The small vessel ploughed its way silently through the swell, a ghostly form amid the mist which clung avidly to its sides. Ahead and alongside, the eerie silhouettes of shacks and huts rose up, all of them derelict and forlorn in their abandonment. Guillaume stood at the prow, keenly watching for the signs of a jetty and the ship that would be moored there.

Ten more minutes passed until at last the first signs emerged. A man stood on the shoreline, waving a torch above his head, as beside him the outline of his great vessel appeared. The jetty, Guillaume noted, was considerably smaller than he had expected, and it slightly unnerved the young Patriarch that only this rotting stretch of timber now stood between the two ships. He wasted no time in wondering, however, instead making sure that his axe was concealed beneath the cloak he wore over his mantle, and that it was loose in its frog - for the first sign of danger. He leant against the bulwark of the prow, his palms pressed firmly into the oak beam as he listened for the tell-tale knock of wood on wood that would signal the ship's docking.

The sound came moments later. Guillaume, his arms already tensed for the impact, leapt deftly over the side of the ship as it came in past the jetty, and felt his feet hit solid wood as he landed on the end. He waited in the ship's shadow as it slowed behind him; and then, seeing the new captain's signal fire a short way away, he rose up and started forward.

The mist thinned further past the shoreline, and certain things became clear to Guillaume. The abandoned village was not so abandoned after all, although the state of the few individuals that still walked its streets made it seem even more like a ghost town. They were probably just the people who had chosen to stay behind when a war had hit their shores, Guillaume thought. Either that, or they're the survivors. The captain, a large, muscular figure whose greying hair fell in wisps around his shoulders, stood in stark contrast to his surroundings. Despite his probable uncleanness his clothes had barely a tear or stain in them, and they were not those of any poor man. Guillaume called out to the man as he neared, and caught the expression of relief that passed quickly across his face as he turned.

"Sir William of Cyprus, I assume?" he called over, starting towards Guillaume with his free hand outstretched.

"Yes, friend - that's me. I'm sorry for the delay, we ran into some trouble in the Marmara."

The captain raised his eyebrow, and chuckled. "That'd be pirates then?"

"Not quite, no." Guillaume looked away, towards the bulk of the vessel that loomed up beside him. "So this is your ship." It wasn't a question, and he forgot to conceal his disappointment.

The ship was a Byzantine dromon, a type of craft Guillaume knew to have been used in Byzantine naval military for centuries. He had seen many diagrams of them in his grandfather's library back in France as a child, and had heard many stories about their mighty prowess in battle. But this one was very different. It must have only been half the size of a usual dromon, with half the number of oars on its bulwarks and only half the number of crew running its decks. There were still two masts, and thus two enormous triangular sails, but the size of them only made the whole thing look cramped. Guillaume also noted how old the vessel must have been, and how badly that fact had been concealed. Every plank of wood appeared pitted and rough, splinters protruding like forests from them. The shelter at the back looked about ready to collapse in on itself. In fact, the whole thing looked ready to fall to pieces.

When Guillaume looked back round at the captain he almost laughed at the hurt expression he had drawn across the aged man's face. He threw an apologetic look at him, and then started pacing slowly towards the ship, the captain falling into step alongside.

"She used to serve in the Byzantine military, she did. And a mighty fine thing she must have been, too." He sighed, and looked sadly at the ground. "Of course, then she got old. I found her in a scrap yard, I did. Put everything I had into repairing her, so I could give her some work after her retirement. Ten years later, and here we are. Believe me, she might not look like much - but she's fast."

They continued in silence for a minute or two, before Guillaume suddenly asked, "So what can I call you?"

The captain seemed to consider for a moment. "I haven't gone by any name in years... just the Captain, I suppose."

Guillaume nodded. Behind him came rapid footsteps, and he turned to see Symeon running towards him.

"Sire, the captain demands the final payment. He couldn't find you, and accused you of trying to escape without paying."

The Templar smirked. "That wouldn't be beyond him, I suppose. Here, take this to him." He pulled a small cloth bag from his belt and placed it firmly into his protector's hand. "Meet me on board our new ship in ten minutes, with the provisions. Get one of the crew to help you."

