(2023-07-26) The Pretty Cage

Details

Author:	Saaron
Summary:	A few days after the events of Wrathgate, Elohad spots Azizia, and after hearing her struggles, offers some advice.
Rating:	T for Teen

Arc: Wrathgate

Azizia is again, wearing her mostly sensible outfit, with a brown dress and a red apron. She enters the inn in Wintergarde, falls into a chair, and throws her soaking-wet gloves on the table. She dries her hands on her apron, then rubs her face with them, slowing moving to massage her temples. She closes her eyes, taking deep breaths. That’s been her routine for the past few days. She looks at the innkeeper, nodding at her. The elf nods back, and goes behind the bar to prepare her strongest drink for Azizia. They understand each other pretty well, at this point.

“Azizia?” The voice behind her is softly shocked, but running through it are threads of relief and joy. Sir Elohad Ference is standing near the bar, easily recognizable by his balding golden head. He starts toward her table without hesitation, and his body language suggests that his first instinct was to rush over for a hug. Only as he gets closer does he seem to remember that Azizia is Not the Hugging Type and slow his approach to suit a polite loitering near the table instead.

Azizia's eyes widen as she recognizes the voice. She turns around abruptly. He approaches fast, and all social skills fade away from her brain. Elohad body language isn't looking like someone wanting to hug her - he's still angry at her for the failed ritual. If she wasn't looking tense already, she does now. Even more so. "Mr. Elohad… Hello."

His face breaks out in a tired but sincere smile as he seats himself in another chair at her table. “Light, it’s been so long.” Then his face grows more serious. “I read the reports. How are you holding up? Is there anything I can do for you?”

"I am… Doing okay," she nods at the innkeeper bringing her her very obviously, very strong drink. "There is much work since last Sunday, none of which I am qualified for. I do not think you can help me, in particular." She downs her glass of moonshine as if it was water. Water with a powerful scent of alcohol. "And you?"

Elohad eyes the drink and seems to be making a mental note. “Well…” he says hesitantly, “things are a bit hectic with the new job and all, but it’s not wartime or anything. I’ve got it easy compared to you. What kinds of work have they had you doing? Have you been helping the injured or… Light, I imagine there’s all kinds of chaos that needs managing up here right now. And none of it very pleasant.”

"Ah yes, you are very high in human society now. Congratulations," Azizia nods. Her gaze is a little avoidant. "They have not me do anything. I choose to help with injured, yes… But I gave up healing long ago, on Draenor," she plays with her empty glass. "I am not ready for work like this, but every bit help in situation like this. Especially since water spirits help with both poison and disease."

When she mentions Draenor as the reason for giving up healing, his eyes soften slightly. When she is finished speaking, he nods. “No one is ever ready for something like this,” he says quietly, “but yes, your contributions are helpful, even if they don’t feel large. I want to thank you for volunteering to go to Northrend, Azizia. You’ve done good work here and made the Company proud.”

She slightly shakes her head as he speaks, clearly believing what she can do isn't enough. Azizia's head snaps in his direction, frowning as Elohad mentions volunteering. "I did not… Volunteer?" It's a question. "I volunteer to stay, yes, but I did not say I want to go here."

Elohad looks briefly confused. “Well.. no I suppose you didn’t bring up the idea, but when I asked you to join Blue Squad, you were willing. And I appreciate it. Not everyone in this world has the skills and experience to make a difference at all, even a little - to do anything up in Northrend but die, even when things are going to plan. So it means a lot to me that you were willing to lend your expertise and your insight to Cobalt Company. You’ve accomplished quite a lot up here, and as for all this –” He gestures around with a deep, weary sigh. “No one could have prevented this. All the Alliance’s best people were on the job – including many of the elders of your people, who have seen every kind of ruin and betrayal there is – and still the Forsaken took us all by surprise.”

“I was willing… because I was repenting for mistakes. I thought you sent me to Northrend as punishment for ritual, because I had failed you!” Her shoulders drop. “I would not have accepted without this. I am not strong for Northrend. I never was. I am weak!” She runs her hands through her hair, resting them both on the back of her head. “You say I saw what happened at Wrathgate… by mistake?”

