Author's note: This will be a slow process, so stick with me. I have three beta readers but things are still missed. My apologies.

Warcraft and it's creations belong to Blizzard Entertainment. Atlas is the product of a medicated dream.

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up."

- Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones

Chapter 2

Flashback Cont.

The day Gaeb, Rorick, and Bran were set to leave with their new orders to join the fight in the Twilight Highlands the sun shone brightly and the sky was clear. The transport gryphons were anxious to stretch their wings which made them difficult to mount. Rorick had a tumble once already while trying to get a feel for how to sit upon one.

"He mounts his ride like he does his women. No skill a 'tall." Gaeb jabbed.

Rorick dove for his waist and they both hit the ground rolling and grappling. Bran laughed hard and had a smile that reached his eyes. Someone cleared their throat behind them and both men wrestling froze in place. Bran looked over his shoulder to see Moira standing there, a folded piece of paper in her hand.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important…" She stated sarcastically. Both Rorick and Gaeb scrambled to get up and dust themselves off.

Bran gave Moira a sheepish grin and two strides brought him within her space. She passed the paper to him and then tongued the corner of her mouth again.

"It's where letters can reach me… if you need someone to write while you are away." She moved as if to walk away without an answer, but Bran caught her wrist.

"Of course. I'll write you every day." Bran urged sincerely, seeing the hesitation on her face. "Much better to have words of comfort and normality from a woman than one night of scandal." He added as an afterthought and gave a sharp nod over his shoulder to his comrades.

Rorick's face turned scarlet and Gaeb just rolled his eyes.

Moira nodded and silently waved to the other men before hurrying back down the ramp to make sure the inn had not gone up in flames during her brief absence.

Bran put the folded paper in his shirt's breast pocket and finished loading his gryphon. He would be counting the days until their first rotation home.

Letters came in bulk to their camp location and he gave one to the courier everyday even though he knew they only headed out on gryphon every few days. Each time he looked forward to what she had to say. Eventually the words exchanged became ones of endearment. Once the courier only delivered one letter and it bore sad news of her mothers passing and the debt that was owed on the inn. Bran gripped the letter tightly while rain pattered down on his leather armor. The highlands were a mess of muddy hills stained red with clay and blood. His soaked hair guided droplets onto the letter, smearing some of the words he had already read. Pulling a hard drag on the paper rolled herb one of the priests who dabbled in herbalism had been selling, he contemplated Moira's situation.

She was going to lose the inn after the hard work that had been put into it. Bran sent a payment to the debtor in Moira's name with a request for anonymity in hopes that it would hold until he could get back. He felt himself growing protective over Moira and a sense of responsibility. After nearly two winters of the harsh war that waged around him, the rotation relief flew in and Bran never packed faster.

Once home in Stormwind he did the only thing he'd wanted to do for months. Bran courted Moira as was proper. His next orders kept him close to the city leading security patrols just outside of Elwynn Forest. Bran acquired a quaint house in the city and settled in nicely. Each night he was home he spent it with Moira and all was good. Old scars were fading and Bran found himself wanting to bring another person into his life for good once again.

Bran stumbled from the bar and walked to that very house he once occupied. The flower boxes in the window now grew only weeds and the windows were in dire need of a cleaning. Someone else lived there now. He couldn't bring himself to keep it after everything that had transpired within the dwelling. He let himself stand there a moment, propped up against the adjacent building.

A year later and it hurt almost as much as it had the day he had returned from a night of patrolling to find his door ajar and slightly off one hinge.

Beads of sweat had gathered about his temples and slowly found their way to his jaw line. Bran's hands were tangled in Moira's curls, cupping her head as he lay naked over her equally nude form. He nuzzled her cheek with his nose that was very suggestive behavior of the wolf residing just beneath his skin. He felt Moira smile against his face and they stayed like that for a moment; him still buried deep within her and her thighs pressing in on his hips. Bran wanted to memorize this for when he was stationed out in the fighting, which was extremely likely given the reports coming in.

Moira adjusted her hips slightly and it sent a sweet shiver through his body. Bran emitted heat at an alarming rate and a hot bath would definitely be required. His long hair was damp from their love making, as was hers. He wasn't sure if it was her own perspiration or mostly his. Either way his gaze traveled over her face, noting her heavily lidded eyes and finding her beautiful.

