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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/KamchatkasRevenge on 2026-02-06 20:12:33+00:00.

Sister Catherine - Centris - Dauntless Sick Bay 

She’s old, and she is dying. She knows it as surely as anyone. It’s unfair, in a sense, that she had come so far only for her body to give out now. For whatever the doctor had called it to catch up to her. 

So many long years of service. Of faith and duty. 

All of it oh so very worthwhile. She had been arrested three times in her work as a Dominican sister. Held at gunpoint by militants at least a dozen times. Had watched countless of her seniors go to the side of Christ, mostly from age and illness, the very wolves that stalked her footsteps even now as she lay in this hospital bed. She had cared for the sick and downtrodden in every clime and place that she could reliably reach on foot. Such is her order's mission. Such is how they best served the Lord in all His guises.

Such was her ministry. Such were her vows. Almost behind her now.

Her mind slips away, darkness claiming her. Be it the sleep of rest or the sleep of the final peace she doesn't know; she knows nothing... and then, just as suddenly as the darkness had come, light returns, and she remembers. 

She remembers when she heard the Call. 

It had been on a trip - one final trip, if she’s honest with herself. To visit beautiful, splendid churches across the world and to tour the Holy Land. They’d started in Northern Europe and made their way south, with the Holy Land being the great shining promise at the end of the route . 

A package tour for aging brothers, sisters and priests. Somewhere between a pilgrimage and a holiday, but a very enjoyable one for all that. 

She had heard the call before, and while she'd been on that trip, she heard the call again. It had started with troubled dreams. Not that her dreams hadn’t been frequently troubled, if she was at all honest. She might have lived in a convent and might have been a sister, but even - especially - as a young woman, she had seen all sorts of horror in her ministry, all sorts of terror, pain and heartbreak. Cloister was no shield if one ventured out from behind the walls to care for Christ's flock, and to leave them to fend for themselves would have been far more horrifying. 

They needed help. Comfort, at least. She could help. So she helped. 

Sometimes, nightmares were the price of that help.  

These dreams, however, had been different from her usual night terrors and garden-variety nightmares. Even before the beacon from the rest of the galaxy had arrived. Even before the Dauntless had departed. She had been sleeping well enough, by her old standards, but her mind had been troubled, the rumblings of great change coming... and in her heart of hearts, she’d known, somehow, that she would have a mission to fulfill, and that she'd know it when the time came. 

In a little village in France, a chance stop for use of the bathroom that had turned into an excuse for coffee and tea in a lovely café as the sun warmed them all, Sister Catherine had gotten the urge to take a walk. She’d walked towards the village church, visible from the café from the moment she’d arrived, more quickly than she'd moved in years, as if she was being pulled by something. The church had been old, beautiful in its way, testimony to centuries long past. 

As she'd walked the old stones, and then behind the altar to admire the delicate stained glass in the windows, she’d found that a stone had come loose, and there had waited for her... the sword. Something had told her it was the Sword of Saint Catherine, perhaps now better known as the sword of Joan of Arc. 

Something? The Holy Spirit, surely.

It was a plain blade with five crosses marked upon it. Worn with use, covered in dust and some light coating of rust that all seemed to fall away as Catherine pulled it from her hiding place with shaking, withered hands. She’d cradled it and crossed herself. 

"The sword of Saint Catherine." She knew it in her heart. Knew it in her bones. Knew it to the core of her very being. She had not taken a new name on taking Holy Orders. She had been named by her parents for Saint Catherine de Fierbois, patron saint of soldiers, whose church had once held this sword that was destined for the hand of another soldier saint. 

Jeanne d'Arc in her native French, and Joan of Arc in English. The Maid of Orleans. A simple, ordinary peasant girl who had heard the Call, and saved a nation in nomine Dei. Arguably, she’d made a nation, with the great saint helping call forth what would eventually solidify as a French national identity beyond the feuds of squabbling nobles... after she was martyred. 

