The nightmares had come back full force. Giida had been so little, barely six and had already experienced more trauma than Lukel could have ever grasped. He had not been made to be a father - to sire a child, certainly, to pass along the Mantle most definitely. But it would have been a transaction, not a family, not love. He would have made his own protege, trained them and then cursed them.
It was something he never could have done and ensured he never did. But Giida was his, most assuredly. He'd found her in Shattrath and somehow the Matron had convinced him to take her out to see the sights. She'd been an insistent woman who, despite Lukel's hesitation with children, didn't let him leave without her. She had taken Lukel's wrist, led him over to the child, and placed Giida's small hand in his own. The outrage of her brazen touch had not shocked him as much as the truth he felt when the little girl took his hesitant hand. She was his.
And here she was, sobbing into her pillow, angry tears soaking the silken pink pillowcase. It was always anger she felt when these dreams assaulted her. Not fear. Not sadness - but rage. A sense of hopeless injustice at her inability to make it right, to fight back at the things that frightened her.
This was certainly something she had gotten from him. If her blood hadn't told him that somehow, some way, she was his child, this reaction to her nightmares alone would have solidified his suspicions. Never fear, only the need - and current inability - to deliver retribution.
It had taken him months to learn how to soothe the child, how to placate these irrational (but understandable) fits of anger. It was never him she was mad at, but she hadn't known where to put the anger, how to let it out. And he knew that anger could poison someone if they held onto it long enough.
So he'd begun to teach her how to defend herself in the waking world. How to assess a target and attack. The target dummy was a few pillows strung together around the handles of brooms and her sword was whittled from wood, but already she struck with confidence. Over and over she assaulted the pillow, ducking in low before lunging her wooden blade into its plushy heart. Whacking the sides of it, imaginary gouges taken out of a very lack luster opponent.
But it helped. It gave her a place to put the anger, it gave her an outlet and it gave her training that she would need in this world.
When she was done and spent, when the vengeful light had left her blue eyes, she would curl up in Lukel's lap, wrap his long strands of sanguine and snow colored hair around her little fists, and fall back asleep. He'd hold her there all night, ensuring no further nightmares found her. He wove them all away, staying up until morning, running long fingers gently through her fair curls.
He would make certain that peace was all she would ever know when she was in her father's arms.
Day 2
Placate / Graceful
@daily-writing-challenge
Upper Left Arm, His Kinship Path
The ink sat heavy on Vaelsnipe’s upper arm, just beneath the curve of his shoulder, where armor often failed to guard the soft places. It was no roaring beast, no symbol of conquest or threat. Instead, the bear’s head was etched in calm lines, fur flowing like water caught midstream, its mouth closed and eyes lifted just slightly as if watching the stars with quiet wonder. There was a gentle stillness in it. The kind of strength that didn’t need to announce itself.
Vael hadn’t planned the tattoo. He rarely did. His skin told stories the way trees did, layered in rings of survival, of turning points that refused to be forgotten. But this one was different. The Bear Spirit hadn’t come from rage or vengeance. It came from something rarer and harder to keep. A bond built not on dominance but mutual respect and soothing presence. Radiateing grounded grace, the kind that shelters instead of startles.
It started in the mountain wilds of the Storm Peaks. He was tracking a target across a narrow ridge when he heard it, a high broken cry, thin with pain and rising over the wind like a child’s scream.
He found the cub tangled in wire. Too small to be orphaned, too young to be alone, its paw crushed in some crude trap. Some poacher’s snare that’s was Illegal, vicious, and careless. Vael had stood there for a long minute, rifle slung but unraised, war warring in his gut.
He took a claw rake across the thigh for his mercy. Little beast had fight in him, even mangled. But Vael endured it. He always had. He disabled the trap, unspooled the wire and dragged the bleeding cub free beneath a leaning pine. He didn’t sing to it or whisper comfort. He just stayed until the storm passed, then left without waiting for thanks. He expected to never see it again.
He was wrong.
Weeks later just beyond the fjords, he caught the scent of fur in his trail. Bigger now, stronger. Quietly watching. The cub had found him and this time, it didn’t cry. It didn’t beg for food or try to follow too closely. It simply… stayed near. A shadow beside his shadow, paws silent in the snow. A presence.
They never named each other. They didn’t need to. They hunted the same ground, shared kills, slept back to back when the nights got too cold. Three full seasons passed. No commands were given nor leash tied. Just a bond that grew by being left free. And then, just as it had begun, it ended.
One morning, Vaelsnipe woke alone.
No blood or signs of violence. Just bear tracks leading into the trees, vanishing into mist like a story half-finished. When he returned from Northrend, scarred and half-starved, he went to a quiet tattooist in Dalaran and asked for a bear, not fierce, not charging, just watching, dreaming, and calm.
And now, when he rolled his sleeve back and stared at that ink, Vael remembered.
He remembered the gouge on his leg. The weeks of wordless tracking. The silent company of something untamed that chose to stay without chains. And when the world grew loud, when betrayal whispered in his ear or trust felt like a fool’s game, he ran his hand over that fur-lined ink, and let the memory settle him.
Loyalty isn’t built on blood. It’s a quiet thing.
A choice made every day.
You don’t earn it by holding something down.
You earn it by freeing it and letting it come back.
The bear spirit wasn’t a reminder of what he’d tamed. It was a reminder of what he’d never needed to.
Placating the wounded and dying was one thing, but offering the same level of peace to the broken was a whole other situation. For all the pious and noble virtues the Arathi possessed, this was one path they seemed less familiar with. Society dictated for them strength and faith were the pillars of success, a firm hand with a righteous cause could overcome anything. The Light would guide all home by the flickering flame.
