Serial Blog Post

The Herald of Night

Part IV

Jearin’s head was a jumble of rage, frustration, and pain. At least here, in the middle of New Valoria’s poor district (poorer than the rest, he supposed) people minded their damned business. He didn’t have to put up with any stares, snide comments or worse, ‘Are you okays?’ while he stumbled to Seager’s.

Like most of New Valoria, the old district was a maze of boring, monotone rockcrete and plasteel, easy to get lost in had Jearin not grown up there. And that was before the knee to the head. There were differences of course. Here, there weren’t as many city enforcers for one. The shops had stalls that danced dangerously close to the streets, and the smoke from the manufactorium districts was a constant veil that stained the world a miserly soot brown. It brought with it the scent of industry, and that mixed with other aromas that accompanied the squalor of a busy city. That Emperor forsaken soup of a stench was the strongest contrast. Acrid and vicious, he only seemed to notice it when things were going wrong. It was as if the city itself were out to get him.

In the thin lines of pristine sky above, a stark contrast to the dusty, filthy streets that separated the blocks of grimy structures below, engine flashes lit up the night, practically the only stars Jearin could see this far into the city. They replaced the stars the woman had planted in his head earlier with her knee, though Jearin wondered if a few of those still lingered. Falian Station shined like a guiding star above. And as always, Rasmos Alpha, staring down at Jearin as he arrived at Seager’s place, judging him, hounding him.

Jearin stumbled in and slammed the door behind him. “Well, that was fun,” Jearin said, leaning back against the heavy wooden door and sliding down onto his haunches. “Thanks for letting me stay the night old man.” He hadn’t asked, but Seager was used to his arriving at odd hours and unannounced.

Seager guffawed from behind his desk, a large metal work bench that took up nearly one full corner of the large room that was Seager’s workshop and home. The workbench was cluttered, like the rest of the place, like Jearin’s mind just now. Only more so. Tools and unfinished projects were strewn across the surface, hiding dried puddles of oil and recaf stained schematics and note sheets. Boxes and yet more projects, too large to fit on the work bench, were strewn in a haphazard manner across the home.  There was a sofa and a pair of chairs in the middle of it all, a tiny island of peace and relative organization amidst a sea of confusion and chaos.

Behind a pile of boxes to Jearin’s right, filled with scrap metal and, Jearin imagined, spiders and other critters, was the fireplace. He’d only seen it once, when Seager had taken him in as a boy. Next to the work bench was a cot that was Seager’s bed, weighed down with books and Seager’s tool boxes. On the ground next to it was a neat pile of blankets and pillows which was where Seager actually slept.

Jearin placed his head in his hands, his annoyance at the mess causing the pain in his head to blossom. “You know, we’re going to have to clean this junk pile up one day. It’s driving me nuts. Emperor’s ball’s man, you’ve got a pile of sticks in the corner.”

Seager shot up from his stool, his kindly blue eyes blown into comical proportion by a pair of goggles that helped the man with his poor site when he was working. “Watch your tongue, boy. I’ve told you a million times, I’ll have none of that talk in my home. And you touch anything in here without asking and you can sleep on the back porch.” Seager had a way of sounding intimidating when he didn’t look it. His face was jovial, no matter what was happening. His thick, white beard was a tangle of stray hairs and unintentional braids. His hair, shoulder length and of identical hue, was the only pristine thing in the place. It was slicked back and shining and Jearin could smell the floral soap he used from across the room.

“And the sticks are for the fireplace. You’re always whining about not being able to use it.”

Jearin’s eyebrows quirked in amusement. “I usually sleep outside anyway.” He motioned to the boxes. “And you mean that fireplace? The one I can’t get to without moving stuff which will get me kicked out? I’m fine by the way, thanks for asking.”

Seager sighed, as he always did, with his shoulders. An exaggerated lift followed by a dramatic and sudden drop accompanied a hurricane force exhalation of annoyed worry. Jearin didn’t have to see it. He knew it, knew Seager better than knew the city streets. It was one of the few things that still made him feel bad. Guilting the old man, playing on his emotions, it was almost too much for him to handle. Almost. He knew he was being an ass. That counted for something, he told himself. He was still a good guy.

Tomon Seager was a big man in almost every sense of the word. As the barrel-chested man rose fully from his work bench and placed his goggles down gently on the work bench, Jearin smiled wistfully. Jearin was a good bit taller than most of the people he passed on the street. Seager was taller by a full two heads than he. The old man covered the distance between the two in four long, purposeful strides, his bare feet thudding on the ferrocrete floor with the immensity of a power armored tread. The old man wasn’t subtle, and did everything with a mighty intensity, even when doing something as simple as walking.

He crouched down, still towering over Jearin and took his head in his hands with a gentleness that betrayed his powerful frame. “Let us see.” He held Jearin’s eyes opened and squinted, turning his head side to side. His hands were calloused, with long, thick fingers knobbed like old branches. They were nearly big enough to wrap around Jearin’s skull. Had been when he was just a boy.

