Peering Ahead.

[Yva]

((Some writing I'm doing about those damnable elves. Muse has been kicking me in the pants to keep writing about them, and Del and I are in a place in the game that all they can do right now is ignore one another and be a bit awkward. So! When does this happen? You decide.))

She walked the cliffs, but then, she’d always walked the cliffs. The lap of the ocean on the shore soothed her mind. Azshara, the land of perpetual fall. The small house nesting in the foliage was the one place she could call home. It had two bedrooms, a small living room with a fireplace, a large working kitchen, a pantry and a washhouse. All she could ever need.

Her time among the humans ended when the humans she’d called friend had ended. Watching the age spots riddle their skin, seeing their hair turn to gray, Indara was struck at how much life the humans had to live in such a short time. A hundred years to learn all there was to learn, to understand the riddles of existence.

It was humbling and at the same time, terrifying.

She sometimes peered into the glass, looking for age lines or some indication that she herself was changed, but there was nothing. The face looking back at her was the same face it had been for nearly three millennia. No lines, no discoloration, no . . . nothing. Silver skin haloed by white hair. Mature, but not aged. Still fresh, still beautiful, still untouched by time.

She grabbed her lantern, quietly closing the door behind her. Her hawk owl swooped, screeching a greeting before gliding towards the pink kissed horizon. She smiled, pulling her cloak around her. The winds whipped her skirts into a frenzy as she neared the cliffs. She could hear the first trills of naga song. It was a peculiar sound, their voices dipping into a haunting melody, but it had its own beauty. The sirens wove harmonies that seemed unearthly.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, staring at the sea, but the night had grown dark and the moon hung low in the sky. Starlight twinkled upon the water. He never said a word as he came to stand beside her, and she didn’t have to look to know him. There was a feeling on the air, a near tangible pulse. Perhaps she should have been surprised to see him here, on her cliffs, but . . . she’d expected him. She knew one day he’d find her.

And find her he had, after so many years.

[Delion]

((My contribution to the Future. Probably more to come, as we've been talking about it a lot. Some similarities to Yva's post as we were kinda working/musing on this together. In fact, this post should come just before Yva's.))

Autumn colours were draped throughout the store, the soft sunlight from the windowfront glinting off the fabrics as Delion Oreweave emerged from his living quarters above. He stood poised above the stairs looking over the little shop, gazing into the space between auburn spools and ochre bolts. His little business was doing well, and during the day it bustled with nobles and well-to-do folk from the cities. But it was empty.

Emptiness had taken them all; those once blessed with immortality, now cursed with watching as their loved ones withered away in their arms. It had struck the oldest the hardest, having never in millennia witnessed the death grip of simple age. To die in battle or by some foul disease was nothing in comparison to growing old. There was nothing to be done about it. Delion often caught himself checking for wrinkles in the mirror, not for vanity but for guilt. With each line he found he was closer to the Humans decaying around him, closer to their short and passionate lives. One by one they left the mortal world like autumn leaves dropping from a great tree, and the Elves were left behind with their grief and guilt of living.

Memorials were held, commemorations gathering on the calendar with each passing year. Tugging the blanket tighter about his shoulders against the early morning chill, Delion slumped against the doorframe silently. He wasn’t even seeing the same customers as he once did, those that supported the foreign new man in town when he had first arrived with bright cloth and lace. He was tailoring for their offspring now, children that… No, grown men and women. Light, they all would pass in his lifetime, he was sure of it. He’d still be far too young and lithe for his years as their legacies birthed and died about him. It was horrible to watch so many firey spirits grow dim and fade. When Shaila had passed they had…

Quietly, he turned away from his shop and closed the bedroom door, shuffling back to find his sheets stone cold.

He curled himself back up in them regardless, willing the autumn to cease.

[Delion]

"She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, staring at the sea, but the night had grown dark and the moon hung low in the sky. Starlight twinkled upon the water. He never said a word as he came to stand beside her, and she didn’t have to look to know him."

