Awaiting further orders, Roger finds himself in the Cathedral headquarters of the Lord Prince. He soon finds himself embroiled in questions of theology with a Bishop, a royal dinner, and a surprising meeting with a familiar face as he fails to hold down the previous nights wine...

Three days had passed since Rogers' recruitment, and now it was being followed by a protracted silence. No word had come of Farseer Alwyn, or anyone in the Eldar camp. So now, cooped up in the Cathedral, Roger waited for any word to move on. He spent time wandering the massive halls, finding the remains of the library, and simply introducing himself to Lord Edmunds retinue, with varying levels of success. He was now sitting in the transepts, blankly staring at the gilded writing and various holy relics on the altar. He was still trying to process all that had happened, his near death, his royal rescue, and now his recruitment into a Xeno army. It was much to take in, and even the last few days were still not enough. Just then, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of clanking power armor and thudding footsteps in the empty cathedral. Sisters of Battle coming to pray. Again. For the third time today. Roger had watched them in fascination, the heavily armored warriors of the Ecclesiarchy who somehow won great victories despite the fact all they seemed to do was constantly pray.

"Is this pew occupied?" a voice, an older man by the sound of it, asked.

"No, just me," Roger said politely, continuing to look at the altar.

The man sat next to him and muttered a hushed prayer.

"You're Roger Wessyng, correct? I've wanted to talk to you for a while, but I have been far too busy with other matters."

Roger turned and looked at the man, seeing he was in white robes and gilded, simple vestments. On his head he wore a tall mitre cap, under it, a face that was calm, with the signs of age breaking cracks into it. It was Walter de Burle, Bishop of Chelmster.

"Y-Your Grace, I apologize for not showing respect."

"There is no offense, my son," the bishop said, waving his arm at the altar. "There are more important things to show respect for in a house of His glory, especially our God-Emperor."

The bishop made a low, quiet cough and patted his chest.

"I seem to have focused so much on my duties, I have forgotten to get some refreshment. Would you be kind enough to partake with me? It's only sparkling water."

Roger silently nodded, the bishop turning to the two Sororitas that served as his bodyguards.

"Sister Amelie, would you mind getting two goblets of that Gasceaux water? Bless you. Sister Ophelia, you don't need to watch over us, I hardly believe the serjeant is a threat to my person. You are relieved until I am finished. Take this time to offer your prayers to Him."

The two walked off, their power armor clanking away until the Cathedral was utterly silent.

"I have been told about you. The man who went from standing in front of a firing squad to being in the retinue of our great Prince Edmund. Quite a rise. Quite lucky."

The bishop looked into Rogers eyes.

"Is it true you consorted with Xenos? Do not lie. You are in a house of faith. All will be revealed."

Roger swallowed noisily.

"I-I-uh, simply gave a scout, ranger, o-one of the Xenos looked like she needed water. I gave her some from my canteen."

The bishop suddenly broke his hard gaze and smiled.

"I know. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't lie to a man of the cloth. Edmund should only surround himself with men of honest heart and willing to fulfill their duty. If you couldn't give me an honest answer, how could a Prince trust you?"

One of the Sororitas came back with two goblets, the bishop thanking her as she handed them off and gently waving her away. Roger took a sip, the water tasting as fresh and crisp as the day it was bottled.

"Gasceaux knows how to bottle water as good as their wine," he said.

"Agreed, my son. It is a good alternative to drinking spirit all day. More than a few of my teachers at Seminary would only be useful before noon. After that, they'd be so drunk that you'd find their answers were as wrong as their neglect of holy order."

The bishop took another sip and put the goblet on the floor between his feet, clearing his throat as he did so.

"I know you are about to be given over to our Xeno allies. I wanted to talk with you before you left if you have anything you wanted to take care of, should you not return. Theologically of course, I can't deal with such things as wills, dealing with estates, you know. I am a champion of faith and spirit, but He knows that I can barely do anything else."

Roger silently thought for a few moments, trying to think of what to say.

"Will I be able to stand by the Emperor's side if I fight alongside xenos?" he finally asked.

The bishop chuckled.

"If I had a throne for every time I was asked that in this Army, I could probably purchase every cathedral in Anglerre with interest. It is a good question though. Don't tell anyone, but Edmund has also asked me that, and he trusts the Eldar more than any human I've met."

The bishop shifted in the pew.

"The answer, my son, is I don't know. I have poured over every passage, every line of the Lectio, more than a few writings of the great theologians of present and past, and I cannot find an answer. It is easy to say that we should not be allies, and we should focus on cleansing their alien filth off this benighted planet, but the truth is, if they are leading us to victory, how can we wish them harm?"

