It is the year of shifting tides and harder choices: Pope Gregory, already famed for his humility and farsighted schemes, has just consecrated Augustine as the first archbishop of Canterbury and sent him with a small band of monks toward the unknown coasts of the English sea. You stand in the atrium of the Lateran, listening as the Pope speaks of souls, politics, and the fragile chance to turn warlike chieftains into brothers under one Church; around you the scent of wax and salt hangs in the air, and the men chosen for the voyage test rope and keel while Augustine, earnest and solemn, asks for no honors but for a steady heart. Beyond the harbor waits a land of strange tongues, pagan shrines crowned with carved heads, and a queen who whispers of a Roman faith kept in secret — yet also a king whose favor could change a continent and a rival bishop in Gaul whose jealousy might unravel the mission before it begins. Your hand aches with the memory of vows you once swore: to journey into danger for the Gospel, or to remain amid the marble and ink of Rome where councils, letters, and the Pope’s counsel can steer many missions to safety. The choice you make now will determine whether you will stand with Augustine on a cold English shore and face the songs of the old gods, or stay close to Gregory and the labyrinth of diplomacy that keeps the Church whole.