Chapter 24
It was like waking up with the warmth of the afternoon sun in his arms.
When Marsh Silas opened his eyes, he found Carstensen lying on her side and nuzzling against his chest. Her head was tucked under his chin and her cheek pressed to his skin. One arm remained draped around the platoon sergeant while her other hand nestled in his chest hair. Carstensen's mouth was slightly parted and her warm, gentle breath washed over him. Some of her orange locks covered her eyes and one particularly long strand hung to the corner of her mouth. The blankets they were under had been pushed down during the night. Both of their bodies were exposed nearly to the waist. His eyes traveled down her toned musculature, her defined lines along her shoulders, running down her arms, and criss-crossing her abdomen. The battle scars along her forearms and midsection, the subtle curves of her torso, her small, athletic breasts, the veins in her arms, the strength to the angles of her jaw.
How could he not stare? Wearing a sleepy smile and still blinking himself awake, he just took her in, entirely unable and unwilling to look away. His eyes were drawn to the chain around her neck. Not only did it bear both her identification tags, it also carried the cross of Saint Felicie. It took the shape of a unique cross patoncé, with the trifurcated leaves at the top of the vertical bar were shorter than the arms and the lower vertical section was elongated. Although small and surprisingly plain, it was utterly beautiful.
Reaching down, he ran his thumb over the identical cross Carstensen gifted him last night before they drifted into sleep. Holding it up, he smiled at the piece and then pressed it to his lips. Then, he leaned down and kissed Carstensen on the forehead. At this, she stirred a little bit, smiled, but then fell back to sleep without ever having opened her eyes.
Marsh Silas knew he would not be so fortunate. He pawed for the wristwatch on the nightstand and checked the time. It was 0530. Looking up a little more, he could see pale morning light peeking through the windows. None of the curtains were drawn so he could see fluffy snowflakes falling outside.
Slowly and carefully, he extricated himself from her arms and the bed. When he was finally able to stand up, he drew the blankets over her until she was covered up to her shoulders. Again, she stirred a little, her lips pursing, but soon her face relaxed. Marsh took a moment to brush the hair from her mouth and tucked it behind her ear. Then, he went to the window and looked at the street below. A column of troops marched down the crooked street while many sentries patrolled on the sidewalks. On a motor-bike came a dispatch rider who wore a leather satchel on both shoulders. Of course, there were many Vox-drones zooming in every direction overhead. Not long after the rider entered the garrison, a Chimera rolled by, its treads leaving dark tracks in the snow. Eventually, a pair of servitors came along and began clearing the streets, sidewalks, and barricades of snow. These were the very same servitors that removed debris during a siege.
He could feel the cold coming through the glass and his skin prickled. The air of the room was heated but he was undressed and couldn't help shivering. Finding their uniforms neatly folded on a bench next to the washroom door, he donned his braies, relieved himself in the washroom, and then retrieved his watch and prayer beads. Once he put it on, he knelt beside the bed, made the sign of the Aquila, and whispered his morning prayers.
"My Emperor, the All-Father, the Creator, the Guardian of Man. I thank Thee for bestowing unto me another day in Your light." He opened one eye, peeking at Carstensen, then closed it again. His smile grew. "And I thank Thee for...for...oh, how did Hyram say it...bequeathing me with a gift greater than my own life: the life, heart, and soul of another of your loyal and your faithful. It is through her You have made the future seem so much brighter. I can offer no greater repayment than what You already have from me: my life and my service. Gifts small and unequal to those You have given me. For that, I am sorry and ashamed my Lord, but know you will always have them in me."
He kissed the Aquila-cross and then his prayer beads, sliding them onto his right wrist. Then, he sneaked into the foyer, shut the door behind him, and cracked his knuckles.
Cadian Guardsmen were creatures of routine. All good Guardsmen were, but like any man on furlough, he enjoyed a good, long rest. But Marsh Silas, and many of his comrades, knew it was important not to get soft or complacent, especially when stationed so closely to the Eye of Terror. For troopers on short leave, such as two or three days, there was no expectation from senior officers for the men to maintain standards. On extended leave, however, troops were expected to maintain acceptable modes of discipline whilst enjoying their time off. As well, commanders needed to ensure their men stayed in shape. Marching drills, combatives, and physical training were quite common for troops on leave. However, this was left to the discretion of their immediate commanding officers and NCOs rather than the extreme oversight of their Regimental Headquarters. If a Guardsman found himself alone on furlough, it was up to him to maintain appropriate levels of discipline and health.
