#thanidiel

Beathyn stalked the trenches of an old battlefield that bore no name. It did once, but as the battles here overlapped over and over, it had become a desolate space. Stripped of its meaning by endless earthworks and the bodies of those who built them.

He asked the soldiers around him where he might find her and was met with shrugs. To them, she was just another face in a sea of strangers that came and went from this place as they pleased- when their Lord had paid or failed to pay them.

The agent of the Emberhearts, hugged his shotgun close to his chest, cradling it underneath a water-treated cloak to keep out the damp. He hoped he didn’t have to use it. Crossing paths with a contingent of pikemen, destined to some distant flank, he managed to catch wind of a woman of her description. A Lady of War.

She sat lazily upon the side of a battered barricade, smashed long ago by cannon fire. It gave her a commanding view of the unearthed no-man’s land before her. A cigar between her lips, and elbows resting on the ground. Beathyn approached from incline behind her, looking out at the trenches opposite to theirs.

“Strange choice for retirement,” he said, shotgun still clutched to his chest. “Highdawn.”

“The North despises me and my People reject me,” is the honest answer that rumbles out over the expanse - still managing to project like the same ghosts of artillery fire around them, even when she is so low and her lungs constrained by her own weight.

“This is the closest I can settle Home while keeping peace.” How odd, that the bloodmonger still prizes such a thing. Then she pauses, a long flick of her ear swishing out like some annoyed beast, “It gives those that still follow something to feed on.” Is that irritation chilling the femininity of her voice towards the need of conflict, or that even after all of this, there are dozens with feveret loyalty to her?

“If someone Northern was going to find me, I was thinking it would be Flamethorn or Islesun.” Objective and punitive, but somehow lacking in genuine hostility, the words march out from her lips, “You have no bond to me.” 

The unspoken followup of ‘So why are you here?’ pulses out in a breath of smoke that dissipates into already acrid air.

Beathyn is almost transfixed by the image of her. Comfortable. In her element. Like a living spirit of the wardead. He then settles into a crouch next to her, letting the wisps of smoke dance round him before he made his reply.

“The Emberhearts send their regards,” he said, as if it explained everything. He reached into his vest pocket and produced a folded envelope marked with the wax seal of her friend’s house. It almost seemed too official for the whiskey loving, food gorging man that she was familiar with.

When opened, it bore the words of Solendis Emberheart. Words of thanks. An invitation for a funeral, in honor of Sederis’ memory.

“I guess you could say I’m their mailman of sorts,” Beathyn pulled his cloak over his shoulder and tucked his shotgun underneath his arm as he relaxed. “A really heavily armed mailman who’s been tracking down Quel’thalas’ most dangerous killers- Because apparently that’s the sort that’s drawn to Sederis-” he looked at Thanidiel and gauged her reaction, glancing at her eye patch and her dour expression. “No offense of course.”

“He was deathseeking and I am bloodseeking, maybe he was hoping I’d turn around and kill him at some point for being too slow or too philosophical.” Is that a joke? It is difficult to interpret such things from her through the lenses of an almost-stranger; everything she verbalises is strained like teeth brandished behind a muzzle. She reaches out after that, plucking the letter out of his hand between two fingers and seamlessly breaking the seal.

“Who else have you played courier for? I will assume many - you approach Eastweald at this rate, there would be no others of the Sunguard aside from Emberfall and Novastorms.” Then her ear flicks again as she pulls her fingers around the strap of that eyepatch and pulls it down to unveil the magicked and blue eye; just a shiver slower in its rotation to the one alight of felfire. 

“Why am I going to a funeral? Emberheart’s blood succeeded there, between that and me assuring the survival of Goldenshade, my honor to him is resolved.” She looks over the blackened battlefield - as though able to see cadres of men miles beyond that he could not.

“You can take the Crows back to Lirelle if you wish.”

“Well,” Beathyn shrugged, “it’s an invitation. Accept it, reject it, go- don’t go- I leave that up to you.” The courier didn’t seem too bothered by her mannerisms. The agent seemed used to the abuses- either that or he wasn’t too invested in who came to the funeral.

He pauses for a moment before rattling off the names of the attendees, ones by one, most of them delivered to an address or left with a house servant. Apart from a few superiors, the rest were familiar names from the Guard. Leaving out all but one.

“As for the Crows,” he says at last. Rising to his feet and shouldering his weapon. “You should take them yourself. Lirelle will be there.”

--

Art by Michael Kutsche

Bricini Lightwing stands, naked and dripping in the shower. She does not know when the water stopped running. She does not remember turning it off. But she is suddenly aware of the coolness of the air against her dark skin, and so she grabs a towel.

