The night after the fall of Lordaeron had not brought any greater strength to the young elf's body, nor had it soothed her spirit. If there were ever dreams of happiness and rest associated with the end of the horrific battles, they proved to be the hope of a fool. For every moment after the last battle in the ruins of the once glorious human kingdom, Celysiel Ashfury lay patiently waiting to die.
With the dawn of another day she had been blessed twice, even if the nights prior there was certainty that she would perish. There she was, in the bedroom which once belonged to her parents, in the bedroom were so many inner demons had been fought and beautiful memories had been built. How fitting that she would fade there, under the golden shroud of the sun and while watching the transparent drapes dance in the tune of the morning breeze. How fitting that she managed to survive the war only to die home. And how fitting that she would die in the bedroom that had been seen once upon a dream, just before she walked in the living room to see her neck snapped.
So young, with so many dreams, so many regrets.
"I cannot die now."
Her voice was the weakest whisper, unable to reach beyond the walls of the bedroom. Over the last two days the threat of death, dark and looming over her head like a cloud of rain, had drawn so many tears on her cheeks and this moment was no exception. They were warm on her skin which had been progressively becoming colder, as life was denied. There was a certain irony in the situation that was not lost upon the young elf. The Light had helped her lover's heart restart, yet would be the cause of her own to stop. For how long would Krator fight against the affliction the paladin had set? Hope of life has long been abandoned. In her mind, it was all a simple matter of when.
Ever since the night that Thaelen had reminded her of its existence, the foci placed in that catacomb of Uldum by Timothy Dowling had been kept close, usually into her embrace just by her beloved locket, or on the bed next to her. There was an attempt of attunement with it just as the two elves returned from the battle in hopes of death being abated. And just before the cultist has pushed Krator back from his invasion with the aid of ancient power, Celysiel had finally seen him. She knew where he was and what he was doing. She had seen through his own eyes.
But before victory could be savoured, she would die.
He had hinted that salvation for her affliction lay in the crystal, but at what cost? Celysiel had promised her partner that she would not pursue anything whispered by the madman, so why did she catch herself wondering so many times if the cultist's energy, what remained of it in the crystal, must be hers? Further irony, since she had denied Alaran Summerdrake's offer and had done all she could to stop others from accepting just so she would be tempted by Timothy Dowling in her greatest hour of need. And what then? Would she be pulled back into the Dream? Would she become its constant Guardian? Or would her fate be as gentle as agent Dawnshade's? And then what, become like the exiles? Like the very person she had sworn to kill? Unlikely. Thaelen had told her to wait for the Surveyor and so it would be. If he lived, but he had to live. If he lived, because then why would she?
Their last encounter had been a progress in the waltz, with several steps taken forward. It only meant that even more would be taken backwards at their next meeting, though for that Celysiel had little energy. Her only desire was to live and build the future that resided in so many dreams. How futile. If there was any progress, it was slow. If there was any progress, she could not feel it. If there was any progress, it was a false illusion. There was no progress.
And what would happen to Krator if she perished? Would it fade, or be free from her existence? What would happen to Thaelen? For the eternity she had promised, yet the swordsman had suffered from her own affliction as well. Neglecting himself, seeing to her at every moment. She had become a burden to the one she cared about the most and a burden she could remain no more. Perhaps it was better to let go.
"I cannot die now."
But I must.
"I cannot die."
Fear is for the weak. You cannot fear it.
"I cannot-"
But it would not ask her. Like an angel of death, the darkness took form before her. Oh, she was hallucinating, she knew. How fitting, how fitting that at these last moments clarity would be denied. A hand reached out and how much it reminded her of Keeper! But Keeper existed no more. He had simply been a creation of her fantasy to cope with fear, cast away by something stronger. Celysiel did her best to raise her left, for the right remained cripped by the paralysis, only twitching to show some improvement. Had she not been struck, it would have recovered now... But that hardly mattered anymore.
Closer the two limbs came, one of dark and one so pale, as if made by purest moonlight, closing the gap and giving into futility. The Light would win. There was no denying the Light. For so long it had hunted her and now it would have her. It would serve the ultimate punishment to those who had denied it, for this was justice and Celysiel knew. Oh, Celysiel knew.
It felt right at the time, to do something wrong. It felt right at the time, even if the ancient voice in her mind protested and the disappointment of so many was shaped by her imagination. It felt right at the time, even if she had so much to live for, something the stone by her side kept telling her by being present alone.
The young elf's hand stopped stopped. "I cannot die." she whispered, vividly recalling all she had to stay for. Vows. A promise. The future..
Closer the darkness came, as if it intended to swallow her hand which would not come closer, but Celysiel tried to pull away her own. "I cannot die." she kept whispering, begging. "I cannot die."
But the darkness cared not for wishes. Unbidden it struck to the vulnerable youth losing her senses. It would claim what had been promised, what had been delayed but should have been taken days ago. For too long had she escaped death's fingers. No more. Wishing would not matter.
Yet just as suddenly as it had come, it faded, rushing away into particles, cowering at the sound it had sworn to battle.
The very beating of her heart.
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