Chapter 138 Heart of the Storm (Twenty-Five)

◎Who gave the nightingale the poison◎

Drops of bright red blood flowed down Raphael's wrist. Ferrante said nothing. He covered his neck with one hand, and the gaps between his fingers soon turned red. His pair of deep blue eyes still looked straight at Raphael.

The bloody knife fell on the carpet without making any sound. Ferrante waited for a while, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead due to the pain. He bent down, picked up the knife, casually wiped his own blood off it, turned it around, and put the handle into Raphael's palm.

"Rafa, you didn't use enough strength, and you didn't cut in the right place," the man with black curly hair actually laughed. There was blood on his face, which he accidentally got when he covered the wound just now. When he opened his mouth to laugh, it was like a devil showing his true face, tempting people to fall. He pointed at his neck and raised his chin slightly to indicate, "Here... there are two blood vessels. You just cut it here - yes, just cut it open, or stab the knife in - just do this, and I will die."

He lowered his voice, and it sounded a little aggrieved and gentle: "If you want, just kill me like this."

Ferrante’s eyes sparkled in the darkness, like a pair of precious sapphires, emitting burning star-like light: “You don’t want me to know the reason, so I won’t ask. If you want me to die, then take my life away—”∫

"But," his voice turned into a whisper, ringing faintly in Raphael's ears, "you killed me with your own hands. You will always remember me, right?"

There was a kind of neurotic madness in his expression, and the gradually drying blood made him look particularly terrifying. He was like an ocean surrounding an island, with a lazy warm breeze blowing on the calm sea surface, but the volcano beneath the sea had long erupted, and the boiling magma boiled the sea water. Until this moment, the island that sealed the boiling sea water collapsed, and then lava and boiling water gushed out all over the place. The intense human emotions burned through his internal organs, and the face that was distorted by a mixture of love, hatred, anger and humble pleading looked like a dying person solidified in an oil painting.

This face, distorted by extremely complex emotions, is not as beautiful as it normally is. The sharply burning facial features are like sharp knives or thorns on a beautiful rose. Only the most severe and crazy artists can appreciate the strange beauty that tears the soul apart.

It was this face soaked in all sorts of emotions that slowly woke Raphael up.

The Ferrante who thrust the knife into his heart had no human emotions.

They are different.

He was aware of this clearly, although it did not make him happy. On the contrary, he almost took his anger out on Ferrante.

He will carry this secret with him until the end of his life, and Ferrante... Of course he is innocent. Would Raphael seek revenge on Ferrante for such a ridiculous reason? !

Raphael could not do such a thing, even though he knew that killing Ferrante was the easiest thing to do, freeing him from that nightmare forever, no longer afraid of the Virgin Mary's gaze, no longer afraid of the overly silent night.

Raphael loosened his hand, and let the dagger inlaid with the "Glorious Ocean" fall onto the quilt again.

Ferrante was stunned.

It seemed that in just such a short moment, the resentful soul that had crawled out of the broken skin and the evil ghost that had crawled out of hell were all neatly put back into the Pope's beautiful and exquisite body. He looked no different from before, dignified, calm, and even his eyes had no flaws.

The burning soul that had tried to cut his neck and take his life was gone.

Ferrante was terrified.

The fear was even deeper than when he felt that Raphael was going to kill him. This was a premonition that he was going to lose something. He was going to lose the most important thing to him, the thing he couldn't give up, the thing he had always been pursuing -

"I'm sorry," he heard Raphael say in a voice full of deep apology, with a normal tone, even polite and courteous, "I was a little confused just now, and I had a very bad nightmare."

The Pope pulled over a thick silk curtain, wiped the blood off his hands, tore off a large piece of silk with a knife, and carefully pressed it on Ferrante's wound to help him stop the bleeding: "...I may get sick like this again in the future. Next time, don't come into my bedroom at night. You have a lot of things to do. Ask the servants to prepare a bedroom in the town hall..."

His tone was really gentle, revealing concern and love, and every word he said was for Ferrante's benefit, but the more Ferrante listened, the colder he felt.

Raphael is not like this with those close to him.

He would act rude to Dr. Polly, and when he was unhappy, he would deliberately ignore Julius and pretend not to hear what the Secretary General said.

