3-18

At first, Bossia thought she shouldn't follow Rahol and Bassario to Crystal Valley. "You should come too," Rahol said immediately, seeing her hesitation. They left the group and took a small path to the northwest.

In Bossia's entire memory of Silithus, the brief trip to Crystal Valley held a special place. Firstly, it didn't resemble the typical Silithus landscape at all. The place was filled with blue-green stones, the sunlight was less glaring due to a thin mist, and there was no smell of insect shells or blood in the air. It was said that another kind of deity's influence made it so that Qiraji insects and Twilight cultists couldn't set foot there. Secondly, she was actually an outsider on this trip. Rahol wanted her to be a witness and accompany Bassario at this important moment, but in the end, it was a journey for the two of them, not her.

At the place where Rahol buried Jose's urn, he used a flat stone to make a tombstone. The tombstone bore the four letters of Jose's name and nothing else. But at least it remained quietly there, with a name. Most people who died in Silithus didn't have this opportunity.

At first glance, Bossia thought the tombstone looked like it was experiencing a long loneliness, standing alone in a desolate valley—people are social when alive, and should be so in death as well. Later, after Rahol's explanation, she learned that there were at least a dozen similar graves in Crystal Valley. Rahol was not the first to do this, nor would he be the last. He said he had never encountered anyone visiting the graves of others. Bossia thought that many must have buried others here and then disappeared into the sands of Silithus themselves. She soon understood that the grave cluster in Crystal Valley was Silithus's deepest, most undisturbed secret.

Jose was the one who rescued three-year-old Bassario from the nest and cared for him until he was twelve. What followed was suicide. When Bassario was about nine, Rahol arrived in Silithus and became friends with Jose. That's all Bossia knew. She had greater curiosity but understood she shouldn't dig too much. The fact that a native mercenary who died by suicide in Silithus sixteen years ago had a significant impact on both Bassario and Rahol was enough. Not all stories need to be shared, even among the closest of people.

In the world Bossia was more familiar with, visiting the dead involved leaving flowers—somewhere where flowers could grow, symbolizing beauty and vitality. In Silithus, there was no such symbol, so the presence of the living was enough. She and Rahol stepped back, allowing Bassario to visit alone, sixteen years late. He said nothing; his eyes held no depression or sorrow, only a peculiar, vibrant light as he looked deep into his memory. Although there wasn't much evidence, Bossia indeed felt that bringing twelve-year-old Bassario here wasn't a good idea.

At the same time, she carefully observed Rahol. He seemed like a different person at that moment: calm and tired, but satisfied with his decision, even proud. Bossia believed this was the Rahol from before arriving in Silithus, stepping out from the accumulated sands of over ten years, finally able to speak. The process was difficult, yet in the moment of realization, it seemed so natural.

A month later, Bossia gradually understood what Rahol meant by "this is the first time, and also the last." Marlis was preparing to establish an important outpost near the southern Scarab Wall, needing some people for long-term stationing. Rahol volunteered. Bossia and Bassario never saw him again. There was no farewell; he disappeared suddenly with Marlis's orders, taking with him his mocking demeanor towards everything, his deliberately flamboyant noble-style sentences, and the ugly scar on his lip that would never heal.

The Scarab Wall, the farthest region of Silithus. Before it reopened, one couldn't go further. Rahol wanted to hide in Azeroth, and he could only go so far. Bossia believed "Rahol" was certainly an alias—somewhere in the world, there must be people who remembered who he was, who were deeply worried and confused when he just left. But by then, he had fully become Rahol, Silithus's most experienced mercenary. This name would follow him after he lost his life, becoming how people remembered him—if anyone indeed remembered him. For a mercenary, that was a kind of luck. Jose had such luck... Rahol would too, because Bossia understood that at least two people would remember him.