[Yva]

Wind and naga song, the cliffs echoing a melody so haunting she wished she could bottle it and share it with the world. Indara never looked at him as she turned back to the house, though she did crook her finger, motioning him to follow. He slipped in beside her, their footsteps evenly matched.

It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to look at him - Delion was a beautiful man, the planes of his face crisp and pleasing to look upon - it was that she wasn’t sure she could. She wasn’t sure what she would do. Strike him, for being the one to stir something inside of her? Even now she was angered by it. He didn’t have the right. By all that was holy, he hadn’t earned it. He’d set her aflame, her blood boiling. That day, so long ago had changed her.

The tailor had left a brand on her soul, and she’d never forgiven him for it.

The other possibility was that she would sob all over him, would cling to him like the last bit of sanity in an insane world, and her pride chastised her for even entertaining such a notion. So much had been lost. The Riders had fallen to decay, one at a time. Thantrus and Azka had passed, though they left their legacy in their enormous brood of children. Catrily had gone years before to a wasting illness. Tarquin had been destroyed by his past, his body sent home for a hasty burial. Bricu had sought his death, and had found it on a rainy spring morning many years ago. Shaila on the gallows, Brayden old and in his bed. Threnn in battle, Genise in a blaze of fiery glory . . .

With the humans gone, that left the elves, and their suffering had driven her here, back to Azshara and her cliffs. Elyle still mourned Catrily, nursing his hurt as if it had happened just yesterday. His sister helped keep him somewhat attached to this world, but too much damage had been done, and he was . . . wrong. Being in the same room with him made Indara’s skin crawl; it was like sitting beside a tall, thin sliver of death itself. Her skin would erupt in goose pimples every time his silver eyes found her face.

Ceil was fractured, it seemed, almost disjointed. She was strong yet, and Indara hoped she would recover sooner than later, but some wounds would not knit themselves together. Some would not slick over without a scar. For her love, Ceil would be scarred; she would bear the weight of his passing for the rest of her life, and only time would help her adjust to the pressure bearing down upon her.

Ulthanon had sought his old magics, and in the end, it was what had ended their tryst. She still wrote him from time to time, and thought fondly of him, but his pursuit of the arcane terrified her. The elves had fought this particular beast before and had lost. She hoped he was made of stronger stuff, and could avoid making the mistakes of the past. For his part, he seemed unchanged, but it was still a niggling worry in the back of Indara’s mind. She cared about him still, and likely always would.

Alishe had been widowed some years before, and had grown reclusive since then, keeping her children close, but the rest of the Riders at bay. Indara respected that privacy, and she gave the druidess her space to mourn. Perhaps one day they would see her return to them. Perhaps one day she would feel more complete without Prydion by her side.

Time. It always came back to time with the Kaldorei. For all of the time they had, they always needed just a little bit more. They were always just a little short.

Indara’s hands fumbled with the lock on the front door, and she slipped inside of the cottage, removing her cloak from her shoulders. She hung it on a peg on the wall before turning to her fire, stirring the stew she’d left to simmer. She didn’t have to motion him into a seat. He took one at the table, and she could feel his eyes on her back, watching her as she ladled two bowls full. They ate silently. She finally allowed herself to look at him, and was surprised by exactly how unchanged he was. The lines around his mouth were a little more pronounced, and there was a heaviness in his brow that had more to do with his aura than any true physical change, but he was still Delion Featherweave, Delion Oreweave, the phantom who had haunted her dreams for decades upon decades.

He was still the man she’d loathed and wanted in equal measure so many years ago.

She smiled faintly as she found the bottom of her bowl, opening her mouth to speak, but no words would come. Shaking her head, she opened the door to the guest bedroom, dropping into a deep curtsy. He made some kind of noise, but like a true coward, she turned away from it, seeking the safety of her own bed.

Her sheets were cold.

Elune be merciful, what now? He is finally here, what now?

