SAVE POINT 53

Loading Big Quandaries in The Church Level...97%

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Rosabella

Standing in the oratory of the familiar Catholic church makes me feel small like it always has. Gothic windows stretch before and behind me, holding colorful depictions of religious figures and dim light from the streetlamps outside. Shadows dance in the corners, accentuated by the stone pillars and cathedral peak of the roof. A pipe organ squats, silent, overhead in the choir balcony, and an alter presides squarely in front on an elevated platform. But the place is silent now. I'd probably even hear a mouse scampering from place to place under the wood pews if there was one.

And all is imposing. And vacant.

Just like the quiet.

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

Of all the places we've searched today, I was convinced this church was a spot Goran would go. It was the one, stable, safe spot in those early years where we 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 shifted, but this stone sanctuary didn't. It was a place of godly familiar for me.

Grand Dragon?

I know this is supposed to be the house of God, but I feel 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 ask again, knowing I probably won't get an answer at all, but still wanting to try—wondering if it'll pause the thoughts and frenzied questions cycling through my brain.

> Yes, child. Welcome, this is my home.

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

Your home? I ask, This is a church.

> And you are both a Gamer and a human on Earth. Can we not be called two things and be both at the same time?

The answer comes almost instantaneously and, yet, confuses me more.

Wait...is the beast saying that he's a dragon in The Game and...and a God here on Earth????

The implications twirl my head more than it's spinning already. ...Actually, I feel a little like I want to sit down.

Wait... I start.

> Yes, child. Yes, you understand correctly.

And, now, I want to fall over—

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

So, people are praying to—a dragon?

I snigger 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 wait for the answer, knowing it'll come just as clearly in my mind.

> I let them know me however is most approachable. 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—

Wait, you're creator of both worlds? I ask.

This conversation is blowing my mind.

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> I am creator of all.

The beast—God?—answers.

> Someday, I'll show you, child. For now, you must focus. You are sick—

I'm not sick, I feel fine. I tell it.

> You feel fine now.

The voice persist.

> 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 whip around at the voice, 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 try to slow and restart my heart, gasping for air a little.

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

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

"Who made you Church Warden?" I jest.

But his joke was better.

Obviously.

I can see he's come to talk to me about something. The man's shifting from foot to foot and his usual, easy demeaner seems clogged with uncertainty and, maybe, even uncomfortableness.

"What's up?" I ask him, knowing already that something clearly is.

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

"Question," he finally spits.

I nod, finding myself holding my breath.

He's not going to say something about the two of us and make it awkward between us, is he? I mean, obviously, there's a spark, but it's too soon to tell—

"If we find—when we find Goran—" he amends quickly, "who gets him?"

What?!

Not what I thought he was going to say.

I swallow, quickly, my mind running through the real question here—it's a question of what to do with the traitor. Clearly, the Game Wardens want to lock him up, but I promised Sparo he could do with him as he pleased when we found him last time...

What would we do with Goran? The question echoes in my mind—cuts there like a blade already covered in blood.

What would I do with him? Lock him up forever and make sure he never sees sunlight again. ...Kill him?

Sparo clears his throat—an obvious invitation for me to resurface from the depths of my mind.

"I have to admit," he says slowly, his eyes ducking down. There's a pronounced darkness lingering in them, now, and a grimness tugging 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 hold up a quick hand.

I can't have him say it.

I can't hear him say it.

I don't want to even think about it.

"We'll figure it out when the time comes," I say instead, a whisper I can 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 emphasizes, his face growing comical again as his eyebrows shoot upwards.

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

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

But, somehow, his words still create a vibration in me—a humming deep in my bones that I can't ignore...even if I want to.

The pews are long. I sit on one side and Sparo on the other. I kick my shoes off and attempt to attempt to find a comfortable spot in the corner of the wood bench. But it's wood. It digs into my spine.

And side.

And—

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

"Here."

I barely have time to look up, and Sparo's slid right beside me. He holds out an arm, inviting me to nestle into his embrace. I eye up his large, broad chest and the wide muscles of his arms, and, I'll admit, there's 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 says softly.

And there's truth in that.

And, honestly, he looks incredibly comfortable to snuggle into.

And, so I give in. I let myself have one weak moment, and I skid towards him—into him. And his arm curves protectively around me as he smiles. I catch the smile; of course, I do. He thinks he's slick with women or something.

And, maybe, he is.

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

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

Because, in his arms, I'm able to let my guard down.

Secure in this moment.

Safe.

Finally.