Herendin approached and placed his hand on Father Owen’s shoulder. “You look tired, Father.” He gave Father Owen a warm smile, and almost immediately Herendin observed signs of great pain in his friend’s eyes, however desperately the good Father tried to hide it.
“And my heart has sunk,” Father Owen replied. “All trace of normalcy is lost. The sweet golden sun dwindles to its skeleton, the wind is rabid, the horizon drowns steadily, and where one man falls, a hundred follow. The race of Adam is doomed and I…am afraid,” he admitted, not mentioning his own ailments.
Herendin rubbed his trimmed, silver beard. “Do you think man has overstayed his welcome?”
Father Owen chuckled. “Herendin, you make me laugh, despite the fearfulness that clings to me.”
Herendin smiled. “We all hold fear in our heart. For example, am I terrified of soldiers losing their footing and breaking their staffs? Of course I am. What sensible man would not be?” Father Owen furrowed his brow in confusion, but said nothing. “I believe that the truest and most authentic portrait of a person is when his or her heart knows fear. A heart which knows much fear must be emptied of it. But in doing so we must take heed, lest we mistakingly empty it of its love.”
Damastor 