Hello again chaps, hope you've all had a merry Christmas and a happy new year! Here's Chapter 7 for you. Once again, I must apologise for the long wait but unfortunately trying to balance my career, social life, hobbies, and this is proving quite a task.

Song of the day: Walking in the air – Aled Jones


Chapter 7 – Purpose Renewed

The seemingly endless blizzard showed no signs of stopping. The ominous dark grey clouds filled the skies, heralding the gloom, and casting despair into the heart of any creature unlucky enough to be caught out in the open. Locke was one such creature.

Hunching over, weighed down by his equipment and his banshee shaped burden; he slowly shambled forwards. Behind him lay a long trail of disturbed white powder, left from the aftermath of his passage, all the while the driving snow continued to fall - collecting on any flat surface.

The unconscious xeno warrior hung limp across his right shoulder, limbs swaying with each agonised stride. Carrying the alien unbalanced him greatly; it did much to dishevel his once proud posture.

At this point, he more closely resembled a beggar bent-double under a sack of meagre belongings than he did a soldier of the Imperium. Not that it mattered anymore, the guardsman trudged mindlessly onwards through the unobliging slush - completely drunk with fatigue.

At the start of his trek, he'd cursed constantly as pain lanced into his wounded shoulder with each step taken. That was almost a pleasant memory now, the energy to blaspheme was utterly absent. The only sounds that could be heard sweeping those lonely snowy dunes was the rhythmic crunch of snow, clatter of kit and the occasional grunt.

How long's it been since I set off? Am I even going the right way?

Such questions were of no importance; the need to keep moving, the need to survive was what drove him forwards. His mind may have withdrawn in on itself in most respects, but one foothold still remained.

The destination: the promise of shelter. Any feeling that Locke had once felt in his extremities had long since abandoned him. His lower legs especially, each foot a numb lead weight gradually bleeding him of any vigour that remained.

Locke's vision was little more than a narrow window through a fogged-up visor, intermittently blocked by the cloud of vapour blown out between his chapped lips. In his journey, he had noted how devoid of life the planet had appeared so far. He had passed some strangely armoured trees that resembled upright pinecones, but for the most part it was just snow-covered moors.

Occasionally his foot would find a shallow portion of snow that would reveal a dormant bracken-like plant that reminded him of the Fenwick ferns that grew across much of Narvos. His mind turned back to his home planet; a feeling of longing blossomed within him. As painful as it was, he quickly pushed the thoughts aside; the familiar image of hearth and home seemed so foreign in comparison to this frozen wasteland.

The cold itself clung to him tightly, sinking its icy claws ever deeper into his skin. It was so bitter that his rebreather had frozen to his face, tearing his cheeks with every movement of his head. Despite wearing several layers, Locke shook uncontrollably as any hint of warmth continued to elude him. Indeed, so strong was his shivering, it was almost enough to destabilise his already unsteady legs.

"Drop the alien! Leave her, she's weighing you down." The dark voice said with growing insistence.

Locke ignored it, resigned to the choice he made way back when. For some time, the ground had been on a steady incline.

Must be getting close to the base of that mountain by now. The guardsman theorised.

The thought of his arduous journey nearing its end spurred him on as he practically bounded up the slope: his vigour renewed. This came at a cost however; Locke's increased pace made him careless, several times his progress was impeded by concealed rocky outcrops. He stumbled and slipped but managed to right himself each time.

That all you got? Locke thought as he smiled grimly.

The pride in his tiny conquest was quickly forgotten as his foot slid on a patch of ice - hidden beneath the blanket of snow. Cursing loudly, he was sent crashing to the ground, leaving both him and his comatose passenger sprawled out on the windswept mountain side.

Locke groaned into a face full of icy powder, his sprained wrist crushed by the combined weight of both him and the eldar. Lifting his face out of the indentation in the snow, he came face to face... or more accurately face to breast with the alien's ample bust. She was lying motionless underneath him, chest rising and falling gently, her legs intertwined with his.

Steady on now. Without a second thought, he immediately disentangled himself from her lifeless form and stood up, embarrassed by the accidental intimacy.

The guardsman scanned further up the hill, peering through the swirling storm of silver flakes. He noted that the slope ended abruptly with the silhouette of a sheer cliff, rising high into the air. The summit itself was lost to view as it was concealed by low level clouds.

Picking up the alien once more, he tiredly resumed his journey upwards. Upon reaching the mighty crags, he made his way carefully along the cliff face. All for the purpose of finding some form of refuge be it a cave, gulley, or overhang.

God-Emperor please, there must be something!

Even with the grey overcast skies, he could tell the sun was setting; what small amount of light remained was beginning to wane. The next few hours were spent combing the ragged slopes, searching in vain for a place to weather the storm. Panic was beginning to set in as his legs were finally buckling under the weight of all that he carried.

