Author's Notes:
The majority of this next chapter is going to feature K'dzok and Nabniath. For those of you who've forgotten over the course of the last two chapters, this means blood, madness, and disturbing imagery. You have been warned.
I'm not late. A wizard is never late. He arrives precisely when he means to.
. . .
Okay, maybe I am a little late, but you only had to wait a week between the last two updates.
Ж
Act I Scene VII
Of Frost and Rabbits
K'dzok grunted as he swung the limb, the twisted, knotted wood torn from the trunk of a somehow still-living tree, and snarled in savage satisfaction as it smashed a frost-covered, half-rotted skull to flinders. The undead knight staggered back, off-balance, two-handed sword in one hand, and K'dzok brought the limb down again, frozen flesh and bone giving way beneath the augmented strength of his right arm.
K'dzok reached down absently, grabbed a handful of disturbed snow, and packed it onto his shoulder, grimacing faintly at the sound of it hissing as it melted from the heat.
They'd been standing in a loose group, staring in the other direction when he approached. They didn't turn on him until he'd brought his make-shift club down on the first one, flattening it, and then they'd turned, attacking.
K'dzok had made full use of his weapon's range and his own power, smashing them to pieces.
They had fallen quickly to him.
He snatched up the tattered cloak from the once-again-dead knight's corpse and threw it over his own shoulders atop the scratchy, woolen thing he'd been given by the goblins of K3, ignoring the bloodstains. He wrangled the broken body out of its rather rusted but still usable mail as well after a moment It was a little tight across his chest, but he could wear it, and it was better than the ill-fitting boiled leather breastplate and leggings he had now. He left the sword where it was, not trusting the blue runes that spidered around the base of the blade, eschewing it in favor of a thoroughly ordinary halberd with a chipped blade that one of the undead's decomposing subordinates had been sporting.
A little to his surprise, a few of the corpses actually had gold. K'dzok was willing to wager it had been there since the day they'd left their first lives behind to enter their second. A smile curved his tusked mouth. The day was looking up already.
He pulled the hood of the knight's cloak up over his bright red hair, gathered it around him, and moved on.
The sky was overcast, but Icecrown was a landmark more than sufficient to tell him in which direction he was headed, a hellish marker in this icy winterscape. The sky had turned overcast, but the clouds yielded no snow, as though they'd come simply to glower at the Lich King's Citadel. K'dzok never looked directly at it, preferring to simply keep it to his right as he skirted it, giving the place a wide berth.
By nightfall he was still alive. His miracle had, it seemed, come to pass, though he wondered what hand had delivered it. Heironymus's perhaps. K'dzok scowled at the thought, tucking his cloaks deeper in around himself. He pulled out the golden coins, studying them by the light of his fire, and smirked as he recognized the face of High King Terenas.
His gaze went south. Once he reached the Dragonblight he would go southwest, to Agmar's Hammer, and from there fly to Venomspite and then New Agamand. From there, he need only reach Vengeance Landing. A zeppelin would take him the rest of the way to Tirisfal Glades.
He doubted the few paltry coins he'd taken from the Scourge guards would be enough for the trip. It didn't matter. He would get more.
He was up and moving before the sun the next morning, trotting across the snow to get his blood going. His belly was empty, and he felt it. The sooner he got down out of Icecrown Glacier the better.
He didn't hesitate this time when he came on another group of Scourge, these too staring southward, seemingly unaware of his presence until he hewed into them with the halberd. These undead were ragged, barely more than brittle bones that shattered beneath the halberd's sweeps. None of them had any gold or anything else worth taking.
K'dzok grimaced and continued south, stomach growling.
It was late that day, almost dusk, when he came upon his second piece of luck. He didn't even see it at first, slipping into a small dead-ended hollow surrounded on three sides by rock, thinking only of finding a place to wait out another cold, hungry night.
He heard it, a snuffling, scratching, grumbling noise, rounded the rock, and spotted the boar. It was digging up a tough, nettlesome plant by the roots with its blunt tusks, not sensing him until he was almost on top of it. It was covered in thick fur, long hair dragging to the ground, and it whirled abruptly, spiny branches still protruding from its mouth, small, red eyes blood-shot. It let out an angry squeal, spitting needles and saliva, and pawed the frozen ground.
K'dzok drove the point of the halberd through the thick skull and into the beast's brain with a single thrust of his right arm. The meat was tough and half-seared, but it tasted damn good, and his belly had no complaints. He had no scruples about using the knight's cloak to wrap the rest of the meat once he'd finished butchering the animal, and he slept well.
He passed through the broken Wrathgate the next day, cast a look at the ruined remnants of the Horde and Alliance camps left over from the war, and hurried onward.
