I know this blog is mostly where I reblog horny stuff about armpits, but if anyone is interested, I've been working on a little writing project. I've been fascinated by the world of Trench Crusade well before it became a miniature game and I've had this story buzzing around in my head. It's based on the Communicant Program and my own complicated relationship with Catholicism. If you're interested, please let me know what you think. TW: Body Horror, Religion (duh), some Transphobia.
Made in Glory (Part 1/???) In life, I was simply known as Ernst Müller, a name I care little for. My Father, named Bernard Leighton before taking Müller as a way to blend into Prussian society, emigrated to the Free State after his home was attacked by naval raiders in 1885. He fled at first to England with a traveling band of sellswords before arriving in the Free State of Prussia in 1887. A vindictive and cruel man, I know little of what my mother saw in him, but they eloped just days after meeting and I was born on Christmas Day, 1888 A.D. in Potsdam. Henrietta, my mother, would later tell me that she saw a streak of light across the night sky as she gave birth; Father and her interpreted this as a sign of the Great Deceiver’s corruption. Whether they truly believed this or simply invented this tale to justify my treatment after the fact is known only to the Lord.
From as early as I can remember I have been wracked with visions from the one true God. These started simple enough; when I was 8, I recall working the fields on a particularly hot day only to look up and see the Madonna looking straight into my eyes. Father told me that I simply was suffering from the heat, and that no son (even then I recall hating that title) of his would ever see visions of the Lord. At 12, during the sermon on Easter Sunday, I looked at the statue of Christ hanging on the wall behind the altar and saw blood spill forth from the Five Holy Wounds. Again, my parents scolded me for sharing this vision. Mother had caught me earlier that week trying on one of my sister’s dresses, so she took this as yet more proof that I had ingested some heretical teachings. She demanded I reveal this in confession the following Sunday.
I was wracked with grief the rest of the week, wondering why God had tormented me with His revelations. Why, in His infinite plan, was I seeing these things? Why had he made me hate my mortal form? The night before I made my confession, I dreamt of St. Augustine, St. Barbara, and St. Mendel, interrogating me as a judges on behalf of the Lord. Augustine asked about my belief in the Lord, while Saints Mendel and Barbara asked me about my future and the risks to Christendom. This was not particularly unusual at this point in my life; what was strange was how they chose to refer to me. Before, they had simply never spoken my name. Now, they referred to me with a name I had never heard, but nevertheless completely understood to be mine. They referred to me as Grace, demanding that I follow the word of the Lord and “to shackle their kings with chains and their nobles with iron fetters”.
I awoke shaking with anticipation, knowing I must be true to Him, but nevertheless fearful of retaliation from my parents. I attended mass, where Father Dietrich preached the story of Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego, and how they survived King Nebuchadnezzar's furnace through faith in God. Entering the confession booth, the door slammed behind me like a cannon.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned, it has been one week since my last confession, I, I…”
“Ernst, you seem much more nervous than usual, what troubles you my child? The lord knows your heart is pure.” “... My name isn’t Ernst, Father.”
A pause, what could only have been a second but felt like an hour.
“My apologies, I do not wish to offend, what is your name?” “Grace, they told me it was Grace and that I am to shackle their kings with chains.”
“That’s Psalms, isn’t it? And who, Grace, is ‘they’?”
I could practically feel my heart beating out of my chest, unable to parse whether his choice to use my new name was mere politeness or genuine respect.
“Three Saints, Augustine, Mendel, Barbara. They came to me last night, interrogating me on my faith. They told me my name is Grace.”
“This is not the first time you have had these visions, correct?” Dietrich usually spoke casually during confession, but he was much more precise in his word choice today.
“No, I’ve had visions just like it. Last week I saw blood pouring from the Five Holy Wounds during your sermon. I’ve had visions like this tribunal before, but they never referred to me by name. Now they refer to me by this name, which I know is supposed to be mine. Mother insisted I tell you about the other visions, she believes I am under some curse from the Prince of Darkness.”
“Does she know about your new name?”
“No, although she did scold me for trying on my sister’s clothing recently.”
Another pause, the only noise in the booth was my staggered breath. The rosary beads in my hands were covered in sweat, as I rocked back and forth waiting for an answer.
“Grace, let me calm your emotions first. You are not the first in Christendom to receive visions like this. I trust you are familiar with the Communicants of the Mendelist Order?”
“Y-yes, of course, what does that have to do with my visions?”
“Well, the applicants for that program all come from true believers, children who saw the Lord and His works and knew He had great plans for them. Much like you, many of them find discomfort in their mortal coil, and consume the flesh of the Meta-Christs to grow closer to God.”
“But how does that help me? Father refuses to allow me to even read the Antioch Epistle, he thinks I’ll run off and join the Theban Legion or some other Pilgrim warband.”
