Marsh Silas sat in front of Ghent’s desk. It hadn’t taken long for the Commissar to get his empty office back in order. The cogitator screen cast a green glow which clashed with the dull, amber light emanating from the lamp mounted on the far wall’s filing unit. Reports were stacked upon one another on the left side of the desk, creating two columns of parchment. Both of his ashtrays were already packed with lho-stick stubs.
It seemed impossible for Ghent to feel fatigue. He’d been on the front with the troops ever since the battle began and he still maintained his stoic professionalism. Unlike the others who possessed purple bags under their eyes, worn and weathered skin, stiff hair, and a little less weight, he still had his health. His gaze remained sharp, inquisitive, and focused even after spending so many months in the field.
His fingers danced across his cogitator keyboard. When he finished, he rolled his chair over to the other side of the desk, skimmed through his reports, and lifted four copies. After reviewing them, he snapped his fingers loudly. A Servo-skull which hovered in the corner of the room buzzed over to him and extended its mechanical arms.
“Deliver these to all company commanders directly,” he said. The minion bobbed, snatched the paperwork, and floated through the open door. Ghent sipped his recaf, pushed the keyboard underneath the cogitator’s platform, and gazed between the Marsh and Hyram. Both were dressed in filthy khaki fatigues and held their soft-cover caps in his lap. There were smears of brown dirt across their knees, splotches of dust on the pant legs; there were deep, black stains on Marsh’s sleeves and tunic.
“Sir, why have we been summoned? We were preparing for Lilias’s funeral. It is soon.”
“I am aware. The timing of this summons was out of my hands. Let us not tarry.” Ghent’s eyes narrowed and settled on Marsh Silas. “I trust you will change prior to the funeral.”
“Aye,” said Marsh, absently.
“Say, sir.”
“Aye, sir.”
“You should have already been out of them.”
“Commissar, sir, Silas has been—”
“I am speaking to Lieutenant Cross, not you, Lieutenant-Precept Hyram,” Ghent lectured coolly. His attention turned back to Marsh, who stared past the Commissar at the wall. Marsh saw nothing and very little passed through his mind. He remained slumped back in the chair with his hands resting in his lap. His stained, dirty hands were clasped together.
After his pause, Ghent stood up and checked his wrist-chrono. Huffing aggravatedly, he started sifting through more paperwork. “As dictated by the reforms of the honorable Seward Rosencranz, High Chancellor of the Estate Imperium, in the event that an Imperial servant gives their lives for the all-mighty and all-knowing God-Emperor, if they are in possession of a will, it is to be proctored by their immediate commander or, dependent on rank or Adepta, proctored by their local superior. Myself, being the regimental Commissar and thus holding personal authority over all Commissars, Junior Commissars, and Commissar Cadets within the 1333rd Regiment, now serve as proctor for the departed’s will.”
Setting the page down, he folded his hands behind his back. Ghent’s brow suddenly furrowed and the man seemed heavier, as if put-upon by some unseen force. It lasted but for a moment, just long enough for Marsh Silas to recognize it. Soon, he held his head back up. “I thus have the immeasurable honor of overseeing the deliverance of a message carried by an Imperial Cipher. Aide?”
A fellow hurried into the room. He was a fresh-faced Junior Commissar who seemed younger than Marsh Silas. His uniform was well-composed and the colors were so glossy it appeared like it was brand new. The purple in his eyes was bright and fiery. “Fetch the Cipher.”
“Yes, sir!” The attendant exclaimed and saluted. It lasted only for a moment but in that sliver of time, Marsh saw someone else. Someone courageous, someone dauntless. Before the Junior Commissar even left the room, Marsh swiftly turned back around in his seat.
