:/Imperial time mark. [C. 854.06.04 M 30.]
:/ Casualty reports pertaining to the disastrous triumph of 375-13.-= Listed Eleventh Legion Astartes Dawn Stalkers. Tenth Echelon.
· 7th company Commanding. "95% killed in action."
· 31st company "99% killed in action.
· 34th Company "100% killed in action."
· 58th Company "100% killed in action."
· 60th Company "100% killed in action."
· 61st Company "90% killed in action"
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Numbers.
A great deal of my training to inherit the mantle of Captain even before it became a certainty that I would be doing so, had revolved around numbers.
As they said, tactics win fights. Logistics win wars.
But here, only one number was on my mind. The sum total what remained of the tenth Echelon. Waiting in the one corner of another legion's ship, with nothing but the dented armor on our backs, empty guns and dull blades at our sides. Scrolling through a list I had compiled on a data slate that was not my own. Alone with my bitter resignation, counting out the missing and the dead. The brief moment of elation at our survival had vanished without a trace returning me to a dark, dark place.
It was a disaster.
As it stood, the last remnant of the Eleventh legion currently in theater… It was barely even worth calling what we did standing. Was one hundred and seventy five brothers in the walking wounded.
Two percent.
And that was not even factoring in my concern for Vaurion, who had yet to be returned or sent word of from the apothecaries in the actual medical bay.
It would have been decimating if it had been one in ten we lost, but now even nine out of ten would have been better than what had come to pass over the Dawn Stalkers.
Those of us that did not require tending to in the medical bay, clustered in a corner of an embarkation deck on this unfamiliar battle-barge next to crates repurposed as stools and benches. Any effort to organize by company or squad deemed a futile endeavor.
We had been left to our own devices for hours. Guardian Sergeant Townsend had reported back to his Captain, promising to make introductions as soon as they sent report to their Crusade commanders and tried to narrow down where ours could be. Based upon the last position of the Dawn Stalkers I knew.
Captain Arminger stood firmly at my side behind the crate I sat upon, with my maimed lightning claws adjacent. Both of our helms mag locked next to the small of our backs. My second presenting the picture of strength even with his bloodied armor and what ministrations the Apothecaries had given to him before quickly determining that his injuries were not critical. Roughly the same treatment I had received. A few wounds sewn shut, the fibers of my bodysuit carefully cinched bracing my back and binding my broken arm in a sling of steel cable across the mauled sigil of Vanguard leader. The same as Arminger's fractured limb. My green eyes lost focus a thousand miles away at the little device in my hand.
"Commander," That man spoke to me for the first time since we landed here.
"Yes John." I replied not moving an inch.
"The hangar. Did you notice?"
"Yes John, I noticed."
It was empty.
Where fighting machines, Astartes, Mechanicum cults, and Human crew should have been busying away the hours. There were only deathly silent voids. Just the trio of stormbirds sitting idly, while their engines and hulls cooled.
Where was the Second Legion?
One of the few things I did know about this group of Astartes was their specialization. Void War, and yet to be found by such a small group of them in space was puzzling the one miniscule part of me that was not preoccupied with my circumstances.
I should have been drafting candidates from the scout reserves to the line squadrons. Polling my centurions on replacements for their sergeants and peers. Reviewing our battle strategies, issuing commendations and warnings of conduct unbecoming. Requisitioning arms and armor from the supply chain of the warship for the next battle. Connecting with our Martian support on their time tables in regards to repairs on our ships, tanks, aircraft and… And our dreadnoughts.
No, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait here in the mire of my own misery and self pity. Quietly cursing almost everything in the galaxy while, I waited.
One Hundred and Seventy Five.
What was to become of us? What place awaited us back with our forty-five thousand brothers? The Eleventh legion was not so proud as to ignore our losses. Or think that the possibility of them was none existent. Which was how you invited defeat into your company. Yet nothing in our history of service, victories, and yes defeats could compare to Three-Seven-Five Thirteen.
By the throne a tenth of the entire legion was now gone!
I let out a sigh, setting the data slate down opposite the claws. It had been almost six hours since our salvation. The cataclysm at our backs had passed its penultimate moment. And every single thing that had been left alive in its wake was dead. I had no idea if the Orks or Ra'chaal fleet were going to make an attempt on the Second Legion's fleet… The mire of silence did not bode well in that regard.
"Commander." Captain Arminger spoke again, knocking his right hand upon my left pauldron. Not in solidarity which I still doubted the assault marine was capable of, striking Bronx on bronze to draw my attention. "Bearing six one nine."
I turned my limited focus to where he indicated, and immediately leapt up banishing any aching pain from my mind.
Our hosts had returned.
First their gilded captain and beside him never more than five paces behind was the tribal marked figure of Townsend. Sticking out like a brooding peacock from the press of his brothers, but I supposed that was something to do with his rank in title.
Their commanding Space Marine officer was a man of stocky build, with hair as black as my own. Neatly bound and lacquered back, where his beard and mustache wrapped around his stout jaw which he had allowed it to grow out but a few centimeters. Bearing dusky skin and light brown eyes that moved to study the warriors of the eleventh. No cape on his armor, a pattern of which I did not entirely recognize. Some braided cords were draped across his chest and the battle honors there upon. The bulk of the ceramite the same blue as the rest of these some three hundred marines. Not so rich as the Ultramarine's cobalt, something somewhat paler but at the same time more radiant than what my mind's eye could picture. But their trim was a plain grey almost as if they had not deigned to highlight their plate at all.
Upon his left shoulder sat a stylized imperial II.
And the symbol of his legion I would soon come to learn upon his right. One that tickled some buried recollection in my early memories, and the stories of the long gone seas of Terra that my father once told me.
A black field behind a white Astartes helmet, with a chainsword and long femur bone crossed below.
Where that long limb ended, for a hand the captain had a simple hook made of gleaming adamantium. And in his left hand there was a bottle. I blinked for a moment seeing similar vessels in wooden crates being carried by a few of the other Legionnaires of the second. Others still… Carried trays of food. Properly cooked food, not simple protein pastes and ration bars. There were meat and vegetable offerings alongside bread and more things exotic, roasted, stewed and baked alike. A spread what might be reserved for a proper gathering where men of more note than I in the endeavors of the Great Crusade would rub shoulders. They approached as rapidly as balancing their various loads could allow them. Drawing out a long moment where Captain Arminger turned to our brothers coming to their feet and shifting closer, and suddenly let out a roaring reprimand.
"Sharpen up! You languid shits! Have you forgotten already you're the Dawn Stalkers damn it! Stand too!"
Like they had been shocked with a drill baton the warriors in bronze formed into ranks and lines of twenty men… Where they could. Perfectly still and at attention aside from myself and Arminger.
We moved to greet our peers.
"Captain." I began, trying to give as much of a bow as possible, "Are the Xeno's pursuing? Have you sent word to our legion? What of Lord Vaurion?"
This hairy Space Marine held out the bottle, cutting me off with a simple command, "Drink."
I froze, flicking my gaze between the liquid and the man telling me to imbibe it.
"I… Sir… We."
"Drink," the captain said again in his growling accent. Proffering up the vintage again, before raising one eyebrow at my continued hesitation. "Or, perhaps I've a few other things might be more to your liking. Achaemenidine wine, a couple magnums. Some of the bubbly to there might be. Or be your tastes more agrarian? Mjod? Iaellascian pale ale?"
I was stock still trying to decipher just what the man was trying to say to me.
The warrior in blue hooked his remaining fingers around the neck of the bottle and pointed his thumb back over the shoulder they sprang from in my silence. "What? If this is all too nice for you. I got some real crap outta the stills'n rotgut shares with the ammo refinery roughnecks in the back."
Squinting for a long moment I titled my head back towards my second, "John what in Terra's name is he talking about?"
