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gammaflux'So, you alone have recognised my ploy. This will not help you.'
The Fallen Traitor drew his power sword, its ignition a tainted red glow far removed from the usual blue fire of a power field, and Knight Zechariah answered with a silent, contemptuous charge - this traitor had fallen thanks to the Arch-Heretic Luther's honeyed lies, and now his corrupted psychic abilities were put to use in creating a false legion of his brethren, who the rest of his squadron were occupied with to no avail. Only he had realised the truth at hand; and so only he could defeat this black-clad heretic.
The Indomitus pattern of Tactical Dreadnought armour offered far greater speed and flexibility of movement than the Cataphractii pattern, Zechariah had found. Though it was somewhat less protective, the presence of a potent storm shield made up for this downfall and then some, and paired with his Mace of Absolution, he like the rest of the squad were nearly unstoppable. Not that this assumption would hold, if he didn't destroy the Fallen Angel immediately - and whilst he'd expected some disparity in mobility, the Traitor wore his power armour like a second skin, despite the spikes and the stars of Chaos adorning its frame. His initial dodge around Zechariah seemed impossibly light. That too was Chaotic influence, no doubt.
The Traitor's returned sword strike barely deflected off of the storm shield's surface, the deflector field briefly failing to hold the weapon at bay, and Zechariah's own weapon flew toward the Traitor again, and was again dodged - just as Zechariah anticipated. If the Fallen could outspeed him, then he simply had to be prevented from moving. In a single fluid motion, he dropped his shield and snatched the Fallen's sword arm before the slab hit the ground, ramming the empowered head of his mace deep into his foe's armour, crushing his guts beneath its force. Even then, the Fallen Traitor continued to fight back, drawing his bolt pistol and attempting to aim it toward Zechariah's skull; for his efforts, he was kicked in the leg to throw him off-balance, his knee snapped back on itself as the Terminator armour's enhanced strength easily overpowered the defenses of the Traitor's joint armour. The offending weapon, hand and all, was crushed by another swing of the mace, and a third and final return blow staved in the skull of the Fallen.
And like that, one more instance of shame on the part of the Unforgiven was cleansed. Relaxing, his squad safe for now, Zechariah pulled his mace away from the corpse he was now holding up - only to startle, as the perfectly intact face of the Fallen Angel was that of-
The illusion passed, and naturally, as others had before him, Zechariah immediately began assessing the change in scenery, only to settle as he recalled at last what had happened. The dark metallic room they were in was akin to a standard training room, the machine spirits tapping into Zechariah's nervous system and restricting his movements realistically through wired plugs inserted into, and now one by one removed from, his Black Carapace ports, playing illusory situations into his mind. Far from being used for training, however, this room was purposed to generate scenarios for potential Deathwing Veterans, Knights, and Knight Masters to overcome; Brother Zechariah's situation had not been dissimilar to one Saraqael had encountered in the Horus Heresy, as a matter of fact. Back then, Saraqael had not been so lucky as to escape without injury, his stubborn refusal to change tactics costing him an arm, since replaced with a bionic that was, whilst a blunt beacon and reminder of his failure at the time, more functional than the original limb for it. The opponent provided in both the reality and the illusion was "a black-armoured Traitor Marine", of course, rather than the Fallen Zechariah had fooled himself into fighting- just in case a Techmarine working on the device learned too much from the spirits within- but even so, he'd outdone himself in both skill and determination.
'Brother Zechariah, you have passed the penultimate test of Knighthood,' Saraqael announced once Zechariah was free of the device, half a cold blue gaze and half an augmetic orange glare examining the unarmoured veteran from within a mass of scar tissue across his face, and in turn beneath a neat shock of short black hair. The burgeoning Knight's outfit more or less matched the Grand Master's own armourless robes in form if not in deed, though not his round eight feet of height. 'One more challenge lies before you, however. Follow on.'
