Chapter 5: Path's Unseen

Dawn's light, feeble and strained through the smog of Gilead Primus, does little to dispel the shadows that cling to the towering spires of the Adeptas Sororitas complex. I trudge towards the Adeptas Sororitas campus, my body aching for sleep I barely had. The night's work left me with barely two hours of rest, and each step feels heavier than the last.

Even so, the grandeur of the main facility raises the pace of the blood in my veins as it looms before me, a monolith of faith and might, its austere beauty a stark contrast to the underbelly of service tunnels through which I've always scurried, unseen, or the mere vast greatness of the generalist campus where my life as a student seems two lifetimes ago. The air here feels heavy, charged with the weight of countless prayers and the silent watch of martyrs carved into the very walls. They watch me, judge me, or perhaps that's just my exhaustion playing tricks on a mind already beset by doubts.

Familiar with the layout from below, I hesitate briefly before picking the administration building out from the others, one of the few I've entered. As I cross the threshold, a Sister Administrator, her gaze as sharp as the blade at her side, sizes me up with a glance that seems to pierce through to my very soul.

Silently I hand her my identi-chip, she scans it, raises an eyebrow at me in a non-comital manner one might examine something on the bottom of one's boot, interesting, but still on the bottom of said boot. Silently she hands me a grey robe trimmed with green and adorned with a golden sash. "Your garb, serf. Wear it with the humility befitting your station, additional uniforms will be sent to your habitation, go with the Lady's blessing."

The fabric feels alien in my hands, the colors signifying a role of which I have a mere cursory understanding and do not fully comprehend. "Sister, what does the green trim and this sash mean?" My voice falters and I fail to add 'and where am I supposed to go now?'

Her displeasure is palpable. "Have you so easily forgotten your teachings?"

"I—" fail to come up with a good response, "I was told to report here by Sister Helena," my exhausted brain managed in the vain hope that someone maybe knew to expect me.

The sister behind the desk ground her teeth for a moment then stepped around the desk, which is when I realized she had no legs. "This denotes your servitude to the Adeptas Sororitas." She pointed to the grey, "a great honor, one not easily earned," those words echoing so many familiar statements that had followed every move I made as a former underhiver made schola student were meant to shame me. I didn't even blink. The years had hardened me to them and I was too tired to do the humble unholier-than-thou act.

She seemed to tire of waiting for me to abase myself and continued, "The green indicates your status as a serf. The gold sash," she paused as if trying to wrap her mind around the idea that the gold sash was, in fact, meant for me, "means you've been honored to serve the Holy Lady directly. Now, report to the abbess in the chapel, serf." The dismissal is curt, a rebuke that sends heat flooding to my cheeks despite myself.

"Which chapel, Sister?" I ask, the question slipping out in my exhaustion before I realize my mistake, an artifact of being a menial only a few hours ago.

Her look could set a heretic aflame. "Are you simple or did you suffer a head injury? There is only one chapel within the Adeptas Sororitas complex. Do not waste more of my time."

Shame wraps around me like a shroud as I retreat, the robe clutched tight in my grasp. The hallways stretch before me, a labyrinth of devotion and discipline, leading me inexorably towards a destiny I've tried to eschew.

I dress on the way, realizing, as I hurry, that I have not the faintest idea of how the sash is meant to be worn. The chapel is open despite the early hour, the darkness of the outside world held at bay by the soft glow of candlelight within. Serfs line up at the door, a silent procession of duty. My heart hammers in my chest as I take my place among them. The gaze, frozen in stone, of the visage that haunts my troubled faith at the forefront of my tired mind even as I quickly undo the sash and attempt to copy what I can see of those around me.

There seem to be three kinds of serfs. The very old, the very young, and those like me, of any age or make but missing pieces. Several are more augmetic than flesh. My shoulder aches and I feel a painful twinge in an arm I no longer possess.

The abbess at the front of the queue, her visage etched with the trials of faith, seems to look through me, to the very core of my being. When my turn comes, I meet the gaze of the abbess, Sister Hardgrave, by the embroidery of her robe, and recognition flares in her ancient eyes. "Aurora, child, you've returned to us. Well, most of you in any case." Her voice is soft, yet it carries the weight of command and expectation.

She seems to see the confusion in my face and her smile reaches her eyes, "I was here when our Holy Lady first lead you into these halls, child." She nods and another sister steps forward as she pulls me out of line and to the side, quickly untying my sash with, old, unsteady hands. I blush in embarrassment as she reties it. "You walked right through the doors and up to the Holy Lady, I was surprised that no one stopped you, what with how out of place you looked, covered in grime and excrement as you were. But you just stood there, through the whole service, staring up at her." The old lady tutted and seemed to wave away the memory.