A loud sigh came out the artificial mouth of Sergeant Townsend, "Welcome aboard our good ship the Matey. It is my honor to present Captain Morgan Christopherson of the fourth company. He who is Satrap of the Fourth Chapter of the Second Legion."
Under no prompting of my own, Captain Arminger stood ramrod straight and slammed his unbound fist over his heart, "Well met my lord. I stand Captain John Arminger off the sixty first Assault company. And it is my honor to herald Commander Skius Centermerius. Master of the Eleventh legion's seventh company, Vanguard Commander of the Tenth Echelon. And hero of Three-Seven-Five Thirteen."
This lord of the second legion let out a sigh of his own, before eyeing me up and down for a long moment. "…Auspex is clear, both Xeno fleets were taken out in the collision. Astropaths have been put to task, and as for your Praetor… You're going to need this friend."
The bottle was stuck out again, which I at last accepted into my still capable left. Digging that unkempt thumbnail into the cork popping it free. I took one cautionary whiff and immediately reeled as if an iron spike had been hammered up my nose and all the way to my esophagus. My disgust must have been etched on my face like a marble statue. But, seeing no reproach this time amid our hosts I grit my teeth and made bottoms up.
Drinking not being a prevalent hobby in the seventh company, Good Master Bruis notwithstanding. My palate was not nearly refined enough to put words as to what entered my throat and burned its way down to the pit of my stomach.
And in any case this spirit went straight to my head.
Wheezing and now trying to cough out my third lung, my head and vision swam like I had been clubbed over the head by an Ork. I had imbibed blood that was sweeter than this before. Dizziness and half a second of delirium swept all the cares and concerns from my now spinning head. The legionnaires of the second had a good laugh at my expense.
"What in Death's name was that!" I hacked out in a gothic slurry.
"Nautilusian Rum!" Our host jovially bellowed, before snapping his fingers to send his men into our ranks to set up the main course. The four of us stood to the side while the rest of our Space Marines began to mingle after a curt nod from myself giving permission to partake.
I stared into the black depths of the swirling spirit. And realized I was getting drunk. Few things in the galaxy could make their way through our enhanced stomachs and livers. And I wondered at the fact these men had any of them to hand. Then endeavored to take another pull from the brown bottle, and found it no easier than the first time. But still the vile brew was sweeter than the misery of defeat.
"My lord Satrap," I began sensing the weight of his title, if not the respect I might have put to a similar one of ours or another legion. The chemicals in this beverage must have burned away some of my conditioning and manners.
He waved his hook in dismissal, "I prefer Captain my good man."
"Captain Christopherson," I corrected.
"Morgan please."
"Captain Morgan?"
"Aye."
"…You prefer Captain?" I asked,
"That I do," He affirmed with a nod, "My genefather may have deemed me more equal than many of my mates, making me Satrap of the Fourth Chapter. But he and they aren't here right now so I won't stand on formalities… However, I will say…" I saw and sensed his mood darken like falling night, "My Primarch holds your legion and Antinous the Black in high regard… I however shall be holding you at arm's length."
A different kind of hurt touched my heart, "What do you mean?"
Guardian Sergeant Townsend interjected, "That before this morning we would not have listed the Eleventh among some of our mad kinsmen."
Captain Morgan grunted an agreement before taking his rum back for a quick draught, "In the absence of any Librarians in my current force. Some of the more touched members of my Human crew, had to reassure me that extending my hospitality was not a grave mistake."
On the verge of taking offense I scowled, "We mean you no harm. Nor do I think we could if we wished."
"Friend." My counterpart said with a slight shake of his head, "You were stuck in this system with all the evils of the galaxy for years, I could not."
"Years?!" I barked, "We weren't in that storm but for a day! Two at most!"
The scowl across this leader of the second legion's face slacked while he recoiled in surprise, Morgan quickly elaborating on the circumstances of our deliverance. "We found the three hundred and seventy fifth expeditionary fleet in our records, and the Space Marines in theater. They clearly… Really? I…"
With a nod I told him, "I shall swear to the Emperor Himself that I speak truth. We battled the local Xenos as commanded. Only for them to unleash… Something and the Warp upon we and the Orks that decided to butt into our crusade."
"It hasn't even been a fortnight since we began." Captain Arminger dismayed in confirmation.
Sizing up this development like an enemy swordsman, it quickly fell to me to ask, "If you suspected we had been… Corrupted. Why all of this?"
Our host took a calming breath, "Because the moment I decided not to blast you out into space and waste all of Good Townsend's work. You became our guests. You became my guests."
My second Arminger raised an eyebrow, "Did you not send the Sergeant to deliver us?"
Captain Morgan slowly turned his head surveying the room in a most dramatic fashion, "Sergeant? Who might that be?"
Captain Arminger raised his hand to point at the warrior he spoke of. Only for this Lord of the second to cut him off, "If you're to be on a ship of ours mate. You should learn, that man Townsend and his ilk are not such simple managers of a ten count. He is Guardian Sergeant and there is a big difference."
"Guardian of what then?"
"…The will of the Primarch, Cap'n."
I looked at the tribal figure who gave us both a slight nod acknowledging the shift in our gaze. Townsend spoke, his words as brief as they were cryptic. "I sit behind the moon…"
For a moment I could almost picture the warrior in the black of a Diaconus, only such a Space Marine of that sort dispatched from a very son of the Emperor not a lowly Legion Master. Even one so storied as Antinous the Black.
Quite a difference.
All the while. It may have been the rum, but my head swirled for a moment thinking of the no longer hidden danger we had taken no steps to avoid.
But I couldn't blame Morgan for his theoretical, precautions.
"Gratitude, Sir Satrap," Came my slightly shaking reply and a curt half bow. "Might you tell us… What year is it?"
His blue shadow the Guardian Sergeant spoke instead, "About half way through the Eight Hundred and Fifty Fourth year of the Thirtieth Millenium."
I balked, exclaiming "Seven Years?!"
The Nautilusian Rum found its way to my hand and my mouth again. While Arminger's hand found the way to his. "Oh, for a god to exist that I could call to curse this heresy in my head."
The half-heard conversations about us dimmed as men who weren't busy eating went silent and looked to the various reactions being had by both legions.
"Did…" Gulping down the last spiced dregs bubbling like acid in the corners of my mouth I asked, "Did we miss anything important?"
Captain Morgan shot me a twisted look of confusion with a tilt of his head, "By the throne! You're lucky to have gotten out of the quagmire at all."
He knocked the back of the hook on his stump of a wrist to my chest with a sharp ring, "Don't worry about that. The Imperium stands eternal, and it did not fall for lack of a few more brave fools."
My spirit did not rise in the wake of his words.
It fell, like my body oh so full of aches and pains threatened to. Of my afflictions, not the least of which was around my hearts. Yes, I feared I was about to collapse feeling weak in the knees and beginning to bend at the middle holding my good hand and the rum out for any to support me.
Captain Morgan quickly gripped his hand of flesh on my forearm, "Easy there, Captain. It's alright."
"No!" I lamented, louder than I intended to, "No it's not! Seven years, and our entire Echelon lost chasing shadows in this muck! We could have been covering ourselves in glory at the forefront of the Crusade! Or finding our lost father…"
The Primarch.
I shook and my rage disappeared with a shock, I looked back up at our host, "Sir, has there been news of the Eleventh?"
Morgan gave a sigh of sympathy, taking back the vessel of spirits and taking a deep draught. "There are always rumors cousin…"
His answer gave no comfort, just as all the other revelations only served to jab another knife into my chest. Townsend let out a deep weary breath and ran a hand back over his sculpted ridge of hair asking, "Sir Captains…" He seemed to surrender the possibility of being polite about what was to come out of his mouth. "Progenoids and plasma fools, what madness led you to attack?"
