Chapter 2: Lavender

I wake in a haze of nothing, a void where everything once was. I can't feel my skin, can't feel the metal rings biting into my wrists. The pain is there, but it's... distant. A memory of itself. The taste of blood on my tongue, the coppery tang, reminds me I'm still here.

Still alive.

I feel surprise, surprise that I haven't given up and with it shame.

How long? How long have I been here?

I blink, or at least I think I do, but the world doesn't change. It's all the same, this blur of gray, the shadows pressing in. My body's given up trying to fight. I feel... hollow. A shell.

Maybe I have already died. Maybe this is what death feels like for the condemned, the heretic…

The Emperor protects...

But does He? Where is He now?

Then I hear them. Voices. Muffled, distorted like they're coming from underwater. Two men, one furious, the other cold. I can't make out the words. My ears are full of this buzzing, like a swarm of insects crawling inside my skull. It's hard to think, hard to hold onto anything but that sound.

A name cuts through the murk—Faust—sharp, like a shard of broken glass. It's Sullivan's voice. I know it too well, its edges curled in arrogance and anger. He's always angry. Always wants me to say things I don't know. Always wanting more. Always wanting me to give him something, to... break.

But there's someone else. A new voice. Steady, colder. Faust. Sullivan spits the name like a curse. I think... I think they're arguing, shouting.

I try to focus, to piece together what they're saying, but my mind is slipping again, sliding away from me. My vision swims, the edges going dark. My head lolls to the side, the world tilting dangerously as if it might spill me out into the nothingness.

"...no longer under... jurisdiction..."

I'm awake again, how long was I out? Not long, the voices haven't changed.

It's the new voice talking now. Faust. The name claws through the fog again. The Ordo Malleus?

Something shifts inside me at that. Malleus. Something in my mind ticks over in memory of a schola classroom that seems a million miles away. The hunters of daemons. They think I'm... what? Possessed? One of them?

I'm not. I'm not. I'm not.

I'm… fading.

Sister Helena's voice cuts through the fog and I'm awake again. Her tone is cool and controlled, like a blade. She speaks, but I can't catch it. Too many sounds crashing into each other, mixing with the buzzing in my head. My eyelids flutter, heavy with the weight of everything I've lost.

I try to stay awake.

Try to stay here.

Here…

A thud echoes in my ears, and I snap back to awake, or whatever passes for awake now, for me, like this. The sound is boots on metal. The clatter of something, then a hiss of air. I know that sound, the door opening, like a breath being sucked out of the room. The tension, so thick I can feel it pressing down on me. I hang there, suspended in the metal rings, a puppet with no strings. My eyes are open, I'm sure of it, but I can't see.

I'm slipping again... no... hold... hold onto something, anything...

Contempt.

The word crawls back into my thoughts, and I cling to it. The only thing that's still real.

I'm not sure when the voices stop, but they do. There's silence now, save for the humming of the machines. The excruciator. It's always there, lurking, waiting for Sullivan's next move, buzzing, whispering in my ears. It's alive, I know it is. Perhaps I'm simply delusional but I can hear it, chuckling to itself, smiling, laughing, a twisted machine spirit performing a twisted service.

I try to breathe, but it's shallow, every inhale a sharp stab in my ribs. I don't know if I can keep doing this. My body feels... done. Over. A thing that's about to break apart and disappear.

"...her to my custody..."

The words drag me back, but they're hazy. Fuzzy. Sullivan is shouting again, something about chaos and rights and jurisdiction. I don't understand. Faust's voice remains calm, cutting through Sullivan's fury like ice through fire.

The Ordo Malleus. Faust. He's taking me. Away from Sullivan. Away from the Hereticus.

Is that good? I... don't know.

I think I'm fading again. My thoughts slip, sliding through the cracks. I feel the infection crawling under my skin, gnawing at the burned places where the marks used to be. It's going to kill me soon, I think. It's eating me alive, piece by piece. What does it matter who I belong to if there's nothing left of me?

The argument outside grows louder, more heated, but I'm drifting too far away to care. I'm so tired. I can't keep fighting this. Maybe it's better to just... let go.

But then, Helena's words echo in my head.

Hold.

I groan, the sound of it weak and pitiful, and my eyes burn with tears my body no longer has the moisture to produce.

I want to hold. I want to, but I can't. I can't do this anymore.

The voices blur into a single, endless noise. It rises, falls, crashes like waves. I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. The world tilts again, and I feel like I'm falling, though I know I'm still suspended, still trapped in the excruciator.