Moments later, a wrinkled, sallow, sickly-skinned figure emerged. He wore an emerald cloak which descended to his knees and pale, draped sleeves. The fellow walked with his hands clasped in front of his center. He wore silvered metal shoulder plates, arm guards, and greaves up to his knees. Completely shaved, a tattoo of the I-shaped Adeptus Administratum icon spanned from the top of his brow all the way to the crest on the back of his head. Instead of eyes, there was a piece of scanning equipment across the upper part of his face. A red screen extended across the entire piece and black tubes fed from the ends into his skull. Smaller wires along the top were implanted in his forehead. Mounted on his back was a portable cogitator with countless wires and plugs all of which were driven into his head. Two black electrical cords ran from either side of the cogitator, met a forked bracket on his chest, and then a single tube extended up to his mouthpiece. This augment was made of pure gold and appeared fixed to small bolts driven into the skin around his mouth. Across the top of the cogitator was a triangular-shaped mantle with three tiers and each one carried a dozen burning incense candles.
The Cipher lingered just beyond the threshold. Ghent motioned for the Junior Commissar to leave; the young fellow saluted and hurriedly shut the door behind him. Slowly, the Cipher gazed between the three men. Hyram stood up warily and approached while Ghent came around the side of the desk. Marsh Silas remained seated, though his gaze lingered on the messenger.
Momentarily, the strange Cipher stared at Marsh, as if studying. He approached, practically gliding across the floor with articulate steps, then stood erect over the platoon sergeant.
“Silas Thayer Cross, Second Lieutenant, 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1333rd Regiment of Kasr Polaris, Cadian Astra Militarum.” The voice was surprisingly clear through the mouthpiece. “According to the records of the Estate Imperium and the Office of the Imperial Pursary, in service to our glorious overlord, the God-Emperor of Mankind, you have been declared as the recipient upon the will of Lilias Juventas Carstensen, Commissar, 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1333rd Regiment of Kasr Polaris, Officio Prefectus, Cadian Astra Militarum. Left to you is the departed’s funds and credit which will be transferred to your name in installments of one-thousand gelt per thirty local solar days. The Estate Imperium stipulates that it will deduct ten percent of the total funds as compensation for the management of the departed’s affairs. Further matters will be attended by the selected proctor. The Emperor protects.” The Cipher bowed its head humbly and stood idly.
“Is that all?” Hyram asked when Marsh Silas remained silent. The Cipher did not answer. Hyram stepped forward, towering over the messenger. “I asked you a question.”
“This operative will only relay the message to Marsh Silas. He knows only the message he must deliver and nothing more. If addressed by the recipient, he shall only recite it once again. He has spoken, and now he must return to his masters.”
But Marsh Silas stood up. He approached the Cipher, his hands balled into his fists, his violet gaze dark and stormy. Looking down at this creature, his lips started to quiver.
“Is that all you have for me? You come to talk of money and nothing more? That is what the Imperium has to say of Lilias? She gave her life for you and you’ve nothing but business on your mind? Is this—”
“He has a duty to perform, Lieutenant” Ghent said loudly and firmly. Marching up to Marsh, he drew his attention away from the Cipher. “He has orders to follow, superiors to meet, tasks which must be completed, just like you.”
“I demand you speak, cretin,” Marsh growled. The Cipher stared at him, his expression hidden behind the speaking module and eyepiece. The candles across the top of his cogitator flickered and swayed. A wick cracked and snapped every so often, sending up a few sparks and a spiral of black smoke.
“Silas Thayer Cross, Second Lieutenant 1st Platoon, 1st Company—”
“Do not repeat your nonsense!”
“—1333rd Regiment of Kasr Polaris, Cadian Astra Militarum. According to the records of the—”
“Damn your eyes, she deserves more than a mere message! She was a hero!”
Hyram put his arm around Marsh Silas and forced him to back up towards the desk. The latter raised his hands, trying to quell his friend. As he calmed down, Commissar Ghent came around and approached the Cipher.
“You have completed your work and are hereby dismissed. Thank you for your service: the Emperor protects.” The Cipher courteously bowed and ambled out of the office. As the door closed, Marsh freed himself from Hyram’s grasp and paced back and forth across the room. When his friend reached out to him, the Lieutenant just raised his hand sharply. Cowed, Hyram watched him for a few moments before turning to Ghent.
“That is how they honor her?” Marsh growled. “They speak of funds? She deserves more than that.”
