Padir Stands Alone
Padir stands alone. Solely. It is a sentence emphasizing the independent existence and absoluteness of God. In contrast to a God who can exist in solitude, all living things perish when their connections are severed. Even the most basic acts—eating, sleeping—cannot be done alone. They eat. Something. They sleep. Somewhere. From the moment of existence, from the moment of survival, living things are bound in relationships. Especially humans, who are incomplete yet know too much. Thus, they voluntarily choose ignorance or create and believe in relationships and concepts that never existed. Angels and demons, parents and children, God and creation, good and evil... What was originally there? What was made up? Regardless of their origin, whether real or illusory. People live atop all those relationships.
Isaac felt it vividly through his conversation with Raphael.
“Won’t you leave, Inquisitor?”
“I can’t leave.”
Vincenzio would board Isaac first. Then Alquin the bishop and Raphael the inquisitor. Through the purple flame signifying purification and judgment. That way, Viscount Boatmer could easily prove his innocence. And Cardinal Vincenzio would receive astronomical sums of support from Boatmer. What he wanted was not religious reform, but religious revolution. Revolution required force, and force required vast amounts of money. Not just Boatmer, but countless nobles, royals, and imperial families maintained such relationships with the cardinal. He had prepared the tools to complete his holy endeavor.
“His Eminence and I endure the world in the same way. He sees purging corruption as his mission, and I see serving him as mine. Otherwise, the suffering I’ve endured would be meaningless.”
“I heard from His Eminence. That you were reborn under the name Raphael. Is that why?”
“You’re full of questions. You’d best leave now.”
“As you know by now, Inquisitor, I’m a mage. I can’t hold back my curiosity even if it kills me.”
Raphael now knew, from Vincenzio, that Isaac—the true mage who had ignited the purple flame—was no fraud.
“Curiosity lost paradise.”
“I lost paradise long ago. I’m starting to grasp magic a bit, but human hearts? Still a mystery.”
“……”
Raphael stared into Isaac’s eyes. He always gauged truth by looking into his interlocutor’s eyes. May they know only the truth they can bear, he prayed inwardly. Isaac’s blue eyes, reflected in his gaze, were like a cloudy sky. The hidden and the revealed coexisted.
“……His Eminence seems to misunderstand something. At first, it was certainly that way. It felt like divine revelation manifesting before me. As if I’d lived for that moment.”
“Not anymore?”
“Beneath his priestly robes, His Eminence’s body is covered in scars. Whether from Cardinal Montalto or self-inflicted penance, the root is much the same.”
“……?”
“If His Eminence were truly close to God, I might not have overcome the doubts within me and left. But I soon realized. That he’s human, just like me. You are Padir.”
Padir. Father, in the ancient tongue. Also a term for priest.
“Once, it was a language of worship to God, a title laden with reverence and fear. But now, it is no longer sacred. It’s the coat draped over a child’s shoulders in winter, a slice of bread given when hungry. My root, the call to an aged shoulder.”
“A father?”
“……”
Raphael neither affirmed nor denied. He only urged him to leave.
“Baron, you are young. Your exclusive mage is young. When I lost my children to the plague, I was a newly retired soldier. The plague came from war in the end. It wasn’t unrelated to me. It was my sin too. I’ve condemned countless souls, but never children. Not today either. I don’t want to condemn you, Baron. It’s already too late. Leave.”
With that, Raphael rose from his seat. Deeply intoxicated, he staggered out the door of the inn. His irregular, precarious footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Raphael knew. Vincenzio was human. A weak human. Even now, he often rubbed the back of his neck, as if erasing an old touch with his palm. Sometimes he blinked at the empty air and shook his head. Walking alone in the cathedral’s dark corridors, he muttered to himself, “You’re still here.” He checked the locked door repeatedly before sleeping. He had a splendid mansion bestowed by the Pope, but visited only once a year if that, and ordered all mirrors removed. His wrists were always bruised because, in torment, he gripped and twisted them with all his strength.
Raphael knew. Vincenzio still hadn’t escaped Cardinal Montalto’s shadow. Even in his middle years.
