Angels of the Killing Hymn

Reclamation

by RoxyNychus

Tags: #cw:gore #cw:noncon #angel #brainwashing #dom:female #f/f #hound/handler #mind_control #sub:female #biting #blood_drinking #body_horror #cw:gaslighting #degradation #drugging #fantasy #graphic_violence #halo_play #hypnotic_eyes #identity_manipulation #memory_alteration #mindbreak #role_reversal #rough_sex #trans_main_character

We reach the edge of the dead forest by mid-morning. The snowfall has thickened, a thin layer of white partly covering the flesh creep growing over the roots of emaciated pines. A scent of winter and damp earth mitigates the reek of decay, if only mildly. I clench and unclench my fists. How far outside the Reclaimed Zone are we?

“I didn’t see any Host here yesterday.” Vaschael has had her weapon in hand since we left the
cabin. “Even so, stay together.”

As she leads us in, I draw Sholanan closer to myself. She huddles against my shoulder, hair spilling into mine as we walk, and for a moment things feel almost right. We can kill with our hands when needed. All I have to do is ignore the gleam of the wan sun on Vaschael’s armor ahead of us and the Proxy skittering rabbit-like at her side, and the soft crunch of Brea’s boots behind us.

It becomes easier once we enter the pines. There the reek of the enemy is stronger and the flesh-growth juts up through the snow in places, like scabs on pale skin. We are going to break the stalemate at the Darsimal Salient. We are going to capture the Bone Factory. We are going to repel an attack at the Ghost Forest. We are going to serve our Queen-Minister and uphold Her true faith. I wrap my arm tighter around Sholanan. Her eyes drift after our breath as it billows from vents in our face masks.

“What do you think, Brea?” Vaschael, her voice lowered.

Brea peers up into the granite slate of the sky, painted with wispy clouds. “I think,” she begins slowly, snowflakes settling in her dark lashes. “Yes, I think I’ve been here.”

Sholanan looks up as well, blinking as the white drifts down into her face. “I wish the sky were brighter.”

Vaschael chuckles, a sound so warm it melts the tension from my shoulders. “Soon, little one.” Big Sister takes care of us.

Soon we emerge onto the rocky shore of the dried lake, taking care not to trip on the stones and petrified driftwood hiding beneath the white as we descend into the lakebed. It’s not especially wide or deep. On the opposite shore I spy the red stub of another cabin, overgrown by meat. The snow is disturbed in places, indents and ridges in the powdery surface. The impressions are eroded by wind and fresh fall. An animal could have left them, or a deserter, or a smaller Host.

What I’m sure didn’t leave them are Brea’s friends. Humanity is dead outside of Cratavn. She confuses faded dreams for reality, and Vaschael now leads us after these fantasies as if we’ll find them huddled around a bonfire waiting for us. I feel renewed gratitude to my Queen for shepherding me away from such naivete.

As we advance, the snow deepens to our ankles. There’s almost nothing in the way of landmarks- no great humps or dips, no structures, nothing to give away a hiding place. Vaschael has summoned her spear and uses it to sweep through the snow ahead of us. “Anything, Brea?”

Brea pauses, brow knitted. “It’s familiar, but…” A labored sigh as she wipes snow from her brow. “Vaschael, I’m not sure. I don’t remember much.”

Vaschael scans over the lakebed. Surely she at least will see the folly of this. Only the overgrown cabin on the far shore might be of interest, and the Host’s corruption looks to have long subsumed it. More than anything, I worry where we might be dragged next.

It’s then I notice Sholanan has paused.

She’s like a fawn, staring at safety and danger alike, understanding no difference unless directed. Hence why I’ve taken it upon myself to direct her. When I see her hovering at my side, looking down at the snow, I assume she’s been distracted by yet another deceitful fancy. It takes me a moment to see it as well. A slight disturbance in the white. One small square patch slightly raised above the rest, not quite hidden by the light snowfall.

She calls, “Vaschael?”

