[[ Back-dated to the week of my event Fallow Fields and Hallowed Hearths, when Caeliri reclaimed the estate of Hallowhearth! ]]
Night sighed over the gardens of Hallowhearth, cool and calming, casting the unwieldy stones in soft shades of violet. The manor was still staffless, its mistress too mired in grief to make headway on the tasks required of her. For days now, Caeliri had been bound by the hearth, splayed out on the floor in a heap of gangly limbs and cinder-touched hair, staring at the light that flickered within the fireplace. It had only been Liadove’s insistent attention that forced her to her feet and out into the garden, twice a day now, until she got her head on straight.
Caeliri walked the empty halls and let the loneliness seep into her skin, and for the life of her could find no love for all that she had earned. A hopelessness ate at her, chewed its way through heart and head, and she felt so… ungrateful for it.
There were men and women who struggled to make ends meet, to put bread and watery stew into the rumbling bellies of their children, who toiled and tried to dig themselves out from beneath poverty’s crushing wheel, and here she was, swathed in comfort, cloistered in stone halls and she couldn’t find a single fleck of joyfulness.
Not when Grace roosted in the hearth, so small she was barely visible among the snapping cinders.
She was featherless and slumbering, white-hot eyes glued shut and tiny body moving so minutely it was almost unseen. It made the hollow in her belly ache every time she laid eyes on her phoenix; her child. She was blessed -- a phoenix would always rise again, but it did not dull the pain of knowing that the companion who had bolstered her in her days of great depression had extinguished herself to save the young mender. Caeliri was meant to protect Grace, to assure she would grow strong and proud, and though she had another chance… she’d failed once, and the pain of her failure was visceral and deep.
She could not turn her mind from what she had lost; the child that flourished once inside of her, the babe that was never to be, and the shadows of the dark days that followed the Winter of Woe were again slithering across the surface of her mind. Caeliri had thought herself done with them, their malevolence banished for good; but always, they found a way to writhe up from the corners of her mind and seize it greedily.
The solitude of Hallowhearth afforded her one great boon; here, where there were no prying eyes, she could let her wounds weep through her skin, until they found their fill.
At the garden’s heart, where the great fountain sat, she stood, sword in hand.
Unburdened by her armor, she held her sword aloft, and watched it glimmer in the moon’s pale glow. It’s edges blazed bright silver, and as she swept it through the air she watched it’s arc, imagining a trail left in it’s wake.
She should have been stronger.
Caeliri stepped through the motions Emberward Starstriker had taught her, weight shifted up on her toes, legs primed and ready to spring and step from the imagined enemies that stood before her. A dance, he said - one phrase amongst a myriad of words meant to bolster and belittle, until he found the right wound to strike to embolden her. Just like his blade, his words struck true; amidst the words he wove around her worried head, he ferreted out the phrase that ripped her heart asunder.
You’re letting them all down, you’re failing them.
Anger flared inside of her, and Caeliri struck her arm forward, into the belly of an imagined beast -- she overextended, though, and felt pain spear through her shoulder. With a sharp, pained sound, she drew her arm back, raising her free hand to grasp at muscle and bone and massage it, gently.
I can tell you don’t want to hurt anyone…
But that didn’t matter, did it? She could recall, with startling clarity, when the Archon - her Lord and Master - was possessed by the spirit of Sir Sylarion, when she’d raised arms against him, when her blade had glanced by his side; even as she sought to lay him low and free him of the spectre’s grasp, she hadn’t wanted to hurt him. That desire had directed her aim, made her turn her blade just a fraction of an inch, enough to dart past the gap in his armor where she knew her sword could slip beneath and find gaps to gouge and gash him.
Her prize had been pain; Caeliri could still feel the ghost of his strike pulse through her lip, and as she ran her tongue over the closing gash, she realized it was swollen still. It wasn’t the first time a man had backhanded her - the split rested atop an old scar, where the Preacher had struck her before. That, too, had been an attempt to help gone horribly wrong. At least, when the Archon struck her, it wasn’t really him. Apologies poured from his lips in a waterfall of guilt, and she held no ill-will for the man who had lifted her up from the ashes of a ruined life and given her a chance to be something more.
