At this very moment on the stands at the right, there stood an old man clad in a cloak with a scepter. The Pope. He stood at the highest point on the stands and took a cursory glance of the entire square akin to a lion surveilling its grounds. At the same time, he also seemed to be an unknown elderly, looking amicably at his children.
He stood there quietly, indulging in the attention.
"Grant….How is he now?"
Suddenly, he turned and softly asked the Bishop behind him.
His voice was not one of authority; instead, it had a sense of warmth with a hint of estrangement, much like the sound of rotten wood quietly splintering apart.
The Bishop approached from behind with his deadpan expression and answered, "Nothing changed. He refused to eat, and would try to escape whenever there’s a chance."
The Pope chuckled and said, "Ah, let him be. I will talk to him after the execution, and there will be a day he will come to understand the efforts of his mother and us."
