"Figure some landscape like the Wetlands: all of those wee streams flowing about one another, some on different paths than others, but all still connected. Figure Azeroth as a particular stream. Figure another stream running along side our stream: that stream may have some of the same towns, cities, and even people as our stream. Ya see, though, when ya think about it, even the most insignificant things that happen in life could, and usually do, have profound effects later on. What of when you and I first met? What if you'd never responded to the High Council's charter? Imagine how different both of our lives would be."
-Diarmaid Ó hInneirghe
1.
"Mo-ther," Damaris protested. "Annaya said—"
"I know what Annaya said," Keina Satinsun interrupted, "but she is not your mother."
"Father—" the young elf pleaded. Her father shook his head; silently he had come to his decision.
"I agree with your mother," he said softly as Damaris's shoulders drooped. "You are too young to go out on your own, no matter how capable Annaya believes you to be."
"I do know what I'm doing!" Damaris said, with all the righteous indignation her scant 16 years afforded her.
"But you are young," her father repeated, "and you are not going."
2.
She looked into his faintly-glowing eyes and an unexplainable shiver streaked down her spine. Under his finely-chiseled cheekbones, darkness lurked. She didn't need Arithe's warning growl to step away.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going." His smile stretched: friendly, charming, fake.
Damaris executed a small half-bow. "Neither was I." She snatched her fallen book from the ground and turned; he caught her elbow in a strong, sure grip.
"I didn't catch your name, m'lady," his smooth voice murmured in her ear. Arithe's growl intensified.
"I have to go," Damaris said, jerked her arm away, and hurried off.
3.
Damaris checked her mail, feeling keenly the presence of so many people; she wished to be in the wilderness again, where nobody could hurt her.
Seric still hurt, even after two years.
Arithe showed no inclination to leave Auberdine. She lazed by a notice board, and as Damaris roused her, the elf glanced over the messages. Her eyes caught on one: a guild, the High Council, sought members.
She considered replying. A guild meant friends, meant healing. Then she frowned. Friends would hurt her; everyone hurt, in the end.
She turned away, and disappointment flashed in Arithe's too-sentient, too-intelligent eyes.
4.
The Goldthorn was nearly invisible against the crumbling stones of Zul'Mamwe; only a faint shimmer distinguished its brown-and-gold figure from the dun-colored rocks behind it. From her vantage point, Damaris considered: Zul'Mamwe crawled with as many trolls as an anthill had ants, and patrols regularly guarded the ruins. But Goldthorn was rare enough to be worth the risk.
"What do you think?" she asked Arithe softly. The nightsaber growled and shook her head. Damaris nodded.
"All right. We still have a long way to go." Quietly, the elf and her two felines crept northward, and away from the troll-infested ruins.
5.
The pain of Arithe's and Diarmaid's deaths burned her soul, but she functioned. Hunting and building a shelter and a well occupied most of her time; she thought of what she'd lost as little as possible.
Sometimes she forgot.
Damaris sang quietly as she drew up water, a habit she'd acquired in her solitude.
The stars gleam,
The poets dream,
The eagles fly,
Without you.
The earth turns,
The sun burns,
But I die
Without you.
Her breath caught, and her eyes burned in concert with the pain in her soul, but no tears fell. She had no tears left.