TW for depressive themes, mentions of blood and whoops! Fluffy fluff! :D
Darnassian:
An'da: Father.
Quel / Quel'dorei: Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.
Shaala'ros: (Spell) Arcane blast.
Sar'thera: A pejorative, meant for someone who's considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: Sart(e).
Stareye
One year later
"Illidan,
Please stop I'd appreciate if you Nothing has changed since last time we saw, so you should do well with stop worrying so much about me, I swear I'm fine! I know my last letter hasn't been quite nice cheerful, but your constant worrying over me is making me more nervous than concerning me a little.
We already talked about this last month, and I still stand by my idea of keep spending the days at Vanthir's rather than go to the Manor my house. And I'll be fine as long as An'da isn't close to breathe over—"
Rather abruptly, Mylenne smashes the parchment, throwing the draft away from her sights after she curls the paper into a ball. "Ugh, it's no use!" She grumbles, her hands twitching with impatience, considering saving the ink for something more useful than writing a letter already half scratched and stained.
Tending to mindless and silly duties like cleaning the Sister's spare rooms should be enough for Mylenne's mind to stop pacing and running with so many thoughts at once. When that started, then she opts to switch and mop the upper chamber's floors. An hour later, she finds herself rearranging the bookshelves nearly in a frantic pace, first going through alphabetical order, then by color; later ending up sorting out the new parchments from the used and rusty ones.
But nothing really helps to ease her anxiety.
"I don't even know why I worry so much about this," She muses to herself, already aware of being alone in the study room and with nobody to listen to her mumbling, reordering what it looks to be Sister Thania's desk. "What would Jarod do? Or Maiev? Or Thania?"
They'd patiently wait for the reply letter, as any faithful devotee to Elune will surely do, the little voice of her conscience whispers for her, making her snort and roll her eyes absently.
The thing is, she had been waiting for two long weeks already. Two weeks in which the woman spent reconsidering every single word she wrote on the Priestess application, as well as thinking over and over why did she decided to submit to a post and job she may never grow to love—at the very least, not like her fellow Sisters seem to.
But every kaldorei with some observation skills would surely admit for Mylenne to be the last preferred choice to take up the mantle of Priestess, given her disappointing skills for healing spells, her apparent lack of fervor and dedication with spreading the word of the Goddess—all that without considering her weak connection and attunement with the Mother Moon as of late.
And yet, no kaldorei except her has to take into account Lord Stareye's near choking pressure in applying either way.
A very tired sigh escapes her, half filled with resentment and half with a deep ache she can't really place where does that come from, although it feels to be from somewhere close to her chest. Dragging her feet down the stairs, Mylenne forces herself to face the main chambers of the Temple once more, her main obligations for the night already finished for more than an hour ago.
Some of her fellow Sisters are still there, not a single noise daring to interrupt the quietness of their prayers except for Mylenne's leather sandals brushing against the marble floor. Trying to be as silent as possible, she finds a spot to kneel before the bright ray of moonlight coming from the center of the ceiling; the Goddess' light shimmering and gleaming soothingly, adorning everything it touches and bringing a sense of profound peace to the main chambers.
Lowering her head before the ray of moonlight, Mylenne joins her hands and takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart and anxious need to cling to the light's warmth.
Mother Moon, I beg you, allow me to hear your soothing voice… to feel your warm embrace. Why does it feel like you have left me alone in this world?
She doesn't want to give up on her beliefs, on her Goddess, but wondering and praying is all she can do to help with the painful clenching that tugs at her chest as she joins in with her Sisters. Have they ever felt as sorrowful and hopeless as Mylenne did—as she does? Is she doing something wrong?
I only want to be close to you. I want to believe in your guiding light… but all I see is darkness near me. Sweet Elune, I need you to hear my plea, I implore you.
And yet, hours go by without any apparent change, only leaving the woman with a deep hopelessness spreading through her. It feels toxic, carrying a sensation of filling and a cold emptiness altogether, bringing tears to her eyes and a sore weariness to her body—the marbled floor feeling hard and freezing her knees. As the woman finally rises from her spot, she quietly wipes some rebel tears with her thumbs, taking a dejected glance at the ceiling, her lips trembling and a lump forming in her throat as a final conclusion comes down to her.
