Reminiscence

The sun was shining brightly in the sky past the open windows and a soft breeze filtered through the transparent curtains. The spring carried the scent of flowers. This early in the morning the grass was still wet and so were the leaves shivering under the gentle caress of the wind. The air was fresh and vibrant and the distant sound of the waves crashing and rolling on the shore after that night’s tempest was relaxing yet invigorating.  In the distance, the mass of pale but bulky clouds projected their shadows on the ocean waves.

Voices were coming from the gardens below where the botanists were working to fix the mess caused by a night storm. The weather itself was still cold, but the touch of the sun was not.

The oval terrace of the west wing was wide and its marble railings towered right over the gardens facing the white shores. On the right, a high tree extended its branches, its golden canopy acting as a shifting and trembling roof above his head. Grayish shadows and golden lights dotted the coarse pavement under his bare feet.

To the west, the forest climbed on the tall alabaster mountains which were embraced by the traveling clouds. The trees clung to the rocks akin to joyous children to their mother’s skirt, their leaves moving to the wind like wailing, grabby hands.  A flock of birds recently returned from their far travel was ready to spend the warm months in that forest and fill it with their everlasting songs. Their crystalline voices came and went as their wings sailed the sky. They twirled, dived and glided from high above, from branch to the ground and then up again, bringing sticks and moss to their still unfinished nests. Every now and then he could catch the sinister scratch of small claws on the thick bark of the branches just above his head; leaves fell under the careless pressure of a strolling squirrel.

Carried by the same wind that vainly attempted to toy with his pale blond and tied hair, came the fragrance of freshly baked, still hot pumpkin bread resting on a wooden chopping board. The tray, the goods, and four porcelain cups were waiting on a circular table on the left; in the middle were three medium sized teapots, one full of hot water, one honey-milk and the third one contained hot chocolate. A glass jar of jam, spoons, a handful of boiled eggs.

The breakfast was ready and like every sunny morning, Amaranthia took care to organize it on the terrace where her husband was to host his personal training session.  She was sitting at the table, absentmindedly sipping her tea whilst reading one of several letters shipped from the Dalaran embassy. In front of her the eight-year-old Amarath was spreading a bit too much jam on his slice of bread.

That moment was one of the most sacred and took place twice a day, in the morning and late in the afternoon after his return from the usual magisterial affairs. Mor’denath only recently found out how much his mind needed those moments of light physical exercise to get away from intrigues, extremely boring issues or his own arcane researchers. Just some months ago he published his first Compendium and his father was –already- pressuring him to publish another; the house Lord would have had to learn patience and respect for his son’s pace since he had no intention to write a second book anytime soon. For now, his progenitor would have to be content with just his Divination studies.

In front of him, Pheithan, the captain of his personal guards, was standing ready. Both of them were armed with wooden swords. The fresh air and the wind didn’t allow the sweat to linger too much on their bodies but the magister could already feel a strain on his back. He was still not used to such physical effort but after every session, he felt a vague sense of satisfaction; there was no way for him to beat that elf in a magic-less combat, but every day spent without falling on his face or tripping over a wrongly performed foot-trick was a small, inner self-celebration.

“I don’t about know you, Magister, but I’m about to fall asleep here.”, Pheithan said, grinning widely while acting perfectly casual as if in front of him stood nothing more than an adept barely able to hold a sword right.

To be honest, he wasn’t even wrong.

Mor’denath scoffed and moved forward trying to hit the captain’s right shoulder, but his opponent quickly reacted and deflected the wooden sword and exposed the assailant’s left side. The arcanist realized the peril and barely managed to evade by stepping to the right; he quickly pivoted on the right foot to parry the incoming swipe, but Pheithan’s assault was relentless and in a span of seconds forced Mor’denath to a constant retreat. His strikes were clearly aimed at his wrists, knowing how much the heir of the Dawnlight family feared to have visible bruises on his hands or arms.

“Beat him up, father!”, Amarath screamed while tightly holding his half-munched piece of bread. Amaranthia lifted her azure eyes from the letters and was now watching with light amusement and composed irony.

“Indeed, -father-! Beat him up!”.

Damn woman.

The mage stopped parrying the attacks and successfully avoided a cleave aimed at his right hip by darting backward; for once, Pheithan was exposed and his left side was deprived of proper defense. Mor’denath’s sword rose and stuck harder than he wanted, leaving the captain breathless; that was the first time he managed to land a proper blow but that triumph that caused his young son to squeal in cheering joy, didn’t last for longer than a breath. Just as he was about to point out his shallow victory, Pheithan annihilated the distance between the two of them and positioned his left leg right behind the Magister’s left one, forcing it forward while a well-trained hand grabbed the collar of his shirt and pushed backward. Mor’denath lost balance and fell on his own back with his friend kneeling right on top of him.

