~*~ Author's Notes ~*~
Reuploaded Dec, 11
Changed some spelling and obvious grammatical errors.
Added a few clarifying descriptions.
Added details to the ending passage that were accidentally left out.
~*~ Chapter 3 ~*~
She lies there, panting, the life bleeding from her body. The chill sets in despite the warmth of the sun coming up threw the trees. Hoping she might feel the warmth of it touch her skin before it grows too cold, she waits to feel it before she would let go of life.
"Oh goody!" the Undead says threw death dry lips, "I never grow tired of seeing Night Elves die. Pity I can't help."
She's cruel, the Druid thinks. My dying breathes for her amusement. Tears threaten her eyes once again. She looks up at them in silence.
The beautiful priest gazes at her still. He is thinking, his mind wandering on some journey only the intellectuals take. He doesn't really see her. She doesn't know what he sees when he looks at her.
The Undead is stooped with evil. Her bones show threw her skin at places. Her fingers are bleached white with the sun; her skin a death pallor without blood. Her appearance is not at all unpleasant. In life she was a slim beauty. In death it can be said she retains a good bit of that beauty in the smooth features of her face and the grace of her swaying stance. Her hair is up in pigtails, a mocking gesture to the Gnomes for sure. She needs no one's approval. Warlocks are bound to no government, kingdom or ruler. Though they may be loyal to the race of their origin they are in all fact a class unto themselves.
This one glared. She was a true hater of the Alliance. Anything of that faction was fair game, even its innocent children. A grin took over her features. With one hand she made a gesture. With that hand she linked her will to that of the Druids… and pulled.
"No…" the little Druid whispered in terror. She tried to get up, to flee, and to break the bond. The Warlock meant to take her soul! Desperately she ravaged her hearthstone of any energy it had left. There was just enough to change into the Dishu form. Before she could gather herself for a change, she felt a curse of weakness fall upon her. It binds her legs together, making her unable to run. "No nono.." she sobs, still trying to move away.
"Corrosa…" The Priests coxes gently.
"Hush!" The Warlock snaps back.
"Her soul is too weak to be of use to you," his persuasive voice croons. The Druid gets the feeling he has to intervene often. He certainly sounds practiced. "Your demons require more. You won't be able to draw them from the Nether with what little she has to give."
The spell stopped. The Warlock glared at the Priest. "Spoilsport." She hisses at him. "Why don't you keep her for a pet if I can't?" she cackled
Now the priest looks at the Druid. The Druid is stunned. Stalemate. She can't run… the Warlock isn't going to take her soul… what will the Priest do?
He glides towards her, the hem of his robe whispering over the dirt of the path. Flinching she closes her eyes and draws her knees up to her chin once more. Bracing herself she waits for the worst. Instead she feels a light touch on her ear. It travels from her hairline to the tip and back around again. The back of one finger brushes her cheek.
"Oh, now your gonna get all sentimental, aren't you?" The Undead rattles her nails in displeasure.
"No everything has to die." He whispers.
The Druid knows then that this Priest follows the path of healing. His mind is filled with pure and Holy energy of the Light. Life is as sacred to him as the earth and moon are to the Druids of her own path.
"Not everything gets to live," the Warlock says bitterly. But she turns and walks back a ways, watching the pair with glowing yellow eyes. Her robe, dark blue and red in garish angles and layers, fights over her slim frame. It covered what parts of her hadn't make it threw the change to Forsaken. Still, the Druid though, she was pretty in her own jaded way.
The Priest's robes are dark blue and light, layered in grace that curved around his body. From the waste hangs a lock on two chains. It's meaning only the Priest knows. From his shoulders are mounted the wings of the Ethereal. His complexion and hair match his robes. From his waist hangs a mace made of a shining stone and a book on one side full of the spells of his craft. The stone is smooth from lack of physical use, but covered instead with runes. So many runes, they curved around the stone. Around and around in a non-stop row, they even travel down the heavy thorium handle. They glow with power, making the stone a bright white light of Holy power. Very powerful. Healing spells, the Druid knew. She had seen similar used by the Priests of her own race. Spells for quick healing, spells for mental intellect, spells for clear thinking, spells that would turn the smallest of heals into heals that would bind the bone and blood of an entire group back to full health with very little effort.
