After a few moments of quivering in absolute terror, Starwing realized that she was not, as she had feared, dead. She could feel a strange, hot liquid burning softly on her midnight-blue coat, but she was alive. Or at least, she was pretty sure she was still alive. Alive, and terrified.

She had seen something move in the shadows, a massive figure bathed for a brief moment in crimson light. As the pink horror had lunged forward, Starwing had closed her eyes, instinct driving her to avert her sight form her inevitable doom. Yet somehow, impossibly, that doom had been averted. It made no sense; in all the scary stories Starwing read late at night with a flashlight under the covers said that when the monster cornered somepony in a corner, they killed and ate them. It was the rule! Starwing was pretty sure that was what had happened. The pink horror had burst into the house out of nowhere, chased her down here, and trapped her. That was always how it went, but Starwing was sure that she wasn’t supposed to be around to think about it.

Curiosity overpowering her earlier burst of terror, the pegasus filly creaked one eye open, to make sure that she really was fine. What she saw froze her stiff with fear, both eyes snapped wide open in shocked terror.

The pink horror was lying in front of her, its dead, grey face mere inches from the filly. Cold, soulless black eyes stared at her. Its flat, alien mouth hung open, a dribble of black liquid slowly streaming to the floor. At this distance, Starwing could clearly make out every scratch and scar that criss-crossed the horror’s desiccated head. A foul reek burned her nostrils, a stench beyond anything the young filly had ever smelled; to describe it as an unholy mixture of raw sewage, heated excrement, and the stinky waftings of the broken-down house at the end of the street that Mommy always told her to never ever go near would be an understatement. The terrified filly snapped her hooves over her nose, trying to block out the searing stench.

She froze again, sure that her doom was still to come, and that her sudden movement would simply accelerate the process. After all, the pink horror was right there, staring right at her, its alien gaze unwavering, unmoving, almost as though…

Shock overwhelmed the filly, leaving her now as confused as she was utterly terrified. Why was the horror not moving? Did something stop it? What could possibly stop something that big, that powerful?

Within a half-second, Starwing realized that the pink horror looked a bit different. Its weird, furless skin looked a bit brighter than before she had closed her eyes, and it had a strange, red tint that she was sure had not been there before. The next realization was that the floor had taken on a similar quality, as had the old cardboard boxes stored next to the broom closet. The details clicked in her young mind and she found herself looking around for the source of the strange red light. Before she had moved her head even an inch, she found the source.

A massive sword, like something out of one of the fairy tales Mommy would tell her when she went to bed, the one with the giant-ponies and the brave farmfilly who saved the town. The weapon glowed like a dim candle, casting a pale but harsh red glow. It was longer than Starwing’s whole body, and was as red as a fresh apple. Her eyes slide down the blade to the hilt, which she found to be locked firmly in the grasp of a disturbingly familiar alien appendage. Fear seized the filly’s heart as her eyes betrayed her, her gaze inexorably following the unnatural foreleg until she beheld the entire create.

It was, in basic form, all but identical to the pink horror: tall and broad, with the body of a minotaur and a small, unmoving, flat face permanently fixed into a furious snarl. It shared the massive shoulders of the horror and the forelegs that bent the wrong way. However, there were many ways in which this one was quite distinct from the pink horror. Most obviously, this new alien was mostly white, like a fresh layer of snow in Central Park. In the centre of its upper barrel was a crimson raindrop, gleaming like a ruby in the light. Its lower barrel was strangely designed, with six square bumps, all of them the colour of bright gold. It held the glowing sword in one of its alien appendages, while the other carried some sort of golden chalice encrusted with more rubies. Atop its frozen face rested a green circlet like the laurels Starwing had seen in a book on the Romares. A massive, indiscernible shape protruded from the alien’s back, a growth unlike anything the filly had ever seen. Beside the strange growth rested two massive wings, as frozen as the alien’s face, as gold as the chalice the alien carried.

