A boy, hardly half a score, sat in front of the enormous hearth in his home’s sitting room. The fire snapped and popped. Clouds of sparks burst and fluttered up the chimney. Flickering flames danced upon the walls, casting shadows beyond furniture, lamps, and fixtures. Warm, yellow lamps glowed on the walls, illuminating paintings of battlefields and marching armies.
The boy’s blonde hair was moist and plump from a shower; earlier it’d been coarse and blasted back by salt spray. He was wearing a khaki shirt and olive drab trousers, freshly pressed and still warm. But his expression was tired and forlorn. His cheeks were tear-stained and he brought his legs up to his chin to hide it. When he heard a dull thump from the gallery on the opposite side of the wall, he buried his face in his knees. Muffled shouts exchanged and glass shattered. Moments later, the door burst open.
“…not letting the boy wash after coming back from the Caducades Sea for three days! I hope the Emperor takes you! Do not think I neglected to see the bruises on his arms! If you ever mistreat my son like that again, I will shoot you both myself!” Colonel Dayton Cross shouted. “Do you hear me, wretches!? I will shoot you dead! Thank the Emperor it was me you dealt with, for if it was Faye, you’d already be bleeding your last upon your polished floors! Speak to me not, from this day forward, I am not your son!”
Dayton slammed the door shut, causing the lamps and paintings to shake. Even the blast windows rattled. His short blonde hair bristled and his shoulders heaved with every breath. As he finally calmed, his breathing became deeper and the angry red tint to his cheeks drained away. Closing his eyes, he inhaled one last time and then opened them again with a smile. “Silas, my boy, worry not. All will be well, I promise.”
The Colonel was an impressive man, tall and muscular with a large ribbon rack on his gray greatcoat and he wore a modest but immaculate khaki uniform underneath. His silver belt buckle which took the shape of an Imperial Aquila gleamed along with every golden button on his tunic.
He hung up his coat on the rack next to the door but kept his gun belt on. Then, he approached young Silas and sat beside him. It was a nigh-comical sight, the great officer towering over the youth. But the lad just leaned his head against his father’s massive arm and stared into the fire. “You’ve been crying.”
“I’m sorry, papa. I know soldiers shouldn’t cry.”
“Son, it takes a strong fellow to hold back his tears. It takes a stronger one to let them flow freely. I wish I could be as brave as you, sometimes.”
Dayton wrapped his arm around Silas and rubbed his arm. “No shame, son, no shame. What counts is that you stand back up on your feet when the crying is done. We cannot indulge our fear or sadness for too long.”
“But papa, what happens if a fellow can’t get back up?”
“You need to answer that for yourself, Silas.”
The boy sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Staring into the fire, his violet irises reflecting the flames, he pursed his lips and gripped his knees intensely.
“Then someone will get hurt.”
“Exactly. This is the Astra Militarum. From a great army to the smallest squad, we all depend on one another to fulfill our duties. If one man falters, it is up to another to take his place. What happens, then, if another man is forced to take that place, and one more his, and so on? Gaps, Silas, and dangerous ones too. Each man must do his duty no matter how juvenile or mammoth the task. Your men, your team, will always depend on you and you on them. Everyone must pitch in or else the mission will fail.”
Silas stretched his legs out for a little while, then sat crossed legged. Rocking a little as he ruminated, he stared up at the ceiling. A light fixture hanging overhead was off but the bulbs mirrored the shimmering fireplace.
“Mama says that we must do what we can, but all Guardsmen die eventually.”
Dayton grew thoughtful then, his smile growing softer and more somber. Drawing his knees to his chest like Silas had, he rested his chin on them and tilted his head to the side as he gazed into the hearth.
“Your mother is not wrong. I will never lie to you, my boy, we are but men. We tire, we grow bitter, we become disenchanted. Ours is a life of peril and toil in the Guard. Each soldier carries on knowing that minutes or years from now, he might give his life for the Emperor. While we would all envision a glorious death on the battlefield, hearing the thundering drums and blaring bugles, it is not so for many. A shell will hit directly, a bullet will find its mark.”
