Eleeria Silverwing

A dream.

The dream has changed.

In my dream, I am dancing. It's the midsummer fire festival, and Silvermoon and its noble court are alive with reds, oranges, golds -- as usual and yet, there's something extra in it. Some extra shine in the eyes of those who move past me. The music -- in my dreams I am not tone deaf. In my dreams, the music is impossibly fast and beautiful: a whirlwind of sounds and I can hear the colors. The golden leaves of Eversong; the crackling whip of red, everburning flame. The Fire Festival belongs to everyone, of course, but the Sin'dorei celebrate it best. My dress is always, always crimson: dark, like merlot. Nearly black -- but when the ever-present fires illuminate the fabric, it bursts with fiery flashes of color. It cuts lower than any dress I've owned: nearly exposing my breasts, showing off scars and the sheen of golden dust across tanned skin.

Linnea holds me, her hand at my waist -- she is leading us, dark skin glowing in the firelight. Her dress is white of all things, hemmed with gold accents, and despite being utterly human no one bats an eye at her presence in the noble halls of Quel'thalas.

And I love her. I love her so much that it burns -- I can feel it in my dream so much clearer than I ever did in life. I love the passion in her eyes, the way she always seems up to no good. The mischief constantly lurking in her features. Her eyes are dark green, and she regards me with a brilliant smile, pulling me close.

"Gold eyes." (That's different -- used to be green eyes. Now is gold eyes.)

"They're new!" I smile, blush. "Do you like them?"

"I do." Her voice is nearly a purr at my ear, making my knees weak. "I love them."

I nearly utter the words -- the three forbidden, the ones I can't say -- but I don't. The dance continues. The words that pass between us blur to nothing; she says things and I laugh at them, as well as the opposite. We are two people in love and nothing can change that. As the music ends and people leave the floor to find new partners, I am loathe to let her go.

And the dream shifts -- abruptly. Where normally I would cling to her arm and ask her to stay, stay with me, I let her go. Linnea disappears into the tall crowd, one human woman in a sea of Sin’dorei. And in her place…

Siildore.

“Aha! Siil!” Her features alight when I spot her, and this time I am the one leading -- the music always fast, on Midsummer, always leaving us breathless. But I love her too; a different way, than Linnea. Less permanent and yet, a softer thing. An ember in the ashes, rather than an inferno of passion. She is dressed in gold and it suits her; gold, for a paladin to be. Gold, for the hope she promises so many people. We have ever been moral opposites, and yet, I cannot fault her for it.  “Siildore! I missed you!” Our dance is uneventful, for the most part, the words inconsequential. And then--

It shifts, a second time.

“I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know that --” I try to apologize to her and am cut short by a pale hand on Siildore’s shoulder, stopping us mid-spin. A taller woman. Eerier woman.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Lilliana.

“Of course not.” Siildore is ever-courteous -- even if she gives me a look that says she’ll be less than courteous later when she shows up to my bedroom -- and steps away. A proper knight. Lilliana takes her spot, seamlessly. She, too, is in white — white and gold, just like her estate. Shimmering light in the darkness.

And then the dream corrects itself. The dialogue rights, remaining the same. A play I have watched every night I spend alone and a hundred and one nights hereafter, and yet, with a different actor. Linnea’s substitute.

“Lilliana.” It rolls off my lips like honey, savoring every syllable. As we dance, I step closer -- closer than we should be. Closer than propriety demands of a woman who is taken and one who very clearly is not. And yet, she allows it, even as my hand dips down her back, lower still.

“Eleeria. Charmer. You could never keep your hands to yourself, could you~?” Her grip on my hand and my waist tightens and, in my dream, I think nothing of it. The small part of my mind trapped in this theater alone screams stop it! Can’t you see what she’s doing? And yet, I am powerless to stop them. Us. I can only watch as the nightmare continues around me.

“Mm, you know I couldn’t~ never seen you have a problem with it before.” Tighter still, until it hurts me— until it’s a grip on my wrist and she’s nearly dragging me across the floor. People are watching us, faceless monsters with nothing but cruel smiles. You deserve this, penniless whore. Murderer. You’d fuck your own coin if you could and not feel ashamed of it in the slightest. I can feel their words crawling down my spine and terror fueling my veins and still Lilliana smiles, cruel and cold and full of menace.

“It’d look nicer if I cut it off and put it on my mantle.” The music gets faster, and I stumble. Always, always, I stumble straight into her arms; she holds me up by my left wrist she’s caught so tightly and I gasp in pain. I can feel my bones shifting. Muscles aching—

“Lilliana, you wouldn’t—“

“I would do anything to take what is mine.” She forces me to my knees and the dream lurches and changes again. She is Lilliana but there is Linnea, and Siildore too, and all of them are holding me down, encouraging the crowd with their laughter and their cruel, beautiful smiles. I feel small, a beggar in the halls of kings and want nothing more than to belong here. Here among these women I hate and love and wish I could be in turn, these lionesses in human and elven skin who hold me down and laugh as Lilliana raises—

A sword. It makes no sense, why she has a sword clearly made for the heft of an orc. And yet, dreams rarely do, and this part is always the same, no matter the lurches. Siildore holds me fast in icy arms as Linnea steadies my hand on the chopping block, and we are not in Silvermoon any more but Orgrimmar. Orgrimmar, where I lost my hand. Where I lost my livelihood. My sanity.

“Please, please!” I shriek, though I didn’t when this happened in reality. I beg my best friend, my lover, my somewhere in between and yet they do not listen.

All you do is lie—

You can’t call it love when you run away from someone!

You killed my brother—

And I stare into Lilliana’s eyes, fel green and full of cold amusement at my expense, and I wonder where everything went wrong. I curse Orgrimmar, Linnea, Black Dawn and the paramilitary too—

And the sword swings down, singing in the swiftness of its motions—

And I wake, screaming for mercy in a world that could care less for it.

—

I board up the windows and doors, save one. Every space a person could climb through, I remove, save the one I can monitor easiest. I rig that door with traps, tripwire; I ensure that if someone comes through the door I will know well before they get to me.

I gather my arsenal of weapons to my person and sleep with my knives mere inches from my hands. Or I try to. I try so hard, and yet — in the end, I stay awake all night, staring in the direction of the door.

Waiting for my specters to come and kill me.