Three more days found him staring across the snow at Agmar's Hammer, the last of the boar gone yesterday, his stomach once again growling, temper foul with hunger. He didn't enter. Not yet.
And then there they were, three of them, an orc with a massive axe across one shoulder in thick black armor, a troll hunter in leather and mail, javelins on his back, black hair pulled back in dreadlocks, and another orc, some sort of robed spellcaster, probably a warlock judging by his black and red garb.
They hailed him with only a modicum of wariness as he neared. They were confident. K'dzok smiled. That was good.
He was ever so slightly disappointed that the troll was still staring at him when the halberd tore through his green throat and took off the top half of the orc spellcaster's skull. The warrior was much more savvy. He danced back, swinging his axe, keeping K'dzok at bay. He glanced over his shoulder. K'dzok's eyebrows rose, and he stepped back, settling the butt of his halberd on the snow.
The warrior's eyes went to his companions' bodies. He turned and ran.
The flung halberd tangled his heavily armored legs and he went down in a heap. K'dzok was on top of him in a heartbeat. Bone snapped and popped as he latched his hands around the orc's neck and twisted. He patted the orc's cheek fondly, those wide eyes staring up at him glazing over in death, and took his knee off the orc's armored back.
Maybe he hadn't been so savvy after all.
K'dzok would have liked to have taken the axe. It was a thing of beauty, well-forged and powerful, obviously well-cared for, blade polished, edge clean. The armor, likewise, was well-taken care of. Unfortunately it was all recognizable, especially since this little band had left the outpost only a little over an hour and a half ago. Still, K'dzok found that the gold in their pockets, while not exactly bounteous, still brought a smile to his face, along with a few other trinkets he collected from their corpses before burying them under a thin layer of snow.
They didn't have to stay hidden long, just long enough.
Humming tunelessly, he strolled into Agmar's Hammer. A half hour later, belly full of hot food, he was winging his way towards Venomspite on the back of a wyvern, wrapped in a new, much-thicker cloak, and pondering the distinct lack of frozen amber eyes he'd encountered among the locals. It was as if Heironymous had suddenly lost interest. It wasn't a thought K'dzok found he minded. What had the human been yammering about again? Something about being damned?
It all seemed like a bad dream now.
By the time he'd had dinner and toppled into the bed in his room at the inn, his only thoughts were of pale skin, green eyes, and how much he'd like to ride a pretty human. Too bad all the humans here were ugly and dead . . . well, he amended, undead, which really wasn't much of an improvement. He closed his eyes, and dreamed of soft, pale, warm flesh and rosy lips.
Well-provisioned and comfortably accoutered, he flew all the next day, high above the rolling Grizzly Hills, let the wyvern keep watch while he slept, and made New Agamand in the Howling Fjord by nightfall of the following day. It was full of more creepy Forsaken, not a one of the walking corpses remotely attractive and only a few of them bearable to even look at.
A plan was beginning to percolate in the back of K'dzok's mind. Mainland Azeroth was full of humans. Who was to say he couldn't kidnap one, or two, or however many he liked on a raid? And if they happened to have rich, brown golden hair like spun honey that gleamed in the sun and jade eyes . . . K'dzok smiled. He could find some robes somewhere. It'd make ripping them off all the more enjoyable.
The last leg of the trip to Vengeance Landing was a matter of a half hour of flight, no more. K'dzok grinned broadly as the zeppelin tower came into sight, one of the great, big, gaseous goblin bags and its underslung carriage already moored beside it. By nightfall he'd be out over the ocean, Northrend miles behind him, on his way back to a life of raiding.
When he stopped and thought about it, going to back to Azeroth was something he really should have done a long time ago.
He took a deep breath, turned to the northwest, towards the heart of Northrend, spat, and lifted his middle finger.
"Fuck you," he muttered. "Fuck all of you."
He wasn't the first, and doubtless wouldn't be the last to make that gesture.
"K'dzok."
K'dzok didn't turn immediately, kept his motions slow, grip tightening on the haft of the halberd he still carried with him.
She was a blood elf, her eyes bright green with fel power, skin pale. Her golden skirt was slit up to the knee, long black leather boots clinging to her slim legs, her rose-colored blouse with its fur lining hugging her shoulders, leaving their tops bare. Her blond hair was a soft, pale gold cascade over her shoulder, trailing down to her bosom. She smiled, her hands resting on her curving hips.
K'dzok's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, elf whore?"
"Oh, now don't be like that." She pouted, but the green glow in her eyes only brightened. "I've traveled so far to meet you."
K'dzok moved, halberd swinging, and his body, his whole world convulsed around him, as though reality itself were having a fit. Everything vibrated sickeningly and he collapsed onto his belly, muscles spasming, everything gone suddenly, strangely gooey.
