Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of a battle with the forces of Chaos on a far flung Imperial world, in the ruins of a temple to his father, Guilliman thanks an unexpected ally…

Kneeling down, the Lord Commander brings his unhelmed face in line with a young girl's. She stands precariously on a shattered plinth, smoking lasgun in hand.

     “Thank you for your help. What you did was very brave,” he says, the girl enraptured, “but could you put the gun down, please?”

Looking at the lasgun she absently holds at the Primarch's neck, she leans it against the remaining leg of the statue, then shrugs in meek apology. 

     “Thank you.”

     “You’re welcome?”

The girl is unsure how to apply her learned tables manners to this unexpected situation. She casts her eyes down for a moment, unable to meet Guilliman’s piercing gaze, but something is bubbling up in her, and she continues,

     "I... I did it for you. I want to be like you, when I grow up.”

Guilliman chuckles,

     “I’m afraid he doesn’t make people like me anymore.”

     “Gods?” 

     “I’m afraid so.”

     “You don’t seem like a god.”

Replacing the genuine surprise that flicks across his face with a wry smile, he leans in to whisper,

     “You’re right, child. I’m not. But you can’t tell anyone.”

     “Ok. You just seem like a very big nice guy. That’s what I mean. I want to be big and kind like you. To save the galaxy. I want to...” she trailed off.

     “Be a space marine?”

The girl beams,

     “Yes!”

     “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but—“

     “—let me guess! Girls can’t be space marines either!?”

It has been almost a century since a mortal had dared to cut off Guilliman mid-sentence, but he nods in affirmation.

     “Why not?”

For the second time today, and this century, Guilliman lets his guard slip, shock appearing on his face. He thinks a moment before responding.

     “I don’t rightly know, child. I will ask my apothecaries this question, and get back to you. But you will need a new name for me to find you under. Do you have one in mind?”

     “Why do I need a new name?”

Guilliman turns his gaze back to the monstrosity they have earlier slain, and her gaze follows.

     “That creature. It is not… from around here. The penalty for a mortal to lay eyes upon it is usually death,” the girl began to protest, but the Primarch raised his gauntleted hand, and she held her words.

     “I know your objections, child. And they are mine as well, but even my power in this empire has its limits. There is much about our empire you do not know. But you will learn. Under your new name, Iocaste, my lieutenant here will secret you out from this world, and you will join the Schola Progenium. Do you know what that is?”

     “Yes,” she says meekly, the darkness of the situation fully dawning on her

Iocaste, who had until this point has been standing awkwardly nearby, wondering what on Terra his lord is doing, now comes forward to the girl.

     “So what’s your name going to be, girl?” he says, as nicely as a veteran of the Tyranic wars can say anything nicely.

     “I like your name. Iocaste.”

Iocaste, an Ultramarine of nearly a millennia, looks helplessly at Guilliman.

     “You can’t have his name.”

     “What about just Io then?” she responds hopefully.

Guilliman and Iocaste exchanges looks, and the lieutenant relents.

     “That will suffice,” Guilliman says, “The rest we will work out later. Now we must move on. Iocaste, are you familiar with the concept of a pickaback ride?”

Chapter Text

FIVE YEARS LATER

     “He never did get back to me about the female space marines question,” Io says, finishing the story of her only real memory.

The winter sun sets on Provost, but the slab metal of the schola’s roof will stay warm for sometime, and in the lee of the buttressed towers she's safe from the wind, and prying eyes.

     “I guess even the Correction Throne can’t wipe away a God.”

Io left out the part where Guilliman told her he wasn’t a god. She trusts Kallen, enough to bring him here, and confide in him her only real memory, but not enough to share in an act of heresy. Unless you count ditching prayer, which the abbots most certainly do. Or laying eyes on that monster. But she’s been unable to find references to it in any of the texts in the library. No mention of monsters from beyond, who can’t be seen save on penalty of death. Must be some kind of alien, but soldiers fight aliens all the time, and aren’t executed for it. A mystery yet to be unraveled.

Anyway, this is her favorite spot, looking westward over forested hills, dotted with the villages and hamlets of the natives. There is a light coating of snow still on the ground, and plumes of smoke curling from the little chimneys. She can see people, little specs really, moving in the nearest village, sometimes horse carriages come and go, occasionally an auto or walker. It looks quiet, even peaceful. Unlike the academy in every way.

     “I don’t really have any memories,” Kallen starts, “just… nightmares and blurry faces. Sometimes the smell of burning parchment? But I don’t know who I was.”

     "Maybe you were a book selling street urchin?” Io adds helpfully.

     “Frak off!”

     “You never know!”

She turns to look at him. She’s snuck him up here to get some time alone, away from the barracks. It's as secluded as can be, and safe, so long as you don’t slide off. He is a year younger than her, with reddish hair and piercing green eyes. He looks soulful.

     “Hey,” she comforts, “I can’t remember my parents either. Or who I was. I don’t even remember my old name. Just the big guy.”

     “Did you just call Robute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium, Returned Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion, the Avenging Son of the Emperor Himself, ‘the big guy’?”

     “Well...” Io hesitates, but Kallen is probably joking. Probably,

     “I mean he's really quite big. And we’re basically personal friends.”

     “Get stuffed!” he says, rolling away from her in nervous laughter.

He is new to taking the lords' names' in vain, and breaking rules in general. It took her a week just to get him up here, and she isn’t going to let him go so easily. Grabbing him by his great coat, she pulls his bundled up form against hers, to his unenthusiastic protestations. He moves easily on the smooth metal of the roof, and soon she has her mittened hands wrapped around him, and, pressing her fur hood to his, forms a little enclosure for their faces. She can just make out his eyes in the darkness.

     “I’m sorry you can’t remember,” she starts.

     “It’s ok.”

     “It doesn’t have to be.”

Even through their layers, she feels his heart race, muscles twitching in anxious tension. This pain is always in him. A deep, abiding sadness, clenching around his soul. She sees it there during moments of quiet, held back only by fierce determination. That’s why she’s brought him here. He's still holding onto something, like her. Something worth keeping. She doesn’t know why Guilliman sent her here, if he even knows what this place is really like. But she knows she has to get through with some semblance of herself still intact, if she wants to be of help to anyone afterward except the ecclesiarch.

     “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Io, but there isn’t a lot of room in the schola for weakness. The Emperor doesn’t want weak soldiers.”

     “But I do,” she says, adrenaline rushing through her system. The trap laid, now she springs it, grabbing him by the coattails, pressing her lips to his. But she feels him freeze up, lips close, and she pulls back, opens her eyes. His are unreadable windows. That hasn’t worked as well as she’s hoped…

     “I’m sorry. Too soon?” she tries.

