Echoes of the Past II
All our times have come,
Here, but now they're gone
Day 1 - Marching
The ship tore through the void like it was being dragged down to face judgment. Metal screamed, the deck shivered beneath our boots, every rivet rattling in place. Around me the others murmured their prayers, some whispering, voices swallowed by the thunder of descent. My own lips moved, words shaping without thought: thanks for the pain that was coming, thanks for the imperfection that would be erased from my soul.
The ramp slammed down. The wind struck us like a hammer. Cold sharper than any blade, slicing into skin, into bone, filling the lungs with air so bitter it burned. My breath came in ragged gasps, already frozen by the storm, but I smiled. This was HIS world. This was HIS gift to us: pain, hardship, the proof of endurance.
Sixty-eight of us in all. Hoods drawn, cloaks snapping, faces down against the gale. They said it would be four hours across the wastes to the outpost. Four hours of trial before the first night. I felt my heart thunder, not with dread, but with joy. Every step was HIS test. Every stumble HIS eye watching.
The storm rose fast. A wall of white, devouring sky and ground alike. The group pressed tighter, heads bowed, bodies leaning into the shrieking wind. Snow stung like needles, blinding, choking. I gripped the cloak of the one ahead, shoved forward, boots sinking ankle-deep. Screams rose, then vanished. Two women, small and slight, gone in a blink. Swallowed by the storm, their cries cut short. One voice cried out to go back, to search. Fool. Weakness cannot be chased after. HE does not call the fragile. Those who fall are not HIS. We pressed on.
At last, black shapes through the storm. The outpost. Walls jagged with ice, metal rimed thick, every seam groaning under the weight of frost. Above, banners snapped hard in the wind, stiff with cold, but the Serpent’s coils were clear. Green and black, salvation painted against the storm. My heart soared at the sight. Proof of HIS hand. Proof that this place was prepared for us.
Armed men waited at the gate, blasters unwavering, eyes hard. Thirty in all, a dozen bearing weapons, the rest servants in HIS cause. They did not look at us with welcome. They looked at us as one weighs meat, as one weighs tools.
And then him. A figure stepped forward, taller, broader, scars carved deep across his brow. A warrior of the Ninth Scar. Flesh branded by trials endured. Cut, broken, remade until only devotion remained. My chest tightened, my knees weakened. To stand in his shadow was to stand closer to HIM.
Day 2 – Questioning
No rest. No warmth. The storm still howled outside but inside was no gentler. We were herded into narrow chambers, lined before their servants. The air stank of sweat, oil, and smoke. The torches guttered, shadows crawling over their faces.
Questions rained down like blows. Who are you? Where from? Why do you seek HIM? Their voices were knives. Their eyes sharper still. I felt them cutting through me, peeling back my words to see the bone beneath.
I spoke as I had prayed. Each word steady, offered freely. My life, my failures, my hunger, all laid bare before them. I did not falter. I did not look away. Each answer was HIS. Each truth an offering.
Some broke. One man stammered until his tongue tangled. A girl wept, choking on her words. Another tried to lie, and the guard’s hand struck him down before he finished. They were already lost. I pitied them, but only for a heartbeat. HE has no use for the faltering.
When they finished with me, their eyes lingered, their fingers tapping on datapads. But they did not dismiss me. They nodded once. My chest swelled. I had not failed.
Day 3 – Flaggelation
Faith is not only words. Faith is blood.
We were dragged into the yard, one by one, stripped of clothes, left bare to the cold. Snow crunched under bare feet, breath misted into the storm. Guards waited with fists like hammers, boots like stones.
I watched as they tested others. Blows rained down, blood splattered against white snow, teeth scattered like grit. Some whimpered, some cried out, some collapsed under the weight of fists and the cruel lash.
When they came for me, I did not flinch. The first blow split my lip. Warm blood filled my mouth. I tasted it like wine. I smiled. The second strike slammed into my ribs, pain searing like fire. I whispered thanks. Each bruise was HIS gift. Each break HIS proof.
They beat me until my knees buckled, until the world swam. Still I laughed, spitting blood into the ice. Their eyes narrowed, as if I were mad. Perhaps I was. But I knew truth. This was the forge. This was HIS hand upon me.
Day 4 – Ice
Driven into the storm. The cold swallowed us whole. Wind screamed, snow cut into skin like shards of glass. My flesh burned, cracked, bled. Teeth rattled so hard I thought they would shatter. Breath froze in my chest, each gasp a knife twisting.
Some fell to their knees, begging. Their voices were torn away by the storm. Some curled into the snow, their bodies stiffening even as they cried. Others crawled for the gates, dragging their bleeding hands through the ice. Guards pulled them back, dragged them into the dark. They were gone.
I stood. My legs shook, my ribs screamed, my vision swam, but I stood. Each heartbeat was war. Each breath a victory. The storm cut into me, tore me apart, but I did not fall. If HE wished my death, I would lay it here. If He wished my endurance, I would live. And so I endured.
Day 5 – Weeding
We were fewer. Thirty-two left where sixty-eight had begun. Thirty-six gone to weakness, lies, failure. The line of survivors felt different now. Harder. Narrower. The weak had been burned away. Only HIS chosen remained.
My body ached from their tortures. They had beaten me, whipped me, driven me until I could stand no more. I welcomed it, I was transforming, becoming.
The guards walked our lines, counting, weighing. Their eyes lingered on each of us, one by one. I felt their gaze heavy as chains, but I did not look away. My heart beat steady. I was ready for whatever came.
Day 6 – Trial
The engines roared as they herded us onto speeders. The machines wailed against the cold, metal vibrating underfoot as the wind tore across us. We clung to the rails, cloaks snapping, faces buried against the gale. The plain stretched endless in every direction. White, merciless, alive.
The ride was long, longer than the hours of marching. My teeth ached from the cold, my bones rattled. I whispered prayers against the wind, though the storm ripped them from my lips. Every breath was an offering, every heartbeat proof.
At last the speeders ground to a halt. We were shoved off into the snow, lined in rows across the ice. Thirty-two of us stood, breath streaming in mist, knives pressed into our palms.
The man of the Ninth Scar stepped forward. His cloak snapped, his scarred forehead gleamed pale in the light. His voice cut the air, iron and final:
“You will be paired. Each given a knife. Only one of each shall leave this place. The strong endure. He has no use for the weak.”
The knife weighed heavy in my hand. Cold, sharp, alive. My heart thundered. This was not punishment. This was ascension. This was proof.
The storm howled. I turned. My opponent stood before me.
His face was swollen and bruised, blood staining his clothes. He looked weak, fading. He was old and I am young. I could take him.
The world fell away. The storm gone, the cold gone. Just him and me. Knife against knife. I will kill him in HIS name.
He looked at me. His voice calm, flat, certain.
“Names Wulf Harry, Silver Lining..." 
