There was something utterly annoying in the coming of summer; Kirby had never been fond of it. Of the four seasons, it was the most tedious. Autumn was cool and amber, the season of the harvest. Ale would flow in abundance, as farmers would reach the cities with their goods, preparing for the cold days to come. Winter's kiss was never gentle, but at least furs were a fine solution against the freezing bite. Paired with the fire burning at the local inn's hearth, it could almost be pleasant. No season could contest spring, of course, when the blooming nature would tempt maidens to dance in the fields with colourful flowers weaved in their hair. But summer had nothing more to offer than scorching heat. Even plants would often die and flames rise, while at the same time men and women were showering in their very own heat.
Of course, seasons tended to lose their meaning during times of war, but summer would still find a way to be an annoyance. Mail was as suffocating as the King's colours. The stench of corpses would go hand in hand with annoying mosquitos buzzing over blood before it had the chance to dry. Water was at times scarce. Oh, there was no doubt that of all seasons, Kirby hated summer the most.
As of late though, it held a special place in his heart, a spot blackened by rage and contempt. It had been a fine year for him. Having been among the first to volunteer at the war's dawn, he was quickly armed and sent to the front. Several had called him a madman for desiring such a life, but the bones of his parents, long dead at the hands of green brutes, invaders in a world which was not their own, demanded justice. Vengeance. Retribution.
They had started together, three of them from the same orphanage. Kirby, Bartley and Devon. What dreams they had, how glorious and wonderful. They would take the King's gold and avenge all those the Horde had destroyed. They would end that threat, so that their lives could be joyful. The dream did not last long. In his quest for justice, Kirby soon found a taste for blood. He had killed many; it did not even remain in his memory which Horde scum Devon had try to protect, only that they were unarmed. Did it matter? They served the vile Banshee Queen. The Orcs. All those who bled they world. Now had been their turn to bleed.
Devon's treason was repaid accordingly, his corpse left rotting in Siltihus by those he had tried to defend. Bartley had known better than to open his mouth and recount the tale to their superior officer when they returned in Staghelm Point without their third companion. The two young men were serving far away from Silithus when Devon's corpse was found, quite far away when the investigation began. Kirby was confident that nothing could link himself and Bartley with the murder. How wrong he was.
The one year and three months that followed saw Kirby ascending and shining under commanders who shared a vision similar to his own. Commanders who were not bothered by the bloodlust of their soldier as long as his hatred would be towards the Horde; after all, the savages had dared burn down Teldrassil and all the innocents within, to then raise Alliance soldiers with plague as horrible as that used by the Scourge and eventually attack a village of innocents in Kul Tiras. The boy could not be blamed. If soldiers like him could end the war, sooner, they would be tolerated.
And so, they showered him with praise and medals. If only Bartley had been there to see, if only he had not died in Lordaeron, at the hands of merciless corpses, beings that deserved to live no more. He failed to see his inspiring leader rise, not in rank, but in reputation. Kirby was the wretched orphan from Westfall no more. He was a war hero. An avenger.
Alas, not all shared the vision of certain commanders. Once reports reached those viewing themselves as more righteous, they were quick to revive the investigations surrounding 'that Devon boy's death'. It took over a year, but the truth managed to shine, even if only in the form of suspicions. Other reports however, were not as hidden, or vague. Kirby's fate would be retirement that very summer at the age of nearly nineteen. They had prevented him from a fate in the Stockades for he had been patriotic, while his commanders also excused the boy's behaviour due to the tragic loss of his parents at the hands of Orcs. Thus a nice, distant cottage was bought for him in Westfall, the one place he did not wish to return to, as compensation for his service and an attempt to purchase his silence.
He had a small hay field to mind. The golden plants were dancing to the tune of the hot wind that evening, just below the last chance of twilight. Silently, Kirby continued his work of pulling the weeds which were infecting his future harvest, the only income he could rely on. Bitterness remained his friend, though he could at least be grateful for the fact that the sun would be setting soon.
It was a gentle whisper of motion among the hay which eventually caught his attention, causing him to raise his head. He stared at the very spot intently and in confusion, almost certain that he had heard the softest sound of a footstep from that direction. The young man eventually shook his head and chose to dismiss it, blaming his mind. Paranoia was nothing new for a soldier, the local priest had claimed. His mind would need time to mend from all it had seen. Yet how could it every be free of the desire to take the sword again, thrust it in the enemy, smell the iron in the blood, for that was the one thing he knew how to do best?