He gently patted his gloved hand on Rogers.

"Watch your soul around them, but do not interfere or sabotage them. Despite all my own teachings, my own beliefs, and the faith I have sworn to propagate and protect, my conscience, one of the very things that makes us human, tells me they are not evil. I cannot explain it, and sometimes I worry one of them has bewitched me, or even our entire army, but the Sisters I have at my side are incorruptible, and they tell me that no taint has been found."

Roger nodded and took another sip from the goblet. He had worried about his soul, being allied with the Eldar, especially serving them, but if a bishop could tell him there was no wrong, unless he spoke to the High Ecclesiarch himself and gave a different answer, what more encouragement could he need? He emptied the goblet and let out a sigh of relief.

"My son, I would like to invite you to dinner tonight, with the Prince and the rest of his household. If you must go and die fighting with Xenos, you can at least go to the Emperor and say you ate with the nobility once in your life. D'Uxford will be there as well, so I doubt he'll refuse."

"Thank you, Your Grace!" Roger said, a bit louder than necessary, but how many times had a simple low-born, even a yeoman, dined with a royal?

"I am happy to hear it, my son. But first, we will have to pray for your soul. And if you have the time," knowing damn well that Roger was sitting around all day, doing nothing, "We can go for confession. I believe the current priest is out and about, but I think you can't tell me anything I haven't heard before."

XXXXXX

Later that evening, Roger found himself sitting next to the bishop at a set of long tables where the leaders of Third Corps, the Royal Household, and the Prince himself gorged on fine food and drink. It was pandemonium, almost a party. Singing, laughing, even some performers, it was almost impossible to hear the comments of the bishop. Looking around, he saw some familiar faces, Sir Tristan, his escort to the royal headquarters, who he raised a cup in salute to, eliciting a smile and return salute, a few higher officers that Roger had interacted with a few times on campaign, and of course, at the head of the feast, the Lord Edmund himself, with Rogers new commander D'Uxford sitting next to him, with a facial expression that reminded one of a man who was being forced at gunpoint to enjoy themselves. The Prince himself was leaning over to one of the Sororitas who was standing guard, who stood still as a statue as her face became redder and redder.

"Your Grace," Roger chuckled, "I think the Prince is flirting with one of your Sororitas."

The bishop looked up from his cut of grox steak and stared at the Prince, shaking his head and getting back to his meal.

"He was always a momma's boy. Of course he goes after my poor Sisters."

"Momma's boy? What do you mean, Your Grace?"

"His mother was a Sororitas. You didn't know the Queen was a Sister of Battle?"

Roger gawked at the bishop, in almost total disbelief.

"Your Grace, I thought it was a joke how pious Her Majesty was."

"No, she was a true Sororitas. Served in two campaigns. Then she was sent as part of an honor guard for the Archbishop of Kanbury. Caught the eye of the young Prince Edward. I was a priest then, a member of the Archbishops retinue. Edward the Small, we called him then, to not confuse us with his father, Edward the Tall. He fell head over heels for Sister Eleanor. Her Palatine thought nothing of it, even sent her to be a spiritual advisor to him, bloody moron. You want to know what happened next?"

Roger nodded in amusement.

"Despite all odds, the youngest, shortest, most unlikely son of Edward the Tall won her heart almost instantly, God-Emperor knows how. Then he goes and proves she was actually a daughter of one of the noble houses of Anglerre, gave her up to save their fortunes and get help from the Church. Takes this proof to his father, asks for her hand in marriage. Oh, her canoness, battle-axe of a woman, she nearly kills little Ed, but gets challenged to a duel by Sister Eleanor. And once again, despite all odds, wins, forces her to yield and give up a fine Sister of Battle to a royal of some backwards feudal world. Ed the Tall doesn't care, after all, his son is the fourth in line, probably would never get anywhere close to the throne."

"I know what happened next, Your Grace. Jean died fighting rebel lords, Louis died of consumption, and Charles had that tragic hunting accident."

The bishop nodded as he took a bite of his steak.

"And somehow, Little Ed became king, a former Sister of Battle became Queen, and despite everything we believed, His Majesty, King Edward the Seventeenth, had more in him then we all thought, considering the Royal Family now has five sons and two daughters. And now the young son Edmund, "The Expendable," if you'd believe the bards, spends his time harassing my Sororitas."

