it's just - the way you were, the way that you got, back then. the bad rush, the oil spill so high up your neck that your teeth swam in it. what you needed back then was a barn raising. what you needed back then was all-hands-on-deck.
it's just - you needed a village, is all. you needed your parents to actually just cool it for a second, because for one minute if you were very still, in the middle of the act of being roadkill: you could feel it. the edges of that sharp thing, the other-world, the promised land, the bird that was supposed to be born in your throat.
if you'd just - if any one person had just - noticed. maybe that would have been enough. you could have convinced your body to do a strange form of necromancy: you could have come back with the rope ladder. you were an emergency flare. you were morse code.
it's okay. come home again. us do-it-yourself undead, those of us who broke the book and still found our way out of the grave again. we never got the return flight. we never got the party. we just got up. we got up and then we kept going, because nobody else was gonna clean the mess. we might as well. we just... exist here, half-ghosts, barely-made it kids. no medals, except the strange serene rush of spreading jam on perfect toast. of moving a paintbrush. the silence that knows about the danger of sparks. the little candle of our heart not a stormbreaker or earthshaker. just the persistent lick of hope.
it is a quiet reward. we will not get the barn, but we do get each other. a night sky of little lights made from the gruesome survival of blood and bone. the life we made in the dark. a little somber radiance. a spellwork that's all our own.
in the end - despite it all, we built ourselves a home.
Cathy Linh Che, from Go Forget your father//Friedrich Nietzsche// Richey Edwards// // Moss Angel, Girldirt Angelfog// Rainer Maria Rilke, Fragment of an Elegy,// Leila Miccolis, till death do us part.
Some people are just born to fight, I think.
It’s not that they’re born brave. It’s not that they’re born strong. It’s just that the universe has decided that this one, this one will have grit and fire and steel in their blood. And it’ll be tested, this cosmic mettle of theirs. They’ll face trial after trial, be broken and damaged in countless ways.
But this one was born to fight. Maybe it’s not the life they would have chosen. Maybe they’d love to lay down their arms. But they were born to fight. It’s what they know. It’s what they do best. It’s all they can do.
Author Foreword: The following is a piece that I wanted to write after the Sungard ended, as it wrestled with some things that were always at the peripheries of Siildore’s story but never came up in a way that I could meaningfully address without it feeling contrived. I tried and failed a few times to make something I could be proud of, but it never quite came out right. This recent campaign with Hollowlight gave me an opportunity to finally put it to paper and I’m pretty happy with the way it turned out. Shout out to @retributionpriest for the very fun and meaningful writing we did leading up to this - I hope you’re doing well post-TSG.
CW: Suicide in mention, no descriptions.
Siildore,
I apologise but I cannot grant that request. With the war concluded, my purpose here is complete and I have no intentions to linger here longer than I need to. I have appreciated all you have done for me and the guidance you gave, and perhaps we will meet again on the other side.
Live well,
Lirelle Dawnbrook
The letter was neatly folded on it’s creases, placed back in it’s envelope, and tucked away into her current notebook.
“Well? What did she say? Is our merry partnership about to become a merry band?” Gloomweaver’s deadpan grin was audible.
The blue-haired Ebon did not answer as she closed the notebook, turning to face the crackling fire.
Neither of them ever moved when camped like this; there was no need to. No living to appease or comfort with errant movements - a shift of the foot, moving her weight from one side to the other, blinking, breathing, things that living did and comforted them to see in other living things. To be alive was to move; to be dead was to be still.
Why then did Siildore’s thumb worry the second digit of her index finger?
“The fire is running low. I will fetch more wood.”
The blue-haired Ebon rose without a sound, fading into the no-moon night.
The whumpf of a kick is put into the elf’s side, causing him to cough and hack.
“Does that ans’er yer question?”
“Why’d you kick him? You could have checked an easier way without hurting him.”
“Because 'e’s murderin' scum, da whole lot ov 'em. The gutter trash back‘n Stawmwind is be'er than 'em. If Everleigh 'adn’t given orders ter save da ones what survived, I’d put me pike through 'is froat an' call i't a day.”