The seraph turns to her. “Yes, dear o—”

Something grips us, sudden as a muscle cramp. It’s not painful. Just a cessation, my body freezing around me. I don’t even try to move. I can’t. All will to do so swiftly bleeds from me, numbing me in body and mind. Sholanan is affected as well, arms falling to her sides like a marionette with no one at her strings. Silence behind me suggests Brea is caught as well. Even Vaschael has stopped. To either side of her, the hounds begin to panic. “Miss? Miss Vaschael, what’s happened, what’s wrong?”

“Lis...” Vaschael’s head twitches to the right. “Listen.”

I hear it. I’ve been hearing it since my body and mind ground to a halt. Music. Droning voices. Muted and popping with static.

“H...” Vaschael twitches again. Straining against the choir’s grip. “Hymn of... Relent...”

Her hounds set hands on their pistols and begin to search the snow, catching onto some unspoken order. My eyes are fixed ahead. My thoughts are frozen in ice water. This music, it seems, is the Hymn of Relent. So, I relent. A puppet awaiting input.

“We have no quarrel with you.” The Proxy, putting on her former authoritative affect. “We come seeking shelter for a short time. Nothing more.”

From somewhere down in the snow, muffled voices. Among them, a command: “Down.”

I drop to my knees. Sholanan and Brea follow.

Vaschael hunches down but remains on her feet, grunting with effort to resist. “Br-Brea has said...” A pause to draw in a fortifying breath. “Brea has said she may have allies h-here...”

“Yes, we see Brea.” A woman’s voice, worn rough with age and cigarette smoke. “And we see five strangers, including a soldier of Cratavn and Charith’s pet torturer.”

The Proxy’s posture shoots like up she’s been shocked. “I renounce Queen-Minister Charith,” she says, with a quavering edge of desperation. “I haven’t come on Her behalf. I serve the Sil—”

“Furthermore,” continues that iron voice somewhere below, rising like a mailed fist from the earth to seize us. “Brea had a feeling things might go to rot. She had a plan for it, in fact. If she disappeared, and then turned back up someday, we were to play this recording.” A pause. “Why might that be?”

Straining and heaving, Vaschael shakily straightens up. “That... Is why we need shelter...”

A tut. “That’s hardly reassuring, is it?”

Vaschael hunches again, even her strength ground away by that steady static drone- until light erupts from her, a star blazing to life on earth. Heavy wingbeats fill the air and snow bites at my face as a powerful gust fills the air with powder. The light recedes, revealing her many wings spanning above us. Her voice fills the air, drowning the recording out with the Hymn of Submission.

“Fuck.” That steely tone falters, an ironclad taking a denting blow. “Stop the recording.”

The Hymn of Relent ends, releasing us just as abruptly as it ensnared us. I blink, spots of light still dancing in my eyes from Vaschael’s radiance. Around and within, my being becomes my own again. My first thought is, Brea planned for this?

Vaschael ends her song as well, and a fragile peace settles in. The Proxy and Canrie take their mistress by the arms and help her rise. I scan the snow as well, trying to pinpoint where we’ve been ambushed from. Sure enough, that unsettled patch we’d noticed now sits higher still, lifted by a wooden board under it. Beneath that, the dark beady eyes of three rifle barrels peer up at us, a human face obscured in shadows and thick scarves behind each. A quick look finds two more such trapdoors open and two more sets of guns trained on us. I stand, pulling Sholanan by the arm up with me.

I do not hear Brea move.

“Shelter, then?” That older woman’s voice, from the door to our right.

Vaschael nods as her wings fold up into a sprawling silvery cape. “Just for a few days, so we may rest,” she replies. “A week at most.”

“Well.” A hint of skepticism. Not a mote of welcome. “As I said, we see Brea, and a lot of strangers.”

“The lesser angels are my sisters.” Vaschael turns her hanging head back to us. “Including Brea. Stolen and corrupted by Charith.”

I bristle.

“We noticed them on Her side, yes.” Unmoved. “And you?”

