A Silliness!

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Pink Pigtail Memories

She just stood there. And hugged herself. It was that emptiness again and it always bewildered her and by now she thought she should have been used to it.

The shadows that cast across the twilight shore were all in deep dark tones; crisscrossing the soft gray sands beneath a sky of forgotten dreams. Had it been so long, since they had walked these dark shores, since their passing had been witnessed by the stars? If she became really, really quiet she could almost, just almost, hear again the soft native Kaldorei, the sound of a crackling fire, the raising of a gentle voice offering a toast to the night.

Still and seductive eyes closed.

Had it been that long?

Had it truly been so long?

Is that why the beach was now empty,even the scuttling crabs and the slow moving snails gone? Only the silent roll of the surf in and out, the barest hint of rippling around stone and the ancient gray memories of piers that were.

Behind her, like a dream slipping in and out of the waking world, the forest of this dark shore were painted in sepia, drifting in and out like an evening mist. The shadows held its rememberances like a precious secret, such that once pink pig tails looked out across the sea as she did now, just ... just to watch the moonlight shimmer across the forever sea.

Beside her, the great felhunter stirred. So sensitive the crimson demon was to even the littlest hints of what barest mana remained, and even more so to disturbances, to something out of balance.

"Shhhhhhhhhh Zhaatom ..."

She reached out her hand, to rest it on the great beasts head, calming, quiet. Sometimes she was jealous, her curse to be the smartest, the sharpest of her small family. Sometimes, sometimes she had to admit, she wished she could live life as her little sister. But now, now was a time for quiet. Even Pizyap knew that, all it took was a purple eyed glance to cease his complaining. It was Mezzy ... Mezznuz ... that she worried for. They had been together so long, served together, and even now, even now she could not fathom what he thought, what he felt. But she knew, she knew, that all it would take is a hand upon his bracers, to remind him of who they were.

And more importantly, who they once belonged to.

"For a brief while, do you remember?

"Kind words."

Even the wind had vanished, upon this forsaken place.

"Why we are here ...

"On this shore ...

"On this empty shore ...

"It's not important.

"It never was."

Her curse.

For a long while she was quiet. All relative. But even for her, it was a long time.

"It is not the place you are. It is not even the getting there that is important.

"It is who you share that journey with."

A second moment of stillness.

"Mistress always believed that."

She just stood there. And hugged herself. It was that emptiness again and it always bewildered her and by now she thought she should have been used to it.

But then Disneri the succubus hugged herself tighter. Eyes still closed. She had to keep them closed. Closed tight.

Because demons don't cry.

"For a short while we shared our journey with Larisa too.

"And we are so much the better for it."

Nefarian's Victory

"All that glisters is not gold ..."

"How often have we heard that, Mezzy, heard it and smiled, as if we were once again hearing an old wive's tale, ato smile as if we knew what was once an insight had fallen into disuse?

"And yet, even now, have we sold ourself, bartered our soul, but for what is only outside to behold?

"In the tombs of glory, is it accolades or the whispering of gilded worms we hear,

"Have we been more bold than wise?

"Have our limbs reached, like those young, for empty achievements at too dear a cost, having forgotten to temper our greed with the wisdom we should be old enough to know?

"And certainly old enough to remember."

Quietly the little warlock hugged herself, deep in the bottom rooms of the tavern. And once again, having been brutally shown, the only companion she could depend on, one of blue cobalt, of magic, of dreams.

"The true answer is not in the scrolls recorded ...

"It lies haunting in the depths of Blackrock mountain.

"He fairs us well, because he, in the end, still holds the truth in broken talons cold."

A deep breath was taken in, let out, taken in again.

Green eyes narrowed, threatening to become cold, calculating, to chose the path where the end justifies the means, and there is no looking back, as if that finish could some how wash away the hurt that it was built on, that the glitter could somehow wash away the inequity that was triumphs foundation, that somehow a head upon a spike could balance values that forgotten in the blind drive for a taste of blood.

And she just could not. Her heart would not let her.

"Have we forgotten who we are. What made us strong?

"Or have we changed, somehow, somewhen, became hard and accepted that being this hard, this cold ... and aye, to use a so apt term, so draconic as the only way things can be. Hard, so that it is the victory that matters and not its cost?

"Hard, that we would abandon what we have held true since the first turtle was sewn on a tabard."