The world went dark.
He realized after a moment that he was breathing in the darkness, his heart thundering in his chest with fear. What had the elven bitch done to him?
He opened his mouth and let out a shrill, piercing shriek, and immediately shut it, eyes widening.
Fabric and mail rolled back and he tumbled onto hard ground, the impact bruising, leaving him momentarily stunned. An enormous hand grabbed him by the skin at the back of his neck, lifting, and he looked into the elven giantess's colossal, yet still delicately lovely face as she combed blond hair back over one sharply pointed ear and smiled at him.
"Aww," she murmured. "Who's the cute, precious little bunny-wunny rabbit-wabbit? It's you - yes you are, yes you are," she babbled in a baby voice.
K'dzok couldn't help the second shrill squeal that erupted from his throat.
"What a pretty shade of red," said another breathy voice just like the first. "It's almost a shame to turn him over to Mraugon."
K'dzok glanced down in sickening horror at himself, caught sight of two dangling paws covered in bright red fur, and his bladder let go. The two elven women squealed, but all he got was a rough shake, and then he only had time for one more high-pitched scream before he was plunged into the rough darkness of a canvas sack.
He was trembling when they opened it, covered in his own filth, unable to control himself, heart pounding the entire time despite his attempts to calm himself, something inside of him bursting into panic every time he though about what was outside the confines of this burlap bag.
He felt the sack open at last, scrabbled at the rough fabric, struggling to dig in his claws to escape, and a large hand closed completely around him, painfully hard. He could feel his bones grinding, muscles crushing. He could barely breathe.
He was lifted out, and the late afternoon sun lit the face of Mraugon, the tauren regarding him thoughtfully, expression on his ochre-patterned face slightly pensive.
"You almost slipped . . . down the rabbit hole, K'dzok." A hint of a smile pulled at the corner of the tauren shaman's mouth. "That would have been awkward."
K'dzok's only response was to tremble, furry little body panicking all over again. He would have voided his bowels but for the fact that they were already empty. A part of him shrieked in incoherent rage at the fear that threatened to drown him, fighting the feeble instincts of this soft, tiny body to which he was confined. He battered against it, wanting nothing more than to be himself so he could punch his fist into Mraugon's chest and rip out his heart.
"You've fucked up again, K'dzok." Mraugon continued, fingers tightening, forcing the air out of K'dzok's tiny lungs. "You were supposed to kill Skinslayer. Instead, he's stepped up his raids in Wintergrasp. Undoon is extremely disappointed."
Undoon can fuck himself, K'dzok wanted to snarl. All he could do was struggle just to breathe. Abruptly K'dzok's grip relaxed, still secure, but no longer crushing.
"We're going to give you to Ambassador Dellani. He's going to have your guts torn out." K'dzok raised his great brows slightly. "Honest truth K'dzok, I thought you were going to pull it off." He brought K'dzok closer, until he could smell the overwhelming odor of the tauren's breath. "Once, I admired you for your ability to get the job done, no matter the cost. In fact, I even envied you. You never let anything get in your way." He smirked. "But look how . . . small you've become."
K'dzok's shriek this time was less fear and more fury as the burlap sack closed over him once more.
Ж
Mraugon's gaze dropped to the burlap sack that hung from his kodo's saddle, lashed to the horn by a length of rope. Undoon wasn't the only one who'd been disappointed. That the elven witch sisters had taken the troll so easily – it made Mraugon's teeth ache from not grinding.
He hadn't lied about once looking up to K'dzok. They never should have been able to get the drop on him. He remembered the deathly creature of carnage who had slaughtered everything and everyone in his path, meted out incalculable cruelty on his enemies, until his name spread far and wide, inspiring fear.
He could have been great.
His vices had weakened him, and eventually consumed him.
Mraugon resisted the urge to punch the burlap bag until every last tiny bone was broken and the polymorphed troll in a rabbit's pathetic rose-furred body was nothing but a viscous goop seeping through the rough-woven fabric.
As if sensing his frustration and rage, the tiny form inside the bag had remained utterly still since the moment he'd hung it on his saddle.
A scent made his nostrils flare, and he drew up his kodo, yanking the reins hard enough to make the beast groan in protest.
It wasn't the scent of death that brought him up short, but the icy, burning edge of the odor that told him that the flesh wasn't merely rotted. He looked around. The sun had gone down a half hour ago. The moon hadn't yet crested the needle-leafed trees that stood thick beside this part of the road. He raised a fist, and his eyes widened.
"To arms!" he roared. "To arms!"
