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There was a deeper pounding in his head, somewhere deep between his eyes and in his ears, making the darkness around him spin and sway as he came to consciousness. Dazed, half-awake Desmund’s first thought was that he had been flung off his feet, caught in the blast radius of a grenade or makeshift landmine, in this state he expected a ringing in his ears to start as well, his shock being the only thing keeping his mind from registering the pain that was soon to crash over him. He only hoped his comrades could drag him away to moderate safety as they pressed on. Once he opened his eyes, he expected the world to become a blurry mess, a smoke-filled sky, tinted by crimson and grey-brown earth exploding from the ground.
Except, there was no open sky and there was no battle surrounding him. Instead, when he jerked his body upright, shaking and soaked with sweat the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the fragmented remains of a once beautiful set of stained-glass windows. The sight made him relax some, dropping back down onto his cot, placing a hand over his face as he forced slow breaths into his lungs. Another poor night of rest, another long night of listening to radio broadcasts, these things had habits of making one regret it in the morning. For Desmund, it was a difficult habit to break due to his duties and the mysterious broadcast he had found himself returning to when the HQ grew quieter at night, night wrapping over them all. The promise of a good night’s rest never came for them, no soldier slept well in this place, even in the remains of a once great cathedral. Whatever holiness might have existed there was gone, just like the priests with their tomes and holy relics.
What didn’t leave was the pounding in his ears, jolting him to become more alert as it finally clicked within his mind what exactly was the cause of it; multiple footsteps moving across the ground quickly, the distant sound of yelling somewhere further away. Without another thought, he darted from his cot, making sure to grab some of gear, fearing that the yelling was simply a prelude to a battle wrapping approaching, another tide of gore ready to crush them as he ran towards the source.
All around him parts of the rest of his company, a part of the 48th “Iron Lances” regiment, moved about their base, their faces a mixture of tension, fear, and barely contained anger causing his heart to twist in his chest. Something was very wrong, and he needed to know what.
For all the preaching of the ecclesiarchy, there was no greater evil than a man who had become blind by his authority and allowed his mind to tread down dark paths, ones that only spelled damnation for those unfortunates to be under his command. For himself and the rest of the Lances. That evil was named Commissar Hexx. Like all those people spat out of from the Schola Progenium, Hexx had been molded into a shape they deemed necessary and unleashed him upon the Militarum, like a bloody sickness that spread around during the worst of wars. Where Hexx went, soldiers were expected to die by his orders, and they were to do it gladly. If Hexx demanded that they build a bridge out of their own bodies, then they had no choice but to do so. A grim metaphor but he, along with many other officers, had heard whispers that it might not have been too far from the truth.
It was Hexx that was at the source of the yelling, surrounded by all sides by soldiers, a few had their weapons drawn and pointed at their own comrades while others stood their ground, blocking him-
Desmund felt his heart drop and the cold grip of fear sinking into his back.
Behind them was another group, all lined up against a wall, their hands bound behind their backs, their faces a mixture of fresh bruises, bloodied brows and lips. Each of them he knew; their names, fragments of their lives, two he had shared jokes with only two days prior, another was a well-respected sergeant that was on his way to another promotion, one had a talent for spotting hidden traps. In the middle stood the youngest of their company, one of many that had been drawn the lottery back home and was sent to war, he hardly had begun to grow facial hair.
Immediately he knew exactly what was about to happen, what his fellow soldiers had stopped; their anger barely contained in fierce glares and white-knuckled fists at their sides. They would die than let Hexx kill them for reasons only he understood.
The rest had been instinct. His voice joined with the others, demands of his own spilling past his lips. Hexx might have been a Commissar, but Desmund was the commanding officer, he would not let his men die so easily. For each of the soldiers lined up, he argued in their favor, countering every accusation that Hexx spat at him. The youngest he argued even harder; this was only the youth-Emmett-first taste of combat and orks were some of the most dangerous foes any soldier could ever face.
