XII
This was church in a world of mirrors and monsters. A priest, sometime more human, or with the face of a human, could be inside. She squares her shoulders, breathes in the cold, borrowed sunlight, and steps toward the stone steps and large double doors. If there's any place to ask for an epiphany in a world like this, it's here.
The church feels wrong the moment she steps inside. She sensed not evil, not corrupted, just… tired, like a place that has been holding itself together out of sheer stubbornness.
Candles line every surface: the altar, the window ledges, the floor, even the tops of broken pews. Their flames flicker in uneasy harmony, reflected through stained‑glass windows whose colors have long since faded into jaundiced yellows and bruised purples. The light they cast is fractured, bending across the old oaken pews like shards of memory.
The last three rows are smashed beyond recognition. Splintered wood lined the center aisle. Deep gouges and claw marks adorned seat backs, deep pits on the floor's marble tile. What used to be gorgeous rose pattered terrazzo flooring lay in ruin. Claw marks. As if something enormous had torn through them in a frenzy.
She took a deep breath and stepped away. She didn't know the history of this place enough to be scared enough to run. Not yet. First, she needed information. She steps carefully around the debris.
At the altar stands a priestly figure. He isn't what she expected. Most of the priests that she met in life were elderly men with kind eyes and stooped fingers, low voices distributing the body and blood of Christ in solemn manner.
This man stood straight practiced posture as he unwound the church bell pull from his hand and stepped towards her.
His hair is spiky and grey, sticking up in uneven tufts like he cuts it with a knife. His skin is dark, weathered, and covered in scars. She could see long ones, short ones, jagged ones. These scars the kind earned from years of surviving in a place that doesn't want you to survive. His robes hang loosely over him, but when he moves, she sees what's beneath. He wore grey‑green fatigues, seams worn by time or washing. The fabric stretches thin in places. The uniform seemed to be old, not centuries old, but old enough to have seen the battle of the bulge. World War I old. The fabric is torn in places, gently repaired with deft touch and dark thread, places seemed stained with soot or something darker. The insignia is faded, but unmistakable. This was a soldier's coat repurposed into a priest's vestment.
He walks over to the alter table, laying his hands atop. He stands at the altar, head bowed, murmuring a few quiet words of thanks, not to a god, not exactly, but to the simple fact of continued existence. The tone is weary, reverent, and edged with the kind of gratitude only someone who has survived too much can muster.
When he finishes, he snuffs one candle with his fingers , his bare fingers, scarred fingers, and turns. His eyes landed on her. And he freezes, tucking a prayer book in hand. He walks over slowly. There was no fear, no hostility, just calm recognition. Another lost lamb hand wandered into the church. He had seen dozens over the years, of all shapes and sizes. His tired steel grey-blue eyes looked at her, really saw her, as if he could peer through all the secrets she brought with her.
"You're alive," he says, voice rough as gravel dragged across stone. "Not like the others. Not yet." He steps closer, boots silent on the warped floorboards.
"You came through a mirror, didn't you." It isn't a question.
He studies her like a battlefield medic assessing a wounded soldier — checking for damage, for missing pieces, for the telltale flicker of a soul already half‑claimed.
"You shouldn't be here," he murmurs. "Not while your body still breathes."
He glances toward the shattered pews, toward the door, toward the fog outside.
"And if any of them have seen you…" His jaw tightens. "Then you have even less time than you think."
He sighed and looked over at her. This poor lamb, a part of her still living, maybe she could find her way home. He had tried once, but so long had passed. His body no longer existed in the old world. This was his world now, and his church. He pledged to guard all the lost souls that wandered to him, his flock, his congregation. They gave him the energy to keep existing.