Three

["...please..."]

["Please?"] she said, and her voice took on a tone that mocked him. She walked around the room, her robes now soaked with his dark blood, no longer white, and she brandished the white hot iron she'd taken from the forge.

Morticai hung by his arms, his legs broken and useless now, no longer able to support the weight of his body. His chest was covered in burns, his back with cuts from the dagger she kept on the table opposite him.

["Did he beg you for his life before you killed him?!!"] she screamed, turning suddenly to press the iron against his side. Morticai could only scream.

When she pulled it away, he gasped for breath, trying to speak, say anything to give him a respite. His body was on fire, and she hadn't bothered to heal him in hours. He knew that his legs were broken thanks to the hammer, that his ribs were broken thanks to the cudgel, that he'd been burned and cut and had Shadow magics slashed across him again and again and that, when she was ready, she would heal him and begin it all again.

He shuddered at the thought.

The same things came from her mouth, over and over, something about someone he had killed, but he honestly had no idea who it might be - he'd killed a lot of Night Elves since waking in the crypt - it was a singular obsession with him. Obviously he'd killed someone close to her for her to go through all of this to punish him for it. But why did she continue to demand information about his Locket?

Looking up, she had moved off into the corner, sobbing again at some memory. The table with her implements on it held his Locket, glistening in the firelight. He'd had a dream, brief yet glorious, in which Riz'Arah had come for him, had touched his forehead and killed his captors. But it was only a dream. No one had rescued him and now he was slowly being tortured to death.

["You want this?!"] she screeched at him, picking up the Locket in her fist, shaking it at him. ["Why?! What does it mean to you?!"]

He raised his chin at her, refusing to answer.

Screaming like a banshee, she drove the white hot poker through his chest like a sword. Morticai gasped as death took him again.

["You killed it again."]

["I did,"] she smiled, backing away.

["Do you want to break him? Is that what this is all about? Force him asnwer you?"]

["What?"]

["Are you trying to break his mind? It seems as if you are."]

Holding up the Locket, she says, ["I want to know what this is all about."]

Shifting in the shadows, the Rogue asks, ["Why? What does it matter?"]

["I want him to suffer......"]

The Rogue snorts, ["Isn't he suffering enough now?"]

["NO!"]

["...all right. Then, I suggest you put the gag back in, plug his ears with cloth, and put the hood back on. Torture him like that."]

["What? Why?"]

["I've watched him for a long time. He hates the darkness of the hood. I think he's terrified of it. Terror=suffering. Plus, do it rght, and you will break his mind. And then he will tell you anything at all you want."]

Nodding, the Priestess gone mad begins calling the Light to her again, stretching her hand out to the dead thing....

* * *

Morticai screamed silently. He could not see, could not hear, his own voice was muffled. Trapped. Again, he was trapped in his own mind, the way it had been before, when first he woke, trapped in his own mind, unable to communicate, to see to hear to speak except n the rare moment when he found the way out.

But no sooner would he find the way out, then he would slip, fall, and slide back down into the darkness....

He struggled against it, thrashing wildly, trying to find the twin pinpoints of light that indicated the way out - only he could not find them. There was nothing here - nothing but darkness.

It surrounded him, thick and heavy, swallowing light and sound and pushing in on him, his breaths coming in great, ragged gasps that burned his lungs and brought tears to his eyes and he tries to see, tries to run, to find the way out only it wasn't there and what if it never came back and he never found his way out and he was trapped in his mind again, unable to speak to live to love to.......

......creepy crawly on his skin, wriggling writhing feasting on his flesh, trapped beneath the rotting others the soil the stench, unable to move, unable to see to scream to dig but oh! the sounds thundering in his ears as they thud above him and the dirt still falls and he cannot move, his shoulders burning and they start to get in now he can feel them through the wraps hungry and determined and still he cannot move, cannot scream the taste of the bloodied rag in his mouth and the in the darkness falling, falling, falling......

* * *

The Priestess gone mad watched as the thing struggled and squirmed, it's discomfort and suffering a thousand times worse then she had ever dreamed possible. She gave the Rogue a sidelong glance and received a smirk for her trouble. Returning her gaze to the thing, it thrashed more and more. Hours had passed, and it's suffering grew more and more intense.

...and then, it cried out something more intelligible than the screams it had been spewing. Moving closer, she listened and again, it seemed to be crying out something meaningfull. The decision made, she whipped off the hood, pulled at the gag - it was weeping, tears streaming down it's face. It coughed and hacked, then said something interesting to her, sounding almost like a plea:

["Rizarah..."]

Arching an eyebrow, she touched its chin, lifted its eyes to meet hers, holding up the Locket. ["Tell me about this....Rizarah...."]

* * *

She lowered her hands, the dark blue light enshrouding them slowly fading. Across from her, the creature went slack, eyes closed, head hanging low. Truth be known, she was exhausted in body and spirit, but she knew she had to continue.

["What does it see when you do that?"]

The Rogues voice grated on her now, the more time she spent with him, but she needed him to finish this, give her some sense of peace. It was not something she could do herself and so, she kept him around until she was ready. Not even with this new plan did she think of changing her mind.

["His Rizarah, wearing the locket around her neck, cracking the whip across his skin, slicing the dagger across his body, piercing his heart with the white hot poker."]

