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| Details |
| Author: | inkie |
| Summary: | Ben and Mizzy find each other in the chaos after the Wrathgate |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
The first news had come hurtling into Wintergarde on the back of an injured gryphon, plummeting at a drunken weave toward the flight point. The animal went to its knees on the frozen packed earth, half a crash, and the soldier who collapsed from its back was gasping and whey-faced, choking out Wrathgate and lost and plague and all dead. The panic had rippled out across the keep in a wave of silence. The 7th Legion does not panic in noisy disarray, but there was no other way to describe that icy frost of shock.
There will be others, someone had said, perhaps Wyrmbane himself. If this one survived, there will be others. Be ready.
And so the gryphon-aerie had been cleared to make way for other injured mounts and riders, the gates of the keep flung open, soldiers with torches sent out along the northern road to search for other returning wounded or fleeing. In ones and twos they had begun to come, and then a trickle, and then a stream, and all of them carried fragments of a tale of horror and devastation.
They were prepared, or so everyone thought. They were prepared for wounded, prepared to triage and stabilize, prepared for the ones-and-twos before the flood of soldiers returning with frost injuries on top of the wounds of normal warfare. Prepared to rip and cut off armor to get to the injuries below. They had stacks of bandages and temporary casts, heavy pads to absorb blood, racks of blue and red potions that rattled against each other.
No one was prepared for plague.
From healer to healer, the glances traveled. We don't know how to cure plague, they thought. "It doesn't matter," one said, gruff and taut. "We fix what we can. Portion out your resources for the aftermath." For the resurrections where healing had failed. The 7th had their own priority for triage.
Ismene wiped her hands uneasily against her pants; pants here where robes might catch or sweep and knock into something. Then the first patient made it down the line of healers to her and there was no more time to think, only do. Gentle healings to fix the worst of a problem, no one to get a full healing yet when strength must be preserved. Bandaging for light wounds, push them aside and then on to the next with ears full of screams and calls for help, for the fight to bring control to chaos. Trying to ignore the babbling of soldiers telling her what had happened, because it didn't matter. It only mattered how bad the wounds were, growing worse with each body. Blood loss and crush injuries, slashes and lost limbs being clutched across a gaping stomach, seared lungs and burns that permitted no speech, only screams and voices begging her to make it stop. And through it all, seeking the white-on-blue, terrified to see Cobalt Company insignia, terrified she never would.
"Ismene!" calls a familiar voice, hoarse and panicked. "Mizzy!" Ben is fighting his way through the throng — perhaps unhelpfully to the actual throng of healers and injured, but he is wide-eyed and desperate, pale. "MIZZY!" he shouts again.
Ignoring her training, her cool, calm knowledge, Ismene slams a full healing into the body in front of her. The woman arcs up off the cot, drawing a full breath for the first time since being brought in. But it's Ben's voice, she can hear the fear and the damage in it, and Ismene shoves herself away as the orderlies help the woman out, clear the cot away. Before they can bring someone else to her, she stands on her toes. "Ben!" she yells, searching for him among the bodies. "I'm here! Ben?"
"MIZZY!" His voice breaks. And then he's there, not on a cot, not leaning on an orderly, but Ben, on his feet and still in armor, craning above the crowd to spot her. "Where? Mizz!" He spots her and pushes roughly and rudely through others to get to her, stumbling and already reaching out. His face is stark and pale beneath smeared soot and blood, his hair matted.
"Here," she murmurs, "I'm here, right here." Her hands sweep over his face, pushing back hair and soot and blood all so she can see him better. Tendrils of cool, soothing healing seep into him, searching out any injury. Her eyes, those big brown eyes, fill with concern and a healer's piercing intensity. Is he hurt? Not for long.
He is not hurt. He does, however — possibly more alarmingly — burst into tears. He seizes Mizzy and crushes her against him, rocking her as though she is the one who requires soothing.
"Ben," she says, kissing his cheek, his temple, any part of him she can reach. "Thank the Light, I'm here. I know. I heard some of it. You didn't breathe it in, did you? You didn't… you're all right? I'm here. I love you." Her soft words have more than a tinge of someone casting about for the right thing to say, anything to help heal the pain she cannot touch.
