The Bishop's Solitude
Raphael Lorenzio Cathedral was linked to the bishopric by a stone corridor. High-ranking clergy who handled the Papal Domain's administration and dioceses stayed there as needed. From the outside, it resembled an old manor house, surrounded by stone walls centuries old, with portraits of saints and martyrs adorning the interiors.
The first floor housed offices for the bishops' administrative duties, while the second floor contained their lodgings. Most rooms were spartan: a desk, chair, bed, altar, and a few personal books—that was all. Bishop Alquin's room was no different. Since arriving in the Papal Domain, he had stayed in the bishopric's quarters. His assistant priest brought meals and tonics to restore his strength at regular intervals. He answered the inquisitors' persistent questions, devoting the rest of his time to recovery, meditation, and prayer.
Outwardly, it was a picture of utter peace and monotony, but inwardly, a fierce turmoil raged. Not about human salvation, divine providence, or the harmony of faith and reason.
No messenger birds had come from the Boatmer diocese. It had been a fortnight since his arrival. He had immediately sent word to the priests there about recent events, but no reply came. Even accounting for the distance between Boatmer and the Papal Domain, it was far too late. And Bishop Alquin knew the reason better than anyone.
He was now a man cut adrift. The clergy in Boatmer no longer recognized him as their bishop. Even if the Papacy did not formally remove him, a bishop rejected by his diocese's lord was as good as exiled. Naturally, Boatmer's patronage would end—no more financial support, no more lands under his rule, no lingering political influence.
Now, he had to rely on the Papacy's mercy, seek another noble's backing, or ally with a monastic order. But he had no territory, funds, or political leverage to offer. Only one path remained: excommunicate Viscount Boatmer and place the Boatmer diocese under direct Papal control. That was his sole chance for a peaceful old age.
Fortunately, God had not forsaken him yet. Viscount Boatmer had been summoned to a religious trial. The testimonies of Bishop Alquin and Inquisitor Raphael had been decisive. Violations of duel code, patricide, plots to assassinate a bishop and inquisitor—the charges alone warranted excommunication at minimum, possibly confiscation of lands or direct intervention by Papal forces.
Of course, the viscount would not meekly confess, and given the Papacy's current chaos, true punishment was uncertain. He might even buy his way out with astronomical donations for indulgences. Either way, Boatmer would feel immense pressure and lose prestige among the nobility.
And recently, a young priest friendly with Boatmer had burned to death in purple flame at Count Farnese's banquet. His corruption had been thoroughly exposed by the Inquisition.
'The work of Baron Binvelt, no doubt.' Bishop Alquin was certain. From the moment he testified about the purple flame in Binvelt's camp, he had—willing or not—boarded the same ship as the baron. It was Baron Binvelt who had maneuvered him into appealing directly to the special inquisitor about the purple flame.
Somehow, the baron had known the inquisitor would react. Escorted by the special inquisitor and holy knights, he had reached the Papal Domain. According to his assistant, he was already holding audience with the Grand Inquisitor.
Considering the baron was only twelve, Bishop Alquin saw just two ways to interpret him: a miracle sent by God, or a heretic's vanguard.
Willing or not, Alquin had been swept into the current the baron had set in motion. Drift along to its end, or struggle to break free? He could not decide easily.
His prayers always ended pleading for wisdom. And the answers always came in ways he did not desire.
"Your Excellency, Inquisitor Darius requests a private audience."
"Let him enter."
The inquisitor's questions proceeded as usual. The difference this time was his relentless probing into the recent purple flame incident—especially linking it to Baron Binvelt.
"I hear the Baron of Binvelt, who came to petition for a religious trial, has a dedicated mage. Could she possibly ignite the purple flame?"
The question was simple, but its consequences irreversible. Telling the truth would drag the baron and his mage into the Inquisition. And the baron's fate would affect the bishop's own.
'Lord, grant me wisdom.' The bishop offered a silent prayer. Then he spoke.
"The purple flame is the final stage of flame for worldly mages," Alquin said, feigning calm. "There are rumors that high mages can ignite it, but they're just that—rumors. No one has truly witnessed it."
His voice carried appropriate gravity and caution. His heart raced; his back was slick with cold sweat. Denying what he had seen was a lie, a sin. The reason screams echoed from the Inquisition's cells.
So he chose ambiguity.
"Even if someone claimed to have it, how would you judge it if they couldn't wield the power?"
Divine power was grace bestowed on clergy. But not all received it. God's grace manifested differently for each. Through his own lack of prowess in such powers, Alquin struck a point neither true nor false.
"...A valid point."
Inquisitor Darius stared at the bishop for a moment.
"Understood, Your Excellency. May God protect you."
The sharp-eyed inquisitor rose slowly. The bishop remained still. His heart still pounded. Heavy footsteps receded down the corridor.
"Hoo. Thank you, Lord."
Alquin sighed, gazing at the floor in grateful prayer. Then, heavy footsteps approached again. The door opened without a knock.
"I-Inquisitor Raphael?"
The black-coated inquisitor. The iron cross at his neck and the mace at his belt felt chillingly cold.
