CHAPTER 13
"So Logan walks in, right, like some kind of hero, wearing all his armour, and a big old gash across his head, carrying this girl in his arms, and says to me, he says: could I look after her for a few nights until she gets better. And you know how much I fancy him, right? I mean, he's so delicious, I just couldn't say no, but now here's me thinking, who is she and why is he making her my problem? And anyway what's in it for me? I mean, besides the silver he paid me."
Idira opened her eyes. She lay in four poster bed covered by a threadbare canopy, heavily patched. Two tallow candles stood in cheap iron holders, their flames bobbing up and down, caught in a draught, sending up little gouts of black smoke. In the candleholders' drip pans, puddles of melted tallow shimmered, greasy. One candle holder perched on top of a scuffed, otherwise bare dresser, the other stood right at the edge of a rickety bedside table, its candle jammed into the holder at a crooked angle so its fat dripped down the side of the gouged and scarred cabinet and onto the stone-flagged floor.
The light from the candles made Idira's eyes hurt. She closed them again, sensing an awakening ache, a deep hollowness gnawing at her, suffusing her in grief, though she had no idea why. Something had happened. Something terrible. She struggled to remember. Whatever it was, it felt important. Flashes of memories, sharp as lightning rose up, incoherent, only to disappear just as quickly. She searched her mind, washed clean like the shore of the beach at low tide. Nothing.
From outside the half-open door came the clatter of crockery and the steady clop clop of someone chopping vegetables against a wooden board. Further away, laughter, singing, the merry strings of a fiddle, playing a jig. Someone called for more wine in a shouty, obnoxious voice. The delicious smell of roasting meat and the warmth of fresh baked buns mingled with the sour tang of spilled ale, all of it overlaid by the pervasive scent of tallow candles and wood smoke.
The voice continued, a little nasally, though it was softened by a pleasing lilt, with just an edge of tease, leaving Idira uncertain whether the woman's words were serious or in jest.
"Now don't you be looking at me like that Ryback, you know Logan's had me once or twice, well," she giggled, "more'n twice. And the last time, he even stayed all the way until the morning, although it might have been because he was so drunk, but still, don't you be telling me he's not thinking of taking things further, alright? But this favour he's asked of me, well, it takes the biscuit. Who does he think he is dumping some girl on me like that, without so much as telling me her name or what she is to him?"
Ryback, whoever they were, said nothing. The sound of chopping continued, steady and calm, like the hooves of a plodding horse.
"Anyway," she continued, lowering her voice, conspiratorial, "I don't like the look of her. She's got strange eyes. When Logan laid her on the bed, she opened them a little, and I swear on Lord Uther's grave that her eyes glowed bright purple. Like nothing I ever saw in my life. Gave me the willies, it did."
The chopping ceased. "Don't you have tables to be seeing to, Elly?" a man asked, his voice gravelly and a little rough, like he drank and smoked a lot. The chopping started again, at exactly the same pace.
"Well! I never!" Elly exclaimed in mock outrage. "What's got into you?" She laughed, though it sounded a little mean. Idira could hear the sound of crockery being loaded onto a tray, careless. "Oooh, maybe our Ryback has a thing for our new guest. Maybe he wants to give her some Ryback sausage, eh? You do like it freaky don't you. I heard about you and that draenei healer, Maegan told me."
The chopping slowed for a beat, then continued, a little faster and definitely much louder.
"Logan's girl is real pretty," Ryback finally replied, obviously choosing to ignore Elly's taunt. He stopped chopping. An empty pot clanged onto the table followed by the scrape of a knife against the cutting board. A cascade of thuds as the vegetables tumbled into the pot. "Curves in all the right places. Can see why he likes her, purple eyes aside."
"What do you mean Logan's girl?" Elly demanded, sharp. "I'm his girl. Everyone knows it too." She grunted, presumably from lifting the serving tray filled with plates of food. She huffed, sounding deeply annoyed as she moved across the stone floor and stomped up a little flight of creaky, wooden stairs and out into the noise of an inn, which was where Idira guessed Logan had brought her. She wished she could remember who he was and why she was here.
"Huh," Ryback said, sniffing, indignant. "'Everyone knows it', she says. You're dreaming girl. Any man with eyes in his head can see Logan's just using you cause he can't have the one he really wants. I always wondered who she was, but I don't need to wonder anymore, not the way he was looking at her when he brought her in, like he was scared out of his mind she was going to die. If that ain't love, I don't know what is."
The sound of more vegetables tumbled onto the table. The chopping started again. Lulled by the rhythmic sound of his work, Idira felt the pull of sleep. She had almost slipped away when Ryback stopped, abrupt, and huffed.
