The Reversed Hierophant Chapter 80
Visitor from afar
Rafael pulled a book from the shelf, standing on the ladder as he flipped through a couple of pages. The yellowed pages were adorned with intricate patterns drawn in black ink extracted from octopus ink sacs. This was an illustrated compendium of rare flora—both an entertaining and educational read, often used by nobility as introductory material to teach their children how to identify poisons.
Rafael wasn’t truly raised in a noble family, so he lacked this kind of systematic noble education. After being taken in by Delacroix, he had undergone intensive tutoring to make up for these gaps. He could master most subjects in a very short time, except for those requiring physical coordination. For example, even now, his horsemanship lessons were still teetering on the edge of failure.
At times like these, he was immensely grateful that the Pope’s duties mostly involved standing—or sitting—as a perfect idol, rather than holding hunting parties to show off personal bravery like a king.
He placed the book in a small basket within reach and then reached for another book.
That book was heavy. As he gripped its spine and pulled it free, his body tilted precariously. His legs, still weak from his recent illness, and his delicate knees protested without warning. Before he could let go, both he and the book tumbled from the ladder, sending a stack of nearby books crashing to the floor.
Fortunately, the room was covered with soft, thick carpets, so this short fall wouldn’t cause any harm. Rafael sat on the floor, quietly waiting for the needle-like tingling pain to subside. His gaze fell upon a wooden chest in the corner.
He remembered.
These were the things left by Cardinal Tondolo. The notebook contained the deceased man’s greatest sins in this life, as well as written evidence of Lav XI’s plot to assassinate Pope Delacroix.
Rafael suddenly blinked. He remembered that there seemed to be something else in the box that he hadn’t opened last time.
Inside lay the leather-bound journal he had read before, two aged letters, and—pressed at the very bottom—a rolled-up parchment.
The scroll was no longer than an adult woman’s palm, slender as a finger, bound with a hemp rope soaked in castor oil.
When it was tied, the medicinal solution on the hemp rope might not have fully dried yet, leaving irregular greenish stains on the parchment. The two were tightly stuck together. Rafael, with extraordinary patience and meticulousness, peeled away the inseparable rope and paper little by little. The dried hemp rope made a crackling sound as it was peeled off, and fine medicinal powder fell onto his fingers, like glittering diamond shards.
The dutiful hemp rope fell to the floor.
Rafael carefully unrolled the parchment. The handwriting was somewhat faded, but the strokes were fluid, clearly indicating that the person who wrote them was in the prime of their life.
The Pope’s pale violet eyes paused on the text, his indifferent gaze slowly hardening.
Some had praised Sistine I’s eyes as the Lord’s most precious treasure. Legend had it that the purest aquamarines, under a certain light and angle, would emit a dazzling lilac glow. That color was so breathtakingly vivid and dreamlike that even the most exacting painters could not resist its allure. It was this rare and precious hue that formed the dominant color of the Pope’s irises.
His eyes were like an untouched sea of mist, shimmering with violet only at dawn and dusk, more transparent and clear than the purest gemstone. No one had ever seen them shatter, just as no one had witnessed the collapse of his indomitable soul. So when they finally did fracture, it was as though the eternal glory of heaven had plummeted to earth, crystal towers crumbling into dust, virgins bearing torches to guide the apocalyptic flood that engulfed the earth—the zenith of brilliance and radiance meeting its ultimate ruin.
He fell apart in a place where no one could see, mocked and ridiculed by fate.
The handwriting on the parchment was both familiar and unfamiliar. Familiar because he had seen the Queen’s handwriting more than once on official documents exchanged with Rome; unfamiliar because, stripped of the tempering of long years, the words on the paper were still bold and unrestrained.
This was a will that had never been made public, written on an ordinary day twenty-five years ago, seemingly still carrying the scent of Assyria’s free winds.
“I, Amandra Sargon, daughter of King Zhenya and Queen Hashur, Princess of Gonda, hereby declare this will in the 460th year of the Assyrian calendar. Should I meet an untimely death without leaving another will, my personal assets and all titles shall be inherited by my firstborn child with Delacroix, Rafael…”
On that day twenty-five years ago, the then-Princess Amandra made thorough preparations for a birth of uncertain outcome. She wrote this will, sent it to Delacroix in Florence, and made all arrangements for her unborn child.
