The First Age

There was no getting around the fact that he was in Norway. There was also no way to hide his trip to Tromsø. The official reason was an extension of his visit in the first place; that he was attempting to build good will between the Catholic church and the Church of Norway. In truth, he had zero interest in the affairs of evangelical lutherans, but it wasn’t unheard of for Popes to visit protestant churches. Only two popes in history had visited a Buddhist temple and only one ever stepped foot in a mosque. Hopefully collecting the other two keys wouldn’t come to that. Philip detested the idea that Patricus I would be remembered in history for making a mark at heretical institutions.

Tromsø was famous for one thing, other than scenic views and aurora tourism, and that was the site known as the Arctic Cathedral. Tromsdalen Church was a parish of the lutheran Church of Norway. The modern concrete and metal structure was built in a shotgun style in 1965. The building looked like a series of white triangles that made up its form, and seating about 600, it was a masterpiece of architecture, and certainly grand enough to host the Pope.

He had to make an appearance as unexpected and unexplained as when he visited Estonia, but it was only for a single day, and the news coverage was kept minimal. In the accompanying message, he spoke of unified charity, public service, and caring for orphans and the poor. It was the same sort of generic blustering that might have been fitting upon crossing any threshold beyond sacred walls of His Church, except, he found himself surprised at the passion with which he spoke of serving, particularly the orphans. He made an impromptu visit to a church-run orphanage afterward where he spent the rest of the day visiting with the children.

Meanwhile, Armande and Valeriya, who had to travel separately from him, went in search of the supposed sacred tree from the vision. Rowan volunteered herself to procure the items they would need to withstand a night under the stars, the longest list of which were Philip’s requirements. He’d never so much as imagined himself camping, and he was more than vocal about his displeasure at having to start now.

But if he was going to do this, he had a long list. First and foremost, his sleeping bag had to be white.

The plane touched down in Tromsø, its wheels skidding slightly on the frostbitten runway. November in Norway was a harsh host, with biting cold and a sun that barely crept over the horizon. As the aircraft's door opened, a gust of icy wind invaded the cabin, wrapping around Philip like a frozen blanket. He grimaced, pulling his winter cloak, crafted from luxurious red velvet and edged with pristine white ermine fur, tighter around his slender frame. The white cassock billowed around his knees as he descended the plane’s steps, nipping at his legs.

His mood was as dark as the Arctic sky above; the cold was an unwelcome reminder of how far he was from the sunlit streets of Rome. Below, a small delegation from the lutheran Church of Norway awaited him, their faces a mix of reverence and curiosity. They couldn't hide their surprise. Patricus I was for many years a figure known for his reclusive nature and aversion to political entanglements, was the last person they expected to see in Tromsø.

"Your Holiness, welcome to Tromsø," greeted the leading bishop, extending a hand that was swallowed by thick gloves. "We are honored, though somewhat surprised, to have you with us. May I ask what brings you to our humble city?"

Patricus’ response was terse as he allowed the Bishop to grasp his hand, Papal ring prominent over his own white gloves, but his voice barely audible from behind clenched teeth. Luckily, a thin veil obscured his expression from the delegates as well as the press, otherwise lined up in the distance. “A personal pilgrimage," he said, sidestepping specifics.

His answer seemed to pacify the bishop, who nodded, although a flicker of doubt remained in his eyes. The delegation led him towards a waiting car, already running to combat the encroaching frost.

As the vehicle wound through Tromsø’s streets, Patricus peered out at the stark landscape, the mountains and fjords shrouded in twilight despite being middle of the afternoon. His thoughts were desolate at the view.

Soon, the Arctic Cathedral loomed ahead, its angular structure piercing the dusky sky like a beacon. As the car stopped, the Pope braced himself for the evening's service.

As the chill of Norway blanketed the expansive wilderness, Patricus, robed in the less formal but still conspicuous white cassock of his office, trudged alongside his companions towards their destination. The cold air was swathed with a relentless expanse of gray, promising the onset of the arctic dusk. Armande approached him, his expression solemn yet alight with the spark of anticipation. Although no words were exchanged initially, the intent in Armande's eyes heralded the end of their search; they had located the foreseen tree, a beacon in their mystic quest.

The Pope’s reaction was a complex tapestry of internal conflict. Reverence for the destination battled with his overt discomfort at the prospect of spending the night enveloped by the raw elements of nature. Camping under the open sky, far removed from the protective walls of the Vatican, was not an endeavor he had ever envisioned for himself. Yet, God had a peculiar way of uprooting the most entrenched trees, let alone men. He grit his teeth and endured Armande’s eagerness.

