What Survives It All

How can war turn the most docile of men into a ferocious beast?

How can war blind the most rational individual?

Bloodshed. Pain. Fear. Rage and thirst of revenge for those who fell on the battlefield were fueling a feud that was never going to be left behind. If even when the Legion was invading Azeroth, Horde and Alliance were unable to put their weapons away and see reason, Lord Dawnlight knew that there was little hope for him to live long enough to see the end of such pointless conflict.

While he was the first one who desired peace for his Kingdom, there was nothing he could do but answer the calls to arms. The humans were still unable to accept the destruction of Lordaeron and the region's "new" rulers; Stormwind marched north in the attempt to rebuild a handful of cities in the Plaguelands, killing Horde forces on the way. The reaction didn't come late, and now Redridge was under siege.

An unwanted but necessary manoeuvre, to remind the humans and their lapdog allies their place.

If ten years ago someone told him that he was going to -desire- and actively bring death to other non-troll races, he would have shaken his head.

Alas, times change.

While in the Inquisitor's mind were the sound of clashing blades, flying spells, and dying cries, the living room was welcoming and its silence was disrupted only by the subtle cracks of the fireplace half consumed chocs. The orange light of the fire was dancing against the surface of furniture and statues while the cold light of the moon infiltrated through the glass of the closed windows. Despite the very late hour of the night, that modest estate somehow felt "alive." The elf's gaze was lost in the shifting and devouring flames winning over their wooden victims, knowing that the scent of ash and smoke was not coming from the maw of the fireplace; it impregnated his armour and hair. Only the Knight Champion and the Custodian knew the reason why he was leaving Redridge almost every night during the last four days, retiring to stay close enough to his daughter, to be by her side, whenever and if she cared and wanted the support of a man like him.

A choc collapsed under the raging hunger of the fire and its darkened husk joined the embers under the grid. At the same time, a bright cloud deprived the sky of the moon's light. Mor'denath closed his eyes. He had to be there for her, even if he was sitting some rooms and a couple of corridors away, close enough to quickly answer her call, but far enough to not intrude into her new-found dream. When after the labor Shairin gave her daughter the name of his deceased wife, the Magister felt a sudden, unexpected, voracious rush of emotions and had to leave the room. He didn't predict such choice, which struck deep and choked any word inside his throat. He had to leave because it was dangerous for him to be part of his daughter's life without feeling directly involved. Wasn't it true, that there was little left of him after all? Now that Shairin finally found her place by Lord Sunstep's side, now that she had a family on her own and someone to love? Wasn't it true, that he always had been the first to keep the distances from their happiness? To let them live such deserved blessing in peace? To force himself away from something that was bound to never belong to his life ever again?

How useful and valuable could a beast like him be?

Those thoughts, as grim as they were, were helping him to fall asleep. His tired body needed some rest after almost two weeks of constant battles; his mind wanted to shut down for a couple of hours and forget the pile of letters he had to send to several Thalassian families, announcing the death of a son, a daughter, or a relative.

"Father?"

The elven Lord opened his eyes and rose the head from the knuckles of his closed fist. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the pale, beautiful figure of his daughter standing some meters away from the sofa. She was donning a light pink, large and comfortable dress. Her blond hair decorated those heavenly features and her eyes shined bright and warmly. She was the last surviving legacy, the most beautiful flower able to testify that, once, even his life had a meaning.

"Shairin.", He called her closer but only noticed when she was approaching that her arms were carefully and motherly holding something against her chest. His muscles tensed as he didn't want to have anything to do with the one who was resting in the velvet embrace of that blanket. "You should be resting."; he corrected himself, trying to send her away.

The woman didn't seem to care about his very subtle invite to leave the room and stopped by the sofa while her right hand was tenderly cupping a small, pale-haired head holding it against her shoulder. The Inquisitor serrated his jaw and did his best to not look at his granddaughter; while his breath became deeper and slower and the right hand closed into a tight fist, he fixated the ever-burning eyes into Shairin's ones to make her catch his silent, imposing veto. The room that was so welcoming just a couple of minutes before suddenly felt too small, too claustrophobic, if not even repulsing to him. The once fresh air of the night became sickening.

The elf attempted to stand up slowly, but once again his daughter counteracted his actions by moving in front of the sofa, so close to him that her legs were leaning against his knees. At that point, he couldn't do much anymore and very slowly pressed his shoulders against the padded backseat while both his hands rested abandoned on the armrests. His accusing eyes returned to the ones of that stubborn woman until she bent forward to rest the child into his arms; he couldn't refuse the offer unless he wanted to drop the infant on his plate-armored lap.