Green eyes close then, quiet.

"I used to be so proud. So proud to wear this tabard. Because I could say, true, we might take longer, take longer, to reach the same triumphs as those whose way is by the sword and the cold equations of steel and spell. but we do so on our own terms, learning how to use who we are, play to our strength, and reach the same end without compromise - as a team, as a group, as a guild working together?

"How did that get forgotten, lost, discarded, between the halls of Northrend and the lands lost in Cataclysm."

"I can't say that any more.

"Because it isn't true."

Quietly, she looks up to Mezzy.

"Why do I keep answering the clarion call, when I know that the only reason I will get called up is when one of the chosen has business elsewhere or when they themselves have chosen to take an eve at rest? Chose to take an evening at rest; do they even realize the difference, the hurt, the callous cruelness in that - when it is everyone else who gets told they must step away?

"Oh, sometimes its called asking, but what sort of question is it, truly, when it is a question that has only one answer, only one choice.

"Do they realize how hard it is to put a happy face on it, knowing that it is a harsh truth that they never have to face? Do they realize how lucky they are, to never have to worry for their place among those who stand for the Guild? That what they take for granted others cannot even wish for? Do they know what it feels like to be made to realize, that your only value is, to the Guild, that your only value is as a replacement?

Letting out a long long breath, the warlock shook her head.

"Do they even realize how predictable it is, that anyone, everyone, else can watch their chance to step into the depths, to fight with our compatriots, to share our time together, fade away as the hall fills, one by one, by those who have that golden ticket, whose place is a given? How demoralizing it is, to know that it is not a place within the ten who shall venture forth that is being considered, but that the truth is that the competition is only for the one or two places within the ranks of those who position is assured?"

Eyes closed again, red pigtails slipped back and forth.

"It is the way things are, the way they are seen, the way they are perceived.

"And even if it is not actuality, it is a brutal reality.

"Is it a coincidence, that as this ... appearance ... became more and more solidified, those who used to answer the call have vanished to the shadows? They are not as stupid as gnomes, I guess.

"Is it a coincidence, that when things were seen as more fair, as if there were true opportuities to work together, when the make up of an evening's adventures were not set in stone, we found ourselves with enough stalwart warriors than one could shake a pointed stick at, where we could enter the fortress of our enemies in full force.

"I don't know Mezzy."

She leaned against the cold stone, looking then into the fire.

"I like these folks. They are my friends. I want to share these victories, I want to be a part ...

"We used to know how to do that ...

"And I cannot see myself stopping, answering the call to arms, knowing that I am just a replacement, living through the hurt of being told to step down, knowing that is my fate, seeing it come like the fall of dominos, my lack of value to our Guild, time and time again.

"Wishing it could be my choice ... just like it is for them."

Her head ducks, and a foot scuffs across the floor.

"He knows, you know.

"He knows, even though his bones lie scattered in his carven arena.

"Last night, a select few slew Nefarian.

"Yet against Veritas ...

"Nefarian was the victor."

A Call For Heroes

"Can you hear that? Can you taste it in the air?"

It was dark and the snow swirled in silver drifts. Behind them the jagged spires of His Citadel rose, bitter spines silouetted against the Northrend night. The small warlock looked to her dark companion, the silent Voidwalker her oldest friend.

"It is a call for Heroes ..."

A gentle hand reached up, touching bracers crafted of magic.

"And I am sure Heroes will answer that call. The famous, the infamous, those whose fair hair is so perfectly tossled by the wind, the slice of their blades the cue for a minstrel's song.

"But I can't help but think of sweet Wynilla, of bold Takumi, of fiery Inflagrante, kind Uinen and valiant Gia, and of Chelydra who took a chance on us so long ago when he asked us to join his Veritas family. They may call us common, and we may be, but commoners like ourselves, we are the world's heart, we are its soul. While our names may not be sung in the halls of Stormwind, those who are only do so because upon our shoulders they stand.

"As for us? Its been too many years. We have seen the temples of princes. We have stood beneath the Liche King's throne. But no matter how cold the snow is here, how white it may be ... its never quite right and I can't ignore my heart any longer.

"Mezzy,

"It's time to go home."

Nellisynthia Nellastatia of Kharanos

Somebody's Father

"No."

Her words were quiet, quiet and soft and final.

