The Fallen Saint

[Melissia]

Meh, I can't claim I have. Mostly I'm just expressing annoyance because almost every piece of fan-fiction I've seen regarding the Sisters usually involves them falling from grace, even though that's supposed to be a very rare occurance. I myself have been guilty of it, and it's why I abandoned my origonal Order idea of the Order of the Shadowed Heart.

[Lady_Canoness]

In that case, I suggest you read it before lumping it in with all the rest. I know its long, but from the feedback I've goten, it should be worth the time.

[Melissia]

Okay, I'm reading it. Though I can't seem to find a revised chapter seven in the last page-- so did I miss something?

[Lady_Canoness]

haha, yes, that...

Well, for the past two chapters actually, I've been trying to call them both eight (don't know why) but this one got past me. It should read chapter 7. Fixing it now.

[Melissia]

Ah, many thanks. Glad I'm not missing anything.

[Lady_Canoness]

Chapter eight... and we aren't close to done yet (a lot of good fighting, smiting, and the occasional main character dying yet to come).

 

Like the last one, this chapter felt the editor's hammer quite a bit, and much of the original content was replace by scenes deemed more suitable, however I think that the end product should be quite enjoyable as a result!

 

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CHAPTER 8 of the Saint Ascendant part Two: the Seed of Martyrs: March to the Dawn

 

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Time is a fickle mistress.

Those who want it never have it – those who need it always lose it – those who lose it cannot find it – and those who have it can’t get rid of it.

Time is a fickle mistress.

For Palatine Aribeth d’ Allsaice, sitting alone in the darkness of her cell, time is an unwanted companion. Sixty hours; such time seems like an eternity when each passing second lasts a life-time.

For Inquisitor Galtman, the sub-orbital shuttle rattling and rumbling up through his seat as it battles its way through the clouds above the Saint’s City, time is the fleeting image of his quarry as he chases it across the breadth of the galaxy.

For Canoness Helena Cerador, sitting awake in her office as the sky grows darker under the clouds and the rain returns with furious vengeance to bash itself blindly against the walls of stone around her, time is restless. No respite, no escape – the torture of years drags her onwards through the trials of life. A duty that never ends, she curses her old age as a service that will never be fulfilled.

For Inquisitor Montrose, swilling the wine glass in his hand as his dreams crumble around him, time is his mocking executioner – drawing him eagerly forward with one hand, while levelling the axe with the next.

For Sister Clara Marchaanen, lying face down on a hospitaler’s bed, time is an agent of agony that dabbles its invisible fingers across the open wounds in her back and keeps her from sleep with tearing eyes and clenched teeth.

Time is a fickle mistress.

 

“Well, Mr. Maxwell, it doesn’t look as if we’ll be getting anything tonight. Might as well just shut it down and get some rest.”

Mr. Maxwell, a greying man in his late fifties looked up from his desk, his eyes tired, and grunted.

Travis, his business partner, was standing over by the window, a lho stick in his hand, and peering up into the rain as it dropped from the night sky. “There is no way that Jeb is gonna be able to land in this, lights or no lights.”

Mr. Maxwell grunted again and swivelled in his chair to pour himself another steaming mug of badly burnt caffeine.

Travis took another drag on his smoke, flicked it, then looked back at the older man. Thomas Maxwell was what you’d call a diehard. Stubborn, sour, and completely dedicated, his family had been in the shipping business for over seven generations, and though independent shipping companies had been in depression on Proctor Primus for the better part of twelve years, and he had been forced to downsize and cut to three-quarter staff, Maxwell was just as determined as he had ever been to carry on in the business even though it became harder and harder to make ends meet.

“Y’know,” Travis said, bringing the stick back to his lips as he leaned casually against the bare-wood wall of their one-room head office, “just because he said he was in orbit, that doesn’t mean he’ll be coming down.”

“Jeb said he’d come in today,” Mr. Maxwell replied, taking a sip from the scalding liquid and swallowing it down, “so he’ll come in today.”

Travis shook his head and looked back out the window. Maxwell had always been like this – Throne, he’d live in this office if his landlady didn’t keep threatening to sell his apartment if he didn’t show up now and again – but that was Maxwell, and ever since the war he had become that much more determined to put in those long hours, like his one little business was gonna be a big player in getting the city back on its feet.

“It’s only gonna get worse out there,” Travis sighed, walking over to Mr. Maxwell’s desk and mashing his smouldering lho into the ashtray sitting there amongst the clutter, “you might want to get home while you still can.”

Mr. Maxwell shook his head with a frown and parked his reading glasses back on his nose. “I belong right here,” he said dreamily as his eyes traced their way back down a long list of shipping inventory that’s he laid out before him in the room’s pulsing yellow light.

Travis shook his head and laughed quietly to himself, there could only ever be one Thomas Maxwell.

“Wait…”

Travis turned around, his brow arched; “What is it, Tom?”

Mr. Maxwell had lifted his head and was straining his ears against the pouring rain. “Did you hear that?”

“No, Tom, I didn’t hear anything…” Travis said, but Mr. Maxwell was already on his feet and walking quickly around his desk and across to the old portable radar station that he’d set up in the room’s corner. Travis just stood there and watched him; there could only ever be one Thomas Maxwell.

“Haha! I knew it!” Tom clapped his hands together excitedly, “there it is! I knew he’d be coming in tonight! What did I tell ya!?”

Travis sighed and rolled his eyes, “Yea yea, you said Jeb would be coming in tonight.” Mr. Maxell crossed over to the door and pulled on his rain slicker, a smile was still fixed broadly on his face. Travis shook his head, but then smirked and pulled on his own slicker as Thomas Maxwell disappeared out the door and into the rain. “Well,” Travis said to himself, “my night just got a lot longer.”

Following Mr. Maxwell into the night, Travis could just make out the running lights on an orbital shuttle as the huge black form slowly rotated about one of he lit pad and set itself down.

“You sure that’s Jeb!?” Travis hollered to his partner over the roaring engines as he came to stand beside him, “This bird looks a little out of his league!” In fact, Travis had never seen anything like it. Sleek, but oppressively large and brutal looking, Travis couldn’t believe that this could be an orbital shuttle of a bulk freighter. That’ because it wasn’t.

“‘Course it’s him!” Mr. Maxwell shouted back, “Who else would it be!?” Who indeed?

The passenger hatch on belly of the beast extended outwards, and a solitary figure disembarked, then the craft took to the sky once more and disappeared into the night.

“Hey! Where’s he going!?” Travis shouted.

Mr. Maxwell stormed up to the lone figure, and Travis started to follow him, but stopped short – the man standing in the darkness, he was… huge.

“What the hell’s going on!?” Mr. Maxwell confronted the stranger, “This is a private landing ground - not a passenger drop off! You’d better come clean right now, or I’ll have you reported.”

“Imperial Inquisition,” Galtman’s voice thundered over the rain, instantly silencing the little man in his shadow, “By my authority, you will assist me in whatever way I require, or I will close down your business, and you will never be heard from again. Do you understand?”

Mr. Maxwell didn’t answer.

“Good,” Galtman said, walking past the stunned man. “You,” he called over to Travis, “I need a vehicle, and I need it now.”

 

Sitting on the worn wooden bench in her tiny stone cell, Aribeth was unaware that night had fallen. In the darkness she couldn’t see anything, neither could she hear, and had it not been for the throb in her left temple and the cramping in her legs and lower back, Aribeth would not have even known whether or not she was still alive. Her cell and others like it were commonly used for silent meditation and prayer in isolation of one’s Sisters and any other distraction, and on occasion Aribeth had made use of them. However, it had always been voluntary, and even then a Sister rarely spent more then four hours at a time in solitary prayer. Sixty hours of forced confinement? That was torture. The Canoness had mentioned enlightenment and understanding, but as Aribeth traced her fingers through the groove in the wall and counted away the seconds, only one thing seemed to await her at the end of time: lunacy.

For the first hour she had been angry and silently seethed her resentment to the darkness around her. But anger would not placate her, nor would it make the time pass faster. She tried prayer; perhaps the Canoness had been right, and there really was something to gain from isolation. No, that did not work either. The words… they felt hollow as she played them off her tongue. She couldn’t pray just to pass the time – she could not recite lines of hallowed words when her heart as so was empty. Sleeping was no good – there was simply no way to be at comfort, and the more she moved in her tiny allowance of space the faster she found herself in pain. Her knees ached from being unable to straighten, her lower back and buttocks were painful and cramped from the hours spent sitting inside her armour, and the heat – dear Throne – the heat was intolerable. Inside her armour her flesh crawled under the trapped perspiration around her chest, legs, and especially the body-glove collar around her neck. To make matters worse, the air inside her cell was getting to be hot and stuffy, and there was no way Aribeth to increase the miniscule amount of fresh air that entered through the crack under the door.

After what must have been ten hours, she had unfastened and refastened the tight combat braids in her hair at least a dozen times to keep her mind from numbing. She’d managed to remove the armour on both arms and roll back the underlying body glove so that she could press her skin against the cool stone walls, making the stifling heat almost bearable. Her torment, however, was hardly over. Thirst, whipped into frenzy by the heat of her body, clawed at her dry throat and parched her lips, and from this foe there was no respite. Hunger soon followed and assailed her pleading gut with vicious stabs that twisted her insides about like flesh-made ropes.

Not knowing when her torment might end, Aribeth became senselessly afraid. Her breathing quickened, her lungs felt tight, her fear intensified. The walls, had they always been so close? Had her armour always felt this heavy and restrictive? How long now had she been unable to see? Would she ever get out? She needed to get out! She had to!

Her lips trembled as panic seized her. She started to rock back and forth in her seat, her arms clasped out in front of her as if in some cruel parody of prayer. She was scared – impossibly scared – so gripped by sheer terror that she could never hope to understand.

On instinct alone, the litanies of deliverance and warding began to tumble rapidly from her tongue. Was this how it felt to know abject fear? She didn’t know. Was this what Clara had meant when she describe utter helplessness in the face of death? She didn’t know.

She needed to get out. She needed to breathe. She needed salvation.

 

 

* * * *

 

After a half-hour of driving, and two wrong turns, Travis pulled his old service truck up to the curb and put it in neutral.

“We’re here,” he said quietly, pointing out the driver’s side window, but not daring to look anywhere other than ahead.

Next to him in the passenger seat, the big man leaned over to get a better view outside into the rain filled night. Travis felt cold, terribly cold, and scared, more scared than he had ever been – part of him really hope that the man next to him was an Inquisitor, because Inquisitors didn’t hurt innocent people, right?

The man leaned back into his seat, and from the corner of his eye, Travis saw what he believe to an illuminated pocket chronometer.

“Thirty-five minutes and… twenty nine seconds,” the light disappeared, and it was dark inside the cab once again, the rain ringing against the metal overhead the only sound. “You did not take the quickest rout here, Mister Travis, why?”

“I… I…” the man’s voice was like ice, and Travis found it incredibly difficult to concentrate. “It’s dark…” he explained sheepishly, “and I don’t know this part of the city that well…” another shiver ran down his spine.

“Your explanation is satisfactory, though I future, I expect that you be prepared to fulfil your role as an Imperial citizen more efficiently.”

Travis nodded, then the passenger door opened, and the big man in the black storm coat stepped outside into the rain, closing the door again behind him.

Travis would never see him again.

 

* * * *

 

It was the sixth hour of night, and Canoness Helena Cerador had just finished reading the arch-confessor’s proposal for enforcing public adherence to several Ministorum tenets during festival days, when there was a series of three hard knocks on her office doors. She looked up from her desk, who could be disturbing her at this hour? She was not expecting anyone, nor had anyone been announced.

She stood up from her high-backed seat and folded her arms easily behind her back. “Enter,” she called.

With a click, the handle of the door turned, and in came a man she had never before set eyes upon.

“Good evening, Canoness,” he said, his voice remarkably flat and toneless.

Helena eyed him warily; he was tall – very tall actually – and his broad shoulders were poorly hidden beneath the buttoned black leather storm-coat that that dripped water from outside onto the floor.

“Who are you, and how did you come to enter my preceptory unchallenged?” Helena demanded of him with a cold glare.

“My name is Ernst Galtman, Imperial Inquisition, my authority is absolute and unquestionable – that is how I entered your preceptory unchallenged and unescorted.”

“I assume that you have a rosette?”

The man’s face didn’t flinch, in fact it was entirely void of any expression at all, yet there was something oddly cold about him, and the room itself seemed to go eerily frigid with his mere presence.

“I do,” Galtman replied slowly, “but you are not required to see it.”

The Canoness nodded, but never removed her eyes from the man before her, “Naturally, Inquisitor, that is your decision to make, but tell me, are you a witch? For if I am not mistaken, and I doubt that I am, you are, in which case it is in my right to have you shot for bringing such blasphemy onto consecrated ground, unless of course, you can prove that you are sanctioned by the Imperium.”

The man unbuttoned his storm-coat, revealing amongst other things a badge bearing the trademark ‘I’ embossed with the leering skull; the mark of the Inquisition.

“Very good, Inquisitor,” the Canoness said, satisfied, and sat back down behind her desk, “How might my Sisters and I be of service to you?”

