Chapter 10

Marsh Silas raised his other arm and glanced at his watch. It was approaching oh-five-hundred hours. Finishing his recaf, he set the tin cup down and made for the ladder. He was followed by Yoxall, downing his own cup, then Queshire, who scaled the ladder with one hand on the bars and the other clutching his tin. Shrugging their shoulders, the Walmsley brothers and Drummer Boy followed.

As the six Guardsmen entered the top of the bunker, they found members of Third Platoon. They were spread along the parapets, some sitting, others half-leaning against the walls. A young sergeant, by the name of Bonner, was looking through a pair of magnoculars. While the others filed through the entrance, he knelt down beside the NCO.

"Gonna be a cold one today," muttered Bonner, wiping his red nose on the back of his gloved hand. "Might snow later."

"Any movement across the channel?"

"Some queer figures dashin' about near them piers. No boats though."

"Woe to them when they show up. The Basilisks will get'em."

He patted the sergeant's shoulder and joined the others at the OP. Men from Third Platoon were in there. Despite their watch not having ended, the drowsy troopers from Bloody Platoon volunteered to stand watch while they caught some extra sleep.

When encamped, entire platoons pulled watch shifts. On a watch, the platoon then broke into smaller shifts, usually operating in two's for OP's and heavy weapons positions, and four or five for bunkers. While some members of the platoon would take up the positions, the rest would sleep. Or at least try to; even when it was possible to catch an hour or two of shuteye, there was plenty to keep a Guardsman up. In a heavily engaged sector, in which the enemy was firmly embedded, artillery made sleep impossible. Probing attacks or raids also kept Guardsmen on edge and afraid. Eldar infiltrators, known as Rangers, often made their way onto the planet from Craftworld Ulthwé. This was usually in between their larger incursions, just to keep an eye on what the Cadians were up to. Rangers were talented marksmen and took opportunities to kill an officer. Making the Cadians duck was something the filthy xenos seemed to enjoy. Cultists were a problem in any sector, lurking in wait to ambush those in the quiet areas, and flocking to the Chaos warbands in the engaged spots. To top it all off, heretics did their best to eek out a living and often mingled with cultists. With so many enemies wanting to pay Cadia a visit, sleep was sometimes impossible.

In the quiet sectors, one could find some peace at least, Marsh Silas considered tiredly.

As the sentries of Third Platoon wrapped themselves in blankets and settled down, he and his clique assembled in front of the trench. The tips of their boots were nearly on the edge of the cliff. Breakers crashed against the jagged rocks and the beach. White spray flew upward. Salty winds ruffled their collars and hair. Across the channel, gray fog clung to the macabre ruins of Kasr Fortis. For some time, they stared out at the murky waters and the dreaded holdfast.

"We failed yesterday," said Yoxall.

He stood at the end of their group, next to Marsh Silas. All looked his way, not with anger for breaking the quiet or dismay to be reminded of the grisly affair, but with a solemn affirmation.

"It was our duty to do what we did," said Walmsley Minor, "but I wish it hadn't come to that."

"We all do, brother," Walmsley Major assured, putting an arm around his younger sibling.

"This ain't like the other times," went the Drummer Boy, "we's failed before but this feels different. This time, there was faces to the people we're supposed to help, and we let'em down."

"We did all we could," Honeycutt offered, putting a hand on the Boy's shoulder. "That's all a Guardsman can do. Take some comfort in that."

Such words were hollow, even if they came from Honeycutt. Everyone felt the same way as the vox-operator. It was written on their faces, in their pursed lips, furrowed brows, and guilty eyes. A cloud hung over the men, and Marsh Silas knew it, because there was still one over him. Not even a night of silent sobbing could force the guilt from him. His he could bear, but not that of the men he loved so dear. Heaving a sigh, he turned to Yoxall, who looked back at him.

