II

Chaplain Varsoreth feeds like a famished beast. The distant stars watch coldly from their lofty abodes within the void; somewhere nearby a lone ashwing caws once as if in admonishment. Beneath his battleplate the Space Marine's superhuman body shudders in pleasure even as his soul cries out silently in revulsion. It has been so long. Rell's lifeblood – warm and full of youthful vitality – spills down the Chaplain's burning throat, quenching the Red Thirst; scenes from the boy's brief hardscrabble life flicker through the Space Marine's mind as his omophagea fulfills its purpose, immortalizing Rell's deeds in the eidetic memory of a living weapon of war.

Forgive me, Father, for I know exactly what I do. Varsoreth raises his head as the familiar scrape of claws upon stone reaches his ears. "No hope," he whispers mournfully, wiping a gauntleted hand across his crimsoned mouth. He is no longer referring to the dead would-be aspirant lying on the impromptu alter of stone before him. The Space Marine straightens, glaring into the gloom, his hand falling warningly to the haft of the crozius arcanum mag-locked at his hip. Glittering feral eyes shift in the darkness as eight Lost Ones begin to circle about the altar-rock, drawn by the scent of the boy's blood. They growl low in their throats and snap at one another as they prowl steadily closer, their flesh-hunger spurring them on. The Chaplain reaches down and gently closes Rell's sightless eyes, thankful the boy will never learn the truth concerning the Tower he'd been seeking.

"Under different circumstances he might have become a fine warrior of the Charnel Blades," Varsoreth says sadly, exposing his bloodstained teeth to his bestial gene-kin in a bitter smile. "Or perhaps he would have been numbered amongst your ranks instead and entrusted to my care. Still, he died free while striving to overcome his fate and become something greater than himself – a worthy end for a mere clan-thrall."

Uncomprehending, the Lost Ones snarl impatiently at the Chaplain, their elongated jaws bristling with fangs, drops of acidic saliva burning holes in the rock as they drool freely in anticipation. Then Kasvo, the alpha-leader, approaches Varsoreth, his head lowered in deference. The mutated neophyte is naked save for a soiled loincloth and carries a battered gap-toothed chainsword in one clawed hand; scars earned in scores of dominance fights crisscross his alabaster skin and his left eye is missing. In contrast to the gene-crafted perfection of the Charnel Blade he is a pitiful, degraded thing – yet the sacred blood of Sanguinius runs true through his genhanced veins, binding him and Varsoreth as brothers all the same.

"Lost Ones are hungry – need meat." Kasvo speaks with great care, his needlelike fangs drawing fresh blood from his lacerated tongue as he struggles to form the correct words. Incapable of standing fully upright he kneels awkwardly at the Chaplain's feet, humbling himself before the superior Astartes. "Var is well-fed? Lost Ones can eat now, yes?"

Varsoreth rests a hand upon Kasvo's bowed head and glances down at Rell's exsanguinated corpse for a final time, sorrow and shame gnawing at his hearts. Forgive them, Father, for they do not know what they do. "Yes, Kasvo – I am finished. You may feast."

Immediately the Lost Ones fall upon the body and begin tearing it to pieces with their fangs and clawed fingers. Kasvo quickly joins the feeding frenzy, beating his brothers back with the flat of his chainblade so he can devour the most nutrient-rich organs. Donning his helmet Varsoreth turns away from the savage spectacle, sickened and enticed in equal measure. Lines of bio-data transmitted by the tracker-beads implanted at the base of each neophyte's skull scroll down his visor display, warning of elevated vital signs; he blink-clicks them away and strides to a spur of rock overlooking a wide valley, striving to ignore the wet cracking of bones and the eager rending of flesh.