After gazing long into the fire, Silas huffed and held his cheeks with his hands. Chewing his bottom lip and grumpily staring into the fire, he heaved an irritated sigh.
“Papa, if we are all to die, why should we fight so hard? Why train so hard? Why go to the Month of Making? Why…do anything?”
Dayton stared at him for a moment, then laughed. Ruffling Silas’s hair, he hugged him close and shook him.
“Because everything has a point to it in the end!” he declared. “We might not know it, but the Emperor surely does.”
“But—”
“Come on, speak of your time in the Caducades! It’s been nigh on two and a half decades since I was sent out there with my bottom bare and my hands empty!”
Silas beamed. He’d been looking forward to this! Knowing he already exhausted his mother’s ears with all his tales, he was happy to tell them all again. Standing up and walking into the center of the sitting room, he bounced eagerly on his feet. Dayton swiveled on the floor, sitting with rapt attention and an eager smile splitting his big face.
“Overton and Clement and I got to go together! It was the greatest feeling in the world, papa! The island they dropped me and the other boys onto was called Redstone because of the red dust in some of the rocks. It was barely bigger than the street and it had lots of boulders and only a few trees. We used the branches and some logs to make a hut and we killed a turtle for meat. Then, Overton had the idea to prop the shell upside down on some branches to collect rainwater!”
“Well, wasn’t that just clever of him?”
“We used the branches for kindling and dried out strings of seaweed to make clothing. That was my idea! Clement tried to grow his hair out so he could make a fishing line out of them but it didn’t work. We were really, really tired all the time but I made sure we kept moving around so we’d stay warm. And we caught more turtles and even got a few birds. Oh! I even saw a sea eagle! It was so pretty papa!”
“How envious I am! I never once clapped eyes on a sea eagle when I was out there! How splendid. The Emperor was surely pleased with your doings to send you such a good omen.”
“It didn’t just fly over us, papa, it landed on the rock I was sitting beside. I wanted to be alone for a little while because I felt sad and missed home, but the eagle sat right on top! It had a black head, white wings, a brown body, its beak was really long, and it was huuuuuge and looked strong. I even petted his head and back before he took off, he looked me right in the eye!”
“Well, one can never quite give reason to what a sea eagle or any bird for that matter does. Only it understands, or perhaps it doesn’t. Who knows? It merely acts, as we do!”
“Yes! When it left, we decided to say a prayer and—”
Thud. Thud. Thud. Someone rapped their fist against the door to the manse. Silas jolted and turned around. His mother wouldn’t have knocked like that. Quickly, he ran over to his father who had just stood up. He clutched his leg tightly. “Papa, is it the general? Please don’t let him send you away, you just got home.”
“I will see what the matter is. Worry not, it’s likely nothing drear.”
Silas waited by the hearth as Dayton unlatched the door and opened it. Cold air blew through the doorway bringing a cloud of snowflakes. “Who goes there?”
“The regiment will march no longer,” said a voice. There was a gunshot and a flash. Silas remembered what Commissar Ghent and all the instructors ordered. He dove to the ground and crawled behind the nearest cover. As he did, he saw someone fall in the doorway. When he heard a set of feet running through snow, he hurried over to the door. Outside, a figure dash down the road to the left. Although it seemed like it took forever, Silas craned his neck and looked at the form on the floor.
“Papa!” he shrieked. Dayton was lying on his back, clutching his throat. Blood leaked from between his fingers. Silas got down on his knees and pressed his hands to the wound, trying to keep the blood from coming out. “Papa, it’ll be alright papa!” He remembered the medical kit his mother kept in the closet by the entrance. He jumped over Dayton and threw open the door. Finding the bag in a cubby, he tore it open and found a pressure dressing just like the one they used in first aid drills.
