The Reversed Hierophant

Rafael felt that there was something off about the way François looked at him, but having never been exposed to such emotions since childhood, even if he sensed something unusual about François, he couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

Calais had meticulously prepared a banquet to entertain Rafael and Sancha. During the banquet, no one mentioned the assassination attempt on François IV. Everyone was cheerful and lively, as if this was just a timely grand celebration.

The next day, the Calais delegation set off and finally arrived at Hawthorne Castle safely. This time the journey was smooth without any unexpected incidents along the way.

Nobles from both Calais and Rome had gathered in this remote town. The nearby castles and manors had already been claimed by the high-ranking nobles, leaving the lesser nobles to fend for themselves. Soon, a sea of tents surrounded Hawthorne Castle, with flags bearing various family crests fluttering in the wind. With Hawthorne Castle as the centre, the area around it was strictly divided into two distinct zones, with Calais and Rome clearly separated on each side. Rafael stood at the castle window, looking down at the scene, finding it particularly interesting.

Though called a castle, compared to those built in prosperous areas, Hawthorne Castle was merely a shell of its former self. The walls, eroded by wind and frost, were covered in emerald green ivy. The grayish-white main structure was pockmarked, and the tower’s top was noticeably damaged. All the windows had been recently replaced, and the sills were covered with velvet cloth but traces of mold could still be seen underneath.

The servants had tried their best to decorate the place splendidly, but to Rafael, their efforts were like draping a skeleton infested with maggots with gorgeous brocade.

Hawthorne Castle wasn’t large, and the three most prominent figures each occupied a wing, resulting in the interior being divided into three distinct styles.

The betrothal ceremony began and ended quickly. Neither François nor Sancha wanted to delay the matter. All negotiations and probing had already taken place; now, they just needed to sign this document, which was more of an alliance than a marriage contract, to gain more leverage for their current ambitions.

As the witness, Rafael naturally occupied the most important position.

François and Sancha signed their names on the parchment, followed by Rafael.

The gilded quill felt cold in his hand. Rafael stared at the still-damp signatures of the betrothed couple above and signed his name in the witness section.

As he put down the quill, the cannons outside Hawthorne Castle fired, and all the nobles in the room stood up, applauding and cheering, offering their sincere blessings to the newly betrothed couple. The nobles waiting outside the castle also erupted into enthusiastic smiles, congratulating each other. They had witnessed the birth of the world’s most noble couple, and everyone’s face bore a proud smile.

Rafael left the joyous hall quietly and silently. The spotlight wasn’t on him this time, and the Pope’s departure didn’t attract much attention. However, a pair of hazel eyes in the crowd followed him, silently watching as he disappeared through the door.

On the open ground below the castle, a grand feast had been set up to celebrate the end of the betrothal ceremony. Rare and expensive ingredients had been transported here continuously for the past two days. François IV seemed determined to host an unprecedented banquet here, and the surrounding villages all received gifts from the emperor. For the first time in their lives, the poor tasted white bread free of sand and bran, sizzling roasted meat, and sweet wine. Barrels of wine, mead, and fruit wine were delivered to every inhabited area, allowing people to drink freely.

According to Sancha’s estimate, the cost of gifting the surrounding villages alone amounted to tens of thousands of gold florins. When the Princess of Perigo mentioned this matter to Rafael in private, she winced in heartache.

As a Roman princess, Sancha wasn’t stingy with money. The rare treasures she owned were each worth a fortune. The birthday gifts she received from the nobles every year totaled hundreds of thousands of gold florins. However, Rome was currently mobilizing troops for the Assyrian campaign, and the long-distance expedition required massive military expenditures. Even the Roman court had tightened its belt to supply the front lines. With Amandra leading the army to Assyria, all logistics and funding were managed by Sancha, giving the princess a rare taste of the hardships of leadership.

Rafael thought of Sancha’s expression at that time and couldn’t help but smile. This smile was like a flower floating in the water, which was soon washed away by the current. A hand holding a golden cup appeared before him, interrupting his thoughts.

The blood-red wine swayed in the golden cup, reflecting a shimmering light. Rafael saw his own face reflected in the liquid, distorted and grotesque in the ripples.

Rafael turned around and did not take the golden cup. He looked at the person who appeared here at this moment with a puzzled expression: “Your Majesty? You should be downstairs receiving people’s congratulations.”