Fayle was broken in their eyes and the one word whispered among the methodical healers was harsh than any sword could have been sharp.
Failure.
With graceful hands and full hearts they had come for in the ruined room of the Rest, taking bloody hands and slumped shoulders in their strong hands. Leading her by the cold corpse of her fiancé and the stern glares of the law. Slippered feet padding gently through the pools of blackening crimson that had long since stalled around Warbright's blonde hair, the former white robes splashed and sticky from the icor of the man's throat. The sight would make any sane person's stomach twist, perhaps in disgust or maybe anger or even just shock at the disgusting display of violence.
Fayle said nothing.
Fayle did nothing.
Fayle was nothing.
"Poor lass, the shock of this will never be without," whispered one of the healers as they finally exited the room and entered the hallway. The shocking smell of briny copper fading into a dull wafting cloud about the woman that left a scrape of a footprint behind her as they ushered her along.
They didn't go far of course, Dunelle's Rest was not a large inn or even the town of Kindness being that large either. A big city crime for small town community. Mouths would chatter and tongues would wag faster than a dog with a bone.
It would get uglier before it got easier.
Fayle just stared.
Fayle just walked.
Fayle just listened.
"Let's get this off her," spoke the first healer, an older woman who had seen more graves than births than she cared for in this last decade. Her fellow healer a one eyed elf, nodding softly as he gently reached to try and pull her robe off before a housekeeper rushed in.
A swat of a hand brought scowls from both professional's as the housekeeper stood her ground with a fist held like a mace as she growled. "Tha lass has just gone through hell, an ya think a man is gonna be good to undress 'er? Go on outside. I'll help wit the cleaning, you just wait til yer ready to offer some more o' tha Light to brin 'er back."
The elven man looked perplexed at this, his mouth gaping as he looked to his older partner who just shook her head. "I'll handle it. Fetch the oils and candles, we'll set up the vigil once we're done."
After years of living in the cavern the expedition had hoped people would get wiser about the work followers of the Flame committed too, but even at the other end of the world old world views still held strong as steel. It was annoying for those trying to do what was necessary and it was ludicrous for those still hanging onto what they had left behind.
Muttering to himself the elf exited, closing the door behind him as the pair of women guides Fayle toward the bed in the room.
Fayle stood silent.
Fayle stood still.
Fayle stood as stone.
The healer and her new assistant were quick to peel the soiled robe from her body, the housekeeper with sorrow etched on her face while the older healer was grim as midnight. Their eyes were quick to survey the woman for signs of violence, but she was clear. No bruises. No cuts. No trauma to the body.
All the heart.
All to the mind.
All to the spirit.
A warm washcloth was dipped into a basin of water as they began to scrub over the new widow, each woman solemn in this wretched task as the caked blood was peeled off and wiped away. The work was steady and gentle, neither wishing to cause an episode to explode from her at the wrong time. The last thing they wanted was to add to the trauma. The housekeeper sang softly an old tune that the healer recognized as a gentle lullaby that many a mother sang to the frightened child. The healer found herself singing along as well as they finished cleaning up their charge, her heart remembering times long ago when she had calmed a babe or two from the roar of a highland storm. It made her smile despite her current work.
Fayle was cleaned.
Fayle was dressed.
Fayle was guided.
The housekeepers calloused hand would gentle stoke the hair of the broken woman, her face sad and discouraged to see her so. A romantic heart ached for the tragedy down the hall, a fallen lover turned to terrible madness wrought upon that which he cherished most. It was like the stories she had heard in the common room when a bard shuffled his way among the townships to sing and balladeer to the farmers. She always cried at the end of them, much like she was now as she turned away dabbing at her eyes with her apron.
The door to the room would creak open carefully to reveal the elven man again, his one eyed gaze switching between the pair of them before he did his best to keep his tone in check. "May I come back in?"
The older healer would nod as she waved at him to join her by the bedside as she gently laid their patient down. The elf would nod as he kept his vision ahead and away from the weepy housekeeper who passed by on her way out of the room again. She knew her place was not within this room as the hospitallers would truly get to work on healing the woman.
Candles were arranged gently about the bed, each one set with reverence and respect to the power that guided the people of Hallowfall from the time of the Beledar's return to it's inevitable retreat. The long dark was nothing to joke about, but the fierce power the Arathi felt in their hearts for the light and the Flame would never falter or fall. They were too strong, too proud, and too loyal to ever believe the Emperor's vision would stray from the righteous path of the Light. The healers were well versed in this as much as they were versed in the medicines they produced to heal the sick or injured.
This malady though was not for stitches or poultices.
This malady needed strength.
This malady needed faith.
This malady needed courage.
A small stick from the fire was used to light the candles as the flame produced lightened the room even more, the shadows retreating as much as the cold from the warmth they all produced. The click of mail would crash like a long missed ocean as they knelt beside the bed, the gentle thumps of the elf's gauntlets before each healer would place their hand on one of the widow's. Their heads would bow as they began to focus and channel the power they felt all around in as much the physical light as they felt from the fires of their heart. There would be no sound but for the gentle whipping of candlelight as each hospitaller knew what they prayed and knew each would say to stoke the flames of this long battle into healing.
Fayle said nothing.
Fayle did nothing.
But Fayle felt everything.
And she was drowning as much as she was screaming in pools of violet.
Burger King in South Africa is removing the word “ham” from “hamburgers” in an effort to accommodate Muslim customers and “be more respectful” of Islamic beliefs…
According to another news source, Burger King-South Africa has recently introduced several new sandwiches with bacon but they’re dropping “Ham” from the word hamburger... bipolar much?
