CH-115

115 No Need to Always Be So Restrained and Calm

The sea voyage would take over thirty days.

For many who had lived their entire lives inland, the first journey at sea was a daunting prospect.

Initially, the large ships were connected by wooden planks, allowing people to move between them as if on solid ground. Those who had never sailed before felt reassured. But once the ships departed from Sidan Port, the connecting planks were dismantled.

The only consolation was that each large ship had been assigned excellent cooks and medical personnel from the Savoy Diocese.

The tension of the voyage gradually gave way to the comforts of good food and ample medical supplies.

Messenger pigeons flew daily between the ships, facilitating communication. As the days passed and people grew familiar with one another, the initial weeks seemed to fly by.

Sometimes, when ships sailed close to one another, one could see Bishop Alis sitting on the gangplank, fishing.

His white vestments were loose-fitting, and when the sea breeze swept past, the robes rippled like waves, making him look like a living painting brought to life by the wind.

People from other dioceses, after finishing their basic medical training, would often gather to watch his activities.

It was said he rarely ventured out in his own diocese, seldom leaving the school and the church.

Perhaps the monotony of shipboard life was what brought him so frequently onto the deck this time.

He also kept a fox.

The fox was small, but its tail was exceptionally fluffy. When the wind was strong, it would burrow into the folds of Bishop Alis's wide robes. Sometimes, a white tip of its tail would inadvertently peek out. From a distance, it looked as though Alis himself had grown a snowy white tail, becoming a popular topic of conversation.

Seeing Bishop Alis so content with ship life, others began finding their own ways to occupy their time.

Some helped process herbs that hadn't dried properly on land.

Others wove good luck knots, adorning the ship.

Some had brought musical instruments and would play on the deck at dusk. Even simple melodies drew crowds of listeners. More wonderfully, when music started on one ship, it would capture the attention of those on nearby vessels. Soon, answering melodies would drift across the water – lutes, viols, recorders, small horns, tambourines, and bagpipes. Various tunes would harmonize or playfully compete, and people would even clap along and sing folk songs from their homelands.

For a time, the fleet became like an invisible musical score stretched across the sea, echoing and resonating without end.

Imitating Bishop Alis, others also began fishing from the gangplanks, turning them into the most lively recreational spots.

Those who caught fish would hold them up triumphantly, and people on board were always generous with their applause and cheers. If Bishop Alis saw this from afar, he would offer a distant salute or clap in response.

Strangers gradually learned to joke with one another.

For those who preferred quiet or solitude, they could listen to others' conversations or find solace in books, chessboards, or card games.

These interactions among people from different regions, scattered across different ships,

Through these mundane, everyday moments, a rare sense of connection and closeness began to blossom.

They were no longer strangers traveling in parallel, but companions sharing the same sea, the same starry sky.

One had to understand, in their ordinary lives, or under the high-pressure existence within the church, many had been forced onto this path, akin to sacrificing themselves.

Often, the lesson they learned was that the smart approach was to grasp at cold, hard benefits, to squeeze others' living space to secure their own.

Thus, many focused on self-preservation, even contemplating sacrificing others to better ensure their own survival and gain greater advantages.

But now, life was so simple.

People could live simply.

They could treat one another with gentleness and warmth.

Even if this was merely an illusion, it felt rare and liberating to live with such kindness.

Perhaps, those who constantly scheme to live a cleverer life are only clever in their own eyes.

With only ten days left before reaching the Loka Diocese in the Duchy of Sermon, Bishop Alis instructed everyone to write a letter home to their family and friends, and also a letter to their future selves.

Fearing they might not know what to write, Bishop Alis set guidelines: They had to mention at least one happy memory from home, no matter how small; explain why it made them happy; and finally, express their hopes for the recipient.

Each letter had to be at least one hundred words long.

Though not stated explicitly, everyone understood these letters were essentially farewell letters, final testaments.

Just as they knew when they first embarked that they might never return home.

Those who couldn't write sought help from others who could.

They had already said their goodbyes before leaving, over and over, feeling there was nothing left to say. But now, they found they had so much to be concerned about – the sheep at home, the broken lamp that still needed fixing, how their families would manage without them. There was so much they couldn't let go of, and they prayed for their loved ones' health and well-being.

When Leslie received the paper, he immediately understood it was meant for a final letter.

