TW for nudity, depressive themes, and angst!
Darnassian:
Dalah'dorei: An endearment. Can be translated to "My child/children" or "Child/children of mine". Trivia: Despite 'dalah' being literal my/mine pronouns, 'dorei' doesn't necessarily refers to a youngster in some cases.
Min'da: Mother.
Sar'thera: A pejorative, meant for someone who's considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: Sart(e).
Erana-dora isil: May translate to "You have my thanks" or "A thousand thanks upon you", depending if it's casual or formal conversation.
Stareye
Two months later
As she climbs down from Rak'shareh's saddle, Mylenne takes a moment by only taking a deep breath, savoring and basking in the cold air from the winter night. It's been too long since she had the chance of riding her frostsaber, or the opportunity to head to no precise destination, or just being able to walk outside from Highborne streets.
Despite the lovely breeze caressing her features, she doesn't quite feel it as a victory, although she allows herself the very silver lining she's given. She may not be free, but for now it's enough, and Mylenne will take all she can get.
After stroking her saber's muzzle as an act of appreciation, Shareh's endearing purr brings her a memory from many—too many—centuries ago, of a night as cold as that one and a pretty much similar view, past the impressive buildings of the Moon Guard Stronghold.
"Whatever long the day would be, the Moon always will rise for us, dalah'dorei. Some of us just have to endure a little harder and walk a little longer. You just need to remember that, and to take one step at a time. The rest will sort itself out, I assure you…"
"But, uncle Sil… what if I can't walk the path at all?"
"Then head outside and wait for moonrise. I—as well as the Goddess—will always watch over you."
Her beast nuzzles her cheek in her own way to return Mylenne's affections, leaving half of her face slightly wet before walking away, their steps lazy and languid against the humid, cerulean grass. The woman smiles dearly at the beast even when she walks away from sight and deep into the forest, knowing her saber will come back to her whenever she needs to—or even if she doesn't.
More dark clouds gather with the rising wind, threatening to hide the silvery-white rays from the Moon adorning everything in its reach, some street lamps instantly starting to shine brighter and illuminate the path the moonlight doesn't touch.
A huge front gate greets her after striding across the main plaza, yet Mylenne hesitates to go further as she gets middle-way from the entrance, tucking her winter coat a little more tightly over her arms for good measure as well as for some mindless reassurance.
This building has been a place her Min'da called her second home—so many centuries past—and the particular place in which Aedriel Stareye started her brilliant career as a sorcerer. Mylenne hadn't ever visited the Moon Guard Stronghold before, only gazing at the impressive structure built over the mountains from afar, never daring to get that closer as she currently is.
And yet, there she stands. Would it be wise to go further? To walk along the same road her mother once did, uncountable times before? Does she really want to go further? What if she finds something inside she doesn't really wish to witness? Perhaps some painting of the late Conjurer Stareye she wouldn't be looking forward to looking at, or perhaps having to submit to answering some questions about Aedriel—given Mylenne's obvious resemblance to her mother—from some curious, random sorcerer inside those walls.
One step at a time…
Right, her uncle's words have ever been wiser—and sticking to past memories can't do much but bring pain and melancholy in its way. And probably I'm overthinking things, as I usually do. Besides, she hadn't really trotted for close to an hour and all the way there to only regret it at the very last moment.
Some memories of Aedriel Stareye might be inside those walls but, and surprisingly so, there's also people inside she's really looking forward to seeing and spend some time with. And lately, he—no, they—really seemed to be worth all the efforts and struggles.
So then, when the gates open for her, Mylenne takes a deep breath to regain some confidence and walks inside the Stronghold… one step at a time.
Unfortunately and as she heads for the closest building, it doesn't take much time before being nearly assaulted by a man in purple robes. "You—! I remember you! Who let you in!?" A voice she barely remembers from a long past time—say, six months ago—sneers at her, making her uncomfortable in a mere instant.