The lavishly dressed François IV smiled shyly: “I’m not used to such environments… You’re not participating either, are you?”

The emperor, adorned with gold and silver ornaments according to Calais aesthetics, looked like a bug golden puppent. His thick, woolly hair cascaded down his back, and his soft, kind eyes exuded the pure innocence of a deer, unlike an emperor wielding great power at all.

“I’m not the protagonist of this grand event,” Rafael said politely.

“You’re so cold to me,” the young emperor sighed softly, his tone gentle. “Yet you’re so affectionate with those around you. My fiancée is also very close to you. Have I done something to displease you?”

Rafael frowned slightly and instinctively explained: “Please don’t misunderstand. I must solemnly declare that Sancha and I are just friends. She will be your most loyal wife, and I don’t want my presence to cause any rift in the harmonious relationship between the two of you.”

“It’s fine,” but although Francois said such words, he didn’t seem to be angry at all. Instead, he was inexplicably happy, “I don’t mind that, but you call her by her name, yet you still address me as ‘Your Majesty.’”

The little emperor looked straight at Rafael, and the meaning was self-evident.

Rafael was stunned for a moment, and the strange feeling in his heart grew stronger and stronger.

The pale-faced young emperor took another small step forward, offering the golden cup to Rafael, his voice soft: “When I was in Daudet, my teacher in religious studies mentioned you. Of course, as the Holy See of Florence, how could religious history overlook you?”

François leaned closer, breaching the normal social distance, the distance between them so close that they could almost feel each other’s breath. Rafael’s smile stiffened as he regarded the noble emperor coldly, who seemed oblivious to his hostility towards him: “We were born in the same year.”

His topic shifted rapidly, like a madman plucking scattered fragments of thought from their own world.

“…We’re the same age, in similar situations… How interesting. I have an uncle who wishes I were dead, and you have a secretary who controls everything about you. We’re both puppets in someone else’s hands, forced to do their bidding. The emperor—ha! The supreme Pope!”

He giggled, his pale cheeks flushing with a sickly red: “Aren’t we the same? I understand you, and you understand me. Though we’ve never met before, in this world, I am you, and you are me! Everyone around us seeks fame and power from us. Hyenas circle the throne, our cups are always filled with poison, and a blade hangs over our beds—”

Rafael’s expression changed abruptly at one of the statements, and he warned in a low voice: “Your Majesty!”

François not only didn’t stop but sped up, his soft, sticky tones blending together like thick paste, a snake’s venomous tongue slithering into Rafael’s ears: “What are you afraid of? Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you. How could I hurt you… No one in this world loves you more than I do. From the moment I saw you, I knew our souls were the same.”

Rafael’s face changed completely. He took a step back, his entire body stiff as a statue. Shock, anger, and astonishment flashed through his light purple eyes. François stared at him, the golden cup still held out, a hint of hurt in his eyes: “You don’t believe me?”

This was the ramblings of a madman!

The impact was so great that Rafael momentarily lost his ability to speak. He had never imagined that he would one day face such a situation—his good friend, the fiancé of his non-blood-related sister, declaring his love to him?!

Not only were they of the same gender, but their positions were also highly sensitive—one the Emperor of Calais, the other the Pope of Florence. In his extreme shock, Rafael even wondered if this was some absurd joke, and if François IV would soon reveal a mischievous grin. If so, Rafael was willing to forgive his offense—as long as he admitted that it was just a joke!

But those light brown eyes continued to gaze at him with an overly devoted smile. At a certain angle, as the sunlight poured down, François’s light brown pupils seemed to be coated with a layer of gold, resembling the vertical pupils of a snake, filled with an inorganic, cold scrutiny. Rafael felt a chill run through his body, as if he had been marked as prey by a serpent slithering through the underbrush. The strange sensation of being entangled and licked by an unseen force made his head spin.

“You’re drunk,” Rafael finally said coldly. “You’ve said some irrational things, and I didn’t hear it clearly. I hope you’ll think it over carefully once you’re sober. Princess Sancha is still waiting for you downstairs, and the nobles of Calais and Rome are all eager to offer their blessings. Your uncle is also waiting for your return in Daudet—stop drinking so much, Your Majesty.”

He emphasized the last few words, reminding François not to forget his identity.

