Thistlehead
They're knocking on my door again.
No. I shan't answer. Let them worry about me, let them crease their brows uselessly. I am happy.
Feeling cold- I know this cold. It isn't the cold of the weather or the chill of the scourge that once ravaged Silvermoon. The feeling is ebbing away from my fingers. No. I won't lose it. I cross to the brazier and toss more thistle on the fire. The fumes begin to rise and coil. Because I am cold, I must become warm, so I stick my head into the fire, inhaling the smoke, letting the red haze take my mind again. Nothing to think about, nothing to need, just the whirl of thistle behind my eyes.
I don't notice that my nose is burnt from the coals, only that my body relaxes and I slump onto my chaise longue, head lolling about my shoulders. This is all there is. If I cannot have the magic that is my birthright to crave- and that of all sin'dorei- I will at least have my bloodthistle.
Knock.
Knock.
They're still knocking.
"She's not in there."
"She is. I can feel her presence." The voice is low, like a dulcimer. Him. He is my husband, but I care not for him any more. He doesn't make me feel like thistle does. He can't take away the ache of years and years of craving magic, only to be denied it over and over by people who stand too high and mighty to know what the void feels like. "Break the door."
Thump.
Thump.
Crack.
The door splinters, the blue curtains behind it flutter as the breeze wafts in. He looks around and sees me, prone as I am. The glow of his eyes dims and I feel his disappointment. What does he see, I wonder? His wife, his love? Or am I, because of my faults, no better than a wretched in his esteem?
"Anar'alah!" the other one gasps, shock opening his mouth. "What… has happened? Is she ill?"
"Open your nose." My husband says, as if it is obvious. He crosses to my brazier and sniffs, his face wrinkling in disgust.
"Bloodthistle?" the other one asks. Perhaps… who is he? I feel I know. I have heard his voice a long time ago. "Oh, my sister, what have you done?"
My husband picks up a bundle of dried thistle and tosses it at his feet. "She's a thistlehead."
I see the bundle, and feel the heat of the brazier. It's my last. I reach out for it, a soft groan escaping between my red-stained lips. I fall off the chaise longue, the numbness in my body stopping me feel the jarring pain of the floor. My husband rushes over, more out of duty than worn love, and touches my shoulder. I don't care. Clammy sweat covers my shaking hands as I reach, reach across the floor for my thistle.
"Alassori?" my husband asks, gripping my shoulder. "Alassori, listen to me."
My brother leans down to pick up my thistle. I lunge, eyes wide, snatching it from his grip. It's mine. All mine. He can't have any. I need it. "What is she doing, Faorin?"
My husband, face livid in anger, tries to pull me back, to stop me. I hiss at him, my numb body moving ahead of my mind. I grab at the brazier, toppling it over, the hot coals burning my skin. Faorin lunges, but not before I have put more thistle on the fire. A plume of dark, dark red smoke buffets my face and invades my nostrils, my mouth, and my eyes. I choke. Too much. The thistle grips my brain in boiling claws, plunging deep into my mind, hot lances, swords of overwhelming, blood-drenched, ricocheting, fuming, twisting, fog, fog, black.
"Thistlehead."