If she unfortunately died during childbirth, Rafael, as her only child, would inherit everything she had in Assyria, and the child’s father would be his guardian.
Rafael saw Delacroix’s faded signature at the end of the parchment, as well as the signature of Cardinal Tondolo as a notary.
The young Pope, clutching this piece of parchment, for the first time experienced what it meant to feel utter bewilderment, as if the sky and earth were collapsing.
His mother—the woman rumored to be a prostitute, the one who had heartlessly abandoned him—was Queen Amandra?!
But how could that be?!
His emotions vehemently rejected this fact, which threatened to shatter everything he knew, while his cooler, more rational mind had already begun assessing its plausibility.
The mother he had resented, longed for, and missed—the one who had left him with memories of roaring waves and Assyrian lullabies—was Queen Amandra?
Rafael tried to dig up memories of his interactions with Amandra—this was easy, as their meetings were remarkably few. No matter how he recalled, there was only that one time in the Roman royal palace. As for his previous life, they had never even met at all.
Had she known he was her child?
That was beyond doubt.
But so what?
Rafael stared at the bold, sweeping script on the parchment, a bitter thought forming in his heart: Even if she had known… their entire shared history amounted to nothing more than that one meeting.
Rafael had no experience with a mother’s presence. All his aspirations and concepts of a mother came from the long-dead Lia—a woman who had filled the void left by Amneris in his life, giving him his earliest impressions of maternal warmth. She had been tender, soft, devoid of edges, lush and fragile like ripe fruit brimming with sweet nectar, silently offering the most seamless affection.
But Amandra was a completely different being.
Rafael recalled the Queen he had seen during their few meetings.
She was utterly unlike the universal concept of a “mother” held in people’s hearts. She wasn’t soft or fragile at all. She was harder and more resolute than most men. Her deep blue eyes were like jewels forged from the sea, holding not flowers and feathers, but howling winds and torrential storms that stirred up angry waves. She walked an unyielding path, cleaving through heaven and earth, sinking her roots deep into the earth, embracing a vast territory.
If she were a mother, her child would be the happiest and most tormented person in the world.
But he had never for a moment imagined she could be his mother.
This was impossible. How could this be?
Rafael sat on the floor in a daze, overwhelmed by the shock, not even hearing the hurried footsteps outside the door.
Ferrante rushed through the long corridor of the papal palace, his billowing black robe like the unfurled wings of a raven. The leader of the Arbitration Bureau was rarely this solemn. Nuns and monks bowed their heads slightly to him from a distance, moving to the sides of the path, watching the important figure sweep through the corridor like a whirlwind and burst into the Pope’s private chambers.
The two guards at the door watched him in surprise. Ferrante strode past them, dropping a single command: “Is His Holiness inside? No one is to enter.”
The heavy, ornate doors shut firmly behind him, sealing off all outside noise and prying eyes.
“Holy Father,” Ferrante called as he found the Pope in the reading room.
He was sitting amidst a mess. Books were scattered around him, and the ladder was leaning crookedly against a bookshelf. Ferrante immediately understood what had happened, and the urgent matter he had been carrying was instantly forgotten. He rushed over in a panic.
“Are you alright? Where did you fall? Are you hurt? Let me see—” He helped the Pope up from the floor, settled him in a chair, lifted his robes to check his legs, and gently pressed his chest, abdomen, and back to check for any hidden injuries. After all this, he belatedly realized that the Pope’s mind was elsewhere.
Those pale violet eyes held no awareness of his presence at all.
Ferrante sensed something amiss. His gaze shifted to the parchment clutched tightly in the Pope’s hand.
But before he could glimpse its contents, Rafael seemed to jolt awake from his trance. His first instinct was to press his hand down, concealing the words on the parchment.
“…Is there something wrong?” Rafael struggled to steady his voice, trying to appear as composed as usual—though his efforts were clearly in vain.
Ferrante looked at him for two seconds, a hint of worry in his eyes, but in the face of the Pope’s question, he relayed the news he had just received.
“The Assyrian Queen’s lady-in-waiting has secretly arrived in Florence and requests for an audience with you.”
Ferrante thought of the woman waiting outside and couldn’t help but frown slightly, a trace of unease crossing his mind.
