Silvānus (Estonia)

[Patricus I]

She was correct. The ever-present, ill-defined they always wanted something from the Pope, but theirs were foolish intent. It was to their own hearts they should turn, for what they sought was within, though most feared to peer into the darkness, even if it meant finding light on the other side.
“They seek God in me, but He isn’t going to show up. He's told me as much. Because I am no one. I am nothing. I am only a priest.” Unto Nimeda, Philip claimed the same title. He remembered the conflict within when posed with selecting the choice of identity so unexpectedly. The options were the same contradiction bequeathed by God himself: the End, the Beginning, and the Am. 
Philip, Patricus, Priest, Nothing. He was all and yet none.

For that reason, he considered how little Thalia wanted of him, which was nothing. She admitted she wasn’t Catholic, but it was a rare person who was without at least a semblance of awe for the Bishop of Rome. The witnesses across the street were growing in number. Glassy displays were held up, capturing images that made him turn his back and pace the opposite direction. Without the scarlet cap and flowing cape, he was too plainly visible. They could enter the church from the back door. The one through which the children plunged some moments before.

“Il Palazzo Apostolico di Castel Gandolfo,” he called it by its Italian name. His accent, while thickly American, undulated over the pronunciation smooth as pebbles. “When I showed you that place, I had no idea you were a real girl. I’m still not sure you are not an apparition.” A brow rose with the hint of a joke. If he wasn't who he was, he may have poked her on the arm to confirm the skeleton of a human within. He did no such thing, of course. As it was, she could have no way to know the importance of such a place, the reprieve offered of the property and so desperately desired by its sovereign. He liked to swim in the lake on hot days. Floating alone.

“What else have you drawn? The shared dreams of other priests? I imagine they would be disturbingly dismal.” He snorted a laugh on that, imagining the inward flights of subconscious fancy undertaken by the likes of Fr. Revane Ando.  After a moment, he posed another question.
“What do you see of me?”