Silas knelt beside Dayton and pried his hands away. “Let go, papa! I need to treat the wound!” When he finally wrested away his grip, blood jetted out onto his shirt. Immediately, he pressed it to the wound and held it there. “Help!” Silas called through the open doorway. “Man down! Medic! Somebody, please, help my papa!”
Dayton’s writhing ceased. His feet grew still. Silas looked back into his father’s purple eyes. The light faded. His mouth moved, he tried to speak, but only coughed and gurgled. With one of his blood-covered hands, he took Silas by the cheek. “Hold on papa, please!” Silas pleaded, tears coursing down his cheeks. “Please, papa!”
But Dayton grew still and his hand dropped. His eyes searched around a little more before settling on Silas. They were so wide and expressive until the light seemed to wink away. They were dull, the luster of the purple so suddenly absent. Silas’s grip on the pressure dressing loosened until it slipped off. As his eyes gleamed with tears, he stared at his father’s body. His breathing grew faster and faster until he bawled. Throwing himself over Dayton, he shook him again and again. All he did was wail into his chest and tremble.
Soon, though, he lifted his head. The young man’s face darkened. His lips trembled then revealed his clenched teeth. Snarling and growling, he reached across Dayton and yanked his laspistol out from his holster. Storming onto the street, his bare feet crunching in the snow, he charged in the same direction as the perpetrator. The snowflakes, the street lamps, the lights emanating from other manses, the darkness in between them, the roadside defenses, everything was a blur. He didn’t even hear the feet pounding up the street behind him.
A strong arm wrapped around his abdomen and another grabbed his right wrist, forcing the gun up into the air. Silas screamed and struggled against the adult’s grip.
“Enough, Silas!” Commissar Ghent ordered. “Stop it! I said stop!”
“Let me go!” Silas hollered. “Let me go! He killed my papa!”
But Ghent overpowered him, yanked the pistol from his hand, and enabled the weapon’s safety. Sliding it through his belt, he forced Silas down onto his knees and held him from behind. The boy roared, struggled, and tried to slip away but he couldn’t escape. Guardsmen jogged up alongside and looked down.
“Get after him!” Ghent ordered. “He went down the road that way!” Then, he directed his attention back to Silas. “Calm yourself boy, there’s nothing you can do!” He managed to turn the sobbing, raging youth around. Silas beat his fists against Ghent’s chest.
“Let me go! I must find him! I will kill him!”
“Quit now, Silas! There’s no point!” he dodged a blow and caught another with his hand. “If you go out there, you’ll die tonight!”
“Go away! I’m going after him! He killed my papa and I’ll kill him, too!”
“I said no! It’s pointless Silas! Do you hear me? It’s pointless!”
----------------------------------------
Distant guns thundered. The days blended together. Marsh Silas found himself drifting through them. Sleep was not so much a peaceful slumber as a fading of darkness and light. Sometimes, he felt as if no time had passed at all. He fell asleep and woke up in the same state of aimless, dreary fatigue. In the morning roll call, his voice rang entirely without the breadth of cocksure, strong, and passionate Militarum bearing. During morning PT, he did not join in the platoon’s singing led by Walmsley Major and Monty Peck. He barely stepped in time with them and when his duties were over, he retreated to his quarters. Paperwork, necessary to his post, flew across his desk with the barest notations.
He managed to eat one or two meals a day, though he was often unsure which he dined on. Each one tasted the same, a flavor so bland and undefinable he could not decide if it was bad or not. It didn’t matter much; his appetite was always fleeting. During his off-time or any moment when he was not occupied, he smoked his pipe. But the flavor of the lho and tabac leaves was gone. It was not but smoke drifting from his mouth and nose.
