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…