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The old woman had lived under the light of the sun for more than seven dozens of sacred years. Maybe more.
No one could tell whenever she was young.
She lived alone, in a house on the farthest edge of the village, on the outskirts of the Holy City, the mother of all cities. Where the air coming from the canals was no longer enough to keep out the heat.
The desert was close. The fields were drying up. Labor bent peoples’ backs, left marks on their palms.
There were machines for sowing and harvesting the fields, to clear the canals, to process the grain. The machines broke down; the peasants themselves took the machines’ place, went back to the way that had been for centuries long ago.
No one was complaining. No one imagined a different life.
The priests set the measure of work and preached about the righteous share. In the hours of rest, people prayed with their faces to the stars, as their ancestors had prayed before them.
Everyone who worked for the allotted part of the day on the temple grounds or factories received a measure of grain and dates. And as much mild beer as they needed.
There was also an extra payment for washing walls, cleaning latrines and courtyards. The old woman did not disdain anything that she was able to do. Like many other women.
She was released from taxes for her son, the angel. A warrior of faith. At least that custom hasn't changed over the years.
But she still needed to eat and drink.
For years, she rubbed grain and helped prepare beer and other drinks for the holy days. She dug up herbs in late spring and brought them to the temple. She was allowed to keep the seeds: occasionally. She bowed and thanked for it respectfully then.
No one remembered: when she was still young and came for the first time to the city of Gray Flowers, to the procession in honor of the Compliance brought by the Legion to another yet ignorant world of mankind, she wanted to stay there, to learn how to care for the moon lilies. No one agreed to take her as an apprentice — with her rough fingers and awkward peasant speech. She returned home. Returned to her future husband, to fields, to calluses.
But she seized the moment to press her forehead, palms and lips to the tablet ingrained with the holy words of the Golden Son. She was hoping for a blessing then.
"Maybe that's why your son was taken by the angels in grey?" people asked her. The women asked more often, but sometimes the priests did. Then, someday, they all stopped to do so.
She would shake her head to such question and go back to sorting the grain; or feeding birds.
At first, she prayed for the child she had given away to the God-Lord, the father of the Golden Son.
Then the old gods — the same that her mother's mother had once spoken of — returned to the vaults of the temples. Now the Word-Speakers preached about them; the Emperor's statues were broken and thrown away, and his name was mentioned only in curses.
The rest has not changed. The news from the stars still rang out from the spires: the Legion of angels had fought wars and won. In honor of victories, sacrifices were made. Festivals were held in the Holy City.
The old woman tried to hear about her son. Everyone must have tried: every mother who were like her.
The peasant caste was allowed to be in the Holy City only on days of great festivals — and only on the outskirts now, not behind the first wall like in the days of her youth. But with loudspeakers — she had been afraid of them in her youth, but she remembered their sound — even that would have been enough.
But the old woman had no one to leave the house to.
She didn't even know if her boy was alive. Do angels die at all?..
She gave birth to another son after him, but that son died as an infant. He just wasted away — from some disease for which there was no cure; or the angels had not revealed it to mortals. Her husband beat her gravely, saying that she had let this happen, and after that she could no longer bear a child.
Her daughter, not much younger than her first son, married the son of a wood merchant as second wife. Three years later, she died in childbirth. The child also did not live long without a mother. But before that child breathed its last, it was laid on the altar. And since it was a son, and only a legitimate son could be made into the sacrifice, this child was recognized. And there was a kinship, by blood united and shed. So said the priest, wrapping the corpse of the infant in a cloth and covering the small eyes with copper-cut stars.
The merchant's family helped the old woman and her husband two or three times after that. When there was a need.
Her husband thanked them and muttered prayers. She was silent at these times, lowered her eyes.
Her husband died of a seizure — just lay down one day, holding his chest, and did not get up. Since then, the old woman has remained alone.
She did what she could, despite her age and the pain in her knees, along with other women. They pitied her; shared with her cheese and flour.
The old woman did not have enough silver to buy a worthwhile sacrifice — but when the Holy War was declared from the temple's threshold, all of them, the neighbors, went to the square and slaughtered a goat waiting for the festival.