["To what end?"] that insufferable tone of superiority - she wanted to scream!! but she didn't.

["Eternal suffering."]

["Is that so?"]

["Yes."]

["How can you be sure it will suffer?"]

She sighed. How to explain this so he could understand it all?

["Don't get me wrong,"] he said, shifting in the shadows. He hadn't stepped into the light since he'd arrived. ["I think it's clever, convincing him that the Troll woman is the one doing the torture - that'll hurt it if it does lover her. But, how will that cause 'eternal suffering'?"]

["He will kill her. Part of his mind will, and he won't even be aware he's doing it until it's too late. She'll die by his hands, and he will suffer...."]

The rogue cleared his throat, it may have been a chuckle, it was so hard to tell with him.

["She's a Shaman - she'll just get right back up again. I've seen them do it."]

With a headache building behind her eyes, the last thing the Priestess wanted to do was stand around explaining everything but she felt a small twinge of need to explain it all, to say it outloud and cleanse her soul.

The small table that held her 'implements' also held a bottle of water. The cork came loose easily enough, and she drank the clear, cool water hungrily, letting it ease the pounding behind her eyes. How long since she'd eaten anything? Followed by hours of torturing him and then hours using Mind Control. It was taking it's toll.

["She won't."] Lifting the curved dagger from the table, she slid it from it's sheath, the blade still red with blood. The hilt was intricately carved with vines interlaced with arcane symbols, the pommel the face of a demon twisted in a snarling rictus - whether it was angry or frightened was anybodies guess.

["I had planned to use this on him. Now, he will use it on her."]

["And what is so special about that dagger? I've two of my own - they didn't keep her down."] there was an edge to his voice as he said this. He hadn't said as much, but the arrival of the Shaman, mere feet from this place, had surprised and annoyed him. That he didn't tell her about it until after the creature had broken and spoke the name, had annoyed her.

["It's a Soul Stealer. Used by the darkest of Warlocks, the ones who have completely lost themselves in their 'art'. Kill someone with this, and their Soul is sucked into the hilt, sealed therein for all eternity, or until a Warlock uses that energy for their own means. There is no return from this death, no resurrection. It is final."]

["..."]

["I don't know that he has a Soul, but I didn't want to take the chance someone might revive him after I had killed him. Now, he will use it on her."]

["I've noticed that you no longer say 'it' but, rather, 'he'."]

["Shut up."]

["...as you wish."]

Putting the dagger back in it's bejeweled sheath, she took another swallow of water and then stoppered the bottle.

["You understand what you are to do?"] she asked.

["Release it into the wild when you're done. Let them find him again."]

She nods, stretching. ["And they will find him, take him back, nursemaid him, and then he will strike, and his suffering will truly begin."]

["So elaborate a plan!! And all over a single dead Elf?!"] he laughs, and the laughing turns to gurgling shock as she takes control of his mind, runs his body into the far wall.

["MY HUSBAND!!"] she screamed, and he began slapping himself. ["MY BELOVED - MY HEART - MY SOUL!!!"] and she ran him head first into the wall, knocking him unconscious. She quickly switched back the the undead creature, taking it's mind, reasserting the image in his mind of Rizarah, wearing the locket around her neck, uncoiling the whip to let it fall to the ground as she drew her arm back......

["...my beloved"] she said, and so, in his mind, did Rizarah.

* * *

She paced inside the Warden Keep, back and forth across splashes of sunlight across the floor. No one else was in the room but Rinnoa, a recruit no one really knew all that much about, save that her demons spoke for her, and that she herself was something of a vegetable.

Most people found the undead woman ( more of a girl, really, to look at her ) extremely discomfitting, but Riz'arah took comfort in her prescence.; she knew Rinnoa would not judge her.

They had rescued Morticai. He was back, as if he had never been taken away. But was it really so? Was he really back? She could look back over the course of the last month and there was a literal instance where he had attempted to kill her by putting a dagger through her stomach. Shortly after, he had fallen asleep against her during a meeting with Hardishane and some others.

But then he had become cold towards her, ignored her. But then not even a few days ago, he had kissed her in full view of everyone. And then he had gone back to mostly ignoring her.

To say that she was getting mixed messages would have been quite the understatement.

But what was she supposed to do about it? Hardishane had cautioned caution, and she had obeyed. But she knew her cycle was coming again in a month, and she would need someone for that.

Could she count on Morticai, or would she have to find someone else?

She continued to pace until long after the sunlight had paled to a ghostly moonlit glow, unaware that inside Rinnoa's empty mind, images of Morticai had begun to coalesce.

* * *

Torture - Part 4

Everything was now in order, and the Priestess stepped back and away, admiring her handiwork. He was dressed in the rags of a laborer, eyes vacant and unseeing, completely harmless, unable to act of his own will for several hours yet. She debated in her mind, again, whether or not she should place the dagger on his person somehow, but she knew that would look wrong to those who found him, so she dismissed it a third time.

The Locket, however, she placed around his neck without hesitation.

["You know what you must do?"] she asked, and the shadows themselves seemed to respond as the Rogue spoke.

["I do. Place it with the others, the ones north-west of here."]

["Exactly."]

She had cleaned and bathed herself, discarding the blood soaked robes she'd been wearing for too long, scrubbing her skin until it was red and raw, but clean. The robes she wore were her finest, hand made for her by a childhood friend and they glimmered in the Light like a beacon.

