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| Details |
| Author: | Luridel |
| Summary: | Cressidha finally writes in her journal again to tell the story of Beth Varley. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: Season 13
Chain: Cressidha's Journal
I grew up on the farm of Mr. and Mrs. Varley, and they had three sons. Jackson, Miles, and Colin. Colin was closest in age to Colson and I, and he was so accustomed to being the youngest that he was pleased when we moved in and he had two younger children to marvel at. We were 'the babies', and I am told that he alternated between being incredibly jealous of us and the attention we received and being in awe about just how small and precious children could be.
When Colson and I were seven, Lisibeth Varley was born.
Beth was a very ugly baby, but also incredibly cute at the same time. Suddenly it was Colson and I who were no longer the youngest. Fortunately, she was not our sister, so I was not competing for my own mother's attention, only Mrs. Varley's. But Beth was so small, and so precious, and she used to follow me around before she even learned to walk. She used to give Colson pretty rocks she found. I taught her how to braid hair before my family went back to Stormwind.
I saw her at Colson's wedding wearing an Alliance tabard I and barely so much as said hello. Late this summer, Lady Esprit Fallon asked me how the Varleys were doing and I didn't know. And today Beth Varley died on the battlefield holding my hand.
She grew up hearing us talk about how we were all going to join the army. Amadeus joined the army. Bertrand joined the army. Colson joined the army. If not for my magic, I would have joined the army. When I was young, I thought that was how we were going to save the world.
And Beth joined the army.
Dane called me a soldier today. 'Most people will live their entire lives without being confronted with a fraction of the darkness we've faced today,' he said.
Either the work of a soldier breaks you, or it changes you. Hardens you. I think I may have been getting harder on the outside, perhaps, but there is a part of me inside that is still screaming.
Why can't we all just stop killing each other?
The child I was, perhaps. Screaming her lungs out as I bury her alive.