"And I only kissed that draenei for a bet. That doesn't make me freaky. And even if I did do something with her later—which I didn't—well, not much, anyway, still, it's not like I took a gnome home with me. Now that would definitely be freaky. Draenei are ok, though. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all."
When Idira opened her eyes again, a well-built man wearing a leather tunic and breeches sat on the edge of the bed beside her, his big hand holding hers. She watched him as he stroked her fingers with his rough, calloused ones, deep in thought, unaware of her gaze on him. Though his long, dark hair had been tied back in a ponytail, his face remained hidden in shadow. Only one candle still burned, the one on the dresser, though it guttered, clinging to the last remnants of its life. Outside her room, the inn lay shrouded in quiet. A faint glow came from the half-open door, presumably from the banked fire in the kitchen. A terrified squeak, followed by the patter of feline feet, as a cat chased and killed her prey. The crunch of tiny bones. The sound reminded Idira of something, but she couldn't remember what. Had she had a cat?
The candle spluttered and went out, the shadows deepened. The man sighed and let go of her hand. She closed her eyes, listening to the creak of leather as he leaned over and stroked the hair from her forehead.
"Come back," he murmured. "It's been two days now. I'm getting really worried."
She peeked out from between her lashes. The only light came from the banked fire, but it was enough for her to see the faint glint of tears in his eyes.
"Logan?" she whispered, guessing by his behaviour he might be the same man Elly and Ryback had been talking about. Despite having no memory of who he was, or what he meant to her, she tried to sit up. She couldn't, she had no strength at all.
He blinked, his fingers darting to his eyes, trying to rid himself of his tears. "Idira! Thank the Light," he exhaled, his voice tight, as his arm came around her shoulders, strong, solid, reassuring. He eased her up with almost no effort and settled her back against the bed's headboard.
So he was the Logan she had heard the others speaking of. She could just about make out the contours of his face, the gleam of his even, white teeth as he smiled a little.
"It's been a long wait," he said, quiet. "You have no idea how relieved I am to see you awake again. How do you feel?"
Numb, she felt numb. But she didn't think that was the answer he was looking for, instead she answered, "Tired, mostly. I can't remember anything from before I woke up, even though it feels like I have much to recall," she hesitated, then decided not to tell him she couldn't remember who he was, at least until she knew whether she could trust him. She glanced at the door. "Where am I?"
"The Pig and Whistle Inn, Stormwind," he replied. "I'm a regular here since it's close to the barracks. Elly's the head waitress here. I asked her to look after you for me until I can figure out what to do next. I couldn't take you to the barracks with me, obviously." He fell quiet, appearing to take some time to consider his next words. "Perhaps it is for the best you don't remember anything for now," he sighed. "You need to get your strength back first. Plenty of time for the rest later."
In the wake of his words an awkward silence fell, Idira couldn't help but think of the conversation she had overheard between Elly and Ryback when she had first woken up. Before she could stop herself she blurted out, "Is Elly your girlfriend?"
"What?" Logan started. "No!"
"She seems to think so," Idira pointed out, dry. "I heard her saying you—"
"Well, she's not," Logan interrupted, his tone leaving no doubt in Idira's mind that the conversation was over. He fell silent for a beat, then took her hand again.
"Idira," he said, low, hesitant, "I know we can't ever be together like a man and wife, but if you want, now that you are all alone, I'd like to take care of you. I've been promoted a few times in the last four years and have a good amount of money saved up, not quite enough yet to buy an apartment and furnish it, but I'm close." He stopped and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, the fingers of his other hand absently stroking the back of hers. "I was thinking maybe when you get better, you could work here for your food and board, and tips of course, until I can get us a place of our own. What do you think?"
She sensed he was nervous as he waited for her answer, as though he had offered her a marriage proposal. She wished she knew who he was to her. Would she accept if she had all her memories? He certainly had presence, and even in the dim light of the banked fire she could see why Elly had a thing for him, he was the kind of man women dream of. But what did he mean about them not being able to be together as a man and wife, why wouldn't she want to be with him? Maybe there was something wrong with her. Would she have to live with him and his wife one day? She didn't like the thought of that.
Now that you are all alone. His words flashed through her mind, bright, sharp, vivid. An intense stab of grief struck her, so strong it took her breath away. Her throat tightened, aching and raw, as ragged emotions, anger, sadness, rage and longing tore through her. She pressed her hand against her chest, to ease the ache in her heart. Something terrible had happened, she could feel it. Something so awful her mind wasn't letting her remember, though she sensed she wouldn't remain like this forever, oblivious to what had gone before. The sensation of grief melted away, as quick as it had speared her. She blinked back her tears, biting her lower lip as a tendril of hope rose up from the ruins of her pain, a feeling of certainty flooding her, though she could find no foundation for it. Someone else was still out there, waiting. Logan was wrong.