His companions stayed close but little was said. Marsh sat among them as they played card games, ate, drank, smoked, worked, recuperated, but he maintained his silence. No matter how many times they tried to engage him, he hardly raised his voice. The veneer of their own sadness was very thin. Chatter which used to fill the barracks’ halls was quieter and shorter now. Spaces once occupied by Carstensen remained empty. Always, there seemed to be an empty seat at the table, a crate or stool unoccupied during their crowded card playing, and a vacant figure on the parade grounds. Men talked, but it never lasted for long. Nobody wished to speak of her, just like Marsh Silas—the grief threatened to bubble over.
All the while, they listened to the vox-casters. Reports of enemy movements to the north and enemy fleet movements in orbit flooded in. Some were dismissed, others reconfigured, and some turned out to be true. More car bombings, overrun checkpoints, and patrols found with their throats slit. The battle they all fought so hard to end wasn’t over and they could hardly muster the effort to care, for they knew the day was fast approaching when they would have to march north again and find the enemy host. It all seemed so fruitless.
Hardly a fortnight since they returned to camp, Marsh laid in his bunk and stared at the barren ceiling. Hyram was bent over at his desk as he filled out a report. All could be heard in the chamber were the scritches and scratches of his field-quill.
“We’ve hardly received reinforcements or supplies and Isaev wants us to go back on the hunt in a week. Those roads are choked with materials for the Astartes and regiments already working in the north. It is better we remain here to defend them, lest the enemy counterattack.” Hyram finished another report and slid a fresh page in front of him. “I once thought I had some respect for Isaev. It has all but departed, now. Hopefully, when von Bracken returned to the area of operations with the Red Banner Regiment, this battle will end before Isaev sends us out.”
Marsh Silas did not respond. In the corner of his eye, he saw Hyram looking over his shoulder slightly, his face and sideburns illuminated by the lamp. “Bloody Platoon still needs time to rest. So does mine. Everyone has been exhausted by this siege. We need to find a way to stall.”
“Isaev will not listen. Giles already issued a complaint and was officially reprimanded. Whatever we say will mean nothing. If you or I go in there, Isaev will shoot us.”
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“Our duty is not over. We’ve not only the enemy to deal with, but an incompetent and selfish commander. We must complete our missions, yes. Yet, we must also protect our men not just from the machinations of our enemy but the incompetent, idiotic folly of our own commanders. Is that not why you became an officer?”
“I feel equipped to be a leader no longer, Seathan. The capacity, as well as the desire, is gone.”
“Don’t say that.”
Marsh held up his hand and glared sharply at Hyram.
“If you are about to tell me what she would think of this, or what she would want for me, can it. That shall have no effect on me.” Hyram stared at him, his expression pensive and his hands clasped together. Inhaling deeply, he walked over to the bunk and sat on the edge.
“Friend, I think the better question would be to ask yourself if that’s what you want.”
“But I…don’t feel a want, any longer. At least, it don’t feel that way. Feels like a fire’s gone out. Sometimes, I felt as though I could do it all. Sometimes, I felt like I couldn’t do a damned thing. Barlocke set me to this great task and I made it my own. Whenever I wondered if I couldn’t do it, I just looked at her. One look and I found my courage again.”
Hyram smiled tenderly and put his hand on top of Marsh’s.
“She was like that for all of us, wasn’t she? Long after you taught me about soldiering, I still wondered from time to time if I could make the right calls. I’ve got a hound in me, like you said before, and I know it now. But doubt is a rather insidious thing. A little is important for a leader, you know that, it helps him look back as well as forward. Meters him, measures him. Let it go too far and it can destroy your will, and if that perishes, so do you. Lilias helped steer me away from that. She assisted me in every regard, before Kasr Fortis, after it, always. What a friend she was to me. All she had to do was look, you know the one. That gaze of hers. What an inspiration, truly…oh, I’m sorry Silas.”
Marsh Silas raised his hand and nodded before wiping some of his tears. He drew a labored breath before looking back up at the top of the bunk.
“I don’t know if I can do it without her. It doesn’t seem right, doesn’t seem worth it. If I do what she asked of me, it won’t bring her back. Won’t do her justice.” Hyram rose from his seat and squeezed Marsh’s hand.