["You know the words?"] she asked again. Everything had to be correct, or she would not be able to go through with it.

["Revolosh, Morticai."] as the words left his lips, the Forsaken straightened up and turned toward the Rogue.

["Good,"] she said with a nod. They seemed to flow naturally over the Rogues tongue, which gave her pause. Yet, she needed this man for a few more things, so she pushed her doubts aside and continued her preparation.

["Zennkaranai."]

The jeweled dagger had been cleaned and she placed it within his bags, all neatly stacked in the corner of the room, everything within replaced - even the vile substance she found in several stoppered bottles. She had recognized Night Elf Blood immediately, and even now her hands clenched into fists at the memory, but she didn't have time to pull from him why he did the things he did. She had locked onto the idea of his eternal suffering and had let nothing, not even that grim discovery, divert her from her goal.

He would suffer as she has suffered. No, he would suffer more.

["You still mean to go through with this?"]

Never any hint of emotion from the Rogue. He hadn't even been angry over her Mind Control of him, or at least, if he were, he showed no signs of it.

["I do,"] she answered. Looking around, there was nothing left to do, nothing that required her attention. ["You will take his things to him after they find him? He must have the dagger."]

["I will. You are paying me to, and I always complete my jobs."]

["The Locket and the dagger - they are the catalyst and the means - he must have them."]

She nodded, not really hearing if he replied. Was it four, or five times now that she had asked him this same question, told him why it was so important? She had lost count. It didn't matter, really, he would do what she asked because she had paid him with her last Gold. A part of her mind knew that she was stalling though, putting it off just a moment or two more. The Rogue knew it as well, and he let her for whatever reason.

Perhaps there was hope, under the Light, for him after all. What was it that girl said to her once? ....what was her name? Saranya? Yes - that was it, Saranya. She had said that no one was too far gone that they could not be saved, so maybe there was hope for this Rogue in the end, if he asked for forgiveness.

["It's time."]

Despite herself, she shuddered when the Rogue spoke this time. Her mouth opened as if to object, only to snap shut again as she realized that he was correct. They would be searching for Morticai now, searching for him here and she could not have them find him here. Nodding, she gave one last look around the room, before heading out into the Twilight of the forest, the Rogue barking commands to Morticai in Demonic behind her.

The air was crisp and clean and she inhaled deeply, shutting her eyes for a moment, soaking it all in. The magic, the splendor of the forest that awed the newcomer rarely had the same effect on the Night Elves any more, yet she allowed herself this moment to rejoice in its beauty, to drink it in, permeate her soul.

Today she is a Night Elf first and foremost, nothing else mattered.

The path was not easy to find, yet she knew it because her beloved had shown it to her time and time again. They had snuck away many a time as children to this place, later in life using it to explore each others bodies innocently, and then giving themselves to each other when they were ready. It had been a sacred spot to them, a place of joy and wonder.

The grave stood open and deep, the body of her beloved lay wrapped far below her. This was his wish, to be buried here, in this spot where they had known so much joy. His beliefs as a Hunter had led him to desire this 'returning to the earth', as he had called it, and she had done as he asked. He had ever had an affinity with the land and the beasts that walked upon it. She did not think it strange in the least that he should wish to be buried within it, to become a part of it again even in death.

And she would join him and they would be happy again.

["Last chance to change your mind."]

As usual, he made no sound, and normally she would have jumped at the sound of his voice, but today, right now, a calm serenity had blanketed her. She turned, a smile on her face, unshed tears in her eyes.

["Suicide is a sin. If I am to join my beloved, this is the only way."]

Turning, her ears caught only a whipser. There was no pain, not even a little discomfort. Nothing. Yet her eyes fell of their own volition to the spot of red on her gleaming white dress. In her mind, she thought it so odd. A small part of her grew angry, having just cleaned and pressed the robe for this special occasion.

Suddenly light-headed, she began to fall but strong arms caught her, scooping her up. Above her, the canopy of leaves looked bright and green and wonderful and then she was lying next to her beloved again, and she could hear his voice calling to her......

* * *

["Revolosh, zennshi. Shi zaga etu noraka z."]

While the Rogue watched, it picked up the shovel and began to fill in the grave. He calculated the time it would take it to fill in the grave, and then how long to get it to the work camp.

He had time to spare.

* * *

She shuffled through the crowd. They parted for her, as thought she were a rock making its way through waves. She wasn't uncertain; there was no line about her that seemed aimless. She made straight for The Cleft, ignoring all else that moved.

In her empty mind, an image of a dead man hung constantly, bald, but well preserved; full of love and conflict, as the image she'd taken from Riz'arah's mind had been. A single name, spoken with love and longing echoed deafly in her ears. Morticai

So burdened, she walked into the shadows and dust of the Cleft. Blindly, she made her way unnerringly up a set of stone steps, and along a narrow stone walkway. It was a strange hour of the day; not quite night, and not yet quite day; an hour when things were strange, and all things that moved in natural cycle slept.

But Rinnoa was not part of the natural cycle, and neither was Morticai. She didn't have to find him. She already knew where he was, and blindly, her eyes rested on him, sitting on a projection from one of the buildings stacked haphahazardly along the side of the road through the shadows of the Cleft.