For a moment there was clamor as warriors drew swords and axes, let out bloodcurdling war cries, beat on their shields with their spears, mages and shamans chanting, readying their first battle spells. Gradually it died into confused silence.
The column roiled, settled, and Steel Sheen mercenaries glanced around, looking for the enemy.
Mraugon ignored the glances both uncertain and scathing that shot his way, waiting for the tiniest blur of motion that would give their ambushers away. A moment tiptoed by, and then another followed after in a slightly less timid slide.
The road erupted beneath them in a flurry of massive, grasping hands, swinging enormous axes and swords and maces or simply grabbing onto whatever was closest, the very road boiling with unnatural life, parts of it collapsing around the vrykul as they shifted their huge, ragged, rotting bodies and stood erect.
Later Mraugon would admire the tactic.
Right now he was too busy trying to survive.
He reached out for the sack holding K'dzok, and his kodo let out a groan as a massive spearhead thrust into its chest, tumbling sideways. Mraugon had an instant to fling himself out of the saddle as the beast was toppled onto its back, rolling to a stop in front of a pair of massive feet.
A pair of dead, glazed eyes looked down at him, and he saw a gleam wake in them, the reflected light of the moon as it crested the treetops. His thunderbolt tore a smoking hole in the giant corpse's chest, and it staggered backward, swung mace coming down inches away from Mraugon's nose. The tauren stepped back, looking toward the kodo, and darted toward the burlap bag that had tumbled free and lay a small distance away.
Trees trunks splintered with a bone-deep, reverberating groan that Mraugon could feel in his marrow, the ground trembling once more as the magnataur appeared, knocking him to his knees. Mage fire shrieked in the night, a brilliant torrent of yellow-orange flame that smashed into the beast's chest.
Mraugon glanced over one shoulder and then rolled aside as the undead vrykul's massive mace hit hard enough to send up a plume of dust and earth where he'd just been. He had his hand wrapped around the bag of bones that were his talismans, each carefully shaped over seasons, each carrying nascent power. His lips shaped a whispering invocation to the spirits of the earth beneath him.
The mace came down, and was knocked aside by a fist of granite as the elemental flowed upward from the ground. Mraugon left the magical servant to continue the fight for him, and searched for the creature controlling the undead. If he could just figure out who . . .
And then she was there, wrapped in the tattered remains of what might have been a gown or even a shroud, one withered breast bare to the night, her arms outspread to either side as she balanced her way down the trunk of a shattered tree, placing one foot in front of the other, heedless of the chaos around her, the cloud of her hair wavering in the wind.
Her gaze came up and she paused, a smile on her pale, gray face, ruby light blazing within the death-glazed eyes.
Mraugon called on the spirits, and thunder rumbled and rolled as it gathered around his hands in blazing, crackling electric blue fury.
The forsaken woman, for she could be nothing else, spun a graceful pirouette, gesturing with one hand, and a massive, rotting palm intercepted the course of the thunderbolt, fresh blood illuminated briefly in the crackling light before crisping away with the blackening flesh.
She gestured again.
Mraugon's eyes widened as the magnataur drew back its burned hand, grabbed an unlucky tauren, and flung the mercenary right at him.
Mraugon dropped flat to the earth as the other flew over his head and landed with a crunch of broken bones, and then he was scuttling sideways, trying desperately to regain his footing as the massive undead colossus charged him.
He dove between a vrykul's legs, rolled, already calling once more on the spirits.
The magnataur swatted the animated vrykul corpse out of the way almost impatiently, hitting it hard enough to send it rolling into a band of orcs who were trying to establish a solidified point of resistance, and Mraugon's hastily conjured wolf spirits leapt, fangs bared, clawing and biting at the monstrosity's throat.
Two massive hands came up, ripped them away, and smashed them into the ground, both glimmering ethereal spirits vanishing with hollow booms as they discorporated.
It was enough.
Mraugon called upon his most devastating magic.
The spirits, already deep in turmoil, answered.
The earth cracked wide, a jagged maw stretching open in its face, and spewed lava into the frigid night air, a massive plume of molten earthen fury roaring forth. Orcs, trolls, tauren, blood elves, goblins – those still alive and too close to the magnataur, had only a moment to scream, and then their flesh was bubbling as lava devoured them along with the undead.
The magnataur didn't quit despite the fact that it was ruined and in flames, staggering forward into that molten spout, still trying to reach Mraugon even as rotted flesh, muscle, and bone all burned and bubbled and turned to ash.
Mraugon looked for the corpse of his kodo by the lurid light of glowing magma, the Steel Sheen mercenaries continuing to fight on around him.
She lifted the burlap bag almost tenderly, folding her arms around it, glowing red eyes seeing nothing else.
