Chapter 44

A boy, hardly half a score, sat in front of the enormous hearth in his home's sitting room. The fire snapped and popped. Clouds of sparks burst and fluttered up the chimney. Flickering flames danced upon the walls, casting shadows beyond furniture, lamps, and fixtures. Warm, yellow lamps glowed on the walls, illuminating paintings of battlefields and marching armies.

The boy's blonde hair was moist and plump from a shower; earlier it'd been coarse and blasted back by salt spray. He was wearing a khaki shirt and olive drab trousers, freshly pressed and still warm. But his expression was tired and forlorn. His cheeks were tear-stained and he brought his legs up to his chin to hide it. When he heard a dull thump from the gallery on the opposite side of the wall, he buried his face in his knees. Muffled shouts were exchanged and glass shattered. Moments later, the door burst open.

"…not letting the boy wash after coming back from the Caducades Sea for three days! I hope the Emperor takes you! Do not think I neglected to see the bruisers on his arms! If you ever mistreat my son like that again, I will shoot you both myself!" Colonel Dayton Cross shouted. "Do you hear me, wretches!? I will shoot you dead! Thank the Emperor it was me you dealt with, for if it was Faye, you'd already be bleeding your last upon your polished floors! Speak to me not, from this day forward, I am not your son!"

Dayton slammed the door shut, causing the lamps and paintings to shake. Even the blast windows rattled. His short blonde hair bristled and his shoulders heaved with every breath. As he finally calmed, his breathing became deeper and the angry red tint to his cheeks drained away. Closing his eyes, he inhaled one last time and then opened them again with a smile. "Silas, my boy, worry not. All will be well, I promise."

The Colonel was an impressive man with a large ribbon rack on his gray greatcoat and he wore a modest but immaculate khaki uniform underneath. His silver belt buckle which took the shape of an Imperial Aquila, gleamed along with every golden button on his tunic. A tall and muscular man, he appeared imposing even in a vacant room.

He hung up his coat on the rack next to the door but kept his gun belt on. Then, he approached young Silas and sat beside him. It was a nigh-comical sight, the great officer towering over the youth. But the lad just leaned his head against his father's massive arm and stared into the fire. "You've been crying."

"I'm sorry, papa. I know soldiers shouldn't cry."

"Son, it takes a strong fellow to hold back his tears. It takes a stronger one to let them flow freely. I wish I could be as brave as you, sometimes."

Dayton wrapped his arm around Silas and rubbed his arm. "No shame, son, no shame. What counts is that you stand back up on your feet when the crying is done. We cannot indulge our fear or sadness for too long."

"But papa, what happens if a fellow can't get back up?"

"You need to answer that for yourself, Silas."

The boy sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Staring into the fire, his violet irises reflecting the flames, he pursed his lips and gripped his knees intensely.

"Then someone will get hurt."

"Exactly. This is the Astra Militarum. From a great army to the smallest squad, we all depend on one another to fulfill our duties. If one man falters, it is up to another to take his place. What happens, then, if another man is forced to take that place, and one more his, and so on? Gaps, Silas, and dangerous ones too. Each man must do his duty no matter how juvenile or mammoth the task. Your men, your team, will always depend on you and you on them. Everyone must pitch in or else the mission will fail."

Silas stretched his legs out for a little while, then sat crossed legged. Rocking a little as he ruminated, he stared up at the ceiling. A light fixture hanging overhead was off but the bulbs mirrored the shimmering fireplace.

"Mama says that we must do what we can, but all Guardsmen die eventually."

Dayton grew thoughtful then, his smile growing softer and more somber. Drawing his knees to his chest like Silas had, he rested his chin on them and tilted his head to the side as he gazed into the hearth.

"Your mother is not wrong. I will never lie to you, my boy, we are but men. We tire, we grow bitter, we become disenchanted. Ours is a life of peril and toil in the Guard. Each soldier carries on knowing that minutes or years from now, he might give his life for the Emperor. While we would all envision a glorious death on the battlefield, hearing the thundering drums and blaring bugles, it is not so for many. A shell will hit directly, a bullet will find its mark."

After gazing long into the fire, Silas huffed and held his cheeks with his hands. Chewing his bottom lip and grumpily staring into the fire, he heaved an irritated sigh.