Galtman buttoned his coat back up, then proceeded to walk easily around the office, casually admiring the banners that hung from the ceiling and other trophies that where held on display. He took his time in answering her. “By the authority of the Immortal Emperor of mankind that is invested in me by the most Holy Ordos of the Inquisition,” he began, his tone still flat despite the grandeur of the words he spoke, “I am hereby granted the power to request aid that cannot be withheld from any subject of the Emperor so that I may continue unhindered in my duty of the persecution of Heretics, Mutants, and all others who hate the Glorious Emperor and His servants.” Galtman paused for a moment and approached the Canoness’ desk so that his shadow loomed over the venerable Sororita. “I am here now to request the aid of your Sisters in my mission.”

“It is our honour to serve in both life and death, Inquisitor,” the Canonesss replied, “What is it you would ask of us?”

“Palatine Aribeth – is she here?”

Helena leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes up at the Inquisitor; “She is, but why might I ask do you specifically request her aid?”

“Because it is within my right to do so,” Galtman replied bluntly.

“The Palatine is disgraced, Inquisitor, and is serving a just penance for her wrongdoings. I have yet to decide whether or not she will even retain her rank and status as a Sister within the preceptory. I hardly think that she is fit for what you ask.”

Galtman stared at her, “What you think is of no consequence to me or my duty.”

“Perhaps not, but might I remind you that my duty to my Sisters that supersedes all others is the protection and nurture of their spiritual wellbeing,” Helena replied pointedly as she jabbed the flat surface of her marble desk with a rigid index finger, “and that it is on my word that a Sister is judged. Aribeth has strayed from the path of righteousness, and as such it is my duty to see that her faith is restored.”

Inquisitor Galtman raised an eyebrow - the first expression the Canoness had seen him make – “Are you refusing my request, Canoness?”

Helena glared at him. She had known Inquisitors before – in fact she had met several during her service with the Sisterhood – but never before had she met an animal like Galtman. Most had been quiet, resourceful, logical men and women - a few more so than others of course – yet they were all admirable in their service, and had a mutual respect for those they worked with. This Galtman, however, he was different. He did not strike her as cunning or charismatic, but rather possessed by a cold and ruthless efficiency that bartered no exceptions. He was a bully, and thanks to his rosette, he could get away with it.

“No, Inquisitor, I cannot refuse your request. I was merely expressing my concern, and offering a suggestion.”

“Then know that you are in no position to offer me advice on the pursuit of my mission, and that your concern holds no bearing with me,” he replied. “Now, I would like to see the Palatine.”

 

* * * *

 

With a hissing creak the wooden door of her cell swung open, and dazzling light, dim though it was, flooded in, banishing the darkness from the cell. Three Sisters stood outside looking in, one of them held a crackling brazier in her hand – the glow globes being dimmed – that cast flickering shadows all around them.

Shielding her vision against the flame, Aribeth looked at them through tired dry eyes; they stood there like wardens, and the Palatine could not recall the last time she had not been pleased to see fellow Sisters.

“The Canoness wishes to see you, Sister Aribeth,” one of them announced.

Aribeth nodded slowly, though she still shielded her eyes from the flame, and one of the Sister’s approached and helped her get laboriously to her feet.

 

* * * *

 

“In here, Sister Aribeth, our Lady is waiting.”

Aribeth looked vacantly at the tall double doors of the Canoness’ office, then looked back at the Sister, “You have my weapons?” she asked.

The other woman inclined her head towards the door, “I believe that our Canoness is in possession of them, though I am not certain.”

Aribeth nodded and took one last chance to straighten up her back and loosen her neck, then the Sister opened the door for her, and she stepped in.

 

Before fully entering the room, before seeing the Canoness stand up as she entered, and before even noticing that her weapons lay flat across her Canoness’ desk, Aribeth knew that he was there. She didn’t need to see him to know it, she just knew; as if he had somehow infected the very oxygen that she now drew into her lungs. Her head swam momentarily and she felt faint – her mind in no state to endure his arrival after all that had happened this day. She felt exposed – naked – horribly vulnerable in his presence, and when he turned towards her with the icicles in his eyes, she knew that it would be all over. Except it wasn’t – it hadn’t even begun.

 

“Aribeth,” Helena called to her casually, though when she stood up from her seat her stance was far from easy, “I would like you to meet Inquisitor Ernst Galtman.”

Aribeth didn’t acknowledge him – she was already disgraced to her Canoness, what could a social indiscretion do to aggravate matters?

“We are already acquainted,” Galtman said, the mask of his face falling into place.

Helena looked curiously at the Inquisitor, but wisely let subject drop.

“Is my torment to continue by his hand?” Aribeth asked spitefully, still not looking at the Inquisitor.

Helena brought her attention back round to the Palatine; “That is hardly the case, Palatine,” she said, “in fact the good Inquisitor has ordered your release. Inquisitor, would you care to explain the details?”

Finally, forcing down the combined might of her loathing and dread, Aribeth dared to look towards her nemesis – there he stood, arms folded across his chest, feet apart, black rain-spattered coat hanging from his huge frame, and a face that look harder that the marble desk and more brutal than Ork’s mug – Inquisitor Galtman, the man who had haunted her dreams and stalked her thoughts, the man she hated more than any other. Now he stood – calm – confident – in her Canoness’ office radiating a sense of contemptuous control.

“For the past few years I have been on the trail of a heretical cult with cells that have spread across the entirety of this sector and beyond,” Galtman explained, “the incident that you witnessed here on Proctor Primus four months ago was just the latest of their activities.”

Incident – Aribeth glared at him furiously – that incident was responsible for everything that had happened to her, that incident was responsible for her pain, her ruin, and the lives of almost four-hundred of her Sisters and countless more civilians and Imperial citizens. The bastard! He didn’t know how it felt – he didn’t know how much that incident - which had been a stroke of luck on his behalf – had cursed everyone else: Sister Atrides, Sister Arialla, Canoness Naomi… Throne, the whole damned city had been ruined!

“Fortunately,” Galtman continued, ignoring the Palatine, “the enemies of the Emperor became over-confident in their operations and gave me the opportunity I needed,” a smile crept to the corner of his mouth, “and now a time of reckoning is at hand,” he said, almost hungrily, “I have found their base of operations – I have found the hell from which these walking blasphemies are bred – and I move now to destroy it!”

Aribeth didn’t know what she feared more; Galtman when he was deathly cold and unreadable, or when this terrible thirst for bloodshed twisted his face into an expression truly diabolical to behold.

“Think about it, Palatine; the time of the Emperor’s vengeance is at hand! I will see these heathens scoured from the face of the galaxy,” Galtman growled with raging delight, his massive hands balled into fists, “and I want you and your Sisters to be the one’s to aid me in this!”

Aribeth just looked at him, struck dumb for words. Inquisitor Galtman – the man she had sworn to hate above all others – the man who had seared those ice-like eyes of his into the back of her skull and forever haunted her dreams – was asking her for aid in the eradication of the cult responsible for all her pain and loss?

“Why me?” was all she could ask. A fair question; there was no way that he was doing this for sentimental reasons, or because he sought to give her a measure of peace, so why was he asking her?

Whatever Galtman may have felt (if he felt anything at all) was far lost inside his maddened stare. “I have my reasons,” he replied, “but I also know that you are a capable and devoted servant, even if your Canoness thinks otherwise.”

“My Lady,” Aribeth turned back to her Canoness who had been standing in silence all this time, “you agree with this?”

Helena shrugged her shoulders wearily, now more than ever she looked old, “In face of the Holy Inquisition, my authority is of no consequence; if the good Inquisitor demand’s your aid specifically there is nothing I can do.”

“I am glad you see things my way,” Galtman announced to the both of them, though neither Sororita stood in any position to oppose him. “I take my leave now. Be ready to depart by dawn.” With that, the Inquisitor turned on his heel and marched from the room, leaving both the Canoness and her second standing awkwardly silent in his wake.

“Well,” Helena said, seating herself after the door had closed in the Inquisitor’s absence, “this is certainly a change of fate for you, Aribeth. I suppose that you had best make your preparations and take some rest while you can.”

Aribeth nodded slowly, her eyes staring sightlessly at the floor. What had just happened? What did this mean? It has all happened so fast…

“Canoness, my Lady, what is to become of me? What preparations can I make?”

Helena sighed deeply and rubbed her palms together before pressing both hands against her forehead. “You are in the service of the Inquisition now, Sister Palatine,” she looked up at the Palatine with tired eyes, “I do not know what will become of you. Though know that you go now to fight a worthy cause, and whatever happens you will be in the Emperor’s service more so now than ever before. Perhaps this will give you the clarity you seek for your salvation – perhaps this is the path you were destined to take all along.” The old woman got up from behind her desk and walked around to stand before the Palatine; “Kneel,” she instructed her, and Aribeth obeyed. “Sister Aribeth, Palatine of the Order of the Sacred Rose, you walk now at the Immortal Emperor’s side. You shall not fear, you shall not falter - whatever He commands of you, you shall obey, and whatever He asks of you, you shall do. No evil shall come to harm you, and no injustice shall overcome you. You are His favoured, and so long as you walk with Him, your faithful shall follow.” Helena reached back to her desk and picked up the Palatine’s sword; “Take this; your torch. Carry it before you ever high, and may its light never fade in your eyes. You depart from me my Sister, and so shall you be greeted as my Sister upon your return. Take my blessing, and may you walk with the Emperor for now and always.”

Canoness Helena ended and Aribeth rose to her feet, accepting her blade from the Lady’s hand.

“I have never heard that blessing before, my Lady,” Aribeth said quietly, her troubled heart softening at the sincerity in the Canoness’ words.

“It’s a crusader’s blessing,” Helena explained, “given to those blessed in His sight to serve him on alien soil for the re-conquest of Man’s domain. My days as a crusader are over, but, I think, yours have just begun.”

 

* * * *

 

Aribeth left the Canoness’ office feeling as though her world had turned upside down, and that now it moved so quickly that her mind raced to not lose anything in passing. Canoness Helena had granted her an accompanying force of fifty Sisters to be chosen at her own discretion, as well as all those who had accompanied her to the sanctuary. Aribeth had first contested this idea for the simple reason that she did not want Cauline to be one of the fifty, but Canoness Helena was insistent, giving Aribeth reason to believe that her Superior did not fully trust the Palatine, and that she needed a Sister of her own choice to oversee Aribeth’s actions. Cauline, the Canoness assured her, was a dedicated warrior to the Emperor’s cause and a strong arm in battle, and that she would be a valuable addition. Aribeth eventually consented, though she did so with marked reluctance.

She now had an allowance of forty-nine more Sisters to accompany her, but she knew for certain who would bring the number down to forty-eight.

 

The convent of the Sisters Hospitalers was very similar to that of the Sisters Militant. It was a grand old building made mostly of glossed dark granite that made it feel perpetually cold and draughty, yet despite the lofty ceilings, gothic architecture and numerous edifices of solemn foreboding, the convent of the Order of the Blessed Hand was a house of charity and healing. Its doors were open to all the faithful regardless of social status and wealth, and any person who gave themselves over to the Sisters’ care could expect treatment that was both objective and fair. Aribeth did not know the exact number of Sisters who dwelled within the convent at any given time, but considering its size, she guessed it to be equal to that of her preceptory.

Passing through the cloistered yard that connected the two convents to one another, Aribeth was greeted by an elderly Sister in traditional white garb.

“Greetings and blessings upon you, Sister Palatine,” the woman bowed her head respectfully upon the Battle Sister’s approach, “your Canoness has sent word of your arrival, and we are honoured to receive you.”

Getting closer to the Hospitaler in the dim light, Aribeth saw a woman in her later years, and though age sat heavily upon her brow, the Hospitaler still managed to maintain a saintly appearance of grace. Her hands were withered and soft, speaking of countless acts of charity and mercy she had administered in her years in the Emperor’s service, and around the waist of her white gown hung a golden chaplet similar to her own on a string of beads that had been wrapped doubly about her. Aribeth bowed humbly in a greeting of her own; “The honour is mine, Sister Hospitaler, and I thank you on behalf of my Sisters who are now held in your care.”

“The house of the Emperor is happy to receive them, and, we His servants, are most humbled by this duty entrusted to us,” the old Hospitaler turned, and with her hands linked delicately together over her waist, she led the Palatine inside out of the night.

 

To a warrior, death is a part of life. It is very real in the sense that it is not so much that which ends life, for something cannot end without first being completed, but rather an end to duty, for as far as a warrior is concerned life ends when duty begins. A warrior accepts a responsibility for death in both giving it and receiving it. There is an art in death for the warrior: when dealing it, death must be swift, brutal, and utterly decisive; and when one receives it, it must be received with due honour and bravery. This art, however – the art of death – is not a flawless one, and indeed many are incapable of understanding death’s delicacy and precision.

Pain is one such fault. There is no honour in pain – no glory to be had in its keening embrace. Pain is failure – failure to die, or failure to kill. A true warrior will pity those in pain and know the honour that has been denied to them. Pain is a failure made never to forget. It is to that end that a warrior must be trained never to feel it – to be inured to it – to be immune to it in all things. Yet the pain of another – the pain of a loved one – a pain so great and so terrible to endure – how can even the stoutest heart hope to resist?

Everywhere she looked were the hallmarks of death – creeping through the silent wards – nursing wounds into agony – loitering in exams and operations.

Aribeth hated this place. It reeked of suffering and the cold chill of the sick and the dying. Of all the ends possible to her, the last thing she wanted was to silently slip into oblivion in a place such as this. A house of healing; yes, perhaps it was, but while the body was made whole, what happened to the spirit? The mind? The Sisters here were devout and pure, but to be closed away in a house of cold stone while one waited in a bed for death to pass them by… surely one must go mad!

