#poor sera's ordeal is just beginning

[beckyninja]

Defiance

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: some suggestiveness, a certain Chaplain being creepy

Description: Sera wakes up in Leandros's clutches. Meanwhile, her friends realize she's gone, and starting putting two and two together.

Creepy Chaplain is creepy. But never fear! Vesta, Chairon, and Gadriel are on the case!

Read the chapters leading up to this point on my Masterlist. And don't forget to ask if you'd like to be added to/removed from the Taglist!

Icy water shocked you awake. Your eyes snapped open onto… darkness. Cold, wet darkness, the only sounds your own gasps as your lungs struggled for air.

Oh, Emperor… no….

It hadn’t been a nightmare.

“Kneel.”

The distorted voice stabbed through you and you froze like a prey animal. Your fingers clutched at the metal grate beneath you. Water dripped into your eyes and you squeezed them shut, curling in on yourself.

“Disobedient.”

An armored hand grasped the hood of your sodden robe and yanked. The material constricted around your neck as you struggled to enforce some kind of order on your shivering limbs, finally managing to settle on your knees, grating biting into your skin. The hand released and you desperately gulped air.

You kept your eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

The voice came from somewhere in front and above. You recognized it, though your mind fought to deny the terrible truth. Your body shook with more than cold.

“Look at me.”

The hand took your jaw in its iron grasp, forcing your head back until your neck screamed. Against your will your eyes sprang open.

Glowing red lenses in a white skull glared down at you. The face that had haunted your steps and your nightmares. You tried to scream, but only a weak whimper came forth.

“Silence.”

The hand forced your jaw closed. You bit your own tongue and tasted blood.

For an eternity the skull helm stared down at you, silent, judging. The hand held you pinned like an insect. Your dripping skin burned with cold. Your knees ached, your jaw throbbed, and any moment you felt your neck would snap beneath that awful strength. 

“You stand accused.”

Your heart stopped. The voice continued.

“As Chaplain of the Second Company, I find you guilty of perversion. Guilty of sullying the honored role of ‘serf’ by indulging base instincts. Guilty of corrupting the holy warriors of the Emperor with your feminine seductions.”

I am going to die here.

You only prayed it would be quick.

Then, to your shock, the Chaplain sank to one knee before you with a clang of ceremite on metal. He released your jaw and you sank forward onto your hands.

His voice dropped to a rasp. “In any other case, the punishment would be instant servitorization.”

Throne, help me!

A sob tore from your throat. “P-please… no….”

“But I am not without mercy.”

You dared glance up through your lank hair. 

“I know the corruption did not originate with you, but is a foul result of your service to the heretic Demetrian Titus.”

The raw hatred in his voice stunned you.

His hand returned to your jaw, this time almost gentle as it tilted your head back. “Your soul may still be saved. Denounce him, and be redeemed.”

Your mind spun. A small, snivelling part of you whimpered. 

No one will save you now. Spare yourself the agony and do as he wills!

But a larger part of you recoiled at the very suggestion.

Demetrian….

Kind eyes. Strong arms. Hearts that burned with compassion beneath his stoic exterior. Courage. Honor. The will to endure against all odds. 

Love.

You felt his laurel leaf around your neck still.

Your shaking subsided. Slowly, you sat back on your knees, folding your hands in your lap. Lifting your chin, you spoke your defiance.

“My Lord is no heretic.”

The kneeling Astartes before you shook his head, something that sounded almost like a sigh coming from within his helm.

“As I feared, the corruption is deeply embedded.”

Quicker than your eyes could follow, he struck. The armored hand curled around your throat, lifting you off your feet, and slamming you against the wall. Your head bounced against the metal, sparks flashing behind your eyelids. You clawed at his fingers.

Can’t… breathe…!

The helm drew close to your face. So close, you could hear deep, chugging breaths.

“I will cleanse you.”

***

“Vesta.”

The medica groaned and wiggled deeper into her blankets. “S’too early, Uncle.”

“Vesta. Now.”

She knew that tone of voice. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she sat up and stretched. Above her the Apothecary loomed. Or tried to. The cramped space of her closet-turned-sleeping chamber was not meant to contain the bulk of a fully armored Astartes.

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“Did the Lieutenant’s serf come here last night?”

“Sera?” Vesta looked around.

The cot pressed against hers remained as it had been when she’d gone to bed, alone, after checking on Sera in the Apothecarion one last time. The sedative had still been in effect, though her friend’s sleeping face had not looked exactly peaceful. 

“No… I, I don’t think so, Uncle. Is something wrong?”

Without a word, Callistus turned and left the room. 

After throwing on her robes, Vesta hopped into the greater chamber, struggling to tie the laces on her sandals and nearly face-planting in her hurry. The chrono embedded into the wall told her the day cycle had just barely begun. Her uncle stood by the row of baseline-sized beds on one side of the Apothecarion.

The row of very empty baseline-sized beds.

“Where is she?” Vesta trotted up beside the Astartes.

A low humph. “If I knew that, would I have awakened you, girl?” His habitual frown had deepened. “She is not in the lavatory, either.”

Vesta’s stomach flipped, but she pasted a smile to her face. “I’ll check the refectory, and the serf baths. Perhaps the sedative wore off earlier than expected, and her insomnia returned.”

“Hmmm.” He glanced down at her. “You thoroughly examined her skull when the Sergeant brought her in yesterday.”

“A nasty bump but,” she caught his meaning, “I swear I didn’t see any sign of concussion! And Lord Gadriel said she lost consciousness before she struck the-”

“I remember.” The Apothecary glared at the empty bed as if it had offended him. “Go.”

Vesta spent several hours searching everywhere she could think that her friend might have wandered. None of the refectory or bath serfs had seen her. Nor had any of the cleaning crews, or candle-lighters Vesta encountered in the corridors. 

Anxiety roiled in her gut as she paused next to a candle-lit shrine. She felt beads of sweat forming at her hairline.

She couldn’t be suffering from concussion. I checked!

Still, thoughts of her friend, confused and disoriented, wandering the ship’s corridors made her heart pound. Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes.

“You look distressed, Medica.”

Vesta whipped around with a shriek. Brother Chairon stood there, eyebrows raised, the barest hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

“I may not have the Sergeant’s fine features, but I did not think my face quite so repulsive.”

She fell back against the wall, hand pressed over her fluttering heart. “M-my Lord! Forgive me.”

“Forgiven, Medica.” His faint chuckle faded as he searched her face. “Not even a smile at my poor attempt at levity? Something must be troubling you, indeed.”

The words burst out like atmosphere through a blown airlock. “Sera is missing!”

His face stilled. “Explain.”

Vesta told him all she knew, listing every place she’d searched, and searched again. “The only other place I can think to look is the Chapel. But Sera doesn’t-” She bit her tongue.

Shut up, you idiot!

“She does not what?” 

She gnawed her lip, hesitating. Since the day she was assigned to the Apothecarion, Sera had avoided the Chapel like the plague, preferring to perform her devotions at one of the many smaller shrines scattered throughout the ship. When Vesta had questioned her about it, she’d visibly paled and changed the subject.

Vesta hadn’t given it much thought, until now.

Chairon seemed to study her. “Did the little one avoid the Chapel, Medica?”

“I….” 

The Astartes suddenly turned and began striding away. “Come.”

Vesta rushed to catch up with him. “My Lord? Where are we-”

“I would have a word with the Chaplain.”

***

“Woe to those who hold themselves in high esteem, forsaking holy humility for shallow vanity. Woe to those who relish the false pleasures of the flesh… for they will… they will- ah!”

You gasped as the blind servitor tossed another bucket of icy water over your back. The shock tightened your already aching muscles, yet you welcomed the moisture, desperately lapping at the droplets pouring over your lips. Your dry throat burned.

What time is it? How long have I been here?

It felt like hours.

You knelt before a little shrine on legs that had long since gone numb. A single candle placed atop the altar illuminated your little cell. Merely a box of metal containing the shrine and the servitor, dripping faucet on one side and a barred door on the other.

Through the bars, a familiar voice intoned. “Again.”

Again, you repeated the words he’d spoken to you. This time, the chattering of your teeth caused you to slur the scripture, resulting in yet another frigid deluge. You felt more than your legs going numb.

“Again.”

Another try. You repeated three full verses before tripping up this time. Another bucket.

“Again.”

Two verses. Another bucket.

“Again.”

One verse. Another bucket.

The muscles in your lower back burned. You gritted your teeth.

“Again.”

“W-woe… woe to….”

With a sob, you felt your body give out. Your back spasmed and you gasped in agony as you collapsed to your side. The servitor soaked you again… and again… and again. Covering your head with your arms, you fought for breath.

“Enough.”

You heard metallic creaking and glanced up to see the servitor step back against the wall, sightless white eyes staring from its ruined wreck of a face. 

Was he… she… it… once the occupant of this cell? Is that my future?

If you had anything left in your aching stomach, you would have vomited.

