You’re a knight errant. It’s the 13th century, and you’ve gained fame as both a warrior and a lyrical poet.

You find the underground lair of Venus, the goddess of love; or it’s someone much like her, enough so that you believe her to be divine. You live with her, you love her, you probably have a lot of sex. A year goes by, maybe more. You realize that this idea of reality, this life, is a far cry from what you used to do. 

You used to be a knight in the service of god, the big biblical one, not this woman in a cave whose heyday of worship is far behind her. You long to be what you were, and you crawl back to the pope for forgiveness, a second chance, redemption. 

He says no. Forgiving you for your trespasses is as impossible as his staff blossoming with flowers. 

So you return to the mountains, to the cave and the woman and the fact that you’ve replaced one existence with another, while still acknowledging both. 

It’s not a bad life, really. 

Three days later, the pope’s staff blooms. 

Too late.