21
Indrik sat for long hours pondering the current state of affairs upon the surface of Athena. The planet was crumbling around them, the dust storms more fierce than ever, the religious war between those who manned the bastion walls and those who dwelt in the mountains and sands seemed to be coming to a monumental clashing point. Exposure was the real killer though and with an Ork swarm so close to the Knights primary recruiting world, the future was on the tip of a knife, ready to fall either way and be cut to ribbons. The Templarii Chaplain tapped his finger tips upon the dark desk before him. The Chapter was in a sorry state, barely even worthy of the name. For all their granduer and flamboyancy, the Knights Vermillion were dying. The gene-seed was flawed and becoming ever more unstable as the generations passed. The older marines held control over their thirst and rarely did they succomb to fits of supernatural rage, but the young? Those newly inducted into the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes? The thirst was nigh on unquenchable and the Folly would soon be full to bursting with rage-blind brutes.
He moved his armoured finger tip back and forth, the talon tip shaving into the gnarled wood. He scratched as he thought, letting his mind toil with the burden of enlightenment and politics. He was unaware of what his image his finger began to form in the wood, instead his attentions were inwards, settling on the very worrying fact that the Chapter was run via a political hierarchy in the absence of the 1st Company and their venerable Master. It had narrowed down to himself, Lord Judaiz of the Sentinel brothers and Forge Master Ardakas. Officially, command fell to Lord Templar Alabaster but he stayed willfully ignorant of the decisions made, only caring enough to turn his attention to the workings of the Chapter when the other three had come to an agreement. Uron Malefictus had been gone for the past century, leaving the care of the Chapter to Athena. Armacia was but a silent guardian, a skeleton crew of Marines and Techpriests over saw the formidable fortress close to the sun. Indrik had no inclination of where the 1st and 2nd companies were, Uron had announced a Crusade one feast day and embarked upon the Dominator with fully half the Chapters strength. Indrik knew it was to be as far away from the political squabbling as possible. The man, this Marine, this Master of theirs had seen too much in his long life and sought the abyss of death in the Emperors service. Their system was small, shut off and silent to the rest of the Imperium save Administratum contact every fifty years to levy a tithe from whatever minerals the Mechanicum mined upon Presae.
The Knights were standing on the brink of disaster, a dark maw opening the ground before them, sucking them down one by one into the horror that awaits in the dark. Dissent, division and now possesion. Malefictus should be here. Not galavanting across the stars pretending to be one of the Founding Chapters. He should be here, to see to the state of the Chapter, to see how low it had fallen. It would not be long before the ever watchful eye of the Imperium turned inwards from the Crusades on the Eastern front and landed firmly upon the tiny system of Athena. What then, could happen to his brothers? To his Chapter, his family? He did not know and dread to think how the eyes of those on Holy Terra would condemn him. He blinked and gazed down at the symbol carved upon the desk. He had clarity of purpose then, in that moment and stood, the stone chair grinding back across the metal decking beneath his feet. The black armoured figure strode from his chambers, leaving a resplendant aquilla bright on the dark wood.
'Speak.'
The Lord Templar's voice growled out from his admantine teeth. The huge terminator chaplain stood gazing at the arched window of stained glass in the Reclusiam. The giant winged form of Sanguinius held aloft by the golden light of the Emperor above a lake of blood. Below it was the broken blade of the first Uron, the Blood Angel who provided to seed of their creation and led them to freedom from religious control. The power blade, blade and warped was suspended via anti-grav studs upon the stone altar beneath it, giving the illusion of the blade levitating beneath Sanguinius. Lord Alabaster was often found here, gazing at the sword with his ruby bionics. One could only guess what assailed the mind within that metal frame.
'My lord, I have meditated upon our currect predicament and believe I have come to a solid course of action.'
Alabaster cocked his head, turning his giant frame to face the smaller Chaplain.
'Pray tell me, Brother Indrik, your revelation under His guidance.'
The younger Templari knelt before his superior, watching as the fearsome mechanical visage of Alabaster blotted out the broken blade of their Chapter and the effigy of their Primarch superior. The ruby eyes became two pits of inferno in the darkness of shadow. The candle light flickered as a door ghosted open and closed deep in the shadows of the vault, a robed supplicant of the Chapter baring a shrouded item towards the pair of Templar chaplains.