“Dear friend, you need to heal. You malinger in this doubt and hopelessness. You hurt yourself. You need to allow yourself to heal—you need to try.”
“I see no point. So, what if I reclaim my spirit? It is not the same with her—”
“Corporal Valens requesting permission to enter, sir,” came a quiet voice. Hyram permitted the regimental pict-capturer entrance and the fellow came in.
Valens wasn’t the same little thing he was when the 1333rd Regiment raided Kasr Fortis. He was taller, stronger, and altogether more weather-beaten after all the battles they had fought for so long. He bore scars on his face, neck, and on his forearms, his gaze was hardened and alert. No longer was he the little mousy figure who waddled around camp looking for another superfluous pict for the regimental log.
Clearing his throat, he stood at attention and saluted. After the exchange, he pulled out a leather folder and unbuttoned it. “Lieutenant Cross, I have something for you.” He approached the bunk and held it out to Marsh Silas, who regarded it for a moment, then swung his legs out and sat up. “Careful, sir. They’re fragile.”
Confused, Marsh gently reached inside and pulled out a freshly printed pict. His eyes widened. In the image, there was a great orange glow that was hidden by the packed masses of humanity sitting among pews and standing in the aisle. Against a huge column were two figures, one in a worn Militarum raincoat, the other in Commissariat garb. Her orange hair flowed across her shoulders and down her back as she looked into the eyes of the Guardsman. In turn, his thick blonde hair came over his eyes and his head tilted in a tender fashion.
There was another in the leather sleeve. It was the same angle, but this time the two shadowy subjects of the image were kissing. In the third, they had turned and were now standing side by side. Each had an arm around the other as they gazed over the heads of so many Guardsmen. The Commissar had her head on the Shock Trooper’s shoulders and he, in turn, rested his cheek against the top of her head.
Marsh Silas looked up at Valens, who bowed his head.
“I wanted to capture a pict of the cathedral that night. I was so happy to be alive, I just wanted that moment to last forever. I couldn’t find the right shot. There were people everywhere, the lighting was not cooperative. After all my wandering around, I finally saw you and…and…”
His voice warbled briefly and he cleared his throat. A heavy sniffle and a sad breath passed before he recovered. “I took those picts instead. I knew I couldn’t add them to the log, otherwise I’d expose you and her to Isaev. I was trying to find a good time to give them to you, after the awards ceremony that was to come, perhaps.” Tears glimmered in Valens’ eyes. “Commissar Carstensen wasn’t responsible for me. But I fought alongside her at Kasr Fortis and in our hinterland operations, outside Kasr Sonnen. Very often, I was scared, but she had a way of just inspiring me. I don’t need to tell you she was a terrific orator. But she never needed to speak. All she had to do was stand fast. Truly, she was a Commissar worth following and fighting beside.”
Marsh Silas found more picts inside the sleeve. These were copies of the picts that Hyram had kept up above his bunk. Along with Marsh, he and Carstensen were in the Kasr Sonnen soldier halls. There was the window booth they sat at; Marsh and Carstensen on one side, a drunken Hyram on the other. Smiling, blinking, leaning over, Hyram pointed at the pict of his son Sydney while his two compatriots looked on in amusement. There was the first shot, a candid pic. The next featured them looking over in surprise; the next they smiled. Hyram never stopped pointing at the image of his boy. Underneath the table, Marsh and Carstensen held each other’s hands.
Valens smiled at Marsh Silas. “I just wanted to tell you that and give you those. Because I know as sorely as I miss her, how badly everyone misses her, you are the one who grieves the most. I am most sorry, Lieutenant.”
Marsh could not reply. He held the picts tightly and gazed between them all. The longer he looked, the emptier he felt. Everything inside of him shrunk even further. It hurt, it hurt so much to look upon them. Yet, he did not wish to look away. A single tear fell, dripping onto the pict of their kiss within the cathedral.
