Another aftershock came. The nun kneeling at the foot of the bed involuntarily lowered her head, tightly grasping the bedpost with her right hand, pressing her face against it, and started crying. She had been holding back these tears for a long time, seemingly prepared for this moment: she had always feared aftershocks but now hoped that the tremor underfoot would shatter her, like someone planning to cry for help only at the most dangerous moment. She dared not cry out loud, sniffling hard before holding her breath, fearing that a more violent tremor might strike while she was overwhelmed by tears.
"Stop crying." The cathedral physician standing by the bedside slightly bent down and spoke towards the nun. "Take your hand away. It's rude."
The other two nuns hurriedly helped the crying one to her feet.
"If you're here just to receive comfort and support, you'd better leave early," said the physician. "You two, stop supporting her." As the nuns separated their entwined bodies, he continued, "Kneel down. Pray. That's all you need to do."
The nuns did as he said, kneeling on either side of the bed, bowing their heads in prayer.
The physician was also afraid of aftershocks, but he could not show it. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the teacup on the nearby table seemed to have moved six centimeters to the left. At such a critical moment, his mind wandered to trivial details, and this made him feel ashamed.
This was inside the Holy Light Cathedral, the most robust building in Stormwind City—in the physician's opinion, even sturdier than Stormwind Keep, because the massive stones were not only laid by human hands but also bound by the unyielding faith in the Light. The physician firmly believed this was not just his personal view but the consensus of most citizens of Stormwind. On that night a week ago, when the first earthquake struck, hundreds of people flocked to the Holy Light Cathedral for refuge; in the violent shaking, facing the threat of death, these faithful first thought of the cathedral doors. Survival instinct alone could not explain this. They knew that as long as they stepped into the cathedral with steadfast faith, no matter how severe the earthquake, they would remain unharmed. Just recalling the scene filled the physician's chest with a pure, dewy sense of emotion. Of course, the cathedral doors were closed at that time, but these people preferred to crowd the steps and pray together, hoping the disaster from the depths would gradually recede, rather than staying in the much more spacious square. They knew the common sense of not staying close to buildings during an earthquake, but common sense could never match the truth: the cathedral, representing the faith in the Light, could never harm any devout believer with its structure. The physician had heard that during the first two most violent tremors, Stormwind lost over a thousand souls, but among those taking refuge around the cathedral, only a dozen were injured; and subsequent inspections showed the cathedral only lost a few panes of glass—that was a miracle.
However, recalling miracles at this moment made the physician realize his own cowardice. The grace of the Light is both infinite and most fitting, and believers should not have excessive demands in their gratitude; yet the physician realized he did have a strong desire for the Light's favor at this moment, as shameless as a child crying for already sold-out candy—that was his cowardice. The paradox was, he believed if he did not have this desire, he wouldn't count as a truly passionate follower of the Light.
He prayed for the Light to completely banish the illness and restore the person lying in bed to health.
Archbishop Benedictus.
The physician could not describe how pale and gaunt the archbishop's face had become, for to describe it accurately, he would have to use some dreadful, unholy words. Even using medical terms to describe the archbishop's symptoms made his spine tingle with pain. This person before him was the mentor and guide for all believers! He was the Light—the hair, muscles, and blood vessels formed from the purest white at the center of the Light; and now, another kind of white from the heart of darkness, belonging to corpses and maggots, tightly gripped him: difficulty breathing, inability to eat, blood vessels darkening and stiffening, and sensation mercilessly abandoning his flesh. This did not all happen at once; it had tormented him for months. At first, the archbishop continued his work ceaselessly until the pain made it impossible to hold a pen. This whole process was deeply etched in the physician's eyes and mind.
For the first time in his life, the physician felt hatred. He hated those top doctors in Stormwind. Their knowledge and skills far surpassed his, but that was not important. What mattered was that they could not save the archbishop. Upon realizing he could not avoid his call to the Light, the archbishop chose to spend his final days in this room in the cathedral. Then the physician's hatred turned inward. He dared to say he revered the archbishop more than anyone, and if those doctors, full of book knowledge, had even a tenth of his devotion—
—No! Pride in one's faith is a sin. Each person's faith may vary in strength, but as long as one is devoted to the Light, there is no hierarchy among individual beliefs. Boasting that one's faith surpasses others is a corrupt attempt to bring material vanity into faith. This was the archbishop's teaching—how could he forget?
