I wanted to thank everyone who took the time and energy to welcome me back. As I mentioned earlier, I've been going through a lot over the past few years, and the encouragement means the world to me as I work through a long healing process. Now that this goof is complete it's time to go back to OA!
The journey to the Ghostlands wasn't a long one. The two areas bordered one another, so even without a mount it wasn't exactly a taxing journey, and both Finn and Jake had insisted on following the road north. It made Marceline uneasy, that level of exposure, but she didn't trust herself to argue. The boys had already proven to be impervious to logic and reason, and she doubted that they would understand her desire to stay hidden, to stay away from Azeroth's normal denizens. There was no love for her kind, and she couldn't fault the sentiment.
As a small mercy, Marceline was allowed to be silent while the brothers chatted amicably. They did not force her to join their easy conversation, respecting her need to withdraw. In truth, this was the most social interaction she had had since her death, and she was already feeling a horrid combination of existential exhaustion and dread at the prospect of What Was To Come. They had set up camp, just for the night, but even that was a delightfully boring affair, and by late morning the day after - perhaps a full day since their reunion - the trio, plus Schwabl, left the Plaguelands behind for good.
With the Ghostlands came a nostalgic pang, and with that, a sad smile. Where the Plaguelands boasted a symbiotic relationship with shit and death, the Ghostlands was a tapestry of unsettling serenity, the unmistakable feeling that everything was much too still, that something was watching you from the picturesque landscape, laying in wait for your eyes to glaze over with the feel of idyllic countryside until you found yourself forgetting how you ever arrived here in the first place, until you, at last, lost the desire to leave. Better to be soothed by rich, plush grass of turquoise and a starless sapphire sky (always sapphire, no matter the time, always), to be entranced by the thick smoke-gray trunks of trees and their azure vines, and never-you-mind the fel green holes knotholes or ley lines that crossed they marked.
The dirt road turned to smokey cobblestone, and with this marker of civilization came lights flanking the small group. Lanterns hung from carved wooden posts every couple hundred feet, illumination harnessed from tamed aquamarine-colored mushrooms that glowed against the stillness of the perpetual twilight. Connecting each post was a wooden fence, two rails between each marker, carvings long since lost to the vines that choked them and claimed the guiding marks as their own.
If Marceline concentrated she could see the briarthorn and earthroot hiding in the vines, could see the patches of silverleaf that called the soft grass its home, the bruiseweed growing in the perpetual shade of the tree. But she didn't concentrate, not once she realized she was doing so because that invited the memories of her youth. Were Simon here, he would tell her that memories were a comfort, were a testament to her life and her experiences, to her capacity to feel and love, to her triumphs both within and without. But Simon wasn't here, and Marceline felt his loss anew. And pointedly ignored the plants, the memories associated with them, and their uncanny ability to pierce clean through her fortitude.
It was as they crossed a wooden bridge that Finn and Jake finally let their conversation trail off. From here, Marceline could find her way back to the cottage on her own, and they all knew it. But to point it out would invite a conversation as to why, exactly, they were escorting her, and that would be too much, far too much, in the wake of what had just happened, and what was about to happen. Instead, Finn asked as softly as he probably dared, "How are you holding up, Marce?"
At first, she made a soft noise in the back of her throat, not quite a dismissal, but not yet an invitation for conversation. When he didn't follow up her question the blood elf sighed, trying to exhale her trepidation. "I…" Don't want to do this? No, that wasn't quite right, she wanted to make right her mistake. Can't do this? She could do anything for Bonnibel. Shouldn't do this? It was out of her hands now. "I don't know."
"I think that's alright," Jake replied, "given the circumstances. But it'll be alright!"
"Jake's right! It'll be okay! Better than okay!" Marceline side-eyed him, but Finn was beaming. She envied his optimism. "You'll see."