Hold...

But the word is slipping away, fading like everything else.

The smell hits me like a jolt—lavender. Sudden. Sharp. Like a hand gripping my soul and yanking me back from the edge of the abyss.

I was gone. I was ready to let go, to slip into the darkness. To die.

But now this scent, this impossible scent, drags me from the void. The air fills with it, rich and floral, cutting through the filth and rot that's caked onto my skin. It's Valeria's smell. Her hair. Her cleansing agent.

No, I think. It can't be real.

But it is. The scent surrounds me, pulling me from the nothingness. My throat tightens, my chest heaves, and I realize I've taken a breath. I'm still here. I'm still alive.

Why?

Then I hear it. Soft. A voice, singing, drifting through the dark.

"Emperor, shelter me under thy wings,

From the wicked, the wretched, from impure things.

Preserve my soul in thy burning light,

Banish the darkness, preserve through the night."

It's her voice. Valeria.

No. It can't be.

But the song continues, wrapping around me like warmth, like something familiar, something from before all of this. Before the excruciator, before the pain, before the chaos marks, before Lucious. It's calling me back. I want to reach out for it, but I can't move.

"Terror may strike, the heretic fall,

But the Emperor's might consumes them all.

Purge me of doubt, purge me of fear,

Purge me of every stain brought near."

My vision is still darkenss. I can't see. My body feels weightless, like I'm floating. But I'm not. I'm being lifted, freed from the metal rings that held me for so long. I should feel pain—I know I should—but all I can feel is that smell, that voice. My throat burns as I try to swallow, try to say something, but my voice is trapped somewhere deep inside me.

Her voice keeps singing.

"By thy will, I shall stand,

Emperor, hold me in thy hand.

Though the darkness seeks to devour,

Preserve me, Emperor, in this hour."

I'm slipping. The world fades again, the scent of lavender growing faint. I can't tell if it's real anymore. I'm not sure if any of this is real. The darkness pulls at me, but her voice—Valeria's voice—keeps bringing me back, even as my mind drifts in and out.

I can feel her hands now. Soft. They move gently, undoing the restraints, but the pain that rushes back as my limbs are freed is unbearable. I want to scream, but there's no strength left. It's a flood, tearing through me, but the voice... the voice is there. It's louder now, clearer, like she's closer.

"Emperor, preserver of body and soul,

Banish the shadow, make me whole.

Purge me of all that would tear me away,

From the light of thy grace, from the path of thy way."

I feel something soft beneath me now. A stretcher, I think. I don't know how I know, but it's floating. A gentle hum vibrates through my skin. The movement of it stirs the air around me. Lavender. Always lavender.

"Preserve, O Emperor, thy humble child,

In thy burning gaze, fierce and wild.

Purge the taint, let none remain,

Until only thy light doth sustain."

I think I'm crying. Or maybe it's just sweat. I can't tell anymore. I can't hear anything but the song. The blackness keeps tugging at me, pulling me down, but Valeria's voice—her song—it's keeping me here, in this moment. Even as the pain grows worse, as the infection gnaws at my flesh, as my body screams for an end... her voice holds me.

I slip again.

The song fades. The lavender fades. Everything fades. I think this is the end. It has to be. My eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, there's nothing but the comforting pull of oblivion.

Then...

"Hold!"

Helena's voice again. Her order.

I want to.

I try to.

But I can't.

It's slipping away. Everything's slipping. I'm falling again, into that deep, endless dark.

But then... I feel something.

Just a whisper of sensation.

Barely there.

In my right hand, the one that still feels like mine, the non-augmetic one.

A warmth.

A pressure.

Another hand.

A familiar hand, calloused in the center from hours with scalpel and bone-saw but soft as silk around the edges.

I'm not holding onto anything anymore.

Someone else is holding onto me.

Hold...

The hum of air, thick and rushing, fills my ears like I'm inside a great, roaring beast. There's movement—steady, rhythmic—but it's not mine. I can feel it through my body, through the soft surface beneath me, but it's not me.

I'm breathing. I can tell that much, but it's not my doing. My lungs are moving, inflating, deflating, steady and smooth, like I've forgotten how and someone else is doing it for me. Something is in my mouth, pushing down my throat. Something cold and metallic attached to my arm—my good arm, not the augmetic one.

I should feel panic. I should be terrified. But I'm not. I'm... too tired. Too far gone.

The lavender scent is still there, faint now but real enough.

I'm alive. Somehow.

And then I hear her voice.

Valeria.

