Forsaken – Part Two – Baby Makes Four
Makenzie was sick.
He'd been in denial about it for awhile. At first, in his defense, everything had seemed fine. She'd been her usual perky, half-vacant self. Aside from the nightmares she had now, it was almost as though nothing at all had happened to her. Makenzie wasn't the type to dwell on bad things that had happened to her, either.
It had been little things he'd noticed at first, but he hadn't counted them as illness. As she slept on her stomach, nestled in close to him, Ivan absently ran a hand through her hair. Her hair had become more vibrant. No longer the remembrance of red, it was red, as lustrous as it must've been when she was alive. Her skin wasn't quite so pale, either, a healthier tone replacing the usual pallid near-grey all Forsaken seemed to sport. It wasn't flesh colored by any means, but there was a vitality to it.
That alone, of course, ought to have been some sort of warning sign. Drastic physical alterations, even if they seemed positive, couldn't be the best side effect.
Then she'd started to be hungry. No more than any living creature might be, but... they weren't exactly alive, were they? She ate a few times a day now, seemed driven too, unable to go without. Again, nothing weird for a living thing, but...
Now? Now she slept in longer and longer, her usually bright demeanor dampened and cross and generally miserable. She seemed peaceful enough now as she slept, but as soon as she woke up she'd start in on Ivan, and not even Igor was safe from her wrath as the day wore on.
Ivan sighed and slid out of bed, cautious not to wake her, and made his way into the bathroom. There were other things that had been nagging at him, but he just did his best not to think about it. Maybe it would go away on its own. It wasn't like she was vomiting up the remains of her guts or communing with the Lich King or anything extreme. She was just... different. Nothing to be alarmed about.
He regarded his reflection dully and scratched at his chin, the stubble there a bit itchy-
Stubble.
What?
Ivan leaned forward sharply and pressed his face up close to the bathroom mirror, eyes wide, and ran a hand over his chin. He was growing hair. Not a lot. Not even on the top of his head. Just his chin, apparently, but it was enough to be alarming.
Had he... had he caught what Makenzie had? How long had it even been since he'd had to shave? Did he even still have a razor?
Why was he growing hair!? Was it anywhere else!? He began to check himself over frantically, checking the top of his head more than once, but no, whatever was wrong with him of course hadn't bothered with his head. Damn.
Oh hells, it was... there. His happy trail was back. He had been blonde in life, so it was faint, but it was there. This was... this was extremely alarming. Why just those areas? Absently he rubbed his chin again, wondering if he looked rugged or just bizarre. Who ever heard of a corpse that needed to shave?
He could feel the stubble. It was itchy. Harsh. Ivan looked at his hands and stared, and it took him a moment to notice. His hands were still mostly claws but they seemed to be covered in a thin film of... something. New skin, maybe?
"Shit," Ivan announced quietly. He was sick too, apparently. Just not moody about it. Maybe he wasn't as bad yet. He shouldn't have kept Makenzie's kidnapping quiet, but after all she'd been through, he didn't want her to be subjected to an Apothecary inquiry so soon after her ordeal. So he'd put it off to the point that bringing it up was probably criminal negligence on his part, so Ivan was game to just leave the matter rest entirely.
Except now he had the same symptoms as she did, and he didn't know what that meant. What had the Burning Legion done to her?
"Up alread- ah! Ivan! Wear pants!" Igor said, putting up his hands to block his view of his twin, "Or at least a robe. I could swear you have some sort of exhibitionist streak."
"Maybe you should knock," Ivan replied automatically, grabbing for a towel. Should he ask Igor? Igor didn't look any different. Not anywhere visible. Ivan grimaced – no, he wasn't going there.
"I live here too," Igor protested, "Lock the door if you need privacy. I... Ivan, are you growing a beard?"
The priest blinked at his brother, lowering his hands.
"No," Ivan said defensively. Was it that noticeable!?
"You are!" Igor protested, "How long have you been able to do that? What about on top of your head-"
"I'm not!" Ivan snapped, cinching the towel around his waist severely, "I just... noticed it this morning."
He'd been telling the truth more. To Igor, at least. Ever since their little romp in Northrend, Ivan had found it difficult to take his brother entirely for granted. He was a priest. Maybe he could figure something out.
"Just noticed it?" Igor frowned, picking up on his twins uneasiness, "Ivan, what is it?"
"Have you noticed how Makenzie has been acting a little... off, lately?"
"Mmm," Igor said drolly, "Breakfast is ready for Her Majesty, speaking of which."
