Conquest of the Horde

So! I typed all of this while at work (slow day) and on my touch screen cellphone. Not fun. I am pretty reluctant about this. Did I portray Clovis' feeling properly? Is it too angst? Is it a boring read. Guh. I hate typing IC posts. Will format when I get home later tonight. Feedback appreciated.

Quote:I've never been one for journals. I don't get so bored that I would write one for entertainment - boredom is for people with no responsibilities, as my parents would often say. I am a man of responsibility. I continue my education with texts from Dalaran. I follow the virtues of the Light with my actions, not words. I strive to be a master swordsman and keep my body fit and strong. I have my basic duties as a crusader. My duties as a paladin. My duties as a son. My duties as a friend. As a citizen of Dalaran. A denizen of Hearthglen. As a soldier. As a human. As a lover. As a man.

I invite every monarch on Azeroth to suggest they have more duties than me. I invite the entirety of the Kirin Tor to challenge that. They'll earn no more than my laughter in their face.

I don't even need this journal for emotional reasons. I am a man first and foremost, and I will do what all men of the world have done since the dawn of time - repress, repress, repress. Maybe some denial and delusion for good measure.

So. Why am I writing a journal of all things? Something which I consider a flagrant waste of my time? Why am I writing this all in a way that suggests I am talking to someone, while I simply sit here alone in my room?

I did something wrong. Technically. A small sin I suppose. It wasn't and still isn't intended as an act of malice. Despite myself, I still continue to commit this sin. Maybe it isn't so wrong in hindsight. This is but one sin I have rationalized among many others in life after all. What logic.

I read a book. No surprise there. I am a Dalaran man. Knowledge is Power. Humanity has been nose deep in "forbidden" tomes and texts since the days of Arathi.

It didn't give me special powers. I cannot bring down the sky or give sight to the blind. It didn't give me practical knowledge. I do not now know how to build an ancient war machine or cure undeath (Oh, but how I wish I could). It has not given me advantage. I cannot blackmail Rhonin or expose Thrall as evil incarnate.

It has simply given me insight into a woman's mind. A mind I pity. A mind I love.

Even here, on text reserved for my eyes only, I cannot bring myself to admit who she is. Or what. If forced to stand in front of all of humanity and admit my love for her to them, I would sooner turn tail and flee to wage a one man war on everything in my path. I, a man who fancies himself brave, cannot risk my reputation in the eyes of people I don't even know, to admit my love for her.

What a miserable coward I am. What a boy. The banshees should have killed me in the fall of Dalaran. The Vrykul should have rended me in two in The Fjord. The Lich King should have put me down like a miserable lowborn mongrel in Icecrown. The suffering I am worthy of for being such a bloody coward would put the most black of hearts to shame.

I do love her. I have to. What else could this feeling be? She is as kind, gentle, and pure of heart as any woman can hope to be. As I imagined she would be after months of correspondence through letters exchanging our histories, interests, and dreams. But like all good things in my life, there is a catch. What a catch there was with her.

Does she notice my shame? How I only hold her hand in the safety of Argent camps and towns? Or when no one is looking? How I gently ease her head from my shoulders when strangers approach? How I only embrace her in privacy? How I call her, the woman who lives with me, my 'roommate'? I hate myself for it. I loathe myself for how I treat her. But I must. For our safety. I wish I could give her the story book romance she wants. I wish I could be her Knight. But at what price?

I sit here with her journal beside me. I have so much left to read. So much to already reflect on. She'll be home soon. I just put it back, else I risk being caught. Would it hurt her?

This love shall be the death of me.

Quote:She's written more. I want to skip ahead, to see her most recent thoughts. It wouldn't be wrong - I've already read a fair amount. I never knew about the Scarlet's - did I? I sometimes feel my memory is so poor, even when considering those I care for. I am so unworthy of her affection, affection which I find so shameful to acknowledge outside of the privacy of our home. I'm such a wretch. I've already committed this sin - I must read ahead. I must see what she says about me. But why? So I may lie better? I am pathetic.

I should read ahead, if only because there is no undoing what has been done here. There's so much history here. Reading it pains me more and more. I must ignore it. Let her past be the past. Then again....

Spoiler:

Endling Wrote:Sir Black,


I know now what you are. I realize indeed that I have been misguided, both in my trust in you and my understanding of you. I know now, among other things, that you are both a warlock, and a murderer. You have taken many lives so far, and I do not fathom that you will not have taken more by the time of my writing.

Then again, I have yet to hear of your fate. I know only that Sir Windstrider pursued you, and that you were injured.

I do hope you are well, though. Despite what I know now, I do know there is at least a margin of kindness in you. And if I am wrong, and perhaps I am, then so be it. Ignorance of this, at least, will not harm anyone but myself.


I do wish you well, Sir Black. I only wish that I could do so with good faith that it is what is best for others, too.


My regards,
Endling

....Tavren. What ever happened to us, old friend? I still remember our youth, as vividly as ever. I, aloof and entrenched in my training. You, gregarious (at least when compared to me) and charismatic. It was a simpler time. My time spent with you and the other lads around Krasus's Landing were times I could look forward to being a mischievous little boy, and not a squire. Pranks on the merchants. Snatching treats from them in process. Crawling around the Underbelly. Bragging about girls. Fighting about girls. You pulled my ass out of the fire a lot in our youth - though I may never of been in need of rescuing if not for you in the first place! Still, I remember my youth fondly thanks to you and the others, troublemakers as you all were. As we all were. You were like the brother I never had when I was younger, you know.

Which is why I turned the other cheek when you admitted to your dark magics. That surprised me. I knew you were a less than lawful person. I figured you for the type to amass political and economical power with schemes and plots. Never did I think I'd see you summoning demons. Maybe I wouldn't feel so lost now, if I had just disowned you. My childhood friend should of died in my eyes the moment he claimed to be a warlock. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't admit it.

