World of Warcraft®

you sir have lost your mind bro

((Quite possible, though I would contend that I never had much of a mind to lose in the first place.

So thanks? I think.))

Finnaeus awoke to a bruising throb to the back of his head. His vision was blurry, and when he reached a hand to the back of his head he felt a surge of pain when he pressed against his skull. He immediately stopped, closing his eyes as the pain ran its course. That was enough for him – he would not touch the wound again.

His vision focused, and he found himself on a cold, stone floor. Grunting, he pulled himself up into a sitting position. A harsh green light filled his eyes. He put up a hand to shield his eyes from the glow – it was like looking into the sun. His head throbbed again, but he mastered the impulse to wince. After a few moments of stability, he lowered his hands, and the light did not hurt so much.

The glow emanated from a massive rune along the ground. He struggled to his feet, taking in the intricate pattern traced along the ground. It reeked of fel magic. He didn’t take Aloyseus for a warlock. It was most definitely active – he could feel the energy coming from it like waves of heat. Beyond the rune was a set of metal bars reaching from the ground into the ceiling, five feet above his head. They were thick, but the metal wasn’t as sturdy as it should be. In fact, Finnaeus thought the whole prison was hastily put together. All he would have to do is shift into his bear form and take one good swipe at the bars. Steadying himself, he made to shift, and -

-a sizzling bolt of green energy struck out from the rune and struck him in the chest. It threw him back against the wall, and he slammed into the stone wall behind him. All of the air was squeezed from his lungs. The smell of sulfur filled the air, and his chest ached from the blast. He took a moment to regain his composure. That most definitely hurt. He cursed himself – of course they wouldn’t put him in a cell that was going to allow him to escape so easily.

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep at that,” a voice said from beyond the bars. Finnaeus looked up to see Araneon standing on the other side, his arms folded in front of him. Finnaeus narrowed his eyes, his lips curling around his tusks in a snarl.

“I figured that out for myself, thanks,” Finnaeus sneered. He pulled himself into a crouch, staring at the Blood Elf. “Where are we?”

“Gilneas,” Araneon answered, looking around. “In the mountains.”

“And how long have I been out?”

“A few days,” Araneon answered. “They kept you subdued magically until today.”

“They?” Finnaeus asked.

“Mostly your brother,” Araneon said.

Finnaeus couldn’t help but scowl. Just the mere mention of Aloyseus boiled his blood. This was all his doing, all of it.

“Where in the mountains?”

“Pretty deep in,” Araneon said. When Finnaeus gave him an impatient look, Araneon held up his hands. “I can’t be more specific. I’m not exactly familiar with Gilnean geography.”

Finnaeus wrinkled his nose, and pinched the bridge of his long, troll nose. He could feel Araneon staring at him, but Finnaeus didn’t have anything to say. The elf was a hired gun, and while he certainly blamed him for the current throb of his head wound, it was not a surprise that his loyalty was to Aloyseus. He was, after all, due in an incredible sum of money. Finnaeus stood from his crouch, and for a moment his head swam uneasy. But the instability passed, and he approached the bars of his cell.

Behind Araneon he could see a host of Forsaken moving crates around what looked like a cavernous, mountain laboratory. There were many tables holding piles of books and scrolls, with beakers bubbling with any number of toxically colored compounds and substances. The walls were lined with torches to light the space, with several larger fires flickering in braziers that hung from the ceiling. At the very center of the room was the giant runed crate that Finnaeus had helped to escort.

“They haven’t opened it yet,” Finnaeus said to Araneon.

“No,” he admitted. “They’ll be doing that momentarily. That’s why your brother wanted you awake.”

“For what purpose?” Finnaeus asked, his eyes laser focused on the runed crate.

“He told me not to tell,” Araneon said simply. Finnaeus looked at him.

“You really are quite the loyal soldier.”

Araneon appeared to be genuinely taken aback by the comment. But it was only momentary, for the elf replaced the stricken look with his usual, casual disdain.

“I’m owed my due.”

“You did your job,” Finnaeus said. “That crate is safe in their possession. Why haven’t they paid you yet?”

Araneon frowned, and Finnaeus knew he had struck gold. Aloyseus was stringing him along with the payment. Otherwise why keep him there? The elf was no longer necessary. The longer Araneon went without his payment, the more Finnaeus could possibly twist him into aiding in a possible escape.

“He said there’s still more work to do.”

“Right,” Finnaeus said. “Working on all that gold he owes you.”