"Oh, what did you make?" Ivan asked him. Maybe he'd been treating his brother better, but that didn't mean he'd completely changed his character. The less he had to talk about his problems the better.
"Bacon and... Ivan! Don't!" Igor protested, catching on quickly and waving his hands, "Tell me what's-"
"How come you're being so loud in here?" a sleepy voice wondered. Both men turned guiltily to regard Makenzie, who was wearing one of Ivan's tunic's. She had robes and nighties of her own, but apparently liked the way the warlock's tunic slid off her shoulder every few seconds better. Makenzie rubbed one of her (much brighter lately, weren't they?) luminous amber eyes and shuffled over to Ivan. He bent down automatically to kiss her cheek and she squeaked in dismay.
"You're all scratchy!" she frowned, rubbing her cheek, "Yuck!"
"Sorry," Ivan said stupidly.
"I made breakfast, 'Kenzie, if you're hungry," Igor said quickly. He kept his eyes fixed on his brother.
"Ohh, I'm starving," she agreed, "Thanks Igor! You're great!"
Mekanzie promptly abandoned the two of them for breakfast, and Igor snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face to get his attention. Ivan had been watching her exit with great interest.
"Huh?" he said. Igor looked annoyed. That wasn't really new, though.
"You're both acting weird," Igor frowned, "Makenzie aside, why do you have a five o'clock shadow? How is that possible?"
"Same way that Makenzie's hair is red I guess," Ivan said with a nervous shrug, "Just... a side effect."
"A side effect that's catching?"
"It's nothing!" the warlock protested adamantly. Really, what was so bad about growing hair!? Weirder things had happened.
"She was captured by the Legion for nearly a week," Igor said, crosser by the second, "What else have you noticed that I haven't, Ivan, that should be addressed instead of swept under the table!? This is Makenzie we're talking about. Your wife, if I recall. Aren't you the least bit concern-"
"Of course I am!" Ivan snarled, clenched his hands into fists. Normally such a statement would've been followed by a right hook, but he swallowed the violent urge, jaw ticking with the effort, "I just have no idea what to think, Igor, and I don't want to scare her until I figure it out."
Igor didn't look completely impressed or convinced, "You should have brought this up at the Apothecary Society meetings. You only go to them every week, Ivan, and it's been how long since we've been back? Half the year now?"
"Lectures only work on your acolytes, Igor, not me," Ivan growled, "I don't want her to end up in a lab being poked at again. She still has nightmares, you know. Unless it's life threatening I don't see the need to worry too much. All right?"
Igor wasn't convinced, but it was early, and Ivan wanted to get a little breakfast in before Makenzie devoured it all. He waved his twin off and shouldered past him, cutting him off with a, "Yeah yeah, later," as he went to get some pants on. Igor spluttered a few protests, but Ivan didn't hear them. They could talk about it later. It'd been put off for months already, after all. What harm would breakfast do?
Pants on – he was mostly certain they were clean ones – he slouched out to the dining room to join his wife and his brother.
Igor was back in the kitchen, cooking some bacon, and gave Ivan a very meaningful stare. Ivan nodded at him casually. Hadn't he already cooked breakfast, though?
"Morning," Makenzie said, noticeably perkier with a cleared plate, "Igor's making some more bacon. You still have a scratchy chin!"
She reached out daintily to pet his chin, a smile curling her lips. Apparently, she was in a good mood today. They were rare these days.
"I'll shave it after breakfast," Ivan assured her, leaning down to her, menacing her with his stubble. She squealed and swatted at him and he grinned, ceasing his teasing and running a hand fondly through her fiery hair. See? Nothing was wrong.
"Ivan? Could you help me with this a moment?" Igor called out. Ivan shifted his jaw and planted a kiss on Makenzie's forehead before slipping away, leaving her to munch on the remains of a biscuit.
"What?" Ivan scowled.
Igor looked him over once. The priest had been fully dressed since sun up, of course, and took a moment from his busy schedule of being sanctimonious to disapprove of Ivan's rumpled pants.
"She ate all of breakfast," Igor said in an conspiratous and quiet voice, "She eats like... like we used to when we were teenagers! It's bizarre! Has she gained any weight?"
"No!" Ivan protested, perhaps too loudly. Not enough to rouse Makenzie's suspicions, at least. They were fairly difficult to rouse.
"You see her everyday without..." Igor cleared his throat awkwardly, "That is to say, you see all of her. I don't. I'm not attacking her character Ivan, I'm just wondering where it's all going."
