Chapter 34
Ranger Whispers
X Assassination X
"Well, you are a handful and a half," sighed a sweet elven voice. Its owner, a blond haired woman in ranger clothes, sat herself onto the crunchy snow. The icy touch immediately pierced through her leathers, freezing her bottom, so a short heating spell took the teeth from it.
Her name, that which she was given, was Snow Duskfury, and she was not having a jolly time.
Brushing the white powder from her calves and thighs, she continued speaking aloud, though there was no one else to hear. "I don't know why you keep running. Even if you find him again, he won't take you back. It's a death sentence, and I won't dare submit to anymore of those. You hear me, Fighter? I'm not dying because you think your fool heart found love. So stop running back!"
After another sigh, the ranger picked herself up. She adjusted her silver bow, refitted her boots, counted her quivers with a roll of her shoulder, patted out the many hidden knives secreted about her person. Once satisfied that she was still prepared, she studied her current location. Besides still being in Storm Peaks, she had no idea where the Fighter had taken them now. Well, if she was to stay alive, she needed to return to the Cult.
With each escape, the Fighter was getting farther and farther before Snow could retake control. That worried her. Was she slipping? Was the Fighter regaining her fight? If she managed to flee all the way back to the Exilee and Thomas, would Snow be able to wake up in time to save her?
Discarding those concerns for now, Snow looked inward for guidance back to the Cult. She called on the disgusting, euphoric power of Ghat'Nothos, pulling on the "gift" and being drawn into the embodied will of the god. With the edge of experience, she navigated the overwhelming wave of sensation to find the consolidation of power that was the current cultist base. Marking it, she charted the path back and began her march.
How frustrating. The Fighter, who betrayed Thomas, was constantly fleeing back to the Exilee, while Snow, who hadn't, had to keep them safely with the Cult...
At the top of the first snow bank, Snow stopped with one last sigh. She turned back, looking towards the way the Fighter had been running. How far was Thomas from her current position? If the Fighter ever made it close enough, perhaps Snow could drop in a visit, just to test those turbulent waters.
XxX
The Swan was Snow was a traitor.
Thomas remained lost in the darkness, repeating those words to himself over and over. Still with the shock of the Singing Blade assault in their nerves, still unhinged from finding Ashblades murdered in their camp, lovely Genveera had swept the feet from under the Exilee in sudden betrayal. His second, Thomas' stalwart and tactical lieutenant, went rogue in bloody flight.
Numb was how Thomas felt after it all. Confused and numb. He lay motionless in the perfect blackness, wondering just what had happened. For once, they had finally gained the advantage over the enemy only to see it all come crashing down. Snow was Genveera. Gen had betrayed him. Thomas cursed himself, knowing he should have seen it sooner. He'd had his suspicions – if only he'd acted on them, then...!
For a night and a day he sat in his tent, alone. King Malthon tried to call for war, and Thomas declined. Word came that Jerath survived through val'kyr resurrection, but it fell on deaf ears. This wasn't right. He knew reclusion was not befitting of the Ranger-General, but how could Thomas go out there now?
Instead, he listened. Sensitive hearing picked up motion in the camp around him. He heard the march of the vrykuls as they left to fight the good fight. He heard the discord within the Exilee, the rumormongering that could only do more harm than good, yet it remained rampant. There was no voice to quiet it: Thomas was hiding, Meyanna was at Farron's bedside, Jerath was in a deep coma, Raeloth was marshaling the soldiers, and Genveera-
Genveera had betrayed him.
Light, why? Thomas knew not what to do. He had trusted her. He had taken her as his second, and she had promised her loyalty. Now Prince Anduin, mere minutes after his reveal, had nearly been dispatched. Merridan was more frantic than ever over the lord's protection, knowing as Thomas now did that one day that young man would be needed in the place of leadership.
So torn and hopeless was Thomas that he irrationally yet continuously half-expected Snow to creep into his tent for comfort, like she had in the ruins of Stormwind. It baffled him how he found himself hoping on it. What would he even do if she did, he asked himself. Would he welcome her with his arms or with his daggers?
Snow was Genveera. Thomas had slept with Genveera? Those times she sauntered up to command, reeking of sex, had that actually been with him? He remembered that moment, also in Stormwind, when that cute brunette greeted him with a happy smile before bolting in realization. Genveera without her glamor? And when Jerath looked between them after, questioning their scents, could he have been right all along?
Thomas feared the truth. It was a dark door he peered through. That meant Genveera had used a compulsion on him that night, magically coaxing him into that mindless rut. Genveera wanted to comfort him in his most trying moment, the day he witnessed the destruction of his human race. Genveera had fed on Skinless magics. That must have happened when he sent her to destroy the cult, when she sought to capture the leader despite suffering from her addictions and withdrawal. It would have been so easy for one such as Alissa to seduce the hurting ranger.
Thomas had condemned Genveera to that fate. Her fall lay at his feet. The deaths, betrayals, it was blood on his hands as much as hers. He knew it, and it frightened him. When would the others make the same connections? What should be done with the so-called Ranger-General who ruined his own people through impulsiveness?
So Thomas hid in his tent as the others fought to defend this world. He did so until he heard the telltale rasp of ranger boots prowling over snow. The steps were soft, threatening, and they headed straight for his tent. Thomas' heart fluttered. Snow? His blood boiled.