“It’s not the gold,” Araneon snapped. He glared at Finnaeus. “Some things are more important than gold.”

“Bet it helps though,” Finnaeus said. “Soothes the conscience from reminding you that you’re aiding monsters.”

“I’m not with them,” Araneon said, pointing back at the lab workers. “I don’t even know what their end game is. I’m just looking to get paid.”

“Even worse,” Finnaeus responded. A dark look passed over Araneon’s face. Finnaeus knew he was playing with fire. If he had any chance at escape, his instinct was that Araneon would have to play a part. The rune in the middle of his prison would stop him from making any move for himself, and even if he did find a way out, he was surrounded by enemies. But Araneon’s cut and run attitude made him unlikely to help.

“You know nothing about me,” Araneon snarled.

“That you’re right about,” Finnaeus said. “I didn’t take you for someone to look the other way when something clearly is wrong.”

“I shouldn’t have even bothered coming to talk to you,” Araneon said. “I felt bad for whacking you over the head, but now I’m glad I got to hit you twice. You’re a stubborn fool. If you just kept your mouth shut you wouldn’t be sitting in that cell there.”

“And would your sister have kept her mouth shut if she was here now?” Finnaeus asked. “It doesn’t take a genius to see that what these guys are up to is not something that the world at large is going to support. They’re hiding it for a reason.”

Araneon leaned in closer, his anger radiating off of his body in waves of heat.

“Don’t talk about my sister. And I’m not doing anything to help you.”

“Understood,” Finnaeus said, disgusted. “You have to do what’s right for you. But when you find out what they’re up to, just remember you had a hand in it.”

Araneon had no response, and he didn’t have time to think of one. Finnaeus could see Aloyseus approaching. His brother was flanked by three other Forsaken, one of whom was dressed in elaborate armor. The other two looked to be subordinates, and after a few exchanged words Aloyseus shook the leader’s hand and then approached the prison.

“Can you give me a few moments alone with our guest,” Aloyseus asked. Araneon nodded, gave Finnaeus one last contemptuous glare, and then walked away. Araneon disappeared from view, leaving him with only a vision of his brother.

They stared at each other for quite some time. Finnaeus got the sense that Aloyseus was waiting for him to say something. But at the sight of his undead face, with that unnatural jaw and the unnatural glow of his eyes, Finnaeus found that he was too angry to say anything. Worse, he felt betrayed when he should never have given him any measure of trust.

“I regret that we have to restrict you to a cell here,” Aloyseus said, finally. “I argued against it but was overruled. Unfortunately your rebellious streak back in Silverpine has earned you the distrust of my colleagues.”

“How unfortunate,” Finnaeus said, every word dripping with acid.

“Indeed,” Aloyseus said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, that rune will stop you from performing any sort of magic. They wanted to bind you, but I felt the rune was quite sufficient.”

“Generous of you.”

“I thought so too,” Aloyseus said, narrowing his eyes. “It’s harmless enough, if you exercise some self-control. At any rate, I believe that once you hear the presentation I’ll be giving tomorrow, you won’t have nearly as much rancor as you do now.”

“I highly doubt it,” Finnaeus said, his voice in a deadly whisper.

“You don’t see all ends, Finnaeus,” Aloyseus responded.

“I’ve seen enough.”

“I did not want you to discover that we had possession of your true body that way,” Aloyseus said. “It was supposed to be explained to you when we arrived here, with you a willing participant. We had to improvise.”

“I’m sorry that I inconvenienced your plans,” Finnaeus said, giving his brother a cruel smile. “Where is it now?”

“Safely stored away, with the rest of the worgen we pulled from the woods,” Aloyseus said smoothly. “We didn’t get as many as we hoped, but it’ll be sufficient for our needs.”

“Your needs,” Finnaeus said. “So what’s next – stitching together an abomination made of worgen parts?”

“Hardly,” Aloyseus said.

“Don’t look so insulted,” Finnaeus hissed, his entire body bent towards rage. “As if your people weren’t capable of that kind of grotesquery.”

“I, however, am not so crude,” Aloyseus said, sniffing. He straightened his head as if trying to regain some civility. “We’re not quite the monsters you think we are.”

“You can tell that to the people of Southshore.”

“An unfortunate lapse in judgment,” Aloyseus said.

“And Gilneas?” Finnaeus asked. “The amount of plague you dropped there. Was that a lapse in judgment?”