"Idira?" Logan asked, quiet. "Will you share your life with me this way? I promise to keep my private arrangements separate."
So he wasn't going to marry anyone else. Stranger and stranger. She realised with a start Ryback had been right, Elly was nothing more than a 'private arrangement' to make up for the one Logan couldn't have, who apparently happened to be her.
"Perhaps I should remember the past first," she said, soft, "before I answer you."
He nodded, though she sensed the weight of his disappointment. "Of course. I should have waited." He reached up and stroked her hair, his touch gentle, at direct odds to his powerful presence. "I tried to find your friends, I thought maybe it might help for you to see them again. The priestess Arinna and Bishop Mattias are gone; the good Bishop died of old age three years ago, and Arinna went to Northrend to join the Argent Crusade quite some years back. I believe she's still there, training others in the way of healing. She's married now, to a paladin." He paused, his chiselled profile outlined by the faint light coming from outside the door. He glanced back at her. "The Lady Nin, I'm terribly sorry to say, died when the fiery dragon attacked Stormwind, they said it was instantaneous, that she did not suffer. When you are better, I could take you to her memorial in the royal cemetery. We can stop at the flower seller and bring flowers if you like. Anything you want, even roses. She was very good to you, gave you a bank note worth ten gold, you spent it all on books . . . "
Logan fell silent, waiting, she presumed, to see if she would remember anything. Idira tried to remember the bank note and the books, searching through the corridors of her memories, running from one deserted room to another, traversing the empty halls hoping for a glimpse of the faces that belonged to the names, or even an item which might connect her present life to the one she had lost. But everywhere she went only blank, grey rooms and stark silence greeted her.
"Nothing?" Logan asked, quiet.
Idira shook her head, ashamed. Those people had meant something to her once, yet she felt nothing for them, even the one who'd died, who had been so kind to her.
"Well, never mind for now," he said, squeezing her hand, his calluses thick and rough against her palm. "The Light must be protecting you, when the time is right you'll remember. I just hope I'm there with you when you do."
Elly hated her. There was no two ways about it. She didn't even try to hide it. Within a day of Logan's visit, Idira recovered enough to get up and wander into the kitchen. Ryback put her to work peeling potatoes, and for the next three days as she gained her strength back, she stayed in the kitchen and kept her head down, doing little undemanding jobs to earn her keep; turning the spit over the fire, washing dishes, polishing copper pans, and peeling an endless supply of vegetables.
Despite the monotony of her labour, keeping busy soothed her, distracting her from the infuriatingly tiny glimpses of her previous life that randomly surfaced, ephemeral as soap bubbles, only to disappear as quickly as they arrived, leaving her agitated and grieving though she could not say for what or whom.
Elly spent as little time as possible in the kitchen, but when she did come in out of necessity it always felt like the temperature dropped to an icy chill, even though the cook fire blazed as hot as ever.
As Idira picked up another potato to peel, she thought of Elly's last visit to the kitchen when she had talked to Ryback about her, as though she wasn't sitting right there, making demeaning comments about the shabbiness of Idira's dress until Ryback told her to shut up. And then, as though thinking about her had summoned her, Idira heard Elly's quick tread coming down the steps into the kitchen. She hunched down, trying to make herself as small as possible.
Elly swept in, her face a little flushed and her hair falling loose from its pins. She slapped her empty tray onto the big table in the middle of the kitchen, it clattered against the wood, loud, shattering the kitchen's calm. Her hands on her hips, she swaggered over to where Idira sat working through her pile of potatoes.
"Hey, Purple," Elly said from behind her, scornful. "My customers are complaining their roast vegetables still have peel on them, I told them you'd come out to apologise in person." Idira could feel Elly's hateful gaze on her, boring a hole into the back of her head.
"Leave her alone," Ryback cut in, as he sectioned a side of venison. "She peels them just fine, and well you know it."
"Shut up, Ryback," Elly snapped, "you're not the boss of me Maegan is, and she said Idira has to come out."
"Yeah probably cause you made a big scene," Ryback shot back, slamming the butcher knife into the table. He picked up a cloth and wiped his hands. "Didn't you hear what Logan said? She's been through a lot, and now you wanna kick a dog when it's down?"
