Editing Lamenters (section)

==What It Means To Be A Lamenter ==

''The Siege of Corillia, week V [9th Black Crusade - 537.M38]''



“What a fool you are, loyalist lapdog – what a weak, deluded, nauseating ''fool''. Do you honestly think you’ve somehow managed to ''change'' anything? Are you truly arrogant enough to believe that you’ve actually made a ''difference''?”

Khralk’s crackling power-maul smashes into Brenevier’s side, buckling already-damaged ceramite plating and cracking the fused ribs of his carapace before he is hurled through the smoke-choked air to crash heavily against the bolter-riddled base of a devotional marble statue of the (now headless) primarch Rogal Dorn. The sickening sound of his spine snapping rings in the Lamenter’s ears like the fateful toll of a clarion bell. Each breath he draws sets his lungs aflame; blood floods into his mouth and behind his fizzling alarm-swamped visor his sharp regal face contorts in a bestial expression of rage and pain. Somehow he has kept ahold of his gore-clogged chainsword, now missing most of its teeth and running perilously low on promethium. The growing mob of cultists watching the duel scream-howl in triumph and prepare to swarm the battle-ravaged plaza and hack Brenevier apart with their assorted weaponry and their sheer hatred.

“Stay back, curs – he is mine and ''mine'' alone. Do not interfere!” Khralk’s amplified command booms through his vox-speakers causing the corrupted mortals to cower back, collectively grimacing as the words hit them with near-physical force. Adjusting his grip on his spiked maul the Iron Warrior Chaos Space Marine Terminator lumbers over to where Brenevier struggles to rise, half-stunned by the devastating blow, his battered yellow power-armor smeared in blood and ichor and soiled with soot and ash. The Lamenter rips off his ruined helm and bares his teeth in grim defiance as Khralk looms over him like an unstoppable juggernaut foraged out of iron and spite. ''There is nothing you can do that will make me regret my decisions or mourn my actions, traitor. Molli is safe, now; Molli is –''

''Molli is clinging to him, refusing to let go, her filthy face streaked with tears. “No! No!” she cries as Brenevier carefully pries her from his leg and lifts her towards the outstretched hands ready to pull her into the relative safety of the repurposed PDF supply truck. “You must, Molli,” the Lamenter replies calmly. “This vehicle will take you all to safety – it’s what I promised you, remember?” The five-year old girl thrashes violently in his grip, her blue eyes wild with panicked grief. “No! Not without you! Don’t go, Bren; please don’t go! I want you to stay with me!” A sturdy thickset woman in the garb of a foundry worker takes Molli from him, tears of gratitude and awe streaming down her own cheeks as she clasps the wailing child to her breast. “Bren! No!” Eight more distraught children are clustered around his ceramite boots, the older ones tightly clutching the hands of their younger charges. All of them are crying and it is not due to the turmoil of evacuation raging around them or the cultists’ vile chanting rising in the distance. One-by-one Brenevier picks them up and hands them over to the care of willing passengers and each child cries the same plea as their protector-savior fulfills his oaths: “Don’t go! Don’t go..!”''

“You claim to ‘cherish’ them, Lamenter,” Khralk’s metallic vox-distorted voice is laden with both amusement and incredulity, as if he is offering Brenevier an opportunity to deny this is genuinely the case. “I find such sentiment quite ludicrous. Were the lives of a handful of ragged slum-children worth this needless pain, this pointless ''sacrifice?''”

“Yes!” Brenevier gasps, dark clots of blood spilling from his lips as he forces his arm to raise his dying chainsword to counter the Traitor Marine's maul. One sweep of Khralk’s weapon smashes the blade aside, tearing it free of the Lamenter’s weakened grip. Brenevier cannot keep himself from screaming aloud as the Iron Warrior next brings the maul down upon his right leg, shattering armor and splintering reinforced bone alike in one devastating strike.

“I didn’t quite hear you,” Khralk growls low and deadly as he repositions the maul over Brenevier’s left leg, the threat blatant and unmistakable. “I ''asked'' you if the mewling whelps were ''worth'' it. Well, were they?”

“Yes!” the Lamenter cries again, his melodic voice clear and filled with conviction. Immediately the maul pulverizes his knee, brutally destroying the limb beyond its ability to heal. “What?” Khralk snarls mockingly, shaking his helmed head in feigned confusion as Brenevier shudders in agony. “I still can’t hear you – ''what'' did you say?”