Her anxiety peaking, she almost tells him everything. How she was first caught off guard by his eyes, how she sees the sadness in them. How she is torn up inside as they train together. How she goes over the moons each time he smiles. How she looks out for him, watches over him, and led him up here for the duel purposes of confessing her life story and kissing his pained, sad, adorable face. Because she’ll do anything to see him smile more. And he does, big and wide, and suddenly she knows everything was alright.

     “No. I was just... surprised.”

She pulls herself back into him.

     “Sorry.”

     “It’s ok. I’ve just never, you know...”

     “Kissed a girl before?”

     “Hey, there aren’t a lot of snogging opportunities at the schola.”

     “There are if you try hard enough! But don’t worry, I’ve never kissed a girl either.”

     “Ha!” he leans into her, “would you? Kiss a girl?”

     “Of course I would, Kallen. Have you seen the Sororitas training in the yard?” I’d let them do whatever they wanted to me, frankly.”

Feeling him squirm, she corrects,

     “But don’t worry, ok? Right now it’s just us.”

And she kisses him again, slower this time. It's better, longer, and after a time she feels him start to cry, and holds him and tells him everything is going to be ok. But she knows, in her heart, that it won’t be.

Chapter Text

The scions, tired from a morning of Major Sverdalov’s lessons, halt on the western colonnade to watch a contingent of sisters train in the yard. It’s a pitched battle, two phalanxes pressing together. The crack of wooden weapons on flesh makes Io wince. Many of the girls lay in the mud, bloody and unattended. 

     “Heartless efficiency, I guess,” Kallen mutters. Io is unsure. 

     “How do you think they’d fair against the Major?” 

Major Sverdalov is a frost-bitten bum of a man, retired out of the Valhallan 137th after sixty years service. He still wears his combat uniform, pistol and chainsword, and gives lessons from a squat so low it only seems possible on his augmetic legs. He enjoys devising outlandish gauntlets for his students. Her squad, squad Anake, has run the courses with a tree trunk on their shoulders, with their feet tied to a single pair of skis, and with their hands chained together. He grades each squad—success or failure—as a unit. No distinctions between members. 

     “Because they don’t look out for eachother?” Kallen asks. 

     “Exactly.” 

She watches as the nearest girl takes a spear straight to the sternum. She stumbles sidelong out of line, totters, then collapses face down in the mud. Io takes an involuntary step toward her. 

     “Bad idea,” Kallen cautions, hand on her shoulder. 

     “I don’t think she’s breathing,” Io says. 

Kallen looks, 

     “It will cause a scene.” 

     “Exactly,” Io says again, “on me.” 

And with that she leaps over the banister towards the downed girl. Kallen—the squad’s medic—follows close. These sisters, novitiates of the Order of the Broken Blade, are pitiless, even to their own kin. Especially to their own kin. They don’t train medics, instead having them seconded from an Order Hospitaller. They’ll crawl over the bodies of their siblings to be next in line for martyrdom. She slides down next to the girl. She is tall, pale skinned, her white hair caked in mud and blood. The purpling lump on her chest pokes out from her tank top. To their right the battle goes. She pulls the girl onto her side, wipes clean her mouth and put her fingers on the girls neck. 

     “No breathing, no pulse. Starting compressions. Get the revivifier ready.” 

She puts her hands right next to the wound, feeling broken ribs. 

     “This is going to hurt,” she mutters, and begins. 

The dull cracks of her compressions mix with the sounds of the melee and Io struggles to keep count. 

     “Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.” 

Kallen attaches the revivification pads as Io moves to the girl’s head. Carefully, she opens the her mouth, tilts her head back, and breaths into her. Io tastes her blood. Another breath. 

     “Ready. Clear,” Kallen says. 

Io pulls back. The revivifer makes a series of distressing beeps. Too meager a machine spirit to speak words. But Kallen understands it. Io dares a glance at the fighting. The dead girl’s line has collapsed. They fight in twos and threes, enduring hit after hit until they fall. None surrender. 

     “Shocking, stay clear.” 

Kallen pulls the trigger and the girl’s body jolts, stiffens, goes slack again. For a moment she is still, then coughing, foaming blood and spittle. Io turns her on her side again, supporting her head with both hands. 

     “I feel a pulse. Breathing again,” she says, relieved. 

Kallen sits back in the mud. Io holds the girl as she vomits, still unconscious. Battle over, the novitiates begin the seemingly disdainful task of tending to their wounded. A few of the girls begin to make their way toward Io, still carrying their wooden weapons. Those that had fallen—some half their total number—hang their heads in shame, apologizing and moving their hands in prayers of forgiveness and unworthiness. Io doesn’t see anyone else in serious danger. Nothing worse than broken ribs. 

     “What are you two doing here?” one asks, sticking her bloody spear in Io’s face. 

She stands, brushes away the spear and put herself in front of Kallen and the recently alive-again girl. The sister who’d spoken pulls her spear back and leans against it, casually, letting the blood drip on her hands. She is covered in crimson spatters. None of it looks like hers. Her smirk is imperious, almost predatory as her eyes roam over Io. She looks hungry. No girl has ever looked at her like that before. Io has to pause a moment before mustering a response. 

     “Saving your sisters life,” she replies simply. 

The novitiates gaze leaves Io and passes over her sister, revivification pads still attached. 

     “Was she really on her way to the Emperor?” 

Her voice is so casual it makes Io’s blood boil. Her sister’s heart had stopped. 

     “If she really is so pathetic as to die from a wooden spear,” the novitiate continues, “she’s better off dead. The Emperor doesn’t need weak soldiers.” 

She lifts her spear to poke at the girl’s body, but Io kicks it out of the way. The sisters around her flinch in surprise, grip their weapons tighter. Io’s hand goes to the hilt of her very real chainsword. 

     “Don’t. Touch. Her.” 

Surprise, anger, hatred all flashed across the sister’s face before she replaces them with her same smirk. She leans back on her spear again,

     “You going to shred me, right here and now?” 

     “I have half the mind to,” Io starts, “leaving your sister to die like that. Our lives are the Emperor’s currency. Our blood is his blood. And you would throw it away so easily? You care so little about your sisters in arms? You—“ 

Io is interrupted from behind, a voice high and raw, 
 
     “I am above the pity of you… glorified trench filler!” 

The newly not-dead girl, already trying to stand up, waves away Kallen’s ministrations. Io steps away so she forms a triangle with the two sisters. The others watch as the wounded girl struggles to her feet, totters again, but holds. Her eyes dart back and forth between Io and her siblings. She is terrified, hackles raised. Wounded animal. Another misstep and she’ll be eaten alive. No room in her sisterhood for failure. 

     “I didn’t need your help,” she says, not more than a whisper. 

     “Yes, you did. You were dead.” 