“I am Vaschael, of the Order Seraphim.” She follows the woman’s voice to her hiding place, looking down into what might be her face. “I was sent to find and rescue my sisters. I have nearly succeeded. We only need a short time to recover and get our bearings on the situation here.”

“So we have a whole lot of Charith’s pets,” says the woman, scorn dripping from her tongue. “And one of... her golden girls.”

“They are not Charith’s anymore.” Vaschael’s voice is a blade freshly pulled from the forge, as wickedly sharp as it is hot. “A week at most, and we will keep to ourselves. I promise you.”

A round of whispers among the ambushers, before the woman agrees, “A week at most, and you keep to yourselves. And only because we’d quite like Brea back, if possible.”

Brea, still, is silent.

Vaschael nods. “I will see what can be done.”

Another round of consternated whispers. Now that my mind is my own again, I can hear it: trembles of fear and snaps of near-panic in their voices. These ambushers are terrified.

“Vaschael,” says the woman- an officer of some sort, I assume. “We’ll bring you in, but we’re going to put you back under first. Just until we find somewhere to put you.”

Composure regained, Vaschael looks over their hiding places. “And why is that?”

“As I said, Brea thought something like this might happen.” Only this woman’s voice remains steady, a pillar among the shaking reeds. “If she disappeared, and then reappeared, we were to be very fucking careful about taking her back in. Those were her instructions to us.”

I peer back at Brea. She kneels in the snow as if the Hymn of Relent still has her, but her eyes are narrowed in thought. Trying to piece her supposed careful instructions back together. I am, as well. We Virtues serve the Queen-Minister. The Queen-Minister’s objective is to wrest the mortal world back from the Host for humanity. So why should these people be so afraid of accepting a Virtue’s help?

There’s only one clear answer. They’re traitors, like that woman in Fort Kroeder. But why then would they want us back at all?

“My sisters are unwell, yes,” Vaschael concedes. “But I will keep them in line. We haven’t come to trouble you. Brea thought you might help us.”

“And we will.” The woman matches her composure. “But we don’t want any trouble, either.”

Her irreverence annoys me. We are beneath our Queen, yes, but we are still above her. Still divinity with teeth and fire. Were circumstances different I’d devour her as easily as a hawk does a rat. Where is her respect for the holy?

Vaschael tilts her head down at one of the slits. “And you consider the Hymn of Relent necessary for this?”

“Brea assured us it was.”

“I remember this.” Brea, bolt upright, a dim flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Everything around it is foggy, but I remember saying this, Vaschael.”

The seraph considers this a moment. The silence which rolls in could be hacked through with an axe. It’s her they’re afraid of. They could shoot the rest of us, but their bullets would glance off her armor and she would burn them until not even ash remained in retribution. She can even resist this hymn of theirs. We will only go if she allows it. Big Sister holds the cards.

She casts a glance at each of their hounds. They frown miserably, but understand her unspoken plans. Vaschael says, “Very well.”

I can almost feel the relief of our ambushers, like the loosening of a knotted muscle.

The Hymn of Relent crackles up from the snow again, and everything goes blank. My hand slips from Sholanan’s to dangle at my side. That new awareness fades from Brea’s eyes, leaving only a docile stare. Vaschael’s wings droop slightly as she, too, surrenders to it.

The officer orders, “Lay down your weapons.”

Brea’s SMG crunches to the snow. Vaschael lets her spear slip from her fingers and draws her shotgun to lay it down as well. Canrie and the Proxy hesitate a moment, before they draw and drop their pistols.

I comprehend little of what follows. I am a blank page, needing the ink of another’s pen for direction, and none is given here. Wooden boards pushing open from beneath the snow. A long dark hallway through the dirt. Whispers and prying eyes from open doorways.

We are led to a room and told to kneel. We do. We are instructed, “Remove your armor.” We do. Once our plate lays deposited in many heaps, a group of men scurry in to collect it. They work fast, casting quick glances at us as they do. The hounds, huddled close to Vaschael, scowl at the men whenever they draw close. Their mistress kneels in silence, lips parted and an auburn lock fallen across her face.

