Bossia slowly put down her teacup and looked at the amber liquid gently hitting the inner wall. She felt she had been sitting here for quite a while, but had only drunk a third of the tea. In the desert, she would also slow down her drinking to create the illusion of a fuller water bag, but now it was different: it was not to quench her thirst, but to savor something she once knew well but had gradually forgotten. She shook the cup slightly, watching the tea leaves weakly swirl at the bottom.
She sat at a stone table in the garden, shaded from the overly bright sun by a canopy; she could even see a sky-blue butterfly above the pale yellow petals nearby. Two maids stood by, ready to serve at any time, and around her were four guards, forming a tight rectangle, making it impossible to completely avoid seeing their armor and weapons no matter which way she turned her head.
This was her prescribed afternoon tea time, with no choice in the matter. Now, her mealtimes, bathing—yes, she could bathe daily—and sleeping times were no longer hers to decide. Initially, she drank tea incessantly in the afternoons, thinking if she finished the whole pot held by the maid, she could escape this forced flower viewing. Later, she realized she had to spend a fixed amount of time here, and being aggressive only made her stomach uncomfortable, so she adapted to a slower pace.
On the night she returned to Stormwind City, soldiers burst into her inn room. At that moment, she drew her sword, expecting to spend some time in jail. That didn't happen. Apart from the ever-present guards, her days were spent like a noblewoman confined for some misdeed—wasting time idly. She had finally secured the right to refuse wearing skirts—less of an obstacle if she ever tried to escape.
The sky-blue butterfly flew up and disappeared behind a guard's helmet. The guard's gaze remained as stiff as a deserted post. There was still a fifth of the tea left. How much longer would she have to sit here today? Half an hour? Fifty minutes? The urgency from writing to Bassario pressed on Bausia's heart; now, her body had to stop moving while that urgency had no outlet, accompanied by guilt—she had written in the letter that she would return to him immediately after settling things here. After all, she hadn't left him to return to Stormwind City just to drink tea!
As she once again imagined grabbing a guard's sword, Bossia heard the familiar forceful and hurried footsteps. She knew who they belonged to. Nehari approached, waving his left hand to dismiss the maids and guards before sitting down. Bossia had met Nehari a few times when they were in their teens. She had once admired his reputation as a commander, which was one reason she didn't resist going to the Western Plaguelands eight years ago. During their first two meetings in this period of house arrest, Nehari simply asked about her satisfaction with the living arrangements, giving her no chance to ask questions, reflecting arrogance and treating her as an outsider. Nehari made her waste time. This was their third meeting, and she felt that things must progress somehow.
"How long do you plan to keep me here, Bishop Nehari?" she asked.
"Look around you. This is not confinement. Besides, you must consider your safety. No matter what happened eight years ago, many people still remember you as a defector who even broke ties with the Archbishop. In these sensitive times, they are prone to view these things unfavorably towards you. Some are already protesting my arrangement for you."
"Can we get to the point? This charade..."
"Tell me, Bossia. Why did you return to Stormwind City?"
"I heard the Archbishop passed away."
"Did you come back to mourn him?"
"I don't know what I can do, knowing I wouldn't have the freedom to come and go. I can only plan according to the situation, and now you are restricting my movements."
"During our first meeting a few days ago, I tried to find grief for a lost relative in your eyes; I didn't see it then, nor do I see it now."
The term "relative" made Bossia uncomfortable, but she ignored it. "To you, I am just a stranger. No one can immediately understand a stranger."
"I remember visiting your training in the church guard long ago. I thought then, 'Here's a talented and hardworking girl, but she lacks aggression and will never be suited for the battlefield.' Now, I've changed my mind. Tell me, where have you been? What experiences changed you?"
"I just traveled around."
"Traveled around? You disappeared for eight years."
"That's right."
Though it sounded blunt and evasive, it was the best Bossia could answer. She couldn't let him have a chance to investigate the people she had been with over these years.
