Hi! This is (in case you hadn't guessed by now) my new WoW Fic. I know this first chapter might be a wee bit depressing (or at least it attempts it. It is a funeral, after all.). But have no fear! Future chapters will have attempted humor as opposed to attempted angst, seeing as angst is annoying, and no one wants to be that weird kid in the corner moaning about high priced shirts at hot topic and whatnot. And I do hope it will make you smile (hopefully in good humor, not in a kind of pained grimace that looks like a smile.)
So, without further ado, I present the first chapter of CinderFin!
Mitras Sootbeard never imagined that he would be returning to Goldshire for a funeral.
Prior to this, the town had been the site of some of his happier memories, most centering around Malbur Bardolf, a man the dwarf was proud to call his commanding officer, and more importantly, his finest friend. Goldshire was where Malbur, Mitras and a few of their fellow soldiers had made their home after the Third War, ready to take their steps back to a normal life. Goldshire was where he celebrated festivals of every sort, a smile on his face and a pint in his hand. Goldshire was where friends gathered at the Baldorf residence around the glow of a warm fire to fondly remember a time before their muscles lost their tone and their hair began to gray.
Now, however, he was returning to Goldshire to put Malbur Baldorf in the ground.
It wasn't the least bit fair. Malbur was a good man. Honest, friendly, generous, all the sort of qualities mothers wished their children would have. He was the sort of man who should have lived to a ripe old age, with innumerable grandchildren clambering around him. Instead, all it took was a few stray arrows to snuff out his life.
He felt a wave of regret wash over him as he slipped on a heavy black jacket. He always intended to visit Malbur and Aindri more often, but he was a dwarf, and unaccustomed to the short lives of humans. For his people, there would always be another day, month, year to catch up. At least, that was what he told himself after Aindri's death, but the truth was that it was hard to be around Malbur after that. Visits would begin pleasantly enough, but their small talk would eventually turn to their memories of the war, and Malbur would end up staring forlornly at the end of the table as both men felt the emptiness in their hearts like a knife.
He straightened his jacket and peered into the mirror. It was too small, pulling at the shoulders and fraying at the seams, but it wasn't often that he was need of such apparel. Making final adjustments before leaving for the ceremony, he began to tidy his wheat colored beard. His thick fingers stilled in their work as another thought occurred to him.
Malbur and Aindri had a daughter. How could he have forgotten? His chin still ached at the memory of her pudgy little infant-hands reaching up to yank a silver clasp from his beard. She had been a energetic little ankle-biter, always badgering him for questions on his life as a mercenary. She also certainly didn't subscribe to the rule that children ought to be seen and not heard, but she was undoubtedly the light of her parents life. It was obvious from Malbur's letters, which practically glowed with pride when describing her to his childless compatriot. He heard all about her first tooth, her first steps, her first word (birdie), her joy of having her first pet, a puppy, and the surprise when she began exhibiting signs of having a talent in the magical field, strange considering both of her parents were warriors.
His letters of her later years were far less full of sunshine. She clashed with his new wife and the letters were full of his distress at that. He had only married her on the advice of his sister, who insisted that the girl needed feminine influence. The tension only lessened once the girl enrolled in school in Dalaran a year ago, but he could only imagine how awkward holiday dinners were.
Mitras couldn't blame the daughter- Finley- though. The woman Malbur married was a uptight little tart, and he couldn't quite figure out why he had ever wed her. Deep down he knew it was because Malbur was soft-hearted to a dangerous extreme and that anyone could worm their way into his heart with a few well timed words, a trait that he and Ralen, an elf that made up the last member of their little group, had tried to train him out of, to no avail. Despite knowing this, he continually spouted his theory that Elois, a mage, had most certainly ensnared him in a spell of some sort.
He was interrupted from his musings by a knock on his door.
"Mitras? Are you ready?" He heard Ralen's smooth voice on the other side of the door. He glanced one last time into the mirror before sighing and opening the door.
"As I'll ever be." He said grimly, accompanying the elf down the stairs and out of the inn. Ralen nodded in agreement to the sentiment.
