The world had ended. Its birds and vistas remained yet their splendour did not. All had become as grey and squalid as the rainclouds above which even now poured their scorn upon the abbey and its occupants. Sybil stood at the landing of her tower, gazing out of the window as she had for the last fifteen minutes. Her thoughts were elsewhere, her robe still gently dripping from the automatic tending to the bees. She’d not been directed to do so, having been released from her duties by Lora’s compassionate undertone. The abbey continued on as normal for the most part, but a pall had descended upon them. Rumour and speculation, allegation and implication held sway as each in turn did their worst to inoculate themselves against blame. As if the druidess’ proclamation had been as hollow and false as their vows had been.

Sybil’s thoughts, tinged with resentment and despair, could only remember that dreaded morning when Sister Lydia had knocked upon her door. How she’d been informed of Judith’s fate. As callous in her delivery of bereavement as she’d been with its source. A pauper by birth, Lydia had ever bemoaned Judith’s resentment of the convent and its restrictions. Of the larger restrictions that had drawn her to this place. And that end. Frustrated, hopeless tears fell from the numb face of Sybil, who could do naught but stare into the harsh world beyond and attempt to fathom why the abbess had brought her to the cells. Perhaps as a cruel lesson that the source of her temptations had been snuffed out. The blonde nun could not understand such motivation, such indecency.

Her mind was drawn, as it so often was, toward the horror visited upon her by Myfanwy. The druidess meant nothing by it as she remarked upon Judith’s frequent visits and fragile heart. Yet the secret had carved a notch of betrayal in her heart. Why had her love, who had so often called her Aphrodite, refused to share that vulnerability? Prepared her for the end, should it come? She was left to abide now without her or any hope of love beyond her. And its absence stole the fire from within her. No longer did pining burn. It only reminded her of the empty, hollow hellish cold that had taken its place. The tundra of her affections. All things seemed sallow now. Forsaken. She looked to the sky for the benevolent and did not see its face anymore.

She had not slept those past two nights. Perhaps she had. Even the meaninglessness of time had come to consume her. She would be attending the hives in warm spring to find herself in the darkened embrace of the storm. Cleaning the halls only to find the sun ripped from her. Judith’s bed, still unmade, and the satchel she’d packed were all that remained of their dreams now. What would happen if the others found her faith wavering in the face of such loss? They wouldn’t care, she reasoned. They’d already determined Judith to be a sinner. One who’d taken her own life and even now suffered the consequences of such an act. Damnation, eternal and complete. Where she would writhe in rivers of blood and have oceans of fire poured upon her.

The sill beneath Sybil’s fingers creaked. That was just punishment, then. The thunderous downpour merely mirrored the tempest within her. As its percussive voice issued challenge, her eyes flicked with disdain toward the footsteps behind her.

Myfanwy, quiet as a whispered breeze, had made her way to the base of the tower stairs and even now made her way toward Sybil with a strange expression. She appeared as if determined, soothing her features as their eyes met. Though her presence was far from comforting, Sybil had worried her impious thoughts had summoned Elizabeth. The cruel witch had made great show of delivering a eulogy of inuendo and farce, insinuating that her beloved had struggled against sin. One particular sin. She wrenched her thoughts from the vindictive path they trod, focusing instead upon the spiralling interwoven patterns of the druidess’ tattoos.

“Aren’t they remarkable?” Myfanwy asked, lifting her ink-swaddled fingers to gaze upon them. She had truly strange eyes in that moment. Darker than most, almost imperceptibly blue. The pupils had been consumed by that blue, only to return once she noticed the sister’s silence. “I understand your pain. Take heart. She is not gone from this world,” the older woman consoled, attracting only a bitter laugh from Sybil. One that was filled with uncharacteristic scorn and derision. Already, the light that had kept wicked thorns from her nature had receded. And in that darkness, vile and predatory things dwelt.