“Yes!”

''“Bren!” Brenevier is about to turn from the idling truck to rejoin brothers Athrulf and Ralland at their newly-established defensive perimeter when Molli’s plaintive voice halts him. The little girl strains to reach him, clasped tight as she is in the strong arms of the foundry-woman, her tiny dirty hands stretching out to him imploringly. “Don’t go,” she sobs. “Don’t leave, Bren. Please come with us.” Brenevier extends a gauntleted hand and Molli desperately grabs his armored forefinger, her knuckles whitening as she squeezes it with all her might. “Molli,” the Lamenter speaks as softly as his vox-grille permits. “Molli, I must go; there are other people – other children – who need my help. I have to go rescue them too. You must be a brave girl while I’m gone. This kind lady will look after you and the others. Do you promise to be good while I’m away?” Molli sniffs and blinks back her tears. “I promise…but will you promise to come back and find me? I’ll miss you.” Behind his visor Brenevier smiles sadly. “I cannot make that promise, Molli. But do not be afraid – the Emperor protects, as always, and I will never forget you.” Gently he extracts his finger from her grip and before she can start crying again he turns and strides away, grateful that his helm hides his own tears…'' 

*   *   *

“Yes…”

“Yes…”

''“Yes…”''

It is fortunate Molli cannot see her steadfast savior now; neither she nor any of the other children would be able to recognize him. Khralk grips the rim of Brenevier’s gorget, holding him aloft as he spits a tirade of abuse and castigation into the Space Marine’s tortured face. The Lamenter dangles like a child’s poorly-sewn rag doll in the Iron Warrior’s implacable grip, blood flowing freely beneath his rent war-plate, his limbs all crushed and twisted, his head lolling as Khralk shakes him like a disobedient menial in his fury. Broken bones grind together and blood fills his punctured lungs; Brenevier can barely draw breath, can barely form a coherent thought, yet he refuses to recant his actions or denounce those he has saved for the sake of a swift death.

“You have accomplished ''nothing'', foolish little ''hero'',” Khralk sneers as Brenevier vomits more crimson vitae onto his cracked breastplate. “Your own erstwhile ‘allies’ have deserted you; Corillia will belong to the Despoiler before the week is out. All your valor is in vain; for every terrified child you protected a ''hundred'' more are hunted down and slain like vermin amongst the ruins; for each shell-shocked civilian you led to safety a ''thousand'' more are rounded up and butchered like grox in the squares. The thirsting gods ''laugh'' at you, Lamenter – unlike your False Emperor, who can only sit and scream into the void. Every mortal you’ve saved thus far will be either slaughtered or enslaved and their cries of despair will echo throughout the immaterium to delight the Primordial Powers – as will yours!”

Fresh agony flares anew through Brenevier’s shattered body as Khralk releases him and he falls to the scorched flagstones, barely conscious and all but paralyzed from the relentless beating. This time he keeps the screams locked behind his teeth. The restless mob of cultists edge cautiously closer in the hope they might be allowed to partake in the death of one of the Emperor’s loyal sons. Brenevier gazes wearily up at the hulking ironclad nightmare towering over him like doom incarnate; then he coughs up another mouthful of blood and takes a deep burning breath, recalling the great Sacrifice his own suffering primarch made so long ago.

“What are the delights of the Ruinous Powers to ''me'', traitor?" he snarls contemptuously through reddened froth. "I exist to defy…and ''deny'' them, both in the thrill of victory and in the pangs of defeat. I am the shield which protects the weak and the forsaken…I am the sword that defends the powerless and the forgotten. I am the spear that wards the innocent and the –”

''“You are nothing!”'' the Iron Warrior roars as he grinds a heavy ceramite-shod boot down upon Brenevier’s laboring chest. “I slew Astartes a hundred times your worth on the black sands of Isstvan V and I declare truthfully that you are ''nothing!'' Your forsaken Chapter, this besieged world, your rotting Imperium, your impotent Corpse God – everything you are loyal to will be broken in the end. ''This'' is just a foretaste, a personalized lesson concerning the inevitability of futility. Now, I ask you one last time: ''were those useless snot-nosed brats worth it?”''

