Chapter Text
- – — – -
It’s a feeling burned deep into her soul, where most days it simply simmers, but on others, it boils and burns hot like flowing lava.
Helplessness.
And she feels it now, churning violently in her chest.
Mother Superion looks down at the bloodied bodies of her sisters, the threat of unshed tears blurring her vision. She’d not known these women, as separate chapters rarely interacted and were largely independent. But they were her sisters nonetheless.
A quick prayer will have to suffice. It’s all she can do.
The air is stale, but she breathes it in deeply, lets it take root in her lungs, and Mother Superion steels herself again.
Always again.
“What do we do with them?” She turns to Camila, sees the gun in her hand tremble slightly, a mixture of sadness and anger on her tear-stained face.
She remembers the convent, dead nuns scattered all around, pools of blood sullying holy marble floors.
Helpless.
She thinks of the other OCS chapters, their lights flickering on the map and then brutally extinguished.
Helpless, again and again.
A half dozen bodies lay here in the library, likely more throughout this compound, and no obvious place for a large burial or cremation. And there is no time—Ava will soon be here.
“There is nothing we can do right now. We must leave them.”
- – — – -
Mary was gone. Dead.
She’d clung onto the hope that she might still be alive. None of her girls had seen her body after she’d become swarmed by the possessed. Mary could have made it out. She could have been out there, looking for a way to come back home. Back to her.
Camila latches on to her habit, grip tight and pulling at her waist as she weeps uncontrollably into her lap. They collapse onto the floor as she holds Camila closer. She ignores the sharp pain in her bad hip, the rough concrete digging into her knees.
She cries now, tears falling freely down her face, too tired to hold it in, too weary to hide it.
Mary’s with God now.
God.
All He does is take.
- – — – -
It barely registers, the small bubble of happiness that fills and pops when Ava wraps her arms around her. She feels her mind and body settle, enjoys it for a second, then softly aches for it when they part.
Mother Superion looks at Ava, takes in the warm smile on her face. So young, so unrestrained. So free and naive, still.
She would compare herself to Ava, unconsciously and consciously. Sees herself, unscarred, reflected in those big doe eyes.
At first, it was all she could see.
The arrogance. A cancer that spreads and sucks life out of everyone it touches. She knew it of herself, and had seen the start of metastasis in Ava.
Then her willfulness. Headstrong, undeterred and unyielding. Like she was looking into a mirror.
But Ava’s innocence. Undeserving of all the pain and suffering of her childhood, of what now lies in her future.
This is where they differ.
Innocence.
Mother Superion has never known it.
- – — – -
She takes a bite out of the shapely pastry, savoring the sweetness on her tongue.
Adriel.
Vincent.
Even Duretti, for the shit he pulled to get himself elected Pope.
She takes another bite.
It’s always the ones with dicks.
- – — – -
Every muscle in her body screams for it, to pull the trigger and be done with this traitor.
But they were friends once, lived and worked together, with respect and comradery, and a mutual love for God. To serve the Order. To protect the sister warriors, the Warrior Nun—that was their task to live and to die by.
And then his betrayal, in the name of a false prophet. Judas.
Father Vincent deserves to die. An eye for an eye. One for Shannon, the other for Mary. And all the eyes he doesn’t have, for every warrior sister murdered in their homes.
Mother Superion breaks his leg instead.
Mercy, as God would have it. Forgiveness.
No.
She wishes a fate for him worse than death.
- – — – -
It seems odd that they’ve never met. With the Arc and Adriel and everything in between, their paths should have crossed by now.
Her girls have spoken of Jillian Salvius, described how she looked and how she spoke and how in awe they were of her state-of-the-art labs with resources beyond imagination.
They spoke of her brilliance, her wondrous science. Her gateway to Heaven.
Mother Superion sees the scientist, watches her from across the room, and doesn’t know what to expect. She remains curious, cautious.
Walking through her opulent home, the differences between their lives are innumerable and clear as day.
Dr. Salvius is rich and well-insured. All from her science, her manipulation of DNA and biology, changing what was made by the hands of God. Mother Superion doesn’t understand much of it, but she knows it’s all blasphemous.
She wanders from the group, her call with Francesco about the secret conclave ended.
