Chapter 2: Somnium et Solitas

Planet: Agri-World of Kallidia

Location: Outskirts of the City of Haven

989.M41

It remains a sad truth that virtually no veteran comes back from fighting its wars intact. Combat alone shreds nerves and shatters bodies. But the horrors of the warp, and of foul xenos forms like the tyranid, steal sanity forever, and leave veterans fearing the shadows, and the night and, sometimes, the nature of their friends and neighbors, for the rest of their lives.

- Inquisitor Gregor Eisenhorn

-Agri-World of Kallidia, seven years prior-

"Wherever you go, whatever they order you to do. Never forget to listen to what your heart and conscience tells you." A mother told her son as he prepared to do the work of the Emperor.

The son, unable to grasp the meaning behind her words gave a short nod as a response.

'What do you mean by follow my heart and conscience? I have been chosen to serve the god-Emperor, to protect the people of his realm, what greater honor is there than to have such duty?'

He wanted to speak his thoughts but with his knowledge of his parent's feelings about his departure, he restrained himself. But a part of the reason that he refrained from saying it out loud was that he was not as zealous to the faith as most of his age were which was caused by the reading of many books and scriptures that had contradicted the current religion. Many of such literature were history books. Still, he prayed to the god- Emperor, most of the time. He simply wanted to help mankind in its ever so raging wars, a reason not tainted by the actual want to prove himself to the Emperor or to any deity at that.

As a son of both former guardsmen, he aspired to be one. Inspired by the stories of dangers, victory, valor and most importantly, of how they saved lives, he quickly jumped at the opportunity to join the unsung heroes of the Imperium. Once he had told them that he was accepted as a recruit and trainee, both of them tried to talk him out of it. Surprised and hurt, he refused and stood his ground. He couldn't understand as to why they did so at the time and thus the discussion rapidly escalated into a minor conflict. They spoke of the horrors they had faced and the dreadful deeds that they were forced to commit. The attempt to dissuade their foolish son failed and thus they stood in front of each other as the son bade his farewell under the guidance of the morning sun.

As they spent their final moments as a whole family, the soon to be guardsman tried his best to show an iron curtain. A farce depraved of any form of sadness or uncertainty as he reassured them his safety. His parents smiled at him, a smile full of sadness as he had seen whenever he had done something wrong as a child. Instantly, he knew that they feared for his safety as both hugged him. He had heard rumors that the average lifespan of a guardsman was around fifteen hours. But he knew that even if he have to face great odds, there was still and would always be a chance for survival. After all, his parents were able to survive their ten year contract and were able to retire into a backwater agri-world without any complications, or so they told him. He believed that the fact that they were able to raise their family was a testament to that chance, a slim and slippery chance but not entirely impossible.

"I knew that I shouldn't have told you those stories." His father said as he and his mother released him, their only son from their embrace.

"You know that stories weren't the only reason why I joined right?" He replied as he shouldered his pack.

He filled his voice with false mirth in hopes of lessening the burden on his old folks.

"Yeah, trust me, I know." His father replied.

His father had told him before that he was one of the kind sorts, too kind for the fields of war and that that kindness was what made it painful for them to lose him into the war machine. At the time, he just shrugged as he knew that his parents were somewhat sentimental towards almost everything.

He watched his mother reached behind her, she produced a scarf and held it to him. He looked at it for a moment, baffled at the sudden gift. It was as white as snow, made from the finest and most durable cloth available in Kallidia.

"It will be cold during the night cycles. This should help you with warming up."

The son, still shocked to see such an expensive piece of clothing being handed to him by his parents started to falter. Their family wasn't that well off, there were times where they were barely able to survive yet they still bought it for him. Who knows how much fortune it could've taken them. He struggled in silence. He tried to keep his composure but failed. His fortress walls collapsed and with a surge of emotions, he hugged the two veterans as he wept like a child.

The two former soldiers held their son with tears streaming down their faces. The mother stroked her son's black mane as she did years ago as he grew up.

"You will face many horrors and trials. You will be forced to do many things that could destroy you. But if ever comes a time when you can no longer take it, when you feel that you can no longer march forward and bear the burden. Calm yourself and remember why you chose to fight, and then decide your next action." His mother reminded him.

"Even if everyone shuns you, even if you are labelled as a heretic and hunted down, always fight for what you think is right. Stay true to your principles and you will do just fine." His father added.

The voices of his parents echoed in his mind as he slowly woke up.

