Silvānus (Estonia)

[Patricus I]

Her burst of laughter was met with the sort of amused awareness one may have of gleeful children racing nearby. It was the heart of innocence that captured his spark of protectiveness. Philip wasn’t paternal – in fact he preferred avoidance of such responsibilities. To buffer innocence, though, may rise the sort of fire within him that ignited the fury of Christ revealed in the den of thieves. Thalia was that to him. A precious innocence that he needed to see preserved, if only to atone for all those equally lost to the bile and filth of a sinful world.

Despite his favor of this girl, which Cardinal Giancarlo recognized instantly, it was imperative that theirs remain a formal relationship. As such, Patricus strolled with perfect preservation of their personal space with his hands folded neatly at his waist as though ever prepared to lift them reverently skyward. Thalia would not be let go so easily, not until what interest she held to the Pope was determined.

They parted shortly after to allow time for preparation: spiritual and physical. It was not without consequence that he appeared to the whole of the church in double layers of white attire, the outermost one an intricate sheen of lace, representing purity and holiness. Layered atop the white he burdened the heavy load of an ornate chasuble of green and gold cloth cut in a medieval style. The pallium trailed, the cloak that only the Pope wore, was made from the wool of lambs raised by monks and the crosses upon it woven by nuns. Like everything, it was rich with symbolism as Patricus, the shepherd, literally carried lost sheep on his shoulders. The tall points of the mitre, an instantly recognizable Papal shape, pointed from his head, which was otherwise angled heavenward during the entire parade. The attire was heavy, hot, and uncomfortable. He did not arrange himself in such precious symbols out of preference, but he endured the duty with purposeful intent. His neck and shoulders burned with the posture, but it was a small discomfort compared to the sacrifice of the Lord. Only later beneath the stream of a hot shower would the ache eventually soothe but never fully relinquish.

It was said that to behold this Pope engaged in the liturgical rites of the word and eucharist was to imprint something everlasting on the soul. When Philip consecrated the bread and wine, the believer felt the pain of the cross and tasted the salt of cleansing blood within themselves purely as secondary consequence to the immense faith radiating from his princely authority. The intensity of his expression peered beyond the brick and mortar of a small building in the Estonian countryside. Through his eyes, a glimpse of the heavenly divine was reflected. Several children fell into peaceful slumber listening to the cadence of his speech, which spilled in silky Latin rather than the punctate tongue of English.

As the mass shifted from honoring with worship and awe, the children were suddenly woken by the Pope’s booming voice that heralded the liturgy of the Word. In the call, passion and emotional charges for the faithful were issued. Philip’s hands, so usually folded in demure softness, were corded tight with commands. In the back, a child was soothed by their mother, as it seemed none were expecting the loud outburst that continued for some time after.