The alien’s eyes suddenly glowed a deep green, as though they were made of emerald. Starwing involuntarily flinched in response. The alien looked down as her, fixing its viridian gaze on her, just like the horror had done not a minute earlier. For a moment that was both too brief and just short of an eternity for the poor filly, the alien simply stood there, looking at her. The terror of the pink horror rose up in Starwing’s traumatized young heart, a storm of frightened emotions bubbling up inside her. She knew, just knew, that at any moment the alien would grow tired of whatever game it was playing and eat her, just like all monsters were supposed to.

Emotionally traumatized and overburdened, still riding a rollercoaster of terror and confusion, poor young Starwing broke down into tears. There was barely any warning from the outside; a brief pursing of lips, a gathering of water in her eyes, and then she bawled.

“Mommy!” Starwing wailed. She was a child, frightened and alone in the dark, faced with two inscrutable aliens. She needed somepony to comfort her, to tell her it would be okay, that she was safe.

Neither Mommy nor Daddy came for her. No pony heeded the filly’s desperate sobs. She was alone, abandoned to the monsters in the dark. With doom standing before her, she cried.

A soft hiss; a wet slice; a metallic click; a mechanical creak; a brief, rocky clatter. Those were the sounds that followed. A strange, warm, smooth pressure gently pressed against Starwing’s head.

Through the waterfall of her tears she saw another flat, furless face no more than a third of a metre from her. Its alien lips curled up, and its golden eyes radiated a strange warmth. A deep voice boomed past those curled lips, its tone soothing for Starwing on some innate, instinctual level.

“Be still, tiny xenos,” the alien said as it softly, calmly stroked the filly’s head. “And be not afraid. You are safe now, and need fear the cruelties of Chaos no longer.”
______

All things considered, it was something of a surreal moment for the Sanguinary Priest Domenico.

Like all Sons of Sanguinius, Domenico battled daily the siren call of the Flaw, the last gift of their gene-father and the great curse which burdened them. It was a battle as unending as the defense of the Imperium, an inner war which could not be won, merely delayed another minute, another hour. All Blood Angels, whatever the name of their Chapter, fought the battle in their own way. Some took up art, others philosophy. Many spent their lives in a perpetual search for battle, scouring the galaxy for the next opportunity to satiate the Thirst, and thus stave off madness another day.

Ever since he had acquired the weapon, a gift from Captain Castigon himself, received after Domenico had saved the noble Captain’s life from the near-fatal blow of an Ork Warboss, the Crimson Knife had been Domenico’s method of control. The blade was as red as the blood in his veins, an apt design given its use. It was a sink for his Flaw, taking his Thirst from him and guzzling blood in his place. Each battle he would unleash the blade, following the path it decreed and slaking its insatiable thirst as best he could ere the end. Through the slaughter, Domenico’s soul would be soothed, if only for a time, granted a respite from the inevitable end all Blood Angels faced.

It was in service to the Knife’s hunger that Domenico, in pursuit of a depraved Noise Marine, found himself standing in the ruins of a xenos house, at least two blocks from his nearest battle-brother.

The xenos house had been a mess when he arrived. The door had been shattered, and the interior was simply destroyed. Shards of wood and glass coated the floor. Just inside, at the border of the kitchen and the entry hall, lay the bloody, broken form of a winged xenos male. Even without two centuries of experience in the art of warfare, Domenico could tell at no more than a glance that it was dead. He stepped over the corpse, turning his genhanced senses to more important matters.

As he crossed the threshold of the kitchen, he heard a sick, high-pitched voice sing a perverse tune. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

The Priest tightened his grip on the Crimson Knife. Though he did not know the speaker personally, he knew full well that only one type of heretic spoke in such a manner, the Noise Marines of Slaanesh. Domenico grimaced beneath his snow-white helm; Noise Marines were infamous for their jittery speed. Their drug-ruined bodies overflowing with hyper-stimulants, they were fast even by the standards of Astartes, able to match blows with such agile warriors as the Eldar. Domenico’s best chance was a quick assault, to take the Chaos Marine by surprise and rely on the fury of the Thirst, the edge of his blade, and the strength of his armour.

With a grace that would seem strange to the eyes of common men, Domenico slipped almost silently through the kitchen. He quickly located the source of the Noise Marine’s voice, down a flight of stairs which led into an unlit basement. The Sanguinary Priest doused the external light of his lenses. He would not need their help to see in such simple darkness. He also fingered the power switch on his sword, extinguishing its glow and armour-piercing power field. While some power weapons required time to activate, this sword was of the artifice of the Techmarines of Baal and could spark its killing field at a touch.