Io left off ‘the least you could do is say thank you.’ She realizes too late just how intolerable of an insult pity is to an aspiring martyr. This can only go one way now. The girl looks back to her sisters. They stand, tribunal in stoney faced judgement. Some part of her really died then, and what remains hardens. She turns to Io. 

     “Liar,” she says, louder than before. 

     “It’s ok to need help,” Io tries. 

     “I didn’t need your help,” 

     “You would rather have died?” 

     “I would not have died. The Emperor protects,” she says. 

Io shrugs. 

     “Say it,” the girl says, low and aggressive.

     “What?” 

     “That I didn’t need your help. That the Emperor protects.” 

Io considers, 

     “No.” 

The girl looks at her desperately. Fear, then anger, then hatred. Without breaking eye contact, she undoes the hasp on her left glove and drops it at Io’s feet. The silence is palpable. Io crouches down, a hand on the glove. What does a duel prove? Not whether you’re is right or wrong, surely. But, win or lose, that you’re willing to suffer for your beliefs. She slips the glove on her left hand, picks up the girl’s sword, which was still laying in the mud, and stands. 

     “I accept.” 

The girl hobbles back wordlessly to her sisters, who look on with some approval. One hands her a sword. They begin fanning out into a half circle. Io returns to her company. Kallen is pale-faced as she hands him her wargear.

     “I’m not going to lose a fight with a girl that just died, Kallen.” 

     “Exactly what I’m worried about,” he says. 

He’s right. What comes after is the dangerous part. But before they can speak further, Volder, a taller boy, puts a reassuring hand on both their shoulders. 

     “Don’t worry Kal, she’ll sort the sister out.” 

He gave them both a reassuring shake before leaning in close to Io. 

     “Try not to get the whole company excommunicated, ok?” 

     “I’ll do my best.” 

He chuckles, 

     “Well. May the Emperor protect you.” 

She nods, then faces the company. Most of them looked excited. Volder gives her a thumbs up. 

     “Alright. Let’s go boys.” 

She turns and they follow, filling in the other side of the circle. 

     “Combatants?” a new voice calls. 

Another sister has stepped into the middle of the circle, beckoning the both of them. They go. The girl continues, 

     “I am Anita Lasker, and I will officiate this duel, to be be fought with wooden swords until submission, unconsciousness, or death. State your name and your stake.” 

     “Camilla Arkmatovna. I demand this girl admit I did not need her help, and that the Emperor protects.” 

     “Io Anake. I demand nothing,” 

Camilla scowls at her. 

     “Do you both accept these terms?” 

     “I do,” they respond. 

     “Then by the Emperor’s hand, may the just prevail and the unjust falter.” 

     “By the Emperor’s hand,” Camilla repeats, placing her sword over her purpling chest. Io copies. She’s fought in a couple duels with her scions, but they were never this formal. More ‘give me back my rations or I’ll shank you in the shower’ type affairs. 

     “Turn and back three paces.” 

Io faces her comrades. They are a mix of nervous excitement and pride. She locks eyes with Kallen, who gives her a reassuring nod, although he looks like he’d rather she never have done this. Three paces and Io turns back, settling into guard. Camilla does the same. 

     “Begin,” Anita says, bowing back into the crowd. 

Favoring her right leg, sword high, Camilla looks unsteady. Wounded, but still dangerous. Io drops her guard lower. The two girls close. Io works counter clockwise, trying to stay on her opponent’s bad side. But the sister doesn’t allow it, advances, sets upon Io with a flurry of overhead strikes, quick and erratic and Io backs off. The novitiate keeps up the onslaught, and Io continues retreating, back and to the left, drawing the fight in a spiral, avoiding the edge of the circle. She waits for Camilla to make a mistake. It doesn’t take long. Whether through boldness or exhaustion, the sister’s strikes become heavier, like a batswoman lining up the long stroke. 

As Camilla pulls back her guard for another strike, Io lunges, smashing her sword into the girl’s right hand. Finger bones crack and the sword drops. Io ducks low, whirling her sword around into the sister’s left knee. Another wet crack and the girl hits the ground. Io kicks her leg out, hooking the dropped sword on her heel and dragging it behind her. Then she stands over the sister, sword to neck. 

     “Yield.” 

For a while there is only their panting breaths. The girl’s head is in the mud again. Then she looks up at Io, face contorting, withholding tears. Shards of violent panic and desperation mix with hate. 

     “No.” 

Camilla begins struggling to her feet, crying out as she tries to put weight on her broken knee. Io withdraws and picks up the other sword. She is beginning to see the problem with her plan. 

     “Yield,” she says, “I’ve disarmed you. What’re you gonna do?” 

The sister puts her firsts forward, right hand a mess of broken fingers. Io looks to the officiator. 

     “She isn’t fit to continue!” 

     “Until submission, unconsciousness, or death,”  Anita repeats. 

     “You expect me to just beat her to death?” 

Anita doesn’t respond. Io looks to her scions. They mostly wear looks of concern, this having been less fun than they’d hoped. She looks back at Camilla. She shakes like a kicked dog. Point made. 

     “I forfeit,” Io says, dropping her swords, and herself to one knee. 

     “Camilla Arkmatovna, I was mistaken to think that you needed my help. The Emperor truly does protect. I am sorry.” 

She bows low, then stands up and turns without meeting Camilla’s gaze and walks away.

Chapter Text

Camilla Arkmatovna. Is she the right path? Io has tailed her these past weeks. Every moment of the novitiate’s day is prescribed. Her and her sisters pray, clean, train, eat, and sleep on a precise schedule, so as to maintain their spiritual purity. In exchange they are well fed and medicated. By contrast, the scions are frequently off-leash, but get only scraps. Most spend their time stealing, from the schola, the villagers, or most often each other. Years of work on her part led squad Anake and the rest of their dorm hall to an alliance: mutual protection, resource sharing, shift taking, more time to recuperate, or in her case, scheme. 

In the annex of the scriptural library is a nook, its entrance all but blocked by stacks of books, where Camilla goes to ‘study’. She is allotted a few hours in the evening at week’s end for this task, which she does alone. In the nook there is a single desk, chair, and lamp. Before Camilla arrives, Io secrets herself beneath the desk, then  lays in wait for her prey. For Camilla is a quick study, and soon after she arrives, gets on to other things. 

Io paces her breathing, listens as Camilla sets aside her tome, sighs, and produces an object which she places on the desk with a quiet, stoney thunk. From her past reconnoiter, Io knows it’s a statue of Saint Celestine. 

Then Io watches as Camilla’s left hand slides down along her own robes, lifts her layered hems, then rises up to the meeting of her pale, patchwork legs. Her thighs are a lattice of razor scars, obviously self-inflicted. Io suspected, but did not know until this moment the extent of Camilla's self-hatred. This is what they are really here for. Camilla whispers under her already-ragged breath, 

     “Emperor forgive me. Forgive my sin and heal my wicked hand.” 