Perhaps… the Goddess just forgot about her. Perhaps she's not the chosen one to walk under her light.
Because that's what Her silence would mean, right? It can only mean she's not fit to take the Priestess mantle; that she's not fit to walk on that path—maybe, that she's meant to be something else, but not a Sister of Elune.
But if she's not suitable for the Sisterhood, then when does she really fit? She hasn't found the answers she had been looking for among the stars, very much less on the ways of the arcane. Will she ever find her path in life, at all? Or will she spend the rest of her life as a nameless, as a nobody? Or even worse, as a quel, only required to stand beside her lifemate, spending her nights by watching her family being pushed, pulled like lifeless finger-puppets onto playing the vicious game of the Court?
Am I really worthy of so… less?
As a poisoning, disgusting bile climbs up her throat, she grabs her traveling cloak and close to runs down the main stairs of the Temple, two steps at the time, looking for Rak'shareh's whistle almost frantically. Her faithful companion shows up instantly, making her appearance from behind the woods and approaching as open and eager to escort her as she always did.
The frostsaber pushes her snout against her palm after they meet, nuzzling her hand tenderly in her way to greet the kaldorei, Mylenne's face softening. "I guess it's been always you and me, Rak," She sighs, a small smile clinging to her lilac lips as she strokes her striped fur in return, "My beautiful girl… you and your sister allowed me into your lives as the closest thing you could have for a Min'da,"
A soothing purr rumbles through the beast, sending Mylenne's heart aflutter as she kneels to get on her eye level, burying her face on the side of the saber's neck. "I never thought I'd be so blessed of having you with me," The woman whispers, her voice only for the beast to hear, earning a wet cheek after Shareh's tip of her rough tongue comes in contact with it.
A girly giggle escapes the woman with the tingling sensation, a warm gratefulness spreading through her and her sour moods soothing, if only a little. With the usual admittance, Rak'shareh lowers her back and Mylenne hops onto the saddle, definitely ready to leave the Temple behind as they take the road to Suramar's outskirts.
With the rising sun following their tracks up behind the forest trees of Val'sharah's borders, the woman brings her violet hair own and takes mind of heading north, onto the merchant's road. It had been close to a month since another Moon Festival went by—and so did the many barrels of Nightwine, ale, Nightpear Cider, and Moonberry wine from Vanthir's warehouse at the Thirsty Magister, leaving the storage nearly empty after the festivities.
Sure enough, Silgryn and his crew did their fair work on emptying whatever was left, after her uncle had the idea of throwing another of his customary parties last week. After losing a bet—in which she's completely sure Arluin cheated ruthlessly, earning a whole week of merciless teasing from Hargo regarding her awful skill at playing card games—Mylenne was left to fetch for the restocking of the warehouse.
But as she approaches the outside stalls from the not so regularly crowded merchant streets, the first she sees is the sight of a fight already ongoing—coming right from Keelay Moongrow's fruit stand, the elf Mylenne was particularly looking for.
"Hey! Give that back, you scum!" Moongrow bellows to a male elf dressed in humble clothes, looking terribly outraged as he jumps outside his stall, coming to struggle with another two kaldorei apparently backing up the thief. "Somebody stop that thief! You haven't paid for those Nightpears!"
They appear to be a group of five kaldorei, but Mylenne doesn't think twice as she pushes Rak'shareh onto following the one on the loose, a sense of indignation kicking in as she gallops swiftly, using only her knees to hold onto the saddle. From her periphery, she sees Moongrow being punched and momentarily stunned before being left alone, the remaining group quick into following the one carrying the full bags of stolen merchandise.
Her frostsaber growls menacingly as they close the distance with the thief, looking ready to pounce on him if it needs to. I should carry my bow close more often, Mylenne curses herself, bringing her head down to avoid being hit with some lower trees' branches after the bandit heads to the forest. "Stop right there, thief, or I will make you!" She shouts, delving into the woods, Rak'shareh gaining more speed as they leave behind the cobblestone streets and trot onto bare grass.
