‘My son,’ Sanguinius said. ‘My greatest son.’
The primarch reached out to him. Dante was on his back, but at the same time it was as if he floated in an immense void, and Sanguinius hovered in front of him. And yet, when the primarch cried, his tears fell forward onto Dante’s face. All reality’s order was disturbed, but this felt like no dream or vision. When Sanguinius’ glowing fingers traced the line of Dante’s cheek, they were solid and warm, and they brought into him a sense of peace and holy joy.
‘You have suffered greatly for mankind’s sake,’ said Sanguinius. His voice was beautiful. ‘You have won your rest a thousand times. Rarely has one man given so much, Luis of Baal Secundus. You have been a light in dark times. I would give you any reward. I would take you to my side. I would free you from strife. I would release you from pain.’
‘Yes!’ said Dante. ‘Please. I have served so long. Grant me the freedom of death.’
Sanguinius gave Dante a look of profound sorrow.
‘I cannot. I regret that I can do none of those things. I need you, Dante. Your suffering is not done.’ Sanguinius gripped Dante’s face in both hands. Strength flowed from the primarch, driving out death’s comfort and replacing it with pain. The scene rippled. He heard the shouts of Space Marines, felt the ghostly touch of living hands upon his armour. Sanguinius faded.
‘Please, no!’ Dante cried out. ‘My lord, I have done enough. Please! Let me rest!’
The light was dying; Sanguinius’ smile carried with it the sorrows of ten thousand years. Darkness was returning. The Great Angel disappeared into it, but his glorious voice lingered a moment.
‘I am sorry, my son, that you cannot rest. Not yet. Live, my son. Live.’
Dante returned to life screaming for the mercy of death.
Hands were all over Dante, holding him down. Sharp pains intruded via his neural shunts.
‘No, no, no! No more! Take me with you! I beg you!’ Dante shouted.
He lashed out with his fist. Metal hit metal.
‘Hold him! Hold him down! He is coming round!’