Maybe if I had been honest with you all this time, things would of turned out different? I could of just told you I didn't want to be a member of your House. I didn't approve of your consorting with the dark arts. That I still considered you my friend, and I only wanted you to be happy without resorting to these foul magics. Maybe I should of told you of the woman I think I love. Would you have mocked me? Blackmailed me? Maybe even of helped me, in your own twisted way? I'll probably never know. I miss you, and yet, I am glad you are out of my life now. The latter, I am to blame for, I think.

I should of said a lot of things, to a lot of people. Had I been honest with my feelings, maybe a lot of people in my life would be happier. Damn it all.

This writing has just left me morose. I will try to clear my mind. Training with my greatsword may do me some good.

I miss the innocence of youth. Farewell, old friend.

Quote:I have a little secret with ghost-lit eyes.


Ya know, I can't help but be in a good mood after yesterday. It makes me realize that as much as I traveled on my own, nothing beats experiencing the sights of the world with friends in tow. The Dawnsends are good people. They're good friends to have. I almost forget they're Sin'dorei at the end of the day. They were good company.

So was she.

She's so...innocent. She was terrified of falling out of a saddle. She didn't even realize you could strap yourself into one. It was cute. She's almost like a child in her naivete. I adore it.

I wish she was normal.

That being said, I'm honestly more and more surprised with myself as days go by. I am astonished that I have not been harassed or judged or questioned by anyone for my closeness to her. Have I just hid it really well? Do people simply not care? Do people mistake her for being just another woman at a distance? Do I intimidate them too much to approach me about it?

I expected trouble in Dalaran. I got none. Perhaps the Kirin Tors neutrality is rubbing off on the populace - something I am now slightly glad for, and disgusted with all the same.

Hearthglen remains as safe as ever.

Not even at that Love Festival. Save for the occasional curious glance.

I want to feel comfortable around her. To give her the warmth of my embrace. But how long can I get away with it before someone calls me out? And even if they don't - how long can this really last? There is little normal about this relationship.

In place of family to build, friends to make. In place of a future to look forward to, history to uncover. In place of passion, chastity.

Oh Light, the chastity isn't the worst, but it's up there. Lewd fantasies of Confessor Paletress and Lady Proudmoore have become my nightly routine-

Ya know. This isn't the place for that kind of thinking. Time to change my train of thought - though I will state this here, for I feel the need to say this to myself - I can forgive theft. I can forgive anger. Adultery is right up there with murder, as far as I'm concerned. I will not stray. I must not. Not even for her sake - but for my own. I'd never forgive myself. I cannot do unto another and expect forgiveness what I would kill over if done to me.


I will try harder. Regardless of how strange this relationship feels, I enjoy my time with her. I look forward to it. I love her.

I love my parents, as eccentric as they've become over the years.

I love my old friend, Tavren, even if he has chosen the low path in life.

I love the Dawnsends, even if I must call them my enemies outside of the Crusade or Dalaran.

I love Endling.

Quote:I've continued to read her journal - I wanted to take my time, since my last glimpse into her past left me so downtrodden. I really would like to add an entry into my own journal that doesn't make me come off as such a downer. But really, who the hell writes a journal to talk about how great their life is? Annoying people, that's who.

Her writings of her time at the Argent Pavilion provide me with little substantial insight into her mind that I can pick up on. I do not dwell on them in my haste to continue towards the end.

I had always put such little thought into the use of the Light - I knew it caused her a measure of discomfort...but after reading these entries, I now understand that 'discomfort' is an understatement. I would scold her for using it so often - her frequent casting of shields and the like on me leaves a bitter taste in my mouth when I realize it causes her pain.

But do I have the right? To revoke that which makes her unique - different from the rest? That which gives her a connection to the rest of the world? That which gives her feeling?

Does she love me? And if so, would that love wane if she stopped using the Light? Can I really ask her to keep hurting herself, just so that she may love me?

Can I view her as any different from the rest of her kind I've met and wished to kill, if she did stop using the Light?

Her entry regarding regaining her strength while...I guess, 'meditating' in the Plaguelands has left me enlightened. And horrified. I now truly understand - for the being I know as her to continue to exist, she must remain in enduring pain. The alternative leaves her an emotionless husk which I would view with hate and disgust.

What a cruel fate.

Another entry. She has been left injured and recovering from overexertion. If I had been there, would I of cared enough to tell her to rest? Or sit beside her bed and talk to her in her catatonic state? I don't think I had even met Dawnsend by then - I was still in Dalaran, hacking away at the creatures that dragged themselves up from the waters of the Ironwall Dam.

She sounds so pathetic, hobbling from her resting place to where ever her destination was. I cannot fathom the text that follows - I garner she was hallucinating. Something inside me cannot bring myself to read it - I disregard the text and skip ahead.

I loathe that she assisted the Horde at all, even if only because they were the only ones who might take her in at the time. It angers me. I feel nothing for the orcs she mentions that fell in battle. They were probably responsible for their fair share of suffering for the human race anyway.

I've always had a complex relationship with orcs. I can be tolerate, even friendly with the sin'dorei - they were once High Elves who I may of considered friends in the walls of Dalaran. I can vividly recall their ill-treatment at the hands of my commander during Dalaran's retaking.

I can tolerate the trolls, if only for their simple mindedness - I almost find no threat in them, though I know this is a foolish assessment. I can't quite take them seriously. This is a mistake that I must correct.

The tauren are an enigma to me - I've honestly never had a conversation with one before. All I know is that they're big and would probably be as formidable for me to duel as a Vrykul.

The forsaken, never before has a race left me with such duality - I hate, and pity them.

But the orcs. For all my distaste of them, I find them curiouser and curiouser by the day. The few I have met are often quiet, even tempered, and well adjusted....Then again, they've all been rather queer.

Though I've no right to judge, considering who I call my love.


Blast it. I've gone off on a tangent. Oh well. I am more than half way through now. I shall read more later, when the opportunity presents itself.

Off to visit the parents now. Hurrah.

Quote:Every entry thus far leaves me sullen and mourning for her. If these were her most recent entries, I'd assume her to be a woman devoid of joy and a literal aquifer of pity. If pity were a luxury good I'd be able to call her my own and be the richest man on Azeroth, the amount of pity I would have at my fingertips.