Marsh Silas decided to utilize this quiet time to exercise. Most of the time, all his physical training was in the company of his troops. While he enjoyed their company, he relished the moments he could perform on his lonesome. There was no need for competition or record breaking. He could pace himself, push himself by his own standards, and indulge in exercise of his choosing rather than the regime selected by the company First Sergeant.
First, he limbered up, stretching out his arms, legs, core, and back. After touching his toes and holding the posture for a full minute, he felt loose enough to begin. Setting the timer feature on his watch he performed a series of push-ups, sit-ups, crunches, side-crunches, and leg-lifts. In between each, he took rests of several minutes although these got a little longer as he went on. By 0600 hours he knew he couldn't do any more but his scores were quite satisfactory; eighty-eight push-ups, ninety sit-ups, one hundred-twenty crunches, one hundred-ten side crunches, and one hundred leg-lifts. Men like Babcock, Keach, and the squad leaders Mottershead and Holmwood could do far more than that, but for his weight and age group, these were excellent marks. Still, he was quite sore by the end, but pleasantly so. Lying on his back, covered in a sheet of sweat, his messy blonde hair matted to his forehead, he stared up at the ceiling catching his breath. He felt very warm.
Just as he lifted his arm to check his watch, the door swung open and nearly struck his head. Looking up, he found Carstensen standing over him. She was clad only in a beige strophium and a brown pair of subligaculum which came halfway down her strong thighs.
"And why didn't you wake me for early morning prayer and physical training?" she asked in a falsely offended tone. Marsh grinned up at her.
"Well, ya just looked so peaceful Commissar, it seemed not only rude but entirely improper to wake you."
Carstensen knelt down, wiped his sweaty locks from his forehead, and then kissed him on the lips.
"I am Lilias in here, not Commissar."
"Yes, my love," Marsh Silas said.
Carstensen sat back on her knees a little bit and sniffed her arm.
"I have your smell all over me."
"That ain't such a poor thing, ain't it?"
She smiled at him, and then tapped his leg.
"Up, up. It's my turn. Wash yourself, you stink."
Marsh Silas obeyed and left Carstensen to her own exercises. He collected his grooming kit and went to the washroom where he first used a brush and cleansing paste to scrub his teeth, knowing Honeycutt would be performing an inspection at some point. Any man who hadn't cleaned his teeth was going to be subjected to a cuff on the ear, a rather sweary reprimand, and remedial training that would leave his wrist and forearm burning by the end. Then, he ran the water in the shower until it was warm. He took his time, scrubbing hard with the soap provided by the establishment. This stuff was different from the regulation cleanser provided by the Astra Militarum. It was softer and the scent was far different. Instead of the sterile smell like the one sniffed in a Medicae center, it was sweeter, like the flowers on Army's Meadow.
A shadow emerged at the glass door to the shower and the door slid open. "Leave it running, dear."
As Marsh Silas stepped out, Carstensen, bare, slid by him. Catching her by the waist, he brought her against him for a brief moment so he could kiss her. Caught off-guard and blushing, she quickly hurried into the shower, suppressing a lovely smile. While she washed up, Marsh dried off a little bit and then put the towel on the edge of the counter. Letting the tap run to fill the basin, he removed the small adhesive bandage he kept on the bridge of his nose. Carefully removing it, he revealed a scarred notch, where the flesh was horribly scarred. Reaching into his grooming kit, he took out another khaki-colored bandage and pasted it over the old wound. By then, the basin was filled, so he splashed some on the stubble across his cheeks, then applied shaving soap. Taking out the straight razor, he began carefully scraping the stubble away, wiping the remnants on the towel before dipping the blade back into the steaming hot water. Multiple times, he had to wipe the mirror because the steam from the shower was fogging it up.
"Are these the problems a fella on a Civilized World has to deal with each morn?" he said into the mirror.
"I was thinking the very same," Carstensen said. "Since last night, I haven't had one military thought. Shameful."
There was a coy tone to her voice that revealed she wasn't as ashamed as she said. This made Marsh smile as he shaved.
"What time do you think we ought to have the men out on a march?" Marsh Silas asked. "0800?"