Symeon nodded. He looked doubtfully up at the dromon, before turning and jogging away. Guillaume returned to the Captain, who had watched the exchange curiously.

"Well then. Let's get on board. Where will I be staying?"

---------------------------------------------------

The Pigolampida glided gracefully out through the wall of mist, its sails billowing from their masts and its crew singing jauntily on its deck as they rowed. At its prow stood a mighty figurehead, a young man clad in full white, with a bright red cross splayed across his chest and a golden crucifix at his neck. In the ship's wake lay the Dardanelles strait and the Gallipoli peninsula, both enshrouded in fog, and ahead lay a golden sunset and a journey full of wonders and mysteries.

The figurehead turned to his companion as the vessel picked up speed, and smiled to him.

"Come, Symeon. We must acknowledge the Hour of Vespers."

The pair knelt at the prow, a light breeze on their faces and in their hair. And as they opened their mouths and their minds to pray, a fleeting image of the Holy City flashed before their eyes, and filled them with hope and courage for the voyage to come.

Guillaume sprinted up the steps to the preceptory, cursing his mantle for being so heavy as he ran. Ahead, three towers rose into view upon the hilltop, three solid stone bastions that instilled joy in the young Templar as he gazed up at them through watering eyes.

Guillaume slowed as he saw the figures on the drawbridge. Three of them there were, although of such different postures Guillaume almost laughed. Zacharias, the mysterious old librarian and a good friend and advisor of the Templar stood on the right, hunched over his twisted oak walking stick and smiling frailly up at Guillaume as he neared. At the old man's shoulder stood Stephanos, the loyal young steward of the preceptory, beaming and waving at his friend and master. The last man Guillaume had only ever met once, and so it took him a moment to distinguish his grim features. It was the so-called Captain of Limassol, the dislikeable middle-aged man who watched over the southern district's main port city. The three of them started forwards to greet their master.

"I see you've been expecting me," Guillaume called, slowing into a walk. It was Stephanos who answered.

"Your last message arrived two weeks ago, master. We got some sergeants to watch the docks for your ship after the first few days, since we knew what to expect."

Guillaume stopped in front of the trio, smiling. After a moment he laughed, and clapped Stephanos on the shoulder.

"Come, let's walk."

The four of them turned and started at a slow pace towards the preceptory's inner courtyard, the inside of which was quiet, unusually so for a House of the Order. In one corner, a group of sergeants practiced with blunted swords and axes, the harsh sound of steel on steel ringing on the air. In another, a small crowd had gathered around an old Templar veteran, listening intently to his accounts of past battles and magnificent cities. A few looked round at the Commander, some murmuring in surprise to their neighbours, but most paid no attention.

"I suppose all the knights are off at the tourney?"

"Yes, quite a few of them left months ago," responded Zacharias. "I hear it's finished now."

Guillaume raised an eyebrow inquisitively at his friend. He turned at Stephanos' excited tone.

"Brother Escuman. Apparently Brother Rynold gave quite a show to many people as well, made it right through to the final round. Isn't he an old comrade of yours?"

Briefly Guillaume recalled his first ever mission as a fully-initiated knight, nodding. That had been six years ago, and the slight nostalgia went to his head.

"So, why this sudden pilgrimage to Jerusalem?"

The Captain's deep voice made Guillaume snap back into the present.

"The letter you sent almost a year ago was secretive, to say the least. At least the part I could read was. You and someone else got a code system or something?"

Guillaume smiled thinly, glancing at Zacharias. The old man's face betrayed nothing, however, when the Captain caught the look and stared at him belligerently. Already figuring he would get no answer, he went on.

"It has to be said, this whole secret messaging system - the part I was told about, anyway - is proving quite effective. Took less than a month to get here, your first letter did - bit quicker than you and your Byzantine ship down there."

"We ran into some... complications. Long story."

The Captain smirked. "I'll bet," he murmured.

"Is everything I asked for prepared?" Guillaume turned to Stephanos.

"Yes, sir. There's a fine Templar ship down in the harbour, with a well-paid captain you can be sure will ask no questions. Your chambers are all prepared too, as are Symeon's."

