“When you said, "Baby, I just want you to lay me down And we'll fuck the pain away" 'Cause skin on skin, I feel nothing but the burning of desire And that's just foreplay.
We're heading deep Inside lives a voice, a voice, a choir But I can't hear that voice When your heart beats next to mine
I can't quit you.”
Cashmere Cat feat. Ariana Grande, “Quit”
Patience was her forte.
But, as Sylvanas looked around the new office room that the leaders had been moved to, she took some amusement in the realization that the other leaders were not so keen on patience.
Lor’themar was tapping his foot incessantly. Jastor was trying to look calm and composed; his fingers kept twitching against his arms. So much for his attempts. Ji leaned against one of the walls, head bowed in thought, while Baine sat too rigidly near Thrall--
Or at least, where Thrall had been sitting.
The orc shaman was pacing back and forth between the east and west walls, stopping at level with the door every few seconds before resuming his pacing.
“I take it that neither of you know what happened?” Lor’themar’s voice broke the silence. When all eyes turned to him, he sighed, then gestured to Thrall and Baine, “you two. What’s become of our warchief’s tusks?”
“Not to be rude,” Thrall said stiffly, clenching and unclenching his fists now that Lor’themar’s question had brought his pacing to a halt, “but I would not have expected you to take much interest in the fact.”
Lor’themar’s eyes narrowed, “I’ll have you know that despite the rocky relations between trolls and blood elves, or issues are mainly with the Amani, and I happen to like Vol’jin. He’s far more agreeable than most other trolls I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, despite his young age.”
Sylvanas found herself sitting more upright, shifting her gaze to Baine. The chieftain had his eyes focused on the floor. From the way his ears drooped, Sylvanas knew that Baine had not heard that something had happened to Vol’jin’s tusks.
“In regards to our warchief,” she mused, bringing all attention to herself, “I find it curious that not even his right hand, Rokhan, seems to know what’s happened - if I had to take a guess, I’d say it has to do with the druid that arrived. Amita, I believe her name was.”
Baine’s ears perked up, “Amita…?”
Sylvanas nodded, “yes. I’m certain she was the one who was brought into the Hold two years ago? When the Twilight’s Hammer assaulted Orgrimmar,” she paused, red eyes gleaming, “I don’t believe you or Thrall were present in the Hold when she was brought in. Gallywix and I were, and I do distinctly remember the warchief being… uncharacteristically concerned for her safety.”
Silence met her explanation.
“I don’t think it would be too far-fetched to assume that they know each other rather well. She seemed familiar with him, and he with her,” the Banshee Queen added. She was slowly becoming agitated under the various gazes.
Stop staring at me as if I fell down and cracked open my head, she thought grimly, I’ve already done that once. It didn’t go as I planned. You lot should all know I had no intentions of remaining leader of the Forsaken.
Baine sighed, covering his face with his hands, “I just… troll tusks have such importance. For them to be broken off, and none of us to hear about it…”
“Maybe he broke them himself?”
Sylvanas had not expected her ears to flick upright at the sound of Ji’s voice, nor was she aware they had drooped. Sunwell damn this troll! For all the anger she held, and the uncaring attitude she exuded when it came to the Horde as a whole, she could not deny that ever since he’d trusted her with the task of sorting out Orgrimmar on the day of that assault she had grown softer. Perhaps even warmer. She actually took an interest in the personal affairs of the other leaders, and had even offered Halduron advice. Halduron Brightwing. Advice.
Ji pressed his lips tightly together, and spoke again, “I mean, it would explain why we did not hear of it. If there had been another attempt on Vol’jin, well, we would have all known. And, as the Dark Lady said, Rokhan would have been the first privy to the information. The fact that he does not know, and that Baine does not know, and that Thrall does not know, well… that can only point in one direction. The warchief broke his tusks himself.”
As much as Sylvanas found herself not wanting to believe it - which was odd, because Vol’jin was a troll, and she had clearly told herself she would not be taking orders from a troll ever which meant she wouldn’t care for the troll ever - but it was a logical deduction. Perhaps Vol’jin had broken his tusks himself.
“All this assuming will get us no where,” Thrall snapped. He looked pointedly at Sylvanas, “I’m impressed that you’re so calm about the meeting being interrupted, what with how the worgen are busy assaulting the Undercity.”
Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed, “you might know that I gave up my claim to Gilneas months ago. It’s not worth my resources. I lost some of my best in the initial attempt, and I need to put my efforts into ensuring that Silverpine remains Horde territory. On top of that, I have faith in my champion. While I do understand the amount of distrust lobbed in his direction under the pretense that he was human, all Forsaken were human once, and I, a high elf,” she tipped her head at Lor’themar, easily holding Thrall’s glare, “not blood elf. High elf.”
Thrall appeared confused, “this is the first I’ve heard of you giving up your claim to Gilneas.”
The Banshee Queen shrugged, “oh? Then I suppose I neglected to make that clear, though I’m certain I informed Vol’jin of it in a letter.”
“Woah, woah, hold on,” Jastor leaned forward in his seat, eyes sparkling with interest, “you and the Warchief are exchangin’ letters?”
Sylvanas schooled her expression to indifference, “yes. What of it?”
“Now thaaat’s an interestin’ development!” the goblin chirped, taking a moment to inspect his rings, “in fact, what’s the most interestin’ ‘bout all this? You. You actually bein’ around.”
“Quite,” Lor’themar added, “you’ve never had the most amount of interest in us and our lives before, Sylvanas, much less the Warchief’s.”
She ground her teeth together, “it is far easier to send a bat than it is to come in person to inform the Warchief of mostly trivial matters. It would stand to reason that the worgen are taking my lack of action toward Gilneas and its territory as an excuse to attempt reclaiming the Undercity. It’s a matter I had intended to keep under wraps, but as it has clearly escalated with now night elven druids and human soldiers being involved, I have no choice but to bring it up in a meeting.”
“An excellent deflection,” Thrall said dryly. Sylvanas insulted him in Gutterspeak under her breath. She knew what they were thinking: she was the only female amongst the leaders, and Vol’jin was the young warchief, and they were exchanging letters. How something that she did for the sake of professionalism was warped into possibly being something else was beyond her.
If she really had an interest in Vol’jin, she would make it a point to visit him more regularly, damn it!
Sylvanas took a deep breath. Whatever. Let them think what they wanted - in Thrall’s case, he was only being defensive of his friend. From what she understood, the two considered each other brothers.
It was understandable that the orc would be up in arms about the possibility of Sylvanas showing an interest in his brother.
After this, the tension in the room only seemed to escalate. Sylvanas hoped that the Warchief would make his reappearance soon. If she could direct the conversation to the problems in the Undercity, then it would serve as a means to channel the tension in the room to more useful energy, and serve as a decent enough distraction from whatever it was this druid’s appearance meant.
