#arandur

Alcohol did not mix well with sour-moods, a lesson she should have learned long ago -- a lesson one look at the Ranger-Captain should have reminded her of. But youth made her foolish - she didn’t know what his excuse was - and impulsive, and a bottle of wine later she’d been laid out along the satin sheets on her bed in her suite in Dalaran, full of regret, and no less burdened by the memories and thoughts she’d been trying to drown. They were still there, louder now even, but despite their lingering, there was work to be done.

Winter’s Veil was her favorite holiday, and it had already come and gone - the days leading up to the holiday had been too busy; her days were consumed with running papers back and forth from Quel’thalas to Dalaran, her workload doubled with Sunward Stormsummer still abed, and her involvement in the province the Archon had put beneath her charge. There was no rest, no peace, and on the day of the holiday, when she’d meant to see these gifts sent out before the stroke of midnight, well --

Harsh words flared in her memory, and her fingers rose to touch phantom bruises on her throat. The marks were long gone, but the pain remained affixed to her memory; a reminder, one that lessened the same as the black-and-blue skin of her neck by the days. Again, the sickness rose inside of her, but Caeliri pressed past it, and past the threshold of her bedroom into the sitting room in her suite. With the more constant presences of guests as of late, she’d slipped all her gifts off somewhere unseen, but now they lay strewn across floor and couches and tabletops alike, a fleet of gaping boxes with their goods proudly on display, waiting to be sealed and sent to their destinations. Another deep breath rolled through the hollow of her chest, and Caeliri approached the army of gifts, settling in to tend to the overdue task.

--

The first was for Elleynah. Caeliri had wept when she received the other mender’s gifts, each more touching than the last; they were practical as the woman who had gifted them, and still managed to have an edge of finery. It made the younger mender smile; the Ginger Witch had found a way to broach the strange barrier that hung between them, to make something with the glitter and intrigue that held Caeliri’s eye while offering things with earnest, unquestionable use. Moths and Butterflies, indeed -- Caeliri reciprocated in kind.

Despite the fierce friendship forged between the two, it had been difficult, almost, to find something for Elleynah ( @stormandozone). Cards were the easiest option, but the painted faces were not Elleynah; they were just a tool, a gift among her many others, one facet of a multi-edged stone, but not her. It was during a trip to Summerglen that Caeliri found the answer she had sought, in the swaying limbs of the trees that sprinkled shadow-shot light along the mislaid roads that led into the village. The Dawn had shattered Elleynah’s last staff, and though Caeliri was sure by now the mender had replaced it with something comparable, still… memories of false dawn in Azsuna, where they stood on the salt-soaked shore and ran smoothly through the motions of combat swirled in her mind, and in her heart of hearts she knew there was no better gift.

There was give to the dark wood, enough that it would not break on contact with an enemy’s skull, while being firm enough to fight with. Though it was a weapon still, there was gentle beauty to it; Caeliri had it’s length carved in floral patterns, snaking vines and roots and blooms shaped as those used in Elleynah’s brews and earth-muddied magics. It’s core was wrapped ‘round with warm, soft leather in the dark shade of moist soil, tied taut to keep the Sunward’s grip sure, it’s loose ends dappled with copper charms and small glass baubles - no more than an inch, and forged in phoenix fire to save them from shattering - filled with small flowers. Within their crystalline chamber, they would stay forever pure; some commentary that was, perhaps, unintentional on the part of the young - it was likely she only saw them for their beauty, and no deeper meaning. Beneath a mender’s touch, though, the delicate engravings in the staff would glow gold-green - it served as much as magical focus as weapon in it’s own right. Nature-born, Light-blessed; just like the mender who would now hold it.

