Silvānus (Estonia)

[Patricus I]

The light of angels caught her hair. He waited, motionless, until he glimpsed the face scrawled into his memory. She saw him in turn, truly beheld who and what he was, but the peek into the forbidden overcame a mortal mind. She fell away, but Philip was neither offended nor surprised. She previously warned him a disconnected soul wandering the dream and the flesh living on solid ground. He did not desire to soften the blow of her epiphany. She was strong enough to endure the shock, and if not, she would need to thicken that hide if she were to walk treacherous paths ahead. She was capable. He believed it so.

He stood over her from the step behind. The sun caught them both in its rays, but the glittering beams did nothing to improve his judgement of Tartu. That he endured the pawing hands of eager priests hungry for his power to turn favorably upon their selfish desires spoke immense dedication to Philip’s purpose.

He pondered what to say first. Perhaps a repeat of some quip he’d hurled while they dreamed? It was clear she wouldn’t fathom the significance. It was a shame, really. He’d uttered some good lines. Nimeda revealed the identity of a family connected to the girl she was on earth. He could divulge some insight that may embolden her trust in him, but the intention was likely to backfire. He’d not imagined Thalia to be the paranoid type, but then again, her wounds may justify the worry, which was what inspired the search for her in the first place.

He decided to be direct, as was his usual approach. “Nimeda,” he called to her, calm as serene waters. He continued to stand guard behind her shadow, hands clasped before his waist. The drawing laid upon her lap stared up at him. It was rather jarring to behold. In that, he could empathize some of the shock that plagued her. “Nimeda,” he called again, confident that the command of his voice would reach beyond the flesh and snatch the attention of the soul sheltered within. She would hear him because he willed it so.

Finally, the Holy Father descended a step, then another and another until he rounded before her so to force her to gaze into her fear and thus overcome it. From the angle, he could view the portrait all the better. An amused smile broke the veil of serenity otherwise occupying his face simply because it really was good. Who else would think to sketch the Pope winking in holy sarcasm?