Tiberinus

[Patricus I]

Her words were touching. All the more reason for the snap of his response.

“That’s alright. I did not think you did,” he said. A red vision curled his mind. One of absence and abandonment; a voice that whispered only in silent echoes. The armor was old as his bones, knit together in utero. Where the sleeve of flesh covered men, the plate of mail entombed Philip. It was the reason he became a priest. Because he was a coward. To avoid the pain of rejection, because only the Creator can reject the Prince of Peter; and He wouldn’t do it.

Nimeda once saw him as a king, but magnificence was sterility. Nobody thinks as deeply as the Pope; as profound or inspiring as Philip. She heard the fall but was not there to catch him. He caught himself. He saved himself.

He watched his feet as he walked, sneakers navigating the undulations of rock and small sinkholes of soft earth. They followed the trail upstream, but where Nimeda frolicked, Philip was stoic as the mountain passes. The river may have been the tears never shed, for to cry was despair in disbelief, and Philip’s faith was an everlasting fire. Suddenly, he stopped as a vision came unbidden.

          The sparkle of a mitre. The gleam of rings against red velvet. The smell of decay. The taste of betrayal. The weight of the world.
‘Are you ready to wage a war against me? Because I am ready to wage one against you, and you best come with more than desperation. Are you prepared to face eternal fire? Because I am prepared to set you free. Say you are ready. Say it! You know nothing outside Patricus I. Nothing except hell, but I do. I know hell because I built it. For you.’

He stumbled to one knee the next step. The words echoed drums in his mind. For they were his words. His voice. His seething disdain for the manipulations attempting to clutch their way around his Papacy. They were words he had not yet said, yet he knew they would come. Against whom was the war to be waged?

He felt death slink nearby. When he glanced, it was with eyes wide as saucers, casting their net-like gaze woodlands. There, behind a tree. A small shadow slunk. Twin eyes peered back at him for just a moment. They may as well have been his own, but they were there one moment and gone the next. They struck no fear just as his own pretty blue eyes sparked nothing but adoration.

He turned the other way. His palms were dirtied by the stumble, having landed awkwardly. “I tripped,” he said to Nimeda by way of explanation. She wasn’t there to catch him, he swallowed. Perhaps because he landed on the soil rather than the stream. Perhaps because he wasn't worthy to catch.

The stream had widened as they walked. The rocks became flat slabs smoothed to granite, piled like dishes one atop the other. He craned his neck to follow the sound of rushing air, slowly coming to stand once more. Soft white water, silken as clouds, streamed over the edges. Foam churning at the rush struck the pool beneath.  

“It’s beautiful,” he said, aching to be a part of it. He shifted before he knew he moved. The water buried him to his chest, bare now. The tracksuit was gone. Only the weight of white shorts pasted his skin. He sank into the embrace of the water, arms spread straight from his sides like he may at any moment decide to stand upon the surface itself.

The water was clear as a baptismal chalice and just as holy. Warmth tickled like summer, but it was refreshing rather than uncomfortable. The waterfall was nearby, but not so loud as to banish the profound thoughts sinking in his mind. What war was he going to wage?

He looked to Nimeda, and somehow a smile arose. The kind of smile that shattered hearts and best laid plans.
“It’s a sanctuary,” he said. “Tell me about it.”