Part 4: Me, myself, and Her… (Jessamine's Perspective)
I exist between breaths, a flicker in the void, neither alive nor truly dead. The hum of ancient machinery vibrates through my withered bones, a relentless reminder of the throne that binds me. Tubes and wires burrow into my flesh, pulsing with corrupted ichor that once might have been blood. My eyes—those that remain in this decaying husk—are closed, but I see everything.
Aurora moves through the chapel, her footsteps light yet burdened with the weight of impossible choices. I sense her hesitation, the silent agony she conceals behind a facade of serenity. The prayers of the faithful wash over her like a tide, each whispered hope another stone added to the mountain she carries. She is so young. Too young.
I remember that weight. The crushing expectation of sainthood. The way every gaze sought salvation in a single flawed vessel. It suffocated me then; it suffocates her now.
In the depths of my mind—the fractured, splintered remnants of what I once was—I reach out. My consciousness divides, the better part of me slipping free from the rotten cage of my body. As a wraith, I glide unseen through the corridors of the basilica, the sacred halls echoing with the murmurs of preparation and the distant thrum of the void shield.
On the battlements, High Priestess Riley grapples with doubt she cannot afford to show. Her armor gleams with a false confidence, the relics of our Order resting heavy upon shoulders untested by the horrors to come. She debates with Canoness Helena, their words sharp enough to cut but laced with the same underlying fear. They speak of strategies and last stands, of funnels and focus, clinging to doctrines that may as well be ashes in the face of what approaches.
Helena—so hardened, so scarred by wars that have stolen pieces of her soul—tries to impart wisdom earned through blood and loss. Riley bristles, pride and inexperience blinding her to the olive branch extended. Old wounds fester between them, unseen but not unfelt. The shadows of betrayals neither fully understands poison the air.
I drift closer, drawn to their turmoil like a moth to flame. Their emotions are raw, unfiltered. Pride, fear, resentment—all tangled in a knot that tightens with each passing moment. They cannot see me; perhaps they would not want to.
Below, the masses gather. Sisters in armor that hasn't seen war in centuries stand beside Arbites enforcers and ragged gangers clutching scavenged weapons. Children scurry between them, small hands bearing ammunition they can barely lift. Innocents, all of them. Lambs in the path of the coming slaughter.
I want to weep for them, but my tears dried up long before their ancestors were born.
A whisper brushes against the edge of my awareness—a voice both foreign and achingly familiar. It is the other part of me, the one still chained to the throne, steeped in bitterness and spite. She seethes with contempt, her thoughts a venomous hiss that echoes in the hollow chambers of our shared mind.
They are weak. Pathetic. They will break before the darkness. Their deaths are not only expected, but counted on, assured, planned for.
I recoil from her, from myself. Is this what I have become? A twisted relic clinging to life out of sheer obstinance? Once, I gave everything for the Emperor—for my Sisters. I took the throne to save them, to be the bulwark against the darkness when all other lights had faded.
But centuries of solitude warp even the noblest intentions. The adoration turned to worship, the worship to fanaticism, and somewhere along the way, I lost myself. My name became a weapon, my legacy a shackle for those who came after.
Aurora feels the weight of that legacy now. I see her standing alone atop the altar, a child draped in the hopes of thousands. She radiates a light that is both hers and mine, yet purer than anything I ever possessed. She seeks to undo my mistakes, even if it destroys her.
She may succeed. But they will all fail. You hope for a fool's victory. You are blind of your own choice. Wake up, fool, see what must be done.
The venomous thought slices through me, and I cannot tell if it is mine or the other's. The divide between us widens, a chasm carved by centuries of regret and loathing.
I turn away from the chapel, casting my gaze beyond the walls. The darkness there is not just the absence of light but a presence—an entity that hungers. The mist coils and writhes, tendrils of shadow licking at the edges of the statues that line the avenues. Within it, I sense malice. Hatred. A void that seeks to consume all.
They are coming.
Images flash before me—visions or memories, I cannot tell. Bodies piled high against the gates, the defenders overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The void shield flickering, failing as my strength wanes. Screams echo in the corridors, cut short by brutal ends. Blood staining the sacred floors, the faces of the fallen twisted in pain and betrayal.
And above it all, a shadow looms. Nullmaw. The name reverberates through me like a death knell. A beast of nightmare, birthed from the very corruption I sought to hold at bay. Its single red eye burns with unholy fire, and I feel its gaze upon me even now.
You cannot stop it.
The other voice—my voice—taunts me. She revels in the despair, feeds off it. I grit my ethereal teeth, a phantom pain throbbing where my heart once beat.
"No," I whisper into the void. "I will not let this be their end."
Laughter, sharp and clear cuts through me and I weather it, as I have weathered my own darkness for centuries.
Oh, but the Irony of those thoughts… foolish self…
I ignore myself, trying to focus, to think, to draw my mind out of centuries of mire and remember what it was like to be the one leading the charge once more.
