At first it seemed she was sitting cross-legged against a wall so tall she couldn’t see its top. She wore green and gray wool, leggings and a snug yet comfortable tunic over a dark shirt, complete with tall leather boots. A long, curved dagger with the hilt heavily ornate was stuck in her belt.
The wall behind her meant safety, she knew it for sure. Yet, as much as she looked at it there was no visible gate, not even a crack, no way to enter. Memory eluded her. She focused on the forest. Under deep set shadow it whispered in a thousand voices.
There was danger in that forest, very much so albeit she couldn’t tell what. Her hairs almost stood on end with the vileness of it. She broke that line of thought too, as she slowly got up and worked her way through the trees.
Something urged her on and far from the imagined safety of the walls. She could distinctly remember never being there before, but every step she took seemed familiar in a disconcerting way …. it was a forest of the north with oaks and pines and fir trees; here a dry twig crunched under her boots, there she sank almost to the knee into a pile of dead leaves.
Autumn was showing on every branch, yet somehow she knew it should have been spring. She kept going. There was no way to keep track of time in that slow trekk…ten minutes could have passed…or a century. And suddenly she stood in the middle of a clearing, lush grass dappled with shadow from the large oaks surrounding it.
The wind whirled around, bringing a scent she thought she should recognize. Danger. But all she could see were a man and a woman, sitting in the grass under a tree.
She took a hesitant step closer.
The man looked at her…looked through her as if she were not there.
Eireannan.
The name came from the depths of her memory. She did not remember who he was or how they had come to meet before; still she knew him. To her surprise she realized she could not recall her own name.
The man had green eyes and lithe elven features in a face framed by dark braided hair.
Eireannan Sarálondë.
Somehow she thought the name was important. She had to remember why.
The feeling of danger rose in the pit of her stomach until she was not able to breathe normally. A thousand…a hundred thousand evil eyes were fixed on her back, following every movement. Waiting.
The wind stirred again. There was something odd about that scent in the air…That was important too.
Her mind strained. She had to remember…
She took another step forward towards the pair.
The woman sitting in the grass rose in one fluid motion and came towards her, anger openly painted on her face. She had the same elven features as the man, eyes bluer than the sky above and dark blonde hair cut short. A stern yet beautiful face.
“You shouldn’t be here!”
For a second she thought the woman was going to hit her.
“You shouldn’t be here!”
“Leave her…”
They both turned towards the man in the grass. He smiled bitterly and only then did she understand he had seen her all the time.
“She shouldn’t be here! It is neither her place nor her time…!”
“You’re dead, Nin…”
The words were not in Common, yet she knew their meaning as soon as they were spoken.
The wind rustled through the leaves surrounding them in a billowing fog…it rose out of nowhere and grew until nothing else remained in sight.
“You are dead…”
She couldn’t see as far as her boots, as far as her knees. Panic clenched her throat, making it hard to breathe. The man’s voice came disembodied from somewhere beyond the thick layer of mist.
She had to remember. The urge was stronger than ever before. Had to remember. Had to….remember…
Only the woman remained, just her torso and face visible in the shifting shadows. She was so close they could touch by extending a hand. Blood oozed from a hundred wounds all across the woman’s body, tissue barely holding together on bones, under ragged clothes. And the face…Horror gripped her. There was no face anymore just a horribly looking mass of raw flesh…
She couldn’t hold back the scream that seem to rip at her throat…
------------------------
Lainné’s body jerked suddenly upwards, with a moan and she tensed. For a second Eireannan was certain she was going to snap fully awake, yet she relaxed, her erratic breath steadying. A bad dream, gone…
He wondered what she was dreaming of.
-------------------------
Daria paused in front of the tent and slowly lifted the flap, trying to peer inside through the darkness. Her heart drummed against her ribs like a caged bird.
That woman… She clenched her hands together to still their trembling, but she was shaking with anger and grief from head to toe. That red-haired-whining-good for nothing woman!
She wanted to scream – no matter her howl would have waken the entire camp. Did he really believe she would ever grow to consider him…a father? That was how he acted all the time, true – even when she did not need him to, even on those nights when, sleeping close to him she had wondered what would happen if she would snuggle under his blanket and kiss him.
No matter how hard it hurt, that was just a dream. A dream of madness never meant to be. In a perfect world he would reach out to pull her closer, kiss her back and make love to her. But then, in a perfect world the Scourge would have been nothing more but a nightmare and they would have never met – an elven noble of Quel’Thalas and a village girl from Lordaeron…
Yet the awareness did not lessen in any way the pain she felt.
Gripping the sword hilt, Daria stalked away. Had anyone been awake, they would have seen her shoulders shake with muffled sobs as she walked.
Soon afterward, it started to rain.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Interlude - When time has come for us to fail
"They are so many"...
From their vantage point on the outer wall of Silvermoon they could easily see the fires burning in the distance. Another village destroyed. Survivors had hopefully long fled behind the walls of the city to safety.
"Don't worry", Niniel said, placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning forward, to look down. “The defenses will not be broken".
"I've seen them at work already, have you forgotten it?” The memory sent chills through his spine. That memory and others. He forced his mind to stillness, yet thoughts came back, pushing at the frail barriers he had built inside. “Arthas is leading this army. He had always been rash…but a good strategist, nonetheless.” He tried to put some calm into his voice, for Niniel’s sake, and failed miserably.
“I know about Stratholme" she said, quietly. In the sunlight, her blue eyes sparkled, serious but confident. “But we will hold on, Eirean..."
She knew nothing about Stratholme. He could not bring himself to talk about it. An oath to protect life, not to take it away. With a shudder, Eireannan lifted both hands and studied them cautiously, as if they did not truly belong to him.
“There will never be forgiveness”, he whispered. He seemed to have forgotten Niniel. She stood by his side, the living expression of anguish in a tall elf woman, with blonde hair shorn short and deep blue eyes. She wore the ranger garb, leather and wool in green and gray, softened only by the tiny silver insignia on the high collar of the coat which marked her rank as captain.
The sickness inside himself was like a coiled, writhing snake. He wrestled with it day and night. He wished he could just lay down and die, yet that would have been to easy an escape. Do what you must and pay the price thousand fold. But was there really no other way…?
"Our world will fall, Nin, and we'll fall with it...and I pray the worst thing that happens to us is to die..."
Her beautiful face contorted with unease. Eireannan had not been himself since he came back from Lordaeron. At least now he spoke and ate – if meagerly. Nightmares plagued his sleep more often than not and he would wake up screaming each time. He looked ill – reedy thin and pale, with haunted glazed eyes that seemed to be looking through things.
How long had it been since he had even given her a smile?
She wanted to help him. She would have given her soul to…. But how could she do it when he refused to even acknowledge something was wrong?
And now the undead where at their gates and they had run out of time
"Nin..."
She snapped back into reality, and wished she hadn't when she saw again his grim look.
"If something happens...if I die in this battle and you don’t… promise you'll have my body burnt...hell, burn everyone that falls, Nin…"
"Eirean", she sighed, "will you stop being so macabre?"
He put his hand on her arm and it seemed to Niniel his fingers tried to dig through her bones.
"Promise me, Nin…!” How fitting would be to end up a mindless corpse himself, killing around his own people.
He frightened her, Niniel thought. Worse than the Scourge at their gates, if that would be possible.
"I promise" she conceded. “But you'll see, everything we'll work out fine, Eirean. We just have to hold on to our defenses and…”
“Maybe”, Eireannan said lightly. “Or maybe we’ll just be all dead three days from now…”
He sounded…eager. Niniel could not repress a shudder; instinctively she took him in her arms, pressing her forehead against his.
From their vantage point on the outer wall of Silvermoon they could easily see the fires burning in the distance. Another village destroyed. Survivors had hopefully long fled behind the walls of the city to safety.
"Don't worry", Niniel said, placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning forward, to look down. “The defenses will not be broken".
"I've seen them at work already, have you forgotten it?” The memory sent chills through his spine. That memory and others. He forced his mind to stillness, yet thoughts came back, pushing at the frail barriers he had built inside. “Arthas is leading this army. He had always been rash…but a good strategist, nonetheless.” He tried to put some calm into his voice, for Niniel’s sake, and failed miserably.
“I know about Stratholme" she said, quietly. In the sunlight, her blue eyes sparkled, serious but confident. “But we will hold on, Eirean..."
She knew nothing about Stratholme. He could not bring himself to talk about it. An oath to protect life, not to take it away. With a shudder, Eireannan lifted both hands and studied them cautiously, as if they did not truly belong to him.
“There will never be forgiveness”, he whispered. He seemed to have forgotten Niniel. She stood by his side, the living expression of anguish in a tall elf woman, with blonde hair shorn short and deep blue eyes. She wore the ranger garb, leather and wool in green and gray, softened only by the tiny silver insignia on the high collar of the coat which marked her rank as captain.
The sickness inside himself was like a coiled, writhing snake. He wrestled with it day and night. He wished he could just lay down and die, yet that would have been to easy an escape. Do what you must and pay the price thousand fold. But was there really no other way…?
"Our world will fall, Nin, and we'll fall with it...and I pray the worst thing that happens to us is to die..."
Her beautiful face contorted with unease. Eireannan had not been himself since he came back from Lordaeron. At least now he spoke and ate – if meagerly. Nightmares plagued his sleep more often than not and he would wake up screaming each time. He looked ill – reedy thin and pale, with haunted glazed eyes that seemed to be looking through things.
How long had it been since he had even given her a smile?
She wanted to help him. She would have given her soul to…. But how could she do it when he refused to even acknowledge something was wrong?
And now the undead where at their gates and they had run out of time
"Nin..."
She snapped back into reality, and wished she hadn't when she saw again his grim look.
"If something happens...if I die in this battle and you don’t… promise you'll have my body burnt...hell, burn everyone that falls, Nin…"
"Eirean", she sighed, "will you stop being so macabre?"
He put his hand on her arm and it seemed to Niniel his fingers tried to dig through her bones.
"Promise me, Nin…!” How fitting would be to end up a mindless corpse himself, killing around his own people.
He frightened her, Niniel thought. Worse than the Scourge at their gates, if that would be possible.
"I promise" she conceded. “But you'll see, everything we'll work out fine, Eirean. We just have to hold on to our defenses and…”
“Maybe”, Eireannan said lightly. “Or maybe we’ll just be all dead three days from now…”
He sounded…eager. Niniel could not repress a shudder; instinctively she took him in her arms, pressing her forehead against his.
Monday, 26 January 2009
Chapter 17: A moment's peace
The fragrance of fresh mint tea drifted to him as soon as he made his way into the tent. A covered bronze kettle let out only a wisp of stream and there was also a white clean tablecloth spread over the blankets…and an invitingly looking pot with stew.
Eireannan dropped to his knees where he stood and stared at the friendly lit inside of the tent.
“What the hell is this?”
“Well dinner, of course…”
Lainné looked back smiling. The food, tea and tablecloth were nothing compared to her sight, in a simple blue dress, red auburn locks falling loose over her shoulders. He tried to work some moisture back into his mouth. She had been industriously avoiding him for the past three or four days, immediately after the strike at Felstone Field.
Maybe he had managed to scare her away, Eireannan had thought, relief mingling with pain when he recalled the sweetness of the kiss he’d stole her. No matter what he felt though, it was all for Lainné’s best. If he could make her decide to return to Stormwind…he didn’t care about the bloody mess that would be left in his heart. That was long broken. Maybe he still looked in one piece on the outside, but on the inside he was horribly crippled…his soul stitched up like the guts of an abomination.And he would not have anyone else he cared for die under his very eyes.
He should have imagined the damned woman was not giving up so easily…
It had been a long and tiring day, pushing against Andorhal with a group of recruits. His hands ached from the weight of the sword and the old wounds were oozing blood under the leather of his gloves.
With a sigh, Eireannan settled himself on the ground and gave Lainné a wry look as he tugged at his boots. The tent was set on at the edge of the camp, so little of the usual noise could be heard…only the frail song of a bird somewhere to the east.
He pulled off his boots, then took out his coat and packed it neatly. All without uttering a single word.
“My parents died during the first war”, Lainné said suddenly. “We had a little farm in Redridge Mountains and father grew horses. Mother was a dressmaker. My brother was ten when the orcs came. I was five. The only memory I have is fires... high fires... our village burning. It was a small scouting party I reckon... the war had barely begun, Stormwind still stood… Enough to slaughter almost all the village men, though. They were not warriors…only farmers… …”
She swallowed convulsively, paused for a second then continued.
“Mother took us north, to Stormwind. Then Stormwind fell as well…and we were forced to move further…There were many refugees. We lived in a camp, with little food if any…and no medicines whatsoever. A fever broke soon after. Mother was weakened…and my brother had never been too healthy I suppose. They both died.”
Lainné paused again. There was no pain in her voice though, only a pang of sadness. It might as well have been someone else’s story.
“A sister from Northshire took me then in her care. After the war I went with her when the reconstruction begun. Anetta was like a second mother to me. She recognized my gift and pushed me to start studying as early as I could…so that I might become a priest one day…”
No, it was not indifference, Eireannan thought bitterly. She was at peace with the past, no matter how cruel…
“Why…?” he managed faintly. His voice was dry, like snakeskin crumbling.
“I just wanted you to…Where I come from…” Lainné smiled again, even if bitterly. “I want you to know me…and I didn’t know where to start…”
Trying to avoid her eyes, he rummaged around the tent for the bag of bandages and ointments he usually kept close. Old habits died hard. He opened it, pulled out a couple of vials and a roll of runecloth then drew off his gloves, suppressing a wince at the sharp pain. A gasp came from Lainné. It was not a pleasant sight - the burns had never healed properly and blood oozed from tiny crevices along his palms. Normally Eireannan would not allow anyone to see those wounds. But her presence somehow made him comfortable enough not to care…
“Let me…” Lainné whispered. She took the vials from him, opened them, and sniffed the contents with a frown. Ripping a piece of bandage she poured some water from a blue porcelain mug and started to gently clean the drying blood. “How did this happen?” she asked after a few moments. Her voice shook slightly. Eireannan had to make an effort to keep his under control.
“Just an accident…with a funeral pyre…back when the Scourge came to Quel’Thalas…” He breathed deeply, shaking his head. He could at least be sincere towards her. “Truth is I threw myself in the fire willingly.” Whatever shred of will he still hang onto at that time. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
If she was shocked she said nothing…the words could not have been spoken at all.
Pain faded in the trail of her fingers, as she spread the refreshing ointment over his palms. He could feel the tingle of Light, sealing the small bleeding wounds. She had not mentioned attempting to mend those scars this time and Eireannan felt grateful.
“I’m sorry for your family…” he said quietly. The silence inside the tent could have made for a proper funeral atmosphere.
“I can barely remember them”. A stray lock of hair rolled over her shoulder to touch his arm as she leaned closer, engrossed in what she was doing. When she lifted her head, their eyes met, the distance between them uncomfortably small. “I was too little to suffer for long and I’ve never dwelt too much on the past afterwards. I guess for others… was worse…” The look she gave him let no doubt that she meant him.
“I’ll tell you about Northshire”, she continued, forcing a note of gayness into her voice. “It was good to grow up there… And meanwhile, I’ve brought some proper food…and tea…and honey cookies.”
She was not running away, Eireannan thought grimly. And he could not make himself do the right thing either – shove Lainné out of the tent and send her to safety.
She was warm, comforting and her hair smelled of flowers and cinnamon… Slowly, those skilled fingers moved up from his hands onto his shoulders, massaging painfully knotted muscles… She gently pushed him face down onto the thin mattress as her hands sneaked under his shirt to continue their soothing work.
Odd enough, despite the tension wound inside him like a thick coil of rope, Eireannan started to drift…
Eireannan dropped to his knees where he stood and stared at the friendly lit inside of the tent.
“What the hell is this?”
“Well dinner, of course…”
Lainné looked back smiling. The food, tea and tablecloth were nothing compared to her sight, in a simple blue dress, red auburn locks falling loose over her shoulders. He tried to work some moisture back into his mouth. She had been industriously avoiding him for the past three or four days, immediately after the strike at Felstone Field.
Maybe he had managed to scare her away, Eireannan had thought, relief mingling with pain when he recalled the sweetness of the kiss he’d stole her. No matter what he felt though, it was all for Lainné’s best. If he could make her decide to return to Stormwind…he didn’t care about the bloody mess that would be left in his heart. That was long broken. Maybe he still looked in one piece on the outside, but on the inside he was horribly crippled…his soul stitched up like the guts of an abomination.And he would not have anyone else he cared for die under his very eyes.
He should have imagined the damned woman was not giving up so easily…
It had been a long and tiring day, pushing against Andorhal with a group of recruits. His hands ached from the weight of the sword and the old wounds were oozing blood under the leather of his gloves.
With a sigh, Eireannan settled himself on the ground and gave Lainné a wry look as he tugged at his boots. The tent was set on at the edge of the camp, so little of the usual noise could be heard…only the frail song of a bird somewhere to the east.
He pulled off his boots, then took out his coat and packed it neatly. All without uttering a single word.
“My parents died during the first war”, Lainné said suddenly. “We had a little farm in Redridge Mountains and father grew horses. Mother was a dressmaker. My brother was ten when the orcs came. I was five. The only memory I have is fires... high fires... our village burning. It was a small scouting party I reckon... the war had barely begun, Stormwind still stood… Enough to slaughter almost all the village men, though. They were not warriors…only farmers… …”
She swallowed convulsively, paused for a second then continued.
“Mother took us north, to Stormwind. Then Stormwind fell as well…and we were forced to move further…There were many refugees. We lived in a camp, with little food if any…and no medicines whatsoever. A fever broke soon after. Mother was weakened…and my brother had never been too healthy I suppose. They both died.”
Lainné paused again. There was no pain in her voice though, only a pang of sadness. It might as well have been someone else’s story.
“A sister from Northshire took me then in her care. After the war I went with her when the reconstruction begun. Anetta was like a second mother to me. She recognized my gift and pushed me to start studying as early as I could…so that I might become a priest one day…”
No, it was not indifference, Eireannan thought bitterly. She was at peace with the past, no matter how cruel…
“Why…?” he managed faintly. His voice was dry, like snakeskin crumbling.
“I just wanted you to…Where I come from…” Lainné smiled again, even if bitterly. “I want you to know me…and I didn’t know where to start…”
Trying to avoid her eyes, he rummaged around the tent for the bag of bandages and ointments he usually kept close. Old habits died hard. He opened it, pulled out a couple of vials and a roll of runecloth then drew off his gloves, suppressing a wince at the sharp pain. A gasp came from Lainné. It was not a pleasant sight - the burns had never healed properly and blood oozed from tiny crevices along his palms. Normally Eireannan would not allow anyone to see those wounds. But her presence somehow made him comfortable enough not to care…
“Let me…” Lainné whispered. She took the vials from him, opened them, and sniffed the contents with a frown. Ripping a piece of bandage she poured some water from a blue porcelain mug and started to gently clean the drying blood. “How did this happen?” she asked after a few moments. Her voice shook slightly. Eireannan had to make an effort to keep his under control.
