Crossroads

Dawn is a strange thing in the Ghostlands.
Maybe because the light is never so strong so as to wash away the mists and the shadows that lingers over the lands.
The air seems filled with an ominous premonition, chilling to the bone, like the howls of wolves and the rustling of great spiders through the trees.
This land is not dead, neither alive…

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Her breathing is soft and relaxed, as she lays curled on one side, her back against the wall, her right arm forming an awkward angle in which she had nestled her face.

He traces with only the tip of his fingers the line of her jaw, half hidden in the lush, silken blue hair.

Laandra moans a little, but does not open her eyes and he wonders whether she likes to pretend she's still asleep, or if she has grown so confident in his presence that a slight touch like that does no longer cause her to wake.

He draws in a deep breath, closing his eyes to repress the overwhelming feeling of affection. So powerful that is nearly sickening, making him ache, as he tries to imagine how it would be to lose her again.

It's like looking into the abyss, Eireannan thinks, leaning back against the wooden wall of their shelter. The more you stare down, the more you feel like taking a step in.

There are decisions to make.

Decisions that may shatter their lives.

Or may bind them together even more.

Sylvanas is right. One cannot avoid his fate forever.

He has to go to Silvermoon.

"Eriean?"

Laandra stirs, uneasily, under the pile of blankets and furry cloaks that represents their bed.She raises a hand to shield her eyes from the pale rays of light that slide through the broken windows inside the cottage and tries to look at him, but Eireannan has already slid back, at her side, under the warm covers. His arms encircle her waist and he presses his face into her shoulder, with a sigh.

"It's early. Sleep some more", he whispers.

I have to think about it.