Lamenters

Lamenters
Battle Cry	For those we cherish, we die in glory! :'(
Number	Unknown, always seen falling
Founding	21st Founding
Successors of	Blood Angels
Successor Chapters	None, they die too much
Chapter Master	Malakim Phoros
Primarch	Sanguinius
Homeworld	None, Fleet-based
Strength	Less than 400, rebuilding
Specialty	Surviving and fighting for the helpless, and having the worst luck in the galaxy
Allegiance	The Imperium doesn't deserve these heroes
Colours	Mustard yellow with black & white checkerboard detailing

"How unlucky I am that this should happen to me. But not at all. Perhaps, say how lucky I am that I am not broken by what has happened, and I am not afraid of what is about to happen. For the same blow might have stricken anyone, but not many would have absorbed it without capitulation and complaint."

– Marcus Aurelius

"It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life."

– Jean-Luc Picard

"Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends."

– John 15:13

The unlucky bastards, in all of their Noblebright glory

One of the most fucked-over Space Marine Chapters in Warhammer 40K history. Cursed to die horribly, turn to Chaos, or both in every single bit of fluff they appear in. You think the White Scars got fucked by Games Workshop? Nothing compared to the Lamenters. Think the Chaos Pretty Marines got owned hard by Angron? Nothing compared to the Lamenters. Think the Afriel Strain soldiers are cursed? Nothing compared to the Lamenters. Think that the Raven Guard, Salamanders, and Iron Hands got beaten horribly on Isstvan V? Nothing compared to the Lamenters.

They are truly the Unlucky Marines. But you know what? If there are good guys in W40k, then they are undoubtedly it. They have been endlessly persecuted by the very people they fight for, and they even fight their own nightmarish cynicism and despair; yet they still fight on because they refuse to abandon the innocent and the helpless, and it is their burning star that keeps hope alive for one more day in that dark world. Along with that Imperial planet that found a cure for all diseases ever but got mercilessly fucked by Nurgle and the Panacea STC that was stolen by the Dark Eldar who were curious as to what an Ark Mechanicus was doing in the middle of nowhere, the Lamenters are one of the greatest examples that nothing good can exist unmolested in the grim darkness of the far future where there is only war.

How unlucky can they get?

They may be unlucky, but they'll fight on no matter the odds.

The Lamenters were formed during the "cursed" 21st Founding; where the AdMech believed they could improve on Big.E's template. The end result was... weird. (Guess they should have waited for Grampa Cawl before trying to mess with gene-seed.) Most Chapters founded at that time suffered from some kind of mutation. At least one ended up terminated by the Inquisition with the remaining ones staying under very close scrutiny for deviancy.

At first the Lamenters seemed to be the ones getting the best deal out of the whole sorry lot, since they did not suffer from the Red Thirst and Black Rage; unique case among the Blood Angels and their descendants. Unfortunately, they seem to have been the specific target of Tzeentch's eternal dicking ever since; they have been cursed with more misfortunes than any other Chapter out there. It's even gotten to the point where Imperial "scientists" are wondering what the hell is going on because, sure, shit happens, some people are never lucky, some statistical impossibilities become true on a fluke... and then there's the Lamenters.

As if it couldn't get any worse, eventually the Black Rage came back. Sometimes you just can't win.

TL;DR: *weeps a single tear of manliness.*

List of how hard the Lamenters were screwed over:

This image is often used as filler for Imperial Fists articles and other chapters with similar color schemes. Because even in wikis, the Lamenters get fucked over.

• Founded during the Cursed Founding, earning them distrust among fellow Space Marines. Being a fleet-based chapter, they decide wisely to depart to the fringes of the Imperium to crusade against the xenos and the enemy without, rather than be mired in conflicts within.
• Were eventually recalled to the interior of the Imperium by Tzeentch the High Lords of Terra.
• Tasked by the High Lords of Terra to partake in the defense against Failbaddon's 9th Black Crusade. They were abandoned by the Mortifactors chapter in the defense of Corillia due to their origins. Being the heroic fuckers that they are, they decided to stay and fight anyways, and try to save the innocent people. Outnumbered as they were facing numerous combined Traitor forces, only 200 Lamenters were left 'standing' after the Ultramarines and White Scars finally gave enough of a shit to come in to reinforce them.
  • The 200 survivors were subsequently lost in the warp after a freakish warp storm appeared. In a rare show of good luck for them, they did return afterwards, after fighting the whole way out. Which, of course, just made other Space Marines trust them even less. It is speculated Tzeentch only changed his plans at the last minute (!??!!) *BLAM* Heresy! so he could screw them over more. What a dick.

