The paving stones crunched under the weight of plated boots – closer.
Instinctively, Lainné’s eyes ran to the body sprawled on the floor. He lay face down in a puddle of his own blood, a crimson trickle still dripping from the corner of his mouth.
The men, shuffling through armfuls of ledgers and scrolls of parchment seemed oblivious to the corpse – or the mind-grating steps of the patrol that completed their round at the end of the corridor.
There were only five, her included. Tjolme and Garon, both in their forties and tried in combat judging by Eligor Dawnbringer’s praise – and Haldan, younger than all, herself included, but able to open any imaginable lock.
Her thoughts shifted faster than she could acknowledge them. The archives had been crammed into a large room, shelves and tables holding loads of paperwork. Trying to find something meaningful in there was like digging for a needle in the haystack. Lainne put aside a pile of reports – mostly rubbish and new recruit files - and took another.
The sound of steps drilled into her brain. If one of those guards cared to open the door…
She side glanced at Eireannan. His lips were moving soundlessly, as he leafed through the scrolls.
A dark whirlwind of images clawed at the edges of her mind – glimpses of deserted streets in which broken windows seemed to peer like empty eye sockets…A purple flecked luminosity enshrouded the ruins, revealing heaps of bones and charred remnants of clothing spread everywhere…the form of a child, curled into a protective ball …the dress of a woman…
She had heard about the “culling of Stratholme”…The city had been purged through sword and fire by prince Arthas at the beginning of the Scourge war, in a desperate attempt to stop the undead infestation. The horrible news had travelled south, to where she had been at the time, on the border of Tirisfal. Somehow she had never been able to picture the extent of the massacre.
Until now.
The sound of steps ceased, abruptly. Lainné’s head whipped towards the door. A second – long enough for a hundred years, and the guards resumed their steady walk, heading in the opposite direction. She inhaled deeply and realized she hadn’t been the only one holding her breath.
They worked in silence, in the flickering light given by a single candle each one held close. Tjolme and Garon each had bags already stacked with scrolls and ledgers. Eireannan piled his aside with an expression that spoke of disgust. He kept whispering something, but she could not make out words. She would have paid to know what he was saying.
Her stomach started to churn even worse as she started to investigate a new stack of hand written papers. Minutes of interrogations, dotted with plastic descriptions of the torture methods applied. She struggled to read – to see whether there was something useful at all in those blood soaked confessions.
The tiny flame of the candle flickered and trembled, painting shadows over the walls and the men’s faces. She looked again at the corpse on the floor, like a broken puppet. These people thought they did the will of the Light, yet they were horribly wrong.
She peered uneasily at Eireannan, wishing he could hold her, if only for a minute. She felt uneasy, the pressure of danger almost material…and the feeling reminded her of a weird dream, not too long before. She had to ask him about that…she…
Suddenly Lainné realized what was wrong. Outside the pacing had stopped.
“Galford, what in the name of…”
The door creaked ominously, to allow in a tall, blonde haired man, wearing the red-and-white scarlet flame tabard over his armor. Lainné barely swallowed a cry – it turned into a squeak as she struggled to breathe steadily. Tjolme and Garon had their swords in hand in the blink of an eye, while Haldan looked ready to faint. Eireannan’s face was unreadable, except for the tight line of his lips.
“So we have guests…” The man advanced slowly inside, peering over the tables to where the corpse of the archivist lay, barely visible from his angle. “Curious guests…” He kept talking as he moved, and to Lainné it seemed as if he were looking to all of them at the same time – a gaze that paralyzed. “Very good. I’ll get to hear what you have to say in the hands of my inquisitors…”
“Grand Crusader Dathrohan…” Haldan whispered. He swayed, growing paler by the second. The other two men seemed ready to charge, shifting their weight from one leg on the other, swords at the ready. Despite his apparent carelessness, the Grand Crusader watched those two closely as he advanced.
“Guards!”
Shouts broke in the corridor, together with the sounds of running. The Grand Crusader smiled, a smile of utter satisfaction, never taking his eyes from his prey. Lainné held her breath. Light help them, if they were to endure what these people could do….
Suddenly she knew what Eireannan had been whispering under his breath all the time.
She knew as he dashed forward from where he stood, slamming the heavy door shut. The transversal bars of iron fell into place with a loud clatter. Angry cries answered from the other side, as fists and boots battered uselessly into the wood. It was a solid door though, metal and oak, made to last.