Again, another pause. I dare not speak during this silence, knowing that Father Dietrich was in deep contemplation. I could hear him scribbling rapidly on a piece of paper, which deepened my anxieties. In normal circumstances, recording this would break the vow of confession. Dietrich, while casual in speech, was not one to disregard his vows, which suggested that this was not normal.
“Grace, I will be scheduling a meeting with your parents. Under the bylaws of the Mother Church, I am authorized in certain circumstances to break the vow of confession and put a name forward for the Communicant Program of the Mendelist Order. The visions you describe are consistent in a way that suggests you have a direct connection with the Lord and His chosen representatives, which would automatically qualify you for this program. Simply put, I think this is the Lord’s plan for you.”
I was astonished. I had heard of the Communicant program in passing, that it was “His Word Made Flesh” as the posters in town would say. I had seen one of the Mendelist Monks briefly when walking to the market with Mother, its face obscured by a rebreather of strange design. I’d been begging my parents for a chance to serve, but they denied me at every turn.
“Father Dietrich, forgive me, but my parents would kill me before they let me join the Communicant program.”
“Then I will meet with them at once. Please, head to my office, I’ll be there shortly. I’ll speak with your parents.”
My memories of the rest of that day are spotty. At some point my father burst into the office, screaming my false name while being grabbed by Dietrich and some guards. I was escorted to a separate building by two Mendelist Monks. I tried to ask their names, but they were in constant prayer as they walked with me. Eventually, after speaking with at least five other priests, recounting my visions, I was put on an armored train to Konigsberg. Exhausted, I dreamt of St. Joan, slayer of the Dirge Yersinia Rex and savior of France. She spoke to me, asking me how I felt in this moment. I told her I was happy to serve God’s plan, but I was also happy to have someone see me as a girl. She simply nodded, and recited the Lord’s prayer.
Part 2
I awoke to the sound of the train screeching into Königsberg’s main station. In my exhaustion, I hardly noticed who else was on the train with me. The train itself was sparsely populated, with children ranging from 8-14 mostly sitting by themselves. One boy was clutching a cross so tightly I could tell he was bleeding. A girl a few seats in front of me was quietly weeping, muttering the name “Louise” repeatedly. As I looked in front of me, I realized a teenage girl was sitting right across from me. Pale white hair, a braid almost as long as she was, she wore a simple yellow dress.
“You seemed distressed even as you slept. What’s your name?” She said, just loud enough to be heard over the brakes of the train.
“... Ernst, Ernst Müller.” I sputtered out, that name like venom on my lips.
“Ernst, my name is Carla. I assume you’re a volunteer like me?” A strange question, aren’t we all volunteers?
“... Carla, forgive me, I have just met you and I have already lied in this conversation. My name is Grace, I’m here because the Lord gave me visions of His grandeur.”
“Grace, that’s a strange name for a boy. What interesting parents you must have.”
“No, it's, um, well, we just met and I don’t wish to burden you with my thoughts, but I don’t believe I am a boy at all. I understand that this might be stra-”
“OH, FINALLY” she exclaimed, “I need a girl to talk to, my only company the last few days have been the priests and those strange monks, look I’ve been fancying this boy from Hannover, he wrote me a letter after meeting me in Mensur practice, I’m trying to hint to him that I am interested but boys just don’t take the hint, he …” She must’ve talked at me like this for a half an hour.
Eventually, our cabin started to deboard. Accompanied by a few monks and some Free State Stosstruppen, we were led through the city to an unknown destination. As we walked, onlookers gawked and prayed, presumably knowing our duty. An older woman ran up to me and asked me to bless her baby; before I could speak, one of the monks pushed her away. Eventually, we arrived at Königsberg Cathedral, where we were paraded into the building. As we sat in the pews, a man in priest’s attire took to the altar. No taller than 5 '6”, he wore a priest's vestments, colored black with red crosses stitched into each shoulder. He began to speak.
“Greetings to you all, I am Frederick, the Abbot of the Königsberg Abbey of the Mendelist Order. To everyone here today, you were all chosen by the Lord to further his crusade against the forces of Hell that torment humanity. In Psalms, He teaches us what the appropriate response to those who oppose His will is. ‘Let the high praises of God be in their mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hand; To execute vengeance upon the heathen, and punishments upon the people; To bind their kings with chains, and their nobles with fetters of iron; To execute upon them the judgment written: this honour have all His saints. Praise ye the Lord.’”
That phrase again. I resolved to speak with this Abbot privately.
