A lie.
"Yes...it's fine."
Another lie.
"Valiantly on the battlefield. As good a way for anybody to check out, if it comes down to it."
Dressing up the lie doesn't change what it is.
"Just a little stomach bug is all. I'll wait it out, as long as I have water and that crunchy bread from Tanaris."
Intellectualizing it away doesn't make one intellectual.
"We're close...if I could just wait here alongside the others."
Finally, a bit of truth.
Dizziness settled in once he sat on a log next to the others. Which others, he didn't know. They weren't members of his unit. Three of them had also lost people close to them; that was reason enough to stay. Blinking, he tried to get his bearings and check where exactly they were.
"Statistically speaking...I mean, you know, it's a fair way to look at it."
"Right.""For every hundred of us, less than five fell in battle."
"Exactly."
"Yes."
"Objectively speaking, the campaign was a resounding success."
There were at least three of the four of them speaking. Only an hour later, he found himself unable to recall who said what or if he had even participated in the conversation himself. It was much easier to merely sit, respond with words as empty as those the others uttered and wait for one of the officers to scold them into marching again.
"Well, we should all be proud of what we and those close to us helped to accomplish. A city full of good people is now safe." This time, he knew the voice wasn't his, but the words provided some solace despite feeling so hollow.
"Not only were the silithids wiped out, but so were some thieves' dens and pirate coves in the process. They're saying that the northern peninsula of Azshara is one of the safest coastlines of Sentinel territory after northern Darkshore." One of the sentinels sitting at the logs with the group; her voice sounded weary but hopeful, as if she had been convinced by her own words only once she uttered them out loud.
It may have been day or night; he couldn't quite tell. A few days had passed since the disastrous battle...maybe a week. After berating the younger troops for the disorganized clusterfuck that was their assault on a minor silithid hive, Commander Lamia had been surprisingly merciful and marched the military column straight back toward New Nendis, only straying to decimate a few outlaw camps here and there on the way.
New Nendis. Now Navarion remembered where he had been waiting among the other bereaved soldiers. They were almost in viewing distance of the city; another column of returning soldiers passed them by. Some joined them around the fire and some that had been with them joined the marching column. Once the threat had been neutralized, officers were much more lax about the exact location of their troops and when they returned during the three day grace period.
Unknown to him, the group of four...five sentinels who had switched in to the moping group mostly recently didn't know each other. At least he wasn't the only anonymous, grieving soldier. He was the only one who had been sitting there longer than a day, however. There had been three sitting around the burnt out campfire in a small clearing directly next to the road when he'd arrived. They'd moved on and others took their place, and others took their place, and so on. Nobody knew that he'd been wasting so much time in the same spot, going over the same rambling conversations with different groups of strangers until his commanding officer came to look for him.
At first, he didn't realize that someone from outside of the group was talking to him. Nobody else in the group seemed to realize it, either. They just continued retelling stories of how they'd watched their best friends and shield sisters fall, how they'd watched their comrades swarmed by biting bugs, how they'd watched the healthy glow fade from an ally's eyes until the whites showed. Like living zombies, they completely ignored Captain Soraya even when she stepped on Navarion's foot to get his attention.
"Attention, shadow hunter," she ordered him, her tone unusually soft and delicate.
Not even feeling it or willing it, he rose awkwardly and stood before her, his gait uneven. Saluting with his left hand, he tried to focus his vision and was surprised when he saw that she wore plain clothes for once despite giving him a direct order. "Yes ma'am," he croaked, his voice having gone hoarse from talking at first and then hoarse from disuse when he fell silent for at least half a day.
Looking him over, there was a concern written on her face that was humiliating for him. He almost would have preferred it had she just punched him in the stomach once, hard, to get him to fall into shape. Instead he received a motherly act from the last person on Azeroth her expect it from. His misery truly must have been apparent.
"You look like shit," she told him without an ounce of disdain or mockery. It only made him feel even worse.
"Yes, ma'am," he droned without thinking. Wincing at his absentminded statement, she reached out to drag him after her but held herself back knowing there were people in clear view.
