Azrael could see his friend falling, blade lodge just bellow the sterna. It was easy missions. There shouldn't be any casualties. Then how come twenty of his squad mates were dead. The tight confines of helmet were suffocating. He felt trapped within it, so he tore it off and threw it on the ground. Mayrzael hits him in the chest with his own helmet. What in the Emperor's name are you doing. You blaspheming the machine god. You want your equipment to fail mid-combat."
"He is dead, sir."
His brother gave him a serious look. His bronze feature glinting off the fading light. "Brother, we die. It's part of the job."
"But ..."
"No Buts." The tone implied that his words were final. "If I hear another outburst, I'll have you reported to your seargent."
"Sir, I'm not defective. We lost someone true to the faith."
"Yet, the rest morn his loss in the traditional Astartes way, vengeance. It's not loss I see but fear. I'm angered as you are about the botched mission, enduring vigilance. But this is not how to handle it." His brother is right. So he said no more. Instead relying on piety.
"What troubles you my son?"
He kneeled within the cathedral. Giant glass stain windows depicting the Emperor during the great crusade. His features exaggerated beyond recognition. This is post heresy god version.
My squad must've displeased the emperor.
"The massacre," the Astartes preist finished.
"Yes," he replies glumly.
You did nothing to displease him. Accidents do happen. Thing go wrong, brothers die."
"It was a trivial missions. Impossible for things to go wrong. Pre-golden age phrase: plans never survive past first contact with the enemy." Once again he found his point of view differed from his brothers. It's maddening how they didn't see the irrationality of it. They must've failed.
Thank father, but my wirds belong to the emperor."
The priest bows and continues his duties. He spent the better part of the day praying, but he found no wisdom or greater meaning. Only empty darkness and a voice within. There is broadcast playing over the vox speakers within the cathedral. It's the local saint Miriael. Normally the astertes ignore the saints broadcast, a hatred stretching from the pre-heresy days. Horus himself hunted down the first saint. So you would think the Astartes would welcome them with open arms. But most would prefer to put a bolter round through their head. But he is feeling exceptionally low today. Her words touched him. "Fine," he says with rumble to his voice.
The local sermon weren't going well. The few mortals stationed at Ceti-145 were in attendance and being harassed by some local astartes. Namely Zaelov, a brother known for being inept in social matters and for his temper. He tries to stay out of it. Passing the confrontation
"You dare blaspheme the Emperor?" One of the mortal cries out.
"The only one who blaspheme is this witch." Zaelov yells back. Several priest tryvto hold him back. "Touch me again and your dead." That was the lynch pin in the powder keg.
"You dare threaten a priest?" Zaelov bolter is raised in a inhuman heart beat. The shot direct towards the priest. It was his sacred duty to act shoving the priest aside and raising his own bolter. Pain beyond the frail limitations of the human form course through him. The bolter in his hand barks tearing through Zaelov armor. The accompanying Astartes open fire at him. He dives out of the way. Seconds later the sergeant enters the chapel.
"He shot Zaelov." The sergeant saw the priest on the ground and looks at him.
"You expect me to believe a unarmored Astartes took on a fully clad one. I should charge you for heresy. Zaelov geneseed is to be extracted at dawn. Pray I don't take yours as well." The sergeant activates his internal vox. "Medic!"
"What bring you to my cathedral, saint
"My chapter has fallen from the Emperor's light." He replies barely conscious.
"It's not the flesh that has sinned but the soul. I sense doubt in your piety. A great threat is coming. The two headed serpent; one green, one black. Seek your piety there. Now sleep." He blacks out.
Even burning courage of alcohol could not numb the guilt or ease the burden.
"You did this." He couldn't recognize the face, but the voice is from his squad.
"I'm sorry he is dead. I would do anything to take it back." The alcohol dulled his senses and reflexes making the blow all the more savage. Reinforced bones crack, muscles tearing. There isn't even response in self defense.
One of the other members of his squad stepped in punching the attacker. He didn't remember much. Mostly violence. More Astartes come into escort him to the medbay again.
There is a old mortal woman working there. "What is the meaning of this? I won't have a human defiling my flesh."
She apparently isn't amused or for that matter, cared much at all. "Listen, the mechanicus cleared me, along with your chapter's apothecary. I'm cleared and sanctioned. What happened in there?"