Fortunately, the God-Emperor was with him. Looking into the increasing darkness, he spied a small cave cut into the bluff. It was well hidden; at first he'd disregarded it as just a shadow, but luckily for Locke, a thin ray of sunshine that briefly broke through the clouds highlighted the cave's depth. His spirit soared so high that he'd have whooped with joy if his mouth hadn't been so dry.

Once Locke made it to the hollow, he momentarily left his pack along with the howling banshee propped up and resting against the cliff outside. Eager to explore their new abode, he wasted no time in half-sliding/half-crawling his way into the narrow passage.

It was pitch black inside which forced a temporary retreat back into the cold. The guardsman scolded himself for his lack of hindsight as he retrieved the compact rechargeable lamp that was buried in his pack.

With a simple press of a button, the darkness was sent reeling back into the many crooks and crevices. The lamp illuminated the cave perfectly, allowing Locke to gauge this new home of theirs. The interior of the cavern left a lot to be desired: restricted space coupled with a low ceiling meant their stay would be an uncomfortable one.

Like me Mam used to say, 'beggars can't be choosers'. Shaking his head in disappointment he set to work; he had a long night ahead of him.

Locke spent the next few minutes pulling both his backpack and the alien warrior into the burrow. Once both were inside, he quickly set about making the cramped cave reasonably habitable. His first priority was the entrance itself. Rooting around in his pack, he soon found what he was looking for. The scout pulled his arm out of the swirling contents of his kit; a rolled-up camo patterned sheet was clutched in his hand.

It was a waterproof sheet, often called a 'basha', that would be used as a makeshift tent when in the field, among other things. Gathering up a few rocks of reasonable weight from both inside and out of the cave, he pinned the basha to the entrance. Not entirely satisfied, he hammered home two steel pins through the metal loops and into the cliff face.

With the top of the sheet secured to the crag and the bottom half weighed down by multiple rocks, Locke was now confident the makeshift doorway would suffice.

That should keep the wind out at least. Re-entering the cavern, Locke noticed a slight, albeit welcome rise in temperature, although it still did little to warm his aching and weary limbs.

His next task was the unconscious howling banshee.

What to do with her?

There was still the obvious solution; it would put an end to the matter entirely whilst also redeeming himself in the eyes of the Imperial Creed. Locke refused to contemplate it; he would not do the bidding of whatever had spoken to him on those icy plains.

The scout still had plenty of misgivings of course and the desire for vengeance still ran hot, however he didn't dare take any action that he might regret. Besides, he felt surprisingly…good for sparing the xeno's life.

This feeling pulled his mind back to the day when he'd bid farewell to his family as he left home for basic training. The wisdom of his mother, which he hadn't appreciated at the time, had finally shone through, even after he'd failed to live up to it for so long. Now though, he could honestly say that she had been right.


The station was full of families and friends saying goodbye to the enlisted men and women. Locke had been accompanied by his mother, father, and sister. They all wanted to be there, to give him a proper send-off. His father was the first to speak.

"Now Tom, ya know as well as I do that it's tradition for every Narvos Guardsman to have his own seax at his side. That's why... I made ya this." With that he handed Locke a bundle which the young man quickly unwrapped. In his hands was the Narvosi short stabbing sword inside a tight-fitting scabbard. "I was workin' the forge all night to put the finishin' touches on it. What d'ya think?"

Locke had drawn the small blade from its scabbard. The sword was sixteen inches in length, with three quarters of the length belonging to the blade itself.

"Dad, it's beautiful. Thank you."

It truly was. A simple, yet comfortable handle, combined with a straight blade which ended in a wickedly sharp point. Along the blade were the words 'The Emperors Mercy'.

Locke's sister was the next to come forward. "Before you go, I want you to have this." She'd said, pressing the sketchbook into his hands. Tears were in her eyes.

"Your old sketchbook? Are you sure you want me to have this?" Locke had asked with an uncertain tone.

"Yeah. I'm sure. Keep it as a reminder of home." She'd smiled, though it looked like it took considerable effort. Her eyes were watery.

"Cora, I…" Locke stammered, tears now swelling in his own eyes.

"Just promise me you'll come home someday." Cora had asked, her composure beginning to crack.

"I... I will." He'd said, enfolding her in an embrace.

His mother had approached him last. She had no keepsake to offer him, not that Locke minded. Instead, she'd imparted a small amount of wisdom. "Tom, I'll not lie to you, if you are lucky enough to survive your service, you won't be the same." The words hit hard; he wasn't expecting this. His idea of a grand adventure lined with glory and praise was suddenly left in doubt.

"Ever since I was a bairn, I've seen the recruiting sergeant go away with many bright-eyed lads and lasses, but of all those hundreds I saw march off to war, I can only remember two ever coming back. Their service may have ended but the people they were before never returned. Those two survivors were haunted by what they'd faced and the terrible things they'd done. I don't want the same to happen to you, so please... remember this. Taking a life is easy but saving one... now that's hard. That takes courage. I'm not trying to stop you, you've made your choice but please do the right thing, it's who you are."