“And how do you honor her?” Ghent snapped. He stood in Marsh’s path and stood in front of her. “You malinger around camp and wear a soiled uniform. You forget yourself.”
“Commissar, please!” Hyram implored. “Silas is not well, please be understanding.” But Ghent just held up his hand and silenced the officer.
“You’ve not bathed, you’ve not shaved, you’ve hardly eaten. That ends today. Proceed to the sanitation facility to wash. Afterwards, you will deposit that uniform for cleaning with the wash staff, then dress appropriately for the funeral. Your platoon will need you and General Battye is taking time away from the northern pursuit to attend. You are still a soldier and you will obey your commands.”
Marsh Silas glared at the Commissar and Ghent stared right back into his violet eyes.
“May I be dismissed, sir?” Marsh asked in a low, grating voice.
“Go.”
Marsh didn’t bother to salute and stormed through the door. The faint traces of a conversation between the Commissar and his friend were quickly lost in the turbulent noise of regimental headquarters. The world seemed to blur and he hastily wiped his tears away. His vision took on that of trance-like fashions. First, there was the barracks and he ignored every friendly face which appeared. Then, he found himself throwing his dirty uniform at the menials who worked in the washrooms. Finally, he stood underneath hot water within a cloud of steam. Here, he gazed at his hands which were browned with blood stains. As he scrubbed, creating tracks of clear skin among the grime, he found his tears running more, lost in the beads of water streaking down his face.
----------------------------------------
Marsh Silas stared at the pale, stone wall of Hyram’s old bunk. It’d been so long since he’d seen the barracks he helped build back when Barlocke first arrived. Aside from a layer of dust covering the tables and bunks, nothing had really changed. It appeared that no one had actually stayed in the barracks during Bloody Platoon’s absence. Even with the dire need for space, nobody had filled their dwellings.
Hyram’s private quarters had become his own. All that separated him from the rest of the barracks was the curtain suspended on a road Hyram installed nearly two years ago. Unlike the other bunks, it was more than just a shelf cut into the rock. It was bordered by wooden panels and a mattress was placed within—one of the many perks of the officer caste.
But it could have just been solid rock without any cushion and Marsh Silas would not have noticed. He didn’t notice the lamp pack growing dull on the platoon leader’s desk behind him. He didn’t feel the chill which wafted through the tunnels and bunkrooms. He heard absolutely nothing.
Marsh rolled onto his back and stared at the stone above him. Hyram had yet to remove the picts of his family which he pasted to the rock top. In one image, he stood next to his wife who sat in an elegantly carved chair. He was clad in his dress uniform which had only a small ribbon rack. His wife was clad in a blue silk dress with a tight black collar and similarly colored sleeves. In her hands she held a newborn baby swaddled in a white blanket.
Would that have been him and Carstensen? If the treatments had worked, how long would it have been until they were posing for their own pict-capture with a newborn babe? Surely, they would have wed before that happened. But why wait? Maybe a judgmental off-world priest might have chastised them for bearing a child out of wedlock. Yet was that not the Cadian tradition? Training fortresses and Scholas were filled with millions of orphans and children who never knew who their parents were.
Marsh looked out into the room. Standing there was the woman with bouncy, blonde curls from the Interior Guard regiment that joined them in Kasr Sonnen. That was back when Barlocke was in charge and everything was so incredibly strange but surprisingly simple. Standing before him, she ran her finger along the scar tissue which the medicae surgeons cut so many times. Her face was filled with callous animosity and her eyes were a mirror of disgust. In a blink, she was gone.
That night changed him. Looking back up the pict, he recalled how bearing anymore children in such a manner seemed unthinkable. He was going to be a better man than that. With Carstensen, his beloved Lilias, he was going to be there for his children. No matter the challenges or consequences, he was going to be a father to them. Teach them, hold them, love them, cherish them, give those beautiful souls a childhood far better than his own. Together, he and Lilias were going to raise them up to be better than their parents, just like the Astra Militarum’s future soldiers.
