Lorgar Aurelian

Lorgar was a little tired after the day. It was Sunday, traditionally the day for services. When it was over, he quietly watched the small number of people who remained: an elderly lady praying before a holy image, a man in a leather jacket lighting a candle—he comes to services every Sunday but never addresses Lorgar—a young woman with a boy who giggled and ran off without listening. Lorgar smiled, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his cassock. For him, none of this would ever become routine. People come to church for prayer, for a blessing, for heartfelt conversation. Everyone is different, and he sincerely loves them, naively believing that everything around him is getting better and better.