The sky wept in a magnificent display of relentless fortitude. Over a fortnight ago, the heavens had split, cracked open in a cacophony of roaring thunder and howling winds. And the rain, which felt hard as iron on the skin, had not ceased since. It washed away the impurities of the blood soaked battlefield, absolving the land of a months worth of violent sin and rivers of gore. In the filthy, flooding bastion of the Imperial trenches, two beating hearts lay amongst the sea of broken, mauled and maimed corpses that litters the claustrophobic corridors. The thunderous orchestra of two clashing war machines drowned the rhythmic pitter patter of the world's tears.
Yet, in this moment, the inexhaustible pitter-patter was all the Eldar could hear. Louder than an Ork Warboy, yet more graceful than a Farseer's song, the rain's steady, ever present repetition seems the greatest power in the galaxy. Gingerly, she raised her head from the sodden ground. Half clotted blood clung to the floor, whilst her wounds leaked fresh crimson rivulets from her head. Her helmet was shattered. The damage rough and uneven, the pieces either scattered amongst the corpses of the fallen or rendered unto dust. An ugly break. She wasn't sure how, or why, but half her face was now exposed to the wailing elements.
Faintly, above the smell of blood and seared flesh, of copper and iron and sulphur and smoke, Above the smell of war, she could make out the alien world's scent. A scent of foreign flowers. Of fresh rain and trees and clear, unpolluted air. The smell of life. The world's once breathtaking vistas is now pockmarked by smears of scarred battlefields and loose ground. Yet, despite it's unfortunate fate, the planet retains its majesty. Vast swathes of nature remains untouched and unsullied, it's beauty matched only by it's nobility. Wildlife flourishes in the world's teeming biosphere, breeding strange and graceful creatures, many curious and inquisitive.
Oh how she hated it.
The Eldar of Iyanden had named it Bientwe, and it was a beacon of hope. The garden world, which lays at a strategic position in the galactic south east, is rife with recourses and teeming with wild life. It would be great boon to any empire that possessed it. Even more so for the Craftworld of Iyanden, as it would serve as an excellent rallying point in their quest to restore that which was once lost. Yet the world carried one single, damning blight. Mon-keigh settlers.
The barbaric children of the Imperium had lain their young, zealous eyes upon the planet. Like ravenous canines they descended upon it, hungry to serve their Emperor to the last drop of their worthless lives. In accordance to the infestation, the Eldar had taken the appropriate action. Extermination. The thinned numbers of Iyanden descended upon the world in a rare display of raw Eldar power.
After the pitifully weak Imperial flotilla guarding the world had been removed, a full invasion fell upon the primitives below. Soon Iyanden soldiers and wraith-constructs alike had made planetfall. The conflict was projected to last but a handful of days. Yet now, two weeks later, any victory would seem phyric as the mon-keigh continues to insult the Eldar with their stubborn and costly resistance.
The Eldar warrior glanced around the sea of carnage to the victims of the brutal conflict. Bodies littered floor, mostly human, but many of her Eldar compatriots had fallen before the stiff Imperial opposition. Their bodies radiant and beautiful, even within the darkness of their everlasting slumber. She despaired that they should suffer such disgraceful deaths at the hands of these pathetic primitives.
At the very least their spirit stones spared them from the untold suffering invoked by the insatiable appetite of a lust-bent Chaos god.
A sudden rumble caught her attention. In the distance, a Leman Russ tank reversed desperately at full speed as a wraith-construct chased after it in hot pursuit. The tank fired wildly with all batteries in a desperate attempt to shake the ruthless war machine. An ear splitting roar erupted as a round from the Leman Russ' main gun made impact with the construct's left shoulder. The powerful blow came to fruition in an explosion that wrecked the construct's arm, detaching it from the body, leaving naught but a mangled stump. The construct paused momentarily to survey the damage, before continuing its rapid advance on the retreating imperial war machine.
Shrapnel and scalding slag was launched into the surroundings by the violent exchange. So far did it reach that, the Eldar soldier had to lower her lithe form as not have her exposed face be pelted by a shower of deadly, jagged and melted materials. Still reeling from the deadly assault, the Eldar's attention was caught by a low groan. Her one exposed eye danced across dirt floor of the roughly dug trenches. In a grievous case of misfortune and suffering, one off the thought-to-be corpses stirred, grasping at the tendrils of consciousness.
If she had cared enough to familiarize herself with the uniforms of the countless Imperial Guard regiments, she would have identified him as a man of Armageddon, sent to protect the young Imperial colony. However, in this moment, his visage was far from that of the Emperor's pride. His skin, a deep caramel colour, is etched with a multitude of scars, each of the spawning their own little river of blood. His uniform, once noble and proud, was reduced to a filthy, torn mess, marred by blood and gore. Both his own, and that of his enemies.
Where he may once have stood proud and strong, he had fallen to the side of the trench wall. If it where no for his grievous injuries, the Eldar may have thought that the man had intentionally position himself into the upright posture.
Slowly, and seemingly with immense willpower, the man's eyelids rose. Pain set upon him like a large, thick blanket, obscuring his senses and already muddled state of mind. His eyes, a rare sea-green shade, carefully surveyed the gruesome scene that lay sprawled around him. Fear lashed through his system as his eyes made contact with that of the Eldar. She was reaching for her rifle.
He promptly identified his lasgun, halfway buried by sodden mud and steaming wildly as the freezing shards of rain impacted the hot chassis of the recently used laser rifle. An ice cold chill enveloped him as he made a desperate gambit for his weapon. Terror coursed through his very veins as the guard came to a world shattering realization. He's legs wouldn't work. Glancing down, he stood witness to the bloody mess that his legs had become. Where there had once been feet, their was now flayed straps of skin and flesh, peppered with the yellow-whites of shattered bone shards. His armor had provided little protection against the onslaught of hostile explosives.