The conflict of emotion stilled once she – for it was a woman or else an especially slight man – reached his tent entrance, where there was no hesitation. That was a trait he had noticed about Snow, the slight linger outside the threshold. He would wonder if she was listening on him, or if she was reconsidering, or now if it had been a conflict of Genveera's conscious. These sneaking feet now did not pause. She reached the weatherproof tent flap, then there was a fan of soft light through the blackness, framing a white-capped elvish face.
Thomas blinked through his sudden resurgence of panic, recognizing a moment after the woman. She spoke while he still fought himself: "Thomas, may I enter?"
"Velanee," he greeted finally, fastening her identity within his mind. "Please do."
XxX
"Damn you and damn them. I'm going!" Sarrine hissed, rising in place. Her hand reached back and yanked out the band holding her hair, letting the short ponytail collapse around her shoulders. A quick toss gave her blonde hair volume, while her heart settled determinedly on what she intended to do.
"Sarrine, the elders-" Loraeoth, her oldest friend, sought to argue, but Sarrine would have none of it now.
Throwing her quivers and knives aside, she snapped over him, "I said damn them!" She was left in just her ranger leathers and her ashblade. Without even her cloak or hood, Sarrine nodded at herself, met Loraeoth's eyes with a glare, and she stormed out the tent.
She'd made it barely two steps before a great shadow swept into her stride. A deep voice questioned right behind her ear: "So you've decided to go?"
A curt nod answered him. The cold was sharp against her exposed face, but it only drove her harder. "You can't stop me, Dor'rath."
There was a short chuckle, without much amusement. "I wouldn't think to try. I wish you luck, young lady."
She didn't deign another reply. Shortly after, the shadow behind her vanished. The rest of the way was clear, despite Sarrine still holding some more fire in her belly. Thomas' tent even came in sight without interruption, and then she noticed the silver-haired woman slipping inside it. Sarrine stumbled to a stop, staring at the closing tent flap. Her eyebrows drooped, struggling to think of why Velanee might be seeking Thomas.
Shaking the distraction from her mind, Sarrine resumed her approach. Velanee would just have to get out. The cold urged her forward, and she let it, ignoring any heating spells. Twenty feet from the tent, Sarrine was stopped once more, this time more definitively. Merridan Twilwing, the Ranger Lord and Thomas' close friend, barred her way with his body.
"Hold a moment, if you'd please," he told her in ranger-whisper. For a blind man, his gaze was an intense, heavy thing.
Lips pursing, Sarrine asked, "What is it?"
XxX
"What is it?" Thomas asked finally, now sitting up on his bedroll. Two light orbs illuminated the tent, bobbing languidly through the tent.
Velanee chose a spot on the rug across from him, seated with her legs folded beneath her. Her nerves had yet to finish steeling, despite her calmly expressed face. Lord Merridan had made a coterie of implications and suggestions to her, many of which she still struggled to believe. This moment was one of those.
Minute decisions had already flashed through her conscious. Her position was a hairsbreadth within a human's comfort zone, to stimulate intimacy and familiarity. She spoke in Thalassian rather than Common. It had been suggested she wear something other than her ranger leathers, but never mind her lack of wardrobe, Velanee thought any other article would be obtuse. Still, her two favorite sin'dorei garnets studded through her ears as vanities, more for her confidence – it was the same pair she wore for important missions.
Maybe she had also gone for a scrubbing and given her hair an extra brushing beforehand, but no one had to know.
Everything was prepared and executed flawlessly. Except, of course, knowing what exactly she should be doing here. Her throat cleared softly. "You seemed startled by my appearance. Were you expecting someone else?"
His head shook in a short gesture. "I just- Ranger steps. Female. Nearly white hair. I thought I was seeing Snow."
"You mean Genveera."
His hand twisted in the air. "Genveera as Snow, or- I don't know. They are so different I can't see them as the same. I keep convincing myself it was all Snow who betrayed us, using a glamor of Gen, but the Swan has vanished too. The footsteps match. I know it, but I just can't believe it."
He was talking to her. That immensely pleased Velanee, who had assumed it work take an elaborate web of coaxing to open him up. She took her stance on the matter: "Genveera has betrayed us. There is no doubt in that. All we can do now is move forward and face her when she returns wearing their colors." She paused, separating the remark from her next words. "That is why I've come, Thomas. We all know what the Swan meant to you. The Exilee owes you so much for all that you have given for us, and we in turn have repaid you in treachery, by your second and sixteen others. I would like to give you the chance to share words on the matter."
Of his many possible reactions, Velanee did not anticipate the queer cockeyed stare he returned her. "Did someone put you up to this?" Before she could even reply, he was shaking his head again. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. I appreciate it, Velanee. I suppose you're also here to convince me to finally leave this tent."
"The Exilee is a bit short on leadership," she agreed, "but the greater concern is if we'll have a Ranger-General when you do... By your reaction, I can see that you are wondering the same." The last was said with a flicker of a smile.
After a long hesitation, Thomas' hands spread. "We had this talk before, you and I. Circumstance put me into the position, but it has become obvious that I am not suited to this role. Jerath, when he recovers, should be the Ranger-General. The Ashblades should never have been formed, and certainly not for me."
At the mention, Velanee untied her ashblade sheath from her hip and discarded it with the blade. The act captured Thomas' attention. Curling her hands on her lap, she punctuated, "I was badgered by no less than six others to make sure you left this tent as our irrepressible Ranger-General, with at least the image of being made stronger without the associate of the Swan. I don't care about that. I'm here to comfort you as a friend. After, if you want to disband the Ashblades and leave the Exilee, I will throw my support behind you. What you do is your choice, Thomas. My first and last duty as your Ashblade is making sure of that."