So much for daring to come inside, the voice of her conscience grumbles in discomfort. "I… I was…" Mylenne tries for words, gaze dropping down in embarrassment and feeling very small in comparison to the man before her, pinning her in place with his angry golden gaze.
"Speak, lowborn," The sorcerer continues, raising his chin and straightening in seeming defiance, his voice dropping into a menacing tone, "So to know who I will send to the dungeons for such an atrocity…"
The shadow of a second figure looms over her figure, nearly sending her flinching and her heart to hammer its way out of her ribs. Goddess, can't sorcerers be any less creepy from time to time?
"And the Conjurers wouldn't be that pleased to find out you're mortifying a Priestess of Elune, would they?" The newcomer remarks, taking apparent care in revealing his identity as he comes to stand beside her. Luckily, it only takes a moment for the woman to recognize that characteristic midnight blue mane, slender figure and soft features when the second male comes onto her periphery.
"Drop it, Latosius. I let her in," The man—so blatantly—lies, but Mylenne knows better than to correct him, "And besides, no one can forbid a Sister to bring her blessings to our workplace."
Once more, the irritated man starts to look like about to burst, face contorting in sheer anger and golden eyes glowing with menacing magic. If looks could kill…, "Is that how you want to play this? Then I hope you are ready for a cleaning week, Mooncaller." Latosius snarls before darting away, his long dark cloak waving high, chin set higher.
"Eh, always with his empty threats, our lovely Officer Sar'thera," Lothrius scoffs, turning to fully face her with that easy smile of his, "Aaaaanyway, it's nice to see you here! And a lovely surprise! Come, let's head inside before my toes fall off."
Mylenne sighs in relief at his easy demeanor, her features softening, "Erana-dora isil, Lothrius," She gives her thanks, doing her best to show how much she means it, smiling dearly at the man. But then, she remembers she's not that acquainted with that particular sorcerer, "Uhm, sorry, that was bold of me. May I call you Lothrius or would you rather prefer…?"
"Ha, sure you can, Sister! Initiate Mooncaller sounds like too much, sometimes," The sorcerer shrugs off her formalities without hesitation. "Besides, after hearing so much about you lately, it's like you're my friend already!"
The woman quickens her pace to walk beside him, holding onto her waving thick cloak as they go across a wide training yard and head to a wooden gate at the far end. "So, I take it you're friends with Hargo…"
A blue eyebrow rises curiously, holding back a smirk, "What, Hargo'then, you say? Oh, actually all these praises I've heard of you came from Illidan," He laughs nonchalantly—as if he doesn't really mind to remark that to her, or as if it's not a secret. "Hargo is way too polite to mention you… or anything regarding his personal affairs."
From Illidan…? She shouldn't be that surprised as she is, though; two months without neither seeing nor having news of each other are, after all, pretty close to nothing. But still, she'd thought he had rather lost his… interest in her already, or decided to turn a step back at the very least—given his known nature, probably entertaining himself with something or someone else by that time.
However, besides being an interesting thought to ponder about, she never considered snapping or getting angry at him for doing so—if she eventually found her assumptions to be true—for that should be more than fair to her, given the two or three times she rejected his advances.
And it's also fair—as well as terribly sad if that was really the case—if Illidan wanted nothing to do with her at that point. If anything, Mylenne is completely sure she doesn't deserve Illidan's kindness, much less so when she repeatedly and constantly managed to ruin their growing… bond.
What did she really do to earn such praises, such acceptance from Illidan and his friends? Are they really that at ease with a seeming stranger as her? Worst of all, how could a pair of sorcerers be at ease with her, a woman who so blatantly expressed her worries and distrustfulness towards magic many times over?
As they come inside a wide hall, the tips of her lavender ears fall downwards with her racing thoughts, not finding any words to say to her companion. Mother Moon, how could I deserve anything from them? I've been so rude already.
Somehow, Lothrius doesn't seem to notice her growing shame or the shifting in her mood, which is a no small wonder. Illidan always managed to notice her mood swings so effortlessly during their—if short and few—interactions, leaving her the reasonable conclusion of that to be another one of the many perks of being a sorcerer.