Elo looks thunderstruck, deeply pained. “Azizia… no…” he says softly. “No, it wasn’t a mistake, and you didn’t fail me. Being on a forward squad is an honor, not a punishment. Never a punishment, despite how grueling and painful it can sometimes be. Only the best are even considered, and they are part of a skilled team that supports them and watches their back. You earned this. You had a reputation for fighting bravely, for communing with the elements and understanding them – we needed every kind of expertise and perspective we could get in Northrend. We needed you. We still do! And Azizia…”

He reaches across the table, doesn’t touch her but lays his hand on the table near her. He takes a deep breath.

“I should never have asked you to do that ritual. I’m sorry.” His voice goes a little rough. “It’s I who failed you. Failed to be a leader and an example. I let my grief swallow me up until I was desperate. I used you, and we both paid the price for it. I think I paid a terrible price, in fact – I lost your trust. Tell me… please… what can I do to earn it back?”

Azizia scoffs, not at him, but at herself. “I thought I was sent in Squad here because this is all I would hate. No stores, no city until we could enter Dalaran, rude human leaders insulting Draenei…” She rubs her face with her hands. “I have to say, after what I saw last mission… I see even less of the honor of being on forward squad like this. I feel even more powerless than I did before, now.”She shakes her head. “You did not lose my trust. I thought it was… normal, to want to punish me after I failed to give you peace, with your father. Because again… I am weak, it was my fault. I do not know my shaman powers enough.” She doesn’t reach for his hand, but she looks at it, and acknowledges it’s there. “You have nothing to do to earn trust of mine back.”

“You are not weak, Azizia,” Elohad says firmly, decisively, his hand remaining near her as though it is somehow holding her in place. “Weak isn’t … feeling afraid, or failing to achieve a goal. Weak is lying down and giving up when that happens. But you didn’t. You accepted what you thought was punishment and bore it bravely. After Wrathgate you stayed and tried to help. I don’t know why it is that you’re so determined to see yourself as a disappointment, because I can look at the reports and see what you’ve done.”

He lifts his hand from the table so that he can tick things off on his fingers.

“Going into perilous places with the squads and fighting bravely. Multiple times. Warming D.E.H.T.A. up to the sight of the Cobalt tabard – did you even know they were attacking people on sight at first? Uplifting others. Silvershade said that you supported him during a crisis of faith and helped keep him from leaving the squad himself. All of you, not just you, but he mentioned you specifically, the firm way you steered him away from the ledge of self-pity when he couldn’t hear softer words. You are valued, Azizia. And you are strong. Just because your strength doesn’t look the same as Atley’s or the Aspenwoods’ - or some shaman you hold in your mind as the example that you should emulate – that doesn’t mean it isn’t strength. Only that you haven’t seen your unique value yet. But I see it. If you trust me, then believe me. You are strong.”

“No, no, you do not understand,” Azizia says, shaking her head. Are those tears in her eyes, or her reflection from the inn’s lights? “I did all the things you say, maybe, but it was coincidence, not some strength. I do not wish to be strong because I made promise to myself that I would live only for me, when I gave up healing.” She speaks with her hands up near her face, which she clenches and unclenches repeatedly. “If you are strong, people have expectations of you, they rely on you. I do not wish to be relied on. I wish to live for me, and me only.” She shakes her head. “But seeing what happened this past week, I realize I was right. Being just a little strong is making me suffer, because I cannot use that little bit of strength to save others. I could not use it to stop Forsaken. Had I only been completely weak… this would not be on my shoulders.”

Azizia scoffs again. “So maybe I helped Mr. Caspis with what I said, or maybe I made D.E.H.T.A. better allies… But it was not because I am strong. It is just because I said what I wanted to say when I wanted to say.” She smiles at him, a tear rolling down her face. “Please, let me just be disappointing, because it is better to never raise expectations than to fail them.”

