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Chapter Text

Rough wood creaked beneath your touch as you pulled on the iron handle and pried it open, dust flying.  It tickled your nose and throat, tantalizing you, and you buried your face in your elbow to muffle the coughs.  Below, the organ wheezed and sang, every pipe vibrating the floorboards and masking your sounds.

He would be furious you were here.  That you were even out of bed.

Ever since you missed your last cycle and your blood was drawn, Father Pantalone kept you separate from everyone.  Lord Dottore gave you a long, piercing stare beneath his mask when he pulled the needle from your arm but he did not speak; for him to not be as loquacious as usual was not only foreboding but a punishment in itself.

This was supposed to be a moment of happiness.  The priest certainly was elated.  You should have been.

Maybe you would have been, half a year ago, when you didn’t quite understand what you were meddling with.  Somehow, the very freedom you found within the church walls slipped through your fingers like sand.  You thought you understood, once upon a time, but as of late, a chasm formed that you weren’t sure you could cross.

Today’s church’s bells and public notices were intended for another.  

A proper union.

You were supposed to help plan, organize the flower delivery and the readings, even to tend to the bride if her faith was slipping.  You hadn’t wanted this arrangement for the young woman you once taught but if you could do nothing else, you thought it only right to see her off to her new life.

All of that was instead done by another while you stayed cooped up, head over a basin, breasts aching and body changing.  Rarely did you ever get to see another face except the chamberlain who also tended to Father Pantalone’s quarters.  After all, the priest chided when you asked, it would be inappropriate for you to be providing guidance to another.  You knew of a different kind of sanctity and therefore were ill-equipped.

“Our union is too holy for the average citizens, my lamb.  You would only confuse her,” he had said.

Part of you refused to accept that reasoning and it nagged at you day and night until this morning, when you found the strength to slip out after the crowd was gathered among the pews.  No one ever wanted to miss a bride coming down the aisle and their excitement for others was advantageous.

She looked beautiful, you mused, wrapping your dressing gown around you tighter.  A golden crown and veil, a long train, full skirts; she looked like a dream made real.  Best of all, your old student looked happy .  Good.  Perhaps she would find peace where you never would.

As Father Pantalone spoke, the scent of incense became too overbearing and your vision swam, stomach churning.  Once upon a time, it lulled you to sleep; now all it did was instantly trigger your gag reflex, like some kind of demented joke.  You covered your nose and mouth with the edge of your sleeve, masking the powerful and cloying stench, and listened.

It should have been you.

And it should have been Pantalone, no longer bearing the title of father.

With another officiant to stand watch.

You had asked, of course.  As soon as both of you knew about the results.  Something about the Tsaritsa forbidding him.  That he served her better as a man of the people, of the cloth, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t be tended to.

The second the words flew from his lips, you knew he had been lying.  If that were the Tsaritsa’s true feelings, it would have resulted in a scene privately in which you or another listened endlessly to his rants and ravings, further emphasis on why he needed what he asked for, and a sermon about trusting in the Tsaritsa that solidified the foundation of the entire flock he looked after.

Sacred covenant, caring for one another, keeping the Tsaritsa in one’s heart…you’d heard all of this before, knew it like the back of your hand, as most attendees did.

He looked otherworldly down at the pulpit, where the morning light shone behind him, throwing itself across the embroidered robes and casting a glow that only matched the metaphorical one surrounding the throne on the direct opposite side of the nave from you.

She was here to stand watch over Her people.  This union was of two noble houses, it was a given the Archon would be present.

To have divinity in the House…you would hear tale after tale of her Presence for days, lamenting how you missed Her.

It should have been you…

You bit your lip, clamping the flesh between your teeth to keep the tears at bay.  

The more you studied, the more you read about faith and the philosophical problems presented, the more holes you found that were not solvable in these walls.  More than once, you recalled the first time your tiny class was intruded upon, and your source material prodded like an open wound.

You swallowed a lump in your throat as the Father went in to recite a passage from memory, tenants of holding companionship and love through hardship and pain.  The metallic tang of blood flooded your mouth, your lip finally split, errant tears burning your cheeks and sinking into the fabric of your sleeve.

It wasn’t meant to be this way.

You sank to your knees silently, hands clamped over your mouth in a silent scream as the wave came over you like a storm.  Up here, far above the rest, chances are no one would hear but without the organ, you couldn’t take the risk.  And so instead you survived on stifled breaths so your lungs didn’t shake with wetness as you looked on between the balusters of the railing.

