Time ebbs and flows with the passing of memories fond and feared. It was no challenge to be left to his own devices, for the Guardians of the Covenant were always finding ways to sneak off and learn a bit more than the rest. Makradon was no different from his brothers. He had calculated the many cycles that passed from his trials against the human genestealer hybrid, each cycle giving him the opportunity for study and reflection. Well, that and hard training. During this time, Makradon focused on intelligence as much as he focused on physical perfection and monotonous drills. Intelligence was key to the destruction of enemies. It was the key to life. Eventually after the weeks of solitude and drills, tests and sparring practices, studying and tinkering with his mechanical inputs, Makradon’s solitude and focus is interrupted by a knock at the door.
A solid figure enters the room, as Makradon stands to greet him. The Chaplain holds up a hand as the tech marine is about to speak, silencing him. There would be no need for introductions or common courtesies. No, none of that mattered in this room for the time being. The Silver Skulls Chaplain seals the door behind him and steps into the room, his satchels and scrolls, trinkets and parchments dangling from his waist. He stands tall over Makradon, which is not a task easily accomplished. The tech marine peers into the gleaming helm, catching a glimpse of his mechanical features, naked for the world to see without his beloved Power Armor. Through the permeable silence, the Chaplain’s voice stays low and to the point. “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.” His voice is light with a gentle cadence to his inflection.
The Apothecary motions for Makradon to sit down across from him. This isn’t going to be fun… Makradon thinks to himself before taking the seat and staring once again into the Silver Skull’s helmet visor, awaiting the first of many questions. For hours and hours, he tries to find the inkling that will set Makradon off. He berates and questions, blames and vilifies, stinging accusations towards the tech marine. A mental pounding of his inner sanity takes place, but the Chaplain can’t seemingly pinpoint any flaw in the Initiate before him.
Until finally, he hits home.
“Makradon, tell me about Hephaestus.”
The words hit Makradon like the talons of a Carnifex, straight to his core, reaching down to the very fibers of his soul, wrenching them apart and stirring up emotions long buried beneath the metal of his mechanical body. For a moment, Makradon brings his right hand up, balled into a fist, but quickly he dismisses the idea and lowers it once again. How?
“Must I repeat myself! Tell me of Hephaestus!” The Chaplain’s soft voice curdles into a violent scream, the fury of it rebounding off the walls and filling Makradon’s ears.
In an instant, Makradon’s memories flee to the surface of his mind and he catches them all into a single solitary teardrop, falling down and splashing onto the surface of the metal table in front of him. He brings his mechanical arms up and cradles his head, ready to burst with anxiety and anger, rage and loathing. Sadness and fear.
“Was he not a great friend of yours in the early days of your initiation into the Guardians? Were you both not sent to Mars to train as Adepts of the Mechanicus? Were you both not enamored with the pursuit of knowledge?” The Chaplain keeps his voice raised, penetrating and cold.
Makradon breathes heavily into his hands, before looking straight at the Chaplain, his eyes red and bulging. No…no…shut your mouth…you know nothing…
“And did he not---,”the Chaplain starts.
“---fall into Chaos. Yes, that is the Hephaestus you are referring to, is it not?” Makradon finishes for the Chaplain before banging his hands down on the table, crushing in the metal and creating indentions that would not soon come out.
“Twisted by corruption and Chaos, turned into the very embodiment of evil and ruin, right before your very eyes. Turned not by some sorcerous item, nor by some other foul Chaos-driven Astartes whispering into his ear. But by the very knowledge he loved so dearly. Driven into the realm of the Ruinous Powers by the very intelligence he wished to gain.” The Chaplain reaches out and grabs the Tech-Marine’s hands holding him in place, unable to move from his current position. He gets up close to the mechanical eyes implanted in Makradon’s face, inches away, before whispering a silent, solitary handful of words.
“What makes you so different?”
And with that, he pushes the hulking Makradon out of his chair and onto the floor, standing up from the table and looking down on the would-be Deathwatch member.
“Knowledge is power, my dear Tech Marine. Knowledge is life. Knowledge is illumination. Oh yes, it is all these things and more. But knowledge is also deceit. Knowledge is insidious. Knowledge is death.” He flicks down a black robe, the cloth hitting Makradon in the stomach.
“Remember what knowledge is, Makradon. Remember what it can be. And most importantly, remember what it can do.” He pauses for a brief moment, and Makradon knows that the mighty Chaplain is caught in his own web of thoughts. He shakes his head and looks back down.
“It is almost time, brother. Don the black and meditate on our words. You will be summoned.”
And with that, the Chaplain leaves, expectant that the studious Tech Marine knows what to do next.
The servitor came in the next few hours, silent and blank-faced as ever. Makradon greeted him nicely, knowing that even the men made into machines had some life left. He always liked to believe that anyway. He follows the servitor down the hallways and into a grand hall, the likes of which Makradon could never have imagined, the rocky formation carved out into an immense room. 66 Astartes stand stationary in the room before him, clad in black with their hoods down, obscuring their faces from view. Makradon walks down the lines and finds his place next to five other brothers at the front, coming to a parade rest like the rest of them. Strong incense wafts into the room, braziers lit in all the corners creating an immense amount of light and equal number of shadows.