After her lecture, a sad smile blessed her face. "We're so very proud of you Tom. You'll get through this; I know you will. The Emperor protects after all." She finished her monologue and hugged her son fiercely, quickly joined by Locke's sister and father. Tears were streaming down all four of their faces.

"All aboard!" shouted the liaison officer, interrupting the mood of the moment.

"I've got to go." Locke said, pulling out of his family's embrace. "I'll write to you as often as I can." He promised as he ran to the train. He boarded quickly with all the other recruits, all of whom were in the desperate scramble to find an empty seat.

He was lucky, there was a window seat unoccupied and he made a beeline for it. Once he picked out his family in the swelling crowd, Locke waved to them. Once the train was at full capacity, it started to pull out of the station, his sister and parents were lost to view.


Blinking away the memory, he still had to deal with the after-effects of taking a moral stand which had left him in a dangerous situation. The banshee wasn't going to remain unconscious forever and when she came to, would she be thankful or vengeful?

He knew nothing about these aliens, nor their mindset, nor their behaviour. Although, first-hand experience told him they were deadly; in this circumstance, he figured that caution would be the best way to proceed.

Pulling a coil of rope from his pack he reservedly cut a number of short pieces to be used as improvised fetters. Crossing the divide between them, he crouched down to where she lay against the cave wall. She was sleeping soundly.

Hopefully, she's a heavy sleeper.

Searching his memory, Locke tried to remember what Brandr had taught him about knots. He felt a terrible pang of guilt at the recollection of his friend but brushed it aside.

Plenty of time to mourn later.


"A'ight Tom, this here... is the clove hitch knot." Brandr said as he demonstrated tying the piece of rope in a blink of an eye. "Your turn." He teased, smiling broadly.

"Don't suppose you could do that again but…slower?" Locke enquired sarcastically.

Brandr rolled his eyes in response. "Okay, now watch. do as I do."

Try as he might he just couldn't wrap his brain around the tiny piece of string in his hand. Nonetheless, he did his best to mimic his friend, but his knot fell apart as soon as he pulled on the two ends. Locke snorted in frustration.

"Hey, no worries, we'll make a fisherman out of ye' yet…"


Locke smiled with sadness at the memory. "Alright, lashing two things together. That means I need to use a…uh…um…a sledge knot." Without further delay, he carefully rolled the alien onto her back whilst her limbs acted like that of a ragdoll. Tentatively, the guardsman tied her hands behind her back, calling out the steps as he went.

"Wrap working end of rope around wrists…wrap around standing line and itself three times, work from bottom of the knot up toward the top…" Locke murmured mindlessly as he manoeuvred the rope. Finally pulling the cords tight, he ratcheted the knot into position.

Giving the bond a firm tug, he came away contented by the loop's tautness. Locke then repeated this procedure as he tied her legs together in several places. As a precaution, the scout removed her daggers from her arm sheaths along with her power sword from its scabbard; he squirreled them away well beyond her reach. For the final counter measure, he slid her drooping body into his sleeping bag.

Try getting out of that one, xeno.

Confident that he wouldn't be feeling a dagger pressed to his throat anytime soon, the guardsman relaxed. Pleased that the threat had now been dealt with, he turned his attention to himself - his shoulder in particular. Glancing down at his attire, Locke was shocked to find that his flak jacket was hanging on by just a few hardy strands of material.

He pulled it over his head to get a better look at the battered piece of body armour. Analysing the battle damage, he carefully traced his finger along the precise stab and slash marks that should have rightly cut him to ribbons.

Well old friend, you're looking a little bit long in the tooth. Locke thought as he brusquely chucked the battered flak vest into the recesses of the cavern. His uniform underneath hadn't fared much better; it was covered in multiple tears and lacerations.

"Gonna need to do a lot of fucking sewing to put this right!" Locke complained, sending an angry glare towards the sleeping eldar.

He continued to remove the clothing covering his upper body layer by layer. First, his helmet and rebreather, his cloak and smock, then his combat shirt and finally his T-shirt.

The deeper the layer, the greater the amount of blood that stained the fabric. His T-shirt was the worst, the torn piece of clothing mirrored the bleeding wounds on Locke's body precisely. The removal of the bottom layer of clothing caused his lacerated shoulder to ooze a fresh trickle of crimson as the brown matted blood was rudely torn from his skin. He winced at the pain and begrudgingly began to probe the wound with his finger to judge its severity.

The answer made him recoil; it was deep, very deep in fact. Shite it's going to need stitches, fucking typical.

Using his sprained hand, he took out the book called, 'The Infantryman's Uplifting Primer' from his webbing pouch. Flipping through the pages, the scout soon found the first aid section. He turned to the chapter titled,

'The Methodology for Applying Stitches in the Field for either Oneself or for a Fellow Guardsman – Used for deep wounds from Bladed Weapons (Professional Medical Attention is Advised)'.