He peeled the pict off the stone and dropped it onto the floor. Marsh rolled over and pulled the blanket close to his chest. He was only in his olive drab undershirt and a pair of khaki trousers. His dress uniform was draped across the desk and he hadn’t made an effort to put it on. His wrist-chrono ticked away, counting down to the funeral. Would there be speeches made by Hyram, Ghent, Giles, or Battye? No matter how eloquent, all would fail.
Marsh Silas sawCarstensen standing in front of the parapet as shells came crashing down. All her bravery, all her courage, all her belief in the soldiers around her ushered them forward. Despite their haggard hearts and faltering frames, they made the charge across no man’s land. They were driven from the next position, the next, and the next. Consus was dispatched and the enemy forced to flee. But even after all this time, they were still loose on the planet, still fighting and harassing Cadians wherever they could. Consus might have been dead but Summanus had taken his place. A more competent commander to be sure if he assailed the Astra Militarum even after defeat.
Closing his eyes, he wondered if sleep would overtake him. Instead, in that darkness, a figure emerged. Brown hair, tan skin, a piercing gaze, an icon of the Archenemy around his neck: Amilios. There he stood, brushed by a sudden wind, smirking that disturbed, irksome grin of his. When he faded, there stood Drusus, the demented and deranged Warpsmith. Clad in power armor from head to foot, he merely marched towards Marsh Silas. Servo-tentacles rose from his back and the power tools at the ends whirred. Just when he seemed like he was going to march right over him, the giant faded. From the shadows emerged the vile, traitorous Heretek with his green glowing eyes and spindly body. The cretin seemed to bend over some contraption as it sparked and shuddered. Suddenly, he turned around and his head snapped in Marsh’s direction. In electric mist, he disappeared. There was a flicker of flames, then a burst. From it emerged a bloodied Consus, staggering forward with his arm outstretched.
One after the other, they came and went. At times, they appeared together. All of them watching, staring, saying nothing. An air of superiority hung over them, saturating the blackness which engulfed them. Marsh Silas looked back into them and felt nothing in his heart. No fear, no rage, just a great emptiness. Before him were villains, one after the other, traded out and swapped in.
Nothing had changed.
“Silvanus?”
Marsh Silas opened his eyes and rolled over. Sitting at the desk was Barlocke’s projection. The fragment strode over and knelt beside the lieutenant. His dark eyes, black like coals, peered softly at him. His skin was as pale as ever and his dark hair fell around his face. He reached out and brushed Marsh’s locks with his fingers, but the latter slapped his hand away.
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“Leave me alone.”
“You must be careful. Your mind is wandering. Part of my soul is with you now as is my mind. You cannot draw upon the Warp like I could, but I fear, with this fragment’s presence you might render yourself open to threats beyond your control. Your emotions must be restrained.”
“Was it not you who once encouraged me to let those feelings loose? Love, hope, wonder. Now, you tell me to check them.”
“I do not suggest you forgo all feelings and become an automaton, my friend. Such extremes may make us vulnerable to the predations of those we can never understand.”
“Cease with your fucking riddles,” moaned Marsh Silas.
“If I told you everything—”
“I do not care.” Marsh groaned at the top of the bunk. He sat up slowly. “I do not want to hear about how you know so much more than me or that there is a force out there which I cannot understand yet. I do not seek to understand it nor anything anymore. I’m tired, Barlocke. It’s over.”
“You’re hurt. Lilias was your love, your first, greatest, and only.” The ghost walked backwards until he leaned against the table. Folding his arms across his chest as if he were cold, his gaze fell and he grew morose. “There is a passion that comes with love of that nature. It’s a fire that burns so incandescently. You’ve never loved anyone in that way before. It was not in your upbringing to share your life with another. Such is the Cadian way which I so revile—the subjugation of your natural emotions.”
Barlocke came back and grasped Marsh’s shoulder. “I know what it is like to feel this way. To lose someone you cherished so earnestly and passionately. To lose them is akin to losing a piece of your soul. But you must carry on, the great work must continue, she said as much herself. You are grieving, Silvanus, do not let that cloud your judgment.”
