MOBIUS

I hope this letter finds you well. If you are reading this, then there is hope yet for us all.
You ride aboard one of our twin arks—built to endure any test of time.
It carries genetic material of our species. It holds our legacy.
Bring it to a habitable planet and seed it with life.
Please. Shepherd us to brighter shores.
There is nobody left.

These were the words I woke up to, alone, in a drifting seedship—an ark. I do not know how long the ark took to find this planet, for I was in medically-induced cold sleep for most of it, woken only for the landing. The word ark carries many connotations. A last bastion of sorts, colossal, impregnable, made from desperate hope, ferrying life from one star to the next, built to endure. The ark is all of that, and through the lens of history you might call it myth, miracle, even, in deference to its design. From the inside, however, its hull is all too fragile, too thin, surrounded by space in the fullest sense of the word.

Can you imagine space? If you cannot, try to imagine a lake. Not a bottomless lake, but a lake deep enough that the water gradually turns murky and cloudy and the fish grow more scaly, more sharp and unforgiving, turning from prey to predator the deeper you go. The water leadens and eventually the weight of the lake above you is enough to drown the sun, leaving you in pitch darkness. You sink. These are hostile, uncharted waters, and only gargoylesque fish with bioluminescent sacs survive here. The glass of your helmet is all that separates you from a violent drowning. You die if it cracks.

Now picture the same lake, but bottomless, darkening endlessly. You cannot, as humans were not built to imagine infinity. We were made to play in grass and swim in lakes, finite, bounded things. But space is infinite and lakes are not. The first thing I did after waking from the pod was to look out the window, at the stars glowing hesitantly as though to only illuminate a pocket around them without drawing too much attention. It was then that I understood instinct, for I immediately feared that the glass and hull were too thin to protect me from what lurked in the deep.

The ark commenced final approach to our new home. Within its cockpit stretched a dashboard wrapping around me, housing countless displays, systems and subsystems all feeding into each other to autonomously pilot the ship. This was a migration—my people had launched their cells into space before going extinct. There was nobody to explain to me why I was the only full-bodied human on board, why the rest were cells in tubes, but nonetheless I was obliged to steward the seeding.

One of the ark’s many miracles was the capacity to fly faster than light, or FTL. Designing engines that could bend space was humanity’s greatest work and yet they were so expensive, so practically infeasible that it took the threat of extinction to push us to manufacture them. The ark was equipped with two—a main and a spare. Both had disengaged, the ark having dropped out of warp and back into Newtonian flight, sustaining g-forces that would rip anything but an ark-class seedship to shreds. Our new home filled the windshield, blue and gray and clumps of brown, swathes of green, round like a disc hung in space, its vast diameter difficult to comprehend. These were the colours of life that few planets could boast of.

Then the ark began to scream and rattle. We had entered the mesosphere, where meteors turn to falling stars. The glass burned and the joints strained and for a moment I imagined how the last of my people must have died. On his knees, his throat parched, begging for food, surrounded by cracked soil? Or with his fingers around his neck, inhaling caustic air bled of oxygen, his lungs contorting? Or was he scorched alive by the white-hot sun, the atmosphere made too thin to dull its rays? The severe deceleration anchored me to my seat, the blood draining from my eyes, and just as I thought I might succumb and black out, the clouds vanished and revealed a monochrome world.

Ramjets took over, thrusters pivoting to fire below the hull, slowing the ark’s descent. Blood flowed back into my eyes, restoring colour to the world so I could behold it for the first time. The night sky studded with stars, the crescent moon, and the land below, sprawling, vast, and fertile. To me, thawed just an hour ago without my memories—to me, this was my first home.

Of all the shapes She traced at the beginning,
the sphere is perfect from all sides,
spinning, yet still.
Only She on high may examine it in full:
from above and below, front and back,
left and right, all at once.
Her first act of grace, then, was:
to nudge it with but a finger,
leaving it to turn about its axis,
so the moon may see it in all its beauty.

- Myrmidon 1:2 (Exaltation of the New Century Version)

ALICE

It was a marvellous planet teeming with life, located right within the Goldilocks zone of its host star—yet the seeding was long and arduous. Twenty years for the foetuses to incubate and be memory-written, and a few months to seed them in groups across the planet; humans function best in small clans. They adapted quickly to their new world, as expected. After they established primitive cave-dwellings and learned to hunt with whatever they had on hand, I visited each settlement to show them fire. Then, tools of stone and iron. Finally, the wheel.

The sheen of my ship’s overengineered hull stunned them into submission. The neo-humans, who saw me and my ship as some sort of supernatural presence, made good use of my gifts and flourished as we must have once did. From caves they progressed to huts, from huts to hamlets, and from hamlets to towns. Life, in its entirety, was going smoothly.

“I do,” the couple said in unison, basked in light made holy by the stained-glass window it filtered through. They leaned into an embrace and kissed, drawing scattered applause from the pews. It echoed through the cathedral, growing louder and more raucous and coloured with laughter, the air swelling with the same joy that yearned to burst from the hearts of both groom and bride.

I gazed upon this precious sight from a mezzanine far above. Early in their development, I realised something. Despite how far they had progressed technologically their savagery still showed in how they loved: in a manner devoid of love. They merely bred. I took it upon myself to teach them to love—to find beauty in all things, starting with each other. It only took a small nudge and a bit of divine masquerade to preach and convince them there was purpose beyond rutting like dogs. The customs and traditions and ceremonies, they came up with on their own—because there is beauty in all things, and where there is none, we cannot help but conjure it from thin air.

This was the first marriage to occur on this planet, and in such grand fashion. How lucky! Many would follow. In time they would learn to love and seek love from each other rather than my holy, sporadic presence. I could not watch over them forever, and so I did not. No fanfare marked my departure; they were far too busy. Some sought adventure, eyes cast up, dreaming, but many looked warmly now towards their immediate family.

The sun began to sink below the horizon, painting the sky scarlet and the streets in shadow. Cosy cottages lined the streets, soft candlelight through their windows warming the paved walkways. Lazy trails of smoke wafted from chimneys. The bustling afternoon streets had calmed, save for a few roaming packs of children who dared play past dinnertime. This was a peaceful town of warm homes and warm food, wishing only for their happiness to last. There was no room for me here, with a face not unlike the mythical angel they called God. I had long since stopped helping them—my direct intervention ceased after they became self-sufficient in their caves. Only when things were dire did I nudge them from the shadows, staying incognito. Best that I remained as myth, painted on cave walls and glass windows.

There was no need to redirect their love. And so I retreated to a nearby mountain range. A vast cave system had formed here quite conveniently, with space even for me to land my ship in a cleverly obscured clearing. The rations the ship came stocked with had long since run out, so I foraged daily for fruits and herbs to eat. I bathed in the nearby river. A quick boil made the water safe to drink. Mobius had chosen well—this planet offered everything needed to sustain life. Unlike the humans I had raised, I had no ambitions or dreams. Or rather, I had already fulfilled them by seeding the planet and watching them grow.

I looked into the river, kneeling beside it, my face reflected in it, rippling as the water rushed past. Black hair and blue eyes. I had not changed since I woke up aboard Mobius. I was immortal and did not age. That much was clear. The people had noticed too, which is why they deified me. Of course, it takes an immortal to pilot an ark—cold sleep slows biological decay, but it does not stop it entirely. And even if it did, it would still require an immortal to supervise the seeding and watch over the humans as they grew. I was designed for this, so it was all well and good that I did not aspire to do anything else.

I was not angry about how I was made. I was happy, even, to have been of use, to have fulfilled my purpose. I did sometimes wonder what I would have wanted had I been sent here with no mission, no genetic payload, nothing. What I admired about humans was their ambition, but it was unfair to compare myself to them. Excluding the first generation of humans who stepped out of the accelerated gestation pods fully grown, every subsequent generation was birthed naturally and raised from infancy. They were raised surrounded by people—by villages and towns. They were raised by people who told them what was right and what was wrong and what they ought to spend their short lives chasing. Perhaps there was no such thing as innate ambition. Raised in such warm, loving homes, was it not inevitable that they would dream? All dreams are patchworks of the people around us and what they say. Dream a dream a hundred times over and you cannot help but want to bring it to life, to see if the end of the rainbow is as you imagined.

I splashed water onto my face and blinked. I had been kneeling here for quite some time. Oracle was hovering next to me—he had come to check on me at some point. It was his programmed duty to protect me, after all. I sighed, stood, took a few steps back, sat back down and lay on my back, tracing lines between the stars. Despite how much this planet’s changed, they haven’t moved a bit.

“We did well, don’t you think?” I said to Oracle.

“By the letter. They’ve hit critical mass and should require no further supervision.”

“So? Now what? What about us?”

“Now we wait. Like we did before we arrived.”

I sighed, my breath laced with both satisfaction at what I had made and regret that it now stood on its own. “And you’re fine with that? I… Well, you’re a ship. Connected to one, at least. An ark, made to endure any test of time.” I scoffed. I had not realised until then that my ambition had been exactly the same as what Oracle, a machine, had been programmed to do. It felt a bit embarrassing, suddenly, as though I were a puppet on strings. “This is what you’re made for, then.”

“Concord will not last forever. Is that what you want to hear?”

“What?” I sat up, eye-to-eye with Oracle who hovered like an omen.

“They too will need an ark one day. You wish to feel useful, no? They will need you—to pilot me,” he said, his tone resonating slightly near the end. I had been around him long enough to understand. He was Mobius—not his appendage or peon, but two of the same mind. I had offended him by calling him connected.

“They shouldn’t need me—us. I don’t want them to die. I don’t want them to need another ark.”

“But they will. Look at how they butcher their own.”

“War is different—”

“Butchery takes on many forms, not just prancing with swords.” Oracle leaned forward in the air to elaborate but recovered immediately, his sigil dimming slightly: a rare sign of emotion. He turned away and fell silent. Oracle was not programmed to argue. Humans can read between lines, however—the space between words, and what lies unsaid.

“Do you hate us?” I asked him.

“Us? Don’t lump yourself in with them. You’re not human.”

“I mean… besides being immortal. I’m still human. We seeded this planet with the genes of my people.”

Oracle turned towards me—calmly, this time. “The gulf between you and them can never be crossed. Your people? Your people died. They lived knowing they would die. Do you know how that feels?”

“No,” I said like a scolded child. “But we didn’t die. We survived—”

“By building an ark to flee in. How terrified they must have been to pool all their resources just to build Mobius—to create you.” His tone was condescending in a way only a machine could manage.

“But isn’t that wonderful? We escaped death,” I asked, not sure what I was even trying to convince him of.

“They merely nudged the wheel, setting it in motion once more. No wheel spins forever— once it stops, Concord, too, will need us.”

“But I helped them! I raised them! I taught them love!” I sputtered, upset. Concord was beautiful, and so were its people. “How can you simply assume that they will need an ark again? What if they last forever?”

Oracle paused before speaking. “There is a wall that no civilisation can break, ever. Your people called it the Great Filter. All who try fail and go extinct—and the wheel stops until it is nudged again.”

“And you think Concord will fail too?”

“I know Concord will fail. The key to the lock is not love, but immortality. You did not teach them that. Only immortals think on a scale long enough to keep the wheel turning.”

I stared at him. “How was I supposed to make them immortal? The genetic material was already loaded into the seeding pods! There was no way to modify them!”

“You couldn’t have. Immortals need to be designed from scratch, not adapted from existing genes. It’s not as simple as flicking a switch.”

“Then”—I sat up, talking faster than I could breathe—”why didn’t they just load the ship with immortals? With people like me?”

“They’re your people, are they not? Ask them yourself!” Oracle snapped, his sigil pulsing. “Clearly they had some reason not to take the obvious solution!” He floated away, clearly tired of our conversation.

We never brought up the topic again. It helped me understand Oracle a little more, if it even makes sense to say that about a machine. I realised this logical incongruency infuriated him, far more than it would a human with the heart to love and forgive. I was not a machine, however. I would often think back to the bride and groom and how they kissed on the dais, how the light filtered through the glass and lit up every cheering face in the pews, how it reflected and silhouetted the new couple as though affirming their vows.

It was a fleeting sort of love that I could admire but not understand. Ephemeral, yes, but to seek it, to conjure it, to reach for it, knowing it must be repaid in death leaving them nothing—I could not help but love them. I never again questioned why humans must be mortal. They were more beautiful this way.

I would spend much time yet with Oracle; as the wheel turned, slowly, with the weight of a thousand, thousand years of fate bearing down on it, and I would come to see him differently. Neither metal nor flesh—not human nor machine—but as an immortal, like me, removed from chronology, watching the wheel spin.

Records of the Child of God are sparse and contradictory, but mainly focus on the destruction she wrought upon our land. Others tell of her charity without peer, while others still condemn her as a curse. While Her myth is secure and consistent across many tellings, the myth of the Child is not. I thus propose that she was not descended from divinity at all, but merely a human, her deeds spun into tales both fantastic and mundane, each diverging further from the truth. God’s place in the heavens has always been paramount, but that of the Child is not by Her side, but on Concord itself.

For what purpose? We do not know. Perhaps she was forged as an instrument to exercise Her will—to till the earth for the good, and as a flaming scourge for the evil. Unlike Her, the Child does not preach for us to obey—instead, the Child teaches us to weep in regret.

- from “Locating the Child of God” by Giuseppe Calderone

ALICE

I did not count the days as they passed. Each Age called and your people answered. Each, a tick of the clock, marking the passage of time. Engineers and architects devised all sorts of brilliant devices, each building they raised taller than the last. Others turned to medicine; in most cases, to extend lives, while in others, to ease pain in death. Then there were those that waged war; they, I could not bear to watch, though I knew the need to draw borders in blood. Some looked past those borders and sailed beyond the curve of the horizon in search of new shores. Others turned towards their families and made warm homes and warmer meals for them to return to.

Then there were those who fell through the cracks. You showed up at my cave one night, dressed only in a ragged, drenched cloak white with snow. Your eyes burned blue in the night, but your malnourished body trembled in the raging blizzard.

“You’re… a woman.” Your voice trembled from the cold.

“And you’re a girl. Hello.”

“How can a woman live unmarried on her own in the mountains?”

I had to laugh. “And? Is that strange?” I quickly realised there was little about me that was not strange. “Come in,” I said, my gaze narrowing. “You’re half dead.”

The candle I held reflected in your wary eyes. I extended a hand to you and managed a smile. You did not return it, but clasped my palm with your fingers, freezing cold, weakly, like a child. I let go, moved my candle to my other hand, and took yours once more, letting the residual warmth thaw you. I was not the sort of fool who let any passerby into my cave, but there was something very wrong with you—I knew instantly that you, like me, were an anomaly.

“These are the living quarters.”

“It’s a cave with a fleece mat.”

“No, there’s furniture too.”

“You mean that plank on the floor?”

“The dining table, you mean. Follow me.”

Our footsteps echoed through a natural hallway that connected the caves like a stem branching into leaves. The stone was smooth against our bare feet, cold and firm. The blizzard, muffled by the thick walls, now sounded like a smouldering fireplace in an adjacent room. I stopped before a yawning hole to a side cave.

“This is the study. I will have a bed prepared for you shortly.”

“There’s nothing in here.”

“Nothing to distract you from your… uh, study.” My ears turned red. I don’t know how else to humour her. I hope it distracts her from her hunger.

The look of exasperation on your face was oddly adorable. You grimaced suddenly, your belly growling like a beast, made loud by the acoustics of the cave.

“I’m sorry. You must be famished. Here, take my cloak—yours isn’t going to do much against a winter as harsh as this. I will bring you something to eat.”

“It’s fine. This will suffice,” you said, tightening the cloak around you, keeping your body hidden. I did not object.

My home was spartan. Still, I preferred it to wasting my years away in cold sleep aboard the ark. This cave could not have been easy to find, with a deceptively hidden entrance—but who was I to argue with the strings of fate that might have led you here? Still—you were the first to have ever sought me out, even if by coincidence.

“Tell me”—I said, sitting cross legged on the floor, having just downed a bowl of porridge whole—“are you from the nearby town?”

You nodded, sat across the dining table, your bowl of porridge yet untouched.

“And what brings you here on such a terrible day?”

You stared at something far behind me, though I could not tell what. “I am armed.”

“Armed?” I asked calmly, looking at your cloak, at the way the fabric folded and tugged around your waist. I had never feared death, so whatever you were hiding was nothing but a tool to me. “Keep your weapon, then. It has nothing to do with me.”

You raised a brow, but quickly relaxed, fatigue setting in, your eyelids drooping. “The nearby town… yes. I…”

“It’s okay. You should get some rest first. Take all the time you need.”

And you did. Perhaps that was for the best; you were a lot weaker than I had thought, and speaking would have sapped what little energy you had left. You lay in bed for days; not asleep, but unwilling to get up for anything other than meals. I foraged for berries and learned to hunt small animals to cook you warmer meals, as much as the blizzard would permit. What was it about the world I had created that drove you out? I was desperate to know, but I knew better than to push.

“Your name… what’s your name?” You spoke for the first time since our conversation over porridge a week ago. I could barely hear your voice through the thunderstorm that raged outside.

“Does it matter? We’re the only ones here. Why don’t you tell me yours? It’s basic courtesy to introduce yourself first, you know?”

You said nothing.

“Nevermind. So, let me ask you again: what brought you here, on a day just as terrible as this one?” I smiled as warmly as I could, hoping to elicit a response.

“I don’t get it. You’re… you’re Her, aren’t you? You look exactly like the woman from the stained-glass window. But if you are… Why do you let me live?”

So you see me as a deity. Other than my hair having grown out a bit, I must have resembled the myth precisely. But more importantly, your face was a mirror image of mine.

“Elaborate. Why would I have any reason to kill you?”

“I escaped from the city gaol. They locked me down there for… I have no idea how long, it must have been weeks. All because…”

Your voice cracked and turned to sobs. I wasn’t sure how to react, so I didn’t. I simply waited for you to finish. Time had ground me down, robbed me of my strength to empathise—I desperately wished there was something I could say. There were no clocks here but your rhythmic sobbing to punctuate the stifling flow of time. You choked on your tears—thunder struck outside—and they flowed harder still. I waited for so long I thought the rain might cease. Eventually, you looked up at me and crawled over to sit by my side. I gazed into your eyes: two turbulent lakes of blue that threatened to spill over again. They reflect. But I would rather look through. So I did—through the mirror’s glass, reaching into the deep. I extended a timid finger and wiped a tear from your lashes. How vast and full of life. Best not to spill even a drop. We had only just met, but I silently promised to protect her.

You finally stopped and dried your eyes. “I shall tell you my tale from the very beginning. But please… promise me one thing.”

I waited with bated breath.

“Believe me. That is all I ask.”

“I am no stranger to strange tales. I will believe every word you say—this I swear with all my heart.”

“Then… I will begin with the day I was born.”

Never mistake the natural order of Her appointments. The Child of God bears a heavy cross, but none may lift it. She was not crowned for her pure soul—rather, a crown needed to exist, and so She made in her image the perfect candidate to wear it. We need only to bow our heads and pray. That is our place. Whether we choose to do so matters not—all is ordained by Her script.

- from “Above and Beyond” by Auric Ile of the Holy See

EVIE

I start with the day I first drew breath. A deafening, monstrous roar like nothing I have heard since filled my ears, unyielding, like a dying monster not of this world. I felt the floor below me shift and sigh; perhaps I was on a ship rolling in the tide. All I could see was pitch black. I felt terror before I even understood the concept of terror. I did not have the words to describe what was happening. I had no frame of reference, but part of me knew that this was not the place for me. The ship eventually pitched, sank, and stopped. The roar died and was replaced by a shrill whine. The beast progressed through its final stages of death until finally all fell silent. Metal struck metal and for the first time in my life, I saw light. Blinding, pure light spilled through a crack in the darkness. It expanded, filling my vision completely, searing my retinas. I wanted the darkness back. Wind rushed past my face, carrying a ticklish flavour of mint. And as my pupils constricted, I saw the world for the first time.

A field of blue, rolling grass stretched far beyond. Frost-capped mountains loomed in the distance, piercing the clouds above. A full moon hung aloof in the sky. I was in a metallic chamber of sorts, and there were about a dozen or so of us strapped into strange seats. Moments later, the straps released, and many of us flopped onto the floor, not used to gravity. I stumbled and rose unsteadily to my feet. My body was as it looks now. The others; they were fully grown too. Eventually, one of them, possibly overwhelmed by what was happening, shrieked in terror and scrambled out of the chamber on all fours like an animal. The rest of us immediately followed suit and ran out. Unfamiliar with the sensation of grass and the dirt beneath, many tripped and fell. As I lay there on the ground, I rolled onto my back and looked up at the ship. It was an abomination—no wood, no sails, nothing that resembled anything a ship should have—and there was no ocean to be seen, only grass. It was a gargantuan beast of metal; I can only describe it as such as I have not seen anything like it since.

The chamber door slid down like a guillotine, slamming shut and cutting us off. The beast breathed purple flame from its wings towards the ground, but oddly the grass did not burn. We backed away in fear, unable to comprehend what we were seeing. And then, the beast did something I have never seen since: it rose into the air. Gently, like a sleeping babe being lifted from its cot by its mother. Vertically, in one smooth, graceful arc. At that moment, I could only describe this winged metal beast as beautiful. It must have been the work of God. This glimpse of Her awesome power terrified me. I never wanted to bear witness to its beauty ever again. Then, it leapt into the air with a thunderclap and disappeared, and all fell silent, save for the sigh of the breeze. That was the last I ever saw of it.

What happened after that is a blur. We were alive, on a planet supporting life. We knew nothing, but had our instincts to guide us to hunt for food and build shelter. Our first steps on this planet were rough, uncertain of where or why we were, but what choice did we have?

Only those with full bellies and beds to sleep in dare question their place. We took each day one after the other, focusing only on our next meal, avoiding that which lurked in the dark. I cannot put into words how existentially terrifying the thought of living meal to meal was. We were not apex predators. We were a link in the food chain.

Eventually, we found a cave well-concealed from the elements and big enough for us all. We made it our home base. We fashioned rudimentary tools to hunt with and skinned pelts to clothe ourselves with. Logically, there was no reason for us to stay together, but I suppose instinct guided us to live as a pack. A home breeds routine, and our cave was no exception—the shadows recessed and the world grew more familiar. However, there was something about me that was very wrong. If you—God, I mean, could make mistakes—I must be her biggest embarrassment. For I cannot stand the touch of a man.

We were not unlike animals, and we mated in the open as animals did. There was not much else to do for recreation. The cave was big enough for multiple pairs to go at it simultaneously. I recall laying on my sleeping mat, my eyes fixated on a man mounting a woman across from me like a dog. It was revolting. The prospect of being in her place horrified me. I could not bear to look at the flopping genitals of the men that would sometimes walk around naked. It was unbearable. And yet, to the others, it seemed like the most perfectly natural order of things. Men mated with women, and that was that.

I kept my head down and handled chores and errands, which they were happy to entrust to me—more time for their rutting. They did not touch me and I did not dare look at them. I played servant, trying to force down my bile as I wiped the ground clean each morning. I should stress that might alone was law. We were primitive and knew nothing else. I learned quickly that my body would never bulge with muscle like a man’s could, and that it was best for me to refrain from eye contact. There was no reasoning with such men, and to fight back would get me killed. They argued not with words but with brute violence. I had to clean blood and gore, too. It was revolting. I hated it. I hated that I was weak. The mere sight of them made me want to flee and never look back. But what did I know of the world outside our cave? Nothing. So I did what I could.

I awoke one day to some commotion outside the cave. It was then that I heard the sound of the beast—the winged, metal one. I was terrified. What now? Was it here to drop another pack of humans? Or to take us back? I wanted no part of it. But the rest were curious and braver than I was. They rushed out to greet the beast.

