...what we dream of...

(( did you miss the tormented parts? * evil grin* mwhaaaa))


It hurt from a hundred bleeding cuts on her exposed back.

The excruciating pain made her writhe, as she lay there, broken, her upper body sprawled on the metal table.

She could take no more, yet the blessed oblivion wouldn't come. She felt the man's hands wrapping around her neck while he torn her apart...she couldn't breathe, her lungs were burning and her mind started to clutter, as she desperately and uselessly fought for air...


Laandra jumped from her troubled sleep, raising instinctively her hands to her neck in a defensive gesture. She greedily gulped the fresh air of the night, her heartbeats erratic and fast, drumming in her head.

A nightmare. Nothing more than a nightmare.

Except it was the third night in a row.

Rolling on a side, she curled up, her back against the wall.

It was getting to her.

No, she shouldn't be thinking of that. With a sigh that rocked her entire frame, she slid a hand under her face, and forced her mind elsewhere, to the strange notes and scribblings she and Raene had managed to decipher during the late hours of the night.

It was an old version of Darnassian, probable the tongue of their ancestors, before the Sundering...Raene herself had been born only after the tragic event, but surely they could have found someone to help them with the translation, if that was the case.

Laandra herself was reduced to admiring the simple, flowing grace of the text as Raene read out loud, only a word or two sounding familiar to her ears. True, she was good with languages. She had managed to learn the Common within less than a year and a half and now she spoke it with ease, with only a slight accent. She had even gathered a few sentences in Darnassian and found them useful during her stay in Ashenvale.

The documents she and Daria had snatched from the camp at Ordil'Aran seemed to be addressed to an unknown 'master' somewhere in Darkshore. Frowning, Laandra had remembered some rumors she had heard only days before in Auberdine. There was indeed a darker power rising over the land and that should not...was not to be allowed...as if the demonic forces remaining in the south, at Fellfire Hill and the curse of Felwood weren't enough...

She loved this land. As much as she loved her own people and what had once been a city of light so far away, out here, Shattrah...when she was a child... Her duty, her oaths...to fight the Legion, the demons, the evil, the corruption...

The pain.

The humiliation, the fear, the agony, the torture that made her flinch even now, laying safe a few meters away from Raene, who was sound asleep.

Control it. It's a thing past. You are stronger.

But there was no reassurance in her own words. Chilled inside, she curled even tighter, her eyes closed, fighting the steaming wave of emotions and terror that wanted to burst free.

You only are defeated because you chose to be so.

It stung.

Again, she wrestled her mind from the recollection of those horrible moments after the crash, and the next thing she could think of was Eireannan.

He would drive that pain away, through his simple presence.

His warmth. His will.

He could do that for her. Yet not for himself. He was so hurt she could feel it through her skin when they touched. Light, he had endured so much more pain than someone, even the worst of beings, should have been through... And he's not fine, no matter how hard he tries to pretend. On the inside he's bleeding and broken, hanging only to bits and shreds of what his life has been. Allowing himself to feel just so much so as to remember he is still alive.

I love him. Light knows I do.

And I want to save him, from his nightmares and his suffering...

The darkness, the demons...

But now I am as hurt as he is. How's that doing any good to us, if he sees me in pain, crawling under the blankets because I am afraid to open my eyes and face my fear?

Sobs racked her body again, the effort to control them so as not to awaken Raene or anybody else requiring all her strength.

Then a warm hand settling on her cheek, brushing away the strands of blue, soft hair. Eyes still tightly shut, she felt the other being curling against her, in a deep, protective hug...inhaled her scent, the warm breath on her skin, then, with a twinge of acceptance, just stood there,silent allowing Daria to comfort her.

Spider webs

The scent of freshly torn grass rose in the air as Laandra crawled a little bit further, under the cover of the tick vegetation. Daria followed, moving as carefully as she had done, until they both stood flat on their bellies, the valley which nestled the ruins of Ordil'aran unfolding in front of their eyes.

And quite an activity was there, despite the twilight, Laandra thought, with a sharp breath, seeing the cottages and tents, built around a central altar in the middle of the ruins. The camp swarmed with people, again a very diverse mix, she noticed, undead, humans and even elves...Elves? that was strange, she mused, turning her head to look at Daria.

The human girl had insisted to join her on this attempt to find out more about the shadowy groups that seemed to have infested Ashenvale of late. They had spoken very little between themselves during the previous evening, even if the meal had proven to be quite an excitement. Half of Astranaar came by the Sentinels' house to join the fun and there had been some good laugh and stories being told around the fire until late after midnight...

It would have made her feel home, Laandra bitterly said to herself, hadn't it been for the secret she bore in herself...something that could not be shared with her Kaldorei friends, not even with Raene, no matter how fond of each other they had grown over the years.

Something only Daria and her knew and as their eyes met, at times, she could see in the girl's face the longing, the questions she did not dare ask in front of the others, the name her lips silently formed.

Something deep inside her being - her love, at times so sweet, at others as painful as a scorpion sting, when she remembered her own betrayal...

...when the tiny drop of fel energy crawled through her veins, pulsating in the back of her head with every fire spell she cast...

...the yearning, the desire, the loneliness she felt without him...

Only late, after the fire had turned to ashes and everyone had said good night, did Daria and her find a moment to talk alone. Night elven houses and inns were much like those Draenei themselves preferred, with not so many walls, intimacy being a rare thing.

" Ei'an?"

The entire complexity of Daria's worries and feelings wrapped up in that simple utterance.

" He's fine", she had whispered, her words covered by the rippling of the lake water behind the Sentinel house.

"Why are you here?"

" Raene asked for my help. And I..."

She found no way to explain the turn of events, the brutal manner in which she had regained her memories, the ensuing mental torment, which had harmed them both..Eireannan and herself...

" What is Ei'an doing?"

"He went to Silvermoon", Laandra answered and Daria frowned, her expression clearly revealing her confusion. Then Raene had come in and they fell silent.

Daria returned her the concerned look, as she examined the valley, packed with cultists. If they were to find out anything about their true intentions, they had at least to take a closer look at what was going around in the camp.

Raising her hand, Daria pointed to a spot behind the tents, some fifty yards away.

"If we sneak through there, we may enter the camp unnoticed. They seem to be more preoccupied around the altar."

There was not the time, nor the place for detailed plans of action. Nodding their agreement, they started to crawl towards the breech in the tree wall, careful not to cause any unusual sound. A dry twig cracked under her weight and Laandra held her breath for a few seconds, until she realized that the sound hadn't escaped the confines of the forest. Still on their elbows and knees, they rolled through the brambles until they found themselves behind one of tents.

The sudden stir of movement had drawn the attention of one of the guards. a tuggish looking human. He drew closer, sword and dagger at the ready, to investigate the noise. The moment he saw them he opened his mouth, to give the alarm, but didn't have the time to, as, moving swiftly, Daria knocked him in the chest with the hilt of her own sword. The man fell to his knees, struggling to breathe, then, pulling himself back on his legs, attempted to run for help.

" So may Light forgive us", Laandra thought, raising her hands in front of her. The blast of fire hit the human in his back and he fell on the ground with a muffled thud.

Sneaking towards the body, Daria rolled it on his back and checked him for a pulse.

"Dead for good", she muttered, expertly digging into the man's pockets and belt. Another dagger, some bandages and a handful of bronze coins was all she found.

They huddled back behind the tent and Daria, using the knife she'd taken from the man started to cut down the material, to allow them in. It took some time and Laandra felt her articulations go numb from the awkward, crouched position, so uncomfortable for her tall frame. Daria, on the other hand, seemed totally at ease - her movements swift and soundless. The tent's thick cloth finally gave up and they were able to crawl in, only to find another cultist, this time a fair haired elf that was staring at them disbelievingly.

He didn't have the time to scream either, as Daria's dagger slid into his chest, straight for the heart. He fell on the ground, limbs twitching and Laandra could barely suppress a shiver as she noticed Daria's look.

Blank, devoid of all emotion, the same Eireannan had sometimes. As if body and spirit were utterly severed from each other, connected just by some residual physiological link.

She didn't however have the time to consider her own thoughts. Bending down, she started to fumble through the pile of things that lay inside the tent, finding some more weaponry, clothing, potions and a pack of scribbled notes. In the darkness inside she couldn't make out the words or the language in which they were written. She put them into her pocket and motioned for Daria to get out. It was only a matter of time until their presence was revealed.

As they struggled to get out of the tent through the narrow cut, angered cries burst out around them.

Something hit her in her back, sending rippling waves of pain through her body. She staggered, chocking on her own scream of agony as she surrounded herself in the glimmering magic shield that absorbed the next shadowbolt, sending little sparks all around.

"Go" she whispered to Daria, that lay curled, to avoid being hit.

"I dont let ya behind".

" I told you to go..." Laandra breathed. " Now!"

Hurried steps and barked orders in the dark dispelled all doubt concerning the number of their attackers. Understanding that arguing was useless and time consuming, Daria dashed for the nearest shrub and disappeared in the shadow. Laandra felt her shield starting to wane when two more bolts hit her straight in the chest. Knowing that she was running out of time, she mentally examined the odds, while muttering some spell words under her breath.

Perched under the trees, Daria heard the rumble of the fight behind her. She resisted the urge to just run back and drop into the middle of it...she was no coward to run away like that from a bunch of blood thirsty cultists. Just when she had started to crawl back down the slope, she felt a warm hand pressing against her mouth. Her exclamation of surprise came out muffled, and then she heard Laandra's soft laughter close to her ear.

