"Tha Laight Bless thee an' keep thee..."

[Jolly]

((Something I've been meaning to start since I started fawning over y'all's works. This is the first part of who-knows how many.))

.: Twenty years later... :.

Blade rang on blade, the ringing sound coursing through the moonlight as if a symphony was being composed one strike at a time. The steely clash was filled with years of war, years of hatred, years of strife and glory and honor. It was filled with heartbeats that had stopped in so many thousand chests, of memories forgotten in the silence of the Nether. To the tune of the symphony two souls were locked within the motions of the dance, the passion of young lives flaring into the raging flames that could only grow with precious time.

There were no words bantered back and forth, as if a match of spirit to test the others' experience. There were no foul epithets of hatred and loathing, befitting a true fight of mortal enemies - but those that might witness it were not fooled. This was a combat of two sides to the same tale, to be sure.

The larger of the pair staggered back from the force of another resounding blow, blood staining the creases of his weathered face. He showed the effect of too many years sitting idly by, letting dust and age wear him down; his sweat-matted hair silvery with the years that had passed him by without his assent. His hip ached with flames no magic had caused, his lower back spasming in protest to the rigors he now put it through.

His opponent limped backwards in the crisp clearing, his own pair of long knives held up by experienced hands. He looked no better for the passage of time, age spots mottling his smooth bald head. He was panting heavily, his leggings stained with the source of his limp.

"Ya can't do this forever," the man with the twin knives rasped, thanks to the puckered scar that still marred his throat.

"Niethah ken ye," the swordsman growled in response, his blade held before him in a sure grip, despite the aches and pains from all over his body that threatened to send him to the ground.

"How long have you been wantin' this?" Thellan Magrand rasped, twirling his blades slowly as he limped in a slow circle. "It's been how long since I took that eye of yours?"

Jolstraer Taborwynn kept his blade leveled at the old rogue as he moved, his lone blue-grey eye as cold as the depths of Northrend. "Tae lon'."

"And only now that you wanna give me a little payback?"

"It's som'in moah'n jus' pers'nal r'venge."

Thellan stopped a moment, straightening slightly. His white shirt hung from bony shoulders, though he was spryer than his aged form would tell you. It was the scarlet flame on the chest of his tabard that had drawn Jol out from his seclusion to this night. Jol's own tabard seemed to soak up the night, letting the moon reflect brilliantly off of the argent starburst on his chest.

"I'm tired of waitin' for it," Thellan said finally, with almost a hint of resignation in his voice. "Let's be done with it, eh?" He flourished one of the knives, the metal glinting sickly in the light – Jol knew another scratch from that blade would end him. He could already feel its effects working through his system. The Light's healing had faded from him long before now – he just had to withstand a little more time.

"Aye. Let's be done." Straightening slightly, Jol relaxed the deathgrip on his sword, lowering it partway to his side.

A sharp intake of breath – that was the only signal needed. Without the roars and battle-cries that might have plagued their younger years, the two ancient warriors charged. Time stretched as they prepared to meet for the last time, and in that stretching, all of the moments that had lead up to this flashed in Jol's bitter memory. He whispered softly.

"Tha Laight bless thee an' keep thee..."

[Jolly]

.: Five years earlier... :.

Steel-shod hooves rang loud and clear as they thundered down the smooth paving stones – one of many small monuments to the rebirth of Grand Hamlet. The pace with which the hooves rang spelled urgency; a need to move as fast as swift legs could carry the message which burned the young man's heart.

The wind from what was once called Deadwind Pass was crisp and clean, hinting at the flowers that now grew amongst the crumpled scar that had once been a dreadful tower. Songbirds wheeled and dove amidst the sagging boughs of the shire willows, letting in more light in these past few years than they had since the time of the Scourge, and the Portal, and the bad omens that had plagued the land. There was peace here, pure and clear as the mountain springs that fed the lowlands. Peace interrupted only by those steel-shod hooves.

The hooves clattered abruptly, skidding to a halt before the simple stone building that proclaimed the Hamlet's proud town hall. Booted feet hit the pavement with a thud, and with impatience inherent in youth they rushed inside, uncaring of the important business of town and council that might be taking place.

