On the Shoulder of Martyrs (Black Templars 40K Quest)

+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+
To war is human.
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Humanity ruled the stars. They were always meant to, and they would forever remain its masters. You swore to make certain of that.

That oath was inscribed on a scroll that hung on your cell's wall; one promise amongst many, but a promise most dear to your heart. Over the three years since you had penned that oath, you had written many more, each swearing your loyalty and promising the deaths of all enemies. Your cell was now your own, a small holding where your oaths fluttered gently by candlelight, where you could meditate between training sessions - a great improvement over the crowded, communal neophyte halls.

At age eighteen, you had only two implants remaining: the holy progenoids, the gene-fuel to create more Astartes; and the Black Carapace, without which you could never wear power armor, and never be true Astartes.

Unease stirred within you. Your body had not rejected any implants thus far, but what if your body rejected these two? If it did, then all of this will have been for naught - years of excruciating surgeries, thousands of hours of hypnotherapy and psycho-conditioning, endless hours of rigorous training and intense schooling. All for nothing.

You activated the pain-glove. Torment engulfed you, and with torment came clarity. The anxiety within you abated, defeated but not destroyed. The candles in front of you guttered as the door to your cell opened. Turning, you saw Emmerich and his smile.

"Brother! Quickly, the Marshal expects us in the great Hall. Today's the day."
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Reginherus, six years ago the Sword Brother who had found you as a savage youngblood and sponsored your rebirth as an Astartes, was now Marshal of the Hierosolyma Crusade. He stood resplendent on a raised dais, flanked by grim Sword Brethren who carried Reginherus' heraldry.

"Neophytes," the Marshal boomed, voice clear despite the amplification. "Over the years you have trained among the Emperor's angels of death, learned the many faces of war until you saw them every time you looked in the mirror. You have also seen combat, tasted the sweet ash of battle, basked in the crimson glow of destruction. All this you have done under the strict and trained eyes of your more experienced brothers."

You stood in rank, shoulder to shoulder with your closest brothers - Emmerich, Bayard, Gottfried, even Nimrod. Together you had been stranded in a vast and carnivorous jungle for a week; and once, the five of you had gone toe-to-toe with an ork nob until reinforcements arrived. You remember Emmerich rallying the neophytes into a great charge; Bayard withstanding blow after blow from an ork, entirely unfazed; Gottfried the Goliath, almost ten feet tall, pulping an eldar warrior with ease; and strange Nimrod, who had struck down a terrible witch unaffected by her sorcery.

The Marshal continued his speech. "Now the time comes for an Initiate to take one of you neophytes under his wing. He will personally train you from here on out, until he deems fit to award you with the Black Carapace, and recognizes you as Brother."

Emmerich nudged you in the side with his elbow, smiling faintly. "This is it," he whispered.

"There will be a great melee, and the arena will be made fit for duels. The shooting ranges and the combat zones will also be made open. This is a time for glory, my young brothers. Make yourselves known! Let all see your worth!"
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You and your brothers sat at the arena, watching your brother neophytes dueling and brawling in the sandy pit. Initiates were scattered among the crowd, eyes sharp for a neophyte to stand out. As the current bouts ended, you descended the steps, looking for others to challenge. You had hoped to find Nimrod; for all his strangeness Nimrod was an exemplary swordsman.

A hand rested on your shoulder. "Sigismund! I challenge you, brother."

You turned, smiling in relief at finding an opponent. "I accept your-"

You saw your challenger - it was Reynauld. He had harbored a bitter distaste for you the moment he had met you, six years ago when you dragged that beast's head across the plains. That distaste curdled into dislike and rotted into hate over the years. You remember your fight with him in the trials - you had lasted three minutes in a brawl that should have lasted one.

"What's the matter, Sigismund the Savage? You fear fighting an Initiate?"

You narrowed your eyes, gritted your teeth. "I fear what I could do now, brother. Even as a child, you failed to kill me."

Reynauld's sneer turned into a scowl. "I challenge you to a duel."

"I accept."
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The Astartes was naked save for a loincloth. His massive, muscled bulk belied the murderous grace of an apex predator. Sinews like steel, bones indestructible, the sight of him would have made you freeze with fear six years ago.

Now, you were just like him.

You charged, blindingly fast, spraying sand into the air. You lunged with your sword, missed as Reynauld turned. The chemical stink of stimulants was heady. Your foe stabbed, his superhuman speed now visible to your Astartes senses. You parried with practiced ease.

The true attack came from below, but you anticipated Reynauld's sweeping leg. You hopped up, avoiding it, and kicked in the same motion. Your rival staggered back. Without hesitation, you lunged.

Still, Reynauld dodged it, suffered a graze to his side. He threw a punch which you dodged, right into a second attack with the sword. You felt a cut across your cheek. Dorn's blood clotted the wound almost immediately, but it was a landed blow nonetheless.

The tempo of battle rose and rose. Your twin hearts began to race as the fight wore on, pounding with each strike and every dodge. The cheers of the crowd were lost to the thump, thump, thump of your hearts.

Cuts criss-crossed both of you, patterning your bodies in instantly-sealed wounds. You could taste the combat hormones your body was producing in the back of your throat.

"Time?" Reynauld called.

"One hour," a serf in the crowd answered.

"Much longer than three minutes," you said, smiling with red teeth.

Reynauld, to your surprise, returned the smile. "Aye, but this duel isn't over until one can offer the killing blow."

Immediately, the duel resumed. His fist landed solidly on your jaw, sent you looking at the ceiling. The pommel of his sword connected with the side of your head, knocking you down. Reynauld pulled his sword back for the final blow.

Prone, you swept his leg, knocking your foe down with you. You leaped on top of him, locked him in a vice. You headbutted him, feeling his nose crack against your forehead. Again and again, 'til blood ran down to your lips.

You readied for another headbutt. You stopped at the last second. You felt it at the side of your neck - in your frenzy, Reynauld had recovered his sword, its tip a centimeter away from ending your life.

Reynauld smiled with a broken nose and shattered teeth.

The two of you stood, hearts heaving and bodies aflame with chemicals. Reynauld straightened, turned to the crowd with arms outstretched. "Sigismund here is a worthy opponent! I am proud to call him brother, and I would be prouder still if he would allow me to mentor him."

Your eyes widened. The duel had taken its toll; perhaps you had misheard.

"Sigismund," Reynauld said with a false, bloody smile. "I would take you on as an apprentice."
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[ ] Accept.

There are few things that would bring greater dishonor than rejecting an Initiate's offer. There was more to his scheme, you were sure, but declining his offer in front of all these initiates, neophytes, and serfs meant that you would probably never get another offer - and never become a true Astartes.

[ ] Reject.

True, it would be a great scandal to refuse Reynauld's offer, but there was no future under his wing. He would be the only one with the power to grant you the Black Carapace, and knowing him he would never let you ascend.​

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