Chapter 82

From outside came the faint sound of footsteps. The priest put down the
prince, stepped out of the wooden shed, and informed the gathered crowd that
the prince was inside resting and that he needed food, water, and clean towels.

“Is the prince alright?”

“He is fine,” the priest said. “The prince is strong and will
recover quickly.”

The residents of Colby admired the leadership of the priest and the prince.
This land had been unclaimed for a long time, plagued by hunger, poverty, and
disease. Now, they finally had leaders to guide them. They wanted to care for
the sick prince and eagerly offered their help.

The priest stood in their way and calmly said, “The prince left so as
not to lose his noble dignity. He does not wish for everyone to see him in his
weakened state. Please trust me, in a few days, the proud Prince Oss will
return to you all.”

“Oh, Father, you are so considerate.”

The crowd solemnly bowed to the priest and prayed for the prince’s swift
recovery.

Soon, the requested items were brought, and Bunier also arrived, wanting to
help the priest take care of the prince. The priest, however, refused.

“Father, it’s worrisome for you to care for the prince alone. Let me
help. You should just pray for the prince.”

“Trust me, Bunier,” the priest said, shaking the monk’s hand and
smiling. “You know I am not weak.”

Bunier knew well the greatness of the priest’s spirit. Like the monks in the
Kingsburg church, he was captivated by the priest’s charm, especially after the
priest had snatched him from the jaws of death. Unable to resist the priest’s
orders, he lowered his head and kissed the back of the priest’s hand. “I
wish you good health.”

The priest returned inside. The prince was still unconscious. The priest
dampened a towel to wipe his own hands and then lifted the prince to clean the
dust from his back. The prince’s back muscles were taut and hot to the touch,
yet resilient, prompting the priest to touch them a bit longer.

There were rough scars on the prince’s back, marking him more like a
commoner than a noble, lacking the smooth skin typical of aristocrats. Scars
ran from his back to his left arm, and there was also a patch of rough skin on
his chest. The priest’s fingers lightly scratched an old scar, causing the
muscles under his touch to tense uncomfortably.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” the priest murmured. “Don’t
expect me to take care of you. Get well soon. The game has just begun, and I’m
not done playing.”

The prince frowned in pain, clearly shutting out all external sounds.

In his burning, groggy consciousness, the prince had no idea where he was.
He only heard the sound of running water and smelled a faint, alluring
fragrance. Drawn by the scent, he moved toward its source.

The priest, regretting that he couldn’t record the prince’s current
behavior, which resembled a pet seeking comfort, thought that showing it to the
prince later would surely provoke his proud temper.

Indeed, the priest wasn’t there out of kindness to care for the prince but
to ensure his energy didn’t leave this world and to relish the prince’s
reaction upon waking to find the priest there. The priest anticipated the
prince’s barely controlled fury, or rather, his forced calmness masking his
anger.

It was quite amusing to think about.

The priest was eager to indulge in all the different pleasures this
situation offered.

As the prince showed signs of waking, the priest leaned in with a gentle
voice, “Your Highness?”

The prince’s head throbbed, his ears were filled with noise, and his mouth
was dry. He kept muttering incoherently. Violent vomiting had left his stomach
empty and his throat sore. His lips moved slightly, forming the word
“water.”

The priest brought a bowl of water and carefully fed it to the prince.
Though he couldn’t see well, his movements were steady and attentive. The
prince felt a soothing relief as the water quenched his dry, sore throat. He
sighed, “Bill, your hands have finally become deft.”

“Thank you for your praise, Your Highness.”

Oh, this voice was familiar, yet it didn’t match the servant in his memory.
The prince strained to open his eyes, managing only a sliver, barely glimpsing
a pale chin through the blur.

The shape of that chin was truly beautiful, like some kind of flower bud,
one that droops like a bell. In that moment, the prince’s mind was as if
controlled by a demon. He believed it was the priest; it had to be the priest.
The illness had caused the prince to misjudge; he thought it was an illusion,
that even if he reached out, he wouldn’t be able to touch anything. Illusions
are like that, seemingly close yet actually far away. So when the prince’s
feverish palm actually touched cool skin, he was stunned.

The sensation in his palm was wonderful, like the finest silk, like the thin
layer of cream on a milk pail. The prince would personally farm, milk cows, and
ride horses to herd and hunt in Oss. He was a noble, a soldier, a herdsman, and
a farmer. He gently moved his nose, trying to capture the scent in the air.
This wasn’t the scent of the Aust plains, but a unique aroma of holy water,
candles, and oak from the church.

The prince’s weary eyelids twitched sharply.

A dreadful suspicion struck him like lightning.

Oh, damn it, that feeling was all too familiar! In the entire capital, no,
in the entire continent of Auston, perhaps only that person could make the
prince feel this way!

The prince immediately wanted to open his eyes, but his keen mind quickly
dispelled the thought.

If he opened his eyes now and found that the person beside him was really
the priest…

Randes couldn’t imagine that scene. After meeting eyes, how awkward it would
be! His body’s temperature soared like flames. Randes’s hand froze on that
smooth skin, pretending to be too weak, and slowly let it drop. As his hand
fell, he realized another thing—he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

God, Jesus, Virgin Mary—

Randes cried out in his heart.