“Yes! Both now and always!” Brenevier gasps, smiling faintly despite the all-encompassing pain, vividly recalling Molli’s look of astonished wonder when he had entered the little run-down back-alley chapel to find the nine undernourished street-children gathered together like frightened birds before the yet-undesecrated alter, invoking the Emperor and Sanguinius for protection with simple beseeching prayers as their hive-city slowly fell apart around them. Seeing such uncontained joy on such an innocent hopeful face had made the entire search-and-rescue mission worth every grueling hour. “I have no regrets, abomination! None! For those I cherish I die in glory!”

Khralk laughs, a harsh, gratingly hideous sound. “Oh yes, you shall indeed die, Lamenter; though there will be no glory in your death – these jackals that clamor at my heels will ensure it.” Stepping away from the incapacitated Space Marine the Iron Warrior utters a series of sharp commands in a vile unintelligible language whose syllables pierce Brenevier’s mind like poisoned spikes. An ecstatic cheer arises from the watching cultists. With a parting blow to the side Khralk turns and stomps off, crunching over the corpses of dead cultists and PDF troopers alike, pausing briefly to scornfully kick in the head of the lifeless brother Ralland. Chanting a litany to the Dark Gods the corrupted humans surge forwards, surrounding Brenevier and swarming over him like agitated oversized ants. ''I am sorry, Molli...I hope my memory alone is enough to sustain you now…
''

Serrated knives and other ritualistic flesh-tearing implements are driven through the rents in his armor and into his still-bleeding wounds. Khralk has done his work well; Brenevier cannot even raise a gauntlet to fend off his assailants. A cult-leader of indeterminate gender sporting a brass facemask fashioned in the form of a tusked porcine leaps atop his befouled breastplate clutching a glowing firebrand. Another grabs a fistful of the Lamenter’s flaxen hair and begins to crudely scalp him. Fights break out as the cultists vie for the honor of mutilating his flesh. The pig-masked leader crouches down and hisses some unholy declaration into the Space Marine’s face before thrusting the heated brand into his right eye. Segments of ceramite are slowly ripped free as warp-maddened men and women who would have otherwise fallen in droves before Brenevier’s chainsword and boltgun defile his broken body in a howling animalistic frenzy.

''“For those we cherish we die in glory!”'' the Lamenter screams out a final time before his tongue is severed in a welter of blood. Darkness engulfs him as his left eye is likewise pierced. The degenerate mortals stab, kick, claw and spit on him as the last pieces of his war-plate are pried loose and cast aside. “This hive is ''ours'' now!” a phlegmy male voice gargles into his ear in garbled Low Gothic as several chainblades are activated in unison nearby. “You have failed, Astartes – curse your Corpse God and die in vain!”

''Better your target is me then the helpless people of Holdenmire...'' Brenevier steels his hearts and fortifies his mind against the torment and butchery to come. ''O father Sanguinius, faithful and true even unto death, accept the sacrifice of your loyal son in the knowledge that I have but one life to give to the Imperium...''

Abruptly the chanting morphs into shouts of pain and rage as the crack-crack of lasfire fills the plaza. Furious at being interrupted the cultists hurl themselves en masse at the approaching foe in a storm of pounding footsteps and blasphemous oaths. Some of the newcomers are singing Imperial hymns and above the lasfire and the shrieking of revved chainswords the familiar brutal bark of an Astartes-pattern boltgun rises like a sacred song of defiance above the chaotic mêlée of joined combat.

“Brother Brenevier!” Sergeant Athrulf’s majestic booming voice is at once fury-filled and grief-stricken as he cuts and shoots his way through the throng of deranged mortals blocking his path; Brenevier cannot acknowledge him in any way or come to his aid. ''Do not put your life in peril on my account…'' he silently implores his squad commander as the inexorable tread of Athrulf’s boots draw steadily nearer. ''The children are safe and I have fulfilled my duty…
''

A retreating cultist slams against the Lamenter’s shoulder and then the cold greasy edge of a knife is laid across his throat. “Come no closer!” the phlegmy-voiced man cries to Athrulf threateningly, “or your brother’s life will be ended by my –”

The heretic suddenly collapses against his intended hostage, his threat unfinished, his heartbeat silenced. Scores of people are swarming about Brenevier once more but with the cries of ''“The Emperor protects!”'' and ''“Hive Holdenmire stands!”'' on their lips; one women empties a canteen of water over his ravaged face, promising fervently to “make those heathen offworld bastards pay!” These humans do not sound or behave like Holdenmire’s professional PDF troopers. Having broken the cultists’ charge they protectively surround the fallen Lamenter, awaiting further orders from the Space Marine who had rallied them. The last cultist dies with a wail of despair and then a helmless Athrulf is kneeling by Brenevier’s side, holding one of his crushed hands, his hot tears of grief pattering down upon Brenevier’s forehead and cheeks. “Brother, brother I am here – can you hold on until Thoror comes?” With great effort Brenevier shakes his head; he can barely breathe now and there is a cold blackness creeping over him that has nothing to do with his blindness. Sanguinary Priest Thoror cannot save him; Khralk has done his work well. ''Forgive me, Brother-Sergeant; forgive me, brave fighters of Holdenmire; I cannot stay – I must go…again…''

