The Church of Saint Pearl, patron of the harvest and victory in battle. They say she so loved her kingdom that her soul was intertwined with its very soil, that it could be felt in each new bloom and green stem. They say she was a powerful warrior who battled demons and monsters, seeking peace and glory. They say that when the fires and floods came to burn her crops and wither her people she gave everything to save them; they say the Sun and Moon shone bright in her eyes until the end.
There’d always been something familiar about her. He could never quite place it, exactly, but… sometimes, in the candle-lit emptiness of the church, he thought he could hear her laugh. It was a mischievous laugh, kind and easy-going, and he would smile at the sound—how could he not?—and he’d turn as though to greet her, and only then would he remember. He was alone, of course. Just an angel and the painting on the wall.
Scholars had long debated over those strange shapes behind her: an unusual red, curling up the way haloes don’t. But they, too, felt familiar to him, in a way that made his hands shake and his mouth go dry. He never mentioned it, of course. It was unbecoming of an angel to dream of smoke and rot. To wake with the taste of iron on his tongue and an ache behind his eyes, echoes of a horrible regret burning through him. No, he would say nothing, and let them trust in him as a protector. Just as Pearl—no, Saint Pearl, he corrects, his gaze drawn back to her smile—just as she had been.
They say she was a martyr, but he always felt like she could have been a friend.