She couldn’t shake the feeling, though - if she had struck true, would the poltergeist have been banished swifter, would her phoenix have been spared?
Drawing in a sharp breath, Caeliri continued with the steps she’d learned, aware, in part, this practice made little sense without a partner to pair against; she could not step and counterstep against a fragment of her own mind.
You know more than you think you do.
She’d been a soldier for the better part of three years, now - and if she was good at nothing else, it was parroting the behaviors of people around her, to learn. Here and there, she’d absorbed much needed knowledge - how to hold a sword, how to stand, how to strike - from friends and lovers and strangers alike, and she’d survived her fair share of battles; it was cobbling those disparate lessons into something tangible, something she could harness to her own desires, that was difficult. Still, Caeliri grappled with the necessity of levying arms and plying harm to others to assure a violent future never came to pass. To her, it was counterintuitive, that violence could beget peace, and though her heart still railed against the idea by turns, she knew… she knew it was a necessity.
A sigh shivered through her slim body, and the pain in her shoulder at last made her arm fall. At her side, her sword - forged by the Forgemaster, Vulthaen Voidsunder, as part of her ascension to Kintaris of the Dawnspire - glistened on in the moonlight, impassive and unchanged, it’s edges white-hot against the dark night.
For tonight night, her energy was spent - tomorrow, she would resume, and continue to war with the knowledge that she, one day, would lay a creature - or person, perhaps - low for the sake of her family, her friends, her kin. Laying her sword along the fountain’s edge, Caeliri turned on her heel, hair swirling in a storm of silken lock around her bony shoulders, and started back inside, returning to the nest of quilts and pillows laid before the fireplace, where her vigil over Grace would resume.
A delivery of a handwoven wicker basket arrived at Hallowhearth covered by a handmade soft pink lace shawl in a floral pattern.On top sat a bouquet of forget-me -not flowers held together with a strip of ivory lace. Underneath was two loaves of fresh bread still warm from the mornings ovens, two bottles of Dalaran red wine, an assortment of different cheeses from aged cheddar to brie. Hand wrapped fresh soaps from the spring Embersong Elixir's, Beauty, and Floral’s catalogue along with lavender and jasmine bath oils were tucked in the corner, resting beside them was two jars of homemade strawberry jam and apple butter, with an assortment of homemade blended teas from her shop.
A coin purse carrying fifty gold coins and a note for three hundred to be brought to the cities bank was hidden at the bottom with a wrapped parcel in pink coloured parchment paper with white butterflies. Laying inside was a compass made of gold with emerald and opal accents with a butterfly crest over top with an attached note that read “So you never lose sight of what’s important to you.”
Mistress,
I am grateful my prayers have been answered and you have returned home to us safely, within your time away my apple tree’s and strawberry bushes have fully grown and are being prepared for spring harvest. In a place that is always summer can you really call it spring? I feel so fortunate to live in such a place that steals your breath away with every turn of your gaze. Holding the forgotten beauties that escape us in times of hardships and war we are happy to welcome you home to her graces.
Please accept my purse of coin for rent due for the upcoming month, and a small basket in hopes it will bring warmth onto you and your loved ones. Should the Woodstock at Hallowhearth be low from your time away Va’miran was insistent on cutting twice the amount knowing you have been away.
We have placed away provisions for any of our soldier’s lost to help their families in times of need. Should you need to call on me for anything my lady I am at the ready and more then willing to answer your summons.
Your loyal servant
Sare’wen Emberwood of Emberwood Elixers, Beauty, and Floral’s.
{ H A L L O W H E A R T H } - (Future) Estate of Dame Caeliri Dawnsworn
Known by a different name beneath it’s last owner, Sir Sylarion Oaklance, the High Seat of the village of Summerglen lays barren and unoccupied, awaiting it’s next champion’s imminent arrival.
