Bowing his head, hands locked in prayer as the Thunderhawk drifted through the endless void of space, Brother-Apothecary Alaric mouthed a silent prayer to the Emperor. He had been in this state ever since leaving The Rock. Finally, after a few more minutes of silence, his eyes flicked open, revealing twin icy blue orbs that pierced the veil of space. His breathing deepened as he once more became aware of reality As soon as his vision returned, he found himself staring at his own reflection in the frost covered window. He had removed his helmet, which now sat immobile next to him, glaring angrily at the cockpit with its dull maroon eyes. His face was lined by age and stress, but still bearing a cherubic image iconic of his Chapter reminiscent of the angels surrounding the Emperor on the tapestries strewn across the walls of The Rock. His short cropped blonde hair was slicked back under the beige hood that encompassed his armoured body, hiding the majority of his form, but his bulk was unmistakable. The two silver service studs driven into his brow shined dimly in the light of the Thunderhawk. It had been an odd series of events that had lead to today, and as he looked out at the stars which floated past him, Alaric could not help but think back to the events a week before.

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Kneeled before the great statue of the Emperor deep within the depths of The Rock, Alaric had his head bowed with the rest of his brothers as their Chaplain led them in prayer. He knelt with the rest of the Apothecaries in the front line, their bone white power armour in stark contrast to the deep green hues of the rest of the Chapter behind them. The Narthecium, the tool of his trade, was in its inert form, all drills and needles having been retracted into the hollows within its structure. His hands were clasped in front of his head as the roiling words of the chaplain spread through his mind, easing his fears and calming his body as the sibilant tones of his voice echoed through his ears. “And despite all his attentions, The Emperor Protects,” The chaplain said as he raised his Crozius Arcanum, finishing the sermon. “The Emperor Protects,” the rest of the chapter echoed, ending their silence. As one, the Space Marines rose up and started off back into their Fortress-Monastery, to return to their duties. Alaric was about return to the Apothecarium himself, but stopped as an armoured gauntlet rang on his pauldron. Turning his head to face his interloper, he found himself staring into the rictus skull mask of the Chaplain. “Apothecary, a moment please,” rang the metal-grilled voice of the Chaplain. “Of course, Interrogator-Chaplain, ” Alaric replied, bowing his head in deference, while at the same time wondering what was going on.

As the rest of the brothers filed out of the hall, the only ones that remained were Alaric, the Interrogator-Chaplain and for some reason, the Head Apothecary. A third brother then walked through the arched walkway, wearing the distinctive beige robes of the Deathwing, joining the trio in the chapel. With a nod to the chaplain, he then left once more, and the Chaplain promptly followed. Without a word, Alaric followed behind him, flanked by the Head Apothecary. At this point, he was starting to feel a little apprehensive. Why was everyone so quiet? Had he made some sort of transgression? Had he broken the Codex Astartes? It wasn’t likely since he had not been on active combat duty for a while, but perhaps he had done something else wrong. He hardened himself. Let whatever may come, come. He was a space marine, one of the Emperor’s finest. He would not cower from what his own Brothers had in store for him. If he must die to repent in the Emperor’s name, so be it.

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As the party ventured deeper into The Rock, Alaric became aware of the drop in temperature, and the pedometer in his suit had already registered a total of more than 1000 steps. There were going very deep into their fortress. Finally, they seemed to come across a dead end, and Alaric started to wonder if they had gotten lost, but at a inaudible command from the chaplain, the sheer basalt wall ground down into the ground, allowing them further into the passage, lit only by silverthorn braziers rather than the fading glowglobes from before. As he stepped over the threshold, Alaric became aware of the noise of the basalt door grinding its way back up into place. He made an inaudible gulp. He had never been this deep into The Rock, and unlike the medical anticeptic smell of the Apothecarium, this place was filled with the heady scent of incense, dust and age. Every step he took left the imprint of his boots in the dust as he followed behind the Chaplain and Deathwing veteran. Once again, he steeled himself. His faith in the Emperor was absolute, and he would hold it no matter what fate may bring.

Finally, the group came across what seemed to be a natural cavern in the asteroid, and they came to a halt. The Deathwing Veteran stepped to one of the sides of the door and another emerged from within its dimly lit depths to take position on the opposite side. The Interrogator-chaplain nodded to them before stepping into the chamber, closely followed by the Head Apothecary and Alaric himself. The two Deathwing members proceeded to close up behind him, obscuring any attempts to get in. Closing his eyes for a moment, allowing his occulobe to adjust to the low light, Alaric then proceeded to scout the room as more and more of the chamber became visible. It was indeed a natural cavern. Stalactites and stalagmites were scattered around the room, and the constant dripping of water was heard. A single man in white robed armour stood with his back to him, his short black hair in stark contrast to the rest of his armour. The Chaplain and Apothecary approached the man and spoke a few words, gesturing to Alaric. The man nodded.