The old woman also bathed her face and hands in the goat’s blood.
"Bless him," she whispered. And that's it all.
The sun shone just as mercilessly. Fields and palm trees produced worse crops. Offerings were needed more and more: neglect angered the gods.
The holy war was far away. Angels did not descend to earth, even on holy days. They fought in the heavens: thus speak.
Sermons were constantly pouring out from the network of loudspeakers. People were listened to it with respect, but more out of habit. Didn't raise their heads.
In the year when priests gathered girls who did not yet know the first moon-blood to bury them in the silt of the canals, there was a lot of crying and howling. It was the first time in decades when the temple guards had taken up ceremonial axes for real.
The grandson of the old woman's daughter's husband was injured there. This man, a merchant, tried to argue with the priests. Soon he was gone; his property was divided between two temples. His family was sent to serve the Word. It is better when the copyist does not think — and is not tempted to distort: therefore the copyists of the sacred texts were slaves without speech and reason. Servitors, in the language of the heavens.
During the last year of the holy war, the sacrificial smoke was drawn up day and night into the sky. Sons and daughters heard the calling and left their homes: as simple warriors, not angels. The priests gave blessings. The sky was full of flying machines. These machines were in the colors of the Prophet and his angels.
The old woman sometimes looked up, squinting her eyes — despite the dust storms, her seeing remained sharp, although her head turned with difficulty now. All she could do was to watch.
She no longer had any animals to sacrifice. And flower sacrifices didn't suit the old gods.
***
Today the old woman was going to come out and feed the birds: as always.
Her house, along with several of her neighbors', had been enclosed on the desert side by a clay wall to protect them from the sun and wind, even since her husband was still alive. In the shadow of the wall was a poultry pen. The old woman considered the birds almost her own: the first ones she bought with her dowry.
The old woman heard the sirens, of course. She heard explosions, like when they were clearing channels.
The loudspeakers, on the other hand, were silent. The temple doors had been locked since yesterday.
Everyone was hiding in their homes. Some people even wanted to send their children to other cities, to villages in the mountains. These were executed — together with the children of theirs. They lacked faith, as was pronounced.
But she was old, and she had no one. Maybe they all will die today. Maybe tomorrow. But it is better to die without suffering from thirst and hunger. Even for the birds.
The old woman pushed open the door, a wedding present from her daughter’s marriage-relatives. A simple wood, rough, with slits: but wood, not just a mat.
The door creaked open. The old woman barely took a step outside; her knees were too sore to hurry.
A shadow the color of a dark sunset fell from above; lay over her head.
She didn't even have time to feel fear. Or she couldn't. She was too old to be afraid.
The old woman straightened up. Blinked. Her fingers were shaking — she was old indeed. She clutched at the faded fabric of her skirt.
A tall, massive figure stood directly in front of her. His broad shoulders and huge, heavy arms were encased in a suit of armor that was the color of fresh flayed meat. The helmet was grinning like a skeleton.
“Woman.” A voice echoed from the helmet, blank, with no signs of age. “Let us in”.
The voice of an angel; one of the Prophet's warriors.
She hadn't heard the gate open. She didn't hear if the birds were calling, or not. They said angels could do that — could be deadly-silent. Or maybe her hearing was beginning to fail her, too. So it seemed: just the wind rustling the sand, carrying a jackal's cry. Dust storms were becoming more frequent; today there might just be one.
"Woman," the angel said again. “Holy stars, I won't say it twice.”
Recovering herself, the old woman stepped aside. Inside. She clasped her hands over her pounding heart.
No, the angel was not silent at all. His armor hummed and his footsteps echoed.
He dragged into the house a second angel — wearing the armor of the same color, crumpled and charred. Only this angel didn't have both legs. The ragged stumps of his thighs oozed blood. One gauntlet was missing, and a large dusky hand dragged across the dirt floor, leaving a trail of dust.
It reminded the old woman of how her husband lay when she found him on the evening of his death.
Only the fingers of this angel were not yet pale: life has not yet left them.