“A tactical decision based on an invasion ordered by our now former warchief,” Aloyseus said.

“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” Finnaeus snarled. “Except you don’t currently have Garrosh Hellscream to blame for your science project here. So what’s your interest in Gilneas, Aloyseus? Another tactical decision?”

“Your answers will come tomorrow,” Aloyseus said. “When I give my formal presentation.”

“But not now.”

“No,” he said gravely. “We still have more work to do, and we have some integral people missing. They should arrive shortly.”

“I can hardly wait,” Finnaeus said.

“You can be as petulant as you want with me, but I would ask you to be more restrained once they arrive. I cannot understate how much I had to argue that you are more valuable to the cause alive.”

“And I would hate to make a liar of you,” Finnaeus said. “I’m not afraid of your colleagues.”

“You do not see all ends,” Aloyseus said, stepping closer. “All of the anger you have right now is justified. But when you see everything, clearly, you’ll change your mind.”

“I can’t wait to prove you wrong,” Finnaeus sneered.

“Master Aloyseus, we are ready,” one of the assistants called.

“I must go,” Aloyseus said. “We’ll talk after the presentation tomorrow.”

Before Finnaeus could say anything else, Aloyseus walked away. The pounding in his head got worse, and he crouched when he got light headed. It suddenly occurred to him how small the cell was, and that he couldn’t get out of it. It made his heart pound, and an itchy restlessness crawled under his skin. His survival instincts were kicking in, but there was no outlet. He wrapped his fingers around the metal bars, testing their strength. But they were too deep in the ground to be broken. They could break with magic, but that was denied him.

Perhaps they were right – maybe he was too impulsive back in the woods. Maybe he would have had more leverage, more freedom, if he hadn’t lashed out and tried to smash the crates. But an ill feeling settled in the pit of his stomach that what was happening here in the mountains of Gilneas, in this hidden, stowed away lab, was horribly wrong. All he knew for sure was that Aloyseus and his lackeys had collected the bodies of worgen soldiers, including his own, for research.

But before Finnaeus could get lost in his own theories, he heard Aloyseus barking commands at least ten robed Forsaken. They formed a circle in the center of the lab, all surrounding the giant runed crate. The magical wards glowed on the crate, giving off the harsh, unnatural light of magic.

“As you have practiced. Remain focused and diligent. One mistake and we will all pay the price.”

The casters spaced themselves evenly in the circle. They raised their hands, and began to chant. Their hands glowed blue, and the entire room tensed with the magical power that flowed through the air. Finnaeus could feel his skin tingle with the energy. He watched his brother stroll around the circle, his hands folded behind his back, supervising the spellwork. The candle light flickered, and the flames in the braziers gutted in the wind of magic. The spell casters robes billowed. Their chanting grew louder.

A ring of blue light appeared beneath the runed crate. It grew outwards, the circle expanding so that the entire crate was bathed in its incandescent glow. Elaborate lines of silver appeared in the circle, twisting and bending. They were forming a rune, Finnaeus concluded, and when the serpentine twists of silver came to a halt, there was the sound like a crack of lightning, and the glow of the ring intensified.

“Very good,” Aloyseus shouted. “Remember, we must be quick.”

The spell casters never acknowledged the order, but they didn’t have to. They lowered their arms and twisted their hands palms upward. Their fingers curled with magic, the chanting never ceasing. Aloyseus halted his route, and with a lazy flick of his hand his entire body hovered above the circle. He floated above the circle, above the casket. Finnaeus watched him hold out his hands. He expected the Light to glow from his fingertips, but instead his hands dissolved into purple darkness.

That’s new, Finnaeus thought, narrowing his eyes. He had never seen his brother wield the Shadow before. The runed crate lifted off of the ground, and then began to tilt so that it ran lengthwise from the floor to the ceiling. The runes on the wood glowed brighter. The crate came to a halt, hovering in mid-air. The thing was at least ten feet long, possibly more. Whatever was in it was huge.

“On my command, you will break the wards,” Aloyseus called, his voice resounding over the sound of the magic. Finnaeus felt his heart beating. They were actually going to open the thing. “I will be able to contain him for only for a few moments.”

The words hung ominously in the air. Directly above the crate, in the ceiling above them, another blue circle of light appeared. The same twisting silver lines appeared in the middle. Another rune, Finnaeus thought, and it matched the pattern displayed on the bottom. If they botched this entire operation, he’d have no way to defend himself from whatever was inside. He took a casual glance at the green rune behind him, still reeking of fel, and a question occurred to him.