Most of the town seemed to be going to the same place they were. It was a small place, after all, and Malbur would likely to have been well known by most everyone. The small church was packed with black-clad villagers. The mismatched pair eventually located two seats in the wooden pews, though much to Mitras distaste, he was seated next to Cecilia, Malbur's prissy younger sister, the one who encouraged him to marry Elois. His greeting was terse, and once pleasantries were out of the way, he pointedly faced forward and away from her scrunched up face.
At the front of the church he could easily pick out Elois, from her pin straight posture and pale blonde hair. There were three girls sitting near her; two more flaxen haired ones, which he could only assume were Elois' wretched spawn, and an out of place dark-haired one, which must have been Finley.
With the ceremony not started yet, Mitras settled for leaning back and glaring daggers ahead, hoping that with enough willpower he could begin to burn holes in the back of her perfectly arranged coif. When Ralen nudged him with a questioning look, all he had to do was gesture in her general direction before understanding dawned on the ranger's face.
"That's not very mature." He said quietly so only the dwarf could hear. Mitras scowled.
"I never claimed to be mature." He grumbled, crossing his thick arms. Ralen sighed and rolled his eyes before proceeding to talk to Cecilia over the hunter's head. Mitras continued to ignore the polite inquiries about about the elf's family in favor of his glaring practice until an elderly man heaved himself on to the pulpit, dry coughs racking his frail body.
"We are gathered here today," He began to rasp, " not to mourn the death of Malbur Baldorf, but rather to celebrate a a good man who led a great, moral life full of accomplishments..."
An hour later, in the town's small cemetery , Mitras couldn't help but let a few tears trickle down his cheeks and into his beard as the casket was gently lowered into the ground, and finally covered with earth. He furiously rubbed them away with a calloused handas he stood there for felt like hours, watching a few local farmboys shoveled dirt on top of the grave until the hole was filled and he was the only one left, staring down at the grave with a faraway look in his eyes. Ralen had long wandered off to offer his condolences to the widow.
Finally, Mitras released a heavy sigh, patting the headstone gently.
"Goodbye, old friend." He murmured softly, finally backing away from the grave, his shoulders slumped. His throat was tight and there was a pit in his stomach and he was eager to forget it by drowning his sorrows in a few pints before he returned to Ironforge. However, he was more than a few copper short and Ralen was nowhere to be found. He scanned the tranquil area in search of the elf, but his eyes instead fell upon a huddle of the final mourners under a nearby willow.
Though he may have been biased, Elois looked as haughty as ever, and the two teenage girls by her side were quite obviously inherited her sour personality. They looked utterly bored with the whole ordeal, nudging each other and whispering snarky little comments about those who came forward to offer their sympathies.
However, what really drew his attention was the third girl accompanying them.. To anyone else, she was a miserable looking creature, all arms and legs, with red rimmed eyes and a trembling mouth.
But Mitras froze when her watery gaze fell upon him, and gulped past the lump in his throat, for beyond her grief-induced expression, all he could see was the spitting image of Aindri staring back at him with bright green eyes. His gaze then dropped to her shoulder, where Elois's perfectly painted red nails dug into the black cloth, and he came to a sudden conclusion.
"Ready to go home?" Ralen asked him. Mitras started at his voice, turning around to find the elf standing up from kneeling at Aindri's grave. He glanced one last time back at Finley before clearing his throat.
"'m not going home, Ral." He finally announced gruffly. "I'm staying here." Ralen's glowing blue eyes widened in shock and confusion.
"What are you talking about, Sootbeard?" He finally sputtered. Mitras, meanwhile, had begun to lumber back towards town.
"Well, how about to buy me a few pints and maybe I'll explain it to ya, eh?" He called over his shoulder, a new determination putting a little bit of a bounce in his step as he strode towards Goldshire, a bemused elf trailing in his wake.
So, there's that. You see? I'm awful with angst. I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. Also, I love dwarves. So much, like woah. And I'm also sick of pretty people with pretty names. I see your Malianali Sparkly Dawnsinginglarknymph and raise you Bardolf. That is one smokin' hot surname and I love it.
So, please review if you feel so inclined to tell me your thoughts, and stay tuned for the next chapter!