Roger looked back at Edmund, who was now talking to D'Uxford, the flustered Sister still standing guard. Thinking about it, it explained some of the personality quirks of Red Ned, his affectionate nickname among his regiments for his personal symbol of a red leopard and his explosive temper. His piety, his drive to push forward even through impossible odds, saying faith was enough of a shield. But his father, Edward the Kind as he was known, contributed to his personality, his dedication to his men, his calm, kind demeanor when he needed it, and his absolute sense of personal honor.

Suddenly, Edmund looked directly at Roger, staring at him for an uncomfortably long time before realizing who he was, smiling, and beckoning him over to his table.

"Good luck, my son," the bishop prodded him.

Moving around the various knights, officers, barons, lords, and other high members of society and Edmunds council, Roger soon bowed before the Lord Prince, who motioned him to stand up.

"You're the man who let me call Commissar Lucan a cunt," Edmund bellowed, turning to D'Uxford. "Duck, did you find a good use for him yet?"

Duck was Edmunds nickname for D'Uxford, given the first few letters of his name, and his family's heraldry was a yellow cross on a black background, which reminded the Prince of duckling feathers. He had used it since they had first met, decades ago. D'Uxford nodded and spoke with a hint of annoyance.

"My Lord, Serjeant Wessyng is your plenipotentiary to the Farseer Alwyn. She specifically asked about him."

Edmund let a hearty laugh out.

"By the Emperor man, if all I had to do to attract the Eldars attention was give them water, I'd drag a caravans worth at all times!"

Roger smiled uncomfortably.

"Duck, you need to watch this man, he seems to have some sort of talent dealing with Xenos. Serjeant, did you know our last agent took a YEAR to approve? And he only lasted three weeks because he irritated one of their warriors and lost a duel. There's my bit of royal advice, don't piss them off, and if you do, don't accept a fucking duel."

"I shall heed your advice, your highness," Roger said.

Suddenly, Edmund grabbed Roger's wrist and pulled him close.

"I need you to succeed. They have saved us more times than I can count, and we've barely repaid the favor. They may be Xenos, but I owe them a good link between us, and any help I can offer. You will do your duty, and go above and beyond, correct?"

Roger quickly nodded. Edmund, satisfied with this response, let his wrist go and grinned.

"Speaking of things to not do, don't insult the man next to you. Not the bishop. I wouldn't do that either, but that's common sense. That's Barrau de Gast, commander of the Gasceaux regiments in our army. Gasc's are infamous for fighting over the smallest things, long to remember, short to forget. I'm warning you now because the wine will flow soon, and I don't want you getting killed by some Gasceaux knight before I can use you effectively over a drunken comment. Go now, enjoy the food and drink."

Roger bowed, took a quick glance at D'Uxford, and went back to his seat. De Gast, his surcoat decorated with a roaring white lion on a blue background, turned to Roger as he sat down.

"Did the Prince say anything about me," he asked in his thick Gasceaux accent. "I sometimes wonder if he wants something from me that I can't give."

"My lord, he only warned me not to insult you, but I wouldn't have much reason anyway. You seem like a fine man to have at one's side, and the Lord Prince agrees."

De Gast beamed, his black mustache rising as he smiled.

"Good to hear. Sir Barrau de Gast, Lord of Trencas, knight of Gasceaux. I command the regiments from the Duchy."

"Serjeant Roger Wessyng, Plenipotentiary Royal to the Eldar."

De Gast frowned.

"You are being sent to the Xenos? The Lord Prince must have a reason. Are you a member of his household?"

"Technically, but I serve directly under Lord D'Uxford."

De Gast nodded and motioned Roger to move closer.

"D'Uxford is smart, and a good spymaster, but I would not trust him any further than necessary. And certainly don't try to become His Highness' new favorite. D'Uxford can be a jealous stabber of one's back," De Gast quietly warned. He then sat up and smiled, looking at the Prince. "Your Highness, I hear you have been hiding some of my peoples vintage? When are we going to see it!"

Edmund nodded at De Gast.

"The Lord of Trencas is right! Bring the Morsan Red out, damn your eyes! We need drink!"

A cheer erupted through the hall, followed by the rush of pages and servants pouring the deep red liquid into all kinds of goblets. Having received his portion, Roger put the goblet to his lips before the bishop warned him to stop.

"The Royal Toast, my son. It would be rude to drink before it."

Roger nodded and quickly put the goblet on the table, hoping no one else noticed his near blunder. Edmund rose, followed by all the others in the hall.