Mraugon's thunderbolt vanished through the space where she'd been just a fraction of a heartbeat too late, tearing through the glimmering streamers of ethereal light that signaled her magical departure.
Jaw clenched with fury, Mraugon turned his attention to rallying his beleaguered troops.
Ж
Nabniath could hear it, a deep, thrumming rumble, like the warning of a storm on the horizon, emanating from the small sack of living flesh she cradled in her arms. It was the first rich, throbbing strain of a grand and terrible symphony.
She opened the sack, and felt that tremorous timbre redouble as she reached in, ice-cold fingers curling around a warm, soft, furry body.
She lifted, and the filthy, rose-colored rabbit stared at her.
It wasn't fear that made it tremble, shaking in her grasp.
It was rage.
She could see it deep in the eyes, a ravening fury which boiled like a waking volcano, far hotter than the lava the tauren had brought forth against her champion. Her lips curved in a wide smile, the glow in her eyes brightening.
She set the rabbit down on the floor, and unwove the enchantment.
The troll was on her in a heartbeat, a thing of rock-hard fists and tearing claws and goring tusks and kicking feet. The sound of his rage was beautiful to her, more beautiful than any mere words, conveying a much deeper, more eloquent, more elemental meaning than any poem or speech, the soft song from the road where they'd first met swelled to a full-throated hymn of destruction.
She laughed as he slammed her into the stone wall of the small room hard enough to make dust rise, reveled in each blow that collided with her face, relished the breaking of her bones, the tearing of her skin, each deep-chested snarl a hot bolt of luxurious pleasure.
Her jaw shattered. Her arms snapped like twigs. Her spine bent, gave, popped. Ligaments tore. Her ribs caved in. He hit her again, and again, and again, and each punishing blow was a sensual caress, the touch of a lover who understood more than any other ever had just what exactly she needed to complete her.
It was purest ecstasy when he tore her left leg from her body, and began to beat in what was left of her face.
She lay there in that tiny, dim room, closer to true death than she had been in a very long time, and listened to him breathe with what was left of one ear, rasping breaths from deep in his lungs, fury abated only temporarily. She could still sense it in him, a rich, lovely throb that beat in her own stilled heart.
Nabniath was sated at last.
She drifted, not knowing how long she lay there, not noticing when he left, or when he returned, until she felt the sweet, hot tang of freshly-spilled blood pouring into the remnants of her mouth.
Her body absorbed it, necrotic flesh eagerly drawing in the sustenance as it repaired itself, rebuilding, muscle and bone knitting with supernatural swiftness.
Her jaw reassembled itself, and he shoved meat into her teeth.
She ate from his hand until she could feed herself, tearing hunks of flesh from the body of the dead dwarf he'd dragged in until she could lever herself up enough to feed directly. He left, and returned with a second corpse, and watched her eat, silently studying her.
She ate both of them, all of them, cracking the bones to suck the marrow, breaking open the skulls to feast on delicate gray matter, stripping every piece of soft, chewable flesh, and looked up at him.
"Why?" he asked quietly.
"Because your song is beautiful, troll." Nabniath's eyes went to his shoulder, to the scars there, remembering fondly when the skin had been flayed back, the muscles and tendons laid bare. She remembered the taste of iron and brass and opiates mixes with blood. She smiled a bloodstained smile.
"That was you." The symphony throbbed under his words, a pulse.
"Yes." Nabniath's gaze returned to the troll's. "I comforted you."
The strains of melody went still, and then returned, deeper. The troll's hand went to his shoulder, covering the ridged scar tissue. "We're in the Outlands, aren't we?"
Nabniath blinked, and then tilted her head back and sniffed, drawing in the taste of the air. She nodded after a moment. "Yes. Judging by the scent, on the outskirts of Shattrath."
For a long moment, K'dzok simply stared at her without truly seeing her. He finally had an image to go with the chilling coldness that had taken away the terrible, burning heat of his ruined shoulder – a gray woman with glowing red eyes, her smiling mouth dripping with his blood, wrapped in tattered rags as she crouched over his unconscious body.
He was revolted.
She'd saved him.
His eyes went to the pile of bones that was all that remained of the two stocky, slightly plump dwarves. He hadn't missed how quickly and deftly she'd torn the corpses apart.
It was fascinating in a strange, sickening way, seeing her bones straighten, the flesh reforming itself, ligaments and muscles shifting, coated with the slickly gleaming darkness of dead blood before they were concealed by regenerating skin, flaps of it reweaving themselves seamlessly into the rest. Even as he watched, the fresh blood on her lips darkened and drained away into the pores of her gray skin.
Why hadn't she fought back?
Why had he brought her the corpses to feed on?
