Chapter 29: The Silence After the Storm （风暴后的寂静）
Leon did not return home until long after dark. The moon was high, casting a silver pallor over the sleeping village. The smithy was dark, but a single candle flickered in the window of their living quarters above. He climbed the stairs slowly, his feet heavy with dread. The door was unlocked.
里昂直到深夜才回家。月亮高悬，给沉睡的村庄披上一层银辉。铁匠铺一片漆黑，但楼上住所的窗户里闪烁着一支蜡烛。他慢慢地爬上楼梯，双脚因恐惧而沉重。门没有锁。
His father was sitting at the rough wooden table, a half-empty mug of ale in front of him. He looked old in the candlelight, the lines on his face etched deeper than Leon remembered. The room was silent, the air thick with unspoken words.
他父亲坐在粗糙的木桌旁，面前放着一个喝了一半的麦酒杯。在烛光下，他显得苍老，脸上的皱纹比里昂记忆中的更深。房间里一片寂静，空气中弥漫着未说出口的话语。
Borin did not look up as Leon entered. He simply stared into the depths of his mug. Leon stood by the door, waiting for the reprimand, the anger, the disappointment.
里昂进来时，博林没有抬头。他只是凝视着杯底。里昂站在门边，等待着斥责、愤怒和失望。
After a long moment, Borin spoke, his voice low and weary, not angry. "Ol' Tom lost his brother at the Siege of Stormwind. His son lost a leg in the Alterac campaign."
过了好一会儿，博林开口了，声音低沉而疲惫，没有愤怒。“老汤姆的哥哥在暴风城保卫战中牺牲了。他儿子在奥特兰克战役中失去了一条腿。”
Leon flinched as if struck. The farmer's jovial face flashed in his mind, now overlaid with a grief he had been too wrapped up in his own pain to see.
"I know you've been through something terrible, son," Borin continued, still not looking at him. "Something I can't even imagine. But you can't... you can't come back here and throw that in the faces of people who have their own scars. Their own wars."
里昂像被击中一样畏缩了一下。农夫开朗的脸在他脑海中闪过，现在却蒙上了一层他因沉浸在自己的痛苦中而未能看到的悲伤。
“我知道你经历了一些可怕的事情，儿子，”博林继续说，仍然没有看他。“一些我无法想象的事情。但你不能……你不能回到这里，把这些扔给那些自己也有伤疤的人看。他们有自己的战争。”
The words were not an accusation, but they cut deeper than any shout could have. Leon's defiance crumbled, replaced by a wave of shame. He had been so focused on his own truth that he had blinded himself to the truths of others.
这些话不是指责，但比任何喊叫都更伤人。里昂的反抗崩溃了，取而代之的是一阵羞愧。他太专注于自己的真相，以至于对别人的真相视而不见。
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words feeling inadequate.
Finally, Borin looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and full of a profound sadness. "I don't know what to do for you, Leon. You're here, but you're not here. It's like a ghost is sitting at my table." He pushed the mug away. "Just... go to bed."
“对不起，”他低声说，感觉话语苍白无力。
终于，博林抬起头。他的眼睛通红，充满了深沉的悲伤。“我不知道该为你做什么，里昂。你人在这里，但心不在这里。就像有个鬼魂坐在我的桌旁。”他把杯子推开。“去……睡觉吧。”
There was no resolution that night. No heartfelt conversation that bridged the gap. There was only the heavy silence of two people living in the same house but separated by an ocean of experience. Leon went to his room and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The fight had gone out of him. He felt hollowed out, empty.
那天晚上没有和解。没有弥合隔阂的真诚交谈。只有沉重的寂静，两个住在同一屋檐下却被经历之海隔开的人。里昂回到房间，躺在床上，盯着天花板。斗志已从他身上消失。他感到被掏空了，一片虚无。
The days that followed were quiet and strained. Leon performed his chores mechanically. He spoke only when spoken to. The villagers, having heard of his outburst, regarded him with a new wariness, a mixture of pity and unease. The friendly claps on the back were replaced by cautious nods. He had become the "troubled" boy, the one who'd been "touched by the wilds."
接下来的几天安静而紧张。里昂机械地干着杂活。只有别人跟他说话时他才开口。村民们听说了他的爆发，用一种新的谨慎态度看待他，混合着怜悯和不安。友好的拍背被谨慎的点头所取代。他成了“有问题”的男孩，那个“被荒野影响了”的男孩。
He took to spending more and more time in the woods on the edge of Elwynn Forest, not the deep, dangerous Whispering Woods, but the tame, sun-dappled groves where he had played as a child. But even here, the peace was elusive. Every rustle in the bushes made his heart jump. The call of a bird sounded like a signal. He was constantly on edge, his body remembering a state of alertness that was useless here.
