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| Details |
| Author: | Aly |
| Summary: | Jenzelle seeks out her former teammate Alver, and has a run-in with a High Inquisitor. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
It looked like a normal room, inside a normal building. Sturdy wooden rafters supporting a second floor, well-lit with candles, a bookshelf containing ordinary adventure titles, and the occasional romance. But this friendly little room, with the wooden desk settled beside the bookshelf, might as well have been the icy depths of death itself to Jenzelle, as she closed the door behind her to face the room’s other occupant.
“Halveris, wasn’t it?” High Inquisitor Marcielle Lightforge stepped around the desk lined with papers, probably reports, or patrol schedules, or battle maps, or even a mixture of the three, and regarded Jenzelle with the kind of smile a person might wear when they’d finally caught that pesky fly buzzing around for two sleepless days.
Jenzelle hovered close to the door, not daring to enter any further, let alone approach this force of malevolence looming before her. “Y-yes, High Inquisitor.” Her fingers tangled together in front of her to give them something, anything to do other than shake. They still shook.
“Aren’t you a precious little thing.” The High Inquisitor’s voice was soft, cold, and confident, and her boots clicked on the stone floor as she walked. She was coming closer. “And you’re a Priestess. Where are you from, darling?”
“F-farm, in Lordaer—” No, that was obvious. “On Lord Morningdew’s lands. W-we didn’t do any grains! W-watermelons, mostly. And pumpkins. Sometimes cucumbers?” It was hard to take in a breath, Jenzelle realized. She had fought countless battles against the Scourge and stayed calm, but somehow this was different, worse, even, as if this golden-haired, angelic monster offered a fate that made undeath pale in comparison.
“Oh yes, Lord Morningdew.” The High Inquisitor said his name with a little wave of dramatic flair, and mercifully, she stopped her advance, opting instead to pace to the side. “You know, I heard Lord Alveric Morningdew and his Lady Wife still wander the grounds of their estate, with no shortage of servants and retainers alongside them. The heir, though…” She fixed Jenzelle with another smile, one that sent icicles straight into her heart, then turned and the pacing continued. “I am a farm girl myself, would you believe it? But above all, I am, as ever, a proud citizen of Lordaeron. And now, here we both are at the end of the world, fighting a losing battle and forced to accept the help of those Argent scum. But I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here.”
Her advance began anew, those boots clicking and echoing, as closer she came. “Jenzelle, darling, I heard you’ve been asking around about the whereabouts of a certain person. The Lensfort boy…Alver, was it?”
Jenzelle tried not to flatten herself against the wall, tried not to exude fear like a leaky kettle, tried not to shake and quiver, and beg for her life. Her fingers had probably gone white by now, but she squeezed them together and prayed to the Light for courage. “Yes…Alver. He was in my squad, and I haven’t seen him, so…”
One flickering glance led Jenzelle’s eyes into Marcielle’s, and she regretted it instantly. The woman was the picture of zealotry, no, more than that, she was insane. It was almost as if she was feeding off Jenzelle’s fear and panic, reveling in it.
“Kaela Mondragon’s doomed children.” Her grin was more horrifying than her words, which taken alone made Jenzelle wish she could melt into the floor. “When she was given command, I honestly wasn’t expecting much. Her father was the war hero, not her. But it seems she managed to make useful soldiers out of a few of you, which has only been to our benefit. You want to check on Alver out of the goodness of your little heart, don’t you? I know where he is.”
Even had Jenzelle had any words, they would have caught in her throat. She stood there trembling, staring, paralyzed, all but dead to the world. When would this be over? How much longer until the inquisitor stopped playing and decided to put an end to her tiny little existence, or worse, put her away in some dark cell to torment again another day?
The High Inquisitor finally stopped mere inches from her, reaching one hand out to play with the ends of Jenzelle’s hair. “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me where he is?”
Jenzelle tried to take another breath, but it came up shallow. Courage, she prayed again. This time, the Light answered, spreading a warm, golden glow across her like a hug, easing her fears. High Inquisitor Lightforge drew back at the sight, her face a twisted mess of repulsion, but she didn’t speak on it, and now, calmer, Jenzelle suspected some of that repulsion may have been directed inward.
When Jenzelle next spoke, she felt as though the Light spoke through her. “Where is Alver, High Inquisitor? Please, I’m worried about him.”
At first it seemed the inquisitor might not respond, the way she turned and stalked back to her desk, but halfway across the room, she waved her hand in a dismissing manner. “Try the basement.”
Jenzelle did not even wait for her to be seated, to turn around, to look at her with a probably bored expression now that the Light had ruined her fun, no, she fled from the room, headed straight for the peaceful dark of the basement, before the inquisitor could regroup and change her mind.
- - -
The basement reeked of blood and death, Jenzelle could smell it even from the top of the stairs. Nothing about this day had been easy, but she had come too far, risked too much to turn back. How could she face Jothran, Rae, and someday Commander Mondragon, if she gave up now? One step at a time, with her sleeve covering her nose, Jenzelle descended into the basement.
“Alver?”
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and when she could finally see, she wished she had stayed blind. Blood slicked the walls and floor, and perhaps worst of all, the victims chained to the torture equipment, gags in their mouths and eyes wide with terror, looked healthy and whole, except those in the thrall of undeath. And then there was Alver, holding a bloodied cleaver, not a victim, but the inflicter, standing alongside a priest she had seen before. Alver met her eyes as she stood there frozen for the second time, clutching the banister, then shrugged a shoulder at his priest partner, who hung up his bloody apron, slipped off his gloves, and brushed past Jenzelle, creaking his way up the stairs.
