I, Vermin: Aurora, a starving underhiver child, is guided by faith and a mysterious glowing figure from the safety of her tiny pipe to the halls of the Schola Progenium. Here she will have the chance she's always dreamed of, to serve the Emperor with a faith like her vanished mother's. But the faith Aurora grew up with does not seem to be the same faith that she finds in her classmates, friends, and mentors and the lessons she learns are perhaps not the ones the schola ever intended to teach her...
I, Vermin: An Original WH40K fiction
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I, Vermin: Introduction and Prologue
Prologue: From Darkness to Light
"It's a simple question, even a child can answer!" The loud man's voice makes me want to cover my ears. He's big, with clothes that look like stiff boards with shiny pieces of metal on them and lots of words, nothing like Mama wears. His face is hard, like the walls of our home, and his voice is scarier than the noises at night.
He is a man. Mama says I'm supposed to hide from men. Mama says I'm not supposed to talk to men. Mama says men will hurt me, take me away. The room is bright, it hurts my eyes to open them, it hurts my head to look around. There is no hiding here, there is only walls, something hard off the ground that I'm forced to sit on, something taller like pipes with a flat top. There is no hiding here.
"Lay off, Harmon," the old lady, the long soft-looking clothes, whiter than anything in our shack. She stands behind me, she makes me feel safe, like mama, but she's not mama. "I've seen healthier plague victims than this child, look, you can count her ribs, she doesn't even have hair or eyebrows, she's no threat to anyone. I would fetch her a bowl of hot broth if I thought I could trust you not to accidently break her arm in my absence!"
"Clearly terrified, elevated heartrate, shock signs," a tall lady, covered in shiny metal kneels next to me, she's the biggest person I've ever seen. She's looking at my hand, she tried to take the Broken Guardian. I didn't let her. Now my hand hurts, it hurts a lot. But I can't pull it away from her. I don't want her to take him. "Little one, do you see me? Why is this so important to you?"
"She breached multiple security checkpoints, biometrics, standard locks-" the man is talking so fast that spit is erupting from his red face. It's scary, it's loud, I retreat, I hide, I'm in my pipe, my secret place, I'm safe, I'm warm, I'm…
Hungry
I tell my belly to be quiet. It's so loud, so loud it hurts all the way up to my ears. I can't stay….
I press my hands real tight over my tummy, trying to hush it up. It's yelling louder than ever, and Mama's not here to make it stop. I've been counting the sleeps since she left, more sleeps than ever before, and she's still not back. Mama always comes back.
I remember what Mama said, about staying hid until she's back. But my tummy's so loud, it's like it forgot Mama's rule. I look at the dark, trying to find the kind whispers in the pipe Mama says the Emperor sends to keep us safe. I use my fingers, the way Mama showed me, to talk to Him, 'cause talking out loud isn't safe. No lights, no sounds, that's how we stay hid. But even with my fingers moving, my tummy keeps yelling.
I try to be brave, like the stories Mama tells of heroes and the Emperor. But it's hard when your tummy's louder than your bravery. I think about what Mama would do. She'd say, "Aurora, the Emperor watches, even when it's dark, even when you're scared. He's watching over you."
I've been hiding for so many sleeps, more than ever. I can't feel my legs, the pipe hurts everywhere it touches me. The dark around me feels like a blanket, but it's not warm, not like Mama's hugs. I miss her. My tummy won't stop yelling, and I think maybe, just maybe, the Emperor would understand if I broke Mama's rule just this once.
I start to think about leaving my hidey-spot. Maybe I can find Mama, tell the Emperor with my fingers, "Please, bring Mama back." I'm scared, but the hunger's scarier. I've never left our shack, but Mama's not here, and my tummy's too loud.
I decide. I'm gonna find Mama. She's lost, maybe, and needs me to find her. I take the Broken Guardian, clutching him tight, 'cause he's got a piece of Mama with him, and I step out into the bigger world. It's so big, so scary, but I gotta find her. I gotta tell the Emperor it's too dark and too quiet without Mama.
"She probably crawled up through the sewers or—" the old lady is speaking again, her voice is like mama's it brings me back to the small bright room.
"Impossible," the big metal woman, she's pried my fingers open, she's looking at the Broken Guardian, but she isn't taking it. Her eyes, I can't stop looking at them. They're so big, so deep. She's making signs with her hand, the same signs I'm making. Is her mama lost too? "That's the sort of things you'd read about in fanciful fictions, abbess. Unless she got past our sentries and miles of servo skulls and combat servitors—"
"Security measure's I'm beginning to doubt," the loud man again, still loud. Are all men so loud? Mama says men are all bad and mean. I wish he would leave. I wish he would stop looking at me. "You were the one on the door when she apparently wandered into the service and walked right up to the aquila and—"
And he continues. I close my eyes, my hands signing faster. Maybe the Emperor is having trouble hearing me over the loud man's words.
Noise
Even my belly isn't as loud as the pipes. These aren't like my pipe, or the warm, quiet pipes that heat our home. These pipes are big, bigger than big. The emperor must have made them himself. Maybe he put them together when he made the metal walls, and the ceilings, and the floors, all so big I can't see where they stop or start. I wish he had made them to be quieter.
With the Broken Guardian clutched tight, I keep taking steps, whispering to the Emperor with my fingers to look after me. Mama says she works up high, closer to the Emperor, so I gotta go up. That's what I think as I look at the big, scary world. It's all shadows and sounds, things moving that I can't see. But I gotta find Mama.
I walk, trying to remember to be quiet, like the game Mama and I play, 'Silent Shadows.' Every step feels too loud, and I'm scared the bad things Mama talks about will hear me. But I keep going, 'cause Mama needs me.
The world outside is so different. The ground feels hard and cold, not like our floor with the warm pipe. And the lights, they're not like our soft glow from the cracks. They're too bright, they hurt my eyes. I keep looking up, 'cause Mama said she's up high, cleaning the Emperor's Shrine. I don't know what a shrine looks like, but I think it must be beautiful, with lots of lights and maybe it's warm, like our hidey-spot.
As I try to go up, everything's so big, the stairs seem to go on forever. My legs feel shaky, but I remember what Mama says about the Emperor giving us strength. So, I ask Him, with my fingers, to make my legs strong.
Then, I see her, the light woman. She's not like anyone I've ever seen. She glows, not like the wall spots, but soft, like she's made of the quiet light that comes into the cracks of our home. She doesn't talk, but she makes signs, like me. Her signs are like the ones I use with Mama, but they're also different, stronger, faster.
"Are you lost?" she signs, and her face is kind, not scary, it has lots of lines crisscrossing each other.
I nod, signing back, "Looking for Mama. She's up high, at the Emperor's Shrine." I don't tell her about the loud belly, but I think she knows. I clutch Broken Guardian tightly in my hand.
The light woman smiles, and it's like she knows exactly where Mama is. "I can help you find her," she signs. "Follow me."
I trust her. She reminds me of the stories Mama tells about angels, the Emperor's special helpers. We start moving, and even though I'm still scared, I feel a bit safer. She leads me through places I've never seen, places where the pipes disappear inside the walls, and the lights are brighter and different colors.
As we walk, I keep signing to the Emperor, thanking Him for sending me the light woman. I wonder if she's an angel. Mama says angels are the Emperor's messengers. Maybe she's here to take me to Mama.
We go through tunnels and up more stairs, and everything starts to look different, cleaner. "Is Mama here?" I sign, looking around for any sign of her.
The light woman nods, and we keep going.
"It doesn't matter!" I jump in my seat as the loud man slams his hand down on the flat metal on four pipes, it shakes, I shake. "She's obviously underhive scum that has no business on these hallowed grounds and—"
"Not so fast, Colonel," the metal woman stops holding open my hand and I grip the Broken Guardian tightly again, screwing my eyes shut and signing faster. "Well, isn't this remarkable, she's using battlesign, albeit a crude, archaic version." I don't hear, my tummy is getting loud again. "Emperor, please find my commander, please find my commander, please bring my commander here," the metal woman, she stops my hand, then I look.
"Can you speak to her? Perhaps she's a mute and deaf?" The warm woman, her hands have never left my shoulders. They feel like the light woman's hands, they tell me not to run.
"Ask her how she got in here!"
"Hush," the metal woman moves and her metal clothing makes strange noises and then the flat metal with four pipes is gone and she's sitting in front of me, level with my eyes. She takes my hand.
'Hello, little…' a word I don't know, she signs, 'how did you get here?'
I glance up at her eyes, I'm afraid but she knows my words, just like mama, just like the light woman…
The Light Woman
Following the light woman feels like I'm in one of Mama's stories, where the world's so big and full of things I've never seen. She holds my hand, and it feels warm, safe. We walk into a place with so many people, it's like when water drops leak from the floor pipes and they all rush together. My heart beats so loud, I'm sure the light woman can hear it.
Mama always said to stay away from others, especially men, 'cause they can be mean and take me away. But here, with all these people, nobody even looks at us. It's like we're invisible, or maybe the light woman knows how to walk so the Emperor hides us from their eyes.
We come to a thing Mama never told me about, a magic-lift, the light woman calls it. It's like a box that goes up and down, but it moves without anyone pushing it. My belly forgets to be loud for a moment 'cause I'm trying to understand how we're moving without walking. The light woman squeezes my hand, asking me to be brave without words, just a look. I nod, trying to show her I can be brave, even though I'm shaking.
Then we're on a magic-lev train, and it's like flying without wings. Outside rushes by in a blur, and I press close to the light woman, scared I might fall off the world. But she's steady, like the big pipes by our home that never move, no matter how hard the wind blows.
The streets are crowded, people everywhere, but they don't touch us, don't talk to us, they don't even look. It's noisy, but not like the pipes at home. This noise is made of voices, footsteps, things I don't have names for. I keep my eyes on the light woman, trying not to look too much at everything else. It's all so big, so loud, so fast. My head feels dizzy with all the new things.
But nobody stops us, nobody sees us, it's like we're walking in a little home made by the Emperor for just us. The light woman's hand is the only thing I'm sure of, it's my anchor in this storm of people and noise, light and sound.
I'm so hungry, but the hunger feels far away, like it's waiting for me to stop moving so it can catch up. I don't want it to catch up. I want to find Mama, tell her about the light woman, about the flying without wings, and how we were invisible.
I wonder if Mama will believe me. I wonder if the light woman will stay with us.
'The light woman brought me here to find my commander.' I sign and I hear the woman repeat my sign out loud.
"Light woman?" the hands on my shoulders are tighter than before as the soft woman grips me and leans around so that her hair drapes over the side of my head. I wish I had hair like her. Mama says one day I will grow hair too. I ask the Emperor for hair every night. "As in bright, or?"
"Battle-sign isn't exactly intended to convey complexity or nuance," the woman with the metal clothes stares above me and smiles. It makes me feel a little warmer. She must know where mama is. She looks a little like the light woman but much younger. The light woman must be her mother. This makes me feel much better, especially since the loud man stopped talking. "I'm fairly certain she doesn't mean, 'my commander' or 'my canoness' either."
"Well what does she mean!? Ask her how she got in here, and where this light woman is because that makes two people that slipped in, if we don't figure out where they're crawling out the the slums from we'll never get rid of the infestation. They're like rats, they breed like rats, they smell and look like rats, and I will not have rats in my Schola!" I screw my eyes shut again.
"Colonel, why don't you go organize some men to go search for rats." The soft lady behind me suggests. I wonder what rats are, they don't sound very nice. "Keep your commbead tuned to the Sororitas channel, we will advise you if we gain any intelligence from this small child."
The man's face does something unnatural looking and I know I'll be seeing his eyes in my sleep, glaring at me, bad, mean. I breathe out as he leaves.
'Where is the light woman now?'
The metal clothes woman and the soft woman follow me. I try to lead them to where the light woman took me, but my legs feel like they're made of the same stuff as the Broken Guardian—too heavy, too hard to move. I keep signing, trying to tell them about the light woman, about how she knew the way, but my fingers feel slow and clumsy.
The world starts to blur around the edges, like when Mama talks about the fog that used to roll in when she was little, before she had to come live down below in our home. I want to keep going, to show them the light woman and find Mama, but everything's getting too heavy.
Suddenly, I'm not standing anymore. The woman with metal clothes, Helena, she's got me in her arms. I didn't know people could be so strong. She's carrying me like I'm no heavier than the Broken Guardian, but much more careful, like she knows I'm not just a thing. I try to point, to tell her where to go, but my arm just falls back down.
We're back in the bright room with the high high ceiling and all its lights and the smell of burning stuff that tickles my nose. It's empty, quiet except for the sounds of our breathing and the smiles of all the big people in the shiny holes in the cieling. I point at one of the statues. I sign 'light woman,' hoping they'll understand. The statue looks so still, so peaceful, like the light woman when she smiled at me.
Helena and the soft woman look where I'm pointing, and I can tell they're trying to understand. My hands feel too tired to sign. I open my mouth, it must be ok, it's important they know. "Light, woman," I mumble through thin lips and slow tongue.
The statue's face is kind and strong, like the light woman, like how I imagine the Emperor's angels to be. "Canoness Jeanne Grace D'Emysa," the soft woman says, her voice like a lullaby. The soft woman, looks at the statue, then at me, her face all puzzled. Helena, she just watches me, her eyes kind behind the metal. I feel so tired, like all the sleeps I missed are catching up to me all at once.
As my eyes start to close, I see the light woman again, but she's not standing with us. She's up there, smiling down from the statue. I wonder, in my sleepy, fuzzy thoughts, how she got up there. How did the light woman become a statue? Is that what happens when you're really good, when you help lost kids find their way? Does the Emperor turn you into a statue so you can keep smiling down on everyone?
I can't keep my eyes open anymore, but I'm not scared. Helena's got me, and the soft woman's here, and the light woman's smiling down on us. Maybe Mama's smiling too, wherever she is. I hope she knows I tried to find her, that I was brave. And I hope the Emperor's watching, making sure we're all safe, just like Mama said He would.
Everything goes soft and quiet, and I drift off, still clutching the Broken Guardian, feeling like maybe, just for now, everything's okay.
Chapter 1: Trial of Faith
Chapter 1: Trial of Faith
The cold of the barracks floor seeps through the thin soles of my feet as I slip from the narrow bunk, my movement as quiet as the darkness that still clings to the corners of the room. Around me, the other bunks hold their silent occupants, their breaths shallow in the early morning chill. I pause, my hand finding the small, worn figure of the Broken Guardian in my pocket. The one-winged Aquila is a small comfort, a reminder of... something. Something warm in the cold, dark places of my past.
I climb. It takes an hour, my legs burn, but the journey is worth missing sleep and burning muscles.
I pad softly to the small space fifty stories above my bunk where the top of the building touches the outside of the tower and the horizon is more than just the nearest wall or building or hive spire.
I've claimed the little-used stairwell as my own for morning devotions, a corner where the light from the rising sun, hidden behind untold layers of pollution and industry but still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, touches the barracks. Here, I kneel, the cold stone of the floor biting into my knees, but I barely notice. My hands fold before me, the figure of the Broken Guardian and it's single wing clasped tightly between them.
"Emperor above," I begin signing as I speak, my voice a whisper, barely stirring the air. "Thank you for this new day. For letting me wake. For the breath in my lungs and the strength in my limbs." My words are a quiet, steady stream, a mantra against the darkness that lingers from my dreams, the memories of yesterday's torment, the anticipation of the torment to come.
I squeeze the figure tighter, my thoughts turning to the mother whose face is now a blur of memories that feel less solid each day. "Watch over her, wherever she is. She saved me, once, for five years. And then... then you sent the light woman." The memory of that encounter, so vivid even after two years and yet so strange, warms me from within, a beacon in the persistent shadow.
"Give me courage today," I continue, my voice steadier now. "Help me be brave, like the light woman. Like you." The words feel like a shield, warding off the unease that awaits with the day. These are my words, intimate words, for me and the Emperor alone. After them I begin whatever litany comes to mind and continue until I hear the sound of the bells that signal change of shift in the processing plant across from the Schola, miles of empty air carry the sound of relief that signals the end of toil for millions of men and woman, and the beginning of my torments…
Finishing my prayers, I carefully stand, my body stiff from the cold and the hard floor. By the time I make it back down, the barracks begin to stir, the dawn whispering through windows lit with false sunlight, urging the world to wake. I slip the Broken Guardian back into my pocket, its presence a silent promise.
Today, like every day, will be a challenge. But the Emperor watches over me. He has to. The thought is a small light as I ready myself for the day, for the trials and the sneers and the loneliness that await beyond the safety of this quiet corner.
It's in these moments, alone with my prayers and the burgeoning, red light of dawn, that I feel closest to something like peace. A fleeting, fragile thing, but mine all the same.
As I move to join the line for morning ablutions, I steel myself. Today, like every day, I will need to be brave. For the Emperor watches over all His children, even those born in shadow.
It's in these moments, amongst my peers and the synthetic dawn, that I feel a fragile connection to something greater. But that peace is always too fleeting.
I gather the large sack of clothes from the upper classmen as I've been tasked, a duty that sets my arms aching before the day has truly begun. These older girls, already walking their chosen paths towards greatness in His service, rarely acknowledge my existence beyond their expectations of servitude. To them, I am little more than a shadow, a part of the Schola's unseen machinery.
"The Emperor watches over all His children, even those born in shadow," I whisper.
The washroom is bustling with activity, the air thick with steam and the scent of lye soap. I join the other young females at the great basins, our hands plunging into the scalding water as we scrub and chant. The abbesses move among us like specters, their eyes sharp for any sign of faltering faith or flagging effort. We sing the hymns of battle and devotion, our voices rising in a cacophony of piety and pain.
My hands are red and raw by the time the task is done; the heavy sack now filled with clean, damp uniforms. The return to the barracks is a quiet trek, my thoughts preoccupied with the day's remaining duties and the dread of what new torments might await.
The horror strikes as I reach my bunk. The pocket where the Broken Guardian should be safe and secure is dreadfully, terrifyingly empty. Panic seizes me, a cold vice around my heart. I tear through my meager possessions, hope dying with each passing second. The Broken Guardian, my only connection to my mother, my faith, and my past, is gone.
Desperation lends speed to my search, but the barracks reveal nothing of the lost treasure. My chest tightens, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The idea of facing the day without it, without that small piece of security and memory, is unbearable.
It's more than the loss of a possession; it's as if a piece of my soul has been torn away. The Broken Guardian wasn't just a symbol of my faith; it was a beacon in the darkness, a reminder that even in the deepest shadows, the Emperor's light could find me. Without it, I feel untethered, adrift in a sea of uncertainty and fear.
The realization that it didn't simply fall or get misplaced dawns slowly, a sickening understanding that curdles in my stomach. There's only one way the Guardian could have vanished. Theft. And in the heart of the Schola, amongst the children of the Imperium's finest, there is one who would stoop to such cruelty for the sheer malice of it.
Lucius.
The bell tolls, a harsh, clanging monster that devours the last of my hope. Breakfast. The others begin to stir, a mass of limbs and muttered curses as the day grabs us by the scruff. I feel nothing but the burning anger and a terrible numbness, a paradox that makes my steps heavy and my heart light. I am a creature of dualities now, fueled by loss and the burning need for retribution.
The dining facility is a cacophony of voices, the clatter of utensils, and the smell of reconstituted protein. I scan the room with a predator's focus, and there he is—Lucius, the bane of my existence, the thief of my solace. He's laughing, surrounded by his usual retinue of sycophants and lackeys, basking in the dim glow of his own perceived superiority. My fingers clench into fists, nails digging into palms, a physical reminder of the pain I intend to inflict.
But before I can move, he's up and leaving, his gang trailing behind like the tail of a comet. I follow, a shadow fueled by vengeance. The garden of the scrum-ball pitch is their destination, a place of open skies and the illusion of freedom. They cluster together, a herd of Grox, unaware of the Rathenon stalking them.
As I step into the open, Lucius turns, a smirk playing on his lips. "Look, lads, it's the Emperor's little gutter rat. Come to pray at our feet, have you, little rat?" The others laugh, a chorus of mockery that grates against my resolve.
I feel the fury within me, a tempest built over years of abuses, spittings, beatings, slanders, that now threatens to break free. I am small, yes. I am young, true. But in this moment, I am the incarnation of the Emperor's wrath, and I will have my guardian back or die upon this field of battle. The concept of murder has failed utterly to forestall the purity of my focus.
They've gone too far this time, this time there is no silent endurance in the surety of His will, this time there is only His wrath!
Lucius seems to sense the change in me, the shift from the usual stoic timidity to a creature forged in the fires of absolute fury. He raises a hand, and the laughter dies. "Easy there, rat. Wouldn't want to scurry off too soon. Your precious little idol, it's up there." He gestures lazily to the ledge surrounding the pitch, fifty feet in the air. My heart lurches. The Broken Guardian, a silver glint against a poison sky, an aquila with one-wing, perched precariously, a victim of their cruel sport.
It's a ploy, clear as the Emperor's light. He seeks to disarm me, to distract from my murderous intent with the fear of losing the Guardian forever. And it works. The fury remains, but it's now laced with desperation verging on terror. I can't let it be lost. Not now. Not after everything.
"Emperor curse you, Lucius. Even for a dungheap-born cretin like you, this is low," I spit out, my voice, something I seldom use, a blade honed on the whetstone of hatred. But the reality of the situation and disuse of Lucious own weapon of choice leaves the words blunt and tepid in my ears.
"Ah, but what will you do, little rat? Climb up and get it? Or would you rather we knock it down, see if it can fly?" His tone is honeyed poison, his eyes alight with the thrill of the torment. He throws a stone which impacts the wall a scant meter from the Broken Guardian.
My eyes bulge in sudden panic and I rush forward without conscious thought. I glance up from the base of the wall. The climb is daunting, dangerous. The rock is rough-cut, pitted with age, but without obvious handholds. It's certain to be my own death this time, but the alternative is unthinkable. I don't turn to the jeers and hoots of Lucious and his pack. My eyes squeeze shut and I sign 'The Emperor protects all His children, even those born in shadow.' Then I throw myself at the wall.
Each grasp is a prayer, each breath a litany of courage. I begin to climb, not just for the Broken Guardian, but for myself. For my mother. For the light that refuses to be extinguished, no matter how deep the shadows. This will be the end, one way or another, I'll gouge out Lucious eyes with the Broken Guardian's one good wing and that will be the end of two years of torment or I will fall and that will be the end of eight years of suffering.
As I ascend, my fingers find holds in the smallest of crevices, my bare feet pushing off with a strength I didn't know I possessed. Blood runs down my arms as soft, red skin loosened by hours in the basins breaks and fingernails crack. Lucius's voice fades, replaced by the pounding of my heart and the whisper of a breeze that smells faintly of redemption or my own doom.
The ledge looms closer, and with it, the promise of reclaiming what was lost. I will not falter. I cannot.
My hand stretches, fingertips brushing a cold, unyielding surface, the lip of the ledge! Victory is a whisper away, a silent promise in the chill morning air. Then comes the shock—a harsh, biting sting as the first rock smashes into the wall beside me and shatters into a million tiny shards. My heart hammers, a wild drumbeat of panic and surprise, and my grip loosens, betrayal by my own body in the face of sudden assault.
Another rock, then another, a cruel volley from below, pummeling my feet, my legs, my back. Pain explodes in bright, stark flashes, driving my limbs from their precarious purchase. I'm left dangling, a puppet with its strings cut, suspended by a single hand whose fingers scream in agony, clinging to the last vestige of hope.
Below, Lucius stands, a triumphant grin splitting his face, a final stone cradled like a dark promise in his hand. Above, the Broken Guardian teeters on the edge of oblivion. The choice is a cruel one: reach for safety or for salvation.
Time stretches, a thin, taut line between moments. No visions grace my eyes, no ethereal whispers or comforting memories. There's only the cold, hard reality of choice and consequence. The Broken Guardian or myself. Faith or flesh. I choose the Guardian. In that choice, I embrace the fall.
My hand releases, stretching out with a faith born of desperation and love—a love for what the Guardian represents, for what I've lost, for what I refuse to lose again. My fingers close around the artifact, an instant of triumph, a fleeting touch of victory amidst the certainty of defeat.
And then, the fall. Time resumes its merciless march, gravity its inexorable pull. The ground rushes up to meet me, an unwelcome embrace. No divine intervention comes, no spectral hand to break my fall. There is only the ground, hard and unyielding, waiting to greet me with the finality of its embrace.
In that moment, suspended between sky and stone, I find a clarity. A peace. Not in the promise of salvation, but in the acceptance of sacrifice. For the Guardian. For my mother. For myself. I chose, and in choosing, I have lived a truth that burns brighter than the pain, more resolute than the darkness.
The impact is a silent explosion, a burst of light behind closed eyes, a final breath exhaled into the cold morning air. I have fallen, but not without cause. Not without faith. The Broken Guardian clutched in my hand, a pyrrhic victory, a testament to a belief stronger than fear, more enduring than flesh.
Lucius's laughter, the jeers of the others, fade into nothingness. There is only the silence, the stillness of a sacrifice made, a choice embraced. In the end, it's not the ground that greets me, but the conviction of my own heart, unbroken, even as the darkness claims me.
The cold of the barracks floor seeps through the thin soles of my feet as I slip from the narrow bunk, my movement as quiet as the darkness that still clings to the corners of the room. Around me, the other bunks hold their silent occupants, their breaths shallow in the early morning chill. I pause, my hand finding the small, worn figure of the Broken Guardian in my pocket. The one-winged Aquila is a small comfort, a reminder of... something. Something warm in the cold, dark places of my past.
I climb. It takes an hour, my legs burn, but the journey is worth missing sleep and burning muscles.
I pad softly to the small space fifty stories above my bunk where the top of the building touches the outside of the tower and the horizon is more than just the nearest wall or building or hive spire.
I've claimed the little-used stairwell as my own for morning devotions, a corner where the light from the rising sun, hidden behind untold layers of pollution and industry but still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, touches the barracks. Here, I kneel, the cold stone of the floor biting into my knees, but I barely notice. My hands fold before me, the figure of the Broken Guardian and it's single wing clasped tightly between them.
"Emperor above," I begin signing as I speak, my voice a whisper, barely stirring the air. "Thank you for this new day. For letting me wake. For the breath in my lungs and the strength in my limbs." My words are a quiet, steady stream, a mantra against the darkness that lingers from my dreams, the memories of yesterday's torment, the anticipation of the torment to come.
I squeeze the figure tighter, my thoughts turning to the mother whose face is now a blur of memories that feel less solid each day. "Watch over her, wherever she is. She saved me, once, for five years. And then... then you sent the light woman." The memory of that encounter, so vivid even after two years and yet so strange, warms me from within, a beacon in the persistent shadow.
"Give me courage today," I continue, my voice steadier now. "Help me be brave, like the light woman. Like you." The words feel like a shield, warding off the unease that awaits with the day. These are my words, intimate words, for me and the Emperor alone. After them I begin whatever litany comes to mind and continue until I hear the sound of the bells that signal change of shift in the processing plant across from the Schola, miles of empty air carry the sound of relief that signals the end of toil for millions of men and woman, and the beginning of my torments…
Finishing my prayers, I carefully stand, my body stiff from the cold and the hard floor. By the time I make it back down, the barracks begin to stir, the dawn whispering through windows lit with false sunlight, urging the world to wake. I slip the Broken Guardian back into my pocket, its presence a silent promise.
Today, like every day, will be a challenge. But the Emperor watches over me. He has to. The thought is a small light as I ready myself for the day, for the trials and the sneers and the loneliness that await beyond the safety of this quiet corner.
It's in these moments, alone with my prayers and the burgeoning, red light of dawn, that I feel closest to something like peace. A fleeting, fragile thing, but mine all the same.
As I move to join the line for morning ablutions, I steel myself. Today, like every day, I will need to be brave. For the Emperor watches over all His children, even those born in shadow.
It's in these moments, amongst my peers and the synthetic dawn, that I feel a fragile connection to something greater. But that peace is always too fleeting.
I gather the large sack of clothes from the upper classmen as I've been tasked, a duty that sets my arms aching before the day has truly begun. These older girls, already walking their chosen paths towards greatness in His service, rarely acknowledge my existence beyond their expectations of servitude. To them, I am little more than a shadow, a part of the Schola's unseen machinery.
"The Emperor watches over all His children, even those born in shadow," I whisper.
The washroom is bustling with activity, the air thick with steam and the scent of lye soap. I join the other young females at the great basins, our hands plunging into the scalding water as we scrub and chant. The abbesses move among us like specters, their eyes sharp for any sign of faltering faith or flagging effort. We sing the hymns of battle and devotion, our voices rising in a cacophony of piety and pain.
My hands are red and raw by the time the task is done; the heavy sack now filled with clean, damp uniforms. The return to the barracks is a quiet trek, my thoughts preoccupied with the day's remaining duties and the dread of what new torments might await.