There was a muted puff and a slight flash, and Zeprot stood on her shoulder as she kept absolutely still, blankly studying the mage from the walkway.

Zeprot whispered to himself, softly, "So full of whatever it is. And you want it, do you not?" It slyly grinned at the side of Rinnoa's blankly staring face, knowing she could not respond.

Morticai did not notice the imp's voice. He seemed to be straining, as if wondering where something was that he had lost. His robes, dusty now from absorbing the air of the Cleft for too long, flapped about him as he glanced around.

Rinnoa raised her hand, and without hesitation, a glowing purple serpent of light connected her hand to the back of Morticai's head. He stiffened, and let out a roar of pure agony. Rinnoa's lips twitched slightly, almost seeming to curve into a vague grin.

Morticai's skin began to pale, and his own eyes began to take on the blank, staring look of Rinnoa's. But suddenly, he jerked forward. A pulse flew along the glowing purple line and smashed into Rinnoa's palm. Only her brow twitched.

Zeprot, though, began screaming and tearing at his face. Flaming ichor began to roll down from his throat, and from his tiny claws shredding his eyeballs. Finally, he jumped down and began running about madly until he exploded in a puff of crimson fire, leaving a black mark on the stone.

Rinnoa slowly crumpled to her knees, then onto her face. But she continued to stare blankly. Her fingers, though, continued to twitch continuously.

* * *

She came awake suddenly, sweat pouring down her forehead. The room was stifling. The heat oozed through her, pushing prespiration out. Her cot was soaked. She quickly got up and staggered to the bucket of water she kept in the corner of her room.

She dipped a hand in it, wetting her hand... and almost screamed. The water was so cold that she felt her nerves thrumming hard under her skin. She was shaking uncontrollably, just from its touch.

Then she paused. A slow dawning came on her; the last of her groginess left her. Quickly, she made her way to the smallish window above her bed. The air seemed incredibly cold; surely enough for it to begin snowing any moment. Except the landscape was still green, and looking and feeling informed her that the insects were still plentiful.

Then she looked at the moon, and paled.

Her cycle. It was now. It had crept up on her, as it never had before. Even as she thought it, she felt the urge rushing out from her center, from her deepest core. The need.

So violent, it was, that she was almost at the door to go to the bedroom of Bish'mi, the nearest Troll male, before she caught herself. She was still shaking. She would be an absolute mess until she completed her cycle.

But not tonight. She had to wait for Morticai. To see if he could help her. After all, if he couldn't...

The thought troubled her so much that she reached into her core and willed herself to change into a wolf. Still, even clothed as a simple animal, she did not sleep for the rest of the night.

* * *

The Locket - Suffering part 1

Morticai watched as Rukra rode round and round, showing off the new armor just purchased for her beloved Rahsha. It was half his life savings, and yet he'd given it over without a second thought just to see her joyous and happy again. It always amazed him how she could lift him out of his darkest mood. Why, for five minutes he'd stood smiling, not a single thought about....

"Ah be owin' ya fah this," Hukari whispered, and he waved him off. Rizarah, ever did his thoughts swirl and swirl and come back to her.

"Me so happy!!" Rukra said, and the smile spread across his face again.

"You owe me nothing. Now go."

In moments, the pair are on their mounts and racing through the streets at breakneck speed. With the new armor, Rahsha almost looked bigger, but he was sure that was merely a trick of the light.

Alone again, Morticai slips the staff from its place across his back, letting it fall to the ground with a loud thump as the butt strikes the hard packed clay of the road. He doesn't bother calling for his own horse, preferring to lean against his staff as he tap-steps his way across the Valley of Honor. He picks his way carefully, avoiding the larger cracks here and there along the road, his mind twisting back to the matter he has been avoiding for too long.

Rizarah.

"This is all Hardishane's fault." He'd said it a thousand times, and it was no less true for having said it so often. He was perfectly content when he could care less about other people. Then Hardishane comes along, and like...like...like an infection he spreads his misplaced sense of morality and his talk of hope and dreams and souls and the like and then Morticai finds himself caring! Worse, he'd fallen in love. Twice now, though the first time was a dubious thing at best, and quickly squashed.

Would you honestly change your feelings if you could?

The voice was in his head, yet it sounded far too much like Hardishane for his liking.

I would.

A lie!

Grumbling, Morticai continued walking, the staff tapping with every other beat.

You avoid her.

You avoid Alerca. A hit! But then, this was a conversation in his own mind, with himself....

Morticai ignored the voice after that, making his way through the city until he came upon the little used Inn where he knew someone stayed, someone who would unknowingly provide him with shelter for the night.

“Hello!!! I am Torero!!!”

"You have a room here? I am sleeping in it tonight. Musn't let her find me just yet." That last part was muttered, far too low for the goodhearted Tauren to overhear. But he didn’t want to face her – how could he face her?!

"However!"

"However? 'However' what?” he snapped, then felt bad for it. Softening his voice, he added, “I don't think you understand that word."

"I have a room!!!"

Morticai couldn’t help but sigh, and smile. Torero, like Rukra, had that effect on him.

"Yes, yes - suitable for hiding from a certain Shaman this night, I'm sure. Why are your ears twitching like that? Stop that! I'll not have you twitching all night, keeping me awake, and stand up straight! Never slouch, bad for the posture....."

