Chapter 3: The Weight of Scales

As the hazard lights shift from brown to orange, I rise, abandon my cot to the woman coming off shift, and slip into the simple green robe that has become the symbol of my life these past two years. The Broken Guardian hangs from my neck on a brass chain, the one personal item of faith I'm allowed. I touch it reverently and pray as I walk in silence, joining the que of thousands of other faceless green robes. At the front of the que I receive the tools of my trade, a bucket, a brush, lye, a sack of fresh rags, a bottle of sacred oil, and a ration cube, my sustenance for the day.

"Chapel 74, basic, level 1 contaminants, 4-hours" the plain white card spits from the mouth of a servo skull and rests in my single hand. A shorter shift, a full-day for only four hours of estimated work and the promise of four free hours of personal time free for the spending. I swallow and move slowly out of line, allowing the woman behind me to pass and I shove the slip of paper into her hand as the rest of my gear drags behind on my small kart. In traditional style I find her card shoved into my hand, we both read them, walking together without breaking stride. She moves away from me, accepting the trade.

"Chapel 114, thorough, level-4 contaminants, 10-hours" the new card read. The assignments were supposedly random, following the skills of the receiver but with no concern given to location or time. And yet… And yet Chapel 74 haunted my cards more often than my mind was willing to chalk up to coincidence. The Broken Guardian feels hot against my skin. I ignore it. Ten hours, for me at least twelve, I have enough concerns now that I know I'll be missing half my sleep-cycle not to worry about the judgmental visage of a long dead Canoness resting atop a plinth in
Chapel 74.

Eight hours into my task, Valeria bursts into the chapel, her Novitiate robes a stark contrast to the dimly lit, solemn atmosphere of disused Chapel 114. Her face is a mix of frustration and concern, softened by the sight of me. "I don't have much time," she gasps, slightly out of breath, "the system listed you in Chapel 74, but the woman there..." Her voice trails off as she hands me a small package, half her lunch, a gesture of friendship that feels as warm as the sunlight I remember from a different life.

"The Sister at 74 said I'd find you here," she continues, her youthful face creased with the seriousness of puberty. "Why not Chapel 74, Aurora? It's like you're avoiding—" She stops herself, perhaps remembering our unspoken agreement not to dredge up past shadows of a life I might have led if not for the choices I made, if not for the accident that took more from me than just my arm.

I can't meet her gaze, not with the weight of differing opinion between us. Instead, I focus on the austere beauty of the chapel, the way the dust dances in the shafts of light piercing the gloom. "The Emperor has his plans, Val," I say quietly, the name slipping out with an ease that belies the complexity of our friendship. "Even for those of us born in shadow." I add softly.

Valeria sighs, sitting beside me on the cold stone floor, her presence a comforting warmth. "Lucious leave another message for you, under the altar this time?" she asks after a moment, watching me scrub while lying under the stone plinth on my back. I can hear her voice tinged with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "The Three-legged Rat," she reads, bending down and rolling her eyes.

I can't help but chuckle, a sound that feels foreign in the silence of the chapel. "He thinks he's so clever," I reply, the amusement fading as I remember the work awaiting me, the graffiti a reminder of my place in this world. My place, the place I chose, the place I find in full contentedness, except in my dreams… "I bet he and his posse leave them under every altar, just on the off chance I'll see them. You'd be surprised how many little places like this get skipped by the less pious."

Valeria's hand finds mine, her grip firm. "I could report him, you know. They'd reprimand him for defacing sacred property," she offers, the protective edge in her voice a reminder of her position, of the path she walks—a path I once might have shared.

I shake my head, squeezing her hand in gratitude. "Let it be, Val. It's been two years and I haven't even seen his face since the fall. At this point it's just sad or perhaps laughable. It's just Lucious being the small, insecure boy he still is. Besides, it's useful to me, a reminder I need. Under the altar—lest I forget to be so diligent in my work." My words are light, but they carry the weight of acceptance, of finding peace in the service I've chosen, however lowly it may seem to others.

Valeria's eyes glint with a mix of excitement and determination under the flickering lumens as she leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Aurora, in my training, I've been working with the military grade augmetic limbs the Adeptus Mechanicus is crafting for Gilead's Gravediggers. They say these augmetics are almost like flesh, capable of sensation and precise movements. The way they integrate with the nervous system is… it's like a miracle of the Omnissiah."

I pause, the brush held loosely in my remaining hand, my attention caught not by the topic, but by Valeria's willingness to broach it despite our spoken and unspoken agreement. The air between us thickens with the gulf of opinion that still divides us despite our friendship, the sacred oil scent mingling with the age-old dust of the chapel.