Thomas' mouth worked soundlessly in the following seconds. Velanee prided herself in her own boldness but quickly recovered, continuing, "Before that though, I wanted to see how you are holding up after the Swan's betrayal. I would like to offer you advice if you want it or an ear if you need it. Or if you would prefer, I can leave to give you more time to reflect."
"Stay, please," he managed finally. Surprise was etched over his features. "But- Light, I don't deserve such loyalty. I never have, and after Genveera..."
"What do you mean?"
Whatever reservation he seemed to have over the subject crumbled swiftly at the question, like he'd been itching to share it. "Genveera and Snow, whoever she is, that woman was not an evil one, not until she was trapped behind Skinless eyes – eyes I'm sure she was cursed with after I sent her after Alissa alone. I remember how hard the withdrawal was hitting her that day, yet I sent her to the very pit of the enemy's madness. Into the cult's clutches. Had I not brought that corruption into the Exilee, how much damage could have been prevented? Listen to them out there, Vel – to the rumors, the distrust, the paranoia. This wasn't a blow that can be written off in numbers."
Oh dear. It was exactly as Lord Merridan feared. Velanee took a breath, readying herself for the tasks ahead.
XxX
Merridan stopped them a distance away from Thomas' tent, where they could speak without Thomas' notice. Sarrine endured the distraction with impatience on her face. She stood on the very line of obstinacy and respect, torn between Thomas and obedience. Constant reminder that Merridan also put Thomas first helped bridge the dichotomy in her duties
Once at rest, the intense gaze of the ranger lord whirled back onto her. "Jack is in a delicate state right now," he opened with. "Knowing him, it is not the fact that Genveera and those others betrayed him that caused his reclusion. He will have taken the blame onto himself, one mistake at a time. He takes responsibility very personally, a quality you Exilee no doubt chose him for."
"All the better for me to see him then," Sarrine returned, unyielding to the eyeless stare.
"If you enter that tent right now, what will you do?"
Sarrine folded her arms insecurely, hoping it conveyed at least a terse image. "That is none of your business, Ranger Lord."
"Contrarily, that is entirely my business. Are you going to talk with him? What will you say? Are you planning on sleeping with him? Would you choose that commitment now, when he is at his most vulnerable, when he is least willing to say no?"
"That matter is strictly between us," Sarrine repeated, only a little shaken on how accurately he guessed her intentions. Her elders were always so good at that. Predicting her, guiding her through their experiences, living her life for her. It was so damn frustrating, and she was sick of it. She found a new nerve. "But I will tell you, sir, that I am through with submitting myself and Thomas through all the manipulations of elves. I'm tired of my relationship being tugged around by a dozen strings.
"Don't think I'm ignorant of why Velanee is in there now. I know just how happy you and the other Ashblades would be if I died in a ditch somewhere like Jaden did and Velanee took my place as his lover. But I'm not dead, and Thomas chose me to stand at his side. So I'm done jumping through your hoops, and I'm going to go stand at his side – where him and I will solve this like people, not elves!"
Merridan, although visually unmoved, spoke in a new tone, "That... was well spoken, young Sarrine. Let none doubt that you have the heart of an Ashblade, and you are right in calling out a benevolent manipulation for what it is. But if I may speak one addendum, it is not my intent to see Velanee replace you as Thomas' lover."
"Oh? What is it then? Why have you sent Velanee to comfort him before me?"
"Perhaps I should have placed firmer emphasis over the word 'replace.'"
Sarrine stared. The words processed through her head. They reprocessed. "...Oh. Oh no. You can't be serious."
XxX
"I'm dead serious, Thomas," Velanee argued gently. "I have told you already that I will follow you to the ends of Azeroth and beyond regardless, but I won't let your decision be made on that assumption. As Ranger-General, you have made mistakes, but your treatment of Genveera the Swan is not among them. The trust and faith you put in her was returned by a rabid loyalty and nearly unquestioning commitment, but the Swan was a troubled woman, beyond the incidents of her addiction. The presence of "Snow" further proves that. Trusting your best ranger to that mission – after she put herself forward – is exactly as a Ranger-General should behave, and I won't hear you claim anything else."
"If I had listened to Meyanna-"
"Then Genveera would have been exiled, lost without the hope you gave her, and her fall would have been all the swifter and more terrible."
Thomas settled back, considering her words. Calm, collected Velanee was certainly a hellcat this evening, firm in every softly spoken word to him. He felt the twitch of a wry smile around his lips, suspecting that no matter what he said, she'd have a ready reply for him. He found it relieving to be able to speak freely of his concerns, especially with someone who held no judgment against him for it.
"Even if it were so, Vel, it is still the duty of the Ranger-General to detect and circumvent treachery and dissent. I specialize in assassination and stealth, not espionage. How many steps behind was I when I finally began to act against the infiltrators?"
"The Ranger-General is the head of a machine, not the machine itself. It is the job of the spymaster to detect, identify, and isolate those who would commit treachery. The Ranger-General is only meant to decide how to exterminate the threat." She paused. "And I have a liking for "Vee," if you must shorten my name."
Thomas dropped his eyes to the rug and smiled. "As you say then, Vee." To that, she had no quick response, and he looked up to see her faint smile returning his.
While Thomas continued reflecting on the matter, a smooth-faced Velanee surprised him by asking, "May I sit with you?"
He stared at her, seeing nothing suggestive in her face. Briefly, he remembered Snow, and then he was shaking his head. In a lighthearted tone, he explained, "I've spent a good day cooped in a tent. That wouldn't be best."