Arcane energies are deeply affected by emotions, the aura of a kaldorei being only a manifestation of those said energies—or that's what the Stareye siblings, Aedriel and Silgryn, had explained to her when she was a child.
She's not sure if she's still—so very stuck with her nature—overthinking things or if it's rather more of her choosing to visit a place she ever stood a feet upon, but as Lothrius leads the way to a large set of stairs and onto an uncountable number of floors above, Mylenne feels her legs heavy and her heart heavier, the whole situation starting to take its toll on her.
Since she had a memory and somewhat grasped how… different she was from similar children of her age, Mylenne never wanted to have anything to do with whatever matters related to arcane magic or sorcery alike. Never wanted to learn, to understand, or to even speak about it—her resolve firmly set after her mother's disappearance from her life.
And whatever odd route her life is currently taking, as for befriending sorcerers and even bedding one, there's still that wise voice of her conscience reminding her to not fall to whatever small curiosity she may have. What's the point of learning something, anything about magic anyway? that little voice keeps reminding her and—after all this time—that still makes sense.
She has been quite fine without dealing with the subject for more than one thousand and five hundred years, the very thought of starting now just falls flat as stupidity, as something completely absurd.
"And here we are," The friendly voice of her newfound guide takes her out of her reverie, waiting for her to reach the third floor, leaning his side on the railing. "We're on shift end so you will find them there, second door on the right," Lothrius points his thumb behind his shoulder, signaling her way across.
Mylenne nods absently in her own way to thank him, her throat a little bit tight and her mind still lost in thought to be able to answer him properly. It doesn't get any better for her as, unconsciously, her eyes drift across the railing and to the floors below—abruptly going aware of how high the building is, a cold shiver of vertigo assaulting her.
Goddess, I hate this place so bad. How did I even think it was a good idea coming here?
Growing eager to step away from the dangerous railing, she strides to the wooden door that Lothrius previously pointed out for her, opening it and heading inside without giving it too much thought.
It's as she closes the door a little bit too hard when she notices a tall, muscled figure flinching at the noise she makes, sending her jumping with their sudden appearance and the sound altogether. "Oh, sweet Mother Moon—!" Mylenne curses, her free hand going to her chest.
That room isn't as lit up as the hallway, the moonlight coming through a big window across being the main source of light, but she doesn't need as much to notice the tall figure clearly not being who she's looking for. Wait… did Lothrius said 'them'?
"Well, here I just thought I might not hear from you until next month…" A deep baritone voice reaches her already flushed ears, her eyes blowing wide in realization as the figure reveals their identity, stepping closer to her and into the moonlight rushing through besides them. "Are you alright, though?"
"You—you can't creep on people like that, Illidan!" She sputters, still clutching her chest and doing her best to regain some composure, "That's… well, that's creepy!"
With half of his body still shadowed, he raises his arms apologetically, "Alright, I'm sorry. But in my defense, it's not like we were expecting anyone," Illidan admits, slightly shrugging and moving to the side, a hand glowing with bright purplish magic as he works in turning on the candlelight dangling from the ceiling.
With some better illumination, Mylenne then finds out she still has to fight her constant racing heart, unable to keep her silver gaze from roaming over the revealing sight of the man before her. Blood rushes to her face without her having a chance to fight it, glancing at Illidan's wet hair sticking to his broad shoulders and broader back, dark skin slightly glistening thanks to some remnants of water dripping from his mane and the moonlight shining on the expanse of his body.
She can't contain herself when she opens her mouth to say something—anything—but no words come out, leaving her with her jaw dropped and gaping ridiculously. But how could she, anyway, when that breathtakingly handsome man now facing her is nearly bare except for a white towel around his waist?
A sly smirk shows on Illidan's face when he meets her eyes, adopting a cocky posture as he leans his weight in one hip and crosses his arms languidly. "Like what you see?" He says in a sultry tone, golden eyes gleaming with deep amusement.
