Rapid Fire Challenge: Exhaustion - June 2020

[Race Bannon]

Prompt: Exhaustion 

Maximum length: 500 words

Deadline: 30 June 2020

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.

Edited June 2, 2020 by Race Bannon

[Harlan Skorus]

To the unfamiliar, Khaelemar might have been asleep. He sat, eyes closed and cross-legged in the shade of the wraithbone shelter, vaguely recognising the hot air as it rippled the air, caressing his physical form. Gentle swells of wind lifted the red sands around him and danced with the ochre robes he wore. He had not moved in hours, not since he had last cast the runes that lay before him.
 
Khaelemar spent more and more time in trances such as these, existing in the real world but travelling roads unseen to most, unspooling the infinite threads of fate. Soon, maybe, his time would come to transcend the physical realm entirely. It was the single hope he had left - the one unguarded secret he refused to allow himself knowledge of, lest it compromise his focus. 
 
He had guarded and guided the fortunes of Leythaene for thousands of cycles, and had, in this time, seen as much of the materium as he cared for. At Khaelemar’s word, worlds and their civilizations had been doomed to extinction. He had travelled to places further than other sentients dared, and maneuvered one foe against another for purposes only he divined. His accomplishments were myriad, his triumphs manifold. 
 
All of this, weighed against the sorrow that hung to his people like a plague, a cursed child that begged attention, and would one day outlast them all. Sorrow could become a path all of its own. He knew many of his kin who had succumbed to it: their will to strive slowly fading, rotting away further as the felt of the Aeldari fell further to decay; as their people fell to plight, more yet fell to sorrow. Thus it became a prophecy fulfilled by itself, a recurrent cycle of downfall and woe that would be the end of them all.
 
Much like his own attachment to his mortal form, Khaelemar’s own will had begun to waver. Those who indulged themselves fully and willingly on the Path of the Seer were sometimes thought to be above such mental frailties. Aeons of witnessing a galaxy such as this spoke otherwise. It was not the reality of the precipice that tired him, so much as the endless strands of fate that he forced himself to watch; endless, and yet still an insignificantly small glance of the futilities they bore witness to, or would participate in, or would happen without any input from them but happen nonetheless. The light dimmed. It had been dimming long before he had come to exist. And he was tired of walking in the hopelessness he saw at the end of every way. Khaelemar longed for it to be done with, to ascend to a higher form and rest. But rest was not something he could grant himself, not while Leythaene still held.

Edited June 8, 2020 by Harlan Skorus

[Mazer Rackham]

Frakes' tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.  Doc Dobson told him that when that happened, he needed to take a drink, to hydrate.  He could feel his pores begging, his whole body tightening as the sweat began to stop pouring from his body and his skin sagged.  He couldn't stop shaking as the effects took hold.  There was only so much the human body could tolerate.

 

He didn't care.  He had to keep the bastards back.

 

Boom. He racked the shotgun again, tearing up the jungle, Boom, ka-clack, Boom, ka-clack, Boom, ka-clack.

 

It had never let him down.

 

Click.  Ka-clack.  Click.

 

"Are you finished running, plaything?"  a husky voice, enwreathed with sibilant echoes of an ancient language dropped from her mouth, the words a caress like the cold steel of the Drukhari blades whispering across his throat. "You're out of ammunition..." the alien clicked her tongue in parody of the shotgun mechanism.

 

"Your luck has run out too....so sad."

 

She cut.

 

MR.

[RedDragon]

Tancred, son of Dorn, stakes his blade into the blood-wet soil. It wobbles there, drizzling little red droplets, and he shakes his head clear. His thoughts are clouded. His armour, crazed with scratches and pockmarked by las-and-solid weapons fire, whirrs angrily. His left arm is missing below the elbow - Left behind in the mire, the gauntlet and hand within still clenched into a defiant fist.

 

With his right hand, he unclasps his cloven helmet. His hair is matted with blood and sweat. It was golden, once, but has long since gone to white. His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth that has forgotten how to smile. He inhales, exhales. Inhales, exhales.

 

He can smell the stench of the battlefield: blood spilt in great, puddling amounts; piss, the offal-stink of torn bowels and the sweetness of marrow. Tancred is the last. His brethren lay sundered and butchered, limbs entwined with those of their killers'. His cloak, a tattered thing, flutters behind him.

 

The hordes of Magister Golgotha, hideous in their treachery and piety, have swept through Saint Aspiria's World. A dozen shrine-cities burn, their citizens put to the sword. Bodies burn upon mass pyres in the millions. Ash clogs the horizon and smothers the sun.

