Post by Threnn on Jul 28, 2006 10:14:59 GMT -5
((So, yeah, you all know the disclaimer by now - potential future, may not happen this way. But I'm a big one for things coming full-circle, and I've always sort of had this in the back of my mind for Davien. "Blood and Fire" might be worth a read ( feathermoon.net/log/index.php?topic=392.msg3106#msg3106) , just so you know why I call it full-circle, but there ya go.
Because, y'know, you guys haven't depressed the fuck out of me enough with your own deaths, I had to go and write Davien's.))
There was never a cure.
Oh, every few months, someone would come with word of a man who'd once been Forsaken and now walked the streets of Stormwind with his living wife at his side. Or of a deader whose decayed skin had first begun to heal and then regained the healthy pinkish tones she'd had as a lass. Or hearts that hadn't beaten since their days as Scourge thumping once more, and lungs that hadn't drawn breath in years filling with air.
Every time, Davien turned them away. "My heart beats, sweetling. My lungs take in air. But the only cure for undeath is real death. Our lives ended when the plague took us. The only cure is going back to the sleep we've been denied."
For the first few years after she'd moved into the house on the edge of Westfall, she'd had very few visitors. Even with the world at peace, she was still a deader in living lands. Children made up ghost stories about the Witch on the Hill, and at Hallow's End she could count on catching the tops of youthful heads peeking into her windows, the brave ones who'd accepted the dares from their friends tagging the door and running back to the group of children waiting safely at the bottom of the slope. The farmers left her alone for the most part, occasionally coming up her path to trade some seeds, or to beg her to conjure a bucket of pure water to sprinkle on their crops when the rains came late.
Sometimes friends would come and see her, and spend a few days bringing her news of the guild and the people she missed. Noxilite had spread throughout the world, helping to rebuild, helping to defend against any threats that might come from the Outlands. They hadn't argued when she'd announced she was laying down her sword. She still listened to them over the stones now and then, to hear familiar voices when the wind howled from the sea. But Westfall was too much of a journey to ask them all to come see her, and she was done venturing out into the world.
Corspilla came down from Arathi when she could. Yva ventured out of Winterspring once or twice a year, but never stayed long. Most of their conversations were over the stones. Gharr had gone beyond the Dark Portal; it had been years since he'd set foot on Azeroth. It was the tauren she saw the most - and how that must have thrilled the local children, to hear the thundering steps of kodo and see the great beasts grazing on the hill. Khaz and Kerbada came and made her laugh. Ahka fussed over her when he stopped by, trying to draw her back to life. Bullhoof and Raga were her most frequent visitors, peeking in whenever the Darkmoon Faire came to Elwynn Forest.
Yet all those visits were bittersweet, tinged with the memories of days gone by, of a time when the world was at war and they had banded together to make it safe. When her guest were gone, Davien would sit by the fire with Bloodcaller on her lap, or turning a simple golden blade over and over in her hands until the sun came up, remembering and mourning.
There was no cure, and thus she resigned herself to outliving most of those she loved. She wondered how the elves coped with their long existences, but she didn't know any that she might ask. Perhaps you just took immortality one day at a time.
As the years passed, the locals grew more accepting. They brought her letters from her niece and nephew - Jessen in the Stormwind Guard as his father had been before him, Kyree in Dalaran, training in the way of magic - and some would stop in her doorway and chat about the crops or the sea or the weather before returning to their homes. The soldiers from Sentinel Hill had learned of her skill with a needle, and so she'd find baskets of mending left by her door some mornings. They left cheese or wine or books as payment when they came back for their baskets of an evening.
Some came in to sit with her, to listen to her tales or spin their own. She knew some of these guests were the children who'd peeked into her windows on cold fall evenings years before, now grown up and armor-clad.
There was a man who came and stood at the edge of her yard sometimes, always with the sun behind him so she couldn't see his face. She'd learned not to step off of her porch when he came - he'd only turn on his heel and stride away. She could have blinked to catch up with him many a time, but always she let him go. There was no malice in him; he simply came to look. Mayhaps he was trying to think of something to say. It wasn't until his fifth or sixth appearance that she saw something familiar about him - not enough to remember a name, or a face, but at least enough to know why he might visit and look upon her.