“Why? Why do you hate him?”
Mail slams into wood. Nearby a horse neighs nervously.
“They did nothin' ter stop da burnin' ov Teldrassil, nothin' ter stop that bitch ov a Banshee Queen when she killed all those people at Lordaeron. They only stopped Garrosh after 'e turned on 'em fer bein' disloyal, an' before then they never lifted a finger ter 'elp us against da orcs. They can all burn fer what I care, 'onorless lot what they are.”
“Sir, you can’t-” An oaken cane taps lightly against the ground.
“Father Brian.”
The butt of two pikes resound dully against the earth, two plated fists smash against a pair of breast plates.
“Farfer Brian. Wot can we do fer ya?”
“Step aside so I can do my work. This elf needs help if he’s going to survive.”
“Yes Father.”
“That means you too, Sergeant…?”
“Gregory. And I’m not movin’. We ‘auled 'im off da bleedin’ field, aye, but we don't 'ave ter do anyfin' else fer 'im. That's between 'im an' da Light now.”
“And I am a servant of the Light, Sergeant Gregory. I am choosing to treat this man as part of my service. Are you going to stand in the way of the Light’s calling?”
Clanking follows grumbling as a heavy man moves himself.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Is he going to survive, Father?”
“What does i' matter? If we take da field tomorrow 'e won’t 'ave much ov a 'ome ter go back to. Especially if that night elf 'as 'er way.”
“Sergeant Gregory, if you would please be silent I would very much appreciate it, thank you.”
“Well?”
“I will do my best, but I doubt he’ll ever shoot again. I’ve seen men trampled by horses who’ve looked better than this- Oh my.”
“Wot?”
“Sergeant, will you hold his eye open? Just roll it back- like that, perfect, thank you. Keep it there for a moment.”
“Father?”
“Patience.”
A weary sigh.
“I don’t think he’ll ever fight again, but he’ll live once I’m done with him. A shame too, he’s not much older than you, Sergeant.”
“Like I give a damn abaaht 'is age, Farfer.”
“He might be about your age, Sergeant, but among his own he’s about as old as Private Presly here.”
“Wait, really?”
“‘Oo gives a rat’s ass?”
“Would you want your son fighting in a war, Sergeant?”
“Ah don’t ‘ave a son, Farfer.”
A second sigh.
“There is a future after this war, Sergeant. You might want to prepare for it, lest you be consumed by it.”
“Light above Farfer, I am not dyin' in dis war, ok?”
“I never said you were going to die, Sergeant.”
“Father, the elf?”
“Right, right, thank you Private Presley. Mind helping me with him? This is going to take a while.”
“Of course.”
A soft, gentle hum filled the sidestreet, soothing to the ears. The horse harumphs like an old man, a hoof clopping against the cobblestone.
“You can release his eyelid, Sergeant. Private, can you put pressure here, against his side? Perfect.”
“Wot ‘appened to ‘is eye?”
“I don’t know. Presly, keep that pressure on just a moment longer- Good, okay. That should hold long enough for it to heal a bit better. Now to drain the fluid from his chest cavity and work on those ribs.”
“Why are yew doin' dis, Farfer? After what they've done? I wan' a real answer dis time, not da 'I serve da Light' poppycock yew gave me earlier.”
The puncturing of skin was masked by a wet pop, while the soothing sound of the Light returned once more.
“We can obey the letter of our Dame’s orders, or we can obey the spirit. I choose to follow the latter. Presley, please hold his arm down.”
“Yes Father.”
“Why?”
“The Light tells me that I should have compassion. I can serve the Alliance and be compassionate to its enemies without compromising it. It is not an all-or-nothing affair.”
“Hmph.”
“I think that will do it. Wheel him to his cell, and be gentle. I don’t want those wounds re-opening.”
“What’s going to happen to him, Father?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it depends if we push them back to the shores or if they retake the Sunwell.”
“Do you think he’ll survive?”
Hooves clopped in a steady beat against the cobblestones, while the weathered roll of wooden cart wheels droned on at a steady pitch. Three sets of steps accompanied them, two clanking and clunking as metal and chain shifted with every footfall. The third were soft, cloth brushing against cloth, the soles light against the patterned stone beneath.
