Many cycles passed with Alaric kneeling with his back to the entrance of the cell, his hands locked together in prayer and his lips rapidly flapping to silently intone the appropriate catechisms and mottos. The wound he had received from the kroot across his brow had healed over with very little scarring, only the small white puckering of flesh showing its effect. His short cropped blonde hair matted against his brow from sweat as he kept his Scholar’s robe over his body, the humidity of his cell getting to him. “My faith is my shield, and my faith in the Emperor the barrier which guards my mind,” he muttered as he stared at the wall in front of him. The cell was lit by a single guttering candle that flickered, casting ghostly shadows upon the walls, dark, questing shadows that reached for the Dark Angel, but never seemed to reach him. It was then that he thought about his Chapter Master’s parting words. “Find the fallen, and make them repent, Brother.”

Finally reeling back into his own body, Alaric quickened his death-like pulse with a few deep breaths and stood up, taking a seat on his bed. Clenching his hands into fists, he gritted his teeth and thought about the traitors of Caliban. He had only learned about it recently, but the more that Azrael had told him, the more that it angered him, but the further the rabbit hole went down, the more it scared him. The thought that one who had been so close to the Lion, and so faithful to the Emperor could stage a rebellion, turning brother against brother…it lit a spark of fear in him, fear that he too could quickly be turned away from the Emperor’s light into the Dark Powers’ service, that he too would become…Unforgiven…Grinding his teeth and shaking his head, Alaric rejected the thought. His faith in the Emperor was absolute, and his belief unwavering. He would not fall into the same pit that those scum had willingly dug themselves. He was pure, he was a guardian of their geneseed, a position given only to those who were trusted. He would not turn to the Fallen. 

At the end of that thought, he heard the sound of his cell unlock, the telltale clank of bars and stone dragging him out of his reverie. Standing up, Alaric spotted the figure of a giant moving towards him, its large, metalshod feet clanking on the ground towards him. Finally, its form was illuminated by the guttering candle. A chaplain. Alaric was at once both relieved, yet terrified. His limbs froze in place, and his face locked into a scowl. As the Chaplain drew closer, Alaric spotted the heraldry of the Silver Skulls on his shoulder, but that view quickly disappeared as the leering skull helm came closer. As it drew into range, Alaric could see his face reflected in the polished silver. His hood obscured most of his face, but he could see rivulets of sweat, almost tear-like, running down his face, as well as his pearly white teeth ground against each other. In the Dark Angels, the appearance of a Chaplain, especially Master of Repentance Asmodai, rarely meant anything good. It often meant that the higher echelons of the chapter doubted your faith or sanity, and that fear was transferred to Alaric now which, compounded with his previous fear, froze him in place, his body refusing to respond to any commands. Finally, the chaplain spoke, his voice refined and light, with a pleasant cadence to it.

“You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit. I am here to weigh your very soul.”
“I…I submit myself into your keeping…” Alaric stammered, his voice uneven. The weak reply seemed to disappoint Archomedes , which Alaric could sense even through the rictus skull mask. “Take a seat, Apothecary Alaric of the Dark Angels,” he said, pulling the metal chair over from the simply study desk and taking a seat, “my name is Chaplain Archomedes of the Silver Skulls, and I expect you to be completely honest with me. I know how you Dark Angels are, after all.”. Behind him, two servo-skulls hovered into place, one writing something down on parchment while the other seemed to just stare at Alaric, but after a quick examination, the Apothecary could not spot anything wrong with it. The words, however, shook the Apothecary, making him narrow his eyes at the Chaplain. Did the man know about their past? Impossible. The brothers who know about it all swore complete secrecy, even at the cost of their own life. But… something about this man made Alaric think that he would be the one to out his Chapter’s secret. He inwardly gulped as his eyes met the Chaplain’s. Slowly, Alaric sat down onto his hard bed, his eyes never leaving the twin red slits of the chaplain. 

