The first thing Jorgen felt was an extreme silence. Quietness and silent stillness were not the same. He could hear her and his own breath, the rhythmic and almost imperceptible ticking of the mantle clock, a brief pause in the small night breeze outside the window – all these sounds harmonizing, soothing, blending into the silent air that watched over everything. The candlelight in the room dimmed slightly, and the small fabric dolls resting against the mirror seemed to gradually dissolve into the mirror's surface, leaving only their shadows in the real world, as if peering into an answer that perhaps couldn't be spoken.
Though he wasn't certain how much time had passed, Jorgen knew that he had exceeded the window for a reply. The deadline had long passed, unalterable; the truth would receive no favor, and lies could find no crafty escape.
"You're ready to say nothing to me," Dalia's tone remained unchanged. "You don't even want to explain?"
"Yes, he's back," Jorgen said. "He's grown up."
"When...?"
"He came to Stormwind while we were still in Darkshire. I found out later."
She nodded, exhaling a breath as if relinquishing a search for something. She sat on the edge of the bed.
"Who told you?" Jorgen asked.
"Nobody," she replied, looking up at him.
"What did you see?"
"I didn't see anything. I was just thinking – what could make you arrange a guard for me secretly?"
Jorgen could hide secrets but not the act of hiding. He should have realized this earlier, but what could he do now?
"How is he?" Dalia said. Since the beginning, her voice had grown smaller.
"Like any child between nine and fourteen," Jorgen replied. If only he didn't lack any concern for causing harm to others, he might grow up to be just like his father.
The reproach and argument he had anticipated didn't come. He realized that, at this moment, Dalia wouldn't consider these extraneous things. In this bedroom where they stood so close to each other, she had temporarily compartmentalized everything.
"You won't be able to get me to see him," Dalia said.
"At least not now," he said. "This isn't my decision, nor is it his."
That was a half-lie. Although Mardias didn't decide not to see his mother, even if the old man allowed it, Mardias might not have come to see her immediately.
"For... safety?" Dalia said with a sarcastic undertone.
"I can tell you the whole reason, but you have to be willing to listen," Jorgen replied.
"I can probably guess what you're going to say. I've dealt with MI7 and met the old man long before you."
"That's true."
Dalia still appeared calm, but Jorgen would have preferred her to cry rather than face reality with a mocking, bittersweet tone while sitting emotionlessly on the edge of the bed. He had never seen her take on this kind of attitude before. He thought that, even if she had anticipated this, she should have been mentally prepared, but now she was like a leaf floating in the middle of a lake, seemingly calm but deeply confused about where she was.
"Jorgen," she said. "You mentioned earlier that you had something important to tell me. I've asked now, so tell me."
"Dalia, now isn't the right time..."
"What is the right time? You've kept the secret about Mardias for so long; what are you planning to do now? I don't even have the right to ask you to keep your promises?"
Maybe it was inevitable that things would come to this. Jorgen knew he would hurt her sooner or later, but he never expected in what form and to what extent. What he originally intended to tell her was about the information he had just acquired regarding Dean and the orphanage in Darkshire. It was part of their shared past, and he felt she had a right to know. He called it "important," but not in a practical sense, more symbolically. But now, how could he broach the subject?
"It's about..." he paused.
"Speak up!"
"...the things we heard in Darkshire. The orphanage Dean visited and the attack that happened one night... I've come to understand the causes behind them."
"What can I know?"
"The orphanage originally belonged to the Ravenholt Manor, but due to the manager's involvement in too many illicit activities, it gradually became adversarial with the Manor, and it eventually faced retaliation." Jorgen had originally not planned to involve Ravenholt in this conversation, but he didn't want to continue keeping this information from her. She didn't really need to know this, but it was irrelevant. He continued:
"Ravenholt and MI7 obviously had a prior connection. Regardless of whether Dean knew this – I think he did, but regardless, sending the children to an orphanage under the Ravenholt name was certainly for safety. But he didn't know about the conflicts between the orphanage and the Manor, or maybe he did realize it but didn't expect things to escalate to a massacre. Ravenholt had long decided on the attack plan and had collected extensive internal information on the orphanage to determine the exact timing of action. They may have also known about Dean's connection to the orphanage, so..."
"So what?" Jorgen tried to say the previous part with a precise, task-report-like accuracy. But for the conclusion, he had to replace the words.
"So they waited until Dean was gone."
"You mean until he died."
Dalia spoke the word herself, making Jorgen feel that his protective strategy was contrived, perhaps even pathetic. It showed that Dalia didn't need him to overprotect her with words. Dean's death had been a decade ago, but he had assumed she couldn't accept the fact.
