Here it is chapter 17 and I've got to say this was a difficult one to write. I really struggled with the dialogue in certain parts, so criticism is very much welcome.

Song of the day: Windmills of Your Mind – Noel Harrison


Chapter 17 – Change is the Only Constant

A disparity in sensations steadily roused Aristriel from her slumber, pulling her away from dreams tinged with such foreign emotions. The eldar's mind, never truly asleep and vulnerable, became aware that her left cheek was pressed up against something hot and rather damp. This was in stark contrast to the other side of her face which was exposed to the chilly air within the cabin.

While somewhat unusual, she couldn't call it unpleasant… that was until a jostling movement of something underneath her finally brought her back to the present. Her eyelids flicked open as she took in her surroundings, only to find that she was lying on top of the mon'keigh's upper chest.

The banshee's eyes widened in shock; her appalled reaction near instantaneous. In an explosion of movement, her flexible form sat up and leapt out of the bed. Obviously, her body must have rolled over at some point in the night to have ended up in such a compromising position. This frightened her more than she cared to admit.

The awful possibility that in her unconscious state, she'd actually sought out further closeness with the human drew an involuntary shiver from the haughty eldar. Aristriel refused to believe it, quashing the silly notion like a bug before it had the chance to solidify in her mind.

Brushing off the encounter entirely, she labelled it as a mere accident, one that would not be repeated. Even so, the colour in her cheeks turned a deep red regardless of her convictions. Fully disentangling herself from the human's supine form, Aristriel put some distance between herself and the guardsman both physically and mentally.

Her abrupt departure had not gone entirely unnoticed, however. In her escape from the makeshift bed, Aristriel had violently ruffled the covers, wafting an uncomfortable draft underneath the bedding. The mon'keigh took much umbrage with the eldar's actions, that is if his growling was anything to go by.

Turning her back to him, she crossed the room to the armchair where her neatly piled armour sections awaited. In a clinical and efficient manner, the banshee cleared her mind in meditation whilst donning her armour plating. The actual armour fitting was a time-consuming process itself, one that needed to be done with care. Each plate had to be seated correctly onto her body and interlocked in tandem with the other armour segments.

Aristriel fused the first wraith bone sections, starting with her feet and lower legs as she slowly moved up to her torso. Feeling the pressure of the crystalline armour psychically fuse with her body suit was a guilty pleasure of hers, one that she'd always enjoyed.

Whilst readying herself for the day, she could hear the human's laboured breathing as he mumbled aloud in the background along with the recognisable noise of fidgeting covers. In their short time together, Aristriel had soon learnt that this was not an unusual behaviour for this particular individual.

Still, the eldar couldn't ignore the fact that the emotions exuding off him did cause her some semblance of concern. At least until the aspect warrior hardened her heart against the burgeoning sensitivity she felt towards the mon'keigh.

His petty troubles are irrelevant to the primary objective and are none of my business. The eldar made her excuses, callously pushing her worries aside.

After all, the human was a means to an end; she owed him nothing, least of all empathy. Yet this attitude towards the guardsman had already started to ring hollow within the palace of her own mind. The mutual respect forged between them in the ice and snow had gradually weakened the foundations of her original sentiment.

This had only gotten worse from the previous day's 'antics'… and the insufferable dreams that they'd spawned; Aristriel could barely bring herself to reflect upon them. Those night-time fantasies had been intoxicating - filled with such warmth, passion and belonging.

All of which were experiences that the banshee secretly longed for, even after she'd resigned herself to the knowledge that she'd never attain them. Now though, as if to taunt her, they'd been dangled tantalisingly in front of her like a ball of thread in front of a gyrinx.

It was all too much to bear, she shoved the troublesome thoughts into a compartment deep within her psyche and locked them away. The idea that this mon'keigh could somehow cure her feelings of loneliness was as sickening as it was pathetic.

In truth though, the banshee feared to acknowledge the bond developing between the two of them. After all, when the time came to dispose of him, would she even have the strength to carry it out?

Only Morai-Heg knew.

Bit by bit, her form fitting black body suit was covered over with the iconic wraith bone armour sections. Once her breast plate had been fastened, the rest of the task was essentially a formality which allowed her focus to wander to her schedule for the day. Unfortunately, her planning would be cut short by a string of lung-racking coughs that emanated from the other side of the room.

Aristriel waited for the mon'keigh's sputtering to subside, but it carried on without pause. The endless sound of the guardsman hacking up mucus sent a chill down her spine, piquing a concern that could not be ignored.

She glanced back to study the human from afar. Beyond her initial observation, Aristriel started to realise that something was seriously wrong with the mon'keigh. The awful paleness from yesterday had receded which was a positive sign; nevertheless, it had now been replaced with a more reddish colouring which was far from normal.

If that wasn't evidence enough on its own, the human's forehead glistened with a thin sheen of sweat as the morning's light poured in from the windows. In between his coughing bouts, he shivered terribly underneath the covers even though the bedding was more than warm enough to sustain him. The banshee soon realised that her plans for the morning routine would have to be put on hold.

When the last plate clicked into place with a soft whisper, she ensured that her mobility wasn't impaired by stretching her body out in a variety of poses. After a few basic contortions, Aristriel was satisfied. Leaving her helmet on the central table, she silently approached the couch where the human slept and drank in the details from up close.

Laying a single finger on his brow, the banshee analysed the heat radiating off of him. She clicked her tongue when her suspicions were confirmed. The aspect warrior concluded that his body temperature was far too high to be normal, something was definitely afflicting the mon'keigh. The human's stench too, which had been getting worse day by day as the grime accumulated, now carried with it the tell-tale scent of sickness.

He must have developed these symptoms shortly after we arrived here. Aristriel deduced, tapping her chin in quiet contemplation. This is most troublesome.

Needless to say, this realisation did little to help the banshee in aiding her companion; the concept of disease was almost as alien to Aristriel as he was. Her own people's history would be of little help in this regard either. Whenever illness did strike the Craftworlds, it was always seen as a noteworthy event – such was its incredible rarity amongst the eldar.

Aristriel let out a heavy sigh as she fixed her copper-coloured hair which had become dishevelled during the previous night's sleep.

Does the frailty of mankind know no bounds? Pathetic! She cursed silently.

Even after all that she'd done, it still wasn't enough; the human's life still hung in the balance and he would need her continued support if he were to survive.

Gathering her thoughts on combating his malady, she sided with her intuition. His body would have to bear the brunt of the fighting against whatever virus assailed him, but it would need energy in the form of food and water to do so effectively.

Aristriel grabbed the human's kitbag and perused their current supply situation, laying out every morsel on the knee-high table. What she saw made her pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration as the paltry number of rations were arrayed before her. While there would be enough for today and tomorrow, beyond that was questionable without severe rationing.

That possibility was not one the banshee wished to contemplate, and she was sure that the malady-stricken human would also be of a like mind. It went without saying that using all of their non-perishable rations would be a very unwise move.

The orks, never far from her mind, were still out there somewhere. If they needed to flee at short notice, Aristriel wanted to keep a food reserve spare for such an eventuality. Of course, this left only one option: she was going to need to forage and hunt for food.

Her time as a ranger would prove to be invaluable for these upcoming forays; however, it still wouldn't be ideal, the banshee had reservations about leaving the mon'keigh to his own devices. Ultimately, Aristriel knew that she needed to keep a practical mindset regardless of her own doubts.

Returning her attention back to her frail companion, she continued her analysis. The banshee surmised that the mon'keigh could stand to lose some of his bedding, given his overheating state it only seemed logical to do so.

