Tiberinus

[Patricus I]

“Truth is always indelible,” he replied as soon as Nimeda flushed the surface. Meanwhile, Philip was a pillar in the water. Playfulness was absent just as absence was presence. The statement drew his expression solemn such that the previous moment of mirth may have been a mirage. Distinct from something dreary, he observed her revelry as one might contemplate a sculpture on display. In the Vatican, art infused the very walls. They were monuments to joy, love, devotion, but they also symbolized wrath, isolation, and judgment: virtue and vice entwined together in order to spark reflection of the kind of depths eclipsing mountain streams. The question stirred: which was Nimeda? Vice or virtue?

Inevitably, memory tugged a similar truth imprinted upon him, but he did not speak of it. However, the power of its mark forced his attention toward the waterfall rather than his sisterly companion. From the bank, the water poured like clouds, but up close, it was chaotic and violent. One might compare the duality to all of humanity. Was that the viewpoint of God? A divine inspector who viewed the soul from his throne on high as clearly as he peered into the darkest corners of mens’ hearts: finding a serene and savage creation simultaneously entwined.

What about this place impressed so deeply upon Nimeda? Excluding shadows that moved like cats, the forest was indistinguishable from any other. The trees were of variable families. The mountains were ominous and everlasting. They may be anywhere in the world. What sorts of calamities did they bear witness? What triumphs?

Answers were intangible as the existence of God, he thought, turning aside from the waterfall’s eternal cascade. The globes of his eyes swiveled toward Nimeda, and he wondered what sketch of him Thalia would create come morning. The Pope lounging shirtless beneath a waterfall would make for some disconcerting fan-art.

“Thalia was quite uncomfortable around me,” he said, finally, gauging Nimeda’s reaction carefully.