Nodding for him to follow her, she led them down the naturally paved road leading toward New Nendis in silence. Both the walk and the silence had an incredible grounding effect, and after a few minutes he found himself slowly becoming aware of his surroundings and his condition. Something had happened...something traumatic. It had happened perhaps a week and a few days before, the few days having been spent camping out in the open on the side of the road with whatever despondent soldiers recognized the shared sense of loss in him and sat down to chat without even exchanging names. But when he saw the high walls and bastions of the city over the horizon, he knew it would have to wait. As much as he wished he could let himself burn and dissipate, he still had a duty to fulfill. And no matter how depressed he was, he still retained enough of a sense of dignity to know that he couldn't afford to break down in front of others, especially not his peers in the military.
Watchtowers lined the road to the city, manned by soldiers who, by and large, had seen little conflict over the past few months. Below them marched caravana of merchants both local and foreign, chatting happily as if a bloody conflict hadn't just unfolded. It was as if everyone forgot that people had died. Resentment battled identification inside of him, causing him a sensation similar to acid reflux. Of course they weren't devastated like him; they hadn't fought, and they hadn't seen what he had seen. People like him fought so people like those civilians could live normal lives, untouched by all the violence. He wasn't supposed to feel any bitterness about it. Yet as his mind became lucid and clear, completely aware of his surroundings and the time he'd spent in a dirty makeshift camp, he felt little other than bitterness. He couldn't afford to let himself feel anything else.
Comfortable with the silence, he stifled a groan when his captain broke it.
"They were very close to writing you off as absent without leave," she told him quietly once they were away from the larger groups of travelers. "I heard you were out here and already registered you as having returned."
Touched and embarrassed by his typically stoic captain technically doing him a favor, he felt disappointed at his inability to display any enthusiasm. "Thank you, captain," he mumbled while having intended to speak more clearly.
If she had been angered by his monotone response, she didn't show it. Folding her arms in front of her as they continued down the road, she relaxed into the most casual demeanor he'd seen her in; she almost felt like a normal person rather than the perennial militant he'd grown used to. "Listen...off the record," she started, already making him bristle. She strategically pretended not to notice and continued. "I informed the others. I'm sorry, and I know it's deeply personal, but I did it for your sake. Thresha, Calil, Tammie, Astra, even Fyndir...they know not to talk to you about it, and they've been told everything they need to know. It will spare you a lot of conversations you don't need to be having right now." Immediately after her passing on of the information, she fell quiet again, finishing the topic in both of their minds.
Grateful but despondent nonetheless, he grunted in affirmation as they continued walking. Truly she had gone above and beyond, and her concern for her subordinates wasn't lost on him. "Thank you, captain...I mean it," he mumbled again, though at least that time he had found himself able to look her in the eye. They passed by the traveler's waystation and a few hawker's stalls marketed toward adventurers that had been set up just outside the city walls, and before he knew it they had passed beneath the gates.
As if worried that he wouldn't find his way back to the barracks, she walked with him for a bit as they ambled into a portion of the city he didn't know that well. She'd obviously dealt with soldiers who had suffered the loss of those close to them before, as she knew exactly when to talk and when to be silent. By the time they passed one of the city's many mediums sized shrines set up near public drinking fountains, she slowed down and rotated to face him but at a distance. He could tell by her posture that she wanted both to part ways but also to leave him with something to ponder. Considering how much she'd assisted him by registering him as present despite his technical dereliction of duty, he couldn't refuse despite his fear of what she might tell him.
Instead, she turned the tables and filled him with concern instead. Her glowing silver eyes contained a sort of fear that he detested seeing in a person so strong; it scared him. "If I could ask...just one question," she whispered to him, her voice unwavering but her throat congested.
Unsure of what to expect, he looked her over in a vain attempt to discern what preoccupied her. A few passersby walked in between them while chatting and then disappeared around the tree lined bend of the relatively small side road they found themselves on. "Yes, anything captain," he replied.
Lips pursed, she stared at him for a good while. It was so strange; she looked as meek as a schoolgirl despite being many times older than him, as if she were afraid to ask him but compelled to all the same.
"How did Pontus die?"Voodoo had left him over the course of the few days by the side of the road. He had grown far too reliant on it, he realized, when he found himself unable to read the reactions of the other moping soldiers at the camp unless he were fully awake and in a relatively high level of energy. Despite all that, it didn't take a goblin rocket scientist to figure out what her motivation was. Hands clasped in front of her, Soraya looked like someone who had spent a long time in mourning but still had a few issues to deal with internally before becoming fully functional again.