"Screw Logan," Elly said, bitterness oozing from her. "This ain't no charity organisation, Maegan says either she does the work right or she's out."
"It's alright," Idira said to Ryback, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going. She'd promised Logan she would do her best to fit in at The Pig and Whistle and earn her keep until either she found her memories or he had enough saved up to buy a place for them to live. "I'll go. I must have made a mistake."
"See," Elly smirked, triumphant. "Come on, Purple, move it." Impatient, she pushed Idira up the stairs, making her trip on the hem of her dress so that she stumbled in front of the men standing by the bar.
"Watch yourself there," Elly said as she came up behind, all smiles for the patrons, "the steps are a little uneven. You'll get the hang of it soon enough with all the tables you'll be clearing."
"Tables?" Idira asked, confused. "I thought I was coming to—"
"Well, don't just stand there blabbering like a freak," Elly interrupted, smiling and dimpling, making a show of herself in front of the men eyeing her as she handed Idira an enormous tray from behind the bar. She pointed at a table surrounded by four young soldiers, new recruits by the look of their youthful, unscarred faces, full drunk, singing and carousing, their table overflowing with empty tankards and platters. A shove, a little rough, landed in against the small of her back, sending Idira stumbling into one of the grizzled men by the bar. He glowered and shoved her back with a curse before downing his shot.
"Go on, then," Elly simpered, looking as harmless as a butterfly. "Get to work, and don't forget to wipe the table down. Maegan don't like the tables getting all sticky." A wet dishrag, cold and sour and smelling of old ale, slapped against the side of Idira's head.
"Oops!" Elly giggled, rolling her eyes at her audience. Some of the men chuckled, lifting their shot glasses to her, indulgent. "Thought you saw that coming. Silly me."
Wiping her sleeve against the foul smell coming from her cheek, Idira knelt and picked up the stinking rag, humiliated by the sniggers of the men at the bar. She edged her way toward the group of recruits, uneasy. None of them looked to be more than nineteen. Just boys, really, she reassured herself. She could handle them. She eased her way between them, surreptitious, lifting the crockery and tankards away and loading them onto the tray sitting on the empty table beside them when one of them grabbed her wrist and yanked her towards him.
"Wouldja look at that!" he bellowed, his breath hot in her face, "Elly was right, lookit them purple eyes. A proper freak."
The others leaned forward, their movements clumsy and exaggerated by the drink. One of them knocked over a half-full tankard, and stale ale spread across the table, pungent. They laughed, falling over themselves trying to get out of the way of the drips sliding over the table's edge. Their attention fully diverted, they forgot about her.
"Ge' us a kiss," her captor demanded, yanking her closer. She tried to pull back, but he held her fast in his grip, his strength surprising her. "I wanna see what its like to kiss a freak." His face loomed in front of hers, all crooked yellow teeth and red, spotty skin. He stuck his tongue out, its surface coated with a thick, greenish fuzz, and licked his fat, moist lips. Idira gagged and closed her eyes, pressing her lips tight together, enduring the waves of nausea washing over her at the stink of him: stale sweat and urine, booze, and something else, a powerful stench of stinky cheese coming from the direction of his groin. Despite the incongruity of the timing, a sudden memory, visceral, flickered to life in her mind's eye; of a man beaten up, laying almost naked in a dimly-lit wine cellar, a leather tunic covering his groin, the same smell of stinky cheese coming from him. She lunged after the memory, grasping after its fading tendrils, desperate to hold on to it, but as quick as it came, it was gone, vanishing just like the ones which had come before, leaving behind nothing more than a grinding, nameless residue of grief.
"That'll be enough, lad."
A strong hand grasped onto her shoulder, pulling her back from the vile stench of the boy's breath. Ryback moved between them, still holding his massive butcher knife, not like a weapon, just in his hand as though he hadn't had time to set it aside.
"How about another jug of ale, boys?" He didn't wait for them to answer, he glanced back at Idira, his face might have been impassive, but his eyes were hard and flinty. "Go fetch us a jug would you?"
She scurried away, relief cascading through her as she ran behind the bar to fetch the ale, ignoring the hateful looks Elly shot at her whenever her tormenter thought no one was looking. Ryback took the ale and set it on the table. He leaned down close to the boy's face, though how he could stand the smell of him, Idira couldn't guess. "This one's on the house," he said, in a voice that brooked no argument, "then it's time to be heading on back to your barracks."
Taking Idira by the elbow, he steered her back down into the kitchen, led her to her stool, and sat her in front of the pile of unpeeled potatoes.