"I love you," he says brokenly. "Mizmainy. Shit, I love you. You're okay. You're okay? Are you okay?" He draws back enough to search her face, wild-eyed..
"I'm okay. I'm fine," she says. "I've been here, healing. Ben, there's so many. They said something about plague, everyone's talking about it but no one has said what happened…" She doesn't let go of him, doesn't seem to want him to let go of her.
Ben closes his eyes and sways a little on his feet. "Shit," he says hoarsely. "Mizz. The Highlord — Fordragon. I think he's dead. And everyone — I mean. It was all ashes, Mizz, when we got there. There was no bodies, hardly. To resurrect."
"I heard dragons flew nearby, I didn't see… I didn't hear why. I tried not to think ab-" She kisses him again, lips pressed to his cheek. "The dragons attacked us?"
Ben shakes his head and wraps her tightly against him again. "Saved us. I think. I reckon. The Forsaken — it was the Forsakens, Mizz. You remember, in Howling Fjord, the… plague?"
Her forehead puckers. "The one you had me check? I remember."
"The Forsakens were up on the ridge. The soldiers was — it was a fucken ravine, Mizz, they was all packed in, and the Forsakens got up there with their wagons an' —" He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment against the image. "They threw barrels of the shit. Down on — everyone. Everyone. Alliance an' Horde — in the ravine. It was just — Mizz."
Mizzy inhales sharply and shoves away from him, but only to check him over again, checking every spot of skin she can. "Ben!" His name is a blessing from her lips. "Barrels? I heard plague but I didn't thi— Are you sure it didn't touch you, are you sure you didn't breathe it in?"
He shakes his head dully. "We was —" He starts to cry again silently. "We was up at the tower, on the ridge. The Highlord — Fordragon. He told us we could hold his position, where he had been. We were a rearguard. Not in the ravine. It was a honor. He gave to us. An' then he —" He chokes, lifts the back of his hand to his mouth, catches his breath. When he lowers his hand again, he is grim and steadier. "It might've. It might've come up to us. They just — kept chuckin' the shit, an' it was spreadin' — an' that's when the dragons come. That is what they did. Sent the whole ravine up, burned everything. The plague, the — bodies, all of it. The Forsakens an' their wagons on the ridge, too."
She tries to picture it, looking away from Ben to stare at his tabard instead. "So many," she whispers. "Is it… Then it's safe to go into the ravine? To try? I don't think I've ever tried to bring someone back from… but there has to be a way, we can try?"
"There isn't, Mizz," says Ben roughly, and takes her by the shoulders. "There isn't, I promise you. We went. We went in it, me an' Cole an' Paluuva an' Ace an' Azizia an' Caspis — there's nothin' there to save. It's ash."
She stares into his eyes, hope dying in hers. "Ah. Ben," she says, a sigh. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him, despite soot and blood both, a soft kiss of comfort and unity. I'm here. We're here. I've got you and you've got me. "I'm so sorry."
He kisses her back, puts his hands in his hair to cradle her head, leans into her (which is awkward for her, Ben, don't do that). When he draws back he says rustily, "The rest of 'em are here. The squads. We all got back here. But I dunno — Cap'n Jo don't know who else — who all else Cobalt was there. Or —" He pauses, goes a shade whiter. "Sil. Was with the 6th EU. Wyrmbane said — Wyrmbane said he come back but —" He looks at Mizzy again. "Have you seen him? You seen Sil? He come through… here?"
She shakes her head. "I haven't seen him, but there are so many…" She leaves it at that. "I don't understand, though. You said the Forsaken did this? They dropped plague cannisters on people?"
"Yeah," says Ben hoarsely. "On all the people. They — the Lich King was there, too. I mean. He come out of the gate, he was facin' off the Highlord. I think they was — they meant to get him with it too? But they definitely did not… just mean to get him. They fucken… filled the ravine, Mizzy. Alliance, Horde, everyone."
Her head shakes continue. "But that doesn't make any sense. With no warning? Didn't the Horde try to… back up or something? It must've been a mistake of some kind, a horrible…" She gropes for understanding. "Why?"
"I don't know," says Ben. "I don't know." He stares at her as though he's the one asking her that question. "Mizmainy. Ismene. I can't —" He wraps her up again suffocatingly. "I never been so glad to see you, and I have been real fucken glad to see you about a thousand times."