"...an' ah will nae 'ave farmahs payin' fer taxes on lan's 'at are theirs, by the Laight," Magistrate Taborwynn spoke from the dais at the head of the hall, his broad frame mantled with the thick cloak of office. "Ah man's priveledge is tha land an' tha familah he's tryin' tae raise on it. Ah see nae raight of ah town tae deman' annah form ah paymen' fer ah man prosperin' on som'in 'e owns outraight."

"But what ah tha costs fer distributin' tha watah from tha springs, an' keepin' tha roads safe fer travelahs?" one voice asked amongst the mill of prominent townsfolk.

Jol raised a lone eyebrow, his steely countenance regarding each wealthy merchant and craftsman evenly. "House Taborwynn will--" Jol began, then paused as a shudder reverberated through him. His stomach felt as though it had dropped to his ankles, and he lurched forward. Pain shot through him, but it felt distant, as if happening to someone else. Someone else...

Surprised murmurs were raised, but Jol's attention was removed from the spectacle when he saw who had entered the main hall. The nauseating feeling ebbed enough for a frown to crease his brow as his son, Tarven, came quickly down the center of the hall, disregarding all but his father before him. The worry that covered Tarven's face made the bile in Jol's stomach rise again.

"Father!" Tarven spoke with a cracking voice as he rushed forward, taking the older man by the arms and helping to hold him steady. "Father, you must come quickly! It's mother!"

Jol's cold blue eye did not widen, as it was as wide as it could go already. He knew. Deep down, that sense he felt, it was her. Something was wrong.

Steeling his nerves, Jol forced the wretched feeling down with years of practice finally reclaiming him; the bond, the oathspell that had linked them across any distance, was telling him. How long had it been since he'd had need to feel what dangers might arise? Too long.

Without a word of adjournment – of any kind – Jol hurried down the length of the hall behind his son. Tarven leapt astride his horse as soon as he was out the door, but the need kept rising in Jol. It rose so frighteningly fast. Words came to his lips without his thinking, incantations that had not been uttered in years. With a reverberating whinny, Light flared to life to the shock of nearby townsfolk. The charger reared, and Jol was already heeling the flanks hard for home. Need.

Tarven's gelding worked hard to keep up with the imbued spirit that Jol now rode, both mounts thundering down the roads to the massive manor that overlooked Grand Hamlet. Past the stone gate and up the path to the front door they rode, Tarven sawing the reigns to keep from taking the horse straight through the front door. Jol did not think, simply hitting his feet in a dead run as the charger crossed the threshold and shimmered away in the blink of an eye. His one blue eye, more grey now with age, was taken over by a blazing golden light.

Forcing himself up the steps as fast as he could, he ignored the protestations of his heart and lungs, unwilling to submit to their will to stop. Down the marble hallway he stormed, feeling that the Light couldn't bring him to their bedchambers fast enough. That was where she was, he knew.

Crashing through the door, the small crowd of maids milled out of the way, as well as their children. Their glorious children. Jolstraer Taborwynn fell to his knees beside the bed, taking up Miahala's small hand in his.

She looked so frail – unnaturally so, as if she had aged a hundred years in the span of a day. Jol could not fathom why; she was over ten years younger than he, and working with the arcane had smoothed her features against the passage of time. But now...

"What happ'ned?" he asked hoarsely, looking up and around to those gathered about.

"Cilli found her like this, and she won't wake," Sadira said, wiping tears from her eyes. "She had a visitor this morning, but midway through had to excuse herself. She said she wasn't feeling well. She came to lay down, and when Cilli came to check on her..."

Jol turned back to his wife of sixteen years, his hands gently rubbing hers. They were so cold. "Cilli, sen' riders tae tha Cathedral! Tha rest ah ye, out..." he said, his voice still scratchy, "Ev'rahbodah, out!"

One by one, sobs filling the air, the bedchamber emptied until only he and she remained.

A shaky hand reached up to brush back the dark strands of her hair from her forehead, and he leaned over to gently place a kiss there. "Mia, love...don' do 'is tae mah...wahtevah this is, please, gimmah ah sign..."

Silence answered him. Despite all of the adventures they had endured together, despite being her shield against the dangers of the shifting world, he was helpless now. A tear leaked down his leathery cheek. He bowed his head in prayer.