"Papa, if we are all to die, why should we fight so hard? Why train so hard? Why go to the Month of Making? Why…do anything?"

Dayton stared at him for a moment, then laughed. Ruffling Silas's hair, he hugged him close and shook him.

"Because everything has a point to it in the end!" he declared. "We might not know it, but the Emperor surely does."

"But—"

"Come on, tell me of your time in the Caducades! It's been nigh on two and a half decades since they sent me out there with my bottom bare and my hands empty! What adventures did you go on?"

Silas beamed. He'd been looking forward to this! Knowing he already exhausted his mother's ears with all his tales, he was happy to tell them all again. Standing up and walking into the center of the sitting room, he bounced eagerly on his feet. Dayton swiveled on the floor, sitting with rapt attention and an eager smile splitting his big face.

"Overton and Clement and I got to go together! It was the greatest feeling in the world, papa! The island they dropped me and the other boys onto was called Redstone because of the red dust in some of the rocks. It was barely bigger than the street and it had lots of boulders and only a few trees. We used the branches and some logs to make a hut and we killed a turtle for meat. Then, Overton had the idea to prop the shell upside down on some branches to collect rainwater!"

"Well, wasn't that just clever of him?"

"We used the branches for kindling and dried out strings of seaweed to make clothing. That was my idea! Clement tried to grow his hair out so he could make a fishing line out of them but it didn't work. We were really, really tired all the time but I made sure we kept moving around so we'd stay warm. And we caught more turtles and even got a few birds. Oh! We even saw a sea eagle! It was so pretty papa!"

"How envious I am! I never once clapped eyes on a sea eagle when I was out there! How splendid. The Emperor was surely pleased with your doings to send you such a good omen."

"It didn't just fly over us, papa, it even landed on the rock! We didn't try to hunt it; we just watched it. The bird was huuuuuge! It had a black head, white wings, and a brown body! Its beak was very long and it was very strong looking. We don't know why it came down, it was a pleasant day without wind and it didn't try to hunt."

"Well, one can never quite give reason to what a sea eagle or any bird for that matter does. Only it understands, or perhaps it doesn't. Who knows? It merely acts, as we do!"

"Yes! When it left, we decided to say a prayer and—"

Thud. Thud. Thud. Someone rapped their fist against the door to the manse. Silas jolted and turned around. His mother wouldn't have knocked like that. Quickly, he ran over to his father who had just stood up. He clutched his leg tightly. "Papa, is it the general? Please don't let him send you away, you just got home."

"It could be an emergency, Silas. I will see what the matter is. Worry not, it's likely nothing drear."

Dayton unlatched the door and opened it. Cold air blew through the doorway bringing a cloud of snowflakes. "Who goes there?"

"The regiment will march no longer," said a voice. There was a gunshot and a flash. Silas remembered what Commissar Ghent and all the instructors ordered. He dove onto the ground and crawled behind the nearest cover. As he did, he saw someone fall in the doorway. When he heard a set of feet running through snow away from the house, he hurried over to the door. Outside, he saw a figure dash down the road to the left. Although it seemed like it took forever, Silas craned his neck and looked at the form on the floor.

"Papa!" he shrieked. Dayton was lying on his back, clutching his throat. Blood leaked from his mouth and from between his fingers. Silas got down on his knees and pressed his hands to the wound, trying to keep the blood from coming out. "Papa, it'll be alright papa!" He remembered the medical kit his mother kept in the closet by the entrance. He jumped over Dayton and threw open the door. Finding the bag in a cubby, he tore it open and found a pressure dressing just like the one they used in first aid drills.

Silas knelt beside Dayton and pried his hands away. "Let go, papa! I need to treat the wound!" When he finally wrested away his grip, blood jetted out onto his shirt. Immediately, he pressed it to the wound and held it there. "Help!" Silas called through the open doorway. "Man down! Medic! Somebody, please, help my papa!"

Dayton's writing started to cease. His feet grew still. Silas looked back into his father's purple eyes. The light seemed to be fading. His mouth moved as more blood came out. When he tried to speak, he only coughed and gurgled. With one of his blood-covered hands, he took Silas by the cheek. "Hold on papa, please!" Silas pleaded, tears coursing down his cheeks. "Please, papa!"

