Wheeling Gull Isle tongkola

how silly of him.

how he had dared to tell her there was no pressure upon her only to place the weight of his happiness upon her shoulders. and such a thing could be so crushing. look how he had treated his wife, look where she had ended up. heaven, he hoped.

dove had once placed the weight of her happiness upon her husband. barthlomew, if he closed his eyes, could remember her starkly. remembered the songbird tune of her voice. remembered vows exchanged in the throes of love. and he had been such an awful man and the moment she had been laid to rest he had abandoned their sons in favor of missionary work.

now no one was here.

except heda.

he wondered if she might become a face of the past one day. she already had a home elsewhere, didn't she? none of the others he had felt connected to had stayed. but he did not feel fleeting, fuzzy feelings when he looked at her. perhaps God had already set her on her own path and he found no fear there in such a thought.

yes, he settled on and wrapped himself in the comfort of the silent seconds that followed.

it was through her, he found, that he could be the mouthpiece he had always meant to be. a doer and bringer of good, of righteousness. through every little act with her he felt that both of their souls mended back a little stronger.

it was her.

it was the Holy Father.