The Emperor was not a forgiving god- not to the unworthy nor the worthy alike. No, there would be no forgiveness, not for this error nor for any others; all that remained, the Chaplains taught, was atonement.
Inoe. Emrys. Zephyr. Three names, three brave warriors, three souls who would fight by the God-Emperor's side in the final battle. They had been strong in life and would be strong in that which came after, beacons for the faithful and instruments of His divine will. Each of them would be remembered; Auril had engraved their names upon the hilt of his sword, that their memory would continue to smite the heretic and the daemon even in death.
They had fallen in battle, deaths worthy of eternal remembrance, deaths such as any in the Chapter would be proud of. They had done their duty to the end.
Auril's murmured prayers continued, his supplications to the God-Emperor strengthened and filled with his psychic prowess. The candles in the chapel wavered with each word- their fires were maintained through the Grey Knight's power, burning higher and brighter than the natural flame produced when they were lit by the menial servitor that puttered around and kept this place of worship clean- and as he intoned the final word of the prayer, they leapt once more.
Another presence entered the chapel, causing, it seemed, the entire ship's framework to thrum with psychic excitement. Auril's eyes remained closed, beginning another prayer, one of the thousands that he had memorised as a neophyte at the behest of the Chaplains, despite the approach of the other soul; he felt this other kneeling beside him.
A voice, strong, powerful, that of someone who expected obedience without question, worked its way into Auril's skull, bypassing the wards tattooed upon his scalp. A fellow Knight- in fact, the Brotherhood Champion himself, Jairus, he of the shining blade, the glorious warrior who defended their Captain against all that threatened. The Champion spoke, requesting that Auril remove himself from the chapel- and his word was law.
The Grey Knight's eyes snapped open, bright and green. He stood, the burlap robes he wore when war-plate was not required rustling over his musclebound form; with a respectful nod to the Brotherhood Champion, he turned to leave.
Brother Galahad, also of Dothrac Squad, had entered; bare feet padding on the cold chapel floor, Auril gave another nod of acknowledgement, mouth remaining set in its normal grim position; passing through the entrance, he pondered what to do. They were in the warp, on their way to the next battle; he had been in the chapel for full six hours. Spiritual preparation taken care of, it was time for the physical; the Grey Knight moved through the Holy Wrath's corridors, finding his way to the small cell in which he had made his home away from the fortress-monastery on Titan.
Within lay only a bed, a stand for his dull grey war-plate, covered in inscriptions of prayers and liturgies, and a small shrine- a triptych, the first panel a portrait of the Emperor as he had been before the Great Crusade, the third that of Him clad in His golden Terminator plate, a flaming sword held aloft, and the center that of Him, seated in His Golden Throne. Each of the images were brilliantly rendered by the artist, coming as close as a mortal, or, indeed, a demigod of the Astartes could to depicting His perfection. Making the sign of the holy aquila upon his chest, mirroring the tattoo upon his neck, Auril stepped in and retrieved his sword.
It was a beautiful weapon, longer than most mortals were tall, its blade forged of the strongest iron, flecked with psyk-reactive silver, strengthened with psychic power. Its golden hilt positively hummed with mental energy as it met the Astartes' palm, the bond between transhuman and sword melding the two into one.
The training halls were not far, not for the massive stride of an Astartes warrior; Auril was there in seemingly a moment. Brothers Talerion and Mordred were there already; allowing each of them that same silent nod, the Grey Knight moved past them and to another training cage.
Upon the walls there were displayed weapons of every kind, swords, halberds, hammers, blades of all types; Auril disdained such things, preferring to practice with his own weapon, forging it into an extension of his mind, not simply of his body. Inputting commands for three practice-servitors, armed with random weaponry, the Astartes stripped away the top half of his tunic, baring the corded strength of his torso. Scars of old battles stood proud, the white traceries a chronicle of the transhuman's life as one of the God-Emperor's chosen; muscles in his neck flexed as he held his sword ready.
It was a heavy weapon, meant for use by an Adeptus Astartes wearing power armor; yet despite this, Auril wielded it like he would any other sword. Decades of practice allowed him to handle it with ease, psychic talent lightening the burden even further.
The first servitor came, the amalgamation of man and machine wielding a flail; the second closed in from behind, twin swords ready to strike, while the third, with a trident, remained back.
Auril's sword fell, a precise strike severing the first servitor's arm as it swung at him, the second blow opening its skull and blasting a pulse of psychic energy into it to detonate its torso. The second lunged; rotating out of the way, the Grey Knight lashed out at the third as it advanced, sending its left shoulder and head whirling away.
It had been two seconds since the fight had began. Dispassionately, his movements as mechanically precise as before, Auril put the thick point of the blade through the last servitor's torso.
Too easy. As a serf moved in to remove the wreckage, Auril stepped over to the console and put in a command for five servitors, maximum difficulty level, random weaponry.
One could never practice enough...
"You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man."