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“Brother Beren.” Kessalt stood, his spine stiffening, bearing the weight of the Templar’s gaze. The other Templar, he had thought, but then wondered if that was true any longer. Was he still a Templar himself, after his own Chapter had refused him? They stood in the narthex of the Hospitallers’ main courtyard. He barely remembered the first time he had crossed these pavers, delirious and in agony and on the edge of choosing death, barely able to keep on his own feet.
“Brother Kessalt.” Sword Brother Beren inclined his head. “It is…strange to find you like this.”
I was abandoned, Kessalt wanted to say. For more than five decades, then refused as contaminated, polluted. Yes it was strange to be here, but he was here, bearing the insignia of the Hospitaller order on his pauldron, serving as their champion. His own order would not have him, but they had gladly shouldered the burden of him, and everything it meant–from his nutritional needs to a closer bond with the tech priestess to maintain his armor. And all they had asked of him in return was the strength of his arm and the strength of his vows to fight against the foes of the Imperium. They gave him shelter, care, and a purpose.
“There was need,” he said, simply, knowing how stilted the sentence was. But it was a stilted, off-kilter situation to begin with. Two or three Hospitallers walked past them, and he heard the soft chant of one of their prayers. It was familiar to him now, their rhythms and ways, the ways they used chants to memorize timing, procedures, everything.
“You are surrounded by,” Beren waved at the hooded shapes, with not quite contempt, but close enough, “mortals.”
Kessalt felt a shrug start, then stopped it. He would not let them be spoken of so. “They came to my aid when I was in need.”
“Our kind does not need help,” Beren countered. “Especially not our Order.”
Kessalt felt his mouth flatten in anger, and he forced himself to incline his head. “I accept your rebuke.” His Castellan would rather he had died. He knew that almost from the minute he had opened his eyes--his own eyes, not daemonbound--in this place. He had sat with that for a long time, prayed about it in front of the Hospitallers’ altar that they let him use for his own rites. A strange point of contact between their kinds: their worship of the Emperor.
His abjection seemed to backfoot Beren, who looked…faltered, like he had prepared a castigation and found it not needed.
A Sister approached. “Brother Kessalt, honored brother guest,” she nodded at Beren. “We have prepared a repast for you in the cloister garden, where you can speak with privacy.” She did not wait for a reply, turning and signalling them to follow her.
Kessalt watched Beren’s head, walking behind him, as the Templar cast his eyes around the main building, the large doors, open at this time of the day, into the chancel, past the rooms where Hospitallers were working on studies, or preparing medicaments, and then out into the courtyard beyond. Kessalt knew why they chose this site–the heavy stone benches would not collapse under the weight of an armored Astartes.
The fountain sang with bright droplets of water in the late morning light. The cloister was a medicinal garden, filled with herbs and plants the Sisters harvested, alive with color and fragrance and the hum of bees darting from flower to flower, peaceful and yet bustling. Kessalt had grown accustomed to it, the fragrant air, the different colored flowers bobbing and dancing in the breezes, but Beren stared around him, as though uncertain as to if he should feel offended or not.
Kessalt understood the impulse. After decades of combat, peace seemed an offense. After centuries of death, life in all its fragile beauty, seemed noxious. He gestured for the other to take a seat, awkward in the role of a host, awkward with all of this. But the Black Templars did not seek him out, after all this time, for no reason.
As soon as they were seated, some of the Sisters carried out some refreshments: bread and honey, and a spiced drink, in items--plates, cups--made for Kessalt and his size: another way they had silently, easily, adjusted for his presence. He waited until the robed women had retreated. “What brings you here, Sword Brother?” He poured one of the cups full of the spiced drink, nudging it toward the Templar.
Beren’s mouth pinched, and released, as though biting through anger. “The Castellan has decided to welcome your return to our Chapter.” He took up the drink, taking a cautious sip, as though expecting it to taste vile.
Kessalt fixed his gaze, unseeing, on the fountain. Months ago, those words would have kindled a fierce immolating joy in his hearts. Welcomed back to his brothers, his soul purged clean, accepted again to fight alongside the most ardent of the Emperor’s own, in the holiest of causes.
