Of light and shadow

Demons don't go away that easy.

He had fought with the burning desire for her energy for hours, before managing to get uneasily asleep.

But there was no peace there either. Not for him.

In his dreams, Silvermoon fell again and again under the march of the Scourge. He could see himself desperately searching through the ashes, when the enemy had retreated and they came back to bury their dead.

But what they discovered was even worse. Death was a dreamless sleep, yet most of the defeated had been raised by necromancers to fuel the ranks of the Scourge…brothers and sisters, wives and husbands and children all together, trapped in the nightmarish twilight between existence and non-existence. All will and understanding forever gone, only the terrible hunger making them chew at their own rotting flesh. And the same as in Stratholme, the few still alive set to the grim task of delivering them forever. He carried corpses to the burial fires, no time for prayers now, no blessings in the name of Light, no ceremonial for the passing of the deceased…only the fires, raising higher and higher in the air, fueled with the bodies of those he once knew, cared for, even loved…

He vividly recalled stumbling upon the pyre, flames engulfing him until someone pulled him back. His own hands badly burned up to the elbow, the pain he felt nothing in comparison to the void inside.

He remembered trying to heal himself, trying to say the words to soothe the almost unbearable suffering, yet he couldn’t…they wouldn’t come, and then he suddenly knew why…he could no longer call upon the powers of Light, because there was no Light left…no hope, only death…What merciful God would have witnessed such atrocities and allow them to happen?

The wind brought with him the smell of burnt flesh and hair and clothes. That hideous smell that followed them for days, when all was over and Silvermoon lay in ruins…Pain made him clench his teeth not to scream. He laid there, unable to move, to feel, to speak, his will lost, his soul barren and filled with despair. Someone helped him clean his wounds and bandaged them as good as it could, under the circumstances. But it was not only his skin that had burnt. Faith had withered and without it there was nothing to make him want to raise and act again.

He woke up again, his forehead covered in cold sweat. Knowing from experience it would be unable to get back asleep, he just rose and went to the cave entrance, from where he could look outside.

The blizzard was still up and the wind howled across the vale. A burst of cold air hit him, shaking away the last vestiges of sleep He was now fully awake and aware of his heartache.

Eireannan Saralonde drew away his gloves and, in the dim light of morning reflected by snow gazed at his own badly scarred hands. The tissue had somehow regenerated over time, yet it still looked awful, even to his own eyes. A healer might have been able to help. Yet, in all these years, he had never gone to see one. A punishment it was for foreboding Light and all its teachings all together and treading the dark path of nether magic. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but that was the truth. The sight of his disfigured hands was the constant reflection of the ugliness of his soul.

He heard steps behind him and jumped a bit.
He had woken her up.

He could feel her presence close, oh, so close and he started to rise and turn back, but it was too late. Before even having the time to utter a word, he felt the soft touch of her fingers on his shoulders, brushing away his dark hair, caressing the tensed muscles.

The simple touch brought him on the verge of fainting, as her spiritual energy flooded his senses, coursing through his veins.

“Eireannan…”

“I’m sorry”, he suddenly said. “I have disturbed your sleep”…

No, Laandra thought, he had been trashing under his blanket, screaming and his pain filled her with sorrow and bitterness.

Here they were, two enemies chance had brought together for a brief time.
If she was waiting for a moment to escape, this was as good as any. He seemed so vulnerable, as he was sitting there, his back turned to her. Had she been to strike him, he wouldn’t have had enough time to call for his demons. Fire over frost, frost over fire. Her fingers seemed to itch, twisting almost as of their own accord to summon forth ice shards and rains of flame.

Her enemy. A blood elf. A warlock.

Laandra wondered if he felt her hesitation. If he knew her thoughts.

“So many of my people died because of the blood elves.”

A small gleam of blue, starting to spread from her hand. If she moved fast she could finish him off before he had the opportunity to react.

She would have done it. Revenge was not her way, not what Velen the Prophet has thought his people, yet it was so very hard to forgive and forget. If this man would have looked at her, fought against her, she would have been only glad to wipe him out of existence. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and your soul to the nether, where it belongs, foul summoner of demons!”

Her breath was ragged, air seeming to escape her lungs.

He must have guessed her intentions, yet he made no move, just stood there, gazing at his own hands whose skin, she only then noticed, was scarred and marred beyond recognition.

“So many of his people died to the Scourge…”

“ I must cleanse the world of this evil that walks it face, disturbing balance in all things”

But Erieannan Saralonde remained seated ,his back turned to her, his own breath harsh and fast as he felt the tension building in herself.

With a sigh, Laandra snapped her fingers into a fist, stopping the spell just in time. She was one of the Hand of Argus, not a betrayer, to sneak and kill from behind someone that had placed his trust in her. Even if that someone was a blood elf warlock that, Light only knew, probably deserved much worse!

Her hand went again through his hair, then brushed softly against his cheek, with a burst of affection whose source was still unknown to her, and Erieannan relaxed against her touch.

“Why did you not do it?” he asked quietly and Laandra blushed to the tip of her tail, if that were possible. “ I know some of my people committed atrocities against your kin, back there in the Outland.”

“You were not there”, she whispered.

“Some like me”, Erieannan insisted. “ Don’t you harbor hatred for us all the same?”

“No”, Laandra said. She moved quickly so that now she was in front of him. With another sigh she dropped to her knees, and then sat down near Erieannan…feeling awkward for still being taller than him even like this.

“ Then you’re a better person than many of this world”…His eyes were dark and full of anguish. “Even in the Plaguelands has been rumor of the teachings of Velen. If I were in your place…”

He dropped his head on his knees, looking now utterly defeated. It was not what she had expected, Laandra thought. Instead of becoming the prisoner of a mighty and sadistical warlock, there she was, unwilling witness to his own personal torment. How strong her hatred should have been to resist this sight?