None of these spell casters were warlocks. So who created this one behind him? But he had no time to consider the matter. Another deafening clap rent the air, and he could see the rune on the ceiling active. The air tasted of the arcane.

“Be ready!” Aloyseus shouted. He curled his fingers slightly, his hands wreathed in such darkness that Finnaeus could no longer see the bones underneath. There was darkness where his hands and arms should be, and were instead replaced with pure Shadow. His eyes grew dark. The air tensed, like the sky before a storm. The magical winds billowed with such ferocity that the flames in the candles disappeared, and the braziers dimmed to glowing coals. Only the blue magic of the runes lit the cavernous lab. Finnaeus stood, unable to keep still. His heart was pounding.

Aloyseus struck out with his hands, and the runes on the crate blazed blue, dimmed, and then disappeared. The wood of the crate exploded outwards.

Hovering in the middle of the air was a giant mogu. Finnaeus felt his mouth go dry. It was Shan’Daon, the sorcerer responsible for ripping him from his real body.

The mogu’s eyes snapped open, and they sparked with what looked like the beginning of lightning bolts. Aloyseus waved his hands, and the Shadow slid over Shan’Daon’s head and forced his eyes shut.

“NOW!” Aloyseus bellowed. The casters all raised their arms, and a blue column of light erupted from the rune on the floor and the rune from the ceiling. They connected, bathing Shan’Daon in arcane energy before crackling. The casters stopped chanting, and the magical winds died down. The flames of the candles reappeared, and the fires in the braziers returned to their normal, lazy flickering.

But Finnaeus could not stop staring at the floating mogu sorcerer, who was taller and more imposing than he remembered. Shan’Daon looked frozen, in a sort of stasis. It took all of his effort for Finnaeus to wrench his gaze from the mogu and look at his brother. He had floated down, the Shadow around his arms and hands completely gone. He looked around at his spell casters.

“Very well done. Very, very well done.” He nodded at all of them, and they immediately went back to their lab work. Aloyseus stood right next to the column of blue light, his hands folded behind his back. He looked up at the giant mogu, taking it all in. His brother looked incredibly pleased with himself, whereas Finnaeus could only find dread. The monster that they had caged in the middle of the room was responsible for the deaths of so many Pandaren, Horde, and Alliance.

The arrogance on display was overwhelming. Finnaeus had seen many feats of extraordinary magic since Gilneas came crumbling down, but he was also keenly aware that all magic had its limits. And while he did not doubt the efficacy of those that Aloyseus had assembled, Finnaeus knew first-hand the power that Shan’Daon wielded. He was no slouch as a druid, and the mogu had destroyed him as easily as one would swat a fly. His mind raced back to his confrontation with him, back in a cave in the jungles of Krasarang. He remembered how Shan’Daon had used Pandaren locals to lure members of the Alliance and Horde into his cavern. The place was littered with the bodies of the slain, from human to orc, draenei to tauren. It was by sheer luck that Finnaeus stopped his own soul from being absorbed by Shan’Daon’s power, and he landed randomly in the body of a slain troll. But how easy was it for Shan’Daon to break his arms, his legs, his spine? The pain was impossible to forget.

Nothing good could come from this. He had to escape, but he had the undeniable sense that the wheels were set in motion for something that he would not be able to stop.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?”

Finnaeus froze. The voice that posed the question was not one that he had heard in quite some time. His skin slithered with discomfort, and it felt as if someone had plunged his insides in a bucket of cold water. He turned and saw the face of one of his oldest enemies.

Malthaes Shadowbough strutted over to his cage. The Blood Elf wore ornate blue robes, smirking with that smug attitude as if the entire world was at his beck and call. Finnaeus felt his face curl into an expression of intense loathing.

“No,” he uttered.

“Oh don’t be so miserable,” Malthaes said, stopping just feet away from the cage. “After all, I’m quite delighted to see you again, Finnaeus Peverley. My old…enemy? Or are we friends now? Nice new look by the way. I never liked the fur smell on you.” Malthaes sniffed. “Though the troll smell isn’t much of an upgrade.”

Finnaeus did not have an answer for the warlock. Just his presence revolted him. The rage inside him was hot, boiling –he wanted nothing more than to rip the elf’s head right off his neck.

“When I get out of here, I’ll kill you.”

