Chapter 13

"Spit it out, you ain't got ta' swallow it," Marsh gasped, letting go of the woman's hair.

Panting heavily, he turned around and zipped up his trousers. Taking a cloth resting on the edge of the bed, he wiped the sweat from his broad chest. Afterwards, he swabbed the back of his neck and face. Finished, he put on his green undershirt and his tunic. He was going to take his winter coat and leave, but he decided to sit down on the edge of the bed.

Over the bed was another poster, calling on Cadians to do their duty. It featured two Guardsmen; the one on the left was a man, the one on the right was a man. Behind them was a warm light emanating from a figure that took on the vague appearance of the Emperor.

The woman was the one he noticed earlier. Vibrant violet eyes, tiny soft blonde curls falling around her ears, an endearing smile. He had not learned her name in the solar hour's time they spent together. She was from the Interior Guard, but he knew that by her uniform hanging a chair across the room.

Marsh Silas judged she was a few standard years older than him. She was plain of body, with an average bust and somewhat shapely thighs. A light brown scar ran horizontally at the bottom of her stomach. Besides a blemish here and there, she was ordinary. In the past, he shared his bed with women who were far more homely in both face and body.

Such appearances mattered little Marsh Silas, presently as well in years past. Always, he saw them as fellow soldiers performing a duty just as important as fighting on the frontline. Conversation came easily. Battle tales were swapped and usually their home Kasrs came up too. Every so often he would come across someone from Kasr Polaris and discussion became very pleasant. What streets they grew up, the regiments their parents served in, and which schools they went to were shared. It was like coming across a long-lost sister.

Tonight, Marsh Silas couldn't make the words come out. Instead, he silently watched as she went over to her belongings on the chair. First, she picked up her wristwatch and checked the time. It was getting late. Then, she took out her own handkerchief and patted herself down. In the dull light, her pale body glistened with sweat. She was fit, though not of well-defined musculature like Cadian Shock Troops.

After a few moments, she noticed him staring. Their violet eyes met for a few moments, before she resumed cleaning herself. Marsh Silas lowered his eyes to the floor, and rested his hands on his thighs. Nervously, he ran the flats of his hands up and down, stopping at mid-thigh and kneecap. As he did, she went to the bathroom with the cloth. He heard water running for a few seconds. A moment after it ceased, she walked out, sat down, and pressed the damp, cool cloth to her forehead. After inhaling, she looked over at him.

"You weren't supposed to do that," she finally said, startling Marsh.

"I know," he grumbled. She brushed some of the curls from her eyes, turned, and glared at him.

"Care to tell me why?"

Marsh Silas frowned. At first he wanted to say he didn't need to answer a rank-and-file trooper from the Interior Guard's impertinent question. No matter how honorable and valiant the Interior Guard's actions were, they would never see service off the planet. In the Cadian Shock Troops, they were on demand by the Astra Militarum across the entire Imperium! But he quelled such impulsiveness; swiftly he reminded himself the 1333rd was not going to see action off Cadia anytime soon.

So, he leaned back a little, looked away, and acted in an unconcerned fashion.

"You've already had enough men on you tonight," he told her, "I doubt I'd make much of a difference at this point."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"It is our duty," she responded. Marsh Silas felt uncomfortable and did his best to hide the expression on his face. He wanted to ask her if she ever grew tired of it. Did she feel like an animal on an Agri-World, bred over and over again to produce younglings for the slaughter. Did it feel like duty, or was it something she grudgingly put up with so as not to fall under suspicion of neglect?

In the end, he did not have the courage to utter those words. He was afraid she would run out to the nearest Commissar and accuse him of heretical thought.

"How many children have you born?" was all he asked. The lady paused, looked up quizzically, then proceeded to put her clothes back on.

"Thirteen. I bore my first when I was fifteen," she answered flatly as she slid her heavy socks on. "With the Emperor's blessing, I'll have another."

All Marsh could do was nod. The number astonished him. How was there time for fighting if she had that many children. He was an only child; he couldn't imagine his poor mother delivering eleven more. Not just the pain of birth, but carrying one for so long, and one after the other no less.

"Do you ever think about them?" Marsh Silas asked. The question slipped from his lips before he had time to consider it.