Only to see eyes the color of an icy morn find you after a slow head tilt upwards, as if stretching.  Your heart, already in your throat, met the back of your tongue as you stiffened, blood frozen in place.

Did She hear you?

All you could do was stare back, face tear stricken, half of your face pressed into your arms.  

Her mosaics and depictions didn’t do her justice.  They never could.  Her snowy complexion was only rivaled by a blizzard, frigid and unforgiving, and yet holding her gaze was akin to sitting in front of a hearth, warm and full of a feeling you couldn’t put a name to.  Acceptance?  Forgiveness?  Love?  Surely such an overwhelming feeling didn’t have a simple name…

The Tsaritsa returned her gaze carefully to the priest, to the couple whose hands were fastened together.  Her head movement was so subtle you wondered if you were hallucinating, delusional with envy.

Something shifted deep in your chest and the tidal wave ebbed away, as if it had never been there.  This was useless.  If you were never destined for the altar, or at least for a love that saw more to you than pliable flesh and a garden to be sown, then why let such pain flood your heart at all?

Rising to shaking knees, you skillfully avoided the squeaky floorboards as you retreated in time for the organ to kick in with its congratulatory tune.  You couldn’t be seen.  No one should see you.  As far as they were aware, you were under the Father’s care due to a harrowing experience with the Doctor.  

As soon as you closed Pantalone’s office doors, you heard the chatter from the crowd.  They would go on to tour the town and then the city, and a stillness would return to the church again within the hour.

Plenty of time to collect your thoughts, you surmised, retching over the basin once you were safely in the priest’s bedroom again.

It took everything in you not to cry when, instead of Father Pantalone, the Tsaritsa was the one who arrived for your scheduled (and supervised) walk among the cloisters and gardens, a pristine white fox settled around the collar of her thick cloak.  Your mind raced and yet came up empty; all you could do was bow lowly, not trusting yourself to speak.

“The Father has other affairs to tend to, my dear,” the Archon said.  “I so rarely get to spend time among the most dedicated of my people.  You seem so hollow for one who might, in any other circumstances, be happy.”

You blinked.  Had Pantalone been truthful, then?  

“You know, Your Majesty?” 

The question caught in your throat, like a snare around a rabbit’s foot.  Immediately, the Archon disarmed the words you provided.

“It was impossible to ignore the tiny rhythm among the crowd.  And it was not coming from the congregation.  Come.  We will speak where only the ravens hold court, lest your burdens become the new gossip.”

You fastened your cloak and let the heavy fabric settle over your shoulders before you followed the Tsaritsa out towards the cloisters.  The corridors and covered walkways were empty, with most of your fellow members of the cloth returning to their scheduled hours of meditation and prayer.  You could only recall your first encounters with the Doctor as you went, hearing his boots click against the flagstone as he unabashedly played with what knowledge he gleaned like a kitten with a ball of yarn unraveling in its paws.

He stopped visiting months ago, long before he drew your blood.  That didn’t stop his last words from etching themselves into the recesses of your skull.  

“You’ll come to me eventually, one way or another.”

Through one cloister, and another corridor, and a second covered walkway, you found yourself headed towards the greenhouses and back gardens of the church, where the merchants often came through.  The courtyard here housed a single tree in the center, a tall oak tree absent of its leaves; in all your years in service to the Archon ahead of you, never once did it sprout leaves, even in spring.  A red squirrel chittered and scrambled up the trunk as you grew closer, darting into a hole just as a wide shadow swooped and skimmed your shoulder.

You flinched and let out a startled cry as the raven called back in return, rising again to perch on one of the tree’s seemingly infinite limbs.  The single sound set off several others, mouths open and feathers ruffled.

How had you missed that many in a single place?  This was the most obvious spot to find food, between the proximity to the gardens and the opportunity to perch.  Beloved clever birds, they knew how to entertain the visiting merchants and the occasional new acolyte for extra scraps.

All you could think of was tangles of words thrown back and forth, sharp teeth, and a wall against your back, body pressed—

A hand with long beautiful fingers tinted icy blue found yours and held it, drawing your attention back to the present, to your Archon .

Celestia above, no image would ever do her justice.  Her teachings were harsh but nothing in her face expressed retribution and rage, her features soft and caring.

“How long have you been here?” She asked, gently guiding you onto the bench alongside her.