"...Laight descen' upon ye in its mercah..."

[Jolly]

.: Six days later... :.

For six days and nights, he waited.

Well wishers had come, from all over Duskwood and just across the river in Elwynn, but all were turned away. All save family were barred entrance, Jol's withered but stubborn frame forcibly sending some on their way. The anger and frustration that coursed through him in torrents was felt in each of their seven children.

Six days, and none from the Cathedral would see her.

He would have taken up the hammer and broken that damnable church apart stone by stone, but for the invisible tether that held him to Miahala's side. His desperation grew, forcing him to seek the old incantations himself, trying desperately to call for the Light. But after so many years, it was as useful as grasping at air. He could only sense the poison that had invaded her system, using her knowledge of the arcane to strip her life away. It was maddening.

The question hung around them, without need to be asked: Why? Why now? Why her? Why, after all these years? It was no secret that the former Paladin had a falling-out with the church. But he had settled in Duskwood, rebuilding the lands where he had been born, taking the wealth that he had earned over years of adventuring and building a proud family who prided themselves on good works. On family above all else.

The Paladin and the Archmage had wanted no more of the outside world; their only wish was to grow old together, to be happy together, to live in the Light that was their children. Tarven was bound for the service, just like his father; he already looked forward to joining in the fall. Sadie glowed like her mother, already well schooled in the arcane arts. Their two eldest shined just like the parents that bore them had in their younger days.

The alchemist had told Jol of the poison; poison slipped into her tea as she entertained a guest from the north who had sought her guidance. Where this guest had gone, there was no sign, but did not matter as much as who had done the deed. The maid had hung herself in guilt, her tear-stained confession written out in a shaky hand.

Six days. All he had were wild guesses and faint traces on the wind. The town's militia had joined the search for this unknown visitor, and trackers were brought in from throughout Azeroth. Nothing, as of yet.

"Jol?"

His head lurched up, leaping from his chair as fast as his old bones would carry him. Shambling over, he knelt beside his wife, taking her hand in both of his. "Mia, love, ah'm heah. Ah'm heah."

She turned her head slowly, gracing him with a smile, but he could see the strain in it. "I know," she uttered softly, her voice crackling lke dried leaves. "I'm so tired, love."

"Rest darlin'. Ye ain' gotta do nothin' but 'at, ah promise," he said, trying to sound strong. "Tarven! Sadie!" he bellowed as he turned his head towards the antechamber.

The door opened quickly, and their eldest son and daughter both came rushing in to her side. "Mother!" they both exclaimed.

Miahala turned her head and lifted her hand weakly, which both took in on of theirs. "My darling children. I'm so proud of you. So proud."

"Mother, you'll get better soon. I promise you will," Tarven said fervently.

Jol sat silently, trying hard to hold back the wetness in his eye. "Sadie," he said softly. "Gather yer brothahs an' sistahs. Go, quicklah." She frowned at him in puzzlement, and he knew that his words could only spark alarms in her bright head.

As Sadie hurried out as fast as her skirts would allow, Jol pressed Mia's hand to his lips, kissing it softly. In the center of his soul, he could feel the oathspell. It was beginning to fade. And quickly.

"...give us peace in tha face ah adversitah..."

[Jolly]

In the dusk that gave the place its name, light rain fell. Within the walled gardens of Taborwynn Manor they gathered, huddled in oiled cloaks beneath a broad shire willow, one many years old than the master of the House.

Jol Taborwynn knelt his old bones beside the open grave as they began to lower her shrouded form in, sobs wracking shoulders thickened by so many years in battle. Behind him, eight children, ranging from fifteen to thirty, watched sadly as their mother was laid to rest.

As the laymen began shoveling the half-dry dirt, Sadie lent her voice to the breeze and the rain. The lament she began was tremulous at first, but her siblings joined her, until all of Miahala's beautiful children sang out her memory.

Jol felt his sobs lessen as the mound of earth grew over his last love, as if his own heart were being smothered. And, in a way, it was – as with any loss of a loved one that is so dear. A part of his mind tried to comfort him by telling him to begin to accept, and move on. There were things to be done, things which had been neglected for the last few days.

