Peniel

[Patricus I]

Following Armande’s presumed demise, the hassle of the administration of the ‘Archives’ was passed to the previous Regus’ second in command, an assistant whose name passed fleetingly across the Papal desk. Since then, the Atharim were a distant nuisance, unspoken until now.

Their last parting was one of mutual respect. What transpired since to erode their carefully laid foundations? It stung, Philip realized, that in their parting the concession from formality was so easy. Philip should not be so surprised. Vileness was an erosion that touched everything.

A porcelain mask fell across his chiseled face, but despite the slap doled to his station, his remained pristine. Armande was once a priest until he was released of his vows to the Order of the Society of Jesus. Unless excommunicated, Philip would call him Father, even if he buried the man.

He was prepared to explain as much until a description halted all semblance of rational thought. Philip’s face fell white as his robes. ”How could you know?” he breathed.

Cherubim guardians etched in everlasting stone. Keys, tombs, trees and dreams. A weight fluttered across his mind that he may faint. Instead, water slicked crimson veins across his eyes. They burned with the plea of one who’d glimpsed the beyond and returned haunted. All these weeks of waiting. Prayer, demands and pleading. To be useful to God and to the Church. To be called to action. Now, he was called, Armande need say not another word. He would go. In a heartbeat, he would go.

“Where?”