It had been a year since Geneviève had put on the helm. A year of rain, orc blood, and silence. She was on the edge of the Forest of Châlons, an area known for swallowing unwary travelers. Gilles was tracking a herd of Beastmen. He was not doing it for glory, but because those beasts had burned down a farm two nights prior, and the local Baron was too busy organizing a banquet to send soldiers.
The rain fell thick, washing away the stink of the forest but not that of Chaos. Geneviève sensed the ambush before she saw it. Her horse, a stolen war destrier now grown old, shied sideways. From the brush emerged the Ungors, deformed creatures half-man and half-goat, armed with crude spears. Behind them, a Bray-Shaman, a bestial shaman with twisted horns, was chanting a spell that tasted of rotten meat.
But they were not attacking her. They were surrounding a carriage overturned in the mud. The escort soldiers were already dead, their bodies split open like ripe fruit. There was only one figure still standing, protected by a shimmering barrier of white magic that was beginning to crack under the blows of bestial axes.
Geneviève did not hesitate. She lowered her visor, suffocating the world in that steel slit, and spurred her horse. She did not shout "For the Lady!". Gilles the Mute does not shout. The impact was brutal. The destrier trampled two Ungors, reducing them to pulp under its shod hooves. Geneviève swung Sir Balduin's heavy sword. The blade, blessed by her iron will, cut the air and flesh with unnatural ease. The Bray-Shaman turned, spitting magical fire. Geneviève felt the heat through her armor, smelled the scent of her own singed hair under the helm, but she did not stop. Her Aura of Courage repelled the supernatural fear. With a thrust that utilized all the weight of her armored body, she impaled the shaman. The beast died gurgling, and with it the morale of the herd, which scattered into the forest.
Silence returned, broken only by Geneviève's labored breathing echoing inside the metal. She dismounted, staggering from exhaustion, and approached the figure she had saved.
It was a Grail Damsel. A prophetess of the Lady of the Lake. Amidst the mud and blood, she was immaculate. Her dress was of pale green silk, her blonde hair floated as if underwater, ignoring gravity and the rain. Her eyes had no pupils; they were pools of white light that saw beyond matter.
This was fear incarnate. A Damsel has the authority to order a Duke to kill himself, and he would do it. A Damsel sees the truth.
Geneviève knelt on one knee, keeping her head low, hoping the helm would hide her soul. "You fought well, Knight," said the Damsel. Her voice was not a sound, but a vibration in Geneviève's mind. "Your technique is... raw. Lacking grace. But your faith burns like a furnace."
Gilles nodded, without looking up, pointing to her throat to mime muteness. She made to leave, to flee before it was too late. "Stop," ordered the Damsel. It was not a request.
The woman glided over the mud without dirtying her shoes and stopped in front of the kneeling knight. She reached out a pale, slender hand toward the dented iron helm. Geneviève stopped breathing. If she removed the helm, it would be over. Summary execution for impersonating a noble.
The Damsel's hand rested on the cold metal of the visor. Geneviève was trembling. But the Damsel did not lift the visor. Instead, she rested her forehead against the dirty steel of the helm, forehead against forehead, separated by three millimeters of iron.
"Why do you tremble, sister?" whispered the Damsel in her mind.
Geneviève froze. Sister. Slowly, she turned.
The Damsel had slipped onto the muddy ground and was now a step away from her. "Take it off," ordered the Damsel, pointing to the helm.
Geneviève shook her head frantically. If she took it off, it would be the end. The Damsel smiled, a sad and ancient smile. "Do you think a piece of iron can hide your spirit from the eyes of the Lady? I do not see 'Sir Gilles'. I see you. Take it off. It is an order from your Goddess."
Trembling like a leaf, with metal-gauntleted hands struggling to find the clasps, Geneviève unlatched the visor. She lifted the helm. The cold forest air hit her face for the first time in days. The rain soaked her shaved head, the scars on her jaw, the dirt covering features that were fine but hardened. She lowered her gaze, waiting for the lightning bolt, the accusation of heresy, death.
She felt cold, soft fingers lift her chin. The Damsel was looking at her. Not with contempt. Not with pity. But with a deep, shattering recognition.
"Look at you," whispered the Damsel, now speaking aloud. "They said that only men can wield the sword. They said that we women must be only chalices for magic or mothers for their heirs. But you..." The Damsel ran her thumb over Geneviève's dirty cheek, wiping away a streak of soot. "You chose the hardest path. You renounced your beauty, your hair, your name. You bound your breast to suffocate your nature, all to do what they often forget to do: protect."
The Damsel leaned in even closer, resting her immaculate forehead against Geneviève's sweaty, dirty one. "There is no sin in you, Geneviève. The Lady of the Lake is a Goddess, not a God. Do you really think She is offended to see one of her daughters defending the land She loves? Repanse de Lyonesse was a shepherdess before she was a knight. You are cut from the same cloth."
Geneviève felt a knot loosen in her chest, a pain she had carried for years. She sobbed, a raspy sound, and tears dug furrows in the grease covering her face. "I... I am just a liar," she croaked with her ruined voice.
"No," corrected the Damsel, taking the armored hands between her delicate ones. "You are the truth that Bretonnia does not want to see. You are a woman in armor. And as far as I am concerned, you are nobler than any man I have met at court."
The Damsel closed her eyes and a soft light enveloped their joined hands. "Keep your helm, if you must. The world of men is stupid and blind, and they would kill you because they are afraid of what you are. But know this: when you pray, when you fight, when you bleed... you are not alone. You do not have to be a man to be a Paladin. Your strength comes from your woman's heart, capable of enduring a pain that would break any man."
The Damsel kissed Geneviève's forehead, right above the scars. "Go, Sister of the Sword. May your lie protect your life, but may your truth protect your soul. You are blessed."
Geneviève put the helm back on. The metal closed with a snap, but the darkness inside was no longer frightening. It was no longer a hiding place. It had become her sanctuary. As she rode away, she felt that the bandages binding her chest were no longer chains, but the secret embrace of a Goddess who had looked her in the eyes and called her "daughter."