Guillaume nodded his approval. After a moment in silence he stopped, beckoning for his companions to do likewise. They had crossed the courtyard of the small fortress, and now stood in the shadow of the tallest tower, at its entrance. The young Patriarch turned and spoke to his steward.

"I must now speak to Zacharias. I assume there is something you could be doing? I was never here on administrative business, so..."

Stephanos nodded, completely understanding. Without a word further he turned and headed off in the direction of the town.

"I suppose you want me to leave too? No, don't even try to make excuses. I wouldn't want to disturb your precious little time together."

Guillaume and Zacharias laughed together as the Captain paced away in the same direction. The two then started toward the doorway in the side of the tower, lowering their voices as they talked. Zacharias spoke first.

"Patriarch, eh? You've been busy since you sent that message from Italy. I can understand why you're so desperate to get to Jerusalem too, fine old city she is."

"I felt I should show my face, let the people know who I am. Let the world know who I am, for that matter. I think few are even aware there is a new Patriarch of Jerusalem."

"And I'm sure many would find the news pleasing. That seat has been empty for far too long; the people must be getting anxious, if not even worse."

"Of course, the Western Church won't see it that way. I honestly wonder sometimes, about the claims that are made against us. The words Western and Eastern should never have been used in the Church, and it hurts me that they are. But too many people believe that they should be, too many of the wrong type of people, and it's them that keep the void between these spiritualities alive."

Zacharias looked sadly down at the floor, his deep-set brown eyes perhaps even more sorrowful than the Patriarch's beside him. Guillaume often had to remind himself that the old man had seen so much more suffering in his life than he probably ever would, and tried to help by sharing the pain.

After a moment Zacharias asked, "So where has young Symeon got off to?"

"I sent him home to Kinousa, to see his mother. I could tell he wanted to see her, although he'd never admit it. Honestly, that boy..."

Zacharias smiled. "He's a good lad. I could see that in him when I chose him for you, it's why I did. Loyal to the bone."

They were interrupted by the sudden toll of a deep bell, calling the town to Nones. Looking up, Guillaume was surprised to see that the sun had long since passed its zenith and had now begun its slow decent into the horizon. He quickly remembered his duties, and turned back to Zacharias. With a nod of agreement from the librarian, the duo began to walk along the dimly lit corridor they had found themselves on, towards the preceptory's chapel and an hour of prayer.

From high in the Tower of Paphos, the tallest and oldest of the Templar fort's bastions, Guillaume looked out over the bustling port town of Polis with joy in his heart. Churches and temples rose up before him, stretching away down to the harbour and then falling away at the coastline, the endless expanse of the Cilician Sea beyond the perfect backdrop for the sheer magnificence of it all. Bobbing at a jetty in the Bay of Chrysochou Guillaume spotted his fresh new vessel, its sails flapping keenly in the breeze and its red crosses rippling.

The Templar smiled to himself as he recognised the aged man's breathing.

"All this in four years," he breathed, then sighed. "I only wish I could have seen it grow."

"Our ships came like a blessing to the Cypriots all that time ago, as you know." Zacharias' voice was soft, composed. "They welcomed the order, the society. They were willing to accept change. An uncommon sight in this modern age, I suppose, but a glorious one with the right minds at work to enforce it."

Guillaume nodded and then turned, stealing a last fleeting glance at the haven at the foot of the hill as he did so. He looked at the old man before him, huddled at the centre of the room in his worn woollen cloak, hunched over his twisted oak cane. There was a fire in his eyes that Guillaume had never once seen before, one that brought youthfulness to his sagging features. It had existed there since Guillaume had made the suggestion not two weeks previously; burning ever more fiercely the closer the time came.

Guillaume moved closer and rested his arm on his friend's shoulder, guiding him gently towards the door.

"Are you ready?" he asked gently.

---------------------------------------------------

Guillaume watched as Symeon led Zacharias onto the ship, strumming his fingers on his thighs in anticipation. When the pair disappeared over the gunwale, he turned and signalled to the waiting sailor, who began to unfasten the ship's tether. Taking a deep breath, he left the security of land.