“Just an accident…with a funeral pyre…back when the Scourge came to Quel’Thalas…” He breathed deeply, shaking his head. He could at least be sincere towards her. “Truth is I threw myself in the fire willingly.” Whatever shred of will he still hang onto at that time. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
If she was shocked she said nothing…the words could not have been spoken at all.
Pain faded in the trail of her fingers, as she spread the refreshing ointment over his palms. He could feel the tingle of Light, sealing the small bleeding wounds. She had not mentioned attempting to mend those scars this time and Eireannan felt grateful.
“I’m sorry for your family…” he said quietly. The silence inside the tent could have made for a proper funeral atmosphere.
“I can barely remember them”. A stray lock of hair rolled over her shoulder to touch his arm as she leaned closer, engrossed in what she was doing. When she lifted her head, their eyes met, the distance between them uncomfortably small. “I was too little to suffer for long and I’ve never dwelt too much on the past afterwards. I guess for others… was worse…” The look she gave him let no doubt that she meant him.
“I’ll tell you about Northshire”, she continued, forcing a note of gayness into her voice. “It was good to grow up there… And meanwhile, I’ve brought some proper food…and tea…and honey cookies.”
She was not running away, Eireannan thought grimly. And he could not make himself do the right thing either – shove Lainné out of the tent and send her to safety.
She was warm, comforting and her hair smelled of flowers and cinnamon… Slowly, those skilled fingers moved up from his hands onto his shoulders, massaging painfully knotted muscles… She gently pushed him face down onto the thin mattress as her hands sneaked under his shirt to continue their soothing work.
Odd enough, despite the tension wound inside him like a thick coil of rope, Eireannan started to drift…
Chapter 16: Felstone Field
“’Tis won’t be easy…”
Crouching by Eireannan’s side in the knee-high, sickly-pale grass, Lainné muttered something not really intelligible. Not easy was a complete understatement. How in the name of Light were they supposed to walk into the middle of so many Scourge, kill the cauldron overseer, sample the contents of it and go away unharmed?!
The sight of the ghouls shambling around, tattered flesh hanging loose from their limbs made her stomach try to turn inside out. It smelled of rot and sickness, worse than she had ever imagined possible. She fought back the sudden urge to throw up. Or curl into a tight ball and weep for that matter. Everything around was so…dead – including the eyes and the voice of the man she stood by.
“Alyssa McDonnell must’ve lost her wits to send you on such a task…”
The sudden outburst of anger managed to quell the nausea. She glared at him openly.
“I think I am perfectly able to…”
Eireannan cut her off, placing a not so gentle hand around her shoulder. The piercing green eyes held no contempt though, only stark determination and worry. His voice never rose over a whisper, yet felt as powerful as if he would have been yelling.
“I don’t care what you think…you are not strong enough…and you are not prepared for this fight.” It was a bit of exaggeration, obviously. Lainné’s strength in the Light surpassed that of any other member of the Dawn he knew– Alyssa McDonnell, high templar, included. But raw strength was never enough. “Anywhere else, to fail means to die. Here, to fail means to serve the Scourge for some long, long time.”
Lainné shivered, eyes widening slightly, but her face lost nothing of the resolute look. The churning fear in Eireannan’s stomach grew worse. It was hard enough to refrain from crushing her lips with his own - he longed for the sweetness he could remember … yet to think she may die – and he had a vivid enough imagination to picture her laying motionless on the ground, a heap of broken bones and torn flesh oozing blood ( no, don’t go there, don’t)…
He would not let it happen. Not if he had to tie her in a sack and ship her over to Ironforge on a gryphon’s back.
“You watch yourself”, he finished quietly. “Keep in mind the Scourge feels nothing – wishes nothing…except the utter destruction of the living...”
She nodded. At least she had the sense to admit truth when it hit her in the face. Releasing his grip on her shoulder, Eireannan shifted to a more comfortable position, and studied again the cauldron looming some fifty paces away.
“We should be going. It won’t get any easier if we wait some more.”
Easing her light mithril wrought sword in its scabbard, Lainné shoved back the sudden pang of fear as Eireannan stood.
“You go when I tell you to and you fall back when I say. Did I make myself clear?”
There was nothing soft in his voice, yet Lainné thought she could hear worry...She had barely the time to murmur a blessing upon him, for Eireannan was now striding towards the abandoned farm and she had to run to catch up. Mindless ghouls drew closer as they passed. They did not see but they could feel the spark of life in them all too well.
She had imagined they would cut their way through, one at a time, yet Eireannan walked straightly towards the cauldron – as if the Scourge around were of no concern. She followed closely, her heart threatening to shatter under the tension.
Then, in the space of a mere second the hell went loose: ghouls launched towards them from all sides and hideous growls filled the air. Eireannan’s sword flashed in his hand, stabbing and slicing through the undead. Blue-white trailes of magic slashed around them and Lainné winced, as she drew her own sword squarely through a ghoul. It twitched and fell. Another one replaced it.
Thud.
A rattling noise to her left made Lainné spun round, raising her short sword in time to catch the heavy axe aimed at her head.
The force of the blow nearly ripped her arm from the shoulder. She jumped sideways to avoid the next, as the skeleton’s axe described another half of a circle and buried itself in the ground, on the exact spot where she had stood. A blast of holy Light hit the undead in the chest, then another. The Scourge minion charged after her moving raggedly – then suddenly collapsed.
“Here, take this!”
She whirled around barely managing to catch the chain of dangling keys in her outstretched hand. Numbing pain made her right arm almost useless, but she gripped the keys tightly and started at a dead run towards the cauldron.
Behind her back a cacophony of sounds ensued – growls and squeaks mixed with the sharp, wheezing sound of shadowbolts. Lainné wasted no time on it. Eireannan could handle the situation – better than her at any rate. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the lock and opened the heavy lid of massive bronze. She extracted the vials from a side pocket in her bag and started to fill them carefully. The greenish liquid inside the cauldron gave off a horrid stench of sickness. Even wearing gloves Lainné was sure it would burn right through her skin given a chance. Her stomach knotted painfully, wanting to empty itself - and the throbbing arm made her movements slow and clumsy… Sealing the last vial she placed it near the rest, wrapped some thick wool cloth around them for protection, then dropped the cauldron lid.
Panting and stumbling, she made her way across the field, towards Eireannan. A sizeable pile of ghoul remains surrounded him from all parts and he stood in the middle, leaning almost casually on his long two handed sword. His skill with the blade was surprising – the little she had seen of the fight was enough to tell. He moved smoothly, with an odd yet deadly grace, dancing among the axes and pikes and stout curved swords wielded by the undead, as if he wore plate instead of a simple dark tunic. In between, shadowbolts and curses downed whatever his blade did not reach.
His eyes followed her as Lainné closed the distance between them, trying to hide the limp arm dangling now by her side. She would see to it as soon as they were safe. Nothing to worry about. But from the tight line of Eireannan’s lips she knew he would have worried a lot over it.
Lainné nearly let out a cry when the purple glow of summoning surrounded him and the felsteed was pulled from the nether by the force of his will, with a shrilling sound. He would not bind demons to do his bidding, as most warlocks did and he would normally prefer to ride a horse in the flesh – but some things were faster than others and with Scourge at their heels Eireannan didn’t afford to be picky.
He gripped Lainné and yanked her up in the saddle as another explosion of magic sent a spray of pebbles and soil over their heads. Gasping, she murmured something under her breath and a shield of light sprang all around them.The demonic horse didn’t need to be spurred – it lounged over the fence and into the woods and all Lainné could do was to throw her arms around Eireannan’s neck and hang on for dear life.
It was not until they had nearly reached Chillwind Camp that Eireannan slowed down. He dismissed the felsteed and they walked the last three hundred yards or so – a silent trekk through the blighted forest.
“Lainné…”
He touched her arm and she grimaced when pain shot up her shoulder. Eireannan’s eyes narrowed as he cautiously studied her from head to feet, searching for any obvious sign of wounds.
“You’re hurt”, he finally said. There was a tightness to his voice. Lainné shook her head in dismissal.
“It’s nothing. I’ll mend it as soon as we are in the camp.”
“I should’ve not let it happen…”
He had tried to attract all danger to himself, Lainné thought. Anger rose again in her chest – anger and an odd feeling at the idea he cared so much for her. And that was a part of the reason for enrolling to help the Dawn in the first place, as much as she tried to deny it.
“I am not a helpless child.”
Strange enough, Eireannan lifted a hand and brushed against her check – a delicate touch, one as a man could give to the woman he loved. Lainné breathed in his scent, her face coloring slightly.
"You should keep away from me", he whispered. "I have a tendency to hurt those that stay too close..."
She felt like fainting. Madness. All of it - madness.
"I've told you once...I am not afraid..."
"You'd better be." He stroked gently a wisp of auburn hair, then caressed again the side of her face, reveling in the warmth of that sensation...the beauty of those dark eyes filled with awe...
"Go back to Stormwind."
"I am here to remain..." Lainne lifted a hand to place it over his and held it there, as their eyes met. There she was, in the midst of a dying forest, holding a bag filled with plague samples, playing mind games with a man she would have considered an enemy not very long ago. Thoughts flickered on the edges of her consciousness, urging her to see the reason in his words and run...Then all was suddenly gone, as Eireannan dipped his head and hungrily captured her lips. It was a rough, demanding kiss that knocked the breath out of Lainne's lungs. Pieces of a puzzle suddenly clicked into place inside her soul. She had not felt whole since that night in Arathi - and if she had tried to forget it, she had never regretted...This was home. This man...was home...
Crouching by Eireannan’s side in the knee-high, sickly-pale grass, Lainné muttered something not really intelligible. Not easy was a complete understatement. How in the name of Light were they supposed to walk into the middle of so many Scourge, kill the cauldron overseer, sample the contents of it and go away unharmed?!
The sight of the ghouls shambling around, tattered flesh hanging loose from their limbs made her stomach try to turn inside out. It smelled of rot and sickness, worse than she had ever imagined possible. She fought back the sudden urge to throw up. Or curl into a tight ball and weep for that matter. Everything around was so…dead – including the eyes and the voice of the man she stood by.
“Alyssa McDonnell must’ve lost her wits to send you on such a task…”
The sudden outburst of anger managed to quell the nausea. She glared at him openly.
“I think I am perfectly able to…”
Eireannan cut her off, placing a not so gentle hand around her shoulder. The piercing green eyes held no contempt though, only stark determination and worry. His voice never rose over a whisper, yet felt as powerful as if he would have been yelling.
“I don’t care what you think…you are not strong enough…and you are not prepared for this fight.” It was a bit of exaggeration, obviously. Lainné’s strength in the Light surpassed that of any other member of the Dawn he knew– Alyssa McDonnell, high templar, included. But raw strength was never enough. “Anywhere else, to fail means to die. Here, to fail means to serve the Scourge for some long, long time.”
Lainné shivered, eyes widening slightly, but her face lost nothing of the resolute look. The churning fear in Eireannan’s stomach grew worse. It was hard enough to refrain from crushing her lips with his own - he longed for the sweetness he could remember … yet to think she may die – and he had a vivid enough imagination to picture her laying motionless on the ground, a heap of broken bones and torn flesh oozing blood ( no, don’t go there, don’t)…
He would not let it happen. Not if he had to tie her in a sack and ship her over to Ironforge on a gryphon’s back.
“You watch yourself”, he finished quietly. “Keep in mind the Scourge feels nothing – wishes nothing…except the utter destruction of the living...”
She nodded. At least she had the sense to admit truth when it hit her in the face. Releasing his grip on her shoulder, Eireannan shifted to a more comfortable position, and studied again the cauldron looming some fifty paces away.
“We should be going. It won’t get any easier if we wait some more.”
Easing her light mithril wrought sword in its scabbard, Lainné shoved back the sudden pang of fear as Eireannan stood.
“You go when I tell you to and you fall back when I say. Did I make myself clear?”
There was nothing soft in his voice, yet Lainné thought she could hear worry...She had barely the time to murmur a blessing upon him, for Eireannan was now striding towards the abandoned farm and she had to run to catch up. Mindless ghouls drew closer as they passed. They did not see but they could feel the spark of life in them all too well.
She had imagined they would cut their way through, one at a time, yet Eireannan walked straightly towards the cauldron – as if the Scourge around were of no concern. She followed closely, her heart threatening to shatter under the tension.
Then, in the space of a mere second the hell went loose: ghouls launched towards them from all sides and hideous growls filled the air. Eireannan’s sword flashed in his hand, stabbing and slicing through the undead. Blue-white trailes of magic slashed around them and Lainné winced, as she drew her own sword squarely through a ghoul. It twitched and fell. Another one replaced it.
Thud.
A rattling noise to her left made Lainné spun round, raising her short sword in time to catch the heavy axe aimed at her head.
The force of the blow nearly ripped her arm from the shoulder. She jumped sideways to avoid the next, as the skeleton’s axe described another half of a circle and buried itself in the ground, on the exact spot where she had stood. A blast of holy Light hit the undead in the chest, then another. The Scourge minion charged after her moving raggedly – then suddenly collapsed.
“Here, take this!”
She whirled around barely managing to catch the chain of dangling keys in her outstretched hand. Numbing pain made her right arm almost useless, but she gripped the keys tightly and started at a dead run towards the cauldron.
Behind her back a cacophony of sounds ensued – growls and squeaks mixed with the sharp, wheezing sound of shadowbolts. Lainné wasted no time on it. Eireannan could handle the situation – better than her at any rate. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the lock and opened the heavy lid of massive bronze. She extracted the vials from a side pocket in her bag and started to fill them carefully. The greenish liquid inside the cauldron gave off a horrid stench of sickness. Even wearing gloves Lainné was sure it would burn right through her skin given a chance. Her stomach knotted painfully, wanting to empty itself - and the throbbing arm made her movements slow and clumsy… Sealing the last vial she placed it near the rest, wrapped some thick wool cloth around them for protection, then dropped the cauldron lid.
Panting and stumbling, she made her way across the field, towards Eireannan. A sizeable pile of ghoul remains surrounded him from all parts and he stood in the middle, leaning almost casually on his long two handed sword. His skill with the blade was surprising – the little she had seen of the fight was enough to tell. He moved smoothly, with an odd yet deadly grace, dancing among the axes and pikes and stout curved swords wielded by the undead, as if he wore plate instead of a simple dark tunic. In between, shadowbolts and curses downed whatever his blade did not reach.
His eyes followed her as Lainné closed the distance between them, trying to hide the limp arm dangling now by her side. She would see to it as soon as they were safe. Nothing to worry about. But from the tight line of Eireannan’s lips she knew he would have worried a lot over it.
Lainné nearly let out a cry when the purple glow of summoning surrounded him and the felsteed was pulled from the nether by the force of his will, with a shrilling sound. He would not bind demons to do his bidding, as most warlocks did and he would normally prefer to ride a horse in the flesh – but some things were faster than others and with Scourge at their heels Eireannan didn’t afford to be picky.
He gripped Lainné and yanked her up in the saddle as another explosion of magic sent a spray of pebbles and soil over their heads. Gasping, she murmured something under her breath and a shield of light sprang all around them.The demonic horse didn’t need to be spurred – it lounged over the fence and into the woods and all Lainné could do was to throw her arms around Eireannan’s neck and hang on for dear life.
It was not until they had nearly reached Chillwind Camp that Eireannan slowed down. He dismissed the felsteed and they walked the last three hundred yards or so – a silent trekk through the blighted forest.
“Lainné…”
He touched her arm and she grimaced when pain shot up her shoulder. Eireannan’s eyes narrowed as he cautiously studied her from head to feet, searching for any obvious sign of wounds.
“You’re hurt”, he finally said. There was a tightness to his voice. Lainné shook her head in dismissal.
“It’s nothing. I’ll mend it as soon as we are in the camp.”
“I should’ve not let it happen…”
He had tried to attract all danger to himself, Lainné thought. Anger rose again in her chest – anger and an odd feeling at the idea he cared so much for her. And that was a part of the reason for enrolling to help the Dawn in the first place, as much as she tried to deny it.
“I am not a helpless child.”
Strange enough, Eireannan lifted a hand and brushed against her check – a delicate touch, one as a man could give to the woman he loved. Lainné breathed in his scent, her face coloring slightly.
"You should keep away from me", he whispered. "I have a tendency to hurt those that stay too close..."
She felt like fainting. Madness. All of it - madness.
"I've told you once...I am not afraid..."
"You'd better be." He stroked gently a wisp of auburn hair, then caressed again the side of her face, reveling in the warmth of that sensation...the beauty of those dark eyes filled with awe...
"Go back to Stormwind."
"I am here to remain..." Lainne lifted a hand to place it over his and held it there, as their eyes met. There she was, in the midst of a dying forest, holding a bag filled with plague samples, playing mind games with a man she would have considered an enemy not very long ago. Thoughts flickered on the edges of her consciousness, urging her to see the reason in his words and run...Then all was suddenly gone, as Eireannan dipped his head and hungrily captured her lips. It was a rough, demanding kiss that knocked the breath out of Lainne's lungs. Pieces of a puzzle suddenly clicked into place inside her soul. She had not felt whole since that night in Arathi - and if she had tried to forget it, she had never regretted...This was home. This man...was home...
Chaper 15: New recruits for the Argent Dawn
There were precisely three things Lainné had not expected to face upon arrival at Chillwind Camp.
One was the hustle and bustle around – she had imagined it as a quiet outpost on the border of the Plaguelands, but there were recruits showing up from everywhere due to the recent call for arms – and there were supply carts and tents being set up and soup broiling in kettles over cooking fires.
The second was the swift dismissal officer Pureheart – Ashlam Valorfist’s second in command gave her. She hadn’t expected any “special receipt”, yet all that had been in store for her had been a level, appraising glance, followed by a pat on the shoulder and a recommendation to find herself a place to sleep while they still had spare ones.
The third thing was the man she nearly crashed into as she tried to make her way through a maze of tent ropes. She mumbled some apologies before she could even see his face –then she looked up and froze in place.
Very green and very cold eyes studied her thoroughly, as if she were a strange species that needed to be dissected and catalogued. He never lost his composure – the slight widening of his eyes was the only sign of surprise. Lainné’s heart nonetheless skipped a beat or two while she gazed up at him.
She had been dreaming about it. Hoped – even if only a mad woman would be hoping for things she was not meant to have. She was a servant of the Light and he a warlock and that was that.
“You…”
The word came out hoarse. She drew herself up proudly, trying to appear serene despite her burning cheeks.
“Don’t I deserve a welcome?”
That didn’t earn her any goodwill, just an angry snort. Eireannan stared down at her as if she were last day’s meal forgotten on the table. From the firm set of his jaw, Lainné guessed he was trying to keep down a rush of words, some she would probably not have liked in the least.
“What-- are you doing here?’
The sharp tone of the question made it obvious he had barely managed to cut out the curses.”
“Why, answering the summons of the Argent Dawn, of course, to fight against the threat of the Scourge, like any able bodied citizen of the Alliance should…”
“…like any able bodied citizen…” he grumbled in annoyance. “You should’ve…”
“Well, just the man I was looking for”, Alyssa McDonnell chimed behind. “I see you already met sister Mayhrin.” She squeezed in the space between the tents to wrap her arm against the other woman’s shoulder, with a smile so wide it could have melted ice. Lainné could do nothing else but smile back, even if a little wary.