With it came new belts, made in the same dark leather that hugged the shaft of the staff, edged with copper and decorated the same, and heavyset with pouches and empty slots for potions. Tucked in one of the pouches - because if one thing remained ever true about the young Dame, it was that she loved games - was her letter;

Elleynah,

I hope my late gifts don’t seem to say I am not thankful, or that I fail to appreciate you; I have been… busy. When I see you next I will… explain in further detail, but until then--

There is no gift I could give that would ever match that which you have given me - I mean not the book and glove and pins you gave, though they were beyond anything I could ever wish and touched my heart so hard I cried (a lot), but the wisdom you have passed to me. The days we spent together in Aszuna have been some of my best, and though our nights in the ruins were fraught and strange, I would relive them a hundred times for the honor of your company. When there seemed no more sun left inside of me, you taught me the value of pressing on; there are few I know who could match you in fortitude, and there will never be words enough to thank you for what strength I have gleaned from you.

When next you’re free, I want to invite you to Summerglen - I think you’d like it as much as I. It’s wooded and warm and wonderful there; perhaps when the war breaks and there is a softer dawn on the horizon, we can go together.

Your friend, Caeliri

Satisfied, she set the odd, long box to the floor and slid it away with her foot, seeking something smaller now to fix her attentions on - something she found immediately, something that made her wince. Caeliri reached across the table, pulling the small, floral-patterned box towards her to peer within. The locket was cast in silver and warm to the touch, devoid of flouncy, feminine patterns on its front in favor of a riveted edge that gave it a more masculine air. Batting the box back and forth between her open palms, she watched the glimmer of light dance on it’s smooth front, wondering if she should send this gift at all. Before, there had been no question, but these days...

Caeliri took a deep breath, recalling words Vaelrin had for her, ‘You are his lover still.’ Was she? The Highlord ( @theshadowavatar) was a ghost to her - less than that, even. Ghosts, at least, she heard still - since that trip to Azsuna with Elleynah, there’d been more than a handful of phantom voices in her ear, but none of them were the voice she’d hoped for. Again and again the Ranger-Captain assured her that her anxieties were misplaced, that there was affection between her long-dead lover and herself still -- while also swearing up and down the dead had no feelings to give. The back and forth had been maddening, the conversations circular always, but something in all the words between them stuck with her even now. ‘Rightly so.’ It was threaded through with such…

Drawing a hand through her silken hair, Caeliri let those thoughts ebb away as she popped open the locket to look inside and assure all was in order. It was a thick, weighty thing, with multiple panes of glass that flipped on an internal hinge. Five panes in total made up the interior, and three were already filled with small portraits of Zarandarin, Talthin, and Elrandarin. The last two were blank, for the new born Lords she’d yet to see. Her note was simple, swift - if she lingered too long on it, she feared what she might say.

Arandur, Don’t forget them.

She did not sign her name.

The box was closed, hastily, and shoved into the depths of her medical bag - she’d leave it in his office in the Dawnspire, the only place she knew to send something to, one day, get back to him. A weight struck her shoulder suddenly, and she didn’t need to twist her head to know Grace had come to occupy her common perch. She was growing these days - growing fat, at least, with all the treats she’d received for the holiday. Trilling brightly, the phoenix let her golden flames gust over Caeliri’s face as she began to preen the mender’s long, unbound hair, tucking it and twisting it as she desired.

Swallowing, hard, she moved on to something else, seeking… seeking --

She swung her foot idly beneath the table, and her toes smacked hard against something beneath the table. Both cheeks puffed up, a withheld sound of pain vibrating in her throat for a long, long, long minute, before she wrangled the box between her feet, still aching toes hugging the back edge of it, and slid it across the carpets. It was heavy, without much give, and gave quite a struggle as she tried to pull it into her line of sight - one look at the contents and she understood why she’d limping for the rest of the day.

This gift was for Vulthaen Voidsunder ( @curiouslich), the Forgemaster in the Dawnspire, who’d taken such great interest in the design and forging of the ceremonial armor she wore as Dame. Beneath the ebon’s dark hands the ithimithril had been shaped and shaded in the soft pinks and stark golds of a brilliant, blinding dawn, set against matte ivory steel and swathed in glittering cloth; Caeliri had worn it once, already, and near trapped herself inside it’s enchanted grasp - she wasn’t quite used to the lack of straps or buckles to close it, and it had been difficult to find the runes and speak the spells to break it open while it was on her slim form.