The poor thing hadn’t looked entirely happy, Sylvanas would admit. She would also admit, however begrudgingly, that she had a desire to know the details.
Lor’themar raised his head after a moment, ears flicking. Sylvanas tuned in as well; heavy footsteps sounded on the floor, then the door was flung open.
Vol’jin heaved a sigh, and stepped into the doorway, but not fully into the room.
“Sorreh ‘bout dat,” he said, and Sylvanas immediately found herself on the receiving end of his stare, “‘bout dis worgen problem, wat ya be hoping fah, Windrunnah?”
He’d singled her gaze out for a reason. She kept her expression schooled again into indifference, if only to make it easier for Vol’jin to have someone to focus on.
She made to speak. Rather suddenly, she found her thoughts derailed, and her mouth saying something she did not expect, “we can postpone.”
Vol’jin’s entire face seemed to light up with surprise. Lor’themar and Jastor vocalised their confusion, Thrall glowered at her quizzically, leaving Baine and Ji to look at each other, curiosity dominating their features.
Before Sylvanas could explain her reasoning, Lor’themar interrupted, “perhaps it’s for the better, Warchief, because we are all eager to know why your tusks are missing.”
Vol’jin heaved another sigh, and finally stepped fully into the room. The door swung half-closed behind him, and he crossed his arms over his chest. So, he didn’t want to talk about it, did he?
“Dat…” he started, clenching his teeth together, “be personal.”
“Too personal to tell us?” Jastor asked, raising a brow as he toyed with one of his rings, “we’re just worried ‘bout ya, Warchief. Baine mentioned that troll tusks have meanings.”
The tauren warrior did not appreciate the weight being shifted to his shoulders.
“I only pointed it out as a means of explanation for why it was surprising to me,” he quickly said, eyes looking everywhere but at Vol’jin.
“If it’s personal, then it’s personal,” Sylvanas said loudly, bringing the attention back to herself. Sunwell she hated having all their gazes on them, but the subtle appreciation she could glean from Vol’jin’s expression gave her reason to continue, “best we not pester you about it, Warchief. That, and I would rather you be at your best to take into consideration the details. If you give me a few of your siame-quashi, then I would consider the problem taken care of for now. Perhaps we can have a more formal meeting next week?”
“Dat would be… most appreciated,” he replied, his voice dropping in volume at the end. Vol’jin visibly relaxed.
He raised his head to look at all the other leaders present, then set his gaze on Lor’themar, “Silvahmoon be closest. Perhaps you could be stationin’ Brightwing an’ a few archers in de Undahcity as well?”
Though his eye was narrowed in disapproval with the way the conversation had gone - pesky, nosy elf clearly wanted an answer about Vol’jin’s tusks - Lor’themar nodded his head, “very well. I’ll let Halduron know to send a squad of archers your way, Dark Lady. I’m sure he’ll also be able to find the time to come himself, at least for a day or two at a time.”
Sylvanas inclined her head toward Lor’themar, “your support is welcome, Regent Lord.”
“I can send a few shamans,” Baine offered, then glanced at Thrall, “and I’m sure if Thrall asked, Eitrigg would be willing to come by with them.”
Sylvanas shook her head, ignoring Thrall’s heavy glare once again, “that’s quite alright. I’m satisfied with what’s already been offered. In the meantime, Warchief,” she turned her eyes back to Vol’jin, “I’ll continue to update you about the situation. It looks as though you could use some rest.”
Vol’jin hung his head. His shoulders lowered as if he’d been released of some kind of weight.
Still, it left Sylvanas impressed when Vol’jin straightened and squared his shoulders before stepping into the hall. It was obvious he was speaking to Rokhan, with how he dropped into Zandali.
Fifteen minutes later found the Banshee Queen at the door of the Hold. Lor’themar had already made his way to the Zeppelin docks, informing her that he would like to get back to Silvermoon and have archers ready and waiting before she got back to the Undercity.
Her thoughts wandered. Perhaps all she had really needed after coming into undeath was for someone to trust her - and even if Vol’jin didn’t truly trust her, he had still given her the benefit of the doubt.
What a difference it makes, she thought grimly, to be trusted, even with some trivial task. Hah.
Really, he’d been the last one she had expected, and she was grateful.
Thrall strode out of the Hold. The rush of air from his movements made her cape flutter. He paid her no mind, at all.
Sylvanas sneered at his back, then turned swiftly and went in the opposite direction. Her feet led her up to Vol’jin’s main office. Seconds before knocking on the door, her ears flicked. A smile crossed her lips.
“You are trained well, aren’t you?” she mused, looking over her shoulder. Two shadow hunters followed her closely. They bowed their heads respectively to her, and, chuckling, Sylvanas turned her attention back to the door.
“Yes?” came the muffled call after she had knocked. She pushed the door open.
“Warchief.”
Vol’jin sat up straighter in his seat, papers scattered all over his desk. She recognized her own most recent letter, sitting on top of everything else. Her red eyes pinched inward.
“Windrunnah, you still be here?”
“I opted to give Lor’themar a head start,” she informed him, coming to stand in front of the desk, “he wanted to have the arches in Undercity awaiting my arrival, and I know the damn zeppelin schedule like the back of my hand.”
An amused smile spread over his lips, but he ducked his head to hide it. Vol’jin motioned toward the door, “I see my siame-quashi be finding ya.”
“Ah, yes,” Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder, “you trained them well.”
“Ya flattah me,” Vol’jin muttered, picking at part of the desk with a claw, “de male is Druaz’to. Female is Fahn’ta. Mos’ o’ de praise be goin’ ta Rokhan, realleh. I been… tied up here.”
Sylvanas frowned, “it would seem that way. I’ll send you something from Undercity with the next bat.”
He raised a brow at her, “oh? Gonna’ send some blight my way?”
The Banshee Queen couldn’t resist humoring him with a cackle, “of course warchief! My plans include turning you into an undead troll to do my bidding! I’m sure the Loa won’t strike me down for that.”
Vol’jin practically doubled over to stop himself from laughing. Sylvanas was grateful he wasn't looking at her, because the last thing she wanted him to see was the soft smile that had definitely just crossed her lips.
“No, warchief, not blight. I heard you have a fancy palette, and I have something in reserve you might like. That, and you mentioned that Stormstout fellow was coming to visit you soon,” she shrugged when Vol’jin recovered enough to look up at her, “given the Pandarens natural inclination to brews, I thought you might enjoy it together.”
The troll ducked his head in embarrassment.
“Shouldn’ you be keepin’ dat fah yaself…” Vol’jin muttered, and Sylvanas took a chance. She walked around the desk to stand at the warchief’s side, and placed one hand on his shoulder.
