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This is an interlude that I plan to incorporate into a larger story im already writing (its posted on Ao3). The story itself focuses on Angron in the MedHammer Universe, so this is the only part that includes Khårn as a major character. I wanted to ask for some advice on writing him correctly. Any suggestions? I marched with my father for the last time as we boarded The Red Tear. I passed through the exquisite corridors I saw the beauty and care The Winged Primarch offered to his children. He was a beacon to them, and they honored him not only with their deaths but with their lives. And Their primarch accepted it not with ambivalence but with gratitude. Angon would masquerade now as some imitation of Sanguinius but it was hollow, he would never accept the sacrifice of his sons because he saw all our offerings as worthless. Like our sacrifice of sanity by donning The Butcher's nails, or the sacrifice of Varren. Worthless. Only one prize mattered to him now. It was not enough to claim the life of Roboute Gulliman. It was not even enough to raze Ultramar. He was convinced that this would be his great prize. Like Alpharius claimed the heart of the Emperor for Tzeentch, and Angron would claim the Wings of Sanguinius for Nurgle. A trophy to claim off the beaten body of The Imperium. Our marching on the great vessel had the hypnotic percussive drumbeat of Ceremite boots against metallic and stone floors. A far cry from the soft organic crunch made from the waxen and earthen floors of The Conqueror. My brothers and I held our tongues and plans, The Butcher's Nails burned through my body but I had been with them for too long to allow them to control me now. I took solace in the shared misery of my brothers as they in mine. We split from the main force as Angron planned. He and the Demonic forces posing as his "Companions" would lead the main force against The Emperor's Fury. As we entered a large narthex of the ship I permitted myself a glance around the craft of Sanguinius, our battlefield. If I had any lingering doubts about what I must do, they were gone now. This was the hall of a true leader of men. I could not weep, but some around me muffled a scream in envy of The Blood Angels. Even if we slaughter the sons of Sanguinius, and slaughter them brutally, they die in the comfort of their beloved father. Surrounded by the memory not merely of him but fallen brothers. A soldier who dies here is not murdered, he is not put down, he is martyred. His death witnessed by his fallen battle-brothers enshrined in Glass, pigment, cloth, and Rockcrete. I could not but think back to my brothers: Macer and his loyalists left to die amidst the ruins of Maccragge giving their last breath in mud and powdered marble as unspeakable horrors ravaged their weakened body and these accursed implants laying waste their mind. So many brothers of the Twelfth left hollow in open graves without so much as a solemn reflection. My men and I gathered broke off from the corrupted ranks to make our way into position. Some of my brothers gritted their teeth amidst this shrine of solidarity and loyalty we could never see. The Battle began as The Blood Angels descended from the upper floors of the Narthex. Hundreds of Jumppacked warriors escorted by their winged father with a mechanical hum that was synchronized to by melodic. This melody of the jump packs and bolters garbled by the Grotesque hum of Lotara's drones. Her massive insectoid sons whose humanity was lost rose from the pits of the ship to meet these Angels. A great war erupted in the sky illuminated by stained-glass windows while below the Angels and World Eaters fought with bolter and ax and chain-sword. My men and I remained in the shadows of the columns attempting to get ourselves into Angron's flank. Angron and his warriors were slowly advancing on the Angels, blessed with Nurgle's putrid endurance. Corpses of Sanguine Astartes and wasps and demons fell from the sky crushing World Eater and Angel alike. While the war above raged on, The Red Angel descended from the battle above to confront Angron. Sanguinius fought with skill and grace, but Angron's putrid lover Lotarra and the Gladiators fought with unholy power. They didn't even bother to block but allowed the axes of Angron to penetrate their fungus and bark-covered bodies, costing Sanguinius precious seconds and strength as he had to pull his weapon from their pulpy flesh. This was our moment. With a cry I charged Angron, letting out these empty words. "For the Emperor, Death To Traitors!" They echoed my cries, and the axes of my companions charged against the Nucrerian Gladiators, hacking pieces of their body away until limbs began to fall off, and they were forced to flee or parry. Many more of my brothers heard and repeated the cry, "We are The Imperial Hounds, Death to The Emperor's Foes!" Turning against their corrupted brethren. Angron's army was trapped between the berserkers he created and disposed of and the Blood Angels. They struggled to regroup and were forced to retreat, losing many drones and corrupted world eaters along their fight back to the boarding ships. Angron's perpetual rot induce smile faded for the first time since his transformation. As my axes met his, I saw rage rise in him for the first time. There was no archeotech to bring him to frothing madness, for once his rage and anger were truly his. I remember his curse, as we drove him from the bays of the ship. He howled at us that we were dogs. "What have you done, Khårn! You Bastard! You Traitor! Where will you go now? Do you think you will be Imperial Hounds again? They will never treat you as a son, they will never even treat you as a soldier! They will never even treat you like a dog! You will never be anything to them, you are their cur. They will chain you to some forgotten miserable realm, far from anything they hold dear, and you will bare your teeth and bark at whatever beasts come near their scrap. You will have no sons, because they will castrate you. They will leave you hungry, they will leave you abandoned. And when in your weakness and infirmity you are no longer worth the scraps they feed you, they will put you down like the Mongrels you are. This is your fate, Betrayer! This is the grave you have dug for my sons! You will pray for the mercy I gave to the other Hounds, your greatest failure was that you did not die with your brothers above Nucreria. For now you will die without a father, without sons, and without brothers, only the void will stand watch over your grave." There is no mercy for traitors, and I am a traitor. Betraying a traitor does not reverse treachery, it only makes it habitual. I do not begrudge Garro for accepting his Father’s mantle. Nor do I begrudge the Companions of Macer Varen for finding brotherhood with The Ultramarines. But they are still traitors. The Loyal Sons have offered me accolades and rank. I have rejected them all, for they only taunt me. Some of my brothers have abandoned the Butcher’s Nails, joining Varren as adopted Sons of Gulliman. They are free to leave, and I hope their delusions serve them well. But for my companions and I, The Betrayers, we know Angron’s words to be true. And so we leave both The Imperium and Chaos to their fates, in hope of finding monsters worse than ourselves, in penitence for sins which we can never atone. Angron, Garro, Lorgar, Typhus, Perturabo, Corvus, Aximand, Alpharius, Luther: Traitors all; They may rationalize what they have done, they may bask in the comforts of their new masters, but they can not escape Angron’s curse. The fate of all Traitors is a cold grave. Only sacrifice can atone for treachery. Else The Void will watch over their graves, as it will ours, but it will watch over ours first.