what we leave behind
For @lookashiny, who requested Rawne, Feygor and a slice of life/downtime snippet. Hopefully it should be evident, but this is immediately pre-Gereon...
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He surveyed the objects on his bunk dispassionately.
They weren’t much, as wordly possessions go. Just some things he’d carried with him. Certainly nothing of monetary worth. A piece of stone, taken from the walls of Tanith Attica. A battered data-slate loaded with mediocre pornography, won from Brostin in a game of cards. The tiny larisel, carved from nalwood, that his sister’s brat had given him before he’d left for the founding fields. A small bottle of sacra – not Bragg’s moonshine, but the proper stuff, from the old world.
Perhaps that was worth something. He’d found it stuffed at the bottom of his pack, quite recently; had almost drunk it straight away, except that it had seemed to demand a special occasion.
How sentimental. Feygor felt his lips curl into a sneer. It was entirely reflexive, and he knew the habit didn’t endear him to most of his regimental colleagues, but he found he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He didn’t hear someone enter the room so much as feel it. The air currents, perhaps, or a slight deadening in the sounds that came from further along the passageway, where the Verghastites were having some sort of loud gathering. There was a lot of laughter.
‘You packed?’ said the newcomer.
Rawne leaned in the hatchway, arms folded. To most observers, Feygor imagined, the major might seem his usual cool, inscrutable self, exuding the feth-you attitude he was known for. But Murt Feygor, who had known Elim Rawne for longer than most, didn’t miss the tension in his posture. And the simple fact of his being here was even more telling. This wasn’t a superior checking up on a soldier. Rawne knew full well that Feygor could pack up and be ready to ship out without anyone holding his fething hand. What this was, Feygor didn’t want to examine too closely, because it was probably along the same lines of what had him wringing his hands over a pile of rubbish.
Couldn’t afford the distraction of sentiment where they were going, that was for certain. He shook himself, trying to shuck off the feeling, like a wet dog ridding its coat of water.
‘As good as,’ he finally replied.
Rawne nodded and peeled himself away from the hatch to stalk around the small cabin that Feygor shared with Meryn, Brostin and Larks. The sniper’s kit bag was ready to go, sitting on Larkin’s bunk while he circulated the regiment, saying his goodbyes. Rawne reached Feygor’s bed, sat down, and eyed the items laid out on the blanket next to him.
‘What’re you doing with those?’
Feygor shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Can’t really take them where we’re going. Not worth much, either. Was going to sling them.’
Rawne picked up the tiny carved larisel, but didn’t reply, just turned it in his fingers, frowning. Lost in thought.
‘You know much about this place we’re off to, then?’ asked Feygor, suddenly unnerved by the silence.
‘Nothing beyond what Gaunt told us all in the briefing,’ said Rawne, finally meeting his eyes. ‘You know as much as I do, and that’s the truth of it.’
‘It’s going to be a shitshow of a mission, isn’t it?’
‘Is there any other kind?’ Rawne grinned. It wasn’t a smile that reached his eyes, and it didn’t last very long. He tossed the larisel at Feygor, who caught it by reflex. ‘This won’t take up much room.’
Feygor raised an eyebrow.
‘Call it a good luck charm.’ Rawne sighed. ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna need all the luck we can fething well get.’
‘Now now,’ said Feygor, his mechanical voicebox rendering the words in a drone that rang as sardonically as intended. ‘The Emperor protects…’
‘Not on Gereon, He doesn’t.’
Feygor sat down on the bunk next to Rawne. ‘Well, in that case…’
He reached for the sacra.