" Come on", she said. "Let's go, before they catch our trace."

"I thought..." Drawing in a sharp breath, Daria stammered with her words, as they made their way through the engulfing darkness, shrubs and thorns clinging to their clothing, leaving shallow scratches on their arms and faces. "What the hell was on your mind?"

"Sheepin'...freezin', blinkin'". Laandra smiled to the night, knowing that Daria could not see her expression, as they made it to the road and stopped to catch their breath. " Now how the hell do you imagine I survived this long?"

She felt her pocket for the roll of documents she had picked from the tent...it was quite sizable and she dearly hoped it could offer them some answers to start with. Why did she have the unsettling feeling that it was going to be a long and restless night?

Doubt

" We have to withdraw and leave the humans to their own business". The Ranger tucked away the piece of parchment, a look of concern washing over his features as he straightened his back and signaled to one of his men. " The order was given three days ago by the Convocation of Silvermoon. We are leaving."

" I'm not."

He looked over his shoulder to see who had spoken, then let out a sigh, meeting the stern gaze of Eireannan Saralonde. The younger man seemed tired, weariness visible in the contorted expression of his face, in the veil that covered the green emerald eyes, so unusual for an elf, dulling their brightness. His clothes were torn and stained with blood and God knew what other fluids, the black hair carelessly braided to the back of his head, so as not to bother him while working.

"It's an order", the Ranger repeated and sighed again, remembering the devastation they had encountered in the Plague touched villages.

" Your orders, not mine." Eireannan shrugged, his absent minded look sweeping over the purple sunset sky. " These people need our help. There are already too few to fight...and the Plague is spreading fast."

" We must ALL retreat to elven teritory at once". How in the name of Light did the spoiled insolent brat think he was going back to the ruling Council to explain to Andarien Saralonde that his only son had chosen to stay behind in the plague ravaged Lordaeron?

"Then you should leave at once, my lord".

"It's an order from the High Council! Even if you are not bound by the rules of the Rangers corps, punishment is still to be enforced against all those that disobey the decisions of..."

" So we abandon our allies and stick our heads up our asses hoping that this horror will never reach Quel'Thalas?" Eireannan's voice was mocking and full of anger when he answered, not bothering any more with the choice of words. It fell heavily in the silence between them and he didn't wait for an answer. With a swirling move, he turned on the spot and walked towards the edge of the camp, ignoring the other man's protests.

Oh, they would make him pay, he could be sure of that. His own father would have been more than delighted to teach him a lesson in obedience.

That was something to worry about later on, Eireannan said to himself bitterly. Under the circumstances, it required that he would return safe and sound from this battle...which, taking the current odds into consideration, was more than he could hope for.

" I thought you would be preparing to leave by now".

The voice almost made him jump, so engrossed in his own thoughts he had been. Lifting his head, he met the inquisitive look of the human, and smiled.

" I'm not going anywhere, your Highness."

" That man was muttering something about orders."

Eireannan shrugged again, indifferently.

" I told him what to do with his orders, for what I am concerned." Tilting his head to the side, as he considered his words, prince Arthas Menethil returned him something like a grim smile, that darkened his features.

" Why do I have the feeling we're being abandoned?"

" They'll regret it", Eireannan softly said, placing briefly his hand on the other man's shoulder and squeezing it a little. "Come on, we have to get to Andorhal by nightfall."


-----

He woke up screaming again.

He had dreamed he was one of the walking dead.

Of all the gruesome possibilities, this one frightened him the most - to lose his will.

In the darkness of the room, his hands had instinctively searched for her, before remembering she had left, days before.

And there was loneliness, chilling his soul even more, as he rolled on his back to stare blindly at the ceiling. The scents of Silvermoon freely entered through the open window: flowers and decadent perfumes and the rich mana flavour.

Soothing, softening, luring...Addictive. Reaching straight to his core, a thousand whispers of the nether itself...

He had to leave.

As he rose from the bed in the dead of the night to pack up his few possessions, he remembered some words of wisdom he had heard years before, when he was still struggling with the dark ways of a warlock. "Only the weak are corrupted".

Well, Eireannan thought, listening to the quiet whispers of the Silvermoon night around himself while he crossed Murder Row, heading for the gates, it was a lie...The strongest were always the first to fall...

Some encounters and some bad news...

"Raene!"

The Kaldorei rose in a single move, almost scared at the sound of the voice that seemed to come out of nowhere, brutally interfering in her meditation. Her wolf growled, and she put instinctively a protective hand on his head, to soothe him.

She recognized almost instantly the silhouette standing in front of her. Quite short for one of her people, that usually had massive, tall frames, slender and gracious in a pair of green woven pants and a white shirt, the blue hair ruffled and tangled, hands on her hips and a beaming smile on her face...

"Laan!"

They hugged enthusiastically. Although , like all Kaldorei Raene was secretive and unwilling to mix with the strangers, be them their own allies, she had found herself become very fond of the Draenei, and especially Laandra.

" I thought you weren't coming...", Raene said, after a while when they sat together on the porch in the Sentinel's headquarters. Laandra held the mug of water she had asked for in both hands, drinking greedily as she was trying to catch her breath. She gave her a half smile, her eyes suddenly darkening under the rush of memories.

"I was having some business in the Plaguelands of Lordaeron. But I guess I just needed a breath of fresh air. Your letter had me worried though. What's going on?"

Raene sighed.

"Sightings of worgen again. This time more ferocious than ever. I fear it's the taint of Felwood that's slowly spreading to our homeland..."

Laandra shrugged, something like an annoyed, frustrated expression spreading on her face.

"Apparently the worgen are only one of your problems, right now. There's a lot going on in Darkshore and Ashenvale of late, it seems. On my way here I bumped into sort of a shadowy cult at Master's Glaive. Then I got ambushed by some others near the ruins of Ordil'Aran. Humans and Forsaken. Barely made it out. The roads are not safe anymore."

"Are you injured?" Raene asked, worried, her gaze trailing over Laandra's clothes to see tell-tale signs of wounds. But Laandra shook her head, dismissing her concerns.

"No. Only some shallow cuts and a head ache."

"The news you bring is troublesome", Raene said, quietly, bowing her head. " I've been suspecting for months that there are some demonic cults that have hidden themselves in our forests to plot their schemes. The return of the Legion to this world, that is", she continued, suddenly in a violent tone. "Damn reckless users of magic and corruption!"

"I'm sorry"...she added, side glancing towards Laandra and drawing in a deep breath. "It's just that..."

"Magic IS dangerous and addictive", Laandra said, putting the mug aside and patting her arm. She had traveled enough in those last years to know at least, if not completely understand, the views of their allies. For herself, magic had been a tool, most of the time. Until recently, she mused, silently knowing that Eireannan had unwillingly changed that too. Knowing that, in that night, in Duskwood, near Addle's Stead, she had taken in not only his essence, but also a small fragment of the fel energy that was embedded in his blood. And she could feel it, she thought, with a shiver, slowly working its way into her own being.

The nether whisper.

Raene drew in another sharp breath and looked at her friend, rather impressed by her calm.

"We'll find a way to stop them", Laandra said, convincingly. "That's why I am here, no?"

"Yeah, Laan-I-saved-the-world-again-today", Raene half mocked her, smiling.

"And what is wrong with that?"

They both rose their heads in surprise to see Faldreas Goeth'Shael who had just approached the Sentinel's Headquarters. The druid was smiling too, as he greeted Laandra warmly, and then, from behind him, another figure emerged, this time a short, fragile looking human, that rushed into her arms.

Laandra had hardly the time to catch her before Daria's weight and sudden movement sent them both to the ground, despite her more massive frame.

Well, she didn't actually know they were on such friendly terms, but the simple memory of what Eireannan had told her about the young human's past and her traumas, made Laandra shiver, wrapping her arms around the girl's shoulders in a protective gesture.

"Well, now that everyone is here, maybe we can have dinner. I'm like a starving bear, Faldreas said in a funny, hope-filled tone and they all laughed at this.

The serious matters could wait for another evening, Laandra sighed to herself, as she turned her head, absently studying the sunset sky...

Onwards to Ashenvale

Stripes, the mist saber sprang forward, as if glad to find herself at last back to her lands, far from the desolated,dead quiet fields of the Plaguelands.

Laandra patted the big cat's head with affection. She was a gift from Raene Wolfrunner herself and had proved a loyal and trustworthy companion in many difficult situations. Leaning against the furry back of the panther, Laandra allowed her to chose her own way through the dense forests of Darkshore, enjoying the ride, the wind that brushed through her untied hair.

The feeling of freedom that had followed during the last few days was tinged with guilt.

Oooh, she missed Eireannan...not his overprotectiveness.

A strange rustle of sound to her right suddenly caught her attention. She took hold of the reins to make Stripes stop, then quickly dismounted, leading her towards the thick overgrown bushes.

"You stay here", she whispered, and the huge panther lay down in the soft grass, with something like a satisfied purr.

Laandra allowed herself half a smile, before sliding further, through the thorny bushes, to the place from where the sound had come. She wore some plain hunter outfit, her mage robes packed away with the rest of her possessions. She would do that whenever she could, enjoying the simplicity of Kaldorei clothing.

The sounds were now louder...an incantation, maybe? she wondered, as she perched under some branches, on a small mound of earth, to look over.

Right in front of her, the awe inspiring look of Master's Glaive, as she remembered it from the times before. A sacred place, her Kaldorei friends had told her. Yet now, under the massive sword pinned inside the rock skull, there was a shadowy altar, with some thirty figures gathered around.