“I couldn’t tell you, Your Majesty.  Several years. I am…as much a part of this church as the pews are.” You raised your free hand to gesture at the cloister around you.  “The church gave me refuge when I had no other recourse to escape a marriage I did not want.”

“But that is not why you were crying.”

“No, Your Majesty.”

A beat, and then two, punctuated by the flapping of wings.

“Our lives rarely ever turn out as we expected them to.  But I feel the need to remind you, dear one, that you always have a choice.  Do you know why my love is eternal, Sister?  Why do so many turn to me, especially those exiled by their homeland, despite my reputation for a harsh reality?”

Sermon after sermon ran through your head, years of analysis and reading swirling.  So many centered around the notion of suffering for salvation, enduring trial after trial to become stronger in Her name.  

But your circumstances and your revelations…these were not mere trials, you came to realize.  Folly and lust led you straight into a trap and now here you were, dangling from a tree, ripe for the picking.  At some point, just like your decision to seek sanctuary in the church to flee marriage, your liaisons with the Father became…

“Choice,” you said at last.  “They turn to you because they have a choice .”

“My love is unconditional but it is purposeful.  It goes beyond the mere emotions poets and playwrights weave tales of.  Every action I make, I do so out of the desire to care for my people. It is not enough to merely have thoughts of goodwill and to smile, to be kind; one must be decisive in their love.  Choose to take actions that reflect their emotions and not just provide empty words, to do what is best for themselves and those they care about.”

You were used to those speaking in metaphors and parallels but hearing it said aloud shook the ground beneath you.  Of course there was a choice.  One that was growing distant with every passing day.

The Tsaritsa brought her other hand to cover yours, enveloping you in the closest grace you could ever have hoped for.

“When my Doctor mentioned you were well-versed in faith, I imagined you were more verbose like he is.  But I imagine it is difficult to talk and to think when you have been so ill, so under-nourished.  If the child is of a union of choice, why do you look upon its father with disdain?”

Because it isn’t love, you wanted to snap.

It might have been, once.  Or perhaps it never had been at all and you played right into the hands of a man who knew how to get what he wanted from everyone.  He only ever looked at you with pride when the results were given, eyes twinkling like he’d just looked upon a relic not seen for thousands of years.  You, too, were nothing short of a prize no one else should covet.  Dottore never returned after that initial test, and when no proper physician was called despite your worsening symptoms (and instead you were tended to by one matron experienced in such matters), you knew that you only held value because his seed had taken root inside you.

Gone was his affection, his attention, towards you .  He only ever asked about the child.  Only ever assessed your abdomen, which grew firmer by the day despite your inability to keep food and drink down.

If this was love, you never wanted to know the touch of another again.

“He gave me a child and yet he cares not for me , moya Tsaritsa.  This was the fate I did not want.  It is why I ran and came here to begin with.”

Your lips were dry and chapped, and the bitter cold was doing them no favors, drying them instantly despite your tongue’s efforts.  Head pounding, you turned your attention to the now-quiet ravens, the birds occasionally shuffling about.  The Archon’s words circled in your head, a nagging sensation creeping up your neck as you tried to think coherently.

“Why was Lord Dottore speaking of me, Your Majesty?” you asked.

The reply was simple.  “He is researching the components of godhood, faith among them.  He’ll depart for Sumeru in a week’s time to meet with the Sages of the Akademiya.  However, beforehand, he’s gathering different perspectives on the matter and when you came to mind, all others seemed to pale in comparison.  Few people have had him so…possessed with their challenge of his worldview.”

The Archon squeezed your hand once and then moved it back to your lap.  She grazed her knuckles along your chilled cheek, fingers curled inwards in a manner that made you ache for your own mother.

You winced as the bell tolled not for the next hour, but for the married couple’s departure from the church, having officially crossed the threshold together.  Any tears you wished you could shed remained to burn your eyes as you watched the Tsaritsa rise, and mechanically, you rose with her.

“To do nothing is also to make a choice, dear Cannonness.  If you wish for something, you need to take it,” the Tsaritsa said.

Her eyes lingered over your shoulder for a moment before you attempted a weak gesture of respect, your knees shaking from lack of strength.  You watched the Archon walk off, her cloak whispering against the soft, unsullied snow.

