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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Little glimpses into the reactions to Wrathgate of a handful of characters: Sil, Leric, Lena, Syarra and Aszera. ~1000 words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: Wrathgate
There’s so much noise. So much noise, so many people. It all blurs together into a buzz of constant distress just below the level of understanding.
Sil sits in the barracks, staring at nothing. He’s at Fordragon Keep, isn’t he? At the Wrathgate. No… no wait, he’s back at Wintergarde. He tries to remember how he got back here, exactly. There was the plague, on the battlefield, and then Boles… No. Captain Tyrrell had ordered them to retreat, but Lazal’dris had tried to… No.
The dragons overhead. He remembers that. And someone saying can’t be resurrected. But Sil’s been resurrected before, he can be resurrected. Still, he doesn’t think he died at the Wrathgate. He’s pretty sure. Everything just feels so distant. Cobalt was there, too, and Sil hasn’t seen whether Ben or the others… No.
He can’t think about these things. It feels like poking a wound, though he isn’t hurt. Like at Light’s Hope Chapel. Not hurt, just… empty. There’s a pang in his stomach, and he wonders if he’s hungry. He should go eat, probably. Maybe not yet. He can just rest here a little while longer.
—-
Leric stands on the high bluff of the battlefield, looking over the destruction. The fire, the curling flowers from the red dragons, the disturbing scent that might be the burned remnants of the plague. So many dead, and for what? He’d been near the back of the lines, and still so many of his battalion hadn’t made it out alive. His captain was dead. And most of his men. All because of the Horde. He clenches his hands into fists.
“So much for common enemies,” he mutters bitterly, glaring at the rise where the plague wagons had rested. “I will never trust them again. Not even with a knife at their own throat. Without them, we could have won. We could have won.”
He grits his teeth and turns from the battlefield. Devon and Dara would be worried, when they heard what happened. So would Kalindra, most likely. He would need to write to… wait, what about that Glenarvan chap? His soon-to-be brother-in-law, if Dara’s effusive letters were to be believed? If he’d died, then his body would likely have already been burnt to ash, but if he’d lived…
“Leithan Glenarvan,” he says, and sighs. “I’ll see if I can find him in all this mess.”
—-
Lena comes down from the wall, back amongst the dispirited troops. Naxxramas is still held at bay, and she’s done her part raining fire to keep it that way for one more day. She makes her way towards the inn, pushing through the knots of people.
The Cobalt squads came back safely. And the 6th EU… at least part of it. How many had they lost, exactly? Not Tyrrell, not Sil, that much she’d been told. How did they die? Was it as terrible as the scout that day with the summoning? And where is Siamus Fallon? Why did he go into a battle without ships, anyway?
She knew from experience that the reality hadn’t sunk in yet. She was still in that moment between the cut of a blade and the welling of blood. She wasn’t looking forward to the pain, when it hit. But for now…
“Do I still have a job with the fleet?” Lena wonders aloud. Someone looks over at her, and then just looks away. Maybe talking to yourself isn’t considered that odd today.
—-
Undead hooves beat the frozen ground as the lifeless scenery of the Dragonblight passes by. The rider on its back is solid saronite armor and rage incarnate. Her gaze of cold blue fire stares steadily forward as dark thoughts spin through her head.
How dare they. How dare they. This couldn’t be the work of the Dark Lady. It just couldn’t. She wouldn’t throw their lives away like that. She wouldn’t throw their reputations away like that.
“They’ll never trust us,” Syarra mutters to her undead charger, wishing for a moment that the creature was Glory. But no, that mare belongs to some other paladin now. One that hadn’t died and been raised as a Lich King’s puppet. Would anyone ever believe she could be more than that now? “Everything was going so well. I should have known it couldn’t last. It never does.”
—-
Aze comes into the camp at Light’s Trust in the evening, her muscles aching from a day of fighting undead trolls. No one greets her, but her long ears twitch as she hears murmurs of dark news. Massive casualties, says ones. Defeat at the Wrathgate, says another. I heard they all died to plague and dragonfire, says a third.
The Wrathgate. Kit had gone there to help. Aze trudges over to where her own tent is, next to Kit’s. The paladin hasn’t returned. There’s a familiar sinking feeling in her stomach, and suddenly the weariness is overwhelming.
Again. Why is this happening again? She’d heard that Cobalt Company was at the Wrathgate. Kit was at the Wrathgate. The Crimson Coterie, probably. Syarra and Roper were there, too. Aze steps over to Kit’s tent, pushing the rough tent flap aside. Empty, of course. She ducks her head to enter and curls up on the bedroll without taking off arms or armor. If Kit returns - when Kit returns - she won’t miss her.
There’d been happiness this time, hadn’t there, before it fell apart? Sharing a flask by the fire. Dancing in Telaar. Other tentative friendships, barely started. She’d even gotten her sister back for a while, sort of, and started building something like a new family.
Sometimes tears are a release. Kit had said once. It must be terrible not to be able to cry.
Maybe she’s right, but it doesn’t make any difference right now. Aze doesn’t cry, because she can’t. And she doesn’t sleep, for the same reason. She just lies there, as the world darkens around her.