The cell door opened and he entered. For a moment there was heavy silence. Then, a ceramite-clad boot hooked under your ribs and flipped you onto your back. Lightning bolts of pain shot through your ravaged muscles.

The emotionless helm stared. Somehow, you knew the hidden eyes did not rest on your face.

A glance down made you gasp. 

The thin material of your sleeping robe, made near-translucent by water, clung to your form like a second skin. It outlined every curve and divot. And the chill had hardened your nipples to defined points.

You struggled to turn onto your side and cover yourself. Tears of shame pricked the backs of your eyes.

“Be still.”

You froze, exposed and vulnerable.

Stop looking at me. Stop. Please, stop!

He didn’t stop. He stepped closer until he towered over your prone form. 

His voice lowered to a whisper. “Harlot. Even now, you seek to tempt me?”

Realization rolled over you in waves colder than the water you’d been soaked in. “No-”

“Silence.”

He bent down. Terror brought life to your numbed limbs and you frantically pushed yourself back along the floor, sobbing when the grating tore cloth and skin alike. Your shoulders finally met the wall.

You cowered. “Please-”

“What is this?”

A hand darted out and you felt a sting at your throat as-

“No!” You lunged forward. “Please, don’t! Please! Please!”

Your nerveless fingers slipped from his armor as he straightened, a golden laurel leaf dangling from his clenched fist.

“He gave this to you.”

“Yes!” You whimpered. “Please, give it back! I’ll do anything!”

“You already know what you must do.”

A despairing cry left your lips as you collapsed back to the floor. “No….”

He dangled the leaf before your face. “Denounce him.”

You shook your head, even as he dragged the laurel leaf over your cheek.

“Submit to me.”

Deep within, a spark of defiance still smoldered. “I won’t!” 

A vicious blow flung you against the far wall. The last thing you saw before slipping into darkness was the Chaplain’s retreating back, the shining token of your lover’s devotion still clenched in his fist.

Demetrian, forgive me….

***

Tumultuous thoughts filled Chairon’s mind as he marched toward the Chapel. Chief among them was the memory of the Lieutenant’s departure. Finding the Chaplain looming over his serf, practically pinning her to the railing. The stench of fear rising from her, the pathetic relief in her eyes when she saw him and Gadriel, the way she all but hid behind them.

The sound of panting behind him made him pause. “Medica.”

“Yes, my Lord?” She hurried up, chest heaving.

He tempered his gait, allowing her to maintain her position beside him. “What do the serfs think of the good Chaplain?”

Immediately, the scent of stress. Glancing to one side revealed the tension in her shoulders.

“He is greatly revered and respected, my Lord.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

“But not loved.”

“Please, my Lord!” He watched her eyes dart about the corridor, even though few people were about at this early hour.

“Speak freely, Vesta.”

She bit her lip, a sight he found oddly appealing. 

“My Lord Callistus and I have not been on The Resilient long, my Lord. But… in that time… I’ve learned most of the serfs stay out of the Lord Chaplain’s path, if they can help it.”

Chairon frowned.

The Codex had strict regulations regarding the treatment of serfs. Many were former aspirants, after all. Others were part of families that had served the Chapter for generations. Still others, like the Lieutenant’s little one, had been taken under the Astartes’ protection for one reason or another. All deserved to be treated with respect.

Now, a creeping suspicion grew in his gut that this tenet he held close to his hearts was being violated. 

Do not jump to conclusions. What evidence do you have? Why would the Chaplain…?

The great gilded doors of the Chapel rose before him. The aroma of incense welled from within, along with the droning of hymns. A cherub fluttered by, mechanical voice box muttering benedictions. He paused in a rare moment of indecision.

“My Lord?” The medica whispered at his side. “What will you do?”

“Chairon?” Gadriel pushed through the Chapel doors, brows slightly raised. “I thought you had already completed your morning prayers.”

Well, this saves me having to track him down.

“I had, brother. But something has happened.” He relayed what the medica had told him.

“Warp, damn it.” Gadriel snarled. “Can the Apothecaries not keep track of one little female?”

“Would you have had us tie her to the bed?” The medica snapped, then paled. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Chairon huffed a laugh, even as his sergeant’s scowl deepened. “What matters now is that we find her, brother.” He hesitated. “Or who took her.”

Gadriel’s eyes snapped to his, even as the medica gasped. “You suspect abduction?”

“I think we discounted her fear too readily.” He searched his brother’s face. “You saw someone, when she ran to you.”

The sergeant looked away. “As I said, it is irrational.”

Chairon stepped closer. “Was it the Chaplain? Do you remember how we found her, the day the Lieutenant placed her in our care? The Chaplain seemed to take an undue interest-”

“For the love of the Emperor, Chairon! Do you know what you suggest?” Gadriel glared at the medica. “Leave, woman.”

She turned to Chairon with a beseeching look in her eyes.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Lord Apothecary Callistus sent her to find the little one, brother. And she has told me the serfs fear the Chaplain.”

“As they should.” 

“That does not mean he has the right to-”

“Your fondness for baselines is clouding your judgement, Chairon.” Gadriel stepped back. “I will hear no more of this.”

Chairon’s temper frayed. “You were quick enough to accuse the Lieutenant.” 

“That was entirely different!”

“At least accompany me to speak with the Chaplain. I swear, I will make no accusations.”

Gadriel hesitated.

Chairon pressed. “The Lieutenant honored us with this responsibility, brother. Would you shirk it?”

The sergeant glared at him. “Very well.” He glanced at the medica. “But the woman stays behind. And should she ever repeat what she has heard here today….”

“I won’t, my Lord!” 

***

Gadriel led his brother into the sanctuary of the Chapel, cursing his foolishness with every step. 

What am I doing? This is insubordination, at best! 

An image of the Lieutenant’s face flashed through his mind. 

What will he say when he returns and finds we have failed? 

Shame burned in his chest. Failure. It was intolerable, unthinkable. They must do everything in their power to find the missing female. Follow every tenuous lead. 

Even if it leads to a rot at the very heart of the Company?

They moved among the pillars and candelabras, toward the platform at the front of the chamber. Only minutes before he had knelt here, repeating his prayers to the Emperor. Prayers for victory, glory, and honor he’d said a thousand times.

The Chaplain was not present. That is… unusual.

The niggling doubt in the back of his mind was growing louder. It had begun weeks ago, when they first began taking turns escorting the Lieutenant’s serf, when he’d caught glimpses of a distinctive figure who always seemed to be just moving out of sight.

And then, yesterday, when the girl charged into him in blind panic, he could’ve sworn he’d seen that same figure standing at the end of the corridor. Watching. 

But why?

They reached the platform and paused. 

“Is he not usually here at this time?” Chairon looked around impatiently.

Before Gadriel could respond, the scraping hiss of an opening door reached their ears. A few moments later the Chaplain seemed to materialize out of the shadows behind the platform, in that eerie way that could strike unease into the most stalwart Ultramarine’s hearts.

“You completed your prayers, Gadriel.” He rumbled, almost sounding annoyed. “Why do you remain? And you,” his helm pivoted toward Chairon, “you are late for your devotions. Do I need to ascribe penance?” 

Wonderful. We have caught him in a foul mood.

“We have something we would ask of you, Brother Chaplain.” He found himself saying.

“It can wait.” 

Gadriel blinked at the abrupt dismissal. True, the Chaplain had never been the friendliest, never one to mingle with his fellow Astartes, but he had always made time for questions. 

Out of nowhere, Chairon spoke. “What do you know of Lieutenant Titus, brother?”

Gadriel watched the Chaplain pause mid-stride. “You have come to ask me this?”

He glanced at Chairon, then spoke up. “Forgive us if we overstep, but when you spoke to each other there seemed to be some… familiarity.”

Chairon again. “Did you know him before his service in the Death Watch?”

A long moment of silence, save for the droning of hymns sung by unseen serfs and the flapping of cherub’s wings. 

Why are we even asking this? He will not-

“I did.” The sheer venom in the words took Gadriel by surprise.

How had he not noticed before? The scorn in the Chaplain’s voice whenever he spoke to the Lieutenant. The undercurrents of hatred.

Why? What happened between you?

“Have your doubts about the Lieutenant awoken once more, brother?” The Chaplain addressed him directly, a strange eagerness in his manner. 

Gadriel noticed him fiddling with something in his right hand. Something that shone in the candlelight.

Distracted, he stumbled. “I… I do not….”

“Should they?” Chairon stepped in.

“Hmmm.” The Chaplain fell into silence once more. 

Unease pooled in Gadriel’s stomach and he found himself scrambling for words. “I… only ask because, when he departed, he requested we look after his serf. And since she has disappeared-”

The Chaplain stiffened. “You intrude upon my meditations with news of a missing serf?”

“Brother Chaplain, we only-”

“I have better things to occupy my time. As do you.”

“Brother-”

“Leave. Now.”

Chairon looked as though he would argue, but Gadriel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Forgive our intrusion, brother.”

He all but shoved his fellow Ultramarine out of the Chapel. Once outside, Chairon rounded on him.