As one silent unit, they moved deeper still into the bowels of the chapter barque that served as the fortress-monastery of the Lions of Absolution. Saraqael pondered for a while what he was about to tell Zechariah - a much more grim story than Master Gedeon liked to peddle to the Scouts, and yet a crucial aspect of testing new recruits. Those joining the First Company fresh often feigned ignorance about the Fallen, even when they'd been present during Caliban's Fall, and yet many had been entirely absent for the Shattering, Zechariah included.
'What have you been told about the Shattering?' Saraqael asked abruptly, their only audience now a cadre of Watchers.
'Of the Heavenfall Blade? Only what I have been allowed,' Zechariah replied, a polite and suitably formal response. 'As Master Gedeon has stated, the blade was formerly wielded by Supreme Grand Master Kushiel, only to shatter as it struck down the last of a band of Traitor Marines.'
'Indeed. And I suppose you recognise that you have not been told the full truth?'
'...I have supposed nothing, Grand Master. It is not my place.'
'Yet, knowing what you now know compared to the original telling, do you believe the story in full? Or do you suspect it is falsified?'
'Well, if I am permitted to say so, Grand Master...' Hesitation, just long enough for Saraqael to nod his approval. 'In this context, I imagine the foes that broke the Blade were not mere Traitor Marines.'
'Indeed.' Nothing more was said until they reached their destination: the heart of the Lions' Chamber of Judgements, a place of black marble and grey stone. The shadowed arch was a far cry from that of the Rock which the Dark Angels held sacred, but it was decorated with the names of those who had previously passed beneath, and it would more than suffice for this final test.
'The truth of the Shattering is as follows,' Saraqael uttered monotonously, halting Zechariah's motion with an arm as he stepped ahead of the veteran before turning back to face him. 'Much of it has been relayed faithfully, but the foes the sword broke against were not mere Traitor Marines. As you have surmised, those it faced on the day were Fallen, at least in part.' Zechariah's face contorted to a scowl, but he said nothing in response. Good. Contempt for the vile, more than proven before now.
'It did not, however, break with the last killing blow of battle. Rather, it broke at combat's height against the weapon of a Fallen Angel, when its edge was needed most.' This revelation caused more reaction. Not much more, but a widening of the eyes in disbelief. 'The Shattering alone marked the destruction of a priceless relic, but the blade's failure was not Sin in itself. The consequences thereafter were what was and still is unforgivable - because of the Heavenfall Blade's destruction,' Saraqael proclaimed with great condemnation, 'and in spite of our best efforts thereafter, several Fallen escaped their due punishment, an unfathomable blow to our efforts.' Now Zechariah was reacting - some mixture of uncoiling horror and disgust and righteous fury, filtered through the psycho-conditioned mind of a Space Marine to produce no more than a locked jaw and, perhaps, barely-suppressed twitching as his muscles clenched tightly.
Saraqael sympathised with his reaction. He himself considered the Sin of the Shattering a blight that the Lions of Absolution should never have experienced, and if Zechariah ever achieved the rank of Knight Master, he too would learn why this was - a stray shard from the broken blade, sharp as the obsidian it was forged from, had been what cut out Saraqael's eye and damaged much of the rest of his face, and surely his blinding, on top of his failure to react properly despite his mere wound, was what had led to the Fallen Traitor escaping with his life and too many of his unrepentant comrades. No matter how one looked at it, Saraqael surely had personal responsibility in the Sin of the Shattering.
'How dare they.' Zechariah's statement conveyed his hatred of the Fallen all too aptly, heightened yet further by another drizzle of truth. Just in time - the Watchers in the Dark had positioned his new equipment, mace and shield and black Indomitus armour with orange lenses, each attached to a pedestal on the other side of the arch. All he needed to do was walk to them.
'The Blade of Mourning,' Saraqael continued, taking the weapon from the Watcher who bore it up to him and drawing it from its sheath, 'has been intentionally warped. In bowing so, it bears the weight of the Sin of the Shattering, so that its brothers retain their parents' purity despite the Sin's marring. Kneel.' Zechariah did so, going down on one knee before Saraqael before the Grand Master continued. 'As a part of the First Company, you were dubbed with this blade, taking on the burden of both Sins, the Shattering and the Fallen. In joining the ranks of the Deathwing's Knights, you shall be dubbed again, taking on the burden twofold. If you can bear its weight, you will be accepted. If you cannot, you will die here as though you had failed any preceding test. Do you understand?'