“Sister Mayhrin came all the way from Stormwind and I have heard only good things about her…It is lucky for us to have her here! And she’ll need someone to show her…the lay of the land. You take care of her, Eireannan…”
If he had been glaring before, now Eireannan’s expression resembled very much that of a man who had just hit his head against a rock.
“Find her a tent to sleep in and something to eat…” Alyssa McDonnell pressed. “Your tent would do just fine if there is no other, I presume…”
“Alyssa…”
“I knew you’d be so nice to help me!” the priestess said, as if he had agreed…as if he had managed to get out a bloody sentence at all, Eireannan thought. And with that she glided away cheerfully, without Lainné or him being able to utter a single word.
He looked down at her again – she barely came up to his shoulder, a slender woman, dressed in soft grays and greens, her long auburn red hair braided and held in a crown around her head by small ornate pins. Light, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted it so badly it nearly ached. Keeping his hands off her was an effort. His heart strained under the effort to deny what he felt…that rush of relief and joy and fear that she might still be just a figment of his imagination.
“This is a very dangerous place to be”, he said slowly. Lainné was shocked to discover his voice was worried. “It is worse than stalking into Stromgarde at night. And don’t fool yourself, there is little honor in dying at the hands of the Scourge. If you’re lucky to die for good. This doesn’t happen too often...”
“This is what I must do, though”, Lainné said and wondered how she could sound so calm. “Now, you heard the woman. I need a place to sleep and something to eat.”
“I…” For a second he stammered and his eyes betrayed again that onslaught of emotions she had seen once before, the night in Arathi. In the space of that moment – she was sure – he had wanted to embrace her as much as she wanted to. Then suddenly it was gone and Eireannan’s face was almost expressionless again.
“Come”, he said mildly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
One was the hustle and bustle around – she had imagined it as a quiet outpost on the border of the Plaguelands, but there were recruits showing up from everywhere due to the recent call for arms – and there were supply carts and tents being set up and soup broiling in kettles over cooking fires.
The second was the swift dismissal officer Pureheart – Ashlam Valorfist’s second in command gave her. She hadn’t expected any “special receipt”, yet all that had been in store for her had been a level, appraising glance, followed by a pat on the shoulder and a recommendation to find herself a place to sleep while they still had spare ones.
The third thing was the man she nearly crashed into as she tried to make her way through a maze of tent ropes. She mumbled some apologies before she could even see his face –then she looked up and froze in place.
Very green and very cold eyes studied her thoroughly, as if she were a strange species that needed to be dissected and catalogued. He never lost his composure – the slight widening of his eyes was the only sign of surprise. Lainné’s heart nonetheless skipped a beat or two while she gazed up at him.
She had been dreaming about it. Hoped – even if only a mad woman would be hoping for things she was not meant to have. She was a servant of the Light and he a warlock and that was that.
“You…”
The word came out hoarse. She drew herself up proudly, trying to appear serene despite her burning cheeks.
“Don’t I deserve a welcome?”
That didn’t earn her any goodwill, just an angry snort. Eireannan stared down at her as if she were last day’s meal forgotten on the table. From the firm set of his jaw, Lainné guessed he was trying to keep down a rush of words, some she would probably not have liked in the least.
“What-- are you doing here?’
The sharp tone of the question made it obvious he had barely managed to cut out the curses.”
“Why, answering the summons of the Argent Dawn, of course, to fight against the threat of the Scourge, like any able bodied citizen of the Alliance should…”
“…like any able bodied citizen…” he grumbled in annoyance. “You should’ve…”
“Well, just the man I was looking for”, Alyssa McDonnell chimed behind. “I see you already met sister Mayhrin.” She squeezed in the space between the tents to wrap her arm against the other woman’s shoulder, with a smile so wide it could have melted ice. Lainné could do nothing else but smile back, even if a little wary.
“Sister Mayhrin came all the way from Stormwind and I have heard only good things about her…It is lucky for us to have her here! And she’ll need someone to show her…the lay of the land. You take care of her, Eireannan…”
If he had been glaring before, now Eireannan’s expression resembled very much that of a man who had just hit his head against a rock.
“Find her a tent to sleep in and something to eat…” Alyssa McDonnell pressed. “Your tent would do just fine if there is no other, I presume…”
“Alyssa…”
“I knew you’d be so nice to help me!” the priestess said, as if he had agreed…as if he had managed to get out a bloody sentence at all, Eireannan thought. And with that she glided away cheerfully, without Lainné or him being able to utter a single word.
He looked down at her again – she barely came up to his shoulder, a slender woman, dressed in soft grays and greens, her long auburn red hair braided and held in a crown around her head by small ornate pins. Light, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted it so badly it nearly ached. Keeping his hands off her was an effort. His heart strained under the effort to deny what he felt…that rush of relief and joy and fear that she might still be just a figment of his imagination.
“This is a very dangerous place to be”, he said slowly. Lainné was shocked to discover his voice was worried. “It is worse than stalking into Stromgarde at night. And don’t fool yourself, there is little honor in dying at the hands of the Scourge. If you’re lucky to die for good. This doesn’t happen too often...”
“This is what I must do, though”, Lainné said and wondered how she could sound so calm. “Now, you heard the woman. I need a place to sleep and something to eat.”
“I…” For a second he stammered and his eyes betrayed again that onslaught of emotions she had seen once before, the night in Arathi. In the space of that moment – she was sure – he had wanted to embrace her as much as she wanted to. Then suddenly it was gone and Eireannan’s face was almost expressionless again.
“Come”, he said mildly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 14: Sleepless
Amazing how time managed to smooth out even the worst of nightmares. Oh, the pain was still there, like an old wound that made itself remembered each time the weather changed. But it was a dull ache – he could think of Stratholme now without flinching.
As a matter of fact, he found it more difficult to think of that night in Arathi. Lainné. He murmured the name to himself, like a precious talisman. There lay the simple explanation of his foul mood, Eireannan thought bitterly. After all those years, the woman had managed to strike a spark in his heart – and that had him so on edge.
Well, he’d better lock it away and keep going. He would not see her ever again. And he would not allow himself to feel anymore than was strictly required. It hurt much less so…he had had his fill of suffering for three hundred years.
He stared at the tent’s roof in the darkness. They must make a plan to strike at those plague cauldrons fast, otherwise Chillwind Camp would be swarmed. He would talk to Priestess McDonnell in the morning about this…
Daria lay in her blankets on the other side of the tent they shared. She was quiet, yet she didn’t sleep either. He should have kept his mouth shut, Eireannan thought bitterly. What was, just was and if she could be content with it – then all for the better.
“Sai nai’keleah” he found himself whispering. In Thalassian it just meant “as the time spins”. A meek acceptance of fate. He wondered when he would be able to even start accepting.
As a matter of fact, he found it more difficult to think of that night in Arathi. Lainné. He murmured the name to himself, like a precious talisman. There lay the simple explanation of his foul mood, Eireannan thought bitterly. After all those years, the woman had managed to strike a spark in his heart – and that had him so on edge.
Well, he’d better lock it away and keep going. He would not see her ever again. And he would not allow himself to feel anymore than was strictly required. It hurt much less so…he had had his fill of suffering for three hundred years.
He stared at the tent’s roof in the darkness. They must make a plan to strike at those plague cauldrons fast, otherwise Chillwind Camp would be swarmed. He would talk to Priestess McDonnell in the morning about this…
Daria lay in her blankets on the other side of the tent they shared. She was quiet, yet she didn’t sleep either. He should have kept his mouth shut, Eireannan thought bitterly. What was, just was and if she could be content with it – then all for the better.
“Sai nai’keleah” he found himself whispering. In Thalassian it just meant “as the time spins”. A meek acceptance of fate. He wondered when he would be able to even start accepting.
Interlude - The other side of hell
“You need to eat something or you’ll turn into a wraith.”
The woman’s voice contained a scrap of annoyance, despite the calm she tried to force on. Her fingers brushed idly through his hair before settling on his shoulder and squeezing a little.
“Or at least talk to me. I cannot start to imagine what happened to you…but I need to hear you…I need you to be…yourself…” A sob nearly swallowed her words. It almost made him turn over and look at her. Niniel Ain’Ethil tear-eyed was as likely as snow on Midsummer Day.
Her anguish was floating distantly across the numbness he lay wrapped in. He was aware of it – and resented that he was making her suffer, yet it did not feel real. There were too many other things, memories of blood and soul chilling screams waiting hungrily at the edges of his mind. They would swarm him in moments should he acknowledge them, so he slumbered, barely keeping them at bay. He would have to face it in the end. Just not yet. Not yet…
“Surely you must be able to do something for him!””
The other voice was sharper and more commanding. Worried too. She spoke to the other man in the room, standing near the tall windows that opened onto a courtyard with roses and fountains…
Home. He was home. The cries wouldn’t go away though. They never would, now.
“I know what is wrong”, the man said calmly. He sounded embarrassed. “Or not wrong…not really…You see, discipline is a very strong teaching among priests of the Holy Light…”
“Get to the point, Father!”
There was obviously no supply of patience left in the woman with the sharp tone. Her emotions skittered around the self –conscious wall, the same as Niniel’s did. He recognized frustration and anger and helplessness.
“A well trained priest can do just that…suppress some part of the connection between body and spirit, to the point where cold or hear or mind wrenching pain can be ignored. This is exactly what happens here. Except that he took it way too far. His body lies there and he may well be able to hear us as we talk – and even understand the meaning of words…but not feel them.” The priest coughed trying to hide he felt really uncomfortable at the moment. “Using suppression for this long and to such a degree is dangerous. If the connection is completely severed…he will die…and there is nothing I can do. No healing would work if he does not choose to come back.”
Two shocked gasps echoed the statement and the hand on his shoulder tensed. He could perceive it in the way one would be aware of two rocks touching each other. His mind acknowledged the contact, yet his senses didn’t. There was no feeling in that emptiness. He could think about Stratholme – about shattering cries and pleas to be spared, the blood soaking his hands and the fire that had consumed the city afterwards like a huge funeral pyre. He could think about it all and not be crushed by the horror of it.
He had paid with his faith. He would never find the strength to touch the Light again… Even that thought seemed bearable as he floated.
“You cannot…” Niniel was truly crying now. “You cannot…” Her hand gripped his shoulder so strong he would have felt his bones crack if he would feel anything at all.
“Pull yourself together!” the other woman snapped. Hot anger radiated from her in waves. “He will not do this to any of us! Not if I have to drown him in the Sunwell first! Do you hear me, Eireannan Sarälondé? You will not –“
The woman’s voice contained a scrap of annoyance, despite the calm she tried to force on. Her fingers brushed idly through his hair before settling on his shoulder and squeezing a little.
“Or at least talk to me. I cannot start to imagine what happened to you…but I need to hear you…I need you to be…yourself…” A sob nearly swallowed her words. It almost made him turn over and look at her. Niniel Ain’Ethil tear-eyed was as likely as snow on Midsummer Day.
Her anguish was floating distantly across the numbness he lay wrapped in. He was aware of it – and resented that he was making her suffer, yet it did not feel real. There were too many other things, memories of blood and soul chilling screams waiting hungrily at the edges of his mind. They would swarm him in moments should he acknowledge them, so he slumbered, barely keeping them at bay. He would have to face it in the end. Just not yet. Not yet…
“Surely you must be able to do something for him!””
The other voice was sharper and more commanding. Worried too. She spoke to the other man in the room, standing near the tall windows that opened onto a courtyard with roses and fountains…
Home. He was home. The cries wouldn’t go away though. They never would, now.
“I know what is wrong”, the man said calmly. He sounded embarrassed. “Or not wrong…not really…You see, discipline is a very strong teaching among priests of the Holy Light…”
“Get to the point, Father!”
There was obviously no supply of patience left in the woman with the sharp tone. Her emotions skittered around the self –conscious wall, the same as Niniel’s did. He recognized frustration and anger and helplessness.
“A well trained priest can do just that…suppress some part of the connection between body and spirit, to the point where cold or hear or mind wrenching pain can be ignored. This is exactly what happens here. Except that he took it way too far. His body lies there and he may well be able to hear us as we talk – and even understand the meaning of words…but not feel them.” The priest coughed trying to hide he felt really uncomfortable at the moment. “Using suppression for this long and to such a degree is dangerous. If the connection is completely severed…he will die…and there is nothing I can do. No healing would work if he does not choose to come back.”
Two shocked gasps echoed the statement and the hand on his shoulder tensed. He could perceive it in the way one would be aware of two rocks touching each other. His mind acknowledged the contact, yet his senses didn’t. There was no feeling in that emptiness. He could think about Stratholme – about shattering cries and pleas to be spared, the blood soaking his hands and the fire that had consumed the city afterwards like a huge funeral pyre. He could think about it all and not be crushed by the horror of it.
He had paid with his faith. He would never find the strength to touch the Light again… Even that thought seemed bearable as he floated.
“You cannot…” Niniel was truly crying now. “You cannot…” Her hand gripped his shoulder so strong he would have felt his bones crack if he would feel anything at all.
“Pull yourself together!” the other woman snapped. Hot anger radiated from her in waves. “He will not do this to any of us! Not if I have to drown him in the Sunwell first! Do you hear me, Eireannan Sarälondé? You will not –“
Chapter 13: A prayer at Uther's Tomb
Up, down, half a swing to the right.
The blade swished through the air and hit the skeleton squarely in the chest, turning the undead into a pile of bones.
Turn around half of a circle. Parry.
With an arc that captured the weak sunlight into the perfection of the steel and sent it sparkling around, the sword went first through the necromancer’s abdomen then up almost to the collar bone.
Withdraw.
The pale man dropped his staff, clenching his hands around his body in a vain attempt to prevent his insides from spilling out then collapsed to the ground writhing in the last convulsions of death.
Turn around again, another perfect half of the circle.
It was like a dance, a long practiced one she could do with her eyes closed.
Daria spun again, in a perfect smooth movement, all thought melted to the point where she was one with the blade in her hands, steel and flesh were one…
Reality struck back too soon as she lowered the sword and took a hurried glance around. Sorrow Hill lay quiet in the morning light – so quiet it would have been hard to imagine what had just happened unless you noticed the heaps made by rotting corpses in the pale, sun streaked grass. All around her, the air smelled of sickness and decay.
She heard steps and whirled towards the sound, then relaxed as she acknowledged Eireannan’s presence.
“Morning exercise?” he asked quietly. He looked bad, Daria thought, those sharp green eyes almost too big in the pale face. As usual, he wore black softened only by a tinge of grey here and there. She had never asked him if that was the color for mourning among elves as well as among humans…and there was no need for it. She had not seen him happy since the fall of Silvermoon. Maybe happy was too much to hope for. Daria sighed. Sometimes even “at peace” would have sufficed. But Eireannan seemed … haunted. Whatever peace was there in those lands, it was not for him. The past would never let go. Or he would not let go of the past. If only he could look at her and see…
She tried very hard to focus on something else. That line of thought was painful to say the least. He would never see what she wanted him to.
“Someone has to do it” she answered reluctantly. She sheathed the sword in a casual sort of way, then started slowly eastwards, stepping over ghoul remains. Sorrow Hill had been the main burial place of Andorhal and the dead had grown too restless in their graves. Necromancers like the one she had dispatched would show up to pick reinforcements for the Scourge. And it all had to do with the plague cauldrons, spewing their miasma everywhere. The air was thick with that odor clinging to clothes and skin.
Eireannan followed quietly and only then did Daria realized he was not alone. The draenei had been kneeling near one of the ghouls – otherwise there was no way in which she could have missed him. A bulky, alabaster skinned figure, towering shoulders and head over her – and Eireannan as well. Glowing white orbs fixed her intently as the draenei closed the distance between them, then bowed quite respectfully. Daria returned the bow even if slow.
“An honor to meet you, young lady…”
He spoke with a strong, exotic accent. Not unpleasant, just heavily stressing every consonant. Young lady. Eireannan seemed vaguely amused.
“Anchorite Truuen here wants to pay his respects at Lord Uther’s tomb.”, he said in a very neutral tone.
“I find your history fascinating…for a race so young…to have so many heroes. And your vision of the Light…most interesting.”
“We are honored that you think so”, Daria answered with a respectful nod. The draenei were strange to say the least – immortal beings with the curiosity of little children – and mighty fighters against everything unholy. The anchorite glanced once in a while at Eireannan, visibly discomforted by the pereception of shadow magic. From his part, Eireannan looked as if he had eaten a handful of rotten plums. He strode at a distance from the draenei and clearly in his mind the task of accompanying the anchorite didn’t include conversation.
Daria fell in between the two men and for some time they walked in silence.
Uther’s Tomb stood on the bank of the Darromere, at the far end of the graveyard. A bastion of hope in a ruined land, most of those fool enough to venture into the Plaguelands did so to visit it. The creator of the Knights of the Silver Hand, righteous defender of Lordaeron, betrayed and murdered by Arthas, the pupil he loved like a son – the Lightbringer’s story was one to be remembered. So people said – and this vastly shared opinion had made the Church canonize him soon after the war.
The anchorite trotted ahead, apparently too anxious to wait for the other two. He climbed the stairs towards the mausoleum and peered up at the great statue erected over the tomb. Eireannan stopped short of the stairs and Daria did the same, after glancing at him. She came sometimes at the tomb to meditate…yet Eireannan avoided the place as hard as he could.
“You need more sleep”, she said casually. “You look three days buried and dug out of your grave.”
The comparison made him choke. Really she could have found another outlet for her imagination.
What he couldn’t deny was the truth of her words - he had barely managed to close eyes the previous night. Whenever he drifted into sleep, dreams would come. Sweet –bitter dreams of that woman which made the empty spot inside feel like a tender wound...nightmares that had him bolt upright drenched in sweat and shivering. Something was wrong in the air – like the tension before a storm. He reached behind his back to rub a sore spot in his right shoulder and gave Daria a distracted look.
As usual she had donned her worn plate - well polished though – her dark blonde hair tied into a simple, practical braid, not to bother her while fighting. There was a certain grace to her flowing movements, even if graceful was not the word he would have used to describe Daria…and her face would have been outright beautiful if not for the permanent frown.
With little effort of imagination Eireannan could picture her differently, a young housewife in a nice woolen dress, a little tight over the bosom, and a very white apron tied over it. Cooking dinner for her husband, maybe looking over the baby in the cradle. Sad thoughts. She was a warrior, not a housewife. The march of the Scourge had stolen her innocence as surely as it had crushed his own life.
“Maybe if you wouldn’t have taught her all the hatred in your heart…”
He crushed that tiny voice. Do what you have to do. And pay for it.
“Don’t you regret it sometimes, Dar?”
She had been watching the anchorite as he strode leisurely towards the mausoleum. Now her head whipped around to glare at Eireannan.
“What, sudden access of melancholy?”
“Things could have been different…”
“Tell that to the Lich King”, she said irritably. “It’s a lie and you know it.”