To his surprise, Rafael didn’t ask anything more. It seemed that upon hearing the words “Assyrian Queen,” he had already accepted this unfamiliar woman he had never met.
“Let her in. Alone.”
Ferrante looked at Rafael in surprise, wanting to say something, but the Pope had already lowered his head. His long, pale golden hair obscured his profile, making it difficult for Ferrante to see his face.
The arrival of Amandra’s personal attendant at this moment was an extremely sensitive matter. She had done her utmost to conceal her identity and movements along the way; no one knew she had come to the Papal States. Ferrante brought her through a secret passage, and after confirming she had no weapons, he obeyed the Pope’s order and stood guard outside the door.
Ashur pushed back the wide hood of her cloak. After days of relentless travel, the woman’s cheeks were sunken, her skin sallow with exhaustion, her hair caked with dust. The hem of her practical traveling gown was stiff with dried mud.
This weary traveler stood upon the Pope’s opulent carpet, gazing at her mistress’s child in place of the departed queen.
She had come to deliver grievous news to this child who had never known a mother’s love. Thinking of this, even the usually distant Ashur felt a sense of melancholy and sadness.
But she soon realized that she might not need to say anything at all, because blood and soul had already told the other party everything.
The ruler of the Holy See sat in the chair behind the desk, a scroll of old parchment in his hand that looked somewhat familiar. Since she had entered, he had been watching her quietly. His unique and beautiful pale violet eyes were more brilliant and piercing than any gemstone. The shape of his eyes was very similar to Amandra’s. Under his gaze, Ashur almost felt as if her own monarch was looking at her, as she had countless times before.
“Ah… you’ve come,” Rafael murmured softly. “What are you here to tell me?”
Ashur didn’t speak, and Rafael didn’t press her.
In that moment, they both understood the unspeakable grief that lay between them.
At that moment, no one seemed to question why the Assyrian Queen’s lady-in-waiting would come to Florence at the very first opportunity. Ashur suddenly remembered why the parchment in the Pope’s hand looked so familiar… twenty-five years ago, she had witnessed her own sister write that will and had even personally handed the scroll to the messenger to be sent to Florence.
So you know now, don’t you?
“She…” Rafael moved his lips, looking at Ashur calmly.
The woman was travel-worn, the hem of her skirt marked with the signs of a long journey. When she had removed her cloak, the fabric of her sleeves and chest showed dry, dark bloodstains.
Whose blood was that? And why would she abandon her mistress to come here?
Rafael didn’t continue. Ashur watched as tears slowly and silently fell from those eyes so similar to his mother’s.
Transparent tears fell from the corners of his eyes, like jewels shattering in mid-air.
Rafael lowered his eyes in a daze. He seemed not to understand why he was suddenly crying. His emotions had gained control of his body before his reason. His confusion at that moment was almost childlike, like an innocent child surprised by his own uncontrollable emotions. He slowly touched his eyes, feeling the dampness on his fingertips, and tilted his head in bewilderment.
“What?” he muttered to himself.
However, in Ashur’s eyes, a great, sorrowful rain fell from the eyes of this young man who seemed to have suddenly regressed to his childhood. The surging tears broke through the constraints of his precarious reason, pouring out of his eyes. The confused expression still lingered on his face. This extreme contrast held a captivating power that made even Ashur, who had been expressionless since seeing the Queen’s body, tremble all over.
What she witnessed was not the weeping of a pope—but the raw, anguished cries of a child who had just learned he had lost his mother forever.
Ashur bowed her head. Nevertheless, she had a duty to fulfill.
“Your Holiness,” she said, her voice as dry and cold as winter frost, “your mother, Her Majesty Queen Amandra of Assyria, was pursued by enemy forces and ambushed from behind by assassins. She fell in battle on the fourteenth of June, one hundred miles north of the Saint Sandrine estate on the Assyrian plains.”
“In accordance with her final wishes, I have come to inform you of her will.”
Author’s Note:
Rafael’s tears aren’t because he loved Amandra so deeply—it’s simply the shock of a motherless child suddenly learning he had a mother, only to lose her again in the same instant. The psychological whiplash was too shocking, especially for someone like Rafael, who has always cared deeply about this matter. It was simply a series of critical hits.