'Yes, Grand Master.'
'Then, by my power.' Saraqael took up a two-handed stance with his Mourneblade, before bringing it down toward Zechariah's left shoulder - not a full-speed swing, but fast enough to threaten a slight cut if he flinched. He did not.
'As Grand Master of the Deathwing of the Lions of Absolution.' Another swing, directed towards the right shoulder.
'I dub thee.' One last swing toward the center of Zechariah's skull, and once more halted just before it would wound.
'Knight Zechariah, of the Deathwing.
'Now stand, and receive your reward,' he concluded, keeping the Blade of Mourning unsheathed. Zechariah stood, perhaps wondering why the Blade was still in Saraqael's hand - only to strain, and then tense up as he realised what was happening, before slowly and carefully beginning to walk toward the arch.
The first time a Marine of the Lions of Absolution was dubbed with the Blade of Mourning, they took on the burden of both the Sin of the Shattering and the Sin of the Fall. And Sins had Weight - not literal, but metaphorical, psychological, dragging all but the most utterly righteous down even when fully unburdened, and somehow the Blade of Mourning imposed that Weight upon them for a time. A member of the Deathwing had to be capable of bearing that metaphorical Weight - and with each subsequent step up the ladder, each dubbing from Veteran to Knight to Knight Master, and each new bearing of the Sins, the Weight grew heavier. To bear the Weight at all was proof of one's devotion to the cause of the Unforgiven; yet the Knights bore double the Weight of the Veterans; and the Knight Masters bore that Weight thrice over.
To date, the only man who had taken the Sins on a fourth time was the Deathwing's own Champion. Not even Saraqael had taken such a Weight, nor did he fully understood how the Champion had achieved it, and for that he held great respect for his functional second.
Yes, Zechariah would have his rank, his equipment, his reward. All he needed to do was walk to it.
If he could.
The Fallen Traitor drew his power sword, its ignition a tainted red glow far removed from the usual blue fire of a power field, and Knight Zechariah answered with a silent, contemptuous charge - this traitor had fallen thanks to the Arch-Heretic Luther's honeyed lies, and now his corrupted psychic abilities were put to use in creating a false legion of his brethren, who the rest of his squadron were occupied with to no avail. Only he had realised the truth at hand; and so only he could defeat this black-clad heretic.
The Indomitus pattern of Tactical Dreadnought armour offered far greater speed and flexibility of movement than the Cataphractii pattern, Zechariah had found. Though it was somewhat less protective, the presence of a potent storm shield made up for this downfall and then some, and paired with his Mace of Absolution, he like the rest of the squad were nearly unstoppable. Not that this assumption would hold, if he didn't destroy the Fallen Angel immediately - and whilst he'd expected some disparity in mobility, the Traitor wore his power armour like a second skin, despite the spikes and the stars of Chaos adorning its frame. His initial dodge around Zechariah seemed impossibly light. That too was Chaotic influence, no doubt.
The Traitor's returned sword strike barely deflected off of the storm shield's surface, the deflector field briefly failing to hold the weapon at bay, and Zechariah's own weapon flew toward the Traitor again, and was again dodged - just as Zechariah anticipated. If the Fallen could outspeed him, then he simply had to be prevented from moving. In a single fluid motion, he dropped his shield and snatched the Fallen's sword arm before the slab hit the ground, ramming the empowered head of his mace deep into his foe's armour, crushing his guts beneath its force. Even then, the Fallen Traitor continued to fight back, drawing his bolt pistol and attempting to aim it toward Zechariah's skull; for his efforts, he was kicked in the leg to throw him off-balance, his knee snapped back on itself as the Terminator armour's enhanced strength easily overpowered the defenses of the Traitor's joint armour. The offending weapon, hand and all, was crushed by another swing of the mace, and a third and final return blow staved in the skull of the Fallen.