"Gentlemen! Ladies! Sisters! Your Grace!" he bellowed. "I know we have sat here for weeks now, awaiting the order to move. We await our comrades in Army Group Six to move along. I also know, much to my personal pain, that some of you are quietly concerned about our Eldar allies. I want you to know! On my honor! On the honor of my banner, we will soon have victories that would not be possible without them. And soon we will have an essential connection between our forces, meaning we will both reap the fruits of our comradeship!"

A few cheers, a bit of applause, but more than a few mumbles of discontent. Edmund continued, either not hearing or ignoring the dissent.

"We, Third Corps, stand ready to retake this planet from the traitors who think they, in their boundless arrogance, can keep humanity safe and prosperous by their lonesome, without the assistance of the Imperium, without the Ecclesiarchy. Even worse, there is proof that there are those who have abandoned the warm light of our great God-Emperor, and even those who have turned to dark rituals and gods that should have been crushed in His holy might."

The bishop nodded and muttered a few words of agreement.

"We will succeed in destroying these heretics, the rebels, those who have betrayed humanity and stand against their true protectors, the Astra Militarum. Or Imperial Guard, the Ministorum hasn't exactly told me what name they prefer this week."

A few laughs, many chuckles.

"But know this! When this campaign ends, when we stand victorious, they will remember the men of Third Corps, of Army Group Seven, the victors of Haikk, the ones who succeeded when others failed, the beacon of pride for the Haikk Crusade! To us!"

He raised his goblet, the rest of the hall, Roger included.

"God-Emperor save us! God-Emperor save the King! Anglerre forever!"

The hall reverberated in answer, with a cheer following. Roger clanked his goblet with the bishops, then de Gasts. He took a gulp of the wine, some of the best he had ever tasted.

"My people are the finest vintners on Anglerre, maybe the whole system. No, the galaxy!" De Gast roared in pride. Gasceaux were as proud as they were quick to demolish those who slighted them, but Roger couldn't find it in his heart to dislike the man.

"I could take a few more cups of it and not complain, my lord," Roger added.

"Then we shall!"

XXXXXX

A few hours before dawn, Roger Wessyng lay in his small room, trying not to move or make any sudden noises. A few more cups became bottles, and he realized too late he had been challenged to a contest of drinking with a man who grew up on the bottles of Gasceaux wine. Now his head pounded, his guts roiled, and he silently prayed for a quick death. But something told him to get up, so slowly, gingerly, he tried holding everything in as his head swam. He loudly groaned.

"Never again," he muttered. "Or never next to a Gasc."

"It would do you well," a female voice responded.

Roger nodded and tried standing up, but nausea hit him like a mace to the head.

"Oh, throne," he gasped as he pointed to a nearby bucket. "Get that, please, before I ruin the carpet!"

The bucket was quickly passed into his hands, and he noisily vomited. Gasping after depleting his stomach, he put the bucket down and moaned.

"Thank you. What's your name again?"

He was now praying he hadn't somehow convinced that Sister of Battle to follow him back to bed. If it was any consolation, he remembered her simply laughing it off instead of killing him. Maybe he had better luck with women than he thought. Or was it that servant girl? He turned to ask her name, but his blood froze, and he sobered in a second.

It was her. The ranger he had offered water to all those weeks ago. Her red hair, strangely statue-like face, her white armor and surcoat with the red, black, and green colors of her craftworld.

"How did you get in here," Roger asked, trying to clean himself up and look more presentable.

"Your security is lacking against an Eldar, thankfully no human could do what we do. And we must keep some secrets from you Mon-Keigh."

"Fair enough. What do you want? How long have you been here?"

"Not today, but tomorrow at dawn, you will go into the forest to the west. My comrades will find you and escort you to our camp. The farseer will tell you more when you arrive."

"Anything else? And you haven't answered my other question."

"No. Just be there. Do not tally or be late."

She turned to leave his quarters.

"Wait!"

She froze, not even looking at him.

"What's your name? I nearly died for you, the least you could do is tell me that."

There was a long pause, and the room seemed to get colder.

"Anya," she answered.

"It's nice to meet you, Anya."

She took a glance at him and left as quietly as she entered.

Roger laid down on the bed again. He had finally been called to service. He was now in it. And he finally saw his mysterious guardian angel again. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock, it being a few hours before he had to start moving. At least he didn't feel hungover. He tried to close his eyes and thought about Anya one last time. She seemed to be a bit brash, and didn't seem to appreciate that he nearly got killed over her. Well, she did let the Farseer know and get Edmund to save him, but still, he nearly died trying to be nice to her. Before he went back to sleep, he chuckled. He must still have been a bit drunk, because when she looked at him one last time after saying it was nice to meet her, her face looked a bit red.

Almost as if she was blushing.