Chartres, 1260 AD
The new cathedral was a prayer petrified, a forest of stone reaching for a heaven it seemed to pin in place. Enki, a pilgrim with a limp and the name Gilles, stood in the vast, echoing nave. The stained glass cast jeweled shadows on the floor, but the space was so vast, so vertiginous, it felt less like an embrace and more like a judgment.
He watched a family of peasants enter, their clothes rough, their faces worn. They didn't look up in wonder; they hunched their shoulders, their eyes wide with fear. The mother clutched her child, not pointing out the beauty of the Rose Window, but shushing him, terrified his small voice would offend the crushing silence. They dropped a single, meager coin in the alms box and scurried out, smaller than when they entered.
This was Chloe's masterpiece. Not beauty to inspire, but beauty to intimidate. It did not lift the heart to God; it pressed the spirit into the cold, stone floor. The art was not a window; it was a wall, reminding every soul of its proper, insignificant place in a grand, immutable design.
Scrapbook Entry: "Beauty, weaponized, becomes the most elegant cage. They have built a house so grand for God that there is no room for man. The stones do not sing; they weep for the simple, wild faith that has been entombed within them."