“The Apothecary tells me that you are knowledgeable in your use of medicae and instruments,” Archomedes said, taking out a scroll from his belt, presumably with gathered details about Alaric. Wordlessly, Alaric nodded, but it seemed like the Chaplain did not accept it. “Answer me, Apothecary,” the chaplain said, a hint of impatience drifting into his otherwise stoic voice. The sheer aura of hatred that the man gave out overwhelmed Alaric, choking his throat with its miasma. “I..I am, Chaplain,” Alaric said after a moment’s hesitation, his mind still reeling from his earlier heretical thoughts. Would this chaplain find his doubts? Feeling a bit of confidence as the conversation strayed into familiar grounds, Alaric took a deep breath. “I am aware of the workings of the Astartes body and the mechanisms of its healing. I have constructed my own Narthe-“
“I did not ask for the content of the knowledge, Apothecary, simply that you knew of it,” the Chaplain said evenly, the servo-skull behind him chattering as it wrote something down. The sound unnerved Alaric when it was combined with the intimidating atmosphere of the Chaplain. A moment of silence passed as their eyes locked. “He also told me, however, that you are too zealous in your duty,” Archomedes said as he moved further down the vellum parchment. Alaric’s mind drifted back to the words of Apothecary Haeron back in the Apothecarium. Alaric glared at the Chaplain. “My decision remains the same, Chaplain. I stand and fight with my brothers. I do not flee with my tail between my legs. With the divine providence of the emperor I-“ A sudden punch to his gut, enhanced by power armour, winded the Apothecary. The Chaplain sat down again, the miasma of hatred thickening in the air. “You misuse the emperor’s name, Dark Angel,” the Chaplain hissed, “your youth betrays you, and you blaspheme against the Emperor.” Gasping for air as he dragged himself back up to a standing position, Alaric continued to glare into the eyes of the Chaplain, his gaze unrelenting. “Know your place in the squad, Apothecary, if you are the singe surviving member, and the mission is not able to be completed, your duty is to return the geneseed of your brothers.” Archomedes said as he reopened the scroll, “do not forget this.”
“I shall…keep…it in mind…” Alaric managed in between gasps for breath.

As Alaric managed to regain his breath, the Chaplain finally said something after what seemed like an eternity of silence. “What do you know of…the Fallen, Apothecary?” Archomedes asked, his voice once more calm, even and sibilant. His mental defences already buckling under the constant assault of the chaplain, the simple question visibly riled Alaric, whose eyes widened in surprise at the mention. His mouth flapped open before he mastered himself, managing to stop anything coming out. “The Fallen are another name used for the followers of Chao-“ he started, before he was abruptly cut off.

Suddenly, the Chaplain’s gauntlet shot out and gripped the front of Alaric’s Scholar’s Robe, lifting him up off his feet and closer to the Chaplain’s mask, its silver skull glaring angrily at him.”Tell me. Now.” the Chaplain hissed as he drew the Apothecary closer. His mind scrabbled for something, anything. “The Fallen Angels are another name that we Dark Angels give to the traitors of Horus-“ Alaric tried again, his hands gripping the armoured gauntlet of Archomedes as he righted himself. Now, however, steeled by duty, he was a little bit less terrified of the Marine in front of him.
“Your lies are as visible as your false faith, Apothecary,” The Chaplain replied, shaking him by the robe, “I know that this term bears special meaning to your Chapter, and I will stop at nothing to find it!”

Looking down at the Chaplain as he held him above his head, Alaric locked down his remaining mental barriers and stared into the Chaplain’s blank eyepieces. “You are better off asking someone else, Chaplain,” Alaric replied as he released the Chaplain’s hands, letting him have full control, “I am but a lower member of my Chapter’s Apothecarium…you would do better to ask Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai.” The Chaplain paused for a second, before throwing Alaric into the wall, where the stone cracked beneath him, as he slowly slid back to the bed. “Let us continue the cleansing,” Archomedes said, contempt poorly hidden in his voice.