“Did you witness his reaction? His hatred of the Lieutenant? Call my suspicions unfounded now, brother!”

“I saw.” Gadriel’s mind spun. “And I saw-”

“My Lords!” The medica bounded up from her place standing by the doors. “Did you learn anything?”

“Woman,” Gadriel gripped her shoulder in one hand. “Did the serf, Sera, wear any,” he flailed for the correct word, “baubles? Trinkets? Around her neck, perhaps?”

Chairon gave him a quizzical glance, which he ignored.

The medica’s eyes widened. “A necklace. I saw it often when she changed her clothing.”

Chairon spoke. “Brother, what are you on about?”

“A golden laurel leaf hung on a string, yes?”

The medica bobbed her head. “She told me the Lord Titus had given it to her. She never removed it, not even when she bathed.”

“By the Warp!” Gadriel’s snarl drew startled looks from a few passing serfs.

Chairon gripped his arm. “Brother-”

He turned to face him. “I saw it, Chairon.”

“What? Where?”

Gadriel forced the words through clenched teeth. “Held in the Chaplain’s hand.”

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[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [499]

Evelyn now understands exactly why Ellana has been very persistent in making sure any dragon threats are taken care of immediately, or as close to immediately as possible. As disappointed as it's made the Iron Bull whenever they’ve reported back, or whenever new dragon parts are sent back to Skyhold, at least now Even knows that there was a method behind Ellana’s near madness.

“Why does the Iron Bull look like he’s had some of the best sex of his life?” Sera asks as Evelyn trudges past her, blood and sweat and dust drying on her skin. She has gravel and dirt in her boots and Evelyn wants nothing more than to take a bath - cold water, hot water, luke-warm water, it could be salt water, it could be opaque water. Evelyn would settle as long as it was mostly clean water. — and sleep for about a day and then have a hard drink or two then go back to sleep.

It’s unlikely that she’ll ever develop a taste fighting High Dragons, and she will absolutely never develop anything like the near euphoric joy that the Iron Bull gets facing down death with wings.

At the same time, she also doesn’t think she’ll ever be worn down to the point of determined resignation like Ellana is.

“And why do you look like you’ve had the worst sex of your life?” Sera asks as Ellana follows behind Evelyn.

“Dragons,” Evelyn and Ellana intone together.

(“The dragon’s a proven danger to the locals,” Evelyn said. “I can’t, in good conscience, just leave it here. We���re supposed to be getting them to like us.”

“I’m not saying ignore it,” Ellana replied, “I’m saying don’t bring him.”

“Wolf, as your employer and the person who holds your contract, I’m going to tell you to shut up.”

Ellana glares at the man before turning back to Evelyn.

“Evelyn. We’ve been through many a fight together and have gone through several ordeals. I feel as though we have bonded and, in my opinion, are friends. As your friend, who you trust and know would not give you poor advice on purpose, I am asking you to not bring the Iron Bull with us.”

“I’m not going,” Cassandra had said. “Sera and I are both ill equipped for a fight against a Northern Hunter.”

“What she said,” Sera agreed. “Also, we’re stupid low on supplies. Pentaghast and I can pass you guys what we have, then hoof it back the way we came to Caer Bronach and recover some. Sounds fair?”

Bull grinned. “Boss.”

“Evelyn.”

How bad could it be?)

“It was amazing, Sera,” Bull says, clapping Evelyn on the shoulder, and pulling Ellana into his side with his other hand.

It was bad.

Evelyn shudders.

The Iron Bull came very, very, very close to death several times. Evelyn is beginning to question why she trusts him with her life when at the time he seemed so very cavalier with his. Perhaps it was because they were fighting a high dragon, but the Iron Bull seemed like he was taking a few risks that weren’t necessarily the best idea. He’s normally such a cautious fighter, very careful with his abilities as a Reaver.

And then it all went out the window the second the dragon touched down.

It was laughter and grunting and smiles and things in languages Evelyn couldn’t really translate. All the while Ellana was a grim shadow with a blade of magic and will doing her best to give him time to breathe and recover.

“Euphoria,” Cole murmurs softly. “The power when he looked at her.”

God the flirtation.

Evelyn puts a hand over her face.

(“Ataashi,” The Iron Bull breathed out, shoulders shaking with the strain of blocking so many repeated blows and having the swing around that huge sword of his.

And Evelyn had no idea if he meant the dragon, or the woman currently clinging to its neck with sheer force of will as she attempted to drive her energy blade into the weak points between scales and joints.

And she remembered the Iron Bull’s voice, quiet and sure and a little sad, she would have run.)

“I am never,” Evelyn says quietly and firmly, “Fighting a dragon with you again.”

“That’s what Wolf said the first time around, too,” Bull says. “But that’s two dragons we’ve got under our belts together.”

“It’s two dragons too many,” Ellana says, hooking her fingers into one of the straps that runs across his chest. “Come on. Let’s get you sorted. There’s got to be a medic around here somewhere. And with any luck some sort of dusty, unmarked bottle of liquor for me to die from.”

“If you find it, it’s mine first,” Evelyn says. “I think that’s within my authority as the Inquisitor to say.”

“We’ll split it.”

“It wasn’t that bad, Wolf,” Evelyn hears Bull saying as the two walk off. “And you looked hot.”

“I was on fire, Bull. Of course I looked hot. I imagine I was even smoking. Yes. Laugh it up. I don’t care anymore.”

“You are the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

“Northern Hunters don’t breathe fire,” Sera says, as she watches them retreat in the vague direction of the medical tents and triage center they had set up once they took over the outpost and claimed it for the Inquisition.

Evelyn raises an eyebrow at her. “Fought plenty of them, have you?”

“Pffft. No. Pentaghast was explaining it on the way back here,” Sera says. “How was she on fire?”

“Electricity caught and Ellana got singed,” Evelyn explains.

“So. How bad was it?” Sera asks, “He pop one right there?”

Evelyn closes her eyes and breathes and just hopes for a shred of patience. A scrap of dignity. Anything.

“There was a kiss.”

“Cute, I guess.”

“A really, really in depth kiss.”

“Less cute.”

As soon as the dragon stopped breathing, the Iron Bull raced over, picked Ellana up, spun her around, and kissed her.

Ellana let him for a bit before hitting him upside the head and proceeding to tear him down one side and up the other about the multiple risks he’d taken during the fight. The entire time he’d gone between examining the dragon’s corpse, kissing her, and whooping at the sky like a demented puppy caught between its favorite toys.

“They are…so stupidly good together,” Evelyn says. “I need to not think about it anymore.”

(“An euphoria that carries over,” Cole whispered into Evelyn’s ear as she did her best to block the two out and maybe give them some privacy. She had no idea if that’s something they even cared about, but she’d rather make the attempt anyway. “Synesthesia, the blending of senses. The blending of taste and smell and sight and sound. The taste of the dragon’s blood was the same warm flush feeling of her body in his hands. The hot rumbling bass of its snarl the same vibration in his bones when he hears her call for him. The sweet, singing in his ears from the brush of scales tuned to the pink of her tongue between teeth as she concentrates on a knife.

“The dragon carries him on wingbeats to this place of power and release. This place where he can sometimes catch her if he releases his fist enough. A transference between. An excuse. A veil to hide behind.”

“That’s private, Cole,” Evelyn whispered back. “I shouldn’t know that, and you shouldn’t be saying it.”

“But if I don’t say it,” Cole whispered back, confused and a little afraid, “Who will remember it when he kills that beating heart later?”

Evelyn does not know the answer to that question. Maker willing, she never has to find out what it means.)

[todaynewsstories]

Pope Francis in Ireland draws 600,000 people amid protests | Europe| News and current affairs from around the continent | DW

Pope Francis is coming to Ireland for the World Meeting of Families, and the Emerald Isle has come down with Pope fever. A large part of central Dublin has been cordoned off, and 600,000 people are expected at the papal Mass on Sunday in Phoenix Park, the biggest city park in Europe.

But although hundreds of thousands have travelled to see him, Ireland is no longer the Catholic stronghold in the Atlantic that it once was. The World Meeting of Families began in the Convention Centre Dublin on Tuesday, but the latest reports about the abuse scandals in the Catholic Church in the US state of Pennsylvania — and, of course, in Ireland itself — hover like a dark cloud above it.

“The Pope is doing his best to address the controversies that continue to grip his Church,” says Milena Pereira. The 20-year-old Catholic has travelled to Ireland from Portugal. She’s hopeful there will be reform — that the Pope will appoint like-minded people to high office, resulting in gradual progress. “If he is there for another five years, I think we will have a different church,” she says.

Read more: Pope Francis: The Catholic Church’s Superman?

Children’s ordeals

In 1979, when Pope John Paul II visited Ireland, it was still staunchly Catholic. One-and-a-half million people thronged Phoenix Park for the Mass. Back then it would have been sacrilege to protest the Pope’s visit.