The horror strikes as I reach my bunk. The pocket where the Broken Guardian should be safe and secure is dreadfully, terrifyingly empty. Panic seizes me, a cold vice around my heart. I tear through my meager possessions, hope dying with each passing second. The Broken Guardian, my only connection to my mother, my faith, and my past, is gone.
Desperation lends speed to my search, but the barracks reveal nothing of the lost treasure. My chest tightens, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The idea of facing the day without it, without that small piece of security and memory, is unbearable.
It's more than the loss of a possession; it's as if a piece of my soul has been torn away. The Broken Guardian wasn't just a symbol of my faith; it was a beacon in the darkness, a reminder that even in the deepest shadows, the Emperor's light could find me. Without it, I feel untethered, adrift in a sea of uncertainty and fear.
The realization that it didn't simply fall or get misplaced dawns slowly, a sickening understanding that curdles in my stomach. There's only one way the Guardian could have vanished. Theft. And in the heart of the Schola, amongst the children of the Imperium's finest, there is one who would stoop to such cruelty for the sheer malice of it.
Lucius.
The bell tolls, a harsh, clanging monster that devours the last of my hope. Breakfast. The others begin to stir, a mass of limbs and muttered curses as the day grabs us by the scruff. I feel nothing but the burning anger and a terrible numbness, a paradox that makes my steps heavy and my heart light. I am a creature of dualities now, fueled by loss and the burning need for retribution.
The dining facility is a cacophony of voices, the clatter of utensils, and the smell of reconstituted protein. I scan the room with a predator's focus, and there he is—Lucius, the bane of my existence, the thief of my solace. He's laughing, surrounded by his usual retinue of sycophants and lackeys, basking in the dim glow of his own perceived superiority. My fingers clench into fists, nails digging into palms, a physical reminder of the pain I intend to inflict.
But before I can move, he's up and leaving, his gang trailing behind like the tail of a comet. I follow, a shadow fueled by vengeance. The garden of the scrum-ball pitch is their destination, a place of open skies and the illusion of freedom. They cluster together, a herd of Grox, unaware of the Rathenon stalking them.
As I step into the open, Lucius turns, a smirk playing on his lips. "Look, lads, it's the Emperor's little gutter rat. Come to pray at our feet, have you, little rat?" The others laugh, a chorus of mockery that grates against my resolve.
I feel the fury within me, a tempest built over years of abuses, spittings, beatings, slanders, that now threatens to break free. I am small, yes. I am young, true. But in this moment, I am the incarnation of the Emperor's wrath, and I will have my guardian back or die upon this field of battle. The concept of murder has failed utterly to forestall the purity of my focus.
They've gone too far this time, this time there is no silent endurance in the surety of His will, this time there is only His wrath!
Lucius seems to sense the change in me, the shift from the usual stoic timidity to a creature forged in the fires of absolute fury. He raises a hand, and the laughter dies. "Easy there, rat. Wouldn't want to scurry off too soon. Your precious little idol, it's up there." He gestures lazily to the ledge surrounding the pitch, fifty feet in the air. My heart lurches. The Broken Guardian, a silver glint against a poison sky, an aquila with one-wing, perched precariously, a victim of their cruel sport.
It's a ploy, clear as the Emperor's light. He seeks to disarm me, to distract from my murderous intent with the fear of losing the Guardian forever. And it works. The fury remains, but it's now laced with desperation verging on terror. I can't let it be lost. Not now. Not after everything.
"Emperor curse you, Lucius. Even for a dungheap-born cretin like you, this is low," I spit out, my voice, something I seldom use, a blade honed on the whetstone of hatred. But the reality of the situation and disuse of Lucious own weapon of choice leaves the words blunt and tepid in my ears.
"Ah, but what will you do, little rat? Climb up and get it? Or would you rather we knock it down, see if it can fly?" His tone is honeyed poison, his eyes alight with the thrill of the torment. He throws a stone which impacts the wall a scant meter from the Broken Guardian.
My eyes bulge in sudden panic and I rush forward without conscious thought. I glance up from the base of the wall. The climb is daunting, dangerous. The rock is rough-cut, pitted with age, but without obvious handholds. It's certain to be my own death this time, but the alternative is unthinkable. I don't turn to the jeers and hoots of Lucious and his pack. My eyes squeeze shut and I sign 'The Emperor protects all His children, even those born in shadow.' Then I throw myself at the wall.
Each grasp is a prayer, each breath a litany of courage. I begin to climb, not just for the Broken Guardian, but for myself. For my mother. For the light that refuses to be extinguished, no matter how deep the shadows. This will be the end, one way or another, I'll gouge out Lucious eyes with the Broken Guardian's one good wing and that will be the end of two years of torment or I will fall and that will be the end of eight years of suffering.
As I ascend, my fingers find holds in the smallest of crevices, my bare feet pushing off with a strength I didn't know I possessed. Blood runs down my arms as soft, red skin loosened by hours in the basins breaks and fingernails crack. Lucius's voice fades, replaced by the pounding of my heart and the whisper of a breeze that smells faintly of redemption or my own doom.
The ledge looms closer, and with it, the promise of reclaiming what was lost. I will not falter. I cannot.
My hand stretches, fingertips brushing a cold, unyielding surface, the lip of the ledge! Victory is a whisper away, a silent promise in the chill morning air. Then comes the shock—a harsh, biting sting as the first rock smashes into the wall beside me and shatters into a million tiny shards. My heart hammers, a wild drumbeat of panic and surprise, and my grip loosens, betrayal by my own body in the face of sudden assault.
Another rock, then another, a cruel volley from below, pummeling my feet, my legs, my back. Pain explodes in bright, stark flashes, driving my limbs from their precarious purchase. I'm left dangling, a puppet with its strings cut, suspended by a single hand whose fingers scream in agony, clinging to the last vestige of hope.
Below, Lucius stands, a triumphant grin splitting his face, a final stone cradled like a dark promise in his hand. Above, the Broken Guardian teeters on the edge of oblivion. The choice is a cruel one: reach for safety or for salvation.
Time stretches, a thin, taut line between moments. No visions grace my eyes, no ethereal whispers or comforting memories. There's only the cold, hard reality of choice and consequence. The Broken Guardian or myself. Faith or flesh. I choose the Guardian. In that choice, I embrace the fall.
My hand releases, stretching out with a faith born of desperation and love—a love for what the Guardian represents, for what I've lost, for what I refuse to lose again. My fingers close around the artifact, an instant of triumph, a fleeting touch of victory amidst the certainty of defeat.
And then, the fall. Time resumes its merciless march, gravity its inexorable pull. The ground rushes up to meet me, an unwelcome embrace. No divine intervention comes, no spectral hand to break my fall. There is only the ground, hard and unyielding, waiting to greet me with the finality of its embrace.
In that moment, suspended between sky and stone, I find a clarity. A peace. Not in the promise of salvation, but in the acceptance of sacrifice. For the Guardian. For my mother. For myself. I chose, and in choosing, I have lived a truth that burns brighter than the pain, more resolute than the darkness.
The impact is a silent explosion, a burst of light behind closed eyes, a final breath exhaled into the cold morning air. I have fallen, but not without cause. Not without faith. The Broken Guardian clutched in my hand, a pyrrhic victory, a testament to a belief stronger than fear, more enduring than flesh.
Lucius's laughter, the jeers of the others, fade into nothingness. There is only the silence, the stillness of a sacrifice made, a choice embraced. In the end, it's not the ground that greets me, but the conviction of my own heart, unbroken, even as the darkness claims me.
Chapter 2: Broken Wings
Chapter 2: Broken Wings
Eyelids heavy as ceramite plates, I force them open against the glaring sterility of the medicae chamber. The light assaults me, too bright, too harsh, carving through the dim comfort of unconsciousness. The air reeks of disinfectant, a sharp, chemical scent that invades my nostrils, far removed from the stale, recycled air of the schola dorms. It's a clean, merciless smell, one that speaks of wounds scrubbed raw and the relentless pursuit of purity.
Pain greets me like a worn blanket, a familiar bedfellow made anew. It radiates from my left side, a chorus of agony wrought in bone and flesh, screams protest with every shallow breath. Yet, amidst this torment, my right hand grasps a truth, cold and solid—the Broken Guardian. It lies in my grip, and in that moment I feel relief and an acceptance of life that mirrored my acceptance of death when I released my grip and made my mad grab for it.
A laugh, bitter and choked, bubbles up from my throat, a dark mirth born of pain and the absurd realization of our shared fate. Broken, both of us, yet clinging to a stubborn existence in defiance of the fall.
The medicae center comes into sharper focus, its walls a blank canvas of white, oppressive in their unblemished expanse. Memories of this place flicker at the edge of my consciousness—memories from my early days at the schola, when I was more wraith than child, a spirit nursed back to the semblance of life.
"Survived, did we?" I rasp to the air, my voice a frail shadow amidst the clinical silence. The question hangs, suspended between jest and earnest. "Seems so," I whisper to the Guardian, acknowledging our mutual endurance. With that thought comes unbidden the obvious next ones that all come spilling out as my train of thought seems to have been sitting in the que for a while.
Will we survive the next time?
It will be worse next time, but how, when?
What could be worse than this?
The pain is a constant, a relentless tide that threatens to drag me under with each labored breath. Yet, in this moment of lucid agony, amidst the disorienting clarity of my senses, a grim acceptance settles over me.
I'm alive. A stark, unyielding fact.
I shouldn't be, I didn't expect to be, also facts.
Next time…
I shiver.
The realization doesn't come as a comfort but as a mere acknowledgment of the brutal truth. Alive, yes. But at what cost? The Broken Guardian in my hand serves not just as a symbol of survival, but as a reminder of the toll extracted, the scars earned in the pursuit of something beyond mere existence.
As the waves of pain ebb to tolerable levels, a shadow looms into my narrow field of vision—a figure swathed in the stark whites and reds of a novice Sister Hospitaller. Her face, young yet marked by a solemnity that belies her years, is framed by black hair cut short in the style of her order, her eyes a clear, unwavering brown that seems to pierce through the dimness of the medicae center.
"Valeria," I mumble out the name as I read the golden thread depicting her rank on the otherwise spotlessly white robe.
"Good morning, Aurora," she begins, her voice a gentle melody amidst the discordant chorus of my pain. "By the Emperor's grace you've come back to us." Her eyes meet mine with an empathy so palpable, it feels like a balm against the sharp edges of my pain. She moves with a precision that speaks of rigorous training, yet there's a softness to her, a kindness that seems out of place in the harshness of the sterile, cold medicae. "You must be brave, for I must tell you the extent of your injuries."
Her hands, encased in thin, sterile gloves, hover over me, hesitating as if the very air around my battered form is a sacred barrier. With a reverence reserved for the holiest of relics, she begins her ministrations, adjusting the drip of a painkiller with practiced ease as various apparatus whine and pump around me.
I try to focus on her words, to anchor myself in the reality she's painting with each careful sentence. The list of my injuries unfolds like a litany of battle scars: three broken ribs, a shattered arm, a shoulder wrenched from its socket. Each word is a hammer blow, yet her tone remains steady, infused with a warmth that seeks to soften the cruel edges of truth. Then the final truth, the measured cost of my decision, not death, but loss all the same, the overall irreparable state of my left arm.
"But the Emperor protects, Aurora," Valeria continues, her gaze never wavering from mine, a beacon of faith and calm in the bright, sterile gloom. "And with His blessing, you may yet be made whole, healing to a semi-useful state or submission for blessed augmentation and amputation." Her attempt at spiritual ministration is earnest, a balm meant to soothe the deeper wounds that flesh and bone cannot comprehend, but its bland, uncertain delivery is lost on my racing mind.
My left arm… my gaze swivels slowly to the broken guardian, resting in my functional hand, resting lopsided, missing its left wing.
I can't help it; a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside, a reaction as unexpected to me as it is to her. It's not the humor of the situation that strikes me—it's the absurdity, the sheer, unadulterated madness of it all. Even if my survival was pure chance and had nothing of the Emperor's protection in it, then the coincidence of my broken form was the surest proof of His sense of humor. Broken Guardian in hand, broken body in bed, and here she is, speaking of blessings and healing as if my faith wavered on a knife's edge. As if news of this might convince me that the Emperor isn't powerful, good, and watching over us all.
"L-laughter is good medicine too, b-but we must be careful!" Valeria seems wrong-footed by my unexpected reaction.
Valeria's hands, steady when administering care, now tremble slightly as she reaches for a vial of sedative. "I-I'm going to give you something to help with the pain and... the laughter. We wouldn't want your injuries to worsen," she stammers, her voice betraying her uncertainty.
My laughter, though fading, still lingers in the air, a specter of defiance in the face of grim reality. "I'm not mad, Valeria," I manage between the tail ends of my amusement, seeing the concern etched deeply in her youthful features. "It's just... all of this," I gesture weakly with my right hand, encompassing the medicae bay, the Broken Guardian, and myself in one sweeping, albeit feeble, motion. "It's like a story from the saints, isn't it? Tested, but never forsaken. Broken but with some mark of the Emperor's light still shining through all the bad?"
Valeria pauses, the vial held uncertainly in her grasp. "You find faith... funny?" she probes, her brows knitting together in a mix of confusion and concern.
"Not faith," I clarify, still smiling faintly. "Just the situation. Me, with my broken wing, like my Guardian." The mention of the Broken Guardian threatens to drag me back into the throws of mirth.
Her hand steadies as she administers the sedative, a gentle press against my arm. "Tell me," she urges, her tone softer now, inviting confidences. "What happened to you, Aurora? Why were you climbing the wall?"
The sedative begins its work, drawing the edges of my pain and amusement into a gentle blur and suppressing my few social filters. "I was protecting Him," I say, my voice growing distant as the medication takes hold. "The Guardian. From Lucius." I should feel angry as I say the name but all I feel is a slight warming of my cheeks "Lucious, he wanted to... he stole it.... I couldn't let him… I couldn't lose it…" I managed to relate the whole story, at least I think I do, my mind is fuzzy but at least the pain is a tolerable throb that encompasses the left side of my body.
Valeria listens intently, her earlier hesitation giving way to a deep, genuine concern. "You stood up to Lucious and climbed a fifty-foot sheer wall... for a… a broken aquila?" she asks, her voice a whisper of curious awe and disbelief.
"For the Broken Guardian!" I correct her, "my guardian, my mother's guardian, all I have left of…" and then it all spills out, either the exhaustion or the sedatives and painkillers are to blame, but for the next few minutes I cover the poor novice in a deluge of my life's story from my earliest memory of home and the brick shrine, the Broken Guardian, to the light woman and the two years of constant lonely dedication to stoic faith and service broken up only by the daily torments of Lucious and his ilk, a single name and face that stands like a billboard for all the myriads of sneers, whispers, beatings, spittings, and scorn from upper classmen, faculty, and all quarters that have accompanied my rise from hive rat to schola student.
All of it culminates in the last act of bullying, of malice, that brought me here. There my voice fades, not willing to bear witness to the tightening in my gut over what escalation my living through this latest degradation will cause.
Through it all Valeria listens politely, nodding, not commenting, eyes wide as an existence she likely cannot even imagine plays out before her in the horror theater of my short, and quite nearly ended, life.
The silence that stretches between us after my tale feels like a chasm, wide and deep, filled with the echoes of my recounted sorrows. Valeria's face, etched with a kindness that seems almost foreign in its depth, struggles to bridge that gap with words that might soothe or mend. But what solace can be offered to a story such as mine?
I've risen to impossible heights, heights beyond imagination, beyond even foolish hope. Perhaps, they're right, all of them. Perhaps I've truly risen beyond where I belong. The Light Woman lead me here, but why? Perhaps…
A new thought forms in my mind, a mind that was never consulted in the path laid out for its life. Perhaps a student was not what I was meant to be…
She finally speaks, her voice a hesitant whisper against the magnitude of my despair. "The chief hospitaller will need to decide whether to try and preserve what's left of your arm or... to amputate and fit you with an augmetic."
Amputate.
The word echoes in the caverns of my mind, not with fear, but with a clarity that pierces the fog. Suddenly, in a way I can't understand but can only feel, a door of opportunity opens and the scales that, with very few encouraging exceptions, everyone seems to believe I've unbalanced, balance out. No more bullying. No more being told I don't belong but not having any alternative but to be where I am. No more pain. No more uncertainty about how to serve the Emperor.
A simple solution, and one that's already been made for me, a path I've already been placed on. I just have to have enough faith, to let it go and take this one, first, deciding step, before the same forces of the Imperium that pushed me up to schola student and held me there pull me down to the place where I can belong, can serve, can find peace.
"Amputate it," I find myself saying, my voice steady, even if my heart is not. "But no augmetic." Like the Broken Guardian, an aquila missing a wing… a sad smile graces my lips once more.
Valeria's confusion is palpable, a silent question hanging in the air between us. "But Aurora, an augmetic could restore so much of your functionality. You could return to your classes in just a few weeks or..."
"I know what I could," I cut her off, more sharply than I intend. My gaze drifts away from her, focusing on something beyond the walls of this medicae chamber, a future I'm hastily rewriting. They settle on a shadow silhouetted against the wall, the woman in metal, metal I now know to be power armor, probably not the same one, Helena. Tears sting my cheeks and I bite out the words. "But I also know what will happen if I go back. The next time... there might not be a next time. I've been wrong. I've thought all this time that it was a trial of faith to endure, to test me, to rise as none have. But that was arrogance, wasn't it? My life was given back to me and it took almost losing it to learn the lesson the Emperor wanted to teach me."
It's not a confession, not a surrender, not a defeat but to the reality of my existence, a reality ground in my face through a daily stream of abuses small and great. "All I've ever wanted was to serve, Him, like…" I can't bring myself to say it but my right-hand signs 'mama'. I continue, my gaze locked onto hers, willing her to understand.
I can see that she doesn't, that she can't fathom it. Forfeiture of my limb, my future as a student, my chance to be a hero of the imperium as so many from these halls have become in ages past.
But it's not forfeiture.
It's not losing.
It's finding. Finally finding the place the Emperor made for me all along, and finally ridding myself of the pride that made me think I was worthy of being a hero after being born… as Lucious so often put it, vermin.
I give Valeria a steady stare. "If losing an arm means I find my place, even if it's just as a menial dusting the shrines and scrubbing the floors, then that's more than I ever had any right to hope for."
The silence that follows is heavy, a chasm, deep and wide, filled with experiences so different that it's clear Valeria is struggling to reach me on the other side of it. Valeria's hand, when it reaches out to touch the Broken Guardian in my grip, is gentle, her touch a benediction.
She turns her head and I perceive the smallest of nods at the edge of my peripheral vision, a unseen approval of an unknown observer.
"There's honor in all forms of service, Aurora," she says, her voice soft, a balm to my frayed edges, bridging a gap by means of the same simple faith that brought me out of squalor and threw me from a ledge. "In your sacrifice, you embody the spirit of the Emperor's teachings more than you know."
They're kind words, kindly spoken. But the truth isn't as black and white, even in my drug-addled mind.
Is it giving up?
Am I giving in?
Is this faith, or fear…
My grip on the Broken Guardian tightens. It burns in my hand as though indignant in my choice, but that's just the drugs, and my own pride burning away, I tell myself.
I ignore it.
Some things are just expecting too much, and this life was never meant to be mine. Greatness was never meant for me. I'm no hero.
Mama, she was a hero, my hero. Mama worked all her life in the service of the Emperor and she was the least of all. So perhaps I am a hero too, in my own way, following in her footsteps. I find, for the first time, great peace in that moment. Being like mama, service, no matter how humble, fulfilled with faith, contentment, peace.
That peace is turned to turmoil just as quickly as it arrived as my mind drifts in a sea of sedatives and painkillers as I feel consciousness slipping back out of reach.
The peace of the moment is chased away by a single stray thought as I drift between the sleeping and waking world.
I wonder, what the Light Woman would think of my choice.
The thought brings no peace to my feverish dreams.
Eyelids heavy as ceramite plates, I force them open against the glaring sterility of the medicae chamber. The light assaults me, too bright, too harsh, carving through the dim comfort of unconsciousness. The air reeks of disinfectant, a sharp, chemical scent that invades my nostrils, far removed from the stale, recycled air of the schola dorms. It's a clean, merciless smell, one that speaks of wounds scrubbed raw and the relentless pursuit of purity.
Pain greets me like a worn blanket, a familiar bedfellow made anew. It radiates from my left side, a chorus of agony wrought in bone and flesh, screams protest with every shallow breath. Yet, amidst this torment, my right hand grasps a truth, cold and solid—the Broken Guardian. It lies in my grip, and in that moment I feel relief and an acceptance of life that mirrored my acceptance of death when I released my grip and made my mad grab for it.
A laugh, bitter and choked, bubbles up from my throat, a dark mirth born of pain and the absurd realization of our shared fate. Broken, both of us, yet clinging to a stubborn existence in defiance of the fall.
The medicae center comes into sharper focus, its walls a blank canvas of white, oppressive in their unblemished expanse. Memories of this place flicker at the edge of my consciousness—memories from my early days at the schola, when I was more wraith than child, a spirit nursed back to the semblance of life.
"Survived, did we?" I rasp to the air, my voice a frail shadow amidst the clinical silence. The question hangs, suspended between jest and earnest. "Seems so," I whisper to the Guardian, acknowledging our mutual endurance. With that thought comes unbidden the obvious next ones that all come spilling out as my train of thought seems to have been sitting in the que for a while.
Will we survive the next time?
It will be worse next time, but how, when?
What could be worse than this?
The pain is a constant, a relentless tide that threatens to drag me under with each labored breath. Yet, in this moment of lucid agony, amidst the disorienting clarity of my senses, a grim acceptance settles over me.
I'm alive. A stark, unyielding fact.
I shouldn't be, I didn't expect to be, also facts.
Next time…
I shiver.
The realization doesn't come as a comfort but as a mere acknowledgment of the brutal truth. Alive, yes. But at what cost? The Broken Guardian in my hand serves not just as a symbol of survival, but as a reminder of the toll extracted, the scars earned in the pursuit of something beyond mere existence.
As the waves of pain ebb to tolerable levels, a shadow looms into my narrow field of vision—a figure swathed in the stark whites and reds of a novice Sister Hospitaller. Her face, young yet marked by a solemnity that belies her years, is framed by black hair cut short in the style of her order, her eyes a clear, unwavering brown that seems to pierce through the dimness of the medicae center.
"Valeria," I mumble out the name as I read the golden thread depicting her rank on the otherwise spotlessly white robe.
"Good morning, Aurora," she begins, her voice a gentle melody amidst the discordant chorus of my pain. "By the Emperor's grace you've come back to us." Her eyes meet mine with an empathy so palpable, it feels like a balm against the sharp edges of my pain. She moves with a precision that speaks of rigorous training, yet there's a softness to her, a kindness that seems out of place in the harshness of the sterile, cold medicae. "You must be brave, for I must tell you the extent of your injuries."
Her hands, encased in thin, sterile gloves, hover over me, hesitating as if the very air around my battered form is a sacred barrier. With a reverence reserved for the holiest of relics, she begins her ministrations, adjusting the drip of a painkiller with practiced ease as various apparatus whine and pump around me.
I try to focus on her words, to anchor myself in the reality she's painting with each careful sentence. The list of my injuries unfolds like a litany of battle scars: three broken ribs, a shattered arm, a shoulder wrenched from its socket. Each word is a hammer blow, yet her tone remains steady, infused with a warmth that seeks to soften the cruel edges of truth. Then the final truth, the measured cost of my decision, not death, but loss all the same, the overall irreparable state of my left arm.
"But the Emperor protects, Aurora," Valeria continues, her gaze never wavering from mine, a beacon of faith and calm in the bright, sterile gloom. "And with His blessing, you may yet be made whole, healing to a semi-useful state or submission for blessed augmentation and amputation." Her attempt at spiritual ministration is earnest, a balm meant to soothe the deeper wounds that flesh and bone cannot comprehend, but its bland, uncertain delivery is lost on my racing mind.
My left arm… my gaze swivels slowly to the broken guardian, resting in my functional hand, resting lopsided, missing its left wing.
I can't help it; a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside, a reaction as unexpected to me as it is to her. It's not the humor of the situation that strikes me—it's the absurdity, the sheer, unadulterated madness of it all. Even if my survival was pure chance and had nothing of the Emperor's protection in it, then the coincidence of my broken form was the surest proof of His sense of humor. Broken Guardian in hand, broken body in bed, and here she is, speaking of blessings and healing as if my faith wavered on a knife's edge. As if news of this might convince me that the Emperor isn't powerful, good, and watching over us all.
"L-laughter is good medicine too, b-but we must be careful!" Valeria seems wrong-footed by my unexpected reaction.
Valeria's hands, steady when administering care, now tremble slightly as she reaches for a vial of sedative. "I-I'm going to give you something to help with the pain and... the laughter. We wouldn't want your injuries to worsen," she stammers, her voice betraying her uncertainty.
My laughter, though fading, still lingers in the air, a specter of defiance in the face of grim reality. "I'm not mad, Valeria," I manage between the tail ends of my amusement, seeing the concern etched deeply in her youthful features. "It's just... all of this," I gesture weakly with my right hand, encompassing the medicae bay, the Broken Guardian, and myself in one sweeping, albeit feeble, motion. "It's like a story from the saints, isn't it? Tested, but never forsaken. Broken but with some mark of the Emperor's light still shining through all the bad?"
Valeria pauses, the vial held uncertainly in her grasp. "You find faith... funny?" she probes, her brows knitting together in a mix of confusion and concern.
"Not faith," I clarify, still smiling faintly. "Just the situation. Me, with my broken wing, like my Guardian." The mention of the Broken Guardian threatens to drag me back into the throws of mirth.
Her hand steadies as she administers the sedative, a gentle press against my arm. "Tell me," she urges, her tone softer now, inviting confidences. "What happened to you, Aurora? Why were you climbing the wall?"
The sedative begins its work, drawing the edges of my pain and amusement into a gentle blur and suppressing my few social filters. "I was protecting Him," I say, my voice growing distant as the medication takes hold. "The Guardian. From Lucius." I should feel angry as I say the name but all I feel is a slight warming of my cheeks "Lucious, he wanted to... he stole it.... I couldn't let him… I couldn't lose it…" I managed to relate the whole story, at least I think I do, my mind is fuzzy but at least the pain is a tolerable throb that encompasses the left side of my body.
Valeria listens intently, her earlier hesitation giving way to a deep, genuine concern. "You stood up to Lucious and climbed a fifty-foot sheer wall... for a… a broken aquila?" she asks, her voice a whisper of curious awe and disbelief.
"For the Broken Guardian!" I correct her, "my guardian, my mother's guardian, all I have left of…" and then it all spills out, either the exhaustion or the sedatives and painkillers are to blame, but for the next few minutes I cover the poor novice in a deluge of my life's story from my earliest memory of home and the brick shrine, the Broken Guardian, to the light woman and the two years of constant lonely dedication to stoic faith and service broken up only by the daily torments of Lucious and his ilk, a single name and face that stands like a billboard for all the myriads of sneers, whispers, beatings, spittings, and scorn from upper classmen, faculty, and all quarters that have accompanied my rise from hive rat to schola student.
All of it culminates in the last act of bullying, of malice, that brought me here. There my voice fades, not willing to bear witness to the tightening in my gut over what escalation my living through this latest degradation will cause.
Through it all Valeria listens politely, nodding, not commenting, eyes wide as an existence she likely cannot even imagine plays out before her in the horror theater of my short, and quite nearly ended, life.
The silence that stretches between us after my tale feels like a chasm, wide and deep, filled with the echoes of my recounted sorrows. Valeria's face, etched with a kindness that seems almost foreign in its depth, struggles to bridge that gap with words that might soothe or mend. But what solace can be offered to a story such as mine?
I've risen to impossible heights, heights beyond imagination, beyond even foolish hope. Perhaps, they're right, all of them. Perhaps I've truly risen beyond where I belong. The Light Woman lead me here, but why? Perhaps…
A new thought forms in my mind, a mind that was never consulted in the path laid out for its life. Perhaps a student was not what I was meant to be…
She finally speaks, her voice a hesitant whisper against the magnitude of my despair. "The chief hospitaller will need to decide whether to try and preserve what's left of your arm or... to amputate and fit you with an augmetic."
Amputate.
The word echoes in the caverns of my mind, not with fear, but with a clarity that pierces the fog. Suddenly, in a way I can't understand but can only feel, a door of opportunity opens and the scales that, with very few encouraging exceptions, everyone seems to believe I've unbalanced, balance out. No more bullying. No more being told I don't belong but not having any alternative but to be where I am. No more pain. No more uncertainty about how to serve the Emperor.
