Memory 02: The Theology of Thomas

Sister Nimue,

I’m writing this in a spare moment between appointments. I know you’ve got more pressing matters, but something from last night’s Lunar Vigil won’t leave me be.

While I was setting the altar beneath the east bridge, a man appeared behind me—dock-worn hands, quiet posture. I admit, I thought him a rogue at first. But he introduced himself as Thomas Langton, a student sent by Chaplain Alura to observe. I was skeptical, but he knew the rites. Not just the broad strokes—he corrected my basin placement. I was flustered.

He stayed in the back during the vigil, silent among the Chamber acolytes. I did catch him chatting briefly with one of the brothers, but a glance from me quieted him.

Then, at the height of the vigil, a beam of light descended into the central pool. The waters rippled in nested spheres. All the celebrants stopped. Except Thomas. He continued praying, lips moving. Only when he noticed the silence did he stop. And only then did the light fade.

I don’t know what to make of it. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps something. I leave it to you.

In salt and service,

S. Lucia

A Deep Inquiry

The Chamber of Stella Maris loomed with solemn grandeur. As Thomas was led through its vaulted corridors, his eyes wandered in awe. The architecture was austere and ornate, each arch and pillar carved with symbols of tide and star. The ceilings rose impossibly high, and yet seemed to press down with the weight of centuries. He felt it in his chest—a pressure, a reverence.

He was brought into a private room, quiet and dim. There stood Sister Nimue.

Their eyes met. A flicker of surprise passed between them. Thomas smiled, pleased. Nimue did not.

Three bells rang out across the city.

Nimue began to pace.

"I have heard ripples," she said, "of a student whose discernment was a whim. Who prayed like a child. Who, during serious prayer, speaks of personal goings-on and disrupts ceremony."

She turned sharply. "I have heard of a student who appeared in the blessed grottos as a shadowed rogue and interrupted a Sister of the Chamber—personal hand to His Holiness Anselm XI, blessed be His heart and mind in accord with the deep."

She paused.

"I have also heard of a student with natural graces. Who memorizes texts and rituals so well he corrects his superiors. Who splits the waters with his voice. Who pierces the vigil depths with the light of his prayers."

She faced him. "Tell me, which of these men stand before me? Who are you?"

Thomas said plainly, earnestly, "I'm Thom from the docks."

Nimue narrowed her eyes. "Answer seriously."

"I am!" he said, voice raised.

He paused, realizing the breach. He lowered his voice.

"I mean—I am a serious inquirer, Sister." He softened. "My mother always said my biggest trouble was that I'm both simple and clever. Simple, she'd be fine with. Clever, would’ve been better. But simple and clever caused her endless irritation."

Nimue did not react.

Thomas continued. "I pay attention. I don’t forget what people tell me. And I care about what they tell me. I’ve read—" he gestured toward her bookshelf, "—so much. My instructor had us read Zephyrus Laevinus. Just his first book, Ritus Navigationis. I’ve read all ten. And Sacrae Compassi. Sister, I understand the weight of the priesthood. I consider these things deeply. Please. Ask me what you will, I shall answer."

Nimue’s voice was cool. "If you understand the weight priests are asked to bear, why disrupt ceremony with idle conversation? Why cloud hearts and minds? Why fill sacred places with talk and noise? Prayer or talk—which does a serious priest do?"

Thomas: "Why not both?"

Nimue blinked. "Explain."

Thomas searched his thoughts. "In Zephyrus, he talks about people. But he doesn’t say 'people'—he says euchetes."

Nimue: "Yes."

Thomas: "I looked it up. He got that word from Thalor, the Alendrian. In ancient Alendrian, euchetes means "one who prays." It’s a noun and a description. According to our divine teachers, Sister, people are literally creatures that pray. That’s our purpose."

He gestured to himself. "Our hands, our hearts, our voices—we’re instruments. Ritual should be central, yes. But everything else in this world points to its tune. Every person. Every race of man. Not just clergy. Men down at docks too—creatures that pray. Gamblers, strangers in gondolas, hardened sailors, drunks, politicians, farmers, prostitutes—"

Nimue’s eyes furrowed.

Thomas stepped closer. "What if a conversation is a prayer between prayerful instruments? Inquiry and answer. Greeting and salutation. Confession and understanding. Prayer—" he plunged his hand downward, "—and Antiphon." He pulled his hand upward. "And what if the worst thing we can do as priests is fail to listen to another’s prayer? To let loneliness, silence, and darkness go unanswered—a drift in the abyss of their own hearts."

Nimue was silent. Her eyes flickered.

After a long pause, she said smoothly, "And do you seek a blessing to open a new school of theology?"

Thomas: "No, Sister." His brow furrowed, his voice earnest. "When I first saw you, I felt compelled to speak with you. And I did. And I was blessed. My soul drank from those waves. And I am still compelled—to speak with you. To hear your depth. The story of your life. And—"

Nimue cut him off. "That is enough of this. We’ve already gone on too long."

Thomas: "No. Please don’t push me out."

Nimue: "I must attend to matters of state."

Thomas: "I study now in the coral sanctums. Send me a letter. Anything. Don’t let this be our last—"

Nimue turned away.

The room door closed behind him.

Letter from Sister Nimue to Thomas Langton

Thomas,

I write this in the interest of prayerful inquiry, as you described. Nothing more.

You asked to know my depth. I will offer a glimpse.

To be Triton is to be born of the abyss. Not the sea as sailors know it—bright, wind-tossed, and mapped by stars—but the sea beneath that sea. The deep is not merely dark. It is heavy. It is full of the goddess’s immense knowing, so vast that light itself forgets how to move. We dwell in that weight. We hear harmonies sung at the beginning of creation, and songs not yet heard by surface men.

The deep is not cruel, but it is not kind. It is truth without comfort. Some Tritons say we were once surface men who learned too much and were buried under the burden of our own knowledge. Others say we were meant to rise, but feared forgetfulness and stayed. I do not know which is true. I only know that the deep teaches, and that its lessons are not always survivable.

When I came to the surface, I felt the air like nothingness. I felt the dryness as a kind of silence. The people here live etched into the ocean, but it is not the ocean I know. It is a mingling sphere—of air, fire, and earth. It has beauty, and light.

I hope this serves your spiritual purposes.

In tide and silence,

Sister Nimue

Response from Thomas Langton to Sister Nimue

Sister Nimue,

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for answering my prayers.

Your blessed,

Thom from the docks

Response from Thomas Langton to Sister Nimue (follow up)

Sister Nimue,

I’m sorry I got ahead of myself. I meant to say that I want to see you again. I know you’re busy, so I dare not presume upon you in the Chamber again. Lately I’ve been spending my afternoons at a small cafe called Giardinetto outside the Coral Sanctums. I’m starting to become part of the furniture. The regulars might be getting tired of me, so a visit from you would offer them some relief.

Thom