07-29-2020, 12:47 AM
(This post was last modified: 07-29-2020, 12:53 AM by Patricus I.)
Oh, how the tides turned.
No scars marked his hand, and if they did, so often did Philip fold them near that the wound would be obscured. Nimeda suddenly felt like the tide retracting into the sea, but Philip was not one to chase. The question made him sputter a sarcastic laugh, and he pushed toward the river’s edge in response. A small patch of grass lined the sidewalk beyond. When he climbed free, his pristine clothes were tinged to drabber shades that made him grumble. As he brushed his hair to arranged stillness, a pull toward blue serenity yearned to sweep him elsewhere. He could show Nimeda the landscape her counterpart painted, but he somewhat treasured the secret - even from Nimeda.
Rome surrounded them, but it was a city emptied of souls. Awake, the fullness of the city was no different, other than to restrict the Pope's comings and goings. He was not the sovereign of Rome to command vacancy, and so in a prison of hollowed grounds he remained. If there was danger, he did not acknowledge it. Just as once, to the Vicar of Iscariot. he declared himself fearless. The admittance was not a shade of arrogance, humble as Philip was, but it was because he had nothing to lose. He simply did not acknowledge the existence of fear. There was nothing of this world he wanted. The only thing he did desire, was not the world's to give.
“There is only one who can endanger me, Nimeda,” he explained on a turn toward the river, folding his hands as he’d imagined in the water. His eyes brightened next, alluding to a presence he knew more than he knew himself. “And He’s not here.” Wherever here was, they were most certainly alone.
She would find the answer frustrating, which was why the mirth in his eyes twisted his lips into a baiting smile.
After licking his lips, reviling in the continued taste of the waters of Tiberinus, imagined or otherwise, that dampened his tongue, he considered asking for a towel since that seemed to fluff his clothing the last time they met. Instead, his mind went another way. If the clothing dried of its own accord, he may accept it, but he may also opt to bathe in Fontana di Trevi. There was no way to know until it happened.
“Do you happen to have a vanilla coke zero?”
No scars marked his hand, and if they did, so often did Philip fold them near that the wound would be obscured. Nimeda suddenly felt like the tide retracting into the sea, but Philip was not one to chase. The question made him sputter a sarcastic laugh, and he pushed toward the river’s edge in response. A small patch of grass lined the sidewalk beyond. When he climbed free, his pristine clothes were tinged to drabber shades that made him grumble. As he brushed his hair to arranged stillness, a pull toward blue serenity yearned to sweep him elsewhere. He could show Nimeda the landscape her counterpart painted, but he somewhat treasured the secret - even from Nimeda.
Rome surrounded them, but it was a city emptied of souls. Awake, the fullness of the city was no different, other than to restrict the Pope's comings and goings. He was not the sovereign of Rome to command vacancy, and so in a prison of hollowed grounds he remained. If there was danger, he did not acknowledge it. Just as once, to the Vicar of Iscariot. he declared himself fearless. The admittance was not a shade of arrogance, humble as Philip was, but it was because he had nothing to lose. He simply did not acknowledge the existence of fear. There was nothing of this world he wanted. The only thing he did desire, was not the world's to give.
“There is only one who can endanger me, Nimeda,” he explained on a turn toward the river, folding his hands as he’d imagined in the water. His eyes brightened next, alluding to a presence he knew more than he knew himself. “And He’s not here.” Wherever here was, they were most certainly alone.
She would find the answer frustrating, which was why the mirth in his eyes twisted his lips into a baiting smile.
After licking his lips, reviling in the continued taste of the waters of Tiberinus, imagined or otherwise, that dampened his tongue, he considered asking for a towel since that seemed to fluff his clothing the last time they met. Instead, his mind went another way. If the clothing dried of its own accord, he may accept it, but he may also opt to bathe in Fontana di Trevi. There was no way to know until it happened.
“Do you happen to have a vanilla coke zero?”
![[Image: hiclipart.com_-e1597513863757.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/hiclipart.com_-e1597513863757.png)