Locke couldn't help but roll his eyes, only the window-licking idiots from the Departmento Munitorum could phrase their titles in such a bloated manner.

Nevertheless, reading the instructions thoroughly, he found them to be the complete opposite of the title: short, sweet and to the point.

Hmm, they must have got a different author for this bit... not surprising.

Firstly, he needed to wash out the wound. Taking out the canteen in his webbing pouch, Locke slowly poured the freezing water onto his shoulder. All he could do was hope that it was enough to wash away any impurities as he watched the rivulets of diluted blood trickle down his scarred chest.

The icy water stung terribly, and it took a force of will, to stop himself convulsing away from the offending liquid. He bit down hard, refusing to cry out. After several moments of more torment, it seemed to his untrained eye that the wound was clean.

Next came the disinfectant and coagulant; a salty smelling white powder that came in small packets. Locke went to the webbing pouch marked with a red cross. Taking out one of the packets he swiftly bit the top off and proceeded to pour the powder into the bloody slit in his shoulder. Another wave of pain swept over him; it felt like his upper arm was being burned from the inside out.

This time he failed to control his voice; the lonely cry bounced around the hollow. Grunting hard, Locke fought back the pain that consumed his shoulder. After more than a few agonising minutes the pain subsided, allowing him to get to the next step. This was the part of the process that Locke had dreaded from the very beginning: sewing the stitches into his own flesh.

He gathered the necessary items: a needle misappropriated from his sewing kit and a thin thread that came as standard with the medkit. He knew that in a professional medical practice the surgical suture would be decontaminated beforehand.

As that wasn't an option, he hoped that some cold day-old water from his canteen would suffice.

Trust me to survive all this just to end up dying from a sodding infection. With a knot tied at the very end of the thread, he passed the thin fibre through the needle's eye. All that was left to do was plunge the needle into his own shoulder.

This was going to hurt; in fact, this was going to hurt a lot. Prepping himself he bit down on a leather strap included in the medkit and took several deep breaths.

Okay Locke just imagine you're doing some fancy embroidery like Cora and Mam used to make…except it isn't some bit of cloth… it's me own bloody skin. He flexed his wrist several times, pretending to make sure that the thread wouldn't come out of the needle.

"Alright enough messing around." Locke mumbled through the leather strap, reassuring himself. He placed the sharp tip of the needle at the top of the gash in his shoulder.

"Come on now… faster we get this done, the better." The half-naked guardsman slurred a reassuring countdown, "on three…one…two…three!" With that he plunged the needle into his skin.

He shouted at the onset of the pain but kept pushing the needle deeper, angling towards the inside of the wound. The book recommended that a needle should go to about half its length before breaking through the bloody wall of the laceration.

He bit down so hard on the leather strap that he worried that his teeth would shatter under the intense pressure of his clamped jaw. The needle passed through muscle and flesh, finally exiting the bleeding wall of the fleshy ravine.

Giving a hard tug on the needle, he felt the thread passing through the miniscule tunnel in his body. His chest rose and fell ever more quickly; his nostrils flared as he breathed in swift panicked bursts.

Only when he pierced the wound on the opposite side of the bloody gorge did Locke realise he was reciting the litany for divine aid. The muffled words came blaring out through a clenched mouth and leather strap:

"Hear me… God-Emperor, and answer me, for I am poor and oppressed."

The last word he over-emphasised as he pushed the needle into himself yet again, continuing his gory task. Locke could feel himself flagging, the blood covering his hand was making him nauseous. His own body begging him to stop the ceaseless suffering, but the words of the Emperor lent him strength, a refuge from which to cling to and so he carried on.

"Preserve my life, for I am loyal… save your servant who trusts in you.

"You are my God; pity me… Holy Emperor; to you I call all…the day.

Gladden… the soul… of your servant; to you, Saviour of…Mankind, I lift up my soul."

Slowly but surely, Locke created a steady pace as he pushed and pulled the needle through his injured shoulder. Every once and awhile, pain would overwhelm him which made him pause or awkwardly emphasise a random word in his chanted prayer.

The operation was making him perspire profusely despite the sub-zero temperature while his half-naked body glistening in the lamp light. He wiped his brow with the back of his free hand, feeling his dark blond hair plastered to his head with sweat. The small streams of blood perfectly contrasted to his pale, albeit slightly tanned skin.

"O'Emperor, you are… kind and forgiving, most loving to all who… call on you.

O'Emperor, hear my… prayer; listen to my cry for help.

In… this time of trouble, I call, for you will… answer me.

None among… the false gods can… equal you, O Emperor; nor can their petty… deeds compare to yours.

All… of humanity shall bow before you, Holy Emperor, and give honour to your… name.

For you are great… and do wondrous deeds; and you alone… are supreme.

Teach me, Holy…Emperor, your way that…I may walk in your truth, single-hearted and…emboldened by your guiding light."