Another few cycles followed and the Apothecary was brutalized, demoralized and broken repeatedly, but his mind remained set, and he replied only with catechisms and his faith in the emperor. The Chaplain’s miasma of hatred was almost physical now, but even then, one day, he finally relented. Throwing the Apothecary onto the bed, a black robe followed. “It is almost time, brother. Don the black and meditate on our words. You will be summoned.” The words seemed to come out almost with poison, as the servo-skulls hovered behind the Chaplain who stood up. “Your will is strong, young one, but do not that that betray you. You are too easily cowed into obedience. We will meet again, Apothecary.” With those parting words, he slammed the cell door shut behind him. Rubbing his new collection of bruises, Alaric unfolded the black robe and simply stared at it for a few minutes. It was of the finest cloth, comparable to the beige one he currently wore, but the bitter taste of defeat still remained in his mouth, along with the ferrous taste of blood. Spitting out a large glob of the phlegm blood into the corner, the Apothecary gritted his teeth. He had been tried. He had been tested. And he had failed. In his eyes, the ability to keep the Fallen a secret was but a tiny victory amongst a sea of defeats. The Chaplain had defeated him utterly. He had broken down his mental barriers, questioned his faith in the Emperor, and…quite frankly terrified Alaric. Not even the ministrations of Interrogator-Chaplains of the Dark Angels could compare to what he had just gone through. Sighing deeply, the Apothecary stood up and undid the clasp on his robe. He might as well get prepared for the inevitable time to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The time came sooner than expected. A blank-faced servitor opened his cell door and proceeded to lead him down empty halls which echoed only with the treads of the servitor and the dull thud of Alaric’s own footfalls. They seemed to wind through the corridor for hours on end before they managed to find a large opening in the black basalt walls. The servitor led him to the front row of a large collection of Astartes, all similarly dressed and standing at perfect parade rest. Joining the growing line of Astartes already there, Alaric hissed slightly as he pulled his hood down and stood at parade rest. Perhaps the Chaplain had harmed him more than he had thought. Nevertheless, Alaric stubbornly refused to let it show on his face. If the Emperor could survive upon the Golden Throne for decades, centuries even…he could bear this much pain for as long as it took. Taking a deep breath to settle himself, he allowed his eyes to flicker around in their sockets, taking in the objects in his field of vision. Rocky pillars extended from floor to ceiling, bearing the weight of incensed braziers that spread a familiar scent into the air. Mugweed. An antibiotic plant used sterilise wounds in an impromptu operating theatre. Also contained a slight narcotic. The diaphanous mist dissipated into the air as cherubic servitors flew past, bearing more incense, this time a different one to Mugweed, but the Apothecary could not seem to place his finger on it.

Alaric seemed to stand in the line for hours on end, and the row of Astartes swelled as more joined its ranks, but Alaric did not see how many in the end stood shoulder to shoulder with him, for his eyes remained locked forwards on the figures in front of him. The flames of the candles and braziers flitted and guttered in a silent breeze, but every Battle-Brother remained motionless, their gazes turned forwards, as if ever-looking towards the future. Or perhaps more realistically, they were staring at the forms of the Watch Captains and Auxiliaries which had put them through hell and back again. Watch Captains Kyros and McGarrack, Apothecary Haeron…and of course, Chaplain Archomedes. They had all donned their battle gear, and seemed to be bowing in reverence to a statue in front of them, but as the last of his brothers filed into the room, taking his place at Alaric’s shoulder, the statue seemed to grind around on an axis, before revealing itself as a Space Marine himself in Tactical Dreadnought armour. Just the mere image of that hallowed armour made Alaric bow his head in reference, but his look hardened as he saw the heraldry on the shoulder and the fangs. Space Wolf. He had had precious few encounters with those savage beasts, but one of the few times that he did, Alaric settled a duel between their chapters, emerging as a victor in a fair 1vs1 scenario, to much cheering from his comrades and superiors and jeering from the Space Puppies. Holding his tongue with a small effort, Alaric locked his eyes on the wolf as he moved around.

As the Wolf drew closer, he grew in Alaric’s vision, causing the Apothecary’s eyes to widen. Never had he seen such a large Marine…had there been a problem with the Ossmodula in his body to cause him to grow so large? Impossible. If there had been a mutation, he would have looked gangly and skeletal, if he were allowed into the Marines at all after that. Purity was demanded highly in the Dark Angels, but perhaps it was not so in the barbaric warriors of Fenris. Finally, 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 the his legions. Heh, how have things changed. That whores-son Horus saw to that.” Like the scene back in his cell, the air thickened with a miasma of hatred at the single declaration of the archenemy’s name. For Alaric, it manifested as an inward snarl. Such a name should never be spoken. Despite the sudden tension in the air, however, the Space Wolf 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.
All-Father willing, we will all return to the Chapters we hail from; ready to strengthen our brothers from what we have learned, more adaptable to their needs, all because we were Deathwatch!
You will have stood as a bulwark against the never ending dark. It is in our strength that mankind finds it salvation. They will never know, there will be no thanks. We have stood the Watch for over ten thousand years, and if the Throne needs, ten thousand more. Accolades should matter little to us, for we fight in the shadows and so in the shadows we must remain.” 

