1-33

The fog was everywhere. The shipwreck endured the slow washing of the waves. On the tips of the water grass, standing straight like arrowheads. In the heaps of mud that left footprints. The sky was invisible. From a distance came the calls of birds or beasts, indistinguishable but omnipresent, like the fog. Hilsbeth, with a water bag hanging around her neck, walked alone on the path. Shortly after entering the wetlands, her hair clung to her head, slick like seaweed. Sometimes she wondered if the grayish-white mist was also seeping out from the dirty crevices under her fingernails.

Not far ahead on the ground, a large shadow appeared. She stopped, her heartbeat quickened. After standing still for two or three minutes without any movement from the shadow, she walked forward. It was a crocodile's carcass. A crocodile that could have easily swallowed her whole while alive. As she passed by, she kicked its belly.

Two men on horseback came towards her. Although armed, they didn't look like experienced adventurers.

"Gentlemen, sirs," Hilsbeth stepped forward quickly, looking up at them. "Please wait."

"Hey, watch it," one of them said after pulling the horse to a stop. "If I hadn't spotted you, this guy would've kicked you in the head, kid. Don't wander around here."

"Sorry, sir. Can you help? My dad's cart is stuck in the mud over there, and we can't push it out."

"Is that so? That's tough. We're in a hurry; find someone else."

She stepped in front of the horses to block them.

"Please help, kind sirs. I've been here all day, and no one has passed by. It's just a short way down this road; it's on your way, and it won't be much trouble."

"We're businessmen, girl. Doing one more useless thing means less time for making money. Complimenting our kindness sounds nice but doesn't help. You'd better wait for a priest or someone."

"I will repay you."

"Repay? How old are you, eight, nine? Too early for that." The silent one finally spoke.

"You brute, don't scare the girl," the first man feigned a kick at his companion's leg, then continued to Hilsbeth. "Not repay, let's say compensation. What will you give us in return for our effort?"

Hilsbeth held up the water bag from around her neck. "I have water. I'll give you my water."

"Do we look like we need water?"

"I can sing for you. I made a lot of money singing for my dad."

"Sing a bit then."

Hilsbeth sang. After two minutes, the man stopped her.

"That's enough. Boring."

"Don't be like that. She sings quite well."

"So what? You want to stand here all day listening to her sing? Don't forget we need to reach the inn before dark."

"Please help me," Hilsbeth said. "Dad has been waiting for a long time."

"Girl, to be honest, this sounds fishy. I think you're a thief, just lying to follow us and steal."

"I'm not."

"Then tell me, why isn't your dad out here looking for help?"

"He has to guard the goods on the cart."

"What goods?"

"Tobacco."

The two men whispered to each other, then one of them said, "Alright, girl, lead the way. If you're so polite, your dad must be a decent man. Since we're all in business, lending a hand isn't a big deal."

"Thank you. Thank you."

"No need, your dad will handle it."

Hilsbeth walked ahead, with the two men on horseback following slowly. Two minutes later, she led them to another path, where the grass grew denser on either side. Suddenly, two fishing nets were thrown from the fog on both sides, ensnaring the men and dragging them to the ground. Six refugees, who were accompanying Hilsbeth, appeared. They brandished fish spears and rusty knives to intimidate the ensnared men, tying them up and gagging them. One horse bolted in fright, but they managed to secure the other horse along with its saddlebags.

"Well done, Hilsbeth," the lead refugee said, handing her a piece of hard bread retrieved from the spoils.

"I don't want this." Hilsbeth took the bread, stuffed it into her small pocket, and walked past the two unfortunate men who glared at her with resentment. She started rummaging through the other fallen bag.

Half an hour later, they returned to their camp at the foot of the mountain to rest. They took most of the goods but untied the men, leaving them some food and water. Throughout their journey, their group hadn't killed anyone.

Hilsbeth went to a less damp patch of grass beside two large stones. Her grandfather, Stevens, was lying there on a linen mat. He had been resting there for a day and a half.

"Grandpa." She sat beside him and pulled out a small bottle from her pocket, handing it to him. "I can't read the words on this."

Stevens took the bottle and propped himself up slightly. He coughed a few times, almost dropping the bottle. Then he slowly turned it in his hands and read the label.

"What is it?" she asked. "Is it medicine?"