“Oh stop,” Malthaes said, waving his hand. “You’ve been threatening that for ages. It’s getting boring. And you should be thanking me. After all, I was the one that got this guy for you.” He thumbed towards the mogu. “I saw what he did to your body. Even I never managed to break your spine.” He leaned in, smiling, the fel reeking from his body. “Did it hurt?”

“Let me out and I’ll break yours. You can decide for yourself,” Finnaeus said.

“Bluster will get you nowhere,” Malthaes said, licking his lips. “We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I. But right now I have some work to do with your dear brother. You’ll be here when I get back, right? Don’t go anywhere.”

Finnaeus saw red, and the sound of Malthaes’s laughter filled his ears. He sank away from the prison bars, his back hitting the wall of his cell. His predicament had gotten exponentially worse.

Most of the crowd hovered around the lab, specifically the floating, subdued Shan’Daon. Araneon, however, kept far to the back, leaning against the wall. The presentation would start shortly, and the big secret on this entire operation would be revealed. Not that it particularly interested Araneon. More information invited more introspection, and at the moment he had quite enough of attacks of conscience. After all, the last one led him to the bars of Finnaeus’s prison, and the troll gave him nothing but attitude. Not that he could blame Finn for his attitude. Guilt was something he had an excess of at the moment, and he didn’t want the troll to give him any more.

Araneon watched the Forsaken scurry between lab tables, looking at pieces of parchment, consulting runes. All of it was so severely over Araneon’s head that he didn’t bother trying to understand it. Many of the ladies that Araneon had subdued over the years would have thrilled at minutiae of spell work, the intricacies of this word over that, of the emphasis of hand gestures. He thought of Anyanara, wondering what she would think of all this bustling work around them. What she would think of this grand scheme, and the layers of planning underneath it. She must have been so confused, opening up that manifest and seeing the bodies of several worgen, of a mogu sorcerer. But he would explain to her when he got back. He would have to. There was no way that Anya would ever let him escape her clutches without a full and proper account of everything that had transpired since he left Quel’Danas.

But thinking of her activated his conscience, and he had no time for that now. Today was the day of his payment, and when they finally removed the blasted tattoo from his arm, he would never have to be afraid of The Spider any longer. He would have his fresh start, and though Anya might be upset at him for participating in this venture, it would have been well worth it. It was thrilling, being on the verge of having something good, something real good, happening for once. And he deserved it. He worked hard to cover his tracks, to eliminate all of the old signs of The Spider. This was the last step.

He spotted Aloyseus in the crowd, trying to catch his eye. But the Forsaken priest was busy with a group of high ranking generals of the standard Forsaken army. Aloyseus was giving them a tour, showing them the lab work, introducing many of the spell casters working on the project. He showed them the rows of worgen bodies, all with their wounds mended. One of them was Finnaeus’s old body – he could tell by the pendant, by the old Presidium tabard still coated in specks of his blood. It made his stomach turn, looking at it. He thought back to the look on Finnaeus’s face back in Silverpine, when the crate smashed and his real body lay slumped in the dirt like a piece of debris. Araneon didn’t have to wonder what that felt like, staring at your body – he saw it all in Finn’s face. The torment, the anger, the betrayal. The troll was inscrutable or irritable, but the sight of his body lifted the veil. And behind it was, put simply, pain.

His insides squirmed again, and he turned his mind from that sight and looked up at Shan’Daon. Even though the brute was subdued, Araneon didn’t feel safe being next to him. For the few moments when they transitioned him from the crate to his current stasis, Shan’Daon exuded menace, power, and anger. The mayhem that he could cause if he was free – it was a good thing they were in the mountains of a ruined country. What Shan’Daon could be capable of if he was on the loose? The destruction would be –

“Impressive.”

The voice that finished his thought came from a Blood Elf in ornate blue robes. This was the elf that captained the ship leading Shan’Daon to Quel’Danas. Araneon stood straight, furrowing his brows. This was the only other non-Forsaken that had assisted in this mission, but Araneon never thought to speak to him. Part of it was an issue of rank. Clearly this elf was in charge. But the other was a bit of fear – he didn’t want to talk to any other Blood Elf while he still had his tattoo.

Unless she is beautiful. Then of course you’d talk to her, he thought, but he pushed that thought away too. That was the old him, not the new.

“He is,” Araneon said, looking back up at the mogu.

“It took many lives to subdue him,” the elf responded. Araneon twitched at the sound of his voice – he sounded like that pleased him. “But such a prize always comes with a price.”

