Sunlight streaking through the glass fell onto the floor in radiant rainbow beams. The interior of the church, a cathedral most grand, began as a large hallway adorned by a burgundy carpet spread down its full length. On either side was a hollow chamber filled with mahogany booths, isolated spaces for prayer, and silver candle stands whose flames kept the inside lit in the coming dusk. These spaces were separated from the main corridor by a chain of ornate pillars connected by marble arches striped in gold. A small current of water ran at their bases, wrapping around each alabaster beam and flowing from the entrance to the far end of the chapel like rivers drawing her further inward.
Sat in the booths and alcoves were patrons of the saints, likely here at the end of a workday to find solace in their worship. Beseeching their divine for the days to come, they spoke in myriad languages, some of which unique to this bizarre land. Chattering to each other about the days at hand, their floral dialects gossiped, gawked and guffawed at the latest happenings in town. Lamenting their losses since the days long past, there were a handful here or there who consoled one another in their misery, giving condolences, giving advice, giving thanks.
High above, painted upon the ceiling, was a powerful mural of a man pointing toward the heavens from atop a boat. A halo, perfectly circular and glaringly bright, rested behind his head as a faceless crowd of painted onlookers gazed in awe at their new leader. The sky, it was yellow like the sun. The sea, it was such a bold indigo. And the clouds above, and the city what sat amongst them, how its whites and silvers and greys seemed to shimmer like a treasure up above, tempting the land dwellers to come up and claim their prize.
And far, far in the back, against the wall, was the centerpiece of the entire room. Water gathered in a pool at its base, churning about atop the pebbles and stones in its base as the mellow flow of the twin rivers fed into it. Soapstone rose from the waters, flared out, and formed into a bust of the man in the mural. He was a man who kept his hair well. A man who bore the pride of a champion. A dapper man. A gentleman. A prophet.
In light of this pulchritude, Paige, in her baggy orange hoodie, looked down at her hand and picked at a little scab she'd gotten a few days ago. She probably got it by scraping it against a sharp corner of some desk, or something.
The glares were inevitable. Turning her head, as she stood there at the base of the statue, she caught a few of the churchgoers turning their heads away. If she was shown no mercy when shopping for clo'es, or resting in a public park, wherefore would she find it in a holy place? Were everyone in this city a religious sort, the pious were cruel by default, and she would hold no interest in them. But nay, she was trapped here, for the drone outside what followed her from the sky was a sign most foul. It was best to hide away in this holy place, this sanctuary. Even as it filled her with dread. And yet, despite her disdain she still felt an odd impulse to speak in purple prose, as she always liked to do in churches.
"Excuse me, young one."
A deep, resonant voice rang out into her left ear, and Paige turned her head back toward the statue. A white, middle-aged man approached from its right side. His short-cut grey hair was receding at the hairline, only now beginning to lose its original color. The glow of the candlelight caught in his chiseled face such that all his new wrinkles came into view. He wore a set of porcelain white robes, accented in cardinal red around the cuffs. Draped around his neck was a tippet, that long stretch of fabric like a lightweight scarf, which was ornamented by golden thread in the appearance of circuitry. He bore the attire of an archdeacon- a senior position in the church, above the clergy yet below the bishopry. In truth, he seemed rather young for his position, yet in this sanctum he took an authoritative, almost wise appearance among all others.
"Are you new to Notre Prophète?" he queried, with a flat mouth teetering on the edge of both grin and grimace.
A brief glance away, as she took in his inquiry, and then she faced him in full. "I suppose I am."
"Well, we are glad to have you. I welcome you to the City of Hope, and of greater Opealon."
"Oh-peel-on?"
"Yes, Opealon...?"
As Paige stared idly at him with a single brow raised, so to were the man's own brows knitting as he processed her confusion.
He continued. "The planet on which you presently stand?”
They stood there awkwardly, awaiting the other's next words, until she found herself staring deep into the water in the pool. Bathed in the glow of the stained glass windows, where the shadows fell, it seemed as black as oil, and where the light was cast, it gleamed like liquid gold.
"Hmm. Is that what they're calling Earth now? ...I guess global warming kicked it up a notch."
"Earth?"
In a second, the archdeacon chuckled, as if a light bulb clicked on in his mind. "Ah, of course. Another new arrival."