She sits on a bench in the courtyard, basking in the warmth of her dark habit heated by the sun. A strange calm runs through her, a fleeting sense of safety and security.
Mother Superion stands suddenly, hand tightly gripping her cane, before the feeling takes hold.
- – — – -
The villa is sprawling, irregular and asymmetrical. Rooms are small, hallways narrow, and everywhere seems to lead toward the center—the large, high-ceiling, almost church-like room that houses the Arc.
She’d never seen it before. Only heard of it from the girls, imagined what it’d look like if it were truly an entrance into Heaven.
Cold steel, rigid and sterile. Lifeless.
Not a gateway to God, but to Adriel’s realm, neither heaven nor hell, but something else entirely unknown.
She scoffs at it, at the technology that’s made this possible. The science that defies God’s will, and continues to defy everything she believes in.
The Arc activates then, a bright shimmer of undulating light at the center of the ring, before it just as quickly vanishes.
Mother Superion’s eyes are wide, breath caught in her throat, and she can’t help but marvel at it, at the unexpected glimpse of… something.
- – — – -
“One of your girls is looking for you.” Mother Superion hears the doctor’s voice before spotting her emerging from behind some bushy foliage.
She finds herself sitting again, tired, at the center of the hedge maze, not at all surprised that this woman’s property includes said hedge maze.
The sun begins to set, casting a warm glow over everything. It’s heavenly.
“They could have called—”
“You left your mobile inside.” Dr. Salvius stands before her, hair in a disheveled bun, shirt loose and partially unbuttoned. She gestures toward the bench, “May I?”
Mother Superion nods, her hands fidgeting over her cane. “They couldn't come find me?”
“Oh, they’re still searching. My home is… vast.”
Mother Superion hums in agreement and Dr. Salvius chuckles quietly.
She assures her that while the girls are looking for her, it isn’t anything urgent.
So they sit there, in companionable silence, for a moment without necessity or concern. A rare and welcome quiet.
The doctor’s presence is unlike the high energy that exudes from her young warrior sisters. It’s a calm and subtle joy that surrounds her, having been reunited with her son just hours ago. Mother Superion is glad for her, for the small miracle amongst ceaseless tragedy.
The doctor’s not what she imagined, not cold and calculating like what she thinks is her science, but rather—
A rumbling stomach breaks the reverie, exchanging it for shy laughter in the cooling evening air, as they both rise and head back inside.
- – — – -
Dr. Salvius leads them to the kitchen, where they find Michael and the nuns already preparing supper.
“There you are!”
Yasmine insists she sit, and that the meal is taken care of. Mother Superion shrugs but obliges, gesturing to the doctor to do the same. They sit at the table, watching the girls and Michael bustle around, chatting and giggling, so carefree, as if the world might not be ending in just a few day’s time.
She imagines Mary there, and Lilith, and Shannon, laughing joyfully with all the other sisters they’ve lost.
Her eyes glaze over and her peripheral vision fills with unintelligible movement. A subtle but pained expression stretches across her scarred face, her body still as stone.
A hand rests softly at her shoulder, pulling her from the fog. When her head turns, she’s greeted by Dr. Salvius’ warm smile and understanding look.
A look shared only by those who’ve known loss.
Mother Superion brings her hand up over the doctor’s, offers a thankful squeeze before letting go and turning toward the girls.
“Ava, stop juggling the eggs!”
- – — – -
“There’s a maze?!”
It’s gotten dark out, but Mother Superion sees the bright glow of phone screens moving about. The nuns grab one another, pulling Michael with them, as they trot and laugh their way toward the maze. “What the hell! I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about this—this fucking labyrinth!”
She watches them for a bit, as the glow of their phones become specks of light in the distance.
So young. Carefree—at least in these few moments.
But it won't last.
In the sitting room, Mother Superion clears off the coffee table and lights a few candles, before dropping to her knees in between the sofa and table, and clasping her crucifix tightly.
She prays in her mother tongue, words slipping fast and smooth past her lips.
She prays for Lilith, and for Mary.
She prays for every nun caught up in this mess, warrior or not.
She prays for the guidance and wisdom to defeat Adriel.
Her voice begins to crack, unshed tears threaten to fall, but she doesn’t notice, too deep in prayer. In her trust of God.
She prays for Ava, for her strength and will, to do with the Halo what she could not.
