The mournful funeral song stretched with the pyre smoke along the ocean horizon. Winds beat grotesque burning clouds at the mourners as they burned Magistrate Lunas’Alar’s decorated body. The singer in white ceremonial robes closed her eyes to this sight while genuine tears fell in front of the large crowd. Heathcliff stood on the edge with Lillandyr, using his body to shield her from the unfortunate wind direction. Sea winds were ever unpredictable, and not acting in anyone's favor. Bitter cold struck them from one side while searing flames threatened with black clouds from the funeral pyre.
They were all being choked by the late magistrate’s burning remains on this cliff. The horrified crowd murmured with the correct etiquette for this situation. Heat from the flames was also an issue, now licking with the wind and far too warm for the comfort of the crowd. Still, they were afraid to step back much.
It was Magistrate Lunas’Alar himself that made it law all nobility must attend the funeral of others in their class, or risk actual fines that cost more than gold. It failed to be anything but the most pathetic attempt to save Lunas’Alar’s ridiculous ego that had far deteriorated into oblivion. As if they needed more than his secret inquisitions for a reason to obey. The tyrant extended his abuse to his own funeral and this wasn’t missed by any present. He was infamous for freezing people out of their homes in the mountain regions. Thousands died. Still, his devoted priests were in attendance and watching with the reasoning of zealots.
Heathcliff tensed with righteous outrage. Laughter began to claw its way up his throat and held there with restraint. It was an undignified display. A pathetic funeral for a sad stupid man. Heathcliff had nothing but contempt and instinctively opened his large wool overcoat to let Lillandyr hide from the acrid air.
They were still playing on the edge of everything unsaid between them when he did this. He was the only one to acknowledge the smoke in the group of stoic mourners and eyes turned to him like he would be the one to finally burst with the sentiment they all shared. Perhaps if a noble from one of the old houses made mockery, this farce would end.
Lillandyr beat him to it.
She hid under Heathcliff’s arm like a dragon wing, nose buried in the warm linen of his shirt and lost in the woody rose perfume that permeated all that was his. Her arms curled against him, feeling his chest tighten and heart beat like the devil trying to keep his decorum. This buzz of protection loosened her tongue and her quip carried to others with a murmur of low chuckles and giggles.
"At least this way, the bastard's finally warming someone.”
Heathcliff’s laughter barked sharply over them all, a pent-up, giddy snicker of rich delight. It was the simple honesty of this and the hidden critique of their own intimate dynamic that sent him. He hooted and grasped Lillandyr tight in his arms, covering her tightly with his coat against his chest like he was hiding contraband. Tears finally fell down his face, unable to stop laughing and getting more pointed reactions from the disapproving priests encircling the ceremony. This rippled a bit through the coughing, irritated nobility at their limit enduring the fumes. Heathcliff knew his exit had to come swiftly or risk arrest. He shuffled a few feet, unwilling to open his coat while she was crammed against him, laughing with him against his chest. He released her and removed his hat, bowing in apology for them both and deflecting any ire for her to him.
“Praise to the gods and as my second-favorite poet once said: truth is beauty.” He loudly declared, wiping his eyes. “His warmth reaches from the grave farther than his mercy ever could."
His hand rested around her shoulder, a silent assurance that arresting her would arrest them both. They were quick to exit and Lillandyr breathed excitedly once they were far enough away, openly laughing and smacking Heathcliff at the absurdity of it all.
“What a pompous ass. Fuck that was pathetic. I’m sorry I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I could not!” She huffed between laughs. Heathcliff was still in a fit of giggles as she gazed at his strange features in daylight. It was then she realized she saw him so much under candlelight in dark seedy bars and never really by the glow of the sun. He was far too handsome like this too. His undead skin was beautiful marble, the softest hint of his blue-black veins blushing the surface. The ruby in his eyes gleamed with mischief. They softened, as if he was seeing her differently too. He stopped to cup her face gently before they mounted his horse, openly admiring her as his amused laughs subsided into a smile.
“You are not wrong. I want to hear you giggle at every funeral. Promise me.” He held her face tight and she blushed from his strange intensity. An amused grin settled sweetly on her pretty face.