* * *

Morticai woke in the morning to the usual stabbing pain behind his eyes, throbbing that dulled slightly as he conjured and drained a couple of bottles of water. Torero lay tangled in his blankets, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he snored loud enough to cause the window shutters to rattle. He looked so ridiculous on the bed made for one much smaller than he, arms and legs hanging over the sides, and again, Morticai couldn’t help but smile.

All night long, he’d had dreams murky and insubstantial, yet they filled him with such a dread. Waking the Tauren, he invited him to break his fast and together they shared a meal in the common room below, Torero going on and on about some nonsense with a new and heretofore un catalogued species of some such. Morticai tuned most of it out, his mind elsewhere, though he nodded politely to indicate that he listened. Always important, that.

On his own again, he spent the day trying his best to not dwell on Rizarah, but he couldn’t help himself. He was alone in Un’Goro, and the mind takes on a will of its own in times of solitude. Again, he heard Hardishane’s voice taunting him.

Why, after all the chasing, all the fighting, all the misery, do you avoid her now that you’ve got her?

That’s complicated. The Tar Lord before him paid the price for being there when Morticai was in such a mood, falling quickly to one after the other frost and fire bolts.

You would never let me get away with such an answer.

Perhaps. But then, you are me and this is all just my psyche trying to force me into confronting this situation once and for all.

*sighs* That’s dull.

The day passed slowly.

* * *

It took everything Morticai had within himself, every ounce of willpower and strength, not to kill Hukari where he stood.

Rukra, Matok and Golomojo stood nearby, the innocent little play at wearing the Troll mask and telling Rukra that he was Hukari, while Hukari wore the skeleton costume and called ‘Morticai’, had just come to an abrupt end.

Morticai bristled. He was livid. Murderous. There was no other word for it. He could barely contain his rage and indignation. Rukra….he loved Rukra, she had wormed her way into his heart like no other. It wasn’t the love of a man for a woman, it was different. He almost equated it to father daughter, but then dismissed that as quickly as he thought it. Surely not!

Yet….

Hukari was blathering on, and Rukra was looking confused and hurt. Neither had known, or remembered how acute his hearing was. He hadn’t been meant to overhear, and yet he had. There was no turning back now.

“So be it.”

He stalked off, fuming, the hurt look on Rukra’s face the last thing he saw before coming to the moonwell. For some time, he spoke with Golomojo and Matok, but Hukari he ignored as if he did not exist. And Rukra….he could not look at her yet, did not want to see the hurt there in her eyes.

Hours passed and he was alone again.

You’re afraid of her.

Of Rukra? Don’t be silly of course I’m not.

Not Rukra – Rizarah. You’re afraid of her.

Morticai couldn’t really argue with that. A little.

A lot.

I-…. Just shut up.

Point to me! *harsh laughter*

* * *

Morticai took his leave of Zihasi, the Druid showing no expression at all. She was a difficult read, but he thought he had hit the mark pretty well. Her silence seemed to either indicate that he had, or she was just not interested in speaking at the moment – either one could be true.

He teleported back to Orgrimmar in the blink of an eye, the ever present Troll showing no surprise at all by his appearance, so used to seeing such day in and day out. Morticai took up his staff and slowly made his way down the staircase, past the trainers speaking with the young Magi, and out into the Valley of Spirit.

Briefly, he eyed the house where Rukra and Hukari slept, shaking his head ‘no’ and walking on, past the guards and over the bridge into the Barrens. In the mountains there, he found a place to sleep for the night, and again the voice of Hardishane began in his mind.

Why afraid?

*sighs* Will you just leave me in peace?!

You didn’t leave me in peace when it came to Alerca.

That was different. You were a blasted fool. What am I talking about!? You’re not even here – this is my mind!

True. But so is my point. You didn’t give up on me, why should I give up on you?

…

It helps to talk these things out. You know it and so do I because I am your mind after all.

I knew that – you’re far too witty to be the real thing.

Ha ha ha!

Halfway interested in what he was doing, Morticai began to setup his camp, rolling out the bedroll, placing it ‘just so’ within the cave.

So? Why afraid?

I… Look – it’s very complicated.

Okay – let’s dissect it then – you like dissecting things! *laughter*

I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow night.

Morticai pulled his blanket around him tightly, closing his eyes. In his head, he heard Torero singing, the timber of his voice soft and incongruent with his size and stature, yet it managed to drown out the sound of Hardishane’s questions…

My laughter is over, my step loses lightness,
old countryside measures steal soft on my ears;
I only remember the past and its brightness,
the dear ones I mourn for again gather here.
From out of the shadows their loving looks greet me,
and wistfully searching the leafy green dome,
I find other faces fond bending to greet me,
the ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.

* * *

Bone weary from Moonglade and the struggle with Hardishane, Morticai made his way to his familiar perch atop the Cleft, visions of Zihasi’s plea for help still dancing in his mind. He’d been right about her, so far. She’d seen the signs right away, and hadn’t hesitated one iota to call for help when Hardishane’s behavior turned odd. Again, he’d managed to turn things in their favor, bring Hardi back for a time. But now he had to deal with Marinda….

What the woman thought she was doing, meddling when he had told her time and time again to leave it to him, he didn’t know and couldn’t fathom. Priests. He couldn’t help but snort.

She’s trying to help.

Help?! She’s going to get herself killed. Or worse.

There are worse things than death.

