03-07-2020, 03:01 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-07-2020, 03:24 PM by Patricus I.)
Following the Papal kiss, his hand retracted automatically only to settle on the pages laid open before him. He intended to read a few more verses, only to turn the page and intend to finish the chapter. His own notes were scrawled in the corner, symbols and shorthand he himself recognized their meaning all these years after inscribing them. This was the note he sought, and he tried to return his mind to the place it was when his pen was first put to the page.
Patricus looked up to find a bowl of cold soup and a black-clad guest. He closed the book of his study and plucked a spoon to his fingers. For a moment, his gaze fell upon other hands. They were gnarled from old wounds, marred by scars, and thickened with muscle. The flash of a sword flared through recent memory, but Philip only grumbled in annoyance and tasted the soup. The soup was thin, bland, and perfect. It took the kitchen staff almost a week to get it right. Not a moment of thought was spared for the time that passed in silence.
Most of the evening was spent in consideration of the following conversation. Patricus did not intend to intimidate or manipulate the guest at his table; such tactics were unnecessary; in such, Patricus demonstrated that this was a pope unable to be chained, blackmailed or used. He spoke clearly, ”I don’t care about power or control. I don’t care about the Church.” He sipped from a tepid glass of water and fearlessly looked his guest in the eye. They were colorless.
Forgetful.
He didn't care about the Church, nor did he know if he cared about the Atharim, but like the church, he needed to know more about them. Patricus I was the church. Did it mean he was also the Atharim? How had this secret remained without leakage, for not a hint of it was known to the former Archbishop. ”Tell me about the Atharim. Who are your people? Are they priests? A priest cannot serve both man and God. He will serve neither.” Of course the question implied the futility of such a pursuit as well as his own role as the head of the church.
Patricus looked up to find a bowl of cold soup and a black-clad guest. He closed the book of his study and plucked a spoon to his fingers. For a moment, his gaze fell upon other hands. They were gnarled from old wounds, marred by scars, and thickened with muscle. The flash of a sword flared through recent memory, but Philip only grumbled in annoyance and tasted the soup. The soup was thin, bland, and perfect. It took the kitchen staff almost a week to get it right. Not a moment of thought was spared for the time that passed in silence.
Most of the evening was spent in consideration of the following conversation. Patricus did not intend to intimidate or manipulate the guest at his table; such tactics were unnecessary; in such, Patricus demonstrated that this was a pope unable to be chained, blackmailed or used. He spoke clearly, ”I don’t care about power or control. I don’t care about the Church.” He sipped from a tepid glass of water and fearlessly looked his guest in the eye. They were colorless.
Forgetful.
He didn't care about the Church, nor did he know if he cared about the Atharim, but like the church, he needed to know more about them. Patricus I was the church. Did it mean he was also the Atharim? How had this secret remained without leakage, for not a hint of it was known to the former Archbishop. ”Tell me about the Atharim. Who are your people? Are they priests? A priest cannot serve both man and God. He will serve neither.” Of course the question implied the futility of such a pursuit as well as his own role as the head of the church.
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