 

Anger - And pain - Makes Tancred's twinned hearts beat faster. The garden around him is desecrated. Flowers are trampled. Statues of saints and cherubim and, Tancred notes sadly, his own primogenitor have been defaced by hammer and chisel and inscribed with sickening runes. A body swings from a nearby tree, a crown of thrones hammered into its' forehead.

 

He can hear the heretics approaching again. They are singing praise to their Magister and his false-gods. Horns caterwaul. Drums thunder.

 

Tancred drops his helmet onto the loamy soil. He will die, this day, with blood and hate upon his lips. He is tired. His old bones ache. His right leg, run-through with a las-lance, drags and seizes.

 

He takes up his sword. It is heavier than he remembers.

 

Tancred kisses the blade and thumbs the activation rune. Power lines the sharp steel.

 

The first of the horde enters through the gateway; helmeted in a death's-mask, wearing a coat of chainmail, a fur-cloak that is ruffled and sticky with filth and a pilfered priest's vestment.

 

Tancred surges forwards. His first blow bisects the raider. Blood fills the air. The second and third and fourth die in as many seconds. Tancred goes forwards, ever forwards, battering aside his enemies.

 

Blades scrape at his flesh. His armour protests. He starts to slow. He bludgeons with his blade rather than cuts.

 

His right leg gives out.

 

On his knees, as blades find his throat, he roars.

 

'For the Emperor!'

 

And sees no more.

Edited June 11, 2020 by RedDragon

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Excellent work, RedDragon.

[Tarvek Val]

Cremation 

 

[Danarch — 007.M31]

 

            Ash is everywhere, tumbling lazily down in a seemingly endless display of powdery grey-white snow. Varkh stomps through the ash-storm, hardly able to make out his surroundings through the oppressive weight of the dust billowing about him. It drifts into the nooks and crannies of his armor and chokes the delicate rotor of his chainaxe, so that the weapon whirrs to life with a pained whine instead of the roaring snarl Varkh has become accustomed to. 

            The thought crosses his mind that perhaps the ash is symbolic of something. Days before, Varkh’s brothers had broken through the walls of Tyrrus Prime, a major city. The streets had run red with blood before the city had been torched, burned down to its very foundations. The thought brings a grim smile to Varkh’s face for a moment. For all his stratagems, Guilliman hadn’t made his cities invulnerable — the powdered remains of his people drifting aimlessly across this battlefield proved that much at least.

            The vox in his helmet hisses and spits. For every clipped command and snarled order, there is a bestial growl of fury or the wet crunch of fists and chainswords crunching through fragile bones. Varkh had been a centurion, once. He had worn the Bloody Print of his primarch on his chest-plate as a mark of pride, of distinction. Technically, he still held that rank. Once, he might have even ordered his wayward brothers into formation, directing them towards the enemy with brutal discipline and snarled curses. Those days had long since passed.

            It’s with some confusion that Varkh fully realizes the weight of the chainaxe gripped tightly in his right fist. He has fought against Guilliman’s sons for four days straight, beginning at the very moment he emerged from his drop-pod onto the soil of this accursed world. The conflict is dying down. Less screams are being broadcast across the vox network and his brothers have already begun to claw themselves out of their murderous mindsets.

             As silence begins to dominate the dust-shrouded plains, a silhouette blunders out of the storm before Varkh. It is an Ultramarine, helmetless and with dried blood baked into the left half of his face. As he sees Varkh, the Ultramarine gives a wordless roar of fury and charges, gladius raised high. Varkh deflects the blow off the haft of his axe, the blow jarring his shoulder and sending him stumbling back. He swings wildly at his opponent, and misses. He swings again. Again. Again. Each stroke reverberates through his body, reminding him that he has fought for nigh on ninety-six hours. His foe steps forward, sword raised to deliver a crippling blow, and pauses.

            The Ultramarine chokes, blood gurgling from the tear punched into his throat. Varkh barks out a harsh laugh. He allows his enemy to fall, clawing weakly at the serrated knife that will soon end his life.

            ‘Never forget, we are more than butchers,’ Varkh tells the dying warrior.

            He moves on, into the storm.

[Mazer Rackham]

She was still in uniform.

 

Not armed of course, because being under personal arrest didn't allow for that.  She refused to cuff at her bleary face, but she could feel the puffing of her cheeks and lips, the swelling of her eyes.  She tried to ignore the grumbling of her stomach and instead focused on waiting to hear her name.  They called, and the Manticore VII Field-Police unit snapped to attention and marched her in.  She forced herself to concentrate.  This was it.  A field Court Martial.  Her feet slammed to attention and her hand swept up perfectly to her head.  She couldn't have done that an hour ago, but she saw the gibbets being built as she walked in.