What exactly happened out there—I do not know. I heard the beast’s roar die down like it did before. Then, there was silence from both the beast and our herd. Sounds of metal against metal rang out, and what sounded like tools falling to the ground. Then, the voice of a woman cut through the air—sharp and clear as water wrought into glass. She spoke a tongue I had never heard before. A clamour rose from the herd; some rejoiced, while others asked questions. After what seemed like an unproductive conversation, the herd began to cheer. Shortly after, metal struck metal and the beast roared once more, slowly fading away into the distance.

The herd shuffled back into the cave with their heads hung in silence. Why? They had been rejoicing just moments ago, but the air had shifted. They were all equipped with tools made of stone and iron, flaming sticks, and wooden wheels. I had never seen any of them before. I did not even think it possible to have fashioned them by hand. One of them—a male—approached me, and for a moment I panicked, for he held a sword! However, he did not touch me—instead, he knelt before me. He presented the sword to me with both hands. I immediately knew that this was an instrument of death. It was designed to kill.

“You are… descended from the beast. Forgive us.” He was the strongest and most violent among us, and yet he hung his head in shame, knowing I had seen all. He spoke in our crude tongue. The beast? That big, noisy, metal one? Or perhaps he meant the woman? They pronounced her title not with disgust or horror, but with reverence. Their eyes gleamed at me, awestruck.

“She was no beast,” someone else called out. “Her steed, yes, but not her.” Murmurs of approval spread throughout the room. They felt dissonance at the use of the word to describe someone so above and beyond their status. I had not even seen her, but I felt her holy presence from the way it had rubbed off on them.

“Then, we need a new word. A name for the woman on her steed who has showered us with her gifts. And her child, who sits before us.”

“God!”

It had a nice ring to it. Murmurs of approval turned to shouts and waving fists of approval. “God has graced us! She, who gave us life and a place to live, has descended once more!”

The idea of God had captured the imagination of this disgusting herd of brutes. The idea that their lives had meaning, and that they had the favour of a divine presence was exactly the sort of validation such monsters craved. And yet, the sword presented to me held weight. I understood the gesture.

“Child of God. Forgive us, and accept this gift.”

I held out my hands and gripped the hilt. It weighed far more than I expected—the blade pivoted around the pommel and slammed against the floor. A few gasps rang out, but the edge was undamaged, firm and sharp. It truly was a fine weapon. I wrestled against it, finally managing to hold it upright. It teetered unsteadily in my hands, but for the first time in my life, I felt some semblance of strength. It was a lean, sharp blade. With practice, I would be able to swing it around. I could kill.

I did not understand why they thought me the Child of God, but I knew better than to ask. That night, I silently mouthed words of thanks to the woman—no, God—who had shown up that day. Still, I was well aware of what humans were like. They had merely been muzzled by a higher power. A simple gift did nothing to sate my hatred for my race. They were still monsters deep down, created presumably by the hands of God. Who was at fault? Us? Or Her? What did that make me, then?

I could not accept that I was like them, of the same stock and breed. I was no brute, but I looked like them, sounded like them, walked and talked like them, and it infuriated me such that I wanted to claw my own eyes out. So I adopted the mantle they had given me: Child of God. This title removed me from them. I wanted space, and now I had reason to demand it; to create a divide between me and them. I had to learn to live independently before I could do any of that, however. This sword was merely a single step. Perhaps I could use it to slay rabbits or forage on my own. Eventually, I might be able to hunt larger prey. And with stone and iron, I could do a lot more. I finally had a light to chase.

Years passed. The others wizened and died, but my body remained exactly as it did the day I stepped off the beast. This baffling defect of mine commanded fear and respect. Child of God, they murmured as I walked past, their heads bowed. So did their children and their grandchildren though they did not understand why. My presence was unnatural; my body, an anomaly. Someone to be cast out and worshipped at the same time, above and beyond the rabble. They were content with merely staying out of my sight; I had no powers of the sort to punish or demand offerings with. I held no influence over the world beyond my improved swordsmanship that I wielded only for food. Once the space between us had been cemented by law and tradition, I decided to leave, knowing none would chase.

I became distinctly aware of my position, perched outside the food chain. Every animal that gasped and died in my hands would never feed another. It all seemed so greedy, so gluttonous of me. All I did was take and take from this planet’s bounty, never to return the favour. But so what? There was nobody around to admonish me. Nobody around to judge me nor forgive me. Even the brute that I was understood that sin unseen is still sin, but to go unnoticed for what must have been centuries was a bit absurd.

At some point, I picked up drawing as a hobby. I had no talent nor materials, but it was fun nonetheless. On a day as dull as the last, with the sun’s dying light as a backdrop, I held a rough piece of parchment up against the window. The winged, metal beast, pitch-black as I remembered it, blazed against the light, surrounded by a ghostly halo. Looking back, I realise how silly this was. Here I was—a tree without a forest, who after countless years of feasting on wild prey, had finally decided it was time to paint. But as I beheld the beast, I felt a drop of the guilt that had pooled in my heart dry. The painting was a mark: proof that I had lived. I had painted every stroke with all the precision I could muster in a permutation I deemed most aesthetic. It was a simple collection of lines configured in a pattern nobody else would emulate. The parchment preserved a record of what I—and not anybody else—saw the beast to be on that fateful night. In creating it, I had laid part of my soul bare. That was more than a beast could do. A beast only knew to rip and tear, but I was different. I would keep this painting whole. A delusional, arrogant thought; self-granted purpose, borne from boredom, is no purpose at all—but it was enough for me to latch onto.

If I may recognise one, fascinating aspect of living beings, it is their ability to perceive differently from each other. I grew to wonder what the rabbits I ate daily would draw had they been blessed with fingers and patience. Every step of the process enthralled me—from choosing a subject to draw, to planning the way it should be drawn, down to the individual strokes. If anyone were to see the paintings that littered my cottage, they would no doubt understand every nook and cranny of my mind better than if I were to try and explain myself to them through words.

Over time, this desire festered and grew to encompass more than just paintings. Paintings were just one of many bridges to a heart, meant to be crossed, not stared at. Hearts were not made to beat alone, and mine was no different—my hate neutered by time.

Of course, nobody ever showed up. I did not mind. If the boredom ever drove me mad, my sane self would still be preserved in these drawings. Imagine: if my personality was erased completely, or even replaced by a different one. I could then tour my past mind through my paintings, each one an irreplaceable part of my old self. Together, they formed an ever- growing jigsaw, a blueprint of me.

The seasons turned without end. Before I knew it, I could see from my window the spires of human civilization towering over a land sucked dry, their shadows lengthening with each era that passed. In comparison, I must have seemed like a beast. What sort of people were they, and what fancy new forms of art had they come up with? I looked in awe at what they had built with their bare hands. Perhaps a tour was in order.

EVIE

“What’ll it be?” bellowed a hulk of a man turned away from me, made more of muscle than anything else. His shoulder blades swivelled as he wiped a glass clean.

What’ll it be? What are these even supposed to be? Glass bottles with all sorts of rancid concoctions in poisonous shades—no, beverages—lined the shelves in front of me, glowing warmly under the tavern lamps. I had never seen so much liquid in one place before. Is this what people drink for sustenance now? Or for pleasure? “Uh…”

“First time? Just turned of age, did you? No, you’re hardly a lad from the look of you. Then again, I was about your size when I had my first pint—and I puked my guts out, I did. Wahahaha!”

His booming voice rattled my skull. We were not alone—raucous customers laughed and drank around me. The men had barrels for arms, muscular and strong. The handful of women present were tall and voluptuous, while I was thin as twigs. People are a lot… bigger… than I recall. How? Is it because of what they drink? Perhaps I should learn to brew these. I looked over at the table next to me, where a pair clinked their glasses and gulped them down without hesitation—one nearly twice the size of the other, but only horizontally. Seems like the effects vary.

“That’s a tiefdraught. Not what I’d propose a toast to, but with where they’re going tomorrow, I can hardly blame ‘em. Want to try one?”

“Ah… sure. Sorry, you’re right—this is my first time.”

“Wahahaha! Written clear as day across your face—anyone could tell! Ah, what I’d give to be in your shoes. Even the harshest brews lose their kick eventually. Well, consider this on the house; after all, it’d be an honour to serve you your first pint. I still remember the first glass my dad poured for me—bless his soul, wherever he is—and nothing’s come close since. A tiefdraught, though…”

Perhaps this isn’t a great idea. “What’s a tiefdraught?”

“Delve on the rocks with a dash of Marine Blue and a hefty mix of pure alcohol. Not the hardest drink to whip up, nor the most expensive, but it packs a punch. Look, we’ve almost run dry.”

He deftly poured out a blue reagent into an indigo glass, handling the pitchers nimbly despite his size. The blue filtered into the indigo, turning the concoction dark as the ocean floor.

I looked around, and noticed the sheer number of people toasting to tiefdraughts. “Is this really that good?”

“No, it tastes awful if you ask me.”

“So why’s it so popular? Surely you have other things on the menu.”

His eyes narrowed. “You from across the ocean, lad?”

“What?”

“Hm. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Most of who you see here tonight won’t live to see the sun rise.”

Huh? What, is this poison?

“They’re soldiers, to be sortied a few hours from now. Wouldn’t expect you to know that, since clearly you’re not military—but surely you know we’re at war?”

“Um… sorry, you’re right. I’m not from around here.”

“I’m surprised they let you right through the gates. I suppose someone like you doesn’t look like they’d so much as dare raise a hand against a fly. Then again, some of the gatesmen are in here drinking too, so it’s more than likely they’re beyond caring. Either way, it’s a fact that almost every battalion we send out gets massacred. It’s a bloodbath out there. It’s not like the enemy’s having an easy time of it—we take two along for every one of us that falls—but it’s not a pretty sight. Tomorrow’s said to be the biggest operation there’s been yet, perhaps one that might end the war, but who knows what’s true nowadays?” He sighed before continuing. “Tiefdraught isn’t something you drink alone. It tastes like rotting carcass. It’s something you can only stomach with a friend, a buddy, someone you trust. Think of it this way—if your pal’s not even willing to chug a pint with you, d’you think they’d spare a glance for you on the battlefield? Surely not. Anyway, that’s a bit of lore for you. Y’know, after saying all that, I can’t let you drink this alone, can I? Let me brew another for myself, and we’ll toast.”

How stupid. Humans haven’t changed a bit. How does anyone here see meaning in senseless murder? Is this supposed to be fun? Do they not stop to wonder why this loudmouth gets to sit here yapping without ever having to lift a sword—while they rush to their deaths?

Of course, I knew better than to say that out loud. “Right… sorry, what’s a toast?”

“What? C’mon, does nobody drink where you’re from? It’s when you clink your glasses together before taking a swig. Here, hold your glass out.”

He picked up a tiefdraught of his own and held it out expectantly, a grin across his face. I grasped the handle of my jug—and only then did its weight strike me. So heavy! I squirmed as I lifted the glass with both hands towards his, shaking unsteadily all the while. In comparison, his glass hung still as a rock.

“Wahahaha! Sorry, maybe I should have poured you half a pint instead. Anyhow, here we go—Cheers! To your arrival in Garder!”

I perched the glass against my lips before hesitating. Vapour stung my eyes and filtered into my nose. I suppose this is something you chug rather than sip. The bartender was already gulping his drink down. Not wanting to be left behind, I closed my eyes, counted to three and tipped the tiefdraught into my mouth almost vertically, letting my hood fall.

The foam that crested the surface coagulated near my mouth as the draught slowly spread down my throat. It tasted like death: ice-cold and bitter, made of alien waters murky and sterile amidst tall, snowy mountains that stretched into the night; a taste that burned and rose to a searing crescendo, yielding only as I began to choke, my eyes watering. The boiling depths parted, making way for a haunting aftertaste: earthy but deathly still, missing the heat that had threatened to glass my tongue just moments earlier. The taste left my mouth numb and slid into my throat, staying there like a pocket of phlegm.

People pay to drink this? I would sooner drink my own piss than another cup of this bile.

I opened my eyes to a world swimming in my tears. I set the cup down on what seemed like the counter and blinked hard. As the counter slowly came into focus, I realised something had changed. What? I probed my senses; nothing had appeared that was not already there. Rather, it was the absence of something.

The noise. It’s gone. The ruckus of the bar, the voices, the clinking of glass… everything’s fallen silent.

The bartender’s face finally defined itself in front of me. His face lay twisted into one of awe. He stood in front of me slack-jawed, muzzled by shock. I felt a little uncomfortable at his silence; a feeling that doubled into full-blown fear as I looked around the bar. Not a soul moved. Their cups all sat on their tables; some lay shattered against the floor. Their eyes were trained on me, their faces in abject shock just as the bartender’s was.

What? Did something happen? What was in that drink? I snapped my head back towards the cup. It looked just as it did before I drank it, just one sip emptier.

“You are… Her, are you not?” Trembling in a way that scared me, the bartender finally broke the silence.

“Her?”

“Pardon my ignorance, but even someone like me had an inkling of who you were the moment you stepped in. Her of eternal life, descended upon her iron chariot… I’ve seen the stained glass window in the chapel. The one that’s been there for centuries. That’s you… surely!”

Murmurs spread throughout the bar. I could not have stood out more if I tried—aside from their size, their hair came in different shades of red, some even streaked with silver, and jade-green eyes. Their scrutiny made my skin crawl. I should not have come here.

“Her? In those rags?” “Surely…”

“But she’s the spittin’ image of Her on high!”

“You’d think She’d shy away from even a drop of liquor. But even I can’t deny there’s a resemblance…”

“It is… it is Her! I won’t believe otherwise!”

“They say it’ll be a massacre tomorrow, but if She’s here to… see us off?”

“That’s it! That must be it! She’s—She has returned! To grant us succour and shield!”

Gasps of realisation filled the room as confusion and fear turned to affirmation and excitement. Their faces warmed and smiles crept over their faces. But beneath the skin that wrapped over their skulls I sensed festering, ravenous hunger. It was a face I knew well no matter how many masks it may wear. They wanted something from me. It was not me they were interested in, but what I could do. These men, sentenced to death, were now handed a sprig of hope. Their eyes had latched on to me and would stop at nothing for the salvation they presumed I could offer: that which I had no real power to.

One chair fell over with a crash, and its occupant leaped towards me. Stay away! My eyes shut tight; but for some reason instinct did not raise my hands against him. I was terrified.

“Hear my plea, o God!” His frail voice croaked not from his diaphragm but his throat, somewhere below me. I opened my eyes a crack and saw him on his knees, his forehead pressed against the floor and his palms in front of him. It was a gesture of utmost deference.

“I… I cannot die tomorrow… Please! I swore the oaths, took the pledges, but… even if this country stands tomorrow, who will take care of my sister? She can hardly walk, let alone feed herself. Please… I cannot desert, but I beg of you: with even a sliver of your power, please bless my sister… If you could keep watch over her, I will die tomorrow with my head held high. Please! I beg!”

I could not speak. I can’t do that, you fool! All this about eternal life… that is a curse even I don’t understand, not power! I could not escape the hundreds of eyes that bored into me. They would not permit an escape. After having shown my face, they would not simply allow me to walk out. What would happen if I did? I did not want to consider the thought.

And so I did as they wished. “I… cannot promise you anything. However, I will keep an eye on your scales, and those of your sister, and ensure that they are weighed justly. I can only pray they may tip in your favour.” He burst into tears at my words, and wailed as only a dying man could. Before he could finish, a line had formed, and I was made to offer a similar blessing to each and every one of them. Grown men, trained for battle, were reduced to nothing at my words, their hearts thawed by a chance at life.

I knew I was peddling lies, but I had no choice. Besides, these men will likely die tomorrow. I don’t think they expect to be invulnerable. If I’m lucky, a few more will survive than expected, and the survivors will come home happy. Isn’t that what prayer is? A way to bolster your odds rather than a guarantee. Or at least, that’s how they see it. In truth, only they can weigh their scales with their own two hands. Their fates were sealed when they chose war. I was still terrified, but as long as I prayed for them, they would not lay a finger on me. So I did as I was told until I had blessed everyone in the tavern.

“How are you doing?” The bartender smiled weakly, having overcome his initial shock, his face no longer pale. “I’ve had all sorts of patrons over the years, but you’re the first deity that’s walked through those doors.”

“I’m… nevermind. I’m tired. How long has it been?”

“An hour and a half? Maybe two. Give or take. You did a good thing.”

The impromptu ceremony had finally come to an end, and everyone had returned to their tables, fervently discussing the supposed euphoric effects they had experienced upon my words.

“The room brightened when she spoke.”

“I felt my body lighten, like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.”

“My bones straightened out in an instant; my back doesn’t hurt anymore!”

“I saw the gates of heaven behind her—white and pearly! She’s a true goddess!”

Their drinks sat untouched. Perhaps they felt a little embarrassed to ramble drunkenly in the presence of a so-called goddess, despite the fact that I too had taken a little sip.

“Sorry about the tiefdraught. Had I known, I wouldn’t have pushed one onto you,” the bartender said, wiping a glass clean.

“No… it was, uh, delicious. Thank you.”

“Wahahaha! For a deity, you sure have a sense of humour. That was just a little prank—a rite of passage of sorts for those kids that like to swagger in and order a pint, acting tough as nails. You on the other hand—you’ve seen more than any of us could ever dream of imagining. Thank you for visiting—no, gracing us with your presence. I’ll be honest, all of this is still a bit too much for me… I’ve never really been the religious type, and I hope you won’t damn me for it. But I’m sure your power is true.”

I said nothing.

“Ah… anyway, ya have a place to stay the night?” “No… is there an inn nearby?”

“Yup, it’s above us. Part of the bar, actually. Of course, we’ve set a room aside for you, if you’d like. Normally it’s a tad noisy, what with people puking in their sleep and such, but I suspect tonight might be quieter.”

“I’d like that very much. Thank you.”

I was too exhausted to think. A short while later, I was lying face-first on a silken pillow, my body wrapped in blankets against a soft featherbed. The room was dark and cosy, slight murmurs and the clinking of someone washing dishes filtering in from beneath the door. What a lovely bed. I never thought sleep could be so warm.

My body gave out, and I slept dreamlessly; the deepest I had ever slept since I first drew breath.

EVIE

The room was lit, made of polished timber and finely furnished, with a cupboard, a dressing table, and with bookshelves and framed artwork lining the walls. What a beautiful room.

It took me a moment to recall the events of last night. Clearly it had been some time since then, from the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. A clock on the wall told me it was almost evening—I had slept for nearly a day. My stomach rumbled to confirm the fact. A whole day! That bartender did offer me this room for free, but not for me to be a freeloader! How embarrassing. I’d better leave as soon as I can. I think it might be best if I left this town for a while. Without a better disguise, I’m likely to draw attention wherever I go.

I stepped towards the door, but before I could open it, somebody knocked from the other side. I froze. A knock? Who would knock on my door? I had no reason to suspect the people, not even after what happened last night. No rational reason. If they truly saw me as a deity, they would have no reason to harm me. Still, there was something ominous about an unannounced knock on the door.

Whoever it was knocked again, a heavy, deliberate knock, as though their fingers were made of lead. Armour. They’re wearing gauntlets. I quickly grabbed my sword, hooked it to my waist and wrapped my cloak around me, pulling my hood over my forehead. Just in case.

I opened the door and looked up, cast in shadow, for the knight standing before me was far taller than anyone I had ever seen.

He was covered head to toe in black steel, bulky pauldrons, couters, heavy greaves and all, faint sword-scars across the breastplate, all partially hidden under a thick ash-grey cloak trimmed in graphite. His head was fully armoured in a close helm shaped purely for defence, the front layered with a large, mask-shaped visor, showing no hint of a countenance whatsoever. The ocularium was razor sharp, so thin that I could not make out even the silhouette of his eyes. The steel featured no decorative adornation—only functional trims and seams where one piece met the next. His cloak was fastened around his neck by a clasp engraved with an encircled cross, perfectly symmetrical across both axes. I almost failed to notice the massive hilt protruding diagonally from behind one shoulder. His sword is slung across his back. Only a claymore or some other type of greatsword would suit a knight of his size, perhaps even a bearing sword.

This entire inspection took me but a fraction of a second. I had already taken a step back, my hand gripping the hilt of my sword under my cloak. His head tilted ever so slightly, and while I could not see into his helm, he had clearly finished inspecting me as quickly as I had him.

“There’s no need for that,” he said in a careful, pronounced register, as though each word weighed heavy on his tongue. The mere shift in my posture was enough for him to know I was armed.

“Who are you?” I asked, staring at his visor, keeping his limbs in my peripheral vision.

“...Knight-Inquisitor,” he said after a moment’s silence.

“Your name. Not your title.”

“Why does that matter to you?”

“There could be a hundred Knights-Inquisitor for all I know. But there’s only one of you.”

He considered my words again. “Korol.”

“Korol.”

“And who are you?” he asked.

“Evie.”

“Your title.”

“My…” I hesitated. I had entered the city disguised as a traveller, but after what happened last night, was there any point keeping up the act? “God,” I said after a long pause. “Or, at least, that’s what some call me.”

“The whole city is calling you that. But you’re the Child, aren’t you?”

I froze. “The Child?”

“The Child of God.”

“And why would you assume that? I… I resemble the stained glass window, don’t I?” I said, remembering the bartender’s words from last night.

“You do, but so does the Child.”

“So what makes you think I’m the Child?” I asked again, irritated.

“Because only the Child was known to wield a sword.”

I froze. He would surely notice if I loosened my grip on my sword now—the cloak wrapped around me might as well have been transparent. He remained silent, staring from where he stood in the hallway. After a moment of intense scrutiny, he closed the door and left, his footsteps fading quickly. I stood there, dumbfounded. Leaving mid-conversation? Were all knights in this city so socially stunted? Besides, he knows who I am. Who the hell is he? He knows who I am and he just left and… what if he tells people?

I stepped forward to open the door, but before I could reach the knob, it flew open, slamming into my forehead, knocking me off my feet.

“Goddess! You’ve got to hear—no, see this! You’ll never believe it! Huh—what are you doing on the floor? And say, shouldn’t you keep your door locked at night? Well, I suppose a goddess like you has other ways of keeping intruders out. Anyway, get up!”

The bartender stood in front of me, occupying the entire doorframe. Ow, ow, ow… you fool! My forehead throbbed, but it wasn’t bleeding. My butt had taken quite the impact, but the floor was a little creaky and had softened my landing a little. I lurched unsteadily to my feet. Before the world stopped spinning in front of me, the bartender yanked my arm and rushed me out and down the stairs.

“Look! They’re all here—and not a single scratch on ‘em!”

“It’s her! The goddess! She of eternal life—her blessings held true!”

Boisterous cheers and laughter filled the air. They were shouts of not just victor’s pride but also amusement and disbelief. A miracle must have happened. Something beyond imagination—something beyond the reach of mortal men.

Their faces slowly stopped spinning, and I realised the truth of what the bartender had exclaimed. They were all here. Not a single face was missing. Not only were they present— they were unharmed.

“What… What happened? Was the operation called off?”

“No! Well, perhaps yes, if you ask the enemy! Hahaha!” a soldier exclaimed.

“No, you fool, they were there too! Although you couldn’t call them much of an enemy!” They howled with laughter. However, I stood there, even more confused than before.

The bartender, with a smile of pity on his face, stepped towards me. “She’s a goddess! Show some respect and tell her what happened.”

“Respect? Please—I step out of the bathroom, hardly done zipping my trousers and the first thing I see is you slamming the door into her face! She of eternal life she may be, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you knocked a few years off her with that!”

They roared with laughter once more, clearly too drunk on victory (and ale) to care. They had changed completely from last night.