“Where is the Grand Inquisitor?”
“Praying in the crypt.”
St. Arct Monastery. A monk answered Raphael’s question. The crypt was a space for prayer and meditation, also housing saints’ relics. Vincenzio frequented St. Arct’s crypt. Past a small garden, down a long cloister, descending stone stairs deep into the earth. The air was cold. Candle shadows danced along the walls. Stone sarcophagi bearing saints’ remains lined the damp floor. Even small footsteps or breaths echoed, with scents of beeswax and incense lingering faintly.
Raphael proceeded cautiously inward. The stone floor, prayed upon by countless monks over ages, bore deep depressions. Amid them knelt Vincenzio, forehead pressed to the cold stone in prayer.
As Raphael drew near, the murmuring voice grew clearer. He understood most of it not. Vincenzio prayed in ancient tongues, including archaic forms rarely used today. But one phrase he caught.
“……Gef tu sofa i fridru.”
Grant peaceful slumber. A constant in Vincenzio’s prayers. Raphael had long thought it born of insomnia’s torment. But before saints’ remains, Vincenzio’s prayers were not so simple.
“……”
Silently, Raphael knelt beside him, hands clasped, eyes closed. Until the prayer ended. For a long time. Praying for his peaceful nights. Until the eve of the relic bestowal rite.
Isaac met Vincenzio daily before the rite. Their talks were unremarkable. No words on purple flames, Boatmer, the Papal Domain’s state, or kingdom politics. Only magic studies. They shared much. Views on magic, insights, thought patterns. Speaking of magic, Vincenzio set aside “divine power” and focused purely on it. He especially delighted in Isaac’s five-stage theory of magical advancement from the academy.
“Hahaha, I can picture the students’ and professors’ faces.”
“It was rather radical for them to accept.”
“The fifth stage is indeed hard to swallow. Magic without ancient words.”
“Precisely, direct conceptualization of magic. Language is an inherently imperfect tool. It persists only for lack of better means.”
“Then, what is your vision of the ultimate mage?”
“I don’t know that myself.”
Like a man starved for conversation, Vincenzio devoted early breakfast to late lunch to Isaac. Middle-aged, yet boyish in magic talk—voice excited, eyes innocently bright.
“If only I’d met you sooner.”
“Meeting now suffices, doesn’t it? Had I met Your Eminence earlier, I couldn’t have spoken properly.”
“Ha, true. I keep forgetting you’ve only lived twelve years.”
Vincenzio repeatedly voiced regret at not meeting sooner. Loneliness flickered across his face then. Isaac knew its meaning but feigned ignorance.
Their exchanges weren’t mere intellectual play. Through views on magic, they gauged each other’s depth. No need to demonstrate spells; articulated knowledge measured the mage.
The cardinal planned to burn Isaac at the relic rite. Thus, assessing his power was necessary. Isaac’s unique constitution lacked circles, making level impossible to guess. Yet he’d ignited purple flame so easily—confirmation was needed.
“Oh, time’s flown already. Talking with you, I lose track.”
“Indeed.”
“Had circumstances differed, we’d be friends beyond religion. Truly regrettable.”
“I think so too.”
Afternoons, Vincenzio resumed Grand Inquisitor duties; Isaac returned to his lodgings. Even there, magic discussions persisted.
“Why do people here call magic ‘divine power’?”
“What’s the difference between magic and divine power?”
“What’s in the scriptures that makes mages burn without a fight?”
Since arriving in the Papal Domain, Enet studied ancient tongues fervently. Theology clashing with magic studies had become reality here. She’d been dragged to the Inquisition, witnessed witch hunts. It shocked her deeply, birthing questions. No longer studying from debt to Isaac, but to resolve her existence as mage—and survive.
Isaac answered her sincerely, pleased inwardly. Thus, evening came.
Three days passed. On the third, Isaac sent Enet back to Binvelt. The fourth dawn broke. The relic bestowal rite day. Snow fell heavily. Even the faithful seeking unseen salvation or atonement couldn’t endure the bone-chilling cold; Lorenzzio Cathedral’s plaza stood empty.
That day, purple flames consumed the cathedral.