Sanitation would also have to be a big priority. Bacteria and other microbes thrived in dirty conditions which would only make the human's internal battle more difficult. Leaving him where he lay, Aristriel retrieved a few rags from the airing cupboard before heading to the kitchen. Upon entering the cramped scullery, she noticed that the glass panes in the windows were coated in fine patterns of ice crystals.

Pretty, but not very helpful. She observed quietly.

Recalling that a small bucket was kept in the cabinet underneath the sink, she swiftly commandeered it and dumped her collection of rags into the vessel. With everything the aspect warrior needed, she promptly headed outside.

The second Aristriel opened the door, she was buffeted by the cutting mountain wind which stole her breath away as it sank its claws into the skin of her face. The eldar instantly regretted leaving her helmet in the living room but she pushed on undeterred into the clearing.

I do hope that the water pump is not frozen.

Stepping out into the wintry forest, Aristriel blinked in surprise at the height of the snowbanks pushed up against the sides of the cabin.

An awful lot of snowfall in one night. If the Gods are with us, the orks will be just as bogged down as we are. The eldar prayed, gazing around at the snow-covered forest.

Unfortunately, after placing the bucket underneath the spout, she found that her fears had been realised; the lever wouldn't budge at all. Blowing a cloud of vapour into the frigid air, the banshee grasped the handle with both hands and pushed down with all her might.

The crank handle groaned under the pressure but remained defiant in spite of her efforts. The complete lack of progress made the vexed eldar's eye twitch. What happened next, could well have come straight from one of the Harlequin's short slapstick comedies.

Aristriel spent nearly ten minutes in abject frustration as she attempted to get the damned crank arm to move. The pantomime only ended when the irate banshee delivered a harsh kick to the side of the pipe whilst attacking the lever handle at the same time. All at once, the ice blocking the internal mechanisms gave way and the banshee fell into the snow as her support fell away.

Hmm, another embarrassment? Now that is unusual. She thought sarcastically as her face sank into the crumpled slush.

What the human would have made of such an utter farce, the eldar dared not fathom. She made a mental note, for future reference, to wrap a towel around the water pump in order to reduce the likelihood of it freezing over.

The last thing Aristriel wanted was to have a repeat of this embarrassing charade tomorrow. A few pumps of the lever later and the bucket had been filled with ice cold water, submerging the rags that now drifted around the bottom of the wooden vessel.

Within a few minutes the relieved aspect warrior was back inside whereupon she took up her new nursing duty with a hesitant determination. Draping one of the wet cloths across the guardsman's forehead, Aristriel bore witness to a variety of different expressions that displayed his apparent discomfort.

The banshee tried to maintain an indifferent air, but she couldn't help but find the funny faces he pulled to be strangely endearing. Peeling back the covers that hid his nakedness, she set about washing his body. The banshee plunged a rag into the bucket and was about to set to work when she took stock of his immodesty.

Aristriel had no real inclination to see his manhood and thus averted her gaze from the offending area. She briefly retreated from his form and returned with a large towel which she used to cover up his genitalia. Now that the human's nether region had been safely hidden away, the eldar set about washing his body. In light of the prudish imperial culture, Aristriel believed that he would have appreciated it as she cleaned away the grime that he'd picked up from several days of travelling.

Whilst cleaning his abdomen, she knowingly traced her washcloth along the muscles protruding proudly from his lower stomach. A part of her became aware that she was spending a little too much time cleaning certain areas, but the aspect warrior quietly ignored this internal criticism as she carried out her vital work.

It amazed and disgusted her how dirty humans became without regular bathing; her fellow aeldari were right in what they said, they really were barbaric in all aspects. In contrast to the filthy mon'keigh, the eldar could go several weeks without needing to wash themselves as their bodies naturally remained clean for far longer. Not that any self-respecting aeldari would choose to go without bathing if the option were available of course.

The differences between their two races continued to play upon her mind as she finished cleaning his legs and moved back to his head. Dabbing his brow with a damp sponge, she noticed that his mumbles grew louder and more irritable, but the banshee would not be dissuaded from her course of action.

"Hush now Mon'keigh", the sound of Aristriel's voice broke the silence. "Save your words for you must conserve your strength." Even if the guardsman had been conscious, he could not have hoped to understand the aeldari language, yet he appeared to calm anyway. "I do not know what ails you, but I shall aid you all the same… for now at least."


Six Years Prior

The shriek of a falling shell followed by an earth-shaking blast awoke Locke instantly as he turned over just in time to be showered by fiery debris from a smashed hab block. He sat up on a shattered curb and looked about, blinking in utter confusion at the bombed-out thoroughfare within a truly colossal hive city.

His eldar companion, the cabin as well as the snowy surroundings were all gone - only he remained. He glanced down and breathed a sigh of utter relief to see that he was wearing his battered fatigues. Being naked in a war torn hellscape was certainly not on his to-do-list. Of more pressing concern though, was the fact that his body had become translucent and taken on a subtly bluish glow.

He shook his head in confusion; he needed to find out what the hell was going on. The unfortunate hab block behind him was now a blazing inferno, bathing him in the orange and red light of the fires burning through its gutted interior. Strangely though, he did not feel its heat nor any discomfort for that matter which, given his current surroundings, could be said to have been a blessing.

He got to his feet and wandered over to a chest-high rockrete barrier running parallel to the cobbled street that overlooked much of the lower levels. As it turned out, the flaming structure behind him was not alone. All across the horizon the conflagration burned heartily in multiple sectors of the gargantuan metropolis.

The rampant blaze was feasting like a glutton on the jampacked buildings while a dense black smoke drifted upwards into the blood-soaked sky. The crackling ambience of the burning city was punctuated with sporadic explosions as well as the whine of lasfire and the chatter of machine guns.

Far below in amongst the ruined districts, mobs of people were looting and fighting one another either in the name of their uprising, over food, or even just for the sheer fun of it. It soon dawned on Locke what he was witnessing - this was a city tearing itself apart; beset by both revolution and madness.

The diluted screams, of either the helpless or the unlucky, saturating the air was proof enough of that. Thankfully, from this distance it was hard to make out the finer details, although; it did put him in mind of something that he'd once heard. 'Polite society was only ever three meals away from absolute barbarism.'

With what little information he had, he surmised from his surroundings that he was probably in a residential area somewhere in the middling levels of the hive. Retreating away from that scene of hellish nightmare below, Locke turned his attention back to the dilapidated street in which he found himself. In a more pleasant time, he could imagine the row of hab blocks, flats, and the well-to-do manors to have looked rather handsome.

Most of the structures now lay in ruins, spilling their brick-and-mortar guts across the stone pavement while the less fortunate dwellings burned like funeral pyres. The guardsman found one of the quaint houses - built from finely crafted bricks and tiles - to be incredibly familiar, but he failed to place it within his memory.

Long tongues of flame gushed from its windows and doorway as they spilled out into the evening sky. The various creeper vines that adorned its exterior had already turned brown and shrivelled in the heat.

The more he saw of this place, the more Locke felt an oppressive shadow of dread hang over him. A few doors down from one of the few untouched houses, he noticed an elderly couple leave through the front door in somewhat of a hurry.

The pair of them were carrying an assortment of items in their arms before they deposited their gains into a rusty wheelbarrow. Whether those things actually belonged to the two of them, Locke wouldn't have liked to have guessed. They were not alone in their actions; several other shadowy individuals could be seen moving in and out of the chaos as they plundered the undefended ruins.

Pushing judgement of their moral character aside, he called after them but neither of the elderly thieves acknowledged him. Even when Locke jogged right up to them, they still took no notice of his presence.

