She pushed thoughts of Karkasy aside as the hissing mechanical hemispheres of the sparring cage withdrew and a bell began chiming. Loken stepped from the cage, his fair hair, longer than she had seen it before, plastered to his scalp, and his lightly freckled face flushed with exertion.
'You're hurt,' she said, passing him a towel from the bench. He looked down, as though unaware of the wound.
'It's nothing,’ he said, wiping away the already clotted blood. His breathing came in short bursts and she tried to mask her surprise. To see an Astartes out of breath was utterly alien to her. How long had he been training before she had arrived in the halls?
Loken wiped the sweat from his face and upper body as he made his way to his personal arming chamber. Mersadie followed him and, as usual, could not help but admire the sheer physical perfection of his enhanced physique. The ancient tribes of the Olympian Hegemony were said to have called such specimens of physical perfection Adonian, and the word fit Loken like a masterfully crafted suit of Mark IV plate. Almost without thinking, Mersadie blink-clicked the image of his body.
You're staring,' said Loken, without turning.
Momentarily flustered, she said, 'Sorry, I didn't mean-'
He laughed. I'm teasing. I don't mind. If I am to be remembered, I'd like it to be when I was at my peak rather than as a toothless old man drooling into my gruel.'
'I didn't realise Astartes aged,’ she replied, regaining her composure.
Loken shrugged, picking up a carved vambrace and a polishing cloth. 'I don't know if we do either. None of us has ever lived long enough to find out,’
Her sense for things unsaid told her that she could use this angle in a chapter of her remembrances, if he would talk more on the subject. The melancholy of the immortal, or the paradox of an ageless being caught in the flux of constantly changing times – struggling flies in the clotting amber of history.
She realised she was getting ahead of herself and asked, 'Does that bother you, not getting old? Is there some part of you that wants to?'
'Why would I want to get old?' asked Loken, opening his tin of lapping powder and applying it to the vam-brace, its new colour, a pale, greenish hued metallic still unfamiliar to her. 'Do you?'
'No,’ she admitted, unconsciously reaching up to touch the smooth black skin of her hairless augmetic scalp. 'No, I don't. To be honest, it scares me. Does it scare you?'