He shoves her away as gently as genetically possibly for him. The marine more than doubles her hight. "I've failed them. They are right to be angry."
"That's nonsense," he turns to see sergeant Ayrn Forge step into the room. "You still feel guilt where none is need. The brother's heart must be pure for the Emperor." It was almost a form of greeting with him. Now the man is walking over to him.
"Where was the Emperor on that day."
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. You can't take the Emperor name in vain." Once pleasantries were over he address the topic at hand. "So what troubles you brother? Is it still the death of Gabrael?"
"His death is my burden to bare. You are neither a sergeant nor are you captain. I fail to see how this is your fault." If it had been any other day, maybe that would have work. But he couldn't rationalize that. There had to be something he could've done. Therefor the failure is on him. There is no denying that.
"Nothing could've prevented his death. You have no control on what Intel you have in war. You can't keep looking for your own faults. Except his death."
"I can't except that." His skin felt clammy and he couldn't stop his hands from shaking.
Forge gave a fatherly smile, "You shame his name by blaming yourself when he wouldn't want that for you. Forget this madness. Come see me when your well. For now take some time off."
He tries to take time off, but he just ends up drinking, if not drinking, then fighting. Hatred temporarily relieves the pain. To make it worse, he is more machine than man. The Bolter destroyed his second heart and left compound lung. It was hell of a time adjusting to the new cybertronics. There is a steady mechanical wheezing as he walks. Earlier that day alarms blared, there is meeting but he wasn't privileged to it. So he went anyway.
"Azrael, what do you need?"
"I'm still an arstartes damn it. You trying push me out."
The lead Astartes on the podium looks at him. "Forge said to take a few days."
"While you reap glory like wheat? This is bullshit." He clanks his way down the isle.
"Fine," the brother says dismissively. "The size of the ork armada show that it came from the unexplored regions on the very edges of the milky way galaxy. It's the only way to explain its size. Fleet command has all but collapsed. This is the first time the entire imperial navy has been assembled in history. Yet the ork tides can't be stopped. Ork casualty are in the trillions. We're heading to Uralan to help the besiege planet. Get your gear and start your pray routine."
Uralan is close to the eye of terror. It's one of the lesser fortified world that make up the imperium of man's bulwark against the eye. The largest imperial warship, the retribution class battleship, create a formidable line between the enemy and the planet. Yet they paled in comparison to massive Ork hulk ships and grand scrap ships. The ladder constructed from hundreds of smaller ship, every inch a different weapon. They filled skies over Uralan with enough death to black out the sun.
Out of ten huge Roks launched towards the capital city Zefuejhar, nine were destroyed out right. Yet this continues day and night until the massive city is all but leveled. Marines drop pods landed within the ruined city. "We getting any vox traffic?"
"No," says Forge standing beside him. "Head towards the second sub level in the industrial district. Intel puts the Imperial guard there." Ork between there and second sub-level were easily in the hundreds if not thousands. The level bellow stretch on for miles upon miles. Miles of barbwire, entrenched heavy stub guns, and mortar emplacements. The dead ork bodies were stacked in ten feet high piles.
He saw no sense in the attack. They leveled the city. Why continue the attack. Yet the green skin refused. They threw themselves at the defenders, sometimes unarmed. The defenders reclaimed the pile of rubble after a days worth of fighting. They were moved to the river 30 kilometers to the north. A host of mega nobs were attempting to cross the river. Their destination unknown as everything north of the river had been destroyed. Imperial guard were trying to set up defense. Leaving achandful of twin-link las cannons equip astartes and company of normal marines to halt their advance. Their attack is devoid of planning or guile. A straight forward charge into heart of their fire. It is of little surprise that the majority of them died within the first few minutes.
As soon as the attack began, it was over. The enemy for no real reason left the system.
Afterward the cost is high, not on Astartes lives. But sheer damage to infrastructure. The planet would almost certainly be abandoned. The ork attacks continued.
On board the battle-barge purge, the tension had transcend into something else. The attack had reach Cadia. From portside windows he could see surface to space weapon tearing huge holes in the enemy vessel. They even brought down a space hulk if that is to believed. Cyclonic torpedoes destroyed a grand scrap ship. Surface lance fire destroyed an entire fleet of ships. This he could see from just one window. Still they came.