And with that hand she pushes aside her drawers, presses her fingers where she is already wet. 

     “Forgive me… forgive me… forgive me…” 

She repeats, on and on until her breath catches and she can only moan. Her scent is intoxicating, but Io forces her own breathing to stay even. This is an outrageous plan. Why is she doing this? Inroads with the sororitas? Or did kissing air between Camilla’s bloody lips make her silly? Maybe she can’t resist broken things. Whatever the case, she’s here, between Camilla’s splayed legs as the girl works herself towards climax. Io can tell from the stifled sounds Camilla makes that her broken hand is covering her mouth. Important for what comes next. As the girl nears her peak, when her faculties are most overwhelmed, Io lunges forward, pushing her mouth into the girl’s sex. In the same motion she pins her legs open against the chair, arm to her waist, but still the girl bucks in surprise, bangs her already-bruised knee on the desk, yelps, scrapes the chair on the stone floor. 

     “Fuck!” Camilla says, too loudly, “who? how are…?” 

Unable to stand, she grabs Io by the hair, tries to pull her off, but Io stays between her legs, licks until the girl’s will falters and her hands stop pulling. 

     “Shut up,” Io says, taking a breath, “or we’ll get caught.” 
     “You?!! How did you?!.” 
     “Shut up,” Io whispers again. 

She doesn’t shut up, but nor does she resist as Io eats her out. 

     “I hate you… fuck you… how in?… the fuck, fuck, fuck…” 

However angry, her voice is just a whisper. The best sisters are rule followers by nature. And one needs to be quiet in the library. So whatever righteous emotions go through her head, Camilla doesn’t fight or flee as Io works her to rolling orgasms, holds her slick, shaking legs, kisses between her thighs until she edges off her seat, too light-headed to stay upright, and Io holds her on the cold floor, now damp with her own sex. 

Camilla’s jaw moves, but it takes a while for words to form, 

     “I’m going to… to kill you…”  
     “I know.” 

Now up close for the first time since they met, Io examines her face. She really is beautiful. While Io must keep her blonde hair buzzed, Camilla has a white bob, in the style of her order. Io can see the roots are black. As are her eyes, to Io’s blue. Her body is taught like a deer, tall and graceful, yet her pale skin is riven with scars. The backs of her hands, her wrists, the meat of her thighs. What must be years of violence at the hands of her sisters, mothers, and herself. 

     “Why did… why’d you do it?.. me?..” 
     “Why’d I do what?” 

Camilla manages an angry look through her post-coital haze. Io reaches her hand back up the girl’s skirt, she squirms but Io is on top, pinning her back down, holding the inside of her thigh. 

     “Use your words,” she prods.  

Camilla makes a humphing noise, trailing into a moan when Io inches her grip higher up her leg. 

     “I do not even… can’t… why are you doing this?.. to me?..” 
     “This?” Io asks, slipping two fingers back inside the girl. 
     “Ah!..” Camilla shutters, gathers herself, “yes… that.” 
     “‘Cause I like you?” 
     “Why do something so stupid… as that?” 

Confusion, shame darkens Camilla’s face. She tightens on Io’s fingers and Io pulls out, lets her twist free a little. 

     “Don’t choose who I fall for,” Io lies, “just happens. When I saw you come back to life in my arms.”  

Camilla looks away. 

     “You don’t have to apologize,” Io says. 
     “I was not going to.” 
     “Or thank me.” 
     “Did not intend to.” 
     “We’re on the same side.” 
     “I doubt that.” 
     “The Emperor’s side.” 

She humphs again. 

     “I met his son.” 

Camilla freezes. 

     “Before I came here,” Io continues, “he saved me. Saved my whole world, I’m sure of it. Can’t remember it all, of course. But they can’t wipe away a god.” 

Io climbs back on top of Camilla, to her unenthusiastic protestations, kissing her pouting face all over, nestles against her neck, 

     “I’ve been watching you. I know your sisters are cruel to you. I know the matron beats you after class. I know you hate yourself. But I don’t hate you, Camilla. I won’t do those things to you. I’m on your side.” 
     “Why?.. why me?” 
Camilla starts to cry. Io wraps her up in a hug, 
     “‘Cause I like you.” 
     “But why?” 
     “One day you’ll see. For know you have to trust me.” 
For a while neither of them speak, then Camilla manages, 
     “How… how can I trust you?” 
Io extracts herself from the girl’s neck, presses their noses together, locks eyes, 
     “Faith,” is all she says. 

Chapter Text

     “Again you whelps! Another fifty press-ups, for the Emperor!”

Drill Abbot Lot is as much fun as his name. Io pushes herself up again, a soft cry of exertion escaping her lips. Lot is in charge of the physical fitness of the young progena, and has taken a particular dislike to Io on account of her sex. She lets herself down again, then up. It is going to be a hard day. Normally, the male and female students were kept separate for physical and combat training, the boys taught by former Tempestus Scions, and the girls by Sisters of Battle, each training for where they'll most likely end up seeing combat. Her muscles start to cramp as she comes up again. She grits her teeth and continues, sensing Lot’s eyes on her. But her arms will soon betray her will. Io’s insistence on joining the Scions instead of the Sisters had created quite the bureaucratic scene, but her petition has been approved by someone high in the administratum, and Lot will just have to deal. She holds herself high, muscles trembling. Some victory this was. She doesn’t dare bend her elbows, lest she collapse. She hears Abbot Lot rise and approach her.

     “Had enough 5757?”

     “No father!” she shouts, but didn’t move her arms.

She doesn’t like it when he uses her number. It's humiliating. He does this every time. Picks her out of the crowd. She is hardly the weakest among her male peers, but some of them are just so big. No matter how hard she trains, there is only so much she can do when it comes to raw strength. She’s heard at other facilities girls can simply transition to being boys with the help of a genetor, but her petitions to the headmistress to find a magos capable of such a thing have, so far, been ignored.

     “Well?” Lot says imperiously.

His rancid breath on her neck. By the Emperor she will kill this man one day. She hears the grating sound of Lot’s maul scraping the ground. She doesn’t dare look up. Maybe he’ll kill her right now. At least she won’t have given up. But she isn’t so blessed as that. Lot passes his maul above her, then drops its immense weight on her shoulders.

     “Frak!” she cries, biting down the spine-crunching pain.

     “What was that, 5757?”

     “Nothing Father!”

The maul must weigh fifteen, and exhausted as she is, her elbows start to buckle. She presses every iota of her being towards resisting, to beating this stupid old man, but, as they magi like to say, the flesh is weak. Her elbows bowl out from under her and she collapses, yelping as the handle of the maul whacks the back of her head. Fighting back tears, she tries to retain some semblance of composure. Anything to deny him the satisfaction of victory.

