LITANIES OF FAITH |
MEMORIES OF AN ANGEL By Christopher Marshall |
Chanting. I remember chanting. Long, slow, rhythmic chanting in a prayer said a thousand times a thousand times. I treasure my weapons like a portion of my own body. Body and weapons bestowed upon me by the grace of the Emperor, himself, and the legacy of my chapter forefather, Lion El Johnson. Deep into a meditative, chanting prayer of litany of intensive care, slowly rubbing oils onto the tempered ceramite alloy casing of my assault cannon, the call to arms from the emergency announcing system broke my reverie. With a speed born only of a century of practice, I attached the new barrel to the motor mounts, aligned my gyrostabilizers, and headed with all due speed to my assigned briefing room. Bursting through the compound reinforced entrance of the briefing room, esteemed Grand Master of Chaplains, the Finder of Secrets, Sapphron was already into a wave of the Emperor's blessing to the assembling members of the Deathwing Company.re that the first of his companions was raised to their ranks... Chanting. I remember chanting. Powerful, deep orations of the highest caliber. Chanting of such supreme inspiration, that I felt extraordinary valor, bravery, and strength, such that I could destroy all the enemies of the Imperium, myself. I remember Sergeant """""""", who has led me time and again into the depths of chaos itself, steel himself mind and body for the coming mission. Following his example, I and the rest of the two squads in the drop pod joined the chants of protection, courage, and strengthening of will. I remember the look of promise in the eyes of my fellow battle-brothers, the promise of death. Vengeance would be delivered upon arrival to the minions of chaos that awaited our landing. The sound of thrust stabilizers, gravitic compensators, and the ominous sound of weapons powering on foreshadowed the climactic impact of the drop pod. Chaos awaits. Chanting. I remember chanting. Foul, wrenching chants of agony, mixed with promises of death, disease, and fear. I remember the foul corrupt essence of putrid rot emanating from the horde of Nurgle's children as they advanced toward our positions. Terminators dug in, staunch defense in place, weathering firepower of lascannons, missiles, and bolter shells. I remember the breach from behind, a Rhino, corrupted, festering, bursting forth from a hidden ramp. Sergeant """"""" crushed beneath what used to be a treaded vessel of the Astartes. I emptied thousands of rounds from my assault cannon into the daemon-tank. I charged it's hull, activating my chainfist to it's highest setting, the power field discharging into multiple forks of lightning as the cutting teeth impacted into the armor of the possessed transport. The incessant, wailing cry as it sputtered it's last, a call to the chaos gods to come to its aid. I remember the detonation, the chaotic, warp cursed explosion from the center of its mass. The pain, as the daemon shrapnel penetrated the blessed skin of the Deathwing. The blackness, which overwhelmed me, the falling...the falling. Chanting. I remember always the chanting. I hear it now. It soothes, it calms, it blesses, but yet, it awakens. Awakens? My mind forces itself to focus, my vision comes alive. By instinct I take stock of my body. My body, which I now remember is entombed. My body that is now a towering hull of rage and remembrances. A body, which is the custodian of firepower enough to destroy any enemy, if not an army. The chanting filters in again, the litanies of watchfulness and rendered honor, by the techpriests and librarians in the room. The powered mechanical servos raising an old friend in all its six-barreled glory. I always remember. Who I am, how I came to be, those I represent. For all the chanting that has followed me through countless centuries, I continue to be blessed by the Lion and the Emperor, to be able to continue the fight against any who would dare oppose the Imperium. To be able to train, lead, and reinforce my brother Dark Angels. To continue to prove what it means to be Deathwing. To reinforce our traditions, our strategy, and our memories. I remember. |
