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First Meeting
You are an accomplished individual as far as regular humans are concerned. Tactically savvy enough to oversee a battalion of Imperial Guard. Adept enough with a sword to stand your ground against most. Accurate with a bolter pistol from two hundred paces. There are few tasks you can't perform, a true inspiration to those beneath you!
All of it means nothing when you sit in the lap of one of the titans that is a daughter of the Emperor. A Primarch, no less.
Sanguinius may as well be an Angel made flesh. With white, fluffy wings and an ever-present smile, no one can fault you for such an appraisal. When out of her armour, she is the visage of a perfect woman, proportioned perfectly despite her giant stature. Casually garbed in robes of red and white, plenty of her is on display. Nothing sordid, showing off her arms and legs. A hint of thigh is about the most scandalous thing about her. Well, and her cleavage. Not that you can see it with it providing practically a pillow for you.
Sure, it seems like Heaven. However, you're currently at the head of a feast, your men mingling with Space Marines in as formal a manner as possible. A miracle, given how you're treated by one of their Primarchs. Curiously, it is not her own chapter you dine with, a mixture of wolves, fists and Salamanders making up the hall.
“S-sir,” one of your Lieutenants stammers; Jenkins, you think. “S-some of us were wondering-”
“It's unimportant,” you cut him off, his face turning pale as you do your best not to move too much. More accurately, you don't know the answer, having been ushered into Sanguinius' lap more or less without explanation.
“R-right, sir.”
Things hardly go smoothly from there. Confused glances and murmuring from your men is expected; it's the Space Marines that have you on edge. From threatening scowls to amused smirks, they're much tougher to read as a whole. You hardly touch a scrap of the well-earned feast, subtly dodging the Primarch's movements whenever she has a sip of wine, nothing more.
An hour at most, yet it feels like a week. You're almost certain you'd prefer the trenches over this. Mercifully, it's over. Guardsman and Space Marine alike clearing the hall. It seems, at least, everyone knows better than to hang around, soon leaving you and the source of your discomfort alone.
“May I rise, Ma'am?” you ask, almost frightened to turn your head and look her in the eye.
“Of course?” she responds, sounding bemused at worst.
Slowly, you slide off her lap, awkwardly fumbling as you find your feet on solid ground. Standing tall, you feel insignificant in stature alone, let alone her more impressive feats that put you to shame.
“My thanks for a fine evening,” you state, bowing mostly as an excuse not to look her in the eye.
She does not explain a thing, almost humming as she lifts your chin with a lone finger. Enchanting eyes, compelling smile, she really is an Angel and this is improper. “May we meet again,” she says simply, almost daintily waving.
Again, you bow, swearing you hear a huff as you do. Best not to out-stay your welcome any longer, seeing yourself out for the time-being.
By the Emperor, that was terrifying...
- - - - -
Second Meeting
The very earth around you shakes, the sky cracking like thunder as several shells detonate a dozen feet from you. Entrenched as you are, the worst of the shrapnel is avoided. A small mercy, but you're counting each one these last few days. A simple task of reinforcing a garrison, gone to shit because of a traitor, of all things. Who would dare turn their back on the Emperor? Folly, nothing more.
“Sir,” Jenkins or Johnson, you forget which, begins.
“Lieutenant!” you respond, practically roaring over gunfire.
“The sky!”
It's a simple observation, one you turn to follow. Suddenly, gunfire sounds like nothing more than a gospel choir's enchanting melody, time itself almost slowing as dozens, maybe even a hundred, drop-pods descend. Painted crimson with hints of gold shining here and there, it's the first hint as to which chapter has come swooping in to your rescue.
Glorious, golden armour shines bright on the battlefield, angelic wings carrying the strong frame of Sanguinius. Such bulky armour, yet she moves with grace. Rising above the rank and file, she levels her spear, swooping down and slaying foes by the score. Her troops hardly stand idle, swords cutting down the Emperor's enemies as much as their bolter fire.
Blood stains the Primarch's armour before long, her work swift as it is deadly. It's difficult not to admire her no matter where she is on the battlefield, commanding the scene wherever she is. An Angel of death incarnate, routing all who oppose within the hour.
Finally, you tear your gaze away from the scene, roars of victory echoing from all around you. Were you not on the verge of breaking down; you'd have joined them in a heartbeat.
There's scarcely time to rest, things moving like a whirlwind as you rally your troops. As is standard protocol, mostly, you gather in your makeshift HQ, noting the lack of officers with a brief moment of lament. All you're allowed, the heavy thuds of Space Marine boots approaching.
Just as you stand at attention, what few officers remain following suit, in comes the hero of the hour. Towering even over her escorting Marines, she's quite the sight. That golden armour of hers still shines, albeit now a deep crimson from all the blood shed by her foes. Even her spear is drenched in it, currently held by a pair of Marines, kneeling reverently. It's hard to gauge her feelings, the green eyes of her helm far from the kindness you felt before.
Is that a gasp?
Before you know it, you're face to face with the Primarch. Well, helmet, anyway. She's down on one knee, the back of her gauntleted hand pressing against your cheek. Grunting in annoyance, she pulls her hand away as she averts her gaze. “You're injured.”
What?
Ah, glancing down, you notice your fair share of scrapes and bruises. At least, on what little flesh you have on display. Dirt cakes your uniform, but most worrying of all is the pool of blood beneath your rib. Life-threatening? Unlikely, but still less than ideal.