His companion stepped aside, and the light from the doorway fell on the face of the wounded warrior. The old woman gasped. He didn't have a helmet, and his stubborn green eyes stared at her through a web of scars. Rare-colored, bright eyes — the ones that had made her daughter a legitimate wife, even if just a second one.
"The stars of heaven…” she said. "Is that... you?"
"Yes, mother," said her son, Lagash, whom she had last seen when he was twelve years old by the count of the priests.
The old woman swallowed. A half-moan, half-gasp caught in her throat.
Lagash continued:
“I remembered where the house was. I offered this place for the deployment. I was refused.”
He looked around, as if searching for something familiar. A toy-warrior made of clay by his father. His sister’s tricolor shawl and her only beads.
The old woman wanted to grab him — by his shoulders, under his back — but she couldn't hold him: he was too heavy. Other warrior lifted Lagash up and sat him down as best as he could. The old woman sat down beside him.
"Everyone is dead," she told him. “Everyone else is dead. There is no one left.”
Lagash, leaning his shoulders against the wall, nodded and asked no more.
"Sergeant," said the second angel-warrior. “What are your thoughts on the defense?”
He — the old woman did not ask what his name was — was looking at the small windows of the adobe house, as if calculating something.
She didn't notice if he was carrying a weapon. Except for the knife at his waist, which was as thick as old woman’s own arm; but was that what an angel's weapons was supposed to be?..
Lagash coughed hoarsely and shook his head.
“No sense. The dogs of the Thrice-Damned took the city. You heard yourself — before I ripped out that sinner's throat — what they're planning to do after.”
"Guilliman's bastards didn't try to hide it," said other angel. “But weren't they going to kill each of us first? That unfortunate one had said so, too.”
"Revenge," Lagash smiled, as if he were a child. “Like in the hymns of hatred. Very... appropriate, isn't it?”
His companion only shook his head at this — it was not clear whether he agreed or vice versa.
Lagash continued:
“But they won't find us. Not here. They just won't know where to look. They take revenge, but they don't take revenge on mortals. They just kill mortals. As we all do.”
"So this is the end," said the other. Neither of them seemed to notice the old woman now. (A mortal, she thought to herself; bitterly and calmly).
"Yes, it is", Lagash agreed.
He coughed — as if thunder had shaken the earth, even though it was no longer the season for rain.
"Woman," said the second angel, remembering the existence of her. “Do you have water here?"
The old woman nodded and scurried.
She applied the water yesterday, in advance. There was still some left in the big pitcher in the basement.
Lagash drank it all, greedily.
The old woman crouched down to watch him. She remembered how he had eaten and drunk as a child — but could not say, the same way it was now or another.
“Is it true that the Golden Son has left us?" she dared to ask. (So spoke a wandering prophet, clad only in his unkempt hair and tattered beard. False prophets-vagabonds would found and killed by the priests — always killed, whatever the Word was; but this one had shouted in the village square more than once.)
Lagash closed his eyes. A pallor crept over his face. "They say that he ascended into the spheres of the gods and speaks to the stars, and they answer him: where the stars are not just globes of gas and light. Thus they speak.”
“That's why,” said the second angel, apparently seriously, “you will remain a Sergeant until you die, brother. You lack the ultimate faith.”
Lagash laughed — now for sure.
“Thank Tzaa-nath, you won't be able to report me to the Apostle again.”
"To confess to the Apostle”, corrected the other, in the same serious tone.
“Certainly. To confess.” Lagash nodded, still smiling out of the corners of his mouth.
There was a moment of silence.
Lagash was just breathing, loud and heavy. The old woman put her palm on his forehead.
The other remained in his huge armoured hand.
"We will die, mother. Mom”.
She nodded.
"Don't be afraid," he told her.
She nodded again. Tears gathered in her stupid old eyes, ran down her cheeks and dripped on the scarlet armor that had been forged in distant celestial forges.
“Tsagon”, addressed Lagash. "Stand by the door. If someone does find us in these damned moments, kill them. Whoever they are. This is my last order.”
The other warrior put his fist to his heart, muttered a prayer under his breath, and went to the door. The old woman heard a metallic clang, then a thud.
