#paathi

The shattered limb lay on the floor, twitching and steaming with some unspeakable humours. She prodded it with the tip of her broken sword and winced as a burning pain ripped through her arm. She had been bitten by that beast before finding refuge in this forsaken tower. At least, she thought that’s what happened. Her memory was… blurred.

Yes, the mark was there, on her right shoulder, showing clearly against her marble-pale skin. Two deep pits where the fangs punched through armour and into her, tearing away the protective plates as though they were parchment. The marks were dark, disgusting, the puckered flesh around them already turning a violent purple, throwing her veins into stark contrast…

It is not healing.

The realisation struck her like a blow to the chest. Her body bore remnants of deep wounds, wounds that would have felled anyone, wounds that should have been fatal. The Light had mended every one of them, gash or bite or burn, it made no difference. She had been invincible.

Until now. With every beat of her heart, the pain increased. The vindicator could even see the… rot… spreading. And where it touched a remainder of an old injury, the scarring withered, burst. Her wounds were reopening one by one, forcing her to relive the agony of each and every failure.

A guttural bellow accompanied by a heavy thud drew her attention back to the more immediate threat. Her mind raced, too clouded by pain to allow for another calming ritual. The shattered blade dropped from nerveless fingers as yet another old gash was opened. She grasped the useless limb with her good hand, hoping against hope to stem the flow of blood with the sheer pressure of her exhausted muscles. Blue blood, she noted absently, not the bright shining gold that flowed through her veins ever since she had been forged in the Light.

She clambered up the damaged stairwell. If she could only reach the top, maybe she could activate a beacon. If the Vindicaar was in range, she might just be able to open a teleportation beam. The medics would certainly be able to…

She slipped on the slick stone and slammed her head against the wall. There was a strange clatter behind her as she stifled a sob. Something pale, like shards of milky glass, lay there when she turned to look. Realisation came, too horrible to accept at first. No. No. It could not be. This was not it. This was not her horn. It could not be. The pieces should have been just there, held in place in a silhouette of pure Light as they had been for millennia. Certainly, it had been shattered by a felguard’s mace then, but…

Paathi recognised her own denial. With trembling, bloodied fingers she explored the outline of her right horn, noting the point of fracture, and more importantly the complete lack of the remnants that the Light had held together for so long.

The world blurred. She could not recall climbing the rest of the tower, nor setting down the beacon. The machine pulsed gently, following her heartbeat, but Paathi could not bring herself to look upward. She knew no help could ever come.

Beneath her, shadows stirred. Unnatural howls pierced the gloom, and strange misshapen creatures emerged. They were but reflections, she knew. No more than pawns and playthings of that accursed sky.

Look up.

The command was more felt than heard. She had no more strength left to fight it. The beacon sputtered and died, leaving her alone with the monsters and the bleak, cosmic darkness above. A star blinked into existence, then another, and another. They were not the soothing lights of a serene night sky, however. These were a harsh, burning orange, expressing nothing but contempt for anyone foolish enough to gaze upon them. They filled Paathi with an acute sense of insignificance. You are reckless, they seemed to whisper. Your downfall is your own fault. Nobody will miss you. They will say, she died in some far-off land. They will pretend to care, and then you will be forgotten. You were cold, aloof, distant. That was your own choice. Nobody will miss you.

She should have had some retort, something that might prove the whispers wrong, prove it was all a lie. But she knew, deep within, she had always seen herself this way. The baleful stars simply revealed that truth to her.

Her knees buckled and she staggered. For one brief moment, she held on to the shattered battlements, but they dissolved like mist. As she plummeted to her death, Paathi thought she saw the skies draw open, revealing a single red eye blazing with malevolence.

***

Paathi opened her eyes to find Stardust nuzzling at her hair. The talbuk sprang back and neighed as she pulled herself upright. She must have dozed off and fallen from her saddle. Yes, that made… sense.

She briefly inspected her body for any signs of the strange rot, finding none. Her horn was as it had been for so very long, a string of fragments suspended within the Light. A nightmare, then? It must have been.

Without a word, she mounted back up and pulled her crystalline lute into her lap. She played and played, everything from songs of heroism to heart-wrenching elegies, from ancient tunes she had learned as a child to bawdy ditties from Azeroth’s taverns.

He threw himself into the work, hoping that exhaustion might help subdue his dark thoughts. Emma, Light bless her, helped to the best of her abilities, but it was unbearably slow going. After several hours, it seemed as though they hadn’t made any progress at all. Just as he sat down with his daughter to share a bite to eat, he heard the sound of hooves entering their yard. Marten motioned for Emma to remain quiet, and slowly took hold of his axe. You could never be too safe in the Plaguelands, and whoever it was, they had not called out or introduced themselves.

