Smoke and Fire
Jul. 16th, 2019 08:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lionofthelightTeldrassil Burns!
That’s how it had all begun, at least for Zandros Alter. A voice shouting in the night, waking the manor despite the hour.
Teldrassil burns.
Days had passed, and it was all that could pass the lips of each dour face he met. A gift from the dragons, the last great stronghold of the Night Elves, a place said to be blessed by the so-called Goddess Elune, burned. Every face was fallen. After a tenuous peace, once again achieved only by the near-destruction of their world, it was war again. The Horde demanded blood. The dead, more of their own.
In just a day Stormwind's streets were over-full with the homeless, their clothes and their faces still soot-stained and bloodied. Refugees who could escape by portal and – days later – by hippogryph or boat slept in the streets without possessions or direction. They crowded the walkways, some searching for their loved ones, some resigned to their loss. The spiritually and physically wounded blocked the shops and alleyways and stared sightlessly at the people who passed.
Those who had not lost hope rallied for war. They donned their armor and their weapons, and those who had lost their own found replacements from the blacksmiths who toiled at their forges. It was a sweltering summer, and hotter and louder in the Dwarven district than Zandros had ever felt or heard. The whole city radiated like a furnace and screamed with the pounding of hammer on metal. He passed veterans ten lifetimes older than himself and felt the hated in their scarred and twisted faces as strongly as if it were directed at him.
For the first time in a decade, Zandros Alter felt unsafe in his own city.
Perhaps because he knew. He knew that despite it all, there would be consequences. For Sylvanas. For the Horde. Perhaps even for him. Evil had to be met, battled, and bested. He knew that. But for the first time in his life, he wished he could reject it.
He had rejected his duties as an officer, after all. He had resigned his title and returned fully to civilian life, where he had, most vexingly, been forced to continue the fight. And hadn’t he just won? Hadn’t he done what he had to do, won what he had to win?
And now this. This summons.
Zandros crushed the paper in his fist and shouldered his way, increasingly angry, through group after group of the righteous warriors of Elune. The Grand Marshal’s office wasn’t far, but it would take another half hour of sweating in the summer heat, pushing past the vengeful and the lost only to find himself on the wrong end of a long line of men and women waiting for their chance to see the commander. He didn’t frequently wish for the foreign luxuries of the world of his family-to-be, but he couldn’t count the times he wished for air conditioning in the hours that followed.
Finally, his moment came to meet the Grand Marshall.
He entered the office with the fury of the elves, gripping his summons like they held their glaives.
And he left with silence of the lost ones.
That’s how it had all begun, at least for Zandros Alter. A voice shouting in the night, waking the manor despite the hour.
Teldrassil burns.
Days had passed, and it was all that could pass the lips of each dour face he met. A gift from the dragons, the last great stronghold of the Night Elves, a place said to be blessed by the so-called Goddess Elune, burned. Every face was fallen. After a tenuous peace, once again achieved only by the near-destruction of their world, it was war again. The Horde demanded blood. The dead, more of their own.
In just a day Stormwind's streets were over-full with the homeless, their clothes and their faces still soot-stained and bloodied. Refugees who could escape by portal and – days later – by hippogryph or boat slept in the streets without possessions or direction. They crowded the walkways, some searching for their loved ones, some resigned to their loss. The spiritually and physically wounded blocked the shops and alleyways and stared sightlessly at the people who passed.
Those who had not lost hope rallied for war. They donned their armor and their weapons, and those who had lost their own found replacements from the blacksmiths who toiled at their forges. It was a sweltering summer, and hotter and louder in the Dwarven district than Zandros had ever felt or heard. The whole city radiated like a furnace and screamed with the pounding of hammer on metal. He passed veterans ten lifetimes older than himself and felt the hated in their scarred and twisted faces as strongly as if it were directed at him.
For the first time in a decade, Zandros Alter felt unsafe in his own city.
Perhaps because he knew. He knew that despite it all, there would be consequences. For Sylvanas. For the Horde. Perhaps even for him. Evil had to be met, battled, and bested. He knew that. But for the first time in his life, he wished he could reject it.
He had rejected his duties as an officer, after all. He had resigned his title and returned fully to civilian life, where he had, most vexingly, been forced to continue the fight. And hadn’t he just won? Hadn’t he done what he had to do, won what he had to win?
And now this. This summons.
Zandros crushed the paper in his fist and shouldered his way, increasingly angry, through group after group of the righteous warriors of Elune. The Grand Marshal’s office wasn’t far, but it would take another half hour of sweating in the summer heat, pushing past the vengeful and the lost only to find himself on the wrong end of a long line of men and women waiting for their chance to see the commander. He didn’t frequently wish for the foreign luxuries of the world of his family-to-be, but he couldn’t count the times he wished for air conditioning in the hours that followed.