On deck sailors milled about like ants, checking and adjusting the sails and transporting various provisions to the hold. The captain shouted orders from where he stood at the bow, and every so often the direction of the sailors would change, or their speed increase. Guillaume made his way towards the stern.

Suddenly the ship jolted slightly, at last coming away from its mooring. It was as if the vessel had been straining against its tether, yearning to become free yet again, as immediately it sprang forward. Guillaume climbed to the poop deck and watched as the sails billowed and the ship glided away from the harbour. The Templar cross adorning the perfect white cloth rippled as it caught the breeze.

Soon the ship had left the Bay of Chrysochou altogether, Polis receding swiftly into the distance in its wake. The Templar on the stern deck refrained from looking back, instead focusing his mind on thoughts of his new destination, and the adventures that place had yet to provide him with. Silently he knelt and began to pray.

"Fóta! Fóta!"

Lights.

Guillaume bolted upright. He sat in silence for a minute, allowing the excitement to build up inside him, allowing a smile to turn the edges of his lips. He gingerly wiped the sleep from his eyes, then calmly swung his legs over the low rim of his pallet and climbed to his feet. Taking two deep breaths, he moved for the door.

On deck it was freezing, and dark. A strong breeze swayed the weaker timbers of the Templar vessel, causing them to creak ominously in Guillaume's wake as he walked towards the bulwarks. A sailor stood there, pointing excitedly east and hopping from foot to foot in anticipation, his eyes lighting up upon spotting the Templar's approach. Unable to contain his excitement, he ran off across the deck.

"Fóta!"

It was not the Holy City, but it was a relief nonetheless. The city of Haifa shone like a flame, a beacon in the darkness, a city of lights and noise and solid ground. Guillaume felt drawn to it, he the moth and it the flame and he inwardly longed to be among all the noise and commotion and life, to once again feel the earth, springy and light, beneath his feet. It wasn't the Holy City, but it would feel a huge step closer.

Footsteps came up behind the Patriarch, rapid and light. Out of the corner of his eye, Guillaume saw Symeon flinch, his eyes going wide and his hand going to his mouth in surprise. He slowly manoeuvred onto a nearby pile of crates, his eyes never leaving the city in the distance.

"I can't imagine what the City itself will do to him," Zacharias laughed, his wooden cane clacking on the deck as he came up alongside Guillaume.

Nor what it will do to me, thought the Templar. He decided to keep his silence, too awed by the beauty of the sight before him to let his words ruin the moment. Suddenly he imagined Jerusalem as this city, and then in his mind made it a hundred times brighter, more exuberant and opulent. He almost gasped at that image, his hands twitching in the direction of his eyes.

In revered silence he stood there, he did not know for how long, before tearing himself away and going off to find the captain, leaving his companions staring hungrily after the prelude to his ultimate destination.

Guillaume anxiously paced the courtyard, his hands fumbling absently with the gold omophorion draped over his shoulders. His mind raced, although in between thoughts he would often catch glimpses of the Holy City beyond the Church, and be reassured slightly.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the church built upon the supposed site of Christ's crucifixion, stood almost at the centre of the City, its two grand domes marking its place on the skyline. The Aedicule within housed the Sepulchre of Christ himself, making the Church a beacon for far-travelled pilgrims and an iconic location for the patriarchal headquarters. It was in the courtyard on its rooftop that Guillaume paced, his life about to change.

Few were present in the courtyard, at the Patriarch's request. Zacharias and Symeon were naturally in attendance, along with five Templar Knights who had travelled from Polis at Zacharias' private request; much to the annoyance of Guillaume. The sound of footsteps announced the arrival of the last expected guest, and Guillaume sighed in relief when he saw who it was.

"Is everything prepared?" he asked hurriedly, anxiously walking towards the Archbishop.

His friend nodded, inwardly amused. "Everything is prepared. They're mostly citizens and visiting pilgrims. I didn't count how many, but there are lots."

Guillaume relaxed slightly, although why he couldn't fathom. That had been the easier part. The hard part was still to come - wasn't it?

