The Reversed Hierophant Chapter 83

The city gates of Gonda were open year-round, just like the wild and passionate country of Assyria, welcoming all strangers.

As a city built upon the grasslands, Gonda’s architecture is notably lighter. While its outer walls are made of massive rocks and earth, the houses inside are composed of wooden cabins and clusters of tents. The colorful canopies, like a mosaic of vibrant clouds, are huddled together. The pointed wooden cabins are tethered to the ground with long ropes, from which countless small, colorful triangular flags flutter. The exteriors of the houses are painted in overly bright colors.

The entire city of Gonda feels like a whimsical realm from a fairytale. Its bold and uninhibited use of color, the varied structures of its houses, and even their arrangement completely deviate from the conventional order found on the Syracuse Peninsula. Instead, they showcase the unique, free spirit of the grassland people.

Gonda is a mountain city on the plains, perched atop a hill. At its summit lie the Assyrian royal palace and temple, while the residences of nobles and priests spiral downward in concentric circles.

When the morning sun pierces the thin mist, illuminating the lush, water-rich grasslands, a bay horse streaks like an arrow through the crisp air, leaving a red phantom trail across the vast land. Women carrying bamboo baskets on their heads, returning from milking in the pastures, stop in their tracks, watching in small groups as the horse gallops toward them. Meanwhile, the men guarding the city gates clap and stomp their feet loudly, laughing heartily.

“Faster! Go faster! The temple’s morning bell is about to ring!”

“Charge up the sacred mountain in one go! Our princess!”

The girls spontaneously link their arms, singing the Assyrian battle song. The clear and melodious voices of the girls carry far on the wind. The rider on horseback leans forward, accelerating once more. As the rider speeds up, all the citizens of Gonda watching this scene cheer loudly.

“The eternal flower bestowed by the Eternal Sky, the sapphire of the Assyrian grasslands! The heavens have made you beautiful as a pearl! Which eagle shall be worthy of her hand? For him, we shall offer wine brewed from our blood!”

Leaning low over her horse, she saw the people waiting at the city gates to watch and cheer for her. She couldn’t help but curve her eyes into a smile, turning her face to give them a pure and radiant grin. As she turned her head, the wind caught her veil, instantly lifting it and pulling it away from her fragrant hair and rosy cheeks. It floated high into the sky like a shimmering golden petal, revealing her hidden smile to everyone.

Several young men who were waiting at the gate just to see her gallop back every day stared blankly with their mouths agape. A flush like blood spread across their honey-colored skin. They looked like a row of silly geese, and the people around them burst into good-natured laughter.

By the time they came to their senses, the Valkyrie-like girl had already vanished from their sight. Her graceful, beautiful figure and radiant smile were like a fleeting feather, becoming the most wonderful and brilliant dream of their lives.

They stood there for a while, looking at each other, then suddenly and simultaneously turned their gaze toward the direction the girl had come from.

The wind was carrying the pale golden veil into the distance, where it shimmered like a graceful cloud in the morning light.

They simultaneously put their hands to their mouths and let out a long whistle. Horses soon came trotting toward them.

The young men vaulted onto their horses, flicked the reins, and galloped flexibly into the distance, leaving the onlookers who had witnessed the entire scene in fits of laughter.

“Your Highness.”

The girl arrived at the palace on the mountaintop just before the bell rang. The handmaidens who had been anxiously waiting for her rushed to her like a flock of eager birds when they saw her return. They crossed their hands over their chests in a bow and then began speaking all at once.

More than just handmaidens, these girls, also from noble families, were more like companions to the princess. They lived, studied, and even married together, forming a larger network that supports the royal family’s rule.

The young princess dismounted her horse, her jewel-blue eyes sparkling. “Why didn’t you all go to the temple for morning prayers?”

The handmaidens looked at each other and giggled. Assyrian girls were all valiant warriors who could wield swords and ride horses. They were lively and outgoing, never shying away from discussing matters of love. “The King has invited a teacher for Your Highness’s religious studies. We went to see him earlier…”

They looked at each other again, their faces flushing with a pretty blush, and once again they broke into giggles, their eyes full of a meaning only girls could understand.

Amandra drew out her words. “Oh—so he’s very handsome? More handsome than my father?”

King Zhenya was widely acknowledged as the most handsome man in Assyria. He was refined yet heroic, a man all others wish to follow and all girls desire to marry. However, he only wed his childhood sweetheart, Hashur, as his queen, breaking countless Assyrian maidens’ hearts back in the day.

“Oh, it’s not that!” the girls chattered. “He’s a different type!”

“The King is the type of man you want for a husband, but that man… he could be my lover!”