Lot drags the maul over her body, giving her another painful crack in the head, then promptly moves on down the line as if nothing has happened. Clutching her side, her vision swims as she heaves in breaths, trying to get a handle on her rising anger. She hates him so much. A day doesn’t go by when she doesn’t fantasize about catching him alone on a live fire exercise, cranking her lasgun as hot as it goes, and roasting him alive. She glances across the yard to see him striding along, yelling at the group to keep going. Less than half have any strength left, most hokding themselves in a dog position, and Lot hardly pays them any mind.

But soon enough the call to prayer echoes on the vox, and Lot’s bullying is cut short by the sunset ritual. Elsewhere, it was customary to clean oneself before praying, but Io kneels on her training mat, sweat running down her back, dripping off her face. She goes through the motions, pacing through the psalms out loud. But lately her heart isn’t in it.

War brews in the Imperium. Everyone talks about it. Many take issue with Guilliman, the cardinals of the church most of all. Reforming the Legions nearly did it, as had the publication of numerous texts by the Historica Verita, some of which contained events contrary to scripture. There are rumors he is once again consorting with the Eldar, that he is even considering sanctioning them en masse, giving up whole worlds to their exodites and settlers. Io doesn’t know what the truth is, but she has more faith in Guilliman than the cardinals. But that was not a popular opinion in her sororitas dominated schola. Lot and the other abbots don’t even teach the Codex Astartes anymore, although Io had retrieved a primer copy from the incineration bay, and reads it often. Even if he isn’t here to protect her, Guilliman’s wisdom still guides her actions. She is still resisting the not-infrequent urge to pray to him, as per his insistence on not being a god, but she thinks about him often. Where he is, what he's doing. Guiltily, she wonders if he misses her. If he thinks about her at all. She hopes so. Most guiltily of all, she dreams he will rescue her one day from this place, and take her to the gleaming cities of Ultramar, and make her secretary of grain management or something.

Io rises from prayer, files out of the yard with her classmates. She tries not to notice their pitiful gazes. The boys had been hard on her at first, but once they’d all been issued combat knives, the playing field had been leveled and they'd mostly leave her alone. A couple years on, and she got along well with most of them. Although none had the courage to protect her from Lot’s abuse, lest they receive similar. Not even Kallen, who approaches her from behind, leaning on her shoulder.

     “Ouch,” 

     “Sorry,” he said, coming around to her less damaged side.

     “Ok. Not your fault.”

     “But I should have said something.”

Looking up at him, she sees pain in his eyes. Any annoyance with his inaction melts away. He starts again,

     “I should have done something. I should do something, I—“

Io cuts him off,

     “Hey. I’m alright. I’m used to it by now,” she lies, “If you say anything, he’ll hurt you too.”

That part is true, at least. She gingerly leans into Kallen,

     “I don’t want him to hurt you.”

She is pretty sure she’ll shoot Lot dead on the training ground if he lays a hand on her ward. Kallen’s expression turns hurt for a moment, then thoughtful, then he leaned in to whisper in her ear,

     “Meet me by the galley after dinner, I have something I want to show you.”

With that he smiles, prancing away, apparently very happy about whatever he has found.

Chapter Text

The standoff continues for months. 

Valerius and his marines train the remaining scions, and escort them about the schola, while the rest watch on in dismay. The sisters always leave the training yards when Io and her classmates enter, and no one talks to them in the halls. They aren’t welcome at prayer. With the help of Tacitus, they gather food from the pantries and prepare it themselves in their quarters. No one dares cross the astartes, but they do their best to make the lives of Io and her comrades a difficult as possible. The scions kept their weapons on them at all times now. 

Midmorning light shines across the training grounds and into the colonnade where Io walks with the astartes. It’s getting to be spring, but the tense pall of conflict makes it hard for her to appreciate the warm weather. They’d finished their morning training, and after seeing her scions off to the barracks, Io debriefs further with the astartes as they go to fetch more provisions. 

     “… and how does the Codex Astartes support your actions?” Valerius asks. 

This is always the first question of his post-battle debriefs. Another crushing defeat for Io, as usual. Even with their bolters loaded with baton rounds, it’s hard not to flee in terror when charged by a bellowing space marine. But they never hurt the trainees, rarely firing more than a dozen rounds each, and wielding their wooden swords with unexpected grace. They would put a round, or the point of their sword center of your chest, but neither were hard enough to hurt much more than your pride. But today Io had lead a successful retreat to their second line of defense, which they had held for several minutes, and she’d even tagged Tacitus as he rounded a corner. Her down-powered lasgun had left a black mark on the center of his helm, much to his consternation. His brothers had jibbed him for the misplay, and he’s walking at the back of the group, even quieter than usual. 

     “Well,” Io tries, “I lead an orderly retreat, kept it from becoming a rout. We withdrew once our forward positions become untenable, but held our back line till the last.”

Io looks out across the mock battlefield they’d built across the grounds. Huge palisades and bunkers constructed from dirt and chain-cut logs. It had taken several weeks to construct, even with the help of the marines. The abbots had watched on in horror from behind pillars as they went to work, reshaping the central courtyard to suit their needs. They had come to deconstruct it at night, but the marines needed little sleep, and one had always been there to ward off any interference. It made Io beam to think how angry this must’ve made the headmistress. If she was going to leave her scions out in the cold, they may as well make the best of it. Valerius continues, 

     “Very good. But you can’t always retreat, even against a superior foe. How does the Codex Astartes advise in such a situation?”

She had no idea. She wasn’t aware the astartes had superior foes. In his lectures, Valerius had talked at length about strategy against a numerically superior foe. But that wasn’t the case here. There were more than forty scions, against only three marines. Fifteen to one. Before she can confess her ignorance, vox-cast bell ringing echoes in from the courtyard and hallways. The call to prayer, but it was only midmorning? The Ultramarines stop in their tracks. 

     “What is this now?” Marcellus says, almost amused. 

Then headmistress Natalya’s voice booms over the speakers. 

     “I bear a message from our Ecclesiarch, blessed be the words.” 

This can’t be good. But what came next through the speakers was not Ecclesiarch Eos Ritira’s voice. Not a woman’s voice at all, but the booming voice of a very angry sounding man. 

     “Robute Guilliman, led by the Darkness of the Warp, having abandoned through apostasy the promises he had made to his Father, has not feared to ravage the Church of the Emperor, ransack Shrine worlds and violently oppress the poor of the Imperium. In my concern over this, I will have to render an account to the Master of Mankind, Our Lord the Emperor in accordance with the terrible warning the Lord Himself addresses to us with these words: Woe betide he who ignores my warning or breaks faith with me. He shall be my enemy, and I will visit such destruction upon him and all his followers that, until the end of all things, he shall rue the day he turned from my light." 