The woods were cast in a forever twilight, the warmth of the afternoon sun somehow kept at bay, painting the shadows of cold leaves in far too many shades of gray. They had paused, come to a stop, here in the woods of dusk. A few steps away the great dreadsteed whuffed and paced, the glow from his hooves, the fire of his mane, the only dance of color, reds and saffron, as evening threatened in deep dark pastels through the silk shrouded trees.

"Have we ..."

She spoke in whispers, as one might in that last kind of respect. And as she did she looked down to her closed hand, feeling the bite of metal within. It should have been a cold feeling, the metal against her palm, but she couldn't comprehend it as anything but heart's blood warm.

"Have we forgotten so much Mezzy, in our striving against the Dark, in our holding against the Lich King and his Scourge, against the broken undead? Before the hearths of Valgarde, in the taverns of Valiance Keep, in the great halls Dalaran, they raise their goblets in triumph upon the heralding of our victories in Icecrown Citadel. The toasts ring out bold and strong when frozen bones, accursed sinews and the steel of the walking dead have been sent to their final rest. Have we forgotten, however, exactly what it is we are doing?"

At her shoulder the great Voidwalker kept still. Silent, a swirl of magic and dreams bound by carven metal bracers, it was always hard to determine if he truly heard, if he truly understood. She hoped, and sometimes, sometimes that just had to be enough.

"In Darkshire, in the warmth of their commons, Miss Trelayne is probably lining up the tall pewter steins, the crystal goblets of wine, to speak so well of us, to celebrate the lifting of their curse, for we have just slain the spectre of the undead Mor'Ladim."

Slowly she unfolded her hand, to look down upon the small ring she held.

"Mor'Ladim. A dull echo, a contraction of who he used to be. But someone needs to remember, Mezzy, someone does, that his name was Morgan. That he had a daughter. That her name was Sarah."

"And this is her ring."

The warlock bit her lower lip, as if, as if the slight pain was important, necessary. To remind herself that she was still alive, that she could still feel.

"Have we forgotten, in our lust for victory, in the brutal reality of this snow bound conflict, that the armies of the Scourge were not raised from whole cloth? That they did not spring like sparks from fel fires or fall from the sky like dying stars.

"Have we forgotten that each and every one of them were once one of us?

"That they were once our brothers, they were once our sisters. Daughters and mothers, sons and fathers, our husbands, our wives, our soulmates.

"That the shattered bones that lay at our feet we once called friend."

Slight fingers closed over the slim hoop of metal. Protective.

"I cannot find any reason to celebrate tonight, Mezzy.

"For is this something to be done for glory, for pride and accolades ...

"Or is it last thing we can do for those we have once cared for, because we have no other choice?"

Slowly she turned, to mount her patient dreadsteed.

"Like now.

"To place a simple golden ring upon an ill treated gave.

"To place the token of a daughter's love."

"No."

Her words were quiet, quiet and soft and final.

Gently she lay the paladin's sword upon the paladin's grave, his gift, her reward. Gentle fingers slipped over its silvered carvings, evoking a shimmer of sparkles from the magic held within. Leaving it behind, leaving it at rest.

"There's been enough death for one day."

Atychiphobia

The sound of surf and ice, the gentle rustle of nets being retied, of hooks and fat blowed up fish buoys being set for the next morrow, these are the sounds of the village as night descends. The glowfish glow, and the hearth in the sunken tavern dances orange and yellow, the occassional pop and snap accenting the white-bound solitude.

Against that, against the welcome of refugees, if two could be alone in that, they were. Small hands rubbed and warmed at the fire. Cobalt and blue shadows swirled at her shoulder, frustrated, talons of dark magic snapping at the air, not understanding and not knowing what to do when there's no Scourge to protect her from, where there's no dragon to be saved.

"What was I supposed to say, Mezzy?"

Teeth pressed her lower lip until it paled as the little warlock hugged herself tight.

"I didn't lie. It's the truth, this is where we rest, and we can easily busy ourselves with the intricacies of walrus mail and the shuffling of our supplies twixt here and Ironforge.

"But how could I tell Mister Chelydra, whose looked out for us all these years ...

"That I just can't figure out what happened, how it could happen ...

"And how broken it feels."

Green eyes closed, tight, a long silence following.

"Do you remember ...