Shut up.

Sorry! I forget how prickly you get about your own destined demise.

Morticai tried again to ignore him, taking his place on the upper claw, watching as a Troll Hunter looking very young and very lost, made his way along the street below.

So. Ready to talk about Rizarah again.

*sighs* Look-

You’re afraid you can’t perform!

…

Benefits of being in your head. Why, the real Hardishane would LOVE to kick around up here for a little while, don’t you think?

Fine. You are correct. I’m Forsaken. I’m better preserved than most, even Hardishane himself, I think. And there have been….stirrings….associated with Rizarah, but nothing solid.

*laughter* Solid?! Oh Light!! Ha Ha HA!

…

…ha…ha…’solid’…HA!

Look – do you want to talk about this or not?

…ha….I’m…ha….Light! I’m sorry!! I am! I’ll behave….ha…ha..

… Fine. With Rizarah…..there is a biological need to be physically intimate. What if….. what if I can’t?

*sobers instantly* I warned you about this long ago. Well, the real Hardishane did. Odds are, you can’t, and that she’ll leave you because of it.

That is what I’m afraid of.

Then you should practice – see if you even can.

*sputtering* What?! That’s disgusting!!

*laughter*

If I could toss you out of my head I would!!

But you can’t. *a few more moments of laughter* So you won’t practice…

*sputtering*

…what about trying to kill her? That’s been on your mind too.

*growling* I’ve not had any feelings in that manner since I last saw her, and I didn’t really have them then. I think it’s passed, whatever it was.

But you don’t know, and that scares you as well. What if you see her again and frost bolts start flying out of your hand? Or arcane missiles?

I know. I don’t even need a weapon.

You are the weapon.

…

So. What are you going to do?

Morticai had no answer for that. Below him, people still moved to and fro, unaware that he sat above them on the upper claw, debating a disembodied voice within his own mind. At the same time, Morticai never saw the odd girl with the hole in her forehead stepping up behind him, or her outstretched hand.

….and then he howled.

* * *

Hardishane stood in his lab, a new mixture brewing above the tiny flame he’d just lit. Blindweed. He needed more Blindweed. Even as he began to reach for it, his mind exploded in pain.

“WARLOCK!!!! YOU PROMISED!!!!!!”

A vision of Morticai howling flooded his vision, and he was running before he knew why.

* * *

Suffering – Part 2

“Get up boy, I’ll not have you lazing about all night.”

Morticai lay precariously on the highest talon above the cleft, his eyes sightlessly staring up at the stars through the thin haze of dust and dirt floating above the city. His body twitched and convulsed, his position on the talon that much more tenuous with each passing moment. Hardishane vaulted from his Dreadsteed, his feet hitting the ground before the creature had completely dematerialized in the hellfire of it’s birth, yet Morticai saw none of this. He did not hear the cursing of his friend as he surveyed the scene, didn’t feel as hands stronger, physically, than his own caught at his robes just as he was about to slip from the talon, pulling him back up and to safety.

“Did you hear me, boy? I said get up!”

Zekeith stood over him, her purple-flecked eyes mere slits, hands on her hips, balled into fists. She had her long blond hair pulled up into a bun, which he could only remember her doing once or twice, long, long ago when he was just a boy and then, only when she had a truly onerous task before her and was in no mood to have her will opposed.

This defiant, often arrogant side of her seemed more befitting the Highborne that she was and he actually preferred it. He didn’t care for people who tried to be something they were not. They always felt fake to him. There was courtesy, of course, and common manners, but don’t try to be something you are not simply because you think other people will accept you better for it. That always bothered him.

Rising slowly, he realized that for the first time in all his long memory, he had no headache. It was completely gone. Before he could even become elated about it, he noticed that his hands were wrapped in woolens, the way they had been in his youth. Touching his face tentatively, it too was wrapped. Looking down, his body was wrapped as it had been when he was a child and had to hide who and what he was from those around him, head to toe in heavy woolens. It was as much to protect him as it was to protect them, his skin had ever been sensitive to the sun.

“That’s better,” Zekeith said with a smile, her arms falling to her sides. She wore simple robes, though cut lower than he recalled, showing off her ample bosom in a way he could not recall her ever doing so before. She laughed at his scrutiny and he could not help but blush. “Odd how others see us, isn’t it? In your own mind, I show you what I never would have in the real world.” She laughed again, the sound like bells in the wind, her finger tracing a line across the upper curve of her breasts, causing him to blush again.

Had he had such thoughts about Zekeith? She was the only woman, aside from his mother, he had known in his youth, the only woman in his life for a very long time. He supposed it made sense, but he had never even admitted it to himself. Until now. She laughed again and he turned away, catching his breath.

There stood Hardishane over Morticai’s twitching body. The girl, Rinnoa? Lay not far away, also twitching. In a flood, he recalled the attack on his mind just moments ago. Only, it wasn’t an attack as much as it was….something else. A drain? Was the girl some sort of succubi?

“He frets over you, unsure of what to do.”

“He will call Alerca. Or Marinda.”

Morticai picked at the wool covering his body. If he saw Zekeith as a sexual object in his own mind, what did it mean that he saw himself covered from head to toe in woolens, dressed as he’d been in his youth? He didn’t know enough about the mind to answer that question.

“You do not worry? You stand here with me, while your body is over there. Another might fear what is happening.”