It leaves me wondering - have I done anything to improve her life? How important am I to her? Will these journals of hers take a more uplifting turn as I draw closer to the end, where I'm sure she's made mention of me in some respect?

How selfish I must sound to assume I mean so much to her. This unwarranted self-importance is unbecoming of a paladin.

There are many aspects of my being that are unbecoming, it seems.

As I read on through her entries, trying to pay her a modicum of privacy by only glancing at what I view as important, I find myself wondering - is our relationship right?

No, I am not even addressing the 'obvious issue' either - I know that's wrong, no matter how much I try to rationalize it. The only reason I choose to ignore it is....I don't know. Hope?

No, what has me questioning our relationship is the balance of power - am I right to view myself as her armor?

Throughout her entries, she leaves hints of her distaste with being guarded. With being viewed as weak and helpless and in need of protecting. While I don't think she is entirely opposed to these things, I do think she wishes she had more say in them.

Should I be weary of how protective I am of her?

By sheer luck, we have not been in enough battles together that I need go out of my way to shield her from physical danger. Nor have we ever had to deal with any sort of real harassment from others - I have not had to protect her over anything.

How much is too much then? Where must I draw the line? When will I know to let her fight her own battle, rather than rob her of experience she needs? I wish to be her armor - but will I crush her under the weight?

Bah! As if my affection for her isn't already under enough pressure - now I must deal with issues normal bloody couples have to deal with? How god damn surreal.

...Am...am I growing comfortable with this?

Quote:I find myself skipping ahead in her logs. It is not meant as an insult - surely she deserves a modicum of privacy, and I find little need to pry into her entries regarding this Elf fellow. He seems to be a friend, and that is well enough for me.

Oh, but how I wish I hadn't hit this particular entry. If I'm not mistaken, we had just met...

I was absolutely enthralled with the woman I had come to know through letters. We had been exchanging letters for weeks. Nay, at least two months, I believe. I always fancied myself a realist - not the type to be so passionate about a woman I barely knew. My parents had fallen in love, married, and had me all in the course of a year or two. It always boggled my mind.

But the woman behind those letters was lovely. She was intelligent, sweet, humble, pious. A little plain, but still interesting. Our meeting in the Legerdemaine was supposed to be the start of a new chapter of my life. A happier one. While I had no desire to creep her out, I was already wondering if she might be 'the one'. Perhaps us Briarthorns do fall into love too fast.

It was certainly the start of a new chapter, alright.

She looked like a lovely woman at a distance. A little pale, but that worked just fine for me. But the eyes were a dead give away. Those ghost-lit eyes. I had thought this was a prank. That the woman I had come to meet had her little forsaken friend here to trick me as a joke, at first.

When I realized what I was dealing with, I think I went through several of the main stages of grieving right on the spot. But more than anything I recall being angry. Though I didn't show it.

I was completely flabbergasted, and it showed. She must of been shaking like a leaf with how poorly I had taken this. Was this a trap? It had been less than two years since I was fighting rogue Royal Apothecary Society Plague-bringers in Howling Fjord - was I about to be gassed to death?

Did this -thing- just have some twisted fetish for living men? Could I convince the guards that I had just impaled Endbringer into the skull of a quivering forsaken woman who probably weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet in self defense?

The anger didn't last. I'm such a pushover.

She sounded so pathetic as we sat there. Me, having an emotional breakdown. Her, just plopped on her chair like a helpless lump. In hindsight, I don't quite recall all the details of what we discussed, or how I managed to finally get a hold of myself. But I do remember one detail that gnaws at me.

If she were a normal woman, she would of kicked me in my manhood, repeatedly, for the way I treated her.

I feel awful looking back on it, but I really did treat her like some sort of freak. The thought that a Forsaken could love, could feel, and could wield the Light was just so alien a concept to me. I was mortified. I forced her to tell me her story, even though I'm sure she had no desire to do so. I forced her to show me the burns her use of the Light had left on her hands, even though I -knew- she didn't want to. I must of humiliated her.

And then, I had the nerve, the nerve, to tell her it was ok. To tell I'd 'get in touch with her soon'. I had promised to let this woman meet my family in our original letters, for the love of the Light!

And I left her sobbing and alone on Winters Veil. I didn't contact her for well over a month.

I am the worst kind of man.

Endling may be a Forsaken. She may be different. But she is a woman. A woman with a good heart and a kind soul. It has taken me so long to come to grips with that. And when I think back on how I treated her that day, It...it makes me feel...like a monster...

There seems to be a change in the color of the ink used, suggesting Clovis stopped writing at some point and came back after a break.

I'm so sorry I left you alone on Winters Veil, Endling. When all you ever wanted was affection and love. I'm so sorry I treated you like an abomination when we met, when all you hoped for was that I was different - to think I remained ignorant of your undeath throughout our weeks of exchanging letters.

More than anything though, I'm sorry for how I treat you even now. How I cannot always give you my embrace, regardless of who may be around. How I do not always profess my affection for you, no matter where I may be. You are a saint of a woman to tolerate such cruelty. I am a monster.

I am sorry, Endling.

I have sinned.

Quote:It was a lovely spire. Similar to the scaling spires of Dalaran in design, it seemed to stretch into the sky for miles. A spire to the heavens in the middle of an endless green field - a sea of green grass and rolling hills going on for miles.

Clovis stood outside the entrance, wearing a rather fancy looking tuxedo, and a stern look on his face - as if the tower he was staring at was the greatest challenge he had ever faced in his life.

Krilari gave him a nudge, the elf dressed in his usual armor, a sort of bemused look to his face. "We doing this or what, Briarthorn?" The elf chimed in, eliciting a curt nod from the human as Clovis made the first step into the tower.

There was no grand hall or anything interesting about the interior - simply a spiral staircase that seemed to stretch on miles. Clovis took the first step, and it wasn't long before him and Krilari were slowly scaling the staircase at a casual pace.