"Do you remember the first time we stepped into Nefarian's castle, into Blackwing Lair, to face the chaos that was Razorgore? When we learned the spirit healer's first name? How long it took, how hard we worked, how absolutely impossible it felt.

"And yet we never gave up.

"Do you remember ...

"Do you remember the blood of Karazhan, that cut us so deep we were torn asunder? And yes, it made things harder, it stumbled us greater than any Naga or Demon Prince ever could.

"And yet we never gave up.

"We did see the Naga fall, her fel schemes broken, we did look down upon a fallen prince in his temple."

Wiping her arm across her eyes the small gnome nodded her head, sure and even.

"Turtles, I've said, always know where they are going. And they might be slow and sure but they never ever stop. No matter what. Sometimes, sometimes I think Master Inflagrante calls forth his words of power not because the hour is late, not because we are tired and worn, but because he knows some of us just won't stop, we'll shake off the blood and the dirt, mend our broken bones and wrap bandages about our arms, and keep on going, knowing that we can triumph and that you can't get there without trying as hard as you can. That's not the question, the only question is when."

A moment, and the warlock steeled herself, as if her own words might cut her like the undead claws or the frost called down by a Liche King's mage.

"And last night, with Her life held by us, with Her calling for our aid ... we left her for bones and sinew, left her for Arthas Menethil to claim her brave soul and raise her shorn of all she cared for into his service. "Not because we lost or were beaten ...

"Because we gave up."

Eyes close tight then, her words colder and as torn as her spell woven armor.

"I could live with losing, having tried and tried and tried. That's how you learn, that's how you temper a blade; and you know, the more difficult it is, the better it feels when you can look to your friends and say not that evil has been slain, but that we ... we ... triumphed. Together.

"I have heard our valiant cohorts speak of Putricide's falling and how bitter a conflict it was. How many times they stood and fell and stood and fell. It has been said that the valiant is proven by hanging on but one minute longer, by trying that one last time.

"They are true heroes."

Eyes close, quiet.

"So what does that make us. Roo and I, You and me, Mezzy?

"Hearing Her cries and turning our backs?

"Are we simply not good enough? Are we the other folk, the not as strong, the not as skilled? That if we cannot fell a foe in a single over powerful blow that the gauntlet is not worth taking up, that it is simply too hard for us?

"I know ... in my head, that can't be true. And I would hope our friends believe in us as much as we believe in them.

"But in my heart, as I listen to the fire snap and try to figure out what happened, that's exactly how it feels."

The warlock looked into the fire for a long, long time.

"Being beaten is bad enough, but being beaten before we even start?

"That's not the Liche King, Mezzy.

"That's us."

Castles in the Sand

The notice said "The Traitor Jaina Proudmoore" and it was plastered upon the walls of Stormwind, looking to the more traveled markets and commons. It's script was simple, to the point, calling for a meeting but a few days hence, to censure the lady of Theramore Keep. It was proclaimed by one Corporal Breeor, and attracted the attention of a certain gnome warlock and her best blue friend.

“I know … it’s not much.

“A child’s play craft, from happier times, when the hardest decisions were how formal a place to set for the afternoon tea or if Miss Disneri might wish one acorn or two … and for you, remembering not honey or sugar but jam.”

The gnome lass sat upon the cobbles of Stormwind, her dark robes pooled about her, cloaking her in the deepest shades of gray and black. Long ago this fel garb stopped being pristine, no longer fine. Instead they now bore the harsh battering and disturbing stains betraying passage deep into titan halls. What color splashed her this late afternoon came from the wildflowers in her lap. Argent peaceblooms, the deep crimsons of Talandra’s Rose, the sparkle of mana wrought thistles found in the forgotten ramparts above Shattrath.

Beneath the silent gaze of her eldest companion, slender fingers slowly wove the bright flowers together, taking quiet care, teeth catching upon her lower lip as she concentrated. Cobalt and sable with sharp talons forged of ancient magic, the big Voidwalker shifted, his bracers shimmering as they caught the light sifting down past the half timbered buildings, sneaking into her quiet corner.. Protectively he shadowed the gentle warlock, skittish, as if he could feel the unacknowledged darkness hidden within this keep town.

“It’s the path of least effort, Mezzy …

“And that makes it a powerful seduction, powerful enough to send one’s heart racing, to heat blood and temper far past any manner of reason …

“Be it within the halls of Lordaeron or within a city tavern.