Returning to his work, Kirby saw the weeds rise amidst the golden hay, green and tall. It had to be pulled from the root properly, so that it would no longer taint the field. His calloused palms were red from the intense work, his back aching and sweaty in the white, linen shirt that had yellowed over time. Yet for a second time over his panting breath, the boy heard that faint sound again.
He was not alarmed. Even if a second time could be no coincidence, never did he believe that there might be more than meets the eye, for mysteries of that kind never occured to ordinary folk such as himself. If not his paranoia, it was probably the wind carrying distant sounds, or the heat messing with his mind. Just so to prove himself right, Kirby abandoned his work to step towards the suspected direction of the sound.
In the field of hay, his lean form was shaping a clear path as the twiggy plants were pushed aside by the might of someone larger. They continued to sway gently by the unkind breeze, delivering a dry, weedy smell at his nostrils. It was mildly irritating, tempting him to sneeze. He gave in.
Just as he raised his head, his sleeve pressed against his nose, the young man saw it: not disimilar to his, a path was formed at the western side of the field, the hay equally disturbed as when he had walked through it. Though Kirby furrowed his dirt-brown eyebrows, he still remained full of disbelief. It was surely a critter roaming amidst his future harvest. Or, given how the intruder had come from the direction of the sea, perhaps a stray murloc eager to raid and loot.
He crossed over to the foreign path, observing it for a moment. It snaked through the field, rather than forming a straight line, convincing him even further that he was dealing with no sentient intruder, but a creature driven by instincts. Instead of returning to his work, the boy started his trek on that other path, eager to be rid of the parasite.
Seconds went by, yet the earlier sound was not heard again. Kirby absent-mindedly walked, while half-heartedly surveying the field he never wished for, that insult for a soldier as eager as him, hoping to see something move. He was not disappointed. Something shifted to his right, thus making him advance towards that direction. When he arrived, however, there was nothing to be found. And surprisignly, nor did the path continue.
Before that mystery had the chance to bother his mind, another hint of motion was detected, to his left this time. Again Kirby headed there and again he found nothing. Now, he was rather annoyed and there was only one way to deal with annoyances. His hand reached for the knife always carried at his belt, crude and perfectly sharpened. The local priest would call it a sign of his paranoia. He called it reasonable precaution. The truth was a shard of hatred for one born and twisted by a world so familiar with violence. He expected a third hint of motion to be detected. It did not disappoint.
Kirby pushed through the tall hay to reach the area with haste. He could feel his drippling sweat, feel the bite of the mosquitos tempted by the salty moisture and their buzz by his ear, but did his best to pay no mind to those annoyances, for he was certain that his speed would finally let him find the intruder. There was no critter, however, nor a murloc, but instead a carving on the dry ground. If the writing was meant to be in a specific language, it was none that the boy knew. The writing was intricate and dark, almost seeming blasphemous and vile.
"What the-" he began to utter, just to find his throat suddenly coarse, as if he had swallowed sand. For reasons entirely unknown to him, as if instinctively, a feeling of dread began to rise within him. It would be best to run, but raw fear was childish, or so a part of his mind kept whispering. It was that same fear however which made him grip the hilt of his knife more tightly as his boot stomped all over the writing on the ground, banishing it from existence.
His form was trembling from that very emotion. A chill was soon felt, poking at his neck first, slithering into his shirt and onto his very back, before seeping into his skin. He may not have known what it was, but he knew the dread, something he had not felt since when he was a child and the Orcs killed his family right before his eyes.
"Stop it, stop it!" he kept commanding, while trying to find the strength to turn around and run. He never had the chance. As soon as he faced what was behind him, a scream echoed. In the long second filled with anguish and sudden pain, it took a while for him to realise that it was his.
And then came oblivion.
When he opened his eyes, the evening's amber twilight had long faded, giving its place into the black of the night. Glittering stars were decorating a beautiful summer sky, a fitting stage for the largest of Azeroth's two moons to make its grand appearance. Pale light from the heavens descended on the earth, offering a chance of sight for those not used to the dark.
He was still at the hay field, which was only slightly cooler, but emitting that equally irritating smell during the night. Kirby did not even notice it. After overcoming the unusual stiffness of his limbs, the young man first realised that he could not move, pinned still by something worse by the dread still infesting something deeper than his skin. His form was lightly levitating above the ground, held by the binding of a smoky, amethyst and midnight blue coloured essence which he was familiar with only in tales.