The Grand Crusader spun round – vivid shock painting his face for a second, only to be replaced by a cruel smile, while he slowly unsheathed his own sword.
“You are no match for me…You have no idea what you are confronting…”
“Oh…I do…” Eireannan’s features betrayed nothing of those emotions succeeding so fast on the faces of the other men. Frustration, expectation, fear, determination… He just looked blankly at the Grand Crusader as the shouting and battering continued in the corridor.
The door trembled under each blow – yet held.
“Do you?” Saidan Dathrothan asked lightly. A wicked grin contorted his features. He weighted them, Lainné saw. And he did not doubt their end.
But Eireannan nodded. His face might have been a funeral mask for all the expression he displayed, yet to Lainné he felt like a coiled spring as he bared his blade. He looked strong enough to weather the end of the world without merely flinching.
“Oh, believe me…” he said bitterly. His voice had the sound of a grinding stone. “I know who you are…”
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Monday, 16 February 2009
Interlude - What must be done
“This is madness! You will damn your souls forever!”
Anguish contorted the otherwise noble face of Lord Uther the Lightbringer. He seemed stunned, as if unable to believe what Arthas – his favorite pupil…his son, really – had just done: relieve him of this command in front of everyone. From the knights of the Silver Hand to the last footman, all shared the shock.
“Tell him…Sometimes he listens to you. Make him change his mind. He cannot just slaughter everyone in Stratholme! Innocent people! He cannot –“
The grip on his arm was almost strong enough to cause pain, yet he doubted the elder man was aware of it. His eyes shone with hope - and that hurt much more.
“We must stop him!” Jaina Proudmoore added urgently from behind Lord Uther’s back. The young sorceress’ face was haggard and worried. “We must!”
“And what would you have us do instead? Sit and wait that the entire city becomes full of undead? People are infected. Most of them are. The entire Stratholme is down with a mysterious sickness… You heard the reports! If they are turned, we will be swarmed as we stand. Us and the rest of Lordaeron. There’s no telling ho many other dead will be in that case…”
They looked at him as if the meaning of the words eluded them. Only then did he realize he had been shouting and made an effort to take control of his temper. He could have been whispering the entire time though and they would have reacted the same. He would have too, days before…hours maybe.
“They’re women and children…You cannot…you cannot…” The man’s shoulders slumped…he looked as if he had received a blown in the head. His eyes were full of anger, Eireannan realized. And sadness. A sadness that could drown a soul completely only by watching it. He felt his own resolution slip, if only for a second. It was gruesome and horrible yet there was no other way.
“The Light have mercy on your souls…” Lord Uther whispered. Somehow he managed to make it sound like a judgment. Jaina only let out a sharp gasp, lips trembling and clear blue eyes filled with stupor.
Behind them Arthas had started to organize his man with sharp commands, to move into the City. Angry voices and shouts rose as some of them stepped aside, refusing to follow; other lined themselves to march with a grim expression on their faces.
Eireannan drew in a shuddering breath.
“I doubt the Light will ever find us again worthy of its mercy”, he said softly. “But it has to be done…”
None of them made any move to stop him as he went away.
Chapter 21: Decisions
“They are closing on us”, Eireannan said quietly.
The wind stirred and swept under the purple tinged clouds, rustling dead leaves. An almost unnatural silence clung in the air – unnatural even here, in the middle of a dead land. Reports had shown Light’s Hope Chapel was loosely surrounded by Scourge forces three or four times stronger than usual. An attempt to scout the area had led to the ambush at Corrin’s Crossing. Only four out of ten men had survived – one only to die back at the infirmary - and a very narrow escape at that…
Lainné gave only a small grunt. She sat with the head on her knees, a bundle of frustrated misery, angry at her failure at saving that man’s life.
Eireannan cringed. Not her failure. It had been a death knight leading the ambush. And anyone touched by runed steel was beyond healing, even if it would be no more than a scratch. Darkness seemed to seep from the wound, slowly yet surely extinguishing life. It was usually a matter of hours – sometimes days, but the end was never different.
Light, was there a way, any way to make her abandon this fight and go somewhere safe?