A nervous chuckle—which sounds more like a pathetic wheeze—escapes her, looking away and rubbing her face in a silly attempt to hide her embarrassment. Goddess, where did she get herself into? A dressing room? Is that a prank from Lothrius? He surely must have known she'd find Illidan inside and in that very appealing state of dressing.
… Wait, what? What did you just think?
Fortunately, a distraction appears from the far right corner of the room, meeting another pair of golden eyes who look at her with apparent pleasing. "Myl... What a surprise to see you here!" A bright smile shows on Hargo's face as he strides past Illidan and to where she stands, looking eager to greet her properly.
Oblivious to Illidan's hard glare and seemingly uncontained snort—unaware as usual, as he tends to be with everyone—Hargo gently pushes her towards the far corner of the dressing room; snatching her waist before dropping his head and brush his lips against hers tenderly.
Mylenne isn't really sure if she wants to make out with him—not with some particular witnesses around, that is—but she can't help with a sigh escaping her mouth as Hargo kisses her, languidly and softly, the absence of his usual headband making some strands of his cobalt hair tingle her cheek.
The tension she'd been developing eases some levels, relaxing with the softness and sweetness which anything but screams Hargo's name all over. While not really being too many months since they started seeing each other, she has already reached that comforting point in where she doesn't feel obligated nor forced to do anything but only what she wants. And, oh Goddess, if that isn't something she has secretly craved for.
As he cups her face with his free hand, knowing how much she likes to be held that way, it becomes impossible to keep reluctant; returning his kiss and trying to show how grateful she is with the motion, allowing that soft tongue of his to brush her lower lip. Hargo's constant eagerness to just please her—to, somehow, give her the attention he believes she deserves—is something that always sends her heart aflutter, no matter how many times he behaves like that.
That is, also adding the fact of how easy it is, to be around him. With Hargo, she's not a Sister, not a noble Lady, not a Stareye, sometimes not even a female being courted by a male—she can be only Mylenne and simply enjoy his attentions on her.
She's not sure for how many decades she'd been craving for a silly, mindless relationship as the one they have, although now that she has suddenly found herself into one, Mylenne can't be thankful enough for meeting Hargo. It's been quite a while since someone made her feel as wanted and cared for—that probably being the main reason of why she chose him as her lover, adding another fact of him also making her feel nice and pretty.
… Not beautiful, not nearly worshiped, but pretty is fine for the moment. Mylenne can deal better with feeling pretty.
But when Hargo breaks their kiss, she notices how—in some odd way—fine is not… enough. "Is everything okay, sweetie? You seem a little bit tired," He wonders as he regards her properly, taking a good look at her for the first time in the night.
"I'm good. Just a lot going on in my head," She half-admits with a shrug, her ankles starting to hurt slightly after stepping on tiptoes for a considerably long time. "I… think I'll be waiting outside if you don't mind." The woman continues as she fully lets him go, rearranging her cloak in an attempt to do something with her hands.
Hargo just nods solemnly, not insisting on keeping on that line of conversation—and, somehow, bringing her to feel a little bit disappointed just for doing so. Yet, she allows the man to give her a peck on her cheek, forcing a smile before he goes to grab a towel, apparently heading to the showers.
She sighs heavily as she turns around, stopping shortly after finding the room empty of people except for her. Huh, I thought Illidan was still here, she thinks, another pang of disappointment tugging at her chest. However, after hearing the sound of water running in the adjacent room, Mylenne decides to go for her former idea, heading to the door and growing eager to leave the building as fast as possible.
It's when she finds herself in that—too exposed for her liking—hallway when she finds Illidan again, fully dressed in what it seems like his traveling clothes, leaning against the railing nonchalantly.
A deep, concerned frown narrows his face after he meets her eyes. "Somehow, I'm having this feeling of our workplace… unsettling you," Illidan guesses, tilting his head as if he's really trying to figure her out.
