The once-snow-white fields of Icecrown were stained red with the blood of the fallen. The sky was filled with screams and despair, weeping frozen tears upon the dying and the dead. All around, darkness threatened to devour Light with its ever-hungering tongue of fury. The Argent Crusade took the Crusader's Pinnacle, the Knights of the Ebon Blade close in their sight. The threat of the Scourge was unlike any other. Despite their undying bravery and faith, the Crusaders were afraid. Never had they dealt with such a threat. Never had they endured such losses. The Blood Elf, Sarlin Starstriker, was sure that after they battled with the Ebon Hold champions at Light's Hope Chapel, she'd never see, or feel, anything as horrible. She was sure she'd never be as broken from the loss of so many soldiers again.
She was wrong.
The Blood Elf Paladin was in deep mourning. Her close childhood friend, the Farstrider Aylis Velane, had been defeated at the Wrathgate, yet all knew she was still alive. Emberyn Velane, her mother, a mage of the Kirin Tor, felt it in her heart, and insisted that a mother's love was never wrong. She had begged Tirion to charge into Citadel to find her, but he denied. Sarlin silently agreed that to hunt for Aylis was a bad idea. If Ember charged alone, she'd be dead in minutes, no doubt sharing the same fate as Aylis. Sarlin hadn't slept much since the Wrathgate. The thought of all those who'd died haunted her dreams and tormented her in waking. She knew Aylis wouldn't bend to the will of the Lich King. All around her, she heard tortured screams. So many, the voices of men, women and children combined…and she knew that any one of them could by Aylis's. She knew Aylis was being tortured, and she knew there was nothing she could do about it. Sometimes, she hated Tirion's decisions, even though she could see the reasoning behind them…
On top of losing Aylis, her beautiful horse, Lilatha, had been struck down on the way. Her best friend, Serian Eralin, had found her weeping over the body of her noble steed and forced her to the Vanguard. For a time, Sarlin absorbed herself in battle, anything to forget that Aylis was suffering, to block out Ember's pleading cries to save her daughter, anything to forget Lilatha had died. She fought and fought and scarcely paused for breath, unleashing her rage and grief onto the Scourge's seemingly endless armies. For a while, blood and justice became all she was. The cleansing of lost souls, the saviour of many others, the creation of her outstanding salves and alchemic creations, the pressure of the Light she so dearly trusted onto the wounds of the near-dead Crusaders, many of which resisted its strength…in time, her emotions came back to her, and when she shattered her right ankle in the invasion of the Argent Vanguard (where she was picked up by a Frost Wyrm, having no choice but to chop off its leg) she had nothing to do but sit around and wallow in her own despair while she recovered.
Tirion spoke to her, and she appreciated it. Over the months in Icecrown, she'd come to see him as more of a father than just a leader…but his words did nothing to sate her grief. Every night, she'd wake after two hours of sleep, screaming her head off, her ears ringing with Aylis's screams and her mother's final words; make me proud, will you?
I'm trying, Mother! I really am trying!
Serian Eralin was greatly worried and always slept in the bunk above Sarlin, prepared for her nightmares, ready to jump down when she started screaming and hold her hand until she fell asleep again. Serian was a human priestess, peach-skin, long, golden hair and forest-green eyes. She was lithe, strong and beautiful, despite the scarring from burns across her face and the constant purple shadows under her eyes. She strongly put her faith in the Light, as Sarlin did. Although nobody mentioned the likeness, she could've been Arthas's sister. Sarlin was certain she knew herself. Thinking it'd help Sarlin sleep, she suggested the elf start taking one of the potions she gave to the dying soldiers, the ones that sedated them, so they'd die peacefully and painlessly. Sarlin refused, knowing it'd do nothing to take away her mental pain and would only shorten the supply, as alchemy reagents were scarce in Northrend, and instead endured the hell she was forced to live in all day, every day. There was little anyone could do, even those she loved most, to help her.
One night, even though she was still recovering, she decided to get away from the Pinnacle, just for a little bit. It was late, but Crusaders were, as usual, guarding the front gates. If Sarlin hadn't been injured, she'd be among them. She always volunteered to guard at night so she had more time to sleep during the day, because for some reason, waking up with nightmares was a lot more beneficial by daybreak. At least there was a little light breaking through the stormy clouds that blanketed the cold sands of Icecrown. She combed her curly black hair and braided it at the side, stroking the white streak as she always did and gathered up her holy bow, Dawnstriker. Both her faith and her blood went into the blessing of the bow, and it was the weapon of a Paladin who was once an archer. With Dawnstriker, she gathered a quiver of arrows and her satchel of potions, should she need them.
