Flashlights, by thepkrmgc
In a galaxy of monsters: it is men who do the fighting.
In a galaxy of thirsting gods: it is mortals who defy them every day.
In a galaxy of overwhelming power: it is the powerless whose tales so often go untold.
In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium: the imperial guardsmen carry flashlights.
From a million worlds they come, from the bowels of the darkest hives to the frosty peaks of mountains without names. Taken through the warp to fight an endless fight so far away.
Their weaponry may only scratch their foes, their armor might be little more than cardboard for its weight. Yet a warrior is more than just his weapons, a sword is more than just its blade. Amid the endless churn and carnage are the likes of heroes made.
Even if the likes of Gaunt are one in millions, then there's millions of his like to spare. Though few may have the luck of Cain, roll dice enough and crits aren't rare.
History is fond of heroes, it likes it's knights in shining armor and its wizards wielding arcane might. Yet a hammer's of no use without an anvil, the spearheads tip's no use without it's shaft. If flesh is weak then steel is weaker: for iron rusts while life remains.
And space is full of dying empires, of ancient tombs and crafted worlds that may still cling to life but do not breed their like anew. It may take a billion lazbolts, it may take a thousand thousand heavy shells, but every planet cleared's a field that's sown with dragons teeth: a place for future men to rise and fight another day.
It's not about the Emperor, it's not about the faith, it's not about the distant rock from whence their people came. They fight for those who stand beside them, they fight for what remains, they fight for children yet unborn and planets lost in flames.
And bravery's a funny thing, it's not about a lack of fear. Courage is worthless in the midst of strength and triumph: it matters only when defeat seems near. It is easy to have hope in hopeful times, it is hard to cling to morals when facing death on every side.
And die they do, for even victory expects the butchers bill be paid. But when they fail at least they stood for something: they die without a scar upon their backs. A trillion lazguns in the darkness makes for quite the flash.
So let the hordes of Tyran come, let loose the great green tide upon their beach. For all that traitors roar the guard will be there: and planets crack before the will of man is breached.