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The surface of the Tomb World of Solemnace had become a rented horizon of overthrown black spires and still-pulsing monoliths when the Living Saint walked into the valley.
A figure emerged from the rolling smog to greet her, tall and red-robed, more machine than man. He was beautiful in the dim light offered by the green sky of the Necron world, made holy by his augmetics, the sight of his sanctioned tech-worship a welcome relief from the eyesore that were the works of the Xenos.
“Archmagos.” Despite her pleasure, Celestine could not keep a note of disappointment from her voice, and prayed the tech-priest would forgive her for it. He should; they both knew he was not who Celestene had come looking for. “I am glad to see you did not perish in the battle.”
Belisarius Cawl looked at her the same way he had on the day they’d restored the Son of the Emperor. It was a piercing, unfeeling sort of gaze, and Celestine did not like it. “I am not easily dispatched, Saint.”
Celestine hid a grimace behind a smile. In truth, she was not overly fond of the tech-priest or his ilk—they had been granted the grace to be born humans of the Imperium and had spat on it by seeking to alter the holy perfection that was their bodies—but he was a servant of the Imperium and, in his own way, a devotee of the Emperor, so she would treat him with the consideration that deserved. “Walk with me.”
And so he did.
Next came the great man, the hero. He was tall, old, and still so proud, and the sight of him gladdened Celestine’s heart and strengthened her faith.
“Lord Castellan. You live.”
Ursarkar Creed had seen better days, but he still managed a straight back upon seeing her. “Saint Celestine. My kasrkin?”
Celestine did not ask how he was alive. She knew already, because she’d seen it in the mind of another. ”Dead.”
”My world?”
”Dead as well.”
”The Imperium I serve?”
”Alive and fighting.”
”Then my duty is not done.”
“Valiant words, Celestine praised warmly. This was the Emperor’s true work, men like him. “If you yearn for your duty, walk with me.”
And so he did.
One by one men and women came to her. One by one they followed. The old and youthful, the sick and healthy, the captives and the soldiers who’d freed them. All rallied to her march, until she was followed by a great multitude, a wandering flame leading a hive of moths. In long lines they streamed out of the broken ziggurats and pyramids, drawn inexorably to her light, a crusade of her own, one aimed at a singular objective.
They had not journeyed long before they came across Celestine true target.
She was still beautiful, in that harsh, sneering sort of way that was uniquely her own, even with the green veins running across her darkened face. A gift from the Necron. A final laugh from beyond the grave.
Or so Celestine hoped, anyway.
“Katarinya.” She wondered if she sounded as aghast as she felt. She’d assumed—no, hoped—that she would be alien by the time she arrived, unknowable and strange, but the woman before her was as familiar as the incensed halls of a monastery or the long canticles of her faith. “By the Emperor…”
She swallowed. The faithful stared. Cawl allowed her a moment to compose herself before shambling up to her side.
That was kind of him. Celestine appreciated the gesture for what it was, even though she knew he could never understand, being what he was.
“Archmagos.” This time, her voice was little more than a desperate whisper. “Is there truly no way she can be saved?”
The Archmagos was silent for a moment. A part of Celestine thought inanely that it was out of pity, and loathed him for it. “Logic dictates otherwise.” There was a pause in his crackly tone, as if he was allowing her time for her loathing to grow into an inferno of hate. “The infection has progressed beyond restorative procedures. Attempting an extraction now would be… unwise.”
“How unwise?” Celestine demanded. If it had been under any other circumstances, she might have been amused by how much she sounded like Katarinya. “If it can save her, then…”
“It could not. Only prolong her suffering.”
Celestine shook her head and stepped forward, drawing the attention of the shambling husk that had been Katarinya Greyfax.
“Katarinya. Show me that he is wrong,” she demanded—no, pleaded. “Show me that you perdure, somewhere in the darkness.”
The shambling husk had no answer for her. No sound left her cracked, greying lips.
“Please. Do not make me beg it of you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The wind howled over the black plains, empty and quiet.
Celestine drew her Rosarius, the one she’d had since becoming a Repentia. “Not now, my God-Emperor,” she pleaded to Him, screwing her eyes shut. Tears stung at her eyelids, but she refused to see them shed, her voice resounding with the bold confidence of utter faith. “Not so close to the end. Allow me more time.”
She opened her eyes. Greyfax was still there, grey-veined and unseeing. The faithful were still watching. The Master of Mankind was still waiting for her duty to be done.
“I… understand, Lord.” She released a ragged breath and drew her weapon. “I pray you see this one to your Table.”
She advanced, one step after the other, the light of the Emperor pushing forward her legs.
The message was clear. The last trace of the Xeno scourge must be purged, no matter what.
A long time passed before anyone dared to disturb her. Maybe months. Maybe years.
Maybe just a minute.
“My lady.” A hand on her shoulder, as she cradled a woman she’d loved. “We must be moving. There may still be survivors elsewhere on the planet.”
Celestine’s armored grip tightened on her Inquisitor’s cold body, unwilling to let her go. But only for a moment.
“Yes, yes, of course.” She rose, distractedly, letting Greyfax slump to the ground, cold and dead. The man who’d disturbed was unfamiliar to her, just one of the many sons of the Emperor who looked to her. “Forgive me.”
He nodded. Celestine crouched down, opening Katarinya’s limp hand and leaving her Rosarius in it. It was a violation, she was not foolish enough to pretend otherwise, but if dying with a Rosarius in her hand helped Katarinya be forgiven by Him for her faithless ways, even a little, she’d suffer her memory’s unliving scorn gladly.
“Come.” She straightened and began walking, leaving the corpse to the winds. ”We must be off.”
The procession began again. Light washed away the shadows of a world that had never seen a warm sun.