“I could have made them different…” Eireannan’s voice was level, almost thoughtful. He really meant it, Daria understood with a shiver. Why would he be so blind about everything…about her, about the way in which he kept torturing himself day and night…The war had broken an awful lot of lives. People still found it difficult to face the truth, face their own memories…yet the struggled to get over it. Eireannan was doing just the opposite. He made sure he did not forget anything – walked around with festering wounds in hid soul he would not let to close.
“No”, she snapped. She wasn’t going to let him drown in self loathing. “I would be dead if it weren’t for you. Dead a thousand times. Or worse. I would be Scourge. You did everything that could have been done under the circumstances.”
“Yet maybe I could have done it better”, Eireannan whispered. He should have sent her south to Stormwind, as soon as the war had ceased. The Stormwind Orphanage would have been a better place for a young girl than the devastated Plaguelands with their cohort of horrors, having as only company a half mad warlock…
Well, at least his sanity had improved over the past seven years, Eireannan thought wryly. He had once been very interested in diseases of the mind. “I didn’t give you a chance, Dar. Kept you here, with me, just because I was afraid…to be alone…And ruined whatever other life you could have had…”
“I want no other…”
“Oh, of course, who wouldn’t love it? He bent to pick up a handful of pebbles then threw them away in a shower, over broken tombstones. The noise made Daria jump and even the draenei anchorite, seemingly lost in contemplation of Uther’s statue, turned his head to stare at them.
“Ghouls, necromancers, plague cauldrons. The Scarlets stalking us day and night. Ruined houses and spider webs…something to kill for, really..!”
Daria hadn’t seen him so off - balance for a long time.
“I want no other, I’ve told you!” she said hoarsely. “By the bones of Kel’Thuzad, stop blaming everything on yourself! What made you think of this, anyway?”
A glare that could have cut through stone was the only answer, before Eireannan walked away stiffly. It was very not like him to loose his calmness. Something had shaken him deeply this time and what had happened in Undercity the other day was just the straw that broke the cart.
Suddenly she became aware of the anchorite standing near her and placing a large yet gentle hand over her shoulder.
“There’s much anger to him”, the draenei said shaking his head sadly. “It hurts…”
It didn’t comfort Daria too much to know he was right.
The blade swished through the air and hit the skeleton squarely in the chest, turning the undead into a pile of bones.
Turn around half of a circle. Parry.
With an arc that captured the weak sunlight into the perfection of the steel and sent it sparkling around, the sword went first through the necromancer’s abdomen then up almost to the collar bone.
Withdraw.
The pale man dropped his staff, clenching his hands around his body in a vain attempt to prevent his insides from spilling out then collapsed to the ground writhing in the last convulsions of death.
Turn around again, another perfect half of the circle.
It was like a dance, a long practiced one she could do with her eyes closed.
Daria spun again, in a perfect smooth movement, all thought melted to the point where she was one with the blade in her hands, steel and flesh were one…
Reality struck back too soon as she lowered the sword and took a hurried glance around. Sorrow Hill lay quiet in the morning light – so quiet it would have been hard to imagine what had just happened unless you noticed the heaps made by rotting corpses in the pale, sun streaked grass. All around her, the air smelled of sickness and decay.
She heard steps and whirled towards the sound, then relaxed as she acknowledged Eireannan’s presence.
“Morning exercise?” he asked quietly. He looked bad, Daria thought, those sharp green eyes almost too big in the pale face. As usual, he wore black softened only by a tinge of grey here and there. She had never asked him if that was the color for mourning among elves as well as among humans…and there was no need for it. She had not seen him happy since the fall of Silvermoon. Maybe happy was too much to hope for. Daria sighed. Sometimes even “at peace” would have sufficed. But Eireannan seemed … haunted. Whatever peace was there in those lands, it was not for him. The past would never let go. Or he would not let go of the past. If only he could look at her and see…
She tried very hard to focus on something else. That line of thought was painful to say the least. He would never see what she wanted him to.
“Someone has to do it” she answered reluctantly. She sheathed the sword in a casual sort of way, then started slowly eastwards, stepping over ghoul remains. Sorrow Hill had been the main burial place of Andorhal and the dead had grown too restless in their graves. Necromancers like the one she had dispatched would show up to pick reinforcements for the Scourge. And it all had to do with the plague cauldrons, spewing their miasma everywhere. The air was thick with that odor clinging to clothes and skin.
Eireannan followed quietly and only then did Daria realized he was not alone. The draenei had been kneeling near one of the ghouls – otherwise there was no way in which she could have missed him. A bulky, alabaster skinned figure, towering shoulders and head over her – and Eireannan as well. Glowing white orbs fixed her intently as the draenei closed the distance between them, then bowed quite respectfully. Daria returned the bow even if slow.
“An honor to meet you, young lady…”
He spoke with a strong, exotic accent. Not unpleasant, just heavily stressing every consonant. Young lady. Eireannan seemed vaguely amused.
“Anchorite Truuen here wants to pay his respects at Lord Uther’s tomb.”, he said in a very neutral tone.
“I find your history fascinating…for a race so young…to have so many heroes. And your vision of the Light…most interesting.”
“We are honored that you think so”, Daria answered with a respectful nod. The draenei were strange to say the least – immortal beings with the curiosity of little children – and mighty fighters against everything unholy. The anchorite glanced once in a while at Eireannan, visibly discomforted by the pereception of shadow magic. From his part, Eireannan looked as if he had eaten a handful of rotten plums. He strode at a distance from the draenei and clearly in his mind the task of accompanying the anchorite didn’t include conversation.
Daria fell in between the two men and for some time they walked in silence.
Uther’s Tomb stood on the bank of the Darromere, at the far end of the graveyard. A bastion of hope in a ruined land, most of those fool enough to venture into the Plaguelands did so to visit it. The creator of the Knights of the Silver Hand, righteous defender of Lordaeron, betrayed and murdered by Arthas, the pupil he loved like a son – the Lightbringer’s story was one to be remembered. So people said – and this vastly shared opinion had made the Church canonize him soon after the war.
The anchorite trotted ahead, apparently too anxious to wait for the other two. He climbed the stairs towards the mausoleum and peered up at the great statue erected over the tomb. Eireannan stopped short of the stairs and Daria did the same, after glancing at him. She came sometimes at the tomb to meditate…yet Eireannan avoided the place as hard as he could.
“You need more sleep”, she said casually. “You look three days buried and dug out of your grave.”
The comparison made him choke. Really she could have found another outlet for her imagination.
What he couldn’t deny was the truth of her words - he had barely managed to close eyes the previous night. Whenever he drifted into sleep, dreams would come. Sweet –bitter dreams of that woman which made the empty spot inside feel like a tender wound...nightmares that had him bolt upright drenched in sweat and shivering. Something was wrong in the air – like the tension before a storm. He reached behind his back to rub a sore spot in his right shoulder and gave Daria a distracted look.
As usual she had donned her worn plate - well polished though – her dark blonde hair tied into a simple, practical braid, not to bother her while fighting. There was a certain grace to her flowing movements, even if graceful was not the word he would have used to describe Daria…and her face would have been outright beautiful if not for the permanent frown.
With little effort of imagination Eireannan could picture her differently, a young housewife in a nice woolen dress, a little tight over the bosom, and a very white apron tied over it. Cooking dinner for her husband, maybe looking over the baby in the cradle. Sad thoughts. She was a warrior, not a housewife. The march of the Scourge had stolen her innocence as surely as it had crushed his own life.
“Maybe if you wouldn’t have taught her all the hatred in your heart…”
He crushed that tiny voice. Do what you have to do. And pay for it.
“Don’t you regret it sometimes, Dar?”
She had been watching the anchorite as he strode leisurely towards the mausoleum. Now her head whipped around to glare at Eireannan.
“What, sudden access of melancholy?”
“Things could have been different…”
“Tell that to the Lich King”, she said irritably. “It’s a lie and you know it.”
“I could have made them different…” Eireannan’s voice was level, almost thoughtful. He really meant it, Daria understood with a shiver. Why would he be so blind about everything…about her, about the way in which he kept torturing himself day and night…The war had broken an awful lot of lives. People still found it difficult to face the truth, face their own memories…yet the struggled to get over it. Eireannan was doing just the opposite. He made sure he did not forget anything – walked around with festering wounds in hid soul he would not let to close.
“No”, she snapped. She wasn’t going to let him drown in self loathing. “I would be dead if it weren’t for you. Dead a thousand times. Or worse. I would be Scourge. You did everything that could have been done under the circumstances.”
“Yet maybe I could have done it better”, Eireannan whispered. He should have sent her south to Stormwind, as soon as the war had ceased. The Stormwind Orphanage would have been a better place for a young girl than the devastated Plaguelands with their cohort of horrors, having as only company a half mad warlock…
Well, at least his sanity had improved over the past seven years, Eireannan thought wryly. He had once been very interested in diseases of the mind. “I didn’t give you a chance, Dar. Kept you here, with me, just because I was afraid…to be alone…And ruined whatever other life you could have had…”
“I want no other…”
“Oh, of course, who wouldn’t love it? He bent to pick up a handful of pebbles then threw them away in a shower, over broken tombstones. The noise made Daria jump and even the draenei anchorite, seemingly lost in contemplation of Uther’s statue, turned his head to stare at them.
“Ghouls, necromancers, plague cauldrons. The Scarlets stalking us day and night. Ruined houses and spider webs…something to kill for, really..!”
Daria hadn’t seen him so off - balance for a long time.
“I want no other, I’ve told you!” she said hoarsely. “By the bones of Kel’Thuzad, stop blaming everything on yourself! What made you think of this, anyway?”
A glare that could have cut through stone was the only answer, before Eireannan walked away stiffly. It was very not like him to loose his calmness. Something had shaken him deeply this time and what had happened in Undercity the other day was just the straw that broke the cart.
Suddenly she became aware of the anchorite standing near her and placing a large yet gentle hand over her shoulder.
“There’s much anger to him”, the draenei said shaking his head sadly. “It hurts…”
It didn’t comfort Daria too much to know he was right.
Chapter 12: The choices we make...
“Hear ye, hear ye! All heroes are called upon to heed these words! A call to arms has been issued by the Kingdom of Stormwind!”
The herald strode apparently unconcerned along the canal, heading towards the the busiest area of the city, the Trade Quarter. His voice, strong and clear boomed against still closed -windows ; here and there a head would pop up to peer down at the street, then vanished inside as soon as they acknowledged the herald’s presence. It was early in the morning and Stormwind lay yet sleepily under the cool autum sky.
The herald’s voice rose again as he took a sharp turn left, to enter one of the arched passage ways that connected the Trade Quarter with the rest of the city.
“Hear ye, hear ye! All able bodied individuals are entreated to take up arms against the dark threat of the Scourge in the northern lands of the Eastern Kingdoms!”
Lainné paused to let the man pass in front of her. The town crier’s steps were equal and measured; he walked precisely another ten meters before continuing the proclamation.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Rumors fly of new threats rising from the ruins of the Plaguelands! Heroes of the realm – seek out Commander Ashlam Valorfist who has set up his base camp in Chillwind Camp, north of the Alterac Mountains!”
For a second, Lainné stood immobile. She was dressed for travel – a pale green woolen cloak with a deep hood and a simple riding suit. Like she had promised the Archbishop, she was headed for Darkshire. Then catching her breath, she ran after the crier who was already starting his litany all over again.
“Excuse me…”
The man whirled around to look at her, then his eyes softened as he took in the appearance of the young woman.
“How can I be of service, M’lady?”
“Sister Mayhrin”, she corrected him softly. The herald gave her another appreciative glance – she looked enough well dressed for a lady, Lainné assumed – then nodded politely.
“Sister then…how can I help?”
“Can you give me one of those consignment orders, please?”
The crier eyed her up and down once more, this time with surprise, then fished from his leather bag a sealed piece of parchment and handed it to Lainné.
“Ay’ve heard it’s really dangerous up there”, he confided in a very low tone. “Too dangerous for a pretty woman, ya understand me…”
Lainné gave him a sour grimace.
“I’ll keep that in mind, good man. Thank you.”
And with that she brushed away past him and sped down the alley leading into the Trade Quarter and past the Auction House. It was early enough that it still stood closed, so that the plaza in front of it was also empty. Some women in worn clothes were sweeping away with large brooms the dust and autumn leaves – they barely glanced at the woman as she passed by, obviously in a hurry. The herald’s voice suddenly boomed somewhere behind, taking on a more enthusiastic tone this time. “Hear ye!Hear ye citizens of Stormwind!”
What exactly had she done? Lainné thought almost surprised. The paper in her hand read only two brief lines, indicating that the volunteers should present themselves at Chillwind Camp. Surely she was not going to heed such a call, there were so many others things to be done right where she stood, without running to fight losing battles in the Plaguelands. Surely she wouldn’t…
Realization made blood freeze in her veins. She had considered before joining the ranks of the Argent Dawn. There was something truly heroic and pure about their dedication to the Light. But never had she gone so far as to actually do something in that direction.
Lainné swallowed anxiously, putting the order aside in one of her pockets. There would be plenty of time to meditate along those lines during her journey to Darkshire. She feared what she might discover, though. That night in Arathi must have scrambled her brains. Wasn’t it enough she kept dreaming of Eireannan? Bitter sweet painful dreams which made her wake up with a churning longing inside of her chest. She knew it was useless…and why it could never be, yet she could not stop wanting.
She shoved that thought aside, as she had done with the paper and started very purposefully towards the flight master.
The herald strode apparently unconcerned along the canal, heading towards the the busiest area of the city, the Trade Quarter. His voice, strong and clear boomed against still closed -windows ; here and there a head would pop up to peer down at the street, then vanished inside as soon as they acknowledged the herald’s presence. It was early in the morning and Stormwind lay yet sleepily under the cool autum sky.
The herald’s voice rose again as he took a sharp turn left, to enter one of the arched passage ways that connected the Trade Quarter with the rest of the city.
“Hear ye, hear ye! All able bodied individuals are entreated to take up arms against the dark threat of the Scourge in the northern lands of the Eastern Kingdoms!”
Lainné paused to let the man pass in front of her. The town crier’s steps were equal and measured; he walked precisely another ten meters before continuing the proclamation.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Rumors fly of new threats rising from the ruins of the Plaguelands! Heroes of the realm – seek out Commander Ashlam Valorfist who has set up his base camp in Chillwind Camp, north of the Alterac Mountains!”
For a second, Lainné stood immobile. She was dressed for travel – a pale green woolen cloak with a deep hood and a simple riding suit. Like she had promised the Archbishop, she was headed for Darkshire. Then catching her breath, she ran after the crier who was already starting his litany all over again.
“Excuse me…”
The man whirled around to look at her, then his eyes softened as he took in the appearance of the young woman.
“How can I be of service, M’lady?”
“Sister Mayhrin”, she corrected him softly. The herald gave her another appreciative glance – she looked enough well dressed for a lady, Lainné assumed – then nodded politely.
“Sister then…how can I help?”
“Can you give me one of those consignment orders, please?”
The crier eyed her up and down once more, this time with surprise, then fished from his leather bag a sealed piece of parchment and handed it to Lainné.
“Ay’ve heard it’s really dangerous up there”, he confided in a very low tone. “Too dangerous for a pretty woman, ya understand me…”
Lainné gave him a sour grimace.
“I’ll keep that in mind, good man. Thank you.”
And with that she brushed away past him and sped down the alley leading into the Trade Quarter and past the Auction House. It was early enough that it still stood closed, so that the plaza in front of it was also empty. Some women in worn clothes were sweeping away with large brooms the dust and autumn leaves – they barely glanced at the woman as she passed by, obviously in a hurry. The herald’s voice suddenly boomed somewhere behind, taking on a more enthusiastic tone this time. “Hear ye!Hear ye citizens of Stormwind!”
What exactly had she done? Lainné thought almost surprised. The paper in her hand read only two brief lines, indicating that the volunteers should present themselves at Chillwind Camp. Surely she was not going to heed such a call, there were so many others things to be done right where she stood, without running to fight losing battles in the Plaguelands. Surely she wouldn’t…
Realization made blood freeze in her veins. She had considered before joining the ranks of the Argent Dawn. There was something truly heroic and pure about their dedication to the Light. But never had she gone so far as to actually do something in that direction.
Lainné swallowed anxiously, putting the order aside in one of her pockets. There would be plenty of time to meditate along those lines during her journey to Darkshire. She feared what she might discover, though. That night in Arathi must have scrambled her brains. Wasn’t it enough she kept dreaming of Eireannan? Bitter sweet painful dreams which made her wake up with a churning longing inside of her chest. She knew it was useless…and why it could never be, yet she could not stop wanting.
She shoved that thought aside, as she had done with the paper and started very purposefully towards the flight master.
Chapter 11: Aftermath
“It is what we suspected”, the Archbishop said softly, frowning over the letters spread in front of them. It was late at night and only one candle lit on the desk in his private study. But even in that dim, flickering light he could see Lainné looked exhausted and worried.
Benedictus of Stormwind placed his hands under his chin and studied her thoughtfully, taking his mind from the news she had brought. He still couldn’t figure out how she had managed to retrieve those letters from the middle of the Syndicate occupied Stromgarde. A very strong woman she was and resourceful. Almost too dangerously so. Other people might try to use her for their own purposes, if only they knew…He sighed.
“Are you feeling well, daughter?”
“Y..Yes Father.”
Taken by surprise, Lainné stammered for a second, before retrieving her outward certainty.
“As you have said, Father, these letters confirm indeed that there is a connection between the Syndicate and…”
“I only asked you if you feel well, child…”
She gave a start, frowned, then blushed to the roots of her hair. There was something else in the Archbishop’s voice – something as if he may have actually known what happened in Stromgarde. He couldn’t have. But once she had started to think of it, the feeling of uneasiness buried in the pit of her stomach stirred again.
She shrugged, smoothing with nervous fingers the hair hanging loose about her shoulders. She should’ve tied it properly, Lainné thought. Walking around like a woman who cared for nothing else than to be looked at hardly qualified as suitable for a priest of the Light.
“What makes you ask me so, Father?”
The Archbishop sighed again, his eyes never leaving hers. Yet his smile when he answered was sincere, even if a little tired.
“You look worn out. You have been running too many such errands of late… and never had any rest. I am pushing you too hard.”
Lainné shook her head denying. At least the other thing was not written visibly on her face.
“There is no time for rest, Father. I have made copies of the letters and…”
Benedictus nodded silently, acknowledging her words, then cut her off.
“We live hard times.” A note of worry crept into his voice this time. “What we miss now is some more dedication from our rulers and… ” It was better not to say the words, the Archbishop thought bitterly. You never knew who could be listening from behind a door, or a curtain…or even a hole carefully dug into the wall. “While you were away, Magistrate Ebonlocke of Darkshire sent a new message to the King, asking for reinforcement, lest the entire Duskwood is overrun by shadows and darkness. Vile things happen in the forests, so he said.” Benedictus seemed suddenly overwhelmed by the difficulty of his own task…or maybe it was just the fact that the bad news kept pouring on them from all sides. “Lady Prestor managed to stop the letters before they reached Lord Fordragon…There is nothing I can do yet…Light, sometimes I wish Father Faol was here. I wish the Silver Hand still existed…” He placed his palms against the table, over the papers that lay there and glared into the shadows above Lainné’s head. “We are so powerless…so powerless against all this evil that seeps through everything and lurks at every corner…”
“I will see what Mayor Ebonlocke’s message is about”, Lainné said wearily. It never ended. But then, it was preferable to sleepless nights staring at the ceiling and wondering just why Eireannan’s arms had felt so right around her…
Benedictus of Stormwind placed his hands under his chin and studied her thoughtfully, taking his mind from the news she had brought. He still couldn’t figure out how she had managed to retrieve those letters from the middle of the Syndicate occupied Stromgarde. A very strong woman she was and resourceful. Almost too dangerously so. Other people might try to use her for their own purposes, if only they knew…He sighed.
