#rosearnica

Traejan had been very well-behaved from the time Arvalin had answered the door to let him in up until the time he did so again to admit Rosearnica. He was the picture of calm, quietly accepting the tea he’d been offered and having the most bizarre conversation with his counterpart (as Arvalin was concerned; he would never get used to seeing his Lord Lightrend and the very dead one from the other side sitting in the same room).

And then Arnica had arrived, her expression already a clear enough indication of exactly how she felt about him. It didn’t help that he was sitting across from the warlock, the both of them eyeing her with that same intense gaze that lingered longer than than it rightly should. He rose, already starting in on the words he wanted to say, remembering Vittani’s anger and insult and Rosefica’s anxiety all through the night, playing on his own nerves all too easily. These two women he cared about in different ways whose feelings had been wounded by her stupid, needless opinions and that needed to be set right.

He couldn’t recall who struck first. Perhaps his hand had strayed too close to his weapon for her comfort or if the shift of magic in the air had changed with her drawing a spell, maybe only a whisper of a prayer. It didn’t matter ultimately. The Light had seared him, the smell of burnt flesh strong and pungent and completely inescapable as the spell had hit his face, feeling like a blade cutting across his eyes and down his cheek. It had blinded him momentarily, though when his vision finally began to clear he realized he would likely have to replace one.

Traejan felt a hand upon him then, tugging him back roughly and he nearly tripped over his feet as he was disoriented. He could taste blood and a chunk of something between his teeth, which he instinctively chewed and swallowed without verifying exactly what it was. He felt the warmth on his face and down onto his chest, which was strange given he’d just been innocently having tea. He looked around after wiping blood from his chin, eyeing the smear of it on the back of his hand.

Arvalin had gone to her, frantically whispering assurances Traejan could no longer hear, pressing the Light and the green mist of the monks and whatever else he knew to mend into her to try and save her. But Traejan had seen his share of deaths and knew that the blood pouring out of the hole in her throat was coming too quickly and the wet sound of her gasping for breath was growing weaker. He felt bad for this Arvalin who clearly loved her and kept on lying to her again and again about her being alright. She was a healer and no doubt knew that she was anything but alright. The hand on his arm belonged to the warlock, his claw-like fingers digging in as he dragged him along furiously. He would have an incident on his hands now to clean up, so Traejan could understand his counterpart’s anger.

She had gotten confused, is all. Arvalin had told her three doors down on the left and she found herself at three doors down to the right instead. A closed door she wasn’t meant to venture beyond ought to be locked. That was just logical. Flawless commoner logic.

Unfortunately, Traejan was no commoner. He didn’t quite believe in locks within his home as much as an unwavering acceptance that some places were just off-limits without express permission. Places such as three doors down on the right.

The door swung open wide after the handle had slipped from Rosearnica’s fingers. Traejan’s eyes burned into her’s with his customary too-intense-stare, standing beside the bed as he’d been dressing. He wore nothing but the long gloves he was still smoothing along his arms, pulling the top edge up and over the dark discoloured flesh that crept above the elbow.

Lord Lightrend’s behaviour of late had surprised Arvalin, who had never anticipated the man would show any regard for what had happened at all. With unexpected generosity Traejan had given Arvalin a gift of his own time, without the burden of work or his noble problems to trouble him. Some might have said that ought to be a given but anyone that knew his lord and understood how much he relied on his assistant would realize the significance of such a gesture.

 He had changed the flowers at Rosearnica’s grave earlier that day, apologizing for the fact that he had brought her roses. It felt so terribly cliche. You should have picked up a book on the language of flowers, Arvalin, he thought. He might have found something more exotic.

 But sometimes simple and traditional could be nice. And the meaning was there, that’s all that really mattered.

 He went to Little Fish and ordered the salad they so often shared. He sat at their same table, on his same side that faced the door. When they brought his meal out the waitress gave him a sad smile and refused to charge him. He ate with his fork in his right hand as always, the left sitting palm upturned on the table. A few times he thought he felt the brush of fingers against his skin but knew he must have been imagining things.

 On the walk home he thought he felt a touch on his shoulder and it reminded him of the times she would lean her head against him.

 In his room at one point it felt like a warm breath against his forehead, disturbing the stray hairs that fell into his eyes and he could only think of her attempts to get his hair into some sort of manageable state.

The voice. The voice was in his mind, directing him. It was overwhelming. Almost as overwhelming as the Hunger. It ate at him, through every pore and every fiber of his new being. New, yes. He was brand new. He knew he had a life before the voice in his mind, before his Master who directed and praised his actions, but it was like a dream, insubstantial as a cloud and just as fleeting in the face of the Endless Hunger.

He trudged along in the wake of the massive war engines, the patchwork creatures made of decaying flesh and blood and bone, the shambling army of undead, and somewhere far ahead, his Master, his King.

That's just Prince Arthas. A babe. A brat. The traitorous thought was swept away in a tide of Hunger. There was a memory, a dream of another place, a shining city full of humans, far away from the forest they marched through. Closer, an estate in those very woods, where....someone, several someones close to him lived. He wanted for a mad moment to find them, to show them how well they all marched, but the Hunger overrode that mad thought. He knew where they'd be hiding, the secret cellar under the kitchen stairs, the small cavity they hid bloodthistle and their secret books from the Magistry. No. No, they weren't hiding any longer, the voice assured him. Nothing lived at the estate anymore.

The Endless Hunger was like a living thing within him, his entire body cried out in agony as they marched, and when the gates of Silvermoon City crashed down in the face of the Scourge war machine, he flowed through the wreckage along with everyone else, screaming with the rest.

Chasing a fleeting shadow with a mane of long, dark hair through the streets, past a bakery...

Aegnas woke with a start. For a frenzied moment, he thought the Hunger was upon him for real, as the memory of that dark-haired shape merged with the very real dark-haired beauty asleep on his shoulder. Then the dream began to fade, the pain of the remembered Hunger to ease, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He disentangled himself from Rosefica and grabbed his pants from where he'd tossed them the night before.

Wandering around this Silvermoon was very strange. It was laid out almost identical, but things were changed. A street corner cafe that I favour was a little shop here and the Bazaar was filled with store fronts I'm not familiar with. Businesses flourished when those who owned them may not have died here, I guess. It makes me uneasy. And likely to get lost.

  I thought a lot about why I was even here. Why would Rosearnica want me to support her? I know we've gotten a bit closer, but I'm all but useless in a situation like this. I'm as nervous as she is, if not more. But I'll do my best, since it's all I could ever hope to offer her. Once upon a time I used to think it would be so nice to impress her so that maybe, just maybe, there could be something there more than friendship. But it's silly, because I don't even have my own place.

  Even if I wanted to find one I might never be there. Sure, it looks like I put up with a lot from my lord, but it's not all so bad. I've learned so much, far more than I ever would have if I did anything else. And it feels good knowing I have his trust. I would never take advantage of that, as I consider us friends. His counterpart on the other hand I find to be very strange and unsettling. I've dealt with very few Death Knights, so their habits are very odd at times.

  I expect he will be around quite a bit during all of this. He has a habit of trying to draw comparisons to my other self and asking a lot of unnecessary questions about my personal business. For science, he claims. I think he just thrives on the idea of making people uncomfortable. I do not want to think of another me, let alone find myself face-to-face with him again. I enjoy my life. I do not want to think of it in any other way. It's hard enough wondering if I've made all the right choices as it is.

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