August began his journey very lost and very alone. Fear does that to a person, he had begun to understand. And yet he had felt fear’s comforting embrace for so long, the pain of freedom seemed too much to face. The Passion was, he believed, the only way to fix it. Fix himself. He didn’t want to be afraid anymore, and he knew the Passion would make him into the kind of person who did not waver.
August wanted to be brave so that no one would ever hurt him again; he could go out into the world, as he had when he was young, and yet be guarded by this elusive strength. He could become hard, become someone who was no longer vulnerable to the evil of man. He could survive, finally on his own, not relying on the Cathedral’s charity. Being on your own in strength, he imagined, was far better than being on your own in powerlessness. And he was right, though the rightness was very near to the wrongness — and very far from the true rightness he needed to see.
August tapped his fingers rapidly as he leaned against the door to the room. He had arrived early, but if he waited around much longer, he’d be late. Would they prevent him from entering if he was late? Would they cancel his Passion? Was it even possible to back out once committed? August had checked, it had never happened before — at least, not in any record he found. Did he wish to change his mind?
The sun was only rising. August took a deep breath and turned to face the nearest window. The Cathedral’s tall, other-worldly presence used to intimidate him when he was a boy. He remembered the first time he got close enough to stand in its shadow. That day had been hot and dry and dusty, and August’s feet had hurt. The cool stone street in the shadow of the Cathedral felt calming and inviting. Even in his young, inexperienced mind, August had known he’d reached the end of himself on the streets. He’d known his only hope was to surrender. August knew he had to seek help, even if he was afraid of the Cathedral — of what may be inside.
August had stepped over the threshold that day, and found one of the local ministers. It hadn’t been an easy decision, to trust them, but August was fed and clothed and given a warm bed that day. He had worked hard and earned his living there, these years, and had often felt lonely and unsure, but it was far better than the streets. And when he got older, that room… the room where those few people sought the Passion, it had called to him. He had read as much as possible about the Passion — but the knowledge was confusing and inconsistent. Most people refused to talk about what they experienced, but returned with mighty skills, dreams, and visions — visions that had propelled their society into a prosperous and abundant future. The few people who tried to explain their experiences all seemed to have nothing in common. They described journeys, battles, riddles, and nightmares — rarely with any satisfactory detail or explanation.
It had only grown August’s hunger to understand.
And some days, the call to the Passion had seemed like his only option. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to do it or felt he had to if he ever wanted to leave the Cathedral. The outside world was so big and confusing and intimidating. What if the Passion was his only way out? What if the Passion was the only way he could be strong? To not live a life where he didn’t belong — because people who survived their Passions were always needed, welcomed. They always belonged, at the very center of everything.
And August had asked the minister, the same one who had taken him in when he was a boy, if he could seek a Passion. At first, the minister, his friend, had been hesitant to bless it.
“Are you certain? The Passion is something few are willing to brave, and some never return.”
“I think I’m certain,” August had responded.
The minister hesitated a moment. “August. You won’t even leave the Cathedral.”
August knew what he meant. “I can do this. I have to do this.” He didn’t have any other choice. He felt, again all these years later, at the end of himself.
It had taken a long time, but August finally got what he wanted. His Passion.
And here he was, unsure of himself again. Was he making a mistake? How could someone too afraid of the outside world face something few out there would even consider?
August sighed and turned around. He put his hands on the carved wooden door, feeling its familiar oiled smoothness, and pushed inside.
His friend the minister waited there, alone, with a small smile.
“Hello, August. Are you ready?” He asked, as a friend.
August nodded. He looked at the stone archway, not quite believing where he was. A sudden soothing sense of peace overcame him; the archway, oddly, looked like home.
“Do you long for the Passion?” The minister asked.
“Yes. I do.”
“Will you surrender to the Passion?”
“I will. Yes.”
“Are you faithful to the Way?”
“Yes, I am.”
August tried not to fidget as he watched the minister dip his fingers into the bowl of oil and smear it on his forehead.
“I commit you to your Passion, to the Way. “ The minister sighed, stepping back. “May God have mercy on your soul.”
August nodded, staring into the archway. Home.
“You may step forward,” the minister said, gesturing to the archway. “You will be given everything you need to survive. Don’t lose faith.”
“I won’t,” he said quietly, and stepped inside.