"S'cuse me?" Locked asked, looking to either of them. He received no reply.

Seeing them up close, Locke couldn't help but gawk at their haggard selves. They were little more than skin and bones, their clothes practically hanging off them. The old man, whose face appeared to be set in a permanent frown, muttered something to his limping accomplice in regard to their recent haul.

Sick of being ignored, the guardsman tried waving his hand in front of their faces to get their attention, but for all his efforts he may as well have been invisible to them. The throaty roar of aircraft engines brought both Locke and the elderly couple's focus skyward as several flights of thunderbolts and valkyries boomed overhead.

Forgetting about the two old timers next to him, Locke peered through the patches of clear sky as he watched the receding aircraft swarm like flies across each level of the manmade mountain. Occasionally, an aircraft could be seen diving down, either to start its attack run or to disgorge more Imperial guardsmen into the embattled settlement. All the while, AA tracers and flak bursts added to the murk, blotting the red-stained sky as the defenders tried to swat the airborne pests.

Through the vertical trails of black smoke, the main spire of the hive city along with lesser citadels could be seen towering above the lower levels. Although, even this great edifice had not been spared as it too had become cracked and scorched, suffering with several huge fires that raged throughout the mighty structure's length.

"Enjoying the show?" A familiar voice asked.

Locke whipped around to see the everchanging spirit that dwelled within the Omnicron, Mendacius.

"What the hell is this?" Locke insisted, gesturing to the mayhem that was enfolding all around them.

"Don't you recognise it? We are currently stood within the hive city of Sarum." All the colour drained out of the man's face when he heard that name. The guardsman's actions in this city haunted him still. "So, you do remember."

"Why in the Emperor's name have you brought me back to this forsaken place?" The spirit noticeably winced at the invocation of mankind's deity, but he smoothly brushed it off and the familiar all-knowing look of confidence soon returned.

"To make a point." He said without elaborating further.

Before Locke could respond, a loud whistle followed by a strange shout echoed down the war-torn street. All of the looters and refugees in the vicinity, all at once stopped what they were doing and froze.

Then, like they were acting with one mind, they all turned and ran. Locke watched in bewilderment as streams of humanity rushed past him in their desperate flight. A worrying number of the scavengers dived back into the buildings, many of which still burned fiercely, to either hide or to make their escape.

Others made for narrow alleyways, hauling their precious loot after them. The elderly couple with whom Locke had tried to converse, had decided upon this route of escape as they carted a collection of picture frames and fine porcelain away. The guardsman couldn't help but find their audacity admirable and dearly hoped that they'd made it through this turbulent time.

The source of this commotion appeared shortly afterwards; down the main thoroughfare came a mass of ragged insurgents. There was scarcely any uniformity between them except for a bright red and yellow armband that each of the gaunt-looking rebels wore on their right arm.

Their selection of weaponry was almost as varied as their attire; some carried a standard issue lasgun, others sported a collection of bolt-action rifles and assault rifles. The larger men of the motley group carried autocannons, heavy stubbers and even a flamethrower. The guardsman looked on incredulous as one rebel in particular had somehow gotten his hands on an ancient laslock breech loader.

The longer Locke stared at the large crowd of dishevelled insurgents, the more they began to blur into one another. Out of the ragtag company, he could only identify two distinguishable individuals. The first was their leader: a young man who desperately needed a shave, wearing a peaked cap two sizes too big for his small head.

Their standard bearer was the other. Judging by the loose skin hanging off his face, the guardsman assumed a severe food shortage must have put him on an imposed diet. The rippling flag that he waved around was emblazoned with an intersecting yellow hammer and wrench surrounded by an eight-pointed star on a red field.

"Heretics." Locke spat on the ground and was about to turn and run too when the spirit stopped him with an upheld hand. The heretical revolutionaries didn't pay this slight any mind as they ran straight past Locke and the everchanging figure of Mendacius without sparing a single glance.

The guardsman waited for someone to shout in alarm at his presence, but none came. "Can't they see us?"

"No. This is a mere fragment in time, one in which we do not belong. We are as invisible as ghosts here."

The familiarity of these troops lured the guardsman after them. Jogging along behind them, they turned a corner whereupon Locke froze. He remembered this place: a three-way intersection surrounded by hab blocks, a chapel and a variety of shops and cafés.

Each building stood around four or five storeys tall, although most were very much diminished from whatever bombardment that had occurred. The road that sprouted off towards the east had been blocked off and reinforced with makeshift barricades that constituted piles of rubble, debris, and dirt.

All around the road junction, trenches and sandbag emplacements were layered in a haphazard order. Three tired old siege guns stood at the centre of the intersection, although only one of them was currently being crewed.

The other two were blackened and burnt, surrounded by bomb craters of some sort. Evidently, they had not survived the barrage that had bracketed this side of town. Behind the still-working gun, stood a pile of spent shell casings, some of which still smoked from the smouldering remnants of cordite.

Here the rebel company joined an even larger force that was already in the process of fortifying the road nexus and the surrounding buildings. Invisible and silent, Locke safely strode in amongst the adherents of the dark powers.

All around the square, the walls had been scrawled with an array of unnerving graffiti, repeating inane slogans and mottos ad nauseum. Locke saw more of the same banners from earlier, adorning windows and awnings.

Every single one displayed the same criss-crossed hammer and wrench surrounded by an eight-pointed star on a red background. The revolutionaries had certainly made their mark, this was their territory, and they were willing to fight for it.

Mendacius joined the guardsman a few moments later as they watched the heretics mill about in a disorderly fashion. From what Locke could tell, there wasn't a central chain of command, each company of militia just seemed to be doing its own thing in conjunction with everyone else.

"Do you know of the events that led up to this calamity?" Locke's attention was brought back to the spirit stood next to him.

The guardsman thought back to that regrettable campaign. "Sort of." He replied. "They talked about it in our briefing. It was something to do with a late tithe payment of dystrium, wasn't it?"

"That was a part of it." Mendacius nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on one of the heretical flags.

"The Governor and his nobles had been struggling with food shortages caused by an incursion of a powerful pirate cartel." He said, stroking his slowly morphing face as the rebels fired their main artillery piece at some far away target.

"In their foolishness, they bartered away half of their current stock. Untold billions of tonnes of dystrium to the buccaneers in return for their food shipments which did not arrive until it was far too late."

"Never pay the Dane-geld." Locke repeated the common Narvosi saying as he watched the original company of heretics prepare their defences along the eastern facing barricade. Their so-called officer could be heard calling out commands in a cracked voice as he outlined the position of each rifleman and heavy stubber team.

"Indeed. Low on food and with the deadline of the Imperial tithe drawing ever closer, they had to implement severe work policies which only alienated the populace further. They were driven straight into the welcoming arms of cultists, secessionists and revolutionaries."

"All in all, a total shitshow from start to finish." The guardsman summarised.

Right on que, a shout of alarm sounded from several rebels in the upper galleries of a half-collapsed hab block. The insurgents across the entire road junction leapt into action stations and readied themselves for the incoming attack. The revolutionaries positioned on the roofs and upper floors opened fire first on the yet unseen enemy, this was soon followed by those on the roadblock below.

Locke couldn't help but be fascinated watching a battle essentially play out from the other sides' perspective. The events that followed soon interwove with his own memories of this skirmish as both Mendacius and Locke watched on in silence.