There certainly are protests today, though. The Dublin city councilor Mannix Flynn, for example, has put up an art installation in the form of a “distress call” in the Dublin entertainment district of Temple Bar. Nine wooden boards detail the ordeals of children who were raped by priests. Flynn himself was one of these children. He was raped for the first time when he was 11. “We do not want prayers or sympathy,” he says. “We want people arrested and those who covered it up at least held accountable in court.”

The downfall of the Catholic Church in Ireland began in the 1990s, when the first abuse scandals involving Catholic priests came to light. The beginning was comparatively innocuous: In 1992 it became known that the Bishop of Galway, Eamon Casey, had a 17-year-old son. Casey resigned his office over the scandal and went to South America as a missionary.

Read more: Pope vows no more sexual abuse cover-ups

5 years of Pope Francis

‘Buona sera!’

On March 13, 2013, Jorge Mario Bergoglio greeted the crowd in St. Peter’s Square in the heart of Rome with a simple “good evening!” moments after the Conclave had selected him as the new pope. He thus began his term with a down-to-earth tone that has marked his stewardship of the Catholic Church ever since.

5 years of Pope Francis

Reform committee ‘K9’

The new pontiff immediately tackled topics that the Catholic Church had been discussing before his election. He set up a nine-person cardinal conference to reform the church’s organization and direction. The guiding principle: the Roman Catholic Church is not an end in itself. Instead, it should seek to spread the teachings of the Bible and bring the Vatican and its followers closer together.

5 years of Pope Francis

Supporting the weak

The deaths of migrants crossing from Africa to Europe are “a thorn in the heart,” said Pope Francis on his first bridge building trip to Lampedusa. At the time of his visit in the summer of 2013, thousands of migrants were on the Italian island hoping to receive legal permits to continue their journey onto the European mainland.

5 years of Pope Francis

Symbol of humility

It aligned perfectly with his own message of the “poor church:” the picture of Pope Francis with the 30-year-old Renault 4 that he had received as a gift from a pastor in Verona. Francis reportedly wanted to drive the car, but was not allowed to due to security concerns. The symbol of modesty has endured.

5 years of Pope Francis

Francis the celebrity

Francis’ worldly style quickly made him an icon for progressive Catholics and other Christians. Even non-Christians applauded the pope and rubbed their eyes in amazement at the contrast between Francis and his conservative and academic predecessor, Pope Benedict. After 10 months in office, Francis became the first pope to make the cover of “Rolling Stone” magazine.

5 years of Pope Francis

Controversial bridge builder

Francis takes his task as bridge builder very seriously. He has acted as a mediator between warring parties in civil conflicts in central Africa and Colombia and also helped bring an end to frozen relations between the US and Cuba. With an eye toward the Mexican-US border, he has also urged US President Donald Trump to build bridges rather than walls.

5 years of Pope Francis

Believers and religions from all corners of the earth

Francis has also tried to build bridges between confessions and religions. He prayed at the wailing wall in Jerusalem and met the Grand Mufti Mohammad Hussein. In Egypt, he visited the head of the Coptic Church, Tawadros II, and Grand Imam Ahmed al-Tayeb. In Myanmar, he spoke to Buddhist monks and in Havanna, he met with the head of the Russian Orthodox Church, Patriarch Kyrill I (pictured).

5 years of Pope Francis

People person

Francis spontaneously wed a couple on an airplane during a trip to Chile in January 2018. The two crew members were traveling with the pope on a flight from the capital Santiago to the northern city of Iquique. They had apparently told Francis of their plans to marry.

5 years of Pope Francis

Sexual abuse scandal in the Church

Chile was also a touchstone where Francis tripped up. The Church has had a hard time there for years, particularly since cases of sexual abuse were made public. Bishop Juan Barros (pictured right) had allegedly been aware of the abuse, but remained silent. Francis dismissed the accusations against Barros as slander. Francis apologized for his words, but allowed Barros to remain in office.

5 years of Pope Francis

Criticism from within the church

Francis’ reform course has been too radical for some clerics. This poster in Rome accused Francis of showing no mercy within the church. He reportedly also has little time for dissent within the Vatican. Some church members think his course is too secular, his humility too bold, its display too media-orientated. The essence of religiosity – spirituality – some fear, could get lost in it all.

Author: Jan D. Walter, Alexander Pearson

Believers turning their backs

However, this was followed by a slew of reports about sexual abuse in Catholic schools, children’s homes and other institutions. The Irish public were appalled. Many finally turned their backs on the Church after an inquiry established that senior figures in the Church had protected these priests and transferred them to other dioceses, where they were able to do more harm. Between 2005 and 2011 the number of churchgoers dropped by 20 percent.

Since then, the Catholic Church has lost a great deal of influence, not only as a moral authority but also as a political force. Despite vehement opposition from the Church, in May 2015 Ireland became the first country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage by referendum, with an overwhelming majority. This in a country where homosexuality was only decriminalized in 1993.

Within a single generation Ireland has transformed from a rigidly conservative country to an extremely liberal one. The Church clearly doesn’t want to accept this: In January, five photos of same-sex couples were removed from the brochure for the World Meeting of Families.

Read more: Ireland ‘Yes’ campaigners stunned by margin of victory in abortion referendum

‘Cultural Catholics’

In May 2018 the last bastion of Catholicism, the ban on abortion, also fell, with a surprising two-thirds majority voting to overturn it. After the referendum the Bishop of Kilmore, Leo O’Reilly, commented that the Irish were now merely “cultural Catholics rather than Catholics by conviction.” He declared that Ireland was now “mission territory,” and expressed his regret that Francis would find Ireland a very different country to the one Pope John Paul II visited in 1979.

Colm O’Gorman, the executive director of Amnesty International Ireland, was 13 years old at the time. He was an altar boy, and sang in the church choir every Sunday. “I was heavily involved in the Church,” he says. “I didn’t get to see Pope John Paul II when he was here. My older sister and brother did, and I remember envying them.”

O’Gorman watched the Pope’s visit on television, and was delighted when John Paul II told 300,000 young people in Galway in the west of Ireland: “Young people of Ireland, I love you!” Just over a year later O’Gorman was raped by a priest for the first time.

“That priest had been ordained just four months before the visit, and the Church knew then that he was a child abuser,” he says. “But the Church made him a priest, and then sent him off and let him abuse for years with impunity.” O’Gorman was almost destroyed by the experience. His message for Pope Francis is clear: “Tell the truth. Admit the cover-up. Please.”

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[c-u-c-koo-4-40k]

Time to storm the castle and KICK !

SOME !!

ASS!!!!!

Or unless it's more of a heist then we'll of course have to.

kick

some

Ass!! (Quietly and surreptitiously)

Leanderos truly is just Loathsome in this series, but not unrealistic. Wanting what isn't his because he's Jealous of Titus having survived AND gotten a cute wife. It's why he's so focused on making her denounce Titus.

Defiance

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: some suggestiveness, a certain Chaplain being creepy

Description: Sera wakes up in Leandros's clutches. Meanwhile, her friends realize she's gone, and starting putting two and two together.

Creepy Chaplain is creepy. But never fear! Vesta, Chairon, and Gadriel are on the case!

Read the chapters leading up to this point on my Masterlist. And don't forget to ask if you'd like to be added to/removed from the Taglist!

Icy water shocked you awake. Your eyes snapped open onto… darkness. Cold, wet darkness, the only sounds your own gasps as your lungs struggled for air.

Oh, Emperor… no….

It hadn’t been a nightmare.

“Kneel.”

The distorted voice stabbed through you and you froze like a prey animal. Your fingers clutched at the metal grate beneath you. Water dripped into your eyes and you squeezed them shut, curling in on yourself.

“Disobedient.”

An armored hand grasped the hood of your sodden robe and yanked. The material constricted around your neck as you struggled to enforce some kind of order on your shivering limbs, finally managing to settle on your knees, grating biting into your skin. The hand released and you desperately gulped air.

You kept your eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

The voice came from somewhere in front and above. You recognized it, though your mind fought to deny the terrible truth. Your body shook with more than cold.

“Look at me.”

The hand took your jaw in its iron grasp, forcing your head back until your neck screamed. Against your will your eyes sprang open.

Glowing red lenses in a white skull glared down at you. The face that had haunted your steps and your nightmares. You tried to scream, but only a weak whimper came forth.

“Silence.”

The hand forced your jaw closed. You bit your own tongue and tasted blood.

For an eternity the skull helm stared down at you, silent, judging. The hand held you pinned like an insect. Your dripping skin burned with cold. Your knees ached, your jaw throbbed, and any moment you felt your neck would snap beneath that awful strength. 

“You stand accused.”

Your heart stopped. The voice continued.

“As Chaplain of the Second Company, I find you guilty of perversion. Guilty of sullying the honored role of ‘serf’ by indulging base instincts. Guilty of corrupting the holy warriors of the Emperor with your feminine seductions.”

I am going to die here.

You only prayed it would be quick.

