The Reversed Hierophant Chapter 79
Mother
Julia knelt before the statue of the Virgin Mother, adorned with gold, silver, and jewels, pressing his forehead to the carpet. He murmured words only he could understand, his well-maintained face showing two faint dark circles under his eyes, and his bloodshot eyes betrayed a lack of sleep.
This was a rare sight for the viscount, who was well aware of his position. Ever since his setback in the Papal States, the Emperor hadn’t visited Julia. This had never happened before; the Emperor used to cling to the viscount, his obsessed gaze tracing every inch of his skin.
This sudden indifference filled the viscount with immense fear. He began to shut himself in the prayer room, praying to the Virgin Mother for over ten hours a day, neither eating nor drinking, tormenting himself until he was utterly haggard.
The maids witnessed his madness and panic, but not one of them was willing to comfort him.
Although the viscount enjoyed the status of ‘Empress of the Empire,’ as they privately mocked him, often giving the noblewomen a cold shoulder in public, and no matter how absurd or rude his actions were, His Majesty always smiled and tolerated him. Yet, to these maids from aristocratic families who entered the palace to gain prestige, Julia was the type of person they most despised.
Of lowly birth, he had climbed into the Emperor’s bed relying on a pretty face, uncultured, vulgar and crude in his behavior… He even harbored unspeakable thoughts about some of the prettier maids!
Girls were always particularly sensitive to such gazes. In fact, Julia was not a born homosexual. His character carried the frivolity and shortsightedness of a commoner, but at least he knew how to read the situation. His fear of the Emperor kept his inappropriate lust in check, while the dread of losing his privileged position drove him to desperately cling to that man’s affections.
After a long prayer, Julia opened his eyes. Two faint, ghostly flames flickered in his eyes, burning with strange and fanatical emotions, contrasting with his overly pale face, like a beautiful siren from hell luring people to their demise.
“Your Excellency,” someone gently knocked on the door, “His Majesty requests your presence.”
Julia leaped from the ground with the agility of a cheetah—it was incredible that he could make such a movement after kneeling for hours—”Yes, please tell His Majesty I’ll be right there—no, I’m coming now!” he answered loudly, turning halfway around the empty prayer room before pulling the door open and rushing to his dressing room.
He hastily ran his hand through his long hair, quickly changed into a white silk robe, and sprayed a little perfume on himself. His attire was extremely simple and elegant, paired with that face, he truly looked like an angel descended from a fresco. But he looked at himself in the mirror and still put on a necklace the Emperor had given him not long ago. That necklace originally belonged to a Roman Queen, inlaid with thumb-sized green emeralds and various gems of the same color, connected by pure white diamonds, so luxurious that it was dazzling to behold.
The young viscount walked briskly down the long corridor leading to the Emperor’s bedroom, his joy evident on his face. The melancholy, anxiety, and vague unease that had preoccupied him vanished, replaced by a proud flush.
“Your Majesty!” Julia gracefully entered the Emperor’s lavish bedroom, casually pushing aside a maid who accidentally blocked his path. He gave her a disgusted look, then instantly put on a smiling face. “My dearest François, I heard you wished to see me.”
In the Empire of Calais, he was the only one who could address the Emperor by his given name with such intimacy and ease.
This unique treatment was also why Julia was so deeply infatuated.
“Yes, my dear angel.” The Emperor, sitting by the window, saw his rude gesture of pushing the maid aside, but turned a blind eye, instead extending his hand to him. “Come to me, my love. Not seeing you these past few days has broken my heart.”
The young Emperor leaned languidly by the window, only the bottom two buttons of his shirt fastened, revealing a large expanse of his bare chest. Exaggerated and ornate lace covered the skin of his shoulders and neck, blending with his fluffy, wool-like long hair.
Julia obediently walked over and pressed himself against the Emperor’s chest like a docile rabbit, listening to the strong, steady heartbeat within.