More kisses, along his jaw, his cheeks. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I wish I could take the sight of it from you. Do you want to go somewhere? We could go somewhere."
"Yeah," he says roughly. "I do, yeah. Can they spare you here? I want to just — can we go up? To the room? But if they need —" He looks helplessly around them.
She takes his chin firmly in her hand. "You need healing, too," she says, firm but quiet. She slips out of his grasp just enough so she can walk, taking his hand in hers as she heads to the room. "There aren't… I can't expect we'll get too many more from the battle site."
Ben makes a choked noise and stumbles after her, clumsy Clydesdale towed by Chihuahua.
Once they're out of the bustle and noise and the worst of the screams, she takes his hearthstone out and puts it in his hand, then removes hers. A moment later, she's in Dalaran waiting for the Clydesdale. When he appears, it's a short walk to their rooms and a locked door between them and the world. "Do you … no, you're probably not hungry. Something to drink?"
Ben collapses heavily into the nearest chair, puts his face in his hands, scrubs vigorously. He gives Mizzy a bleary, plaintive look. "We got anything — strong?"
She picks up a bottle and, after a moment's thought, doesn't bother with a glass. "Brandy," she says. "Sorry, I don't think there's any of that corn stuff." Walking close, she hands him the bottle, then kneels at his feet so she can look up at him. "For once, I won't punish you for getting drunk," she says, a hint of teasing in her voice. Just a little.
Ben makes a heh noise that is his best stab at a laugh right now. His eyes are still strained. He uncorks the bottle and tips it up to swig brandy in a way that brandy was not really designed to be swug.
"You said it didn't hurt Arthas? Do you think it was his trick, not theirs?" She asks these things gently, not wanting to trip over his pain.
"I don't —" Ben knits his brow. After a moment he shakes his head. "No, I think — Azizia, or someone? Said? He was… limpin', when he left. He was — I could not hear it all, from where we was, but I think he was… pissed. To see them up there. The Forsakens." He passes an unsteady hand across his eyes, drinks again.
"I don't understand," Mizzy says again. She strokes Ben's thighs, soothing as best she can. "How could anyone do that to their own allies? The rest of the Horde? I…suppose I could understand if they betrayed just us, but everyone? Maybe it was just some of them, and the dragons got them all." Optimists can be so adorable.
"Maybe," says Ben viciously, "the Horde never should've trusted 'em. Could've told 'em that." His expression softens at once, sorrow and chagrin, and he looks down at Mizzy. "Kitten-cat," he says. "That was — it was like ten thousand people."
She blinks and shakes her head a little. "Th— No, that's…" She blinks again. "They're all just reform— They're back at the camps or th— Some must've escaped, you can't kill that many people just like that." Her voice scales upward.
"Six thousand Alliance," Ben says, his voice cracking. "Six thousand. And the Horde — they said it was like four. Thousand. Four thousand Horde. There was ten thousand people in that canyon." He is crying again silently, has another swig of brandy, offers Mizzy the bottle. You know. Just in case.
She takes it and drinks down a swallow. If nothing else, the taste bites through her shock and she makes a series of faces that end in a full-body shudder. "Ten thousand. That has to be… I can't even picture it. Stormwind would be so quiet if it lost ten thousand people. If they just vanished so quickly in plague and dragon fire."
Ben reaches for her and the bottle simultaneously, beckoning her up to his lap. It isn't clear which of them this shift is meant to comfort: it seems at least as much for him as for her.
She lets him have the bottle first, which says something about her opinion on brandy, then slides onto his lap. "I should go back," she says, head on his shoulder. "I feel guilty. Even knowing that… ten thousand dead. I feel like I should be there to do… something. I don't know what. As if I could save some of them if only I were there."
"To Wintergarde?" Ben asks. He wraps his arm around her, has another swallow of brandy, and then rests his head atop hers wearily. "They can — they probably need you, I reckon. I just —" He turns his face, breathes in the scent of her hair. Even if it is kind of an Infirmary scent right now. "Can I just sit with you a minute here?" After a silence he says, "That is the fourth time I seen him. And he was not the worst thing I saw today." He shudders, takes a deep breath.