"New arrival?" Paige turned back to face him. "What do you mean by that?"
"You aren't the first one this has happened to. Many find their ways here, for one reason or another."
"To the church, or the city?"
"To the Crossroads."
Her head bobbed up and down, turning away toward the window. A sort of calm washed over her face, an emotionless standoffishness to match the way she kept her arms pressed against her sides. Stoic. Reserved. Enigmatic.
"If you would like, I would be glad to tell you about where you are."
"Alright. Tell me a bit about this... 'Crossroads'."
"Very well. The Crossroads consist of eight planets, each vastly different from one another. No one has ever been able to leave, though many are known to enter. It is our own miniature universe." As he went on, the archdeacon raised his hands high in the air, and Paige drew her gaze into the sky in turn. "We are governed by the Arbiters, divine beings who created the eight worlds and watch over us from on high. One such arbiter- the Devil himself, Darkseid- seeks to dissolve this small universe of ours into chaos and disarray.
"Is he tough?" Paige massaged the back of her neck with her right hand, taking in the new information.
"He has already stolen one world from us, I'm afraid."
"Daaang, a whole planet?" She said, her eyes popping open in mild shock and faux interest.
"Indeed. He is a force to be reckoned with. The arbiters seek to pull the strings, and bring forth our victory, in the war against this sinful being. However, his army of monsters, magicians, and miscontents threaten our very livelihood to this day."
"Wow. May God have mercy on our souls, as they say."
Something flickered in the man's face, as Paige spoke. He took one step toward her, as if reanalyzing who she was. "Pardon me... did you say 'God'?"
"Er... yeah?"
"As in, the Christian God?"
"Yep."
In that moment, he placed his palm upon his forehead and gazed about bewildered at the churchgoers. The way he laughed out loud, it was filled with such mirth that it was fairly refreshing after her prior encounters with the townsfolk.
"Why, a fellow Christian! I never thought I'd see the day. And you come from Earth, as well? Oh, you must have been brought here for a reason, no doubt!"
"Wait, is being Christian... not the norm here?"
"No, certainly not! The Crossroads contain many lost souls, and those who are trapped in their worship of false deities. Our cathedral is open to all, and accepts all souls, no matter how depraved, so long as its patrons follow the law and accept the teachings of the Prophet into their lives."
"The Prophet..."
"Father Comstock. You see his image, there, in the statue? He has led us to salvation, and raised us up into the sky through his guiding light. So long as one accepts the prophet's teachings, they are permitted to use Notre Prophète for their worship. This includes the wicked bearers of magickal arts, worshipers of Darkseidic forces, and the various faiths which conflict so heavily with my own. So many lost souls... You are but the second I have met who worships God, I fear."
"I hate to burst your bubble," she countered, " but I'm not personally Christian? It's just the... or, it was the leading religion on Earth, so I know about it. But I don't practice it."
"Ah... I see." In an instant, his enthusiasm faded away like a flame put out by the wind. His passions cooling, the man walked another step closer to her. "Still, God works in mysterious ways, my child. If you found your way to this holy place, perhaps He saw fit to lead you here. Perhaps you may have a home here, here in Notre Prophète."
"Uhhh..."
Paige took a step back, hands waving in front of her as if warding him off.
"Look," she said, "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not looking for a spiritual awakening today. I just got here, after all."
Besides, if he's real, he ain't gonna be how some book written by humans assumes he is, she wanted to say, but kept to herself.
"Are you certain? You may be saved yet."
"My dude- your grace- I don't even know your name."
"Oh... yes, you're right, my apologies." With that, the archdeacon took a step back, and gave a short bow. "My name is Claude Frollo. I am the archdeacon of this cathedral. And yours?"
"Paige Turner. A pleasure, your grace."
"The pleasure is mine, young Paige. You're correct; perhaps you need more time to acclimate to your surroundings. If you ever change your mind, I am always eager to assist in bringing God into your life."
"Sure, I'll keep it in mind," she lied.
"While you are here, is there anything else I may help you with? Perhaps in giving you shelter? Or food, or supplies if you seek to travel?”
"No, I think I'm good. Actually, I think I should get going." She pointed a sole finger toward the windows, which grew ever dimmer with each passing second. "It was nice to visit, though."
"Certainly. You are always welcome here, my child."