One afternoon, on their way back to the fortress after completing a mission, Bossia and Bassario saw three regular soldiers surrounding a dying officer. The injured man had lost a hand, half his face was in shreds, and he made agonizing sounds that starkly conveyed the cruelty of dying pain. Rescue was impossible; the soldiers could only quietly wait for him to pass. Besides physical pain, the injured man endured another kind of torment, one that truly made the soldiers regret their helplessness.

After the battle at the Zora Hive, Bossia became more sensitive to death. The soldiers' helpless expressions drove her to pull Bassario over to them.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

"Go away," said a soldier who obviously didn't think much of mercenaries. "Nothing to see here."

"Bring him here... I need to see him," the dying man said, looking up at the sky—his eyes severely damaged, right hand gripping another soldier's knee tightly. "I must... by the Light, I..."

"Who does he want to see?" Bassario asked.

"Didn't you hear me? Go away."

"Wait a moment," another soldier said to them. "Where did you come from? Have you seen a priest nearby? He wants a final prayer."

"A priest? Haven't seen one," Bassario replied.

The soldier who asked the question looked down, shaking his head. The soldier with the initial bad attitude gave them a contemptuous last look.

"Let's go," Bassario said to Bossia.

As soon as he finished speaking, he gently patted her back. They walked a few steps forward, and she looked back. An unexpected impulse drove her back to where they were and said to the soldiers, "Let me. I know all the final prayers."

"Don't joke around."

"I'm serious. He doesn't have much time left; if this continues..."

"Alright then, let her try," the soldier who had asked earlier persuaded his companion. "After all..." He hinted to the others that the injured man's eyes were no longer functional.

The soldier who had shown aversion frowned and stepped back several meters, standing at a distance.

Bossia knelt beside the injured man, holding his remaining right hand. She bent down, getting closer to his mangled ear. At that moment, she did not find the man's face frightening. She didn't know where her impulse had come from; claiming to "know all the final prayers" had just slipped out—her last recitation had been years ago. Regardless, she had to proceed with the first step.

"Please tell me, what is your name?"

According to the doctrine, the prayer only held meaning if the true name was spoken. The injured man uttered and repeated a syllable; his voice was weak and pained, but she heard it clearly. She memorized it. A true name, from birth to death. A name that was never abandoned, always fulfilling its sacred duty. Ideally, she would also know the dying man's age and some of his experiences to organize the most appropriate final prayer; but under the current circumstances, a name would suffice.

The final prayer was one of the first sacred texts she memorized. She was only six then, and the death-associated vocabulary made her uneasy, but she couldn't show it, because Benedictus said that only by understanding the importance of comforting the dying and guiding souls could one truly grasp the dignity of the Light. Now, she wasn't doing this for Benedictus's teachings, as she had long abandoned the faith, and strictly speaking, what she was doing now was an insult to the Light. But she liked the word "dignity." The dying man wanted a prayer; this was his final dignity. The soldiers accompanying him didn't care if Bossia was wearing a white and gold robe. They just wanted to ease the dying man's suffering as much as possible. This was their dignity too.

About three minutes later, the officer passed away. Bossia stood up. The kneeling soldier looked up at her, eyes filled with curiosity and confusion. "Thank you," he said. She turned her face away and returned to Bassario. She hoped he wouldn't ask anything; he didn't. Behind her, she heard a soldier cry.

I did alright. Maybe some of the wording wasn't quite right...

The two continued towards the fortress. A moment later, Bassario stopped, frowned at Bossia, then extended his right hand and wiped beneath her eyes. She had shed some tears at some point, but she didn't know why. If she were going to cry, she would first feel it in her throat and nose, but neither felt uncomfortable. Since leaving Theramore, Bossia hadn't shed tears for any reason other than wind and pain. She wiped her own face, but in doing so, smeared the injured man's—now the dead man's—blood on her face. Below her left eye, along the same side of her nose and cheek, were three bright red streaks.

"You're too careless," Bassario said. He poured some water from his canteen and wiped her face.

"You're wasting water," she said, but she didn't stop him.