Over and over again he repeated this same prayer as he tirelessly worked the needle through his epidermis. After what seemed like an agonising eternity the last needle stroke was completed, and the thread was tightened.

The wound made a sickening squelching sound as the two sides were brought back together again in a blood-spattered reunion. Locke took several moments to examine the ugly red ridgeline engraved upon his body.

Not up to Sergeant Parre's standard but it'll do for now.

As a reward he allowed himself a few minutes to rest giving the discomfort time to diminish. Locke rubbed his aching jaw absently, letting the leather strap fall from his mouth. Referring to the steps in the book, he carefully dressed the sutured wound; first with a gauze and finally the bandage to hold it in place. While he could still be bothered he used the opportunity to look at the various other minor wounds across his body and addressed them accordingly.

He slipped on a fresh T-shirt, feeling far better about himself now that he didn't look like some bedraggled murderer.

Good thing I keep one extra.

Locke had no spares for his combat shirt and smock however, so he would have to make do until he could get some replacements. Finally finished in his self-maintenance, the soldier took a swig from his canteen, swilling the cold water around his dry mouth before swallowing.

"The Emperor…protects!" Locke whispered.

Tidying up the clutter of the cave, his weariness finally caught up with him. A reasonable spot had caught his eye from the moment he had lit up the cave interior. It was just across from where the eldar was sleeping, nestled in a small crook in the cavern wall.

He unrolled his thin foam mat and used his pack as a makeshift pillow. Wrapping himself up multiple times in his thermal blanket - normally to be used in conjuncture with his sleeping bag, he lay down in his crude bed.

The foam mat did little to stop the discomfort caused by the undulating rock; however, his fatigue was so great that he no longer had the energy to care. The need to sleep was irresistible and as soon as Locke closed his eyes, he was out like a light.


Lightning silhouetted the mountains in the far distance but did little to illuminate the darkness of the rotting weald. The wind howled relentlessly, tugging at Locke's cloak, forcing him to hold his tricorne hat close to his head. He held out a flaming torch in front of him which guttered and flared in equal measure, a speck of light in a murky world.

The crunching of dead leaves punctuated by the sporadic rumble of thunder were the only sounds known to him. He continued through the dying wilderness as he strode past the leafless trees and plants that surrounded the ruined stone pathway. The land was utterly lifeless around him except for a small raven perched atop a dead branch of a grand oak. It watched him walk by with black, intelligent eyes.

The barbs of cruel-looking thorny bushes would tug at Locke's clothing, a few lucky spikes drawing blood. Ignoring these pathetic obstacles, Locke travelled along the pathway which opened out into to a clearing. There stood a colossal stone archway, covered in dead ivy, that led into a stone tunnel - carved deep into the mountain.

He wandered through the archway, holding the torch aloft. Making his way guardedly down the stone corridor, he noticed that from time to time, the enclosed thoroughfare would split up into multiple tunnels. Locke had no memory of this place, but he instinctively knew the way.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of marching, he reached a great wooden double door. Pulling on the heavy iron ring that acted as a door handle, he went inside. Locke was put on edge when the hinges let loose a loud screech that disturbed this very still world.

The door led into a chamber complete in its total darkness; the light from his torch was pitiful in comparison. As he entered the chamber, the door slammed back hard creating a thunderous boom that lingered for a few heartbeats. The entrance was sealed. With no way back, Locke was forced to move forwards into the room - clouded in both mystery and shadow.

Far off to the side and high above, a lone, motionless figure, cloaked and hooded, stood atop a stone balcony. A single candle burned at his side, creating an oasis of light in a desert of darkness.

Locke found the man difficult to look at: his outline appeared to be in a constant state of flux - growing, shrinking, and changing shape. They continued to watch each other, until the cloaked man leaned over and snuffed out the candle.

The light was immediately extinguished, and the man disappeared into the everlasting nocturne leaving Locke's torch as the sole source of light. The ceiling and the farthest walls of the chamber were hidden by the inescapable gloom which gave off an impression of immense size. Locke walked forward, moving towards the assumed centre of the massive hall - a lone star in an unfathomable void.

His footsteps echoed on the stone floor; the only sound that dared break the silence. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as a chill spread down his spine. Looking around him, he realised that the door that he'd come through had become engulfed in the cloying darkness.

He'd totally lost his bearings; any useful landmarks or waypoints had vanished. It didn't take long before he felt the familiar feeling of panic spread through his body like a plague.

"Are you lost?" A small voice asked in heavily accented low-gothic. Locke froze and slowly turned around to face where he thought the voice had come from.

"Um…yes I am bit, I suppose." There was no reply. "Hello?" He called into the impenetrable night. Several seconds went by with no answer. Cautiously, he crept towards the concealed stranger. After nearly two hundred strides he paused, there was no sign of the voice's origin.

"Hello?" He called out once more, gripping his torch so tightly his knuckles went white. There was someone watching him, he could feel it. His eyes darted around him, desperate to see into the shadows.