Ever bound to his vigil at the forges, along side his sisters, she’d reasoned he was unable to get his hands on the raw materials found on the Broken Isles. Given her proximity to not only the Isles but traders eager to exchange coin for their wares, it had been easy to fill a box with a sampling of raw ores to send back to the Dawnspire. Another gift for another dead man, Caeliri gave a half-hearted laugh into her empty room, aware that elsewhere in her armada lay another gift for another departed soul whose body still lingered. Death-touched, her nightmares had whispered, you carry crypts inside you. Perhaps there was truth to that yet.

A bead of nervous sweat broke on her lower back, but she paid it no mind, and put pen to paper;

Forgemaster, There are few who serve as faithfully or as eternally as you. Though you told me, often, that your work was your passion and your hobby and was a gift in and of itself, I will still feel forever in your debt for your careful handling of my armor, and for the kindness you showed me while touring the forges. Elleynah still reminds Grace of your disapproval, as well of that of her mother, when she misbehaves, and I’m pleased to report that it still works.

I doubt you have the time, or inclination, to wander far from the Dawnforge, and so I’ve sent along what I could gather of Leystone Ore from the Isles. The ore is yours to do with as you please - I figure it may prove useful, if nothing more than for your examination of its properties.

Be well, my friend, and give Shimmer all our love, Caeliri and Grace

She planted her palms flat on the table, and scooted back her chair rising up on screaming toes to hobble across the room, sliding the box with her good foot. It made the journey much longer than it needed to be, but she needed to remove this gift from her vicinity before she harmed herself again - because that was extremely likely. On her shoulder, Grace cooed, eyeing another box of treats that had been sent along for her with greedy glee. She fluttered across the room to land atop it, cooing loudly at Caeliri, before dipping her head down to peck and the box of cinnamon bark Iiloridan ( @edaigoa) had sent for her.

“No,” Caeliri lilted back, shuffling back to her chair. “You eat any more of that and you won’t be able to fly.” Grace’s feathers fluffed up in absolute offense to the rejection and the insult, and she cooed sourly at the mender.

Arcane energy fizzed endlessly along her skin and it had kept her wired for days. She’s been a babe when the Sunwell was sundered, and the nibble of arcane that the elders of her kin were accustomed to had always been foreign to her. She’d aged with the bleak nothing of a broken country, then the muddied mix of arcane and light that Muu’ru’s fallen form ignited. But here in the Violet City, there was raw magic burning in the air, and every breath brought it spiraling into her lungs. Sleep was elusive, but not frustratingly so; there were sights to see and scents to sniff and places to play and a hundred delights to indulge in. At times the soft twilight hues that hugged the city broke and she could see fel fire clouds loom against the spires, and though she did not deny they were there… she did turned a blind eye. There was little she could do for those that bled below - without the Light, she was as good as any novice mender, which was to say…   

The visit was a special request, a promise the Ranger-Captain made to her on the condition of her wellness, and he had delivered, even if matters he had no need to divulge to her kept him from enjoying the city at her side. 

Whatever business the Ranger-Captain had in the underbelly of the city, she had no interest in it; the months she spent entombed in her own misery had taught her the value of silence and space, and with her guardian enrapt in his own dealings, Caeliri indulged in a breath of solitude and tenderness. 

There were plenty of places at the city’s edge that went untouched and unexplored - the small graveyard was chief among them. It was easy to slip off the packed cobbles of the city streets and circle the graves of fallen heroes and scholars to find a seat along the imperfect stones where her feet could dangle free. There was greenery below her, a few scraggly tiers of stonework and soil that had been uprooted the last time the city was torn free from the earth, and they would catch her if some foul fate or cruel passerby pushed her forward, but if she kept her eyes forward there was nothing but clouds ahead and wind whispering in her ears; it was as close to the edge of oblivion as she would dare go. 