"I'm your friend, Thomas, and equally travel worn. How you smell doesn't bother me." Her lips twitched. "Not that three feet makes a difference to rangers like us."
A flush returned the comment, knowing it was true. "Hardly equal, unless elf-sweat comes in lilac and cherryweed fragrance." Her pale cheeks actually blushed, showing faint rosy spots in the muted lighting. Thomas moved over, opening space on his bedroll. "But alright. If you wish."
In a moment, the slight ranger was nestled beside him, and the sweet scent was magnified, filling the sense with its presence and some trace of her. Thomas was reminded again of Snow, watching Velanee fold her legs under her in a proper kneel, but the chief difference was found in the lack of musky sex and bloodgem arousal burning through his nostrils.
Thomas metaphorically shook those thoughts straight from his mind, not wanting any reminder of that with Velanee so close beside him. His throat cleared. "So you think I should stay as Ranger-General? That it's the right thing to do?"
"You and I both know what the "right" course is. The question now is if the Exilee deserve you taking it. You have given enough of yourself, Thomas. You don't owe us any more. I told you, if you want to disband the Ashblades, leave the Exilee, and go on adventures – as you are meant to do – then I will support you fully. More, I'd like to join you, and Sarrine would too. We the three of us could do what you are best at."
She had taken his hand as she spoke. Thomas didn't look at it, but he could feel the softness of it. The smooth calluses, hilt and bow. Snow... He shivered unconsciously at the chill that swept down his back. But the touch was also different, not the possessive, urging caress of that courtesan. Velanee's touch was neither chaste nor sensual, idly rubbing the pad of her thumb into his open palm, and the tingling jolts through his arm were his own response to the otherwise platonic touch.
Perception was different to one of Thomas' sort – and hers too, he knew. In the few seconds of hearing her words, he could feel her heartbeat. The steady pulse was timed to his but staggered just slightly, so it was like his blood was beating into her at the contact of their hands. He could hear it beneath her voice, the thump-thump-thump of his heart, and the bum-bum-bum of hers echoing just after. He didn't forget her words or the sound of her voice or the distracted cast of her eyes, but sensation was outside of Thomas' fine control at the moment. Even the sound of her breath, the wind that became words in her throat, the slight inhales that moved the leather of her uniform, it enveloped him in subtle rapture.
At the end of her speech, Thomas struggled to reply – first to find his voice through the gnaw of sensation, then to find thought to fill the sounds. "I- To what end, Velanee?"
Her hands did not pause. "End? I like you, Thomas. I like the way you handle problems. I like the way you think. The way you care. I enjoy how human you are, even if you must smell like like one." Her teeth flashed. "I don't have an "end," no more than you do. Just a desire that borders on compulsion. I don't need to repeat the words in every exile's heart, but I want to restate that it's true for me too: you saved my life, and you put hope back in my breast. With you, I'll be able to do the same for others, and maybe one day I may finally return to you the favor you have granted me."
"I told you already-"
She interrupted him, a smile on her lips. "-don't worry about it. Yes, I know, and how delightfully human that is. To be so ignorant of the elvish ways of debt and favor make you a breath of spring air. I won't see you tarnished by Exilee plotting. That is why I chose to be your Ashblade, and that is why I-"
With his senses so full of Velanee, Thomas nearly missed the commotion until it was literally a step away from his tent entrance. They both paused at the last stomp, then turned as the tent flap was brushed aside. A blonde lady stormed in, an angry fire in her eyes. "Out!" she demanded immediately, turning that look onto the silver-haired elf holding his hand.
Thomas' brows were raised, staring confused at the vehement Sarrine. "Sarrine, what is-?"
"I said out!" the woman repeated, glaring. "Back to your master. Away from us. And shame on you, Velanee Moonburst!"
Thomas glanced between them, wondering. Velanee received the fury elegantly, responding with a mere turn her head. She questioned, "What has he done?"
"Ask him yourself, hound. Now go!"
"Sarrine!" Thomas addressed sharply, still baffled at the sudden storm in his tent.
"Not now, Thomas," Sarrine pleaded, but she lost none of her steel in saying it. "I am finished with these games. Tell your master and Meyanna our private life won't be violated any further by your spidery touch. Now out with you!"
"Sarr-" he started again, even more confused, and was stopped by a touch. Velanee wasn't looking at him, but her hand rested on his arm.
"No," she told him. "If Lord Merridan has said what I suspect, Sarrine is right in her rage. For shame. I apologize for the trouble I have caused you, young Sarrine."
"The only thing "right" here is that you are indeed needed in his life, Velanee the Crane. Needed as a replacement to the Swan. That's what you are: a replacement. A replacement to her, a replacement for a friend, and when I die, I bet you'll replace me too."
"You go too far, Sarrine!" Thomas interjected. He could feel the way Velanee suddenly stiffened, her first true response to Sarrine's accusations.
"I have clearly not gone far enough," she dissented, staring hard at her sister ranger sitting at Thomas' side. "Now out, Velanee!"
Velanee left.
Thomas stared at the furious remaining woman until Velanee's conjured lights suddenly sparked out, plunging them back into his perfect darkness. Moments later, Sarrine sputtered two more into existence, these ones lavender, bathing them in a gentler limelight. Annoyance was etched onto her face, but the heat was cooling.
Crossing his arms, Thomas asked, "What was that, Sarrine? Velanee is your comrade, and I thought a friend too."