"How's about a prayer, then?" he suggested with a smile. Yoxall nodded. Everyone took out their prayer beads or the cross on their ident-tag chain, cupping them in their palms. They circled up, holding hands𑁋Queshire was forced to put his tin of recaf on the edge of the trench𑁋and bowed their heads. Some closed their eyes. Marsh did at first, but opened them as soon as Yoxall began the prayer.

"We tell Thee, who both molds and breaks us, we have forsaken our Imperial brothers and sisters, and thus have forsaken You. We asketh He..." Arnold Yoxall continued. Marsh watched his friend weave his words so well, they wrapped around and around those gathered like a golden blanket.

In all his years, from the moment he opened his eyes to this morning upon the cliff, Marsh thought there was no better preacher than the man before him. Priests and confessors of the Imperium guided every citizen through song and sermon, but it fell to every citizen to pray. Arnold Yoxall was the most impassioned and well-spoken of them all. He ought to have been a priest, not a Guardsman. His father was forced by wounds to leave the Shock Troops and he became a deacon; his occupation could have allowed his son to rise into the Ecclesiarchy. Instead, here he was, a dirty, bedraggled, faithful Guardsman. At that moment, as the prayer concluded, Marsh Silas wished he was as eloquent as Arnold Yoxall.

The demolitions expert looked up. "...and we asketh He, who divines us protection and guidance, for forgiveness."

Their hands fell apart. Crosses and prayer beads were kissed then returned to their chains and pouches. Suddenly, the wind lessened, lessened, lessened, until it faded entirely. The tides ebbed and the channel waters grew calm. Early morning darkness began to dissipate and the fog enveloping Kasr Fortis receded. Far off on the horizon, past the Kasr's carcass, the sun showed its head. Rays of sunlight began to strike out through the sky. Golden light ate away the gray blanket of clouds. Before long, the sun was rising higher and higher. As it took permanence in the sky the wind returned, gentle and warm, like a breath of air. The waves rebounded, the white crests sparkling like gems in the pure light. To complete the sight before them, the regimental bugler called reveille and the notes carried over the camp with a familiarity pleasant to every Guardsman.

Marsh Silas felt a tug at his lips, and he smiled happily. Everyone was smiling now. He patted Yoxall on the back.

"I suppose we're forgiven, then?"

"I reckon we are, or we're on the road to it," Arnold Yoxall said back happily.

Marsh Silas thought about making a joke, as his wristwatch showed it was well-past oh-five-hundred hours, the prime time for sunrise. But he decided to keep quiet and not interrupt their now pleasant morning.

"If you seek absolution so dearly, know the Inquisition exculpates you."

Marsh Silas knew that voice. He and the others turned to see Inquisitor Barlocke standing on the other side of the trench. His leather trench coat was suspended back slightly by the wind. One hand rested on the pommel of his energy sword and the other held the strap of his lasgun. His eyes were amused and his ever-present smile particularly delighted.

Light of step, he leapt over the trench and sidled up to Marsh Silas. He inhaled deeply and released a contented sigh. "Nothing like the sea air to clear your lungs in the morning. I've forgotten how badly I missed planets with crisp water."

Nobody spoke, they just exchanged a few glances. Some, like the Walmsley brothers and Drummer Boy, looked to Marsh Silas. It was no secret he and the Inquisitor were uncommonly talkative and often in one another's presence. When Barlocke appeared, it was usually in the platoon sergeant's company. If he wasn't around him, then the Inquisitor could hardly be found anywhere. All Marsh could do was shrug and make a confused, aggravated face.

Barlocke watched the channel for some time, then turned to face the sergeant. "Considering the state of your men last night, I warded off giving an official report of our findings yesterday. I imagine your Colonel Isaev wasn't too pleased by that. Perhaps we should take care of it now."

"We?" Marsh Silas repeated.

"Wouldn't you like to join me?" Barlocke quiered. He looked around. "Anyone?"

The others were rather perplexed and stood in silence. If their uneasiness was as easy to spot for Marsh Silas, then Inquisitor Barlocke was simply ignoring it. Quickly puffing on his pipe and clearing his throat, Marsh straightened up.

