Eleeria Silverwing

Moving

After sending that letter to Vensala, after the Shadow Assembly and the nonsense that is Tellarian, I decide to finally take Aldarra’s offer of a place to reside in Suel’thalas. It is, quite frankly, what I am sure more optimistic people would call a project. I personally call it a hovel.Not that I mind, really. I have lived in worse, after all, and a little dirt and a few bugs do not scare me. After securing the cracks in the windows against the rain and patching up the holes in the walls and floors of this hovel of a place, I move in my most important possessions first: my cats.

They love it, of course. Smudge and Smear run rampant in the small home, meows bouncing off the walls. It reminds me of a human’s architectural design: these closed off rooms and weirdly small hallways make it easy to hide things here. Compared to the openness of Sin’dorei design it’s almost disarming. Even Cat (note -- he really needs a better name) followed us to Suel’thalas, prowling in as if he owned the place. I had to stop a few guards from shooting him; they weren’t quite sure what to make of him, honestly. I’m fairly certain he mostly followed us here because of the Spire close by -- the arcane magic in the air alone must be a feast to him -- but sometimes he deigns to curl up with me. Mostly, he enjoys the company of the small housecats. I didn’t think that the panthara would take to the tiny annoyances, and yet, he curls up with them and even lets them toy with his tail until he gets bored and wanders off. They adore him. I’m honestly shocked he didn’t just try to eat them, and yet -- Smudge swatted him in the nose with her claws when he tried and he backed off. Even the largest animal in the house (I couldn’t keep him out -- he teleported inside, the bastard, and dug his claws into my couch back in Silvermoon) knows who’s in charge.

Oh, Smudge. You’re the best.

Armed with a mop and bucket, I clean the floors as best I could. The wood’s seen better days -- some of it is going to need to be replaced if I ever bother to spend money on it -- but at least the tiny front room with its fireplace is relatively kept together. I drag in a table and chairs and a few other pieces of furniture and it almost looks like a single room someone would live in. Waraylon’s books on the table. Ithranicus’s journal, mostly deciphered, beside them. A bundle of blankets and pillows near the hearth  I hiss at the temperature and start a fire in the fireplace, shooing floating arcane crystals into the corners of the room for light. The room has doors that close --  one leading to a kitchen (rather defunct) and a long hallway -- and sooner rather than later, it gets warm.

Curling in my blankets is familiar. I remember when I did this, in my apartment off Murder Row. Unlike now, where I simply don’t want to spend the money to deliver any furniture to this tiny hole of a town, I didn’t have enough money after purchasing my first and only home. I slept in a pile of shitty blankets begged and charmed off my new neighbors, a starving girl in leather armor, smile wide and desperate. I’m not sure why they agreed. Perhaps they sensed, in a city as big as Silvermoon was at the time, that I had nowhere else to go. They were all older than I was, better than I was. A lot of them are gone now; a few of them still remain, others still take their place. Our shitty apartments with terrible heating and barely any light, but we loved them. And I loved it so fiercely! My own place! No people to bust into my room at the odd hours, no people to tell of my comings and goings. I was free of the Eye and free of my father’s confines, angry and barely one hundred years old and with everything to prove.

Now I am doing it again: angry, a few hundred more years under my belt, but always with everything to prove. This is a new adventure (comparatively), and yet, similar. A passage of time. A catharsis.

Take a step. Move on. Move forward. The words lull me to sleep, not even stirring as the cats all curl up with me, wrapping me in warmth.

The next day, I charm one of the older adepts into holding open a portal to Dalaran for me. I have not been to our apartment since he passed. Someone had, however: the furniture was covered, everything with a faint sheen of dust -- and yet, clearly someone had cared enough to mildly preserve it after I fled. Mugs still sat on the counter, papers scattered across the countertop. A few remnants of our life together, tossed casually amongst the storage.

It was here they gave me the news. The scene is still set: players still on the board, waiting to finish the act. In my mind I see his steward, wringing his hat -- hoping I don’t kill him, most likely. My hands grip the mug between thin fingers; the other sits at my fiance’s seat. He was meant to come home, that day. And then, he hadn’t.

I clean it up. I clean it all up, quickly putting the (swiftly sterilized) mugs into a box, along with the other cutlery and kitchenware.

When I get us an apartment, what do you want in it?

A kitchen, duh; a huge kitchen, with a nice stove, huge cabinets, everything you could ever want for cooking.

This hurts more than I anticipated. I move faster -- kitchen goods, books, sex toys, furniture and clothes are all pushed through the portal into the terrible front room of this borrowed (stolen) home. It takes a bit of swearing and some magic to get the larger furniture in, but by the time the Adept whose time I borrowed begins to complain about not wanting to be gone for much longer, the Dalaran apartment is completely, totally, empty of all of my things and our shared possessions. Blessedly, my fiance had always lived sparsely; blessedly, there was not much detritus, no casually strewn junk for me to go through. He had always loved neatness; I had hated it, but now it was a cruel blessing in disguise. A few less things for me to go through.