She prays for absolution.
- – — – -
The doctor tells the nuns to choose any bedroom they’d like. Mother Superion watches as Ava sprints down the hall and calls 'dibs' on the largest room at the end with an adjoining corner patio. The other nuns follow her and choose rooms nearby.
“Those are the guest rooms,” Dr. Salvius motions toward where the sisters have dispersed, “and I’m sure you’ll want to stay with the other nuns, but I do have a few rooms in the other wing. Larger ones. More privacy, if you prefer.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I will stay with them.”
“Of course. Each room should have spare clothes in the cupboards, towels, toiletries and the like.” She catches Dr. Salvius staring at the scars on her face, the woman stammering a bit over her next words, “And, um, let me know if you or the others need anything.”
“Thank you, Dr. Salvius.” She looks down the hallway, eyeing one of the unoccupied rooms before moving to grab her things.
“Jillian.” Mother Superion stops and turns to face the slightly taller woman, brows raised. “Just… Jillian.”
“Thank you,” a rare smile graces her face, “Jillian.”
- – — – -
Mother Superion rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs deeply, dropping the book to her side and rising from the bed.
Nearly midnight and the girls are gathered in Camila’s room, still chattering over whatever they're watching on their mobile phones. She hears the volume of the video unexpectedly increase, followed by a loudly whispered, “Shhhh! You’re going to wake her up!”
She misses the thick walls of convents.
Gathering a few of her things and throwing a thick shawl over her shoulders, she leaves the warm comfort of her bed and heads toward the other wing of guest rooms.
Jillian and Michael must still be working late into the night as every room Mother Superion passes is dark and empty. There’s much to discuss about the other realm, she thinks. So much to catch up on between mother and son.
She chooses a room that looks bare and unoccupied, and slips under the covers. She begins reading her book beneath the bedside light, until she dozes off into the warmth and smell of sweetly clean sheets.
- – — – -
In the morning, the sound of shuffling about her room startles her awake, and her hand immediately moves to her cane by the bed, ready to reveal its hidden blade.
“Sorry! Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just needed to grab a few of my things.” It’s Jillian, rummaging through a dresser, pieces of clothing draped over her shoulders, her hands raised in surrender.
“What? I—wait, is this—is this your room?” Mild panic leeches into Mother Superion's mind, not at the prospect of an early morning assassin, but at the thought of having accidentally trespassed into someone’s private space.
“I, um, it is, but I—I don’t use it often. I just keep some of my clothes here, as I usually sleep in my office or at my desk or on the sofa, whichever’s closest, really...” Jillian averts her eyes as if unsure if she’s allowed to see a nun outside of her habit like this, lying in bed. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”
Mother Superion chuckles at the sight of a flustered, beet-red Jillian. “No, I am sorry. The fault is mine. I didn’t know this was your room, but I just had to get away from the girls’ midnight partying.”
Jillian nods, head turned and still avoiding her gaze.
“And it’s ok. There's no need to look away,” she says amusedly, “I’m not naked, for Heaven's sake.”
- – — – -
Mother Superion returns with Yasmine and the others from the secret conclave-turned-slaughter, habit caked in blood. Her heart still races, muscles tense, mind and nerves on edge. A heated fervor still pumps through her veins.
It’s been years since she’s fought like that. By herself. Not since the Halo was hers. And despite the circumstances, it felt… good. She felt capable.
No.
She felt ravenous.
Camila rushes over to her the second she hops out of the van, arms snaking around her waist and squeezing her into an unrelenting hug. She pats the young nun’s head, cherishing the contact, but gently pushes away. “Camila, I’m fine. I just need a bath,” gesturing to all the blood.
“Not until the doctor looks you over, okay?” Camila pulls away, and Mother Superion can hardly refuse her. She has to speak to the good doctor anyway.
“Okay, okay.”
- – — – -
After examining the others, Jillian approaches Mother Superion. “Ready?”
“You don’t need to look me over,” she stops Jillian in her tracks, grabbing her arm when the doctor reaches for her.
“I really should.” She hears hesitation in the woman's voice, a growing uncertainty in response to the unexpected resistance. “Mother Superion, please...”
Her grip tightens around Jillian’s forearm, watching as the doctor winces and tries to pull away. “Your technology. Arq-Tech. You’re creating the plagues.”