Well, this is the end. One way or another…
Makradon looked up before him and spied the familiar faces of the Watch Captins Kyro and McGarrack, along with his newfound friend Haeron and his newfound torturer Archomedes. They all faced the assembly before them with reverence and calm, bowed heads in deference to a giant statue sitting in between them all. But wait…And before he can finish his thought, the statue begins to move about, forming into the most massive Astartes that Makradon had ever seen. His eyes went wide at the sight, as the ceramite scratched on the stone below.
The Watch Commander.
With a deep, throaty growl, one of the most revered and respected leaders in the Imperium begins to speak.
“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.” He said with a dark chuckle.
Makradon stiffens at the mention of the foulest enemy to ever give breath in the Imperium. Horus.One couldn’t measure the amount of loathing that filled that grand hall in the mentioning of his name. One wouldn’t want to.
“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 bulkward 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.”
Makradon smiles beneath his hood. The Watch Commander’s words resonate through him with a pride and intensity most likely not felt by others in the room. For a Guardian of the Covenant to join the ranks of the Deathwatch was a rare event indeed. Not many had served the Long Watch, but those that had brought honor and strength back to the Guardians. Makradon was eager to do the same. Knowledge wouldn’t get in his way. He would be damned to let the same fate consume him. Knowledge would only bolster him and his squad. He would master it, it would not master him.
“Once you pass through these doors,” - gesturing to a set of massive doors behind him-“there is no going back. You will be bolted into power armor. You left shoulder will bear the icon of our holy order. The right will remain the icon of your Chapter. Your service honors both and betrayal is a betrayal to both. The rest of your armor is black, expect for left arm, made silver. You don the black to cloak yourself in darkness, for the shadows are your ally. Think on that a moment.”
As the Watch Commander continues his speech, servitors come forward and bring braziers filled with red hot coals in them. Archomedes steps forward and fishes an item from one of his many bags, resting the tip of the instrument into the flaming hot coals. He peers into the eyes of Makradon.
“I, Tech Adept Makradon Ipsum, Guardians of the Covenant 1st Company, swear my service to the Deathwatch for as long as I am needed or until my death. I swear to stand beside my brothers and to never let ones’ Chapter bear any reflection of his character, and, in so doing, fight against the xenos threat side-by-side at the cost of my own life. I swear to uphold all the doctrines, secret or otherwise, for it is my sworn duty to protect these doctrines with my very life. On my honor as a Guardian of the Covenant, a Space Marine, and a Mechanicum Adept, I swear these things to you.”
At the exact moment he finishes, Archomedes moves in, speaking a short phrase that many had heard before and many would hear in the future. “Ready yourself to accept the mark of your covenant. Duty and honor are never to be forgotten.” He presses the brand to Makradon’s arm, pushing down with a mighty force, willing the Tech Marine to scream out in pain. Makradon holds for as long as he can before emitting a sharp cry of pain. Archomedes steps back, eyeing the marine and nodding his head in apparent satisfaction. The ritual was complete.
Makradon stepped forward and made his way through the giant doors in front of him, eager to get back to his sacred power armor.
The steam and oil in the air reminded Makradon of Mars, the Mechanicum, and all those memories flooded into his mind as each piece of black armor connected with his mechanical body once again. The Mk. VII may not be one of the oldest models of Power Armor around, but this piece was one of the most fearsome. The black paint could not blot out the splashes of blood and gore that covered the beautifully crafted armor. Makradon had heard tale of the great Guardian of the Covenant Malacore, 2nd Company, who wore this armor before him.
Malacore had been an assault marine, the best of the bunch, excelling through his Neophyte training and initiation by cleaving through his enemies and trials alike. This did not stop on the battlefield for he took it to the enemy every chance he had, leading his assault team through the thickest fighting in the Halo Stars. He assailed the enemy, butchering their limbs and crushing their heads. The blood splatter on his armor was apparent after every engagement and it would never wash off, despite the work of the servitors and adepts. It appeared that the Power Armor had taken a liking to the gore presented to it. Still gives me chills every time…
Once armored, Malacore positioned his mechadendrites and other cybernetics in the right position, strapping his helm to his belt. He said a quick prayer to the Omnissiah for the protection and care of his armor and weapons, and another to the Emperor for the protection of his body and soul. After all was said and done, Makradon stepped back through the hall looking at none before him and heading for the Thunderhawk that would take him to the stars.
As he boarded the Thunderhawk, Makradon noticed another Storm Warden with Captain McGarrack. He nodded to the both of them as he took a seat next to the one whose name he did not yet know.
“Makradon, Guardian of the Covenant, Tech Adept. Pleasure to meet you, brother Storm Warden…or should I say…Deathwatch Battle Brother instead?” Makradon smiles at the last part of his dialogue, knowing that all the trials and tribulations were over. He had made it and was eager to get on with it.
“You may not be the best with a chainsword or a bolter, my tech marine friend, but you sure as hell could always talk me to death in those training sessions,” the Watch Captain says as Makradon sits beside him and the other. “Haeron always told me about your talks and how that big old brain of yours would do well for the Deathwatch. Glad to see you made it to us.”
“An honor to be here.”