"Greetings Gue'la" The voice said; Locke nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped round to face the strange newcomer, the burning torch leaving a trailing line on his retinas. The sight that greeted him made him take an involuntary step back.

A T'au child in a tattered robe stood before him while multiple horrifying injuries covered its body. Its left arm was missing; a river of blue blood cascaded down onto the tiles from the ruined stump. Its face was also mutilated, the skin cruelly burned away, revealing the tendons and teeth of its jaw.

The alien child's brains leaked out of its shattered skull while one of its eyes rested on a blue cheek - barely attached to the remnants of an optic nerve.

"No…no, it can't be! This isn't real!" Locke shouted, taking a few paces backward.

"Why did we have to die?" The maimed alien asked innocently.

"What?" Locke squeaked from taut lips, the fear rising in his throat.

"Why did we have to die?" The xeno inquired once more as it took several steps forward. Locke in kind turned to run and bumped into something in front of him; he stumbled and fell on his backside.

An old man and his granddaughter - dressed in burnt middle class finery, were looking him over with inquisitive eyes. Well... with what eyes that remained, as they too were hideously scarred and mutilated.

The old man's jaw hung at a funny angle as much of his visage had been ripped apart, leaving a flayed nightmare of human appearance. The man's stomach had been laid bare too, his internal organs were falling out of his belly which forced him to cradle the offal in his arms like a new-born babe. His small intestine however proved too long and flowed over his wrinkly gore-encrusted hands to drag along behind him like a grotesque tail.

The girl wasn't much better. While her face was still intact, her torso sported a massive hole blown straight through it, revealing the damaged inner workings of her chest cavity. Blood flowed down her front and her back in a dual crimson waterfall.

"Why did we have to die?" The little girl asked while her grandfather mumbled something to that affect.

Locke was back up on his feet in the blink of an eye, backing away from the three ghoulish horrors; he kept the torch firmly between himself and them. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement as more of the vile creatures emerged into the light. A guardsman with his chest cage rent wide open, displaying the still beating jumbled mess of sinew, organ, and bone.

A female mutant, with multiple lasbolt wounds along her torso, crawled from the darkness as both her lower legs were frayed wrecks that left twin trails of lifeblood in her wake. Every single one of them ranged widely in their mortal injuries.

Some were relatively subtle whilst others were utterly graphic. The worst part though was their incessant chanting. Always the same question on their lips, "Why did we have to die?" The growing crowd of mauled abominations intoned - almost in unison.

Locke backed away from all of them, waving his torch in an aggressive manner in the foolish hope that they might be warded off by the flames. The gathered mass of humans, xenos and mutants took no notice of the burning torch being thrust towards them; nothing would stop the slow unstoppable tidal wave of flesh. Always asking the same question.

"Get back! Don't come any closer!" The shambling congregation ignored his orders as they converged towards him from all sides. "In the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, you will get back!" Locke roared, drawing his rapier in his right hand.

The mob paid his warning no heed. An adult T'au with a ghastly bayonet wound stepped up behind him. In response, Locke spun around and plunged the blade into the alien's torso. The T'au's expression didn't change as it looked down at the blade apathetically.

"Why did we have to die?" It enquired in a deadpan voice whilst grabbing the living man by the arm.

Locke violently tried to shake off the alien's cast iron grip, but to no avail. Without thinking Locke thrust the burning torch into the alien's robes where they soon caught alight. The T'au screeched in pure agony that sent Locke's ears ringing. The alien released his hold, allowing Locke to retreat; he abandoned the rapier - still impaled in the inferno of the alien's chest.

Locke ran wildly, weaving his way in and out of the sluggish ghouls, not knowing in which direction he had to go. He could still hear their endless chant, "Why did we have to die?" He looked behind and was horrified to find they were shuffling after him.

Switching back to his front, he stopped just in time as he hovered precariously on the edge of a gaping chasm that crossed the chamber. Turning back, he faced the baying mob of phantoms who were slowly catching up to him. They formed a semi-circle around the torch bearer, cutting off escape completely.

"Why did we have to die?" the walking dead intoned.

Locke panted hard; he recognised most of the faces that stared at him now. To his dismay, he noticed his torch was beginning to gutter out. As the light diminished, the mob drew closer as they reached out towards him. Locke retreated backwards until he felt the back of his heels hovering over the abyss.

The grasping arms grew closer, "why did we have to die?" The masses chanted with growing volume. For several moments, Locke watched in horror as his torch sputtered and died, leaving little more than a few red embers.

The crowd surged forward desperate to catch him. Caught between the clasping hands of the terrible abominations or the black abyss. Locke decided at the last possible second to go with the latter.

Just as a human with a round hole in his forehead came within a hairs breadth of grabbing his collar. Locke fell silently backwards into the darkness; gravity proved to be both his saving grace and his executioner. The mutilated phantoms watched him fall with eyes filled with apathetic rage.