Caeliri stuffed her hand into her shirt and pulled free the heavy medallion that made it’s home against her breast. As the gilded surface touched her skin, it began to thrum, it’s rhythm steady and unyielding, and she heaved a sigh of relief. She’d seen the Greenseer not two days prior, and knew she was lively and well - if not consumed with a ravenous hunger for all things slathered in sugar and baked until golden brown - but to feel the elder’s heartbeat thump through the golden surface of the medallion soothed an irrational worry that wormed in the back of her brain. 

Her phoenix - who was off getting fat on fire magics the mages seemed happy to toss her way - was her common comfort, the thing she reached for when panic crested in her chest, but the phoenix’s warmth hadn’t kept her hand from shooting towards the hidden necklace from time to time.  There were moments where she found herself suddenly unsure of the safety of her loved ones, the ones she had told the Ranger-Captain she would forfeit her own life to protect, and nothing short of rolling her thumb across the twin reliefs of pudgy babes could quell that worry.

It was silly, but so was she. 

Caeliri kept it tucked beneath her shirt- not secret, but safe - every day since the Greenseer first gave it to her, and like her phoenix, she went nowhere without it. It’s occasional kicks and movements added an oddity to her day that was appreciated (even if feeling something stir beneath her shirt had frightened her more than once) and kept her tethered to her family, even thousands of miles away. 

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she whispered, rolling her thumb across the minuscule face she’d decided - in her own mind- must be the babe named after her, the unborn Dawnsworn-Brightsword. Which first name the babe might have had was still lost on her - that was for Cere’thien to decide, from the pool they’d filled with Drissa’s help. She tipped the medallion, watching her own reflection warp and warble in the spaces between the raised shapes, before focusing her eyes on the enchanted face once more. “You probably can’t. But." 

Some part of her, the part that had grown too big for her skin, the part that was desperate to be rid of the last dregs of her girlhood, chided and cursed the silliness of speaking to a necklace, but Caeliri pressed past her apprehension.  

“I love you. I hope I never give you reason to doubt that, in the years to come. I love you, endlessly and always.” Her eyes slid to the second face, and she rolled her thumb across it with equal tenderness. “You too - I love you both the same. I hope it didn’t seem that… I never wanted to be your Minn’da, too,” her voice dipped shamefully, ears pinning back.   

“You were supposed to have a sister,” the words hung on her lips, and when Caeliri spoke them, she felt the familiar pain reach up from the depths of her heart, “half-… half-sister. Another one. I think, at least - I’m not really sure. I never got to meet her, or even know she was here - or if she was a she - until she was gone, and I was too… hurt to think of anything else for a while. I missed her too much to even think about any other children, or ever being… Minn’da to anyone, ever again." 

Her throat clamped tight, and for a moment words failed her. Tears pressed against the back of her eyes, and she turned her gaze up towards the violet skyline. She had not entirely mastered the art of addressing her pain without giving it a place to grow, but she was getting better; every day it was easier to look at the almost’s and could-have-been’s without being consumed by them. Her breast rose and fell in several deep breaths, and she let the tears fall in the paths they desired. They were short-lived and quickly spent, and she felt more free for not having withheld them. 

“I don’t know how this will work, if it will work, but I have faith that in the end all will be well. Cere’thien is your mother, true, but that does not stop me from... caring for you, and doing all that I can to assure you are safe and steeped in so much love that you will never know what it feels to be unloved.”

“So, whatever I end up being to you - Minn’da, or Auntie Liri, or just Caeliri, or Dawnward Dawnsworn, ‘That weird woman who is too bright, too loud, too cheerful’, or whatever else… I will do whatever it takes to keep this world safe for you. I will make sure the world that you see is better than it is now. I will do better, be better, for you; and if I fail... perhaps you may never know me at all, but if it’s in service to the world I want for you... it’s worth it." 

Caeliri turned her eyes down once more to the medallion in her hands, and watched the little faces twist and stir - one yawned, then the other, and it made her lips curl up into a smile. She dipped her head forward to press her lips to the warm surface of gold, letting her breath fog over the necklace for a long moment.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” she breathed the words against the medallion’s glimmering face, and at last she slipped it back into her shirt, where it - and the promise she poured in to it - could stay close to her heart.