"I think 0800 hours is appropriate, although we should clear that with Lieutenant Hyram first."
"Naturally, my love."
The water turned off, the door slid open, and one of Carstensen's legs emerged. Marsh Silas could not help but watch her exit the shower. He dipped the razor into the water again and tapped it on the rim of the porcelain basin. "On my first furlough, we got to attend a special event put on for the local troops. Someone on high decided a troop o' dancers ought to be brought it to entertain us. Those ladies were quite leggy and wore the most flouncy, scanty dresses you ever saw in your life. Had a funny name, too. Somethin' like, 'Bertram's Babes,' or 'Bertie's Babies,' can't quite recall. None o' us ever saw anything like that before seein' as how Cadian folk don't tend to wear nothin' but their uniforms. Course' the dogfaces' tongues were waggin'."
Carstensen wrapped herself in a towel and gave him a smokey look.
"I suppose you'd like to see me in one of those ridiculous costumes," she said. Marsh Silas held up his hands as if he was surrendering.
"I said no such thing!" he laughed. Carstensen came over, coiling one of her arms around his torso and running her hand up and down his chest.
"Why? Do you think I would not wear it well?"
"My fair lady," Marsh Silas breathed as her hand ran a little lower down his abdomen. The sensation made his stomach drop in a good way and a feeling of pleasant lightness crept up his back. "You would wear anything well, madam."
"I like that answer, although I think Commissariat crimson and black will suit me for the time being."
Carstensen kissed him on the temple and then slipped out of the washroom. Marsh Silas continued shaving, smiling the entire time. Seeing his own expression, he decided he had never smiled so much in his life. It was that conclusion he also determined he had never felt so glad in all his years. There were plenty of moments for joviality in a soldier's life and during the times of youth. But this seemed to overshadow them all.
He finished shaving, splashed some more water on his face, and wiped it all down with the clean end of his towel. Wrapping another around his waist, he went back out into the bedroom. Lilias was sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off, the other curled back so she was nearly sitting on it. She was slightly bent forward with her open grooming kit beside her. Her blue-green eyes were focused on a palm-sized mirror she balanced against the bedpost. Holding a comb in her right hand, she worked it through her damp hair, rooting out the tangles and knots in it. The pale towel she wore was sliding down her body and eventually opened up a little, exposing her breast. But she did not notice, or if she did, she was completely unconcerned. Perhaps she was too focused, was simply comfortable, or both.
As he watched, he went over to his jacket and retrieved his ebony pipe. He sprinkled tabac leaves into it, struck a match, but paused before lighting it.
"Would you prefer I smoked outdoors?"
"It is my wish you remain and smoke your pipe here, my love," Carstensen said without looking up. The platoon sergeant dipped his match into the bowel and soon began puffing. Then, he sat down close behind her, his own towel slipping loose as well. When she paused to brush a few locks back, Marsh plucked the comb from her hand. Taking a handful of her orange hair, he ran the comb through it.
He was gentle and slow, working until every lock in his hands was smooth. Looking over her shoulder, he could see her expression in the mirror. Soft, tender, blushing, and happy. "If this is the life that awaits you and I once we are no longer soldiers, then I suppose it is not a bad one."
"Aye. This is something I could become very accustomed to," Marsh replied. "You know, I was thinking about what we spoke of last night. I should think Kasr Polaris would not do."
"I am surprised. I would think your ancestral home would do splendidly."
"Well, Kasr Polaris was the place in which I was born but all of Cadia is my home. I have tramped all over it. Any Kasr would do, but I have been to this Kasr Sonnen a few times. There's a wonderful cathedral, good soldier halls, and a strong garrison. It is a good place."
"I pray you're not thinking of purchasing this room," Carstensen huffed. "While I am fond of it already, and it is quite a respectable establishment, it is no place to live."
"Well, we'll have to take a walk around and find somewhere suitable, then."
"Our soldiering days aren't over yet," Carstensen reminded him.
"I pray they aren't." Marsh Silas leaned forward and kissed the back of her neck. "But they can wait for now."
Carstensen turned around, draped her arms around his neck, and grinned cheekily at him.
"Our orders are to remain on furlough for three weeks. It would be very un-soldierly of us to disobey, wouldn't it?"