The archbishop's left eye was tightly shut, the right eyelid slightly open, revealing a bit of gray-purple sclera. His mouth had become a fissure in the seabed, no longer symbolizing open expression but self-sealing towards death. In the past, those words, those precisely profound doctrinal expositions, and the most soothing and unhurried prayers flowed gently from this mouth; of course, this did not mean the archbishop's speech had only one tone, but in the physician's ears, the way those words were spoken was always the most fitting, just like the grace of the Light. And those three people, those three recognized by the church and qualified to succeed the archbishop—how could they compare?
The thought reminded the physician once again that the person he admired most was indeed nearing his final moments. He felt another intense wave of pain; he had to remind himself that the pain arising from faith was also sacred, thus sustaining his already fragile mental resilience.
The physician couldn't understand why the earthquake had to strike Stormwind at this time. Why did it have to be during the archbishop's final days in this world? The physician knew that these two calamities, hurting the entire nation simultaneously, had caused many to doubt their faith. Worse still, the archbishop had fallen ill shortly after returning from a patrol in the Western Plaguelands. Needless to say, the ignorant rudely linked it to the most dreadful thing. Rumors, rumors, and more rumors. In the mysterious drive connecting these three events, where did the Light stand? Or was it merely an unrelated observer? It had performed its miracle of protecting ordinary believers but watched as the archbishop lay on his deathbed, with the nun's uncontrollable tears and the teacup six centimeters to the left on the table nearby...
At this moment, the physician realized he was also in tears. To avoid being noticed by the praying nuns, he stood up and wiped his tears away. On the table by the bedside were some medical supplies, among which was a syringe. He picked up the syringe and knelt down again.
The dark green liquid in the syringe couldn't be called any kind of medicine.
It was merely something that could alleviate the pain of dying.
In this aspect, its effectiveness was almost the best—from an observer's standpoint.
In the entire cathedral, only a handful of high-ranking clergy knew the physician possessed this item. He had received special permission to use it on the archbishop. Those who also received the archbishop's grace, holding higher positions, had abandoned staying by this sickbed under the pretext of the earthquake, leaving all matters to the attending physician, the four nuns, and this dark green syringe. For three days, he had injected the archbishop four times. Although he always doubted whether this ultimately prolonged the suffering, he couldn't resist using it. No one could substitute for the archbishop's spiritual peace, but the physician could assist in attaining physical peace.
At this moment, Benedictus raised his right hand.
His elbow remained on the bed, and his forearm slowly lifted.
His fingers spread out, like an eagle painfully opening its wings pierced by arrows.
They moved left and right with the slightest amplitude.
Perhaps it was a wave, or maybe it was an involuntary tremor.
Whatever it was, to the physician, this action was immensely dignified.
A decade of service gave the physician confidence in his interpretation, especially at such a moment.
He couldn't help but place the syringe back where it was.
Benedictus's lips, hidden deeply like a trench of pain, moved.
It was more than just movement.
He made a sound.
The first word in three days.
The physician quickly leaned closer, resting his fist beside the archbishop's right shoulder. He disregarded propriety.
"Do you have any last words?" he asked.
He spoke...
...
It was inaudible.
The physician moved even closer, tilting his ear. He firmly believed what he was about to hear, the great man's last words, would be one of the most important revelations of the Light in this world.
He spoke...
...
Hylan
He heard it. He knew the name but couldn't confirm its exact reference. He had to hear clearly, he must hear clearly...
So Benedictus spoke. At this moment, he saw many things. He didn't know who his audience was.
Father Hylan
Please forgive
Me
Ten minutes later, Stormwind experienced another aftershock. It wasn't strong, insignificant to most people. They straightened the tables, gazing at the swirling patterns on the surface as if this could draw the confusion from their eyes. They recalled the most terrifying night; those who had been through war thought of artillery fire, while those who hadn't experienced war thought of nothing. Unconsciously, they covered their cups of wine; though some wine spilled, not immediately dropping the cup already proved the calm they had barely achieved. As for the dead, the bones in the coffins might have shaken, while the unburied bodies remained silently still. In the ruins. On the ground. Embraced by dried blood pools.
The nun who had cried earlier approached the physician and said:
"Did the archbishop... leave any last words?"
The physician stared straight at the crack in the wall opposite the room.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't hear what the archbishop said."