“What is this?” François used a finger to lift the necklace on Julia’s neck, frowning as he looked at it for two seconds.
He had completely forgotten this precious gift he had given away.
“This is what you gave me last month—” The viscount’s words were cut short as the Emperor casually let go, allowing the heavy object to hit Julia’s collarbone.
“It doesn’t suit you. If you like jewels, I can give you something else. I remember there are some honey cat’s eye stones in the vault; they would look very beautiful inlaid on the roses of the holy emblem.”
Julia remained silent, his smile a little stiff. He wanted to say that he didn’t like anything related to religion, nor did he like thorny roses, but he didn’t dare. During their long time together, he had vaguely discovered something: for example, the Emperor wanted him to like religion, preferably to be pious and knowledgeable. The reason he was seeing the emperor now might well be because his ceaseless prayers before the Virgin Mother had moved this twisted man.
“No gem could compare to your love for me,” Julia said. “I only beg you not to neglect me so long again, leaving me unable to see you.”
François looked at him. For a fleeting moment, a trace of annoyance flashed in his amber eyes, but he mustered the last of his patience and said, “Do not beg, my dear. You are the most exalted person in this world. No one in this world is worth you bowing your head for.”
“As for me,” the Emperor paused, slowly revealing a strange smile. This smile flickered with an unknown anticipation and malice, as if seeing something far beyond Julia—”I am about to achieve the greatest victory of my life. I can keep you by my side forever—just as the Lord watches over His faithful.”
Amandra reined in her horse, enduring the pain in her arm as she looked back. Ashur had been sent to guide another unit, but she felt that everything happening now was strange.
It was too smooth.
They had retreated from Saint-Sandrine Manor and were heading to the next town designated as a stronghold. The journey was across plains and wilderness. The main force had already moved to garrison the base, leaving only a small contingent with her. She had prepared for an ambush by the Heavenly Alliance, yet the journey had been eerily uneventful.
Perhaps it was the sixth sense honed from years of life-and-death struggles, but the calmer things seemed, the more uneasy Amandra grew.
The letter from the Papal States two days ago resurfaced in her mind—the child, ignorant of the past, had sent her a warning. Amandra was not unaware of Calais’s malice. Even without Rafael’s warning, she would never have trusted Calais.
This was a decades-long feud between Calais and Assyria.
Back then, if Calais hadn’t coveted Assyria and taken the initiative to attack, Assyria would not have fallen to its current state due to internal turmoil.
During the reign of Amandra’s father, Calais and Assyria were mortal enemies. In 1045, the “Port Valentine Rebellion” occurred in Assyria, and civil war broke out; the following year, Calais invaded Assyria in full force, and surrounding small countries like Pombary and Sandon joined the assault. Assyria found itself surrounded. In this predicament, Assyria and Rome signed a marriage contract between their heirs in 1047, when Amandra was only seven years old.
In 1048, Rome sent troops to maintain the basic territorial integrity of Assyria, and at the same time, as “the dowry of the future Empress,” took two islands from Assyria.
In 1049, war broke out between Calais and Rome in the Duchy of Burgundy. That year, Burgundy’s wine production was zero; many cellars and storage rooms were plundered. The following year, all the wineries under Portia Bank made huge profits, using the funds to acquire a large number of Burgundy estates, planting deep roots in this distant, fertile land flowing with top-tier wines.
In 1051, the eleven-year-old Assyrian princess set foot on the battlefield for the first time.
In 1053, the young princess led a unit in a surprise attack on a port. After four days and nights of relentless marching, with Roman reinforcements in support, the Battle of Tauriel finally quelled the decade-long civil war.
In 1054, Archbishop Delacroix of Valencia was exiled to Assyria for preaching radical ideas and was hired as the Assyrian princess’s theology tutor.
Everything seemed guided by fate, chaos subtly obeying divine logic, ultimately hurtling toward an irreversible end.
