# Heavy Hearts



## LongfangFenrika93 (Jan 22, 2012)

*+Classified sector, classified system. IR-466398. By order of the Inquisition. Repent your sins. Location; under the North-east Galactic plane
Year 623.M44+*​
_[Beginning of Inquisitorial Report]_
++

I don't know how long we have been here. And I don't know why we are here. The Emperor is dead. Terra is in ruins. The Imperium is in ruins. We are forgotten out here, in the dark. In the deep void. 

My Battle-brothers are quiet. Everyone is quiet. I watch Antimon clean his bolter. Eyes darting from shadow to shadow. This is a time of death and misery, one last betrayal won't hurt. 

Our glories are fading. Fading with the dreams of the Emperor. Everything is fading. My heart is racing, fighting the coming treachery. They have chosen me, this is how it must be. My bolter feels heavy; it never feels heavy. 

The shadows are growing, its getting darker out here, in the vastness of the night. Our glories are fading. We have been running, running for so long. There is no honour in fleeing. 

My ceramite-plate is unblemished, for I keep it polished to the utmost sheen. The black paint reflects the dim lights of the starship's hold, I see it playing and dancing across my massive chest. The Imperial eagle is haunting, a pale reminder. Nothing more. 

My power-sword, _Silver Talon_ I call her, flickers on when I switch the activation trigger. Ethereal, white-blue lightning sheaths the glimmering metal blade. I still feel a sense of awe, a haze of admiration. Still, after so long. 

We are small in number now, broken by the Traitors and their daemonkind three thousand years ago, in the hell-zone of Goddeth Hive. Since then the Imperium has changed. The mortal Lords of Terra grew hungry with the dominion of Man. Hungrier than ever before. Whole worlds bled to feed their personal desires. Not even Vandire could garner such wealth, and none could fathom such greed. Then the Emperor died. And the hopes and dreams of Mankind died with him. 

This ship has become our home now, but it is wrong. It is wrong that we are hiding from the mess of the Galaxy above. It is wrong that we cower in the dark when our brothers die alone and forgotten. 

The gold trim of my armour shines with an inner light. I can feel the weight of expectation on my broad shoulders. I feel aged. We Astartes are not built to age, but I can feel it. We have been alive for too long. I can see it in my Brothers' eyes. 

I nod to Antimon and Gautius, my sworn brethren, beyond even the formal ties of Chapter allegiance these men were Blood Brothers. Our friendship was bonded and forged in the hammer and anvil of battle. 

They form up beside me as I step from the training arena, expressionless and lost. Antimon's patrician features glitter in the ship's cold light. He is made from the stuff of legends, crafted straight from the perfection of Great Guilliman himself. He should have been chosen. Antimon the Beloved, I smile. 

Gautius is an avatar of war. The apotheosis of battle-hardened fury, the epitome of vengeful death. His form is huge, easily towering over Antimon and I. His left hand is gripping a battered plasma pistol, luminescent smoke seeping from its downwards facing nozzle. His hard jaw is cut as if from granite, his eyes are veterans of a thousand battles. 

I know these men follow me with the heaviest of hearts. And this only makes my task every inch more difficult. I look down at my bolt pistol, its ancient, scarred plating etched with my name. 

_Xelerus, II Captain._

It is bound graciously with a small thread, tightened carefully around the ring of the bolt pistol's handle. I smile again, it is Aera's necklace. She gave it to me as a gift, seven hundred years prior. _My Angel_, she called me. The death-fires of Macragge were no place for a frail, ten-year-old girl. Macragge wasn't a place for anyone when it fell. 

My heavy, black-clad, armoured legs shake the deck as I walk towards the Command Deck. More Brothers are falling in behind me, their jet-coal coloured helms lit only by the dread crimson of their eye slits. I don my helmet too, muttering a small prayer to the Emperor, beloved by all. I ask him to forgive me for what I must do. 

Deck serfs scatter as we march through the dim halls, I can see fear in their eyes. They sense something hanging in the air. It is strange, how mortals can be. Like dogs in the night they can feel it. I envy and pity them in equal measure. 

Fifteen of my Brothers are behind me, as silent as death is on the conclusion of battle. Only the concerted drumming of our march fills the silence of the corridor. 

I hit the seal of the door, leading to the bridge. My breath is heavy, the joints of my ceramite suit hissing. I feel numb. I am no Traitor. 

The door slides open, upwards and slowly. It takes an age. I can hear Antimon's breathing. I close my eyes and wait for the door, I cannot bear to look. I feel hollow. 

I open my eyes, and I am gripping my pistol and _Silver Talon_ tight. This is how it must be, the strong must replace the weak. Never Waver, our Chaplains told us, before they fell as well. 

My Chapter Master stands alone in the midst of a bustle of mortal engineers, scientists, orderlies, guards and servitors. Boreas my Master is named. Boreas the Golden, Liberator of Prazium VI, Saviour of the Gureleth System. Dozens of titles for an honourable warrior. He is wearing his simple robes. 

I can feel the pain in my heart. Promoted from the ever dwindling ranks, this Astartes almost single-handedly rebuilt our glorious Chapter. But times change, necessities become harder and despair replaces hope. 

For too long we have languished in the deep void. Bereft of purpose. I steel myself, adrenaline pumps vigorously.

Boreas' warm smile drops slowly as he sees the hulking Marines behind me. I am struggling to keep myself steady. He knows. I realise how much I count this man as my friend. I force it down. 

His softening voice speaks, filling the bridge, calming the frightened adepts and aides. 

"Brother Xelerus, my friend. I have not summoned you to the bridge, have I?" He manages a small chuckle, but his eyes betray his thoughts. 

My voice is barely a whisper. I speak to myself, to my dead Emperor, and I raise my firearm. "Forgive me, Brother." 

My bolt pistol barks, but I neither hear it nor feel it. Boreas can only gasp, while the bridge erupts in fire. My Brothers are cutting down the the unfortunate mortals in silence, the black shape of them rigid and still.

Through it all, I can hear Boreas mutter a few words. He is praying... Praying for me. They say betrayal is the worst crime Man can endure; I disagree. It is the shame and guilt of becoming the Betrayer that haunts us the most. Boreas' prayer will stay with me for the rest of my days.

I am grateful that my face is turned from the eyes of Antimon and Gautius, and that I wore my helm.

It conceals my tears. 

++

Emperor forgive us for our sins. 

My name is Xelerus Tybero, and I commit this crime so that the Black Consuls may rise again. Praise to the Emperor. 

++
_[End of Inquisitorial Report]_

*+Black Consuls highly dangerous and unpredictable. Deemed Traitorous Extremis; by decree of his Holiness Decius XXXXIV, Imperial Regent, Ecclesiarch of Orphelia VII, Master of Terra-in-absentia. Glory to Man. The Emperor Protects+​ *


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## Dave T Hobbit (Dec 3, 2009)

I liked the air of fatalism.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Wow*

This is one of the best stories I have ever read in this forum. I look forward to reading more of your works to come.


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## LongfangFenrika93 (Jan 22, 2012)

Thanks to both of you, boosted my confidence somewhat


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## gothik (May 29, 2010)

wow that is all i can say to that is just wow....+rep


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