Silvānus (Estonia)

[Patricus I]

She finally craned her neck upward, but it was sheepish and hesitant. The blurt of Thalia’s thoughts was consistent with Nimeda's, but where the latter was bold and fearless, the shy girl on the stoop was timid. He doubted it was mistrust that brewed in her nature. Perhaps the instinct was spawned by the recoil of a wounded hand, but she did not favor the arm. Rather, she thumbed the papers in her lap without concern for bandages or motion. A thoughtful line furrowed between his eyes, but he did not stoop to issue comfort. Those waters were too shallow a gesture for those such as them.

The comment about his age stole from him the first vestiges of honest reaction: a gasp of mockery. “The Pope should be old, like our Father Ando inside. He has the hump of a Pope, although I dare say, not the alarm clock of one,” he said with a snort. With that, he drew a deep breath like the gulp of first air upon thrusting above the water’s surface. A cleansing passed between them, now that the obvious was laid before both. Philip’s gaze was drawn upward ever so slightly. He was accustomed to being watched, if not by his own prefects than by the cardinals. If not them, then it was a cook or a nun, a council member or a lawyer. In keeping with the theme, his gaze fell upon the priest previously name-dropped. He coughed like he was covering up a reaction, then gathered himself and disappeared inside his little domain. Philip watched him go, pleased with himself, and continued in absence of an audience. “I am a young Pope, but I am quite old, I assure you.” He blinked with eyes clear as blue waters. She was much the same. He glimpsed her antiquity through the veil of pink flesh while they dreamed.

Her question sprung new fountains, though. He extended an expectant hand: “Show me,” he said. He sifted through the pages one at a time, reliving the visual account of what he transcribed in private pages the morning after. He would treasure those that depicted himself, simply because they were amusing, if she offered the gift. Everyone did: from works of great art to relics of centuries past to unique additions to the papal gardens. Those he treasured, though, were letters scribbled by the hands of children or cards splotched with artwork of a white figure surrounded by the cross and outlines of small humans.

“You told me you would draw me when you woke,” he said as she offered the pages for his scrutiny. More hesitation. “Your other should have warned you that I am not what people expect,” he said while thumbing through the contents. Much of his memory was emblazoned upon these pages, similar to how he recalled the events. It was the final few that he studied the longest. There was a pillar, a garden, and the arboreal face of an ever-lasting guardian. Emotion dripped from the shapes. Awe, fear, power and need. The greatest of these was Need.

“I know what they mean,” he said with a finality that stretched into the beyond. With that, he offered a hand that she may be lifted to her feet. He wondered if she would hesitate, or perhaps, accept with as generous of trust as had Nimeda. Together, they journeyed farther than two had before. What would happen this time, he could only speculate. 

But it was A beginning....