Chapter 7: Contemplations and Toil

The chill of the chapel is a sharp contrast to the warmth of the dawn light filtering through the stained glass, casting fragmented colors over the stone floor and the towering statue of Canoness Jessamine Hallas. I'm drawn to it, a moth to a flame, the monumental representation of piety and strength. Yet the shadow it casts feels like it's enveloping me, a physical manifestation of the weight on my soul.

Sister Helena stands beneath it, a sentinel in white, her presence as unwavering as the stone saints that line this sacred hall. Her eyes find me, an unspoken summons that I can't ignore. With the basket of sacred implements in my grip, I move forward, each step a defiance of the exhaustion that clings like cobwebs to my mind.

We kneel together, the cold seeping through my robe, a penitent's discomfort. Sister Helena's voice fills the space, a cascade of faith and fervor, but when she prays for guidance, for me, her words twist in my gut. They're an accusation, a reminder of my unwilling journey here.

"Impress the path of His Will upon the spirit of this broken girl, crush her stubborn heart, banish her doubts, utterly wipe out all bastions of comfort behind which she cowers until nothing stands between your light and her soul, oh Holy Lady. The Emperor Protects."

We stand.

"Who guided you here?" Her question slices the air, a repeated challenge. I've dreaded it, the insistence on an answer I can't give. My hand, the only one I have left, raises in hesitant battle-sign. "I will pray and seek the answer," I sign back, my movements slow, heavy with the brace that cages my jaw.

She studies me, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze, before she nods, accepting my response, if only for now. When she does speak, her voice is a low rumble, a commanding presence that fills the vast emptiness of the chapel. "Start with the sanctified water," she instructs, her tone allowing no room for hesitation.

My fingers, encased in the fabric of my robe, brush against the tools laid out for today's sacred task. A variety of implements, each with a specific purpose in the ritual of cleaning, polishing, and anointing the statue, lie before me. My heart hammers in my chest, not from the physical pain that throbs incessantly at my jaw, but from the weight of expectation that presses down upon me and, as I stare up at the towering effigy, the enormity of my task.

I nod, reaching for the small, intricately carved vial filled with water that has been blessed by the Order's chief abbess. My hand, shaking slightly from a combination of fear and exhaustion, unscrews the cap. I dip a clean, white cloth into the vial, soaking a corner in the holy water.

"Begin at her feet, work upwards," Sister Helena directs, her gaze never leaving me. "Every inch must be cleansed, for it is through this act of devotion that we honor her legacy."

My movements are slow, deliberate, as I start at the base of the statue. The cold marble under my fingertips feels almost alive, imbued with the spirit of the Canoness herself. I trace the contours of her armored feet, the detailed carvings of her greaves, each movement a silent prayer for… for what?

Answers. But to what question?

Why?

Why me?

Why am I here?

Why did you bring me here?

I pause, watching as Sister Helena anoints the edges of her robe with the holy water and climbs to the top of the statue and begins to clean, working downwards with graceful flexibility.

"Next, the oil of anointment," Sister Helena continues. The vial of oil, a golden liquid that gleams in the candlelight, feels heavy in my hand. I pour a small amount onto a fresh cloth, the scent of sanctified herbs and flowers filling my nostrils, a sacred perfume that grounds me in the moment. I hand it up to Sister Helena.

With painstaking care, I polish the statue, the oil bringing a warm luster to the cold marble. Every stroke of the cloth is a testament to my faith, a silent plea for understanding, a pressing of oil and doubt alike. The detailed work is exhaustive, the crevices and folds of the Canoness's robes, the intricate patterns of her armor, each require careful attention, a dedication that I pour into every motion.

My fingers ache even more than my jaw, hours pass, my arm shakes. Sister Helena climbs down, her robe dripping sacred oil.

"Now, the litany of sanctification," Sister Helena says, her voice a solemn echo in the hallowed space. My heart skips a beat. Unable to speak, I raise my hand in battle sign, but my fingers refuse to make the complex, minute gestures. Sister Helena watches, her expression unreadable.

I lower my head and hand as it cramps painfully at my side. The look she gives me is unreadable, then she speaks. "Through the divine will of the Emperor, we consecrate this representation of Canoness Jessamine Hallas, the sanctified shield and guiding light of our Order. May her virtues be etched in our souls, and her strength be our bastion against the heretic, the xenos, and the daemon."

Sister Helena turns and her gaze pierces me once more. For a long moment I stand stock still, pierced by the dual gazes of the light woman and Sister Helena. Finally, she nods, a small gesture of approval that fills me with a sense of, if not accomplishment, then at least relief. "You honor her memory with your devotion," she says, her voice softer now, the faintest hint of warmth breaking through the stern exterior.

The statue of Canoness Jessamine Hallas stands resplendent, the morning light catching the polished surface, casting a radiant glow that seems to breathe life into the marble. For a moment, I allow myself to feel a connection to something greater, a lineage of faith and sacrifice that stretches beyond the confines of my own struggles.

My eyes meet Helena's and I don't feel in myself the same confidence I see in her. "What. Is. My. Path" I sign, each word a painful, twitching effort of overburdened tendons and tormented muscle.

Her response is immediate, her gaze not softening as her eyes bore into mine. "I haven't the faintest idea what your path is, child. I believe that the Holy Lady brought you here for a purpose, and I can't imagine she went to all that trouble just to find someone to shine her plinth."

Her words, meant to comfort or perhaps unsettle, leave me adrift. I glance down at the Broken Guardian hanging from my neck, then back at her. A connection, a parallel that I can't quite grasp, seems to hover just beyond my reach.

She walks past, depositing her outer robe, soaked in oil, in my basket. I watch as she goes, greeting the abbes as she walks amongst the other serfs, checking their work and offering corrections and encouragement.

The statue shines, a testament to our labor, but the shadow it casts feels like it's grown, an ever-present reminder of the questions that linger in my heart. I don't trust my hand to grip the basket yet, instead I find it running idly over the Broken Guardian hanging like a stone about my neck.

"Perhaps both of us need new wings…" The thought escapes me, a silent whisper in the sanctity of the chapel.