Marsh Silas reached up and covered his face with his hands. He breathed through his fingers, his breath warm and distressed.
“A cloud. That’s what it’s like. I am astride uneven ground amid a cloud and I cannot see anything at all. Yet, I am not afraid.” Slowly, he lowered his hands and stared blankly at the ceiling of the bunk. There weren’t just picts of Hyram’s wife and son, there were also snaps of Bloody Platoon’s daily lives. Standing at roll call on a snowy morning, waiting in line at the mess hall, playing Black Five at the Kasr Sonnen tables, posing with wounded friends in the medicae. Looking back at him were countless grimy faces and toothy grins. Shock Troopers with big, full hearts, all of them embracing one another, arm and arm.
“If ye are not afraid, then you are melancholy.”
“Not really,” Marsh sighed, peeling one of the picts away. “Fear. Sadness. Anger. Happiness. These all just feel like empty words now. Sounds to be heard and nothing to be felt.” He pulled another down, another, and another. “In me, there is nothing. One great, gigantic nothing.”
When he held all the picts in his hand, he let them drop over the side of the cot. They fluttered lazily to the dirt flooring and landed in a scatter. Barlocke’s projection gazed at them for a while before looking up at the entrance. He seemed dark and foreboding, a face that once perturbed Marsh Silas whenever he saw it. But the officer only gazed up at the top of the top of the bunk, paying the vision no mind.
“This was the dark place you told Lilias about in the cathedral,” the apparition murmured. “You said you were falling. Well, dear friend, now you truly have.”
“I care not.”
“Your heart is broken and it pains you. Your feelings are scattered just like those picts across the floor. Pain spills and lashes. Your heart will mend, Silas, but you must be the author of its repair. She would want you to live on.”
Marsh Silas abruptly sat up, his eyes ablaze and his teeth bared.
“Don’t tell me what she would want!” he snarled. “Lilias is dead! She’s gone! She has no more cares and neither do I! Just go, go, quit my sight, ghost, and leave me be!”
In a blink he was staring at an empty room, the specter having departed. Hearing the curtain part, he looked up. Hyram stood in the threshold, clad in his dress uniform. The green fabric was fresh and his ribbon rack glittered with many more medals than in his pict. An emerald mantle hung from his right shoulder. Warily, he entered the room, never taking his eyes off Marsh Silas.
“Who were you hissing at?” he asked slowly.
“I drifted off,” Marsh muttered, laying back. “I was having some kind of dream.”
“A nightmare, from the sounds of it.” The images caught his eye. A discontented breath passed between his lips. “Silas, these picts are…” Hyram shook his head, knelt, and gathered them up. He placed the pile on the desk and leaned in to look at Marsh. “Come. It’s time. General Battye will arrive soon and we must send her away, as she asked.”
“Can’t believe Isaev even allowed it,” Marsh grunted and rolled over.
“Ghent and Giles secured her departure from Colonel Isaev, though he tried to stop it. More pathetic pettiness flows from his headquarters as he prepares us for new operations. But it has all been sanctified by the Ministorum. Now, everyone is waiting for you. Come.”
“Why?”
He saw Hyram recoil in the corner of his eye. Marsh just huddled deeper into the blankets as he waited for the reply.
“You ask that?” his friend murmured. “She was to be your wife.”
“Lilias is dead.”
“Don’t say it like that. You love her.”
“Stop talking about her like she’s still here,” Marsh growled, curling up further. “I do not wish to go. It doesn’t matter all the same.”
“How can you speak like this? It was her wish. She asked you to let her join the water with her dying breath. You told me that before and now, suddenly, it no longer matters.” Hyram stopped himself, breathed deeply, and then sat down in the desk chair. “I understand you are grieving. You’re mad at everything and everyone. But this is not good for your heart, Silas.”
Marsh Silas sat up and glared at his friend. Hyram was taken aback, slowly recoiling and furrowing his brow. After a moment of this stare down, the former reached under the pillow and held up a half-empty bottle of high quality Amasec.
“I know how you deal with your problems. Do not preach to me.”