He expressed his concern in a more direct way. He would give the other person things he thought were good, such as crystal glasses for Dr. Polly, ancient books for Lucresa, and strange little things for Sanxia... Raphael always just silently paid attention to what others needed, and then secretly remembered them without saying these things out loud.

He only verbally expresses his concern for people he is not so close to, such as when he is socializing. Ferrante has heard Raphael's social rhetoric countless times, and this is the only thing that remains unchanged among the ever-changing words.

of.

Has he also become Raphael's "not so close person"?

Like those people who are rejected from social circles?

Ferrante stared at Rafael. The Pope's lavender eyes were looking at the hideous wound. The cut was not deep and the bleeding had basically stopped. However, there was too much blood flowing out, staining Ferrante's collar and most of the silk red. It looked really scary. Rafael paused and said again with an apologetic tone: "I'm sorry."

But he did not follow the common way of admitting mistakes by saying "I didn't mean it" after saying "I'm sorry."

Both he and Ferrante were well aware of this little linguistic trap.

Ferrante suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He wanted to yell, wanted to grab Rafael's shoulders and question him - or beg him. The intense emotions collided with his reason, and his throat rolled twice.

"Just sorry?" Ferrante forced a smile, trying to act like a spoiled child to Rafael like he used to. "Then I'm just too unlucky, right?"

This pale smile stained with blood is really not that good-looking. The person who is laughing doesn't want to laugh, and the people who are looking at it have no intention of looking at it.

After a pause, Raphael still cooperated and asked: "What do you want? If it is something I can do--"

"Can you give me a kiss?" Ferrante asked softly, his eyes fixed on Raphael with a smile on his face, but the expression in his eyes was so humble that it was almost begging. What was he begging for? He himself couldn't explain it clearly.

Don't push me away, don't abandon me.

No matter what I have done wrong, punish me, whip me, even kill me, but don't be so polite to me, it's like forcing time to go back to a long time ago.

Give me a kiss to prove that you still indulge me and allow me to love you.

Raphael saw Ferrante's pleading, that extreme pity almost burned him like fire, and he subconsciously lowered his gaze to Ferrante's lips.

He had kissed Ferrante before - of course, when he was in Assyria, during the time when he was in his worst condition, Ferrante and he had done all kinds of extraordinary things. Ferrante, who grew up in the rose house, had seen and heard many inhumane things. He might know his body better than Raphael. Exploring and touching it inch by inch with his fingers and lips, in the dark night, a kiss immersed in passion connecting the two souls, this request was not too much.

Raphael's gaze stayed there for a few seconds, and he said, "I think there are some things that should be made clear—"

"I changed my mind," Ferrante interrupted Raphael first, causing Raphael to look surprised. He never interrupted Raphael before, but this was the first time. He spoke so fast as if he was afraid to hear what Raphael said next. "I heard that the Papal Palace is being renovated recently. I have a manor in the western suburbs of Florence. I hope to invite Your Majesty to stay there for a few days."

Raphael was a little confused. He could not imagine such a strange request. Of course, it was a great honor for anyone to live in the Pope's residence. It was also a kind of invisible reward and honor. Not to mention that Pope Sistine I always lived in seclusion. His visit meant absolute favor and grace, but would Ferrante be someone who cared about this?

Ferrante said: "You live in the Rhine Palace - Julius's place."

He held back, unable to suppress the jealousy in his tone.

"You can't let anyone say you favor a dead man to the point of ignoring my existence. I need the Pope's favor," he said.

Raphael was stunned.

He didn't expect that Ferrante actually thought so.

In the darkness, the two men sat facing each other for a while, with a strong smell of blood floating in the air. Raphael reached out to push away the blood-soaked hair on Ferrante's neck and said calmly, "Okay."

Ferrante curled his lips and said, "Thank you, Your Majesty, for your gift."

There was sadness in his tone and expression, without any smile, but under the cover of darkness, both of them were deceiving themselves.

The next morning, the carriage of Saint Sistine I moved openly to the western suburbs of Florence, and soon the news that the Pope was staying in Ferrante's private residence spread throughout Florence.