You lingered, staring at the stone facade and soaring buttresses of your home as the ravens called above.  The walls were familiar, more akin to home than your parents’ house had ever been, and you were never alone in your struggles.  At least, you weren’t before you succumbed and needed the Father’s undivided attention to steer you back on course.  But who were you fooling, really?  Especially now.  Unwed mothers were common enough here but never among the Sisters.  All of this was proof your vows meant nothing, and when the child was born and potentially had unmistakable features, there would be rumors following the poor soul for the rest of their life…

To say nothing of your self-preservation and your health.

What kind of existence was that?  What kind of faith allowed such entrapment?  Father Pantalone would never simply let you leave, not while you carried his child, and certainly not after.  You knew too much.  You might be useful again.  All members of his flock would be accounted for.

You retreated back to your bed, to your basin, mind heavy as lead.  Dinner was a typical routine of slowly managing to keep more down than before, hoping each sip of water wasn’t going to undo all of your hard work.  Father Pantalone was nowhere to be found but you knew better than to ask.  If the Tsaritsa was present today, then he was likely called away on business as Harbinger, not priest.

When you were left alone for the evening, you uttered your prayers in such a haze that all you could do was beg for forgiveness.  Weak limbs managed to pull on layer after layer again, before donning your cloak.  Swallowing the acid on your tongue, you slipped out of your prison, hoping your way was clear and your nausea cooperated long enough to make it to the stables.

How was it fair to bear this burden alone?  Used and left to merely suffer through what so many would consider to be joyous?  Only for the life birthed to be given over to hypocrisy…

You swayed in your path when you finally arrived at the stables beyond the greenhouses, vision swimming, body protesting at both your movement and your mere existence.  No lanterns were lit, no hands on duty.  Naturally.  The order of monks who tended to the livestock were safely tucked into their dormitories, as you should have been.  You felt your knees buckle but instead of hitting the flagstone, you felt a strong weight beneath your arms.  The faint scent of mint mixed with damp hay and dirt, but it was nonetheless unmistakable.

“What are you doing here?” you mumbled.

“Following an educated guess,” came the steely reply.  “The Tsaritsa holds sway with you, after all.  You always take her words to heart.  Consider it part of my research.”

Dottore righted you and propped you up against the barn.  In the dark, with only the faintest hints of moonlight and the nearest lamp for light, you could only make out the outline of his mask and the bulk of his cloak.  You swallowed a wave of nausea.

“Where will you go, hmm?  You’d have about an eight hour headstart and you have no food, no water, and you’re already severely dehydrated.  Only a fool risks this in the hopes of reaching death’s door.”

You remained silent, not daring to waste the energy fighting that death was preferable to this.  Your child did not deserve to be born under such circumstances, out of a mistake, blinded by devotion that was not reciprocated.  Your life as you knew it was over anyway, whether they were born or not; what difference did it make?

“Take me with you,” you rasped.  “To Sumeru.  As an advisor.”

You felt him step closer, the weight of his cloak pressing into yours, feathers tickling your nose as he ducked down.  The usual slight cramping in your lower stomach, signs of your body accommodating another, gave way to a more familiar, more comforting ache that stretched through your whole being.  You’d missed him.  Since when did such a pest take up space in your mind, in your heart?

Perhaps that was just the result of the weeks of loneliness, of isolation.  You yearned for anyone, anything, that paid you heed.

A hand snaked through the seam in your cloak and pressed against your abdomen.

“And what do you think will happen when the Regrator finds out his colleague risked the life of his unborn child for such a request?  Or do you intend to erase your supposed sin?”

When you didn’t answer, Dottore chuckled lowly, his breath tickling your ear. 

“I see.  Travel will be difficult regardless, whichever condition you decide.”

His lips grazed your ear, as though he wanted to say something but thought better of it.  Instead, he pulled away, and left you only long enough to retrieve his horse.  He seated you first before settling into the saddle behind you, keeping you steady.  The horse’s footing was solid in the snow once you left the church property and trees began to envelope the path, obscuring the midnight sky.

He still had questions.  You could practically feel them rolling off in waves, dancing like fireflies in summer meadows.  When you had your strength, you would tackle them, and you were grateful he had enough tact to keep them at bay.

“You will be leaving all of this behind forever,” Dottore said, his words as cold as the wind chapping your face.  “Possibly all of Sneznhaya will be closed off to you if he has his say.”

You gazed out ahead at the forest path, at the mountains in the distance, and the stars glistening high above.  