Jearin couldn’t help but smile. When he was just a boy, and the silver in Seager’s hair had yet to migrate south of his temples, the old man would put him to bed at night with tales of the God Emperor and his Avenging Angels, the Astartes. Space Marines. He had spoken of them with reverence and awe. They were nigh immortal warriors, immune to fear, pain, and suffering. They were taller than the tallest man by full meters and strong enough to lift a ground car. Seager had laughed his rare, thunderous laugh when Jearin had asked him if he was a Space Marine. “I’m not brave enough, not strong enough, not worthy enough to join the Emperor’s angels of death, my boy.” Always humble, always kind.

Seager’s breath was warm on Jearin’s face as he spoke, the smell of bitter recaff mixed with the sweetness of south-island flame a welcome reprieve from the less enjoyable smells of the city. Even to this day, Seager wouldn’t admit to spiking his caffeine with the liquor. Not to Jearin, anyway. He was a pious man, but Seager had always said everyone was allowed one vice. Alcohol was his. But, Jearin suspected guilt wasn’t why he hid it. He was still trying to hide the soul crushing truth from Jearin. Despite all his bombastic piety, despite all his talk about how a life filled with service in the Emperor’s name was a fulfilling one, Seager knew that truth. Life was hell. Life was torture. You had to do whatever you could to get through the day. You had to find your drug, your cure. The thing that numbed the pain of your worthless existence. Seager still hoped that faith in The God Emperor would be Jearin’s.

“You’ve taken a right good blow to the face, my boy.” Seager turned Jearin’s head to the side and nodded. “Yep. A right good smash.” He let go and stood up, hands on his hips. “No concussion, but whomever hit you did a right good job. I’ll get you something for the pain. No ice right now, so a damp rag will have to do. Lay yourself down.”

The old man motioned to the sofa as he went to the kitchenette across from the door. Jearin nodded and rose slowly, fresh starbursts blossoming across his vision. The faucet coughed and sputtered for a moment before fresh, filtered water trickled slowly out. Jearin threw his coat onto one of the chairs flanking the sofa before plopping himself down onto it. “Boots off, you little heathen,” Seager barked.

With a wry grin, Jearin did as Seager ordered, untying them and scooting them off to the side. “So, you got the filter working but now the ice maker is broken?” Jearin leaned back and laid his head down, dull, yellow street light leaking through the sunroof above and into his eyes.

Seager chuckled. “Aye. That’s the way of the galaxy. When you fix one thing, another breaks. Always work to be done, never time to rest.”

“Do you ever hear yourself talk, old man?” Jearin winced, the pain shortening his temper. “Sorry.”

Seager turned off the faucet and walked over to Jearin, his bulk and kindly face filling his field of vision. “Here you are,” he said, placing a cool, damp rag over Jearin’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Jearin mumbled. He melted into the old sofa, the coolness of the rag and the cloudlike softness of the worn out cushions a welcome, if superficial reprieve from the pain blossoming in his skull. “Sorry I’ve not been around much.”

Seager slurped loudly from his recaff as he sat down onto the free chair. “You say that every month you come in unannounced. As always, no reason for an apology. This is as much your home as it is mine. Wiped your snotty nose in this place, fed you, nursed you to health when you were sick.” Seager trailed off and slurped from his recaff again. “It’s nice to have the company anyway.”

Jearin’s stomach turned over. “Not much business these days?”

“Ah, you know how it goes. Ebbs and flows. But the Emperor will provide, as He always does. Just remember your prayers and all will be well.”

“Prayers,” Jearin said, pressing the wet rag hard to his face. “I’d rather you had something more tangible.” The old man would have had something more tangible if the deal hadn’t gone sour.

Jearin prepared for a rebuke. Instead, Seager just chuckled. “As would I. Prayer will do for now.” He sighed his heavy, mountainous sigh. “And I didn’t say that for sympathy. I meant it. It’s good to have you home, boy. Even if it is to take care of a bump on the head.”

Jearin’s stomach continued turning itself into knots. “I appreciate it, old man. Still. I’ll try to visit when I don’t need something. I owe you that, at the very least. After all you’ve done.”

“You’re a grown man. You got a life to live. You’ve got a job…”

Jearin felt the words like they were aimed at his heart. Seager didn’t mean it that way, just as he hadn’t been looking for sympathy. But, when it came to Jearin, the old man wielded his emotions, his disappointment, with all the grace of an industrial wrecker. “Seager,” Jearin started, but a gentle touch on the shoulder and a reassuring squeeze silenced him.

“Rest, boy. We’ll talk tomorrow, aye?”

Jearin didn’t argue. He just nodded and allowed himself to sink further into the couch that had long been his bed. No matter how old he got, no matter how big he got, it still fit him just perfectly. As he began to doze off, Seager threw a blanket over him, its warm embrace welcoming him home. Jearin smiled. “Thank you.”

He felt Seager kneel beside him. “Holy Emperor, hear me. Protect Jearin. Guide him back to health as you guided him back to me this night. I ask nothing for myself, only that you heal him.” Jearin’s stomach did one final twist, and he thought he might be sick. He remembered suddenly why he never came back. Jearin’s smile faded. He wasn’t a good human being. He hadn’t deserved the old man. He never would.

As sleep took him, his mind filled with dark and terrible thoughts. He dreamed of avenging angels, stars, and evil eyes.

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This is a work of fiction based on the Warhammer 40,000 universe created by Games-Workshop Ltd. I will remove this work upon request.