Once the armor is removed, the door swings shut and a heavy lock thuds into place, and the Hymn of Relent drifts away.

Agency returns like the slow warmth of sitting by a campfire. The first thing I register this time is a biting indignation. Disarmed and stripped by mortals- traitors to our Queen. Faceless thugs hiding in the snow, wielding an authority which should only be Hers. My jaw clenches with the urge to chew open their insolent throats.

“Miss?” Canrie, soft as dove song.

Both hounds stare up at her with fearful eyes. It takes Vaschael a moment before she lifts her head and languidly looks over us all. “I’m alright,” she says, a little distantly, as she wraps her servants in her wings. “Sisters?”

Sholanan’s usual expression is little different from her dazed state. “I’m well.” She turns to me. “Lakera?”

I nod. The next revelation is that the room they’ve put us in can hardly be called such. It’s a box carved into the frozen dirt, just big enough to fit the six of us. Aside from a ratty carpet laid over the floor to dull the cold and a single electric light buzzing above us, it’s empty. They’ve stuffed a flight of angels into a spare closet. Yet another insult.

Vaschael heaves a sigh. “Winter.”

The Proxy- I refuse to call her that name- straightens. “Yes, Miss?”

“Did you ever use the Hymn of Relent in your former work?”

“No, Miss.” The Proxy’s eyes dart between Vaschael’s face and the bristly carpet. “I’d never heard it before today.”

The seraph gives a slow nod. “Good. That’s good, Winter.” She gives the Proxy a gentle rub behind the ear. “Charith must not have access to it.”

And yet Brea did. Brea gave it to a mob of traitors burrowed like rats under a lake, miles from the last refuge of the living. I shoot her a glare. She’s huddled a short distance from the rest of us, and hurls a deathly look back at me.

“Peace, Lakera,” orders Vaschael. I reluctantly settle. Big Sister knows best. “Brea, what do you remember of your instructions to these people?”

Prying off her mask, Brea tosses it down onto the carpet. “Little more than what I said. If something happened to me and I came back, they needed to be careful about taking me back in. Hence, I must have given them the hymn.”

Vaschael’s eyeless gaze wanders in thought. “You were second-to-last to disappear. I recall you having contingencies.”

Brea narrows her eyes. “Did I not tell you what they were?”

“Not I, at least.” The seraph sets her chin atop Canrie’s head. “Perhaps Sholanan, as you were both meant to descend around the same time.”

Sholanan looks between them. One need only meet her doeish stare to know she doesn’t recall this. I sidle up against her. Let my dim, pretty pet rest.

Of course, there is to be no rest for any of us. We wait in that empty box of cold dirt, Sholanan and I huddled together, Vaschael nestling her dogs within her wings, Brea sitting alone.

Occasionally a sound slips in under the door. A distant scraping or thudding, muffled voices, hurried footsteps. There is nothing for us to do but wait for whatever comes next. Without her armor, even Vaschael is now at the mercy of these brigands. A portion of my anger drifts to her. How could she have surrendered?

It must be sometime deep in the night, after I’ve fallen asleep, that I’m woken by several sets of boots approaching our door. They’re slow and careful, a small procession of soft footfalls. I lift my head, gut twisting into a knot. It worsens when they stop outside.

Vaschael has heard it as well. She stares at the door, expression unreadable with her covered eyes.

The group lingers and whispers among themselves, minute and breathless. I can’t quite make out what they’re saying. I can hear they’re nervous, however. If they’ve come to do us harm, they’re off to a poor start.

Then, an indistinct shuffle of movement. I grip Sholanan’s arm. She’d been asleep against me, head resting on my shoulder. At my touch her eyes flutter open. “Yes…?”

Quiet falls outside. After a moment, a quavering whisper says, “We’ve come to pray, angels. Is that alright?”

