I was a war angel who served the throne, pronouncing oracles under the light of silver wings.
Until I discovered that faith has become a show of hypocrisy in the world - believers take pleasure in the pain of others, and dogma has become the sharp edge of prejudice.
So I folded my wings, stepped barefoot into the northern wind and snow, and knocked on the door of an orphanage.
Here, I met the Dean - a vampire who boiled hundreds of years into syrup and weaved winter for street children. He was once an "arrogant" monarch and is now a silent atonement.
I also met Maria, an old nun who dedicated her life to the cold idol. Her piety was as pure as snow, but also as cold as a blade, cutting all "unclean" things.
The children we take care of together each carry a bloody past:
A noble orphan, a mixed-race "monster", a girl who escaped from a pirate family...
They learned to say goodbye on this border island, because the dean said: "I never owned you, only the time we spent together."
When the Pope's patrol carriage crushes the tranquility of the snowfield,
When spring beasts and summer wars tear apart the fragile peace one after another,
When the boundaries of faith, race, memory and survival are blurred in the smoke——
I have to reconcile the fate of angels, the warmth of human beings and the absurdity of war,
Find your place.
A hundred years later, I am sitting in the dust of the Library of Heaven,
Write this memory about abandonment and return, protection and letting go.
I still haven't found the final answer to faith,
But maybe I shouldn't write the answer in the first place——
It may be in the crosier of papal reform, in the candle of the abbot's centenary atonement,
In every soul that still chooses to light up the glimmer of light in the wind and snow.
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Purpose: I haven't found the answer——
But perhaps the problem itself is the road.