Consider, friends, St. Celeste, the martyr true.
Consider, children, her innocent youth.
Consider, my lords, her common blood, made higher than yours by her humility.
Consider, poor, her life of simplicity.
Consider, priest, her devotion to that Spring.
And consider, O Piuso, her blameless rose.
I hold these papers in my hands, their long spidery handwriting blurring away in the dim candle light.
“So it comes to this.”
I look out to my flock, an expanse that stretches far out before me, pure white. I can see the wolves prowling upon the edges. The sheep panic, the rams quarrel with one another. The wolves laugh.
And here I am, upon the bluff. Behind us, a storm is quickly bearing down. There is shelter, but we shall not reach it in time. O Lord, what are we to do?
I take up my pen, the words seem to form upon the pale paper before me. Grave words, words that shall echo through the centuries. For eternal memory, for better or for worse. Finally, it has finished and my hand hovers now over the final spot. Shall my name be put to this? Shall I now accept the words here and whatever blood or pain may come thereto. Yes, I must.
So there it is, a name signed in my life blood as much as it is in this sable ink. This Urth shall not forget, though I wish it would.
Red wax, a gold seal. It is done.
They tell us that as Priests, we must be prepared to be all things to all people. One moment, we welcome a newborn into the world and share the joy of the parents. The next, we could be sharing the lives of our flock, their daily struggles and challenges, helping them fight sins and turn to good. And the very next, you very well could be with a man on his deathbed, preparing him for his resignation from the world and ascent to our Lord. It seems a difficult task, almost impossible, but somehow, we do it.
But what are we to do when we are faced with peoples who do not even share our Faith? We adjure them, turn them to the Truth. But what if this said heathen in the Princess of Daravi and her companion, run from the murderous torments of a land ruled by sin and magery. Well, I came to the answer of that question, one frankly, I never thought to ask myself before.
My decision will likely ruffle a few feathers amongst the prelates. No matter, their feathers need rustling sometimes, keeps them on their toes. I have allowed the Princess and Laila to walk free. They do not believe in the works of the Springs and I know that. Some would have them burned or left to rot in that place forever, but no. I shall not have that sin on my heart. Hm? You question its a sin, aye, it is. She is a refugee and a soul that may one day be won for the Lord. But I can say now, the Light of the Lord’s grace rarely can break the shadows of that Tower, oh how I despise that place. Far too many have only had their contempt for the Church increased in its bowels. Its a necessary evil, but I would rather see our prisoners moved out of there and to conversion quickly, not left to pine over how much they hate us for being left in there. So, yes, I have let the Daravi go, with the King’s leave of course, though I doubt he would of given it unless I had so advocated it. The Knights’ll have my head for it, I’m sure, but I’ve made the right choice.
I am eager for out first session together, when I can manage it. The Daravi are an unknown, an unknown the Church shall soon be faced with. We must have an advocate for Truth amongst the people. whether she knows it or not, the Princess is to be the Lord’s envoy to her people soon enough. Priests will one day have to combat their heresies and we must know how. It shall go a long way to have an ally in this fight, for it shall be long, long indeed. Anyways, I felt no comfort in keeping her there. If she can agree to not disturb our peace, I feel she has a much better chance at salvation without the cell. Pray the people give her that chance.
As the first rays of the sun began to creep over the far horizon, the city of Lithmore slept. the streets were deserted this early hour save the occasional early traveller, or the merchant setting up his shop for the day. All was as it should, should be save for the great crimson flow that now stretched across Church Square. It was the Great Holy Synod, all the bishops and archbishops of the Holy Church were gathered here, in one place, and among them was Bishop Benedictus Piuso of Lithmore. It was deathly quiet.