A simple solution, and one that's already been made for me, a path I've already been placed on. I just have to have enough faith, to let it go and take this one, first, deciding step, before the same forces of the Imperium that pushed me up to schola student and held me there pull me down to the place where I can belong, can serve, can find peace.
"Amputate it," I find myself saying, my voice steady, even if my heart is not. "But no augmetic." Like the Broken Guardian, an aquila missing a wing… a sad smile graces my lips once more.
Valeria's confusion is palpable, a silent question hanging in the air between us. "But Aurora, an augmetic could restore so much of your functionality. You could return to your classes in just a few weeks or..."
"I know what I could," I cut her off, more sharply than I intend. My gaze drifts away from her, focusing on something beyond the walls of this medicae chamber, a future I'm hastily rewriting. They settle on a shadow silhouetted against the wall, the woman in metal, metal I now know to be power armor, probably not the same one, Helena. Tears sting my cheeks and I bite out the words. "But I also know what will happen if I go back. The next time... there might not be a next time. I've been wrong. I've thought all this time that it was a trial of faith to endure, to test me, to rise as none have. But that was arrogance, wasn't it? My life was given back to me and it took almost losing it to learn the lesson the Emperor wanted to teach me."
It's not a confession, not a surrender, not a defeat but to the reality of my existence, a reality ground in my face through a daily stream of abuses small and great. "All I've ever wanted was to serve, Him, like…" I can't bring myself to say it but my right-hand signs 'mama'. I continue, my gaze locked onto hers, willing her to understand.
I can see that she doesn't, that she can't fathom it. Forfeiture of my limb, my future as a student, my chance to be a hero of the imperium as so many from these halls have become in ages past.
But it's not forfeiture.
It's not losing.
It's finding. Finally finding the place the Emperor made for me all along, and finally ridding myself of the pride that made me think I was worthy of being a hero after being born… as Lucious so often put it, vermin.
I give Valeria a steady stare. "If losing an arm means I find my place, even if it's just as a menial dusting the shrines and scrubbing the floors, then that's more than I ever had any right to hope for."
The silence that follows is heavy, a chasm, deep and wide, filled with experiences so different that it's clear Valeria is struggling to reach me on the other side of it. Valeria's hand, when it reaches out to touch the Broken Guardian in my grip, is gentle, her touch a benediction.
She turns her head and I perceive the smallest of nods at the edge of my peripheral vision, a unseen approval of an unknown observer.
"There's honor in all forms of service, Aurora," she says, her voice soft, a balm to my frayed edges, bridging a gap by means of the same simple faith that brought me out of squalor and threw me from a ledge. "In your sacrifice, you embody the spirit of the Emperor's teachings more than you know."
They're kind words, kindly spoken. But the truth isn't as black and white, even in my drug-addled mind.
Is it giving up?
Am I giving in?
Is this faith, or fear…
My grip on the Broken Guardian tightens. It burns in my hand as though indignant in my choice, but that's just the drugs, and my own pride burning away, I tell myself.
I ignore it.
Some things are just expecting too much, and this life was never meant to be mine. Greatness was never meant for me. I'm no hero.
Mama, she was a hero, my hero. Mama worked all her life in the service of the Emperor and she was the least of all. So perhaps I am a hero too, in my own way, following in her footsteps. I find, for the first time, great peace in that moment. Being like mama, service, no matter how humble, fulfilled with faith, contentment, peace.
That peace is turned to turmoil just as quickly as it arrived as my mind drifts in a sea of sedatives and painkillers as I feel consciousness slipping back out of reach.
The peace of the moment is chased away by a single stray thought as I drift between the sleeping and waking world.
I wonder, what the Light Woman would think of my choice.
The thought brings no peace to my feverish dreams.
Chapter 2.5: I, Broken; Once Seraphim (Helena's POV)
Chapter 2.5: I, Broken; Once Seraphim (Helena's POV)
The battlefield is a maelstrom of fire and smoke, the deafening roar of artillery mingling with the guttural bellows of the Ork horde. My jump pack thrums against my back, its sacred machine spirit eager for the fray. The scent of promethium and scorched metal fills the air—a familiar aroma that steels my resolve.
"Canoness Commander Helena, enemy lines ahead," voxes Sister Miriam, her voice steady despite the chaos.
"Maintain formation," I command. "By the Emperor's grace, we shall be His wrath incarnate."
"Ave Imperator!" my Seraphim sisters respond in unison.
"For the Emperor!" I respond in kind.
We soar above the churned earth, a flock of avenging angels descending upon the greenskin menace. Below, the Imperial Guard fights valiantly, but even with the support of the rest of my company, they're being overwhelmed. It's up to us to turn the tide.
The Warboss looms ahead—a monstrosity of muscle and metal, standing three times the height of a man. His armor is a patchwork of stolen plates, adorned with grisly trophies. A crackling forcefield shimmers around him, distorting the air. His red eyes lock onto me, and a predatory grin splits his grotesque features.
"Seraphim, engage the Nobz," I order. "Draw them away from the Warboss!"
"Understood, Canoness Commander," Sister Miriam replies.
My Seraphim peel off, dive-bombing into the clusters of Nobz. Bolt pistols and inferno pistols unleash holy wrath, explosions of light and sound that momentarily stem the green tide. I catch glimpses of them weaving through enemy fire, their movements precise, lethal.
I fix my gaze on the Warboss. His red eyes lock onto mine, and he lets out a rumbling laugh.
"Come ta play, little 'umie?" he taunts, hefting a massive chain axe that crackles with raw energy.
"In the Emperor's name, I bring you death," I declare, squeezing the triggers of my hand flamers.
Twin jets of blessed promethium stream forth, washing over his force field. The flames cascade harmlessly off the shimmering barrier, dissipating into the air.
He laughs, a guttural sound that reverberates through the battlefield. "Ya gonna ave ta do better dan dat, litta byrd!"
I grit my teeth. "As you wish."
He lunges forward, swinging the chain axe in a wide, high arc. I twist mid-air, the axe's teeth snarling inches from my armor. The force of his swing creates a gust that buffets me, but I hold firm.
Assessing quickly, I realize the flamers are ineffective against his shield. I veer to the side, narrowly avoiding a second sweep of his chain axe. The whirring teeth of the weapon slice through the space I occupied moments before. I ascend sharply, gaining altitude.
I holster my flamers smoothly and draw my bolt pistols. Circling above him, I unleash a relentless barrage. Explosive rounds detonate against the force field, each impact sending ripples across its surface.
"Emperor guide my aim," I whisper.
The explosive projectiles detonate against his forcefield in rapid succession, bursts of light and shrapnel that obscure his vision. The field flickers, straining under the assault. "Let's see how you handle this," I murmur, emptying the clips.
The Warboss staggers slightly under the onslaught, raising a massive arm to shield his eyes. Seizing the moment, I reload with practiced efficiency and dive toward him, angling for a flanking position. I fire continuously, the recoil jolting up my arms. The last of my clips empty into the barrier, and with a final surge, it collapses.
"Now," I breathe.
I holster the pistols and draw my flamers once more. Descending through the smoke, I aim for his exposed form, flames roaring from my weapons. The air around us turns into an inferno, the heat searing even through my armor's insulation. The ground beneath him scorches black.
But as I close in, a glint catches my eye—a split-second warning. Too late.
From within the billowing smoke, his whip lashes out with impossible speed. It coils around my left ankle, the barbed edges biting into the ceramite. Agony lances up my leg as an electric discharge courses through me. My jump pack sputters, the blessed machinery faltering.
"No!" I gasp, kicking at the whip, but his grip is unyielding.
With a triumphant roar, the Warboss heaves. I'm ripped from the sky, the ground rushing up to meet me. I brace for impact, but nothing can prepare me for the force with which he slams me down.
The world explodes in pain. Agony radiates from my spine, a cold numbness spreading down my legs. My vision swims, the edges darkening. I try to move—nothing. My legs are unresponsive. Panic claws at the edges of my mind.
"Emperor preserve me," I whisper, a tremor in my voice.
Flat on my back, I stare up at the polluted sky, smoke and ash blotting out the weak sun. The sounds of battle fade, replaced by the pounding of my own heartbeat. Fear claws at the edges of my mind—a fear I've never allowed myself to feel.
Paralyzed. Vulnerable.
This cannot be.
I force myself to focus, to push past the terror. My sisters—where are they? I catch glimpses of them in the distance, locked in fierce combat with the Nobz. They're outnumbered but unyielding, fighting with the ferocity of the righteous. Sister Miriam darts between Nobz, her inferno pistols reducing them to ash. But they've exposed themselves to create this opening for me and the tide is closing in. I need to help them, but I'm powerless.
A shadow falls over me. The Warboss looms, his grotesque features twisted into a gleeful sneer.
"Not so tough now, are ya?" he mocks, spittle flying from his tusked mouth.
He reaches down, massive fingers closing around my helm. The pressure builds as he starts to squeeze, the visor cracking under the strain. Lights flare behind my eyes as the strain mounts.
I can't let it end like this.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I raise my arms—each movement a searing agony—and press the barrels of my flamers against his face.
"Burn," I hiss.
I depress the triggers. Flames erupt, engulfing his head in a torrent of holy fire. He howls, a guttural scream that rattles my bones. His grip loosens slightly.
"Ya stinkin' witch!" he bellows.
"Burn, Xeno!" I shout, pouring every ounce of fury into the attack.
He releases my helmet, but his hands shoot down to my wrists, encasing them in a vice-like grip. He pulls my arms outward, attempting to wrench the flamers away. I twist my wrists, keeping the nozzles trained on him. The heat is intense; warnings scream in my helm about temperature overloads.
His flesh melts, the stench of burning meat filling the air. Yet he doesn't relent. With a surge of brute strength, he begins to pull.
I feel the tendons stretch, muscles tearing. Pain unlike anything I've known rips through me. I scream—a raw, primal sound torn from the depths of my being.
"Let go!" he roars, his voice muffled by the flames.
I won't. I can't.
The servos in my armor strain, alarms blaring as systems overload. Metal groans, and with a sickening snap, my left arm gives way. Blood sprays, hot against the cold numbness spreading through me. A scream tears from my throat—a sound I didn't know I could make.
He laughs, a choked, gurgling sound emanating through boiled lips and flash-fried larynx.
He turns his focus to the right. The process repeats—each second an eternity of excruciating torment. My vision dims, darkness encroaching at the edges.
With a final, wrenching pull, he tears my right arm free as well. I collapse to the ground, a broken husk. The world tilts, sounds fading into an indistinct murmur.
I see the Warboss stumble backward, flames still consuming him. He falls, the ground shaking with the impact.
"Canoness!" a distant voice cries. Sister Miriam? The sounds of battle grow distant, replaced by an all-consuming silence.
Cold seeps into me. I stare up at the choked sky, the smoke spiraling into the void. No feeling in my legs. No arms. Just the weight of failure pressing down.
"Emperor... forgive me," I whisper.
Darkness closes in.
I bolt upright, gasping for air, the echoes of my own scream fading into the oppressive silence of my chamber. Sweat beads on my forehead, a cold sheen that does nothing to dispel the lingering heat of phantom flames. My heart pounds against my ribcage like a caged beast.
Another nightmare. The same one, again. No amount of prayer or penance seems to banish it. Even after all these years, after regaining the use of my legs, after mastering my augmetic arms, the past refuses to release its grip on me.
I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my mechanical fingers around them. The metal is cool, unyielding—an anchor to the present. Tears blur my vision, and I let them fall. Here, alone in the predawn darkness, I allow myself this small weakness. The sobs come quietly at first, then wrack my body with a force that surprises me.
"Emperor, grant me strength," I whisper into the void.
Minutes pass—or perhaps hours. Time loses meaning in these solitary moments. Eventually, the storm within me subsides. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, the motion almost human despite the synthetic touch. Composure returns like a well-worn habit.
Rising from the bed, I move with practiced efficiency. There's no point in attempting more sleep tonight. I wash quickly, the icy water shocking but necessary. My reflection in the polished steel mirror reveals nothing out of place—no sign of the turmoil within.
Donning my robes, I ensure every fold is immaculate, every insignia of the Schola, the Sisterhood, the Ecclesiarchy perfectly aligned. The armor plates on my shoulders catch the dim light, the symbols of the Order of the Sanctified Shield etched deeply into them. I fasten them with care, each click of the clasps a familiar ritual.
The corridors of the Schola are silent at this hour, the stillness broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the soft whisper of my footsteps. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of incense and metal. Unbidden, my path leads me toward the Mechanicus quarter—a place I've frequented in these sleepless hours.
The grand archway marking the entrance looms before me, adorned with the cog-toothed skull of the Omnissiah. As I approach, a servo-skull detaches from its niche, hovering before me. Its ocular lenses focus with a soft whirring sound. It opens the door and follows me as I walk with slow reverence through the expansive halls. I approach another archway only slightly less grand than the main and the skull hovers down in front of me at eye level.
"Access restricted. Magos Biologis Harspes is currently occupied," it intones in a metallic voice devoid of inflection.
"I seek audience," I reply calmly.
I present my right hand, the back of which bears a nanoscript sigil—a personal mark inscribed by Harspes himself. The servo-skull scans it, beams of red light playing over the intricate patterns. A moment passes, then another.
"Identity confirmed. Sister Helena. Access granted."
The heavy doors slide open with a hiss, revealing the dimly lit passage beyond. I step inside, the atmosphere shifting instantly. The air here is cooler, drier—the scent of sacred unguents mingling with the ozone tang of active machinery.
Navigating the labyrinthine corridors, I make my way deeper into the sanctum. Conduits and data lines crisscross the walls, pulsing with arcane energies. The silence here is different—alive with the subsonic thrum of the Mechanicus's ceaseless workings.
I reach the entrance to Harspes's personal chambers—a reinforced door adorned with shifting metallurgic patterns that defy simple geometry. Before I can signal my presence, a panel slides open beside the door. A slender mechadendrite extends, ending in a small skull adorned with delicate sensors and a single, gleaming optic lens.
The skull tilts slightly, regarding me. "Sister Helena," the Magos's voice emerges from a hidden vox-emitter. It carries the timbre of aged machinery, precise yet devoid of warmth. "Your presence is unanticipated but not unwelcome. State your purpose."
"Magos Harspes," I begin, inclining my head respectfully. "I wish to consult with you, if you have a moment."
A pause. The skull's lens adjusts, emitting a brief flicker of light. "My current tasks are of high priority. However, your clearance permits interruption under specified conditions." The mechadendrite retracts slightly. "Do you require maintenance of your augmetics?"
"Not exactly," I reply. "No, actually," I correct myself. "There are no deficiencies in your craftsmanship. My arms function flawlessly—better than my original limbs ever did."
"Acceptable parameters," he states. "Your biometrics indicate elevated heart rate and residual adrenaline. Are you in immediate danger?"
The skull's optic shifts to an amber hue, signaling heightened alertness. I shake my head quickly. "No, Magos. I am perfectly safe."
"Contradictory data observed," he counters. "Pheromone analysis detects stress hormones inconsistent with a state of safety."
I suppress a sigh. The Magos is nothing if not thorough. "It's a personal matter," I admit. "One I…" I pause, feeling the shame wash over me only amplified by the certain knowledge that, in some way I can't possibly comprehend, the Magos detects it as well. "It is a very personal matter and… despite being here, now, I am hesitant to discuss it."
"Emotional reticence is inefficient," he remarks. "Such matters can impede operational effectiveness."
"I understand," I say, glancing away. The cold metal of the corridor seems suddenly oppressive. "Even so, I'm not certain I can—"
Before I can finish, the mechadendrite retracts fully, and the skull disappears behind the sliding panel. The door before me remains closed. An uneasy silence settles, broken only by the distant hum of machinery. I wonder if I've overstepped, if my reluctance has caused offense.
Just as I'm considering leaving, the door unlocks with a series of mechanical clicks. It slides open to reveal a dimly lit chamber beyond. Cool air flows out, carrying with it the sterile scent of antiseptics and machine oil.
"Enter," Harspes's deep, echoing voice beckons from within.
I step across the threshold, the door closing smoothly behind me. The laboratory is a vast space filled with towering stacks of equipment, hololithic displays projecting complex data streams, and arrays of tools whose purposes elude me. The lighting is subdued, casting long shadows that dance across the metal surfaces.
At the center of the room, the entrance to the inner sanctum—a heavily secured door—stands slightly ajar. From within, a faint glow emanates. I hesitate, then proceed cautiously.
As I approach, a section of the wall slides aside, and the same servo-skull from before emerges on its mechadendrite. It hovers at eye level. "Proceed to the secondary chamber," it instructs.
I follow its guidance into a smaller adjoining room. Here, the ambient temperature drops noticeably below freezing. The walls are lined with interfaces and cogitators, their displays cycling through streams of bio-data but in the sudden dryness of the air, not a single screen shows signs of frost. My own breath seems to crystalize in the air before me and then falls to the ground as tiny flakes of frozen vapor. In the center of the room stands an operating table, surrounded by an array of articulated arms ending in various instruments.
Magos Harspes lies upon the table, his crimson robes set aside. Without the coverings, his form is a fusion of cable and metal. Most of his body is augmented—mechanical limbs, reinforced plating, and integrated systems. Yet a single portion of humanity remains: a segment of his torso housing an exposed, beating heart, and above it, the equally exposed structure of his brain encased within a translucent protective dome.
"Magos," I begin, averting my gaze out of respect, the cold shiver that runs through my whole body has nothing to do with the air temperature. "I did not intend to intrude upon your..." I struggle for a word and find one I immediately know is lacking, "maintenance."
"It is within acceptable parameters," he replies. "You are the first other individual to observe this process. I have deemed your presence acceptable."
Mechanical appendages move with precise coordination, attending to his organic components. Sections of neural tissue are delicately removed, cleansed in nutrient solutions, and repositioned. The heart pulses steadily, monitored by a suite of sensors that adjust infusions of various compounds.
"The flesh is weak," he states matter-of-factly. "Periodic servicing is required to maintain optimal functionality."
I nod slowly, absorbing the gravity of the moment. That he allows me to witness this—a display of vulnerability so profound for one of the Mechanicus—is an honor beyond words.
"I am deeply honored by your trust," I say softly.
For an hour, I stand motionless in the freezing air, the cold seeping through my robes and biting into my skin. My augmetic arms hum quietly as their internal systems work to maintain optimal function despite the temperature. I watch as Magos Harspes meticulously tends to his organic components. Mechanical limbs remove sections of neural tissue, cleanse them in shimmering solutions, and replace them with precision. His heart pulses steadily, a rhythmic reminder of the fusion between flesh and machine.
Silence envelops us, broken only by the faint whirs and clicks of his self-maintenance. The cold is relentless, but I refuse to shiver. There's a strange solace in observing the rhythmic procedures—a stark contrast to the chaos that churns within my own mind.
At last, the Magos seals his cranial casing and rises from the table with a fluid motion. He dons his robes, the crimson fabric cascading over his form, the symbols of the Omnissiah etched in silver along the hems.
He turns to me, his ocular lenses focusing with a soft adjustment. "Sister Helena," he begins, "your physiological and psychological indicators—both of which I have monitored during your recovery—suggest that only an equivalent demonstration of vulnerability would suffice to engender reciprocal trust."
I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling upon me. "You calculated that I would only confide in you if you first exposed your own... humanity," I say.
"Affirmative," he replies. "Data analysis indicated a 92.7% probability of success with this approach."
The temperature in the room begins to rise, the chill gradually receding. I realize I'm trembling—not from the cold, but from the emotions threatening to surge forth. I grip the edges of my sleeves, willing myself to maintain composure.
Harspes steps closer, his gaze unwavering. "The ice crystals on your eyelashes are melting," he observes.
Before I can respond, a mechadendrite extends gently from beneath his robes, a delicate appendage tipped with a soft cloth. It brushes against my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
I huff softly, turning my face away in embarrassment. "Was that gesture one of kindness, Magos, or merely another calculated action based on my psychological profile?"
He pauses for a fraction of a second—a lifetime for one such as him. "Both," he states. "In this context, they are functionally equivalent."
A wry smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself. "You and your damned logic."
"Logic is the foundation upon which understanding is built," he replies without intonation.
He motions toward a doorway leading back to his living quarters. "We should relocate. Prolonged exposure to low temperatures is suboptimal for your biological systems."
I nod, following him out of the chamber. The warmth of his quarters envelops me, a welcome relief. The walls are adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the union of flesh and machine—a symphony of gears, circuits, and organic forms intertwined.
I sink into a chair, the weight of exhaustion settling upon me. The silence stretches, but it's different now—heavy with unspoken words.
Harspes stands nearby, his presence both imposing and strangely comforting. "You are experiencing distress," he states. "Verbalizing the source may lead to resolution."
I take a deep breath, the air filling my lungs with warmth. "I've been having nightmares," I confess. "Vivid, relentless. The same battle, over and over. No matter how much I pray, how much I atone, they won't cease."
He remains silent, his gaze fixed upon me.
"I've tried everything," I continue, my voice trembling. "Prayer, penance, rituals. I've flagellated myself until I could barely stand. I even resorted to sleep drugs—I lied to acquire them, claiming they were for a student in need. Nothing works."
Shame washes over me, and I bow my head. "I fear I'm losing my faith. That I'm weak."
Harspes does not immediately respond. The soft hum of his internal systems fills the space between us.
"Your experiences have left indelible imprints upon your neural pathways," he says finally. "The trauma you endured manifests in subconscious cycles during REM sleep."
I look up, meeting his mechanical gaze. "Faith is supposed to be enough..." I hesitate at the tremble in my own voice and swallow, forcing more surety into my words. "The Emperor's light can banish any darkness."
"Perhaps," he replies, "you are placing excessive emphasis on the God-Emperor and insufficient regard for the Omnissiah."
I blink, taken aback. "They are one and the same," I retort, a hint of indignation creeping into my voice. "Suggesting otherwise borders on heresy."
A sound emerges from him—a soft, mechanical approximation of a chuckle. "In ultimate reality, they are unified," he concedes. "However, reality is perceived through the limitations of flesh and mind. Your faith, as you experience it, centers on the Emperor alone, not the Omnissiah. This perceived division, a false dichotomy unknowingly held by the majority of those inrecipient of the Omnissiah's blessings, may have hindered you from seeking the aid you require."
I swallow hard, a knot forming in my throat. "What are you implying?"
He tilts his head slightly, or at least the casing that houses his ocular lenses. "It is self evident. You have been seeking a miracle to alleviate your nightmares. Yet, due to the separation between the Emperor and the Omnissiah in your perception, you hesitated to come here—to the one place from which such miracles are wrought."
The realization settles upon me like a weight. "You believe my lack of faith in the Omnissiah has kept me from finding a solution."
"Correction: Your faith is not lacking," he corrects. "It is misaligned. Embracing the unity of the Emperor and the Omnissiah may provide the path to the healing you seek."
A mixture of fear and shame churns within me. I grip the arms of the chair, the cool metal steadying me. "Then... what is it that I truly came here to ask of you?"
"It is apparent," he replies. "You seek a means to heal—a miracle, as you would term it. Through the sacred fusion of flesh and machine, the Omnissiah provides such miracles."
I gaze at him, the conflict within me raw and exposed. "Can you help me?"
Harspes's gaze fixes on me, the glow of his ocular implants steady and unblinking. "I can offer a solution," he states.
Hope flickers within me, cautious and uncertain. "What kind of solution?"
He steeples his mechanical fingers, the servos whirring softly. "By modifying your neural architecture, I can eliminate the need for dreaming. Your brain will no longer produce the random synaptic firings that result in dream states. Instead, you will experience a state of restful inactivity during sleep cycles, a blank, a void, a more efficient neural purge of excess biochemical compounds associated with strong emotion, REM sleep."
I hesitate, the enormity of his proposal settling upon me. "That is... possible?"
"Indeed. The procedure involves precise adjustments to your thalamocortical networks. It is minimally invasive and has a 98.71116 probability of success."
I search his expression for any hint of doubt, but his features remain impassive, a blend of steel impossible to read. "Would it affect anything else? My memories? My cognition? My… emotions?"
"Negative. Your cognitive functions and memory retention will remain intact. Only the mechanisms that generate dreams will be altered."
A weight lifts from my shoulders, replaced by a mixture of relief and apprehension. "And this is... permissible?"
He tilts his head slightly. "The Omnissiah grants us the knowledge to enhance and repair. To utilize this gift in service of the Emperor is both logical and righteous."
I nod slowly. "Then I consent, on one condition—"
"Very well. We shall commence immediately." He motions me back towards his laboratory with a wave of a mechadendrite.
"My condition—"
"Is self-apparent. To vocalize, I shall not disclose this operation or record its occurrence in any form to include purging the record from my own memory, in exchange you will not reveal to another what you witnessed here today so long as you shall remain operational."
I swallow and nod, "I swear it…" I whisper as I move to lay on the freezing operating table.
Hours later, I stand before the imposing doors of the Abbess's chamber. The corridor is quiet, lit by flickering candlelight that casts long shadows along the stone walls. I take a moment to steady myself, adjusting the hood of my robe to ensure it conceals the thin adhesive strip covering the incision along my scalp except for a tiny section visible at the center of my forehead.
I knock softly.
"Enter," the Abbess's voice calls from within.
Pushing the door open, I step inside and bow respectfully. The Abbess sits at a grand desk cluttered with parchment and data-slates, her piercing eyes lifting to meet mine.
"Sister Helena," she acknowledges. "What brings you here at this early hour?"
"Revered Abbess," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "I wished to inform you of a minor incident. One of my augmetic arms experienced a malfunction during my mourning drill. In the resulting... mishap, I sustained a small injury."
Her gaze sharpens, flicking to the barely visible mark on my forehead. "Are you in need of medical attention?"
"I have already tended to it," I assure her. "However, I believe it prudent to take the remainder of the day to recalibrate my augmetics and ensure no further issues arise."
She studies me for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Very well. Your diligence is appreciated. See that you are fit for duty promptly."
"Of course, my abbess. Your trust is not misplaced."
She nods, returning her attention to the documents before her. "You are dismissed."
Bowing once more, I exit the chamber, closing the door softly behind me. The corridor feels cooler now, the air tinged with the scent of incense and aged parchment. I make my way back to my quarters, each step measured and deliberate.
Inside my room, I close the door and lean against it for a moment, exhaling slowly. The familiar surroundings offer a semblance of comfort—the neatly made bed, the modest altar adorned with icons of the Emperor, the armor stand bearing my polished breastplate.
I move to the small washbasin, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above it. The thin line on my forehead is barely noticeable, already beginning to heal. The eyes that stare back at me are weary but resolute.
Undressing methodically, I fold my robes and set them aside. Clad in the simple undergarments of white silk, I sit on the edge of my bed. A tremor runs through me—not of cold, but of lingering apprehension.
"Emperor, keep me," I whisper.
I lie down, pulling the thin blanket over me. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the Schola waking up to a new day. I close my eyes, willing my mind to calm. But a nagging doubt tugs at the edges of my consciousness—a vestige of fear tied to the act of sleep itself.
What if it doesn't work? What if the nightmares return?
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Harspes was confident. The procedure was precise. There is no logic in succumbing to irrational fear.
Gradually, my muscles relax. The tension ebbs away, replaced by a gentle fatigue that seeps into my bones. The darkness behind my eyelids is vast and quiet—a serene void untouched by the chaos of dreams.
A soft chime pulls me from unconsciousness. I blink, eyes adjusting to the pale morning light filtering through the narrow window. For a moment, disorientation holds me. Then, realization dawns.
I sit up swiftly, glancing at the chrono on the wall. Eighteen hours have passed.
Astonishment floods me. I slept—truly slept—without the torment of nightmares. No visions of battle, no echoes of pain. Just an expanse of restful nothingness.
Rising from the bed, I stretch tentatively. My body feels rejuvenated, the usual stiffness absent. There's a clarity in my mind, a sharpness that hasn't been there in years.
I dress quickly, donning my robes and fastening my armor with practiced ease. Each movement is fluid, unhindered by the weight of exhaustion.
Approaching the small altar, I kneel, bowing my head before the golden aquila. "God Emperor, I—" I pause and begin again, "Omnisiah, my Emperor, thank you for this respite. Guide my steps, that I may serve you with renewed vigor."
There's a knock at the door. "Sister Helena?" a voice calls—Constantia Samara.
"Enter," I reply, standing.
The door opens, and Samara steps inside, offering a respectful bow. "I organized the morning drills and lessons yesterday at the abbess' direction and I've summoned the novitiates for morning drills today as well. Are you well? We missed you yesterday."
I smile—a genuine expression that feels almost alien. "I am well, Constantia Samara. Better than I have been in some time."
