# How Fragile the Skein [40k] [short]



## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

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*How Fragile the Skein*

1119 words
_RiaR: Undone_ entry on the Bolthole

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Kierm shifted in her sweat-soaked sheets, not daring to open her eyes, not daring to focus on the throbbing voices enough to understand them. What they would be saying was simple enough: she hadn't the chance of a pure soul in the warp to live.

She had seen what the bolt round had done to her gut, before she had passed out from blood loss. The Traitor Marines had gunned down her entire platoon, and she was no exception. She'd just been given a lingering death, that's all. She didn't know how she had been found, why she had been taken to an infirmary, but she knew that she wouldn't survive the wound. She remembered her immobile, unresponsive legs sprawled out beneath her, and seeing the ruin of her intestines spilling around her fingers as she clutched at the gaping, cratered edges of the hole, the hole in her stomach…

Her body shook at the visceral recollection, but her lower half remained numb.

It was a miracle she had survived this long—hours? Days? Other injured soldiers of the PDF would need the bed, she knew, other, more fortunate men and women who would live out the rest of their lives as cripples—but who would, all the same, _live_.

It would be a mercy to kill her, they would be saying now, to spare her however much more of these torture.

She didn't want to die. Not so soon; not so young. She had been invincible, the scrappy young undercover who had risen to the ranks of the PDF and knew she would keep rising. She'd marched proudly with her regiment. She shouldn't have been injured like this, shouldn't be ruined and thrown away without accomplishing anything at all with her life.

Knowing this only added to the all-consuming pain. She didn't want to die, but couldn't even summon the energy to croak as much through her parched lips.

So Kierm prayed.

She prayed to the Emperor, Creator of All, who watched from the Golden Throne. She prayed to His Nine Sons. She prayed to the Omnissiah and the beeping machine spirits that surrounded her cot. She prayed to the small saints and ancestors of the underhive. She prayed to St. Melchias the Wanderer, for what was this road down which she tossed and turned in her bed but life's final pathway, in need of warding? She prayed to Two-Faced Miettra, the Trickster Hag, for what needed she here but to cheat the dice one last time? She prayed, and prayed, and prayed, but heard only silence, and felt only agony and creeping numbness.

She slept. Her bowels moved, accompanied by pulsating waves of unbearable pain and, she imagined, an undammable flow of blood. She was fed several spoonfuls of soup and several sips of water by gentle hands—sustenance forced back out in a fit of weak, retching convulsions. Her head was held, stroked, and sponged clean.

She wondered, in her nausea, weakness and disorientation, who cared for her. The Sisters Hospitalier? Insanity. She was nobody, absolutely nothing of importance. She prayed. She wept.

She slept, and was torn back into waking by the pain of their changing her bandages, red sodden bandages, where clean white linen had been applied.

Had it been days since her platoon was killed, now? Or hours? Had she only just been dragged in off the corpse heap? Or were the staff so overworked by a press on injuries that they had put off changing her bandages for far longer than they needed to? Had they changed her bandages before, without her noticing? No, she would have felt that pain. She prayed. She wept.

Her delirium deepened. White flashes of light interrupted her attempts at concentration, and her limbs tingled. A miasmatic fugue descended on her, deadening and crazing her thoughts. Always there was the pain, the insane predator gnawing on the coiled ropes of her intestines.

She began to fear death less, and hope for it more than half-heartedly. She wouldn't recover from this. Why didn't the chirurgeons kill her? She was a drain on their time, energy and resources, and every moment she spent alive—every crawling, rattling breath—she spent in pain. She hated them for not killing her, hated the Emperor for being spiteful enough to prolong her torment so.

Had she died, then? This was not the Emperor's Golden Throne, before which she would stand toe judged, nor was it the writhing, insane warp into which sinners were cast. She didn't think she had died, but this pain… she didn't see what else it could be.

So many question, no answers. Nothing but the pain. Never anything but the pain—she couldn't even remember the lapses of unconsciousness that blotted the pain out, however briefly.

Until…

"Awaken, soldier."

The voice wormed its way into her mind, cutting through the pain and reverberating through her mind. It frightened her, in a way: she'd fled here, inside herself, to escape reality, and now somebody was forcing his way inside to reach her.

"Awaken."

It rattled around in her mind and forced open her eyes. The light was blinding, bringing tears to her eyes, but it slowly resolved into a blurry figure.

"What is your name, soldier?"

"K-" she croaked. Water was dribbled down her throat. "Kierm," she managed.

"You have done well, Kierm. Do you know who you fought against?"

The recollection of those hulking, unstoppable figures tore a sob from her. "Death," she whimpered.

"Yes, death. The unmakers of worlds. Space Marines, fallen into betrayal. It is a terrible, terrible truth that His Angels of Death can so fall, but the Emperor spared you: He has a plan for you. Can you help me fulfill that plan, Trooper Kierm?"

"I don't…" Kierm said, trying to make the words, "I mean…how could He demand…more of me?"

"Shhh," came the soothing reply. "All you have to do is answer me a few questions about your enemies. How many were there? What did you notice about their armor?"

"I just want… to rest," she whimpered. "I don't want to hurt any more. Please tell Him… please tell Him I don't want to hurt any more."

The blurry figure moved above her, growing larger. A gentle kiss was planted on her forehead. "It's all right, Kierm. You can tell Him yourself."

The figure backed away and spoke to another person in the room. The mental contact of the voice withdrew. "Another one too damaged to give us anything useful. Damn. How fragile the skein of life; how easy to see it undone. Give her the Emperor's Mercy; I'll head to the next ward now."

The reply was a muted, "Yes, Inquisitor."

Kierm wept with relief.

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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

An interesting story, though for me the fact that she had survived this long after suffering a bolter wound made it somewhat... unbelievable. Granted, she was dying, had been dying for an unknown period of time, but still. Not sure why it bothered me as much as it did, but it was distracting throughout.

All in all though, an excellent tale as usual. I like the rather abrupt ending, and the seemingly gentle nature of the Inquisitor as it is so much at odds with the standard sheer-badass picture.

One typo that I caught:


Mossy Toes said:


> Had it been days nice her platoon was killed, now? Or hours?


Since, I believe 

Great story, Mossy! I'll try to get to your other one (shocking that no one else has posted yet...) tomorrow.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

Well, Dave +repped me for this one, so I'm not feeling wholly neglected. Still, thanks for reading!

Yeah, I'll change that to "since."

I'll take your word for it about the bolter round, what with you being the one with markedly more experience with... that sort of thing. Still, I'm lazy and going to leave it, for the time being.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Well with standard abdominal wounds, the stomach acid tends to leak out and screw everything else down there up. Organs basically eventually turn to mush, and that's without it being a .50 caliber explosive round haha

And now you know. And knowing is half the battle.

...G. I. Jooooooeee...


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