“Today, after this sermon, you all will be escorted to our main laboratory in Königsberg. Spend tonight getting acquainted with your fellow initiates. The following years will be a brutal test of your endurance and faith. In my experience, those who survive do so because they had the support of their comrades. You’ll find your bunks supplied with our uniforms and a copy of the New Orthodox Syncretic Bible. We follow a strict curfew at 10pm, failure to abide by this will result in corporal punishment administered by your peers. Now, we’ll begin with a reading from Divinations; ‘A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and no sign shall be given unto it, but the sign of the meta-christ…’”
At the end of the sermon, the monks once again escorted us, this time to the Abbey itself. While the Church had maintained its Gothic aesthetic for centuries now, the addition of radio receivers and numerous wires for phones or telegrams gave anything associated with the mainstream church a distinctly bizarre look. We were given a brief tour, showing us the living quarters, showers, gym, etc. The “beds” if they could be called that, were little more than a series of aluminum racks with canvas stretched across. Surprisingly, one of the monks explained that our quarters were not separated by sex; removing his rebreather, he stated in a strangely deep voice that “Members of our order are expected to act appropriately with the opposite sex, including in combat scenarios where separation is not possible.”
While this had the effect of sidestepping the first potential point of conflict with my newfound identity, I was nevertheless disappointed to find a male uniform on my assigned bed. I had initially thought that I would grit my teeth and bear it, but, for reasons I still do not quite understand, I mustered the courage to speak to the Abbot. After speaking with one of the monks, I was escorted to his private office.
“Come in, come in! I see that your parents taught you well, showing respect to your teachers. Thank you for coming to see me today.” Abbot Frederick said cordially.
“Of course, Revered Father, I fear there has been a mistake. I have been given the boy’s uniform.”
I resisted the urge to over-explain myself. He stared for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows, only accentuated by his tiny glasses.
“Forgive me, Ernst, is it? Ernst, it’s important that members of our order wear uniforms, it instills discipline and camaraderie.”
“Revered Father, I do not object to having to wear a uniform, but that I was given the boy’s uniform. I wasn’t privy to what Father Dietrich wrote to you, but if I may, I can explain.”
“O-of course, proceed.” the Abbot stated, clearly puzzled.
“I understand that I am likely not unique here in stating that I had visions of the divine. During the latest of these visions, I was interrogated by three saints, specifically Augustine, Mendel, and Barbara.” “An honor to speak with any saint, but I would be hard pressed to find three that suited our values better. I can see why Dietrich recommended you!” “Yes, Reverend Father, but during this meeting, they insisted on referring to me as Grace. They had never referred to me by name, yet I immediately understood that this was, in fact, my name. I’ve been, well, uncomfortable with being referred to as a boy or other masculine terminology before this, but I tried not to think of it.”
The Abbot hid his emotions well. I couldn’t read what he thought of me. I continued,
“Even being granted the visions God has shared with me, I hesitate to state His will with any certainty, outside of that written in scripture. Forgive me, then, for stating what I think He is conveying. I believe these visions, along with seeing me as part of this order, also see me becoming a woman. I see no other way to square these visions and my own experience.”
The room fell quiet, apart from my breathing. Finally, after what felt like an hour, the Abbot spoke.
“I understand your concerns, but policy is policy. I’ll review the submission from Dietrich, forgive me, it must’ve escaped my mind.”
Like a knife to the gut. I tried to hide my anxieties, but it was simply too much to bear. A single tear fell down my right cheek. I bid my farewell and practically ran to my new bed. Most of the other initiates were socializing, while I fell into my bed and tried not to show my emotions. Carla must’ve seen or heard me, as she walked over to me.
“Hey, are you ok? I know we just met, but do you want to talk?” “Carla, if it’s alright with you, I need some alone time.” “O-of course, just let me know if you need anything.” She started to walk away, but stopped and turned around.
“Here, I plucked a few of these from the botanical garden while the monks weren’t looking.” She handed me a yellow, rounded flower.
“Wait, there’s a garden? How did you get in there?”
“Oh, I mustn't reveal all my secrets right away, we just met! Please, rest up, speak with me when you feel better.”
That night, another interrogation. Saints Michael, Dymphna, and Aquinas presiding. The usual set of questions, an exhausting litany of catechisms. Dymphna was the only unique voice, asking how I felt and encouraging me to speak with Carla. And then, with what felt like a gust of wind, they disappeared. In their stead, an unknown figure appeared, a pale redheaded angel, sitting on a throne of marble. Head in her palm, brooding as a court of servants play a dreadful melody. I approached tentatively.
“W-who are you? What did you do with the Saints?” She stayed silent.
“Won’t you answer me? Who are you, what role do you serve?” I asked more indignantly.
With a low baritone voice, she answered “A voice of caution, restraint.”
“... Like Saint Aquinas?” I inquired cautiously.
“More and less than caution, actually. The ache of doubt that stiffens to paralysis. Paralysis that breeds despair. I am all that remains, the melancholy of life’s autumn.”
