Part I - The Divine Comedy
The pre-dawn light filtered through the ornate Gothic arches of Aurelia's chambers, casting long, elegant shadows across the polished floor. Sister Marcella Viritas, a heart of unyielding faith within the Order of the Holy Hestias of the Divine Princess Light, gazed into the burnished reflection of her polished helmet. Her spirit was a bastion of fervour; she had fought, bled, and executed heretics without a flicker of doubt. Like all her sisters, her belief had endured even when the galaxy itself bled fire, when the Noctis Aeterna shrouded humanity in an endless night, and all hope seemed but a dying ember. In those desperate, harrowing days of daemonic incursions and crumbling worlds, Marcella had held fast, praying ceaselessly, her unwavering faith a bulwark against the creeping darkness.
It had too, Marcella saw doubt and fear in every corner, even she herself doubted.
Then, a light had appeared. Primarch Roboute Guilliman, awakened from his stasis, his wounds healed, had returned to Terra, charting a crusade to restore order. The Hestias, hardened warriors of faith, allowed themselves a moment's breath, a long, quiet exhalation, a respite they would never openly admit. If the Avenging Son was the Emperor's answer to their prayers, so be it. The Hestias would follow without question the Emperor's choice for his champion. Yet, when the whispered truth reached them—that the Princess, their divine, beloved sovereign, had also awakened, that she had not only returned but had patiently rewoven the shattered will of the Emperor, binding his fractured mind, soul, and spirit back to coherence—it was a revelation that transcended all understanding.
It was the true answer to their prayers. The Noctis Aeterna, a horrifying crucible, became, in their minds, a testament to their unshakeable faith. All Adepta Sororitas across the Imperium had felt the resurgence of the Emperor's will. His powerful divinity thrummed through the vox-net, a holy writ that brought many to their knees in tears. But for Marcella and the Hestia Order, it was more: their Princess had awakened, and she needed them. The Princess-Regent, the only true heir of the Emperor of Mankind, the Scion of Terra, needed her Hestias. It was not a request, but a sacred imperative. Their Order, founded on the belief of unwavering service, has now found its ultimate purpose manifested. Each had trained since childhood, ready to perform even the most menial task with a prayer on their tongue.
Thus, it came as no surprise when the entire Order of the Hestia descended upon Terra, demanding, with unshakeable conviction, to oversee the Princess's health. Ten millennia in stasis, they argued, demanded expert care. After considerable, terse back-and-forth between the Primarch and the Captain-General of the Custodes, the Hestias were finally granted entry to the Golden Tower, resuming their sacred mantle as the Princess's personal household staff, as it was always meant to be.
Almost a year had passed since that momentous day, and Sister Marcella had discovered a profound, almost beatific joy in this holy service. She gazed at her reflection, her face and hair meticulously washed, pristine and ready. It was her turn to serve as the Princess's handmaiden for the day. Sleep had eluded her; a surge of spiritual excitement, almost impossible to quell, had kept her praying ceaselessly, repeating verses of ancient litanies throughout the long night.
Now, her pristine robes lay immaculate, every fold precise, every seam perfect—a living testament to the Hestias' doctrine of order, a reflection of their divine Princess. No imperfection was tolerated.
"Sister Marcella, Your Highness has requested nourishment," a soft voice announced from the chamber door. Marcella nodded swiftly.
"Understood, Sister Cassilda," Marcella replied, her voice steady. She moved with purpose to the grand kitchen, a marvel of ancient culinary arts, where a golden trolley awaited, laden with the Princess's prepared meal.
"Breath, breath," Marcella whispered to herself, a mantra of self-control. She, who had faced raving heretics without blinking, met daemons without fear, her resolve unwavering against the horrors of Chaos, now felt her hands tremble, her legs tap a restless rhythm on the polished floor. "By the gentle flame within the golden halo, we kindle this offering; by duty and devotion, we make it clean." She repeated the consecrated verses softly, over and over, until a soft chime announced: "Sister Marcella is ready."
Marcella took the magnificent golden trolley, its base subtly incorporating unseen grav-dampeners that ensured the food remained warm and the trolley utterly stable. No, Hestia Sister, after all, desired the ignominy of spilling the Princess's brew. Marcella felt a cold prickle of panic as she grasped the handle, walking with a rapid but carefully measured pace, maintaining a semblance of calm, lest a single drop of brew escape. Were that to happen, she knew, without hesitation, she would join the Sister Repentia, embarking on a hundred-year penance for such a sin.
She reached the long, majestic hallway leading to the Princess's personal chambers. Custodes, as ever, stood sentinel, their imposing forms unmoving. Yet, their presence, so intimidating to others, barely registered with Marcella; her mind was singularly focused on the trolley, on ensuring the meal arrived in the pristine condition it had been entrusted to her. As she passed, like many Hestias before her, she met the unblinking, hazel gaze of a Custodes, locking her eyes onto the golden visors of the Emperor's Ten Thousand.