Her violet brows tilt upwards, blinking in surprise. "Yeah, it is, actually. And it seems you're the only one who noticed that…" Mylenne admits—fully and truly for the first time in the night—as she goes to lean beside the door she just came out from, not daring to step closer to that dreadful railing, "What gave me away, though?"
"Well, for starters, you're flaring," He points out as if it's obvious, a hand aiming to her general direction in a lazy movement, "I don't think it takes too much perception to notice that." He then remarks with a shrug, his concerned look not really dropping.
With no small confusion, she takes a look at herself, yet she's not able to see anything different in her skin besides the goosebumps showing in her arms. How does Illidan really notice such details from her, suddenly she's not sure if she wants to know. "You say it like that, and somehow it seems like every sorcerer in this place except you is… uhm, oblivious to what's in front of them?" Mylenne notes, wincing a bit with her odd choice of words.
Despite that, she earns a light chuckle from Illidan. "Well, perhaps I am that perceptive." He prefers to state, a sly smirk showing on his dark lips, looking seemingly pleased with himself.
Four months later
A sharp movement from below propels her awake, a soft intake of breath following as she does her best to flutter her rock-heavy eyelids open. Mylenne yawns lazily, not finding the will to move as her head bobs up and down, a cheek resting over a bare, dark-skinned chest. The sound of Hargo's steady heartbeats aren't quite helpful, way too soothing and relaxing next to his soft breathing under her, their tempo sounding like the nicest of lullabies. Neither does help when, in his dazed state, his arms slightly tighten around her, bringing them further closer together.
Her body reacts faster than her mind, arms and legs clinging to the alluring warmth of Hargo's naked form, snuggling as close as she can and growing willing to just cuddle with him for a little longer. Her lover mumbles something unintelligible, yet he doesn't give her any indication of returning to the realm of the living, his face burying in the top of her head and her messy hair.
As she climbs further up to hide her face in the crook of his neck, an orange-yellow ray coming from the window briefly blinds her, making her grunt in discomfort as she blinks repeatedly, trying to adjust her sights.
When her eyes meet the view of the rising sun across the window, a sound close to a shriek escapes from her lips, jumping away from the lovely cocoon of Hargo's embrace. "By Elune, look at the time!" She croaks, her voice rough from the lack of usage.
The man below takes a sharp intake of breath as she moves away, pale golden eyes glancing through crinkled slits. "Mmh… is something the matter?" Hargo mutters, looking too sleepy and drowsy to find the strength to move, his headband hanging clumsily on one corner of his cobalt head.
She can't help with the funny snort she gives at the sight of his messy state, although she's aware she might look just the same as him. "I'm afraid our nap turned out to be a very long one, it's nearly morning," Mylenne points out while looking for her clothes, stretching across his chest to grab one piece of her undergarments. "Ugh, I just hope I'm not already late,"
Hargo takes some apparent advantage of their position as he raises his head, merely a couple of inches, placing a kiss between her bare collarbones, "Late for what?" He mumbles against her skin, brushing his lips lazily, looking as if savoring the taste of her when a pleased hum follows his words.
However, she doesn't feel that allured with his tenderness that time, "It's Maiev's last night in Suramar, Har." Mylenne replies in a solemn tone, excusing herself as she sits beside him and starts dressing. "I don't even know if she already left…"
Her worries prompt Hargo to stop any further advances on her, resting his weight on his elbows as he moves onto a seated position. "You need me to drop you at her house?" He proposes with genuine concern as he helps her with the laces of her bra. "Although you can borrow my saber if you don't feel like having me around, sweetie."
"Don't worry about that, I can take my uncle's girl if he's still around." She dismisses his help way too fast than she'd like, "Come back to sleep. Ugh, where's the other shoe?" The woman opts for some deflection, looking away and purposely not back to the naked, appealing body stretching over the sheets.
Luckily, Hargo only chuckles back—light and soft, and exactly as she likes. "I think you dropped them next to the door…" He recalls, propelling down and burying himself further in the bed without too much thought.
