@daily-writing-challenge
February 22, Day 3. Shine—Shadow
They hardly count the days anymore.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
It's thawing.
Drip.
Drip.
Warmed by sunshine and moved by its force, how could they say no? As feeble as the tiniest sliver of foliage, how to resist against such a noumenon of faith? He had once been close to Faith, or so he was told by the cohorts of servants polishing ritual steps and unfurling festival colors on the sanctums. Their spirits still lingered and were easy to call upon, if one knew who held unfinished business on this side of the Veil.
Though once close to it, he had drifted. All it took was seeing the way some would twist it to acquire power. Not that he had morals, or an ethic code that forbid that. It was just so much easier to forsake all remnants or Trust, when one was already Forsaken! And beliefs take Trust. Else they never take root. Inhospitable soil does not yield nutrients to the vulnerable sapling.
Mirceas fancied themself inhospitable.
Drip.
Drip.
They traversed the Estate, rustling the corrupted flora with their spectral stroll. What once had been a collection of monuments to the Sun, to the ancient entity, to the guide and Ruler among the eyes of Azeroth... despite rebuilding, there was still a surprising lack of places of worship in their lands after the Scourge. Half of Silvermoon had fallen, but many other things were lost in the countryside.
The Orchard.
Drip.
Drip.
They are now unsure whether that is thawed dew, or a bleeding wound.
He had seen the chance to give them something grand and taken it. Seized that act of kindness as if it came naturally. As if he had dissected their very soul and laid out its components bare, only to find... to find... Love.
The dripping had stopped. There was no more frost to thaw, or perhaps some spinner had sewn the wound in their heart. A spinner which they dared name, an onlooker with eyes of molten gold and a passion burning brighter than the glory of ages past.
The sorrow did not hurt him.
The wails barely shook him.
The melancholy, he found endearing.
The tears... those he worshipped as divine envoys.
Every part of what made Mirceas himself was also part of the curse. It had been woven so intrinsically into his soul that distinguishing between pre- and post-mortem developments of his personality would make little sense.
And yet that... golden fool loved! He loved a wretched creature shackled to the mortal plane by a thread named affront, by atrocities committed by and against him. By Pain! So much pain it could be fashioned into a blanket and cover the sea, and still have much fabric left to wrap around the world.
But a love so sincere shook towers no matter the strength of their foundations. And so Mirceas found themself loving and wishing to love for the first time in countless years. Ancient memory become flesh, that man was. It reminded him what it was like to be alive, to be unbound and still believe in happiness.
And he was a promise. To that, Mirceas held on. He held on for dear Unlife.