It's not a song anymore. It's words. Clear. Sharp. Too sharp.

"…almost total renal failure. The prolonged suspension has resulted in extensive tissue damage—muscle atrophy, venous stasis, and peripheral nerve damage. Her nervous system has been overstimulated to the point of near-total shutdown." Valeria's voice is clinical now, detached, the words clipped with that focus she always has when she's assessing something. Me, this time. "She's been through seven days of direct electrical hyperstimulation. The excruciator's voltage has ravaged her entire system. Every nerve, every synapse. It's a miracle she hasn't gone into full cardiac arrest."

I'm not a miracle. I'm just... here.

There's a pause, and then she continues, her tone dropping, softer now, almost apologetic. "Psychic pain was channeled directly into her mind. Her brain's pain centers have been bombarded, continually, without relief. There's no way to know how much cognitive damage has been done, or if any of it can be repaired. She hasn't had real sleep in almost a week."

Sleep. I almost laugh. What is sleep?

"She's severely dehydrated. We've started IV fluids, but she's lost too much too quickly. The burns..." Valeria's voice catches. She stops. I can almost see her expression tighten in frustration. "The burns are... festering. The chaos marks were carved deep into her flesh. They've gone untreated for too long. The infection is everywhere. Emperor's mercy, it's spreading through her blood. We've got holy rehydrants, blessed antibiotics, and a small army of antiseptics pumping into her even now... but her body..." Another pause. "Her body's fighting a war on too many fronts."

I feel something drip down my cheek. Tears? Sweat? I don't know anymore.

Helena's voice, cold as iron. "Will she survive?"

Valeria hesitates. I can feel her doubt. It sinks into the air like poison.

"Sister Helena," she starts, her voice suddenly quiet, quivering even, "even if she survives the infection, the burns, the dehydration, there's still the fact she was suspended by her arms and legs for a week, without rest. The ligaments in her shoulders and hips are likely torn, the muscles strained to breaking point, atrophied. Her body is covered in filth, feces, and grime... she hasn't had proper hygiene in all that time. Her immune system is..." She trails off.

Another silence. Then Valeria speaks again, quieter this time, almost a whisper. "Her fever is so high; I'm amazed she's conscious at all. Malnutrition, severe electrolyte imbalance, and hypovolemia. Her body's barely holding on. And it's not just the physical. It's the mental strain. The pain... the trauma of it all. If we start treating her aggressively, if we try to reverse the damage... the shock to her system will kill her."

Another pause. Then Valeria says the words I knew were coming, words that slide into my bones like ice.

"Even now, she could die at any moment."

So, this is it, I think. This is what death feels like. A quiet, inevitable thing. A slow painful unraveling.

There's a long silence between them. It's heavy, oppressive, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I can hear the hum of our transport, the steady rhythm of air forced into my lungs, the subtle beep of machines keeping me tethered to life.

Valeria's voice returns, steady but resigned. "It's up to her now. We can stabilize her with the resignation comatotis ritual, treat the physical injuries while her body experiences pseudo sleep, but she has to want to survive, to come back. If she gives up... there's nothing we can do. She won't make it. There'll be nothing there to bring back, to wake up."

Helena speaks, sharp and demanding, angry. "So if she wants to die, she'll die. But if she wants to live, she'll live? That's your professional medical opinion?"

Valeria sighs heavily. "No, Sister Helena. If Aurora simply wants to live, she'll still die. But if she wants to live more than anything else, if all her faith, all her will, all her stubbornness is bent on living—if every facet of her soul chooses to cling to her mortal flesh against all thoughts of relief, of rest, of mercy... then her odds are probably fifty-fifty, and even then there's no telling how much of her will come back."

A curse.

Helena curses.

I've never heard her curse before. Not ever.

Then, her voice, closer than ever before, a low growl that sinks into my ear. "Aruora, if you even think of giving up on me," she says, every word laced with venom, "if you take the coward's way out, I swear…" there's the faintest pause, a tremble, not of anger, or rage, not of pity or compassion, but of regret, regret for what she's decided to say next… "I swear by the Emperor I'll pray the saint tells your mother you were a faithless failure of a child."

The words burn, cutting deeper into whatever's left of me that Lucious' blade ever could. My mother. Failure. I can't fail. Not now. Not after everything.

I desperately want to respond, want to tell her I'm still here, still fighting, still holding, but I can't. The world is slipping again, the edges blurring, the darkness pulling at me, not the darkness of death, but the sludgy void of chemical sleep.