"Why are you friends with me and my wife, Briarthorn? We're Blood Elves. Don't you know we hate your kind? Don't you hate ours? Wouldn't we stab each other in the back the first minute the Argent Crusade sided with a faction?" Dawnsend asked nonchalantly as he escorted Clovis up the grand staircase, the Paladin giving a huff.

"We haven't yet, have we?" Clovis was unemotional and stone faced as he spoke. "This is the Argent Crusade, Alliance and Horde aren't a real consideration when you talk to your soldiers and superiors - well, not a consideration we're supposed to acknowledge, anyway." Clovis allowed himself the smallest of smirks, seeming pleased with the answer.

"Doesn't answer my main question. What are your personal reasons for being so chummy with us? You were expected to be tolerant of us. Not treat us like old friends." Krilari retorted.

A frown formed on the humans face. "You're good people. Sure, we have our differences, but....I don't know, ok? I just consider you friends. I mean, we do everything friends do, don't we?" Clovis looked unsure.

Krilari smirked at that, giving the Paladin a pat on the shoulder as the marched up the tower. "We're friends Clovis. Weird, weird, weird friends. But you're going to have to give me a better answer someday."

Someday.

Quote:It wasn't long before Clovis felt the presence of another beside him.

"Why are you so embarrassed by me and your father, you silly goose?" Evelyn chimed in with a happy smile on her face, her balding husband humming to himself as he skimmed through a book of research notes right behind her.

"I'm not embarrassed by you!" Clovis let out a whine. "I mean, it's just....you and dad changed so much from when I was growing up. It's like you two became weird eccentrics over night. It's not a bad thing, it's just...different." He bit his lip.

"Ah, but dear, we've always been weird eccentrics! Your squire-hood just kept you away from the house enough to not make it obvious!" She smiled brightly.

"But...why? Why can't you just act like plain, old, boring parents?" Clovis frowned. A part of him, admittedly, liked the way his parents were - but a part of him didn't.

It was at this point that his father chimed in, looking up from his book with bright hazel eyes. "Parents are people too, Clovis."

Evelyn clapped her hands together like a giddy schoolgirl. "Your father was always wise, sweety! Now, how about those grandchildren..."

Quote:"It's your fault we're not friends anymore, you know." Tavren was idly filing his nails to perfection as he followed the Briarthorns and Dawnsend behind Clovis.

Clovis furrowed his brow and grit his teeth. "No it isn't! I'm not the one who decided to go and consort with demons!" He gave a huff.

It garnered only a yawn from Tavren. "Have you ever actually -seen- me consort with demons? Ever see one following me around? Ever seen me taking orders from one?"

"Just because I don't see it doesn't mean it isn't there!" Clovis's hands balled into fists.

"Just admit it. It's your fault. I may not be a good person, Briarthorn, but am I exactly evil? I've never hurt you or anyone you loved. You've no proof that anyone I have caused harm too is a perfectly innocent civilian. Hell, I've done nothing but be perfectly civil with you, and yet you keep acting like I'm going to raise the dead at any moment. We'd still be friends now if it wasn't for your damn ignorance."

Clovis growled. "We'd still be friends if you'd just never gone down that path in life."

Tavren smirked. "But Clovis, if I wasn't a warlock - we'd both be dead."

Quote:They had reached the top. It wasn't exactly ritzy. Just a simple, large room with tall windows and a...toilet bowl right in the middle of the whole she-bang. A newspaper resting on top of it.

"So, what are you going to do about Endling, Clovis? I mean, you say you love her - you gonna act like it, or what?" Krilari questioned.

"Ooooooh. Silvester! I think Clovis is going to settle down with this one! We may be grand parents yet!" Evelyn and her husband were all giggles and laughs.

Tavren quirked a brow. "Endling, the little undead girl?"

The giggles stopped. "....Oh. Oh. Well. Well! It's ok dear, we still love you, even if you do occasionally like to crack open a cold one." Evelyn smiled brightly.

While that normally would of got a groan from their son, Clovis was eerily silent as he stared at the group. "I don't know Kril. Do or Don't, I stand to lose so much." With that, Clovis took the newspaper, pulled down his pants, plopped down on the bowl, and began to read the paper.

"......Fucking Marmaduke!"

It was morning. Around 6am, maybe. Uncharacteristically early for Clovis to be waking up, as he often stayed up late and slept in late. He could hear Endling shuffling about in the other room, getting ready to prepare breakfast for him. Clovis laid in his bed, his hands slowly cupping his head with a look of dread on his face.

"Not the bloody bathroom dream again."

Quote:Yesterday was definitely eventful. It started off well, then went bad, and finally ended by dipping into the realm of the bizarre. At the very least, the Thondroril Bridge is safe - we were able to secure it, but we had moderate causalities on our side - at least the siege wall held. Of the seven additional combatants that came with me in tow to the Bridge's defense, three of us walked away from the bridge on the brink of death - me, Reigen, and Elias, a forsaken shadow priest.

Who was bleeding out on my rug a while ago.

Upon returning to Hearthglen, Reigen decided to go tend to her injuries the 'old fashion way'. I was concerned for her, but I decided it best to let her deal with the situation however she sees fit - she's a strange woman with strange routines and I didn't want to interfere.

I went the more conventional route. Showing up on my own doorstep bleeding, bruised, and seared from shadow magic, deliriously asking Endling to tend to my wounds.

I wasn't exactly thrilled - I hate asking her to do such since I know it is a drain on her in a far worse way than any other priestess. But at the same time, I can't help but feel she gets a sense of satisfaction from her work, no matter how uncomfortable. I'm not sure what is worse - shielding her from pain by robbing her of her duties, or letting her do something that brings her a sense of worth at the cost of her well being.

It was supposed to be another boring night after that. My wounds tended to, I had hoped to bring her to the Dawnsends home, tend to Reigens wounds, and then bring the two to the tavern to pass the time.

This is the part where I have a corpse splayed out on my rug oozing his bodily fluids.

