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Marta Dyas had dreamt of screaming souls and corpses that night; by comparison, fighting her way to the front of the queue in front of the cafeteria's coffee counter on the morning after felt almost easy.
On her return to their rooms, she found Judith already up and about, looking well-rested and serious and happy to spot the bio-degradable cup in Marta's hands.
"Thank God. I was working up the nerve to go myself."
Marta handed over the extra large coffee, black, without comment, though Judith usually preferred it with sugar and a little cream and said "Nothing they haven't seen before," which doubled as a question:
Are we going to talk about this?
"Not from me," Judith said and then, because the Second was fair, "or from you."
So. They were going to talk about this. Marta briefly wished she'd gotten herself some tea. What passed for tea in the Cohort's cafeteria was terrible, even worse than the coffee, which might be considered a minor miracle (though not within the hearing of anyone from the Eighth, bunch of humorless bastards that they were) but it would have served as a distraction.
She said, "We won. Casualties on our side 6% lower than expected." It was an impressive number. Marta had looked it up: the average was closer to 2 to 4%, depending on the necro's strength.
Judith grimaced with exquisite timing, having just taken a sip of coffee. "Glory to the Emperor Undying. The House will be pleased."
"Think they're going to send cookies again?" One of Judith's nephews had a real gift for baked goods. His parents were surprisingly tolerant, but then, his sister had made Sergeant at twelve. Perhaps they had simply decided to be pragmatic and settle for what they could get.
" 'Congrats on sucking your first enemy souls in a combat situation, here's a tin of cookies to share with your friends'?" Judith sipped her coffee again, her face showing it was indeed terrible. "Maybe."
"Last batch was, what, three months ago?" They'd been gone in less than five minutes, though Marta was inclined to place part of the blame for that on the courier, who had blabbed about his precious cargo to anyone and their dog. "Feels like we're about due." Judith's family was extensive, and even a baking god was expected to dedicate some of his time to more martial exploits.
"It wasn't hard, you know," said Judith. "I had studied the technique. I was ready. It was easy. And they were dying anyway."
"They were our enemies," Marta snapped. The palms of her hand felt sweaty. She should have gotten that damn tea, never mind about the taste. "They were the King Undying's enemies. They deserved death." Her stomach clenched.
It was said that those who faced a necromancer of the Second in combat died screaming - but many people died screaming. In fear, in anger, in defiance, in pain because dying fucking hurt; it wasn't like battles were usually nice and quiet and free from people screaming at other people.
"Yes," Judith said. "We are the Cohort. We show no mercy to our foes, for they are the Emperor's foes."
As far as rebukes went, it was barely even a tap on the wrist. Marta remembered the expression on the face of the enemy soldier she'd killed. They'd already been mortally injured; she'd turned away, sure they wouldn't bother her anymore, that they would pose no threat lying on the ground, bleeding out, and then they'd started screaming and she had turned around and made them stop, because she had been slow and stupid. It hadn't had anything to do with mercy.
She'd forced herself to let the next one scream, and the one after that. The sound had blended in with the rest of it anyway. It hadn't required any great effort - and she'd caught on by then, realized what Judith was doing, what was expected of her as cavalier primary of the Second.
Human limits no longer applied to her. Everything she thought she knew about herself no longer applied to her, none of her limits or limitations or the warning signs her body would send her.
It had been the first time in a battle that she'd felt like a chickenshit, and she hadn't liked it.
She couldn't imagine Judith felt any different. Being a Cohort Captain meant something. It wasn't like the Eighth, where they made you Master Templar for being the creepiest creep who ever creeped.
"We could always special-order some chocolates. That second-to-last shipment was okay, I thought. And maybe some crosswords and light reading, while we're at it."
Judith looked at her coffee and smiled. "Kind of hasty in spending our prize money, aren't you?"
"Not like there's much else we can spend it on out here." Marta sniffed. She planned on saving up half, but her fathers and mother had warned her to spend some of it, to allow herself some fun. To spoil Judith a little now and then, if she wouldn't spoil herself.
Judging by the gorgeous collection of shower gels Judith had gifted her in the first week of their trip, Judith's parents had provided her with similar instructions.
Probably, this was how necro-cav relations worked. You took care of the other person, when you wouldn't take care on yourself. You showed mercy to the other person, when you couldn't show it to anyone else, including yourself. You made it work, no matter what.
"Be sure to make them include some sudoku." Judith hated sudoku, which Marta felt was an unusual attitude for a necro. Supposedly, the Sixth solved sudoku by way of bedtime reading.
Marta rather enjoyed them herself, though not when she wanted to go to sleep.
"We should probably go and have some actual breakfast," she said.
Judith took her last sip of coffee: the dregs, with all the worst bits that had sunk to the bottom of the cup. "Yes."
Marta watched her back go a little straighter with every step to the cafeteria, and then they strode inside and people honest to God got up and started applauding, which took care of the need for volunteers to do the dishes and clean the toilets for the next three months, so at least there was that.