She steps out of the shower and her skin is dry. Her hair is dry. She does not remember drying herself off, but she must have, because she is. She tucks the towel around herself and opens the bathroom door.

She has been here before.

An empty room. A large, empty room. A long, rectangular room, lined by nearly made beds. White and black robes are folded on the foot of each with boots lined up against the bases. Everything is identical. Everything is familiar.

She has been here before. A dream? No, more than that. She cannot place where or how, but she has been here before. Still, she reaches up to touch the golden ring in her nose, as though that is some sort of totem that reminds her of what is reality and what is dream. It is not, of course, but she touches it anyway.

She is dressed now in white cotton pants that hug at her generous hips and hang loose elsewhere. A white blouse is tucked in at the front, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her feet remain bare, her hands remain bare, and her thick, hark hair remains loose over her shoulders. Loose and dry. She does not know when she dressed herself, but she knows that she is dressed, and that is all that seems to matter.

She looks to the lines and lines of boots. Why are there so many boots? Why are there so many beds? Why does she resent the cleanliness or them all? Why does she resent the smooth sheets, the uniformed folding, the shine of each leather boot? She resents them so much that she cannot look at them any longer and her gaze flicks to the door at the other end of the room.

She has tried to reach for that door before, but she was not successful then.

She walks towards it. It is unassuming. Wooden. No carvings. A brass knob. It is plain, yet annoyingly familiar. She has been here before. She has seen this door, these beds, these boots.

But where?

Her mind should be running with hypothesis after hypothesis. She should be deducing where she is by the smell of the dust on the bed frames, by the stitching on the annoyingly prim sheets, by the type of silk of the black and white gowns. She should be using her mind, but any time she tries to think of anything but the door, her mind is nothing but white light.

But why?

She is at the door now. She looks at the brass knob, shiny from use after use after use. She has been one of the uses. She knows it. She does not know how, but she does.

She opens the door.

But there is no startle awake. This is no dream. The door opens and she is in a small, cramped hall. To the right is a thin window that has long since frosted over from age and dust. To the left is an equally small and cramped staircase that spirals down and out of view. There is a light and warmth radiating from those stairs, from somewhere below. She hears something like a hum.

Voices, whispers, running together.

Before she knows it, she is spiraling down the stairs, dragging her hand along the cold stone wall. She has been here before. She has been on these stairs before. She has touched these walls. So why does she not know where she is?

She is no longer on the stairs. Her bare feet no longer touch cold stone. She is standing on a rug that once was plush. But it is sun-bleached and time-worn. It is pressed thin from years and years of use. She is one of the people that has walked over this rug. She does not know how, why, or when. But she knows it is true.

Light shines to her left and she turns. Women are gathered outside of a door. They are the ones talking, humming, whispering. She cannot see their faces. They do not have faces. But they are dressed in robes of black and white and she knows them. She does not know how she knows them, but she does. She cannot think of a single name, but she knows them.

What are they looking at?

She is urged forward. She feels a pull. Whatever they are looking at, she must look at to. She moves forward and gently urges her way through the crowd. The women are pressed and blocking a room with double doors that are open wide. There is a light and warmth that radiates from that room. She wants it. She knows it.

But how?

The women do not push back when she slips through them. She wades through the sea of women she knows and yet does not know. It is when the women part and when she stands in front of them that she is struck with realization.

Light. Warmth. That is all that it is made of. It glistens as it hangs in the air, its angular shape like runes. Its voice is the ringing of bells. It is not of this world and yet it is here. It inspires her to breathe faster, but she is not scared. She is not afraid. She is in awe.

She is in a church. She is in the orphanage. She is in the cathedral. She walks down the isle, through the pews. She walks towards the Naaru. She walks towards the body of Light.

But when she gets to the front of the cathedral, when she arrives to the steps, it is not a Naaru that stands before her. It is a man.

He has tanned skin and a kind, distracted smile. His right eye cannot open as much as his left, but it was always like that. His dark, thick hair is in loose waves like hers. His gait is casual and loose like hers.

She falls to her knees, overcome. Hot tears spill over her cheeks. His hands rest on her shoulders and for the first time in her long life, she prays and she means it.

This is not a dream.

This is not real.

He is dead.

So is she.

The Light and warmth is within her. It shines. It shines for him. It spills from her.

She gasps. Her eyes open in death.

Her eyes open in the dream.

Bricini eyes opened. And she took in a deep, shuddering breath. She had died. But was dead no longer.