"I appreciate it. Well, have a good eve-."
Mid-sentence, Paige pivoted toward the door, about to make her leave. Yet, as she did so, something clicked in her mind. It wasn't the threat of the police state bearing down on her, in case that drone sold her out. It was something else.
Then, there was a feeling. A feeling wrapping over her, like the dawn sky scrolling across the world. Something... something loomed overhead, filling her with an emotion she hadn't known for a while. Towering above her, the visage of the Prophet drew her eyes to his own. His gaze, so confident, smug perhaps, yet belying a potency which the people of this cathedral flocked to like flies to a lantern. His well groomed hair... the specific way the wrinkles lined his face... his jawline, his eyes, his nose and mouth shapes... she didn't recognize them at all. He was a foreign entity to her. Not a single person ever looked like he did before, to her mind. Not that he was inhuman, or otherwise deformed, of course. He looked just fine. Just, he was unfamiliar.
Unfamiliar. She wasn't used to him. That acknowledgment, that feeling of novelty was itself unfamiliar.
Her eyes swept across the ocean of faces behind her, the churchgoers turning away once more, fewer now that she'd spoken with the head of their church. And she understood.
Look at them. All these unfamiliar faces, sitting in unfamiliar booths and benches and alcoves. Worshiping an unfamiliar man, as they lived in an unfamiliar city consisting of unfamiliar technology. A myriad of unfamiliar religions swimming together in an unfamiliar populace. Even the one she knew was unfamiliar, its prominence undercut and subordinate to generalized worship. The planet was unfamiliar, and so were its land and seas. And it was but unfamiliar piece of an unfamiliar world, in an unfamiliar alternative reality. Everything was unfamiliar.
It was, for once... interesting. At least a little bit, anyway.
And that excitement, itself, was so, so unfamiliar.
This man, this "Claude Frollo", was an enigma to her as well, even if he was just a typical human. His appearance, his speech, his mannerisms, they were reminiscent of many of the people she'd met before, yet still distinctly his own. So were the cashier and the old woman, in a sense, but in a genuine conversation, it became more apparent than before. What would he do next? What would he say? Where was his mind at, right now? How did he feel about her, really? She had no way of knowing. And it made her deeply curious. She wanted that feeling of insecurity to last.
"On second thought..."
"Yes, young Paige?"
She looked him dead in the eye, and said, "I changed my mind. I have to leave soon, but I want you to show me the way of God before I do."
Frollo gave a ginger smile. "Certainly. Come with me, to the depths of this holy place."
The two of them walked toward a large pair of doors by the right side of the statue of Comstock. She took a quick glance through a stained window on the side wall, and tried to get a good look outside. She could barely make out an airship flying in the distance, with a large star on its side. It looked like the sort of design a sheriff's car would have, though she wasn't sure if she was just seeing things. She stood there for a second, mouth drawn to the side as she thought to herself.
"Come along, now." The archdeacon motioned Paige to follow, and so she did. It was a short trip through a hallway of the cathedral. Doors upon doors lined up in rows, spaced out between ornate torches that lit the halls with a comfortable orange air. The path was winding, and turned at right angles frequently. But in time, they made their way to the end, and arrived at an open exit that opened into a room most splendid.
Five stone angels stood against the back wall of this new room, carrying pots of diorite which spewed forth water. With their waterfalls, they filled another shallow pool, this one with a base of pearly sand and a border of amber brick. The entire space was dim, save for a few lit sconces along the stone walls. There was a line of bricks across the entire border, sat at about chest height, with intricate carvings of religious scenes from a number of different religions. Many of them looked like nothing she'd seen on Earth, piquing her interest further. They were so detailed, these miniature murals, that she could pick many of their scenes out from several meters away.
The murals, they led her vision across the entire perimeter of the room, until she saw, along the wall they just came in from, a full body sculpture of Father Comstock. It was carved and assembled out of multiple types of rock- bright marble skin, accented by a red granite suit and grey granite hair. He stood straight up, tall and proud, and held a hand up by his head as if swearing by the name of God. He was surrounded by a sort of staircase structure populated by a mass of unlit candles, capturing all the colors of the rainbow in their waxy forms.
"We shall do it here."
The archdeacon spoke to her, with his back turned away. He stared out at the angels as she spoke to her.