“Are you feeling well, daughter?”
“Y..Yes Father.”
Taken by surprise, Lainné stammered for a second, before retrieving her outward certainty.
“As you have said, Father, these letters confirm indeed that there is a connection between the Syndicate and…”
“I only asked you if you feel well, child…”
She gave a start, frowned, then blushed to the roots of her hair. There was something else in the Archbishop’s voice – something as if he may have actually known what happened in Stromgarde. He couldn’t have. But once she had started to think of it, the feeling of uneasiness buried in the pit of her stomach stirred again.
She shrugged, smoothing with nervous fingers the hair hanging loose about her shoulders. She should’ve tied it properly, Lainné thought. Walking around like a woman who cared for nothing else than to be looked at hardly qualified as suitable for a priest of the Light.
“What makes you ask me so, Father?”
The Archbishop sighed again, his eyes never leaving hers. Yet his smile when he answered was sincere, even if a little tired.
“You look worn out. You have been running too many such errands of late… and never had any rest. I am pushing you too hard.”
Lainné shook her head denying. At least the other thing was not written visibly on her face.
“There is no time for rest, Father. I have made copies of the letters and…”
Benedictus nodded silently, acknowledging her words, then cut her off.
“We live hard times.” A note of worry crept into his voice this time. “What we miss now is some more dedication from our rulers and… ” It was better not to say the words, the Archbishop thought bitterly. You never knew who could be listening from behind a door, or a curtain…or even a hole carefully dug into the wall. “While you were away, Magistrate Ebonlocke of Darkshire sent a new message to the King, asking for reinforcement, lest the entire Duskwood is overrun by shadows and darkness. Vile things happen in the forests, so he said.” Benedictus seemed suddenly overwhelmed by the difficulty of his own task…or maybe it was just the fact that the bad news kept pouring on them from all sides. “Lady Prestor managed to stop the letters before they reached Lord Fordragon…There is nothing I can do yet…Light, sometimes I wish Father Faol was here. I wish the Silver Hand still existed…” He placed his palms against the table, over the papers that lay there and glared into the shadows above Lainné’s head. “We are so powerless…so powerless against all this evil that seeps through everything and lurks at every corner…”
“I will see what Mayor Ebonlocke’s message is about”, Lainné said wearily. It never ended. But then, it was preferable to sleepless nights staring at the ceiling and wondering just why Eireannan’s arms had felt so right around her…
Chapter 10: To pity the living
The Royal Palace of Lordaeron was a massive shape of gray stone set against the red tinged evening sky of the Tirisfal Glades. Blackened walls and unhinged doors made the place very much a ruin, yet it was the eerie silence that truly disturbed him, Eireannan thought.
He had seen it in better days, when the court of Lordaeron could rival, at least partially, the splendours of Silvermoon. There he had danced in one of the ball rooms to the right – and here used to be a small fountain where princess Callia’s maids of honor stood to chat when their service was not required.
Daria walked alongside him, her lips pursed and her right hand on the sword hilt. She had insisted to come and Eireannan felt just too exhausted to go through the tiring process of changing her mind. She was stubborn and knew all too well how to exploit his weaknesses, for all the years they had spent together.
Her village had been one of the first affected by the plague. A girl of thirteen or fourteen at that time, she had managed to run and hide until the ensuing massacre was over. Arthas and his men had found her laying besides the body of her dead mother. At first Eireannan had feared her mind was damaged – the girl would not speak and would barely react to whatever happened around her. With all the turmoil in Lordaeron, he had somehow remained stuck with the girl and finally took her with him back to Quel’Thalas. Then the hospital in which he had put her was razed by the scourge together with half of Silvermoon. Miraculously, Daria had survived. Yet that was another story…
He looked at her from the corner of the eye. She did not seem troubled – only deep in thought. And slighty uneasy, as they crossed the empty throne room. The royal seat still stood – if covered in dust and spider webs – and so did the blood stains on the polished floor tiles. No one had ever cared to wipe it away. The city had fallen into anarchy after King Terenas’ death and then swarmed by endless hordes of scourge. – not the King’s death – his murder at the very hands of his son, Eireannan corrected himself. His mind had a strange habit of smoothing out unpleasant details. There were ghosts there, he thought. He almost had a feeling that- if he turned his head around fast enough – he would be able to see them.
They went along a narrow corridor, then through the crypt that had been the burial place of all the kings of Lordaeron – save for the last one. Technically Arthas was the king. And Arthas was dead. Or not really dead…Things got blurry after a while spent around the Forsaken and the Scourge. Sometimes he felt the thin line he already treaded become even thinner. Good and evil had long lost their meaning, but it was difficult even to retain a reasonable amount of sanity while dealing on a regular basis with the deceased.
A steep flight of stairs led directly into the bowels of the Capital City sewer system.
The air was foul and unpleasant and the dim light made them walk almost blindly until their vision adjusted to it. Eireannan heard Daria struggle to breathe normally while she tried to keep up with him.
Hideous growls filled their ears as they started along the canal filled with dirty water. Eireannan didn’t even spare a glance towards the abominations guarding the entrance. There were towering masses of flesh leaking yellow fluids – each one armed with chains and blood stained cleavers. Poorly sewn entrails did not make for a pleasant sight. Gripping Daria’s arm so tightly she almost bit back a moan, he led her to their right, into the winding corridors reeking with the deep stench of death.
The Royal Quarters were buried on the lowest level of the city so they took yet another winding corridor. Whoever had imagined the sewers of Lordaeron definitely hated straight lines. Armed Dreadguards watched them with a scowl as they passed. Even on those half-bare skulls, covered in black hoods it was easy to guess that they held no respect whatsoever for the living. Daria looked as if she already felt cold fingers creeping along her spine, while she tried to maintain an equal stride and a straight back. Eireannan held her arm firmly. He should have never allowed her to come with him after all.
The corridor ended abruptly into a narrow entrance, barely enough for two people abreast. Despite the show of fearlesness she had made so far, Daria dropped into an awkward curtsy as soon as they were in. Eireannan on the other hand, straightened quite obviously before the Dark Lady of the Forsaken and former Ranger General of Quel'Thalas, Sylvanas Windrunner, turned on them.
She was alone this time – the sight of Varimathras the dreadlord made Eireannan seethe even worse than the rest of the Undercity. It was the Legion who had been behind the Lich King’s actions, at least in the beginning. Sylvanas was a fool to pretend he had forgotten that. The very Legion that was even now preparing to launch an assault over Azeroth, if the rumors from Silvermoon could be given any credit. And there could be no such thing as a tame demon. Varimathras had betrayed his brothers – if family connections held any relevance with the demons – and would gladly betray his new queen should the opportunity arise. If he hadn’t already. There was a strong undercurrent in the Undercity in his favour – and the Royal Apothecary Society obeyed him blindly.
“Past time”, the Dark Lady observed taking a few steps over to them. She wore a Ranger’s garb – only in black and grey, complete with a curved dagger tucked in her belt. Bow and quiver rested somewhere on a gilded table – that looked as rotten and decaying as everything else around. Her red glazed eyes focused on Eireannan maliciously before she started pacing away.
“News came from Silvermoon” she said quite excitedly. For a dead woman that was. Her voice sounded deep and disturbing – it made blood try to coagulate in your veins. “Kael’thas had made a pact with the Legion. Lor’themar does not yet want the story to spread – but they will have to strike him down, wherever he resides now…”
Eireannan grimaced. Technically, Lor’Themar Theron had assumed the leadership of Silvermoon. In practice he had no more power than a new recruit had to order around the Ranger General. Kael’thas had sent his own loyal servant, Grand Magister Rommath to keep an eye on his Regent and spread tales of the promised land. Which, had transpired was nothing more than a collection of rocks floating into the nether – suffused with the very magic that had ripped Draenor apart. According to the very same rumors, some of Kael’s men had come to dislike his methods and ran over to the Light devoted Naaru.
He wondered what else Sylvanas knew. Lor’themar Theron had been her second in command for so long he would still take her advice.
“So all you wanted was to talk rumours?” Eireannan asked quietly. Regardless of that his voice held so much contempt that the Dark Lady gave him a murderous stare. “I have something else to tell you.” Pressing against the wall behind as hard as she could, Daria cringed. Ironically, that level tone was the one that proved Eireannan was truly angry. He never yelled – almost never raised his tone for that matter. But when he spoke as controlled as he did now, one could be sure the storm was not too far away.
“And that would be?”
“I’ve passed through Hillsbrad on my way here.” Eireannan breathed sharply. “People have been murdered in their beds by Forsaken attacks. And not only Forsaken.Now Darthalia’s sending every new recruit into the town, be it forsaken or sin’dorei, to kill some innocents as their first proof of devotion to the Dark Lady! And bring their heads back in a bag as token…!”
“I’ve told you times before this…we will slaughter anyone that stands in our way!"
"Including peasants - women and children? You are doing nothing but to bring more pain upon those people – more hatred on the heads of your …subjects…and our people! Should I wonder why the Scarlets would want every last Forsaken dead?” They were fanatics, true – and some he had gladly dispatched himself – but the cruelty of the Banshee Queen seemed to have no limits of late.
"What are we all if not slaves to this torment?" Her voice was now a shrieking sound, burrowing into Daria’s skull like a drill. “ How could I forget, Eireannan? And what do those alive know about our suffering? About being trapped in this horrible nightmare, in your own, rotting flesh with nothing but your will left to set the world into movement?"
She still paced around the room in a flurry of motion.
“Revenge is the only thing that drives us forth! We must embrace it and let it lead us into victory. It is the right of all the Forsaken to… ”
Anger brimmed inside Eireannan until he could held onto it no longer. He had found it difficult during the last two days to keep his emotions under control. That night in Arathi – he didn’t want to remember, but somehow there was no chance to avoid it either – Lainne was beautiful, smart, deliciously soft and caring...A woman he could grow to love. Only he would not love anymore – he could not…would not…In a sense he was dead inside as surely as Sylvanas and her minions, doomed to live remembering every little scrap of what he had lost. What he had become. All that frustration finally burst out and he stood to face her, hands clenched into fists, while Daria tried very hard not to be noticed behind him.
“You do not care about the Forsaken… ” He had seen some of them making plans how to slaughter relatives still alive. He had met others who only longed for peace and tried to live by the virtues of Light. Hell, he had seen Forsaken get married in undeath and attempt once more to just be themselves…whatever that was. “You care about nothing else but your own revenge! You will use them - and anyone else for this purpose and the rest of the world be damned!”
“Why do I have to care?” the Dark Lady said bitterly. She stopped and glared at Eireannan as if unable to understand why he would challenge her. “Our kin -- a handful of pathetic survivors, barely able to scramble a mana potion to quench their addiction! Serving Kael'Thas plans and now… the Legion! The very Legion that created the monster back in Northrend. Me…that I have fought to my last breath... turned into this...this monstrosity! And you…just look at yourself!…You’ve been corrupted…! Don't you see what we have all become?"
Daria forgot to breathe. The Dreadguards on the other side of the entrance clearly wished to be somewhere else.
“Oh, but I see”, Eireannan answered too softly. His voice was cold where hers had been heated. “How could I not see that you’ve turned all those that come too close to you into blood thirsty murderers?”
The words fell heavy in the silence of the hall. For a second, Daria could only hear her own erratic heartbeats. Sylvanas Windrunner looked frozen, yet the expression etched into that dead face was gut-twisting. Eireannan on the other hand was a bundle of tensed muscles, bracing himself for the hit that never came.
The Dark Lady’s attention suddenly shifted to Daria, as if she had just then noticed her presence. The young woman stood with her back pressed against the wall, obviously uneasy and avoiding to look at the Dark Lady. Instead, her eyes were fixed upon Erieannan with what seemed to be, at the same time, a mixture of worry and confidence.
Weird enough, the Banshee smiled.
"You have no idea it meant to be a slave to the Lich King! Maybe you need a taste of that..."
Pain. Eireannan wanted to scream out and he couldn't. A thousand little needles burrowing themselves into his brain like probing fingers.With terrifying clarity, he knew what she was trying to do. Possession.
His sight blurred as Sylvanas’ body, emptied of spirit sagged and fell backwards in slow motion. At the same time her pressure against his mind increased, like a crushing vice until, despite his efforts to resist, Eireannan opened to her will. She took control over his body while he was still aware of everything, his consciousness a screaming presence inside. He watched in terror as his hand went to the dagger in his belt, unsheathing it in one single move. Then he turned facing Daria, who still leaned against the door, her eyes now wide with fear. His lips spelled the words of agony and she gave out a cry as she doubled in pain, then hit the floor writhing uncontrollably.
His hand raised the dagger.
“What about this? How does it feel to have no control at all? To watch impotently as someone you care for dies...at your own hand...?"
Sylvanas' words were a whisper beyond awarness. His mind tried to close down on her, to somehow keep himself from seeing what he was about to do. Panic took over. He pushed against her consciousness, clawed at it uselessly. It was as if he were trying to take down a wall with his bare hands.
“You cannot stop me. Do you have any idea how sweet this feels?”
The gleaming blade angled downwards – a very precise blow, straight through the heart. Daria watched it mesmerized as he held her down effortlessly, with one hand only. Normally she should have been able to push him back – Eireannan was not that strong physically. Tears filled her eyes as she failed to free herself from his grip. The dagger arched back, poised to hit.
“Nooooooooooo!”
With the frantic energy of despair, Eireannan lashed out one more time.
The blade tore the air, Daria’s sleeve and hit the stone tiles – the steel shattered as if it were brittle glass. The shock made Eireannan collapse over Daria’s limp body – and suddenly realized he could feel again. Air seemed to flood his lungs all at once. For long moments he could do nothing else than breathe, like a man just fished from the bottom of a well where he had been drowning. Daria sobbed quietly and shuddered every now and then, yet her arms had been around his shoulders as soon as the blade fell. Holding him. Holding onto him.
The Dark Lady frowned as she glided back into the field of his vision. She seemed phased – and Eireannan wondered dimly why. She had been in control all the time and all his strength of will and mind had barely sufficed to alter – if only a little – the trajectory of the blade.
Yet the Banshee didn’t look at all pleased. She bit her lower lip, still frowning as Eireannan struggled to move. It was an effort, pushing himself up on hand and knees. Knotted muscles refused to obey his commands, but when he finally managed to stand the Dark Lady’s gaze was – almost – appreciative.
“Don’t you ever challenge me, Eireannan. I can crush you under my boot – and I will do so if you make me. I feel no pity for the living. Keep that in mind.”
“My point exactly…” Eireannan muttered. He pulled Daria up tottering under her weight – she was clearly shocked enough not to be able to stand by herself. For a second it looked as if they might both crumble again – but Eireannan’s grim determination left no room for that. He almost dragged her into the corridor and stormed through the Dreadguards, all the way up to the inner ring. Nobody bothered to stop them.
Strength lasted enough to make it out of the Undercity. Not sufficiently to be able to summon his felsteed. He just walked blindly on the King’s road , once Lordaeron’s most travelled route, now broken and covered in patches of grass. Daria followed him closely, shambling and pale.
It actually lasted sufficiently to get out of sight from the ruins of the city before he collapsed to the ground and emptied his stomach. He couldn't remember feeling so sick ever – didn’t even have any idea for how long he remained there, retching and shuddering as if wanting to throw out every meal he had ever eaten. It certainly seemed an eternity until he was able to pull himself back up on wobbling legs. Daria stood frozen just a few steps away. She was pale as white bleached linen and so obviously shocked that for a second Eireannan forgot how drained he felt. He put a trembling hand on her shoulder, then pulled her closer, into something awkwardly resembling an embrace.
Only then did she start to cry.
"Shhhh..." Erieannan whispered. "It's fine. We're both fine..."
However, she kept crying, her hands now tightly wrapped around his neck.
“I should have done something..." she droned in between sobs that made her chest heave. "I'm no coward...Ei'an...you know that...I shoud've at least tried to fight you...but I was scared, so scared...never been so scared...and I couldn’t…couldn’t do nothing…I…”
There were no reassuring words Eireannan could think of. He just held her tighter against himself.
He had seen it in better days, when the court of Lordaeron could rival, at least partially, the splendours of Silvermoon. There he had danced in one of the ball rooms to the right – and here used to be a small fountain where princess Callia’s maids of honor stood to chat when their service was not required.
Daria walked alongside him, her lips pursed and her right hand on the sword hilt. She had insisted to come and Eireannan felt just too exhausted to go through the tiring process of changing her mind. She was stubborn and knew all too well how to exploit his weaknesses, for all the years they had spent together.
Her village had been one of the first affected by the plague. A girl of thirteen or fourteen at that time, she had managed to run and hide until the ensuing massacre was over. Arthas and his men had found her laying besides the body of her dead mother. At first Eireannan had feared her mind was damaged – the girl would not speak and would barely react to whatever happened around her. With all the turmoil in Lordaeron, he had somehow remained stuck with the girl and finally took her with him back to Quel’Thalas. Then the hospital in which he had put her was razed by the scourge together with half of Silvermoon. Miraculously, Daria had survived. Yet that was another story…
He looked at her from the corner of the eye. She did not seem troubled – only deep in thought. And slighty uneasy, as they crossed the empty throne room. The royal seat still stood – if covered in dust and spider webs – and so did the blood stains on the polished floor tiles. No one had ever cared to wipe it away. The city had fallen into anarchy after King Terenas’ death and then swarmed by endless hordes of scourge. – not the King’s death – his murder at the very hands of his son, Eireannan corrected himself. His mind had a strange habit of smoothing out unpleasant details. There were ghosts there, he thought. He almost had a feeling that- if he turned his head around fast enough – he would be able to see them.
They went along a narrow corridor, then through the crypt that had been the burial place of all the kings of Lordaeron – save for the last one. Technically Arthas was the king. And Arthas was dead. Or not really dead…Things got blurry after a while spent around the Forsaken and the Scourge. Sometimes he felt the thin line he already treaded become even thinner. Good and evil had long lost their meaning, but it was difficult even to retain a reasonable amount of sanity while dealing on a regular basis with the deceased.
A steep flight of stairs led directly into the bowels of the Capital City sewer system.
The air was foul and unpleasant and the dim light made them walk almost blindly until their vision adjusted to it. Eireannan heard Daria struggle to breathe normally while she tried to keep up with him.