Taking great care to maneuver his winged jump pack through the tight doorframe without giving himself away, Domenico slowly slipped into the dark basement. With his genhanced eyes, he pierced the veil of shadow and saw his prey. The foul Chaos Marine was hunched over at the far side of the room, gibberingly perversely over some unfortunate object of its vile attention. Whatever unfortunate being the Noise Marine was fawning over seemed to be whimpering. It was a soft, pleading sound, like a frightened child. It was a sound that many Space Marines would ignore in favour of more relevant sensory information. Domenico, however, had long since abandoned such cold aloofness; he was a Defender of Humanity, and by his blood and his sword, he would never allow a child to come to harm on his watch.

Fury burning in his hearts, Domenico offered a brief, silent prayer to the Emperor, pleading for a swift and deadly arm. He tensed. It would have to be a perfect lunge; he could not afford even the faint light and subtle hum of the Blood Chalice’s energy field, and thus this charge would risk spilling the holy vitae contained within. For a human it would be an impossible task.

For a veteran Space Marine, it was as simple as breathing.

“Oh yes, you’ll be just perfect…” the Noise Marine spoke his final words. He leaned forward, his tainted, grasping hands reaching out.

That simple movement was all Domenico needed. Disabling his armour’s vox, he lunged forward with a silent roar. He thumbed the power field on the Crimson Knife, the blade blazing to life in his hand.

The Noise Marine, distracted by the whimpering being obscured from Domenico’s sight, never stood a chance. Domenico was a veteran warrior, his skill honed by centuries of battle. He was imbued with the speed of his Primarch, driven by the Thirst to rush into battle. His ferocity was enhanced beyond that of normal Space Marines by the scent of the Blood Chalice.

All he needed was a single strike, and a single strike was all it took.

The Crimson Knife tore through the distracted Noise Marine, bisecting the Slaaneshi pervert. Black, drug-tainted blood sprayed across the ground. To Domenico’s surprise, a high-pitched scream tore through the air, the squealing sound reaching his ears before he even had the chance to regain his footing. The Noise Marine’s corpse struck the ground with a clatter as his Warp-touched ceramite slammed into the wooden floor.

With the Chaos Marine dispatched, Domenico turned his attention to the source of the scream. He found before him a shivering xenos child of the winged breed. At a glance his genhanced eyes perceived that some of the Noise Marine’s toxic blood has spattered onto the alien. The Sanguinary Priest grimaced inside his helmet; the servants of Slaanesh were infamous for their overuse of all kinds of drugs, and due to the rigors of Space Marine physiology, the Noise Marines could easily survive imbibing concoctions that could kill entire Feudal World villages. A rumoured effect of their addictions was the toxifying of their blood. It seemed the rumours were true, at least for this particular heretic.

The xenos child fell silent for a moment before finally opening its eyes. Domenico watched, silent and unmoving, as the alien’s gaze travelled from the Noise Marine’s scarred visage to the unlit eyes of Domenico’s helmet. Having no reason any longer to keep them dim, he reactivated the light of his lenses. Though he could see well enough in the dark, the Codex was clear: keep the lights on unless otherwise necessary. Despite taking a looser interpretation of Guilliman’s writings than their Ultramarine cousins, the Blood Angels still adhered to the discipline it imparted as best they could.

The xenos flinched at the sudden light. Tears began to pour from its oversized eyes, and it wailed.

“Mommy!” the xenos desperately cried.

Domenico froze. A thousand memories of a thousand worlds rushed to the forefront of his mind. How many times had he heard those same words, in that same tone, flow from human lips? As the memories filtered back into the depths of his transhuman mind, new thoughts began to swirl.

A small part of him wondered, as had all the Blood Angels for some time, just how the xenos was able to speak Low Gothic. It was a question none had dared to mention much, especially with the greater concerns of Chaos and the White Princess, Celestia, taking precedence. Its implications were too unnerving, even for the fearless Space Marines, and too complex for simple discourse. Yet this thought was short and brief; it was a question for a later time, when the veterans could sit in council and discuss these discoveries in detail.