Hyram’s expression darkened and he gritted his teeth. He stood up swiftly and swiped the bottle from his hand. As his shoulders heaved, it seemed as though he would smash the bottle on the floor. But after releasing a frustrated groan, he placed it in his footlocker before storming over to Marsh.
“I have not tasted a drop of liquor during this whole affair. I am not the man I was when you came upon me in this very chamber who drowned myself in such sorrows. You are not the only one who is grieving, there are countless men and women who feel this loss, many hundreds of this regiment, thousands from those fields, and over forty in particular who weep and wait. For them, I have kept my head clear, for they are grieving. We need to pull together as we always have if we wish to honor Lilias and carry on with our duty. Drawing away to this dungeon, veiling yourself from us, you wound yourself as much as you wound us. And her.”
“Her. Her.” Marsh stood up slowly. His bones creaked and ached. When he righted himself, he drew to his full height. Taller, broader in the chest, more muscular, he appeared as a wall before his old friend. But Hyram did not back away, only hardening his gaze. “Lilias is dead, Seathan. She feels no more. She knows no more. Now that she has joined the Emperor’s army, she is no longer bound to this life. What does a final wish matter? She won’t ever know. There’s no point to any of it. Stop this charade and just leave me alone. That is all I want right now. No more songs, no more ceremonies, I just want to be here.”
“And do what?”
“What does it matter?” Marsh slumped back onto the edge of the cot. His head hung low and his hands rested in his lap. Then, he threw up his hand. “I’m done, Seathan.”
He stared at the floor. Before long, he heard a sniff. When he looked up, he found Hyram wiping tears from his eyes. His nose was scrunched and his brow was drawn in anger.
“That’s it? Someone dies and their wishes matter not? Of all people, I thought you would never say such things.” Hyram took off his hat and dropped it on the table. Turning his back on Marsh Silas, he gripped the edges. “You’re just giving up. What of your dreams and future?
“What’s the use of believing in a dream when the one who dreamed it is gone?”
“She believes in those ideas, Silas. She believed in all of us. In you.”
“None of it matters.” Marsh jumped up. Hyram whirled around at the same time and the pair stood chest to chest. “Why can’t you get that through your head, man?” asked Marsh, pointing at his temple. “If folks are dead, they can’t care anymore. They won’t ever know what we do from this day forth. There is no point if they aren’t around to see any of it or do it themselves!”
“No, no. It’s pointless only if we give up on their legacies.”
“Legacies!? Who gives a damn about that but us!?”
“Their hopes, their dreams, their aspirations, those live on in us and we have a duty to carry them out! You of all people believe that, don’t you? Or have you given up Barlocke’s dream as well?’
Marsh Silas blinked and stepped back, never taking his eye off Hyram. He backed away until he was leaning against the bumpy cavern wall next to the bunk. A chill ran through him and he folded his arms across his chest. Looking away, he shook his head.
“Barlocke was different. ‘Twas as if he never left. But I see this all for the foolishness it’s been. Barlocke’s dream died with him.”
“He left it to you. Don’t let your sadness ruin all that you aspire to!”
“I made it my own,” Marsh Silas murmured. “All I ever had to do was look at Lilias and know what I was fighting for. Everything made sense and the path seemed so, so clear. I could see it, Seathan, we were going to do it all and more. You, me, her, Bloody Platoon, we were going to change everything. But dreams only last for as long as we sleep and I’ve woken up. My dreams are dying too and that is all.”
When he looked up after a period of silence, Hyram was staring coldly back at him. Little by little, his expression eased. His eyes became glossy once more but no tears fell.
“Your agony makes an anchor of you,” he said. “It all seems hopeless and futile. But do you know what I see? My tormented friend, who is making excuses to avoid further pain. You do not wish to see her go because only then will it become truly apparent that she’s gone. That you will have to push onward and labor with these futures without her by your side. It all seems insurmountable and you rather be anyone doing anything far from here without this heavy mantle. It was Barlocke who said that life is unfair. Tis true. Yet, we persist. So, persist, and do your duty; say farewell to the woman you loved. Then, the time of mourning shall begin.”