“Hmm,” Arnaneon said, not really sure how to respond. This was the elf that had overseen the conveyance of Shan’Daon from Quel’Danas. Araneon had never so much as spoken to him. He seemed official, grand – he carried himself with authority. That made Araneon hide himself from view, whenever possible. He thought he was going to get in trouble when Anyanara put up the fuss back back on the Isle, but the elf never came to talk to him. Which was fine by Araneon – the less eyes on him, the better.

“We haven’t met, not formally,” the elf continued. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Of course you did,” Araneon said, letting out an impatient hiss through his nose. He was very much done with strangers knowing about him. Araneon cast an irritated glance in Aloyseus’s direction before returning his gaze to this new elf.

“Didn’t mean to offend,” the elf said. “I was hoping to meet you earlier. It’s not every day you can meet the fearsome and elusive Spider.”

Araneon’s head snapped to look at this elf. “I don’t know what –”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” the elf responded, giving Araneon a smile that did not match his eyes. “I know all about the murder, the mana drainings. The bodies with the spider tattoos on their forehead.”

“Shut up,” Araneon snapped, looking around to see if anyone noticed. “Not here.”

“No one here cares,” the elf said casually, waving his hand. “There’s no need to hide.”

“Who are you?”

The Blood Elf pouted, his black hair falling into his eyes.

“I’m a little disappointed you don’t know me,” the elf responded. “I would have thought your sister Anya would have told you about me at least once.”

Araneon narrowed his eyes, pointing a finger at him.

“Who are you?”

“I am the one who is going to solve all of your problems,” the Blood Elf said. He gave an ostentatious bow.

“Your name,” Araneon demanded.

“I am Malthaes Shadowbough,” he replied, standing up straight. Araneon’s eyes lit up, and Malthaes gave a wide, bright-toothed grin. “I knew you heard about me.”

“Yeah, I heard about everything,” Araneon said. “How you tried to turn the Sunwell into a Voidwell. I also heard you were dead.”

“As alive as you,” Malthaes said heartily. “Perhaps, in some ways, more alive. After all, I don’t run from my past the way you do.”

“That’s because you don’t have a conscience.”

“But you do?” Malthaes said, alight with curiosity. “That intrigues me. How it must torture you, then, revisiting the past and observing all of the victims you left in your wake. What was the final number, when you were done? Five? Ten women? Fifteen?”

“Too many,” Araneon said. “And I’m not talking about my past with you.”

“That’s ok, you don’t have to. You don’t have to be shy about it with me, though. We have a lot in common.”

“We have nothing in common.”

“Of course we do!” Malthaes said. His chummy tone and genial disposition were all cold, affected. The scent of fel magic wafted off of him so strongly that it almost made Araneon nauseous. “We’re both elves of action, you and I. We get what we want. We take power where we see fit. We’re not afraid to kill to get it. We’ve both inspired a bit of fear in our days. And, of course, we both share the love of the beautiful Anyanara.”

Araneon turned to him, his entire body blazing with anger.

“Don’t talk about my sister.”

“Shush,” Malthaes said, holding a finger to his lips. “The presentation is about to start.”

Araneon made to respond, but he saw Aloyseus walking to the front of the crowd. At the forefront were a group of well-fashioned Forsaken in ornate robes. These, he knew, were high ranking members of the Royal Apothecary Society. Nearby were three Forsaken generals, who were staring up warily at the floating mogu. Surrounding them were the lab workers, all of whom had ceased working and turned their attention to Aloyseus. Araneon cast a wary glance at Finnaeus, who was crouching just at the edge of his cell, his face inches from the bars.

“Pay attention,” Malthaes said. “This’ll be good.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aloyseus said, his voice projecting outward over the crowd. “I welcome you to our humble laboratory here. We all appreciate the risk you all took in traversing such dangerous territory to arrive here in Gilneas, but I assure you that it was well worth the risk.”

He allowed for a moment of appreciation, and he bowed his head politely. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he raised his head and looked confidently out on the crowd.

“As you are all well aware, the Forsaken as a people are in an interesting crossroads of history. We are well beyond achieving our revenge against Arthas, and we have become vital members of the Horde. Since our return from our campaign in Northrend, we have been able to secure our borders, reinforce our numbers, and create for ourselves a land for us to live in safety of the myriad forces that would seek to remove us from this land.”