"Well maybe she's put on a little but it's barely noticeable," Ivan said quickly, scowling. It was on his list of 'little things that didn't hurt anything'. She was still the most attractive dead woman he'd ever seen. So what if she was curvier? He didn't mind it at all.
"Not anywhere I've noticed."
If it had been anyone else, Ivan would've throttled someone for insinuating they were checking out his wife. It was Igor, though. His brother. He couldn't kill his twin.
Who would make breakfast?
"Her middle," Ivan muttered, "Probably because she can't digest all of it fast enough."
"This is serious, Ivan, the Legion must've screwed with her... with her metabolism or something," Igor looked frustrated, "I don't know much about those sorts of things. An Apothecary needs to look at her."
"A doctor," Ivan protested, "Not an Apothecary. I'm one and I don't know what's going on with her."
Igor looked upward and took a moment to turn the sizzling bacon.
"A doctor, then," he amended, "You don't even have to tell them what's wrong. Just have them check her out and see if they find anything."
"It'd have to be someone that won't blab if it is something," Ivan frowned, leaning against the counter. He accepted a strip of bacon from his twin and gnawed on it thoughtfully. Did he know anyone he could trust? He didn't really have a lot of friends, and the only doctor-like people he was on friendly terms with was his brother and Shalar'zahn. Neither were doctors.
Unless... no. A trip to Outlands didn't seem safe. What if the Legion was still after her? No harm would come to them in Shattrath, of course, but for the Legion to be alerted of their status and whereabouts seemed like a poor choice.
"If it gets worse, we'll see," the warlock decided.
"Ivan-"
"Don't push me," Ivan snapped. He regretted the tone he took instantly, the flash of fear on his twins face lancing straight to his heart. Quickly, he added, in a much less dangerous tone, "I know what I'm doing. It's nothing bad, per say, just... odd. I don't-"
A loud bang from the dining room startled him and he moved quickly out to check on it, heart leaping into his throat. He was vaguely aware of Igor pressing in behind him, and only saw a flash of red as Makenzie fled the room.
Her chair was upended, as though she'd stood so quickly it had been knocked over, but nothing else seemed amiss.
"'Kenzie? Baby?" Ivan called out in concern. Igor was right, he should've done something about this months ago, not wait until whatever awful disease she had incubated and spread and was... making her vomit?
She was retching powerfully into the toilet and Ivan relaxed, but only slightly, kneeling beside her and rubbing her back, pulling her hair away from her face.
"You shouldn't eat breakfast so fast," he said quietly. She made a miserable noise and threw up again, and he looked over at Igor.
Igor had a pensive, worried look on his face. It wasn't new, of course, but it was rarely an expression he needed for Makenzie.
"Should I start packing?" the priest wondered, raising his brows at Ivan.
"I think you'd better," Ivan said. Her vomit, he noted with morbid fascination, was a liquefied version of what she'd eaten for breakfast. Nothing else, at least. No blood or suspicious objects or otherwise, but that it'd been converted to sludge so quickly was worrying, and vomiting wasn't really something the undead tended to do. Not involuntarily, anyway, and certainly not with such obvious discomfort.
"I don't feel good," Makenzie mumbled, slumping back against Ivan miserably. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a very light squeeze.
"We'll fix it," he assured her as Igor left to arrange their things, "We haven't been to Shattrath in awhile. I know someone there who might be able to help."
"Okay," she said wearily. Ivan gathered her up and took her back to bed, trying not to appear concerned in any way. He doubted she would pick up on it, but he'd rather not give her a chance to when she was already in such distress.
Then again, it was his misguided ideas of protection that had led to this situation. Not her kidnapping, but the subsequent denial of what had happened to her, and the idea that whatever had happened, the Apothecary Societies proddings would be worse.
Ivan sighed and tucked her in, sitting next to her as she curled up and stroking her hair.
"Ivan?" she asked in a small voice.
"Yeah?" he grunted.
"They did something bad to me, huh?"
"Nothing we can't fix, 'Kenzie," he assured her, not terribly confident in the truth of his statement, "You just rest, okay? Maybe only have a little bit for lunch, too, even if you're really hungry."
It was her turn to sigh, the sound rather world weary, and she closed her eyes.
"Okay, Ivan," she murmured.
She went back to sleep so quickly that Ivan felt an unpleasant gnaw of fear, pulling on his robes before going to Igor's room. The priest's room looked like it didn't even belong in the cluttered home. Igor kept everything just so, and his very few possessions were tucked away neatly. Ivan thought it was weird to be as clean as Igor was, but at least he kept it to his own room – trying to reorganize Ivan's things had caused problems.
