‘Rogal Dorn is absolutely the one with the wings,’ said Dmitri.
Howls of protest erupted from Governor Lorenzo and his entourage as though they had been struck by an overseer’s electrolash. The group of dignitaries stood on the pristine quartz flagstones of the newly rechristened Triumphal Square, the pomp and finery of their garments making Dmitri’s artist’s robes look all the simpler by comparison. Rising up before them on the bastion walls of the governor’s palace, and hidden from the rest of the citizenry by a massive red curtain, was the intricate mural “Glory to the Defenders of Terra”. At the centre of the massive artwork stood a winged Rogal Dorn, proudly crushing a defeated Horus Lupercal beneath his boot. News of the Loyalist victory and the end of the civil war had finally reached their world a few short months ago.
‘No, he isn’t!’ cried Governor Lorenzo, looking horrified. Dmitri frowned and rubbed his thin beard, leaving a streak of paint on his chin. He looked up at the twenty-foot high work of art that had occupied his every waking thought for weeks. Above them, fluttering cyber cherubs used canid-hair brushes to gently add finishing touches to the sunlit clouds. The scene depicted the Imperial host before the walls of Terra, the Emperor’s golden light shining down upon the field of victory. But Rogal Dorn was very much the focal point that tied it all together.
‘Well if Rogal Dorn isn’t the Primarch with wings, who is?’ asked Dmitri.
‘Sanguinius, Primarch of the Blood Angels Legion!’
‘The Primarch of the “Blood Angels” has wings? Wouldn’t that be a little on the nose?’
‘Well, what about Ferrus Manus and his “Iron Hands”,’ piped up Lucrezia, the governor’s eldest daughter. Dmitri snorted in amusement.
‘Yes, but “Ferrus” is just a nickname given by his Legion, everyone in the Imperium will always remember his real name is I-’
‘Will you shut up about the Iron Hands!? Nobody gives a frak about the Iron Hands!’ screamed Field Marshal Damiam, cutting off Dmitri, ‘Your mural is wrong! Offensively wrong!’
Dmitri folded his arms across his wiry frame.
‘Well, I’m not changing it.’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine, we can just spray over the wings in black, very quick and easy,’ said Grand-Vizier Poliziano.
‘Then he’ll just have black wings,’ said Dmitri.
‘Ok, what about if we say it’s more allegorical? Like, they represent the swift wings of justice? Or an angel of death?’ said the Grand-Vizier. Dmitri pouted but said nothing.
‘Yes, yes, I like it! Let’s lean into that! It’s allegorical. Can we make Horus a little more snake-like?’ said Governor Lorenzo, pointing at the fallen Horus beneath Dorn’s boot. Others began to enthusiastically pitch in ideas.
‘What about horns?’
‘Sharp teeth?’
‘Glowing red eyes!’ added Lucrezia enthusiastically.
‘His eyes are closed. Because he’s dead,’ said Dmitri.
‘Oh. Good point, I guess.’
‘Look, great art has never been made by committee,’ said Dmitri, ‘have any of you ever seen a primarch?’ There was a brief silence.
‘Well, no,’ said the Governor after a few moments, ‘but have you?’
‘Ok, I haven’t either, not in person. I was still a child when the Remembrancer program was cancelled. But I can remember the pict reels we used to receive. I’m the artist here, you have to trust my process!’
‘This isn’t about art, this is about demonstrating loyalty to the Emperor! In eight hours, an Imperial Scouring Fleet will enter low orbit, and we need to show we’ve been loyal all along. The parades, the banners, the victory mural, that’s what this is all for!’ said Governor Lorenzo before lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘Yes, okay, we may have resupplied a handful of Traitor fleets that passed through the system—’
‘And let them erase the archives and murder the Terran administrators,’ said Dmitri.
‘Sssh!’ said the Governor hurriedly, as though Rogal Dorn was already waiting on the other side of the curtain, ‘Yes, we did. But what were we going to do – say no? Fight back? The Terrans will understand that we had no choice, won’t they?’
There were muted murmurs of agreement from the crowd of dignitaries. Dmitri suddenly noticed the tiny beads of sweat on the Governor’s forehead, despite the cool morning air.
‘If the Emperor stands for anything, it’s forgiveness!’ croaked Governor Lorenzo, his eyes darting between the faces of his advisors.
The murmuring died away, and silence fell behind the majestic red curtain. Beyond the veil in Triumphal Square, the hubbub of parade preparation continued unabated.
The stillness was broken by a sudden burst of motion. All the dignitaries flinched as a messenger staggered through the centre of the drapes, panting and holding out a data slate towards the governor with a shaking hand.
‘Your Excellency, the Terran Fleet has increased its speed and is no longer responding to vox hails,’ said the aide breathlessly.
The Governor hurried away with his retinue, the mural suddenly forgotten, and Dmitri was once again left alone with his masterpiece. Shrugging, he resumed painting the majestic brown hawk wings protruding from the back of Rogal Dorn’s bone white armour. Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra, the Emperor’s War Hawk. He was certain he had got this right.
In the distance, sirens began a plaintive wail.
