Meditations

"Bal'a dash, Magister Dusksworn" said the young Sunwell Warden. "Are you here for your meditation?" Mithlas had become a regular visitor to the Sunwell this past year, or more. After his liberation from the Fel, which had held him in its claws for so long, the Arcane Light of the font had given him more than just relief. It gave him an inner peace unmatched by the previous incarnation of the font.

"I am." Mithlas said as he nodded a polite greeting. The Sunwell Warden stepped aside and answered "Sunlance and I had begun to worry you did not return from Lordaeron." The Magister did not answer right away as his mood grew darker. "Many did not... " he answered a little more quiet than before. Noticing the concern on the Warden's face he followed it up with a more formal "Thank you for worrying, but I am well enough." The young Warden nodded, though clearly the concern had not passed. He returned to his position by the door as the Magister passed through.

Mithlas entered into a dark, but magnificent hall called the Shrine of the Eclipse. It was, essentially, the antechamber to the Sunwell's hall. In his mind the room symbolised the darkness that one must pass before being granted the Light. It symbolised a trial of fortitude and devotion to not only the Light, but also the nation and its people as embodied by the Arcane Well. Here many pilgrims had gathered, awaiting their turn to pass beyond. Some stood in line, awaiting word from a guard, while others stood by the vista overseeing the Well below. Even here the power of the Sunwell was already tangible. Its arcane power rejuvinated many of those tired from the journey, while, by the grace of the Light, they felt at peace.

Mithlas approached one of the guards. He was clad in a magnificent armour of red and gold, adorned with many of the national symbols of Quel'thalas such as the phoenix and the Sun disk. The Magister noticed something else as well; the man's eyes had turned golden. In the past months it had become a more widespread phenomenon that seemed to favour those most devoted. "Bal'a dash, Dawnsworn" Mithlas greeted him "I am here for my meditation." The guard nodded and let him pass, a privilege enjoyed by those of the Magisterium.

When he approached the Sunwell the Magister instantly felt the pain of the past weeks wash away. The horror of the Lordaeron campaign paled before the Light and a peace settled in his heart. With a slight smile on his lips Mithlas looked about the room. Many of the pilgrims gathered about the Well, kneeling in respect. Some went even further and prostrated themselves as a show of devotion. At this he had to withold a scoff. It seemed distinctly human to worship the Light in this manner. Mithlas simply kneeled as most did, then switched to a cross-legged position. Prayer was something alien to him, as was religious praise for a deity or force. He had great respect for those powers, but he never felt the need to beg any entity for scraps or favour. Instead he simply chose to meditate, prefering to let whatever the Light was willing to give wash over him. He came here often to find peace of mind in this manner.

Before beginning his meditation he removed his glove. The skin beneath was a fresh, pale pink, and wrinkled with scar tissue in some places. A spell had rebounded during the battle and scorched his hand severely. The healing of the Blood Knights had dealt with the worst of it, but here, before the Sunwell the scars would fade faster. As he let the hand bathe in the Light he closed his eyes to meditate. He allowed his memories of the past weeks to freely enter his mind without restriction. Every painful moment would come and go. Each of them would be given due focus so that he might give those events a proper place, outside of trauma. However, one vision in particular troubled him. After the last battle he had stood with his comrades on the hills overlooking Capital City. There they saw how the bodies of fallen Horde soldiers had been raised by vile magic, only to be slaughtered again. He remembered the venomous words he had spat at this view "Arthas would be proud".

How could a Windrunner, once one of the most noble families in Quel'thalas, have fallen so low? Was there any real difference now between her and the monstrous king that slaughtered their kin? To make matters worse, news had spread that she had burned Teldrassil -- a world tree filled with elves. Yes, these were Night Elves; savages by all accounts, but they were distant kin. And, apparently those who burned had been mostly civilians. Mithlas opened his eyes. This knowledge was harder to place -- difficult to move beyond.

He decisively unhooked an arcane relic that was strapped to his belt. He had created it some time ago using what he had learned of chronomancy. While the item could be used as a simple focus, it had the potential to amplify time-magic specifically. Which is exactly what he needed now. Holding it with both hands he would pull his mind outward using a divination spell and then cast it backward, through time to see what he needed to see.

A bright flash of orange and red greeted him as he felt a heat on his skin. Even though his body was back in the present, sitting safely before the Well, his mind made every sensation real enough. The image before him cleared and he saw it: Teldrassil, the Crown of the Earth, cast in flames; smoke darkening the sky above it and fire illuminating the sea below. Cinders filled the air, caught on a dry wind nearly bereft of oxygen. It carried a horrible scent and a terrifying sound. The scent was of burnt wood, but more sublte tones hinted at other forms of life being burned. The tree had been home to an entire eco-system. Elves, yes, but also deer, panthers, boars, birds,... Yet, it was the sound of it that cut through to the very core of his being. The wind carried the screams of the dying all the way to the coast. It carried the sound of despair and the anguish of flame settling on skin. Mithlas' focus wavered and his brief vision of the tree became mixed with memories -- flashes of another time when he heard such screams: when the scourge slaughtered its way to Silvermoon. When the undead put his loved ones to the sword, or ripped them apart through vile magic. 'This is as it was then!' he thought.

Mithlas felt every aching moment of despair washing over him, carried by the wind from Teldrassil. He had had no love for the Night Elves, but in this moment he felt nothing but compassion for their suffering. He desired, more than anything, to see justice done. To see the villain who did this pay for her crimes, yet he understood such feats were beyond his power or position. Pain and regret filled his being, but then the Light of the Sunwell answered. His pain was eased, soothed by the grace of the Well, and his regret was replaced by hope. Tears welled up in his eyes as his compassion for the lost and his hope to see justice done made themselves manifest through the Light. He sighed with relief; finishing his meditation. As he opened his eyes a tearful pearl reflected their colour, now a bright gold.