“Even yours?” She threatened meanly, knowing how he would answer.
“No, not mine! What kind of question is that?” He rebuked, smoker’s voice rasping with feigned indignation. She laughed in response, smiling as he continued. “I’m not worried, I’m going to be here forever. Just for you. So you don’t get carried away in handcuffs.” His eyes squinted naughtily, thumbs brushing the blush on her cheeks.
“I’ll promise if you come with me to every funeral.” Lillandyr whispered up at him.
Heathcliff smiled. It was the first kind of commitment they ever made. “Deal. I’ll take it.”
He kissed her forehead and grasped her by the waist, lifting her up on his horse. With a grunt he hefted himself up behind her, his large hand snaking securely over her corset as the horse made its way away from the crowd of mourners still breathing Lunas’Alar’s wicked smoke.
My OC has been living it up on a deserted island with his lady for several months. They are about to arrive back in Silvermoon and have no idea what is going on. In three sentences, can you poorly summarize the recent events in WoW with as much bias and selective information as you see fit? I don't want to ask anyone else. Thank you.
No one likes it when Xal'atath does anything at all especially when she makes a beautfiul purple vortex in the sky. The haters and fakes fought back valiantly but in the end the sunwell did get purplefied. But its fine now so dont worry about it.
As Heathcliff looked into her changing eye, his face changed by degrees from flirting to fascination and something she hadn't seen on his face before. Concern. It softened his features and was quickly followed by an acute intensity, his mind working overtime with possibilities and assumptions.
"I assumed it was residual effects from the portal I-" he talked more to himself than her, pausing as his mind worked overtime. "I assumed... incorrectly. I saw the change earlier. Gin..."
Heathcliff braced an arm to circle her lower back as she balanced on the couch arm in a protective gesture. Two fingers touched her cheek, guiding her gently to look directly at him, closer. His eyes were wide, brows furrowed, studying in academic interest. He raised a brow and stared at Gin, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. For a moment, he couldn't find words, his flirty banter deserting him in the face of such an extraordinary revelation. He wished he had less to drink.
"A curse..." he finally managed, repeating her words. He dropped his hand from her face. "Tell me everything. Please." his tone was serious, soft. Even so, he kept a grip on her hip tightly, his gaze demanding, curious. The questions starting pouring out. "Did you get involved with a cult? A jilted lover?"
"Whatever happened to you, whatever you're about to tell me... I want you to know it stays under this roof. I may be many things, but I don't betray this kind of trust."
Her mortality was flooding Heathcliff with emotions, the brutality of enduring so much, so young. He had lived centuries and pain was different for his kind. Time alone often tempered diseases and curses to eventually weaken. Afflictions of the flesh could be cured, honed. But she had such little time. Like a plucked rose, she enchanted his attentions in a way he did not feel often. No wonder why she was fierce. She had to be.
That was…not quite the reaction she’d been expecting. Curiosity - sure, who wouldn’t be curious about this. But usually she was met with fear, shock…sometimes outright disgust, very rarely concern. She stumbled slightly as his arm wrapped around her waist, hands moving from the arm of the couch to his shoulders to brace herself as he turned her face towards him. Any traces of Shadow were quickly disappearing from her iris, instead simply revealing a brilliant blue.
“Hah!” She couldn’t help herself, letting out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Ah wish it were somethin’ as simple as tha’.” Her hands flexed on his shoulders as she paused, gaze drifting to the side as she thought of how best to explain this.
“There wus a…cult involved, aye. Bu’ ah didn’t join it. Wusn’ even alive when it ‘appened.” Her fingers tapped lightly against his shoulders as she spoke, choosing her words carefully. Both because his words seemed genuine and she didn’t want to alarm him further, and because she would only get angry if she didn’t take a moment to think. “My…m’parents were…involved in it. Very involved…”
Words trailed off as her brow furrowed, shaking her head for a moment before leaning forward, arms draping over his shoulders. Any way she tried to explain this sounded…wrong. Best to go the direct route. “Ah’m th’ result o’ some bullshit ritual they did. Implanted with a ‘seed o’ th’Void,’ or some ‘orseshit.”
