Introspection

Erieannan Sarálondë stood atop the peak that oversaw the ruins of Strahnbrad and his eyes wandered restlessly along the misty lines of the mountains. It snowed heavily. Despite his heavy fur-lined cloak, Erieannan felt cold.

Chilled through the bone, as one of the mindless undead creatures of the Scourge that roamed through Tirisfal Glades or Silverpine. What was the difference between him and one of those, he wondered for the hundred time in the last days. The remnants of control to which he desperately clung, always telling himself that he was stronger than the thirst for magic, than the foul energies from which he drew his very life essence.

He had learned to harness them, yes, but didn’t they control him in the same way? A puppet at the mercy of his own addiction! The blood elf clenched his fists, wishing he could hurt someone…hurt himself, prove that somehow he was still alive, still feeling, still the person he had been before the Scourge armies had carelessly marched over the walls of Silvermoon.

They called him the Deathcaller.

He heard a chuckle behind and turned in a burst of anger at the small creature. The imp smirked deviously, not at all concerned by his master’s torment. As much as he had used to loving his own desperate solitude, even the company of an imp was sometimes preferable to the endless void inside.

The most dangerous thing of all, Eireannan muttered to himself, was not loneliness, but the lack of a presence you had grown used to.

Even it had been only for a night.

Such a brief moment, yet enough to tear apart what was left of this own fragile equilibrium.

Her energy, so strong, quenching his painful addiction...her calm, and her tenderness soothing the never closing wound in his soul, the warm, soft hands brushing through his hair, driving him closer, into something like a mad kiss, before they crumbled together to the ground, in an embrace.

"Don't remember, don't remember, dont't think of this, not now..." Maybe if he said it long enough it would help to keep the memory away.

But it didn't.

He felt pitifully weak, a man even a witless imp could laugh at, and it was something to laugh at, of course, as he stood there, unable to simply let go.

" How many times do you have to lose to learn the lesson?

There is nothing for you to love in this world. Nor in the others.

Only the sharp blade that you keep at your side, and your own force, that gathers around the creatures of the nether and bends them to our will.

Nothing else.

Your are lonely and you will die lonely."

But it still ached so badly that Erieannan wished he could end it there. Get on the highest peak and just step forward, into nothingness.

Maybe the thrill of the fall as well. Then his body crushing to the rocks below, in a mess of broken bones, flesh and blood. Not a nice sight, but probably a good meal for the howling wolves of the wild.

He glared down at the imp, blushing slightly, as if the noisy creature would have been able to guess his suicidal thoughts.

That was not a good choice either. At least not until he finished his business with the Scourge.

Straightening against the chilling wind of the mountains, he wrapped himself tighter in his cloak and let out a small mocking laughter.

He was after all Erieannan Sarálondë the Deathcaller, head of the Shadow Moon and he would not fail.