Rapid Fire Challenge: Forgiveness - May 2019

[Race Bannon]

Prompt: Forgiveness

Maximum length: 500 words

Deadline: 31 May 2019

Where to post submissions: In this thread

Note - please make sure all submissions adhere to the forum rules. Any entry that breaks one or more rules shall be removed.

[Mazer Rackham]

It was somewhere between a wet rasp and a tickle.  It didn't matter in the dark.

 

It stank of old wounds and bad blood, the spilling of secrets and the tongue of deceit.  It smelled of cold stone floors and chipped ceramite, the flakes of paint left over the centuries crisped and cracked in the splits in the marble flagstones, slipped down between the cracks, lost like souls in the aether, like pearls, snapped and running into the dark corners of the room, where children would chase them and find them, smiling.

 

No children here.  No innocence here, just beads of guilt waiting for the spotlight, the damning finger pointing, showing, shaming, forcing the cowering onto a knee.  He would not cower, he would not abase himself.  They had hanged him already, the noose of guilt falling about his shoulders in a cloak woven from petty things, unbecoming recriminations so long ago, they didn't even know what they were arguing about.  What they were fighting for.

 

He coughed, feeling the scarring cramping his lungs - all three of them.  It was both a blessing and a curse to have the flesh-wrought gift of invincibility in every cell, vein, muscle.  In a hour he wouldn't have the cough.  In an hour they would begin again.

 

It didn't matter.  What did it care anymore who came or asked their interminable questions.  All he remembered was that he had felt the thunder of the MK41 under his seat and the flashing of a sabre with a name no human tongue could pronounce.  He had learned his trade alongside Caolan. 

 

So long ago, the dream had still been there, shining and unbroken, the ideal of a war without borders, without end, expanding and riding into the unknown forests to tame the beasts, to slay the horrors in the name of the Knight.  It had been so simple.

 

Then both lies and blood had been spilled, the cuts wounding and hot, a burning trace each and every betrayal.  He spat.  The gobbet slapped wetly, blood and phlegm both etching an acidic tang into the stale air of sweat and bitter hopelessness.

 

Did it even matter who struck the first blow anymore?  Ten thousand years of running and being torn through time, only to emerge at the head of a group who had sworn an oath on the tip of the Sword.  They had come quickly enough then.  Now they waited, letting him rot, leaving him in his stinking mire of thoughts.

 

He grunted as the door banged open and the enrobed figure came in.  He gripped a Crozius and thumbed the black beads at his waist.  The helm belonged to an old friend, but Caolan was long gone.

"I see you still wear the crown of victim."  The Priest said, noting the fresh defiance slinking down the wall.  "Repent, Liar and be saved.  I do not enjoy hurting you."

"Oh but you do.  Today you are the Liar.  But I forgive you for it."

 

MR.

[Jalgar]

The Astartes warrior knelt at the end of the long narrow room.  His arms were stasis shackled and spread wide.  His dark green power armor was piled in the corner to his left.  The walls of the room were lined with promethium jet lamps that quietly hissed and gave off a flickering yellow light.  At the far end of the room stood a pair of black armored Astartes, one on either side of the doorway.

 

The captive looked up as he heard heavy footsteps coming close to the entrance.  He watched as another ebony clad warrior walked slowly to him.  He forced himself to focus as the figure drew near.  His armor was decorated with black and ivory checks on his left greeve.  His right greeve bore an ivory colored sword point down with red wings to either side.

 

“Traitor,” the prisoner spat, the coppery taste of blood still fresh in his mouth.

 

His captor leaned forward and the light revealed a helm forged to resemble a skull.  His chuckle sounded harsh and metallic through the vox unit of the helm.  

 

“Ten thousand years is a long time, brother,” the warrior begin, no doubt noticing the flash of anger upon the captive’s face at the word brother.

 

“Ten thousand years takes its toll on armor, weapons, equipment.  The body and spirit.  But most of all it twists and distorts the truth.  Do you know the truth, brother?”

 

“I am NOT your brother, traitor!”

 

“You ARE my brother!” the captor yelled back.  He quickly lowered his voice again.  “I am of the First Legion.  You are of the First Legion.  We share the same gene-seed.  The two behind me are Deathwing.  I know you are a veteran, brother.  Are you Deathwing?  Ravenwing?  It matters not.  You are an Angel of Darkness.  You have been told half truths and falsehoods since you became a Dark Angel.  You have worked your way up high enough to know I am referred to as Fallen.  Once, I was called Malachai, third Chaplain of the First Legion.  Now…”

 

Malachai trailed off for a moment.  He waved his hand.

 

“I, and many others, had not been exiled to Caliban.  We fought and died during the Heresy only to watch our gene father act slowly and deliberately to reach Terra.  When we returned to Caliban and were fired upon by the exiled, I understood.  In that moment I was illuminated.  We failed to come to Terra’s aid because The Lion wanted to see who would be victorious.  The brothers on Caliban, they knew what honor and duty were.  And companies of brothers joined Luther in that moment.  Ten thousand years later I will give you the same choice.”

 

Already shamed for being captured, the prisoner muttered, “I choose death.”

 

Malachai nodded.

 

“Then I forgive your lack of repentance. Tomorrow you die.”