These aren’t the soft psalmic tones of Guilliman’s appointed reformer. She’s probably dead now, Io thinks. Her mind scrambles to put the pieces together. Guilliman crossed the line in the sand at Calth, and the Holy Synod must’ve moved to action. Voted in a new Ecclesiarch. 

     “Therefore, carrying out the precepts of the Emperor and of the Ecclesiarchy, let us take from the body of Mankind with the iron tongs of justice this putrid and incurable member who refuses to accept the Truth, so that the rest of the members of the body may not be poisoned by such a pestiferous disease.” 

Io is rooted in place, trying to wrap her head around the words. Idly, she notices the astartes pressing new magazines into their bolters. No more baton rounds. 

     “Wherefore by the judgment of the Father, Guardian and God of Humanity, and of all his servants and saints, and by virtue of the power which has been given us of binding and loosing in the galaxy that which was divinely entrusted to us, we deprive Guilliman with all his accomplices and all his abettors of the Communion of the Soul of our Lord upon the Throne; we separate him from the society of all Mankind; we exclude him from the bosom of our Imperium on Terra and every other world; we deliver him to the Warp for the perdition of his flesh, so that his soul may be saved on the day of Judgment. We declare Robute Guilliman Excommunicate Traitoris.” 

Excommunicate Traitoris. Somewhere in her brain, she knew this was coming from the first line. She knows the words of the writ of excommunication by heart, but somehow still needed to hear it in full. Excommunicate Traitoris. What did it mean? Civil war? The Imperium, divided by the great rift, dividing further still? A war in which everyone would be forced to choose sides. It really is the end times. 

She realizes then, in her heart, that she’s a traitor. It hadn’t even occurred to her to side with the Ecclesiarch, who, she figures, is legally within his scope of office to make such a proclamation. She hadn’t hesitated to take Guilliman’s side. The thought burns well in her heart. They are free now, to tear down the old and build something new. Something better for mankind. We deserve better than this cruel, dying empire. She deserves better. 

     “Look alive, little sister,” Valerius’s voice booms in her ear, shaking her from thought. 

The Ultramarines are already helmeted, bolters ready. She dons hers and looks to Valerius, his next words crackling in her vox bead, 

     “You must return to your brothers and sisters. Warn them and prepare to secure a defense line, but do not fire unless fired upon. We will draw them away until your lines are secured. Do you understand?” 

She nods. Although they’ve been training her to lead, she’s grateful for the direction. This is all coming at her fast. She flicks channels to her command squad, but the signal rune shows no connection. Blast these stone walls to flinders! 

     “I don’t have a connection?” she sputters. 

     “Go then. Speak to them where these walls no longer interfere.” 

Valerius’s tone is impatient, hard but even. He is pointing out the obvious. She tries to calm her fraying nerves. Stay together Io. This will be her first real test. She gives him a sidelong nod as she bolts back down the corridor towards her cadre. 

Chapter Text

The words echo in his mind. Excommunicate Traitoris. 
He is a traitor. His squad are traitors. Guilliman, his Primarch, is a traitor. Tens of thousand of legionaries are traitors, and ten thousand years of history are to be wiped away. A flicker of despair threatens Valerius, but he banishes it from his mind. His Primarch died and was reborn. Their legion was broken and was remade. They will survive this. They have to. 

     “I never liked the Ecclesiarchy much anyways,” Marcellus chuckles. 

     “We’ll set them right,” Tacitus says. 

     “Brothers,” Valerius says, turning to them. His two siblings flank him in a tight defensive posture, ready to fall into battle at the slightest hint of danger. 

They all know is was coming, so he continues, 
 
     “Do you have any reservations about what is about to happen? You may speak freely” 

They each think a moment. Tacitus gives a slight shake of his head. Marcellus looks a moment towards the empty field of battle, and past it, to the roofs and spires of the schola. His trigger finger twitches. 

     “None,” they say in unison. 

The clanking of sororitas power armor echoed faintly from across the yard, at the edge of his preternatural hearing. Valerius switches off his vox-grill and speaks directly into his brothers’ ears. 

     “Then let us go and show these zealots the power of reason. Take up ambush positions on the battlefield. We will rout them as they advance, as we did earlier today.” 

     “For the Chapter,” his brothers whisper into the net. 

     “For the Legion,” he says, finishing the old warcry. 

Some years have passed since his last real battle. Training these wayward scions is important, but a sergeant of a battle company is built for a different sort of work. Valerius tempers his expectations. Aside from a few sister superiors and the old canoness, the sororitas here are nothing but greenhorn girls, and will make an easy fight. He almost feels sorry for them. As he slides into silent position in the lee of a mock bunker, Valerius makes a mental note to offer terms for surrender after this initial thrashing. 

His squad falls into their positions on the battleground, runes blinking blue, indicating readiness. They lay in wait, still as rocks, their power-cores spinning down to an imperceptible thrum beneath the racket of the sisters. 

     “They should be here! Fan out and find them!” comes a voice. 

The commanding officer is probably no older than twenty. Boots march to Valerius’ left and right, but the main contingent press straight towards him. He estimates there are probably fifty sisters, divided into five squads of ten. One left, one right, three  center. Easy enough. The first sister doesn’t even notice him, her gaze fixed on the shadowed pillars across the yard. The second checks her corners properly, but only stands in horror as her gaze creeps up his battle plate. 

     “Sorry about this,” he says, vox-grill still silent. 

He places his first shot into the terrified sister’s head, which characteristically explodes. As his armor roars back to life, he kicks the lead sister, severing her spine from her pelvis. That move takes him out of cover, staring down three squads in a tight diamond. He puts his entire magazine into the inadvisably dense formation. Return fire comes scattered and inaccurate, but as the tougher among them dive for cover, Valerius steps out of the line of fire. 

Swinging back behind the wooden bunker, he puts his shoulder through it. The roof caving in, he charges the far wall, driving the whole structure down on the sisters taking cover behind. 

Now at close range, he sets into the young warriors until they flee. 

     “Seven dead by my hand,” Marcellus voxes, going from the left flank
     “Ten mine,” Tacitus says, appearing to his right. 
They watch as one of the fleeing sisters drops to one knee behind a pillar, turns to lay down fire, but explodes before she can raise her bolter. 
     “Eleven mine,” Tacitus adds. 
     “I do not know if that was necessary,” Valerius says, then, “Seventeen mine.” 
     “Inferior ratio,” Tacitus says, “your seventeen of thirty to my eleven of ten.” 
     “I do not know if that was necessary,” Valerius repeats. 

Chapter Text

Io swings the corner. Too fast on her feet, too slow to spot the lone sister striding towards her. Io starts to raise her pistol, but it’s Camilla, stopping in the middle of the hall. 