The woman, who was now mostly dressed, looked at him. She seemed very confused.

"Why would I?"

Marsh Silas blinked.

"They're your children, your flesh and blood. Do you not bear love for them?"

The lady scoffed and approached him.

"Gone soft have you, Shock Trooper? My children were whisked away from me as soon Medicae surgeons cut them from my belly. Wherever they dwell, they do so in the protection of the Kasrs and the guidance of the soldiers who fought before us. The sooner they learn, the sooner they can get into the fight. There is no time for love. Let the nobles fret about where to send their pampered sons and daughters. For us, the common soldiers, we must bolster the ranks."

She lifted her shirt and ran her hand across the scar. "Each time I have brought life into the world, it is here they've cut. This is no scar; tis' a glorious badge of honor. I have born Cadians who will hold the line against heretic, xeno, and mutant one day. I am proud to bring such soldiers into the service of the God-Emperor."

Marsh Silas had not been able to look at her for more than a few moments. He imagined this woman upon the operating table, surrounded by doctors, orderlies, Sisters Hospitaller, and Medicae servitors. The knife caught the stark white light of the operating theatre as it came down upon her flesh. From the bleeding opening they pulled the babe, crying out pathetically. A pair of gloved hands took the babe, and then disappeared as the incision was stitched.

Did those tiny, helpless hands grope for mother and father's embrace? No matter if they did or not, they were placed in some dark, cold place, and cared for by an indifferent person. Of course, the Emperor needed soldiers for the wars of tomorrow. Yet, did He want them raised like that? If He influenced everything, Marsh Silas wondered, why did He give loving parents to him and not to other Cadian babes? How could He make such decisions?

His thoughts were suspended when the woman came up to him. She wore a grim smile. "Any woman who mewls at the loss of their babe is a weakling, unfit to call themselves a Cadian. Any children they produce will be fragile, sickly, and unworthy to bear arms for the God-Emperor. Those who carry themselves with piety and strength, will bring strong warriors for tomorrow into the Imperial fold. You'd do well to remember that, Guardsman."

With that, she departed.

Marsh Silas sat in the room alone for a long while. Her words rang in his ears along with the echoes of Barlocke. All his life, he was taught to close his mind like the gates of a Kasr and keep all foreign ideology out. If the gates were left open, the mind was left defenseless to heretical ruminations and the vile influence of xenos. Such rhetoric not only seemed logical to his own ears, but it meant something to him. If he could keep out the temptations of all others, he would be all the better for it. All attention could be focused on the service the Emperor required of him and the men under his command.

Was that not what the Emperor wanted of him? The rigor of his youth would not have been enforced if He had not willed it. Barlocke seemed to think that was all ludicrous. Why? An open mind was an exposed mind, just like a Kasr! How could one open it and learn without falling into the sway of the enemy?

The very concept was muddying his mind. Marsh wanted clarity. Making the sign of the Aquila, he brought his hands close to his chest. He begged the Emperor to give him purity of thought, to be free of confusion, and to show him what was right. Murmuring prayers, quietly singing pious songs he learned in the Polaris cathedral, and alternating between forming the Aquila and rubbing his prayer beads brought calm.

Was this not what Barlocke spoke of? Filling one's head with questions and leaving them to find the answers on their own. It seemed much easier said than done.

What he learned in his youth couldn't be wrong. From the drill instructors in the training yard to the priests in the cathedral, he saw them as the most loyal, pious, incorruptible servants of the Imperium. Faithful individuals could never be wrong.

Furthermore, there was the question of Barlocke's mystique. Could he be trusted? None of his characteristics were that of the witchhunters he ever heard about. Quick to accuse, persecute, judge, and purge; that's how he perceived them. Cadians who served off-world and, under the Emperor's protection, managed to return home told terrible tales. Entire worlds reduced to husks under the nondiscriminatory Exterminatus, killing traitors and loyal citizens alike. Whole regiments wiped out for the slightest sign of treachery or swathes of accused shackled and taken away. Did his failing to meet the witchhunter legends make him less or more trustworthy?