Hideous growls filled their ears as they started along the canal filled with dirty water. Eireannan didn’t even spare a glance towards the abominations guarding the entrance. There were towering masses of flesh leaking yellow fluids – each one armed with chains and blood stained cleavers. Poorly sewn entrails did not make for a pleasant sight. Gripping Daria’s arm so tightly she almost bit back a moan, he led her to their right, into the winding corridors reeking with the deep stench of death.
The Royal Quarters were buried on the lowest level of the city so they took yet another winding corridor. Whoever had imagined the sewers of Lordaeron definitely hated straight lines. Armed Dreadguards watched them with a scowl as they passed. Even on those half-bare skulls, covered in black hoods it was easy to guess that they held no respect whatsoever for the living. Daria looked as if she already felt cold fingers creeping along her spine, while she tried to maintain an equal stride and a straight back. Eireannan held her arm firmly. He should have never allowed her to come with him after all.
The corridor ended abruptly into a narrow entrance, barely enough for two people abreast. Despite the show of fearlesness she had made so far, Daria dropped into an awkward curtsy as soon as they were in. Eireannan on the other hand, straightened quite obviously before the Dark Lady of the Forsaken and former Ranger General of Quel'Thalas, Sylvanas Windrunner, turned on them.
She was alone this time – the sight of Varimathras the dreadlord made Eireannan seethe even worse than the rest of the Undercity. It was the Legion who had been behind the Lich King’s actions, at least in the beginning. Sylvanas was a fool to pretend he had forgotten that. The very Legion that was even now preparing to launch an assault over Azeroth, if the rumors from Silvermoon could be given any credit. And there could be no such thing as a tame demon. Varimathras had betrayed his brothers – if family connections held any relevance with the demons – and would gladly betray his new queen should the opportunity arise. If he hadn’t already. There was a strong undercurrent in the Undercity in his favour – and the Royal Apothecary Society obeyed him blindly.
“Past time”, the Dark Lady observed taking a few steps over to them. She wore a Ranger’s garb – only in black and grey, complete with a curved dagger tucked in her belt. Bow and quiver rested somewhere on a gilded table – that looked as rotten and decaying as everything else around. Her red glazed eyes focused on Eireannan maliciously before she started pacing away.
“News came from Silvermoon” she said quite excitedly. For a dead woman that was. Her voice sounded deep and disturbing – it made blood try to coagulate in your veins. “Kael’thas had made a pact with the Legion. Lor’themar does not yet want the story to spread – but they will have to strike him down, wherever he resides now…”
Eireannan grimaced. Technically, Lor’Themar Theron had assumed the leadership of Silvermoon. In practice he had no more power than a new recruit had to order around the Ranger General. Kael’thas had sent his own loyal servant, Grand Magister Rommath to keep an eye on his Regent and spread tales of the promised land. Which, had transpired was nothing more than a collection of rocks floating into the nether – suffused with the very magic that had ripped Draenor apart. According to the very same rumors, some of Kael’s men had come to dislike his methods and ran over to the Light devoted Naaru.
He wondered what else Sylvanas knew. Lor’themar Theron had been her second in command for so long he would still take her advice.
“So all you wanted was to talk rumours?” Eireannan asked quietly. Regardless of that his voice held so much contempt that the Dark Lady gave him a murderous stare. “I have something else to tell you.” Pressing against the wall behind as hard as she could, Daria cringed. Ironically, that level tone was the one that proved Eireannan was truly angry. He never yelled – almost never raised his tone for that matter. But when he spoke as controlled as he did now, one could be sure the storm was not too far away.
“And that would be?”
“I’ve passed through Hillsbrad on my way here.” Eireannan breathed sharply. “People have been murdered in their beds by Forsaken attacks. And not only Forsaken.Now Darthalia’s sending every new recruit into the town, be it forsaken or sin’dorei, to kill some innocents as their first proof of devotion to the Dark Lady! And bring their heads back in a bag as token…!”
“I’ve told you times before this…we will slaughter anyone that stands in our way!"
"Including peasants - women and children? You are doing nothing but to bring more pain upon those people – more hatred on the heads of your …subjects…and our people! Should I wonder why the Scarlets would want every last Forsaken dead?” They were fanatics, true – and some he had gladly dispatched himself – but the cruelty of the Banshee Queen seemed to have no limits of late.
"What are we all if not slaves to this torment?" Her voice was now a shrieking sound, burrowing into Daria’s skull like a drill. “ How could I forget, Eireannan? And what do those alive know about our suffering? About being trapped in this horrible nightmare, in your own, rotting flesh with nothing but your will left to set the world into movement?"
She still paced around the room in a flurry of motion.
“Revenge is the only thing that drives us forth! We must embrace it and let it lead us into victory. It is the right of all the Forsaken to… ”
Anger brimmed inside Eireannan until he could held onto it no longer. He had found it difficult during the last two days to keep his emotions under control. That night in Arathi – he didn’t want to remember, but somehow there was no chance to avoid it either – Lainne was beautiful, smart, deliciously soft and caring...A woman he could grow to love. Only he would not love anymore – he could not…would not…In a sense he was dead inside as surely as Sylvanas and her minions, doomed to live remembering every little scrap of what he had lost. What he had become. All that frustration finally burst out and he stood to face her, hands clenched into fists, while Daria tried very hard not to be noticed behind him.
“You do not care about the Forsaken… ” He had seen some of them making plans how to slaughter relatives still alive. He had met others who only longed for peace and tried to live by the virtues of Light. Hell, he had seen Forsaken get married in undeath and attempt once more to just be themselves…whatever that was. “You care about nothing else but your own revenge! You will use them - and anyone else for this purpose and the rest of the world be damned!”
“Why do I have to care?” the Dark Lady said bitterly. She stopped and glared at Eireannan as if unable to understand why he would challenge her. “Our kin -- a handful of pathetic survivors, barely able to scramble a mana potion to quench their addiction! Serving Kael'Thas plans and now… the Legion! The very Legion that created the monster back in Northrend. Me…that I have fought to my last breath... turned into this...this monstrosity! And you…just look at yourself!…You’ve been corrupted…! Don't you see what we have all become?"
Daria forgot to breathe. The Dreadguards on the other side of the entrance clearly wished to be somewhere else.
“Oh, but I see”, Eireannan answered too softly. His voice was cold where hers had been heated. “How could I not see that you’ve turned all those that come too close to you into blood thirsty murderers?”
The words fell heavy in the silence of the hall. For a second, Daria could only hear her own erratic heartbeats. Sylvanas Windrunner looked frozen, yet the expression etched into that dead face was gut-twisting. Eireannan on the other hand was a bundle of tensed muscles, bracing himself for the hit that never came.
The Dark Lady’s attention suddenly shifted to Daria, as if she had just then noticed her presence. The young woman stood with her back pressed against the wall, obviously uneasy and avoiding to look at the Dark Lady. Instead, her eyes were fixed upon Erieannan with what seemed to be, at the same time, a mixture of worry and confidence.
Weird enough, the Banshee smiled.
"You have no idea it meant to be a slave to the Lich King! Maybe you need a taste of that..."
Pain. Eireannan wanted to scream out and he couldn't. A thousand little needles burrowing themselves into his brain like probing fingers.With terrifying clarity, he knew what she was trying to do. Possession.
His sight blurred as Sylvanas’ body, emptied of spirit sagged and fell backwards in slow motion. At the same time her pressure against his mind increased, like a crushing vice until, despite his efforts to resist, Eireannan opened to her will. She took control over his body while he was still aware of everything, his consciousness a screaming presence inside. He watched in terror as his hand went to the dagger in his belt, unsheathing it in one single move. Then he turned facing Daria, who still leaned against the door, her eyes now wide with fear. His lips spelled the words of agony and she gave out a cry as she doubled in pain, then hit the floor writhing uncontrollably.
His hand raised the dagger.
“What about this? How does it feel to have no control at all? To watch impotently as someone you care for dies...at your own hand...?"
Sylvanas' words were a whisper beyond awarness. His mind tried to close down on her, to somehow keep himself from seeing what he was about to do. Panic took over. He pushed against her consciousness, clawed at it uselessly. It was as if he were trying to take down a wall with his bare hands.
“You cannot stop me. Do you have any idea how sweet this feels?”
The gleaming blade angled downwards – a very precise blow, straight through the heart. Daria watched it mesmerized as he held her down effortlessly, with one hand only. Normally she should have been able to push him back – Eireannan was not that strong physically. Tears filled her eyes as she failed to free herself from his grip. The dagger arched back, poised to hit.
“Nooooooooooo!”
With the frantic energy of despair, Eireannan lashed out one more time.
The blade tore the air, Daria’s sleeve and hit the stone tiles – the steel shattered as if it were brittle glass. The shock made Eireannan collapse over Daria’s limp body – and suddenly realized he could feel again. Air seemed to flood his lungs all at once. For long moments he could do nothing else than breathe, like a man just fished from the bottom of a well where he had been drowning. Daria sobbed quietly and shuddered every now and then, yet her arms had been around his shoulders as soon as the blade fell. Holding him. Holding onto him.
The Dark Lady frowned as she glided back into the field of his vision. She seemed phased – and Eireannan wondered dimly why. She had been in control all the time and all his strength of will and mind had barely sufficed to alter – if only a little – the trajectory of the blade.
Yet the Banshee didn’t look at all pleased. She bit her lower lip, still frowning as Eireannan struggled to move. It was an effort, pushing himself up on hand and knees. Knotted muscles refused to obey his commands, but when he finally managed to stand the Dark Lady’s gaze was – almost – appreciative.
“Don’t you ever challenge me, Eireannan. I can crush you under my boot – and I will do so if you make me. I feel no pity for the living. Keep that in mind.”
“My point exactly…” Eireannan muttered. He pulled Daria up tottering under her weight – she was clearly shocked enough not to be able to stand by herself. For a second it looked as if they might both crumble again – but Eireannan’s grim determination left no room for that. He almost dragged her into the corridor and stormed through the Dreadguards, all the way up to the inner ring. Nobody bothered to stop them.
Strength lasted enough to make it out of the Undercity. Not sufficiently to be able to summon his felsteed. He just walked blindly on the King’s road , once Lordaeron’s most travelled route, now broken and covered in patches of grass. Daria followed him closely, shambling and pale.
It actually lasted sufficiently to get out of sight from the ruins of the city before he collapsed to the ground and emptied his stomach. He couldn't remember feeling so sick ever – didn’t even have any idea for how long he remained there, retching and shuddering as if wanting to throw out every meal he had ever eaten. It certainly seemed an eternity until he was able to pull himself back up on wobbling legs. Daria stood frozen just a few steps away. She was pale as white bleached linen and so obviously shocked that for a second Eireannan forgot how drained he felt. He put a trembling hand on her shoulder, then pulled her closer, into something awkwardly resembling an embrace.
Only then did she start to cry.
"Shhhh..." Erieannan whispered. "It's fine. We're both fine..."
However, she kept crying, her hands now tightly wrapped around his neck.
“I should have done something..." she droned in between sobs that made her chest heave. "I'm no coward...Ei'an...you know that...I shoud've at least tried to fight you...but I was scared, so scared...never been so scared...and I couldn’t…couldn’t do nothing…I…”
There were no reassuring words Eireannan could think of. He just held her tighter against himself.
Chapter 9: Chillwind Camp
It was already late in the evening when he arrived at Chillwind Camp. A small operation of the Argent Dawn, the camp was set on the very edge of the Plaguelands…far enough that only a few blighted leaves revealed the corruption of the Scourge.
Two rows of tents had been set up on the left side of the road, as well as some crude wooden sheds. Trained gryphons slept in their cots under the watchful eyes of the flightmaster – a stout Wildhammer dwarf. As Eireannan passed by, the guards gave him sharp inquisitive looks, then let him inside the encampment. What he had told Lainné was true – the Argent Dawn forces were too thin for them to be picky on whoever pledged support to their cause.
Which in turn was the reason why the Church of Light frowned so badly at their “ways”. The Dawn received in its ranks only proved followers of the Holy Light. Yet loose ties of allegiance extended to anyone that might serve their purpose – including warlocks with a grudge against the scourge. Of course, it helped that he refused to have anything to do whatsoever with demonology. It was a line he would never tread, no matter the cost.
A woman came out of one of the tents and stopped abruptly at his sight.
“Ei’an! By the bones of Kel’Thuzad! high time you were back…I’ve been starting to worry!”
The curse made Eireannan grimace – she had a fancy of swearing by everything she could imagine, but the reminder of the Lich King’s most trusted advisor was usually slightly discomforting for every sane person. Never to mention that the Butcher had used the very Sunwell to reanimate him as a lich, corrupting it in the process. Quel’Thalas trampled under the march of the Scourge with the only purpose of resurrecting Kel’Thuzad…!Eireannan’s teeth gritted almost audibly.
“There’s no need to fret over me, Dar”, he said with as much calm as he could muster. The young woman studied him suspiciously – she was tall, only a head shorter than him, slender yet not at all fragile. As if to prove it she carried two swords, one strapped on her back, the other one – a short and stout blade- in a leather scabbard at her waist. Hazel eyes bore into is for a second, then she sniffed.
Evening sounds and scents drifted around the camp: horses and wooden smoke and meals being cooked. It was almost a pleasant scene if one could forget why they were there. Any one of those men or women sipping their tea or eating their steak could be dead before noon the next day. Eireannan tried not to look too much around. It was much better not to care. He walked between the tents, nodding in acknowledgement here and there, the young woman stalking him stubbornly.
“Back so soon?” someone inquired. He whirled around to glare at the woman dressed in a pale grey robe who returned an equal gaze, hands on her hips. Alyssa McDonnell was second in command at Chillwind Camp – and a long time acquaintance of his. Eireannan barely smiled as he took out the papers he had safely tucked in the pocket of his coat – most of their – his¬ discoveries in Stromgarde.
“Here. It may be as you suspected”, he said quietly. Daria had stopped only a step behind and was looking intently at his back – he could feel her eyes on him.
“Does it never end?” priestess McDonnell sighed. “Well, a job well done though.”. Her blue eyes warmed and she patted him gently on the shoulder; she had to reach up to do so. “Yet sometimes I do wonder how we are ever going to hold on…”
“As the Light wills it…” Eireannan replied absently. He hadn’t realized what he had said – not until her eyes widened slightly and then a faint trace of color rose in his cheeks.
“I might have you deliver the words of Wisdom on Sunday ”, she announced in a light tone. “What a sermon that would be…” It was the tradition of the Dawn to hold a weekly service to the Light, to remind themselves of its blessings and what they were fighting for. Eireannan blushed even deeper.
“Would you require me tonight?”
“No.” The woman shrugged. “Tomorrow we will strike at Garron’s Whitering. The number of scourge there is dangerously increasing. You are welcome to join us.”
Always the diplomat, Eireannan thought bitterly. She would never order him around as she did with her men – just hinted at things.
“Tomorrow then”, Eireannan said evenly. He suddenly felt drained. Yet rest would not come – of that he was sure. Too many emotions stirred within his soul, like whirlwinds in a mountain river. Maybe he could eat something though. He hadn’t had a good meal in days.
Suddenly he became conscious of Daria’s gaze, still fixed on his back. He turned slowly to see her hand him a note, neatly folded in two. She looked annoyed. It was not her eyes but the seal on the paper – an odd, twisted form in black wax - that made him cringe. That letter would do wonders for his already thin appetite, Eireannan thought meekly as he took it.
Two rows of tents had been set up on the left side of the road, as well as some crude wooden sheds. Trained gryphons slept in their cots under the watchful eyes of the flightmaster – a stout Wildhammer dwarf. As Eireannan passed by, the guards gave him sharp inquisitive looks, then let him inside the encampment. What he had told Lainné was true – the Argent Dawn forces were too thin for them to be picky on whoever pledged support to their cause.
Which in turn was the reason why the Church of Light frowned so badly at their “ways”. The Dawn received in its ranks only proved followers of the Holy Light. Yet loose ties of allegiance extended to anyone that might serve their purpose – including warlocks with a grudge against the scourge. Of course, it helped that he refused to have anything to do whatsoever with demonology. It was a line he would never tread, no matter the cost.
A woman came out of one of the tents and stopped abruptly at his sight.
“Ei’an! By the bones of Kel’Thuzad! high time you were back…I’ve been starting to worry!”
The curse made Eireannan grimace – she had a fancy of swearing by everything she could imagine, but the reminder of the Lich King’s most trusted advisor was usually slightly discomforting for every sane person. Never to mention that the Butcher had used the very Sunwell to reanimate him as a lich, corrupting it in the process. Quel’Thalas trampled under the march of the Scourge with the only purpose of resurrecting Kel’Thuzad…!Eireannan’s teeth gritted almost audibly.
“There’s no need to fret over me, Dar”, he said with as much calm as he could muster. The young woman studied him suspiciously – she was tall, only a head shorter than him, slender yet not at all fragile. As if to prove it she carried two swords, one strapped on her back, the other one – a short and stout blade- in a leather scabbard at her waist. Hazel eyes bore into is for a second, then she sniffed.
Evening sounds and scents drifted around the camp: horses and wooden smoke and meals being cooked. It was almost a pleasant scene if one could forget why they were there. Any one of those men or women sipping their tea or eating their steak could be dead before noon the next day. Eireannan tried not to look too much around. It was much better not to care. He walked between the tents, nodding in acknowledgement here and there, the young woman stalking him stubbornly.
“Back so soon?” someone inquired. He whirled around to glare at the woman dressed in a pale grey robe who returned an equal gaze, hands on her hips. Alyssa McDonnell was second in command at Chillwind Camp – and a long time acquaintance of his. Eireannan barely smiled as he took out the papers he had safely tucked in the pocket of his coat – most of their – his¬ discoveries in Stromgarde.
“Here. It may be as you suspected”, he said quietly. Daria had stopped only a step behind and was looking intently at his back – he could feel her eyes on him.
“Does it never end?” priestess McDonnell sighed. “Well, a job well done though.”. Her blue eyes warmed and she patted him gently on the shoulder; she had to reach up to do so. “Yet sometimes I do wonder how we are ever going to hold on…”
“As the Light wills it…” Eireannan replied absently. He hadn’t realized what he had said – not until her eyes widened slightly and then a faint trace of color rose in his cheeks.
“I might have you deliver the words of Wisdom on Sunday ”, she announced in a light tone. “What a sermon that would be…” It was the tradition of the Dawn to hold a weekly service to the Light, to remind themselves of its blessings and what they were fighting for. Eireannan blushed even deeper.
“Would you require me tonight?”
“No.” The woman shrugged. “Tomorrow we will strike at Garron’s Whitering. The number of scourge there is dangerously increasing. You are welcome to join us.”
Always the diplomat, Eireannan thought bitterly. She would never order him around as she did with her men – just hinted at things.
“Tomorrow then”, Eireannan said evenly. He suddenly felt drained. Yet rest would not come – of that he was sure. Too many emotions stirred within his soul, like whirlwinds in a mountain river. Maybe he could eat something though. He hadn’t had a good meal in days.
Suddenly he became conscious of Daria’s gaze, still fixed on his back. He turned slowly to see her hand him a note, neatly folded in two. She looked annoyed. It was not her eyes but the seal on the paper – an odd, twisted form in black wax - that made him cringe. That letter would do wonders for his already thin appetite, Eireannan thought meekly as he took it.