"You're behind on the vegetables," he said, matter-of-fact. Without saying another word, he went to the other side of the table, lifted his big, blocky knife and carried on butchering the venison, quiet, precise, angry.
Two weeks later, after a long absence and several more episodes of Elly tormenting Idira and Ryback intervening, Logan turned up on the morning of Idira's free day wearing a well-cut pair of brown leather breeches, knee-high boots and a fitted white shirt over his muscled torso, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the laces at the neck left open at his throat. He'd tied his hair back into a messy ponytail and sported a day's worth of stubble, but instead of detracting from his looks, his roguish appearance only added to his appeal.
As she finished pinning her hair up, Idira caught him leaning against the kitchen's fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, catching up with Ryback while he waited for her to finish getting ready. She wondered for the hundredth time why she couldn't be with him, especially when he looked so terribly handsome. She went out, feeling a little shy and more than a little attracted to him. He made his farewells to Ryback and held out his arm to her, leading led her up the stairs, and out from the deserted inn, apparently oblivious to Elly's scathing, jealous glare as she polished wine glasses behind the bar.
"I thought I could show you around the city a little before going to see Lady Nin's memorial. Would you like that?" he asked as they stepped out into brilliant sunshine. Idira felt a little thrill at the thought of having so much time with him and said yes, but he didn't seem to hear. He glanced around the busy street, preoccupied and distant. Despite her own delight at the chance to explore, she sensed something was troubling him. She hoped it wasn't because of the tension with Elly, she knew Ryback had sent a message to him, warning him about what was going on, saying that he had it in hand and was watching out for her, but she wished he hadn't said anything. She didn't want Logan to think she was causing problems after all he'd done for her.
He led her on, taking her through the narrow, winding, cobbled streets of the mostly residential Old Town. Shabby chic, very trendy, Logan explained as they walked, bemoaning the fact that the apartment prices in the Old Town were the most expensive in all of Stormwind, which annoyed him since its location was convenient to the barracks. But, he'd sighed, resigned, it seemed everyone who was anyone wanted to live in the suddenly popular district because Prince Anduin had taken a fancy to drinking at one of the little coffee houses nestled in one of the Old Town's many hidden courtyards. Logan rolled his eyes at that, shaking his head, muttering about the vapid vanity of the city's residents.
They pressed on, wending their way through the jangle of people hurrying about their affairs into a narrow lane, the gables of the towering three-story houses overhanging the street so much they left the lane's cobbles in perpetual shadow. Logan took her hand and shouldered his way through a tight knot of shoppers gathered around a bakery, the delicious smell of cinnamon buns wafting from its open door making Idira's mouth water. He pulled her free of the crowd and headed towards a stone-arched gateway and into a tunnel. They came out onto a pretty, tree-lined walkway alongside a canal. In the distance several stone bridges crossed to other parts of the city. For a while, Idira was content just to follow along and look at the wonders surrounding her. Since she'd arrived at the inn, she hadn't been any further than the lanes adjacent to it, and even then only briefly since she'd been sent out to run errands and told to hurry back. She pointed at a group of children fishing from a little dock in the canal, commenting on how charming everything seemed. Logan didn't say anything. She glanced up at his profile. He stared into the distance, preoccupied, far gone in his thoughts.
She touched his arm. "Is something wrong?" she asked.
He didn't answer. She tried again. He turned, his eyes still unfocussed as he looked at her. "Hmm?"
"I asked if something is troubling you," she repeated for the third time.
She knew he'd heard her that time, because his eyes cleared and for a beat his expression betrayed him; dread, worry and tension etched their way across his features before he smoothed his look and smiled at her.
"Nothing I can't manage," he answered, patting her hand, patronising.
Idira stopped. "No," she said, holding him back, "don't do that. A blind person could see something is wrong, I want to know."
Logan looked down at his feet as he considered her request. He shifted his weight, his hand sliding up to rub the back of his neck, something Idira had begun to recognise as something he did whenever he was uncertain. Despite her instincts flaring, she held her tongue, giving him time.
He nodded at a bench, set under the shade of one of the trees lining the canal. "Let's sit down then."
He waited as she took her seat, though instead of joining her, he remained standing, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked out over the city, bustling with life and colour. Vendors stood by their carts on the opposite side of the canal calling out to browsing shoppers, holding out trinkets and baubles, their gilt edges catching the light of the morning sun. The breeze picked up, carrying with it the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with the stronger alkaline smells rising up from the canal; the earthy, humid tang of the bright green algae growing along the canal's waterline mixed with the wild freshness of icy water streaming down from the mountains, racing past them towards the sea. A little way down, on the next bench, a group of young women huddled together, giggling, eyeing Logan.