"Well done, Your Excellency."
"What...?"
"Even a fool is deemed wise if he keeps silent, and prudent if he closes his lips. You know the verse."
Raphael quoted a biblical passage on the value of silence.
"Then...?"
"Circumstances have kept me in the next room lately. Call if you need me."
Raphael exited. The thick walls did little to muffle his movements to the adjacent room.
'If I had spoken of what I knew about the purple flame...'
Pondering Raphael's words, Alquin felt chills rack his body.
Decades ago, plague swept the continent. Corpses piled in villages; despair and terror eroded faith. The arrows turned on the Old Faith, which branded it demonic work and began witch hunts and purges.
Villages suspected of plague were sacrificed. The infected were deemed forsaken by God; their homes declared witch havens. Massacres were committed in God's name. The rite of purification: cleansing the tainted through live burial and burning, day after day.
Time passed. Young priest Vincenzio visited a village for ministry. On the Papal Domain's fringes, once trampled by the Old Faith. Survivors called clergy demonic minions, denied God, and eked out lives in despair. They pelted priests with stones, brandished blades to kill.
Fear and rage were all that remained. No cleric wished to go there. Vincenzio went anyway.
Terrified villagers surrounded him at the sight of his robes and beat him. He couldn't preach a single gospel. The village chief even lunged with a dagger.
Then Ancelmo saved him. Bare-handed, Ancelmo gripped the dagger without flinching. He appealed to what must be protected.
"Kill him, and the Church will send soldiers for retribution. We can avenge ourselves, fine—but what sin have our children committed to face reprisal?"
Blood dripping from his hand, his words worked. The villagers hesitated and dispersed to their homes. It was evening.
Ancelmo supported Vincenzio to his home—a poor, lonely place. His wife and children had all died in the plague, he said. Dinner was gruel.
"If my firstborn had lived, he'd be about your age. Leave at dawn. This isn't a place for greenhorns like you."
Ancelmo warned in a gruff tone.
That night, calamity struck again. Beasts raided. Post-plague abandoned villages were prime hunting grounds. Defenses crumbled; terror gripped all. Children wailed, men armed but fled in panic, falling one by one as fodder.
One man walked toward the beasts. From the hand of the pale young priest in black robes rose holy light. Blinding, deafening brilliance.
Emboldened by the light, villagers grabbed weapons and fought back. Something ignited in Ancelmo's chest—like he had waited a lifetime for this moment.
While the light held the beasts, Ancelmo slew most alone. Beast corpses littered the ground; the holy light faded. Dawn broke instead.
Exhausted before Vincenzio, Ancelmo knelt and sobbed.
"Why... why now?"
Pent-up pain burst from Ancelmo's eyes. He had lost family to plague and Old Faith purges. Faith shattered, only vengeance and longing remained. If even clergy were demonic, what meaning in his trials? His family's deaths mere dog-ends; the Church as distant as emperors or kings. No heaven, no hell—just chaos. Thus he had lived in hell.
"If a priest like you had come just a little sooner... I... I..."
That day, through Vincenzio, Ancelmo believed in God again. Meaningless hell regained purpose; a miraculous reason to live, a mission, arrived. Faith reborn.
Like parents welcoming a wayward child, Vincenzio embraced Ancelmo's bitterness, despair, resentment—all of it. He laid hands on the kneeling man's head and baptized him.
"Today, you are reborn. Henceforth, your name is Raphael, God's healer."
...
Raphael briefly recalled that day. What he received from Vincenzio was salvation.
"Forgive our sins...!"
"Purify our bodies...!"
Night deepened, but the plaza before Lorenzio Cathedral brimmed with screams and wails. Hundreds of faithful knelt, tore clothes, prayed in unison. Some whipped themselves, drawing blood. A rite of atonement.
Decades ago, during the plague, devotees had done the same before the cathedral. But now, in the Papal Domain, it was more fanatical. Some cried divine judgment; others starved in extreme fasts unto death; even children were dragged by parents to bleed in forced penance.
...
This too was His trial. This too was His trial.
Raphael repeated inwardly.
"I didn't expect you'd share so freely."
Isaac looked surprised at the cardinal's ready answer. About the bond between Vincenzio and Raphael—a story that could be a weakness for Vincenzio.
Isaac's alliance with Vincenzio was temporary, doomed to rupture. Given the purple flame's symbolism, Vincenzio would never let him live. To Vincenzio, Isaac was merely a useful tool to evade purple flame suspicions—discardable once spent.
Yet Vincenzio had confided freely in such an Isaac about his near-confidant Raphael.
"A church father said God entrusts children to parents, making them like angels from heaven. Raphael and I are like that."
Vincenzio smiled warmly. It signified absolute trust in Raphael.
"I see. Enviable. In a world where parents sell children and children kill parents for their possessions."
Isaac stated flatly.
"Precisely because of such a world, our bond is all the more precious."
"Well said."
Isaac nodded. But he withheld the truth he knew: after the religious wars, it was Raphael who had pierced Vincenzio's heart.