She could distinguish humans, orcs, dwarves and even forsaken. A quite interesting assembly, Laandra thought, craning her neck to see better.

Performing some dark ritual, definitely.

For a second she was tempted to approach and discover what it was about.

She counted them again, thoughtfully.

Thirty two.

She crawled slowly forward, using the terrain to her advantage, to cover all trace of her presence. The incantation was now louder, ominously sounding, and from what she could see, there was blood on the altar, slowly trickling to the ground.

Not good at all, Laandra thought, her gaze trailing over the gloomy surrounding. Careful not to make any sound, she crawled back towards the road and Stripes, hoping her presence had remained unnoticed.

The hope we have...

It was the sound of the waves that woke her up a little after midnight.

She lay on the sea weed mattress, eyes closed, listening as the waters rolled relentlessly over the beach, crushing against the few rocks scattered around the harbor.

The soft breeze that entered through the curtains brought mixed odors of salt and algae and fish...and dead shells of creatures scattered in the sand.

She had fallen in love with the sea from the first time she had seen it here, in the Land of Azeroth, at Odessyus Landing, where she had been sent on an errand from Azure Watch.

There was something about the vast surfaces of waters that spoke to her inner self in a way nothing else could.

She got out of bed and dressed quickly, favoring a pair of pants and a blue shirt over the crumpled and weathered mage robe.

The inn was silent, filled with only the small sounds of people sleeping, more or less at peace with themselves. She tried to step as carefully as possible, so as not make too much noise as she went down the stairs and into the central room of the inn.

She loved night elven inns. Opened to the wind, the breeze, the scents of the forest, the overwhelming simplicity, as opposed to the cramped, tight, oppressing interiors preferred by the humans.

From the central room you could get directly to the pier, and that was what she did, walking through the mists, as far as the pier went, until the inn and Darkshore were lost from sight, and she felt totally isolated from the world, just her, and the sea and the starlit sky, suddenly emerging from the shrouds of mists that enveloped the coastline...

Mist's End, she thought, her gaze following small threads of vapor as the wind rushed them over the restless surface of the Veiled Sea.

And there, just beyond the dark horizon, Vaalar's Berth.

Loneliness had never been something to bother her.

Not until recently, at least.

But she missed him.

And that was the reason why she had to go, while she could still breathe without his presence.

Her thought trailed over the events of the past two weeks, trying not to focus on her newly re-discovered memories. It was still blurry in her mind, the same as a puzzle that still missed some small linkages to be complete. But the most vivid images came to her over and over. That night of pain and blood in which she had lost her innocence. That night in which she had killed for the first time, unwillingly releasing that power that only later she learned how to control. That night in which she had lost a part of her soul.

Yet she never lost hope.

for the Light is with me and even if I walk in harm's way, I am not afraid...

...and maybe there was still hope to win the millennia old battle against the demons...

...and maybe there was still hope that the people of this world, so old and so young, so fresh and so scarred, so full of joy and sorrow, light and shadow, could live in peace...

...and maybe there was still hope that in such a world Eireannan and her could sit together, one night, at Mist's End, without fear...

She knelt on the pier, the wooden planks cracking softly under her weight.

Closing her eyes, letting the strong scent of the breeze invade her senses...Tasting the sea water from the powder-like drops the wind carried to her lips. Drifting away, with the ocean that roamed endlessly beneath her. Silently praying, while the night slowly gave into the day and the first stray ray of light fell on her face.

O Light, grant us grace to desire you with our whole heart,
that so desiring, we may seek and find you
and so finding you we may love you
and loving you we may hate those sins from which you have redeemed us...

...and the prices we pay

(( a bit of wrapping up before moving to the next stage...which involves, you may have guessed, trips to Ashenvale and Darkshire)).


"Leave us alone", Lor'themar Theron suddenly said to the guards. The massive doors had barely been closed when, picking up something from the bag he carried, Eireannan threw it casually down, on the fancy decorated table between themselves.

"Here's your bloody mess."

Bending down,obviously curious, the Regent carefully used two fingers to pick up the end of the linen wrapping. Something heavy rolled on the wooden surface and he barely held back a disgusted exclamation, staring at the twisted expression of Dar'khan Drahtir's head.

"Careful what you wish for" , Eireannan muttered, suppressing a smile. Lor'themar Theron gave him a killing look as he wiped his fingers away on the linen cloth.

" You are insane."

" Nay, it's just fancy these days in Ghostlands to chop off enemy heads." He made a small gesture, displaying the trail of dark blood that stained his sleeve, up to the elbow. "Kind of messy, though".

The Regent eyed him again carefully, while moving as far as possible from the table. Not that he was a coward. He had fought valiantly in the Second War and the bitter survival of the High Elves during the Third was entirely due to his determination in pulling together what was left of their people before Kael'Thas Sunstrider showed up to take the lead. But Dar'Khan's grim face reminded him of things too painful to dwell on...the fall of Silvermoon, the hopeless fight, the betrayal...Sylvanas Windrunner gruesome death and raising into the ranks of the enemy.

Sylvanas...

Like a big spider, lurking in the depth of the Undercity, weaving its lethal trap.

He looked again at Eireannan Saralonde, thinking that this man was so much like Sylvanas and so less like himself.

As if guessing his thoughts, Eireannan gave him again one of these little smiles that managed to send chills down the Regent's spine.

"Now, that my side of the bargain lies on the table, so to speak, I expect your Highness to fulfill your own."

"Which was...?"

" Unroot those warlock nests that clutter the basements in Murder Row..."

The Regent choked in sheer amazement.

" Establish severe punishments for all those that are caught using shadow magic or summoning demons.", Eireannan continued, his voice burning now with such a determination the other one dared not interrupt. " The law, as it was before the War..."

"Do you think this will stop people from turning to fel magic?"

"No" , Eireannan admitted." There will always be dark basements and people that give into the temptation. But it will discourage those reckless children that ruin their lives because they feel their is no other way to survive...and no one bothered to tell them otherwise..."

"I find it at least surprising that this request comes from a...a..."

" An oath breaker". Eireannan ended Lor'Themar Theron's phrase rather sharply. " Yes, I did break some wows and made some not-so-good choices...and though I don't quite like the outcome, I wouldn't have it any other way." He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "But this is not about me, and the tragedy of our people will not be smaller if we add more corruption to it."

" I would try", the Regent conceded, his eyes betraying a strange feeling, somewhere in between admiration and utter puzzlement. " As you know, the Grand Magister sort of...encourages such practices...And he is a loyal follower of you know who."

Eireannan sighed. It was half a promise and half a promise was still better than nothing...still better than drunken girls, addicted to bloodthistle and seduced by their own demons, whom they had little, if any power to control.

Oh, no, he said to himself, disgusted by his own pretense of self-righteousness... he had not cared.

Not after the reconstruction of Silvermoon was finished and the remaining Magisters enthroned themselves in the freshly rebuilt city, pretending to rule the destiny of the High Elves.

Children of the blood...

Changes, spinning one after the other...the discovery of the addiction, the mana crystals, the endless search for something to quench the thirst which absorbed so many of his kind to that day...

Kael'thas leaving for the Outland...The return of Grand Magister Remmath, with the knowledge of "new ways"...

That which lay deep under Sunstrider Place and the Blood Knights...

And most of all, corruption and depravation and darkness.

It had been easier to let it all behind and go fight failing battles in the Plaguelands. Easier to run away from this changing world which seemed so strange, in flavor and color, so different from the one he had known.

But no longer, Eireannan quietly thought to himself, feeling the pain again, in the depth of his being, the same pain that, even here, within the mana crystal network of Silvermoon, kept sending at times small stabs through his heart.

No more.

(( just a little clarification... Warlock - From the Old English wærloga; "oath-breaker" or "deceiver".

http://www.wowwiki.com/Warlock))

The fights we take

There was power.

As he carefully made his way over the blighted soil of Deatholme he felt it throbbing in the back of his head.

The place was packed up with strong magic, the ley lines converging towards the tower that rose threateningly in the middle of the citadel. He could trace them in his mind, the energy of the land itself converted into something more powerful, yet so dark it sent shivers down his spine only thinking of it.

The mindless creatures of the Scourge roamed towards him from all sides, driven like fireflies by the sparkle of a candle. It was his life they claimed, the force behind them requiring the utter extinction of everything that breathed.

Fighting his way inside, step by step, the voidwaker charging at the wailing spirits and the huge, horribly looking nerubian spiders.

He hated spiders, Eireannan thought, summoning yet another bolt of shadow that hit the creature, sending it to the ground, its thin legs frozen at awkward angles.

We believe that Dar’khan Drahtir has returned, the Regent had said, his eyes flickering with a spark of hatred and disgust. It was a well known story the two had once been close friends, before the war. Before Dar’khan’s schemes to steal the power of the Sunwell for himself had been exposed. Before he had willingly provided Arthas with the precious information he had used to crush the elven defenses and make his way into Silvermoon.
We have already failed twice in our attempts to destroy that…that undead monstrosity that is responsible for the slaughter of our people.

Resources were scarce in the Ghostlands. Almost all those that could fight had long gone through the Dark Portal to join Kael’thas in the Outland.

I will do it.

A loud crack as he swept with his sword over one of the approaching skeletons and the pile of bones fell to the ground.

No man can take Deatholme alone.

The voidwalker growled at his enemies and Eireannan focused again on the fight, whispering curses under his breath, the enormous spiders writhing in searing agony.

