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Description
++Segmentum Pacificus. Sabbat Worlds. Parthenope, circa 767M.41++

The rain was falling strongly across the valley and guardsman Garvel lay in his arms.

Six years of loyal service to the Golden Throne, seventy thousand light-years traveled in His name, nine successful campaigns, twelve mentions of valor, Standard bearer of the regiment and decorated by the new Warmaster in person with the Scarlet Medallion after the glorious liberation of Balhaut.

The Traitor Legions and their despicable minions were close to their last positions. After weeks of savage and ruthless fight, the hateful Qux the Eyeless broke the will and the spirit of the imperial forces under the command of General Onator.
Artillery bombardments that lasted hours, with no food, no water, no reinforcements and the mighty Titans crushed under the horrors of the Warp.

The madness and hell took over the trenches. Hardened veterans with years of experience were screaming like frightened children. Many of them turned and fled from their posts. Only that there was nowhere to flee.

Guardsman Garvel was one of them.

Proud soldier, loyal subordinate, comrade, companion, friend.
The red armor Marines made their way through blood and fire from the eastern section of the trench. On their way, mere mortals malnourished, frightened and battered by days of uninterrupted fighting were reduced to mere bloody remains. The remaining officers were overwhelmed and unable to contain the retreat.

The Samotrace 4th and 26th Baldackian Fusiliers were destroyed on the valley, nearly nine thousand guardsmen died in one hour amid the laughter of the demons and the monsters.
His own regiment had simply ceased to exist, they were surrounded, annihilation was only a matter of minutes.

Despite being aware of all this, the commissar fired. He never knew whether it was pure reflex or his training in the Scholam.
The remaining guardsmen returned to their posts only to die at the hands of the enemy rather than the bullets of the commissar. All but Garvel.

The commissar had shot his friend in the back, like a dog. He had killed his sole companion during long years of death, misery and futile glory. All to intimidate a bunch of boys to throw themselves against an invincible enemy in the midst of a lost war on a dusty and worthless planet in a cursed galaxy. All to fulfill his role as the deadly and cruel instrument of the Emperor´s Will even in the most dire and futile situations, when even the executions are worthless and change nothing.

"Commissar?" asked Garvel in a weak voice, "Have we won?"
His eyes were glassy and his gaze lost in the sky. Blood came out from his lips.

"Yes, my friend," replied the commissar with a hoarse voice for the pain he felt "We have won"

"Then why are you crying, sir?"

The commissar looked up at the sky full of explosions and tracer ammunition trails.

"I'm not crying my friend. Commissars cannot cry"

Description
++Segmentum Pacificus. Sabbat Worlds. Parthenope, circa 767M.41++

The rain was falling strongly across the valley and guardsman Garvel lay in his arms.

Six years of loyal service to the Golden Throne, seventy thousand light-years traveled in His name, nine successful campaigns, twelve mentions of valor, Standard bearer of the regiment and decorated by the new Warmaster in person with the Scarlet Medallion after the glorious liberation of Balhaut.

The Traitor Legions and their despicable minions were close to their last positions. After weeks of savage and ruthless fight, the hateful Qux the Eyeless broke the will and the spirit of the imperial forces under the command of General Onator.
Artillery bombardments that lasted hours, with no food, no water, no reinforcements and the mighty Titans crushed under the horrors of the Warp.

The madness and hell took over the trenches. Hardened veterans with years of experience were screaming like frightened children. Many of them turned and fled from their posts. Only that there was nowhere to flee.

Guardsman Garvel was one of them.

Proud soldier, loyal subordinate, comrade, companion, friend.
The red armor Marines made their way through blood and fire from the eastern section of the trench. On their way, mere mortals malnourished, frightened and battered by days of uninterrupted fighting were reduced to mere bloody remains. The remaining officers were overwhelmed and unable to contain the retreat.

The Samotrace 4th and 26th Baldackian Fusiliers were destroyed on the valley, nearly nine thousand guardsmen died in one hour amid the laughter of the demons and the monsters.
His own regiment had simply ceased to exist, they were surrounded, annihilation was only a matter of minutes.

Despite being aware of all this, the commissar fired. He never knew whether it was pure reflex or his training in the Scholam.
The remaining guardsmen returned to their posts only to die at the hands of the enemy rather than the bullets of the commissar. All but Garvel.

The commissar had shot his friend in the back, like a dog. He had killed his sole companion during long years of death, misery and futile glory. All to intimidate a bunch of boys to throw themselves against an invincible enemy in the midst of a lost war on a dusty and worthless planet in a cursed galaxy. All to fulfill his role as the deadly and cruel instrument of the Emperor´s Will even in the most dire and futile situations, when even the executions are worthless and change nothing.

"Commissar?" asked Garvel in a weak voice, "Have we won?"
His eyes were glassy and his gaze lost in the sky. Blood came out from his lips.

"Yes, my friend," replied the commissar with a hoarse voice for the pain he felt "We have won"

"Then why are you crying, sir?"

The commissar looked up at the sky full of explosions and tracer ammunition trails.

"I'm not crying my friend. Commissars cannot cry"