She watches as panic lights up her eyes, gears turning in her head. “What?! No, I—that’s not—”
Mother Superion pulls her closer, voice low and seething, “Then what?”
“It must be—it must be Kristian! It all makes sense now. I left my company to him. That’s why I’m here, at home. I—I had to step away from my work, to focus on...," Tears well in her eyes, her voice devastated, “...on finding my son.”
Mother Superion tenses, clears her face of emotion and loosens her grip. “You had nothing to do with this?”
“No, it wasn’t me—I swear.” Jillian wipes her eyes with her free arm, with the sleeve that covers her scars. Her voice is quiet, defeated, “I swear.”
Mother Superion releases her arm and leaves, leaving Jillian stunned in her wake.
In the privacy of her room, she takes off her bloodied habit, piece by piece, revealing blood-soaked skin. She turns her bare back toward the mirror, gaze falling upon a large dark bruise overlapping the ragged circular scar of the Halo.
- – — – -
Jillian excuses herself at supper.
Mother Superion finds her in what she assumes is her son’s old room. She enters, taking in the plethora of scribbled drawings plastered on the walls. “You should eat.”
Jillian sits in the strange spherical contraption of a child’s bed, knees drawn up against her chest. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t move.
Mother Superion sighs, shifting her weight uncomfortably, not accustomed to doing what she’s about to do. “Mi dispiace, Jillian. I am sorry.” She steps closer, out from under the door frame. “I had to be sure.”
When Jillian looks up, she swears she see the doctor's eyes glow blue in the moonlight. “I understand.” She looks toward her son’s drawings. “I just wonder, if I’d never built the Arc. Or developed any of this damned technology. If I never had... Michael, none of this—none of this would be happening. The world wouldn’t be in peril of supernatural demons!”
Stamping her cane down, Mother Superion’s words are stern and decisive, “You are not at fault.”
Jillian scoffs, shaking her head, “No, but I certainly didn’t help it, did I?”
She offers her hand out to the scientist. “You are helping now.”
- – — – -
Camila comes to her, troubled, telling her of the strange cross embedded in her neck, how Adriel has been able to invade her mind, make her see and hear things that aren’t there.
She can’t even pray, for her prayers would only get sucked out of the air before ever reaching God’s ears.
Mother Superion’s concern is evident at once, brows crossed, as Camila explains in more detail, round eyes glossy with tears.
She sees the fear in the young nun, her mind and thoughts made vulnerable by some… devil.
How she now doubts herself.
No.
She shakes her head, grabbing Camila’s shoulders, refusing to believe in this weakness, “Use it.”
- – — – -
They have less than twenty-four hours until the televised rally at Adriel’s Cathedral, and planning gets underway.
They all spend much of the time in the large room with the Arc, going over the Cathedral's blueprints and security systems, Jillian’s data on the building and all her technology proving invaluable.
The Arc buzzes alive again, for only a split moment, before disappearing. Mother Superion’s eyes stay glued to the apparatus, transfixed.
“It’s becoming more frequent. The prayers, the energy. It’s getting stronger by the second.” Jillian moves to her side, offering her a cup of coffee which she graciously accepts.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” The cup warms her hands and she continues, “Meraviglioso. It’s a wonder.”
Jillian laughs at that, not derisively, but with genuine surprise. “Really? I was sure you’d think it was blasphemous. Sacrilegious. An affront to God and religion itself. Quite literally designed by the devil.”
“At first, yes,” Mother Superion admits. She turns to Jillian, reading past the confusion on her face. “But now I’m not so sure.”
- – — – -
Mother Superion is no stranger to technology, but she’s hardly a savant.
Watching Jillian tinker about various devices, working swiftly on the computer at her desk, it’s curious how different they are, with their proficiency in completely different skill sets.
Jillian shifts, reaching for a drawer, when she jumps slightly off her seat, surprised by Mother Superion standing not far behind her shoulder. “Je—!…sus.”
“Sorry,” a yielded hand raised.
Jillian places a calming palm to her chest, breathing out deeply. “So quiet, and all that dark clothing, you’re like a—”
“A nunja*.”
“A what?” Jillian looks at her, bemused.
