Three hours it had been...three long and gruelling hours of subtle and cautious work, something that Nergüi was unused to but not incapable of. An Astartes could come through most things, a bone merely needing to be reset before it healed, or a wound simply closed by any means necessary for the bleeding to stop, but mortals such as the one he now peered at upon the metal table were fragile things so easily broken.

“Corporal,” murmured the Marine, his oddly fatherly eyes looking into the wide and blinking ones of the young man beneath his scalpel, “you have fought well and the Emperor knows your name, he bids you go to his right hand. Would you like that?”

Corporal La'shard had been cloven by an Ork 'choppa', his wound was mortal and would have become infected even with medical aid, his uniform – once so neat and clean – was covered in his own blood, his trousers filled with his own excrement, his flesh as white as ivory. Still, with what strength was left to him, the soldier managed to give a nod of his head and in doing so accepted his fate.

“Good, then rest now; our Lord shall welcome you with open arms.”

The scalpel, which looked like a sewing needle in the huge fists of the living weapon, moved in an almost leisurely motion to end the Corporals life and drag him into the void forever. No, not forever, for the Emperor called all those loyal to him to his side...or so many believed.

“How many are left?” Questioned the Apothecary, having heard the Doctor coming from across the room, his eyes remaining on those of the dead Guardsmen even as he spoke.

“We're nearly done here, and more will live because than would not have – I'd say it's a miracle.”

A slight twinge moved the Chogorians mouth into a grimace, “it is no miracle, Doctor, you and your assistants need only believe in yourself and you can do as I have done.” While this was not [i]entirely[/i] true, if it caused the medical staff to work more proficiently and with greater determination – facing the ravages of fatigue and self doubt head on – then he would say anything.

“There was something else?”

“Aye, it seems your chief is asking for you, she wants you back at the command room.”

There was a small grunt and a stretching of oversized limbs from the Astartes, a curiously human gesture for one who did not truly tire, “[b]she[/b] is not my 'chief', Doctor. My only chief is Khajog Khan and the Great Khan himself.”

Although he had no idea what any of that meant, the Doctor gave a nod as Nergüi made to leave the infirmary – the route between there and the command centre implanted firmly into his memory – watching as the helmet slid back over those almost feline-like features and silently wishing him luck before he went back to his patients.



[hr]



“[color=ed1c24]Sister Celestian,[/color]” he stated by way of greeting, his targeting runes flickering over the battle-hardened form of the Sister before him as he closed the gap between them, “[color=ed1c24]I assume you have new orders for us[/color]?”

It was true that he was an Apothecary – one who had to save lives rather than take them, who was sworn to protect his brothers and to bring the progenoid gland home – but since his inception into the Deathwatch, a casual glance at his blackened gauntlet reminding him of that, he had had to slay things that many alive today did not even know existed. Some of the things he had seen...some of the things he had done.

Inside he was still a hunter, a son of Chogoris and a warrior, and that same thrill now began to run through his veins; he sensed there would be action of a sort, could [i]feel[/i] it in the air as a cat or dog could sense impending disaster, and it excited him as alcohol intoxicates or drugs stimulate.

On the outside he was as calm as a cup of water, but within he was what he had always been, a weapon of the Emperor of Mankind and an Angel of Death.