She studies me, a hint of curiosity in her eyes, wariness even. I doubt anyone in the schola has seen me wearing a genuine smile. "I'm glad to hear it, drill sister," she bows again and I step forward raising her chin and taking a deep, satisfied breath.
"Come," I say, moving toward the door. "There is much to learn," I let the breath out again, "for all of us."
As we walk through the bustling corridors, a sense of purpose fills me. The shadows that once clung to my every step have receded, replaced by a steady lightness.
The Emperor's light, the Omnisiah's shines brightly, and I am ready to embrace it.
The battlefield is a maelstrom of fire and smoke, the deafening roar of artillery mingling with the guttural bellows of the Ork horde. My jump pack thrums against my back, its sacred machine spirit eager for the fray. The scent of promethium and scorched metal fills the air—a familiar aroma that steels my resolve.
"Canoness Commander Helena, enemy lines ahead," voxes Sister Miriam, her voice steady despite the chaos.
"Maintain formation," I command. "By the Emperor's grace, we shall be His wrath incarnate."
"Ave Imperator!" my Seraphim sisters respond in unison.
"For the Emperor!" I respond in kind.
We soar above the churned earth, a flock of avenging angels descending upon the greenskin menace. Below, the Imperial Guard fights valiantly, but even with the support of the rest of my company, they're being overwhelmed. It's up to us to turn the tide.
The Warboss looms ahead—a monstrosity of muscle and metal, standing three times the height of a man. His armor is a patchwork of stolen plates, adorned with grisly trophies. A crackling forcefield shimmers around him, distorting the air. His red eyes lock onto me, and a predatory grin splits his grotesque features.
"Seraphim, engage the Nobz," I order. "Draw them away from the Warboss!"
"Understood, Canoness Commander," Sister Miriam replies.
My Seraphim peel off, dive-bombing into the clusters of Nobz. Bolt pistols and inferno pistols unleash holy wrath, explosions of light and sound that momentarily stem the green tide. I catch glimpses of them weaving through enemy fire, their movements precise, lethal.
I fix my gaze on the Warboss. His red eyes lock onto mine, and he lets out a rumbling laugh.
"Come ta play, little 'umie?" he taunts, hefting a massive chain axe that crackles with raw energy.
"In the Emperor's name, I bring you death," I declare, squeezing the triggers of my hand flamers.
Twin jets of blessed promethium stream forth, washing over his force field. The flames cascade harmlessly off the shimmering barrier, dissipating into the air.
He laughs, a guttural sound that reverberates through the battlefield. "Ya gonna ave ta do better dan dat, litta byrd!"
I grit my teeth. "As you wish."
He lunges forward, swinging the chain axe in a wide, high arc. I twist mid-air, the axe's teeth snarling inches from my armor. The force of his swing creates a gust that buffets me, but I hold firm.
Assessing quickly, I realize the flamers are ineffective against his shield. I veer to the side, narrowly avoiding a second sweep of his chain axe. The whirring teeth of the weapon slice through the space I occupied moments before. I ascend sharply, gaining altitude.
I holster my flamers smoothly and draw my bolt pistols. Circling above him, I unleash a relentless barrage. Explosive rounds detonate against the force field, each impact sending ripples across its surface.
"Emperor guide my aim," I whisper.
The explosive projectiles detonate against his forcefield in rapid succession, bursts of light and shrapnel that obscure his vision. The field flickers, straining under the assault. "Let's see how you handle this," I murmur, emptying the clips.
The Warboss staggers slightly under the onslaught, raising a massive arm to shield his eyes. Seizing the moment, I reload with practiced efficiency and dive toward him, angling for a flanking position. I fire continuously, the recoil jolting up my arms. The last of my clips empty into the barrier, and with a final surge, it collapses.
"Now," I breathe.
I holster the pistols and draw my flamers once more. Descending through the smoke, I aim for his exposed form, flames roaring from my weapons. The air around us turns into an inferno, the heat searing even through my armor's insulation. The ground beneath him scorches black.
But as I close in, a glint catches my eye—a split-second warning. Too late.
From within the billowing smoke, his whip lashes out with impossible speed. It coils around my left ankle, the barbed edges biting into the ceramite. Agony lances up my leg as an electric discharge courses through me. My jump pack sputters, the blessed machinery faltering.
"No!" I gasp, kicking at the whip, but his grip is unyielding.
With a triumphant roar, the Warboss heaves. I'm ripped from the sky, the ground rushing up to meet me. I brace for impact, but nothing can prepare me for the force with which he slams me down.
The world explodes in pain. Agony radiates from my spine, a cold numbness spreading down my legs. My vision swims, the edges darkening. I try to move—nothing. My legs are unresponsive. Panic claws at the edges of my mind.
"Emperor preserve me," I whisper, a tremor in my voice.
Flat on my back, I stare up at the polluted sky, smoke and ash blotting out the weak sun. The sounds of battle fade, replaced by the pounding of my own heartbeat. Fear claws at the edges of my mind—a fear I've never allowed myself to feel.
Paralyzed. Vulnerable.
This cannot be.
I force myself to focus, to push past the terror. My sisters—where are they? I catch glimpses of them in the distance, locked in fierce combat with the Nobz. They're outnumbered but unyielding, fighting with the ferocity of the righteous. Sister Miriam darts between Nobz, her inferno pistols reducing them to ash. But they've exposed themselves to create this opening for me and the tide is closing in. I need to help them, but I'm powerless.
A shadow falls over me. The Warboss looms, his grotesque features twisted into a gleeful sneer.
"Not so tough now, are ya?" he mocks, spittle flying from his tusked mouth.
He reaches down, massive fingers closing around my helm. The pressure builds as he starts to squeeze, the visor cracking under the strain. Lights flare behind my eyes as the strain mounts.
I can't let it end like this.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I raise my arms—each movement a searing agony—and press the barrels of my flamers against his face.
"Burn," I hiss.
I depress the triggers. Flames erupt, engulfing his head in a torrent of holy fire. He howls, a guttural scream that rattles my bones. His grip loosens slightly.
"Ya stinkin' witch!" he bellows.
"Burn, Xeno!" I shout, pouring every ounce of fury into the attack.
He releases my helmet, but his hands shoot down to my wrists, encasing them in a vice-like grip. He pulls my arms outward, attempting to wrench the flamers away. I twist my wrists, keeping the nozzles trained on him. The heat is intense; warnings scream in my helm about temperature overloads.
His flesh melts, the stench of burning meat filling the air. Yet he doesn't relent. With a surge of brute strength, he begins to pull.
I feel the tendons stretch, muscles tearing. Pain unlike anything I've known rips through me. I scream—a raw, primal sound torn from the depths of my being.
"Let go!" he roars, his voice muffled by the flames.
I won't. I can't.
The servos in my armor strain, alarms blaring as systems overload. Metal groans, and with a sickening snap, my left arm gives way. Blood sprays, hot against the cold numbness spreading through me. A scream tears from my throat—a sound I didn't know I could make.
He laughs, a choked, gurgling sound emanating through boiled lips and flash-fried larynx.
He turns his focus to the right. The process repeats—each second an eternity of excruciating torment. My vision dims, darkness encroaching at the edges.
With a final, wrenching pull, he tears my right arm free as well. I collapse to the ground, a broken husk. The world tilts, sounds fading into an indistinct murmur.
I see the Warboss stumble backward, flames still consuming him. He falls, the ground shaking with the impact.
"Canoness!" a distant voice cries. Sister Miriam? The sounds of battle grow distant, replaced by an all-consuming silence.
Cold seeps into me. I stare up at the choked sky, the smoke spiraling into the void. No feeling in my legs. No arms. Just the weight of failure pressing down.
"Emperor... forgive me," I whisper.
Darkness closes in.
I bolt upright, gasping for air, the echoes of my own scream fading into the oppressive silence of my chamber. Sweat beads on my forehead, a cold sheen that does nothing to dispel the lingering heat of phantom flames. My heart pounds against my ribcage like a caged beast.
Another nightmare. The same one, again. No amount of prayer or penance seems to banish it. Even after all these years, after regaining the use of my legs, after mastering my augmetic arms, the past refuses to release its grip on me.
I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my mechanical fingers around them. The metal is cool, unyielding—an anchor to the present. Tears blur my vision, and I let them fall. Here, alone in the predawn darkness, I allow myself this small weakness. The sobs come quietly at first, then wrack my body with a force that surprises me.
"Emperor, grant me strength," I whisper into the void.
Minutes pass—or perhaps hours. Time loses meaning in these solitary moments. Eventually, the storm within me subsides. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, the motion almost human despite the synthetic touch. Composure returns like a well-worn habit.
Rising from the bed, I move with practiced efficiency. There's no point in attempting more sleep tonight. I wash quickly, the icy water shocking but necessary. My reflection in the polished steel mirror reveals nothing out of place—no sign of the turmoil within.
Donning my robes, I ensure every fold is immaculate, every insignia of the Schola, the Sisterhood, the Ecclesiarchy perfectly aligned. The armor plates on my shoulders catch the dim light, the symbols of the Order of the Sanctified Shield etched deeply into them. I fasten them with care, each click of the clasps a familiar ritual.
The corridors of the Schola are silent at this hour, the stillness broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the soft whisper of my footsteps. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of incense and metal. Unbidden, my path leads me toward the Mechanicus quarter—a place I've frequented in these sleepless hours.
The grand archway marking the entrance looms before me, adorned with the cog-toothed skull of the Omnissiah. As I approach, a servo-skull detaches from its niche, hovering before me. Its ocular lenses focus with a soft whirring sound. It opens the door and follows me as I walk with slow reverence through the expansive halls. I approach another archway only slightly less grand than the main and the skull hovers down in front of me at eye level.
"Access restricted. Magos Biologis Harspes is currently occupied," it intones in a metallic voice devoid of inflection.
"I seek audience," I reply calmly.
I present my right hand, the back of which bears a nanoscript sigil—a personal mark inscribed by Harspes himself. The servo-skull scans it, beams of red light playing over the intricate patterns. A moment passes, then another.
"Identity confirmed. Sister Helena. Access granted."
The heavy doors slide open with a hiss, revealing the dimly lit passage beyond. I step inside, the atmosphere shifting instantly. The air here is cooler, drier—the scent of sacred unguents mingling with the ozone tang of active machinery.
Navigating the labyrinthine corridors, I make my way deeper into the sanctum. Conduits and data lines crisscross the walls, pulsing with arcane energies. The silence here is different—alive with the subsonic thrum of the Mechanicus's ceaseless workings.
I reach the entrance to Harspes's personal chambers—a reinforced door adorned with shifting metallurgic patterns that defy simple geometry. Before I can signal my presence, a panel slides open beside the door. A slender mechadendrite extends, ending in a small skull adorned with delicate sensors and a single, gleaming optic lens.
The skull tilts slightly, regarding me. "Sister Helena," the Magos's voice emerges from a hidden vox-emitter. It carries the timbre of aged machinery, precise yet devoid of warmth. "Your presence is unanticipated but not unwelcome. State your purpose."
"Magos Harspes," I begin, inclining my head respectfully. "I wish to consult with you, if you have a moment."
A pause. The skull's lens adjusts, emitting a brief flicker of light. "My current tasks are of high priority. However, your clearance permits interruption under specified conditions." The mechadendrite retracts slightly. "Do you require maintenance of your augmetics?"
"Not exactly," I reply. "No, actually," I correct myself. "There are no deficiencies in your craftsmanship. My arms function flawlessly—better than my original limbs ever did."
"Acceptable parameters," he states. "Your biometrics indicate elevated heart rate and residual adrenaline. Are you in immediate danger?"
The skull's optic shifts to an amber hue, signaling heightened alertness. I shake my head quickly. "No, Magos. I am perfectly safe."
"Contradictory data observed," he counters. "Pheromone analysis detects stress hormones inconsistent with a state of safety."
I suppress a sigh. The Magos is nothing if not thorough. "It's a personal matter," I admit. "One I…" I pause, feeling the shame wash over me only amplified by the certain knowledge that, in some way I can't possibly comprehend, the Magos detects it as well. "It is a very personal matter and… despite being here, now, I am hesitant to discuss it."
"Emotional reticence is inefficient," he remarks. "Such matters can impede operational effectiveness."
"I understand," I say, glancing away. The cold metal of the corridor seems suddenly oppressive. "Even so, I'm not certain I can—"
Before I can finish, the mechadendrite retracts fully, and the skull disappears behind the sliding panel. The door before me remains closed. An uneasy silence settles, broken only by the distant hum of machinery. I wonder if I've overstepped, if my reluctance has caused offense.
Just as I'm considering leaving, the door unlocks with a series of mechanical clicks. It slides open to reveal a dimly lit chamber beyond. Cool air flows out, carrying with it the sterile scent of antiseptics and machine oil.
"Enter," Harspes's deep, echoing voice beckons from within.
I step across the threshold, the door closing smoothly behind me. The laboratory is a vast space filled with towering stacks of equipment, hololithic displays projecting complex data streams, and arrays of tools whose purposes elude me. The lighting is subdued, casting long shadows that dance across the metal surfaces.
At the center of the room, the entrance to the inner sanctum—a heavily secured door—stands slightly ajar. From within, a faint glow emanates. I hesitate, then proceed cautiously.
As I approach, a section of the wall slides aside, and the same servo-skull from before emerges on its mechadendrite. It hovers at eye level. "Proceed to the secondary chamber," it instructs.
I follow its guidance into a smaller adjoining room. Here, the ambient temperature drops noticeably below freezing. The walls are lined with interfaces and cogitators, their displays cycling through streams of bio-data but in the sudden dryness of the air, not a single screen shows signs of frost. My own breath seems to crystalize in the air before me and then falls to the ground as tiny flakes of frozen vapor. In the center of the room stands an operating table, surrounded by an array of articulated arms ending in various instruments.
Magos Harspes lies upon the table, his crimson robes set aside. Without the coverings, his form is a fusion of cable and metal. Most of his body is augmented—mechanical limbs, reinforced plating, and integrated systems. Yet a single portion of humanity remains: a segment of his torso housing an exposed, beating heart, and above it, the equally exposed structure of his brain encased within a translucent protective dome.
"Magos," I begin, averting my gaze out of respect, the cold shiver that runs through my whole body has nothing to do with the air temperature. "I did not intend to intrude upon your..." I struggle for a word and find one I immediately know is lacking, "maintenance."
"It is within acceptable parameters," he replies. "You are the first other individual to observe this process. I have deemed your presence acceptable."
Mechanical appendages move with precise coordination, attending to his organic components. Sections of neural tissue are delicately removed, cleansed in nutrient solutions, and repositioned. The heart pulses steadily, monitored by a suite of sensors that adjust infusions of various compounds.
"The flesh is weak," he states matter-of-factly. "Periodic servicing is required to maintain optimal functionality."
I nod slowly, absorbing the gravity of the moment. That he allows me to witness this—a display of vulnerability so profound for one of the Mechanicus—is an honor beyond words.
"I am deeply honored by your trust," I say softly.
For an hour, I stand motionless in the freezing air, the cold seeping through my robes and biting into my skin. My augmetic arms hum quietly as their internal systems work to maintain optimal function despite the temperature. I watch as Magos Harspes meticulously tends to his organic components. Mechanical limbs remove sections of neural tissue, cleanse them in shimmering solutions, and replace them with precision. His heart pulses steadily, a rhythmic reminder of the fusion between flesh and machine.
Silence envelops us, broken only by the faint whirs and clicks of his self-maintenance. The cold is relentless, but I refuse to shiver. There's a strange solace in observing the rhythmic procedures—a stark contrast to the chaos that churns within my own mind.
At last, the Magos seals his cranial casing and rises from the table with a fluid motion. He dons his robes, the crimson fabric cascading over his form, the symbols of the Omnissiah etched in silver along the hems.
He turns to me, his ocular lenses focusing with a soft adjustment. "Sister Helena," he begins, "your physiological and psychological indicators—both of which I have monitored during your recovery—suggest that only an equivalent demonstration of vulnerability would suffice to engender reciprocal trust."
I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling upon me. "You calculated that I would only confide in you if you first exposed your own... humanity," I say.
"Affirmative," he replies. "Data analysis indicated a 92.7% probability of success with this approach."
The temperature in the room begins to rise, the chill gradually receding. I realize I'm trembling—not from the cold, but from the emotions threatening to surge forth. I grip the edges of my sleeves, willing myself to maintain composure.
Harspes steps closer, his gaze unwavering. "The ice crystals on your eyelashes are melting," he observes.
Before I can respond, a mechadendrite extends gently from beneath his robes, a delicate appendage tipped with a soft cloth. It brushes against my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
I huff softly, turning my face away in embarrassment. "Was that gesture one of kindness, Magos, or merely another calculated action based on my psychological profile?"
He pauses for a fraction of a second—a lifetime for one such as him. "Both," he states. "In this context, they are functionally equivalent."
A wry smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself. "You and your damned logic."
"Logic is the foundation upon which understanding is built," he replies without intonation.
He motions toward a doorway leading back to his living quarters. "We should relocate. Prolonged exposure to low temperatures is suboptimal for your biological systems."
I nod, following him out of the chamber. The warmth of his quarters envelops me, a welcome relief. The walls are adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the union of flesh and machine—a symphony of gears, circuits, and organic forms intertwined.
I sink into a chair, the weight of exhaustion settling upon me. The silence stretches, but it's different now—heavy with unspoken words.
Harspes stands nearby, his presence both imposing and strangely comforting. "You are experiencing distress," he states. "Verbalizing the source may lead to resolution."
I take a deep breath, the air filling my lungs with warmth. "I've been having nightmares," I confess. "Vivid, relentless. The same battle, over and over. No matter how much I pray, how much I atone, they won't cease."
He remains silent, his gaze fixed upon me.
"I've tried everything," I continue, my voice trembling. "Prayer, penance, rituals. I've flagellated myself until I could barely stand. I even resorted to sleep drugs—I lied to acquire them, claiming they were for a student in need. Nothing works."
Shame washes over me, and I bow my head. "I fear I'm losing my faith. That I'm weak."
Harspes does not immediately respond. The soft hum of his internal systems fills the space between us.
"Your experiences have left indelible imprints upon your neural pathways," he says finally. "The trauma you endured manifests in subconscious cycles during REM sleep."
I look up, meeting his mechanical gaze. "Faith is supposed to be enough..." I hesitate at the tremble in my own voice and swallow, forcing more surety into my words. "The Emperor's light can banish any darkness."
"Perhaps," he replies, "you are placing excessive emphasis on the God-Emperor and insufficient regard for the Omnissiah."
I blink, taken aback. "They are one and the same," I retort, a hint of indignation creeping into my voice. "Suggesting otherwise borders on heresy."
A sound emerges from him—a soft, mechanical approximation of a chuckle. "In ultimate reality, they are unified," he concedes. "However, reality is perceived through the limitations of flesh and mind. Your faith, as you experience it, centers on the Emperor alone, not the Omnissiah. This perceived division, a false dichotomy unknowingly held by the majority of those inrecipient of the Omnissiah's blessings, may have hindered you from seeking the aid you require."
I swallow hard, a knot forming in my throat. "What are you implying?"
He tilts his head slightly, or at least the casing that houses his ocular lenses. "It is self evident. You have been seeking a miracle to alleviate your nightmares. Yet, due to the separation between the Emperor and the Omnissiah in your perception, you hesitated to come here—to the one place from which such miracles are wrought."
The realization settles upon me like a weight. "You believe my lack of faith in the Omnissiah has kept me from finding a solution."
"Correction: Your faith is not lacking," he corrects. "It is misaligned. Embracing the unity of the Emperor and the Omnissiah may provide the path to the healing you seek."
A mixture of fear and shame churns within me. I grip the arms of the chair, the cool metal steadying me. "Then... what is it that I truly came here to ask of you?"
"It is apparent," he replies. "You seek a means to heal—a miracle, as you would term it. Through the sacred fusion of flesh and machine, the Omnissiah provides such miracles."
I gaze at him, the conflict within me raw and exposed. "Can you help me?"
Harspes's gaze fixes on me, the glow of his ocular implants steady and unblinking. "I can offer a solution," he states.
Hope flickers within me, cautious and uncertain. "What kind of solution?"
He steeples his mechanical fingers, the servos whirring softly. "By modifying your neural architecture, I can eliminate the need for dreaming. Your brain will no longer produce the random synaptic firings that result in dream states. Instead, you will experience a state of restful inactivity during sleep cycles, a blank, a void, a more efficient neural purge of excess biochemical compounds associated with strong emotion, REM sleep."
I hesitate, the enormity of his proposal settling upon me. "That is... possible?"
"Indeed. The procedure involves precise adjustments to your thalamocortical networks. It is minimally invasive and has a 98.71116 probability of success."
I search his expression for any hint of doubt, but his features remain impassive, a blend of steel impossible to read. "Would it affect anything else? My memories? My cognition? My… emotions?"
"Negative. Your cognitive functions and memory retention will remain intact. Only the mechanisms that generate dreams will be altered."
A weight lifts from my shoulders, replaced by a mixture of relief and apprehension. "And this is... permissible?"
He tilts his head slightly. "The Omnissiah grants us the knowledge to enhance and repair. To utilize this gift in service of the Emperor is both logical and righteous."
I nod slowly. "Then I consent, on one condition—"
"Very well. We shall commence immediately." He motions me back towards his laboratory with a wave of a mechadendrite.
"My condition—"
"Is self-apparent. To vocalize, I shall not disclose this operation or record its occurrence in any form to include purging the record from my own memory, in exchange you will not reveal to another what you witnessed here today so long as you shall remain operational."
I swallow and nod, "I swear it…" I whisper as I move to lay on the freezing operating table.
Hours later, I stand before the imposing doors of the Abbess's chamber. The corridor is quiet, lit by flickering candlelight that casts long shadows along the stone walls. I take a moment to steady myself, adjusting the hood of my robe to ensure it conceals the thin adhesive strip covering the incision along my scalp except for a tiny section visible at the center of my forehead.
I knock softly.
"Enter," the Abbess's voice calls from within.
Pushing the door open, I step inside and bow respectfully. The Abbess sits at a grand desk cluttered with parchment and data-slates, her piercing eyes lifting to meet mine.
"Sister Helena," she acknowledges. "What brings you here at this early hour?"
"Revered Abbess," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "I wished to inform you of a minor incident. One of my augmetic arms experienced a malfunction during my mourning drill. In the resulting... mishap, I sustained a small injury."
Her gaze sharpens, flicking to the barely visible mark on my forehead. "Are you in need of medical attention?"
"I have already tended to it," I assure her. "However, I believe it prudent to take the remainder of the day to recalibrate my augmetics and ensure no further issues arise."
She studies me for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Very well. Your diligence is appreciated. See that you are fit for duty promptly."
"Of course, my abbess. Your trust is not misplaced."
She nods, returning her attention to the documents before her. "You are dismissed."
Bowing once more, I exit the chamber, closing the door softly behind me. The corridor feels cooler now, the air tinged with the scent of incense and aged parchment. I make my way back to my quarters, each step measured and deliberate.
Inside my room, I close the door and lean against it for a moment, exhaling slowly. The familiar surroundings offer a semblance of comfort—the neatly made bed, the modest altar adorned with icons of the Emperor, the armor stand bearing my polished breastplate.
I move to the small washbasin, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above it. The thin line on my forehead is barely noticeable, already beginning to heal. The eyes that stare back at me are weary but resolute.
Undressing methodically, I fold my robes and set them aside. Clad in the simple undergarments of white silk, I sit on the edge of my bed. A tremor runs through me—not of cold, but of lingering apprehension.
"Emperor, keep me," I whisper.
I lie down, pulling the thin blanket over me. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the Schola waking up to a new day. I close my eyes, willing my mind to calm. But a nagging doubt tugs at the edges of my consciousness—a vestige of fear tied to the act of sleep itself.
What if it doesn't work? What if the nightmares return?
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Harspes was confident. The procedure was precise. There is no logic in succumbing to irrational fear.
Gradually, my muscles relax. The tension ebbs away, replaced by a gentle fatigue that seeps into my bones. The darkness behind my eyelids is vast and quiet—a serene void untouched by the chaos of dreams.
A soft chime pulls me from unconsciousness. I blink, eyes adjusting to the pale morning light filtering through the narrow window. For a moment, disorientation holds me. Then, realization dawns.
I sit up swiftly, glancing at the chrono on the wall. Eighteen hours have passed.
Astonishment floods me. I slept—truly slept—without the torment of nightmares. No visions of battle, no echoes of pain. Just an expanse of restful nothingness.
Rising from the bed, I stretch tentatively. My body feels rejuvenated, the usual stiffness absent. There's a clarity in my mind, a sharpness that hasn't been there in years.
I dress quickly, donning my robes and fastening my armor with practiced ease. Each movement is fluid, unhindered by the weight of exhaustion.
Approaching the small altar, I kneel, bowing my head before the golden aquila. "God Emperor, I—" I pause and begin again, "Omnisiah, my Emperor, thank you for this respite. Guide my steps, that I may serve you with renewed vigor."
There's a knock at the door. "Sister Helena?" a voice calls—Constantia Samara.
"Enter," I reply, standing.
The door opens, and Samara steps inside, offering a respectful bow. "I organized the morning drills and lessons yesterday at the abbess' direction and I've summoned the novitiates for morning drills today as well. Are you well? We missed you yesterday."
I smile—a genuine expression that feels almost alien. "I am well, Constantia Samara. Better than I have been in some time."
She studies me, a hint of curiosity in her eyes, wariness even. I doubt anyone in the schola has seen me wearing a genuine smile. "I'm glad to hear it, drill sister," she bows again and I step forward raising her chin and taking a deep, satisfied breath.
"Come," I say, moving toward the door. "There is much to learn," I let the breath out again, "for all of us."
As we walk through the bustling corridors, a sense of purpose fills me. The shadows that once clung to my every step have receded, replaced by a steady lightness.
The Emperor's light, the Omnisiah's shines brightly, and I am ready to embrace it.
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Chapter 3: The Weight of Scales
Chapter 3: The Weight of Scales
As the hazard lights shift from brown to orange, I rise, abandon my cot to the woman coming off shift, and slip into the simple green robe that has become the symbol of my life these past two years. The Broken Guardian hangs from my neck on a brass chain, the one personal item of faith I'm allowed. I touch it reverently and pray as I walk in silence, joining the queue of thousands of other faceless green robes. At the front of the queue I receive the tools of my trade, a bucket, a brush, lye, a sack of fresh rags, a bottle of sacred oil, and a ration cube, my sustenance for the day.
"Chapel 74, basic, level 1 contaminants, 4-hours" the plain white card spits from the mouth of a servo skull and rests in my single hand. A shorter shift, a full-day for only four hours of estimated work and the promise of four free hours of personal time free for the spending.
I swallow and move slowly out of line, allowing the woman behind me to pass and I shove the slip of paper into her hand as the rest of my gear drags behind on my small kart. In traditional style I find her card shoved into my hand, we both read them, walking together without breaking stride. She moves away from me, accepting the trade I initiated.
"Chapel 114, thorough, level-4 contaminants, 10-hours" the new card read. The assignments were supposedly random, following the skills of the receiver but with no concern given to location or time. And yet… And yet Chapel 74 haunted my cards more often than my mind was willing to chalk up to coincidence.
The Broken Guardian feels hot against my skin.
I ignore it.
Ten hours, for me at least twelve, I have enough concerns now that I know I'll be missing half my sleep-cycle not to worry about the judgmental visage of a long dead Canoness resting atop a plinth in Chapel 74.
Eight hours into my task, Valeria bursts into the chapel, her Novitiate robes a stark contrast to the dimly lit, solemn atmosphere of disused Chapel 114. Her face is a mix of frustration and concern, softened by the sight of me.
"I don't have much time," she gasps, slightly out of breath, "the system listed you in Chapel 74, but the woman there..." Her voice trails off as she hands me a small package, half her lunch, a gesture of friendship that feels as warm as the sunlight I remember from a different life.
"The menials at 74 said I'd find you here," she continues, her youthful face creased with the seriousness of puberty. "Why not Chapel 74, Aurora? It's like you're avoiding—" She stops herself, perhaps remembering our unspoken agreement not to dredge up past shadows of a life I might have led if not for the choices I made, if not for the accident that took more from me than just my arm.
I can't meet her gaze, not with the weight of differing opinion between us. Instead, I focus on the austere beauty of the chapel, the way the dust dances in the shafts of light piercing the gloom.
"The Emperor has his plans, Val," I say quietly, the name slipping out with an ease that belies the complexity of our friendship. "Even for those of us born in shadow." I add softly.
Valeria sighs, sitting beside me on the cold stone floor, her presence a comforting warmth. "Lucious leave another message for you, under the altar this time?" she asks after a moment, watching me scrub while lying under the stone plinth on my back. I can hear her voice tinged with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "The Three-legged Rat," she reads, bending down and rolling her eyes.