There she stood in front of him, patiently waiting no matter how long it took. Not wanting to leave her in suspense any longer, he sighed and told the brief, unfairly short tale and hoped the description wouldn't hit her too hard.
"I was down in the thick of it, right behind him," Navarion explained solemnly. "Unlike the other healers, he waded right into the middle of the battle to heal people right there on the spot. He had no fear." Pausing for Soraya to nod sadly yet in agreement, he tried not to speculate on just how well the two of them had known each other. "He gave his all and fell while keeping others standing. He never flinched or hesitated the whole time."
Regardless of her normal stoicism, there was a slight twinkle in Soraya's eye, and she even wiped her cheek while listening. "Thank you for telling me, Hearthglen," she whispered, gulping visibly despite not being nervous. The two of them lingered for a little longer, not knowing what else to say. A few more other denizens of the city passed them by before she spoke again. "I'm going to return to the officers' barracks now," she informed him formally, suddenly becoming her normal serious self again.
"Yes ma'am," he replied in conformation, trying to do the same.
She paused as if unconvinced by his prompt responses, and gave him that embarrassing concerned look once more. "Since you just now registered as having returned and served in one of the worse battles, you'll have four days leave in order to rest and sort out your thoughts," she explained to him, and he felt a bit of his despair drain out of him already. "Try not to dawdle too much. A good day's rest in a proper bunk would do you some good."
"I understand, captain."
Awkward herself, Soraya waited just a little bit longer before taking a few steps back and turning away from him. She continued to watch him over her shoulder for a bit as if knowing he wouldn't need her advice, and eventually disappeared around the bend, leaving Navarion alone on a side street - which in New Nendis meant a narrow path through the woods where the trees were regular trees instead of hollowed out tree houses. He waited by the intricate shrine in honor of Elune for a long time, not really expecting any sort of inspiration so much as out of respect. Even if he wasn't so religious, it felt as worthy a time as any other to go through the motions. Ritually washing his hands and face at the fountain shrine before moving on, he felt no surprise at the lack of revelation or realization he felt.
But he could at least search for some resolution on his status there and his next move, at least in terms of the next few weeks or so. At the very least, he could keep his mind of of the ache in his chest and off of...her.
Choosing a narrower, more isolated forest path, he let his arms hang idly by his sides and walked at a snail's pace under the exceptionally low canopy in that portion of the city. Just a small bit of the light of dawn broke through the thick canopy, signaling that he could breathe easily knowing that his sulking wouldn't be interrupted; most of the city's population would be asleep by then. The cobbled moonstones of the path felt smooth even through his combat boots, and if he ignored everything other than the endless rows of trees and the soft sound of the breeze above the canopy, he could almost relax.
Almost. But not quite.
Very little tied him down to anything in the world at that point. Prior to the disastrous battle - disastrous from his own personal standpoint, at least - he had something to work towards. Somebody to convince. A plan he could pursue and try to make happen. Now he had nothing; no ultimate goal to look forward to. It was strange, to have such general, roundabout thoughts without actually allowing concepts or images of the person in question to enter into his mind. Repression of his feelings, like so many times before, proved to be the most effective tool he had for avoiding personal tragedy. Maybe if he could keep this up, just pretending that nothing was wrong and that he wasn't a mortal being with feelings and emotions, he could ignore the pain waiting to catch up to him until a time when he had the peace of mind to at least grieve properly. As it was, he felt very little and he knew that he must be in some sort of a state of system shock, largely unable to feel anything. All that meant was that when the reality of all he'd lost finally did hit him, it would absolutely floor him.
Familiarity set in as he shuffled through the inner city forest, winding around narrow paths and retracing his steps. A few times, he almost felt lost despite his sense of déjà vu, and he began to realize that his mind was playing tricks on him. Another of many strange, indescribable sensations: the knowledge that his cognition had become warped and that his sense perception might be fooling him, but the inability to rectify the phenomenon. One of many battles he found himself unwilling to fight; his walking, dream like state provided him yet another means to escape from his feelings and from the reality of his loss and he embraced it fully. Shambling like a senior citizen, Navarion practically floated through the forest for an inordinate amount of time, unable to sleep but unable to face his own thoughts either. A sharp, dry burning in the back of his throat stung him, and what normally would have sent him flying into a panic over his own willpower and proclivity toward rash decision making instead proved to be a blissful distraction. Let him taste the ash, he thought, until he could ignore his thirst no more.