Arminger spoke, as if he took the words right out of my mouth. With such strength, such conviction I would not have thought possible from the man. "It was our task brother. Sorcery abounded, the Xenos were set to escape, or worse... I cannot picture, in ten thousand years or ten thousand times would we have done any different."
"Sir," My voice had dimmed once more, my mind returning to the one matter of the utmost importance that had been so waylaid until this moment. But I could no longer wait and looked Captain Morgan dead in the eyes. "What of Lord Vaurion? What of my Praetorian?"
The man's hairy lip pursed for a moment. Crushing the news back into his larynx.
And he held out the bottle once again.
Silently I refused him, my eyes pleading for the end of this anticipation.
Captain Morgan took another long drink, the motion as practiced to him as drawing a blade. Still, he coughed once finished and said, "My friend, the Praetorian's external injuries are not the concerns… All his organs were struck with some manner of blade… Tis as cruel as it is queer. And, my Saw-Bones cannot explain it, those are dying faster than any remedy could ease, and taking your man with them…"
The next words barely made it out of my mouth. There was no end to the shame heaped upon me this day. "How… How long does he have?"
"That, is something I need your word on, rather quickly."
"…I cannot let him suffer."
"Nor should you," Morgan agreed with a nod, "Yet, it is within my rights and means. That I give order to begin preparations for his interment in a dreadnought."
"No!"
My shout rang out through the dark hangar. And sent a wave of shock over the men closest.
The Guardian Sergeant Townsend was the first to find his wits, "Brother, in the name of the Emperor and all his Primarchs. Why not?"
His superior, of a sort. Scowled. "It is not in my nature to take offense at refusals of gifts Centermerius, yet I border on doing so now… We don't have a walker to let Vaurion pilot, regardless."
"No," I said in a much flatter manner this time, "No… Apologies, it is a gift beyond price to honor Lord Vaurion with… Yet… Yet…"
Only one of the eleventh's nine Praetorians had so far fallen in battle. Praetor Raginis of the sixth Echelon.
Long ago, after a poor run of luck in maneuvers had trapped those heroes in an untenable position in which the sixth Echelon may have been lost entirely if they did not redeploy. A decision had to be made.
And honor compelled Raginis to stay with a vanguard five hundred strong to aid a small group of legionnaires from the Eighteenth who had set in a canyon pass to buy time for the sixth Echelon to fall back in range and support of the first and third Echelon's descending companies. All the men of both legions knew that the deliverance of the many would be at the cost of their lives. Through the night those brave souls were surrounded, bombarded and overwhelmed by the entirety of an alien nation pouring from the depths of their sundered ark ships that had been run to ground by the Dawn Stalkers fleet. But they held fast. The creatures demanded again and again, gallant Raginis throw down his weapons, and surrender. Time and time again the half dead Praetorian bid the filth to come and get them. He fell moments before ten thousand warriors in bronze struck with the rising sun and tore out the heart of the horde.
It was a memory of pride, of defiance and triumph. I thought, I could give Lord Vaurion that kind of rest. Lay him down with honor and shoulder the weight of this disastrous triumph all on my own. Spare him the thought that for all of our efforts some of the Xenos had certainly escaped.
And I was not blind to just what ascending to the thing a dreadnought was would cost. Yes, we Dawn Stalkers held it as high an honor as any legion. But here and now, I knew what special kind of torment awaited. I could spare Lord Vaurion from the cold, tired existence that would eat away at his mind and all he was, confined to his sarcophagus and the sole company of the machine for the rest of his hallowed half-life of pain.
He deserved more…
"Skius."
Captain Arminger's voice fell softly on my ears. "If there is any chance, we could salvage something. Anything, from this campaign… Brother, take it!"
"Salvage?" I said, "This campaign is over brother. The Disastrous Triumph of Three Seven Five, Thirteen has concluded. What is left, is what is left…"
"…Yes Commander," John's voice took on a hot and battle ready tone, "What is left, is what is left."
His good hand landed on my wounded shoulder and his brown eyes locked to my green.
And I let out a mighty curse, grinding my teeth and girding my hearts for what I needed to do.
Captain Morgan let out a deep breath. "Then I shall escort you to the Apothercarion. So you may say farewell."
"Lord Satrap," I answered, "Please give the order. Begin the procedures."
"Are, you certain?" Morgan asked with a raised eyebrow.
I gave him a solemn nod, so our host pressed his remaining hand to his left ear and gave the word. My hearts ached, just as torn as they had been in the heart of the alien citadel. No relief found in the decision having come to pass.
I was not so naïve to think that. Contrary to the teachings of the Master of Mankind, somewhere in the final darkness should he have passed beyond. Lord Vaurion would be looking on what he left behind and find shame in my actions from the battle. Now, I would have to meet his displeasure, and that of the rest of the Eleventh here in this world.
But Vaurion would have a chance to put my wrongs to right. That he deserved.
More than anything.
The silence weighed heavily. I tried to find a subject for distraction. "…How did you find us, Lord Morgan?"
As one, both foreign officers raised up a hand and a hook, then dare I say self-consciously scratched the beard and iron of their chins respectively. Shooting a sideways glance towards their blue peer.
Townsend began, "We were dispatched to Mars. In order to take possession of the Matey, our new company Battle Barge."
The maimed Space Marine tapped one of his blue boots on the deck. Captain Morgan carried on in Townsend's stead. Foreseeing a question I was about to blurt out, "Personally, we are Sailors and Space Marines both our bunch if you should know anything of the Second. I saw no reason to take all me lads away from the front so began this quest with just a skeleton assortment of my wayfarers."
And again, back to Townsend, "And were commanded upon the way back that we would navigate through a few sectors," He raised and twitched the first two fingers of his hands together in a gesture I did not grasp, "Recently,' secured. Survey our new territories, make certain trouble wasn't brewing behind the lines."
His superior the Captain and Satrap nodded in confirmation, "We detected your Warp Storm some systems away two weeks ago. That it was shrinking as well, so chose to investigate. And soon after arrived in system, saw the planets doing something very strange. And discovered some of your probes and wreckage. Then traced you lot right to the middle of all this insanity… Though you should know. Yours' and only yours' were any active Imperial signals that we found in system."
I cursed to myself again. Our genestocks, those wounded brothers who might have survived in the wreckage of our own battle barge. The other dreadnoughts and their wards of the imperial army. And all our other allies. Gone, gone. One and all. And my hearts mourned again for all the lost heritage and fallen comrades.
Yet once my emotions stopped plaguing my thoughts, logic took over. I almost smirked, the sheer luck of all that on such time tables as the Great Crusade operated upon was nothing short of astonishing.
Captain Arminger interjected,
I thought to confirm just what I was feeling,
His words however curled in like a stabbing rapier,
"That is mighty convenient Satrap," he said, raising one scorched away eyebrow from the wound he had taken on our first attack.
"More better for you sir," Morgan said, turning an eye I could only describe as knowing on my second. I stepped one foot to the side to place myself between the two men, all my old worries replaced by a mix of confusion and a new found anxiety.
"Indeed," I confirmed, louder than perhaps was necessary but trying to project at Arminger to drop this itch he had gotten.
My Space Marine raised his arms in appeasement, "Peace brothers… All I am saying is… I have fought alongside the Second before."
"…And?" I growled like an angry Greenskin.
"And," He echoed, "That I know how their tendencies tend toward. And we were a long way from any kind of front for the Crusade that we didn't bring with the Three Hundred and Seventy Fifth. And in the midst of an oh so tempting center of Xeno commerce."
Captain Morgan huffed, "All in service to the Emperor, Dawn Stalker."
"All in service to the Emperor," Arminger agreed, "Reaver."