His tricorne flew off his head, disappearing completely while his hair spasmed in the whistling air. Turning around mid-free fall, he saw a small light far below that must have signified the bottom of this supposedly bottomless pit. As the ground rushed up to meet him, Locke heard the chant one last time, "why did we have to die?" As he slammed into the ground.


Aristriel woke, gagging from the earthy stench of humanity that filled her nostrils. She tried in vain to pull away from the offending smell which completely surrounded her. To her deep consternation, she found her body was incapable of complying with her demands. In fact, she found she could hardly move at all.

Her aching limbs were restrained with rope shackles tied securely about her wrists, ankles, and upper thighs. Her daggers and her sword had been stripped off her - much to her dismay. The shame of losing her beloved sword, an heirloom from her mother's side of the family, hurt most of all.

She could feel the temptation to panic, tugging at her mind; it could not be allowed to gain a foothold. If it did, it would act as a snowball rolling down a hill, slowly gathering speed and growing in size until it eventually overwhelmed her entire mental faculties.

That would not happen; Aristriel Uí Fellmair was an eldar of Alaitoc. She had travelled down the path of the Ranger, now the path of the Warrior and as such, she was above such things. Remembering her training, she channelled the cool discipline and cold logic into the act of meditation, mercilessly bringing her mind back under her absolute control.

With her mind now calm, the banshee was able to take stock of her situation. The banshee was in a cave - partially lit by the rising sun; she was tied up and lying inside of some sort of thermal sack.

While she hated to admit it, the warmth offered was definitely welcome in contrast to the cold she felt on her helmeted visage. On the opposite wall of the cave, she recognized the mon'keigh soldier from before, tossing and turning in his sleep.

The realisation that he was merely a few metres away made her deeply uneasy. Her last memory from before her improvised incarceration, had been one of him straddling her with his hands clasped firmly around her slender neck. In that moment, as her vision darkened, she had accepted her fate.

That didn't mean she wasn't annoyed from being bested by such an inferior opponent, far from it. He had only managed to win because of the timely intervention by that strange portal, no doubt created by that infernal artefact. How he had managed to activate the Omnicron, she could not fathom.

All that aside, Aristriel observed the human in his distressed sleep. She surprised herself with how fixated she was by his torment.

Aristriel knew that humans were capable of dreaming but to what complexity those dreams could manifest, she did not know. Judging by the complicated feelings emanating from his prone form, it certainly wasn't a simple one. From the emotional state of his comatose being, she had already deduced that he was having some sort of nightmare.

This however drew her back to a question that had been pressing at the back of her mind: why am I still alive?

In what should have been her final moments, Aristriel believed herself to be lost, her soul would be captured by her soul stone - forever separated from Alaitoc's infinity circuit.

Following her death, the small gem would probably be looted by this human as a gaudy trinket to be pawned off or to be used as a romantic gesture to one of his kind. That is what should have happened and yet it had not. Had the human spared her? It seemed unlikely but not impossible.

The reasons why an ignorant and indoctrinated member of the Imperium of Man would do such a thing didn't bare thinking about. She remembered hearing the awful stories about the debased nature of the human soldiers who assaulted Alaitoc, often taking turns raping any female eldar unlucky enough to be taken prisoner.

The aspect warrior shuddered at the idea, the very thought filling her with a vengeful rage. At the back of her mind, she couldn't help to wonder absently if that was what the mon'keigh had in mind for her. To be used as a plaything while he waited for the storm to pass. Why else keep her alive? She was an alien to him - an abomination, that deserved to be cleansed from the galaxy.

The banshee refused to allow herself to descend down that disturbing train of thought. After all, she was an aeldari, their lot in life was to bear the suffering their foolish forebearers had cruelly foisted upon them.

Aristriel would endure whatever was thrown her way and she would be ready for anything that the uncouth barbarian tried to do. For now though, she would bide her time, watching and waiting. When the time came to strike, she would take it.


Locke's eyes burst open whilst simultaneously jerking upright. His breathing was both deep and fast paced. After the horrendous dream, it took him a few seconds to verify his surroundings as he patted down both his face and the rest of his body, making sure that all of him was actually present.

Remembering where he was and the strange events that led up to it. A single question hammered inside his head.

What now? His wavering mind needed direction. Some sort of objective to keep his psyche from falling over the precipice into panic and madness.

For a long time, Locke pondered his next move. His nightmare had deeply disturbed him and caused long repressed memories to resurface. Memories he would have preferred to have remained repressed. However, at the same time it had managed to provide him with a sense of clarity.

I need to find human civilisation and get this artefact safely back to the Imperium. I'll hand it off to some damn official and then it'll be their fucking problem.

If his endeavour were successful, the soldiers of the 195th Narvos light infantry - his friends and family, who fell defending that wretched stone wouldn't have died in vain. He owed them that much and so much more.

With his aim clear, he got himself ready. Seven years in the Guard had instilled in him the need to quickly pack up and go. By this point, it was second nature and in just an hour, he was fully dressed, and all his equipment including the basha was packed away.