"'Fraid you'll have to go it alone, sir. I gotta see about waking the platoon. I'm sure we've got a long day ahead o' us."

"Sergeant Queshire?" Barlocke said, turning to the man in question. The squad leader blinked and straightened up𑁋a natural impulse for a Guardsman when constantly under review by superior officers. "Why don't you handle the roll? You're more than capable."

"Yes, sir."

"Off you go then!" Barlocke said, clapping his hands together. "The rest of you, follow me!" He turned on his heel and skipped over the trench. As the bewildered Queshire went off to perform his duty, Marsh Silas and his small company of men hesitated a moment, then pursued the Inquisitor.

###

"What does ex...expate...ex-pul-pate mean?" Marsh Silas asked.

"It's ex-cul-pate, and it's just a fancy way of saying forgive," Yoxall explained.

"Then why didn't he just say that?"

"Because he be wantin' to sound fancy!" Walmsley Major cracked. The group followed Inquisitor Barlocke through the entrance to regimental headquarters. In the small lobby area of sorts, staff officers were briefly organizing their reports before heading in. Buttoning their tunics properly and smoothing the creases in their uniforms, Marsh Silas and his little band walked past the guards into the center. Before they drew any further, he snatched the heavy blanket from Drummer Boy's shoulders.

"Take off the damned blanket!"

"It's cold, Marsh Silas!"

"You ain't ever known warmth," he hissed back as he tucked the blanket behind a corner, just out of sight so no one would confiscate it.

In the very center was a hololithic projector, showing a map of the sector. Army's Meadow appeared in the middle of the table projection, as did Kasr Fortis across from it. Many of the small townships and villages were marked on it. Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, and the other regimental officers were gathered around, save for Hyram and Third Platoon's Lieutenant Savidge. Most were holding data-slates and pointing to certain locations on the map. Their conversation was lost among the staff officers, orderlies, and specialists performing their duties. It was a sort of organized discord. Voices rising above one another, escalating even higher to make themselves heard. Clerks pounding away at terminals. Priests studied holy tomes and preached to small gatherings of officers. Senior enlisted men delivered reports to officers and marched away. Scribes penned the briefings and conversations of superiors. Enginseers filed by with servitors in tow. A supply officer barked at his personnel, picking up and dropping off crates packed with the essentials for running a command center. At one section was a small mess unit, ladling out hot recaf and toasted bread adorned with sliced grox meat and cheese.

Regimental headquarters was not a place Marsh Silas visited often. Seeing the bustle and the many ranking officers made him feel sorely out of place. He remained as straight and attentive as possible in case an officer decided to take notice of him. His companions followed suit. Barlocke looked over the commotion and exhaled. Spinning on his heel to face the Guardsmen, he flashed a pleasant smile.

"I do believe your colonel is rather busy. Let's not disturb him as of yet. Why don't I fetch us some breakfast?"

"Uh𑁋"

"Splendid, wait here!"

In an instant, the Inquisitor was lost in the mass of mobile men. Marsh Silas heaved a sigh and emptied his pipe into a nearby bin. Smoking was allowed but he decided to put it away for now. Looking back at the center projector, he watched his superior officers. By the captain was First Sergeant Hayhurst, a sturdy Cadian with a sharp, square face and a constant scowl. Hayhurst looked up and met the staff sergeant's gaze. His brow immediately furrowed.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath.

Immediately, Hayhurst excused himself and marched vigorously towards Marsh Silas. Quickly turning to his men, Marsh Silas buttoned the collar of his jacket.

"Alright lads, look sharp," he muttered. As Hayhurst stormed up, the men clicked their heels, straightened their backs, and raised their chins. "Atten-shun!" In a single motion, they saluted.

"Put yer damn hands down," Hayhurst snarled, "what are you doing in headquarters, staff sergeant?"