"I will apologize to her tomorrow," the blonde said with an exacerbating wave of her hand.
"And give her a night to let those cruel thoughts brood? I think not!"
He put in more heat than he meant, and she responded to it. Eyes flashing, Sarrine shouted back, "She came here to fuck you!"
Thomas baulked. "What?"
"We have your precious Lord Merridan to thank for that. He stopped me from seeing you, to stall for time, and then outlined his elaborate plan to have the Crane and I comfort you with our feminine charms. As if it wasn't bad enough that every fucking Ashblade loathes me already and wanted Velanee in my place." As she paused, Sarrine noticed the grey-hilted blade in question left behind. Scowling, she scooped the artifact up and hurled it at the tent flap. It hit with enough force to land outside, and her own ashblade followed.
Thomas was on his feet now, uncertain of how to handle this situation. "Sarrine, Velanee and I weren't- We were just talking. Even if she had wanted more, I wouldn't have let things go that far. Velanee is my friend, nothing more."
"It's not about what you would have done. It's about her trying. Damn it, we haven't even done anything sexual, and Merridan thinks I'm just going to let her climb atop you?" She was raving, pacing before the tent entrance now.
"I don't think that's a fair conclusion-"
"Fair!"
"Listen! Velanee took off her ashblade to make a point. She is facing all the same pressures you are, just from the other end. She took off her blade to demonstrate that she wasn't here as an Ashblade but as my friend. The things that Meyanna, Buck, Dor'rath, and whoever else have been saying, Velanee wanted no part in it. She was here despite the manipulations, not because of."
Sarrine was unmoved. "She's an elf, Thomas. You can't accept anything she says as truth."
"You're an elf! More, you are both Ashblades. You are the only elves I can trust to speak the truth." Trust. Now there's a word. Trust not even Genveera, he had been told. Who had said that?
"Yes, I'm an elf. I know best what it's like to be trampled over by them, and the Ashblades have their machinations no differently. I was told not to visit you by them. Me, your court!"
That paused him. Thomas frowned, then shook his head. He wasn't in the mood for this. "I will speak to them – later, when the other half are able to leave the med-tent. For now, come sit with me, please."
"Like Velanee was?" Sarrine shot back, clearly wishing to pursue the matter.
"No, like my court, and then we'll talk."
Sarrine's scent was entirely different from Velanee's. There was no pleasant perfume, only the traces of travel and work, layered lighter than Thomas' own, and somehow the unmasked truth of it was more pleasing to his senses than any perfume. Sarrine smelled like a ranger and like a woman. It reminded him of his own stench, but if she had a complaint, she kept it to herself. Sarrine collapsed in his lap, sighing out all her frustrations and temper in one blow.
Immediately his hands were on her shoulders, starting a massage that worked quickly down her back and sometimes up to her soft hair. As he did, Sarrine murmured, "Everything is so fucked up, Thomas. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to throw all that at you. I know you are suffering, that the Swan's betrayal is still ash on your tongue. I honestly came to help you, but it's like every force rose up against me for it."
"I know," he murmured back. "Things aren't easy for either of us. Worse, it seems, for us together. But the Exilee doesn't decide my personal life, and I'll be damned before I let them take you from me. Would you like to know what Velanee and I were discussing before you stormed in?"
"What flavor of chap-sap she applied to her perfect pink lips?" Sarrine guessed bitterly, but it was insincere.
Thomas smiled and kissed her neck. "If I should stay as the Ranger-General or leave with Jerath in my place."
"Leave the Exilee!" she gasped. "You can't do that. You're one of us, and we already lost..."
Genveera. Yes, they did. "Indeed. That is why Velanee was sent, to make sure I remained the Ranger-General by any means necessary. She ignored them, of course, hence removing her ashblade. But think about it. We could leave all the Exilee behind. No more manipulations, no more pressures. The Ashblades would be broken back into a proper ranger core, with Jerath at its helm. Run the way it was meant to be."
"But Thomas," Sarrine argued weakly, "the Exilee isn't an army. We're exiles, held together only by you. If you leave, it all comes crumbling apart, Jerath or no."
You don't owe us any more, Velanee had said.
"What have I held together?" Thomas asked somberly. "Snow's betrayal, it shattered us. You can hear it from here, the disconcert of the Exilee. I'm not good for leading, Sarrine. I'm a soldier and nothing more. The Exilee may not be an army, but it followed me here as one. If it is to survive, it must behave as one, and it can only be a good army under someone like Jerath."
"If it is to survive, it needs hope, and you are the only one who can offer that. If you leave, Thomas, all the light goes with you. These aren't a people that can survive that kind of loss. Genveera? Sure, it hurt, but those squabbling elves still have hope. If you march out there and holler some orders, they'll snap up in ranks in a heartbeat. You know that; you've seen it happen already." Her head shook as his hands trailed back down her back. "Even if I leave with you, it's not hard imagining what would happen to me if you left and I didn't. I'd be right back on the ridge in Netherstorm, wondering if I'm about to step off."
A pungent quiet followed. Thomas had no argument for her, but he knew inside that these were the same arguments that Velanee could have raised against him. Yet she hadn't. No judgment. No scorn. No blame. No guilt. For a mind of Velanee's caliber, it must have been a calculated choice, while Sarrine, in her youth, spoke in careless honesty.
Once his hands quit their massage, Sarrine leaned back against him, giving his arms room to encircle her middle. With his face against her hair, Thomas muttered, "If they wanted me to stay so bad, they should have sent you."