A massive shadow now blocked the doorway, letting in even less light.
She and her son were alone in the semi-darkness. Like when he was little. Her only child then, not just first.
(There was an eclipse of the sun, and people crowded around the temple, seeking reassurance. The Word-Speakers read from hymns to the God the Father, the Emperor. A chorus of maidens sang a plea for protection.
At the gate of the temple stood an angel-warrior: five of them came from heaven with the word of the Golden Son, and the rest went to Varadesh. This one the old priest wanted to ask about something. She had looked on him with awe, and Lagash in her arms — with curiosity. She had slapped her son on the back of his little hand: it was forbidden to touch the armor of the angels. Fortunately, the warrior of the Prophet did not notice the child’s attempt.
Now she wondered if that priest and that angel had been brothers, born of the same mother, long ago.)
Something howled briefly outside, like a wounded animal. The old woman shuddered.
"Don't be afraid," Lagash repeated. “Everything will be as it was ordained to be.”
“I have nothing to fear here. I'm old. I'm accustomed that I'll die one day.”
“The faithful will live forever in the light of Truth. That's what the Word says.”
“I never knew the Word by heart," the old woman admitted. “But I believe you. You are my son.”
“Will you pray, mother?"
“To the old gods?"
"To them, mother.”
“Will they answer?"
“They will be silent. Their silence is sacred, " Lagash said abruptly. After a moment of silence, he continued without changing his face: "We failed them, as we failed the false God, the Emperor, before. They look at us, but they don't watch us. This is their trial.”
“So I'm not going to pray.”
Lagash looked her straight in the eye.
“I wouldn't tell that to anyone else, mother. Never again. This... is not written.” He coughed again. Blood splattered on his chin. “You don't have to…”
She wiped blood away with her frayed skirt.
“You didn't have to come. But you're here.”
“It… just happened so."
“So it was meant to be.”
And they were silent again. Only their breath filled the house. Lagash's heavy, ragged breathing — and her own, shallow and senile.
The old woman heard, as if from a distance, the sounds of intermittent screams — and bangs on the ground. It was as if stones were falling. Or something more than the stones.
It got even darker. Dust covered everything.
“Is it the sky falling?" she asked her son.
He parted his bloody lips in what looked like a smile. He shook his head.
“It's a bombardment. The first stage” — the answering voice belonged the one whose name was Tsagon. He stood with his back to them, motionless in the doorway, holding his weapon. “They're still evacuating their own.”
"Ah," was all the old woman could say. Her shoulders slumped.
"Don't be silent, mother.” Lagash's voice still boomed through the din. Clearly.
“What should I say?" She seemed to whisper it, almost like a complaint, almost without voice. But Lagash heard her.
“Whatever."
"Say something, woman". Tsagon must have heard everything, too. “If you don't know the Word, then just something."
Then the old woman took a deep breath and began to sing. Thinly, with a rattle, but without faltering.
The song was considered childish by people. But traces of the sacred texts were imprinted, on Colchis, even in such little thing.
The song was about a boy who walked along canals, large and small, and along a big river, wanting to get to the sea. The boy checked his way by the holy constellations and knew no doubts.
"Even if the sea was by men imagined,
even if its waters turned into dust,
even if its waters turned into salt,
to the sea is my longing
to the sea I strive."
Lagash loved this song as a child. For him, the old woman thought, the sea was the distant sacred stars, where was a Legion of Angels and the Golden Prophet.
Before she had finished singing, she heard a whistle. The shrill-sound grew louder, and the slight tremor of the earthen floor grew stronger. The old woman kept singing, stubbornly, unable to stop, although she couldn't hear her own voice now, and ceased to see anything but light from all sides, and to feel something besides the fire and the hands of her son, covering her with his huge — even without legs — incredible body, protecting her from heat and light.
And then she couldn't feel anything anymore.
The sky collapsed, burying the earth beneath it. And there were, from now on, only dust and ashes, and the echo of an old song, and the joyless laughter of the true, primordial gods — over the cosmic grave of what had once been Colchis.