Alluvion

[Patricus I]

The whispers receded much as the flood waters that suddenly rose and vanished. Philip wasn’t sure if he remembered hearing them at all, and grasping the memory was unsuccessful yet onward the experience flowed. With the lay of her hands in his, he studied the ruined palm. The design meant something, but like many things he had dreamed this night, he did not comprehend. His brow furrowed thoughtfully at her question as the sequenced was relived. “I saw a refuge. A place of safety amidst the darkness. It is our only chance to survive, but the risk is great. Deviating even a whisper from the path of destiny and we will be extinguished.”

He broke the connection with the girl in order to return his hands to the aforementioned pockets. This place hid more than visions and said more than mutters. Like faith, he never attempted to decode the past, nor did he truly seek clairvoyance about the future. These things just happened, like the embrace of the girl, he did not deny them their work.

She offered a name that he would probably forget even if he never lost the color of her eyes or the ambiguity of her voice. “And I am—” he paused before issuing a similar moniker of self-identification. Was he Philip? Was he Patricus I? A priest? The Holy Father? Was he Christ himself? Here, within this realm of empty meanings, maybe he was both none and all of them at the same time.

Finally, as his gaze penetrated their surroundings, drinking in the immensity of this moment, a pacific expression settled, ”And my good lady, I am no one. I am nothing.”