"I shouldn't have waited so long," Ivan said.
"No, you shouldn't have," Igor agreed. His brother, apparently, was not in a charitable mood, "I can't wait until you start getting extra moody and eating everything you see. Light, it's like she's going through puberty again."
"It was gradual," the warlock scowled, helping himself to a seat on a rather uncomfortable chair, "I mean, I didn't even notice at first! Well, I did, but I just... it didn't seem possible. I thought maybe I'd just never really looked at her or... or something like that."
Nearly losing Makenzie had changed some things, but clearly not enough. Guilt was pressing down on him hard now. Would it take her death to make him stop acting like a complete jackass whenever possible?
He ran a hand over his face (he needed to shave, by the nether that was so bizarre) and looked at his brother, who was regarding him reproachfully.
"What's done is done, Ivan," Igor tried to reason. He always did his best to justify his twin's flagrant irresponsibility, "We'll deal with whatever's next together. We're family, right?"
"We're a pretty fucked up family."
"Maybe you are," Igor sniffed, tucking his things neatly in a pack, "I'm well adjusted."
"Well adjusted people have dust in their room," Ivan teased, cracking half a smile. Making fun of his brother always made him feel better, "At least my problems are obvious. Who knows what's wrong with you."
"Shouldn't you be packing?" Igor said archly. There was no venom in his tone, and he was smirking, but he did make a point. The sooner they left, the better.
Six months was an eternity when lived day by day. Every moment was so fragile, a false construct that was still somehow supposed to serve as a distraction.
Anne was still dead. He was still alone.
He hadn't moved. The drawers that had held Anne's things were empty. He pulled clothing from his own drawers, transferring them into a satchel. Though there were no mirrors in the bedroom, Edgar knew his face was drawn and strained. He didn't sleep in this room anymore. It was easier to just use the guest room.
Little patches like that were part of the construct. He did guard work for the zeppelin towers now instead of working for the military. Visiting Teegan, Murdok, and Shalar'zahn was a pleasant enough distraction, so he did it whenever he had some time off like he did now. The baby troll seemed to be growing up so fast already, and that thought made him smile. It was wan, but it was still a smile.
Yvette had faired rather well. After she'd repeatedly turned down Sylvanas' request to become a liaison between the Ebon Hold and the Undercity, Highlord Mograine had insisted. She was a diplomat now, and the humor of the situation wasn't lost on either of them.
The Death Knight was not a very good diplomat, but the fact remained that she was the only one of her kind who managed to have a friend.
Edgar smiled a bit more in earnest, closing the satchel and shouldering it. Despite her protests to the contrary, Yvette was a good friend. Her dry, black humor always made him laugh, and her unique perspective on things helped keep him centered.
If it weren't for her, he'd still be slumped over Anne's grave, lost in despair.
His smile left instantly and he stopped in the main room, fingers tightening on the shoulder strap of his bag. Though he'd tried visiting Anne's grave less, he wasn't sure it made any difference. His grief wasn't any less. Not any more, at least. That couldn't even be possible.
He felt like a broken down toy, its enchantment winding down, making him repeat the same stuttering action over and over. Yvette was there every time, her burning grip barely registering as she half dragged him out of the cemetery. Edgar didn't even know if she visited Antoine's grave anymore. She wouldn't talk about.
Yvette kept that part of herself dead and locked away. Once he'd told her that he envied her, and he'd thought she might actually kill him for a moment. It had been such a ferocious, raw fury in her one good eye that he'd quickly apologized. He never dared say anything like that aloud again.
He sighed and pushed out the door, forcing his feet to move even though they seemed rooted to the floor. Every day was like this, an excruciating exercise in motivation.
Tegan was his motivation today. She was saying his name during his last visit. 'Egger' was close enough in his opinion.
Out the door. Edgar took a deep breath and closed his door behind him, turning to face the bustling Undercity. It was almost continuously busy, many residents not bothering with sleep. Edgar wasn't among them – sleep was another way to avoid spending his waking moments...
He grit his teeth, setting his jaw, and began his walk to the inner ring. The Undercity reminded him a bit like a beehive. A normal human city had more disorganized chaos, but here... even though they were freed from mindless servitude, some remnant of their former shackles kept them orderly and efficient.
