Depleted Love

“You know, I always thought that you should have accepted Magister Sunstriker’s offer. Teaching in Falthrien Academy would have granted you not only the possibility to meet the young minds hailing from the most prestigious families of Quel’thalas, but…” Amaranthia looked at her husband who, as always, after a day spent in Magister Terrace was noting his personal thoughts on a journal. She knew how jealous he was of his “diaries”, yet when he was not around she always took the chance to read them in order to understand what was running into her beloved’s mind.

The woman tilted the head to the left.

“ You should seek other allies for the future.”, she continued. “Who knows if those of your father will renew their trust to your name, when Lord Dawnlight will pass the crown.”

The office was embraced by the light coming through the wide windows, which colored glass shot the images of the founding of the High Kingdom on the alabaster walls. Here and there, some shelves had been recently purchased in order to host those piles of randomly arranged books and pages. No matter how vocal she was when asking him to at least order them a little, it seemed like her Half didn’t intend to bend in front of her request. He loved her, but he also loved to work in that little disaster his office was; a chaotic place, where only him was able to find what he was looking for.

Despite Mor’denath’s attachment to those volumes and his belongings, he faked not to notice the sneaky curiosity of his wife; that oblivious, forgiving attitude was one of the details that made her fall in love for him.

At that thought, Amaranthia hid a smile and adjusted little Athlarios on her lap, brushing the child’s short, silky and still fragile hair with her fingers whilst taking a deep breath. From one of the open windows, the fresh wind of the evening blowing from the coast was carrying the scent of flowers and recently cut grass. The green keepers were probably taking care of the wide garden, just below the quarter’s terrace.

Mor’denath didn’t take care to raise his eyes from the umpteenth blank page and dipped the silvery tip of his favourite crane quill into the dense, deep blue ink. His body was donned by a robe made of light cobalt velvet, its hems decorated by intricated gray threads. He liked to get comfortable when he was not surrounded by his colleagues, when their eyes were not there to judge every second of his life and every change of mood.

“It is not my intention to waste my time to make some pompous, spoiled children understand that they need to study the basic notions, before hoping to control a pyroblast.” The male’s warm and calm voice broke the silence and the first heir of the Dawnlight family soaked the quill’s tip once more. “You know that I have little patience when it comes to the young ones.”

Athlarios squealed of joy and amusement whilst grabbing a strand of his mother’s hair, who couldn’t help but smirk at her husband’s statement. “If they are not yours.” She precised and looked at the quill, held in his hand. She longed the delicate touch and the warmth of the man’s soft skin; a hand of an arcane weaver, unblemished by the typical hardness of the one of a farstrider or guard.

At those words, the Magister’s eyes rose from the parchment and looked at his life partner, then descended on the pale blond boy held in her arms. As silence fell once again, his facial features softened and the usually dignified glare became more docile and tame. “Perhaps.”.

There was that side of him, so well concealed under layers of austerity and pragmatism, that was precious to her. She knew that it was only for her and for their children.

For them alone.

“Yet…” Amaranthia narrowed her sapphire eyes whilst leaning more comfortably against the backseat of the white sofa. Her favourite; it was one of the only belongings that followed her in her husband’s estate after the marriage. “... there is something amiss, don’t you think?”

The elven man parted his attention from his son and perked the left eyebrow, studying the woman’s face in the attempt to predict her future statement, or at least understand what she had in mind.

He didn’t had to wait for long.

“Two sons. It would be good to have a daughter too.”

Upon Mor’denath’s surprised and disoriented expression, his wife’s cristalline laugh softly echoed through the halls of their private quarters.

~

The office was silent and the heavy, crimson curtains kept out the blessing of the sun. Two enchanted lanterns, hung on the right and left side of the ceiling, projected their orange, dim light on the ocean of journals fitting libraries so tall and wide to completely conceal the color of the walls. That room, as many others within that estate, couldn’t welcome anymore shelves. Years, decades, more than a millennia of notes, researches and personal analysis were finely written on those pages, preserved to survive the cruel flow of time as long as those volumes were kept within their enchanted and catalogued sections, fitting in perfect and unmatched, alphabetical order. There was no possibility for those books to leave their place for more than a week without turning into a mass of dust, in the same way a beast risen in captivity couldn’t survive for long, if fred into the wild.

It was amusing to consider how accurately his whole life was written, day after day, on those pages. A cold, mocking reminder of brighter days.