Slowly, solemnly, the bells of the Cathedral began to toll as the procession began to move forward like a great flame slowly moving into the Church. Bene mounted the steps, his hands folded before him as they moved through the doors. He could see far at the head of the group, a paled body that was all too familiar: Cardinal Zinadya Tartaryn: a spiritual mother, mentor, and friend. She had been embalmed and now made her last journey as Cardinal of Lithmore through the Church she once guided so well. The moved through the great stone expanse, sweeping tumbling Eld about them. They pass by the Fountis and to the altar, stripped bare in mourning. The only light was by a single tall candle standing behind a great chair, the Cathedra of Lithmore, which now lay empty. Carefully, Bene found his seat, near the back of the area as was customary for the junior prelates, and waited. A thin, aged man got up to speak, dressed in the scarlet and gold of an archbishop. He gave a sermon, instructing them to the grave task they undertook. Lithmore only nearly had a King and Patriarch, and now it was deprived of its Cardinal. He or she who was picked would profoundly effect not only the future of the Church, but of Lithmore as well. There was a great solemnity to this.. naturally.
Then the debates began. Each bishop and archbishop, sitting in their spots began to speak at once. Chaos. Each advocated their own way, though one topic seemed to be central on the floor: the issue of the King. “He is not of Dav!” one prelate yelled, an elderly fellow from the south of Lithmore. “And the Lord Justiciar to boot! And he presumes to rule this Church?” he shakes his head, about him many nodded in agreement, “What we need is a man willing to take the Church on its own terms, not those of a King, one who shall not fixate on Davism, but on the religion as a whole.” At this, whispers began to ripple through the Synod, one word was on everyone’s lips: ‘Purist.’ Bene shifts in his chair, he doesn’t seem to mind this in the least. “The Patriarchate must return to the Church.” the bishop concludes, “And we must elect a Cardinal who can secure it for us.”
The first vote was called. As the paper ballots were counted one by one: no consensus. More debate. A second vote, no consensus. Things were becoming increasingly tense in the chamber two candidates had a lead: Piet ab Dome, and Archbishop from the South of Lithmore. He was an orthodox Davist, strong in Faith, stern, and had served in the Inquisition for the majority of his career. He had a small lead, though not the 2/3 required. The second was Bishop Atheln ab Deler, one of the rural bishops of Lithmore. He was a bit younger, had also served as an Inquisitor, and was a Purist. He was known for his openness, not to anything heretical per-say, but the willingness to work without the Inquisition in many moral affairs. The bickering between the two factions were coming to a peak: “We need experience!” the ab Dome supporters yelled “A man who will stand up and promote the Inquisition. Its absolutely necessary.” The ab Deler supporters countered “The Church is now known only by the Inquisition! We must not lose track of our real goal: the salvation of souls. The laity will react better to a more tender hand.” More yelling. Bene had voted for ab Dome in the first vote and abstained in the second. He was becoming increasingly disillusioned with the prelate, however. Far too full of himself, not good for the Church. As the yelling continued, Bene dismissed himself, falling back to the Sanctum Chapel. With a sigh, he sat before the statue and prayed. “O Zinadya, why did you have to go.. When we needed a strong leader the most, you left. What are we to do?” He put his head in his hands. He heard the signal for another vote. He would abstain this one again. A few moment passed, and the yelling took up again, no consensus. The debate continued and Bene continued to pray. An hour or so passed and he felt a soft touch on the shoulder, “Your Grace?” He looked back to a small acolyte, “Your Grace?” “Yes?” “You should know, Your Grace.” “Know what?” “The Synod-Dean wishes to speak with you. In private.” “Yes, yes, have him come here.”
The Synod-Dean entered, an older cleric with a kindly face. He sat down next to Bene and smiled, “Piuso. I have something you must consider.” “Yes, Eminence?” “There has been a secret election. We have a two-thirds majority, though it won’t be put in the next vote.. not until we speak with the proper persons.” “And I’m a ‘proper person’?” “Yes.” “Who is it then?” There was a long pause, “Your Grace, we have spoken, and its a new candidate. We think we need a new face to the chair. We need someone young, someone idealistic. Your Grace, the Synod is prepared to elect you Cardinal of Lithmore.” “Come again?” “Your Grace, you are to be elected.” “Then I will not accept.” “Your Grace, do not jump to so quick a conclusion. This deal has been secured very delicately. You shall push this on for weeks, months even. The Church must have her leader.” “But why me?” “The Lord has chosen.” “How can you be sure?” “Pray, child. You shall know.”