     “Camilla! What in John’s name is going on?” Io calls. 

But she hears the sickening click of a safety being disengaged, and Camilla, an unreadable expression on her face, raises her own pistol to fire. 

     “Fuck fuck fuck,”  Io curses out loud, dropping her minced oaths as she hurls herself back around the corner. 

A bolt detonates on the far wall as she slides into safety. The sound and intent echo in her head. Camilla intends to kill her. The thought is painful in her throat. So many emotions rise in her, but she pushes them down. Cry later, act now. 

Camilla has a bolt pistol and a power sword. Io, eye trained on the corner, switches her pistol to her off hand, keeping it leveled at chest height. She draws her cutlass then, and flicks off the safety. She doesn’t fancy her chances in a duel with a power sword, but hopefully her chainblade can block an incoming swing before melting. Now she has to plan. 

It doesn’t matter why Camilla seems un-remorseful. Why she doesn’t even seem to recognize Io as a person. Why Io had ever thought she could trust a sister. Why she’d let herself get close with one. She pushes down the bile in her throat. Focus. Pistol forward, sword arm out behind her, she feels for a statue she knows she passed earlier. Take cover and wait for Camilla to come around the corner. That’s the plan. And Camilla will come. She’s a zealot, after all. 

It occurs to Io that her plan will work better if she goads Camilla forward. Io’s mouth opens, but she can’t think of anything to say. Are you really going to kill me? Does our friendship mean nothing to you? Do you hate me? Nothing suitable comes to mind. Luckily, Camilla speaks first.

     “Repent Io. Give yourself up to me and they will make you a flagellant. The Head Mistress gave me her word.” 

The roil of emotions in Io turns sickly and caustic. To become an arco-flagellant is a fate worse than death. For her at least. To a sister like Camilla, one last chance to serve the Emperor is worth becoming a berserking, mindless flesh-machine. Perhaps she isn’t so different from the lobotomized monsters already. Io feels the opening for the statue’s niche, and slips behind it. 

     “I’m not going to do that, Camilla.” 

 “Death, then?” she says, as if offering a different kind of sandwich. Tact be damned. Io has to know. 

     “Are you really going to kill me?” she asks, letting the pain break into her voice. 

     “If you don’t surrender yourself.” 

     “We’re friends, Camilla. Do you remember? I… like you. A lot, actually. Don’t you feel the same way? Can we talk about this?” 

Logically, she doesn’t expect ethos to work on Camilla. But it’s a better shot than logos or pathos, and she has to try. To know for sure there’s no other way out. 

Io hears the tromping of Camilla’s power-armored boots as she  nears the corner. Io crouches down, laspistol braced against her sword arm. Camilla, ever the zealous warrior, isn’t wearing a helmet. One good shot and it’ll be over. But Camilla stops on the other side of the wall, then speaks, almost a whisper,

     “We can still be together.” 

     “You don’t want to servitorize me?” Io asks hopefully. 

Camilla chuckles softly from behind the wall. 

     “Oh no silly. I mean we can be together after.” 

Io’s heart sinks. 

     “You could be my flagellant. I would take care of you. Ministrate to your every need. And you would be mine.”

Io’s eyes burn with tears. She’s gone then. No sweet talking her way out of this one. 

     “I’m sorry,” Io says. 

With a thud of metal boots, Camilla clears the corner, firing a bolt over Io’s crouched form. Io fires back, missing her head, but lasing her left vambrace to molten slag. Camilla screams as the bolt pistol slips her dead fingers. But she wastes no time, igniting her power sword, her scream turning to a war cry as she charges forward. Io stands to fire again, but her second shot goes wide, and there isn’t time for a third. She ducks back into the niche as Camilla’s power sword smashes the wall where she’s just been standing. The wall cracks, sending splinters into her visor sensorium. 

She scrambles back on her pistol arm to avoid Camilla’s next blow, pushing herself up behind the statue. Io draws in a raking breath, trying to keep cool. She, at least, is finding it hard to commit sororicide. She turns to put the statue between her and Camilla. The sister’s vacant eyes are visible between the legs of whatever dead saint is being represented here. A moment of silence passes between them. Io slowly, quietly, brings her pistol up to the gap. 

     “Please stop,” Io pleads again. 

Camilla doesn’t respond. So be it. As fast as she can, Io whips her pistol up and puts a shot straight through the gap in the legs. Camilla responds with a sweeping blow, slicing the legs off the statue. The coruscating energy of the blade deflects the laser in a burst of light, blasting Io and shorting her visor sensorium. She stumbles back, then something crashes into her like a grox. She crunches into the ground, the weight of the statue buckling her cuirass. Ribs break as the wind presses from her lungs. She spits blood into the dark of her helmet.

     “Fuck.” 

She spits again, head whirring. Her left arm is pinned at a painful angle, useless. She tries to kick, but her legs flail at nothing. Her right arm seems to work, though she’s let go of her sword in the fall. She lifts her hand to her helmet,  tearing the sensorium from her visor. It comes off with a pop, and light spills back into her vision. She’s on the floor, the tonsured head of the statue jutting up on an angle from her chest, as if looking up from a comfortable cuddle. His arms and what remains of his torso lay sidelong over her body, trapping and slowly crushing her into the floor. Camilla, one arm hanging burnt at her side, is walking over to her, leisure like. Io tries to rise again, but her broken ribs tear strongly in disagreement. 

Spying her sword in the corner of her vision, Io grabs for it, but Camilla lunges forward, stomping on her outstretched hand. She screams in pain, shards of her shattered gauntlet slicing into her skin. Camilla’s beautiful, remorseless eyes look down at her, and she realizes she’s going to die. The metal jackboot presses harder, blurring her vision with tears.  

     “Please,” she pleads again, half garbled as blood clogs her throat. 

Camilla removes her foot from Io’s hand, nudges her chainblade just out of reach. Then she walks away for a moment, flicking off the power on her sword and laying it against the statue’s plinth. Back turned to Io, she whispers something to the sky, composing herself. A prayer. Maybe she’s feeling some ounce of pain over this. But not enough to stay her hand. She returns to Io, peering down at her with the look one gives before putting down a lame animal. Kneeling down, she pins Io’s free arm under her knee, brings her hand to Io’s face, wipes away the blood from her mouth. Her eyes are no less terrifying for the caring gesture. 

     “Oh Io. My Io. Why did you do this to yourself?” 

She would laugh if she isn’t so sure she’s going to die. She tries to say something, about the future of mankind, about Guilliman, but all that comes out is a gurgle of spit and blood. Camilla wipes it away with the back of her cold gauntlet. She rests it on the fractured gorget of Io’s armor, drawing a cry from her as her fractures grind under the weight. 

