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In My Spirit Lies My Strength By Dae It still hurts to think about him, even after all these years. He was like a god to me and though I suppose I
was never really the closest person to him, I was probably the one most affected by his death. Of course, it also hurts because the tattoo on my forehead reacts to such thought and sends a spike of pain into my brain every time my memories from everything I used to be grow too strong. The closest thing I can remember without pain is them holding me down as the scriptomancers ink needle descended onto me, but that is enough to fuel the hate that keeps me alive. I have tried to escape them on four occasions and every time I expected death when they eventually caught me, but instead they laughed that vicious, shrilling laugh of their kind as they summoned the scriptomancer to tattoo more of his witchery art on me. In addition to the pain-sigil they gave me the day they caught me, I now have two burdenlocks resembling thorn vines etched around my ankles that make my feet feel heavy as lead unless I fight, a flowershaped neural enhancer on the side of my chest that multiplies a hundredfold the pain of any wound inflicted there and a wither-ink in the palm of my left hand that gradually cripples my fingers, one after another. They were particularly happy about that last one, because each new finger lost would be a cause for a renewed rush of bets on my death in their arena. Fuelled by pain, hate and the memories I have of him, I have never lost. I have killed former comrades with tears in my eyes and I have emerged bloody but victorious from confrontations against alien nightmarish creatures. I do all of this to be more like him, closer to the ideal he incarnated: a warrior of perfection, devoted to his task and to the Emperor. It grieved me to have to be pitted against children and women, but once all was over and I wept quietly with their blood still over me, I remembered the teachings he gave us: the warrior must show compassion, but he must also understand that there will be those he cannot save. Had I not killed them, someone or something else would have. I do my best to apply what he taught us, even if I have to suffer the torture of the headaches. Like him, I never throw away my weapons. Like him, I keep my spirit unbroken. Like him, I use my rare moments not spent fighting or training to hone my concentration and steel my will. I fight without relent or pause until my opponents are laid low with their life blood drenching the ground and the crowd is erupting in cheers and jeers. I do not listen to them, because they are Xeno. I wait for the day I can submerge them with my anger and destroy their impure existences, but a warrior must realize that he cannot achieve all of his goals at any time. I must wait for the perfect chance to strike. My first target knows I want to kill him. I remind him of it after every fight, standing over the bodies of my adversaries, as I point my weapon at him and he smirks. I know he is protected by some force field in his arena honour throne, so I do not waste my strength throwing it. I roar my challenge so loudly it drowns their delighted whooping, weapon firmly held in my right hand as my left index finger at the extremity of my outstretched arm marks the Xeno leader with the death-touch, the invisible symbol of those about to be slain. Every time, the pain spikes through my mind with such burning intensity I have to fight back the tears as I repeat his battle-cry in a homage they cant understand. The words give me strength and purpose as they roll and echo around the enclosed pit: Courage and honour, for Guilliman and for the Throne! He was my ideal, my hero and my commander. He fought for us even when so many others had fallen already. Until his end, he was a martial legend and a just war leader, a demigod we would have followed to the confines of the Galaxy had he but asked. He was a Space Marine in a glorious livery of blue and white and much more to us than just a member of his Astartes Chapter: to me and every other resistance fighter, he was so legendary he was known under a single nickname designed to strike fear into our enemies by letting them know who they were up against. He was everything I can never become. He was Ultramarine. # I have been a soldier since I was sixteen, the year of life during which they attacked us in the first of many raids to come. When the Planetary Defence Forces resisted them, they grew crueller and stopped taking prisoners, attacking without relent until our military was splintered. It was then most of the able men took up arms and formed isolated resistance cells, myself included. We thought grimly that they would hunt us down and kill us, but that did not happen. They did not even try to starve us or cut our weapon supplies. It seemed that the Xeno were content with