The words caused pride to swell in Alaric’s breast, but he forced it down. Hubris is the downfall of men. Faith in the Emperor should be maintained at all times. To fight in the shadows tirelessly and without thanks…the Dark Angels were used to it. To tread the fine line between good and evil, loyalty and rebellion…the remnants of the 1st legion…the Unforgiven…they were already deeply immersed in between those razor thin lines and there was little chance of them breaking out again. As the Space wolf gestured to the set of double doors behind him, Alaric nodded silently. He would finally be reunited with his old battleplate, scars and all…as well as his old Narthecium. Hopefully it had not been altered in any way. He had just adjusted the Narthecium himself. 

As the first recruit walked towards the Watch captain, he swore his oath, before the Chaplain branded him. Words passed between them, but Alaric could not hear anything of what was said. Nor did he want to. After the moment of speech, the recruit screamed as the white hot brand was pressed into his skin. None of the assembled recruits flinched. After the branding process was completed, Alaric slapped his fist to his chest and bowed his head in respect to the newly initiated marine. There was no shame in revealing pain amongst your brothers. Only when revealing pain to the enemies in torture. It was one reason why Alaric had refused to show weakness in front of the Chaplain. He was neither a friend, nor an enemy, but Alaric was leaning towards one side with him. The second recruit underwent a similar process, and it was time for him soon

As the first and second recruits passed through the doors, Alaric took a deep breath, before stepping up himself, striding from the ranks of his brothers and approaching the Chaplain, a hard look in his eyes. A pair of servitors replaced the set of coals and trundled back into the shadows as Archomedes reheated the brand. The Watch Captain repeated his words as Alaric stood impassively, the time for the Second Oath having come. Taking a knee, Alaric removed a thick package from under his robes, beige in colour. “I, Apothecary Alaric Epollinus, Apothecary of the 3rd Company of Dark Angels, hereby swear before the Emperor to complete my Vigil with diligence and pride, until such a time when I am released from service, or fall in the line of duty,” Alaric said, placing the folded package onto his hands, “I swear to stand by my brothers, be they from my chapter or otherwise, and…swear to discard the ancient feuds which may hinder my service, pledging my loyalty to those who wear the Black in service against the Xenos and the Heretic until my last dying breath.” Like a practiced speech, the sibilant tones dropped from the end of Alaric’s tongue like honey in a similar way in which he would calm his brothers when under his care. Closing his eyes, he continued his Oath.
“I swear as a Battle Brother to watch over my fellow Deathwatch members and smite the enemies of the Emperor.
I swear as an Apothecary to watch over my charges with care and deliberation, and maintain their health, as well as to provide the necessary advice to my comrades when needed.” He saw an approving nod from Haeron here.
“I swear as a member of the Deathwatch to uphold the laws, secrets and doctrines of the order, upon my honour as a member of the Dark Angels.” Inwardly, he whispered to himself. “I swear this as a member of the Unforgiven…”
“Once more, I, Apothecary Alaric Epollinus, swear my service to the Deathwatch.”
Holding up his robes to the Space Wolf, almost as if a peace offering between their chapters, Alaric remained kneeling.

There was a moment of pause as the assembled Deathwatch members simply looked over each other, but then the grizzled Space Wolf walked over and grabbed the robe, lifting it off of the Dark Angel’s hands. Feeling the weight lift off, Alaric looked up to the approving glance of the Space Wolf, who offered a hand. Taking it, the Dark Angel found himself dragged to his feet, and almost off of them. “Approach the Chaplain, Apothecary,” the granite-like voice of the Space Wolf rumbled. Nodding, Alaric stepped over to the Chaplain, who remained impassive al always, but he could feel the hatred filtering from under the mask. Hatred of the weak. Alaric did not flinch this time. He refused to. Spreading his arms as the Chaplain removed the white hot brand from the coals, he could feel a physical impact from him, almost as if it was the thrust of a blade, followed by a horrid burning sensation as the brand bit into his flesh and seared its mark into him. Alaric’s eyes widened. The bastard had jabbed the stoke onto one of the wounds that the Chaplain himself had inflicted. Gritting his teeth as the skin beneath the mark blistered and boiled, Alaric tried not to cry out, but the Chaplain would not relent, pressing, nay, grinding the prod deeper into Alaric’s flesh. Finally, with a sharp cry of pain, the Apothecary could take no more. The Chaplain, satisfied, removed the brand, leaving the smoking sign of the Deathwatch embedded onto Alaric’s chest. Forever. Breathing hard as he glared at the Chaplain, Alaric said nothing. “Beware of your youth, Apothecary,” the Chaplain warned as he placed the prod back into the flames, echoing his earlier words, “your perseverance and stubbornness does you credit, but it will make you many enemies.” Alaric did not reply immediately, instead standing tall as his brothers saluted him. “Enemies will be dealt with, according to the whims of the Emperor,” he said as he walked off, his back straight and his shoulders widened in pride. The Chaplain said no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As he moved through the door, the thick stench of scorched metal and ozone assaulted his nostrils, along with a wave of heat. For a second it almost overwhelmed him, but amongst those who had already been initiated clamouring around their suits, Alaric finally spotted his own plate, newly refurbished. Slowly, with a smile on his face, like he was meeting an old travelling companion, Alaric approached the armour, but the smile soon disappeared, replaced with a contemplative smile. The classic white design of the Apothecaries had been painted over, replaced with the sleek black paint of the Deathwatch which had been evenly coated over the Mark VI Corvus Armour. Almost reverently, the Apothecary ran his hand over the armour. It was the relic of many battles past. His fingers ran over the pauldron between the molecular studs that characterised the armour, and even as he picked up the beaked helmet of the Corvus, he could see that at the very least that had been left white. The Apothecary was a little saddened to see the Prime Helix which had dominated his left pauldron had disappeared, replaced by the black and silver of the Deathwatch, but his right remained the proud winged sword of the Dark Angels.

