The Great Hunt (Oslo, Norway)

[Patricus I]

Fr. Lochlan Fletcher & Pope Patricus I

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Lochlan had been prepared to escort the guests to the Holy Father. He prepared himself for any manner of person that he might find, and was aware that the company consisted of a single male accompanied by two female companions. It wasn’t his place to judge, but he prepared himself to encounter sin. He was layered with the armor of his faith, and would turn away from anything.

But he was unprepared to encounter the living breathing Regus-emeritus of the Atharim.

He knew this man well. Had only recently entered service when Father Armande reigned as the Director of the Historical Archives. Years of growth and learning followed, and Lochlan had genuinely mourned the apparent loss.

“Father?” he asked in surprise. He grasped Armande’s hand and smiled. “You are here. I cannot believe it,” he bowed his forehead to Armande’s knuckles briefly.

“The Holy Father knows you are here. He has asked for you?” he posed the thought like a question, but already the answer was forming. The Holy Father was aware Armande was alive, and knew exactly who he was. The Atharim did not know how high the Regus communed with the leaders of the Church, but there was no proof they were aware of one another’s roles.

Lochlan knew now how high the ladder climbed, but who deferred to whom?

“If you will follow me? I will show you the way,” he gestured. They spoke of many things along the way. Lochlan absorbed them all, seeking to understand a picture of events that were only now coming into focus.

Above, Philip waited for the Carmalango to arrive with his guests. He was sitting in the main room enjoying a cigarette. He’d recently taken up the habit after several years abstinent. It had been a frustrating time of patches and gum and shots, but hell with it. He wanted the real thing.

As soon as the gentle knock rapped the door, Philip turned toward it. He said nothing, expecting Lochlan to show himself in, and neither did he rise to greet those that filed through.

Lochlan kissed his ring and then bowed and showed himself out once it was clear that Patricus required no additional need for the priest’s presence.

He studied those that entered, not having seen them since their previous departure. Nearby a cedar box laid with brass waited. Within was the Key of Cunning. It was never far from his sight.

He did not hold out his hand as he had for Lochlan. These three were not ones to kiss the ring. Nor did he expect it. None of them were Catholic, after all.

He snuffed the cigarette after it was pulled to the nub and waved away the coil of smoke.

“I’m in Norway,” he finally said. “It’s really fucking depressing up here." He sighed and studied their forlorn faces. "You haven't found it yet, have you?”