 His heart was pounding as he turned the doorknob and pushed open the door. When he spied the unannounced visitor, he was struck speechless.

 Marten had seen draenei before, but never one like this. Her skin was a pale alabaster white, marked with holy glyphs and uncountable faintly glowing scars. One of her horns had been shattered halfway along its length, yet its fragments remained in place, floating within a silhouette of soft golden light. She had ridden in on a giant, goat-like creature that now stood obediently by what remained of the Weavers’ fence.

 The hilt of a greatsword poked out above her shoulder, but she had not reached for it. Instead, her bright golden eyes found Marten and she inclined her head. Her voice was deep and melodic. “Greetings. My name is Paathi.” “Uh… good day,” stumbled Marten, “I’m Marten. Marten Weaver. What brings a paladin such as yourself here?” Paathi gestured towards the ruined roof. “I believe you require some aid. I would be glad to oblige.” “How- I mean no offense, milady, but wouldn’t your talents be of better use elsewhere? We’re just simple farmers.”

 The draenei turned her eyes from the damage to Marten. Despite its intensity, the gaze felt… kind. “I am vindicator. I go where I am needed.”

 ***

 As Paathi entered the house, Marten could not help but notice how her very presence lit up the corridor. They went from room to room, inspecting the wreckage. The kitchen had it worst; it lay in shambles, with most of the shelving gone and half the pottery smashed to pieces. The counter and fireplace had luckily avoided the worst of it, but some falling masonry had dented and cracked their large iron cauldron. The draenei picked it up, turning it in her hands as though it were barely a quarter its weight. “That was our only cauldron, and now it’s ruined,” despaired Marten when he saw Paathi’s thoughtful expression. She clicked her tongue and looked up at the devastated roof. “I cannot replace the thatch, but the wooden panels should not be too difficult to repair. See? All the rafters yet stand. I shall require a hand with cleaning up, of course.” “… Cleaning up? It will take ages fixing all of this!”

 The paladin tossed the cauldron in the air and caught it with ease. “It will not. Follow me outside. I shall show you something.” She glanced towards the kitchen entrance. “And tell your child to come as well.” Marten turned around, barely catching a glimpse of Emma’s dark locks as she darted out of view.

 He led his daughter to the front yard, where Paathi was rummaging through her saddlebags. She produced a small object that when tapped began emitting pulses of light. The paladin then placed this object on the ground and motioned for the Weavers to stand back.

 A beam of radiance shot down from the skies, blinding Marten. When it subsided, he saw a gleaming golden anvil with an assortment of tools where the beacon had been moments before. Paathi wasted no time, slamming the cauldron atop the anvil and striking it with a glowing crystalline hammer. “Stop!” yelled out the farmer, “You’ll only damage it further!” Paathi seemed not to notice. The paladin dropped the hammer, held the cauldron in both hands, and let a searing radiance wash over it from her fingers. Mortally terrified of the powers on display, Marten nonetheless found the courage to make a grab for his axe and whirled around, fully intent on stopping the strange visitor…

 Clanggggggg.

 “It is done,” said Paathi. Before her stood the cauldron, beautifully smooth like the day it had been bought, the crack running across it filled in with some strange silvery-golden substance. Marten stood speechless as the draenei beckoned him closer to inspect her work, completely ignoring the weapon gripped in the man’s hands. She stepped away from the anvil as he approached and folded her arms across her chest. Marten ran his calloused fingers across the cauldron’s slightly warm surface. “… How-?”

 “My kind has learned to mend many cracks. Metal… metal is easy.” Her usually impassive expression softened as she offered the farmer a soft smile.

 ***

 It was not the end of unexpected wonders for the Weavers. When offered an axe to help remove the thick branches, Paathi waved it away. Instead, she unsheathed her curved blade, bathing the room in light. It shone as though it had been forged from a fragment of the sun, which, Marten thought with childlike wonder, it may very well have been. Whatever its source, the blade made quick work of its quarry, leaving Marten and Emma with the task of picking up the pieces and stacking them neatly against the side of the house. With the branches out of the way, the Weavers went about removing the other detritus while Paathi mended the cracked walls using the same silvery-golden metal as before.

 Marten recalled that he had set aside a few wooden panels in the barn a few years earlier, just on the off chance they might come in handy, and so they did. The paladin wasted no time sawing them into correct shapes and replacing the broken ones along the roof. Evening found her forging new holders for the kitchen shelving. When she sincerely apologised for not being able to replace their shattered pottery, Marten simply hugged her and began to weep. In between sobs, he attempted to explain just how much the help meant to him. Paathi somewhat awkwardly patted him on the head and gently disentangled herself.

 At supper, she produced a crystalline lute and sang in her ancient tongue, songs of hope and joy and a brighter future to come. When offered a bed she claimed to need no sleep and instead went for a stroll, leaving her talbuk mount to guard Marten and Emma as they slept.

