Funerary bells resounded through the nave of St. Semina, and rows of black-robed sisters bowed their heads beneath white veils. Four of their number bore a shrouded bier upon their shoulders, and Sister Clementine alone raised her head to watch them pass. The faces of the pallbearers were set as stone, yet they laid their burden on the pyre with tender reverence. Then came the Reverend Mother. A polished aquila gleamed upon her mantle, and beneath it, eyes like slivers of ice gazed upon the congregation as the bells fell still.
‘Rejoice, for the Emperor reclaims his faithful!’ Her voice carried over the nave as easily as the funeral bells.
‘Rejoice!’ the congregation echoed back.
‘Rejoice, that she stands before him!’ The Reverend Mother withdrew a gilded flamer from behind the altar, its casing engraved with scripture, and ignited the pilot flame at the tip of the barrel.
‘Rejoice!’
‘Rejoice, that she is purified!’ Promethium hissed from the barrel, catching the pilot flame, blossoming into a conflagration that engulfed the pyre.
‘Rejoice!’
Sister Clementine looked around her. Each face was upturned to the Reverend Mother, enraptured, reflective fire dancing in their eyes.
‘Rejoice!’
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘You will dry those tears, Sister Clementine,’ the Reverend Mother commanded. The pair stood alone in her chamber, where a fresco of St. Katherine loomed on the back wall, flames blazing from her eyes and heart.
‘She was only a child,’ Sister Clementine answered meekly, wiping her face.
‘We are each the Emperor’s children, and we should each rejoice when one of us returns to him.’
‘Why does he not help us then? So many are sick.’ The sister could not meet the mother’s icy gaze and so instead stared fixedly at the eyes of flame behind her.
‘If we suffer, then it is by his will. Pray for the strength to endure the burden he has set upon us, not for the mercy of a lighter burden.’
‘But–’
‘To doubt his will is to invite the archenemy. To doubt is to betray.’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
‘Go. Tend to your duties.’
Sister Clementine obeyed with great haste, not slowing until she reached the infirmary, a candlelit room that smelled of incense and infection. Rows of beds held pallid orphan girls, and black-robed sisters came and went, swinging censers, replacing linens, bringing water, praying. Sister Clementine moved to one of the girls’ beds and knelt beside her. The girl’s face was drained of colour and crisscrossed with dark purple veins. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled weakly.
‘Where is Lucia?’ the girl asked, glancing at the empty bed beside her.
Sister Clementine took a deep breath. ‘She has gone to the Emperor.’
‘When can I see her?’
The sister’s brow knit as she dipped a rag into a bowl of cool water and wrung it out. ‘Not until you stand before the Emperor, Flora.’
‘Can I go soon?’
‘No!’ The sister’s voice broke above the pious murmurations of the chamber, and she glanced about quickly. ‘Not yet.’ She placed the rag over the girl’s forehead, feeling it quickly soak with feverish heat.
‘But when?’
‘Not until you’re as old as the Reverend Mother.’
‘But that will take a hundred years!’
A weary laugh wrenched its way from Sister Clementine, and beneath the rag, Flora’s mouth spread into a grin.
The next day, Flora was dead. Sister Clementine sat at her funeral, sleepless, soundless. She watched the fire claim the small figure beneath its shroud. For a long time after, she lingered in the transept, kneeling before an elaborate stained glass window depicting the Emperor, her hands clasped in prayer. Even as night fell, she remained alone. Yet though she knew many litanies to pray for strength, she could not bring herself to recite them. Instead, she uttered only four words.
‘Please, father… have mercy.’
The candles guttered, and the sister’s breath came out as fog. Then the hair on the back of her neck stood as she felt eyes upon her. She turned to see little Flora standing beneath an archway, pale as death and threaded with blackened veins.
‘Unclean thing!’ Sister Clementine shouted, stumbling upright and clasping the aquila pendant at her neck. Flora flinched beneath the shout. Her bottom lip began to quiver. In an instant, Sister Clementine rushed to her and embraced the girl, who wept gently against her. ‘Shh, shh, shh, hush now. It’s alright. It’s alright now.’ The girl’s tears began to quiet. The sister then knelt before Flora, clasping her shoulders and looking into her filmy eyes. ‘But how has this come to pass?’
‘The father heard your pleas for mercy. He sent me back to you.’
‘I knew he would not forsake us. We must inform the Reverend Mother,’ the sister said, standing and taking Flora by the hand.
‘Wait,’ Flora tugged back. ‘I’m so thirsty. May I have a drink of water first?’
The sister nodded, leading the girl by the hand until they reached the well in the courtyard, but as she took hold of the rope and began to draw up the bucket, Flora clambered atop the well’s edge.
‘Wait!’ Sister Clementine shouted, dropping the rope and reaching for the girl as she pitched forward, into the well. The sister cried out and leapt after her, plummeting into dark waters. Small hands clutched her robes—Flora’s, Lucia’s, and countless others claimed by the sickness—pulling her down. In the gloom, Sister Clementine could just barely make out their smiles.
The cathedral of St. Semina stood in silence, and a mass of black-robed corpses slumped together beneath bloodstained veils. All of their number bore weeping lesions, and from these open wounds dispersed clouds of swirling spores. They rose on drafts of fetid air, lifted toward the heavens like a hundred thousand prayers.
And when the bell cried out its tolls were seven, and they scattered the spores afar, to light upon the many waters of the world as gentle rain and mercy yet to come.
About the Author
Jack Lindsey is a narrative designer and avid fan of Warhammer lore. If you enjoy his writing, he posts more of it, along with book reviews, on his LinkedIn:
