Serjeant Lyra Palander had never expected to see a Space Marine in the flesh – or, well, power armour – or at least, not so close as she was seeing one now. She'd seen them before; across the horizon, and there was never time for them to make eye contact she was sure, and she'd seen their transportation and wondered if she dared to sneak just one look. This, though, was far different, and somehow, a lot more terrifying. She knew they were big, and looked on them with a reverence that was almost approaching fear, but nine feet didn't sound all that big and menacing when the genetic super-soldiers were on your side. That was, until they were at your side, and you were craning your neck to look up and stare because you just couldn't help yourself, couldn't stop yourself from gawking. At that moment, Lyra's recent promotion didn't mean a thing, because the Storm Warden standing less than a foot away from her was so far above her in rank and in experience…

It was all she could do to bring her hand to the side of her head in a salute. She was sure that her legs snapped together louder than a hammer hitting a wall, her heart beating just as loudly. Suddenly, her armour seemed inadequate and in bad shape, and she was certain the buttons on the tunic underneath weren't done up right, or that her helmet was askew. Was it askew? It felt like it was tipped to one side of her head, covering one of her eyes – or was the soldier in front of her just more ridiculously tall than Lyra had realised? Was the symbol scratched, or upside down for some reason? Had she put her trousers on backwards this morning? Not that it mattered, all in all, when the paltry uniform, armour and decoration of her rank was put up against the wall beside that of a Space Marine. She wanted to slap herself – knock some sense into the slightly panicking mess that was her thoughts – but a superior was a superior. She was glued to the floor by more than just respect as the Commander looked down, nodded once, and moved on.

A few steps took him further away than Lyra could have imagined, as she finally breathed again and lowered her stiff arm to her side. Emperor, but that had hurt; Lyra supposed she couldn't really complain, given at the time it had been hit the ground or go up in flames. Knee and chin hurt, too, and it felt like she'd fallen in a puddle or something. She'd get them looked at later but there were more important things to do right now. Checking on the members of the Imperial Guard that worked – as of just over a week ago – under her, seeing how many of them were alive, and finding out what their new orders were, for one. It would probably be worth seeing if the Space Marines had left any Xenos alive; it hardly mattered at this point by whose hand the heretics died, though if anyone had kept count they would have pointed out the clear 'win' for the Space Marines so far as bodies went. Lyra had slung her lasgun back over her shoulder when the fight had looked finished and as she rolled her eyes she pulled it back into her hands now, relaxing at the sensation of the cool metal against her skin.

A quick shot into the ground declared it fit for use, and Lyra paused to readjust the omni-scope attached to the top, that had obviously come loose while running. After the strings she'd pulled to even afford one – even second hand – she didn't want to lose what might almost laughably be the most expensive piece of kit she owned. She shook her head and tightened the elastic keeping her hair off her face and slowed her jog down to a walk as she reached her men – there were no women in her squad. She'd not noticed before – and counted heads, biting down on her lip as she did so. The kit – when looking for the dead – meant nowhere near as much as it had only a few seconds before. There were those who might consider the Imperial Guard nothing more than cannon fodder but to Lyra, they were allies, even friends, and people she was responsible for. She had to count heads.

And once she'd counted heads, Lyra was going to go and find a chair and close her eyes for a little bit…

"Aaaahh-! …S-Sir!"

Lyra supposed there were more graceful ways to wake up. Even lying down, her back went straight, her hand darting to the side of her head once more in an admittedly messy salute. She also supposed that the plan hadn't been to pass out... She tried to sit up – damned if she was going to lie on her back and do nothing at all – but a heavy, silver metal hand pressed down on her chest, and Lyra decided to do as she was told. Wasn't every day you woke up on a metal table with a Space Marine hovering over you looking – amazingly – like an expectant mother. Besides, when she thought about it she really didn't feel much like standing up anyway. If she wasn't hallucinating then the fight was over, and she wasn't in any sort of danger. She was sure she'd counted most of her guards alive. The bodies – if they could – would be retrieved. It wasn't cheerful, but she wouldn't be much use if she bled to death before the next fight, would she?

There was one low, smoker's grunt, then the sound of metal moving further away.

"Don't call me Sir, Kid."

Lyra opened her eyes again, studying the back of the soldier's suit. Blue, white, silver. That made him another Storm Warden, then; not that she'd thought this fight would warrant more than one Chapter's appearance anyway. Though the fact he carried a claymore on his back marked him out – if she had her facts correct – as a veteran, it was clear from the level of his equipment and demeanour that he was of lower rank than the one she'd passed yesterday. And unlike that Storm Warden, this one had removed his helmet, leaving it on the table beside him. He was no Librarian, though. Lyra couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, her heart in her throat as she tentatively touched her shoulder, then her chin, and with a painful stretch, her knee. There were dressings on all three, her jaw aching the worst. She was about to try and word a question when an inhuman growl sent her dropping back to the counter she was laid out on.