Deus vult, Deus vult, Deus vult. The Patriarch had yet again become nervous, constantly having to reassure himself that he was there for a reason, even if it wasn't entirely clear yet. He found in surprise that he had no idea of what he was about to say, and almost collapsed in despair. But something suddenly calmed him slightly, just for a moment, and he felt composed and at peace. He looked over at the faces of his companions, and they looked expectantly back, their expressions comforting, encouraging. He looked down at himself, at the array of different garments he was wearing, and almost laughed.

"Deus da mihi firmitatem," he whispered.

Something sparked deep within him. He found himself walking towards the entrance to the courtyard, towards the steps that would take him to his audience, his feet moving almost of their own accord. His companions stared bemusedly after him.

"This is it," he murmured.

QUOTE:
Great People of Jerusalem, my friends!


Let it be known that the void that was opened here four years ago now wavers in its existence, for a new Patriarch has come! It is by God's Will that I stand before you here today, for it is He who has led me on the path that brought me here and it is through the courage He has lent me that I speak unto you now. These are troubled times we live in, not only for the world but for the Church also. More voids are appearing in the very fabric of the Church as many of our leaders, chosen so well and carefully by the Almighty, pass on to ascend to the glory of the heavens above. We must deal with these openings, with the love and mercy of the Lord to guide us, and mend what is lost in their wake. But with the love and the mercy, and the courage and the unity that the Lord provides, we can pull through.

So I stand before you now with only the simple words the Lord has put in my mouth, and I ask not for your acceptance or your love but for your trust and your friendship. The Lord has brought me here for a purpose, and together we can discover what that truly is.

My friends, brothers!

On the roof of the Church Guillaume considered for a moment, remembering a suggestion from the Archbishop earlier. He continued.

QUOTE:
I am Thephilos of Jerusalem, the Second Patriarch of Zion! And I pray ye, pray with me now!

Closing his eyes Thephilos knelt, pressing his palms together as he did so. Silence permeated the courtyard before the Church, and after a minute searching for the right words curiosity got the better of him. He glanced up, and was shocked to see that everyone in the courtyard before him was now knelt on the flagstones, their hands pressed together and their heads bowed.

QUOTE:
"I am Thephilos of Jerusalem, the Second Patriarch of Zion! And I pray ye, pray with me now!"

Finishing the prayer, Thephilos stood. As he watched the small gathering disperse before him he sighed, the fatigue of the past weeks once again catching up with him. Symeon rose slowly to his feet on the inn's rooftop beside him and came to stand by his side.

"Another good speech, Your Beatitude."

Not for the first time in the past couple of months, annoyance shot through Guillaume like fire.

"Pour l'amour de Dieu, Symeon! We are friends, that isn't necessary!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Thephilos saw his protector's cheeks redden, eyes averting to the ground. After a moment he smiled, and then laughed. Clapping Symeon on the shoulder, the pair walked over to the edge of the roof where a ladder had been erected for their use, and then descended.

The village of Al-Qubayba was typically quiet; a natural testament to practically every small settlement in the entire surrounding countryside, to the north and to the south, that Thephilos and Symeon had come through on their journey. Before dawn on the morning after the speech at Jerusalem the pair had ridden from the City at a gallop, and made their way north to the village of Tebnine where a contact of the Archbishop was waiting. From there they had started south, bypassing the City and heading slightly westwards towards the coast and the cities of Ascalon and Gaza. After many weeks they found themselves in Egypt, the land of the Saracens; though having rested in Alexandria for a few days, they started north again, back towards Jerusalem. All the while Thephilos had been talking to the people, spreading the word of his coming to the people of Palaestina from rooftops and hillocks.

Now, walking through Al-Qubayba with his friend at his side, Thephilos had begun to feel the downsides to his labour. The journey had taken him to an uncountable number of settlements, and the words of his speech had changed so little they had become a drone echoing throughout his mind; and now he just felt fatigued and wearier than ever. On top of this he detected an all-too-familiar shadow in the back of his mind, he thought perhaps signalling a fever which he feared would incapacitate him like the last time. Nonetheless he felt invigorated, at least in his thoughts, as this was his mission in accordance with God's unquestionable Will, and he was fulfilling it.