A sigh escaped her, still not looking directly at him as she finished speaking. “ ‘S controlled, thankfully…ah’ll show ya th’brand on m’back later,” she allowed her tone to become teasing again, winking as she looked back at him.
Continued from @lillandyrshadowglade post here and Heathcliff's part 1 here.
Heathcliff entered his own bed chamber in haste, like he was an invading conqueror. A monstrous, twisted mania covered his face as feral, large ruby eyes adjusted to the darkness. He looked for Lillandyr/Anya/Asmira.
The beam of light from first dawn caught on her soft curls, fell down her shoulder over a dark rosy silk nightgown. Sleeping, she looked every bit the angelic sweetness she only reserved for absolute pleasure. He hated her peace, this comfortable oblivion as she dreamed. He wanted her pouts and sneers and snickers, her laughter at anything that he knew she was trying to hide. He needed her twisted about him, like he felt about her constantly. He wanted her to cry so his didn't feel like insanity. But instead, she looked like a fairy queen with her loveliness; unbothered, serene in the faint sunlight.
He grimaced meanly and took off his boots, keeping his eyes on her. They clunked loudly to the floor. She wouldn't react to that, but she did to him snapping off the sheet that covered her, his fist yanking it entirely off the bed. Hands seized her barely waking body by her bottom and yanked her smoothly over his silk sheets to the edge so she was sitting in sleepy shock.
His body crumpled on the floor to his knees, draped over her lap, hair wild, clothes still wet and bloody. He grabbed her left hand and forcefully shoved a massive black diamond ring on it like he was possessed. Eyebrows furrowed as he did this, mouth quivering like a man giving a curse. His touch gentled once the ring rested at the base of her finger but his words did not.
Heathcliff found her eyes with agonizing love, adoration.
"There is no greater suffering." he rasped, messily bending to kiss her hand before lifting his head again.
"I know you share this pain. Bear it with me." he looked angry, furious with passion. Hands trembled with tension before lunging forward to seize her in a desperate kiss before she could react. Needy and consuming. He pulled away to take her hand into his. Tears flowed from his eyes as he stroked her ring finger with his thumb, trying to form a proper proposal. His voice was hoarse and his explosive state made it unpoetic and messy, but it was all true.
"I don't want to know all your secrets, all your names, Asmira." he swallowed.
"I want to earn them."
His face scrunched in frustrated passion, as if no words sufficed how he felt and speaking it was offensively insufficient. He attempted to become more direct and elegant with great effort.
"Marry me, so I may honor all that you have given. Write our names in history like your poem on my body. I beg you to let me love you until it makes me sick. If I'm to die from this, let it be with you, thanking the gods for it."
His body shuddered with a breakdown of composure, saying one last thing before giving a pause for her to answer.
"You have all I can give. Will you keep it?" his voice broke in agony with his tears, head hanging for a moment, bowed like a knight in front of his queen.
Aronsen was awake, perched on a castle rooftop like a dark angel watching the stars when he felt Anya in their entwined minds give his brother her book. All her poems under her secret pen-name Asmira. Even Aronsen knew Heathcliff was a rabid fan of her work. Anya revealing herself as the author spread warmth over his chest. She was brave, romantic and finally telling truths. Pride could not express what he felt for her, and he smiled at the sky and laughed when his brother predictably fled from overwhelming emotions.
His grin held as he closed his eyes and gave them both a gift of his own. A bit of understanding. He used the magic Anya bestowed to him to prove she always gave the best gifts. Aronsen's voice slipped into her mind, sweet and sultry…
That was beautiful. You give the best gifts.
Then he found Heathcliff, the fiery, unstoppable pain of him and he pulled them both together like threads so she could watch where Heathcliff was going. Wherever he stormed, Aronsen knew it was important she see it. Anya had cried herself to sleep as Aronsen projected Heathcliff in her dreams.