But Dayton grew still and his hand dropped. His eyes searched around a little more before settling on Silas. They were so wide and expressive until the light seemed to wink away. They were dull, the luster of the purple leaving so suddenly. Silas's grip on the pressure dressing loosened until it slipped off. As his eyes gleamed with tears, he stared at his father's body. His breathing grew faster and faster until he bawled. Throwing himself over Dayton, he shook him again and again. All he did was wail into his chest and tremble.

Soon, though, he lifted his head. The young man's face darkened. His lips trembled then revealed his clenched teeth. Snarling and growling, he reached across Dayton and yanked his laspistol out from his holster. Storming onto the street, his bare feet crunching in the snow, he charged in the same direction as the perpetrator. All the while, he bellowed and screeched as he ran. The snowflakes, the street lamps, the lights emanating from other manses, the darkness in between them, the roadside defenses, everything was a blur. He didn't even hear the feet pounding up the street behind him.

A strong arm wrapped around his abdomen and another grabbed his right wrist, forcing the gun up into the air. Silas screamed and struggled against the adult's grip.

"Enough, Silas!" Commissar Ghent ordered. "I said stop! Stop it!"

"Let me go!" Silas hollered. "Let me go! He killed my papa!"

But Ghent overpowered him, yanked the pistol from his hand, and enabled the weapon's safety. Sliding it through his belt, he forced Silas down onto his knees and held him from behind. The boy roared, struggled, and tried to slip away but he couldn't escape. Guardsmen jogged up alongside and looked down.

"Get after him!" Ghent ordered. "He went down the road that way!" Then, he directed his attention back to Silas. "Calm yourself boy, there's nothing you can do!" He managed to turn the sobbing, raging youth around. Silas started to beat his fists against Ghent's chest.

"Let me go! I must find him! I will kill him!"

"Quit now, Silas! There's no point!" he dodged a blow and caught another with his hand. "If you go out there, you'll die tonight!"

"Go away! I'm going after him! He killed my papa and I'll kill him, too!"

"I said no! It's pointless Silas! Do you hear me? It's pointless!"

Marsh Silas stared at the pale, stone wall of Hyram's bunk. It'd been so long since he'd seen the barracks he helped build back when Barlocke first arrived. Aside from a layer of dust covering the tables and bunks, nothing had really changed. It appeared almost as if no one had actually stayed in the barracks during Bloody Platoon's absence. Even with the dire need for space, nobody had filled their dwellings.

Hyram had insisted that he stay in his own private quarters. Marsh Silas did not have the heart to argue. All that separated him from the rest of the barracks was the curtain suspended on a road the officer installed nearly two years ago. Unlike the other bunks, it was more than just a shelf cut into the rock. It was bordered by wooden panels and a mattress was placed within—one of the many perks of the officer caste.

But it could have just been solid rock without any cushion and Marsh Silas would not have noticed. He didn't notice the lamp pack growing dull on the platoon leader's desk behind him. He didn't feel the chill which wafted through the tunnels and bunkrooms. Nor could he hear the bugles of the ceremony taking place on the surface. He didn't want to.

Marsh rolled onto his back and stared at the stone above him. Hyram had taken some of the picts of his family out of their frames and pasted them to the top. There was one of him standing next to his wife who sat in an elegantly carved chair. He was clad in his dress uniform which had only a small ribbon rack. His wife was clad in a blue silk dress with a tight black collar and similarly colored sleeves. In her hands she held a newborn baby swaddled in a white blanket.

Would that have been him and Carstensen? If the treatments had worked, how long would it have been until they were posing for their own pict-capture with a newborn babe? Surely, they would have wed before that happened. But why wait? Maybe a judgmental off-world priest might have chastised them for bearing a child out of wedlock. Yet was that not the Cadian tradition? Training fortresses and Scholas were filled with millions of orphans and children who never knew who their parents were.

Marsh looked out into the room. Standing there was the woman with bouncy, blonde curls from the Interior Guard regiment that joined them in Kasr Sonnen. That was back when Barlocke was in charge and everything was so incredibly strange. Standing before him, she ran her finger along the scar tissue which the medicae surgeons cut so many times. Her face was filled with callous animosity and her eyes were a mirror of disgust. In a blink, she was gone.

