By the time the funeral had taken place and all those involved in the skirmish outside the western gate had been debriefed, the night shift was almost over. Before the troops who survived the battle - all of them except three, really - could return to the barracks, they were called into the huntress lodge where Commander Lamia herself thanked them and passed on the news that they'd managed to shift schedules quickly enough to give them all an extra night off and thus could sleep in the following evening. Respectful and gracious though hurt by the loss of the two sentinels who had been engaged to each other, the weary soldiers had all retired to their quarters for the day, flooding by questions from civilian and fellow soldier alike by what had happened.
Luck would have it that Navarion shared his bunk with Dmitri, who was discreet and mindful of the fact that his friend would probably want to sleep before talking over what happened. The first night was odd, going to rest with one bunk empty and noticing that since he had no next of kin, the highborne mage's bunk had yet to be cleared out. By the morning, the bundle of berries signaling an unclaimed bed had grown back and Navarion, Dmitri and a furbolg shaman who slept on the fourth bed on their floor divided up the man's belongings for nostalgia and sulked at a tea house for a while in order to work out the sense of loss for someone who nobody truly knew.
Not having planned on a day off and not having much to do since Dmitri and Tammie were both on call (Zhenya strategically dodged Navarion's questions about her work schedule that week), the half elf, half troll wandered about the healer's tents to visit people he'd fought alongside the previous night.
Numerous tents made from silk had been set up, most of them unnecessarily tall per the norms of elven architecture. Navarion couldn't help but grin when he realized that it was the one architectural feature elves shared with the Forsaken; quite often, narrow one story buildings in both Lordaeron and northern Kalimdor were the height of what would be two story structures in Alliance or Horde lands. Towering above all the tents was a massive tree of life - wide at the base, wide at the leafy top and hollow all the way through. It's sentient eyes remained closed most of the time, occasionally opening up to spy the random wisp or butterfly and paying no mind to the elves crawling in and outside of it like it were any other domicile.
Though he hadn't learned the names of most of the sentinels from the other night, Navarion recognized the faces of those who had to remain at the healers' residence and they all looked thrilled to have a visitor. Most of them hadn't had to spend the night and were only back for follow ups. Pontus, the restoration Druid from the day the first mounds were wiped out, strolled in and out of the various tents while checking on wounds; according to his claim - and as a mere backup healer, Navarion didn't have the knowledge to confirm or deny it - the soldiers would heal more completely if the Druids and priestesses intervened as little as possible, leaving the damaged tissues to repair themselves.
After a few minutes more of visiting injured comrades, he bumped into Zorena once more after not having seen her in a while. Wearing an apron bearing old blood stains, she appeared to be in between shifts and was relaxing in a tent for staff members only, resting her hooves on to of a footstool.
"It's alright, you can sit for just a minute," she chortled when he hesitated to take a spot that one of the full time healers could need.
"Don't mind if I do, though I'm technically not a main healer," he thanked her graciously while sitting on a naturally grown but mobile chair across from her.
The tent was cramped with the two of them in there, having been designed for three night elf sized people to sit comfortably rather than for a Tauren and a half troll to hunch over the small table in between them.
"Like your father, you're technically not a main anything, like most support classes." Her words rang true, but Zorena grinned in an uncharacteristically sly way as if she were making fun of him.
She was so serious all the time that he didn't want to quash her humor, and refrained from firing back at her lest she stiffen up again. "Jack of all trades, master of none, right?"
"As long as you're doing your part in the war effort," she replied while sliding a pile of grapes wrapped in leaves closer to the center of the table.
They shared them in silence at first; Zorena had the familiar look of mana burn that Navarion knew all too well from throwing out too many heals, and his head was still spinning at the sudden loss of comrades. Collectively, Navarion had spent almost a decade fighting around the world: either as a hired soldier for the Steamwheedle Cartel, or as the leader of a guild that had an amazing hell of a two year period before burning out, or as a supplemental mercenary for the Argent Crusade and now the Sentinel Army, or as a simple adventurer across several continents doing good wherever he could. He prided himself on supporting other fighters, healing when it was needed on the spot, protecting his allies or taking out stray enemies as needed. As much as someone who fought for a living needed to be prepared to lose people in the battlefield, the fact that it rarely happened under his watch meant that he hadn't been prepared for it. One minute, the older male sentinel had been chuckling to his jokes with the others and clinking his engagement ring against his gauntlet, and a few minutes later he had died alongside his fiancé, squeezing her hand to the very end.
He'd lost people before but it had been a long time. Lost in thought, he wondered if Calil had taken heed of his advice after seeing how fast lives could be lost in their profession and would just ask Thresha out. It seemed befitting; Navarion knew he likely wouldn't see them again once the campaign was over, but a part of him took an interest and wished them all the best.
"They went out the best way they could have," Zorena stated, breaking the silence.
Confused by her statement, Navarion's elven-looking ears pricked up while he tried figuring out who she was referring to. "You mean the engaged couple, right?"