• Joined the Corinth Crusade with 300 Marines (all they had on hand at the time) in order to repay the Ultramarines for when they saved them on Corillia. (Because a debt of honour is a debt of honour, even the Chapter dying out doesn't get in the way of being bros!) In a decisive battle against an Ork slave mining world nicknamed "Slaughterhouse III", they liberated the 3 million human prisoners on the planet, who they decided to rescue (they did this alone, mind you - Calgar could not risk jeopardizing the entire crusade by attacking a planet that would most likely tie up their entire battleforce). Just a few moments after the victory, however, an Ork reinforcement fleet came over Slaughterhouse III. While everyone on the ground tried to evacuate as many people as they could, using their own ships and any planetside slaver ships that were still operational, the Lamenters realized they didn't have the time or resources to get everyone off-planet before being overrun, but decided to fight on to the last regardless. The remaining prisoners, though, wanting to spare their saviors from death and volunteered to be left to die so that the Lamenters could escape and deny the orks the planet. Reluctantly agreeing, the Lamenters detonated the seismic charges they had planted deep in the planet's mines and performed Exterminatus on the rest of the planet, utterly making sure the orks couldn't get anything valuable off it quickly and/or use it as a staging ground. (give Orks enough time and they'll loot/strip-mine/... a dead planet just fine; but Calgar & co didn't grant them the time.)
  • After the Crusade, Marneus Calgar wanted to award them with denying the Orks a vital mining planet and rescuing the few slaves they could get off-planet (mostly women and children) by giving them an Iron Halo, but due to the losses (both theirs and civilians) they didn't feel like winners and turned it down. Despite how this was a case of manly tears, most some Space Marines instead took it as an insult to their spiritual liege, so everyone hated the Lamenters even MORE. Although, turning down an item that would help them better save more people was pretty foolish. Calgar himself told the naysayers to shut the fuck up and was a good bro.
• Asked to partake in and to defend the area around the Maelstrom along with the Astral Claws and the Mantis Warriors after they got back to strength. For once, their fellow warriors the Astral Claws and the Mantis Warriors actually cared about them and the Lamenters had finally found true, believing friends. Then Lugft Huron decided to instigate what would become the Badab War with the Imperium because the Imperium ignored his pleas for launching a crusade into the Maelstrom. Understanding a trend here yet? When he does, the Lamenters and Mantis Warriors are drawn into the conflict as well out of bro ties to the Astral Claws — there is no way they are going to abandon their first genuine friends and only people in the Imperium who didn't treat them like shit. (And on top of that, from an outsider's point of view, it really seemed like the Imperium was bullying the Astral Claws pointlessly.)
  • Reluctant to attack fellow Space Marines the Lamenters managed, for a time, to win conflicts with loyalists indirectly via their numbers, cunning maneuvers and effective shows of force causing ultimately little damage on both sides. This is known as excellence according to the Art of War and is basically the ultimate form of a mastery of warfare. But this strategy abruptly fell apart when the High Lords of Terra sent the Minotaurs into the fray, who were much less inclined to pull their punches. The Minotaurs discovered and ambushed the Lamenter's Fortress-Monastery and so began a brutal 17 hour siege with heavy losses on both sides where the Lamenters ultimately came out the worse. Outnumbered and outgunned by the infamously ruthless and well equipped Minotaurs (who are known for fighting en masse at nothing less than full Chapter strength and specializing in taking on other Astartes) the Lamenters were forced to surrender having been (once again) reduced to only 300, mostly wounded, Marines. Adding insult to injury, as recompense for their losses and just generally being poor winners, the kleptomaniac Minotaurs saw fit to pillage much of the Lamenters best equipment and even stole/were GIFTED a bunch of their ships, like a certain other chapter, which they would eventually crash. Cherry on top, it was then the Lamenters learned that Huron and the Astral Claws had fallen to Chaos and that they'd ultimately been fighting for the wrong side.
• In another rare show of things, they were actually granted a pardon along with the Mantis Warriors. But again continuing this theme of getting fucked over, they had to do a penitent crusade for a hundred years without being able to replace losses or recruit new Marines (i.e. their fate would be in the Emperor's Hands now, and theirs alone). Their tattered banner was given to the Adepta Sororitas for them to repair and re-sanctify. The Sororitas wept as they wove the Banner Of Tears, as they contemplated the life of the Chapter, and how these glorious bastards refused to stop believing in their fellow Man, despite everything they had went through.
• They again wisely decided to crusade on the borders of the Imperium and against xenos, lest they wind up getting fucked over in another internal squabble. But continuing this getting fucked over theme, in their first crusade action, they happened to encounter the Tyranid Hive Fleet Kraken. With only less than 400 marines on hand, they hold out to try to allow as many people as possible to escape whenever the Hive Fleet gets its OM NOM NOM'ing on.
• Just to make their shitty situation of repetitive forlorn hope rearguards even shittier, the Black Rage returned, meaning that the cure was a bust. So now the Lamenters have to form a Death Company and lose valuable battle-brothers that way... while still being unable to recruit (of course).
• A mere 13 years before their crusade was to end the entire universe stopped. Nevermind that, they have apparently survived through Kraken and have gotten Primaris reinforcements from Bobby G, so at least they have a chance to survive their crusade.
• Perhaps even worse than all of the above, their colour scheme is masochistically hard to paint correctly. The yellow is alright, nothing wrong there. But the thing that basically makes the army Lamenters instead of any random yellow marines is their chapter's symbol, which is comprised of a black-and-white checkered pattern with a circle and a heart in the middle. Trying to paint that on a few dozen miniatures is more-or-less painstakingly time-consuming, if not impossible, in the face of other Chapters having easier symbols to paint. Anyway, as a result the Lamenters are cursed to be the least represented official chapter in the game, and almost certainly even less than a lot of fan made and random bullshit chapters. To play Lamenters, you need to be an uncommonly good painter and have a taste for being fucked over in the fluff, on the tabletop AND for hundreds of hours of painting. Certainly an acquired taste!
• Meta: Literally the day after StringStorm and Corgi release their masterpiece 1d4chan goes down and when it gets back up Captcha is broken so it can't be linked here until fixed. Even software hates them.
  • It is fixed! Here it is! The Lamenters never give up! [[1]]