 ***

 “Please, take some payment, it’s not much, but…” Paathi waved him away. “You have already given me what you could spare.” And he had. Marten had meticulously gone through their pantry and shared a portion of everything he had. Besides, she had little need of money. “Anything you ask, anything at all! You saved us after all!” Paathi looked over the man’s shoulder, at the girl waving from the doorway. She offered a small wave in return. “The truth. What happened to your wife?” Marten’s smile froze and he grew deathly pale. “I saw the grave last night,” said Paathi, her voice tinged with sympathy. The farmer stared at his hands silently for a while, then spoke.

 “It was in winter, just after our boy had left for Stormwind. There was something evil on the wind, you could almost taste it… Miriam, she… she worked so hard, getting the harvest in, she must have… the spores, they come in from the east sometimes, if the healers get to you quick enough it’s fine. She was feeling poorly, so we called for them, and they did what they could… but the sickness came back two months later, and I knew what it was, I’d seen what it did in Tirisfal… I couldn’t save her, couldn’t… When she was gone, I built a pyre, nearly half our firewood and a full barrel of oil went up in smoke. You know how hard it is to light a fire in the snow? I had to, or else…” His voice grew thick and he swallowed hard. “I thought I saw her rise, in the flames… It… I… I couldn’t…”

 Paathi inclined her head and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. A soft light limned her fingers, and a feeling of peace washed over him. “I understand. You hold on to this land for the memory of her.” “Not just that,” muttered Marten stubbornly, “It’s my place, where I was born and raised. And now with your help, we can go on.”

 The paladin looked at the mended roof. “I have been alive for a thousand of your lifetimes, perhaps more,” she said, and a chill ran down the farmer’s spine. He knew, somehow, that she was telling the truth. “Sometimes we have to mend things before we can truly let them go.  But let them go we must. For our own sake, and that of others.” Marten followed her gaze to Emma.

 “Why did you help us then?” he asked. “We would have had to leave regardless.” Paathi tilted her head. “Yes. You would have had to leave. But would you have?” The word ‘yes’ stuck in Marten’s throat. He knew it would be a lie, and he knew she would know it to be one. He sighed heavily, and Paathi nodded. “Now, should you choose to stay, you have a roof over your head. But remember; a house is not the same as home. And a grave is fit to be neither.”

 ***

 He stood watching, thinking, for a long time, even after Paathi slipped out of view. Then he went inside, made some tea, poured two cups, and carried them to Miriam’s grave.

 He sat silently, sipping his tea, with the other cup placed atop the stone. “Do you remember mornings like this?” he whispered eventually. The wind murmured a reply, but he could not understand it. “We have to mend things before we can truly let them go. I thought… I thought we could pull through, as we always did. I did my best, truly, but in the end… it was for me we stayed, wasn’t it? It was for me you stayed.”

 He sat until the tears dried up and the tea grew cold.

***

She floated, calm, content. Vague images surrounded her, memories of a life long lost, of someone who may have been herself. They seared their way across her vision, leaving behind them trails of crimson and purple and green that burned bright against the darkness, each dissolving first into shards, then smaller particles yet, new images unfolding from each grain of memory in turn. They seemed to form a winding pathway, with no beginning or end, twisting upon itself as the scenes merged into each other. It delighted her, knowing she would have an eternity to pore through them all, organise them as she saw fit, give form to the amorphous mass.

There was no real attachment to what she was seeing, only boundless curiosity. Some scenes she felt a familiarity with, with others it was as though she had only now seen them for the first time. There was no rhyme or reason to the order they would appear in. She was running through the grass, wheezing with laughter. She felt a demon’s claw rip through her gorget, leaving a searing gash in the flesh beneath. Her family were celebrating her graduation while she sat there, tongue-tied, basking in their love. A sharp pain in her side as the doomguard pulled its blade free. A flash of blinding rage. The day she was forged in the Light. The first time she had-

Something made her pause. It had only been there for an instant, but she had experienced a memory unlike the others. It had felt urgent, important. She decided to revisit a few of the more pressing scenes, seeking for clues. Her blood gushed from the open wound in her throat, but the Light was there, knitting her tissue, leaving nothing but a faintly glowing scar. Xe’ra’s words echoed in her mind, telling her of the new life she would have as one of the chosen. The Light that was mending the gaping gash in her side surged through her as her hammer crushed her assailant’s skull. A flash of blinding rage. Xe’ra’s words once more-

There. Twice now she had felt a strangely visceral sense of fury. It was over in a flash, not accompanied by any image whatsoever. She scanned the surrounding memories, found they all had to do with the nigh-eternal conflict between the Army of the Light and the Burning Legion. Curious.