"I'm sorry, Thomas. If you want to leave, of course I'll be right there with you. It's just... How can we leave, knowing what would happen? We're children of the blood – we endure – but how much more can these exiles endure?"
They sat in the gentle purple light without speaking for some time, until night finished falling outside the tent. Then Sarrine reluctantly lifted herself from his embrace and turned over, sitting in front of him on his bedroll with a queer look on her face.
"Actually, there's something I wanted to do tonight. For all that Merridan said, there is one thing he got right." Sitting cross-legged before him, Sarrine's hand made several discernible twitches, as though yearning for a harp or bowstring to pluck. A nervous habit of hers, he knew, but her eyes were wide and firm on his. She was smiling. "Thomas... Let's get married. Tonight."
Thomas stared.
Sarrine watched his reaction for a moment, then kept speaking in a rush: "I know you said you weren't looking to settle, and I'm not saying that we should, but considering the war and all, every day needs to be treated like our last, and I know that I'm already a target, so that applies a bit more literally for me." Her fingers were scratching her thigh, right where the bowstring would usual wait. "And I've been thinking a lot on what you're waiting for, like if you are one of those wait-for-marriage types, but I started to realize you really just didn't want some doting lovestruck girl pining for her hero because you saved my life, so I put some thought into it, and I decided that yes, I can stand at your side as your friend, and as your woman, and as your wife, so even if you say 'no,' which is fine because this is so sudden and all..."
She took a breath and refocused herself on him. "I want you to know that I can do it. You are my hero, Thomas, but I can see more than that. You are also a person, which is probably as silly to hear as it is to say, but I think, I hope you see what I mean by it. I don't need my hero to solve my problems; we can solve them together as people."
When she finally finished, breathing heavier to recover, Thomas finally began to register thought again. Blinking at the excitable elvish lady, the first words he managed to stutter out were, "How can we get married out here?"
"Commander Raeloth has the authority to do it, or if you want the holy side, then Saela is licensed too – you know, if you really want to tweak some Ashblade noses."
Marriage? On a war front? With her? "I... Alright."
"Alright?"
Thomas nodded absently, then with firmer emphasis. "Alright. Yes. Let's do it. The Commander and Saela, we'll grab both."
"So...?" she asked hopefully.
He smiled. "Let's get married, Sarrine."
The lavender light cut out, plunging them in sudden blackness.
"Erm, Sarrine?"
Her voice came from the same place, sounding in consternation. "Sorry, I lost my focus for a second. I'm just really- And- Oh, damn it all!"
A force knocked Thomas over, leaving him flat on the bedroll. It felt and smelled of Sarrine, and a few touches along his face were the precursor to her lips shoving against his. They kissed in the dark for several long moments, until Sarrine withdrew slightly. He could place her by the sound of her breath, inches from his lips yet angled sideways, turned away, and he heard scratching leather at the hips of her pants.
His heart thumped fast in anticipation. He heard a drawstring pulled, a bit more scratching, and then something firm and circular was pressed against his lips.
"Eat," she ordered. A faint berry scent was detected.
Cautiously, he opened his mouth, letting her drop the object on his tongue. The first bite sent richly flavored juices exploding through his mouth. Both the sweetness and embarrassment sent Thomas' cheeks aching. It was for the taste. He heard her crushing one for herself, and seconds later they were back at it, their mouths defined by their respective berries.
Thomas wasn't quite sure when they separated next, but when they did, a breathless Sarrine asked, "The ceremony can wait until the morning, right?"
Hands full of athletic elf breast, he agreed airily, "Most definitely."
Sarrine fell back into hm.
XxX
Spotting him against the dark, Velanee brought her feet alight before the crouched ranger lord. Her arms crossed as she bore a look at the blind man. "What just happened?"
Merridan glanced up at her voice, meeting her eyes with his blindfold. His was a morose countenance. "The risk I took was calculated," he started, and there was a sheepish shrug. "But man, am I bad at math."
XxX
The preamble to consciousness was a loud, obnoxious string of obscenities. Only near the crescendo did the vulgarities begin to meet the underlying creativity that his refined and cultured self truly appreciated. It was, to him, a fine reminder that the elvish tongue was best suited to any communicative necessity, and that included the explicit.
Post-climax was a low groan, done vocally, and that was when Farron opened his aching eyes to the waking world. His mental curses came to a regretful halt.
It took several seconds for the white haze to clear enough to make sense of the sights. When it did, Farron noticed the makeshift hospital he must now occupy, with the creeping light of day at the cracks. He couldn't guess how many days he'd been incarcerated, but-
"One and a half," answered a voice of such steadiness and tired femininity that it could only be lovely Meyanna. He mustered the effort to glance to the side, where the redhead made an image as she knelt at his bedside. Her green eyes held him solidly. "That's how long you've been out. We haven't yet moved from the stronghold, but the call has been raised."
Farron thought to make a quip, but his throat was dry, his lips cracked, and he thought better of it. Damn. It was going to be a good one too, like, "Why are you all the way up there, while I'm stuck down here?"
Her pretty eyes blinked once, as if reading his mind. "You must want water. Let me help you up, and you'll have it."
With a suspicious glare, Farron composed several loud thoughts, but Meyanna was too busy helping his weary body sit to notice. Her loss. After, Farron watched in mild fascination as her quick hands sprinkled and filtered crushed leafs into a concoction of tea for him, and he drank it gratefully. As he did, he considered his next move, recalling their responsibilities and duties as Ashblades.