"We're..." Marsh Silas realized, having been roped into accompanying the Inquisitor, they had no good reason to be there. Glancing over Hayhurst's massive shoulder, he spotted Barlocke leaning on the counter chatting up the cook filling mugs with recaf. Swallowing, he met the first sergeant's eyes. "...providing security for Inquisitor Barlocke, sir!"

"Providing security!?" Hayhurst barked, incredulous. "Why would a servant o' the Imperium that deadly need security from the likes o' you!?"

"He asked us, sir," Honeycutt grunted from behind Marsh.

"Am I fucking talking to you, sawbones!?" Hayhurst spat. "I'm talkin' to Marsh Silas. The rest of you shut your traps!"

"Sir!" the others yelped. Hayhurst poked Marsh Silas in the chest as he spoke.

"What're you up to, staff sergeant? You always be poking your nose where it don't belong. Jus' because you were the lieutenant's little puppy doesn't mean you can prance around like you own the regiment. I ought to give you a proper licking, boy..."

Marsh Silas held his tongue and gritted his teeth. Hayhurst continued to poke him hard in the chest. It began to hurt.

Hayhurst was always ready to berate him in some fashion, more so when Bloody Platoon was watching. It was no secret the first sergeant felt snubbed when Marsh Silas was considered for Bloody Platoon's commander after Ellery Overton was promoted and transferred. While both were denied, Hayhurst held it as a slight as he was the more experienced Guardsmen with more leadership responsibilities. As well, he was one of the few rare Cadians who served offworld and survived long enough to come back. Many non-commissioned officers saw themselves promoted after many years of meritorious service, or just to fill the gaps of deceased or transferred commissioned officers. Many of the famous Cadian generals started as rank and file troopers only to rise in the military hierarchy. Hayhurst briefly taking charge of Bloody Platoon ever since Overton𑁋remembered as Good Ol' Overton𑁋left for offworld service, hoped this was the case. When informed it was temporary, he took it in stride but all knew he was bitter except for Colonel Isaev. He got a taste for leading a platoon rather than advising the company commander. The importance of his own rank as first sergeant seemed entirely lost on him. Some might have considered the promotion to lieutenant from first sergeant to be a demotion.

He felt small in front of the domineering first sergeant. All experience and rank he held melted away before the onslaught. His embarrassment was made all the worse by being in front of his own men. Eventually, he couldn't even look him in the eye like a man. What kind of Cadian couldn't take a chewing out on the chin, thought Marsh Silas shamefully. Squeezing his hands into fists, he did his best not to shake. Years of training, conditioning, following orders, war, and this was the man he feared. But it was his duty to stand and take it. Take it he would, but he hated himself that he could not maintain his gaze.

"Beg pardon?"

Marsh Silas looked up and Hayhurst paused. Just to the side, Inquisitor Barlocke stood. He held a large tray; seven cups of recaf were packed together on one side and seven meaty sandwiches in toasted bread were piled neatly on the other. One eyebrow was raised in curiosity.

Barlocke stepped closer. "I'd like to know why you're harassing my sergeant."

Hayhurst blinked, apparently shocked to see an agent of the higher Imperium catering food to common Cadian Guardsmen. He kept looking down at the tray, then up at the Inquisitor, over at the men, then back at the food. Letting him gawk for a few moments, Barlocke rolled his eyes. "If you haven't a good reason to, oh excuse me, one moment𑁋Arnold, dear boy, hold this please...thank you𑁋if you haven't a good reason to harass my sergeant here then I suggest you go back to your place beside Captain Murga."

"I mean no offense, Inquisitor. But Staff Sergeant Cross and his men have no business being in regimental headquarters, and furthermore this boy ain't earned his stripes or his sword or𑁋"

"Don't call him boy and if you dare prod him one more time with your fat finger, I'm going to break it so you'll never be able to pick your nose again, first sergeant," Barlocke threatened menacingly. He walked forward, forcing Hayhurst back, and putting himself in between the two sergeants. In a protective manner, he gently pushed Marsh Silas behind him. "Leave these men in peace. As of now, you have no right to admonish these Guardsmen, especially since they were out fighting yesterday, and you were not."