“I do not need a place in order to have faith, in order to believe in Her Majesty and the Seven’s reign.  And I do not need a mouthpiece through which to commune.  There is nothing left for me here.”

Chapter Text

Working papers were forged to create a record of your employment as soon as you were smuggled into his private office.  When you’d refused to uncover your hair, Lord Dottore huffed and stared at you as if you were little more than a speck of dust on one of the many slides scattered across his desk.  After a moment, he scribbled down a position, listing you as a devoted handmaid to the Tsaritsa.  

“You speak similarly enough to them.  If anything, it lends further credibility,” he explained.  “Handmaids of Her Majesty are not to be ‘defiled’, and thus it would not be out of the ordinary to request such a procedure from the medical staff.”

Your mouth twitched and you felt your brow crease before the Harbinger chuckled.

“My moniker is deceiving but you’re well aware by now that I’m not a medical professional.  My specialties lie in the theoretical and proving or disproving everything about the world and beyond.  If you are to accompany myself and Omega, then you must survive such a procedure, and therefore be placed in the care of those with different skills.”

He spoke so plainly, so logically .  It grated on your nerves, reminiscent of a sickly kind smile between your legs and golden eyes drinking you in like the Sacramental Rite.  As if you were to know who or what Omega was, that his title was akin to that of someone who reached the highest levels of education possible.  What had Father Pantalone once said?  That the Doctor loved the irony of expulsion and earning his title regardless?

“Even one such as myself knows some things are best left to those dedicated to such fields,” Lord Dottore said.  “I understand the forms of many living creatures but I do so with the intention of advancement .”

“How humble of you,” you muttered in return.

He gave no response, no indication he even humored your reply.  A part of you yearned for months prior, when he would have pivoted and shot back a rebuke.  Part of you wondered if he pitied you before you swallowed the laugh that bubbled up behind your nausea.  Pity implied an emotional connection, something the Doctor was well-known to not be capable of.

You were introduced to Omega when the paperwork was finished, your skin crawling at the sight of a doppelganger of the Harbinger you knew.  The infamous Il Dottore was capable of putting anyone in a state of unease, as he had when you first met, but this was an entirely different sensation.  Omega in particular made you feel as if you were staring at a mirage in a desert oasis.  Your mind focused on the texture of Omega’s skin, natural movement, and finally settled on his lack of chest motions.  He never once needed to take a breath.

The Doctor had created life, synthetic, in his own image.  If not for the slight tinge of authority in the Harbinger’s voice, you would never be able to tell him and Omega apart.

“And you think she’ll be in any condition to be useful, Prime?” Omega’s sneer was palpable, intended to be felt.  “She can barely keep that head of hers upright.”

“By the time you actually need a well-versed individual on matters of faith and persuasion, yes.  You act as if she cannot hold conversations during recovery.  Direct your questions to her, consider her a subject in her own right, you need not go through me.”

He handed over the papers to Omega and turned away from both of you.  “File these with Pierro’s staff, have them expedite her papers, and take her to medical.”

As you rose, swaying a little but managing to steady yourself, the Harbinger asked you one last question.  “You are certain of your decision?”

You knew his train of thought, for it was the same one that spiraled in your mind when you were awake these last few weeks.  Lord Dottore turned back towards you and leaned back in his chair to assess you again, lifting his chin.  You couldn’t make out his features beneath the mask from such an angle except for what appeared to be prominent cheekbones and the bottom of his nose.

A flash of heat ran through your mind as you remembered feeling stone against your back, his mouth on yours, practically devouring you.  What would he have been like, as your first?  It was evident now, in hindsight, that it was only a matter of time before you forsook your vows of celibacy.  Devotion was not a word the Second knew beyond his own dedication to arrogance and knowledge, a glutton for understanding all the world had to offer.  He would not have knelt in reverence, but in duty to the art of observation.

But what was an observer if not a Witness?

You swallowed a lump in your throat before you spoke.

“I do not waver in my faith.  What makes you think decisions about bodily autonomy and freedom would be any different?”

You had nothing else to say and no longer wished to serve as entertainment.  Without another word, you left the private study, Omega’s boots clicking behind you.

The procedure was explained to you in detail once you were passed along to the appropriate staff member.  They took one look at Omega, barely a glance at your papers, and understood that this was not a moment to question the age of the coffee ring in the corner of your identification card.

