Angron's enormous frame paused almost imperceptibly when he heard that aged voice call to him.
He did not charge forward as he would on a battlefield. Instead, he deliberately slowed and softened his footsteps, as though afraid of disturbing some fragile treasure, crossing the short distance between them in only a few strides.
He crouched, a posture somewhat awkward for a Primarch, yet full of respect, and extended arms that could easily crush tank armor. With extraordinary gentleness, and even a trace of hesitation, he wrapped them around the old man's thin, stooped shoulders.
Oenomaus showed no such restraint. His scrawny arms embraced Angron's simply armored neck and broad back with such force that his knuckles turned pale.
He buried his face beside Angron's solid shoulder plate, his shoulders trembling slightly.
There was no loud sobbing, only suppressed, broken gasps, and a hand that kept patting Angron's back—a gesture without purpose, yet brimming with emotion.
One was a genetically engineered demigod of war, possessed of godlike power.
One was an elderly Mortals, the flame of his life flickering in the winds of time.
At that moment, in Nuceria's cool evening breeze, before a plain stone house, they were simply a father and son reunited after a long separation.
The gulf of time, power, and status seemed to dissolve for a while before that embrace of pure affection.
Lorgar and Curze stood quietly a few steps away, like two silent guardian statues, leaving that small space to the reunited father and son.
Curze's eyes, which seemed capable of piercing appearances and glimpsing the dark currents of fate, were not focused on the embracing pair. Instead, he gazed somewhat absently into empty space.
Nuceria's dry air and the warmth of their reunion had perhaps stirred a corner deep in his memory, equally