Howling to the Moon
He could smell it.
Fear.
That was the first scent he experienced when he entered Stormwind, covered from head to toe in dragonplate armor, with one two-handed sword strapped across his back, along with a two-handed axe. He didn't care, he just wanted to go to the pub.
The guards asked his name. Liam Stronshiel. A lowly family from Gilneas.
Like many from Gilneas, he was a Worgen. A soldier under Greymane.
And alone.
His entire family wiped away by the Forsaken. His mother, his father, his elder brother, his younger brother, and even the youngest, his sister Liera. That loss was the most painful. A pure spirit, untainted by war, fear, and even prejudice.
When he regained his mind from the potion, the village looked at him with fearful eyes. He didn't blame them. When his family reunited with him, they looked at him with worry and sorrow. He felt guilty.
But Liera, she didn't look at him with sorrow. She looked happy, and ran up and hugged his furry leg tightly. He was never more shocked in all his life. He broke down that moment and hugged his little sister more desperately than he could tell, and let a few happy tears roll off his muzzle.
Then came the invasion, and shortly after that, the Cataclysm. He took up his swords again to protect his family once more, and to reclaim the country he had been grateful to serve. He met the night elves, who in turn helped them better control their curse, which became his blessing. Him, his elder brother Roy, and the rest of Gilneans fought hard for their homes and countrymen. But it was a losing battle.
They had to flee. The mass exodus of their country wore on the hearts, many still grieving the loss of loved ones, his family included. His brother died on the final battle against the Banshee Queen, Sylvanas. They all felt the sorrow, but it was Liera who cried the hardest, still too young to understand the concept of death.
He did what he could to comfort her, and she looked to him for any small happiness.
Then came the ambush. He fought his absolute hardest, saw red, and even resorted to his most feral of instincts. But there were just too many, and he saw the two arrows spill the very life source of his sister. Everything went dark at that moment.
When he awoke, many Night elves stood above him, tending him. He trashed out and frantically searched for anyone from his family. They told him his father and mother died from the attack, and his brother died from losing too much blood. His sister was still being tended to. He rushed to her and the three healers next to her. She was still conscious, but the blood was still flowing and her breathing was ragged. She looked over at him. He cried, he didn't want her to die, under any circumstances. She was too good for The Light, or Elune, or whoever ruled over death. She was for him, he was her big brother!
She smiled weakly and reached for him. "Big brother..." she barely whispered. He couldn't take much more.
"Don't talk," he said, "You're going to be fine. Just rest."
She smiled a bit wider. "Will you be here when I wake up Liam?" she asked. He nodded and she closed her eyes.
She never woke up.
When they told him, his heart broke and he wailed at his loss. When they tried to comfort him, he swiped at them. He didn't want their pity.
He wanted to tear something apart. A forsaken or another horde member.
He wanted a second chance. To try to save them from the ambush.
He wanted his sister. His brightest source of light in his cursed life.
He burned his father, his mother, and his brother, where they lied. But he took his sister with him to Darnassus, and gave her a proper burial. He gathered whatever flowers he could and spread them all over the earth that covered her. She was still smiling, even in death. That's what broke his heart the most. She always smiled. She was always happy, even in grief. He knew she was with the rest of his family now, but that only made him feel worse.
He followed Greymane to Stormwind, as part of his guard. Gilneas was part of the Alliance now.
He didn't care. He just wanted the nearest pub, and their strongest ale.
It is now a few months over a year later and he was returning from the Maelstrom, where he and many other heroes returned from slaying the cause of the Cataclysm with the aid of the Aspects. Deathwing was dead. The great cities all over Azeroth were in celebration. He didn't care. He just wanted to go back to the pub.
He made his way to the dwarven district, passing the cathedral he despised. What had the Light done for him?
He made it to the Black Keg, a small and secluded bar, barely got enough business. That wasn't the case this day it seemed. With a sigh he went through the door and a mass of people to the bar. The owner saw and recognized him right away, even in his beastly form, and gave him the usual; a pint of his two strongest ales mixed together. Liam grabbed and downed it in one long, slow gulp. Liam gave a pouch of twenty gold pieces. The owner knew what that meant, "Keep 'em coming," and with a nod he kept filling up his mug when he could.
