Cadia's Price
Sequestration13
These are hard times on Cadia, for every facet of life on this brutal planet is war and war alone. And indeed, the Despoiler seemed ready to strike yet again from the Eye of Terror. War is Cadia's business, its role as the Gatekeeper was nigh legendary. But there is a price paid for that legend. A price that many know all too well.
The bells of the churches dare not ring. Signs of a war over the horizon are stark. The flags ripple stiffly in the breeze and the sharp thud of polished combat boots echo across the streets. The Forum of the Resolute echoes with the cries of singers weeping out requiems to the fallen and the Kasrs bustle with frantic activity. Soldiers march left and right, with Administratum clerks and servo skulls buzzing around the halls.
The churches inside are filled with activity too, but the pallor of the people inside made it obvious that this was not the grim, resolute, and unyielding face of war. "This is the grim, tragic, and disheartening result of war," said the priest. "But what we know, is that these men knew what they were going in and we are proud to know that the Emperor welcomes them to His side." This is yet another mass consecration as more sons of Cadia are laid to eternal peace.
Inside, thousands sit near silently as the ministrations continued. Litanies and canticles are chanted. The great church, with its windows of Saints and Heroes long remembered and imbued with the spirits of those recently forgotten, had seen it all, and was resigned to play host to yet another set of tragedies. They were men of courage, the church had reasoned, good Cadians, through and through.
Over twenty men lay in their caskets before the great image of the Emperor. While the bodies were there, the coffins were closed lest the mourners realize just what had killed them. No one wanted to see the sheer terror many of them experienced. Their faces were frozen in masks of frustration, horror, or despair as yet another cultist had burst past the line heading straight for them. Not the peace that so many had wished for and their families hoped for as the priests continued chanting "Requiem aeternum dona eis, Imperator."
The caskets made their way across the city as officers removed their caps at the processional. Cadia was hardly a happy place, but an old veteran hung his head as the throng of black clothed men and women passed him by. Two young boys playing with toy lasrifles swiftly ran for home when they saw the priests and smelled the incense heralding death and despair long before one could glimpse it. Indeed, the cemetery was not far at all.
But its proximity belied the sheer size of the field dedicated to the brave and honored dead. Easily thousands lay in peace across the open field. Tombstones of all sorts were arranged in neat precision, with some more weathered than others. Withered flowers and plants still lay on many of the graves. Token remembrances of family lost, testament to the ever present need to move on. Such is the tradition on Cadia.
If the name of the dead is no longer legible on the gravestone, then the corpse would be exhumed and the bones thrown into a communal pit. There was a problem this day. Once the procession had found its way to where the priest had made certain the names had worn down, the names looked freshly cut, as if done recently with a laser. "Captain Jarel Sinding, The Castellan's Own". "Sergeant Hargreave Agremon, The Rolling Thunder". "A Son of Cadia, Known to only the Emperor." In fact, as the priests looked around, every single tombstone seemed to have freshly recut names. But where to bury those who were remembered today? Nobody knew.
They did find a piece of paper affixed to one of the gravestones, yet no one could make sense of it.
"One ever hangs where shelled roads part.
In this war He too lost a limb,
But His disciples hide apart;
And now the Soldiers bear with Him."
"Near Golgotha strolls many a priest,
And in their faces there is pride
That they were flesh-marked by the Beast
By whom the gentle Christ's denied."
"The scribes on all the people shove
And bawl allegiance to the state,
But they who love the greater love
Lay down their life; they do not hate."
A thousand miles away, at yet another graveyard, in the midst of a blizzard, a hulking individual knelt at yet another grave. His scouring of Imperium records told him who this grave belonged to. It was the final one of the hundreds buried here. Taking out a small lascutter, he began to carve into the nearly smooth tombstone "Private L. Jenkins, The Lucky Sevens". It took him a while, but the honoring of the dead should never be forgotten or neglected. Ironic, he thought to himself. A man who enlisted in the lucky regiment was blown up on his first day of combat.
"Hey! You!"
Cursing his luck, the figure turned around with one hand on his bolt pistol. A faint whine accompanied his movements.
"Yeah, you!" replied the man, who looked to be extremely drunk. "Who do you think you are?!"
Affixing a sealed piece of paper to Private Jenkins' gravestone, he stood and walked away from the drunkard realizing the man would not pose a threat in any way.
"You didn't answer my question!"
The shadowy figure stopped, before turning his head and simply saying "I am Alpharius." He then foraged on, not bothering to look back as his boot tracks were rapidly filled in by the snow.
Warhammer 40,000, Warhammer, 40k, and all associated names, places, characters, creatures, and races from the 40k universe are trademarked, reserved and/or copyright by Games Workshop Ltd. 2000-2013 in the United Kingdom and other countries around the world. The poem "At a Calvary near the Ancre" is written by Wilfred Owen. The user sequestration13 understands this and does not claim any of these. This is a work of fanfiction that will not make profit in any way, shape, or form. Special thanks to Brother-Sergeant Rafen for editing.