Time moved in a blur. How many cycles had passed, Daelon didn't know. He had stopped keeping count, because ultimately it did not matter. What mattered was the mission - whenever and whatever it may be. He maintained his physique and mental fortitude, training and running drills until his body could move on autopilot so that his mind could focus on the minutia of battle. It had been said that the Skitarii and Tech Priests of the Mechanicum could relay orders to multiple coordinating units in the midst of melee combat without breaking their stride or rhythm. That was how he felt during his most recent combat runs: mire machine than man, separated from its consciousness, issuing directives without a second thought.

His "down time" kept him level. Between combat training with Captain McGarrack, Daelon took meals and studied in his cell. He had not seen his hallowed armor since it had been removed in the Apothecarium by the rambling Marine Errant and every ounce of his being wanted to lash out and rage because of it. He kept that in check by studying the Codex, and pushing himself to his limits in the hypno-indoctrination chambers. Studying the enemies he was sworn to slain brought him solace from the reality of the fact that he had been forced to slay those loyal to the Imperium only recently. It was not his place to question orders, but the betrayal he had enacted upon those men, however menial it may have seemed to an Astartes of a different Chapter, lay heavy upon his heart. They had died bravely and with honor - and most surprisingly willingly - but the fact that they had to die by his hand and not holding the line against one of the myriad of Mankind's enemies bit and tugged at Daelon's conscious. 

A knock on the door of his spartan cell brought him from the midst of one of his solemn reveries. 

"Enter." Daelon stood tall and proud, his yellow hair pulled back into the same warrior's-knot he sported during battle. He had been running combat simulations so often that it had not made sense to remove it. Bathing and cleaning himself had not been a priority and he could only imagine how he smelled, though he cared little. Bright eyes stared ahead as a monstrous figure in the tell-tale armor of a Chaplain entered his cell.

The door hissed closed as two servo-skulls floated in behind him and the two found themselves shut inside of a cell that only just accommodated them. The newcomer stood with his hands behind his back and looked around the cell, taking a momentary interest in the reading material laid out on the desk in the corner. After a moment he spoke. 

"I am Chaplain Archomedes of the Silver Skulls. Well met, Sergeant Daelon of the Storm Wardens. Your reputation precedes you." He gives a slight bow before adding, "please have a seat." Although it was posed as a request, it was very much an order. Daelon stood for a moment, attempting to peer into the soulless master-crafted silver polished skull-helm of the Chaplain, but he was not giving an inch. The Storm Warden did see himself in those optics-lenses, however. He looked harder than he remembered, as if the mental strain of what he had been through had left a scar upon his features. His eyes, normally so bright and full of energy and life looked worn and tired. Perhaps he had been pushing himself too hard, eager to erase the memory of what he considered deceit and dishonor from his mind. Reluctant, Daelon took a seat on his cot, ready for whatever was to come.

Archomedes stood as still as a statue, his power armored body towering over the Storm Warden sergeant. He spoke with his external vox at a low setting, coming forth as almost a whisper or an echo of words spoken from far away. "You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure and indeed it was. In fact, I am told that your body held out much longer than the rest of the initiates, a testament to the toughness of your Chapter and the resolve for which you are known. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit and I spoke at length with Captain McGarrack concerning your training regimen and the ultimate results of it." He waited a moment, ever the orator, to allow his words to sink in. "You are wondering then why I am here, no doubt. For even one with high accolades such as yours can be troubled beyond salvation; has history not taught us the price of hubris, the gravity of ambition, and the damnation of doubt? Was Horus himself not the favored son of the Emperor, blessed be thy name, and we all know the folly of his pride, ambition and doubt." The name of the Arch-traitor stirred the embers of a ten-thousand year old fire inside of Daelon and it took all of his self discipline not to charge at the Chaplain for hinting their may be a connection between himself and the enemy. Sensing this, Archomedes remained motionless, ever peering into the Storm Warden before him. 

After a few moments he continued, "I am here to weigh your very soul, Brother Sergeant.” His voice was light with a gentle cadence to his inflection. "I am here to ensure that you are as sound inside as you appear to be outside."

