We're back.
Last time we met two of our main characters. Malakim Phoros, the Chapter Master, and Natsuki Suba–*ahem* Sergeant Pleiades.
Yes.
I do not own Re: Zero or Warhammer 40k. They belong to their respective creators. Please go suppo–actually, you know what. No. Don't do that. Don't support GW because they do not support the fans. Financially or creatively. Fanfics for the fanfic god.
And so.
Let us begin:
"Out of the darkness we'll rise
Into the light we will dwell
We came to rule the world
With muse in arms.
...
We are the clouds in the skies
We are the storm and the tides
Death and Rebirth in a line
The sun and the moon,
And the end of all time!
...
We are the gods of a new world order,
We are the soldiers, the legion of light.
We are the center, the death of the sun
Fire and flame, we are one!"
Saint Satella and the Lamenters
Arc 1: My Armour is Contempt
Sat upon his command throne, Malakim Phoros listens intently to the Sergeant as the man recounts an experience of an unthinkable future.
Many would call their discussion foolish, even more would vilify it as nothing more than the deluded ramblings of a man gone mad. Those that knew where such predictions came from would undoubtedly revile it as heretical.
Absurdity. Blasphemy. Aberration. These are the words that Malakim knows an outsider would use.
The fools, he thinks to himself.
The old Space Marine has long since understood and embraced the truth of his situation, the truth of his chapter. Though he has once believed them to be doomed to a cursed existence, he knows now that the Emperor's light has not yet forsaken his brothers.
He knows this in the very depths of his weary soul. He knows it to be the truth, for who else but the Emperor could deliver upon him such blessings. Who else but He upon the Golden Throne could send unto his chapter such fortune.
Truly, though once he had been lost in shadow, he now envies nothing. For he has seen the truth. And with it guiding him, he shall know no fear.
A tragedy has been avoided. A doom averted. A future of destruction has been denied. Through a sacrifice he would never know, the Chapter shall now be inevitably victorious.
These are the thoughts that run through the ancient warrior's mind as he gazes into the fierce eyes of Brother-Sergeant Pleiades.
The chosen of the Saint.
The one that denies the flow of fate.
The perpetual.
"So," he says at long last, "according to your…prediction, we are walking into a trap? And yet you wish for us to still make the warp jump as soon as possible?" The Chapter Master's stare is ice-cold. "Do you understand what you are asking of me?"
The Space Marine in front of him nods gravely, his hand over the Imperial aquila decorating his chestplate.
"Indeed, Lord Chapter-Master. We must make the warp-jump within the next solar hour, or all is lost. We cannot allow our ship to make contact with the shadow."
Malakim frowns.
"You are agitated. Speak your mind, Brother-Pleiades. If your words benefit the chapter's future, then I will heed them. Your intuition has saved us many times, and it would be foolish of me to ignore the boon it provides to us, much like it would be heretical of you to deny the gift you are given. By the grace of the Saint."
"By her grace."
There is another long moment of silence, both trans-humans lost within their own thoughts.
Then, Pleiades raises his helmet, the crimson eye-sensors meeting his own sky-blue eyes.
"My liege. The situation is most dire. The obstruction ahead of us is indeed no warp-tendril, but it is no natural thing either. Should we approach it, or hesitate to warp-jump, it will devour us whole. The Saint, she…" He hesitates, and Malakim narrows his eyes, picking up on the note of concern within the usually indomitable warrior's voice.
Pausing for a mere second, Pleiades continues his speech. "The practical solution is to jump right away. The chapter will not survive contact with this entity. It will swallow the ship whole and we shall be consigned to nothingness."
The sergeant speaks with such surety that should another have heard him, they would surely believe he had lived through such an event himself.
Malakim does not believe this to be the case. He knows it to be a cold fact.
"The saint blesses you on this day, Brother Pleiades." His voice is cold and even, yet on the inside he cannot help but mutter a feverish prayer of thanks to the Emperor and Her whose shadow protects them from misfortune.
The sergeant inclines his helm in acknowledgement. "I stand honoured, my Lord."
He continues. "We must make the warp jump to the precise coordinates of Sector Vulgas-923. Should we fail to emerge at that point, the ship will be engulfed in a Warp storm. The Gellar fields will fail at precisely twenty one, fifty three, Solar time. The chapter will not survive."
Malakim furrows his eyebrows, noting the precise detail in his mind.