Then, to your shock, the Chaplain sank to one knee before you with a clang of ceremite on metal. He released your jaw and you sank forward onto your hands.

His voice dropped to a rasp. “In any other case, the punishment would be instant servitorization.”

Throne, help me!

A sob tore from your throat. “P-please… no….”

“But I am not without mercy.”

You dared glance up through your lank hair. 

“I know the corruption did not originate with you, but is a foul result of your service to the heretic Demetrian Titus.”

The raw hatred in his voice stunned you.

His hand returned to your jaw, this time almost gentle as it tilted your head back. “Your soul may still be saved. Denounce him, and be redeemed.”

Your mind spun. A small, snivelling part of you whimpered. 

No one will save you now. Spare yourself the agony and do as he wills!

But a larger part of you recoiled at the very suggestion.

Demetrian….

Kind eyes. Strong arms. Hearts that burned with compassion beneath his stoic exterior. Courage. Honor. The will to endure against all odds. 

Love.

You felt his laurel leaf around your neck still.

Your shaking subsided. Slowly, you sat back on your knees, folding your hands in your lap. Lifting your chin, you spoke your defiance.

“My Lord is no heretic.”

The kneeling Astartes before you shook his head, something that sounded almost like a sigh coming from within his helm.

“As I feared, the corruption is deeply embedded.”

Quicker than your eyes could follow, he struck. The armored hand curled around your throat, lifting you off your feet, and slamming you against the wall. Your head bounced against the metal, sparks flashing behind your eyelids. You clawed at his fingers.

Can’t… breathe…!

The helm drew close to your face. So close, you could hear deep, chugging breaths.

“I will cleanse you.”

***

“Vesta.”

The medica groaned and wiggled deeper into her blankets. “S’too early, Uncle.”

“Vesta. Now.”

She knew that tone of voice. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she sat up and stretched. Above her the Apothecary loomed. Or tried to. The cramped space of her closet-turned-sleeping chamber was not meant to contain the bulk of a fully armored Astartes.

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“Did the Lieutenant’s serf come here last night?”

“Sera?” Vesta looked around.

The cot pressed against hers remained as it had been when she’d gone to bed, alone, after checking on Sera in the Apothecarion one last time. The sedative had still been in effect, though her friend’s sleeping face had not looked exactly peaceful. 

“No… I, I don’t think so, Uncle. Is something wrong?”

Without a word, Callistus turned and left the room. 

After throwing on her robes, Vesta hopped into the greater chamber, struggling to tie the laces on her sandals and nearly face-planting in her hurry. The chrono embedded into the wall told her the day cycle had just barely begun. Her uncle stood by the row of baseline-sized beds on one side of the Apothecarion.

The row of very empty baseline-sized beds.

“Where is she?” Vesta trotted up beside the Astartes.

A low humph. “If I knew that, would I have awakened you, girl?” His habitual frown had deepened. “She is not in the lavatory, either.”

Vesta’s stomach flipped, but she pasted a smile to her face. “I’ll check the refectory, and the serf baths. Perhaps the sedative wore off earlier than expected, and her insomnia returned.”

“Hmmm.” He glanced down at her. “You thoroughly examined her skull when the Sergeant brought her in yesterday.”

“A nasty bump but,” she caught his meaning, “I swear I didn’t see any sign of concussion! And Lord Gadriel said she lost consciousness before she struck the-”

“I remember.” The Apothecary glared at the empty bed as if it had offended him. “Go.”

Vesta spent several hours searching everywhere she could think that her friend might have wandered. None of the refectory or bath serfs had seen her. Nor had any of the cleaning crews, or candle-lighters Vesta encountered in the corridors. 

Anxiety roiled in her gut as she paused next to a candle-lit shrine. She felt beads of sweat forming at her hairline.

She couldn’t be suffering from concussion. I checked!

Still, thoughts of her friend, confused and disoriented, wandering the ship’s corridors made her heart pound. Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes.

“You look distressed, Medica.”

Vesta whipped around with a shriek. Brother Chairon stood there, eyebrows raised, the barest hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

“I may not have the Sergeant’s fine features, but I did not think my face quite so repulsive.”

She fell back against the wall, hand pressed over her fluttering heart. “M-my Lord! Forgive me.”

“Forgiven, Medica.” His faint chuckle faded as he searched her face. “Not even a smile at my poor attempt at levity? Something must be troubling you, indeed.”

The words burst out like atmosphere through a blown airlock. “Sera is missing!”

His face stilled. “Explain.”

Vesta told him all she knew, listing every place she’d searched, and searched again. “The only other place I can think to look is the Chapel. But Sera doesn’t-” She bit her tongue.

Shut up, you idiot!

“She does not what?” 

She gnawed her lip, hesitating. Since the day she was assigned to the Apothecarion, Sera had avoided the Chapel like the plague, preferring to perform her devotions at one of the many smaller shrines scattered throughout the ship. When Vesta had questioned her about it, she’d visibly paled and changed the subject.

Vesta hadn’t given it much thought, until now.

Chairon seemed to study her. “Did the little one avoid the Chapel, Medica?”

“I….” 

The Astartes suddenly turned and began striding away. “Come.”

Vesta rushed to catch up with him. “My Lord? Where are we-”

“I would have a word with the Chaplain.”

***

“Woe to those who hold themselves in high esteem, forsaking holy humility for shallow vanity. Woe to those who relish the false pleasures of the flesh… for they will… they will- ah!”

You gasped as the blind servitor tossed another bucket of icy water over your back. The shock tightened your already aching muscles, yet you welcomed the moisture, desperately lapping at the droplets pouring over your lips. Your dry throat burned.

What time is it? How long have I been here?

It felt like hours.

You knelt before a little shrine on legs that had long since gone numb. A single candle placed atop the altar illuminated your little cell. Merely a box of metal containing the shrine and the servitor, dripping faucet on one side and a barred door on the other.

Through the bars, a familiar voice intoned. “Again.”

Again, you repeated the words he’d spoken to you. This time, the chattering of your teeth caused you to slur the scripture, resulting in yet another frigid deluge. You felt more than your legs going numb.

“Again.”

Another try. You repeated three full verses before tripping up this time. Another bucket.

“Again.”

Two verses. Another bucket.

“Again.”

One verse. Another bucket.

The muscles in your lower back burned. You gritted your teeth.

“Again.”

“W-woe… woe to….”

With a sob, you felt your body give out. Your back spasmed and you gasped in agony as you collapsed to your side. The servitor soaked you again… and again… and again. Covering your head with your arms, you fought for breath.

“Enough.”

You heard metallic creaking and glanced up to see the servitor step back against the wall, sightless white eyes staring from its ruined wreck of a face. 

Was he… she… it… once the occupant of this cell? Is that my future?

If you had anything left in your aching stomach, you would have vomited.

The cell door opened and he entered. For a moment there was heavy silence. Then, a ceramite-clad boot hooked under your ribs and flipped you onto your back. Lightning bolts of pain shot through your ravaged muscles.

The emotionless helm stared. Somehow, you knew the hidden eyes did not rest on your face.

A glance down made you gasp. 

The thin material of your sleeping robe, made near-translucent by water, clung to your form like a second skin. It outlined every curve and divot. And the chill had hardened your nipples to defined points.

You struggled to turn onto your side and cover yourself. Tears of shame pricked the backs of your eyes.

“Be still.”

You froze, exposed and vulnerable.

Stop looking at me. Stop. Please, stop!

He didn’t stop. He stepped closer until he towered over your prone form. 

His voice lowered to a whisper. “Harlot. Even now, you seek to tempt me?”

Realization rolled over you in waves colder than the water you’d been soaked in. “No-”

“Silence.”

He bent down. Terror brought life to your numbed limbs and you frantically pushed yourself back along the floor, sobbing when the grating tore cloth and skin alike. Your shoulders finally met the wall.

You cowered. “Please-”

“What is this?”

A hand darted out and you felt a sting at your throat as-

“No!” You lunged forward. “Please, don’t! Please! Please!”

Your nerveless fingers slipped from his armor as he straightened, a golden laurel leaf dangling from his clenched fist.

“He gave this to you.”

“Yes!” You whimpered. “Please, give it back! I’ll do anything!”

“You already know what you must do.”

A despairing cry left your lips as you collapsed back to the floor. “No….”

He dangled the leaf before your face. “Denounce him.”

You shook your head, even as he dragged the laurel leaf over your cheek.

“Submit to me.”

Deep within, a spark of defiance still smoldered. “I won’t!” 

A vicious blow flung you against the far wall. The last thing you saw before slipping into darkness was the Chaplain’s retreating back, the shining token of your lover’s devotion still clenched in his fist.

Demetrian, forgive me….

***

Tumultuous thoughts filled Chairon’s mind as he marched toward the Chapel. Chief among them was the memory of the Lieutenant’s departure. Finding the Chaplain looming over his serf, practically pinning her to the railing. The stench of fear rising from her, the pathetic relief in her eyes when she saw him and Gadriel, the way she all but hid behind them.