他开始花越来越多的时间待在艾尔文森林边缘的树林里，不是幽深危险的低语森林，而是他小时候玩耍过的、温和的、阳光斑驳的小树林。但即使在这里，宁静也难以捉摸。灌木丛中的每一次沙沙声都让他的心一跳。鸟鸣声听起来像信号。他始终紧张不安，他的身体还记得一种在这里无用的警觉状态。
One afternoon, he found himself by the stream where he and his friends used to skip stones. He sat on the bank, skipping a flat rock across the water out of habit. The motion was soothing, repetitive. As he reached for another stone, his fingers brushed against something smooth and familiar buried in the soft earth at the water's edge. It was the antler. He had taken to carrying it with him everywhere.
一天下午，他发现自己来到了他和朋友们过去常打水漂的小溪边。他坐在岸上，习惯性地把一块扁平的石头扔过水面。这个动作舒缓、重复。当他伸手去拿另一块石头时，手指碰到了水边软泥里埋着的一个光滑熟悉的东西。是那根鹿角。他开始随身带着它。
He pulled it out, wiping the mud away. Holding it in his palm, he felt a connection not just to Iris, but to the person he had become in the wilds—resourceful, resilient, observant. That person had no place in Goldshire. That person was a square peg in a round, peaceful hole.
他把它拔出来，擦掉泥土。把它握在掌心，他感到一种联系，不仅联系着艾莉丝，也联系着他在荒野中成为的那个人——足智多谋、坚韧不拔、善于观察。那个人在闪金镇没有容身之处。那个人就像方枘圆凿，与这个圆润、和平的孔洞格格不入。
A plan began to form in his mind, fragile and desperate. He couldn't stay here. Not like this. The silence was killing him. He couldn't go back to being the boy he was, and the world wouldn't let him be the person he had become. There was only one direction left: forward. But forward to where?
一个计划开始在他脑海中形成，脆弱而绝望。他不能留在这里。不能这样下去。寂静正在扼杀他。他无法变回过去的男孩，而世界也不允许他成为他已经成为的那个人。只剩下一个方向：向前。但向前去哪里？
He looked north, towards the distant, hazy outline of the mountains that separated Elwynn from the more dangerous lands beyond. Somewhere out there was the world he had glimpsed. Somewhere out there was Iris. He didn't know how to find her. He didn't know if he even could. But the alternative—a life of silent pretending in Goldshire—was a fate worse than any worg pack.
他向北望去，望向远处朦胧的山脉轮廓，那些山脉将艾尔文森林与更危险的远方土地隔开。在那外面的某个地方，是他瞥见过的世界。在那外面的某个地方，是艾莉丝。他不知道如何找到她。他甚至不知道是否可能。但另一种选择——在闪金镇默默伪装地生活——是比任何座狼群都更糟的命运。
That night, he packed a small bag. He didn't take much. Some waybread from the pantry, a water skin, his flint and steel, the hunting knife Maeva had given him, and the smooth antler. He wrote a short note to his father, a poor attempt to explain the unexplainable. I have to go. I'm sorry. I love you.It felt hopelessly inadequate.
那天晚上，他收拾了一个小包。他没带多少东西。食品储藏室里的一些旅行面包、一个水袋、他的燧石和火镰、梅娃给他的猎刀，还有那根光滑的鹿角。他给父亲写了一张简短的便条，试图解释无法解释的事情，但很拙劣。我必须走。对不起。我爱你。感觉苍白无力。
As the first light of dawn touched the horizon, he slipped out of the house and into the sleeping village. He did not look back at the smithy. He walked with a purpose now, his footsteps quiet on the dew-damp cobblestones. He was not running away from home. He was running towards the only version of himself that felt real. The road north was long and fraught with peril, but it was a road he had to take. The boy from Goldshire was gone. The wanderer had returned.
当黎明的第一缕曙光触及地平线时，他溜出房子，进入沉睡的村庄。他没有回头看铁匠铺。他现在有目的地走着，脚步轻轻地落在露湿的鹅卵石上。他不是在逃离家。他是在奔向唯一感觉真实的自己。北方的路漫长而充满危险，但这是一条他必须走的路。来自闪金镇的男孩消失了。流浪者归来了。