Basically an ideal Chapter for BDSM lovers.

Where are they now?

EVEN IN DEATH, I STILL FIGHT FOR THOSE I CHERISH!!!

The Lamenters have survived against the hive fleet Kraken and have even gotten Primaris reinforcements, bolstering the numbers of the chapter, proving while they may still constantly get fucked over, they still succeed in fighting in the emperor's name. However, while they continue to exist, and no matter what horrible fate befalls them, it can be assured these heroic fuckers will selflessly continue to fight for Mankind, and quadrillions of ungrateful souls the galaxy over.

They are some of the baddest asses to ever don power armor. Every single thing that tried to screw them over, they proceeded to open up cans of FUCK YOU! in its general direction and despite losing Marines every time, THEY ARE STILL STRONG, SURVIVING AND HOLDING THE FUCKING LINE.

There are only two Lamenters characters confirmed to remain today: First is Brother Chyron, a very sad Dreadnought that serves with the Deathwatch and who considers himself to be the last of his chapter and thus is permanently attached to the Deathwatch. With everything lost to him, Chyron is only fuelled by one, tragic objective: revenge for his fallen Chapter, claimed in xenos' blood. This desire for revenge has often caused him to be irritable, stubborn, and downright insubordinate to his fellows and even superiors (It is not often a Deathwatch member flips off the Inquisitor giving them missions. Chyron does it. Twice. During the same mission.) Although despite this, his fellow Kill-team squad members refuse to abandon him.

The second is Malakim Phoros, the Chapter Master of the Lamenters who has served for over two centuries. He is a highly aggressive close combatant, carrying the Black Rage in his heart, and likely one of the few Lamenters to have a Glaive Encarmine, let alone Artificer Armor.

Lamenters may be played as Blood Angels. Malakim Phoros has survived to 8th ed as a 'Blood Angels' HQ who excels in close combat.

Also in 6th ed was a bit of fluff about the Emperor's Tarot, a set of cards used by high-ranking psykers to try and make predictions (like Eldar seers, but less Heretical). The prediction stated that things were about to get even worse for the Lamenters. On one hand, fuck. On the other hand, this prediction came immediately after the Chapter was presumed destroyed for the fourteenth time, so do the math.