Mother Superion speaks plainly, “A ninja and a nun,” and just barely grins, appreciating her own dry humor. “A nunja.”
She’d heard the girls use that term to describe her once. Well, maybe more than once.
- – — – -
Mother Superion observes Beatrice and Ava practicing her levitation in the courtyard, worry filling her mind knowing the Halo may give out at any moment if Ava's not careful.
Ava struggles, but reaches for Beatrice to get back on her feet. That arrogance, now, it’s something else. Trust, reliance, cooperation.
Devotion.
There’s a soft fondness in Beatrice’s expression, as she pulls Ava up, one that Mother Superion’s never quite seen on her face before, and she can’t help but smile.
- – — – -
“Are you sure you want to go?” Yasmine is not a warrior sister. She’s had no combat or weapons training, and knows only the basics of how not to die.
“Yes, I want to help,” Yasmine says confidently, determined. She knows she can’t stop her.
“Alright, then.” Mother Superion reaches for the crucifix hanging around the Coptic nun’s neck, the one she’d given to her earlier during the museum heist. She pulls out the lower half, revealing the blade hidden inside.
- – — – -
Jillian pulls her aside, into the corner behind her desk. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
Mother Superion follows Jillian’s line of sight as she stares at Michael from across the room, his arms crossed as he goes over mission details with the nuns. “Let them go. Knowing they might never come back.”
She thinks for a moment, carefully considering the truth. “I trust in them, as I trust in God, that they will come home.”
Jillian fidgets with the small necklace around her neck, “Well, that’s easy for you to say. Your nuns are trained warriors—”
Mother Superion stops her there, stilling her restless arm with a firm but gentle grip, “Trust your son. Trust that he knows what he’s doing.”
- – — – -
Everything happens too quickly.
Mother Superion watches the live feed at the Cathedral, and there’s so much chaos. This is how society collapses, she thinks. How religion dies.
She’s thrust again into battle, a one-woman exhibition, as if it were a test, a trial of sorts, just for her. Only to be deemed worthy if she survives.
But she knows it’s not about her. It has never been about her. So she does what she does best—fight, kill, struggle.
All to protect the Arc, to protect Jillian, the future of the Church, humanity.
Protection.
She’s failed this test before.
- – — – -
The sensation of dying is… strange.
There is regret. So much regret. Life flashes before her eyes, but it seems to be just the bad—each mistake, every error, all the failures. Every single time she’s felt even a whit of shame.
She’s ready to kneel before God, certain of His judgment.
That she’s unworthy.
She hears Beatrice’s words, but doesn’t listen.
She is a scarred, resentful, sinful woman. Not God’s champion.
No.
She is unworthy.
- – — – -
She breathes again, laughs harder than she has in ages, until she’s out of breath and wheezing. Covered in her own blood, yet feeling so alive, so… free. Mother Superion thanks Ava, holding her close against her heart.
Is this God's doing? The Halo executing His will?
Does it even matter?
Death is strange, but revival… is even stranger.
A miracle, plain and simple.
But the exhilaration she feels is short-lived. Seated at the table, the cup of tea in her hands is no longer hot but lukewarm and then oddly cold to the touch.
Warrior sisters are still dead, the OCS still decimated, the Catholic church destroyed, the fate of the entire world still up in the air. That air, filled with wraith demons and the stench of Adriel.
Perhaps she’s been brought back for a reason.
- – — – -
Out of her torn habit and in Jillian’s spare clothes, Mother Superion faces the judgment of her girls.
“Looking good, Mother!” Ava shouts from the kitchen, wolf-whistling before shoving a pastry into her mouth, Beatrice quietly chuckling beside her.
Rolling her eyes, she catches a glance of Jillian at the dining table, suppressing a laughing smile behind her laptop screen. She feels herself flush when their eyes meet briefly.
“I’m going to wash and mend my habit now,” Mother Superion announces to no one in particular.
- – — – -
She tries not to think too hard about it, those few minutes when the flicker of life had left her body.
From her last breath, to the first when she returns, there was nothing in between. In her mind, no time had elapsed.
There was nothing. No void, no afterlife—heaven, hell, purgatory.
Simply nothing.
Gone and back in an instant.
Mother Superion won’t think on it any further, as she looks out into the green countryside, blue skies overhead.