Everyone was gnashing their teeth at the fact that Ferrante was so favored by the Pope. Who wouldn't want to be favored by Pope Sistine I? He is the master of Syracuse. Whoever is valued by him will gain the power to call the shots in Syracuse! No one would not be moved by this!

But it was Ferrante! A kid from the slums, a vicious and unscrupulous guy, a mad dog!

When Leshert saw Florence's hottest favorite of the Pope in the secretary's office of the City Hall, he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows. The other person didn't look radiant because of the Pope's favor. On the contrary, he looked terrible.

The originally smooth snow-white shirt was now wrinkled, and the lace collar was folded inside the clothes in a mess, as if it was soaked and not changed. What was even more terrifying was that the collar of the clothes was stained with a mixture of blood and water, with large patches of scarlet spread hideously on the clothes. An equally wrinkled black cloak covered most of the body, but could not hide the obvious large circle of white bandage on the neck.

Leshert's eyes moved back and forth across the bandage and then across Ferrante's face.

The director of the Arbitration Bureau, who was sitting behind a huge oak table, had his usual indifferent expression. Even though his face was pale, his eyes were dark, his lips were bloodless, his messy hair was draped over his shoulders, and he looked like he had been trampled by a bull in the water, he did not look weak at all.

“You don’t look well.”

Leshet said tactfully that he did not like Ferrante. As a knife in the hands of the Pope, Ferrante had done many things that could be described as extremely unscrupulous. He had even become the devil that the noble families of the Papal States used to intimidate their children. From Leshet's personal values, Ferrante did not meet his criteria of being a good person, but the Knight Commander's own philosophy required him to care for everyone who was hurt.

"You've lost a lot of blood. You need to rest instead of sitting here and pretending to be strong. If there's something important, I don't mind visiting you."

The Knight Commander said sternly.

"…Thank you for your concern."

Ferrante accepted Leschert's reminder gently, which obviously laid a relatively harmonious start for the conversation between the two.

But this does not mean that their subsequent conversation was so harmonious. In fact, after Leshert understood Ferrante's intention, the usually calm and restrained Knight Commander directly drew his sword, and the sharp blade pointed at Ferrante's face across the table.

"Based on what you just said, I can kill you right now."

The Knight Commander spoke word by word, his tone cold and hard.

"But I allow you a chance to consider - take back your words, or draw your sword."

His eyes burned with rage.

Ferrante looked at Ferrante calmly, not even bothering to pay attention to the sword pointed at him coldly: "As the head of the Knights of His Majesty, you should dedicate your life to him, take his glory as glory, and take his shame as shame."

"This is written in the manual of the Knights Templar. Of course I remember it," Leshert said coldly. "I am always willing to sacrifice myself to defend the Pope."

"Then why did you reject me?"

Ferrante raised his eyelids and stared at Lesherte coldly: "To whom do you serve, the throne of Saint Leah, or Saint Sistine I?"

This question was like a knife that pierced into Leshert's heart. His pupils suddenly contracted and the atmosphere between the two of them froze. After a long time, the Knight Commander slowly put down his hand.

He felt a faint pain on his back. It was an illusion. He knew that it was the scar that Raphael had left on him. He still remembered how the young Pope had questioned him, cut open his heart, questioned his faith, and questioned who he was loyal to. His answer was -

"You shouldn't be asking me that question here."

Leshert's tone suddenly became much lighter. He still looked upright and able to die bravely for his beliefs. He was a benchmark and role model for all knights - if you ignore what he said now.

"The Knights Templar swore eternal loyalty to the Pope. We will never harm His Majesty."

He sheathed his sword and took a step back.

"I will lead people away from Florence tomorrow. The business trip will last for six days. I don't know anything that happens during this period."

The Knight Commander looked at him deeply, with pity in his emerald eyes: "Nevertheless, I hope you know what you are doing."

Ferrante watched him leave the room, smiled, and said to herself: "I always knew it."☆

Lesherte closed the door, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, drew a thorny and winged pattern on his chest, and murmured: "Holy Lord, please forgive me, and... forgive him."

The author has something to say:

Ferrante is not dead, not dead. Even if he was really going to die, it is impossible for him to be killed by Raphael's knife out of the blue. It doesn't fit my aesthetics at all... [Begins to speak wildly]