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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Celaven happens across his half-sister Florande in Stormwind just before his deployment. They speak of family and work, as well as future plans and worries. ~2000 words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
The branch's bark is rough and solid beneath Florande’s back. She tries to feel the life of it, the movement of sap and the stretch of its proud branches towards the sun. Shan’do Silvershade can be a tree sometimes. It’s a form for healing. She thinks that might be what she needs right now, healing. So she is an elf, and she is in a tree.
Florande has not spent as much time as she used to in elf-form during the past year – the allure of a simpler, more animal mind is hard to deny. In the months after the Nightmare, there were many days of being a bear, eating flowers, catching fish, drowsing in the sun. Then, Vashj’ir. She felt far less trapped as a sea lion, fitting into the ecosystem of prey and predator, drifting with the currents that formed Nespirah’s breath. And now, a return to the bear. As an animal, it is easier to feel the present moment, to let the past and future fade away, to let complicated feelings slip through her fingers.
She keeps some thread of the elf in every form, as she has been taught. The temptation to let go is always there, but she knows cannot embrace the animal fully, not without losing herself. So she holds on as little as she can, letting the elvish memories and worries drift away until they are nothing but storm clouds on the horizon.
When she is an elf, if she does not keep herself busy, the storm is there waiting for her. The pain of vines bursting through flesh. Her father’s blank, uncaring eyes. Cruel white-winged shapes drifting in the sky over Andorhal. A friend dragged away by naga. Returning to a ruined camp. There is so much rain in this storm, and each droplet hurts when it hits her. Still, the rain keeps falling and soaking into her skin, becoming a part of her.
That is what she has learned from the magic-damaged Kalu’ak, from her mother’s scarred face and spirit. Hiding is not wrong, when she hasn’t the strength to face the storm. But it will be there, when she is ready. The storm is patient, and so must she be. Even so, there is no reason to be afraid. Just feel, accept. She is a druid of the Cenarion Circle – she knows how the weather works. Storms can destroy, but they can also bring new growth.
“Florande, is that you up there?” asks a smooth and silky elf voice, interrupting her thoughts.
“Mmph,” Florande says in response, eloquently communicating her current emotional state. Casually, she rolls off the branch, shimmering into a panther in time to land on all fours and then straighten into an elf again. Shifting seems to come easier these days.
Celaven Evensong, her half-brother, is standing there, looking at her quizzically. He looks like a statue in the Elune temple, flowy hair and pristine robes. And Saion is right. He smells of flowers. Florande sniffs again, though her sense of smell is less keen in elf-form, and decides that it probably really is flowers, not a perfume. Celaven likes flowers.
Oh, he is still staring at her. Did he say something?
“I’m fine, how are you?” Florande says in Darnassian. Wait, was that right? Was that what he had asked?
There’s an odd look in his silver eyes, and it makes her think she guessed wrong. But all he says is, “I’m doing well, sister. I haven’t seen you lately, so I was simply surprised to find you in a Stormwind tree. I did not mean to disturb you.”
“No, no, you are not disturbing,” Florande says with a laugh. “I was just thinking. Sorting memories. That kind of thing.”
“A valuable pursuit,” Celaven nods. “I used to meditate by the moonwell, for a similar purpose. There is, regrettably, no longer one here in Stormwind. Have you been staying here?”
Florande shakes her head, and brings up one hand to brush tangled hair back from her eyes. “I have been taking a holiday for a little while, since Vashj’ir. My mother is fine now, and she has friends to look after her. I fish sometimes, make new friends, spend time with Velrin — she is a sister now — here… in Darnassus… in Moonglade…”
Celaven hesitates, and Florande notices a little flicker of pain in his expression. Where does he hurt? Can it be mended? If it could, he would have mended it already – he is a healer. She stays silent, waiting to see if he will tell her what is hurting. Silent presence is what helped at Indu’le Village. It is what always helped with her mother, when she was in a bleak mood.
“Speaking of Moonglade, have you heard anything about our father?” Celaven asks after a long pause, and then she understands the hurt. Not only that, she shares it. Drops of rain in a storm. Drops of pain.
“We have no father,” Florande says reflexively, which is both true and not. She tilts her head, and draws up a smile, and says, “Unless you mean to ask about Shan’do Silvershade? He cares for us both, as a father should. He is well, I think. Living happily since Aviana was reborn.”
“No, I mean, yes, you’re right, Caspis is…” Celaven says, and draws a breath. “I was referring to Cerelar Dawnshadow. There is some concern about his whereabouts. My mother and Caspis have found that the Circle’s prisoners are missing.”
There’s a long moment before Florande reacts. Missing? He has been missing for over a year. Since he stood there and watched her scream for help, watched her heart break. Tears falling like rain on twisting vines. She would always miss the person she’d thought he was. That is not what Celaven means.