There were no bloody bedsheets, no—

Dawn was reaching over the hills in tremulous tendrils, washing away the lavender of waning darkness with smears of pink and gold. All around her the grass hung heavy with dew, and it soaked the silken edges of her skirts. Sleeps stung at her eyes and turned them angry red, but what her body ached for, her brain would not allow. Even after her work here was gone, there was plenty left to plague her mind: her knighthood, her…. engagement. A war against the Legion, a wedding to the dead - her deal with the Witch was the least of her worries.

Nearby, her wheelchair waited patiently, a morose reminder of how mired she was; Caeliri was eager to be rid of it, just as its plush pink cushion was eager for her return.

Soil grit beneath her nails as she scooped another handful free, letting it tumble through her open fingers to the pile below. She dug down, deep as the belly of Valinder’s bassinet and just as long as far cross. Stone were were set around it’s edges, one for each stacked in her throat.

Replaced, the soil was loose and the mound was showered with pale pink petals. A humble thing. A hollow thing.

Was a grave still empty if you filled it with grief?

She placed her silt stained hands atop the mound, and let her eyes flutter shut. A prayer - an apology - a farewell. She laid them down, for the last time, and burrowed her hands into the earth beside.

“Whatever your choice…”

For all that her fingers were fatigued, this hole came earlier than the last.

“...right or wrong...”

Caeliri collected the apple from where it lay, letting it sit in the center of her palm. It was not without it’s own weights - she let it fall from her open hand into the hole with a heavy thunk.

“...its culmination comes.” With weariness making her motions sluggish, she pulled the soil into the hole once more, watching the earth consume the apple until every inch of it’s crimson skin was out of sight.

What choice did she have? When they insisted, she was a frightened creature, consumed with grief and panic and pain, trapped between them and their will for her to stay, and the wild way the Greenseer snarled when she offered opposition stole her will to struggle further.

There was no way to say no - not without seeming ungrateful, not without wounding their lover. What kind of monster would that make him seem, if they hockeyed him back and forth between them, each assuring him of their love while unwilling to own him.

It didn’t dull the desire, didn’t change her want to be his wife, but to call the choice easy was a cruel and belittling lie.

It wasn’t easy, when the woman across from her waxed poetic about the sacrifice, when her words wept where her eyes could not - would not.

It wasn’t easy, when she felt once more that any choice she made other than the one they wanted would leave them both wounded.

It was what she wanted, but it didn’t come without a cost.

Or was it? Light, she’d always seen marriage as such a cursed and reviled thing - she’d watched it sap the happiness from people she cared for, seen it wrench and rip them to pieces. She’d always sneered at the thought that she would ever marry, would ever take the risk, would ever commit to something that felt so much more significant when it crumbled; but now, the thought sent some warmth through her cheeks. To be his wife, to bear his name - would she have been Lady Brightsword, or Lady Frostblade, or nothing at all, then? - to bear his — not that. Never that. Bury that, it would never be, but she could stay ever at his side, to soothe the sorrows he would be forced to face. What warmth the thoughts had summoned was stifled by the word her aunt had uttered. Sacrifice.

It had been an effort to slid herself from her wheelchair and thump to the soft grass by the pond’s edge, but the locks that Drissa had installed on her chair kept it from tipping over as she tumbled to the ground. Drawing herself to the pond’s edge was more difficult, but worth the struggle, for the memories made there.

Caeliri did not weep, but worry washed out of her until the water wavered with sympathy. It saturated the slumbering blossoms around her, and though the grass did not stir to her - she may have been of the blood, attached by a thin thread to the wilds through her lineage, but it wasn’t a power meant for her, not one she could even touch - it soaked in her sorrow and sent it slithering into the soil.

Her fingers found a pebble settled on her shore, and she lifted it, rolling over its imperfect edges, before she cast it across the water. It skipped and sunk in half a second.

The Witch was drawn to her vulnerability like a vulture to fetid flesh.