Marsh Silas took his pipe away from his lips and kissed her. It grew deeper, more passionate, and before long he had rolled Carstensen onto her back. His towel slipped off entirely and her own was now entirely open. Their bare bodies pressed against one another and their fingers interlocked. Propping himself up, he gazed at her and Carstensen bashfully looked away. How the Commissar looked so lively and womanly when her cheeks were flushed! She was intoxicating to Marsh Silas and it took every ounce of strength not to kiss her again.
"How I must resist," Marsh teased her.
"And resist you must, or you'll spoil the evening's events," Carstensen teased back. She plucked his pipe out of his hand and began puffing on it. After releasing a few smoke rings, she turned it around in her hands. She ran her thumb over the golden Aquila emblem and then held the pipe up. In the light from the lamp, it shone like a boot freshly polished with boot black. "This is of a very fine make, perhaps one an enlisted man like yourself couldn't afford. Are you sure it wasn't acquired by barter or theft?"
Marsh Silas could see by her smirk and the playful glint in her eyes that she was trying to tease him. He slid down and rested his head on her bare breasts while she leaned back against the pillows and continued smoking.
"Long before I was born, my papa was stationed on a developing Agri-World designated as AWD-657, but it's probably called somethin' different nowadays. His regiment stood on guard as great machines cut down the forests covering the flatlands. He came to discover the wood harvested from these trees was as black as night and quite heavy. Apparently, the wood is used for fancy things like figurines and canes. So he decided to take a chunk for himself and later on paid half a Terran year's wage for a craftsman to forge him a pipe. That became his war pipe. I don't know if he ever intended it to be passed down, but after he died it became my war pipe."
He inhaled deeply. In that breath, he could smell not only the sweet soap they used, but also Carstensen's alluring natural scent; deep, earthy. Readjusting slightly, her breast softer underneath his cheek, he closed his eyes.
"Your father passed when you were young, like mine."
"Yes, but he didn't have the opportunity to die so gloriously in battle. Let's not speak of such sad things on a good morning."
"A morning can always become good again, sweet Silas."
Marsh opened a sleepy eye and craned his neck to look up at her. Carstensen smiled warmly at him, the pipe dangling from her closed lips.
"When he came back to Cadia with mother, he was no longer in command of a Shock Trooper regiment. He expected a posting in the Interior Guard. Instead, a regiment tithed from some distant world, its name I cannot remember, lost its commander and he was asked to take over. I recall he said they was nothin' but a bunch o' laggards, shirks, and cowards, and he did everything in his power to train'em up. Well, they must o' resented that because one night when he was on furlough with the regiment, someone came a-knockin' on our door."
Marsh opened his eyes. He didn't wish to see the images replay in his head. "One o' his soldiers shot him. While the sentries posted nearby tore after him, I tried to dress my father's wounds using a few tricks I picked up during the Month of Making. Nothing worked. He bled to death in the doorway."
"Did they find the scoundrel who shot him?"
"I never found out. My father's parents sent me and mama packing swiftly after that." Marsh Silas brought his hand up and rested it on Carstensen's stomach for a moment. Then, he began tracing circles around her belly button; he could feel her muscles quivering beneath his finger. Carstensen's hand slid to the back of his head and she began running her fingers up and down.
"Did you ever crave vengeance?"
"I was angry. But I went to the chapel and I prayed. I found great calm there in the after years. The Emperor soothed my soul. He saw fit to use me for higher reasons, fighting in His battles. Pursuing vengeance woulda been right selfish of me." He chuckled to himself. "Although pursuing you might be selfish, too."
Carstensen's embrace tightened and he felt her lips against the top of his forehead.
"No. We belong together. It is the Emperor's will, I know it in my heart of hearts."
Marsh Silas smiled. He was so comfortable he could have gone back to sleep. But he shifted a little and lifted his head so he could look up at her. Again, he shifted his head to look up at her.
"Your papa?"
"There was no heroism involved. Reports indicated he fell while advancing with the troops."
"You said you were sent to the Schola Progenium. What of your mother, then?"
"She died not long after him. There was no sickness. It just so happened one day I awoke and she did not. No one told me anything so I could only rely on gossip among her servants. Some spoke of a chem overdose, others murder, but one said she died because she was heartsick for my father."
"Heartsick?" Marsh echoed. "Can someone really die o' that?"
"Only the Emperor can say."
Marsh Silas nodded a little. "After the morning drill, let us visit the cathedral. We'll say prayers for your father and my parents. Then, we'll see where our feet take us."