As of 7th Edition, when Dante made a call for all Blood Angels successor chapters to defend Baal against a simultaneous Daemon and Tyranid incursion, the Lamenters were the only chapter who did NOT respond. At least yet. Even the renegade Knights of Blood returned to defend their home (although it still hasn't been satisfactorily explained how the KoB found out there was a call, they just kinda showed up). It's unknown whether the Lamenters are all dead, were too busy or too far away to get the message, or if their penitent crusade out-ranks a call from the home world.

In the novel Dante by Guy Haley, it appears that the Blood Angels Chapter Master actually DID contact the Lamenters for aid, but they responded unfavorably. Dante notes that even if they had been of mind to obey the call, the Lamenters were too depleted to help their parent chapter. It probably also says something that his captains were unsurprised at the Lamenters being their only successor chapter to decline. They probably thought their presence would get everyone killed by bad luck.

As of the beginning of 8th ed, NuMarines have been sent to reinforce several chapters that are low on marines. This means that the Lamenters are back in action, theoretically at least. But considering they didn't or weren't able to come back to protect Baal, whether they'll be reinforced and actually join the fight is anyone's guess. On the bright side, Chapter Master Malakim Phoros got updated rules for 8th Edition in the Imperial Armor Index - and he's the only Space Marine there is, aside from Guilliman, who can provide re-rolling of all failed wounds to nearby Chapter mates.

A Primaris Lamenter appears in the color scheme section of the 8th Edition Blood Angels Codex, as part of a rebuilt 5th company, and they're specifically mentioned as surviving their run-in with Hive Fleet Kraken.

In Ritual of the Damned the Lamenters get an apparent offhand mention in the "Echoes of Awakening" (lore preview) section. Some prison has secluded prisoners who are "going strange" into solitary confinement; these strange prisoners repel others, "even the strongest guards couldn't bear to go near them." A force of Space Marines "in yellow armor, bleeding hearts on their shoulders" came and took all of the prisoners, including the strange ones. Why the Lamenters would be collecting (if not recruiting) criminal psychics (if not blanks) is unknown.

Daily Rituals

04:00 - Wakeup: The Lamenters awake and assemble their wargear. Sometimes, they fall out of their beds.

05:00 - Morning Prayer: The Lamenters show their gratitude for having survived the penitent crusade and having received reinforcements. They ask the Emperor for strength to quietly bear their curse so that others don't have to.

06:00 - Morning Firing Rites: The Lamenters hone in their firing skills. Occasionally the target Servitors accidently turn out to be Loyal Marines from another Chapter.

07:00 - Battle Practice: The Lamenters engage in practice battles. By the end, the medicae is filled to the brim with injured marines.

11:00 - Physical checkup: the injured Marines are tended to and prayers of thanks are given that no one was seriously hurt.

12:00 - Midday Prayer: The Sanguinary Priests lead the Marines in prayers of restraint as they all struggle with the resurgent Red Thirst and Black Rage. Some Marines sadly gaze upon the stasis field containing the delusional and bloodthirsty forms of those who have fallen to the Black Rage and who were unfortunate enough to not die in a suicidal charge.

13:00 - Midday Meal: Chapter Serfs prepare the meal, though sometimes it gets lost in transit and the Lamenters have to go without.

13:15 - Tactical Indoctrination: The Lamenters go over the latest tactics for fighting in the general galactic stalemate following the Indomitus Crusade and the Plague Wars. Meticulous preparations are made to minimize casualties on all allied forces and civilians and extreme search and rescue training is also conducted so that the enemy never gets another Slaughterhouse III.

15:00 - Battle Practice: The Lamenters again engage in practice battles. Knowing that their prowess is quite possibly the only thing standing between the citizens of the Imperium and the horrors of the Galaxy; they bear the pains and go through the drills meticulously for if they make a single mistake, they know it may cost the life of a person.

20:00 - Evening Prayer: The Lamenters give thanks to the Emperor and the Primarch for granting them the will to make it through one more day and keeping them able to help others at any cost.

21:00 - Evening Meal: A feast is provided by the Chapter Serfs. This time, an escort of armed serfs guarantees the food makes it to the table.

21:20 - Night Firing Exercises: The Lamenters hone their skills further in their ship's firing ranges.

22:20 - Maintenance Rituals: The Lamenters work on their weapons and armor, as befits the Sons of Sanguinius. Occasionally, their equipment will spontaneously combust.