Loyal and understanding as he was to his betters, like many others, he wondered how many innocents died unnecessarily. Soldiers could not help but ponder that; their business was killing and they wanted to kill the right foes. Marsh Silas equated them to the likes of Commissars. Throughout his days as a Guardsman, he saw too many brave friends shot or punished for the slightest infractions. Once, he saw Ghent execute a fellow from Second Platoon by the name of Adriaan for staying behind cover for too long during an assault. Heavy bolter fire was spraying from an entrenched Chaos position and poor Adriaan ended up right in front of it. Guardsmen were taught to wait for heavy weapons such as those to reload before attempting to move. Adriaan didn't move fast enough for the Commissar.

Did good men and women have to die unnecessarily? What were the consequences of killing loyal Guardsmen and faithful civilians by the thousands? How did one reach that decision and condemn countless Imperial citizens? Surely, it was their training and doctrines that saw it done. Yet, did that make it right?

No, no, no. He was going into that place again. Marsh Silas clasped his prayer beads tightly as he made the sign of the Aquila. For a great while, he prayed for guidance and clarity. When it came, he decided he would rejoin his mates and refuse further contemplation.

Leaving the room, he met Arnold Yoxhall in the hallway. His face was coated in a thin film of sweat. Apparently, he had been doing his duty too.

"Giving up so soon?" the demolition expert asked.

"Jus' wanted to have another drink with the men."

"You won't find much company down there; most of'em are putting the women on their backs and will stay bunked here."

Prior to retreating upstairs, Marsh Silas made sure to register their sleeping arrangements with the watch officer who made the hourly inspection. The men were free to sleep in the tavern for the remainder of their stay. It turned out to be a rather comfortable place. Barlocke, never having been to Cadia, seemed to have picked well.

"Well, it's a quiet drink for me then," Marsh replied with feigned enthusiasm. He wished for the company of the Walmsley Brothers or Drummer Boy.

Yoxhall patted him on the shoulder.

"I'd join ya but there's some seeds need sowing," Yoxhall said with a smirk. He strolled down the hall, opened a door, and strutted right in. The door slammed behind him. Marsh just shook his head and went downstairs.

All of the men's packs and weapons remained piled up and stacked respectively near the doors. A few fatigued attendants were picking up plates still full of half-finished meals. Here and there, between the tables, were puddles of spilled liquor on the floorboards. It didn't matter much; the floorboards were a facade, covering the rockcrete foundation. Heavy explosives would be needed to punch through to the bunker beneath the tavern.

He took a plate from the hands of one of the attendants that still had a few good slices of grox meat on it. This he took back to the end of the bar, taking his seat from before. Eschewing a fork or knife, he tore bits from the slabs and ate them piecemeal. When he noticed an empty glass in front of it, he hailed the bartender and pointed down into the glass.

A few moments later, he had a full cup of Amasec. Despite having drank several cups just a solar hour earlier, the effects were very mild. Fine liquors were reserved for the officer corps and the varieties available to the enlisted men were not very strong. Rank-and-file Guardsmen had to drink a great quantity if he wished for intoxication.

Marsh Silas sipped it gingerly every so often as he ate the Grox meat. It was good, despite being cold.

He looked at Barlocke's empty stool on his right. For a long time, he stared at it. It was impossible not to recall the Inquisitor's words, like malignant murmurs of a ghost's voice in one's ears.

It all came down to trust. The Ordo Hereticus snuffed out even the slightest sign of heresy or treason. Anyone who didn't prove to maintain a locked mind was suspect. Why would he encourage him to turn the key and open it? Why? Why, why, why? As soon as he did, would Barlocke attack his mind and fill it with some sort of taint? The possibility was terrifying.

He was a psyker after all and it seemed to matter so little to him. The sanctioned psykers Marsh fought alongside before were decripd, bent over, shambling little beings. They wore odd clothes, bore strange staves, and were prone to maniacal outbursts. In his experience, none stayed for long. They either died in the fray of combat, were destroyed by the very power they attempted to manifest, or they lost their minds and a Commissar swiftly shot them through the head.

Part of those teachings he adhered to warned of the psyker's power and the potential for corruption. Sanctioned or otherwise, all were to be scrutinized, despised, and kept at a distance.

Whether he liked it or not, Barlocke had taken an interest. What's more, despite that evening, Marsh could not bring himself to totally despise him. The Inquisitor was charismatic, humorful, intelligent, faithful, and moral. He saved the civilians and went after the children too. Through two heavy battles, he kept Bloody Platoon alive as well.