Once, Desmund had wondered what it was like, to be so confident that everyone else could-and would-die around you but you would be left unharmed. What was it like to spit on the dead and move on? All because someone had ingrained the idea so deep the meat of the mind. Once Desmund hoped that Hexx’s luck would run out, that one day he would walk into a battle and either walk out missing an eye, an arm, a leg or his very life. Just once, so that it would be his screams filling the air.
Hexx was screaming now, accusing him of being weak, that they were all weak, a single moment of failure would damn hundreds more.
The moment that Hexx had laid a hand upon him-gripping his jacket to tug him close-something snapped.
Damnation did not come from boots slamming against the ground, not by a roar and rev of a weapon, not by fires bursting, scorching everything around. For Hexx, his damnation came at the end of a knife.
There was a gasp followed by silence as the world seemed to stop, his own mind unable to fully comprehend what had happened as he looked down and saw his combat knife buried deep into Hexx’s chest, blood spilling past, pouring onto his hand as Hexx’s covered his, his body tense. He forced his gaze upwards, silently he locked onto Hexx’s own gaze, his own eyes wide in disbelief. At the fact he had been stabbed or the fact he was dying like that, Desmund did not know. He blinked once and when he hoped his eyes next, he lurched back as the face of Hexx had changed-the skin peeled back, revealing the muscles and nerves beneath, eyes once grey now burned crimson at him, Hexx’s jaw opening far too wide to scream again-
Desmund woke with a gasp, his heart thudding against his ribs as he was greeted by darkness and a cooling breeze created by the vents hanging from the ceiling of his quarters. It took only a few moments from his mind to slow down and adrenaline to fade. A memory turned into a nightmare, a recurring one, but an old memory, nonetheless. He had worse memories and dreams due to where he found himself after he killed that man.
With a sigh he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, handing combing through his hair. He could try and go back to sleep for a while; he had that luxury now but sleeping within the warp-or even around the edge of a warp rift was easier said than done. You had to enjoy sleep when you could get it, even if it meant dealing with the occasional nightmare, something was made better if you had the right wards around.
He could have tried but he always had a difficulty going back to sleep, his mind simply refused to settle down. The memory of Hexx’s face still flickered when he closed his eyes, trying to think, determined to try and push away the memory of him. After all, why should he pay any mind to a man that was likely to forget his and everyone else’s face and fate.
With a sigh Desmund stood from his bed, grabbing his boots as he decided to take a walk, allowing the dark corridors to wrap around him like a comfortable cloak. He had abandoned his fear of the simple dark, knew the walls around him were safe and strong. The darkness wasn’t awful; it was the things in it that often were.
He walked with those things side by side.
Fate, he repeated the word in his mind, that was a strange concept.
No matter what sermon he listened to back then, when he was a loyal soldier, no one ever talked about what life would be like after treachery beyond the usual screams of fire, damnation, horrors beyond imagining, death and devouring. A small part of him had always wondered, surely there was more to it than that. Surely there was, just as he had wondered, when he was young and pulled from his factory job, if all his life would be the chorus of gunfire and command of orders. For soldiers, everything that the preachers said was simply their reality
Once Hexx had hissed that hope was a dead man’s concept.
For him and the others that had thrown their lot behind him, the Emperor’s Salvation did not come in the form of saints, or righteous soldiers such as the Sisters of Battle or even basic reinforcements, in fact did not come at all.
But someone did save them. All it took was for him to finally reach out to the phantom broadcast that had spent so many evenings listening to it.
It had appeared to him after offering to cover a few shifts tending to the communication equipment so that a few of his men could rest. After going through each of the channels as per protocol, he found something out of place, a broadcast along a frequency that, by all means, should not have existed. All public channels had been taken down as war on the world of Argus-VI engulfed everything, only military operations or those deemed mandatory were kept up. Yet, despite that, he could clearly hear a priest speaking, the sermons lasting for hours at a time. At first, he simply thought a priest had gone against an order and decided to find a way to preach to the people, all in the name of inspiring soldiers, keeping the faith and belief in the divine.
The Emperor was not that divinity, however.