Course decided, Farron performed an emergency test of his strength, found his mobility hurting but able, and once the cup was removed and his mouth tasting of the fine tea, he leaned himself over and kissed the stern lady. He wished he managed to keep his eyes open to see her reaction, but Farron was tired, and Meyanna shoving him back didn't help.
Farron fell back onto the bed alone, but his grin was so wide he might convince her it was his win. Meyanna maintained a terse appearance despite that light blush spotting her cheeks. She reprimanded, "We talked about this, Farron."
He cleared his throat and was content to find it working. "No, we argued about it, and if I recall, I won that argument."
"You are insufferable," she concluded, with no hint of smile.
"Yet you suffered at my side," he rebuffed kindly. "And for that, you have all of my affections. My apologies too, for I must have worried you."
Meyanna said nothing in reply, but her lips made a brief purse and resettled. In the silence, Farron decided to actually focus back on their duties. "So whatever happened with that Snow girl that did me in?"
"You mean Genveera," Meyanna corrected.
Farron frowned. "No. That girl wasn't Genveera. Deynora and I, we... 'Nora. Tell me she's alright. She..." He couldn't find the words to finish the sentence, but Meyanna was shaking her head and his heart dropped.
"Deynora is alive, but she was dead for too long before the val'kyr got to her. Her and Jerath are in deep comas."
"Jerath too? How in the spiny leaves of the Hell Vale did that happen?"
"Genveera took him out after she was ousted. It was bad, Farron. She evidently didn't want him resurrected. He was hacked into over a dozen pieces."
Farron grunted and resettled in his bedding. "Stone cold bitch, that one. But Genveera? Not on her best day."
"We were all fooled. Didn't you know this from the dispel?"
"Gen's a natural brunette. My memory is faintest around the attack, but I remember that's what the dispel showed. We laughed about it. Deynora made a note to mention it to Thomas, but we weren't attacked until after. White hair, pale skin, fights like Thomas on thistle tea. I haven't seen anyone of that caliber since... what, the Windrunner's?"
"I'm sorry, but we cannot trust your memory after death. The Shadow confirmed the change with his own eyes."
"Huh. Well, yeah, don't take my word on it. I'm just the lonely stiff without a girl to hold. My mind is like addled soup right now." He scratched his cheek, where blond scruff was already waiting. "How's he taking it?"
Instantly, Farron knew something was off by the way Meyanna's face reacted. She made that wrinkle between her eyebrows that showed she was angry, and there was a tightness around her lips that meant she was frustrated. Even her tone, which was usually stern at best and cold at her worst, came in angry nonchalance: "The Shadow is just fine. Well enough to get married this morning."
Farron blinked. He blinked again. "Married? To whom?"
"Miss Longray. Misses Longray," she divulged. "He pulled the whole Exilee together for it, and he had Saela perform the ceremony."
Oh yes, that would certain pinch her bottom. "Well, good for them. Think we could convince them to hold a double-ceremony and get us up there?"
"Farron," Meyanna admonished sharply. Damn. "Now is the time for sobriety. Sarrine was already a target, now she is his wife. She's barely in her nineties."
"I don't care, Meyanna, and neither should you. Let them be young and in love. Let them be happy. We'll probably all be dead by the end of this."
The redhead turned vehement, which in her manifested in a softer, colder voice. "We nearly lost Thomas to this, Farron. He spent yesterday deciding how to leave the Exilee without us collapsing. He failed to find that way out, yet he nearly did it anyways."
"I'll bet you a kiss it was Sarrine who convinced him to stay."
Meyanna scowled. There was a quiet pause, then, "I didn't agree to that bet."
Farron laughed until it hurt.
XxX
The Ranger-General raised the call to form ranks and march. The Exilee, once in squalor, fell into the motions immediately. By the time the small army reached the stronghold gates, the image of normalcy had become normalcy, and with their irrepressible Ranger-General at their helm, the shocktroopers were focused for war once more.
"Irrepressible," said Dor'rath. "There's a word."
Flaerie said nothing in reply, but then, she rarely ever did.
He continued, "I'll bet it's the marriage that did it. Young Sarrine came at him like a tigress last night. There are not many men that can keep down after that. Look at the shine in his eyes. That's called premarital consummation. It's when the bride and the bridegroom say, "Look, we're getting married, and we don't need some bigshot commander to tell us when it happens.""
"You are vulgar, Dor'rath," the lady said without looking.
"I'm just calling what I see. Look at the swagger in his stride. And young Sarrine hasn't stopped glowing since the sun rose. Just look at her."
Flaerie didn't look, but Dor'rath was undeterred. He had climbed stony walls higher than those Flaerie erected around herself. He tried a serious angle for the somber lady: "What do you think of it, fellow Ashblade? Our charge is married – and to one of us no less. The Shadow is even closer bound to the Exilee, and he is that much more vulnerable."
"We must protect Misses Longray," she answered simply. Nothing else was said.
"We do at that, especially now that the troublesome trio is so broken. I see a bit of Lor'themar in young Loraeoth, but potential is not yet realization. As for young Sarrine, we must hope Thomas teaches her more than bed tricks when they are alone at night."
This time, Dor'rath mouthed it as Flaerie said it, "You are vulgar, Dor'rath." He grinned after.
"They're newlyweds. I'm just happy the Shadow can still see past Sarrine's sashaying breeches right now. And on topic of ladies in sashaying breeches, did you hear what Lord Merridan attempted last night with sweet Velanee?"
Again there was silence, but he noticed the brunette glance towards the silver haired ranger. The expressionless face studied her comrade.