“Missing… from…. prison?” Florande says, drawing out the words slowly. “Why? How?”
“I don’t know why,” Celaven says, pressing his lips together in that mild, concerned way he has. “Or how. No one knows where they are. Him, and the others, and Staghelm. Florande, do not tell anyone of this yet, but I thought you should know. If they are free, then there is a chance he may seek you out.”
“He does not care about me,” Florande says, shaking her head. Somewhere deep inside she knows that this is another thing that is both true and not. She tries to stop hiding, to find the words that are more true. “I think he cares more about the people he wants to see than the people who are.”
Celaven’s thin brow draws down at this, but then he nods. “In any case, the Nightmare is defeated, but we don’t know what they might do, or even if Staghelm still leads them. So be careful if you see Dawnshadow. I will as well.”
Florande nods and reaches over to hug him, an animal instinct to offer and ask for warmth and comfort. She is probably dirtying his pretty robes. He doesn’t complain. He just holds her against his side, stroking her hair back and working out the tangles with one delicate hand.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” Celaven says quietly. “I’ll be leaving Stormwind tomorrow, heading with my expeditionary unit to Hyjal. there have been rumblings up that way, hints of a new danger. I do not know if it is connected to this problem of the prisoners or not. Based on past experience, I would imagine it’s something to do with the cult, or the Firelands, or perhaps both. I know where to find my mother, my sister, Caspis, and Velrin, so I can make sure they’re safe. You are more challenging to find.”
“Maybe I should make myself harder to find, then,” Florande says, her eyes half-closed as she enjoys the petting like a cat might. “I could go to Tol Barad, maybe? I was supposed to, before, but then there was the kraken. And Nespirah. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t just get distracted. Now they have a portal, so maybe I should go be a soldier. I wanted to practice that, after Andorhal and the death knights. I don’t think that loss was my fault either, not anymore, but I still want to get better at soldiering. I’m not a bad soldier, most of the time.” Her ears twitch, and she opens luminous eyes up at her half-brother. “If I train up more, maybe I can be a soldier at Hyjal, too.”
“You’re a mercenary, Florande,” Celaven says patiently. “Not a soldier. It’s not a bad thing. It suits you better – and I think being a soldier suits me better in the end, though I would not have guessed that years ago.” Then he pauses, drawing back, and there’s another flicker of concern in his eyes. “But speaking of Andorhal and the undead, there was something I wanted to ask you. Did you really send Roper Sunstrike a carving as a gift?”
“Mmph,” Florande says again, releasing Celaven. It’s an affirmative mumble. She reluctantly clarifies, “Yes, I… I made a carving after the Nightmare, to help things settle. It was a carving of pain and horror. You said they like pain, so I thought… he said he liked it.”
“Oh yes, he likes it,” Celaven says, and there’s a lilt of amusement in his voice. “He and his wife still have it on display in their home. They’re in the Redridge Mountains now.”
Florande tilts her head, thinking back, thinking back. There was something. He liked the carving, he said. He also said… “He said he had a question for me, but I never heard him ask it.”
Celaven stares at her, the amusement in his smile fading back into concern. “Have you been speaking with him outside the Dream?”
Florande shakes her head. “It was a letter, after he got the carving. In the end, I didn’t go back to Northrend after the Nightmare, so I didn’t… If you know where he is in Redridge, I can go to him and hear his question.”
“I am not sure… if that’s wise,” Celaven says slowly. “Perhaps I could accompany you.”
“Why? You’re the one who introduced me,” Florande points out, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re heading to Hyjal, so you can’t come with me. Anyway, I have worked with death knights before in waking – they were allies in Andorhal. Thassarian. Mercy. I understand what they are, knights of death, marked by Karkut. They did not choose to be ripped from the cycle of life, and now they serve it. They do not pull others out, as they were taken, but guide them onward.”
“I am not sure you understand,” Celaven says, looking down at her. “It is as you said earlier – they like pain. They need pain. You see that, don’t you? They are predators, and their quarry is pain. I agree that it is not their fault, but that also means they cannot help it. It makes them dangerous. I believe that there is value in encouraging them to overcome their limitations, but you…”
Florande draws her brow down. “Are you afraid I will go and… hurt at them? Provoke their… limitations? Do you think that I do not know how to interact with another predator creature? Celaven, brother, I spend much of my life as a predator. I know how I am often seen when I am an elf, but I am also dangerous.”
“Yes, but you are still… very young,” Celaven says, and she can read the very naive in his face, though he doesn’t say it.
“I will be careful in all the things we have discussed. But do not worry – I am not that young anymore. Not since…” Florande trails off at a sudden chill, looking up at the sky. Clouds are drifting in front of the sun. A storm may be coming soon, but it doesn’t matter. She is ready.