Blind
“What do you think? Is he still breathin’?”
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.”