Ah, what does it matter?
“I'm fine, ma'am,” you finally respond, cheeks oddly hot all of a sudden. “W-what can my men do to assist?”
Standing proud and tall like the Daughter of the Emperor she is, the Angel of Death stands before you once more. “Hold here. Your hands will be needed once we've dispatched the enemy leaders.” Official orders, yet she doesn't lose the concern lacing her tone.
“Understood!”
The remaining officers echo the sentiment, Sanguinius turning her back. “Mend that wound,” she whispers, sounding an odd mix of Primarch and doting friend, before marching off; grabbing her spear without breaking stride and exiting the HQ.
All eyes are fixed on you now the Angel is gone, a nod almost enough. “You heard her, prepare for duty.”
You would gladly join the scrum, each man knowing full well what to expect in the aftermath of a victory. Alas, one of the junior officers insists on dragging you away, intent on following orders as they lead you to a medic...
Drugs and stitches, all that's needed to fix you up. A mercy you dwell on, always dreading being propped up my any number of unwieldy cybernetics for the sake of life. Your cot lies in the corner of the field hospital tent, dozens more crammed inside, as you stare at nothing while you recover.
Huh, everything's so quiet, broken as you grunt in your efforts sitting up. At the entrance of the tent is the woman who effectively ordered you here in the first place. A much more pleasant sight without her helmet, her smile remains fixed as she strides past many cots. Determined eyes almost seem soft as they fix on you, her destination clear as day.
“Primarch!” you bark, offering a salute from your once again prone position.
“Ah,” she sighs. Did she flinch slightly? “There's no need.”
“But-”
You fall silent, her soft finger on your lips. It's not only her helmet she's lost, but also her gauntlets.
“The battle is won, your guardsman did well and are already re-establishing supply lines.”
“I'll join them as soon as I'm able,” you assure her, muscles stiffening as her hand moves from your lips.
You're overcome with warmth as her hand now rests just shy of your fresh wound, a pleasant distraction from the dull ache. Ah, not simply resting, pulling away until her fingertip is all that presses against you. A shiver overwhelms you as she traces the outline of your wound, a frown on her lips.
“Lady Primarch,” you say, snapping her from whatever is going through her mind. “Is there something you need?”
A simple question, enough for her to withdraw her touch. Strange, you feel emptier for it. “An invitation.”
You'd never dare reject such a thing from one of the Emperor's daughters. Yet, you must ask. “For what?” Is it your imagination, or do her wings flutter ever so slightly?
“I would have you accompany me from now on.”
“O-of course!” you stammer your answer.
Outwardly, you exude the confidence of a man befitting your station. Internally? One thought dominates all. What is going on?
- - - - -
Third Meeting
It's odd. Not being on a ship as grand as this one, no. Being confined to quarters lest you bump into one of Sanguinius' own marines is what confuses you. Something about your own safety, yet, you're here under her charge, no? What's more, you've seen neither hide nor hair of the angel of a Primarch since the day of your invitation.
Well, until now.
Casually dressed as you are and lying on your bed, you instinctively sit up as Sanguinius lets herself into your quarters. Made for the bulk of Space Marines, she looks only slightly cramped. It doesn't stop her from smiling oh so sweetly in your direction, wings folded close as if giving herself a comforting hug.
“Adjusting?” she asks, voice softer than you're used to. Then again, you were terrified the first time you heard her, in the midst of a war-zone the second. Perhaps she's always so gentle? A part of you hopes so.
After a moment, your lack of response dawns on you. “These quarters are most comfortable,” you answer with a nod.
“I am glad to hear it.”
Ah, silence. Well, as silent as it can be in a void ship, which contains a constant humming you'll be lucky to adjust to. If you focused, you could likely hear distant clangs of metal striking metal, maybe even cracks of energy just about tamed into the right direction.
“Do you, perhaps, have questions?” Sanguinius asks, raising a brow as she takes a single step forward.
A dozen and then some, but you know better than to show any signs of ignorance before a superior. “No, ma'am.”
“Ma'am,” she whispers to herself, smile almost faltering as she shakes her head. “Not even why I summoned you?”
You almost sigh, resisting the urge as you slip out of bed. Her eyes are on you at all times as you approach, stopping a respectful distance from her personal space. It's not far enough not to catch the subtle scent of roses that clings to her, a sweet change to the sterile metal of the ship.
“I would not dare question your reasoning,” you answer truthfully, letting that curiosity nibble at you for a tad too long. “However, it would put me at ease to know what you're planning.”
Was she holding a breath all this time, suddenly exhaling. “I had a vision.”
“About me?”
“About us.”
Your muscles stiffen as one, suddenly lifted off the ground and held in her arms like a newly-made bride. Her arms are so soft, your cheeks burn as you gaze up into the gems that are her eyes. Long, blonde hair brushes against you, that smile you're easily lost in causing your heart to pound like the ferocious beats of war drums.
“There was no great battle. Slaying of a mighty foe nor repelling hordes of Xenos. Just you and I, sharing one another's company.” Her words hang in the air for a sweet few seconds, her lips pursing into an oh. “Alone.” As if it weren't clear.
This cannot be real, can it?
Ah, her soft, almost fluffy wings envelop you both as she leans down, lips hovering by yours. Closing your eyes, you surrender. Warmth flows through you as her sweet lips smack against your own, pressing gently against her as your mind races.
So be it. If this is a dream, may you never wake from it.