Hyram picked up Marsh’s dress tunic. With watery eyes and quivering lips, Marsh Silas took it from his grasp.
***
Candles lined the rockcrete sill of the chapel’s armaglass windows. Braziers crackled at the foot of every column. Altars and shrines were obscured by clouds of sweet, burning incense. Preachers and their attendants lined the aisles.
Marsh’s footsteps echoed on the floor. The medals on the left side of his chest clinked, his sword belt made a rhythmic leather thump with every step. His platoon assembled around the offering table where Carstensen remained. Pale, peaceful, she laid in state upon a litter filled with a bed of golden flowers freshly picked from the shores of Army’s Meadow. A blanket of petals and buds covered her legs and over those was a miniature banner of the platoon’s standard. Her hands were folded on top of her Commissariat hate, placed on her midsection. Wooden prayer beads were wrapped around her left wrist. Her bolt pistol and power fist sat on either side of her head. Dressed in her finest uniform with all her medals, she appeared every bit the warrior as she always had.
Eastoft, Giles, Ghent, and Hyram stepped aside as Marsh approached. Beside him was General Battye, worn from the battlefield, but still clad in his fine uniform. They stopped together in front of the offering table. The general removed his hat and placed it underneath his left arm.
“It is rare to meet a warrior and a leader who strove for so much and performed great feats in times of strife,” he murmured. “The examples they provide, the precedents they set, never become more apparent until the day they leave us. Lieutenant Cross, Commissar Carstensen was indeed a precedent in herself. She has mine, the army’s, and the people of Kasr Sonnen’s everlasting gratitude for rallying that beleaguered front and piercing the enemy’s lines for the final time. She is, truly, a Hero of the Imperium.”
From a cast carried in his other hand, he revealed the Obscurus Honorifica. It glowed warmly in the low candle light of the chapel. With one hand, he deftly fixed it to her tunic above her other medals, then stepped back, snapped his heels, and saluted. All of the Shock Troopers, enlisted man and officer like, mimicked him, except for Marsh Silas. When their hands fell, Battye gazed at Marsh. “Would you speak a word?” But the young lieutenant slowly shook his head.
“She does need me to speak for her. Her acts are all the words she requires, for I believe they will echo throughout all time. Now, after a life of alarms and war, she has more than earned a peaceful slumber.”
Battye nodded and stepped aside with his retinue. Honeycutt, Drummer Boy, Yoxall, and Isenhour, acting as pallbearers, each took an arm of the little. They raised her up slowly, turned, and proceeded down the aisle. Ranks of Guardsmen, weeping in the pews, stood up and saluted as Bloody Platoon exited the chapel. Weaving through the immense crowd of grieved Shock Troopers and wounded men, all saluting, the procession walked underneath the camp’s flag, lowered to half-mast.
Crossing the parapet bridge, Bloody Platoon trundled onto the beach. Marsh’s booted feet sank into the damp sand with every step. As he walked, the sediment would bulge and little trickles of water appeared in the cracks. Around his boots, the dark soil grew bright for a few moments as the moisture left it.
The sun was just beginning to set and the cloudless sky appeared as a radiant golden sheet. Across the channel, clumps of seaweed and exposed rock appeared everywhere. But the dark water slowly filled it. The sound of approaching waves grew louder and louder. Seabirds squawked and called. Gentle, warm wind blew across the islands.
Bloody Platoon broke ranks, dispersing around the litter. Everyone was clad in their dress uniforms. Gold, silver, and bronze medals caught the sun and glowed on their chests. Squad leaders wore their swords and mantles. One by one, they paused on the damp sand and their eyes lingered on Marsh Silas, Hyram, and Ghent walking behind the litter. Among them was Valens, the regimental picter, who had carried on with the platoon for many months. Tears were already streaming down his face. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were both present, as was Master Sergeant Tindall and his crew. Behind them, the beach soon filled with the survivors of the 1333rd and countless other regiments.