"Uh-huh." The human gave her back a small pat, and then continued the journey. Landmarks were starting to become very familiar, and anxiety was starting to settle in the pit of the death knight's stomach. If she closed her eyes she was certain that she was close enough now to find the cottage by muscle memory alone. "Ugh…"
"We'll go with you and try to help," Jake promised, suddenly at her side. She almost punched him.
"Yeah… thanks."
And then she was there. The cottage was built in the old style of blood elf sensibilities, though what were once stark-white walls had turned fossil gray over the centuries. It was smooth and round, accented with gold trim around the body. Two stained glass windows sat on the sides, tinted magically to prevent onlookers from peaking within. The ceiling was a royal purple dome, flatted at the top to allow the passage of rain in the rare times of the phenomenon - for when it rained in the Ghostlands it rained hard - and marked by a further two stained glass windows on the upper floor. Two gold posts marked the entrance, a fel-green archway blocked by a slate-gray door. The entire building was cordoned off by a metal fence that lacked a door. Between the two was a proud garden of mageroyal and peacebloom.
It was beautiful.
Finn cleared his throat, just behind her now and to her side. "You ready, Marce?"
"Huh?" She blinked, hard, and when had she started crying? Tears were wiped away and she sighed, turning it into a groan to save herself from further emotional outbursts. "Yeah. Let's… let's do this."She led the way, past the gate, carefully through the garden, and up to the door. She took the knocker in hand, a cute bronze bat that hugged the post with its wings, and announced her presence. And then she waited, heart in her throat, and tried not to choke on it.
When the voidwalker opened the door she resisted the urge to groan and was proud of the fact. The beast stared at her, but only for a moment, before narrowing his depthless eyes at her. "Marceline." He didn't move.
"Pep," she greeted through clenched teeth. Move.
"Who's at the door, Peppermint?"
Marceline straightened at the voice, her favorite voice in the world, suddenly more awake, more at attention than she had been in years. The voidwalker spoke without looking away from her, his voice droning and mocking. "A farce has presented itself."
"A what?" Rapid footsteps, a flurry of movement, Peppermint moved aside for his master and then- "Marceline," she breathed, shock plain.
Marceline stared at Bonnibel. She had been working, that much was obvious; she was wearing a long maroon dress lined with royal purple, but over that was a black-as-night cloak she only ever wore when mixing her potions to protect herself. The cloak was a special thing, shimmering with every moment, and when the warlock pulled the hood down Marceline wasn't surprised that she had tied her red hair back with a silver ribbon, for Bonnibel did all things with both practicality and grace or not at all.
Too stunned to move or speak, she was grateful when Finn and Jake let themselves in. "Hey, Bonnibel! Look who we found!"
Finn sounded nervous. Jake… also sounded nervous, but was a tad better at hiding it. "One blood elf escorted home! Everyone loves it when the escort quest is finally done, aren't they? Marceline just sorta… got lost for a couple of years there-" That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Peppermint seemed to agree, scoffing loudly before excusing himself with promises of returning with tea. "So I know what you're thinking-"
"You can't possibly know what I'm thinking," Bonnibel interrupted, not looking away from Marceline. "Years, Marceline?"
Jake held up his paws in a defensive gesture. "Okay, let's just-"
"Boys. I appreciate this. But could you do me a favor, and leave us alone so we can talk about this? I think… Marceline and I have a lot to talk about."
Marceline couldn't blame Finn or Jake for heeding that dismissal. There was just something about Bonnibel's "requests" that made them sound like less of a request and more of a royal demand. She was never bossy per se, but she was single-mindedly driven to get what she wanted. And if she wanted to have a conversation with the death knight, the easiest thing to do would be to let it happen. As the boys left and Schwabl filed in, wisely hiding behind his own master at Bonnibel's sharp gaze, Marceline felt herself gulping. "Okay, Bon-" The slap met her cheek with enough force to make her ears ring. She rubbed the point of impact then worked her jaw, just to be certain everything was still attached. "Okay, I may deserve that-"
"May?!"
