In his state of near total shutdown, his mind took him places, places and memories he had not thought of in decades. The sound of the grass blowing gently in the distance sounded to him like the waters of the Bay, so much so that his mind took him to the day his father had finally taken him with him on a fishing expedition, he was finally big enough to paddle with his father and his fishing partner. It had taken most of the morning to reach the fishing grounds, placing his paddle down, he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, a with a soft rolling rumble that was his tone he spoke to Tyber, “Ahi, stay in the hull of the waka, you’re not a strong swimmer yet, me and Kaha will handle getting in the water with the spears.”
Tyber sat in the hull, watching as his father and Kaha dove into the water, every so often a large fish would be tossed up onto the platform that was supported by the hull and the out rigger. He had no real idea of how long he’d been sitting, watching the rising and falling of the horizon, the only thing he knew forsure was that the dark clouds on the horizon were getting closer. Storms were rare in this area, but they did come during the rainy season, but that should still be weeks away.
Lying on his back looking up at the sky, he blinked as the first water droplet hit his cheek, blinking a couple of times; he heard it, the howl of the wind picking up. Sitting up right he looked into the water, not seeing either his father of Kaha, he knew that he needed to get the sail down, less the Waka be pushed away from the fishing grounds. Hulling himself on the platform, his small six year old body had to jump to reach the rope to bring in the sail, pulling with all his might on the rope in time with the wind the lower part of the mast came around, hitting him in the chest hard enough to send him in to the water, the wind knocked out of him. Down he sank below the waves, deeper and deeper, the pressure on his chest grew and grew the deeper he sank, he couldn’t breathe. The only thing he could think to do was thrash about, but nothing was working, the pressure grew more, squeezing the air from his lungs as the world turned black on him.
He felt only pressure on his chest, no pain, he could hear a soft beeping in the distance and could feel a bright light shining down on him, the beeping was interrupted by words that he couldn’t make out; an impossibly deep voice spoke in response to one that had to have been his mother’s voice. He wanted to cough, he couldn’t help it, he needed to sit up, but the pressure on his chest was holding him down, he thrashed around, gripping something cooler than the air he felt on his skin. Opening his eyes he looked at it, he knew what it was, one of the Lords was here, their arm was white, following it up he saw the twisting symbol on the shoulder guard, moving his eyes to the head, he knew this Lord, he had seen him every year for as long as he could remember, hoarsely he whispered out “Lord Artemis.”
Artemis, smiled, his features youthful for an Astartes of his years, he liked these trips out to the Bay, it had become his area, “I told you Ahi would be fine, he is strong.” He said in his deep voice, his smile became a grin, “He’s got a destiny before him.”
Tyber felt the rush of chemicals through his body, the powerful mix of combat stimulants and pain suppressants pumping in through him, he was drawing closer and closer to being fully aware of what was going on he thrashed about violently, like breaking through the surface of the water, his world still fuzzy he spoke out hoarsely, “Artemis, that is two I owe you.”
He gripped the forearm of the Apothecary that was leaning over him on the right arm that was holding him down as they came more into focus. Blinking a couple of times, he found himself looking into the face plate of Iron Armour, not the Maximus helm with a white strip down the center that Artemis wore, narrowing his eyes the stab of pain in his chest reminded him where he was. The pain was more than physical; it was a deeper pain, the kind of pain that only came from being alone and away from anything or anyone from his home chapter. “Yeng, I thank you for your ministrations, was the beast put down?” he asked with his lips dry and caked with dried blood.
No answer came from his brothers, looking to his left, he saw Akkad kneeling a black chainsword still in his grip. It took Tyber a moment to process this, reaching behind him, he found that his assigned blade was missing. Sitting bolt upright, he started to feel to his right, each hand motion becoming more frantic than the last, till his mighty paw fell upon the hilt of his arming sword. His shoulders fell in a physical expression of his relief of finding it.
A sharp pain in his chest had him place one hand over the rent in his armour, causing him to look down and see it for the first time, a soft set of words escaped his lips, “Sabaan is going to be mad…”
At a later date…
Having come back to the capital, Tyber found himself wandering aimlessly, stopping at each carving of the mortals’ devotion to the Emperor. Occasionally he’d touch one of the mortals that was gawking at him or had prostrated themselves at his presence, when he would touch them they seemed to fall into what one could call a religious ecstasy. For Tyber it was done mostly to get them out of his way during his wandering. Ever since he had awoken in the field, something deep inside of him felt off.
Akkad had returned the chainsword, but in his hand the blade no longer felt like his, it felt borrowed, borrowed like the armour he wore. Looking down at the Aquila on the chest, it felt wrong to him, he missed the thunderbolts that his plate bore.
Again he found himself standing before a statue devoted to the Emperor, this one dozens of meters tall, Tyber pulled his helm free, placing it on the dais before removing the rest of his plate, laying it out as if it was a fallen Astartes on the ground, with the head sitting between the feet of the Emperor. He sat cross legged his arming sword across his upturned palms, eyes shut, breathing controlled, there were questions that burned in his chest, answers that needed to be given, his tone low, hushed just above a whisper he spoke “Tell me why, Grandfather. Why have I been chosen of the First Legion to turn our attention from the edges of the Imperium towards the center, what is your plan for me? Why does your realm seem to have fallen so far from your ideals?”
He had no idea how long he has sat there, waiting for an answer that never came, sighing to himself he placed his arming sword down before armouring himself to continue on his wanderings throughout the city.
To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...