Prayer

“Who the hell am I?”

Asleon burst through the wood line with his companions in tow – the roads leading to the relative safety of Dalaran were blocked off by legions of the damned, save for the pass through Alterac. “How long?” Bureston sputtered, trying to fill his lungs with copious amounts of air. “Perhaps a quarter hour… mayhap less.” Halinor replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Best you lot drop the kit ya don’t need – else’n you’s gonna die tired.”

“Plans of action?” The Grand Marshal inquired, still panting as he stripped his pauldrons off and dispensing with his secondary blade. “We yet remain on the most viable route to enter Dalaran… we’ve perhaps an eves march and we can be upon what was left of our refugee caravan. “And the Scourge won’t be long behind us.” The priest imparted, dropping his staff into the muck and disposing with the lofty metal-bound tome at his waist. “Agreed.” Halinor chided, dropping his breastplate to the ground. “We’d better start upon the road now then – ‘afore the dead pick up on our asses.”

I spiral through imagination and memory once again. It feels so much clearer – the events leading to my demise. No. The demise of Lordaeron’s devout mender Asleon De’Forte. Even the rocking of this ship does little to rouse me. I’ve fallen to fatigue. It doesn’t matter what power one commands – the body will impose it’s doctrine on the mind and it will have little means to resist.

How often do they harass me to rest more often? To lay idle while so much needs to be tendered? I cannot fathom how anyone can just watch the world burn without playing a hand in it. Just as many cannot think to stand before a torrential force – finding sanity in locked doors and high walls. I have fantasized of a quiet lifestyle – but my means of living would never allow for it.

“Keep pace Asleon!” Johan shoutted over his shoulder to the ever distant priest. “”Give the lad a moments credit to have stood fast for this long. He’s an Elf of the city – not a proper soldier.” Bureston imparted, coming to a halt, Halinor beside him – both clad only in the thinnest of leathers and glistening with sweat. “The tracks are fresh. The caravan in’n more than minutes ahead.” The marksman countered. “Who knows if we’ll keep the trail or not!?” Halinor regarded the young man with a cold glare. Pale blue eyes piercing through his very soul. “The clergyman would not desert you. Something to consider, I should think. He’s given more of himself in recent days mending your sprained legs and broken bones than you’ll realize – and still he tarries on that he might remain at our side.”

Johan lowered his head in defeat. The Quel’dorei at last was upon them, gasping for air. “Good lad… Good lad… In and out.” Bureston set a reassuring palm upon his shoulder. “All right! All right! He’s caught up. Can we sally forth now?” Johan inquired cynically. “Oh for the Gods’ sake give the boy a rest! We’ve bee-” The Grand Marshal felt a hand upon his shoulder. “T’is fine…. if we remain idle too long, the undead will fall upon us again… and I’ve got a little more left in me…” Halinor nodded, turning to pick up the trail with the increasingly agitated marksman. “I’ve faith and words of prayer to constitute strength.

Even in the deepest recesses of recollection and fantasy I am aware of myself – torn between what is and what was. A paralell of sorts. A great divide reaching out at the soul. I hear my true name echo in my ears once again. The truth of it no more applicable since The Vigil first spoke it than at this very moment.

“You are a vessel. One of two destinies broken. The holy man and the depraved sadist. Forged of their being you have crafted a new existence for yourself. Of Ebela’ar the Kind and Fa’arethia the Doomed has emerged the true name of thyself – Va’ardalia the Twinsouled. Long have you waited for the words to depart my lips. Long have I stood vigil over what you are.”

The words of the relic still resonate with my own. Those spoken in days still dark to my mind and troubling of my heart. If there is such a thing as fate, I can appreciate it’s sense of irony and repetition. How else would we be able to interpret the omnipotent and it’s whimsies?

What is it you pray for, Asleon?” The Grand Marshal asked as he lifted the Elf onto his back. “I do not ask of the Gods to lead an easier life, my friend.” He replied, clinging weakly to the Human. As they came upon the open fields and bore witness to the caravan below, Asleon smiled. “…I pray that I might be a stronger man.”

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~ by anethodawnpride on September 24, 2013.

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