"Princess-"
The pet name rolled off her tongue, effortless and familiar, and absolutely the wrong thing to say. Fury flashed behind Bonnibel's eyes and she lashed out, grabbing every item within reach and throwing them directly at Marceline."You stupid rogue!" First a goblet, mercifully empty. "Do you know how worried I've been about you?!" A book now, not a grimoire, but still thick enough to make her grateful for her armor. She was aware, vaguely and with great irritation, that Peppermint had returned with tea, and was sipping it while watching the death knight's struggle. "Do you know what it's like to search for months while everyone tells you that your wife is dead-" paperweight, shaped like a voidwalker's claw "-with no body, no evidence, no energy to be felt-" empty vial, which shattered on impact with the wall when Marceline ducked "-so you spend every night for months, years even, never sleeping, losing your mind with fear-" cushion from Bonnibel's reading chair "-that she's been captured, is being tortured, and there's nothing you can do?!"
Bonnibel stopped her assault then, the next object poised at the ready. Instead, she dropped the candlestick and buried her face in her hands, body wracked with violent shudders. Marceline was already moving, the sight of the warlock's silent sobs worse than any outburst she could throw at her. She pulled Bonnibel to her, but when her breastplate proved to be in the way she snarled and reached to her sides, unlatching the damned thing and dropping it to the lilac-carpeted floor in two quick motions. Her remaining glove was discarded with it, her ax followed shortly after, and now free of her physical burdens she grabbed the other woman anew, pulling her against her chest.
Bonnibel buried her face in Marceline's undershirt, clawed fingers gripping the stained material that soaked up her tears. The death knight kept one arm on the small of the warlock's back, pressing the other on the back of her head. "I'm so sorry, Bonnie," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"I'm so mad at you," Bonnibel hissed in reply, tightening her grip.
Marceline laughed dryly, holding her closer. Her tears were threatening to fall, but she wouldn't let them, couldn't let them. Not yet. "That's fair."
They stayed like that. Somewhere along the way, Marceline closed her eyes just to focus on the sensations. The tickle of Bonnibel's hair under her cheek, the sound of her breathing as it turned from incensed gasps to soft whimpers. The warmth of the woman she loved against her, the smells of herbs boiling, and potions brewing. Home. She would not pull away first. Marceline enjoyed every second of their embrace but knew it would need to end. Bonnibel pulled back, far enough away to glare at the other woman. There wasn't as much heat behind it this time and the death knight chanced an uncertain smile. "So… hi?"
Bonnibel scoffed and pulled away from her entirely. Without meaning for it to happen, a whimper escaped Marceline's throat as the woman turned, prompting Bonnibel to look back. She seemed to debate something, just for a minute, before giving her a small smile. "Come here, you idiot."
The sitting parlor sported all of the necessities for such a learned blood elf as Bonnibel, but none so necessary, in Marceline's opinion, as the chaise lounge. It was luxurious magenta cushions atop a rosewood bench, long and large enough to support both of the women simultaneously. It was backed by soft, fuzzy pillows that matched a fluffy bubblegum-pink blanket; aside from the bed, the chaise lounge was Marceline's favorite spot in the cottage, particularly when the sun hit the window just right and made a sunbeam for her to stretch out in, like a cat. When the pair were younger they had spent many an hour cuddled together there, studying their respective fields in companionable silence, or else enjoying tea and debating absolutely nothing of import. Countless winters were spent on the chaise, snuggled together before the hearth, currently void of flame, even more springs would see Bonnibel braiding Marceline's hair, her humming lulling the other woman to a doze as her touch worked its peculiar magic on her soul.