“It’s like a castle in the sand …”

There was a moment of silence, as red blossoms were set in their broad circle, accenting the boughs of green which loop in a simple interlaced ring.

“Small buckets and a little shovel, the pat of hands upon damp sand at the surf’s very edge, and if one works, sets their heart into it, come the end of the day a tall and wondrous castle can be set against the beach, with ramparts as proud as those which guard Ironforge, as pretty as the temples in Darnassus, as tall and elegant as the spires of Dalaran.

“And yet …

“All it takes is a handful of heartbeats for a bully’s kick, for strong arm tactics without care or compassion, to shatter those beautifully sculpted towers until there is naught left but memories to be washed away by the roll of the tide.”

Slowly the young gnome turned her work over in her hands.

“It must be intoxicating, to stand over the fallen, to look down and say, I broke that. As if somehow might can determine what is right by the simple course of destruction.

“And yet, even as the sand is washed out to sea, the truth that something good stood, even for a little while, can’t ever be taken away.

“One can’t help but think that makes that manner of victory … empty.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a castle of sand or one of stone, if it is a kingdom, or a single person.

“It doesn’t matter if it is by sword or words.”

“In the end Mezzy, it’ll never make it right.

Standing, she dusted off her robes, shaking out her deep russet pigtails

“Build a home upon a far away shore … forge a peace with one’s enemies.

“It’s so easy to tear somethin’ down …

“It’s so much harder to put somethin’ together.”

Carefully she hung her playful wreath upon the Stormwind signpost, the bright dance of color covering the notice of one Corporal Breeor.

Accidentally.

Perhaps.

Heroine

The warlock sat at the edge of the pier, looking out across the frozen sea. It glittered dark, the first hints of the coming dawn casting long shadows through the ice flows, dusting the frozen islands in growing saffron. Behind her, the tusker village was starting to wake, a slow and easy bustle. Kamagua was no great port or merchanter focus. It was small, and she liked that, very much. A place where the most dire threat was a shift in the fish schools, where the skills of a net maker far out weighed those of a swordsmith.

Beside her the great blue Voidwalker too looked out to the dawn. Still, and quiet, his expression inscrutable.

A demon upon a pastoral morning.

"I know ..."

The little warlock tugged a deep red pigtail, her thoughts reaching beyond this quiet place.

"I know everyone says we should move to the city, to be at the center of one's important tasks, to have all the resources of the world at one's fingertips. Eternium thread, smiths to mend armor and blade, where those who stand to fight the Lich King can find us, to send us upon our missives against the cold, frozen dark.

"But I'm not sure."

Green eyes closed, and she hugged herself. Teeth set upon her lower lips they pressed, hard enough to pale them.

"Is it swords and ensorclements, is all it takes to be a hero but strength and skill? Two swords and a crown and a will unstoppable. Is that a hero, Mezzy? Is it some manner of ranking ... as if by some number of scourge-tormented skulls one stacks, if that grim pile gets high enough, one is bestowed such an honor? Is that what forges those upon whom the minstrel sings.

"A dragon's head, a harpy's corpse, ogres and giants slain

"To rise from the dark, unbent and unbroken. To claim what was lost, to stand against the coming night no matter what may be the cost."

Slowly she let out her breath, a puff of frost left in the air. Her eyes opened, looking to the lightening horizon. But perhaps, perhaps they looked farther.

"But I'm not sure."

Tilting her head, she looked back up to her oldest friend.

"It must have been very hard."

Breath caught, held for a long heartbeat before let out.

"For Her."

About the young woman the Kalu'ak were setting their boats to the sea, stacked with their nets, fishing poles rising this way and that in a happy chaos. The coiling of rope was accompanied by deep and low harmonies, a shanty for working to, to greet the coming day. But as she looked to the cold northsea her thoughts couldn't be farther away. Lost in a broken kingdom, where the only water was fel green within dusty stone canals, where there was no sky save vaulted ceilings of grey stone, where the blood of a betrayer seeped into the bitter dust along with shattered bones.

Where death was but a transitory hurt.

"It would have been far easier, Mezzy, to have focused Her magics, to draw down that arcane power in a deadly bolt and strike down that which her companion named as villian and cur. There would have been no one to gainsay such a righteous killing, and I know when returned to Stormwind, She would have been met with cheers and accolades, been proclaimed great among Her kith and kin.