I will.

He didn’t stop to look at the trail of bones and corpses he left behind. Focus was everything. Pushing his own strength as far as it would go.

You’ll die.

The pain as the stream of shadow magic hit him right in the back. His demonic shield absorbed most of it, but it was still enough to make every nerve ending in his body twitch. He staggered, turning on the spot to see the necromancer that was just summoning the second bolt. There was another roaring sound when the voidwalker intercepted one of the huge spiders that was aiming at Eireannan’s head. It took him a second to regain equilibrium and, letting the demon deal with the second attacker, he dashed to the necromancer, dodging the bolt.

No I won’t. Not today.

The sword felt heavy as he lifted it with both hands, aiming at the human’s head. He missed it though and only smashed his shoulder. The sound of cracking bones made his stomach clench. The man fell, with a muffled scream, from the force of the blow, struggling to cast another spell. Eireannan lifted the sword again and drove the blade through his chest this time, bringing him down for good.

It starts in Deatholme. But it won’t stop here.

Running forward on the winding path that leaded into the tower.

Blood on his hands.
Again.

There was power in that place and now he felt it stronger than before. The temptation.

He quickly dispatched the two shadowy forms guarding the entrance. Pausing a second to catch his breath before sliding in.
He focused on the inward sounds, trying to ignore the thundering beats of his own heart. The tower seemed to speak with a thousand voices, humming and vibrating under the touch of a stranger.

It starts in Deatholme. But it won’t stop here. I won’t let it stop.

He went down the stairs, carefully following the wall, so as not to bump unexpectedly into an enemy. There were three of them, all necromancers. He sent his demon to take care of one and darted forward towards the other two.

They hit him and it hurt again.

But the pain was just fuel, Eireannan thought, as he raised his hands above his head to call down the fire. It poured over them and within minutes it was over. The smell of burned clothes and charred flesh, raising from the two corpses was so strong he had to fight the sudden rush of memories.

The pyres.

No.

Don’t think of that.

Focus.

The sounds of fighting had stirred the undead creature that lurked in that forsaken place. Another face he’d known when he was younger. Dar’khan Drahtir, member of the Convocation of Silvermoon. Now twisted into a cruel smile as he took in the sudden apparition of the intruder.

“Another one who wishes to join the dead?” he asked, his voice sounding exactly like his features were. Low, cruel, wicked.

“You dare challenge me by coming to this place? You will die and be raised to serve the one true master.”

Eireannan shivered. It was a possibility he had considered during the long sleepless night that had preceded his insane attempt. One that terrified him. He fought his emotions, trying to bring them to a bearable level. In the end, it all came down to winning the fight. The alternative was simply unconceivable.

They faced each other for what seemed like an eternity. Fingers poised on the sword hilt, so hard it ached, as he forced himself to endure the fixed, venomous gaze of the undead mage.

Assessing him.

Trying to find his weakness.

Eireannan shivered again. The demon stirred and growled behind him, and for a second his attention was attracted by the sound, enough for Dar’khan to send a bolt of dark energy towards him. He avoided it – barely. It hit the wall behind, shattering the stones into pieces. Some of them pierced his skin, leaving blood trails on his face.

And then there was the sudden, unexpected rush of panic, making him want to run, run away and hide, as his mind and will failed him altogether…

Suffering followed soon.

Dark.

Niniel’s body laying sprawled in a grotesque position in the blood soaked grass.

The smell of death.

Fear.

Just a spell, Eireannan forced himself to reason, as he fell to his knees, panting from the pain inflicted by Dar’khan’s curse of Agony. Just a spell. He’d used it hundreds of times before to weaken his enemies.

And he wasn’t going down under his own fel magic.

The hell he wasn’t!

He heard the inhuman laugh of Dar’khan Drathir as the undead drew closer, bathing in the weakness of his victim.

“Did you say your goodbyes?”

Come closer.

“How stupid to imagine you can defeat me!”

Closer.

“ And now you shall serve my master as well”.

No, I won’t.

Eireannan rose in a single move, pushing with both hands the sword through Drathir’s chest. Turning it around to widen the gush into the dead flesh, while the other one squirmed, trying to break free.

Whispering the words like a litany.

“Suffer.”

Unable to push him away, the undead mage extend his hand, grabbing Eireannan’s arm, forcefully. A fel –yellow green light spread over the place where it touched him. Eireannan gasped again, in shock, as he felt it reaching to the core of his being, to drain away his life force.

“Burn”.

Pulling himself back to plunge again the cold steel into the even colder body that was greedily draining him.

Again. And again, through the searing flames that engulfed them both.

Until it was over.

The undead body fell to the ground with a muffled sound. Eireannan stepped back, hands trembling, struggling for breath. A sort of satisfied smirk showed up on his lips, as he shoved his boot into the corpse to roll it on its back.

This man had opened the gates of Silvermoon to the Scourge. How many thousands had died because of him? How many others wandered under foreign skies, bound to demons and fel magic because of him?

“I told you it is not today that I die.” he whispered in the silence of the hall, while pulling the dagger and calmly proceeding to the gruesome task of removing Dar’khan’s head.

Revenge was such a bad, corrupting and deliciously flavored thing, after all.

The choices we make...

A soft rustle of wind passed through the branches of the half dead trees, making the sickly looking leaves rustle.

The sound of large, boneless wings fluttering somewhere over his head. A mist bat.

The wind shifted again, this time bringing in the foul scent of death, from the blighted soil of the Scar. Eireannan tilted his head back to look at the massive walls of the fortress that dominated the surrounding area with its gloomy presence.

The same as in Stratholme, the air was dense, filled with a suffocating mist, that seemed to clutter his lungs, preventing him for breathing. With a shrug, Eireannan sat down, on the edge of the cliff and closed his eyes, trying to release the tension building in his muscles.

It is time...

-------

That night, only three days before, had left him emotionally drained.

There were just too many things to cope with in such a short time. Laandra's nightmarish story, the intensity of their love making and the reality of having to let her go.

He had woken her up in the morning, kissing her, her body tightly snuggled against his own and made again love to her, this time without rush, keeping himself in control all the time, until she finally gave up to the sensation and cried out in ecstasy.

Then, suddenly, when her breath returned to normal, he heard her speak and he had to admit towards himself that he had been expecting for those words all the time.

"Raene wrote", Laandra had said, her voice laced with a soft tremble. " She asked me to go to Ashenvale and help with some trouble they have been having recently..."

" Then you should go", he had whispered, wishing that she didn't sense the hesitation in his answer.

She rose on an elbow, leaning over him, to gently touch the line of his lips as he spoke, her face etched with concern.

"I don't want to leave you alone, Eriean."

But she needed to be alone. To fight for herself. To regain her confidence and her strength.

He didn't know if Laandra understood this as clearly as he did, yet it changed nothing.

He would have tried to cushion her. Protect her. Shield her away from the pain.

And harm her even worse in the process.

"I'll survive", he whispered. " And then you can check on Daria. I guess she could use a familiar face around."

" Eriean..."

His name trailing into the silence of the dusty room in which they spent their nights. Too much time, Eireannan thought, wasted in such forlorn places, the shadows outside mingling with the ones in your own soul, until you no longer felt how wrong everything was.

" What about you go and we'll meet two weeks from now, in Ratchet?"

Their was relief in her features.

" I suppose I could."

" Then it's settled", he had said and drew her closer in yet another embrace, knowing that his expression would have betrayed him.

----

It is time.

In front of him, at the end of the blighted trail, Deatholme loomed through the morning mists, like a fortress of doom.

He stood up, his tall frame projecting a long shadow across the grass, almost to the brink of the Scar. Remembering the old superstition he had during the war, a small smile crossed his weary features.

"Not today", he whispered for himself, before starting down the slope, and into the Dead Scar.

What the words cannot say

(WARNING! This one is very graphical and includes depiction of rape and torture.
Also it comes directly after Shadows...lazy me for not reposting)


"It happened after the crash" , she said, softly. Speaking about such things wasn't easy, Eireannan thought. Finding the right words. Facing your nightmares.

Laandra quivered a little in his arms, trying to focus.

"But I think the story starts before that. Back there, on Draenor."

"It was a beautiful world. Not like today. I was little, but I can still remember, the green, lush fields, where I used to walk with my mother. Then the Legion found us." Her voice broke. "The orcs were corrupted by the demonic blood. For some of my people it was Argus all over again...Kil'jaeden and our Prophet Velen used to be friends, you know? But when Sargeras the Destroyer came to the Eredar and lured them with his promises, Velen saw behind his treacherous words. He gathered those of our people that refused to side with the demons and fled until they found safe haven on Draenor." Laandra sighed deeply, before resuming. "Draenor means "Exile's refuge" in the tongue of our ancestors."

"The orcs ravaged the planet. They burnt down our cities and slain our people. We had lived in peace with them for so long that we were totally unprepared. We fought desperately, but in the end we were defeated."

"Shattrah"..." The City of Light. I...I lived in Shattrah, with my parents, and their siblings and their children... You see, in our culture we didn't have this concept of..."family" as you and ...and the humans have... The community itself was a large family. We would protect and support each other.

"The siege on Shattrah lasted for days. I was too young to fight...yet I remember exactly what followed when the city fell. The orcs rushed in and slaughtered everyone in their way. Men, women, even little children. I...We..." Laandra broke again, tears now gleaming in her eyes; Eireannan couldn't see her face, but the the slight trembling of her body betrayed her emotion.