At first it appeared that the rebels must have scored some initial success or surprise, but the Imperial Guard quickly rallied and fought back. A high explosive shell smacked straight into the upper galleries of the hab block, shrouding the upper floors in a cloud of acrid smoke. This retaliation briefly silenced the entrenched rebels. In the same moment, lasbolts and bolt rounds raked the nearby rooftops, scouring them of their defenders who were forced to retreat.

The few mortars that the insurgents possessed were quickly drowned out by the imperial response. Numerous 2-inch airburst mortar shells began exploding above the defenders, raining down shrapnel that flew in all directions.

The screams of the wounded soon joined the cacophony of battle as many were cut down and many more were maimed. Riflemen and heavy gunners along the barricade fired at will, some throwing molotovs and homemade grenades from the crude ramparts.

An anti-tank gun sounded off from the second floor of a partially collapsed restaurant which Locke hadn't noticed. How the rebels had managed to get it up there, the guardsman would never know. The blunt screech of scarred metal was followed by a cheer from the gun crew. He couldn't see the cause of their jubilation, although he did remember that one of the tanks accompanying his regiment had had its tracks blown off just before they'd breached the rebel's defences.

In answer to this report, a single missile streaked out from beyond the roadblock, trailing a line of dark grey vapour in its wake as it struck the building that housed the anti-tank gun. The tube launcher operator had aimed too low for a direct hit, but the blast severely weakened the raised floor that the turret sat upon. In a creak of breaking timbers and snapping rockrete, the gun along with a large chunk of the structure's masonry tumbled into the street below.

His memory hadn't been wrong, mere moments later the centre of the crude roadblock was blown apart. Men and equipment were flung away like ragdolls leaving those still manning the fortification stunned and dazed. The culprit of this destruction came lumbering through the breach a few seconds later.

It was a tracked steel beast, a Leman Russ Conqueror with the name 'Tiny Timothy' stencilled across the side of its turret. The Conqueror, using its dozer blade, ploughed through the pitiful defences and made the gap in the crumbling barricade even wider as it traversed the breach.

Upon seeing this metal monster, many of the rebels fell back to their inner defences but a few impetuous individuals held their ground. Grenades and molotovs fell around the tank, shaking the vehicle and adorning it in sheets of flame.

However, the machine took no notice of these minor impediments as it swung its coaxial machine gun around. Spitting its distaste in several long rattling bursts, the tank cut down any rebel that dared to defy the Emperor's will. This lone invader was soon joined by another Leman Russ tank of the standard Mars-Pattern, nicknamed 'Musical Box'.

A whole host of Imperial Guard infantry waving the banner of the 195th Narvos light infantry followed the armoured vehicles and immediately got stuck into the fighting. The majority set up a firing line along the barricade, saturating the enemy positions with overwhelming firepower while the designated grenadier sections followed directly behind the tanks.

The brave guardsmen behind 'Musical Box', led by Lieutenant Edwin, took three casualties when several lasbolts arced down from above. A shout of alarm went up directing everyone's attention to the chapel's spire. The commander of 'Tiny Timothy' reacted instantly and brought the tank's low velocity gun to bear on the steeple.

The cannon barked, rocking the armoured vehicle on its suspension as it flung the high explosive shell into the ancient stonework. The masonry shattered like porcelain from the force of the explosive shockwave, causing the building to groan for but a minute until the spire toppled over. This had the unintended side effect of crushing half-a-dozen revolutionaries who'd been using the chapel's boundary wall as cover.

Their screams of panic were abruptly cut off by another huge explosion which briefly cancelled out all other noise. 'Musical Box' had fired a light HE round from its hull mounted cannon, detonating the rebel's ammunition dump along with their only remaining artillery piece. The defenders had paid dearly for their lack of expertise, they'd been unable to train the gun low enough to fire on the imperials in time.

Seeking vengeance for this act, a lone heretic drew attention to himself as he loosed an RPG round straight at 'Musical Box's turret. His defiant expression fled from his face when the rocket merely pinged off the sloped turret armour. The gun swivelled around in a whine of motors, and roared, demolishing the old café and the revolutionary in the process.

It was obvious to all which way the wind was blowing. Soon a trickle of fleeing rebels turned into a flood, many of whom threw down their weapons so their flight would not be impeded. Outclassed, outgunned, and outnumbered - the revolutionary militia gave ground at a frightening pace. The real irony of this skirmish was that the defences, that the insurgents presumably spent so much time building, were now being used against them by the imperial infantry.

Lasbolts, stubber rounds and autocannon shells zipped across the square, cutting down swathes of the cultists who had been caught out in the open. Locke found it almost surreal to be stood in the middle of a heavy gunfight.

All sorts of projectiles flew about the guardsman, many even passing straight through him, but he was left completely unaffected. He made a mental note not to become used to this strange feeling, he doubted it would be helpful in the long run.

The resolve of the revolutionaries was finally broken when a slightly younger version of Commissar Virilus and Colonel Demetris stood up in unison on the parapet and ordered a bayonet charge.

"Come on, you vile dogs! To glory!" The Commissar shouted.

"For Narvos! For Home! For the Emperor!" The Colonel cried.

"For the Emperor!" The Narvosi troops let out a howling cheer as they surged forward, bayonets and seaxes gleaming as they fell upon the thoroughly suppressed enemy like foxes in a hen house.

The already wavering rebels broke on mass, although; there were a startling number of fanatics who stubbornly refused to give up the fight. A handful of the revolutionaries tried to surrender to the oncoming wave of guardsmen and were duly slaughtered without mercy.

'Musical Box' gave chase to the fleeing horde of rebels along with a large contingent of guardsmen in the rearward companies who were still unbloodied. 'Tiny Timothy' as well as the recently embattled Imperial Guard companies remained in position to mop up any remaining resistance.

Locke stood enraptured by the proceedings of the battle unfold until the sound of a familiar voice stole his attention.

"Mister Locke, if I see you hip firing that lasrifle again, I'm gonna ram my boot right up your arse!" Sergeant Juron warned in the stereotypical drill master voice that all experienced NCOs used.

"Yes Sergeant!" A rookie youth squeaked back.

Seeing the absolute rout that was taking place around them, a small group of impetuous insurgents dashed down a side street to continue the fight in more advantageous terrain. Unluckily for them, this did not go unnoticed by Lieutenant Waylon.

"Corporal Tyne, get down that side street and clear it out!" Lieutenant Waylon called back.

Locke watched as the younger version of himself along with his section headed down a wide alleyway, moving from cover to cover in their separate fire teams. This proved a wise move when less than half-a-dozen of the insurgents made their presence known as they opened fire on the advancing imperials.

"Heretics in the shop front, first floor! Move, move, move!"

The younger version of himself dived back into cover, slamming into a pile of rubble than ran down from the wall of a collapsed house. The artillery crews of the rearward basilisks really had shown no mercy to this sector of the city, reducing a good number of buildings into nothing more than bombed-out husks.

A split-second later and the guardsman was joined by Brandr and Corporal Tyne just as a burst of stubber fire tore over their heads. The flashes of tracers raked over the protective debris, showering all three of them with dust and particulates.

It was an odd experience, reliving a memory from an out-of-body perspective in complete safety. Even so, Locke's dread grew regardless of this reality. He knew how this particular memory ended and he had no wish to see it again. It was at this point when Mendacius joined him.

"Ah, I did wonder when you'd make an appearance. I for one can't wait to see what happens next." The entity said with a devilish grin as he glanced toward the guardsman.

"Not interested." Locke replied, crossing his arms. "You've made ya point, we can leave." He ignored the look of amusement on the spirit's face.

"Oh no, not yet." Mendacius admonished with an aloof look. "We need to see this play out in full."