Amandra rarely reminisced about the past, and never sighed about bygone years. For her, there were too many things to consider, far too many to leave any room for nostalgia. But perhaps Rafael’s letter arrived at a delicate time, drawing out a rare tenderness in her.
“Your Majesty—”
But her thoughts couldn’t linger any longer. Startled shouts awakened her. The Queen abruptly looked up and saw that on the distant hillside, the banners belonging to the Heavenly Alliance were rising from their fallen positions, like dark clouds, sweeping over them.
The Queen gripped the heavy long saber in her hand and spun around. A faint, massive explosion echoed from behind them; the bridge they had crossed was severed.
Amidst the soldiers’ stunned, panicked gazes and shouts, the Queen showed no sign of vulnerability. She simply raised a hand, steady and calm. The ominous clouds in the sky rolled back, revealing a narrow strip of clear sky, and sunlight poured through the gap, bathing her. She carried a quality more unyielding, sharper than any man, making her appear like a Valkyrie of old, conquering all under the Lord’s banner.
“Prepare for battle.”
Her words were brief, yet they carried an inexplicable power. Miraculously, upon hearing her command, the restless hearts of her men stilled.
The Queen’s loyal soldiers gripped their weapons. In that instant, they became marble statues on the wilderness, silently awaiting their monarch’s command, facing the oppressive mass of the enemy.
The horses, understanding human nature, also slowed their breathing; their heavy exhales became the only sound. They could hear their own surging heartbeats, their blood slowly beginning to boil.
The Queen tugged the reins, lightly kicking her horse’s flank. The clever horse immediately understood its master’s intent, slowly beginning to move, its pace steadily quickening in rhythm and frequency. The other horses tacitly followed the lead horse, their steps gradually changing from brisk to hurried, finally becoming a continuous torrent of rain and thunder, charging towards the ironclad defense line ahead with an unstoppable, terrifying momentum.
Against such overwhelming numbers, their only hope of survival was to strike first.
Warhorses neighed. As the Queen shot forward like an arrow, countless soldiers followed closely, their horses thundering like thunder, plunging like a wedge deep into the heart of the plains!
From the sky, it would have looked as though a blade of smoke had been drawn across the earth—a gray, churning line racing from the southern edge to the north, like the claws of a wolf tearing into the ravaged, barren earth, or like a tidal wave ready to devour all weakness in its path.
And before them stood a black wall.
This was a hopeless battle. The enemy’s numbers were so vast they could be described as covering the sky. They faced the warrior princess who had stepped onto the battlefield at the tender age of eleven and dominated Assyria for years. Countless souls of rebels lay beneath her blade. She had contended with the world’s top monarchs for a long time, and time had proven her undefeated. She had forged glories admired by all; it seemed nothing in this world could shatter her indomitable soul.
So they decided to offer her the highest tribute fit for a monarch.
This was a hunt of the highest caliber.
The mass of enemies pressed against the horizon, their own steeds restless and wild. Before the queen, they had erected a barrier of steel—no different from the gates of hell itself.
Amandra’s face held a wild smile, her eyes unblinking in the howling wind. She charged towards those usurping ministers who came to judge their monarch.
Closer, just a little closer…
Even if it’s the gates of hell, charge through without stopping!
She heard her heart pounding, the fluid in her veins rushing madly. She twisted her wrist, the side of her saber reflecting a cold glint. She lay low on her horse’s back to reduce wind resistance, becoming, both rider and blade, the sharpest point of this unstoppable charging saber.
“Kill!”
A bloody cry tore from her throat, accompanied by the roaring, tearing shouts of the soldiers behind her, shaking like mountains and seas, together piercing the barrier before them.
This blade savagely plunged into the black iron barrier ahead, and in the black and gray, a vivid scarlet instantly bloomed. Horses neighed as they crashed into each other, blades clanged from their scabbards, sparks flying as men cut down their own kind. The blood of friend and foe instantly spread out, then was trampled into the wet soil by hooves, continuously adding moisture to the land.