“That was very kind, Valens. Thank you for doing this. I think I have an idea.” Hyram approached and grasped the pict of Marsh and Carstensen standing beside each other in the cathedral. “May I?” When Marsh nodded, the officer went over to his collection of framed images. After comparing sizes, he eventually settled on a small frame, removed the pict, and slid the new one into it. He even went as far as to wipe the dust off the glass.
Marsh took it back and held it in his palm. “Put it somewhere safe, you hear?” Hyram said kindly. “Somewhere close.”
After a moment of thought, the platoon leader unbuttoned the breast pocket over his heart and slid the pict inside. It fit perfectly. He buttoned the pocket and gave it a quick, reassuring tap. Valens smiled and courteously saluted.
“I’ll be off, then, sir.”
“Valens…” Marsh said and looked up. The young fellow stopped in the threshold and turned around. After tucking the picts back into the leather sleeve, Marsh drifted over to the entrance and stopped in front of him. He squeezed Valens’ shoulder for a time, then embraced the man. Valens slowly hugged him back. When they finally let go, Marsh Silas slipped out of the chamber.
“Silas?” Hyram asked.
“I can’t stay in here,” Marsh Silas said over his shoulder. Ignoring the trouble, concerned, and weary gazes of his comrades, scattered all throughout the barracks, he trundled down the tunnel and ascended the barracks ladder.
The salty air was especially warm that day. A bright, white sun shone in an azure sky. Marsh didn’t put on his cap nor did he button his tunic. He walked down the slope and across the main compound of the camp. A strong, familiar aroma arose from the mess hall; it was herbal and buttery. A long line of Guardsmen wound their way out from the building. They seemed to be in eager spirits. Some of the men from Bloody Platoon were among them. Walmsley Major and his twin were standing near the entrance. Marsh slowed down as he peered at them.
“Lieutenant,” Walmsley Major exclaimed. “Step into line with us. They’re serving yer favorite; steamed rice! It’s fresh stuff too, all kinds of seasoning and such. Eh?Marsh Silas?”
He kept walking even as the voices of his friends lingered in the air behind him. Marsh approached the gates of the camp and passed through, the sentries unwilling to stop him. Down the long, winding road which cut through Army’s Meadow like a black vein, he tramped and trod. There was no wind and the waves were lazy. Each sprawling field of flowers remained still. More and more, the noise pollution of the camp faded. There was relief to be detached from it all, but such a feeling was fleeting.
He could not find a word to describe it. Another trance, perhaps, like that of the other day. Not quite seeing completely, just flashes of his surroundings. Mere glimpses swiftly passing by him. Kasr Sonnen in the distance, the mountains sprawling underneath; the gentle seas surrounding him, the open skies. Another man trapped in this vision might have felt that they were spinning. But Marsh Silas let his legs carry him, carry him, until he looked up.
There was a tall, metal post which carried a single bulb at the end of Mason Bridge; a reciprocating pole was on the mainland side. A rope was tied off on one of the climbing handles used by the poor menial who was forced to change out the light when it died. It led to a noose which was thrown over the extended top of the post. The man who had attempted to detonate the explosives at the checkpoint hung from there. The corpse was stripped naked except for a leather sack tied around the head. Bruises and gashes covered the rotting flesh which clung tightly to the bones. Sea winds had taken its toll, reducing the body to a shrivel. Birds had pecked and eaten away much of the flesh on his back, legs, and stomach. Before the men hanged the body, they had disemboweled and castrated it. Intestines draped out of the slit in his gut. Somebody had draped another rope around the man’s neck with a wooden board that said, ‘traitor.’
Marsh Silas untied the rope. The body fell to the pavement with a flesh thump. Its decrepit bones broke. Dragging the corpse by the rope, he staggered onto the bridge. When he was a quarter of the way across, he stopped and looked down. In the ravine below, the jagged rock formations covered the entire slope of the peninsula. Water lapped at the bottom. Marsh mounted the body on the railing and kicked it over. It smashed onto the rocks and rolled into a crevice. Heaving a labored breath, Marsh leaned against the railing and silently cried into his arms.
