(Hello everyone, hope all are well. I failed in my thinking of doing biweekly installments so instead I will say that as long as people like these, I will do them when possible. As always, thank you so much for your comments and critiques are always welcome. Have a wonderful day!)

The Hellbrute was aptly named: a large machine that howled and cursed while dripping with gore. It truly looked like a beast from some hideous realm, an amalgamation of metal and flesh festooned with chain and skulls. One of the cursed warriors of the Heretek Astartes, these machines held a mortally wounded warrior entombed within. Driven mad with rage and blood lust, the machines were barely sentient missiles to be fired at the enemy. Their survival was unimportant, the amount of death and destruction they could deal was paramount.

This particular Hellbrute was once Brother Lythus of the Word Bearers. In life outside of the fallen dreadnought he had been a fine soldier. He listened to orders, he proudly cared for his equipment. Even when the Legion left the Imperium, he enjoyed debates on all sorts of topics in those rare moments between war zones. Mortally wounded during a Black Crusade, he was not given the comfort of death and was instead placed within the doomed sarcophagus.

He became a machine dripping with hate and rage. No more thoughtful words left his lips, only curses and screams from screeching vox emitters. His weapons became clogged with gore and grease. His armor no longer repaired and scripture rewritten. He remained a talented killer though no longer a soldier, ignoring orders to do the only thing that kept the madness at bay. He was responsible for killing numerous guardsmen, squads of Battle Sisters, even once brother marines. He had slain Venerable Dreadnaught Helenis of the Ultramarines, ripped apart a Land Raider that had served for centuries. He was a literal killing machine.

The Anchorite ended his tally and his madness in one grueling duel.

The Hellbrute had charged the line of Space Marines. In the tiny corner of his mind where some reason resisted he thought these new Astartes to be different. They were taller than the ones he was used to fighting. Their armor was newer, more advanced. He recognized the grey slate of their armor, the blazing torch symbol, and the sights of both filled him with shame and hate.

His multimetla spat and the wall the Marines hid behind evaporated. He swung a claw and one of the new Marines came apart. He screamed again, a sound laced with pain and hate. He was about to bring the claw down again when motion caught his visual sensor. Another large machine approached him and his logic system labeled it as the greater danger.

The Hellbrute fired his multimelta and the beams deflected off the grey dreadnaught’s armor. He fired again and the beams deflected again. Another howl and the Hellbrute charged.

The Anchorite charged back and the two machines crashed against each other. Claw meant close combat weapon and like two wrestlers from old the two machines fought one another. The Hellbrute tried to fire his gun at point blank range but the barrels screeched under the grip from the Anchorite, crushed flat before they could fire.

Incensed, the Hellbrute tried to shove his foe back, give him room to use his claw. A squawk of surprise emerged as the Hellbrute felt himself being lifted into the air. The Anchorite embraced the Hellbrute, servos squealing from the strain of lifting the debased machine. A hideous crack ended a metallic shriek and the Hellbrute fell to the earth, it’s chassis broken by the strength of the contemptor dreadnaught.

Another crack broke the sarcophagus open wider and for the first time in centuries did air and light touch Lythus’s broken body. One eye blinked against the harsh elements and a mouth shriveled from disuse gaped. The one eye stared into the red lenses of the Anchorite and recognition filled it.

“Brother…” the broken mouth said. The first word Lythus had spoken since being interred. It was his last. A heart beat later and Lythus had truly and finally died.

The Anchorite did not acknowledge his cheering men at first. He gazed down at his dead foe. It as difficult to see Lythus as he was now when he still remembered Lythus as he was. Moments passed before the Chapter Master of the Imperial Heralds looked away from the destroyed machine.

“Onward brothers,” he called with forced bonhomie. “We must continue on. Objectives must be met if we are to free this world from Chaos. This world will be saved, an example that the Imperium has not forsaken their citizens. Fight on. For the Imperium and her children.”

Squads of Intercessors ran on, checking weapons as they fanned out. Each Marine that ran past the Anchorite did not stop but slammed a clenched fist to their chest, an old salute brought back. As steady as the beat of a drum, the thud of fist to breast was steady, uninterrupted.

Soon there were only a few left at the site of the duel. The Anchorite had not moved from where he threw down the Hellbrute. A cluster of Bladeguard Veterans stood at a respectful distance. Against his protests, they remained to be his Honor Guard, a duty they took very seriously. So dedicated, they even tried to prevent the others from approaching their Chapter Master.

They failed for few things in the galaxy could stand against the Adeptus Custodes.

Even taller and broader than the Primaris Marines, the Adeptus Custodes were impressive in size as well as presence. Their armor was gold, shining bright despite the debris of war. Plumed helms towered over others and their guardian spears were works of art and lethality in one.

One approached the Anchorite while the rest of the squad remained at rest, ignoring the bristled looks of the Bladeguard. The one that strode closer had armor even more ornate than his compatriots, his weapon more grand. Yet the Anchorite knew that such decoration was not just for show, only the best and the oldest of the Custodes were gilded as such and none were gilded without reason nor function.

“Shield Captain,” the Anchorite said in greeting.

The Shield Captain inclined his head slightly. “Chapter Master.” Since joining the Imperail Heralds on their Crusade, the Custodian had never called the Anchorite anything but his official title. “I saw the end of the fight, you make it look easy.”

“I assure you, it was not.”

“Oh? Why not? Is it hard to kill ones you called brother? Being on either side of the line of loyalty?”

The Anchorite supressed a sigh. “It is hard to kill yes. Taking life is a burden, any life.”

A snort. “You were created to end life. You lack conviction in your purpose.”

“Ending life is not my sole purpose.” The Anchorite shifted to look directly at the Shield Captain. Despite being taller than the Custodian, the Shield Captain did not flinch. “I have many purposes. I write, I lead, I watch, I remember as much as I kill. Do not mistake weariness as reluctance.”

“I do not make many mistakes,” the Shield Captain retorted. “I am here to ensure that mistakes are not repeated.”

This time the sigh could not be supressed. “Even now you distrust our Crusade? We have come through the Cicatrix, we have come to a world thought lost. We save her citizens and will turn this place as our beachhead into Imperium Nihilus. You see that our efforts are not in vain, they are led. We follow the Pilgrim’s Path. We follow His word and do His work.”

A gold fist gripped the guardian spear tighter. “Save your words. I will not be swayed nor converted. You are not the only one to remember. There are records of the last time your ilk was accompanied by the Adeptus Custodes.”

“We are not who they were.”

“That remains to be seen.” The Shield Captain looked directly into the Anchorite’s visual sensors. “We are here to watch you and your cursed Chapter. We are always watching for treachery.” Without waiting for a reply the Shield Captain strode off and his squad followed him, a line of molten gold in the grey rubble of the war zone.

“As do I,” the Anchorite said softly. “I can only watch, and pray.”