The pub was packed with groups of adventurers, guards, and citizens, seasoned or green-horned. Men were cheering and hollering, women were dancing and laughing, they all were drinking. A few men and women were flirting, some were even further along than that. There were all kinds of races in, a bunch of dwarves and gnomes, the majority was humans, a few night elves and draenei, and also a few worgen. Like it is in any pub there were more men than women, and every man trying to get touchy with the females.
Something caught Liam's eye, and turned his head. He saw Liera laughing and smiling.
He forced his head back to the bar and forced his drink down his gullet. He wasn't drunk enough if he saw her.
Someone sat next to him and he turned to see. It was a Night elf, female, with long silver hair, pale purple skin and two blade markings on each eye. She was actually very pretty. One of the prettiest he'd seen actually. Her staff was along her back that looked like Deathwing in weapon form.* That meant she was one of the heroes he fought Deathwing with. His sword across his back was of similar make.* She was wearing a leather cloak that seemed to resonate with energy. If he had to guess, he'd say she was a druid, like many night elves. She was looking at him with a curious smile, waiting.
"Need something?" he asked politely. He wasn't going to be rude, he was raised better.
"I was curious," she replied, "I was there with you when The Destroyer was felled, though I'm sure you don't recognize me or that paladin over there," she gestured over to a female draenei covered head to hoof in brilliant gold armor with a large mace across her back. Her face was covered by her helmet. "Everyone has been celebrating the victory and tributing the brave fallen but you. You seem as if you're disappointed, but at what I can't tell."
He had to credit her, she was very perceptive. He was disappointed. He didn't just go to Wyrmrest to fight for everyone. He was actually slightly hoping he would fall in battle. As much as the grief hurt, he wouldn't kill himself. He was stronger than that. He wouldn't take the cowards way out.
"I guess you can say that," he replied in his deep gruff voice.
"I see you are a warrior class. Were you hoping for a better challenge, like many of your other warriors?"
He paused as he gathered his words before replying. "Yes and no will be my answer," he said before turning back to his drink, which had just been refilled.
Her brows scrunched together as her confusion grew. Then her eyes widened and mild horror graced her features. "You didn't...you didn't go to Deathwing to fight. You went to die didn't you?"
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Her question wasn't really a question that should have been answered. When he didn't answer she brought a hand to her lips and let out a small gasp. "Why?" she asked. "What happened to you to make you this way?"
He looked at her through the corner of his eye. "Who said I haven't always thought like this?" he replied.
She brought her hand down to the bar a little hard, but went unnoticed, before replying, "No one just gives up on life at the beginning. It takes something in a person's life to make them this way," she gestured to all of him with her other hand. "Is it the fact that you're a worgen that made you like this?"
That didn't surprise him that she came up with that conclusion. Many gilneans that survived the exodus were usually worgen, and many of those worgen hated their "curse" as they called it.
Liam took one last drink of his ale and let out a sigh before replying. "No, I don't think of this as a curse. I'm not going to continue this talk either. My reasons are my own and I'll ask that you respect them. If you really are curious then go to Darnassus, and ask one of my people or of your Cenarion Circle about a Liam Stronshiel. They'll tell you everything about it." He stood up from his stool and turned, the night elf looking up at him in worry and confusion. "Good bye miss. May Elune watch over you or whatever." At that he began to leave the bar, pushing his way through the crowd.
The beautiful druid just continued to stare after him, even after he left her sight. "Why would he..?" She stood and left the pub in a hurry, she wasn't going to look for Liam. She was going to the mage quarter. She was then wrapped in light for a brief moment before tuning into a bird and flying off.
It took only a few seconds of flying before she reached the tower door and shifted into her elven form. She then climbed to the top and went through the portal to a room full of mages.
"Excuse me sir," she called to a mage at a bookshelf. The man looked at the druid with a smile.
"How can I help miss..?"
"My name is Syrielda Lunawalker, and I was hoping I could ask for your help in securing a portal to Darnassus. I'd be happy to compensate for your trouble."