"Yes."

"Can it cure your illness?"

"I'm afraid not, Hil. Besides, some illnesses can't be cured, like the plague that drove us out of Lordaeron."

"But you don't have the plague."

"Of course not. There's another illness, called aging."

"That's not an illness."

"No, it isn't."

"I'll grow old too. Everyone will."

"Some people won't."

Hilsbeth took the bottle from Stevens' hand and put it back into her pocket.

"Sing me a song, Hil."

"What should I sing?"

"Your choice."

So Hilsbeth began to sing. Stevens closed his eyes, placing his right hand on his chest, tapping his finger silently in time with the music.

Panthonia entered the hospital room. Hilsbeth was the only patient there, lying in the central bed with her head and neck wrapped in bandages. A tree grew close to the window, and some leaves had drifted into the room.

She tried to turn her neck but could only move it slightly, just enough to see the person sitting by her bed. The pain in her neck wasn't from an external wound; it came from within. She waited for Panthonia to come into view.

Panthonia sat down by the bed and looked at her. At first, his hands were clasped together; she slowly lifted her uninjured right hand, and he immediately took it in his.

"Hilsbeth," he said, but couldn't continue.

They stared at each other for a long moment. For a brief time, Panthonia felt that Hilsbeth was observing him one-sidedly, causing him to avoid her gaze. When he looked back at her, he saw some tears in the corners of her eyes. They didn't fall, and he didn't reach out to wipe them away.

Hilsbeth pulled her hand back and reached for the small cabinet beside the bed. There was a small booklet, half the size of her palm, a pen, and a bottle of ink. Panthonia reached out to help, but Hilsbeth had already grasped the corner of the booklet and was pulling it back, so his help was reduced to gently supporting its bottom. Hilsbeth opened the booklet to a blank page and propped it up with the wrinkled blanket under her chin, then reached for the pen. This time, Panthonia was able to help: he got the pen, dipped it in ink, and handed it to her. She wrote a few letters on the blank page—awkwardly bent because the paper was so close to her face—then handed the booklet to Panthonia, the pen between her fingers. The writing was crooked, but he could already make out the brief phrase without bringing it closer.

Why?

Panthonia quickly looked away, then back at her. He didn't understand the meaning of the question, which made him uneasy. What answer was Hilsbeth seeking?

Before coming to the hospital, Panthonia had heard all the witnesses' testimonies and seen the body of Dennisen's fiancée. The situation was clear. If this was the answer Hilsbeth sought, how should he respond?

I should have dealt with that woman sooner! This thought crossed his mind briefly but vanished along with the anger it brought. The reasoning was flawed: the initial desire to kill Dennisen's fiancée and the current regret for not doing so stemmed from different reasons. It was a hypocrisy even he found hard to bear. Between these seemingly identical murderous thoughts, he had shifted his stance through self-deception. In the past, it was to protect himself. Now it was to protect her.

Hilsbeth's gaze grew firm. She was waiting for an answer.

Panthonia began to think further. Perhaps Hilsbeth's question wasn't just about this incident. She was asking about everything that led to their shared life, separation, and this fateful reunion. The only certainty was this: she wasn't asking about happiness but the source of her pain.

Regardless of the question, the answer pointed to Panthonia alone.

At the very least, he should say sorry. But an internal resistance prevented him from speaking. Every moment of his past, from childhood to now, overlapped to form a magnetic force that absorbed the "sorry" stuck in his throat. At the very least, he should admit his responsibility. But opening even a small breach would unleash an unstoppable flood of memories, with countless questions and answers, like a mountain torrent under dark clouds, washing Panthonia's self away from his familiar shell.

"You've suffered," he finally said, "I'll get to the bottom of this."

As he uttered the last word, he suddenly found it hard to breathe. He lowered his head, glanced at the hanging bedsheet, then looked back at Hilsbeth.

Hilsbeth smiled.

He didn't understand why she smiled. There was no real comfort or relief in that smile; perhaps she was just grateful that he could at least give an answer, even if it had nothing to do with the truth.

Suffering?

What kind of suffering?

How long must it be endured?

"Her life and the baby are not in danger," the doctor had told Panthonia before he entered the room. "But her vocal cords have been severely damaged by the poison. She probably won't be able to speak again."