Locke's younger self clutched his lasrifle tightly against his chest and glanced back to a series of doorways that Kern, Lance Corporal Elis, Daud and Flynt were using for protection. Adhering to the fire and advance doctrine with practised ease, they were readying themselves to push forward onto the next patch of cover. It was now up to Locke and his fire team to keep the enemy suppressed.

"Covering fire!" Tyne shouted, rolling over as he sent a volley of lasbolts in the general direction of the entrenched rebels. The young Locke and Brandr repeated his order and copied his example, spraying their own bursts of lasfire towards the fortified enemy position.

Hearing their que, Kern, Elis, and Flynt rushed forwards to a low stone wall that bordered around a middling property. As Daud was a designated marksman and thus afforded a degree of independence; he remained in position, participating in a long-range duel with an enemy sharpshooter on a nearby rooftop.

Despite the covering fire that Locke and his comrades laid down, the enemy gunner displayed a near suicidal callousness for his own survival. Regardless of the lasbolts striking ever closer to his position, he swung his heavy stubber back and forth, bringing it to bear on the onrushing imperials.

Realising what was about to happen, Kern grabbed Elis and pulled her down behind the wall just as a flurry of machine gun rounds flew towards them. Guardsman Flynt was not so lucky. He dropped to the floor, screaming in pain as a bullet struck him square in the gut.

The other two members of the fire team, working together pulled the writhing man into safety behind the wall. While Elis started administering first aid, Kern set up his autocannon on the lip of the wall and fired without restraint at the heavy stubber position.

"Our turn! We're going right to their doorstep! On me!" The Corporal ordered as he clambered over the rubble and sprinted towards the enemy position with the two other guardsmen following on just behind him. Running as fast as they could, the trio raced past Kern and Elis's position and thumped into the wall either side of the shop entrance.

Locke followed them the whole way, utterly transfixed by what he saw. He didn't want to relive what occurred next, but he couldn't pull himself away as if his own body was no longer his to control. He watched as the memory version of himself pulled out a frag grenade from his belt, primed it and threw it through the open doorway with a flick of his wrist.

"Grenade!" He cried, his nearby squad mates echoing his warning. There was a muffled shout of alarm from within the building before a loud bang blew out the windows in a cloud of razor-sharp glass and dust. The young guardsmen then followed this up by spraying lasbolts liberally around the murky room.

When the smoke and dust eventually cleared, it revealed three broken bodies that belonged to the heretical forces.

"Ground floor, clear!" The guardsman called.

"Good stuff. Locke, you're with me! We're gonna clear out the rest o' this place." Corporal Tyne said to him from the other side of the door frame.

The NCO then turned to the man beside him. "Brandr get Flynt to a medic asap." He ordered promptly, before his view shifted back to his other squad mates. "Elis take everyone else! Move down and secure the rest of the street."

"Aye Corporal."

Carefully picking their way through the ruined interior of the little shop, the memory versions of the two guardsmen moved through the building's interior. They were both tense, holding their weapons in the alert position, ready to open fire at a moment's notice.

Locke tried to refrain from seeing any more of the memory play out, but he found that he couldn't steer himself away. Mendacius noticed his resistance and urged him onward with an ushering motion of his hand that his coerced guest couldn't ignore as they followed the two soldiers deeper into the store.

The shattered crockery crunched under their boots as they headed past the counter and towards the staircase. The young NCO took the lead as they advanced up the staircase in single file. It was a decision that would prove to be fatal; although, one that would also inadvertently save his subordinate's life at the expense of his own. On the reverse staircase a wounded heretic got the drop on Tyne, putting several lasbolts into the man who tumbled back down the stairs.

Acting with instinct, Locke's younger self fired pre-emptively as he climbed the stairs to where he thought the insurgent had been. His first salvo missed entirely, streaking over the head of the surprised revolutionary. Luckily though, he had caught the heretic mid-reload – the man must have assumed that he had only been dealing with one imperial soldier instead of two.

Frantically readjusting his aim, the lone guardsman fired a long burst that blew open his enemy's chest cavity and melted his face. The thoroughly dead insurgent fell back with a thud, covering a large portion of the landing in a pool of gore.

The young soldier dashed over to his corporal's side, pulling him upright but Tyne was already dead. He sighed at the loss of an old friend as he unclipped one of the man's dog tags and tucked it into his webbing.

Locke's younger self briefly wrestled with indecision over whether to carry on or return to his comrades. However, he knew he couldn't just leave this building until it had been made safe and so he decided to push on, vowing to collect his friend's body after he'd finished. Moving to the next floor, he checked the rooms but found nothing and carried on up to the third storey.

The spartanly furnished rooms were as lifeless as the previous; all the while Locke's anxiety grew worse and worse with every compartment that his younger self checked. It was only when the lone guardsman reached a closed door that he detected a noise akin to someone sneezing. He pushed himself up against the side of the doorframe as he considered his options.

Locke recalled what had gone through his mind all those years ago. Thoughts on his training, specifically going around blind corners. He had briefly considered calling out to the rooms occupant but had decided against it. He couldn't remember how many rebels had originally run down the alleyway, had it been four or five?

His heart ached at his stupid assumptions, he'd been so sure that all the civilians had either evacuated or were heretics themselves. He wanted to reach out and grab his younger self in an attempt to stop him from making such a terrible mistake, but his incorporeal form would not allow it. The young guardsman let his lasrifle hang by its sling as he drew his last grenade from its webbing pouch. Locke couldn't bear to look away as the nightmare unfolded right before his very eyes.

In a quick flash of movement, his younger self pulled the pin and threw it through the crack in the doorway. A few heartbeats of silence were ruined when the grenade inevitably detonated. The soldier had acted so fast that there was no time to even think. He bashed the door aside, firing at 'full auto' as he advanced into the room before the consequences of his actions froze him to the spot.

Silence reigned once more as the guardsman's weapon went slack in his arms. Mendacius shoved Locke into the room, so that the man ended up astride from his younger self. They both stood in horror at the sight that met them, a sight that still made his blood run cold to the present day.

In the corner of the room, scarcely lit by the light from the building ablaze next door, an old man lay dead. By the state of his mutilated form, it was obvious he'd taken the brunt of the grenade's impact as well as several lasbolts. Locke's younger self tore his vision away from the guts spilling from the man's stomach when he noticed a young girl sat against a wall. A vertical trail of blood ran down its plastered surface from where she'd been thrown back against it.

Unlike the old man, her chest still rose and fell, but the agony writ across her face was almost too much to bear. The lone guardsman dropped his lasrifle and ran to her side.

"Oh Throne, oh Emperor above! No, no, no!" The memory apparition of himself said to the dying girl as he tore off his rebreather and helmet. She did not respond, her mouth open as she drew in every pained breath.

The young guardsman looked down at her wounded chest, but the gory puncture made him turn his head away. A bloody hole had been punched straight through the small girl's frame. She looked up at him with pleading eyes, desperation, confusion, and pain all combined into one heart wrenching stare.

"Don't worry lass, I-I'll get you he-" He stopped mid-sentence when he saw the colour of blood leaking over her fine clothes.

It was dark, very dark; the lasbolt had pulped her liver – a kill shot. Locke clutched his chest as he watched the dawning realisation spread across his younger self's face. The little girl was going to die and there was nothing he could do. In the time it would take to get a medic, she would have expired, not that a medic would have been much use anyway.

The mental anguish was written large across the lone soldier's face. Locke remembered it all too well: the aching questions and self-reprimands.

Why didn't he wait?