The Hospitaler led her quietly down the shadow filled halls of the convent. Occasionally she would see patients or other Sisters in white gowns, but always everything was silent… so silent.

At last the elderly Hospitaler stopped before a door and opened it gently. “Your Sisters are at rest within, Lady Palatine,” she said, turning to address Aribeth, “I will leave you know to attend them at your own leisure.” She bowed politely, then withdrew back the way she had come, leaving Aribeth alone before the open door.

She stepped inside. There were six beds, and in four of them a Sister lay face down with their backs exposed to the air. Swollen, bloody marks stretched painfully across their backs – fifty wounds for fifty lashes of Mistress Celina’s whip – just looking at them made her cringe as if the very whip that struck them snapped and whistled in her ears.

In the nearest bed lay Cauline, her mask buried in her pillow as she slept, and the fresh wounds on her broad frame covering a matting of scar tissue. Perhaps she felt nothing at all – all the nerves in her back could be dead, explaining why she slept so easily. In the bed across from her lay Augusta, and she too slept easily despite the angry red markings across her. Kia was there also, and though she lay silently, Aribeth could not tell whether it was sleep that eased her or if some sedative had her unconscious.

In the last of the occupied beds lay Clara with her face turned away from the door. She breathed with steady, deep breaths, and her back – a mess of torn flesh covered by some glistening gel - quivered with each rise and fall. Aribeth moved around her bed, and knelt down quietly near her friend’s face. She wasn’t reposed, and though her eyes were shut, there was not even a hint of peace across her soft features. She may not even be asleep. Aribeth bit her lower lip and raised a hand hesitantly, wanting to reach out for her, but unwilling to cause her any more agony than she had already endured. Slowly, and with ample care, Aribeth traced the very tips of her fingers across the other woman’s brow towards her ear, gently moving her tawny locks with repeated motions.

Tears started to bead in her eyes, but Aribeth blinked them away. This was her fault – if she hadn’t been so proud none of this would have taken place. It hadn’t made any difference; Cauline had still put the abbot to death, and now they had all been punished because she had resisted. Why had she cared? The abbot wasn’t one of her Sisters – why had she made such a sacrifice on his behalf?

Beside her, Clara began to stir, but Aribeth didn’t stop stroking her dearest friend’s brow. She found it soothing, to be here with her, and just watching her sleep made her feel more at peace than she had in days. The whole Galaxy could have been crumbling down around her, but she wouldn’t have moved from Clara’s side.

Gradually, the other woman’s eyes peeled themselves open, and even in the relative darkness of the still room Aribeth could see her pupils were completely dilated to the point were almost none of her clear blue eyes could be seen.

“Aribeth,” she mouthed, hardly a breath of air passing through her to carry her voice to her Palatine’s ears, “is that really you?”

Aribeth bowed her head and shut her eyes tight – forcing back the tears that tried to overcome them. “Yes,” she raised her head, watching as Clara’s eyes drifted dreamily over her face, “I’m here with you.”

“Good,” Clara’s eyes closed again, and her face seemed to relax, “I don’t want to dream alone.”

“You’ll never be alone,” she whispered back, then leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek, “I’ll always be there for you.”

Her Celestian said something in her sleep, but, close as she wa,s Aribeth could not hear it, her friend’s voice lost as whatever dream she had briefly escaped from reclaimed her.

Aribeth did not move from her side, but stayed by her and cradled Clara’s head tenderly in her arms.

“My Lady…”

Aribeth looked up.

Augusta had somehow risen from her bed, and now on her feet, hobbled forward with great difficulty.

Aribeth stood up. The Celestian’s chest was bare, and with each staggering shuffle of her feet her entire body seemed to tense with pain. Her head bobbed slightly, and the light in her bionic eye was estinguished – she must have been near blind – but still she struggled forward, her arms hanging limply by her sides – the pain of moving them being to much to bear.

“You have come… to see us… my Lady?” she said, her voice hoarse and stung with the pain of involved speech.

“Augusta,” Aribeth shook her head, “I’m sorry…”

“No…” Augusta coughed back, her voice a dry rasp, “I accept… no apology from you… You are our… leader… I would… follow… you anywhere.”

“Augusta,” Aribeth blinked as she looked around the room helplessly, “what kind of a leader lets this happen to her Sisters?”

Augusta tried to straighten herself up, but in the end she only lifted her chin. “The very best…” she croaked, “One who is… not afraid… to do what she believes… for any price…”

“Look at you, Augusta; you’re in pain,” Aribeth pleaded, “a pain that I forced upon you.”

The Celestian Superior gritted her teeth; “I know no pain,” she growled, “How would you have me serve?”

Aribeth shook her head and looked down at the floor, but Augusta persisted. “I know how you feel for her…” she said, looking over Clara’s unconscious form, “For that… I am glad you did not witness what I did.” She looked back at the Palatine, even without the red glare of her bionic eye her stare was one of steely determination, “Whatever fate you suffer… whatever the Canoness… has demanded of you… I swear… I swear on my honour… that no harm shall come to her so long as I live…. I know what it is like to lose someone… no one should ever know that grief…”

“It’s not like that,” Aribeth said as she took a deep breath to explain, “you are all coming with me, in a company of fifty Sisters, to a hell the likes of which we have never seen. All five of you.”

Augusta frowned, “I am afraid… there are only four of us now… Anaris… she died on her knees…” The Celestian Superior knew her Palatine’s sorrow, and for a moment she was silent, swaying heavily on her feet. “Whenever you call upon us…” she said at last, “we shall be ready…”

“We are to leave at dawn,” Aribeth sighed as her shoulders sunk, “but seeing you like this… how could I even ask you to come with me after what you have suffered?”

With a groan like that of a corpse being dragged across gravel, Augusta lowered herself to a knee. “My blood has been shed… in your service… I will not now turn my back… not even is the arch-fiend himself should strike me down…”

 

* * * *

 

Two hours later, with every Sister of the fifty accounted for, Aribeth returned exhausted to her office. Everything had happened so quickly; she had woken to what had seemed like yet another day of routine, but then from the Canoness’ office, to the Sanctuary, to the cell, and then back again to the Canoness’ office, everything seemed to just speed by. One thing and then another… like falling down the stairs and wondering when you’d hit the bottom still in one piece.

Closing the door behind her, she crossed her office in a few steps and wavered for a few moments at the side of her desk as her thoughts tumbled around inside her head. The water was gone from the floor, and the window had been repaired – even her desk had been straightened in her absence.

Without thought Aribeth pushed her way into her tiny room and fell into her bed, not even bothering to remove her heavy armour. Within minutes she was asleep.

 

* * * *

 

The glasses clinked together lightly in their raised hands as the three toasted their success.

“I wouldn’t have imagined it possible,” Montrose said, smiling broadly as he smacked his lips at the sweetness of the red wine, “that we three – such humble men in all things – could have achieved such goal.”

“Indeed,” the Sorcerer drawled, sipping his own wine and letting his eyes wander freely about the circular room, “to think that we, with your help of course, Mr. Montrose, could have carried out such a daring plan so flawlessly… I must confess that I hardly thought you were capable…”

“Oh but my Lord…” Montrose blushed slightly and yielded a coy smile that made the sorcerer chuckle lightly.

“You forget yourself, Mr. Montrose,” the other one said from the side, his harsh voice just as dry as the scabbed white skin that covered his ancient head, “the task is not yet complete, and until it is you are accountable to us!”

“Oh please, Maelekor,” the sorcerer chided lightly, patting the disgruntled Chaos Marine lightly on the shoulder, “Montrose knows understands our terms quite thoroughly, and I don’t think he’ll disappoint us. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Montrose?”

Montrose swallowed down the wine in his throat with a loud gulp, “Forgive me Lords, for my lack of grace…”

The Sorcerer made a sound of mild amusement, but Maelekor stared at him with hard piercing eyes, his own wine untouched.

Montrose cleared his throat and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a laced cloth – its white surface stained like blood from the red wine – then tucked it back into his jacket’s breast pocket. “Yes of course I know the importance of the mission, my Lords, and let me reassure you that everything will perform flawlessly – thanks in no small part to the assistance you have provided.”

“You see, Maelekor?” the sorcerer looked at his companion with a broad grin, “Your fears are unfounded! For Mr. Montrose – by no means an unaccomplished man – had our best interest at heart, as well as his own. I am sure that he will carry out the task at hand most proficiently, and that in the end we shall not be made to regret the investment of our time or our resources!”

Maelekor was not convinced, however. “I would still like to hear the entirety of this plan of yours, Montrose. I won’t to know how exactly this will help us stop this Inquisitor Hargrove and whatever information he does possess, and I don’t think I need remind either of you about the importance that this man is stopped.”

The sorcerer sighed and set his glass of wine down on the small circular table that stood at the middle of their small party, “Yes, Montrose, I suppose you should elaborate the particulars of your plan.”

“Ah!” Montrose smiled merrily, took another mouthful of wine, placed his glass down on the table, then rubbed his hands together excitedly as he looked to both his companions. “My friends,” he beamed at them, “I do not think you shall be disappointed. You see, our man Galtman is currently immersed in following a riddle…”

 

The company of fifty Sisters rose early before dawn, and donning their armour and taking up their weapons they assemble in the Dining Hall where they sit together for what may be their last supper within the preceptory’s hallowed walls. No songs are sung and no toasts are made; they sit in the silence with their own thoughts as close to them as the Sisters at their side.

 

“… this riddle – a sheer piece of creative genius, if I may be so bold – has only one answer to satisfy, and through some sweat from my own brow, I made sure he found just what he was looking for.”

“Why do we want this Inquisitor anyway?” Maelekor asked of his Brother, but the Sorcerer raised a hand to silence him.

 

In silence the procession is led from the Hall in serried ranks of white. Five abreast with their captain at the head they march in perfect unison. A sight to see, fifty women – fifty of the Emperor’s Crusaders – stop for no one in their march, and all who see them pass avert their eyes in reverence. A force so fine, the fifty Sisters stand to attention in the Grand Hall where their Canoness awaits.

 

“… Galtman is now on Proctor Primus where he gathers his forces in preparation for the assault on the End Forge. Now, I know what you must be thinking – an assault is not good news – but let me assure you that there is nothing to worry about.”

The Chaos Marines looked at each other, then at Montrose. “Are you an idiot, man!” Maelekor snorted, “Have you ever met an Astartes who was troubled by the thought of combat?”

“Yes, well…” Montrose murmured, “Carrying on with my plan…”

“How you came to choose this man, Brother,” Maelekor muttered, “I will never know.”

 

As one the Sisters took to a knee as their Canoness, her golden armour gleaming as the first morning rays of sunshine caught it through the windows, walked among them. Prayers were said and liturgies * were sung and each woman present was blessed by first her Lady, then by the ministers ordained for such blessed duties.

 

“… his ship is the Magister, and I have confirmed intelligence that says he will make a small detour to the system station at the Rienfrois Nebula for extra supplies and the exchange of some of his crew – who will have mysteriously contracted a viral infection – for some additional ratings. He will take eight of them on board, and, as you know, that is the exact number of operatives our honoured Maelekor selected for this mission.”

“You see, Maelekor?” the sorcerer added light-heartedly, “There is no need to be critical of Mr. Montrose when he so readily takes your esteemed advice!”

 

Each Sister was then adorned with seal – may she remain ever pure - in memoriam * of this undertaking. Then, saluted by their Canoness, they arose as one. Songs of victory were sung, and the preceptory’s flowing black standard was entrusted into the Palatine’s care. The mighty doors of the convent were opened, and filled with courage, zeal, and a righteous fervour, the company of fifty marched out into the Emperor’s hands. May He protect them in life and in death, and ward them against all things to come.

 

“He will find the End Forge, but when he does he will also find that he has been led into a trap. My infiltration team will seize control of the Magister, and my sabatoeurs will destroy most of his assault team, leaving him defenceless and stranded upon the planet’s surface for you to collect at your leisure.” Montrose picked up his glass from the table and raised it, “To immortality,” he said, “may it be as sweet to me as your prize will be to you.”

 

“My Lady Aribeth!”

Aribeth turned from where she oversaw her Sisters’ deployment in the direction of the voice and saw young Belinda skipping down the preceptory steps towards her, something held firmly in her hands.

“My Lady,” she said again, coming to a stop, dwarfed in the shadow of her armoured Palatine, “may the Emperor keep you safe.” She held out her hands, and Aribeth saw that she carried her father’s medallion on its chain. Holding the black standard in one hand, Aribeth reached out with her gauntleted fingers and gently scooped the silver cross and wreathed skull out of her aid’s rosy palms. It glinted dully in the morning light as she looked upon it with mixed thoughts, but eventually Aribeth slipped the chain around her neck and rested cross against her chest.

“Thank you, Belinda. May the Emperor watch over you as well,” she turned to go, but the young girl through her arms around Aribeth’s waist in a tight hug, her cheek pressing against the Palatine’s armoured stomach.

“Belinda, please – let go.” Aribeth gently pried the youngster from her waist and rested her heavy gauntlet on her shoulder. Belinda looked up at her with teary eyes, but couldn’t bring herself to say anything before her heroine. Aribeth smiled warmly at the girl, “Don’t be sad, Belinda. You’ll see me again, I promise.”

She nodded, sniffed, then whipped her eyes. “The Emperor protects.”

“He does, Belinda, He does…”

With that the Palatine gave her young aid one last smile, then turned on her heel, the black banner of the Sacred Rose held high.