Turning around, the man turned out to be Azrael, their rarely seen Supreme Grand Master. Taken aback for a second, Alaric bent down to one knee, showing deference to their Chapter Master. “Rise, Apothecary,” came his deep powerful voice. With the whine of servos, Alaric rose once more to his feet, facing his Chapter Master with a level gaze. Whatever he had done must have been major. There was a moment of silence as the two locked gazes, Azrael measuring him, with Alaric refusing to back ground. Whatever the Chapter Master held for him was what the Emperor himself decided, and he would not run from it. A small smile tugged at the corner of Azrael’s mouth. “Rejoice, Brother-Apothecary Alaric,” Azrael said as he paced around him, each footstep echoing in the darkness, “for you have been chosen for one of the Emperor’s most important tasks.” Making a full revolution, Azrael stopped in front of Alaric’s face, the wry smile staying in the corner of his mouth. “You have been chosen for the Deathwatch.” Alaric’s eyes widened. The Deathwatch was something that only the most experienced and elite marines were chosen for, while he was a mere century old. Why him? As he opened his mouth, Azrael held up a hand to silence him. “I realise that this may seem strange to you, whom is on the younger end of the spectrum, Apothecary, but rest assured that you have the blessings of both myself, your master, and the Chaplains, and even Asmodai has begrudgingly accepted you. “But Master, I have not done anything of note yet and I-“ Alaric started, before Azrael cut him off, holding his hand up “Think back to your last mission on Parius Omega, and you will realise why we chose you,’ he said.

He immediately closed his mouth as he thought back to those events. He realised why. Running through a storm of slugs and heavy bolter rounds, and even after taking a plasma round to the leg, Alaric had managed to tend to his comrades on the front line, administering the Emperor’s Mercy to those gravely wounded, while collecting the progenoid glands of others and tending to the wounds of those lightly wounded. “You are willing to endanger yourself in order to ensure the safety of your brothers,” Azrael said, placing an armoured gauntlet over Alaric’s head, as if blessing him, “more so than any other Apothecary, and it is for that reason that we have chosen to send you…Alaric.” Keeping his head bowed, Alaric said nothing. Finally, he opened his mouth. “I…accept this honour, Supreme Grand Master…” he said as he dropped to one knee again, “To do the Emperor’s work is the greatest reward.” Azrael nodded and dragged him to his feet. “Before that though…let me tell you a story…do you know of the ‘Tale of Two-Heads talking’?” he asked, the chaplain falling in with him. “The old tale which is told to us as initiates?” Alaric replied questioningly. Azrael nodded. “It has a much deeper meaning…but one which you must never tell anyone, not even your own comrades, for you see, the tale refers to that of our Primarch, Lion El’Jonson.”

Quivering slightly as he emerged back into The Rock, amongst the rest of his Brothers, Alaric tightened his fist. It was not fear he shook with, nor the cold. It was rage. Rage that his own brothers could bear to do something like betray the immortal Emperor. He gritted his teeth. He had been informed of the Fallen, those Dark Angels who had betrayed their Chapter and the Imperium, and they disgusted him to no end. During his seconding to the Deathwatch, he was to look out for signs of the Fallen…and eliminate any he found. With this grim, secondary purpose in his heart, Alaric stalked off to prepare his gear.

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“Brother, your Thunderhawk has arrived,” said the voice of the Master Apothecary. Kneeling in prayer in front of the statue of the Emperor, Alaric had been focussing his mind on the task ahead, ensuring that he would not fail. His lips moved in silent prayer as he invoked the Emperor’s protection, and his hands were clasped in prayer, for once shed of their metallic second skin. His white gauntlet and Narthecium lay on the ground in front of him as his naked hands beseeched the Emperor for his wisdom, hoping for his benevolent aid in the days to come. “Brother,” the Master Apothecary prompted once more. Flicking his eyes open, Alaric nodded, “I will be there at once,” he said as he started to reattach his gauntlets, hearing the hiss of pressurization as they once more locked with the rest of his armour. Unfastening the myriad tools of his Narthecium, Alaric gave one final check of all its components before collapsing it once more. It would serve its purpose adequately. Turning around, he followed the Master Apothecary into the docking bays. 

In the large room, his entire company stood at attention, their eyes flicking over as they saw him approach. They were silent as he started past. On the opposing side of them stood every Apothecary of every Company, his brothers in a different type of arms, the one to save lives rather than take them. Finally, at the head of the group, at the foot of the Thunderhawk, stood Supreme Grand Master Azrael. “Take this robe,” he instructed, handing over a large beige cloth, “it may help you on your journey, Apothecary.” Almost reverently, Alaric took hold of the robes with a bow. Turning around, he gave a final nod to all of his comrades, before stepping into the confines of the Thunderhawk. It was very likely that he would never see them again.

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“Prepare to dock…” came the metallic voice of the servitor, which echoed in the narrow thunderhawk, rousing Alaric from his reminiscing. There was no more time for the past. The Emperor’s Work was yet to be done.