SAVE POINT 8

Rosabella

Standing in the oratory of the familiar Catholic church made me feel small like it always had. Gothic windows stretched before and behind me, holding colorful depictions of religious figures and dim light from the streetlamps outside. Shadows danced in the corners, accentuated by the stone pillars and cathedral peak of the roof. A pipe organ squatted, mute, overhead in the choir balcony, and an altar presided squarely in front on an elevated platform. The place was silent now. I would probably even hear a mouse scampering from place to place under the wood pews if there was one.

And all was imposing. And vacant.

Just like the quiet.

And the thoughts swirling darkly in my mind were no clearer than this dark church.

Of all the places we'd searched today, I’d been convinced this church was a spot Goran would go. It was the one, stable, safe spot in those early years when we’d darted from shelter to shelter just looking for a roof over our heads. The priest, then, was as kind as he was wrinkled, and he'd let us live in the back portion of the church for a week, bringing us food and even tall, cold bottles of soda and cinnamon buns, in clear wrappers, for me on a few days which I ate, sucking the sugar off my sticky fingers and watching the church regulars duck their white heads in the front row pew from a door on the side. I'd had my First Communion here—the sacrament where they let you eat the wafer that melts on your tongue and tastes of cardboard, which is supposed to be the body of Christ. I didn't know if I believed it then, but I believed in this church.

In its solid walls which kept the outside outside.

And me, snug inside.

We'd come back to the same church every Sunday after—during the good years and the bad. And the priests had shifted, but this stone sanctuary hadn't. It was a place of godly familiar for me.

Grand Dragon? I knew this was supposed to be the house of God, but I felt myself calling out, inwardly, to something else. The Grand Dragon from The Game—something else solid and familiar-feeling like this building.

Are you there? I asked again, knowing I probably wouldn't get an answer at all but still wanting to try—wondering if it'd pause the thoughts and frenzied questions cycling through my brain.

Yes, child. Welcome, this is my home.

The voice! The Grand Dragon's voice was in my mind even outside The Game?! Pure joy leapt inside me...but, also, confusion.

Your home? I asked. This is a church.

And you are both a Game Maker in The Game and a human on Earth. Can we not be called two things and be both at the same time?

The answer came almost instantaneously and, yet, baffled me more. Wait...was the beast saying that he was a dragon in The Game and...and God here on Earth???? The implications twirled my head more than it was spinning already. ...Actually, I felt a little like I wanted to sit down.

Wait... I started.

Yes, child. Yes, you understand correctly.

And, now, I wanted to fall over—

I grabbed for the armrest on the nearest wood pew, running my fingers over the glossy, varnished surface. It felt thick under my exploring fingertips.

So, people are praying to—a dragon? I sniggered a little, thinking of the stuck-up church ladies from the back row with their wide-brimmed, Easter hats matching the size of their entitlement. I waited for the answer, knowing it'd come just as clearly in my mind.

I let them know me however is most approachable.

The Grand Dragon boomed in between my ears. He continued:

On Earth, there is unlimited Creator Magic and, yet, we see how people underuse it—satisfied with a status-quo life. In The Game, I tried something different…that is, before ownership was passed elsewhere—

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Wait, you're creator of both worlds? I asked. This conversation was blowing my mind.

I am creator of all. Someday, I'll show you, child. For now, you must focus. You are sick—

I'm not sick, I feel fine, I told it, admittedly getting a little defensive in this dark church praying to a God—err, dragon?—that seemed to know way more than I was comfortable with, seeing as I felt I knew so little.

You feel fine now.

The voice persisted.

But it's the darkness. When you repaired a large portion of The Game, you absorbed it, and the symptoms will begin bleeding through soon—

"Hey there."

I whipped around at the voice, not in my mind, nearly jumping out of my skin—

To find the dark-skinned man I've been crushing on lately stepping out of the dark near a side column. I simultaneously tried to slow and restart my heart, gasping for air a little.

"Oh God, Sparo!" I breathed, "I didn't see you!"

He stepped closer, "Shouldn't you not be swearing in a church? Just my two cents." A sideways grin slipped over his features, making it obvious that he was joking. And I couldn't help myself. I reached to elbow him playfully in the ribs.