The shadows could be traced back to a lone figure very close to him, standing amidst the hay quite unbothered by the plantlife's existence. At first, Kirby mistook her for a banshee, even if her alabaster, long locks were neatly falling on her form, rather than floating in an unruly manner. Her elaborate gown was black and crimson, her skin unnaturally pale. Only the shining chartreuse of her eyes, framed by black bruises, betrayed that she was of the living. She was a blood elf crowned by black flowers and willowy, with an once well-shaped, but somehow still managed to look unattractive, in spite of the beauty that her people were meant to possess. She looked dead.
Her cold eyes instantly noted that he was awake. Her left hand, outstretched and keeping him bound, was lightly pulled back, only to thrust forward for once more. Kirby felt sharp, cold pain penetrate his skin, filling him with the purest form of agony that he had ever known. It was sorcery, something he was unfamiliar with and would know get to know intimately by screaming at its very touch.
"Good." the elf spoke calmly. "You're awake."
The boy tried to speak, but as his lips made an attempt to move, another wave of dreadful pain washed over his form. All he could do was scream for once more.
"I think you have done enough." the woman said, as if she had been aware of his intentions. "I wanted to talk, I have been looking for you for some time. Will you listen?"
He could not say otherwise, not even move. Still, she still punished him for his lack of response. The shadows sank under his skin, as if devouring his insides.
"Yes." she softly uttered. "I think you will."
Kirby was unable to feel the irritating heat of summer and if he was out of breath, it was not because of the scorching winds. Something was twisting within him, something he could not understand. There was a feeling of helplessness inside, one that he had not felt in a long time. The war had taken it away. No matter how much he tried to move his hand, he could not. All in vain, of course. A shine at the elf's hand flashing quickly from behind her gown told him exactly what he wanted to know. She had his knife.
"I had pictured this so many times in my head, you know." she told him, not being too vague for long. "How it would be. When I would meet you. Admittedly, you were more than just one person. Several, older people, really. Seasoned warriors. So after a while, I simply started imagining their leader."
The young man did not understand what she meant, nor would he have told her even if he could. He was at her mercy.
"And so the possible confrontations started." she continued. Her right hand rose, playing with the knife held there. His knife. "Where I ask if you remember what you did in Silithus. Where I ask if you remember killing my parents. Where I ask if you even remember their faces. Where I ask why."
She screamed that last word; as if the shadows were sharing her distress, they tightened their grip around their victim, worsening his state. If Kirby was grateful for his inability to speak at least, it was because, no, he did not remember any of it. Only the Horde and the traitor Devon's corpse. It was not a fateful encounter where he could beg for forgiveness, but the tale of two young people torn by war.
"And then in these confrontations..." the elf spoke again, her voice harsh and sharp, even if now lightly trembling. "I forgive you. I always forgive you. Not for you, but for myself. Because this is personal. I have killed, we're at war, but never when it was personal. I could not do it. I kept telling myself that I am not a monster. Thus I let you go."
But she did not let him go. No matter how much he prayed, even to the Light for the first time, she did not let him go.
"And then Krator was hurt. Krator started dying. A life for a life. It would make it less personal. You would be serving a cause greater than your miserable existence. Greater than you can ever know."
His eyes met hers. Her left hand tirelessly moved towards the most beautiful silver locket that Kirby had ever seen. So why did it seem so repulsive? He could swear that a passing whisper prodded his head for a moment, a wailing cry of agony that, for the first time, was not his own.
"But it would be a lie." the elf eventually said, stepping a little closer to his lightly levitating form. Her head was at the level of his midriff. "Because every scream that you emit is music to my ears. The fear in your eyes is the sweetest thing I have ever seen. It is a primitive urge, but having you here... Right here... The things I can imagine..." Her voice briefly faded, rising again in the faintest whisper. "Never before have I desired to inflict pain so strongly."
The only hint of motion which his body eventually granted him was that of shiver. The nineteen-year-old no longer needed the shadows to instill terror, for it was there, in the form of that small woman who was even unknown to him, punishing him for a crime he could not even remember. For such was life. It was no fairytale.
"It will be a fate worse than death." she informed him lowly. "No one will come to save you."
The flash of the knife under pale moonlight moving swiftly heralded the splatter of blood painting the hay red. And as Kirby felt a deep, burning sting across his stomach, amidst the gripping cold of shadow, he realised why fate had caused him to hate this season so intensely. For it was on a hot summer night that he would die.
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