"Brothers?"

I pause in the act of anointing the component pieces of my disassembled bolt-pistol. This time it is Berneden. He is no longer screaming along with the others. I set aside the oilcloth and listen, waiting to see if his lucidity will continue. The vox-thieves secreted within his holding cell are sensitive enough to pick up the faintest whispers. The others keep on screaming, their enraged voices filling my own cell with the cacophony of their impotent fury. Out of necessity I filter them out with my Lyman's ear, focusing solely on Berneden's voice – waiting, hoping, dreading...

"Brothers? Sergeant Lyer? Why am I here? Where is my squad? Why have I been imprisoned?"

I rise quickly from my work bench, don the grim skull-faced helmet of my order and step into a dark, vacent corridor, each side lined with ten holding cells. Eight are currently occupied. Through the reinforced bulkheads I can hear the Lost roaring and raging as I pass; some cry out challenges and denunciations in ancient Baalite dialects, others bellow curses and threats in antiquated variants of Gothic that have gone unspoken in the Imperium for millennia. The spiritual miasma of their collective insanity presses in about me, but my mind and soul are as armored as my body and I remain untouched by their madness.

Berneden is quiet as I enter his cell. The former Assault Marine's battered warplate has been repainted black and marked with crimson saltires in accordance with the ancient traditions. He sits upon an outsized interrogation throne built to withstand the struggles of an armored Astartes, his limbs secured by adamantium shackles thicker than my forearms. I do not have much time before his mind is plunged back into its inescapable delusions. I go to him and remove his helm; he blinks up at me, his cheeks stained by bloody tears, his eyes filled with confusion, horror and pain at his predicament.

"Chaplain Valerand? Why am I here? What has happened to me? Where is my squad?"

I reach out a gauntleted hand and smooth back his unkempt hair as if attempting to soothe a distraught child. Always he asks the same questions, and always I must give the same answers.

"The Black Rage has claimed you, brother. You are being confined here for the safety of those around you. Your squad still lives, though it is Aemand who leads them now; Sergeant Lyer fell on Narius II while breaking a line of mutant cultists. You were also there, aiding your brothers as part of the Death Company; under my guidance you and the rest of the Lost tore the cult leaders apart. You still serve the Emperor, Berneden – just not in the way you did before."

He bares his fangs at me, anger and grief contorting his tortured features. "I have no memory of Narius II...I was on a ship: a terrible ship twisted by Chaos corruption and filled with daemons and traitors..."

"It is the Vengeful Spirit. You are reliving the final battle of our gene-sire; your mind is consumed by the last memories of Sanguinius himself. When the Rage takes hold you no longer remember who you are, nor can you heed the voices of your true brothers –"

"How long?" He demands, his voice thick with horror and despair, "how long have I been in this state? Tell me!"

"Since the liberation of Slaughterhouse III," I say sadly.

"And...have I harmed anyone? Have I spilled the blood of the innocent?"

"No," I lie, "we were able to subdue you before you could attack the serfs. Here, brother – drink; your throat must be parched."

In an effort to distract him I hold my canteen to his lips; Berneden guzzles the water greedily, overcome by simple thirst. I stroke his hair, hating the need for deception. During the liberation he had slaughtered seventeen battle-serfs once he had finished butchering the ork boarding parties who had tried to storm the corridor he had been holding; three of his squad-brothers had sustained grievous injuries attempting to bring a halt to his rampaging. I tell him nothing of this; some truths are far too terrible and soul-crushing to endure.

"Why do I still live?" he asks quietly.

I am unsure of the question. "The rage of the primarch invests you with strength and stamina far exceeding your baseline transhuman abilities, enabling you to fight on despite taking wounds that would incapacitate a normal Astartes; you –"

"No...why do you allow me to live? Why have I not been given the Emperor's Peace?" Berneden looks at me pleadingly and I know what he is trying to ask.

"Because you are still a valued asset of the Chapter, brother. The unquenchable fury of the Lost has enabled us to carry the day in many a desperate engagement. Captain Rychter will not deprive his strike-force of such potent weapons when our numbers are stretched so thin –"

Berneden throws back his head and roars in utter anguish, straining against his bonds. "No! Kill me, Valerand! Our father's pain...I cannot endure it any longer! Kill me!" The Lamenter thrashes and howls like a crazed beast as his mind begins to fragment once more. I reattach his helmet and his furious entreaties boom throughout the cell, amplified to near-intolerable volumes by his vox-emitters.

"I cannot," I say, shaking my head, "I am sorry, Berneden. The Chapter still has need of your blade; we must endure for the sake of those we cherish."

"Traitor!" he screams. "Deceiver! False brother! I will end you, Horus! I will – "

I leave the cell, silent tears falling unseen behind my bone-white skullmask. The Lost continue to rave and curse, devoured by visions of a past so remote it has become myth. I stand still, steeling my hearts – listening, waiting, dreading...

"Brothers?" Now it is Zaruiel who calls.

Only in death will my duty end.