They were questions he wasn't certain he knew the answers to. They were answers he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to have.
What he knew for sure was that standing here, staring at her, he felt deeply uneasy, and yet, somewhere, deep inside of him, something had reveled in all of it – the way he'd beaten her, savaged her, destroyed her, then fed her on the fresh corpses of dwarven peddlers who'd been alive a space of ten minutes ago and watched her come back to life.
It had been strangely satisfying.
She looked back up at him from where she knelt on the floor, rocking very slightly from side to side, smile still on her lips.
If Mraugon had survived, he would take up the hunt, and eventually the mouth of a spy would carry word of K'dzok back to him.
K'dzok was tired of running, running from Heironymus and Undoon and the Steel Sheen like a whipped dog. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was time to stop running, and start making plans. When Mraugon came, K'dzok wanted to make sure he regretted it.
He wanted to make sure Mraugon rued the day he'd ever decided to follow orders.
And looking down at Nabniath, recalling how exhilarating it had been to rip her apart, crush her bones – how powerful he'd felt – he found his answer.
It didn't matter.
The only thing that mattered now was destruction, the destruction of all who opposed him, who pursued him. He would turn on them, feed on them, devour them.
It would start with Mraugon and Heironymus. That would be the beginning.
Azeroth would tremble once more in fear and rage when the name of K'dzok was whispered.
He grabbed Nabniath by one wrist and pulled her almost absently to her feet, the stalking steps of a predator moving to a song he couldn't hear as he prowled out into the street, a dark magnificat that made Nabniath's ruby eyes gleam with joyful anticipation as she followed.
Ж
It had been mutually agreed upon that they both needed to polish up on their spellcraft, which was why Annatta's arms were full of tomes today as she rode the lift up to Ambryn's apartment instead of grocery bags.
Still, that didn't mean there was no place for the cherry-jelly-centered cream puffs on the very top of the stack in a cloth-covered polished wooden bowl, and Annatta smiled at them as she stepped off and turned down the hallway.
She couldn't have said what struck her as faintly off about the blond-haired human male she passed on the way to Ambryn's door, except that he was a strapping sort, and rather unusual for these environs when almost all the residents were slender-limbed mages. He even walked with a swordsman's fluid grace, balancing his weight unconsciously as he moved, gliding down the hall like a big hunting cat.
There was a faint smile on his lips, his blue eyes distracted.
Annatta didn't knock at Ambryn's door, but simply let herself in as had become her habit.
Ambryn was standing next to his sitting room table, a book in his hands, expression not quite the hopeless overthrown dismay from a couple of nights ago, but closer to it than was comfortable to behold. Her eyes went to the single red rose that lay on the table. Her brow furrowed. She hadn't seen Nathiel or anyone approximating his description, and she was certain she'd recognize the kal'dorei on sight.
"Ambryn," she said as she approached the table, half-expecting another emotional outburst. "Has Nathiel been here?"
Ambryn looked up at her and his face went white as he closed the book in his hands.
"No." He shook his head after a moment, and his gaze dropped to the book, eyes widening, as though startled to find it in his hands. He glanced around wildly, and then walked briskly over to the couch, set the book down on a cushion, and gently laid a pillow on top of it.
Annatta watched all of this take place with a modicum of uncertainty. Her gaze went back to the rose on the table, brow furrowing as she set down the books. The petals had been coated with something that gave them a soft, subtle shimmer. The effect was quite pretty, and as she studied it more closely, she noted the intricate blue traceries over the stem, curling along the edges of the leaves.
Something tickled at the back of her mind.
She'd seen these roses before, down at the market. They were cheap and easy to make, requiring barely more than a pinch of magic and a little time and patience, and younger men and women had formed a cloud of people around the cart, presenting them to one another, a sort of inexpensive dating ritual here in this city of magic.
The rose didn't appear to have been here long.
"Do you want it?"
Annatta blinked, so busy trying to figure out which of Ambryn's acquaintances that she was familiar with seemed the most likely to have developed romantic leanings and how she was going to thwart them that she was actually mildly startled by the question. She almost said no, and then quickly changed her mind, smiling brightly at him, and tucked the rose into a pocket.
"Thank you." She avoided glancing at the book, but she was already calculating her chances of spiriting it out of the apartment without him noticing its departure. The last thing Nathiel needed was competition, especially after the way the dumb kal'dorei bastard had already set himself back. Rather than risk signaling her intent to abscond with the volume, she set down the bowl full of cream puffs. "I whipped these up yesterday. I think you'll like them."
Ambryn nodded after a moment, motions still oddly hesitant, and then sat down beside her at the table.