"Yes, those two. I participated in their burial, actually - it's the first time I've helped the earth reclaim someone since I joined the Cenarion Circle."
"I'm both happy and sad for you at the same time." He relaxed back into his chair as she had done in hers, noticing the somber look on her face.
"Nobody lives forever; you and I both know that very well," she said, a wistful but not entirely sad look on her face.
Navarion knew what Zorena was referring to. Her brother, Kuma, had also been a friend of his parents from the campaign on another planet decades ago. Like his younger sister - a full thirty years younger - Kuma had been strictly a healer and an herbalist, refusing to hurt other living beings. When he finally passed away from old age, he left Zorena in the care of the Circle and Navarion's parents - his father especially - stricken by grief. The funeral had likely been the last time Navarion had ever seen Zorena, and so far during their many months serving in New Nendis, he had never seen that melancholy side of her. Perhaps the loss of a loved one left a pain that never entirely went away; and at that thought, the half elf/half troll felt too much guilt to entertain the subject any longer.
"What happened to the bear kid?" Navarion asked randomly.
"You mean the guardian Druid that was injured?"
"Yes, he was a good guy but he looked like he was in pretty bad shape after the fight. He took the brunt of it."
"Oh yes, him. Poor guy," Zorena sighed while clasping her hands and leaning forward. As infrequently as she and Navarion saw each other, he probably felt more comfortable around her than anyone else due to old family ties, and they both relaxed and opened up easily. "I don't know. He's eager, but I don't think he's cut out for this line of work. This is between you and me, of course."
"Yes, no doubt."
"He went through a really awful ordeal but he let it affect him. Out of fear or whatever, he stayed in bear form which actually made healing him easier but not carrying him. He basically went comatose and unresponsive, sort of just not reacting to anything. We're keeping him under supervision for now - not that he'd try to leave or anything - but it's all in his head. He'd be better off here at the healer's tent than out there on the battlefield."
"He isn't likely to take such news very well," Navarion thought out loud with a mouthful of berries. "I don't know him that well, but I have a feeling."
"No, you're right. Most people never do. But it's for his own good. He isn't soft, he's just-"
"Zorena, I think my cut is infected!" sang the feral Druidess from the other night. Her voice drifted out from one of the tents, and she sounded uncharacteristically cheeky in contrast to how stoic she had been in the heat of battle.
When the Tauren just grumbled and facepalmed, Navarion knew there was a little more behind the comment. "Inside joke?" he asked just as cheekily, finally taking a little jab.
Peeking at him from between her large, furry fingers, he could see it irritated her but didn't anger her. "Inside joke. I'd better go, or she'll only become more petulant."
"Alright, I'll leave you to it then," he chortled himself while helping her stand up.
Outside the tent, he watched her walk away to another tent and a series of giggles and shrieks ensued from the feral druidess as Zorena probably tried to smother her with medical pillows before finally casting a cleanse spell. Snickering but finding no more reason to stand around, Navarion tucked his hands into his pockets and strolled away, resigned to enjoy a pleasant day off without feeling the need to plan everything out.
He didn't get far before a flash of gold from between the trees caught his eye.
Stopping on the side of a narrower road in the mostly empty warehouse district, he honed in his vision on a small wood between the rows of hollowed out trees that could roughly be referred to as city blocks. The light flashed again, as if there were some sort of movement back there, and he could tell that she couldn't see him.
They hadn't had a meaningful conversation in five days due to their conflicting patrol schedules and hadn't slept with each other in three. Though given how things had been slightly less stressful between them lately, Navarion would be content just to sit and chat with Zhenya, and perhaps prod her to open up a little. She never discussed her past nor did she ever ask about his, but it was clear she'd become jaded about relationships due to past experiences. It had to have been a year and a half since they'd been sleeping with each other and a little less than that since they'd actually started behaving like a couple in private. She might not be willing to behave that way in public, but at least he could push her to-
Navarion froze at the sound of another man's voice.
"Sure, I have plenty of robes that would fit your size," the low voice of a night elf man carried between the trees. "I only import the best; you know me."
You know me?Navarion thought, his blood pressure already rising. There Zhenya was, sitting in a secluded woodland in an isolated part of town discussing clothing with a man whose voice he didn't recognize. Trust thrown to the wayside, Navarion swiftly galloped in between the trees, his nimble elven feet carrying him soundlessly until he was already right on top of them.
Literally swinging around the side of the last tree that obscured his view, he found a scene that was sufficient for him to justify his anger. Leaning back on a boulder with her back arched and her legs crossed in a suggestive way she'd never do in public, Zhenya was dressed in a rather expensive looking silk outfit, black and covered in floral patterns. A well dressed tailor wearing the clothes typical of traveling merchants knelt before her, fiddling through a bag of what Navarion assumed to be cloths or some such shit, but he could no longer focus on that. The look of absolute shock and guilt on Zhenya's face spoke volumes.
Noticing that they were no longer alone, the tailor gave shadow hunter an annoyed yet dismissive look and stood up. "Do you mind, friend? We were sort of trying to be alone out here." The tailor's voice was slightly condescending but surprisingly non-aggressive, as if he didn't think they were doing anything wrong.