A more important thought soon overrode the linguistic query. What was he to do with this creature? On one hand, Imperial dogma was clear: purge the xenos. Though for now desperation kept them allied with the locals, there were no witnesses here. He could do as he pleased and none would be the wiser. It was the simple solution. It was the Ecclesiarchical, the Inquisitorial solution.

Yet on the other hand, it was not the only legitimate solution. Domenico would never question the Holy Word of Terra; the galaxy was the Emperor’s, and no xenos would be allowed to oppose that. But in practice, there was room for exception. Over the centuries, Domenico had several times encountered the so-called ‘sanctioned xenos,’ aliens permitted by no lesser authority than the High Lords of Terra to exist within Imperial borders. And furthermore, Alessandro had, for better or worse, allied them with these xenos. To betray the trust of an alliance was commonplace to the treacherous mind of the alien, but an offense to the honour of a Blood Angel.

Lastly came a more personal thought, the appearance of which surprised the Sanguinary Priest. He recalled again the many children he had encountered while defending the Imperium of Man. Orphans, wailing for their lost parents, desperate for the security of caring arms and soothing words. Such plights had always struck a chord with Domenico, though he could not begin to explain why. It was a trait he had long ago attributed to the Emperor’s Will. Wherever it came from, it had been a part of him for longer than he could remember.

And yet, it irked him, offended the same pride which told him to honour the alliance, that he was forced to fight alongside aliens. He was a Defender of Humanity, a Space Marine. His mandate was to destroy all who threatened the children of Terra, be they alien or Warpborn. And what would he do with a xenos child anyway? Rescuing the creature offered nothing of benefit.

Another memory, this one far more recent, rose up in his mind. Just a few days ago, in the xenos village, when the battle had been won and the Chapter’s Due had been collected, Domenico had elected to spend his time in the field hospital the xenos had been using. There he had worked alongside a local healer, Nurse Redheart. A few hours later, he had delivered Mrs. Aldin’s baby with Redheart’s help. It was an unspoken maxim among many Space Marine Chapters that, when dealing with amenable xenos, to repay a debt incurred. If even the Blood Ravens could hold to such a rule, even when the favour owed was to the devious Eldar, then how could Domenico do any less?

These thoughts battled in his mind, vying for influence. At last, the victor was determined, and the decision was made.

The whole process took Domenico’s genhanced mind roughly a second.

In what would have seemed to mortal eyes to be a single motion, the Sanguinary Priest activated the cover-field in his Blood Chalice, sealing the sacred liquid inside, stabbed the Crimson Knife into the corpse of the Noise Marine, removed his helmet and clipped it to his waist, and kneeled down. He reached out with his free hand and gently stroked the xenos child’s scalp.

“Be still, tiny xenos,” he said. “And be not afraid. You are safe now, and need fear the cruelties of Chaos no longer.”

The xenos flinched at the touch, but offered no resistance. Had it been human, Domenico would have guessed it was suffering from too much emotional trauma to care where comfort was coming from, simply that it was coming. Given that he was dealing with an alien, however, he had in truth no idea. Regardless, he continued to slowly stroke the xenos. It soon leaned into his palm, its weeping slowly diminishing to wet sniffles. With the crying for now handled, Domenico allowed centuries of medical experience to take over.

Carefully placing the Blood Chalice on the floor, he reached over and grabbed a stray piece of fabric. He placed a firm but gentle grip on the xenos’ back, continuing to stroke it with his fingers so as to keep it calm. He then carefully wiped away the bloodstains in the creature’s fur. Xenos or not, Domenico knew it was unhealthy to have something that toxic slowly burning its way into one’s body. The xenos tensed, but its struggle remained minimal. With the cleaning done, Domenico did a quick assessment of the xenos itself. A moment later he was satisfied that it had suffered no physical harm.

“Where, where’s Mommy?” the xenos asked through its sniffles. To Domenico’s surprise, he found the creature’s nostrils to be slowly streaming trails of mucus, just like human children. It was unnerving how similar these aliens were at times to humanity. “What, who are you?”

