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Hi! This is a bit of fluff on one of the greatest heroes of the Imperium. Hope you enjoy. It is a pretty sad story. Try not to cry.
Child of Vostroya
Child of Vostroya
The child hid behind Kruschev’s legs on the noisy landing platform. The Valkryie they had arrived on was hurriedly being serviced by numerous ground crew members. Several of them threw Kruschev curious glances. He did stand out; one tended to do that in full Vostroyan battle fatigues, but especially so for the tall, indomitable Kruschev. None bothered looking at the child. Apparently small, scared children were a common sight at the Aluesis Schola Progenium.
Kruschev put a comforting hand on the girls head, calming her. How long had it been since they first met? Kruschev wondered. 2 years? She still seemed so tiny, so fragile. Yes, she did look much healthier and less malnourished since he had stumbled across her; Kruschev had to admit, but still so small. She couldn’t have been older than 7 now, and Kruschev was sure she was even younger. Everyone had seemed to age quicker during the Belis Corona Hive wars. When they found the girl they had already been fighting to retake the city for months and had not yet encountered any other civilian survivors. The Traitor Marines weren’t widely known for their compassion.
Kruschev had only been a sergeant when he and his squad had found her on patrol. How that the little girl had survived, for God-Emperor knew how long, in that small, dark cellar Kruschev didn’t know. She had been alone, grimy and half-starved. She had looked up at the soldiers, and at the lasguns facing her, uncomprehendingly. Kruschev had been struck by the tender, fragility of the little girl. He knew at that moment that he couldn’t let anything happen to her. They had left the building with the child minutes before a random barrage flattened the whole suburb. If they hadn’t discovered the child Kruschev and his squad would have still been completing their sweep of the area. Even then Kruschev had thought of the little lass, tucked away in his coat, as a lucky charm.
Kruschev had not received the warmest of welcomes from the Colonel when he returned to regimental HQ.
“Kruschev!” He had said “You useless sack of grox droppings! Why haven’t your men finished their sweep? I could have y-”
“Shhh, Colonel” Kruschev had replied, his finger on his lips “You might wake her.”
He opened the little bundle a fraction to reveal the tiny face nestled inside his cloak.
Kruschev grinned as he remembered the look on the Colonels face. For the first time in his 17 years of service, Kruschev saw the scarred Colonels face break into a tender smile.
“Well” taking the bundle into his arms “We had better get this little one something to eat, eh?”
They had walked to the mess hall, drawing inquisitive looks from soldiers along the way, and the Colonel had talked to the quartermaster.
“No slop for this one Strom, serve only the finest meal to be found here” He had ordered.
The infamously stern quartermaster had taken one look at the peaceful little face poking out of the bundle and had said;
“Of course Colonel, wouldn’t dream of anything less.”
The quartermaster had served the freshet slice of grox meat, several ration bars and a months worth of rationed chocolate. The girl had dug into the feast with gusto, drawing raucous laughter from the crowd of soldiers, impressed at her appetite.
Over the next few months, the child was taught the rudiments of Low Gothic, as well as picking up a large amount of the Vostroyan language. She was adored by the whole regiment; she had a name but they would always call her their “little princess” and spoiled her terribly, as much as anyone could be spoiled in those times. She had no single parent out of that horde of father figures. Instead, she replaced each and everyman’s rank with “papa”. In the dark days of the Belis Corona wars, they had drawn strength from the little child. Often she would wonder where one of her fathers had disappeared to.
“Papa Kruschev” she would ask “where is Papa Mikhail? Papa Vladimir?”
“Gone, child” he would say “they’ve gone away. But don’t worry, just for a little while.”
The regiment adopted her as their mascot, their lucky charm. They would do anything for their little princess. When they saw that she loved the flag flapping in the wind, they made her the regimental banner bearer. Kruschev had even seen two Vostroyans stop mid-brawl, just because they saw that they were upsetting their little princess.
For two more years the war for the Hives of Belis Corona had raged. They had celebrated their victory atop the highest spires, the child laughing and waving the flag, thinking it all a game. But with the war over, they had started to realize, even if they did not want to admit it, that the regiment was no place for a child to grow up. During the war it had been necessity, there was nowhere else to go. But with the war over, and the regiment being shipped out to another front, the soldiers knew that they would have to leave her behind. There were no homes, no orphanages that the regiment would trust their little princess to. They had decided to send her to the Schola Progenium, an Imperial military school that would served as the closest thing to a home. So the regiment had seen her off, at the landing fields of Belis Corona Prime. Grown men that had never shed a tear in living memory wept openly as they bid farewell to their little princess. She had waved back as she boarded the Valkryie, with Kruschev as her escort, not quite understanding why all her ‘papas’ were crying.
So here they now stood, at the gates of the Aluesis Schola Progenium. The monumentally large building cast a shadow over Kruschev as he walked towards it. The girl squeezed his hand, and buried her head in his arm. A tall, imposing figure greeted them on the doorsteps. He wore a long, dark greatcoat, and a livid scar ran across his face. Kruschev thought that the man reminded him more of a battle-field commissar than the kind of person to be dealing with children. Beside him skulked a plump, bland-looking scribe.
“I am Headmaster Fortes; you are Sergeant-Major Kruschev, no?” inquired the tall figure.
Kruschev saluted “Sergeant-Major Kruschev of the Vostroyan 17th, serial number 179/54/6331.”
The scribe scribbled onto his notepad furiously.
Headmaster Fortes’ attention switched to the figure at Kruschev’s side.
“And this must be the child your commander spoke of in the dispatches.” He stated. It was not a question. “We shall make her most welcome. A fine ward of the Imperium.”
The scribe approached Kruschev “We shall be taking her now.”
“What?” Spluttered Kruschev “Don’t I have to-uh, sign something? Fill out some forms? See her to her lodgings?”
“No” ambled the scribe, “that will not be necessary, all the required forms and notices have been completed.”
Kruschev was stumped. He had thought he would have more time. He would never hold her hand again he realized. He would never hear her call him ‘papa’ again. He was starting to panic. He could run, he thought, run away back to the regiment. But what kind of life would that be for a child? No, Kruschev slowly, solemnly admitted, she had to grow up somewhere safe. The Schola Progenium was the only place for her.
Kruschev knelt down and looked at her.
“Little princess…”he started.
“Yes Papa Kruschev?”
“You must go with the man here” he told her, gesturing to the scribe.
“Are you coming Papa?” she inquired.
“No, little princess, Papa Kruschev has to say goodbye now”
“Why Papa?” she asked, looking a little worried now.
“Because I must, little princess.” He hugged her. “Now you must be a good girl, little princess”
“Yes, Papa”
“You must do what you are told”
“Yes Papa”
He grinned, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“And keep your chin up, eh?”
“Yes Papa”
“There’s a good girl” He ended the hug and stood up “Goodbye now, little princess.”
She looked up “Goodbye Papa.”
She walked over to the scribe, took his hand, and followed him into the building. Kruschev gazed longingly after her. The Headmaster Fortes stepped up to the door as well, then paused and spoke to Kruschev, who was fighting back his tears.
“What is her name, Sergeant-Major?” he asked.
Kruschev almost immediately responded ‘little princess’, but then he realized that the Headmaster was asking what her real name was. She had told them her name but no one had used it for her in the regiment. He had never thought of her anything other than his ‘little princess’ for so long that Kruschev had difficulty remembering.
“Um-uh…”
Then it came to him, with an almost divine certainty.
“Celestine. Her name is Celestine.”
