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Captain Garviel Loken of the Luna Wolves crawled through the rubble like a half crushed worm, his legs damaged beyond what his Astartes’ healing capabilities could repair without an Apothecary’s assistance, rendering him unable to walk and resigning him to this humiliating position. His ears still rang from the sheer magnitude of the explosion unleashed by the Warmaster, as he cradled his friend’s severed head in his hands, tears streaming freely down his cheeks, the salty liquid mixing with the bleeding cuts on his face, the droplets a pinkish hue as they stained Torgaddon’s pale visage completely drained of blood. Aximand’s kill had been a mercy stroke, head severed in one clean slice — one that Loken had performed countless times, yet, looking at the other’s blank, lifeless stare, it ceased looking so merciful.
Abaddon and Aximand, his former Mournival brothers — traitors — were gone. Whether they had perished in the explosion, or had managed to flee, Loken did not know. And he found himself unable to care in this moment, his fingers trembling, as he looked at his fallen brother, hypnotized, too far gone as to tear his gaze away from him now. Except for the ringing in his ears, the ruins of what had previously been the landing site were eerily quiet. The finality of death clear in the air. The loyalists were gone. Crushed like insects under the Warmaster’s feet. And, in the pits of his despair, Loken was sure that he would soon follow.
But he could not, not yet. In this Emperor’s forsaken world, all that still remained was the bond he and his loyal brothers had — that could not — would not — be taken away from them, even in death.
With shaky hands and without breaking eye contact with Torgaddon’s lifeless eyes, his fingers blindly searched for his chainsword. After a bit of fumbling, his fingers closed around it, clasping the hilt firmly.
Cutting into the flesh was the easy part.
Eating it was not.
Loken’s nose was assaulted with the smell of iron in the air as he bit into the liver, blood dripping from his mouth, down to his jaw, staining his already bloodied armor even further, Torgaddon’s blood mixing with all of his other former brothers’ — brothers that Loken had slain, just like Aximand had slain Torgaddon.
His friend’s glassy eyes seemed to follow Loken as he swallowed.
What would Torgaddon think of him? Of him performing this ancient, bordering on pagan in nature, Space Marine ritual?
Loken hoped Torgaddon, if he were here, would have forgiven him — he had to honor his brother somehow, no matter what it took.
The Captain forced down the nausea, willing his body to take another bite. Over and over. Come on, Garviel, just one more….
When it was done, Loken was heaving with the effort as to not hurl, his whole form, that had once looked strong and formidable, had the impression of a fragile leaf blowing in the wind as it shook and spasmed uncontrollably.
With one last look at his brother, teeth bloody as he smiled at him sadly, Loken fell to the ground next to Torgaddon’s body with a loud thud, slipping into blissful quiet and darkness.
.
.
.
It was not oblivion that welcomed Garviel Loken.
Instead, it was the silhouette of Tarik Torgaddon, shoulders straight and wide, clad in his Luna Wolf armour. Loken’s heart soared with relief at seeing his brother alive and well, his feet moving on their own as he stumbled over to the other with shaky legs, longing to embrace Torgaddon.
That one small act of comfort was not given to Loken, as his arms locked around one another, meeting no resistance, running straight through Torgaddon’s seemingly massless form.
Or was it Loken, who had no physical body at this moment?
The word ‘ghost’ appeared in Loken’s mind unbidden and he could not help chuckling at the idea. Is this what his despair was bringing him to? Believing in ghosts? Although, after all that has happened, that was not the most blasphemous idea he has had, not even close.
This had to be a hallucination. Loken was dying, was he not? These must be the images his oxygen starved brain was conjuring up in his last moments.
Well, Garviel, you had better enjoy it.
As he retracted his arms from Torgaddon and took his place at his friend’s side, the scenery around them changed.
The stench of sweat and the clanging of metal against metal greeted Loken.
He was back in the practice cages, watching a younger version of himself — Astartes did not age, not like mortals did, yet when he looked into his own face, he could see an almost boyish quality to it that he has long lost — spar with Torgaddon. Both looked exhausted, panting like two young wolves roughhousing with one another, both sporting satisfied grins, neither relenting in their assault of the other.