"Should we emerge at those precise coordinates, the Warp-jump will be successful. However, we will meet heavy enemy fire in orbit. Our void shields will fail in minutes, followed shortly by the destruction of the Battle barge itself. The surviving drop-pods will be decimated by enemy fire before they make landfall. We will not survive."
The chapter master is silent. Vivid images flash across his mindscape, recreating a mental simulation more detailed than any hololithic display. He can see it.
A traitor battleship opens fire the moment the disturbance of the warp signifies his own fleet's arrival. Their two ships take immediate overwhelming fire. Attack wings destroy escaping drop pods before they even breach the atmosphere. His own frenzied response, commanding the tech-priests to overload the engine in a desperate attempt to escape the slaughter, a response far too late. A nova-cannon annihilates the shields and armour plating alike. A fiery demise.
All of this flashes through his mind faster than a base human could begin to form a single thought. He is thankful, for he knows that Sergeant Pleiades' experience must have been far more real than this mere phantasm.
"Your suggestion?" The tone of his voice does not change.
"We must ready all weapons before the jump. Should we prepare all our weapon batteries and aim them here, here, and here," he points towards spots on the hololithic display, red spots appearing where his hand glides over, "we can open fire before they engage their own void-shields and strike them before they can respond. This will distract the rest of the fleet, allowing our drop-pods to make landfall and proceed with the operation."
The old Chapter-master considers the words of his subordinate. He does not chastise him for foolishness, since both surely understand the danger of making a warp-jump with fully charged energy weapons. Once, he would have reprimanded the young marine for suggesting such a hazardous manoeuvre. Once, he would have sent him to the chaplains for penance in daring to propose something so borderline heretical.
Once.
"So, the enemy's force is greater than our own," he says, accepting the words of the Sergeant. He is not surprised. It is a rare occurrence when his chapter faces anything resembling a fair fight. "What are their numbers?"
Pleiades pauses yet again. Malakim narrows his eyes, anger suddenly surging through him.
"Why do you hesitate, Brother-Sergeant?" His question is filled with quiet menace, yet Pleiades flinches. "Do you believe that withholding important information entitles you to some important destiny? Perhaps you believe yourself a heroic martyr wishing to elicit a grandiose reaction in a time of dire need?"
"Sir, I was simply–"
"Do you believe you are owed the Crux Terminatus for such heroics? Do you believe you should be made Captain for your "strategic genius?" He is goading his subordinate now. He knows this, yet proceeds, the necessity to impart on the fool before him the gravity of his action driving his harsh words.
"My Lord, I–"
"I would have thought Comorragh cured you of such foolishness."
Silence reigns in the command room.
"Forgive me, Lord Chapter-Master," Sergeant-Pleiades's posture is straight and stiff. "I stand penitent."
"Indeed," Malakim's words do not offer kindness. "We are Astartes, Sergeant-Pleiades. We are the defenders of humanity. It is our sacred duty to bring the light of the Emperor to the worlds of the Imperium. It is our very purpose to protect that light when it is threatened by the forces that wish to snuff it out. Thus it is unacceptable of us, the Emperor's chosen, to hide our strength in the shadow of secrecy. It is blasphemous to conceal our light when there is so much darkness to repel."
Pleiades nods, his earlier recalcitrance gone. The younger marine clenches his fist over his chestplate in salute.
"I hear you, my Lord. I shall meditate upon your wisdom."
His earlier hesitation is nothing more than memory, he continues. "We face a Warband. There are eight chaos ships in orbit, located above the main fighting zone. They have set up a blockade to prevent any attempts at evacuation. The flagship appears to be some form of ancient battle-barge of an unknown design."
"Show me the pict-scans of your helm."
Nodding, the Astartes forwards the image into the hololith machine, the depiction of the Chaos-Fleet seen in an unknown life projected onto the display.
Malakim knows these are not the true images. The Machine-spirit of Pleiades' armour does not remember what its wearer does, so what is shown is merely a reconstruction of memory. Still, they are as clear as reality itself, a product of a mind incapable of forgetting.
The aquiline eyes of the old warrior stare at the image, noting the positions of the enemy fleet. His subordinate is correct. The chaos fleet outnumbers and outguns his own. He spots the two Grand Cruisers instantly, their massive bulk easily visible amidst the five escort vessels, each full to the brim with corrupt power.
