Chapter 86
Ragnar looked down at Arzeletta with eyes swallowed by the darkness. He had lost his usual composure.
He could not bear the sight of this woman before him in this moment.
…Of all people, it was her—the one woman he had come here to forget.
Why her!
The one who burrowed into his mind like a tentacle, sucking away his reason.
“I just wanted to be closer to you… to be near…”
He could not erase the image of Arzeletta—the lowly slaughterhouse maid—from before his eyes. That voice, once so unblemished and whispering in the dark, still clung to his ears and wouldn’t wash away.
The sensation of the woman pressed against his chest atop the galloping horse had cornered Ragnar utterly.
The touch of her body against his had been far too vivid. She had been delicate like a flower stalk, soft to the touch. Even the trembling of her fear in that moment, as she collapsed into his arms, lingered on his skin with unbearable clarity.
Like a feverish adolescent boy, Ragnar had replayed again and again that touch, that scent—and in the end, he had become aroused.
Right after parting with Carmen, beneath the miracle of Saint Beckelus. He was staggering under the realization that he had again become physically aroused by tormenting himself over no one else but this sinful maid.
It was despair as great as the strength of the path Ragnar von Rosenburg had walked until now, unashamed before God.
He was collapsing without end. He had never known such disgrace.
Now, no prayer, no merciless restraint could help him.
It was early spring. The season when the earth had yet to fully thaw. The water of this lake remained ice-cold throughout all four seasons.
Ragnar sank beneath the thick, dark water. The chill of the lake pierced his skin as if to shatter it, but he kept sinking—downward, and downward still.
“…Please, let me remain by your side, my lord.”
More than any sweet temptation he had ever experienced, more than any whisper, it was a phrase that destroyed him with utter certainty.
Not the princesses who desired him, nor the noble daughters, nor even the skilled heretic women—none had ever succeeded.
And yet, the one now breaking him down was this pitifully lowly maid. At the tip of her feeble tongue, the towering wall named Ragnar was beginning to crumble.
His rage had no place to go. Ragnar, with eyes frozen in terrifying stillness, clutched the woman’s neck.
The maid slowly blinked her green eyes. Though the corners of her eyes were damp with pain, her resistance gradually faded.
Even in that moment, there was no resentment or selfish desire in her gaze as she looked at him.
“…My… lord…”
“…….”
“I am now… by your… hand…”
“…….”
“To atone…”
The maid’s hands, which had clung to Ragnar’s, fell away. Her slender body collapsed as it was.
A wind blew. From somewhere, a familiar scent brushed past Ragnar. Sweet and ominous.
The hem of the woman’s garment was black as the night. She seemed like she would scatter into the darkness at any moment as she slipped from his grasp.
Ragnar bit down on his inner lip.
He released the hand that had been gripping her neck. Soon after, his strong arms lifted the collapsing woman. The maid leaned wholly into the lord’s firm embrace, her black hair falling long and limp.
Even in the moment she was losing consciousness from being choked, the woman reached for salvation.
This woman, truly…
“Is she a heretic sent to ruin me?”
Or…
“A fanatic?”
Ragnar lifted the woman whose legs had given out. Cradled like a child, the maid panted faintly in his arms.
Arzeletta’s gentle, fragrant breath tickled against Ragnar’s bare chest. As though she had already forgotten he had just tried to kill her, the maid was docile.
“…My… lord.”
“If you truly are a bait sent to shake me, maid.”
Like a princess in his arms, the man who now held the slaughterhouse maid walked slowly across the soft grass.
Even though his skin was chilled beyond belief from the cold lake water, this steadfast Holy Knight showed not the slightest trace of weakness.
“…You really do know how to use your head.”
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