Why didn't he check first?

Why didn't he call out?

Why couldn't Tyne have chosen someone else?

He had been living with these questions for some time now, but for the memory apparition of himself it was all too new. All those castigations hammering through his mind in a whirlwind of panic and self-loathing as the events played themselves out again and again.

This was only made worse when he noticed the silver aquila necklace dangling in front of her upper chest. She was pure; she was a believer still and yet he'd killed her and her guardian. He'd murdered them both for the crime of sheltering in the wrong building.

Just a few paces away, Locke stood watching as the young guardsman took the girl into his arms, rocking her gently. He remembered all that he'd said; the ghost of those words came back to the forefront of his mind whilst they were repeated out loud by his younger self. Tears fell from the soldier's eyes whilst the breath caught in his throat as he whispered soothing words to her.

"Shhhh my lass, I'm s-so sorry, so s-sorry." He choked out the words, barely able to meet her gaze. "Ya deserved better than this, oh Throne please forgive me… p-please." He said while her small hand grasped weakly at the front of his fatigues.

Locke never knew how long he sat there, cradling the girl while her lifeblood ran out from her chest and spine. The lone guardsman purposely manoeuvred her head so that she couldn't see the dead body of what Locke assumed was her grandfather.

Eventually though, the girl breathed her last gasp and with one shuddering sigh, she went still. By the time she'd finally expired, the guardsman's front was stained a dark crimson like an envoy of the dead. He closed her eyes, stood up on shaky legs and laid her down gently on the floor. The young soldier stumbled across the room and vomited onto the wall near the doorframe, such was the horror of the situation.

Locke and Mendacius remained where they were as his younger self made for the hallway. Pausing for a moment, he gave the room and its bloody occupants one last look before he shuffled down the stairs.

The incorporeal guardsman remembered what had followed. Once the body of his squad leader had been retrieved, he'd burnt the building to the ground like a massive funeral pyre – a monument to his crimes.


Mercifully, he witnessed no more of that terrible memory. The hive city of Sarum and all that occupied it, ebbed away and darkness replaced it in its entirety except for Locke and Mendacius. The guardsman blinked and the two of them were once again standing on a strange floating island within a pale blue void.

"You had no bloody right to do that!" He shouted at the spirit who maintained an indifferent expression. "None whatsoever!"

"It was necessary." The entity shrugged.

The guardsman was utterly beside himself with rage. "Necessary?" He spat. "Makin' me relive that awful fuckin' memory? That was necessary?"

Mendacius looked away from the irate man, finding his fingernails to be far more interesting in that moment. "Please try to calm yourself." He said with a slight degree of irritation.

"Easy for you to say. What was the point then? Tell me that at least!"

The spirit fixed his black eyes firmly onto the guardsman. "The point was to make you face your past."

The force of Mendacius's stare made him deeply uncomfortable; he swallowed his anger. "Believe me, I know my past well enough." Locke declared assertively. "I don't need you or anyone else pryin' into it."

The spirit began pacing around the edge of the island, scratching his chin as he did so. "That's certainly true, one would call it an obsession of yours." He said matter-of-a-factly. "You cling to these dark memories because you refuse to let go. It demonstrates that your past experiences have only exacerbated your natural tendencies."

"And what would those be?" Locke asked, following after the spirit who now stared out at the beautiful blue void beyond.

"Nothing specifically unique to you, but they are faults that must be overcome nonetheless."

The soldier crossed his arms. "Uh huh, go on."

"You strive to be a good man, but the negative experiences that you've endured have left this ideal in doubt." Mendacius turned his head to glance back at Locke, the latter of whom no longer looked so sure of himself.

"From this insecurity, fear has been allowed to take root." The spirit continued. "Now every time you let others down or you fail to live up to your own potential, these doubts are emboldened."

"Well thanks for the analysis on my life." The soldier did his best to reply, keeping the emotion out of his voice.

"It needed to be said, you have avoided self-reflection for far too long. Ironically, it is this fear that holds you back the most as you shy away from positions of responsibility. It is a lodestone around your neck, dragging you down into obscurity and mediocrity."

"Even if that's true, why do you care?"

Mendacius whipped around and strode right up to the guardsman. "I care because responsibility is the handmaiden to power." He claimed, speaking with gravitas that can only comes from an absolute confidence in the truth of one's own testimony. "Only a man who can accept the responsibility that all power requires can ever hope to change anything." Locke looked away, unable to bear the finality of his tone.

"This is all about that damned stone isn't it?" The intimidated soldier asked, guessing at the entity's motives. Mendacius offered him a small nod, revealing his intent. "Well in case you hadn't noticed, I never asked for it!"

"So says everyone who comes across such a blessing in disguise." The spirit sounded like a teacher dealing with a particularly dense pupil. "Quite frankly, what you want is irrelevant. For better or worse, you have been given a great opportunity in the form of the Omnicron."

"I don't believe ya. If it's such a big deal, find someone else and leave me alone!"

"There is no one else." Mendacius spoke slowly, emphasising each word with a scowl.

He paused for a moment before his expression softened. "Is this how you wish to live for the rest of your life?" The spirit wondered aloud. "As an ambitionless drone, ignorant and powerless in the face of change? Even you would admit that it is clearly better to be the driver of said change than to be driven inexorably before it."

This time it was the soldier's turn to fall silent. Locke mulled over Mendacius's statement, unable to refute the truth of what the spirit had said. Unsure of himself as he was, the soldier still remained nervously guarded now that he found himself caught between two opposing perspectives.

On one side were the deeply ingrained teachings of the Imperial Creed, and on the other was the genuine veracity of the daemon's honeyed words. Forced to choose between the two sides, Locke sided with the foundations of his moral character.

"Maybe, but I don't see the Imperium changin' anytime soon, Omnicron or not." He said, voice dripping with cynicism.

The spirit shook his head sadly. "Such a lack of imagination, allow me to broaden your horizons." Before the guardsman could do anything else, Mendacius placed his index finger against Locke's temple.

Illusions of things both past, present, and future overwhelmed his mind. Chief amongst the visions, was the image of a lone silhouetted figure utilising all sorts of unimaginable abilities and powers. Whoever it was, the being was clearly alien in nature, if the reptilian tail protruding from its lower back along with its heavy gait was anything to go by.

The soldier stared, utterly mesmerised as the bi-pedal alien creature stood upon some sort of command deck, surrounded by its equally weird minions. The alien was facing the void with the Omnicron embedded within some sort of staff.

An incoherent chant in an unutterable language swirled around Locke's mind as the great being shot bright beams of warp energy into the blackness of space. The soldier couldn't believe what he was witnessing; it shouldn't have been possible. The reptilian creature, completely apathetic to Locke's views on the matter, carried on with his great endeavour, forging titanic stars, planets, and moons in glowing clouds of golden dust and fire.

Locke blinked and the vision morphed in an explosion of every colour under the rainbow; it felt as though a thousand years passed in the time it took for the visions to finally settle into a clear image. The guardsman was then treated to a different scene entirely. The reptile, armoured and armed, was alone on a ghostly plain, facing off against a haunting army of identical grey and green automatons arranged in great phalanxes.

He could see that the glowing Omnicron was embossed within a huge ebony warhammer instead of the elegant staff seen previously. As the figure charged and met the enemy line, he swung the colossal weapon from side to side, sending concussive shockwaves in all directions. The guardsman watched in disbelief as the alien single-handedly flung the oncoming tidal wave of metal warriors away like they were nothing.

The guardsman blinked again and once more the illusion shifted in a disorientating blast of sights and sounds. The figure was now atop a grand podium within a crystal metropolis of impossible geometry and complexity.