The girls spoke these words without any hesitation. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by ɴovᴇl(ꜰ)ir(e).nᴇt

Amandra looked at them with a look of amusement, wrapped her supple horsewhip in her hand, and trotted into the palace with her head held high. Before she even reached the palace doors, she called out loudly, “Father!”

King Zhenya, who was conversing with a guest from afar, looked up when he heard her voice. His eyes naturally filled with affection and joy. He said to his guest, “My most precious pearl has arrived. She has the most beautiful blue eyes in the world, and her wisdom makes our elders leaves even our elders in awe. In short, you will surely delight in having such an intelligent student.”

King Zhenya’s guest smiled modestly and gently. “I am honored.”

Both pairs of eyes turned to the doorway. A lively figure, accompanied by a splash of sunlight, burst into the room. The scorching heat and brilliant light bloomed indoors like fireworks.

Those blue eyes, clearer and more transparent than the azure sky, met their gaze. The young princess noticed there was a strange young man in the room besides her father.

Upon seeing him, she instantly understood where her companions’ shy blushes had come from.

He was indeed a rare beauty. He had long, golden hair, unlike any Assyrian, pale skin, high cheekbones, and long eyelashes. He also had a unique and rare pair of purple eyes, resembling the ancient gems sold in antique shops, which made him look very mysterious. His elegance and restraint, so different from the Assyrian style, created a huge impact, making his handsomeness uniquely irreplicable.

“Good day, Your Highness.” The young man stood up and bowed to her. His every movement was full of natural grace. “I am Delacroix de Portia, the Archbishop of Valencia sent by Florence. Your father has hired me as your teacher in religious studies.”

Amandra blinked, tilting her head and narrowing her beautiful sea-blue eyes. The princess, who had been on the battlefield, carried a decisive and fierce temperament. Yet, when she tilted her head like this, a maiden’s charm emerged without any dissonance. “Why aren’t you kneeling on one knee for me? I heard that people from the Syracuse Peninsula are supposed to kneel on one knee when greeting a princess.”

The young man smiled slightly. His purple eyes shifted with the light, revealing an unfathomable depth. For a moment, Amandra was captivated by his gaze.

“That is the etiquette of knights, and I hold no knightly title. As a member of the clergy, we kneel to no one except the Holy See. Secular royal authority can never compare to the power of God.” The young man’s last words were spoken very softly, leaving Amandra wondering if she imagined them.

“It seems that besides religious studies, we must also add etiquette lessons, and perhaps…” Delacroix paused, then smiled again. Amandra noticed that this man seemed to smile often. This wasn’t a bad thing. A handsome young man smiling could make everyone feel good and made him look very gentle and harmless. “…perhaps we should also include lessons on the customs of the Syracuse Peninsula? You will be the Queen of Roman someday. You cannot not even know what your people eat as their staple food.”

This sentence sent a faint chill through Amandra’s heart. She cast aside her playful and careless attitude, nodding seriously. “I understand, sir.”

“No,” Delacroix smiled again. He truly loved to smile, as if he wore a perpetual smiling mask, always ready to show his happiness to everyone. “There’s no need to be so serious. Please, just call me Delacroix. I’m ten years older than you, but your formality makes me feel like I’m a whole generation older.”

“You must know, even men occasionally mind their age,” the Archbishop of Valencia made a small joke.

“To be honest, ten years is quite a significant gap,” Amandra later remarked bluntly when they were familiar enough to speak freely. “One of the candidates my father proposed for me even included some four years my junior.”

Delacroix drew his bow beside her, patiently aiming at a pheasant in the distance. He had been in Assyria for nearly three years, but he still insisted on wearing clothes in the style of the Syracuse Peninsula. The tailored clothes outlined his slender figure, with sleeves that flared out at the elbows in a cascade of ruffles. Layers of pristine white lace were adorned with pure rhinestones, and a thumb-sized, deep blue brooch sat in the middle of his cravat. He looked less like an ascetic clergyman and more like a dissolute noble from the Syracuse Peninsula.

In fact, given his background, he was indeed a nobleman. Had he not chosen the path of a clergyman, he could have inherited a marquisate.

“Is that so? Am I too late, then?” The Archbishop pondered for a moment, tilting his head slightly. This rather girlish gesture didn’t look effeminate on him; instead, it lent him a unique elegance. Amandra was captivated by this occasional touch of childlike innocence in him, and perhaps it was her innate desire for control that made her constantly drawn to this boyish side of Delacroix.

The princess laughed. “I was only five years old at the time.”

Well, Delacroix’s hand trembled. The arrow he released naturally went astray. It didn’t hit the pheasant and didn’t even touch a feather on its tail.

Arranged marriages among nobility often began early; he should have thought of that. Amandra’s engagement to the Crown Prince of Rome was settled when she was fourteen. How long ago must King Zhenya have started seeking a fiancé for his daughter?

