Chapter 110 Hope Blue Diamond (Twenty-Seven)

◎Confused◎

Under Raphael's seemingly warm but actually cold gaze, Ferrante, with his head lowered, suddenly took a deep breath.

In order to make it easier to apply the medicine, Raphael was kneeling in front of Ferrante, holding the young man's knees with both hands, his posture soft and gentle, and there was a special kind of innocence and simplicity when he looked up at Ferrante. His long light golden hair was draped behind his back, and the slightly curly hair was like a sea with microwaves, rippling with golden light in the sun. Who could have the heart to scold him - when he looked at you like this?

Neither can Ferrante.

That was the saint he had longed for since his youth, the monarch and lover whom he had worshipped, looked up to, believed in, and swore to be loyal to with his life and soul. For a long time, Raphael was more important than everything to him.

Denying Raphael was like denying everything about oneself.

but……

Raphael suddenly opened his eyes wide and looked at Ferrante in surprise.

The young man lowered his head with no expression on his face. Big, transparent tears rushed out of his deep eye sockets. He didn't say anything, but just cried silently. The soul that was suppressed deep in his body seemed to have a hole, and the broken sorrow poured out through the only gap, quickly dripping along his chin and hitting the back of Raphael's hand.

The tears that had just left the human body were warm, but the young Pope felt as if he had been scalded by boiling water. He suddenly curled up his fingers and looked at Ferrante anxiously and confusedly.

The director of the Arbitration Bureau, who could peel off people's skin with a smile in the interrogation room, now looked as pitiful as a puppy drenched by the rain. The gloomy and cold man cried with his eyes open. His tears fell heavily but no sound came out. His chest rose and fell weakly and the sobs that were forced into his throat were intermittent.

Raphael looked at him.

When he accepted Julius, he had thought of this day. Raphael, who was good at preparing for a rainy day, had already thought of how to deal with Ferrante. No matter whether Ferrante was angry or questioning, he had a way to grasp the ups and downs of emotions, soothe the other party's anger, and once again turn Ferrante into the obedient "Pope's dog". Although Raphael always deliberately avoided this point, he knew very well that he had indeed regarded these despicable means as his instinct.

However, Ferrante said nothing and just watched him cry.

Raphael stared blankly at the tears that fell on the back of his hand and splashed water, feeling as if something in his heart was slowly collapsing.

He remembered the first time he saw Ferrante a few years ago. The sweaty young man in the training ground had bright eyes and burst into his field of vision with pride and passion, and he was struggling in the nightmare of death, unable to get out. Every day he had to curl up in the closet like a dark insect to get a little space to sleep. So he wanted to grab every rope around him, dragging all possibilities tightly, hoping to get a ray of light from the nightmare that would never end.

For this, he was even willing to sell out his own conscience and drag those with bright futures into the abyss to accompany him on this hellish road covered with lava.

What was he thinking at the time?

Raphael recalled with difficulty. It was clearly just a few years ago. Compared with the current situation, those feelings of uneasiness, uneasiness, fear and trembling seemed to be long-gone ashes. He needed to use all his strength to dig out the thin emotions from those old and smelly things.

He remembered, Raphael looked at the tear, thinking absentmindedly how guilty he felt at that time. This was Leah's child. He once snuggled in that woman's arms, secretly dreaming that it was her child. He briefly thought that he had the love of his mother. He thought about giving Ferrante a comfortable and happy life - if Ferrante had rejected his invitation to hell at that time.

He gave Ferrante a chance to leave, which was the last kindness that a man who could not protect himself could give, but Ferrante refused. So he took great pains to deceive, deceive, distort and disguise her, and finally made Ferrante a wild dog of the famous Pope in Florence.

At that time, he secretly vowed that as long as Ferrante was willing to remain loyal to him as always, he would fulfill all of Ferrante's wishes.

What a fair deal.

If - if what Ferrante asked of him wasn't "love".

Rafael's indulgence of Ferrante exceeds that of most people. Ferrante is several years younger than him, and he was completely "tricked" by Rafael. Rafael can't help but be much more tolerant of him. For example, Ferrante can easily break through his personal defense and kiss him unscrupulously.

——But such tolerance sometimes confuses people about its essence.

Ferrante thought that Raphael accepted his intimacy out of love, but to Raphael, this was perhaps just an accommodation to the younger brother he had raised. He had never said he loved her, nor did he respond to Ferrante, nor did he promise anything, embodying the essence of a scumbag who "makes no promises and takes no responsibility" to the extreme.

In fact, this is not a dilemma, Rafael thought indifferently, as long as he softened his attitude, coaxed Ferrante in a kind voice, touched his hair, kissed his eyes, this tearful puppy would follow him loyally again.

Isn't it the same for all puppies? No matter what injuries they suffer, as long as their owners wave at them, they will always follow them, wagging their tails.

The master only needs to pay a tiny bit of conscience - a price that is no longer a big deal to him.

But why couldn't he raise his hand immediately?

