Tell the truth

You bow your head. Tears of shame prick your eyes once more and a sob chokes your reply.

“War mother. I’m…I’m sorry. They…it was…”

Giselle sighs heavily. She pulls you to her bosom, comforting you as a mother would her daughter. You sag against each other. Your tears soak into her tunic, read with blood, now diluted by your sorrow. “It’s okay Sabine,” she murmurs. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You shake your head. You do not deserve such comfort, yet you cling to her, **** for her strength, her words, her acceptance of your shame. You are still sniffling as she finally draws your head away. You had not noticed how laboured her breathing had become, but now, looking at her flushed skin and the blood on her clothes, you are reminded of her injuries.

“Sabine, quickly.” The war mother shudders as she lifts the sword, pressing it into your hands. “You must…ride to the abbey. Warn them, Sabine.”

You take the sword automatically but still hold it out, afraid to accept it. “But, War Mother. I’m…I’m not…”

“You can…still serve the goddess. My child.” She winces in pain, her words slowed with her agony. “My horse…Please, Sabine. I cannot make the journey. Not now.” She draws a knife from her belt, and her eyes blaze with righteous fury. “I can buy you time. For…for your sisters. For the goddess. You must.”

You do not feel worthy of this task. You can still feel the pain from the imp’s mating, and the memory of your enjoyment fills you with shame. You clutch the sword close though, as if to take comfort from the proximity of its holiness, one that you now lack.

“I…I will War Mother. I will not fail the goddess again.”

Gisella smiles. Her shaking hand rises and strokes your tear stained cheek. “Go, my child. With…my blessing. Hurry,” she gasps. “You must. Leave me, Sabine. Go.” She leans back against a statue. She looks up to see the carved face of the goddess looking down, a benevolent smile upon her face, her arms open in welcome. Gisella sighs, and her eyes harden. The echoes of conflict and fornication echo down the hall, and a deep loathing fills you at how prominent the latter is compared to the former.

“Leave me, Sabine,” Gisella says. “I will buy you time, along with Sister Helena time to get the neophytes out. Go! Do not let my sacrifice – or yours, be in vain.”

You nod. Your legs are shaky and weak from your mating. Sobbing hiccups **** you as you turn about, hugging the blade close between your breasts as you leave the War Mother behind. You must reach the horse she spoke of. The blade of the goddess is warm against your breasts, but in your hands, it is only a sword, and that knowledge fills you with a sudden poignant sorrow, even greater than when your virginity was stolen. You glance back, just in time to see the war mother move with grim purpose back the way she came, back towards the screams.

You dart down the corridors. Now and again you hear a roar of triumph, occasionally accompanied by a feminine scream of delight. You try to ignore them as you hasten away. As you pass an open doorway, you slow. You sniff the air. Something thick and musky holds you. Heavy like the incense of the church, yet with a certain spice you cannot place, but which seems oddly familiar. A desire to discover the source of this strange perfume fills you. You glance back at the door, torn though you cannot say why, watching as faint wisps of smoke, like tendrils of scent, reach for you. You recognize the door as leading to one of the storerooms. Surely a peek couldn’t hurt?