Chapter 103: Victory
Rafael’s fingers threaded through Leshert’s hair. The damp strands clung to his cool fingers like spider silk. The young pope patiently combed through the tangled golden locks, matted with sweat, his movements extraordinarily gentle as he gathered the tidied hair and draped them over Leshert’s shoulder.
The Knight Commander breathed in low, ragged gasps, striving to slow his breath. The deliberately prolonged, measured exhalations did much to ease the pain wracking his body. When Rafael released his hair and brushed a hand past his cheek, the bowing Knight Commander suddenly tilted his head. In an instant, the beautiful, ferocious beast seemed to transform into a furry little animal. Retracting its claws and sharp teeth, it pressed its soft fur into the human’s palm. The heat of sweat-slicked skin met the dryness of the Pope’s palm, causing the hand that hadn’t yet been withdrawn to pause.
Leshert merely leaned his cheek gently against Rafael’s palm. If Rafael wished, he could withdraw his hand immediately or push Leshert away.
Rafael lowered his eyelids and did not pull away.
The posture looked entirely too tender. The roles of protector and protected had strangely reversed in this moment, yet the scene held no dissonance whatsoever.
Perhaps it was because the dignified Knight Commander was battered, and utterly exhausted, while the frail Pope was as merciful and forgiving as a saint.
This tenderness did not last long. Rafael leaned forward, shook out the blanket covering his knees, and draped it over Leshert’s shoulders with one hand. The Knight Commander’s original linen shirt had been stained with blood beyond wear. Leshert opened his eyes, voluntarily moving away from that small comfort of dry, cool solace, and raised a hand to grasp the edge of the blanket, silently accepting Rafael’s kindness.
The blanket was woven from fine cashmere blended with gold thread. Seamstresses had used the tips of their needles to pluck out the soft, slender fibers bit by bit, making it fluffy and delicate. It took five seamstresses several months of plucking to finish a single blanket. It carried the Pope’s body heat and the scent of myrrh, draping over Leshert’s body like a soft, weightless cloud.
Rafael turned his wheelchair and rolled past the Knight Commander. The kneeling man did not stir. The wheels made a steady, dull sound. Grasping the door handle, Rafael said, “I hope to see a Knight Commander who, as usual, can serve as the spiritual beacon for the knights at the military council two days from now.”