When he was a boy, Heathcliff wanted a horse, not a hawkstrider. He was teased for this. Horses were for humans. The Castle conjured him one, but only at midnight. It was a little secret he had with the strange sentient dwelling. Once midnight crested, he'd climb over silent damp moss on the stone wall to drop to the other side. The horse was always there, a small extension of the castle's power. Heathcliff never knew the castle spirit sacrificed a measure of itself every time. That this magic, carried away on pounding hooves and powerful muscles would never come back.
It looked wild but allowed Heathcliff to ride it without saddle or tack. There would be no warmup; this was a supernatural conjuring at the whim of a broken spirit.
Heathcliff sighed as he mounted the spectral horse, on the night he needed to ride the most. Once nearing the stables, he removed his heavy wool overcoat. That had to happen right away when Lillandyr, Anya… now Asmira was revealed to him. Everything felt too warm.
How many more women did she have within her?
The question stirred anger, loneliness and embarrassment into his pounding excitement of what it all meant. Underneath was an exhilaration completely unimagined. To discover the woman you love was weaving desire on all levels of your secret worlds was alarming, invading. This instinct to fight it while also wondering if he was blessed with a goddess instead of a girlfriend.
The horse left no marks in the sand as the sea tide reached to lace the glowing hooves in the moonlight. Heathcliff held on tight, shirt linen rippling in the wind as he tried not to let tears fall too. He grit his teeth instead and focused on not flying off, knowing the steed would only speed up around the next corner inland, towards a mirrored pond.
He wasn't concentrating enough. The impact rolled him as he lost his balance and he was only feet from the pond before he recovered. This failure to anticipate yet again sent him over the edge, and black tears fell abundantly over his white shirt as he rolled over on his back to look at the moon. This centered him. The moon of Asmira's writing. It was like she was everywhere. He was soaked with her and it felt like insanity.
Heathcliff touched the ring on his pinky finger, the one he put her proposal ring on as they left Silvermoon. He was going to ask her to marry him soon, he was finding the right moment.
Fool.
His face contorted with self-pity, humiliation worn on him unpleasantly. Why did he think she would marry him? He was her plaything, a jest. Was any of it real? Why would she do this to him? Heathcliff guessed it could be many things. He'd be wrong about all of them and part of him knew this. In frustration, he ripped off the ring and flung it into the pond.
By the time it made a plunking splash, he regretted it. The half-second the ring spent in the air was all he needed to recover from his moment of doubt.
Heathcliff didn't remove his clothes, only his boots when he jumped in after it. The eerie red glow of his eyes in this cool freshwater met wary fish with skittish curiosities, as if they too wish he had not done this. As he plunged deeper, intrusive thoughts whispered sweetly from the deep dark, something hungry and old and weak at the bottom of the pond.
It lured him with horrid lies.
You'll never find it, lay where you belong, come home to your grave. Free your mind of love and fill it with peace. It is lost, it is gone.
He could tell the water had a chemical in it. Something was slowly paralyzing him. At least being dead had advantages. This realization infuriated him out of melancholy to search faster. The glow from his eyes were like searchlights over the horrid scaling thing pulsing down below, coiled like a large snake. Heathcliff observed it's strange reptilian shape, alien to him. In front of its sleeping, still head was the ring, glinting in the muck. He floated gently over, successfully snatching it up.
Fuck yes.
Thoughts of Lillandyr filled him like the moonbeams shining down in the water above as he swam up. He wasn't mad anymore. He decided it was an admirable thing, her layers of mysteries. Maybe he did wish there was more. Perhaps she was a nun under another name. A murderer. A queen. Wouldn't he like to find out?
This was ripped away as a mouth bit down on his arm and dragged him sharply. Heathcliff flailed in struggle, fighting a creature impossibly large for this small pond. He had no knife or weapon of any kind. The only metal was her ring. Angling his fist, he used this to slice into the strange eyes of the thing that held him in final death. At first, it did not relent. It was the second slash to the other eye that released the jaw, retreating in confusion. He used this moment to swim frantically to the shore, finally standing on the nearby fishing dock in disbelief.