The sound of panting behind him made him pause. “Medica.”

“Yes, my Lord?” She hurried up, chest heaving.

He tempered his gait, allowing her to maintain her position beside him. “What do the serfs think of the good Chaplain?”

Immediately, the scent of stress. Glancing to one side revealed the tension in her shoulders.

“He is greatly revered and respected, my Lord.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

“But not loved.”

“Please, my Lord!” He watched her eyes dart about the corridor, even though few people were about at this early hour.

“Speak freely, Vesta.”

She bit her lip, a sight he found oddly appealing. 

“My Lord Callistus and I have not been on The Resilient long, my Lord. But… in that time… I’ve learned most of the serfs stay out of the Lord Chaplain’s path, if they can help it.”

Chairon frowned.

The Codex had strict regulations regarding the treatment of serfs. Many were former aspirants, after all. Others were part of families that had served the Chapter for generations. Still others, like the Lieutenant’s little one, had been taken under the Astartes’ protection for one reason or another. All deserved to be treated with respect.

Now, a creeping suspicion grew in his gut that this tenet he held close to his hearts was being violated. 

Do not jump to conclusions. What evidence do you have? Why would the Chaplain…?

The great gilded doors of the Chapel rose before him. The aroma of incense welled from within, along with the droning of hymns. A cherub fluttered by, mechanical voice box muttering benedictions. He paused in a rare moment of indecision.

“My Lord?” The medica whispered at his side. “What will you do?”

“Chairon?” Gadriel pushed through the Chapel doors, brows slightly raised. “I thought you had already completed your morning prayers.”

Well, this saves me having to track him down.

“I had, brother. But something has happened.” He relayed what the medica had told him.

“Warp, damn it.” Gadriel snarled. “Can the Apothecaries not keep track of one little female?”

“Would you have had us tie her to the bed?” The medica snapped, then paled. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Chairon huffed a laugh, even as his sergeant’s scowl deepened. “What matters now is that we find her, brother.” He hesitated. “Or who took her.”

Gadriel’s eyes snapped to his, even as the medica gasped. “You suspect abduction?”

“I think we discounted her fear too readily.” He searched his brother’s face. “You saw someone, when she ran to you.”

The sergeant looked away. “As I said, it is irrational.”

Chairon stepped closer. “Was it the Chaplain? Do you remember how we found her, the day the Lieutenant placed her in our care? The Chaplain seemed to take an undue interest-”

“For the love of the Emperor, Chairon! Do you know what you suggest?” Gadriel glared at the medica. “Leave, woman.”

She turned to Chairon with a beseeching look in her eyes.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Lord Apothecary Callistus sent her to find the little one, brother. And she has told me the serfs fear the Chaplain.”

“As they should.” 

“That does not mean he has the right to-”

“Your fondness for baselines is clouding your judgement, Chairon.” Gadriel stepped back. “I will hear no more of this.”

Chairon’s temper frayed. “You were quick enough to accuse the Lieutenant.” 

“That was entirely different!”

“At least accompany me to speak with the Chaplain. I swear, I will make no accusations.”

Gadriel hesitated.

Chairon pressed. “The Lieutenant honored us with this responsibility, brother. Would you shirk it?”

The sergeant glared at him. “Very well.” He glanced at the medica. “But the woman stays behind. And should she ever repeat what she has heard here today….”

“I won’t, my Lord!” 

***

Gadriel led his brother into the sanctuary of the Chapel, cursing his foolishness with every step. 

What am I doing? This is insubordination, at best! 

An image of the Lieutenant’s face flashed through his mind. 

What will he say when he returns and finds we have failed? 

Shame burned in his chest. Failure. It was intolerable, unthinkable. They must do everything in their power to find the missing female. Follow every tenuous lead. 

Even if it leads to a rot at the very heart of the Company?

They moved among the pillars and candelabras, toward the platform at the front of the chamber. Only minutes before he had knelt here, repeating his prayers to the Emperor. Prayers for victory, glory, and honor he’d said a thousand times.

The Chaplain was not present. That is… unusual.

The niggling doubt in the back of his mind was growing louder. It had begun weeks ago, when they first began taking turns escorting the Lieutenant’s serf, when he’d caught glimpses of a distinctive figure who always seemed to be just moving out of sight.

And then, yesterday, when the girl charged into him in blind panic, he could’ve sworn he’d seen that same figure standing at the end of the corridor. Watching. 

But why?

They reached the platform and paused. 

“Is he not usually here at this time?” Chairon looked around impatiently.

Before Gadriel could respond, the scraping hiss of an opening door reached their ears. A few moments later the Chaplain seemed to materialize out of the shadows behind the platform, in that eerie way that could strike unease into the most stalwart Ultramarine’s hearts.

“You completed your prayers, Gadriel.” He rumbled, almost sounding annoyed. “Why do you remain? And you,” his helm pivoted toward Chairon, “you are late for your devotions. Do I need to ascribe penance?” 

Wonderful. We have caught him in a foul mood.

“We have something we would ask of you, Brother Chaplain.” He found himself saying.

“It can wait.” 

Gadriel blinked at the abrupt dismissal. True, the Chaplain had never been the friendliest, never one to mingle with his fellow Astartes, but he had always made time for questions. 

Out of nowhere, Chairon spoke. “What do you know of Lieutenant Titus, brother?”

Gadriel watched the Chaplain pause mid-stride. “You have come to ask me this?”

He glanced at Chairon, then spoke up. “Forgive us if we overstep, but when you spoke to each other there seemed to be some… familiarity.”

Chairon again. “Did you know him before his service in the Death Watch?”

A long moment of silence, save for the droning of hymns sung by unseen serfs and the flapping of cherub’s wings. 

Why are we even asking this? He will not-

“I did.” The sheer venom in the words took Gadriel by surprise.

How had he not noticed before? The scorn in the Chaplain’s voice whenever he spoke to the Lieutenant. The undercurrents of hatred.

Why? What happened between you?

“Have your doubts about the Lieutenant awoken once more, brother?” The Chaplain addressed him directly, a strange eagerness in his manner. 

Gadriel noticed him fiddling with something in his right hand. Something that shone in the candlelight.

Distracted, he stumbled. “I… I do not….”

“Should they?” Chairon stepped in.

“Hmmm.” The Chaplain fell into silence once more. 

Unease pooled in Gadriel’s stomach and he found himself scrambling for words. “I… only ask because, when he departed, he requested we look after his serf. And since she has disappeared-”

The Chaplain stiffened. “You intrude upon my meditations with news of a missing serf?”

“Brother Chaplain, we only-”

“I have better things to occupy my time. As do you.”

“Brother-”

“Leave. Now.”

Chairon looked as though he would argue, but Gadriel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Forgive our intrusion, brother.”

He all but shoved his fellow Ultramarine out of the Chapel. Once outside, Chairon rounded on him.

“Did you witness his reaction? His hatred of the Lieutenant? Call my suspicions unfounded now, brother!”

“I saw.” Gadriel’s mind spun. “And I saw-”

“My Lords!” The medica bounded up from her place standing by the doors. “Did you learn anything?”

“Woman,” Gadriel gripped her shoulder in one hand. “Did the serf, Sera, wear any,” he flailed for the correct word, “baubles? Trinkets? Around her neck, perhaps?”

Chairon gave him a quizzical glance, which he ignored.

The medica’s eyes widened. “A necklace. I saw it often when she changed her clothing.”

Chairon spoke. “Brother, what are you on about?”

“A golden laurel leaf hung on a string, yes?”

The medica bobbed her head. “She told me the Lord Titus had given it to her. She never removed it, not even when she bathed.”

“By the Warp!” Gadriel’s snarl drew startled looks from a few passing serfs.

Chairon gripped his arm. “Brother-”

He turned to face him. “I saw it, Chairon.”

“What? Where?”

Gadriel forced the words through clenched teeth. “Held in the Chaplain’s hand.”

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I need to give Sevatar Leandros’ location asap

Defiance

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: some suggestiveness, a certain Chaplain being creepy

Description: Sera wakes up in Leandros's clutches. Meanwhile, her friends realize she's gone, and starting putting two and two together.

Creepy Chaplain is creepy. But never fear! Vesta, Chairon, and Gadriel are on the case!

Read the chapters leading up to this point on my Masterlist. And don't forget to ask if you'd like to be added to/removed from the Taglist!

Icy water shocked you awake. Your eyes snapped open onto… darkness. Cold, wet darkness, the only sounds your own gasps as your lungs struggled for air.

Oh, Emperor… no….

It hadn’t been a nightmare.

“Kneel.”

The distorted voice stabbed through you and you froze like a prey animal. Your fingers clutched at the metal grate beneath you. Water dripped into your eyes and you squeezed them shut, curling in on yourself.

“Disobedient.”

An armored hand grasped the hood of your sodden robe and yanked. The material constricted around your neck as you struggled to enforce some kind of order on your shivering limbs, finally managing to settle on your knees, grating biting into your skin. The hand released and you desperately gulped air.

