DISCLAIMER I DO NOT OWN WARHAMMER
"Now..I can be where my brothers are.." said the warrior with his last breath.
His grip on his vambrace slackened..the hand sliding slowly from it and hitting the ground with a soft thud. The Salamander's head lolled back, dangling from his arms. He laid the warrior down gently, closing his eyes.
He had failed again. Yet another life had been taken under his care. The white armored legionnaire stood up. He looked at the reductor which remained fixed on his forearm. What use was it now if he could neither save the warrior nor their precious gene seed?
It was nothing but a dead weight. He clenched his fist, trying his hardest to hold it in the rage welling up within him. How many was that now? Seven? Seven of the wounded that he had come across. Those left behind after the initial battle like himself. Seven souls lost forever due to his inability to save them. What use was his role as an apothecary if he could not heal the wounded!
No he instead served as a harbinger of death. The reaper of souls who would be there with them at their last moments to ferry their spirits to the afterlife. I'm his legion; he was known as Tix the healer. He saved many of his brothers from certain death. The warriors of the Raven Guard praised him. Yet here..on this planet of betrayal and bloodshed he was the complete opposite. He hadn't been able to save anyone. Not his own squad when they fell under attack nor those he found as he wandered the wastelands.
He was without purpose now. He knew not what to do. Where to go. He followed his base instincts of survival. Moving with the shadows. Striking when it seemed most favorable. He also followed his duties as an apothecary. Tending to wounded and dying. Doing everything in his power to extend their lives. That seemed damn near impossible in these current conditions.
He had little to no medicine or drums to administer and was only to work with whatever he had on hand or around him. He unclenched his fist and looked down at his hands. The white of his armor was completely covered by the blood of his recent patient. The warrior had been practically blown apart by heavy bolter fire. His lower limbs were a mangled mess. His left arm was a bloody stump . His breastplate torn open by the force of the wounds, goring his innards.
He was still bleeding profusely when he found him, the damage too severe for their superhuman healing factor clot the blood flow. He shook his head. The cross on his left pauldron had been eroded by the constant sandy winds he arose through. The white of his armor dirtied, having lost its luster. It had been around seventy -two solar hours since the initial battle. After he tried and failed to save his own comrades he went about wandering the battlefield in search of other survivors.
All that he found was simply more suffering and anguish. He took a final glance at the body of the fallen warrior and began to walk away. No need to stay here. He would sometimes scavenge from the dead as much as he hated to do so. Munitions. Supplies. Whatever he could carry on his person that would not slow him down. He currently only wielded an Astartes Pattern shotgun he took from a fallen Death Guard and his own combat knife. They would hopefully suffice for the time being. He hadn't been in too many skirmishes since, only facing off against lone stragglers whom he killed as quickly as possible.
He shook his head, chuckling darkly. Now that he thought about it, he had taken more lives than he had saved since he began his journey. He remembered at one moment when he was besieged by a frenzied world eater, the warrior on top of his person beaten down upon him he had done the unimaginable. He had taken narthecium attached to his wrist and plunged the protruding spike into the warriors eye lense. It had penetrated deep, piercing through his brain and killing him almost instantly. He had broken the oath he had sworn upon his induction into the legion apothecary ranks. To never kill using that which was meant to save.
Yet if he had never done so he himself would have died. It would be he, laying here brutalized in the sands and not his would be killer. He had only done it out of self preservation. He wanted to live. He had to survive. He didn't want to die by the hands of the traitors. He didn't want to end up like the others. He stopped and dropped down to both knees.
That's right he had to live. How could he save any lives if he couldn't save his own. No..no that wasn't it. Saving lives was just secondary to his primary objective. His own survival. Nothing else mattered if he himself didn't make it through In the end.
Yes..YES! That was it! His purpose wasn't to save lives but instead to end them and prolong his own longevity. His shoulders started to shake. A small noise coming from Him. He was laughing. He was laughing hysterically. It seemed he had finally lost it. His mind had broken. All the death. All the horrors he witnessed during his sojourn.
The tortured bodies. The horrific Altars he found made from the remains of his brothers. The demonic rituals he had seen the traitors partake in using the survivors as sacrifices. The atrocities committed upon his brothers.
They had to pay..The traitors all had to pay! Perhaps he didn't survive to save lives like initially thought but instead to end them.
He removed his helmet, taking in a breath of stale air, allowing his skin to bask in the environment. He took out his combat knife, and began to chisel at his own helmet. When he was done, he took a fist full of the blackened sands and packed it into the deep cuts he had made before placing his helmet on once more. Where there once stood the bone white of his armor now stood in its place, a skull packed with the blood stained sands of the fallen.
He would be the reaper of souls. The killer of all those who had wronged them. This was where he belonged now. On this planet of oathbreakers.