Silvānus (Estonia)

[Patricus I]

Philip hated it here.

Despite the detestation, he didn’t question his resolve. He’d made the choice to plant himself in one place in order to satiate this hunger to help an innocent girl, whom by all appearances, didn’t seem to know she needed help. Therefore, in the small town of Tartu he would remain, but he was noticeably grim the entire time, more than usual.

Father Ando was a night owl and a late sleeper. The habit was bone deep, which Patricus highlighted when it was observed. He slept in the priest’s bed, hollowed out by the bowl of a body that occupied it for the better part of a century. The sleep was fitful. He did not dream.

The only respite to what Patricus endured these few days was a garden surrounding the church grounds. It was lined by old fence grown over with vines, and underfoot smashed more weeds than grass. A gang of young children were walked to the far side where a dilapidated play set and swings entertained them for hours on end.

He paused in his stroll, thankful for the shade of his hat, the same scarlet Capello as worn his first day here. The accompanying cape dragged on the ground behind him as came to a halt, watching the children frolick and play.
“They are neighborhood children, Holy Father,” said the junior priest at his side. “Their parents apply to our care while they work,” he added.

One little boy had crooked his legs on a swing and was stretched upside down, little fingers dragging in the dirt below.
“Why don’t they go to school?” he asked.
“They cannot afford the tuition,” he said.

Philip watched the children a few more moments. Charity was a virtue. Father Ando did not radiate such presence, but the distinguished act was noted by the Holy Father none the less. What bubbled in the back of his mind was an old worry, but one that he had no reason to act upon at the time. The children seemed well-cared for despite their situation at home. The boy on the swing finally fell off, and Philip’s brows rose with momentary concern until the child laughed and dusted himself off. He suppressed a smile and continued forward. Soon, he reached the fence and turned to pace in the opposite direction when someone hurried from the back door of the church.

“Holy Father, the young woman has returned,” he said.

Philip blinked, for once unmoving now that the moment was placed before him. When he entered the church himself, he discarded the cape and hat, smoothed his hair across his forehead, and set the stern of his jaw to empty nothingness. Hope did not bubble. He didn’t allow it. Nor did fear. This was the first time a dream reached into life and shaped existence. It was the will of the Lord, and Philip the servant of all. He accepted it.

He entered the cathedral, small and quaint as it was, adorned in the day-dress of a white cassock: the only Bishop eligible to don the color of the lamb. Gold filigree decorated the white. He was stunning, and when he entered, it was to present himself center placed before the altar, a poised figure with the crucifix and painting positioned directly behind him.