“You still refuse to tell me, what Saint are you?”
“I know that appearances deceive, but I do not belong to the Heavenly Host.”
“Then why do you torment me so?!?!” I blurted out.
“I do not rule this place, you do. I am your creation, the manifestation of every regret and could-have-been. For such a young soul, you have so many. Thou wish me gone? Then act!”
I awoke to the blaring of a trumpet. I quickly jumped out of bed, opening my dresser to put on that dreadful uniform. Except, when I opened it, I was greeted with a girl’s blouse, skirt, and mantilla. Attached was a typewritten note;
“Having read your file, I noticed a strange coincidence. The saints you spoke with quoted Psalms, referencing the nobles being put in iron fetters. This matches with those Stigmatic Nuns who manifest wounds resembling the Third Meta-Christ. Please meet me at your earliest convenience, we have much to discuss.
Abbot Frederick von Bassewitz of the Mendelist Order”
Part 3 Meant to get this out sooner, but work has been brutal. I cannot thank all of you enough, I really expected no one to read this so it has been incredible to have any of you continue to read on.
Königsberg, April 25th, 1900 A.D.
Back again in the Abott’s office. I was wearing the girl’s uniform for the first time; I almost left it in the drawer, but I told myself that would be breaking my vow to the Lord. Frederick gave me the impression that he was very used to being in command at all times and not at all comfortable with being surprised.
“Forgive my… impulsiveness earlier. I did not mean to dismiss you so quickly and I regret not reviewing your case earlier.” I have not known Father Frederick for long, but he seemed uncharacteristically deferential today. I simply nodded, not wishing to give any more thanks than was due.
“I trust that you are familiar with the so-called ‘Stigmatic Nuns’ of the Pilgrim warbands?”
“Forgive me Reverend Father, I am not. My parents kept much of the world from me.”
“Ah, I see. Well, certain women who ultimately join these crusades report miraculous events and visions. Specifically, they report wounds, visions, or other manifestations of the third Meta-Christ on their bodies. You noted that in the vision where the angels present called you Grace, they quoted Psalms, yes?”
“Yes, ‘to shackle their kings with chains and their nobles with iron fetters.’”
“Officially, our order condemns the Pilgrim movement, as they are outside of the purview of the Mother Church. However, in the name of understanding His works, we maintain open communication with certain Pilgrim warbands, such as the Theban Legion or the Beguines of St. Charlotte. While not universal, it is relatively common for the visions of these ‘nuns’ to share the same quotation from Psalms.”
“Father Frederick, how do you interpret this vision, then?” Better to let him reach my conclusion than force him to it, I suppose.
“Well, um, I suppose it reminds me of Paul’s letter to the Galatians. ‘There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.’” He seemed to lack any confidence in that statement.
“Doesn’t Paul also teach us that women must obey men? I understand that the world that follows is different from the one we inhabit, but I still don’t understand what this means.”
“I, well, I didn’t know you were so well versed in theology! I-If I may, the Rule of St. Mendel teaches us that Creation is an ongoing process, that life cannot be understood as static. Just as metastatic communion alters the flesh and the parent passes on traits to the son that don't appear until later in life, perhaps God has passed unto you this change.”
“So, communion, then? Consuming the flesh of the third Meta-Christ?” “Well, not yet, I’d like to run some tests first, standard procedure of course, with any initiate we need to test their physical and spiritual rigor.”
I nodded in agreement. I felt like I had already pushed my luck to get to even this point, no point in wasting it by pushing too aggressively.
“Thank you, Reverend Father, for your guidance. In times like these we ought to be more thankful of our shepherds in the Syncretic Church.”
“Of course, it is my duty. Grace, I’ll be meeting with a representative from the Synod of Strategic Prophecy later today, I’ll raise your case with him. I don’t think it would hurt to get an outsider’s opinion.” After participating in the Terce prayer, I managed to catch up with Carla before we moved to the gym for drills.
“Where were you? Had me worried sick.” I was expecting a comment about me wearing the girl’s uniform.
“Oh, I was speaking with Father Frederick.”
“Again? He must have it out for you already, how’d you piss him off this early in the day?”
“I-I uh, I don’t believe I did any such thing. He was following up on the meeting we had yesterday.”
“The one you came out of crying? Grace, you’re allowed to call a spade a spade! The guy’s an ass!”
“Carla, do you notice anything different about me this morning? Anything at all?” I was exasperated at this line of questioning.
“Yes, the skirt suits you! I was getting to that.”
“Well, who do you think is letting me wear it?”
“What, did he put it on for you this morning? I assume you did that yourself.”