She wouldn't mention Nathiel directly, she decided almost immediately. If Ambryn was thinking about seeing someone else, then guilt wouldn't help the situation, and driving a wedge between them would obviously be counterproductive. She had to wait for the pendulum to swing back in the other direction.
In truth, it was actually slightly difficult, and she literally bit her tongue at one point to keep from mentioning how much Nathiel might enjoy the wine-braised beef Ambryn suggested they try for their next cooking project when they took a break from their studies. By now it had become almost a habit to talk about the kal'dorei.
Thankfully, Ambryn slowly relaxed in her presence, until he was almost his usual quietly warm self. Still, she couldn't help but notice the looks he stole at the couch where the book remained hidden under the cushion, and as they prepared to leave for Periont's Tower, she was quietly trying to figure out the best way to either incapacitate this new suitor, or even better, make him appear distinctly unappealing.
For some reason her thoughts kept drifting to the blond she'd passed on the way to Ambryn's door. On the off-chance that he was the mysterious visitor, she'd keep an eye out for him.
She didn't get a chance to snatch the book. Her heart almost skipped a beat when Ambryn picked it up, smile fading. It was all she could do not to let out a relieved sigh when he put it away in a drawer, and shoved it firmly closed.
"Would you think badly of me," he said quietly as they walked "if I told you that someone I . . . was once romantically involved with came to see me today?"
This was it. Annatta suppressed a triumphant smile. As always, her greatest ally, the key to all her moves, was Ambryn himself. She schooled her expression into quizzical confusion. "Not really – I mean, we've all known people in the past." She slid right into the opening in the conversation and put a hand on his arm, stopping him there in the street, drawing her brows close together, drawing her mouth down into a worried frown. "Ambryn, he didn't hurt you, did he?"
Ambryn blinked, and then shook his head quickly. "No, I – that is – he didn't." He dropped his eyes. "But I . . . I didn't tell him to go away either."
Annatta allowed some of the concern to drop from her expression, but kept the slightest furrow in her brow and didn't smile at him. "Do you still have feelings for him?" was the first question that came to mind. Annatta squashed the words before they could reach her lips. The last thing she wanted him doing was thinking about feelings for anyone besides Nathiel, who just happened to be the other major component of her plan. "Does Nathiel know?" and "What's he look like?" joined her first instinctive inquiry on the scrap heap.
"Our affection for other people isn't a bad thing," she temporized as his eyes came up, thoughts racing a thousand miles an hour as she plotted out her next moves with a speed and ruthlessness born of urgency. "The important thing is to listen to your heart." That was a little bit of a gamble on her part, despite the fact that she was fairly confident she knew where Ambryn's already lay.
Ambryn nodded after a moment, and smiled back at her, moisture glimmering in his eyes. "Thank you Annatta. I'm glad I have you for advice."
She hugged him to hide the trepidation she couldn't conceal in her expression, and managed to compose herself once more by the time the hug ended. She was well aware that she hadn't given him any real advice, but he believed it was real enough, and it had bought her enough time to work on neatly dividing him from this inconveniently returned old flame.
She didn't want his heart telling him about anything but a certain silver-eyed kal'dorei warrior.
She walked with him, arm-in-arm down the street, and tried not to think about how she'd not only like to divide him from his old flame, but his current one as well to make room for herself, or how much she'd wanted to wipe the leftover crumb from a cream-puff from the corner of his mouth with her finger, or better yet, her own mouth.
She'd earnestly regretted the moment when she'd gently pointed it out instead, and he'd blushed and wiped it away, giving her a grateful smile.
Her lingering guilt made a desultory effort to escape its closet, barely even a protesting thump really, which she haughtily ignored.
A mad, tiny part of her was wondering if there wasn't some way to take the water from the Well of Eternity and have Ambryn in the bargain. Nameless individuals of no import were always going on about having your cake and eating it too being on the slim side of probability, but that tiny little fleck of herself wouldn't mind giving it a damn good try.
The rest of her pointed out logically that she'd have about as much luck whipping up a potion of True Love.
The tiny, mad part of her whispered subversively back that that might not be such a bad idea, and it would go startlingly well with the rest of her plan.
Ж
Ambryn sat down on his couch, tilted his head back, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling cast by the light from his kitchen. He really ought to be getting ready for bed. He hadn't exaggerated when he told Nathiel that the fourth night of Circle work would be grueling, even exhausting.
Two additional Circles from Luvante's Tower would be standing by in case their strength was needed. The other Towers would be at half-staff all night, just in case someone with inside knowledge decided to take advantage of the opportunity to interfere with the city while the axial enchantment was being renewed. The Kirin Tor would take no chances.