Hyram's Action, as the men called it, saw several Guardsmen wounded. None were killed. At first, he was happy to call it the Emperor's protection. Now he wondered if Barlocke's power played a part in their continued survival. If that was how he used his power, perhaps he was more trustworthy than he thought. Maybe he actually cared about them. At the very least, he was keeping the promise he made to Marsh Silas those days ago.

Even if he hailed from the Ordo all dreaded, he was still an agent of the Holy Inquisition. Next to the Adeptus Ministorum, none understood the Emperor's word more than they. If he said the Emperor wished him to learn, then why should he refuse? Resistance would see him disobeying his glorious overlord's demands. That would make him disloyal and that was something he feared just as much death.

Loyalty. Faithfulness. Sacrifice. Maybe some other citizens only paid lip service to the Emperor and those words were convenient tools to pass through the solar day without paying what they owe to the Imperium through toil. If what Barlocke offered was a way to be ever more faithful to the God-Emperor, then it was his duty to follow that pay. After all, the Imperial Creed dictated all men and women had a place under their Emperor. Perhaps this was his, to become a greater Guardsmen so he could better serve. Yet, the Creed also demanded that he follow the tenants and his superiors without question. If he had questions, then he failed. Barlocke was a superior, but he was not the only one nor was he the first.

He was not sure how long he lingered at the bar. Time seemed to drag by. But it was comfortable inside the tavern. It was very warm and the last of the ovens in the back were being shut off. Cooked meat and stewed vegetables pleasantly permeated the air. Well-fed and with alcohol swilling in his belly, Marsh felt tired. It was not the usual exhaustion Guardsmen felt after a day of marching, drilling, hard work, and fighting. That left a man so utterly drained he was liable to instantly fall asleep the moment he sat down. Instead, it was a pleasant absence of energy when one didn't require any. Such a feeling brought a smile to a Guardsman's face and a sigh to his lips. No barking officers and wary Commissars; it was a true respite. Were it not for his troubled mind, Marsh could have fallen asleep on the bar top. But that was too unseemly for a platoon sergeant he thought.

Instead, he finished his drink, slid the dishes away, and decided to go for a walk. A few solar hours remained before the curfew fell. There was time.

Leaving some throne gelt on the bar top, he donned his winter coat, buttoned it, and headed out. Outside, the snow was still falling unabated. Wind carried the flakes around, spiraling, twisting, dancing until falling upon the ground.

Putting on his gloves and his low-peaked noncommissioned officer cap, he began walking down the road opposite Barlocke's path.

His boots crunched in the snow coating the sidewalk. Utility servitors trundled up and down the streets, clearing them of snow with small plows. Interior Guardsmen manned their posts, keeping a strict vigil on the street and the sky. Some stamped their feet. Others rubbed their gloved hands together. A few brought lho-sticks to their lips and exhaled gray clouds of smoke which were swept away in the breeze. At the keystones of these street-by-street defenses were tanks or armored personnel carriers. Their engines were rumbling and hot, so many Guardsmen could be found gathering around them for warmth. Conversation passed quietly between them, remarking on the weather or talking about distant battles. Frequently, a squad would lock hands and form a ring, or all sink to their knees, and utter a group prayer. Occasionally, he passed damage from a past assault; a destroyed building, the hull of a burned out Leman Russ main battle tank, or a collapsed roadway. Servitors of various utility patterns, led by Enginseers, cleared the wreckage of war.

When he and Bloody Platoon marched after the entry process, he was happy to be within Kasr Sonnen. While it certainly was not a time to relax, as no one could be totally off their guard on a Fortress World, there was less rigor than an Militarum camp. It was not that he disliked the rigidity of camp life, he was just thankful the men could have a little time to themselves.

Walking along with a troubled mind, he wished he was back in camp. There was always something to do; a trench needed to be fortified, the officers wanted a regimental review, or there were some enemies to slaughter for the glory of the Imperium. At least his mind would not be so muddied and distracted. Out there, a Guardsman's duty was simple. Obey orders, maintain equipment, keep the men alive, and leave no enemy standing. Simple, plain, clear.