All that was left was his sleeping bag - on account of the xeno who still occupied it. He had also taken stock of his inventory: five MRE packs and eight nutrient bars…seven nutrient bars as he'd eaten one to break his fast along with a cup of freezing water.

It hadn't escaped his notice that the alien was awake and carefully watching everything he did. He had been able to ignore her till now. The sun had barely risen over the horizon and Locke needed to maximise the amount of daylight given to him. Hopefully, he'd reach some sort of human habitation, assuming there was any on this planet, by the end of the day.

Long odds… but you never know your luck.

He crossed the cave floor to where the alien lay - slightly propped up against the cavern wall. He crouched next to her, taking a few minutes to contemplate the strange image before him. A howling banshee aspect warrior in full battle attire lying inside a standard Departmento Munitorum issued sleeping bag - complete with Imperial Aquila. If ever there was a competition for the strangest things seen, this would probably rank quite high among them.

He couldn't help but chuckle at it which caused the xeno to flinch backwards away from him. Even so, the red lenses of her helmet remained squarely fixed on Locke's own visor.

"Alright lass, glad you enjoyed a bit of Imperial hospitality but I'm really gonna need my sleeping bag back." Locke stated indifferently. The eldar remained silent.

"I'll take your silence as a 'go right ahead'." With that he pulled the end of the sleeping bag out from underneath her, depositing her inelegantly on the cavern floor like a sack of potatoes.

In a short amount of time, he had his sleeping bag nicely rolled up and secured to his pack. The cave was now completely devoid of any of his kit apart from the stuff he'd discarded.

Oh, I almost forgot. Locke thought.

Reaching down into a shallow crevice, the guardsman pulled out the eldar's weaponry from their hiding place. The unveiling immediately made the alien perk up; her head cocked to the side in confusion as he placed them at the far end of the cavern. He had been tempted to take the alien's weaponry for himself, especially the xeno's fancy sword, but eventually he dismissed the idea.

An incentive for the xeno to come after him was the last thing he needed. The question over what to do with the xeno still hung in the air; however, after a short self-contained debate, Locke decided to give the alien the means to escape long after he was gone.

Hopefully, she'll see this as a sign of goodwill.

It was a risky strategy, but he theorised that by the time the eldar had managed to untie the intricate knots that bound her and her weapons, he would be far away from this place. He still chastised himself for such foolishness, but this meant that she wouldn't have to die nor did it mean taking her with him.

However, it was better to be safe than sorry. Locke knelt down next to the alien, who tensed up at the close proximity between them. Without warning, the guardsman quickly grabbed the sides of her helm and smashed it as hard as he could into the rock face behind her.

The banshee flinched at the sudden contact and strained her limbs against her custom shackles before going limp as her head was violently thrown against the cave wall.

"That's for Tapia and Lueker." The soldier murmured, taking a few moments to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, ensuring her incapacitation.

He picked himself up, saddled his kit and approached the cave exit. The guardsman turned back to the comatose alien.

"Right then, that about covers everything." He said to himself, going through his mental check list. "Farewell xeno, good luck to you and may we never meet again." The unconscious eldar remained as silent as always.

"Exactly, 'mum's the word.'" Locke stated, tapping his rebreather where his nose would be. "Cheerio!"

Without another word, he scuttled out of the hollow opening and into the light. As Locke began his long journey in search of civilisation, the banshee slept soundly. This bought him more time, but it would not be long before she would awaken, and very soon Locke was about to discover the true tenacity of an eldar aspect warrior.


Review Responses:

Blinker182 – Glad you like it!

Guest – Surprise! I'm a mechanical engineer so I deal with moving machinery (for the most part) like engines, turbines, pistons, etc…

Cake and lies – That is high praise indeed, thank you. I'm happy to see my writing is able to immerse you in the story. My biggest worry is ensuring that my writing flows naturally but it seems I've managed to hold your interest.

Darkdrone – I'm glad you liked it although I think I agree with Disciple of Ember in that I need to improve my writing on the Eldar side of things.

SOBANRED – Thank you! I'll try to keep going whenever I've got the time.

Real Consequence – Oof "Xenos Lovemaking", now that's heresy. Thank you for your advice. If possible, I want to try to maintain the maturity of the story and avoid any cringey content.

Guest – I will try but it's difficult trying to juggle everything at the same time and unfortunately more important aspects of my life take priority.

Aaron Black – Thank you for the advice, I'll try to build it up naturally as I go.

York52 – No no, I think Disciple of Ember made several good points both in the review section and in my PMs. The problems he pointed out essentially come from my imperfect knowledge of the lore and the unlikely premise of some of the events that happen in my story so far. I shall have to be careful going forward not to repeat these issues. Anyway, nice to see that you're enjoying my story as much as you do.

Disciple of Ember – Criticisms noted, and I shall endeavour to take them going forward.