Hayhurst turned very red. Barlocke nodded towards the command staff. "Off you go." Without another word, the first sergeant turned on his heel in fine Cadian fashion albeit with a downward stare, and rejoined Captain Murga.

Marsh watched him go over the Inquisitor's shoulder. A mixture of shock, disbelief, and delight washed over him. But his smile quickly disappeared. Embarrassment crept over him and he hunched his shoulders, lowered his head, and made himself small. Voices, familiar and wretched to him, flooded his mind. 'You're nothing but an upjumped street urchin!' 'You and your mother will never be as good as us.' 'You're a blight on our name.' 'You'll never amount to anything.'Oh, he could see it all again; elder fingers jabbing him, palms striking his cheek and cuffing his ears, and puffed out medal-adorned chests parading around him.

Inquisitor Barlocke turned around smiling. His brow rose in confusion when he saw the curdled expression on the staff sergeant's face. "What ails you?"

Marsh Silas met his gaze.

"You didn't have to go and do that, sir. I can take it just fine."

Barlocke stared at him very deeply.

"No, you can't," he said as gentle as a caress.

If any other man told him he couldn't do something, Marsh Silas probably would have hit him. If it was an officer, he would have found an appropriate way to defend himself. Or at least, he liked to think so. Yet before the Inquisitor, all defenses left him. The words cut very deep and stung his pride.

The Inquisitor placed a reassuring hand on Marsh's shoulder. "Come, let us join the briefing. You and I shall confer afterwards." Spinning on his heel, he marched towards the central projector. Marsh Silas and his men watched him go. Eventually, he sighed, took a cup of recaf and a sandwich from the tray, and joined the command meeting.

The clique of officers all turned in surprise to see the weary Guardsmen standing behind the Inquisitor, mugs and sandwiches in their hands. Perplexed glances were exchanged and a few looked on disapprovingly. Eating during a command meeting was hardly appropriate and enlisted men weren't supposed to be a part of it.

Only the regimental intelligence officer, Captain Giles, and his assistant, Lieutenant Eastoft, seemed amused. Giles was a tall Cadian though not so strong. Everyone in the regiment noted him as the friendliest man among them. He had ruddy cheeks which lit up when he smiled, which was almost constantly. His amiable eyes were a warm shade of purple and he was the kind of Guardsman who put his hand on a man's shoulder when speaking to him. Eastoft was the only woman in the regiment and was more reserved. In her time she lost an arm, a leg, and an eye; all were replaced with cybernetics and bionics. The piece over her right eye was intimidating, but she was no less gracious than Giles. Both were equally loved and respected by the regiment.

Intimidating Colonel Isaev cleared his throat.

"Inquisitor, it's not common for enlisted Guardsmen to be present during a briefing."

"I'm aware. These men are serving as my personal bodyguard this morning."

Once again, the officers looked at the Guardsmen who were slurping their recaf and taking unwieldy bites out of their sandwiches.

"And a fine job they're doing, indeed!" Captain Giles laughed, who sipped from his own tin cup of recaf.

"Better continue your briefing, Captain," said Colonel Isaev with a weary sigh.

"Mm, yes sir. The after-action report sent by Inquisitor Barlocke has caused a stir at Cadian High Command. If they have not been aware of these scattered fortified villages and townships over the less active sectors, they are now." He reached down to the terminal controlling the hololithic projector and changed the three-dimensional image to a map overview. A number of locations on the map of their sector were highlighted in yellow. Everyone drew in for a closer look.

Giles began pointing to the highlighted areas. "CHC has updated us with the location of every isolated town and village in our sector. Reports indicate missing children, deserting Interior Guardsmen, and other disappearances."

"I'm updating your data-slates with the information," Lieutenant Eastoft said.