"That sounds lovely."
So the two extricated themselves from the comfort of their bed and donned their uniforms. Marsh Silas decided to add his ribbon rack to his khaki tunic. With the new decorations, it was becoming rather large. For a moment, he gazed at the golden Obscurus Honorifica, unsure if he should wear it. But Carstensen took it from his hand and pinned it to his chest above his ribbons. Beside it was his Medallion Crimson as well as the Triple Skull, which were worn on the left side of the chest above the ribbons on a standard khaki uniform. These two medals could be worn on any side of the chest, depending on which uniform a Guardsman wore.
Carstensen tugged at his coat, adjusted his belt, inspected the ribbon rack a final time, and nodded. Arms akimbo, she invited Marsh Silas to do the same. Years of being told not to touch a Commissar's person unless it was under battle conditions made him hesitate. Without any drink in him, he was less brave. But eventually, he was able to overcome it and checked her uniform. Like him, she wore her ribbon rack on her crimson coat with the Order of Commissar-Captain Bachmeier above it. The golden medal shone brilliantly in the dull lamp light. Beside that, he made sure her coat fitted evenly on her shoulders and that her cuffs were rolled correctly. He was quite certain that she left those adjustments for him on purpose. Carstensen was always immaculate in her dress and would have spotted such oversights very quickly.
Side by side, caps under their arms, they walked to the door of the apartment. Marsh Silas grabbed the doorknob but Carstensen caught his hand.
"What if some of the men are out in the hall and see us?" she asked.
"I hadn't thought o' that," Marsh murmured.
I checked. You're all clear. Be quick, though, Color Sergeant Babcock is nearly dressed. Tootle-ooh!
Marsh Silas squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as Barlocke's voice drifted away. "Let's put our faith in the God-Emperor."
The door swung open and revealed an empty hall. Marsh Silas breathed in relief. "Thank you," he said, both to Barlocke and the Emperor.
Carstensen betrayed no further emotion and the pair went to Hyram's door. Marsh Silas rapped his knuckles against the wooden trim. "Lieutenant Hyram, sir?" There was no response. He knocked again. "Sir? Are you up?" Marsh glanced at Carstensen. "Maybe he'd wake if you'd call him 'father.'"
"You'll pay for that one, Silas. Go and wake father, I'll go below and see who is up."
As Carstensen marched to the steps, the platoon sergeant stared after her.
"Father?" he echoed jokingly. Carstensen stopped by the railing, faced him, raised her chin, and clicked her heels.
"You heard me," was all she said, and disappeared down the stairs in a huff.
Chuckling to himself, Marsh pushed the door open. All the lights he turned off the previous evening were still dark. Only one lamp glowed through the second door: the bedside light he left on. He found Hyram all curled up in the sheets, the picts of his wife and son still in his hands. Fresh saliva dribbled from his mouth onto the pillowcase. He was snoring very loudly.
To see Hyram, an officer who was a soldier's soldier but still very much a gentleman, in a state more disheveled than those long days in the hinterland, was both humorous and shocking. Marsh Silas couldn't help but stare for a few minutes, smiling that delighted crooked smile of his. Eventually, he reached down and shook his friend by the shoulder.
"Sir, rouse yourself."
"Why don't you rouse yourself out of my room," Hyram mumbled.
"Come on, sir, you need to wash, you smell awful. Phew, I can still smell the Amasec on your breath."
Upon hearing that, Hyram rolled onto his back, and exhaled deeply towards Marsh Silas. The cloud of repellent breath made the platoon sergeant's skin crawl. "Alright, if that's the way you're gonna be about it, sir."
Going to the washroom, he found an empty glass cup. He filled it with cold water, walked back into the room, took the picts from the officer's hand, and dumped it on Hyram's face. The Lieutenant shouted angrily and sprang from the bed with his drool-covered pillow. He swung wildly at Marsh Silas who chortled with laughter as he ducked and dodged across the room.
Eventually, Hyram gave up. He tossed the pillow on the bed and sat down on the edge, running a hand through his damp hair.
"My bloody head," he complained, rubbing his temples. "I haven't drank like that in a long time. What a poor example of a Cadian officer."
Marsh Silas, pipe in hand, sat down next to him.