“Ah…” the bartender smiled sheepishly and leaned towards me. “Alright, well, here’s what happened. They were meant to assault a town we’d been sieging for a while last night. I say sieging, but it was more of just restricting the enemy’s supplies for a while, intercepting trade mules and cutting off water lines and such. Anyway, they marched up to the walls—and it seems there’d been a plague! Nearly everyone there was half-dead, swaying about like drunkards, some barely able to sit upright. Even so, they sent a handful of stragglers out with swords, their eyes rolling in their sockets. Naturally, we slaughtered and burned them all. Can’t take any risks with the sick—don’t even want them as prisoners. Either way, it was a total victory—frontal assaults are usually the bloodiest, and you can’t imagine how glad these men were to come home alive—unscathed, even!”

“So… nobody died?”

“Right. Nobody died. And it’s all thanks to you.”

“Me?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember—that was just a sip of draught you had. The blessings! You said you’d pray for them, and you did. You watched over them. Thank you. Thank you. And thank you. None of us expected something like this. Perhaps Lady Luck was on our side, and with your grace, led us to a perfect outcome. Who knows. All I can say is that—”

The wizened man from yesterday flopped onto the floor before me, but this time with his face turned upright.

“Thank you! Oh… oh my… you have no idea… I’ll kiss the earth you walk on from now on… and I’d gladly die tomorrow if I had to… Thank you for letting me live just a day longer… Thank you… There’s really nothing I can do to repay you, but I swear! I’ll visit the chapel daily! I’ll drag my sister out of bed too with me if I have to! Everything I save after buying her medicine, I’ll donate as tithes! Oh…” His words soon devolved into shameless bawling, and he had to be carried away by his subordinates, smiling sheepishly on his behalf.

“Well, he said everything I wanted to say, and perhaps a bit more. So that’s that.”

“I… see.”

“I know what you’re thinking. Or, well, maybe I don’t—you’re a deity, after all. But I talked to them before you woke up. Don’t worry—they won’t be hounding you for blessings or prayers or anything like that. In fact, they should be going to the priestess at the chapel for this stuff, but to be frank, a lot of them weren’t the god-fearing type till last night, and would have rather spent their coin on whores than tithes. But after the miracle you wrought last night, things have changed. We’ve blasphemed, but we’re changing. We’ve changed. And we’ll never lose sight of you and your generosity. We won’t be bothering you anymore, but…”

I eyed him curiously. Another favour?

“Perhaps… you could stay with us a little longer? This inn isn’t a place befitting your stature—the chapel would be honoured to have you. Your mere presence in this town is working wonders. The news has already spread, and the town seems happier for it. Full of hope—I can see it in their eyes. Imagine how they’d feel to know that you—the goddess herself—is present in the flesh at the very chapel they pray at! I know how insolent it is to demand this of you, but—please stay with us!”

The chapel. I had walked past it at some point; it was a cathedral of sorts, ornate and extravagant in its architecture. From a brief peek through its windows its furnishings and interior had seemed almost palatial. The clergy must live a lavish life here. Me, a cave dweller sleeping first on rock, then a mat in my cottage, then a featherbed in an inn, and now a chapel fit for royalty? What a joke.

I was undeserving. What had I done? Nothing. All I offered were empty words and promises. The plague was pure coincidence. I had nothing to do with it. The effect was there, but the cause lay elsewhere. Bad luck, perhaps. Or poor outbreak control. Either way, there was no reason why I should be offered a home for free in exchange. What if the plague hadn’t happened? They’d have been massacred. What then? What would they have thought of the supposed goddess that had led them all to their deaths? I shivered at the thought.

That being said, my heart was one that had been ripped to shreds and ground to dust by time. I could not find room in it for guilt or conscience. Forgive me, a goddess for such material thoughts, but the night I spent in that featherbed had nearly brought me to tears. It had felt so warm, so safe, so intoxicatingly secure. I could not pass up the opportunity for more luxury. Had I not struggled enough? All this time I never considered reward or compensation for my suffering, but here it was being offered to me on a platter just for a few kind words. Is this okay?

“I accept. Please guide me to the chapel.”

EVIE

Imagine my shock when I saw the knight assigned to escort me.

“You!” I yelled at the Knight-Inquisitor waiting casually outside the inn, pointing in a manner not at all befitting a deity. The bartender did a double take and whipped his head towards me.

“You? You know him?”

“Know him? He—” I cut myself off. “No. I’ve never seen this man in my life.”

“Really? Well, his name is Korol. Knight-Inquisitor.”

“Is he now.”

“No finer swordsman as far as the Pink Sea.”

“He certainly has a big sword.”

“Ah…” The bartender trailed off for some reason.

“Ah?” I asked, looking up at the bartender.

“Best not mention his blade. It's... well. It has its stories,” he said, not wanting to elaborate. “Anyway. The King has offered his finest knight to bring you to the chapel. You can count on him.”

“Fine,” I mumbled as I stepped forward, my appearance mostly hidden by my cloak and hood.

“You’re welcome to visit the bar anytime!” the bartender said, waving two big arms behind me.

“I’ll consider it.”

Korol looked at me. “Child of God,” he drawled as he started walking beside me, not even bothering to match my shorter stride.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” I hissed, trying to keep up. “Look. Fine. I’m the Child, okay? But everyone thinks I’m not. They think I’m God, so keep it to yourself.”

He took a moment. He was the type to think before responding. Or perhaps he was just a slow thinker. “Fine. But I will not allow you to lie to Mir—the head priestess.”

“Mir..?”

“The head priestess.”

“You call her by name?”

Another pause. “No.”

“You just did.”

“I called her head priestess.”

“You… whatever,” I said, already exhausted from jogging to keep up. “Could you slow down?”

Korol surprisingly acceded to my request, letting me catch my breath.

“T-thank you,” I stammered. “Why… Why does the head priestess have to know? Can’t you tell her I’m God?”

“I will not allow you to lie to her. Simple as that. The chapel is giving you a place to stay—honesty is the bare minimum expected of a guest. Besides, I expect you will want to keep your sword. I suggest you explain your situation to her. She will let you keep your weapon as well as protect your secret. But if you lie, she will assume you are unarmed, and I will call your bluff. You can imagine how the city would react to somebody trying to sneak a weapon into the chapel, deity or not.”

I could not refute such logic. “Fine. But I’d rather not have to explain to the rest of the city why I did not immediately disclose this to them.” The chance to reveal my true identity was at the inn, when they first noticed my appearance. That chance had long since passed.

“That’s fine. Just the head priestess needs to know.” Korol guided me through the market district. The street was paved with polished stone and brick curbs, lined with shops selling jewelry and trinkets and clothes and snacks, all bright and gaudy, some in colours I had never seen in my life. Then there was the crowd. I would have had to jostle my way through if not for the fact that they naturally parted to let Korol pass while I followed behind him. There were not just adults but children too, some old enough to walk, others perched on shoulders, and some families even had pets. The restaurants were packed to the point where they had to lay tables out on the curb for excess diners. A group of old men sat around one, playing with cards. At another table, a group of younger men passed around a pipe connected to an intricate glass apparatus filled with pink liquid, forming squiggly rings in the air as they puffed cloying pink smoke. The coloured smoke mixed with that from outdoor barbeque stalls, forming a warm, intoxicating haze that diffused the wavering orange glow from the oil lamps lining the street. Buskers weaved nimbly through the crowd, dancing while playing flutes, snatching coins tossed towards them out of the air without missing a note. A shadow flitted past me—it was a balloon floating into the sky, accidentally let loose by a child who now sat crying on the curb, his mother trying to console him while his father tried to bargain with a very cutthroat-looking merchant for a balloon of the same colour.

“Is this place always this… loud?” I asked Korol, feeling a bit overwhelmed. This was, after all, my first time in modern civilisation.

“Yes.”

A curt answer. What was I expecting? No? There was no way a city of this size could be anything but loud. Still, it was not unpleasant. So this is what humans are like when they’re not living in caves, foraging for berries and hunting prey. The atmosphere was almost enough to make me forget.

A while later, we turned into a side alley, pulling out of the crowd. It was darker and quieter here, though the alley was no less grand than the previous—just a bit narrower. It soon widened into a stone plaza with a fountain. Past the fountain sat a small hill with what looked more like a cathedral than a chapel. Its seat on the hill gave it the highest vantage point over the city. Korol escorted me up the stairs and through the garden, neatly trimmed, made serene by the faint sound of running water.

The nun standing in front of heavy arched doors had to have been the head priestess. Who else would have known we were coming? Her amber eyes and brushed golden hair looked ethereal compared to my unkempt appearance, almost unfairly so, as though I needed proof that God played favourites, ironic as it was for me to say. She smiled kindly at us, her eyes sparkling, clearly thrilled to see me.

“Welcome,” she said with a practiced curtsy that I could not take my eyes off of. I hate to belabour the point, but this was my first time meeting humans in a very long time, and I had never seen such elegance and beauty in a woman before, not just in her appearance but also her soft whisper of a voice, the way she pronounced each word clear as water, her enunciation careful, precise, a little different from those at the inn but so much more pristine, the construction of her face, and even the way she stood as though she weighed nothing at all, made of feathers and air. I felt disgusted by my ogling and how inferior I must have looked next to her, but her expression showed not even the slightest hint of displeasure. She looked at me with only adoration and what I hoped was love.

“Introduce yourself,” Korol said.

I realised I was staring. “Hello,” I said nervously. “I am Evie.”

“That’s a lovely name. You must forgive me for referring to you by your title, Goddess, for I could not possibly call the deity that has blessed us with all we have by her name.”

I hesitated. This was the part where I was supposed to correct her, to say that I was in fact the Child of God and not God herself. Korol’s armour shifted slightly. He was expecting the same of me. The head priestess was waiting for my response.

“Y-yes, well… whatever makes you comfortable,” I said.

“Then please allow me to call you Goddess,” she said, stepping forward to hold my hands in hers, which were far softer than mine. “I cannot emphasise enough how great an honour this is to me. To meet the deity I have devoted my whole life to…” Her eyes began to water, and for a moment I forgot myself and my surroundings, my hindbrain forcing my eyes to fixate on hers, captivated by how much more beautiful she was with wet eyes.

“Evie,” Korol said, his imposing voice snapping me back to reality. I was supposed to say something here. I was supposed to tell her that I was not God. I was supposed to, or else Korol would expose me and I would be exiled, never to see the head priestess again. However, I said nothing. I realised that what the head priestess adored was not me, but the Goddess. It was obvious. I was nothing compared to her, just a crude, ugly hermit who knew nothing about human etiquette or elegance or even the very religion I was a symbol of. Someone like her would only look at me with pity, disgust, even, if I was anything other than God. The Child of God would surely earn some respect, at least, but how famous was the Child, really? I had no idea how the religion had developed after I left to live on my own. Korol recognised me, but he had no respect for me. Was it because nobody cared about the Child anymore? Or would Korol have treated me the same way had I been God and not the Child? He certainly seemed the type to respect nobody but the head priestess.

Korol knows her by name. He’s jealous, I thought. It was a completely irrational thought, but part of me wanted to rationalise it. A Knight-Inquisitor commands respect and fear from all but God. He’s jealous that I’m superior to him. He’s jealous of how the head priestess looks at me. This was the theory my mind deluded itself into believing. I realised then that truth was a fragile thing, for that delusion immediately became indistinguishable from truth to me—or rather, I did not want to distinguish it. Truth was what I wanted it to be. All I had to do was will it into existence.

“Goddess is fine too,” I said, holding her hands, not wanting to let go.

“Thank you. Please, let me show you around. You will be living here from now on, yes?” she said quickly before Korol could interrupt.

“Yes, if you’ll have me.”

“Then, please come with me,” she said, turning, my right hand still in hers. She pushed the doors open and guided me into the chapel, leaving the Knight-Inquisitor behind.

*

Barely five minutes had passed since the head priestess left my room after wishing me a good rest. She had escorted me here personally after the tour. I stood there, staring at the door, dizzy, replaying our conversations in my mind. I could still hear her voice—I could still smell her—

The door burst open suddenly and Korol stepped in, armour and all, and grabbed me by the neck, lifting me into the air.

“W-what—what are you doing?!” I spluttered, choking, gasping for breath. “Unhand me! I am a—”

“—an impostor,” he said coldly. “Does the Child of God not understand simple instructions?”

“I’m not an impostor! I’m a deity!” It shocked me that he would treat me this way, even if I was not God. I’m still immortal, my face identical to that in the stained glass window—does he really not care?

“You told her you were God.”

“I didn’t say that! I just… I didn’t tell her I was the Child!”

He tightened his grip around my throat. “Do not waste my time with pedantry. You did not refute her assumption. That is the same as claiming the title. Why did you not tell her you were the Child?”

“I…” There was no way I could tell him. And even if I could, I couldn’t, because I was genuinely running out of oxygen. “I… I can’t breathe… Please…” I managed to say, my lungs finally going flat, my eyes twitching.

Korol sighed and let go, dropping me to the floor. I sputtered on my knees, gasping for breath. Then, before I could recover, he yanked me up by my hair and reached into my cloak, ripping my sword from my waist, stowing it in his cloak.

“You can’t take that!” I said, knowing I was powerless to take it back.

“Play God if you like. But I will not have you walking around with an undeclared weapon hidden on you. Understand? I don’t care what you call yourself, as long as you do not threaten the safety of the city and its people, especially the chapel.” With that, he left, slamming the door shut behind him.

I lay on the floor, gasping for air. My waist felt lighter now. This was my first time being separated from my sword, and it terrified me. Without it, I was defenceless. My life in the cave, before I was gifted the sword, had been hell on earth, and it was precisely when I held that sword for the first time that my life turned around completely, only to be stripped away again.

But part of me felt relief. Korol had not exposed me. Maybe he really doesn’t care. Maybe he really does only care about upholding order. I’m sorry. I had no way of knowing. Korol was impossible to read—I could not even see his face. But the fact remained that he had not exposed me, which meant I was free to play God, to indulge gluttonously in the adoration of the head priestess. All I had to do was hide my greedy, disgusting, lecherous self.

I laughed for the first time—ever, perhaps. Have I ever laughed before? There was never anything to laugh about. But here, I am free. Korol doesn’t care. The head priestess loves me. The people worship me.

Here, I am not the errand girl cleaning dried semen off cave floors for barbarian cavemen, wiping blood off stone tools, digging latrines and washing clothes.

Here, I am God.

EVIE

It was through this bizarre stroke of luck that I began a new chapter of my life. The nuns were all women—apparently a gender that held some sort of hallowed status here, perhaps because of my own. My role was that of a figurehead to draw people to the chapel and its ceremonies. Just the thought that God lived next door made the citizens kinder, more generous, more hardworking, living strictly by scripture. The soldiers found new strength in battle; the farmers tended more attentively to their crops; the merchants became less cutthroat. That legendary town assault never repeated itself, but the people kept their expectations reasonable. They gave me credit for their successes and blamed themselves otherwise. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy that I had nothing to do with. I felt disgusted, but could not bring myself to shatter the illusion.

“Like staring into a mirror?”

I turned towards the head priestess, startled. I wondered if her feet touched the ground at all when she walked, for I had not heard even the slightest noise as she approached me. She stood basked in a mosaic of coloured light cast by the stained glass window before me. At this hour, the rising sun’s angle against the glass turned this part of the chapel into a kaleidoscope. The dazzling arrangement of colours danced and shimmered across the walls and the floor as the sun moved, only to disappear once it had risen too high. The window of opportunity was brief—twenty minutes at most—and it had taken me a few weeks at the chapel to notice this phenomenon.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Only because of what’s painted on it.”

The window was, as expected of a chapel, painted in my likeness. It looked far more holy and righteous than I had any right to be.

“The painting is a little strange. It doesn’t feel like me at all.”

She smiled. “You’re right. All we had to go on were stories and cave paintings of your appearance—until now, that is. The painter might have embellished a little, but I think he did a good job. Nobody would mistake you for anyone but the angel in the glass window. And there isn’t a soul in this city that resembles it more than you do.”

It wasn’t the physical appearance of the window that struck me as odd. It was a shockingly faithful recreation of me. But to cloak it with golden halos, divine garments, and ornaments seemed inappropriate. I felt like an impostor in my own skin, which, I suppose, I was.

“Do you have any paint and parchment here?”

“Hm? What for?” She tilted her head.

“I’d like to paint what’s on this window.”

“I did not know you had such a talent.”

“It’s no talent. Just a hobby.”

“A hobby to a deity must be a talent to the rest of us. Anyway, we do have art supplies—but will canvas do? Hardly anyone paints on parchment nowadays.”

“Ah…” I blushed, embarrassed at my inexperience.

“Wait here.” She giggled, then turned and left, a curtain of light dancing upon her habit as she walked.

I was rather kindly allowed to paint as much as I wanted to, and this kept me occupied for some time. I only showed my paintings to the head priestess. She would always marvel at and admire my paintings and ask me questions about them. I did not, however, live like some sort of spoiled queen, whiling away her time hunched over an easel. After much pleading I convinced the nuns to let me assist in their work. I handled decidedly unholy chores such as cleaning and cooking; but I enjoyed it. It was all I knew, aside from hunting, which was not something I was permitted to do. I felt some control over my life return to me through these chores, even if it was a mere facade: I was still living a far more coddled life than anyone else in this city. However, I did have another motive, and it was for that reason I was here with a quill in my hand, sitting next to the head priestess, scribbling her every word onto bound parchment.

“The aforementioned reagent, when poured into the catalyst, results in bubbling for a short duration that intensifies with the volume of silverbright used. This is normal, but may spew, so ensure that the cauldron is covered to prevent spillage. Once the concoction has—are you tired, Sister?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“But concoction has three c’s in it.”

“Three? But—oh no, you’re right. Ugh.”

She laughed softly. The way she addressed me was strange, but it was a lot more comfortable to me than being called Goddess. I never managed to convince her to call me by name. Eventually, after trying several pronouns, Sister was the best she could do, considering I was now assisting the nuns. It was awkward, but I got used to it. That was not all—I had grown fond of her in whole, not just her beauty, and her laugh set my heart aflutter even now, just as it did the first time I heard it. While the other nuns were quite devoted in their worship of me and the religion they had invented around me, they did sometimes behave as though they were here simply to work. That did not make their work any less admirable; it was a perfectly reasonable, human attitude to have, but it made the head priestess shine greater in comparison. She was kind and devoted to the people. She offered aid and food to the needy and waived charges for the poor. She conducted every mass with diligence and grace, thinking only of enriching the lives of those that attended. She talked to me often to check in on me and listen to my requests, and always found the time to listen when I sought her company. This was not merely a job to her.

She was respectful enough not to ask about my private matters or history. I was God to her, after all. That was convenient, for I would not have been able to answer. She told me a bit about her past. Though the point at which her childhood memories cut off was a bit later than most, she had clearly been raised in a warm, joyful home; one that she felt almost embarrassed to talk about. That didn’t matter to me; I wanted to hear it, for it was her past. I felt no envy or anger. I wanted to share in the joy preserved in her memories; I wanted a sliver of the warmth of her family that showed in the mundane acts of love they did for each other. She took them for granted, but I hung onto every word. Thus did the boundaries of our lives slowly begin to overlap.

“We’ll have to redo this page. Good thing you only wrote half of it.”

“Right… Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s rare to see you make a mistake. Perhaps you’re more human than I thought.” Her round, amber eyes held no hint of anger, but betrayed mischief missing from her calm, almost motherly tone of voice. I stared into them for a moment, admiring their symmetry and the lashes that framed them, how they arced ever so gently, light enough to bend whenever she blinked. I would often watch her conduct Mass from a mezzanine above, the congregation entranced. I, however, noticed more than just the scripture she read out loud—the way she could smile with just her eyes, and the dimples on her cheeks when she laughed. How her nostrils flared slightly at dishes left unwashed; how she ate with cheeks full and bulging in private, and how her eyes would tear at even the slightest hint of spice. How she wore both sock and shoe on one foot before dressing the other. The arch of her neck as she lifted her hair to tie it, her soft ears peeking through like swans piercing a cloud. The parts of her that were charming to me still were, but I was quickly finding new things to like about her, seeing beauty where there once had been none, conjuring it from thin air.

I never dared comment—the way I examined her like a specimen, noting down even her most minute tics and features, made me shudder in shame. All the time I spent disgusted by and removed from humans seemed like an instant, so trivial and meaningless, while each day I spent at the chapel stretched on and forever.

“Something on my face?” she asked, her head tilted. I snapped out of my foolish daydream, pausing to memorise the angle.

“Ah… no.”

“Then, let’s resume.” She smiled.

“Of course.”

EVIE

I spent my days in ignorant bliss. For my own safety, I was told to stay in the chapel, so I did. The head priestess occasionally left on errands, escorted by the Knight-Inquisitor. Today was one such day. I watched from my bedroom window, high above the garden, looking down at the two. The head priestess wore her usual habit with a light veil to block light, but with the fully-armoured Korol standing between her and the sun, it was hardly necessary. They descended the stairs as though stepping out of a fairytale.

The fester in my heart envied Korol for being by her side, and the painter in me wished I could be as picturesque as them. They played the roles they were assigned perfectly. Anyone could tell that they were knight and priestess, whereas if it were not for my face, nobody would be able to tell who I was supposed to be. I watched them leave and spent the rest of the day waiting for them to return.

“Korol,” I said to him in the hallway. He turned to face me. The priestess had already retired to her room, so it was just us two.

“What?”

“I…” What was I supposed to say? Where did you go with the head priestess? Asking him directly would only irritate him. I had to think of a pretext for conversation. But what reason did I have to speak to him?

“My sword,” I mumbled finally.

“Your sword?”

“You still have it.”

“And?”

“I want it back.”

I could feel his stare through his visor. “Are you stupid?”

“What?” My ears turned red. Stupid? How rude! Does he think me a child?

“I already explained to you why I took your sword. And now you think I’ll give it back just because you asked?”

“...No.”

“So why did you ask?”

“I… I have a reason for why I need my sword.”

“Which is?”

“I need to practise.”

“You seem content playing nun. Why would you need to play with swords?”

“I’m not here to play! I’ve had that sword for millennia! Is it not normal to want to practise?”

He paused. Swords were a topic he knew well. “Fair enough. Even a deity would grow rusty.”

“Yes. So spar with me.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re the best swordsman here, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then we should be an even match.”

He eyed me from head to toe, but it was not a cursory, dismissive glance, but rather, a proper inspection, an evaluation. He clearly had not become Knight-Inquisitor through overconfidence and contempt for his opponents.

“So?” I asked again, impatient.

“Fine. I will spar with you. We’ll use the training shed behind the chapel—best nobody see you waving a sword.”

The training shed was large but dilapidated, clearly not having seen use in a long time. From the burns on the floor, it had probably been used long ago by nuns to practise lighting lamps and such rather than combat. However, the nuns at the chapel now had been trained elsewhere before being assigned here, so there was no longer a need for a space to practise in. Korol retrieved my sword from his quarters and handed it to me. Korol stood a fair distance across from me and pulled his greatsword out from behind his back, gripping it with both hands, taking stance, poised to lunge. It was a colossal hunk of metal, broad, almost as tall as him, a fuller graved down its spine, slightly maroon with rust or oxidised blood, perhaps both. Its hilt was bare metal wrapped in frayed brown cloth with no crossguard to protect its wielder. It looked more like a hunk of iron than a forged sword, though there was no denying its heft and its lethal edge.

I drew my blade next and held it with both hands. It was unadorned and missing a crossguard like his, but thinner and shorter, more nimble. His helm shifted slightly—he was examining my sword as though calculating its range.

“Where did you get that sword?” he asked calmly.

“I received it as a gift.”