This Elias fellow, for reasons completely beyond my comprehension, seeked out Endling for healing - a forsaken, wishing to be healed with the Light. He had a friend with him as well. I was already pretty upset with their intrusion, but I knew there was no stopping Endling from helping him, so I sat back and killed time while watching Elias's 'recovery' play out like some sort of undead soap opera.

Naturally, Endling passes out. Though I write that with a sarcastic tone here, my more legitimate reaction at the time was complete and utter panic as I embraced her and tried to get her to snap out of it while kicking the other two forsaken at of my home.

It was at this moment that I realize something dreadful - in the event Endling is ever hurt, or becomes incapacitated, there is absolutely nothing I can do to help her.

I cannot heal her with the Light, for it may do more harm than good. I am not versed in the druidic or shamanistic arts, and even then, I do not know if that brand of healing magics would be helpful to her at all.

There are no potions she can drink, to my knowledge. Nor smelling salts I can give her. I am literally powerless to save her if she is ever critically injured, and clueless how to help if she ever passes out during a long healing spell again.

So I stood there, like a big purple lump, for a good hour, just cradling her in arms by the fireplace, figuring she might stir after a while.

....In hindsight, a bit weird. It would of made more sense to just put her down somewhere safe and wait. But I was worried, and confused, and not thinking straight. I had never seen this happen before. I just wanted her to get better.

She did improve, at least. When she finally came too, I tucked her into her bed - technically the guest room, which was meant to be her own room, but she never did do much to furnish it or really 'claim it' as her own.

I remembered the entry in her journal. Of being alone in that Silvermoon bed, no one around, no one to talk to.

So I took a seat by her bed, and I talked. I wasn't sure what to say, so I just told my life story all over again. She probably knows my own history better than I do at this point. I dozed off at some point, just passed out in that chair, and when I awoke, it was morning, and she was making breakfast like nothing happened.


Looking back on everything I wrote here. Reflecting on Endling, I realize one thing more than ever.

I must cure her.

Quote:Endling is off running some errands. I've just finished my breakfast - I'll never admit it to her, but her cooking is on par with my mothers. But I think it's taboo for a son to admit anyone's cooking is as good or better than their mothers, so there.

I'm starting to fall into a routine, I've noticed. I awake in the mid-late morning to the smell of food being cooked. I drag myself out of bed and to the privacy of the lavatory. To stay clean, I use an old trick some of the older soldiers taught me to 'clean up on the field'. I take a towel, soak it in warm water, and then systematically towel myself off. If I want to add to it, I can grind in some crushed Earthroot or Silverleaf into the water. It gets the job done. Gets me clean and smelling human.

I tend to my teeth with a small brush using a home-made paste of well ground Swiftthistle and Briarthorn. When I finish, I rinse with water. My father showed me how to make the paste. My first time, I screwed up the ratios and get a mouthful of poorly ground Briarthorn. I was spitting blood for a week.

With that dealt with, I get dressed. If I have places to be, I scrub my armor clean, give it a quick polish, and get in. If not, I'll slap on a pair of cloth leggings, a simple white shirt, and enjoy my day around the house.

I enjoy Endlings food, chat with her about whatever comes to mind. It's nice. It's normal. I enjoy it. I could get used to this.

But a part of me says I can't.

Quote:These past few days have been amazingly wonderful. It all started off so dull too.

After enjoying some tea with my mother, she had forced asked me to go collect some alchemical supplies for her from a seller in Ratchet. Even offered to teleport me off to there. I was less than thrilled, but I'm anything if not a good son.

It was painless enough, and I found myself with time to kill. So I went to go grab a bite to eat - a familiar goblin was auctioning her wears once more. She had garnered quite the crowd. I wasn't particularly excited, but I decided to stick around - her auctions had proven amusing in the past.

Naturally, I didn't win anything, but towards the end she did offer her usual mystery boxes. I think she winked at me as she handed me one for a fee. I thought nothing of it.

Clearly this Goblin is my little green guardian angel.

The Choker inside was absolutely lovely. Lovely red lace, silver bearing deep red rubies. It was absolutely breath-taking without being gaudy. My first reaction was to show it to my mother and have her check with a friend to see if it was fake. It was indeed real, at least according to them. Any woman would be giddy to have this. They'd wear it with something red. They'd flaunt their necks to their friends and brag.

I gave it to Endling. She had the most innocent little smile - I could tell, even with the cloth she keeps covering her face. I could just tell. She tucked it away in her napsack, clutching it for dear life. Worth it.

I suppose I should write here about kicking ass and taking names in the arena as well. Standing proudly over two fallen orcs - having regained my dignity by utterly crushing the orc that broke my arm a while back.

I should write about our effort to beat back the Scourge attempting to build a flesh golem not far from Hearthglen.

I should even write about my inauguration as a member of the Hearthglen City Council. About accepting to supply the Earthen Ring and Cenarion Circle so that they may cleanse our land. Dalaran's new presence in our school. The Goblin who made an ass of himself before us. My suggestion to foster cooperation between the Sunreavers and Silver Covenant. I should mention Annabelle Greene, Kil'shi Rendtear, and whoever that Blood Elf was.

But all I can think about is the look when I gave her that choker. That one moment of absolutely perfect innocence and glee.

I am smitten, looking back on these words. I am a love-drunk fool.

I'll never be able to have a family with her. I'll have to suffer the accusing glares of my contemporaries. Of Humans who'd think me a freak. Fellow Paladins may look at me in disgust. I may even lose the Light. I stand to lose so much if my love for her is known. My parents will never have grandchildren. Our friends will talk of us behind our backs. I can only embrace her. Maybe a kiss at most. All the sexual frustration and ale in the world couldn't get me to do more than that.

This is Love.

Fate is a cruel mistress.

Quote:I am a man under stress.

For the past few weeks since I proclaimed my feelings to Endling in full, the two of us embraced on that tower, overlooking the city, I have kept myself busy. Council work, Argent work - lots of Argent work. I had led several missions, and have been a participant in several more. I would be captain of my own permanent squad right now if we were still in Northrend. A part of me misses those days with the band - maybe I should get in touch with them?