Instead of shrinking back from the demoralizing sight of one of the Emperor’s Angels of Death brought so low, the embattled citizens the Lamenters had sworn not to abandon to the depredations of the Black Legion press forward and place their hands gently upon Brenevier’s exposed body, their touches reverent and respectful in contrast to the ministrations of the cultists. “Thank you, lord,” an elderly man says in a trembling unsteady voice. “I will remember you to the God-Emperor for as long as I live,” promises a younger women sounding as if she is on the brink of tears. “You ''stayed'',” another man whispers in awe. “Your Chapter stayed, even after the other left…” Molli’s anguished tear-streaked face flashes in Brenevier’s minds-eye for a final time: ''“Don’t go! Don’t go…!”''

''I must; I am sorry – for those we cherish we die in glory…''

*   *   *

Brother-Sergeant Athrulf of the Lamenters Third Company bows his head as death claims the last member of his squad, feeling as if another piece of his hearts has been torn away and trampled upon. “For those you cherished you died in glory, brother,” he whispers quietly before kissing his subordinate’s pallid brow. He cradles the Space Marine's brutalized body against his chest, weeping silently. “May Sanguinius accept your sacrifice and may your soul take its rightful place in the Emperor’s eternal Legion alongside all our fallen brethren. Rest in peace: we who still draw breath shall hold the line without capitulation or complaint until the bitter end.”

Rising, the Lamenter sweeps his piercing blue-gray eyes over the stricken faces of the mortal militia he now commands. Virtually all of the assembled men and women have tears running down their cheeks; some are crying outright. Still, they straighten and try to collect themselves as Athrulf gazes at each of them in turn, assessing them for signs of flagging resolve or stress-induced madness.

“Do not morn brother Brenevier,” he says as he dons his helm, obscuring his fair statuesque features behind his blood-splattered beaked visor. “His fate is the fate that awaits all Astartes of the Lamenters Chapter; pray rather that your own deaths are as valiant as his, regardless of the circumstances. Our Chapter Master and Company Captains all swore before making planetfall to never forsake the people of Corillia while the Archenemy yet assails you and those are oaths we will never renege, even though our allies abandon us and the traitors heap contempt and death upon us. Stand fast! This is your city and by our sacrifices we have consecrated it in the holy blood of the Martyred Primarch! For the Emperor! For Sanguinius! For those we cherish!”

''“For those we cherish!”'' the loyal hivers cry aloud in one voice as they collectively raise their scavenged weapons in defiance, their grieving faces hardening in determination. Athrulf salutes Brenevier’s body with his sizzling power-sword, his eyes lingering unwillingly on the dead Lamenter’s profane wounds, knowing in the depths of his own hearts a similar fate awaits him and those he leads. Behind his visor Athrulf smiles sadly. It does not matter: he is a scion of Sanguinius and like his revered gene-sire he exists to serve as an example of righteous purpose and as an exemplar of the nobility that still exists within the human species. ''If our primarch suffered such an end then we his faithful sons must expect no less from this hostile hope-forsaken galaxy; the distant stars burn all the more brightly in the void because they are forever surrounded by such a great darkness; thus we must strive to be as stars to the Imperium’s people, so that they may know they are not alone in that vast darkness…''

Baring his teeth in grim acceptance Athrulf maglocks his sword to his hip and slams his next-to-last clip of ammunition into his spent boltgun. A nearby explosion showers more rubble across the corpse-strewn plaza, causing the unarmored civilian-soldiers to scatter for cover. Another band of cultists clad in gaudy silk robes and wielding elegantly curved scimitars and bejeweled needle-pistols charge through the swirling smoke, singing perverse praises to an even more perverse deity. “Come to me, then!” Athrulf roars deafeningly as he swiftly redraws his sword and strides forward without hope or fear to meet the onrushing enemy frontrunners. ''“For those we cherish we die in glory!” 
''