Patience will never die.

But she will know suffering.

It is dark where she is. A darkness that even her Damned Eyes cannot pierce. In the distance, water is dripping on stone.

Some sort of cave. Deep under the earth. She cannot explain how she knows this, but she does.

Patience is bound, each arm stretched out to its limit, tied at either wrist to a beam.

Her feet are also bound. And her neck. To another beam. The rope would cut into her flesh if she were living. But she is not. What would be pain is only a sensation of tightness. Nonetheless, panic curls in her stomach.

She is lashed to an un-raised cross she realizes. It is laying down beneath her and she is tied, face-up, flat upon it.

How did she come to this place? Patience does not know.

The water drips. The darkness is endless.

Footsteps approach. Shuffling in the dark. She can hear shallow breathing.

The sounds stop, not far from her.

Suddenly all the smells of human life: breath, sweat, and beneath it all blood.

Patience is suddenly gripped by her Hunger. It takes all of her will just to resist the demands of her Beast.

Finally, she manages to speak: “Who is it?”

“Patience,” the voice comes out of the darkness, just beside her. Her Father. Her First Father.

But he is dead. Patience knows he is dead.

“I am not your Father.”

As if he can hear her thoughts.

“I am your past. And your future. I am your purpose.”

She strains against the ropes binding her. She killed him once, she can kill him again.

“Do not struggle.”

She speaks through gnashing teeth, “My purpose? What do you know of my purpose?”

“Pain,” her Father replies. Simply, directly.

Saying what they both know to be the truth.

“Your purpose is pain.”

His touch is warm. He pries back the fingers of her left hand. And drives the nail home.

Patience will not scream. She will not.

More nails.

And then she does. Her scream echoes, endlessly into the dark.

Patience will live forever. And so, it seems, will the pain.

Then it stops. And she is alone.

No steps now, just a voice. Suddenly, out from the darkness.

“Patience. My Childe.” Her Second Father. True Father.

“Father,” she replies. Almost sobs. “Father, where am I?”

“You are in our place, Childe.”

“Where?” She is confused, unable to follow his words.

“Our place. Affliction.”

“Affliction?”

“Yes. The name of our place is Affliction.”

His voice is coming from behind her now. From behind her head.

"We dwell. And we know the Lord. Only in Affliction."

Suddenly, the cross is seized with incredible strength and hoisted up.

She screams again. She has not screamed like this since she was alive.

Since she bore her children. Two living, one dead.

She writhes, affixed, and her screams fill the whole of the benighted world.

Finally, she is quiet. And alone again.

Her body sags under its own weight and the nails in her hands and feet tear at their purchase.

Everything that is Patience slowly fades away.

There is only pain. Suffering.

Affliction.

And then there is a flame. A torch. Just at her left side. Her head rolls on her neck in that direction.

Her eyes are dazzled by the sudden light. Slowly, they adjust.

It is Thomas. Thomas Boyle. The heretic. He stands at the foot of the cross.

Her cross.

In the light from the torch, she can see he is in a sumptuous robe of black and red.

He is looking up at her. In pity.

She hisses at him, it is all she can manage.

He does not react.

In one hand is the torch. Water drips from somewhere above them and the flame sputters.

In his other hand: a spear.

“Ash,” he says.

Patience cannot reply. Cannot speak.

“All will be as ash.”

Ash? Does he mean to burn her? The Beast is a red mist of terror at the edges of her vision.

“The fire is not mine,” he says. “The fire belongs to the Lord. And the ash belongs to the Lord.”

With that, Thomas drops the torch and thrusts the spear into her side.

It drives all the way through, exiting her opposite flank.

She is doubly affixed.


*

Patience opens her eyes. It is dark. But she can See.

She is still for a very long time.

Her haven is quiet, save for the scrabbling of rats somewhere in the walls.

Silently, she praises the Lord. That He would grant her such a dream.

Such a gift.

Patience will never die, though she is no longer alive.

And, finally, it is time.