“Soon there will be no path out…”
He started at the sound of his voice, realizing he had been speaking loud. Lainné did not even move. The wind picked up again, flapping the Argent banners against their wooden poles.
He put an arm around her shoulders, drew her closer and she leaned into the embrace, until her breath came out softly against his neck. “Stop blaming yourself.” he whispered. She tensed, yet said nothing. “You did your best – and you know it. What’s done is done and no amount of self flagellation can change that.”
Such a fine hypocrite he was. He had never managed to forgive his own failures. Luckily, Lainné didn’t know that. A lot many things she did not and the thought of coming clean with everything made Eireannan sicken up. It had to be done though. Just…not yet.
“It all seems so…hopeless…”
Lainné’s words seemed to echo his mind. The Argent leaders had been discussing for hours a possible response to the Scourge threat. He feared the resolution they might reach eventually, as much as he feared that they would be soon overcome, lest they acted somehow.
“It is not hopeless. Not until we have decided to give up.”
A quick glance over his shoulder revealed an approaching party, Lord Maxwell Tyrosius and Eligor Dawnbringer, both with concerned frowns and striding as if they were planning to walk through a wall. Releasing Lainné, Eireannan stood and after a second she followed, the very expression of cool serenity, save for the tightness around her eyes and mouth. The two men, on the other side, looked plainly uneasy.
“The threat is imminent”, Lord Tyrosius said in a sour tone. Eireannan cast a very significant look at his own half torn coat. He could have told them that much without having to discuss for two hours before.
“We obviously need more intelligence”, Eligor Dawnbringer echoed. “The Scarlets have a foothold in enemy territory, but they would not tell us anything of what they know. If only we were able to cast a look into their archives…”
Eireannan thought he could feel the blood draining from his face, as his stomach tried to twist on itself. Despite their grim set expressions, the leaders of the Dawn were not really going to walk through a wall. He was.
“You’re the only one that knows Stratholme well enough to attempt such a mission…” Lord Tyrosius broke in.
“I have already issued a call for volunteers”, Dawnbringer added. The two men exchanged meaningful glances. “You will lead them, of course…”
“Do you think that’s what matters? Who gets to lead?” Eireannan took a deep breath, gripping the sword hilt with fingers that – Lainné thought – would have rather wrapped themselves around the throat of the Argent commander.
“You are to go in, capture what documents you can and leave immediately. No need for useless heroism.”
Eireannan’s head whipped towards Lord Maxwell and gave him such a stare that the other man looked away.
“Then have the volunteers ready”, he said briskly after an odd moment of silence. Lainné’s eyes followed warily his every move. “Five or six people would do, if we want to draw as little attention as possible. And make sure they understand what they’re going against…and that some –or all – of us might no return.”
“Count me among those volunteers, commander Dawnbringer”, Lainné said suddenly.
Straightening her back she met Eireannan’s shocked expression with disarming calmness. Light, she had been tearing her hair out over that man’s death only minutes before and now she volunteered for a sortie in Stratholme?
He looked at Dawnbringer and lord Tyrosius, almost begging them to say something, but they both shrugged uncomfortably. Bad enough they had to send people on nearly suicidal missions – they would not turn down anyone who offered to participate.
“I will, sister Mayhrin”, commander Dawnbringer put in after a long moment of silence. Eireannan struggled to repress a shudder – and the overwhelming urge to just break the other man’s neck.
Oh, he had always been the one to volunteer for such risky endeavors, unconsciously hoping one would mean the end. Maybe, somehow, for all the things he had kept from her, Lainné knew and she was forcing his hand. He had to come alive out of Stratholme, because he needed to make sure she did too.
Was he really that transparent? Lainné’s eyes gave nothing away – only a level look that could have meant anything.
“Fine”, he grumbled, finally releasing the breath he did not realize he had been holding. “Have it your way.”
She nodded and smiled. Eireannan wondered why.
The wind stirred and swept under the purple tinged clouds, rustling dead leaves. An almost unnatural silence clung in the air – unnatural even here, in the middle of a dead land. Reports had shown Light’s Hope Chapel was loosely surrounded by Scourge forces three or four times stronger than usual. An attempt to scout the area had led to the ambush at Corrin’s Crossing. Only four out of ten men had survived – one only to die back at the infirmary - and a very narrow escape at that…
Lainné gave only a small grunt. She sat with the head on her knees, a bundle of frustrated misery, angry at her failure at saving that man’s life.