“Perhaps, but I am undead. I’ve lost the majority of my taste buds,” she let her hand slide off his shoulder when Vol’jin turned in his seat, “it’s something you could make better use of than I could.”
He hardly nodded his head in response, his molten eyes staring at the parchment she’d sent him. Sylvanas reached over and pushed it off the top of the pile with her finger. A snort escaped Vol’jin.
So she pushed a bunch of the other papers over top of it. They fluttered around, and Vol’jin snatched at several of them.
“Windrunnah!” he exclaimed, exasperation in his voice. Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed when she noticed that he was digging up the letter she’d sent him - whether intentionally or unintentionally. She grabbed both of his hands, her grip startling Vol’ijin enough to make him release what he had already gotten a hold of.
Sylvanas forced him to sit back against the chair. His gaze was harsh, and filled with warning. She was pushing the limits of their new ‘relationship’ now. She kept a tight grip on his hands, and for now, he didn’t resist.
“Stop. I told you it can wait.”
“You be expectin’ me ta not tink about it, at all?” Vol’jin’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Sylvanas tensed when he simply flexed the muscles in his hands, “who d’ya be takin’ me fah, Sylvanas?”
The Banshee Queen thought about it for a split second;
“I take you for a leader who is far too young to be thinking about all these things at once, on top of having who knows what kind of personal turmoil going on at the moment. My people can wait.”
Vol’jin stiffened, “your people?”
Sylvanas’ eyes tightened, but she nodded all the same. Her grip on his hands loosened. Perhaps she had been wrong in thinking that her relationship with the troll had been improving--
“De Forsaken be a part o’ de Horde. Dey be my people too, Windrunnah.”
She jerked away from him in disbelief. Vol’jin’s eyes were pinched inward.
“You didn’ tink I saw dem as dat, did you?”
“In-- in my defense,” she rasped, balling her hands into fists at her side, “I’ve spent most of my time as a part of this Horde as the one everyone watches. That everyone questions. You are the first warchief to ever acknowledge that my people are your people.”
The troll’s gaze softened. He turned back to his desk, and this time, Sylvanas let him rearrange all his papers, once again setting her letter on the top.
“I be appreciatin’ ya concern, an’ as much as I be grateful ya willin’ ta postpone… I be needing de distraction. So, I’mma keep it here as someting I can… tink about.”
Sylvanas sighed, “very well. But take it from me, Vol’jin, as someone who has been around for millennials, and been in a position of leadership for about that same amount of time - give yourself a break.”
“... I’ll keep dat in mind, Sylvanas.”
She tipped her head curtly at him, “I’ll take my leave then. I believe I’ve given the Regent Lord a sufficient amount of time to get a squad of archers organized.”
Vol’jin nodded his head hesitantly. Sylvanas turned on her heel and made her way to the door. The siame-quashi that Vol’jin had assigned her were still posted at the door. She nodded to them, and they followed her.
“Windrunnah!”
She stopped short, turning half-way toward Vol’jin, “yes, Warchief?”
He was gripping the door, reminding her of how a child clings to a door when telling their parent goodnight.
“... thank you.”
Sylvanas could feel her face light up at the words; and not only that, but the sincerity with which he said them.
“Of course, Warchief.”
A week.
Two weeks.
A month.
A month and two weeks.
Amita had managed to avoid any and all reason to go to Orgrimmar. Any time she asked, Inetiel was more than willing. The blood elf went to get her anything she wanted: food, clothes, Brew of the Month brews, fabrics, jewellery, materials for making jewellery - the list went on. Even Hakto had gone once or twice when Inetiel was tied up at the bar. Sometimes, Rath would go.
She sat on the Ratchet dock alone. A few days ago, Bujune had tried to sneak to Orgrimmar with Hakto - and he would have gotten away too, if not for the fact that Jalga was keeping insistent tabs on the young troll.
Amita wasn't sure how she felt about that. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Bujune wanting to go to Orgrimmar either. When she had returned from finding out about the fact that Vol’jin had been the one to leave those terrible bruises on her son’s neck, she’d… taken it out on Jalga.
It had started with a fight. She’d charged him in hydra form, so at least he had known that she wasn’t messing around, as it were.
Part of her blamed him. He had been in Orgrimmar with Bujune.
Of course Jalga had refused to defend himself, for the most part; he’d refused to draw any of his weapons on her. The fight was short and ended with Amita straddling his chest, face buried in her hands, weeping. Somehow, she managed to heal some of Jalga’s wounds through her tears.
And she’d taken her frustrations out on Jalga that night too. She wanted different hands, different whispers, a different face. Anything to replace the red hair that haunted her thoughts.
But he won’t leave me alone.
Amita leaned her face into her hands. She’d cried so much in the past month. She had no more tears left to shed, and it was for the better. The druid didn’t know how much more angry rubbing her eyes could tolerate.
She hated how she missed him. She hated how she wanted to go to Orgrimmar, hated how she wanted to see him, hated how she wasn’t angry.
“I be so stupid,” she muttered to herself, “so stupid and in love--”
A sharp gasp left her. She jumped up from the dock, walking hastily toward Rath’s bar. Maybe if she left the dock, she could run away from the words. Pretend she’d never said them.
The druid sat at Rath’s bar, lifeless. The bustle around her slowly ground to a halt. People came and went, some attempted to have a conversation with her but she hardly responded.
Old green hands appeared in her vision.
“Amita?” Rath’s soft voice permeated her thoughts, “how do you feel?”
Amita shook her head, and he laughed quietly, “just tell me. Doesn't matter if you think it sounds silly. How do you feel?”
“... I feel helpless,” she admitted after a minute of silence, “Jalga be keepin’ Bujune from goin’ ta Orgrimmar, even though I be Bujune’s mothah. I don’ be angry at Vol’jin, even though I should be. He tried ta kill my son, an’ I jus’ feel nothin’ ill toward him about it--...”
She could feel her face growing hot. Rath noticed.
“Are you sure you’re not angry?”
Amita shook her head furiously. She raked her fingers through her hair. Somehow, talking about it now, she was beginning to feel the anger. Maybe it was because she was talking to Rath, and no one else was around.
“No, no, I don’ be angry - I be furious,” she said, more loudly than she intended, but there was hardly anyone in the bar as it was, “dey weren’t goin’ ta tell me! Bujune tried ta hide it from me! Who be knowin’ when de Warchief be intendin’ ta tell me - prob’ly no’ anytime soon!”
Subconsciously she grabbed one of Rath’s hands; he let her, “de bruises still haven’ faded! Bujune be lyin’ ta ev’ryone who be askin’ him ‘bout dem, says dey be some kinda’ tattoo, an’ he keeps tryna’ go ta Orgrimmar obviously because he be wantin’ ta see you know who!”