[daboarder]

ok ive only read the end part of this latest chapter so far. but am i right in assuming that this mission that their all about to go on is to a particular red planet?...hehe.

 

love it as always and the ending was just superb.

[Lady_Canoness]

You are correct!

 

The red planet we be here soon! 1 more chapter of peace - though I assure you that 'good things' will happen - then it into a happy 4 chapters of war and death!

[daboarder]

i must admit i was sorta hoping that clara wouldnt end up as part of the expedition to the red planet and that she would then be alive after aribeth had fallen and would perhaps play a part in her redemption! oh well still loving the story particularly galtman. that bloke is one hell of an inquisitor.

[Lady_Canoness]

I know what you mean. Clara is definately one of my favourites, so rest assured that I'm not gonna let her flop. She may be going to the 'red planet' but her role is far from over...

[Lady_Canoness]

I've been jugling this one around for a while now as I just coudn't get it to feel right, and in the end, rather than making one long unwieldy chapter about the transit to the red planet, I'm braking it into two: 'Into the Void', and 'Sisters in Arms'.

 

'Into the Void', as the title suggests, deals a lot with space travel (and warp) travel itself, and how the Sisters react to it. There is a lot of pressure building up, and with the warp weighing heavily on everyone's minds, I wanted to give the feeling that nerves were fraying and that an oppressive shadow was being cast over the fifty crusaders. Also in this chapter we meet a new character, Captain Argo, who in his own right has plenty of potential... meaning that he'll either resurface in the Saint Redeemed, or I'll leave his story untold after his part in the Saint Ascendant. I do this to try and escape the usual story-line mentality in which a character who plays no major role in a story is thoughtfully omitted and thrown out after his part is played. Like real life, I want to say 'here is someone with a great story of their own - an interesting person to be sure - but though they are deserving of mention, this is not their time' - like mentioning a celebrity in passing.

 

Momentum is building, and this chapter sets the scene for the next quite nicely. Tragedy is at hand.

 

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The Saint Ascendant, Part Two: The Seed of Martyrs: Chapter 9: Into the Void.

 

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“Measure not a man by his castles or his wealth,” the venerable Lord Admiral Ravensburg had written in his memoirs, “but rather by the ships he commands.” Words to live by, Galtman figured, and as such he owned no decadent villas or palaces on calm backwater worlds, nor did own acres of land for the sake of his own repose between missions. No, like the Lord Admiral, Galtman did not take pleasure in land, but rather in ships – one ship to be exact: the Magister. It was his ship, the crew was his crew, and the captain and his officers were all under his employ.

It was a beautiful ship, the Magister, and it was everything he could ever want. An Imperial Sword class frigate, the Magister was a tool of raw unyielding power, and wherever he went, the authority of the Magister’s guns followed. Over a kilometre and a half long with a crew of two thousand and more firepower than any ship of relative size, the ship was Galtman’s most prized possession as well as his greatest asset. He’d lost count of the number of times he had watched smugly as a heretic fled into orbit thinking their escape was assured, only to find that the Magister lay in waiting. How many times had he watched as lesser ships burned and ruptured in their feeble attempts to escape? It made him smile – truly smile – when he thought about it. Such power was the right of the Emperor, and since the Magister was faster, stronger, and much more armoured than anything less than a capital class ship, she fulfilled her job in meting out justice quite handily.

“Lord Inquisitor!” Captain Argo, the Magister’s commanding officer, snapped to attention as the Inquisitor stepped on to the bridge, then smiled broadly and extended a warm hand in Galtman’s direction.

Captain Elias Argo was not your typical Navy officer for he had never actually graduated from the academy – something he was understandably not keen to own up to – but even then he was one of the best escort Captains in the segmentum.

His first taste of real action had been fifty-three years earlier when he was just fifteen and a commissioned Sub-Lieutenant Third Class assigned to the Wayman, a Cobra class Destroyer. As fate would have it, the routine patrol duty of the Wayman and the rest of her squadron stumbled into an ambush set by renegade ships. Two Cobras were crippled almost immediately before their crews had been able to bring them up to full-alert status, and the Wayman took heavy damage to her port batteries. The attackers were identified as four Iconoclast Destroyers and a lagging Infidel Raider. Two of the Wayman’s sister ships moved in to engage the enemy destroyers while Wayman was brought about to face the closing enemy with torpedo tubes primed and ready for launch. The initial stages of the battle went well with one enemy destroyer buckling and combusting in space while another burned freely. However, the Infidel Raider – who had just brought her weapons into effective range – quickly turned the tables and destroyed the Centurion with her superior firepower. The Cobras were down to two fighting ships against three – their crippled companions desperately trying to limp free of the engagement. It was at the point, however, that fate struck again, and the discipline of the Imperial Navy shone true and superior. Breaking formation, the Infidel Raider pursued the reeling pair of Cobras leaving two enemy Destroyers to face down the injured Wayman and the Sentinel – the last able bodied Cobra in the formation. Braving the storm of battery fire thrown up against them, the Wayman and the Sentinel closed on their prey, and – combining their batteries to deadly effect – pulverised an enemy Iconoclast between them before setting the remaining enemy Destroyer to flight with a hail of torpedoes.

To their credit, the captains of the two ailing Cobras put up a valiant fight against their superior foe, though both ships were blasted apart by the Infidel as they tried to limp to safety. The battle, now one-sided, was still far from over, and as the Wayman and the Sentinel brought themselves about, the litanies of incomprehensible and disturbing messages delivered from the enemy across all frequencies began to swell. The Infidel – a larger and superior ship to the Cobra – came about for another attempt at destruction. A flurry of torpedos lashed out at the Imperials – forcing them to break formation in an attempt to evade – despite her courage, however, the Wayman took a serious blow, and the armoured fortress of her bridge sustained heavy damage, killing or incapacitating her captain and commanding crew. In the lower part of the Wayman’s superstructure with communications to the bridge and the Sentinel severed, Elias Argo – no more than fifteen at the time – found himself the master of the Wayman’s fate. Finding his way to a secondary command console, the young Argo regrouped with the surviving Executive Officers and bridge staff, though to his horror he found that none amongst them were in the chain of command.

The Wayman, and the souls of all those aboard were now in his hands.

Training overruling the instinct to panic, Argo reasoned that they would be dead in space in a mere matter of moments if they did not fight back. Ignoring damage reports and reverting helm control to the engine room, Argo ordered the ship brought to face, and tubes 1 through 4 prepped to launch. The massive warheads were hauled into positions, and the breaches were slammed shut. On his mark the torpedoes fired. For a moment all was silent, then with a wailing like the maw of hell itself, the proximity alarm sounded. Incoming torpedoes. Blast doors slammed shut – sealing the ship into compartments and everywhere the crew braced themselves for impact. With a shuddering thump, four enemy warheads hit home, but rather than the explosive thunder that sends souls sailing off to the Golden Halls of the Emperor, no sound from below could be heard. Then another glowing amber lit up, and mainpower switched to backup – bathing everything in a red light. Hull breaches in sections 3 and 8 of the engine room, gun deck 4, and the aft crew compartments – prepare to repel boarders. Drawing his service pistol and the ornamental officer’s sabre from his belt, laughing down his life as a sweet farewell, Argo rallied the men around him and proceeded to the engine rooms with fire burning in his heart and acid in his veins. The fighting was ferocious and bloody, and all around him could he hear the booming roar of shotguns, the furious wail of chain swords, and the screaming of men driven mad. Ratings and Enginseers armed themselves with the heavy tools of their trade, arms-men fastened tight their carapace armour and charged up their chock mauls – never before had the young Argo smelled the battle so fresh. He was not afraid, brave Argo, but rather invigorated by the carnage around him. So terrible was he in the defence of his ship that the enemy quaked before him and he personally cut down three of the assailants before rallying his crew and forcing the enemy back into their boarding capsules to be exterminated like the vermin they were.

All across her breadth the Wayman’s crew fought off their attackers with stout courage and steely determination. The battle however was far from won, and to their ears came the grinding sound of the Infidel’s engines as she closed in to claim her prize. Numerous close range boarding craft were launched, and without a moment to regroup her men, a full scale boarding action was launched against the Wayman. Argo, his sword slick with the blood of his enemies gave the cry of victory, and, spurred into righteous bloodlust, the crew dashed through the red-light corridors of the Wayman, fighting heroically against the new waves of foes. Through a dozen corridors a dozen brave men, who until that day had been numbered among the faceless unworthies in a ship’s crew, earned his name in the hall of honour as each man held the line single-handedly against a score of the enemy.

Leading from the front, his sword lashing out with mighty strokes as the shotguns of his companions blasted over his shoulders, the brave Argo led the counter attack with the might of legends filling his body and empowering his arms. They fought bravely, slaying dozens of their foes, hurling them back onto the decking, until so much blood was spilt that not a man could walk without stepping on the fallen and having their boots dyed red.

“I will never retreat! I will never surrender!” he hollered with all his strength, the men behind him answering; “Death to the enemy! Leave none alive to remember!”

The multitudes of the foe were many and tireless, however, and even though the Wayman’s crew fought with the strength of twice their number, the assault troops from the Infidel seemed limitless – surely their entire ship must have emptied for the assault! Indeed brave Elias refused to give in, but even as he fought hard rallying his surviving men around him, the enemy kept pushing at their strong points and kept forcing at the blast doors. Finally the brave Sub-Lieutenant was forced to retreat back into his ship, surrendering the fore and aft decks to the enemy as he and the last few of his surviving crew withdrew into the superstructure for one last stand. Yet Argo did not die that day, neither was he captured, for as fate would dictate the Sentinel came to the Wayman’s rescue and pummelled the Infidel Raider with her batteries.

Scattered like spineless rats fleeing before the rising deluge, the enemy finally saw that their fates were sealed, and frantically they ran in all directions with hopes of escape, or at very best seizing control of the Wayman herself.

With a great crack that shook the through bulkheads and down the corridors of the Imperial Cobra, the infidel finally split apart down the middle and died, spilling her guts into the void as dancing sheets of liquid flame burst from her ruptured innards. The Wayman was saved, and the young Argo – the hero of the hour – received commendations for his bravery and courage, though the greatest honour he received above all was to be commissioned to the Wayman as a Junior Lieutenant, so that his destiny might be linked to hers for both of their lives.

Captain Argo – now a man just past the prime years of his life – had changed much since his days on the Wayman, and the young junior officer had been replaced by a sturdy man of powerful build whose grey hair and lined face spoke not so of age as it did experience. A fine Captain and a fine man, nowhere else in the Navy could Galtman have recruited a better master for his ship.

“Elias,” Galtman nodded to the Captain as he clutched firmly the offered hand, “how is my ship? Is all in readiness?”

“Yes sir,” Argo replied with absolute certainty, “the Magister and her crew are ready for whatever you command.”

“Excellent. Have you made suitable living arrangements for the Sisters?”

Elias nodded, though the long scar that stitched its way down his face twitched slightly.

“Is there something you wish to say, Captain Argo?” Galtman asked as the two walked side by side to the primary display panel on the Magister’s bridge.

Argo did not hesitate in his response; “It’s the Sisters, Lord; they make the men uneasy.”

“The men should be prepared to deal with it, Captain.”

“Yes sir, though my first officer agrees – faith and religion is not their forte.”

Galtman thought on this for a moment. He could order the men to cope with their difficulties, though when it came to the Magister, he was unwilling to sacrifice their peak performance to accommodate the Sisters. “See that the crew are given extra mess privileges for the duration of the transit, and see that only the adepts maintain regular working hours in the decks reserved for the Sisterhood.”

“As you wish, sir,” Argo acknowledged, “the men will be thankful.”

“Dismissed, Captain Argo.”

“Sir.”

 

Catachans were different. They were big, brawny, and generally crude – of course that was understandable, after all, if she’d been raised on a jungle death world with abnormally high gravity, she’d probably be the exact same. Still, there was something different about them – something feral – almost inhuman.

“Nerf, what the hell are you doing?” Nikka asked.

She and Nerf had been meandering around the Magister for a few minutes for no other reason then stretching their legs and preparing themselves mentally for the jump – something that made them both feel uneasy – but the Catachan was acting strange – that is stranger than normal.

He was sniffing the air.

Now, starships like the Magister all used recycled oxygen that was purified through some unknowable means before being re-circulated back into the ship. The process removed any contaminants from the air supply, thus making the same air that circulated through the stifling engine rooms breathable in the kitchen facilities or anywhere else. The recycling process also removed any sent that the air may carry.

“Nerf?” Nikka took a step nearer to him as he walked this way and that, his nose in the air like some large, muscular puppy.

“Huh…” he said to himself, taking a deep breath through his mouth and straightening out his neck, “that’s weird.”

“No… the only weird thing on this ship is you.”

Nerf looked back at her and grinned, “I thought I would have been able to smell the incense.”

Nikka smirked, unimpressed, “Yea,” she rolled her eyes, “Why don’t you tell them that?”

Nerf cocked his head and furrowed his brow as if in deep contemplation while he balanced out the imaginary weight of her suggestion in his hands. “No, I just think that so long as we don’t mention the virus they should be alright.”

“Whoa! What!?” Nikka did a double-take, “Virus!? What do you mean virus!?”

Nerf shrugged; “Dunno, some of the crew are a little ill, that’s all. Other than that, I don’t know much about it.”

“That’s pretty serious, Nerf. A virus? Are you sure?”

Nerf shrugged again; “Hey! It’s just what I heard, alright? I don’t know any more than that.”

“Nerf, you’re an idiot, you know that?” Nikka snapped at him, before quickly turning and walking in the direction of the bridge.