Mor'denath didn't want that kind of contact, but when Shairin made several steps back his gaze lowered on that bundle. He felt unready, no matter if it was not the first time he held a child and immediately noticed how that snake of a daughter put the little girl in a wrong position into his arms, so to force him to take action and correct the mistake. The Magister delicately rose the head of his granddaughter against the right pectoral and coiled the arm around that fragile body, sustaining her without any effort. He reluctantly found himself thinking how uncomfortable it must have been for her to rest against the cold mail and the hard plate reinforcements of his unclean armour and did his best to interpose his black mantle between her cheek and his chest.

As soon as he made those arrangements, he looked up for Shairin and found her grabbing some water and something to eat at the furthest side of the room. Her movements were slow as she was trying not to make too loud noises, leaving him alone with Amaranthia.

Amaranthia...

Mor'denath narrowed his eyes and led them for the very first time on the child's face. She was sleeping, and her chest barely moved while breathing softly, unaware of the dangers crowding the cruel world outside those safe halls. Her skin was pale, and experience told him that the child still had to open her eyes; she was born only a couple of days ago. What ran through the mind of his daughter, to leave her in his arms? Didn't she notice the condition of his armour? His gloves were not even clean! He sighed in both exasperation and tiredness and carefully removed his gloves to at least reduce the chance to dirt the girl's skin. He looked up once again hoping for the child’s mother to come back, but she was still far away, without a doubt on purpose. Alas, Shairin knew him way more, way deeper than he thought; the Inquisitor had to give up trying, knowing that the new mother managed to put him into the umpteenth cage.

... But did she?

He returned his gaze on that so peaceful face, feeling how small, defenseless, fragile she was, how much she needed to be held, loved, and protected. The last child he held in his arms was at that moment eating some bread and butter on the other side of the room. The last child he held in his arms was born in golden times when everything was simple, straightforward. When white and black didn't have shades of grey, when survival was not a matter of numbers and how many enemies died on the battlefield. Mor'denath parted his lips to call for Shairin, but the order to take the newborn away from his embrace didn't manage to come out; the sentence turned into a second, quiet sigh. He was able to listen to the sound of her soft and discrete breath as she was unaware of the stranger holding her more tightly and protectively than he ever expected.

She was safe there.

The Magister held his breath for a moment to kick the growing emotions away from public eyes. He didn't want to -know- that there was still something left of the man he once was. He refused to accept that there was more of him than an empty husk. How could something have survived tragedy, disgrace and the almost complete annihilation of an empire? How strong could those emotions be to overcome every obstacle and reach the surface? ... But there she was, sleeping in his arms. His daughter approached the fireplace to add a couple of chocs, but he was not caring about her movements anymore, as every spark of him was focused on that so little thing cuddled up against him. So small, yet so powerful to shatter the will of a man who for years never bent a knee in front of anyone. Only when he felt the soft touch of her skin under his fingers, he realised that his hand moved on its own to caress her cheek. He spent so much time devoted to the battlefield, wielding powerful spells and weapons against monsters of different sizes, cultures, and abominations, that he couldn't help but wonder if his touch was too rough and brute for her. A precious light, shining so bright to destroy the darkness all around her and turn problems, fears, plots, and destruction into nothing but a setback that could do -nothing- to overshadow and win over that life.

There was so much to do. So much to give. So much to live, feel and experience. There still was so much Mor'denath could give, live, feel, experience and offer. More than his mere presence on the battlefield and his emotionless guidance through infinite darkness and desolation. Maybe, life didn't give up on him after all. He rose his granddaughter and gently leant his cheek against her forehead, praising the sun, the stars and the sky for her existence and for what her mere presence brought up after so long. He always refused to accept how strong love could be and how life didn't stop for those who fell from its grace. Now that she was there, safe in his arms, he didn't want to let her go. While his eyes grew watery, he understood that the beast he so much tried to dominate out of fear and desperation was just his unbound desire to live on and see that there was still a place for him in that world. Something more than his rank within the Magisterium or his military honours and duties. The beating of that small heart was everything he needed, and he had waited for. Until that moment, he turned his back to life many times in the attempt to not suffer as he did in the past. He ran away and hid, punishing himself when there was still so much that was worth fighting for. He merely survived for that long, while his daughter had come so far to deliver him the evidence that love and life always come to pull people through pain and beyond, surviving death and all the tears cried for a shredded heart.

Love and life survive it all.

Mor'denath's lips softly met the child's forehead and when he looked up, he saw his daughter sitting on the armrest of the sofa, smiling at him. At long last, his eyes were not blind anymore: his wife was gone, but she came back into his life to free him from that state; part of her lived in Shairin, and now lived into that awakening infant.

He never lost it all. He was never too late.

As his left hand rose so to quickly and discretely wipe away a rogue tear, a tiny and adorable hand grabbed his finger.

He looked down at Amaranthia in awe, seeing the dawning of bursting light banish a night that lasted for too long. Finally, a gentle and loving smile appeared on his lips, followed by a soft greeting:

"Welcome home, my Dawn."