I am a failure. This failure is absolute, crushingly obvious as I lay here, collapsed behind the front desk of what long ago was some sort of bank. The world swims through the tunnels of my helmet’s eye slits, the helm and the rest of my armour feeling strangely heavy as it ways down on me. I splutter beneath my mask, a warm dampness running down my chin to soak into the neck of my under-barding. A burst of flame flares violently beyond my shell, burning stars deep into my eyes, followed split seconds later by the winds of a dusty blast. Blinking away the lights I find myself no longer alone as a black-striped face, as grey as the smoke it emerges through, leaps into view carrying the armoured form of its owner behind it, whilst a hail of bullets fly by, ripping at the scenery all around. He lands at my side, breaths coming in ragged pants, pausing only briefly to wipe away the crimson spatters coating his visage (equally caked throughout the pointed strands of his mane), before I see his forehooves come down either side of my head. With a soft click my helmet is lifted away, fresh air rushing in to meet me and I greedily fill my exhumed lungs, although the aggressive scent of iron continues to assault my nostrils, just as it did when I was buried in my steely coffin.

‘It’s okay Lux Mea, I’m here.’

At any other time his words would have been a comfort, but now they affect me in the exact opposite. I wish he was not here, that it was I alone and that he did not follow at my side. I look at him, watching as he frantically works to apply bandages and healing powder to my flowing wounds, left exposed by tears rent in my carapace. I trace the far more imperative punctures which dot his chest plate, oozing the said same red ichor as mine, and feel helpless as I cannot tend to him. I am responsible for each of my nurse’s many injuries, which bite at me much more than my own, but am I also responsible for far more heinous crimes against him?

‘Spikey, I…’

‘Shush. Save yourself and let the powder do its work.’ He scolds me, attempting to sound jokey, but I know him well enough to hear the hint of desperation slip into his tone.

As we converse a further blast of shrapnel flies over our makeshift barricade from behind me followed by another volley of gunfire, both peppering the room’s walls beyond our position. He rears up in reply, each side of his battle saddle roaring into life: the muzzle of his cut down anti-machine rifle flashing, whilst gouts of blue fire jet from his flamethrower in a wall against the unseen enemy, its effects confirmed by an orchestra of screams. Their repost is as quick as his however and I am forced to watch as a fresh high calibre round punches through one of his spiked pauldrons, spraying out a red mist across my vision, both within and without. He collapses back down next to me, yelling against the pain and clutching his shoulder. Blood flows out from around his hoof in spite of his efforts to hold it back, pooling to mix with mine in a puddle beneath us as we sit side by side.

I am no fool; it is obvious that this is the end, a thought which inevitably brings to mind what is to be left behind. Our mantra has been to embrace a glorious death rather than fear the inevitable, but this along with everything else has been plunged into doubt. It has been a brutal existence, ever since I took up my mask and even long before that. I have survived, I have flourished and a great many have followed in my hoofsteps.

But he is one such follower.

I have stood in a world consumed by a profligate tide and I have played some small part in turning back its waves, channelling them through the Legion’s purpose into the great lakes of our centuries where each degenerate drop has been uplifted and given the chance at greatness. Have I not succeeded? As I hear his laboured breathing next to me I cannot answer that question.

‘A wise one once said: “Questions have a habit of making others”.’

The bodies of how many are on my hooves? How many settlements have I put to the sword? How much earth have I left scorched or decorated by the monuments of crucified corpses? In all cases there is too much to count. I do not feel guilt or pity in these considerations but rather wonder if it has all been worthwhile. A mark I have made for certain, but has it been a life well lived? I am respected by a chosen few, loathed by many, feared by a great many more…

My thoughts are broken as an earthen bottle is pressed to my lips, its liquid being poured down my throat. The drink is bitter causing me to cough against its passage, but I know its taste and function and he holds my head, gently rubbing my windpipe as he feeds it to me, making it go down. He is before me again and our gazes meet, the bloody gleam of his irises in beautiful antithesis to his monochrome fur, holding me reassuringly tight. I am loved by him. That is more than enough. We have smiled, we have laughed, we have fought, we have dreamt. That is what matters, all else is void. But still I am guilty for in knowing him I have lead him here.

‘I can’t stop the bleeding.’ His voice is broken as it comes to me, whilst a trickle of tears begins to run down his face.

I refuse to be motionless any longer, forcing my forehoof to rise and hold his cheek. ‘I’m sorry Spikey.’

I feel his hoof mirror mine, bringing us together until our lips then tongues collide, touch sweetening away the acrid tastes of blood and medicine. Our eyes close in our embrace, as I listen to the world around splinter further under their continued assault. All too soon he draws away, sorrow muted, becoming hardened determination. ‘Don’t you ever apologise to me again’ he says, too good at reading me, as if he sees the inner guilty conflict being waged and wishes to silence it. ‘Do not say sorry for everything I have to thank you for and all that you have given me.’ He rises again out of our shelter, shouting his battle cry as he returns fire. This time however a terrible click and an empty sputter silence his guns after a single shot from each, forcing him immediately back to the safety of the deck. Impossibly he manages a flippant shrug, carefree as he drops his empty battle saddle, seemingly only freed from its added weight. He crawls away, searching on the floor for something unknown.

Some have called me a psychopath, making those with me all sufferers of a similar madness, relegating us with the likes of raider depravity. This is false. We are the rational response to the madness of this world, sunk as it is in its dilapidation and degradation.

“’The old world died long ago.”’

By the values of the old world we are damned, but faced with the realities of this present cesspool we have snatched our own victory, creating unity and direction where there was only ash. It no longer matters if our enemies are right and we are wrong. If a new old world does really stand a chance we could have no place in such a return.

He turns back to me, returning with the Blade of the East clutched in his smiling maw. As he passes me my sword our lips meet once more and then he places a final kiss on my forehead, untroubled by the scars which mar its surface. ‘I love you Lux Mea.’ He pulls me to my hooves and then unsheathes his machete (the Liberator) from its scabbard on his discarded saddle. His cures and words have saved me, allowing me now to stand at his side. Together we leap the barrier, each with shining weapons drawn, as one as we charge defiantly from our tomb headlong into the all-consuming light of day beyond.