It wasn't just Forsaken, not at the height of the day. The other members of the Horde stuck out in the sea of undead, their path's more uncertain, more meandering. They looked and felt like outsider's here and he didn't blame them. What living thing wouldn't find the living dead unsettling?
A rather loud shriek drew his attention, setting him on edge, and he jerked his head around. The scene before him was (to his great relief) rather comical, though the owner of the shriek didn't think so.
There was a fluffy white kitten bounding madly through the crowd, a ghoul hot on its tail. Though he didn't recognize the cat (who would bring something like that to a city like this?), the ghoul he did recognize. Being an official meant Yvette was very busy with communications and meetings, and she'd been provided an aide by Ebon Hold.
Casketdrinker (as he'd named himself, apparently) was... sharper than most ghouls. Yvette only used him to deliver messages back and forth to Ebon Hold, preferring to take care of most administrative duties herself. The ghoul was like a homing pigeon, able to make its way through the Plaguelands without a guide or an escort, so he was a very efficient messenger.
Except for the whole... eating stray pets thing he appeared to have going on.
Or in this case, any pet that he happened to see. Hot on the ghoul's trail was a sin'dorei, her face screwed up in a mixture of fury and fear. All three were coming straight at him, it seemed, and he dropped his satchel to scoop up kitten. It struggled in his grip – he was no better than the ghoul to its nose – but he kept a hold of it as Casketdrinker bounded up, gangly claws flexing eagerly.
"You give?!" the ghoul asked, bumping up against Edgar like a eager dog. A rather large eager dog that nearly knocked Edgar off his feet. He tried his best to keep his grip on the wriggly cat with one hand, trying to fend Casketdrinker off with the other.
"No, Casketdrinker," he said sternly, "This isn't yours."
The ghoul stopped jumping and grabbing when the sin'dorei finally caught up, her pale skin flush from her exertion, dark hair falling into her face.
"I hope you're not going to eat my kitten instead," she huffed, favoring them both with disdainful looks.
"No, of course not," Edgar said awkwardly, attempting to get a better grip on the kitten. It had dug its claws into his shirt and prying it off was proving difficult, "Casketdrinker doesn't know any better."
He glanced at the ghoul, who was still drooling, and sighed, "You shouldn't let your pets run wild here, Miss. It's not really safe."
"I don't need lectures from the likes of you," she said. The elf had an imperious air about her and she held out her hands expectantly, not bothering to help pry the kitten off. Like most members of her race, her bearing suggested that she actually owned the place, and he ought to watch it or she'd have him kicked out. He didn't know how elves managed it, but this one was no exception.
Edgar grimaced at her, not sure what he'd done to deserve the treatment, and finally managed to pry the kitten off. He handed it over and she cradled the kitten to her chest like a baby, cooing at it, shooting him an icy glare.
Bending to pick up his satchel with one hand, he quickly took Casketdrinker's arm with the other to keep the ghoul from bothering the irritable sin'dorei.
"Come on, Gerry, you silly kitty," she said to the kitten, scratching the top of the kitten's ears, "Let's go home. Mommy was so worried! Yes she was!"
Without even a thank you, she turned and strutted off, a swath of vibrant red in a sea of greys and greens. Edgar turned his head and looked at the ghoul, raising his brows. The ghoul blinked back unevenly, thick ropes of drool danging from his jagged jaws.
"You can't eat peoples pets, Casketdrinker," he lectured, letting go of the ghoul and shouldering his bag again, "Where's Yvette?"
"Meeting," the ghoul said, scratching at the moldering remains of an ear.
Edgar sighed. He'd miss the morning zeppelin, but Casketdrinker had become something of a pet in his mind, and so he couldn't just leave him to wander the Undercity, trying to eat snooty sin'dorei's pets.
"Come on," he said, gesturing to the ghoul, "I'll take you home."
Casketdrinker (he'd laughed for a long time when he'd first heard the name) ambled alongside Edgar. Ghouls were only a more advanced progression of the Scourge virus, mental faculties further broken down as it radically twisted their physiology into something even more inhuman. Though he supposed it was sentimental, he felt they owed something to ghouls that were severed from the Lich King. To look out for them.
Yvette didn't agree, but she rarely did when it came to sentimental things. Despite the disagreement, he knew she held some... fondness for her assistant. He'd seen the ghoul's place in her quarters, the cozy nest of blankets that Edgar assumed Casketdrinker slept on. The ghoul was something of a roommate and a pet in a way, so he didn't tease her about it. Not that Yvette was really a teasable person.