He had been at Sorrow Pass. It was the most she had - he'd been there to march upon Uthas and the Seen, but whether he was someone she'd once called friend, or simply someone who recognized a fellow survivor of that battle, she never knew. We all have our ghosts, and perhaps I'm one of his. Or mayhaps he's one of mine.
Then came the day she'd been dreading for almost twenty years.
The late afternoon sun had begun its journey toward the sea when Jessen and Kyree came riding up her path. Cavale whickered at the other warhorse from his pasture, and Davien came to the door to see Jessen help his sister down from the saddle. Anger made his whole body rigid; behind him, Kyree wouldn't meet her aunt's eyes. He strode to her, and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her out the door. Davien's head made a dull thud against the wall as her nephew threw her up against it.
"You never told us," he hissed. "Never once, in all these years. Why?"
"Sweetling, I- "
"No. All this time we've loved you. All this time we've trusted you, and you've never said a word."
"How could I, Jessen? Y'had nothing else. No one else."
The back of his gauntleted hand connected with her jaw and Kyree cried out as though she'd been the one hit. "You killed him," said Jessen, his voice low and deadly. "You killed him, and made us orphans."
"He died before y'r mother. Y' know that." Her mouth filled with blood and she spat it to the side.
"But he'd have been away when the plague came. He'd have been alive, and we'd have gone to him in Theramore."
Tears she hadn't shed in almost twenty years filled her eyes and made her voice thick. "Don't 'ee think I'd change it if I could, love? I practically raised him. All we had in the world was each other, after the orcs came. Each other, and y'r Great-Auntie."
"Don't you weep for him!" cried Jessen. "Don't you dare." He brought his hand up to strike her again. She spoke before he could swing.
"How did y'find out?"
It gave him pause, but he didn't lower his arm. "One of the soldiers in the Keep was stationed with him in Ashenvale. He told me of the wounds that killed my father, and that whoever killed him laid him out to be found by a patrol. A stranger wouldn't have done that."
She sagged back against the wall and nodded. "I swear to y', Jessen, I didn't want him dead. I was trying t'slow him down and get away, and he had me caught. I meant to singe him and run. It's all I meant t'do."
It was the wrong thing to say. Jessen roared and pushed himself away from her. He drew his sword.
Kyree wailed and rushed forward, dragging on his sword arm. "Don't, Jessy, don't! Please, let's just go." Sweet Kyree, who couldn't stand to see anyone hurt; of course she'd try to stay her brother's hand. He shook her off easily and she fell on her bottom in the dust of the yard. His sword lashed out in a fine arc, one that would have disemboweled Davien easily, if she'd still been leaning against the wall.
Instinct had made her blink away, and Jessen turned to face her. She wore no armor; all of her trinkets and pieces of finery that added to her power were packed away inside. This fight she couldn't win. He charged at her, knocking the breath from her lungs. His shield struck her upside the head and she rolled away, dazed.
Kyree had regained her feet and danced around her brother and her aunt, trying to pull Jessen off of the woman who had saved them when the plague made them orphans, but she couldn't get close enough without getting hurt herself. Davien drew herself to her hands and knees and shook her head to clear it. Beneath her, the ground froze and she launched herself forward through the arcane. Jessen snarled and hacked at the ice holding him in place.
"I won't fight y', Jessen. Y've every right t'hate me. I won't fight." She was bleeding from somewhere, the warm trickle of blood and the fresh flash of pain just registering. "Kyree, I - " But Jessen freed himself in that instant and came at her again.
Whether he would have killed her with that blow, he'd never know - later, he'd remember that he'd planned to turn his wrists and hit her with the flat of the blade; for all his anger, he still loved his aunt, his only kin aside from his little sister. But Kyree had blinked past him, ending up on the other side of Davien. She only meant to hit him with a little fire and push him back - his armor could take it, easily. But she was terrified, and her hands were shaking, and she misdirected the spell.