A small part of him did stir at that, but it felt…weighted, almost smothered in the weight of rejection. They had turned their backs on him when he was most in need. When the canoness had reached out an open palm, they had slapped her withered hand away. “Now,” he said, finally. A question, an accusation, an acceptance.
“The crusade has changed,” Beren said, evenly. “And we need to retrench all of our resources.”
Resources, Kessalt thought bitterly. “You are now so desperate that you will accept dross.” That was an accusation, backed by all the hurt of rejection behind it.
“Mind your tongue, Brother Kessalt.”
Kessalt took up his own cup, drinking to purge the bitterness of his thoughts from his mouth before they escaped. He replaced the cup, with more care than it needed. He did not want to break the cup the Sisters had made for him, especially not now, when it would feel like a portent. “My error,” he said, softly, keeping his gaze averted.
“Remember, Brother Kessalt, it is the order of the Black Templars who made you what you are.”
And abandoned him, he thought, sourly.
“Without us you would be--”
“Daemonbound,” Kessalt heard his voice cut in, stabbing like a blade. “Awake or not, alive or not, I would still be in the thrall of the daemon.”
He saw Beren flinch at the word as though affronted by the reality of it. But it had happened. Kessalt still remembered, still felt it, in nightmares stalking the edges of his sleep. And he remembered, the Hospitallers, relentless in their way, working to heal him, soft voices and gentle hands.
Kessalt offered the honeycomb and bread. Maybe the sweetness would work its magic on both their moods. He took some himself, letting the now-familiar kiss of the warm honey blunt the sour edge of his thoughts.
“You would renege on your vows to the Emperor. Your chapter.”
Kessalt placed the honeyed bread down again. “I have not reneged on my vows.” It was hard to keep the anger from his voice, the set of his shoulders. He suddenly felt he should be wearing armor, as Beren was, instead of the robes the Sisters had made for him--another simple, quiet accommodation they had made for him. “I serve the God Emperor. I uphold my vows to destroy the xenos and the daemon.” Only less as a bleeding edge of a crusade than a bodyguard for the Sisters, trying to civilize this brutal world, bring it under the aegis of the Imperium.
“You do work that is…unequal to your skills.” Beren took another piece of bread, dipping it into the sunwarmed honey. Kessalt could swear he saw something like greed--desire or want, at the very least, at the simple but good food. After the spare, deliberately bland combat rations, he knew that the food the Hospitallers cooked was almost too much to bear on first taste. It had been a revelation, like he had forgotten food was more than just fuel for his body and bones and blood.
“Flattery?” Kessalt asked. He had been left to die, they all had. He remembered the lakebed, now, where the Ultramarine had fought the daemon in him. He remembered the Templar armor scattered around, the bones of those who could have, should have been martyrs, left to crackle into dust.
And who had prayed for them?
A Hospitaller.
“Brother Kessalt.” Beren toyed with the cup, rolling it in his hands before pinioning Kessalt with his gaze. “I could simply command your obedience. To your vows, to your chapter. To my rank.”
There it was, plain and bald. He could be commanded, and he would have no choice to obey.
Which made him wonder, why Beren was doing this at all? Why try to talk him into it if he could simply demand?
A sudden flash of red across the courtyard, a robed figure, marching toward them with obvious purpose. Kessalt bit back his question as he recognized the canoness. “Canoness. This is Sword Brother Beren of the Righteous Crusade.”
She inclined her head. “We are honored to have you as a guest, Brother Beren.” She caught Kessalt’s gaze. “And may I ask what we are discussing here?” It was a question and he knew he could refuse to answer it and she would take it. She was coming out to offer help, if he needed it, or counsel, or just a distraction. Again, he found himself grateful for her, strange ways and all.
“My order has offered me a place. To return to my Crusade.”
“Ah.”
He could feel her eyes studying his face. He waited for her to ask his answer. He didn’t have one. He wasn’t sure he should.
But she saw something in his face that made her turn toward Beren. “Sword Brother Beren, while we are on the ground of making offers, I have one myself.” She settled herself on the edge of a raised garden bed, reaching over to help herself to some of the bread and honey first. It was her bread and her honey after all.
“Go on.” Beren looked confused, unsettled. This was not how it was supposed to go.