"Velen knew Kil'jaeden won't stop until he killed all our people, to the last man....He led a part of our people to safety, while the rest stayed back to cover their escape. And died. We all knew what it meant...to remain in Shattrah. To sacrifice."

Eireannan instinctively tightened his grip on her shoulders.

The parallel was crushing.

He could imagine easily the outlines of a glorious city, one like Silvermoon used to be...trampled down by wave after wave of blood thirsty orcs, so much like the ones that had made it to the very borders of Quel'Thalas in the Second War.

And so much like the Scourge that carved its way into Silvermoon itself...

"So we fled. And hid into Zangarmarsh. Mourned our dead. Then the Naaru came. And the strangers. Your kin."

"Velen said we could try to make our escape using the Naaru ship. But when we got there, it had already been taken over by the Sin'dorei. We barely managed to wrestle control of the Exodar...but then the core was sabotaged and we crashed here, on Azeroth."

A pause,while Laandra fought the overwhelming emotions that now stormed over her. She swallowed hard, and Eireannan felt her tense, trying to continue but unable to utter the words.

"Take it easy, Laan", he whispered in her hair.

"I'm fine..."

"The Exodar scattered into pieces all across the islands...together with us all, draenei and Sin'dorei saboteurs...I was near the Cryo-core, when it happened. Helping out, as much as I could. After the crash, we...me and a handful of others, found ourselves prisoners to the blood elves that had survived."

" And then...I remember clearly what they did." She drew in a sharp breath, clasping her hands together. " Vindicator Saruan was with us. He was one of the Triumvirate...our leaders...what was left of them. They had us all bound...and tortured him...it seemed like hours...they beat him savagely and used all sorts of foul magic to defile his body...I couldn't watch any longer...I closed my eyes but I could still hear the sounds...I could still feel the pain...his pain...They tortured and eventually killed most of their prisoners...They were angry for the crash, desperate to return to the Outland..."

"Eventually they got tired of killing. They had set up a sort of camp in the wreckage...They took me in. I was bound, like the others. That man...the one we...you...killed...he seemed to be in charge, after the one they called Matis. There were three more others...and they stood there, and watched...as he ripped off my already torn clothes..."

A sob. Yet her eyes were dried and she gazed hard at the wall in front of her.

" He took out his dagger and pushed me across the table...by that time even the fear had worn off...I had seen so many horrible beatings that I didn't actually cared...what was happening to me anymore."

"He started cutting. Not very deep...so that the blood loss won't weaken me too much...so that I could still feel the pain."

Laandra stopped again, this time shuddering profoundly.

The pain. She could nearly re-live it, surging through her torn body, as he had played with the knife for what seemed like hours, cutting and slashing intricate patterns in her flesh, enjoying the sight of her blood, dripping in rivulets across her naked back and chest.

After a while her senses seemed to numb and she thought that she would faint. It would have been a mercy, compared to what followed. Sensing that she was drifting away, the man torturing her had shoved her against the table, her ribs cracking with the pressure. She yelped and he just pushed the dagger somewhere in her shoulder, making her scream for good at the even sharper pain.

Then he raped her.

Shivering, she remembered the awful feeling as he knocked her again, this time against the wall, forced her thighs apart and entered her in one single move, pushing himself into her unwelcoming body.

She had cried out and tried to wrestle free, squirming in her bonds, as he tore through her sensitive tissues. For that, he slammed her head into the wall; it hit it with a sickening noise, blood immediately bursting from the wound and trickling down her face. Dizziness took over her, and she went limp in his merciless grip, while he continued to thrust into her, grunting in pleasure.

It was like through a red daze that she remembered how the other three followed, the horrid pain dulled by the blow in the head. Eventually they had laid her back on the table, sprawled, face against the rough surface of stone, and used her inert body over and over again until they grew tired of it.

The first man cut her bonds and she fell into a bundle on the floor. He came near, bending over her, then hit her hard in the chest with his boot; for the second time she heard her ribs crack, as the blow knocked the air out of her. She had struggled to breathe, agonizingly.

Then they had one of the lower rank man remove her from the improvised barracks.

She remembered being dragged out of the room.

The last blood elf wanted some fun as well. He lay her half naked, bleeding body on a pile of debris and started pulling off his clothes.

She struggled to rise, the feeling of anger and despair that had boiled in her all over the abominable torture supplying her with strength, now, that her bonds had been untied.

He tried to touch her. Slapped her roughly in the face when she pulled away.

Then it got all fuzzy in her mind. Only the horrid smell of charred flesh and bones, as she fought to stand and ran to the shelter of the forest. All power fading, she reached the nearest cliff...then exhaustion and agony overwhelmed her and she slipped, rolling down, on the other side, sharp stones tearing even more gushes into her already devastated body. A stabbing flash of pain as her head hit against a boulder of rock.

And it all went black.

Pulling herself out of the terrible memory, Laandra was shocked to hear herself speaking. Had she done it the whole time? she wondered, her heart nearly jumping a beat.

Apparently she did.

Eireannan had released her shoulders, realizing that he would have hurt her, as his fingers tensed, with crushing strength.

Laandra blushed, feeling his utter dismay as, his breathing short and hard, Eireannan leaned back, against the wall, crossing his arms.

"Eriean", she whispered. Light, she should have tried at least to soften the story. But she had just dipped into the memories and the memories were staring back at her and the words poured...

"Eriean"...

She turned towards him, trying to guess his expression in the darkness. She couldn't.
Extending her hand, Laandra brushed through his hair, as she had done it that night, in the Alterac Mountains, when they had first met.

Eireannan reached out to touch her hand. His fingers were cold and slightly trembling.

She nestled herself back into his arms and this time he didn't withdrew, he just locked her again in an embrace as they stood, her back pressed into his chest.

None of them spoke for a very long time.

Games within games

Lor’themar Theron paced back and forward, anger showing in his stance and the way in which he spoke. The words were still measured, but uttered through gritted teeth, as he turned back again, towards the elf standing near the window.

“You have killed – in – public – an important person…”

Eireannan gave him a blank look. He wore his plain dark clothes, a white runecloth bandage, noticeable through the half opened laces of the shirt, “decorating” his right shoulder. The Regent couldn’t stop thinking the man looked exhausted, as if he had been food, sleep and mana deprived for weeks.

“What, would you have preferred I did it on a side street?”

“You speak too much and too loud”, Lor’themar Theron said, pacing between the window and his seat, across the richly decorated room. “Say things other people should not hear. Not yet. Not until I am sure…we are sure that we can secure the power…HE still has many loyal followers…not to mention those that blindly believe in his promises…”

“So we’ll wait until the proud High Elves of Quel’Thalas are no longer more than a bunch of blood thistle addicts, mind controlled into not having any opinions at all by their own leaders?”

“I’ve suddenly remembered your father saying you were quite ‘revolutionary and uncomfortable to deal with’, even for those happier times”, Lor’themar Theron added, quietly. Eireannan’s features contorted in an awkward expression, as if he had just eaten something unpleasant and was in doubt whether to spit or to swallow. Then, it all wiped away and there was again that sarcastic half-smile that would have annoyed the calmest of men.

“Let us not talk about the dead. The living are of more concern to me.”

“Those returning from the Outland are respected. You just don’t go killing them in the middle of Tranquilien, in the dead of the day…”

“The ‘respected’ person sew me with a poisoned dagger.” Eireannan gestured towards his bandaged shoulder – he had had a healer only remove the fast spreading effects of the poison itself and left the wound unclosed, for the “scenic effect”, as he had confessed to Laandra. It was slightly uncomfortable but he had survived the Scarlet Monastery. An inch deep slash was not even worth mentioning in the context.

He fought to control his tone and attitude. It wasn’t highly recommended to push it too far, not with the Regent of Quel’Thalas. He was treading a pretty fine line, Eireannan thought, but when had he ever done different? And hell, after listening to Laandra’s nightmarish story, he felt angry!

“There is something I wanted to talk to you about”, the other man said and Eireannan shifted out of his own thoughts, somehow surprised at the easiness with which the Regent had left the previous matter drop.

So we are playing, he thought, hiding the smile that threatened to betray his real mindset.

I’ll do you game and I’ll do Sylvanas.

But I’ll do mine as well, whether you like it or not.

Lost

((this is mature and sexually explicit so please, if you don't think you can stand it or you are under age, DON'T read)).


He woke up under her kiss.

Desperate, urgent, as her hands cupped his face, preventing him for turning away.
She has crawled onto him with all her weight and the scent of magic was so deep, so rich that he could barely refrain himself from tapping hard into it.

“Laan…”

He tried to utter her name but all that came out was a muffled sound, as she continued to kiss him deeply, her tongue eagerly exploring his mouth. And he kissed her back, his body instinctively responding to the craving passion in her touch, even if his mind struggled to tell him then and there, it just wasn’t right.

She seemed to want to drown in him, judging by the urgency of her touch, her hands roaming freely under the covers and his clothes. And then, on another layer of perception there was the stabbing pain of withdrawal and the rich taste of her mana, so strong that it made the world spin around, as he tried in vain to fight the aching need he felt.

“Laan”…

“Shh”, she whispered in his hair, breaking the kiss only for a moment, before returning to his mouth with something like an insatiable hunger. “let me…”
Her warm, soft body was curled over his and the funny thought that crossed his mind is that they generated enough heat together to fuel a gnome’s experimental laboratory. Laandra’s hands were everywhere, in his hair, on his chest, sliding, caressing, making him burn. He shifted a little, enough to take hold of her arms as he rose, but she followed him, her kisses going down his neck, her soft breath sending small shivers to his very core.