You kept your eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

The voice came from somewhere in front and above. You recognized it, though your mind fought to deny the terrible truth. Your body shook with more than cold.

“Look at me.”

The hand took your jaw in its iron grasp, forcing your head back until your neck screamed. Against your will your eyes sprang open.

Glowing red lenses in a white skull glared down at you. The face that had haunted your steps and your nightmares. You tried to scream, but only a weak whimper came forth.

“Silence.”

The hand forced your jaw closed. You bit your own tongue and tasted blood.

For an eternity the skull helm stared down at you, silent, judging. The hand held you pinned like an insect. Your dripping skin burned with cold. Your knees ached, your jaw throbbed, and any moment you felt your neck would snap beneath that awful strength. 

“You stand accused.”

Your heart stopped. The voice continued.

“As Chaplain of the Second Company, I find you guilty of perversion. Guilty of sullying the honored role of ‘serf’ by indulging base instincts. Guilty of corrupting the holy warriors of the Emperor with your feminine seductions.”

I am going to die here.

You only prayed it would be quick.

Then, to your shock, the Chaplain sank to one knee before you with a clang of ceremite on metal. He released your jaw and you sank forward onto your hands.

His voice dropped to a rasp. “In any other case, the punishment would be instant servitorization.”

Throne, help me!

A sob tore from your throat. “P-please… no….”

“But I am not without mercy.”

You dared glance up through your lank hair. 

“I know the corruption did not originate with you, but is a foul result of your service to the heretic Demetrian Titus.”

The raw hatred in his voice stunned you.

His hand returned to your jaw, this time almost gentle as it tilted your head back. “Your soul may still be saved. Denounce him, and be redeemed.”

Your mind spun. A small, snivelling part of you whimpered. 

No one will save you now. Spare yourself the agony and do as he wills!

But a larger part of you recoiled at the very suggestion.

Demetrian….

Kind eyes. Strong arms. Hearts that burned with compassion beneath his stoic exterior. Courage. Honor. The will to endure against all odds. 

Love.

You felt his laurel leaf around your neck still.

Your shaking subsided. Slowly, you sat back on your knees, folding your hands in your lap. Lifting your chin, you spoke your defiance.

“My Lord is no heretic.”

The kneeling Astartes before you shook his head, something that sounded almost like a sigh coming from within his helm.

“As I feared, the corruption is deeply embedded.”

Quicker than your eyes could follow, he struck. The armored hand curled around your throat, lifting you off your feet, and slamming you against the wall. Your head bounced against the metal, sparks flashing behind your eyelids. You clawed at his fingers.

Can’t… breathe…!

The helm drew close to your face. So close, you could hear deep, chugging breaths.

“I will cleanse you.”

***

“Vesta.”

The medica groaned and wiggled deeper into her blankets. “S’too early, Uncle.”

“Vesta. Now.”

She knew that tone of voice. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she sat up and stretched. Above her the Apothecary loomed. Or tried to. The cramped space of her closet-turned-sleeping chamber was not meant to contain the bulk of a fully armored Astartes.

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“Did the Lieutenant’s serf come here last night?”

“Sera?” Vesta looked around.

The cot pressed against hers remained as it had been when she’d gone to bed, alone, after checking on Sera in the Apothecarion one last time. The sedative had still been in effect, though her friend’s sleeping face had not looked exactly peaceful. 

“No… I, I don’t think so, Uncle. Is something wrong?”

Without a word, Callistus turned and left the room. 

After throwing on her robes, Vesta hopped into the greater chamber, struggling to tie the laces on her sandals and nearly face-planting in her hurry. The chrono embedded into the wall told her the day cycle had just barely begun. Her uncle stood by the row of baseline-sized beds on one side of the Apothecarion.

The row of very empty baseline-sized beds.

“Where is she?” Vesta trotted up beside the Astartes.

A low humph. “If I knew that, would I have awakened you, girl?” His habitual frown had deepened. “She is not in the lavatory, either.”

Vesta’s stomach flipped, but she pasted a smile to her face. “I’ll check the refectory, and the serf baths. Perhaps the sedative wore off earlier than expected, and her insomnia returned.”

“Hmmm.” He glanced down at her. “You thoroughly examined her skull when the Sergeant brought her in yesterday.”

“A nasty bump but,” she caught his meaning, “I swear I didn’t see any sign of concussion! And Lord Gadriel said she lost consciousness before she struck the-”

“I remember.” The Apothecary glared at the empty bed as if it had offended him. “Go.”

Vesta spent several hours searching everywhere she could think that her friend might have wandered. None of the refectory or bath serfs had seen her. Nor had any of the cleaning crews, or candle-lighters Vesta encountered in the corridors. 

Anxiety roiled in her gut as she paused next to a candle-lit shrine. She felt beads of sweat forming at her hairline.

She couldn’t be suffering from concussion. I checked!

Still, thoughts of her friend, confused and disoriented, wandering the ship’s corridors made her heart pound. Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes.

“You look distressed, Medica.”

Vesta whipped around with a shriek. Brother Chairon stood there, eyebrows raised, the barest hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

“I may not have the Sergeant’s fine features, but I did not think my face quite so repulsive.”

She fell back against the wall, hand pressed over her fluttering heart. “M-my Lord! Forgive me.”

“Forgiven, Medica.” His faint chuckle faded as he searched her face. “Not even a smile at my poor attempt at levity? Something must be troubling you, indeed.”

The words burst out like atmosphere through a blown airlock. “Sera is missing!”

His face stilled. “Explain.”

Vesta told him all she knew, listing every place she’d searched, and searched again. “The only other place I can think to look is the Chapel. But Sera doesn’t-” She bit her tongue.

Shut up, you idiot!

“She does not what?” 

She gnawed her lip, hesitating. Since the day she was assigned to the Apothecarion, Sera had avoided the Chapel like the plague, preferring to perform her devotions at one of the many smaller shrines scattered throughout the ship. When Vesta had questioned her about it, she’d visibly paled and changed the subject.

Vesta hadn’t given it much thought, until now.

Chairon seemed to study her. “Did the little one avoid the Chapel, Medica?”

“I….” 

The Astartes suddenly turned and began striding away. “Come.”

Vesta rushed to catch up with him. “My Lord? Where are we-”

“I would have a word with the Chaplain.”

***

“Woe to those who hold themselves in high esteem, forsaking holy humility for shallow vanity. Woe to those who relish the false pleasures of the flesh… for they will… they will- ah!”

You gasped as the blind servitor tossed another bucket of icy water over your back. The shock tightened your already aching muscles, yet you welcomed the moisture, desperately lapping at the droplets pouring over your lips. Your dry throat burned.

What time is it? How long have I been here?

It felt like hours.

You knelt before a little shrine on legs that had long since gone numb. A single candle placed atop the altar illuminated your little cell. Merely a box of metal containing the shrine and the servitor, dripping faucet on one side and a barred door on the other.

Through the bars, a familiar voice intoned. “Again.”

Again, you repeated the words he’d spoken to you. This time, the chattering of your teeth caused you to slur the scripture, resulting in yet another frigid deluge. You felt more than your legs going numb.

“Again.”

Another try. You repeated three full verses before tripping up this time. Another bucket.

“Again.”

Two verses. Another bucket.

“Again.”

One verse. Another bucket.

The muscles in your lower back burned. You gritted your teeth.

“Again.”

“W-woe… woe to….”

With a sob, you felt your body give out. Your back spasmed and you gasped in agony as you collapsed to your side. The servitor soaked you again… and again… and again. Covering your head with your arms, you fought for breath.

“Enough.”

You heard metallic creaking and glanced up to see the servitor step back against the wall, sightless white eyes staring from its ruined wreck of a face. 

Was he… she… it… once the occupant of this cell? Is that my future?

If you had anything left in your aching stomach, you would have vomited.

The cell door opened and he entered. For a moment there was heavy silence. Then, a ceramite-clad boot hooked under your ribs and flipped you onto your back. Lightning bolts of pain shot through your ravaged muscles.

The emotionless helm stared. Somehow, you knew the hidden eyes did not rest on your face.

A glance down made you gasp. 

The thin material of your sleeping robe, made near-translucent by water, clung to your form like a second skin. It outlined every curve and divot. And the chill had hardened your nipples to defined points.

You struggled to turn onto your side and cover yourself. Tears of shame pricked the backs of your eyes.

“Be still.”

You froze, exposed and vulnerable.

Stop looking at me. Stop. Please, stop!

He didn’t stop. He stepped closer until he towered over your prone form. 

His voice lowered to a whisper. “Harlot. Even now, you seek to tempt me?”

Realization rolled over you in waves colder than the water you’d been soaked in. “No-”

“Silence.”

He bent down. Terror brought life to your numbed limbs and you frantically pushed yourself back along the floor, sobbing when the grating tore cloth and skin alike. Your shoulders finally met the wall.

You cowered. “Please-”

“What is this?”