“Is this Karazahn?”

“….no.”

“Then I have nothing to fear. I know where I will die, once and for all. It is not Orgrimmar. You said so yourself, long ago.”

“There are worse things than death, boy.”

The image of Hardishane standing above his body begins to fade, shimmering and coalescing into something else, something fractured and multicolored. It was as if someone held a dozen crystals up to the sun, the multicolored rays splitting this way and that, casting images on the rock, each one slightly different and yet the same from the rest.

“What is this?” he asked quietly, hand raised as if to touch the prismatic display before him.

“Pathways.”

“Pathways?”

“You have always had this ability, to see the Pathways, but it has been suppressed, pushed back to the darkest recesses of your mind. This was for your own protection. The girl broke down all the barriers, all the magics protecting you. You will have to live with this now.”

Morticai could only nod. Like Zekeith, he’d been able to draw on certain abilities to –see– what was to come, from time to time and at great cost to himself. Or to simply –know– what was to be. It was never easy, and he had certainly never seen anything like this before, this prism.

“What do I do?”

“Fear it.”

He nodded again. “The future.” He sighed. He didn’t want this, didn’t want any of it. His life, such as it is, was complicated enough without adding absolute foreknowledge of what was to come into the mix. Although, had he not spent his life knowing exactly the place of his death, and taken risks he would not have normally taken for knowing it? Perhaps this would be no different.

“Not the future. Pathways.”

Morticai turned to Zekeith, nearly blushing again at how tight her robe had become, leaving little or nothing to the imagination, which caused him to chuckle as this was his imagination.

“I don’t understand.”

She smiled as she answered, “Each color represents a Pathway, a possibility. Which will come true? No one can know for certain. But one will. And they shift as each moment passes. They are as slippery as the eel, as solid as the dust on the wind; to catch one and hold it is the feat of a Master. You are not a Master. It is more likely you will be swept away with the tide. As I said, there are worse things than death, boy.”

Morticai waved away a bug buzzing in his ear. “Then, what am I to do? I want to touch them….”

“Be careful. You could easily become lost in anyone of these Pathways, and then you would find yourself trapped there. You must remember that it is simply a possibility, and not the truth. I know nothing can stop you from touching them, but you must keep that firmly in your mind. Do you hear me, Boy? Do you?!”

“I do,” Morticai growled. As he stared at the colors before him, he realized that she was right. What he had thought were perhaps dozens, were hundreds of dozens. He didn’t know there were so many colors, and yet he knew that each and everyone of them were different from the others. The colors also shifted as he stared, just as she said they would, changing and flowing in a pattern he could not discern. One seemed to call out to him. He didn’t even realize that he’d raised his hand until-

-Rizarah cried out, and Morticai followed suit. Tears filled his eyes and he collapsed, spent, beside her. Her arms entangled in his immediately and they pulled close, skin touching skin – hers warm and damp, his cold, yet she did not pull away and he did not push.

Her breasts rose and fell against him as her breathing became regular again, her eyes closed as sleep began to take her. He couldn’t sleep if his life depended on it. Her scent filled his nose, her warmth against him made him feel alive again and he wanted this moment to last forever. Sleep could come later, perhaps, he wasn’t sure. It seemed as if sleep would destroy this memory, would make it less than it was. They had made it all work, despite all that he had feared, all that had been stacked against them, they had made it work.

A buzzing in his ears annoyed him and he waved at whatever insect had chosen to ruin this moment, yet it persisted. Growling, he turned-

-and saw Zekeith staring at him, her mouth moving, saying something that his ears couldn’t quite catch, and still that insect buzzed. He wanted to growl louder, shout at the fool woman for interrupting such a private moment. Rizarah pulled away from him now, rolling over, her red hair falling down her back, the naked skin seeming to draw his eyes away as he followed the bones of her spine down to the small of her back…and beyond…

Again, the insect buzzing, and Morticai threw the covers off, swinging his legs over the side of the bed-

-“ is simply a possibility, and not the truth.” Zekeith said, and then sighed.

Morticai stood back where he had been moments before, wrapped in wool again. His hands clenched into fists, his eyes squeezed shut. He’d been happy………

“Not the truth,” Zekeith whispered to him, her voice conveying more emotion than he recalled ever hearing from her before. Nodding, he opened his eyes again and realized that he was facing the opposite direction now, and there were more lights here, behind him. Realization hit him.

“The past.” Zekeith nodded. “Pathways lead forward and back. These do not change. They are what happened, not what might be.”

Morticai studied them. They did not ebb and flow as the others did, nor did they change in color or intensity, nor did they shift and undulate.

“There is something I would see.”

“Oh?”

“I wish to know what happened to my teacher, my confidant. I wish to know what happened to you, Zekeith.”

Zekeith smiled sadly, and took a step forward. “If that is what you wish. Touch this one.” She pointed to a small yellow pinprick of light amid a kaleidoscope of colors, and his eyes fixed on it and he knew that she was correct, that was Zekeith’s past. There was no hesitation as he raised his finger to it-

-and stood in the yard before the cottage where he had grown up. It still smoldered. He recalled the villagers coming in the night, weapons and torches held before them like shields, Zekeith spiriting him out the back door and into the forest. He’d seen the house burning, heard the shouts of anger as they were followed into the forest. Zekeith had hugged him and sent him on his way, a boy no more than thirteen, his parents gone, his mentor sending him off alone into the dark forest. He’d wondered about Zekeith, but she had told him to run, and so he ran.

