Stone-laid roads lead Saint-14 through the City. He walks them most days when he is home. When time permits.
The people wave. They cheer.
They bring offerings of their support and adoration.
Breads. Tokens. Wonderfully spun tassels and bands of royal purple hue.
His name had become synonymous with the Guardians.
An image to be adhered to; to be revered.
He smiles and shakes their hands.
He smiles and accepts their gifts.
Their joy is his.
He feels the weight of their royal ribbons around his neck, drawn tight by expectation.
His armor is faith. It slips and loosens in transit.
They sing together. He shares bread with the chorus of voices. He ties ribbons in their hair.
His joy is theirs.
They sing him a new song.
Their voices shine bright.