“Oh.” Sholanan blinks at the door. The clay of her mind remains damp, flexible to some degree. She looks to me. I’m still waking up, and have no complaints. She looks to Vaschael, who nods. “Yes, I think that’s alright.”

The group gathers themselves. Then, they begin to softly mutter a prayer. It’s still too quiet to discern the words- perhaps they’re breaking some rule in their group by doing this. I can feel it, however. A gentle ripple of energy, flowing under the door on their voices and up my body. It’s like bathwater, warm and soothing. A tingle at the edge of sensation dulls my nervousness. I find myself releasing a long breathe, held so long the air had started to turn stale and moulder in my lungs. I let my eyes flutter shut a moment, and

A thousand voices harmonized with one soul, echoing through marble halls

Wisps of silver cloud, swirling upwards towards an effulgent sun whose warmth is like a
mother’s touch

Little white wings puffy with down, meekly flapping with unburdened bliss

And then it all disappears. The prayer has come to an end. There is no marble or soothing sun or simple downy joy here. There is half-frozen dirt and a locked door. One of the supplicants mutters, “Amen,” and they shuffle off again.

Vaschael is smiling faintly, a bittersweet expression. Brea is hugging her knees to her chest, hair falling over her eyes. Sholanan is looking at me. “Lakera?”

I blink, and feel fat tears sting my eyes as they roll free.

***

I’m not sure how much time passes. I spend much of it drifting in and out of sleep, trying to listen in on muttered conversations between the others while awake and hoping not to dream of downy little wings while asleep. Whatever these visions mean, they fill my chest with a vague sadness. A sense of something far, far away, which I long to be close to. I dislike this nameless sorrow, how it almost manages to pull my thoughts after it.

Eventually, there’s a knock on the door. I wake to find myself curled in Vaschael’s lap- we’ve shuffled around a couple times during our captivity- with her wings a warm cocoon around me. Her arms tightens as she wakes. “Yes?”

“We’d like to talk.” The officer woman from before. “About what exactly your aims are here.”

Releasing me, Vaschael rolls her shoulders. “Shelter for one, as I said,” she replies. “We slipped out of Fort Kroeder... Two days ago, I believe. Charith has likely realized we’re missing by now.”

“Fucks sake,” muttered under breath. Aloud the officer asks, “Can we expect her here, then?”

“Perhaps.” Vaschael frowns down on me, thumb stroking my cheek. Big Sister will protect me She deludes herself that I return her love. “It’s hard to say. We encountered Host on the way here, they may dissuade her troops.”

“Not terribly reassuring.” The officer’s tone has only hardened. “And what else are you here for?”

“I’d like to know more about your situation.” Vaschael stretches her wings, such as she can in the cramped space. I can now see the hounds curled up against each other nearby, heads raised to watch the door. “It’s been... Brought to my attention that we may not have been watching things here as closely as needed. Brea was meant to be our link to you. Without her, we’ve had little insight.” So she’s taken a least some of the Proxy’s lessons to heart. Perhaps there’s hope for Vaschael yet.

The officer snorts. “I’ll say. But before we promise anything, we need to speak to Brea.”

I clench my jaw. If these people treasured Brea so much, I almost wish our Queen had let them keep her. But Brea, still hidden by the edges of Vaschael’s wings, replies, “I don’t know how much I can help. My memory is...” A heavy, frustrated sigh. “There isn’t much of it left.”

“But you remembered us.”

“I remembered there were people I knew, somewhere out here. It’s started to come back, but it’s very slow.” A scuff of movement across the carpet. “Too slow, for my liking as much as anyone’s.”

“And when did you start to remember?”

Brea is silent a moment. “There was a woman in Fort Kroeder, before the troops moved in. We’d been sent to capture her. We were told she was a traitor plotting against Charith. I cornered her first and she... Spoke to me. The language was almost familiar. Old Scodian, I think. Then we took her, and it started shortly after that.”

“Hm.” There’s a mote of surprise to the officer’s tone. “So that worked, then.”

