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...