It was where Bonnibel brought her at that moment, and Marceline dared to hope. For what, she wasn't sure, but in light of everything, just to hope in of itself seemed like a spiteful, daring move. Bonnibel took her spot on the lounge but Marceline hesitated, waiting for permission from the warlock deliberately patting the empty spot next to her before exhaling, and when had she begun to hold her breath in the first place? After a moment of deliberation, she removed armored leggings and boots, the last of her armor, and took her position on the lounge with slow, deliberate movements.
The underleggings were filthy as well, and there was no way the chaise lounge would remain spotless after she grazed it, but that guilt was set aside for the moment. She could not shake the awareness of Bonnibel watching her all the while, of those piercing green eyes staring into her soul, assuming she still possessed one. But she was allowed to lay beside the redhead, and though she dared not lay close enough to touch her, not yet and not without permission, she was infinitely grateful all the same. The soft cushions of the chaise cradled her aching muscles and Marceline stretched against it, unable to resist feeling the luxurious fabric against her bruised, raw skin. Such familiarity, such comfort, was so at odds with the harsh conditions she had grown accustomed to since death, making her dizzy and eliciting a contented sigh. Near-delirious she even thanked Peppermint for the tea when offered it, much to his horror and Bonnibel's amusement. After a sip, she licked her dry lips, returning from her stupor to the conversation at hand. "So.. now what?"
Bonnibel took her time before responding but did not look away from the prodigal death knight, who found that she was shrinking into herself under that gaze. Ice began to creep from under her fingers where they rested on the soft fabric, and when Bonnibel's eyes darted to it Marceline, in a sudden bout of self-consciousness, withdrew her hand entirely. The redhead caught the limb at the wrist and began to examine each finger, the back of the death knight's hand, then her palm, all with the precision of a woman about to perform surgery. Bonnibel traced her own fingers against the other woman's wrist, ghosting the cold skin and eliciting a shiver. "I'm sorry," Marceline blurted again, this time without meaning to. "I… I'm cold now."
"You are," Bonnibel agreed with almost no emotion.
It made Marceline wince, made tears anew. This was a mistake. But she could not bring herself to withdraw her hand. A renewed sense of desperation began to claw its way upward from her chest until she had no choice but to squeeze her eyes shut, blinded by the enormity of it all. Did she need to leave and want to stay, or did she want to leave and need to stay? Did it matter? No. Yes. Never, and always.
At last, her hand was released and she brought it back to her chest, cradling it against her. A pressure, light and delicate, touched her cheek and she flinched. "Marcy?" She nodded but did not trust herself to speak. Language was for civilized beings. "Come back to me, little bat." Marceline took a shaky breath and creaked open an eye. The pressure was Bonnibel's hand cupping her cheek, and she apologized again, compulsively. "For being cold," Bonnibel said. Not a question, but Marceline nodded anyway. Bonnibel frowned, but it was her thoughtful one, the frown she wore when she was deep into a puzzle that she knew only she could solve. Marceline didn't like that. She didn't like being a puzzle or needing to be solved. She had spent years trying to atone for exactly that. "Pep?"
"Mistress," the voidwalker droned, suddenly close.
Bonnibel did not look at him, not when she called for him, nor when commanding him. Marceline didn't like that, that the warlock wouldn't take her eyes off of her. I wouldn't hurt you, she wanted to say. I could never hurt you, Bon. She wanted desperately for that to be true. I…
"Please take Marceline's teacup. In my study, in the medicine chest, third drawer from the top, eighth drawer from the left. Take the tea satchel, steep for three minutes. Some honey as well, one spoon. Please bring it back once back."
"Of course." Her cup was taken, and Bonnibel's was set aside, to the polished marble side table. Marceline heard the clinking but understood none of the why.
Once Peppermint was off to his task Bonnibel motioned for the death knight to come closer. "Come here, Marcy," she said softly. "It's alright." Marceline bit her lip but shuffled her position, just close enough for the women's bodies to touch. At that, Bonnibel gave her a soft smile, one of the rare expressions she gave when she was trying to focus on not Analyzing but on just being Present. "Here… let's just.." The blanket was retrieved and draped around both women. It was so much softer than Marceline remembered, impossibly so, a cloud woven into physical comfort.