Rodemman woke with a sudden chill. It was already deep into the night and the temperature has dropped drastically. He fished out a small blanket roll from his pack. Normally, most of his fellow guardsmen would use it as a pillow instead of a blanket when they lack a bulky pack but as the frozen fingers of the unknown world caressed his being, he was grateful for the little warmth it provided. He wrapped the blanket serviced to him since his days as a trainee. He noted the distinct smell of gun oil and smoke. Commissar Lucas had once told his regiment during their training that once a guardsman stepped into combat, the smell of war would follow them even unto death.

It looks like he was right. He silently commented as the words of the now deceased Commissar resounded within him.

White mists swirled from his mouth. Rodemman started to feel uncomfortable as he lay on top of the relic. He sat up and leaned on the wall, a way to sleep that he had devised when stationed in the trenches. But his 'tried and tested' way to ensure sleep didn't help to ease his frozen muscles. His body longed for the warmth of his home world, with his family.

"It will be cold during the night cycles. This should help you with warming up."

Rodemman remembered his mother's words. He smiled at the thought of his far away parents as he took the white scarf stored deep within his pack. The last memento of their love and the once peaceful life he once lived, hard at times but peaceful nonetheless. He examined the scarf, no longer as pristine as it used to be as it showed his story as a guardsman. Burn marks scorched most of the cloth, cuts and holes riddled the scarf, all of which were from near death experiences. He would mend it from being torn to pieces whenever he had the time and the materials to do so but as he was thrusted into combat, it would only be damaged once again. He would wear it with pride as he fought in the frontlines, always on the move as he carried his trusted lasgun that had a few tricks up its sleeves. He would either safely wrap the memento on his neck or secure it on his right arm. The loose ends would often confuse enemy shooters and would either miss their shot entirely or graze him, in a way the memento has often saved his life.

Due to Rodemman's innate skills in the battlefield along with his unique addition to his armor, he had earned the nickname of 'Archangel' and was often referred to as such by his platoon mates. Apparently, the way his loud scarf flew as he ran through the field with his lasgun has often saved his brethren from a well-placed bullet to the head from an autogun or at times, a bolter. But as if a payment in exchange for their lives, he would often learn that multiple hostiles were aiming for his head.

"I swear, being an Archangel and a moving target are two different things." He would often complain to his fellow guardsmen who would respond with a short burst of laughter.

He didn't mind as such comical relief was important not just for troop morale but also for their own wellbeing. He had seen his fair share of deranged guardsmen after an ugly engagement. Thus he would often crack a few jokes to ease the tension to which everyone in his platoon appreciated and would return the favor as they valiantly fought shoulder to shoulder. The knowledge that his fellow guardsmen, brothers, would gladly fight beside him even unto death might have been the only relief an expandable such as himself could truly feel admits the horrors of war.

He stared at his scarf as he wondered whether those close calls were truly just the effect of his nimbleness or if the Emperor had summoned his parents to secretly safeguard him through the scarf. As he charged into battle, it was as if his parents were by his side as he fought the enemies of mankind. He could clearly imagine his father with a lasgun and his mother with a flamer as they silently cleared a path for him. He smiled at the thought.

"Damn, I miss them." He told himself.

"I know how you feel." A former friend replied.

Rodemman scowled at the sudden memory or thought, he was uncertain, of the traitor. He shook his head wildly to disperse any further memories of his former childhood friend who had betrayed him and his comrades as they defended the Hive World of Alexandria. He sighed.

I'm just tired. He told himself.

He wrapped the memento on his neck and once more drifted into sleep. Just as his breathing had finally settled to a comfortable rhythm, the sound of an explosion followed by the cries of combat jolted him back into consciousness. Instincts took over as he retrieved his lasgun and returned the small blanket to his pack. When he departed from the house, he saw columns of smoke south of his position which was shown by his compass.

I won't be sleeping tonight with the entire ruckus anyway. Rodemman convinced himself.

He knew the risks and the possibility of death the loomed over him and yet, he ventured out into the unknown. A white scarf fluttered through the ghostly settlement.

The form clicked its tongue as it watched the guardsman run towards the slaughter that it had orchestrated. Reluctantly, it slowly turned to face the opposite direction as it clutched the hilt of its unholy dagger. A slight smile on its shadow covered face as it held a simple golden pendant shaped as a heart with its other hand. It clutched it to its chest as it entered its temporary hab, the same one to which the guardsman suddenly crashed upon.