The stars are burning coldly – millions of heatless pinpricks of light glittering like distant diamonds scattered across the firmament of the fathomless void. Standing before the armorglass viewing port Valentaen tries to gaze past the ghostly outline of his reflection, seeking to draw familiar comfort from the tapestry of stellar magnificence spread out before him. He tries, and he fails. His own insubstantial face stares back at him, the pale blue eyes haunted and accusatory. He knows he will find no solace here, no peace of mind or of soul. Despite being alone – as alone as a Space Marine can expect to be outside of his cell-berth aboard an Inquisitorial strike cruiser – Valentaen feels as if scores of unseen eyes are watching him from the observation gallery's shadowed vaults: hidden eyes that scrutinize, appraise – and judge.

The vox-bead in his ear crackles abruptly to life, disrupting his melancholic brooding. "Val…" The gruff voice of Watch-Sergeant Sovjorn Swiftfang of the Space Wolves is jovial and boisterous, though his words are slightly slurred by drink. "Where are you, Valentaen? Join us. Sutherack burns. We feast together in commemoration of this glorious victory. You should be here – rumor has it you slew the most Sutherids. Come, brother – come tell us the tale of how you fought alone in the dark against hordes of the xenos abominations."

Although he has not been given a direct order and though Sovjorn is not his commanding officer, Valentaen knows there will be consequences if he remains the sole Astartes to abstain from the festivities the veteran sergeant has organized. He has watched over a dozen worlds burn at the command of Inquisitor Ansalam, as have all the Deathwatch operatives comprising the two kill-teams seconded to his retinue. There is nothing new to see portside, merely one more xenos-dominated planet being consumed in the flames of the Emperor's righteous vengeance. Valentaen has no desire to recount his solitary ordeal over a foaming mug of vile Fenrisian ale for the entertainment of intoxicated battle-brothers. Even drunk they would quickly realize that his deeds on Sutherack are unworthy of plaudits or acclaim. Yet loneliness has been a constant companion throughout his Vigil and the offer of temporary camaraderie is a tempting one; self-isolation will do him no favors after a mission such as this.

Before Valentaen can respond the vox-connection is suddenly overridden and diverted to a private channel. The cold terse command of Watch-Sergeant Heimrich of the Red Scorpions brings an end to the Space Marine's dilemma, cutting like a knife through any hope of fraternization. "You will remain absent from Sovjorn's boorish revelries, Lamenter. He will take no delight in listening to you brag about terminating worthless targets in an insignificant location the xenos themselves did not see fit to defend."

Unseen eyes watch – always appraising, always judging. "Yes sir." Valentaen cuts the link and closes his eyes, shutting out the shimmering starscape and his own world-weary reflection. Of course Heimrich would have reviewed the pict-footage extracted from his helmet-feed; of course he would have found Valentaen's actions devoid of any merit or valor. Not even the saga-hungry Sovjorn would find his hearts stirred by the Lamenter's account, not when the rest of the Deathwatch Marines had aquitted themselves in true battle against the hunter-packs of mature Sutherid males that had mustered in the defense of their subterranean enclave-caverns.

The teleportation insertion gone awry; the Lamenter finding himself alone in a middling alien nesting-site, seperated from his battle-brothers, with curious Sutherid infants and juveniles hopping all about him, chirruping excitedly as they flock to investigate the strange hulking creature that has materialized into their midst. He quickly scans the cavern, ignoring the clamoring younglings. There are no legitimate foes to be fought here, no nest-matrons or roving hunter-packs within detection of his armor's auto-senses…

The sea of stars cannot console him. Valentaen opens his eyes and turns from the viewing port; the vox-bead clicks twice. He ignores it. Gazing warily about the gallery's unoccupied interior the unarmored Space Marine ensures he is indeed physically alone before sitting and drawing his knees up to his chest, his broad back resting against the frigid armorglass.

Static on the kill-team's vox-channel for nine seconds, then Heimrich's distorted voice breaks through, demanding to know his location. The isolated Lamenter dutifully gives a status report, the inquisitive Sutherids clawing and nipping at his ceramite-plated legs and boots, fascinated by the mysterious ebon-armored intruder. The Red Scorpion's orders are curt and brook no dissent: purge the nest and link up with the rest of the squad without delay…

Valentaen tilts back his head and expels a long ragged breath. Several decks above him his Deathwatch brethren celebrate their hard-fought victory in the tradition of the Vlka Fenryka, drinking to the destruction of Sutherack and the extinction of the Sutherid race while boasting of their feats and kill-tallies. Even Inquisitor Ansalam is pleased; having secured samples of the Sutherids' primitive technological artifacts, along with biological samples both living and dead, he consigns the xenos' homeworld to holy annihilation. The Space Marines will return to watch-fortress Oberon as lauded heroes of their respective Chapters – save for one.

The Sutherid younglings scattering from him in terror as he opens up with his bolter, the mass-reactive rounds blowing their small scaly bodies to bloody ruin. They make no attempt to attack. Instead, they try to hide. It prevents nothing; the Lamenter slaughters them with ruthless efficiency, tossing frag grenades into their burrows, crushing their skulls with his fists to conserve ammunition, hacking them to pieces with his power-sword, his litanies of hate drowning out their shrill agonized shrieks…

The vox clicks again: persistent; insistent. The unseen eyes watch: evaluating, judging. The stars glitter at his back, coldly burning. Valentaen relents and opens the link. "Damn you, Val..." Sovjorn slurs distractedly, "when are you going to -"

"No. I will not join in the feast. I have no tale worth telling." Valentaen pulls the vox-bead from his ear before the Space Wolf can object, before words are exchanged that will only serve to breed animosity between them. It is better this way; his brother Astartes deserve to remain unsullied by the shame eating at his soul like a malignant tumor. Perhaps only his martyred gene-father would have understood the pain. "I have no tale worth telling," he says again to the watchful shadows. "I will never have a tale worth telling."

The sole surviving Sutherid cowering amid the dismembered remains of its butchered brood-kin, staring wide-eyed at Valentaen as he strides towards it, its blood-spattered flanks quivering, flinching at each sound of the Space Marine's thunderous foot-falls. It does not run as he reaches down, his black gauntlet closing like a vise about its trembling form. Its jaws part in a single plaintive cry as Valentaen's armored fingers tighten, its delicate bones cracking like brittle twigs beneath the inexorable pressure...

Sutherack burns. The Deathwatch Marines exalt in their victory. The Lamenter bows his head upon his knees and silently weeps.