Finally, his moment came to meet the Grand Marshall.
He entered the office with the fury of the elves, gripping his summons like they held their glaives.
And he left with silence of the lost ones.
no subject
Date: 2019-07-25 09:56 pm (UTC)Zandros lingers in the doorway long after he speaks. His hands move restlessly, touching the door frame, rubbing together, trying and failing again and again to settle.
"I hope that you of all people would understand the burden of a duty that cannot be denied. If I deny the call, I am ruined. If I answer, I may yet survive. There is no choice to be made."
He begins to enter the room, but with one foot past the door he pauses. Steps back.
"I have quite a lot on my mind. And... Quite a lot I wish I had the time to make right. Knowing you, for one. On your own terms. Outside of every circumstance, including my own stubbornness, that kept us at odds and distant for so long. I wish I could have been the man that you welcomed gladly on his return."
He presses his lips together and, holding his breath for a moment, turns over his words in his mind. Finally he sighs, and then he does enter. He joins her where she is and watches her with guilty eyes.
"He will most certainly be called as well."
no subject
Date: 2019-07-25 10:34 pm (UTC)She lets him fret and dither at the edge of the threshold. A light frown on her brow, a straight back holding her composure in place. And then he steps past it to confirm her fears. He brings up her one weakness and she flinches at it. At how easy it is to send a flurry of nervousness through her and make her turn to look at a wardrobe hiding a shrine inside.
They'll expect more of him, she wants to think aloud, but keeps quiet. They won't fear the dead dying, so they'll throw him into the middle of it. They won't think that anyone cares for him, or that he's important in any way more than how many others he can kill. Her fingers tighten around her PINpoint and her jaw clenches.
But he's not here now. Zandros is. And as much as he's caused problems for her, he's not an evil man. He deserves... something.
"I don't want you to die." It might have been sweet if it wasn't the taut, near-command she delivers. She looks at him then. "I don't think anyone deserves to endure what you're being sent into. If I could stop this war, then I would. But I can't. I can't stop it. I can't help him. And I can't help you. There's nothing I can do."
no subject
Date: 2019-07-26 12:28 pm (UTC)He collects himself while he listens. Her words smooth away his tension, but it isn't comfort that replaces them. No, it's an emptiness he isn't accustomed to, and a moment's worry for someone other than himself. Gently, he places his hand on her arm.
"You burden yourself with far too much responsibility. None of us can stop this. We can only hope to survive, and to one day free ourselves from all ties to that wretched planet. At times it seem a great unfairness to have been born there, but now I feel it may be more unjust to have been born free of it and nonetheless come to care for its people."
He moves his hand to hers and rests his palm over her tightly-clenched fist.
"There is nothing you can do. Do not say that in defeat, but accept it as the truth that absolves you of whatever may come. There is nothing you can do, so do not labor over what might have been if you could only stop it all.
"He and I, we are the only ones who can save ourselves. Save each other, perhaps. Should I find him on the battlefield, I will do what I can to bring him back. Even after everything, I hope that, even after everything, he might do the same for me."
no subject
Date: 2019-07-27 11:53 pm (UTC)Her head rolls with her eyes and she steps away to face him fully, lifting a hand and letting it drop. "And what am I supposed to do? Just sit around here waiting to see what happens?"
If she could volunteer to help, to keep an eye on Harrowheart... But she can't. She has to protect Viatorus. Viatorus who will be sitting in a soft chair in a secure study. Dreaming.
no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 12:44 pm (UTC)The words come with a sudden forcefulness that catches him off guard, but he can't show that kind of weakness around her.
"Yes," he repeats more evenly. "You are supposed to remain here, waiting around to see what happens. That is the dubious privilege of those not called to war -- physical safety and emotional uncertainty. Isidor! Accept that there is nothing to be done!"
He pinches the bridge of his nose and screws his eyes shut.
"I don't want what may be our final interaction to end in conflict. Have you any comforting words at all? Or ought I take my leave now?"
no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 01:09 pm (UTC)She folds her arms, the sour expression only intensified by the biting of her tongue. Despite everything, she feels a need to try... to at least not make him an enemy.
"What do you want me to say? I don't want you to have to go to war, but I can't do anything. I can't help. What else is there to say?"
no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 01:26 pm (UTC)He turns away and drags his hand down his face.
"I must depart. I've very little time left to say goodbye to my family. If the Light deems it fit, I shall see you again in a month's time. Goodbye, Isidor."