But there was a smoldering that began to grow where his heart was, a slow ember that made that rational sense of himself truly afraid. He recognized that ember for what it was, and feared what he would sacrifice to feed it.

He remained there in front of the fresh grave long after the service had concluded. The rain did not grow worse or better; it simply remained the steady pitter-patter that kept him company. The lamplighters made sure that each lamp outside the manner was lit, and someone had been thoughtful enough to place one near the giant shire willow. It was in this light that Tarven arrived, with a concerned look on his face.

"Father, the courier you dispatched to Stormwind has returned. And Captain Ladimore has brought someone from the town to see you."

Jol looked up at his son slowly, part of himself lost in a haze of thought. "Help mah up," he grunted softly as he tried to pull himself up. Tarven offered a firm grip, and carefully led his father back to the manor.

Once inside and freed of his cloak, Jol made his way to the front of the manor. "Whot news from Stormwin'?" he tiredly once his guests were in view.

"Lord," the courier saluted, a rumple-faced youth who looked a little squeamish in the paladin's presence. "No real news sir, save for an announcement from the Scarlet Church...word of the Lady Taborwynn's passing has already reached them. An announcement was made to..." The youth gulped, looking back and forth between father and son. "...to 'send emissaries to exhume and properly dispose of the body, so as to fend off the attempts of the Lord Taborwynn to raise her again using demonic means'." He gulped again, averting his eyes. "Not my words, Lord, taken straight from their proclamation. Light send it, I wouldn't..."

"Easah son," Jol said, offering a comforting hand on his shoulder, which was at odds with the flatness of his voice. "Ah'm nae s'prised. Cap'n, readah tha militia. Jus' in case. Ah don' expect 'em tae try, but ah ain' lived s'lon' without ah lil' d'fensive plannin'. On yer way, son," he gestured, dismissing the courier.

Once the young man had gone, Jol turned to face the weathered Captain of the Town Watch. "Sarah, whot ye got?" he asked stonily, not bothering to acknowledge the cloaked man behind her.

"A messenger, Master Jol," she replied, then reached into her armor and pulled out a parchment. Her eyes were tight as she handed it over; no doubt she had already perused the message. "This man says he was told by his master two weeks ago to delivery it on precisely this day."

Jol eyed her and then the messenger for a long moment in equal measure before unfolding the slightly crumpled parchment. What he saw stoked the embers in his chest.

Oathbreaker,

I never forgot. Broken oaths are broken oaths. It was nice of your wife to entertain me...a pity she fell ill more quickly than even I expected. Remember, all those years ago, when I said that I don't hurt a man's family?

It was written in a quick and simple hand and without a signature, but Jol knew whose it was. The parchment shook violently in his grip, and Jol did not dare to look away from it. In his mind, a beacon of light began to pulse, something which had not occurred in many years. Desperately, his anger reached out to it, touched it, drank it in like mothers' milk. The fury that had seen him through battle ime and time again had returned.

Without a word, he looked up to his son and gave him a slow nod. Turning away from the Captain and the messenger, Jol strode down the hall, his aged steps gaining a little more confidence and strength with each step. Those old feelings were returning, for perhaps the last time.

The change that was brewing left what remained of his heart cowering in fear.

"...stren'th in tha face ah feah..."

[Jolly]

Four years, he waited.

Four years, unable to let go. The spite of the act had sparked a brooding flame in his heart, unable to be chased away and forever lingering on the edge of reason. His only recourse against it was to use it in feeding his new sense of purpose.

The cellar of Taborwynn Manor had become a dungeon of a different sort; not to keep one held within, but to keep the rest of the world out. For the first year, his children tried to learn what it was he was doing down there in the darkened burrows beneath the manor.

Some folk in Grand Hamlet began muttering that the decree from the Scarlet Church had been correct, that he might try to raise his dead wife again. All of this was nonsense, as Tarven made sure to patiently inform the townsfolk; once word of the decree had reached Grand Hamlet, the town militia had placed a twenty-four hour guard on the Lady Taborwynn's resting place, to ward off anyone who might seek to desecrate her body, no matter who they were. But what of the Lord of Taborwynn? No one knew for certain, save one.