"Today, we are going to perform a suscitation. Are you familiar with baptisms, Paige?"
"I am, yes."
"Then this should seem familiar to you. The suscitation is a sacred ceremony, practiced in this cathedral and many smaller churches in the City of Hope, to glorify and sanctify the life of the Prophet, our Father, Zachary Comstock. It is typically adjusted to the religious beliefs of the individual, I am loath to admit... but this evening, we shall perform it properly, in the name of the Lord, our God."
Frollo turned to face the girl.
"Now, bear yourself before Him."
Paige's eyes popped open for a second, and she exhaled as if she'd just gotten punched in the gut.
"Oh damn," she exclaimed. Remembering the church's restricted use of language, she gave a short cough and said, "Er, pardon my language, your grace. But that seems a little forward, doesn't it?"
"It may seem bizarre, to the uninitiated. However, it is standard practice for these sorts of rituals. The naked form symbolizes purity, innocence, and a willingness to show yourself to God and the Prophet unrestrained."
Paige glanced to the side for a moment, her eyes flitting about as she pondered something or other, before she gave a sly little smirk to the archdeacon.
"Okay, gimme a sec."
With that, Paige took off her backpack and gently placed it toward the back pool. With nothing in her hoodie pocket, she took it off without worrying about anything falling out. Brown hair, short and parted with two thick strands on either side of her head, complimented her emerald green eyes which looked so dull in the candle light. Her figure was far more pronounced than her top cover would have one believe; she had fairly wide set shoulders and was moderately tall. Tucked into a pair of blue jeans that hugged her waist, her black tank top clung to her skin tightly, and accentuated her large breasts as they fell when the hoodie slipped over them. Once it was off, she tossed it to the side.
"Gah!" Frollo shielded his eyes, as if he'd stared directly into the sun.
"What?"
"Y-you're a woman?!"
"Yeah?" She rested her hands on her hips as she swayed them to the side, attitude written in her movement and her face. "Couldn't you tell by my voice?"
"I, I, uh..."
"What's the matter?"
The poor guy was blushing so hard, she was sure he could feel it in his cheeks. He was turned away, eyes still covered by his hand as if his redundant attempts to look away would make her disappear. It was adorable, really, given his age and status.
"M-my apologies, if I ha-had known that you were a woman, I'd have sent in a-a-a deaconess..."
"It's alright, your grace."
She couldn't blame him. If not for her womanly wiles, it was fairly easy to mistake her for a boy. Her body was tough-built, and her voice, though bright in that feminine way, was deep and resonant compared to her peers. Whenever she'd put the hoodie and ball cap on, it was a coin flip if she'd get gendered correctly or not. It's no wonder the cashier was confused earlier.
It occasionally pissed her off whenever it happened, but she didn't mind in the long run. That was half the fun, after all.
She walked up close to him, slowly, without sound to her steps. She walked around him. Walked in front of him. Pulled his hands off his face, revealing a stunned glare simultaneously entranced and repulsed. Lifted his head by the chin, so he could gaze upon her face.
"Nudity represents purity, innocence, and openness, no?"
He said nothing, only gazing at her.
She put her hands on his cheeks, cool yet comforting they were. A smile, so sweet yet so devious, crawled across her face. Taunting him. Teasing him. For a brief moment, she could see him gaze down, down toward her figure. A gentle embrace tingled around her waist. She knew he felt the temptation. She could see it in his eyes. She could feel it too.
She spoke, in a soft whisper. "You can look. Just don't touch."
Then, as if yanked by divine hands, he jerked away in exasperated, exaggerated distress, so fast she nearly fell backwards into the pool.
"Stop this at once!"
"Come now, Claudey," she teased, "don't be like that."
"That is 'your grace', to you! You dare come into this holy place and tempt me?!"
"Iunno, you got weird the moment you realized I wasn't a boy."
"I am not to blame when you imitate a man, and trick me as you did! Nor am I held to account for your... scandalous behavior. You are a crossdresser, a temptress, and a sinner thus!"
"I dress like this cause it's comfy."
"I see no comfort in your shameful flirtation."
"That's funny," she snickered, "thinking that God would build us with pleasure receptors in our bodies, and then make it a sin to use them as he designed."
"And what know you, of God's word and will? Do you pray every day and night? Do you practice the ten commandments?"
"No, not really."