Before I could respond, one of the monks removed his rebreather and began to speak. His voice a low, dull roar, he listed off our tasks for the next two hours. Countless push-ups, jumping jacks, anything related to improving our endurance. Lunch was a much needed respite; I was somewhat annoyed however that we weren’t allowed to talk during meals, as every meal would be accompanied by one of the monks reading from the New Orthodox Syncretic Bible. Divinations, again (I began to suspect that was the Abbot’s favorite); “Let the trumpets sound and let the banners unfurl, for it is in the violence of war that salvation is gained…”
After lunch, we were shepherded to one of the laboratories inside of the abbey. The room itself was much more utilitarian than the rest of the building, missing the stained glass windows and only sporting a few crosses on the walls. Upon entering the room, I noticed a large figure standing along the wall. Probably twice my height, I suddenly realized why the roof was so high in most of the rooms. This was a Communicant, His Word Made Flesh. Its skin was a pale greenish-blue, tattooed with bible verses on almost every part of its bare upper body. Its bones were visible through its skin, stretching the skin far beyond what is normally possible. Its face was obscured by a sallet helmet of an almost pure black metal.
“Now you see what you are all aiming for.”, Father Frederick stated. I hadn’t even realized he was standing next to this towering giant. “One of the primary purposes of our order is shepherding those with a special connection to the Lord to this stage. Communion enhances the aspirant's connection with God while improving said aspirant's ability to enact His works on Earth.” I looked to my left to see Carla, mouth agape, visibly shaking with terror.
“Does it talk?” I didn’t make out who amongst our group cried this out, but most of us were clearly unnerved by this.
“Yes, her name is Zdena, born in Tábor. She doesn’t speak much, as I think she is trying to hear the heavenly choir.”
No one spoke for a moment, and then some murmuring from our group. One of the boys in our group started to weep uncontrollably. Frederick, clearly noticing our discomfort, quickly interrupts.
“If anyone would like to volunteer, I’m sure Zdena would like to meet one of you.” No one moved. Eventually, he spoke again, “Carla, please, make your introduction to Zdena.”
Trembling, she grabbed onto my hand. “Carla, it's ok, she won’t hurt you…” I whispered.
“You don’t know that… fuck, someone has to be brave…:”
Carla let go of my hand and trepidatiously moved towards Zdena and Frederick. She stood a few feet from her before speaking briefly, “G-greetings, m-my name is Carla, p-pleasure to make y-your…” she trailed off and started crying. Zdena, previously looking straight across the room at the opposing wall, moved her head and looked in Carla’s direction, before Carla bolted and ran to me, hugging me and weeping.
“O-oh my God, what is that thing…”
Before I could respond, Frederick pointed at me, saying “Do you want to say hello?”
“Carla, I have to go, please let go of me.” She only tightened the hug in response. “NO, no you can’t, please I don’t want to lose you too…” “Carla, I’ll be ok, I’ll be back in a minute.” Eventually, she relented. I walked towards the towering paragon, trying not to betray my anxieties. Before I could speak, Zdena looked at me and, in a voice so soft for a creature this large, spoke.
“Grace, isn’t it?” Father Frederick nearly jumped with surprise. “Zdena, I didn’t tell you her name, how do you know that?”
“The choir, they told me her name. Spoke to me last night.”
I was stunned. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t no matter how hard I tried. Zdena, slowly but surprisingly gently, got on one knee and extended her hand to me. “Here, take my hand, girl.”
I did as she commanded. Her skin was shockingly dry yet nonetheless smooth, I could feel the bones poking through her hand.
“You knew I wouldn’t hurt you or your friend, right? How’d you know that?” she asked tenderly.
“W-well, I, uh, this is dumb, but I just knew.”
“Maybe it's an evolutionary instinct, maybe it’s a message from the divine. Either way, you knew I wouldn’t bring harm to you. What’s your purpose here?”
“T-the angels, they told me, it was to ‘shackle their kings with chains.’”
“No, perhaps that’s what you choose to do with your life, but it is always a choice to follow the King of Kings. Abraham was told to kill his son, but he easily could’ve refused. I’m asking about something deeper than that, your spirit, the fire that made you walk to me just now.”
“Zdena, I-I don’t understand, they told me-”
“You know. Maybe you can’t vocalize it yet, but you know. That mantilla suits you, no?”
We left abruptly afterward. Father Frederick said that Zdena had an appointment to make, meeting with a Prussian Lieutenant about to embark for the Carcass Front. She left with him, apparently going on to serve with distinction until she was welcomed into the Lord’s arms in 1906. In 1904, she would send me a string of rosary beads made of Orichalcum, one of my most prized possessions. It is my great hope that I should meet her in His Kingdom; perhaps then I will be able to vocalize my thanks to her.
