His memory is not very good.
Sometimes memories would come uninvited, and in the worst moments, he didn't know his last name.
Sometimes, after a brief period of numbness, he would suddenly remember that his name was Rozim Premki.
From the moment he was born bathed in the sunshine of this world, he was Rozim Premji.
He couldn't remember when that happened. It must have been a long time ago, longer than the lifespan of quite a few mortals...
Whenever he thought of this, he thought of fire.
He loved fire, and he loved the crunching and crackling sound they made as they burned things.
He could still smell the leather on his shoulders, even though they were now covered with hides, but they smelled like ashes.
His shoulders were also much different from how he remembered them - they were twice as big.
If he returned to his home now, he would look like a monster.
If I could see my two brothers again, I would probably be able to scare their souls out.
Who are they?
Who are the brothers?
He wasn't sure anymore, maybe they were dead, or maybe they were just a dream.
He sometimes dreamed of fires—of how they shone.
So maybe this is all a dream!
He looked down at the task at hand, knowing it all too well because he was good at it.
When working, he neither dreams nor forgets things, nor misses the smell of alcohol. He just knows "working".
Cheer up and focus, it helps.
He tossed the heavy metal pot up and down.
It was heavy, like a large piece of rock, even in his huge hands.
He couldn't remember its ingredients, what was it called?
He could tell it before, but now he can't remember it.
Not iron, not stone, not anything else.
He just called it "pot" and everyone else knew what he meant.
This is his job.
He took a deep breath, picked up the pot, put it into the huge stove, and turned the heat to the highest setting.
Then he began to grease the surface of the pot, applying a thick layer of grease to make it easier to use.
It took him a long time to do this, and once it even took him two days to get it perfect.
He liked to look at the smooth pot under the firelight. It was as smooth and soft as skin, not like his own skin, but like girls' skin.
Just like the skin of those girls in his impression——
What does that look like?
who cares.
Then he picked up the spice box and started working.
This also takes a lot of time, sometimes even several days, but he really doesn't notice it because he has to concentrate on it, and there is no sun or moon visible in this place - only fire and heat, and people come and go. Take a walk.
They never look at him, unless they want to give him a portion of the prepared ingredients, or take away the portion that has been prepared.
He doesn't look at them often either because he's happy at work.
Only then could he temporarily escape his thirst for alcohol.
Various spices from different regions were mixed in his box. This was his unique memory. He called it Gali, which sounded like green stuff.
Well, actually, he thought there was nothing wrong with the green-skinned stuff, at least those farts were more reliable at doing things than these extremely stupid servants.
He bent down as hard as he could, with his eyes almost glued to it, and then poured the ingredients down to milligrams into the mixing box.
Well, this smells so good.
It reminded him that he was working now, and he never thought about home and the fire while working.
If you make a mistake in this step, you have to start over, but due to the long wandering, many materials are left.
So he couldn't make any mistakes, even if it was just a little bit, even the tiniest bit, the flavor of the spices would be weakened.
Once when he failed, he beat up everyone in the kitchen, including the servitors.
But his mind wandered again.
If there is no failure, if he becomes the existence he hopes to be, he does not want the first meal to be defective.
He thought about those who succeeded and hoped that this dinner would be perfect, even though he would never be able to eat it as he had expected so long ago.
Thinking about it, he continued to work, following ancient recipes, and painted sacred patterns in the pot.
Once the liquid in the pot boils, he uses those secret spices.
The boiling liquid hissed like a snake as the fragrant powder fell into the pot.
He also had to be careful with this step. If he put too much, the whole pot would be ruined. If he put too little, the flavor would not be outstanding enough.
He urged himself to be quick with his hands and feet, shaking out half of the spices before stirring the twentieth round.
Soon the boiling liquid turned to roiling goo, and he lifted the pot off the stove with his large gloved hands.
He took out a plate and scooped out a dollop with a spoon.
Watching the dark brown liquid flowing along the edge of the dish, he would sometimes lift it up and hold it toward the firelight to admire what he had created.
Nodding, he picked up a piece of cloth and gently wiped the stains on the edge of the plate.
Then he walked towards a servitor who was controlling a cart. He put the plate on the cart and then went to get the second plate.
Other subordinate staff are also busy, each operating their own dishes, but none of them are more important than his work, so he can only do it himself.
This makes him proud.
Because he will feel that he has become useful, which is enough to make his heartache disappear most of the time.
Most of the time, he served in the mess halls of the Astartes.
He could often see those tall warriors enjoying his food after taking off their armor and praising him highly.
But no matter what, he should leave in the end.
He also knew that he had to leave, but he always wanted to stay a little longer, always wanted to stay a little longer with these great warriors.
After all, he was once so close to greatness——
This is his heartache.
As he watched the bewildered boys arrive at the makeshift trial base from the academy, he recalled the tests he had undergone and how close he had come to succeeding.
He recalled how they had strengthened their bodies, and the crushing pain of failure.
Although he was certain to die, he still survived.
As a failure.
He wanted to die so much and wished they had given up on him.
The servitor's soulless eyes looked at him, and he filled the last plate, then nodded, just once.
Then the servitor looked away from him and pushed the cart away, while the others were still busy.
He returned to the stove and his assistant gave him a new pot, a pot for cooking.
He looked down at the task at hand, knowing it all too well because he was good at it.
When working, he neither dreams nor forgets things. He just knows to "work".
Simply work hard.
But sometimes he still has worries, and sometimes he stays up all night or thinks about things he doesn't want to think about.
But he also had a favorite dream.
He had seen the Astartes walking among the stars, he had seen them fighting, and he had seen them armed with armor.
I am among them, just like what they wear, flawless.
When he wakes up from his dreams, he is always satisfied.
But he still remembers his past failures, but he also remembers that he still has the strength to give himself.
Perhaps this was his reward: still being able to contribute his own strength.
Even if he sometimes seems like an idiot in the eyes of others.
But he doesn't know how long he will be here, maybe forever, maybe until the end of the world.
His memory is not very good.
His name is Rozim Premki, and he likes fire.
He wished he could fight, which had been his dream.
But the Astartes fought, and he assisted them, and sometimes he thought that maybe—
That's enough.