No, after some time spent in the dark, his heart stirred by the most passionate sermons he had ever heard, he came to several realizations. The greatest amongst those was that the priest on the other end was a heretic, but his words held only truth. But what did that make him if his words spoke to him? A question that haunted him until the day he dared to reach out to the unknown.
It was that priest that provided sanctuary to him and the others that had made the decision to follow him after fighting their way out of their former base. He couldn’t blame that that had turned their weapons upon them, they were loyal to the end, and he hoped that they did indeed find peace at the Emperor’s side.
For him, they found the source of the broadcast and were greeted by the sight of crimson clad angels walking them with open armors. Amongst them stood the priest, donned in the same armor with ash grey cloth wrapped around his shoulders and gauntlets fluttering in the breeze, a prophet that could only be found in pain and sorrow. A Great Bearer of Words, Oriel, it was him that he swore to serve until his dying breath. That day they all knelt to a new commander and lord, in the name of the warband they would fight.
Life after treachery was a strange concept.
The apothecary-the medic that tended to Astartes as he had come to learn-had been swift in sweeping way the few medics that had joined his cause. His massive hands at their backs as he pushed them away, muttering about “finally having more skilled hands around” as he showed them to their new working area. He had seen his soldiers been to mingle with the Word Bearer’s ship crew and the soldiers that had been with them previously. Within months, relationships had even begun to form. Even the youth who had once been so close to dying now found himself in an apprenticeship to a kind of Astartes known as an Apostle. He was a devoted student and with time began to change, more than simply filling out with the bulk of age but in ways great and wicked, the promise of a greater future ahead of him.
Desmund had been happy for them all, had laughed at how surreal everything had felt. Laughed over how different things were now and yet how similar they stayed.
He had been an officer after all and that bought the attention of the master of the Warband. For all the greatest of the Astartes, their physical abilities, the monstrous qualities built-in into their armor and the strength of their weapons, the sharpness of their minds, there were some things that they could not do and places they could not go. That was where he and his soldiers came in, that was where his relationship with Oriel first formed. Tactical discussions became discussions of philosophy, then history then bits and pieces of their lives, everything was spoken about. Until sometimes he felt they could talk without uttering a single word.
Oriel was special like that.
His mind was a crafted wonderous thing, made to endure horrors that would cause a normal man to drop dead, to comprehend any situation in mere minutes. A living, breathing machine of war. One that had turned his attention away from such matters. Oriel was a dreamer, not a literal one, since Desmund had been told Astartes could not dream in their sleep, but Oriel had ambitions and plans, desires for more. The world upon which he now called home, was the foundation of his toils. He had told him once, when the sky was dark save for the dancing aurora lights of unreality, that he wanted to build something new, a better world, like one that he had lost long ago.
Decades spent in search of the right world where life could be sustained, resources planted to lay down the roots of a proper long-term settlement. Oriel had toiled and bled for his dream that became real with each decision made. But what he lacked was people and the mind to care for them properly. That was where he sought out his help as well. So much of his own humanity had been yanked out when he was but a mortal child, he needed someone to fill in the gaps, to bridge connections that he could not make on his own, to go where a giant could not.
But those were matters for later, not when he was dealing with a restless night.
He blinked, looking around before realizing that without thinking, his legs had brought him to the heart of the building he resided in. Not a terrible idea really, knowing that others would be awake as well and at least one would be within it.
It was an assumption that had proven correct as well.
Pushing past the massive wrought metal doors just enough for him to slip through, Desmund paused after glancing over the inner chamber.
There, knelt below a statue that was not yet complete, the lights of the warp shining through distant windows and gentle candlelight was the Lord of the Warband, Master of the Whispering Creed, Oriel.
A smile crept upon his lips, even after all this time, it still surprised him just how gentle such a being as Oriel could be. Sometimes he saw a glance at it when he was cloaked in his robes and clad in his armor, but it was rarer. He couldn’t reveal such parts of himself, lest someone-within the warband or an outside ally-see it as weakness. It just made it all the more special when that softness was revealed.
