FFM 29: Absolution

Stripped of arms and armour, shackled to the floor, the prisoner still manages to look proud.
    “Chaplain,” he says respectfully, nodding a greeting to Shallum. His voice is profoundly deep, resonant and coarse.
    Shallum critiques the prisoner from head to toe. “The crusades have not been kind, World Eater.” His voice is clipped by the vox augmitter in the grille of his skull-faced helmet.
    Steel-plated teeth glint in the prisoner’s nasty smile. “Each scar a warrior wears is a badge of honour, chaplain,” he says.
    “And the tattoos?” Shallum says, not even trying to hide his disgust. The World Eater’s skin is blanketed in blue-black ink.
    The World Eater barks a laugh. He turns his head to show the Angel Sanguine the mark on his left cheek; a heraldic animal, rampant. “This is the only tattoo a needle painted on my flesh,” he says. His voice sinks even deeper as he adds, “The rest were done by the warp.”
    “Further evidence of your taint,” Shallum says, “if such were necessary.”
    “Never fear, little angel,” the World Eater rumbles, grinning, staring with his dark eyes. “I am not contagious. Taint is born within. The warp will only awaken what is already inside you.”
    “Well I know it,” the chaplain acknowledges. “If you cannot say something original, kindly be silent.”
    “Original,” the prisoner muses. “Have you killed Arjorus?”
    “I don’t know who that is,” Shallum says, “nor do I care. I am here to offer you absolution.” He draws his crozius arcanum and activates it. The brilliant energy field abolishes shadows.
    The World Eater grimaces and turns his eyes from the harsh light. “Absolution?” he says. “Do not pretend, chaplain. You’re here to kill me.”
    The chaplain is silent for a moment. “No,” he admits at last. “Though I would prefer that were the case. Honour demands that even a traitor and a heretic such as you be given the chance to renounce his sins before the God-Emperor.”
    The World Eater snarls and spits on the decking. His acidic saliva sizzles where it lands. “God-Emperor. He is none.”
    “Do you repent?” Shallum says.
    The World Eater stretches to his full height, looming over the smaller Angel Sanguine. Narrowing his eyes he endures the light to meet the chaplain’s gaze. “And what sins must I repent? Loyalty?  Courage? Honour?”
    Shallum snorts. “You stand accused of heresy, high treason, fratricide, warpcraft-”
    “Never!” the World Eater roars, surging forward, straining at the limits of his chains. “The eight hells take all sorcerers and witches!”
    Shallum doesn’t even twitch. “There’s one thing we agree on,” he notes, mildly surprised. “And you deny the other charges as well?”
    “What I have done I was driven to,” the World Eater growls, “by your Emperor.” He subsides again and backs off stiffly, averting his eyes from the light. “We were loyal.” He twitches his head, like a dog bothered by flies. Shallum can hear the prisoner’s cranial implants begin to tick and whine.
    “Then you fail to repent your sins,” Shallum says evenly.
    The prisoner growls. The sound rolls up from his chest like the gear-shifting grumble of a super-heavy battle tank. “Speak that word at me again,” he challenges, overbulked muscles bulging as he tenses against his restraints. His implants are fairly humming now.
    The chaplain deactivates his crozius and returns it to his belt. “ I am supposed to ask the Emperor to have mercy on your soul, but the sinner who will not repent is damned.” Ignoring the World Eater, he turns and exits the cell.