“I am Domenico, Priest of Sanguinius,” he answered as softly as he could. It would avail him nothing to agitate the xenos again. “Your mother is…”

He trailed off. He could full well see that the xenos’ mother was dead. The corpse was but a couple metres away, already cooling. Yet what help would it be to tell the xenos this? It is the simplest, most pragmatic choice. The xenos is an orphan now, and the sooner it knows, the sooner it can recover.

“Deceased,” Domenico finished. “But she and your sire are avenged. As you can see, the heretic who slew them is dead.”

Tears welled up again in the xenos’ eyes. “D-dead? No, Mommy, Daddy, no!”

Domenico silently groaned. He knew that this was the most likely response the xenos could have had, given the eerie resemblance its reactions had to human psychology, but it was still an unwanted impediment. The Priest was needed elsewhere; Orlando and the xenos scouts would soon catch up with him, and they still needed to locate Brother-Sergeant Priam. He did not have any more time to waste on a weeping alien.

“Tiny xenos, I cannot waste time here any longer,” Domenico said. “There is battle to be joined, and my blood screams for release. Quiet your weeping and I will take you to safety.”

The xenos gave him a look of distraught betrayal that quickly turned to anger. “You’re lying! Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t leave me, they promised!”

Domenico groaned. Human children, as prone as he was to protect them, were difficult enough; xenos children, it seemed, were just as uncooperative, and far less deserving of a Space Marine’s sympathy. “Then they were fools. Death comes when it will, and pays heed to no man’s schedule. This place is not safe. This Noise Marine? There are dozens, hundreds more just like him running through the city, accompanied by thousands of lesser heretics. You will not last an hour down here, weeping over a cold corpse. This is your last chance, xenos.”

The pounding of feet from the floor above stole the attention of both Space Marine and xenos child. In a flash, Domenico was on his feet, the Blood Chalice in his hand and the Crimson Knife ripped from the bloody corpse of the Noise Marine. Concentrating on his transhuman hearing, Domenico discerned the intruders. Four, no, five, cultists, and two Traitor Astartes, likely Word Bearers.

He looked back to the xenos child, quivering in fear on the floor. Irritating as the creature was, it did not deserve whatever the Sons of Lorgar had planned for it. The Sanguinary Priest sighed.

“It seems fate favours you, xenos,” Domenico said, stabbing his sword into the ground again. “I cannot in good conscience leave you as fodder for Chaos. Come, we will ride to safety on wings of fire.”

The xenos eyed Domenico’s now-outstretched hand suspiciously, but some instinct Domenico did not care to identify overrode the creature’s fear and it approached, taking care to avoid the puddle of black blood which had formed around the deceased Noise Marine. To a surprised squeak from the xenos Domenico scooped it up and deposited it in the crook of his Chalice-arm. As loathe as the Priest was to allow a filthy xenos so close to so holy an artifact, he estimated that it would be a greater offense to the Emperor if he were to die because his sword-arm was filled with xenos.

Taking up the Crimson Knife once more, Domenico readied himself for battle.

“Hold tight, tiny xenos,” he said as he strode towards the stairs. “And keep your eyes closed. You will not want to see what comes next.

Domenico looked up the stairs. Around the corner was the edge of light, the path to the outside. Seven heretics, two of them Astartes, stood between him and escape. His head still unarmoured, he smiled. Good, he thought. My blade still hungers.

And so with a smile on his lips and a xenos child in his arm, Domenico charged with a wondrous cry on his lips.

“For Sanguinius and the Emperor!”

Author's Notes:

Just for reference, I have no idea if Noise Marine blood is canonically toxic/acidic. I just figure it works as a logical consequence of their… proclivities.

Also, that’s that plot arc set up. Next time, back to the battle at large.

I hope this scene wasn’t too jarring. It just kept growing until it demanded its own chapter.

For those wondering, I meant to include a scene with Domenico and Redheart back in Angels in Ponyville, but it never got written. So as far as story canon is concerned, Domenico lent a hand here and there, and when the refugees from the Wrath of Angels came down Redheart helped Domenico deal with Mrs. Aldin.

I also feel it prudent to mention that the opinions expressed by characters in this story are meant to represent their own views. Please do not assume them to be correct in every matter.