I can't help but chuckle, a sound that feels foreign in the silence of the chapel. "He thinks he's so clever," I reply, the amusement fading as I remember the work awaiting me, the graffiti a reminder of my place in this world.
My place, the place I chose, the place I find in full contentedness, except in my dreams…
"I bet he and his posse leave them under every altar, just on the off chance I'll see them. You'd be surprised how many little places like this get skipped by the less pious."
Valeria's hand finds mine, her grip firm. "I could report him, you know. They'd reprimand him for defacing sacred property," she offers, the protective edge in her voice a reminder of her position, of the path she walks—a path I once might have shared.
I shake my head, squeezing her hand in gratitude. "Let it be, Val. It's been two years and I haven't even seen his face since the fall. At this point it's just sad or perhaps laughable. It's just Lucious being the small, insecure boy he still is. Besides, it's useful to me, a reminder I need. Under the altar—lest I forget to be so diligent in my work." My words are light, but they carry the weight of acceptance, of finding peace in the service I've chosen, however lowly it may seem to others.
Valeria's eyes glint with a mix of excitement and determination under the flickering lumens as she leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Aurora, in my training, I've been working with the military grade augmetic limbs the Adeptus Mechanicus is crafting for Gilead's Gravediggers. They say these augmetics are almost like flesh, capable of sensation and precise movements. The way they integrate with the nervous system is… it's like a miracle of the Omnissiah."
I pause, the brush held loosely in my remaining hand, my attention caught not by the topic, but by Valeria's willingness to broach it despite our spoken and unspoken agreement. The air between us thickens with the gulf of opinion that still divides us despite our friendship, the sacred oil scent mingling with the age-old dust of the chapel.
Valeria, undeterred by my silence, pushes on, her youthful enthusiasm undimmed by the gravity of the baggage I carry. "I mean, with an augmetic arm, you wouldn't be limited to… this." She gestures broadly at the chapel, encompassing the endless cycle of menial tasks that define my existence without managing to be condescending. "You could return to the Schola. You were top of your class, Aurora. I've asked, I've seen your scores."
Yes of course, I want to tell her. When you have no friends and being out in the open is a sure way to get a rock thrown at you, or worse, you spend a lot of time in the Librus Progenum. Anyone who studies like that is sure to be top of their class, and bottom of the social pecking order too.
My gaze drifts to the stump of my left arm, my hand to the Broken Guardian. The silence stretches, a chasm filled with the echoes of what could have been and broken fences.
I know what I have to say.
Before I can frame the thoughts into words, Valeria rushes on, her voice a blend of fervor and conviction that seems too certain for her eleven years. "But it's not just about the arm, Aurora. It's you. Your faith, your strength of character… You belong with us, the Sororitas I mean, not just cleaning chapels. You could be an armorer, a serf within our ranks. The Order of the Sanctified Shield needs people like you. And…" She hesitates, her usual confidence wavering as she meets Aurora's gaze, "when I become a full Hospitaller, we could still see each other. Not just in passing, but as sisters in arms."
I take a deep, slow breath, and turn to face Valeria with my whole body, my eyes finding hers and in them a hint of shame for having brought up the forbidden topic but also the fire of defiance that assured me she would never let the issue go, not even if we were friends for a hundred years.
"You're right, Valeria," her eyes widen slightly as I continue, "it's not about the arm, it's about faith." I set down the brush and wipe my hand on a cloth before placing it on Valeria's shoulder, meeting her fire with calm, cool certainty.
"You were born into a great house, bred for great things, pushed to achieve the impossible and rise so much higher than the circumstances of your orphaning gave you." She swallows, and her mouth opens and closes once. I continue. "I was born as nothing, into nothing, with nothing, nothing but a broken Aquila and my faith; vermin, but even vermin can have faith."
"Aurora I—"
I place a calloused finger against her soft lips, "you need to rise to prove to yourself that your faith is real, to prove that you have it, to prove it's more than the verbal acknowledgement of someone who already has it all."
I see her swallow.
I see the hurt.
I continue.
I have to.
She has to understand.
She might be the only one who can.
"I have nothing to prove." I respond as gently as I can, "I was saved from starvation by a hallucination, a saint, a vision, whatever it was it was my faith. I rose from nothing to a schola student, and I fell as nothing to a one-armed menial, an Aquila with a broken wing. I don't have anything to prove," then why?
Why is my chest so tight?
I try to smile and lighten the mood, "besides, you'd have to become the chief medicae of the whole ordos just to match how far I've risen from where I started."
Valeria's expression shifts, the initial spark of hope dimming as she processes my words. She smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. Her young face, usually so animated and determined, falls into a rare, contemplative silence. She pulls her hand away gently, folding it into her lap, her gaze dropping to the cold, stone floor between us.
The silence stretches, heavy and thick, a barrier as tangible as the walls of the chapel that encloses us. I watch her struggle with the weight of my refusal, the complexity of emotions flickering across her face—a mix of understanding, disappointment, and a stubborn resolve that I've come to admire in her.
Finally, Valeria looks up, her eyes meeting mine with a resilience that belies her years. "I get it, Aurora," she says, her voice steady, but softer now, tinged with the maturity that my own hardship and faith have thrust upon her. "I... I just wish it could be different. That we could stand together, shoulder to shoulder, not just as friends, but as sisters under the same banner, fighting for the same cause."
Her words hang in the air, a testament to the depth of her conviction and the pain of our diverging paths. I feel a pang of sadness, not born of discontent, but of empathy with the dream I see dying in her stubborn eyes.
"But you're right," Valeria continues, her determination rekindling, "Your faith, your journey... it's yours, Aurora. And it's powerful, more than you know." She pauses, twirling an oft-escaped hair around her finger in a gesture I've come to associated with shame, "I don't know if I have that kind of faith… but maybe you're right, maybe it's not about proving anything to anyone else, but living your truth, in service and in faith, wherever that may be."
She stands, her movements deliberate, her Novitiate robes falling neatly around her as her chrono chimes. She offers me a small, brave smile, a promise of enduring friendship despite the paths we walk and the difficult conversations. "I'll always believe in you, Aurora. No matter where we are, no matter what titles we bear or don't... you're my sister in faith and nothing will change that."
We embrace. She leaves the wrapped portion of her lunch on the altar for me, then she's gone, her figure a silhouette against the dim light of the chapel. I'm left with her words, a balm to the ache of our parting ways. Her words echo in the sacred silence, a promise of the strength of the bonds forged in faith and the paths we choose, not because they are easy, but because they are ours.
I sigh and lie down again, "for the three-legged rat."
I redouble my scrubbing and push thoughts of glory aside. Even so, the judging face of the Light Woman pervades my solitude even as I work in meditative silence the next six hours.
As the hazard lights shift from brown to orange, I rise, abandon my cot to the woman coming off shift, and slip into the simple green robe that has become the symbol of my life these past two years. The Broken Guardian hangs from my neck on a brass chain, the one personal item of faith I'm allowed. I touch it reverently and pray as I walk in silence, joining the queue of thousands of other faceless green robes. At the front of the queue I receive the tools of my trade, a bucket, a brush, lye, a sack of fresh rags, a bottle of sacred oil, and a ration cube, my sustenance for the day.
"Chapel 74, basic, level 1 contaminants, 4-hours" the plain white card spits from the mouth of a servo skull and rests in my single hand. A shorter shift, a full-day for only four hours of estimated work and the promise of four free hours of personal time free for the spending.
I swallow and move slowly out of line, allowing the woman behind me to pass and I shove the slip of paper into her hand as the rest of my gear drags behind on my small kart. In traditional style I find her card shoved into my hand, we both read them, walking together without breaking stride. She moves away from me, accepting the trade I initiated.
"Chapel 114, thorough, level-4 contaminants, 10-hours" the new card read. The assignments were supposedly random, following the skills of the receiver but with no concern given to location or time. And yet… And yet Chapel 74 haunted my cards more often than my mind was willing to chalk up to coincidence.
The Broken Guardian feels hot against my skin.
I ignore it.
Ten hours, for me at least twelve, I have enough concerns now that I know I'll be missing half my sleep-cycle not to worry about the judgmental visage of a long dead Canoness resting atop a plinth in Chapel 74.
Eight hours into my task, Valeria bursts into the chapel, her Novitiate robes a stark contrast to the dimly lit, solemn atmosphere of disused Chapel 114. Her face is a mix of frustration and concern, softened by the sight of me.
"I don't have much time," she gasps, slightly out of breath, "the system listed you in Chapel 74, but the woman there..." Her voice trails off as she hands me a small package, half her lunch, a gesture of friendship that feels as warm as the sunlight I remember from a different life.
"The menials at 74 said I'd find you here," she continues, her youthful face creased with the seriousness of puberty. "Why not Chapel 74, Aurora? It's like you're avoiding—" She stops herself, perhaps remembering our unspoken agreement not to dredge up past shadows of a life I might have led if not for the choices I made, if not for the accident that took more from me than just my arm.
I can't meet her gaze, not with the weight of differing opinion between us. Instead, I focus on the austere beauty of the chapel, the way the dust dances in the shafts of light piercing the gloom.
"The Emperor has his plans, Val," I say quietly, the name slipping out with an ease that belies the complexity of our friendship. "Even for those of us born in shadow." I add softly.
Valeria sighs, sitting beside me on the cold stone floor, her presence a comforting warmth. "Lucious leave another message for you, under the altar this time?" she asks after a moment, watching me scrub while lying under the stone plinth on my back. I can hear her voice tinged with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "The Three-legged Rat," she reads, bending down and rolling her eyes.
I can't help but chuckle, a sound that feels foreign in the silence of the chapel. "He thinks he's so clever," I reply, the amusement fading as I remember the work awaiting me, the graffiti a reminder of my place in this world.
My place, the place I chose, the place I find in full contentedness, except in my dreams…
"I bet he and his posse leave them under every altar, just on the off chance I'll see them. You'd be surprised how many little places like this get skipped by the less pious."
Valeria's hand finds mine, her grip firm. "I could report him, you know. They'd reprimand him for defacing sacred property," she offers, the protective edge in her voice a reminder of her position, of the path she walks—a path I once might have shared.
I shake my head, squeezing her hand in gratitude. "Let it be, Val. It's been two years and I haven't even seen his face since the fall. At this point it's just sad or perhaps laughable. It's just Lucious being the small, insecure boy he still is. Besides, it's useful to me, a reminder I need. Under the altar—lest I forget to be so diligent in my work." My words are light, but they carry the weight of acceptance, of finding peace in the service I've chosen, however lowly it may seem to others.
Valeria's eyes glint with a mix of excitement and determination under the flickering lumens as she leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Aurora, in my training, I've been working with the military grade augmetic limbs the Adeptus Mechanicus is crafting for Gilead's Gravediggers. They say these augmetics are almost like flesh, capable of sensation and precise movements. The way they integrate with the nervous system is… it's like a miracle of the Omnissiah."
I pause, the brush held loosely in my remaining hand, my attention caught not by the topic, but by Valeria's willingness to broach it despite our spoken and unspoken agreement. The air between us thickens with the gulf of opinion that still divides us despite our friendship, the sacred oil scent mingling with the age-old dust of the chapel.
Valeria, undeterred by my silence, pushes on, her youthful enthusiasm undimmed by the gravity of the baggage I carry. "I mean, with an augmetic arm, you wouldn't be limited to… this." She gestures broadly at the chapel, encompassing the endless cycle of menial tasks that define my existence without managing to be condescending. "You could return to the Schola. You were top of your class, Aurora. I've asked, I've seen your scores."
Yes of course, I want to tell her. When you have no friends and being out in the open is a sure way to get a rock thrown at you, or worse, you spend a lot of time in the Librus Progenum. Anyone who studies like that is sure to be top of their class, and bottom of the social pecking order too.
My gaze drifts to the stump of my left arm, my hand to the Broken Guardian. The silence stretches, a chasm filled with the echoes of what could have been and broken fences.
I know what I have to say.
Before I can frame the thoughts into words, Valeria rushes on, her voice a blend of fervor and conviction that seems too certain for her eleven years. "But it's not just about the arm, Aurora. It's you. Your faith, your strength of character… You belong with us, the Sororitas I mean, not just cleaning chapels. You could be an armorer, a serf within our ranks. The Order of the Sanctified Shield needs people like you. And…" She hesitates, her usual confidence wavering as she meets Aurora's gaze, "when I become a full Hospitaller, we could still see each other. Not just in passing, but as sisters in arms."
I take a deep, slow breath, and turn to face Valeria with my whole body, my eyes finding hers and in them a hint of shame for having brought up the forbidden topic but also the fire of defiance that assured me she would never let the issue go, not even if we were friends for a hundred years.
"You're right, Valeria," her eyes widen slightly as I continue, "it's not about the arm, it's about faith." I set down the brush and wipe my hand on a cloth before placing it on Valeria's shoulder, meeting her fire with calm, cool certainty.
"You were born into a great house, bred for great things, pushed to achieve the impossible and rise so much higher than the circumstances of your orphaning gave you." She swallows, and her mouth opens and closes once. I continue. "I was born as nothing, into nothing, with nothing, nothing but a broken Aquila and my faith; vermin, but even vermin can have faith."
"Aurora I—"
I place a calloused finger against her soft lips, "you need to rise to prove to yourself that your faith is real, to prove that you have it, to prove it's more than the verbal acknowledgement of someone who already has it all."
I see her swallow.
I see the hurt.
I continue.
I have to.
She has to understand.
She might be the only one who can.
"I have nothing to prove." I respond as gently as I can, "I was saved from starvation by a hallucination, a saint, a vision, whatever it was it was my faith. I rose from nothing to a schola student, and I fell as nothing to a one-armed menial, an Aquila with a broken wing. I don't have anything to prove," then why?
Why is my chest so tight?
I try to smile and lighten the mood, "besides, you'd have to become the chief medicae of the whole ordos just to match how far I've risen from where I started."
Valeria's expression shifts, the initial spark of hope dimming as she processes my words. She smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. Her young face, usually so animated and determined, falls into a rare, contemplative silence. She pulls her hand away gently, folding it into her lap, her gaze dropping to the cold, stone floor between us.
The silence stretches, heavy and thick, a barrier as tangible as the walls of the chapel that encloses us. I watch her struggle with the weight of my refusal, the complexity of emotions flickering across her face—a mix of understanding, disappointment, and a stubborn resolve that I've come to admire in her.
Finally, Valeria looks up, her eyes meeting mine with a resilience that belies her years. "I get it, Aurora," she says, her voice steady, but softer now, tinged with the maturity that my own hardship and faith have thrust upon her. "I... I just wish it could be different. That we could stand together, shoulder to shoulder, not just as friends, but as sisters under the same banner, fighting for the same cause."
Her words hang in the air, a testament to the depth of her conviction and the pain of our diverging paths. I feel a pang of sadness, not born of discontent, but of empathy with the dream I see dying in her stubborn eyes.
"But you're right," Valeria continues, her determination rekindling, "Your faith, your journey... it's yours, Aurora. And it's powerful, more than you know." She pauses, twirling an oft-escaped hair around her finger in a gesture I've come to associated with shame, "I don't know if I have that kind of faith… but maybe you're right, maybe it's not about proving anything to anyone else, but living your truth, in service and in faith, wherever that may be."
She stands, her movements deliberate, her Novitiate robes falling neatly around her as her chrono chimes. She offers me a small, brave smile, a promise of enduring friendship despite the paths we walk and the difficult conversations. "I'll always believe in you, Aurora. No matter where we are, no matter what titles we bear or don't... you're my sister in faith and nothing will change that."
We embrace. She leaves the wrapped portion of her lunch on the altar for me, then she's gone, her figure a silhouette against the dim light of the chapel. I'm left with her words, a balm to the ache of our parting ways. Her words echo in the sacred silence, a promise of the strength of the bonds forged in faith and the paths we choose, not because they are easy, but because they are ours.
I sigh and lie down again, "for the three-legged rat."
I redouble my scrubbing and push thoughts of glory aside. Even so, the judging face of the Light Woman pervades my solitude even as I work in meditative silence the next six hours.
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Chapter 4: Shadows of Doubt
Chapter 4: Shadows of Doubt
The corridors are a maze of shadows and echoes at this hour, the only light coming from the dim, flickering glow of the hazard lamps mounted at intervals along the walls. They cast an orange hue, painting everything in a wash of sepia tones that seem to drain the world of vitality. My legs are leaden, each step a monumental effort as I drag my cart behind me, its wheels squealing softly in protest. The soaked rags and empty soap containers make a dull, wet sound with every jolt and turn, a constant reminder of the long night's labor.
I'm so tired. My eyelids are heavy, fluttering with the desperate need for a sleep-cycle that began four hours ago. The Broken Guardian, always with me, feels unusually cold against my skin, a weight that's both comforting and a constant reminder of... of everything. I touch it with my chin for reassurance, whispering a silent prayer for strength to make it back without incident.
The thoroughfare I choose is one of the lesser-used paths, intended for servitors and menials like me, where the likelihood of encountering anyone of importance is slim. The silence here is profound, the kind that amplifies the smallest noise, making my cart's persistent squeak seem like a cacophony. I wince with each sound, even the groaning of my wiry muscles seems to echo in the dim.
Then, it happens. Turning a corner too sharply, not looking ahead in my fatigue-induced haze, my cart collides with something—or rather, someone. The impact is hard, jarring, and sends me stumbling forward, a gasp escaping my lips as I drop to my knees, the cart's contents clattering to the floor.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't see—please, I—" My words tumble out in a rush, a frantic apology as I brace for retribution. I don't dare look up, my forehead fixed to the ground, all around me the scattered tools of my trade. The thought of who I might have run into sends a spike of fear through my already exhausted body. Punishment is inevitable, harsh and swift for a menial who inconveniences someone of import.
But then, a voice, stern yet not unkind, cuts through the silence. "Child, look at me when you speak."
I freeze, the command compelling yet terrifying. Slowly, reluctantly, I raise my bald head, my eyes meeting the armored boots of the figure before me, then traveling upward, tracing the contours of power armor that speaks of battles fought and won, of a strength I can scarcely comprehend. It's only when I see her face, so strikingly familiar, that realization dawns.
Sister Helena.
My heart stops. She looks... she looks so much like her, the light woman from my visions, from that day that changed everything. Instinctively, my eyes dart away, shame and fear mingling in a choking tide. "S-Sister Helena, mi'lady, I... I am so sorry. I didn't mean to—"
Her expression is unreadable, a mask carved from duty and faith. "Aurora," she says, my name on her lips a weight of portent all its own. "You've been avoiding me."
Confusion wars with exhaustion. "Avoiding? I... I don't understand. I'm no longer a student, I wouldn't dare—"
She steps closer, the faint light casting shadows across her features. "How long will you refuse your destiny, child?" Her voice is a challenge, a call to something deep within me that I've tried to bury beneath layers of endless toil and stoic acceptance. "How long will you spurn her call?"
I blink, uncomprehending. "Her call? Sister, I don't—"
The slap comes without warning, a sharp crack of ceramite against skin and bone that sends me sprawling to the cold floor. Tears spring to my eyes, more from shock than pain. "You may lie to yourself, child, but do not presume to lie to me," Sister Helena's voice is a whip, sharp and precise.
I spit a mouthful of blood and dutifully return to Sister Helena, kneeling once more at her boots, whimpering softly. My whole body shakes with the twinges of overtaxed muscles and the sudden adrenaline shooting through my frayed nerves.
"You are reassigned to Chapel 74," she declares, "permanently," her tone leaving no room for argument or plea. "Under the direct service of the Order of the Sanctified Shield. You will move to the serf quarters beneath the chapel. This is your penance and your path back to His grace. Whether you choose to walk it willingly or suffer further is up to you."
The words hit me harder than her slap. Chapel 74. The very place I've spent two years avoiding, the place where the statue of Canoness Jessamine Hallas stands—the light woman, a reminder, like Valeria, of a destiny others seem determined to convince me is mine. The thought of being so close to that judgmental gaze every day, it's overwhelming. The shame, self-doubt, discontent—all the emotions I've managed to keep at bay with routine and toil, faith and service—surge back with a vengeance, threatening to drown me.
I choke on the emotion as it clogs my throat and manage a weak nod, unable to find my voice. Sister Helena steps back, her silhouette blending with the shadows of the corridor. "Your belongings will be moved by morning. Do not be late for your duties." And with that, she turns and walks away, her figure receding into the darkness. Her ceramite boots ring out against the flagstones like the bells of judgement day. Then she's gone, and I'm alone with the echoing silence and the weight of my new reality.
Pulling myself to my feet, I gather my scattered tools and the remnants of my dignity. The trek back to the menial warehouse is a blur, my mind reeling with what's just happened. Moving to the serf quarters beneath Chapel 74 means leaving behind the only life I've known since my amputation, the only sense of normalcy I've managed to carve out in this vast, indifferent institution. The place I found purpose, meaning, belonging… so why do I feel like I'm drowning…
The fear of change is a gnawing presence in my stomach, but it's the doubt that Sister Helena has planted in my mind that's most disconcerting. The idea that I've been running from a destiny I don't understand, that I've been chosen for something greater than the life of a menial, it's both terrifying and... enticing? No, I push the thought away. I've found peace in my service, however humble it may be. Haven't I?
By the time I reach the warehouse, my exhaustion has compounded with a deep-seated turmoil. I return my gear in silence, receiving nothing but a curt nod from the menial foreman behind the counter. My steps back to the dormitories are automatic, my body moving on muscle memory alone as my mind wrestles with Sister Helena's words.
'How long will you refuse your destiny? How long will you spurn her call?'
I don't have the answers. All I know is that the prospect of facing tomorrow, of beginning this new chapter under the implacable eyes of the light woman, fills me with a dread I can't articulate or justify. The Broken Guardian, once a source of comfort, now feels like a chain around my neck. My Broken Guardian, my broken wing. My path. My choice. But was it?
As I finally collapse into my cot, the first hints of dawn creeping through the windows, sleep eludes me. The visage of the light woman, so similar to Sister Helena's, haunts the edge of my consciousness, her silent judgment a weight I'm not sure I can bear. Doubt, like a persistent shadow, clings to my thoughts, and for the first time in two years, I question the choice I made on that miserable day.
Was it really mine to make? Or have I been merely delaying the inevitable, hiding from a call that's as much a part of me as my faith? Was it a lack of faith, a fear of continued trials, that drove me to the life of a menial? Am I contently serving here, or am I hiding?
The questions churn in my mind, a tumultuous sea of uncertainty and fear, as I drift into a restless, uneasy sleep. The path ahead is shrouded in shadows, the light of my faith dimmed by the turmoil and doubt within.
Emperor… I am nothing, born from nothing, fallen from nothing, destined for nothing… why do you turn your gaze on me once more? Surely I am not worth looking upon… just a battered Aquila with a broken wing… The prayer dies, signing from my hands as I'm finally taken by the merciful blackness of the unconscious.
The corridors are a maze of shadows and echoes at this hour, the only light coming from the dim, flickering glow of the hazard lamps mounted at intervals along the walls. They cast an orange hue, painting everything in a wash of sepia tones that seem to drain the world of vitality. My legs are leaden, each step a monumental effort as I drag my cart behind me, its wheels squealing softly in protest. The soaked rags and empty soap containers make a dull, wet sound with every jolt and turn, a constant reminder of the long night's labor.
I'm so tired. My eyelids are heavy, fluttering with the desperate need for a sleep-cycle that began four hours ago. The Broken Guardian, always with me, feels unusually cold against my skin, a weight that's both comforting and a constant reminder of... of everything. I touch it with my chin for reassurance, whispering a silent prayer for strength to make it back without incident.
The thoroughfare I choose is one of the lesser-used paths, intended for servitors and menials like me, where the likelihood of encountering anyone of importance is slim. The silence here is profound, the kind that amplifies the smallest noise, making my cart's persistent squeak seem like a cacophony. I wince with each sound, even the groaning of my wiry muscles seems to echo in the dim.
Then, it happens. Turning a corner too sharply, not looking ahead in my fatigue-induced haze, my cart collides with something—or rather, someone. The impact is hard, jarring, and sends me stumbling forward, a gasp escaping my lips as I drop to my knees, the cart's contents clattering to the floor.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't see—please, I—" My words tumble out in a rush, a frantic apology as I brace for retribution. I don't dare look up, my forehead fixed to the ground, all around me the scattered tools of my trade. The thought of who I might have run into sends a spike of fear through my already exhausted body. Punishment is inevitable, harsh and swift for a menial who inconveniences someone of import.
But then, a voice, stern yet not unkind, cuts through the silence. "Child, look at me when you speak."
I freeze, the command compelling yet terrifying. Slowly, reluctantly, I raise my bald head, my eyes meeting the armored boots of the figure before me, then traveling upward, tracing the contours of power armor that speaks of battles fought and won, of a strength I can scarcely comprehend. It's only when I see her face, so strikingly familiar, that realization dawns.
Sister Helena.
My heart stops. She looks... she looks so much like her, the light woman from my visions, from that day that changed everything. Instinctively, my eyes dart away, shame and fear mingling in a choking tide. "S-Sister Helena, mi'lady, I... I am so sorry. I didn't mean to—"
Her expression is unreadable, a mask carved from duty and faith. "Aurora," she says, my name on her lips a weight of portent all its own. "You've been avoiding me."
Confusion wars with exhaustion. "Avoiding? I... I don't understand. I'm no longer a student, I wouldn't dare—"
She steps closer, the faint light casting shadows across her features. "How long will you refuse your destiny, child?" Her voice is a challenge, a call to something deep within me that I've tried to bury beneath layers of endless toil and stoic acceptance. "How long will you spurn her call?"
I blink, uncomprehending. "Her call? Sister, I don't—"
The slap comes without warning, a sharp crack of ceramite against skin and bone that sends me sprawling to the cold floor. Tears spring to my eyes, more from shock than pain. "You may lie to yourself, child, but do not presume to lie to me," Sister Helena's voice is a whip, sharp and precise.
I spit a mouthful of blood and dutifully return to Sister Helena, kneeling once more at her boots, whimpering softly. My whole body shakes with the twinges of overtaxed muscles and the sudden adrenaline shooting through my frayed nerves.
"You are reassigned to Chapel 74," she declares, "permanently," her tone leaving no room for argument or plea. "Under the direct service of the Order of the Sanctified Shield. You will move to the serf quarters beneath the chapel. This is your penance and your path back to His grace. Whether you choose to walk it willingly or suffer further is up to you."
The words hit me harder than her slap. Chapel 74. The very place I've spent two years avoiding, the place where the statue of Canoness Jessamine Hallas stands—the light woman, a reminder, like Valeria, of a destiny others seem determined to convince me is mine. The thought of being so close to that judgmental gaze every day, it's overwhelming. The shame, self-doubt, discontent—all the emotions I've managed to keep at bay with routine and toil, faith and service—surge back with a vengeance, threatening to drown me.
I choke on the emotion as it clogs my throat and manage a weak nod, unable to find my voice. Sister Helena steps back, her silhouette blending with the shadows of the corridor. "Your belongings will be moved by morning. Do not be late for your duties." And with that, she turns and walks away, her figure receding into the darkness. Her ceramite boots ring out against the flagstones like the bells of judgement day. Then she's gone, and I'm alone with the echoing silence and the weight of my new reality.
Pulling myself to my feet, I gather my scattered tools and the remnants of my dignity. The trek back to the menial warehouse is a blur, my mind reeling with what's just happened. Moving to the serf quarters beneath Chapel 74 means leaving behind the only life I've known since my amputation, the only sense of normalcy I've managed to carve out in this vast, indifferent institution. The place I found purpose, meaning, belonging… so why do I feel like I'm drowning…
The fear of change is a gnawing presence in my stomach, but it's the doubt that Sister Helena has planted in my mind that's most disconcerting. The idea that I've been running from a destiny I don't understand, that I've been chosen for something greater than the life of a menial, it's both terrifying and... enticing? No, I push the thought away. I've found peace in my service, however humble it may be. Haven't I?
By the time I reach the warehouse, my exhaustion has compounded with a deep-seated turmoil. I return my gear in silence, receiving nothing but a curt nod from the menial foreman behind the counter. My steps back to the dormitories are automatic, my body moving on muscle memory alone as my mind wrestles with Sister Helena's words.
'How long will you refuse your destiny? How long will you spurn her call?'
I don't have the answers. All I know is that the prospect of facing tomorrow, of beginning this new chapter under the implacable eyes of the light woman, fills me with a dread I can't articulate or justify. The Broken Guardian, once a source of comfort, now feels like a chain around my neck. My Broken Guardian, my broken wing. My path. My choice. But was it?