"Reaver?" I echoed, turning more of my gaze to the other bronze clad Astartes.
But the one handed officer across us gave voice to the answer, "More our Genesire's moniker. Yet gets dropped on us often enough given how we still be just the plain old second. Nobody honored us with any flashy fun new battle titles."
Ignoring the man, I addressed my second again, "What are you saying? They're…"
The term was there on the tip of my tongue. Yet it felt so wrong, offensive and abhorrent to apply it to any of the twenty legions.
But by the Emperor their bloody emblem.
"Pirates?" That criminal label slipper from my lips before I could stop myself.
The mask of suspicion spread across Captain Morgan's face grew into a hard scowl of anger. Backed by the bark of challenge that made me tense and ready for battle.
"Pirates!" He roared right into my face, the odor of his breath sweeping across my now sweating features. The entire hangar froze like a marching company had a warrior step on a landmine. And yet, as quickly as it came. This barrage of wrath turned into a thing of mirth. Captain Morgan threw back his head and howled out a long laugh.
"Pirates," He repeated again, in a much more subdued manner, "Oh dear, Skius. Can I call you Skius?" I did not get a chance to allow or dispute, "If that's what you be thinking, you're dead wrong. However, I don't want you to be getting any wrong ideas about our… Enterprising, Company. The Fourth legion tear down citadel after citadel, worlds shake and surrender before the howls of the Sixth, advancing foes look up to receive the light and the arrow of the Eleventh in their eyes."
His leering smile stretched ear to ear, "And the great coffers of the Imperium, burst in all things of… Value. Due to the labors of the sons of Skiron."
"What the?" I stuttered, "Captain Arminger?"
Neigh, our host quickly raised the nearly forgotten bottle of rum high in cheer and took a mighty pull. Letting out a long sound of satisfaction, "Verily! The Imperial tithe is a cumbersome beast, naught even out of the nest and gobbling on its own. The fleets would not have gotten so nearly as far without our plunder. There still needed to be something tangible to represent the monumental supply of resources consumed to fuel the Great Crusade brothers."
"I…"
Morgan laughed again, "Tis no trouble man. Not many Space Marines deal with the finer points of the Imperial economy. Although, tell me Captain. If we were here on raiding business."
He struck the gleaming hook out to the empty hangar, "Would we have left nigh our entire crew behind?"
I supposed, they would not have done such a thing.
"Now, be there still accusations to throw at each other?" Our host asked, "Or can we finally eat?"
"John," I called back over my shoulder, my voice laced with vitriol. "I shall strike you for this."
I heard a rumble of ceramite and saw my second's shadow dip in a bow, "By your will Commander."
The shade over the two officers of the second legion quickly evaporated from this little understanding I did not anticipate the necessity of arriving at. Captain Morgan huffed, laughing beneath his breath, "Good. Good. Good." He repeated before stepping past me to the feasting that was slowly picking up speed as the tension filtering down from. Roaring a demand for meat and more libations from his company of men. Taking survey of how the Eleventh Legionnaires found their palettes now.
So, we three remaining moved to a place specially prepared, by these strange Sailor, Steward, Privateer, Space Marines near the head of this makeshift banquet hall with the fine furnishings of industrial shipping crates. Conversations began to merge into a wordless muffled storm as they always did in a mess hall.
Arminger sat to my left, and Townsend more to my front and right.
I stood.
Remaining on my feet, scrutinized even further by my honored hosts and fellow Dawn Stalker.
"Captain."
Lord Morgan's voice had dimmed from its jovial uproar, as well as from the fact it did not need to be carried across the room since the Satrap of the Second had reappeared at my side once again. His whole hand clunked on my right shoulder again, and he bid, "Sit down before you fall down."
"…I cannot."
It was only so far from that gray plasflex box, to the last place I had left to fall.
"I could make it an order." Morgan reiterated,
Yet I had to remind him, "You are not my Praetorian. I cannot oblige…"
His lips pursed for a moment, "Then we shall sit together, yes? Before I fail my obligations as your host and you go collapsing and dishonoring my hospitality."
"Sir?... Yes sir, apologies."
"Aye for my own sake thank you, yes that we shall do." The pressure of his palm built, and my knees began to bend, as inexorable as the falling planets of the Xenos. All the while Morgan continued, hooking the box Townsend vacated closer for himself. "And while we feast you shall tell me. Why are you so upset to be alive?"
"You would not understand." I told my host, pushing some of the roasts around unsure if I would ever find my appetite again.
Townsend spoke in his rich tenor voice, "You might be surprised, brother."
All the bile and loathing in my stomach came to a simmer, threatening much more. "Then what losses have you incurred? What devastating blows to the honor of the Imperium and the Legion have fallen upon your very own shoulders? How have you failed?"
My fists slammed down on the crate table, making all the things laid upon it jump.
"Calm down, Captain." The guardian Sergeant held up one hand palm down trying to placate me.
Nearly the opposite happened. If these men, these Space Marines could not understand the weight of honor then I was not certain just what I could say to enlighten them.
But I could hold the truth no longer.
"What does it matter whom is left alive? When we once stood five thousand strong!"
A deep sigh escaped the warrior's augmetic jaw, "… I mourn as much as I can as well, for warriors I never met. But you gave everything and more than could ever been asked of you."
My thoughts soured once again.
…Not everything.
"And yet we failed."
Lord Morgan barked in laughter, "Ha! Three dead worlds, an Ork fleet and a sector wide Xeno threat gone with them. I'd happily name that a triumph, Dawn Stalker."
Stuttering for a moment I found my tongue and continued. "In the Warlock's throne room. The warp meddlers who set this all in motion, we found Lord Vaurion between six maleficent thrones. And only four alien bodies at his feet."
Morgan leaned backwards, "Ah." The legionnaire intoned, "That is, troublesome… Yet, I shall never be one to doubt the resolve or capability of the Eleventh ever again. I'm certain Vaurion left nothing alive in his wake. Even if he did," The brown glass bottle thunked close to my hands and untouched meal, "Leave it to the fifth. Tis' their problem now."
"No," I cried, "It is shameful. The Emperor points us at an enemy and that enemy dies. That is our purpose. To let any escape," I took pause in my fury. All the lives lost, fallen to trickery and Warp magic…
All the brothers wasted.
"It is shameful…. We failed..."
Morgan's hook began to tap slowly against the plasflex, "Centermerius, if only one Astartes gets out, it's a victory."
I huffed, "Your optimism sickens me."
…But a small part of me found gratitude for him in it.
And I think our host sensed that as he leaned back, throwing one armored boot up into his own untouched meal. Leaning back with a certain satisfied smirk, "Happy to be of service and alive Commander. Aye! I'll drink to that!" He said, producing and imbibing from another bottle produced from somewhere on his shockingly blue armor, which I didn't find surprising. "And while we're at it. Here's to a short one today and not another one tomorrow!"
The brown bottle of rum sailed over to Guardian Sergeant Townsend's grasp who let out a wordless bark of cheers and turned the vessel straight up. Downing the contents and smashing the empty glass to the floor with another hearty laugh.
And then… Began to sing. "On Halen-Five there lives a man! Five rusty hooks on his right hand! And rage consumes his every living day."
Captain Morgan took up the beat and lyrics as he shot back to his feet and circuit around the merry men of the second legion. All of them laughing and hammering fists to the crates and boots to the deck recognizing instantly and taking up the tempo of this strange tune. "As one against the entire world, his hooks of deadly wrath unfurled! Slashing all the bastards in his way!"
Initiative briefly returned to the Guardian Sergeant and his bridge of song that would have bled the ears of any truly trained choir, "He fights to die!"
"He lives to kill!" Morgan called back.
"To cut your throat, his greatest skill!"
"He'll eat your kids!"
"And punch your house!"