Kneeling, clad only in ash-colored robes, his fingers laced together, head bowed causing his long dark hair to spill over his shoulders. In the low light of the chamber, his tattoos almost held a metallic hue to them. Desmund’s own honor markings-given to him to show his devotion to the Whispering Creed-did so as well, just not to the same degree due to just how much of Oriel was covered in ink.
“Something on your mind?” A voice spoke, echoing some in the empty chamber, snapping him from his thoughts and contentment to simply look.
“Is that obvious?” Desmund asked, stepping forward, glancing at the few tapestries that hung along the ceiling. “Couldn’t go back to sleep, too much on my mind” He added, choosing to kneel beside the Astartes. Too many haunting memories, Oriel had spoken of dealing with the same many times.
“Do you wish to speak of it?” Oriel offered, lowering his hands, opening his eyes slowly and tilting his head towards him. Even now, Desmund still felt his heart flutter when those near-white eyes landed upon him. Once, it was due to some primal part of his mind unable to fathom the being before him, transhuman terror, as it was caused. But now it was due to a far more tender emotion.
It took him a moment to decide before sighing and shutting his eyes, “It’s the dead man’s concept again.”
“I see” Oriel replied, his voice going somber as he spoke, “The commissar’s hex continues then.”
Desmund snorted, shaking his head at Oriel and his poor but earnest attempt at humor to try and help. Still, the dead man’s concept was one of the first true philosophy discussions they had shared. To say that it was also their first true heart to hearts wasn’t too far from the truth. “It is going better” He countered, “I’m seeing him less and less when I dream.”
“That’s good, I’m glad” Oriel replied, lifting his head to the statue he had yet to finish before waving towards the chamber and what lied beyond it. “One day this place will be complete and then you can confidently conclude that the concept was flawed.”
“I know, gods know that day can’t come soon enough though” He sighed. The dead man’s concept, further proof in his mind about how deranged Commissar Hexx truly was, something he always spat at the soldiers. “There is no hope, only the determination to live for another day.” Maybe once, he might have ended up believing it, but as he turned his gaze to the ceiling, the fresco that continued to be worked on by one of Oriel brothers, one that had an easier time at painting upside down due to the talons at the end of his feet. For a creature of war, he was quite the artist.
Oriel leaned towards him, taking hold of his chin-mindful of his strength-so that he could press their foreheads together, Desmund’s own plain but scarred flesh touching the ink that traveled over Oriel brows. “Banish those shadows and nightmares, Des, every day we live, we spit in the face of cruel masters.”
The end of a wishful dream, the foundations of a better reality, the promise he held close to his heart. The thing they strived for together.
“Damn right” He replied, lifting a hand to tuck away strands of -names hair away from his face, “This world will show everyone what can be.” And show that suffering under tyrants like Blackheart or Abaddon were not the only ways to exist within the Warp. Oriel had seen the early days of the Imperium’s tyranny while he had simply been born into its outcome. A poor soul plucked from a smoke-choked world to become a soldier, a kid taken to be molded into a killing machine, in this way, Astartes and humanity was still alike.
“Never forget that, nor how important you and your fellow warriors are for this place to grow greater” Oriel continued. “I know leaving can be difficult for you and those that follow you, it is a pain I am familiar with.”
‘Leaving’ was a mild way to phrase the duties his group maintained. To go where Astartes could not spread the Whispering Creed in the places of the Imperium where there was only the gloom hanging over the people’s heads and grim doom was one of their few friends. Happiness was meagre, this he and everyone else that had left their former regiment behind knew it firsthand. Thus, it only made sense that they would be the ones to offer them an alternative path. The path of the Whispering Creed, the path to Chaos, to break the chains of the Imperium that would stomp them down in one way or another. To teach them to reject the cruelty of distant lords to spit in the face of anyone who told them to abandon hope, to trust only in the Emperor.
Hope wasn’t a dead man’s concept.
“You know I’ll be back soon enough though” He countered, trailing a thumb along the marks and scars along Oriel left cheek. “You won’t miss me that much, what with how the Warp handles time.”