At every step of the way, the light wave from his foot hitting the ground was felt all the way up into his tongue, reminding him of just how far he had to go in taming the vice that dwelled within him. The first of several branches almost brushed against the top of his now lopsided Mohawk, giving him pause as he tried to gain his bearings for just a second. Everything around him looked beautiful, mocking him in its serenity, but also familiar. A little bit too familiar.
Enraptured by the creeping sense of events already played out and numb from fear of his own emotions, Navarion didn't even notice the presence of somebody following him until he had wandered in laps around one of the city's many patches of green and purple woodlands at least three times. The canopy hung much lower and the tree trunks were much narrower since nothing lived there except for wisps and other usual inhabitants of the enchanted Kaldorei forests. The even narrower, winding paths brought him out of view of anybody who may have still been awake at that hour, and that made it easier to sense the presence nearby even when the spirits remained unusually quiet.
Just around the bend, a lone figure waited for him, apparently having expected him to pass through. All alone in the inner city woods, she wore an intricate, light green, shin-length gown and held a bottle in her hands. The thistle colored braid spilling out over her bosom and that same periwinkle face informed him of who it was before he even drew close enough to make out the details of the welcoming smile she wore, and he could already feel the cold emptiness jingle around inside his hollow heart as even the sign of a dear friend failed to arouse anything inside.
He paused, surprised by his own lack of response or any inkling at all of how to react. Astariel just stood there, waiting for him to continue walking until they came face to face. Her attire was far more revealing than what felt like her natural style, almost like she was trying to be someone else. It seemed fake. It wasn't her. The bottle, especially, didn't match her persona; she never drank even when Tammie pressured her and he felt confused by the sight.
Suddenly cold for real, he hugged his chest when he found himself before her, the gap having been closed far too quickly for him to formulate a response to things he wasn't even sure she'd say. Looking him up and down, she stayed quiet for a little while longer. She appeared tired as well, but looked good regardless, in a way he wasn't used to. Astariel always dressed so conservatively that even the sight of her wrist or ankle teased him despite it not being her fault and him having been committed before. His heart hurt when his inner monologue produced the thought 'before' and he tried to blot the inappropriate thoughts out of his mind and ignore how strongly the sight of her bare shins and forearms affected him. One hand on her hip and the other gripping the bottle of some clear liquid, her posture already made him feel like she was much more mature and alluring than she already had been before and she hadn't even opened her mouth yet.
"Hey...it's been a while," she started, sounding like she was trying to be as friendly and comforting as possible.
At first, he didn't notice her lips move when he heard the words and he began to worry that he'd become delirious in his melancholy stupor. That panic, however, grounded him in reality and he realized that his blurred over vision had likely blinded him to it. She looked at him as if expecting an answer, confirming that he had indeed heard her speak and wasn't to the point of depression-induced auditory hallucinations at least.
"Yes...yes it has," he forced himself to mumble, feeling his tongue burn at the strain of using it to speak. His nostrils burned as well as if a tonic had been waved in front of his face but just out of his reach.
She continued to look him over, speaking slowly in a way that made him sure Captain Soraya had told her everything. Grateful for the gentleness, Navarion didn't interrupt the silence, waiting for Astariel to speak in a tone that hinted at a very well concealed sense of concern. "I'm happy to have you back here. I heard about how rough the campaign was for you guys." Her words were so casual that it almost felt soothing to listen to her voice, were it not for the topic at hand. Her voice was...so soothing. He snorted in disappointment when she stopped speaking; if she noticed, she didn't show it. "I'm sorry to hear about...Pontus," she sighed, pausing in a strange way at the end.
A miniature heart attack nearly took him until he realized she hadn't intended to open the fresh wound. Guilt overtook him for ever doubting here thereafter; surely, one such as her, who had lost her parents, would no better than to open such a topic so soon. Nodding in affirmation, he found himself finally losing his voice when he attempted to answer her. As if on cue, the bottle raised before his face magically, dancing before him of its own accord as Astariel stood back nonchalantly, ignoring the odd happening before her. Drinking the cooling liquid freely, Navarion felt his parched throat moisturized and his thirst momentarily quenched as the nectar of life renewed him.