The young Pope touched his chest thoughtfully. The organs inside were still beating hard. Astasia's new book was about the study of human blood circulation. She dissected a dozen freshly dead bodies and learned that the blood in the human body flows to all parts of the body through the pumping of the heart. Does that mean that the heart controls the human soul? What is his uneasiness at this moment trying to remind him of?

Raphael hesitated for a few moments, curling and then flattening the fingers pressed on his chest. It was a rare moment of hesitation. ^

Ferrante suddenly asked: "...Are you feeling unwell?"

His voice was very hoarse, and the first two syllables were lost in his throat. Raphael looked up at him in surprise. Tears were still rolling out of Ferrante's eyes quietly, but he still instinctively paid attention to Raphael's every move. When he saw Raphael covering his heart inexplicably, he subconsciously concerned about his health.

Oh my god.

Raphael was simply terrified.

Unlike the fear of facing death, the love from Ferrante is strong and not mixed with greed. It is like a steaming stove that suddenly appears in the cold winter. The cold-fearing cat sees such a good thing for the first time in its life. Because it is too good, it is suspicious and afraid. It must kick over the stove and extinguish the flames before it can lick its fur in peace in the residual heat of the ashes.

Driven by a strange fear, a twisted desire for destruction arose in Raphael's heart. He wanted to kill Ferrante, to destroy this emotion that made him tremble, to run away as far as possible... and he also wanted to fulfill all of Ferrante's wishes.

This is so weird.

Raphael thought in confusion that what he was thinking in his mind now were completely two extremes.

But Raphael wasn't one to give in to fear.

The young Pope finally raised his hand, suppressed all the complex and unfamiliar emotions in his heart, showed a proper smile, put his arms around the back of Ferrante's neck and pulled him down - the young man cooperated by lowering his head deeply, closing his eyes numbly and obediently, and then he received a light kiss.

The kiss fell on his eyelids, like the finest down feathers under the wings of the white bird that always perched in the Vatican, softly scraping across his skin, leaving behind a lingering warmth.

Ferrante felt that he must be the most spineless person in the world, because he actually thought that since Raphael was willing to kiss him like this, did it mean that he had not been completely abandoned by the Holy Father?

"What do you want?" Ferrante grabbed Raphael's sleeve. The Pope's sleeve was wide and soft, and the way it hung down looked like the folded wings of a white bird. "What can I give you?"

The Director of the Arbitration Bureau, who was considered cold-blooded and cruel by outsiders, asked his saint in a pleading tone.

"Please don't abandon me," he begged, "I will be very obedient."

"Please allow me..." His voice was filled with choked despair and self-abandoned sadness.

"Please allow me to love you."

As he said this, Ferrante suddenly felt a little disgusted with himself. Ever since they met, he had always been praying to Raphael. He made wishes to him as if he was praying to the Lord, and the crowned monarch had never rejected him once.

What a vile believer, and his merciful saint.

Ferrante, you will go to hell after you die, he thought secretly in his heart, but it doesn’t matter, he just wants joy in his life.

Just as he thought, the saint who had never rejected him once again placed his hand on his forehead, and as he had forgiven and satisfied him every time before, he said in a steady tone: "I allow."

The carpet for the Pope's bedroom was shipped from the far south. This expensive fabric came from a country with endless deserts and hot weather. Camels were the main means of transportation in a country that was still in the primitive state.

During the tribal culture stage, due to the scarcity of land and resources, no one was willing to waste energy on invading them, which allowed them to develop peacefully to the present.

However, the endless yellow sand and the terrifying temperature difference between day and night gave birth to the best fabrics. These products, woven with the softest camel hair mixed with wool, have extremely luxurious and gorgeous patterns. The soft feel, rich colors and solid printing and dyeing technology make them best-selling products in the Syracuse Peninsula. Even the Pope's bedroom is not short of such beautiful and comfortable blankets.

But before this, Raphael had never felt the delicate and soft texture of the carpet from this angle. The half-removed robe was pressed under his back, and the soft wool fabric scratched the skin on his back. Even the softest touch could cause him to shiver. The thin sweat rubbed against the wool, and the non-sweat-absorbent fabric gave him a strange and sticky feeling. Raphael wanted to avoid it involuntarily, but was hugged by Ferrante.

The young man had long black curly hair hanging down, and his handsome and wicked face was covered with water marks. His beautiful eyes were wet and his eye sockets were red. It was hard to tell whether they were tears from crying just now or hot flashes caused by high body temperature.

The tall young man leaned over Raphael, arched his neck hard, bit his earlobe with his teeth, and licked and kissed Raphael's exposed skin passionately like a large dog eager to be close to its master. The pale fingers that were used to holding daggers and daggers for years pressed against Raphael's waist, pressing on the slightly plump flesh there. Immediately, a light pink came out from the fingertips, like a butterfly greedily sipping the nectar of a flower.

Their breaths intertwined, sticking to their skin hot and passionately, giving rise to glistening sweat that flowed down along the winding and undulating ravines. Raphael gritted his teeth and stifled the moan in his throat. The young man with deep blue eyes still had a wronged look on his face, as if he would cry if Raphael said something harsh, but his movements were as fierce and brutal as a wolfhound.