And back together, as one the two of them. "And set fire to your cat!"
We, their guests all staring blankly in various states of amusement and confusion. And as practiced and synchronous as anything space marines did together, the rest of the second legion's fourth company raised their voices and clenched fists in time to the climax.
"So we'll raise our hooks up to the skies and drink to absent friends! Those far away and those who died, still fighting till the end! Have no fear for life is short! And death will take us all! So when the bastard comes for us we'll meet him standing tall!"
We passed the long days in the cheerful halls of the Matey. Hosted by a most peculiar legion.
The men tried to make themselves useful. Being half way apprenticed to the masters of this ship who took a more direct hand in their command of the Battle Barge. Receiving primers on the basics of naval onboard logistics and maintenance while giving the briefest glimpses of real space navigation and gunnery doctrine. A small scattering of the seventh company even tried their hand at the culinary arts the second took such pride in. Captain Arminger took it upon himself to manage the lion's share of the new duty roster, so truncated as it was.
I edited the reports time and time again, bar the ones beyond even my clearance ranks. All those that the Second legion had found while we lingered in the dead system. And the debriefs given by my warriors both. Finding little energy to do anything else whilst the ascension of Lord Vaurion continued.
I was not permitted to be within the chambers where the techmarines of the second, and the apothecaries of both legions continued their efforts. From what I understood it was proceeding without issue. Six chambers away in the apothecarion, the closest that Lord Morgan would allow me to remain.
And that is where the Guardian Sergeant Townsend found me, when it came time to deliver the message.
The rest of the Dawn Stalkers had arrived.
Once again, the last of the tenth Echelon arrayed in the hangar that had become our new home away from home. All facing towards the energy field at the end of the hangar, watching the gleaming bronze ships of our brothers pass in the void. Flanking the armored stasis casket borne by six of my newly blooded veterans. In which lay what remained of Lord Vaurion.
The word from command as succinct as possible.
Make ready our return.
At our side were our hosts and saviors, their officers and specialists deployed front and center next to the Satrap, Captain Morgan, now wearing a proper augmetic fist. I had taken the time to ask him how that unfortunate turn had come to pass, Morgan passed it off with a laugh and said. "That's what yah get for trying to claim your favorite bolt pistol from the mouth of the squig that ate it." Guardian Sergeant Townsend who stood beside him both then and now, could only roll his eyes and sigh which I did not investigate further upon.
Like a camouflaging lizard all of them slipping into an image more presentable, than the one we had grown accustomed to in the last month.
They stood motionless as we did, while another behemoth of metal came to be framed through the hangar doors. Our flagship, the Solus Ortus, the elder sister ship of the glorious Brimming Rays. Bringing hard memories back in the wake of its oh so identical silhouette.
Silence reigned while four more gleaming Stormbirds grew from another handful of bright dots into gunships. A pair of them touching down not forty meters in front of our lines. The assault ramps came down, and full squads of ten Terminators with sheathed swords and slung bolters emerged from red lit holds.
I turned towards Captain Morgan to give a short bow. "Forgive us Lord Satrap."
He waved his hand of flesh and blood in dismissal, "You owe us nothing Captain, it was a pleasure not a burden to guest you."
"…Not for that sir."
The first of the brutes in bronze halted before us, a black cape with his command numerations signifying rank as captain of the ninth company. With the mark of the vanguard sticking out atop his brow like a laurel wreath.
He took a short moment looking over us, "Captain Centermerius. Captain Arminger."
"Aye brother." I spoke as briefly as I had been addressed,
Our fellow took a step and turned, "With us."
We moved as we had been bid, marching like a funerary procession into the other waiting gunships while my second and I proceeded to the one of the ninth.
And Captain Morgan burled his way through his shock calling out, after half coughing out some spittle. "What? That's all I get? Hey! Skug!"
I had seen warriors round on Orks with less menace than this Terminator Captain slowly turned towards Morgan. Calling back from behind our fellow Vanguard Commander, I quickly cut in, "Apologies, Satrap… The Eleventh only stands on certain ceremonies… Our reckoning is at hand."
What was it I saw pass over Morgan's face? Some emotion I almost drew from a deep memory of the last days I spent with my clan as a boy. It disappeared with a growl as the indignant Satrap stared daggers back at our escort. "Don't you touch those boys. I went through a damn bit of trouble saving them."
The Captain of the ninth muttered back, "You have our gratitude Reaver. Yet we must be on our way."
And so we were.
It all felt so hauntingly familiar.
Seeing the workings of the Eleventh Legion running at full capacity once again. Ranks of warriors, bronze machines and eager thralls bringing the Emperor's vision into reality.
Whatever honor guard, or gallows escort I was expecting at our return could not be found. Yes, warriors of all sorts turned to regard the last of the tenth Echelon come home. But surrounded by the ten Terminators I had no recourse but to step in line marching forward to unfamiliar transit stations herded along.
Away from my men.
And away from Vaurion.
I could only imagine the distraught looks on their faces. Unbecoming of the heroes of Three-Seven-Five Thirteen the lot of them.
Myself included.
This inner turmoil out for all the world to see as my helmet remained tucked under my right arm. My weapons packed with the rest of the paltry amount of cargo we had salvaged on our backs from the catastrophe. Physiology pumping adrenaline like I was heading for a battle. A much easier prospect to imagine than whatever was about to happen.
Picturing the lords of the legion waiting to hold council on my failures.
There were three Echelons that had come to be reunited with the ones thought long lost. That I knew based on the simple fact of which ship we were on. Three Echelons that crusaded together more often than not.
The Third Echelon, prime logisticians and marksmen both as the legion required. Priding themselves on tactical flexibility not so unlike our tenth had done. All under the careful eye of the Master of Descent. The giant of a legionnaire Praetor Targars Vendra.
Next, the Second Echelon. Assault specialists, five thousand blades who had honed their art of death from above to a lethal edge. Matched by few others who bore the genes of the Emperor's sons. Mirror to the slayer of men and xenos who lead them, the right hand of the Legion Master, Praetor Gole Bendl.
And finally, the pride of the legion and the vanguard of our luminous fellowship. Each of those warriors a veteran from the first days. The old guard, who held all our wisdom of the ages in their ranks with almost every master ruling any station of note that could be found within an Astartes Legion. The standard to which every Dawn Stalker was held. Molded in the fires of the zeal radiating off of the one named "The First in Black."
I could only imagine what their dread pronouncement would be. Our journey was silent, on the part of all parties. And it led us through an armory where I doffed my armor and donned a long tailed black coat and slacks over my bodysuit and a pair of plain deck shoes. As casual as could be for one of the Dawn Stalkers, vulnerable as well. Then with all the same bewildering expedience, I was ushered out of the room. Through the barracks of the first company and into a room that had been cleared, barring one metal table and two chairs fit for Astartes on one side. Across from those was a grid of ammunition crates supporting a similar piece of furniture that would befit a baseline Human being.
I scanned the bare room, it was dark illuminated only under two tubes overhead active, one on each side of the metal slab between. My eyes could not pierce the shadows beyond.
The more I looked into that darkness that stretched into a deathly eternity the more I felt an unpleasantly familiar taste of the unknown come creeping back out of the black long lost tales of my childhood.
Thinking thoughts of just what the employment of that could mean.
Only to snap out of my nigh heretical musings by the sound of the door I had entered opening wide.
Two pairs of feet padding towards my back. One approaching in a much wider stride and heavier tread that could only have been from an Astartes. The other padded close behind taking two steps for every one of the legionnaire's that preceded it. I shifted, and upon seeing just who approached went ramrod still facing the flanking wall.
