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.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, February 08, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