“I will not take sermon from them, and I certainly won’t from heretics,” Sybil hissed, returning her eyes resolutely to the rains outside. It was true. Though the abbess had allowed her to pray in her chambers for the week, not a single word had been uttered in deference by the blue-eyed woman’s lips. She saw them differently now. As Judith did. Malevolent shades of black and white, their faces blurred and bearing twisted empathy. Even Lora, who’d comforted her in what little ways she could with the time allotted to her, fell underneath the weight of panicked nuns who even now worried plague had come to the abbey.

“You mistake my intent. I hoped only to comfort,” Myfanwy replied with surprising kindness, placing a hand upon her shoulder. Sybil shrugged away, fear filling her eyes before the apothecary removed it with an apology. “In accordance with your beliefs, I ensured that last rites were administered. She will rest well in the ground I broke,” she relayed earnestly. Sybil breathed as a great weight lifted from her shoulders. She’d doubted whether the nuns would have done such a kindness for her unprompted. A weak smile returned to her features, nodding toward her strange well-wisher. The druidess reciprocated, rummaging through her bag and placing a wreathe of sticks above the stone arch of her doorway. Sybil’s curiosity must have been evident. “It is custom to place these atop the doorways of the grieving. It ensures the spirits will not disturb their rest for a single night. You seem to need one,” Myfanwy explained gently, closing her bag before looking toward the sky with a concerned look. “I must attend to the townspeople. Sleep well, Sybil and recover. She spoke of you often,” she bade farewell, making her silent journey down the stairs toward the western entrance to the abbey. Though she’d not banished Sybil’s sullen mood, she had alleviated it but a little. That a woman so swaddled in queer custom thought of someone outsider to her placed a modicum of hope in the nun’s chest. They could learn much from the simple, unthinking kindness of those they deemed barbarian.

Soon enough, dusk turned to night proper, and Sybil found her body demanding her attention once again. It had been such a nuisance, imperiously demanding sustenance at every hour of the day. Though perhaps she shouldn’t have been avoiding meals. The hunger brought comfort, strangely. It silenced the aches and pains of despondence and offered her a pain she could remedy. That remedy had been held at arm’s length, stretching out the hours for a measure of control. Of a grasp so tenuous on herself if nothing else. Though she’d promised Prioress Lora that she’d attend the meal that evening after she’d fainted during morning prayers. The thought of their stares, their two-faced consolation, brought strings of rebellion to the symphony of her thoughts.

Sybil surrendered to the wishes of her betters, as she always had. She trudged across the cloister’s meagre garden where the herbs Sister Juna used for their meals grew. The refectory doors stood open before her, but Sybil lingered a good distance from them. Hearing the voices, the joy and adulating conversation had stalled her. The world could not be expected to grind to a halt for her grief. A part of her recoiled from so jovial a place and the idea that her sisters had not even seen fit to mark the passing of one of their number. As Sisyphus with his rock, she entered the hall and joined her cohorts just as they said grace. Try as she might, very few had deigned to take their meal later as she should have. The smile Lora offered from the high table, sat as she was at the abbess’ elbow, was as a tithe paid to Charon. Now, Sybil merely had to take enough food to silence her belly and she could once again retire to comfortable, numbing silence.

The thunderstorm began to clear as the mourning nun made her way from the refectory, seating herself in an alcove near her hives. She was unsure what she hoped to gain from visiting her industrious little friends. Perhaps some small reminder that the world without Judith was not a world without joy. They would be there, providing comfort in the form of honey and labour to pacify her thoughts. But the graveyard still loomed, somewhere out there in the dark. Near the drystone walls that encircled the abbey grounds where all who lived within it were laid to rest. At least she was close. Close enough to visit should she ever gain the strength. Her eyes turned to the spot she knew the plots rested, imagining what she would say. Whether she’d hear her.