After a brief interaction with the terminal, the data-slates among all the officers pinged. Everyone began scrolling through their slate, even Barlocke. He shook his head.

"There are over fifty reports in just this last standard year alone. Why hasn't the Internal Guard investigated?"

Captain Giles explained the Internal Guard focused on the Kasrs when it came to dealing with heretics and cults. Keeping the Kasrs depopulated of potential threats was key to Cadia's defense. Issues from the quiet sectors, and at that the scattered remnants living among the outlying villages, were not perceived as a threat. Until now, he made sure to add.

"Quiet sectors don't stay quiet forever," Captain Giles went on. "Attacks from Chaos may change. Warbands may choose a seemingly less defended area rather than heap more forces against our strategic sectors. Cadian High Command believes one of the nearby hot sectors will cool soon, and our's will become more active. These old buildings may find themselves restored to their original roles. And now that Kasr Fortis appears to be inhabited, they have requested the 1333th begin clearing out the villages."

"Request? Not order?" Marsh Silas asked out loud.

"You speak when spoken to!" Hayhurst barked. Marsh Silas immediately backed down and made himself small.

"Silence yourself, First Sergeant!" Barlocke snapped, his voice loud and dark. It surprised everybody. A few tense moments passed before the Inquisitor resumed his calm demeanor. "My sergeant raises a relevant question."

"Well, CHC knows you've requisitioned us for your investigation. We're still at the Inquisition's beck and call; if you do not see this mission as aligning with your own, they will send in another regiment instead."

"How polite of them," Barlocke mused. "No, this pertains to my investigation. Clearing these locations may yield more evidence to heretical activity across the channel and will weaken their operations on the mainland. We shall proceed with the mission and see it done. Is that to your standard, Colonel?"

"It is, Inquisitor."

"Very well."

"We'll begin drafting plans right away," Captain Giles said.

As the officers began to discuss among themselves, including Barlocke, Giles approached. Marsh Silas saluted him and the gesture was returned; with a quick motion the intelligence officer guided him a few steps away from the main group. "Laddy, I heard about last night."

"Had to be done," Marsh Silas with a shrug, although it was only a mask. Captain Giles gazed at him curiously, obviously seeing through it. Ultimately, he looked around at the other officers before leaning in closer.

"I must tell you, Marsh Silas," he said in a hushed tone. "Were it not for the Inquisitor, the regiment wouldn't have sanctioned the mission."

Marsh Silas grimaced. He was only too aware of that. Eliminating an enemy force and defending a strategic asset were more important in the eyes of the upper echelons than rescuing civilians. It was something he shunted to the back of his mind during yesterday's mission. Hopes rose and were subsequently dashed. He thought, perhaps, if he fought such hope and remembered his training he would not be in such a state.

Captain Giles went on. "The regiment is displeased with your new platoon leader."

"Because of yesterday's mission?"

"Hayhurst has been keeping a watchful eye on him. He lacks Cadian spirit."

"How can you all be certain?"

"He's not here, now is he?"

Marsh Silas pursed his lips.

"I am displeased with him as well, to put it bluntly. But he kept pace with us yesterday and pushed us on that mission."

"I'm glad to have a moral man among us, but I'd be gladder to have one with more experience." Giles tipped his low-peaked cap back up his head a little. "I have spoken with the gentleman. Despite his lack of aptitude, he is a good man, and I don't wish to see anything befall him. Help him, Marsh Silas. Show him how to be a good Cadian."

Marsh Silas said nothing, feeling a new weight placed upon his shoulders. The kindly yet urgent tone in Giles' voice was too compelling to refuse. He offered a small nod and Giles smiled in thanks. "Of course, if you were commissioned as the new platoon leader we wouldn't be in such a position."

"The regiment had their reasons."

"Foolish reasons. And that brat Hayhurst did everything in his power to make sure you didn't get it. You ought to have been promoted; after all, you're a Cross."