Eireannan cringed. Not her failure. It had been a death knight leading the ambush. And anyone touched by runed steel was beyond healing, even if it would be no more than a scratch. Darkness seemed to seep from the wound, slowly yet surely extinguishing life. It was usually a matter of hours – sometimes days, but the end was never different.
Light, was there a way, any way to make her abandon this fight and go somewhere safe?
“Soon there will be no path out…”
He started at the sound of his voice, realizing he had been speaking loud. Lainné did not even move. The wind picked up again, flapping the Argent banners against their wooden poles.
He put an arm around her shoulders, drew her closer and she leaned into the embrace, until her breath came out softly against his neck. “Stop blaming yourself.” he whispered. She tensed, yet said nothing. “You did your best – and you know it. What’s done is done and no amount of self flagellation can change that.”
Such a fine hypocrite he was. He had never managed to forgive his own failures. Luckily, Lainné didn’t know that. A lot many things she did not and the thought of coming clean with everything made Eireannan sicken up. It had to be done though. Just…not yet.
“It all seems so…hopeless…”
Lainné’s words seemed to echo his mind. The Argent leaders had been discussing for hours a possible response to the Scourge threat. He feared the resolution they might reach eventually, as much as he feared that they would be soon overcome, lest they acted somehow.
“It is not hopeless. Not until we have decided to give up.”
A quick glance over his shoulder revealed an approaching party, Lord Maxwell Tyrosius and Eligor Dawnbringer, both with concerned frowns and striding as if they were planning to walk through a wall. Releasing Lainné, Eireannan stood and after a second she followed, the very expression of cool serenity, save for the tightness around her eyes and mouth. The two men, on the other side, looked plainly uneasy.
“The threat is imminent”, Lord Tyrosius said in a sour tone. Eireannan cast a very significant look at his own half torn coat. He could have told them that much without having to discuss for two hours before.
“We obviously need more intelligence”, Eligor Dawnbringer echoed. “The Scarlets have a foothold in enemy territory, but they would not tell us anything of what they know. If only we were able to cast a look into their archives…”
Eireannan thought he could feel the blood draining from his face, as his stomach tried to twist on itself. Despite their grim set expressions, the leaders of the Dawn were not really going to walk through a wall. He was.
“You’re the only one that knows Stratholme well enough to attempt such a mission…” Lord Tyrosius broke in.
“I have already issued a call for volunteers”, Dawnbringer added. The two men exchanged meaningful glances. “You will lead them, of course…”
“Do you think that’s what matters? Who gets to lead?” Eireannan took a deep breath, gripping the sword hilt with fingers that – Lainné thought – would have rather wrapped themselves around the throat of the Argent commander.
“You are to go in, capture what documents you can and leave immediately. No need for useless heroism.”
Eireannan’s head whipped towards Lord Maxwell and gave him such a stare that the other man looked away.
“Then have the volunteers ready”, he said briskly after an odd moment of silence. Lainné’s eyes followed warily his every move. “Five or six people would do, if we want to draw as little attention as possible. And make sure they understand what they’re going against…and that some –or all – of us might no return.”
“Count me among those volunteers, commander Dawnbringer”, Lainné said suddenly.
Straightening her back she met Eireannan’s shocked expression with disarming calmness. Light, she had been tearing her hair out over that man’s death only minutes before and now she volunteered for a sortie in Stratholme?
He looked at Dawnbringer and lord Tyrosius, almost begging them to say something, but they both shrugged uncomfortably. Bad enough they had to send people on nearly suicidal missions – they would not turn down anyone who offered to participate.
“I will, sister Mayhrin”, commander Dawnbringer put in after a long moment of silence. Eireannan struggled to repress a shudder – and the overwhelming urge to just break the other man’s neck.
Oh, he had always been the one to volunteer for such risky endeavors, unconsciously hoping one would mean the end. Maybe, somehow, for all the things he had kept from her, Lainné knew and she was forcing his hand. He had to come alive out of Stratholme, because he needed to make sure she did too.
Was he really that transparent? Lainné’s eyes gave nothing away – only a level look that could have meant anything.
“Fine”, he grumbled, finally releasing the breath he did not realize he had been holding. “Have it your way.”
She nodded and smiled. Eireannan wondered why.
