Apostolic Journey

[Patricus I]

The day of the Summit dawned as all Moscow days seemed to: iron-gray and unmoved by prayer. Cold pressed against the windows of the motorcade like an accusation, and the sky hung low and colorless, as if the world itself had drawn a breath and chosen not to release it.

Philip missed Rome.

He missed the sun warming the walkways, the familiar echo of footsteps in halls that had known emperors and martyrs alike. He missed the quiet certainty of home. As the motorcade passed beneath the walls of the Kremlin, massive and unyielding, he felt the distance keenly. This place was old, yes. But age alone did not make something venerable.

The Kremlin was a fortress. A bulwark. A thing built to endure siege and repel force. It lacked the sanctity of devotion, the layered holiness of centuries bent toward God rather than power. Compared to the Apostolic Palace, it was a blunt instrument: imposing but empty of grace.

Philip allowed none of these thoughts to show.

A veil obscured his expression as he was ushered inside, his face composed into the serene mask expected of the Bishop of Rome. Disdain, when it came, must be hidden beneath courtesy. He had learned that lesson long before the Keys, long before prophecy had begun to trouble his sleep.

My audience, he thought as he was shown to the chambers prepared for him. The phrasing amused him, faintly. It was the Ascendancy who would have audience with him. He had not come because he was summoned. He had come because he had allowed it. Yet it was time.

The Key of Cunning lay sealed in the deepest vaults of the Vatican Archives, wrapped in classification and prayer both. Even now, he could feel its absence like a space where a tooth had been pulled. The world was shifting. Lines once clear had blurred. Children like Thalia were being drawn toward idols fashioned not of gold or stone, but of influence and spectacle. Souls, wandering unguarded. He had seen what came of that. Is this the end of days? he wondered, not for the first time. Philip had not come merely as a diplomat. He had come because the dream had returned, unchanged. Because prophecy was not a thing one ignored simply because it was inconvenient.

Today required balance.

He would stand as both Pontifex Maximus and sovereign prince. His presence would remind the world that the Holy See was not merely a faith, but a state older than most nations dared remember. His vestments were chosen accordingly.

The red velvet mozzetta, trimmed with winter ermine, rested upon his shoulders like a mantle of history. Beneath it, the rochet of linen white and meticulous craftsmanship marked the business of state rather than the intimacy of pastoral care. The pectoral cross hung heavy against his chest, suspended from braided gold and crimson cord, its weight familiar and grounding against his heart. The fascia ended in gold-tasseled knots, an echo of ceremonies long abandoned by those who mistook simplicity for humility.

And upon his feet, the red shoes. Louboutin made.  The Gentlemen of His Holiness flanked him, followed by cardinals in piano dress, their black cassocks edged in scarlet like restrained flame. Cameras followed every measured step as he moved through the Grand Palace, the murmur of media held at bay by marble, discipline, and awe.

Then the doors opened.

The old throne room of the tsars stretched before him. Protocol had been observed, he noted, precisely, even deferentially. Chairs stood side by side at the foot of a dais, equal in height, equal in placement. Above them loomed the ancient throne itself, elevated and unused, a relic of dominion past. Though rumor said the Ascendancy did in fact use it.  But what drew Philip’s eye was not the throne itself. It was the sigil behind it.

The emblem of the CCD dominated the wall. It was modern, assertive, and unmistakable. His gaze sharpened, though his expression did not change. He approved of the honesty, at least. Power that pretended not to be power was the more dangerous kind. But power over men was eclipsed by the power of God.

Then he noticed the third chair.

His breath did not falter. His stride did not slow. But something inside him stilled, like a pond touched by the first hint of wind.

So, he thought. This is how they mean to play it.

As his full titles were announced, Patricus I stepped forward, alone, down the long center of the hall. The sound of his footsteps carried toward the figure waiting at the far end.