If he were to die, this letter would be given to the person he wanted to see it.

He instinctively looked towards Bishop Alis.

It wasn't that he blamed Bishop Alis for being unable to protect him, for possibly leading to his death in Sermon. The reason he had followed was precisely because, if it came down to the worst, he would use every means at his disposal to protect Alis.

He was simply looking at Bishop Alis, wondering what he could write to him.

During Leslie's first year at the grammar school, he had heard that seminary students were required to write a letter of self-introduction to the Bishop of Savoy. The letter was supposed to outline their basic background and understanding of faith, as much of their coursework was tied to the Bishop.

Students from other colleges, meanwhile, wrote introductory letters to Bishop Hugo, detailing their background and academic preferences.

At the time, Leslie had felt he had nothing to say to Bishop Hugo.

After all, he was already Bishop Hugo's personal student. During holidays, he would study ancient rhetoric with him, analyze the governing strategies of past rulers, and learn how to balance church and state power. Sometimes they would even attend parliamentary sessions together, followed by writing political commentaries.

Such close tutelage made the introductory letter seem redundant.

So, back then, Leslie had simply written his name and submitted a blank letter. This had earned him a summons to Bishop Hugo's office. Bishop Hugo asked if he truly had nothing he wanted to say.

"What about four years of teacher-student relationship? Do you not even feel gratitude?"

"Is there really a need to write such things down?" Leslie had found it strange.

And Bishop Hugo had let him go.

Now, holding this paper, Leslie inexplicably found himself filled with thoughts and feelings he wanted to express.

He began his letter with:

"Bishop Alis: I hope this letter finds you well."

He had heard that whether or not this was his final letter, it would be delivered to the recipient.

Leslie carefully weighed every word. He couldn't appear to lack confidence in the journey, nor could he seem overly optimistic.

He also wasn't sure if Bishop Alis would open and read the letter on the spot, so he had to be cautious with his phrasing.

The safest approach was to follow Bishop Alis's instructions – write about 'a happy memory.'

He had known Bishop Alis for four years now. Those four years had passed far more quickly than he could have imagined.

For reasons he couldn't explain, Leslie felt an innate sense of closeness to Bishop Alis. It had been there from the very first moment he saw him, a feeling that constantly puzzled him and fueled his curiosity.

Over time, Leslie had repeatedly tested, observed, and eventually actively stepped into Bishop Alis's life.

Yet, if he were honest, he couldn't say he had experienced truly unbridled joy.

Perhaps it was his temperament – he wasn't prone to dramatic emotional swings. That was why Kaven and Seamus often called him cold, or sometimes a bit dull.

"Not very interesting," they would say.

Leslie also felt he wasn't particularly interesting. He often worried that Bishop Alis might find him boring, might not truly like him.

But Bishop Alis was always kind to him. Whenever Leslie was present, Bishop Alis would invariably prepare a portion for him as well.

This always made Leslie feel immensely grateful and somewhat undeserving.

Yet, these feelings of happiness often surfaced only long after the event had passed. His inability to express his gratitude in the moment would then cause him anxiety.

That was why he envied Fenean.

Or rather, he was jealous of Fenean's personality.

But he couldn't learn it, couldn't emulate it.

After several failed attempts, Leslie had settled for simply being grateful that Bishop Alis hadn't grown tired of him.

A happy memory—

A happy memory... perhaps it was that recently, Bishop Alis had been telling him their relationship was deep and close.

Twice.

Bishop Alis had initiated the statement twice.

Hearing such words, Leslie naturally felt he should be happy.

But in truth, Leslie didn't *feel* the closeness Bishop Alis described.

He didn't know what was wrong.

Perhaps it was because when Bishop Alis was with him, he didn't joke and chat freely the way he did with Fenean.

He didn't hold him, stroke his head, his neck, his ears, the way he did with Naxi.

He didn't share the intertwined work and life he had with Layton and Sister Rita.

Or, the way he was so attentive to the children, the women, the elderly.

Leslie always felt something was missing in his interactions with Bishop Alis.

This missing piece troubled him deeply.

He couldn't name this emotion.

He only vaguely sensed an unmet need.

But he didn't know what he needed.

Therefore, even when Bishop Alis had done nothing wrong, Leslie harbored an inexplicable sense of loss, a feeling of precariousness.