     “Oh, sorry,” Camilla says, withdrawing her hand with mock sympathy. 

Io draws in a painful breath,  looks on at Camilla helplessly. The sister nods, stands, then turns away. 

     “I feel sorry for you Io. You would have made a great flagellant.” 

Then she walks back towards her sword. No no no. Io struggles to get free. She reaches out for her sword, still just out of reach. She kicks as hard as she can, managing to get Camilla in the back of her calf as she walks by. Stumbling for a moment, surprised by the blow, Camilla turns back to give Io a disappointed glance. 

Time stretches as Io’s mind races. She has to do something. Bits of a plan piece together in her brain. One last idea. She lets her muscles relax, head droop, eyes close to slits. Her lungs scream in pain, but she doesn’t breathe. Camilla grabs her sword and turns back to Io’s seemingly lifeless form. Her next curious step forward is enough to take advantage of. Io kicks sideways at her ankle with all her strength, letting out a guttural yell as she does. Her boot lands well, cracking hard against Camilla. Her next kick is a hooked heel blow to the knee, breaking her balance and sending her spilling forward. As she predicts, Camilla brings her one good arm out in front to catch the fall, dropping her sword in the process. Io reaches for it, straining against the immense weight on her chest. Her fingers just grasp the hilt as Camilla catches herself in a crouch beside Io. But she’s too late. Io flicks the power sword back to life, and drawing it back, drives it home into Camilla’s stomach. 

The blade trembles in her hand as it digs into the ceramite of Camilla’s armor. With a pop it penetrates, steaming blood gushing onto the stone floor. Io pushes deeper, not stopping until she feels the blade punch through the backplate. Then she switches it off, and, using her free leg, kicks Camilla away onto the floor, extracting the blade with a sickening burp. 

Well, she thinks, I didn’t think that would work. She holds tight to her battle plan. Stray from it now and panic will overtake her. Everything hurts so much, and in the same moment, barely at all. She’s going into shock. Her mind  fills with the vision of Camilla’s ruptured stomach. The girl’s blood mixing with her own. She’s soaked in it. Concentrate. She lifts her sword arm, reignites the power blade. Blood boils from its surface. Ever so carefully, she taps it against the statue on her chest. A rumbling wave of energy sunders the stone, driving flinders into her shattered chest plate. She screams, then does it again. This is an awful plan. It isn’t as painful the second time, the power dissipating into her mostly intact leg armor. The statue broken, she powers down the blade and sets it aside, then uses both her arms to roll the broken head and neck off her body. Next comes the trunk, in two parts, and she’s free. A slightly-less-painful breath later and she struggles to her knees. 

Her vision blacks out for a moment as she comes upright. Steady. Next Step. She looks at Camilla. The girl is curled in the fetal position, whispering madly and trying to push a pool of blood back into her blackened wound. Io killed her. The blood is arterial crimson, gushing, and Camilla’s skin the pallor of death. The next step is to finish Camilla off and escape. But her resolve dies as she looks at her pitiful friend. Io did this. She sits back down, crawls over to be at Camilla’s side. The girl looks at her desperately, all sense of zealous rage drained away 

     “Please, Io. I don’t…” she cries, “I don’t want to die.” 

Io lays a hand on the girls chest, takes her good hand in her own, but doesn’t say anything. Camilla’s hand tightens in Io’s. 

     “Io. I love you. Please. I’m sorry. I don’t…” 

Her voice trails off. Io stares at the blank wall across the hall. Camilla’s grip slackens. The gush of blood turns to a dribble. Io stands up. She collects the girl’s power sword, bolt pistol, ammunition, and leaves without looking back. 

Chapter Text

Giving a last nod of confidence to the gunners in their nest, and to Tacitus, Io withdraws to the vestry to assess what they’ve captured. She’s confident  the Ultramarine will anchor their line, and that it was, for the moment, secure. She works her way past a squad of slain sisters, the stench already clouding the enclosed space. They’ll need to do something about that. She passes fallen allies, faces hidden under their helmets. The corpses have all been picked clean of supplies, but she’ll still need to assemble a team to gather, identify, and dispose of the bodies. They’ll bury their fallen in the yard, and retain the bodies of the sisters for bargaining power. She reckons the Head Mistress might give up something useful to see the bodies of her fallen daughters return in tact. The thought of threatening the bodies with desecration crosses her mind, but she quickly dismisses it. As Valerius has pointed out, many of the young Sisters are conflicted by this fight, and to warriors of zeal like them, that’s a profound weakness. If she desecrates their fallen, their reservations would disappear. Better to retain the moral high ground, and continue to break down these green soldiers. She chuckles at the last thought. She’s hardly anything but green herself. But the Ultramarine’s training has her thinking like a tactician. 

These thoughts of warcraft consume her as she enters the vestry, and it takes her a moment to realize what she’s looking at. Marcellus sits in the center of a circle of her classmates, helmet off, spray-brush in hand, slowly painting a golden Aquila onto a plate of blue carapace armor. Ultramarine blue. Her classmates carefully follow suit on their own armor. Was this really the time to have a painting circle? Then she notices the white Ultimas on her scion’s pauldrons. 

     “Great, isn’t it?” 

She looks up to see Kallen, his once-black armor resplendent in blue, with white accents and the golden Aquila on his breast plate. He holds a red helmet at his hip, indicating his status as a sergeant. Her gaze follows upwards to his smiling face. She smiles too, embracing him. She leans into him, letting him take a bit of weight off her tired feet. 

     “It was my idea. Valerius gave us permission,” Kallen says. 

     “It’s… wonderful. You know I always wanted to—”

     “—Yeah. And now you can, at least in a way. C’mon, let’s get you painted up.” 

Later that night she retreats to a broom closet to sleep, and is soon joined by Kallen. She hears him carefully remove his armor, set the pieces on a shelf above her head. Then his weapons, then he strips off his outwear and lowers himself into the makeshift bed she’s made out of bolts of fabric, probably intended for surplices, but he lay apart from her. After a while she turns over to him, 
 
     “Gonna sleep all night over there?”  

     “Oh. You’re awake. Want me to go?” 

     “No! C’mere, dumbass.” 

She reaches out for him in the dark, and grabbing hold, half drags, half rolls him into her arms.  Pulling her blanket over him, he nestles down on her side, pressing his cold body into hers. 

     “You smell awful,” he mutters, half turning his head back to her. 

She plants a big kiss right on his cheek, making sure to rub her sweaty face into his. 

     “Thanks for that…” 

     “Welcome.” 

Nuzzling into his red mess of hair, she plants more kisses on the nape of his neck. He’s salty with sweat and hardly in a position to complain. But she’s exhausted, and soon gives up the teasing, letting herself relax against his now-warm body. 

     “This is nice,” she whispers after a while, but he’s already asleep.