That night changed him. Looking back up the pict, he recalled how bearing anymore children in such a manner seemed unthinkable. He was going to be a better man than that. With Carstensen, his beloved Lilias, he was going to be there for his children. No matter the challenges or consequences, he was going to be a father to them. Teach them, hold them, love them, cherish them, give those beautiful souls a childhood far better than his own. Together, he and Lilias were going to raise them up to be better than their parents.

Now she was dead.

He peeled the pict off the stone and dropped it onto the floor. Marsh rolled over and pulled the blanket close to his chest. He was only in his olive drab undershirt and a pair of khaki trousers. His dress uniform was draped across Hyram's desk and he hadn't made an effort to put it on. In the main compound, he was sure Colonel Isaev was saying some touching words about how brave and faithful Lilias had been. Giles would certainly add some meaningful words and Hyram would be expected to give a speech. Considering how he inspired so many people on the Sonnen Plateau, his oratory would sweep the procession.

Even now, Marsh Silas could see Carstensen standing in front of the parapet as shells came crashing down. All her bravery, all her courage, all her belief in the soldiers around her ushered them forward. Despite their haggard hearts and faltering frames, they made the charge across no man's land. Consus was dispatched and the enemy was driven from the ground. They were driven from the next position, the next, and the next. But even after all this time, they were still loose on the planet, still fighting and harassing Cadians wherever they could. Consus might have been dead but Summanus had taken his place. A more able and competent commander to be sure if he assailed the Astra Militarum even after defeat.

Closing his eyes, he wondered if sleep would overtake him. Instead, in that darkness, a figure emerged. Brown hair, tan skin, a piercing gaze, an icon of the Archenemy around his neck: Amilios. There he stood, brushed by a sudden wind, smirking that disturbed, irksome grin of his. When he faded, there stood Drusus, the demented and deranged Warpsmith. Clad in Power Armor from head to foot, he merely marched towards Marsh Silas. Servo-tentacles rose from his back and the power tools at the end whirred. Just when he seemed like he was going to march right over him, the giant faded. From the shadows emerged the vile, traitorous Tech-Priest with his green glowing eyes and spindly body. The cretin seemed to bend over some contraption as it sparked and shuddered. Suddenly, he turned around and his head snapped in Marsh's direction. In an electric mist, he disappeared. There was a flicker of flames, then a burst. From it emerged a bloodied Consus, staggering forward with his arm outstretched.

One after the other, they came and went. At times, they appeared together. All of them watching, staring, saying nothing. An air of superiority hung over them, saturating the blackness which engulfed them. Marsh Silas looked back into them and felt nothing in his heart. No fear, no rage, just a great emptiness. Before him were villains, one after the other, traded out and swapped in.

Nothing had changed.

"Silvanus?"

Marsh Silas opened his eyes and rolled over. Sitting at the desk was Barlocke's projection. The fragment strode over and knelt beside the platoon sergeant. His dark eyes, black like coals, peered softly at him. His skin was as pale as ever and his dark hair fell around his face. He reached out and brushed Marsh's locks with his fingers, but the latter slapped his hand away.

"Leave me alone."

"You must be careful. Your mind is wandering. Part of my soul is with you now as is my mind. You cannot draw upon the Warp like I could, but I fear that with this fragment's presence you might render yourself open to threats beyond your control. Your emotions must be restrained."

"Was it not you who once encouraged to let those feelings loose? Love, hope, wonder. Now, you tell me to check them."

"I do not suggest you forgo all feeling and become an automaton, my friend. You must understand that extremes may make us vulnerable to predations of those we can never understand."

"Cease with your fucking riddles," Marsh Silas moaned.

"If I told you everything—"

"I do not care." Marsh groaned at the top of the bunk. He sat up slowly. "I do not want to hear about how you know so much more than me or that there is a force out there which I cannot understand yet. I do not seek to understand it nor anything anymore. I'm tired Barlocke. It's over."

"Just like that? You're finished?" Barlocke asked in a deep tone. "You're just giving up?"