She slipped passed them, past the battling Crusaders and a little further into Icecrown, watching her breath roll on the cold wind and thinking sadly of all who had died since the Wrathgate and before, of her mother, Lydia, and Aylis Velane, of Lilatha and all the Crusaders she'd seen as brothers and sisters, wrapped up in body bags to be sent back to their families before the Scourge could get to them. She notched an arrow to her blessed bow, let the Light imbue it and fired it into the sky, watching it send off a trail of golden stars as it escalated to a place it'd never be hurt again. She stared after it longingly, wishing she could fly up with it, before remembering she'd just wasted an arrow for no reason.
"Ah, damn it," she muttered.
Moodily, she romped, limping steadily, tripping and falling a few times, as she generally does. When she reached what she recognized as the Scourge-taken waste of Ymirheim, she turned and headed back. She and Serian, along with Endon, a human Paladin, and Raldan, a Blood Elf mage of the Kirin Tor who had a young daughter back home, had ventured into Ymirheim before, to the Saronite mines where both Argent Crusaders and champions of the Alliance and the Horde were being kept prisoner by the Scourge. During her time there, she'd begun to hear voices, taunting threats, guilt falling onto her shoulders like raindrops, steadily, but painfully, as though the rain was made of steel…she felt her sanity slip and with it, her control over herself, sure that she was bleeding, sure that she was enveloped in fire, hearing agonized screams begging for mercy, feeling the sharp, cold whip of a knife slide effortlessly across her throat, the rivers of her life washing over the hands of her foes...like the other prisoners, she saw Serian, Raldan and Endon as threats, allies that would betray her, friends that would bring her death. Serian's voice was all that could break through the whispers penetrating her mind and, after Raldan made an attempt on her life, stating it was the "best they could offer her", guided her back to the Pinnacle, shaking and afraid. She'd later learned it was the voice of Yogg-Saron, and that Saronite was the hardened plaque of his blood, which emanated with his maddening taunts. The voice of the Old God was strong enough to drive anyone with living mortal flesh to madness. The hallucinations Sarlin was having were through him, and she swore to have nothing to do with Saronite, or the Old God, again. As if her dreams weren't terrifying enough…
She found herself soon standing in the middle of a snowy field, with nothing but the stormy grey sky, the crunching of blood-tinted snow beneath her fading plate boots and the sounds of battle overhead. It was possibly the only place she could be alone, which was bizarre. She didn't want to be alone, she just wanted freedom. If she could have Serian at her side now, she would. But she didn't like burdening others with her woeful tales. When she was alone, she spoke to the air, to the sky, hoping that somewhere up there, her mother could hear her. And so she did.
"Lydia…I don't know enough of what you endured. I knew you fought for the Kal'dorei, but…did you ever have to fight for something like this? Did it truly matter, what you fought for? Did you and the Circle carry a fraction of the world's fate on your shoulders?" she said.
She paused, as though waiting for an answer, with nothing but the whistling of the wind and the far-off screams as her reply.
