Conflicted Hearts

With the assistance of Elro, Jorgen occupied a small room in the town hall, using it as a temporary office. He spent two hours here every day, analyzing the information on outsiders in the town provided by Joseph. Now, his left hand rested on the table, his gaze fixed on the blank edge of the file under his thumb. Joseph stood opposite the table.

"Jorgen."

No response.

"Jorgen," Joseph slightly raised his voice.

"What?"

"I'm waiting for your answer."

"Answer to what?"

"Do you want to monitor these two individuals?" Joseph tapped the document that Jorgen's thumb was resting on.

Jorgen shifted his gaze to the center of the paper. "No need. No, that's not... " he said. "Let me think about it again."

"Well, I'll keep waiting then."

Jorgen picked up the document, lifting it slightly from the table. He had just zoned out. Now, even if he forced himself to focus on the text, it was challenging to piece it all together in his mind, to make it a coherent whole with connections that he could stretch and judge.

This morning, a doctor came to inform him that Dalia wanted to see him. Before entering the ward, he adjusted his collar and then opened the door.

Dalia was lying on the hospital bed. Dim light filled every inch of the room, squeezing the murky air and casting deep shadows around her eyes, cheekbones, and neck. Although she was out of danger, and most of the poisoning symptoms had disappeared, she still looked fatigued, her face a shade of bluish-green. A weak patient, in need of rest, like a patch of green grass in the courtyard that, despite surviving the storm without breaking, still retained an inherent fragility that made one worry: would even the warmth of the sun on a clear day inadvertently crush it?

Jorgen didn't quite know what to say. Since he had never exchanged pleasantries like "good morning" or "please" with Dalia, he felt that uttering questions like "How are you feeling?" or "Are you better now?" would be too fragmented and formulaic.

In the end, it was Dalia who spoke first, saying his name. "Jorgen," she smiled weakly. It was a tired but penetrating smile: her lips stretched sideways, forming faint crimson dimples beneath her pale cheeks, and her entire fatigued face momentarily gained a bit of radiance. It wasn't a pretentious, sun-baked glow, but the most natural radiance that comes with welcoming a long-awaited guest. They clung to the syllables "Jorgen," like dewdrops gathering on the veins of leaves.

Jorgen took a seat on the chair beside the bed. The doctor, standing nearby, said, "Don't talk for too long," and then left the room.

"When you're feeling better," he said, "we'll return to Stormwind."

"Why?"

Dalia, what a strange question. Jorgen decided to give the most direct, reasonable answer: "The investiture ceremony is over. Your mission is complete, and you should return. But mine isn't finished yet."

"Are you going to continue investigating the murder case?"

"No, I came here to be your guard, and temporarily assisting with the investigation was just to ensure a safe environment for Darkshire Town before the ceremony began. Now, I don't need to do that anymore. Getting you back to Stormwind is the completion of my job."

"Is that so?" Though she posed it as a question, Dalia didn't expect an answer. She knew Jorgen was right.

"I'm not obligated to assist the Night Watch's work. Besides, my own job wasn't done properly, and I could even say it failed because you were attacked. Anyway, I can't afford to divert my focus beyond my responsibilities," he added, to keep the statement from sounding too emotional. "That's what's in line with regulations and procedure."

"This isn't your fault..."

"Dalia," he interrupted her. "This has nothing to do with your perspective. You also know that in MI7, such sentiments don't matter. So, let's not discuss it, and leave it at that."

Jorgen had no proper way to mask his self-blame, so he just wanted to quickly end this topic. He didn't want Dalia to seem too concerned about his "negligence." In fact, he didn't want any emotional factors to be involved in their views on this matter, no matter to whom those emotions belonged. When they returned to Stormwind, he would mention his failure in the mission report, describe the events in detail, and let the elders and the council handle the rest. Everything would proceed according to the procedures, clear and straightforward. He hoped that when discussing these matters, he and she could be complete strangers.

However, after a series of events, seeing Dalia welcoming him with a smile while in pain, if he had to use the simplest, most basic word to describe Jorgen's feelings, it would be "happy." It wasn't precise, but it was the only choice. Jorgen knew he was happy, glad to witness this scene, and hear her greetings. But once he sat in the chair, he began to try to prevent the spread of this emotion, let alone express it openly.