The glowing stone was once again encased within a different mounting entirely; it was the crown jewel of an onyx sceptre held in the reptile's left hand. A silent crowd of finely dressed aliens surrounded the grand stage.

With a mere cursory glance, Locke discovered a whole myriad of different xenos species, even some that looked like eldar. From what he could tell, every single member of that throng stood entirely enraptured as they listened and obeyed the master reptile's oration without a single doubt.

Locke watched transfixed as under this being's power and influence, great works of science, literature, architecture, artistry, and engineering blossomed on countless worlds. With the Omnicron, this creature had ushered in a golden age of prosperity and wealth for the civilised peoples of the galaxy.

The visions ended in a flash of light and Locke dropped to his knees like a puppet released from a string as he gasped for breath. "What I have shown you is a mere shadow of a bygone era, but those abilities could be yours if you so desire it." Mendacius stated calmly, looking down at the kneeling guardsman with a mixture of pity and pride. "Imagine the possibilities that you could make a reality."

The spirit offered the man an everchanging hand which he duly accepted. However, getting back onto his feet was easier said than done; his legs still wobbled from the aftereffects of the induced epiphany.

The guardsman cleared his throat and wiped a line of drool from the corner of his mouth. "How do I know I can trust you?" Locke demanded, putting up a front of suspicion as his mind ran away with all sorts of wild ideas.

"Because you and I are kindred spirits." The entity said, poking Locke in the centre of his chest that nearly sent the unsteady guardsman toppling over backwards. "You once made a heartfelt promise to your kin that you would return home one day, a promise that I'm sure you would go to any length to fulfil. Am I correct?"

The soldier nodded.

"Well I too have oaths to keep and a home that I wish to return to; many of the denizens of this accursed prison are in much the same position. You are our greatest hope for this endeavour, and we have all agreed to offer our knowledge freely."

In that moment, he saw the entity in a different light. Was it possible that what he'd been told about these warp entities was wrong? After all, he'd always believed the eldar to be disgusting monsters, but his companion had completely destroyed that ignorant notion.

Just when it seemed that he was about to succumb to the daemon's words, the strength of his upbringing pulled him back from the brink. "Listen, I'm just a soldier. I don't have a head for this kinda thing." He said, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture whilst backing away from the entity.

"Because you have been conditioned to not think above your station." The spirit observed, disappearing in a plume of smoke which confounded the retreating guardsman until the entity reappeared just behind him. Bumping into Mendacius, Locke felt his heart jump into his mouth as he spun around to face the daemon.

"Do not let this opportunity go to waste." Mendacius said calmly, ignoring the soldier's outburst. "your potential is far greater than you could ever have imagined but you must be prepared to take a leap of faith on this."

Locke felt a strong temptation to accept the offer, if only to sate his own curiosity. What Mendacius had said earlier though was true, he did live in constant fear of failure. Could the stone truly be a way to alleviate this particular trepidation?

There would be consequences of course and from these doubts, his own scepticism rallied. "The stone will be given to Imperial High Command and that's final." The guardsman declared with a confidence he didn't feel.

If he could just hold out, then maybe these damned daemons would give in, or so he hoped.

"This is a mistake Tomas." The spirit frowned at him. "Please, I implore you to reconsider. I can't stop you if that is the course you truly wish to chart, but in the meantime at least make use of our knowledge and guidance. Surely it would only be beneficial for you?"

"I guess it could come in handy… but how do I know that this isn't just a pack of lies?"

Mendacius crossed his arms. "All oaths bound within the Immaterium are sacrosanct – they cannot be broken. State your conditions and we will follow them to the letter, you have my word."

"Alright then, I want a guarantee that none of you daemons can lie to me." Locke demanded, staring into the entity's black eyes; the way they glinted at him made him shudder.

"Very well."

"And it has to be that I can't be controlled or forced to use the Omnicron against my will."

"Done, your autonomy will never be infringed upon." The spirit nodded in acquiescence.

"The nightmares also have to stop, they're bad enough on their own without any outside help."

"It isn't entirely within my authority to promise that, but I'm sure I'll be able to persuade our mutual colleague to reduce his night-time incursions. Although, you will probably have to compromise as he is a… difficult individual."

"Fine, two out o' three ain't bad, I guess."

"Agreed. Do we have a deal then?" Mendacius asked, offering an ever-changing hand towards the guardsman.

Locke hesitated; was we making a big mistake?

"Only while the stone is in my possession." He said resolutely while a part of his mind screamed at him to reject the offer entirely. However, the temptation was too strong.

He desperately wanted to see if these claims about the Omnicron were true… and maybe experience them for himself. In the end, he slowly took the entity's hand and shook it. All the while, a smile of pure delight spread across the spirit's face.


Locke's mind sluggishly resurfaced from whatever dream or plane of existence he'd been trapped within; at which point he became aware of something watching him from afar. Alert to this potential danger, his eyelids sprang open and he immediately regretted doing so as morning's light lanced into his throbbing mind.

The guardsman grimaced in pain, grinding his teeth together until the agony temporarily subsided. The simple process of respiring was also very uncomfortable as he attempted to breathe through his newly stuffed nose and dry throat. Weak and lethargic, he shivered uncontrollably despite sweating like a grox on a hot summer's day. All in all, he felt truly awful.

Even moving his head proved to be a big challenge given his stiff nape. Shifting his vision to the right with a wince of pain from his saw neck muscles, he came face to face with the xeno. The alien stood adjacent to the couch, carrying her helmet in the crook of her arm as she cocked her head towards him.

Knowing what little he did about her, he guessed that she'd probably just returned from her sword dance routine. The snowflakes caught within the locks of her fiery copper hair was also a big clue. The eldar stared intently down at him, although her expression was a bit different from its normal impassiveness.

Despite the sickness racking his body, he couldn't help but detect a strange tension and awkwardness hanging in the air between them. His brow furrowed in bewilderment until his pounding headache reached another fever pitch.

"Hey Xeno... playin' in the snow I see?" He half-coughed/half-chuckled, trying to break the tension but was forced to stop when the pain in his throat grew too much for him. The corner of the alien's mouth twitched for a split second before her visage took on a mildly embarrassed expression.

The hell is wrong with this woman?

The guardsman, sensing an odd sensation down below, lifted up the covers and found that he was in the nude. He raised a questioning eyebrow to the eldar, who declined to meet his gaze.

"Uhh... thanks for... helping me out." He said slowly, still not quite sure what to make of what had happened.

Sighting his clothes hanging up to dry, he decided to go and get dressed. Locke pushed himself upright but could go no further due to sheer disorientation. His head swam, but the stubborn guardsman refused to be brought low by mere dizziness as he forced his body to rise out of bed. The aspect warrior next to him though, took a very different view.

He'd scarcely risen from his bedding when the alien pressed her hand to his sternum, halting him entirely. Locke gave her a bleary-eyed scowl as she gently-but-forcefully pushed him back down into the bed.

"Who the hell... do ya think ya are?" Locke said, having to pause for an untimely sneeze.

Outraged to be overpowered in such a pathetic manner, the soldier batted at her hand, but he was as weak as a kitten. The alien rolled her eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh, a common quirk of hers, whilst she ignored his physical complaints. His struggling only came to an end when Locke's rumbling stomach brought about a cease fire.

Thank the Throne for that... I think I'm gonna pass out.

The alien offered a raised eyebrow while a blush rose to her cheeks. Settling back into the bedding, Locke coughed and made a shooing gesture towards her.