“I don’t recall issuing any orders to remove the murderer’s body.
Marsh looked up to find Ghent standing a few paces away. The Commissar held a bowl of steaming rice in his hands. He lacked his hat, leaving his bright blonde locks exposed. Walking over, he peered over the side and then glanced at Marsh. “Has this helped you, in some way?”
“Hell if I know,” Marsh said as he turned around and sat on the railing. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“Yes, that’s quite clear.” Ghent handed him the bowl. “Here. You haven’t eaten your midday meal.” Marsh accepted but he did not begin to eat. After some time, Ghent sat down as well, glanced down the road, and then stared at Marsh Silas.
“You should have let me drown him there and then.”
“It was not your duty, ‘twas mine.”
“Truly? Or was it because it would have been pointless? Aye, I remember. Is that why you didn’t let me kill that wretch who killed my papa?”
“Killing him wouldn’t have made a difference in your future. When you lose someone, there is a hole inside you. You try to fill it with that vengeance. But such feelings fly after some time. The hole is still there and you must fill it up with something else. I didn’t let you go after him because you needed something more. Strength, structure, comradeship. I did what I could in the time we had before your grandsires shunted you off to Macharia. But I made sure the instructors there would take care of you, to give you what you need.”
“Who are you to say what I need?”
When Ghent didn’t respond, Marsh Silas looked over at the Commissar. His posture was rigid, as if he were incapable of relaxing. Both hands curled into tight fists on his knees. But the purple gaze glimmered curiously and deeply.
“Do you think you are the only one who ever lost someone he loved more than life itself?” he asked. “You had to endure that which is most horrible, more painful than the death of any comrade or dear friend. No matter how such tragedies grieve us, to say farewell to the one person we were able to turn to no matter what, the one we could always rely on, the one we could truly be ourselves with, that is an immeasurable agony.”
Ghent looked away briefly. “I give thanks to the Emperor you were able to share a final word with your love. All I received was a notice that my wife was killed in an aerial bombing in our kasr. Her and our young…” Ghent bit his lip and shook his head slightly. When he looked back, the shimmer in his eyes was gone. “You need not describe any of it to me, I have been where you are. I look at you and see myself from long ago.”
“There’s no coming back from it, is there?” Marsh whispered. The question hung between them for some time. Ghent stared at the other side of the bridge while Marsh Silas poked at the rice with the fork.
“Did you ever wonder why I was there the night your father was murdered?” Ghent asked.
“I never gave it any thought.”
“I was coming to personally congratulate your father for your exemplary trial during the Month of Making.”
“You said we didn’t do so well,” Marsh said, looking up in teary shock. “You said, ‘you didn’t fail but you did disappoint.’ I remember that exactly.” Ghent huffed and folded his arms across his chest.
“That’s right, I did. In truth, you were one of the best teams of your class. Some of the finest survival skills I’d ever seen, some of which I had not imparted to you or your friends. So, I wanted Dayton to know, as he had every right to be proud of you.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Oh, I could never say that to you in so many words. I was your teacher, I needed to give you fuel for the fire in here,” he thumped his chest. “But I was very proud of you.”
“You liar,” Marsh Silas muttered, leaning forward and staring into the bowl. “You used to laugh at me. You made me feel stupid. Everything I did was to spite you.”
“If you had loved me, I would have done something wrong as your teacher,” Ghent said. “I pushed you because you needed to be pushed. I could see it in you. You thrived from the challenge. You failed often, whether by a lack of courage, misstep, mistake, whatever it was. But you succeeded more often. A soldier struggles until he succeeds. I knew what kind of man that you were going to be if we could just tap into that.”
“By humiliating me? By smiling behind my back as I pushed in all the muck?”