As the group neared the site, Philip was just as drawn to the tree. Its branches, gnarled and wide, stretched towards the heavens as if in silent prayer. The ground beneath it felt sacred, hallowed. With a quiet, almost inaudible sigh, he resigned himself to the reality of his circumstances. While the others began to unpack their supplies, he examined the massive tree trunk. “There is only one holy tree, and it’s not this,” he uttered, the words dissipating into the cold air, watched only by the silent witnesses of the forest.

Setting up camp was a procedural affair, managed mainly by his more outdoorsy companions. Patricus participated where he could, which was to find someplace nearby to pray. By the time the tents were pitched and the fire was kindled, a profound fatigue settled over him—not just of the body, but of the spirit too.

As night descended, the temperature dropped sharply. The fire provided a small circle of warmth, its crackling sounds a transient comfort against the backdrop of an eerie silence. Conversation among his companions punctuated the air, but Philip ignored the lude insinuations suggested by Valeriya. Wrapped in a thermal sleeping bag, Patricus lay back, the ground beneath him hard and unyielding. He stared up through the bare branches at the stars peeking through the racing clouds. The physical discomfort was palpable—every stone and root beneath him a reminder of his physical displacement from Rome.

Yet, as sleep claimed him, it bore him away into a world unfettered by physical constraints. He was standing beneath the same tree, but the shroud of night had rolled away and in its place lay the diffuse light of the dream.

At his side stood his three companions, and they soon realized they was not alone. A mysterious woman awaited, her presence as unexpected as the legends suggested. Gowned in an etherial robe, her hair long and silvery was decorated with a sparkling chair. She beckoned to him with a serene smile. At her gesture, the intertwined branches of the very tree under which they slept parted into a natural archway. He paused before descending, stretching out his mind quietly to examine what else was out there, but there was no sense of familiar. No Thalia. Nobody. He was alone in this. With a deep breath, he entered. The realm unfurled with an irisdecent glow.

The scenery transformed dramatically. Within the tree emerged an innerworldly forest, denser, more enchanted, imbued with a mystical quality that tingled in the air. Ethereal figures, resembling the Huldra but each distinct in their ethereal beauty and garb, flitted between the trees and over streams that glittered under the perpetual twilight of this hidden world. Their movements were graceful, almost floating, reminiscent of immortal beings from the oldest of tales, blending seamlessly into the natural beauty around them.

The clearing they entered was a hub of this mystical activity, with more Huldra gathered there, their curious eyes on Philip. At the center, the key hung suspended in midair, its intricate design casting patterns of light that danced on the soft moss below. The Huldra who had led him here stepped closer to the key alongside him, her expression serious yet gentle.

"Philip Patrick Sullivan,” she began, her voice echoing slightly in the still air. "This key holds power beyond the ordinary, a gift that we, its guardians, bestow only upon one who proves themselves worthy. Its purpose is sacred, tied to the very essence of the planet’s death, rebirth, and survival. Tell me, why should you be its keeper? What brings you to seek such a burden?"

The weight of her question hung in the air, heavier than the mist that swirled around their feet. His frown dug deep lines around his mouth, as he studied the key and his reaction to its lure. He had already taken the key of cunning, but what if he claimed them all? Would it imbue him with insight into salvation? He was certainly the wisest of the group, best positioned to handle its authority.

The Huldra weighed his hesitation intently, her eyes searching his face as if to read the sincerity etched in his lines of age and wisdom. After a moment that stretched like the endless night, she nodded slowly. "To claim this is to be worthy. But remember, the burden of this key is to connect, to unlock barriers and forge paths where none existed.”

With a resolve that surprised even him, Patricus responded, “It is not mine to claim,” he stepped back, adding, “And my name is Patricus the First.”

Satisfied, the Huldra turned to each of them, asking the same question and receiving the same conflicted answer until finally Armande stepped forward.  As he reached out to touch it, the metal cool and seemingly alive under his fingers, it began to turn by itself. The key twisted in the air, winding as if it unlocked something unseen, something profound. Then, with a bright flare that momentarily blinded them, it vanished, leaving behind a lingering glow that slowly faded.

The Huldra's eyes, now filled with a gentle sadness mixed with hope, met theirs. "The key is now awake. Follow the stars.”

When they woke, Armande held the key. Philip climbed to his feet, acknowledging. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”