"Idira," Logan began, turning his back to the murmurs of his admirers, "I have to leave. I don't think I will be able to come back."
One of the young women laughed, a little too loud. Idira got up, offended by the incongruity of the woman's timing.
"Please, let's walk," she said, needing to put some distance between herself and the women, quickly becoming a distraction as their confidence grew and their voices raised, the subject of their conversation becoming suggestive, clearly intended for Logan's ears.
Logan nodded. He steered her towards the nearest bridge. Idira could hear the women muttering in disappointment, calling him a bore. She glanced at Logan. A muscle twitched in his jaw, his face had become hard. He looked annoyed.
"Sorry about that," he murmured.
"Do you get that a lot?" Idira asked.
He shrugged, noncommittal. "Comes and goes."
On the other side of the bridge, a cart containing bushels of flowers caught Idira's attention; roses, daisies, lilies, wildflowers and thistles jumbled together, a riot of colour, beautiful, exotic. Despite what Logan had just said, Idira couldn't stop herself from gravitating towards the enticing display. She caressed the soft petals of the flowers, leaning in to drink their heavenly scent. She smiled up at him, delighted.
"I did promise you flowers for the Lady Nin," Logan said, his face losing some of its hard edges as he watched her explore. "Anything you want, and something for yourself, too."
Idira felt her heart clench. He was so good to her, this man she couldn't remember. For a heartbeat she felt an overwhelming urge to kiss him, to touch his jaw and press her lips, light against his. Her thoughts must have played out on her face, because his eyes widened a little, and he blushed. He moved away and leaned on the canal's stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest once more as he watched her, cautious.
Warmth crept up onto her cheeks, shame flooding her. She had done something wrong, but she had no idea what. At a loss, she turned back to the flower seller, a late middle-aged woman who wore her long silver hair tied up in a loose bun. A few wispy tendrils hung down, framing her still beautiful, gentle face. As she browsed, Idira eyed the woman's immaculate dark blue dress surreptitiously; the shoulders, bodice, cuffs and hem had been embroidered with colourful little flowers. Suddenly self-conscious, she looked down at her own faded blue linen dress, ashamed. She had never thought to ask where the rest of her belongings were, perhaps this dress was all she had left to her name.
"Is there anything special you are looking for?" the seller asked, her soft voice pleasing, mimicking her manner as she prepared an arrangement, her movements elegant and graceful.
Idira shook her head, suddenly too embarrassed to reply. When the flower seller returned to her work, Idira glanced around her, eyeing the other women processing along the canal, clad in fashionable, well cut dresses and pretty hairpieces decorated with feathers, ribbons and flowers. She looked down at herself again, critical, at the threadbare state of her dress, unembroidered and plain, her hair held up in nothing more than steel pins. A flush of deep humiliation saturated her. She looked poor, a transient, a beggar even. How could Logan bear to be seen with her out in public like this? More than anything she wanted to go back to the inn. Even being bullied by Elly would be better than this terrible feeling of shame, of everyone staring at her, judging her, laughing at her.
Through her haze of tumbling emotions, she became vaguely aware another client had arrived, standing behind her, pausing to browse the seller's goods. Over the scent of the myriad of flowers she could smell another new scent coming from them, a rich, deep one. The exotic scent of vetiver root suffused her senses, filled with the heady mix of sun-warmed leather and smoky earth, overlaid with spices, cedar, bergamot, lemon and violet leaf. She closed her eyes, humiliated. People even smelled expensive here.
The seller had forgotten all about her, and had turned her full attention to her new client, plucking various flowers from the buckets, while smiling and asking if they wanted the usual or should she create something new. Cringing with shame, Idira backed up, intending to slip away, back to the gritty familiarity of the inn, where everyone looked as ragged as she when her heel caught the back of her hem and she staggered, bumping into the client behind her, her head banging against the solid muscle of a man's chest. Several thick tresses of her hair slipped free from their hair pins and tumbled down over her face. A leather clad hand came to her elbow. Strong yet gentle fingers held her against him, steadying her as she stumbled on the uneven cobbles.
"There now, I've got you," the man said, his voice deep and resonating. Her heart juddered. She recognised that voice. Deep memories welled up, prodding at the edges of her mind, seeking a way in. From behind the screen of her hair, she peeked up at the tall, powerful man beside her, surveying him, grateful he couldn't see her face. Steel-grey eyes looked down at her from a face hardened by battle. A pair of diagonal scars, long healed and pale against his tanned skin sliced across his left cheek. His square jaw bore several days' worth of dark stubble, and his silver hair lay tousled over his forehead as though he had just left his bed. From above his dark blue tunic and heavy leather shoulder collar, he smiled, his tired, battle-weary features lighting up, transforming him into a breathtakingly handsome man.