He'd offered to share his own home with her multiple times, partly to get her out of the rather dubious hole in the wall she called home, and partly to ease his own loneliness. Edgar thought it might not be so bad with someone else to fill the silence, even if it was only a friend.
She always refused. Every time. Edgar hadn't even really been able to draw a reason out of her, but he hadn't pressed the issue either. She was a solitary creature, though at times he felt like it was somewhat forced upon her. He'd stopped giving her plants for her room – they were wilted and dead within a day.
Edgar sighed as they turned a corner. It could almost be passed off as an alley, it was so narrow, but there were rows of doors instead of dumpsters and trashcans. He shooed Casketdrinker in front of him, towards Yvette's door, wondering how the ghoul had even gotten out. Yvette always kept her door locked. Had the ghoul wandered away from a meeting?
"You found him."
In spite of himself, Edgar jumped and whirled, putting a hand over his chest when he saw it was only Yvette, her one baleful blue eye piercing him. His heart hadn't pounded in quite some time, but the gesture was automatic.
"Don't sneak up on me like that, Yvette," he groused, making room for her in the narrow hall. They were friends, but her presence still set some part of him on edge. He'd hoped that it would eventually go away, that he'd get used to it, but she seemed to have a miasma of discomfort about her. Like he couldn't quite be at ease, couldn't totally trust her intentions. He didn't like the feeling.
"He was trying to eat someone's cat," Edgar offered when she didn't respond to his sneaking comment.
"Oh?" she said, not sounding terribly interested, "Are you sure he was trying to eat it?"
The question gave Edgar pause as she passed, ignoring Casketdrinker as he bumped up against her like a dog happy to see its master. It hadn't occurred to him that the ghoul might've wanted the kitten for something other than lunch.
"What else would he do with it?" he wondered blearily. Yvette pushed open the door to her small apartment – the door stuck and so she pushed rather hard – and stepped inside.
"He brings home strays all the time," Yvette said, irritably prying the ghoul off of her and setting a sheaf of papers on a rickety desk. Making growly babbling noises, the ghoul shuffled off to his corner, settling into it and watching the two of them silently. Edgar shot the ghoul an somewhat uneasy look, feeling odd discussing him while he was right there. Yvette seemed to think it was fine, though.
"I just figured..."
"He named himself Casketdrinker," Yvette said, turning to face Edgar, "He's a bit addled."
Edgar felt guilty for assuming the ghoul just wanted to eat the kitten. It had been a cute kitten. Who wouldn't have wanted to take it home?
"Edgar," Yvette said sharply, making him jerk his head up, "Stop."
"What?" he protested guiltily. How did she always see straight through him?
"Most ghouls like to eat cats," she said, "I seem to attract weird things. Don't add it to your list of things to feel terrible about."
Yvette paused and added, in a less severe voice, "You're leaving?"
"For Durotar, yes," he said.
"You missed the morning zeppelin," she said, staring at him.
"I know," he sighed, gesturing to Casketdrinker, "I couldn't just leave him to wander around."
"He doesn't need looking after, Edgar," Yvette said.
"Still..."
"He isn't a child."
"Obviously, but-"
"Tegan is better off with the trolls."
Edgar set his jaw, but he couldn't hold the one-eyed gaze for very long. That wasn't very fair. He knew that Tegan was better off with the trolls. They took very good care of her. Better than he could manage, still wallowing in grief six month's after his wife's death. She was learning her own language from them. Growing up normally despite her rocky start and dubious connections.
"I know," he said, still not looking at her, "What does that have to do with anything? Why bring it up?"
"You try to take care of everyone but yourself," Yvette said. An icy hand grabbed his jaw and forced him to look up. He tried to flinch away but her grip was like iron, "You're the one who needs it most."
"You're hurting me," Edgar said stiffly. Her touch, without the buffer of a leather glove or a metal gauntlet, burned.
Yvette didn't respond right away, the points of her bony fingers digging into his flesh, and for a few terrible moments he thought she might...
She released him a moment later, flexing the hand she'd touched him with as though she'd gotten something unpleasant on it.
"You can't go on like this," Yvette said, voice quiet, "You're coming apart at the seams."
"I'm fine," he protested, both hands squeezing the shoulder strap of his bag, "It's just... it's been hard. My wife died, Yvette. She died right in front of me and I couldn't do a damned thing!"
His voice wavered and he felt his proverbial seams coming undone. It wasn't as though he had an elaborate facade set up. Every day was another shaky step in a direction he wasn't even sure of.
"Nothing you do now can change what happened, Edgar."