Sunday, 15 February 2009
Chapter 1: Valgarde (1)
The wind howled furiously, racing against the jagged stone walls that closed on the ship from two sides. A small craft, it lurched heavily as it rode the waves to make its way into
Sev stood in the stern, holding onto the railing with a white-knuckled grip. Her stomach tried to turn on itself each time the ship swung, hurled up and down like weightless flotsam. After five weeks and two days spent on water - a nutshell at the mercy of the endless expanse of the ocean, the sight of solid ground was welcome.
Above their heads, large wooden buildings hang on top of the cliffs at almost impossible angles. Looking made Sev even queasier, but she kept staring up. It was better than seeing the jagged corners of stone jutting out of the water here and there in the narrow fijord, sometimes so close collision seemed inevitable. The bay widened abruptly into a rounded gulf and the ship took a sharp turn left, balancing precariously under the wind.
The sudden movement threw Sev forward, her ribs cracking painfully as they made contact with the stout wooden rail. She stepped back grunting, only to be jerked the other way when the boat redressed – crawling incredibly slow along the shore.
Men jumped overboard in chest-high water in a blink of the eye, starting to tie ropes to stout poles with practiced efficiency. The ship lurched and trembled, then quietly settled against the dock, gently swaying with the rolling waves.
During the first moments after landing it was impossible to make anything out in the general yammering. People shouted and crammed towards the dock in a dense stream, each and everyone carrying weapons and bundles and elbowing their way past the others. Sev held back at first, unwilling to mix into that crowd, yet eventually she was pushed towards it by other people making their way onto the deck.
“Move on, move one, don’t stand in the way! There’s room fo’ everybody, just keep goin’!”
A grizzled soldier standing on the dock seemed to be somehow directing the flow of passengers, his voice raising over the rumor. Sev found herself crossing the dock onto a large expanse of trampled grass that seemed to be the bottom of a bowl. She looked around, curiously. Valgarde was not a port, not even a city proper. A wall rounded on three sides, clinging to stony slope, defense towers topping it here and there. Houses and towers had an oddly familiar look to Sev’s eyes, and all formed a loose formation that encircled a massive squared hall.
A bell tolled – a high pitched sound that filled the air, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Shouting ensued as large winged forms darkened the sky and a shower of arrows and flame came down on their heads. For a second Sev gaped in astonishment. Then instincts kicked in and she plunged to take cover, landing on ther belly near a pile of crates.
She rolled on her back immediately, just in time to see massive shapes breaking into the fortress’ enclosure from the north. Guttural battle cries rose and were met with cries of “For Lordaeron! For the
She did not understand what was going on – but she was a soldier too and she had fought many times before on orders she did not understand. Drawing her own sword, she ran towards the breech in the wall - and almost bumped into one of the attackers. He stood more than twice her height, with muscles as thick as tree roots, swinging a bloodied axe in one hand. Sev met the blow, but the force of it threw her down like a rag doll. Ribs already bruised from the ship’s rail protested when she tried to get up. All she could do was roll sideways to avoid another mighty swing of the axe.
“Light, give me strength”, she whispered. It was a simple matter of focus and the warmth filled her, spread inside like a growing fire. The pain in her chest felt dim, at the edges of her awareness as she rose to her feet and she called out loud for the Light’s blessing, her blade whirling in a sparkling circle… engage, parry, side blow, parry…
Her attacker fell, hot blood spraying out of gaping wound in his middle, to land on her hands, on her face, in her hair. A part of Sev’s mind cringed.Never before had she fought something…alive. Except for that one time when…She couldn’t make herself remember and there was no point in it either. She let thoughts drain away in the rapture of Light that suffused her as she moved to the next invader, the sword in her hands a being of its own, twisting and glimmering faintly. Another one. And another.
Suddenly she became aware of the silence.
Corpses dotted the grass all around, most of them belonging to the attacking giants, some to Valgarde defenders. The hand Sev rose to mop the sweat from her brow came back red, despite the fact she did not have any wounds – or at least none she could feel right then. Slowly, reluctantly, she let go of the Light and looked around for something to wipe her blade on, before re-sheathing it.