 

In the 21st Regiment of Foot, they hanged officers.

 

The Colonel stirred behind the table, looking down at her own ceremonial sword, which lay flat and straight.

 

"Lieutenant Valea Konstanz, you are here to answer a charge of gross incompetence, assisting the enemy, obstructing operations and reckless endangerment of men and materiel."

 

She waited.

 

"I find you guilty as charged," he turned the sword so the point faced her, as tradition demanded.

 

She could feel her insides trembling, was sure as her spine shuddered they could all see her shaking in fear.  The enemy didn't frighten her; the shame was the burning brand inside.  How could explain it to her family?  They'd been so proud.  What about her men?  What would happen to them?  She'd failed them too.

 

Suddenly her courage didn't seem so strong and she realised she didn't care.  She could only listen to the words coming from a distance, from the end of a dark tunnel, the mouth of it a noose.  The world began to fall from under her feet, the gibbet trapdoor.  Any second, she would break her neck.  This was a nightmare.

 

The Colonel looked at the assembled staff officers with a withering glare, from eyes that were jaded by the carrion of battlefields.

"However, in light of your bravery and service to the Emperor, it is the opinion of this court that Capital punishment or the Penal legion will be counter-productive.  This Regiment is tired of your grandstanding, Ensign and you need a lesson - one which has escaped you too long."

 

Busted down two ranks.  Humiliating, but Valea couldn't breathe, couldn't move.  She could only see the bead of light on the tip of the sword aimed at her chest.

 

"You will take command of Vratthogg's Ogryn Company, until you regain the trust of this Regiment, which you have thus far, squandered."

 

She didn't hear the rest, the room went sideways and the ground welcomed her as she fainted.

 

MR.

Edited June 12, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Your story is well-written, Mazer Rackham. I presume Konstanz was put on trial for losing most of the soldiers under her command, in a daring but unsuccessful assault on an enemy position?

"Lieutenant Valea Konstanz, you are here to answer a charge of gross incompetence, assisting the enemy, obstructing operations and reckless endangerment of men and materiel."

 

...

 

"However, in light of your bravery and service to the Emperor, it is the opinion of this court that Capital punishment or the Penal legion will be counter-productive. This Regiment is tired of your grandstanding, Ensign and you need a lesson - one which has escaped you too long."

 

Busted down two ranks.

Why does the Regiment use NAVY ranks instead of Astra Militarum ranks? (If a Navy officer got demoted two ranks, he or she would go from Lieutenant to Lieutenant, Junior Grade, to Ensign; an Astra Militarum officer would go from Captain to First Lieutenant to Second Lieutenant.)

[Mazer Rackham]

@ Bjorn, thank you for your kind comments :)

 

I wanted to keep her as the lowest grade officer with a bit of artistic license - the rank system is British Army prior to 1871.  She actually got busted for attacking a platoon of Elysians.

 

MR.

[Tarvek Val]

 

She actually got busted for attacking a platoon of Elysians.

 

It's a continuation of last month's RFC right? I just realized that. Nice tie-in!

[Mazer Rackham]

 

It's a continuation of last month's RFC right? I just realized that. Nice tie-in!

 

 

Correct sir and thank you!  Am glad you like it.  She'll be leading a familiar group of Ogryns too... 

 

MR.

[bluntblade]

I have admittedly jumped on this as an opportunity to write something for my AU project, but hope you like it. I went the moral exhaustion route, set late in an alternate Heresy and from the POV of a Loyalist Primarch:

 

  “I grow weary, Father.”

 

  The Primarch spoke to the darkness in his chambers. The lumens were dipped low, casting the richly appointed space in shadows.

 

  “Perhaps that is remarkable in its own right. After all, you created us to scorn the very notion of fatigue. You never saw me flag through any of our campaigns, did you? Even when we faced the Vremalkyr, though I and my brothers felt the bone-deep drag of those fights, we kept on. You gave us such deep wells to draw on, so much so that some of my brothers still don’t comprehend the whole of it.”

 

  Icarion took up his shortsword from his desk and unsheathed it, turning it over in his hands. Madrigalan-forged adamantium glinted, the reflected light hard even in the soft glow of his surroundings.

 

  “But how much did you reckon with the fatigue of the soul?” Icarion wondered. “The equation you placed at the heart of your design. You gave us sons whom we will outlive - sons we were meant to outlive, for you had us spend them like coin. A most valuable currency, to be sure, to be conserved with greater care than mortals… but there too, don’t we find an abomination?”