The colossal door, Dorn's masterpiece of defensive architecture, silently parted, allowing Sister Marcella passage into the Princess's chamber. Marcella entered swiftly, her eyes deliberately avoiding the paintings of the Traitor Primarchs—those monstrous sons who had dared to rise against the Emperor and the Imperium. Her focus was solely on delivering the meal to the Princess's desk. Then she saw her: the Princess herself, seated amidst mountains of data-slates, surrounded by whirring servo-skulls, advanced cogitators flickering with information near her radiant form. Custodes and Silent Sisters stood in silent vigil, ever-present.
The very heart of the Imperium's renewal beat in this room, a hidden locus of command and creation for the new age.
"Your Highness, yo-u… Your Highness, your meal," Sister Marcella stammered, biting her tongue, the unexpected words a profound imperfection. Thankfully, the Princess, deep in conversation with Consul Jek, seemed not to notice her momentary lapse.
"Would that be all, Consul Jek?" Aurelia asked, her voice soft and melodious, as Jek gathered numerous documents bearing the Princess's personal seal.
"It would be, Your Highness. I shall depart immediately for the Aurelian Bulwark," Consul Jek replied.
"Good. Communicate their needs to me, and report on the diligence of the planetary governors." Aurelia sighed, a deep, weary sound. Jek offered a soft smile in return.
"I shall do so without fail." Jek bowed gracefully and turned to exit, offering Sister Marcella a brief, deferential courtesy.
"Sister," Jek said gently.
"Consul," Sister Marcella replied, her voice firm, matching Jek's courtesy with a small bow.
Aurelia looked at Marcella and recalled her own need for sustenance. It was not truly imperative for her, but she cherished the flavours, the textures, what it meant to her—a tangible taste of humanity, a living vessel existing rather than a primordial entity.
"Sister, could you please prepare the table? I shall join you in a moment."
Sister Marcella obeyed, and with the devotion of a person who had been taught how to prepare a table since she could remember, she followed the instructions ingrained in her mind. How it should be prepared, where the cup must be located, how far the utensils must be from each other, and exactly the position of the napkin, all done in perfect harmony.
Aurelia then spoke to one of the nearby Custodes Immortalis, Penjad, a figure of ancient resolve. "Penjad, please relay to Captain-General Valoris that the first cohort of future Adeptus Custodes is prepared, and that my Father stands ready to oversee the sacred process." Penjad's mighty form inclined, his internal vox-caster instantly relaying the critical message.
"Furthermore," Aurelia continued, "inform Kalluin that… the preparatory work for the Custodes Immortalis automaton bodies will be completed within a few months. Five such vessels, for now. Should any of the Eyes of the Emperor, who perceive their bodies failing, wish to continue their service in such a form, bid them meet me in the Silent Furnace at noon. I wish to speak with them personally before commencing the process." Penjad nodded slightly, understanding the profound significance of this offer to those ancient Custodes, whose bodies, though mighty, might be succumbing to the ravages of age or irreparable wounds. This was Aurelia's promise: eternal service, a choice of continued vigilance for all who wished it.
Aurelia sighed softly, a fleeting weariness crossing her features, before walking towards the table, her gaze meeting Sister Marcella's, who beamed with quiet pride.
"Thank you, sister," Aurelia said as she finally sat down, stretching her body with graceful ease before taking a long, savouring sip of freshly made orange juice.
"Delicious," Aurelia smiled before looking at her sister. "Sister…?"
"Marcella, Your Highness," Sister Marcella bowed, a gesture that almost made her miss the subtle, internal exasperation that flickered across Aurelia's face. The Custodes and Silent Sisters, however, registered it instantly, a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in their Princess's aura.
"Tell me, Sister Marcella," Aurelia continued, taking small sips of her brew, her voice light, "have the sisters tasted the oranges and other fruits from my gardens?" Marcella recalled the first taste of an apple from Aurelia's orchard; it had been a divine sensation, a forbidden pleasure in a world of ersatz nourishment. It was a gift from the Princess herself, one cherished by all the sisters.
"We have, Your Highness, and it is… a taste I had never known before. Indeed, it has become part of my daily prayers," Sister Marcella replied, her eyes bright with fervent adoration.
"Prayer…" Aurelia mumbled, a slight frown touching her lips. "Tell me, Sister Marcella," Aurelia continued, her voice softer, more direct. "Have you ever… doubted?"
Sister Marcella stiffened, utterly taken aback. The question, in its naked heresy, was unthinkable. To doubt… such a sensation was blasphemy, an idea almost too terrible to fathom. Yet, she could not deny the Princess's unwavering gaze. This was not an accusation from a heretic, nor an interrogation from a Dogmata, but a profound query from the divine Princess herself. The holy light that shielded humanity, the very daughter of the God-Emperor. Lying would be a heresy in itself, but speaking such a truth… would the Princess condemn her to agonising penance? To be punished for the sin of doubt?
Marcella's resolve fractured. She could only fall to her knees, her armoured form trembling, her head bowing so low it almost touched the Princess's feet.