“A lie” Oriel countered, “Because I always miss your presence as a moth misses light.”
For Astartes, Oriel was far more attune to the remains of his human emotions. Another trait that Desmund loved about him.
“It’ll be worth it, as you have always said” He said, leaning and reaching up to press a kiss against the cheek he had been petting. “I’ll make sure to bring you back something as well” A smile grew on his face, “Beyond the usual collections of lore and supplies we manage to sneak away.”
“Hmm, I will have to create something of equal value then” Oriel replied, glancing away only for a moment as he looked over his various creations great and small. “But the matter of spreading the creed can be set away for a while, until the rest rise to join us. Come” He stood up, rising to his full height. In proper light, his shadow could easily envelop him, “Let us retire as well, I shall chase away anything that comes to disturb your rest should you fall asleep.”
“Only if I can do the same” Desmund replied, taking the Astartes hand when it was offered. It felt only right that he try to soothe Oriel’s own mind when he could, to the best of his abilities. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, unweaving such a mind to understand what one of the Angels of death could fear and be haunted by, but he always had to try. Even if he could not, he was more than happy to allow Oriel to rest his wary head upon his lap while he stroked his hair, speaking softly about small things.
“A fair exchange then” Oriel smiled, gently guiding him away from the statue and out of the chamber. Desmund glanced back only once to eye the row of skulls atop of a makeshift altar. Joined with the remains of friends and foes, candlelight flickering against it, was a skull with fragments of metal aligning one eye socket. The actual agumentic had been taken away, given to another in more need of it then the dead man.
The warband, Astartes and mundane human alike had worked on turning the dark stone halls and chambers into something safe and livable, later on they began to turn it into something more awe-inspiring. Materials were worked into fine glass, from the domes, columns, archways and even the stairways, parts of the structures echoed what the Astartes remembered of a world lost to them long ago. These elements breathed life into it, while the mortals worked to add their own touches to it, from coaxing small gardens to grow, working patches of cloth into quilts and rugs. Were it not for the late ‘hour’- as best as time could be measured within the warp-Desmund was sure he would have heard laughter as they walked. Those moments soothed away the unease and fear that came with daily life, rekindling hope when the flames needed care. Oriel had started this, kept the idea of a better home close to his world.
Perhaps though, Desmund thought, he could also thank Lorgar Aurelian for helping Oriel find his own way, shaping him into such a caring creature despite the brutality that came with existing as an Astartes.
Even now, as he glanced up at him, the only emotions he could see in those warm brown eyes of his was a certain gentleness; contentment, a rare feeling for anything being to experience.
Without hesitation he lifted his arm, slipping his fingers along Oriel’s larger palm before settling between his fingers, squeezing some as they walked.
“Feeling a bit better?” His lover asked, looking down to him.
“Somewhat yes” He replied, “Company always does help after all.”
“That it does” Oriel hummed, his gaze growing softer, “Yours in particular.”
With those soft words Desmund realized they had come to their destination, Oriel’s private chambers, the heavy doors covered in filigree and the symbol of the Warband. Its owner already opening them, stepping aside to allow him to step in first and be welcomed by the soft incense Oriel preferred along with more candlelight. In a way, devotion and romantic love were so similar, at least to the Word Bearer.
One of Oriel’s hands fell to to his shoulder gently before he leaned down to place a kiss upon his brow. “Allow me to make good on my promise then while you rest.”
Desmund turned, gesturing with a hand for Oriel to lean down further so that they were closer eye-to-eye. “And allow me to ease any worries of your own.”
With soft chuckles, they leaned into each other, choosing to focus on the warmth and care of one another, rather than the dark around them. For Desmund he putted away the thoughts of death and of the dead man likely rolling his grave. Such things no place when he caressed his lover’s face, the eyes of such a mighty being filled with a love that matched his own.
Love, hope and the desire for more these things did not belong just belong dead man. With the beating of his heart, he would try and try again to give others a chance of what he had now, to know Angels of Death could be Angels of Hope.