Chapter Text
They are both infected, and it is terminal.
"I've never seen a case so bad," Magnus says. "The two of you are thoroughly overgrown." Despite the gravity of the situation, he is fighting back a smile. "You fertilized the disease well, it seems."
Ferrus stares at the psychoactive photograph of his lungs that Magnus had handed him. Roots twist around his bronchioles, vines entwine his alveoli, flowers blossoming in every lobe. All translucent, all threatening with choking death. He knows Fulgrim sees the same on his picture. "How do we get rid of it?"
"Oh, you don't want to do that," Magnus says.
"I don't want a rosebush growing in--"
"It's a psychic disease," Magnus interrupts. "It is nourished by your emotions." There is a touch of condescension in his voice, like he is talking to a child, and it makes Ferrus's bad mood worse. "The only cure is to remove the feelings that feed the disease." Fulgrim's head snaps up; Ferrus's heart sinks. More quietly, Magnus adds, "I do not wish to destroy your love."
Silence reins after his pronouncement. Eventually Ferrus manages, "Is there no alternative?"
Magnus shakes his head. "Leave the bushes be. So long as the two of you stay in love, they won't manifest in the Materium." A ghost of a smile creeps onto his face again. "That shouldn't be difficult, should it?"
"Darling, you mustn't waste your time worrying about this," Fulgrim says much later. Ferrus grunts, kneads the steel beneath his hands a little too hard. Fulgrim makes an annoyed noise and rises from his crouch beside the anvil and circles round to hug Ferrus from behind. "Oh, put that down and listen to me. The disease is latent. We've nothing to fear so long as we're in love." He presses his face into Ferrus's back. "Bit romantic, when you think about it."
Ferrus sets down the steel with an exasperated huff; he isn't making much progress anyways. "Rosebushes, Fulgrim! Rosebushes in our lungs! There is nothing romantic about choking to death on flower petals!"
Fulgrim releases him, rotates him around, and takes his hands in his own. "Ferrus. Do you love me?"
"That's not the--"
"Ferrus! It's a simple question. Do you love me?"
"--I--of course I love you, but--"
"Will you always love me?"
Fulgrim's eyes are wide and serious, his face open to Ferrus. The question is genuine; he is not fishing for compliments. Ferrus knows this because he knows Fulgrim. They do not need Magnus's gifts to know each other's thoughts. Ferrus swallows hard, the knowledge of his great fortune shocking him yet again. "One sword, two edges."
"Mm." Fulgrim closes his eyes, raises Ferrus's hand to his cheek. Ferrus slips the other free of his brother's hold to cup his face properly, dips his head just enough to press against Fulgrim's forehead. For a heartbeat the forge is exquisitely still. "One sword, two edges," Fulgrim repeats. "We won't die choking on flower petals."
When he puts it like that, it's impossible not to believe him.
Not long after, their duties pull them apart yet again. Exploration, conquest, extermination--the same as it has always been. They are tools in the hands of the Emperor, beloved by all. But the right and just demands of their benevolent Father still cannot obscure other urges entirely. Yearning for his brother, Ferrus rises one evening and marches to the forge. There he disdains his usual materials for more ornamental metals. Bronchioles and alveoli of warm gold, twisting vines and caressing roots of bright silver, twinkling flowers of diamond and ruby and sapphire. Ferrus is no artist, but he knows what his brother loves.
The bush goes out on the next communication ship, destined for the Pride of the Emperor. A year passes, then another, before Fulgrim's response arrives: a wrapped canvas and an envelope. Ferrus opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, a grin spreading across his lips as he reads:
My dearest brother!
What have I done to earn your ire? What sin have I committed to merit such a grievous act of sabotage?! Have I not served the Imperium with honor and humility? Have I not won her great prizes, defended her safety, nurtured her wounds and built up her strengths? Have I ever betrayed our brothers or our sons, have I ever rejected any calls for aid, have I ruined accomplishments or disrupted achievements? Have I ever failed you in our romance--did I not grant you my body, my love, my heart? No, never! I deny any charges laid against me! I have labored countless hours to the best of my very considerable ability, leaving in my wake an endless stream of merits! And yet you--YOU!--you tempt me severely from my awesome and noble responsibilities!
Ferrus bursts out laughing. Such a Fulgrim letter! He can hear the cadence of his brother's speech in every word, how it rises and falls in mock outrage, its escalation with each accusation. Fulgrim is here before his eyes, grand gesture and dramatic tosses of his head, struggling to keep a straight face as he scolds Ferrus. Oh, to truly have him in person! Oh, to see him chuckling as he writes, to hear him read the letter out loud!
Do not deny your foul intentions to me, you malevolent cad of a brother! I see through your falsehoods! How else am I to interpret this Warp-spawned gift that you have sent me?! Here I am, humbly walking the path set before me by the Emperor (bba), when you--YOU! You send me a masterpiece so exquisite, that I almost ran to the bridge and ordered a change in direction! For a moment, a single damned moment--Terra preserve me--treason, vile treason entered my mind. "I must see Ferrus!" I thought. "I must hold him in my arms and shower him with kisses! Nothing else matters!" Thankfully, the madness passed after a moment. You may have stolen my mind for a second, but you did not tempt me to despicable action! And now that I have shaken free of your wicked influence, I know you for the monster you truly are.
Confronted with such treachery, I have no choice but to respond in kind. Therefore, I have sent you a masterpiece to match your masterpiece, that you may suffer as I have suffered. Look upon it and despair!
Your lonely, loving,
Fulgrim
Beside the signature is the imprint of a kiss: steel-silver lipstick lined in black.
Ferrus tears the wrapping from the canvas, already knowing what's beneath. Roots embedded in bronchioles, vines embracing alveoli, blossoms adorning every corner of the lobes. Browns and greens blending with muted pinks, explosions of reds and whites and yellows and blues. Ferrus squints, looks closer. There's a pattern in the bush, some kind of image in the vines...
Faces. Fulgrim has painted their faces in the lobes of their lungs, gazing at each other across the expanse of the third.
Hearts aching, Ferrus presses his lips to the imprint on the letter.