#tealribbons

...

By the time you find this, I wonder how different our lives will be. Will we, perhaps, be living in a different home? Will we even still be in Quel'Thalas? I know well that your heart takes you to places so far away, though I have questioned often enough if it is your heart that does or if you are merely avoiding that which seems to cause you no shortage of distress.

I know I have convinced you, persuaded you many times over to humour her. I know what you must think of me for doing as much. If our roles were reversed, I cannot say whether I would take the same approach or not. If it were my parents who tailed after us, wanting to be a part of our lives on such a level, would I have the heart to turn them away? Likely not. I have always had something for them that you have not.

Love.

I know that things are more complicated than they seem, that there are things you have not told me. That you will not tell me. From the very beginning, you have been a man of secrets. I worried, some, when our engagement was decided upon. If the man I was to marry was anything that he seemed. If anything he spoke to me was true, or if he merely let lie after lie after lie drip from his tongue.

I would like to think that by now, I have a much better understanding of who you are, even if there are still so many shadows that embrace you.

There is little doubt that our marriage was not what you had wanted or envisioned. Perhaps you had a mind to choose your own, or, I presume you might not have chosen anyone at all. At least, not in that time. Perhaps not ever. I hope that as our years have passed on and we have encountered so many other things together, that you have not come to resent me for being at your side.

You might have wished to conquer the entire world. If you were a conqueror. You are no such thing, are you. But not complacent either. No dreams of glory or romanticised ideals of perishing on front lines for a greater cause. Some might call you selfish for that. Heartless, even. But I know the truth, and if I do not, then I know the truth that I perceive. For where you have shown a certain coldness to others, to even the rest of the world, you have shown me kindness and understanding.

I suspect that the you which you perceive in a reflection is a very different man from the one that I do. And I imagine our future children will think the very same, though that future may come sooner than you think. I have not told you this yet, but it seems there is some discussion about the markets, the city, that I may be with child. I have not noticed a difference myself, but I would hardly know what to expect and others are sure of it. I will be going for examination to determine the truth of that soon. I hope that it comes with fortuitous news and that you will be just as pleased. But I fear that you may think it is only a representation of traditions and ideals we are expected to uphold, rather than the very symbol of life that we have created with one another.

Until then, though I see you smile so very rarely and even less do you laugh, I hope that you have found some joy with me. For though self-sufficient as you are, you ought not to face the world alone. Even should you feel that it has turned against you or that you have lost your place in it, I hope you will come to realise that you always have a place here with me. In my embrace. At my side. In my life.

As where I thought I might find cruelty and a lack of kindness, you have shown me otherwise. If you have ever questioned it, questioned your worth, questioned your significance, I assure you that my life is all the better for you in it. You have brought me a great many joys. And though we do not say such things to one another, perhaps looking back on this will remind you of something I think you do so much need to hear.

I love you.

You are a man worthy of love. You are a man worthy of mine. You are a man worthy of me.

Yours Always, Ei'riya

He had read it only once to begin with, though as time took its toll, weathered him down, and took from him the things he had felt he connected with, his eyes occasionally looked it over.

Soryk wondered how he had ever been a man who deserved it. Her letter. Her love. Her life. Her devotion. In the same breath, he wondered if that man who existed then still existed in the prominent present. He was certain that man had long since died. Not on the fields of battle. Not for glory. Not for those romanticised ideals Ei'riya had sometimes teased him over.

He had died for nothing, he was certain.

No matter how he questioned it, however, no matter how he turned those sweet and considerate words from his late wife over in his head, Soryk realised that as much as he had in so many years past, he still had no answers and no words at all.

As ever and even in death, she had struck him speechless.

Sighing, he moved from his makeshift shelter out in the ever-infinite autumn woods, and down by the riverside. Despite the relative increase in foot traffic considering the nature of Quel'Thalas' recent activities, he was still able to find quiet, relatively remote places that he wouldn't be disturbed in. The present being one such, thankfully. Each step felt just as heavy as its predecessor and sweeping his mane of red back, he gave little care to the rest of the world around him.

There was nothing to remove because aside from the simple blankets he slept in, Soryk didn't often wear anything when he slept. Sometimes he did, if it was a place he felt he didn't know well, but in Quel'Thalas, there was nothing that was going to catch him by surprise. And any spiders wanting to share a sleeping space with him would likely find one of his daggers shoved in between some set of impressive eyes.

The water itself was cold, which he expected. Sun hadn't been out long enough for it to warm up and it wouldn't be until the late afternoon that it would feel even remotely passable. By that time, all of his things would be packed and it'd be like he was never there to begin with. Didn't stop him from grimacing before he decided to just get it all over with.

Dunking below the water's surface, he shot up shortly after, whipping his hair back as it slapped into him with a wet plap. As he saw to his skin, trying to scrub layers of dirt that he'd gathered over the recent days, he thought to the trip again.

He still wasn't really sure why Orilyne had asked him to begin with. He didn't even know why he'd agreed. Well, no. That wasn't true. He knew why. From appearance to how she carried herself, how she spoke with him, that sense of humour... She made him think of Ahtay. He didn't like that.

Ahtay was a very firm part of his past. She had, no doubt, moved on. As was her right. As she should have done. Especially after he had undoubtedly yanked her back and forth. He didn't know how much of his feelings involved missing her or being angry with himself for letting things go the way they had, even if he couldn't have controlled all of them. He'd thought it before, that even if he had asked her to marry him, leaving immediately afterwards for so long and nearly dying? That would have been worse, right?