Heathcliff laughed. He didn't stop for some time. He cried again too, but it wasn't from sadness. Great love makes you feel large and inevitable. Fighting an unknown horror of the deeps with Lillandyr's engagement ring only seemed fitting for their story. A story she had written, documented in her poetry. These things had laid side-by-side in his heart. Relatable because it was their story. Powerful because it was one she wrote. Loved because it was the one he read the most, even the parts not written down.
Bloody, dripping wet and covered in his black smears of tears, Heathcliff walked back towards the Castle, away from the coming sunrise. He touched the ring he wanted to give her. A thousand words crowded to attention in his head. He had left her in tears, given her no comforts for this revelation and regret made his stomach tighten. Then there was the matter of the ring.
Pristine black diamond with a truesilver setting. His family called it The Black Heart and it was not a magic ring to give lightly. Metaphorically or physically. The stone so large it was almost uncomfortably heavy. Last worn by his eldest sister before she died, given by their mother. The ring bestows the wearer with the last loving thought of the giver. It can provide comforts when lovers or friends or kin are parted. But like all things Dracone, it had a bite. This came at a cost. The bearer would wither and become ill while wearing it if the giver of the ring no longer loves the bearer. Not usually recommended for volatile marriages. This element of danger no longer felt like one at all to Heathcliff. There was no falling out of love like this.
And oh, this made him cocky. His disheveled state looked disturbing, he still felt crazy but it was thrilling and enflamed him to action. His pace quickened as her words pulled him to her.
I am Asmira. And you are my muse.
Then he ran, because he had a lot to give her on this night.
Continued from @lillandyrshadowglade post here and Heathcliff’s part 1, part 2.
He lounged in a sprawl to take up the bed, forcing her to drape herself over him as they kissed and embraced for some time. The day was secondary, to this. Heathcliff had torn open his heart and she lay in the remains of tangled silk sheets, licking her metaphorical fingers clean after joy was settling in. She had everything she wanted, and he wondered what this would do to her. The thought amused him. A grin crept into his lips and she pulled back, asking him what was so funny. Her feigned petulance made him laugh.
"I'm guessing at all our options. What might your preferences be. They all delight me." he said cryptically, waiting for her confused pout, a little look that pleased him. He basked in this a moment before continuing.
"I keep thinking back to that party… the one where I walked in on you trying on a wedding dress that wasn't yours." he said, watching her eyes flare in hurt and humiliation, a nasty rebuke coming for this. It was a memory from an engagement party for some noble family they both barely knew. He tempered it down by quick self-deprecation.
"Of course, I was only in the room to fix my cravat in the mirror because my neck scar was scaring delicate, living sensibilities…" he added, reaching over to the nightstand for his smokes. He adjusted their bodies, sitting up more as he lit the bloodthistle. It barely rested on his lips before she plucked it from him, scowling. He continued teasing her in her gathered, crafted silence.
"You nearly stopped my heart. You were so beautiful. I had half a mind to propose and marry you then, too." he grinned. "You're lucky I stopped you on the lawn when you tried to flee. That was an expensive dress." he teased. "I wanted to sneak you away in that white cloud of fabric and give you my kingdom." his face transformed from the tease to genuine admiration, as if he couldn't help himself. The heady high of their love made him feel drunk, sentimental about it all.
He babbled on as they smoked together about every miss, every almost. There were so many poured memories like treasured pearls, rolling lost in silk sheets and serene love.
They both looked at her outstretched arm, admiring the glittering diamond dwarfing her finger in the noon-day sun.
Heathcliff squinted at it with a sly grin of a scamp. "I hope it's heavy enough to hurt your arm." he said, meanly.
I'm working on a larger writing project with @lillandyrshadowglade so I won't be participating myself in the daily writing challenge but as we write I am in awe of what she has created that only my eyes have seen (so far). Lily is an incredible writer and she truly understands the characters in ways that feel like magic. Or maybe she's the magic. Either way, I'm sharing a snippet of something she just wrote because it's sentences like these that really keep me hooked. This is describing a scene with Aronsen and Seralah:
"When he slid his teeth from her throat without tasting, she cradled his face, mesmerized by the crimson and gold in his eyes. The moonlight glowed on his pale skin made him look as if he was a creature this place had made, sacred, gentle death who wept for the blossoms he plucked."