Had he not gazed upon untold horrors before, he would have been sick. Yet, at this moment, all he knows is despair. His eyes shot back to the Eldar, steeling himself to be ended at a moments notice. Hardening his resolve, his eyes became as though steel as he started to recite litinies to the Emperor under his breath. However, the Eldar woman took an unprecedented action. She stumbled forward, the violent movement sending even more droplets of blood dripping down her halfway exposed face. Thinking on her feet, she used her weapon to stabilize herself, leaning on it as though it where a crutch. Slowly, like a the looming axe of an executioner, she struggled forward, approaching the suffering guardsman.
Where it not been for his iron faith, the guardsman would have succumbed to mindless panic, or maybe even begged for mercy. Yet he remain true and steadfast, unwilling to submit to shame or heresy. He reeled at the Eldar as she approached, glaring a stare of unbridled hate, disgust and murderous intent. She returned the gaze in kind as she pulled herself towards her maimed advisory. Stopping mere inches from the man, she drank in his quivering form. Wether the shaking stemmed from the biting cold, fear or just the sheer agony the Mon-Keigh must be experiencing remained a mystery to her. Mayhaps it is a combination.
Gingerly, she lowered herself so that her face was mere inches from that of the hate filled human. She sneered, baring her pure white teeth at him. The guardsman return the favor by revealing his own teeth, yellowed by neglect during the never ending constant that is the fighting and stained a deep crimson by the by the steady stream of blood flowing from the hole where his left canine had once been. Reveling in the putrid stench of the man's breath, the Eldar soldier regarded the man's filth incrusted features.
Truly, mankind is beneath the great and noble Eldar people. Yet, something gnawed at her. This primitive, imbecilic, savage and lowly creatures presented her with an enigma. A question to which she could find no answer to in her infinitely more developed mind.
"Why?" She spat. The grace usually characteristic to the Eldar lost to her in that moment. Spittle flew from the exposed corner of her mouth, finding their final resting place on the incapacitated man's course stubble.
Crinkling the corners of his mouth in disgust, the man continued his icy glare. Halfway nauseated by the xenos filth that dare spit in his face, and halfway genuinely confused.
"Why do you resist?" She elaborates. "Your people stares the inevitability of oblivion in the face. Why do you still bare arms." Curiosity invaded her fiery eyes, hungry for an answer to her long withheld question.
"Last time I heard it was your species that was dying, xenos filth." The guardsman fired back, unwilling to accept any insult to the Emperor's children from a deceptive space elf with an ego the size of the Eye of Terror.
"Even when confronted with the most simplistic of questions your pitiful little mind fails to adequately respond within the the context, Mon-Keigh." the Eldar retorted, her voice dripping with clear, potent contempt. "Your defenses have been shattered. Your planetary leader is dead. Your forces have been reduced to crumbling pockets of foolhardy resistance, fighting like wounded animals. Your infernal tanks become your coffins, your trenches your graves. Communication with the rest of your Imperium is impossible." She pressed her point hard.
"All hope you once held is lost." She affirmed. "We have defeated you. The conclusion to your pitifully short story is here, on this world. Your only outcome is death. So I ask you again, primitive, why do you not surrender."
For seemingly the first time since this bloody battle had started, the Guardsman smiled. It was an ugly, mirthless thing. The corners of his mouth twitching upward, accentuating his chapped and fracked dry lips. Yet his eyes carried the suffering of his body and the fury of his soul.
"Why?!" He barked, sending his own volley of bloodstains saliva at the alien woman leaning before him. His voice was like gravel, dry and hoarse from an excess of yelling. Bracing himself against the trench wall, he prepared to elaborate.
"We resist because of putrid xenos scum like you." Unashamed loathing dripped from his words. For a second, the Eldar despaired. Thinking that hate fueled dogma was al she would be subject to, she prepared to to end the human.
"So long as we stand, your corrupting touch will never pierce the purity of the Imperium!" He continued, speaking loudly as to be heard over the deafening roar of a sudden artillery barrage that resonated across Bientwe's virgin forests.
"We fight to protect the Emperor's lands, and his children." He's voice seemed to swell with pride as he spoke, increasing in strength even through his clenching teeth.
"The tithe that insures the safety of trillions is payed in our blood, and it is a burden we carry gladly. But, even more than for the uncountable trillions, and the Emperor's gracious will, we fight so that those we cherish may live their lives in the closet thing to peace and happiness this fuck-up of a galaxy can offer. Everyday, we take solace therein that by fielding our guns and our blades, we bare them not only in the name of the Emperor, but in the name of comrades and family. So that they may wield the tool instead of sword. And should they be claimed by the bloodthirsty xenos, or by the tainted heretic, at the very least, we can avenge them."
"So no, we shall never lay down arms. We shall not balk, we shall not bend, and never, within the eternity of time, shall we surrender. Our watch will end only when the very last man has given the very last he has to offer!." He paused momentarily as to catch a shaky breath.
"We are the Imperial Guard, and we do not need hope." The Guardsman concluded his impassioned explanation.
The Eldar took pause. For but a moment, in this, the eye of the storm, she was humbled by the man's indomitable will, and silenced by his his futile stubbornness. She considers what the man had said. Like a wave, sudden and refreshing, understanding washed over her. Her eyes soften, and her lips remained slightly parted. The nature of both the Imperium's weakest, and its most braved bared naked for her to observe. Slowly she stood, basking in her new found insight to the mind of the Mon-Keigh.
For but a moment, she regarded the man. He's zeal and faith a bright flame in the all encompassing grimdark of the 41st Millennium.
And then she shot him in the head.