As I finally collapse into my cot, the first hints of dawn creeping through the windows, sleep eludes me. The visage of the light woman, so similar to Sister Helena's, haunts the edge of my consciousness, her silent judgment a weight I'm not sure I can bear. Doubt, like a persistent shadow, clings to my thoughts, and for the first time in two years, I question the choice I made on that miserable day.
Was it really mine to make? Or have I been merely delaying the inevitable, hiding from a call that's as much a part of me as my faith? Was it a lack of faith, a fear of continued trials, that drove me to the life of a menial? Am I contently serving here, or am I hiding?
The questions churn in my mind, a tumultuous sea of uncertainty and fear, as I drift into a restless, uneasy sleep. The path ahead is shrouded in shadows, the light of my faith dimmed by the turmoil and doubt within.
Emperor… I am nothing, born from nothing, fallen from nothing, destined for nothing… why do you turn your gaze on me once more? Surely I am not worth looking upon… just a battered Aquila with a broken wing… The prayer dies, signing from my hands as I'm finally taken by the merciful blackness of the unconscious.
Chapter 5: Path's Unseen
Chapter 5: Path's Unseen
Dawn's light, feeble and strained through the smog of Gilead Primus, does little to dispel the shadows that cling to the towering spires of the Adeptas Sororitas complex. I trudge towards the Adeptas Sororitas campus, my body aching for sleep I barely had. The night's work left me with barely two hours of rest, and each step feels heavier than the last.
Even so, the grandeur of the main facility raises the pace of the blood in my veins as it looms before me, a monolith of faith and might, its austere beauty a stark contrast to the underbelly of service tunnels through which I've always scurried, unseen, or the mere vast greatness of the generalist campus where my life as a student seems two lifetimes ago. The air here feels heavy, charged with the weight of countless prayers and the silent watch of martyrs carved into the very walls. They watch me, judge me, or perhaps that's just my exhaustion playing tricks on a mind already beset by doubts.
Familiar with the layout from below, I hesitate briefly before picking the administration building out from the others, one of the few I've entered. As I cross the threshold, a Sister Administrator, her gaze as sharp as the blade at her side, sizes me up with a glance that seems to pierce through to my very soul.
Silently I hand her my identi-chip, she scans it, raises an eyebrow at me in a non-comital manner one might examine something on the bottom of one's boot, interesting, but still on the bottom of said boot. Silently she hands me a grey robe trimmed with green and adorned with a golden sash. "Your garb, serf. Wear it with the humility befitting your station, additional uniforms will be sent to your habitation, go with the Lady's blessing."
The fabric feels alien in my hands, the colors signifying a role of which I have a mere cursory understanding and do not fully comprehend. "Sister, what does the green trim and this sash mean?" My voice falters and I fail to add 'and where am I supposed to go now?'
Her displeasure is palpable. "Have you so easily forgotten your teachings?"
"I—" fail to come up with a good response, "I was told to report here by Sister Helena," my exhausted brain managed in the vain hope that someone maybe knew to expect me.
The sister behind the desk grinds her teeth for a moment then steps around the desk, which is when I realize she has no legs. "This denotes your servitude to the Adeptas Sororitas." She points to the grey, "a great honor, one not easily earned," those words echoing so many familiar statements that have followed every move I made as a former underhiver made schola student were meant to shame me. I don't even blink. The years have hardened me to them and I am too tired to do the humble, unholier-than-thou act.
She seems to tire of waiting for me to abase myself and continues, "The green indicates your status as a serf. The gold sash," she pauses as if trying to wrap her mind around the idea that the gold sash is, in fact, meant for such as me, "means you've been honored to serve the Holy Lady directly. Now, report to the abbess in the chapel, serf." The dismissal is curt, a rebuke that sends heat flooding to my cheeks despite myself.
"Which chapel, Sister?" I ask, the question slipping out in my exhaustion before I realize my mistake, an artifact of being a menial only a few hours ago.
Her look could set a heretic aflame. "Are you simple or did you suffer a head injury? There is only one chapel to the Holy Lady within the Adeptas Sororitas complex. Do not waste more of my time."
Shame wraps around me like a shroud as I retreat, the robe clutched tight in my grasp. The hallways stretch before me, a labyrinth of devotion and discipline, leading me inexorably towards a destiny I've tried to eschew.
I dress on the way, realizing, as I hurry, that I have not the faintest idea of how the sash is meant to be worn. The chapel is open despite the early hour, the darkness of the outside world held at bay by the soft glow of candlelight within. Serfs line up at the door, a silent procession of duty. My heart hammers in my chest as I take my place among them. The gaze, frozen in stone, of the visage that haunts my troubled faith at the forefront of my tired mind even as I quickly undo the sash and attempt to copy what I can see of those around me.
There seem to be three kinds of serfs. The very old, the very young, and those like me, of any age or make but missing pieces. Several are more augmetic than flesh. My shoulder aches and I feel a painful twinge in an arm I no longer possess.
The abbess at the front of the queue, her visage etched with the trials of faith, seems to look through me, to the very core of my being. When my turn comes, I meet the gaze of the abbess, Sister Hardgrave, by the embroidery of her robe, and recognition flares in her ancient eyes. "Aurora, child, you've returned to us. Well, most of you in any case." Her voice is soft, yet it carries the weight of command and expectation.
She seems to see the confusion in my face and her smile reaches her eyes, "I was here when our Holy Lady first lead you into these halls, child." She nods and another sister steps forward as she pulls me out of line and to the side, quickly untying my sash with, old, unsteady hands. I blush in embarrassment as she reties it. "You walked right through the doors and up to the Holy Lady, I was surprised that no one stopped you, what with how out of place you looked, covered in grime and excrement as you were. But you just stood there, through the whole service, staring up at her." The old lady tutted and seemed to wave away the memory.
I speak, my mind once again not quite catching up to my lips, "you're the warm lady," I say then bite my lip, hard, trying to wake myself up. "I'm—I'm sorry, abbess, I—"
She waves a hand dismissively, "why you showed up four years ago, why you are here now, these things are not my concern. The Lady does as she pleases, Emperor Willing."
She assigns me to clean, polish, and anoint the statue of the Sacred Lady, Canoness Jessamine Hallas herself. My stomach knots at the thought of being so close to that towering effigy, to the light woman who guided me here four years ago. But the abbess's gaze tells me this is no mere assignment; it's a test, a challenge, and perhaps, a punishment.
With a nod, I accept my task, swallowing the protests that rise in my throat. Fear of Sister Helena's reaction mingles with a deeper, unspoken dread: that I am unworthy, that my presence here is a mistake, that the Holy Lady looks upon me with disapproval. Instead, I nod, acceptance heavy on my shoulders, and follow the others to the depths where my new duties await.
The sub-basement is a place of shadow and whispered echoes, the air thick with the scent of sacred oils and the metallic tang of incense. My hand, though accustomed to labor, feels clumsy as I'm handed the tools of a sacred task I barely comprehend. The serf who briefs me on my duties has eyes that speak of long service and unspoken stories. I try not to stare. She's more than a servitor but only barely. If she notices my impolite aversion, she does not mention it.
"Someone has been assigned to teach you," she murmurs before disappearing back into the supply room.
Returning to the chapel's main floor, the weight of the oils and brushes in the basket at my hand feels like carrying relics of unimaginable importance. Sister Helena awaits, her presence filling the vast emptiness of the chapel. In her simple robe, she's less the warrior I remember. Yet, the authority she commands is undiminished, her gaze piercing the veil of my uncertainty.
I've had the barest two hours of sleep, but some strength has returned and I haven't forgotten our last meeting.
I return her gaze.
"Sister Helena," I begin, my voice a thread of sound in the sacred expanse. "What is this? Is this my punishment?" The words hang between us, a plea for understanding I'm not sure I deserve.
Her response is a silence that stretches, taut and expectant. Then, with a motion that brooks no argument, she gestures for me to kneel beside her before the towering effigy of Canoness Jessamine Hallas. The statue looms, a silent sentinel of faith and sacrifice, and as I kneel, the weight of expectation—and perhaps my destiny—presses down upon me.
Sister Helena's prayer is a litany of devotion and supplication, a mantra that seems to resonate with the very stones of the chapel. I listen, caught in the spell of her reverence, until she adds a personal plea, "and I pray you inflict upon this stubborn and wayward soul the full weight of your presence as you guide her back to the path you've chosen for her. The Emperor Protects."
As the prayer concludes, confusion and a burgeoning defiance take root within me. "What path?" I demand, as Sister Helena's words continue to stir the tightening knot in my intestines. "Why do you waste your time on me?"
Everyone is staring now, even the abbess. I'm too tired, too angry, and in too much turmoil in a faith I thought I had to care.
Her query in response is a blade aimed at the heart of my denials and doubts. "Who guided you here, Aurora?" The question hangs between us, a challenge, a key to a door I've kept firmly closed. "Who. Led. You. Here?"
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, "I was five. I was starving. I had never even seen another human being other than my mother. I was probably hallucinating. Just because I can't explain the—"
The slap, when it comes, is a physical manifestation of the seething anger in Sister Helena's tone, and even without her armor, it sends me sprawling. The taste of iron and copper blooms in my mouth. "Do not lie to me," Sister Helena seethes, her disappointment like a second, equally physical blow. "Believe lies if you wish, but you voice them to my face at your own peril!"
All work in the chapel has ceased, even the quietly chanting Sisters of the Sacristy have stopped to watch. I hardly notice, my field of view, my focus, narrowed to a single person and the statue under which she stands, glowing like the light woman, in the light of its blazing Aquila.
I rise awkwardly with one arm, defiance kindling a fire within me. Anger burns in my chest, anger at Sister Helena, anger at the light woman. "What do you want from me!? I'm not lying!" I shout, my voice echoing off the stone walls, a declaration, a challenge.
"Who guided you here?" she presses, her eyes, not hard, not angry, not even cold, searching mine for truth.
"I don't know, I—" My protest is cut short as she moves. I raise my arm defensively against the coming slap. I'm barely aware of a small smile that twists the left side of her mouth as her slapping hand alters its parabola and a grip like iron fastens around my one wrist.
She pulls.
I stumble.
Half a step forward my momentum is abruptly reversed as Sister Helena's fist, a punch that carries the full weight of her conviction, lashes out on my armless side.
She doesn't pull the punch, not one bit.
I feel a simultaneous explosion of light, sound, pain, and a brief sensation of weightlessness as my feet leave the floor and all seventy pounds of me is thrown back down the aisle. My head snaps back against the red carpet and everything goes dark.
Dawn's light, feeble and strained through the smog of Gilead Primus, does little to dispel the shadows that cling to the towering spires of the Adeptas Sororitas complex. I trudge towards the Adeptas Sororitas campus, my body aching for sleep I barely had. The night's work left me with barely two hours of rest, and each step feels heavier than the last.
Even so, the grandeur of the main facility raises the pace of the blood in my veins as it looms before me, a monolith of faith and might, its austere beauty a stark contrast to the underbelly of service tunnels through which I've always scurried, unseen, or the mere vast greatness of the generalist campus where my life as a student seems two lifetimes ago. The air here feels heavy, charged with the weight of countless prayers and the silent watch of martyrs carved into the very walls. They watch me, judge me, or perhaps that's just my exhaustion playing tricks on a mind already beset by doubts.
Familiar with the layout from below, I hesitate briefly before picking the administration building out from the others, one of the few I've entered. As I cross the threshold, a Sister Administrator, her gaze as sharp as the blade at her side, sizes me up with a glance that seems to pierce through to my very soul.
Silently I hand her my identi-chip, she scans it, raises an eyebrow at me in a non-comital manner one might examine something on the bottom of one's boot, interesting, but still on the bottom of said boot. Silently she hands me a grey robe trimmed with green and adorned with a golden sash. "Your garb, serf. Wear it with the humility befitting your station, additional uniforms will be sent to your habitation, go with the Lady's blessing."
The fabric feels alien in my hands, the colors signifying a role of which I have a mere cursory understanding and do not fully comprehend. "Sister, what does the green trim and this sash mean?" My voice falters and I fail to add 'and where am I supposed to go now?'
Her displeasure is palpable. "Have you so easily forgotten your teachings?"
"I—" fail to come up with a good response, "I was told to report here by Sister Helena," my exhausted brain managed in the vain hope that someone maybe knew to expect me.
The sister behind the desk grinds her teeth for a moment then steps around the desk, which is when I realize she has no legs. "This denotes your servitude to the Adeptas Sororitas." She points to the grey, "a great honor, one not easily earned," those words echoing so many familiar statements that have followed every move I made as a former underhiver made schola student were meant to shame me. I don't even blink. The years have hardened me to them and I am too tired to do the humble, unholier-than-thou act.
She seems to tire of waiting for me to abase myself and continues, "The green indicates your status as a serf. The gold sash," she pauses as if trying to wrap her mind around the idea that the gold sash is, in fact, meant for such as me, "means you've been honored to serve the Holy Lady directly. Now, report to the abbess in the chapel, serf." The dismissal is curt, a rebuke that sends heat flooding to my cheeks despite myself.
"Which chapel, Sister?" I ask, the question slipping out in my exhaustion before I realize my mistake, an artifact of being a menial only a few hours ago.
Her look could set a heretic aflame. "Are you simple or did you suffer a head injury? There is only one chapel to the Holy Lady within the Adeptas Sororitas complex. Do not waste more of my time."
Shame wraps around me like a shroud as I retreat, the robe clutched tight in my grasp. The hallways stretch before me, a labyrinth of devotion and discipline, leading me inexorably towards a destiny I've tried to eschew.
I dress on the way, realizing, as I hurry, that I have not the faintest idea of how the sash is meant to be worn. The chapel is open despite the early hour, the darkness of the outside world held at bay by the soft glow of candlelight within. Serfs line up at the door, a silent procession of duty. My heart hammers in my chest as I take my place among them. The gaze, frozen in stone, of the visage that haunts my troubled faith at the forefront of my tired mind even as I quickly undo the sash and attempt to copy what I can see of those around me.
There seem to be three kinds of serfs. The very old, the very young, and those like me, of any age or make but missing pieces. Several are more augmetic than flesh. My shoulder aches and I feel a painful twinge in an arm I no longer possess.
The abbess at the front of the queue, her visage etched with the trials of faith, seems to look through me, to the very core of my being. When my turn comes, I meet the gaze of the abbess, Sister Hardgrave, by the embroidery of her robe, and recognition flares in her ancient eyes. "Aurora, child, you've returned to us. Well, most of you in any case." Her voice is soft, yet it carries the weight of command and expectation.
She seems to see the confusion in my face and her smile reaches her eyes, "I was here when our Holy Lady first lead you into these halls, child." She nods and another sister steps forward as she pulls me out of line and to the side, quickly untying my sash with, old, unsteady hands. I blush in embarrassment as she reties it. "You walked right through the doors and up to the Holy Lady, I was surprised that no one stopped you, what with how out of place you looked, covered in grime and excrement as you were. But you just stood there, through the whole service, staring up at her." The old lady tutted and seemed to wave away the memory.
I speak, my mind once again not quite catching up to my lips, "you're the warm lady," I say then bite my lip, hard, trying to wake myself up. "I'm—I'm sorry, abbess, I—"
She waves a hand dismissively, "why you showed up four years ago, why you are here now, these things are not my concern. The Lady does as she pleases, Emperor Willing."
She assigns me to clean, polish, and anoint the statue of the Sacred Lady, Canoness Jessamine Hallas herself. My stomach knots at the thought of being so close to that towering effigy, to the light woman who guided me here four years ago. But the abbess's gaze tells me this is no mere assignment; it's a test, a challenge, and perhaps, a punishment.
With a nod, I accept my task, swallowing the protests that rise in my throat. Fear of Sister Helena's reaction mingles with a deeper, unspoken dread: that I am unworthy, that my presence here is a mistake, that the Holy Lady looks upon me with disapproval. Instead, I nod, acceptance heavy on my shoulders, and follow the others to the depths where my new duties await.
The sub-basement is a place of shadow and whispered echoes, the air thick with the scent of sacred oils and the metallic tang of incense. My hand, though accustomed to labor, feels clumsy as I'm handed the tools of a sacred task I barely comprehend. The serf who briefs me on my duties has eyes that speak of long service and unspoken stories. I try not to stare. She's more than a servitor but only barely. If she notices my impolite aversion, she does not mention it.
"Someone has been assigned to teach you," she murmurs before disappearing back into the supply room.
Returning to the chapel's main floor, the weight of the oils and brushes in the basket at my hand feels like carrying relics of unimaginable importance. Sister Helena awaits, her presence filling the vast emptiness of the chapel. In her simple robe, she's less the warrior I remember. Yet, the authority she commands is undiminished, her gaze piercing the veil of my uncertainty.
I've had the barest two hours of sleep, but some strength has returned and I haven't forgotten our last meeting.
I return her gaze.
"Sister Helena," I begin, my voice a thread of sound in the sacred expanse. "What is this? Is this my punishment?" The words hang between us, a plea for understanding I'm not sure I deserve.
Her response is a silence that stretches, taut and expectant. Then, with a motion that brooks no argument, she gestures for me to kneel beside her before the towering effigy of Canoness Jessamine Hallas. The statue looms, a silent sentinel of faith and sacrifice, and as I kneel, the weight of expectation—and perhaps my destiny—presses down upon me.
Sister Helena's prayer is a litany of devotion and supplication, a mantra that seems to resonate with the very stones of the chapel. I listen, caught in the spell of her reverence, until she adds a personal plea, "and I pray you inflict upon this stubborn and wayward soul the full weight of your presence as you guide her back to the path you've chosen for her. The Emperor Protects."
As the prayer concludes, confusion and a burgeoning defiance take root within me. "What path?" I demand, as Sister Helena's words continue to stir the tightening knot in my intestines. "Why do you waste your time on me?"
Everyone is staring now, even the abbess. I'm too tired, too angry, and in too much turmoil in a faith I thought I had to care.
Her query in response is a blade aimed at the heart of my denials and doubts. "Who guided you here, Aurora?" The question hangs between us, a challenge, a key to a door I've kept firmly closed. "Who. Led. You. Here?"
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, "I was five. I was starving. I had never even seen another human being other than my mother. I was probably hallucinating. Just because I can't explain the—"
The slap, when it comes, is a physical manifestation of the seething anger in Sister Helena's tone, and even without her armor, it sends me sprawling. The taste of iron and copper blooms in my mouth. "Do not lie to me," Sister Helena seethes, her disappointment like a second, equally physical blow. "Believe lies if you wish, but you voice them to my face at your own peril!"
All work in the chapel has ceased, even the quietly chanting Sisters of the Sacristy have stopped to watch. I hardly notice, my field of view, my focus, narrowed to a single person and the statue under which she stands, glowing like the light woman, in the light of its blazing Aquila.
I rise awkwardly with one arm, defiance kindling a fire within me. Anger burns in my chest, anger at Sister Helena, anger at the light woman. "What do you want from me!? I'm not lying!" I shout, my voice echoing off the stone walls, a declaration, a challenge.
"Who guided you here?" she presses, her eyes, not hard, not angry, not even cold, searching mine for truth.
"I don't know, I—" My protest is cut short as she moves. I raise my arm defensively against the coming slap. I'm barely aware of a small smile that twists the left side of her mouth as her slapping hand alters its parabola and a grip like iron fastens around my one wrist.
She pulls.
I stumble.
Half a step forward my momentum is abruptly reversed as Sister Helena's fist, a punch that carries the full weight of her conviction, lashes out on my armless side.
She doesn't pull the punch, not one bit.
I feel a simultaneous explosion of light, sound, pain, and a brief sensation of weightlessness as my feet leave the floor and all seventy pounds of me is thrown back down the aisle. My head snaps back against the red carpet and everything goes dark.
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Chapter 6: The Agony of Truth – The Clarity of Pain
Chapter 6: The Agony of Truth – The Clarity of Pain
The light is too bright, too sharp, slicing through the darkness that cradles me. Pain greets me, that old blanket, familiar yet more intense than ever before. It claws at my jaw, a relentless, throbbing presence that anchors me to consciousness. I'm in the Medicae facility again, the sterile smell of antiseptics mingling with the scent of my own fear.
Straps bite into my skin, holding me down to the bed. Panic flutters in my chest, but then I see her—Valeria, her face as pale as her robe, her hands trembling as she prepares to set my jaw. The sight of her steadies me, even as I brace for the agony to come.
"No painkillers," she whispers, more to herself than to me, her eyes flicking to where Sister Helena stands, a silent sentinel by the door. The Sister's gaze is a tangible weight, pressing down with expectations I'm still struggling to understand.
Valeria's hands are gentle, a stark contrast to the brutality of the procedure. She apologizes with every touch, her voice a litany of whispered sorries that blend with my screams. Each attempt to align my broken jaw is a fresh hell, pain flaring bright and hot enough to burn away everything but the moment.
Through the haze of agony, I hear Valeria's pleas, her voice cracking as she begs Sister Helena for mercy. "Please, she's just a child. Let me give her the sacred administrations for the pain."
But the Sister's reply is ice, a cold dismissal that chills me even through the fire of my suffering. "She is strong. She is stubborn. She will endure." The she adds with a casual flippancy, "she has faith."
Endure. Faith. The words echo in my mind, a mantra that I cling to even as I hate it. Valeria works on, her movements becoming more assured, even as her face remains a mask of horror at what she's inflicting on me.
Finally, it's over. My jaw is set, encased in a brace that feels like a cage. The pain remains, a constant, unyielding companion, but it's no longer the all-consuming inferno. It's something I can live with, have to live with.
Valeria's question breaks the tense silence that follows. "What now? Sister Helena?" I can hear the quaver in her voice, see the sweat soaking her short hair and scalp.
The Sister's response is devoid of compassion. "Restore her to functionality. She has duties to attend."
Duties. The word feels hollow, empty. What duties could possibly matter now?
Valeria lies, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her as they stare down into mine and away from the door. "A day. She'll need a day to recover."
A lie, a small act of defiance, a small compassion. I want to thank her, but even thinking hurts. I settle for a look, hoping my gratitude can bridge the gap words can't cross.
"I'll return for her in the morning then, see to it she receives nothing for the pain, that is an order, Novitiate." The door to the exam room slides shut with the hiss of hydraulics and decontaminant spray.
Sister Helena's departure is a relief, a release of tension I hadn't fully appreciated until now. Valeria turns back to me, her expression one of mixed relief and sorrow. "I'm going to give you a sedative to make you sleep. It's not a painkiller," a tiny smile briefly turns her lips, and try to mirror it, recognizing the technicality, "I promise it'll help."
Sleep. The promise of oblivion is a siren's call, too tempting to resist. I muster a weak 'thank you', signing with my nearly immobilized hand, my world narrowing to the point of a needle, a sharp pinch, and then nothing but the welcoming, painless dark.
Sleep claims me, a merciful void where pain can't follow. For now, at least, I can escape. But the reality of my situation, of what awaits when I wake, lurks in the shadows of my mind, a nightmare that promises to be all too real and behind it all, the face of the light woman stares on.
Darkness.
The darkness lifts slowly, like smog at dawn, but the pain lingers, a cruel reminder of reality. My jaw throbs with a dull, relentless ache, each heartbeat a drum of agony in my face. The straps are gone, and in their place, a sense of vulnerability, as if I've been peeled open for the world to see.
Valeria's presence at my bedside is a small comfort, her face etched with worry and sleeplessness. Her presence a beacon in the sterile gloom of the Medicae ward. She moves with a that belies her exhaustion; her hands steady now as they bring a spoon to my lips. Soup, warm and bland, slides down my throat, each act of swallowing an exercise in endurance all its own.
"Why?" I manage, even the small motion of my hand sign enough to increase the pain radiating from my face.
Valeria pauses, her eyes meeting mine. "Why what, Aurora?"
'Why everything,' I want to shout. Why the pain, the confrontation, the refusal to numb it. Why Sister Helena's harsh methods, why the path she insists I'm denying. Why me? The questions swirl, formless and vast, but only one slips free.
"Why am I here?" It's not just the Medicae facility. It's broader, deeper. Why am I in this place, in this life, facing these trials? My hand shakes as the pain empties my adrenal glands once more.
She snorts and a half smile flickers across her concerned features, "That's what I'd like to know, what happened?" she asks once I've settled back against the pillow, her curiosity a gentle prod.
With battle-sign, I recount the events that led me here: the collision with Sister Helena, the confrontation, and the assignment that feels more like a curse. My gestures are sluggish, hindered by exhaustion and pain, but Valeria watches intently, her understanding clear in her eyes.
Valeria sets the spoon down, her gaze thoughtful. "Have you prayed about it?" The question is simple, but it strikes deep, finding the core of my turmoil.
I hadn't. Amidst the chaos, the pain, and the defiance, I hadn't turned to the one constant in my life. My faith, once as much a part of me as my own heartbeat, now feels distant, obscured by the shadow of my current ordeal.
"I'm scared," I admit, the words a bare flicker of my fingers. Scared of the answers, scared of what I might discover about myself and scared of the unknown.
Valeria's hand finds mine, her grip firm and reassuring. "It's okay to be scared, Aurora. But don't let fear keep you from seeking His guidance. Maybe it's time to reconsider some things. Like the augmetic." Her smile brightens a tad, "at least then you'd have two hands to defend your face." The humor is a gentle reminder that she knows how I feel about the idea and is making it from a place of care, not confrontation.
The suggestion hangs between us, an unspoken possibility that I'd dismissed outright before. My mind races, thoughts tangling with emotions I can barely name. Could I? Should I?
"I'll think about it," I sign, the battle-sign clumsy with my single hand. The gesture feels significant, a tentative step towards something new, something unknown. The Broken Guardian feels heavy around my neck.
Valeria smiles, again, a small, sad curve of her lips. "Let's get you cleaned up," she says, helping me off the bed with a gentle strength I desperately need.
As she helps me to wash, the pain a constant companion, I can't help but reflect on the journey that brought me here. The choices I've made, the paths I've taken, and the ones still ahead. Sister Helena's words echo in my mind, a challenge, a prophecy, a curse.
'Who guided you here?'
I'm not ready to face her again, not yet. But as Valeria helps me dress, her presence soothing even more than just my physical wounds, I realize that readiness is a luxury I may never have. The future is coming, with or without my consent.
The light is too bright, too sharp, slicing through the darkness that cradles me. Pain greets me, that old blanket, familiar yet more intense than ever before. It claws at my jaw, a relentless, throbbing presence that anchors me to consciousness. I'm in the Medicae facility again, the sterile smell of antiseptics mingling with the scent of my own fear.
Straps bite into my skin, holding me down to the bed. Panic flutters in my chest, but then I see her—Valeria, her face as pale as her robe, her hands trembling as she prepares to set my jaw. The sight of her steadies me, even as I brace for the agony to come.
"No painkillers," she whispers, more to herself than to me, her eyes flicking to where Sister Helena stands, a silent sentinel by the door. The Sister's gaze is a tangible weight, pressing down with expectations I'm still struggling to understand.
Valeria's hands are gentle, a stark contrast to the brutality of the procedure. She apologizes with every touch, her voice a litany of whispered sorries that blend with my screams. Each attempt to align my broken jaw is a fresh hell, pain flaring bright and hot enough to burn away everything but the moment.
Through the haze of agony, I hear Valeria's pleas, her voice cracking as she begs Sister Helena for mercy. "Please, she's just a child. Let me give her the sacred administrations for the pain."
But the Sister's reply is ice, a cold dismissal that chills me even through the fire of my suffering. "She is strong. She is stubborn. She will endure." The she adds with a casual flippancy, "she has faith."
Endure. Faith. The words echo in my mind, a mantra that I cling to even as I hate it. Valeria works on, her movements becoming more assured, even as her face remains a mask of horror at what she's inflicting on me.
Finally, it's over. My jaw is set, encased in a brace that feels like a cage. The pain remains, a constant, unyielding companion, but it's no longer the all-consuming inferno. It's something I can live with, have to live with.
Valeria's question breaks the tense silence that follows. "What now? Sister Helena?" I can hear the quaver in her voice, see the sweat soaking her short hair and scalp.
The Sister's response is devoid of compassion. "Restore her to functionality. She has duties to attend."
Duties. The word feels hollow, empty. What duties could possibly matter now?
Valeria lies, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her as they stare down into mine and away from the door. "A day. She'll need a day to recover."
A lie, a small act of defiance, a small compassion. I want to thank her, but even thinking hurts. I settle for a look, hoping my gratitude can bridge the gap words can't cross.
"I'll return for her in the morning then, see to it she receives nothing for the pain, that is an order, Novitiate." The door to the exam room slides shut with the hiss of hydraulics and decontaminant spray.
Sister Helena's departure is a relief, a release of tension I hadn't fully appreciated until now. Valeria turns back to me, her expression one of mixed relief and sorrow. "I'm going to give you a sedative to make you sleep. It's not a painkiller," a tiny smile briefly turns her lips, and try to mirror it, recognizing the technicality, "I promise it'll help."
