Peniel

[Patricus I]

“I am not that patient with the lord. Don't assume I have any more patience for my fellow man,” he retorted, eager for an explanation. Yet for the Pope’s proclamation of the virtues, even he laid his demands for the lord once in a while, and he was always answered.

Armande was different than Philip remembered. He looked much the same, but it was as if an imposter of the former Regus stood before them: a copy of body and mind, but sincerely reborn in a way that Philip witnessed rarely in men. A soul shifted. He could almost see newness exuding beneath transparent skin. To what purpose, he did not know. Was Armande delivered of his past or was he here to grapple an ally only for both to succumb to the abyss.

As a result of all these thoughts, Philip was hesitant. Armande may attribute his tension to the presence of women, but sin wasn’t scandalous for a priest. They lived in the pollution of sin with not but the armor of faith to protect from the poison that would infect the weak of will.

While the explanation unfolded, Patricus was a monolith of scarlet and white. The women may as well see their own dejected reflections in the mirror of his penetrating eyes. Indeed they would behold such a sight should he turn his attention their way.

Instead, he was transfixed upon Armande until the marble of his skin suddenly broke with exasperation. “Oh please. Don’t confuse me with someone who cares about saving the world. It was doomed at inception.” The misconception reminded him of their first conversation. A memorable one to be sure.

Which led to the question of his motives. Why was Patricus the first, Supreme Pontiff, Holy Father and Prince of the Apostles standing in a field of nothingness with a Jesuit and two heretics?

A weight settled upon his brow heavy enough to glimpse the burden of his memory. Did he desire to share something so personal and private with Armande that he alone knew the entirety of his life? A tightness scrunched his chest that made him uncomfortable. His gaze flicked briefly toward the women as if considering the significance of their presence. Armande implied their importance, but Philip was truthful when he denied desire to save the world. His only regret was that it would unravel under his reign. Yet what was written before creation was not his to undo.

“A dream,” he finally admitted. “The four-way pillar was a dream. I suppose if you can look upon my dreams, you also saw Nimeda, Tuuru and the key?”

Though the question may sound accusatory, he turned to walk without the heat of any emotion suggesting the sort and assumed the others would follow dutifully. Armande was allowed at his side while the women trailed. Finally, the pilot, who served as something of a bodyguard, carried a bag of supplies and whatever else rational people deemed important.

“Do you suggest that the pillar I dreamed about exists? Here of all places?” A scant glance hinted at none of the magnificence of the dreamy garden in which the pillar was hidden.