Judging by more sounds of boots stomping against grass, Mylenne assumes the rest of the band is coming right behind her. However, her frostsaber doesn't seem to be considering the other one's approach as she flexes her paws, forcing the woman to hold onto her saddle after the beast pounces on the bandit.
Yet it's at the very last moment when the thief cranes his head at her, dull silver eyes glowing in shades of purplish-blue and suddenly turning, lifting his free hand in her direction. "Shaala'ros!" The man chants in a pant.
Mylenne's eyes widen, unable to avoid the blast of magic coming from the male's palm with their close distance, the spell not quite impressive but violent enough to send a forceful surge, striking her frostsaber and sending them flying backwards. Her back impacts against a trunk, forcing away all the air in her lungs, Rak'shareh landing heavily on the side a couple of meters behind.
I should definitely have to carry my bow close more often.
Dizziness overtakes her as she tries to stand, feeling her back sore and her elbow injured, grunting as she blindly holds onto the trunk behind her to get some leverage. Small white dots dance before her, forcing her to blink and shake her head sharply to adjust her sights, noticing the thief on the run once more.
"Someone grab that saber!" One of the remaining men yells close to her location, the band already scrambling and taking different routes into the woods. An amused snort mixed with a grunt escapes Mylenne, forcibly pulling herself up and ignoring the pain on her left arm. That's so funny I should just let them try…
"You think you can actually steal from someone else and get away with it?" She grunts, her voice hoarse as she straightens and strides to stop the band's imminent assault on her frostsaber—although it's not like Rak would really need her to defend herself, a proud yet brief smirk making its way through her lips at the thought.
The beast is quick in returning from her stunned state, standing on all fours and paws spread, showing her mighty size along with sending a menacing growl to the remaining males. One of them—probably in his best act of desperation and hurriedness for escaping—nearly throws himself at the beast, allowing Mylenne to seize the moment and do the same from her position, hands closed into fists and ready to punch their way out if necessary.
The biggest male in the group comes first to meet her, a sneer plastered on his face after he spares a glance at her. "It always has to be a quel filth," He spits, attempting to grab her and making some time for his acquaintances to capture Rak'shareh.
A sharp elbow to his nose makes its nice work of silencing the man, sending him groaning and holding his face as Mylenne goes to struggle with another of his companions. "This is our territory! What does a useless quel like you have to do in our forests?" That one proclaims, opting to fight her after Rak'shareh easily paws her attacker, propelling him to the floor as if he's made of paper.
Her new foe avoids her next fist, looking to be more skilled in battle than the rest of his band, managing to find her weak spots as he comes behind her, grabbing her injured elbow first. "You should be playing with your servants in your pompous city." He continues, talking close to her ear and seemingly reveling in her painful yelp, taking hold of her arms.
"I wouldn't complain that much, buddy. Cute little Ladies like you always have their nice coin to spare…" His companion follows, taking a knife out of his pockets and approaching her, the cold tip of the blade dangling close to her throat. "What is a small sack of gold for a quel anyway, and I bet you're full of them, aren't you?" The first man snarls, a wicked smile clinging to his bleeding face.
So, all they ever want is money? What a waste of time! Mylenne frowns, deep irritation showing on her flushed face, struggling to get loose from the other man's grasp. "What did I ever do to the likes of you?"
Despite her efforts, his grip is too strong, the woman's eyes watering as a sharp claw buries deeper on her injured arm, sending a hot surge of pain through her. Rak'shareh growls deeply, menacingly, but she doesn't dare to strike as long as Mylenne's trapped between the two males—still positioning into a battle stance, preparing to pounce on them whenever she may find an opening.
"Having born and living among us, for starters." The man with the knife says as if it's obvious, dodging a knee to his stomach and pinning the struggling woman in place, the blade then pressing the angry throbbing vein on her throat, "Don't waste your breath, little quel, this is quite easy. You just handle your coins to the free folk and we may spare—ungh!"
