There is only one God officially endorsed by the Church of Brannia, and He is unavailable for comment at the moment. He only speaks to the high priest who graciously relays his Lordship's commands to the masses such that they may know what it was they'd been doing wrong and exactly how they can repent for doing it (usually by paying hefty indulgences to the Church).

  Also, the God's name was Greg. Gregory Almighty. And according to prophecy, Greg would have a child sometime from now until the end of the next millennium. The only problem was choosing who this child would be. It was the biggest decision the Church had to make since God's name, and all the members of the high council had come from the farthest reaches of the kingdom to meet in the capital, Belmont, to discuss the matter.

  On a quiet and calm night, deep in the bowels of the grand cathedral, a dozen hooded figures sat hunched around an oval table, a green brazier flame casting long shadows on the walls. The council was in profound philosophical discussion, and High Priest Nigel R. Harwood was up to here with it. He slumped against the backrest and massaged his temples.

  “Screw the masses,” one cardinal said, standing up. “The kid’s got to be of noble blood. Greg wouldn’t elope with some lowborn tramp.”

  “Don’t be silly, Fulvio,” said his opponent, a priestess from the northern regions. “We need the people on our side; thus, the child must be one of them.”

  “Hmph!” Claudette, the high mage, crossed her arms and threw her red hair back over her shoulders. “I don’t see why we even bother with this Chosen One business. We should be ruling over the layfolk ourselves.”

  “And you would dare deny Greg’s prophecy, sister Claudette?” asked a cardinal from the far end of the table. White-haired and wrinkled, Francis was the oldest member of the group.

  Claudette pursed her lips but said nothing. Fulvio sat back down.

  “If I may make a suggestion.” Francis paused to take a breath. “My niece, Felicity, is expecting in 3 months. Having the child be affiliated with the clergy splits the difference. It offers an air of legitimacy while still feeling salt of the earth.”

  This aroused considerable stir in the room. Many nodded in agreement while others murmured in hushed tones to their neighbors. After a while, they all looked towards the head of the table.

  “Hmm?” Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Ah, yes, an heir of the Church. That’s not such a bad idea.” Not a worse idea than anything they’d thought of so far, at least. Anything to get this over and done.

  A few heads still shook in disagreement, however.

  “This is nonsense,” Claudette said. “You just want to be called Uncle of God, Francis.”

  Fulvio scoffed. “And I suppose you think you’d do a better job raising God, huh?”

  “I’d certainly do better than you, you mule.”

  Fulvio rose and called her some words that would make a sailor blush. And with that, the chamber erupted once more. The whole discussion went back and forth, then circled to the start again. It had been hours and they were no closer to their goal than when they’d started.

  Nigel’s head still buzzed from officiating the royal wedding last night; that after-party was a real doozy. He soon lost track of the discussion, his attention drifting into calming pastoral images. He was frolicking in a meadow by a quaint cottage in the countryside when a loud knocking on the door snapped him back to the present.

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  “I told you we were not to be disturbed,” Nigel said to the door. “We’ll come out when we come out.”

  The knocking persisted and a voice behind the door said, “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but it’s urgent.”

  "Unless the gates of hell themselves have broken open, Sister Marion, I'm positive that whatever it is couldn't possibly be more important than deciding who's going to breastfeed our lord and savior."

  That seemed to do the trick because the knocking ceased and footsteps receded in the distance.

  “Now, to the issue at hand.” Nigel turned back to the council. “What was it you were saying, Father Francis?”

  “I was merely pointing out that, though there's nothing wrong, per se, with making a halfling baby the Chosen One, I believe it would be more… relate-able if we kept to a human child.”

  "Why don't we call it a night. We'll reconvene on the morrow."

  The council members stood and one by one filtered out of the chambers into the night. Nigel was about to follow them out when he remembered that little emergency Sister Marion went on about.

  Darn it. That bottle of wine in his cabinet would have to wait.

  Nigel stopped by Marion's room but found it empty. She wasn't in any of the chapels or prayer rooms either. He finally found her in the mess hall with other nuns, altar boys, and maids. They were all standing around a table, ogling at something that must have been very interesting indeed.

  Nigel cleared his throat.

  "Your Grace," Marion said, turning toward him. "Break it up everyone, break it up. Let his holiness through."

  He pushed through the crowd and found a golden cradle at the center of the commotion. A sliver of moonlight shone over the table. In the cradle, a bundle of cloth wriggled and made baby noises.

  Nigel let out a breath. "Oh, it's just another orphan. We get one of these every other week. Put it in with the rest.“

  What a relief. He had been worried that the emergency was the Royal Revenue Service asking about inconsistencies in the pension fund.

  "You might want to take a closer look, Your Grace," Marion said.

  "Why? Is it a hunchback? We accept those now." The High Priest took a closer look at the little bundle of joy. He slowly unwrapped the cloth from the bottom up. "Two legs and ten toes, that's a good start. Ooh, it's a girl. You don't suppose that's the reason they abandoned ship? I thought we were way past that stuff by now."

  "Sir, look higher."

  "Alrighty then, let's see here... ten fingers and two arms, check. Gee, she's a little thin, isn't she?" He continued upwards towards the head and gasped. "Oh my Greg, that's an elf!"

  "It is indeed," Marion said. "A full-blood too, by the looks of it.”

  "But who on Irth would leave a true elf at our doorstep? I thought they were all hiding in the woods nowadays."

  "That's the other thing, m’lord,” said a maid. “I found her on the altar."

  "You mean the altar in the grand cathedral? The one in which we just had the royal wedding?" He looked the maids over one at a time. They were just as puzzled as he was.

  "What should we do, sir?" said one of the nuns.

  Nigel gathered his composure and pulled his sleeves. "Why, the same thing we always do. We take her to the orphanage and raise her as a pious daughter of Greg. We already take in dwarves, gnomes, and orcs, why not an elf?"

  He picked up the cradle and nearly popped his back. “Good grief, what’s this thing made of?”

  "Gold, it appears," Marion said. "Or at least coated in it."

  Nigel tried to lift it again, but it was like trying to pull out the sword in the stone. That reminded him. They still needed to pick someone to handle that whole business. But one problem at a time.

  He picked up the child instead and cradled her in his arms. She was light and frail as though she might crumble in his arms at any moment. But she also radiated warmth and life. The world faded as he gazed into her bright, curious eyes. She reached out to him with her tiny hands, and Nigel's heart melted into butter.

  He never had a child of his own. He wasn't allowed to because of some rules his predecessors made up. He decided something then and there. It might not have been the biggest decision he would make as the High Priest, but it was the biggest decision he would make as a man.

  "On second thought, have the cradle smelted and the gold added to my pension fund. I think I'm going to need it."