One medication now to help prepare your body before you would be put under, but it needed time to work, according to the practitioner.  Without the strength to walk the gardens per the suggestion, you were changed and settled into a cot at the far end of the infirmary with only Omega for company.

His orders were only to bring you here but he lingered, like a fly on a wall in summer.  While he didn’t speak, he never let you forget he was there; just when he’d begun to blend into the background of the room, he moved, pacing and keeping himself within sight of the staff.  If he were anyone else, or a copy of anyone else, you’d almost consider the behavior protective.  No other patients occupied the free beds, and the entire wing remained empty save the occasional nurse who broke the silence between you and the familiar stranger nearby.

After a couple of hours, you were presented with multiple painkillers and an anti-inflammatory before playing the waiting game again.

This time, once you were left alone, Omega’s eyes crawled along your skin akin to the sensation of a spider, light but entirely purposeful.  The heavier painkiller hit quickly with how little you had in your system and you were thankful it would keep whatever headache you might receive from the set of opening lips nearby.

“Is there not a doctrine of yours that proclaims all life to be sacred?  That it begins at the moment of conception and should not be interrupted, lest a human proclaim to be acting as an Archon?” The Segment held out a hand, palm up in open questioning, as if beckoning you to answer. 

You’d studied the verses and the interpretations for years; you’d heard every iteration of them.  You did not need to think of a response, which your brain would not have been able to provide if you needed proper cognitive functions.

“There is,” you replied.  “But the very same paragraph goes on to stipulate what love under an Archon looks like and the responsibilities one has to their family and community to work against the sin we are all born with in the aftermath of the Cataclysm.”

“Life is not inherently a sin.  It simply is.”

“It was created outside of a proper union, not with intention.”

“Perhaps not your intention, Cannoness.  A consequence of an action.  The action itself is not sinful, merely an act of nature.”

“He said that, too.  But no one else will ever bear the consequences, feel their body change and make room for something they feel ill-equipped to take care of.  So yes , Lord Harbinger, my answer remains the same.”

Omega fell silent for a moment, gloves finger resting beneath his bottom lip as he dipped his head in thought.  The eternal paradox stumped most who were not believers, and in truth, you were not so blind to the logical loophole as you were willingly turning the other way to it.  If you ever encountered anyone else in your position, you were uncertain whether you would steer them to take the steps you were halfway down or to climb back, inch by inch, all because life was sacred to the Tsaritsa, to the Archons and the Principles they upheld.

“And so, you’re afraid,” Omega said at last, shattering the growing silence.

You glared at him but it did nothing to stop his train of thought.  You should have expected as much but you could barely think about the prospect of five minutes from now, let alone predict his actions (assuming he was, of course, anything like the Lord Dottore you knew).  Omega chuckled and then continued.

“It is not your ability you doubt; I have access to enough of Prime’s memories to know you are capable of caring for others.  You fear the Father, the separation, and the wrath you incur if you keep the child from him.  And so instead, you have chosen for neither of you to be gifted with life.  You would otherwise not rely on such fallacies to justify yourself.  Fools like yourself who turn to the Gods for meaning and guidance are always fearful .”

The metallic tang of blood spilled across your tongue as you bit the inside of your cheek hard, willing yourself to keep your mouth shut.  Lord Dottore was direct but never so tactless .  He’d poked and prodded verbally but it never hurt, it never felt like you were being ripped apart like a broken book.  You gripped the sheets and slowly tore your eyes away from Omega.

“As children, especially as nobles, we are taught that the world is filled with wolves and lambs,” you said at last.  “Leaders and followers.  I may have forsaken my duty, my family, and instead chose to serve the church but that does not make me afraid .  Not every wolf is capable of being the head of the pack and may instead choose submission.  I understand my nature.”

Omega, despite not needing air, let out a mocking breath through his nose.  You whipped your head back in his direction, the room spinning as you felt your mouth turn into a snarl.

“The Father can kill me for all I care if he ever finds out what I’ve done.  The alternative is a far worse existence for a life that did not ask to be created.”

The last thing you remembered was the smirk across Omega’s lips as the proper doctor came into view to take you into the surgical suite.

Forgive me, you thought beneath the bright lights that blurred your vision, but this is not your time .

Antibiotics.

Contraception.

You rolled the bottles in your hand in the dim morning light, glass clinking gently in the dull silence of the lower deck.  The aching and cramping were minimal now, but the bleeding persisted.  You’d expected as much until your body began to regulate itself again with the hormonal fluctuations.