She clenched her free hand into a tight fist, snarling, “I be so angry I don’ even know how ta be angry!”
Rath’s gaze was easy to be under. It was concerned and fatherly, and so far, he had been the only person to ask her how she felt. After giving her ten minutes to reign in her emotions, Rath asked her another question, “have you asked Bujune how he feels?”
This caught her off guard, “no…”
“And, have you asked Jalga how he feels?”
“Ah… no…” she raised her free hand to rub her neck, because Rath now refused to release her other one. A half-laugh left the old orc warrior.
“Well, I for one know that Jalga is angry! I had to race him to Orgrimmar the day after you told us why Bujune had bruises on his neck. I was afraid he was going to try and assassinate Vol’jin.”
Amita’s heart dropped into her stomach. The despair that washed over her practically spread to Rath. The orc brushed his thumb over her knuckles, “fret not, Amita. I was able to stop him right before he entered the city, and Rokhan must have sensed his murderous intent from miles away. He was already at the gate, ready for a fight.”
“Dat don’ make me feel any bettah, Rath…” Amita muttered; he smiled at her.
“I was hoping you would realize you weren’t alone.”
Her ears perked up at that - then drooped again, “wat am I supposed ta do, Rath?”
Rath was silent.
“Running the risk of sounding like I’m defending what he did, but I think you should give Vol’jin the chance to explain himself.”
Amita’s ears flicked back. She glowered at the bar top, her hand clenching around Rath’s, “let ‘im explain himself, huh…”
“You need the whole story, Amita,” Rath continued gently, “I’m not condoning what he did, nor dismissing it. You mentioned to us that his tusks were broken, and while I might be inclined to believe that Bujune broke them himself, with the way the boy keeps trying to go to Orgrimmar - and this is me assuming, like you, that he wants to see Vol’jin - if the Warchief had truly intended to harm Bujune, then why would your son want to see him?”
Amita kept her silence, and Rath continued, “people usually don’t want to be around those who harm them. If Bujune is trying to go see Vol’jin, then I think there’s more to this situation than any of us know. And you, you certainly deserve to have your answers.”
“He be askin’ me ta wait…” she found herself saying, “befah I ran out, ‘cuz I didn’ know wat ta do. He be askin’ me ta wait, den he asked if he could be knowin’ wat I was tinkin’.”
“You know him, Amita, better than anyone,” Rath whispered, turning her hand over in his so he could place his other hand on top, “I think you should give him a chance.”
Storm clouds gathered over the Barrens. The winds were cold, bringing the promise of rain.
Vol’jin leaned his head back against the wood of Rath’s bar. He was sitting at the back, where he usually sat.
Truthfully, he’d wanted to come to Ratchet nearly over a month ago. He had this consuming desire to fix what he had broken. He had to. Vol’jin already couldn’t stand the distance that Amita had been putting between herself and him, with him being the Warchief.
Vanira had stopped him. She cared about Amita, perhaps more than Vol’jin did himself - because his concern had been to clear his own name.
She told him that he best give Amita the space she needed, or else Vanira would smite him with lightning herself. It was the first time she’d been considerably cold to Vol’jin, even after sitting through his explanation of what had happened.
But I’m not the one that anyone needs to be concerned for, he thought solemnly, brushing his hands through his hair, and subsequently sweeping the hood off his head.
Vol’jin wasn’t in Ratchet to talk to Amita, no - after getting over himself, he decided that this time, he would wait for Amita to come back to Orgrimmar and seek him out herself, when she was ready.
It wouldn’t stop him from trying to see her, though. One glimpse, that’s all he needed, and he would go back to Orgrimmar - and one glimpse of Bujune, too. He wanted to make sure the boy was doing well. He was certain that Amita was keeping Bujune close to her side, and he didn’t blame her. Who would want their child near someone who had almost killed them, regardless of the explanation that might be behind it? On top of that, Amita was a troll. She was no different from Vol’jin. If it had been his child, he would behave the exact same way.
“Vol’jin…!”
Rath’s voice made the Warchief jump. Right, he’d forgotten that his hood had been swept off his head - and with a grimace he recalled that it wouldn’t have made a difference. The back of Rath’s bar had become some sort of odd haven for the Warchief.
“... I don’ be here,” he said weakly, “if she be aroun’, den I jus’ wanna’ see her. If not, I’ll be headin’ back ta Orgrimmar, befah dis storm starts.”
“She was just here, but she left,” Rath’s voice was much gentler than Vol’jin anticipated.
“Hah. Didn’ expect dat tone, Rath.”
The orc sat down on the stairs, his shoulders rising and falling with a silent sigh.
“Did you know that Bujune keeps trying to sneak back to Orgrimmar?”
Vol’jin stiffened at this news, but shook his head.
“Amita makes the assumption that he’s trying to get there to see you, but I know he is. I asked him, once, when I realized he had stown away in my wolf’s pack. He’d turned into a cobra and nestled in the pouch - I hadn’t noticed until reaching the border between the Barrens and Durotar because he’d moved everything I had in the pouch he occupied to the other side, and his weight nearly balanced the two sides out. If he hadn’t let out a hiss, I’m sure I would have rode into Orgrimmar none the wiser.”
Hearing this made Vol’jin’s chest swell and ache at the same time - and Rath continued, “he’s tried to fly back multiple times, but Jalga keeps catching him before he can. Hakto once nearly took him there, but again, Jalga intercepted. He even tried to stealth his way over, but he can’t keep up a stealth as long as his mother, and he hasn’t had much training as a druid,” a fond smile crossed Rath’s lips, “I have a point to telling you all this, I promise.”
Vol’jin couldn’t stop a laugh from escaping him. He could have sworn he saw Hakto out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned his head to seek out the shaman, he found the tauren to be gone.
No matter, Vol’jin mused, then leaned his head back against the wood, “so? Wat be ya point, Rath?”
“How can I be angry when Bujune is not?”
Vol’jin’s eyes widened briefly.
“I may be blind in this eye, but I can still see pretty damn well. Bujune has been trying nearly every day to get to Orgrimmar to see you. When he talks about you, Vol’jin, there’s a sadness about him. He wants to see you. Multiple times he’s muttered that he hopes you’re doing alright. He’s confided in me that he hates how Jalga keeps intercepting him and how Amita is indifferent to the fact that he’s suffering too.”
Loa, Vol’jin had to dig his claws into his thigh. He was not going to shed any tears over this. Even if it shook him to the core, to know that Bujune was so desperate to get to him.
Bujune was exasperated.
