"Hey, Bossia. Come here, come here. I want to talk to you."
Following the voice, Bossia saw Elin standing by a nearby shop. He greeted her while slowly backing up, rubbing his hands, and glancing at the open window above him, as if trying to lead her over without being noticed. Bossia frowned and paused for a few seconds before walking up to him.
"What is it?"
"Don't stand there, come closer." Elin grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind a sheet hanging in the narrow alley. "You're alone, right? No one followed you? The sun is really blinding today."
"Say what you need to say. I have things to do."
"You've become colder and colder, looking down on us small-time business folk. It's rare for you to come out of the church, wouldn't it be nice to help out some good citizens with a little problem?"
"Very well, good citizen, what can I help you with?"
"Just hear me out patiently. A few days ago, when I was delivering goods to the city, I ran into an old friend and chatted for a bit. But one of the regulars at a shop saw us and told Glocara. Now she's furious with me..."
"I don't get it, she's mad at you? Why? Was this 'old friend' a woman?"
"No, no, it's not like that. He's someone who supplies goods for public officials. That tattletale probably thought I was in trouble, being interrogated. It's a complete misunderstanding, but Glocara won't listen to my explanation."
"I still don't understand. Just chatting shouldn't look like an interrogation. Either you're hiding something, or there's more to the story."
"The key is the location. We weren't talking on the street. Actually, it was in…"
"Are you going to explain this properly or not?"
"...a private, dangerous place."
"The MI7."
"Yes."
"So you used the opportunity of going out of town to collect information for the MI7, didn't you?"
"It wasn't for personal gain. It was for the good of the national institutions, and besides, Mardias insisted I help… you know him, he's quite old and can't handle things on his own. The pay was decent, too, nothing outrageous. That tattletale just happened to be at the MI7 identifying a suspect, and then..."
"Wait a minute, Elin. Are you saying you got paid for this?"
"Of course. You didn't think I'd do charity work, did you?"
"So you're hiding this income from Glocara too?"
"No, you're making it sound like I did something wrong. She doesn't know about the money yet, but it's saved for our family. If trouble arises, like the shop running low on funds, I can use it to bail us out. She won't complain about the source of the money then."
Bossia sighed.
"Fine. You're wrong for keeping this from her... but I trust you don't have any shady intentions. So what do you want from me? Surely you don't expect me to confess for you?"
"It's simple. Recently, some equipment went missing from the Church Guard training camp. Just tell Glocara that I was helping investigate that."
"Absolutely not, Elin. I won't help you lie."
"Lie? This isn't a lie! It's just admitting that I occasionally work for the MI7, but making it sound a bit more noble so she'll calm down faster..."
"No. You handle this yourself, the right way. I shouldn't be involved in your personal affairs, and I'll only make an exception if, after some time, I find you're still hiding things from her. Then I'll step in and tell the truth."
"I'm sincerely asking for a little help, and now you're making yourself my enemy. Listen, this isn't just a personal matter. If she stays mad at me, I won't be able to work well, the shop's efficiency will drop, and then the quality of cheese that the people of Stormwind depend on every day will..."
"Stop with the nonsense. If you were really so selfless, you'd be thinking about your child first. At his age, the last thing he should see is his parents constantly fighting."
"…Ah, this is the moral guilt tactic you're so good at from working at the church. I should've known you'd say that..." After a pause, Elin continued. "Alright, from that perspective, my request was pretty stupid. I won't bother you anymore. I'll find a hotel and reflect on things."
"I wasn't joking earlier. If you keep hiding things from her..."
"I know, I know."
"Also, seriously, stop working for Mardias."
Bossia walked away without waiting for Elyn's response. She passed by a flower shop, picked up a bouquet she had pre-ordered, and continued walking down the street. When she passed some familiar clergy members, they exchanged nods. She could see the curiosity in their eyes: why was she carrying such a bouquet, and where was she going? Of course, they wouldn't be so bold as to ask for answers.
After traveling around for two years with Bassario, they had peacefully parted ways. Bossia had returned to Stormwind and taken up the role of training officer for the Church Guard. In the three years since she got the position, she had worked hard to change the team's lack of field experience and their poor response to sudden incidents, while also proposing cuts to unnecessary ceremonial expenses. She often reprimanded Elin for his occasional work with the MI7, but secretly, she felt her own choices weren't much different, except she didn't have to hide them from anyone. She had no immediate plans to change her current life, but someone had offered her a rather unique opportunity.