The next thing he became aware of was that he held her almost roughly ,kissing her, with the same almost vicious desire Laandra has shown before. She moaned and whimpered under each touch, wrapping herself around him, her eyes closed in abandon, her head trashing from side to side.

He entered her just a little and she sobbed, thrusting forward to make him sink into her welcoming body. He drove forcefully into her and Laandra let a small, choked sound escape her lips…then she squirmed under him, arching her back, her hands closed on his shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh, bruising…yet he remained oblivious to that, to anything else than her delicate features, the way in which she bit her lower lip as the storming sensations engulfed her.

And he could not take it anymore.

He’d been through all sorts of pleasure and all varieties of pain, yet nothing, ever, as intense as the moment in which his control broke into little shards and delved into her mana.

The stream of her magic flowing inside him, filling him like an empty, dried well, sending him over the edge and into something resembling an endless abyss, as she climaxed and cried out in ecstasy. Her body tensed around him and he almost cried too, collapsing on top of her, among crumpled sheets and blankets, limbs still tangled, fighting for air in short, rasped breaths.
It took him minutes to regain consciousness, or at least some state close to it. To unclench his hands from her arms, only to discover, in the shrouded light of the dawn, the bruises on her skin.

“Oh Light”, he breathed. There was blood on his lips, where he had bitten them to retain his cries. He wiped it with the back of his palm, slowly becoming aware of the slightly painful traces on his back, where her nails had savagely dug into the skin.
Laandra lay by his side, eyes closed, in something like a state of trance, her breathing slowly returning to normal.

It was a test, Eireannan thought. Pushing herself to the limit, just to see that she could still feel.

That the horror of the returning memories had not numbed her senses yet.

That she hasn’t grown afraid of taking and being taken.

And it was that very fear in her soul that threw them both well over the limits, making them experience such bliss.

He frowned again at the sheer self abandon she made him display. He would never –willingly- allow himself to feel that much. She made him lose control.

And he hated that, as much as he loved her and the feeling of her warm body under his own.
“Laan?”

She opened her eyes and gave him a small, insecure smile, then her gaze widened in apprehension and she raised a hand to his cheek, letting it drop almost immediately.
“You look like hell”, she said, but there was no remorse in her voice.

“You should see yourself”, Eireannan muttered, bending on one hand to examine more closely the bruises on her neck.

Laandra closed her eyes again, her eyelids fluttering slightly against her alabaster skin. Shivering under his touch. Smiling, to some image in her mind that he could not see.

“So it wasn’t a dream”, she whispered.

“Apparently not.”

With a deep sigh, Eireannan rested his head on her shoulder, placing a small kiss on the bruised skin. He felt wasted, utterly drained by the intensity of their love making that he doubted he would have found enough strength to stand, were they to fight for their lives in that very moment.

He heard her sob too, her chest heaving with the unwelcome rush of memories, as she probably thought again at her recently discovered past.

But she could face the fear, he knew it.

She was strong.

Strong enough to let go.

And those moments they had just shared were her shield…a shield to protect her from the stinging pain of tears, from the moments when the world seemed to sink into darkness and there was nothing else left, nothing to hang on to and believe it was still worth living.

I love you Laan, he thought.

Yet he did not find the courage to say the words out loud.

Shadows

“Eriean?”

Her voice was meek in the silence of the room. He turned and she could see it clearly on his face that he was in pain as well.

Yes there was pain, Eireannan thought, as if aware of what was going on in her mind.

And there was nothing he was able to do to relieve it. He remembered the insane rush through Stratholme he’d done the day before, after the events in Tranquilien. Went in alone, one thought only brandished in his mind in scarlet letters.

To kill.

At least he’d done no worse to the world by sparing it of another handful of necromancers and ghouls.

The funny thing was the Scourge were for the most part witless, or so corrupted by the dark magic they wielded that they could not even remember the distinction between wrong and right. It was an army the Lich King put together with the sole purpose of wiping out all life on Azeroth. And it was impossible to blame the rotten corpses for the atrocities they so easily committed. Blame Nerz’ul, Arthas Menethil, Kel’Thuzad if you want… Someone who *should* have a sense of morality. Stitches had no brain to think with, no personal will to abide by.

So, Eireannan meditated, it could even get worse than that.

The Scourge trampled over our cities and villages and unburied our dead…They torn apart, chopped, disemboweled and stepped over our loved ones. They didn’t however beat, torture and rape our women and children IN COLD BLOOD!

It had to be the survivors to do that.

It really had to.

Then it is true that the worse tormentors are recruited from the martyrs that have survived their trials.

It would have been a thousand times better for the Scourge to extinguish us all, to the last woman, to the last unborn child, rather than to become such creatures ourselves.


----

“Eirean”, Laandra repeated and again the sound seemed to reverberate in echoes in the utter silence of the room. “Come here”.

He obeyed. Afraid yet to look into her eyes.

It’s not that I feel guilty.

But I’d rather not lived to see how low into darkness my own kin have fallen.

And I thought being a warlock was bad enough.

What they do makes me look like an innocent, although my hands are seriously covered in blood.

I can't stand your suffering, Laan...

Her face betrayed anguish and exhaustion, but at least the empty gaze was gone, Eireannan noticed. That was better. Shock and despair had a logical progression, he remembered…he’d learned it as a priest so as to be able to deal with such situations and ease the pain of those in need…and then he’d tested it first hand after the fall of Silvermoon.

There was a limit to the capacity of suffering each being possessed. Eventually you reached the bottom. And if getting there hadn’t killed you yet, you would survive.

“Hold me”, Laandra whispered, leaning forward, across his lap, so that her face was nestled into his shirt.

With a deep sigh of relief, Eireannan pulled her closer, wrapping his arms protectively around her shoulders. It was exactly the thing he’d wanted to do for two days now, yet he dared not, fearing her reaction.

You are alone and you will die alone, remember?

But the suffering was real and so were his feelings towards her. The rest was a total blur.

“I’m sorry”, she said, after a while.

“You – are – sorry?”

Her warmth, her delicious scent, the feeling of her body cradled against his, after two days of mental torture were more than enough to make his head spin.

“For pushing you away like that.”

“I would have done the same”, he whispered and instinctively tightened his grip. “There are moments when no one can understand what you are going through. You have to drown in you own pain and survive it, or you’re lost…”

“Yeah”, Laandra sighed. Her own life had taught her that much. But it had also taught her not to dwell on sorrow and bad memories. You became a victim the moment you started to consider yourself one. Such things simply happened. You went through them and just grew stronger.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked, quietly.

Laandra changed her position, so as to be able to look at Eireannan, as she still lay in his arms and felt shocked by his pained expression.

“Matter of fact, yes”, she whispered. “I just…I just think I’ve lost it badly, these days…”

“No”, he said, softly caressing her hair, the tip of his fingers trailing over the frown lines in her face, then her lips. “You’re actually taking it well.”

She raised a brow, as if his statement was completely surprising, and then gave a small shrug.

“There is something Prophet Velen, may he be blessed by Naaru, told me once. There is no place deep enough inside of you to hide from your own fears…”

Eireannan didn’t answer. Just held her even tighter, burying his face into her shoulder.

So strong out

It was dark.

The flickering light of the candle too weak to dissipate the shadows that stack into the corners and hung heavily upon them.

Laandra lay curled, face towards the wall, eyes wide open. Her breathing short and shallow, as memories rushed through her mind, in much more vivid detail than she had ever wished.

She felt thirsty.

She had refused to eat or even drink anything over the past two days. Refused to speak. Refused to be touched. Just sat there, locked in silence as in a protective suit of armor and remembered it all.

Somehow she remained aware, all this time, of his presence.

He just brought her home, if that place could be named so, laid her down on the bed and said nothing of it all.

He didn’t try to make her feel better. Didn’t offer consolation, a shoulder to cry on, small talk and warm tea. Not even poorly cooked soup - the only type he could make. Didn't talk to her. And it was exactly what Laandra had expected of Eireannan.

To let her be with her pain and her agonizing memories.

If there was anyone in the world that could understand what she was going through, it was Eireannan Saralonde.

So she sat there, and thought about it over an over again, for two days and a half.

---

But it was time to let go.

It had happened more than five years before.

She was no longer that girl, beaten and tortured into submission.

She had survived it.

The fact that she had regained her memories changed nothing.

She was Laandra Seth’Aran, Mage of the Hand of Argus.

And she was strong.

Careful where you tread

((same as before, a bit graphical and violent, depiction of death. Nothing exaggerated.))


The man laughed arrogantly, evidently pleased by the obvious display of fear in Laandra's eyes.


“Do you remember sugar, what we used to do to those like you?”

Laandra didn't move. Her expression was frozen; eyes locked somewhere far away to things the others two could not see. The blood elf made a move to grab her arm but he didn't get to, as suddenly there was a sharp blade between him and the object of his attention, a blade that forced him step back and then settled itself across his carotid.

“I’m not kidding”, Eireannan said, and his voice was as serious and cold as death itself.

The Sin'dorei stared at him in utter disbelief, his hand dropping to the dagger he wore.

“You’d kill one of your own kind over some disposable wench?”

“Want to try me?”

The man squirmed nervously, trying to push away the sword at his neck, but Eireannan held it in both hands and it was impossible to get away.

“ Ok, I ain’t touching your toy”, he conceded, withdrawing his hand from the dagger and stepping back. Eireannan had not yet made up his mind if the insult he spoke was not in itself a reason to take his head. He decided against it, though and lowered the tip of the sword, as the other one shrugged retreating one step more.

