(AUTHORS NOTE): I'm writing this to test my emotional writing. Perhaps I will right more. If I get enough reviews, an improvised story will follow. Please enjoy it, it is rather short.
-Jakkani
"Frostmourne," huffed the servant underneath her breath in conclusion, "is corrupting him. He isn't himself, my lady."
Jaina stirred her tea thoughtfully from where she sat behind her desk. Her chair was as cold as ice, for the window of her quarters had been open for most of the night. The cold seeped its way into her bones, and made her fingers dumb whenever she tried to write. Although she wasn't a fan of tea, it was the only remedy she could think of for this winter's chill.
"That is all, Lynn. You are dismissed." The servant bowed to her once more, and turned on her heel, heading out of the room and closing shut the door behind her. She could hear the rapidly fading pitter-patter of her feet as she strode down the hall. Jaina sat motionless, so motionless, staring into the depths of her rapidly cooling Darnissian Tea.
Although she knew the tea was good for her, she wouldn't drink it. She couldn't, even though she had sent for it herself ten minutes ago.
She unfolded her legs and stood, walking to the window to close it.
"Jaina,"
She wheeled around wildly, her hands instantly bursting into billowing balls of flame ready to be thrown.
There was no one there.
She stood for a moment, staring at the empty room, unsure, the cold snuffing out the flame she held on her palms. She heard Arthas. She was sure of it.
The window forgotten, she sat where she stood, resting her head against the wall and running her fingers through her hair.
Am I going mad?
No, no. I can't be. I have to lead my people. I mustn't show weakness.
Regardless, salty tears ran down her cheeks. She missed him, more than anything, and longed for his touch. Sometimes she would imagine herself going to Northrend just to kiss him once more, just to be held once more. She felt so cold, so fragile, so lonely in this room, and yet people expected her to be strong.
Images of him bubbled up to the surface, of her conscience, of him smiling in the summer, of her riding on his back through town; not because she was wounded, but because he offered to carry her for no good reason. She hugged onto him, afraid to fall off his back, but his powerful stride carried her for miles without protest. He would intentionally pretend to lose his balance, and laugh as she squealed in terror. Regardless, it was the happiest days of her life.
And now he is gone.
The room seemed even colder, even emptier than it was before, as the huddled form of Jaina clutched her knees to her chest. A single sob escaped her.