Ghislaine Étoileur

Precious Things

The sky had already begun to pale from inky violet to fading lavender as she charged down the path and into the family gardens. On another night, Ghislaine might have stopped again to consider how it might look beyond the swathe of arcane shielding that held the last of the world in its care. But not this night.

This night, her as-yet-budding frame railed against a blooming vine, caught on the gossamer filaments woven into her hair as she rushed past. She spun about, swatting at the tendrils with an embittered cry, until at last the silk-lined satchel she carried was pitched unceremoniously at a nearby statue- an alabaster priestess poised in prayer, peace on her parted lips with her arms open wide.

Schoolbooks, strewn about the spiral stone walkway, lay in their disheveled mess in the priestess’ shadow, and she found a place beside them to match. She hadn’t thought it would come to this- had left the Lucineum that day in a flurry of words meant to wound, with daggers for eyes and ice in her veins. But it all became so painfully beyond her young self the moment her knees hit the ground, and she was powerless to contain the wretchedness that spilled over when it did.

“What troubles you, Stella?” The soft voice beset with an ageless beauty and experience well beyond their walls was a far greater contender, however, as was the warm hand that squeezed at her shoulder. She swallowed her tears, hiccuping lightly as she lifted her head.

“Mamé…” she whimpered childishly in spite of herself, crumpling like a discarded note card into the elder woman’s arms. The serene figure with her soft smile was very nearly a fixture herself in those gardens, a presence who fit seamlessly into the quiet glow of starlight roses and the gentle murmur of flowing water. But to Ghislaine, she was simply ‘grandma’.

Of course, Vierinne Étoileur was in fact Ghislaine’s great-grandmother, and a venerable warrior-priestess even before the breaking of the world. Once a cherished remnant from a time long since slipped through their fingers, she had led her family with all the grace and cunning of a queen. As the years passed, when her daughters and their daughters grew into the business of life in their secluded Suramar, she had stepped instead into a life of prayer in her beloved floral temple.

Ghislaine had often found her there, for stories and songs as a girl. And perhaps it had been her intent to find her all along when she’d barreled into those peaceful surroundings, a storm cloud in a sea of stars.
The story came trickling out in fits and starts, soon becoming a veritable downpour of prepubescent humiliation that was surely hard to follow. But follow the elder priestess did, listening calmly to the tale of how Mireille Alarin, Ghislaine’s playmate and friend for as far back as she could remember, had that day decided in a fit of spite to read aloud a note in which Ghislaine confessed to liking a boy by the name of Zachael.

“He was right there, and everyone started laughing, Mamé,” she explained, voice wavering between haughtiness and hurt. “It’s all because she likes him herself. I should tell everyone about her ridiculous poems.” But as foolish as it would seem a century after the fact, not once did Vierinne dismiss her story. The former matriarch simply hummed her acknowledgment, threading soothing fingers through her great-grandchild’s hair until her anger slowly began to abate.

“My Stella. I would give you this,” she broke her relative silence then, only enough that the girl might hear. And as her tearful rendition of the day’s events tapered off, Ghislaine felt the touch of cool fingers graze her nape, leaving a weighted warmth behind with another sweep of her hair.

Reaching up in turn, she took hold of the pale piece of crescent-shaped opal hanging from a thin thread of silver around her neck. Lifting it to the fading moonlight, she marveled at the way its delicate riot of colours refused to stay still for more than a second, like lights on the water, or a gathering of Wisps at play. A stillness set in, until she didn’t think twice about tucking her head into the soft silk gathered at Vierinne’s shoulder.

“Why is it so many colours…?” she murmured, forgetting for the moment to cleave to indignation, wonder instead taking hold of her. The elder priestess, with calloused hands and inborn elegance, gave a smile Ghislaine could hear.

“Because Mother Moon is many things. Night after night, Her light guides our path, and Her darkness keeps us safe. Even now, She tends to our skies, our seas… and all who seek Her.” All at once, the young girl found herself given over to the old stories, of a Sisterhood veiled in moonlight, their ranks as fierce and formidable as they were faithful. She smiled in turn, silver-lined ears perked and listening.

“In this, we know Elune is our Mother. But we know that She is also the Night Warrior, who carries the valiant dead to their place among the stars. Of course, She feels anger when Her people are wronged, when She is wronged.” Her great-grandmother’s words filtered into Ghislaine’s imagination, sinking in with a certain stilting in her belly. For her part, Vierinne’s arms only wrapped tighter around her.

“And yet, She is ever the Wise Lady too. She gives when She could take. Builds, when She could be tearing down. Forgives, when She could hold onto hurt forever. She teaches us that anger is a tool, to be channeled towards something truly worthwhile… and that, Stella, is a very precious thing.”

That was the first time Ghislaine felt it, a subtle shift of weight and warmth, memory given life in the core of that pendant. It took only a moment, just a press of the priestess’ thumb into the centre of its curving shape, and the scent of jasmine flower and cooling ash was fresh in the air.

Decades would pass and she would feel it still, through the loss of their world and into the gaining of another… long after her great-grandmother had passed from both. Even in the outskirts of Rustberg Village, sea-bound and streaked with grey, Ghislaine could feel that gentle whisper of presence, of warmth and wonder that sought to stay her hand. She had forgotten, for a moment, where she’d come from. Who she was. There were plenty of things better left behind, she knew, but this… this was not one of them.

It had taken a bit of effort, once she’d set out to procure the necessary elements, between a meeting with some refugees, and a favour or two called in with old acquaintances from Shal’aran. The jaunt and subsequent hike through the scarred lands at the foot of Mount Hyjal had been the toughest part, by the end, but she would spare no expense, be it time or tender, once her mind was made.

When at last it was done, she had returned home cool-headed and calm, with a perfect cut of polished white opal. Left raw rather than shaped, its natural asymmetry would be fully on display, colours dancing this way and that, and never quite the same way twice. Her thumb smoothed gently along its rough centre, a sharp indentation that led to a slanted peak, its weight and newly imposed warmth bearing a familiarity in her hand.

It may be that it wouldn’t carry much meaning to an onlooker, but that it now existed, cradled gently in her palm, meant a great deal to her in and of itself. She would see to giving it as planned at their earliest convenience, the final step in a worthwhile endeavour. And as she looked out the window and into the growing evening below, even out towards the crowd beginning to funnel into the quaint tavern with its amber lights, she let a hand drop to the barest hint of concave swell, low in her belly, fingers smoothing along the gauzy edges of her blouse.