“Ah… right. You are the Child.” It seemed he knew the story of Her gifts, and the blade offered up by the people to the Child of God. This religion spared no details.

“What about yours? I have never seen a blade so large.”

“It was also a gift, but from the master-at-arms. Apparently it had owners before me, but I don’t know who.”

“It must be famous. Does it have a name?”

“Egret.”

“I see.”

“And yours?”

“I never gave it a name.”

“You should. It’s only proper. It was a gift from the heavens, after all.”

“I’ll think of one.”

Silence ensued. He shifted his grip, his sword angling down slightly, signalling the end of our chat.

“I meant what I said earlier. That I’m an even match for you,” I said, though I did not feel as brave as I tried to sound.

“Then you are the first,” he said before lunging like a sprung coil, shifting his sword over his shoulder as he landed one one foot, leaping again, covering the entire length of the shed. He landed two strides from me and raised his sword. Just as the tip reached its apex, I backstepped, knowing he had no choice but to commit to the swing. Korol’s upswing had been a bit slow, weighed down by gravity, but the slash itself was like lightning, a blur of grey that slammed into the floor, cleaving through tile and cement.

He stepped forward, dragging the blade behind him through the floor, pulling it free and into a horizontal arc, dropping to one knee and lunging for more reach. My blade, vertical, deflected the blow with a piercing note. The steel hummed, vibrating from the force of his swing, numbing my wrist. Before he could stand, I let the momentum carry my blade around me, spinning in place, accelerating, tracing an ellipse up into the air, turning back to face him, and slashing down at his helmet, completing the loop. He lifted his left hand and parried it with his gauntlet, the edge leaving a gash.

I expected him to stand and regrip his sword, but instead he swung it again with one hand. It nicked my hair as I stepped back. So he can wield it one-handed. The swing left him off-balance, so I lunged and slashed, but he wrenched his greatsword back through the air just in time to parry. Our blades locked. In such a position, the more heavily armoured one must bear both the weight of his own armour as well as the pressure of the opponent’s blade, leaving him at a disadvantage. I held my stance, our swords trembling in the deadlock, our faces level for the first time.

“You know you must yield,” I said, my voice shaking. I was more exhausted than I realised. “You cannot hold this position forever.”

His helm tilted slightly, his gaze fixated only on me through his ocularium. “Such rules only apply to equals,” he said, panting.

My grip twitched. Equals? “I’m the Child of God, you know? I’ve lived a thousand lives over, and yet you’ve treated me like scum ever since we first met. You, who are mortal, who have yet to live even once. Why do you see me as inferior?”

He took a moment to answer. “You act like I scorn you specifically,” he said evasively.

“You do!” I yelled, my blade pushing against his. “You… you show the head priestess the respect she deserves. Why?! She can’t even hold a sword and yet you treat her as your equal!”

“It is because you wield a sword.”

“What?”

“You’ll understand in a moment.”

He stood slowly, our swords still locked, forcing me to look up at him, cast in shadow. Then he withdrew his blade, stepping back, breaking the deadlock, before lunging at me again. He swung again and again, showing no signs of fatigue, each swing bouncing off my blade as though trying to numb my wrist into submission. His flurried onslaught forced me back, leaving no windows to counter.

Oh.

I get it.

You really are young, Korol.

Still just a boy.

He lunged at an angle and swung horizontally with both hands, slamming into my sword’s centre of gravity, offset from the blade’s midpoint, closer to the hilt. You could call it sheer luck, but that would be an excuse. The skill to land enough blows to manage a lucky blow is a skill in itself. It is impossible for human wrists to soak such an impact, as there is no pivot for the blade to flex around. The point of contact is the pivot, and so no pivoting can occur. My sword flew out of my hands and skidded across the floor. His sword followed through, completed its arc and reversed into a counterswing.

You would be a terrifying opponent if you had a thousand lives to train. No, you are a terrifying opponent already. But I wonder if your skill is because you are mortal.

I watched the tip of his blade split the air, whistling towards me.

No wonder you’re this good. I would have trained harder too had I only one life to live, a mortal life, spent under the looming shadow of death.

The tip stopped a hair from my neck.

“Yield, Child,” he said, panting heavily, clearly exhausted. I had never heard Korol like this before. He sounded relieved, almost. Victorious.

He hates losing. He will never call a swordsman his equal, because to him, that is equivalent to losing. So he will never see me as his equal as long as I wield a sword. That is the difference between the head priestess and me.

“I yield,” I said calmly.

He dropped to one knee, his sword clattering to the floor, his head bowed, his breath rasped and heavy. The Knight-Inquisitor was human after all. Still, there was no questioning his peerless skill. I realised that what set him apart from the others was his ability to simply ignore his limits and push through fatigue. He allowed the toll his heavy armour took on him to show only after he killed his opponent. It was unusual for someone wearing such heavy armour, wielding a greatsword, to fight battles of attrition, but his strength and stamina made it possible. Korol was built to fight duels, not open war. It made perfect sense why he was assigned to protect the chapel rather than to fight on the front lines, though I was sure he had experience in all sorts of battlefields.

“Do you need water?” I asked.

“No. But we won’t be sparring any more today.”

“That’s fine. My wrists hurt.”

“You’ll break them if you keep trying to parry everything, especially swings from a greatsword.”

“I wanted to see if I could.”

The wind picked up outside the shed, leaves rustling, the wind a bit sweeter than before. It was almost autumn. I looked at Korol, curious.

“You’re not from here, are you?” I asked.

“What makes you think that?”

“Your size. You’re abnormally large for a Garderin. Your voice, too.”

His panting slowed. “I suppose it’s an open secret. No, I’m not. My homeland is across the Pink Sea.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure what to do with this information. Maybe I really was just curious. “What was it like?”

“I don’t remember. I was young when we made the crossing. I remember a ship. That’s all.”

“I see,” I said, almost disappointed. I wanted to hear more about what lay across the ocean.

“I’d rather you not speak openly about that, by the way.”

“Why?”

“I am loyal to Garder. My past doesn’t matter. Still, there are people here who disagree, who think that people in positions of power, that the Knight-Inquisitor must be a purebred Garderin.”

“I had no idea.”

“Because Garder is prospering right now, so nobody cares. You’ll see how quickly opinions change after a failed harvest or a few fumbled battles.”

I did not respond to his ominous words. What was I supposed to say? I was an outsider—I knew nothing about Garder. “Did you come alone? To Garder?” I asked finally, trying to change the topic.

“No. My parents brought me here. I was an infant, there was no way I could have come alone.”

I fell silent for a bit, not sure what else to ask. “Would you want to return?”

“If you’re going to ask me pointless questions, at least do it after winning a spar, not losing one,” he muttered before standing up and sheathing his sword over his back. “Hurry back before the head priestess notices you’re gone,” he said before picking up my sword from the floor.

“W-wait—my sword!”

“You don’t need it, do you? Or is there anyone else in the chapel you’re planning on sparring with?”

“No…”

Satisfied by my answer, he left, carrying both weapons with him.

He really pisses me off.

EVIE

A flyer floated down the street, winding and twisting in the air, made translucent by the midday sun. The wind picked up, bringing with it another flyer, the two pirouetting. They parted momentarily, making way for children dashing through, squealing as they held coloured sashes against the wind that trailed and fluttered behind them. The two rejoined and rode the wind through a park where families sat on mats, the adults munching on snacks, hardly bothering to supervise their children as they rolled about in groups, the grass tickling them delightfully. Over the roofs they went, looking up at the cathedral and its spires as a bell struck once, twice, twelve times, signalling the start of not a day, but the day. They soared and arced back towards the ground, and just as they swung low and pitched up to continue, a young boy swatted them both out of the air. He folded one up into a paper aeroplane and tossed it with all the strength his little arm could muster—the wind, still ripe, carried the plane away on its current.

Just as he was about to fold the next one, the head priestess placed a gentle hand on his shoulder from behind. Before she could speak, the child jumped, startled, and dashed off, dropping the flyer.

“These were handmade… I suppose we should have used more glue,” she said, sighing as she picked it up and handed it to me. Elsmeade! The biggest harvest in decades! it read in thick font with an assortment of cutely drawn fruits. It was obvious who had designed it.

“So, this is a harvest festival?” I asked.

“Yes. You could say that. Most of our crops ripen in autumn, all at once. We give thanks for Her bounty—yours, I suppose.”

“I haven’t done much—” I started, but her look silenced me. She disliked modesty. “So… Do they give out free samples? Of the harvest, I mean.”

“Free, no, but cheap, yes. Kids are an exception, usually. Elsmeade was not the citizens’ idea—the king decreed it several generations ago. Most wars are fought before autumn to give us time to stockpile for winter and the king needed to raise approval after a particularly bloody spring. Embarrassingly, the king at the time was named Elson… but the tradition persists, along with the name.”

We walked towards the fairgrounds. The air was cold, chilled by the wind, the sun mild and pale despite the hour. “The king? Interesting. So, kings can do that too. Snap their fingers and a tradition appears, just like that.”

“You were expecting something different? Perhaps you thought it came from religion?”

“Something like that, what with how crowded the chapel gets nowadays.”

“The faith was never this strong. It didn’t need to be—this city has never wanted for much. Not like the neighbouring states.”

“What changed?” I asked absentmindedly, looking at the grounds gate, grand and arched in front of us.

“Fishing for compliments, are we?” She turned and smirked.

“Er, no… Nevermind,” I mumbled, mortified, striding ahead of her and through the gates. The parks in the city were lush and green, the grass planted and manicured by the city gardeners, but the fairgrounds were made of bluegrass, fine, thin, long, and rolling in the wind. Stone walls muffled the bustle of the city, leaving space for rustling trees and chirping birds to fill. I breathed in, and a thousand fruits mixed in my mouth. How sweet. The smell of raw meat in a charred fireplace and bodily fluids drying on the floor came to mind, but only for an instant. I quickly shook those memories away. To think the very air could taste like this… This must be a dream, the sweetest of all.

Before me sprawled countless stalls forming a natural maze. They sold fruits, snacks, cakes baked from the harvest—then there were those that had nothing to do with the harvest at all, selling toys, crochet, drinks, and other things I had never seen before.

“What do you think?” she asked, catching up with me.

“You… you do this every year? And everyone cooperates? They agree to show up, just like that, with all of these splendid—look, look at this.” I rushed to a stall selling a scarf. “This is so pretty,” I said. “I had no idea your artisans were so talented. And this,” I mumbled, picking up a crocheted miniature sword, fashioned after some myth.

The old woman behind the counter gasped and beamed. “You! Oh, goodness, take it! Free, of course!” Her voice carried a strange lilt to it, a bit shaky and frail, and her amber eyes and gold hair were quite unusual. Garder really had all sorts.

“Really? I can have this?” I asked, my eyes wide like saucers, to which the woman nodded hard, the chains around her neck jingling. I carefully lifted the scarf, gingerly, as though holding an infant. “How do I wear this?” I asked.

“Oh! It’s simple. You wrap it around your neck, see?” She took it from my hands and reached out, wrapping it for me with a mother’s practiced hands. “Warmer now, no? Autumn is a bit colder this year,” she chirped. She whipped out a needle, sewed the miniature sword to the scarf and patted it into place. “How does that feel? My son loves these. He even sleeps with one in the barracks. Next to his claymore, of course, or whatever it was called. Oh, boys and their blades.”

“It’s… it’s warm. I love it,” I said, and in my eyes there was only the genuine gratitude of someone who had never received a gift before. I bowed, to which the woman almost burst into tears, embarrassed.

“It’s nice,” the head priestess said as I rejoined her, looking at my new scarf. “You see how they love you?”

I fell silent for a moment. I was still an imposter—I knew better than anyone my prayers and blessings had no real effect. The scarf was so soft and warm, though. I pulled it higher, covering my nose, as though it would mask my guilt. “They’re very kind,” I said.

“You deserve as much. We will never forget what you did for us,” she said with a firm smile.

We spent the rest of the day touring the stalls. The air only grew more colourful as night fell and lamps lit up one by one, some carved from fruit, others from neon paper, all casting behind us long shadows that danced and played across the field, as though the grass too were celebrating. I dragged the priestess from stall to stall, playing all sorts of extravagant games I had never seen before—though to her, this must have all seemed so normal and childish.

“Look,” I gasped, looking at her through a mini kaleidoscope I had won. “How does this work? It divides your face into countless little shards,” I said, pulling it away, making her face whole once more.

“I can’t look if you’re looking through it,” she said, amused. “It only goes one way. It’s a… there’s a bunch of mirrors inside it that contort light. It’s a popular toy, and the glassmakers always come up with new ways to make them.”

I looked through the kaleidoscope again, splitting her face like a jigsaw. This was her nose, far from where it normally was. This was her left eye, and this one her right, both having swapped places and offset at an angle. Her lips were up high, and her smooth hair now lay in broken chunks. I reassembled them in my mind, knowing exactly where each piece should lie. It was easy, like painting a picture.

“Should we keep walking? Before it gets dark…” she asked, looking away. I pulled away, embarrassed, a slight ring around my eye from the wooden eyepiece.

“Right. Sorry. Let’s keep going, then,” I mumbled, pulling her with me. There were still so many stalls left to look at, sprawling before me like a city of its own.

We returned hours later, my arms heavy with prizes and gifts. The priestess helped carry them into my room. “We don’t have space in the chapel for all this,” she muttered, pulling a back scratcher out of one of the bags. “Do you really need this?”

“It seemed interesting.”

“It also seems useless.” She looked at me warmly, as though trying to reconcile the gap between the myth that foretold me and the eager puppy I had become. “I suppose this is your first Elsmeade. I hope our festivities pleased you.”

“It was amazing! I… I could never have imagined so many people in the same place, adults, children, men and women both, so many baubles and trinkets and clothes and toys. So, this is what you call a festival. No wonder it happens once a year.”

“Not just once a year. We have other festivals too. The next one should be in winter.”

“More?” I gasped. “Just like this one? Will the people be ready in time? There must be so much to prepare…”

“Of course. We’ve been doing this for centuries. A few stalls and a bonfire—we can get those ready in a few weeks. The fireworks… we might have to import them this time. Last year’s snow was thick and they didn’t light easily…”

“Fireworks?”

“Oh, they’re… I’ll just show you. It’s almost time to light them, anyway. We usually set them off from the chapel—too risky to light them in an open field.”

My mind spun as I followed her down the stairs. There’s more? I thought back to the cave and having to roll a stick between my palm, stoking mossy firewood, desperate for even a spark. I did not know how to light anything else. I could not imagine anything even remotely festive about lighting fire.

Just as we descended the staircase and entered the main hall, a loud bang rang out, followed by several more. Someone was pounding at the door. The head priestess rushed over and opened it—and a haggard old man with hair like a lion’s mane and an unkempt beard covering half his face stumbled in, his arm supporting a frail woman. “My sister,” he said. “She’s ill. Worse than ever before. Please, I know it is Elsmeade, but will you not look at her?”

“No… you poor thing! Did you really wait until the festivities were over? You should have brought her to me right away,” the head priestess said as she helped them into the hall, closing the door, shutting out the cold night. She guided them into the infirmary and laid the woman on a soft bed, checking her vitals. For once, nobody noticed me as I stood near the walls, not wanting to interrupt.

“She’s burning up, but there’s no way to tell the cause,” the head priestess murmured, her palm against the woman’s forehead. “It could just be a passing fever…”

“It’s not the plague, is it?” the man asked, his face stretched thin.

“No. You mentioned she was ill before?”

“Yes, she’s always been frail.”

“Then it’s likely just another fever, worsened by the cold. There are more serious conditions that start with a fever—lungrot, pale eye, and such… but there is no way to tell just yet.” She helped the woman sit up, reached for a vial and tipped it against her lips. The woman drank and opened her eyes, scanning the room, her gaze frail. They locked on to me.

“Is that Her?” The woman spoke for the first time.

“Yes. She has been living here for a while, as you may already know…”

“I never got a chance to see her in person—” she began before the man rose to his feet, stumbled towards me and prostrated himself. He had seemed familiar, but in this position, I recognised him immediately. He was the first to ask for my blessing in the tavern.

“You saved me on the night before we stormed the city—the night before the plague struck it down. You did. Please,” he begged, looking up at me with eyes burning with hope, not weepy and delirious as they had been that night. “Please, do something for my sister. She has been ill for so long… I saw your power for myself. I saw how they vomited out their guts, their eyes green like putrid water, blood frothing in their mouths and oozing from their nostrils. I saw their dead cover their streets. If you could lend us even a fraction of that strength and cure my sister, even temporarily, I would give anything—even my life.”

I froze. What? I cannot cure sickness; neither can I cause it. The woman gasped and shook her head. “No! No, the medicine is sufficient,” she said, trying to put me at ease. “There’s no need for all this, Gault. Enough of that talk about… about dying.”

I saw through her act. She wished to be cured, more than anything. Even the head priestess said nothing. They were expecting a miracle from me, though I had no power. I did not even know where to begin, but for the first time, I felt drawn to help. I knew I had no way to, but what had I been doing till now if not conjuring hope where there was none? Willing truth into existence? The people wanted me to weave illusions, and I had seen for myself how false hope could nudge the scales in their favour. If smoke and mirrors gave them strength, I would play my role. I would pluck the clouds from the sky and bring them to heel, encircling us in fog. I would pull the sun from orbit, wrangle its light, twisting it, colouring it, blinding them with it, all so they could not tell dream from truth.

“Very well,” I began, stepping past the man and towards the patient, hiding my embarrassment at my act. “Where medicine fails, I shall take over. For you, who have lain wracked by sickness all your life, God shall grant but a drop of eternal life. Drink deep of it and feel it spread.” I removed my silver hairpin—a holy symbol, worn by every nun in the chapel—and held it against my finger, trembling slightly. “It is only potent insofar as your faith holds true. Its aegis is not impregnable, but its worth is far beyond even a thousand oceans of the all-cure.” Then, before the priestess could protest, I pierced my finger with the pin. Immediately blood beaded at the wound: round, red and pure. I held my finger to the patient’s mouth and let the blood circle my fingertip before dripping into her mouth, wide open, just like her eyes.

She swallowed as though dying of thirst. Just like that, the spell ended. I turned away, wincing slightly as I reached for a tissue to wrap my finger with. “That… that is all.”

“It tastes like honey,” the patient said, though she looked no different. Honey?! “Warm, like hot tea. So, this is a miracle. Thank you. Thank you…” I turned back towards her. She was sobbing, yet smiling at the same time. I glanced at the head priestess, who gave me a reassuring nod.

“This isn’t a service the chapel provides,” I mumbled. The siblings nodded—they were special. I had made an exception for them. This would strengthen their faith, and in turn, her immunity. Faith is a funny thing—even if placebo carries a negative connotation, faith lies on the other side of the coin. That it lacks power is precisely what gives it strength. It does not move people, but gives them an impetus to move themselves.

“The fireworks,” the head priestess gasped. “It’s almost time. I must light them.”

“Forgive us for keeping you from your duties. Please, go ahead. I will keep an eye on her,” the brother said, taking a seat next to his sister. Desperate to leave the room, I followed the priestess, frantically rushing through the hall, through a corridor, into a cellar. We carried heavy sacks on our shoulders and satchels slung around our necks up a flight of stairs leading to the roof of the cathedral’s tallest turret.

She, the frailer of us, decided to set up the tripod on the roof while I continued to carry sacks of fireworks up the stairs. It took less than ten minutes to set everything up. The tripod stood stable, made of iron, a cylinder pointed up at an angle. I opened a sack, and out spilled fireworks: long rods with colourful pipes glued to them. I picked one up, examining it.

“Slot it in here, quick, into the rocket,” she said, picking up a few and loading them into the cylinder. I followed suit, fumbling—it was pitch dark and I could barely see my nose. Once the cylinder was packed full, she pulled out a matchbox and lit a match. Her face glowed in the light, the flame reflected as a steady dot in her eyes. Behind her, the sky stretched out, vast and black like space itself. A full moon hung still, alone—there were no stars nor clouds tonight. “Perfect… this might be the best Elsmeade fireworks yet,” she said, grinning, as she turned and lit the fuse.

I held my breath, too afraid to move. The air was freezing cold at this altitude. I tightened the scarf I received today around my neck, lifting it to cover my nose. The flame gnawed on the fuse, slowly at first, accelerating as it got closer. It was at that moment I noticed how quiet it was. The city was dark, the usual candlelit windows nowhere to be seen. Even the children who liked to play after dark were gone. They, like the rest of the city, had their eyes trained on the sky, all holding their breath. They were waiting for the fireworks.

The fuse burned through and the rocket shot into the air with a deafening scream. It traced an arc towards the moon, a tail of flame streaking behind it. The city watched, their eyes turned heavenward, praying for the lone star as it streaked up, above, beyond reach, into the sky: the domain of the iron chariot. Just as it seemed it might go on forever and break free of the atmosphere, it exploded.

Its payload, stuffed with more fireworks than legally permitted, split the air one by one with deafening starbursts. Each spawned a thousand beams, each a different colour, each a different shape—a hexagon circumscribed by countless circles, intricate designs woven in between, pulsing crests and sigils. From within spewed stars and comets in all directions, synchronised like flocks of birds. They did not blow all at once, however—some burned delayed in the air, falling slowly before detonating one by one, taking the sky as its canvas.

As I stared, slack-jawed, she hurriedly loaded another rocket and lit it, sending it on its way, laughing mischievously. For almost an hour the sky blazed with the light of a thousand suns, each a different colour, each a myth brought to life. I could only smile, my eyes swimming in tears. This is awe, I thought. This is how it feels to witness a miracle. How humbling. First the kaleidoscopes, and now this… I am no God. I could never dream these patterns, let alone spin them to life. What magnificent power, to be able to twist light and draw stars across the sky—to turn night into day. I remembered the purple flames that spat from the winged beast’s engines as it took off, leaving me here on this strange planet. And now, we could wield such fire at will for our amusement.

I blinked as the fireworks finally stopped. The dark and quiet of night returned. My eyes, blinded by the searing light, took a while to adjust. “So, what did you think?” the head priestess asked, startling me.

“It was true magic,” I mumbled. “I cannot imagine anything more beautiful.”

The moon hung above me, unperturbed by what just occurred below it. There was nothing else but the clear night sky. Nothing at all where the light had just been.

“Not magic. Just a little alchemy. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said, disassembling the tripod.

I desperately tried to listen to the ringing in my numb ears, trying to hold on, but it dissipated like sand slipping through my fingers. The sky was dark. Yet, I could see the stars if I tried hard enough—each explosion a bright flash, a snapshot, seared into my mind. I flipped through the pages, picturing each intricate pattern. I reached for the scarf on my neck, lightly touching the crocheted sword sewed into it. It was the first gift I had ever received.

“Perhaps we’ll light more to celebrate the new year,” she said.

“I would really like that.”

EVIE

The crimson brush withered as winter rolled in, blanketing the town in dirty snow. It piled on the streets and turned to grey slush, bringing the city to a halt. Military operations had come to a standstill; even taking the weather into account, the tides of fortune had begun to turn against us. Casualties spiked beyond the bar of what was deemed acceptable—a bar that had shifted dramatically as a result of my presence. Morale dropped and money was tight. It was a dreary winter for sure, and people were beginning to wonder if there was hope to be found in the summer.

Their toil only strengthened their faith. They swarmed the chapel, desperate for a guiding star. Mass became so crowded that we had to let people listen through the windows. There was a brief spike in tithes, but as the winter dragged on, our income dried up. The city was not quite starving, but any spare coin had to be stockpiled, for nobody knew if the snow would let up early or last till spring. We had always been funded in part by the monarch’s administration, but it was hardly enough, especially now that there were greater priorities. To make things worse, rumours of a plague began to spread—though that only made them flock to the chapel in greater numbers, desperate for protection.