Lydia was a beautiful Night Elf who'd bequeathed her family name, Starstriker, onto Sarlin, as well as granting her the first, Sarlinia-Grace. Sarlinia, Lydia insisted, derived from an ancient language, before the Night Elves even existed, meaning "Elven Huntress of the Night", which Sarlin found bizarre, since she wasn't a Night Elf, and the name sounded sunnier than any she'd heard before. She felt "Sarlinia" was a bit too full a name for her, so she shortened it to "Sarlin". Grace was in the honour of Lydia's twin sister, who was one of the Watchers of Maiev Shadowsong. She'd died when Illidan collapsed the Tomb of Sargeras on top of her and many other Watchers, including Maiev's dear friend and sister, Naisha. According to Lydia, Maiev was a generous, kind and immensely loyal woman until she'd lost the Watchers to Illidan, then she spiralled out of control, as was often the case with grieving heroes. She also admitted to not caring if her old friend died in place of her sister. It was strange that when it came to addressing Sarlin, Grace was rarely used. Perhaps it jerked back painful memories for Lydia, or perhaps it was just because Sarlin didn't like the idea of being named after a dead person…later, she came to appreciate it. But as a child, it freaked her out a little. Lydia adopted Sarlin, coming across the shivering elf when she was a little child, slowly starving to death. Feeling for the girl, she took her home to Teldrassil and nursed her to full health. Sarlin's fel-corrupted presence, although out of any will she knew, wasn't welcome, and so Lydia begged for, and was granted, access to Quel'Thalas, as long as she earned her keep by keeping Sarlin safe. And she did. Sarlin never loved anybody as much as Lydia, despite the fact that she was a pure Night Elf. When she died in an explosion in Ashenvale, cradled in her daughter's shaking arms, with the tears streaming down her face as though they were actually her own when in truth they weren't, Sarlin almost died with her. Her love disintegrated, her sadness soared and she felt nothing but rage and depression all the time, wishing to ascend to the beautiful place that her mother had fallen to, become a part of…
She stared back into the skies of Icecrown. "You know, some days I hold your necklace to my lips, and it almost feels like your hand pressed against them. There's never a day goes by that I don't miss you. I'll never feel a mother's love like yours. Nobody can ever take your place, Mother. If you were here, things would be so much easier, for all of us. Emberyn wouldn't be grieving Aylis quite as deeply as she is now. You could be around the company of your own people again, without having to fear for factions. And I…I think my faith in the Light would sear even stronger than it already does, with a Priestess at my side. You never practised your faith the way I do though, did you…of course, the Sin'dorei have a very negative history with the Light. Few believe we are willing to atone. I think them fools. I was not one of them. I did not imprison and force the will of that Naa'ru. That work resided only with the Burning Legion. Huh…who else could be counted on such treachery? Kael destroyed our name, as Arthas destroyed our people. You saw this, though, Mother…you saw faith in me. You saw that I was a child of justice. You saw it even before I did,"
Her eyes began to flicker as flecks of snow adorned her beautiful long lashes. Sarlin wasn't pretty, not with the purple shadows under her eyes, the constant scratches marring her pale skin, not with the long, deep scar running from her eye to her mouth, not with her dark lips which were nearly always dry and cracked, not with her dented, peacebloom-smelling fingers which were always so tired from whipping up potion after potion after potion, not with her long, Elven ears which drooped when she was sad and twitched when she was confused, scratched and embedded with a singled green stood adorned with a purple feather, not with her slim but toned frame which looked so unnatural in a figure that still clearly belonged to a child. She was like a teenage girl trapped in the body of a war veteran. Since she'd lost her memory at a young age, her first being Lydia's lavender scent approaching her, she didn't know how old she was and thus, everyone presumed she was at an age to fight. She knew, though, from the bottom of her heart, she wasn't. The only beautiful thing about her was her eyes. If one was whole enough to see pass the fel-corruption that she was born with, they'd feel daggers piercing their soul. Her eyes were as cold as the snow that clung to the lashes above them, so cold that looking directly into them made one feel as though she was hypnotizing them, casting a sheet of ice over their helpless form. They were cold, scary, and full of fear, the fear that'd taken over throughout her youthful exploits. But when she was happy, they shone like beacons. They were wet, big and bulblike, the eyes of a content little child infatuated with a lock of hair or her mother's love, the eyes that could subdue an angry adult, the eyes that could win her a war if she just used them at the right time. Icy cold or warm with joy, her eyes truly were something else, strangely mysterious and always beautiful.
"I wish you were here, Mother. I wish I knew where you'd gone. I wish you'd gone someplace I could find you. It hurts so much without you,"
She felt tears come to her eyes, but forced herself to keep them in. "Oh, Mother…why don't you just answer me?"
As usual, only the howling of the wind answered. Seeing the hopelessness of it all, she fired another arrow into the clouds, and realized she'd wasted another perfectly good arrow.
"DAMN IT!" she growled, jamming Dawnstriker into the air in front of her, as though warding off an attacker.
She began walking back to the Pinnacle, satisfied with her stroll, and along the way, effortlessly shot and killed any of the Scourge that were fortunate enough to cross her path. Fortunate because surely they cried for release, as did so many others. Her heart ached for home, her body ached for rest, and her mind ached for a sleep which would not be corrupted by visions of what was surely happening in the present. Serian was taking the day off tomorrow, which was thankful since the number of heroes willing to assist the Argent Crusade had soared after their arrival in Northrend. Serian hadn't had a day off for too long. Sarlin planned on talking to her when the time came to devise battle strategies and discuss the best solutions for the input of their alchemic reagents. Both were devoted healers, and helping others was what they did best.