"You're among your men, sir. They're proud Cadians but they're common-folk, too. They like it when you act like them. What counts is you act like an officer on the battlefield. O' course, when you're at the head o' yer own regiment one day, you might have to check such behavior."
"Oh, I pray it never comes to that."
He was certainly a humble man. Marsh Silas admired that in his friend. Putting his pipe back to his lips, he handed the picts over to him. Still rubbing his head with one hand, Hyram gazed at them for a few moments. A strange, mystic sort of smile crossed his face. "What would my Isabella think of me now? Before I was nothing more than a clerk, a Militarum attaché to the Departmento Munitorum. I took my drink bitterly, quietly, and alone in the family study. Now I lead missions, sleep in open country for days on end, charge enemy positions, bark orders, pin medals, and drink myself to oblivion with those damned wonderful rankers. I have never been so happy."
He put the pictures on the nightstand, bowed his head, and held it with both hands. "I need a new head."
"I think your wife would be damn proud, sir."
Hyram looked up slowly. His violet gaze was somber and without the light from last night. There was an understanding in those eyes, though, and a sweetness in his smile. He reached over and patted Marsh on his cheek and stood up. Immediately, he clutched his aching head again but finally righted himself. With a sigh, he journeyed into the bathroom and left the door open a crack. Water began running.
"So, what do you have in store for our rabble of hungover troops today?"
"Li...Commissar Carstensen and I figured an 0800 parade ought to be a good start. Wanted to clear that with you," Marsh Silas responded as he transitioned to the bench next to the washroom door. Hyram's cleaned uniform and other belongings were neatly spread out along the polished wood. On top of his hat was the 'official adoption paperwork,' from last night. Grinning and shifting his pipe to the right corner of his mouth, Marsh Silas picked it up.
"So, what's the happy couple planning to do with their personal time this day?"
That was enough to make Marsh Silas blush.
"We plan to walk the Kasr after visiting the cathedral," he answered, his eyes scanning Hyram's drunken scrawl on the parchment.
"Well, let's not allow something like drilling to spoil such an outing. I think ol' Lieutenant Hyram can handle a parade march on his lonesome."
Marsh Silas was about to answer when he noticed their signatures at the bottom. Lilias's was perfect, his own was still wobbly, and Hyram's was nearly illegible. Despite the crudeness of his penmanship, he could spot the mistake.
"Ya added a few more letters to yer name than you should have."
The water stopped running and a moment later, Hyram poked his wet head out the door. Marsh held up the paper for him. His perplexed expression disappeared and he retreated into the washroom.
"No, that's correct."
"What? You said your name is Sean, not Seathan."
"Seathan was my father's name. In an act of utter cruelty, or perhaps an act derived from a lack of creativity, but more than likely an act of pure vanity, he gave me that name also."
His tone was brimming with annoyance and reluctance. Marsh Silas looked back at the parchment for a few moments before setting aside. Folding his hands in his lap, he puffed on his pipe and waited awkwardly for the Lieutenant to speak first. Everything he thought of to say, whether it was an honest question, glib remark, or a joke to start a new conversation seemed inappropriate.
Hyram came walking out of the washroom with a white towel wrapped around his waist.
His identification tags and the silver chain bearing a miniature, golden Aquila on it, jingled against his chest. He had become an impressive man, both mentally and physically. The scrawny, under-developed clerk who took command of Bloody Platoon well over a solar year ago was now robust of muscle. His chest, abdomen, back, and arms were superbly developed, and while not broad like Marsh Silas, he was far stronger than ever before. His once pale skin had tanned from so many days in the hinterland and his body bore scars from several wounds.
Sitting between Marsh and the pack, he took out a packet of lho-sticks, slid on out, and dipped the wind into the platoon sergeant's pipe. It caught after a few moments. He leaned back and began to take long drags on it.
The two finally looked at one another, almost at the same time. "Seathan Randolph Hyram the Second," he exhaled, releasing a cloud of thin white smoke. "How can a man be expected to serve his Emperor when he is always in the shadow of someone else? On all my transcripts and in every Administratum record, I may be Seathan, but I shorten it for all others."
Marsh scratched his chin, folded his arms across his chest, and tapped his foot, thinking. Eventually, he shrugged and nodded his head to the side.
"Who cares if it's your father's name? He ain't here and I'm fairly certain he won't be makin' no appearance anytime soon. Far as I'm concerned, there's only one Seathan Randolph Hyram on good ol' Cadia."