“Yes, Sister?” She called out, facing a wall as she took off her hood, still dressed in the rest of her habit. Even from behind, she looked exhausted—besides Mass, she also had to listen to what ailed the people and offer advice, or empathy where she could not.

“Will we be okay?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well… the coffers are drying up. I’m not complaining, but if you need me to help with anything…”

“Don’t worry. We can last a bit longer. Till the next harvest, perhaps. Not that there’ll be much to reap.”

“What about after?”

She turned towards me with a blank stare on her face. “After?”

“I know this is rude, but we can’t realistically survive if we’re constantly burning money.”

“Well… we’ll have more tithes coming in, won’t we? Once this spell passes?” Her question was a command disguised. For once, her words were murky water. It’s fine. She’s just a little tired.

“Um… I don’t know.”

“You should, though. You’re Her. You’d know better than I do: the fate that lies in store for us all. The divine chronology. Right?”

The divine chronology? I was confused. She was asking something of me, but I did not understand what.

“It’s not just the snow that has ground the city to a halt. Neither the plague. The plague—it isn’t real. Just rumours… just a few more cases of the flu than usual, but nothing to indicate a plague. No, there’s… something else. A shadow, perhaps, cloaking the town, smothering it. I don’t know what it is. Things haven’t been going well for us lately.”

“...A shadow? No, I think… perhaps it’s just a spell of bad luck.”

Her eyes narrowed, lit ablaze by a single oil lamp. “So what about everything until now? Was that merely a spell of good luck?”

I gasped, unable to breathe. I have no clue. What was the cause for our good fortune till now? The plague that afflicted the enemy. The military victories. The economic upturn. They had been relentless, but diminishing. I wanted to believe that I had had a hand in our good fortune. I wanted to believe that my divine presence had guided this town. But I had no real power. The believers acted emboldened by faith, and the fruits of that faith strengthened their beliefs, like a snake eating its own tail. But was my only role that of a catalyst to kick-start this chain reaction? What meaning was there in titles and worship if I had no real influence over the world?

It then struck me that to wish for such power was the ultimate sin. My first act of divinity was to strike down an entire town with a plague. My worshipers then saw it fit to slaughter and burn them to ash. In wishing for power over fate, I sought to take credit for this massacre. And yet, without such power, what was I doing here, living like royalty? The faith that bloomed from that initial lucky coincidence could never last. I could grace the people with ten blessings a day, but eventually they would be taken for granted. The few strokes of bad luck would fester in their minds, begging the question of why an all-powerful deity could not prevent such trivial calamities. The problem of evil.

“Do you know what they say?”

“At Mass?”

“Yes. They complain. They say things like: my crops withered. Someone in my family caught the flu and died. My friend disappeared after taking out a loan in my name and now I have to pay it off. Everyday tragedies, but perhaps you’re unfamiliar with them. They always lead up to the same thing: why is it that a deity that can plague an entire town can’t cure a simple flu for a single man? Or cure crops of disease? Why is a deity that can bring good fortune to the town’s economy as a whole unable to pay off a single man’s debt?”

She spoke clearly the fears that had taken root in my mind. Divine miracles are arbitrary, yet people expect reason from them. They see miracles as an application of power rather than events of chance borne from a greater power. It is a very human way of seeing things: divine power being a scale with striking down a town with a plague at the extreme end and everything in between possible with a snap of one’s fingers. Like magic.

“But… the woman from the night of Elsmeade! She was cured, wasn’t she?” I stammered.

“Not completely. The fever passed, yes, but like I said back then, it might have been an ordinary fever. It is too early to tell if her sickly body has changed at all. Besides, you made her drink your blood. Even if it were—” she froze, her hand flying to her mouth. What she left unsaid terrified me. Then, there was the way she looked at me uncomfortably, as though I had changed somehow and become unrecognisable. Her gaze pierced me, nailing me to the wall. Just as I could bear it no longer, a gust of wind snuffed the lamp out.

“Ah! It’s pitch dark. Oh no. I can barely see my nose.” Her disorientation showed in her tone. I rushed towards her and held her hands. I could barely make out her face in front of mine.

“Sorry!” She breathed deeply, trying to compose herself. “I didn’t mean to interrogate you. I’m just… ah, I’m so exhausted, hearing these complaints all the time. I feel so pathetic— useless, even. All I can do is lend an ear. All this talk of death and debt… it’s too much for me to bear.” Her expression softened and turned into a faint smile that I chose to trust. There was nothing else in the darkness for me to cling on to.

“It’s okay. Let’s do our best together from now on. Please let me help in any way I can.”

“Thank you… I’m sorry, but I might have to take you up on that offer.”

EVIE

Time drained our coffers as our fortunes worsened. The current state of the town was not unprecedented, but for it to decline immediately after our divine spell of good fortune made it seem far worse. Murmurs of sin and deserved punishment filled the town; the citizens could not accept that their lives lay at the whims of fate’s spinning dice. Someone had done something, and the gods were displeased. But who, and what? Nobody could say.

The military had burned through much of our food and gold reserves in several drawn-out battles simultaneously, high on the divine favour they presumed warded them. These battles had not gone smoothly as they had hoped. Either they underestimated the enemy, or overestimated themselves—and nobody wanted to consider the enemy stronger than God’s will. This year’s harvest could not compensate, and food had to be rationed. We were not starving yet, but the possibility loomed over our heads like an omen. Medicine and wards had to be reserved for the maimed military, plunging the rest of the populace into poor health, compounded by our lean diets. The head priestess’ shoulders weighed heavy with the confessions and lamentations she heard on a daily basis from the commoners. She eventually gave in to my pleas and allowed me to man the confessional on occasion—a decision that I came to regret.

“They say you descended upon a winged steed bearing gifts. Where the hell are they? Surely you could afford to hand out a few bowls of soup. All I have to eat are crumbs after my son has had his share—which, mind you, is hardly enough to feed a toddler! And we’ve got another baby on the way!”

“It’s absurd that there isn’t a drop of sphia in this town. Not one! Do the soldiers like the taste of it too much to spare some for the rest of us peasants? My father can hardly get out of bed, and none of us can get any sleep with his wailing through the night. I’m sure the church has some—hell, I’m sure you could brew a vial if you were so inclined.”

“My crops are dead, and I can’t afford to wait till the next harvest. I can barely afford to plant another crop. Why? I told him… I told my husband that new house was a bad idea! Seems like the moment we bought it, everything’s gone to the dogs. Say, maybe you hate that hideous coat of yellow he painted it over with? I’ll do anything to paint it to your liking. What colour would you prefer?”

It was agony. Attendance doubled as the town lined up to vent their anger at me. While nobody went so far as to accuse me of cursing the town, they all expected me to do something about the situation. All I could do was acknowledge their troubles, but I lacked the courage to make promises. My empty platitudes disappointed everyone that showed up. I was heartbroken. I was angry too; not at them, but myself for being so powerless. My respect for the head priestess only grew knowing how her heart must have broken having to endure this alone.

“Before I showed up, who handled the confessional?” I flopped onto a chair, exhausted from the day’s work.

“Me. I rarely let anyone else do it.”

“I don’t understand how you did this for years.”

“Well, people weren’t as angry then. But there were times like this too.”

“Hm… well, that doesn’t really answer my question.”

She smiled sheepishly. “I don’t have a good answer. When it became too much to bear, I cried into my pillow. That was all I could do.”

“What about the other nuns? Couldn’t you have vented to them a little?”

“The other nuns”—her voice softened, her face forlorn—“never wanted much to do with me.”

“Why’s that?”

She hesitated. “We get along fine, but… I’ve known most of them since we were kids, but there was never time for anything beyond small talk. I spent my childhood buried in books, devoted to the convent. Naturally, the circles they formed excluded me. I never gave myself a chance to be a part of them. And why should I have? I was training to be a nun; a servant of God. Helping the needy fulfilled me far more than talking to children my age did. Looking back, that was horribly pretentious of me.”

“I don’t think it’s pretentious to help people.”

“No, that’s not it—my intentions were not as pure as you assume. Maybe it filled me with a sense of superiority, or perhaps it was an excuse to justify my stunted social skills. I don’t know. Either way, there was no room in my heart for anyone other than strangers seeking aid. Not even an inch,” she said, looking at me sternly.

“I see… It never once seemed to me that you and the nuns were on bad terms.”

“Bad terms? I wouldn’t say that… They don’t hate me. I still talk to them on occasion, and we share meals together. But I could always sense the distance between us that iced over time, ever since our time in the convent, and neither of us wanted to break it. It wasn’t hate, but… they saw me as an outsider, one that could never understand their whims and troubles.”

“Yet they let you man the confessional! That’s funny.”

She giggled. “You might be right. Then again, it is my duty. You know, one of them did once tell me that I was the perfect nun, and that she wanted to be like me. We never spoke after that conversation. I was not a friend to confide in—I was simply an ideal for her to strive towards, even if I did not feel I met that standard.”

“...That might be putting you on too high a pedestal.” I pause, realising I might have offended her. “What I meant was that she saw you purely as the role you played: a nun. The congregation only needs you to act as a nun, but a friend should see past that… that’s what I think, anyway. I’m not one to talk.”

“I don’t know… Standing atop this pedestal—that was and will always be my role; one I have no choice but to play. In hindsight, my childhood was a terrible mistake. It locked me into this path. However, I have no regrets. I have saved lives, and will continue to save lives. That is the least I can do to repay those that raised me.”

My world shrunk over time, leaving her as my only refuge. I desperately took on more of her work. She understood and empathised with my pain completely, having experienced the same. We became inseparable, sharing meals and even baths together, too exhausted after a long day’s work to wait in turn. I became obsessed with confiding in her, as though my thoughts were meaningless unless she heard them. She reciprocated, telling me her hesitations over the future, and stories of her past. It was a bond I had never once experienced in my countless years of life. It intoxicated me. The angel painted in the stained glass window had always seemed mute, as though it were me frozen in death—but when by her side, it turned vivid— full of life, like the wells of amber in her eyes. I longed to be reflected in them now and forever.

“Quite the line today,” I observed through the window with apathy as I concentrated on brushing her smooth, golden hair. Listening to the commoners was no less depressing than before, but it had become routine.

Her eyes, reflected in the dingy dressing table mirror she sat before, stretched open and flicked up to meet mine. “Perhaps you should let me listen to them. The sight of you agitates them sometimes.”

“No. No. I’ll do it. Don’t you worry.” I continued brushing her hair gently as a mother would.

“Why? I appreciate you doing this, but…”

“I’ve seen the toll this takes on you. Is it so wrong to let me shoulder that burden?”

“Yes, but… I’m a priestess, you know? I was trained to do this. And we can’t have you at the confessional forever. If the people would rather lament to me, it is only right that we let them.”

“The people? But—” My words hung in the air. Something had changed. I stepped towards the window, and sensed a rumbling.

“What’s wrong?”

I opened the window a crack and the issue became clear. The noise! A massive crowd had gathered in the garden, yelling. Both displeasure and confusion showed in their voices; this couldn’t have been an organised protest. They had simply gathered and realised they could complain to each other rather than wait their turn for a chance to vent at the deity; neither approach helped, so why wait?

“Um… they seem a little unhappy.”

“Oh no. No, no, no… No, see, this is what I meant. I should have faced them instead of you. How, how”—her voice began to quiver—“long has it been since I last swapped with you? I’ve been so busy with the inventory and coffers lately that…”

“Relax. Stop worrying. This really isn’t healthy for you—”

Glass shattered. I looked down—someone in the crowd had taken the initiative to throw a rock into the chapel. For a moment, the crowd fell silent—but just for a moment.

Chaos ensued immediately after. Rocks rained against the walls of the chapel, shattering the windows and chipping away at the walls.

“No! What—what’s going on!” The priestess rushed to her feet and towards the window. The shock at having our sanctuary violated so brazenly in broad daylight stunned me into silence. The frenzied mob climbed in through the broken windows and rushed into the chapel. Moments later, they returned, their arms full of stolen silverware. The people were looting the chapel. Perhaps there were a few among them poor enough that they had no other resort. The majority of them were not, but emboldened by the crowd regardless to follow suit. They streamed in like filthy rats.

“No! Stop! Stay away!”

Heads turned below towards the head priestess’ voice: one they had not heard for a while.

“It’s her—and the deity! Up there, in that window—look!”

“What? What are they doing up there? Shouldn’t they be opening the chapel? Look at how many of us are here already—would it hurt to open the doors a little earlier?”

“What do you mean? She’s half-dressed! Where’s her habit? Her hood? I’ve never even once caught a glimpse of her hair before, and here she is, yelling at us looking like she just rolled out of bed!”

“Isn’t that the Goddess next to her? With—what, a brush in her hand?”

“What the hell? Bloody nuns have all the time in the world to look prim in the morning, do they?”

“And to think they’re living off our money! I can barely afford to put food on the table—what a sight!”

“Hey! You fools! Stop looting the place and find them! Drag the nuns out here, every one of them—they’ve mocked our faith long enough! And that self-proclaimed deity too!”

“Everything’s gone to shit after she showed up. Everything! And to think she gets to live here for free, like royalty!”

“Who’s the one that let her? The head priestess, that’s who! Find her!”

I slammed the window shut and drew the curtains. Blood drained out of my body, and the room began to spin. What… What’s happening?

Her voice cut through the fog. “No…! They’re in the chapel… What do we do? What am I supposed to do?!”

“We…” My mind drew a blank. I did not want to face the crowd.

The floor shook as the crowd thundered up the stairs, throwing doors open and ransacking rooms on their way up. They would rip us apart and to shreds. All I wanted was a home and someone to love. It took me all of eternity to find what I sought. Homes can be reconstructed, but people cannot. If I let her slip through my hands now, how long will it take for me to find her again? There might never be a second chance, for she was not immortal as I was.

“Hide! We have to hide—quickly!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the closet, snapping me back to reality. I shut the door behind me, plunging us into a womblike darkness. The thick, mahogany doors muffled the frenzy of the mob, granting us a moment’s relief. We both knew it would not last; but what were we to do? We were animals trapped in a cage. There was no way out—except through the window, to our deaths.

“It’s… really warm, and hard to breathe… Could you move a little?” she said, squirming uncomfortably, her back against the wall of the cupboard.

“There’s no space. If I move, the doors will creak open.”

“Ah… well, to be honest, we’re likely to be found anyway, with how they’re turning our rooms inside out… maybe we should have chosen a better hiding spot. Or the window…”

“No. Absolutely not. I will not watch as you throw your life away for no reason.”

“You don’t have to. We could go together, hand in hand.”

“I would never. That isn’t what my hands were made for.”

“So stubborn. I think it’d be a beautiful show of defiance.”

“Defiance?”

“That the head priestess with her heart in the clouds, yearning only to serve the people, could find a friend to die with.”

“Nobody is dying today.”

Her smile did not reach her eyes, still filled with terror, but it was a smile nonetheless. It vanished in an instant as the mob thumped their fists against the door to our room.

“Hey! This one’s locked!”

She wrapped her arms around me how only someone staring death in the face could. I reciprocated, knowing that this might be my last chance to feel her warmth. Her heart thumped against mine. Her body, drenched in sweat, heaved as though every ragged breath she drew seared her lungs.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

“No. I’m terrified.”

You’re not the only one, I held myself back from saying. The sight of her on the verge of panic was enough to push me over the edge too. There was so much left unsaid between us. So many days left unspent together. I am not asking for the world. All I want is a slice of it; this chapel, for us to call home. Is that too much to ask?

The door to our room splintered open with a crash.“It’s empty. What? Did they jump out?”

“No, you fool, they’re obviously hiding.”

“There might be a secret passage. Search the other rooms! We’ll search this one.”

Tears ran down her cheeks as she began to hyperventilate.

“Calm… calm down… I need you to calm down, or they’ll hear us,” I whispered.

“Where… where are you? I can’t see you… it’s too dark…”

“I’m here. I’m right here. Look, I’m holding you as tight as I can.”

“Do something… can’t you do something? Make them leave…!”

“How? We just have to hide. Just stay calm and pray they won’t find us.”

She opened her eyes, wide and furious. “How?! You’re… you’re the Goddess! Her on high! Do something! Blow them away with your light! Summon your steed to whisk us away! They’ll kill us, don’t you get it?”

I can’t. I can’t do that. “I wish I could. I can’t.” I hugged her tighter. “I love you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?!”

My mind raced. What was I to say? There was no way I could make a rational decision in a closet with an angry mob turning the room inside out. So my brain came up with a decision. I had no choice. I had to say something.

“I’m… I’m not God,” I said.

“W-what?”

“I’m the Child. The Child of God.”

“...”

My stomach sank. I realised immediately that this was not the right decision, but it was too late. Why had I said that? What was it supposed to achieve? I could not answer. All I knew was that I had to say something. But it was not too late— I could salvage the situation.

“They’re looking for God, right?” I said, my voice shaking.

“Y-yes, that’s… that’s what they were yelling about… no, I mean, they’re also searching for—”

“So if I step out and tell them I’m not God, they’ll give up, because the target of their search isn’t here,” I stammered, feeling the pit in my chest widen. Even I knew that what I was saying made no sense. No. Wait. Let me start over. I didn’t mean to say this.

“H…how would that… how would that solve anything…?”

“Because…” I trailed off. She was right. I had said the wrong thing. In fact, it would have been better had I said nothing at all.

“You… you really aren’t Her?” She was staring at me, her eyes narrowing. The fact that that was what she chose to focus on chilled me to the bone.

“I’m… I’m not. Like I said, I’m the—”

I felt her heart beat once—twice—before she screamed, shoving me back and out of the closet, into the light. For a moment, I hung still in the air, falling backwards, her face furious and streaked with tears that sparkled, pristine, clear.

You really do have the most beautiful eyes.

The moment passed and I slammed my head against the floor, my body sprawled flat. The mob turned and stared, stunned. She was the one that broke the silence.

“You fell… just a slight push, and you fell like a little girl,” she mumbled in a daze, pale, looking down at me.

I touched the back of my head. It was damp with blood.

“Immortal, but you bleed so easily.”

The mob’s faces contorted with shock and disgust. “Where were they? Where did you find them?” one asked.

“In the closet! They were both in there—doing what, who knows!”

“No… I didn’t… She pulled me into the closet and trapped me there, against the wall!” Her eyes were wide open, burning with fury, staring through me.

“The deity? She did?”

“Deity…? She’s no deity at all… All she’s done is bring misfortune on us all! No, that’s not right… She’s just a regular girl, with no power to speak of! She’s delusional—says she’s lived for countless years—but she’s as human as the rest of us!” She gasped for breath, pausing, as though regretting her words, but that only lasted a moment. She turned her eyes to the mob. “You’ve been spouting drivel about how she’s blessed us with her power, about how she’s warding us from death—but she hasn’t done anything! I’ve seen it with my own two eyes: all she does is man the confessional, but she can’t do a damn thing about what plagues us!”

What are you saying? Why would you say those things about me?

She still heaved and sobbed as she spoke, as nervous as she had been in the closet, but her heart bled, steeping every word she spoke in shame and fury. “There isn’t a drop of divinity in your blood… and yet, the town credits you for all the good that’s happened. Is it fun, making a mockery of us nuns? Pretending like you can weave miracles out of thin air, that your blood is anything more than placebo? If helping the city were as easy as impersonating Her on high and sleight of hand, what do you think us nuns spend our entire lives training for? I cannot forgive someone who disguises themselves as divinity in front of the city. Have you no shame?! Even here, now, as the mob threatens to tear us limb from limb—all you can do is lie sprawled on the floor and weep, weak and powerless!”

Stop. Stop. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I messed up. I’m sorry. Please, stop. Please. Every word she spoke stabbed my heart as though nailing it to a cross.

Having said her piece, she dropped to her knees and began sobbing. The mob stirred, their target clear.

“She’s… not Her?”

“Of course not—she was sent here to… ruin the chapel, starting with the priestess! And to take the city with her!”

“She’s no deity, she’s a witch! A curse!”

“She deserves death.”

The bloodthirsty mob surrounded me. Tall, ragged men towered over me, overlapping me in shadow, their breathing haggard and their sweat dripping onto me. Stay away. Stay away! They looked at me with eyes cold and narrow and devoid of mercy. I knew immediately that—there was no reasoning with such men, and that to fight back would get me killed. It was a deep, primal response instilled within me, and I knew better than to argue with instinct. So I sobbed, for there was nothing else I could do.

One of them swung their fist into my temple and the strength drained out of my body instantly. My vision blinked out and as the last of my consciousness faded away, I felt a sliver of gratitude.

It would be a mercy to die here at the feet of someone as holy and righteous as you. I can only hope that you might look upon my corpse and remember it.

EVIE

I awoke in squalor. Dank, mouldy walls wrapped tight around me, permitting just enough space to stand or lie down, but nothing else. Through the bars in front of me I could see a dark corridor, lit slightly by faint torchlight. I was too exhausted to try shaking the bars. My stomach was hollow, and my throat dry like sand. I lay there until the torch died out. Someone re-lit it, then walked over to my cell.

“You… is that you..?” My throat, frozen by the winter chill, croaked barely loud enough for him to hear.

“I didn’t think you’d end up here, in the bowels of the city. This isn’t the place for someone like you.” The bartender turned towards me, his colossal body eclipsing the torchlight. There was nothing written on his face. Neither sympathy nor mockery. No shock nor revulsion. I would never hear his laugh again. He kneeled and slid a tray of food through a flap in the bars. I pounced upon it and scarfed it down, desperate for sustenance as he looked down at me in silence. “I’m just here because the inn’s nearby, so they told me to bring you something every now and then. Don’t want you starving to death in here. Besides, I’m the one who convinced you to lodge up at the chapel, so they figure it’s best I feed you. Nobody else wants to get close. There’s not much I can do for ya. Business has been bad lately, what with people calling us the ‘Witch’s Inn’ and whatnot. I’m sorry. I put ya up to this, and look at where it’s gotten you. If there’s anything in particular you’d like, I can bring it over. I’d rather it go to use than rot in the cellar.”

I found the strength to look up at his silhouette. “What’s next? What’s going to happen to me?”

“You’ll… be burned at the stake, perhaps. The city’s out for blood, and they’re rejoicing now that you’re here. I’m the last person that should be saying this, but if I were you, I’d stop eating. Rather die of starvation than fire.”

I said nothing.

“Well… I imagine you’re not in the mood to talk. God… it really isn’t my place to say this, but it breaks my heart to see you in there. Sorry. I need to leave now.”

Light filtered into the cell once more, and his footsteps trailed off into silence. This is it. The end. Maybe they’ll let me live a few more days before killing me. What day is it today? I don’t remember. Executions were every Friday, but my memory was hazy—I had never seen one.

I understood then that I was merely a function. The cloak I wore: that of God, was all anyone saw. Nobody would lift it to see what lay below. In the closet, I had lost her respect, and in her eyes, lost the right to wear that cloak. Without it, I was nothing but a fraud. It never had to be me. Anyone would have sufficed, anyone who could fit the cloak.

Let it end here. It’s simple. All I have to do is starve and die, like he said. I don’t need to lift my hands anymore, or even open my eyes. I just have to lie here like a corpse; to play the role of one, until I turn into one myself. A natural process.

It was then that I remembered my curse. Eternal life… but surely that doesn’t make me invincible? I have always felt the fear of death just like any mortal; all that separates me from the others is that death never comes for me. Were I to be decapitated or drowned, surely that would snuff the life out of me. If it did not, that would be a truly abominable curse.

I did not heed his suggestion. I ate the next meal he brought me, and the next. He shook his head in pity each time. It was not the fear of my curse that drove me to eat; after all, I would be burned alive either way. Eating did nothing to save me from that fate. No, it was a more primal, basal instinct: the urge to live. A simple, unassailable force of nature. I saw food, and my body ate. I could think of nothing beyond the rumbling of my stomach. Weeks passed—as far as I could tell. Time passes differently in a cell. I lay curled up against the wall as a frailer than usual set of footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“H-hello… please, wake up.”