Mylenne leaves him be, lacing her shoes hastily on her way out of her rented room—yet slowly becoming to be more of a permanent rent, given how many days she tends to spend there— striding to the first floor of Vanthir's place.
Climbing down the stairs two steps at the time, her uncle lazily waves her hello from his usual seat, sharing some drinks and playing cards with his customary merry band; Arluin and the bar's owner Vanthir—adding a regular customer and possibly a new member of that odd group now spreading the cards, a bald male named Oculeth.
Silgryn throws Rak'shakar's whistle when Mylenne asks him for it, catching the wooden object as it flies to her before striding out of the bar hurriedly, the sun threateningly close to rising, barely peeking up from behind the forest trees of Suramar's outskirts. Fortunately, the frostsaber never complains about the very fast pace she sets, the beast's paws barely touching the ground as they run to the Shadowsong's place.
Despite the light ride, Mylenne's heart visibly drops when the familiar house comes into view, the siblings already accompanied by a caravan of Sisters; Jarod helping out his sister with dropping some traveling bags inside a cart, Maiev's possessions joining the neat pile.
So, this is it. She's really leaving…
A silver-haired head peeks out and glances at her from behind a smaller saber, her face brightening in recognition. "Myl!" Maiev cries, dropping a bag she was apparently trying to tie to her mount's saddle and striding in her direction, "I thought you wouldn't be able to come!"
Mylenne's throat constricts with the lump forming, dropping down from Shakar's saddle in a single motion and racing to her friend, the women meeting halfway and burying themselves in the tightest of hugs. Muffling a sob against Maiev's shoulder, they cling to each other for what it seems like an eternity.
"Shush, my friend, you're breaking my heart already," Maiev tries to soothe her as she brings her closer, stroking Mylenne's violet hair in her so sisterly manner of hers. "It's not like I'm leaving forever, this is only an initiation. Maybe it goes sideways, maybe the Sentinels don't even need me, and you will have me back before you notice…"
Another choked sob mixed up with a weak snort escapes Mylenne, her friend's silly excuses not enough to keep some tears from falling down, "I know, Mai… but still—" She mumbles, unwilling to let go of her.
Mylenne knows it all, but still, she's leaving either way. But still, they won't be able to spend the nights and full cycles stuck together like they were used to. But still, she's about to be the second kaldorei in their made up family to—in so many ways—move on and forward, finally following her path in life, what everyone knows Maiev Shadowsong was born to be.
"Yeah, I know." Maiev sighs, no more words needed as she gently extricates herself from their tight embrace, wiping her rebel tears with the back of her gloved thumb and bringing her to Jarod, "I promise I'll write anytime I can, to you both," She acknowledges her brother with a tilt of her braided head.
Jarod only nods back. "You better do that…" He grunts, jaw clenched and lips pursed, seemingly unable to meet neither woman's gaze.
Always true to her near motherly nature, Maiev takes precious care of leaving her friend in Jarod's protective arms before returning to her assigned saber, tying up some extra bags to the saddle and climbing up with practiced ease. Her silver eyes gleam as she looks at them once more, yet not a single tear escapes them; instead, blinking them back fiercely and throwing her best reassuring smile their way.
Jarod doesn't cry either, merely swallowing hard and keeping his sister's gaze as the traveling group gets on the moving, yet Mylenne does—a painful surge of sobs climbing their way out her throat, bright translucent tears falling down her cheeks like a cascade. The reminder of a long past memory clings to her and there isn't much she can't do to keep herself from sobbing harder and crying louder; the picture of a violet-haired woman flashing through her eyes as she waves what it turned out to be her last goodbye.
"My offer still stands, Myl!" It's the last she hears from Maiev as her saber gets on the line, following the group of Sentinels trainees, onto their long route to the small village of Hajiri.
Unable to hold her friend's gaze any further, Mylenne clings to Jarod's cotton shirt as if her life depends on it, doing the best she can to muffle her unrelenting sobbing—exactly as she once did with a younger version of the same man, after Aedriel Stareye's departure, one thousand and five hundred years ago.