As the pair walked on the village thinned out, the tight clusters of small white buildings giving way to rolling green pastures. Tiny droplets of dew clung to the grass and as the sun further approached its nadir, exploded into golden beauty, turning the desolate countryside of the Holy Land into a glorious sight to behold. A single golden tear rolled down the cheek of the Patriarch as he stopped and looked on, his troubles forgotten and his heart aflame.

Symeon, waiting patiently behind him, coughed inadvertently, slowly bringing Thephilos from his stupor. He smiled apologetically as his master turned towards him, then nodded in the direction of the nearby stables.

"Yes, I suppose we should be going," Thephilos said. He paced back to where his protector was waiting. "It won't be light for much longer, after all."

Together they started walking along the outskirts of the village, to where their horses would be waiting.

"So we head for Bayt Jibrin, before Compline?" Symeon asked.

"Yes. We rest there for a day, and then go on to Bethlehem, to spread the word there." He paused a moment, and smiled at his next words.

"And then, Jerusalem."

She ran. The thick undergrowth dragged at her heels as she did so, almost pulling her down on several occasions. The path ahead was dark and wet; drenched leaves dragged at her face and clothes as she plundered blindly on, soaking her through. The darkness of the forest closed in around her, enshrouding her, although through streaming eyes she could always see the faces. Two of them, one in the dark and the other bathed in light. One grasping for her heels, trying to make her stumble; the other propelling her onwards. Suddenly her foot caught on a protruding root and she went sprawling. A sharp, searing pain shot through her abdomen and she clutched desperately at the mound that had swelled there, panic rising inside her. As she lay in the mud, the pain creeping slowly through her, she sought once again the faces, trying to find contentment in whichever would appear to her. And as the darkness closed in on the edge of her vision for one last time, the visage of the Patriarch flashed before her eyes, and she at last found her solace.

"A child?!"

Thephilos and the Archbishop stood outside the Patriarchal Chambers, the high arch of the solid oak doorway imposing beside them. From inside the chambers came the distinct sound of a baby bawling.

"Yes, Your Beatitude. But a miracle child at that."

Upon hearing this Thephilos forced himself to calm down, breathing deeply and rhythmically until he felt his shoulders relax. The Archbishop had caught his attention, if only slightly. Calmly, he spoke.

"Explain."

"Right, well," said the Archbishop, beaming. "Two months ago a group of hunters were chasing deer in the forest just west of Hebron, when they came upon a clearing. There was a woman in the clearing, the mother, who had died; and half-buried in a pile of leaves nearby was her child. The hunter who stumbled upon the child thought her to be dead. But astonishingly, the young thing woke. She didn't even cry, though she must have been there for at least a day. She had survived alone, in a forest, completely unscathed."

"And so she was brought here," Thephilos said, confused. "Why?"

"This is the curious part. The hunter felt it would not be right to leave the mother behind, and decided to take her with him back to Hebron so that she could be given a proper burial. But when he was loading her body onto the back of his horse a small slip of parchment fell from her hand. This is it," the Archbishop said, and procured a curled slip from his robes.

QUOTE:
If there is anything left of my life, be it for Thephilos of Jerusalem. For God wills it.

The Patriarch stared in surprise at the note, trying to comprehend what it meant. Suddenly he demanded of the Archbishop, "Is it clear where the two are from, the mother and the child?"

"All we know is that it is likely they come from the West; unsurprising, since this is the Holy Land. Maybe your eyes will be more discerning of their origins?"

Thephilos nodded thoughtfully. "Show me the child."

The baby lay in a furnished mahogany cradle near the centre of the large chamber, still crying loudly. Symeon and a young maid were trying desperately to calm the child, a sight which forced a smile to Thephilos' lips as he strode into the room. At the cradle he looked down and beheld the infant, who ceased her din at the sight of him.

"I cannot tell either. Her origin is unclear to me." Turning, he asked the Archbishop, "Was the mother wearing anything to identify herself, anything at all?"

"Alas, sire, no. Her garments were indicative of Eastern origin, so she must have acquired them hereabouts. She wore no jewellery, no materials of any worth. All she had was a crudely-carved wooden cross at her neck, one that she could easily have made herself."