She’s just grateful for the second chance, promising to herself, and to God, to not fuck it up this time around.
- – — – -
It’s a shocking reminder when Beatrice rebukes her call for prayer. It pulls her firmly out of the afterglow of her own miraculous resurrection and into reality once again.
Mother Superion lives now, but at the expense of further loss.
At the cost of her girls—Yasmine, Camila.
This is not a trade she would have approved of had she known. Not a miracle she’d accept with such an expensive price tag attached.
When she hears Camila’s voice over the phone, her faith is restored. She prays, asking for His forgiveness for ever having doubted.
- – — – -
Mother Superion rouses at the sound of soft knocking on her door. She sits up from her bed, patting herself down, realizing she’s still out of her habit. “Come.”
“Oh, um, sorry if I woke you. I didn’t think you’d have gone to bed just yet.” She sees how Jillian looks at her, realizes how different she must seem in casual clothes, more approachable, perhaps. Or perhaps it’s to do with… she isn't quite sure.
“It’s alright.”
“I just wanted to come by and check on you, you know, being back from the dead and all.” Mother Superion can hear the curiosity in her voice, the wonder of a scientist.
She notices that Jillian’s brought nothing with her, no medical supplies or scanners. “Of course. What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing extensive. I’m not a medical doctor, but we can do some clinical scans later, after all of this.” Jillian gestures broadly. If there is a later. “But how do you feel now? Anything… different?”
Mother Superion takes a minute, unsure of how to describe it, unsure of how much to share, “It’s hard to explain. I was a Halo-bearer once…,” she starts, pausing at the surprised look on the doctor’s face.
The woman's features strike her suddenly, soft and sympathetic. Her presence feels... safe.
She continues, unable to restrain a sad smile, “And at first, it felt incredible, like—like the Halo was mine again.”
She sees Jillian light up at the thought of her with the Halo.
“But now, it’s so odd… I feel the loss of it—this emptiness, like when it rejected me the first time.” She brings her arms around herself, feeling chilled all of a sudden.
Jillian seems to consider her words, at the revelation of her past, to imagine what it could possibly feel like, to... empathize. “I won’t lie and pretend to understand it,” so Jillian reverts to what she can mentally grasp, “But physically, how are...”
“My scars are gone, all of them. My hip, like it was never even broken. Physically, I’ve never been better.” Mother Superion looks up at the doctor, her eyes glossy. “But something, inside, deep—doloroso. I feel it aching for the Halo.”
Jillian crosses the room, sits beside her on the bed, speechless. “I don’t know—I’m sorry, Mother Superion. Is there anything I can do?”
She places her hand over Jillian’s, the warmth of her touch more soothing than she’d expected, the odd chill in her body released. She relaxes and breathes out, “Suzanne.”
“Sorry?”
“You asked what you can do. You can start by calling me Suzanne.”
- – — – -
At the crack of dawn, she’s back in her habit, bullet holes sewn up, blood washed clean.
As if she’d never died and was reborn.
The ache inside, however, remains. A prickling at her back, where the scar once was, like an itch she can’t scratch, yearning for the Halo.
She tries her best to ignore it.
Suzanne strolls out into the garden, breathing in the fresh air as it warms in the morning sun. Birds sing nearby, leaves rustle in the breeze, and there are no clouds in the sky.
It’s peaceful.
An illusion.
She prays there, at the center of the garden, knowing her prayer will only help to feed whatever Adriel’s doing with the Arc.
But she doesn’t care. What’s one more prayer added to all the millions of others? A drop in an ocean.
Looking to the sky, a direct line of sight to the vastness above, she wonders how... uncertain life can be. So much of it undiscovered and unexplained. Divine or supernatural, or is there even a difference? The truth seems unattainable, profane, but nonetheless enticing.
Ava would probably ask now, before the end, if she still believes in God.
Suzanne would answer yes.
- – — – -
As the van drives away, Suzanne feels the sting again, the bite of helplessness.
There’s nothing left for her to do but to trust her girls. Trust in their worthiness.
"He's not coming back,” she hears from the sofa where Jillian sits, her hands fisted in her hair.