Numbed in thought, Sarlin tripped over her own feet and landed face down in the snow again. Grumbling and struggling to her feet, spitting snow out of her mouth, she summoned a thread of Light to her fingertips and spread it over the throbbing pain in her ankle. She focused her gaze back onto the fields, which seemed ethereally empty, with only a few Crusaders battling on the front lines. Weary and wandering like a little lamb, she fired a few more arrows at the attacking Scourge, watching the arrows collide with their disintegrating forms with a burst of Light. She did this almost absent-mindedly, wandering her way back to the Pinnacle.
The scream was what drew her back to her senses.
Her body reacted faster than her mind and her legs, though injured, carried her towards the sound of the scream. Her fingers automatically pulled an arrow from her quiver, her senses directing her to sound of his voice. She recognized the scream as Endon's, the Paladin she'd ventured into the Saronite mines with. Colliding with it was the petrified voice of Michel Marise, yet another Paladin, a Draenei with eyes like beacons and a voice like smooth steel. In a desperate haze, Michel, Lasire, who she recognized as a Dwarf hunter, and Raldan, fought off the attacking Scourge.
When the attackers were dead, Sarlin once again freed herself from the cold grips of battle and took in the scene around her. The human, Endon, was lying in the snow, his hands wrapped around his neck, blood spurting out from the gaps in his fingers. The words were out of Sarlin's mouth before she knew it, and she remembered to speak quietly.
"Return to the Pinnacle, and let Tirion know we've lost Endon,"
She knew, from the amount of blood he'd lost, that he was beyond saving. All he could gain now was a little comfort in his dying moments.
"What will you do, Sarlin? Do you have the medicine?" Lasire asked.
"Yeah. Now, go, go!" she replied, kneeling down beside Endon and fumbling in her satchel.
Now the initial shock and duty was over, she began to consider Endon's suffering. He whimpered and groaned, clutching his throat, though his dark brown hair was already matted in blood. Sarlin pulled a sedating shot out of her satchel and plunged it into his side. He screamed at the impact of the large needle in his flesh, but after a moment, his eyes started to flutter and his hands relaxed.
"There…shh, my sweet soldier. It's okay," she soothed, as Endon's bloodied outside hand moved from his neck over his body, and Sarlin took it.
"Lin…is it…" he gasped, his face growing paler, the snow seeming so cold and strange beside his beautiful, golden eyes.
"It'll be alright. You're going to sleep now, Endon. And when you wake up, it'll all be over…" she said softly, as his free hand pressed against her chest, over her heart. With her own free hand, she gently lifted his shoulders onto her lap and he gripped her like a baby his mother. Sarlin sat in the premature position of comforting a dying soldier, for surely she was younger than him. Luckily, and yet so sadly, it was something she'd done several times before.
His sunny eyes flickered to the storm above them, so wrongly out of place. Sarlin couldn't focus on her friendship with Endon. All that mattered was that he was dying and needed comforting. She knew that if she was dying, she wouldn't want anybody around her to be shedding tears or reliving past memories.
"Sing something…your voice can…take me home…" he whispered hoarsely, staring at the sky.
Sarlin pondered. They'd all heard her sing at campfires before. Her voice was beautiful and soothing. She felt her throat closing with tears and, as determined as she was not to cry, she hesitated singing the lullaby she'd sung to her mother all her life, the one that helped even her sleep.
Hope does not wane, nor bow down to fear.
Evil does not reign when Light does so sear.
Night is not dark when the star's souls burn bright.
Do not lose faith, for your blade it does guide.
As she sung, Endon maintained a strong grip at her chest and hand, little flashes of Light falling from his spirit to hers. Even in his waning strength, he clung to her warmth and comfort. Singing, she almost felt her mother's sweet, lavender breath soothing her icy cheeks. She felt warmer, and she let her voice rise a little higher, so sweet, angelic and sensual as the mist of her breath spread throughout the blinding clouds above them.
Our faith threads the weavings of old
As the curse binds us to the snow.
Hope radiates from faithful souls.