Valeria, undeterred by my silence, pushes on, her youthful enthusiasm undimmed by the gravity of the baggage I carry. "I mean, with an augmetic arm, you wouldn't be limited to… this." She gestures broadly at the chapel, encompassing the endless cycle of menial tasks that define my existence without managing to be condescending. "You could return to the Schola. You were top of your class, Aurora. I've asked, I've seen your scores."

My gaze drifts to the stump of my left arm, my hand to the Broken Guardian. The silence stretches, a chasm filled with the echoes of what could have been and broken fences. I know what I have to say.

Before I can frame the thoughts into words, Valeria rushes on, her voice a blend of fervor and conviction that seems too certain for her eleven years. "But it's not just about the arm, Aurora. It's you. Your faith, your strength of character… You belong with us, the sororitas, not just cleaning chapels. You could be an armorer, a serf within our ranks. The Order of the Sanctified Shield needs people like you. And…" She hesitates, her usual confidence wavering as she meets Aurora's gaze, "when I become a full Hospitaller, we could still see each other. Not just in passing, but as sisters in arms."

I take a deep, slow breath, and turn to face Valeria with my whole body, my eyes finding hers and in them a hint of shame for having brought up the forbidden topic but also the fire of defiance that assured me she would never let the issue go, not even if we were friends for a hundred years.

"You're right, Valeria," her eyes widen slightly as I continue, "it's not about the arm, it's about faith." I set down the brush and wipe my hand on a cloth before placing it on Valeria's shoulder, meeting her fire with calm, cool certainty. "You were born into a great house, bred for great things, pushed to achieve the impossible and rise so much higher than the circumstances of your orphaning gave you." She swallows, and her mouth opens and closes once. I continue. "I was born as nothing, into nothing, with nothing, nothing but a broken Aquila and my faith."

"Aurora I—"

I place a calloused finger against her soft lips, "you need to rise to prove to yourself that your faith is real, to prove that you have it, to prove it's more than the verbal acknowledgement of someone who already has it all."

I see her swallow. I see the hurt. I continue. I have to. She has to understand. She might be the only one who can.

"I have nothing to prove." I respond as gently as I can, "I was saved from starvation by a hallucination, an angel, a vision, whatever it was it was my faith. I rose from nothing to a schola student, and I fell as nothing to a one-armed menial, an Aquila with a broken wing. I don't have anything to prove," then why, why is my chest so tight?

I try to smile and lighten the mood, "besides, you'd have to become the chief medicae of the whole ordos just to match how far I've risen from where I started."

Valeria's expression shifts, the initial spark of hope dimming as she processes my words. She smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. Her young face, usually so animated and determined, falls into a rare, contemplative silence. She pulls her hand away gently, folding it into her lap, her gaze dropping to the cold, stone floor between us.

The silence stretches, heavy and thick, a barrier as tangible as the walls of the chapel that encloses us. I watch her struggle with the weight of my refusal, the complexity of emotions flickering across her face—a mix of understanding, disappointment, and a stubborn resolve that I've come to admire in her.

Finally, Valeria looks up, her eyes meeting mine with a resilience that belies her years. "I get it, Aurora," she says, her voice steady, but softer now, tinged with the maturity that my own hardship and faith have thrust upon her. "I... I just wish it could be different. That we could stand together, shoulder to shoulder, not just as friends, but as sisters under the same banner, fighting for the same cause."

Her words hang in the air, a testament to the depth of her conviction and the pain of our diverging paths. I feel a pang of sadness, not born of discontent, but of empathy with the dream I see dying in her stubborn eyes.

"But you're right," Valeria continues, her determination rekindling, "Your faith, your journey... it's yours, Aurora. And it's powerful, more than you know." She pauses, twirling an oft-escaped hair around her finger in a gesture I've come to associated with shame, "I don't know if I have that kind of faith… but maybe you're right, maybe it's not about proving anything to anyone else, but living your truth, in service and in faith, wherever that may be."

She stands, her movements deliberate, her Novitiate robes falling neatly around her as her chrono chimes. She offers me a small, brave smile, a promise of enduring friendship despite the paths we walk and the difficult conversations. "I'll always believe in you, Aurora. No matter where we are, no matter what titles we bear or don't... you're my sister in faith and nothing will change that."

We embrace. She leaves the wrapped portion of her lunch on the altar for me, then she's gone, her figure a silhouette against the dim light of the chapel. I'm left with her words, a balm to the ache of our parting ways. Her words echo in the sacred silence, a promise of the strength of the bonds forged in faith and the paths we choose, not because they are easy, but because they are ours.

I sigh and lie down again, "for the three-legged rat" I redouble my scrubbing and push thoughts of glory aside. Even so, the judging face of the light woman pervades my solitude even as I work in meditative silence the next six hours.