@hallowedcraft // fifty reasons to touch someone – accepting
Lion’s Rest. During the day,stones worn smooth by the scuff of countless human feet drink in the warmth ofthe sun, the breeze carries the low, reverent murmur of mourners, and birds andinsects chirp from the neatly pruned trees and shrubbery. Night, particularlymoonless ones such as this, silences the wildlife, sends the citizens to thesafety and privacy of their homes, and leeches the warmth from the rock,leaving them cool underfoot as Valeera strides towards the raised dais,habitually dodging the steady glow of lamplight upon the path. Shrouded inshadows, she slips by the listless guards who might, driven by misplacedpatriotism or the boredom of the midnight hours, begrudge a blood elf herpresence here.
All is silent save for the rushof water and her own breathing, and yet ascending the steps, the tombpositioned amidst them in view, Valeera is beset by sudden panic.
She freezes, hastily searching outsideherself for the threat, hands twitching towards the naked daggers on her hips. Hergaze darts first to the stone lions guarding the tomb, then to the toweringpillars engraved with words she does not allow herself to read and topped withornate, chauvinistic effigies to the same proud beast. One long, rich bluebanner edged with gold flutters in the wind and the tiny flame atop the candlebeneath flickers and extinguishes. But the long shadows that stretch and waverover the stairs are as natural as any other. There is no one here but her, theguards, and the carved feet of the dead man she has come to see.
Heart thumping, she stranglesher trepidation and mounts the last step, but she cannot bring herself toglance down. Valeera’s gloved fingers skim over the strong features carved intothe rock, marking the relaxed brow, the closed eyes, and the shallow scar thatcross both with her touch as well as she might her gaze. Her throat tightensagainst the thought of looking, of piercing the gloom with her elven eyes tobehold the carving atop the tomb of King Varian Wrynn. There is no need. Sheknows what he looks like.
Glowing green eyes stareresolutely ahead as if entranced by the dance of orange light over the baredteeth of the nearest lion. Her fingers trace further down, following Varian’snose and then snagging in the crease between his lips. Her touch sweeps to onecorner of his mouth then the next, her own long brows drawing together in afrown while she blindly deciphers the expression upon his face. Is he smiling?
Valeera’s looks down. Her gutwrenches so savagely it is as if a dagger has been buried in it and twisted. She chokes back a harsh sob, hurriedly snatching back herhand and averting her eyes. But no sooner has she done so, that they slide back.
She curls her lip in disgust.The man laying there as if asleep is not Varian. He was never so restful, norso serene in countenance. He should be scowling or laughing or bellowing abattle cry.
Fury surges within her; a hot,familiar rage that narrows her eyes and clenches her fists and jaw, mercifullyoverwhelming the grief attempting to round her shoulders and bow her head.
Valeera whirls, the temptationto alert the guards to her presence rising within her —— it has been dayssince her last good fight. Anyone assigned the night shift at Lion’s Rest won’tput up much of one. She’ll call it training, alert their superiors to their needfor more once they have been reduced to a pathetic, crumpled pile of armour at the footof the stair.
Perhaps with better trainingthey would not have required their king to sacrifice his life for theirworthless ones at the Broken Shore.
Valeera opens her mouth… andabruptly shuts it.
Another figure strides up thepathway towards them. Even in silhouette, even at this distance, even in spiteof how much he has grown, he is unmistakable.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldbe in bed. He should be preparing for the war to come. He should be enjoyinghis life, not limping towards his father’s empty tomb in the middle of the nightto grieve free from the scrutiny of his people.
He should not see her like this.
Her anger evaporated, Valeeraslinks away from the stone coffin, angling for the shadows behind the rightpillar. But her feet do not obey. She is effectively rooted to the spot, firstby the slight furrow in Anduin’s brow as his gaze alights on the outline ofher, then by the warm recognition that sparks in his eyes upon seeing hers.
Who else in Stormwind possesseseyes like hers? Who else stares out at the world from orbs irrevocably taintedby malevolent felfire?
His steady, reverent gait allowsher the opportunity to compose herself before he joins her at the tomb, haltinga step lower so that they are nearly the same height. Still, she cannot lookhim in the face. Human eyes may not be adapted to the dark, but he isperceptive enough to discern her vulnerability from their surroundings. Her grasp on her dignity isdubious already, her stomach trembling and her breath quavering from her lips. Shehasn’t the fortitude to stand against the sympathy he would look upon her with.
“You should arrest the stonecrafters,”she sniffs obstinately, as if her only purpose for being here is to scrutinizethe mason’s handiwork, “It doesn’t even look like him.”
His hand touches her shoulder. Valeera squares them instinctively. But it is too late. The guard’s eyes are turned respectively away from their king, still oblivious to the very existence of his companion even as she bitterly swipes away the moisture collecting under her eyes and desperately struggles against the indictment on her strength predicated by her wilting ears and dimpling chin.
For months she has fought against the pull to come here, content to seek retribution in the death of the demons spewing forth across the land, content with the distraction offered by certain shadows, content to deny and ignore and forget. But in Stormwind she is stalked and tormented by the ghost, cruelly disallowed peace. Varian is in the halls, in her chambers, in Anduin who she so fervently wants to protect, who she has already failed to protect, who now seeks to comfort her as he must comfort the entire kingdom. Her hope of discovering absolution at his graveside shatters. Her guilt looms closer.
I should have been there. The claim batters against the bars created by her clenched teeth; she cannot burden Anduin with them.
