For the prompt "Dawn of War 2, Thaddeus, The other sergeants: Showing a weaker side - Lessons in coping" on areyougame.

Thaddeus' youth, anger issues, and love of Meridian have always fascinated me.

He found them in the training cages, sat off to one side, Cyrus with his sniper rifle across his lap and Tarkus with his head leaned back against the wall, his fingers laced over his abdomen and his eyes closed. It was not the sight Thaddeus had been expecting when he went in search of his older Battle-Brothers, and despite their apparent ease it set the young Sergeant's teeth on edge. Squaring his shoulders, Thaddeus crossed the echoing training hall and approached.

Cyrus had been aware of him since he'd appeared in the doorway to the training rooms, and probably long before. He did not look up however, simply adjusting the scope on his rifle with all the familiarity and perfectionism of long practice. Tarkus, for his part, seemed content to continue his dozing. At the far end of the battle chamber, distant enough to give the Veteran Sergeants their privacy, a group of Tactical Marines were engaged in one-on-one fights with several of Thaddeus' Assault squad. The Sergeant barely spared them a glance, fixing his attention on the two Brothers he'd spent the last few hours tracking down.

He came to a halt not three feet from where the pair relaxed, wound up so tight that both his fists were clenched. To see them both so unconcerned when so much was wrong, so many had died, was intolerable. Thaddeus glared and Cyrus turned his rifle over, pulled a cloth from a pouch at his belt, and began to polish the weapon's stock.

"What is it, Thaddeus?" Tarkus asked quietly, without opening his eyes.

It was all the opening he needed. "What are you doing?" Thaddeus demanded, glaring from one to the other.

"Ensuring the purity of my rifle," said Cyrus, at the same time Tarkus replied, "Meditating."

Thaddeus frowned and glanced away across the training room to where the other Marines were beating a rhythm on their pauldrons with their fists to encourage the duellists. Now that was a suitable way to deal with down time.

"Do you wish to spar?"

Tarkus had opened his eyes and was watching the young Sergeant closely. At his side, Cyrus snorted at the suggestion and snapped the scope back into place. With a flare of irritation that twisted in his belly, Thaddeus realised that the pair of them both knew his anger, and perhaps even mocked him for it. Well then. He nodded curtly and stepped away to activate the nearest of the battle cages. "Swords," he said, knowing that the Veteran Sergeant favoured them when fighting in close combat.

Despite the fact that the day had been a long and arduous one, Thaddeus was not tired. The battle on Meridian had left him in a foul humour even though they'd walked away victorious. So many lives had been lost amongst the civilian population, all of them dead at the hands of the Tyrannid beasts. Xenos so mindless and abominable that it boiled his blood just to consider their continued existence.

Meridian had been his home once; stinking, lower level hive ganger that he'd been in that other life. A Space Marine was supposed to forget these things when he took on the mantle of the Emperor's Chosen, but home to Thaddeus would always hold a special place in his hearts. To see it ravaged in such a way left him restless with an anger and frustration that he simply could not alleviate.

Since they had returned to the Strike Cruiser, the Assault Squad Sergeant had been seeking some way to relieve the tension that coiled through his body. A Chaplain's aid would have been appropriate, but circumstances had conspired to leave them without such spiritual guidance on the ship, and Thaddeus for one was feeling the absence keenly. He'd done the next best thing instead, stalking the halls of the strike cruiser and taking lessons from his elders in how to cope. They all thought Thaddeus was young and reckless, and maybe he was. But he was a keen learner too, and no fool when it came to knowing when he had to take steps to deal with his issues.

He'd found Martellus sitting with soldering torch in hand, working on Venerable Thule's plating. The Techmarine had been sat cross-legged on top of the Dreadnought, a pose of such familiarity and intimacy that Thaddeus had not been able to find it in himself to intrude. Martellus had survived terrible odds, surrounded by his dead Battle-Brothers and cut off from the Chapter for longer than Thaddeus cared to consider, and as such would have been a perfect mentor in the art of righteous retribution. Yet, here he was, his head bent to better catch the low rumble of Thule's voice, laughing along quietly with the Venerable Brother's tales of past glories, at peace in a way that completely eluded Thaddeus. Despite the frustration chewing at his innards, the Assault Marine could not bring himself to bother either of them.

His success with the rest of the Sergeants had been similar. Avitus had responded to the knock on his cell door only after Thaddeus had already turned to walk away. His prayer robes and unfriendly scowl had convinced the younger Sergeant to wave off the reason for his visit and keep on going. In all honesty he had no idea why he'd even tried the old Vet. It had long been clear that the Sergeant of the Devastators held little sympathy for him.

Jonah Orion had also been a mistake, and he'd known it the moment he'd found his way into the Librarium. The small set of interconnected rooms was not a common haunt for anyone but a scholar or their lone Librarian, and Thaddeus had felt uncomfortable as soon as he walked through the door. The Epistolary himself had been staring at the doorway as he'd entered, and Thaddeus had stopped short in surprise. The smile and expression of concerned curiosity had shut down the Sergeant's enthusiasm for sharing as effectively as if the psyker had rendered him mute with his powers.