The fire threw Davien forward, into Jessen, and spilled them both onto the ground.
He lay there, seeing stars, and felt the weight of the woman on top of him. Jessen rolled to the side, and Davien tumbled off of him. He sat up as Kyree knelt beside them, sobbing. She pulled Davien into her lap, hugging her aunt to her chest and looked up at her brother. "Stop, Jessy, please. No more hurting her."
He nodded, his anger ebbing away. This wasn't how she'd raised them; everything she'd ever taught them had tried to impress peace upon them. She hated war, she hated the pain people inflicted upon one another. When Jessen had joined the Stormwind Guard, she'd wept bitter tears.
His aunt's breath came in shallow gasps, and Kyree had gone pale. "I hit her, Jessy. I was trying to stop you and I hit her. Help her. Help her."
"Shhh, sweetling," whispered Davien. "It's all right, now." Her eyes fluttered open, and she reached out. The world had gone dim, even though she knew the sun shouldn't set for another hour, at least. Jessen took her hand, and she couldn't remember if it was her brother or her nephew sitting beside her. Kyree sobbed and sobbed, and for a moment it Davien thought she was the one crying, keening over her brother's body in Ashenvale so long ago. Kyree was, after all, nearly her mirror image. The only difference between Davien-then and Kyree-now was the girl's life - her green, green eyes and living skin.
"Will'ee forgive me, loves?" she said, and smiled when Jessen kissed her forehead. His tears wet her skin, and he wrapped his arms around his sister and his aunt.
Then shadows covered everything, but not the dreadful ones that had come to her so long ago. These were a comfort. These blanketed her like sleep, like a salve, and her eyes slipped closed for the last time.
---
For a moment, as the last rays of sun set the canals in Stormwind ablaze with color, a figure stood upon a bridge. She was tall and thin, and wore a floppy hat which she took off of her head and let the breeze steal from her fingers. Her pale, pale hands reached up and, one by one, pulled the pins from her long black hair, until it fell down her back and blew in the evening wind. She smiled at the sun as it dipped below the city's shining walls, and set off towards the trade district.
And then she was gone.
Because, y'know, you guys haven't depressed the fuck out of me enough with your own deaths, I had to go and write Davien's.))
There was never a cure.
Oh, every few months, someone would come with word of a man who'd once been Forsaken and now walked the streets of Stormwind with his living wife at his side. Or of a deader whose decayed skin had first begun to heal and then regained the healthy pinkish tones she'd had as a lass. Or hearts that hadn't beaten since their days as Scourge thumping once more, and lungs that hadn't drawn breath in years filling with air.
Every time, Davien turned them away. "My heart beats, sweetling. My lungs take in air. But the only cure for undeath is real death. Our lives ended when the plague took us. The only cure is going back to the sleep we've been denied."
For the first few years after she'd moved into the house on the edge of Westfall, she'd had very few visitors. Even with the world at peace, she was still a deader in living lands. Children made up ghost stories about the Witch on the Hill, and at Hallow's End she could count on catching the tops of youthful heads peeking into her windows, the brave ones who'd accepted the dares from their friends tagging the door and running back to the group of children waiting safely at the bottom of the slope. The farmers left her alone for the most part, occasionally coming up her path to trade some seeds, or to beg her to conjure a bucket of pure water to sprinkle on their crops when the rains came late.
Sometimes friends would come and see her, and spend a few days bringing her news of the guild and the people she missed. Noxilite had spread throughout the world, helping to rebuild, helping to defend against any threats that might come from the Outlands. They hadn't argued when she'd announced she was laying down her sword. She still listened to them over the stones now and then, to hear familiar voices when the wind howled from the sea. But Westfall was too much of a journey to ask them all to come see her, and she was done venturing out into the world.