Part 4 Finally, had some bad writers block but its finally at a point I'm happy with. Again, I cannot thank you all enough for following along! I'm also going to be hosting this on Ao3, I'll post the link here soon. The formatting on there is taking a bit to get used too, but I'll figure it out eventually. TW: Transphobia, Misogyny.
Königsberg, June 30th, 1900 A.D.
Therefore as sin came into the world through one man and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all men sinned. Sin indeed was in the world before the law was given, but sin is not counted where there is no law.
-Romans 5:12-13
At vespers, Father Frederick and I met with a representative of the Synod of Strategic Prophecy. I had heard little of them before joining the order, but I gathered that this order of mystics had a special connection to the Lord. Father Frederick and I waited outside as we saw an automobile pull up. Stepping out of the motorcar sporting a symbol of a sword going through a crown, the representative wore layered plates of rusted armor, crowned by a bizarre, conical helmet featuring one large eye-port in its middle. As he stood, he was quite tall, sporting an ecranche that had the same symbol as on the car. Behind him was an altogether stranger sight; a boy, who couldn't have been no older than I, his skin punctured and bleeding every few inches in a bizarrely consistent pattern, sporting a gas mask and a radio receiver on his back. Father Frederick spoke first, addressing the man.
“Greetings, Observer Bernard, it is a great honor to meet one of your order. This is Grace, the initiate I wrote to you about.”
Bowing, I stated “God be with you, Observer Bernard.”
Bernard looked at me, held his hand in the air, touching his ring finger to his thumb and bending his middle finger slightly. I was confused, and turned to Frederick.
“Ah, Grace, that’s a traditional greeting from the Synod, it represents IC IX, that being Christ’s abbreviated name in Greek.”
In a baritone voice, Bernard responded “‘At the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth…’”
“‘...and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.’ That’s Philippians, right?” I wondered what exactly Bernard’s intentions were here.
Bernard nodded and looked towards Frederick. “You’ve taught your students well! Not as well as the Synod, of course, but impressive.” I could tell Frederick was offended by this remark, but he simply smiled and gestured for us to walk towards the abbott’s office.
As we walked, I tried to speak to the boy that accompanied the Observer. Father Frederick pulled me aside, explaining to me that the boy would not respond to me nor should he. “Receptors have undergone a medical procedure to replace part of their brains with receivers to better hear the Word of God.” I was puzzled by this; I, nor any of the other initiates who claimed to speak to the Lord needed such an invasive procedure. I asked him why such a procedure would be performed on children especially, to which Frederick simply responded “Children are closer to God”.
We arrived at the abbott’s office, with me and Frederick sitting at his side of the desk while Bernard sat in the chair across. With a gesture, he seemed to order the boy with him to stand in the corner, reciting prayers quietly under his breath. After a minute where Frederick seemed to be waiting for Bernard to start the conversation, he relented and asked Bernard his question.
“As you know, Grace here has received visions from the Lord. Specifically St. Augustine, St. Mendel, St. Barbara, and the Blessed Virgin. I have no reason to doubt the legitimacy of these visions, but I am admittedly puzzled by the fact that they seemingly stated that Grace is a girl.”
“Frederick, why did God create women? I suppose it makes sense to start there.”
“Companionship for Adam, of course.” I felt nauseous as he said this. But Adam was God’s creation, I thought, why do I feel like this?
“Right, so how does Grace fit into that? God’s purpose for women is to bear children and raise them.” I sensed no animosity in Bernard’s voice yet I despised every word.
“... the visions she described do not fit into that view at all.”
“Then I think we are done here.” Bernard stood up and began to walk towards the door. I shouted at him as he left.
“St. Augustine says that Eve was innocent.” Bernard suddenly stopped and turned around. “... yes, in The City of God, he says that Eve was tricked and therefore innocent. I don’t see the relevance.”
“But Adam was guilty! He specifically states that Adam, not Eve, is ultimately responsible for original sin. That doesn’t interest you at all?” I suspect if Bernard wasn’t wearing that bizarre helmet that he would appear quite upset.
“It’s a theological curiosity, certainly, but I don’t see how it pertains to your case.”
“So, to be clear, God created women to serve Adam, yes, but are notably innocent in the story of the snake and the apple. That alone is the burden of the first man.”
“Get to the point, child.”
“No, I’ve been lectured enough for one day, let me finish my point. Hagar, servant of Sarah and wife of Abraham, is alone granted the name of God. A slave girl! In Revelations, a woman who birthed a boy is attacked by a dragon repeatedly with the intent of destroying ‘The Remnant of Her Seed’. Surely that’s relevant to our current state of affairs!”
“I can assure you that many in the Synod are devoted to studying the Woman of the Apocalypse.”
“Then you see a purpose for women in God’s plan other than simple procreation! Do nuns lose their purpose by swearing themselves to the Father alone?”