"Didn't I tell you to stay still?" Lyra barely blinked, staring at the man's humming armour. "Well?"

Lyra's mouth opened and shut, and then she finally spoke, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of her tone. This wasn't the time. "…You didn't, S- no."

"Then stay down, Kid."

Lyra muttered under her breath. "I'm no kid."

"Right. Well. Stay down, Soldier. You're getting on my nerves."

Lyra did as she was told, and was even quiet about it for a couple of minutes. In the end, though, curiosity got the better even of being intimidated by the Storm Warden who was standing on a couple of metres from her. It was almost as though he was on vigil, though she doubted she was worth quite that much. As soon as his back turned again, Lyra worked up the strength and mustered up the courage to prop herself up on one elbow and have a look around. Suddenly it all seemed to make a lot more sense. She was in a tent, it seemed, that had been fashioned into something of a medical ward. The walls of the tent – if you could call them that – seemed heavy, almost claustrophobic, and the few Guardsman and occasional Storm Wardens who were doubted around the room – the Guards in Inquisitorial red and gold like she was, the Storm Wardens a stark opposite of blue and silver – stood out like fire in a vacuum. It was hot, despite Lyra now realising that she had been stripped of her armour, and was lying just in her uniform shirt and bottoms. Even her jacket, when she now looked, was slung over a chair. She felt almost naked.

It was a simple workshop, which – as she ducked back down before the Storm Warden saw her – gave Lyra hope. There would likely be somewhere else where the dead would be kept, but at least there was no hustle here, and very few filled beds. That meant there couldn't have been all that many casualties on their side. Emperor knew she'd lost enough people back home, to want to lose anymore here. She shook her head and sighed; curious occupation to get into, for someone who so disliked loss. Her quiet sigh got the attention of the Storm Warden, who had been leaning over another bed. The man, she now saw, had a thick beard, that could have been trimmed better, and longer brown hair that she suspected he was less than pleased with himself. He kept blowing his fringe off his face and muttering grumpily, his gloved hands moving as though he was worried about something. He scowled at her, and she didn't think she could press herself any further into the bed sheets no matter how hard she tried.

And suddenly, she didn't have a choice.

"I told you to rest."

"Sergeant Palander." When the man snapped, his armour seemed to snarl once more, and louder. Lyra – waking up once more – had tried to sit up again, only to be snapped back down. Despite cringing, Lyra's response was swift, and unrelated, born of a certain need to assert herself, as best she could. After all, had she not been chosen for a specific task, a greatness none of the people gathered here could know about? She smirked silently, before putting her hands on her stomach, feeling somewhat awed by the thought. That said, she supposed lying here injured was doing nothing for her pride. The Storm Warden blinked, scratching his jaw below his beard again. Lyra gulped, convinced there was something the size of her fist stuck in her throat. Perhaps she had swallowed her dignity. Wouldn't be the first time. "Third-"

"Doesn't matter." The man shrugged – or at least, Lyra thought he did. She noticed now that his attention was on another of his men, on the bed beside hers. That explained why he was there, why he was talking; perhaps the Space Marines were more human than they sometimes seemed, and he was simply worried? She chided herself for the thought. "You fought well. Bravely. I saw you get hit." For a second a smile ghosted over the man's stern countenance, and Lyra thought over what she knew of his Chapter. Obviously he valued the trait of not backing down; sometimes, Lyra thought herself foolish for it. "Don't be ashamed that you got injured."

"I – I'm not ashamed, Sir."

"I told you, I'm not a Sir." Lyra felt herself blushing bright, but the Space Marine barely seemed to care. "If you have to call me something, it's Griogair." Lyra opened her mouth, to be quickly quietened again. "Not Grey-gor, not Gree-gair, not… Gree-o-gyr… Grey-ger." The Storm Warden paused, before shrugging and turning away again. "…It happens a lot." Lyra nodded, and closed her eyes, wincing just once before letting her body go limp once more. The Storm Warden cleared his throat, still staring at his fallen comrade. "Your injured men have been treated. Your commanding officer is talking to mine. I carried you here because you passed out checking that Aiden," He pointed at the man below, undeniably one of his kind by his build and height but strangely unarmoured, "Had a pulse. Though I believe you were delirious." Lyra blushed once more. "I've never seen someone try to get a pulse through Power Armour before."

"Force of habit…"

"You've been out for several hours." Griogair's voice sounded almost strained, as though talking seriously didn't come naturally to him. He was obviously trying hard not to discredit the reputation of the Space Marines. He didn't give Lyra a word in edgeways, though with one hand on her stomach and the other on his friend's bed, he stopped her from trying to move to talk to him again. Finally, she yielded, and nodded her acceptance not to move again. "Rest."

"But Sir-"

"I said rest. And shut up." Lyra blinked, and slowly curled up against the bed once more, barely aware of the man's final mumbling as she drifted into sleep. "…I'm trying to sleep."