***

Hours passed, perhaps even days. Daelon did not break. The intimidation had little effect on him and his mind was like a steel trap. Every attempt at breaking it open had resulted in a resounding failure on Archomedes part and his frustration was evident in the speed at which his questioning started to take. Daelon did not tire under the assault, nor did he let his anger get the better of him. He was controlled and disciplined.

"Sergeant Daelon, why is it that you apparently cannot follow orders?"

Daelon said nothing. He had an idea of where this was going but he would not allow himself to be walked into the firing squad that the Silver Skull was setting up.

"Do you normally need to be told twice to carry out your mission?" Archomedes was unrelenting. The air was stale and warm, having been recycled at a faster rate now that the mass in the room had effectively doubled.

"No, brother-Chaplain, unless of course the orders are contrary to my Oath as an Astartes of the Storm Wardens."

"Is your Oath not to follow the orders of your superiors? Surely killing the enemy disgraces no other Oaths you may have taken." His voice still a whisper, the Chaplain had been saving this. "Your mission in the Training Grounds has proved that perhaps you aren't the model of loyalty you appear to be."

"Had an enemy combatant been placed before me, its death would have been swift and without mercy. yet, I found no xenos, no heretic, nor traitor before me. Only a group of men who could have served out their last days in service to the Emperor." Daelon's voice was growing louder as the memory of the Guardsmen dying under his blade replayed in his mind. He was almost saddened to find that his mind immediately went to mistakes in his form or blade work that were the result of hesitance on his part and how he should correct himself. 

"So..." Archomedes took a step forward, "You faltered. You hesitated and in this Vigil hesitation is death!" The Chaplain's external vox switched from a whisper to a shout in the blink of an eye and it nearly startled Daelon into a fighting stance. For his part, he remained seated, glaring at Archomedes.

"Should this situation repeat itself in the field, what then? You would risk the lives of your Kill Team, of your brothers due to a hesitance to carry out your orders?"

"Those 'orders' were contrar-" He was not allowed to finish. A hand shot out, faster than he could react and in a moment he was at the mercy of the Silver Skull. A crushing strength enhanced by the might of power armor enveloped Daelon's throat. He was strong, but the Chaplain was stronger. Daelon held futilely onto Archomedes' armored gauntlet, trying without success to remove it. He felt the oxygen supply to his brain get low as his vision blurred and knew that his primary and secondary hearts were working overtime in conjunction with his third lung to oxygenate his blood. 

"Contrary to your Oath?" His voice still a shout, Daelon knew that he had but moments before he passed out. "Your Oaths prior to this day mean nothing, sergeant! You fret for the lives of a squad that had been condemned by the Emperor and for them you would hesitate in your duty, and at what cost? You would see your squad die for a hesitation? You would watch a hive fall to a genestealer infestation to a hesitation? You would condemn a planet to exterminatus for a hesitation?!" 

Daelon's eyes grew heavy, but heavier still were the words of the Chaplain. For as much as he hated the Silver Skull at this moment, sergeant Daelon knew he was right. Archomedes reared back and threw Daelon into the northern wall of his cell. The cracks and dried blood from earlier had not been removed and it was as fitting a place as any for him to be.

"We do not get the privilege to hesitate in the line of duty, sergeant. You have taken the black now and had better learn that if you and your men are to survive the trials to come. We do not hold the line nor do we bolster spirits. We are the shadows in the dark that ensure the Imperium continues along its righteous path to glory in the cosmos. You will be tasked with sacrificing the few to ensure the existence of the many..." Archomedes external vox moved back to a whisper, as if acting without orders but sensing the Chaplain's mood. Somber and almost regrettably he added, "This I can promise you."

Daelon righted himself against the wall, hating that he was not clad in his armor and ready to return the physical pain, but hating even more that the Chaplain had been right. He stood and breathed in a gulp of air, staring into the optical lenses of the Silver Skull. "So, what now, Chaplain?"

Archomedes dug into a satchel at his side for a moment, eventually producing a robe of the darkest blacks. "Now you don the black and make yourself ready. You have proven to be exceptionally strong, Brother Sergeant and I can see that Captains McGarrack and Haeron were correct in their assessments of you. I fear not for your physical capability, but you would do well to remember your place and what is expected of you. The lives of the few do not outweigh the lives of the many. You will be summoned. The Emperor protects, Brother Sergeant Daelon of the Storm Wardens."