Marsh Silas shifted uncomfortably on his feet and looked down at his boots. Captain Giles put a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, laddy."

"All is well."

"You wear a face."

"I must, for the men."

"If you ever grow tired, come up to the regiment. I'll see you have a respite."

Marsh Silas smiled a little then. Captain Giles was highly regarded throughout the regiment. It was more than providing intelligence that kept them out of ambushes and traps. He took it upon himself to go up and down the lines, talking with the men, asking after their health, and making sure they were provisioned. While these activities were in no way part of his duties, he did it all the same. If a man was low on rations, he pulled some from his pocket. When a Guardsman was tired, Captain Giles would cover his watch. On the occasion one of the troopers' nerves began running thin, Captain Giles would request an extra pair of hands up at regimental headquarters. Any man who found himself assigned there was issued light duty; compiling paperwork, acting as a runner, or just pulling security. Giles made sure the selected man had plenty of warm meals and hot recaf during his stay in the headquarters.

Saluting smartly, and shaking hands with Giles, Marsh took his leave.

###

After the meeting concluded and regimental command began plotting the next mission, Marsh thought he and his mates would be free. Instead, Barlocke decided to go for a walk and politely asked his 'bodyguards,' to join him.

Barlocke led them out of the perimeter into the fields of yellow flowers. He was ahead of them by a dozen Terran standard feet. Marsh was a short distance behind him, while the remainder of the Guardsmen trailed further back. Cool morning winds returned and crossed Army's Meadow, causing the sea of flowers to roll like ocean waves. A wonderful, peculiar rustling rose as the stalks brushed against one another. Heavier gusts whipped the men's collars, sleeves, and coats. Yellow petals were carried with the wind, filling the air and flipping on the breeze. Many found their way into the surf and crashing white breakers were dotted with yellow. The sea beyond was dazzled by the sun, now rising higher in the sky. In the distance, the jutting masses of Cadian rock and soil were dark, stoic, and proud.

As he walked, Marsh Silas gently clenched his pipe between his lips. It was not lit. The yellow petals from the flowers fell upon his shoulders and got stuck under his collar, or on his coat pockets. Some even found their way into his hair. Glancing to the field on the opposite side of the road, he could see the civilians roaming through the fields. Unlike the Inquisitor, their faces were somber and devoid of all emotion. He could see Asiah, drifting through the flowers, plucking one every so often. She did so with a peculiar gentleness that he watched for some time.

In the midst of a cyclone of yellow petals, Barlocke paused and raised both arms. His palms were outstretched as he tipped his head back. His hat fell, revealing his dark hair. Instead of picking it up, he continued on through the flower fields. His fingers floated above the flowers, grazing them with his touch, as if he were treading through water. He appeared to not have a care in the world. All darkness, mystery, and threatening aspects of personage disappeared. Marsh stooped over, collected the hat, and followed.

After some time, Barlocke paused, laughed, and turned around, arms outstretched.

"Before I came here, all I heard about this besieged, beleaguered planet was its military pride and hellish landscape. I expected never ending fields of trenches, bunkers, and corpses. Yet you hide such beauty here, Marsh Silas!"

The wind grew chillier and Marsh Silas yanked his soft cover cap from his belt. It was a simple olive drab color, a short flat forward brim and non-rigid boxy shape.

"Besieged we are, but the forces of Chaos don't occupy and assault every bit of Cadian soil. Even here, we have our quiet from time to time."

He put on his cap. Barlocke, who had begun walking again, turned around.

"Remove your soft-cover. All you Guardsmen hide behind your helmets, masks, and so many bad hats. I wish to see your face, not your armor."

Marsh Silas blinked and after a moment's hesitation, removed it. His pace slackened as he watched the Inquisitor, walking carefree through the flowers. At first, it was just peculiar, almost humorous. Such a darkly-clad man who could vaunt his Ordo's reputation at any time was practically skipping through a solitary Cadian flower field. Indignation soon overshadowed all else. Quickening his pace, Marsh Silas caught up with Barlocke.