He liked Jalga, he really did - but not when the rogue had taken it upon himself to act like an overprotective father. Was it so hard to understand that Bujune had no ill-will toward Vol’jin? That he missed the older troll even? Vol’jin was suffering too! Maybe he needed someone to talk to, and Bujune was alive, wasn’t he?
Alive because of Vol’jin.
“Don’ worreh, Jalga, I be stayin’ right here.”
Dark eyes flashed dangerously, and Bujune crossed his arms over his chest, hunching in on himself.
“Ya realleh gonna’ have dat tone wit’ me?”
Bujune muttered incoherently under his breath. He knew better than to say something out of anger. Jalga narrowed his eyes and leaned down to Bujune’s height, “well?”
“I can watch him, Jalga.”
Hakto’s gruff voice was welcome - so welcome, in fact, that Bujune shuffled in the direction of the shaman’s voice. After all, Hakto had willingly offered to take Bujune to Orgrimmar - not that Jalga needed to know that.
The last thing Bujune wanted was for the rogue to become hostile toward Hakto as well.
Jalga frowned, and Hakto crossed his arms, “I said I can watch him. You’ll be gone for an hour or so, right? I’ll take him to the dock, do some fishing.”
With a sigh, the rogue relented, “yea. I’ll be back inna’ houah. Be seein’ ya.”
“Earthmother watch over you,” Hakto muttered as Jalga sprinted off. Bujune was curious. Hakto kept his gaze focused in the direction Jalga had gone--
“Go to the bar, at the back. There’s someone there you’ve been wanting to see.”
Bujune turned on his heel so swiftly he stumbled. He sprinted to Rath’s bar, heart in his ears.
And when Bujune came to a halt at the corner of the bar, staring wide eyed at Vol’jin, he could feel a stinging in his eyes. The older troll looked as though he’d been having a rough time.
All that left the boy was a choked sound, and Vol’jin’s head snapped in his direction in an instant. His molten eyes widened.
Vol’jin!!
Bujune threw himself into Vol’jin’s arms, causing the older troll to grunt with the impact.
Vol’jin, Vol’jin, Vol’jin!
Bujune was so happy he cried. He wound his arms tightly around Vol’jin’s neck and pressed his face under Vol’jin’s chin. The Warchief’s embrace was warm. He easily enveloped Bujune in his arms.
It seemed neither of them could say anything - but Bujune had so many questions! And he was sure Vol’jin had questions too.
She wasn’t sure how long the two of them had been like that. All Amita could do was stare at how her son hugged Vol’jin. Tightly, like he never wanted to let go.
Anger flared up inside her. Amita could feel it blossom between her eyes - and the only reason she didn’t turn into a hydra and snatch Bujune away was due to Vol’jin’s expression, sorrow mingled with relief. Obviously, he had missed Bujune, and with how Bujune clung to him, her boy had missed him too.
Rath noticed her first. He shifted too quickly, catching both Bujune and Vol’jin’s attention.
It was so unfair.
Amita’s anger vanished the moment Bujune - fear written all over his face as he looked at her - scrambled out of Vol’jin’s arms and positioned himself between her and Vol’jin.
Her lips parted as she thought.
“Did you ask Bujune how he feels?”
Amita lowered her gaze, tangling her fingers in her skirt.
“I think you should give him a chance.”
Amita took an uneasy breath. She couldn’t expunge the anger she felt - not yet anyway. Not until she knew why, because Rath was right, as much as she didn’t want him to be.
She needed answers, and the only one who had those answers was Vol’jin. She had to give him the chance to explain himself. She had to remember that he had asked her to wait for a reason.
Her feet led her forward. Bujune watched her approach in wide-eyed fear, keeping himself positioned between shadow hunter and druid. Amita cupped Bujune’s cheek in her hand. She gazed steadily at him, attempting a smile. It was weak.
“Stay wit’ Rath tonight, okay?” she said softly. And she could see Bujune’s fear change to astonishment. There was the smallest hint of hope in his eyes.
Amita chanced a glance at Vol’jin.
The warchief looked as astonished as Bujune, but his expression was filled more-so with disbelief. Amita kept her expression as neutral as she could.
This time, smiling at Bujune was easier. She directed it at him before letting her hand slip away from his face. As she turned, she heard the rustle of fabric as Vol’jin got to his feet.
A drop of rain shattered on the druid’s nose.
“I bettah head back ta Orgrimmar,” Vol’jin said, his voice low. Amita shifted into a raptor, startling Vol’jin’s mount even if the beast had seen her in the form multiple times.
Or maybe it was startled because she had grabbed it by the reins and jerked it toward Vol’jin. She dropped the reins once the emerald raptor was close enough, her large inner toes tapping against the ground.
Vol’jin stared at her, eyes wide. It became clear to her that it had not been his intention to impose his presence on her - and perhaps he hadn’t wanted to impose his presence on Bujune either.
No matter.
She would have her answers soon enough.
Amita chuffed at Vol’jin, then turned and ran. She could feel the vibrations of the other raptor’s footfalls as she went. It felt like only seconds had passed once she reached her home, but by the time she reached her door and shifted back into a troll, the rain had started coming down harder.
The druid strode forward. She didn’t bother waiting for Vol’jin to get off his mount; she dropped the roots from her door and shoved it open. Once inside she found herself stomping her way to the bathing room. She snatched out a towel.
When she came back into the main portion, Vol’jin was hesitantly standing in the doorway.
“Stay ovah dere,” she hissed, finding it easier to show her anger now that her son wasn’t there to defend the warchief. Vol’jin’s lips pulled tightly over his teeth, and he stepped inside. He stayed on the far side of the room, where Amita kept a few bookshelves and a desk, with a few chairs here and there. Inscription papers were scattered everywhere from Bujune’s studies.
Amita chucked the towel at Vol’jin. He caught it deftly, of course, clenching it tightly in his hand.
“You be in Ratchet,” Amita said, switching to Zandali because it was easier to be angry, “why?”
“I--...” he hesitated. Narrowed his eyes. Glared at the floor.
“I wanted a glimpse of you.”
Amita’s brow furrowed. His expression was distressed.
“Why?”
“Because I… be wanting to make sure you be alright.”
Amita crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to let herself soften. It was difficult. It was so difficult. Her heart betrayed her with every thump. It wanted him and he was right there. Amita dug her claws into her skin, hoping that the bite of pain would distract her mind from the desires that her heart was trying to put there.
“Then why my son be with you?”
“I don’t know,” Vol’jin said, the towel still gripped tightly in one hand and his red hair limp against his skull, “when I be coming to Ratchet, I didn’t have any intention to find either of you outside of just seeing you. That’s all I be wanting. I don’t be knowing who told Bujune I was there. I be wanting to ensure you had the space you needed, so that you could come to me when you be ready.”