“Well.” She looked at Beren, in his full armor, as though he were a Novice in the schola, needed to be gently chided. “We have become rather fond of Brother Kessalt during his time with us.”
Kessalt shifted, uncomfortable.
“You have softened him, then.” Beren countered.
“Not at all. He has been a credit to your order’s training countless times, keeping my daughters safe on this planet that is so dangerous that one of your Crusades faltered here, and he singlehanded.”
Beren scowled, but could say nothing to refute her words.
“The truth is, we need the protection of the sort he provides for us. And you, your order…you could have need of us as well.”
“We need nothing,” Beren said.
She pursed her lips at him as though she didn’t even think it worth the effort to refute him.
“As I was saying, honored Sword Brother,” she said. “I am not ignorant of the actions in this sector. Your crusade could use a hospital planet for your wounded. We are nearby. We are skilled. And we are familiar--as much as any mortals can be--with your ways.” She tilted her head at Kessalt, who sat, hands folded on his lap, not daring to move.
“Hospital planet.” He said the words like the combination of the two of them was insane.
“There is precedent. The Ultramarines and Iax.” She laid her hands on the table, spreading her fingers. “This could be an asset to your order. We would take the burden of their care and rehabilitation from your shoulders. You would not need to take a whole ship--or more--from your crusade. You could concentrate on your mission.”
“Iax fell.”
“Tempest will not,” she said. “As long as it is protected by the mightiest of the Adeptus Astartes.” A little flattery, but not a lie, and not misplaced.
Beren mastered his face. “I do not have the authority to agree.”
Seraphia smiled. “I suspect you do, Sword Brother.” Just a little lean on the rank. “However, my offer was not to you, but to Brother Kessalt.”
Kessalt froze.
She continued on, calmly. “I am quite strong, but even I would need help managing the weight of an Astartes. We would need the aid of someone who could.” Was she joking, at a time like this? Beren did not seem to know how to take it, either. “As well, my daughters are familiar with Brother Kessalt. They feel safe with him and,” she smiled, “they enjoy his company.”
Another hot look by Beren, and Kessalt stammered swiftly, “I have done nothing against my vows or shaming to my Chapter.”
Beren narrowed his eyes, as though misbelieving him. Kessalt could understand why, and he felt, and fought, a flush rise across his cheeks.
“He is also,” she continued, “Familiar with what Tempest has become. Its dangers and its routes. He is our best guardian and champion.”
Beren’s gaze hadn’t left Kessalt all this time. “Your answer, Initiate Brother.”
He knew that the canoness would let him go if he wanted. If he chose, he could rejoin the crusade, shed blood and wreak vengeance along with his brothers. But if that was her offer…he could help more of them in a different way. He could stay, and they would have an entire hospital dedicated to their care, and moments where, like he could, they could feel sunshine and smell something other than blood and broken souls. To kill more or to help more live? He could sacrifice his life in combat, or he could give his life in service to countless brothers.
Maybe it was the Hospitaller blood that had flushed through his system, changing him, but to him, the choice was clear. “Many of my crusade died here. It would reconsecrate this ground, and spite the daemons who still stalk the margins, if Templar boots strode this ground, using it as a place to strengthen their bodies and resolve.”
It was a yes, but a hesitant one.
Beren sat back, almost like deflating. “Very well.”
“Excellent,” she said, and clapped her hands, loudly. “Sister Agartha!” she called, to a woman on the far side of the cloister. “Come here, please!”
The sister came handing over, and the canoness reached in selecting one of the scrolls, one of several held in a sort of quiver on her hip.
“Here,’ she said, handing it like a baton to Beren. “This is the list of materials we will need to expand the building to accommodate your men. It would take about two weeks before we would be fully operational.”
Beren had reached for the scroll-case, almost as a reflex, but did not, yet, put his hand on it. “A Templar Apothecary will be deployed on site.” Dictating a term.
The canoness waved him off. “Yes, of course. Already in the plans. He would be quartered next to Brother Kessalt.”
Kessalt blinked. What was happening? How had she had the scroll ready to go?
She winked at him. “Did you think we would not fight, in our own way, to keep you, Brother Kessalt?”