Amandra looked at the young man’s deflated expression and giggled. Her eyes and face were full of a playful and lively smugness. She seemed very pleased with his unspoken jealousy. But to spare the man’s pride—how considerate she was!—the princess praised herself inwardly before stepping forward and joining Delacroix in holding the longbow.

“You’ll be laughed at if you can’t even hit a pheasant. This is prey that Assyrian children can shoot by eight years of age. I could take down a pheasant alone by the age of six.” The proud little princess lifted her chin. She patted Delacroix’s arm, gesturing for him to raise the bow again, and adjusted his hand’s position with hers.

The princess’s hands were not particularly soft; her palms were calloused from gripping swords and longbows. Delacroix thought of the many sisters and female cousins in his extensive family, many around Amandra’s age. Surrounded daily by flowers, silk, and sweets, the heaviest thing they ever handled was an ivory fan. They used milk and honey to moisturize their skin before bed and wrapped their hands tightly in silk when they went out.

But… but…

The young man lowered his head. He could see the small swirl of hair on top of the princess’s head. She wore a chain-link circlet for easy movement in her golden-brown hair. Her braids were woven with turquoise, rubies, and padparadscha sapphires in between—deep greens, serene reds, bright yellows. These intense colors accentuated the princess, yet her radiance was in no way overshadowed.

She was tougher than honey, more brilliant than a flower petal, and more resilient than silk.

She didn’t need milk and honey to care for her hands. Her hands were for holding swords and reins. She was born to soar through the skies.

Delacroix’s lips curved into a smile, this time unprecedentedly sincere and tender.

The arrow left the bowstring, streaking like a meteor, piercing straight through the pheasant swaggering on the branch and pinning it firmly to the tree trunk behind.

“Perfect!” Delacroix praised softly.

Amandra turned her face and gave him a quick little eyebrow raise.

Their gazes met at an extremely close distance. For the convenience of drawing the bow, Amandra was practically half-held in Delacroix’s arms. The princess’s back was pressed against the Archbishop’s chest. They could even feel each other’s heartbeats and the surge of blood in their veins—

Ah, no. As their breaths completely intertwined, Delacroix thought to himself, this wasn’t Amandra’s heartbeat—it was his own.

No matter how many times he kissed Amandra, he would always feel that same, boiling-blood kind of tension, as if the Archbishop of Portia, who was always so at ease, had completely transformed into a greenhorn youth. He held Amandra’s slender waist as she wrapped her soft arms around his shoulders. They stumbled backward, then tripped on grass stems, rolling onto the ground together.

The sudden spinning of the world forced them to separate for a moment. Delacroix cushioned her fall, acting as a mat beneath her. The young princess’s cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue from the kiss, like the soft glow of gold-red agate under the sunlight. Delacroix gazed at her mesmerized—her blue eyes glistening with moisture, her crimson lips.

“My God, I should stop,” he murmured, as if warning himself.

“But you can’t,” Amandra declared arrogantly. “No one can refuse me. Even if you are a scoundrel.”

This time, it was Amandra who initiated it. The ever-willful princess imperiously pressed a hand against Delacroix’s shoulder, shoving him firmly back to the ground. The soft grass was a natural carpet; lying on it was like sinking into a plump cloud.

Amandra straddled him, gazed at him for a moment, then leaned down to kiss him again.

This kiss was not as gentle as the last. They ferociously invaded each other like two wild beasts, tearing at one another, using every means to steal each other’s breath. A thin layer of sweat seeped from their bodies, soaking the clothes on their backs. Their weight crushed the grass beneath them, and emerald green juice squeezed out, staining their clothes with twisted streaks and splotches of color. The rising body heat quickly evaporated all traces of sweat and grass liquid. The whistling wind sweeping across the prairie, warm with the sun’s heat, brushed against their bare skin like the gentle caress of silk.

They tore away their disguises. All tenderness and patience vanished like passing clouds. All that was left was a burning, scorching heat, like fire. They embraced tightly, their palms holding the other’s body heat. Fingers slid from cheeks and necks to collarbones. The thin sweat on Amandra’s honeyed skin glowed with a noble golden light. Backlit by the sun, she was draped in its radiance. The light gave her body a soft, fuzzy outline, and the blurred lines were like a watercolor wash, giving her a transcendent, artistic beauty. She was like a Valkyrie seated on a divine throne. No one was more beautiful than she was at that moment. The winds of Assyria had forged her free soul. Delacroix looked at her as if he were gazing upon the supreme Holy Lord in a cathedral.

I truly cannot refuse, he thought vaguely. How could I possibly refuse?

—She is more eternal than love.