#suppliiant

In physical fissure and petting the silken fur of a beloved feline the wrong way, this man, this person, puts the icy fingertip of Father Winter on the delicate, pink skin of his cheek, on the back of Roland’s neck.

In base curiosity doth his spirit seek this rigidness: Roland meanders where those cannot see, hidden in candleflame and the sunlight glow from gold and the religious icons, the face of the Mother Mary gazing serenely upon her children in the high, towering cathedrals. Prisons with rich architecture.

Creatures of night, brought to light, and a marvelous bit of poetic verse.

So, ‘tis because of this, in the musky blue fog of morning, that Roland goes to this person, the He Who Has Not Shared Names, in the flesh-and-bone garb of his peasantry blood, bare-footed and clothing poor.

“You, devout one,” he calls, taking long strides. He raises a hand in greeting, and without introducing his name, or saying ‘good morning’, asks: “How come thee by thine faith? Thus? Whence did the glory of thine God shine mercifully upon thee?”

@suppliiant

He laughs hard enough to have him choking, and that choking clogs hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. His smile remains affixed, even as it aches the skin of his face and pulls the muscles.

He cackles brightly, wheezing on the tail end of his cough; he wipes a tear from his eye, for dramatic effect. “Yea,” he answers, winded. He barks out another laugh.

He could not remember the last time he had been to Rome.  Several years when he sat down and thought on it, though  the same could be said about Nico going to Florence. Sure  he wrote his former Maestro and Zo letters, but he simply never had much time since he volunteered to aid in the restorations after Otranto. 

Nico clutched the letter in his hand, requests to discuss further treaties between the Kingdom of Naples and the Papal States if he remembered, and yet as he was escorted,  his eyes widened slightly upon seeing a familiar face.