03-24-2024, 05:21 PM
The plane touched down in Tromsø, its wheels skidding slightly on the frostbitten runway. November in Norway was a harsh host, with biting cold and a sun that barely crept over the horizon. As the aircraft's door opened, a gust of icy wind invaded the cabin, wrapping around Philip like a frozen blanket. He grimaced, pulling his winter cloak, crafted from luxurious red velvet and edged with pristine white ermine fur, tighter around his slender frame. The white cassock billowed around his knees as he descended the plane’s steps, nipping at his legs.
His mood was as dark as the Arctic sky above; the cold was an unwelcome reminder of how far he was from the sunlit streets of Rome. Below, a small delegation from the lutheran Church of Norway awaited him, their faces a mix of reverence and curiosity. They couldn't hide their surprise. Patricus I was for many years a figure known for his reclusive nature and aversion to political entanglements, was the last person they expected to see in Tromsø.
"Your Holiness, welcome to Tromsø," greeted the leading bishop, extending a hand that was swallowed by thick gloves. "We are honored, though somewhat surprised, to have you with us. May I ask what brings you to our humble city?"
Patricus’ response was terse as he allowed the Bishop to grasp his hand, Papal ring prominent over his own white gloves, but his voice barely audible from behind clenched teeth. Luckily, a thin veil obscured his expression from the delegates as well as the press, otherwise lined up in the distance. “A personal pilgrimage," he said, sidestepping specifics.
His answer seemed to pacify the bishop, who nodded, although a flicker of doubt remained in his eyes. The delegation led him towards a waiting car, already running to combat the encroaching frost.
As the vehicle wound through Tromsø’s streets, Patricus peered out at the stark landscape, the mountains and fjords shrouded in twilight despite being middle of the afternoon. His thoughts were desolate at the view.
Soon, the Arctic Cathedral loomed ahead, its angular structure piercing the dusky sky like a beacon. As the car stopped, the Pope braced himself for the evening's service.
His mood was as dark as the Arctic sky above; the cold was an unwelcome reminder of how far he was from the sunlit streets of Rome. Below, a small delegation from the lutheran Church of Norway awaited him, their faces a mix of reverence and curiosity. They couldn't hide their surprise. Patricus I was for many years a figure known for his reclusive nature and aversion to political entanglements, was the last person they expected to see in Tromsø.
"Your Holiness, welcome to Tromsø," greeted the leading bishop, extending a hand that was swallowed by thick gloves. "We are honored, though somewhat surprised, to have you with us. May I ask what brings you to our humble city?"
Patricus’ response was terse as he allowed the Bishop to grasp his hand, Papal ring prominent over his own white gloves, but his voice barely audible from behind clenched teeth. Luckily, a thin veil obscured his expression from the delegates as well as the press, otherwise lined up in the distance. “A personal pilgrimage," he said, sidestepping specifics.
His answer seemed to pacify the bishop, who nodded, although a flicker of doubt remained in his eyes. The delegation led him towards a waiting car, already running to combat the encroaching frost.
As the vehicle wound through Tromsø’s streets, Patricus peered out at the stark landscape, the mountains and fjords shrouded in twilight despite being middle of the afternoon. His thoughts were desolate at the view.
Soon, the Arctic Cathedral loomed ahead, its angular structure piercing the dusky sky like a beacon. As the car stopped, the Pope braced himself for the evening's service.
![[Image: hiclipart.com_-e1597513863757.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/hiclipart.com_-e1597513863757.png)