"Named a hero of the Battle of the Undercity, set with the legendary of Stormwind."

"But she didn't chose that path."

There was an imperfect silence. One beat, two, then three.

"There is something out of balance, Mezzy, something I can't quite name, that lurks within this masquerade in which we are trapped. As if one were to pull off those masks of the roles we play one may find the visage exposed lacking.

"And that the true strong ones are the ones who do not wear such masks."

"Be that mask a tabard, a sword ...

"... or a crown."

Small fingers rested upon her new stff, slowly moving up and down its length.

"It must have been hard, Mezzy. To bring down those frozen prisons, to halt that bitter fight. To return a Warchief to his halls. To return a King to his fanciful throne room. Knowing full well the wrath that would follow and the dark words that must now be sneaking like a rogue through Stormwind's halls.

"To find one's self in a place built not of stone or steel or blood but conscience.

"Her decision struck not because it is what everyone knew what should be done ... what one's liegelord proclaimed ... what would bring one the most glory and acclaim ... what should have been the next dance in our masquerade.

"Done simply ...

"... because it was the right thing to do."

Slowly the warlock stood, palms dusting off her robes. A small glance was cast over her shoulder, to the southwest. As if she were looking all the way to Theramore.

"Every morning, we watch the fishing boats go off to sea.

"It's important, Mezzy.

"So that in my heart, each and every day ...

"I know that it is not swords and enscorclements, that it is not two swords and a crown nor how tall a pile of skulls ..."

She couldn't help but smile, as the fish vendor passed her. And what was most important upon his greeting her - not the coin for trade, no matter how beneficial for both - a simple blessing for staying warm against the forever winter.

"... but seal-skin boats. A morning welcome. To make sure the Kala'uk's only worry is which direction the reef salmon are running.

"I know, in the grand scheme of things, it's not very much and we'll never be heroes, Mezzy.

"Not like Miss Jaina.

"But this ...

"This ...

"This is enough for us."

Hero

Oh Mezzy.

The woods of Elwynn are supposed to be so beautiful.

The sun sifting through the canopy in a golden and green moire, the singsong of the birds carefree upon the warm branches. Even the domestic bustle, the clang of a cowbell, the bark of a dog, the creak of a wagon wheel laden with vegtables market bound, there's a quiet peace in all that. The peace of clothes drying on the line, the softness of a bobber drifting at the end of a fishing line, the whuffle of an old destrier pulling a plow; his days of spurs and barding now but a faded memory.

I can't hear it Mezzy.

Not any more.

I can't taste the hint of apples in the gentle air, the sweet smell of hops and barley. I can't feel the caress of the autumn breeze, that measure of warmth of summers past and the promise of summers to come, the crystal measure of cold, reminding us that winter awaits before us.

Oh Mezzy.

For winter has come early. It is here.

The only thing I can hear are the broken cries of hurt and terror. The only thing I can feel is the cut of steel, the dull ache of that bitter fel miasma, the final heat of cleansing dragon fire. The scent of ash, brimstone and rot choke; there is no deep breath that can be taken, no sweet water that can wash away that taste, no wine potent enough to grant the blurred gift of absolute forgetfulness. I can't close my eyes, afraid of what I might see; black dreams and nightmares pale against the cruel truth that now haunts the borders of Dragonblight.

For I know if I close my eyes I would still see them.

Not just the knights of Stormwind, not just the stone strong of Ironforge, not just the light filled Dranei or the still Kaldorei.

But the children of Gnomergan too.

I never knew her name. But as I looked down the line of rank and file, I saw her. I know she had hair lighter than mine, but tied in the very same pigtails. Her goggles told me she was an engineer, that and how proud she looked standing next to her siege machine. I never knew her name. I should have asked. I should have taken that moment to offer a smile and a greeting.

So that my herald's ride could have come to a close, perhaps at some stone door in Tinkertown, where I could have looked to her mother and her father, unable to offer them anything that could counter such a loss except to tell to them they should be proud; proud of a daughter who had stood in His company.