"Yes," Jorgen said, "so that they wouldn't easily provoke MI7."
There was another related speculation that Jorgen couldn't tell Dalia: maybe someone from Ravenholt witnessed his and Dean's battle in the valley. That would explain everything: the attack right after Dean's death and Farad's vague statement to the old man, "Someone knows Dean's fate but isn't sharing it."
Jorgen was quite certain that the person Farad would point to was him. That was the most reasonable explanation. Tomorrow morning was the day for the old man's final meeting with Farad, and Jorgen would be present as well. Even if the old man didn't accept the terms of cooperation, Farad was highly likely to mention Jorgen's name because his attempt to influence MI7's intentions was so obvious that he wouldn't leave empty-handed. Jorgen realized that he came here tonight because there might not be another chance. The last few uncertainties about Dean's death, he felt compelled to resolve them for her.
But now it had turned into him telling her that she couldn't see her son first and then that someone had profited from Dean's death.
Throughout Jorgen's recounting, Dalia had kept her eyes fixed on him without looking away. She wanted to know, desperately wanted to know, but accepting it was another matter. The dim candlelight blurred her silhouette, and the shadow behind her seemed to be slowly seeping onto her. She spoke, "Why are you telling me all this?"
"I shouldn't have come here."
"No, you..." She shook her head as if without direction. "You wanted to hide the news about Mardias but told me this. About Dean, you made us share everything... but regarding Mardias... isn't it the same?"
Jorgen hadn't expected Dalia to think like this. He had always believed that Mardias's matters, for better or worse, should be something for Dalia as a mother to exclusively handle – something he shouldn't get involved in. That was the fundamental reason he had been keeping this from her. Granted, he was deeply concerned about Mardias too, but he believed it needed to be separated from a mother's personal domain; otherwise, it would be an emotional intrusion. But Dalia didn't see it this way.
"I've faced reality a long time ago, Jorgen. I knew it when I was pregnant with him. This child could never truly belong to me. How can I forget the reasons he came into this world? You never want to talk with me about these things, and do you really not understand my perspective? Do you think I'm still daydreaming that Mardias will obediently stay by my side, letting me watch him read and grow? After all these years, you still don't learn to truly pay more attention to me. Every time you walk in the door, I can almost guess what you're going to say, but you never want to understand my thoughts, you just want to 'protect' me your way. I don't want you to fence me in; I want you to understand me. If you can't do that, then I'll just tell you directly: I don't see Elaine as Mardias because there won't ever be that Mardias who's my son. Never again."
Dalia finally started crying. It wasn't a sob or a whimper, but rather a bewildered, emotionally drained weeping. There were no repressed tears, nor was there any dramatic outburst. She was like a small sailboat that had just survived a storm, desperately seeking a safe harbor bathed in sunlight, yet could only silently sail back, battered and bruised by the tempest.
Jorgen sat down beside her and then held her tightly. Very tightly. He recognized his own mistakes, but no longer trusted his clumsy words, so this was all he could do. Initially, he was just holding her upper body, but Dalia gradually curled up her body, her legs draped over his lap, resembling the fetal position.
"Don't use Dean's name to protect me anymore," she said. "You have no right to do so, Jorgen... I've already suffered enough punishment."
This sentence sent a sharp pain deep into Jorgen's brain, and it soon extended into his chest, limbs. His breathing became irregular, and his hands trembled briefly, nearly letting go, but Dalia clung to his clothing.
"So, do we just stop talking about this from now on?" she said.
Jorgen was about to say, "I'm sorry," but immediately realized it would be another mistake. So, he corrected himself: "Just as you say. We won't talk about this anymore."
A little while later, they started kissing. After a while, Jorgen had Dalia lie flat on the bed. She seemed even more exhausted than before, with her eyes closed. When he removed her dress, he encountered some minor difficulties, so she grabbed his hand to help him and then gently placed it back at her side. Her body felt somewhat cold, especially her limbs, but it soon warmed up. Perhaps due to exhaustion, Dalia was mostly quiet during most of the time. However, towards the end, she began calling his name without any reservation.
Jorgen knew in his heart that this was something he had wanted for a long time. From Dalia's responses, it appeared to be what she desired from him as well. The idea of this moment had been floating around in his mind, whether holding the ailing Dalia in Darkshire, sipping tea quietly together, sitting on the grass with Dalia and a nine-year-old Mardias, or even on the boat on the Menethil River, watching Dalia dance solo, had all somewhat revolved around this moment. Desire was never sinful, as long as it could be achieved without shedding the burden that obstructed it. Feeling Dalia's body was like unfolding a map filled with memories; he got lost in this map until he slowly sank into slumber.