[Yva]

A thousand years, a thousand more,
A thousand times a million doors to eternity
I may have lived a thousand lives, a thousand times
An endless turning stairway climbs
To a tower of souls
If it takes another thousand years, a thousand wars,
The towers rise to numberless floors in space
I could shed another million tears, a million breaths,
A million names but only one truth to face

A million roads, a million fears
A million suns, ten million years of uncertainty
I could speak a million lies, a million songs,
A million rights, a million wrongs in this balance of time
But if there was a single truth, a single light
A single thought, a singular touch of grace
Then following this single point , this single flame,
The single haunted memory of your face

I still love you
I still want you
A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head

I may be numberless, I may be innocent
I may know many things, I may be ignorant
Or I could ride with kings and conquer many lands
Or win this world at cards and let it slip my hands
I could be cannon food, destroyed a thousand times
Reborn as fortune's child to judge another's crimes
Or wear this pilgrim's cloak, or be a common thief
I've kept this single faith, I have but one belief

I still love you
I still want you
A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head
On and on the mysteries unwind themselves
Eternities still unsaid
'Til you love me

[Yva]

Restlessness.

She tossed in her bed, unable to find comfort among the nest of pillows. The finest sheets, the best down featherbed, a hand knotted quilt, and yet sleep remained at bay. She groaned, flipping onto her back to blink at the ceiling. The tailor, here, after decades away. The one want she never allowed herself to voice, and he’d walked upon her on the cliffs like something out of a dream. Her throat ached from wanting to yell at him, her arms ached from wanting to hold him, and she’d done neither. She’d maintained her silence and thus maintained her precious pride.

She tore herself from bed, retrieving her robe from the chair by the window. The silk slid over her skin, as cool as the autumn air. She pinned her hair on top of her head, keeping the white from her eyes as she began to pace, wearing a tread in the floorboards. Naga song echoed from the cliffs, and it should have soothed her, helped her find some elusive peace, but she was coiled in knots, her stomach tight.

“By Elune, you are being ridiculous,” she murmured in Darnassian. “Speak with him. Get it out of your system.” She went to the door, swallowing her nerves as she turned the knob. The fire in the kitchen hearth still crackled, casting flickering shadows on the walls. She filled her lungs with air, staring at the guest bedroom as if it had sprung horns and a tail. The door was ajar, both inviting and terrifying.

She rolled her eyes to the heavens, asking Elune for . . . anything - salvation, patience, surety of self - and she knocked, not waiting for him to answer. Instead she slipped inside, her body trembling. He was in the chair by the window, the moon highlighting the hills and valleys of his face. His hand toyed with the cuff of his robe, and she smiled. It was so familiar to her, and yet, it shouldn’t have been. It had been so long . . .

He stood, his chin notching up as he looked at her, and she was struck by the difference in their heights. She never realized before that he nearly had a foot on her. Perhaps it was because he’d been with Shaila, the tiniest human woman she’d ever met. Perhaps it was because she never scrutinized him as thoroughly as she was now.

Perhaps . . .

She opened her mouth to speak, but as before, no words would come. A tiny mewl from the back of her throat was the most she could muster, and color flooded her cheeks. He quirked a brow but said nothing. She shook her head, and a long lock of hair slipped past her shoulder to swing at her waist. He drew in a breath, his hand flexing into a fist. Seeing it, seeing him react to her, her spine stiffened. She looked into his face, locking her eyes with his as her tongue wet her lower lip. A memory flashed, of him, of her, of a shop in Stormwind so long ago . . .

[Yva]

((Warning, Elf Pr0n. Read because you're over the age of 18 with a parental consent form in hand. Okay, it's not that bad? No like, whips or chains or anything? But . . . you catch my drift. ))

They clashed in the center of the room. His hands cupped her cheeks as he kissed her, holding her steady to mash his lips against hers. She slid her hands over his shoulders to rake her fingernails down his back, a low growl in her throat. The thin silk of her robe did little to shield her from his heat.

