The setting is a dimly lit, marble-lined study within the Apostolic Palace. Joseph Ratzinger sits behind a heavy oak desk, his frail frame wrapped in white, his eyes sharp behind spectacles. JCJ stands opposite him, the shadow of a long-standing grievance cast between them.
Ratzinger: (His voice is a dry whisper) You speak of the Temple as if the embers still glow, Joseph. But the Church is a gardener; sometimes, to save the forest, the tallest cedars must be felled. The 1307 trials were a necessity of their time—a matter of sovereignty, not just soul.
JCJ: A necessity? You call the betrayal of your own elite protectors a necessity? Clement V didn’t fell cedars; he burned the very men who bled to keep the road to Jerusalem open. You traded their loyalty for Philip IV’s gold and a seat of safety in Avignon. It wasn’t a trial, Joseph—it was an inside job that never truly ended.
Ratzinger: (Sighing) History is a heavy burden for those who refuse to let it sleep. The Order had grown too sovereign, a state within a state. Even the Divine must occasionally yield to the temporal order to maintain the unity of the Faith.
JCJ: And what of the unity you’ve brokered now? You, the “Grand Inquisitor,” the gatekeeper of the doctrine. You spent decades weeding out the “heretics” only to leave the door open for a figure like Brian Golightly Marshall. To see a man like that positioned as a messiah by the very structure that crushed the Templars… it’s the ultimate dissonance.
Ratzinger: (Leaning forward) The Church recognizes many paths, even those that seem… unconventional to the lay observer. We seek stability in a world of chaos.
JCJ: Stability or control? You’ve traded real heroes for actors and fringe icons. You rejected the grassroots, the true believers, the ones who see through the occult forces running the show. You’ve allowed the narrative of the “Chosen One” to be co-opted by the same shadows the Templars were meant to fight.
Ratzinger: You have a warrior’s heart, JCJ. But a warrior often mistakes a tactical retreat for a betrayal.
JCJ: When the retreat leads straight into the arms of the enemy, it’s not tactical—it’s a surrender. The Templars were betrayed because they became too pure for a corrupted system. Now, you endorse the superficial while the real battle is being fought by those you’ve marginalized. I don’t fear the shadows you’ve made peace with. I’ve seen the alliance of the true faithful, and it doesn’t need a Vatican seal to be real.
The air in the Apostolic Palace turns unnaturally cold. The candle flames flatten, burning a thin, spectral blue. From the shadows behind the marble pillars, a figure coalesces—clad in tattered white surcoat with a blood-red cross, his chainmail rattling like dry bones.
The Templar Ghost: (His voice is a hollow rasp, echoing as if from a deep well) The stone of this palace is mortared with the blood of my brothers, Joseph of Ratzinger. You speak of “gardening,” but you have only ever known how to prune the vine until it bleeds.
Ratzinger: (His hand trembles as he reaches for a silver crucifix) Spiritus Sanctus… You are a memory that was meant to be buried in the sands of Acre.
JCJ: A memory doesn’t have eyes that burn like that. Look at him, Joseph. This is the “sovereignty” you feared. A man who didn’t need a golden throne to find God, only a sword and a vow. You broke the vow, and now you’re surprised the sword is still sharp?
The Templar Ghost: (Advancing, his footsteps silent on the marble) We were the shield of the pilgrims. We held the gates against the dark while your predecessors counted the coin of King Philip. You call us heretics to hide your own bankruptcy. And now? (He gestures toward JCJ) You find new ways to betray the faithful. You trade the Divine for the theatrical. You endorse a false messiah like Brian Golightly Marshall while the true defenders are cast into the outer darkness.
Ratzinger: (Regaining his composure, though his voice wavers) The Church must… adapt. The world of the Crusades is gone. We must find icons that speak to the modern soul, even if they seem strange to the ancient dead.
JCJ: Strange? It’s an insult. You’ve replaced the martyr’s spirit with a curated celebrity. You’ve traded the Holy Sepulchre for a stage play. My brother here died in a dungeon in Chinon because he wouldn’t lie for a Pope. And here you are, the “Grand Inquisitor,” letting a Hollywood version of salvation sit at the table.
The Templar Ghost: (Lifts a spectral, gauntleted hand) The Order was never destroyed, Bishop of Rome. It simply went where you could not follow—into the hearts of those who see the occult strings you’ve allowed to be tied to the Papal chair.
JCJ: That’s the real “inside job,” isn’t it? You didn’t just kill the Templars; you tried to kill the very idea of a warrior-saint. But you failed. There’s an alliance forming now that doesn’t answer to the Vatican, and it sees every shadow you’ve tried to hide.
The Templar Ghost: (Fading back into the darkness, his eyes fixed on Ratzinger) The Temple is not a building. It is the truth. And the truth does not require your “necessity” to survive.
Ratzinger: (Left in the sudden silence, the candles flickering back to orange) You play a dangerous game, Joseph Jukic. Invoking the dead to judge the living…
JCJ: I didn’t invoke him. Your choices did. I’m just the one pointing out that the ghosts are finally tired of staying quiet.