The cart ground to a halt.
“Pris’ner drop off. Secured 'im on da eastern beaches. Farfer's done wiv 'im, just need ter get 'im ter 'is cell.”
“Alright, we’ll take ‘im from ‘ere.”
The cart started up again, a soft whinny from the horse dragging it fading into the recesses of the prison.
“I don’t know, Presley. I don’t know if any of us will.”
She was a fucking coward. She was a fucking coward and she knew it.
Esme’s legs burned. Her mind felt taught like a string ready to snap. She had been crouched in the shadows for so long, focusing on keeping them up for her own safety.
The rumors came with the retreating troops from the east. But they had seen everything. It was more than just rumor. Another forced retreat.
Death, she heard. Though she was afraid to ask who.
Melori darts through the crowds, looking for familiar banners. The Redarrow banners, the Ridges forces, they had to be somewhere. They had to be. Her face twists into concern.
I speak to you all with both good news and grim tidings. Our efforts to overthrow the shackles of the ‘Reborn Kingdom’ have been successful. The bulk of their forces have been pushed far north, with only small remnants remaining in our home. Though they will prove a nuisance for some time, the threat they have posed on our way of life is over. A new force has emerged however that has proven a far greater problem.
Aurelian Indaris has informed me of the details, having betrayed the Kingdom as was planned previously during the Battle of Darkwood. Though he succeeded in destabilizing the army, a second traitor revealed themselves, slaying the pretender king and ushering in a horrific army of aberrations known as the ‘Blackbloods’. It is unclear their exact size, but already those provinces north of us burn. This threat, in no uncertain terms, is a calamity upon our people.
Indaris has also informed me the Sunguard army has all but abandoned the south to its fate, travelling north to secure the Isle of Quel’danas in the hopes of utilizing the Sunwell. His troops have been taken from him and he is forced northward. He believes after they reclaim the Isle the full force of Quel’thalas shall march back south, but that will take time. To put it bluntly, we’re alone and outnumbered. Yet now more than ever we cannot let our differences divide us. Panic may grip us, but it must not guide our hearts or thoughts.
In the Tempest Coast Lady Ceana Greyflame has ordered an evacuation of her lands by sea and has offered such recourse to the Gilded Lands and the northern Ridges. The latter is on the brink of collapse and if the Blackbloods turn their attention this far south, so too will the Gilded Lands. With Mistborn Harbor nearly in ruins we have no true port to evacuate in great numbers, and so I believe our only recourse is to send our people to Seahallow, the Coast’s capital.
Yet many of you do not wish to flee. You do not know if there will be a home to return to at the war’s end. You cannot bare the thought of an invader claiming your lands and murdering your people. Never again. Never again will we allow monsters to burn our fields, kill our loved ones and wipe away everything we hold dear. Those who wish to evacuate can make for Seahallow. For now it is safe though such luxury will not last.
Yet my blood boils, and my sword-arm aches. I will not allow my death to be when I am feeble and ancient, rotting in a soft bed. If the Blackbloods dare to make for our home, I will face them on the battlefield. I will die before I let a single monster step foot upon my fields again. Many of you may feel the same, or otherwise seek glory and justice against the wicked. My banner remains in the Coast, for it is there I will hold the Blackbloods.
Those countrymen who feel the fire of war in their heart, stand with me. We will buy the safety of our people, and the future of the Gilded Lands even to our dying breath. We will make our stand in the northern passes of the Coast, and it is there the Blackbloods shall remember always the wrath of the Gilded Lands.
Some people are just born to fight, I think.
It’s not that they’re born brave. It’s not that they’re born strong. It’s just that the universe has decided that this one, this one will have grit and fire and steel in their blood. And it’ll be tested, this cosmic mettle of theirs. They’ll face trial after trial, be broken and damaged in countless ways.
But this one was born to fight. Maybe it’s not the life they would have chosen. Maybe they’d love to lay down their arms. But they were born to fight. It’s what they know. It’s what they do best. It’s all they can do.
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