Then, suddenly, with a swirl of movement, the elf lashed at him, pulling out both his daggers and the cold metal tore at Eireannan’s shoulder, through the clothing, leaving a deep gush across his flesh.

Poison, Eireannan understood, as the sharp pain dissipated in all his tendons and muscles and he felt his arm instantly grow numb, dropping the weapon. The man moved around,grinning devilishly as he was searching for another opportunity to deliver a lethal blow.

“Such foolishness”, Eireannan calmly said, calling out something in demonic. The void walker sprang forward from the shadows with a deep, inhuman growl. The Sin'dorei jumped back to avoid the massive creature that charged at him to defend its master. The poison was spreading fast, together with a feeling of sickness, making Eireannan’s stomach lurch, as he started to whisper words of shadow.

"Suffer."

The man stumbled back, under the attack of the demon, as a scream of unbearable pain escaped his lips and he writhed, barely able to hold on his weapons.

Oh, so he was tough, Eireannan mused, forcing to ignore the numbness in its own shoulder and arm.

Tranquilien was more silent now, as everyone, Sin'dorei and Forsaken all together had ceased their business to watch the fight.

"Decay."

Blistered skin, turning dark as the evil energy consumes the tissues, eating right through the bone of the now whimpering victim.

The problem with fel magic, Eireannan thought, was the pleasure each curse brought to the caster. So strong. So addictive.

He shuddered under the rush of adrenaline and the powerful sensations that coursed through his veins.

"Burn."

A blaze of fire engulfed the form of the blood elf, as he still tried to hold on against the demon that pushed him back, towards a wall. There were screams and the unmistakable, horrible smell of burnt cloth and charred flesh. The man fell to his knees, unable to fight any longer, but still yelled out insults as he struggled to stand up again.

“Back”, Eireannan commanded, his tone again sharp and cold. The voidwalker obeyed, with another growl and withdrew, exposing the twitching body that lied on the moss covered pavement.

He calmly walked to it, after picking his sword from where it had dropped when the poisoned dagger hit him.

“Are you done?”

“I’ll rip you into small pieces and drink your blood”, the blood knight groaned. “You’ll beg to die. And she’ll beg too…after I’m done with using her body…”

Eireannan frowned, as he glanced back at Laandra who had remained still, unmoved throughout the entire fight, arms crossed at the chest, tightly wrapping herself. She seemed oblivious to anything else but the memory that locked her in its horror.

His heart nearly stopped beating as he understood.

There was the wicked grin on the face of the half-broken man that explained it all.

“I’ll tear you apart”, the blood elf threatened, staggering back to an almost vertical position. “Then her, again. And I’ll enjoy every moment of it”.

Eireannan felt anger raising inside himself, taking over reason. Persistence was such an annoying virtue from a half dead mean.

“Bash'a no talah!” he whispered in Thalassian, as he rose the sword with both hands and plunged it into the chest of the other man, so forcefully that he almost pinned him to the wall behind. The elf squirmed a little, coughing blood, then, with a final convulsion, went limp and Eireannan withdrew the blade, letting the corpse fall.

Well, life drain was cleaner, he thought, as he bent down to wipe the sword on the fallen man’s precious mooncloth robe.

So that was how they fed their addiction, those that sworn themselves to the Burning Legion, Eireannan acknowledged, with disgust. His arm was completely numb now and the pain was throbbing elsewhere, in his chest, in his head. The poison brought from the Outland was spreading fast.

Through the torture that released the untapped spiritual energy of their victims.

They fed it on death.

Disgusting.

That one at least found what he was searching for, Eireannan thought bitterly, but without any shade of remorse, as he sheathed back his sword.

Laandra.

She still sat in the same state of shock where he had left her; her eyes blank, staring dully at the nearby wall.
It was the same look he knew he had when memories suffocated him under their merciless avalanche.

He could only guess what she remembered, but it made him shiver, nonetheless.

“Laan”…

“Don’t touch me’, she said expressionless and Eireannan slowly withdrew the hand he had placed on her shoulder. Laandra shuddered and wrapped again her arms tightly around herself.

“Make it stop.”

Closing his fist, Eireannan suddenly slammed it into the stone wall and the sharp pain that spread through his wrist and muscles almost made him cry out, as he looked at her, then back at the corpse that lay a few meters behind.

For the first time in his life, he’d wish to raise someone just to be able to kill him again… And again. And again.

And enjoy it each time.

The hell that lives in ourselves

(( this one and the next one are twisted and quite a bit graphical, so if you have problems with a some violence being displayed don't read...))


Cruelty. Mercilessness. Darkness.

It’s like a switch has been turned into her mind and now memories are pouring, suffocating.

Pain. Shame. Despair. Agony.

The strong scent of blood as the knife rips again through her flesh, and her body is slammed into the cold wall.

That face. She remembers the look on it. All too well.

“Do you want to see what we do to pathetic wretches like you?”

No. Please, no. Not again.

“You’ll enjoy it, sugar, you’ll see”.

There’s the searing pain when the knife trails again across her back, almost carefully, so as not to cut too deep, not yet, there is still much more to go…She squirms against her bonds, feeling the blood run down her skin and into the already soaked fabric of her torn shirt.

Please, Light, make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

But it lasts for hours until she is nothing more than a mass of raw flesh and oozing cuts and the men had taken turns at using her body.

She remembers his face as he cuts her bonds with the same knife he used to torture her and she falls to the ground, unable to stand any longer.

The wicked grin, the cold eyes, sparkling with the green of the fel, now that his thirst has been quenched in her sobs of agony.

She lays broken on the floor and he kicks her ribs hard with his boot, making her curl and scream.

Then he just goes away.

Premonition

Tranquilien was no longer the friendly little town it used to be.

The name sounded more like a stupid joke, Eireannan thought, looking around himself. Half ruined , half repaired buildings, covered in moss, a few Silvermoon guards and a handful of Forsaken that carry the trades.

Well, tranquil it was.

From time to time, the sound of battle emerged from the watch post which guarded the narrow path leading into the Death Scar. The mindless undead were driven towards the scent of life, with the clear purpose of extinction. As the guards pushed them back, silence fell again over the small settlement.

Laandra stayed quiet by his side, the hood of her green cloak pulled down to cover her features. She had insisted to come along, growing weary of the days spent in hiding. But she didn't like the place and Eireannan clearly perceived her uneasiness, after the side glances she threw at the Forsaken.

He didn't like it either.

And less of all that morning.

The strange churning in his chest was a premonition. Something bad was going to happen, really soon. He could feel it in the air.

The man that emerged from the inn wore the impressive- looking uniform of the Blood Knights. He stopped a little, to survey the gloomy surroundings, then went down the stairs and towards the bat handler, side glancing towards them.

His movements were arrogant and careless when he brushed by Laandra, making her lose equilibrium. She staggered, letting out a choked sound of surprise, as he turned, in a swift motion and pulled back the hood of her cloak, revealing her face.

“My, my”, he commented, grinning sarcastically, to cover his own surprise. “The hell if I don’t know you…”

Eireannan grabbed Laandra’s arm, to prevent her from falling. He perceived the tension in her muscles, as her features contorted with sudden pain and she blindly stepped back, to avoid the man’s touch.
Staring into his eyes, gasping.

That face. She remembered that face.

She remembered it all.

Test of will

The piece of paper lay crumpled by his side.

From the vantage point where he stood, on top of the Windrunner Spire, he could see the sea.

No longer was the place roamed by vengeful ghosts, as it had been during the first years after the war.

Young adventurers had slain them all by now, allowing the restless spirits to enter the peace of the after world.

Or the nether, for the matter. He still hadn't figured it out, yet.

The sea sang endlessly with a thousand voices, waves that crushed against the shores, lacing the sand in white foam.

It felt cold.

Maybe because he only wore a shirt against the chilly breeze that came across the waters and into the empty, lifeless rooms of what had once been the luxurious residence of the Windrunner family.

But cold was good. It kept his senses alert and helped him fight against the pain.

He shouldn't be thinking of that pain, he warned himself, as he forced his mind elsewhere. With all the practice over the years and the recent experiences in the catacombs of the Scarlet Monastery, he had become quite an expert at drawing the line between consciousness and body.

Not this time tough.

He knew too well the reasons of the searing agony that sent sharp stabs through each little muscle.

Withdrawal.

He had taken so little mana lately from his demons. Not that he would ever draw enough to quench his need, but even less so over the last few weeks.

Laandra.

It was her presence that made him feel again the bitter taste of doubt after so much time. Made him wonder why he had chosen the path of darkness and corruption, against all he had once believed in.

He remembered all too well the days that followed after the fall of Silvermoon. He'd wish he didn't. How they built the pyres and burnt them all. Family, friends, the Convocation of Silvermoon, his father, Niniel's broken form...Everyone. Then, they just set the entire Ghostlands on fire as well, to drive back the Scourge. He remembers himself laying awake at night, afraid to drift into sleep, because the horrors are there, awaiting for him to close the eyes and live them over and over again.

Unable to utter even a single prayer. Light had failed him. And he had failed the Light and the familiar words would sound hollow and meaningless.

There was only death.

Despair had made him listen to the nether. It was power behind the veil and what was left of his kin needed the power.

So he'd taken it and made it serve.

At least this is what he wanted to believe.That he had had control.

And he had, for the most part of these years.