The hand on her cheek stroked her jawline, her ear, her temple, and under the ministrations, Marceline closed her eyes. Led by small gestures she shuffled up on the chaise so that she lay face to face with the redhead. In the back of her mind, she apologized, wanted to apologize, for how filthy she was, how she was surely ruining everything. Bonnibel said nothing about any of it; in fact, she said nothing at all until Peppermint returned with the teacup, which she thanked him for and asked him to set next to the death knight and then depart, to give them privacy.
The door closed and, a minute later Bonnibel asked, "Marcy?" Marceline opened an eye but was too afraid to speak, too worried she would ruin the moment. "Do you remember when we were younger, and I came home from class to every piece of furniture in my room stuck to my ceiling? Everything in its proper position, exactly neat and as it should be?" Marceline ducked her head, feeling the ghost of a blush. "Even my bed was still made. And as I circled my room, dumbfounded as to how this could have possibly happened, I heard a giggle from my wardrobe. I opened my closet, and what did I find?" The death knight hid under the blanket. Or, at least, she attempted to; Bonnibel saw that coming and caught the fabric. "What did I see, Marceline?" she asked with a stern tone and smile.
"…Me."
"I saw my best friend, hanging upside down in my closet like a bat. And do you remember what you said?"
"…I said 'How's it hanging, Bonnie'."
"Do you know what my first thought was when that happened?"
"…You tried to figure out how I did it?"
"Actually, that was the second, and I still have no idea. My first thought was actually a realization: 'By the Sunwell, I am in love with this idiot.'
Marceline blinked, stunned. She herself had always been very open about her affection for Bonnibel when she realized she was in love with the other blood elf, what it was she loved about her. Bonnibel, though, was reticent with that information; she was affectionate and loving in her own way but never saw the point in explaining such sentiments directly, and so didn't. It had never bothered Marceline beyond fierce curiosity, but curious she was. This was unexpected, in so many ways, and for the moment her self-loathing was forgotten in lieu of following this breadcrumb trail the warlock was leaving for her.
Perhaps she saw the bewilderment in her eyes because Bonnibel sighed fondly before providing Marceline with her tea. She took her own to sip while speaking. "I am mad at you Marceline… but not because you're cold now. I'm mad that you didn't come home."
Marceline swirled the crimson liquid in her cup with her teaspoon, drinking to gather her thoughts. Bloodberry. Her favorite. "I wanted to," she admitted in a whisper. "I wanted to so badly, princess."
"Why didn't you?" There was no accusation in her voice, but there was hurt. Somehow, that was so much worse.
At first, Marceline was quiet, trying to wrangle her thoughts into something sensible. Perhaps her actions could not make sense to someone not of her kind, but she could at least explain them coherently. "…I did a lot, Bon. I didn't want to, you know I would never want to.. but I did, you know? And I was so scared… so scared that…"
Her hands started to shake, her cup almost falling until two slender, warm hands helped to steady her grip on it. "You were afraid you would hurt me." Marceline whimpered from the back of her throat, then drowned the sound in her tea. "How did you escape?"
She chuckled silently, bitterly. "Dumb luck. I was in Northrend then. I was…" A shudder of disgust ripped through her.
"You don't need to talk about that if you're not ready," Bonnibel offered.
Marceline nodded. "Thanks. Anyway… we would get 'recruits', which were just people who were recently killed by someone thought would be good cannon fodder." She couldn't hide the bitterness, the disgust at the memories. "Part of the process is to go through their things, let them decide what to keep and what will be recycled for the Lich and his posse. We got someone who had just been near the Blasted Lands-"
Bonnibel's eyes widened, understanding already beginning to click in her mind. "The Dark Portal."