There was silence as Bene prayed before the statue, one of the first great Cardinals. He prayed, he cried. It was some time before he had his decision. Stepping out to the altar, all eyes were on him. The Synod-Dean stepped forward. “Bishop Benedictus Piuso. This Holy and Great Synod has reached its decision. Shall you accept the mantle of the Cardinalate?” “I- I shall.” Those words, two small words. Suddenly, the entire Synod seemed to collapse. Every Bishop and Archbishop fell to his knees before a man far younger than many there. In silence, he took his seat upon the Cathedra. It was not a comfortable chair, well enough, no prelate should be comfortable. He must always remember the punishment he shall face for laxity. One by one, they all came forward and knelt at his feet. They whispered counsels and fealties. They would serve him until the end. Bene stood to leave, he had now to announce his election. His hand moving in blessing, he began to make his way down the nave. Church bells rang high above. He knew that the call would be spread throughout the kingdom. Soon, every bell would ring as one. Now was supposed to be a time of joy. As he came to the doors of the Cathedral. He finished the ceremony, he knelt at them and prayed, Then, as he rose, a Priest held before him straw which ignited and fell to the floor, “So, Your Holiness, passes the glory of this Urth. Pray, do not succumb to it.” The doors opened and blinding sunlight cut through the Cathedral.
We believe thou shalt come to be our judge,
We pray thee, therefore, help thy servants, whom thou hast redeemed
…
O Lord, save thy people, and bless thy inheritance.
Govern them and lift them up forever.
Oh, my Lord, to what does it profit that you should bring me here. I am young, far before the age and wisdom my blessed predecessors have wielded so powerfully for Your name. I have so much fear, so much uncertainty in my position. I look about and see the lives and holy work of so many clergy who have dedicated themselves to You far longer than I and it is I who am to be their Father? Oh, I shall need so many of your graces if this is to come to anything good, O Lord.
But even as I say these words, I feel the guilt which I have incured in questioning Your wisdom, that Holy Wisdom far beyond our own comprehensions, for You indeed see much that we cannot. Yet, O Lord, might you deign to stoop to my lowly ear and hearten a heart that feels so unready?
I know now this, my Lord, that I cannot hope to this without you. Should I step out upon my own accord, wrap myself about with titles, silver, gold, and silks, I shall surely fall. For the things of this world are but temporary, dust in the mighty winds of time. For all powers shall crumble before You, all riches, all joys cannot stand unless they are rooted in you. So make it so, my Lord! Make it so that whatever good I might by Your grace bring into this world not pass onto me for my glory, but unto You for Your glory and that it may be rooted forever in You. For I have but one wish, but one desperate prayer: that all I have done may not come to not, that by some miracle, that when they bear up my casket and cover me with the cold Urth from whence I proceeded forth, there may be but one glimmer of light, one tiny candle in the great shadow, which may somehow be attributed to me. And obtain for me also, Lord, that though that candle was lit by my hand, they shall not remember the hand, but the flame and when they see the flame, they shall remember its true origin: You.
So, Tenebrae, you reveal your true purpose for what it is, hmm? While you wear that shadowy guise of a ‘friend of the people’ you have made the blunder which confirms what I have known all along: you care nothing for the people of the Southside, they are but pawns in your hands. You care little for their struggles, you seek only to use them in your vain attempt to claw your way to power!
You have begun killing, and in killing, you have shown us that anyone who represents a threat to your little ‘kingdom’ in the south of the city must die, no matter how much support and love they give to your supposedly beloved people. Well, know this, Tenebrae, the Church will live up to its mission to help the poor and we will fulfill our solemn duty to save them all from oppression, your oppression.
Your move, old friend.