“AllOW Us to ASsisT…” chimed the disturbingly mechanical voice of a servitor as he was closed upon by a gaggle of them. Nodding, the Apothecary spread his arms, and the Servitors began the armouring process, connecting the interface nodes to his black carapace, each one causing a small shock as his brain adjusted to the new sensory input. In the meantime, Alaric thought about his predecessor who had worn this armour. His name had been Marius, and like a true son of the Lion, he had refused to take a step back and stoically advanced in the face of their enemy, even as his brothers fell before him. At the conclusion of the battle, Marius was all that had remained of his original squad. After that, the celebrated marine seemed to be blessed, or perhaps cursed, as any battle as fierce as his first always ended up with him as the lone survivor, standing amongst the fields of corpses, of both ally and enemy. Eventually, however, the Emperor’s divine providence ran thin, and Marius was slain in battle, and the armour returned to the Chapter. Every time Alaric put on this plate, he could feel his will hardening, and the gaze of the Emperor watching over his every step. He smiled as the armour finally pressurised. May both Marius and the Emperor continue watching over him.

After finishing the armouring process, Alaric was finally presented with the final item that he had longed for ever since arriving at the Watch station. Finally, his Narthecium had been returned to him, and it looked relatively unchanged, but he would have to check that later. Keeping it in its inert form, Alaric said a quick rite to the Emperor for his blessings and closed his eyes, fitting his helmet over his head even as he chanted the Prayer of pressurisation. His youthful visage was soon replaced with the iconic Corvus pattern beaked helmet, which was painted a stark bone white in contrast to the rest of the black panoply. He was not done yet. Slowly, his voice reached a powerful cadence, drawing eyes to him as he spoke in the old Caliban tongue, heading towards the end of the hall, as he shrouded himself in the beige robe that had been presented to him. A Deathwatch member he may be, but he would forever be a Dark Angel at heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Boarding his assigned Thunderhawk, Alaric recognised the forms of both Watch Captains Kyros and McGarrack, along with two new faces, one bearing the heraldry of the Storm Wardens, like McGarrack, and another whose helmet was the colour of rust, various mechanical arms and such dangling from his back. A techmarine. His mechanical counterpart within the Chapter. And a Guardian of the Covenant at that. Alaric passed him a look, wondering if he know of the Fallen and…the Unforgiven…A shared burden would do well to ease his soul. Silently, as the other two newcomers bantered, Alaric strode past them and as he passed, locked eyes with Kyros, who held his gaze, before nodding, as if in approval. A thousand words were exchanged in that single look. A thousand that the two of them would only know. Taking a seat beside the Techmarine, Alaric pulled down the hood of his robe, revealing the white helmet of the Apothecaries. Opening up his Narthecium, he started to tinker with its inner workings, making sure they were all up to his standards, and hopefully had not been tinkered with by that near insane Marine Errant. First the Reductor…then the drill…then the diamntine tipped chainswords whirred faintly. Clicking his tongue, the Apothecary reached for a set of tools he habitually kept on himself, but could not find. Looking over to the Techmarine, he hmmed thoughtfully. “Brother…may I trouble you for some assistance?” he asked through his armour’s Vox-speakers as he continued to fiddle with the diagnostor and the various syringes and drugs that made up his Narthecium.