Corspilla came down from Arathi when she could. Yva ventured out of Winterspring once or twice a year, but never stayed long. Most of their conversations were over the stones. Gharr had gone beyond the Dark Portal; it had been years since he'd set foot on Azeroth. It was the tauren she saw the most - and how that must have thrilled the local children, to hear the thundering steps of kodo and see the great beasts grazing on the hill. Khaz and Kerbada came and made her laugh. Ahka fussed over her when he stopped by, trying to draw her back to life. Bullhoof and Raga were her most frequent visitors, peeking in whenever the Darkmoon Faire came to Elwynn Forest.
Yet all those visits were bittersweet, tinged with the memories of days gone by, of a time when the world was at war and they had banded together to make it safe. When her guest were gone, Davien would sit by the fire with Bloodcaller on her lap, or turning a simple golden blade over and over in her hands until the sun came up, remembering and mourning.
There was no cure, and thus she resigned herself to outliving most of those she loved. She wondered how the elves coped with their long existences, but she didn't know any that she might ask. Perhaps you just took immortality one day at a time.
As the years passed, the locals grew more accepting. They brought her letters from her niece and nephew - Jessen in the Stormwind Guard as his father had been before him, Kyree in Dalaran, training in the way of magic - and some would stop in her doorway and chat about the crops or the sea or the weather before returning to their homes. The soldiers from Sentinel Hill had learned of her skill with a needle, and so she'd find baskets of mending left by her door some mornings. They left cheese or wine or books as payment when they came back for their baskets of an evening.
Some came in to sit with her, to listen to her tales or spin their own. She knew some of these guests were the children who'd peeked into her windows on cold fall evenings years before, now grown up and armor-clad.
There was a man who came and stood at the edge of her yard sometimes, always with the sun behind him so she couldn't see his face. She'd learned not to step off of her porch when he came - he'd only turn on his heel and stride away. She could have blinked to catch up with him many a time, but always she let him go. There was no malice in him; he simply came to look. Mayhaps he was trying to think of something to say. It wasn't until his fifth or sixth appearance that she saw something familiar about him - not enough to remember a name, or a face, but at least enough to know why he might visit and look upon her.
He had been at Sorrow Pass. It was the most she had - he'd been there to march upon Uthas and the Seen, but whether he was someone she'd once called friend, or simply someone who recognized a fellow survivor of that battle, she never knew. We all have our ghosts, and perhaps I'm one of his. Or mayhaps he's one of mine.
Then came the day she'd been dreading for almost twenty years.
The late afternoon sun had begun its journey toward the sea when Jessen and Kyree came riding up her path. Cavale whickered at the other warhorse from his pasture, and Davien came to the door to see Jessen help his sister down from the saddle. Anger made his whole body rigid; behind him, Kyree wouldn't meet her aunt's eyes. He strode to her, and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her out the door. Davien's head made a dull thud against the wall as her nephew threw her up against it.
"You never told us," he hissed. "Never once, in all these years. Why?"
"Sweetling, I- "
"No. All this time we've loved you. All this time we've trusted you, and you've never said a word."
"How could I, Jessen? Y'had nothing else. No one else."
The back of his gauntleted hand connected with her jaw and Kyree cried out as though she'd been the one hit. "You killed him," said Jessen, his voice low and deadly. "You killed him, and made us orphans."
"He died before y'r mother. Y' know that." Her mouth filled with blood and she spat it to the side.
"But he'd have been away when the plague came. He'd have been alive, and we'd have gone to him in Theramore."
Tears she hadn't shed in almost twenty years filled her eyes and made her voice thick. "Don't 'ee think I'd change it if I could, love? I practically raised him. All we had in the world was each other, after the orcs came. Each other, and y'r Great-Auntie."
"Don't you weep for him!" cried Jessen. "Don't you dare." He brought his hand up to strike her again. She spoke before he could swing.
"How did y'find out?"
It gave him pause, but he didn't lower his arm. "One of the soldiers in the Keep was stationed with him in Ashenvale. He told me of the wounds that killed my father, and that whoever killed him laid him out to be found by a patrol. A stranger wouldn't have done that."