Standing before the smoldering house, he ran again, down past the remnants of the barn, across the creek and into the forest where he could still make out torches chasing away the night. He could hear them now, the villagers, still shouting in anger as they searched for him as a boy. Oh, but how he would like to meet them now, with the power he commands at his fingertips to teach them about real fear. No more a frightened, defenseless boy, but a man who has come into his own.

The trees part, and he finds himself staring at a circle of humans in a clearing. They thrust their torches, pitchforks and sad, dull and rusted polearms into the air as they cheer. Mortcai’s throat seizes and he cannot breathe, cannot speak. His eyes are wide, mouth agape.

In the center of the clearing, Zekeith is tied atop a pile of wood. Before he can think, before he can act, someone gives the order and a dozen torches arch slowly up and onto the oil soaked wood, causing it to erupt into an inferno. Zekeith says nothing. She simply stands there, her chin held high, defiance in her eyes as the flames rise higher and higher, and the people call out epitaphs of ‘Witch’ and ‘Demon’ at her. Even as the flames catch her robes, lick at her hair and skin, she holds her mouth tightly shut, no scream escaping. Those gathered begin to quiet, her silence unnerving them as the flames engulf her and still she does not scream.

Morticai screams though. He finds his voice, and he roars like a beast unchained.

“The Past is written. It cannot be changed,” Zekeith said sadly.

Morticai pounded his fists into the ground, back now in his own mind. He’d fallen to his knees, tears flowing from his eyes. He could only call it rage, this which flowed through his body. Rage and anger at how people always fear and destroy that which they do not understand.

“It gave you time to escape, boy, I have no regrets.”

Again, the buzzing in his ears, and he waved it away, though it was more persistent this time.

“…why?” he croaked. “Why must they be like this? Fear what they cannot understand? Destroy it?”

“It is simply their way. None had ever seen a Highborne before, so to them, different meant evil.”

“Stupid! Arrogant! Unforgivable!”

“They were human.”

“You say that as if it condones their actions!”

“No, I say it because it is true. Few like it when the Truth is spoken to them.”

Morticai wiped away the tears, disliking his own words thrown back at him. She had given her life to save his; there was no other way to look at it. Still, how often had he said the same thing about ‘truth’ that she had just said to him?

“What am I to do now?” he asked, somewhat defeated.

“Go on. Live. But know that this place exists in your mind now, a place of possibilities. Dangerous and seductive.”

“And use it?”

“I would not advise that you use it. Except to see this.” She raised her hand and pointed to a blood red pinprick – the Past again.

“What is it?” he asked cautiously. Again, he heard the insect buzzing.

“Truth.”

Morticai nodded. Pushing himself to his feet, he dusted off his woolens before touching the color-

-his mind reeled at the barrage of images. He saw himself dragged away, tortured, and then mind controlled by a Night Elf Priestess. He watched as she made him believe what he could not believe, that Rizarah had been the one to hurt him, to break him, to make him feel such pain. He saw his own hands try to kill Rizarah, felt the pain and anger that lead him to such actions, and knew now that it was all contrived by the Priestess to make him suffer.

He pulled away, the tears a mixture of sorrow and joy. She hadn’t been the one, it wasn’t Rizarah after all. It had all been a deception.

“…it wasn’t her, “ he said softly, and let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging as the weight was lifted away. He understood now, the veil had been lifted away.

“No. It was not her.”

Morticai laughed, he laughed and he laughed, having never felt such joy before.

“She loves me! Did you know?! She said so – she loves me!”

“Touch this one,” Zekeith said sadly. Morticai followed her finger to a pale yellow pinprick that somehow he knew was ‘recent’.

“Why? I’ve seen all I need to know,” he was still grinning like a fool. She really did love him!

“Please.”

Wiping away the joyfull tears this time, Morticai touched the pale yellow pinprick-

-Rizarah cried out, and the Tauren she was with followed suit. They fell into each others arms, a smile spread across her face.

Morticai knew that he slept in the desert near the Crossroads, that this was only a few nights ago. He jumped back.

“NO!”

“You know this to be true.”

“You are lying to me!”

“I am not,” Zekeith said sadly. “I have no power here, I do not affect what you see.”

“..she said that she loved me.”

The buzzing again, and he tries to wave it away, only Zekeith begins to fade, then grows strong again.

“She has a biological need, boy. Remember that.”

Zekeith fades again, replaced by someone else, then she grows strong.

“This place is dangerous, Boy. I’d have kept it from you. If it were not for the fool girls meddling, you would never have known about it. You are intelligent enough not to try and use it….”

Again, she fades, replaced by Hardishane’s half covered face staring down at him.

Morticai blinks, and Hardishane sighes audibly.

“Thank the Light,” he says softly.

Morticai could only nod as he stared up at his friend. The motion brought the headache to his attention, the constant pounding behind his eyes he had never been without, except for this brief respite in his mind.

Rolling away from his friend, he managed to push himself up to his feet, staggering over to the wall. Hardishane was saying something, but his ears could not catch the words. All he could see and hear was Rizarah in the arms of the Tauren.

“…she said she loved me…”

Part Four