23:00 - Free Time. Some Marines gather around the view ports of their ships, gazing into the void of space, contemplating why their chapter has such a terrible fortune. Others visit Chapter Serfs and express their gratitude for their service. Others take the time to indulge in the arts and literature as their Primarch would have done, for they know each day protecting Mankind is an honor beyond their worth and this helps them stay grounded in reality.

00:00 - Rest Period. The Lamenters go back to sleep, silently expressing gratitude as they made it through another day.

01:45 - Nightmares start. Most people are harmed or terrified in their nightmares. The Lamenters see others get harmed in the nightmares, unable to do anything.

02:30 - Wake up from nightmares. They say a prayer of gratitude that no one was actually harmed, and go back to sleep.

Some Much-Needed Writefaggotry

The Siege of Corillia, week V [537.M38]

“What a fool you are, loyalist lapdog – what a weak, deluded, nauseating fool. Do you honestly think you’ve somehow managed to change anything; are you truly arrogant enough to believe that you’ve actually made a difference?”

Khralk’s crackling power-mace smashes into Brenevier’s side, buckling already-damaged ceramite and cracking the fused ribs of his carapace before he is hurled through the smoke-choked air to crash heavily against the bolter-riddled base of a devotional marble statue of the (now headless) primarch Rogal Dorn. The sickening sound of his back breaking rings in the Lamenter’s ears like the fateful toll of a clarion bell. Each breath he draws sets his lungs aflame; blood floods into his mouth and behind his fizzling alarm-swamped visor his angelic face contorts in rage and agony. Somehow he has kept ahold of his gore-clogged chainsword, now missing most of its teeth and running perilously low on promethium. The growing mob of cultists watching the duel scream-howl in triumph and prepare to swarm the battle-ravaged plaza and hack Brenevier apart with their assorted weaponry and their sheer hatred.

“Stay back, curs – he is mine and mine alone. Do not interfere!” Khralk’s amplified command booms through his vox-speakers causing the corrupted mortals to cower back, collectively grimacing in pain as the words hit them with near-physical force. Adjusting his grip on his maul the Iron Warrior Chaos Space Marine lumbers over to where Brenevier struggles to rise, half-stunned by the devastating blow, his battered yellow power-armor smeared in blood and ichor and soiled with soot and ash. The Lamenter rips off his dented helm and bares his teeth in grim defiance as Khralk looms over him like an unstoppable juggernaut foraged out of iron and spite. There is nothing you can do that will make me regret my decisions or mourn my actions, traitor. Molli is safe, now; Molli is –

Molli is clinging to him, refusing to let go, her filthy face streaked with tears. “No! No!” she cries as Brenevier carefully pries her from his right leg and lifts her towards the outstretched hands ready to pull her into the relative safety of the repurposed PDF supply truck. “You must, Molli,” the Lamenter replies calmly. “This vehicle will take you all to safety – it’s what I promised you, remember?” The five-year old girl thrashes violently in his grip, her blue eyes wild with panicked grief. “No! Not without you! Don’t go, Bren; please don’t go! I want you to stay with me!” A sturdy thickset woman in the garb of a foundry worker takes Molli from him, tears of gratitude and awe streaming down her own cheeks as she clasps the wailing child to her breast. “Bren! No!” Eight more distraught children are clustered around his ceramite boots, the older ones tightly clutching the hands of their younger charges. All of them are crying and it is not due to the turmoil of evacuation raging around them or the cultists’ vile chanting rising in the distance. One-by-one Brenevier picks them up and hands them over to the care of willing passengers and each child cries the same plea as their protector-savior fulfills his oaths: “Don’t go! Don’t go..!”

“You claim to ‘cherish’ them, Lamenter,” Khralk’s snarling vox-distorted voice is laden with both amusement and incredulity, as if he is offering Brenevier an opportunity to deny this is genuinely the case. “I find such sentiment quite ludicrous. Were the lives of a handful of ragged slum-children worth this needless pain, this pointless sacrifice?”

“Yes!” Brenevier gasps, thick clotting blood spilling from his lips as he forces his arm to raise his dying chainsword to counter his opponent’s power-mace. One sweep of Khralk’s weapon smashes the blade aside, tearing it free of the Lamenter’s weakened grip. Brenevier cannot keep himself from screaming aloud as the Iron Warrior next brings the mace down upon his right leg, shattering armor and splintering bone alike in one devastating strike.