***

The summoning happened quicker than Daelon had expected. A single servitor led him down hallways and past rooms he had never spied before. He had an idea of how big the facility was, but this unexpected tour was evidence that his estimations, as grand as they were, were too small. Finally they stopped before two large adamantine double doors with the Imperial Aquila borne into the center. The servitor stood motionless and silent beside it, bowing low to acknowledge the presence of his better.

Daelon took in a deep breath and pushed. A grand hall sprawled out before him, its immensity but a taste of the awe inspiring forms of sixty-six Astartes standing at parade rest donning the same black robes Daelon found himself in. The servitor moved ahead of him, beckoning him to follow and led him to a spot next to five other Astartes. They stared straight ahead and Daelon did not have to be told how to act. Standing at parade rest along with the rest of them, he awaited whatever was to come with a mixture of elation, excitement and the dread of failure. 

[i]You will not fail, son of Sacris.[/i]

Huge braziers of incense hung from walls lined with candles and dimly lit holo-globes. Cherubesque servitors flew from the top of the hall and around the banisters, trailing smoke-lined paths of incense wherever they went. Ahead of the initiates stood the familiar faces of Watch Captains Kyro and McGarrick, Apothecary Haeron and the much more recently familiar Silver Skulled helm of Chaplain Archomedes. They stood before the immense form of an Astartes straight out of legend. The figure was so huge that he appeared to be a statue only giving away that he was in fact a living Astartes as he turned to face the delegation of initiates and officers.

The Watch Commander. He was one of the largest Space Wolves Daelon had ever laid eyes on, enhanced by his master-worked suit of Tactical-Dreadnaught "Terminator" armor and the proud Storm Warden had to imagine that he probably gave even Logan Grimnar a run for his money in the training cages. He cradled a massive double headed power axe as though it were a tooth pick in front of a beard that reached down to the front of his chest plate. His feral grin was made even more savage by the mohawk of white hair complimented on either side with tattoos of the Fenrisian language. Daelon swelled with pride to be in the presence of a warrior of such obvious repute and lineage.

With a deep, throaty growl, softly he spoke…

“One unbreakable shield against the darkness. One last blade forged in the defiance of fate…the All-Father spoke these words during the creation of his legions. Heh, how have things changed. That whore's son Horus saw to that.” He said with a dark chuckle. 

At the mention of the arch traitor, the second time since he had begun his initiation, Daelon tensed with anger. He could feel it around him as well. No other name was as hated, reviled and despised as that of Horus - his legion - and all of those who followed him into damnation so many hundreds of centuries ago. 

The Watch Commander continued, “The Second Oath, brothers, is more significant than you can yet comprehend. Your individual trials have been intense – a time of testing mind, body and spirit. Our doctrines are a hard thing to learn, old grudges not easily forgotten. But it is today that you are truly Deathwatch! Take pride in what you are: first amongst equals! You were Space Marines, Angels of Death, but now we surpass even that. Think on how few, even among the greatest ever known, get to bear this honor." His words resounded in Daelon's heart, for surely his trial had been one of the hardest he had yet faced in his life and he was quickly learning that his view of the galaxy was too straight forward, too black and white. If he had to skirt the gray line in between, then so be it. He had been chosen for a reason and he would be damned if he brought dishonor to his Chapter as a result of hesitation.

Eventually the Watch Commander gestured the recruits to a set of double doors, beyond which they would receive their armor and ready themselves for glory. 

An eagerness filled his soul as he approached. He would be reacquainted his his cherished battle plate. It was an honor beyond words to wear such an ancient suit of armor; worn into battle against the arch enemy themselves during days that had largely been relegated to myth and legend. To be tasked with preserving such a namesake for his Chapter was on par with the highest of honors. A pair of servitors made their way to him, holding a brazier of red hot coals. The seal of initiation, thought Daelon. So be it. He stepped up to the coals as Chaplain Archomedes flanked him producing a branding iron from a satchel at his belt. He thrusted it into the middle of the coals, while he stared at Daelon. Unflinching. 