The Epistolary was the last of his kind in the entire Company, and Thaddeus did not need warp powers of his own to know that the eagerness to engage with him that his Brother exhibited was born of loss and loneliness. Even so, he could not bring himself to linger, making his excuses very soon after he'd arrived. Despite closing the door firmly behind himself, he still felt the weight of the Librarian's gaze on his back until he was back in safer reaches of the ship.

Aramus was little better. Despite their shared history, in spite of all the friendship that lay between them, Aramus was the Force Commander now and he had no time to spare for idle chatter. Thaddeus understood, even if it did make some part of him locked deep inside smart uncomfortably. Aramus had changed, just as Thaddeus had. He was sterner, slower to laugh, and his granite face never seemed to flinch even in the most dire of situations. He would be captain one day, Thaddeus was sure of it.

And that was how he came to be here, crossing swords with the eldest of their veterans, with the Master of Scouts looking on. Thaddeus knew that these two were old allies, cronies an unsubtle tongue might label them. Tarkus was the voice of calm experience, as befitted one of his station, and Cyrus was the sharp-tongued terror of all fledgling Brothers. Between them, they formed an unshakeable core of experience that he knew Aramus relied upon heavily.

Tarkus was an able swordsman, something Thaddeus already knew but was reminded of the moment their blades made first contact. He fought with an economy of movement that spoke of the breadth of his experience, and a wisdom that was worth more than any strength of arm. Fighting him required concentration, for the old Tactical Marine was canny and unforgiving of mistakes made in arrogance. And so Thaddeus used him as a outlet for all the frustration and fury he felt, for every shred of confusion the two emotions created in him. It was not the way of the Adeptus Astartes to feel guilt for their actions, and yet perhaps in another life he might have confessed to such a thing.

Their fight lasted long enough for their second hearts to begin beating more strongly. Tarkus was a veteran Sergeant who had been stalking the Emperor's battlefields for centuries longer than Thaddeus had even been a marine, and as such he was not a challenger to be easily dismissed. But in the end, Thaddeus was an Assault Marine, with all the strength and aptitude for close combat that entailed. He backhanded the blade from Tarkus' hand when the veteran left himself open a fraction too long, sending the sword clattering away against the mesh of the training cage. With effort, he halted the punch that would have snapped the other Marine's head around and most likely knocked him from his feet, and instead stood glaring into the other Sergeant's eyes, victorious and yet unsatisfied.

"This too will pass," Tarkus said, his pale blue eyes calm.

Thaddeus frowned, straightened, and took a step back, letting his clenched fist fall to his side.

"We are the Emperor's weapons, Thaddeus. We do only His will; it is our one duty, our only oath. Our lives belong to him. Accept that, and you will no longer doubt."

Thaddeus could feel Cyrus' eyes on him, but the Scout Master remained silent. Of them all, Tarkus had always been the most pious. Had he been more overt in his faith, more full of spite and holy bile, then perhaps he would have been a Chaplain. As it was, he was the cool voice of calm for many of the younger marines.

"I do not doubt!" exclaimed Thaddeus. "I have faith in the Emperor, but I see so much more that we should have done today! Those people-"

"We did all that we could, Thaddeus. Would you have us spend the blood of our brothers on a lost cause?"

Cyrus' voice was low and held the cynical, dismissive tone that so infuriated Thaddeus. The Scout Master had trained nearly every Brother in this Company, Thaddeus himself included, and it was only that status which kept the Assault Sergeant's tongue in check.

"There will come a time when these concerns will no longer plague you. Then, you will be a true weapon of the Emperor. Until then, patience," Tarkus advised, his voice cutting in before Cyrus could continue.

"I...pray that the time is soon," Thaddeus replied, taking a long breath in. It would not do to antagonise these two veterans, it was neither respectful nor wise. Instead he bowed to them both, a stiff and archaic old gesture that would have sent Avitus into a fit of derisive laughter, but which elicited only nods from both of the other Sergeants. And then he left, raising a hand in passing greeting to his men as they duelled, knowing that they had paused in their sparring to watch his fight with their Veteran Sergeant. What peace he could not find here amongst his Brothers he could perhaps find in prayer to his Emperor. Maybe it was the point at which he should have started in the first place.

Tarkus watched the young Sergeant leave, and then bent to pick up the discarded sword. The boy had left it behind in his eagerness to depart, a gross insult to the weapon's spirit, and one which Tarkus would spend his time easing. "He will learn," he said, with a sigh.

Cyrus snorted. "He'll have to," he replied.

Tarkus shook his head and sat back down at his old friend's side, bumping his shoulder with his own before laying the sword across his lap and beginning the rites of purity.