Hyram looked at him in surprise. He took the lho-stick from his mouth and released another cloud of smoke. Then, he smiled softly, almost tenderly, and patted Marsh on his knee.
"Very well, Senior Staff Sergeant. Go, take your lady love and walk the streets. I'll get these rabble-rousers and malcontents on their feet." Before Marsh could protest, the Lieutenant poked him in the chest. "That's an order."
Marsh Silas left his friend and journeyed to the first floor. Only a few men were up. Monty Peck was humming to himself as he consumed a few strips of Grox bacon. Drummer Boy sat beside him, face-down on the bartop next to an untouched mug of steaming recaf. Both Whiteshields were wide awake, apparently doing well after their first forway with Amasec.
Carstensen had taken the table she, Marsh, and Hyram sat at the previous night. Two plates were on the table; both had a slice of buttered bread, three strips of Grox bacon, two golden Grox eggs, and a piece of orange fruit. Next to each plate was a mug of recaf.
"Well, isn't this lovely?" Marsh said as he sat down across from her.
"I worked very hard on it," Carstensen said with a sly tone. That made the platoon sergeant chuckle.
"Hyram's made our little outing an order and we're to proceed immediately."
"We're not to join in the morning formation?" Carstensen asked. When Marsh nodded, she grumbled. "What a silly man."
"Hey, that's your father."
"Don't make me dump this plate on your head."
The pair left the inn not too long after their breakfast. Kasr Sonnen's streets were buzzing with soldiery. Plenty of Guardsmen were on leave and many more were on sentry details. Heavy vehicles rumbled through the streets, Enginseers led parties of servitors between different facilities, aircraft touched down at the Aerobase, and entire regiments marched in formation to the Kasr's gates. Passing through the pavilion of a sub-garrison, they heard a regimental commander giving a rousing speech to his assembled troops. In another compound, troops who were about to be deployed were blessed by dozens of preachers.
They walked close together, nearly shoulder to shoulder. Many who passed by them were unable to hide the shock of a uniformed Commissar and a Cadian NCO walking together. Carstensen whispered that if anybody asked, Marsh was to tell them he was acting as a temporary adjutant.
Marsh Silas loved every minute of their walk. They stopped to marvel at the martial scenes or bow their heads at the tall statues depicting Cadian war heroes. But they eventually arrived at Kasr Sonnen Cathedral. Its familiar cylindrical spire, gilded armor plating on the walls, the massive Aquila emblazoned over the entrance, and the automated weapons systems across its flat roof. Such grand architecture was even more incredible to the eye in daylight. From within drifted the chorus of patrons chanting hymns, the Confessor reading from his tome, and the beautiful singing of Sisters from an Order Madriga. In such awe, Marsh and Carstensen paused to gaze at the cathedral before joining the long line of patrons.
The pace of the congregation was very slow. Every few minutes, the line shuffled forward as a crowd trickled out from the doors. Knowing not everyone could fit inside, preachers and deacons walked among the lines, reciting scripture and administering blessings to the faithful. It was a cold day and many of the auxiliary troops and citizens didn't have the heavy winter clothing Shock Troopers and other Militarum members wore. At one point, Marsh couldn't help but gaze at a mother and her five small children. They were in threadbare clothes, factorum attire by the look of it, and shivering terribly in the snow. But they all chattered excitedly in anticipation of entering one of the God-Emperor's mighty houses.
After an hour and a half, the couple was able to enter the cathedral. They followed the people in front of them to a pew in the rear of the cathedral. The noise inside was deafening, from the people praying along with the Confessor followed by myriad singing voices, it was impossible to make out what was being said. But so many voices weaved together, creating a magical, holy noise that breathed life into Marsh Silas. He felt so at home, so at ease in this place. Witnessing the massive golden statue of the Emperor in front of the pulpit made him feel so alive.
The two sat, bowed their heads, and began to quietly utter their prayer.
"My Emperor, Savior and Protector of Man, Bring and Provider of Light, Guidance of the Imperium, I humbly besiege You hear my voice," Carstensen led. "We ask of You to carry our voices to the fallen who now walk by Your side: Dayton Cross, Agustí Carstensen, and Celinda Carstensen. Let them know that, even if their names are not always on our tongues, they reside constantly in our hearts. We have not forgotten them and we never shall. Please, our illustrious, glorious, and benevolent Leader, grant us this one wish and we shall repay your infinite kindness with a service greater than what is expected of us. We shall find a way to repay you or die trying, beloved Emperor."