Her fixation could not overlook what happened next. There, out in the dark of clouded moonless night, lights began to undulate and writhe. They were bulbous, blue and whipped as a candleflame might. Sybil tilted her head, idly speculating. Sorrow had dulled her normally agile mind. She supposed they might be glowworms. Far too eager to leave their dens and wave their miniature torches. It seemed so inconsequential as she lapsed once more into her obsession. Her veneration of memories bathed in nostalgic light.

Sister Lydia roused her from her stupor, informing her that Lora had sent her to ensure the young woman made it to bed. A pang of resentment ran through Sybil as she wished to remain in her halcyon past. Reluctantly, she followed Lydia toward her tower. That place where their aspirations of a bright future had died. Once a warm building of red brick and mortar, it seemed so cold and desolate. A ruined remnant of a once mighty castle. Her chaperone guided her along the stairs, comfortable in their silence. It was a boon for which Sybil did not ask yet gratefully received all the same. It was only at the door to her chambers that Lydia saw fit to rescind that gift.

“I would pass on my best wishes for you, sister. You have not been the same since that day,” the obedientiary offered haltingly. She seemed to struggle with her word choices. A fact that stayed Sybil’s hand from retreating into the confines of her sanctuary.

“You’ve always made heavy note of our noble birth. Insinuated that we are weaker for it,” Sybil observed evenly, her eyes gaining a suspicious glint. Perhaps her words were uncharitable. She hoped that Lydia would understand that they were not intended as an assault.

“A noble does not shake hands as readily with death as the commonfolk. It is not weakness to be grievously wounded by a blow you did not foresee,” Lydia explained gently enough that her contemporary stayed her hand upon the door. She wore an inviting expression that pleaded for greater insight. “Whatever sister Elizabeth might construe I believe you truly do harbour a love for creation and all who dwell upon it. It would sadden me greatly to see that consumed by bitterness. Not all who dwell within these walls think so little of you,” the other woman reassured, having most likely seen the dour stares she’d offered her sisters when she thought nobody had spied her. Sybil’s eyes fell in shame. So enraptured by her own grief had she been that she’d forgone even the basic tenets of herself. If it continued its poisonous march through her veins, it would most likely destroy her. Of all those within the abbey, she did not expect Lydia to offer such council. Nor indeed that it would come so tactfully.

“Judith was wrong about you,” Sybil admitted, eyes closed as if the thought of speaking contrary to her disrespected her memory. “Your words are appreciated. I will try to recover what remains of myself,” she smiled weakly, shutting the door once the pair had wished each other a restful night. Though she knew otherwise as she removed her habit, she hoped it was possible.

The hours of the night dragged on as they so often did with Sybil lying awake, rolled onto her side. She would often stare at the other bed in the room, weeping quietly so as not to alarm or disturb anyone. As she calmed herself and the moon hung high in the sky, she deliberately lay on her back. One by one, she counted the cracks in the ceiling plaster. She imagined the painted animals upon it frolicking in the forests. Anything but her.

Then, in the stillness of the early morning, the impossible happened.

A swaying, light song hummed in the halls below her. A feminine voice that struck Sybil’s very core. Its familiarity growing more distinct as it drew closer. A tune only she knew from her childhood in Francia. She would sing it whilst gardening, when Sybil was struck ill and had to be soothed to sleep. Judith’s voice, unmistakably comforting her now, sung in a low voice through their door.

Shaking with disbelief and fear, rising from her bed, Sybil padded on bare feet over the cold stone she did not feel. A faithful hand wrapped about the ring that bound her door closed, turning the key that sat below it. If this one miracle could be granted, by her god or Myfanwy’s, she would serve them until her last breath. This was one temptation she would succumb to. She had to.

As she wrenched the door open, the nun felt her rekindling faith shatter once more. The landing before her stood empty, saturated with moonlight so fully that not a shadow remained to hide her. Sybil’s knees buckled as a deluge of fresh grief enveloped what remained of her reserves. How long would she suffer so? Was she to be indentured to melancholy and falsehood forever?

Sybil’s heaving sobs stalled only as she looked across the cloister to the library. There, as inviting as the north star to a lost man, was Lora’s window flickering with candlelight.