The Space Marine wore the black robes of a Diaconus. He did not bear his weapon of office, the singular one in the entire Dawn Stalker's arsenal that belonged to he, and he alone. But with the deep hood of the garb thrown back over his shoulders revealing a face lined with more age than had ever scarred one of our youthfully vibrant gene-line. There was no mistaking this legend that had appeared,
Equal in height, clean shaven and skin pale even for one of the base Merican stock. Whilst his hazel eyes looked past me ten thousand miles away.
Master of the Legion, and first Diaconus. "The Old Man," Antinous the Black.
Whoever followed him passed just barely below my vision as I stood disciplined and at attention. Spying only a head of greying hair, and the pair of servo skulls that followed.
Not daring to move an inch in the presence of the one who had forged the legion on behalf of our Primarch Progenitor. The fates of worlds and lesser empires, as well as my own hung on his words. Master Antinous came to a halt at my side.
This was not the first time that we had met. I had been close enough to his magnanimous presence in the past in my service with long gone Captain Oenomaus and Praetor Vaurion. Yet this was to be the first time we were to be introduced. And I could do nothing but stand waiting for his righteous and correct judgement.
Master Antinous let out a breath, then laid a hand on my shoulder and gave greeting. "Well met Brother."
He plied force and turned me towards the blank interrogation table. And the woman who sat upon the chair opposite the pair of us.
She looked to be just on the cusp of being elderly, even from her shoulder length greying brown hair. I could not know if she was yet to reach her first second or third century of life. The amount of flesh on her bones leaned towards an abundance. She wore a grey robe that flowed and wrapped about her in one seemingly continuous piece along with a few scant trappings of jewelry, earrings and rings both. One porcelain white hand laid a data slate flowing with green script down upon the table. The woman set her limbs down on the arms of the equally utilitarian chair now beneath her and glared an old brown stare well used to the presence of transhumans upon the both of us.
I could feel it, smell the psychic power coming from her churning my stomach.
But before I knew it Master Antinous had guided me into the seat on the left hand side, whilst he took the right.
"My lord," I tried to ply him with questions. But he simply raised one hand and my curiosity died in my throat.
The woman leaned forward, adjusted her data slate and began to speak. Servo skulls drawing closer to both parties present.
"Begin formal transcript of alpha red debriefing. File Hotel - Tango - One - Two - Three - Four - Three - Three - Two - Three." She droned, "Here this day, Captain Skius Centermerius, Eleventh Legion Astartes, Seventh company. Witness, under protest, Eleventh Legion Master, Antinous of Heithes. By order of Lord Malcador the Sigilite regent of Terra. And in the name of the Emperor of Mankind…. No legacy is so rich as honesty."
Her withering visage fell upon me, "Captain Centermerius. You shall tell me everything of the compliance of Three-Seven-Five Thirteen…"
Several hours later, this debriefing had concluded. I answered every question that was issued, and left no detail unsaid. Master Antinous had remained completely silent throughout my recounting of this most tumultuous turn of events. The lady from Terra left with as much mystery as she had arrived. Only giving one last look to the legion master that would have served well enough as a meltagun.
It was all so strange.
More Terminators, ones of Master Antinous' own honor guard, were waiting a careful distance away in the barracks. They approached and took station now that what business that was, had concluded.
Master Antinous spoke to me. "Well then, heir of the seventh company."
I had no earthly clue as to how I was supposed to respond. So, I bowed, "At your service my lord."
The man continued, "Apologies, this was some time ago for myself… I knew dear Oenomaus had fallen. Our paths had drifted so far away from one another, I could not pay respects in proper time."
"Gratitude, Legion Master," I replied standing tall, "He oft spoke fondly of your service together."
"As do I… Yet still, you show promise Skius. Vanguard leader you said?"
My eyes went downcast, "Yes my lord."
"Hmm," he grunted in response, "Well, your first command and such a disaster befell the tenth Echelon… One might almost believe the two events, not a coincidence."
Hearts thudding hard I nigh broke decorum, "Sir, I… I… Whatever pronouncement you have on my service, Master Antinous. I only ask judgment fall on I alone."
"We shall see, Captain."
The honor guard escorted us to an observation deck.
A great domed weak spot in the super structure of the Solus Ortus, yet in times like these such a place was needed, to lend an appropriate grandeur to the coming proceeding. The long kilometers of the ship spread out like a hive city in the night beneath the stars and the rest of the armada. Decks and tiered walkways ringed the transparent dome. Those lofty galleries filled with our brothers. Not observing the cosmos, looking down on me.
Astartes from all walks of the legion. The faces of those not in armor, just as unreadable as the rest of the gleaming bronze helmets. And more in the black of the Diaconus than I had ever seen before. Those of that most noble of orders stood in irregular lines before the more organized Dawn Stalkers of the honor guards. On my left stood warriors of the third Echelon, and opposite their lines another company's worth the second Echelon flanking the path to a command throne that had been placed center stage on the main viewing platform.
I remained below while Master Antinous ascended the stairs. The legion master paying no mind to the survivors of the tenth Echelon kneeling on the ground before the steps. In four ranks with not a slab of ceramite between them. At the very corner Captain Arminger turned one eye to me and nodded an acknowledgement which I returned.
Shifting all my focus to calming my hearts, and studying the men on stage.
At the front of the stage stood a warrior bedecked with dozens of "First in the Breach" laurels across his bronze armor and helm of a mark I did not recognize. A few command numerations marked him as sergeant of the first company. Along with the thunder hammer lazily held back on his right shoulder. The First Sergeant, our legion's champion, and the 'Old Man's executioner. Venerable Sergeant Alexander of Todenangst.
Among the other noble officers on high there were two that stood brightest with their honors across polished plate. One easily recognizable by the weapon stood between his hands and feet. A monstrous great axe with twin rows of metal teeth on its chain blade. Praetor Gole Bendl, just as bald and hard faced as Master Antinous. A hint of impatience in his genetically youthful face and eyes that nigh matched the hue of his armor.
Which left the other to be named Praetor Targas Vendra. Not that his height left any doubt as he towered over a majority of space marines even here were more than a few giants of the eleventh congregated. His dark hair crept towards his neck where a scar, sharp a line as any on his face accentuated his own scowl where it ran towards the left hand corner of his mouth. And his dark blue eyes found mine over the now eternally broken nose legends said was twisted out of place by a new foe every time he tried to fix it.
Something else was in his hands. A mace, one more intricately wrought than the standard omnipresent in the equipment of the Diaconus, and a Diaconus Vendra most certainly was not. Gilded inlay forming a phrase that gave the cudgel its name which Master Antinous read under his breath as he took it back from his bowing Praetorian.
"Mento Mori."
So finally, only one rite remained. The dark lord of the brightest legion approached the throne, just a hand's breadth away.
And waited.
Like many others now after the moment had passed, his head bowed. Not in reverence. But disappointment.
Confirming the rumors of our Primarch were still only rumors.
So, Master Antinous sat down, the position rightfully his as our penultimate moral compass. The one who had taken the base clay of a faceless directionless mass of newly raised biological weapons and turned them into a brotherhood that shared one vision and one voice with every breath took and every battle fought in the name of the Emperor.
Throwing his hood up and losing the upper half of his face in shadows, the weapon Mento Mori now across his knees Master Antinous began.
"Brothers."
His baritone voice boomed out over hidden vox speakers. Those machines producing all the volume, while his voice remained in a simple speaking tone.
"Today… Is a day we mourn. Bittersweet this dawn has broken on His Majesty's eleventh legion. For years we feared the worst, after Praetor Vaurion and all his good men of the tenth Echelon disappeared on a most noble mission. And now…"
The vox picked up his short sigh, "And now we know what transpired."
My head hung low. I could not help it.
"Master Antinous!" My voice broke the short and fragile silence. I smoothed down the folds of my black coat.