Night now reigns in totality. Echoderia, Homneria's solitary moon, has crested the northern ridges, flooding the heart of the Defile with a pale silvery light. The Tower of the Lost Ones dominates the center of the inhospitable plain, dark and brooding. Confined within are twenty-two more genetically deviant neophytes the Chaplain has deemed too bloodthirsty or mentally unstable to be allowed to roam at liberty. No mortal clansmen has ever found the Tower and none ever will, for Varsoreth has been condemned to guard the Defile until either death takes him or the Black Rage claims him. Yet I am no better then the creatures I watch over, Father. The Flaw runs too deep within me. Once again I have disgraced your legacy and your name by the shedding of innocent blood. I am not worthy to be called your son…

His hunger sated, Kasvo prowls to Varsoreth's side, his guileless inhuman features slathered in viscera. Licking his jaws in contentment he rubs his muzzle affectionately against the Charnel Blade's pauldron. The Lost One is holding Rell's head in one bloodied hand. The boy's eyes have been torn out. Gritting his teeth Varsoreth struggles against the temptation to draw his crozius and stave in the neophyte's malformed skull. Kasvo is the most intelligent and self-aware of all his charges and has even mastered rudimentary blade skills – yet his flawed nature cannot be redeemed. As his debased kindred squabble over Rell's remains the young Space Marine hunkers down next to the Chaplain and the two transhumans watch as Echoderia climbs higher into the star-strewn sky.

"Why is Var sad?" Kasvo asks as he starts peeling Rell's scalp from his skull with gore-stained claws.

"I am not sad, Kasvo," Varsoreth says with forced patience. "I am melancholic. I miss the fellowship and camaraderie of my battle-brothers."

"Lost Ones are Var's brothers also," Kasvo reminds him, unable to comprehend why Varsoreth would prefer the company of other Charnel Blades to that of the volatile cannibalistic neophytes. "We are all Great Angel's sons."

"It is not the same – we are not the same." The lie darkens Varsoreth's soul further and his shame intensifies. Kasvo snorts, as if finding the Chaplain's denial amusing. "We are same," he insists. "Var drinks blood; Lost Ones eat meat. We have brother-hood – we hunt, fight, play, rest; we are brothers. Why is Var sad, then?"

Varsoreth sighs in resignation, his frustration fading. "I am sad because I have been left behind, Kasvo. In my hearts I yearn to be at Baal with the rest of the Chapter, fighting alongside the Blood Angels against Hive Fleet Leviathan, redeeming myself by laying down my life in the defense of the primarch's homeworld. I am sad because my sins have brought shame upon the Charnel Blades; I am sad because my penance has denied me the absolution my soul craves." I am sad because I am too much like you, brother.

Loosing interest in Rell's head Kasvo discards it and starts sharpening the remaining teeth of his chainsword against a rock. "Emper's foes come soon. Lost Ones will fight them. Vor drowns in blood. Be glad. We die to-gether."

Varsoreth shakes his head, bemused by the neophyte's simpleminded certainty. "The tyranids are far, far away, Kasvo. There will be no fighting or dying for us, not anytime soon. We are –"

"Not xenos," Kasvo snarls in sudden agitation; he thrusts the brutal chainweapon at the rising moon, a deep animalistic growl rumbling in the depths of his heavily-muscled chest. His hulking body trembles. "Var does not hear? Hear drums beating? Hear blades clashing? Var's old enemy comes – blood flows, much blood…blood and skulls and death –"

Time staggers to a standstill. Varsoreth stiffens in sudden agony, his breath stolen by pain. Beneath his armour ancient war-wounds that have never fully healed open up in his chest and right side as if torn afresh by incorporeal claws – diabolical daemon-inflicted wounds that had exacerbated the Thirst, leading to the fateful loss of control that had disgraced him forever in the eyes of his brethren. Varsoreth drops to one knee, his vision swimming, nausea twisting his stomachs. Blood runs from his nose and ears. His visor display is a riot of overlapping environmental alerts and conflicting health warnings. It has been centuries since the Chaplain knew such pain. He catches his breath. He roars. The neophytes roar with him in empathic sympathy – a variable chorus of beasts.

"He comes! He comes!" Kasvo howls, tears streaming from his single anguished eye. "The Slayer of Stars! The Render of Worlds! He comes for skulls and souls! Death! Death!"

Reality contorts, twisting and writhing as if undergoing excruciation at the behest of thirsting gods. The very stones cry out. Then the stars vanish as the galaxy itself is torn asunder.