"I had doubts, Your Highness! During the long night, when the light of the Astronomican vanished, I doubted! I feared! I felt the insidious darkness of Chaos whispering doubts into my very soul!" Sister Marcella cried, her voice broken by sobs. In her mind, she already saw herself joining the Sister Repentia, scourging herself for the blasphemous act of doubting the Emperor and the Princess.
"Please, forgive me, my divine light! Forgive my lack of faith! Forgive my heretical thoughts!" Sister Marcella sobbed, prostrating herself, praying fervently at the feet of the Princess, who, in turn, gazed at the young woman with a stunned, aghast, and profoundly sorrowful expression.
"Sister Marcella… Marcella," Aurelia whispered softly, her hand reaching out to gently touch the weeping sister's bowed head. Marcella flinched at her touch. Aurelia couldn't help but feel disgust at the toxic power of the religion that had been built upon her name. She paused, debating internally how to act, how to steer this profound, unsettling moment. Then, drawing a deep breath, she decided to calm the sister down first, to connect with her shattered humanity.
"Marcella, enough. You are not being judged for harbouring doubt," Aurelia whispered, her voice firm, yet tender enough to compel Marcella to look up. "You are not weak for a momentary lack of faith, or because you doubt. You are human. You feel those things because you are alive. And precisely because you are alive, even I feel doubt and fear. Do you know that?"
"Y-You, Your Highness?" Sister Marcella whispered, utterly bewildered, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and profound awe.
"Yes. I was a child once. I cried like any other babe. I sought comfort in the darkest shadows and begged my father to stay until the monster under my bed was gone. I have known fears. I have wrestled with profound doubts, particularly during the darkest times of the Imperium, when my beloved brother turned traitor. I cried then, Marcella. I begged. I doubted myself with every fibre of my being," Aurelia confessed, slowly stroking Sister Marcella's hair, consciously striving to be not an ethereal symbol, but a tangible woman, simply a woman and nothing more. "Even now, I have doubts and fears. My brother is leading a monumental crusade, and I fear for his life. The Imperium is being ripped apart, and I have doubts that I will succeed in keeping it all together. And you know what sustains me on this long, arduous road I walk?"
"What, Your Highness?" Sister Marcella whispered, as if on the precipice of receiving a divine, life-altering blessing.
Aurelia gently pointed, first to Sister Marcella's heart, then to her head. "Hope and certitude. Hope, not in the rigid tenets of religion, but in the boundless potential of my own abilities, in the strength of my own self. And certitude that I am striving to do the absolute best I can, and that all of these profound feelings—my doubts, my fears, my passions—are simply my humanity, which I cherish above all else. That is what keeps me grounded. It does not control me, it does not blind me, but it reminds me that humanity, for all its profound shortcomings, is worth every sacrifice and every effort of mine. Trust in me, Marcella, but also, crucially, trust in yourself. That, I promise you, will never lead you astray."
Sister Marcella gazed at Aurelia, appearing as if her mind struggled to process the overwhelming information. Aurelia knew it would take considerable time for the Sister to fully comprehend these words. Yet, she hoped it would allow Marcella to perceive beyond the rigid creed she had been raised on, perhaps subtly encouraging other Adepta Sororitas to begin to think, to question, to reflect for themselves.
Sadly, Aurelia's words, born of profound human empathy and hope, were having a profoundly different effect than intended.
As Sister Marcella looked into the Princess's luminous eyes, she felt not merely blessed, but enlightened. She understood, with an undeniable, blinding clarity, what the Princess was trying to tell her.
My Princess, my beloved Princess. She wants us to take control of our fears! Of our doubts! And throw them away! We must put our trust in her, our very lives in her hands, and we should always be in the path of the Emperor and his light!
"I understand, Your Highness! Oh! I see it now clearly!" Sister Marcella cried, tears streaming from her eyes, but these were tears of profound joy, of ultimate revelation.
Oh, my beloved Princess, your words shall lead us to a path of righteousness, for the Emperor's Protect and the Princess's guide us! I shall give you my soul, my life, every fibre of my being, for you're our salvation! Sister Marcella thought, praying fervently within her mind as she watched Princess Aurelia with renewed, incandescent faith. It was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes; all doubt, all fear, all uncertainty, were swept away, replaced by an absolute, terrifying conviction. She vowed to share this profound revelation with all her sisters, to make them see that their Princess's wishes upon them was their trust, that their fears and doubts would be swept away as long as they pray to her.
Aurelia looked pleased, her gaze missing, or perhaps deliberately overlooking, the fiery, untamed devotion now burning in Sister Marcella's eyes. I didn't even need to consult a chapter of the future, Aurelia thought, her naivety a fragile shield. As long as I keep helping them see more clearly, not as a deity, but as a simple woman doing her best, I believe we can slowly temper their zealotry. She trusted her own instincts, her own interpretation of Marcella's reaction.
Besides, Aurelia concluded, a fleeting thought of complacency, what, truly, is the worst that could happen?