“I didn’t quite hear you,” Khralk growls low and deadly as he repositions the mace over Brenevier’s left leg, the threat unmistakable. “I asked you if the mewling whelps were worth it. Well, were they?”

“Yes!” the Lamenter cries again, his melodic voice clear and filled with conviction. The mace is immediately brought down upon his knee, brutally destroying the limb beyond repair. “What?” Khralk snarls mockingly, shaking his helmed head in feigned confusion. “I still can’t hear you – what did you say?”

“Yes!”

“Bren!” Brenevier is about to turn from the idling truck to rejoin brothers Athrulf and Ralland at their newly-established defensive perimeter when Molli’s plaintive voice halts him. The little girl strains to reach him, clasped tight as she is in the strong arms of the foundry-woman, her tiny dirty hands stretching out to him imploringly. “Don’t go,” she sobs. “Don’t leave, Bren. Please come with us.” Brenevier extends a gauntleted hand and Molli desperately grabs his armored forefinger, her knuckles whitening as she squeezes it with all her might. “Molli,” the Lamenter speaks as softly as his vox-grille permits. “Molli, I must go; there are other people – other children – who need my help. I have to go rescue them too. You must be a brave girl while I’m gone. This kind lady will look after you and the others. Do you promise to be good while I’m away?” Molli sniffs and blinks back her tears. “I promise…but will you promise to come back and find me? I’ll miss you.” Behind his visor Brenevier smiles sadly. “I cannot make that promise, Molli. But do not be afraid – the Emperor protects, as always, and I will never forget you.” Gently he extracts his finger from her grip and before she can start crying again he turns and strides away, grateful that his helm hides his own tears…

“Yes…”

“Yes…”

“Yes…”

It is a blessing Molli cannot see her steadfast savior now; neither she nor the others would be able to recognize him. Khralk grips the rim of Brenevier’s gorget, holding him aloft as he spits a tirade of abuse and castigation into the loyal Space Marine’s ruined face. The Lamenter dangles like a child’s poorly-sewn rag doll in the Iron Warrior’s grip, blood flowing freely beneath his rent war-plate, his limbs all crushed and twisted, his head lolling as Khralk shakes him like a disobedient menial in his fury. Broken bones grind together and blood fills his punctured lungs; Brenevier can barely draw breath, can barely form a coherent thought, yet he refuses to recant his actions or denounce those he has saved for the sake of a swift death.

“You have accomplished nothing, foolish little hero,” Khralk sneers as Brenevier vomits more crimson gore onto his cracked breastplate. “Your own erstwhile ‘allies’ have deserted you; Corillia will belong to the Despoiler before the week is out. All your valor is in vain; for every terrified child you protected a hundred more are hunted down and slain like vermin amongst the ruins; for each shell-shocked civilian you led to safety a thousand more are rounded up and butchered like grox in the squares. The thirsting gods laugh at you, Lamenter – unlike your False Emperor, who can only sit and scream into the void. They find you entertaining, if nothing else. Every mortal you’ve saved thus far will be either slaughtered or enslaved and their cries of despair will echo throughout the immaterium to delight the Lords of Ruin – as will yours!”

Fresh agony flares anew through Brenevier’s shattered body as Khralk releases him and he falls to the scorched flagstones, barely conscious and all but paralyzed from the relentless beating. Somehow he manages not to scream again. The restless mob of cultists edge cautiously closer in the hope they might be allowed to partake in the death of one of the Emperor’s loyal sons. Brenevier gazes wearily up at the hulking ironclad nightmare towering over him like doom incarnate; then he coughs up another mouthful of blood and takes a deep burning breath, recalling the great Sacrifice his own suffering primarch made so long ago.

“What are the delights of the Ruinous Powers to me, traitor? I exist to defy…and deny them, both in the thrill of victory and in the pangs of defeat. I am the shield which protects the weak and the forsaken…I am the sword that defends the powerless and the forgotten. I am the spear that wards the innocent and the –”

“You are nothing!” the Iron Warrior roars as he grinds a heavy ceramite boot down upon Brenevier’s laboring chest. “I slew Astartes a hundred times your worth on the black sands of Isstvan V and I declare truthfully that you are nothing! Your forsaken Chapter, this besieged world, your rotting Imperium, your impotent Corpse-God – everything you are loyal to will be broken in the end. This is just a foretaste, a personalized lesson concerning the inevitability of futility. "Now, I ask you one last time: were those useless snot-nosed brats worth it?”"

