that. A monster, yes. But a magnificent one. "I had plans. There are things that must be done. Even now, they must be done. Do you expect me to accomplish them like this?"
no subject
Whether or not he will truly want to do it instead of just thinking it's necessary remains to be seen. The latter would be more difficult, but he won't mention that. He simply wants to shower praise upon his primarch.
Without hesitation, he approaches again, desiring to be close to him even if it means being smacked away once more.
no subject
His gaze goes distant as that great mind of his, freed from modesty and mortal reason, calculates the possibilities. He just has to do it right. Has to be patient, and subtle, and superficially boring. The things that his brothers never could manage.
When he turns to look down at Terry, his eyes are shot through with that same gold as his body, burning molten as his mind whirls. Burning.
"I expect you are correct," he says softly, reaching out to grasp the man's chin with exaggerated care. "Such faith in me, Argentum. Was this part of your plan?"
no subject
He leans into Guilliman's touch, resting one hand on his powerful wrist. If he's damned them both, then he's blissfully unaware of it.
"And to show you my unending devotion."