(2023-07-23) Azizia's journal : Entry Three

Details

Author:	Saaron
Summary:	Azizia writes in her journal, a few days after the events at Wrathgate.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

Arc: Wrathgate

I’m lost.

I’m lost and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my footing again.

My people are long-lived, and we’ve seen terrible things in the past centuries, but I have been lucky enough to avoid looking at them directly. Until now.

I’ve seen what happened at the Wrathgate. The fighting, the hope, and the green smoke that smothered it until all that were left were the screams of the survivors, overpowering those of the ones that did not make it.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this does. The Forsaken, they didn’t just attack their enemies. They threw their disgusting chemicals at the Horde, too. They who took them in, they who trusted them. At least, as far as I know, the Horde did trust them. They couldn’t have betrayed them, if they didn’t. This wouldn’t make sense.

But nothing does.

I’ve been helping with the survivors, trying to save those that still can be. But it doesn’t make sense, I’ve given up on working on my healing abilities years ago. Years ago I made the promise that I would only live for myself, that I wouldn’t worry about others, as it only brought me pain. After what I’ve seen, heard, smelled… that’s a promise that doesn’t make sense anymore.

So I’ve been healing. It’s exhausting. Working with water spirits to wash away the residues of Plague from the people who’d narrowly escaped it. I’ve been using the herbs the Alliance can provide to make potions that hopefully will give them the strength to wake up another day.

When I crush these herbs, mix these vials, I look at my hands and I see these Forsaken’s hands moving the exact same way to make their weapon. All I can think of is that it doesn’t make sense.
When it happened, I saw the sadness in everyone else. Alliance. Horde. The Elements cried in pain as the Plague spread through them. So I did what I thought was right. I pretended to be strong. For all of them. I said we shouldn’t stay on the battlefield, watching our healers waste away trying to bring back those that couldn’t be brought back. I stayed calm. I shared my energy with the air, to strengthen it. I managed to do that, because again, none of this made sense. If I thought a little bit too much about what was happening, if it had started to make just a tiny bit of sense… I would probably have given up right here and there.

I was wearing a bandana, today, to cover my mouth, just to prevent breathing in any residue of that Plague. And then I saw my reflection in one of the vials. I realized I haven’t been taking care of myself, since that day. It makes no sense to see me, who’ve promised to only care about myself, with my messy curls tangled like this. I removed the bandana, and used it to cover parts of my hair. That made sense for a while, it felt like going back to the old me. I pictured myself, when my hair was longer, wearing it styled in such a way, and thought how cute this would have looked! And soon after, it didn’t make sense anymore. The old me didn’t see what I saw, and a bandana on my head would never change that.

And, then after a long day, I went to the inn, to have a drink. I didn’t expect it to be this full, and full of people I know too.

There was a big table, some people there I knew. They talked about the incident, but they seemed almost… casual, although there was some worry, sadness, and restlessness.

That didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t know how to approach a conversation like this… Any conversation that is not work, that isn’t about how to save a life, it doesn’t make sense right now. I try, I really do. I talk about my nails, or my hair, or my makeup, or my clothes, but I feel like a parody of myself when I do. Of course I don’t care about these things while I’m trying to keep people alive in the barracks. Those people who’ve escaped such a harrowing fate… But I’m just trying to keep things normal, when I say I do. To go back to normal. It’s not really working.

And on the other side of the inn, at the bar, there was a more devastating conversation going on, between two people I know. Tears were involved. I couldn’t approach such a conversation either. I have lost no one close on that battlefield, as far as I know. I have no reasons to break down, to cry with those who are crying. And yet, I almost wish to. It doesn’t make sense.

But a few days ago, I defended Mr. Mordecai, after he disagreed with one of his superiors. Speaking to her like this, with all the sarcasm I could muster, that made sense.

I secretly wish she would disagree with him again so I could tell her to fuck off once more.