"He fell while helping others to stand...had he the choice, I don't think...he would have gone out any other way," Navarion replied, shocked at how lucid his own answer had been. For some reason Astariel squinted her eyes and leaned forward as if she hadn't heard him, and he began to wonder if she was exceptionally tired or hadn't quite been paying attention. Shrugging it off, he tried to find something else to say in order to steer the conversation elsewhere. "You're out here awfully late...did the post war celebrations really go on for that long?" he asked, feeling as if he'd pronounced the words even more clearly after another sip from a bottle.
A slight buzz tingled between his eyes and he missed the expression she made in reaction to his sentence. Her silver eyes flickered in an odd way, but her words grabbed his attention with such force that vision wasn't even necessary anymore.
"Yes, they went on for a while. The others were waiting for you and Zhenya to come back."
Pain. Physical pain twisted inside of him as some muscle spasmed somewhere at the sound of a sentence he realized he had been a stupid fool to think he could avoid hearing. Soraya had claimed that she'd informed the others of what had happened but that apparently didn't change what Astariel had decided to tell him; her complete candid honesty in the fact that, indeed, the circle of friends had been waiting for both him and his now lost lover didn't feel blameworthy but it hurt nonetheless.
"Y-you...what?"
Throwing his world temporarily upside down, Astariel continued to speak as if it wasn't the big deal that it actually was. "It was a grand old time, to be honest. There was a small parade and a number of buffets happening at the restaurants and bistros in town. I'm sure Zhenya would have enjoyed it." So sincere did Astariel's expression look that it absolutely confounded him, confusing him as all hell.
A knife stabbed into his heart as the memories came flooding back onto him. The crook of his right arm hung in the air but the nerve endings twitched as if a weight had been pressed into it; for a split second he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a head with one and a half horns resting against his arm before he realized he was still there, in the woods with Astariel, standing upright and empty handed. Despite knowing that his panic must have showed, she didn't react, continuing to look up at him as though they were having a normal conversation.
"She...would...yes," he mumbled, confusion taking over as he tried to understand what Astariel meant. "Were she still with us...she would have...oh, Loa." Hacking on the dryness of his throat again, he drank the liquid greedily when the bottle somehow found its way to his lips once more, ignoring the fact that it burned on the way down just as it burned to leave his throat dry, providing no actual respite from anything.
Cocking her head to the side, Astariel looked legitimately confused even in his blurred vision. "Were she still with us...what does that mean, Navarion?" she asked curiously. "You've all returned from the war trail; certainly Zhenya is just waiting at the barracks or some place. Mightn't we find her at the appropriate ancient of war?"
Awe mixed with heart wrenching pain as he fought himself with every ounce of himself, using every particle of willpower he possessed, to force himself to think about other things, to take his mind off of the gaping wound in his chest, even if it meant ignoring his friend in front of him for a second while silently collecting his thoughts. Reeling, he failed and began to speculate as to how Astariel could be talking in such a way. Captain Soraya had told her...right? Didn't she already know?
Apparently noticing something was wrong at last, Astariel stepped forward and placed her free hand on his shoulder. Her touch made his heart race in a way that was both physically and emotionally uncomfortable, and he drank even more from the floating bottle in order to dull his senses. "What's wrong, Navarion? Is Zhenya hurt?" she asked, using that name again that tore him apart inside every time he heard it out loud.
"Astra," he managed to stammer, feeling the dizziness again as he strained to talk before she had the chance to continue. "Zhenya...she...isn't hurt," he tried to explain, finding a different kind of burn behind his eyes when he mistakenly uttered her name out loud.
Not getting the point and upsetting him for the first time during their friendship, Astariel pushed a little further, showing a great deal of concern but not understanding. "Well, that isn't so bad then! Where is she?"
For a few seconds, he stood motionless, his pulse racing in every blood vessel of his body. Pounding into his skull, his blood pressure refused to grant him any reprieve, threatening to even become more intense if he didn't seek some sort of release. He fought...so hard, but failed to keep it all in, and found himself bleeding out his heart as the heavy breathing came. As if to calm him, the bottle raised to his lips again, and he became very aware of the fact that his hands were still empty as it did. The drink failed to numb him enough, and he found his mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Even when he gave in and tried to tell her everything, to vent what he had tried to hide, he found his voice hitching in his throat and the anger burning at his eyes when he couldn't. Falling off the edge, he leaned forward and pushed the empty bottle away, bracing himself against her smaller frame for both physical and emotional support.