 

 

  He raised his eyes, meeting the empty lenses of his helmet. His armour hung on its stand, a silent metal figure scrutinising him from the far end of the room.

 

  Icarion snorted and shook his head. “I know the reasons. I know them better than any of my brothers, but only because of the purpose you set me to. Daemon-hunter, bearer of a truth that we cannot speak. That’s the very soul of perversity, isn’t it? If you permitted me to speak the truth, I might have mended things with some of our brothers and we might stave off any number of conflicts.

 

  “But what then of the effects which that revelation would have? On so many worlds, there are those who remembered for long decades the tales of cultists who drowned worlds in blood, not because of expanded minds but because of the favour of their gods. The enemy have helped enough of them to rediscover that, of course.

 

  “And thus your point is proven. I see the calculations you made, though my mind strains to picture how it must have been to process them.” He tired of toying with the shortsword and set it carefully down. “What has all this done to you, Father? Has it chiselled away at your golden soul, deed by deed? Did you weep for the doomed Thunder Warriors and their end at Ararat, hiding it so well that Constantin and Ra will insist it touched you not at all? Whenever you ordered the Great Bell to ring, was it more than a gesture?”

 

  He bowed his head. “None of this will stop me fighting for you. But it exhausts me, Father, exhausts my very soul. For the first time, I fear that the Galaxy will outlast us.”

Edited June 13, 2020 by bluntblade

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Good job, bluntblade.

 

Nitpick:

Icarion took up his shortsword from his desk and unsheathed it, turning it over in his hands.

Ication snorted and shook his head.

Is the Primarch's name "IcaRion" (emphasis mine) or "IcaTion"?

[bluntblade]

Yep, Icarion. Thanks for catching that.

[Graceless]

Sorry this is last minute, only saw this thread this afternoon so this is likely peppered with typos and spelling mistakes...

 

Aelux waited at the end of the ramp, straight backed, helmeted, spear held upright; as unmoveable as a stone column. Only his red cape and plume stirred slightly in the breeze. Sunlight glittered off his golden armour dazzling the serfs who manned the landing platform.

A constant scroll of data flowed past Aelux’s vision; situation reports, advanced armour feeds, updated tactical scenarios and the first details of the next leg of their journey. A planet-based Chapter again, on Rejiska, Thorbius Sector, so hopefully not years of searching required.

 

Prulter rounded the corridor accompanied by the Steel Reaper’s Master of Sanctity and an honour guard of veterans. More tactical updates, more targets and more options; unnecessary but developed and assessed all the same.

 

The senior Custodes and the Chaplain exchanged some final words before the Astartes bowed deeply and the marines marched back between the closing hanger doors.

 

They boarded the golden shuttle and locked themselves into their launch cradles alongside the others whilst the ramp shut. The roar of the cycling engines made conversation impossible, so they sat in silence until the shuttle was underway. Prulter removed his helm and gestured for the squad to do likewise. Only away from the eyes of the Astartes and their mortal followers would they ever reveal their faces and show themselves to be anything other than the golden champions of the Emperor.

 

To untutored eye they would still appear demi-gods, helms or no, but to Aelux’s mind the signs were there to see.

 

For nearly seventy years now they had been tracing down isolated Chapters, delivering the news of the Primarch’s return and, alongside the Mechanicus elements of their expedition, the secrets of the Primaris Astartes as well as Cawl’s other technological wonders. Some Chapter Masters welcomed them with open arms, some were welcoming but cautious, others were cautious to the extent of paranoia; only the gold of their Custodian armour preventing the bellicose seeing them off violently. Millenia of jealously guarded self-rule made the Adeptus Astartes unlikely to accept anyone interfering with their ways, especially when such interference touched upon the sacred gene-seed.

 

Aelux looked over his seven comrades and saw the strain; the decades of travel, months at a time spent in the warp, chasing rumours of Chapters who might have moved on years before if they even still existed. They had fought across battlefields to contact the last remnants of Chapters, broken sieges to reach the beleaguered defenders of fortress monasteries. Boarded drifting hulks, launched drop-pod insertions, stalked the corridors of infested space stations in their search. They had recorded the utter destruction of 27 Chapters, the names and honours of the fallen were engraved on the stone tablet carried by Prulter for just that reason. The last stands, futile charges and blasted battlefields were theirs to remember, along with the names of broken wrecks and gutted citadels.

 

They were not physically weary, but their souls carried the weight of the duty. Terra seemed a lifetime away.