Marsh looked at her. How he wished, then, to see her eyes, flickering like aquamarine gemstones caught in the surf. There was always a winter sea in her gaze no matter how hot the fires in her heart had burned. She looked so incredibly peaceful.
He stood behind her for a long time. Nobody spoke—there was no need to. All had said their goodbyes already. As the sea drew closer, Marsh Silas took off his hat. Hyram took it from him while the lieutenant unbuttoned his collar. Reaching into his tunic, he procured Carstensen’s necklace she gave him before she passed. Pulling it over his head, he squeezed the silvered Aquila-I token in his palms. Opening them, he stared mournfully at it; it was a moment, a fragment of time when love was captured in a single bit of silver bearing the icon they so cherished.
Pressing it to his lips, he closed his eyes and cupped his hands around it. He felt and tasted the cold metal. Finally taking it away, he carefully draped it around Carstensen’s neck. Ensuring it was perfectly arrayed in the center of her chest, he pressed it there. Then, he took from Walmsley Minor a folded, smaller flag of the platoon’s banner—the same Marsh attached to his bayonet throughout the Siege of Kasr Sonnen. Carefully, so gently, he tucked it underneath her hat. He held her cheek and planted a gentle kiss on her pale lips.
When he finally stood up, the water was coming up to his thighs. It was so warm. The fleeting sunlight was disappearing fast. Hyram and Walmsley Major lifted the flag from her legs and together, folded it. Their motions were beautiful as they smoothed its creases and perfected its corners. Babcock lowered the standard so its edges almost touched the gently rising water. Hyram stood before Marsh Silas, tears in his eyes.
“Lieutenant Cross, please accept the flag of Lilias Juventas Carstensen on behalf of the God-Emperor and a grateful, indebted Imperium.”
Marsh Silas took it from his hands. Hyram then stood beside him as Ghent proceeded to pick up Carstensen’s weapons. He walked in front of the pair and held them forward.
“Lieutenant Hyram, do you accept and name the arms once carried by this stalwart warrior?”
“I do. I shall name this power fist, the Lilias’s Fist, and this sidearm, Carstensen’s Justice. I shall carry them in her honor, to be passed on only to those who are worthy of bearing them.” Hyram took both and held them at his sides.
It was then that Marsh Silas nodded at the pallbearers. As one, they lowered the litter into the water. Marsh handed the flag to Ghent, approached the little once more, and slid his arms underneath her at the same time. All the flower petals coated the surface. Many continued to cling to her tunic while the rest floated around her. As the men took the litter away, Marsh started to walk further into the water. Standing in a small sea of flowers, he strode deeper and deeper until the water was above his waist.
Silas stood in the caressing waves and bobbing flowers, staring deeply into Carstensen. Water lapped her orange hair, bringing it out of its knot. It spread around her head like the sun’s crimson halo. Golden light shimmered on the water around her, briefly illuminating the dark seas and mingling with the yellow petals.
He slowly let go of her. Carstensen drifted away from him very slowly. She sank deeper into the water, with only her face and chest remaining above the surface. Flowers crowded around her, brushed her cheeks,and latched onto her red locks. Serenely, she drifted, drifted, drifted away from him with Cadia’s current. Marsh Silas watched, the tears silently rolling down his cheeks. Then, as a calm, low wave rippled through the channel, she slipped beneath the surface. Only the flowers continued to float, dispersing among the water.
As the breeze blew Marsh’s hair askew and dried the tears on his face, he merely stared at those drifting flowers. He did not feel the wind nor the water. Only when Hyram sloshed up beside him and placed Marsh’s hat back in his hands did he look back. Bloody Platoon still stood with him, the water rising over their waists and dampening their chests. Some gazed at him, others held each other as they wept, a few looked past him into the sea, while fewer still looked up at the sky. Yet, they all remained. The congregation lingered on the beach, watching as an honor guard assembled and fired three volleys from their ceremonial longrifles. The reports traveled and echoed across the channel.
Marsh Silas put on his hat, turned his back on the channel, and walked towards the beach. Each man met his eyes, uncertain and searching for something, but as he passed them by, they cast one last look to the fading horizon, turned, and followed him.