A/N: Hey look. A story for my favorite Chapter/Legion in the whole Imperium! And also because it's a small and minor detail that isn't necessarily explained in the books, I did make Branne and Agapito Nev twins and will be referring them as such. Just a heads up.

Blurry images of smoke and fire filled his vision as he began to fall towards the ruined ground of the battlefield, and as he fell the grip upon his weapons went with him as the strength was sapped from his body. His whip was the first to slip from his hands and his Archeotech pistol soon followed after it. As his vision began to fade so did his hearing, everything was muffled. From the gunfire to the roars of the enemy, even the shouting of his loyal Astartes over the Vox-link was getting harder to comprehend. And soon, all that filled his auditory senses was the rushing of his own blood and the fierce pounding of his hearts. There was a unbearable pain scorching through his chest and its location soon clawed its way out to the rest of his body as he made impact with the ground. He was barely conscious as he rolled a bit once the contact had been made, and there was a dim realization of his jump back sputtering and finally dying out after the tumbling had ceased.

For what it was worth and for whatever reason, he was glad to have been wearing a helmet on this specific mission. If he survived, he would definitely have to express his thanks to Branne for his persistent nagging that he needed to wear all of his armour for every mission. Regardless if he were a Primarch or not. Safety first...

He was suffocating. Each of his lungs felt as if they had been pierced with a searing metal rod and it caught his breath so much that he couldn't even make an attempt to scream. All he could do was clench his fists in pain as a sole defiance of death as it stared him right in the face. The agony however seemed to respond with his resistance, slowly creeping its way through his chest, pricking him with sharp needles as it tried to gouge out his throat, only choking him further with its icy touches. As he struggled for air, there was an acrid taste of copper fresh in his mouth, though he tried to swallow it down. Tried anything that would release the desiccation that had settled deep into his throat from the lack of air.

As he continued the for certain losing battle with imminent death, the XIXth Legion's Primarch couldn't help but to take in what little was his surroundings. All around the world was dark, blanketed in shadows and there wasn't even a trace of light to be his beacon of hope. He was alone, abandoned in a realm that would shed no tears for his passing. Though as odd as it may seem, he wasn't afraid. All his life the umbra had been his home, and not once had he voluntarily left it. It almost seemed suiting for him.

But even with that scenario in mind he continued to revolt against the nature of oblivion, completely unsure if it were more for his honour to keep living or more for the people he still wanted and needed to protect. Though as he began to thrash about and tried to suck in more air to clash against the asphyxiation, sticky appendages pressed against his skin, holding his limbs down with ease to keep him in place. Their touch felt like old and poorly manufactured ink, like how the liquid that would clot within the pen and blot on the paper when written with for it was too thick to flow properly out from its residence within the ustensil. It reminded him of what they used to write with before he had freed Lycaeus, before the Imperium had come.

The revolution that had changed more than just his own life. It felt so long ago...

Was this it? Was this finally how, after so many countless campaigns and jokes with the twins, he was going to perish? Alone in the darkness without even a soft voice to sing to him? To send him deeper into his dreams with soothing lyrics or wordless hymns that would bring him comfort until he was finally gone? He had no mother, and the knowledge of his father being far from his place of death was hardly consoling either.

Did his father even know of his injuries? Of his fate to come? Would he even come to his funeral and mourn for the loss of a son he barely knew and had only spent a span of a few months with when they had first met and celebrated of him being found? Of course their bond hadn't been the strongest and it hardly compared to what his father had with Horus, the favored son; Corax knew if something were to happen to Lupercal their father would quickly come to his aid, and he very much doubted he would be granted the same concern.

Would he be buried back on Lycaeus? Would his grave be given a grand tome that was inscribed with the chronicles of his tales? How he freed Lycaeus and was named the Deliverer? Or maybe of his leadership and favourite tactics he used to lead his Legion? He wasn't sure...

Losing whatever fortitude remained from the judgement of his doubts, he felt his fists slowly release from their tight grip and let the air be taken from his lungs. What was the point of struggling anymore? He no longer felt himself being held down by the tacky appendages that had once kept him in place, but their touches still lingered and his skin prickled from it. Even they had left him. But oh, the darkness was welcoming him home to the shadows he knew so well, at least they had always been there for him when others had failed to be.

This was how he was going to die. To pass away in the isolation of darkness as his breath was stolen from him. Yet, it felt so relieving to let go. Letting go meant that he no longer needed to focus. Letting go meant that he could at last rest. Rest...

Finally, he could rest and let his mistakes go...

Ah...

Victorus Aut Mortis...

As his consciousness began to drift back into the material realm of reality, he opened his eyes as he registered the soft beeping of machines nearby. Strapped securely to his face, a rebreathing mask helped control his oxygen intake and stabilize his heart rate as he was unable to fully support himself as of yet. Looking down to the best of his capabilities there was a number of tubes and needles inserted into his arms and they slowly pumped a mixture of blood, medicines and liquids into his still healing body. So much being pumped into him that he ached, though his chest hurt the most. Laying his head back down onto the medically certificated pillow he was provided, he didn't even try to examine the damage that had been done; he barely even had enough strength to blink.

Had barely enough to even wiggle his fingers and toes as he began to just feel the padded medical slab he was laying upon. Weariness overtook him as a sudden crash landing of fatigue hit him. He was exhausted, though he could guess a few reasons as to why, he had just evaded death or maybe that was hours ago. Maybe even days. Whatever the case, he was alive and his consciousness was slipping away again, but in the very least he could listen to the noises around him.

Located not too far from his left side he could make out the quiet murmur of voices, all of them were familiar and that fact filled him with comfort to know that he was not in the hands of strangers, but within the care of his own sons. However, two out of three of the voices sounded so familiar that he had to open his eyes again just to make sure it was really them. Silently looking over he saw them, those brothers. The two brothers he had grown to love with both his hearts.

Nev. Branne and Agapito Nev, two of his commanders and even two boys from Lycaeus who had helped him free the moon in their rebellion, the two boys who have faithfully stayed by his sides and even followed him further by becoming Astartes for his Legion once the Emperor had come for him. Were they here to see him recover? How worried about him were they? He didn't need the answer to know.

Unintentionally coughing once, it soon led to a fit and the pain in his chest increased to the point that he was gasping. The sound of rushing boots rang through the air and soon two white robed Apothecaries were at his sides: checking over his vitals, readjusting his breathing, tending to him with trained precision as they made the pain wither away along with the fit. He recognized the younger Apothecary, Vincente Sixx, from a more recent recruitment, but that was a minor a detail. The machines chirped, clicked and beeped as they were readjusted, and out of the corner of his view he could see them.

Those Brothers. How they never leave him.

He couldn't help but to smile as he settled back down, noticing that they were doing so to.