“What did I do!?” Nerf called after her, but Nikka didn’t answer.

 

Space travel is in many ways the same as traveling by sea: all about you is an environment so deep and mysterious that threatens your very life at every moment. One can become lost, stranded, or becalmed in such a place as unforgiving as the sea of stars. Planets, like islands, dot the void, and like their sea-born contemporaries planets can spell both doom and salvation for those dashed upon its shores.

Like boarding a boat, boarding a space-faring vessel is so foreign to a creature from the soil – the feel of the false earth beneath your feet as it vibrates with the ship, and that ever creeping knowledge that just bellow you through the workings of wrought iron and steel, waits the bottomless eternity, ready to swallow you up at the first failing.

No more comforting ground, no more refreshing wind… the void is a place utterly alien to man.

 

The Inquisitor’s ship seemed to resemble very much the Inquisitor himself. It was cold, unyielding, and for the most part featureless, and had bare metal walls with steel grating for decks and naked piping snaking along the ceilings. Passages were for the most part narrow, and after every few dozen meters one would have to pass through a bulkhead with reinforced blast doors. The ship was unmistakably of military origin, though Aribeth could not guess at the size or class. Under her feet the ship vibrated and shook at regular intervals, and her greaves made loud echoless clunking noises as she walked. Of the crew she encountered, the ones in uniform would salute smartly at her passing, while the more pithy of Galtman’s minions would simply avert their eyes in either submission or respect.

She was not a virgin to interstellar travel, but even so the prospect of a long voyage through the cold void of space left her nervous, and the promise of warp travel left her positively afraid. The Empyrean – or the Warp as it was often called – was both feared and revered within the Imperium, for while it allowed the Imperium to survive at such a scale as it did, it also presented the greatest threat to all mankind. It is another realm, they say, one that runs both above and through the physical universe. It is a hostile place, a place of pure thought and emotion where flesh cannot survive. It is a place of daemons, gods, and everything else both blasphemous and unholy. It is from the warp that psykers – witches – draw their ungodly powers, and it is from the warp that immortal beasts forever played on mortal souls. It is the death of all that lives.

However its power to grant death is also the power to grant life. The warp flows differently than the temporal universe, and what would take thousands of years here could only take a few minutes there. This is especially important to travel and telepathic communication, for a ship or a thought that passes through warp space can cover great distances a speeds greater than the travel of light. Indeed if it where not for the warp, how would the Emperor’s armies ever be deployed to battles across his realm? How would the resources that drive the Imperial economy ever be shipped? How would any one planet know that they are in fact not alone in the universe? However this great boon is not without its hazards.

The warp, the mariners say, is like a vast ocean: it has currents, tides, lulls, and tempests of the worst sorts that can see a ship lost to eternity, or thrown off course to such a degree that it will reappear off in the cold of deep space between galaxies, doomed to drift until its stores run dry and the last man who is forced to cannibalize his comrades dies of insanity. Some ships are lost for centuries at a time, only to reappear with the crew thinking that just a few days have passed. The opposite is also true, however, for a ship may exit the warp just shorty after having entered, but when boarded a search party will find that the entire crew died of old age.

The peril is indeed great, but be that as it may, warp travel is essential to the Imperium, and as such particular safety regulations have been implemented to keep the unnatural energies of warp space at bay. Void shields are one such advancement, and are designed to allow a ship to pass through warp space in a safely enclosed capsule of energy that repulses the sentient forces that possess the nightmare sea. Another invention are the triple durasteel shades that slide down into place over all portals to the outside once the warp drives have been initiated. These simple devices keep the crew from peering out into the roiling warp, for even the slightest glance of warp space is said to invite damnation and insatiable madness upon those who would dare look upon it. Lastly, there are the navigators – psykers specially bred and trained for the sole purpose of guiding ships safely through the warp. A ship’s master will often hire multiple navigators into his service as insurance, for while a ship can survive within the warp without a navigator, it will never be able to arrive at its intended destination unguided.

Even with safety precautions in place, the warp still managed to have adverse effects on those onboard that ranged from nightmares to physical illness, and, in certain extreme cases, temporary insanity. It was the duty of the ship’s chaplains to ward against this, and during warp travel they would pay visits to each member of the crew to administer blessings and hear confessions. Indeed, it was said that the only thing truly capable of withstanding the intrusive power of the warp was unshakeable faith, though whether or not that was true, Aribeth could not tell.

Aribeth had just stepped inside the barracks set aside for the use of the Sisterhood – a long room with rows of stacked bunks indented into the walls – when the ship’s intercom snapped into life, and a voice she did not recognized flooded through the ship’s length; “This is the Captain speaking,” the voice said, as all the Sisters stopped what they were doing and listened, “warp drives will be engaged in ten minutes and counting. Please stand by.”

So it would begin; the ship would have cleared the Proctor system by now, and they were about to hurtle off into space for whatever purpose Inquisitor Galtman had in mind for them. Aribeth simply hoped that this was not how it would end.

The Sisters around her were mostly quiet. A few were engaged in hushed conversations or were whispering prayers, but most simply sat on their bunks… waiting. Waiting for the jolt, jump, and lurching feeling that would announce that they had left the Emperor’s domain behind, and that they were now travelling through what was – for all intents and purposes – Hell.

Clara was sitting upright on her bed, her eyes staring out blankly before her, though she did look up when Aribeth walked over and crouched down next to her.

“How are you feeling, Sister?” Aribeth asked as an officer concerned for her Sisters, though in truth she felt the concern stemming from a much more personal attachment.

“Not all that much, my Lady,” Clara answered blankly, “The Hospitallers administered an overly generous amount of pain-killers to me just so I could wear my armour. I can’t feel my face… and I don’t even know if I have a back anymore.”

“I’m sorry for your suffering,” Aribeth said, shifting on the balls of her feet, “but I needed you here with me.”

Clara smiled slowly through the numbness. “I would know no greater suffering than being away from you, my Lady. My body can heal, but my heart never could.”

Aribeth tried to think of something to say, but finding herself speechless before her dearest friend, Aribeth stood up with a soft smile, and patted Clara on the shoulder before moving off.

Sister Serinae and Sister Rylke were in conversation just close by, and as she walked away, Aribeth managed to catch some of the words that passed between them: “You just need to relax your mind,” Rylke was instructing the younger Celestian, “empty your thoughts, try to meditate.” Serinae didn’t look like she was being convinced, however.

“Is something bothering you, Sisters?” Aribeth asked, stepping into their company.

“No, my Lady,” Serinae said quickly, standing up straight from where she was leaning against the bunks – she had yet to grow comfortable with the responsibility being a Celestian placed upon her shoulders – “It’s just a small personal matter. Nothing important.”

“The wellbeing of my Sisters is very important to me,” Aribeth said with an air or sincerity that made the small Celestian flush, “if it’s all the same to you, Serinae, I’d like to hear it.”

“It’s just warp travel,” Serinae explained in a quieter voice as not to be overheard, “it makes me uncomfortable, and I have trouble thinking… and sleeping – I have nightmares.”

Aribeth nodded reassuringly, “I understand what you mean,” she said – an obvious understatement on her own part – “warp travel can be difficult, but do as Rylke suggested,” she looked back and forth between both of them, “keep faith and you should be fine.”

They exchanged a few more words before the five-minute warning sounded, and Aribeth left them for her own quarters. Just as her company of fifty Sisters had been granted barrack space, Aribeth, as a commanding officer, had been given a private officer’s cabin just separate from her Sisters. It was small - though surprisingly larger than her quarters back on Proctor Primus – and possessed only a single metal-framed bed and a footlocker, both of which were bolted to the deck. She closed the metal door behind her, then on second thought locked it too, before crossing over to her bunk and flopping herself down on it – the old steel creaking beneath her armoured weight.

The alarm sounded again – two minutes.

She lay there, looking up at the drab paint that was peeling off the ceiling, and shivered. There wasn’t much time now – what would happen? She knew only too well of what Serinae spoke when she described how trying warp travel was to her, Aribeth felt it too. She’d always tried to ignore it in the past – forget the nightmares and the headaches of the surreal terrors that accosted her mind – but now it felt different – she didn’t know if she could do it anymore. She was tired, and, in a way, broken like she had not been before. Even now she could feel the impressions that Galtman had left within her skull, and even now she could hear his voice whispering in her thoughts as the ice from his eyes snaked down her spine. What would happen to her? She wrapped her arms tightly around her sides as she lay there. She felt empty – hollow almost – and she was afraid to wonder why. There had to be a reason for all this - what had changed?

The ten second warning sounded and started to count down.

This was it… whatever happened now was beyond her control.

Five…

She only prayed that the Emperor really was watching over her.

The count hit zero.

Her belly lurched violently, she shut her eyes tightly, and her teeth seemed to sing in her gums. Nothing, they said, could adequately prepare one for the launch into oblivion – they were right.

 

“That’s it, sir,” Captain Argo called from across the bridge as his oversaw the adepts monitoring the Magister’s passage into the Empyrean, “we’ve entered the warp at a steady drift. All engines are functioning within normal parameters, and all safety measures are engaged.”

“Excellent,” Galtman replied from where he stood overlooking the bridge from the command console, dabbing his brow with mild discomfort from the transition into the warp, “how long is our expected passage?”

Argo took a moment to reply as he inspected the readouts and muttered a few confirmations to the adepts hardwired at the stations nearby, “Cogitator readings estimate a passage of two-point-seven-seven nautical weeks, though Navigator Auberstein places his own estimates at two-point-three-eight nautical weeks.”

“Good,” Galtman said, stepping gingerly away from the consol and down from the command deck of the bridge where he stopped for a few moments to compose himself and pinch his blue eyes shut before blinking them open again. Argo often forgot how difficult it must be for the Inquisitor to travel in and out of the warp, being a psyker and all. Most psychics he knew of – aside from Navigators and Astropaths who had been trained for such things – found warp transit to be a difficult and trying experience that they rarely got used to. Apparently the waking nightmares suffered by ordinary men increased tenfold when one possessed psychic abilities, and often led to madness… or so he’d heard.

The blast doors at the back of the bridge hissed open to admit a young man in the uniform of a Navy Ensign to deck. Approaching the Captain with quick strides, he saluted smartly and held out a data-slate for his superior officer.

Argo took it and scrolled through the contents.

“What is it, Captain?” Galtman said, raising an eyebrow and walking over to where the Captain stood. He glanced at the ensign; the man immediately stiffened under his scrutiny, but otherwise remained perfectly to attention. Galtman ignored him.

“It’s a report from the chief medical officer, sir,” Argo replied, “he says that there is some viral strain aboard the ship and that seven crewmen have been taken ill and are now under quarantine.”

“How is that possible?” Galtman asked, furrowing his brow, “I thought all who boarded were screened for contaminants?”

Argo shrugged, “I must admit that this escapes me as well, my Lord; never in my days on with the Magister have I seen anything like this.” He looked up from the data-slate at the Ensign, “You’re sure this information is accurate?”

“I’m unfit to judge, sir,” the young man answered – Galtman’s eyes narrowed – “I’m only acting as a courier for Dr. Stright, sir.”

“I want this problem dealt with,” Galtman told the Captain, his voice back to his usual cold reserved for those that displeased him, “I will not let some outbreak jeopardize my mission!”

“I understand, sir,” Captain Argo assured him with a nod, “I will inform Navigator Auberstein to change course to the nearest port or deep space station along our current passage.”

Galtman grunted, and, walking off along the Magister’s bridge, turned his back to the Captain of his ship.

Captain Argo watched him go, then addressed the Ensign; “Dismissed,” he snapped, turning his own heel to follow the Inquisitor.

Roland Weis, his Ensign’s uniform fitting perfectly, saluted the Captain as he left, and withdrew from the bridge, a thin smile playing across his lips: stage one would soon be complete.

 

 

After five hours, Augusta started to get concerned. Passage into the warp had been quiet, and other than the initial lurch in her gut, Augusta had felt nothing from the ethereal storm that raged unseen and unheard outside the ship. Her concern was not for herself, however. The warp affected everyone differently, and some reacted worse than others. Many of her Sisters were restless and pacing the decks assigned to them alone or in small groups - their heads bowed and their voices hushed, not speaking of the of the ether realm beyond. Sister Serinae had withdrawn to the armoury with Rylke; obviously the heavy weapon Celestians found that their thoughts were most at ease in sanctifying their weapons. Sister Clara had fallen back into a deep sleep and hadn’t moved since their sojourn began, while Sister Kia rested fitfully in the bunk above her, waking every so often as her fresh scars broke her consciousness with sharp stabs of agonizing pain. Cauline, however, had yet to darken the door of the bunk-room, and to this moment Augusta had no idea where the other Celestian Superior might be. The whereabouts of the masked Celestian was not what concerned her though, rather it was her Palatine, Aribeth, the leader of the mission, that she worried about. She hadn’t shown her face outside her quarters since they had entered the warp five hours ago, and as time pressed on, the veteran Clestian Superior grew more and more uneasy. Something was wrong with the Palatine, of that she was sure; this wasn’t the woman she had fought beside on the streets of Proctor Primus. The Canoness seemed to have broken her resolve and turned her into someone who was both unable and unwilling to lead – though Augusta found such a suspicion difficult, if not impossible, to believe: how could a heroine as renowned as Canoness Helena Cerador do anything to purposely harm another of the Sisterhood?

Augusta looked back down the length of the room at the featureless metal door, willing it to move, though of course it did not.

