Eleeria Silverwing

Light's Hope

Light’s Hope was..uncomfortable.

Watching Lilliana, you would never think that she must be hurting. Her face is nearly serene -- if the stares that she gets from those who do not know her (and there are many who do know her, and very well, and question not) bother her, she doesn’t show it. Instead she seems to glide through the space as if she owns it still. It dawns on me that I never asked her where she was stationed, back before she became a demon hunter. It is possible she could have been stationed here for a time; perhaps Suel’thalas, only a stone’s throw away, was near enough that this place weighed constantly on her mind. I cannot guess at what she’s thinking. She assumes I didn’t see her sadness -- as well as she tried to hide it from myself and her daughter, I am not six years old. I made a lifetime out of reading the expressions of other people; but I chose not to pry. If she wishes to tell me what is bothering her, then she will. Until then, I will simply have to repress my questions and sit on my hands.

I hate that. But I have no choice.

The aura that passes outward from Light’s Hope must be pleasantly comfortable for those with the Light. For myself it was..threatening. The feeling of a mental chafe of one metallic surface against another. Something intrinsic inside of me rebelled against what, to others, must be soothing and kind. Every step was walking on needles; I felt the Light inside of me rising up to combat the feeling, rather than ease at the touch. Ethalarian had once explained the history of the Blood Knight order to me. I wondered if, perhaps, the fact that I had stolen a piece of his magic -- and he, from M’uru -- was why what was meant to be a sanctuary for paladins actually made me feel as if I wished to vomit.

Visions of burning chapels and desecrated holy symbols swam before my eyes. Not my memories. This magic...it’s still connected to Ethalarian in some way -- and it carries with it fragments of his memories. I sometimes wonder how much there is that he has never told me about himself. The women he loved, and lost; the zeal that bubbled forth as he committed deeds in the name of the Order -- the pride we share some of. The anger, that we share more of.

I pushed the visions aside and kept moving forward.

As Lilliana disappeared into the swathes of Crusaders and members of the Silver Hand that seemed to fill this place to the brim, I was left to my own devices. She had mentioned that there was some gathering of paladins beneath the sanctum itself -- it took me a long moment to gather up my courage to enter. I am not a paladin; I have never professed myself to be that holy paragon of the light that others appear to believe a paladin is. I am a Blood Knight -- trained by a Blood Knight of the first generation, knowing full well I have never had the ability to summon the Light to my fingertips until Ethalarian looked at me and saw something worth taking a chance on. I am not a paladin. I am not a paladin -- and yet...I glanced down at my red and black armor, commissioned for me by Larry; my sword strapped to my back, a long-ago gift from my father. At the moment I could certainly pass for one. I brushed the red and black stitching of my Blood Knight tabard almost possessively; I wanted to belong so badly. To the Order, to Black Dawn -- to something, anything. Reaching my hand out in the dark, praying to whatever god was listening that someone reached out and pulled me to safety. Black Dawn had offered me the chance; but before I make my decision, I want to see everything.

So I went into this Sanctum.

There were paladins teeming from every corner and hallway beneath the chapel of Light’s Hope. I felt out of place -- so many Silver Hand tabards! The visions swam in my eyes again -- some small part of my soul screaming words I did not understand. I had no real love of the paladin orders, but something inside of me that was not me clearly detested them. I pushed it aside -- that was not mine! -- and instead focused on everything but the people around me. The walls were covered in objects: swords, shields, tabards of those long gone. People ran past: through portals to Dalaran, up the stairs to other parts of the Silver Hand’s secret sanctum. Not a single one wore the tabard of the Order, though many seemed uncomfortable, silver and blue clashing with red and black of their armor. I wondered who had forced them to change. Why was homogeny so important to them, to the point of repressing everyone’s true colors? The tauren looked no less uncomfortable, those who had clearly once been Sunwalkers -- everyone seemed...strangely sad, and yet, of a singular purpose.

Or perhaps that was my interpretation. Whatever the reason, the space made me uncomfortable as well; I brushed my tabard almost self-consciously, a lone Blood Knight in the midst of the faceless many Silver Hand, making my way past the items adorning wall to examine the large space of worship. I didn’t need Ethalarian’s memories, his emotions, to be repulsed by the idea of worshipping something so ephemeral. That people could politely put aside the fact that the worst people on this planet had used such magic to commit atrocities and build a sanctuary to house the spirit of something that, quite frankly, did not care who used it -- I was careful not to let my own magic scald a gaggle of whispering humans as I moved down the central aisle, towards the front of the space. Ridiculous. Everything in the space made me sick; every inch of it, glistening and softly warm with the Light, seemed so full of artifice that I could not understand it. I stood there, staring up at the light that filtered down through the space, stewing in my own frustration. How was it that these people could wield the Light so gracefully, without harming others or themselves, when they built it up to be something completely different than what it was in actuality? Was it the pageantry that lent them the ability to wield it? Or perhaps they were so stupid that it came to them out of pity?