Brea exhales a long, harsh breath. For once, I find myself commiserating with her annoyance. “That was part of a plan, I take it?”

“If you were taken, and we found you again,” continues the officer, “we were to say that prayer to you. You said it would help you snap out of it. Counter-conditioning, something like that. Trying to head off whatever Charith might try to do to you.”

“And the woman who said it?”

“Those of us who pray are praying for her.”

Silence.

Brea asks, “What was it exactly I did here?”

“Fighting off Harry patrols.” Boots trudge along the floor outside, followed by a rustle of paper. “And aerial reconnaissance. Nothing as impactful as we’d hoped when an angel descended from on high, claiming to want to aid us. But it did help.” Another rustle, pages turning. “If I may be so precious, you’ve been missed here.”

The muscles of my neck tighten.

Vaschael sets her chin atop my head. “Peace, Lakera,” she whispers. Big Sister pulls me away from jealousy’s strangling grip She’s a snake wrapped in dove’s wings, claiming to hold humanity’s interests at heart while resisting our Queen’s guidance and seeking to aid traitors.

Brea stirs. “Do you hope I’ll aid you again?”

“Ideally. I’ll be frank, we could use it. Thank you, Private.” Another rustle of paper. “But here you are, like this. We’re keeping our expectations in check.” The officer’s voice has started to sag with a deep weariness. “We’d like to keep you all in there for now, to ensure there’s no threat. You’ll be provided for, but I’m sure you can understand we’ve been a bit on edge.”

Vaschael tilts her head back, and I think I see the edge of offense in the gesture. Something else I find commiseration in. But she says, “Very well.” She adds, "I do wonder about our accommodations. I take it you and your group are not all faithful."

The officer chuckles dryly. "I'm not,” she begins, “but some are. Hell if I know what everyone here believes. What I do know is that Cratavn didn't want any of our grandparents and parents when they came to the city during the Fall. Shut them all out to die in the mud. Now we've lived our whole lives in mud, watching each other starve or be taken by Harry, and by whatever gods will listen, we want in more than ever.” The officer pauses. Her voice had started to gain a jagged edge towards the end of her tirade. Level again, she continues, “If your mother aims to help us, well, we're hardly in a position to turn her down. But that doesn't mean we won't be careful. We know what happens in those pretty wings of yours, once you get your voices in someone's head."

Again that nearly-offended tilt of Vaschael’s head. Canrie stirs where she kneels, scowling along with her mistress. It’s become a familiar sight: her and Winter the Proxy knelt together. Backs straight and hands folded in laps, sitting pretty the same way our choir used to. Lambs accepting their place beneath the lionesses.

Brea asks, “May we at least know who we’re speaking to?”

“Ah. That would help, wouldn’t it?” Again the officer sounds so glacially tired. “Major Jeio of the Denskan Reclamation Army. Welcome, or welcome back, to the other side of the Queen-Minister’s mess.”

***

While she seems to favor me, Vaschael considers all we Virtues her little sisters, and so she tries to dote on each of us. Tonight she’s coaxed Brea into her lap, where Brea now sleeps curled up in her wings. Sholanan has found her way into a snoring heap with the hounds. So, it’s my turn to sleep alone in the corner.

I sleep little. Perhaps minutes at a time, before the trudge of boots through the hallway or one of my companions stirring wakes me. Uncoiling, I stretch, then take in the room through bleary eyes. Our halos have dimmed to a subtle glow. Even so, I can see the Proxy’s sleeping face, half-buried in Sholanan’s curls. Again I wonder- if I removed the halo from around her neck, would that free her? It would hardly be ideal conditions, all of us locked in together in hostile territory, but having the true Proxy’s guidance back would be a much-needed boon. Perhaps she could regain control of Sholanan and Brea, as well. If not, at least I would have no further competition for our Queen’s favor.

On hands and knees, I creep towards her. Spots of her collar’s weak light peer out through Sholanan’s hair. Kneeling over their pile, I brush Sholanan’s hair aside, as gentle as I can.