"I know that!" he shouted, looking up at her angrily, "Don't needle me about this, Yvette. I just... I need time!"
"I dragged you out of the cemetery a few days ago like it had just happened that day," she said. Her voice had taken on an emotionless quality, void of compassion. He knew that meant the opposite – it was her version of caring – but it was too harsh for him just now.
"I don't want to talk about this," Edgar said, "I only get to see Tegan once a month, and-"
"Anne's dead Edgar," Yvette interrupted, "You can't dwell on it forever."
"And you can't pretend that people dying doesn't change anything!" he heard himself shout. Edgar was startled by his own outburst and he was sure it showed on his face. He even backed up a step, as though his words might turn around and snap at him.
"I don't pretend," Yvette said. It was only his imagination, but the room seemed suddenly colder.
"Do you even visit his grave?" Edgar asked. His posture was defensive even though he was asking a rather confrontational question.
"I don't need too."
"Why not? He was your brother. Your family, Yvette, and you killed-"
This time, her grip had less friendly intent. He was vaguely aware of his feet dangling off the floor. Sometimes he forgot how strong she was, and though he wasn't really strangling, he grabbed her wrist out of instinct, shocked by the violence of what she was doing.
"I did what I had too," she hissed at him, "I have always done what I had too do for my brother. For myself."
Emotion wasn't really Yvette's strong suit. Not soft emotions, anyway. Things like rage and hatred flowed out of her easily. Sometimes it seemed to Edgar like she enjoyed being angry, that she enjoyed excuses to use brute force to solve problems.
"What are you doing now?" he asked, voice strained as he tried to talk around her grip. She could have made things a lot worse, a lot more uncomfortable. He would take some small comfort in that, though he couldn't recall ever pushing her this far before.
Realization flitted across her haggard, skeletal features and she let go of him suddenly, recoiling a step.
"I... Edgar, I didn't mean to-"
"It's all right," he said, trying not to shake as he rubbed his throat, "I had no right to say that. You didn't deserve it."
"You don't either, Edgar," she protested, "I... I just haven't been thinking about it."
Edgar leaned against the wall heavily and only nodded. He didn't believe her. If it were up to Yvette, she'd let everyone think she was some sort of half-automaton who turned off in her closet when she wasn't performing any duties. Edgar knew better. She was even more introverted than he was.
Right now he didn't feel like arguing, however. Sometimes their friendship felt so strange and tenuous, like he was a wounded animal and she was a ravenous wolf. One day he would strumble, and her jaws would close around his throat out of instinct, and that would be that.
But he didn't really have anyone else who understood.
She didn't either.
Obviously things had been eating away at her, perhaps a great deal more than what he'd been going through in a way. He wore the remains of his heart on his sleeve. It was no mystery to anyone why Edgar Jerrik was always such a sad sack. Yvette, though... she kept it all inside. All of it. Even after she'd killed her brother (again) she'd just... pushed through. At first he'd bought that she had just been incapable of feeling anything more on the subject, but after watching her treat her shambling, rotting aide like a pet... after she dragged him out of the cemetery time and time again...
"You know you can talk to me about it, Yvette," he offered, feeling awkward and stupid offering help to someone who could rip him apart with very little effort, "About Antoine. It doesn't... it doesn't have to be about negative things. Sometimes it helps to think about... about the nicer things. Like... like what he might say about you having a ghoul that likes kittens."
As he spoke and she didn't snarl, he felt a bit more confident, and he continued, "Anne would probably laugh and laugh. She was always... she really meant it when she laughed. I knew I'd made a good joke when she'd let out a good long laugh. Usually it was just a smirk or a chuckle, but a laugh..."
He felt a smile twitch onto his face. Edgar had always prided himself on being able to get a laugh out of Anne when no one else could. Maybe he ought to take his own advice and not spend his time in the graveyard wailing about not being able to save her.
There was a thought.
Yvette was staring at him, though she did flick a look at Casketdrinker, his sunken, yellow eyes wide.
"He'd go buy a kitten right away," Yvette offered suddenly, her voice halting, "Antoine liked to make people happy."
Edgar nodded. He kept the gesture small and unobtrusive, nervous that he might somehow spook her and her attempt at sharing a memory that was before she'd been turned.
"He couldn't have pets," she continued abruptly, her eye pinning him to the wall again. Yvette was watching him closely for a reaction, though he didn't know exactly what kind, "Antoine got too attached. If they died he'd be in shambles."
"Sounds like he was a gentle soul," Edgar tried.