Suzanne moves closer, sitting beside her. "How can you be sure—”
"A bomb,” Jillian interrupts, frustrated and angered. “There is a divinium bomb in his chest. I saw it in the scans. Reya must have sent him back here, to kill Adriel.” Her voice breaks, face hidden in her palms. “Sent him back to die.”
Suzanne contemplates this for a moment, remembering what Ava had said to her, piecing everything together. "So Ava must be—”
"She's the detonator.” A numb silence falls between them, as they reconcile with the harsh reality.
"Neither of them…,” Suzanne starts, tearing a hand away from Jillian’s face, anchoring it, cradling it firmly between her own and bracing them both, ”...is coming back."
Jillian turns to face her, face reddened from crying, eyes blue with truth. "No.”
Between them, they had known not to tell the others. That their respective children would choose to make the ultimate sacrifice.
A mother’s secret.
At this moment, they are the same. Science or religion, technology or faith—none of it matters.
A loss, a pain deeper and more profound than anything else, mothers grieving for their children with a quiet strength. Looking at one another, knowing precisely what the other feels, to share a heartbroken soul.
They embrace, so tightly that it becomes difficult to breathe, Suzanne’s crucifix pressed solidly between them, marking flesh beneath fabric. Holding each other, as if the lives of their children depend on it.
Suzanne pulls back, for air and to say what she needs Jillian to hear, "Faith.” She brings her hands up to softly frame Jillian’s face, bringing their foreheads together. “Faith in our children to save us all."
- – — – -
Suzanne busies herself in tending to the sisters, their injuries patent but not overly severe. Jillian helps, a distraction for her as well, keeping at bay the fact that neither Michael nor Ava are there with them.
The air is quiet and heavy, marked with the occasional wince and "ouch". They’re all processing, grieving. Trying hard to accept God’s will.
“Adriel was defeated,” Camila offers, reminding them that the greater battle had been won.
But it only reminds them of the sacrifice, the cost of that victory.
The nuns recuperate in their rooms, while Suzanne and Jillian try their best to make supper. Vincent appears, offering his help, when Suzanne promptly shuts him down, reminding him of his promise unkept. It takes every ounce of willpower to not punch him square in the face.
Dinner preparation goes slowly, alone with their thoughts, racing and deflecting. Jillian cuts herself absentmindedly while chopping carrots, and Suzanne is at her side in an instant.
Their hands clasped together, breathing together, standing alive together.
Together.
- – — – -
“Is it true?” Camila ambushes her on the way to the washroom.
She knows immediately what Camila is referring to, but lets the young nun continue.
“Did you really die and come back?”
Suzanne nods.
She has to pry the girl off of her, her thin arms crushing like iron vices, not because she doesn’t appreciate the affection—she does—but because she really has to go.
- – — – -
The girls are quiet tonight, in need of some well-earned rest.
Suzanne sits on the balcony attached to her room, staring out into the night, cool wind blowing past her face. There’s a soft knock, then the sounds of the door opening and closing. Jillian comes to sit beside her, wordlessly.
She’d asked Jillian to come by after dinner, once the girls were in their rooms and the house was silent and still. Asked for her company, knowing how much Jillian would need it.
How much she herself would need it too.
In this cold quiet, Suzanne thinks of Ava, hoping for her return. She’d crossed through the Arc to the other side, where Lilith and Michael had come and gone, healed and changed. Perhaps Ava could as well.
She thinks of Michael, his fate far worse than Ava’s. His body no more, no hope that he could miraculously return with the help of the other realm’s healing power.
No hope for Jillian, who’d lost her son, only for him to return for less than a week and then be lost again for good.
Her heart bleeds for her.
She hears Jillian sniffle beside her, watches as she struggles to keep her composure.
Suzanne pulls her to her feet, leading them back inside and to the bed. Jillian understands immediately, looking to her with bloodshot eyes before slipping in quickly, relieved to have somewhere soft to rest her exhausted body. Suzanne gets in beside her, pulling the covers over them both.
She’s cautious with respectable distance, careful of this intimacy they now seem to share, having met only days before.
There is a bond here. One she’s never realized she needed.
One she can't seem to deny.
Turning to her side, Suzanne faces Jillian, taking in the shape of her face, the curves of her features. Her eyes are closed, already lulled to sleep by warm sheets and, she presumes, her presence.
“Dormi bene," Suzanne whispers. Sleep well.
- – — – -