"This disappearance began with you leaving the unit without permission. A big mistake."
"They abandoned me. You should know, we had a battle in Menethil. I left the port on a mission that took longer than expected, and everyone who went with me died. I think they assumed I was dead too. When I returned to Menethil, the unit was gone."
"Even if that's true, you shouldn't have acted on your own. Just for that, you could be court-martialed, especially if you refuse to reveal your activities over the past eight years. Don't you understand? In these eight years, you might have committed crimes, killed people, as a Stormwind soldier. Worse, you might be a spy for the Horde. The timing of your appearance here only strengthens the suspicion of espionage. You should be subjected to the harshest interrogations until you disclose your experiences over these years. And even then, you wouldn't be released until we verify everything and confirm your innocence. By then, your life would be ruined. Now, you sit in a garden, enjoying hot tea, evading my questions. If those who wish to punish you knew about this..."
"You're trying to scare me." She interrupted him. "Trials, interrogations—those are impossible. You wouldn't act against the Archbishop's... former ward."
"Is this overconfidence, or are you trying to leverage the deceased Archbishop? If it's the latter, I must consider a different approach to you."
"I just understand how you operate." Seeing Nehari frown, she continued. "I know many wish to punish me severely, but you clearly won't do it and won't allow others to either. In Goldshire, I heard you were a candidate for the next Archbishop. A candidate cannot overturn or distort the late Archbishop's will. Yes, I defected, but he never expressed a desire to punish me, so a candidate can't take the opposite stance. This is crucial for you, especially since the Archbishop fell ill after inspecting your district..."
Nehari pulled out his right hand hidden under the table and slapped Bossia. The force made her clutch her forehead, closing her eyes tightly, waiting for the buzzing in her head to subside. Nehari didn't stand up. He hid his trembling thumb, broken from the force, in his palm, using it to show his remorse, while this woman kept talking about the Archbishop's death ensuring her safety. He felt guilty, but she didn't need to remind him.
"You..." He put his right hand back under the table. "Your information is outdated. I've withdrawn from the candidacy."
She showed only a moment of surprise.
"That doesn't change my conclusion. If harsh punishment benefited you, I'd already be in the dungeon. I'm not a follower of the Light, and don't know how to express this through doctrine, but if my words upset you, I can apologize."
The slap made Bossia more eager to provoke Nehari with words.
"I will fully support another qualified candidate for Archbishop. Soon, you will meet him. As for what you just said... Indeed, from the moment you appeared in Stormwind, you were entangled in this matter. You will have an impact; I intended to tell you this. The Archbishop left a will that only you can open."
Nehari paused, observing her before continuing.
"Maybe you are indeed a stranger I can't immediately understand, and I can only hope that what I see in your eyes now isn't greed or something else vile. The Church respects the Archbishop's wishes, but it depends on whether you are worthy of them. As I said before, you haven't shed the suspicion of being a criminal or spy. Some believe you are an imposter, here for the will. Honestly, no one knows what you should do to prove you have such a special qualification, but you'd better think carefully about it while you still live comfortably. Today, you only proved your aggression to me. I'll visit again."
Nehari stood up, seeing her lower her head in thought. He understood this wasn't due to excitement about the news, but difficult and painful contemplation.
"Answer me." He looked down at her. "What is your true wish for returning to Stormwind?"
She lifted her head. He saw a small scratch on her right cheek, with blood struggling to seep from the tiny groove.
"I will kneel before the Archbishop's tomb, first apologize for my past recklessness and immaturity, seeking his forgiveness, then pray for his soul. I might recite some of his favorite prayers in my heart, so it wouldn't be an insult to the Light's doctrine. Finally, I will thank him once more for raising me but state that I must leave because I have my own life. This whole process without any audience. I will leave Stormwind quietly and never return."
"Even knowing he left a will for you?"
"Yes."
"That is no longer possible."
"I know."
Nehari didn't want to spend another second looking into her eyes. He turned and left.