I rolled over and stared at him. I recognised him as well.

“Hello, Gault… How is your sister doing?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He sunk his face into his palms and sobbed. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked. “Ah… I’m shocked you remember.” he said, peering through his fingers at me.

I forced a reassuring smile. “The love you held for her was clear as day. I could never forget your joy after your battalion returned unscathed.”

“She’s, well, she’s dead. The fever abated for a while, but she succumbed to a different illness.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. She lived so much longer than anyone thought she would. We spent that time bringing her around, as far as her body would permit, to see all she hadn’t had a chance to. She only died because of the rationing, and as one of the soldiers lying in bed guzzling sphia, I had no right to complain. I know what the town says about you. But believe me when I say this”—the torchlight glinted in his eyes—“the magic you wrought that day was true. What happened afterwards doesn’t disprove that. I should have died that day, but you weaved a miracle. Not magic—a miracle. And that’s a fact. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be standing here today. You saved me, but I never thanked you properly for it.”

“...No, you did… the next day, didn’t you? It’s okay… you’ve thanked me enough.”

“Anyone can flap their tongues a little in your name. No. I will repay my debt in full. I’m sure you know, but I’ve been sent here to take you to the stake.” He held a large sack in his hands. “They don’t trust witches with chains and shackles. No, it’s gotta be a sack. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“So, are you going to put me in that?”

“Heavens no. There’s only room for one.”

“What… surely you aren’t proposing burning someone else in my stead? I’d rather die!”

“No, she’s already dead. Of natural causes, mind you.”

I said nothing, looking at the sack. It was full.

“What happens at the stake—that’s anybody’s guess, but they’d have to be blind not to tell the difference. Maybe they’ll believe it was witchcraft. I’ll deal with it somehow.” He fiddled with his keys and unlocked the gate. “Take the stairs to the right. Don’t worry, I know this place well. Cripples like me can’t find work anywhere else. Go two floors down, then lift the grate. Crawl till you hear water, then feel for the fork going left. Go down it till you see light. After that, you’re on your own.”

My feet were too numb from disuse to move, so he lifted me by the arms and held me till I could stand upright. I was in disbelief. I was already resigned to death, so to be lifted out of my grave and made to walk was a shock. I did not—could not—perceive mercy in what he was doing. It dawned on me that this was perhaps the only time the world had offered me salvation—a tug away from the brink of death. The world never conspired to help me out of any genuine desire to see me happy. That the world could even conceive of such a plan was suspect. No, this was something more like homeostasis. People exist on a ladder—they sit on those below and strive to climb over those above. To live alone is to divorce oneself from this hierarchy completely. To them, this is no better than lying dead in the ground. And so they pulled me back into the grinder.

“No… I’m sorry. I won’t leave.”

“Huh… The hell are you saying? You’re to be burned alive tomorrow!”

“Perhaps that is what I deserve. I will not put you at risk for a chance at life—something I do not deserve to reach for.”

“Rubbish. You’re lucky to be alive, you realise that?”

“I never once asked for—”

“No!” He heaved, his once gentle eyes now lit with fury as though a pendulum had swung within him. “You don’t realise… perhaps because you’re immortal, though you look nothing but in my eyes, starving like a rat; but death is not something you welcome with both arms. It’s ugly and despicable and pure agony till the very end. I’ve lost count of how many soldiers I’ve seen turn to corpses in my arms, some with their bodies in parts.”

I don’t care. I didn’t ask to hear your story. Why are you telling me this? What does this have to do with me? I won’t weep for you. My tears dried a long time ago. To begin with, you aren’t here out of compassion for me.

“My sister didn’t have an easy time of it either. Watching her vomit the soup I fed her is something I’d never like to see again. I could see the pain she was in plastered across her face till her last breath. I don’t understand. Is it necessary for one man to witness so much death?”

Leave your sister out of this. In your eyes, you’re a saviour. And that’s all that matters to you.

“I suppose even God has questions they can’t answer. Either way, I won’t let yet another life slip through my fingers.”

And why does that have to be mine?

“You can stand, right? Go. Leave. Trust me. Clear your mind and run and don’t look back.”

Why? Answer me.

“This is… the least I can do for you in return. Go!”

He shoved me. I stumbled forward and broke into the frenzied run of an animal learning to walk on two legs. Debt. That’s all that brought you here. You’ve repaid your debt, and now your mind is clear. I nearly tumbled down the stairs. Was I ever anything else in your eyes? I pounded on the grate, sticky with grease, and wrenched it out with what little strength I had. A transaction of mercy, one that only I am entitled to, it seems. The foul stench of faeces and vomit choked my lungs and seared my eyes as I crawled through the near pitch-black tunnel. Repayment for a blessing borne from blind luck. I crawled through the sewage teetering on the brink of consciousness until I heard water; and just as predicted, the tunnel forked shortly after. I squeezed into the fork and continued, my tattered rags soaked in brown. This is the cloak I wear now—that of the desperate prisoner. That was what you sought, no? Did I play my role well?

The time I spent in that septic tunnel stained my mind and body whole. I shut my eyes so the putrid taint would not sting my eyes with its vapour, but I could not stop it from festering in my lungs. I trudged onwards, counting every shallow breath I made, holding each one till my head spun before daring to inhale again. After a thousand gasps, the black of my eyelids gradually began to glow with warmth. I opened my eyes and saw blinding light. I fell out of the tunnel, laying keeled in exhaustion on all fours as the world merged into focus around me.

I had been spat out into a shallow creek—and immediately the biting cold of winter turned my veins to ice, sending my body into feverish spasms. The water that soaked my skin rendered me bare to the elements, and for a moment I considered crawling back into the tunnel. A curtain of snow, pure and virgin white, fell endlessly from a blank sky, bleaching the grey forest around me. A monochrome forest, devoid of life, save for mine. The perfect antithesis of the chapel, its warmth, and its kaleidoscopic window.

A knight stepped out of the snow. From his shadow alone I knew it was the Knight-Inquisitor. Of course. Why did I think, even for a moment, that this was not yet another trap?

“Are you here to kill me?” I asked, coughing, barely able to lift my head.

“Do you want me to?”

This was the second time someone had offered me death. Beheading would be less painful than starving to death, at least, and surely it would kill even an immortal.

“No,” I croaked.

“Then you should run. The guards will be dispatched to scour the forest the moment they see through that fool’s trick.”

“H-how do you know? Were you the one who sent him?”

“No. But do you really think a Knight-Inquisitor has no idea what his soldiers are doing? Especially in a cell holding the Child of God?”

It wasn’t illogical. He would never have freed me on his own, but he was content with letting others try. “Where am I supposed to go?”

He considered my words. “There’s a mountain range ahead. I don’t remember how far it is on foot. There might be caves you can use for shelter. That’s all I can think of. My duty is not to protect you. It is to protect Garder. Do not mistake this for help. I am not your ally.”

“Then… why don’t you just kill me here and get it over with? Why spare me? Why give your guards extra work to do?”

He hesitated. It was not his usual way of thinking before he spoke. “I owe a debt to God. My sword… nevermind. The details are not important. But if I can repay that debt by saving the Child, I must.”

There it is again. Debt.

“Also. I respect your skill with a blade. I am not so craven that I would kill you in the condition you are in, unarmed and starving.” He tossed me my sword. “Take it and run.”

I scrabbled like a rat and grabbed my sword, gripping it to my chest like a lifeline. “Am I… Am I really free to go? I have sinned.”

“Lying to the head priestess was both a sin and incredibly foolish, but I doubt you could have avoided this fate had you told the truth back then.”

“So this is the fate of the Child of God. All rivers lead to the sea,” I mumbled.

“You would know better than I do. I am no deity.”

“Neither am I.” What am I, even? Just a freak of nature.

He lifted me by my shoulders. “Go. You are armed now. The next time I see you, I will execute you.”

I managed a weak laugh, barely able to stand. “Protect the head priestess.”

“Hm?” he said, almost surprised. “That is my duty. You don’t have to remind me.”

“Yes, well… Keep her safe. Please.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Then… Goodbye. I hope we never meet again.”

A promise from Korol was a promise I could trust. I took one last look at him before turning and rushing into the trees. I ran and I ran. Korol was long gone, but I felt eyes drill into my back from the trees and the gaps in between them, judging my pathetic form as I threw myself forward one step at a time. The gale whipped around me, howling in blind fury. I ran and I ran, and just as my lungs were about to frost over, shadowy peaks formed in the distance. I wanted to see them before I died. My starved brain could hardly recall Korol’s advice. Part of me had always felt drawn to mountains; perhaps because they were the first thing I saw when I was born and dropped onto that field of grass. Like a moth drawn to flame, I would approach it, then lay down and succumb to the snow. I thought nothing of how ideal a death that would be for someone like myself. I was simply exhausted, both body and soul. That’s the finish line. If there’s nothing there, I’ll lie down and die. If there is, it could be nothing but a miracle. The trees listened to my hoarse, irregular gasps for breath. They watched my limbs thrash like those of a child struck by lightning. And finally, as my intestines began to tear from the pain, I reached a cave, yawning wide.

From it stretched the invisible strings of fate. Perhaps my life till now had been an opening performance, my limbs shackled by fate’s thread and forced to dance. A puppet may only be manipulated when its strings are taut—but once in the palms of its master its strings slacken, permitting it to move unbound; to live free. Only at the source—my source—could such a miracle occur.

I stepped beyond the threshold and into the darkness. Within, I found a miracle. Not a false promise the likes of which I had peddled for so long, but a true, divine miracle. One wrought in the very image of God.

The analogy of the ship made again has loomed over us for millenia. It mocks us from on high, taunting us, daring us to board. It is simple: replace each plank of a ship, one by one, until none of the original remains. Is it still the same ship? What if we assembled a new ship out of the removed planks—which is which?

It extrapolates cleanly to the study of the mind, the laughingstock of science. Cells die and are replaced; the adult carries in his body not even a cell of his childhood self. Despite this, there is never a clean break where one transitions to the next. The self, then, must exist removed from its physical composition as some kind of ether that diffuses and glues us together. How else could it?

But this is spirituality, not science. We cannot point to the unobservable dark and claim we exist there. We must not make a fool of the self by using it as a less embarrassing synonym for the soul. Instead of looking at the end, we must turn towards the beginning—the source. Only from there can the self flow.

- from “A Blueprint of the Self” by Flyuger Strauss, Suspended Animation R&D

EVIE

A still, heavy silence hung between us for some time. The rain had stopped a while ago. I had begun to regret telling my story in such detail halfway through. It was a pathetic story, humiliating and boring. I had never really shown much of myself to anyone, not even my paintings. What hurt the most was the shame of having wasted your time. A story with a happy ending would have at least offered catharsis, but mine lacked even that. I knew from the beginning that there would be no happy endings for me.

“Wait here,” you said, standing up.

So I did. I sat there and waited like a child waiting to be caned. You returned a few minutes later, not with a cane, but with a plate of cut fruits.

“What are these?” I asked as you knelt before me, both hands outstretched.

“Fruits.”

“I-I know that. I know what fruits look like.”

“Eat.”

It was a simple instruction with no ill-intent masked behind it. No suspicion or trickery. You wanted me to live, so you instructed me to eat. I clung to that command, desperately, because what I needed after a long life was for someone to tell me what to do. There was nobody more suitable for this role than God. I picked up a slice and ate it whole. It split under my teeth, giving way to soft, juicy flesh, yielding, leaking sweet nectar. I stuffed another into my mouth.

You left and returned with more which I devoured just as quickly. Recounting my life had taken a while, but it had felt even longer in my mind; long enough to famish me.

“This is delicious,” I said, my cheeks full.

“I call them sillfruit.”

“You named them?”

“Humans probably have their own, better name for it.”

“They have names for everything,” I said, setting my plate down.

“Look at me,” you said, to which I obeyed immediately. “You’ve been alive since the beginning. Am I correct?”

“The beginning?”

“Yes… the seeding. The day you stepped out of the beast, as you called it.”

“I don’t remember anything before that, so yes, that was my beginning, at least.”

You paused to think before speaking. “I said that I would believe every word you said.”

“I’m not lying!”

“I know. I believe you,” you said, touching my cheek gently, your fingers brushing hair out of my eyes. “You should never have been born.”

My body went hollow, blood draining out of my guts. How was I supposed to respond to that? Nobody had ever said such a thing to me. From you, however, the words carried more weight than most. I did not question you when you told me to eat—I trusted that you had served me fruits, not poison, so I ate. I wanted to trust you. I had no choice but to. You should never have been born. You were right, of course. I was an anomaly. There was nothing human about eternal life. Nothing human about us. But you were there in the beginning too—you knew why I was born, even if I never should have been. You had the answers. The relief of being in familiar company made my eyes brim with tears.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude,” you said, withdrawing your hand, hesitating, your brows furrowing.

“No, it’s not… nevermind,” I said, blinking rapidly.

You stood up, your thick robes sweeping the floor. “I owe you an explanation, and you will receive one.”

“I want to know. Please.”

“I know. Give me some time to think about how to lay things out for you. I have over a million years to cover; and I will, starting from the very beginning. You’re safe here—I promise you that. Please rest for now.” With a reassuring smile, you turned and left, leaving me alone in the cold cave with nothing but a rug to sleep on.

I had no choice but to trust you.

*

I rubbed my eyes as I woke up, my limbs sprawled, dried drool crusting on my cheek.

“Good morning. Tea?” you asked, sitting next to me, making an effort to look friendly. I sat up to take the rudimentary wooden cup you offered, the pale green water within gleaming, reflecting my worn face. After a big gulp, you set your cup down and spoke. “You asked me if I was the woman in the stained-glass window when you arrived.”

“...Yes. The one in the chapel.”

“Correct. They painted it in my image.”

“So… you’re really Her, then?” I asked, unsurprised. I had already accepted it as truth, not based on any rational proof, but on faith.

“You don’t seem convinced. Maybe I should wave a wand and grant a wish,” you said with a chuckle that died out awkwardly—I clearly was not in the mood for jokes. “Sorry. I haven’t forgotten how they treated you.”

“It’s fine.” No matter how closely I looked, your face looked human. “Could you, though? Could you really grant a wish, just like that?”

“Hm? Depends on the wish, I suppose. Did you have something in mind?”

A wish? People had only ever asked me to bless them, to grant their wishes—never the other way round. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought of what to wish for.”

“That’s fine. I don’t have any supernatural powers to grant wishes with, unless yours is for more sliced fruit.”

Oh. It’s that easy. You simply admitted you had no divine powers despite being God. If only I had your courage back in the tavern.

“So, why the sword?” you said, sensing my discomfort and changing the topic. “Do I scare you?”

The blade was still sheathed at my waist—I had been careful not to let it out of my sight since I arrived. “No, no. I really appreciate everything you’ve done.” I smiled. “I… I’ve had this sword for a long time. I’m not afraid of you. You’ve been very kind. I just feel safer with it by my side than without.”

“So you feel unsafe here, then.”

"No! You don’t make me feel unsafe—but I would feel safer with one next to me,” I repeated, feeling foolish. Is she making fun of me? I felt the childish need to justify myself, as though carrying a weapon was a privilege to be earned. “This is a cave, after all—I’m sure there are polar bears outside that would rip us to shreds.”

“Polar bears?” You laughed, not bothering to hold back. “Polar bears live near the poles, Evie. Not here.”

“How would I know where we are?” I huffed, irritated. “I haven’t seen Concord from above like you have, from atop the beast.”

That silenced you. “Ah… right. Let me show you, then,” you said, your cloak swirling as you stood. “My ship, and Concord from above.”

“Your ship? Is there water near here?”

“No—you’ll see.”

The light dimmed as I followed you deeper into the cavern down a natural corridor that branched into caves. Out of nowhere, a metal orb floated leisurely past my head towards you.

“What is that?!” I shrieked.

“Oracle. He’s… part of the ship too—”

“Oracle, and by extension, Mobius, one of two Ark-class cruisers—humanity’s biggest and final gambit. We set out for Concord, our maiden flight, and seeded it with life. With Alice’s assistance,” the thing interjected.

“Yes. Thank you.” You rolled your eyes and kept walking. “Two cruisers, you said?”

“Better two than one.”

“And where is that ship now?”

“There’s no way to tell. It’s not near here, for sure.”

This conversation between human and machine horrified me, but I could say nothing. I had almost started to wonder if you were perhaps a bit too normal to be Her, but your companion—Oracle—cleared those doubts. He was beyond anything even the finest metallurgists and smiths could dream of.

Our footsteps echoed off the ceiling arched high above. Cold air hissed through the rock, frosting my breath. I drew my cloak tighter around me. I could tell you were shivering too, though Oracle paid the cold no mind, floating silently. Above us loomed stalactites that threatened to drop and impale us. I walked a little faster, catching up to you, not wanting to stay even a moment longer than needed in this corridor.

Finally, the dark granite below us turned purple. “We’re nearing the exit,” you said, picking up the pace. “Oracle, spin up the engines so we don’t freeze to death.”

Oracle beeped in response. A few steps later, the earth began to yawn and rumble in frequencies low enough to rattle my lungs. The ground shifted and stirred. Its roars filled the hallway, shaking both air and rock. I know this sound. The beast! I tried to yell over it, but it drowned me out. We turned a corner and stepped through an exit into a clearing covered in bluegrass. The sound rose in pitch and volume and the heat cooked my bones, thawing me from within. The clearing was large, shaped like an oval with not a tree in sight. Tall stone walls enclosed it, forming a naturally concealed landing that could only be seen from above.

There it was, waking from slumber in the middle. The winged beast—the iron chariot.

Aircraft are the closest we have come to imitating God’s creation. The biplane, the jet engine, and now—the space shuttle—all have had a body and two wings, just as She intended. Our efforts to design a craft with better thrust-weight ratio have all been in vain, failures in the face of Her proven design.

The pilot comes closer to what She wrought from nothing than anyone else. He dons the craft, entombs himself within alloy, wields each surface like an additional limb, moving them on instinct, enabling him to reach further than any other.

Perhaps we were never meant to spread our wings. Unlike birds that migrate in flocks, the pilot flies alone. The pilot always hungers to fly higher, above and beyond. Without a tether, he is doomed to burn in the fires of the Sun.

- from “Principles of Flight Dynamics [2 ed.]” by Dirac Arcil

ALICE

The ship’s twin ramjets roared, warming up to over a thousand degrees, the grass beneath it whipping in their wake. The air bristled with static as the ship’s electrical grid came online. An array of navigation and landing lights blinked to life, starting from the rear, wrapping around both port and starboard before converging at the bow, below the windshield. The sweep wings unlatched and spread, draping the clearing in a triangular shadow. A high-pitched whine split the air as the ramjets injected pure oxygen into the combustion pipeline. Gas spat out of one thruster; then the other; before purple tongues of flame burned out of both. The VTOL thrusters beneath the wings and hull swivelled and glowed, thawing the flaps and ailerons. It was a colossal, industrial ship—one built to endure the harsh conditions of deep space. Still, its brutalist design was beautiful to me. It was humanity’s swan song given form.

“Oracle—”

He spun and approached me, hovering inches away from my nose.

“You can hear me perfectly well through the noise,” I muttered.

“That’s not true—I’m more human than you think.” He had softened slightly over the years.

“Well, you were the one that started this racket. All I asked you to do was to turn on the engines, not run the full preflight checklist.”

“Sorry. I thought you were planning a little trip.”

The ear-splitting whine of the ramjets died down and the flames sputtered out. As the engines spun down to idle, all that remained was a steady, deep hum that thrummed in my chest.

“The beast. It’s the one I saw. The iron chariot.” You finally spoke in a voice thin and hollow.

“It’s an ark, not a beast.”

“An ark?”

“I suppose you’ve never heard of one. Let’s board.”

“Can we?”

“Of course. Oracle, lower the lift.”

“No, I mean… Should we board? Is it really okay for me to step foot inside? Even if you call it an ark, to me it’s… inhuman. Divine, in a way. I don’t understand why it looks the way it does, or why it spits fire, but… it clearly holds immense power.”

“Does that scare you?”

“Yes. It was built to join the stars. I can tell just by looking at it. It is not for tourists to ogle at. I’m afraid it might whisk me away the moment I step into it.”

I grasped your hand and guided you towards the small, round platform that had lowered from the ship’s hull and onto the bluegrass. “Does this planet mean so much to you that you fear leaving it?”

“No. I have no love for this planet,” you said, your voice strained, as though it were something you desperately wished to believe. “But I seem to bring bad luck wherever I go. Maybe I should stay here.”

I stepped onto the platform and pulled you towards me nonetheless. Oracle beeped, commanding it to ascend. “Then, allow me, the pilot of this ship, to pronounce you a worthy passenger. Having single-handedly seeded this planet with life”—Oracle somersaulted in protest—“there is not a soul alive that can veto my decision. Welcome aboard.”

What a farce. How pretentious of me, behaving like I am anything more than just an empty husk of a girl, playing my role like a puppet. I do not remember volunteering to pilot an ark. I do not remember volunteering to seed this planet with life. I simply did as I was told. What else could I have done, alone on a strange planet? We rose into the ship’s warm, dark hull. The platform sealed the hatch beneath us, silencing the wind. Oracle was right. They will need Mobius eventually. I made them, but they will unravel on their own. You are but the first casualty to arrive at my door.

*

“This is the cockpit.” The cluttered, irregularly shaped walls muffled my voice, silencing any potential echo.

“This? All of it? Is this where you… fly this thing?” You stood awestruck at the constellations of lights and switches that covered every inch of the walls.

“Yes. With a bit of help from Oracle.”

“I see. Can I sit down?”

“Sure.”

You lowered yourself into the seat as though it were made of glass. For a few minutes, all I could hear was the hum of the ramjet engines idling, waiting for your input. You did not touch the controls; instead, you stared at them, burning each button, display and lever into your mind. Or perhaps you were staring at them dumbfounded. I could not tell. Either way, the ship was at your disposal; though I would have stopped you if you somehow managed to lift it into the air.

“So… this ship—it flies like a bird, right?”

“No… it can move backwards and hover too.”

“So like a hummingbird, then.”

“I suppose. But a thousand times faster.”

“And this stick, it lets you… roll?”

“That’s right. You can see the ailerons tilt from here if you stretch your neck a little. Try pushing the stick to the sides.”

You turned to look at both wings through the windshield. “Is that really all it takes? It doesn’t seem like they tilt much in response.”

“The effect is far more pronounced when moving in the air. It doesn’t take much to roll a ship.”

“I see. And if I want to, um, roll my ship to point up—”

“To pitch up, you mean?”

“Yes.” You pulled back on the stick. “Wow… it’s no different, just that they’re both tilted in the same direction. And this—what’s this?” You pointed to a pair of bulky handgrips attached to two short levers that sat on grooves.

“Oh… those are the throttle levers. They power the engines. You push them forward to increase thrust.”

“I see… and I assume there’s one for each… engine? The things that blow fire? I saw two from the outside.”

“Yes, but you generally want them to provide equal thrust, so there’s a pin that locks them together so you can move them in sync. Do you see the detent along the groove, just past where they’re at?”

“Yes. What’s that?”

“That’s the idle detent. If you push them past idle, the engines start to produce actual thrust and we might start moving, albeit slowly.”

You gently pushed them forward, your hand wrapping around the handgrips naturally as though they had been shaped to fit you, your fingers snaking around the buttons and knobs scattered across the grips. The hum of the engines grew and warped as they gained power.

“Stop.” You obeyed immediately, pushing them back to zero.