Interlude - Of dead towns and damned people
The ruins of Strahnbrad nestled into the valley below; fresh patches of snow covered the ground here and there, despite it being barely autumn. A thick layer of mist had settled over the mountains, surrounding the dead town from all sides. An oppressive sight, Eireannan thought.
Strahnbrad had once been a prosperous town. Being so far to the south, the Plague had never reached it. However the orcish attack at the beginning of the third war had thinned its population and afterwards, with the fall of the entire Lordaeron, the remaining inhabitants had fled to escape the advance of the Scourge. Of late, the Syndicate was rumored to have established a base of operations around there, but whether it was true or not, they kept a very low profile.
It was…quiet. Houses with stout wooden shutters stood deserted on both sides of a paved street in surprisingly good condition. Eireannan reined his felsteed at a pace along the King’s road. He could never make this journey through a dead land without remembering the events before the war and a sense of dread – as if was all going to happen once more. Today though, even that bitter remembrance felt better than the sharp pain nestled in his heart. A chilled wind wrapped him tightly, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes. Despite his heavy fur-lined cloak, Eireannan shivered as he started again north.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The party advancing from the southern edge of the village was composed of only ten men – all of them soldiers, except for a captain, a lean fellow with a placid look on his face, as if he had seen all there was about war and nothing else could impress him. A young paladin – easily recognizable by his gilded armor and the stout hammer of war on his back and an equally young woman, with blonde hair and mischievous eyes made an odd group aside.
A strange mix of emotions, the strongest of which seemed to be irritation and relief, flashed over the paladin’s face as he saw the elf.
“Eireannan!”
“My Lord.” He nodded towards him quite unceremoniously. The woman earned a much more respectful salute. “My Lady Jaina.”
“Let me guess”, the sorceress said with a delicious smile. “Arthas sent word to you too, to join our investigation…”
“Not…really”, Eireannan shrugged. “I’ve heard some …things and decided to see for myself…” He gestured ambiguously towards the small group of priests at his back. “It’s not much help due the circumstances, but still…” Jaina Proudmoore gave him a sympathetic smile. She knew Arthas’ temper as well as he did - rumor had it the two were secret lovers and there was some truth in it, Eireannan thought. Not much…not really. A time on, time off relationship, more like it. She was too dedicated to her magical studies to have permanent time for a man in her life, which frustrated Arthas to no end. “
“If you two have finished exchanging pleasantries”, Arthas interrupted, “we have work to do.” His expression was annoyed and the reminder made Jaina’s mirth subside almost immediately.
“Have you found anything of importance so far?” Despite his unruffled appearance, Eireannan felt exhausted. He had made in four days a journey of six – and what they had found in that village was --
The paladin gave him a sour look. “We have marched from Strahnbrad as fast as we could. Uther heard the news that…well…something is wrong.”
“Terribly wrong”, Eireannan added softly.
They had resumed their walk towards the village as they spoke – yet only a couple of yards further Jaina stopped suddenly with a shocked gasp. Corpses littered the ground, some of them hardly looking human anymore. Large chunks of flesh were missing from arms and legs as if a rabid beast had been tearing at them. A stench of rot wafted in the air, strong enough to make everyone’s stomach knot.
Arthas shook his head in dismay as he gazed at the sprawled bodies. “We were told it was a plague. But this…seems beyond imagination…A whole village…What in the name of the Light did this?!”
“Well…the villagers themselves…”, Eireannan said quietly.. “They have been killed by the plague and somehow…raised again...” The man and the woman looked at him as if he were mad. Even the captain’s eyes seemed to bulge in surprise. Eireannan took a deep breath and proceeded to break the bad news he had gathered on his way there.
Strahnbrad had once been a prosperous town. Being so far to the south, the Plague had never reached it. However the orcish attack at the beginning of the third war had thinned its population and afterwards, with the fall of the entire Lordaeron, the remaining inhabitants had fled to escape the advance of the Scourge. Of late, the Syndicate was rumored to have established a base of operations around there, but whether it was true or not, they kept a very low profile.
It was…quiet. Houses with stout wooden shutters stood deserted on both sides of a paved street in surprisingly good condition. Eireannan reined his felsteed at a pace along the King’s road. He could never make this journey through a dead land without remembering the events before the war and a sense of dread – as if was all going to happen once more. Today though, even that bitter remembrance felt better than the sharp pain nestled in his heart. A chilled wind wrapped him tightly, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes. Despite his heavy fur-lined cloak, Eireannan shivered as he started again north.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The party advancing from the southern edge of the village was composed of only ten men – all of them soldiers, except for a captain, a lean fellow with a placid look on his face, as if he had seen all there was about war and nothing else could impress him. A young paladin – easily recognizable by his gilded armor and the stout hammer of war on his back and an equally young woman, with blonde hair and mischievous eyes made an odd group aside.
A strange mix of emotions, the strongest of which seemed to be irritation and relief, flashed over the paladin’s face as he saw the elf.
“Eireannan!”
“My Lord.” He nodded towards him quite unceremoniously. The woman earned a much more respectful salute. “My Lady Jaina.”
“Let me guess”, the sorceress said with a delicious smile. “Arthas sent word to you too, to join our investigation…”
“Not…really”, Eireannan shrugged. “I’ve heard some …things and decided to see for myself…” He gestured ambiguously towards the small group of priests at his back. “It’s not much help due the circumstances, but still…” Jaina Proudmoore gave him a sympathetic smile. She knew Arthas’ temper as well as he did - rumor had it the two were secret lovers and there was some truth in it, Eireannan thought. Not much…not really. A time on, time off relationship, more like it. She was too dedicated to her magical studies to have permanent time for a man in her life, which frustrated Arthas to no end. “
“If you two have finished exchanging pleasantries”, Arthas interrupted, “we have work to do.” His expression was annoyed and the reminder made Jaina’s mirth subside almost immediately.
“Have you found anything of importance so far?” Despite his unruffled appearance, Eireannan felt exhausted. He had made in four days a journey of six – and what they had found in that village was --
The paladin gave him a sour look. “We have marched from Strahnbrad as fast as we could. Uther heard the news that…well…something is wrong.”
“Terribly wrong”, Eireannan added softly.
They had resumed their walk towards the village as they spoke – yet only a couple of yards further Jaina stopped suddenly with a shocked gasp. Corpses littered the ground, some of them hardly looking human anymore. Large chunks of flesh were missing from arms and legs as if a rabid beast had been tearing at them. A stench of rot wafted in the air, strong enough to make everyone’s stomach knot.
Arthas shook his head in dismay as he gazed at the sprawled bodies. “We were told it was a plague. But this…seems beyond imagination…A whole village…What in the name of the Light did this?!”
“Well…the villagers themselves…”, Eireannan said quietly.. “They have been killed by the plague and somehow…raised again...” The man and the woman looked at him as if he were mad. Even the captain’s eyes seemed to bulge in surprise. Eireannan took a deep breath and proceeded to break the bad news he had gathered on his way there.
Chapter 8: ...and the morning
The Darromere River lay in front of her like a glittering snake, worming its way into the green fields of Hillsbrad. The air was cool with the breeze from the snowy mountains but it did not stop Lainne as she undressed furiously, throwing everything she wore into a pile. She plunged into the freezing water, and the sensation nearly knocked the breath out of her. Panting and gasping she scrubbed herself frantically, wishing she could be somehow erase his touch from her skin.
She cursed as she washed, bitter words pouring from her lips. Her skin had nearly turned blue with hypothermia when she finally climbed back on the river’s bank to dry and put on her clothing. Only to discover it still bore some of Eireannan’s scent…Her knees gave up and she had to sit.
He had woken well before sunrise. She was fully awake as well yet pretended to sleep, afraid to look in his eyes…afraid to face the consequences of what she had done.
Moving in silence, he had gathered his belongings then knelt by her side, if only for a moment. His frame blocked the light from the entrance, a long strand of dark hair resting on her face as he bent over and his lips touched briefly her neck, tasting the beats of her heart.
“Damn it!”
Lainné cradled her knees blinking away tears of frustration. She couldn’t figure it out yet what bothered her more: the fact that he was stranger, a warlock - or that she had surrendered so easily.
That thought made her sneer.
It had only been a night. A pleasurable one. That was all. Nothing more about it.
The wind blowing from the north brought a sudden strange smell of rotten and decaying things.
Reminded how close to Tarren Mill she was, Lainne rebounded to her feet and started to stuff soap and towel into her bag. The last thing she needed after the previous night was an encounter with one of the living dead. She would just follow the river down to Southshore, she decided after briefly considering the alternatives. The notes in her pockets had to reach the Archbishop as soon as possible.
Hiking the damn skirts to her knees she started to walk.
She cursed as she washed, bitter words pouring from her lips. Her skin had nearly turned blue with hypothermia when she finally climbed back on the river’s bank to dry and put on her clothing. Only to discover it still bore some of Eireannan’s scent…Her knees gave up and she had to sit.
He had woken well before sunrise. She was fully awake as well yet pretended to sleep, afraid to look in his eyes…afraid to face the consequences of what she had done.
Moving in silence, he had gathered his belongings then knelt by her side, if only for a moment. His frame blocked the light from the entrance, a long strand of dark hair resting on her face as he bent over and his lips touched briefly her neck, tasting the beats of her heart.
“Damn it!”
Lainné cradled her knees blinking away tears of frustration. She couldn’t figure it out yet what bothered her more: the fact that he was stranger, a warlock - or that she had surrendered so easily.
That thought made her sneer.
It had only been a night. A pleasurable one. That was all. Nothing more about it.
The wind blowing from the north brought a sudden strange smell of rotten and decaying things.
Reminded how close to Tarren Mill she was, Lainne rebounded to her feet and started to stuff soap and towel into her bag. The last thing she needed after the previous night was an encounter with one of the living dead. She would just follow the river down to Southshore, she decided after briefly considering the alternatives. The notes in her pockets had to reach the Archbishop as soon as possible.
Hiking the damn skirts to her knees she started to walk.
Chapter 7: Dreamstate
Sighing, Lainné put out the fire and spread the coals, then sat back in the darkness. Eireannan lay quiet on the other side of the cave, still shivering under the blankets yet pretending to be sound asleep. Pretending…
The Light damn the Syndicate, Church and stubborn elf warlocks all together.
She felt angry. He had been willing to trade his life for hers that was why. For long hours she had wondered whether she would have even considered doing the same. She still didn’t know. And it scared her.
Then, while she was tending to his wound she had just…just…She had wanted to touch him, Lainné thought, bitting her lips. An urge so strong it had taken a lot of effort to focus on the bandage. Certainly it had not happened before.
Wows of chastity weren’t obviously a requirement. The Church even frowned upon such things – a priest with a happy family was a much better example that a lonely, embittered person. But she had never – never before – never…
Lainné took a long, calming breath.
She had never felt desire.
A warlock.
He had laid down his life for hers.
She rose again and paced nervously the narrow length of the cave. Moving did not help at all to quell the uneasy sensation in the pit of her belly. Ten minutes later her knees still felt wobbly and weak.
She had never –
Slowly, she lay by Eireannan’s side, worming her way under blanket and cloak. There was enough distance between them so as not to touch, but even so he tensed. She didn’t dare move for a while and he didn’t either. He would pretend to be asleep and not know what she had done unless she would acknowledge it first.
She closed that space between them. Her body curled instinctively against his and to her surprise, Eireannan put an arm around her waist pulling her even closer, until her head came to rest in the hollow of his neck.
Her mind cringed, urging her back. Instead she rose a hand and traced with trembling fingers the lines of his face.
“You’re cold”, was all she managed to say as if that explained it all.
Eireannan exhaled softly. So much time had passed since he last held someone like that. Someone to care whether he was cold or not…whether he died or lived.
“Go away” he whispered in her hair. “I’ll hurt you.”
“No…” Lainné’s breathing came out shallow and ragged, almost painful. “Don’t talk. Just…hold me. It’s a dream… Just…dream…”
Eireannan took hold of her hand and pressed it against his lips. Her fingers grasped his, a silken touch against his scarred skin.
“I’ll hurt you…”, he repeated, as quietly as the first time. “Some people named me the Deathcaller. Aren’t you afraid of what curse I might bring upon you?”
Oooh, she was afraid. Not necessarily of him – her own madness more like it.
“Can you just stop talking for a change?”
Feeling him so close made it hard to hang onto that last scrap of lucidity. Light, what was she –
She gasped in shock when Eireannan’s mouth came down on hers with a roughness she had not foreseen. She clang to him as if he were the last solid thing in a melting world – yet somewhere deep she was still angry... Years of discipline had taught her how to repress pain and weariness but apparently had done nothing for desire. The man had managed to break through all her precious self control in a matter of seconds.
“This is wrong”, he whispered so low she could barely grasp the meaning of words.
“No…” she protested. It was. But somehow it felt right.
His kiss was deeper this time, more fierce if that were possible. She was fighting for breath when he released her. He rolled her over, his weight pressing against her small frame and his lips found a very sensitive spot on her neck. A soft bite had her panting. She arched her back and moaned audibly in complete abandon as he started to undress her.
The bits and pieces she knew about what happened between a man and a woman had not prepared her in anyway for this.
She had never thought the sensations could be so intense. Never expected the gentleness with which he caressed every patch of exposed skin, nor the trail of lingering kisses that made her burn inside. She had even imagined she would be able too keep her head – yet reason was the first to vanish. She ran her hands through Eireannan’s hair, down his back, bathing in his warmth.
Capturing her mouth in another deep kiss, he spread her thighs either side of him exposing her most intimate spot. Lainné’s breath came out in sharp gasps as his fingers explored the damp folds before slowly penetrating her depths. He massaged her inner walls in a rhytmic motion, while his other hand moved to one of her breasts, teasing the aroused nipple. She cried out as the building pleasure exploded in rippling waves. It seemed to last for ever and Eireannan held her tightly, placing soft kisses on her forehead. Through the haze that clouded her mind, Lainné was dimly aware of him moving to enter her. His hardened length had slid only a little inside her before she froze with a whimper.
He stopped abruptly and – despite the darkness – she knew he was watching her intently.
“I didn’t know…I…You should’ve stopped me…”
It was a terse whisper as Eireannan blindly brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Light, he would back down even now, Lainné realized – and suddenly she knew – it had to be –
She thrust her hips upwards biting back an anguished cry and forcing him all the way inside. The fragile control Eireannan had managed to keep over his aching desire shattered in a choked sound of pleasure as her tightness enveloped him.
It didn’t really hurt that much, Lainné thought eerily. With a growled oath in Thalassian, Eireannan smoothed her hair and covered her face in kisses until she relaxed. Slowly she found that wonderful rhythm again and danced it with every breath and every heart beat …and then nothing else was important for a while…
The Light damn the Syndicate, Church and stubborn elf warlocks all together.
She felt angry. He had been willing to trade his life for hers that was why. For long hours she had wondered whether she would have even considered doing the same. She still didn’t know. And it scared her.
Then, while she was tending to his wound she had just…just…She had wanted to touch him, Lainné thought, bitting her lips. An urge so strong it had taken a lot of effort to focus on the bandage. Certainly it had not happened before.
Wows of chastity weren’t obviously a requirement. The Church even frowned upon such things – a priest with a happy family was a much better example that a lonely, embittered person. But she had never – never before – never…
Lainné took a long, calming breath.
She had never felt desire.
A warlock.
He had laid down his life for hers.
She rose again and paced nervously the narrow length of the cave. Moving did not help at all to quell the uneasy sensation in the pit of her belly. Ten minutes later her knees still felt wobbly and weak.
She had never –
Slowly, she lay by Eireannan’s side, worming her way under blanket and cloak. There was enough distance between them so as not to touch, but even so he tensed. She didn’t dare move for a while and he didn’t either. He would pretend to be asleep and not know what she had done unless she would acknowledge it first.
She closed that space between them. Her body curled instinctively against his and to her surprise, Eireannan put an arm around her waist pulling her even closer, until her head came to rest in the hollow of his neck.
Her mind cringed, urging her back. Instead she rose a hand and traced with trembling fingers the lines of his face.
“You’re cold”, was all she managed to say as if that explained it all.
Eireannan exhaled softly. So much time had passed since he last held someone like that. Someone to care whether he was cold or not…whether he died or lived.
“Go away” he whispered in her hair. “I’ll hurt you.”
“No…” Lainné’s breathing came out shallow and ragged, almost painful. “Don’t talk. Just…hold me. It’s a dream… Just…dream…”
Eireannan took hold of her hand and pressed it against his lips. Her fingers grasped his, a silken touch against his scarred skin.
“I’ll hurt you…”, he repeated, as quietly as the first time. “Some people named me the Deathcaller. Aren’t you afraid of what curse I might bring upon you?”
Oooh, she was afraid. Not necessarily of him – her own madness more like it.
“Can you just stop talking for a change?”
Feeling him so close made it hard to hang onto that last scrap of lucidity. Light, what was she –
She gasped in shock when Eireannan’s mouth came down on hers with a roughness she had not foreseen. She clang to him as if he were the last solid thing in a melting world – yet somewhere deep she was still angry... Years of discipline had taught her how to repress pain and weariness but apparently had done nothing for desire. The man had managed to break through all her precious self control in a matter of seconds.
“This is wrong”, he whispered so low she could barely grasp the meaning of words.
“No…” she protested. It was. But somehow it felt right.
His kiss was deeper this time, more fierce if that were possible. She was fighting for breath when he released her. He rolled her over, his weight pressing against her small frame and his lips found a very sensitive spot on her neck. A soft bite had her panting. She arched her back and moaned audibly in complete abandon as he started to undress her.
The bits and pieces she knew about what happened between a man and a woman had not prepared her in anyway for this.
She had never thought the sensations could be so intense. Never expected the gentleness with which he caressed every patch of exposed skin, nor the trail of lingering kisses that made her burn inside. She had even imagined she would be able too keep her head – yet reason was the first to vanish. She ran her hands through Eireannan’s hair, down his back, bathing in his warmth.
Capturing her mouth in another deep kiss, he spread her thighs either side of him exposing her most intimate spot. Lainné’s breath came out in sharp gasps as his fingers explored the damp folds before slowly penetrating her depths. He massaged her inner walls in a rhytmic motion, while his other hand moved to one of her breasts, teasing the aroused nipple. She cried out as the building pleasure exploded in rippling waves. It seemed to last for ever and Eireannan held her tightly, placing soft kisses on her forehead. Through the haze that clouded her mind, Lainné was dimly aware of him moving to enter her. His hardened length had slid only a little inside her before she froze with a whimper.
He stopped abruptly and – despite the darkness – she knew he was watching her intently.
“I didn’t know…I…You should’ve stopped me…”
It was a terse whisper as Eireannan blindly brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Light, he would back down even now, Lainné realized – and suddenly she knew – it had to be –
She thrust her hips upwards biting back an anguished cry and forcing him all the way inside. The fragile control Eireannan had managed to keep over his aching desire shattered in a choked sound of pleasure as her tightness enveloped him.