"Must I spell it out for you further?"

"You are grieving, Silvanus, do not let that cloud your judgement."

Marsh Silas reached up and covered his face with his hands. He breathed through his fingers, his breath warm and distressed.

"A cloud. That's what it's like. I'm walking through a fucking cloud and I cannot see anything at all. Yet, I am not afraid." Slowly, he lowered his hands and stared bleakly at the ceiling of the bunk. There weren't just picts of Hyram's wife and son, there were also snaps of Bloody Platoon's daily lives. Standing at roll call on a snowy morning, waiting in line at the mess hall, playing Black Five at the Kasr Sonnen tables, posing with wounded friends in the medicae. Looking back at him were countless grimy faces and toothy grins. Shock Troopers with big, full heart, all of them embracing one another, arm and arm.

"If ye are not afraid, then you are melancholy."

"Not really," Marsh sighed, peeling one of the picts away. "Fear. Sadness. Anger. Happiness. These are all just words now. Sounds to beard heard and nothing to be felt." He pulled another down, another, and another. "In me, there is nothing. One great, gigantic nothing."

When he held all the picts in his hand, he let it drop over the side of the cot. They fluttered lazily to the dirt flooring and landed in a scatter. Barlocke's projection gazed at them for a while before looking up at the entrance. He seemed dark and foreboding, a face that once perturbed Marsh Silas whenever he saw it. But the platoon sergeant only gazed up at the top of the top of the bunk, paying the vision no mind.

"This was the dark place you told Lilias about in the cathedral," the apparition murmured. "You said you were falling. Well, dear friend, now you truly have."

"I care not."

"Your heart will mend, Silas. She would want you to live on."

Marsh Silas abruptly sat up, his eyes ablaze and his teeth bared.

"Don't tell me what she would want!" he snarled. "Lilias is dead! She's gone! She has no more cares and neither do I! Just go, go,quit my sight, ghost, and leave me be!"

In a blink he was staring at an empty room, the specter having departed. Hearing the curtain part, he looked up. Hyram stood in the threshold, clad in his dress uniform. The khaki fabric was fresh and his ribbon rack glittered with many more medals than in his pict. An emerald mantle hung from his right shoulder. Warily, he entered the room, never taking his eyes off Marsh Silas.

"Who were you hissing at?" he asked slowly.

"I drifted off," Marsh muttered, laying back. "I was having some kind of dream."

"A nightmare, from the sounds of it." The Captain's eyes fell to the floor. A discontented breath passed between his lips. "Silas, these picts are…" Hyram shook his head, knelt, and gathered them up. He placed the pile on the desk and leaned in to look at Marsh. "Come. It's time. We are sending her away now, as she asked."

"Can't believe the brass even allowed it," Marsh grunted and rolled over.

"Her departure has been sanctified by the Ministorum and approved by Colonel Isaev. Everyone is waiting for you. Come."

"Why?"

He saw Hyram recoil in the corner of his eye. Marsh just huddled deeper into the blankets as he waited for the reply.

"You ask that?" his friend murmured. "She was to be your wife."

"Lilias is dead."

"Don't say it like that. You love her."

"Stop talking about her like she's still here," Marsh growled, curling up further. "I do not wish to go. It doesn't matter all the same."

"How can you speak like this? It was her wish. She asked you to let her join the water with her dying breath. You told me that before and now, suddenly, it no longer matters." Hyram stopped himself, breathed deeply, and then sat down in the desk chair. "I understand you are grieving. You're mad at everything and everyone. But this is not good for your heart, Silas."

Marsh Silas sat up and glared at his friend. Hyram was taken aback, slowly recoiling and furrowing his brow. After a moment of this stare down, the former reached under the pillow and held up a half-empty bottle of high quality Amasec.

"I know how ya deal with yer problems. Do not preach to me what is good for my heart, Captain."

Hyram's expression darkened and he gritted his teeth. He stood up swiftly and swiped the bottle from his hand. As his shoulders heaved, it seemed as though he would smash the bottle on the floor. But after releasing a frustrated groan, he placed it in his footlocker before storming over to Marsh.