She's aware of her sheer selfishness that comes with a tint of envy, but if there's one thing Mylenne never learned—and probably never will—is how to handle with the departure of people she loves the most. First, it'd been her mother, never fulfilling her promise to come back to her as Silgryn did; now Maiev inevitably follows the same route.
Will she end up as Aedriel, being that the last morning she'd see her friend? Or will she make up to her silent promise and return to her side like her uncle?
"This is the first time in two thousand years she'll be that far away from me…" Jarod sighs against the crown of her head, bringing her closer to his solid chest, his gaze still trained on the road heading west.
"From both of us, in any case," She corrects his friend, gripping him harder for good measure as the traveling party slowly disappears further into the forest, the noises of huge paws against grass evening out within the next minute. "What are we going to do now?" Mylenne wonders, more to herself than to Jarod.
Only a deep breath follows—the upcoming silence nearly overwhelming as a full minute goes by. "I don't know, Myl. I sincerely don't know…"
Two months later
Nothing gets better—and, in all honesty, for Mylenne it feels more like there's no other way to go but further down and down.
With one of the most turbulent storms of the season gathering and clouding the expanse of stars, it's a good time as any for the woman to escape once more from her activities at the Temple of Elune—that night, with her second usual excuse of 'hardly believing the Goddess would listen to her prayers', although that coming to be partially true as of late.
Fortunately, and probably with no small influence from the very unsettling weather, that seems to be enough for her trainer to let her go, if with some reluctance. Still, it's somewhat relieving for Mylenne to not apply her first usual excuse—her sour moods—and head off the main chambers before her trainer feels like regretting anything.
As she strides out and walks down the long marble stairs of the Temple, the first splotches of rain reach her face and thin robes, the water feeling like a smacking and a washing altogether. It only takes a matter of seconds before getting completely wet under the unrelenting storm, her tight violet braid dripping water down her chest and going heavy as a wooden log, eliciting an uncomfortable grunt out of her as she brushes it off her shoulder to set against her back.
Her sandals stain with dark mud as she heads to the other side of the street, and Mylenne isn't sure if she could feel more utterly miserable as she currently is. It turns out that, as the woman blindly finds some shelter under a tree across the street, her downcast state isn't quite the main reason of the tears threatening to come down her cheeks, eager to join the rainwater.
It's more because she doesn't remember the time when she had felt absolutely, completely… alone.
Jarod had been again deeply immersed in paperwork and recruit training at the Black Rook Hold, probably finding the distraction he needs with burying himself in his job; something Mylenne silently envies, for she could really use that sort of diversion. Silgryn, on the other hand, got away on a sudden business trip into the lands of Vashj'ir a week ago, claiming something about repaying some favors from his friend Arluin.
Hargo had been very busy as well, after being assigned with longer patrols at the construction of the new Harbor—recently acquired by Duchess Astravar—since the last month. Mylenne can hardly blame him for his current lack of free time, however, because she knows that new assignment to be a golden opportunity for her lover to climb further up in his career.
Besides, she can hardly snap at anyone for doing what they love the most or following their path in life. Or for doing what I can't, for that matter, she considers bitterly, a lump forming in her throat as she hugs her knees and buries her face between her thighs.
The tears she had been holding all that dreadful night—without not even the soothing singing from the sweet Sister Thania being able to comfort her—finally find their way out, the entirety of her body trembling with the force of her crying, sobs muffled thanks to the violent gushes of wind.
Oh, Mother Moon, how strongly do I wish for you to hear my pleas. I can't go on like this… I just can't keep going like this anymore…
With the tempest settling around even more turbulently, she's not sure if mere minutes or long hours go by. Yet, somehow, through her own wailing and the howling of the storm above, her ears twitch when hearing the noise of splotchy steps coming to where she lies; a shadow forming even with the very dim light of the streets. The woman doesn't find the strength in her to glance at the newcomer, hoping deep down to be left alone and deal with her own miserable state if she doesn't acknowledge them.