"Hey. Hey!"

The Inquisitor turned around. Marsh Silas raised an agitated finger, "How can you be like this?"

"Like what?"

"Did last night not happen?"

"Surely, it must have, for the sun has risen."

Marsh Silas tried to form a sentence, but was so flabbergasted by the Inquisitor's jaunty retort he just made a few shocked, irritated sounds. Barlocke seemed to be delighted by this and chuckled. He placed a hand on the staff sergeant's shoulder and smiled reassuringly. "Listen to me, Silas. I have seen much of our Imperium. Not all of it, mind. I doubt any man could make such an adventure in a lifetime. But I've witnessed enough. Many ghastly sights, the kind that would lead to an existence of quiet prayer just to sort it all out. So take my advice, do not dwell on things. React as you must, then move on. To dwell on a matter is to trap yourself in your own mind."

Marsh Silas contemplated this for a few moments.

"Inquisitor, Captain Giles said were it not for the presence of our enemy, the regiment would not have sent us on such o' mission. All my soldier's life, I have known this, yet I hoped we would save them and return them to their mothers, and having failed, I feel a greater disappointment than I ever have before."

"It's human nature."

"What a queer thing to say," Marsh Silas mused, having never heard anything put in such a way.

"Why, the nature of us! Of me, of you!" Barlocke exclaimed. "All the training and teachings in the world can't prevent our nature. Only the most emotionally devoid, mindless, thoughtless, and morally corrupt can withstand it. You bear none such deficiencies. Deep down, there is an innate desire to protect the defenseless. It was your nature showing itself to you. I daresay, it shan't be the last."

The flowers swished in the salty breeze. Marsh Silas stared at the Inquisitor, who looked upon him with a kind smile. Oddly enough, the former was drawn back to a memory. Or rather, a sort of realization. Long ago as a lad of just fourteen standard years, he saw his first action. Like any Cadian's, it was chaotic, terrifying, and exhilarating. How horrible he felt, though, when he saw Whiteshields torn limb from limb by Traitor Marines, or blown apart by explosives, or riddled with so many Bolts they simply fell apart. No blood, no screaming; just one great volley and their body collapsed and broke up, like a crumbling building. Such sights filled him with great horror, to the point of retching. It took so long to get used to the mangled corpses, the screaming wounded Guardsmen, and the sheer smell of blood and flesh upon vast battlefields.

One day, he couldn't remember when it lost its effect. There was a change. He began to look at the bodies as he would a stone or a tree or some other lifeless object. What disturbed him vanished. When friends fell, his heart ached and he shed his tears. Some horrors were harder to get over than others. But the dead bodies in their multitudes no longer frightened him. When the change took place, or how, was still unknown to him. There just came a day, a single day, where he was no longer moved. All he knew, there was a change.

Standing in the swaying flower field, with his men far behind and the Inquisitor right before him, he knew there was some kind of change occurring. He was aware of it, by the Emperor, he was very aware. What was this change he did not know. There was something in the air, yet also something inside him. When he looked into Barlocke's dark eyes, he was certain there was and he wasn't sure how to feel. There was a modicum of fear, certainly. Yet there was also some manner of relief, a breath of air long held finally being released. As Barlocke squeezed his shoulder and gaze into his eyes reassuringly, Marsh Silas felt as though there were days ahead which he would have never imagined.

He blinked, as if waking from a stupor. Resuming his soliderly posture he pushed the Inquisitor's hand away.

"Very well, Inquisitor. I must speak my mind one more time."

"I would be disappointed if you did not," Barlocke baited.

"I am not your sergeant. I am𑁋"

"The platoon's sergeant, yes I'm aware," Barlocke said. "It's a very good line."

"How could you know?" Marsh Silas asked, shocked.

"I know a great many things, Silvanus. More than you can imagine." He patted him on the cheek. "In due time, I will show you."

Word Count: 6,046