In the entryway stood a small boy, flanked on either side by the nuns escorting him into the monastery. His clothes were rough and his face was red from tears that were still falling. Patrick did as Father Matthew told him and carried the boy’s tiny bag of belongings along with a much larger bag that now belonged to the church. The other children watched from the shadows as the entourage marched down the hall towards the bedrooms.

The boy, Finnegan, was only six years old. How he survived was a mystery much like the rest of them. Patrick was not surprised by any part of the child’s blubbering tale as Father Matthew tried to comfort him. The only unique aspect of Finnegan’s story was that his mother’s death had been held off by the medicine they sold most all their possessions for. And yet Patrick could still feel his chest tighten with rage as the boy was already forced to say his thanks to the lord with the rest of them the same night he arrived.

“This child was saved by God just like all of you,” Father Matthew repeated for the seventh time since he’d said it about Patrick two years ago. All the children numbly nodded their heads as the words brought fresh tears from Finnegan. Patrick wanted to yell at the father to be quiet but he knew the man had no ill will. Instead, he returned to drowning him out. The boy kept his mind on other things, his thoughts darting around with his eyes.

There was only one particular feature of the chapel that he always seemed to take note of. It was a plain little place with only the bare minimum it required to function for the most part, with the exception of three giant angelic statues flanking the mosaics of the crucifixion and Mary. The marble beings stood almost three metres tall with their body embraced by their wings, an open book held lovingly in their outstretched hands.

By then, Patrick had memorized every nick and blemish in their stonework. There was only so much that could be done after all these years to keep them in good condition. He’d taken note of where the sculptor they’d commissioned had deviated between the three, slight curves and placements that unintentionally gave the three personalities of their own. On the right angel, the angle of the brow caused a much sterner expression that made Patrick feel as though he had been guilty of something while the leftmost angel’s softer, worn features reminded the boy of the head nun. The centre angel seemed almost curious, enthralled by its book.

“Patrick?” He jumped out of his thoughts, whipping his head towards Father Matthew. The man glared down at the boy as everyone else watched warily. He’d missed the entire prayer. Attempts to stammer out an apology were silenced as the rest of the children were dismissed and he was dragged towards the pew.

After berating his lack of attention, the priest gave Patrick only one instruction. “You can join the others for bed once you’ve prayed.” Like that, Patrick found himself locked in the dreadful chapel, alone as the last nun closed the doors behind her and the father. He waited until no sound echoed from the hallway before standing once again, walking up to the altar where the father had left his bible.

Patrick had only picked up a few letters in the past two years, nowhere near enough needed to read the text or even single words. Out of curiosity, he lifted the book from its place, nearly dropping it as he realized it was almost half his size and weighed accordingly. Still, he managed to get his hands all the way around it and hold it up on his own. He examined its cover - a greyish green colour that had been worn after years of use. The nicked and faded corners reminded him of the angelic statues in its blemishes. With a bit of an adjustment, Patrick held the book up high towards them like Father Matthew sometimes would when he spoke.

His blood boiled once again as he thought of the man. “How are we saved by you?” He asked aloud to the book. Nobody answered. It only enraged Patrick further. He pulled the book to his chest, glaring at the worn print as though it were mocking him. “Everything is in ruins and everyone is dying. You didn’t save us, we’re simply spared!” He yelled.

Silence followed once again. He growled and threw the book as hard as he could. It hit the ground with a much heavier thump than Patrick expected, causing the stage to shake. The pages bent as it slid open, face down. “You did nothing for us!” He shouted as his face turned red.

“Of course a book did nothing for you,” a voice from above replied.

Patrick’s nerves burned as his body froze from shock. He spun his head upwards to the voice as he took a step back. Atop the shoulder of the centre angel, a human figure sat, looking down upon the boy.

A soft glow radiated from the figure’s body, escaping from their irises and the strange crown upon their head that caused a halo of light to form. They weren’t any taller than Patrick himself, possibly shorter, and had the appearance of a child that contrasted with a dull, knowing gaze he’d only seen the elderly possess. Their clothes were almost completely foreign to Patrick, though their white collar and six-pointed shawl vaguely reminded him of the capes the nuns and father wore. The green material the odd clothes were made of almost perfectly matched their hair. To call the figure’s appearance strange would be an understatement.

The child held out a staff resembling two snakes entwined around a wing. With the flick of their wrist, the book on the floor rose up until it met with their free hand. They dusted it off and straightened the pages before placing it carefully in their lap. The way the figure lovingly held out the book mimicked the statue they sat upon as they leafed through it. “You should take care with these. Books are humanity’s only good way of retaining information,” they warned.

Patrick stammered as he backed away. “Who are you? You’re not allowed in here!” The figure gave him a curious look. “Yes, I am.” They spoke with complete confidence. He looked off to the side. “Who am I? In this language, I believe my name is Uriel.”

