#52 The Sisters of Mercy

The Abbess's cell was larger than Sister Lucretia's, but only because she sometimes shared it with patients in need of her constant ministrations. Looking around the plain, functional room, Lucretia wondered again at the astonishing humility of the woman who led the Sisters of Mercy of the Sanguine Rose.

"Sister Lucretia," the Abbess smiled gently at her as she looked up from the tome of curative essays she was reading, "may the Apostle's blessings be upon you. How may I be of assistance?"

Lucretia smiled back, her anxious heart calmed by the warmth of her reception. "Reverend Mother, we are running out of face coverings again."

"Ah..." the Abbess's smile disappeared, replaced by an expression of deep concern. "I am so sorry my child, but our suppliers can provide no more until next week. How long will our stocks last?"

"Not long enough. There are many Sisters attending to the plague victims. As you know, the face coverings are their only protection against the pox."

"I would never allow you and the other Sisters to endanger yourselves unnecessarily. We have lost too many already. Try to reduce your ministrations as much as you can to make the stocks last, but I do not expect you to attend the poor patients should we run out of protective equipment."

Sister Lucretia was shocked. "We should leave those who suffer unattended?! How will they know the grace of the Apostle as they pass if we do not show it by our loving actions?"

"My child, I will attend to them myself once we run out of face coverings."

"But that would kill you! I –"

"Go now my child," interrupted the Abbess, though not unkindly, "minister to the poor creatures while it is still safe for you to do so."

"Um.." the Sister wanted to protest but the Abbess's smile stopped her, "...yes Reverend Mother, may the Apostle's blessing be upon you." Frowning, Lucretia lifted her robes and departed.

As she hurried down the convent corridor back towards the sanatorium, Sister Lucretia felt herself starting to cry as she considered the Abbess's instructions. How could she allow such a faithful, holy woman to sacrifice her health and safety for her own? She was not worthy. How could she prevent this?

As she entered the pox ward, the smells, sounds and sights of death and disease hit her like a wall. They might have overwhelmed her if she wasn't so used to them. Beds stretched off into the distance, each one occupied by at least one pox patient. And each pox patient would soon become a casualty of this terrible plague. There was no treatment for the Sisters of Mercy to offer, but by their gentle nursing, they could show their wards the Apostle's love and grace and welcome them into the eternal fellowship of the Society of the Sanguine Rose. 

Sister Marian approached her with a face covering and Sister Lucretia knew what she had to do.

"Thank you Sister, but I shall go without."

Her fellow nun looked horrified. "But Sister Lucretia, you will catch the pox and die!"

"Hush Sister, stocks of face coverings are running out. I gladly give up my personal protection for the sake of others. There is hope in the Way of the Rose."

* * *

A week later, the new face coverings arrived. The Abbess wept as she unpacked them. Opening the store cupboard, she saw there was still one left - the sanatorium had never actually run out. Sister Lucretia's sacrifice - and that of the Sisters who had followed her selfless example - had not been in vain. No pox patient had been left unattended, and most of the Sisters had remained protected. For Sister Lucretia, Sister Marian and the others from the night shift had all secretly worked unmasked, inhaled the pox and suffered the inevitable, horrible consequences of the plague. All for their love of the Apostle and the Way of the Rose. And to protect their Revered Mother from making that same sacrifice for them.

"Thank you my Sisters," whispered the Abbess, "Truly, there is more than one kind of Martyr."

* * *

Sisters of Mercy (Dreadscythe Harridans)

I am Sister Lucretia. 

I stare yet again in utter horror at my hands. For they are hands no longer, but blades. Appalling bonescythes of spectral flesh. And I have no control over them. 

How long we Sisters of Mercy have suffered the Harridan Curse I cannot say, but it seems an eternity. We died together and we are undead together. But we share no fellowship in our eternal death, only torment. 

The torment of eternal regret. If only I had known! But I know now. I know now the foolishness of my martyrdom. I know now the lies of the Apostle.

When I lived, I lived to serve him in acts of kindness and love. But now in death, I serve Another. Not the Abbess - the insane Mourngul spectre does not even remember us. Not even the False Apostle - although I sense his presence in the Empty Hearse. No, I serve our Lady of the Sanguine Rose. And she serves the Supreme Lord of Undeath himself.

I stare in horror at my hands again. And again. Hands that once showed mercy and healing, transformed forever into tools of unspeakable violence and cruelty. I have no control over them now. I have no control over myself.

I feel the vicious frenzy building but I am a mere spectator. My mind is filled with lust for violence, even as it draws back in horror. The rage is coming: the hands of healing must kill and maim. I must watch my own limbs slashing and slicing; destroying the mortals whom I used to heal. 

And as my hands kill, I will scream in futile protest. For I am the Slasher Crone Sister Lucretia and that is all I can do.

#53 BATTLE VII - ROBBERS OF GRAVES