There are a few things I leave behind. His clothes, mostly; I steal a few shirts and sweaters I had enjoyed and can’t bear to touch the others. Everything has a memory. The jacket he gave me the night at the theater; the socks Smudge tore across the house with, him close behind. The books I know I would never read, the paintings on the walls -- save for the one of myself, selfishly, no one can hang that anywhere I don’t want it -- the art supplies. The piano. Anything that was uniquely his…

Well. Most things. I keep a few.

The architectural plans from the Gloaming Shore. Private things that were made purely for me -- what other women would want things made for someone with one hand? The nude photographs. A bit of snooping into his estate papers.

His daggers.

Before, I had not yet learned any Light magic -- I was blissfully unaware of just how powerful they were when I tossed them about. To me now, they pulsed with dark magic, the void nearly palpable as I picked them up. Pulsing -- no. Waiting. When had I learned to sense the void? I realized, at once, that my training and study in the Light must have opened my magical awareness further than simply communing with the Sunwell. Or perhaps, being so full of magic that was its antithesis gave me a sensitivity to the void I had not had before. I could feel how wrong it felt to hold them in my hands. I had taken Wara at his word and assumed he told the truth when he said he had sold his soul for this power -- but never before had I been able to sense it quite so vividly.

H̶̬͓̟͙̘̃͊͆̔͂̚͜e̢̧͍̭̦̽̓̀́͘͝ḻ̞̦̩̞̣̰͓̳͐̂̄͗̕̚͢͞l̛͇̩̼̫͕͕̆̄̄̿͂͌͘̕͠ő͈̟̻̯̻͂͌͌̾,̛̰͚̖͙̲̘́̊͆̇̍̇͘̕͘ t͔̗̝͍̙̣̠̫̹̐͐̇̃͑͂̚i̜̯̖̝̟͓̹̤̟̎́͋͋͛̊̏̎͘ͅn̶͕͙͙̺̂̏͊͆͗͐̇̍̚͟͠y̸̨̬͈̪̤̻͔͔̿̈́̏͊͆͛̏̀̏͢͝ s̛̮̯̤̩̪̥͇̗̯̣̔̋͛̑̒͗̌p̼̘̣̫̞͇̺̩̳͒̒̃̍͐͒̉̐̕͡à̢̨̛̛̦̮̹̹̺̫͎̈͟͠͝͠r̰̳͕̬̗̦̋̑̅̌́̍̚͡k̸̼̫͇̣͙͈̰̥͈̣̀̎̓̿͗͋̑̚͞͠.̢͓̣̯̼͙̳͈̜͌̾̓͌́̊̐̌͘

That wasn’t my thought.

I put them back in the final box with the rest of my stolen hoard and push it through the portal, letting the adept close it behind me. He huffs, and I wave a hand, a mug of hot cocoa sailing into his own hands. Payment, I suppose, though he’d not asked for any. Nodding to me, he makes his way out of the tiny space, leaving me alone with the items I’d stolen.

I feel better, for the moving. The tiny home I’ve stolen feels too full, and yet -- perfectly full, now, of all of the things I love and remember. Wara is gone, and yet; there’s still so much that remains. I have so much to fight for. I have never felt so full -- so complete.

My mind goes to Phaerun. Eyes, to the box with the daggers inside of it.

There is one last bit of revenge I have to get. One final, last thing. And then he can rest. I will fight this battle for Wara; I will fight it for myself, to show that I can. Perhaps in fighting this final battle of revenge, I will find something to help Phaerun. He can’t be foolish enough to think that anything with a name so arrogant would be anything but a god? If he threw in his lot with a void lord, an old god -- I will learn to fight them, these things that seek to clutch at my friends and lovers with tendrils old. I will wrestle Wara’s soul from its clawed fingertips; I am not a Tiny Spark, but an inferno. I am not someone to be pitied, as my sister seems to believe I am -- I am not unfulfilled, nor am I incomplete. I am Eleeria Silverwing -- Blood Knight of Quel’thalas, Chosen of Black Dawn, Matriarch of the Fairbreeze Cove. Demonslayer, Valiant. Assassin. Murderer. I know exactly who I am and what I am good at, and I hold more power than they could ever imagine.

What I do, I do very well.

I chose to say yes to Hyrall, Vensala. I won’t bother to record it here; there are better things to do with my ink. A promise was made; I will walk this road. As I live, as I die -- I will stand committed to my desire. I will not shelve my wants any more. I did once -- for Wara. I sat aside my ambition to marry him, to give him -- us -- the life of normal people, happy people. I sat aside my desires to please my last organization as well: a proper soldier, in proper formation. Bland. Boring.

I am not normal. Happiness...is complicated. But sitting on my laurels and watching the world pass by, not following my desires and letting others dictate the pace will never, ever be for me.

I will be the instrument of change, or I will be nothing at all.