I speak, my mind once again not quite catching up to my lips, "you're the warm lady," I say then bite my lip, hard, trying to wake myself up. "I'm—I'm sorry, abbess, I—"

She waves a hand dismissively, "why you showed up four years ago, why you are here now, these things are not my concern. The Lady does as she pleases, Emperor Willing."

She assigns me to clean, polish, and anoint the statue of the Sacred Lady, Canoness Jessamine Hallas herself. My stomach knots at the thought of being so close to that towering effigy, to the light woman who guided me here four years ago. But the abbess's gaze tells me this is no mere assignment; it's a test, a challenge, and perhaps, a punishment.

With a nod, I accept my task, swallowing the protests that rise in my throat. Fear of Sister Helena's reaction mingles with a deeper, unspoken dread: that I am unworthy, that my presence here is a mistake, that the Holy Lady looks upon me with disapproval. Instead, I nod, acceptance heavy on my shoulders, and follow the others to the depths where my new duties await.

The sub-basement is a place of shadow and whispered echoes, the air thick with the scent of sacred oils and the metallic tang of incense. My hand, though accustomed to labor, feels clumsy as I'm handed the tools of a sacred task I barely comprehend. The serf who briefs me on my duties has eyes that speak of long service and unspoken stories. I try not to stare. She's more than a servitor but only barely. If she notices my impolite aversion, she does not mention it.

"Someone has been assigned to teach you," she murmurs before disappearing back into the supply room.

Returning to the chapel's main floor, the weight of the oils and brushes in the basket at my hand feels like carrying relics of unimaginable importance. Sister Helena awaits, her presence filling the vast emptiness of the chapel. In her simple robe, she's less the warrior I remember. Yet, the authority she commands is undiminished, her gaze piercing the veil of my uncertainty.

I've had the barest two hours of sleep, but some strength has returned and I haven't forgotten our last meeting.

I return her gaze.

"Sister Helena," I begin, my voice a thread of sound in the sacred expanse. "What is this? Is this my punishment?" The words hang between us, a plea for understanding I'm not sure I deserve.

Her response is a silence that stretches, taut and expectant. Then, with a motion that brooks no argument, she gestures for me to kneel beside her before the towering effigy of Canoness Jessamine Hallas. The statue looms, a silent sentinel of faith and sacrifice, and as I kneel, the weight of expectation—and perhaps my destiny—presses down upon me.

Sister Helena's prayer is a litany of devotion and supplication, a mantra that seems to resonate with the very stones of the chapel. I listen, caught in the spell of her reverence, until she adds a personal plea, "and I pray you inflict upon this stubborn and wayward soul the full weight of your presence as you guide her back to the path you've chosen for her. The Emperor Protects."

As the prayer concludes, confusion and a burgeoning defiance take root within me. "What path?" I demand, as Sister Helena's words continue to stir the tightening knot in my intestines. "Why do you waste your time on me?"

Everyone is staring now, even the abbess. I'm too tired, too angry, and in too much turmoil in a faith I thought I had to care.

Her query in response is a blade aimed at the heart of my denials and doubts. "Who guided you here, Aurora?" The question hangs between us, a challenge, a key to a door I've kept firmly closed. "Who. Led. You. Here?"

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, "I was five. I was starving. I had never even seen another human being other than my mother. I was probably hallucinating. Just because I can't explain the—"

The slap, when it comes, is a physical manifestation of the seething anger in Sister Helena's tone, and even without her armor, it sends me sprawling. The taste of iron and copper blooms in my mouth. "Do not lie to me," Sister Helena seethes, her disappointment like a second, equally physical blow. "Believe lies if you wish, but you voice them to my face at your own peril!"

All work in the chapel has ceased, even the quietly chanting Sisters of the Sacristy have stopped to watch. I hardly notice, my field of view, my focus, narrowed to a single person and the statue under which she stands, glowing like the light woman, in the light of its blazing Aquila.

I rise awkwardly with one arm, defiance kindling a fire within me. Anger burns in my chest, anger at Sister Helena, anger at the light woman. "What do you want from me!? I'm not lying!" I shout, my voice echoing off the stone walls, a declaration, a challenge.

"Who guided you here?" she presses, her eyes, not hard, not angry, not even cold, searching mine for truth.

"I don't know, I—" My protest is cut short as she moves. I raise my arm defensively against the coming slap. I'm barely aware of a small smile that twists the left side of her mouth as her slapping hand alters its parabola and a grip like iron fastens around my one wrist.

She pulls.

I stumble.

Half a step forward my momentum is abruptly reversed as Sister Helena's fist, a punch that carries the full weight of her conviction, lashes out on my armless side.

She doesn't pull the punch, not one bit.

I feel a simultaneous explosion of light, sound, pain, and a brief sensation of weightlessness as my feet leave the floor and all seventy pounds of me is thrown back down the aisle. My head snaps back against the red carpet and everything goes dark.