"I'm very sorry." Cyren said coldly, "I have no authority to represent God, nor do I have authority to represent the Church. I cannot forgive you, nor can I give you answers."
Aldridge suddenly raised his head. Those eyes were full of hatred.
The story was finished. He finally revealed his true emotions.
"Are you going to deny these things?" He said through gritted teeth, "Bishop Delante, I admit you're a good clergyman, but the Church isn't as sacred and kind as you imagine."
"I don't deny the Church's cris." Cyren said, "What I deny is your words accusing the Church."
Aldridge angrily questioned, "Are you saying I'm wrong?"
"From the perspective of historical facts, you're not wrong, but for you, it is wrong." Cyren looked at him calmly, "So at this mont, sitting across from , listening to my confession, is it a historical record, or is it Aldridge?"
"You..." Aldridge couldn't understand.
"The cris have already occurred. They're indisputable. But you angrily accuse the Church, using your entire life, using all your behavior, expressions and words to express it. Is it useful? The target of your accusation is an existence you've fabricated. You can't even find the target in reality. Who can represent the Church you want to accuse? The Pope? The College of Cardinals? Or an imagined aggregate of the [Church] concept?"
Aldridge quieted down. He discovered sadly that he really couldn't find a target.
Just now he had treated Cyren as the Church's spokesman, but Cyren denied this fantasy. And the Pope? The College of Cardinals? Forget about not being able to contact those people at all. Even if he did contact them and cursed at them a few tis, could that really fulfill his long-cherished wish?
Or, did cursing a few tis count as revenge? Or killing the Pope counted as revenge? Or destroying the Church counted as revenge? Or making them prohibit using Steel Angels counted as revenge?
Only then did he discover that for forty years, he had suffered tornt in pain, fantasizing about his revenge and the Church's collapse, yet never had a program or goal that could be executed in reality.
Therefore his anger was limited to imagination. He had imagined a personified aggregate called [Church], then accused it in his imagination, also trapping himself there.
"You've bound all your aning to the Church, so when it collapsed, your aning also collapsed." Cyren said.
"But your aning doesn't belong to the Church's aning, just as my actions cannot be equated with the Church's actions. We are first ourselves, then so identity."
"Or let put it more simply. Before creating the Steel Angels, what did you want to make? When you studied those runes, what were you thinking?"
Aldridge sat there dumbly, contemplating.
He rembered his devout believer parents, rembered his parents' expectant gazes when he went to the Holy See Academy, rembered his teachers' affirmation in school, rembered the clergy's trust. In these voices he constructed his worldview and ideals. He wanted to create better works, demonstrate how beautiful the world God created was, or make the world more like the promised age.
He didn't answer, but Cyren knew he had thought of much.
Cyren's voice seed to co from beyond, "All sins have already occurred, but the Church also lost contact in the apocalypse. Even using your own pain as evidence of cri, you have no court to accuse in. You actually knew long ago who was right and who was wrong, didn't you? But what you lack is aning, the aning to live."
Aldridge looked at his own hands. In these forty years, he had hardly touched runes. He hated his own works and the Church, yet couldn't deny it. He loved this profession. This was his talent, also the aning of his life.
"Aldridge." Cyren walked over, grasped his hands, looked at him earnestly.
"Forgiving sins is just self-deception. What's important is, after cris that cannot be undone, who exactly are you? What do you still want?"
"History has already walked into books, recording magnificent wars and victors' glory, but no one cares about those dead people's wails. Yet you rember. You've rembered for forty whole years, and will continue rembering. You rember how much harm technology used for war can cause. You rember the collapse when sacred precepts were betrayed. If you forgot, then they might truly cease to exist, those people who died in the flas of war, those massacred dwarves."
"So you cannot forget. You must keep rembering them. You heard those cries in history, didn't you? Those are the cries of the defeated and oppressed. They are powerless, but if heard by people in the [present], and claid with responsibility and conviction, ensuring what has happened won't happen again, then their cries shine forth now, in your hands."
"Aldridge." Cyren tightly grasped his hands, "Please, continue suffering. Your dreams, your mories, your hatred and guilt cannot fade. I will never forgive you either. You must remain this way until death. This is your responsibility. You must use your skills to create Heaven on earth, proclaim the ideals you recognize, then firmly rember those evils, ensuring you and I won't commit them again."
"Beaumont and Fletcher said: Fashions that were popular will be popular again. The sins people committed will certainly be committed again, but as long as you exist, they need not repeat."
Aldridge had never imagined a bishop would say such things to him, but his brain seed to have received "divine revelation" from scripture. At this mont, sacred aning descended into his body once more.
He wasn't hollow, the Church's evidence of cri, not a painful mirror used to reflect the other's evil, but a subject bearing heavy history. He would rely on his own existence to prevent cris from happening again.
He still suffered, still rembered the Church's evil, but all those twisted desires were reshaped in Cyren's words, injected with new life and vitality.
And his pain was still pain, but that pain inexplicably beca the aning and ironclad evidence of his own existence.
He still hated the Church, but made himself the gatekeeper preventing evil from occurring again.
Cyren withdrew his hand, wiped away nonexistent sweat.
A psychoanalyst didn't need to inject new aning into the client, only peel away false speech and imagination, letting the other see themselves clearly and walk out on their own.
But he was also a bishop. Out of private interest, he had to ensure this rune master stood on his side, couldn't completely lose faith in the Church. Therefore he invoked historical materialism, transforming pain into responsibility for and claiming of "past innocent dead."
Responsibility was painful, but also the aning supporting human desire and progress.
This was Cyren's first ti doing this. It indeed risked much, but he had to keep Aldridge.
"Schneider approached ." Aldridge suddenly said.
"Who?" Cyren asked blankly.
"Propaganda Minister, Rain's advisor."
"I see... He wanted to pull you to his side?"
"Yes, they found my files, knew I hated the Church."
Cyren smiled, "So when you ca earlier, you wanted to say goodbye to ?"
Aldridge also smiled, "That was the plan, but you're a good clergyman, so I gave you a chance."
"Did I use this chance well?" Cyren blinked.
"You're hardly like a believer." Aldridge laughed.
"That's probably your highest praise."
"Yes, the highest praise."
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