Where stars shine, let Light flow.
She'd composed the song for the Sin'dorei and the Kal'dorei, specially for her mother. Where stars shine, she'd said, the Night Elves' affinity with the stars. Let Light flow, the Blood Elves' affinity with the sun and the Light. Lydia helped her write it. She watched as Endon's pale eyelids closed, the clouds falling over the last rays of the sun. She knew they would never open again.
Anar'anore, selama, bash'a no Quel'Zaram.
Andu-falah-dor, tor ili'sar thera'nal.
The war is fought, sounded by the drums.
But we must stand as one.
For Light and Dark are naught without the other
The Sun and Stars are one!
Where the curse binds us to the fields of old,
Let faith guide these blades of war.
Watch as the strife turns to a close,
Where stars shine, let Light flow.
She felt Endon's hand squeeze her own and he whispered "Beautiful, Sarls…"
Where the wars tear us from whom we love most,
Let the stars heads guide us to peace.
For the Light shall cleanse the failing souls
That are the stars, where Light shall flow.
She wasn't sure when Endon died, or if he'd hung on long enough to hear the end of her song. But when she looked down at him next, his hand had fallen lifelessly to the snow and his breaths had ceased completely. Though the numbers of Scourge around her were little to none since her arrival (though she could hardly revel in this victory) she still held him protectively from their grip, his blood drenching her hands. The Crusaders were starting to gather, but nobody approached her. They knew that she blessed each body before letting it go and her blessings, while very much similar to the others, had a personal touch to them.
Gently, she pressed two fingers over Endon's eyes, to ensure he was really sleeping, and let little flashes of Light flow through them. She noted the youth and beauty in his paling face, the skin she once knew as the colour of copper, now reduced to the same as the snow he lay on. Saddened by the loss of yet another loyal Crusader, she rested a hand over his slightly-ajar lips and whispered a blessing into them. His whole body glowed and Sarlin found the emotional strength to let go of his hand. Her ears fell down backwards, a sure sign she was sad. Kissing his forehead softly, she didn't realize she was crying until a tear dripped onto his face. Pain and grief bubbled in her chest, after all the weeks of loss and agony she'd endured beside the Crusade, and that pain threatened to erupt from inside her like a volcano. Forcing herself to stay calm, swallowing her shallow breaths and letting the Light warm her from the inside out, as it always does, she told herself that now was not the time to be hysterical.
Now was the time to get Endon home.
She felt the warmth she recognized only as Serian kneel beside her and play gently with her drooping ears, but she just stared at Endon's broken body, the empty shell of an oyster full of life and joy, the wasted remains of something beautiful. Another tear rolled down her cheek, but the persistent fingers of the wind wiped it away, and she didn't shed another. Serian's thick blonde hair beat against the black waves of her own, and she allowed herself to look up and let her fel-green eyes meet the rainforest within the iris of her best friend. Serian smiled sadly and flicked at Sarlin's ear before taking her hand. Close up, and against so much white and grey, the pink scars from the fire on her cheek became more obvious, redder and inflamed, as though it was a recent burning she'd endured. .
Sarlin was exhausted but was afraid to face sleep. Her eyes stung with the tiredness and she forced herself to stay conscious. Serian spoke. "You seriously left without telling us? You could've got killed, Sarls. What would I do without you?"
All Sarlin could thing to say was "It just doesn't end, does it?"
Serian's eyes misted. "It will end, soon enough,"
"I want to go home, Serian…I want my mother back…"
Her lips quivered but she kept the tears in, absent-mindedly stroking Endon's matted hair.
"You'll be okay, Sarlinia-Grace. We'll all be okay,"
Sarlin was too weak to answer to even the use of her full name. She'd only just remembered Dawnstriker, lying at Endon's side, glowing weakly. Leaning against Serian, just as Tirion was approaching, she let fatigue overcome her and closed her eyes, her hand still resting over Endon's heart. She felt strong arms grab her as she fainted, and as the dark oblivion set in, a star swam across her vision, vanishing as quickly as it had set in.
Her song still rang in her ears, and with Endon's loss, she missed Lydia more than ever. Before the dark grips of unconsciousness and nightmares swallowed her for another night of seemingly endless torture, she whispered in her mind Take care of Endon please, Mother. He's a Crusader, and a Paladin, like me. I sang him our song. I think he liked it. Sing it for him again.