The druid let her fingers relax. She couldn’t overlook the fact that Bujune had just… been so happy. She could tell from the way he’d been hugging Vol’jin. It brought her a measure of comfort to know that he had intended to give her space until she was ready, but an angry voice nagged that he was telling a pretty lie.
Quickly she averted her gaze, because her heart was working itself into a staccato. It wasn’t fair that him just standing there being so close yet so far was making her like this. She was supposed to be angry with him. He had nearly killed her son.
She made to ask why he had tried to strangle Bujune when he seemed to care about the two of them so much, but another question that was plaguing her mind tumbled out of her mouth, “what be happening to your tusks?”
Vol’jin’s hand slackened. The towel dropped to the floor, he swallowed thickly, then spoke;
“It was the only way I could resuscitate him.”
Amita’s eyes snapped to him, “what?”
“They were too big, Amita. I had to break them.”
His expression was still dominated by distress, and Amita stomped one of her feet against the ground, her arms falling to her sides and hands balling into fists, “if you be saving him, then why you be trying to kill him!?”
“I let my guard down,” he replied, clenching his teeth together in the effort to not match her volume. Amita’s hair billowed around her.
“You be letting your guard down?! You be talking like you didn’t have any control!”
Vol’jin bit back a growl, “I didn’t.”
“And those bruises are still there,” Amita hissed, her voice dropping to a whisper at the end. She hugged herself, “what did you do to him? What was on your hands?”
“I made a deal,” Vol’jin said, his voice quiet, “do you remember when the Twilight’s Hammer attacked Orgrimmar?”
Amita’s ears flicked. She barely remembered the day, outside of…
Waking up in Vol’jin’s private chambers, with him at the bedside struggling to stay awake.
“No… I don’t be remembering it in its entirety,” she muttered, playing with a strand of hair, “why does it matter?”
“Hakto brought you to me.”
Amita looked up at him, eyes pinched in puzzlement. Vol’jin’s tone had taken on the distress in his face. Was it a painful memory for him?
“Your spine was broken, legs twisted around,” he bit the inside of his cheek, then continued, “and I was a fool. I made a deal with Bwonsamdi, I told him he could have anything he wanted, so long as he didn’t take your soul.”
Amita stared, wide-eyed.
This was her first time hearing about it. She reached back into her mind - because Loa, hadn’t this happened two years ago? - searching for any other memories. Amita vaguely remembered being in an excruciating amount of pain. She remembered being free, briefly, before coming back to herself. After that, it was a haze.
“He asked for Bujune’s soul.”
Her arms dropped lifelessly to her sides. Part of her couldn’t believe it. Bwonsamdi, Amita knew, wasn’t one to so easily let go of a soul if it was something he wanted, yet Bujune was still alive.
Vol’jin couldn’t take the silence, “he cursed me with the urge to kill him. I be fighting it for two years, then I let my guard down. All I could… do was watch.”
Bitterness spread over Vol’jin’s features, and he met Amita’s gaze with a sincerity she didn’t expect, “Amita, I love that boy. What makes you think that any part of me would have wanted to kill him?”
Sharp nails dug into Amita’s palms as she clenched her hands into fists. Vol’jin blinked, turning his gaze to the ground, before looking back up at her.
“You know me.”
The emotion in his voice was impossible for her to ignore.
“I be wondering, Son of Sen’jin.”
Vol’jin ignored the Loa, though Bwonsamdi was insistent in his hovering. Amita stood still across from Vol’jin, absorbing what he’d told her, and Vol’jin was grateful that for now, Bwonsamdi was keeping himself invisible.
The Loa opted not to continue his thoughts. Vol’jin assumed it was because Amita was drawing closer, her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the man before her. As she raised her hand, Vol’jin was certain she was going to slap him.
Instead, she rested her hand against his cheek. He wanted to grasp her hand and keep it there. Loa, he had missed her touch so much.
Her lips moved, “yes, I do know you.”
Vol’jin never thought that hearing her say that would tear the horrible weight away from his shoulders, however briefly, because Bwonsamdi settled there soon enough.
“And you know what I be wondering…”
The Warchief did his best to inconspicuously clench his teeth. Amita was still gazing heavily at him, after all, her eyes studying every line of his face.
“Is what would be happening, if I be giving you other urges?”
Vol’jin could not stop his eyes from widening. His mind went into a panic.
Anything but that, anything but that, anything but that.
“But Vol’jin~” the great spirit mocked, laughter on his voice as he spoke only so Vol’jin could hear him, “she be right here! And you, of all people, you be knowing how she likes it. Rough. Passionate. You been missing her touch. Why not? You know she’ll let you.”
If anything, Vol’jin was so lost in his desperation to plead for anything but that, he had forgotten that Amita was staring at him.
He abruptly found himself entangled in strong vines, with Amita backing several steps away. Her eyes were harsh, but not looking at him.
No, she was looking past Vol’jin’s shoulders, her eyes flicking to the left, then the right, then back to the left.
“Bwonsamdi,” she spoke, a fierce spark in her voice, “you be forgetting that I’m favored by Gonk. I can sense you. You don’t be as hidden as you think.”
The Loa lingered for a moment longer, then departed. Part of Vol’jin was amused. To think that Bwonsamdi might not want to draw the wrath of another Loa, now that was interesting.
More interesting - and of infinite more importance - was the fact that Amita chose to draw closer once again. The entangling roots fell away from him, and Amita placed her hand against his cheek once more.
For several minutes, they gazed at each other. First, Vol’jin leaned his cheek into her palm, closing his eyes for a moment to simply relish in the contact. His eyes fluttered open after a moment to find that Amita’s expression had shifted from cold scrutinizing to something warmer. Something more alluring.
Vol’jin shakily raised his hand to cover hers. He was terrified she would jerk her hand away. She didn’t. Her green orbs batted at him. Amita’s breathing seemed to shift the longer they gazed at each other, and Vol’jin found his own breaths growing heavy and uneven.
Amita was looking at his lips now. Her eyes traced over to the protruding tusk to his right, then to the lack of one on his left. She looked back up at him, her eyes fluttering again. Vol’jin couldn’t help returning the action.
She drew closer. The heat radiating off her body curled around him like a gentle embrace. One of his ears flicked as the sound of rain filled the comfortable silence. His hand clenched around hers; in response, her fingers briefly squeezed his cheek.
Loa Vol’jin wanted to wrap his arms around her and pull her flush against his chest. He wanted to kiss her and kiss her hard. A month and a half was far too long to be robbed of Amita’s affections. It was far too long for her to be robbed of his - and because Vol’jin had been a fool.
Only a fool would make a deal with Bwonsamdi.