Somewhere, sometime, behind me, like ripples of a stone in a mirror smooth pond, the other fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters will hear. And that is some manner of solace; knowing that in days upon days, from grandparent to grandchild, they will speak of those who fought with Him; a fragile immortality of lore, that at least some manner of consolation. But the ache is there, the darkest pit, knowing that there must be those who had no family, no kin to remember them, no one to raise a rough wooden goblet in the Thunderbrew in their memory, and yet, they too, stood for a fight for which there was no winning. They may have been alone among Stormwind's many, but that should not, it can not, cast a shadow upon any that fell today.

The shield I carry upon my back is heavy, as if its very weight could press my Dreadsteed's hooves deep into the ground.

I wish ... part of me wishes ... part of me would trade my very breath to have not started that path that lead to Wintergarde and its Scourge bound secrets. Or to have found some way to break that chain that lead to His holdfast. And yet I know in my heart that he understood full well the weight of the words we brought to Him. That they were his to bear, for how could He have given them to another, to ask someone else to take his place, to meet the fate he must have known awaited behind those black steel gates.

I think, I can't help but believe, his bravado, his boldness, there was more to it than simple pride. To call out the Liche King, before his very door, was as much for us as to tempt Arthas Menethil's cold temper. For it stilled the fear in our hearts and bones, which told anyone with even the littlest sense to run. I looked to each side, as those steel jaws opened, as I caught my first sight of frozen armor and the icicle sheen of Frostmourne. You could see that they they knew too, but more ... it wasn't power, it wasn't respect, because both of those qualities can be paid for in the coin of fear, and fear is a very poor leash.

It was trust.

You could trust, that when the world ended, He would be standing there with them, with us.

How could we not offer the same in return?

I can hope, I can wish.

I can wish, that as the final green mist closed in upon him, choking in the betrayal by Varimathras, that he saw a glimpse of the Dragonflight. And just as he stood and did not abandon us, with his fading sight, the stopping of his heart, he knew he had not been abandoned.

And that is why I carried his shield.

Not by griffin, not by some portal carved out of the arcane, by some mage, by some trickery of Dalaran.

But on my back, from the burning wastes and through his country, passing one last time through the forests of Elwynn.

Not abandoned upon that carrion field but homeward bound, one last time.

One last time across that stone bridge, to call witness of the city's elders, their still and carven gaze carrying time's weight, knowing another has come to join their ranks. To hear my Dreadsteed's hoofbeats upon fine paving, to proclaim His arrival louder than any trumpet call and hearing that sound thunder between the buildings and over the familiar canals.

They must have felt it, the importance of my missive, for even the guards at the keep gates stepped aside, as we galloped into the heart of the city. To skitter-skid to a halt before the throne of Stormwind itself; for even a Dreadsteed's hooves are not made for floors of polished marble. You could, however, hear the stone strain and crack beneath their heat, as if marking proof of the fall of Fordragon Hold.

To offer King Varian Wrynn the shield of his sword brother.

How could I have known, Mezzy, of what was to happen next? Am I that naive, am I that silly hopeful, to have sought both wisdom and strength in such a dark hour? Oh I am sure the dark hearted will look upon me as a simpleton. One has but to look at the history of humankind's kings to see how easily pride comes before truth, and how vengence seems to fill their veins.

I expected a call to arms, I am not that silly.

To fell the betrayer that took so many lives at the gates of Icecrown.

Gates beneath which I had heard the challenging growl of orcish war wargs, and it didn't matter that their skin was a different shade then ours. Against the Lich King, upon that field, all were brothers and sisters. Their blood was as red as ours, and the Scourge took them as easily as they swept over our Alliance ranks.

But, of course, I followed His King. A gift of loyalty to honor of those who fell. From Stormwind ...

... into the depths of the Undercity.

There we saw that traitor fall.

And yet, yet, how can I not feel that in the end the only one who held victory in those bloody catacombs is he who rules from a throne of ice?

King Varian Wrynn, how could you have turned against those who came, unbidden, to our aid, upon that Scourge razed stairs?

Or is that why you hate them so?

To strike with accusations of blackened trust, to call for a justice more empty than the scraps of armor smithed in Thunder Bluff; that which now lay beneath Angrathar. Blinded, only seeing the sword as the one true answer, and that scared me, because the last king who followed that broken truth is the very same one He gave his life to stand against.

Is that why you hate them so?

That it was an Orc who stood at His side, against the Lord of Snow and Ice? That when the betrayal came and burned down all, it was Saurfang who stood shoulder to shoulder, Ogrimmar steel beside Stormwind's shield?