Resolved, Augusta rose to her feet and walked down the long room towards the door with awkward steps as her back twisted and screamed with each tread.

This is it, she thought to herself as she placed the cold steel of her bionic hand on the door’s handle, this is duty.

The door opened with a whining groan, but the woman inside did not look up. Augusta stepped inside and closed the door behind her – her last footfall echoed around the room. The Palatine’s glimmering power sword lay naked on the bed while the Sister herself knelt silently beside it in full armour, her head bowed – she made no notice of recognizing Augusta’s presence. Instantly she felt a pang of guilt shoot up through her insides: she’d intruded upon something private and she should leave. But she didn’t. Waiting in the suffocating silence, Augusta linked her hands before her and counted away her heartbeats staring at the opposite wall.

Minutes ticked away

“What is it, Celestian Superior?” the praying woman finally asked, her voice cutting the numbing silence like a blade.

“I await you orders, my Lady, and stand ready to serve the Emperor in all things.”

The Palatine did not stir or even turn to face her second, but rather left the scarred veteran staring at the back of her head and her tightly braided hair. “Is everything as it should be?”

“It is, my Lady,” Augusta replied.

“Then I have no orders for you. Leave me be.”

 

She didn’t need an interpreter to tell her that that had not gone well, and as it took her several moments to walk away from the door after closing it behind her. She hadn’t gained anything through speaking with the Palatine, and rather than gaining any closure on the matter, she may well have made it worse. Why had she even thought the Palatine would speak to her in the first place?

Nearby, Clara rolled into a sitting position and touched her feet to the floor as she held her weary head in her hands. Augusta walked over to her: if anyone knew what was happening to the Palatine, it would be the markswoman.

“Clara,” the Celestian looked up as she wiped her eyes clear with her hands, “I need to talk to you,” Augusta said, then added, “in private.”

Clara nodded sluggishly – she may well still be on the pain suppressants – but stood up to follow the Celestian Superior from the bunk-room.

“I need to know what is wrong with the Palatine,” Augusta asked as soon as they were clear from the door and down the hall.

“What? What do you mean?” Clara asked, her voice still a little groggy and her eyes stung red.

“Remember what we talked about in the preceptory? How the Palatine was suffering? That’s what I mean – though this time it is more dire.”

Clara met the Celestian Superior’s hard gaze with lagging curiosity – whatever medicament she was on still influenced her greatly. “You mean that you are worried about her… Sister Superior?”

“More than I should be,” Augusta answered roughly, “this is a time of war, Celestian, and I cannot accept anyone who is faltering in their duty.”

“What are you saying, Sister Superior?”

“Think, Celestian!” Augusta half shouted as her irritation burst into life inside of her, “have you failed to notice that we are going to battle, and that it is very likely that many of us will die in the fighting to come? Do you not agree that we need everyone fighting in their right mind at this time? Do you not agree that we cannot afford failure in any respect?”

“I am not the Palatine,” Clara answered sharply, “and I am not in a position to judge her!”

Augusta groaned in frustrated despair; “I’m not asking you to judge her!” Augusta replied, “but I need to know whether or not she is prepared to lead us! Whether or not she is sound! Whether or not her judgement can be trusted! Or is she going to lead us all to worthless deaths!?”

“Are you expecting me to agree with you?! Are you expecting me to confirm your doubts!?”

“No, Clara,” Augusta shook her head and breathed deeply, regaining her cool, “I don’t expect you to know or to agree with me. I see inaction and stagnation around me. This is not how the Sisterhood is supposed to act, we do not whisper in shadows or brood in the darkness, we do not suffer to doubt our fellows…” she sighed, the red glow of her bionic eye dimming as she blinked. “Do you not feel it? The uncertainty, the doubt, the fear? I do – Emperor do I ever – and it disturbs me. I feel as if this ship, and everyone in it, is doomed.”

“That’s the warp talking,” Clara commented, folding her arms across her chest and looking away down the empty corridor, “the chaos beyond is what feed on your fears. It amplifies them – makes them seem more real. It is going to be a long trip…”

“Perhaps,” Augusta nodded thoughtfully, “but will you do me the favour of speaking with the Palatine? It would put my mind at rest to know that something terrible isn’t eating away at our leader.”

Clara flashed a look at her, the drug induced haze gone from her eyes, “Listen to yourself speak, Celestian Superior. Yes, I will see that I speak with her, but you need also see that you calm your own mind lest this place get the better of you.”

“No hell has bested me yet, Sister Clara,” Augusta said gruffly as she stepped past her away down the hall, “and I can assure you that if the warp does dare to touch my mind, I will mete it out with every once of strength I can muster. I will not slip silently into the night – none of us will.”

[Shiva]

Well, after playing quite the game of catch-up, I'm finally back up to speed on your story. :)

 

As was the case before, you continue to astound me with your writing skills! Your attention to detail...your ability to convey feelings and emotions with the utmost realism....I swear you just keep finding new ways to impress me :P The story and characters are flowing together nicely - I find myself again anxious for your next installment. I'll have to make sure I'm not such a stranger around here so I can keep up ^_^

[Lady_Canoness]

Hey Thanks, Shiva! I'm glad to know that you're still liking it, and hopefully I'll be able to keep in going in such a way that you'll still be a fan!

 

In a general anouncement, the next installment is still in the making, and probably won't be up until later this month or even early November - though I promise that I'll keep going with it until this story is over, and the next one begins.

 

Cheers!

[Shiva]

Hey Thanks, Shiva! I'm glad to know that you're still liking it, and hopefully I'll be able to keep in going in such a way that you'll still be a fan!

 

You're welcome :)

 

Of course I'll stay a fan....I swear I'm gonna be one of the first to purchase the entire story when you finally get it published by the Black Library! ;)

[daboarder]

ill race you to it shiva!!

seriously loving the story as alwasy and i have to say the reply to my last post made me do a little happy dance. though on the other side you,ve now given me hope that clara might not die on the red planet. hmmm is it me or am i sensing some false hope here, oh well.

 

ps any mod here is it possible to get this story collected in a sticky thread at the top so it cant get lost please?

[Lady_Canoness]

Well Daboarder, Clara's fate is still in the balance, though in this upcoming chapter she plays a very significant role in shaping things to come (and a dialogue scene which I think we have all been waiting for). Whatever her end may be, I will do her justice.

 

To add another ray of hope, Clara (as well as some other key figures) will be featured in the later books, though her role will be somewhat reduced after the completion of the Saint Ascendant.

[- 7eAL -]

I wish I had the Warptime psychic power. Maybe I could use it to read faster and catch up with this story when I'm not busy working on 9001 things at once ...

I really hate when seeing this thread reminds me that I still haven't passed chapter 4 or 5 of the Ascendant Arc.

[Lady_Canoness]

I will not deny that this chapter has been playing through my head many, many times. How to work it? What to add in it? Why should some parts have priority over others? Finally, however, I think that I have reached an conclusion that produces something that is both enjoyable and telling for the reader. Battle is not yet joined (that starts next chapter, and I promise you, there will be scenes to come that should leave you with that warm fuzzy feeling that only well slated violence can provide! :evil:) but already we see that things are about to errupt in spectacular fashion. This is the calm before the storm - this is the moment of silence before shells start screaming down from on high.

 

So what do we see in this chapter? The most important part of this chapter (as the title suggests) is that we finally reach the climax of Aribeth's and Clara's relationship, and that single ray of hope pushes through the clouds before tragedy strikes to cover the whole world in darkness. Did I pull this scene off well? Can the reader really identify with what is going on? We'll see what you think.

Also in this chapter we get to see how far Montrose has strayed into the darkness, and whether or not he has any hope of being saved. Another dialogue between the Inquisitor and the as-of-yet unnamed Chaos Sorcerer follows, as well as what will be the first argument for Chaos over the Imperium of the series, and why Chaos (which we think is sooo damnably evil) is actually (in the views of some) preferable to the Imperial faith.

 

Okay, I have spoken enough. Now, please sit back, relax, and enjoy the tenth chapter of the Saint Ascendant!

 

-------------------------------

 

The Saint Ascendant, part two: The Seed of Martyrs: Chapter Ten: Sisters in Arms

 

-------------------------------

 

Arcs of black lightning crackled wildly around the room and sparks erupted violently from the floor and domed ceiling in places where the dull metal started to buckle and bend, and the smell of scorched ozone was nearly enough to cripple the stoutest of hearts.

Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea.

Despite whatever his personal feeling may be, however, the Chaos Marine standing at his side was more than enough to guarantee that he didn’t even dream of leaving the chamber. For better or for worse, it was far too late to pull out now. He was not afraid – Great Gods he could not afford to be – but he was wary, and so long as his wits were about him, he had hope that he would yet make it out alive… though that was now far beyond his power to decide. Montrose had to admit it; as soon as he had signed on with the Black Legion he had signed away the power to control his fate. Many people had asked him why he had done such a thing – why he had chosen to deal with the most hated enemies of the Imperium to gain what he wanted. Montrose didn’t really know, but yet he thought he did. The Legions of Chaos answered to no-one and held supreme authority unlike any other entity in all of known space. They struck with speed and impunity, and for them nothing was beyond their reach. Of all people – the agents of the Inquisition included – only they could give Montrose what he wanted, and though the price of their services was high, it was not beyond his ability to obtain… so long as they let him live to complete it.

A blast of crackling energy ripped past his right ear, and Montrose let out an involuntary yelp of surprise. Fortunately the Chaos Marine ignored him, keeping his attention focused on the man – or thing – in the center of the room.

Yes, that. What had the sorcerer called it? A warpseer? A psyker of sorts, the thing at the center of the room – though once it may have indeed been human – was little more than a emaciated carcass implanted with a dizzying array of metal instruments. Gone were its eyes, mouth, and ears – each had been sealed over with large metal knobs – and from various parts of its body extruded long antennae-like features and twisting cables. Energy arced fiercely around the ruined creature as it twisted and shook with each searing jolt, flailing wildly as the other-worldly energies coursed through it. It was dying – how could it not be? – Montrose was certain, and for what reason? What was it doing?

The charms and wards attached to his vestments glowled brightly whenever an arc of lighting shot too close, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood pricked, but he dared not move, even though every ounce of common sense in his body told him to do so.

The Chaos Marine stood beside him, his arms crossed, and a look of mild amusement drawn across his terrible features. Was this creature of any use to him? Is that why he had asked Montrose to attend? Or was this just some perverse pleasure he felt compelled to share?

The temperature in the room rose suddenly and uncomfortably – sweat started to bead on his forehead – and Montrose staggered backwards as if struck. The psyker – the warpseer, or whatever it was – was combusting. Long tongues of red-violet flames leapt from its flesh and tore it asunder into ash until all that remained of the thing was a dark stain on the floor. Hot as it was, Montrose felt suddenly cold: what he had just witnessed – a soul being devoured by chaos – was like nothing he had ever seen before… and if that were the price for knowledge, he dreaded to imagine the price for immortality. Was that what it meant to be deathless? To have one’s soul enslaved to the warp? He couldn’t tell whether or not the dampness on his body was from perspiration, or if he had actually soiled himself.

The Chaos Marine, however, hadn’t budged, and looked at the thing’s remains impassively, then, turning his back and spotting Montrose, the sorcerer grinned.

“My friend,” he said, his voice dripping with malicious intent like the very words themselves were covered in its slime, “you have recoiled? Is that not what you wished to see?” the Chaos Marine smiled cruelly.

“To be honest, my Lord,” Montrose replied, removing an laced handkerchief from the chest pocket of his coat to dab his dripping forehead, “I don’t know what it is that I just witnessed!” he laughed weakly.

“Indeed, is that the case Mister Montrose?” the sorcerer commented with a frown as he walked from the chamber and motioned for the Inquisitor to follow. “What you have seen here, Mister Montrose,” the towering fiend explained, “Is your first glimpse into your new life.”

“I – I don’t understand, my Lord,” Montrose panted, jogging to keep up with the Marine was the he strode away down the bare-metal corridor.

“Naturally. You see, Mister Montrose, the universe is filled with billions upon billions of souls – both human and alien – that stretch across countless worlds and hold many differing beliefs and traditions,” he paused for a moment and looked down at the Inquisitor; “What is it you believe in, Mister Montrose? Do you believe in the Emperor of Mankind? Do not be ashamed to admit it.”

Montrose looked up at the Chaos Marine in bewilderment; “I… I no longer serve the Emperor, my Lord… I – ”

“That is not what I asked, Mister Montrose,” the black armoured giant scolded him, “Tell me whether or not you believe – or ever believed – in him.”

“Well,” Montrose stumbled, confused by the sorcerer’s request, “yes, I did believe in him once.”

“And like many others both before you, beside you, and after you, you were, are, and will be, wrong.”

“I don’t understand, my Lord…”

The sorcerer stopped and turned to face the Inquisitor – Montrose shivered under the scrutiny of his eyes.

“I have seen the Emperor, Mister Montrose,” the sorcerer announced; “Ten thousand years ago, I saw both he and my primarch in the flesh. I know that they both lived and walked amongst their subjects, and I know that the Emperor now resides upon his golden throne as the carrion lord of Terra. Yet despite all this, I do not believe in him. Why?”

Montrose shrugged, speechless.

“Because I know that the Emperor – for all his great deeds in the past – is dead. He is an idol; a rotting, stinking idol that is worshiped through fear and denial, and called a god in an otherwise godless civilization. Have you ever wondered why he was first hailed as a god, Mister Montrose? Do you?”