But then there were those moments when he'd lost it as well. Moments in which he had killed out of sheer pleasure and he didn't even remember why, just the power and the ecstasy flooding his senses as he drew in the victim's last sparkle of life. Moments in which he had felt as if there was another being inside his body. A demon. A monster.

Say it, even in that day when you first met her.

You just wanted to kill.

It's the truth.

Conscience hadn't troubled him for a while. Hell, the nightmares were enough.

If you drink the Nether, the nether will be you. sooner or later you'll be corrupted. And there is no turning back.

He covered his face with his hands, unable to discern any longer whether the pain was in his body or in his mind.

A little. Just a little sip.

No.

Do you imagine that by submitting yourself willingly to this torture you'll cleanse the taint?

Meditation didn't seem to help for anything, lately. Only to bring forth the annoying voices in his head.

You'd rather be one of the Wretched?

A small laugh.

I'm so much stronger than that. It's just pain, nothing more.

A hell lot of pain, but it didn't actually matter.

He could control it. If he couldn't then his entire life wasn't worth the trouble, anyway.

The second letter

(( in decent script, after tiring attempts at deciphering the writing))

Dear Ei'an,

It i just now that I have some time to write to you to say I am fine. I am staying in Astranaar and went hunting...*chuckle* there is so much green forest here that I never thought it were possible.
And peaceful as well, though I miss you badly. But maybe you were right this time - and this time only- it's good to be here as well.
See you soon and hopefully in one piece.

Daria

PS: Say hello to Laandra too.

The first letter

Most dear Laandra,

There has been a long time since I have not heard of you. There was some rumor about you being in Ashenvale not long ago, yet I can not believe that you would have come here and not pay a visit to us in Astranaar.

Then it was the human that brought us tidings, that you are running an assignment from your blessed Prophet somewhere in the East. I know it must be important, yet I wish you could come to see us, for I need your help and your advice in a matter of great concern to me.

I do not wish to say more of it in a letter, but should you be able to come, I will tell you all and together we may be able to devise a course of action, to avoid even greater danger than is now.

So, until we see, dear friend, may that you have the blessing of Elune upon you in all your deeds.

Signed

Raene Wolfrunner

Shades of grey

There were two letters waiting for them in Soutshore; one for her, and one for Eireannan.

Funny how, Laandra thought, despite the turmoil this world had experienced of late, correspondence seemed to always make its way towards the addresses.

Probably because the goblins made such good money by running the postal services. And then, there was also this habit, to entrust a letter to some barely met traveler and ask it to deliver it at his destination.

The two envelopes Laandra picked from the mailbox of Southore inn bore the mark of Ratchet. One had Eireannan’s name scrambled down by a hurried hand, not really on friendly terms with the writing. The other one was cleanly folded and had her own name, ‘Laandra Seth’aran’ clearly written on the back.

Tucking Eireannan’s letter into her pocket she retreated to a quiet place, out of the way of passers by and opened hers, frowning as she did so, recognizing the small seal of the Sentinels of Ashenvale.

She read it twice, her features darkening a bit under the news, then folded it back and placed it in the same pocket where she had put the first one.

Why did she come to the town in the first place?

Oh, yeah, she remembered, their supply of food was almost exhausted, and so were so reserves of crystal vials and briathorn. With a long sigh, Laandra headed towards the inn.

The lower floor was packed up with people, mostly humans from Hillsbrad and some dwarves form The Hinterlands, mugs of beer and ale and cigarette smoke. They would talk out loudly, laugh and flirt, without paying too much attention to the alien looking draenei woman, as she strode in and made her way towards the bartender.

As a matter of precaution, Laandra had pulled the hood of her cloak well over her hair, almost covering the face as well…The burning of Hillsbrad was quite recent and, despite the darkness of that night, some people might remember. Even though, she knew it, to many of them, that held barely hidden disdain for strangers, their faces looked all the same

She made her purchases in a hurry, so absent minded that she had to count thrice the silver coins before handing them to the man. He eyed her tall figure suspiciously, trying to see behind the cloak that draped her body and hid her features, but without success, as Laandra had positioned herself in such an angle so as to be away from the candlelight.

Going out of the inn, the stuff she had bought packaged and stuffed in the all-purposes bag she usually carried around, she stopped for a second to look at the darkening sky.

A soft breeze came from the sea and brushed through her hair, making her shudder.

It smelled like vast openings, endless waters and salt. It smelled like freedom.

She immediately felt ashamed of her nostalgia.

Your home is wherever you can do the work of the Light.

But how much work of the light she had done lately? Laandra asked herself, shivering under the memory of that night in Duskwood…only two weeks or so before. Tapping into his essence had been such a thing of darkness, yet it felt so good that she still had trouble telling herself it was bad. It was more than draining the magic out of Eireannan. It had been the communion of two souls which longed for each other. Or was she just trying to convince herself that it was so, to diminish the guilt she felt?

Was it so how the forces of shadow corrupted the innocents?

An innocent she wasn’t.

She had killed before.

Not in the name of Light, neither in that of the evil that freely roamed the world. Out of sheer necessity and to prevent greater harm being done.

Her own fire magic, wasn’t it a manifestation of the Nether itself when she brought it into reality? And wasn’t it a double edged sword – warming houses, cooking food, ultimately purifying , but also the most destructive force she had ever known?

Eireannan himself…

With something like a bulge in the back of her throat, which prevented her from breathing, she stumbled down the main street of the town; only to find herself on the little pier, alone, save for a fisherman or two, who were packing their tools. The night was rapidly falling over the land, the sky now gloomily dark towards the east and bathed in a strange, blood-like light in the west, where the sun was settling behind the mountains.

Laandra sat down, seating aside the full bag, her legs crossed, her hands clenched in her lap.

Eireannan was a double edged sword too.

He had suffered so much, she thought. Lost his family, the woman he loved and everyone he had ever cared for, in the most horrible of ways. Saw their bodies broken and defiled, the utter destruction of his home land, at the hands of a man alongside he had fought against the Plague all over Lordaeron.

And lost his faith.

Who wouldn’t have?

Yet he was caring and compassionate, ready to sacrifice himself to defend the life of the innocents.

And he was also dark and ruthless, like the shadow that crept into his soul. Fighting each day to maintain the balance between the values in which he still believed despite his denial and the fel magic that tainted his blood and threatened to take control.

I am aware of all this and yet I still love him. I may not approve of some of the things he does, but that does not change my feelings.

Fel magic is the same as fire.

We have to draw on it to survive.

But we have to maintain control.

She longed for the times when magic wasn’t a matter of conscience, but only a tool to fight against the corrupted treants of Bloodmyst. When things used to be good and evil in her mind. Light and shadow. Not various shades of grey.

With a sigh, Laandra felt into her pocket for the letter, and wrapped her fingers around it, as if the call of that far off land would have been able to sort out the torment in her own head.

Into Silvermoon

Stepping through the Shepherd's Gate for the first time in seven years, Eireannan was surprised by the decadent opulence of the city.

Oh, Silvermoon had always been astonishing with luxurious buildings, sparkling fountains, and green parks. But now it felt differently, packed with chained crystals filled with magic energies, floating spires and castles and the omnipresent arcane patrollers, ceaselessly roaming the streets.

Yet, behind the impressing facades there appeared to be gloomy, dimly lit interiors...and then there was the scent of fel magic, persisting in the air, Eireannan thought. He could feel it.

People walked around in the crowded avenues, minding their own business, under the inhumanly attentive gaze of the enchanted patrollers.

Eireannan made his way on the Walk of the Elders, and turned left to enter Murder Row. He stopped by one of the buildings and peered inside through the opaque veil that masked the entrance. The scent of fel was almost sickening, he noticed, as a woman came out and brushed by him, closely followed by a succubus.

She wore red robes, her hair neatly tied back with a matching ribbon. A slender, somehow fragile apparition. But the expression of her face and the absent look spoke of blood thistle addiction, as she staggered past him, before stopping dead in her tracks and measuring Eireannan appreciatively.

'Oh, new faces in town" she observed, in a deep, purring voice.Do you want to join us for some fun, sugar?"

The succubus moved forward, loudly snapping her lash on her thigh and stretched out a sharp nailed hand to touch his cheek, then licked her lips provocatively.

'No thanks" Eireannan muttered, pushing the demon away to face her mistress. " Keep your bloody demon on a leash or it'll go back to the Nether, where it belongs."

Now, Sylvanas Windrunner was right, Eireannan thought. Any decent man in his right mind would have laughed his brains out hearing such a statement from a warlock.

So he was a summoner. But he had never thought of his minions otherwise than tools to serve his will. Calling upon them in battle to shield himself was one. Consorting with a succubus was a very different thing and there was a clear line drawn in his head between the two matters.

He strode forward, followed by the long, curious gaze of the woman.

Leaving Murder Row he crossed through the Court of the Sun, towards the Sunfury Spire. There were at least 30 Silvermoon Guards lined on both sides of the entrance, on the stairs that lead into the imposing structure, all displaying the same proud air, expressionless faces and shimmering red armor.

From the middle of the plazza in front of the Spire, Eireannan assessed the view of the sumptuous floating building with a barely hidden contemptuous smile.

What in the Nether was he expecting?

Humility and High Elves had never been close friends, and the war, the passing of the Scourge, had made it even more important, to stress to themselves the place they occupied in the world that changed so much.

Grinning a little, he brushed some imaginary dust from his robes - he had donned his battle gear for the occasion - straightened his back and calmly started to climb the stairs towards the entrance of Sunfury Spire.