"They probably don't need me there," she says softly. "It's not like more wounded will be trickling in. After a point, there just won't be any more, because of… of what you saw." Her fingers splay over his chest. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," he says, and laughs humorlessly. "Should I? I should, prob'ly. I dunno — what to say." He draws another deep breath. "It was — Mizz, I don't think none of us even believed it until it was too late."
"I wouldn't have, either. How can you?" She shakes her head, just a bit. "I suppose I'd have died, running toward them to help. I don't think I could've heard the screams and not — not gone toward them."
Ben drops the brandy bottle — sorry, floor — and wraps his other arm around her tightly, crushes her and rocks her against him. "I am so glad you weren't there, Mizz. Shit. I am — if you —" She can't see his face, but she might guess from his strangled tone that there are tears happening again.
"Shh," she says, reaching up a hand to stroke what parts of his face she can reach. "I was safe, I'm safe now. This is why most healers stay back. We don't have the good sense to know when to run away." She turns her head, kisses his hair. "I'm glad you did, before…" She doesn't finish. Just before. "There wasn't anything else to do. I wonder how many were caught because they didn't run, didn't see or believe in time."
"We — wouldn't have," says Ben, a miserable whisper. "I do not know if we would have. If we was down there. We did not believe it, Mizz. If we was —" He stops abruptly. "I saw some of 'em. Just… watchin' it happen, comin' at them."
That hangs in the air a moment, Ismene giving him the space to see it all over again. "And there was nothing you could do about it," she says quietly. "Tell me about the dragons, I don't understand that part."
"I don't neither," he says. "I don't — we was there, at the Temple. With the Queen. She — helped us, we helped her. Against the frost wyrms, so we could — make the advance. But when we went back to the Hold to do it, the — battle. They wasn't there. They came, after the place was — full of plague. And they set it all on fire. To burn it up. The plague. So it… did not spread." Another pause. "How did they know? If they was still — down at the Temple, how did they know, to get there? An' if they known it, why wasn't they — there sooner?"
"That's the part that I was confused about. But maybe they weren't told in time?" she hazards. "Maybe by the time they knew, it was too late to do anything but stop it from getting worse. And it would have gotten worse. What a thing, when dragon fire is a mercy." She lowers her head back to his shoulder. "So many lost," she murmurs. "We'll never know how many, really. Never know who. Just that it's not you." She clings to him as best she can. "Not you. It's so selfish, but it wasn't you and I'm happy. I'm sorry I'm happy."
He rocks her again. "I am too. I am — I ain't happy. But I am, shit. Mizzy. I feel like — it ain't feel right."
"It's okay," she says firmly. "It's all right to be happy you're alive. Haven't we learned this lesson by now? Just… keep telling me, and I'll keep telling you and we'll get through this, too." Won't we, Ben? She doesn't sound sure. "We're together. It's all right to be happy we're together."
"I'm happy," he says. He insists, against some looming grief. "Shit, Mizzy, I am — so happy for you, I don't know how I would do if —" That thought cuts off. He rocks her and looks down at the floor beside the chair. "I dropped the bottle," he observes, with a sheepishness a little surreal in the moment.
"It's Dalaran," she says. "It'll clean itself up when we're not looking." She strokes his face again, a brush of soft palm against the scruff on his face. Leaning in, she kisses the corner of his mouth. "I love you."
"I love you," he says hoarsely. "I love you, Ismene." He takes her jaw with one hand and kisses her forcefully, attempting to imprint this fact on her with, apparently, his tongue.
Intrigued, she turns on his lap to straddle his thighs. It's important that he have full access to maximize this new form of love-imprinting. "Ben," she whispers, "maybe you could take your armor off."
He chases her for a moment, trying to renew the kiss, and then her question gets through. Rather than answer her in words, he immediately begins attempting to shed his armor, tugging at pauldron buckles like he isn't totally sure how his hands work at the moment but he is gonna make them do this thing, dammit.
Ismene helps him where she's able. Stupid buckles. But it's certainly more comfortable to sit on an unarmored lap, and once some of the pieces are flung away, she gets back to kissing him.