Ambryn wasn't thinking about any of that. He was thinking of a leatherbound book, pages still crisp, rich with the smell of flower petals, binding worn smooth by loving hands. If he closed his eyes, he could see the faded golden lettering of Sandra Dayren's Irrationally Everyday Poetry stamped across its face.
On the back of his eyelids he could see Hector's warm smile and sparkling blue eyes. He could feel the faint brush of tender lips against his cheek.
Brown
Brown
Brown
He is Brown
Brown sugar and brown molasses
Sweet and warm and silky smooth
Melted next to the fire
His eyes are warm and brown
His soul is sweet and smooth
The brown dog lays next to the fire
He is Warm
He is Sweet
He is Brown
Ambryn let out a sigh, because the words were etched there in his mind, had been there all night ever since he'd opened the book and felt them run once more across his imagination, hovering in the background of his thoughts, not intrusive, just present.
Annatta had told him to listen to his heart.
Ambryn just wished he could figure out what it was trying to tell him.
He laid down on the couch, trying to recall Nathiel's scent, the feel of his big hard body.
He remembered a kiss in a barn, the rain pouring down outside, warm hands on his hips, gentle lips on his mouth.
It melted into another memory, a harsh, passionate, desperate kiss outside a stable, heart still pounding with fear that he would lose something he couldn't bear to live without.
Ambryn wrapped his arms around himself and lay there in the half-darkness, staring unseeing into the shadows as kisses and poetry chased each other through his memories.
Ж
The woman who entered Mattran's office was dressed impeccably in a long, slim gray skirt and a matching waistcoat embroidered sparingly and tastefully with pale blue and silver threads, her dark brown hair a thick, silky cascade down one shoulder. She smiled as she entered, a tight, professional smile, and regarded the gnome priest sitting on the front of his desk without so much as a blink for the disheveled state of his robes.
"Eanté Rulaine, personal executive assistant to Ambassador Tybalt Dellani," she said, offering her hand to Mattran.
"Mattran Helfenheimler." Mattran gave her hand a brief, firm shake. "How may I assist the good Ambassador today?"
"He's actually considering an excursion to Kalimdor in the next few months." Eanté held up the small file she had under one arm. "His current itinerary will include a number of Night Elf holdings, terminating with a visit to Darnassus."
Mattran's brow furrowed slightly. "A diplomatic mission to the Night Elves? Why not just meet with them in Stormwind Keep?"
Eanté's professional smile remained utterly unchanged. "It's a good will visit. It's hardly an expression of good will if the Ambassador isn't willing to meet them on their own soil. From what I understand, your firm is one of several offering escort services out of Dalaran that employs Night Elf guides and guards. Ambassador Dellani would of course want to employ individuals who are familiar with the region he expects to tour, and feels that it would also reflect favorably on the diplomatic nature of the mission if he were to employ these same Night Elves."
"To show that he's confident of their good will," Mattran interjected dryly.
Eanté nodded quickly and crisply, completely ignoring the gnome's faintly sardonic tone. "Precisely, Master Helfenheimler. It's very important to the Kirin Tor that this mission be a success. The compensation would of course be commensurate with the importance of the mission."
"Naturally." Mattran blinked. The word compensation instantly caught his attention. "So you're looking for Night Elves."
Eanté nodded again, that same simple, crisp nod, as professional as the rest of her. "You're one of five firms I'm scheduled to meet with today, and by far you seem to employ the highest number of Night Elves, which seems to indicate that you have a good relationship with them in general." She paused. "The Silver Blades have already expressed an interest in bidding on the contract, and there are certain parties who feel that they offer a slightly more prestigious reputation for their clients, but Vir Aegeae has an excellent record, and the Ambassador feels that perhaps your firm is somewhat undervalued."
Mattran held up a hand. "I get the picture. How many Night Elves are you going to need?"
Eanté gave him that crisp, professional smile and removed several sheets of paper held together with a paperclip. "These are estimates, based on approximate figures that may be altered in the next few weeks, along with a tentative itinerary. We're currently working with the Darnassian Embassy to nail down the specifics."
Mattran nodded absently as he flipped through, eyes going to the bottom line of the last page. "Just bring me the final figures and let me know when and where the bidding starts."
Author's Post-Script Notes:
I know the title for this chapter isn't overly metaphorical like the others, but I couldn't think of anything insightful.
As always, constructive criticism is what I'd like most. Humor me and leave a review with your thoughts on where I can improve, where I've screwed up, etc.
Case in point - does the homemade poetry add to the flavor and depth of the story, or is it distracting or annoying?
Big shout-out to Seripithus and Dusty the Umbravita for their feedback and replies to my questions. Thanks ladies! Much love also goes to the Aussies – my biggest non-domestic reader audience. Y'all are sexy as all get out.