The whisper of grass on bare feet made her brow knit harshly, and when she spoke to ward the encroaching elf off, her voice was saturated with unspent tears. “I don’t want to talk — I told you, I’m tired.” There was more anger in it than she meant, and she turned to face the Lady, and was met with a foreign face.

“I’m— I’m so sorry — I thought you were--"

The woman was smiles, open hands, lidded eyes warm amethyst and dove-down grey. She was small, the way wolves seem smaller than the stags they chase, the way snakes are slim and curved she was both, and just the same. As she spoke, she cooed softly, twirling the brooch of her shawl between her fingers.

“Hymns may hum in your veins but your kin have come from the wood; the timber trembles with your woes, but they are nameless, vague. Nothing more than a breath of agony and terror; tell me true, pretty girl, what troubles you?"

In the dark, her hands were the same shade as the silt that settled at the belly of the pond, and Valydasia released the stone at her heart to smooth those hands along Caeliri's shoulders.

Caeliri didn’t answer - she swallowed to hard it hurt.

“No?” Valydasia’s words were honeyed hum, the sort of sound lullaby were crafted from. Her hands danced down the flowering patterns carved into the arms of the wheelchair, and though she looked askance, her eyes were ever on Caeliri’s face. “Very well, but I can’t leave you alone, awash in all this turmoil. The mother in me won’t allow it. How about something simple to fix. You must be eager to leave this chair."

A ripple ran across the mender’s face, and distantly, Valydasia felt the twang of pain - like the thrum of prey caught in a spider’s web - and smiled.

Skirts swirled around her ankles in a hundred rainbow hues as she settled by the young woman’s side, a hand lifting to roll across the bare, pink flesh, chasing goosebumps away with little more than a brush of magic - it made Caeliri’s ears flick up, a flash of familiarity on her face. This magic she had felt before - it tasted of rain and water, of the breath of wind through the trees. Her tongue was not trained enough to taste the grit of soil the iron bite of blood that swam beneath it - for all that she was light-bound, she could not taste the subtle malevolence that swam in the Blood-Blessed’s magic.

Valydasia’s dark fingers flew to a pouch at her hip, and with languid motions she withdrew a pair of seeds. She rolled them into her dusky palms and let her hands lay their backs against her knees, fingers and palm loose and offered freely. There was no glimmer of golden green or sudden flash of light - the wind hissed through the trees around them and below them the grass seemed to grey then grow green again, but Caeliri’s eyes were ever trained on the seeds, curious and cautious. Then, they stirred - their brown husks cracked and peeled apart, a single sprig of green curling free from the cage that kept it. It swirled and curled, budding and blossoming, pink leaves sprouting and spiraling away on a breeze in half a breath, until two apples settled heavy in the witches palms. They were alike in weight and size, but one burned crimson against the darkness, and the other glowed pale pink. Were she not so entranced by the magic, maybe Caeliri would have thought to question the subtle light that lit them from within, may have cast some doubt on how they looked so tantalizing, but --

“A choice, sweet girl,” the Witch purred, her lips ever twisted in a serene smile, eyes half-lidded, “pick an apple and eat; whichever apple you don’t eat, you must bury beside an empty grave, then the spell shall be complete.”

Painted faces flooded into her mind - Caeliri didn’t have the wit to wonder if it wasn’t the witch who put them there - the cards Elleynah cast for her, their meaning muddied and hard for her to hear.

“Now, you face a new future, one of change and strangeness-- something unconsidered.”

When she reached forward, her fingers eager for the crimson apple for no reason other than its normalcy, she was trembling.

Her fingertips met the smooth surface of the crimson apple, and Valydasia bounced both pieces of fruit in her palms, chasing Caeliri’s hand away. “There is more,” she amended, “that they will do.”

The Witch cast her eyes to the apple Caeliri had first chosen, and bounced it in her palm again. “This apple, when consumed, will give you function of your legs in full. You’ll be able to stand and walk away from the grave, having buried all that ails you, and the other apple as well.” Again, Caeliri’s fingers moved towards it, eager for the option, “and you’ll be barren for it.”

