Chaplain Marcus leans forward, pushing aside his barely-touched meal as his war beast Fenris settles at his feet.
"Brothers, you think you know faith? Let me tell you what I witnessed in Hive Mortalis. Pass that wine first though - my throat's still thick with the incense from that day."
Takes a long drink, scanning the gathered faces.
"We were fighting alongside the Sisters of the Sacred Rose - you know the type, all polished armor and rigid doctrine. Every dawn, without fail, they'd perform this ritual that used to make my teeth grind. Complete silence, standing like statues, bolt guns crossed over their hearts. Waste of time, I thought. Emperor knows I told Fenris as much."
Scratches behind his war beast's ears.
"Then came the final battle. Heretics had us backed into their chapel, dozens of the bastards for each of us. And there they stood - every surviving Sister taking that same formation. But this time... this time was different. You could smell it in the air, feel it in your bones. Tears streaming down their faces, but their hands steady as rocks. Not a word, not a whisper of prayer. Just that perfect, terrible silence."
Pauses to take another drink.
"When they finally opened fire... Emperor's blood, brothers. Each bolt round sang with pure faith. I've seen Titans fall and daemon princes banished, but I've never seen anything like those Sisters in that moment. The heretics' charge - must have been two hundred cultists at least - broke against them like a wave against a mountain."
Leans back, voice growing quieter.
"Fenris still goes quiet when we pass their shrines. Smart beast knows real faith when he smells it. Sometimes the greatest prayers aren't the ones we shout, brothers. Sometimes they're the ones we keep locked behind our teeth."
Brother Theron sets down his carving knife, holding up a half-finished bone totem to catch the light.
"You know what's in the lowest hold of the 'Fang of Retribution'? Not the gene-seed vault - lower. Not the weapons caches. Lower still."
Glances around the gathered marines, noting the younger ones leaning in.
"There's a chamber down there, brothers. No bigger than this room. Inside, hanging from ceiling to floor, are the blood-stained bandages of every brother who's fallen in His service. Every. Single. One."
Resumes carving, each stroke deliberate.
"Our Chapter serfs - Emperor bless their dedication - they tend to those bandages daily. Not just cleaning and preserving. No, they recite the names. Every name, every deed. Brother Artemis, who held the breach at Hive Secundus. Brother Thalassar, who died dragging three initiates to safety on Thanatos IV. They speak each name like a prayer."
Holds up the bone again, showing the names he's carved.
"You want to see real faith? Skip the grand cathedrals. Forget the mighty statues. Go down to that quiet chamber. Stand there in the dark among the bandages of our fallen brothers. Every drop of blood tells a story of faith proven in battle. Every stain is a testament."
Sets the bone down carefully
"I go there sometimes, when my own faith needs strengthening. Just stand there in the silence. You can feel His presence, brothers. Not like in those gaudy temples they build on shrine worlds. Down there, among the blood of our brothers... that's where you'll find true faith."
Picks up his knife again.
"Now, someone pass the wine. These old hands need steadying if I'm to finish these ritual marks proper."
Smith Malleo Silverfang wipes sacred oil from his hands, the ritual markings on his armor catching the forge's light.
"You young ones think the Mechanicus are all cold logic and binary, don't you? Here, help me with this plasma coil while I tell you about old Magos Octavius."
Demonstrates the proper blessing sequence to a younger brother.
"This was back when we were repairing the void shields on 'Shadow Hunter.' Had a Tech-Priest assigned to work with me - all whirring mechadendrites and clicking vox-casters. But before each repair, do you know what he'd do?"
Pauses in his work, mimicking the memory.
"He'd press his mechadendrites against the deck plates, every single one of them, and whisper 'The Emperor protects' in binary. Click-click-whirr. Over and over. The younger priests would roll their augmetic eyes - figuratively speaking, of course."
Chuckles, returning to the plasma coil.
"One day I finally asked him why. You know what he did? Pulled out this ancient data-slate, hands shaking so much his mechadendrites were rattling. Showed me a pict-capture from the Heresy itself - a hull breach that had stopped exactly at his predecessor's blessing mark. Not a millimeter further."
Holds up the plasma coil, examining it in the light.
"'The Omnissiah guides our hands,' he told me, 'but the Emperor protects the soul in the machine.' Been blessing my work the same way ever since. The Machine God might teach us how to repair, but it's the Emperor who keeps the void at bay."
Sergeant Voss pauses between bites of his meal, his scarred hands cradling his cup.
"Emperor's teeth, this reminds me of the rations we found on Thanatos IV. Middle of a war zone, we were, hunting some Chaos filth through the ruins. That's when Grimfang - my war beast at the time - caught an unusual scent."
Whistles softly at the memory.
"Found this Guardsman, standing watch over his dead squad. Just... standing there. Bolt gun empty, bayonet broken. By all rights should have fallen back to his lines days ago. But there he stood, in the rain and mud, clutching this little aquila pendant. Thing was worn smooth as glass from worried thumbs."
Pulls out his own battle-worn aquila.
"'The Emperor will send help,' he kept saying. Not shouting it, mind you. Not like those preachers you hear in the hab-blocks. Just... stating it. Like it was as certain as gravity. No grand declarations or mighty oaths. Just pure, simple faith."
Takes a long drink.
"We arrived ten minutes later - though from the look in his eyes, he'd known we were coming all along. That Guardsman survived the war, brothers. Still writes to the chapter sometimes. Still has that pendant too."
Taps his own aquila thoughtfully.
"Sometimes I think we overcomplicate it, you know? All our rituals and ceremonies. Sometimes faith is just standing your ground and knowing, bone-deep, that He won't abandon you."
Ancient Kalistair's massive Dreadnought frame shifts, servo-motors whining softly as he addresses the gathered marines
"Your bones are too young to remember the Penitent of Hadrios, but mine... mine remember. Would you hear of him, brothers? Of faith that had nothing to do with bolters and battlefields?"
Cooling systems cycle in what might be a sigh.
"He was a planetary governor once, if you can believe it. Had a palace that would make a Cardinal envious. Gold-plated servitors, personal guard of a thousand men, finest wines in the sector. Then one day, he just... walked away from it all."
Ancient weapons systems power down in contemplation.
"Walked straight into the radiation-scarred wastes where the mutant tribes lived. The ones everyone else pretended didn't exist. No protection, no guards. Just a water purifier and a copy of the Imperial Creed."
The Dreadnought's massive head turns, regarding each listener.
"Thirty years later, our company found him during a patrol. Flesh ruined by radiation, fingers twisted into claws. But his eyes... Emperor's blood, his eyes burned brighter than a plasma core. He'd built clinics out there, taught the mutants to read the Creed, given them purpose."
Ancient vox-caster crackles with emotion.
"'The Emperor's light shines brightest,' he told me, 'in the darkest places.' Not all faith is found in battle, brothers. Sometimes it's in the simple act of serving His will in the quiet places, where no one else will go."
Servo-motors whir as he straightens.
"They made him a Saint after he died. But I think he found more faith in those radiation-scarred wastes than in all the gilded temples they built in his name."
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