"Tell me, Sir Rogers—are you a pious man?" I asked suddenly.
Steve was clearly confused by my sudden question. "I don't really know how to answer that. I like to believe in God, but I would like to think that if He were real, there wouldn't be as much suffering in the world. But faith is important; sometimes it binds us together precisely because it asks us not to look too closely."
I nodded at his words; they were along the lines of what I had expected. He wasn't someone who truly believed—he respected others' choice to believe.
It wasn't at all shocking that he was a faithless man; few who saw the horrors performed by Hydra in the last great war could believe that any kind of merciful God would allow something like that.
Yet, that was the problem: trying to understand a God.
"Many people pray for a miracle—for healing, for help, for wealth, for power, for so very much." I looked out across my city, my nation.
Even though many people still went to church, they still believed in God, and I allowed it.
"I have never said it outright, but for you, Sir Rogers, I shall." I turned away from the window and looked him straight in the eyes.
"God is real."
Steve did not react at first. No disbelief, no outrage—only stillness, the kind that comes when a man realizes the ground beneath his assumptions has quietly shifted.
"But," I continued before he could speak, "not in the way humanity imagines Him."
I stepped away from the window and began to walk again, slowly, my boots tapping against stone in a measured rhythm.
"You imagine a god as a caretaker," I said. "A shepherd. A father. Someone who watches, judges, rewards, and punishes according to rules that make sense to you."
I glanced at him sidelong.
"That image comforts you because it is human."
Steve's brow furrowed. "And you're saying it's wrong?"
"I am saying it is incomplete."
I stopped before him again.
"God does not experience time as you do," I said. "Nor pain. Nor loss. Nor fear. These things define your morality because they define your existence."
I raised a hand, palm open.
"To you, suffering is intolerable because it is finite and irreplaceable. Each life is precious because it can end."
My hand closed slowly.
"To a god, life is not fragile. It is abundant."
Steve inhaled sharply through his nose. He was following now—and that worried him.
"You pray for healing," I went on. "For relief from pain. For an end to suffering."
I met his gaze fully.
"And a god may answer that prayer exactly as asked."
The silence stretched.
"Not by curing the disease," I said calmly. "Not by easing the pain."
"But by ending the life."
Steve stiffened. "That isn't mercy."
"To you," I agreed immediately. "It isn't."
I inclined my head slightly, acknowledging the truth of his reaction.
"But to a being for whom death is not an ending—only a change of state—suffering is the greater cruelty."
I let that settle before continuing.
"Perhaps an example you are familiar with will help you understand," I said.
Steve's expression tightened. He already knew where this was going, even if he didn't want to.
"You know the story of Noah," I continued. "Of the Ark. Of the flood."
He nodded slowly. "Of course."
"Long ago, God looked down upon the world, and what He saw disgusted Him. Humans had fallen to sin," I began. "They killed, they robbed, they whored, they raped—every crime, every sin, everywhere."
My words caused not just Rogers, but many of my knights, to lower their heads, picturing the scene.
"The world was filled with so much evil that those rare pure souls were forced to either sin or be killed—a world that didn't allow kindness, too filled with sin. And so, God turned to Noah and entrusted him with a task." The story I told was nothing new, nothing world-shattering.
But it wasn't just a story; it was a retelling of history.
I didn't know if it had happened in this world; in fact, I doubted it. But given that the multiverse was real—and so was God in some of them—it was without a doubt something that had happened somewhere.
"God had Noah build a great Ark," I continued, "and Noah responded; he did build an Ark. He welcomed one of every animal, just as God had ordered him. And then, he waited."
"God," I said, "called forth a great flood to cleanse the world of sin and filth, of evil, and suffering." I could see it because I could imagine doing it; it was such an elegant solution.
Kill what didn't work and start over, using only the best.
"Yet, when God looked upon Noah, He didn't see the joy He had expected, because Noah, upon seeing the world flooded, and knowing that everyone else was dead, was horrified—and so he too wept."
I let the silence linger for a moment.
"Noah had done as he was told; he followed his god, even when others stopped believing. He still did, and for that, he was rewarded; he was spared God's wrath. Yet, despite all of this, he wasn't happy. He cried."
Steve swallowed. "Because he was human."
"Yes," I said simply.
I folded my hands behind my back. "I deeply respect the Biblical God, because when He saw Noah's sorrow, He understood—He understood that He didn't understand."
I turned back toward Steve fully.
"That moment," I said quietly, "was the first time a god truly looked at humanity and realized that mercy, as He defined it, and mercy as humans felt it… were not the same thing."