Elo tears up a little, too, as he gazes at her. “Is that really what you want?” He searches her face. “I don’t want to let you go… but I don’t want to force you to be someone other than who you truly want to be. You make a good hero – but that’s not for me to decide. And… I’m sorry for pushing you into it. That’s the stupid theater director in me, always trying to cast people into roles I’ve written for them.”

“No, no, see… That is problem,” Azizia sighs, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I have started caring now. I like being on squad because I can make sure people I care about - like Miss Cress - are fine.” She joins her hands on her lap. “But at same time, being on squad stops me from learning better. I have less time to train healing. That is dilemma I am in now. Impossible and full of contradictions. I am unsure of everything, now. What I want and who I am, this is not clear at all anymore.”

“That’s a natural part of life, I promise you,” Elo says gently. “Even humans, with such short lives, find points along the way once or twice in their lives where they have no idea who they are or what to do next, times when they question everything. I promise you that what you’re feeling right now is normal, especially in the face of such drastic changes. Everything you went through on Draenor, then crashing here, then being put on a squad and being thrown into the middle of a war and bonding with people of a species you didn’t even know existed thirty years ago… if you were calm and certain of yourself right now it would mean there was something wrong with your brain.”

He leans forward again and once again lays his hand on the table near her. His olive-green eyes are searching and kind.

“I’m glad that you care about Cressidha and the others. Even though it hurts. There are some kinds of pain that – if you try to avoid them – all you end up doing is living in a cage. It may feel safer, but it makes you a prisoner. I want you to be free.” He sits up a little straighter, his gaze firm and decisive, but leaves his hand where it is. “Whatever free means to you. Whatever you need to do – to stay with us, to find an entirely new path – I want you to do it, but I want it to be a real choice that comes from deep inside you and not an attempt to keep yourself safe from pain. Embrace your confusion for now, your uncertainty, and give it time to settle, like sand after a storm in the desert. The squads are taking some rest after what happened anyway. Do whatever you need. Talk to anyone you want to confide in. I’m here for you, but I’m also not going to hold you down if what you need to do is go your own way.”

Azizia leans back, listening intently. She lowers her shoulders, as if they didn’t have to balance an extremely heavy weight, at least for a moment. She acknowledges the hand again, with a glance. She pauses for a little while, thinking all this over. She takes a deep breath, then turns around and, with a sign of her hand, orders another drink. She raises two fingers this time, though. “You know, going outside of cage you described has always brought much more pain than being in it.” She chuckles. “Pretty cage, with good decorations, and beautiful details in metal. Made by very competent artisan, that is sure.” She pauses again, massaging the bridge of her nose. “There is much I need to think about. As much as I like cage of mine, I think poison of Forsaken might have melted the bars, now. I will think of way to go during resting time… I just wish sand will settle in mind of mine sooner than later.”

“Boy do I know that feeling,” he says. “Just feel better already, Ference! Or so I’ve yelled at myself dozens of times. But sometimes all you can do is get from one breath to the next and hope it starts to make sense soon. And you know,” he adds as he watches the server come to bring their drinks, “maybe you decide you prefer the cage. And that’s okay too, as long as you know that’s what you want and climb back into it yourself. The only wrong way is to let life make the choice for you.”

Azizia chugs her drink again immediately as it’s set on the table. She takes a deep breath. “… Thank you. Usually, it is breaking things that makes me feel better, but it has not helped.” She pauses. “Well, except that one lady’s self-confidence, but she was being mean to Mr. Mordecai, so she deserved it. But it is you who helped most, today.” Her gaze lingers towards the door, outside, into the cold, snowy world of Northrend. “I will keep working here, helping with people who have survived Wrathgate. That is only choice I make for now. All the rest… it can wait.” Azizia suddenly looks up at him, realizing that she’s been rude this entire time. “Oh, and eh…” she raises her glass. “Cheers.”

Elo laughs a little bit, raising his glass as well. “Glad to be of help,” he says, and then, “Cheers,” and he takes a little drink. He grimaces, as though unused to the taste of it, and then, of all things, mutters, “Who would be mean to Mordecai?” It’s clearly a rhetorical question along the lines of Who would kick a puppy? and requires no answer. Only another drink.