"Precisely. Of course you wouldn't." Frollo waved a hand in dismissal. "I should have known you were beyond saving, from the second you admitted to knowing of God yet rejecting his aid."
"You passed the test."
Frollo faced her once more, his face crossed by indignation and bewilderment.
"What was that?"
"Just what I said. I was testing you. And you passed."
"You were... testing me?"
"Do unto others, as you wish others do unto you," Paige explained. "The golden rule. Would you not wish me to tempt you? I would wish that you not tempt me. I hope you'll forgive this one-off sin, but I felt it necessary to check your integrity before we began."
"I wasn't planning on..." he contested, before shifting focus. He quickly cleared his throat, and spake thus. "Well... I do dedicate myself to the precepts daily. I can resist such temptation."
"Yeah. You'll suffice, I don't need a deaconess. You're too 'restrained', in a sense, to give into 'shameful flirtation,' as you just stated."
"I see... Yes, yes, of course, I was appointed archdeacon for a reason." Frollo adjusted his robes, as if fixing them, even though they were free flowing and wouldn't really get messed up by much of anything. "You are forgiven. Do not attempt such trickery again, however."
"Duly noted. Now, can we get started?"
For a second, the middle-aged man stood there, orange glow casting a shadow over his face, the gears whirring in his head. Then, he said,
"We shall. Bare yourself before God and the Prophet, my child."
And lo, as her mind ran wild with the dialect of the holy scriptures, the girl bore herself before God, and stood in the flesh, and only in the flesh, among the glow of the angels of Notre Prophète. How her rosy breasts fell without the support of her brassière for sport, how the cool atmosphere caressed her skin and sent a faint chill throughout her body, she felt as if she were to bathe, to cleanse herself of physical filth. Tonight, instead she would be cleansed of spiritual filth. Of vice. Of sin.
And the archdeacon Frollo stood over her, his eyes scanning over her, though not a move did he make in succumbing to whatever curiosity he felt. And he placed one hand on her shoulder, temptation in check, and he commanded:
"Come with me to the statue."
To the statue the archdeacon strode, and to the statue the girl followed, the statue of the Prophet, Father Comstock. And she did see the candles, and she did see the many colors strewn about the feet of the Father.
"Pick one, and take it from the crowd."
So she did. From the crowd, she took up a single candle. Her candle. One in a hundred, one in a thousand. In reaching for it, she toppled the candle with a finger tap as light as a feather, and she scrambled to take it in hand. It was mostly worn out, and its base was rounded at the edges. There is the saying, 'one's passion burns brightest near the end of life.' The girl was one for poetry, and felt this resonate in her soul as she held this small candle with the shaky foundation in hand. That, and it was orange.
"Show it to me," demanded her suscitator.
So she did. In his hand was a candle holder, a small silver pedestal with a ring for its bearer to carry it in but a finger. He took her hand, slotted it slowly into her index finger, and he took the candle from her and placed it in its holster.
"Now, head into the pool, and sit in its center."
So she did. The water, cooler than the air, chilled her skin and gave her goose pimples. Such a cool world, inviting and yet distant. Like a friend who tolerates you. Like a mother who never asked to have you, yet will put on a brave face for your sake. Like a father who abandons you. There she sat, candle in hand, unlit and standing on its throne, lightly tilted to the side. A metallic island where she sat askew.
"Now..."
The archdeacon, he stood at the statue still, and he reached down by the feet of the Prophet and pulled out a paper crate. Inside the crate, one would find a number of matches.
"In the name of the Prophet, Father Zachary Comstock, we pray."
The girl closed her eyes, and the archdeacon preached in Latin tongue such that she could not parse his words. As he finished, he spake again.
"Open your eyes."
So she did. And he prayed thusly.
"Father Comstock, I pray that you bless this sacred ritual we hold here tonight. Bless the young Paige with your wisdom and guiding light, so that she may raise us up higher into the heavens."
From it, he pulled a match, and he approached the pool, removed his shoes and climbed inside to be where the girl was. And he did strike the match against the box and set it aflame. And he bent over, holding his robes so they wouldn't grow soggy. And he did hold that match, and he did hold it against the wick in the wax, and he did set it alight. He dropped the match. It fell into the water, and its smoke rose up and into the top of the chamber.
In a tranquil whisper, he spake, "Now raise it over your head."