A memory trickled free, a dream of her standing on a balcony in a floating city, of the same piercing eyes looking down at her. Before she had time to process it, other dreams and visions of him exploded into her mind, of him on another planet, of him fighting in a battle, they washed over her, reigniting forgotten memories and thoughts; blazing through her, awakening her longing for the man on the balcony, and her realisation that her inability to love Logan was because of this man. The name arrived. It slashed, visceral, through her torso. Khadgar. She shivered, her body tingling, resonating in his sudden presence. He was back in Azeroth, somehow no longer trapped on another planet. He stood before her, solid. Real. Perfect. His fingers squeezed her elbow, gentle.
"A fine day to be buying flowers, don't you think?" he asked, conversational, utterly oblivious to her epiphany.
Before she could answer, more memories rushed in to replace the ones of Azeroth's hero. Violent, dark, nightmarish ones. She backed up, her hands coming to cover her face as the memories crashed into her, relentless, vicious. She shook her head, moaning. A pot-belly stove left in the yard. VanCleef tearing Myra's dress open. Benny butchered on the deck of a ship inside a black cavern. Papa attacking their house with canons, the walls and floors quaking. A little bundle of soaking black fur, trapped in the porch steps. The decimating blasts of the Legion's ships. Papa cutting her throat with a kitchen knife, trying to kill her. Demons, everywhere, surrounding her house. Her little companion, Margle hanging limp, half-eaten in a demon's claws. Her Light exploding out of her. And then, just when she thought she couldn't bear anymore, one last memory rose up, shattering all the others.
"Unambi!" she cried out, grief overwhelming her. Emptiness clawed at her, threatening to consume her. Devastated, she pulled free of Khadgar's grip and ran to Logan who caught her, holding her head pressed against his chest as she wept.
"Is she alright?" she heard Khadgar ask as he approached, genuine concern edging his voice.
She felt Logan nod, his arms tightening around her, protective. "She survived a Legion attack," he answered, grim, "but she lost all her memories afterwards. I think they just came back."
Khadgar made a quiet sound of empathy. Idira felt his fingers touch her shoulder. Despite her misery, his touch awakened something in her, something dormant, half-starved and aching with longing.
"We will prevail, they shall not have Azeroth," Khadgar murmured, his voice filled with conviction. "I wish I could do more to ease your pain than offer my condolences, but I swear, I will not rest until the Legion is driven from our world. I have sworn to fight to my death to make Azeroth safe from the demonic horde once and for all. You may consider this my personal promise to you as well."
He turned and went back to the seller, speaking in a low voice as he made his selection and completed his purchase. Idira wanted to listen to him, to drink in every detail of him, but her heart wouldn't let her. All she could think of, could feel, was the ache of loneliness for the one she had lost, the one who had given up his life to save her. Unambi.
Khadgar walked away. Idira tucked her head tighter against Logan, letting him stroke her hair as she shuddered in his arms, guilt, grief and loss threatening to overwhelm her. Thoughts, random and directionless skittered across the tatters of her mind, teetering between the shock of her awakened memories to the realisation she had finally just met the man she had been waiting her whole life to meet. She let Logan hold her, his big hand stroking the back of her head as more pieces of her life fell into place, settling into position, filling in the ugly details of her tragic life, forcing her to relive every heartbreak, every betrayal, every loss. The image of Khadgar looking down at her flashed through her mind, vivid, blotting out all her other memories. No. She shook her head, willing the image from her thoughts. Now was not the time to think of Khadgar. He could wait. One day she would see him again, she was certain of it, but right now, there was only one she cared for, one she could think of, one she still needed to grieve. Unambi.
She clung to Logan, and wept.
Late that night, after the kitchen had been closed down and silence had fallen, Idira sat, exhausted from crying beside Logan, her back against the bed's headboard, staring at the wall. He had stayed with her all through the long day, holding her, wiping away her tears and, as the day waxed into evening, trying to get her to eat and drink. Even Elly hadn't made any smart remarks when they came back into the still deserted inn, as Idira stumbled along beside Logan into the main dining room, her grief so paralysing she could barely walk.
"Before all this happened," Idira whispered, "you said something about leaving." She looked up at him, her heart aching, hoping he would change his mind and stay with her, at least for a little while.
He drew a deep breath, the material of his untucked shirt moving over the thick slabs of his pectorals. "Do you remember when I told you I had been promoted a few times in the last four years?"
