The Despoiled Garden

Oceans. Bright, blue oceans. Bright, blue oceans intermingled with the tan and khaki colour of the archipelagos scattered across the surface of the once-populated planet. Bright, blue oceans surrounding a large landmass, with desolate plains, abandoned grasslands and secluded mountain ranges strewn across the landscape. And within that isolated continent, surrounded by the bright, blue ocean, small pockets of civilization, desperately holding on to life. Of course, they had been holding onto life. Before we arrived.
The battlecruiser held its position above the planet. The heretics called it Emerald Cove. We called it Ertayan – ‘The Despoiled Garden’. Had it not been placed here, but some several thousand lightyears distant, it would be a jewel of the Covenant hegemony, a light of relaxation and beauty surrounded by a united empire built for war. 
I stood in the shadows of the command deck, watching through the viewscreens as the fleet slowly reached their positions. The Fleetmaster had graciously allowed me to stay, as long as I was out of the way of the crew. I received strange and disdainful looks from the sailors and other Sangheili on the deck, as I had dozens of times before – I ignored them, and continued cataloguing the historiography of yet another successful incursion against the aliens. Record-watchers were always a rare sight in the Covenant, a position only granted to a few select families, those that had proven themselves in the thousands of years of Covenant unity to be capable of safeguarding and recording the long and storied tales of Covenant legend.
We weren’t warriors. We never had been, nor were we allowed to be. Our lack of martial prowess did not endear us to those in the military, who see us as cowardly, dishonourable and ultimately inferior. And yet, I do not care of what they think of me. They have a role to play in safeguarding our empire, just as I do. They protect: I preserve. 
The view screen violently changed. What was a picture of the world in its entirety suddenly reverted to a frontal view of a specific region of the main continent, lush grasslands surrounding a small, grey splotch. A human city. It was about to begin. I continued to write upon my datapad, forcing myself to narrate the events of the battle as best I could, as the only Record-Watcher in the Fleet of Warranted Piety. If I did not note down the events, no one else would. 
I listened intently to the orders barked by the Fleetmaster to his subordinates, as I continued to scribble down barely-legible characters onto the ever-scrolling datapad. I made a note to myself to describe the procedure for purging tainted worlds once the destruction was done. With a sharp bark of affirmation, and the gruff reply from the experienced Fleetmaster acknowledging the report, he would nod to his second, who in turn gave the order to begin to the Weapons-Smith on the bridge. Why so complicated? The Fleetmaster himself simply could have ordered the purge to begin, but rather, he refused to address those below a certain rank. I knew the protocols given to officers of high rank, and the role they had to exhibit to their subordinates, yet it still felt unnecessary, as if it was a rule crafted not out of battlefield experience, but arrogance. A commandment designed to place ceremonial importance upon an authority figure. A need for validation.
My thoughts would be interrupted, as a shudder thundered through the vessel’s structure. A low humming sound could be heard, as I looked back to the viewscreen to see the blood-red flow of plasma extend downwards to the planet’s surface, right into the centre of the human settlement. The red line hit the city with a thunderous boom that could be heard even in the battlecruiser, as the waves of destruction washed across the artificial structures. Even from orbit I could see the grey slabs of the city turn white with the heat of the plasma, and watch as the settlement was swallowed whole by the purifying beam of the battlecruiser. In the span of just ten seconds, the city was all but gone, vanishing under the burn of the plasma.
The plains were next to change, the air heating up, antagonized by the charged particles extending from the glassing cannon. Dirt and grass disappeared as trees began to burn and the ground slowly began to transform into the opaque, melted form of glass. The plasma rolled ever onwards, swallowing forests whole and burning through rivers and lakes as if their presence was not even noted. The water boiled, and animals died in their droves, as the judgement of the Hierarchs purged the landscape of the heretical presence. I watched as the ring of plasma that extended ever outwards met with another from a nearby warship, as the two joined forces to continue rolling on through the natural beauty of the once-proud planet, destroying any semblance of life.
For three hours I stood, and stared, as the horrific reality of the annihilation continued. It was beautiful in its own grotesque way. The utter transformation of the planet’s natural environment from a peaceful garden into a desolate wasteland was enthralling, if not terrifying. I had torn my eyes from watching the terror at hand on the viewscreen only once, to examine the reaction of the Fleetmaster as the planet burned beneath him. He said nothing, stoically looking on as his enemies were destroyed. By now, the veteran must have seen countless worlds burn, his reaction to the slaughter one of determination, not pleasure. Perhaps it once was enjoyable for him to watch the heretics burn. Now, it did not seem so.
I turned back to the screen, watching as the oceans, those bright, blue oceans, withered away into nothing. As the world was reset, and the planet was destroyed, a single tear left my eye. Not for the humans. But for the native magnificence that would be lost forever. No record-watcher could salvage the planet’s history now. I looked down to my datapad, filled with scrawls and scribbles. With trepidation, I went back to the top, writing down the name of the once-alive world. 
Ertayan – Heretical Presence Destroyed.
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