The Proxy’s eyes snap open.

I stare down at her a moment. Letting her make the first move. She whispers, “What is it, Lakera?”

Thinking quickly, I shuffle back and gesture for her to follow.

She suspects something. I can see it in how her eyes narrow. But she trusts the others will protect her. Perhaps they will. Perhaps not. Either way, she carefully extracts herself from Sholanan and Canrie’s bodies and crawls out to meet me.

The Proxy asks again, “Well?”

I reach for her collar.

Her eyes flash their own icy light as she draws back. “Lakera,” she says, voice hardening with a ghost of her old strength. “Stop that.”

I meet her eye. For a moment, as we lock glares in the dark and as her face solidifies into a mask of cool authority, she is almost recognizable. Almost my Proxy again.

Until, for just a heartbeat, her eyes dart to Vaschael.

A heartbeat is enough. The mask has slipped. I grab for the collar.

The Proxy tries to dodge again but I’m faster, fingertips hooking the collar’s top edge and pulling her back so her face is inches from mine. Her breath catches in a gasp. She’s terrified. I can feel it ripple off of her like heat from an oven. Shaking puffs of sweet breath, warm against the tip of my nose. It’s so sickeningly wrong. She shouldn’t be like this. I must fix her. I examine her collar. It looks to be only a loop of silvery light, yet I can feel it against my fingers, solid and prickling with heat.

“Lakera, you must stop this.” She’s trying to steady her voice but it quavers terribly. “We’re trying to save y—“

Gripping both sides of the collar, I prepare to pull it apart. I don’t notice boots approaching. Not until the three hard knocks on the door. Jeio says, “Vaschael.”

I spring back from the Proxy, just as feathers rustle and Vaschael mumbles, “Yes?”

“You’re still eager to help?”

I cram myself back into my corner as Vaschael raises her head from her cocoon of wings. She notes the Proxy, knelt and dumbstruck before her. “We are. What is it?”

“Harry’s found one of our rear exits,” answers Jeio. “We need it dealt with.”

Vaschael cups the Proxy’s chin and examines her. “How many?”

“Lookouts counted about thirty. Mostly thralls, handful of inquisitors.”

The Proxy has stopped trembling, calmed by her mistress’s attention. Vaschael looks over the rest of us. We are all up and alert by now. Even if we don’t kill under our Queen’s orders, destroying more Host can only help Her cause. A rare alignment of interests. Vaschael answers, “Very well.”

We are put under with the Hymn of Relent, until we surface from those calm murky waters to find ourselves in a small rectangular room, a door on either end. A lock clunks in the door behind us. Our armor and weapons are laid out on a beaten canvas sheet. I can already smell the burnt oil stench of the Host in the cold air. Brea heaves a long breath as we suit up. The weight of my armor is comforting- purpose-giving. Soon I will serve again.

Outside the door ahead is a narrow passage cut into the dirt, a net laid over it and covered in fallen pine branches and slabs of frozen dirt to cover it. Brea leads us out, SMG at the ready. Sholanan and I have been given bolt-actions, and Vaschael looms at the rear with her shotgun. Out here the stink of smoldering death sours the icy air, and the faint click and pop of stiff joints moving reaches my ears. I bristle with eagerness and righteous hate.

At the passage’s mouth, Brea peers out. I see frail trees beyond her. This must be the other shore of the lake. She only takes a moment before jerking her head back in. “At least a dozen right on us,” she whispers. “All thralls so far.”

“I’ll support from the air,” says Vaschael.

“Get the inquisitors first,” Brea offers. “You’ll know them when you see them.”

“I never like this.” Sholanan hangs back by the seraph as Brea and I move ahead to take position against both walls of the exit. “I hope it’s over quickly.”

Thirty thralls was a few moments’ work when our choir was whole. Bracing my rifle against my shoulder, I peek out into the forest. A handful of desiccated shapes lurch between the trees, the closest near enough for me to see the brown-toothed grin amidst its mask of frozen gore.