Marsh Silas smiled to himself. It almost made service in the Astra Militarum sound so very easy. No capacity which required one to risk their neck was straightforward. Although he never told anyone, as ready as he was to lay down his life, he would rather find a way not to. What use was a loyal servant if he was dead?

Casually, he looked to his left. A giant poster portrayed a charging Guardsman and declared that his faith, duty, and courage would bring the Imperium to victory. How he wished to be that devoted, fixated soldier once more.

Out of the darkness of Kasr Sonnen loomed one of the fortress-city's great cathedrals. For such a beautiful place of worship, it was formidable. It was characterized by high, reinforced rockcrete walls plated with gold-tinted armor plating. The forward section was a long rectangle with high bracing columns along its exterior walls. At the top of each column was an eagle bowing its head. The building's face bore an immense, ornate carving of the two-headed Imperial Aquila. A dot defined the forward head's open eye to the future, while the rear head remained closed to the past. Underneath was a circular stained-glass window, almost in the center.

Connected to the rear of the base section of the cathedral was a vast cylindrical tower. This too was defined by columns along its wall, though they lacked the eagle figurine at their heads. Instead of a great stained-glass dome at the tower's top, it was just a flat roof. Even the front section was flat, rather than bearing elegant spires and angled buttresses. Both roofs instead bore great fortifications; automated as well as manned anti-air turrets scanned the skyline. Heavy guns and rocket launchers also populated the rooftop of the cathedral.

It was the Cadian touch. Even if the cardinals, deacons, and priests disapproved of the Emperor's houses of worship being converted to military fortifications, they knew it was necessary. Any building in a Kasr had to be used in the defense of a Chaos invasion, from cathedrals and spires to common and noble households.

He didn't know he would end up in front of the great cathedral. Even under the cloak of night and the dim lights from the lamps and spotlights, it looked absolutely beautiful. A Kasr just wasn't complete without one: no Imperial world was.

Stopping at the bottom of the smooth rockcrete steps and gazing up at the Aquila, he saluted it. Instead of dropping his hand, he kept it at his brow and continued to salute. Even as his arm grew tired, he refused to lower it.

For a long while, he stood, saluting, observing the face of the cathedral. Etched in the space around the stained-glass window and Aquila were scenes depicting holy men, the destruction of nonbelievers, the Emperor's grace, and the Emperor himself. He was a grand figure, holding his sword high above his head and calling upon his subjects to fight on.

The images filled Marsh Silas's heart with love for the Emperor and the Imperium; they gave great energy to his soul. He wanted to storm through the Kasr gates, find the nearest Chaos enclave on the planet, and slay them. With lasgun, with bayonet and trench knife, with grenades, with his own two bare hands, he would kill them all. For Emperor and Imperium, he would kill them all and drive the survivors back into the Eye of Terror.

"What are you doing down there, young man?" called a gruff, raspy voice.

At the top of the steps was a Confessor, wearing a long black robe, a tall white hat with a skull on the front, and thick collar of white with red trimmings. Many scrolls and pages of parchment hung from his robe. In his hand was a long, gray staff with a torch at the very top, casting a flickering orange bloom around him.

"Paying my respects, Confessor," Marsh Silas responded.

"Come up here," he commanded in a blunt tone.

Marsh Silas lowered his arm and marched up the steps. By the time he reached the top, he was almost winded. He found the Confessor was an older man with a gaunt face and a long black beard with gray streaks.

He made the sign of the Aquila and bowed his head respectfully. The Confessor made the same sign. Afterwards, he eyed Marsh Silas up and down, stroking his beard. "If you wish to pray, go inside. It's far warmer, child."

"Many thanks, Confessor," Marsh Silas bowed his head again and walked inside.

Inside, a row of square columns lined either side of the protracted, carpeted aisle leading to the Emperor's shine. On each face of the column was a golden eagle, serving as a buttress against the ceiling. The entire ceiling was painted, showing scenes of the Emperor, Holy Terra, and the Saints. A golden statue of the Emperor, taller than any man, overlooked the many rows of pews. Behind the holy idol was a grandiose wooden pulpit with golden trimmings. The pulpit was tall and narrow, with four moderate beams holding up a roof carved into the shape of the Imperial Aquila. This too was trimmed with golden linings. The beams and closed railings of the pulpit were carved with holy scenes, Aquilas, and Saints.