Catherine had gently touched the blade and found its edge dull... just as it had said in the testimonies and legends of the Saint that had been this blade's last mistress. When a smith had offered to sharpen it, Joan had denied the service, saying that it was not necessary, as she should never kill anybody, and should carry it only as a symbol of authority.

Catherine had set the sword aside and reached into the hidden chamber again, and drawn out a simple leather sheath, worn with age like the sword it had been made for, but still supple; it clearly having been oiled one last time before it had been left to lay in wait, hidden away from the grasping hands of the English who most assuredly would have wanted the ancient weapon for themselves. 

There, on her knees, she had received her mission. She was to volunteer to go to the stars. She was to take the sword. There amongst the stars, the weapon's destiny would be revealed. 

Her mind flashes past the remembered feeling of her hands shaking as she’d sheathed the blade and lovingly wrapped it in a cloth before slipping it into her luggage. She’d known where she needed to go. Where the sword had to be presented to accomplish her task. To fulfill her faith. 

Luckily for her - or, perhaps, providence had provided - the Vatican was on their itinerary. 

They had balked at first when she had brought the sword and the word to them. Until word reached His Holiness. 

Sister Catherine had not been the only one having interesting dreams of the stars as of late. 

So she had been accepted for one final mission. One final service in her long years of life. 

The challenges had been significant. She’d needed to accomplish certain tasks in so short a time, six months, even as an old woman. Learning Galactic Trade for one, learning to shoot a gun - something she had vaguely remembered lessons from her childhood to fall back on reliably - and learning a variety of emergency systems, galactic customs and history and God only knows what all else! Along with many long hours of theological instruction, prayer, and work with the newly appointed Cardinal and Arch Bishop who would be leading the church outside of Cruel Space. 

His Holiness had likely paid an exorbitant amount of money for the Catholic delegation's one-way trip to the stars, for priests, sisters and brothers - and, of course, some fine young men of the Swiss Guard, God love them. More eager soldiers of Christ could not be asked for, and their enthusiasm had always roused Catherine's spirits. 

The changes that had come with leaving Earth had been... challenging. Some of them, anyway. 

Some had been rather funny, actually. Something to laugh about with the other sisters. She might be relieved of her vow of chastity by papal bull, but she was an old woman, with only enough life and spirit left in her to complete her sacred task. That was something for the younger sisters to fuss over, and fuss they did, to their senior's quiet amusement. 

As they’d prepared, however, as she’d come to understand the true scope of the galaxy, Catherine had become more and more convinced of one fact. That whatever the amount of treasure had been paid out of the papal coffers, it was worth it with a galaxy of uncountable souls to bring the Holy Word to.

It had seemed to her, even then, that others agreed on that point. While other denominations, faiths and indeed even nations were in the middle of schisms, rebellions, and nigh-apocalyptic shake ups - even some talk of war - the Pope had used this opportunity to make peace, establishing tighter ties with the Orthodox church, to heal the schism that had divided the church in times long past. There was still more work to be done than Sister Catherine could begin to process, but scholarship moving towards understanding had seemed to be the rule of the day. The Pope’s domain had been a truly peaceful island of calm and goodwill in an ocean of turmoil. 

To a degree, however, such matters were beyond the men and women selected to carry the cross to the wider galaxy. From her perspective, the great consequence had been that several men of the Orthodox church would be joining them, and the cardinal would be recognized as the patriarch of whatever world he eventually selected for the first church off of Earth. 

Together, they would present a united front to the Galaxy. One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church. Hallelujah. 

She could see the day they'd gone to set off to the Inevitable as clear as yesterday. A ceremony the likes of which had never been before and likely never would be again had taken place in Saint Peter's Basilica. Each member had been blessed by the Pope and a selection of senior cardinals, and a small delegation of the most senior orthodox patriarchs. All of the patriarchs were there, however. All of them. Not since perhaps the Council of Nicea ...

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