A hand darted out and you felt a sting at your throat as-

“No!” You lunged forward. “Please, don’t! Please! Please!”

Your nerveless fingers slipped from his armor as he straightened, a golden laurel leaf dangling from his clenched fist.

“He gave this to you.”

“Yes!” You whimpered. “Please, give it back! I’ll do anything!”

“You already know what you must do.”

A despairing cry left your lips as you collapsed back to the floor. “No….”

He dangled the leaf before your face. “Denounce him.”

You shook your head, even as he dragged the laurel leaf over your cheek.

“Submit to me.”

Deep within, a spark of defiance still smoldered. “I won’t!” 

A vicious blow flung you against the far wall. The last thing you saw before slipping into darkness was the Chaplain’s retreating back, the shining token of your lover’s devotion still clenched in his fist.

Demetrian, forgive me….

***

Tumultuous thoughts filled Chairon’s mind as he marched toward the Chapel. Chief among them was the memory of the Lieutenant’s departure. Finding the Chaplain looming over his serf, practically pinning her to the railing. The stench of fear rising from her, the pathetic relief in her eyes when she saw him and Gadriel, the way she all but hid behind them.

The sound of panting behind him made him pause. “Medica.”

“Yes, my Lord?” She hurried up, chest heaving.

He tempered his gait, allowing her to maintain her position beside him. “What do the serfs think of the good Chaplain?”

Immediately, the scent of stress. Glancing to one side revealed the tension in her shoulders.

“He is greatly revered and respected, my Lord.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

“But not loved.”

“Please, my Lord!” He watched her eyes dart about the corridor, even though few people were about at this early hour.

“Speak freely, Vesta.”

She bit her lip, a sight he found oddly appealing. 

“My Lord Callistus and I have not been on The Resilient long, my Lord. But… in that time… I’ve learned most of the serfs stay out of the Lord Chaplain’s path, if they can help it.”

Chairon frowned.

The Codex had strict regulations regarding the treatment of serfs. Many were former aspirants, after all. Others were part of families that had served the Chapter for generations. Still others, like the Lieutenant’s little one, had been taken under the Astartes’ protection for one reason or another. All deserved to be treated with respect.

Now, a creeping suspicion grew in his gut that this tenet he held close to his hearts was being violated. 

Do not jump to conclusions. What evidence do you have? Why would the Chaplain…?

The great gilded doors of the Chapel rose before him. The aroma of incense welled from within, along with the droning of hymns. A cherub fluttered by, mechanical voice box muttering benedictions. He paused in a rare moment of indecision.

“My Lord?” The medica whispered at his side. “What will you do?”

“Chairon?” Gadriel pushed through the Chapel doors, brows slightly raised. “I thought you had already completed your morning prayers.”

Well, this saves me having to track him down.

“I had, brother. But something has happened.” He relayed what the medica had told him.

“Warp, damn it.” Gadriel snarled. “Can the Apothecaries not keep track of one little female?”

“Would you have had us tie her to the bed?” The medica snapped, then paled. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Chairon huffed a laugh, even as his sergeant’s scowl deepened. “What matters now is that we find her, brother.” He hesitated. “Or who took her.”

Gadriel’s eyes snapped to his, even as the medica gasped. “You suspect abduction?”

“I think we discounted her fear too readily.” He searched his brother’s face. “You saw someone, when she ran to you.”

The sergeant looked away. “As I said, it is irrational.”

Chairon stepped closer. “Was it the Chaplain? Do you remember how we found her, the day the Lieutenant placed her in our care? The Chaplain seemed to take an undue interest-”

“For the love of the Emperor, Chairon! Do you know what you suggest?” Gadriel glared at the medica. “Leave, woman.”

She turned to Chairon with a beseeching look in her eyes.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Lord Apothecary Callistus sent her to find the little one, brother. And she has told me the serfs fear the Chaplain.”

“As they should.” 

“That does not mean he has the right to-”

“Your fondness for baselines is clouding your judgement, Chairon.” Gadriel stepped back. “I will hear no more of this.”

Chairon’s temper frayed. “You were quick enough to accuse the Lieutenant.” 

“That was entirely different!”

“At least accompany me to speak with the Chaplain. I swear, I will make no accusations.”

Gadriel hesitated.

Chairon pressed. “The Lieutenant honored us with this responsibility, brother. Would you shirk it?”

The sergeant glared at him. “Very well.” He glanced at the medica. “But the woman stays behind. And should she ever repeat what she has heard here today….”

“I won’t, my Lord!” 

***

Gadriel led his brother into the sanctuary of the Chapel, cursing his foolishness with every step. 

What am I doing? This is insubordination, at best! 

An image of the Lieutenant’s face flashed through his mind. 

What will he say when he returns and finds we have failed? 

Shame burned in his chest. Failure. It was intolerable, unthinkable. They must do everything in their power to find the missing female. Follow every tenuous lead. 

Even if it leads to a rot at the very heart of the Company?

They moved among the pillars and candelabras, toward the platform at the front of the chamber. Only minutes before he had knelt here, repeating his prayers to the Emperor. Prayers for victory, glory, and honor he’d said a thousand times.

The Chaplain was not present. That is… unusual.

The niggling doubt in the back of his mind was growing louder. It had begun weeks ago, when they first began taking turns escorting the Lieutenant’s serf, when he’d caught glimpses of a distinctive figure who always seemed to be just moving out of sight.

And then, yesterday, when the girl charged into him in blind panic, he could’ve sworn he’d seen that same figure standing at the end of the corridor. Watching. 

But why?

They reached the platform and paused. 

“Is he not usually here at this time?” Chairon looked around impatiently.

Before Gadriel could respond, the scraping hiss of an opening door reached their ears. A few moments later the Chaplain seemed to materialize out of the shadows behind the platform, in that eerie way that could strike unease into the most stalwart Ultramarine’s hearts.

“You completed your prayers, Gadriel.” He rumbled, almost sounding annoyed. “Why do you remain? And you,” his helm pivoted toward Chairon, “you are late for your devotions. Do I need to ascribe penance?” 

Wonderful. We have caught him in a foul mood.

“We have something we would ask of you, Brother Chaplain.” He found himself saying.

“It can wait.” 

Gadriel blinked at the abrupt dismissal. True, the Chaplain had never been the friendliest, never one to mingle with his fellow Astartes, but he had always made time for questions. 

Out of nowhere, Chairon spoke. “What do you know of Lieutenant Titus, brother?”

Gadriel watched the Chaplain pause mid-stride. “You have come to ask me this?”

He glanced at Chairon, then spoke up. “Forgive us if we overstep, but when you spoke to each other there seemed to be some… familiarity.”

Chairon again. “Did you know him before his service in the Death Watch?”

A long moment of silence, save for the droning of hymns sung by unseen serfs and the flapping of cherub’s wings. 

Why are we even asking this? He will not-

“I did.” The sheer venom in the words took Gadriel by surprise.

How had he not noticed before? The scorn in the Chaplain’s voice whenever he spoke to the Lieutenant. The undercurrents of hatred.

Why? What happened between you?

“Have your doubts about the Lieutenant awoken once more, brother?” The Chaplain addressed him directly, a strange eagerness in his manner. 

Gadriel noticed him fiddling with something in his right hand. Something that shone in the candlelight.

Distracted, he stumbled. “I… I do not….”

“Should they?” Chairon stepped in.

“Hmmm.” The Chaplain fell into silence once more. 

Unease pooled in Gadriel’s stomach and he found himself scrambling for words. “I… only ask because, when he departed, he requested we look after his serf. And since she has disappeared-”

The Chaplain stiffened. “You intrude upon my meditations with news of a missing serf?”

“Brother Chaplain, we only-”

“I have better things to occupy my time. As do you.”

“Brother-”

“Leave. Now.”

Chairon looked as though he would argue, but Gadriel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Forgive our intrusion, brother.”

He all but shoved his fellow Ultramarine out of the Chapel. Once outside, Chairon rounded on him.

“Did you witness his reaction? His hatred of the Lieutenant? Call my suspicions unfounded now, brother!”

“I saw.” Gadriel’s mind spun. “And I saw-”

“My Lords!” The medica bounded up from her place standing by the doors. “Did you learn anything?”

“Woman,” Gadriel gripped her shoulder in one hand. “Did the serf, Sera, wear any,” he flailed for the correct word, “baubles? Trinkets? Around her neck, perhaps?”

Chairon gave him a quizzical glance, which he ignored.

The medica’s eyes widened. “A necklace. I saw it often when she changed her clothing.”

Chairon spoke. “Brother, what are you on about?”

“A golden laurel leaf hung on a string, yes?”

The medica bobbed her head. “She told me the Lord Titus had given it to her. She never removed it, not even when she bathed.”

“By the Warp!” Gadriel’s snarl drew startled looks from a few passing serfs.

Chairon gripped his arm. “Brother-”

He turned to face him. “I saw it, Chairon.”

“What? Where?”

Gadriel forced the words through clenched teeth. “Held in the Chaplain’s hand.”

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