"I have not tasted a drop of liquor during this whole affair. I am not the man I was when you came upon me in this very chamber who drowned myself in such sorrows. You are not the only one who is grieving, there are over forty men and women up there who feel this loss. For them, I have kept my head clear for they are grieving. We need to pull together as we always have if we wish to honor Lilias and carry on with our duty. Drawing away to this dungeon, veiling yourself from us, you wound yourself as much as you wound us. And her."

"Her. Her." Marsh stood up slowly. His bones creaked and ached. When he righted himself, he drew to his full height. Taller, broader in the chest, more muscular, he appeared as a wall before his platoon leader. But Hyram did not back away, only hardening his gaze. "Lilias is dead, Seathan. She feels no more. She knows no more. Now that she has joined the Emperor's army, she is no longer bound to this life. What does a final wish matter? She won't know, she won't ever know. There's no point to any of it. Stop this charade and just leave me alone. That is all I want right now. No more songs, no more ceremonies, I just want to be here."

"And do what?"

"What does it matter?" Marsh slumped back onto the edge of the cot. His head hung low and his hands rested in his lap. Then, he threw up his hand. "I'm done, Seathan."

He stared at the floor. Before long, he heard a sniff. When he looked up, he found Hyram wiping tears from his eyes. The Captain's nose was scrunched and his brow was drawn in anger.

"That's it? Someone dies and their wishes matter not? Of all people, I thought you would never say such things." Hyram took off his hat and dropped on the table. Turning his back on Marsh Silas, he gripped the edges. "You're just giving up. What of Lilias's dreams of the future?"

Marsh looked up groggily.

"What's the use of a believing in a dream when the one who dreamed it is gone?"

"And Afdin? Him too? Did he not wish for a better Imperium? What of his plea to you?"

"Will anything really change if I reveal the truth to those who matter? I am but a mere grunt. No one listened to me before, they won't now, and they won't ever. Besides, it's not like it will bring Afdin and the 45th back."

"He believed in you, Silas!"

"Doesn't matter if he did, he's dead!" Marsh jumped up. Hyram whirled around at the same time and the pair stood chest to chest. "Why can't you get that through your head, man?" Marsh said, pointing at his temple. "If folks are dead, they can't care anymore. They won't ever know what we do from this day forth. There ain't no point if they ain't around to see any of it or do it themselves!"

"No, no. It's pointless only if we give up on their legacies."

"Legacies!? Who gives a damn about that but us!?"

"Their hopes, their dreams, their aspirations, those live on in us and we have a duty to carry them out! You of all people believe that, don't you? Or have you given up Barlocke's dream as well?'

Marsh Silas blinked and stepped back, never taking his eye off Hyram. He backed away until he was leaning against the bumpy cavern wall next to the bunk. A chill ran through him and he folded his arms across his chest. Looking away, he shook his head.

"Barlocke was different. 'Twas as if he never left. But I see this all for the foolishness it's been. Barlocke's dream died with him."

"He left it to you. Don't let your sadness ruin all that you aspire to!"

"I made it my own," Marsh Silas murmured. "All I ever had to do was look at Lilias and know what I was fighting for. Everything made sense and the path seemed so, so clear. I could see it, Seathan, we were going to do it all and more. You, me, her, Bloody Platoon, we was gonna change everything. But dreams only last for as long as we sleep and I've woken up, now. My dreams are dying too and that is all."

When he looked up after a period of silence, Hyram was staring coldly back at him. Little by little, his expression eased. His eyes became glossy once more but no tears fell. Picking up his hat, he walked to the curtain and paused just before he exited.

"Are you still a Guardsman?"

"What else am I?" Marsh said, leveling his gaze at the wall across from him.

"A Guardsman follows orders, no matter how hollow he is," Hyram said. "Don your uniform and come up to the private service. Immediately."

The Captain disappeared behind the curtain. Marsh Silas watched it swish back and forth until it eased little by little. When it stopped, his gaze returned to his uniform.

###

Marsh Silas trundled down the beach. The medals on the left side of his chest clinked, his sword belt made a rhythmic leather thump with every step, and his booted feet sank into the damp sand with every step. As he walked, the sediment would bulge and little trickles of water appeared in the cracks. Around his boots, the dark soil grew bright for a few moments as the moisture left it.