Far behind it, the great tower was filled with the iconography of the Imperium. Painted murals depicted great battles from Cadia's past, the many heroes and heroines of those ages, or the mighty Adeptus Astartes descending from the sky in their drop pods. Images of the Aquila, the many icons of the Imperial branches, and the guiding, protective hand of the Emperor were among the myriad troops of the Imperium.

Torches hung on the columns and made the stained glass windows glow in a variety of muted colors. Suspended in between the columns were black chains; linked to these chains were ornate basins filled with fire.

Save for a few individuals sitting in different rows and a group of holy men chanting in a choir box perpendicular to the pulpit, it was devoid of much life.

Marsh Silas was glad for that. In his youth he was packed shoulder to shoulder in shrines, chapels, and cathedrals such as these when his mother took him to prayer. With hundreds, even thousands of voices, hymns became almost unintelligible and reciting tenants from the Imperial Creed was incoherent.

The Confessor walked with Marsh Silas down the main aisle.

"It is good for young men such as yourself to pay the God-Emperor respect."

"My mind is troubled also, Confessor," Marsh admitted. "I feel as though I have not been the most able of His servants."

He chose randomly, taking a seat at the end of a pew towards the center of the cathedral. Before he did, he knelt beside the pew and made the sign of the Aquila. The Confessor sat beside him.

"Tell me, child, is it because you doubt the Emperor's word?"

"No, Confessor, not in the slightest," Marsh Silas said, gazing at the statue of his overlord. "The Creed is the absolute truth and I have faith in it. It is in myself, I doubt."

"Have you sinned?"

Marsh Silas told him of their latest endeavours against the heretics. Fending off the ambush, dispatching the corrupted priest, rescuing the civilians and the convoy, the retrieval and subsequent execution of the tainted children. Not one man bore corruption and all orders were followed to the letter. Their actions met approval both with regimental command and the Inquisitor they were seconded too.

The Confessor listened with great interest and grunted approvingly. "I see no sin."

"I feel as though my actions are not enough."

"Our actions are never enough." At this, the Confessor held up his finger and waved it a little. "We must spend our lives, however long or short, in constant service. In life, even our greatest feats shall not suffice. When we the faithful die, only then have we fulfilled the God-Emperor's mandate. For you see, service and sacrifice are intertwined."

He then rested his hand on Marsh's shoulder. "You are pious. You are hard on yourself. That is good; it means you will push yourself to serve the Emperor. The Imperium lives on because of men such as you."

Marsh Silas wanted to tell him what Barlocke spoke of. He was unsure how to. The more he reflected on his words, the more he began to think he would never be able to tell anyone.

"I jus'..." Marsh shook his head. "...can I still be a loyal, able, faithful subject if I stay the same?"

The Confessor furrowed his brow for a time. Marsh was worried he spoke wrongly and hoped his face did not betray his mounting concern. Then the Confessor's face softened, he considered, and surprisingly, he smiled.

"If you carry out what your duty requires of you, follow the Imperial Creed's tenants, abhor the heretic, xeno, and mutant, and defy all that which refutes our faith, it matters not. Do not stray from the light, child." He reached over and patted him on the knee. "And I think twenty Pax Imperiums shall make up for such a foolish question."

Marsh Silas smiled a little. He thanked the Confessor, who joined the other chanting men.

Taking out his prayer beads, he clasped them between his hands, and settled them on the backrest of the pew in front of him. Then, he laid his head down upon his hands. Under his breath, he whispered, 'Pax Imperium, Pax Imperium, Pax Imperium...'

When he finished, he kissed the prayer beads and placed them back into the pouch on his belt. Then he sat back, closing his eyes and just enjoying the soft melodies of the choir. He found himself slouching in his seat and the back of his head rested on the back of the pew. His eyelids fluttered, and began to close.

"Has your soul been soothed?"

Marsh Silas opened his eyes. He knew that voice all too well, now. Inhaling calmly, he sat up.

"You can't tell?" he asked Barlocke before looking over his shoulder. The Inquisitor was sitting back in the pew behind him, one arm stretched across the top and his legs crossed. His smile was almost smug.