...Then again, I doubt that's a good idea. "Hey Erin! Good to see you again! Come in and enjoy some tea, my undead girlfriend is brewing a batch!"

...Yep.

Even with all my work keeping me busy and away from the city, I can't help but feel a little awkward heading home every night. I occasionally see guards casting judgmental or teasing glances at me, and I even noticed Commander Entari looking away from me as we spoke a while back, as if I had egg on my face.

I suppose I shall become burdened as a homebody for a while, if things do not let up.

----

My reading of her journal continues. I draw so near to the end. Each page I take in leaves me feeling downtrodden - How much internal strife I caused her in those early days. The sadness and grief and confusion. It only makes me yearn to cradle her close and apologize for all the trouble I've caused her - and now, such thoughts leave me conflicted, for there was a time where even embracing her was a task requiring a hefty sum of my will-power. Have I really become so desensitized to her?

I forced myself to read lines of text she scribbled out - just poorly enough that they were still barely legible. This text weighs on me more than anything I've ever read so far...

Endling Wrote:And then there is Clovis. I... am still so very uncertain. I desperately want to believe he is earnest. I so greatly wish to have my worries put at ease; but worry is a constant plague to me, and even still they persist. What more can I do? What more can I say? What is it I am seeking from him to make me believe? The heart is so willing to take his hand, to throw myself into his embrace-- but the mind is so fearful. So distrusting. So protective, because it knows just how vulnerable that pining heart is. I so dearly wish this affection we show could be called normal. I so dearly wish I could grant his wish, and be alive once more-- But while the heart again soars at that constant wish, the mind knows better. It will not happen. It is a fact I have known and assessed many times and... that he says that change may yet come so hopefully only shreds those wounds open once more.

How many years must pass before that hope is extinguished? And even still will he remain at my side? Even still will he be so unwavering-- when I can provide him with no joy other than my damned, quivering, weak voice? Words of comfort stunted by an intelligible stutter. That is all I can offer him. That is all I can offer anyone, for my healing serves purpose only in the field of battle. Will he love me even still? Will he love me, or will that love be marred with pity? Am I to be his uplifting companion, or his sorrowful chains to bear?

And yet if he is earnest, I wonder if a person who is to fret so much deserves such a gentle man at all. I wonder if he can see it as well. My nervous nuances, my shifting disposition, my hurried demeanor... I can only wonder what he makes of such things. I hardly know what to say of them either.

Even still, a part of me can only cry out to accept it. A part of me wants only to know he is truthful. Oh, how happy I could be if only I could know. How happy I could be if only I could be blind and naive once more, and accept this blessing for what it truly is. I fear if I do not, I will lose it; but yet if I do, I may be harmed... harmed more terribly than any holy flame or biting blade could ever hope to.

Ignorance is bliss, yet knowledge is power.

I would call her a delicate, fragile thing. But she is only that in appearance. She is a strong woman to endure what she has. To think these thoughts must plague her on top of everything else...

When I tell Endling she deserves to be happy and loved, I mean it. I truly do. She is a wonderful woman. If she told me to bring Dalaran down from the heavens for her, I would. That last thing I want is to hurt her.

I want her to understand that even if she cannot provide for me the things that a living woman could - a family, companionship where-ever I may go, the approval of strangers, romantic intimacy - that I love her. Her presence and thoughts alone suffice - she is someone I can protect, I can nurture, and love. She is my confidant. It is good enough. She need not worry that the weakness of her voice, or the nervousness in her actions, will scare me off. I am here, and I do not see that changing. I came back into her life...

But, maybe I should have never came back to her. She could have moved on and forgotten all about me. She could of found happiness in her life in some other way. But I came back, out of my own guilty heart. I intertwined our lives together. How deep does it go? What would happen to her if I left her life -now-? Could she get over it? Would she grow angry if I left on my own accord? Would she wallow in misery and pity in her empty little cathedral if I were taken out of her life by foreign powers? Have I made her weaker by giving myself as a crutch to lean on if need be?

I give her too little credit. There has been a marked improvement in her demeanor, even if she doesn't notice it. She wears her mask less often. She can talk longer without a stutter. There is more confidence in her step. I want so badly to believe that these improvements are all her - that all I did was give her some momentum. That she won't come crashing to a halt if something happened to me. I am a living, breathing human being.

I cannot live forever. She can, if she avoids the ravages of undeath on her mind.


This feeling. It leaves me feeling afraid. I do not know I am ready for this.



I am slowly but surely reaching a point in my life where I cannot imagine life without you, Endling. And I am terrified.

Quote:These past two or so weeks have been rather forgettable. My routine remains unchanged. There have been no major concerns to deal with regarding the Council, though Miss Greene seems to have returned, so that's about it.

Endling is the same as always, though I can't help but feel that something is weighing on her. She almost seems distracted. Perhaps I should just bite the bullet and skim those last few pages of her journals, see if something is troubling her. Perhaps I can remedy it.

Reigen and I remain on sour terms. The woman is incredibly hard headed and makes mountains out of molehills at every turn. She instantly assumes conflict with an unsavory group like the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow is going to spell the end of religious freedoms in Hearthglen. She attacks my decisions relentlessly. I, quite frankly, am glad to be rid of her. Though I admit it had made conversing with Krilari more of a challenge. I suppose I will report to his brother instead for the time being.

My Mother continues to commute between Hearthglen and Dalaran, and my father is apparently making progress on his experiments. To think, this entire time, he's been working on anti-aging cream. Cosmetics! Bah! Though I suppose it will certainly line his pockets with the gold of wealthy noblewomen.

The guards continue to give me weird looks, especially when I am seen with Endling. I suppose, if I had to guess, they know. But it's been weeks now and no one has approached me about it. I suppose I can live with hushed whispers from the distance. So long as Endling isn't affected by it, I can make due.

I don't have much drive to keep writing in this today. Though I am concerned. I awoke with a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach today. I can't help but feel something bad is going to happen.

Probably just my bloody imagination.

Fate is a fickle beast.