“Yes! Both now and always!” Brenevier gasps, smiling faintly despite the all-encompassing pain, vividly recalling Molli’s look of astonished joy when he had entered the little run-down back-alley chapel to find the nine undernourished street-children gathered together like frightened birds before the yet-undesecrated alter, invoking the Emperor and Sanguinius for protection with simple beseeching prayers as their hive-city slowly fell apart around them. Seeing such uncontained joy on such an innocent hopeful face had made the entire search-and-rescue mission worth every grueling hour. “For those I cherish I die in glory!”

Khralk laughs, a harsh, gratingly hideous sound. “Yes, you shall indeed die, Lamenter; but there will be no glory in your death – these jackals that dog my heels will ensure it.” Stepping away from the incapacitated Space Marine the Iron Warrior utters a series of sharp commands in a vile unintelligible language whose syllables pierce Brenevier’s mind like poisoned spikes. An ecstatic cheer arises from the watching cultists. With a parting blow to the side Khralk turns and stomps off, crunching over the corpses of dead cultists and PDF troopers alike, pausing briefly to contemptuously kick in the head of the lifeless brother Ralland. Chanting a litany to the Dark Gods the corrupted humans surge forwards, surrounding Brenevier and swarming over him like agitated oversized ants. I am sorry, Molli; I hope my memory alone is enough to sustain you now… Serrated knives and other ritualistic flesh-tearing implements are driven through the rents in his armor and into his still-bleeding wounds. Khralk has done his work well; Brenevier cannot even raise a gauntlet to fend off his assailants. A cult-leader of indeterminate gender sporting a rusted iron facemask fashioned in the form of a tusked porcine leaps atop his befouled breastplate clutching a glowing firebrand. Another grabs a fistful of the Lamenter’s flaxen hair and begins to crudely scalp him. Fights break out as the cultists vie for the honor of mutilating his flesh. The pig-masked leader crouches down and hisses some unholy declaration into the Space Marine’s face before thrusting the heated brand into his right eye. Segments of ceramite are slowly ripped free as maddened men and women who would have otherwise fallen in droves before Brenevier’s chainsword and boltgun defile his broken body in a howling animalistic frenzy.

“For those we cherish we die in glory!” the Lamenter roars out a final time before his tongue is severed in a welter of blood. Darkness engulfs him as his left eye is likewise pierced. The degenerate mortals stab, kick, claw and spit on him as the last pieces of his war-plate are pulled free. “This hive is ours now!” a phlegmy male voice gargles into his ear in garbled Low Gothic as several chainblades are activated in unison nearby. “You have failed, Astartes – curse your Corpse God and die in vain!” Better me then the helpless people of Holdenmire... Brenevier steels his hearts and fortifies his mind against the torment and butchery to come. O father Sanguinius, faithful and true even unto death, accept the sacrifice of your loyal son in the knowledge that I have but one life to give to the Imperium... Abruptly the chanting morphs into shouts of pain and rage as the crack-crack of lasfire fills the plaza. Furious at being interrupted the cultists hurl themselves en masse at the approaching foe in a storm of pounding footsteps and blasphemous oaths. Some of the newcomers are singing Imperial hymns and above the lasfire and the shrieking of revved chainswords the familiar brutal bark of an Astartes-sized boltgun rises like a sacred song of defiance above the chaotic mêlée of joined combat.

“Brother Brenevier!” Sergeant Athrulf’s majestic booming voice is at once fury-filled and grief-stricken as he cuts and shoots his way through the throng of deranged mortals blocking his path; Brenevier cannot acknowledge him in any way or come to his aid. Do not put your life in peril on my account… he silently implores his squad commander as the inexorable tread of Athrulf’s boots draw steadily nearer. The children are safe and I have fulfilled my duty… A retreating cultist slams against the Lamenter’s pauldron and then the cold greasy edge of a knife is laid across his throat. “Come no closer!” the phlegmy-voiced man cries to Athrulf threateningly, “or your brother’s life will be ended by my –”