He could have at least told her how he felt. Maybe. If he felt like he could ever put words to it.

How much of him digging into these thoughts had anything to do with Ahtay, though? Wasn't it just that Orilyne was a living, glaring reminder of everything he'd done? Or not done, as the case often seemed to be. Did he think that somehow being nice to her would make up for everything in the past? All of which had absolutely nothing to do with her.

Was it because he wasn't blind? Orilyne was a beautiful woman. A great conversationalist. Dangerous. He... found those traits favourable, even if he didn't really like admitting to it. And she gave him an overabundance of attention that was impossible for him to ignore. Her reasoning for doing so, he couldn't say. He definitely wasn't going to ask.

Couldn't address it. Couldn't pursue it. Couldn't encourage it. Not in good faith.

Scrubbing at his hair with his relatively simple and cheap bar of peacebloom soap, Soryk groaned. What the fuck was he supposed to talk about on their journey, anyway? She wanted to go from one end of the Eastern Kingdoms to the other. How was he supposed to fill that time in with conversation? Soryk was terrible at that. There were so many other people who would have been more suited to it. He'd go and talk about swords or whatever unimportant, trivial nonsense along the way just to fill the space.

She'd probably ask questions. He didn't like that either. Didn't want to answer questions about himself. At least, nothing that was deep or prying. If it had been up to him, he would've made the entire trip in relative quiet and he knew that wasn't going to fly. Why would it? Ori was this saturated force in the universe. She'd made that clear to him. Dull things weren't her style. And she had so much personality packed inside of that body that whilst he wouldn't have thought of her as high maintenance, she was a little intimidating.

He'd been fortunate to remain on her good side. He wondered if she'd still feel the same way after their trip with one another. Of course, if she magically hated him afterwards, maybe that was for the better. He wouldn't have to feel like he was just going to be a living embodiment of disappointment.

Again, though. Why did he even care? That didn't feel like him at all.

He shook his head, as if by doing so, he could shake off every memory he'd ever had of Ahtay. Every time Ori had looked at him with those striking, prying gold-and-green-accented eyes of hers. To think about either would lead him nowhere good.

He'd have to bury himself in thoughts of maps, of torches, of food, of routes, and every other thing they'd need on their trip. No distractions. No deviations.

Maybe it was time to have a talk with Marint about everything. He almost dreaded that more, but if there was a man who knew women, it would surely be him. Or maybe he'd slap some sense into him.

His gaze, aqua and glowing, stared through the amber courage poured into clear glass, sloshing up along the side every time he turned it gently. His thoughts weren't with it, however. He couldn't really remember the last time he had been. Maybe he hadn't ever been. Drinking had just been a way to numb himself to thought. To feeling. To memory. To circumstance. Losing himself in a bottomless pit that it felt like he couldn't claw his way out of.

He had fallen so far down. No sunlight to find him. And Soryk had, he could admit, just resigned himself to that. Stopped trying. Stopped giving much of a fuck, really. A man who had nothing more to lose became the most dangerous kind of man. There wasn't some kind of moral compass to keep him in check. No ounce of self-preservation. Wasn't going to matter if he died on a job. He wouldn't, but even if he had, he would have made so little impact.

Had he ever really been capable of feeling anything outside of resignation? As he stared past his drink at a fire whose flames had gradually died down, he wondered if even he had in days when Ei'riya had been ever so gently at his side. She had been all gentle and sweet things. He had been sharp and serrated, cold and unwelcoming. An amusing and yet, necessary contrast. He had been just the same with Ahtay. She had been neither gentle nor sweet. Sharp in her own way. High maintenance, he would have called her, though he didn't see that as a bad thing, really. She'd known what she wanted and she'd known exactly what buttons to push to get there.

His tongue swept along his bottom lip, picking traces of scotch that left a subtle burning impression, infinite. Like the memories that left a hole in his person.

Did he ever want to be a different person? He didn't think so. He was, perhaps, the result of his circumstances, which sounded like some lazy excuse for being a bad, self-interested man, but there was an undeniable truth in it. With a different mother, with a present father, with a different background, there was no doubting that he would been Parnis instead of Soryk.

His face twisted up. No. He didn't miss that either. Parnis. He hated that name. Sounded like way more than who and what he actually was. Flowed too nicely from the tongue. If he'd ever had grace, and perhaps once he had, it was long gone, replaced by whatever he'd become.

Whoever he'd become.

Shaking his head, he sat back a little, gaze finally focusing on his glass. What was it he wanted? Was it the same thing as what he deserved? Did he know what he deserved? Death was probably too lenient for a man like him. Death was a convenient way out. Surely that was how he'd survived so long. He couldn't say he tried to go out of his way to expose himself, but it wasn't for his life that he kept others beyond an arm's length of him.

What was he even doing anyway?

Licking flames told him nothing. Just the crackle and pop and soft roar that he couldn't hear over the intensity of his thoughts, of disembodied voices belonging to a past that he couldn't claim to be his. Just ghosts of a bygone era that haunted him. Pursing his lips, he drew in a breath, realised he desired for nothing he was worthy of, and abruptly drained his glass.

He'd need a few more of those before the night was over. Just like so many other nights when he was left to his own devices.