-o-
It had been a few days after Deathwing fell, the celebrations had died down but people were still giddy and energetic. Liam wasn't interested in it. He was walking along the edge of Darnassus, out of his armor, in a simple black pants and shirt attire, and free of his weapons...he didn't need them today. He walked along the edge for a few more steps before stopping. He was on his way to visit his sisters grave with some fresh flowers. But there was a figure sitting in front of her gravestone.
It was a Night Elf. A female, with silver hair that reached her mid-back. She smelled familiar, and then he remembered the elf from the pub earlier that week.
"I guess she did look up my past after all," he muttered to no one. Liam resumed his slow trek to the gravestone, walking by the woman and placing the flowers at his sister's stone. They were yellow tulips. Leira's favorite color...said it always reminded her of the early sun.
"I'm so sorry...really I am."
Liam didn't turn around. He didn't want to. He didn't want her to see the tears roll off his muzzle. It would only make her pity him, and he didn't want pity.
"I know the reason why you feel this way...and given the circumstances...I guess even the strongest can feel the same as you."
His head hung. Her words were like fire. They just continued to burn his still torn heart.
"But still..." she continued, "...why? Why do you seek death in battle? Why do you fight if it hurts so much?" A small hiccup escaped her lips. She was crying as well, from what he could guess. Why was she crying?
He sighed. "My grandfather -on his deathbed- said that there were only two ways for a person to enter the afterlife. You can either fight and die in battle for what you believe is right. Or...you could pass away in a warm bed, surrounded by your friends and loved ones." Liam took a breath to steady himself. He could feel himself losing his will to stand strong. "He said he was glad he could pass peacefully, with his last thoughts of home and his last image of his loved ones."
He paused.
"But me? I have only one option in death. All my friends died in the worgen attack. My brother died at the hands of Sylvanas. And the rest...died at that ambush-" he was cut off when a pair of thin arms wrapped around his abdomen.
Her head was buried into his back.
"Why..?" he asked, "Why are you doing this? I don't want your pity."
"I don't pity you," she said, "I feel sorry for you."
A hollow, empty laugh escaped his throat, but he made no move to be released. "What's the difference?"
Her grip tightened considerably though it didn't hurt the slightest. "If I pitied you, I wouldn't be here today. I want to help you. No one should feel the way you do. No one should go through what you've already been through. I want to help you," she whispered the end.
Fresh tears stung his eyes again. He didn't know what it was about this woman that made him fall apart. Who was she? He barely knew her. What was her name? He didn't know her past their first encounter. So why...? Why did she want to help him? Why was he losing his will?
Even if the answer came then, he wouldn't have noticed.
Liam's legs gave way underneath and he fell forward, placing his hands against the ground to keep him from falling completely, but only in the physical sense. He was crying again, only this time it was heard, loud and clear. Desperate, heart wrenching wails flew from his throat till it was raw. The fur on his muzzle was matted against the flesh underneath because of the tears. All the time spent holding and drowning his pain inside was wasted then for it all came out then.
Syrielda had made her way to his side and wrapped her arms around his thick furry neck, hoping to be Liam's anchor. They both stayed that way for the longest time, till the moon was high and Liam's final wail to the mystic orb finally brought him to rest.
-o-
Little giggles filled the small hut as the night elven woman gently rocked her baby back and forth. The child was a few months along since birth and her hair was already past her tiny shoulders.
The door opened and in came a tall worgen wearing full plate armor, except a helm, and a tabard bearing the symbol of Gilneas.
The woman stood and turned to the worgen with a soft and delicate smile and made her way to him.
"Welcome home Liam."
He smiled in turn, "Good to be home Syri." He gave her a small kiss on her cheek before wrapping his arms around her and the baby, who seemed to have gotten more giggly with her father home.
It has been a little over two years since the two first met at the tavern, well over a year since their union, and few months since the birth of their child. It didn't take long for Syrielda to help Liam's thoughts of death and his grief subside. He still mourned his sister and family daily, but now he had something to return to.
A home. A wife. And a child of his own.
He still saw the smiling face of his sister every day.
But only in the smile of his daughter; Liera.
I hope you liked this. I was inspired to do this when my brother was almost killed in a car accident. For all those who weren't so fortunate in keeping a loved one; My sympathies and sorrow go out to you.