"Marry me." Bran froze when the words left his lips. He had not expected to speak the things that were traveling through his mind, but out it had come. He watched as she stilled and gave a stare that bore holes deep into his soul. Her face was unreadable to Bran and it made him feel like he was losing this hand. He withdrew from her body and lay to the left side of her, caressing her bare skin with his fingertips.

Moira looked away and bit her bottom lip. "I-, may I have the day to think before answering?" She asked shyly. Several emotions crossed her face at once. "I mean, you are a good man, Bran. There is no doubt of that. I've just been on my own for so long. It's overwhelming to know I don't have to be. This is hard to explain-"

Bran silenced her stammering with his mouth on hers. It was quick but confident and invoked a sigh from Moira."Of course. We have all the time in the world." He placed light kisses across her clavicle and entwined his fingers in hers. He brushed a mark on her forearm and eyed it curiously. "What caused this? I meant to ask when I came in, but we were… preoccupied with other things."

Moira took her hand back and rubbed it on her side. "Just a silly mistake I made at the Inn. It's nothing."

The tension in the room was so thick he could taste it. His unanswered question hung in the air, but Bran had promised her time to think and it presented a good opportunity to take a walk. With a surge of energy he was up and out of bed in search of his clothes. Once he was both dressed, salt laden skin and all, he kissed her forehead. "I'm going for a walk. I might as well see where the patrol is headed tonight… not that it ever changes." With that he slipped in his boots and was out of the house. His gut was twisted in a knot that he attributed to pure nervousness considering the change that would take place in his life. What he did not see was Moira's guilt stricken face as she rubbed the deeply marred tissue on her arm.

Rorick was feeding his hound trimmings from the butcher when Bran rounded the corner near the northeast bridge of Old Town district with a smoke hanging from his lips. Gaeb was tossing back a skin of mead and making crude remarks about the animal much to Rorick's irritation.

"Ay! Bran! Tell Rorick 'ere that his mutt's prick wouldn't produce hunting hounds even if he pleasured 'em himself!" Gaeb slurred and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was ignored, however, by his two friends. Nothing good ever came from Gaeb and his drinking unless a brawl broke out. Then Gaeb was handy to have around as he sobered quickly for a good fight.

"I did it. I asked her." Bran let the words rush out and he felt better for it. The weight of it felt as though it had been crushing him the entire walk.

Rorick looked up and smiled wide. "Is there a congratulations in order then?"

"Not yet. I caught her off guard and she needs time." It wasn't a wait Bran was fond of enduring and it was slightly obvious in his tone. Part of him was still afraid of the possibility she would deny him.

"Ugh! You and yer fucking women. Twice now you've had 'orrible taste." Gaeb's face was scrunched in pure disgust that the two other men did not understand. Gaeb corked his mead and stumbled off, swaying alongside of the canal's edge belting out a sombre tune.

"What is his deal? Honestly. I think it's good, Bran. She seems solid, that one." Rorick scrubbed his calloused fingers over the hounds back. The animal stretched appreciatively, drool escaping at a slow drip to the cobblestone.

"Ah, you know Gaeb. 'Women are fer beddin an nothin else!'" Bran did his best interpretation of Gaeb's constant drunken accent for their amusement. Both men chuckled and Rorick stuck out his hand.

"Good luck to you. I expect we'll make an event of it, assuming she accepts." Rorick and Bran shook hands that ended up a one-armed embrace of the two friends.

After bidding Rorick farewell, Bran stepped into the officer's quarters to inspect patrol routes that were tacked on the wall and found them exactly how he had expected; unchanged and a copy of the previous night. Suiting up took only minutes and the horses were already prepped at the stables.

As the sun peaked over the horizon the patrol unit was riding their way back over the access bridge of the city and making the change over. Having absolutely no activity, save a few rowdy kobolds and a fox disturbing a farmers livestock, the process was simple and quick.

Bran was anxious to get home and see if Moira was still there. He'd decided during the night that he would not bring up the subject of marriage at all and let her come to him about it instead. When she was ready, he had mulled, and only then.

What brought him pause was his front door. It was uneven and loose from the top hinge, but otherwise pushed to. Before grabbing the knob he let his nose check the air. Nothing smelled off. There had been no intruders; just a stray cat that had slept part of the night on the stoop. The door opened with some effort, scraping the frame. Stepping inside, Bran checked the air for scents again but it was the state of the sitting room that alarmed him. Furniture was over turned and broken, the walls bore deep scores in many directions.