A flash of magic resonates like a whip from behind the man, haloing his dark head in shades of purple for a mere moment before stunning him, the blade on Mylenne's throat loosening drastically. "Moon Guard… arane, I knew it!" Rak'shareh's attacker gasps, panic narrowing his face as he scrambles to get up and sprint away.
Mylenne hesitates to move as another whip echoes sharply through the woods, her breath hitching and eyes open wide as bright arcane magic shows, made in a vague form of tendrils, spreading out and away in the mere course of a second to grasp the attackers, one by one. A faint purplish fog takes a more solid state as it reaches the male before her, enclosing on his limbs and throat like roots. The man grabbing her arms is forced to let her go as well, grunting in pain and losing his grip on her, bringing the woman to fall on her knees.
Her frostsaber comes to assist her in an instant, but Mylenne doesn't acknowledge her beast just yet, blinking forcefully and panting as the face of Illidan comes into view some meters ahead.
Her heart starts racing, for she has never seen him so… enraged.
His magical aura flares furiously as he stares at the men he captured, gaze glowing so bright that nearly blinds her. "You may believe yourselves free of will, but you are blind for wealth," Illidan snarls through clenched teeth and jaw, his baritone voice booming with many dark promises, sending a shiver down the woman's spine. "And you dare assault a Lady… perhaps all you are looking for is to die."
A blazing wave of arcane flashes through Illidan, his grip on the males tightening mercilessly, their feet no longer touching the floor as he sends them floating, "Agh—no, no, wait, wait!" One of the males croaks and whines as he lifts in the air, his face darkening as a purplish sort of vine constricts his throat.
Looking more incensed than ever before, Illidan twists his wrist sharply, a glimpse of satisfaction flashing on his glowing eyes after one of the bandits in his clutch groans in return. "Say the word, Mylenne, and I'll snap their necks in half like the scum they are," He prompts, sharp canines showing behind his dark lips.
A part of her wants to scramble and run away, her heart trying to hammer its way out of her ribs at the sight of such fearsome display, her skin covering with goosebumps in no time. Yet it's another part—one that feels like her voice of reason—can't help but agree with her friend.
They deserve to be punished, that small voice whispers to her, they don't have an excuse for their crimes. They punched and beat Moongrow, left his stall like a total mess, and for what? Only for some Nightpears? Goddess, you don't even use Nightpears for eating!
And still, Illidan neither deserves to bear the weight of their deaths on his shoulders. He's so much better than that, and she definitely can't bring herself to demand such a thing from a man she considers a friend.
So, Mylenne sighs heavily, attempting to regain some control of her racing heart. "... Let them go, Illidan. They're not worthy of a merciful death." She declares in her most composed of tones.
A long moment goes by, Illidan's magic still flaring with deep fury, nose scrunched and looking torn between letting them go or giving the bandits the pain he palpably believes they deserve. Ultimately, he lets go of some breath he'd apparently been holding and—if with reluctance—acquiesces, dropping the males onto the grass with a heavy thump. He sneers sharply, snaring their wrists and ankles with magic chains, looking somehow pleased of seeing them panting and groaning.
"It appears to be your lucky night… but you are still meeting the dungeons," Illidan affirms, pinning the closest bandit with his furious glare only before helping her to stand. As he outstretches a hand to Mylenne, his face transforms drastically after acknowledging her state. "You're hurt," He half gasps.
Mylenne rolls her eyes and shrugs, "I may have collided with a tree," She attempts for a joke to lighten the mood, still ignoring the throbbing pain in her elbow and lower back. When the only reply she gets is a deeper frown of his cobalt brows, she huffs heavily, "I'm fine, Lid, it's just a wound, alright? Better let me fetch someone to take these thugs,"
Accepting his offering hand, the woman ensues to make her best attempt of definitely not limping back to the merchant streets, straightening as best as she can. She realizes how probably awful her state must be after noticing Illidan's concerned gaze on her back, although she opts to leave that future conversation for a better time, signaling her frostsaber to keep watch on the bandits as she returns to Moongrow's booth.