And like that, one more instance of shame on the part of the Unforgiven was cleansed. Relaxing, his squad safe for now, Zechariah pulled his mace away from the corpse he was now holding up - only to startle, as the perfectly intact face of the Fallen Angel was that of-
The illusion passed, and naturally, as others had before him, Zechariah immediately began assessing the change in scenery, only to settle as he recalled at last what had happened. The dark metallic room they were in was akin to a standard training room, the machine spirits tapping into Zechariah's nervous system and restricting his movements realistically through wired plugs inserted into, and now one by one removed from, his Black Carapace ports, playing illusory situations into his mind. Far from being used for training, however, this room was purposed to generate scenarios for potential Deathwing Veterans, Knights, and Knight Masters to overcome; Brother Zechariah's situation had not been dissimilar to one Saraqael had encountered in the Horus Heresy, as a matter of fact. Back then, Saraqael had not been so lucky as to escape without injury, his stubborn refusal to change tactics costing him an arm, since replaced with a bionic that was, whilst a blunt beacon and reminder of his failure at the time, more functional than the original limb for it. The opponent provided in both the reality and the illusion was "a black-armoured Traitor Marine", of course, rather than the Fallen Zechariah had fooled himself into fighting- just in case a Techmarine working on the device learned too much from the spirits within- but even so, he'd outdone himself in both skill and determination.
'Brother Zechariah, you have passed the penultimate test of Knighthood,' Saraqael announced once Zechariah was free of the device, half a cold blue gaze and half an augmetic orange glare examining the unarmoured veteran from within a mass of scar tissue across his face, and in turn beneath a neat shock of short black hair. The burgeoning Knight's outfit more or less matched the Grand Master's own armourless robes in form if not in deed, though not his round eight feet of height. 'One more challenge lies before you, however. Follow on.'
As one silent unit, they moved deeper still into the bowels of the chapter barque that served as the fortress-monastery of the Lions of Absolution. Saraqael pondered for a while what he was about to tell Zechariah - a much more grim story than Master Gedeon liked to peddle to the Scouts, and yet a crucial aspect of testing new recruits. Those joining the First Company fresh often feigned ignorance about the Fallen, even when they'd been present during Caliban's Fall, and yet many had been entirely absent for the Shattering, Zechariah included.
'What have you been told about the Shattering?' Saraqael asked abruptly, their only audience now a cadre of Watchers.
'Of the Heavenfall Blade? Only what I have been allowed,' Zechariah replied, a polite and suitably formal response. 'As Master Gedeon has stated, the blade was formerly wielded by Supreme Grand Master Kushiel, only to shatter as it struck down the last of a band of Traitor Marines.'
'Indeed. And I suppose you recognise that you have not been told the full truth?'
'...I have supposed nothing, Grand Master. It is not my place.'
'Yet, knowing what you now know compared to the original telling, do you believe the story in full? Or do you suspect it is falsified?'
'Well, if I am permitted to say so, Grand Master...' Hesitation, just long enough for Saraqael to nod his approval. 'In this context, I imagine the foes that broke the Blade were not mere Traitor Marines.'
'Indeed.' Nothing more was said until they reached their destination: the heart of the Lions' Chamber of Judgements, a place of black marble and grey stone. The shadowed arch was a far cry from that of the Rock which the Dark Angels held sacred, but it was decorated with the names of those who had previously passed beneath, and it would more than suffice for this final test.
'The truth of the Shattering is as follows,' Saraqael uttered monotonously, halting Zechariah's motion with an arm as he stepped ahead of the veteran before turning back to face him. 'Much of it has been relayed faithfully, but the foes the sword broke against were not mere Traitor Marines. As you have surmised, those it faced on the day were Fallen, at least in part.' Zechariah's face contorted to a scowl, but he said nothing in response. Good. Contempt for the vile, more than proven before now.
