Death of the Imperator

As the last particles of war fall past my eyes, grave news has just reached Io. The benighted news, on the edge of moon rise, whispered that the Imperator has fallen. The greatest of men extinguished by the simple blade of an assassin, stealing into the night.

Fallen, slain, diminished.

We felt it in us and we all knew, somehow, when the comm-drone exited hyperspace, that it brought us a blackened broadcast. We all shared the same look, the same emotions, the same tear, the same disconsolation. The Imperator was the fragile stitches in the fabric of humanity, the thin strand of hopeful salvation. Now, he lies dead, cold flesh crumpled on marbled floors, stale breath, darkened eyes.

We sit here on this dark isolation, tired arms folder over our rifles, awaiting orders to stand our ground. We cannot fight anymore, no one wants to. The only direction we want to go is down, down into our graves, to finally lay our heads down in peace, to rest.