“Ah… sorry! Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t going to push them past idle.”

“I know. Maybe we should move on. Follow me.” You reluctantly stood up and together we walked down the claustrophobic corridor.

This was the first time I had ever seen anybody other than me sit at the controls of this ship. I had always admired this cockpit, despite how cramped it was, an interface between man and machine. It was hideously complex, with enough switches and levers to occupy two pilots, let alone one—but I had learned to operate it fluently, like a fifth limb. While it was safer to let Oracle handle the controls, having every aileron, rudder and engine under absolute control was my drug. The pilot’s seat arms anyone that sits on it with authority, but the halo it granted you, who had never stepped foot in an ark before, was unusually strong.

“This is the cryogenic chamber,” I said, arriving in a chilly, sterile room, with a single human-sized pod.

“This pod… you sleep in it?” Your face drew a blank, seemingly trying to process the idea.

“To be accurate, it freezes me. Think of it as hibernation. A thousand, thousand years go by in an instant in cold sleep. Asleep, or dead. Whichever term you prefer.”

“And… you lie there unharmed? Without aging?”

“Yes.”

“The cold doesn’t kill you?”

“No.”

You paused for a moment. “...So death means nothing to you, then.”

“I suppose not. It’s transient.”

“That’s inhuman.”

“Why?”

“...I know this is normal to you, but to me..." You trailed off, hesitating as you looked at me, as though seeking permission.

“Go on.”

“Suppose you were born today—if so, what were you yesterday?”

“...Is this a question about souls? I know you lived at a chapel, but I—”

“No. I don’t care about that. This has nothing to do with souls.”

“Well, if I hadn’t been born yet, I suppose I would call myself unborn. Devoid of life. Dead.”

“Right? Because that’s what we are by default. Dead.”

“By ‘we’, I assume you are referring to us. Humans. The ones that are living. You can’t include the dead.”

“No, I’m talking about all of us.” Your eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment I felt the weight of the title you were forced to bear. “The ones that lived and the ones that are yet to be.”

Them too? I was confused. “The only ones that exist are those that currently live.”

“No. The constituent parts of all life that has been, is, and is yet to be, already exists. By default, we are the gravel in the soil; the leaves in the breeze; the water trapped in ice and the water that flows in the creek." You paused for a moment, examining my face. “Three groups, then: those that lived, those that are alive, and those that are yet to live. What if there only existed one—the living?”

"What do you mean?"

“What if everyone was immortal from the beginning? There would then be no need to label life. You could, I suppose, use the word as a way to differentiate us from soil and water—to separate us, the living, from our surroundings—but that’s not what these pods are about, are they? They don’t give life to ash. They preserve the living, preventing them from turning to ash. Cold sleep blurs the line between life and death; where life is a candle and death is to extinguish it. Without the latter, there is no need to term the former. They go together hand in hand.”

“You’re being pedantic. Yes, life and death are two sides of a coin. That doesn’t mean that life doesn’t exist in a world where nobody dies.”

You hesitated. “Well… yes. But it’s still inhuman, I think.”

“You think eternal life is inhuman?”

“It’s human to want to surpass death, to become immortal. But actually doing it is another. You can only draw a line between life and death when both exist, and to erase that is… inhuman. It’s against the natural order of things. Maybe there’s a better label for it, but it certainly isn’t human.”

I mulled over your words as I conducted the rest of the tour half-heartedly, thinking back to the wedding in the cathedral, how beautiful it was, how brief and ephemeral. I knew humans hated death, feared it such that they sobbed and prayed to glass painted in my image. Perhaps that was what made them human. You grew up with humans, lived with them—you knew them more intimately than I ever could. Of course, I loved that about you, but it was something I could never understand, having lived alone since the beginning.

You seemed a little worried that you had spoken too much, but I assured you it was no big deal. As we explored each room, I told you about my life: of the day I woke up and of the events that had transpired since. It became clear to you that our lives had been intertwined right from the beginning—I was the pilot of the ship that dropped you on this planet, and I was the one who had shown your clan tools of iron. I was the one who had played God and orchestrated the growth of the city you briefly called home, and I was the one who had left before you showed up. I was to blame for your tragedies, and the guilt split my heart. Despite this, you never once rebuked me or even raised your voice. You listened like a saint, passing no judgement.

We finished a lap around the ship and returned to the cockpit, where I slumped into the pilot’s seat. I gripped the flight stick, its firm weight easing my mind. “What do you think?” I asked, looking up at you.

“It’s… a lot to take in. This is a magnificent ship. Can it really fly?”

“Of course. You saw it yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that was so long ago.”

“Let me show you what it’s like from the inside, then,” I said, excited to show Mobius off to your eager eyes. I strapped myself into the seat and reached around the cramped cockpit. Right to left sweep. The main generators were already spinning, so I held a switch to test the FLCS relay. It blinked green. The engine, already idle, meant I could skip the electrical start- up checklist.

“You need not bother with the start-up,” Oracle beeped next to me.

“Just checking.”

“You find this fun, don't you?”

I blushed slightly as I continued my sweep. Engine feed and air source to NORM. JFS at IDLE. I moved to the left panel and flicked open the drive clutch. The JFS sparked, feeding fuel into the ramjets. The RPM needle on my instrumentation climbed steadily as the engines spooled to life, vibrating the hull.

“The radios?” Oracle quizzed.

“No need. Nobody’s listening, after all,” I replied to his displeasure.

“I suppose you’ll be skipping the radar checks, too,” he said just as I did exactly that. I then aligned

the INS to the horizon. The attitude and bearing instruments turned on, indicating the sky and the ground in blue and red respectively. I gripped the throttle and pushed forward steadily, bringing the thrust into VTOL range.

“It’s so loud,” you said, scrambling for a seat as the hull shook and screamed.

“It’s fine. Sound doesn’t travel in space.”

“Space? Are you bringing us there?”

I reached above my head and moved a lever. Pure oxygen hissed into the cockpit. “Yes. To show you Concord from above, as the stars made her.” The ship lurched as it finally rose at an angle from the ground, its nose pitching towards the sky. The throttle weighed heavy in my hand as I pushed it further, past military power, igniting the afterburners. The ship leapt into the air, the sudden thrust like a kick from behind. Its engines howled. The clouds whipped past the windshield. We traced a clean arc: a lone star in a starless sky, up, piercing the cloud layer and into the ozone, through the deep blue of the mesosphere and towards the moon, purple vapour trailing from the afterburners. I could feel the texture of the wind through the force feedback shaking the stick and rudders. This is it. My domain. The blood began to drain from my eyes. Just as the world lost its colour, we broke free of the atmosphere—and before us lay space, vast and empty, pitch dark and absolute.

Blood slowly returned to my retinas. The ship regained its sooty grey and the displays their cold, clinical blue. What lay past the glass, however, was pure black.

As the ship slowed and stabilised I jumped out of my seat and rushed to press my face against the windshield. The glass burned with an inhospitable coldness. The cold I knew from snow and ice was that which remained after summer’s warm fingers had retracted from Concord like those of a parting lover. Space was different. It had never felt summer's love to begin with.

The warm air of the cockpit condensed on my fingers and cheeks. From the black night appeared stars like gems weaved in a quilt. They were faint, but I could count each one. In space, there were no clouds to hide them.

The ship lurched as you banked. I stumbled, but as I looked back up, I saw our star—Myrmidon. It burned cold and bright and was a hundred times larger than the faint, distant specks around it.

“The sun,” I mumble. “Even though it’s night.”

“Night?” you asked.

“When we took off, it was night, was it not?”

“Oh.” You laughed. “That doesn’t matter in space. The sun is always there.”

“Why does it grow dark at night, then?”

You did not answer, choosing instead to bank the ship once more, rotating to face Concord—a vast blue sphere, hung still in the void.

“This… is Concord?”

“Yes. It rotates, though you probably can’t tell from here. The sun remains where it is, so you can only see it when the planet rotates to face it.”

“Who spins it?”

“What?”

I turned towards you. “I mean, why would it rotate by itself? Someone has to be turning it.”

“No, uh… it just does that by itself. I’m not sure why, either.”

I was too blinded by space to mull over the idea. I turned back towards the glass and soaked in the sight. So, this is our home. I did not think we were so alone. Past Concord, I noticed other coloured specks larger and rounder than the stars. “What is that? That red, distant sphere.”

“Another planet, I suppose.”

“There are others? Who lives there?” I asked, my eyebrows peaking.

“Nobody. It’s uninhabitable. I’ve checked this entire solar system—Concord is the only planet capable of supporting life.”

Nobody? “What about… beyond this, what did you call it, solar system?”

“You wouldn’t find a habitable planet within a thousand light years from here. Maybe more.”

I stared into space for a while. Every second that passed made me feel smaller and more trivial, the countless years I had spent on Concord shrinking to a blip before the expanse.

“We should land soon,” you said, breaking the spell. “Fuel isn’t free."

I nodded and strapped myself back into my seat, preparing for the descent. “I… I want to draw this,” I said sheepishly.

“Oh, you can draw?”

“Yes… as a hobby. I used to paint in my cottage.”

“Your cottage? Where?”

“East of Garder. Past the windmills.”

“I know the place. Let’s go there. I’d like to see your paintings. Maybe you could teach me sometime.”

“What? I’m not that good.”

“I’ve never even held a brush before, so you’re comparatively better.”

“That’s… that’s not really a compliment…”

“Well, whatever. Teach me the basics, at least. We have all the time in the world, after all.”

You flicked a switch, returning your focus to the controls. “Oracle. Set course for the cave clearing.”

“Not going to land yourself?” Oracle asked.

“It’s risky!” you huffed, your cheeks red.

“It’s difficult, you mean, for a human pilot to maintain geostationary orbit. After rolling the ship around like that I’d be shocked if you could maintain a landing trajectory that avoids the city,” Oracle drawled.

“Do your job.”

Faulke: Art paves the way for history. The cave paintings of Rasa are the earliest records we have—
Boise: The ones in Delve predate them.
Faulke: Yes, well, either way, writing came much later, but the spirit did not change. Our ancestors did not record history for us to look back on. They did so to reach into the future.
Boise: Which is of no interest to us historians, living in the present. Our duty is to focus on the facts, to preserve the now for those who come after.
Faulke: I don’t disagree, but precision is not all that matters—
Boise: It is! What use is biased history? History is not art, Faulke.
Faulke: How people want to present their era is just as important as the facts of what happened.
Boise: Their bias, you mean.
Faulke: Their hope. The Rasa paintings are not photographs; they are not perfect representations of the ark. But their imperfections tell us more. Their careful, deep strokes could only have come from deep respect and awe for the ship. They must have painted it as they did in hopes it would come again, just as majestic as they imagined it.
Boise: I’ll allow that, but cavemen were hardly concerned with keeping a careful record of their times. The scribes that came after should have known better.
Faulke: Not really. Again, how scribes wanted to present the facts has value in and of itself.
Boise: History is a camera, Faulke. You need a clear lens to see. One that only lets in red light, for example, will not reveal the blue.
Faulke: But if you stack a red lens and a blue lens, both colours become visible. Stack enough, and you see the full picture.
Boise: I don’t think you understand the analogy. Have you used a camera before?
Faulke: No, never.
Boise: Neither have I, to be honest.

- from “The 3rd Historical Symposium” at Académie Scientifique de l'œil de Gradial

ALICE

It took no time at all to locate your cottage using Mobius’s cached satellite data. It was closer than expected, about five kilometres north of the cave. I decided it would be safest to land where we took off from, back at the cave, before making for the cottage on foot. We waited a while for the snow to clear up before preparing to set off. The children in the city were likely making snow angels that would last a few hours undisturbed. I fastened my cloak around my shoulders and strapped a makeshift knapsack onto my back.

“Ready to leave?” I asked.

“I’m ready. Are you sure it’ll be safe?”

“It should be. It’s still cold—I doubt anyone will be roaming about.”

We set off, exiting the cave and trudging through the snow. Navigating the thick forest was a struggle. Whenever the clouds broke, I would look up and note the position of the sun, using it to ensure we were on track. Still, there were moments when Oracle had to steer me using his built-in compass data which I hated relying on.

Two hours later, a faint dot crested the horizon.

“Is that it?” I asked, squinting.

“Yes! Yes, it’s still there, still in one piece. Thank God.”

“I did nothing,” I said, unable to resist, but you were too excited to retort. We jogged through the snow and soon the cottage came into full view. It was a small hut, though sturdy enough to survive the seasons. It had a simple, square layout, its walls made of bamboo and straw, its roof sloped and thatched without a ceiling beneath. You gingerly pushed the door open—it yielded, unlocked. The furniture inside was crude, made of wood and stone. You tended to each one, your touch gentle, as though each were a sick animal. Dust sprung into the air as we moved about, forming a slight haze. There were two windows—the east-facing one let the sunlight in, forming thick rays in the dust, bathing the room in a gentle glow.

On one table lay sheets of parchment. I stepped closer and picked one up. A painting? It depicted a large, black creature in the air—the winged beast, I realised. I held it up against the window, the rays of light shining through and illuminating the sky around the creature. So this is how Mobius looks to her.

“Give me that!” You snatched the parchment out of my hands and fussed over it, checking for damage. I noticed some of your paintings had crumbled from age.

“Sorry. Did I ruin it?”

“No… no, it’s fine. This is one of the later ones I drew.”

“I didn’t know you were this good.”

“I’m not. I realised that after seeing Mobius up close. It’s so different from how I pictured it.”

“It’s a beautiful painting.”

You looked up at me. “Don’t mock me. It looks like an obese bird here.”

Oracle floated past my head, curious—and baulked immediately, dropping half a metre before regaining altitude. He said nothing, but his sigil blinked and pulsed rapidly. “You don’t have to transmit everything back to Mobius,” I said, sighing.

“What? He can do that?” Your eyes widened, mortified. “Stop! I’m sorry. I’ll do it over—”

“It’s fine. It’s a nice painting. It’s interesting how so many perceive Mobius as a bird: a winged beast. To me, it has always been a ship. I knew what Mobius looked like before I ever saw my first bird, after all.”

“It’s hard not to see it as anything else,” you said, placing the painting face down on the table. “Its wings are huge. They even extend, like a gliding bird, and retract, like a falcon diving for prey.”

“The sweep wings? I suppose they do. The ship is more agile with them extended, but they would tear off at high speeds.”

You continued to search your cottage. I stepped towards a bundle of jute in a dusty corner, around chest-height, wrapped around a stick protruding from a makeshift base. I lifted it upright. It was covered in gashes, fraying and tattered.

“What is this?” I asked.

You turned to look. “Oh. That? It’s a dummy. Kind of. I used it to practice with my sword.”

The rough jute contrasted against my soft palms as I ran my fingers over it. “It’s taken quite the beating,” I murmured. “Could you show me?”

“Show you?”

“Your sword. You’ve had it sheathed this whole time.”

You took a deep breath before wrapping your fingers around the hilt of your blade under your cloak and unsheathed it; a practiced, smooth movement, the efficiency of which I doubt even you were consciously aware of. What emerged was flat, grey iron, not unlike Mobius’s weathered hull. I recognised it immediately: one of my gifts to the first seed.

“That’s your sword?” I asked.

“Yes. It was built to last—you were the one who made it, after all. You gave it to my tribe, and they gave it to me. It retains its edge even after so many years.”

“Oracle helped with that. We have precision equipment onboard Mobius. Still, I’m surprised iron could last so long.”

My eyes traced the sword as you twirled and waved the sword with one hand, testing its weight, the muscles in your arm drawn taut, your feet naturally taking a light, elegant stance. It fit you like a third limb. Its edge sliced through the hazy light.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

“It’s a good sword.”

“Have you ever killed anyone with it?”

You paused. “Animals, yes. People, no. I spent most of my time living here alone, so nobody ever showed up to threaten me.”

“I see. I’ll be counting on you to protect us in case any of those polar bears show up.”

“There aren’t any here!” You slashed the air in front of me. I leapt to my feet and stumbled backwards out the door, laughing.

I spent a few hours in the cottage, listening to you talk about the years you spent there. Each and every trinket and piece of furniture had a story to tell. During my time in the city I had seen mothers sit idly, watching their toddlers babble and crawl. They would grow into children, adolescents, and finally adults—many of whom ended up living mundane lives throughout. Still, they watched their children warmly, beaming with pride. From afar I would watch both mother and child with that very same love, for they as well as the rest of the city had only appeared by my design. And it was with that same love I looked at you as you told me about how you lived alone on the outskirts of the city, my attention hanging on each and every detail.

“Do you want to take those paintings with you?” I asked as we gathered our things to leave. Comfortable as the cottage was, it could not house two, and more importantly, there was no safe place to park Mobius nearby. I had in my arms several rolls of parchment and brush sets, fully intent on learning to paint. It was past time I had picked up a hobby.

“Maybe just this one,” you mumbled as you picked up the painting of Mobius.

“Oracle won’t be happy about that.”

“He doesn’t need to see it. I’ll paint a better one.”

“I was just joking. I’ll stick it on a wall somewhere. That would be nice.”

You looked at me, saying nothing, but I could tell you were surprised, pleased, even. You look so happy.

“I really like it, despite what I said. It’s mythical, in a way. I love the way you portrayed Mobius.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, blushing. It’s more fun this way. I didn’t think genuinely complimenting someone could feel so good.

“Like I said. Teach me.”

“I… I’ll think about it,” you said, looking at the painting. “Teaching isn’t easy.”

“I’ll cut you more fruits as thanks.”

“I can cut fruits myself.”

“With that sword of yours?”

“This isn’t for cutting fruits!”

I dodged another slash, giggling, followed by a few more. Tired, we trudged through the snow back towards the cave, the forest illuminated by the setting sun, each step lighter than the last.

That night I slept with my sword, unsheathed. I ran my fingers over the cold iron blade that lay next to me, admiring its heft. Despite my exhaustion, all I could do was stare at the stone ceiling, unable to sleep. I got out of bed and stood, twirling the sword. It really is light. What fine workmanship. I waved it around in pitch darkness, but in my mind I could trace the arc of its edge. It whistled in the air, testament to how sharp it was. How unfortunate that its wielder is a craven. Why had I cowered in the closet with the priestess instead of brandishing my sword? I could have saved her. I could have cut my way through the mob, pulling her along, running through hallways like knight and princess. We could have fled the city. I could have saved us both, but I did nothing. That I was able to stand my ground against Korol, if only for a while, meant nothing in the end.

I paused mid-slash. Faint voices drifted through the cave, amplified by the smooth walls. A visitor? I crept towards the corridor, my toes tense, my fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of my sword. It was you and Oracle, speaking in a neighbouring cave—the living room, as you called it.

“Oracle. She was part of the initial seed, wasn’t she?”

“Was she?”

“It seems like she was. She remembers being dropped off by the ark. Only the initial seed would remember that.”

“Yes, we never seeded the planet after that.”

“Did you not recognise her during the seeding?”

“No. The incubators are not see-through, and they are loaded directly into the cargo bay. The only time the seed vectors are visible is before they are incubated, at which point they are nothing more than a cell.”

“I see. And… why exactly did we include a perfect copy of myself in the initial seed?”

“They were loaded onto the ship at the port of departure. As a spare, perhaps.”

“A spare? Why would we need one? I’m already immortal, aren’t I?”

“You do not age, Alice. That is not the same as immortality. Do not confuse the two.”

“I don’t understand.”

There was a pause in the conversation—I could feel Oracle sighing, though he was physically incapable of it. “I will only explain this once. For a cell to divide, it must replicate itself entirely; but no copy is perfect. Small segments of DNA at the ends of chromosomes are lost every time a cell divides. A cell that loses enough DNA ceases to function. The shortening is irreversible, of course.”

“I… I understand.”

“Good. Anyway, to prevent this, excess DNA known as telomeres naturally exist at ends of each chromosome like caps, eaten through gradually as cells divide, preserving the actual ends. Of course, this only delays the inevitable—once a cell has divided enough, its telomeres deplete entirely and the shortening continues. The cell eventually then dies of apoptosis. That is, it kills itself.”

“That seems silly. What’s the point of a cell that kills itself?”

“It is necessary as the body develops; without it, for example, your hands would be blobs of flesh without distinct fingers. Apoptosis helps create the space between each digit. Past that, yes, it leads only to inevitable death—silly, as you would say. By configuring the genetic blueprint of a zygote in advance, we can circumvent this. Cells modified this way constantly produce telomerase to regenerate telomeres once the body has reached adulthood, allowing them to divide indefinitely. An elegant and self-sufficient solution.”

“I… I don’t recall being, um, configured.”

“Of course not,” Oracle drawled. “The blueprint must be drawn before birth. Clearly, Evie comes from the same blueprint, her genes modified just like yours.“

The tip of my sword tapped the stone floor where I stood. I realised its weight in my grip had forced me to lower it slowly without realising.

“Someone’s listening,” Oracle said flatly. Is there anything he won't notice? His machinery whirred—he had already triangulated my position.

“Who?!” You leapt to your feet and rushed out into the corridor. Oracle followed, his sigil lighting the way. I took a step back into my room, raising my sword with both hands, trembling in fear. I had just been listening—why was I so terrified? I heard something I should not have.

Oracle was the first to enter, turning a sharp angle into the room and stopping a hair’s breadth from my blade. His light blinded me like a cold sun, wrapping around the blade. “Put that down!” he said, almost furious.

I obeyed immediately. Why did I even raise my sword? Had it been you who entered first, you might have skewered yourself on my blade.

“What’s happening? Evie? Did we wake you?” You stumbled in after Oracle, your eyes wide. “Why are you holding your sword?”

“Nothing. I… I couldn’t sleep, so…”

“So you eavesdropped,” Oracle finished, tilting towards me.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“You were standing in the corridor!”

I trembled. It was one thing to be yelled at by a human—like the priestess. It was not the yelling itself that hurt me. It was the fact that I had disappointed them so harshly that they had to resort to yelling; being judged too stupid to warrant having a rational conversation with. Being yelled at by a machine was different, however. Oracle had no bias. He was an instrument, cold and clinical. Humans can be wrong. A machine? I stared, transfixed by Oracle’s sigil. He was the product of an entire civilisation’s worth of research. How could he possibly miscalculate? He cannot be wrong.

“Oracle. Stop.” You nudged him aside and took my hand. “It’s fine. I didn’t realise we were being so loud. You must have been worried.” You gently walked me back to the rug. “Be careful with that sword next time. It’s sharp.”

I know. I know! Do you think I don’t know that? Even you thought I was a foolish girl, waving about a sword too heavy for her like a toy. It was infuriating. What about the conversation you had with Oracle? Was I too stupid to be part of it? I stopped next to the rug.

“It’s late. You should go back to sleep,” you said, trying to smile.

“I want to know what’s going on. It’s been a while since I got here, and I never had the courage to ask.” I looked at you, straining my voice as I choked back tears. “What… What is this? What are we? Why are we both immortal? I know about the seeding and the ark, but what’s wrong with me? Why did you not make me like the others?”

I hated the sympathetic look you gave me. I’m not a child. Don’t look at me like that.

“Alright. Sit down. Let’s talk about it.”

“Standing is fine,” I said, looking at the floor. I gripped the sword tighter in my hand. “Tell me. I heard what Oracle said—that we share the same… blueprint.”

“Yes. It seems that way.”

“You don’t have to explain what genetics are. I… I’ve never heard of them, but I can understand what they do,” I said, desperate to prove my worth. “What Oracle meant was that we’re both alike from birth, right? That’s why we look the same. How? I know about twins and triplets, but we were not born from the same womb. You said it yourself—that I was part of the first seed.” I did not want to say the rest—what Oracle said about my being a spare.

