02-21-2020, 02:47 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-21-2020, 02:48 AM by Patricus I.)
Philip’s expression evolved. From the moment Armande kissed the ring, Philip was staring at the window as the apostle Paul may have stared at the tantalizing sight of freedom. The first inkling that something bizarre was breaking was the platitudinous allusion to brotherhood, including his predecessor in the fold. The second was the thunderous laughter erupting from within.
With tears glistening the corners of his eyes, the smile that pasted the papal lips was disingenuous. With his first words, the breath was stolen from the room, a grim reaper of joyless beauty. “The vicar of Iscariot,” he began, eyes continue to twinkle, “My predecessor, Pius IX would have you sent to guillotine.” The head of the Vatican histories was presumably aware of the famous fall of the Papal States as well as the infamous beheadings ordered by the man who was imprisoned within the very walls Patricus I now inhabited.
He let the reminder of Papal execution hang on the air like cigarette smoke, the kind that clung to the skin, and meanwhile toyed with the word atharim on the tongue, dissecting it for interpretation.
Amusement faded swiftly, however, and the humorous twinkling of an eye was dimmed with disinterest once more. He should pray for endurance but enduring the plea itself was already laboring. He'd only been here a month.
When he took to his feet, the white cassock slipped to his ankles like the feathers of angel wings. He cut a slim, handsome figure as he poured himself a scotch, neat. None was offered to share. In fact, Patricus I forbid any alcoholic indulgence in his presence. The flavor was not particularly pleasant, but he sipped regularly. Silence stretched for several minutes while he consumed the beverage and absently oscillated between Armande and the ever-continual obsession with the window. The thoughts contained within the sharpness of his mind were obscured as Paul’s freedom.
Finally, he abandoned the pretty cup to its table and regarded the Regus of the archives, “Is that it? Or is there more?”
With tears glistening the corners of his eyes, the smile that pasted the papal lips was disingenuous. With his first words, the breath was stolen from the room, a grim reaper of joyless beauty. “The vicar of Iscariot,” he began, eyes continue to twinkle, “My predecessor, Pius IX would have you sent to guillotine.” The head of the Vatican histories was presumably aware of the famous fall of the Papal States as well as the infamous beheadings ordered by the man who was imprisoned within the very walls Patricus I now inhabited.
He let the reminder of Papal execution hang on the air like cigarette smoke, the kind that clung to the skin, and meanwhile toyed with the word atharim on the tongue, dissecting it for interpretation.
Amusement faded swiftly, however, and the humorous twinkling of an eye was dimmed with disinterest once more. He should pray for endurance but enduring the plea itself was already laboring. He'd only been here a month.
When he took to his feet, the white cassock slipped to his ankles like the feathers of angel wings. He cut a slim, handsome figure as he poured himself a scotch, neat. None was offered to share. In fact, Patricus I forbid any alcoholic indulgence in his presence. The flavor was not particularly pleasant, but he sipped regularly. Silence stretched for several minutes while he consumed the beverage and absently oscillated between Armande and the ever-continual obsession with the window. The thoughts contained within the sharpness of his mind were obscured as Paul’s freedom.
Finally, he abandoned the pretty cup to its table and regarded the Regus of the archives, “Is that it? Or is there more?”
![[Image: hiclipart.com_-e1597513863757.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/hiclipart.com_-e1597513863757.png)