“Good job the’e”, a rugged voice said behind and she turned startled to see a bearded dwarf, wearing the insignia of an
“N- no”, Sev stammered. She flushed, still looking around in awe. A hard land and hard people these, stranded for years on the very edges of the known world. Everyone seemed to be returning to their normal business, as if the attack had only been a minor annoyance.
Most of the recruits stood on the dock, huddled together, watching the surroundings with wary eyes, except for one or two who, like herself, had dashed to take part in the fight. A grizzled man, with dark eyes and a long scar across his left cheek flashed her a grin and winked as he sheathed a pair of twin ornate daggers. Sev dropped her gaze to the ground and scrubbed some more blood off her forehead.
“Come on, lass… I don’t have all day to lose!”, the dwarf prodded her. “’tis way”.
“Yes sir!” A meek smile touched Severinna’s lips. The dwarf rose a questioning eyebrow at her, but she only nodded and hurried to follow. Let him believe what he would, the young woman thought.
Monday, 9 February 2009
Chapter 20: Light's Hope
The man on the makeshift infirmary bed – just blankets laid on top of each other under an open sided tent, really – lay unmoving. Lainné closed her eyes, crushing a tear, the beginning of one.
As a healer you must learn to lose.
She gazed down at the lifeless body, chest wrapped in blood soaked bandages. Moving mechanically, she straightened his hair and his hands before pulling the white linen sheet to cover the dead man completely.
Sometimes you will not be fast or skilled enough…
To her right, a healer of the Dawn, with a face drawn and tight with exhaustion worked on another man – caked blood and dirt made it almost impossible to discern the seriousness of his wounds.
Sometimes you will simply fail.
She turned her head slightly to see a woman approaching, staggering awkwardly. She wore the colors of the Dawn as well, the silver rising sun over a dented breastplate. Leaning against one of the tent pillars she stared at the immobile form covered in white.
“He’s dead…” Sobs shook her shoulders convulsively, yet the woman’s eyes remained dried. “He’s dead”, she whispered again. “Told you not to go…not today…told you…Light, I’ve told you…”
Sometimes no one will answer to your prayers. You will ask for the mercy of Light and you will find none.
Lainné’s head turned ever so slowly towards the other side, taking in Eireannan’s tall silhouette, as he stood looking at her. Here was a certain fixity to his glare, yet his eyes were not cold. Not in their usual way, at least. His coat hang unbottonned, one sleeve in tatters and a long trace of char on the other. A shallow cut, a finger’s length, spanned his left cheek.
And other times, no matter how much you love someone, you will not be able to save them…
She walked to him. Her fingers felt frozen as she adjusted a rebel strand of hair and she almost stumbled twice. Her eyes were locked on his face and so she didn’t see exactly where she placed her feet.
Behind her the woman suddenly broke into tears, folding herself by the dead man’s side, forehead pressed against his chest. It was a pained sound, punctuated by sobs that made her entire frame heave.
“It could have been me”, Lainné said softly. Eireannan’s mouth tightened for a second, but then he nodded. She hadn’t said “it could have been you dead” – only that she could have been mourning…
There are trials awaiting to shatter your faith in the Light and make it crumble, for sometimes you will know pain and sorrow and evil – and be able to do nothing about it.
Heavily, she strode back to the wailing woman and placed a hand on her shoulder. Eireannan could not hear what she was whispering, only see the woman’s face lighten somehow.
He sighed. There had been tears in Lainné’s eyes when she came to him. Un-shed, like a wet mist yet nonetheless real. Seeing people die could – still - hurt her so easily.
He used to hope for the stillness of death. He doubted the Light kept in store any peace for him – yet maybe there would be quietness at last. He used to hope for it, and somehow dragging himself out of his bed for one more fight against the Scourge always seemed better than the hundred other opportunities to end his life available. It would not make his sin less..yet maybe the evil plaguing the world would be smaller.
He used to -…yet not anymore.
The thought was unsettling, as if he had discovered on the bottom of his pocket some old family heirloom he didn’t know he still possessed.
He could not make her cry.
But even when you feel lost, in the darkest of times, you must give hope.
Saturday, 7 February 2009
Chapter 19 - What we dream of ...(2)
The first light of morning was cast timidly through the half open flap of his tent when Merran Bladeweaver awoke. For a moment he couldn’t tell why, then suddenly he became aware of the small, pitiful sobs drifting from the other side of the tent. There was not a great deal of space inside, only enough that two people could sleep comfortably – yet he had trouble in the beginning identifying the source of those whimpers.