Her head rapidly shifting back and forth between the two, Zhenya stuttered and tried to say a few things that never formed into actual words. Leaning against the rock, she froze and then tried to wipe her lips in the expensive silk sleeve when she realized that Navarion noticed her smudged lipstick. And she never wore lipstick.
And then he blacked out.
It was only for about half a second, but he definitely blacked out. He knew that because even though he didn't move more than half a step, the blood on his fist and the terrified tailor stumbling and falling over tree roots as he fled with his bag of cloth must have been caused by something. Yet it all followed literally right at the same time that his memory could recall Zhenya wiping her lipstick on her sleeve; something was missing from what he could remember consciously.
When hearing returned to him, he turned to the side and noticed that Zhenya hadn't moved from her spot. She was saying something else to him but he couldn't hear her at first; his heart pounded so hard in his chest that he began to feel physically sick. Waving her hands and shaking her head, she looked genuinely afraid in the first time he'd known her. She was a paladin and a tough one at that; he didn't know if he had truly been that terrifying or if she was truly being crushed by guilt. He had difficulty believing the latter.
Up and down his spine, a tingling sensation ran and he twitched, causing her to jump. Her voice began to approach the sound of normal volume in his ears, but the whirlwind inside of him clouded his mind.
Navarion had cheated on women before, and a few had cheated on him. When it happened in the past, he took his revenge and then was done with the matter; given his checkered past and questionable morals up until recently, he had always accepted infidelity and backstabbing as part of the territory of the lifestyle he'd led and the guild he'd been a part of. The look of embarrassed guilt Zhenya didn't even bother trying to hide, the fact that she was capable of defending herself physically yet merely shrank from him when he grabbed her by the wrist, the feeling of being an idiot for not having seen it coming...it was all familiar. It shouldn't have hurt so much.
But it did hurt. Too much. This was supposed to have been his turning point, the time where he matured, grew up and started behaving like a responsible adult. Everyone he'd grown up with was either married or settled down, having exercised whatever demons they bore through the adventures of their youth; he was supposed to have done that. Zhenya was the bad girl who would finally calm down and commit to this bad boy, both of them learning from the mistakes of their pasts and making the conscious choice to live faithfully and respectably.
Illusions shattered, Navarion felt a pain in the pit of his stomach as he shoved Zhenya hard enough for her to fall on her ass in a pile of leaves and walked away. The primal part of his troll brain screamed at him to throttle her, and then catch up with the tailor and cut off his hand and foot on opposite sides. The infuriatingly objective, removed part of his elf brain urged him instead to leave her then and there and ask himself what he had done wrong to cause this and how he could improve himself. The two conflicting modes of thinking clashed inside his head so loudly that he closed his eyes to try and block them out in futility, leading him to step in a hole in the ground, trip and nearly fall in the woods.
Zhenya caught up to him, stupidly grabbing him by the arms as she begged him to listen. Fighting himself more than her, Navarion reached back and grabbed her by her one intact horn, twisting her around in a painful wrestling hold. She didn't resist or even try to stomp on his toes with one of her hooves, breaking character entirely.
She was not a nice person; in fact, she'd be the first person to freely admit that. Zhenya was stuck up, flippant, self-centered and narcissistic. Looking at her was like looking into a mirror. And yet there she was, clinging to him even when he restrained her, her face imitating an emotion that he couldn't bring himself to truly believe. He wanted to hate her for bringing him back to a place he'd tried to leave, for bringing back upon him memories of sins and betrayals he'd worked so hard to expunge from his lifestyle. He wanted to hate her, to even mock her, to laugh at her remorse and dump her on the side of the road as he forced her to watch her own chance for a normal, more grown up life walk away.
But when she didn't respond to his slurs and growls, and didn't react to the iron grip he held her in, he faltered. Never had she behaved so demurely before, not toward anybody. He tried to tell himself that all the words spilling from her smudged lips were lies, that she wasn't sorry and wasn't in a wrong or abnormal state of mind. But she wouldn't give up, pleading with him to stay and listen to her. Sliding her arms up and around his neck, she begged him to hold her, to forgive her even when she admitted there was little for him to understand about the situation. Anger seething to the point where he worried that his heart would burn a hole into his chest, he stiffened up and refused to melt or soften in her arms.
She persevered, trying her hardest to get through to him. Only a few hours later, he wouldn't be able to recall any of the specific words they'd both said; just that they'd said them. She ran her fingers through the lower part of his mane at the base of his neck, scratching his hide lightly as she whispered her apologies to him a hundred times.
They sat there for a long time, ignoring the flash of silver eyes peeking at them from afar as they both said things they probably didn't mean. Whether she truly meant her apology or not, he couldn't quite know. She promised him so much, even shed tears for the first time since he'd known her, telling him things he knew she expected him to want to hear. And as much as he wanted to hear them, he held on to her there in the woods, unable to speak after some time and wondering how he hadn't managed to escape the cycle after so long.