But it is not those ships that draw Malakim's attention. It is not those ships that cause his eyes to widen and mind to race.
"Sergeant Pleiades," his voice is low and dangerous. "Answer me truthfully. The vessel in the middle of the formation. Is that truly what we face upon emergence from the warp jump?"
The young primaris before him nods, in his naivete unknowing of the horror facing the chapter. He zooms in on the pict recreation, showing the traitor flagship in greater detail.
It's design is a relic from ages bygone. Massive in size, it dwarfs even the grand cruisers flanking it. Grotesque in its dark splendour, covered in unnatural pinks and purples, it is less a ship and more a monument to obscene revelry. Its decoration is applied with abandon, everything that can be adorned is. It is an affront to decency, the ostentatious decadence obscuring all traces of the ship it once was.
But Malakim recognizes it regardless. He recognizes its contours, lewd and blasphemous though they have become, he recognizes its shape and weapon batteries, even as twisted and misshapen as they are.
For no Space Marine can ever forget the ancient form of a Gloriana-class Battleship. And none who gaze upon it could ever misplace the name of this particular vessel.
The Pride of the Emperor looms over the Vulgas system.
Malakim Phoros sucks in a breath. "So…we go to our doom…" His voice is a soft murmur.
The sergeant cocks his head in confusion. "My lord chapter-master, do you recognize that ship?"
Malakim is quiet for a long moment. "Yes," he states finally. "It is a grim reminder of a long-gone age. The flagship of the traitorous third legion. I had hoped never to lay eyes on such a blasphemous atrocity for as long as I live…"
"Can we not catch it off-guard? Overpower it with a blindside?" suggests the younger Astartes.
A short laugh tears its way out of Malakim's throat. "You jest, Sergeant. Engaging a Gloriana-class would be foolhardy at best, suicidal at worst. It will overpower us even alone."
He nods towards the hololith, staring at the enemy fleet. "And it is not alone."
"We are outnumbered, true," Pleiades agrees, "but it is as you said, Chapter-master, our sacred duty is to bring the Emperor's light to the people. How can we call ourselves Space Marines if we abandon them?"
Malakim leans back in his command throne, his expression softening ever so slightly. In this moment he feels every century he has lived weighing down upon him. His eyes flicker to the hololith once more, staring at the slowly encroaching cloud of darkness.
"Doomed if we go, doomed if we do not," he whispers to himself, feeling the ever present curse gnawing at the despair in his mind. A deep melancholy grips him as he realises that no matter what he does now, by the end of the day, yet more of his brothers will lie dead. "Oh Father, please show me the way…"
Once more he leads them into a fight he knows not all will survive. He thinks of the men under his command, knowing that should he give the order, he is surely leading them into a fight they have no hope of winning.
Then he thinks of the Vulgas system, Of the people awaiting salvation. Of the besieged souls calling out to the Emperor. Of the prayers wailing for deliverance.
And the son of the Angel makes his choice.
The Chapter-Master rises, his artificer armour shining a brilliant gold, the crimson heart on his chequered pauldron gleaming in the light. The years melt away from him, and undying nobility shines through. Indecision vanishes, crushed into nothingness by sanguine clarity. Hesitation dies under the surety of zeal.
"My brothers, hear me!" His voice is like the thunder of a warhorn and commands attention from all. "Warriors of the Emperor, hear me!"
The command bridge goes still, all eyes focused on the proud demi-god.
"The enemy stands before us. Their blasphemous fleet lies a mere five light-years away. They have blockaded the Vulgas system, circling it like starving carrion birds. In their blindness, they expect an easy victory. They believe that the warp and their dark gods grant them spoils of a world broken by despair. They expect ripe pickings and no resistance, a feast to their wicked desires."
He pauses, and the silence is deafening. "They are wrong."
He raises his voice. "Here is my command, my brothers! We will annihilate the traitors. We will crush them under our heel! We shall show them their errors and purge them with blade and bolter. Prepare for battle! We will burn their heresy to the ground, and send them screaming back into the warp!
With a single motion he draws his weapon, the gleaming steel of the Glaive Encarmine shining like a star as it is levelled towards the uncaring void.
"Activate the gellar fields. Prepare the weapon batteries. Today, we go to war!"
And as one, his cry is answered, hundreds of voices roaring out the same until it seems that the entire Mater Lachrymarum itself chants the same litany, howling at the powers that be as the vast battle barge hurtles itself into the roiling warp.
