jbeil — Roleplayer Guild

The weeks had not passed quickly for Lisbeth. Athega Primus had been a failure, no matter how it was dressed up – too many people had died, and the true root of the heresy remained hidden. Too many of her sisters had died there, for no measurable gain, and while in her dispassionate head Lisbeth knew they were now immeasurably richer for being beside His side, her heart rumbled with discontent at their lives being spent for so little appreciable gain. 

Her smile had grown a little smaller and her laughs a little rarer since returning from duty with the Inquisitor, and her chaplet was now long enough that she wore it wrapped about her shoulders like a shawl, rattling like a hand full of dice with each step. Her own squad had lost almost a third of their number on that misbegotten rock, most of whom were on their first serious deployment, and all throughout the days on Taneia the Preceptory felt less like home than ever before. 

Only the God-Emperor remained constant. Even during the hours of silence, he was there, a gentle hand upon Lisbeth's shoulder, a shield against the darkness. When he spoke, the stars in the heavens shone a little brighter, and the world seemed a little less bleak and unforgiving.

The nights were more troublesome. It had started as a rare nightmare, one whose icy grip was quickly driven off by a round of penance. It was now not so rare. Lisbeth drove herself hard, as all her sisters did, but even a Sororitas needs her sleep, and sleep was a precious commodity for Lisbeth. She had taken to remaining in the chapel, cold and confused, rather than bedding down. Eventually, though, she always had to give in to her weak flesh, and whenever she did, the ghosts were not far behind.

I am alone in the great hall of the preceptory. All of the candles are blown out, and there is only a misty blue light streaming in from the great stained glass windows above.

There is something behind me. I turn, and it is gone. I turn again, and the great gate has opened. I run through, out into the mountains. I am cold. It is behind me again. This time, I run, and I keep running. I run until I can run no more. I stop. I fall to my knees. I am at the edge of a cliff, with nowhere to run. 

It is behind me again. I turn, and now I see them. Persephone. Artemis. The civilians. The guard. The children. They are all dead. Everything is in shades of white and grey and blue, and the darkest blue is from the splashes of blood as they shamble towards me. 

“This is your fault.”

They have surrounded me.

“You killed us.”

I begin to beg. For the first time since the Scholae, I am afraid. 

“You are killing us.”

I look down, and Permanence is in my hands. I raise and fire. A stream of flame bursts out of the barrel, and their moans turn to screams as their skin burns and their eyes melt within their skulls. 

“Why are you killing us?”

They do not stop screaming until the flames die out, and only blackened corpses and thick, choking smoke are left. The moon's light picks out the exposed bones and teeth with flashes of grey and blue. All that remains standing is a single, rake-thin figure, completely black. An impossibly long arm reaches out with clawed fingers, and whispers in a foreign tongue rattle inside my head. They grow louder as the hand grows nearer. By the time it is upon me, my hands are pressed to my ears and I am pumping the trigger, but nothing will happen. I already know how this ends. 

The monster takes my eyes. I scream, but there is no sound. All I can hear are the foreign whispers roaring inside my mind. I lose my footing. I tumble backwards. Blind, I have fallen from the edge of the cliff. 

As I hit the rocks below, I wake. I do not scream anymore. It wakes my sisters. I bite whatever is to hand – the bedclothes, my tongue, my arms – and once I am calm again, I rise. I resolve not to meet the monster in my dreams again. 

Each time, I know I will fail.

When Sister-Celestian Victorine had told her that she was to be reassigned, it was met with muted glee. Her squadmates were her family – literally, her sisters – but such moves were rarely made without good reason. Lisbeth was sure she would be sent out again soon, and perhaps she could drown her dreams in the blood of heretics. Perhaps this had all been a sign of His displeasure, and she was meant to take revenge. That idea quickly took root in the fertile soil of her mind, still freshly-nourished with the memory of poor Persephone staring into the smog clouds with a hole in her torso. 

The night before Squad Victorine was due to leave, Lisbeth was not in the chapel. She was safely cloistered in bed, and this time her sleep was not disturbed with spectres and emanations. Only one dream came that night, and though it was in the same place, it was different. 

I am alone in the great hall of the preceptory. All of the candles are blown out, and there is only a misty blue light streaming in from the great stained glass windows above.

The great gate opens, and a golden light breaks through. Silhouetted against the gateway is a child, no older than five, radiating that warm, golden light. 

“Who are you?” I ask. 

“I am going to the Emperor's side. Would you like to come with me?”

“Yes!” I shout, reflexively. I reach out my hand, and the light intensifies. With a wave of gentle heat, it washes over me, and the dream dies in a flash of perfect white.

That night, Lisbeth slept straight through. She rose before the dawn, made ready for war, and marched, clad in black, to the great hall, with her sisters' beads wrapped around her shoulders and dangling in front of her legs. This time, she knew. 

This time I will make it right. I will be good enough for Him.

“Sisters,” she smiled, making the sign of the aquila over her breast, “to whom are we bringing His light?”
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