Raphael realized in a daze that something seemed to be wrong, and he always had a feeling that he was being coaxed. He reached out and grabbed the end of Ferrante's hair. The young man whose hair was pulled lowered his head to look at him, and he kissed the pair of lavender eyes that seemed a little distracted lovingly - this was an expression rarely seen on the young Pope. His snow-white face was flushed red, and his pale lips were swollen and shiny from Ferrante's kisses. His pair of arrogant and cold eyes were half-opened blankly, like a proud cat that was finally willing to be hugged and its belly was touched softly.

Ferrante intertwined his fingers with Raphael's, feeling a secret and childish joy for his behavior. The Pope, with misty eyes, curled up in his arms, looking up at him with a sweaty face: "Will you be loyal to me forever? Even if it costs you your life?"

“I will,” Ferrante whispered into his ear.

A man's oath when he is confused is the most unreliable. Raphael smiled silently, but this could be a handle in his hand in the future. If Ferrante betrays him, he could kill him with a clear conscience without having to feel inexplicable guilt and uneasiness like today.

Ferrante's hand slid down Raphael's back, touching a wet hand of sweat. He was afraid that Raphael would catch a cold and get sick, so he carried the tired and sleepy Pope to the bed and wrapped him in a quilt. As soon as Raphael touched the bed, he automatically curled himself up. Ferrante hugged the saint who responded to his every request like a beggar with nothing hugging his only treasure. He leaned against the top of the other's head and soon heard Raphael's breathing become steady and long.

As the war situation in Assyria became more and more stalemate, the number of letters sent from Florence and Calais to Rome increased. As a neutral country, Rome became the object of both sides' unremitting efforts to win over. Queen Sancha recognized Raphael's rule over Assyria, but she did not provide any war support to Florence. So in Calais' view, this was an ally that could be won over.

The queen was maneuvering between the two countries, neither expressing her opinion nor declaring her position. Her attitude was ambiguous and vague. It was obvious that she was determined to wait and see in this chaos for a while and gain the greatest benefits for Roman.

But she knew very well that such wait-and-see attitude could not last too long. If she really waited until the outcome of the Assyrian battle was decided before choosing the winner's side, then such a statement would not only be cheap but also disgusting, and would leave a very bad impression both in Calais and Florence.

What's more...she was destined not to stand with Calais from the very beginning.

The death of Queen Amenra is still considered by the world to be an accident on the battlefield. No one links the death of this great queen with her good son-in-law. It is like a strange secret. Raphael knows the truth, Sancha knows the truth, and François IV guessed that they knew the truth, but they all pretended to be stupid.

This was an accusation without evidence, and the shocking truth could only become a secret passed on by word of mouth.

When you don't have the ability to completely crush your enemy, don't be foolish enough to provoke him - this is what Yamenla once taught Sangxia.

But she felt that this time would not last long. The young queen stood by the window, holding a letter from Florence in her hand. Her brother sent greetings from afar, and her return gift was some jewels left by her mother.

This was a bit of bad taste of the young queen. She always felt that her brother was too handsome. It would be a pity if such beauty was not embellished with jewelry. Many of the jewelry left by Amenra were in Assyrian style. Those jewelry with rough and wild lines and inlaid with large pieces of rubies, sapphires and jadeite were suitable for both men and women. Wearing them on Raphael should make him look like a child left behind by the gods of Eternal Heaven in the world.

Raphael was a little amused when he received the jewelry. After hesitating for a long time, he finally chose a less eye-catching bracelet to wear.

Looking at these things, he suddenly remembered something and turned to ask Ferrante: "Did Lady Cassandra send anything to Assyria?"

It was not that he was concerned about Redrick's private affairs on a whim, but Cardinal Lombardi, whom Ferrante mentioned before, seemed to have some relationship with the Claudius family. The reason why this cardinal was able to climb to a high position from a dilapidated chapel was inseparable from huge financial support. Before he learned to exploit and make money by various means, the Claudius family once gave him a sum of money. Many nobles would cast a wide net like this and do speculative business. As long as one of the businesses could be successful, the return would be a thousand times the profit.

Raphael wondered if Lady Cassandra, as the last descendant of this ancient family, would have any connection with Cardinal Lombardi? Does Redrick know about these things?

Of course, this was just his suspicious guess. According to the lady's reclusive personality after her husband's death, it was impossible for her to get involved in this dispute.

“No,” Ferrante replied. “The lady doesn’t seem to care much for her son.”

"Really?" Raphael thought for a while and smiled. "Since he is my brother, I should care about him, right? Let's send some gifts to Ashu."

Before Redrick, who had received the supplies, had time to organize people to load and unload them, he learned that there were things on the ship specifically for him. He was stunned for a moment, and for a moment he couldn't think of who would send him something.

Who could it be?

His mother has been angry because he came to Assyria without permission and has refused to correspond with him; he has a mediocre relationship with his younger brothers and sisters and has never cared about each other's lives; apart from them, who else would send him things?

He looked at the seal on the box with the Pope's seal and stood there in a daze.

The author has something to say:

Happy Children's Day to all my darlings! !

We are all cute children, be happy forever! ! !