That stopped her fingers just before they settled on the apple again, and she was left little more than a statue before Valydasia. Pain roiled in her gut at the thought, the sensation sharp and agonizing - no matter what she proclaimed, she hadn’t dismissed that dream, not in full. Wickedness wove in the corners of the witch’s mouth as the colors of grief and great pain sailed across the mender’s face, and she watched, unquestioning, unmoving, allowing the young woman to come to terms with the troubles that turned in her mind.

At last, Caeliri let her reaching fingers sway to the other, her voice weak and saturated when she spoke. “And this one?"

“Function will return to your legs, but the sinew will still be weak, the muscles atrophied - you will have to work them back to wholeness by your own will.” “And the… other part…” Caeliri questioned, her voice steeped with hesitance.

“Years,” the Witch Queen purred, “as many as the tree has seen, you shall forfeit from the end of your life for so gracious a gift.”

There was no number given; somehow, the mender knew she wouldn’t get one, even if she asked.

“There is no right, or wrong, in the grand design; there is only what you want, and what is right for you, and in choosing for yourself, that is the most important thing.”

Caeliri closed her eyes and reached again, feeling the smooth surface of the apple beneath her quaking fingertips.

She parted her lips, preparing for the rush of sweet juices, and crunched.

Lord Daryn Fairwind, his lieutenant, stepped up next to him, murmuring lowly. “What exactly do you expect us to do? The Highlord’s holding the only choke point onto this side to the river. There’s nothing for us to do but stand here holding our-’

The ground under their feet rumbled, and Daryn cast a quizzical glance down. “What’s that?”

As if in reply, the ground seemed to explode outward, showers of dirt, debris, and river water spraying across the Sunspear divisions holding the bridge. Ahead of them, a massive crypt lord burst free of the ground, rose up to tower over them and then buried itself partially back down to neatly bridge the river. Trolls immediately began to flood toward them, and shouts erupted to the far side of the Sunguard formation as the same thing happened there.

Corran barked the order to charge, and as his troops - and, of course, Sarahnis’s as well - began to move to converge on the incoming swarm of undead, he made time to shoot a glare at Fairwind. “Y’ just had to say it, didn’t you?”

---------

Corran looked back to the paper, then crumpled up the sheet and discarded it over the rail with a sigh. The worst thing he could think of was making the damn letter formal and impersonal, giving the family the impression that they’d been sent a form letter. Muttering to himself, he selected another blank sheet and started again.

Lady Fairwind,

I’m sorry to contact you with ill news, but-

Corran crumpled that one up and threw it away too. That might actually have been the worst opening to a letter he could think of. He leaned back on the ship’s rail, closing his eyes for a moment, and only opened them again when he heard the thud and release of breath of someone plopping down on the deck next to him. He didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Hey, Bell.”

Baelisian Stormsummer let out an incredulous little huff of breath, and he finally glanced over at her to see his cousin and fellow crewman watching him. “How do ye even do that shit? Like, always know it’s me. I ain’t the only one sits down near ya.”

“Y’all’re the only one’s enough of a lil’ shit to just sit without askin’ or botherin’ to announce your presence, though.”

Bell rolled her eyes. “Fuckin’ rude. Y’know, cap’n said I can make ye do anythin’ I want, ye daft sod. Should be less shitty.” She craned her neck to look down at the new blank sheet of paper on his writing desk. “Th’ fel are you doin’, anyway? Just won a damn battle and yer sittin’ out here sulkin’? Should go find yerself a pretty lady and get some well-earned reward, ask me.”

“Lost a soldier. I gotta write his family.”

“Well, shit.” Bell rolled her eyes. “How’s that hard?”

“How isn’t it?”

“Ye just-” Baelisian suddenly pushed herself to her feet, attention shifting sharply across the deck to a couple of younger crew were working in the rigging, and she raised her voice in an ear-splitting bellow. “Lansis! Evaril! Get yer asses down offa there! The fel’d I tell ye I’d do if I caught ye up there again wi’out yer fuckin’ safety lines?” She looked back to Corran, rolling her eyes. “Fuckin’ kids. An’ you, ye dumb shit. It ain’t hard. Be yerself.”