She knew the set he wore. Only very few had the skill to acquire these pieces. He must be a triage healer on a battlefield. How many battles he had seen, she knew not. There is enough darkness behind his eyes when he took in her wounds that he could and would, were she Horde, bring her back from death with a wink of his glowing eye. He saw horrors she never dreamed and must be a very good healer indeed for the leader of the Horde to have this set fashioned for him. Thrall, no doubt, invested a great deal in making sure his best were geared for battle properly.
She wonders briefly how he had traveled down his path. And how he, who holds life sacred, could come to travel with a warlock who holds in contempt anything that is alive and capable of love. Aren't they two sides of the same coin?
His eyes are blank as he gazed at her. Behind the green are the whites of eyes that saw vision. The Warlock cackles and calls her minion out of the bush. It took care of the cat, no doubt. Short and bone thin, the imp fairly glows with evil Fel energy. It's huge eyes bounce from object to object, long ears twitching. In it's nervous state, it jumps and hops and skips. Occasionally it does summersaults and back flips. It does not feel at home in the mortal world, and often voices complaint. It longs for the safety of the Nether, from which it was pulled, tempted by the soul of the Warlocks last victim.
Feeling the cold of the forest set in, she closes her eyes and prepares to die.
The Priest speaks then, "Do you wish to die, little Druid?"
She opens her eyes, brows knitting together. She is sad. Why ask her this; it is cruel. "I want to help my family..." she whispers. It is the truth of things.
"You killed two bears, little Druid. I can see the meat safely to your village."
She smiles. Why be so kind to her? Surely he has killed and helps kill so many of her kind. Surely he holds her race in contempt? Hers survives, pure and unchanged while the nobles who would become the Blood Elves had been driven out and were now on the brink of extinction. They hate her kind above all other Alliance races. Hated them because they had survived despite it all.
"I want the bears." The Warlock said simply.
The Priest seems to ignore her. The Warlock seems used to this. "Would you like that, little child?"
She nods, as best she can. The pain and cold are stiffening her joints; stiffening muscles into tight knots. She isn't thinking clearly.
He stroked her cheek once more with long, elegant fingers. "She's about to kick it!" the Warlock said with glee.
"No," the Priest says, "she's not." The Warlock hissed even as the Druid becomes quite confused. The Priest stands, moves his hands, and whispers words she doesn't understand. What is he doing?
The strength of the healing spell causes her entire body to be pulled into the air. Golden leaves, so like the green leaves of her own healing spells, swirl around her in pure golden Light. Nothing is bad. Evil does not exist. The world is ok. The universe is Perfect. Fel is too weak to harm anyone… Her body knits chunks of loose flesh and ripped meat sliding back into place. The pain vanishes, filling her with a Holy glow. She knows joy, elation, love, hope, happiness… the same emotion and yet all different. She weeps with the feeling. It takes her over completely. She drowns in it, going under, taken over.
Sleep overtakes her. But not before she heard the Warlock say, "Your in a mess of trouble if anyone finds out about this, Jet." She cares? The Warlock cares? The Undead, the Fel soul, a Tainted One… she cared? Perplexed, she fell into sleep.
The little Druid dreamt then.
The Priest was in it. He was in a house she didn't recognize. It is clearly the architecture of the High Elves, blue and gold and white and red all in flowing sharp edges. It is beautiful and warm. The furniture is plush and nice. The air is sweet with incense. There is a floating harp in the background that plays itself. The Priest is young. Perhaps 7 or 8. His hair is long even then, though she can make out neither color nor style. His face is kind. He hasn't seen the cold and cruel maiming of enemies in screaming anger; he has never smelled blood; he never healed a serious wound. He is innocent. Another Elfin child whose destiny is chosen for him.
He is reading. She can't make out the book. With one hand he idly makes sparks of golden light. Then green. Then blue. Then white. The book, she can figure out, is a general book about magic. Like every child of the Horde or Alliance, he has books of magic and history and lore shoved under his nose as soon as he can read. He is made, like them all, to choose a path as soon as possible. He will be pressed into service as soon as he can.
His hand grows cold with the blue, then warm again with the red energy. He burns himself and drops the little ball of fire. It goes out like an ember. The gold surrounds his hand now, conjured up without at thought. It heals. Even if he didn't know the path that was most natural to him now, the Druid certainly saw a Healer in him.
He sighs and relaxes into the cushy feinting couch. The book bores him. Life bores him.
He glances outside threw the glass of a purple shaded window. There are golden beaches in the distance, and a harbor with massed ships with purple sails bearing the images of a horse with a horn on its head. He does not want books or magic or war or peace… he wants the open ocean and strong breeze.
He wants freedom.