For the first time in the week or however long it had been, he cried. When he held Zhenya's dying body in his arms he didn't cry, he couldn't cry, and almost couldn't feel. But when Astariel pushed and prompted him to confess what he thought she was supposed to have known, he broke down completely, clinging to her for closeness as if he had been alone and adrift as sea. Consolation was easy in coming as she hugged him back, sensing that something was wrong as the first of his tears finally fell.
"She didn't make it...oh Goddess, Astra, she didn't make it," he rambled, sobbing into her shoulder in the process despite being much taller than her.
Thick, choked sobs echoed only in their immediate area, and Astariel held onto him, letting him muffle the sound into her shoulder. "What do you mean? They said casualties are low; I assumed she would have been fine!"
"Captain Soraya was supposed to tell you what happened," he cried, hiccuping and almost hyperventilating as he tried to ramble, cry and breathe all at the same time. "I tried to save her...but he held me back...until I...and she..." Unable to finish his sentence, he instead buring his face into her hair and rested his cheek against her temple, desperate for anything to cling to.
"Oh, by the night!" Astariel gasped quietly, rubbing Navarion's back in the process. "I had no idea! Oh, I'm so, so sorry; I know that feeling," she told him, her voice echoing as if it were far away. Her tone seemed unusually stoic, as if she had contained the sadness he was sure she must have felt as well.
"It's not your fault...it's not...but it's mine...I tried." The voice sounded like his but the inane words made no sense, and he began to feel a sort of disconnect from his own body. "I don't know what to do...we were planning...and now...no more...I have nothing left," he mumbled incoherently, forgetting what he wanted to say the moment he started talking. Holding on to Astariel for dear life, he tried to flush out images of two golden eyes watching him as they faded, threatening to rip his heart from his chest.
As if truly feeling how much support he needed, Astariel held on to him, refusing to let go even for a second. Strained and stiff as he was, she managed to tuck her head beneat his chin such that he could feel her soft breaths on his chest. She reached up and tried to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her.
"You do have something left, Navarion," she whispered into his long, elven ear, using a voice so sweet and gentle that he wanted to believe anything it told him. "I'll always be here for you."
She pressed into him to the point where he could feel her heartbeat against his, but something was wrong. This felt wrong. His knees became weak from sorrow, pain and something else as he let her hold him, almost knocking her over in the process. For a split second he tried to straighten up and push away from her, panicking at the sudden closeness he had once fantasizes about illicitly, overwhelmed by the flood of longing and separation from multiple conflicting angles. He tried to shake his head no, but he felt her thumb slide around the base of his long, elven ears to prevent him from doing so.
His mind hazy, he reached one hand out and grabbed ahold of a tree for balance, not wanting to balance in her arms any longer. Images of silver and gold mixed together in the most disorienting fashion and he screamed internally, unable to bear it any longer. He sobbed a woman's name, unsure of who it was. He told her 'no' in the bluntest way his drunken mouth could muster and she told him yes. He felt her pull him toward the edge of the road but without force, and he found himself unable to push her away from him.
Lightly, ever so lightly, claw like fingernails slipped from the side of his head up to his scalp. They ran through his mane, dragging across the hide of his head in a way that felt so intoxicating that it felt wrong and betraying. Pressing herself into him again, she caught him, and instead of struggling after his fall he let himself sink to the bottom if one of the two was there. Mesmerized but guilty by the way her fingers danced across his scalp and down the back of his neck, he acquiesced and resolved to let whoever it was win.
She pulled him off the main pathway, almost stumbling from his weight as he proved too inebriated to walk straight after not having had anything to drink for many months.
"I can be what you want, Navarion," a woman whispered in his ear, her identity mixed up and unclear to him.
Tired...so very tired. Tired, broken and tortured, but this time not by his own doing. A flash of silver directly in front of him replaced the gold and he felt the self loathing of a cheater once more, after so many years. Time held still for far too long, trapping him in the enchanted woods before he was overtaken and blacked out.