A black gryphon’s quill was resting right next to a still sealed vial of bordeaux ink, purchased after he ran out of the old one whilst updating the Spire of the movements of the Eclipsion Blade. His last and still uncompleted journal was closed right in front of the former Magister and his pale, green eyes were fixated on the door that led to the rest of his private quarters. A fragrance of orange blossoms lingered in the dense air, left behind by his last surviving daughter who just walked out with a smile on her face, for once.

Shairin arrived in the early afternoon, tense and on the edge as always when she had to deal with him; the young adult contested his the lack of attachment towards her in the past and how distant he had grown after the fall of Quel’thalas.

Those golden hair, of which she was so proud of, were able to recall more memories than necessary.

The elven Lord didn’t expect her to understand.

Shairin was in love, deeply so, with no one else but Lord Sunstep himself. The two betrothed faced many adversities in the past, but at the end they decided to bound under the same, sacred banners. When the said elf came to seek his blessing, Mor’denath had the documents already on his desk; he wasn’t going to give away his only, legitimate offspring without a proper marriage contract. Yet, when just some hours ago she walked in without notification, the doubt and the fear on her face warned him that he was not ready to deal with what the woman was going to tell him. He was not wrong.

A new life was going to see the light. All it needed, were some months of patience and preparation. A good news for the High Kingdom, but a bad one for the elven lord; Sunstep, Shairin said, had no intention to grant the child the name of the Dawnlights, despite knowing that the family had no male heir to inherit its lord’s legacy. His daughter, who feared his wrath because of that, was so surprised to get her father’s support that she broke into tears, unaware that it was that oh so familiar light of happiness into her eyes, the thing able to hurt him most. But he loved her, as every father would, and she deserved that happiness. Every, single bit of it.

While life was blooming all around him despite the darkest time and the enemies lurking in the shadows, the archmage looked past the decorated desk, at the floor, feeling the time slipping away from his fingers as fast as dry, ocean sand.

After Amaranthia's death, a woman named Rei’ann, one of Sunpace’s collaborators, managed to enter into his life just to cause havoc in her wake, breaking the few sparks of trust and hope that were left intact by Menethil’s hand. It was true, Nivendi’en, his renamed son, was doing his best to be accepted into his father’s life, but how could he forgive him, who accepted to get another’s affiliation despite he knew -everything?

How could he forgive her?

The elf moved his hand to grab the gryphon’s quill and prepare it for the daily notes.

… How foolish was he, to think to be able to just forget his Dawn’s smile and warmth?

Mor’denath closed his eyes and stood up, running the slender fingers, hardened by the last years of physical training and sword mastery, on the dark sanguine robe, leaving the quill behind, at least for now. The elf approached the almost overflowed shelves and looked up, running his eyes on the titles and on the enchanted layer of magic that prevented the deterioration of those pages while the everchanging light of the lanterns was toying with his own shadow. Eventually, the Inquisitor stopped that platonic travel in time there were there was a very small hole in those walls of texts and his eyes narrowed slightly upon meeting the discrete, rectangular shape of a thin but long box, similar to the ones used to store quills and engravers. No dust was covering the object, which surface was white, decorated by a complex pattern of golden filigree. The more time he spent looking up, the heavier the air filling his lungs became, to the point that when someone knocked on the door he almost felt the urge to recoil from that spot, as a guilty child, caught whilst daydreaming, would.

“Enter.” He said, his voice sharp and detached. Formal.

The servant came in, welcomed by the Inquisitor’s perked eyebrow. He bowed respectfully and maintained that position whilst saying: “I apologize for interrupting your work, my Lord, but the Spire called for your presence in order to discuss the next task of the Blade, of January.”

The elven lord performed a swift motion with his right hand, granting the servant the possibility to stand straight once again. “I won’t be back for dinner; be sure for the cooks to know. Wastes are unnecessary.”

The servant nodded “Yes, my Lord. Shorel’aran.”, bowed once again, and left the office.

The Inquisitor, who left behind the title of Magister in order to fully focus on the military protection of Quel’thalas, wore the wide, dark mantle and the shoulderpads of his uniform bearing the insignia of the Eclipsion Blade. He walked through the door, after having tossed a quick, devoted look at the right corner of the office.

Concealed by the dancing enchanted lights, was an elegant, white sofa.