Marceline smiled wryly. "Yup. He was some sort of archaeologist, had some demon artifacts from it. Don't remember what, don't care… but it did have dad's insignia. I touched it, and I remember it burning like nothing I've ever felt… then I could think clearly. And I was pissed, Bon. I'm still pissed." She set her empty teacup on the table, but Bonnibel took her hand before she could settle back under the blankets. Before she could hide.
"What happened, Marcy?" she asked, stroking her palm with her thumb.
"…I killed them all. Everyone there. I didn't care why they were there if they were brainwashed like me, or in the process, or what. If they were his, they were dead. Then… I wanted to go home, but I couldn't… I couldn't remember, Bon. I couldn't remember what I did first when I died. What if I hurt you? Or Finn or Jake? I just… I didn't have it in me, to know. I didn't…" She squeezed Bonnibel's hand, taking comfort when the warlock squeezed back, and in the soft clink of their rings meeting. "I figured that as long as I didn't go looking for the answer… there was hope. That you were all okay, that you were okay. And I wasn't the same, Bon. I'm not the same. I'm just so angry… and I decided they all had to die. All of the Lich's tools. So I've spent two, three years just wrecking everything of his."
She hadn't meant to say all of that, but once she started she hadn't been able to stop. Whenever she slowed, whenever she began to hesitate, Bonnibel's warmth would spur her on and she wouldn't be able to refuse the encouragement. As she spoke the warlock lowered her down so that her head was on the chaise's pillow, so the blanket draped over both of them. By the time Marceline finished Bonnibel was against her, warm skin beating the cold of the death knight's flesh until things were comfortable and she was reluctant to move. "Are you home now?" Bonnibel's breath brushed against her neck in a way that could be nothing but purposeful.
"I think I'm still in Northrend."
Bonnibel laced their fingers. "Close your eyes, Marcy." She did so and was startled when she felt the warlock's free hand trail under her dirty shirt to rest against her chest. "We have a lot to discuss," she began, and Marceline tensed. "But none of those things are related to your being a danger to me."
"You don't understand, princess-"
"Perhaps not everything, not yet, but I intend to, in time. But… I don't think there's a rush, do you?" Marceline swallowed, hard, throat suddenly dry. The hand on her chest slid to her back. "I'm still mad, Marcy," she stated without ire, a fact and nothing more. "But, I do understand, and more than anything… you're home. That was what I wanted. That was all I wanted."
Marceline looked away from her, but couldn't escape the sensation of being watched. "I'm not the same, Bon."
"Mm. Maybe, maybe not. You still lounge on the chaise like a housecat. You still take your bloodberry tea sweetened. Peppermint did not see you as a threat, even if you were accompanied by-"
Her eyes widened in alarm. "Oh crap, Schwabl!"
She tried to sit up, but the hand on her back would not allow it. "Your minion is fine, Marcy, and I want to hear the story behind that as well. Not at the moment perhaps, but I do. For now, focus."
"Sorry," she murmured with a blush.
Bonnibel laughed softly, then pulled the death knight closer. "Come here."
Marceline hesitated, but it didn't last long. It couldn't, not when she was surrounded by such warmth and softness, the familiarity and promise of safety lulling her to relax into the chaise. Bonnibel murmured encouragements and she nuzzled into the crook of the warlock's neck the moment the robe slid to the ground. Marceline was overcome with a sudden wave of exhaustion. A warm arm wrapped around her and Marceline groaned in appreciation from the contact, from the affection behind such a simple gesture. She was vaguely aware of Bonnibel's adjustments to make herself more comfortable, loosening her dress's bindings so she could tighten the embrace until it was possessive. Marceline hummed in appreciation. There was so much to do still, that was inarguable. But she was home now, settled at her wife's side, exactly where she had always belonged. With a sigh she let the exhaustion win, welcoming the warm darkness with a nuzzle into Bonnibel's skin.
She was home. And she was never leaving again.