Sleep. The promise of oblivion is a siren's call, too tempting to resist. I muster a weak 'thank you', signing with my nearly immobilized hand, my world narrowing to the point of a needle, a sharp pinch, and then nothing but the welcoming, painless dark.
Sleep claims me, a merciful void where pain can't follow. For now, at least, I can escape. But the reality of my situation, of what awaits when I wake, lurks in the shadows of my mind, a nightmare that promises to be all too real and behind it all, the face of the light woman stares on.
Darkness.
The darkness lifts slowly, like smog at dawn, but the pain lingers, a cruel reminder of reality. My jaw throbs with a dull, relentless ache, each heartbeat a drum of agony in my face. The straps are gone, and in their place, a sense of vulnerability, as if I've been peeled open for the world to see.
Valeria's presence at my bedside is a small comfort, her face etched with worry and sleeplessness. Her presence a beacon in the sterile gloom of the Medicae ward. She moves with a that belies her exhaustion; her hands steady now as they bring a spoon to my lips. Soup, warm and bland, slides down my throat, each act of swallowing an exercise in endurance all its own.
"Why?" I manage, even the small motion of my hand sign enough to increase the pain radiating from my face.
Valeria pauses, her eyes meeting mine. "Why what, Aurora?"
'Why everything,' I want to shout. Why the pain, the confrontation, the refusal to numb it. Why Sister Helena's harsh methods, why the path she insists I'm denying. Why me? The questions swirl, formless and vast, but only one slips free.
"Why am I here?" It's not just the Medicae facility. It's broader, deeper. Why am I in this place, in this life, facing these trials? My hand shakes as the pain empties my adrenal glands once more.
She snorts and a half smile flickers across her concerned features, "That's what I'd like to know, what happened?" she asks once I've settled back against the pillow, her curiosity a gentle prod.
With battle-sign, I recount the events that led me here: the collision with Sister Helena, the confrontation, and the assignment that feels more like a curse. My gestures are sluggish, hindered by exhaustion and pain, but Valeria watches intently, her understanding clear in her eyes.
Valeria sets the spoon down, her gaze thoughtful. "Have you prayed about it?" The question is simple, but it strikes deep, finding the core of my turmoil.
I hadn't. Amidst the chaos, the pain, and the defiance, I hadn't turned to the one constant in my life. My faith, once as much a part of me as my own heartbeat, now feels distant, obscured by the shadow of my current ordeal.
"I'm scared," I admit, the words a bare flicker of my fingers. Scared of the answers, scared of what I might discover about myself and scared of the unknown.
Valeria's hand finds mine, her grip firm and reassuring. "It's okay to be scared, Aurora. But don't let fear keep you from seeking His guidance. Maybe it's time to reconsider some things. Like the augmetic." Her smile brightens a tad, "at least then you'd have two hands to defend your face." The humor is a gentle reminder that she knows how I feel about the idea and is making it from a place of care, not confrontation.
The suggestion hangs between us, an unspoken possibility that I'd dismissed outright before. My mind races, thoughts tangling with emotions I can barely name. Could I? Should I?
"I'll think about it," I sign, the battle-sign clumsy with my single hand. The gesture feels significant, a tentative step towards something new, something unknown. The Broken Guardian feels heavy around my neck.
Valeria smiles, again, a small, sad curve of her lips. "Let's get you cleaned up," she says, helping me off the bed with a gentle strength I desperately need.
As she helps me to wash, the pain a constant companion, I can't help but reflect on the journey that brought me here. The choices I've made, the paths I've taken, and the ones still ahead. Sister Helena's words echo in my mind, a challenge, a prophecy, a curse.
'Who guided you here?'
I'm not ready to face her again, not yet. But as Valeria helps me dress, her presence soothing even more than just my physical wounds, I realize that readiness is a luxury I may never have. The future is coming, with or without my consent.
Chapter 7: Contemplations and Toil
Chapter 7: Contemplations and Toil
The chill of the chapel is a sharp contrast to the warmth of the dawn light filtering through the stained glass, casting fragmented colors over the stone floor and the towering statue of Canoness Jessamine Hallas. I'm drawn to it, a moth to a flame, the monumental representation of piety and strength. Yet the shadow it casts feels like it's enveloping me, a physical manifestation of the weight on my soul.
Sister Helena stands beneath it, a sentinel in white, her presence as unwavering as the stone saints that line this sacred hall. Her eyes find me, an unspoken summons that I can't ignore. With the basket of sacred implements in my grip, I move forward, each step a defiance of the exhaustion that clings like cobwebs to my mind.
We kneel together, the cold seeping through my robe, a penitent's discomfort. Sister Helena's voice fills the space, a cascade of faith and fervor, but when she prays for guidance, for me, her words twist in my gut. They're an accusation, a reminder of my unwilling journey here.
"Impress the path of His Will upon the spirit of this broken girl, crush her stubborn heart, banish her doubts, utterly wipe out all bastions of comfort behind which she cowers until nothing stands between your light and her soul, oh Holy Lady. The Emperor Protects."
We stand.
"Who guided you here?" Her question slices the air, a repeated challenge. I've dreaded it, the insistence on an answer I can't give. My hand, the only one I have left, raises in hesitant battle-sign. "I will pray and seek the answer," I sign back, my movements slow, heavy with the brace that cages my jaw.
She studies me, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze, before she nods, accepting my response, if only for now. When she does speak, her voice is a low rumble, a commanding presence that fills the vast emptiness of the chapel. "Start with the sanctified water," she instructs, her tone allowing no room for hesitation.
My fingers, encased in the fabric of my robe, brush against the tools laid out for today's sacred task. A variety of implements, each with a specific purpose in the ritual of cleaning, polishing, and anointing the statue, lie before me. My heart hammers in my chest, not from the physical pain that throbs incessantly at my jaw, but from the weight of expectation that presses down upon me and, as I stare up at the towering effigy, the enormity of my task.
I nod, reaching for the small, intricately carved vial filled with water that has been blessed by the Order's chief abbess. My hand, shaking slightly from a combination of fear and exhaustion, unscrews the cap. I dip a clean, white cloth into the vial, soaking a corner in the holy water.
"Begin at her feet, work upwards," Sister Helena directs, her gaze never leaving me. "Every inch must be cleansed, for it is through this act of devotion that we honor her legacy."
My movements are slow, deliberate, as I start at the base of the statue. The cold marble under my fingertips feels almost alive, imbued with the spirit of the Canoness herself. I trace the contours of her armored feet, the detailed carvings of her greaves, each movement a silent prayer for… for what?
Answers. But to what question?
Why?
Why me?
Why am I here?
Why did you bring me here?
I pause, watching as Sister Helena anoints the edges of her robe with the holy water and climbs to the top of the statue and begins to clean, working downwards with graceful flexibility.
"Next, the oil of anointment," Sister Helena continues. The vial of oil, a golden liquid that gleams in the candlelight, feels heavy in my hand. I pour a small amount onto a fresh cloth, the scent of sanctified herbs and flowers filling my nostrils, a sacred perfume that grounds me in the moment. I hand it up to Sister Helena.
With painstaking care, I polish the statue, the oil bringing a warm luster to the cold marble. Every stroke of the cloth is a testament to my faith, a silent plea for understanding, a pressing of oil and doubt alike. The detailed work is exhaustive, the crevices and folds of the Canoness's robes, the intricate patterns of her armor, each require careful attention, a dedication that I pour into every motion.
My fingers ache even more than my jaw, hours pass, my arm shakes. Sister Helena climbs down, her robe dripping sacred oil.
"Now, the litany of sanctification," Sister Helena says, her voice a solemn echo in the hallowed space. My heart skips a beat. Unable to speak, I raise my hand in battle sign, but my fingers refuse to make the complex, minute gestures. Sister Helena watches, her expression unreadable.
I lower my head and hand as it cramps painfully at my side. The look she gives me is unreadable, then she speaks. "Through the divine will of the Emperor, we consecrate this representation of Canoness Jessamine Hallas, the sanctified shield and guiding light of our Order. May her virtues be etched in our souls, and her strength be our bastion against the heretic, the xenos, and the daemon."
Sister Helena turns and her gaze pierces me once more. For a long moment I stand stock still, pierced by the dual gazes of the light woman and Sister Helena. Finally, she nods, a small gesture of approval that fills me with a sense of, if not accomplishment, then at least relief. "You honor her memory with your devotion," she says, her voice softer now, the faintest hint of warmth breaking through the stern exterior.
The statue of Canoness Jessamine Hallas stands resplendent, the morning light catching the polished surface, casting a radiant glow that seems to breathe life into the marble. For a moment, I allow myself to feel a connection to something greater, a lineage of faith and sacrifice that stretches beyond the confines of my own struggles.
My eyes meet Helena's and I don't feel in myself the same confidence I see in her. "What. Is. My. Path" I sign, each word a painful, twitching effort of overburdened tendons and tormented muscle.
Her response is immediate, her gaze not softening as her eyes bore into mine. "I haven't the faintest idea what your path is, child. I believe that the Holy Lady brought you here for a purpose, and I can't imagine she went to all that trouble just to find someone to shine her plinth."
Her words, meant to comfort or perhaps unsettle, leave me adrift. I glance down at the Broken Guardian hanging from my neck, then back at her. A connection, a parallel that I can't quite grasp, seems to hover just beyond my reach.
She walks past, depositing her outer robe, soaked in oil, in my basket. I watch as she goes, greeting the abbes as she walks amongst the other serfs, checking their work and offering corrections and encouragement.
The statue shines, a testament to our labor, but the shadow it casts feels like it's grown, an ever-present reminder of the questions that linger in my heart. I don't trust my hand to grip the basket yet, instead I find it running idly over the Broken Guardian hanging like a stone about my neck.
"Perhaps both of us need new wings…" The thought escapes me, a silent whisper in the sanctity of the chapel.
The chill of the chapel is a sharp contrast to the warmth of the dawn light filtering through the stained glass, casting fragmented colors over the stone floor and the towering statue of Canoness Jessamine Hallas. I'm drawn to it, a moth to a flame, the monumental representation of piety and strength. Yet the shadow it casts feels like it's enveloping me, a physical manifestation of the weight on my soul.
Sister Helena stands beneath it, a sentinel in white, her presence as unwavering as the stone saints that line this sacred hall. Her eyes find me, an unspoken summons that I can't ignore. With the basket of sacred implements in my grip, I move forward, each step a defiance of the exhaustion that clings like cobwebs to my mind.
We kneel together, the cold seeping through my robe, a penitent's discomfort. Sister Helena's voice fills the space, a cascade of faith and fervor, but when she prays for guidance, for me, her words twist in my gut. They're an accusation, a reminder of my unwilling journey here.
"Impress the path of His Will upon the spirit of this broken girl, crush her stubborn heart, banish her doubts, utterly wipe out all bastions of comfort behind which she cowers until nothing stands between your light and her soul, oh Holy Lady. The Emperor Protects."
We stand.
"Who guided you here?" Her question slices the air, a repeated challenge. I've dreaded it, the insistence on an answer I can't give. My hand, the only one I have left, raises in hesitant battle-sign. "I will pray and seek the answer," I sign back, my movements slow, heavy with the brace that cages my jaw.
She studies me, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze, before she nods, accepting my response, if only for now. When she does speak, her voice is a low rumble, a commanding presence that fills the vast emptiness of the chapel. "Start with the sanctified water," she instructs, her tone allowing no room for hesitation.
My fingers, encased in the fabric of my robe, brush against the tools laid out for today's sacred task. A variety of implements, each with a specific purpose in the ritual of cleaning, polishing, and anointing the statue, lie before me. My heart hammers in my chest, not from the physical pain that throbs incessantly at my jaw, but from the weight of expectation that presses down upon me and, as I stare up at the towering effigy, the enormity of my task.
I nod, reaching for the small, intricately carved vial filled with water that has been blessed by the Order's chief abbess. My hand, shaking slightly from a combination of fear and exhaustion, unscrews the cap. I dip a clean, white cloth into the vial, soaking a corner in the holy water.
"Begin at her feet, work upwards," Sister Helena directs, her gaze never leaving me. "Every inch must be cleansed, for it is through this act of devotion that we honor her legacy."
My movements are slow, deliberate, as I start at the base of the statue. The cold marble under my fingertips feels almost alive, imbued with the spirit of the Canoness herself. I trace the contours of her armored feet, the detailed carvings of her greaves, each movement a silent prayer for… for what?
Answers. But to what question?
Why?
Why me?
Why am I here?
Why did you bring me here?
I pause, watching as Sister Helena anoints the edges of her robe with the holy water and climbs to the top of the statue and begins to clean, working downwards with graceful flexibility.
"Next, the oil of anointment," Sister Helena continues. The vial of oil, a golden liquid that gleams in the candlelight, feels heavy in my hand. I pour a small amount onto a fresh cloth, the scent of sanctified herbs and flowers filling my nostrils, a sacred perfume that grounds me in the moment. I hand it up to Sister Helena.
With painstaking care, I polish the statue, the oil bringing a warm luster to the cold marble. Every stroke of the cloth is a testament to my faith, a silent plea for understanding, a pressing of oil and doubt alike. The detailed work is exhaustive, the crevices and folds of the Canoness's robes, the intricate patterns of her armor, each require careful attention, a dedication that I pour into every motion.
My fingers ache even more than my jaw, hours pass, my arm shakes. Sister Helena climbs down, her robe dripping sacred oil.
"Now, the litany of sanctification," Sister Helena says, her voice a solemn echo in the hallowed space. My heart skips a beat. Unable to speak, I raise my hand in battle sign, but my fingers refuse to make the complex, minute gestures. Sister Helena watches, her expression unreadable.
I lower my head and hand as it cramps painfully at my side. The look she gives me is unreadable, then she speaks. "Through the divine will of the Emperor, we consecrate this representation of Canoness Jessamine Hallas, the sanctified shield and guiding light of our Order. May her virtues be etched in our souls, and her strength be our bastion against the heretic, the xenos, and the daemon."
Sister Helena turns and her gaze pierces me once more. For a long moment I stand stock still, pierced by the dual gazes of the light woman and Sister Helena. Finally, she nods, a small gesture of approval that fills me with a sense of, if not accomplishment, then at least relief. "You honor her memory with your devotion," she says, her voice softer now, the faintest hint of warmth breaking through the stern exterior.
The statue of Canoness Jessamine Hallas stands resplendent, the morning light catching the polished surface, casting a radiant glow that seems to breathe life into the marble. For a moment, I allow myself to feel a connection to something greater, a lineage of faith and sacrifice that stretches beyond the confines of my own struggles.
My eyes meet Helena's and I don't feel in myself the same confidence I see in her. "What. Is. My. Path" I sign, each word a painful, twitching effort of overburdened tendons and tormented muscle.
Her response is immediate, her gaze not softening as her eyes bore into mine. "I haven't the faintest idea what your path is, child. I believe that the Holy Lady brought you here for a purpose, and I can't imagine she went to all that trouble just to find someone to shine her plinth."
Her words, meant to comfort or perhaps unsettle, leave me adrift. I glance down at the Broken Guardian hanging from my neck, then back at her. A connection, a parallel that I can't quite grasp, seems to hover just beyond my reach.
She walks past, depositing her outer robe, soaked in oil, in my basket. I watch as she goes, greeting the abbes as she walks amongst the other serfs, checking their work and offering corrections and encouragement.
The statue shines, a testament to our labor, but the shadow it casts feels like it's grown, an ever-present reminder of the questions that linger in my heart. I don't trust my hand to grip the basket yet, instead I find it running idly over the Broken Guardian hanging like a stone about my neck.
"Perhaps both of us need new wings…" The thought escapes me, a silent whisper in the sanctity of the chapel.
Chapter 8: Passing
Chapter 8: Passing
The cold stone floor of Chapel 74 chills my knees as I kneel, scrubbing the intricate carvings at the base of a towering statue of the Emperor Resplendent. My hand aches from hours of labor, the rag slipping occasionally from my grasp as sweat and holy water mingle on my palm. The scent of sanctified oils and incense hangs heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the sacredness of this place. Around me, the chapel looms, its vast arches and ornate stained-glass windows casting a somber, kaleidoscopic light across the floor.
Sister Helena's voice cuts through the silence like a blade, sharp and unyielding. "Aurora, what are you doing?"
I flinch, my grip tightening on the rag. "Scrubbing the base, Sister Helena," I sign with trembling fingers, my jaw still too painful to speak.
"Is that all you are doing? Or are you seeking something more in this task?" Her eyes bore into mine, searching for something I am not sure I possess.
I hesitate, then sign slowly, "I am trying to honor the Emperor with my work."
Her gaze doesn't soften. "Are you, now? Or are you hiding from your true purpose, cowering behind these menial tasks because you fear what you might become?"
Her words sting, and I lower my eyes, my hand moving mechanically over the cold stone. The doubts gnawing at my mind resurface with each stroke, my thoughts a tangled mess of faith and fear. The memory of the light woman haunts me, her spectral figure a constant presence in my dreams.
"Who brought you here, Aurora?" Sister Helena's voice is relentless.
I pause, my hand stilling. "The light woman," I sign, my movements slow and deliberate.
"Do you truly believe that? Or is it just a convenient story to justify your fear?" Her tone is a lash, each word striking with precision.
I don't answer, can't answer. The truth is elusive, slipping through my grasp like the holy water from the rag. I resume scrubbing, the ache in my hand a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my heart.
The hours bleed together into days that pass as a haze of monotony, pain and the growing turmoil of my soil. Tasks come in shifts and when my knees feel they can't take another day sacrificed on the marbled and inlaid floors, I'm moved to polishing the thousand brass candelabras that line the walls of the chapel. Each one stands taller than I do, their surfaces dulled by time and use. I climb a small ladder, the steps cold and unforgiving under my bare, calloused feet, and begin to polish, the cloth moving in slow, repetitive circles.
Sister Helena watches me from below, her presence as constant and oppressive as the weight of worry that hangs over my thoughts. "Do you pray as you work, Aurora?"
I nod, signing, "Yes, Sister Helena."
"And what do you pray for? Clarity? Strength? Or just an end to your suffering?"
Her questions pierce me, days pass between them, and yet each time they're a needle threading through the fabric of my doubts. "I pray for guidance," I sign, my movements hesitant.
"Guidance? From whom? The Emperor? The light woman? Or are you just whispering empty words to the void?"
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away, focusing on the task at hand. The brass begins to gleam under my efforts, reflecting the fractured light from the stained glass windows. I pour all my frustration, all my confusion into the work, each polished surface a small victory over the chaos within.
Days bleed together into months that pass in growing turmoil and a darkness not reflected in the polished surfaces of each great brass column. Just when I think polish fumes from the brass would kill what remained of my sense of smell, I'm transferred again, this time to sweeping the vast expanse of the chapel floor. The broom is taller than I am, its bristles worn and frayed. I move methodically, each sweep a prayer, each gathering of dust a penance. The echo of a hundred brooms against the stone floor is a lonely, roaring sound, magnified by the cavernous space around me.
As I work, Sister Helena's voice echoes in expanse. No one stops, no one takes notice, everyone knows this torment is mine alone, a constant companion to my thoughts. "Do you ever think about why you are here, Aurora? Why the light woman chose you?"
I nod, signing, "Every day."
"And what conclusion have you reached? That you are special? That you have a specific purpose? Or are you just a frightened child hiding behind words like hallucination and dream?"
Her words are a mirror, reflecting back the uncertainty and fear I try so hard to hide, to resolve, to defeat. "I don't know," I sign, my hand trembling. "I just want to serve."
"To serve or to hide? There is a difference, Aurora. A vast, yawning chasm between true service of the devout and the cowardice of hiding from one's true path."
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat almost too painful to bear. The truth is, I don't know anymore. I thought I knew. I thought I was at peace. I thought I reached faithful contment. I rose from the refuse of the underhive to a scholam student. I was given the name, Progena. Then I fell to menial, and yet I fell to a station so high above where I began… what right do I have to claim anything more than the broken existence I now hold? And yet her words haunt and poke and burn against my soul.
"You think too much, child." Her words are not accusatory, simply factual, "a child's faith is pure, unquestioning, yours is tepid, thoughtful. You will drown in those thoughts if you linger forever." A warm but firm hand presses down on my good shoulder, "blessed is the mind too small for doubts."
I'm too tired to reply.
Time passes. I've stopped keeping track of its comings and goings. I'm tending to the altar, now, a sacred duty that fills me with a mixture of awe and dread. The altar is a massive slab of marble, adorned with relics and icons, inlaid with prayers, worn with the fingerprints of supplicants, each one a testament to the faith and sacrifice of those who came before. I move carefully, reverently, my hand steady despite the fatigue that weighs down my limbs.
Sister Helena stands beside me, her visits still frequent, her attentions unwavering in the face of passing time. She stands, she watches, her gaze never leaving my face. "Do you see yourself here, Aurora? At this altar, offering your prayers, your devotion? Or do you see only the dust and the grime, the endless tasks that fill your days?"
I look at the altar, the sacred relics, the icons of faith, and feel a stirring deep within me. "I don't know," I sign, my heart heavy with the weight of my uncertainty.
"Then pray, Aurora. Pray for the strength to see beyond the dust and the grime, to find your true path. The Emperor protects, but you must be willing to follow where He leads."
But where did He lead? And where did I fall off that path?
My doubts find me even in dreams…
The day of the Sanguinala celebrations begins like any other, with the weight of the chapel's light serving only to deepen the shadows in my soul. My feet move mechanically, treading aimlessly over the smooth cold floor. Sister Helena's harsh words echo in my mind, a drumbeat now that plays in both waking and sleeping moments not filled with the fading relief of harsh toil.
When my feet run out of floor I look up and find myself on the main balcony, high above the chapel floor and empty. The wind is fierce and cold, cutting through my thin robes as I stand on the edge, looking down at the hive city. The lights of the Sanguinala celebrations glitter far below, but they seem distant, unattainable. I clutch the Broken Guardian tightly, its sharp edges digging into my skin, grounding me in the reality of my pain and despair.
"It I drop you… would you fly?" I whisper to it.
I hold it out over the edge, my heart pounding in my chest.
"If we fall, would you catch me, this time? Would you throw yourself into the empty air to save me as I saved you?"
The abyss below calls to me, promising an end to the guilt, the crushing expectations, the feeling of being lost and far from the Emperor's light. I edge closer, the wind pulling at me, the city below a chaotic blur of lights and noise.
"Aurora!"
Valeria's voice cuts through the roar of the wind, startling me. I turn to see her standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock and concern. She steps onto the balcony, her expression a mix of fear and determination.
"What are you doing up here?" she asks, her voice urgent. "I saw you in the stairwell and you didn't answer. You should be at the Sanguinala celebrations."
I lower the Broken Guardian, my heart racing with adrenaline, my mind suddenly full of wakefulness. "I didn't think anyone would find me," I say, my voice trembling over the wind. "I don't belong here, Valeria."
Valeria steps closer, her eyes searching mine. "Why would you think that?" she asks, her voice gentle but firm. "Aurora… why are you up here, alone?"
Tears blur my vision as I look away, the city lights below flickering like distant stars. "I can't live with the weight of guilt and expectation," I say, my voice breaking. "I feel empty, Valeria. Even the Sanguinala celebrations did nothing to make me feel closer to the Emperor's light."
Valeria's eyes widen, her face pale in the dim light. "Aurora, don't say that!" Her voice shakes. "You're not alone. I… If you felt this way why didn't you tell me?"
"What would I say?" I whisper, my voice raw with emotion. "That I doubt everything? That Sister Helena keeps questioning me, and now I question myself? That I don't know what to believe anymore?" My whispering dies in the wind as I mumble, "that I feel so completely alone?"
Valeria reaches out, her hand gentle on my shoulder. "You're not alone," she repeats, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "We all have doubts, Aurora. We all struggle. But you don't have to face it alone. I'm here. We're all here."
I shake my head, stepping back from her touch. "Don't abbess me," I say, my chest tight with emotion. "I'm done, Valeria. I'm not strong enough to just push blindly through this anymore. Faith was all I had, and I don't think I even have that anymore."
Valeria's grip tightens on my shoulder, her presence a lifeline in the storm, one I'm refusing to cling to. "You are strong," she says, her as firm as the flagstones below. "You've survived so much already. Emperor's wrath, Aurora, you've fought through more than anyone I know, at least anyone our age and most of the adults. The Emperor's light is within you, even if you can't see it right now. Trust in that light, and trust in yourself."
Her words strike a chord, but the darkness within me is overwhelming. "If you really think there's nothing left for you, then you have no excuse not to apply for an augmetic and try coming back to the Schola," Valeria urges, her voice insistent. "Or if you really want to die, request to become a servitor. At least your life will have continuous meaning and—"
"Servitor!?" I hiss, my anger flaring. "You think I should become a mindless, metal, meat sack like some criminal? That's worse than death!"
Valeria's eyes harden, her expression fierce. "It's better than the cowardice of suicide," she snaps. "It is better to die for the Emperor than live for one's self," she begins the quote and my hand comes up and swats her arm off my shoulder.
"How dare you!" I scream, my voice raw with pain and rage. "You don't know what it's like! Would you have the courage to end your own life?"
"Is that what you think this is, courage!? The courage to end your life, Aurora? Or is this just another way to avoid facing your fears?" Valeria's gaze doesn't waver. "I don't know how you feel inside," she admits, her voice softening. "But I do know that you don't even have the courage to come back to school and accept an augmetic. You're letting your fear and doubt control you. You're letting Lucius control you."
"Lucius?" I spit, the name, one I haven't used or even thought of and yet its very utterance leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. "This isn't about him."
"Isn't it?" Valeria counters, her eyes burning with intensity. "He took your arm that day, Aurora. Are you going to let him take your faith, too? Is that the decision you're making here?"
I turn away, unable to face her, looking back at the abyss below, my heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else. The lights of the Sanguinala celebrations seem to mock me, a world of joy and light that I can never be a part of.
I'm about to speak, to say something—anything—when I see a shadow moving quickly towards us. My blood runs cold as I recognize Sister Helena striding purposefully, her face a mask of stern determination. Panic wells up inside me, and I know Valeria can see it on my face because she turns around in confusion, following my gaze.
"Sister Helena?" She speaks in astonishment, "what are you—"
Before she can finish, Sister Helena is upon us. Her hand slams into my chest, shoving me backward and pinning me against the balcony railing. The cold stonework bites into my back, and fear constricts my throat.
"For years I've checked up on you." She snarls with a dreadful smile, "for months I've stalked your every waking moment. I know a coward when I see one, Aurora." Helena taunts, her voice dripping with contempt. "But it seems I overestimated you. I didn't think you were such a coward as to end your own life."
The pressure of her palm against my sternum stifles any response I might have given.
Helena eyes lock on mine. "You don't even have the resolve to jump, do you? You really are a pathetic child, Aurora Progena."
"Sister Helena, stop!" Valeria's voice is frantic. "She really was going to jump! I was talking her down!" Valeria tries to intervene, reaching for me, but Helena swats her aside. Her grip on my hair tightens, and she lifts me up, dangling me over the edge of the balcony.
She drops me.
My scream pierces the night air as I desperately grab the railing, my fingers clinging to the cold stone, my feet finding purchase on the ornamental relief of The Emperor's radiant crown.
"Sister Helena, what are you doing?" Valeria cries, rushing forward again. This time, Helena kicks her in the chest, sending her sprawling to the floor, with a woosh as the breath leaves her lungs.
I hang there, terror coursing through me. "Please, don't," I sob, my voice and my arm shaking violently in the wind.
"Why don't you let go?" Helena's voice is icy. "If you were really going to jump, why are you clinging to the edge? A coward to the end? At least jump and make the decision your own."
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I don't want to die. The fear of death, of what might come after with my faith in tatters, paralyzes me. I want to live, to find a way through this darkness.
Helena's fingers pry mine from the railing one by one. "You can't even let go now, can you?" she sneers. "You have no resolve, no faith. You're worthless."
"Sister Helena, stop! Please!" Valeria's voice is a desperate gasp as she tries to crawl towards us. "She needs help, not this!"
Helena's hand moves to mine on the railing, her grip on my fingers is relentless. "I have faith," she says, and with each word she removes a finger from the rail. Her voice calm and resolute. "Faith that the Light Woman has a purpose for you, greater than being a stain on the flagstones."
And then she lifts the last to fingers and lets go.
I fall, the wind roaring in my ears, eating my scream. The world blurs, the lights of the Sanguinala celebrations swirling into a chaotic mess. I reach out, desperately trying to grasp something, anything, to stop the fall.
The last thing I see is the cold, indifferent smog of Gilead's sky above me, and then…
Darkness…
Light!