Her hair came spilling down around them, and he wrapped his hands in it, cording it around his fists as he dragged her head back to kiss along the column of her throat. She couldn’t move, but she didn’t want to. She needed this, him. She always had, but it had never been allowed. It was never something she could say, or even allow herself to want. Too many things stood in the way, but now . . .

Now, for right now, he’s yours. It may never happen again. Do not waste this.

She was the one who walked backwards towards the bed, her fingers fumbling with the ties of her robe. She was the one who dropped the silk to the floor, letting the cool air touch her naked skin. She was the one who worked the buttons from his shirt, licking along his collarbone and every bit of pale flesh she unearthed.

He half threw her onto the bed, snarling as he followed her down onto the mattress. There was a frantic energy in his eyes, and her stomach clenched.

I love you, she said to herself.

“I hate you,” she said aloud.

Both things were true.

“Do shut up.” His hands coursed her hills and valleys, like he was trying to memorize every last part of her. There were two parts of a single whole: moonkissed skin, untamed white hair sticking to the moisture spreading over their bodies. He wedged a knee between her thighs and she shifted, curling a leg around him. His mouth attached to the pulse at the base of her neck with a groan.

And then there was no thought, only two bodies with a single intent. He wasn’t gentle, but she didn’t want him to be. Feeling, and too much of it. Her teeth bit his shoulder, her nails marked his back. He didn’t care. Breathing, ragged and choppy, whispers and moans in tune.

At some point he grabbed her hands, digging them into the mattress above her head.

At some point she whispered his name, tears running rivers down her cheeks.

And then it was over. The world shattered to white and splintered behind her eyes, propelling her to unpathed heights before letting her fall back to the earth in a tailspin. Too tired to do much else, she collapsed into sleep, not caring that they were wrapped around each other, not caring that his arm was around her waist, or that her head was tucked under his chin.

Not caring that for just that night, they looked like lovers ought to look.

[Yva]

She woke the next morning to an empty bed. Her hand slid over the sheets, trying to find the imprint of his body to ensure that it hadn’t been a dream. The blankets were folded back, the pillow shams creased from his weight.

Not a dream.

She slipped from the bed, retrieving her robe from the floor. It had been thrown halfway across the room in their exuberance, and she sighed softly, slipping the belt around her waist. She passed the mirror on her way out the door, and was startled to discover her hair in complete shambles, her lips swollen from too many kisses. She pulled the heavy white strands on top of her head, fastening them with a pin before padding into her kitchen. He was at the table, some parchment clenched in his hand.

He’d been there for twelve hours. She still hadn’t said a word to him aside from “I hate you.”

Her chin notched in the air as her arms folded over her chest. “I do suppose it’s surprising to see you here, Tailor. It’s been . . . how long now?”

“Mmm. Indeed.”

Her brow furrowed at the way he continued to skim his papers. Her foot tapped upon the floor. “Odd that your travels would bring you to Azshara.”

“Yes, odd indeed. Tell me what you eat out here. I’m rather famished.”

Her eyes flickered shadow. “I waited . . . I . . . “ She sucked in a deep breath. “EIGHTY BLOODY YEARS FOR YOU. Never knowing you even . . .”

“Do stop screaming.”

She snarled, grabbing the vase from the mantel. “Eighty years I believed you didn’t want me. EIGHTY!” She hurled it, watching the tailor half dive behind the door to avoid the splintering shards.

“WELL I CAN SEE IT WAS A REAL BLOODY MISTAKE NOW, CAN’T I. JUST LET ME THE HELL OUT SO I CAN LEAVE YOU TO YOUR HARPY’S NEST.”

Dignity. Decorum. As befits a Priestess of Elune.

She breathed deeply and spun on her heel, making her way towards the kitchen. She busied herself with slicing bread and cracking eggs, all the while waiting for the telltale click of the door closing behind him. When the cooking was complete, she looked at the mass of food and then out at the little table by the window.

He was sitting there, reading his papers.

Bloody hell.

She assembled two plates.