The heretic suddenly collapses against his intended hostage, his threat unfinished, his heartbeat silenced. Scores of people are swarming about Brenevier once more but with the cries of “The Emperor protects!” and “Hive Holdenmire stands!” on their lips; one women empties a canteen of water over his ravaged face, promising fervently to “make those heathen offworld bastards pay!” These humans do not sound or behave like Holdenmire’s professional PDF troopers. Having broken the cultists’ charge they protectively surround the fallen Lamenter, awaiting further orders from the Space Marine who had rallied them. The last cultist dies with a wail of despair and then a helmless Athrulf is kneeling by Brenevier’s side, holding one of his crushed hands, his hot tears of grief pattering down upon Brenevier’s brow and cheeks. “Brother, I am here – can you hold on until Thoror comes?” With great effort Brenevier shakes his head; he can barely breathe now and there is a cold blackness creeping over him that has nothing to do with his blindness. Sanguinary Priest Thoror cannot save him; Khralk has done his work well. Forgive me, Brother-Sergeant; forgive me, brave fighters of Holdenmire; I cannot stay – I must go…again…

Instead of shrinking back from the demoralizing sight of one of the Emperor’s Angels of Death brought so low, the embattled citizens the Lamenters had sworn not to abandon to the depredations of the Black Legion press forward instead and place their hands gently upon Brenevier’s exposed body, their touches reverent and respectful in contrast to the ministrations of the cultists. “Thank you, lord,” an elderly man says in a trembling unsteady voice. “I will remember you to the God-Emperor for as long as I live,” promises a younger women sounding as if she is on the brink of tears. “You stayed,” another man whispers in awe. “Your Chapter stayed, even after the other one left…” Molli’s grieving tear-streaked face flashes in Brenevier’s minds-eye for the last time: “Don’t go! Don’t go…!”

I must; I am sorry – for those we cherish we die in glory…

Brother-Sergeant Athrulf of the Lamenters Third Company bows his head as he feels the life leave Brenevier’s mangled hand, feeling as if another piece of his hearts has been torn away and trampled upon. “For those you cherished you died in glory, brother,” he whispers softly before kissing his subordinate’s pallid brow. “May Sanguinius accept your sacrifice and may your soul take its rightful place in the Emperor’s Light alongside all our fallen brethren. Rest in peace; we who still draw breath shall hold the line without capitulation or complaint until the bitter end.”

Rising, the Lamenter sweeps his piercing blue-gray eyes over the stricken faces of the mortal militia he now commands. Virtually all of the assembled men and women have tears running down their cheeks; some are weeping outright. Still, they straighten and try to collect themselves as Athrulf gazes at each of them in turn, assessing them for signs of flagging resolve or stress-induced madness.

“Do not morn brother Brenevier,” he says as he dons his helm, obscuring his fair statuesque features behind his grimed blood-splattered visor. “His fate is the fate that awaits all Astartes of the Lamenters Chapter; pray rather that your own deaths are as valiant as his, regardless of the circumstances. Our Chapter Master and Company Captains all swore before making planetfall to never forsake the people of Corillia while the Archenemy yet assails you and those are oaths we will never recant, even though our allies abandon us and the traitors heap contempt and death upon us. Stand fast! This is your hive and by our sacrifices we have consecrated it in the holy blood of the Martyred Primarch! For the Emperor! For Sanguinius! For those we cherish!”

“For those we cherish!” the loyalist humans cry aloud in one voice as they collectively raise their scavenged weapons in defiance, their grieving faces hardening in determination. Athrulf salutes Brenevier’s body with his sizzling power-sword, his eyes lingering unwillingly on the dead Lamenter’s profane wounds, knowing in the depths of his own hearts a similar fate awaits him and those he leads. Behind his visor Athrulf smiles sadly. It does not matter: he is a scion of Sanguinius and like his revered gene-sire he exists to serve as an example of righteous purpose and as an exemplar of the nobility that still exists within the human species. If our primarch suffered such an end then we his faithful sons must expect no less from this hostile hope-forsaken galaxy; the distant stars burn all the more beautifully in the void because they are forever surrounded by such a great darkness; thus we strive to be as stars to the Imperium’s people, so that they may know they are not alone in that vast darkness…

Baring his teeth in grim acceptance Athrulf maglocks his sword to his hip and slams his next-to-last clip of ammo into his spent boltgun. A nearby explosion showers more rubble across the corpse-strewn plaza, causing the unarmored civilian-soldiers to scatter for cover. Another band of cultists clad in gaudy silk robes and wielding elegantly curved scimitars and bejeweled needle-pistols charge through the swirling smoke, singing perverse praises to an even more perverse deity. “Come to me, then!” Athrulf roars deafeningly as he swiftly redraws his sword and strides forward without hope or fear to meet the onrushing enemy frontrunners. “For those we cherish we die in glory!”