Idira nodded.
"Well, I might have played things down a little. For a Westfall nobody without any connections, I have done quite alright." He brushed at his breeches, suddenly shy. "I'm actually a Commander. As it turns out I'm pretty good at being a soldier."
Idira found a faint smile for him. "I did wonder how you managed to survive so many demons all by yourself," she said.
He winced. "I wasn't going to last much longer if your Light hadn't come along, vaporising them to oblivion."
"And . . . ?" Idira prompted, despite being uncertain whether she wanted to hear the rest.
"And," he answered, careful, "I have to leave. Tomorrow."
Idira pushed away from the headboard. "So soon?"
He nodded, guilt slicing across his face. "That's why I haven't been around to visit for these past two weeks. The King has been demanding much of his military, and of me and my men in particular."
"You've met King Varian?" Idira asked, astonished, temporarily diverted from her personal miseries.
Logan nodded again, terse. "A hard man. Fair. But hard," he glanced at Idira, uneasy. "We are going to bring the fight to the Legion's stronghold, all of us, friend and foe, fighting together as one."
A stillness crept over Idira. "You said you might not come back. What did you mean by that?"
Logan's hand covered hers. He shook his head.
"No," Idira breathed. "Don't even think it, you will survive this battle. We will meet again."
"I didn't get to where I am by being fanciful," Logan said, his voice hard, just like it was the night he turned up at the farm and ordered her to leave. "What we faced in Westfall was only a taste of what awaits us at the Broken Shore. And," he hesitated, his fingers tightening around hers, "my men, elite soldiers, all of them, have been chosen to lead the assault. I told them to take the day to say their goodbyes."
Idira's heart clenched, new tears filling her eyes. She lay down on the bed and looked up at him as he gazed at her, thinking of the first day she had seen him, all gawky and awkward, how he had blushed furiously every time he had looked at her; how well he had taken care of her over the years since then; all the things he had built for her at the farm; of the day he left for Stormwind, and the awful, terrible night he came back.
"You walked all the way back to Stormwind, carrying me, wearing all that armour," she murmured, closing her eyes.
"I did, and would do it again, over and over, if it meant you would be safe," he answered. She felt the mattress shifting under his weight as he moved down beside her. She opened her eyes. He lay on his side, his arm tucked under his head, facing her. "I love you, Idira. I always have. I always will. Right to the end my heart will be yours."
"But," Idira said, soft, her heart aching, confused. "The time we kissed . . . I thought you and me . . . couldn't . . ."
He scoffed. "Yes. That remains, though it makes no sense to me, since even after all this time I still love you desperately," he reached out and brushed away a stray tendril of hair from her cheek, "it's as though my heart and mind are continuously at war with the other."
Idira turned onto her side and faced him. He reached out and pulled her against him, his lips brushed against the top of her head. In his embrace she felt safe, cherished, protected.
"Let me stay and hold you while you sleep," he whispered, rough, against her hair, his throat tight with emotion, "let me have this one last night with you, the only woman in all of Azeroth I have ever loved."
Her heart folded. His earlier unequivocal confession of love replayed in her mind, he would never had admitted his feelings if he thought there was a chance he would be coming back. No, those were the words of a man saying his last goodbye, the words of a man who knew he would never come back. She wouldn't accept it, he had to live, somehow he had to make it out alive.
"Just come back to me," she whispered. "Do whatever it takes to survive."
His arms tightened around her, but he didn't answer. As she drifted to sleep, cocooned, safe in his embrace, she felt his tears, silent and soft against her brow. "I regret nothing," he whispered. "Nothing."
When she woke to the sounds of pots and pans clattering and banging against the kitchen stove, Logan was gone. Only the imprint of where his head had lain on his pillow remained. She gathered it up against her chest, clutching it against her, tight, inhaling his scent; soap and leather tinged with a hint of his perspiration, drinking in the sweet, musky smell of him, the one who had been forced to love her from a distance for all his life.
She closed her eyes and imagined him wearing his armour, his body bristling with weapons, leading his men onto one of the ships in the harbour, his face hard, his voice commanding, turning at the last moment to look back as he sailed away, thinking of her, always of her.
She rubbed her cheek against the pillow, still damp from his tears. Horns blared in the distance, loud and long. The faint sound of cheers drifted after them. Her heart lurched. He was leaving. She clutched the pillow tighter, feeling herself sliding into a yawning void, suddenly alone and lost without him.
"I love you too," Idira whispered into the pillow and pressed her face against its dampness, so her tears would mingle with his.