Editing Trapped

{{Story}}

A touching story inspired vaguely by All Quiet on the Western Front.

==The Story==

The Guardsman awoke in darkness, his head spinning. His day came back to him slowly, bit by bit. An Eldar attack. The Commissar leading a counter-charge. His death on the end of a monster's bloody-hand. And then... what?

An explosion of some sort. And then only blackness. 'Friendly fire?' he thought to himself. He quickly nixed the idea. The Guard's heavy weaponry had been the xenos' first target. But they themselves weren't much for explosive weaponry so who---?
"The Orks," came a voice from the shadows. It was only then that the Guardsman realized he'd been thinking aloud.
"Orks?" he replied, incredulous. "But-"
"Orks." The voice cut him off, impatient. "Trust me." A female voice, he noted. But not a familiar one. He ran down a mental list of women in his unit, and came up with nothing matching this particular voice.
He settled into a corner, his eyes still adjusting to the poor lighting filtering through the cracks in the rubble above. "So, what unit were you with?"
Silence.
"I was with the 401st Cadian. Well, AM I suppose. Assuming we ever get out of here."
Still silence.

"Noticed your accent. Where you from?"
"You wouldn't have heard of it. I doubt you could even pronounce the name." A wet cough punctuated the woman's sentence. The Guardsman's eyes better adjusted, he could make out the silhouette of his tomb-mate: it was clear she was holding tightly to her side.
"Are you alright?" he asked, making to move closer.
"Stop. I- I'm fine." The figure moved a little in the darkness, sitting upright.
"If you say so," replied the Guardsman quietly. 'Bitch don't want my help, bitch won't get it,' he thought to himself.
There was a moment's awkward pause. "So you never told me where you were from," the Guardsman hinted.
"Rimward, I think you would call it." came the reply.
"Ah, xenos space. I take it you're familiar with these Eldar then?"
A muffled laugh came from the shadows. "You could say that." The Guardsman furrowed his brow at this, but offered no further comment. He sat still in the dim light and waited for his sight to return to him fully.

He found comfort amidst the rubble and lost focus...
He awoke with a start. "Ugh, was I dozing?"
"You were... snoring?"
"Hell, sorry. How long was I out?" The Guardsman knew the answer himself almost immediately. The dim light that had been filtering through had faded to a yellow-red. Sundown.
His companion didn't deign to answer the question.
"You doing alright?" His sight returned, he could make out a small, dark puddle amidst the rubble at the woman's side.
"I am... fine. The pain diminishes when I focus on my h-" The sentence was cut off by a wet cough. The Guardsman could almost hear the blood flecking his companion's lips. "My husband," she finished, after a moment.
"You've got someone at home too, then? My wife and son are waiting for me to finish this tour of duty." His eyes wet a little thinking of them, but he forced it to pass. Even as he did so, he realized the foolishness of his haste; the woman could not possibly see his face amidst her pain and the imminent darkness.
"Tell me of your boy," she requested ('Somewhat forcefully,' thought the Guardsman, but he made no comment).

And he did. He told her of his boy Philos. Of the letters he wrote to his father, all broken grammar and backwards 'e's. Of the pictures his wife passed along: his boy in a Guardsman costume, his boy playing magne-ball, his boy asleep in the sandbox. He told of his wife: her constant stream of letters, her voice, his memories of their meeting.

After awhile he realized his compatriot was only half listening. "Why don't you tell me of your husband?"
She either ignored his inquiry or didn't hear it over her bloody coughs. He thought to ask again, but ultimately resigned himself to silence.

"I am passing, Mon'Keigh."
"Hey don't say it like that. Help will come soo- What?" There was a tense pause.
"Had you really no inkling before now, Mon'Keigh?" She sucked in breath tightly, her teeth clenched against the pain. "Not even a race as young as yours could spawn one so naive."
The Guardsmen scrambled for his lasgun and flicked on the flashlight scope. He targeted the Xenos filth. The crosshairs focused instantly. He slid his finger to the trigger and...
Nothing.
'Emperor forgive me my Heresy.'
He propped the light on a rock and, his hands freed, moved to the Guardian's side. He got his first good look at her wound, and all his prior thoughts were confirmed. "That's one helluva wound, miss." She nodded weakly, moving her face away from the light as she did so. He tried to move her hands aside, to put better pressure on the wound than her shaking hands possibly could, but she held firm.
"I am already passing, Mon'Keigh. Do not let me bloody your hands." He shook his head slowly and sighed.
"Why are you so set on dying? Have you no desire to see your home again?" he asked, incredulous.

"I bear no illusions, child. Even if your people somehow stave off the Ork horde, my allies are spent." She coughed lightly, her lungs not possessing the air to repeat the forceful coughs of the earlier hours. "I... need a favor of you, Mon'Keigh."
"I- There's no way...! It's heresy enough that I'm helping a- a-" A pause.
"A filthy xenos scum like me?" she said quietly. "It is not much I ask of you." He nodded, ashamed at his outburst. "When I pass... the stone on my chest. It will-" A cough. "It will fill. And glow. Take it to the webway gate my people were guarding. It is my only hope for return."
"Return? I- I don't understand."
"There is not time. Just do it, please. The webway is my last chance to see my husband, Mon'Keigh. My last-" Her coughs were interspersed with tears now as the pain began to overcome her defenses. "Please," she whispered.
He nodded solemnly.

After a time, she smiled faintly. "Tell y-your boy Inaya said... hello." Her head lolled to the side, bathing her fine features in the light. The stone at her chest began to glow fiercely, as if the spirit trapped within found renewed vigor in its undamaged shell. As the Guardsman priedthe stone loose of her breastplate, he noticed a small piece of twine snaking from between her fingertips. His eyes followed it into the darkness near where he had awoken. Pocketing the stone, he redirected his rifle's light to continue the path. His eyes followed the twine to a small flicker of blue-black metal embedded in the rubble where he had lain, unconscious, for so long.

"A plasma grenade?" he said aloud. "But then why didn't she..."

=Epilogue:=

Two decades later, another battlefield with an all-too-similar story. Again the Imperial Guard, alone and spread thin, stand as the only protectors of a lonely world. This time the Tyranids are the threat. Eldar forces, led by a Farseer, join the fight at its climax, knowing that if the IG fall that an entire craftworld will be lost. In the heat of the battle, a lone Guardsman pinned and swarmed is saved by a flamer blast from a nearby Wraithlord. For a moment, young Philos feels the bone construct probing his mind through the Warp. He gives the xenos walker a weak salute, and charges back into the fray.

The walker smiles internally, its red stone glowing brighter for just a moment. 'I'm sure his father is proud.'