Now, his eyes were roaming. Her lips were parted, a light sheen to them after her tongue darted out to wet them. They looked so welcoming. Vol’jin’s gaze lingered - then her jewellery caught in whatever light was coming through the window. It drew him in, eyes going to her strong neck, then following down the golden chains that of course slipped out of view under her top. Between her breasts.
Vol’jin’s eyes snapped back up to Amita’s face. She arched her brows for a second. It was a gesture he knew well; did he like what he saw?
He couldn’t stop the small smile that pulled at his lips.
A churring sound caused both trolls to look to the door, breaking their gaze.
Right.
The rain.
Vol’jin’s raptor.
Reluctantly Vol’jin moved his hand off of Amita’s. Hers slipped off his cheek, sliding down his neck to rest for a brief moment on his collarbone, before Amita caught herself and pulled her hand back. Not too swiftly, but not too slowly; Vol’jin couldn’t make a judgement on what the action might mean.
“I bettah go,” he muttered, ears flicking again to the sound of the rain. It was like an assault on Amita’s well-constructed home.
Amita was quiet, drawing both hands to her chest. Vol’jin gave her a nod, which she returned, and regardless of how difficult it was to walk away, he forced his feet to move. It wasn’t too much of a struggle to open the door, but he was alarmed by the way the wind blew the rain.
The water came down in waves. The wind moved the droplets like it would when there was a storm out at sea. No wonder his raptor had gone and gotten his attention. He took a moment to soothe his beast, running his claws along the raptor’s eye ridges.
Inside, Amita battled with herself.
Part of her was still determined to be angry; determined to keep her distance.
The other part was ready to forgive him - eager, almost, because when he had covered her hand with his, white-hot lightning had raced up her arm to her shoulder. Amita hadn’t realized how much she had missed his touch.
Her anger berated her for being a stupid girl. A stupid girl who was in love whether she wanted to admit it or not.
And she knew how the rain was in the Barrens.
Before Amita could stop herself, she was opening her door, “Vol’jin!”
He had his cloak back on, but had nearly turned around fully to look at her. Amita leaned out of her door, looking at him, then looking at the rain, the trees, the ground…
“You… should stay.”
Vol’jin stared at her, but not in disbelief like she had expected. No, there was a hopeful spark in his eyes, and he blinked before looking away.
“I c’n make it ta Crossroads,” he informed her. Amita bit her lip. Clearly, he’d told her the truth about wanting to give her the space she needed. She held her silence, and Vol’jin went back to preparing to leave.
“... de Barrens be dangerous when it rains,” she found herself saying. Amita raised her gaze to find Vol’jin looking at her again, and a gust of wind blew a good amount of rain under the canopy she’d set up over her doorway. Vol’jin’s raptor protested both the wetness, and the chill that the wind brought with it, but Vol’jin only shuddered.
“Dere be mo’ chance dat it’ll flash flood. So… you should stay.”
She hoped that her gaze was imploring enough. When Vol’jin didn’t move, she pushed her door open a little more to step outside.
It hadn’t even begun to swing shut when Amita’s back slammed it closed, because Vol’jin had surged forward.
Oh, how she missed this. Her hands pressed firmly against his chest; him towering over her, boxing her in, the warmth from his body and his clothes hanging around her like a shield from the biting winds of the storm. And the dampness on the cloak he wore made the fabric cling to his arms, and water slowly dripped between her breasts as part of the cloth rested against her chest.
Loa he was so close. She could feel his breath on her lips. She could drown in his eyes. His hair brushed against her forehead, again limp from the wetness of the rain.
Vol’jin closed his eyes tightly before pushing back. Amita kept her hands on his chest for a moment more.
“Bettah bring ya raptah inside,” Amita murmured, letting her hands drop away. Vol’jin nodded his head, muttering something in agreement, before stepping away from her. She waited for the wind to send another buffet of rain in their direction before yanking open her door. Vol’jin urged the emerald beast inside, and it immediately made a beeline for the pillows and cushions Amita had thrown on the floor the day before.
She had to stifle a laugh once she stepped back inside, pulling her door tightly closed. The poor thing groaned and grumbled when Vol’jin tried to get it to move.
“Jus’ be leavin’ ‘im, Vol’jin,” Amita said, a giggle in her voice. Vol’jin turned on the balls of his feet to pout at her, and she gestured to the towel he’d dropped on the floor earlier, “use dat. I’ll be gettin’ a biggah one fo’ ya beast.”
Amita quickly went to get the larger towel - then she grabbed a second, just in case. It was just as well that the beast had chosen to hunker down on the pillows. There wasn’t really another place she could keep him where he would be comfortable.
Vol’jin, of course, knew her home like the back of his hand. He’d been here often enough. His cloak was draped over the stone sink, looking as though it had been rung out. It was the only article of clothing that Vol’jin had removed, and currently he was towelling off his hair.
She went about drying off Vol’jin’s raptor. The beast chuffed at her, and she let him sniff at her hair as she worked.
Wordlessly she held up the other towel.
“Realized you prolly need dis,” she muttered after feeling Vol'jin's grip on the item, “I mean, ‘specially aftah ya got buffehted by de rain.”
Vol’jin chuckled, “well, ya not wrong.”
Silence fell between them as Vol’jin wandered in the direction of her bathing room, and Amita stayed by his raptor. The time passed by slowly, and the rain didn’t relent.
In fact, Amita was sure it had started coming down even harder than it had been.
I almost can’t stand having him so close, Amita came to realize, her eyes drifting to the back room. They were eager. She wanted to know what he was doing, stop that, Amita.
Sighing, she rose to her feet. There was some fish in her ice box, she knew, but her appetite was lacking. Perhaps a piece of fruit would do? She had some lying around. Amita hoped that Vol’jin wasn’t interested in eating, but well, if he was… she supposed she could make him something.
Skimming over the various fruits she had left was simple enough. The peach would go rotten before the apple, so she picked the soft fruit out of her bowl. The first bite made her squeak and quickly raise a hand to her chin to prevent the juice from dripping down her neck. With the second bite, she felt a heavy gaze.
She turned her head quickly, brows raised and face flushed as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.
Vol’jin’s face flushed as well, and Amita could only tell because apparently he’d decided to wash off his war paint.
“Uh!” Amita swallowed the fruit, coughing lightly because she’d completely forgotten that chewing one’s food was always the best course of action, “did you, um, wan’ sometin’?”
Vol’jin walked around her in a wide arc, eyes darting to look everywhere but at her, “I don’ realleh be having an appetite.”
“Ya sure ya don’ wan’ sometin’?” Amita pressed, digging around in her bowl for something softer than an apple, like perhaps a plum, or another ripe peach--
Vol’jin’s hand appeared in her vision, picking out the apple, and Loa his chest was pressing against her shoulder, and since when did his proximity affect her like this?