Though usually irreverent and never respectful towards them, if they truly
existed, they should love all people equally. How could they let him fall into
such a terrible situation?!

The body in his arms was extremely stiff, and the priest could feel the
prince’s rapid breathing and tense muscles. He stifled a laugh and said,
“Prince, are you awake?”

The prince gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound.

“Not awake yet?”

The priest’s voice was gentle and sympathetic, “Oh, poor prince, so
gravely ill.”

Randes was about to faint from shame.

He was sweating all over and slowly realized he seemed to be lying in the
priest’s arms, his left upper arm gently held by the priest. The monk’s robe
was smooth and cool, and the priest’s hand seemed to be resting on his
shoulder. Their posture must be similar to the statue of the Virgin Mary
holding the Holy Child. What a disaster… Then the prince finally realized
another important thing—the priest couldn’t see!

The prince decisively opened his eyes.

The riverside cabin had no windows, only a slightly ajar door. In the dim
light, the prince saw the priest’s face.

That beautiful face was right above his line of sight. What he had just
touched was indeed the priest’s chin. Golden hair cascaded down, and those
unfocused lake-green eyes were “gazing” at him.

The prince held his breath.

The distance was too close.

The prince’s heart was pounding. He regretted opening his eyes again.
Compared to the shame of exposing his weakness to his beloved, a stronger
desire instantly took over his mind.

He really wanted to touch him.

Just now, he had already touched him, but the priest didn’t seem to mind,
probably thinking he was confused by his illness…

God, Jesus, and the Virgin Mary all retreated at that moment. The devil
found the prince; it raised his hand, slow from illness, and carefully,
tentatively touched the priest’s chin again.

The priest slightly tilted his face, his blind eyes showing a bit of
confusion, “Prince?”

The prince’s fingers were burning, just quietly touching the priest, moving
gently from his chin upward.

The priest said softly, “It seems you’re muddled by the illness.”

The prince cheered inwardly. Yes, exactly! He was muddled by illness, he had
gone mad. His entire palm pressed against the priest’s cheek. Randes felt
tremors, but also joy. The priest’s face was small, like a little lily.

The pain also left him. The prince, somewhat intoxicated, narrowed his eyes
slightly. He gazed at the priest’s peaceful face, lightly twirling a strand of
soft golden hair between his fingers, and deeply wanted to kiss him.

For God’s sake, he’s a patient! He should have some privileges as a patient!

The prince’s thoughts were as chaotic as a child’s who would go to any
lengths to lie and scheme for a piece of candy.

The prince slowly lowered his hand and tried calling out for water again.

He watched the priest reach for the water bowl, his eyes glinting with
mischief as if concocting some devious plan.

The priest brought the water over, holding the bowl to the prince’s lips.
The prince kept his lips tightly pressed together, like a wall, ensuring that
the priest, even if blind, would sense something amiss.

Sure enough, the priest’s brows furrowed slightly.

He set the bowl aside and, instead of using a handkerchief, wiped the water
from the prince’s lips with his own fingers. This was a great test for the
prince; his feverish body tensed, suppressing the urge to kiss that finger. He
desperately and foolishly hoped for the priest’s compassion.

Let’s put it this way: he believed the priest still had some goodwill
towards him. Sharman could not compare to him. The priest was so clever; he
should know who was truly capable of collaborating with him to realize his
ambitions.

He wouldn’t want to see him die. The prince’s mind grew narrow, his eyes
fixed on those vibrant lips, fostering unrealistic hopes.

The priest’s expression froze with a slight frown, looking somewhat
troubled.

The prince saw his distress clearly. Instead of feeling proud or relieved,
his heart wavered. How had he become so despicable, almost cowardly, unable to
confess his love and resorting to such lowly tactics? Was he actually inferior
in front of him? He feared failure, which made him too scared to confess his
love.

In his illness, the prince suddenly saw himself clearly. He felt somewhat
dejected, not aspiring to be noble, but never expecting to act so cowardly.

The prince was disappointed in himself, thinking he must correct this. He
tried to make a distinctive sound to indicate he had awakened, but the priest’s
actions tempted him back into despicable seduction.

The priest picked up the bowl again. This time, instead of trying to feed
the prince, he brought the bowl to his own lips.

The prince held his breath, watching the priest take a sip of water. The
sides of the priest’s pale cheeks puffed up slightly, looking incredibly cute.

The prince’s faint desire to confess that he was awake was thus enchanted
away.

The priest’s face slowly approached. Everything was perfect, like a dream.
Little angels played joyful tunes in the prince’s ears. He waited nervously to
be kissed by the priest, even closing his eyes lightly like a demure lady.

Trickles of water dripped onto the prince’s lips. He opened his eyes again.
The priest’s lips parted slightly, and the water he held fell onto the prince’s
lips. The golden hair hung low, those unfocused lake-green eyes glinting with a
faint smile. The priest’s moist, vibrant lips moved gently, carrying a hint of
tender mockery.

“My dear prince, how long do you intend to pretend to be asleep?”