The sun was just beginning to set and the cloudless sky appeared as a radiant golden sheet. Across the channel, clumps of seaweed and exposed rock appeared everywhere. But the dark water was slowly filling it. The sound of approaching waves grew louder and louder. Seabirds squawked and called. Gentle wind blew across the islands.

Standing many meters away from Army's Meadow shore, Bloody Platoon stood in a wide, dispersed crowd. Everyone was clad in their dress uniforms. Gold, silver, and bronze medals caught the sun and glowed on their chests. Squad leaders wore their swords and mantles. All their eyes watched Marsh Silas as he approached. Among them was Valens, the regimental picter, who had carried on with the platoon for many months. Tears were already streaming down his face. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were both present, as was Master Sergeant Tindall and his crew. Commissar Ghent stood next to Captain Hyram.

In the center of the platoon were four men—Honeycutt, Drummer Boy, Babcock, and Isenhour—acting as pallbearers for a litter. Marsh approached and the four men lowered it. Carstensen was laying in a bed of flowers picked from the peninsula's shores and a blanket of them covered her legs. Her hands were folded on her midsection that was covered with a folded miniature banner belonging to the regiment. She held her Commissariat hat in her fingers; her wooden prayer beads were wrapped around her left wrist. Dressed in her finest uniform with all her medals, she appeared every bit the warrior as she always had.

Marsh looked at her. How he wished, then, to see her azure and emerald eyes, flickering like gemstones caught in the surf. There was always a winter sea in her gaze no matter how hot the fires in her heart had burned. She looked so incredibly peaceful.

He stood behind her for a long time. Nobody spoke—there was no need to. All had said their goodbyes already. As the sea drew closer, Marsh Silas took off his hat. Hyram took it from him while the platoon sergeant unbuttoned his collar. Reaching into his tunic, he procured the necklace she gave him that night in Kasr Sonnen. Pulling it over his head, he squeezed the silvered Aquila-I token in his palms. Opening them, he stared mournfully at it. A gift for him, just for him, no one else. Love captured in a single bit of silver bearing the icon they so cherished.

Pressing it to his lips, he closed his eyes and cupped his hands around it. He felt and tasted the cold metal. Finally taking it away, he carefully draped it around Carstensen's neck. Ensuring it was perfectly arrayed in the center of her chest, he pressed it there. Then, he held her cheek and planted a gentle kiss on her pale lips.

When he finally stood up, the water was coming up to his thighs. It was so warm. The fleeting sunlight was disappearing fast. Marsh Silas nodded at the pallbearers. As one, they lowered the litter into the water. Marsh Silas slid his arms underneath her at the same time. All the flower petals coated the surface. Many continued to cling to her tunic while the rest floated around her. As the men took the litter away, Marsh started to walk further into the water. Standing in a small sea of flowers, he strode deeper and deeper until the water was above his waist.

Silas stood in the caressing waves and bobbing flowers, staring deeply into Carstensen. Water lapped her orange hair, bringing it out of its knot. It spread around her head like the sun's crimson halo. Golden light shimmered on the water around her, briefly illuminating the dark seas and mingling with the yellow petals.

He slowly let go of her. Carstensen drifted away from him very slowly. She sank deeper into the water, with only her face and chest remaining above the surface. Flowers crowded around her, brushing her cheeks and latching to her red locks. Serenely, she drifted, drifted, drifted away from him with Cadia's current. Marsh Silas watched, the tears silently rolling down his cheeks. Then, as a calm, low wave rippled through the channel, she slipped beneath the surface. Only the flowers continued to float, dispersing among the water.

As the wind blew Marsh's hair askew and dried the tears on his face, he merely stared at those drifting flowers. He did not feel the wind nor the water. Only when Hyram sloshed up beside him and placed Marsh's hat back in his hands did he looked back. Bloody Platoon was still standing with him, the water rising over their waists and dampening their chests. Some gazed at him, others held each other as they wept, a few looked past him into the sea, while fewer still looked up at the sky. Yet, they all remained.

Marsh Silas put on his hat, turned his back on the channel, and walked towards the beach. Each man he passed cast one last look to the fading horizon, turned, and followed him.

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But the dark water was slowly filling it.