A week ago, Nehari, who had resigned from his post in the Plaguelands and planned to head to another battlefield, proposed to her—though Bossia thought "proposed a possibility" was a more fitting term.
"I know you're not one to joke... but this... this sounds so sudden and strange, Nehari." Standing in the church courtyard at the time, Bossia glanced around and lowered her voice. "Think about it, we've never even... dated, or anything like that."
"Let me be completely honest with you, Bossia. I'm not looking for a typical family life, settled in the city raising children. I'm talking about a partnership as warriors. I believe that in terms of mentality, ability, and background, a marriage between us would be beneficial for both of us."
"…To be precise, what are you suggesting? That I follow you to the battlefield?"
"That's one possibility, but of course, it depends on your willingness."
"I remember years ago, you used to hate me."
"At that time, you were interfering in Stormwind's affairs in a very inappropriate capacity. It's not that I hated you, I was just cautious and didn't want to see you disrupt things. Now, you've officially become a member of the Cathedral. I've come to understand you better, and under those conditions, I'm confident about the reasons for this proposal."
"I'm starting to understand what you mean... but I don't know what to say. It still feels too sudden..."
"I won't force you to make a decision; that would be meaningless. I want you to think it over carefully and respond whenever you feel it's right. If I'm no longer in Stormwind by then, send me a letter. Of course, we won't have the time or inclination to go through the kind of passionate romance that clouds judgment, but you can trust my promise: I'll be a good husband."
The day after that conversation, Bossia realized that Nehari had engaged in a very old ritual: matchmaking, where marriage was decided based on social standing and practical considerations for the future. From her understanding of Nihiri's character, she knew that from his perspective, this wasn't a strange proposal. Still, for Bossia to make up her mind to seriously consider it would take an unknown amount of time. At least for now, she felt uneasy about the part where Nehari said there wasn't much time, though she knew he probably didn't mean it that way.
—Ten minutes later, Bossia arrived at a cemetery managed by the church, mainly for commoners. Because it was near a small hill, it didn't receive the bright sunlight that covered Stormwind today. As she passed through the iron gate and stepped inside, she tightened her grip slightly on the bouquet.
The cemetery had many graves that lacked visitors and had even been forgotten. In areas where these were concentrated, the caretakers had given up on cutting the wild grass. Bossia didn't need to walk past these graves engulfed by time; they simply appeared at the edges of her vision.
Bossia neared her destination. About ten meters from the gravestone, she saw a bouquet already placed in front of it. Few people visited this grave, so Bossia already knew who had left the flowers before her.
They had both been here earlier today.
She quickened her pace and reached the gravestone.
Today was Hilsbeth's death anniversary. Bossia remembered that Hilsbeth had passed away about three years after Hyland withdrew from the archbishop race. She hadn't been buried under her real name; her gravestone was changed later.
Bossia slowly placed her bouquet beside the one already there. Two bouquets, from three people, were probably all the remembrance it would receive. Bossia knew that although there weren't many visitors, the grave wouldn't be left alone every year.
After spacing out for a moment, Bossia turned her body to the right. In the distance, there was a large tree; its lush branches stretched not only over Hilsbeth's gravestone but also shaded the surrounding graves beneath its canopy. Around the base of the trunk lay hundreds of bouquets, piled together, with some scattered along the nearby paths.
A month ago, Archbishop Hyland passed away. According to his will, his body was cremated, and his ashes were scattered into the soil that nourished this tree. There had been fierce debates among clergy and government officials about this, but ultimately, it was decided that the wishes of the deceased must be honored.
No one knew why Hyland chose to rest forever in a cemetery for commoners, nor why he declined to have a gravestone. Some of his long-time detractors claimed this was his last religious ploy to secure a place for himself in history. There were also rumors suggesting that someone had tampered with his will. These whispers were easy for Bossia to dismiss—just a glance at the many bouquets made that clear. Still, if she were to explain Hyland's choice with precision, she would find herself at a loss for words. Fortunately, no one would ask her to do so; those who knew the truth had no intention of sharing memories of the past.
The bouquets they had laid earlier seemed to have been buried at the bottom of the pile.
It was autumn now. Some fallen leaves from the tree covered the still-vibrant flower petals. Bossia thought it was a pity, but then again, that was the cycle of all things. New buds would always find a way to take root where there was water and soil. Wherever the roots grew, the fallen leaves would remain.