“I… I don’t know, my Lord,” Montrose staggered; “To be honest I’m having difficulty even grasping the way you speak of him… the Emperor.”

The sorcered snickered – it was not a pleasant sound – and continued to walk, this time casually, away down the corridor with the gaily dressed Inquisitor at his heels.

“I am not surprised to hear you say that, Mister Montrose,” he said with an appeased grin as he held his massive hands neatly behind the small of his back, “in fact, it quite tickles me to hear those words. You must understand, rarely do I have the – heh – ‘pleasure’ of speaking in a civil manner to one of the false Emperor’s lackeys. You see, Mister Montrose, the Emperor was, and, I suppose as a corpse, still is, a man. That’s it – he is a man. Not a god, not a Space Marine, but a man. Disappointing isn’t it? Every time you have knelt in prayer, you’ve actually been whispering for no one other than yourself. Every time you have paid alms or made charitable donations to the Imperial Church, all you’ve been doing is giving away money so that the preachers of a lie, wallowing in their ignorance, can line their filthy pockets. Why do you do this, you wonder, why do you go to all that trouble just to appease men of self-loathing and guilt? I’ll tell you why. It’s because you are afraid - afraid of everything around you. All those aliens, they have their own beliefs and convictions – some even manifest their own gods. But man, what does he have? A crumbling empire on the verge of destruction? Enemies who seek to kill him and steal away his children into the darkness of the night? His fellow who would as soon stick a knife in his back as come to his aid? Man has all of this, Mister Montrose, he lives in a world were everything he can see, smell, or touch is hostile and wants to kill him.” The Chaos Marine’s grin grew even wider as he looked down upon the Inquisitor as a teacher might a pupil. “Kind of hard to keep an empire together under those circumstances, isn’t it? However, man does deserve some credit, for while all hell may be poised against him, he still manages to maintain some unknowable hope that somehow everything will set itself right, and that he will return home to a family that loves him and that everything will remain as he left it. So, man builds himself a god that will protect him from the night, and says that his god watches over all things and everything that happens to him is the will of his god. Kind of romantic, don’t you think? Too bad he’s wrong.”

“Wrong, my Lord?” Montrose posed warily to the sorcerer, “but doesn’t the Emperor watch over mankind?”

“Have you heard nothing I’ve just said?” the Chaos Marine hissed, “The Emperor is no god. Have you ever spoken to him? Has he ever spoken to you? Have you ever seen him? Touched him, or been touched by him? No, you have not! Do you know why that is? It’s because the Emperor is false!” he said hotly.

“I…”

“No, Mister Montrose, no. It is natural that you will not understand at first, for you are accustomed to believe in something that you cannot see, touch, taste, or feel in any way – you are accustomed to believe in something that cannot be proven to exist. The Emperor is corpse, Mister Montrose; no more, no less. This will come as a shock to you, for I do not doubt that being told that your entire life was lived in the name of a god that doesn’t exist will leave you troubled. There is no divinity in your faith, only an idea – an idea that you cling to against all the darkness around you.”

Montrose remained silent; he had no wish to interrupt his new ally and, as a result, possibly anger him.

“However, as your own judgment would have it, you found that the Emperor and his servants didn’t offer you enough, and that you wanted more. So you came in search of me – in search of us. I must admit that I was impressed, Mister Montrose, for unlike so many delusional followers of the corpse, you realized the fundamental flaw in the very foundation of the Imperial cult.”

“That the Emperor does not exist?” Montrose asked, eagerly trying to show that he was worthy of that which the Chaos Marine was telling him.

“No,” the sorcerer smiled, then added, “though that is true. No, Mister Montrose, the fundamental flaw with the Imperial cult is death.”

“Death?!” Montrose asked, surprised by the simplicity of the answer, “but is death not a natural end to life?”

“Yes,” the sorcerer replied, “it is, but does any man relish his own death? No, he does not. Man fears death, and so he wants to live for as long as possible – such as in your case, for example. However, the Imperial creed does not answer this fear of man, but rather hopes that its followers will gamble on the uncertain chance that perhaps death will grant them a new life in paradise, beside their make-belief god. Rather ridiculous, don’t you think, that the only rewards one will enjoy or those after he is dead? What can they promise you? What can you be certain of? Nothing – you can’t be certain of anything, yet they tell you that you have to believe in it, in order for it to happen. Do not be fooled, Mister Montrose: this is the biggest lie ever sold.”

“Why should I believe in something I cannot have any certainty of ever attaining?” the Inquisitor asked rhetorically.

“Exactly, Mister Montrose,” the sorcerer smiled encouragingly, “that is exactly what you need to ask, for why should you – an Inquisitor who acts with certainty and precision – turn and put your belief in something you cannot possibly know? You have left that life behind you, Mister Montrose, and for that you are to be commended, for while the Imperium asks to you believe blindly, the Gods of Chaos ask for no such trust. As you have seen, they are real, and more importantly, they reward you in life and with life eternal – no longer do you need to die to receive any hopes of reward – no, in the service of true gods, your reward is in this life; your reward is now!”

Montrose flushed, a broad grin spread across his face. He started to chuckle, then to laugh, and soon the entire length of the corridor was filled with his exuberant cheer.

The Chaos Marine allowed himself a chuckle, and placed a restraining gauntlet on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, slowly stifling his laughter.

“The gods reward service, Mister Montrose: actions, deeds, feats – these will grant you the immortality you seek, but we have much to do before then.”

“Indeed, indeed!” Montrose exclaimed excitedly. “What a fool I was to have believed in something I could not see!” he forced a high pitched laugh that echoed awkwardly down the lengths of the corridor. “Tell me though, my Lord, what by the power of your gods did I just witness here?”

“But of course, Mister Montrose,” the sorcerer inclined his head towards the man respectfully – though even as animated as he was, Montrose could not mistake the jest in the Chaos Marine’s actions, and the thought that his ally really held no respect for him whatsoever haunted him constantly. So long as he was useful, he would live; that was all.

“What you have seen today is a… ‘transaction’ of sorts between ourselves, and the servants of the True Gods.”

“A transaction?” Montrose asked, cocking an eyebrow, “you make it sound like business.”

“That’s because, in a way, it is: we provide them with sacrifices, hosts, and passage into this plane, while they provide us with knowledge and power. To put it simply, it is a trade between interests, but I have spoken enough about this, and you will learn with time. Now though, Mister Montrose, it is time we act, for the pieces are coming into place…”

 

* * * *

Six days after passing into the warp, the Magister’s armoured prow forced its way back into real space as it hauled itself clear of the immaterium. Passage had been unusually turbulent, the chief Navigator had reported, and it would be prudent to wait several cycles before attempting re-entry. Inquisitor Galtman, however, would not be delayed, and ordered against the Navigator’s advice to attempt re-entry as soon as the quarantined crew-men were put off ship and their replacements were brought aboard.

 

The sub-orbital shuttle wined bitterly as its pilot set it down gently in the starboard hangar bay, and released the access ramp.

Roland Weis, waiting behind the inch-thick security glass overhead in the observation deck, bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet expectantly: the deck was deserted, but still he found looking over his shoulders a nearly impossible to resist. About a hundred feet down below him in the hangar, the passengers from the shuttle started to appear one at a time. There were six in total, all of them wearing naval uniforms of differing ranks, and from where he stood, Roland could not tell one from the other, though he knew that these men and women were not the crewmen that the captain was expecting.

The last member of the team ducked out from the shuttle, and Roland’s heart flipped involuntarily in his chest as he saw Mercy draw herself up to her full height; her trademark blue body glove exchanged for a smartly fitting lieutenant’s uniform.

She glanced up at the observation deck - her violet killer’s eyes piercing the shadows above – but Roland Weis was nowhere to be seen.

His hands were shaking as his heart slammed painfully against his rib cage. Damn that woman! Damn her! He passed the cuff of his over-coat quickly over his fore-head, mopping away the rapidly accumulating moisture. He couldn’t shake the feeling that that woman would somehow be the death of him. Still… he had to keep his cool – he had to get a grip – if he screwed up now, the assassin would be the least of his worries.

With a resigned sigh, he shrugged his shoulders and walked from the hangar observation deck. He had to keep focused on the work at hand, he reminded himself, that was all that mattered.

The doors to the deck slid apart with a low grind, and the young man in the ensign uniform stepped through.

“Going somewhere, ensign?” purred a mildly amused voice from behind him, causing Weis to jump in fright. The willowy assassin, slouching against the wall, was right behind him.

“How the hell… ?”

She shook her head, eyeing him with delicious scorn, and Roland’s voice died in mid-air.

“I want the specifics,” she chided, “no more, no less.”

“I have hangar security bypass, and I have access to the armoury - we’ll have everything we need,” Roland said, trying to keep his voice level as he struggled to meet her eyes.

“Good boy,” Mercy smiled playfully, a long fingered hand gently brushing against his cheek to better enjoy his discomfort. “That’s all I need to hear.”

She was passed him in an instant, and by the time Roland turned to look after her, Mercy had already disappeared around the bend.

 

In another hour, the Magister re-entered the warp – slipping out of real existence, not to reappear for another week and two days.

With every minute passing the many score of souls aboard braved the journey upon the unbound Sea of Nightmares as their mortal shells, spared from the treacherous madness beyond by but a few meters of metal, begged that soon they might be rid of the torment and freed back into the realm of their home. Not a one did feel at home with the immaterium around him or her, though some did weather it better than others

Some stood firm during their voyage through determination alone, such as the grim and dour Inquisitor Galtman, who spent hours upon hours cloistered in his study examining that tarot and many other item of fortune and lore.

Some were held by the severity of duty; refusing to flinch at even the most trying of moments. Brave Captain Argo was one, for his keen eye and sharp mind had braved perils beyond and before. Augusta was another, for though some of her Sisters did suffer, no trace of impurity could be found upon her brow, so determined was she that this mission would not be their last.

Some, however, harboured minds so dark – their thoughts so foul – that not even the beasts of the warp could move them to stir. This it was like with Mercy, her murderous spirit stirring gently within her, waiting patiently to touch soft flesh with hard steel. Cauline was like this also, for there was no comfort before her eyes, only visions of hatred and the unrelenting pain that carved through her flesh below the silver face.

Then there was Clara, with her mind pure and her heart as true as it had ever been. She feared no evil and no pain, for while people may die and cities may burn, she knew that His purpose would last for ever.

And at last there was Aribeth, the Palatine herself – no mightier a woman was there in the Magister’s hold, yet no one more vulnerable was their either. Her flame grew to fade, and down from heaven her thoughts did fall; she knew no respite, she knew no comfort, she knew not even why it is she suffered alone. To her, she was forgotten, lost, confused, and so totally alone. Everything – everything had happened so fast: she was a leader, she was a failure, she was an outcast, she was recalled, she was… who was she?

The Palatine found that she spent much time in solitude pacing the lower decks with the unseen and unnamed, looking to see if she could find the answer. When the Magister finally slipped free from the warp, she still found no relief, but rather passed her hours staring out in the void – gazing at all the pinnacles of light that dotted the distance, and the small shapes that grew minutely larger as the Magister neared. Somewhere out there, in the darkness, her destiny waited.

 

* * * *

Even with a crew of two thousand, the Magister could still feel empty at times, and for that Aribeth was thankful. She walked the galleries – meeting hardly a soul – and down long corridors, the echo of her armoured greaves bounding ahead of her as both her guide and companion. At the best of times she had not liked space travel, and now, at the worst of times, it became nigh intolerable.

She paused for a moment before a large view-port cut into the Magister’s, and, leaning against the guardrail, looked out into the vastness of the silent void beyond. It was alarmingly beautiful in her eyes – like a seductress beckoning her and the countless others of her race forward into its depths: everything was possible out there, both imagined and unimagined, and with that promise had countless men met their ends. Though even in the face of its beauty, Aribeth found herself in disgust of it, for she – a creature of flesh, blood, and bone – felt that here was a place she was not welcome, her was a foe she could not fight, here was something to which she was nothing. There was no Emperor out here… no one to worship Him, no one to praise His deeds and servants – out here there was nothing. Some said that they felt closer to the Emperor in space, but the Aribeth, the Lady Palatine of the Order of the Sacred Rose, she had never felt farther from Him. If she died out here, alone in space, would she fly upwards into His Golden Halls to ascend into heaven amongst the glorious dead? Or would her frozen corpse drift through the void for all eternity and beyond? She shuddered at the thought of it. Of all the places she could be, it –

“Aribeth?”

The Palatine turned – Clara was standing just a few paces behind her at the view port. So lost she had been in her own thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed the sound of her Sister’s armoured feet as she approached.

“Clara,” Aribeth forced a smile, but quickly looked back to the window as tears began to swell in her eyes.

Clara, her heart moved by sympathy for her dearest friend, could not hold herself back from one who ailed so, and went to her, standing at her side.

“Aribeth,” she said in a voice of tenderness as she held Aribeth’s gauntleted hand tightly in her own, “don’t turn your back – don’t shut me out. I’ve known you for so long, and though you like to bear your burdens alone, don’t leave me helpless.”

Aribeth, torn with sorrow, kept her eyes tight shut, and, saying nothing, shook her head.

“Aribeth,” Clara tried again, cooing softly as she drew the other woman closer with a gentle arm around her shoulders, “I can’t bear to see you like this; it wounds me, Aribeth.”

At this the Palatine wept, but drawing upon herself, forced back the tears and wiped her eyes clear with a heavy gauntlet. “What am I to do, Clara?” she asked, bowing her head before the stars, “What can I do?”

