A Skull Is Not a Mask

A skull is not a mask. It is the opposite, utterly bare, what is left when all surface is stripped away.

A helmet, on the other hand, is a mask, yet the faceplate of this one is shaped into a skull, a mask of masklessness, the pretense of lacking pretension. An amusing irony.

In the brooding candlelight of the cathedral, the Chaplain and skull-mask regard each other. Neither smiles.

Behind the Chaplain, the marines thunder and rattle into the narthex. The sound echoes among arches designed for song and prayer and fills them with a more martial kind of music. There are skulls up there too, carved on the pillars and into arches, skulls also on the armour of those now tramping inside. The church fills with a whole graveyard of false bones.

The Chaplain does not sigh or take a deep breath or square his shoulders. He does not do this. He takes the skull helm in both hands, fits it gently and with practiced ease before rising and turning to face the congregation.

“Brothers,” his voice rings out. It does not quaver or shake. “Brothers, let me speak plainly: The enemy is at our gates. You have heard their cries, tasted their hate, seen their numbers. I have seen them too. Yet I do not fear. I am confident, for I know you, better than you know yourselves. You have been my … my companions through countless battles. We have fought arm in arm for many years, many long decades. And I tell you now, never have I seen such valour, such courage, such faith!”

—Retreat, slaughter, ruin. The black skies wept fire and ash. The Chaplain stood amid an ocean of the dead and dying, atop a cresting mound of bodies. Cries rained down upon him, desperate hands lapped at his knees. Fleeing guardsmen streamed past, carried away by fear and panic, drowning the wounded in the mud and blood beneath their feet.

“The Emperor sees you, my brothers! The Emperor protects!”

The Chaplain strode forward, against the current, his skull helm swinging left and right, its eye lenses twin bloodshot beams raking the battlefield like a restless lighthouse, searching.

The Captain. He had to find the Captain—

It is fitting that the Imperium has made the skull the symbol of its military might. For what is war but the stripping away of all masks, of false speech, broken promises and the theatre of pride and patriotism, faith and loyalty? The bones of civilization laid bare: Submit to my will or die.

Yet it too is the illusion of honesty. Man is never more devious than when he is at war.

—The Captain was slumped against the side of a Lehman Russ, a smokestack billowing from its empty turret ring. Scores of enemy dead lay at his feet, a shattered power sword still clasped in his hand. One of the heretic Astartes stood over him, poised for the killing stroke. More clustered behind. With a cry the Chaplain leapt forward, crozier carving a flat arc that ended in the traitor’s neck.

Another charged him, a thing of barbs and screeching hate, and he vaporized its head with a blast of his plasma pistol. He was a whirlwind, scattering his foes like leaves. Another, fell, and another. The others fell back, cursing.

The Captain’s eyes opened as the Chaplain knelt at his side and lifted his helmet away.

“Ah, Chaplain. I seem to have sustained a slight injury.”

The Chaplain looked down, swallowed. “It is nothing, Captain.”

“The truth, now.”

“There will hardly be a scar.”

The Captain was silent for a moment. Perhaps he smiled. Just a little. “The battle?”

“The guard wavers, but we will rally them. We shall hold the traitor legions here.”

“Have you become both apothecary and strategos, Chaplain?” The Captain tried to laugh, coughed and spat blood instead. “Now I am … indisposed, Sergeant Telamon has command.”

“Telamon …”

“Or Machaon, if he is unavailable.”

“He … understood. I will inform your successor.”

“Good. That is good.” Another pause. “I am glad you are here.”

“Of course.” Of course. “Where else would I be? This is a vital strongpoint in the defences.”

“Of course.” The Captain gasped, clenched his teeth. “That is what I meant.”

“I … yes, do not concern yourself with the battle.”

The Captain touched a hand to the cheek of the Chaplain’s helm. Once so strong, a titan’s grip. Now butterfly light, clutching in spasms, fingers like desperate wingbeats.

“The truth Chaplain …” he began. “Tell …”

The hand fluttered away—

“The traitors claim we follow a false emperor, a dead one. But we are not deceived! We know the Emperor watches over us all.” Unconsciously, the Chaplain raises a hand to a dark smear on the cheekpiece of his helm. “He steels our hearts, strengthens our hands, shields us from harm. With the Emperor’s blessing, we are unconquerable!”

The battle brothers rattle the cathedral’s bones with the roar their approval.

—Oh my Emperor, where is your power now? Was I too weak? Was my faith impure? Have I been judged unworthy? How do I pray now?

“Chaplain!” It was Teukros. Little Teukros, now in command. “Is he—"

The Chaplain looked up, looked around. As though noticing the battle for the first time. “We must fall back,” he said. “The city walls will hold them.”

Teukros nodded in understanding. “They are so many.”

The skull eyes stared back. Slight hesitation. “Perhaps, but they have not our faith”—

The Chaplain does not bow his head as they file out. He does not embrace them or cling to them or bare his teeth and defy the universe to try to take even one of them from him. He does not fall to his knees, crushed by the endless and relentless pressure. He does none of these things.

He reaches up and tests the seals on his helm. Nods to himself, satisfied it is secure.

And follows his brothers to battle.

END