The Watch Commander continued speaking, intoning what must have been ancient words that secured the loyalty of the Astartes before him. Daelon's Oath of Moment had come. He faced the Watch Commander taking a knee and bowing his head. "I, Sergeant Daelon McCullagh, Storm Wardens 2nd Company, Fourth tactical squad, swear before you today on my honor that my life is dedicated to the Long Watch for as long until my service is no longer needed or I die in the line of duty. I swear to stand loyal beside Astartes of any creed or Chapter. No longer bound by ancient feuds, I swear Brotherhood to any and all who wear the Black against any threat to the Imperium of Man." The cadence of his voice grew as the magnitude of the Oath rested firmly upon his heart. 

He looked up to the Watch Commander and stood, his arms folded over his chest in the sign of the Aquila as he spoke. "I pledge my soul to the keeping of the Deathwatch's traditions, doctrines, laws and secrets. In the eyes of all of my Ancestors who now stand at the side of the Emperor, I pledge my service to the Deathwatch. I pledge my honor to the black."

There was movement to his side, but Daelon didn't take his eyes off of the great wolf in front of him. He saw his future in the eyes of the Son of Russ, and he saw greatness, honor and service. A voice trailed to him from the left. Archomedes.

"Do not forget about our conversation, Sergeant. Carry it with you always. Constantly remember my face and with it the weight of which we spoke." He pressed the brand into the Storm Warden's arm, holding it there. Daelon grit his teeth and took it, but the Chaplain did not let up. "Should you fail, remember that you had the chance to prevent it. We always have the chance to prevent it." The brand remained in place and the smell of burning flesh filtered through with the incense. Daelon thought of failure, he thought of dead worlds and broken Astartes, and he screamed.

None gathered so much as flinched, such was their discipline. Daelon stood and the entirety of the group saluted the newest brother to take the black. With a return salute, he walked on legs of pride through the doors to re-arm himself.

***

Servitors and war smiths toiled and moved with purpose. Each piece of his Mk. V battle plate was meticulously polished and form fitted onto his armored body glove. Each time an interface plug was fitted to his black carapace from the corresponding piece of armor, a thrill of exhilaration surged through his veins. It had felt like decades since he had donned it last and the refitting of it was very much a reuniting of old friends. Daelon could practically feel the ancient spirits of his often unfairly named "Heresy" armor surge with excitement as interfaces were re-united with carapace.

It had been repainted black as promised, the color of the void. Gone was the dark blue and gray hues consistent with the legacy of his Chapter. A jet black sheen covered the layered ablative-ceramite, flexsteel and adamantine layers. The tell-tale studs of the Mk. V plate seemed to blend with one another, so black they now where. The left arm and shoulder pauldron sported a new electro-plated silver sheen. The silver, bright and shining and emblazoned with the "I" and skull of the Deathwatch and matching couter would take some getting used to. But, as far as Daelon could tell the ancient Machine Spirits of the armor were well-pleased with the care given to them from the Deathwatch artificers.

However, with a careful eye he could still see where the blood stain on the lower left of the abdomen was almost covered up by the new paint with only the slightest hint of an outline remaining. It was a stain that had been there for as long as he could remember and try as they might, no artificer could remove it. He did not mind; it was a constant reminder of the price of duty and the ultimate price each and every Astartes would someday have to pay. This suit had history indeed, and history was rarely a story of glory without cost. The blood was testament to that.

He felt whole again standing in the full splendor of his terrifying armor. Enhanced external vox-amplifiers had been reworked into the collar some centuries prior and a brilliant heraldry of battles won and enemies bested had been laser-etched into the breast-plate. He donned his battle-helm last, staring hard at the Iron Skull Honors situated in the center of it. He knew Brother Sergeant Rayden was watching from the Emperor's side and took heart in that. He took the helmet and touched his forehead to the Iron Skull. It felt cold against his skin and he welcomed the sensation. "I will do your memory proud, brother."

Speaking the proper rites, he donned the battle-helm, feeling the hiss of compression as it sealed him off from the outside environment. His HUD readout shined a soft light green inside of his lenses, giving him readings and information on everything from environmental conditions to distances and windage as well as a live-feed of his life support and armor's vitals systems. He was ready. 