Laughter echoed through the practice cage and Loken felt something inside him twist and shatter. What happened to them? How could they have all lost their way so badly, as to stray so far from this?
At last, Torgaddon brought the other Loken down with an expert flick of his sword and the defeated Astartes howled with feigned anger at his defeat, yet his eyes were filled with respect as Torgaddon offered him a hand to hoist the other up to his feet.
The scene changed again.
The new moon reflected in the body of water, as the other Loken moved through it warily, making his way over to the rest of the Mournival.
The air was quiet that night, the only disturbance being the water splashing as the Astartes warrior moved through it.
Loken remembered this scene like yesterday, though it seemed like eons of time ago. Yet, what he was noticing only now, looking at it through a new perspective, was how proud Torgaddon looked as he watched the other Loken. In a way, each of the Mournival members had. This was a time when Abaddon’s and Aximand’s eyes held no contempt for Loken. When their touch had still been laced with brotherly love and affection as they embraced, not with scorn and hatred as they took a stand against them and attacked Loken and Torgaddon at Istvaan III.
When had it all changed, Loken wondered?
The chatter of the newly complete Mournival lulled Loken into a trance-like state, his senses only coming back to him when he found himself in the dimly lit room of the lodge meeting ground.
He looked into the faces of Targost, Abaddon and Aximand, unable to bite down a snarl. Fools. Each and every one of them who had joined it. Fools for trusting Erebus. Only Torgaddon had enough sense to leave, to not be swayed by the Chaplain’s lies and half truths. It sickened him to watch the lodge members sit around, drinking and laughing. All of them blissfully unaware of the destruction that would follow.
This was all back when the lodge truly seemed like a harmless place, where warriors could express themselves without the fear of judgement. Loken should have destroyed it when he still had the chance, just like he had wanted. Would that have changed anything, he wondered, or would the Mournival have fallen apart regardless?
The scene changed and Loken realized these were not his memories being replayed in his final moments.
Because what he saw next was a meeting he had been excluded from.
The other Loken was nowhere to be found. Only the lodge members gathered around Torgaddon, who gripped his combat knife with a look of baffled rage on his face.
‘Ezekyle? Horus? You would betray your sworn Mournival brother?’ Torgaddon snarled, a look of disbelief in his eyes as they darted between the faces of his Mournival brothers, people he had considered friends. ‘Well, I won’t do it,’ he said firmly, unfaltering even in the face of all the lodge members against him.
‘Think carefully, Tarik,’ said Maloghurst, his form looking even more twisted paired with the words that left his mouth, ‘You are either with us or against us.’
Loken saw Torgaddon take a shaky breath as he reached into his robes.
A clinking sound echoed through the chamber, as the silver medal of the lodge danced beneath Maloghurst’s feet as Torgaddon tossed it away, looking disgusted.
‘Then I am against you.’
Loken once again wished, in this strange hallucination of his, to be able to embrace his brother as he watched Torgaddon storm out of the chamber without a hint of hesitance or sign of looking back.
But there was no chance for him to mourn this thought, as he felt the stench of death envelop him.
He was back on Istvaan III.
Loken felt like he was being crushed by the immense amount of dread he was experiencing at that moment.
He was watching himself fight Abaddon and Torgaddon fight Aximand.
He knew the outcome of this battle, of course, but that did not stop him from hoping, from rooting for his brother, thinking that, maybe, just maybe, this time, things would turn out differently.
They did not.
Before Torgaddon’s death, Loken saw the Captain of the Second Company smile, shaky and weak from his injuries, but radiant nonetheless.
Tarik Torgaddon looked honored. And Loken felt emotions surge through him, but not just his own, he realized — but his brother’s, too.
Remorse, despair, but also honor and brotherly affection.
If he had to die here, he was honored it was by Loken’s side, defending what they both believed in. The rest of the Mournival turned their backs on them, but as long as their brotherhood prevailed, there was still hope.
Loken felt tears streaming down his face once more.
And then Loken felt nothing else.