Automatically, Sybil got to her feet and began pacing toward her salvation with a vacant expression. Any who might have chanced upon her might have thought her sleepwalking. The nun was however fully aware. Aware that Lora possessed many draughts and potions that might finally banish the shades that haunted her. Something that might finally allow her to sleep and recover. A miracle of nature’s own make that would remove her from this waking nightmare but for a few hours. She entered the library, moving past the shelves and up the wooden stairs that led to the stout second floor made of planks. With a bracing sigh she knocked upon the prioress’ door.

There was a shuffling of papers and a mild curse as the devout woman on the other side likely slipped her evening tipple onto the floor. The heavy lock beyond the door clanked and clattered before Lora’s lined face appeared around it. She did not ask further or even acknowledge Sybil’s greeting. Something dark must have hovered in the younger woman’s eyes as Lora ushered her inside, sitting her upon one of the two chairs opposite her desk. Lora herself shifted perilous piles of paper to the side, closing the inkwell she’d spilled before sighing at the black splotch now traversing her sleeve.

Mercifully, Lora seemed far too preoccupied with a letter she was writing to question her charge too much. She rummaged in a large armoire which contained her medicines, eventually selecting a pitch-black bottle with a faded and peeling label. She passed the tincture to Sybil who regarded it suspiciously. Its contents were contained with a cork that had been held in place by a wax seal. Unfortunately, it seemed to have broken some time ago. A fact she brought to the notice of her prioress.

“Oh, yes, I administered it myself a few days prior,” Lora placated with a noncommittal handwave, pinching her nose with its fellow. Sybil knew her mind to be elsewhere. “Simply take three drops and no more,” the prioress instructed in a stern voice. She then seemed to collect her wits and foundered for a moment, torn between two duties. With a pained expression she took a slim glass phial and placed a small dose of hemlock into it from the larger black bottle. It was the phial that she entrusted to her young charge. With a dark expression Sybil’s eyes flicked to hers. She knew what the prioress feared in that moment.

“I am in no danger of that,” the blonde woman assured her senior. “Though hopefully I can finally sleep,” she sighed, wrapping her fingers and thumb securely about the glass. Lora gave her a kind expression that bore the hints of a plea. It had been hard for her, no doubt. To be struck powerless in the face of the angel of death. Its capricious touch stole the breath of all without reason, taking young and ancient alike. Even those who emerged barely into the world often had their hearts stilled before they’d even taken breath under their own power. Sybil wondered, as she looked to Lora, what the intent behind such disparate killings were. She’d never considered it.

She returned to her room with the phial in tow, thankful that Lora’s distracted state had allowed the visit to be brief. Sitting on her bed, she regarded the phial with a glum expression. It looked to be more than three drops. Though what did she know of measurement? Or indeed medicine. Judith had always been the one to know such things.

With a sigh and a silent prayer that she would finally sleep, she drank the bitter liquid with a disgusted expression before rolling once more into her bed. She placed the phial on the rugs beneath, thinking that she might clean it up tomorrow. A few minutes later, her body began to numb itself to the chill that built around her covers. Gratefully, she allowed her consciousness to be taken and slip into deep slumber.

~

The dawn came aggressively into her chamber. Sybil groaned, pulling the pillow over her face to shut out the sunlight. Her body burned as hemlock’s touch left her. She did her best to ignore its scourging, pleading that it had been necessary. Finally, she had found rest.

The rest lasted for what felt like moments. She felt warmth and weight behind her, swaddling her in her blankets protectively. Sybil’s eyes opened not with sorrow but in anger. She felt a breath upon her nape and surged from her bed, back turned to whatever phantom had intruded upon what little peace she’d found in the white flower’s embrace. Defiantly she opened the cabinet that held their washbasin, filling it with water from the pewter jug beneath. She scrubbed her face and arms vigorously, hoping to quiet the burning sensation that grew in intensity as she left the safety of her bed. She would not surrender to the sorrow again. She could not.