And it was this very void, like a thin thread pulling at him, that constantly reminded him of the distance between himself and Bishop Alis.

So even when Bishop Alis spoke those words to him, his joy was fleeting. Afterwards, he would coolly and analytically dissect why Bishop Alis had suddenly been so kind.

He was always searching for the reason, hoping to grasp it and leverage it to receive more of Bishop Alis's kindness.

Sympathy or pity would do.

About a year ago, he had begun wanting to transfer to the seminary, to have a legitimate reason to see Bishop Alis every day. He could become Bishop Alis's deacon or sworn knight.

But Bishop Alis had made it clear: he didn't want people without a true calling for faith to join the clergy.

"Leslie, do you not have faith in the Lord?"

"I truly have no faith in Him..."

Leslie couldn't lie to Bishop Alis. He knew Alis would see through him, and he feared losing Alis's trust and care over such a small matter.

"Then you should not enter the seminary." Bishop Alis had gently but firmly closed that door.

Sometimes, Leslie felt a flash of anger at such rejections. He had even fantasized about locking Bishop Alis in his room, away from everyone else, so he would never have to feel angry at him again.

Perhaps that would make him happy every single day.

Yet, Leslie understood clearly that Bishop Alis detested anyone interfering with his freedom.

Because of this, Leslie dared not entertain such thoughts for long. He only occasionally imagined it – Bishop Alis living only by his side, speaking only to him, smiling only at him. He would do anything for that.

He tapped the paper, considering what to write.

Then, a thought he had never considered before surfaced: What if he died during this relief mission? Would Bishop Alis be very sad?

The thought of Bishop Alis grieving for him inexplicably filled Leslie with a sense of... happiness.

Even if he had nothing else in this life, a few tears from Bishop Alis would make his death worthwhile.

But he could never write such a thing. Even Leslie recognized the thought was too dark and twisted.

Bishop Alis certainly wouldn't like it.

"Before leaving the Savoy Diocese, I tasted the fruit from the strawberry plant outside your study window. The flavor was light, yet surprisingly lingered pleasantly."

"Perhaps it was the right amount of sunlight, or perhaps it couldn't bear to leave your devoted care."

"I can't help but think, if I could be that plant growing beneath your window, needing no words, no closeness, simply existing through the changing seasons, blossoming and bearing fruit for you year after year... that would be more than enough."

Leslie wrote this, then paused.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Fenean scribbling furiously, having filled two whole pages.

Leslie was forced to re-evaluate his own letter. He decided to rewrite it, determined to start from his earliest memories and surpass Fenean in length.

When it came time to submit the letter, Bishop Alis, seated at the front, smiled. "Did you write one for your family?"

"No..."

Leslie couldn't recall having any family.

Bishop Alis laughed, finding it absurd. How could he not write to his family?

Leslie felt the point was illogical, but when Bishop Alis said it, it suddenly seemed logical.

So he took out fresh paper and wrote a brief note to his two brothers and stepmother back home.

"To Kaven and Seamus: Don't cause trouble for others. No need to think of me."

"To Lady Adalie: Please remember to send the monthly allowance to the Savoy Diocese."

He was about to fold the paper when he noticed Bishop Alis watching him, having seen how quickly he wrote.

It would seem too perfunctory, insincere.

So, Leslie deliberately returned to his room and sat idly for a full forty-five minutes.

Only then did he place the letter in the envelope and hand it to Bishop Alis.

Alis smiled. "Sneaking off to write in private – did you write something important and secret to your family?"

Leslie thought for a moment. "Sort of."

After he said this, Bishop Alis's smile became incredibly gentle.

Leslie's heart gave a small lurch. It felt soft, and a little warm.

He quickly looked down.

Bishop Alis said: "You're a good child. Sometimes, if you have feelings, don't always keep them bottled up. Restraint and calmness aren't always the best approach."

Leslie was momentarily stunned. He silently acknowledged the words and filed them away in his heart.

Bishop Alis didn't dwell on the topic. He simply continued: "Your and Fenean's participation this time will be a tremendous help. When we return, you can ask for anything you want."

"...I will do my best."

Leslie responded softly, his voice laced with an unconscious resolve, though his eyes flickered, desperately trying to suppress his rising hope.