“You seem confused.” A voice I didn’t know moved behind me; I turned to find a beaming man, only a few inches taller than I was. Human, he seemed perfectly at home in silver and blue -- perhaps he was a Silver Hand member in earnest, or perhaps, the idea of singular unity suited him so well that he was eager to be rid of whatever fucking colors humans wear when they wish to devote themselves to the Light and jumped straight into bed with the order hall. Regardless, he seemed far too cheery for my tastes; I frowned and crossed my arms over my tabard, trying and failing to block it from view.

“I’m not confused. I’m wondering why bother to build a church to something that doesn’t even speak back.” His eyes glanced down at my tabard, then back up to mine -- an understanding passing his features that should have been serene, but was instead irritating me to no end. “Don’t give me that look.”

“What look?”

“That one! It’s true. It doesn’t speak back. It’s just a magical tool. To build up churches around it, to revere it as if it could hear you -- it’s nonsensical.”

He smiled again, shaking his head. “I thought elves had gotten past all that when the Sunwell was restored? Didn’t you all see the error of stealing the Light and learn to move past it?”

“Not all Blood Knights.”

“No, I can see that. And I’m sorry that you don’t understand what makes it so important to us.” A sigh -- but he didn’t lose the smile. Why did he keep smiling? Was the human version of the Light akin to brainwashing? Perhaps that was it. Perhaps humans all had that insipid smile because they had bathed in the acid we found in that cult’s secret lair. On second thought, that makes perfect sense. “I could show you?”

He extended his hand. The temptation rose to slap it away -- but eyes were watching us by that point, enough that I could sense with little difficulty to elven ears the whispers that were circulating. I stared at the unknown man for a long moment -- he could kill me, here in this room. No one would care, of that I was certain; I was simply another Blood Knight, a nameless face passing scorn upon the sweetened halls of their idealism. They would send my body back to Quel’thalas with regrets, and no one would be the wiser. And yet...his smile was innocent, unassuming. He seemed genuinely sad that I had not experienced what he had.

So I took his hand. “Fine. Don’t try anything else.”

The connection between our hands was electric -- I gasped, as his Light flooded into my body. Gods, it burned. I thought, when Ethalarian had offered his magic to me and flooded my senses with pain searing enough to bring me to my knees, that that would be the worst hurt the Light could pass upon me. But I was wrong. This was different -- unlike the cultists we had examined in Eversong, this hurt every fiber of my being. It was all I could not not to scream, to allow the tears to fall down my cheeks. Everything in my body screamed no -- no! This was not meant for me -- I was not one of the Light’s chosen, to revel in ignorance at its magnificence. I was anger, steel and fire and this was not meant for me.

I ripped my hand away, nearly knocking him over. “Don’t touch me!” I was sharper than I’d meant to be -- everything I had felt made me shake, and I stared at him. I was scared -- scared of what I had touched, even more scared of the pity in his eyes as he glanced at me. “Don’t give me that look! I’m fine!”

“...I’m sorry.” He truly seemed to pity me. Those closest to us, seated in the pews, stared with similar faces. “I’m sorry you’ve never understood. I’m not…” sure if you ever will, he did not need to say it. I could see it in his eyes -- in the bystanders’ eyes, in every limned wrinkle of his face. 

I ran. Lilliana had mentioned where the room she normally used was located, and I’m certain I pushed at least a few over in my haste to be free of the Sanctum.

She wasn’t there. Where -- I don’t know. Her red-haired friend from the other day stood there in her stead, demanding to know where she had run off to. That he didn’t know -- that he had come here looking for her -- combined with the fact that she had meant only to be gone for a few more minutes…

She left me. She left me. Surrounded by pitying faces and prayers that I would change my heart, she left me here, stranded me in a hell of her own creation and ran off -- with ‘him,’ said her friend, him I can only assume is one person, and I am -- forgotten. Easily forgotten.

I should have expected that. She had been so keen to help me; that she would leave me here...I should have anticipated it.

There is nothing so sobering as being stabbed in the back.