Blinding, searing light that makes me squint and blink. As my vision clears, the light resolves into the image of the light woman standing over me. For a moment, my heart leaps. She's here. She's really here. She's—
The vision fades, replaced by Sister Helena's stern face, her eyes boring into mine as if searching my very soul. The cold flagstones beneath me are unforgiving, cold.
"So, for six months now you have chaffed under my hand, deflected my counsel, avoided my gaze, child. Are you quite done with your pity party and ready to live for the Emperor again?" Her voice is as cold as the stone, devoid of sympathy.
I swallow, my throat dry and raw. Staring up at the chapel above me, far above, the balcony just visible as a tiny jutting of stone on stone. I glance around at the flagstones where I lie, alive, somehow. "Y-yes?" I manage to stammer, my mind struggling to process the fact that I am not dead, not a broken, lifeless heap on the ground.
Sister Helena's expression remains unchanged. "All the important buildings, where important and possibly intoxicated individuals might be carousing, have grav-field generators near open-air access points such as balconies. It cuts down on accidental deaths and assassinations."
Her explanation leaves me bewildered, my thoughts a jumble. "I... I don't understand."
"You fell a grand total of twenty feet, passed out, and gently floated the rest of the way to the ground," Helena says, her tone almost dismissive.
Before I can fully grasp the implications, Valeria rushes up to me, her face a mix of relief and fury. She's about to hug me, then stops, her hand whipping out to slap me across the face. The sting is sharp, immediate, and tears spring to my eyes.
"How could you?" Valeria screams through her tears. "You had no right to put me through that!" Then, without warning, she hugs me fiercely, her sobs shaking her whole body. "I was so scared," she whispers into my shoulder.
I hug her back, my own tears falling freely now. "I'm so glad to be here with you, Valeria. Alive."
We hold each other for a moment, a fragile bubble of comfort and relief in the midst of the storm. But Sister Helena's voice cuts through the moment, pulling us back to the harsh reality.
"Enough," she says, separating us with a firm hand. "Valeria, return to the Sanguinala celebrations. Aurora and I have business to attend to."
Valeria hesitates, her eyes filled with worry, but she obeys, casting one last glance back at me before disappearing down the corridor.
Helena turns to me, her expression unreadable. "It's time you came before the abbess and made a case for returning to your path."
I nod, a steely resolve hardening within me. Where doubt and uncertainty once lay I feel the beginnings of stability and strength. I've been running, hiding from my fears, but no more. I will accept an augmetic and return to the scholam as a student. I will go wherever the Emperor takes me. I will endure any hardship. I will live, and not for myself, no matter what. The Emperor protects.
We walk in silence, the weight of what is to come pressing down on me. The chapel looms larger, the stone walls closing in as we approach the abbess's chamber. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing like a drum in the vast, empty corridors.
Finally, we stand before the abbess. Her gaze is piercing, her presence commanding. I take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage I have left.
"I want to return as a student," I say, my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at my insides. "And I am ready to receive an augmetic replacement limb. I know now I was wrong to—"
The abbess holds up a hand and I fall silent as she studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, she smiles. "I am delighted, Aurora. I have believed from the beginning that you were selected by our sacred lady for something special. Ever since she led you to these halls."
Hope blooms in my chest, a fragile, flickering flame. The abbess turns to Sister Helena, her approval clear. "Aurora should be given an augmetic arm and placed back into class immediately, perhaps even on the path to sis—."
But before I can fully grasp the abbess's words, Sister Helena steps forward, her face a mask of defiance, her tone sharp as she interrupts the abbess. "I object."
Her words shatter the fragile hope I've just begun to nurture, leaving me reeling. The abbess's eyes widen in surprise, her gaze shifting between us.
Helena's voice is firm, unyielding. "Aurora's path requires more than just an augmetic limb. It requires a resolve she has not yet demonstrated, courage she clearly doesn't have, and strength of character she's failed to grow."
The abbess's expression hardens, her approval replaced by a steely determination. "Explain yourself, Sister Helena."
Helena's gaze locks onto mine, her eyes burning with an intensity that makes my heart clench. "She has not yet faced her true fears. She has no faith, no belief."
"I do have—"
"You!" Helena's voice is harder than a physical blow as she whirls on me, "you believe in the Emperor? Good for you, Aurora! Even the Daemons believe and tremble. The only thing that makes you marginally better than chaos spawn is that the only servant of the Emperor you've tried to kill so far is yourself."
The abbess' eyes widen in astonishment, "she attempted—"
"Yes," Helena nods and I feel her grip on my shoulder like a vice no weaker than the painful crushing I feel in my own chest. "The stupidity of a child, perhaps. But to return her to Scholam, where she can infect the minds of others with her lack of faith, her self-centered depression, her sniveling, cowardly, woe-is-me attitude? The scholam isn't for philosophical crybabies."
"You did this to me!" I twist out of Helena's grasp and shout with every ounce of anger I can muster, "I was happy, content, serving the Emperor as a menial. You put these doubts in my head. You came, day in, day out, taunting, questioning, beating me when all I wanted was to serve alongside thousands of others!"
Helena sneers sarcastically, "blessed is the mind too small for doubts."
"You opened my mind!" I can hardly hear her, the blood is thundering so loudly in my ears, my missing arm aches, "I had faith, faith that you questioned, for months, and forced those questions into my head. You pushed me to that ledge, and you threw me off, literally!"
Helena laughs in my face, bending down to my level with a leer, "Oh? Suddenly developing a spine now? You had all those thoughts already; I just gave them a voice. Having the thoughts at all is your sin, you ungrateful, unworthy, unrepentant fool."
"Enough!" The Abbess is standing now, her voice like quiet thunder rolling over us with the authority of the Emperor himself. "I presume this theater has a point, Sister Helena? One we might come to speedily!"
Helena bows, "yes abbess. I invoke my right to tithe this child."
"You what?" The abbess sits once more, confusion crumpling her old features.
"She what?" I'm not at all familiar with what was being asked but not liking it one bit.
"With your leave I make Aurora Progena my bond, my serf, a member of my house. It is within my privilege by rank and rite." Helena returned the Abesss' hard stare with her own, "if our sacred lady has a purpose for her, let Aruroa convince us. I am no less swayed by this child's miraculous coming to us than you, Sister Gloriana," Helena cocked her head to the side, "if our sacred lady has a path for her to walk, where better to walk it than at my side? I will see to her… education."
The abbess considers her words, her face a mask of contemplation. The silence stretches on, each second a dagger in my heart.
My whole body is trembling.
How is death worse than whatever comes from this?
Or is it all true... Is that very thought the reason that I'm not worthy?
I just want to disappear and hide in my pipe and… and suddenly I think of my mother. My mother served the emperor all her life and lived with nothing, nothing but me. She had faith. She didn't stray from her path. She raised me with nothing, in nothing, nothing but faith.
Where did I lost that great faith?
Where did I failed to make her faith my own?
I shut my mouth and drop to my knees, "my abbess," I place my face to the floor, "forgive me, I have displayed a great lack of faith and will do anything to make up for it. My life is for the Emperor. Do with it as you will."
Finally, the abbess nods. "Very well." She stands and moves out from behind her desk, coming to stand before Sister Helena who bows her head respectfully. "I have not ever had a sister invoke a tithe in my lifetime." She raises Helena's chin and stares into her eyes, "you are taking from that which is the Emperor's own, and tithing it to your account. You, and you alone, shall bear the responsibility for what becomes of this life."
"I shall bear it," Helena confirms.
The abbess raises her eyebrows and shakes her head slowly, "then so be it. I will draft the appropriate paperwork, you may take your tithe and go, this life is given to you to use as you see fit for His glory."
"The Emperor Protects," Helena makes the sign of the aquila.
The abbess returns it, "He protects his faithful," she echoes.
I rise from the floor, clutching the broken guardian against my chest and follow as Sister Helena beckons me to follow her. I vow to myself in that moment that I will follow her, into anything, as though she were the Emperor himself, and I will live and prove myself worthy of my mother's faith.
The cold stone floor of Chapel 74 chills my knees as I kneel, scrubbing the intricate carvings at the base of a towering statue of the Emperor Resplendent. My hand aches from hours of labor, the rag slipping occasionally from my grasp as sweat and holy water mingle on my palm. The scent of sanctified oils and incense hangs heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the sacredness of this place. Around me, the chapel looms, its vast arches and ornate stained-glass windows casting a somber, kaleidoscopic light across the floor.
Sister Helena's voice cuts through the silence like a blade, sharp and unyielding. "Aurora, what are you doing?"
I flinch, my grip tightening on the rag. "Scrubbing the base, Sister Helena," I sign with trembling fingers, my jaw still too painful to speak.
"Is that all you are doing? Or are you seeking something more in this task?" Her eyes bore into mine, searching for something I am not sure I possess.
I hesitate, then sign slowly, "I am trying to honor the Emperor with my work."
Her gaze doesn't soften. "Are you, now? Or are you hiding from your true purpose, cowering behind these menial tasks because you fear what you might become?"
Her words sting, and I lower my eyes, my hand moving mechanically over the cold stone. The doubts gnawing at my mind resurface with each stroke, my thoughts a tangled mess of faith and fear. The memory of the light woman haunts me, her spectral figure a constant presence in my dreams.
"Who brought you here, Aurora?" Sister Helena's voice is relentless.
I pause, my hand stilling. "The light woman," I sign, my movements slow and deliberate.
"Do you truly believe that? Or is it just a convenient story to justify your fear?" Her tone is a lash, each word striking with precision.
I don't answer, can't answer. The truth is elusive, slipping through my grasp like the holy water from the rag. I resume scrubbing, the ache in my hand a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my heart.
The hours bleed together into days that pass as a haze of monotony, pain and the growing turmoil of my soil. Tasks come in shifts and when my knees feel they can't take another day sacrificed on the marbled and inlaid floors, I'm moved to polishing the thousand brass candelabras that line the walls of the chapel. Each one stands taller than I do, their surfaces dulled by time and use. I climb a small ladder, the steps cold and unforgiving under my bare, calloused feet, and begin to polish, the cloth moving in slow, repetitive circles.
Sister Helena watches me from below, her presence as constant and oppressive as the weight of worry that hangs over my thoughts. "Do you pray as you work, Aurora?"
I nod, signing, "Yes, Sister Helena."
"And what do you pray for? Clarity? Strength? Or just an end to your suffering?"
Her questions pierce me, days pass between them, and yet each time they're a needle threading through the fabric of my doubts. "I pray for guidance," I sign, my movements hesitant.
"Guidance? From whom? The Emperor? The light woman? Or are you just whispering empty words to the void?"
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away, focusing on the task at hand. The brass begins to gleam under my efforts, reflecting the fractured light from the stained glass windows. I pour all my frustration, all my confusion into the work, each polished surface a small victory over the chaos within.
Days bleed together into months that pass in growing turmoil and a darkness not reflected in the polished surfaces of each great brass column. Just when I think polish fumes from the brass would kill what remained of my sense of smell, I'm transferred again, this time to sweeping the vast expanse of the chapel floor. The broom is taller than I am, its bristles worn and frayed. I move methodically, each sweep a prayer, each gathering of dust a penance. The echo of a hundred brooms against the stone floor is a lonely, roaring sound, magnified by the cavernous space around me.
As I work, Sister Helena's voice echoes in expanse. No one stops, no one takes notice, everyone knows this torment is mine alone, a constant companion to my thoughts. "Do you ever think about why you are here, Aurora? Why the light woman chose you?"
I nod, signing, "Every day."
"And what conclusion have you reached? That you are special? That you have a specific purpose? Or are you just a frightened child hiding behind words like hallucination and dream?"
Her words are a mirror, reflecting back the uncertainty and fear I try so hard to hide, to resolve, to defeat. "I don't know," I sign, my hand trembling. "I just want to serve."
"To serve or to hide? There is a difference, Aurora. A vast, yawning chasm between true service of the devout and the cowardice of hiding from one's true path."
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat almost too painful to bear. The truth is, I don't know anymore. I thought I knew. I thought I was at peace. I thought I reached faithful contment. I rose from the refuse of the underhive to a scholam student. I was given the name, Progena. Then I fell to menial, and yet I fell to a station so high above where I began… what right do I have to claim anything more than the broken existence I now hold? And yet her words haunt and poke and burn against my soul.
"You think too much, child." Her words are not accusatory, simply factual, "a child's faith is pure, unquestioning, yours is tepid, thoughtful. You will drown in those thoughts if you linger forever." A warm but firm hand presses down on my good shoulder, "blessed is the mind too small for doubts."
I'm too tired to reply.
Time passes. I've stopped keeping track of its comings and goings. I'm tending to the altar, now, a sacred duty that fills me with a mixture of awe and dread. The altar is a massive slab of marble, adorned with relics and icons, inlaid with prayers, worn with the fingerprints of supplicants, each one a testament to the faith and sacrifice of those who came before. I move carefully, reverently, my hand steady despite the fatigue that weighs down my limbs.
Sister Helena stands beside me, her visits still frequent, her attentions unwavering in the face of passing time. She stands, she watches, her gaze never leaving my face. "Do you see yourself here, Aurora? At this altar, offering your prayers, your devotion? Or do you see only the dust and the grime, the endless tasks that fill your days?"
I look at the altar, the sacred relics, the icons of faith, and feel a stirring deep within me. "I don't know," I sign, my heart heavy with the weight of my uncertainty.
"Then pray, Aurora. Pray for the strength to see beyond the dust and the grime, to find your true path. The Emperor protects, but you must be willing to follow where He leads."
But where did He lead? And where did I fall off that path?
My doubts find me even in dreams…
The day of the Sanguinala celebrations begins like any other, with the weight of the chapel's light serving only to deepen the shadows in my soul. My feet move mechanically, treading aimlessly over the smooth cold floor. Sister Helena's harsh words echo in my mind, a drumbeat now that plays in both waking and sleeping moments not filled with the fading relief of harsh toil.
When my feet run out of floor I look up and find myself on the main balcony, high above the chapel floor and empty. The wind is fierce and cold, cutting through my thin robes as I stand on the edge, looking down at the hive city. The lights of the Sanguinala celebrations glitter far below, but they seem distant, unattainable. I clutch the Broken Guardian tightly, its sharp edges digging into my skin, grounding me in the reality of my pain and despair.
"It I drop you… would you fly?" I whisper to it.
I hold it out over the edge, my heart pounding in my chest.
"If we fall, would you catch me, this time? Would you throw yourself into the empty air to save me as I saved you?"
The abyss below calls to me, promising an end to the guilt, the crushing expectations, the feeling of being lost and far from the Emperor's light. I edge closer, the wind pulling at me, the city below a chaotic blur of lights and noise.
"Aurora!"
Valeria's voice cuts through the roar of the wind, startling me. I turn to see her standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock and concern. She steps onto the balcony, her expression a mix of fear and determination.
"What are you doing up here?" she asks, her voice urgent. "I saw you in the stairwell and you didn't answer. You should be at the Sanguinala celebrations."
I lower the Broken Guardian, my heart racing with adrenaline, my mind suddenly full of wakefulness. "I didn't think anyone would find me," I say, my voice trembling over the wind. "I don't belong here, Valeria."
Valeria steps closer, her eyes searching mine. "Why would you think that?" she asks, her voice gentle but firm. "Aurora… why are you up here, alone?"
Tears blur my vision as I look away, the city lights below flickering like distant stars. "I can't live with the weight of guilt and expectation," I say, my voice breaking. "I feel empty, Valeria. Even the Sanguinala celebrations did nothing to make me feel closer to the Emperor's light."
Valeria's eyes widen, her face pale in the dim light. "Aurora, don't say that!" Her voice shakes. "You're not alone. I… If you felt this way why didn't you tell me?"
"What would I say?" I whisper, my voice raw with emotion. "That I doubt everything? That Sister Helena keeps questioning me, and now I question myself? That I don't know what to believe anymore?" My whispering dies in the wind as I mumble, "that I feel so completely alone?"
Valeria reaches out, her hand gentle on my shoulder. "You're not alone," she repeats, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "We all have doubts, Aurora. We all struggle. But you don't have to face it alone. I'm here. We're all here."
I shake my head, stepping back from her touch. "Don't abbess me," I say, my chest tight with emotion. "I'm done, Valeria. I'm not strong enough to just push blindly through this anymore. Faith was all I had, and I don't think I even have that anymore."
Valeria's grip tightens on my shoulder, her presence a lifeline in the storm, one I'm refusing to cling to. "You are strong," she says, her as firm as the flagstones below. "You've survived so much already. Emperor's wrath, Aurora, you've fought through more than anyone I know, at least anyone our age and most of the adults. The Emperor's light is within you, even if you can't see it right now. Trust in that light, and trust in yourself."
Her words strike a chord, but the darkness within me is overwhelming. "If you really think there's nothing left for you, then you have no excuse not to apply for an augmetic and try coming back to the Schola," Valeria urges, her voice insistent. "Or if you really want to die, request to become a servitor. At least your life will have continuous meaning and—"
"Servitor!?" I hiss, my anger flaring. "You think I should become a mindless, metal, meat sack like some criminal? That's worse than death!"
Valeria's eyes harden, her expression fierce. "It's better than the cowardice of suicide," she snaps. "It is better to die for the Emperor than live for one's self," she begins the quote and my hand comes up and swats her arm off my shoulder.
"How dare you!" I scream, my voice raw with pain and rage. "You don't know what it's like! Would you have the courage to end your own life?"
"Is that what you think this is, courage!? The courage to end your life, Aurora? Or is this just another way to avoid facing your fears?" Valeria's gaze doesn't waver. "I don't know how you feel inside," she admits, her voice softening. "But I do know that you don't even have the courage to come back to school and accept an augmetic. You're letting your fear and doubt control you. You're letting Lucius control you."
"Lucius?" I spit, the name, one I haven't used or even thought of and yet its very utterance leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. "This isn't about him."
"Isn't it?" Valeria counters, her eyes burning with intensity. "He took your arm that day, Aurora. Are you going to let him take your faith, too? Is that the decision you're making here?"
I turn away, unable to face her, looking back at the abyss below, my heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else. The lights of the Sanguinala celebrations seem to mock me, a world of joy and light that I can never be a part of.
I'm about to speak, to say something—anything—when I see a shadow moving quickly towards us. My blood runs cold as I recognize Sister Helena striding purposefully, her face a mask of stern determination. Panic wells up inside me, and I know Valeria can see it on my face because she turns around in confusion, following my gaze.
"Sister Helena?" She speaks in astonishment, "what are you—"
Before she can finish, Sister Helena is upon us. Her hand slams into my chest, shoving me backward and pinning me against the balcony railing. The cold stonework bites into my back, and fear constricts my throat.
"For years I've checked up on you." She snarls with a dreadful smile, "for months I've stalked your every waking moment. I know a coward when I see one, Aurora." Helena taunts, her voice dripping with contempt. "But it seems I overestimated you. I didn't think you were such a coward as to end your own life."
The pressure of her palm against my sternum stifles any response I might have given.
Helena eyes lock on mine. "You don't even have the resolve to jump, do you? You really are a pathetic child, Aurora Progena."
"Sister Helena, stop!" Valeria's voice is frantic. "She really was going to jump! I was talking her down!" Valeria tries to intervene, reaching for me, but Helena swats her aside. Her grip on my hair tightens, and she lifts me up, dangling me over the edge of the balcony.
She drops me.
My scream pierces the night air as I desperately grab the railing, my fingers clinging to the cold stone, my feet finding purchase on the ornamental relief of The Emperor's radiant crown.
"Sister Helena, what are you doing?" Valeria cries, rushing forward again. This time, Helena kicks her in the chest, sending her sprawling to the floor, with a woosh as the breath leaves her lungs.
I hang there, terror coursing through me. "Please, don't," I sob, my voice and my arm shaking violently in the wind.
"Why don't you let go?" Helena's voice is icy. "If you were really going to jump, why are you clinging to the edge? A coward to the end? At least jump and make the decision your own."
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I don't want to die. The fear of death, of what might come after with my faith in tatters, paralyzes me. I want to live, to find a way through this darkness.
Helena's fingers pry mine from the railing one by one. "You can't even let go now, can you?" she sneers. "You have no resolve, no faith. You're worthless."
"Sister Helena, stop! Please!" Valeria's voice is a desperate gasp as she tries to crawl towards us. "She needs help, not this!"
Helena's hand moves to mine on the railing, her grip on my fingers is relentless. "I have faith," she says, and with each word she removes a finger from the rail. Her voice calm and resolute. "Faith that the Light Woman has a purpose for you, greater than being a stain on the flagstones."
And then she lifts the last to fingers and lets go.
I fall, the wind roaring in my ears, eating my scream. The world blurs, the lights of the Sanguinala celebrations swirling into a chaotic mess. I reach out, desperately trying to grasp something, anything, to stop the fall.
The last thing I see is the cold, indifferent smog of Gilead's sky above me, and then…
Darkness…
Light!
Blinding, searing light that makes me squint and blink. As my vision clears, the light resolves into the image of the light woman standing over me. For a moment, my heart leaps. She's here. She's really here. She's—
The vision fades, replaced by Sister Helena's stern face, her eyes boring into mine as if searching my very soul. The cold flagstones beneath me are unforgiving, cold.
"So, for six months now you have chaffed under my hand, deflected my counsel, avoided my gaze, child. Are you quite done with your pity party and ready to live for the Emperor again?" Her voice is as cold as the stone, devoid of sympathy.
I swallow, my throat dry and raw. Staring up at the chapel above me, far above, the balcony just visible as a tiny jutting of stone on stone. I glance around at the flagstones where I lie, alive, somehow. "Y-yes?" I manage to stammer, my mind struggling to process the fact that I am not dead, not a broken, lifeless heap on the ground.
Sister Helena's expression remains unchanged. "All the important buildings, where important and possibly intoxicated individuals might be carousing, have grav-field generators near open-air access points such as balconies. It cuts down on accidental deaths and assassinations."
Her explanation leaves me bewildered, my thoughts a jumble. "I... I don't understand."
"You fell a grand total of twenty feet, passed out, and gently floated the rest of the way to the ground," Helena says, her tone almost dismissive.
Before I can fully grasp the implications, Valeria rushes up to me, her face a mix of relief and fury. She's about to hug me, then stops, her hand whipping out to slap me across the face. The sting is sharp, immediate, and tears spring to my eyes.
"How could you?" Valeria screams through her tears. "You had no right to put me through that!" Then, without warning, she hugs me fiercely, her sobs shaking her whole body. "I was so scared," she whispers into my shoulder.
I hug her back, my own tears falling freely now. "I'm so glad to be here with you, Valeria. Alive."
We hold each other for a moment, a fragile bubble of comfort and relief in the midst of the storm. But Sister Helena's voice cuts through the moment, pulling us back to the harsh reality.
"Enough," she says, separating us with a firm hand. "Valeria, return to the Sanguinala celebrations. Aurora and I have business to attend to."
Valeria hesitates, her eyes filled with worry, but she obeys, casting one last glance back at me before disappearing down the corridor.
Helena turns to me, her expression unreadable. "It's time you came before the abbess and made a case for returning to your path."
I nod, a steely resolve hardening within me. Where doubt and uncertainty once lay I feel the beginnings of stability and strength. I've been running, hiding from my fears, but no more. I will accept an augmetic and return to the scholam as a student. I will go wherever the Emperor takes me. I will endure any hardship. I will live, and not for myself, no matter what. The Emperor protects.
We walk in silence, the weight of what is to come pressing down on me. The chapel looms larger, the stone walls closing in as we approach the abbess's chamber. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing like a drum in the vast, empty corridors.
Finally, we stand before the abbess. Her gaze is piercing, her presence commanding. I take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage I have left.
"I want to return as a student," I say, my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at my insides. "And I am ready to receive an augmetic replacement limb. I know now I was wrong to—"
The abbess holds up a hand and I fall silent as she studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, she smiles. "I am delighted, Aurora. I have believed from the beginning that you were selected by our sacred lady for something special. Ever since she led you to these halls."
Hope blooms in my chest, a fragile, flickering flame. The abbess turns to Sister Helena, her approval clear. "Aurora should be given an augmetic arm and placed back into class immediately, perhaps even on the path to sis—."
But before I can fully grasp the abbess's words, Sister Helena steps forward, her face a mask of defiance, her tone sharp as she interrupts the abbess. "I object."
Her words shatter the fragile hope I've just begun to nurture, leaving me reeling. The abbess's eyes widen in surprise, her gaze shifting between us.
Helena's voice is firm, unyielding. "Aurora's path requires more than just an augmetic limb. It requires a resolve she has not yet demonstrated, courage she clearly doesn't have, and strength of character she's failed to grow."
The abbess's expression hardens, her approval replaced by a steely determination. "Explain yourself, Sister Helena."
Helena's gaze locks onto mine, her eyes burning with an intensity that makes my heart clench. "She has not yet faced her true fears. She has no faith, no belief."
"I do have—"
"You!" Helena's voice is harder than a physical blow as she whirls on me, "you believe in the Emperor? Good for you, Aurora! Even the Daemons believe and tremble. The only thing that makes you marginally better than chaos spawn is that the only servant of the Emperor you've tried to kill so far is yourself."
The abbess' eyes widen in astonishment, "she attempted—"
"Yes," Helena nods and I feel her grip on my shoulder like a vice no weaker than the painful crushing I feel in my own chest. "The stupidity of a child, perhaps. But to return her to Scholam, where she can infect the minds of others with her lack of faith, her self-centered depression, her sniveling, cowardly, woe-is-me attitude? The scholam isn't for philosophical crybabies."
"You did this to me!" I twist out of Helena's grasp and shout with every ounce of anger I can muster, "I was happy, content, serving the Emperor as a menial. You put these doubts in my head. You came, day in, day out, taunting, questioning, beating me when all I wanted was to serve alongside thousands of others!"
Helena sneers sarcastically, "blessed is the mind too small for doubts."
"You opened my mind!" I can hardly hear her, the blood is thundering so loudly in my ears, my missing arm aches, "I had faith, faith that you questioned, for months, and forced those questions into my head. You pushed me to that ledge, and you threw me off, literally!"
Helena laughs in my face, bending down to my level with a leer, "Oh? Suddenly developing a spine now? You had all those thoughts already; I just gave them a voice. Having the thoughts at all is your sin, you ungrateful, unworthy, unrepentant fool."
"Enough!" The Abbess is standing now, her voice like quiet thunder rolling over us with the authority of the Emperor himself. "I presume this theater has a point, Sister Helena? One we might come to speedily!"
Helena bows, "yes abbess. I invoke my right to tithe this child."
"You what?" The abbess sits once more, confusion crumpling her old features.
"She what?" I'm not at all familiar with what was being asked but not liking it one bit.
"With your leave I make Aurora Progena my bond, my serf, a member of my house. It is within my privilege by rank and rite." Helena returned the Abesss' hard stare with her own, "if our sacred lady has a purpose for her, let Aruroa convince us. I am no less swayed by this child's miraculous coming to us than you, Sister Gloriana," Helena cocked her head to the side, "if our sacred lady has a path for her to walk, where better to walk it than at my side? I will see to her… education."
The abbess considers her words, her face a mask of contemplation. The silence stretches on, each second a dagger in my heart.
My whole body is trembling.
How is death worse than whatever comes from this?
Or is it all true... Is that very thought the reason that I'm not worthy?
I just want to disappear and hide in my pipe and… and suddenly I think of my mother. My mother served the emperor all her life and lived with nothing, nothing but me. She had faith. She didn't stray from her path. She raised me with nothing, in nothing, nothing but faith.
Where did I lost that great faith?
Where did I failed to make her faith my own?
I shut my mouth and drop to my knees, "my abbess," I place my face to the floor, "forgive me, I have displayed a great lack of faith and will do anything to make up for it. My life is for the Emperor. Do with it as you will."
Finally, the abbess nods. "Very well." She stands and moves out from behind her desk, coming to stand before Sister Helena who bows her head respectfully. "I have not ever had a sister invoke a tithe in my lifetime." She raises Helena's chin and stares into her eyes, "you are taking from that which is the Emperor's own, and tithing it to your account. You, and you alone, shall bear the responsibility for what becomes of this life."
"I shall bear it," Helena confirms.
The abbess raises her eyebrows and shakes her head slowly, "then so be it. I will draft the appropriate paperwork, you may take your tithe and go, this life is given to you to use as you see fit for His glory."
"The Emperor Protects," Helena makes the sign of the aquila.
The abbess returns it, "He protects his faithful," she echoes.
I rise from the floor, clutching the broken guardian against my chest and follow as Sister Helena beckons me to follow her. I vow to myself in that moment that I will follow her, into anything, as though she were the Emperor himself, and I will live and prove myself worthy of my mother's faith.
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