Thephilos sighed sadly, turning back to regard the child. "So the poor thing will never know where she came from, and we will never know how or why she came to be here." He stared down at her, studying her perfect little features, meeting the gaze of her large, round black eyes. She smiled up at him, her face shining. As he gentle tousled her shock of black hair Thephilos felt something akin to affection for the child, a feeling that was new and exciting to him. He suddenly realised that he was all the child had left in the world, the only known link to her past that remained, and the thought slightly pleased him, for he now found himself wanting to be the father of this child. At last he could have something physical to anchor him to the world, something he could live for and die for. At last he felt truly complete.

It had happened so quickly, so many new feelings in such a short space of time, and Thephilos began to feel dizzy. He felt the eyes of the Archbishop, Symeon and the maid on him as he fell back onto his bed and closed his own. He felt content as he lay there. Still relaxed on the bed, he spoke.

"The child was entrusted to me by its mother and by God, and I fully intend to honour that trust. I will protect her and guide her, and she will be my daughter. Let that be known."

Thephilos rose slowly from the bed, his mind clear, and ushered all but Symeon from the room. He went straight to the cradle, to be with his daughter.

"What will she be called?" he heard Symeon ask softly nearby.

Thephilos didn't need to consider for long, as the answer presented itself promptly in his mind. He smiled as he played with the word in his head, imagined speaking it, before he told Symeon.

"Éloïse."

That had been almost two months ago. Now Thephilos sat in the courtyard of the Patriarchate atop the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Éloïse nestled in his arms, in the light of the sun as it set over Jerusalem. And he was thinking.

They had never made it to the Holy City. After Al-Qubayba the plan went ahead so far as Bethlehem, where the mission had come to an end. But there Thephilos had received word from a contact in Alexandria, the capital city of the Saracens, and he and Symeon had quickly ridden south to attend to business. Having met with the contact the pair had made no haste in riding north, instead travelling most of the time at a relaxed canter from which they could enjoy the spectacular views of the Holy Land; an opportunity Thephilos found he had previously had no chance to take pleasure in, in his anxiety and haste. Eventually they made it to Gaza, where to their surprise they found a messenger from the Archbishop telling them to hurry back to Jerusalem, for there was something the Patriarch had to see. And not long after, he had a daughter.

Thephilos was considering. The prospect of being a father still appealed to him, but he found himself fearing his capabilities; after all, he was the Templar Patriarch of all Palestine, a warrior and a priest of the Almighty. These were occupations that left little time for the personal aspects of life, the prospect of fatherhood included, and although he wanted to be around Éloïse as she grew up, to be there for her and protect her, he wondered if he really could. Sighing, he began to run through the possibilities of where in the world she would be safe.

The sun had disappeared over the horizon before Thephilos found his answer. Really he had known it all along, but he had wanted to run through every possibility, just to be sure. France. He would take Éloïse to France, where she could grow up in the care of his older brother Lucien and his family, the inheritors of the De Montpierre family seat. He was sure that she would be happy there, in the friendly family home of Marsonne-sur-Truyère, with his brother's young children for company and his wife Yvette to provide for her. It was much better than any life he could give her in Greece, even if it meant he could only see her on the occasional visit.

Thephilos had to fight back the feeling that he was abandoning his daughter, that he was taking the easy way out of having to care for her. He assured himself that sending her to France was a good idea, as it meant she would be safe. He would visit often, and take her for adventures, so that when she came of proper age she might want to come travelling with him, to experience life to the full. Who knew what could happen, where they could go; who they could meet, or what they could hear of. Suddenly so many possibilities were clear to him, emanating from the simple little bundle of life in his arms, and Thephilos felt content - no, more than content, overjoyed - at the prospect.

The Patriarch found himself in the cruel shadow of the church's largest dome, his skin pricking as a chill crept up on him. He gently handed his daughter to the nurse waiting nearby, who hastened off towards the Patriarchal Chambers, before rising slowly to his feet. He had decided; in a few days he would leave the Holy Land for a time, and return to Cyprus with Éloïse. From there he would venture westwards, across Greece and the lands of the Romanum Imperium until he reached France, the land of both his birth and his heart.

Then, he would go where God took him.