Beneath Taborwynn Manor, Jol was honing his vengeance.

Four years, he waited, but not idly standing by, wondering when the murderer of his one heart would strike next. No, Jol was busy, quite busy. In the burrows beneath the manor, he returned to old ways taught to him so very long ago.

Tarven knew. He had helped his father gather the multitude of wooden practice weapons and iron weights to relearn his old fighting form, to regain the strength to face his nemesis one last time.

Four years of waiting with poised blade, working through forms that came to him as swiftly as knowing to breathe. Four years of fanning the embers of his frustrated rage by inflicting damage to one after another after another of man-sized wooden constructs.

Four years of stubbornly refusing to resort to anything but the blade, despite the mournful whispers that haunted him.

Jol Taborwynn remained patient and methodical, though the fury of righteousness tried time and again to consume him. It made him more resilient, more willing to push himself, to strike harder, to move quicker through the forms that he knew would one day end the man who took the rose of his life away.

It was insanity to dwell on it so much, to be certain. But despite the love of his children and the needs of his community, he felt he had nothing left after the loss of her. "Such devotion only lives in legends!" Tarven once tried to tell him, but Jol would simply regard him with a level eye, and then resume his training. Nothing but training; eating and sleeping were necessary, but only to continue rebuilding what years of age had wasted away.

Tarven did not sit by and watch; he used his time out in the world, sending riders and messages of influence to those who might know anywhere that the assassin might be. Tarven did not know the name of the man he was searching for, and Jol would not tell him. It was almost as if Jol knew the day he would meet the man again, and all of his preparation was for that day.

Four years of training. Until one day, when Tarven carried himself down the steps to the burrows, only to find it still and quiet. Searching fervently, his father was nowhere to be found. Only a sword, stabbed into the center of the practice area, centered on something drawn in the dirt. A runic emblem of some sort, though what it was Tarven could never be certain. Wherever it had come from, it had to have caused his father's disappearance.

The torches in the burrows snuffed out, one by one, until even Tarven's own began to wane. A soft glow began to eminate from the packed dirt floor, reflecting off the sword and sending light glimmering throughout the burrows as it grew in intensity. As the blue-white light grew, Tarven came to realize what it meant.

Goodbye.

"..courage when tha dahkness rises..."

[Jolly]

((Okay, Jolly went off the deep end when writing this one. By the end, I'm expecting rotten tomatoes and various forms of diseased cabbage thanks to a stepping far outside the bounds of WoW. But...it felt good.))

.: Now... :.

I'm tired of waitin' for it," Thellan said finally, with almost a hint of resignation in his voice. "Let's be done with it, eh?" He flourished one of the knives, the metal glinting sickly in the light.

"Aye. Let's be done." Straightening slightly, Jol relaxed the deathgrip on his sword, lowering it partway to his side.

A sharp intake of breath – that was the only signal needed. Without the roars and battle-cries that might have plagued their younger years, the two ancient warriors charged. Time stretched as they prepared to meet for the last time, and in that stretching, all of the moments that had lead up to this flashed in Jol's bitter memory. He whispered softly.

"Tha Laight bless thee an' keep thee..." Blades met with the sparking of steel from the force involved, Jol's own sword warding off the dual overhanded swings of Thellan's. The pair rebounded back a half-step, but both pushed forward again, trying to seize the momentum and use it to their advantage.

"...Laight descen' upon ye in its mercah..." The precious few reserves of mind energy Jol had imbued his blade, and he used it to turn aside another overhand strike, while his left hand left its grip on his sword and reached to block Thellan's offhand at the forearm. Both men exposed and yet locked at the same time, Jol grit his teeth and threw his large head forward, knocking Thellan in the teeth and breaking some in the process.

"...give us peace in tha face ah adversitah..." Thellan recovered more quickly than Jol anticipated, kicking out and catching the weathered Paladin in the jaw. The rogue used the momentary dazing to slice into the chain mail guarding Jol's abdomen, exposing flesh and letting blood run. Jol did not grunt or otherwise show the pain of the attack, his mind absorbed by an inner calm.