So she did. Or so she tried. But the candle fell, and its fire died, as she raised it up to her chest's height. She sat there, seemingly perturbed, truthfully annoyed.
"Oh dear," muttered Frollo. He spared the candle from the pool, and took his robes and dried it off. It was but covered in water, after all, and better to sully his attire to keep the ritual going than start it over again. He pulled out another match, and he did strike it against the box, and he did hold it against the wick in the wax, and he did set it alight.
Yet, the girl's candle fell into the water once again.
"Come now, child, take this seriously," the archdeacon scolded.
"I am," Paige replied in earnest, "it's just got a rounded base, so it's a bit loose."
In a grunt, the archdeacon pulled the candle from the water, and dried it once more, and set it in the stand and lit it again with another match.
This time, the girl tried to be wary. Her motions, they were so slow, as to challenge eternity itself. But nay, the candle fell out once again, and brought forth discontent from the girl and the archdeacon alike.
"How bothersome," Frollo lamented. "At this rate, we will have to start again."
"Why don't we just use a different candle?"
"Of course not!" Frollo's eyes, they were indignant. "The shorter candle is the one you chose! We cannot just use another candle."
"We might have to."
The girl held the candle in front of her mentor's face. He saw, then, that it was short- growing shorter with each attempt. Of all the candles by the statue, she had chosen the shortest of them all, and there was only enough wax left for a handful more attempts.
"...Very well."
And so, the archdeacon walked back to the statue, and he reached toward the feet of the Prophet and opened a little compartment in the stone. From it, he grabbed a candle- a brand new one with a flat base, brown in hue like the bark of a tree- and brought it with him back to the pool where the girl sat. With yet another match, he set it alight, and nearly placed it in her candle holder- only to stand and place it on the side.
"No, no... let's finish with the candle you chose."
Without contest, she let him try again, and they did try again, and they did try again, and they did try again. In time, it was becoming nearly comical, this man's devotion to the process of a single ritual.
But Paige knew where he was coming from. This was a spiritual ritual, and religion has always been deeply invested in symbolism. It was easy to perceive the actual ritual itself as self-contained, but everything around it was symbolic in itself. That, really, was the best sign of his devotion. Not everyone can lead, but as far as leaders go, not all of them can pay attention to the details, or the big picture. It's no wonder he was an archbishop.
Of course, there was reason to reject such heavy devotion from the outset. Perhaps he was even prolonging the suscitation for less than virtuous purposes. But she had tools to protect herself, so she'd be safe if worse came to be.
There was nothing to fear, really. After all, the book was in her hands.
And so they tried, over and over again. Each time, the girl insisted they accept this orange candle’s fate, and rely upon the new one instead. And each time, he refused, insisting on tradition over function. It was after many attempts- too many to be counted- before Frollo threw his hands into the air in indignation at this laughable display.
"Enough! We shall settle for the other candle. Time grows short, and I have other matters to attend."
By now, the new candle had been partially melted, and was a fair bit shorter, yet it still had a long life ahead of it. Frollo handed it to Paige, who took it in hand and placed it in the candle holder.
"Father Comstock, I pray that you bless this sacred ritual we hold here tonight. Bless the young Paige with your wisdom and guiding light, so that she may raise us up higher into the heavens."
With the candle already lit, Paige took it and raised it up, up to her chest, up to her head, and above, up toward the sky.
"Now stand."
Up to the sky, she rose. Bringing herself to her feet, and gently raising upward. In time, she raised fully upward, and held the candle as high as she could above her head, careful to keep it level so it wouldn't fall out. But this candle, it didn't fall out. Unlike the other, this one had a sturdy foundation.
The sun had long since set, and a giant's moon had taken its place and engulfed the sky in its silver brilliance. Its blue glow shone through the windows behind them and marked her and the candle in its embrace. The stone angels, what stood behind her, towered over them and blessed them from on high, water spilling from the basins in their hands. She could see Father Comstock, off toward the other side of the room. She saw him, standing there, with his hand held up in the name of God, gazing upon the two of them in holy ritual.
"Gift unto her a moral compass aligned with yours, so that she may defend herself from sin and villainy. Bring her prosperity, should she follow your precepts and follow the path of virtue. In the Lord and Prophet's names we pray, amen."
"Amen."