“Uriel?” Patrick stared in disbelief. The green child tilted their head. “Although, I suppose you can call me whatever you wish. It’s not my choice if you do.”

“You’re here. You’re an angel!” Patrick ignored their ramblings as various emotions began to bubble in his stomach. Slowly the shock and fear gave way to anger. “You’re here! You’re God’s servant!”

“I suppose.” Uriel sighed with exhaustion.

“Father Matthew said you’re supposed to save us!”

“Save you?”

“He said God would save us!” He shouted at the child. “From the plague and the war and everything else! Why didn’t you?” Anger boiled up within him once again.

Uriel stared at him and Patrick almost felt regret for his harsh tone. The angel finally sat up properly, the father’s book gently floating back down to its former place. Uriel’s eyes pierced through the boy as they sat in silence. “You want me to save you?” They asked.

“Of course!” Patrick shouted. “It’s your job, isn’t it?”

“From what, though?” They asked.

The hairs on Patrick’s neck rose. “What do you mean "from what?" The plague!”

“You’ve been here for six hundred and twelve days.” The angel informed, their voice taking on a much more serious tone. “Have you been ill since you arrived?”

“No?” Patrick replied in confusion.

Uriel nodded. “Nor has anyone else here.”

“Then what about the town? Why couldn’t you save them?”

“Them?” Uriel asked. They hummed to themselves for a minute. “It’s difficult you know, your immune system is quite complex and bacteria mutate quickly due to their short lifespan. If I do not have a sample populous I cannot predict its mutation and correct the solution. Plus, to quarantine and sterilize a small place like this is simple enough but most every human and rat on the continent is infected with some virus or disease…” Patrick didn’t understand what the angel was saying as he rambled on. The dismissive tone he spoke in only enraged the boy further, however.

“But Father Matthew said God is omnipressing and omnipotent!”

“Omnipressing?” Uriel asked.

“It means he’s always there! And that he can do anything!”

“Omnipresent.” The angel corrected as he pointed his staff upwards. “I wonder, is that what you think when you use those words? That the God is watching all of you all the time? Perhaps we were misunderstood.” He sighed as he brought his staff back down. “The God’s indeed both those things for us due to our biology. But you’re the one who called us servants, what would the God need servants for if that was true for everyone?” They asked with genuine curiosity.

Patrick didn’t have an answer. He hardly understood the father’s ramblings even when he did pay attention to them. Perhaps, in the end, it was better to trust the words of the angels themselves over the father’s second-hand knowledge. Uriel watched him, a strange excitement in their eyes as they waited for a reply. Patrick finally spoke up with a nervous stutter. “So you’re really God’s servant?”

“If that’s the word you wish to use for complete obedience to the God’s command.”

“You’re really protecting this place?”

“It would aid me quite a bit if you washed your hands more often, by the way.”

“Then you’re our guardian angel?” Uriel’s face twisted in confusion at the boy’s words. “Sister Bridget said that everyone has a guardian angel who looks after them.”

“You outnumber us forty thousand to one you know, that’s impossible.” The angel muttered under their breath.

“But you’re protecting us here, right? That makes you our guardian angel! Sister Bridget said so!” Patrick insisted desperately. Once again the angel stared him down. “I suppose… If that’s what will comfort you then so be it. We protect this place in particular because they do as they are told.”

“I’ll do as you say! Please don’t let anyone else die!” Patrick begged. “I’ll pray every day, I promise!”

Uriel’s expression turned bored. “If that’s what you wish to do.” He mumbled. “Well, I may be here but in all likeliness, you’ll never see me again. Don’t expect some sort of special validation.”

Patrick only saw the angel once more three years later on the day Father Matthew passed away. Patrick kept his word to Uriel, praying each day even after the abbey was closed down. The plague began to pass after only a handful of townsfolk outside the abbey were still left alive. On occasion, they received word that the plague had started to loosen its grip in other places, conscription taking its place in emptying homes.

Even without seeing them, Patrick could feel Uriel’s presence. Perhaps it was his childish mind that only hoped the angel was still there, protecting them. The day Father Matthew passed away, however, Patrick knew the angel had truly left. They only appeared once more to bid the boy and Matthew goodbye.

“It’s a shame.” They’d muttered. “You have had not an ounce of curiosity, I’d thought you’d be more interesting.”

It was the last words the green angel has spoken to him before wandering away. The nuns tried to care for the children best they could, but no one in town besides the children looked to Sister Bridget like they had Father Matthew. One after the other they all left for a convent a week’s travel away as the abbey fell to ruin.

With little option on either end, Patrick found himself working for one of the farmers still left. Despite the angel’s absence the plague never seemed to return to the town and the war was only news from far off lands. For the next six years, his life passed by in a numbing blur of labour.