A glorious armoured warrior stood over him. His helm was fashioned in Sanguinius’ image, the same face Dante himself had worn these long years. Five months earlier after Cryptus, Dante had looked into that mask and felt shame. He felt that shame no longer. The Sanguinor had come to him at the end of his service.
‘You came,’ he said. His throat was dry, his lips numb. The beautiful voice that had inspired millions was a harsh whisper. ‘You came after all.’
The Sanguinor kept its silence, but stood back and flung an arm wide to indicate a greater presence behind it. Dante’s breath caught in his chest. Once again, he saw the face of Sanguinius, but this was no metal representation. The face was of flesh, the wings that spread either side of his body were white feathers, not cold sculpture. His body was as real as his sorrow. He shone like a desert sun in the full glory of noon, a bringer of light dangerous in its incandescent power.
‘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.