"War! War! War!"
"Prepare your Kill-team, Brother-Sergeant, stand-by for Orbital insertion."
These are the orders given to him, and Brother-Sergeant Pleiades hastens to carry them out.
''O' Saint, from darkness, deliver us.''
Once more he strides through the halls of the battle-barge, the soles of his armour stomping against the grates making up the floors of the venerable flagship. His mind is awash with strategies, contingencies, and battle-plans for the upcoming operation, his visor display running calculations faster than any mortal eye could follow. His lips chant a prayer of devotion to Her whose embrace wards away all misfortune.
'Lead us from falsehood to truth, from Sin into Virtue.'
Again and again he checks over his Wargear, scanning for any error or chink in the sacred weapons. As usual he finds none, his chainsword and bolt pistol, both prepared, ready to deal out death to the vile traitors.
'From past lives, bring us into a future of victory.'
Around him, the varied masses of the inhabitants of the ship part, following him with reverent stares. Some scurry off to the side with bowed heads and cowed eyes. Others chant prayers in his wake, ascribing holy significance to the Angel of Death.
'In your shadow, protect us from despair. In your kindness, shelter us from damnation.'
Upon his visor, four blinking lights show as approaching his position. Each represents one of his men. Once, decades ago, there would be ninety-five more. A full company. The Fourth company. His company. But the four blinking lights tell him a truth he has long learned through bitter recollection. There is no more Fourth company in the Lamenters chapter.
'With your grace, let wrath fill our hearts.'
They await him within the armoury. Three figures, the fourth showing as further off in the launch-bay. They are all armoured, their helms obscuring their expressions, but Sergeant Pleiades knows them well enough to ascertain their mood without needing to see their features.
'Let fury guide our weapons, let retribution be our song.'
He walks past them, and they fall in formation behind him with perfect cohesion, the four Astartes moving together like a well-oiled machine.
'In the name of the Primarch and the Emperor, bring our foe to ruin.'
'We ask this, in the spirit of our blood, O Saint of Sorrow.'
"Sergeant?" the voice comes through his vox, "What is our assignment?
"We are to prepare for Orbital-insertion via Drop pod, Brother Aldebaran," Pleiades responds, not breaking his stride as he answers the Intercessor to his right. "We will drop into a hot-zone and fight our way towards Fortress Cameliard which contains the remainder of the civilian populace. We will hold that position until transport arrives and stand-by for evacuation."
"Would it not be more prudent to land straight into the fortress grounds themselves, Brother-Sergeant? That would be less hazardous and give us more time to prepare defences." The third of their group voices his own question.
Pleiades acknowledges him with a shake of his head. "That is unfortunately impossible, Brother Altair. Fortress Cameliard is the High castle of Knight-House Galeas, ruler of the Vulgas system. It is doubtlessly protected by anti-aircraft defences and void shields, otherwise it would have already fallen to the traitors. We will need to land at a distance."
Altair nods, the psychic hood of his power armour dipping in understanding. The Librarian asks no more questions, simply clutching his force-staff in preparation for the battle at hand, yet all the Space Marines can feel his strength waxing in preparation for the coming fight.
"It never is that easy, is it" comes the voice of the fourth Astartes. "As always, Lamenter luck finds us wherever we go, Tsu~"
Brother Pleiades smirks at the voice of the youngest of their group. "We are travelling within the warp, Brother Ley. You would do well not to, as the Cadians say, "jinx" us."
He can almost see the Lamenter's smile hidden behind his Gravis helm.
"Be that as it may," he speaks up once more, "no blasphemous traitor can stand against us. For we are His sons. We are favoured by the saint. By her grace, we shall emerge victorious."
"By her grace!" The three Astartes echo as one.
So if you hear our cry, O' Saint, then fly from your Garden of Shadows…"
They approach the launching bay. Their craft awaits them, the servitors manning it stepping aside in reverence to the Space Marines.
And as he steps into the drop pod, the grav-locks securing him in place, he can almost swear he can hear a soft whisper of affection ghost his ear and the gentle embrace of shadowy hands.
Behind his helm, Brother-Sergeant Pleiades smiles grimly.
'And join us in war.'
The Saint is with them.
Chapter 2: …Til' the day is won…
End.
Hope Y'all enjoyed. See you next time.