The woman stood on the ground, knees pressed against her chest and face pressed against her knees. She wore only a shirt and leather trousers – but his eyes could discern bits and pieces of amour discarded at the entrance of the tent, probably because she couldn’t curl up like that in plate.
Pulling himself and his blanket up with a groan - he didn’t have much underneath – he reached for her, worry overcoming the irritation at being waken up like that.
“Dar? What the hell happened?”
“No..n…nothing..”
She lifted her head for a brief moment, giving him a red-rimmed eye stare, then slumped back. Her blond hair hang sodden around her shoulders and she shivered. It must have rained during the night, Merran thought.
“What happened, girl?” Forgetting to think whether he was properly dressed or not after all, he crawled toward the tent entrance and put a protective arm around her. And the blanket. The girl was truly silly if she thought a man could remain indifferent to her. She had just picked the wrong one to fall for, that was all. Eireannan Sarälondé would never view her as anything else than his sister…Merran was one of the very few to know he had had a sister, dead in the siege of Dalaran. They had talked about it one day…and many other things, Daria included, though she would have been appalled to know what had been said.
Well, everything had been very proper: the way a man would ask another – a friend, for that matter - the permission to court his sister. But the blind woman would not see anyone else but Eireannan if it poked her in the eye! And Eireannan was aware of that, yet any attempts to set Daria straight in a delicate manner had proved unsuccessful. He couldn’t make himself hurt her – and neither could Merran. On that they had agreed. In time Merran hoped she would grow to understand what feelings himself had for her. In time. Light, he was so tired of waiting…!
She sobbed helplessly, sagging against his shoulder. She was dripping, the shirt clinging to her skin in a much more revealing way that Merran would have desired at that point.
Forcing his thoughts on a safer path – what in the name of the Light could have happened to have her so shaken – he gently lifted Daria’s chin with a finger and forced her eyes to meet his.
“What is it, girl?”
“Nothing.” This time the word came out firm. “Just…I just did not know…where to go…”
“You’re scaring the hell out of me.” Eireannan, Merran thought. The girl had just returned from a week’s mission somewhere north, towards Hearthglen. She did not know about sister Mayhrin – she was probably the only one except for Eireannan and the woman herself, who both seemed blind like moles in daylight. Well, maybe Lainné Mayhrin had some sense left, from what Merran could tell. She may have behaved as if she had just swallowed a fishing pole when Eireannan was around, but her eyes left no doubt about her feelings. The man was hopeless though. He would go to any lengths to find a thousand and one reasons for which he could not allow himself the tiniest shred of happiness. Maybe this entire damnation thing was just fanciful elven philosophy – Merran understood nothing of it. Under the Light there should have be forgivness and peace of mind for the worst of men, should he decide to repent for his wrong doings. And he could not remember Eireannan ever doing something less than fair. He was a shadow wielder, true…but as far as he was concerned, he could only wish more people had Eireannan’s honor, or sense of duty…
“I just…I just…I…” She tried to take hold of herself and failed. Tears streamed down her face and she kept her eyes tightly shut, as if by not seeing him the shame of breaking down like that would become less. The girl was stubborn and proud. Too proud for her own sake.
He took her in his arms, rocking her slightly Daria she reached out too, gripping his shoulders with cold fingers. He wished there were words that could lighten her pain – yet he could find none. She would suffer for a while. Eireannan loved her – he would have given his life for her at any time…just not the way in which Daria wanted him to love her…
The thought fled instantly as her lips touched his. Merran tried to push her away, but she flung all her weight against him and he lost his balance for a second. He landed flat on his back, Daria on top of him, her mouth hungrily searching for his. It wasn’t fair, he thought– all because she was upset about Eireannan and that woman…and he would be the last to take advantage of her grief.
Yet her kiss grew insistent, crushing his lips with hers. Through the wet, clinging linen shirt he could feel every soft curve in her toned body – the warmth seeping into his own skin…His mind was still protesting at the idea when he took hold of her arms and rolled Daria over on the blankets. He kissed her roughly, drinking her frantic whimpers, somehow hoping she would be scared enough to run… but Daria just moaned and arched upwards, pressing harder against him…and then he lost all scrap of lucidity in the delighted exploration of that perfect body as he gently took her for the first time…
The woman stood on the ground, knees pressed against her chest and face pressed against her knees. She wore only a shirt and leather trousers – but his eyes could discern bits and pieces of amour discarded at the entrance of the tent, probably because she couldn’t curl up like that in plate.