To her surprise, she finds one of her uncle's friends, Oculeth, already helping the merchant to rearrange his mess of a stall. "Hey, kiddo! There you are!" The bald man greets her with a relieved smile, disappearing completely after sparing a better glance at her. "It appeared to be fortunate to also bring your sorcerer friend with me… or so it seems. What in Elune's name happened back there!?"
As her adrenaline starts wearing down, Mylenne decides to give Oculeth and Moongrow the quick story, procuring to help them in settling the fruits on their baskets in the process. However, the merchant quickly refuses any further help from her part, insisting just as much as Silgryn's friend to get her injuries taken care of.
Illidan shows up and joins them some minutes later, Rak'shareh right behind his steps, both looking much more at ease than when Mylenne left them. "The Rooksguard came over to take the bandits. One of them claimed something about these people being in their borders, so…" Given his seemingly offended snort and the shrug of his shoulders, Illidan doesn't appear to look quite pleased with the outcome, although it's not like he can do anything against that.
Oculeth is the one to take in the situation, nodding at them and bringing a couple of Nightpears to their proper baskets, the fruits looking to be comically bigger than his head. "Good, good, then off you go! I'll take care of this from here, kiddo," He prompts them away with a tilt of his bald head, coming to startle when Moongrow suddenly jumps out and forward from the stall.
"Ha! Not so bold now, aren't you?" All the attention is brought to the merchant as he strides to a chained man, escorted by two masked Black Rook guards, looking much engrossed on their futile attempt to unbind the thief's magic cuffs on his wrists. Moongrow doesn't seem to think twice as he lands a fist to the bandit's cheek, "That's for nearly ruining a season of business, you scum!"
Is that the first thief? I thought he had escaped by now, Mylenne ponders to herself, arching a suspicious violet eyebrow in Illidan's general direction. He only shrugs nonchalantly beside her, appearing to look uninterested in giving it much importance. However, a little smirk clinging to his lips appears to betray him, showing right after Mylenne can't help but smile proudly—Oculeth also stopping to seemingly admire Illidan's handiwork, "Would you take a look at that! Ha! Bless you, lad!" He smiles, a bark of laughter following.
For a while, the three of them look content with just watching the show, some merchants even cheering Moongrow as he struggles with the Black Rook guards in their useless attempt to bring him away from the criminal. "And that one's for the kiddo, you fucking sart!"
Back on the road once more, Mylenne is forced to indulge to Illidan's nearly annoying insistence of treating her wounds, her patience wearing off rather quickly next to her adrenaline, both appearing to be left behind after the late event at the merchant streets. Even Rak'shareh looks inclined to agree with the man, if Mylenne could judge by her concerned cries and offended sniffs she gives to her bleeding elbow.
"The Temple's midway from here, your saber can take you there while I catch up with you," He stabs a thumb behind his shoulder, looking determined as ever and blatantly ignoring Mylenne's growing irritation with the subject.
"Goddess, no, I'm not going to the Temple again… and you're not dragging me there!" She glares at him after he appears to be considering the idea, fuming after he crosses his arms and holds her stare in a challenging manner. "Despite the appearances, this… worthless quel is not made of glass," She waves her good arm at herself as if to make her point, "Vanthir can take care of this as nicely as any Sister,"
Illidan's dark forehead creases deeper after her comment, a flash of realization running on his golden gaze, disappearing after the next blink. That time is Mylenne who decides to ignore him, turning around and encouraging her frostsaber to follow, striding to the road leading to Suramar's outskirts.
However, he doesn't appear to be having any of her brushoffs, landing a hand on her good shoulder. "Hey… that's not—they're wrong," Illidan says softly, searching for her face as he prompts her to a stop. "Mylie, hey, look at me. You're not a worthless quel; you never were and ever will be one, you hear me?" His eyes are still hard as they lock on hers, yet his voice isn't up to take a negative.