The growl that took Bran's full attention put ice in his veins. He stilled in place and kept his eyes forward. It was coming from beyond the table where he took his meals. The sound of claws on the wooden floor let Bran know that the worgen in his house was making it's way closer on all fours. He sent his senses on overdrive and could not find the scent of the worgen. The only thing he smelled was his own sweat and Moira.

"Oh gods…" Bran whispered. Moira.

She was afflicted with the curse, but how? I did this…he realized grimly. Inch by inch Bran lowered himself to the floor to show that he meant her no harm. He cast his eyes to the side in time to see her muzzle coming out of the darkness at his face, her eyes golden and feral. She sniffed his hair hard enough to send it back into his face. With a high whine she retreated and Bran exhaled hard. He let his hand creep out in her direction and stopped when he felt the softness of her pelt. Moira gave a warning growl but Bran did not relent.

On a chance that it would help, Bran changed. The beast came to the surface with it's stark blue-green eyes that contrasted greatly with the black fur. The mistake wasn't apparent until Moira had him pinned down and her teeth at his neck. Bran kicked with his feet at her midsection and rolled over her. His instincts were screaming at him to fight, but the human side of him didn't want to hurt her.

A second of distraction was all Moira needed to slip his hold and flee from the house. Bran recovered and ran after her, following a startled yelp from an early rising resident and shouts from the guards that walked the city. He could hear the hunting hounds calling out to their masters after being set free. The hunt was on and Bran knew he had to reach her first.

He choked at his thoughts. He felt his eyes burning with threatening tears but he refused to allow them their escape. After a year Bran never forgot the screams that had erupted from the Trade District and the shot that rang out shortly after. Rorick had deadly aim with his rifle and was not close enough to smell and recognize Moira. Two merchants who had opened stalls early to sell produce had died at her beast's fury. The command to kill the feral worgen had come quickly out of the concern of safety for the rest of the citizens. Two souls had died that day and Bran had refused the change since.

Now he was a shadow of a man; much like his father had been before his death, drowning his sorrows in strongly distilled spirits each night. Rorick tried to visit whenever he could but being one of the best scouts the guard had seen in awhile kept him out in the field. Rorick also carried a great deal of guilt from his actions that day and seeing Bran no doubt reminded him of that.

A few minutes walk brought Bran to the house he now lived in. It was much smaller than the one he'd resided in with Moira but he no longer needed the extra space. He shed his boots and stripped himself of his uniform. It fell to the floor in the living room and he climbed slowly up the stairs to his bedroom. He'd left the window cracked and a flask on the sill. With one hand he pushed the window fully open and it slapped noisily on the outside of the house. His neighbors dog gave a startled bark and finally rested. Bran didn't care about much anymore. He found himself enervated and hollow.

Turning the flask over in his hands, he brushed his thumb over the engraved name of his father. Dredrick had drank himself into the grave during Bran's two years out. Bran had accepted the likelihood of his fathers fate long before it happened. They had grown estranged and Dredrick had changed even more so than he had after his wife's death. Bran questioned if he was meant to follow in those same footsteps. With that he unscrewed the cap and turned it up, only to find the flask void of it's contents.

He stood there at the window like that for some time simply thinking. Bran had been reassigned to manage the stockades as one of the jailers and he suspected it was due to his deteriorating mental health. No one wanted an unstable man at their back when push came to shove in war. It was how good men died on the battlefield and Bran did not blame them. Working the stockades meant he did not have to shift and most of the prisoners were either passive or smart enough to fear a worgen as their keeper.

The glazed over feeling of drunkenness was starting to subside and Bran fumbled for additional bottles. Each one he rescued from beneath furniture and dark corners had been previously drained. It wasn't until he had resigned himself back to the open window did his fingers brush the sidearm he carried. Pulling it from it's leather holster at his hip, he examined the fine craftsmanship of the weapon. Great detail had gone into the metal filigree that lapse the dark wood handle. He used to keep it polished until light reflected off both metal and wood alike but now it was tarnished from sweat and the oil of his hands.

In the second it took for Bran to inhale through his clenched teeth, he had raised the barrel's end to his temple. It was then that he looked out once more and saw a dark figure disappear over the next rooftop.