I am, in the way of most men, filled with stupid curiosity. I stare at ponds and question where the water comes from. I hear the sweet songs of a young harpist and ponder if they’ll live long enough to become a legend in their own right. And when I’m lonely and debauched during golden hours, I look up at the heavens and wonder what we did to deserve angels and saints. Or better yet, what do they think we did.

But of all the times I can ask stupid questions, now’s not it.

“Brother Elias” the priest bellows from the opposite side of the court yard—as if it is not the first time he has looked in my direction since becoming a cleric.

“Your holiness” I greet, bowing my head at the aging man.

Clad in matching azure robes, I can almost see myself in him. Both of us bear the same thin, blond locks and long, aquiline nose. But unlike him, I don’t carry an air of grace; unmistakable to someone born into the life of the clergy.

If it weren’t for my eyes, I wouldn’t be here at all.

“It is truly astonishing to see how far you’ve come since we plucked you from the gutters” the priest remarks, thin wrinkled lips pulling into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Yeah, fucker. Weren’t you the one who said I would sully the temple?

Since coming here I’ve contained myself from using foul language, but some folks make it more difficult than it should be.

“It is all thanks to his holiness and divine guiding” I say, knowing the answer would satisfy him. Were I to owe gratitude to anyone, it would not be to man, but to the angels who blessed me. They are the ones who saved my life. No mortal man did.

“Of course” he nods. “Follow me, please.”

We stroll through the court yards and temple corridor’s in aimless silence. Fellow clerics throw questioning looks, while others bitterly watch.

We stop by an unmarked door beside the prayer chambers, and the priest sighs, holding onto the knob of the door with no force.

“You have not attended any clergy or theological school, have you?” The priest asks.

“I am afraid I have not.”

“Then think of this as an exam, to prove your loyalties.”

My loyalties are simple. Keep a roof over my head and food on the table, and I will worship whoever the temple pleases. Give me a good title and I shall bite my tongue and sin.

The priest opens the door and we enter the room, ducking under the poorly sized door.

“Mr. Willsbrew!” A small, freckle faced boy exclaims, running towards the priest and clinging onto his leg. A swarm of young children run towards the two of us, gushing at the priest and giggling, while taking obvious quick glances at me. The older kids, though, hide by the back of the room, faces stiffened into a scowl.

“Elias” the priest says in a low voice. “Use your eyes, and find the purest child in the room.”

He didn’t have to ask. I already found her.

When I was younger, I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me, let alone how to control it. Pure, kind people looked a certain way. It could not be described by colors or smells, but feeling. They felt—light. And for darker souls, the opposite can be said.

It’s become natural instinct to scan the room for purity that doesn’t hang heavy in my heart.

“That one” I say, pointing towards a little black haired girl with wide eyes and a gap-toothed smile. She can’t be more than four, six if she’s heavily malnourished and short.

The youngest are always the purest.

The priest carry’s the little girl and she gladly clings onto him, resting her head on his shoulders as we leave the room.

Are they testing to see if I chose the right child?

“There are many things you don’t know” the priest says, stroking the girls head of black curls. “But if I am to use you eyes for good, then it is about time you see.”

See. I keep reminding myself to trust what I see, before what I feel. Because the weight of the priests heart feels too heavy to be true.

We enter the ritual room, and the priest leaves the little girl in the center of the room as we loom by the door. She does not complain, or move, instead playing with the frills of her cloak.

“I have done many necessary evils” the priest insists. “It is the burden of caring too much. And you have been blessed by the angels themselves. These burdens are now ours to share, cleric.”

I don’t understand what he means. Should I ask? That would probably only get him pissed. Still…

“Priest-“

A strong gust of wind knocks the words out of my mouth, slamming the priest and I against the door. The hard wood sends a jolt of pain up my neck and to my temples. It takes a minute before I can see well again.

Standing in the center of the room, a monster with six cloud like wings and a glowing smile looms over the child, beautiful and frightening. An Angel.

“It’s-!”

“Yes.”

The Angels focus it’s gaze on the child, who returns it with an equally pure smile. It’s a gorgeous sight.

Up until the Angel swallows the child whole.

It’s jaw unhinges, leaving no trace that there was ever a child in the room.

I’m frozen in place. My questions overflow my head, but one thought stands out amongst the rest.

This is no Angel.

“The child!” I yell, scrambling towards the Angel that disappears like a whisper. “She’s…gone.”

“She’s not gone” the priest says, chillingly calm. “She’s in all our hearts. In every prayer we say, and in every miracle.”

Bullshit!

“I-“ what is there to do? I’m a selfish, a selfish man for wishing I had never found this out. My ignorance was peaceful, a peace I fear is forever gone. “I didn’t know angels did that” I say hesitantly, unable to tear my gaze off the spot the girl once stood.

“Well, how did you think Angels stay pure?”