A heavy sigh escapes her, feeling too tired to hold his usually intense gaze, although trying very hard to believe his words. "Life appears to think otherwise, but thanks for the reminder," Mylenne sends a half forced smile to him as she pats Rak'shareh's side, gently signaling the beast to lean down to mount her. "I could've handled them on my own, though. I'm not a damsel in distress,"
Illidan stares at her as if he'd just been slapped, confusion narrowing his handsome features. "I never thought you were, I… I just reacted," He tries to explain, yet not even he looks convinced with his choice of words. His concerned frown returns with full force after he courteously helps Mylenne to settle on her beast's saddle, "That wound looks bad, you may need to get that stitched if you keep it in the open like that…"
"Oh, for Elune's sake, Illidan, I already told you I'm—" She complains again, feeling completely drained of her tolerance level for a week at most.
But he cuts down her protests after handling her one of his metallic bracers, "Hold this, I have an idea," Illidan then proceeds to unwrap some long and dark leather straps bound around his wrist, tsking when the woman tries to speak again. As gently as he can, he gets on wrapping the fabric along her injured limb, "Just indulge in my need to be useful, at least this once…" He grumbles, sounding more like talking to himself than to her.
"What—ugh," A painful grunt escapes Mylenne's lips after he presses the wound close, both of them grimacing briefly, her silver eyes watering with the throbbing sensation. Forcibly blinking back the tears that threaten to come out, she rubs her face sharply for good measure, a controlled breath following to ease the feeling. "Don't think I haven't heard that, and even you know that's not true, Lid. What's on your mind?"
He steps away to seemingly admire his handiwork, allowing Rak'shareh to get on the move, but Mylenne comes aware of something truly troubling her friend—judging by the way his lips purse and how he avoids her gaze in an obvious manner.
However, as they all get on the move, he finally gets on spilling it out. "Today it turns to be twenty-five years since I started my training at the Moon Guard... and I'm still an initiate. I haven't seen myself still training at this point, you know?" He runs a hand through his cobalt mane, gaze dropping to the floor as if in thought, "It's just—ugh, I'm probably being silly, don't mind me…"
"You're feeling your efforts are taking you nowhere. Maybe, that you'll be stuck as an initiate for another twenty-five years," The words escape Mylenne's mouth without being able to take it back, but she actually knows how her friend must be feeling—she can relate to him in so many ways.
Illidan doesn't really look as if he wants to talk about it, sighing heavily and indulging a moment of silence. "I… I always believed in having to sweat and bleed to really meet success. That, the only reason for someone not reaching their goals is because they haven't tried harder. But right now? I don't really know what to believe," His gaze fixes on some point around her saddle and her knee, face scrunching as if forcing himself to keep talking. "Perhaps I've been thinking about this all wrong… I don't even know if I believe in myself as of now,"
Mylenne's heart clenches painfully with his words, a surge of empathy mixed with some sense of sadness coursing through her. That lack of confidence, that insecurity and self-doubt could never apply to the man she knows—and it's nothing but hurtful to even hear those thoughts coming from such a strong, assured man as Illidan Stormrage.
"You want to know what I think?" She says softly, prompting her frostsaber to slow her pace and keep up with him, leaning down to brush some rebel strands of his hair away from his shoulder. "In all honesty, I think there's no one more worthy of reaching their goals than you."
The man spares a doubtful glance at her, lips pursed as if not finding the will to speak further. So, she does, "You're incredibly talented, Illidan, and I'm daring to say just as much as my mother," Mylenne assures him, looking straight to his golden eyes to show him how serious she is, "Anyone can see that from miles away; it's so blatantly obvious you were born and meant for greatness that's even shocking to see that, sometimes…"
Her mention of the late Conjurer seems to get onto him, for then he comes to a stop all in a sudden, her frostsaber—unexpectedly—doing the same and coming to stand beside him. "I…" Illidan bites his lower lip briefly, appearing to be struggling with himself, looking conflicted, surprised and confused altogether. "I sense a but in there," He finally opts to say, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.
Mylenne leans as closer to him as her mount can allow, "What you did back there, I'm quite sure that's not who you are or who you want to be. And while I'm not complaining about that… display, that also has shown me how great you could be if you weren't controlled by your feelings," She shrugs slightly in an attempt to not give that much importance than necessary, a genuine smile clinging to her lips when Illidan finally looks at her. "What I really think? I think your temper is getting the best of you, and that's your only mistake."
