For Those They Cherished

Malakim rushed over, but it was too late.

A Nurgle champion—a monster twice the size of a normal Space Marines, with a gaping maw of sharp teeth split open on his belly—crushed Redma's chest with his power hammer.

The Ceramite armor shattered like an eggshell, spraying out flesh and organs that splattered into the mud.

Redma's last glance was at Malakim.

There was no blame, no fear, only deep exhaustion.

Then the light went out of his eyes.

Malakim's rationality was extinguished.

Black Rage devoured him.

Time has lost its meaning.

The space was compressed into a blood-red field of vision.

He was no longer Malakim Phoros, Chapter Master, Abyss Watcher.

He is the embodiment of rage, the scream of Sanguinius as he died at Horus's hands, and the unhealed wound deep in the souls of all the Blood Angels Successors.

His Power Sword, "Blade of Sorrow," came to life.

It was no longer a weapon, but an extension of his limbs, the embodiment of his rage.

Wherever the sword passed, the Plague Marine burst open like ripe fruit.

A traitor attempted to parry with the Plague Blade, but the blade severed the blade, his arm, and his shoulder, finally splitting his body diagonally in two.

Green blood and entrails splattered all over Malakim, and he tasted it—a rotten sweetness, like overripe fruit—a taste that drove him even more insane.

He killed the second, and the third.

A Nurgle Cultist aimed a flamethrower at him, the yellowish-green flames licking at his armor.

Malakim pierced through the flames, seized the traitor's head, and struck his face with his forehead armor, once, twice, until the helmet and skull shattered together.

Brain matter and pus mixed together and dripped onto his breastplate.

"Angel!"

A Plague Marine exclaimed, his voice filled with adoration, "Fallen angel! The Father will love you!"

Malakim answered with his sword.

The sword tip pierced the face covered in festering sores, entering through the left eye socket and exiting through the back of the right head.

Then he saw the Nurgle champion.

The champion's first axe severed his right arm.

The Power Sword "Blade of Sorrow" flew out along with the severed arm and stuck in the mud ten meters away, the image of Sanguinius on the hilt covered in filth.

The excruciating pain brought Malakim back to his senses.

He saw his arm lying in the mud, his fingers still twitching.

The second axe blow has arrived.

Malakim managed to turn sideways, but the axe blade didn't sever his body; instead, it split open his breastplate, cut through flesh, and pierced his heart.

The one on the left.

He still has a heart beating, but each beat pumps out a large amount of blood.

He knelt down, his vision beginning to blur.

The champion raised his double axes, ready for the final blow.

Malakim saw the Nurgle symbol carved on the axe blade dripping pus, and saw the pair of mad, joyful eyes behind the champion's helmet.

Then he saw something further away.

He was a new recruit, really just a kid, Chapter for less than ten years.

What a brave boy, with a loving heart. He risked punishment from the Imperium to secretly transform him into Space Marines.

And the child is currently being toyed with by three Plague Marine.

They cut off his legs and his left arm, but avoided fatal blows.

The boy was still struggling, using his only remaining right hand to crawl forward, gripping the dirt, trying to reach the Bolt Pistol that had fallen to the side.

Malakim wanted to shout, wanted to rush over, but his body wouldn't obey him.

He could only watch as one of the Plague Marine stepped on the boy's right hand, crushing every finger bone with his boot.

Watching another boy pierce the boy's abdomen with a rusty spear, pinning him to the ground.

Watching the third person squat down, they began peeling the boy's face with a small knife.

The boy's screams reached Malakim's ears through the communication channel.

That wasn't the sound Space Marines should make; it was the cry of a human child in extreme pain.

That sound shattered the last vestige of something within Malakim.

He exploded.

He had erupted time and time again; this had happened countless times already, and he was completely draining himself.

Using his remaining left arm to support his body, he used his willpower to propel his shattered body forward.

Having no weapons, he used his head to ram, his teeth to bite, and his knees to strike.

He knocked over the Plague Marine who was skinning himself, his teeth biting through the tube in the man's neck. Pus and blood gushed into his mouth, which he swallowed, then bit deeper.

The other two traitors reacted and dropped their weapons.

Malakim used its back to withstand the attacks and continued to bite.

He bit through the trachea and crushed the cervical vertebrae until the Plague Marine stopped moving.

Then he turned to face the remaining two.

He didn't know how he did it.

Perhaps Black Rage gave him his final strength, perhaps Sanguinius blessed him from the shadows, or perhaps it was simply pure madness.

He grabbed an axe and chopped it into the helmet of the first enemy.

With the axe blade wedged between the Ceramite and the bone, he twisted with all his might until the helmet cracked and his brains spilled out.

When the second enemy fell, Malakim also fell.

He lay down next to the boy.

The boy was still alive; half of his face had been peeled off, revealing the muscles and bones underneath, but his eyes could still move.

Those eyes looked at Malakim, not with pain, but with question.

Why?

Malakim was unable to answer.

He reached out his hand—his only remaining hand—and grasped the boy's mutilated right hand.

Both hands were covered in blood and mud, making it impossible to tell whose they were.

The boy breathed his last.

His eyes were still open, gazing at the sky obscured by the clouds of plague.

Malakim also looked up at the sky.

Raindrops fell on his face.

He wondered, if it rained in Baal, would it feel the same way?

Cold and ruthless, but at least clean.

At least it won't corrode flesh, bring plague, or be accompanied by the blasphemous prayers of Nurgle Cultist.

He thought of Sanguinius.

Not the perfect Primarch in the portrait, not the glorious hero in the holy scriptures.

He remembered his father—that's what they all called the Primarch, though he had never seen him—falling from the heavens above Terra.

Golden wings are broken, beautiful face is shattered, and life slips away from the wounds.

We've all fallen from a great height, Malakim thought.

Sanguinius fell from the heights of Terra, and we fell from glory, from the favor of the Imperium, from the trust of our own people.

Now, we will die in the mud.

He heard footsteps.

Slow, heavy, with a slimy dragging sound.

More Plague Marine gathered around.

They didn't kill him immediately, but admired him.

To appreciate the end of a Chapter Master, to appreciate the despair of a child of the Blood Angels.

"Record this moment,"

A voice said, as if squeezed from rotting lungs, "The loving father will be pleased."

An angel wept in despair.

Malakim tried to stand up, but his body refused to respond.

One of his two hearts had stopped beating, and the other was beating weaker and weaker.

Blood was being lost from too many wounds, and the adrenaline from Black Rage had been completely depleted, leaving only endless exhaustion.

He heard the final cries of the Lamenters.

The firing of the Bolter grew sparser, the roar of the Chainsword gradually subsided, and the warriors' battle cries turned into dying groans.

The communication channels were filled with the final messages:

"The entire Fourth Company has been wiped out."

"Ammunition exhausted, close combat ensues."

For the Emperor and Sanguinius!

"They are eating corpses... the Emperor, they are eating—"

"I beg you, Emperor, Sanguinius, answer me!!"

"We have given you everything, please answer us, what have we done wrong to deserve this Destiny?"