No. He had not thought any such thing. It had never occurred, could never occur to him that the Hospitallers would expend any more effort than they already had on him.He already owed them so much. He could not refuse their offer. And he knew that was why she had not said anything until he'd given his answer: so his answer would be from his heart, not from obligation.
“Canoness,” he began, hesitantly. “There was an Apothecary, in my crusade, Brother Elke.”
She nodded. “And we shall name something in his honor, if you choose.” She turned up to Brother Beren. “This is suitable, yes?”
Beren had taken the scroll case, looking at the plans: building designs, lists of equipment, the scowl nearly a palpable aura around him. “It. Is.” Each syllable sounded like it was pulled out of him at great pain.
“Wonderful!” Canoness Seraphia rose to her feet. “Here is to a long and productive relationship, Sword Brother Beren.” Her smile was honeysuckle--sweet with a little edge. He acknowledged her with a brusque nod. “I will leave you two to continue your reunion.”
Beren rose. “My mission here is complete.” He still sounded uncertain, how he had lost control. He did manage a passable bow. “Thank you for your hospitality, Canoness.” His face twitched, into a minute snarl, when he looked over at Kessalt. “And you.” He let that sentence die unformed.
Kessalt had risen with him, following him and the canoness as they walked back to the colonnaded edge of the cloister.
Sisters, almost the entire establishment, had piled inside the doors, he saw, some carrying medical supplies, and a few of the senior ones carrying bolters, in armor, with Sabbat helmets looking out of place on their heads.
Beren shot a questioning glance at the canoness.
She gathered the skirts of her robe around her, serenely as she stepped up the stone stairs alongside him. “I am sure you are relieved, Brother Beren, that you do not have to attempt to kill Brother Kessalt now.” Because, clearly, the sisters would have fought for him that way, as well.
The scroll nearly dropped from Beren’s hand.
Kessalt started, his hand reaching almost on instinct for his blade. “Is that true?” He knew it was, even as he said the words. The Order could not, would not, let a rogue Templar refuse their demands.
“Immaterial,” Beren snapped. He would have won, easily, against the sisters: a handful of women, unused to warfare against a veteran Templar? They could have harried him away at best, and died in seconds at worst. There would have been no honor in it for him, but duty decreed, sometimes.
It would have been foolish to fight him, and yet, they clearly would have done.
Something stirred in his hearts thinking about that. An unwinnable battle entered on principle? He hated that he had no choice but to respect that. He found himself asking what they had done to Kessalt, but now he was thinking what Kessalt had done to wreak such changes in them.
“You did not deal honestly with me, brother,” Kessalt found it hard to hide the outrage in his voice. Even now, having been rejected from his order, he could not have prepared himself for the idea that he would have to fight one of his own. It would have been a fair fight, skill to skill, but Kessalt was not sure he would have raised a hand against his own.
“I did what was necessary. As do we all.” Beren tried to make it sound like wisdom, like a correction, but it faltered.
“What is necessary,” Seraphia said, moving smoothly between them, “is that we serve the God Emperor and the Imperium, not our own suspicions and rivalries. Let us concentrate upon our duties, brothers. The chancel is nearby if we need His gaze to steady ourselves.”
The two glared at each other over her head, but Beren subsided first. “There is no need, Canoness. I must get back to my chapter to begin…,” he turned the scroll case over in his hand, “preparations.”
“May the Emperor protect and guide you, in all things,” she replied, hands in the aquila. Dozens of sisters around her repeated the words and gesture, to his retreating steps.
The moment felt frozen, thawing only when Beren’s footsteps receded, and then Kessalt felt movement on all sides, and then he was surrounded, sisters crowding around him, clinging to his robes, a few on the verge of tears.
Their hands trembled on their weapons, but still, they held weapons. For him. For his sake.
They had been willing to fight for him, to die for him, and he…did not know what to do with that.
He stepped back slowly with one foot, giving them time to move, to drop to one knee, and they clung closer. One sister lowered her bolter, lifting the faceplate of her helmet and wrapping her arms around his waist, another held onto his arm by the elbow. If Beren turned around from the doorway he would have seen this: a crowd of red robes around the black and white of a Templar tabard, and it might have looked like they were pulling him down, but Kessalt knew, suddenly, that it was this that had held him upright for so long.