"Personally," Dor'rath put in, "I'm more surprised it failed. Velanee is enamored like honey in a hive, but Sarrine is what, ninety-something? Nearly the big century? Most flowers her age tangle up like a rosebush for a taste of nectar. Believe me, I'd know."
He readied himself for another "vulgar" comment, but the lady resisted. She said instead, "Young Sarrine is no promiscuous lily."
"Yeah, harpist, dancer, ranger, and lives straight as her arrows. I'm happy for them. What about you? What were you doing around your big century?"
Silence. For a moment, Dor'rath thought he lost the quiet lady, but just as his hope was waning, she dropped, "My turn was two years before I made my escape from an elvish trafficking service at the hands of the Amani. I slew all of my captors, recovered my sister's defamed body, and returned to Silvermoon to join the Ranger Corps."
Dor'rath froze with a dagger still turning between his fingers. Flaerie continued walking without notice. "Split the jagged heavens and cry the ashblood, Flaerie. Fuck." He hurried to catch up with her. "And I thought I had everyone beat. For my turn, I tried robbing the last High House, the Starscreamer's. I was caught, they bought the rights to my imprisonment, and I spent fifteen years in Starscreamer care. It was Alleria who bought me under alias, trained me, and sent me back to finish the job."
"The Starscreamer Swindle," Flaerie recognized. "It bankrupted their regime and collapsed the corrupt house. You did well for your turn."
Dor'rath huffed, sheathing his daggers. "Tell that to the biomancer responsible for fixing me. I spent a full tissue cycle – eight years – to recover from the torture. I'll tell you, the rumors about the Starscreamer's weren't rumors."
Just as he was preparing another prompt to get Flaerie to speak, she mentioned calmly, "For a man castrated and skinned alive, you have preserved your most base personality."
His easy laughter followed. "She was one hell of a biomancer. I suppose you could say she had a vested interest in seeing my missing bits restored. See, Alleria let me keep half of the swindle for my troubles. Half of a High House fortune. All of it was spent on that biomancer. The first quarter of it was used in the treatment. The rest was given when we married."
Flaerie glanced at him, green eyes neutral but with an underlying zest that had Dor'rath wink back. Her interest was piqued. He answered the lurking question. "I am, as you say, a vulgar fellow, with an insistent streak beneath me. Eight years is a long time for a lovely, very single, increasingly wealthy biomancer to hold out in such intimate conditions. She was one hell of a biomancer, Flaerie. The best years of my life were spent with her."
"Scourge?"
"Close. Second War. We went together, but only I came back."
This time, when the silence came, Dor'rath let it settle. He hadn't meant to turn the conversation about him. Flaerie ended it on her terms. "If we are doing this, why is it you stayed?"
A classic Exilee question. Why did Dor'rath stay when Kael'thas went mad in Nether Storm? Why did he deny the call of the Scryers?
Why indeed, Dor'rath wondered. "I lost Zoe. I lost Alleria. I lost my home. I lost my daughters, my son. In face of losing my Prince, well... I'm good at taking things. Not so much at losing them. So I let myself believe what he said – like we all did, I think. What else did we have at that point? I popped bloodgems like cherries and remembered better times. When the Fall came, it was back to form for me. Survival. Stealing. The works." He shrugged, though she might not see it. "You?"
"I didn't care," Flaerie admitted simply. Dor'rath glanced her way, but he only saw her shoulder and profile.
Well, there were certainly those types towards the end. Feeding on demons, working for demons, destroying innocents and the world alike? It didn't matter at that point. She had her skills and was given her objectives. There were many of that type towards the end.
Shoving his gloved hands in the furred pockets of his winter uniform, Dor'rath asked, "Do you now?" He waited a beat for no answer, then repeated, "Do you care now?"
Flaerie kept her attention forward, following the army – an army that marched towards Skinless horrors and madness, ranks of dimmed and trampled light against the infinite darkness. Everyday, more soldiers were cracking under the mental pressure, the whispers that ate at their minds. Paranoia permeated their every person, the fear that at any moment your nearest comrade might fall into the black or turn against you, like Genveera the Swan.
Flaerie kept her sharp chin angled towards that future, her eyes wide and alert – yet utterly disinterested – and she said in the same tone,
"No."
Sometimes, long after that moment, Dor'rath would recall his brief conversation with the ranger lady and ask himself if she wasn't perhaps the most trustworthy one of them all.
AN: And that gets us all caught up.
Or at least, that was the author's note I left 6 months ago when I finished this chapter. Let's real-talk for a second here. Normally, whenever I take a long exception to writing, I'm usually filling that time with another story, which would be posted around the same time I finally post an update here. Between July and October, that was true. After that, I took a month-long vacation through Europe and came back completely unable to write. For whatever reason, I just couldn't do it anymore. I tried to wait out the dry spell and delay by posting an already finished chapter back in like January, but I still wasn't writing. Once or twice I managed a sputtering start of the next chapter, hated it and promptly deleted it. I was so burnt out on the matter I couldn't even motivate myself to finish editing this chapter and post it.
There is some hope though. Three days ago, again for whatever reason, there was this flash of angry motivation, and I booted up this story and hammered out the next chapter in two days, scrapping my old plans and starting fresh. I'll admit I'm extremely rusty, so it isn't perfect, but it's done and it isn't awful. I hope. Also, I'm back to writing. I hope.
Just thought I owed an explanation for the long, very empty delay. ...Annnnd I just deleted my entire notes document thinking it was the one for posting new chapters. Haha, fuck.