Armed and armored for war, Daelon was a sight to behold. His Mk. IV Bolter rested around his large frame from a leather strap and his bolt pistol hung off of his left thigh in a drp holster. Extra ammo magazines had been laid out next to the weapons and he took his time locking and loading his primary weapon platforms, ensuring the the proper rites had been adhered to. His Sacris Claymore was sheathed at his back and he itched to pull it forth once more. Fragmentary and the anti-armor Krak grenades looped off of his belt, as well as two blind grenades supplied by his benefactors. He itched to get into an armory to get properly kitted out with everything he would need for whatever mission was ahead, but he had confidence that he would do exactly that soon enough.

It was time to move out. There would be ample time for armament requisition after his mission briefing, and Daelon was as eager as a brand new scout to meet his Kill Team and engage the enemy.

He marched back into the hall of initiates, and spared a glance at the grizzled Space Wolf Watch Commander. He gave a nod of respect, feeling both prouder and more able again in his armor. He spared a moment to stare into that leering skull-helm of the Chaplain Archomedes. He said nothing, going over again in his head the conversation they had had. If the Chaplain had any parting words he kept them to himself. Taking his leave, the Storm Warden sergeant made his way past the other initiates and off to the landing bay.

***
The Thunderhawk whined and screamed quad core extra-atmospheric engines primed and warmed up for take off. The ship itself was as black as night and Daelon caught the faint glimpse of Serf pilots prepping the machine spirits inside the cockpit. Without a look back, the invigorated Storm Warden made his way onto the boat.
 
Captain McGarrack had somehow beaten him to the punch. Daelon should not have been surprised, but still found himself gawking slightly under his battle-helm. McGarrick stood and slammed a closed palm against his breast-plate: the ancient salute of the tribesmen of Sacris. "Well done, brother Daelon," he said with a toothy smile, his battle-helm clipped at his belt. "I was pulling for you, lad."

"I think your judgement may have been slightly biased from the start, Captain." Daelon nodded his head slightly to the right, indicating the matching shoulder pauldron they each shared.

"On the contrary, it is because of that heraldry on your shoulder that I did not like you from the moment I laid eyes on you. What would be more shameful than a young Astartes from home coming here and making an arse of himself, mucking up my name and that of the Wardens. But you didn't do that, did you, sergeant?"

Daelon remained quiet. He had learned in their interactions to let Captain McGarrack talk out his entire line of thought without interruption; there was more to this Marine than just strength and toughness. On rare occasions, he had been capable of vast insight as well. Daelon suspected this might be one of those moments. Soon enough the Captain continued, "You impressed me, lad. Throne, you even impressed old Haeron with your stubbornness to succumb to his meds while you were under the knife. I wonder, did you impress Chaplain Archomedes?"

Daelon motioned toward his neck and a few moments later the hiss of depressurization fills the air. Taking off his helm and clipping it to his belt, Daelon looked McGarrack in the eyes. The moment seemed to go on forever, as if McGarrack were about to bear the brunt of Daelon's anger.

He leaned in close to the Captain. Unblinking. Unflinching. 

"...Has he been talking in his sleep again?"

The roaring laughter from McGarrack startled the serf pilots as they made the Thunderhawk ready for flight. After he calmed down from the tense moment turned comedic at his expense, he motioned for Daelon to strap in. Daelon did so and offered a nod of respect to the Captain. He highly doubted he left an impression on the pious Silver Skull, and if he did he very much doubted it was anything positive. The memory of their last meeting was still fresh in his mind, and he imagined it would be until the day he left his more-than-mortal shell to stand beside the Emperor and the unknown Primarch. Putting it out of his mind, he focused on what was to come. He would earn glory for the Deathwatch, for his brothers and for the Storm Wardens.

"Lo' there and so it begins, lad," said the Captain, hints of a smile still played at the corners of his mouth.

"Lo' there do I see the line of my ancestors, back to the beginning, in the halls of the Emperor," replied Daelon, repeating the ancient Storm Warden chant.

 "So, it begins."