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 creaking and cracking sound they made when burning things.
He could still smell the leather on his shoulders. Even though they were now covered with animal skins, they smelled like ashes.
His shoulders had also changed a lot compared to 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 very 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, this will help.
He tossed the heavy metal pot up and down.
It was heavy, like a large piece of rock, even in my huge hand.
He couldn't remember its ingredients and what it was 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 understood 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 level.
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 examine 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 is happy at work.
Only then can he temporarily get rid of his thirst for alcohol.
Various spices from different regions are mixed in his box. This is his unique memory. He calls it Gali, which sounds like a green stuff.
Well, actually, he thinks there's nothing wrong with the green-skinned stuff, at least those farts are more reliable at what they do 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.
Hmm, this smells so pleasant.
It reminded him that he was working now, and he never thought about home and the fire while working.
If you make an error 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 thoughts wandered away again.
If there is no failure, if he becomes the existence he hopes to be, he doesn't want the first meal to be defective.
He thought about those successful people and hoped that this dinner would be perfect enough, 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 the ancient recipes, and painted sacred patterns in the pot.
After the liquid in the pot boils, he uses the secret spices.
When the fragrant powder fell into the pot, the boiling liquid hissed like a snake.
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, and shook out half of the spices before stirring the twentieth round.
Soon the boiling liquid turned into a roiling goo, and he lifted the pot off the stove with his large gloved hands.
He took out a plate and took out a lump 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 no one is 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 with these great warriors for a little longer.
After all, he was once so close to greatness——
This is his heartache.
When he saw those ignorant boys coming from the academy to the temporary trial base, he recalled the test he had undergone and how close he had come to succeeding.
He recalled how they strengthened their bodies and the excruciating pain when they failed.
Although he was certain to die, he still survived.
As a failure.
He wanted to die so much and wished they would give up on him.
The machine servant looked at him with soulless eyes, 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 very good at it.
When working, he neither dreams nor forgets things, he just knows "working".
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 has a favorite dream.
He had seen the Astartes walking in the sea of stars, he had seen them fighting, and he had seen them armed with armor.
I am among them, just like their clothes, flawless.
When he wakes up from his dream, he will always be satisfied.
But he still remembers his past failures, but he also remembers that he still has the strength to give himself.
Maybe this is his reward: he can still give of his own strength.
Even if in the eyes of others he sometimes seems like an idiot.
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 was what he had dreamed of.
But the Astartes fought, and he assisted them, and sometimes he thought that maybe—