It was through this bizarre stroke of luck that I began a new chapter of my life. The chapel was manned by a priestess pure of heart and closer to divinity than even I could hope to be, as well as a congregation of devoted nuns. They 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 the Child of God resided 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.

“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 had somewhat forgotten what my own face and body looked like—I kept no mirrors in my cottage—and the glass painting served as a good reference. I stripped off the halos and ornaments and drew myself as I was to take back the reins over my image; however, I only showed my paintings to the head priestess, so it did little to change the way the public saw me. She would always marvel at and admire my paintings and ask me questions about what I had painted in the past.

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 my fingers 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.

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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 Her Divinity at first. I had begged her to use my name, but she could not see that as anything other than disrespectful. Eventually, after trying several pronouns, Sister was the best she could do. It was awkward, but I got used to it. That was not all—I had grown fond of her in whole, and her laugh set my heart aflutter 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.

I even told her the tale I am telling you now—the story of my life—and she listened attentively to every word. That night, I sobbed into her warm embrace like a toddler. There were no words of comfort she could offer, and we both understood that—the pain I had endured was on a scale too great for any human to imagine. All I needed was her trust, and she lay it bare for me to indulge in. She knew that it was better to listen than to judge or offer advice, not because she was a mortal and thus inferior, but because I was a person, not a problem to be solved.

As the head priestess, she pronounced me Child of God rather than God herself, knowing the discrepancies between the myth and my memories would cause me trouble. After all, I was not the one who rode the winged beast, the iron chariot; I had merely come from it. The Child of God was already part of myth just as much as God, no doubt passed down through word of mouth since the day I received my sword (which I had left behind at my cottage). The people accepted me readily, realising they had mistaken my identity, but still brimming with awe at my divinity.

She told me a bit about her past, but her childhood had been in a warm, joyful home; one that she felt almost embarrassed to talk about after hearing about mine. 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 in her small, round face that was framed with long, golden hair. I had never once seen such beauty in the face of another, not even when I first met her, but I was quickly beginning to see it where there once had been none, as though it had sprouted from thin air. It formed like a thin mist on still water, slowly dissolving and turning it cloudy.

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 smiled in full. 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. 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.”