Marsh Silas was not able to keep his eyes shut or keep his hands in the symbol of the Aquila. His eyes fell on Carstensen. She had taken off her hat so her orange locks were covering her brow. Her eyes were closed but not squeezed shut, as if she was going to sleep. The way she held herself—the subtle hunch to her shoulders, the bowing of her head, the perfection of the Aquila gesture—was beyond impressive, it was inspiring. Everything she said, everything she did, right down to the pinpoints of her posture, was perfect.
He reached over and rested his hand on top of her own. She looked up at him.
"I'm going to marry you," he said. Carstensen smiled.
"I know."
###
Those days in Kasr Sonnen passed in such a fashion. Each morning, Bloody Platoon awoke in good spirits, metered only by their bad headaches, and broke their fasts together. Morning prayers were recited again and then they assembled for the march. Each detail ended in the central garrison. There, they visited Sergeant Clivvy and other friends who remained in the Medicae center. Whenever they visited, their faces lit up and their health seemed to improve at once. Much to the encouragement of the platoon, their comrades' recoveries progressed well. Lieutenant Hyram, Marsh Silas, Carstensen, and other newly promoted members of the platoon underwent additional training and coursework that came with their new ranks. When they were not in class, they took on light administrative work with Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft.
After their midday meal, everyone gathered around to watch Babcock work on the new platoon standard. It was a highly delicate process requiring great skill. But the Color Sergeant performed it diligently, his large hands deftly and gently weaving the thread. Much to the delight of the present Whiteshields, Tattersall and Rowley, Babcock asked them to assist. This duty consisted of fetching more material or holding certain parts of the flag. To them, it was an immense honor.
Some time later, the platoon broke up. Some went to the cathedral to pray, others went to the garrison to practice their marksmanship or attend weapons qualification training, and many more ventured across kasr Sonnen to observe the statues and busts of Cadian heroes and Imperial Saints. By far, this was one of Marsh's favorite activities and it was made all the better with Carstensen's company. Hyram came as well, helping to defer some of the queer looks Marsh gained from walking so close to a Commissar.
At 1600 hours, Bloody Platoon regrouped for another marching drill and then light combatives training the garrison. That was great fun as they tussled, wrestled, and grappled with one another. At 1800 hours, they returned for the evening meals which always led to more celebrating. Although it was never as wild and rambunctious as their first night in Kasr Sonnen, the platoon made merry. Every night, Hyram assured Marsh Silas he would not drink too much and every night his erstwhile platoon sergeant was forced to carry the drunken officer upstairs to his quarters.
Monty Peck entertained the platoon with a selection of songs and the vast majority of the men would join in. He and Drummer Boy even bought some stringed instruments from a tithed regiment, learned to play, and added a jaunty tune to the old songs. Whenever he sang or played, Monty Peck stood and danced on the bartop or dining table. He called these his 'stages.' And when other units arrived, each man took a woman to perform his duty, save for Hyram, the Whiteshields, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen.
Every night, Marsh Silas and Carstensen made love, talked until the late hours, and fell asleep coiled in one another's arms. Although she did her best to resist, she always fell asleep before him. Marsh liked to leave the bedside lamp on for a little while just so he could gaze at her. Eventually, sleep overpowered him. Extinguishing the light, he would nestle against the love of his life, thank the Emperor for another blessed day in His grace, and drift to sleep, dreaming not of memories but of colorful futures to come.
And for a time, life on Cadia was good. The men of Bloody Platoon would forever remember this time as 'The Days of Gold.'
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Author's Note: I apologize for my absence, I was in a pretty bad spot with my writing and needed some time off. I was also discouraged because of Games Workshop's new policy regarding fanworks. Although fanfiction has less risk, the whole principle of the affair really depressed me and I even contemplated ending Marsh Silas, particularly because I have this unrealistic, far-flung dream to one day enter it and get it published as an official Warhamer: 40,000 novel series and that suddenly seemed like an impossibility. But I love this story very much, I love these characters, too much to let my unrealistic dreams and negative feelings get in the way. So, Marsh Silas is back on track! Thanks for your patience and your reading time.