Pulling himself and his blanket up with a groan - he didn’t have much underneath – he reached for her, worry overcoming the irritation at being waken up like that.
“Dar? What the hell happened?”
“No..n…nothing..”
She lifted her head for a brief moment, giving him a red-rimmed eye stare, then slumped back. Her blond hair hang sodden around her shoulders and she shivered. It must have rained during the night, Merran thought.
“What happened, girl?” Forgetting to think whether he was properly dressed or not after all, he crawled toward the tent entrance and put a protective arm around her. And the blanket. The girl was truly silly if she thought a man could remain indifferent to her. She had just picked the wrong one to fall for, that was all. Eireannan Sarälondé would never view her as anything else than his sister…Merran was one of the very few to know he had had a sister, dead in the siege of Dalaran. They had talked about it one day…and many other things, Daria included, though she would have been appalled to know what had been said.
Well, everything had been very proper: the way a man would ask another – a friend, for that matter - the permission to court his sister. But the blind woman would not see anyone else but Eireannan if it poked her in the eye! And Eireannan was aware of that, yet any attempts to set Daria straight in a delicate manner had proved unsuccessful. He couldn’t make himself hurt her – and neither could Merran. On that they had agreed. In time Merran hoped she would grow to understand what feelings himself had for her. In time. Light, he was so tired of waiting…!
She sobbed helplessly, sagging against his shoulder. She was dripping, the shirt clinging to her skin in a much more revealing way that Merran would have desired at that point.
Forcing his thoughts on a safer path – what in the name of the Light could have happened to have her so shaken – he gently lifted Daria’s chin with a finger and forced her eyes to meet his.
“What is it, girl?”
“Nothing.” This time the word came out firm. “Just…I just did not know…where to go…”
“You’re scaring the hell out of me.” Eireannan, Merran thought. The girl had just returned from a week’s mission somewhere north, towards Hearthglen. She did not know about sister Mayhrin – she was probably the only one except for Eireannan and the woman herself, who both seemed blind like moles in daylight. Well, maybe Lainné Mayhrin had some sense left, from what Merran could tell. She may have behaved as if she had just swallowed a fishing pole when Eireannan was around, but her eyes left no doubt about her feelings. The man was hopeless though. He would go to any lengths to find a thousand and one reasons for which he could not allow himself the tiniest shred of happiness. Maybe this entire damnation thing was just fanciful elven philosophy – Merran understood nothing of it. Under the Light there should have be forgivness and peace of mind for the worst of men, should he decide to repent for his wrong doings. And he could not remember Eireannan ever doing something less than fair. He was a shadow wielder, true…but as far as he was concerned, he could only wish more people had Eireannan’s honor, or sense of duty…
“I just…I just…I…” She tried to take hold of herself and failed. Tears streamed down her face and she kept her eyes tightly shut, as if by not seeing him the shame of breaking down like that would become less. The girl was stubborn and proud. Too proud for her own sake.
He took her in his arms, rocking her slightly Daria she reached out too, gripping his shoulders with cold fingers. He wished there were words that could lighten her pain – yet he could find none. She would suffer for a while. Eireannan loved her – he would have given his life for her at any time…just not the way in which Daria wanted him to love her…
The thought fled instantly as her lips touched his. Merran tried to push her away, but she flung all her weight against him and he lost his balance for a second. He landed flat on his back, Daria on top of him, her mouth hungrily searching for his. It wasn’t fair, he thought– all because she was upset about Eireannan and that woman…and he would be the last to take advantage of her grief.
Yet her kiss grew insistent, crushing his lips with hers. Through the wet, clinging linen shirt he could feel every soft curve in her toned body – the warmth seeping into his own skin…His mind was still protesting at the idea when he took hold of her arms and rolled Daria over on the blankets. He kissed her roughly, drinking her frantic whimpers, somehow hoping she would be scared enough to run… but Daria just moaned and arched upwards, pressing harder against him…and then he lost all scrap of lucidity in the delighted exploration of that perfect body as he gently took her for the first time…
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