The Great Hunt (Oslo, Norway)

[Armande]

Armande was surprised at the ease with which he fell back in to the formal ceremony and speaking of Vatican life. To be sure, it was a necessity. Manners, modes of address and speaking, were the social lubricant that allowed people of power- real or imagined- to get things done. Foolish bureaucracy, certainly. Artifice, yes. Ego-centric, of course. 

And yet somehow, for 2000 years the Church had maintained its power and position through all sorts of crises: internecine fights. schisms and civil wars, crusades- both formal and informal, machinations amid political earthquakes, shifting social climates, religious rivalries, and the general rise of technology, atheism, apathy-ism and now, the return of the gods. 

Amid the natural world filled with ideas and beliefs- what Dawkins had termed memes- all competing for growth and dominance among a finite number of believers and adherents, the Church had continued to exist and flourish, even if not at the same level she once did. The Organization as an organism had adapted enough to its changing environment that he could not see any reason it would lose its place during its 3rd millenium of existence.

And so, it would be foolish to discount the customs and habits that had let that tree continue to live and thrive while newer weed-like competing systems had appeared, grown to dominance, and then disappeared leaving barely a trace of their brief existence. There was something to be said about conservatism and tradition.

Still, Armande conceded, it was exhausting. Extraordinarily so.

Now that the were in private, some, at least, could be dispensed with. None of them would bow to Patricus, let alone kiss his ring. Not when their roles had become so clear.

And, to be frank, the man was in a foul mood, his eyes cutting and words dismissive. The pleasure he had felt back at their room with the Eyes- the relaxation, the contentment, the flush of alcohol, and the potential for more!- as well as that unexpected enjoyment he felt speaking to one who had been a promising mentee, leeched away at his demeanor.

The relaxed open persona dropped and he shifted in to something more formal and distant. He ignored the man's claim- not snorting in response- and was about to speak when Valeriya cut in witheringly. And despite himself, a chuckle did escape. He kept his face still though his lips twitched with the effort of not grinning insolently. He couldn't hide the smile in his eyes, though, and looked at Valeriya and nodded. "Indeed, my heart."

He looked at the Key in Patricus' hands. The fact of its existence- conceived from dreams and visions, birthed by faith and devotion- tied all of them together. "Vision are not ours to command. The Eyes see what they see. And before, they saw, just the two of them. And now they require all of us to see again. That, and the Key."

This was not a prescribed ceremony. There was no protocol or preparation. No specific invocation. Except that he knew the Eyes would pierce the veil. He looked at Rowan, nodding slightly, before turning to Valeriya, a nod for her. Then to Patricus. "As it is cold, shall we begin?"

They Eyes would lead, one or the other. It did not matter which. Indeed, what one did, it was as if the other did. Alike as mirrors, and yet as different as night and day. Their ka-tet, they three together. Their unit. But for this, Armande and Patricus would have to be still and only aid in the vision as the Eyes peered.

[Patricus I]

With the Key of Cunning nestled safe in his grasp, Philip returned to the foursome, but he did not sit as he had before. He was satisfied with the group’s collective acknowledgement of his holiness, and required no more deference for now. In that, he was truly surprised that Armande submitted to the tradition so smoothly. Perhaps the women had tempered his independent streak somewhat, or else he was wisened enough now to recognize that Philip’s mood was something that had to be handled delicately else he risked losing what he needed. It was a strange partnership that existed between them, more now that Armande was no longer Regus of the Atharim. Jaap had been Philip’s selection as per the tradition that rounded between the two institutions for the previous two-thousand years. He was a politician more than a warrior, and it was fitting that the politician would surround himself with another of like kind.

Philip’s approach placed him on one of the sides of their four-angled grouping. It was in that moment that he dismissed the priests that accompanied him to Norway. Only once they departed and he was sure that they were alone did Philip look from face to human face, his own expression scrutinizing.

He offered the Key of Cunning to Armande to hold, and afterward, he himself dropped to his knees, where he closed his eyes and spread his arms, and silently began to pray. He had no expectations that the Jesuit priest join him in prayer, but it wouldn't hurt.

Otherwise, it must have been a humbling thing to witness the Pope on a direct line to their lord.

[Patricus I]

While Philip was deep in his prayer, a shared silence enveloped the group, and a vision unfolded before him, so vivid and real that he gasped. An ancient tree, gnarled and towering, appeared in a land that whispered of old magic. A glowing portal shimmered within its trunk, beckoning him to fall into it.

The scene shifted, and the four of them were soaring north, over snow-dusted mountains and icy fjords, until a rugged island came into view. Words unspoken in the vision filled Philip's mind, Huldraheim, and his brows knitted together. The word was unfamiliar to him. There, beneath the aurora dancing in naked sky, the key presented itself.

As the vision dissipated, the four looked at each other, an unspoken agreement passing between them. They had to journey far to the north and sleep under the aurora at the base of that ancient tree. Armande explained that the word they all heard in their mind referenced the legendary home of the Huldra, a type of Norwegian rå, keepers and wardens of the forest. The Sámi people believed that Huldraheim was located on Karlsøya, Troms, a Norwegian island within the Arctic Circle.

Philip grumbled when he saw the location on a map. Remote, freezing, and far from anything resembling familiar civilization, it was the last place he wanted to go. The thought of embarking on a journey to such an isolated and cold location made his frustration boil over.

"Why does it always have to be the most wretched, godforsaken places?" he muttered, more to himself than to his companions. Siberia was no better, and the prospect of the cold, the distance, and the pain in the ass it was going to be to get there, gnawed at him. 

He retrieved the Key of Cunning, replacing it in its box, and banished the three guests from his room. In their place was summoned Father Lochlan, who was issued orders to make the necessary travel arrangements.

[Patricus I]

Continued at Sapientia (Norway)

Sapientia means wisdom in Latin.