A rush of wind surges over me as Vaschael erupts from the passage into the sky. The thralls turn to us, and Brea and I fire. That rotten grin bursts into putrid meat as my first shot takes the thrall’s head. I’m able to take another through the throat, sending its head toppling to the snow before the return fire forces me into cover. Brea’s SMG crackles in short stabbing bursts. She’ll be able to clear her side faster. Until I’m out of cover, at least.

Cold clumps of dirt rain over me as bullets rake the passage wall. Sholanan takes her place behind me- she still remembers. Once the return fire lulls we pop out together and cut down two more, sending the others shambling for what scant cover the trees can provide. An opening. I leap out and charge. One tries to keep its rifle-arm on me but it’s too stiff, I dart around the barrel and throw my fist into the side of its head. Its skull cracks apart like overripe fruit. The cold sludge flecking my nose and cheek is the sweetest kiss I’ve felt in days.

It’s almost like before. Almost right.

A bark of heavy machine gun fire punctures the cold air. I duck behind the trunk of a wider tree, trying to pick out where it’s shooting from. My question is answered when the snow beside my cover leaps up into a line of tall sharp banners as lead barrages it. Moving towards Sholanan, occupied with shooting down a retreating thrall.

I scream to her, “Move!”

She throws herself behind a tree and the gunfire to shred only our fallen enemies. Surging with rage, I lean out and return fire.

A tall gangly shape pauses as the bullet clamors off its rusted armor. The inquisitor is a hunched clump of a body atop too-long bird-like legs, a man’s corpse stretched out to almost nine feet tall on a rack of armor. Its head turns to me, half-hidden under a metal hood, the machine gun a ghoulish proboscis emerging from its mouth. Muzzle flash lights its features as it opens fire and I hunker back into safety. Meagre safety it is, however, wood splintering and cracking around me.

Then, salvation- a sudden crash of thunder above, and an impact like a small artillery shell. The machine gun is silenced beneath the rustle of massive wings overhead. Vaschael’s shadow passes over me, a heartbeat of comforting dark. When I look out again I find nothing but the rent heap of the inquisitor’s corpse in a cluster of pock-like craters, a pair of spent shotgun shells glinting amidst the carnage. Big Sister protects.

“Lakera.” Sholanan, crying out. I look to her and find her rushing to Brea’s side of the field. Another inquisitor is there, the machine gun torn from its jaws to leave a wet dark void in its face. This hardly deters it. Tendrils of barbed wire rattle as they snake down from its back, entangling Brea’s struggling body in the snow.

I could do nothing. Someone else could save her. No one could save her. What if no one did?

Vaschael’s shadow passes over me again. Her tailwinds are the brush of a warm hand, offering guidance.

Sisters protect each other.

There’s a gap in the inquisitor’s armor, beneath its hunch back. I advance and fire. Tar spurts from the monster’s ribs. I work the bolt, fire again. The gash of its face bursts anew and it flags back. I work, fire. Its other side is torn open and its wires scrape against each other as it tries to disengage.

It’s too late. A storm of shining silver cuts through. Vaschael’s spear cleaves it clean in twain. As it crumbles, Sholanan is able to move in, kneeling over Brea and taking out her knife to start sawing through the wire.

Another bark of thunder tells me Vaschael can cover us a moment. Reloading, I move in. Brea lays almost immobilized, limbs wrapped entangled. One loop found its way around her forehead and tore an unpleasant cut into it, weeping rose gold. She stares up at me, eyes unfocused through the pain. But she is safe enough now She won’t be any more competition today.

I hear the creak of stiff bodies and look up to spy another thrall shambling through the trees ahead. Excitement- I can continue to serve. Shooting the straggler down, I move on to continue my hunt. A faint disappointment settles over me as I realize I hadn’t killed either of the inquisitors.

Then I falter, realizing something else.

I have spoken unbidden again.

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