'With the power invested in me by the Templarii order of Brethren and by extension the Ecclisarchy, my misguided light has become true. I have been afforded the clarity of vision to see there is only one course of action concerning the possesion of our most Beloved Typhot. This, is my solution.'
With a sweeping gesture of his hand, the supplicant pulled the shroud from the item they carried with a flourish, revealing an ancient weapon. The gleam of the barrel was inscribed with litanies and prayer, the muzzle was wrought of bronze into the shape of a screaming eagle's beak. Fluted wings arched to contain the bulky circular canister that powered the formidable gun.
'I ask for sanction to use the Touch of Uron to cleanse our Chapter of taint. It should lay with us, the protectors of our Brethren. This is not the domain of the Sentinel Order. Be he Psyker, Typhot is still our brother, most revered. He should be afforded a clean death in light of his duties these past centuries.'
The silence that lasted was palpable, it was pregnant. Indrik dared not raise his gaze into the pits of hell that regarded him and his proposal. He sowed his own dissent with his words against their Sentinel brethren, yet it was to counter the moves made by Lord Judaiz in his game of power. Indrik would not let the Chapter become the property of bueracratic machination. They were Space Marines, His Angels of Death, they would not become lesser men of the Imperium prone to squabbles of ownership. He would die before he let it happen.
'It is sanctioned. Go forth and touch our brother and release him to the Emperors forgiving love.'
The giant turned away, back to the broken blade. Indrik stood and bowed low in supplication to the shrine and its keeper before accepting the offered relic from the servant. He flicked the activation stud to prime the weapons ignition system and felt a shudder of reverence pass through him as the ancient weapon hummed into life, status lights blinking. He bowed once more to the shrine before removing himself from its sanctity and stalking the corridors of the Fortress ship. Down he went, ever down, passing brothers who knelt to him, genuflecting towards the powerful weapon he carried within his taloned hands. The Templar stalked the arched hallways, each step accompanied by chanted words, the servant dashing oils upon the chaplain and his weapon, blessing their actions in His name.
He came, eventually, to the stone chamber. He stretched out his hand, allowing the servant to remove his gauntlet with the proper ritual. He extended his now naked hand into the gene cogitator built into the stone wall and allowed it to extract a drop of his blood. A chime accompained a green flashing light and the stone door began to grumble and grind out of view to reveal the darkness within. He stepped over the threshold, bidding the servant stay outside of the protective runes. The Chaplain was greeted with the icy touch he had endured before, crystals began to form upon his black armour. The two Sentinel brothers lifted their double handed power blades and removed themselves from their posts beside the suspended sarcophygus. He nodded his head in respect to them, despite their high status, he still held authority here. The chained giant before him lay silent in the cold, the alien runes carved into the ceramite were dull, no warp energy played across them. The vox unit crackled once, barely a whisper of static before one word, garbled and exhausted hissed out.
++ ...please...++
Indrik bowed low, clutching the metla gun to his broad armoured chest. He stood, straighter than he had done in many a long years and summoned all the power of his voice.
'Honoured Brother Typhot, he of many victories. He of many glorious deeds and glorious actions. He who stood firm where others have fallen, he who brought fire and righteous fury upon the Emperors enemies, refusing to accept death, I salute you. I honour you. I hold you in all reverence and I condemn you to die.'
He thumbed the trigger guard up, braced his armour shot feet and raised the gun high. With a whisper prayer he squeezed the trigger and the icy cold was replaced with incinerating heat. The shimmering haze of radiation shot forward in an intense beam, striking the surface of the armoured coffin, bubbling the armour. He squeezed the trigger again, the armour plating running like molten slag, dripping to hiss and dance across the sigil strewn floor. He squeezed the trigger again and again, carrying out the execution with unmoving conviction. Brother Typhot had been possesed, rendering him unto the Heretics nature, but he would die, not as a heretic, but as a hero of the Chapter. Remembered for his deeds, not his disgrace.
When it was done, all that remained was a hollow shell, cored and left open to the heat and moisture that filled the air. Indrik had grit his fangs when the writihing dessicated body of Typhot had been revealed, suspended within by fluids and a network of machinery. All had flashed away to gas under the punishment of the melta beam. No longer did his Chapter brother suffer. Indrik bowed low once more before turning from the stone chamber and back into the fortress. He knew he was doing the Emperors work and taking the first steps to cleansing the Chapter of it's growing taint but deep down, in the recesses of his mind where the darkness dwelt, he questioned. He questioned because despite this being the correct course of action, it did not feel right.