"...stren'th in tha face ah feah..." Jol spun away from another swing of quick hands, the Light suffusing him. His blood coursed, his wounds healing with flares of light until his skin shown golden. Something bubbled up within, something he was unable to contain. Thellan lunged again, but Jol simply sidestepped him, turning to keep himself face-on to the Scarlet. Within him, Jol felt as if he were being split in two, a mixture of pain and golden purity that he could not begin to fathom. Outwardly, his face was a mask of stoic calm.

"..courage when tha dahkness rises..." his lips breathed, and then a bellow sprang forth. Charging, the Light exploded from him, and for a moment it looked as though an Archangel had descended into the world, golden wings raised and shimmering as he charged. Jol's consciousness briefly recognized that he was no longer in control of his own body, instead it seemed he floated behind his own eyes as his soul unleashed itself on his old adversary.

The avenger within knelt at the last moment of its charge, bringing his sword around in a side-strike that dug deep into Thellan's gut. The rogue doubled over with a shout of pain, but unable to fall over as he was held up by the paladin and his sword. In Jol's mind, everything snapped back into place, and he felt the weight of his form settled back around his consciousness. Golden wings shuddered briefly, folding back as he remained kneeling there.

"...an' Justice when mah dutah is done."

Jol withdrew his sword from the rogue, standing as he collapsed onto the ground and writhed in pain. With a sense of wonderment, Jol looked over the gore on his blade, and then reached up to run his hand over the golden feathers that were now a part of him.

A wracking cough from Thellan captured his attention, and the once-paladin turned and knelt by the Scarlet's side. Thellan looked up at him with eyes wide in fear, unable to say anything though his mouth tried to form the words.

Calm had washed over Jol; all of the anger and hatred and thrist for revenge had cleansed itself of him before the blade in his hands had struck. He felt pity and remorse for what lay before him now, but animosity had been washed away.

Jol placed his hand upon the rogue's forehead, smoothing away the sweat which beaded there. "The Light Bless thee and keep thee," he said, his voice changed and reverberating with otherworldly tones. "May the Light wash away your wrongs, and those wrongs committed against you. Let the last embrace of the Light welcome you home. "

Thellan's eyes softened, and the fear disappeared. His eyes turned glassy, and his breath came to a shuddering halt.

Jol, what was once Jol, now something more, knelt there for a small eternity, feeling the night's breeze whisper through his wings. There was no way to truly understand what had transpired, and no witnesses to try and apply words to the actions.

Finally, he drew himself up, running a hand lightly over the edge of his sword. Where blood and gore remained, it floated apart in the glow of the Light, leaving steel that shone as if newly forged. Silver Hair changed, returning to the rich black of his youth. The worn and dreadful patch that had covered a wicked scar fell away, revealing a blue eye returned, shining with wisdom and inquisitiveness. What had once been, was now remade.

"Absolution looks good on you, love," a voice – was it one, or was it more? – spoke behind him. He turned to see the air shimmering, and saw there a face and form more beautiful than he could have hoped. She stepped forward, her dress simple enough for a Darkshire farmwoman, but elegant enough to hint at being so much more. Her eyes were lit with memories shared, of a past enriched by the presence of the man standing before her.

"Is 'at what this is?" he asked softly, wings ruffling slightly.

She gave him a soft grin, a slight hitch of the shoulders. The shimmering behind her made it hard to see her face and hair clearly, but her eyes shone enough for him to know. This was how it was meant to be, all along.

"Together again," she went on, gesturing behind him. Jol turned to look, and saw himself, lying there beside his adversary, knife protruding from his chest, yet serenity showing on his old and scarred face. A part of his consciousness was surprised at the sight, but it was a small portion, as the rest of him knew already what had been done.

He turned back to her, and she stood waiting patiently, a smile evident in her eyes. Seemingly waiting for something, she held out her hand for him to take.

He paused, remembering all of his past in an instant, and what he saw made his brow furrow slightly. "Who are you?" he asked, with the innocence of a child.

"I am what makes you whole," the musical blending of voices replied. "I am what has been with you always, and what you have been unable to turn away from. I am the other part of you."

Warmth flowed through him, and he smiled. Taking her hand, she turned, leading him back toward the shimmering light.

"Where are we going?" he asked as the shimmering took hold of him.

"Eternity..." the voice responded, and they were gone.