The 'Old Man' leaned forward eye to eye with my lowly self, seeming like a lion had just watched a mouse roar back at it. I desperately tried and failed to think back on how I had made it through the last time I had stood before the legion like this at the first compliance briefing. The comparison falling apart like a porcelain pot thrown to a wall the more I examined it.
"If it pleases you, Legion Master. I would not linger long on my failure." Half a smirk crossed my face, "Especially before such esteemed critics."
"…Very well. Kneel Captain."
I did as commanded, sitting on both heels and hands on my thighs. Master Antinous continued. "And tell me of what failure you speak?"
"Sir," My voice nearly cracked in shock, "You feared the worst, the worst has come to pass."
Master Antinous gave a pause, "…Indeed. And you showed true resolve and most honorable courage in leading the Seventh company, and your Echelon through it."
"Legion Master, the lady from the Sigilite… Our own…"
My burgeoning protest choked, when the mace which was an extension of his arm waved wide in a well-known signal. "The guiding hand of Terra moves in mysterious ways… And it nearly snuffed you out for the base crime of surviving. That I could not abide, and most fortunately could easily make a case of your innocence and sanity on testimony of good Satrap Morgan."
Antinous tightened his grip upon the weapon now back on his right shoulder, "The worst has come to pass? I shall tell you what I know has come to pass… You are alive. And there is work to be done. My judgement is this. Rise Centermerius, rise as Praetorian of the tenth Echelon."
"…Wasn't this everything? All that any Space Marine could hope for in their career?"
"Wasn't that what I wanted?"
I remained there on the ground sitting on my heels. Stoic under the growing weight of shame. While the entire Eleventh Legion stared down upon me, anticipating.
Finally, my parched vocal chords croaked out a response, "…I cannot, Legion Master."
Murmurs of shock echoed across the dome. Master Antinous remained completely immobile.
"The worst has come to pass." I confirmed, "And we are the only ones that have lived through it. We live, but the tenth Echelon is dead... I cannot be Praetorian of the dead."
The warrior in the deepest black scowled, "We shall raise a new tenth to serve the Dawn Stalkers Centermerius."
"How long will that take my lord? How long would you deprive all the other nine brotherhoods of reinforcements so that a tenth be reforged? What wars would you have lost, that we might stop our crusade to bind this one festering wound instead of debriding the flesh?"
Antinous did not respond for a long moment, instead looking to his logistician Praetor Vendra with a silent question.
The Lord of the Third scratched his scarred chin, putting his great mathematical mind to my thesis. "Without our Primarch Master, Captain Centermerius' thoughts are not without… Consideration."
The glimmering glare of Antinous came down on Captain Arminger to my right. And John spoke, "My commander is speaking Legion Master, I would do well to let him finish."
"Decades pass me by and I yet cannot fathom my blood's aversion to command," Master Antinous mused, so he turned towards me again, "Then what would you have me do Captain?"
A laugh nearly passed my lips, "I know not my Lord."
"Very well Captain… Commander you were and Commander you shall be again. So say I. You once men of the tenth shall form a new vanguard… One to serve in the needs of the other Echelons until we are reunited with our genefather and gain the means to raise the standard of the tenth Echelon in honor once again… What say you to that Skius Centermerius?"
…I rose to my feet, and my brothers did as well. "By your will, Legion Master. I am, your humble servant"
He nodded if not in satisfaction, then in acknowledgement at least, "…Then, we have work to do. For the Emperor!"
His voice raised up with the weapon Mento Mori at the final pronouncement, echoed over and back again through the dome and all the voices as one with a defiant fist to the stars.
One voice, one heart, one Legion.
"For the Emperor!"
That was two days ago.
Laurels, Imortalis skulls and all the like of prestigious marks were showered upon my Vanguard. Master Antinous gave a grand speech extolling the virtues of service and the honor in a noble death before half a shift of socializing. Our celebration equally curtailed as anything the eleventh legion did outside of war. Afterwards, details were finalized on my new position. New orders and notices were sent out across the breadth and width of the Eleventh. The Great Crusade did not stop on account of our lamentations. I hardly left Master Antinous's side all the while rubbing shoulders with giants. Offering congratulations and their sympathies in equal measure.
I acknowledged the sentiment in each and every curt blurt of resolve and exultations on my behalf. Yet aside from those briefest exchanges when I was spoken to, remaining steadfastly silent.
All this sentiment only served to turn the contents of my stomach to bile, and tilt my humors towards a woeful melancholy. I foresaw only deeper depths to that pit of darkness in my soul. For the dawn greeted us with fresh news.
Vaurion was awake.
I waited in this antechamber to the dreadnought's hangar. Master Antinous had the honor of being the first to greet what Vaurion now was. And the 'Old Man' had chosen to do so alone.
Footsteps sounded from the entrance corridor at my back. Turning to identify the owner of them I was slightly curious to see Captain Arminger darken that doorway. Not completely darken as he was clad in his full gleaming Mark III armor once again. His helmet tucked tight to his right hand side.
We remained looking at each other for a very long moment, no words shared until I broke the silence. "Are you here to see Vaurion?"
"No Commander," John replied, "I am here to see you."
"Speak desire then… You need not follow me to this posting brother. Certainly, another Echelon would be glad of your services as Captain of the sixty first. Your tithe of new blood may even raise ranks back to a respectful number before my seventh."
"Gratitude Commander," the assault leader said, "But that is not something I wish."
Tilting my head I asked, "Well then what do you wish?"
He stepped forward, quickly coming into arms reach and holding out a small oil cloth that fell about his fingers as he held it to me. The golden glint of a Vanguard Mark caught the glaring fluorescent lights. And when my green eyes made their way up to Arminger's face to puzzle out what manner of prank he was playing on me. I noticed that his broad bronze chest plate no longer held his lightning bolts.
The sole one that remained from after the Orks savaged his honor mark was in his hand.
"I wish for you to have this," He said to me, "To complete your set Brother." He smirked and repeated a familiar phrase, "It will not do for the Vanguard to not see who their Commander is."
Incredulous, my eyes shot from suspicious and narrow to wide with confusion. "What?"
"Is that not the phrase? Twas the one Lord Vaurion said to me."
"No fool." I cut him off, "Why?"
He took a deep bracing breath, "As I lay there left for dead at the bottom of those steps, hoping enough of my vitae would be left to make my fate not so disgraceful as it was looking. I saw you, tear your way free from a thousand dead Orks… Ready to do… To do what I could not. And you did. My assistance made it easier. I will take pride in that. But in that moment that loops in my waking dreams, like a glimpse of what I know our Primarch will be. I had no doubt that you would have clawed that beast in half all on your own."
Stretching out the parcel in his hand just a bit further Captain Arminger continued, "…You brother. Are everything good Oenomaus and venerable Vaurion thought and more. Please, forgive my doubts, forgive my vanity."
"… I would have thought you more jealous than anything brother." I quipped back with a raised brow. "I was expecting you to claim the seat of Praetor when I refused the 'Old Man."
"Even if he had seen fit to offer it to me, I would have turned it down Skius. Yet, I am of a mind to partake a sabbatical, gather mind and lay claim to the next seat in rotation of the Deputy Warden in the Khangha Marwu."
It was a post that the Eleventh Legion had manned since before we left Terra within the Imperial Prison. We are the Emperor's Huntsmen, running down His foes across the galaxy. It would be in poor form if any of those the Emperor wanted alive escaped custody after we delivered them to imperial shackles.
A rotating position of a single company was established to aide in the security of the complex. Working directly with the Custodes and other agents of the Sigilite and the Emperor for a period of five years. Learning, watching, and forging bonds on the throne world of great use in the diplomatic web of inter-legion politics and civilian relations.
Most certainly Master Antinous would give great consideration to the request from a veteran of Three-Seven-Five Thirteen.