“Growing claws, aren’t we Dawnlight?”, the guard hummed and his grin was wide enough to show his teeth. “Yet the cub has still a long way to go.”

The contact between the cold stone and his sweat-soaked back made Mor’denath shiver. He looked at the captain and narrowed his eyes. The two grew up together; when the young heir was studying his first arcane tome, the former house captain was teaching Pheithan how to wield sword and shield, preparing him to one day lead the household guards.

“Wait for it, Dal’danil.”, Mor’denath gently pushed him away and returned to his feet. “One day I will be the one to pin you on the ground.”

Pheithan said nothing but shook his head while Amarath trotted toward his father, his right hand sticky from jam. The magister ran his fingers through the child’s blond hair and lead him back to the table where his mother was amusedly keeping her eyes on the two fully grown elves. She sipped from her cup and lightly narrowed her eyes, concealing a smirk behind the white porcelain rim. “It went well, my dear. Or… better than usual.”

Mor’denath took his place at the table and placed a towel around his mark-less shoulders to protect his still warm muscles from the cold wind. “At least I didn’t almost fall off the balcony this time.” He then looked at Pheithan and invited him to sit with them with a motion of his hand; the captain declined the offer, saluted and turned around to pick up the wooden swords. “Or almost broke the nose against a wall.”

“My history teacher told me that sweating is not for the mages, that’s commoner’s job!”, said Amarath, who was successfully pouring the tea into his father’s cup, for once without spilling the hot liquid all over his pants.

Amaranthia frowned a little. “Those are not good words to say, sweetheart.” Her voice, while firm, carried its usual kindness.

“I’m sorry, mother.”

The sound of footsteps came from the living room.

“I keep telling myself that I will try to ignore that woman but this got out of hand, father. I tell you: she follows me –wherever- I go. I am one step away from compiling a formal complaint to her household.”

Mor’denath moved his eyes off his wife and looked at Athlarios, his first son. The elf was standing tall in his arcanist purple robes and a scowl darkened his visage; unlike Amarath, he looked almost like his father and had the attitude of their house Lord. “Did miss Brightsun leave another valentine’s bracelet on your desk?”

Athlarios frowned even more and tossed an annoyed glance to his father before sitting by his side.

“No. This time I had to gift away a chocolate box.”

The Magister looked away to conceal half a smile. He didn’t like chocolate either.

-

Sweat rolled down his forehead and coated his bare chest in a thin layer. His breathing was fast and deep as he bent over to avoid the umpteenth swing.

The orange light of the torches illuminated the wide oval area, partially reflecting on the marble railing and on the curved walls that rose in an arch and connected to the structure of the building. Another source of light was offered by the braziers past the hollow windows, deprived of curtains; he didn’t need that kind of decorative element anymore.

The air was still, heavy, and the scent of arcane particles constantly made his hair stand. He jolted to the left and led the sword held in his left hand straight against the opponent’s right side whilst protecting his own exposed chest with the second, shorter sword.

A moan of pain broke the focused silence, followed by a grunt.

Every time his sword collided with the ones wielded by the two guards he was facing, the metallic sound echoed through the stone, penetrated into the living room and traveled all the way down the otherwise silent corridor. A basin of water was waiting on the barren stone table by the left while his armor was accurately placed on the benches. The elementium chain mail was hanging on its mannequin, the war horns were stored in their sheats, attached to a thick leather thigh belt. The black and golden tissues were like a dark mass on the smooth and candid surface, their metallic filigree rarely reflected the feeble light gifted with mercy by the fires scattered all around the perimeter.

Imperial black and crimson banners towered on the columns holding the sword and double-headed phoenix of the Sunfury Thalassian vanguard.

Shadows and burning lights fought on every stone in the fake and vain attempt to prevail over one another and overtake that corner of the world for themselves, no matter if such victory was bound to end at the very moment it came.

The Inquisitor barely avoided a pommel strike to his stomach and deflected a sword thrust coming from the left side of his ribcage; forced to a tactical retreat he moved backward to better study the situation, waiting for the guards to make the first move and come to him.

The metallic blades shone in the dim light and their elven make didn’t help to make them look less dangerous. Yet he needed that adrenaline, it was –necessary- for him to know that failure could have cost him more than a bruise.

At the other side of the oval stood a red and white clad woman. Her gaze followed the violent training session with utmost care and formal attention, in case one of the three part-takers needed the Light to heal their wounds.

It happened twice that day and dark scarlet trails already dotted the ground.