It didn’t really hurt that much, Lainné thought eerily. With a growled oath in Thalassian, Eireannan smoothed her hair and covered her face in kisses until she relaxed. Slowly she found that wonderful rhythm again and danced it with every breath and every heart beat …and then nothing else was important for a while…
Chapter 6: What the Light cannot heal..
Run run run….
To their right the walls of Stromgarde rose threatening into the night crowned in faint glimmer by the moonlight shining on their tops.
Panting, they scrambled over broken stones and tree roots. Their boots sent a shower of pebbles into the valley below at each movement and Lainné stopped for a second to listen for sounds of pursuit - to catch her breath, really.
Her mind worked frantically beyond that (how lucky they had done some reconnaissance over the previous day, else she would have never been able to find her way in the darkness; the Syndicate had shadow casters and necromancers! among their numbers – Light, was the world going to an end with so many cults springing up like mushrooms after heavy rain – and WHY DID HE HAVE TO DO IT, STUPID STUPID MAN?)
They had managed to sneak into Stromgarde and then up in the keep without being noticed. A wizdard’s robe – the body they have discarded in the city moat – and some phrases muttered with Arathi accent had done the trick. There was no discipline among the Syndicate men – and apparently no one had seen the need for night patrols. Two or three inconvenient guards had swiftly been acquainted to death – she felt oddly grateful that Eireannan had taken the killing upon himself. Oh, she had grown used to the idea – there was no other way – but then she had never taken another human’s life before…
He had done it all swiftly and very efficiently – a few whispered shadow words for one – a dagger slipped into the heart of another. Even like that her hands felt soiled with blood. She wondered whether Eireannan had guessed how loathe she was of killing and didn’t want to risk their carefully crafted plan for a moment of weakness – or he had just decided to spare her the actual murder. Any way the responsibility was still there, just another burden on her shoulders…
A quick glance told Lainné he was falling behind. Damn it!
The bag she carried was filled with weird artifacts and scrolls of parchment – whatever they had managed to snatch from the keep, pressed as they had been. Answers, she thought wryly. Answers to questions, some of them as yet unasked.
The attack had come on the way out. A fireball missing her head by a very narrow margin, then hell unleashed. She didn’t really know whether she had managed to kill anyone this time – she just fought blindly - and like the total whim she was let her back unguarded…
She hadn’t realized it, of course. Not until she was tumbling on the rough stone pavement on knees and elbows. The assassin’s short sword slashed the air exactly where her heart would have been if not for Eireannan throwing himself – himself – in between as shield. The blade sliced through his coat – and not only, he had gasped in pain – before she had the time to whisper the words of protection.
Run, just run, you bloody woman!
He pretended it was nothing – a mere scratch. Didn’t even let her take a look at it. But he staggered more often now as they had started climbing.
The night was dense, with thick clouds covering the waxing moon. Lainné poised her hearing again, listening intently. Nothing, except for her own savagely drumming heart and Eireannan’s ragged breath a couple of steps below.
She heard him curse softly when his boot slipped on the sharp edge of the rocks. He fought for every yard but he wouldn’t admit it – burn him, it was all her fault…her fault! She slid back to him, down the slope, moving carefully – the wind seemed to carry even the smallest sound over vast distances.
“We’re close” she heard him whisper. She circled his waist with her arm and he tried to push it away instinctively. “I’m fine, I’ve told you so.”
“No, you are not.” She nearly stumbled when he suddenly gave up and leaned against her shoulder more heavily than he had obviously intended. He seemed relieved that he did not have to pretend anymore. “That damned cave should be here somewhere…”
“There”…Eireannan pointed over her head to their right. Lainné started towards the spot he had indicated – yes, he was right – and he strained to keep up the pace.
It was an even smaller opening than the one in which they had spent the first night. Lainné fumbled her way into the darkness, scrambling for the lantern and the tinder she had hidden not far from the entrance. Pale, trembling light bathed the humid walls. She set the lantern on a rocky outcrop and turned to face Eireannan.
“Sit.”
He opened his mouth to protest but she shoved him down, and it didn’t take much strength to do so. She peeled off his coat and her fingers dug skilfully into his shirt, pulling the layers of cloth away to inspect the wound in his back. It was ugly: the sword had entered under his right shoulder blade; luckily, Eireannan’s movement had deterred its downwards direction, so instead of touching any vital organ it had just spanned a deep thirty centimeters gash across his ribs. There was enough blood for a slaughtered pig, Lainné thought grimly – her stomach seemed to knot on itself at the sight of physical injuries – and the edges of the wound were swollen with the skin burning angrily around them.
“Poison, of course…” Pressing bloodied fingers to her lips she considered the extent of the inflammation, and then rummaged in the pockets of her cloak for a vial of anti-venom.
“Drink this”, she said, pressing the vial into his hand. Eireannan lifted his head to look at her - Light, he was white as freshly bleached linen - and Lainné snapped. “It won’t do you any worse than the poison. Drink it!”
He grimaced at the taste but she didn’t notice. She just focused on the wound. Contrary to what people usually thought, there was no “recipe” for a healing. All the training and study priests did, could not teach one “how” to use the holy light. It was something you had to discover all alone. The training was merely a way to learn how empty yourself of thoughts and personal desires and serve as a vessel for that power. She could heal him without the anti-venom, of course. But using herbs and potions had long before become a second nature to her, an aid to concentration.
She blanked her mind and the light filled her. It spread under her palms reaching deep into the wound, to clean the poison and knit the flesh.
Eireannan let out a small whimper. Healing was always a slightly uncomfortable experience for the one at the receiving end. And probably a million times worse if the person happened to be a shadow wielder. But she knew no other way to get rid of that poison so he’d better endure it.
As the light faded, Lainné opened the eyes and studied her handiwork. The wound was only a red line now, easy to trace on the skin. Eireannan however was trembling like a leaf. With the tip of her fingers she felt other scars, much poorly healed – and shivered. Too many of them.
“I’ll make tea”, she said quietly, moving aside to unwrap the bundle he had placed in the morning in the back of the cave. Blanket, bags, a kettle. Eireannan nodded – he hadn’t stirred from the place in which she had pushed him down to begin with.
He watched silently as Lainné poured water into the kettle and started a small fire in the middle of their shelter. Immediately after that she started to industriously turn her pockets upside down, extracting three more vials and a roll of bandages.
“Get out of that shirt…” she commanded ever so softly. He had seen many a determined woman not to know it was useless to argue, so he unlaced the shirt and discarded it on the floor. Not without pausing to finger the tear in its back : he had been using up a lot of his luck lately.
Lainné knelt by his side without wasting any more words and set up to work in a very efficient manner.. Her hands were soft indeed, as Eireannan had imagined. She washed away the blood with a damp cloth, then applied some soothing ointment over the scar and bandaged it tightly. He could not see her face, yet something in her breathing told him she was still concerned.
“Thank you”, he said after a while.
“It’s the least I can do…” Lainné’s voice had a pained sound to it. “You took this wound instead of me. Why did you…”
“My life it’s not worth too much”, Eireannan interrupted. A very blunt statement, made in a blank tone. It was the truth. Yet it had been something more than that back there, in Stromgarde…an instinctive urge to protect her at all cost.
“Anyone’s life is…” She paused, realizing she was going to lecture him with some phrases of choice extracted from the Book of Wisdom. Instead of that she spoke one of the questions on her mind.
“I thought all warlocks …consorted with demons.”
“Most do…” Eireannan agreed. “Demonology is seen as a very…useful branch of study…I just don’t…like it.”
Lainné let out a sharp breath – her fingers fumbled with the bandage she was trying to fix in place over his chest.
“Then… there is that”, she added, gesturing towards his blood stained tunic. The glimmering silver pin was barely visible as it lay at Eireannan’s feet. “I also thought the Argent Dawn does not allow warlocks within its ranks.”
She had said “Argent Dawn” in a way that sounded a like “Holy Light”. Eireannan managed to smile.
“You’ve got keen eyes…” He didn’t show that in the open, not even in the Plaguelands, but he hadn’t been able to refrain himself from wearing it on the inside of his collar. It gave some meaning to everyday’s fight. More often than not, the only meaning. He gazed at the stones under his feet, shuffling his feet nervously. “They don’t. But…they don’t deny either a man’s right to do his little in the battle against the Scourge.”
“I’m finished.” Lainné announced silently. She stood eyeing the bandage critically.“You’re still shivering.” With an annoyed expression she felt his forehead with the back of the palm. “I don’t like this”, she muttered, not at all baffled by the glance he shot at her…”yet I’m sure I’ve cleansed all the poison…”
“Quite some skill you have.” His eyes had gone deadly cold again, Lainné thought, yet for a second, when talking of the Argent Dawn, there had been warmth there. Passion. Anger. A lot of emotions she did not understand.
“Sure”, she nodded. “I rolled a ton of bandages and brew buckets of ointments during the war. They didn’t allow me do anything more…no matter how good a healer…just kept me to rot on the border of Tirisfal.”
“Don’t speak of such things!” Eireannan cut her off abruptly. It took her a second to realize it was her unintended pun which had him so on edge. “And then…no wonder they didn’t take you on the battlefield. How old were you? Ten?”
“Seventeen.” Lainné was a picture of unruffled serenity. Most priests were barely in novice training at that age. “I think you should lie down now. Some tea will do you well.”
“Mmmh.” It hurt all over the body, anyway. Healing was not the most pleasant experience for a warlock. What he hadn’t expected though was the sheer amount of worry etched in Lainné’s face. “You’re running a fever”, she said softly.
One could drown in those dark eyes, Eireannan thought. Even a wretch such as himself.
“Why did you have to…?” Lainné started again, then stopped, noticing that the water was already steaming in the kettle over the fire. Tea. Make tea, she remembered. She would heal him good and that was that. His reasons were of no concern to her.
As she stalked away Eireannan’s hearing caught a growled oath – and a very nasty one.
To their right the walls of Stromgarde rose threatening into the night crowned in faint glimmer by the moonlight shining on their tops.
Panting, they scrambled over broken stones and tree roots. Their boots sent a shower of pebbles into the valley below at each movement and Lainné stopped for a second to listen for sounds of pursuit - to catch her breath, really.
Her mind worked frantically beyond that (how lucky they had done some reconnaissance over the previous day, else she would have never been able to find her way in the darkness; the Syndicate had shadow casters and necromancers! among their numbers – Light, was the world going to an end with so many cults springing up like mushrooms after heavy rain – and WHY DID HE HAVE TO DO IT, STUPID STUPID MAN?)
They had managed to sneak into Stromgarde and then up in the keep without being noticed. A wizdard’s robe – the body they have discarded in the city moat – and some phrases muttered with Arathi accent had done the trick. There was no discipline among the Syndicate men – and apparently no one had seen the need for night patrols. Two or three inconvenient guards had swiftly been acquainted to death – she felt oddly grateful that Eireannan had taken the killing upon himself. Oh, she had grown used to the idea – there was no other way – but then she had never taken another human’s life before…
He had done it all swiftly and very efficiently – a few whispered shadow words for one – a dagger slipped into the heart of another. Even like that her hands felt soiled with blood. She wondered whether Eireannan had guessed how loathe she was of killing and didn’t want to risk their carefully crafted plan for a moment of weakness – or he had just decided to spare her the actual murder. Any way the responsibility was still there, just another burden on her shoulders…
A quick glance told Lainné he was falling behind. Damn it!
The bag she carried was filled with weird artifacts and scrolls of parchment – whatever they had managed to snatch from the keep, pressed as they had been. Answers, she thought wryly. Answers to questions, some of them as yet unasked.
The attack had come on the way out. A fireball missing her head by a very narrow margin, then hell unleashed. She didn’t really know whether she had managed to kill anyone this time – she just fought blindly - and like the total whim she was let her back unguarded…
She hadn’t realized it, of course. Not until she was tumbling on the rough stone pavement on knees and elbows. The assassin’s short sword slashed the air exactly where her heart would have been if not for Eireannan throwing himself – himself – in between as shield. The blade sliced through his coat – and not only, he had gasped in pain – before she had the time to whisper the words of protection.
Run, just run, you bloody woman!
He pretended it was nothing – a mere scratch. Didn’t even let her take a look at it. But he staggered more often now as they had started climbing.
The night was dense, with thick clouds covering the waxing moon. Lainné poised her hearing again, listening intently. Nothing, except for her own savagely drumming heart and Eireannan’s ragged breath a couple of steps below.
She heard him curse softly when his boot slipped on the sharp edge of the rocks. He fought for every yard but he wouldn’t admit it – burn him, it was all her fault…her fault! She slid back to him, down the slope, moving carefully – the wind seemed to carry even the smallest sound over vast distances.
“We’re close” she heard him whisper. She circled his waist with her arm and he tried to push it away instinctively. “I’m fine, I’ve told you so.”
“No, you are not.” She nearly stumbled when he suddenly gave up and leaned against her shoulder more heavily than he had obviously intended. He seemed relieved that he did not have to pretend anymore. “That damned cave should be here somewhere…”
“There”…Eireannan pointed over her head to their right. Lainné started towards the spot he had indicated – yes, he was right – and he strained to keep up the pace.
It was an even smaller opening than the one in which they had spent the first night. Lainné fumbled her way into the darkness, scrambling for the lantern and the tinder she had hidden not far from the entrance. Pale, trembling light bathed the humid walls. She set the lantern on a rocky outcrop and turned to face Eireannan.
“Sit.”
He opened his mouth to protest but she shoved him down, and it didn’t take much strength to do so. She peeled off his coat and her fingers dug skilfully into his shirt, pulling the layers of cloth away to inspect the wound in his back. It was ugly: the sword had entered under his right shoulder blade; luckily, Eireannan’s movement had deterred its downwards direction, so instead of touching any vital organ it had just spanned a deep thirty centimeters gash across his ribs. There was enough blood for a slaughtered pig, Lainné thought grimly – her stomach seemed to knot on itself at the sight of physical injuries – and the edges of the wound were swollen with the skin burning angrily around them.
“Poison, of course…” Pressing bloodied fingers to her lips she considered the extent of the inflammation, and then rummaged in the pockets of her cloak for a vial of anti-venom.
“Drink this”, she said, pressing the vial into his hand. Eireannan lifted his head to look at her - Light, he was white as freshly bleached linen - and Lainné snapped. “It won’t do you any worse than the poison. Drink it!”
He grimaced at the taste but she didn’t notice. She just focused on the wound. Contrary to what people usually thought, there was no “recipe” for a healing. All the training and study priests did, could not teach one “how” to use the holy light. It was something you had to discover all alone. The training was merely a way to learn how empty yourself of thoughts and personal desires and serve as a vessel for that power. She could heal him without the anti-venom, of course. But using herbs and potions had long before become a second nature to her, an aid to concentration.
She blanked her mind and the light filled her. It spread under her palms reaching deep into the wound, to clean the poison and knit the flesh.
Eireannan let out a small whimper. Healing was always a slightly uncomfortable experience for the one at the receiving end. And probably a million times worse if the person happened to be a shadow wielder. But she knew no other way to get rid of that poison so he’d better endure it.
As the light faded, Lainné opened the eyes and studied her handiwork. The wound was only a red line now, easy to trace on the skin. Eireannan however was trembling like a leaf. With the tip of her fingers she felt other scars, much poorly healed – and shivered. Too many of them.
“I’ll make tea”, she said quietly, moving aside to unwrap the bundle he had placed in the morning in the back of the cave. Blanket, bags, a kettle. Eireannan nodded – he hadn’t stirred from the place in which she had pushed him down to begin with.
He watched silently as Lainné poured water into the kettle and started a small fire in the middle of their shelter. Immediately after that she started to industriously turn her pockets upside down, extracting three more vials and a roll of bandages.
“Get out of that shirt…” she commanded ever so softly. He had seen many a determined woman not to know it was useless to argue, so he unlaced the shirt and discarded it on the floor. Not without pausing to finger the tear in its back : he had been using up a lot of his luck lately.
Lainné knelt by his side without wasting any more words and set up to work in a very efficient manner.. Her hands were soft indeed, as Eireannan had imagined. She washed away the blood with a damp cloth, then applied some soothing ointment over the scar and bandaged it tightly. He could not see her face, yet something in her breathing told him she was still concerned.
“Thank you”, he said after a while.
“It’s the least I can do…” Lainné’s voice had a pained sound to it. “You took this wound instead of me. Why did you…”
“My life it’s not worth too much”, Eireannan interrupted. A very blunt statement, made in a blank tone. It was the truth. Yet it had been something more than that back there, in Stromgarde…an instinctive urge to protect her at all cost.
“Anyone’s life is…” She paused, realizing she was going to lecture him with some phrases of choice extracted from the Book of Wisdom. Instead of that she spoke one of the questions on her mind.
“I thought all warlocks …consorted with demons.”
“Most do…” Eireannan agreed. “Demonology is seen as a very…useful branch of study…I just don’t…like it.”
Lainné let out a sharp breath – her fingers fumbled with the bandage she was trying to fix in place over his chest.
“Then… there is that”, she added, gesturing towards his blood stained tunic. The glimmering silver pin was barely visible as it lay at Eireannan’s feet. “I also thought the Argent Dawn does not allow warlocks within its ranks.”
She had said “Argent Dawn” in a way that sounded a like “Holy Light”. Eireannan managed to smile.
“You’ve got keen eyes…” He didn’t show that in the open, not even in the Plaguelands, but he hadn’t been able to refrain himself from wearing it on the inside of his collar. It gave some meaning to everyday’s fight. More often than not, the only meaning. He gazed at the stones under his feet, shuffling his feet nervously. “They don’t. But…they don’t deny either a man’s right to do his little in the battle against the Scourge.”
“I’m finished.” Lainné announced silently. She stood eyeing the bandage critically.“You’re still shivering.” With an annoyed expression she felt his forehead with the back of the palm. “I don’t like this”, she muttered, not at all baffled by the glance he shot at her…”yet I’m sure I’ve cleansed all the poison…”
“Quite some skill you have.” His eyes had gone deadly cold again, Lainné thought, yet for a second, when talking of the Argent Dawn, there had been warmth there. Passion. Anger. A lot of emotions she did not understand.
“Sure”, she nodded. “I rolled a ton of bandages and brew buckets of ointments during the war. They didn’t allow me do anything more…no matter how good a healer…just kept me to rot on the border of Tirisfal.”
“Don’t speak of such things!” Eireannan cut her off abruptly. It took her a second to realize it was her unintended pun which had him so on edge. “And then…no wonder they didn’t take you on the battlefield. How old were you? Ten?”
“Seventeen.” Lainné was a picture of unruffled serenity. Most priests were barely in novice training at that age. “I think you should lie down now. Some tea will do you well.”
“Mmmh.” It hurt all over the body, anyway. Healing was not the most pleasant experience for a warlock. What he hadn’t expected though was the sheer amount of worry etched in Lainné’s face. “You’re running a fever”, she said softly.
One could drown in those dark eyes, Eireannan thought. Even a wretch such as himself.
“Why did you have to…?” Lainné started again, then stopped, noticing that the water was already steaming in the kettle over the fire. Tea. Make tea, she remembered. She would heal him good and that was that. His reasons were of no concern to her.
As she stalked away Eireannan’s hearing caught a growled oath – and a very nasty one.
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