'It did not, however, break with the last killing blow of battle. Rather, it broke at combat's height against the weapon of a Fallen Angel, when its edge was needed most.' This revelation caused more reaction. Not much more, but a widening of the eyes in disbelief. 'The Shattering alone marked the destruction of a priceless relic, but the blade's failure was not Sin in itself. The consequences thereafter were what was and still is unforgivable - because of the Heavenfall Blade's destruction,' Saraqael proclaimed with great condemnation, 'and in spite of our best efforts thereafter, several Fallen escaped their due punishment, an unfathomable blow to our efforts.' Now Zechariah was reacting - some mixture of uncoiling horror and disgust and righteous fury, filtered through the psycho-conditioned mind of a Space Marine to produce no more than a locked jaw and, perhaps, barely-suppressed twitching as his muscles clenched tightly.
Saraqael sympathised with his reaction. He himself considered the Sin of the Shattering a blight that the Lions of Absolution should never have experienced, and if Zechariah ever achieved the rank of Knight Master, he too would learn why this was - a stray shard from the broken blade, sharp as the obsidian it was forged from, had been what cut out Saraqael's eye and damaged much of the rest of his face, and surely his blinding, on top of his failure to react properly despite his mere wound, was what had led to the Fallen Traitor escaping with his life and too many of his unrepentant comrades. No matter how one looked at it, Saraqael surely had personal responsibility in the Sin of the Shattering.
'How dare they.' Zechariah's statement conveyed his hatred of the Fallen all too aptly, heightened yet further by another drizzle of truth. Just in time - the Watchers in the Dark had positioned his new equipment, mace and shield and black Indomitus armour with orange lenses, each attached to a pedestal on the other side of the arch. All he needed to do was walk to them.
'The Blade of Mourning,' Saraqael continued, taking the weapon from the Watcher who bore it up to him and drawing it from its sheath, 'has been intentionally warped. In bowing so, it bears the weight of the Sin of the Shattering, so that its brothers retain their parents' purity despite the Sin's marring. Kneel.' Zechariah did so, going down on one knee before Saraqael before the Grand Master continued. 'As a part of the First Company, you were dubbed with this blade, taking on the burden of both Sins, the Shattering and the Fallen. In joining the ranks of the Deathwing's Knights, you shall be dubbed again, taking on the burden twofold. If you can bear its weight, you will be accepted. If you cannot, you will die here as though you had failed any preceding test. Do you understand?'
'Yes, Grand Master.'
'Then, by my power.' Saraqael took up a two-handed stance with his Mourneblade, before bringing it down toward Zechariah's left shoulder - not a full-speed swing, but fast enough to threaten a slight cut if he flinched. He did not.
'As Grand Master of the Deathwing of the Lions of Absolution.' Another swing, directed towards the right shoulder.
'I dub thee.' One last swing toward the center of Zechariah's skull, and once more halted just before it would wound.
'Knight Zechariah, of the Deathwing.
'Now stand, and receive your reward,' he concluded, keeping the Blade of Mourning unsheathed. Zechariah stood, perhaps wondering why the Blade was still in Saraqael's hand - only to strain, and then tense up as he realised what was happening, before slowly and carefully beginning to walk toward the arch.
The first time a Marine of the Lions of Absolution was dubbed with the Blade of Mourning, they took on the burden of both the Sin of the Shattering and the Sin of the Fall. And Sins had Weight - not literal, but metaphorical, psychological, dragging all but the most utterly righteous down even when fully unburdened, and somehow the Blade of Mourning imposed that Weight upon them for a time. A member of the Deathwing had to be capable of bearing that metaphorical Weight - and with each subsequent step up the ladder, each dubbing from Veteran to Knight to Knight Master, and each new bearing of the Sins, the Weight grew heavier. To bear the Weight at all was proof of one's devotion to the cause of the Unforgiven; yet the Knights bore double the Weight of the Veterans; and the Knight Masters bore that Weight thrice over.
To date, the only man who had taken the Sins on a fourth time was the Deathwing's own Champion. Not even Saraqael had taken such a Weight, nor did he fully understood how the Champion had achieved it, and for that he held great respect for his functional second.
Yes, Zechariah would have his rank, his equipment, his reward. All he needed to do was walk to it.
If he could.