Alver motioned her closer, and, reluctantly, she complied, tiptoeing as if that would keep the blood off her shoes somehow. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked, and Alver hadn’t been carving people up with that cleaver. He had always been the quiet one, his dark hair, dark eyes, and stoic face never giving anything away, and sure, no one could ever tell what he was thinking, but he was one of them! Surely Commander Mondragon had gotten through to him as well somehow, and this was just a big misunderstanding.
Jenzelle tried a smile, despite her surroundings. “So…what’s going on here?”
Alver gestured up the stairs. “I cut them. He heals them. We ask questions.”
And it was exactly what it looked like, exactly what she had suspected, and not an ounce less terrifying. She felt all the blood leave her face at once, probably retreating as far as her feet, not that she could blame it, she didn’t want to be there either. His bloody, gloved hand closed around her throat before she could even think of retreating.
“You disapprove.” His voice was a growl beside her ear, he moved his dark eyes to stare into hers, and she was afraid.
Jenzelle had to force her voice around his hand, but force it she did. He needed to hear her. “Because…this is wrong…!”
“This is necessary!” he spat back, squeezing her neck until the airflow stopped altogether. “How many infiltrators do you think I’ve found this week alone? Cult of the Damned filth, seeking to undermine our efforts here.”
She struggled against him, fighting to pull his hand away from her throat. “C-comman…der…” she choked out with what breath she could salvage.
And just like that he released her, recoiling almost in fear, leaving her to grapple with the sudden access to air again, as the overpowering smells rushed back in with every life-saving breath.
“What about her?” Alver gave her some distance now, turning his back, avoiding her gaze. He set the cleaver on a table with a number of other gruesome-looking tools.
Jenzelle straightened, rubbing her throat, bloodied thanks to Alver’s glove, forgetting to put her sleeve back over her nose, as if that was important anymore. “Don’t you remember what she told us? What she asked of us?”
“She’s gone now.” He still didn’t meet her eyes, and when she moved closer, he withdrew, almost as if the Commander’s very mention had pacified him. “If we follow her rules, we will be too.”
Jenzelle wracked her still-recovering brain for a follow-up. How could she get through to him? How could she save him?
“Your brothers,” she began, earning her a sharp look from Alver. “You did have brothers, didn’t you? Younger ones?”
“They died.” His voice was flat.
“What if they didn’t?”
Alver sighed, turning to face her again. “What are you doing?”
Jenzelle held up her hands, trying to be calming, or at the very least, be able to protect herself if he should attack her again. “No, just listen. What if they didn’t, and we end up winning the war? Could you go back to them, hug them, tuck them in at night, with this,” she gestured around the chamber, “On your hands? Could you live with this, knowing that some of these people, these living people were innocent?”
Alver bit his lip, his hands clenched in anger and grief. “There’s no point in imagining such an outcome. There’s no point in hope. It will all be snatched away again. Like she was. And Rae.”
“Rae is…” she inched closer, reaching for his hand, then slowly uncurling his fingers, never mind the blood, this was important. “She’s alive, Alver. And she’s well, and looked after, and…we can be too.”
It was the same stoic face that turned to look at her, but maybe there was a hint of confusion in his eyes.
“There are nice people, good people out there waiting for us, and I’m not talking about the Argent Dawn. We can fight the Scourge our way, and they will support us, and guide us. They will never ask us to do things like this.” She motioned around the room again. “Alver…we don’t have to be monsters.”
He followed her hand with his eyes, as if taking in the room for the first time. “You say there’s a way out. And Rae is waiting for us?”
Jenzelle gave his hand a squeeze. “She’s at Light’s Hope Chapel. I heard it from Lord Morningdew. Her friends want to help us, I’ve spoken with them already. Joined them, already, really. I’m here for you. The rest of you. We just have to convince Taya somehow.”
“Jothran…?”
“Has already approved, as long as we leave together, so, please…” She searched his expression, but he was unreadable as ever. “Lord Morningdew will help us escape.”
Alver’s voice grew soft as he looked around the room again. “How am I…supposed to continue, now?” Alver’s arms hung limply at his side, and she could pick up faint traces of disgust. With the situation, himself, the Crusade, maybe all of it.
“Oh, um…” Jenzelle stared at the victims, both the living, and undead, following his gaze. “Could you ask for reassignment?”
“Lightforge would grow suspicious. Of both of us.”
“Oh…” The victims, at least the living ones, stared back at her, pleading silently for reprieve, and Jenzelle’s heart ached for them. “I don’t suppose we could release them?”
“You already know the answer.”
Her friends would die if she helped the people here. Her, and Alver, and Taya, and Jothran, and even Mevlin, would all die if she showed kindness to the strangers. “It’s just for a little longer.” She tried to sound encouraging. “Wait just a bit longer, and we will release them, too, when we leave.”
She reached for the Light, for a blessing that would help them last even a little longer under these circumstances, grant even the tiniest shred of hope against their despair. “Light,” she prayed, “Give them strength, and deliver unto them your Fortitude…” The prayer lit the dark room, blessing not only Alver, but the living victims as well. “Alver, I have to go, but promise. Promise you will hold the Light inside you and wait for me.”
Alver closed his eyes and rested his hand over his heart, as if trying to collect the fading rays of Light from her blessing. “I promise. Jenzelle—” He caught her as she turned to leave, “Thank you.”
She gave him a firm nod, before climbing the stairs into daylight, away from the stench, the blood, the horror. Soon they would all face their biggest challenge yet, and they would only have a single chance. Taya Lynds.