All the loyal guards fought desperately to tear open an escape route for the Queen. Each of them was a desperate beast, wildly tearing at enemies blocking the Queen’s path. Each death took three or four times as many lives. In the end, even their enemies feared them, instinctively wanting to avoid these blood-soaked demons.
Perhaps the Eternal Heaven at last chose to protect its ill-fated daughter. After several hours of fierce fighting, Amandra broke out of the deadly encirclement. By then, only five guards remained by her side.
The Queen was more disheveled than ever before. She clutched the reins—this was not her original horse; the warhorse that had traveled with her through half of Assyria had died half an hour ago. This horse was one she had snatched from the hands of the person who killed her mount, taking that person’s life as a bonus.
The six frantically urged their exhausted horses onward, with an oppressive mass of pursuers behind them. No one spared a thought for the frothing horses; blood flowed down their bodies onto the saddles, tracing straight red lines on the ground.
“Your Majesty! It’s our people!” A sharp-eyed guard spotted the flags ahead and cheered hoarsely.
Amandra was too exhausted to speak. They plunged into the embrace of their comrades, a symbol of safety. Only then did Amandra have the strength to stop. While swapping horses with those around her, she turned her head, her gaze cold, and stared at the relentless pursuers, like hyenas.
“Since they didn’t take my life there, now it’s my turn.”
The Queen wiped the damp blood from her face, ignoring the small cuts. Her expression was hard and ruthless, as if she wore a cast-iron mask. Surrounded by her army, with the vast sky above and endless enemies ahead, the Queen gripped her saber.
“Charge!”
Amidst the ear-splitting din of battle, Amandra suddenly felt a thin silver gleam flash in her peripheral vision. This light came from behind her, and in her instinctive warning, it vanished from her sight.
Then, a sound.
A tiny, crystalline snap at her neck. In the chaos of war, it should have been inaudible—but to her, it rang like a tolling bell.
The chain of the golden locket that had been with her for many years was severed by a passing blade. She instinctively reached out to grab it, and as her palm touched the warm metal, an intense, excruciating pain seized her.
In the shocked and terrified gazes of all, the Queen—like a leaf caught in the wind—fell from her horse.
In the last moments of her life, Amandra’s mind raced through a chaotic myriad of scenes: Sancha’s small smiling face in her childhood, the ceaseless wind across the Assyrian wilderness day and night, the Roman court scented with roses, Delacroix’s violet eyes, and the hateful gaze of Lav XI in his dying moments.
But the future of Assyria, the future of Rome, and even the outcome of this war—strangely, she didn’t think of these.
She abruptly recalled her last meeting with Rafael in the palace garden before leaving Rome that year.
It had been the second—and final—time she had ever touched her child.
How she regretted it.
If only she had embraced him then. If only she had kissed his forehead. If only she had called him—just once—my child?
If she had known that was all there would be, she would have held onto him desperately, telling him how much his mother missed him, telling him she never intended to abandon him.
Alas, circumstances are rarely as one wishes, and fate had never been kind to her.
She had never even called his name to his face—not the way any ordinary mother would have.
The queen’s sapphire-blue eyes, once so fierce and bright, dimmed. Her fingers still clutched the golden locket, and as the sunlight fell upon her in pity, it illuminated the faint image inside—a young man’s face.
Pale golden hair, violet eyes, with the lush trees of the Florence Seminary in the background. He looked like an angel who had only paused briefly in the mortal world, casting a cold glance at the artist who had captured his likeness.
This was all a mother could keep.
Author’s Note
Trembling… Don’t scold me [puts on a pot lid]
At the end of Chapter 61, when mother and son meet, the Queen says, “Fatehas already given you everything it could.” This was actually about herself; she had tried to give Rafael everything she could, but unfortunately, Rafael at the time didn’t know 🙂
There will be a personal extra chapter for the Queen later; I can write it if you want to read it~