She stopped suddenly as a clatter sounded behind her. The shutters had been closed, bathing them gladly in twilight. The burning sensation left her, and the blinding light receded. Hemlock and her stranglehold mercifully abated. But fear began to build as Sybil turned, eyes wide and searching to discern the intruder in her bed. The intruder that would soon be in the abbess’ chamber.

Such thoughts died as Sybil’s eyes came to rest on the intruder. Her brown eyes, dark hair and confident smirk. The robe she wore without her habit, drawn up at the hem invitingly by a slender hand. Judith.

Sybil staggered back, reaching for the jug as if it were a weapon. Her other hand came up to the cross at her breast, waving it aggressively toward the apparition. Judith’s spectre regarded her with amusement, mockingly holding her hands up before rolling from the bed. She slithered closer with a grace so refined she didn’t seem to touch the ground. Torn between fear of the spectral and the temptation of her lover’s embrace, Sybil could only stare in horror as her love brushed her fingers along her jaw and met their lips in a kiss. She broke under their influence, throwing herself upon Judith with blissful tears streaming down her face. Whether the sounds of her affections were sobs or groans, she could not tell. All that she knew was that the woman beneath her was real. That their embrace was not some fabrication or ghastly visitation.

Pulling away after what felt like minutes, though were probably moments, Sybil found herself astride Judith’s hips. Her lover looked upward with a barely contained smile, running her hands along the blonde woman’s thighs. In that smile however, the seeds of destruction had been sown for their happiness. The blissful moment melted away as Sybil’s eyes fell upon her love’s teeth. Two were pointed and deadly. They sat in her upper jaw, where their smaller human counterparts might dwell. Almost transfixed, the nun reached forth with a hand and pressed Judith’s lip upward. Her dark-haired paramour sat herself up on her elbows, tilting her head with that same confident smile.

“What has become of you?” Sybil breathed, voice shaking with a thousand fears. Was this some devil or temptress in disguise? Some horrifying monster had perhaps taken the shape of Judith, playing on a woman’s most desperate hopes. Almost automatically, the nun’s hand came to rest upon the thing that impersonated her dearest. She held its throat in a gentle grip that threatened to tighten at any moment.

“Three Christmases past, you tore me from doing injury upon Elizabeth. You tended my wounds and we spoke into the night. You took us to this very room later and I made a woman of you. The next day you said that you never imagined you would find such happiness. Since then, I refrained from violence with just the allure of your eyes,” the strong woman recalled with a fond smile, leaning further upward until Sybil’s gaze enraptured her once more. The blonde nun’s body warmed as memories flooded her mind’s eye. She too remembered writhing beneath Judith, a hand pressed to her own mouth for fear of revealing their tryst. “I am changed, but I am your Judith. And you are my Sybil. My Polaris,” her love asserted emphatically, lips caressing Sybil’s throat possessively. How dearly she wished to surrender to her affections. How earnestly she needed to feel the thrill of Judith’s fingers intwined in hers, her lips upon her body. The ghost of her grief refused to allow it, summoning her to scepticism once again. Something about this was wrong. Something she’d missed or refused to notice.

Like the unveiling of the moon from a clouded night, Sybil’s lust-addled mind slowly tore her comfortable ignorance from her. She felt them now. Judith’s eyes flashed with warning as her fingers came up to test her own jaw. Pinpricks of chilled water wheedled their way into her spine as she felt two large, sharp incisors upon her gums. Shaking with a mixture of fear, panic and pain, Sybil’s almost perfectly rounded stare moved to her lover’s.

“Wha-what have you done to me, Judith?” She asked in a grave voice, hollow and terrified. With new eyes she saw her lover’s robes. Though the dark colour had concealed her sins so well, the slim white collar remained as silent witness to atrocity. Beneath her love’s chin was soaked in red, her collar darkening to brown as the blood within it dried.