Clovis's rest always looked peaceful. The man had always slept like a log. His burly form sleeping in a side-lying position with both arms out in front of him.

He was not resting well.

Clovis replayed the scene in his head over and over. It never got easier. Dying to the banshee. Rising as the undead. Walking through the abbey. Finding Samantha and the townspeople cornered in the bell tower. Running to attack the creatures after them...

...And then, the shoes reversed. Cutting the creatures down with raw instinctual efficiency. Pleading for the nightmare to end. Blasting Endling with the Light. Leaving her charred and bruised.

"Is it only her mind which separates her, my child? If she was like this. Torn. Battered. A ragged creature. Separated by the undead only by her -mind-. . ."

She was undead. There was no 'beauty' in undeath. As a Paladin, Clovis could never find it. But her mind and heart were beautiful to him, and that was all that mattered, right? That Endling still had some preservation to her form, that she wasn't a rotting, decayed, broken, festering shamble was only an aesthetic bonus, right? To make it easier for him to be with her. For there to be less shame.

Would he still of loved her at all if that wasn't the case?

Endling walked closer, her burnt form decaying as she approached, growing more damaged with each movement. No, he realized. Clovis adored the woman's mind, her spirit. But would he love her the same if she was a decayed wretch?

No. The shame would be too great. She'd be a thing for him to hide away in his metaphorical (or maybe literal) broom closet, occasionally cracking the door open to affectionately pet her and promise everything would be alright before closing the door with great haste and continuing to deny she ever existed.

Clovis fell back. His face in tears. Shame clutched at every fiber of his being. He was weak. He was cruel. He was shallow.

"And let us speak of this -mind-, as well. What of it do you truly know, I wonder? How much is shown outside of written word? What decisions are made by whom? Who's will, taken?"

Clovis wasn't an aggressor. Sure, in military matters, he took the reigns and made his will absolute, only occasionally dolling out an ear for others opinions on things. But that wasn't him. He listened to others. He tried to let them speak. To take their opinions into consideration.

Samantha's most of all. He wanted to, terribly...but Endling never had an opinion to give. Or the will to voice it. He always led. It was always his call to make. Did he keep her silent? Did he prevent her from speaking out? Was he some bastard who dominated every aspect of her life? He hadn't been raised like that. His parents had a relationship of mutual respect. At least early in his life. No one followed the 'leader'. They always walked together. It wasn't in him to be anything but like mother and father.

But with Endling, he always seemed to have the final say.

"How simple it would have been. How easy in but one altered event. . . That you would have met as beast, and slayer. As paladin, and a monstrous effigy. As undead, and priestess. How simple you could have died that day, enraptured by the banshee's shriek."

Clovis awoke, not with a shock, but with a yawn. Light glinted at him from the windows, stirring him awake. Samantha beside him. He cuddled close to her. Her warmth addicting to him by now. He'd miss the warmth most of all.

Indecent, she had said. As a Paladin, he should of understood what she meant, but upbringing determined these things more than faith, at least for him. Vows and commitment were all things he understood. All things he wanted. Marriage, and more than anything, a family. But during the last few nights, he felt no shame about his passions for her. It was how he was raised. This was natural. This was healthy. Just feeling this way about her was a vow of his commitment to her, as his mother would of surely quipped on the matter. It wasn't lust that drove him to be with her these nights, though it was there. It wasn't.

"I love you." He whispered, with all the confidence he could muster at the moment. He always loved her. Now more than ever. And even tomorrow and beyond, surely. He couldn't imagine life without her. Alive or dead.

Quote:"You move like the dead!"

"That is so not funny!"

He laughed at her as they ran through the autumnal woods of Lordaeron together. Their bodies not encumbered by heavy armor or restricting robes, but plain civilian clothing, feeling the cool morning air hit them as they sped by tree or fallen log down the trail.

He felt the crunch of small twigs and dried leaves at his bare feet, and he heard it, lighter, as her own connected with the ground in their desperate chase. Occasionally, he'd let out a yelp as he stepped on a rock, and she would intelligently evade it.

"I'm catching up!" Her voice squealed out in delight as they ran faster into a clearing in the forest. Bare feet in the dew laced grass. Toes curling in against cool, moist soil. He felt ten that day, not thirty. The sun was out, and it's warming light kissed their skin as they fled from the over-cast cover of the forest canopy.

The woman let out a clearly fake cry of pain as she tumbled into the grass, curling up with a pout on her face. He slowed down, laughing. "This trick again?" His lips curled into a smirk before she hissed. "Shut up! I think I hurt something!"

"What?" He chuckled at her, coming to kneel beside the woman and survey her, brushing a few stray strands of dark hair from her pale face. Her skin was more pinkish now, glistening with sweat and flushed with life. "My leg. The right one. No, my right." She gave him a playful shove.

"You need to stretch next time." The man scolded gently, slowly lifting the woman's 'injured' leg up until her heel rested on his shoulder. Strong hands slowly massaged the delicate flesh, feeling her muscles under a thin layer of softness. "Lucky you didn't get a charlie horse."

"Sorry dad." She smirked, taunting him. "Oh? Is that how it's going to be?" The man smirked as he secured her leg and stretched it, pushing it closer to her body, and himself. She let out a surprised gasp, her delicate frame flexing. "Oh my." She chuckles lightly. "When did you get so rough?"

"Not rough. Just taking the lead." He teased, pushing again. Listening to her gasp out a pleased sigh. Soon they were pressed close together. A fragile hand behind his head, gripping shaggy black hair. They embraced, indulging in each others warmth, kissing fiercely with eyes closed.

"I love you, Sam." He husked as their lips parted. His eyes opening slowly. A knot growing in his chest as she grew cold and her breathing stopped.



"She's dead, Briarthorn." Jared's rotted face spoke, affixed onto her pale and life-less body under him.

It had been a quiet night for Endling. It always was. She and Clovis would play a game, or read their books, or go for a walk around Hearthglen before he settled in for the night, and she would find some way to keep herself busy with the time. The idea that she could stay beside him as he slept had never been kicked around. She never even dared to enter his room while he slept.