“You’re a fool to think I smiled because I was in some way enjoying myself in your hardship. I was not. I was proud to see you push again and again, I was proud to see you go from being the man in the rear of the formation to the first. I was proud that you were going to be a man who wanted to earn everything, not just receive it.” Ghent pressed his hands together and leaned forward. “It wasn’t just you. It was all of you. That whole class, every single man and woman in it. You needed me, but I needed you all just as much. You filled up that emptiness inside, that ever-widening hole which threatened to swallow me. I gave you everything I had to pull myself through.”
Ghent reached over and touched Marsh Silas on his shoulder. “You all gave me the opportunity to save myself. No words could ever express how grateful I was nor how much I loved every single one of you. All I could was devote all my energies into you and to help give you the opportunities in return.”
His hand gripped the back of Marsh’s head. “Because I could see it in you. You were not the kind to accept everything for what it is or seek handouts. If you were, you would have scampered off to join the Inquisition. You wouldn’t have put your heart into saving those Whiteshields’ lives, putting yourself forward to fight for the 45th even though it was a lost cause, and for rejoining the lines with your mates and leading them forward despite all your fears and doubts. That’s who you need to be right now, just when it all hurts the most. You need to be strong and devote yourself to what you believe in.”
Before Marsh could speak, Ghent leaned closer. “I know you miss her. I do as well.” He issued a heavy breath. “Now that Carstensen is gone, all I see are mine-own failures. She was brave enough to stand up to Isaev, defend you, your men, the Altridge folk. I wish I had a shred of her courage. I shall not fail her, nor you and these men now. I plan to convince Isaev to keep us here, so that we safeguard the army’s flank, but allow what’s left of this regiment to rest. You must do the same; you must lead and protect your men, for this battle is not over. You must try; you must fill this hole, you must heal.”
“But, what I believed in…Lilias, Afdin—”
“Just because they’re not here doesn’t mean there isn’t work to do,” Ghent replied sternly. His expression softened immediately and he breathed deeply. “We fight for the Emperor, do we not? But have you ever been to Terra? Clapped eyes on the Imperial Palace? Have you ever seen the Emperor? I suspect neither of us will ever have the honor. What about this Imperium? You only know Cadia. It is the same for me. We have not fought on any other worlds, we have not seen the myriads of our fellow denizens, we have not experienced their cultures and societies. Yet, we fight for them and this Imperium, even if we do not see it. We protect Holy Terra, even if we will never go. We serve the Emperor in all things, even if we shall never bow before him.”
Ghent smiled warmly. “We fight for the idea of these facets. Even if we cannot fulfill them ourselves, there are others who will carry out that work. Lilias died for those ideas and passed them onto you. Afdin died knowing he could trust you to restore the regiment’s honor. Even Inquisitor Barlocke left his mark on you to make these great changes I heard him espouse. They are here no more but the ideas they strove for are still worth struggling for. An idea is a torch to be passed on and on until the fire has been lit. The Emperor passed us his torch when he slew the Arch-Traitor Horus; Barlocke, Lilias, Afdin, they now pass the torch to you. Now, what will you do?”
Marsh Silas stared back at him, his violet eyes glittering. Swallowing hard, he nodded slowly.
“I think…I think I will speak to my men,” he whispered. Nodding a little more, he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, and then we shall go see Isaev and stop this madness.”
“That’s very good. Now, you eat up and cry the last of those tears. Then, we shall go.”
Marsh nodded more resolutely as the tears welled in the corners of his eyes. It suddenly dawned on him how hungry he was. The rice was still very warm and the butter had melted, saturating the contents. Crushed green and purple herbs were sprinkled all over it. When he took that first bite, the aroma of the herbs perfectly complemented the salt and butter. He felt Ghent scratch the back of his head as he ate a few more bites. Chewing and sniffing, he kept eating, even after the Commissar wrapped his arm around him entirely and pulled Marsh Silas against his shoulder.