"That's… A lot of beliefs for someone who's losing their faith," He points out what had been the main topic of their last conversation, one that had close to a month ago—and yet, despite his subtle attempt to focus their talk on her once more, Mylenne doesn't miss the very tiny glimpse of hopefulness flashing on his golden gaze.
Her smile widens, the throbbing pain coming from her elbow long forgotten as she reaches to him half unconsciously, wanting to give him the comforting words he looks to be craving for. "I may be, yeah, you're right. But, if anything, I have faith in you."
As if having a life of its own, her lavender hand goes to cup his cheek, stroking it tenderly—her heart suddenly missing a beat with the way his whole face relaxes and softens with her touch, his eyes fluttering close for a moment. "It's all around you, Lid: You will do great things. You will reach your goals, sooner rather than later, I just know it."
Mylenne allows the silence that washes over them, her words appearing to be sinking in as a grateful smile clings to Illidan's lips; leaning into her touch, a dark hand covering her small one in a seeming attempt to keep it there. When his eyes open and lock on hers, they look brighter as ever, leaving her only to stare in awe at the breathtaking beauty of his eyes—delicate shades of amber and yellow gleaming with the rays coming from the morning sunlight; the utmost perfect painting she has ever seen.
Her ears twitch ever so slightly with the sound of his deep voice, but whatever he says—something close to thank you, and beautiful, and Goddess, and precious, only judging by the vague movement of his lips—is muffled with her rapid heartbeat; first fluttering, then attempting to hammer its way out of her chest. All is forgotten as Mylenne can't do anything else but look at Illidan's stunning face, her own cheeks starting to hurt with the beaming smile she sends him.
How is he capable of doing it, the very fabric of time stopping; winds, heartbeats and breathing all but freezing every time they stare at each other, Mylenne doesn't want to know by then. She doesn't want to even think about it, for the only thought and craving need in her mind is to close the mere inches keeping them apart and finally claim those hard—yet also soft—dark, waiting lips of his; the very same ones she wouldn't admit to anybody, but had been dreaming of kissing since they first laid eyes upon each other.
And how can she refuse or deny her deep wishes when the Moon, the sun, the forest, the very electric air around them all but seem to push her to Illidan's arms?
"Mylie, I…" Illidan whispers, his breath fanning over her mouth and making her heart melt; as if it hadn't done that before. She's about to shut him off for good measure, but then, "—Whoa!"
All in a sudden, Mylenne is left yelping ridiculously, nearly tripping over him as Rak'shareh unexpectedly decides to drop over the bare grass, making her lose her balance on the saddle. Somehow, Illidan manages to get a hold on her, keeping her from meeting the floor, both snapping away from their reverie to glance at the beast under the woman.
He's the one to clear his throat first, quickly recovering his composure, "What's got onto her?" He wonders genuinely. Mylenne can't help but lean closer to him, attempting to take a better look at Shareh's face—but her beast only appears to have eyes for Illidan, her yellow gaze soft on him, tilting her striped head down in… submission?
Mylenne's jaw nearly drops onto the floor, gaping at the sight rather comically, abruptly snapping out after Illidan softly elbows her on the side, searching her face for an explanation. "She has ever done that with anyone before, except me," The woman tries to explain, switching Shareh's yellowish eyes for Illidan's golden ones. "She's… she's allowing you to mount her,"
And then, it's Illidan's time to gape at his two companions, looking between the two females as if he had just get the most shocking revelation of his life—his face contorting comically with too many reactions at once. The woman tries to control the burst of giggles threatening to rise from the bottom of her throat, ultimately not succeeding as she nearly explodes in a fit of laughter.
That heart-stopping—or rather time-stopping—moment may have been ruined by her frostsaber, but as Illidan keeps staring at them in seeming awe, Mylenne comes with the realization that every moment spent with him is just… priceless.
Beautiful… Goddess… precious. Thank you…
"So? What are you waiting for?" Not really helping it, she places a clumsy kiss on his cheek before readjusting herself on the saddle, making some space for him to get behind. "Hop in before she comes to regret it!"