She sagged back against the wall and nodded. "I swear to y', Jessen, I didn't want him dead. I was trying t'slow him down and get away, and he had me caught. I meant to singe him and run. It's all I meant t'do."
It was the wrong thing to say. Jessen roared and pushed himself away from her. He drew his sword.
Kyree wailed and rushed forward, dragging on his sword arm. "Don't, Jessy, don't! Please, let's just go." Sweet Kyree, who couldn't stand to see anyone hurt; of course she'd try to stay her brother's hand. He shook her off easily and she fell on her bottom in the dust of the yard. His sword lashed out in a fine arc, one that would have disemboweled Davien easily, if she'd still been leaning against the wall.
Instinct had made her blink away, and Jessen turned to face her. She wore no armor; all of her trinkets and pieces of finery that added to her power were packed away inside. This fight she couldn't win. He charged at her, knocking the breath from her lungs. His shield struck her upside the head and she rolled away, dazed.
Kyree had regained her feet and danced around her brother and her aunt, trying to pull Jessen off of the woman who had saved them when the plague made them orphans, but she couldn't get close enough without getting hurt herself. Davien drew herself to her hands and knees and shook her head to clear it. Beneath her, the ground froze and she launched herself forward through the arcane. Jessen snarled and hacked at the ice holding him in place.
"I won't fight y', Jessen. Y've every right t'hate me. I won't fight." She was bleeding from somewhere, the warm trickle of blood and the fresh flash of pain just registering. "Kyree, I - " But Jessen freed himself in that instant and came at her again.
Whether he would have killed her with that blow, he'd never know - later, he'd remember that he'd planned to turn his wrists and hit her with the flat of the blade; for all his anger, he still loved his aunt, his only kin aside from his little sister. But Kyree had blinked past him, ending up on the other side of Davien. She only meant to hit him with a little fire and push him back - his armor could take it, easily. But she was terrified, and her hands were shaking, and she misdirected the spell.
The fire threw Davien forward, into Jessen, and spilled them both onto the ground.
He lay there, seeing stars, and felt the weight of the woman on top of him. Jessen rolled to the side, and Davien tumbled off of him. He sat up as Kyree knelt beside them, sobbing. She pulled Davien into her lap, hugging her aunt to her chest and looked up at her brother. "Stop, Jessy, please. No more hurting her."
He nodded, his anger ebbing away. This wasn't how she'd raised them; everything she'd ever taught them had tried to impress peace upon them. She hated war, she hated the pain people inflicted upon one another. When Jessen had joined the Stormwind Guard, she'd wept bitter tears.
His aunt's breath came in shallow gasps, and Kyree had gone pale. "I hit her, Jessy. I was trying to stop you and I hit her. Help her. Help her."
"Shhh, sweetling," whispered Davien. "It's all right, now." Her eyes fluttered open, and she reached out. The world had gone dim, even though she knew the sun shouldn't set for another hour, at least. Jessen took her hand, and she couldn't remember if it was her brother or her nephew sitting beside her. Kyree sobbed and sobbed, and for a moment it Davien thought she was the one crying, keening over her brother's body in Ashenvale so long ago. Kyree was, after all, nearly her mirror image. The only difference between Davien-then and Kyree-now was the girl's life - her green, green eyes and living skin.
"Will'ee forgive me, loves?" she said, and smiled when Jessen kissed her forehead. His tears wet her skin, and he wrapped his arms around his sister and his aunt.
Then shadows covered everything, but not the dreadful ones that had come to her so long ago. These were a comfort. These blanketed her like sleep, like a salve, and her eyes slipped closed for the last time.
---
For a moment, as the last rays of sun set the canals in Stormwind ablaze with color, a figure stood upon a bridge. She was tall and thin, and wore a floppy hat which she took off of her head and let the breeze steal from her fingers. Her pale, pale hands reached up and, one by one, pulled the pins from her long black hair, until it fell down her back and blew in the evening wind. She smiled at the sun as it dipped below the city's shining walls, and set off towards the trade district.
And then she was gone.
))