“Talk to me,” her friend assured her, her own voice as steady as her arm to support the woman she loved.

“I always believed,” the Palatine said, shaking her dark hair from her grey eyes, “I always believed that there was one good before the Emperor, and that in this good all His subjects stood united. I was wrong, though. I was so wrong…”

“No, Aribeth,” Clara told her, her own eyes of deep blue starting to tear for her Palatine’s pain, “The road of the faithful is not one that is lightly tread. You bear a burden, you bear a pain, but don’t waver in your belief, for without faith the very good which you seek is lost for you.”

“You make it sound so simple…”

“It is that simple!” Clara insisted.

“No,” the Palatine said, her elegant features wrought in agony, “Clara, it is not that simple.” She pulled away from her friend, and Clara, true to her heart, did not dare to restrain her, “It’s… it’s…” Aribeth sighed heavily and hid her face in her gauntleted hand as her shoulders sagged.

Clara didn’t move, but rather waited for her quietly by the view port.

“How can I go on pretending that nothing has happened?” Aribeth asked her as she paced back to where the woman most dear to her stood. “I can’t just close my eyes and forget about it, Clara – surely you see that!” She leaned heavily on the guard-rail and bowed her head down between her arms, “I want to be able to see again – to know what I must do!”

Clara nodded - though it escaped the notice of her beloved - but held her distance, one hand gently gripping the guardrail, the other loosely by her side. Their white armour – so radiant amongst the Magister’s morose metal gloom – seemed to lose its sheen in the anxiety between them.

“The Canoness,” Aribeth continued with a shivering breath, “she told me that I was failure in my duty, and that she considered me to be lost to the Sisterhood. But then she throws me out here, wounded, into the service of this vile, treacherous man, and tells me that I am a crusader and this path is the path to my redemption! How? How can I search for redemption when I don’t even know for what I need forgiveness!?”

“Maybe,” Clara thought aloud, “maybe you should ask the Emperor for what He wishes of you.”

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” Aribeth snapped, but quickly caught her tongue, “No – I’m sorry, Clara. I have tried, but He has said nothing to me.”

“You cannot despair, Aribeth!” Clara insisted, following in step with her Palatine as Aribeth turned away from the port and paced ceaselessly across the steel decking. “It is not for us to know of His divine plan, but keep heart, for as one of His chosen daughters you are not lost in His sight.”

The Palatine rounded on her Sister with a cynical eye; “Do you really believe that, Clara?” she demanded, “Do you think He has a plan for us all? How many times have I saved your life – not the Emperor, but me – when everyone else around us was left to perish?” Her face tendered and she stepped closer to the Celestian so that they stood eye to eye; “Think of how many times you have saved my life – not the Emperor by His divine hand, but you – when I thought I was given up for lost?”

“The Emperor works in ways that only he is privy to,” Clara replied with absolute certainty as she met her Palatine’s question head-on.

“You really think so?” Aribeth whispered as if afraid to hear her own voice speak words of doubt and blasphemy.

“I do,” her friend said with sincerity, “The Emperor has given us a great gift, Aribeth, and it is not one that should be taken lightly. He has given us each other, so that we might always watch over one another in our times of need. Look how long we have known each other, Aribeth, look how long we have been by each other’s side, and, like you said, how many times have you saved my life, and I yours. Can that be anything other than His divine power at work through us?”

“But what if this is all there is?” Aribeth replied, sweeping a helpless hand towards the ship around them, “What if we are just two women standing alone in the middle of space? What if we are only that?”

Clara looked puzzled, but also slightly hurt, as if the Palatine’s very words were inflicting minute measures of pain with every syllable. “What do you mean, Aribeth?” she asked with due care; “what are you trying to say?”

Aribeth turned her eyes away from her friend and shook her head. “I don’t really know, Clara. I don’t know why we’re here.”

“The Inquisition demanded our service…”

“Not that,” the Palatine interrupted, walking back to the view port and releasing a burdened sigh.

“Aribeth,” Clara turned towards her but stood a distance back from her Palatine with her hands folded neatly before her, “do you believe in the God Emperor of Mankind?”

“What!? Of course I do!” Aribeth looked over her shoulder with incredulity, surprised that such a question should even be conceived.

Her friend shrugged; “Why, Aribeth?”

“Why do I believe in the Emperor?” Aribeth repeated, failing to believe what was actually being asked.

The woman across from her nodded.

“I believe that the Emperor is all, and that it is He who commands and unites Mankind. Without Him we are nothing. He is our father and our guardian.”

“I didn’t ask you what you believe,” Clara posed gently while she held her features calmly sincere, “but why you believe it.”

“Why do you believe it, Clara?” Aribeth retorted forcefully, facing down the Celestian, “and in what position are you to question me on this?”

“I’m your friend, Aribeth,” Clara answered peaceably. “I’m the woman who has shared both laughter and tears with you, anguish and pain, joy and revelation – I am your Sister, Aribeth.” Clara blinked once, then twice, and a warm smile spread across her face; “I care for you, Aribeth, and I know that you care equally for me. I trust you. I believe in you. Perhaps you are staring down a precipice within your own soul - perhaps you are fighting constantly against encroaching doubts in your mind – perhaps you are feeling alone, as if in this whole wide galaxy there is nothing to hold on to, nothing to believe in. Maybe you can’t hear the Emperor as you once used to, maybe you are afraid that the one certainty in your life is suddenly uncertain. I cannot help you in this, Aribeth, just as I cannot find your faith for you. But even though I cannot help you, I can stand beside you, and I will. No matter what you face, where you go, or whatever trial you should come upon, I will be there by your side for so long as you should have a place for me, and I will do everything in my power to be with you both now and always. This may be your path to walk, but you shall not walk it alone – this I swear to you.”

With such eloquence – with such tenderness – with such passion had her friend, dear to her above all others, spoken, that Aribeth was moved beyond words, and so, bowing her head, she closed her eyes as Clara, the woman she cared for above all other approached and held her gently by the arms.

“I – I don’t know what to say…” the Palatine fumbled, still at loss for words.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Clara whispered, resting her head forwards so that the Sisters’ foreheads leaned against one another.

“I do,” Aribeth protested weakly, “I’ve been so blind of late – I couldn’t see for faith what it was around me. I was so sure that with every passing moment and every pressing heart-beat that all around me my world collapsed…”

“You needn’t lose yourself with that…”

“I thought that I was falling apart, I thought that I was failing – I thought that the Emperor himself had abandoned me. Though all along I was missing the truth…”

“Truth to you is all that should matter. The Emperor guides you in all things…”

“I was missing it all…” the Palatine raised her head, and for once – truly – she saw her Sister eye to eye, heart to heart, soul to soul; “I was missing that all along my truth was in front of me, and that the Emperor – my Emperor – is not in the Sisterhood, not in the Ecclesiarchy, not in the Inquisition, not even in the people I have sworn to protect, but He is in me. So long as I serve Him with my heart, I cannot fail in His eyes.”

Clara, her eyes of pure blue shining for her friend, smiled, her affection for her dearest friend finally unabashed; “You see now, Aribeth, you did it. I’m not here because I want to judge you, or that I feel honour-bound to serve you. I’m here because I want to be – because I love you, and because I will never stop loving you.”

Colour rose up into the Palatine’s cheeks, and with timidity her eyes darted away from Clara’s face, though the Celestian – Emperor bless her – never let her gaze waver.

“You mean it, don’t you?” Aribeth said after a moment’s silence.

“More than anything in my life,” Clara replied, a hand so soft within its armoured shell passing against the Palatine’s cheek and tracing through the dark locks of her hair.

“Clara, I – ”, she struggled with the words as her throat began to tighten and a warmth locked deep inside her chest seeped upwards into her face. “I…” her mind raced and her heart pounded – so close was she to her love that their noses just lightly brushed against one another.

Aribeth slid her eyes shut.

“I…”

The time for words was beyond them. Reaching out, her arm passed around Clara’s shoulders and held her close, as their lips – never before having touched – clung together as each found the rising passion too strong to ignore. She could feel her friend’s hands – so hard in their armour, yet so soft in their touch – pressing gently against her face and neck as they embraced in an act of heartfelt affection that they had too long denied.

How long the moment lasted, Aribeth could not say, but as her lips pressed to those of the woman she loved above any other, the Palatine could not help but feel as if it had been this moment that she had longed to share all these years, not words, for no words could adequately describe how she felt for her.

Just when she wished that her one kiss would never end, however, it did, and the two slowly broke apart.

“Clara,” the Palatine murmured, her hands still holding the other woman close as tears crept into the corners of her eyes, “I can’t lose you…”

“You won’t,” her dearest friend and love whispered back, her eyes still closed. Her right hand moved from Aribeth face and pressed gently against her armoured chest. “So long as you love me, I’ll be with you in your heart, and you will be in mine. We’ll always be together; both in life, and in the Emperor’s Golden Halls after death claims us.”

At this the Palatine let her go and gently removed herself from the Celestian’s arms. She turned away, bowing her head and hiding her face behind an armoured hand.

“I don’t know if I can go on like this, Clara,” she said, her heart – so elated just a few moments before – once again becoming heavy and burdened.

“Such is our duty, Lady Palatine,” the Celestian replied, drawing herself up and standing smartly at attention, “such is our fate. ‘The orders thou givest, be from Him to mine ears.’”

Aribeth turned back to her Sister.

“‘We are the Faithful,’” Clara smiled at her, “‘Only in death, and duty done, do we part.’”

[Shiva]

Holy fething WOW!!! Excellent job on this chapter- it all falls together extremely well. I love Aribeth's and Clara's "love scene" Well done and quite tastefully written! :)

 

And I just have to add.....I LOVE Mercy! :) She reminds me of Aeon Flux - totally cool character! :P

 

Once again, fantastic job! I anxiously await the next chapter ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

I really glad to hear that you liked it Shiva! I have to admit that I was worried that the 'love scene', as you acurately put it, had me a little worried, as I had my fears that a lot of Battle Sister puritans would immediately condemn me for even suggesting that they could love one another. Fortunately, though, it seems like I didn't shoot myself in both kneecaps after all! ;)

 

I'm also glad that Mercy has a fan! (gives me hope for all the other secondary characters out there! :P )

[daboarder]

nice chapter as usual.

 

i must admit though that while i saw the whole relationship forming a mile away i was not expecting it to ever be something so formally acknowledge and more only hinted at.

what i would also like to suggest is that judging by the fact it looks like you intend to write a saint redeemed story i think leaving the previous incarnation of love in fallen as is. it would be a good idea because then you could use this as if the chaos marines had made a mistake about who she loved because they cant fully comprehend clara and aribeth, this would then give aribeth an "out" so to speek or atleast a step in a positive direction.

 

wow didnt mean to carry on.

[Lady_Canoness]

Well, daboarder, if I get what your getting at (which I'm not certain that I do) it has something to do with the Fallen Saint and the use of Lyke as Aribeth Romantic interest. After the Saint Ascendant is complete, I will be re-writing the Fallen Saint. It will keep the general story-line, though it will be expanded, and certain aspects will be changed as well. The Aribeth/Lyke romance was something I axed early on in the writing of Ascendant simply because while it translated nicely into the Fallen Saint, it was near impossible to add a relationship with lyke for several reasons: first, a meaningful relationship that the 'Chaos Guys' could pick up on would rely on a LOT of development, and since Lyke was not a soldier, that would result in a tonne of down time between the two of them - not something I felt like writing, and not something I thought that people would want to read; second, the debate of whether or not Sisters can love is still going on in some circles, and after some brainstorming, I thought that building a relationship with a male character would not only be a risky move, but also difficult to pull off effectively; third, Clara presented me with a much more entrenched realtionship - one that would rip Aribeth apart if she died, and one that would still greatly affect her in her fallen state (that said, Clara's role in the story does not end with her death) - also the idea that they had been together for over 26 years, gave them a history and a type of reliance on one another - something that would not have been possible with Lyke's character.

 

The actual climax of their relationship with the kiss, however, I will admit was a huge leap of faith and added not because of canon, but rather because of the sake of tragedy, and because I really wanted to develope a romantic relationship in the story other than the downplayed (for now) relationship between Montrose and Mercy.

It was a risky scene, but I was trying keep their relationship as spiritual and emotional, not physical, hence the fact that they had never kissed before. It was trying to make it seem like their expression of admiration and care, rather than physical lust. Whether or not that passed on well to the reader, well, you will have to be the judge of that.

 

If you still have any questions or comments, please pot them! :P

 

-L_C

[daboarder]

ok just please if you can keep the first part with the imp thingy the same that was so dark and well written im having trouble figuring out how it could be improved. then again i have complete faith in your writting so nevermind.

 

i also think you really did manage to achieve what youve been trying to with the relationship extremely well.

[Lady_Canoness]

Duly noted :)

 

There won't be too many cuts, mainly just additions and expansions on existing parts.

[Lady_Canoness]

It has been a while since I've given a progress report, so I thought that I'd let everyone know that the next chapter is 80% complete! However, the downside to this is that I've just blundered upon the exam period at UBC, so I have much in the way of 'distraction' - so much that I don't think I can put the final touches on this chapter for another few weeks. But just to wet your appetites, I'll reveal that the battle is joined next chapter, that some principle characters die, someone gets force-weapwned (hehe), Galtman finds himself fighting for his life, and Nerf even gets the chance to drop some more of his bad jokes!

 

See you all again in a couple of weeks!