Tiberinus

[Patricus I]

He didn’t understand her answer. What he didn’t understand, he disliked, but it wasn't death that was the enigma. Philip’s constitution of the grave was not the solemn, depressing event that lingered over most people’s lives. If anything, the infinite silence from his creator would finally end and he would sleep content for once. Rather, she seemed undisturbed by the query for entirely different reasons from his own. Nimeda described the erosion of cities as blinks of an eye, but such contemplation of time was antithetical to the temporary nature of a single life. Did she die, or did she live forever? Or was it both? Perhaps this was the confrontation of flesh and soul: one enduring consciousness. He rubbed his temple thoughtfully. Why were these dreams always so burdensomely contemplative?

Her arms were outstretched, reaching like the beloved for their mother and father’s embrace. She needed him, he realized as he studied her statuesque pose. Meanwhile, Thalia was dismissive of the need. Two in one, a contradiction. Much like himself. Philip the lost son’s yearning unfulfilled. Patricus, the blessed father of a billion people.

His chin tilted as he stepped within arm’s reach, but he did not grasp the open palms as offered. Instead, he held out his own as he once did for the penitent to kiss his most holy knuckles. No ring appeared, though for a moment, he saw himself standing on the balcony above St. Peter’s Square revealing to Nimeda the wide, empty world below. The dream tried to shift them, but stubborn roots kept his sneakers firmly planted. “When you return, just remember that Rome is a suburb of Vatican City.”