Steve's voice was low. "How could he ever think that murder—that genocide—was mercy?"
I did not recoil from the word.
I welcomed it.
"Because to Him," I said evenly, "it wasn't murder."
Steve looked up sharply. "How can you say that?"
"Because murder," I replied, "requires loss."
I folded my hands behind my back and began to pace again, slowly, deliberately.
"To a human, death is annihilation. It is the end of memory, of possibility, of love. It is theft." I glanced at him. "That is why you call it murder."
I stopped.
"To a god who exists outside time," I continued, "death is not theft. It is transition."
Steve shook his head slightly. "That sounds like an excuse."
"It is an explanation," I corrected. "And explanations do not ask to be forgiven."
I turned toward him fully.
"God did not see a billion lives ending," I said. "He saw suffering cease. He saw souls released from a world that had become a perpetual cruelty."
Steve's jaw tightened. "And Noah?"
I nodded.
"Noah saw the bodies," I said quietly. "He saw faces he recognized. He saw children he had spoken to. He saw the silence left behind."
My voice softened, just a fraction.
"That is when God understood the difference."
I stepped closer—not looming, not threatening—simply present.
"He had done what was logical," I said. "What was clean. What was correct."
I paused.
"And Noah wept."
Steve swallowed.
"That was the moment," I said quietly, "when God realized that He did not understand humanity—because He did not share its limits."
Steve did not interrupt.
"He could not die," I continued. "And so He did not understand death as those who face it do. He heard prayers for an end to suffering and answered them exactly as He understood them."
I exhaled slowly.
"He ended suffering."
Steve's hands clenched at his sides.
"He believed," I went on, "that death was a kindness. That a soul passing into heaven sooner rather than later was mercy. To an eternal being, the difference between one year and eighty is meaningless."
I looked at him.
"But to you, it is everything."
Silence stretched between us.
"That is why I respect Him," I said at last. "Because when He saw Noah weep, He understood something vital—not that He was cruel, but that He could not be trusted to interpret human prayers."
I turned away again, toward the city beyond the glass.
"He realized that His miracles would always carry the risk of horror. That His answers might be perfect—and still devastating."
My voice lowered.
"So He stepped back."
Steve finally spoke. "You're saying God abandoned humanity."
"No," I corrected gently. "I am saying He restrained Himself."
I met his eyes once more.
"He still did try to help; He tried to offer his wisdom. History is filled with prophets who preserved His words; He hoped that, maybe, having a human interpret His words would help."
I let that thought hang between us for a moment longer, then turned fully back toward him.
"That restraint," I said, "is why humanity was allowed to grow on its own. Why your history is not filled with divine corrections, but with human mistakes."
Steve studied me carefully. "And you?" he asked quietly.
I smiled.
"That is the question, isn't it?"
I walked past him, my steps echoing through the hall—past my knights, past banners and stone and memory.
"I am not God," I said. "I am not Him, but I am a Goddess, so I understand Him."
I stopped at the center of the chamber.
"The difference between Him and me is that I still have a human heart." It was almost ironic to say that. After all, Arthuria Pendragon was famous for having a dragon's heart. And I did.
But in this strange new life, I still had the heart—the spirit—of a normal human mixed in.
"God stepped back because He realized His answers were too absolute," I continued. "Too final. He could not understand how much suffering mattered to those who lived within it."
I looked at Steve again.
"I did not step back," I said calmly, "because I do understand."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Then why are you dangerous?"
I did not deny it.
I raised my hand slowly, and the air itself seemed to still.
"You asked whether I would always care," I said. "Whether something might change me. Whether, one day, I might decide the world would be better… quieter… cleaner… without humanity's chaos."
Steve did not answer.
I nodded. "That fear is justified."
A few of my knights shifted uneasily.
"But fear alone is not wisdom," I continued. "And words will not convince you of what I am—or what I refuse to become."
I lowered my hand, fingers curling slightly.
"So instead," I said, my voice steady, "I will show you."
The light in the chamber dimmed.
Not extinguished—yielding.
"You want to understand what it means when a god believes they are right," I said quietly. "What happens when divinity decides that humanity's suffering is acceptable… or necessary… or irrelevant."
The shadows along the walls deepened, stretching unnaturally.
"You want to know why I fear gods who do not question themselves," I went on. "Why I forced the creation of the Illuminati. Why humanity must govern itself."
I looked directly at Steve.
"Then witness a world where a king believed salvation justified damnation."
The air shimmered.
"Witness Camelot."
(End of chapter)
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