Could it be you can not face the question which still echoes from each clip-clop of a Dreadsteed's hooves upon harsh cobbles?

When Stormwind's Hero, when Lord Bolvar Fordragon stood before the Wrathgate ...

Where were you?

Bookends 2

Dear Belm,

This is all your fault.

She came on your recommendation. A quiet gentle demeanor. Earnest, honest and never has a bad word to say about anyone. Her companions, always well behaved, no chewing on the bedposts or harassing the other patrons. And most importantly, she always, always pays her rent on time.

So yesterday evening I had business down in the Lower City. New tapestries for the private rooms, a few new pillows from the tailors and making sure Rokk had enough Kahliri Stew for our evening meal. I come home, my arms full of my purchases ... already late because the Constructs were tossing some fool Aldor off the upper platform ... only but to find this huge crowd ringing the entrance to my inn - grumbling, pointing, annoyed, growling and more than a few of them trying, trying, trying so hard not to laugh.

And of course, of course, in the eye of this storm, the center of this tempest, who do you think was there?

Her.

You knew this all along, didn't you?

Of course she was all apologetic, head down cast, scuffing her feet across the stone and red carpets. Stupid gnomes, how can you even get angry at something so cute?

This is all your fault, Belm.

You tell me.

What in all the blinding bright days am I going to do about ...

... the pit lord's head ...

... that's now stuck in my front door?

Haelthol

Scyer's Tier

Shattrath City, Terrokar Forest, Outlands

 

Back in the Thunderbrew Tavern, Belm just couldn't stop laughing.

 

*********************

Dear Mother,

It is evening now.

Somehow, somehow I always think of you as the sun fades away and the veil of night is cast across the skies. As if it were a time we held together as special. Perhaps we watched the sun set, watched the sky become rich in the colors of the harvest ... watched it slip into the most royal purples and then counted the stars, one by one by one as they braved the dying light to dance for us.

I wish I remembered more.

I am standing on Scyer's Tier. It's in a place called Shattrath, and from here you can look across lands many folks only hear in the songs traded by a minstrel, in the over-blown tales of dragons and fish explained in backwater dramatics in front of a bright tavern and over a bowl of day's travel stew.

The skys are beautiful, in their own way. There are stars too, in constellations unfamiliar and the telling of their stories, their sky scattered history, bright and new.

And the bustle, you would not believe it. And not just the dwarves and humankind that traffic in and out of Ironforge. The proud Tauren folk, the easy-speaking Trolls, the tragic Forsaken and the aloof Sindorei. It is hard to understand why there is such a deep break between us and the Horde when you see them arguing with an innkeeper over the price of a wineskin ... just like you or i might have, but a few hours before.

I miss the snow.

I can't remember what it looks like. I can't remember the image of mountains cloaked in white, of what moonlight looks like when it casts across the drifts and makes them sparkle like fallen diamonds. I can't remember how a wolf howl sounds as it echoes through the tall mountain tops and down into the sheltered vales.

I can't remember the song the pine trees whisper as a midnight breeze sifts through their boughs and needles.

But I can remember how it feels.

How the warmth of a tavern fire against the night's storm and how the sturdy stone walls makes you feel safe. The truth of the slicing wind, through tunic and cloak, so very, very real, reminding you that this is not some dream from which you might one day wake. The quiet of the evening, of hills sheltered in their blanket of white, not something to be heard or seen but felt in one's heart.

I can ... I can remember the feelings.

That I can cherish.

The image, the picture, that is like grey mist on a gray day, lost and gone, leaving only a quiet echo where it had once been.

I wish I could remember what you looked like.

But I can remember what it felt like holding your hand.

And while I can't remember what your smile looked like, I have kept something, something so important to me, to help me remember the care I felt when you smiled.

I know where home is.

I keep your name.

No one can ever take that away from me.

Your daughter,

Nellisynthia Nellastatia of Kharanos

 

The warlock stood at the edge of the carven rock, looking out across the city. She watched, quiet, as a scrap of parchment drifted away, rising into the star shrouded night.

Caught in the winds, tumbled like a leaf, forever.

Turning, she reached up to touch a cobalt and cold bracer, nodding to her silent companion.

"I'm fine, Mezzy ..."

She smiled, tilting her head.

"Walk with me?"