There is something to be said for taking notice. People go by every day, and we rarely bat an eyelash. We are perpetually disconnected one from another—it’s easier that way. If we cared, we would be overwhelmed. So it comes as no surprise that when an old man dressed in simple brown linens made his way into the Cathedral of Light, relying on the help of his talk walking stick, very few people noticed. And no one cared.
It had become a habit of late. Every day, he would journey from his nearby haunt to the cathedral, laboring up the stairs on stubborn knees, and forcing himself to kneel and pray. On his lips always were names, and in his mind were faces; both bitter memories muttered in near silence. Wishes for their souls were accompanied by sweat and tears.
One would imagine that kneeling like that, day after day, when even the stairs gave him such trouble, might be the source of those tears. If one would notice, anyway. But no one noticed, and no one knew there were tears to begin with, let alone from whence they came.
“Why do you cry?” The unexpected query came from a younger man. A priest, new to the cathedral. “I’ve seen you come in every day for the week that I’ve been here, and every day you kneel in that exact spot, and mutter and cry.” The old man paused, pushing back his hood gently, and turning to the younger. Though tears glistened in his eyes, he smiled gently and warmly.
“Perhaps I’ve atoned,” he finally admitted, rising and turning to face the priest. “I bore great guilt, but…”
“Surely, you can be forgiven,” the priest interjected hastily, much to the old man’s surprise. He then bore a sheepish look on his face, as the rudeness was realized. When he looked again at the old man, though, he saw only that same gentleness, and that same warmth.
“As can all,” he said, bringing a hand up and resting it reassuringly on the priest’s arm. “Come, child, what is your name?”
“Sullivan,” he replied, seeming suddenly timid and unsure, “J-James Sullivan, priest of the Holy Light.”
“Recently ordained, too, I imagine,” the elder smiled, “be at ease, son. There was a time when I was just as timid as you are now.”
“…who ARE you?” The priest asked curiously, eyes narrowing at the man.
“Until now, a wanderer, a helper only,” he admitted, “but it is time I took my old name again, with all the good and evil it entails.” There was a hint of tension in his otherwise warm, soft voice, but his face didn’t show it. “I am Father Peter Miremos, of Stratholme.”
It had become a habit of late. Every day, he would journey from his nearby haunt to the cathedral, laboring up the stairs on stubborn knees, and forcing himself to kneel and pray. On his lips always were names, and in his mind were faces; both bitter memories muttered in near silence. Wishes for their souls were accompanied by sweat and tears.
One would imagine that kneeling like that, day after day, when even the stairs gave him such trouble, might be the source of those tears. If one would notice, anyway. But no one noticed, and no one knew there were tears to begin with, let alone from whence they came.
“Why do you cry?” The unexpected query came from a younger man. A priest, new to the cathedral. “I’ve seen you come in every day for the week that I’ve been here, and every day you kneel in that exact spot, and mutter and cry.” The old man paused, pushing back his hood gently, and turning to the younger. Though tears glistened in his eyes, he smiled gently and warmly.
“Perhaps I’ve atoned,” he finally admitted, rising and turning to face the priest. “I bore great guilt, but…”
“Surely, you can be forgiven,” the priest interjected hastily, much to the old man’s surprise. He then bore a sheepish look on his face, as the rudeness was realized. When he looked again at the old man, though, he saw only that same gentleness, and that same warmth.
“As can all,” he said, bringing a hand up and resting it reassuringly on the priest’s arm. “Come, child, what is your name?”
“Sullivan,” he replied, seeming suddenly timid and unsure, “J-James Sullivan, priest of the Holy Light.”
“Recently ordained, too, I imagine,” the elder smiled, “be at ease, son. There was a time when I was just as timid as you are now.”
“…who ARE you?” The priest asked curiously, eyes narrowing at the man.
“Until now, a wanderer, a helper only,” he admitted, “but it is time I took my old name again, with all the good and evil it entails.” There was a hint of tension in his otherwise warm, soft voice, but his face didn’t show it. “I am Father Peter Miremos, of Stratholme.”