That first night after the procedure, you’d been too tired and in pain to do more than shove toast in your mouth and collapse.  Your appetite and ability to eat returned to normal before long but old habits of small humble meals were difficult to beat.  Now, aboard the ship destined for Sumeru, the crew and the other traveling Fatuus grumbled about the food portions at times.  It took everything in you not to laugh to yourself at breakfast; they’d never have survived under Father Pantalone’s miserly kitchen budgets.  Not that you could say as such.  As far as they knew, you were little more than a handmaid sent to soften Lord Dottore’s harsh ego (after all, you had your own tiny quarters, not a hammock like the rest of them).  

If any suspected you came from the far reaches outside of the capitol, no one dared say so.

At this hour, only the crew was up and active, checking charts and positioning.  Sleep never came easily anymore and after you took your prescribed medications, you dressed and trekked up the wide steps onto the deck.  The air was cool but beginning to carry with it an unfamiliar stickiness.  Humidity, you heard it was called, and yet neither Omega nor Lord Dottore seemed bothered by it.  Then again, only Omega was ever seen out of the designated Harbinger quarters, and always with the satisfactory smirk who knew too much.

His company was no easier to manage but for now, he only ever picked your brain when you were below deck and out of earshot of others.  You doubted it was for your own benefit when the entire ship was humming with intrigue about the Akademiya’s Sages and what the Nation of Wisdom was like.

You fixed your headcovering, a compromise born out of your desire for modesty and Lord Dottore’s intention of making your profession convincing, and found a spot far out of the way of the crew.  Nothing would ever beat the sunrise streaming through stained glass but you were finding the sea to be a comfort in its own right.  Glass waves rocked the boat gently, reflecting pink and amber and purple, kissing dawn on the horizon.  Nothing but water as far as your eye could see.  How small your world had been only a few weeks ago.

Even out here, surrounded by the sea and out of Her element, you could feel Her.  In the wind, in the way the sun glittered across the surface, in the way the sails whipped and the crew laughed despite their hard work.

She was here, even if no one knelt in reverence to Her.

A shout from the crew above drew your attention just as a strong wind whipped across the deck.  It knocked you against the railing and when you got your footing back, you felt the air against your bare hair; the fabric you wore in its usual fashion was already over the sea and out of reach, fluttering like a teasing lover.

You deserved that, in hindsight.  After all, you hadn’t pinned it in place.  Below deck, you never needed to.

It wasn’t the end of the world, but that one was a favorite.  You’d picked it just before boarding, the same blue as the Tsaritsa’s hands, and just as soft.  It felt like a part of her was with you, sheltering you, even on the other side of the world.  Waving off a crew member who noticed, you told them not to worry and returned below deck.  

You felt naked with your bare hair on display.   Not that your hair mattered one way or another but it was your preference; it meant something for the world to see you .

Just as you finished the steps and turned to head back towards your quarters, a voice right behind you stopped you in your tracks.  

“Perhaps now you’ll consider being more careful.”

For a moment, your brain juggled between cadences, felt around for verbal patterns.  Omega and the actual Lord Dottore were similar enough that most mistook one for the other; the most you ever heard discussed was an occasional quick change in mood, with the Harbinger himself being far more disgruntled during the journey so far.

You looked over your shoulder and saw that he was without his usual overcoat and corvid decor; this was the actual Doctor, then, for Omega always wore his overcoat.  It was difficult to draw your eyes away from the slim fitting shirt that hinted at the muscles you remembered feeling what felt like a century ago.  His neck was exposed, top button undone, a column of skin you’d never gotten a good glimpse at before.  How would his pulse feel beneath your lips?  Would he have allowed you such a thing?  Heat crept up your face and you looked lower to find the fabric of his necktie fisted in his extended hand.

He looked a little worse for wear, as if the journey did not agree with him.

Before you could answer, Dottore closed the distance and draped the fabric over your head.  Confused, you tried to look up only for him to adjust your head back to its previous position.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

You felt the fabric tighten as he twisted and tied ends, pulled this way and that, before tucking stray hair and parts of the ascot out of the way.

“If you must cover up, as you clearly insist on continuing old habits , then do it efficiently.”

He spat the words as he pulled away and you reached up to feel his handiwork.  It was tight around your head but not unpleasantly so, and had good mobility and visibility.  The knot itself was simple and by touch, you had an idea of what he’d done and how.

You stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to thank him or question the fact that he had, in fact, only just reinforced the tenants by which you still lived part of your life.  Why would a man who debated on whether or not divinity could be replicated, replaced, and capable of being surpassed by humanity bother with such a trivial matter?

And then you recalled his fingers wiping away your tears and smoothed out your hair when you denied him more.  Was this a game, you wondered?  Was he spurned by the notion that you’d given yourself to the Father, taken exactly what he’d said about divinity through intimacy and sought it with another?

In the few days you’d been awake and within the same space as him, neither of you remarked on that last moment.  

“I’d have thought you’d rather see me without a hair covering,” you remarked, your words braver than you felt.

He stepped closer and you found your back pressed against the wood paneling of the nearest private quarters.  Heat, you once thought channeled into other outlets and long since gone, pooled in familiar places and although you were no longer pure by previous standards, part of you wished to feel nothing at all.  That’s what got you into all of this, anyway.  Your body wasn’t ready and all of it felt so foreign in light of recent events but nonetheless, you would be remiss to ignore the fire that never died out.

“Perhaps one day, it’ll be of your own volition and not the wind’s,” Dottore replied, his breath tantalizingly close.  “I am known to be patient in the pursuit of worthwhile knowledge.”

Did he not already have it, you wanted to ask.  Considering how direct he’d been before?

“How would you have done it?”

The question shuddered from your lungs, a curiosity you’d repressed entirely in the face of the last few months.  It came to mind every time you’d been beneath Father Pantalone, every time your body responded mechanically to each orgasm he’d pulled from your body.

The Second Harbinger pressed against you, hands never far out of reach of your hips and yet never touching, head cocked to give you better access to his mouth and expression.  You saw the tip of his tongue touch his teeth as he smiled, bemused.

“Done what , precisely, dear Sister?”

Your cheeks burned but you didn’t look away from the mask that kept his gaze hidden from you.  It never stopped the way you felt his eyes examine you, study you, covet you.

“Taken me,” you whispered.

His scoff was felt more than heard but by the slightest widening of his smile, you knew he had swallowed a clever comeback.  In this position, he easily could , and you would not be disturbed in this area of the ship.

Your lungs ached as Dottore leaned forward, his lips finding your ear as he pressed you into the wooden planks, the surface creaking beneath the pressure.

“On the altar for all to see.  Amid all of those meaningless relics the Father cherishes so much.  Your cries would have drowned out the morning bells.”

Your core pulsed, the dull ache that was ever present for the last week curbing whatever pleasure you might have derived from the thought he presented.  It was fitting for a man who gave no thought to religion and the divine to take from the flock in the most sacred part of the church, where any and all would be welcome to watch your downward spiral, consumed by lust.  Would you have felt shame, you wondered?  Or would you have already forsaken the regard for others’ opinions in search of your own way to the divine, a search for more than just scripture and hypocrisy?

“As I said, the church doesn’t deserve you,” he whispered, teeth nipping at your exposed ear.

“And you do?”

“Should I not be asking that of you?  What would the Second Fatui Harbinger ever want with a disgraced cannoness who allowed herself to be so deceived by her superior?”

A hand caught yours before you could reach up, fingers arched not to slap but to scratch.  Anger flared deep inside you.  Of course no one would understand your choices, your mistakes, how you would never forgive yourself for being so stupid.  Why would Lord Dottore be any different?

“You are not here to warm a bed; you are here to provide a perspective in exchange for protection.  Self-reflection is often far more useful than lashing out at those who did not wrong you, Cannoness.”

He let go of your hand abruptly, almost tossing it aside, and stepped back.  You cradled your wrist under his heavy gaze, the heat of the moment gone as if someone dumped a bucket of ice on you.  Emotional reactions were expected, even reasonable, given the sudden changes to your body but blaming hormones felt weak, pathetic.  You were still responsible for your reactions.

Had all of those months full of lust and false justifications truly made your mind so addlepated?  It wasn’t all that long ago that you would have been arguing with the Harbinger, entertaining ideas outside of your tiny world, all while still tending to your duties, fully aware of who you were, what you believed in…

The world you knew had crumbled at your feet and all you had to remember it by were medicine bottles and aches and persistent bleeding.

Perhaps he knew that, because without another word, the Harbinger walked away, back towards whatever section of the boat he kept to, leaving you alone in the cyclone of your thoughts.