"Get away with ya lass..." He spoke softly, his eyes half-lidded.

Before the guardsman could say anything more, the xeno turned about and grabbed a soup sachet from his pack before going into the kitchen. The sound of the stove being lit met his ears as the eldar presumably started the arduous process of boiling some water.

Curious as to which choice of soup she chose; he leaned out from the bed, grabbing his pack as he dragged it towards him. Pulling out his food reserve, he found that the sweet and sour jorang soup sachet was missing.

Maybe it's not as bad as I think. He wondered inwardly.

The xeno returned a few minutes later, carrying a large wooden spoon and a steaming bowl filled to with a reddish-brown liquid. The xeno placed the bowl on his lap, allowing Locke to get a good look at his meal.

It didn't look half bad or so he thought until the acidic stench penetrated his blocked nose. The guardsman shuddered at the foul smell, but he'd been in the Imperial Guard long enough to not let a funny scent put him off his food.

Probably one of those things where it smells bad and tastes alright. The soldier thought nervously to himself.

Ladling the soup into the spoon, he brought the utensil to his mouth to sample it. The moment the broth hit his tongue; his face froze in a mask of ill-concealed disgust. He nearly gagged on the awful conflicting flavours and the vile aftertaste that put him in mind of rotting vegetables.

Guard rations were never appealing but at least they were passably edible; this soup though was like an appetizer lifted straight from a torturer's recipe book. Turning his head, he noticed that the eldar was gauging his reaction with an intensity that he would have called unnerving.

Thinking fast, Locke patted and rubbed his stomach. "hmmmmmm." He hummed. "That was delicious, but I'm awfully tired." The guardsman gave a big yawn. "Don't think I'll be able to manage the rest of it." He said, handing the bowl back over to his companion.

The xeno's eyes narrowed in suspicion; she saw through the soldier's petty ruse. Scooching closer, she picked up the bowl and placed it on her lap. Ladling more of the sickening broth into the spoon, she angled it towards Locke's mouth which he kept firmly closed while fidgeting away from the utensil's advances.

He shook his head to show that he wasn't interested, yet this only brought an annoyed pout to the eldar's face. She returned the spoon to the bowl as they engaged in one of their usual stare offs, neither willing to back down to the other.

Without warning the banshee's arm shot out and smacked Locke on the leg, just below the knee. The guardsman instinctively sprang upright, opening his mouth to cry out in pain which gave the eldar the perfect opening. In a blur of motion, the wooden spoon filled with boiling hot soup was rammed into his open maw.

This bitch is tryin' to kill me. Locke thought as the inner lining of his mouth and throat were burned away by the scalding hot broth.

The guardsman made to speak but his own sputtering lungs cut him off as he cringed at the foul taste of the stuff. However, one look from the alien's serious expression told him that any further resistance would be futile.

They quickly fell into a routine, the banshee spooning the soup into his mouth, an imperceptible smile playing on her lips from the guardsman's clear disgust at the offering. Locke was just thankful when the bowl was finally empty.

Despite the soup's awful taste, he did welcome the inner warmth radiating out of his gut which certainly took the edge off his symptoms. With his stomach full, his eyelids soon grew heavy, and tiredness pulled him back into the bedding as he began to snooze while the eldar maiden sat at his bedside.


Review Responses:

Olav152 – I'm not falling for that one. *Access Denied*

Jamarian117 – Thank you, glad you liked it.

SalemTheSpeakerOfTruth – I'll take that as a compliment :D

WallyWolf – Aristriel is from Alaitoc and yes it's a custom IG regiment with a distinct Anglo-Celtic flavour. I haven't really seen much anime, but I'll take your word for it.

Guest – Haha I see, I actually started watching an old Let's play of RE6 and it is pretty campy.

I am addicted – Apologies you were right, I was thinking of 'That Witch is Forbidden'. Unfortunately, 'Suffer Not the Xenos to Live' is indeed dead. No worries and I am glad you liked it.

AyeJimmy123 – Nice

.1 – Maybe… maybe…

Yeti – Aristriel is from Alaitoc.

xThat One Personx – Cheers! That's very kind of you to say. My old editor stressed how important it was that Locke and Aristriel acted the role, and I took his advice to heart. I think sometimes I go a bit overboard with the descriptions but thanks all the same.

Look2021 – Thank you!

Dutyofthereader – I do like these ideas, but it just isn't the right time to introduce them yet. They both have to go much further in their adventure before any playful hijinks would be believable. You've certainly hit on a few themes that I want to explore in the not-too-distant future though, so stay tuned. All in all, thank you so much for such an in-depth review, you've certainly made me consider a few things moving forward. I read Haydee Free Will and you were right; I did like it – good suggestion.

USACommissar – You're welcome, I'm glad you liked it.

Grand Auditorix – I aim to please.

Naruto Loves Fem Kyuubi – I think you're looking a bit far ahead at the moment, but we'll have to see.

Red2013.777 – I hope it was worth the wait.

Incredible – Thank you! I do my best.

Guesty McGuesty – Thank you! You should have seen what happened in my first draft… I toned it down quite a bit. I really enjoy writing their interactions although I do find it a bit of a challenge. I agree 100%, love at first sight is lazy and it usually takes me out of the story completely. I hope you liked this chapter too.

Fan – No reason in particular, I suppose I'm just stubborn. Posting on another site creates more work for myself which I'd rather not deal with. I take your point though, AO3 has advantages over , I may upload it there too.

Opaque-Cavalier – Thank you very much, it took quite a few drafts until I was happy with it, so it's good to see that the work paid off. I'd thought about not using the cabin but there really was no way that Locke would have survived in the cold, even being near an open fire wouldn't have been enough. Your assumption is correct, the artefact is going to have a much bigger part in this and following chapters.

Golden Sheath – It was only when I'd finished the chapter that I realised that Locke is unaware of what's transpired between them, but I think it adds to the narrative.

Last Worked on 4 years ago – You flatter me, although I'm not really sure if I'm deserving of such high praise but thank you, nonetheless. I've actually lost count if I'm honest; I'd say it's now in Aristriel's favour. As for AO3, I might do.

GoodOverlord – Now that is a very interesting theme and I'd love to explore it; however, it is beyond the scope of the story that I'll be writing. This may seem like a dodge, but Craftworld Aeldari are very adept at self-discipline and controlling their own emotions. It would take far more than a romantic tryst with Locke to cause her fall.

Expert93 – Thank you and agreed!

Jokori234 – Cheers! Glad you liked it! I hope this chapter is able to tide you over.

Steelbadger – Hello again! When I first started writing it, I very much was under the sway of my own naïve enthusiasm… which didn't always lead to the best work. Currently, not much of my original writing remains from my first six chapters, but it was for the best. Anyway, thank you so much for such an in-depth review, it really means a lot!

Trumpster – Glad you liked it! He certainly is, and I'm sure there are.

Aaron Black – Thank you and I agree, I think I've definitely improved. Hmm, I suppose it's because they haven't become properly intimate yet and so there's been no need to highlight any major differences in anatomy beyond a general description. Cheers for the suggestion though, I'll give that a look.

Guest – Not quite what I had in mind but fair enough xD.

Guest – Glad you're enjoying it and thank you for the suggestion, I've just looked them up and they do seem like an interesting SM Chapter. Don't worry, I have no intention of ending the project until it's done.

Guest – Those are some interesting ideas, but I think they'd work better a bit later in the story. I'd still say this is very much in Act 2 right now. No need to worry, I have no intention of rushing anything. As for the "fraternizing" chapter, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Thank you for the review!