I told John as much, and he nodded in satisfaction before proclaiming, "So brother, I shall not be Praetorian of the Echelon. I shall be centurion for what comes in its place…" He smirked briefly again. "In at least this way I shall surpass my peers who would ot step forwards, refusing promotion so many times when Master Antinous shaped the legion. I shall step backwards with pride in you. My lord Commander."
And the mighty and proud Astartes went to one knee, still offering his honor mark to me, now with one hand on his chest to emphasize his heartfelt desire. "Call when you need of me. Ask what you will of me. And when the day comes you raise the banner as Praetorian of the tenth Echelon I would be honored if you were to accept the Legion's champion as your strong right hand."
"Oh by the throne…" My thoughts betrayed my composure.
I grasped the gilded jagged homage to the fury and speed of the elements a Vanguard was supposed to embody. "The honor, would be mine brother."
John rose and gave a grateful nod. Meanwhile behind me the door slabs hissed back open and Master Antinous stepped out from the dreadnought hold. What little part of his face not hidden in the shadows of his drawn hood had a peculiar look upon it. We gave salute and he gave the briefest of remarks.
"Proceed Skius,"
The hangar bays were all full, yet that I passed with the empty frame of a dreadnought were dark and idle, whatever model they might have been. The venerable dead held elsewhere content in their deep slumber awaiting battle once again. My thoughts briefly turned to those of the tenth Echelon that we abandoned beneath the space elevators. Vaurion would be in poor company with the seventh for a long time.
The marching feet of tech adepts sounded out in echoes moving away from me. And the only housing presently illuminated. I kept my eyes down cast as I presented myself to my former Praetorian. Only seeing the polished bronze feet of a Contemptor shell that I knelt before.
Drawing the combat knife I had concealed in my coat and laying it between us.
"Skius…" The vox growl of the machine intoned.
I let the corners of my mouth rise in a small piece of joy, "Lord Vaurion, it is good to see you again."
"…I am not alone, Skius."
"…My lord?"
"How long has it been brother?" The former Praetorian asked,
"Weeks my Lord. Did Master Antinous not explain?"
"…Yes. Yes he did my son."
I dared a glance upwards. Vaurion stood taller and stronger than he ever had with all the honor marks across the chassis housing his ruined corpse which had been hacked down to its most basic functions of what could be called life in order to serve once again.
Yet I knew the stories. And I could imagine how the man I once knew and still loved truly felt. Sigils and banners gave the world his name, former rank and current company. And the largest pair of golden thunder bolts placed him under the command of the Vanguard.
Under my command.
Furthermore, lengths of chains circled his blackened shoulders. Those limbs ending with a gravis power fist on the right, opposite a plasma cannon radiating blue fury. The helmet bedecked with a laurel crown focusing the tattered attention of his senses, so painfully reminding me of his old power armor bore down piercing and unmoving. Until it fell upon my blade.
The machine lurched forward, I flinched in due concern that Vaurion might accidentally crush me in his unpracticed movement. I knew his intent, to bring himself low like a true parent to their troubled child.
And the machine's voice that spoke his words confirmed it, "Skius! What are you doing?"
Grinding my teeth I implored, "…I cannot bear it my Lord. I let you down, I failed the entire tenth Echelon and the legion. Please…"
"Please, what?"
Please, I had kept such a stoic façade up before my men, Master Antinous and by the Emperor the entire legion. I could only ask for reprieve of my shame from one man. And now…
My eyes, my head, my hearts. They all hurt. The blade laid bare beckoned, "You raised me up in glory. To be a commander in my first battle as a captain. I was not worthy, all that has transpired, I should have… What if?"
The luminous power reactor of the Contemptor hummed in a constant almost quiet, but most certainly noticeable back note. The only thing I could focus on besides my own turmoil. And Vaurion, finally in some manner of control over his new form. Eased down as I knew he intended. On one piston powered knee, still half again as tall as I would ever be.
"Skius…" He intoned my name in the growling machine tone that would be the only way I heard him speak henceforward. "That way… Regrets… Now… That way lies only madness… I have my laments, but on account of my death…" His vox suppressed a sigh from lungs and a mouth he did not have, "It is too late to spend such energy ruminating on those two terrible words. What if?"
His brutal power fist reached out before drawing back as the dreadnought sensed that would be a mistake. No matter how much his own flesh cried out for an embrace. "Of those things I left behind… Those things, I do regret… Your ascension is not one of them."
"My lord, some of our foes escaped…"
His silence from my statement was still and calm. Machine like, just as Vaurion was now. And it hung over my head for nigh a minute.
"Be'la…" Vaurion snuffed out those few syllables of a thing, a name or title I did not comprehend, but soon he collected his mind once more.
"I am aware." He plainly said.
I could have sobbed, "After all they did to you." Sucking in a deep breath I implored him. "I do not wish to live with this shame."
The bronze helm twisted for a moment, a quizzical gesture when I thought my position quite clear. "Do you remember… What Bruis… What we told you, when we named you Commander?
"You wear this in service… You earned this through sacrifice."
"Sacrifice…That is life Space Marine. So Skius, is that all you have left to give? Just your life?"
What more could there possibly be for my penance?
Vaurion, once Praetorian, now venerable war machine, rose up on high. "I know the others have showered you with praise and your due… But if that was not enough then it falls to me… When the drill masters told thee, they wanted your all. Your best… Everything… It was more than simply your existence… And whilst you draw breath… You still have more to give my son."
He turned with slow lumbering unpracticed steps and made for his new iron domicile, his words already betraying the exhaustion that would plague him evermore. "I will not have your life… It is not mine to take and not yours to end… The day will come, we run down those who made the mistake of surviving our passing… And that day you shall be needed… Thus… Skius… Heed, my final, order… Find our Primarch… Tell him, tell him we did not fear…"
Bowing downwards, until my brow touched the cold metal floor. My hands by the splayed edges of black hair falling down.
"I know not what to swear by…" I said into the floor, before I rose again. "But I swear it…"
Vaurion rumbled reciprocating my prostration in the briefest way he could, saying, "You know the words my son… Swear by them."
"…Should darkness, be my fate."
Vaurion reposed, "Then let me fall among the brave,"
"In battle I shall die."
"In righteous glory, I abide."
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A/N.
Well then... First things first.
DOYOUFUCKINGGETIT?!
Yeah naw, Hey the/my Second legion... I'll tone this down and change some things in the future. Just went going through the OG legions wondering what was missing. Shamelessly stole some inspiration and here we are.
...And hey. Here we are... The End... Of this tale, Skius will return. Got big plans for him
And, to be honest... Arminger was supposed to die. Very well could retcon he fell in the final battle, should I hear word from a certain benefactor of this endeavor. But I was plotting out some things I want to do for the main story of this. And I figured that, I need someone. Established... For a... Thhhhhhiiiiiiiinnnngggg...
Speaking of that one. Once upon a time I got a little message here on this site from someone I hope you have heard of. Nemris, good buddy mine found it in his heart to ply his creative powers to some art work for this woefully long tale of mine. And I can still barely believe that happened. Maybe I am good enough to have imposter syndrome after all.
His imagination and inspiration far out paced mine. But I was happily obliged to pay him back in what way I figured that I could, so... That led to this. 375-13. Skius being his own OC for the legion if you didn't know, know you know. My oath is... Not fulfilled, will never be fulfilled. But I hope he accepts my humble offering.
Or just FFS tell me it'll be easier to actually pull the trigger and pay him next time. Which I have, once. Hope to do so again, so hey. Got a favor to ask, if You feel it in your heart go check Nemris out. Deviantart, Fan fiction what have you. Show him some love, he deserves it after putting up with my slow ass all these years.
So, I hope to see some of you elsewhere. Share if you care, review as you do.
Thank you for your time.
DP-Out.