“Frederick, I didn’t come here to debate theology with a deluded child. Do you want my counsel or not?” “Grace, leave us, I’ll speak with you later.” Frederick didn’t even look at me as he said this. Fearing that I’d upset him further, I bowed my head and left as fast as I could.
I wandered for some time, eventually finding my way to a courtyard inside the abbey’s cloister. I hadn’t been to this part of the abbey before, but it was a much needed respite. As I sat at a bench, I saw a few nuns were tending to a small garden just along the northern wall of the garden. One of them saw me as she was reaching for a hand trowel, stopped what she was doing and walked over to me.
“Do you mind if I sit with you for a moment? I take no offense if you would prefer a solitary environment.” She spoke softly, seemingly not trying to disturb her sister's work. She looked to be in her mid-20s, clearly sweating under the summer heat.
“N-no, not at all, I didn’t know the Mendelists had nuns.”
“Yes, not many of us these days but men are not the only ones called to serve the Lord and His representatives. Forgive me, I’m Sister Margarete, what’s your name child?”
I paused for a moment, a hundred thoughts still occupying my head.
“Sister Margarete, have you ever met someone from the Synod of Strategic Prophecy?” I asked sheepishly.
“Oh, well, yes, they’re an interesting lot. I’ve met a few of their order, most of them were agreeable if strange…” She looked suddenly concerned. “Don’t tell me you’re becoming a Receptor, they should know better than to recruit girls from our order!”
“No, no nothing like that. I had a conversation with one of their representatives just now.” “Let me guess, he dismissively told you that you’re unable to interpret what you’ve seen and experienced with your own eyes.”
“... how did you know that?” “Oh, they’re almost all like that. So focused on their own visions that they can't understand how God’s glory manifests in every other aspect of life.” She stared off for a moment, it didn’t seem like she was focusing on anything in particular. “My sister is in one of those Trench Pilgrim warbands, the Beguines of St. Charlotte. She wrote to me that in her travels they’ve hired only one Observer who wasn't a condescending a- sorry, forgive my language.”
“Sister Margarete, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, what troubles you?” “How do you reconcile visions of God when they seemingly contradict scripture?”
She sighed and went to grab something from her pocket, realized she didn’t have any, and spoke. “Sorry, old habits, I quit that a few years back. The Lord knows the truth, it is up to us to interpret that truth. Friends, priests, anyone can help us understand that truth, but ultimately deciding what it means is up to us, individually. You should ask for help, but don’t let people who don’t know your struggle confuse you. Child, what’s your name?”
I paused for a moment before answering “Grace Müller”.
“Grace, you seem like a smart girl. If you ever need help interpreting these visions, please ask, but the only person who can really decide is you.”
Suddenly, one of the nuns on the other side of the courtyard called out “Sister Margarete, we’re not getting work-shy all of a sudden, are we?”
Margarete audibly sighed “Sister Amalie, allow me to finish attending to my spiritual duties first.” she shouted, before whispering “Grace, I must be off. Seek me out if you need more guidance, women need to look out for one another, no?” Before I could respond, she scurried off.
That night, I dreamt again of the red-headed angel. While I took some solace in the consistency of her ‘visits’ it did bother me that her presence meant that I hadn’t seen the Heavenly Host in weeks.
“You’ve occupied my head for weeks and I don’t even know your name.”
“Many have offered me a name, something to define and control the constant pain. The Despair, Acedia, the order of the Negoro-shū called me Mono no aware. In your country I am often known as Melencholia.”
“Do you always have to speak so unclearly? If we’re going to talk every night it would at least make it more bearable if you spoke plainly.”
“Do all maladies reveal themselves that way?” I am fortunate that this woman was no Angel because she would have surely turned me into a heretic by now.
“You have yet to explain why you occupy my dreams like this. I’d appreciate a clear answer.”
“I have given you an answer; thou must act.” “In what way? I’m trying to advance my case in the Mendelist Order and it feels like I have to fight for months to achieve what most take for granted. So much sweat and tears over a damned skirt…”
“Yes, and perhaps that in of itself should be revealing to you. Do you truly believe that the respect you desire can even be attained within this Order?”
I thought about it for a minute and hated what answer I decided on. It was hardly an unknown fact that the traditionalist, conservative hierarchy of the church would oppose me. Frederick saw me as a scientific curiosity at best and he was my best ally.
“So, what hope is there then?” I wondered whether it was possible to cry in a dream.
“Grace, who in your life has granted you that respect?”
“Carla, for one. Sister Margarete was nice to me today. Zdena, the Communicant.”
“You seek to understand your identity, no? Why are you seeking others to tell you what you already know? You know it to be true, that you are Grace, a young girl called to serve the Lord. The three you mentioned saw you as you are, no question. On the matter of your own faith, who else can speak to it but you?”
