Scarred

Scarred

Following their encirclement and defeat by the Traitors, the remnants of Khan Jorma’s detachment found themselves hunkered down in hiding in the ruins of a blasted city in the heart of enemy territory. The Khan had fallen in battle and had been dragged to safety by his men. Now his bloodied form lay on the floor of the ruined temple. It was clear his battered body would never rise to fight again.

Turan Jorma knew he had failed the Great Khagan. His Brotherhood had lost the planet to the traitors and now the heart of his remaining strength had been encircled and defeated, an unforgivable offense for the White Scars, who prided themselves on maneuver and speed above all else. He knew the consequences; they were dictated by his honor and the code of the V Legion. 

The survivors of his Brotherhood felt it as well. Their collective psyche had been sundered. Never before had they felt the dishonor of such a string of defeats as they now suffered. Never before had they been unable to visit retribution on those who had defied the Khan. The psycho-indoctrination of their transition to Astartes, combined with decades or even centuries of rigid mental conditioning,had made such defeat all but incomprehensible. The White Scars knew when to fall back, when to disperse, when to give ground, but always with a plan to circle back to destroy an overstretched enemy or to strike at a newly-opened opportunity. Their minds were unable to cope with the current reality: brother had turned against brother, Legion against Legion, and their Brotherhood had been crushed. 

They understood on a primal level that the dishonor could never be wiped away, except by their own deaths. It was never a conscious choice, and there was no debate. They all felt it and understood it to be true, as surely as they had felt the pride and honor of their Legion and their loyalty to the Great Khagan every day up to this point. 

Turan Jorma set aside his Paragon blade along with his title of Khan. He had fought bravely and slain a Death Guard Champion by his own hand, but his leadership had lost the war and thus shamed the Legion. He did not feel his physical wounds, only the mental anguish of failure. He drew his dagger, uttered the sacred words, and performed the ritual act of redemption silently and alone.

Those whose injuries were too severe to be able to redeem themselves by dying in combat followed the example of their former leader. The rest dedicated themselves utterly to the only thought that now burned relentlessly in their minds: to fight their enemy with every bit of strength that remained and to die doing so.  There could be no victory now, no end but death. Death for themselves as surely as for their enemies. No honor or hope. Only the promise of dying, gun in hand, covered in the blood of their enemies, remained to sustain them. 

They would become Sagyar Mazan.

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He awoke, in a sense. 

He could at first see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. He had no thought of self. The only sensation was a burning shame and an endless rage. Of what, he knew not. He had no feeling of what any of it was or what it meant. He only wanted to lash out, to crush the source of this mental anguish. He could not understand. He could remember nothing else. 

For days he lay entombed in utter senselessness and deprivation. There was nothing but the shame and the rage. That was life, the universe, all that existed. 

Slowly, very slowly, other thoughts and memories started to take shape out of the black mist of his mind: duty, honor, loyalty, death. But always the shame and the rage burned stronger and brighter than the rest. 

As more of his consciousness and memory and sense of self returned, he started to envision that he must be in the afterlife, being punished by the spirits for his failures. He began to accept the pain and punishment. It was just. 

More memories took shape from the mists. He began to focus the undying inferno of his rage on a new, more complex thought: vengeance. With this new concept came new purpose. With purpose to focus his mind came a true reawakening. 

He realized he was not in hell: it was worse. He would suffer mentally and physically every moment. He would never feel the freedom of a racing jetbike. He would never feel air again. Or anything but cold steel, wires, pain, constraint of movement, pain. His body would never undergo the ritual funeral, his spirit would never roam the steppe of Chogoris with his ancestors. He would spend eternity trapped, what was left of his body being sustained in grotesque ways. Worst of all, he would never again have the esteem of his Khagan or his brother. He would be outcast and shamed, hurled into the thick of battle like a grenade: his only job to destroy and thus be destroyed.

But... he would have his vengeance. And that was all that mattered now. Pain be damned. Eternity be damned. He would have his vengeance. 

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