However, the figure dares to get closer. "Alone in the rain?" They wonder, their deep, near baritone voice echoing around them thanks to the wind, "Do you mind if I join you?"
Mylenne would bark something at the newcomer if she really had the strength to do so, but the only thing she can do is to crane her neck to the side as the male comes to sit beside her before she replies anything. A very recognizable face appears from under a thick traveling cloak, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her—although when his bright green mane comes into view, she can't certainly do much to keep her features from looking as disappointed as she is.
"Please, forgive my intrusion, that would certainly be the least of my intentions with coming here," Malfurion Stormrage excuses himself in his characteristic polite manner of his, although having some decency of giving her some personal space. "I guess it is better for me to be direct and just ask: Do you wish to talk?"
"About what, of all things in this world?" Mylenne replies with some bitterness, merely glancing at him through her wet lashes.
A deep frown narrows Malfurion's dark face, yet it doesn't seem to be enough for him to keep his respectful insistence, "About what is on your mind as of now."
A scoff mixed up with a choked sob follows his words, "Perhaps you only need to take a good look and see for yourself." Mylenne snarls, resting her chin on top of her knees when it seems obvious she's not going to be left alone to lick her wounds as she intends to.
Although she knows she should be more modest and not really show her awful state to an acquaintance such as Malfurion, her sense of dignity is certainly the last of her current concerns and something she really doesn't worry much about—not when her whole body couldn't be any wet and drenched, her deeply flushed face and swollen eyes coming to be just a mere detail in her disastrous picture.
And yet, it just takes as much for the male to unlatch his cloak, curling a little closer to her in an attempt to offer some shelter from the rain under the thick cover, "I see a woman alone in the wilderness, looking… despaired, hopeless," Malfurion says solemnly, silver eyes gleaming in evident empathy, his face softening in apparent relief after she doesn't flinch away, "I can serve as a friendly ear, if you wish for me to do so."
Despite her sheer soaked state, Mylenne actually feels completely drained from any will, not even having the strength to talk about the million despaired thoughts running on her mind. And so, she doesn't fight it when her body acts on its own accord and leans against Malfurion's side, unconsciously looking for some comfort in the warmth of his—also drenched—figure.
The male takes care of bringing her further under his cloak, offering his shoulder for her to rest her head on, remaining silent after her unwillingness to speak her mind. A considerable amount of time goes by with the unrelenting storm as their only companion, Mylenne's tensed and tired body relaxing only slightly against the Stormrage twin's loose embrace.
That is, until her gaze travels to the corner of the street and finds the unmistakable figure of the other twin, so very still on the saddle of his borrowed saber… looking back at them.
Mylenne blinks forcefully, believing at first to be a silly product of her imagination, yet the picture of him don't seem to fade—or it worsens, somehow, when the dim lights of a street lamp briefly reflect his face, his golden eyes narrowing in evident anger.
"Illidan…" She croaks, already feeling those rebel tears returning with full force. She has seen that look on his face before, and having to recall it again can't do anything but break her heart in a hundred, thousand pieces.
"What about him? Did he do something wrong?" Malfurion wonders with no small naivety, somehow not acknowledging the figure intensely glaring at them from the street ahead.
She certainly doesn't know why he seems to be so utterly enraged, yet she can't help but follow her instincts as she extricates herself from Malfurion's shelter, her heart racing and pounding against her ribs as she stands up, uncaring of the rain hitting her face.
But Illidan doesn't wait for her approach; instead, his face tautens even harder—nose scrunched and lips pursed in full disgust—as he grips the reins of his mount, turning back from her and his oblivious brother, trotting away without a second thought.
"Illid… Illidan!" She calls for him, her voice echoing on the road ahead.
And yet, despite her cries, he doesn't turn back, disappearing under the unrelenting storm in a mere minute.
A-N: Sooooo, yeah... I'll be running away now before someone decides to throw sharp objects at me ._.
I'M SORRY OKAY, I PROMISE NEXT PART WILL BE GOOD, I SWEAR! *hides behind Silgryn*