Ben gets both hands into her hair and kisses her passionately, desperately. His hands drop to her back, and he fairly claws at her, the shape of her, her clothing — he picks her up bodily, rises as if to carry her toward the bedroom — and then no, that's too much wasted time, he needs something too badly. He folds to his knees on the floor, holding Mizzy against him, and then folds forward to lay her on her back there, his own weight atop her. His mouth moves on hers, on her jaw, on her throat; his fingers hunt for buttons.
Of all the days to wear trousers. Mizzy lets Ben fuss with the buttons on her shirt while she undoes the tie at her waist, wriggling against him as she works to push them down. Still, there's an air of gentleness to her touch on his body, a soft pliancy to her body against his touch that meets his hunger.
He gets her shirt open, doesn't bother tugging it off her shoulders — open is the important part — and then is faced with the problem of his own clothing. He makes a fustrated noise and lifts himself off her just enough to pull his own sweat-damp shirt over his head, and find his trouser-buttons with hurried hands.
Mizzy arches her body into him, her hands sweeping across his bare back, fingers trailing up his spine. Her legs part, soft thighs brushing the hard muscles of his as she offers herself. Her voice is a murmur that doesn't quite cross the boarder into coherence, gentle and quiet.
Despite his initial urgency, once he is within her Ben's manner abruptly gentles as well. He moves tenderly, carefully, his breath and lips warm against her skin, finding comfort in her warmth and softness, and in his care of her. When they are finished, he doesn't draw away from her, but collects her against him and rolls over so that he is lying on his back, Mizzy gathered against his side. "Ismene," he asks her quietly, "do you want a baby?"
Mizzy drapes her leg over his, snuggling so she can rest her head against his shoulder where it's comfortable. She splays her hand over his chest. "What, now?" she asks. "Shouldn't you have asked me that maybe ten minutes ago?"
Ben laughs. "I mean, if you say yes, I can go again in a little bit." He tucks his chin to cast her a melting look. "But I mean, like. In general. I mean I know in general. But you know what I mean." He pauses. "And you don't got to say yes, not now. I know we talked about it. I just — was wonderin'."
She smiles into that look. "I do," she says. "You know I do. But I thought we agreed it's too soon. You had things you wanted to do first, and I can't exactly be a battlefield healer with a baby on my hip." She sits up a little, to see his expressions more clearly. "Did… did today change your mind?"
"I don't know," he admits. "I just was thinkin' about it. You an' a baby. But none of the rest is changed neither. I got things to do. You got — we sure as hell do need healers still." He hesitates. "Maybe you could help me with that, some?"
"Help you." She sounds unsure. "With healing?"
Ben nods, also unsure. "I mean. We both know I am pretty shit at it right now. But what if I wanted to… learn it more? To try? You reckon you could help me, maybe?"
"You're not shit at it!" She sits up even more, propping herself up with one hand between them. "You've just not had time to devote to learning it, that's all. You heal in the middle of fighting, and it's amazing what you can do." She nods once, having defended Ben's ability to be perfect. Then she adds, "Of course, it's mostly just practice but it's also a mindset. If I can help, I'd be proud to."
He smiles and lifts his head, reaching to draw her back down at the same time, to kiss her. "I would like to learn it from you," he says against her lips. When he drops his head back again, his eyes are puppy-solemn. "I will go with you back to Wintergarde now," he tells her. "To the infirmary? I ain't sure how much use I am there yet, but I can — help roll bandages, or whatever. You an' Mordecai can point me at stuff."
"You can heal," she says. "There are plenty who'll need it, the ones who got only a partial healing until everyone was seen to. You heal, and I'll be behind you. You can't hurt anyone, and it's the best way to learn. You'll see." She strokes his face with one hand. "Then tonight, we can come back here and discuss more about babies." Smiling slowly, she nips his lower lip between her teeth.
He makes a low sound, his eyelids drifting closed, and slides his hands down her back to her hips. "If we are gonna get back to Wintergarde before that," he advises her hoarsely, "we maybe better do it soon. Sooner we get back here."
She giggles, then bites her own lip instead of his. "Are you sure you're ready?" she asks, serious. "To go back there. To see it all."
He sobers, and for a moment his expression is bleakly weary again. But he nods. "Yeah." He closes his eyes, takes a breath. "Yeah. I mean. I got to be. It is what it is. An' they need us. I will — I'm gonna wash my face an' get clean clothes. An' then I will — come help."