Amita lit up like a Winter’s Veil light, and as she shuffled to the right Vol’jin took a few steps back.
“I’ll be having dis, if dat’s a’ight.”
The druid nodded her head, staring at the ground. When she’d looked at him to acknowledge his comment, he’d given her a smile. The part of her that was still angry with him was the only reason she hadn’t tried to pounce on him yet.
And if we kiss, we’re going to fuck, no doubt about that, she released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding when Vol’jin turned away from her, and I know that I’m not in a place where… I can let that happen.
Amita was glad that the rigid stand against physical contact was going both ways. She appreciated that Vol’jin was so determined to stay out of her space, rather than in it.
To pass the time, Vol’jin sat himself in the corner of the room. He would take an hour or so to meditate, because it would both distract him from Amita’s presence, and prevent this time they were sharing together from developing in a direction Amita would rather avoid.
He preferred taking that stress off of her shoulders - and she wouldn’t bother him. As much as Amita liked to tease and pester him, whenever Vol’jin was meditating, she kept her distance.
The warchief found himself in front of Bwonsamdi, who of course looked pleased with himself.
“A tough situation you be in, Son of Sen’jin~”
Vol’jin glowered, choosing to say nothing. Bwonsamdi cackled, “so, boy? What reason you be having for being here, eh?”
“You never gave me an answer,” Vol’jin said through his teeth, “to my question.”
“Which question?”
Naturally the Loa was going to play dumb. Vol’jin had asked it the last time he was here. Bwonsamdi had merely grinned.
“You don’t be having Bujune’s soul. You be letting me save his life. Why? I be thinking that you, Great Spirit, would be the least willing of all the Loa to be giving up what he be thinking is rightfully his.”
Bwonsamdi grinned, bloody and horrible, “ahh, yes, that question. You did be asking that.”
There was an odd gleam in Bwonsamdi’s flaming eyes. Something akin to respect, but not quite that, “you impress me, Vol’jin. Two years. Two whole years you be resisting the curse I put on you. It be reminding me why I be favoring you in the first place. Because you respect, but you defy. Fearful, yet fearless, one of the few who be having the guts to defy me, of all the Loa.”
Vol’jin’s brows furrowed. Bwonsamdi waved a hand, lighting every other candle in his dark realm, “I be angry at first. That be why you never heard from me, because you be right, I be the last Loa to give up on what be rightfully his, and on top of that, you be avoiding me too. But,” and the Loa chuckled, shaking his great head, “my goal be to make you suffer.”
The Loa leaned down until his eyes were at Vol’jin’s level. If Bwonsamdi so desired, he could open his mouth and devour Vol’jin’s soul, “and you, you been suffering, haven’t you?”
A snarl died in Vol’jin’s throat. He swallowed it, and crossed his arms over his chest, “you be relinquishing your claim to Bujune’s soul, then?”
Bwonsamdi waved a hand dismissively, suddenly sitting upright in his throne of skulls again, “yes. I’ll be having it soon enough, like I’ll be having yours, and your druid’s. Like I will be having all souls. And my statement still remains, Son of Sen’jin. We’ll be seeing how much she really loves you, when all this be coming to a point.”
Vol’jin closed his eyes, willing himself away from the Loa’s realm. He could not escape the Loa’s last words.
“And it be coming to that real soon.”
Rain still assaulted Amita’s roof when Vol’jin finally came back to himself. He sighed, wondering how late it was, while simultaneously accepting the fact that he would not be able to get back to Orgrimmar tonight.
He got to his feet, taking a moment to stretch before he turned around, eyes sweeping over the room. His raptor was fast asleep on the mound of pillows.
And Amita…
She was gazing at him from her bed. The woman had taken a liking to the things, plush and comfortable as they were. Hers was large and circular, peppered with pillows and blankets and other warm things.
As a troll, Amita would naturally go about making herself a little nest. Vol’jin would not admit that if he were allowed to, he would stay in it all day. It was the most brilliant piece of furniture that Amita had ever adopted from all her travels.
That, and Vol’jin was certain the Zandalari had a part to play in her liking of beds.
Hesitantly, Vol’jin approached. He wasn’t sure if she would let him lie next to her. As he steadily drew closer, Amita showed no signs of discomfort, nor did she verbally inform him to sleep elsewhere.
By the time he stood next to the bed, she was letting her eyes flutter between open and closed. He trailed his claws along her arm; she shuddered, but didn’t flinch away. He let some of his weight rest on the bed, one hand and knee dipping into the mattress. Amita’s eyes snapped open, and Vol’jin froze.
“You stayin’, or goin’ somewhere else?” she asked, a yawn creeping up her throat. Vol’jin’s heart did a pitter-patter to the rains above. He crawled over her; she allowed it.
“Stayin’,” he muttered in response, lying down next to her. Amita hummed.
For a while, the two lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling. Every now and then Vol’jin would feel her fingers brush against his. At some point, he turned onto his side to look at her. Her eyes were closed. She was peaceful.
Vol’jin could kiss her.
He could, he could, he could--
He couldn’t.
The warchief wet his lips. He shuffled a little closer to Amita, draping his arm across her stomach. Her eyes shifted under her eyelids, and a sigh of air passed through Vol’jin’s nose. Waiting for her to slap him away.
Amita turned onto her side, her back to him. Then she scooted back. Her shoulder pressed against his chest, head nestled snug under his chin.
Vol’jin wrapped his arm around what he could of her waist; she allowed it. She allowed him to curl around her, legs tangled, his other arm curved above her head. He buried his face in her mass of hair.
Amita’s warmth, and the consistent drum of the rain lulled Vol’jin into the most restful sleep he’d had in two years.
(( Okay wow that was longer than I expected hmmMMMMmmmm I’M SORRY there’s probably little things here and there that I could have adjusted or at least put more of a time-frame but listen a month is really freaking long when you’re angry at someone you love. Hell, a fucking DAY is long. I’m not sure if this all makes sense BUT I LIKE IT AND THAT’S ALL I CARE ABOUT BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT TOO.
I also don’t know if I decided to capitalize everyone’s titles in this part or if I missed a few, and I apparently also can’t decide if I want to spell Inetiel’s name as Inetiel or Initiel so if I spell it two different waYS I’M SORRY. This is 27 pages long and I’M TIRED AND I WANT TO SLEEP.
Let’s pretend I mentioned that Vol’jin was wearing a black shirt under his hood and w/e and we’ll pretend I mentioned that Amita is probably wearing one of her usual outfits like the purple one in her ref okay? okay thaNK YOU GOOD NIGHT-- ))