As she zoned in on the missing memories, she felt an increasing sense of foreboding, of lingering dread. The sensation was unlike anything she had felt since she had abandoned her flesh and melded into this place. It was as though the Light itself were asking her to abandon her search, to let go of whatever anger and pain lay locked behind the elusive scene.

This is mine. Her challenge echoed through the space-not-space. It is mine. How dare you deny me access to what is mine? Was she think-screaming at the Light, or her own mind? She could not rightly say, but whatever it was that had veiled the memories from her now recoiled, slithering off and leaving her prize open for her to access.

“Rise, Argus. Rise, my broken world.” The words thrummed with power, and Argus obeyed. This was the world Paathi had given her everything to save, only to see it delivered into the hands of the enemy. A shattered, disfigured giant leaking arcane energies. She knew then, there was nothing left to salvage. Their only hope lay in destroying the very soul of her homeworld.

The battle seemed endless. Many fell to the Unmaker’s scythe or disappeared into the hungering emptiness that fragmenting orbs of pure magic left in the fabric of space. And yet she fought on, with hammer and Light and the unbending spirit of her people. As Argus weakened, she heard Aman’Thul utter an incantation that would forge bonds of time itself and chain the shattered world-soul. As Argus faded, several beacons shot to the skies, calling down the constellar who had once been tasked with protecting the titan’s slumbering soul. They could not be allowed to interfere.

They fell one by one, celestial essence lost to the cosmic winds. One of the last standing aimed a beam of magic at Paathi, and she attempted to block it with the head of her crystalline hammer. She heard a loud, piercing whine. The hammerhead shattered into shards as though it had been made from glass. The hammer… her legacy… the last remnant of her life before the war, before the exile.

A red rage descended on her mind. She charged the constellar, disarmed as she was, pummelling the creature with fists and magic, somehow managing to narrowly avoid her opponent’s whirling blade. She found herself perched on the being’s back, grabbed its inexplicably material shoulder, and twisted. The cry of pain nearly echoed the sound her hammer had made as it shattered, yet she refused to give any quarter. The Light surged through her veins, granting her strength beyond anything she had known before. The strange creature’s flesh parted, its now useless limb torn out of its socket. Paathi leapt off her opponent, took hold of the blade he had dropped from lifeless fingers, and turned it upon its erstwhile owner.

At that moment, the Highfather’s spell failed, and Argus was unleashed once more. Her own world slew her, pinned her to the ground with a spear of crystallised darkness.

Her very essence thrummed with anger. After all that she had given in its name, all that she had abandoned to serve the Light’s cause in the hopes of seeing Argus reborn, the world’s very soul had turned against her. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not the Light’s plan. Then, at the very edge of hearing, she thought she heard a voice.

“… The spark of life still flickers within these mortals…”

***

She felt the air as it entered her lungs once more, she felt her heart begin to pump blood. There was pain, as there always was, but it was dulled by the fires of her vengeance. Her fingers curled around the star-forged blade she had claimed from its slain former wielder. Light leapt from her fingers, igniting the sword’s core, making it blaze with the radiance of a sun.

Around her, other slain champions stirred to life, picking up their armaments of legend. She saw the determination in their eyes, the unyielding willpower that would stand against anything, even Sargeras himself, all to save the soul of their planet from suffering the same fate as Argus. And together, they would prevail. Together, they would avenge the fallen, the tortured, the twisted.

Together, they would slay a world.

***

Paathi felt an emptiness inside her. They had achieved the greatest victory they might have hoped for. Sargeras had been imprisoned, Argus released from his torment. And yet…

She had dedicated her life to the glimmer of a hope that her world might yet be redeemed. That hope had been extinguished on the point of a spear. Her purpose had turned out to have been a lie, the foolish dream of a foolish child.

She paced through the Vindicaar’s corridors, not joining in the revelry. She understood now that she had been shaped by Xe’ra, by the Light, to be nothing but a weapon aimed at the heart of the Legion. With Antorus in ruins and the Dark Titan in shackles, her duty was at an end… and so was any worth her life may have had.

She found herself at the ship’s helm. Beneath them, Azeroth turned slowly. Paathi took a step closer to the crystalline glass. She observed the oceans and the forests, the mountains and the deserts. This was the final titan, wounded and bleeding. The last bastion of hope in an uncaring universe.

She heard a polite cough and turned to see a tall, gaunt figure. She narrowed her eyes. This… felcaster… had aided in the battle against Argus. Though she found his chosen source of power distasteful, she bowed her head in respect. The blood elf returned the gesture and spoke. “You see now, don't you? Why we fight. It isn't for a nation or a faith, or even for the sake of a cause. It is because this world in all its elegance and complexity is worth fighting for. As are those who live upon it.” He swept his hand across his view, as though trying to encompass the immeasurable girth of the planet before him.