"Out of respect, I dare not see into your mind."

"Why do you restrain yourself so?"

"Because if I delved into the minds of every single individual I met, what use would I have for conversation?" He waved his hand dismissively. "It's bad enough when I have to use my powers against heretics. I wish not to discuss their minds; you would find it incomprehensible all the same. Often, that is better."

Marsh Silas didn't respond. He heard Barlocke leaned forward a little. "I apologize if what I said earlier disturbed you. The timing was not right."

"Methinks there would never be a good time for somethin' o' that nature," Marsh replied flatly. He turned more. "I oughtn't o' raised my voice."

Barlocke leaned forward, folding his hands on top of the other, resting them on the backrest beside Marsh Silas's shoulder.

"Did you lay with a woman?"

"Yes, but I didn't go through with it entirely. I couldn't go through with it," Marsh Silas told him. Barlocke smiled a little, although not in a mocking way. The Guardsman shook his head. "I never thought about it before. That I may have children out there who I will never know. They'll never know me. Not once did I consider what it would be like to hold my own child, like my own father and mother with me."

He thought for a moment. "I suppose that's why Miss Asiah don't want to give up on her boy."

"He was all she had," Barlocke said, shaking his head. "The clothes on her back, her home, her newfound employment; the Imperium has given her everything. But not that little boy. He was her's, and she loved him. Imagine losing the one you loved most."

Marsh Silas did not want to. Barlocke continued, "Life in the Imperium is harsh and unforgiving. I wish it was different, so no little babes need to be taken away. Even your existence I find sorrowful."

"But I am proud to serve," Marsh Silas insisted, "I'm thankful to the Emperor for being born a Cadian."

"Yet you must ever stand against the Ruinous tide. Before you were born, you were destined to be a Guardsman. You played no part in that decision. Should we not all be able to make our own decisions?"

"Some who stray from the light by their own decisions become traitorous heretics," Marsh Silas scoffed. Barlocke chuckled.

"Yes, that's very true. If we are to see the Imperium grow to glory, we must defeat our enemies."

"The Imperium stands glorious already."

"Is any empire great when it conscripts its children before they are even born?" Barlocke countered. "Yes, the Imperium is magnificent. But it's not perfect. We must work, not just fight, to ensure it reaches perfection. Failing that, to improve it beyond what it is now. That's what I want."

Barlocke gazed ahead then, locking eyes with the golden head of the Emperor's statue. For a long while, he stared at the figure with a mournful expression. "Silvanus, from planet to planet there is corruption, stagnation, poverty, oppression, and far, far worse. If the Emperor strode among us now, he would be ashamed, I'm sure of it. He would undo such wrongs. As an Inquisitor, I shall do so in his stead." Barocke took Marsh by the shoulder and leaned in close. "The Imperium must change for the better. So we must change for the better, for its the people who maketh the Imperium. The Confessor is right about that, at least."

His dark eyes peered into Marsh Silas, so cutting and resolute he thought for a moment his mind would crumble under the Inquisitor's power. "One day, crying babes need not be ripped from their mother's hands."

Marsh Silas felt something familiar. A stirring feeling, something that not only called on his mind and heart, but his very soul. Such passions rose when he marched by the regiment in review, when he saw the standard waving grandly in the thick of battle, and when he was among thousands of fellow Guardsmen. It was more than pride; it was zealotry. Those emotions drove him to serve, fight, and suffer for the Emperor and the Imperium.

Here, with this Inquisitor, he felt it once more.

Barlocke took notice and clapped him on the shoulder a few times. "We shall speak of it more, alas, another time. I promised you relaxation and all I have caused you is turmoil. Please allow me to make this evening a bit more enjoyable."

There was a word he didn't hear too often and it worried Marsh Silas. Immediately, the wave of sentimentality passed him. He shrunk in the pew and broke his violet eyes away from Barlocke's.

"We've always been warned to avoid excess. They be sayin' it all the time. We have to keep ready for any incursion."

This is he said almost shyly, like a hesitant child. Barlocke laughed, stood, and took him by the arm.

"Come, my friend, come! I'll make sure nothing happens."

Arm and arm, they left the stoic cathedral.

Word Count: 6,086