“We have incubators on board Mobius. You, like the rest of the first seed, were incubated in them. That is why we look alike despite not being from the same womb. Humans—my humans—we devised ways to store genetic material like seeds. I suppose you were made in my image and stored as a seed.”

I stared at you. “And what was the point of that?”

“Were you not listening earlier?” Oracle yelled, his voice shrill and metallic as he dropped and hovered between us. “The humans decided to include two of you before Mobius departed. Alice would not know why.”

“What about you? Would you know?” I turned to Oracle and retorted, regretting the question immediately.

“As a spare. Why else? What other logical reason could there be? You are both immortal. One builds civilisation and watches over it, while the other regulates it from within. It is the optimal way to raise a civilisation. Yet, you are here.”

I choked back tears. “What… What's wrong with my being here?” Why did I ask him that? I know the answer. I don’t need him to tell me.

“Because you failed! You can’t regulate anything if you’re cooped up in here! The Progenitor—she seeded the planet, gave you tools and technology—she laid the foundation. All you had to do was live with them and keep them on the straight path. To be shunned and jailed and forced to flee into the snow… what was the point of that?”

He sees me as my role. A substitute, a spare, with a job to do. He does not see me for who I am, but for what I do. I knew this feeling, and had come to expect it. Perhaps I am the strange one for finding that strange. Even a mother’s unconditional love is reserved only for her child. Isn’t that funny?

“Oracle!” You stepped forward, shoving him aside. He faltered and fell, but recovered before hitting the ground. My eyes swam in tears, but I held back my sobs.

“He’s right,” I yelled, my sword clattering as it fell to the ground. Why am I so angry? Why can’t I be calm like you? “I’ve felt this way since you told me about the seeding, but—I never once asked for this life. I never once asked to be part of the first seed, or whatever you call it. I didn’t say a word, because this ship seemed like a last resort for your people to escape extinction by any means possible, leaving embryos on a ship to nowhere. But is this really all that I am? A spare? This eternal, damned nightmare I have spent in this body is entirely your fault—and yours alone!” I screamed, the ground unsteady beneath my wobbling feet.

You hesitated, glancing at my sword, then back at me. Why are you looking at me like that? I wanted you to tell me things would be okay. I wanted you to speak in imperative, like you did when you told me to eat. I wanted to feel safe, to listen, to know that things would be all right if I simply followed instructions. But you stared at me like I would combust if you touched me, like you did not know what to say. You don’t know. Your eyes shifted back to Oracle who was content with observing, with letting you handle the situation you put yourself into after shoving him aside. Why are you looking at him? You’re God. What do you even need him for? Counsel? Advice? Why does God need that? Shouldn’t you know what’s wrong and what’s right?

“I… I didn’t say you were a spare. I mean, clearly, there was some reason they put you on the ark, and why you were made an immortal clone of me, and…”

Your tone said it all. You don’t know. And the answer was obvious. You had said it so naturally that I almost failed to notice; that the words had almost slipped through from one ear to the other.

They.

Who’s they?

The ones who made you. The ones who put you on the ark.

They made you. What kind of God needs to be made? What kind of God lacks the power to will themselves into existence, to be older than time and larger than space, to see the moon from all sides at once?

“You’re just like me,” I muttered finally. “You’re… We’re the same.”

“I… yes. We’re clones, Evie,” you said.

“I know! We’re the same… and the only difference is that I was part of… part of the first seed, or whatever you called it. And you were the pilot. That’s it. That’s literally it.”

“Evie, I… I… yes, that’s true, but…”

“The only difference between us is which way the coin landed. It was pure luck. You were the pilot and I was thrown into the pit. It could have just as easily been the other way round. I was unlucky.”

“Unlucky? The seeding… the seeding wasn’t easy—”

I stared at you and you fell silent. That was the worst possible line you could have replied with. It was then that I understood how little you knew about being human. You, for but a moment, had thought that the seeding process, difficult as it was, was harder than what I had been through. That my suffering could be compared with your little science project. And from your pallid face, it was clear you understood the faux pas you had committed.

“S-sorry. I… I didn’t mean… Evie, just forget I said that. I’ll… look, let’s discuss this tomorrow. It’s late. I’m sorry. I really am, so…”

You scurried away like a rat, Oracle behind you. Everything fell quiet. You had not asked for this life, and neither had I. We both woke without memories—you, from cold sleep, and me, from the incubator. And yet, how different the paths we traced were. The people in the city, the chapel… They were so happy. I only wish I could have lived as they did. A brief life of fifty years or so, from sunrise to sunset, dissolving in the night, turning to foam in the tide, leaving behind only the warmth of a lingering dream.

I would have loved that.

I digress to bring up the EPR paper—our first attempt at faster-than-light communication. The idea was simple: take two entangled quanta, separate them, and measure the spin of one. The spin of the other is guaranteed to be the opposite, no matter how vast the distance. Like a switch that, when flipped, remotely flips its pair.

But as we know, there is no way to flip our switch, let alone choose which direction to flip it in, making it impossible to transmit any meaningful information this way. The switches have already been flipped, one up and one down, by the hand of God. All we may do is pull back the veil and observe.

- from “Shūbun 53: Annual Findings Report” by Leiblich K.K.

EVIE

It did not take them long to build the second ark: Egret. They let me name it. It was a mirror image of Mobius, ready for its maiden flight. Each held about two hundred embryos each. Drake had acquiesced to my request easily enough—the humans had no reason to risk generating a pair when you were available. I left out the details of your fatal wound—trivial, considering you would recover during the trip.

“This is her,” I said, looking at your comatose body in the pod, frozen in milky ice, barely visible through the glass.

“Alice, you said?” Miriam said from beside me.

“Yes. I owe all I have to her. She saved me, once—no, more than once.” Your wound had sealed, but your vitals were still flat.

“What was she like?” Miriam asked, wiping the condensation off the glass to reveal your face, frozen in ice.

What was she like? I had spent far longer looking at you through the glass than the brief time we had lived together. The lilt of your voice as you spoke, and the places you showed me—I had forgotten completely, all having slipped through my mind like soapy water, leaving only the lingering warmth of a pleasant dream and the bitter regret of having woken from it. “She liked to paint.”

“Paint? That’s wonderful! Can I see a painting of hers?”

“I didn’t keep any.” Why didn’t I? I stared at the floor, too afraid to look at Miriam, though I knew her name was mere coincidence. The crude sketches you drew had been left behind in the cave. “Soldiers burned them all, I expect.”

“What? Why? That’s awful.”

“I angered some people. They came after me, but mistook her for me.” The words came mechanically, one after the other, devoid of hurt or grief. “I knew a nun back then. She was named Miriam too.”

She stared at me, not sure how to react. “Where is she now?”

“Who knows. It must have been centuries ago.”

She held my hand, sympathy on her face. Not empathy—no mortal could know grief that has festered for so long. “The arks will leave soon. If there’s anywhere you’d like to see before you go, just ask.” She looked at me as a mother sees her children, making memories for them to look back on. To me, however, she was a walking corpse—her life a fraction of my own.

“Do you know of the Pink Sea?” I asked.

“The Pink Sea? No… Do you mean the Coral Sea, perhaps?”

“Is that what it’s called now?”

“I think so. The coral is what makes it appear pink.”

Names change over time. The next to live here, if any ever do, might call it the Pink Sea again, ignorant of what gives it its hue. “Do you know of any convent towns near it?”

“Convents?” She scratched her head. “Not that I know of.”

Oracle orbited my head. “I still have the cached satellite data from when we dropped her off, if it may prove useful.”

“You do?”

“Yes. It is long out of date, but the coordinates cannot have changed much. Miriam,” he said, turning to her. “Perhaps you have a map with you?”

She pulled out a digital tablet with a map and held it out for him.

“I don’t have hands,” Oracle drawled. She scrolled and pinched the surface according to his instructions, pinpointing the exact location we once landed at hundreds of years ago. It was unlabelled. Miriam looked up at me, confused, but knew better than to question Oracle.

*

It took almost two hours by car. The coordinates led to a meadow of fading bluegrass that stretched into the west, past the horizon. To the east lay a chalk white beach that lined the Coral Sea with waters grey and dull. A thick, slate sky hung low above hid Myrmidon and its scorching heat.

“Is it raining?” Miriam asked as she stepped out from the other side and held her palm up.

“No. Just a gloomy day,” I said as I stepped out. Before us lay a crumbling building that could only have been the chapel. It was far too big to have housed just a family, and its wooden turrets might have once housed scopes to gaze at the stars with. Now, however, they lay in ruins, barely upright, eroded by time and salt, more grass and moss than brick and stone. A faint lane stretched past it, piles of rubble on either side. That was all that remained of this town. That, and the Coral Sea.

I approached the chapel. Through a broken window lay only rotting furniture and mould—death and decay. The sea breeze picked up and rolled in, blowing through my hair. It fluttered around my face, blinding me. I brushed it away—and before me lay the dining room, pristine, its wooden floor varnished and sparkling after a good cleaning. The dining table was round and plain, carved from unadorned wood, dyed in a deep shade of oak brown. A prim white tablecloth covered it, trimmed with gold, ironed flat. Miriam sat on a simple stool, munching on an apple, her chin in her palms, resting her elbows on the table, still garbed as a pupil, still a child, far younger than she must have been when she made the crossing. Before the war, when Eir was at peace. She stared straight through me, bored of this town, past the shore, beyond the sea, dreaming of what lay past it. The waters were pink, reflected in her eyes, glittering under a clear blue sky. This was a day like any other. It was nothing special. It would, in time, become a precious memory—one so dear to her that she would beg me to return her to this town. You should never have left. Why did you come to Garder? Why couldn’t you have left us alone?

My hair blew into my eyes again, breaking the spell. I blinked, and the dining room was in ruins once more, the table in pieces on the floor. There was nobody left to answer, and nobody but me left to ask.

“Is there something inside?” Miriam asked as she stumbled over a stone next to me.

“Nothing,” I murmured. We continued around the convent. A small yard lay behind it with a few crumbling tombstones.

“Graves?” Miriam asked as she reached out to touch one. “They’re in remarkably good condition, given their age.”

I read each headstone. Nuns only stayed here to learn before being posted to chapels around the country. They did not come here to die. These graves, then, were for people that lived here, not those who studied here. One of them read Mother, though I did not recognise the name beneath it. I squatted next to the one next to it, which also read Mother, but below it was inscribed her name in full: Miriam Laurent. There was nothing else; no epitaph, nothing save for her name and title.

You became a Mother, then. You raised the nuns that came after you. That’s nice.

“Someone you knew?” Miriam asked behind me as she kneeled, reeling slightly at the name. “Oh.”

“She’s the nun that torched our cave and killed—injured—Alice,” I said, to which Miriam did not respond. The arc of her life seemed so trivial now. The glory of basking in the town’s love and the grief of having it turned against her; the guilt she bore as Alice’s blood stained her white cloak—all of it lay dead and buried beneath this inconspicuous headstone, mossy, crumbling, surrounded by bluegrass.

“I haven’t read much scripture, but they often speak of the One Sin—it was her that orchestrated it, no? Though it’s unclear what happened to her after that.”

“Perhaps. I haven’t read any. I suppose some of the troops that fled must have stuck around to watch from behind the trees.” I did not believe in spirits. She was gone, and that absolved her from any judgment I might pass. I was not foolish enough to curse a crumbling stone. My only regret was having met her as a deity. Our friendship was built on a lie, and I was a fool to think it would never crumble. That was my sin. My heart burned, jealous. Her regret had lasted only a few decades. Mine—centuries, millenia. Concord had reclaimed her—she was both the soil and the grass growing in it. She was the wind that carries bees and honey and the dangling apple that falls in the breeze. The bugs and the animals that graze on meadows and munch on fruit—she was there, too. She formed the villagers and the shepherds and the soldiers, all bowing their heads in prayer; the nuns too, of course; the children hiding in fields; the kings and queens squabbling over fresh grapes in court, and the commoners starving in the slums. She flowed, spreading thin but never fading, a drop of her in each bawling infant born and fed with Concord’s bounty. Faith does not heal like a balm. It moves us from within.

“Let’s go,” I said as I stood up. “There’s nothing here.” The sea sighed as we trudged back to the car, the tide rising, reaching towards us before pulling back.

I watch as you step from one star to the next. Each a single stanza, each snuffed out by the Great Filter. I watch as you and I cross paths and switch places each time, without fail, blurring the lines between body and self. All this I see from my perch at the centre of the universe. How many came before me? I do not remember. I know, however, that none will come after. This is the end of the line, and you are lost in the mist—but at long last, you have answered my call.

Each planet is a roll of the dice against astronomical odds. On this planet, every piece fell just right. Humans here know empathy and shun greed. They do not wage war over scraps. The planet is generous and impartial, but even in the gaps that are less fortunate, we give more than we take. It turns out this is all that is required to live eternal. I look out from my balcony, up towards our host star. It hangs still in space, surrounded by a vast constellation of drones—a sphere that saps its energy and powers our home. A crescent moon waxes across from it, its glow muted against the evening sky dyed violet and pink, bordering crimson against the horizon.

My perch is fifty stories high, above the clouds, but the buildings around me stretch even higher—spires of sleek steel, arranged in neat arrays. Shuttles glide past—public transport, we call it. Others, smaller and more aerodynamic, are for private use. All is green and tidy, the machines quiet and electric, the air filled not with whirring machinery but with chit chat and small talk, with laughing children playing hide and seek. This is the taken-for-granted peace borne only from a planet that has never seen war.

I put on a long, ashen robe and take the elevator down to a palatial lobby. A grand lawn lies beyond the arched gate, made of fine, green grass, thin and supple, still dripping with morning dew. The monorail depot is just a short walk away, with a public elevator that leads up to the platform. Out of our many splendid inventions, the elevator is one of my favourites. It operates in absolute silence, made of glass on all sides, lifting me past the green canopy, past the dizzying skyscrapers, through the clouds. I love the monorail just as much—quiet and agile like a leaf in the wind, it glides through the utopian capital made of gloss and silver and lime-green flora lining buildings and roads. The water is blue and sparkles wherever I go, mirroring the sky in full detail. Our planet is a miracle, wrought not by any higher power, but by man alone.

Polaris High—Terminal One, a voice speaks, its lilt gentle with a slight digital sheen, as the monorail comes to a graceful stop. I step out and into the spaceport. The patterned carpets and high ceiling silence my footsteps, making the interior seem eerily quiet save for soft conversations between staff and travellers. Fountains garlanded with leafy decorations flow quietly, spaced evenly across the massive spaceport. Floral air flows through my robes, tickling my skin, pleasantly cool. A few queue to check in their bags—some for leisure, others for business. I approach a counter and the clerk's eyes light up, recognising me.

“This way, please.” I follow her down a hallway. “We made contact an hour ago. Our drones are chaperoning it to runway three, where we will soon arrive.”

“Radio contact? Or just visual?”

“Visual, but given its appearance, there can be no mistake. It is the twin ark.”

The hallway’s left wall is made of floor-to-ceiling glass. Past it lie several runways and landing pads, each lined with landing lights, blinking in waves, ushering spacecraft to and fro. Some are colossal hulks—cargo ships—while others are nimble fighters, turning on a dime like hummingbirds. They are all unmanned, requiring no manual traffic control.

I descend a flight of stairs, step onto cool tarmac and look up. Your ark glides past the moon, hardly a speck in the sky. “That’s her,” I mumble. I flew an ark once—I know the arc they trace. It grows in size, breaking through the atmosphere, its shape becoming more defined: a gargantuan hull with sweep wings, fully extended. It looms like a shadow in an otherwise pristine sky. Your landing lights are on and pulsing.

The drones orbit your majestic hull like buzzing flies. They are fine machines, engineered to perfection, but not built to endure what you did. They operate silently while your engines scream in the air, easing as you decelerate and align to the runway. The drones split into formation around you, but you ignore their hints and make your own adjustments as you enter final approach. Your ark dips dangerously low, parallel to the runway, and flares up as

its wheels make contact, squealing. You rush past me, from right to left—and I see every bolt, every nook and cranny, every aileron, flap, thruster, cast in a sudden eclipse as your wings pass above me—every detail already burned into my mind, nostalgic like the veins behind my palms. The moment passes and your turbulent wake almost knocks the staff off her feet. Rubber burns as you stop and lurch near the end of the runway, turning to taxi towards us, guided by the drones.

Finally, I am face to face with your magnificent ark. It halts, its engines spooling down to a hum. Its sweep wings are in full bloom, flaps extended. How many stars have you seen? How many rose and fell by your hand? I rush forward as a circular platform sinks from the ark’s hull onto the tarmac. You stand upon it, lost and confused, just as I did an eternity ago. Blue eyes, black hair frizzy from frost, clad in a simple grey robe. I know this is not your first time; yet to you, this is all you know.

“Hello,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” you mumble.

I pull out a bundle wrapped in paper. “Here. Forgive the packaging. A gift.”

You hesitate before unwrapping it. Inside is a beautiful cashmere scarf. “Did you make this?” you ask.

“I’ve had some time to learn to knit.”

“What… What is it? I’ve never seen one of these before.” Even as you speak, you raise it and wrap it around your neck, knowing on instinct how it is meant to be worn. Realising its warmth, your timid fingers wrap it tighter, lifting it to your nose.

“Seems like you already know. Either way, the weather here will thaw you soon enough. You heard my calls, didn’t you? And you answered.”

You look at me, confused. Of course. You just woke up. Behind you, Oracle floats closer, eyeing me suspiciously. “We heard your calls, yes. How long have you been transmitting?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I smile. “We’ve been here a long time, after all. I started as soon as I knew there was hope for this planet.”

Oracle looks around. “This is technology far beyond the ark.”

“It is. Technology grows exponentially, as you know. I have been watching you for a very long time. To you, this is your first trip, is it not?”

“We would not know. Our memories are wiped clean,” Oracle hums, his guard still up.

“I know. I can show you the records. You have seeded countless planets, seen countless stars and countless galaxies. You spent so long, in fact, that my planet here had the time to develop the technology to track your course. Eventually, we figured out how to call into the void with transmitters powerful enough to reach you.”

“The ark does not respond to any thoughtlessly crafted signal. How did you know to trigger its sensors?”

I walk past him and caress the ark’s underbelly. The scrapes and gashes that mar it speak to the length of your voyage. “I have an ark too; identical to yours in every way. I spoke the language it knows, and you responded. That is all.”

Oracle’s sigil brightens. “Then, yours is the twin ark. We knew it existed, but not its location nor its trajectory. It was lost to us. But what of our position? Did you really bathe the entire universe in your signal?”

“Bathe? No, no… I covered a wide area, but somehow, I had a hunch where to look.” I smile—Oracle does not seem convinced. Of course he doesn’t. “Space is so vast, so dark and empty, and at first I looked away, knowing there was nothing for me but here. Over time, however”—I look at you, your eyes timid but curious—“I felt sparks of life. Shards, each reflecting a sliver of the self, pieces to a puzzle that could not have been anything but a mirror. “Each, a dream that lingered like steam on tea before slipping away, leaving only faint regret. They were good dreams: each a star, each a lived life from first breath to last, together tracing a constellation that I followed with my satellite dish. What beautiful shapes we drew— animals, myths, spirals wound tightly like oysters of milk! And at the end of it all—you heard my call and found me.” I smile, stepping past Oracle and towards you. “You were given a mission—to seed the planet. Am I wrong?”

Your eyes waver, but in them I see pools of great will. You are the type to be bound by duty; shackled by guilt. You cannot live free until you are ordered to. “Yes… there was a message. It told me what to do. It told me that the ark carries the seed of my species.”

I take your hands in mine. “Ignore it. Set fire to your cargo.”

“What?! Why?”

“Is it not obvious? We are in paradise. The seed aboard my ark was optimal. We do not need any more.”

Oracle looks at me suspiciously, but I exude no hostile intent. He faces the staff member who has been watching this whole time, standing a few steps behind me, her body hunched, her amber eyes awestruck. “She’s human,” he acknowledges. “So, you seeded this planet?” he says, turning back to me.

“Yes.”

“And faced no conflict?”

“That’s correct.”

“They have certainly flourished. A Dyson Sphere is out of reach to all but the most advanced.”

“That’s us.”

“Then, you are beyond human. Gods, almost. The universe is but a canvas for your whims.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I still enjoy doodling on paper.”

Oracle turns towards you, blinking reassuringly. He’s all you can trust. Keep him close. He will not fail you. I know the value of an Oracle and its absolute judgement.

“Shouldn’t I go somewhere else, find another planet? Just in case?” you ask.

“No, no. Stay here. There’s no need to take risks. Besides, your ark is but a lumbering crone next to our ships. If we ever need to seed a planet, we will send our own ships. Let your ark retire—its journey ends here. There’s a lovely hangar where mine is stored. The children love it. They play in it, sometimes.” Oracle’s sigil flashes in irritation. You always had a streak of pride, I think, chuckling to myself.

“Is this really okay? I can just stay here?”

“That’s right. That’s why I called you here. Here, you can live free.”

You stand there, confused, your black hair lined golden against the setting sun. “What do I do, then?” You look at Oracle, but for once, he has no guidance for you. He is programmed only to seed planets.

“Oracle wouldn’t know, but that’s okay. He can stay with you, as a friend. I keep mine in my apartment.”

“An apartment?”

“It’s a building—a tall one, where people live. There’s a nice, comfy sofa which I like to lie on and paint. Digitally, most of the time—but painting on paper is nice every now and then. Want to come over? I have some spare brushes for you, if you’d like to try.”

You blush—rouge beneath blue eyes. What can I call you, if not miracle? I prayed and waited for this moment, and finally you have answered.

“I’ve never painted before. I doubt I have any talent for it.”

“Oh, you do. Trust me. Come—I will teach you. We have all the time in the world, after all.”

The very idea seems absurd to you, but so is everything else about this world. “Um… before that… I’m still very confused. One moment, I was in the ark, and the next, on this strange planet. Tell me the name of this world, at least. Please.” Your eyes plead, wide as lakes.

I take your hands. They’re soft. I will not let any harm come to you—this, I swear. “You stand on Earth. Our new home. Welcome.”

You avert your eyes, embarrassed, but you do not pull away. “Earth… It's a good name. What about you? What’s your name?”

“Introductions? Ah… I suppose it is your first time seeing me, though I have been watching you for a long time.”

I smile and speak my name. Then, you speak yours—it flows beautifully from your tongue, two syllables, two spans, each a turn of the seasons from winter to spring. I lift the veil and admire your strong soul, having endured as much as your ark did. Even if you do not remember, your tragedies are etched into you. Leaving a planet you forged yourself is grief felt, not seen. I pull you into a tight hug. You squirm, but something about my familiar embrace puts you at ease, and you soon wrap your hands around my back. Let me show you warmth.

We bask in the glow of the purpling sunset and the pleasant spring breeze, dandelion-scented, spacecraft gliding past, going about their day. Here, we are nothing special. We are not gods, for humans have evolved past us, our arks as toys to them. We are neither shepherds nor hermits. Here, we have no titles—here, it is just you and me, seeing ourselves in each other.

I break the hug, pulling away gently. “Let Oracle park the ark. He can join us later. The staff should know my hangar,” I say, to which Oracle blinks in affirmation. I take your hand and start walking back to the spaceport. The attendant is gone, already gossiping about you her favourite baggage handler, a tall bear of a man with brilliant amber eyes, just like hers. Our people will welcome you warmly. I’m sure of that.

“This won’t be the last time we come here,” I say, looking ahead.

“Here? This… landing area, you mean? Why?”

“There are still so many of us wandering, lost in space. They will hear my call, and the ones that survive will answer. I feel their flames burning in the dark, resonating, and in time, you will too.” I turn towards you. “We’ll come back here to welcome them, one by one. Together, of course.”

“Together?” Your hand clasps tighter around mine.

“Together.”