05-08-2020, 11:20 PM
The Holy See issued a generic announcement after the press noticed the departure of the Papal transports. The Pope was to visit some churches in eastern Europe, nestled deep into the heart of the Custody darkness. Standing in the fuselage, he paused several steps from the plane exit. A cool air stretched into the cabin, carrying winds of freshness absent from Roman humidity. Before emerging, he lowered a veil to cover his face, and made quick passage from the stairs to a vehicle. A handful of delegates stood in attention for his arrival, but he didn’t bother skimming their faces. If anyone was important, they would surely find their way to an audience eventually. The windows were blacked out, so he was able to shove aside the veil while in private. As he glanced at his present company, a bishop, a Vatican staff member, and the driver, he casually studied the countryside as they passed into town.
The apartments of a priest were either within the grounds of the church or buried deep in the building itself. They were abdicated in favor of the Holy Father, who did not declare the duration of his visit to the otherwise sleepy town. The hills rolled with sylvan undulations. It was nothing like the fantastical landscape of prophetic dream, but he had to ponder at the scope of creation. Did such a place exist in the waking world? Was it hidden in these very woods?
Upon arrival in town, the car toured him through notable places of significance to the townspeople. He listened vaguely, but primarily communed with his god rather than listen to the story of a union depot rebuilt after the second world war. The old town center was fixated on university grounds, a site of quite some prestige apparently. They rounded an ornate fountain and headed toward the church, but he noticed one odd statue placed new and shining among the old and historic. It was a monument to Nikolai Brandon. Waving on the air above fluttered a CCD flag of the district. Patricus’ study was wan derision. It was a good reminder of his current whereabouts.
Staff and clergy lined themselves upon the steps to the church. When Patricus emerged, it was without the veil. He cut a resplendent figure as a scarlet cape edged with fine gold filigree stitching along the hem. A time-honored Capello hat kept the sun from his eyes but was made of the same scarlet sheen as the cape. The white attire beneath was his casual day dress, but the sun reflected pink hues as he ascended the steps. He offered his hand, gloved in white and adorned by the ring of the fisherman, for an elderly priest that approached to kiss it reverently. The aged, stooped fellow he assumed to be Revane Ando, the priest in residence for some sixty-five years in Tartu. He seemed ready to meet his maker. Patricus assumed it was stubborn will that defied the tempting call homeward. If only all priests were so stubborn at the end.
There would be a time to inquire after the girl, but before he delved into gothic depths, he turned to scan the street behind. Several were watching the entourage. Many were on tip-toes, stretching themselves to catch a glimpse of the Holy Father’s passage. His jaw tensed as the scan passed. He did not recognize the girl he took to be Nimeda, but she would come. Without a doubt. She would come.
The apartments of a priest were either within the grounds of the church or buried deep in the building itself. They were abdicated in favor of the Holy Father, who did not declare the duration of his visit to the otherwise sleepy town. The hills rolled with sylvan undulations. It was nothing like the fantastical landscape of prophetic dream, but he had to ponder at the scope of creation. Did such a place exist in the waking world? Was it hidden in these very woods?
Upon arrival in town, the car toured him through notable places of significance to the townspeople. He listened vaguely, but primarily communed with his god rather than listen to the story of a union depot rebuilt after the second world war. The old town center was fixated on university grounds, a site of quite some prestige apparently. They rounded an ornate fountain and headed toward the church, but he noticed one odd statue placed new and shining among the old and historic. It was a monument to Nikolai Brandon. Waving on the air above fluttered a CCD flag of the district. Patricus’ study was wan derision. It was a good reminder of his current whereabouts.
Staff and clergy lined themselves upon the steps to the church. When Patricus emerged, it was without the veil. He cut a resplendent figure as a scarlet cape edged with fine gold filigree stitching along the hem. A time-honored Capello hat kept the sun from his eyes but was made of the same scarlet sheen as the cape. The white attire beneath was his casual day dress, but the sun reflected pink hues as he ascended the steps. He offered his hand, gloved in white and adorned by the ring of the fisherman, for an elderly priest that approached to kiss it reverently. The aged, stooped fellow he assumed to be Revane Ando, the priest in residence for some sixty-five years in Tartu. He seemed ready to meet his maker. Patricus assumed it was stubborn will that defied the tempting call homeward. If only all priests were so stubborn at the end.
There would be a time to inquire after the girl, but before he delved into gothic depths, he turned to scan the street behind. Several were watching the entourage. Many were on tip-toes, stretching themselves to catch a glimpse of the Holy Father’s passage. His jaw tensed as the scan passed. He did not recognize the girl he took to be Nimeda, but she would come. Without a doubt. She would come.
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