“Yes, but then how do I shake off this terrible body? It’s all nice to be recognized by friends, but that problem remains.”
“Sister Margarete mentioned the ‘Beguines of St. Charlotte’ earlier, perhaps that’s an organization worth looking into.”
When I awoke, we attended Sunday Mass at the Königsberg Cathedral. Ranks upon ranks of Stosstruppen were here to be sworn in today, before being sent off to support the armies of Christendom on various fronts. The Lector read a common prayer known by all Prussian soldiers; “You are my God, my weapon for battle: with you I shatter nations, with you I destroy kingdoms, with you I break armies: crushing the rifleman and the War Wolves, Wicked Artillery Witch, the tank and the driver.” I wondered how many would join the Necropolis of Heroes, the vast cemetery that stretches in every direction around this Cathedral, only interrupted by the Mendelist’s relatively small outpost. Sat to my left was a woman, no older than nineteen, who was in deep prayer as mass continued. Her skin a shade of dark brown, it was not unusual to see merchants, soldiers, priests, or any other type of person from Africa in a city as active as Königsberg. Yet, she struck me as none of these things. Adorned in rusted plate mail, covered in icons of various saints, the parts of her skin that were visible were covered in scars and bruises.
As mass concluded, I walked with Carla back to the abbey. She informed me that this woman was the War Prophet Solome, a prominent figure inside of the Theban Legion. As we walked back, I saw her leading a small procession through the Necropolis, seemingly headed towards one of the larger tombstones. I broke with our group and headed over, deciding that I needed to learn more about these eccentric pilgrims. As I approached, she was preaching to her flock as they walked, each following her a tattered mess of cloth and bullets, captured in fervent supplication to the Lord. Her armor now carried loudspeakers on each shoulder, amplifying her sermon far and wide.
“And lo, were Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego not delivered from the Wrath of Nebuchadnezzar? Only in Faith can we find salvation, not through acts!” Each line was met with a chorus of Amens, some whipping themselves as they did so. A few adorned the now-iconic Iron Capirotes, intent on bringing glory to God while blinding the user from the horrors of the arch-enemy.
“And the Good Book describes that Nebuchadnezzar saw four, not three forms in the furnace! That he saw the fourth ‘like a son of God’. We know that is what the Heretics will see on Judgement Day, don’t we? Like Saint Maurice before us…” a few whips crack at the sound of his name “we will be rewarded for following Him even when it is hardest!”
As I approached, she turned toward me. “Oh, is it someone new? A Mendelist no less, come to hear the Good News?”
“F-forgive me, War Prophet Solome, would it be possible later to speak with you in private?” “Sister is fine, no need to say the whole title. And of course, we’ll be arriving at our destination soon, accompany us today and I’ll be glad to speak with you.”
The procession arrived at a tomb dedicated to a soldier named Jacob Wahl, who died just 6 months prior. His tombstone indicated he died fighting the forces of Grand Duke Eligos in the Austrian Alps, just south of Innsbruck. Solome preached that he died a martyr, taking dozens of Heretic automata down with him before being felled by the gas bomb of a damned Artillery Witch. She attested that, after receiving emergency communion with a Theban Legion warband, he rose again as a Martyr-Penitent, serving for another month before once more being welcomed into Heaven. Eventually, she told the procession to return to their camp just outside of the city limits, before speaking to me.
“What is it child, come to enact your wrath on the Heretics with us?” “Oh, not just yet, I’m only twelve, but when I’m ol-”
“Nonsense, maybe you can’t fight yet but we need armorers, gunsmiths, trainers for the Martyrdom Dogs, we could easily find a role for you!”
“I’m sorry, the what dogs?”
“... a story for another time. Why did you seek me out then?”
“Sister, I’m a Communicant prospect, as I’ve received visions from the Lord showing the path. Those included some… rather controversial elements within my order. Specifically that I am a girl named Grace rather than-” “Oh, yes, an increasingly common affliction. You should speak with Sister Isobel in the Beguines of St. Charlotte, she herself had a similar vision.” “W-wait, what?!?! I’m not the only one?” I could hardly contain my shock, both excitement and frustration, at the fact that there were others like me and that no one had told me that. “Sister, you will not be the first or the last to feel trapped in their own body. I can make introductions between you too, she owes me a few favors and is supposed to be visiting next week. You’ll make fast friends, I’m sure of it.” At the tomb of this martyr, she took my hands and spoke. “Lord, guide your servant Grace as she finds her path to true Faith. Know that her faith in You is true, and that she will one day prove to be the bane of the Father of Lies. ‘You are my hammer, and weapons of war: with You I break nations in pieces; with you I destroy Kingdoms.’” We both said Amen, and departed on our separate ways. Here, perhaps, there was a path.