"He was brittle," Yvette snapped, teeth clicking together angrily, "Too brittle."
"You can't protect someone completely," the ex-soldier said, taking a tentative step forward. The irony of his words wasn't lost on him at all, "Not all the time. Sometimes... sometimes things happen. It... what happened to you and your brother wasn't your fault, Yvette."
Her silence told him that she felt otherwise.
"Why don't you come with me? To Durotar, I mean," he offered, blurting it out without thinking. She'd never vocalized a desire to visit the trolls or Tegan, but that didn't mean she hadn't thought of it.
"I have a lot of duties here," Yvette said. He imagined the corners of her mouth tugged down into a frown. Though her lipless mouth seemed eternally frozen into a grim, toothy smile, he thought he could make out the twitches of other expressions on her face. Or maybe it was wishful thinking.
"Just for a few days. Or even a day," he said, "What was your meeting about?"
"It's classified," she told him crisply.
"Was it really important? Or can you just leave it?" he asked.
"It was important," she assured him, "You should get going or you'll have to take the evening zeppelin."
Edgar frowned. Just like that, everything was back to normal, then? The same awkward silences and light banter? Should he let her close off like that so suddenly, or should he take it as progress and leave it be?
Perhaps his idea of who was a wolf and who was a wounded animal was completely wrong.
"If you change your mind, Yvette, I'll be in Sen'jin," he said.
"Have fun," was her curt reply.
He wrestled with a great deal in a short span of time, even glancing at Casketdrinker for some ludicrous reason. As if the ghoul could offer any moral support in this situation.
Yvette was the only reason he was still alive. Sometimes he'd run into the Forlon's, but they were more acquaintances than anything else. If he ran into any of them with any frequency, it was usually Ivan, who was visibly uncomfortable being around Edgar. Ivan wasn't much of a feelings person either, he'd gathered, and so the two of them weren't very compatible. It was all right – Edgar didn't think he was missing too much. Yvette was a good enough friend.
His only friend, really.
She looked smaller lately, dressed in the robes of a public official instead of the heavy armor of a Death Knight. It had to make her miserable on some level, dealing with problems using words and not her runeblade. The blade itself hung over her desk, gleaming and malevolent even without being held by its mistress. He'd been able to find a new job at least, a change of scenery. She'd been shoehorned into the position of a diplomat when he knew she'd much prefer to be caving in skulls or... or melting things.
It struck him then that it had taken him six months to realize that Yvette was miserable. He'd been so wrapped up in Anne's death that he hadn't even wanted to see any other suffering. Not suffering that he couldn't solve, at any rate.
"You should take a break, Yvette," Edgar persisted, "Everyone gets time off. Have you taken any time off since you were assigned?"
"Time off?" Yvette repeated. She was going to be a hard sell and he smirked.
"You're right, I should be getting on the next zeppelin," he said, wagging a finger at her, "But when I get back, we're going on a trip or something. You can't get out of it so don't try."
"Edgar, I don't enjoy trips."
"Too bad," he said, "You need a change of scenery. We both do. It'll be fun. Have you ever been to Shattrath?"
"Somehow I doubt the naaru will find my presence desirable, Edgar."
He smiled and awkwardly put out a hand, squeezing her bony shoulder, "Everyone has to visit the World's End Tavern at least once. My treat."
Her eye moved to his hand and then to his face.
"Maybe," she said, "You should get going."
Edgar sighed and nodded.
"I'll see you in a few days, Yvette," he said, removing his hand, "Take care of yourself, all right?"
"I will if you do," she said gruffly.
Though he never followed through, Edgar always felt compelled to give the Death Knight a hug. She wasn't big on touching, Yvette, and it was for good reason. Even standing next to her was physically uncomfortable, and prolonged touch tended to burn. He was willing to bet he had faint burn marks on his pale skin from where she'd grabbed him, but he didn't mind. Nobody really questioned injuries on other Forsaken. Not something as minor as discolored skin, anyway.
"Bye, Yvette," he said. She practically herded him out the door, closing it solidly behind him, leaving him rather abruptly alone in the hall. Edgar shook his head and pointed himself towards the Trade Quarter. At least he had something to think about that didn't involve Anne on the ride to Durotar.
Thinking about whether he ought to feel guilty about that thought, however, was what would keep him from sleeping tonight.
A/N: Told you I was working on it! Shout out to my homegirls mirari1 and Nara Bluestar for giving me the will and inspiration to carry on. Big thanks to my reviewers as well - I hope you enjoy this part as much as the first.