The young emperor looked at him, his pupils slightly dilated, like a fawn that had been kicked. A thin mist seemed to gather in his eyes. “Oh dear, how could you be so cruel to me.”

Rafael couldn’t help but inhale sharply.

Was there something wrong with François IV’s mind?

“No, I’m not unwell. I’m fine,” the young emperor’s tone lifted cheerfully, as if he had heard Rafael’s thoughts and smiled. The way he smiled was bizzare, his eyes curving strangely, every muscle in his face seemed to be strain too hard. The dark crescents of his smiling eyes on his pale face gave off an eerie, twisted feeling.

“Following Your Holiness’s teachings, I am sincere, kind, honest, and helpful,” he laughed to himself, his gaze filled with undisguised infatuation as he looked at Rafael. “I trust you as I trust myself. It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me now, but you’ll understand eventually. In this world, only we are alike. We are the same.”

He raised his hand slightly, as if to touch Rafael, but the Pope took another step back. “The betrothal ceremony is over, and my duty is done. I will leave Hawthorne tomorrow.”

With that, Rafael quickly turned and left the corridor, leaving the emperor standing alone by the window, staring blankly at his retreating figure.

“…What a beautiful soul, the other half of myself in this world, my body lost in a foreign land, my brother, lover, companion…” François muttered incoherently, suddenly breaking into a foolish laugh. He drained the cold wine from the golden cup, licking the remnants from his lips with the tip of his tongue, and carefully restrained his overly exaggerated smile, like a monster hiding himself little by little in the human skin.

Rafael, having faced the greatest shock of his life, slumped into an armchair. He was accustomed to the evils of human nature and the intricacies of conspiracies, but something as bizarre and unsettling as François’s behavior was a first for him.

He sincerely hoped that the young emperor was just having a mental breakdown and didn’t actually harbor any unusual feelings for him.

No, it wouldn’t matter even if he did. Rafael had no prejudice against same-sex love. While religious doctrine often condemned such relationships to encourage procreation, Rafael didn’t believe that suppressing same-sex love would boost birth rates. Ancient Rome had its famous Sacred Band, and same-sex relationships were a societal trend at the time. Even the tyrant Nero married a male empress. In short, Rafael didn’t care whom François loved.

But the condition was that François kept these outlandish thoughts to himself.

Most noble marriages were open, and it was common for both partners to have their own lovers outside the marriage. Sancha was also prepared for this, as their union was primarily for political alliance and mutual support. The idea of love was laughable in such arrangements, but a third party with equal power and influence could never be involved.

Just then, Leshert came to report on some matters. When he entered the room, he saw the Pope sitting by the fireplace, his expression grim. Even when Leshert approached, Rafael’s furrowed brow didn’t relax.

“Your Holiness, what’s wrong?” Leshert walked over to the Pope, not taking a seat in the chair near to him. Instead, he subconsciously chose a position closer to the Pope, kneeling on one knee beside him, one hand resting on the arm of the Pope’s chair—a posture that was overly intimate. However, due to the knight’s upright demeanor and protective gesture, Rafael didn’t notice anything wrong at all.

“Nothing… it’s nothing,” Rafael quickly denied.

The words spoken by the Emperor of Calais could be considered a scandal of earth-shattering proportions. Even to Sancha, he couldn’t reveal the truth.

“Actually, I was about to look for you. Prepare the team. We leave tomorrow, first to Perigo for rest, and then back to Florence,” the young Pope closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. His long golden hair fell against the back of the chair, and beneath his usually composed demeanor, his face looked somewhat weary.

Leshert asked in surprise, “So soon? The celebrations are supposed to last several days. Wouldn’t leaving now be inappropriate?”

Rafael gritted his teeth. “…Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain it to Sancha.”

Leshert noticed that he only mentioned Sancha and didn’t mention the other party who would need a farewell. He tucked this observation away and nodded obediently. “Understood. I’ll make the preparations. You should rest well tonight.”

Rafael didn’t respond, lost in thought.

Author’s Note:

Rafael was utterly terrified by the young emperor’s confession, hahaha!

He’s never encountered such an exciting situation in both his lifetimes. The pure-hearted cat was completely furious.

Also, take note of the premise of the young emperor’s love at first sight—he had already heard of Rafael a long time ago!