With that, the dark-haired woman was off, a storm-cloud of profanity following her as she moved to confront the chagrined sailors. Corran watched her go, then pursed his lips and put pen to paper once more.

Lady Fairwind, it is my regretful duty to inform you of the death of Daryn Fairwind.

---------

The tide had turned. A massive construct of necrotic flesh had been unleashed on the forces of the Sunguard, Highlord Brightsword’s forces doing all they could to hold it back, but it was a hopeless stand unless they could free more troops to help with the assault - and, at that, he had stopped it on the bridge, now the only way across that side of the battlefield thanks to the lumbering crypt lord deciding to stop being a bridge and start being an active threat. It would have been nearly impossible to assist - that was, at least, until Cynel Sunfire had intervened, destroying the bridge in a hail of stone and fire and dropping the monstrosity into the river to be swept to its death.

The Sunguard’s forces were split now, a portion of Sunspears and others cleaning up on the far side of the now difficult-to-cross river and engaging the undead force’s commander, and another large remnant trying to keep the crypt lord from running amok in the healers, casters and rangers still on the side of the river where the Sunguard had made their initial defense.

The Archon carved a path through the last of the threatening Amani trolls, and Corran found himself standing on the bank of the river, his tired, bloodied marines without an immediate target.

Fairwind, his helmet dented and armor stained with ichor, made his way to his side. “Orders, Commander?”

Corran gave a moment’s thought to joining the battle against the crypt lord… but the most important part of the fight, the necromancer who was keeping the battle running, was on the other side of the river. And he had a force of water-borne troops…

“We swim for it. Get the men in order and go, in your own time.”

Daryn flashed him a grin, teeth white against the gore staining his face. “Aye aye, commander.”

---------

Corran continued to write, his pen speed increasing as he grew more comfortable with what he was putting to paper.

Lady Fairwind, it is my regretful duty to inform you of the death of Daryn Fairwind.

At the border of Archon Truefeather’s lands, the forces of the Sunguard this night gave battle to a seemingly overwhelming force of undead led by a necromancer of disturbing skill and power. In the process of eliminating the threat the necromancer presented to the Dawnspire lands and Quel’thalas as a whole, Daryn Fairwind gave his life to protect me and the rest of our Marines from suffering the fate that had befallen several other targets engaged by the necromancer in question.

In the short time I served with Lord Fairwind, I found him to be an excellent soldier and a damned fine man. His skill with a blade saved both myself and others on numerous occasions, and even in a force as powerful and renowned as the Sunguard, there are few people I would rather have had at my back than your husband. His determination, grace under pressure and courage were an inspiration to everyone who knew him.

Lord Fairwind gave his life to clear the way in the final assault on Kelendar Ebonscream, alongside hundreds of his fellow Oathsworn. He and the others who didn’t make it home from that battle share the distinction of having saved Quel’thalas from a great evil, one that would have brought the pain and suffering of the undead back to our homes and lands. Your husband’s deeds and accomplishments will stay with the sin’dorei people for countless generations, representing everything the Sunguard stands for, and all should be grateful for it.

He was a good man, and I am proud to have counted him as a friend. If there is anything I or my family can do to help, please, feel free to contact me or anyone else from House Autumnlight.

Respectfully,

Emberward Corran Autumnlight

Thalassian Marine Corps/The Sunguard

Corran set his pen down, reading the letter over, and nodded slowly. “That’ll do.”

“Autumnlight!”

The marine looked up to see Bell standing by the two well-scolded sailors, hands on her hips. “If yer done fuckin’ around, get over here an’ help me with these two!” She grinned at him. “They need a lil’ refresher from someone can tell their arse from their elbow, but all I got right now is you.”

Letting out a long breath, he stood, folding the letter and tucking it away in his jacket, and headed for Bell and her charges. “You got it.”