Granted, Clovis normally didn't begin to randomly scream bloody murder at two in the morning.

Clovis shuddered as he sat up in his bed, the goose feather blanket wrapped around his lower body. A candle gently faded in and out of life nearby. Light from outside entered the room as the door cracked open, concerned yellow eyes peering in almost like a child attempting to creep into their parents room. "C-Clovis?"

He sighed, reaching for a bowl of cool water at his bed-side and taking a rag soaking in it. He drained some of the fluid into his mouth, before wiping away the sweat from his brow and face. "I'm sorry. I had a....strange dream. I didn't wake yo- I didn't interrupt anything, did I?" He gave her a weak smile. Clovis watched, pained, as she shook her head. "Do you want to talk about it?" She offered weakly, half on the verge of entering the room in full, half ready to give him some desired privacy. "No. I'm ok, it's just a bizarre, morbid dream. Story of my life." He scoffs and eyes her again. Slowly the woman offers him a nod and begins to close the door.

"Samantha." She stops as he speaks. "I...I know this is probably very silly of me offer - probably downright inconvenient for you. I know you don't 'need' to sleep like I do, but...would you stay with me tonight?" Clovis swallowed a lump in his throat. He prayed she didn't take it the wrong way and think him lewd. Slowly, he scooted over in the bed, leaving a sizable spot for her where his frame had been. "You don't need to. I just....I just wouldn't mind if you did. Want to, that is. Stay in here."

The candle faded.

At 2100 hours, Zero Quikfix sealed up his doctors bag. The goblin was a short and stocky creature, with a youthful appearance prematurely aged away by rampant stress and bouts of alcoholism. His patient was a man of about fifty or fifty one, with silvery hair, bright blue eyes, a dense and well muscled body ravaged by his occupation. Zero trotted over to the mans bed side, fiddling with his IV. The bag was full, the line flowing, and a special device had been rigged to control the flow of medicine until 0000 hours, three hours from now. At that time, the device was made to malfunction and allow a lethal dose of the powerful painkiller to flow into the man's veins, ending him painlessly. At least as painlessly as people assumed it did. The extract of papaver somniferum poppy was not a drug to take lightly. Zero had sworn against it, fearing it would induce dangerously shallow breath in his patient - the man could barely breath as is. Though once the man made his request to be euthanized, Zero relented.

"I know things look bad." He had started. "Bad?" His patient interrupted with a raspy voice. "You ever cough up bits of your own lungs, Zero?" The older gentleman grinned impishly. Zero sighed weakly before continuing. "But now that we know the cause, we can at least make plans to keep you going for another year or two - you're not the first person to get alchemists lung. Though maybe the first human I've met to get it. It's typically a goblins disease." Zero shuffled awkwardly. This man was an acquaintance, and Zero often purchased reagents for him. It pained the goblin to lose a good business partner.

"I know, Zero. But what good is living for another year or two if it's inside one of those diabolical goblin contraptions? Even the gnomes version isn't much better." The man coughed weakly. It would of been painful if not for the drug. "If I must choose quantity of life over quality, I choose to die before I need to start having some poor young lass clean my ass for me." The two men shared a weak, reluctant chuckle. Zero looked ay his pocket-watch. 2130. Time was wasting. The Doctor nodded to his old friend before heading for the door. "Rest well, Sly."

Zero eyed the pair with morbid curiosity. Evelyn Briarthorn stood impassively as her son loomed over her - slowly losing his mind. "How long did you plan to wait till you told me my bloody father was dying?" Had turned into "A goblin doctor? Are you trying to kill him? You have a Paladin for a son! Even Samantha would of been willing to help heal him!" Then that argument had devolved into "Please, Light, Mom. You try a few two bit healers and give up? Please, let me and Sam try! I'll go get her, it won't even take long if you make a portal! Mom, please!" The man's voice became more strained and frantic over time. Evelyn focused intently on trying to calm her son, dodging the issue as much as she could.

"You can't fix it, guy." Zeros voice interrupted them. Zero had the sons undivided attention now. He was an imposing, but youthful looking man who wore fanciful but obviously battle tested armor. Zero chose his next words carefully under the Paladins glare.

"Your pops been breathing in hundreds of different toxic and even magically dangerous fumes for decades. It's one of the hazards of being an alchemist. He probably wasn't using proper safety gear either - his lungs are falling apart. All the built up poisons seeping into his body as his lungs deteriorate. No magic afforded to anyone short of royalty is fixing this." Zero sighed, feeling melancholy as he saw the pitiful look spread across the Paladins face. "...Your father wants to speak to you. Alone." Clovis eyed the goblin for a moment before nodding curtly. "Thank you..." The man walked past, leaving Quikfix alone with Mrs. Briarthorn. "Evelyn. I need to talk to you. About a decision your husband made. You may want to make sure everything in the will is accurate..."

Clovis sat beside his father in the cozy, well-lit room. The Paladin slowly removed his gauntlets, reaching out to gingerly take his fathers hand. "Daddy..."

Silvester smiled at his son, giving the man a knowing look. "Don't you go all blubbery on me boy. Light knows your mother has been giving me that for the last few weeks." He would of chuckled again if he could. Sly watched his son straighten up and bite back his fear, smiling at his father. "Don't you go scolding me old man." Clovis grinned. His father joined him.

"Clovis." Silvester began. "I know this probably isn't the best time... But we need to talk." Clovis frowned. Had Silvester found out about Samantha? Did he disapprove?

"I need to talk to you about our family...in Gilneas. I haven't been...honest."

So they spoke. At length, for over two hours. At the end of it, Clovis kissed his father goodnight on the forehead, embracing Silvester in a careful hug before slowly leaving the room, lost in deep thought. "I love you with all my heart, father." He closed the door behind him, thinking his father asleep.

The clock struck midnight, the clockwork device on the IV clicking, and allowing its cargo to flow in abundance.

Silvester Briarthorn died with a smile, clutching his sons gauntlets, that he had forgotten about.