But what can I do? Bound as I am, both to this throne and to my own fractured psyche? My power wanes, siphoned off to fuel defenses that will not hold. My influence is a ghost's touch, barely enough to stir a candle flame, let alone turn the tide of war.
Yet Aurora believes. Despite all she knows, all she hides, she still carries hope. Not for herself, but for them—for the mothers and children, the Sisters and soldiers who look to her for salvation.
If only I could reach her. Truly reach her. But every time I try, she walls herself off, fearing perhaps that I will taint her as I have been tainted. And perhaps she is right.
No. Fearing that you will see the truth, fool…
Unintentionally I feel my presence shift to the inner walls. I see Magos Harspes's servo-skulls etching glyphs into stone and steel, their movements precise and unerring. The symbols they carve are beyond my understanding, yet they pulse with a resonance that stirs something deep within me. A memory, perhaps, of a time when the ecclesiarchy and mechanicus walked hand in hand, before my sacrifice became unnecessary and distrust and accusation and war drove wedges between all that was once united.
I reach out, my ethereal fingers brushing against the nearest skull as it passes. For a moment, its red eye flickers, and I catch a glimpse of the equations running through its logic engines. Complex. Elegant. Terrifying.
"They are preparing for something far greater than defense." I realize, the runes so achingly familiar and yet so utterly foreign.
A powerful sense of déjà vu assails me and laughter, cruel and mocking cracks like a whip across the naked back of my mind.
"Be silent," I snap back, surprising myself with the vehemence of my response. The schism within me widens, a fracture threatening to split me apart entirely. I cannot allow her poison to seep into the last remnants of what I am.
I draw upon the faint echoes of power that still linger, focusing my will. If I can bolster the void shield, even for a little while longer, perhaps it will make a difference. I channel energy into the ancient systems, feeling the strain ripple through my decaying body back on the throne. Pain spikes, sharp and cold, but I welcome it. It reminds me that I am still, in some way, alive.
The shield shimmers, its light intensifying for a brief moment. On the walls, the defenders straighten, noticing the change. Hope flickers in their eyes, a spark against the encroaching darkness.
"It is so little, but it is all I can give."
My thoughts turn back to Riley and Helena. They must find a way to stand together. Old wounds and grudges have no place here, not when annihilation looms. If only I could speak to them, warn them, guide them as I once did my own Sisters.
But perhaps... perhaps there is a way.
I gather myself, pulling the fractured pieces of my consciousness together. It's risky—extending myself like this could alert Nullmaw or worse, could give the other part of me more control. But I have to try.
I weave through the corridors, the air growing colder as I approach the battlements once more. Riley stands alone now, gazing out over the parapet. The weight of command presses heavy upon her, doubt shadowing her features beneath the helm.
Gently, I reach out, a whisper against the edge of her mind.
"Courage, child. You are not alone."
She stiffens, hand going to the hilt of her blade. "Who's there?" she demands aloud, eyes scanning the empty space around her.
I cannot manifest fully, but I press on. "Trust in your Sisters. Trust in yourself. The Emperor watches over you."
Her gaze softens, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Jessamine," she whispers, barely audible.
Hope blooms in me, fragile but real.
But then a jolt of agony lances through me, tearing at my essence. The other presence surges forth, filled with rage.
You meddle where you are not wanted! Let them fall! Let them all fall as they must fall!
I reel back, the connection severed. Riley shudders, a chill running down her spine as if a cold wind passed through her. She opens her eyes, confusion clouding them.
I retreat, the effort leaving me weakened.
The laughter comes again, sharp and biting, echoing through my fractured psyche like shrapnel piercing flesh. It's her laughter—my laughter—tainted and cruel, steeped in centuries of bitterness.
Look, fool. Look at what you've ignored. At what you've allowed. Behold what your guilt and shame blind you from, what you have been party to!
I hesitate, the venom in her voice making me recoil. But something stirs in me, a gnawing unease that refuses to be silenced. Slowly, I shift my awareness, my vision stretching toward the courtyard, where the oversized servo-skulls etch their glyphs into the ancient stone. The lines burn with a baleful light, the equations twisting and writhing as though alive.
The realization hits me like a thunderstrike.
"No," I whisper, the word trembling with disbelief.
The symbols—they aren't defenses. They aren't wards against the darkness. They're something else entirely. Something profane. A pattern emerges as I stare, one that feels achingly familiar and utterly horrifying. The glyphs are preparation. Not for salvation, but for sacrifice.
"No," I gasp, louder this time, the horror clawing at my throat. "No, no, no!"
The laughter crescendos, the other half of me reveling in my dawning understanding.
Ah, there it is. The veil lifts. You see it now, don't you? The brilliance. The inevitability.
I surge forward, my ethereal form racing toward the chapel. My thoughts are a tangle of desperation and guilt, the fragments of my shattered mind screaming in unison.
"Aurora!" I bellow, my voice a banshee's wail that reverberates through the basilica's stone walls. "Aurora, stop this! Stop it now!"
