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“I need to see him,“ Raldoron’s voice is calm on the surface, despite the agitation running wild beneath it. Their new first captain is standing tensely before the large golden doors. “I must.”
“No.” Azkaellon doesn’t even hesitate. This is not negotiable. Raldoron’s restless energy will only make thinks worse, when their father needs to rest. For all that Sanguinius favours the dark-eyed Astartes before him, for all that Raldoron has long since achieved a reputation for calm even in the most stressful situation, this is the first moulting since his promotion. And it was a bad one.
“You would be of no help, as tense as you are,” he forces himself to add more kindly. “You should talk about it with our Sire before the next one”.
Raldoron straightens further, visibly intending to protest the decision, but Azkaellon doesn’t give him the chance to.
“Leave. I will not let you in.” He sweeps back into the room, not waiting for further reply. All his focus already back on the singular occupant of the chambers as he closes the sanctuary doors again.
There are feathers strewn through the room, not yet cleaned up. The serfs will do so as soon as they are granted access again. They will not see his sire like this. The rich scent of his own blood still hangs in the room, reminding him of his lord’s recent meal. Reminding him of the feeling of fangs sinking into his willingly bared throat and of the strong, yet gentle arms holding him.
“I fail to recall ordering you to deny my first Captain entrance, Guard Commander,” Sanguinius’ slightly muffled voice is filled with dry amusement, ripping him from his thoughts. “Do I misremember?”
“No, my lord,” he bows his head, unable to feel even slightly ashamed for his actions, “but you need your rest.” Sanguinius should not be disobeyed, but his sire is in no state for any company. Not when he is so tired and in need of care.
Azkaellon sweeps back towards the bed, already reaching for the large misting bottle and the silk gloves once again. Bare skin contact in the affected spots always makes things worse. Upon the large round nest, Sanguinius is flopped upon his belly, wings hanging limply on stacks of pillows. Dark curls are falling sweat soaked and messily over reddened skin. It has been such a long week, even if the worst is over now. He hasn’t even bothered lifting his face from the supporting pillows.
Azkaellon moves back to his prior positing, carefully kneeling down on the bed and reaching back towards the filoplume feathers. A soft sounds relaxing sound escapes his sire upon Azkaellon’s light misting of the fine feathers. The keratin enveloping them feels like wax beneath his fingers, as he carefully begins to preen them.
He can feel his sire further relaxing under his ministrations, rather than see it. The movements of muscles relaxing further and limbs easing out a bit.
“You do know that you could have let him in,” Sanguinius picks up the topic again. His voice is livelier than he expected it to be. Less chiding too. “He’ll get used to this as well.”
“You need your rest, my lord” Azkaellon doesn’t blink, not stop in his self-assigned task. “Let your First Captain do his job and take care of your work so you can recover, while I do mine and help you do so.” He reverently preens the pin feathers as he speaks, drawing pleased sighs as the itch at last is easing.
His poor, poor Lord. The moult is no pleasant process, especially as they are far from his native deserts. The adjourning hall, turned into as close a replica as they can manage is a poor replacement. Its handcrafted dunes and carefully cultivated oasis are no match for the wild nature of Baal. And even with the turned up to the limit, it cannot compare to the sun blazing down upon them. Yet even so, it is all they have managed so far. The next time it must be better.
The work goes easy and quick, practised for all its reverence. Sanguinius is dozing off under his hands, the past few days of itching and his temper running high at last taking their toll on the exhausted body. Strained muscles are easing as the relief sinks in at long last and before long Azkaellon steps away and strips his gloves off. It’s time to stand guard over his sire’s rest.
“Does my memory fail yet again?” the words are slow and drawn, the speaker clearly on the edge of oblivion. “I did not give you permission to step away, Azkaellon.” Azkaellon freezes at the words, uncertainty gripping him for a moment before he spins around.
“My Lord” he begins before already closed eyes open again and fix him with a smoky grey gaze.
“I did not grant you my leave, Guard Captain” His sire drawls, steel in his voice, ere he is interrupted by a heavy yawn. Sanguinius lips twitch for a moment, at an unspoken jest, before his eyes soften further with exhaustion and affections. “Come back to bed, dear one.”
“You need to rest, Sire,” Azkaellon protests. No matter how tempting the words are, his lord needs to recover from the moult. And it’s his duty to make sure he does, no matter how little Sanguinius himself cares about it.
“You need to obey. And I shall rest better with you in my arms.” The grey eyes are indulgent beneath their sleepy haze, but there is no doubt in them, that they will be obeyed. Nor any room for refusal. “Come back to bed, dear one. That’s an order.”
Put like that, what can he do but obey?
Azkaellon walks back to the bed, slipping off his over robe. At least he’s not wearing his armour during the moulting—it always gets in the way. And now he has no desire to make his lord wait any longer. No desire of the Lord of Baal should be delayed or denied as long however possible.
Sanguinius’ eyes are already slipping closed again, as Azkaellon steps closer, climbing in beneath the bedcovers. A limp wing lifts for a moment, as a still strong hand pulls him under it and he is drawn into his lord’s warm side. His head nuzzled in beneath Sanguinius’ chin.
“
Much better. Now sleep. You haven’t gotten any more rest than I have in your tireless care of me, dear heart.” Even as his eyes close, he resists the call of sleep for long drawn-out moments more until he can hear his Sire’s breathing even out and his heartbeats slow. Only then does Azkaellon allow himself to join Sanguinius in slumber, his duty done until they wake again.