At that moment, Jorgen noticed Dalia's slight frown. She sensed his deliberate attempt to change the subject. The Dalia right now was like a person who knew that a heavy iron door ahead wouldn't open but still reached out to touch the rusty copper lock. The radiance on her face instantly faded into shadows.

She felt disappointed.

An impulse surged within Jorgen. When you see someone you care about lying in a sickbed, you want to know if she's feeling better. You want to softly speak to her, expressing how worried you've been. You want to smile at her. You want to touch her face, hoping that after an illness, her skin will quickly regain its warmth. You want to hold her hand, share your body heat with her, feel the flow of her blood in her palm. You want to establish an emotional connection with her more than usual. These are the most natural impulses that any ordinary person would experience and accept, but when they arose in Jorgen's heart, he had to suppress them. Why it was a "had to," he didn't understand himself.

"Althea has already returned home," he said. "I want to know why she hates MI7 so much. Morticia also agreed to let me question her."

"Oh."

Dalia replied weakly, as if this was a topic entirely unrelated to her. Now, it was her turn to not know what to say.

I want to talk to Jorgen, not a statue.

"How about this..." Jorgen suggested. "The girl's emotions are quite unstable right now; she seems to be frightened by what she did. Rather than saying I want to interrogate her, it's better to say I want to understand the situation, which is more appropriate in her current state. Besides, you must have something to say to her as well. I think, give it a few more days, and I'll bring her to you. How does that sound?"

Dalia was somewhat surprised. "Of course... that can work."

Jorgen was cautious about Althea. According to standard procedure, he wouldn't voluntarily let her get close to Dalia again. His decision was merely a small compensation for locking Dalia out with the imposing iron door earlier, an awkward gesture.

He was lost in thought about these matters, which is why he had spaced out in front of Joseph. Now, he put the documents down and said, "There's no need to surveil either of them."

I've already told Dalia I'm not going to deal with the murder case anymore, but what am I doing now?

"Alright," Joseph said. "You look tired. Don't you plan to rest a bit?"

"When I feel like resting, I will."

"Yes... I don't have the right to offer you advice. But, Jorgen, I'm very grateful for all the help you've given us. I'm saying this because you're about to leave."

Jorgen found it challenging to grasp the real meaning behind Joseph's words.

"You don't need to continue using the investigation plan I designed," he said. "And I don't recommend it either. While it benefits the overall security of the town, it's highly inefficient for the specific task of apprehending the person who killed Bower. Do you have any other suggestions?"

"Do you want me to leave behind any other suggestions?"

"Since you're leaving, leaving these things behind won't hurt. Of course, I have no way to repay you, and making such requests again might seem a bit greedy."

Jorgen pondered for a moment. "Alright. Keep in mind that what I'm about to say only represents my current opinion. Try not to let it influence your future work. If we must summarize the case at this point, I would return to the initial conclusion: this is an act of retaliation against the Night Watch, and it's just the beginning of something. It has remained plausible, and in the past few days, there have been no new leads to change that conclusion. So, the question now is: who wants to retaliate against the Night Watch? What they've done is simply to protect Darkshire Town. 'Protection' requires a certain scale to become 'offensive.' Your father's decisive action against the bandits a year ago, for his enemies, was an 'offense.'"

"You mean... it's the remnants of that gang of bandits who did this?"

"Yes. Let's not even discuss their motives; this aligns with the inference that the killer is a repeat offender. But here arises another question. As a retaliatory act with a group nature, what the killer did was too targeted. A year ago, you and Gondore participated in the battle, right?"

"Yes. Are you suggesting this is related to my father's personal actions?"

"That's a category where I can't draw conclusions. The most crucial thing I lack is information from a year ago. So, everything I'm telling you is based on my current conditions, and I can't provide you with any specific investigative recommendations. If I were you... I would try to recall what exactly happened a year ago. I believe Bower and your father were already well acJorgented at the time, and now that he's dead, it means losing the most important source of intelligence."

"Jorgen, the most important source of intelligence was my father himself. But... he's also dead now. However, I'm still alive. If you stay here, is the next step in the plan to interrogate me?"

Joseph's unintentional pause revealed a hidden, restrained sadness beneath the seemingly cold words.

"No," Jorgen replied. "I have other things to do. Right now, I need some rest."