"Who made you Church Warden?" I jested, but his joke was better.

I could tell he'd come to talk to me about something. The man shifted from foot to foot and his usual, easy demeaner seemed clogged with uncertainty and, maybe, even uncomfortableness.

"What's up?" I asked him, knowing already that something visibly was.

The man cleared his throat, ducking his head and shoving his hands in his pockets to stroll forward like he wasn't completely overthinking what he was about to say next, but the lines in his forehead begged to differ. Sparo was usually so calm and casual. It made my breath catch, wondering what he could have to say that would make him pause so directly.

"Question," he finally spat shortly.

I nodded, finding myself holding my breath. He wasn’t going to say something about the two of us and make it awkward between us, was he? I mean, obviously, there was a spark, but it was too soon to tell—

"If we find—when we find Goran—" he amended quickly, "who gets him?" He ran a troubled hand over the crest of his head.

What?!

…NOT what I’d thought he was going to say. I swallowed, quickly, my mind running through the real question here—it was a question of what to do with the traitor. Clearly, the discontinued Game Wardens wanted to lock Goran up, but I’d made a covenant earlier with Sparo when he’d helped me activate my CM. I’d promised him he had license to kill Goran. Did covenants still exist outside of The Game…if there were no system prompts to make me keep them? Was it a covenant I wanted to break? …What would we do with Goran? The questions echoed in my mind—cut there like blades already covered in blood. What would I do with him if I had the choice—lock him up forever and make sure he never saw sunlight again? ...Kill him? —If I was the one to solely decide? Sparo cleared his throat—an obvious invitation for me to resurface from the depths of my mind.

"I have to admit," he said slowly, his eyes ducking down. There was a pronounced darkness lingering in them, now, and a grimness tugged his usual smile downward, "I know what I want to do with him. After seeing that he caused you so much pain, Rosabella, it's— I mean, sure, he got me fired from my job, and I was pretty steamed up about it but you...that's a whole 'nother thing. What he did to you is unforgivable. He deserves—"

I held up a quick hand.

I couldn't have him say it. I couldn't hear him say it again. I didn't want to even think about it.

"We'll figure it out when the time comes. We have to find him and make sure he doesn’t destroy The Game first," I said instead, a whisper I could barely get out, "Till then, we have to get some rest. I'm sure Prickgada's going to be a handful tomorrow—"

"Oh, if you only knew," Sparo emphasized, his face growing comical again as his eyebrows shot upwards.

"Care to bunk with me?" I joked, gesturing to the nearest wooden pew.

Sparo exaggerated a low bow, "I would be honored, my lady."

His words still created a vibration in me—a humming deep in my bones that I couldn't ignore...even if I wanted to.

The pews were long. I sat on one side, and Sparo sat on the other. I kicked my shoes off and attempted to find a comfortable spot in the corner of the bench, but it was polished wood; it dug into my spine.

And side.

And—

"Ugh!" I complained, shifting to find some way to make the seat possible to get two winks of sleep on.

"Here."

I barely had time to look up, and Sparo'd slid right beside me. He held out an arm, inviting me to nestle into his embrace. I eyed up his large, broad chest and the wide muscles of his arms, and, I'll admit, there was something alluring to the thought of leaning against him and letting my body fall into peaceful rest.

"We either survive together, or we don't survive at all," he said softly.

And there was truth in that. …And, honestly, he looked incredibly comfortable to snuggle into.

So, I gave in. I let myself have one weak moment, and I slid towards him—into him. And his arm curved protectively around me as he smiled. I caught the smile; of course, I did. He thought he was slick with women or something. …And, maybe, he was.

Because I let the weight of my body sag against his sturdy form. And it was like I could finally let the weight of everything go—the questions, the answers I couldn't find, the fact of what needed to be accomplished in the morning. I could let it leak out of me. I nestled further against the soft fabric of his shirt and chest. He smelled so fucking good—why did he smell that good? It must be cologne or something... It was unfair.

I let my eyes sink closed, let my breathing even out.

Because, in his arms, I was able to let my guard down—secure in this moment.

Safe.

Finally.