Illidan half snorts, half chuckles, his previous sour mood appearing to be long forgotten. "You don't need to tell me twice," He replies, his grateful smile never fading as he climbs behind her with ease, always true to his courteous nature as he takes precious care of not pressing her injured back. "Dear Goddess, are you ever going to cease to amaze me?"
With the sun shining brightly above them and announcing the coming of midday, Mylenne can't help with leaning her weight against Illidan's chest, deep tiredness and fatigue starting to get a toll on her as they gallop to the Thirsty Magister. Wincing slightly here and there—mostly with Shareh's eager trot and some sudden jumps—her way back to the bar comes to be a peaceful one, both kaldorei chatting about everything and nothing at all.
Luckily, Illidan is quick in adjusting to her frostsaber's uncommon pacing, not once making a single complaint or snarky comment about her speed or already known wild nature, looking nearly amazed with earning the saber's trust rather than anything else—something the woman comes to appreciate deeply and wholeheartedly.
After all, it's not like Mylenne can forget about Illidan being the second elf in the world coming to form a bond with an untamed beast such as Rak'shareh, not even Silgryn gaining the saber's approval to mount her. That's without considering her centuries of studies in local fauna, bringing the sudden event to become a quite remarkable one.
What did Illidan say about her ever going to cease to amaze him? And when is he going to do the same with her?
Isn't he one of a kind already?
It's not long when they come to a stop before the bar's doors, Illidan hopping down the mere second they get there, looking eager to be of assistance as he outstretches both hands to her, helping Mylenne to mount off with some help from her saber as well. After propelling her on her feet, he then makes a little show of bowing elegantly before the beast, offering the back of his hand for her to smell—the whole act looking funny to Mylenne only, Rak'shareh only huffing and dismissing him, looking seemingly unimpressed.
"You better don't do that to her," Mylenne idly bats his hand away from the beast, chuckling low as she holds to Illidan's arm, propelling him to follow her. "I'm afraid you'll probably lose some fingers in the process,"
"Aaw, that's a shame," Illidan fakes a pout as he takes his arm back, preferring to encircle her shoulders instead. "Right when I was deciding to courtship her. I think if you hear carefully, you can listen to my heart breaking right now,"
A contagious laughter escapes her as they get inside Vanthir's place, her eyes watering, using her good hand to rub her face and allowing Illidan to lead the way to her acquaintances' customary table, the bar nearly empty at that late time of day.
Only to their merry fit to wear off near instantly, after meeting Vanthir's worried glance and Silgryn's utterly incensed face—one that could challenge Illidan quite easily. Hargo also makes his appearance, coming down the stairs, wearing the same cast down state as everyone in the bar.
It doesn't come to be helpful when everyone appears to acknowledge her injuries at the same time. "Elune's glowing tits, what happened to you!?" Silgryn gasps, silver eyes blowing wide, "I only told you to look for her, lad, not to bring her to a fight! And where's Oculeth?"
Mylenne only sighs heavily and rolls her eyes, growing utterly tired with the same questioning—yet also noticing the way Illidan tenses beside her, ever so subtly. "Ugh, it's a long story. You go first," She decides, waving a hand to her uncle as to prompt him to be quick about it.
Silgryn grumbles something under his breath and starts pacing frantically, running a hand through his violet mane, "Arluin's missing, disappeared from thin air," He explains, nearly throwing a piece of parchment at Mylenne's feet, giving her one of his most serious stares. "And I believe your loving father is behind this…"
A-N: And with this chapter comes a new part of this book! As always, thank you so so soooooo much for your excitement, your encouragement and for keep rooting on Mylie and Lid. Their adventures - and endless dances, lol! - are very far from over :D
Feel free to follow me on Tumblr (Hoxadrine) for some early fanart and snippets!
And don't ever hesitate to reach me - however, whenever and wherever you feel like it - as some of you had been doing. It's always a BLESSING to hear from you... and I can't help but still be amazed at how many of you seem to like this pairing. I'm flattered and humbled beyond words *hearts*