The chapel doors loom before me, their ancient iron embossed with holy symbols that once brought comfort. Now, they seem an insurmountable barrier. I fling myself at them, only to be thrown back as though struck by an invisible force.
Confusion and panic flood me. I press my hands against the cold surface, feeling the faint hum of a barrier—not physical, but mental. A lock. Aurora's lock.
"She's shut me out," I murmur, disbelief giving way to crushing realization. She hasn't just closed her mind to me out of fear of corruption. She's sealed herself away entirely, cutting me off from her soul, her thoughts.
I stagger back, my ethereal hands trembling. And then, like a shadow slipping through cracks, she appears—me, but not me. The tainted half of myself strides through the chapel doors as though they are mist, her decayed visage a mockery of sanctity.
"No," I whisper, my voice shaking. "How? Why would she—"
The dark reflection of me tilts her head, her skeletal features pulling into a mockery of a smile. "Oh, don't look so surprised," she purrs, her voice dripping with condescension. "Aurora let me in. Days ago."
"You're lying!" I snap, though the words sound hollow even to me. "She would never—she—"
"Oh, but she did." The tainted side circles me like a predator, her movements fluid and taunting. "She sought council. She asked questions. She sifted through our memories, the ones you refuse to acknowledge. The sacrifices, the hard choices. The necessary ones."
"No!" My voice cracks as I scream, the denial ripping from my throat. "She wouldn't—she wouldn't listen to you!"
The tainted half rolls her milky, undead eyes. "Stop embarrassing yourself! We are one, after all. You know the truth as well as I do. She didn't need to listen. She forged this path all on her own."
"She would never!" I lunge toward her, my ethereal form a pale blur, but she moves faster. Her decayed hand catches my wrist, her grip impossibly strong.
"Look at you," she sneers, her voice turning cold. "Still blind. Still clinging to your sanctimonious guilt and self-pity. You knew this was happening, Jessamine. You felt it, deep down. You just refused to face it. The same way you refused to face the truth all those centuries ago. You blinded yourself then, and you're doing it again."
I wrench myself free, staggering back. "No," I whisper, my voice trembling. "No, this wasn't me. I—I would never—"
Her laughter cuts me off, cruel and mocking. "Not you. Her. It's all her idea. Everything that's about to happen—her plan, not mine. The terrible brilliance of a child's imagination crafting horrors worse than everything about to assail this place. I simply did her the courtesy of telling the truth, that it would work."
"You're lying!" I scream, my voice raw with desperation. But even as the words leave me, doubt claws at the edges of my mind. The memories, the whispers I've ignored—they rise unbidden, casting my denial into shadow.
She leans in, her decayed face inches from mine. "Am I?" she whispers, her voice a dagger slipping between my ribs. "You already know the truth, Jessamine. You just don't want to admit it. You were there with me, as you always are, hiding in the darkest corners of your mind, filling your ears with guilt, binding your eyes with shame. You knew!"
I back away, my mind a storm of fear and fury. "I won't let this happen," I vow, turning and racing towards the nearest servo-skull. "I'll destroy them. I'll end this before—"
Before I can make contact, she is there, her decayed hand slamming into my chest and sending me reeling. "You won't do anything," she says, her voice laced with venom. "You're too weak. Too afraid. That's why you're fading, Jessamine. Why I'm stronger than you now. Aurora cut you off and gave me reign to ensure you didn't interfere!"
"No!" I scream, surging forward again, only to be blocked once more. Each attempt leaves me weaker, her laughter growing louder as my strength ebbs away.
"You're wasting what little remains of you," she taunts. "And for what? To stop a plan that's already in motion? To stop her?"
"Then I'll end us both!" I cry, the desperation boiling over. "I'll destroy myself, destroy us, and stop this madness!"
Her laughter stops, and for a moment, silence reigns.
Then she smiles, her expression cold and mocking. "Do it," she says, her tone dripping with disdain. "But know this: Aurora's plan is a failsafe. If you end us now, every soul in this basilica will die. Their deaths, guaranteed. As it stands, they still have a chance. A slim one, perhaps, but a fighting chance so long as the shield holds. Are you truly willing to be the one that takes that chance from them, saint?"
I falter, her words cutting deeper than any blade. She steps closer, her voice softening to a whisper. "Go ahead, Jessamine. Kill us. Or..." She leans in, her rotten breath a cold breeze against my ear. "Have faith. Perhaps the Emperor will intervene. Perhaps good will prevail."
Her mockery sears into me, and I find myself trembling. My mind races, torn between the unthinkable choices before me.
For the first time in centuries, I pray—not for myself, but for them. For Aurora. For Riley. For all who stand beneath the shadow of my failures.
"Emperor," I whisper, my voice breaking as I turn my gaze to the skies, beyond, through the stars and to the light of the golden throne in the distance. "Please. Let there be another way."
The silence that follows is deafening.