One of the guards finally decided to make his move and charged forward, halting his stride a meter away from the Elven Lord and aimed for his main wrist. He pivoted to the side and crashed the metallic pommel of his left hand against the enemy’s exposed ribcage and hit the side of his closest knee with his boot, but the second guard was on him already. A hiss of pain escaped from his lips when the strength of the knight’s cleave forced the parrying sword to cut his own elbow. Mor’denath tightened his jaw and bent his chest enough to pass under his own wounded arm, avoiding a shield bash just in time.

As blood leaked from the superficial cut he couldn’t help but feel satisfaction for the challenge at hand. Nothing could enter his windowless estate, save those he needed to see, and the tasks and duties he was required to complete.

The scent of smoke coming from the torches caught his attention: the training time was running out.

This time he didn’t wait for the two guards to come to him; the Inquisitor charged at the closest one and as soon as his opponent was about to swing his blade a shimmer of arcane surrounded the Lord, who re-appeared in a blink of an eye behind the other wounded comrade and hit his nape with the sword’s pommel, knocking the guard out for good.

The priestess made a step closer but waited for the two last standing elves to lead the duel away from the fainted knight.

-

The stairs of the tower led him towards his living quarters. He could still feel the soft touch of the Light tingling there where the guard’s sword had cut his arm; those benevolent energies left no trace behind as the cut itself was everything but severe. Mor’denath left his swords on the terrace along with the rest of his armor and departed after a couple of words exchanged with his training partners. Once those three abandoned the estate there was no one in there able to take his belongings away.

The sound of his steps echoed through the halls, suffocated every now and then by the presence of a carpet or wooden floor.

The Magister liked that severe silence in the same way he appreciated the austerity of the few areas of his estate that were “open” to the public. The colors of the Sin’dorei regime and the ones of the Eclipsion Blade were everything he needed to show his loyalty to the High Kingdom and to all those who dared to speak about his past.

At the end of the stairs, a large door made of hazelnut wood was waiting for the Lord’s arrival.

Mor’denath half closed his eyes, loosened the long pitch black hair and lightly relaxed his shoulders upon entering that area. A large hand painted picture welcomed the house Lord, it’s heavily, golden decorated perimeter touched by the petals of many, many roses. A younger-self stood by his wife’s side, her gentle and generous forms donning her bridal dress. He speeded up his stride regarding that painting with nothing but a quick glance and entered his quarters.

A sudden fragrance of daffodils, roses, and lilies captured his senses accompanied by the intense scent of paper and ink. Arcane lights illuminated his personal library while hanging flowers and wines descended from the ceiling, decorating the entire room. That place was probably the only one within his domain that hadn’t changed since the Fall of Quel’thalas.

Tired and in need of a bath he left a handful of letters on the already crowded but still tidy desk, leaving the office area behind to reach the upper level where a door separated the bedroom from the bathroom.

There where the light was dim, a structure of black metal rose up almost to the ceiling. Little but countless arcane candles illuminated a semi-circle of flowers, which embraced four small portraits. They were nested on a red carpet; a small pile of romance books, her favorites, was left as a memento by their right. Other objects accompanied his sons and daughter’s images.

A letter sent from Dalaran.

An empty jar of jam.

A bracelet made of azure and golden strings.

The elf, who was about to ignore the sight, closed his eyes and slowly recoiled from the door to approach his family memorial instead, studying the smiling faces  that even now, even if in a different way, greeted him every day in the morning and every afternoon when he came back from his magisterial businesses. The woman closest to the crown of flowers, however, was the one he missed the most.  The sacred ritual that once had his family gather and wait for him, saw him greet them and patiently wait for his own time to arrive.

Mor’denath parted his lips to say something, but not word emerged from his lips, instead, he lifted his left hand, and for a brief moment, stared at his own fingers; there was nothing left of the smooth and delicate touch they had once had, in the same way, the training and the last decade spent fighting for survival eradicates one’s purity.

Yet, memories can be so sweet…

The elven lord took a deep breath and allowed the arcane to engulf his own being; the rush of power flowed through his veins and touched the enhanced ink of his arcane-focusing tattoos. Swirls of violet and azure power curled and twisted around his fingers, crashing and clashing against one another like waves colliding within a deep but too tight canyon.

His mind shaped that power and bent it to his own will. What was nothing but air and chaotic spark coagulated into a small globe; petals emerged from the smooth and pulsing surface, blossoming into the shape of a starlight rose. The pale but dense light emanated by the conjured crystal reflected against the skin of his bare chest and as his markings returned to stagnation, he knelt down and delicately left his creation by Amaranthia’s portrait.

Such a cold, distant light it was.