“But while self-defense is a powerful motivator in the short term, it lacks substance for those with long-term vision of our future. Our legacy was one of revenge. Now, however, we are faced with an existential dilemma our people have not yet faced in its years of existence. What will be our future, now that we have revenge? What will our mission be, now that we have secured borders enough that we do not fear imminent invasion from outside forces?”

“Such questions are often discarded. Forces are always at work to destroy us, so how can we look to questions of legacy? The Alliance finds our very existence incompatible with their values. There are strong elements within the Horde that find us disgusting, reprehensible. These are enemies that can be confronted, with might and with diplomacy. But what of our greatest nemesis, that which we have found no answer? The enemy that lurks in the shadows, now that our immediate future is secure, to swoop down and destroy us slowly? That enemy, ladies and gentlemen, is time.”

Aloyseus swept his hand over the crowd. “All of us, now, face the same ticking clock as the living. Eventually, the magic that binds our bones together, our souls with our corporeal bodies, will fade. Perhaps before that, our brains will rot. Our bones will fail. These are real threats, threats that keep any loyal Forsaken apothecary fretting in their labs. We have searched high and low for alchemical solutions to our longevity. And what we find, over the course of such research, is that nothing can keep us intact forever. Though we were once rescued from the abyss of death, we are slowly, inexorably marching towards Death’s unyielding grasp once again.”

A slow, unsettled murmur went through the crowd. Despite himself, Araneon narrowed his eyes with interest. He glanced at Malthaes, whose grin had widened.

“But,” Aloyseus said, “all hope is not lost. Today, I do not come before you with permanent solutions, with easy fixes, or with certainty. Unfortunately, these are rare and precious commodities. What I will offer you, however, is possibility, one with great promise. If only we have the fortitude to take this opportunity and seize it.”

“Before you, kept in a state of suspension, is a one of the Mogu. For anyone not familiar with Pandaria, these Mogu were once Titan creations. They have since, as much of life on Azeroth, been afflicted with what is known as the Curse of the Flesh. Once powerful stone beings of singular purpose, they were now flesh, weakened to the ravages of time, and completely without purpose. But they too knew that Death would claim them, and took efforts to secure their own longevity. Mogu sorcerers could affix the souls of their ancestors to new bodies, to their old bodies, if properly preserved. The Thunder King himself is their most famous example.”

Araneon felt his skin go cold. He had a vague idea where this was going. He turned his head to look at Finnaeus, who leered intently at his brother. His gaze turned to Malthaes, who grinned broadly. The expression was unnatural and discomfiting.

“Shan’Daon, this particular sorcerer, was a supremely powerful magic wielder before making his way to the Isle of Thunder. There, he ascended in the eyes of the Thunder King, and in reward for his services and his magic, he was awarded additional powers. Shan’Daon’s claim to fame was stealing the souls of Horde and Alliance soldiers, and using them to empower his already formidable skill set. He did, however, not realize the full scope of his powers. Shan’Daon, for all of his arrogance, had a limitation of imagination. But we will not be fettered with such restraints, my friends. For in Shan’Daon, the way forward for our people is clear.”

“We have seen the worst in attitudes towards our people, from the Alliance and from within the Horde. The Alliance make claims to restore Lordaeron, to steal it from our grasps. And our very own warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, used us merely for shock soldiers in the invasion of Gilneas so that we would suffer casualties and his orcs could reduce their fatalities. We are an aberration to these groups, offered a suspicious glance and a distrustful hand. Our enemies are on all sides. Our undead condition, afflicted upon us, is treated as an offense that we perpetuate, every day, with our existence. It is time for us to turn the tables.”

“In securing Shan’Daon, we have the power to take our souls, those bound to feeble bones and rotting flesh, and bind them to living bodies. With Shan’Daon’s power, we can steal the bodies of dwarves and elves, humans and orcs. Imagine, my friends, the type of power we would wield. Imagine Forsaken in human bodies, influencing Stormwind politics from within, so that they could kill any military offense against our people before it could lift off the ground. Picture Forsaken in Darkspear tribesmen, offering advice and counsel to the Warchief so that our own needs are placed at the forefront. And, most important of all, when our bodies have failed and we are on the cusp of dying, once again, imagine, my colleagues and friends, our souls simply lifted from that damaged vessel and placed in another of our choosing, more whole and able.”

The murmers were louder now – the whispers grew with enthusiasm. A ripple moved through everyone, excited and catching like fire. Araneon watched the Forsaken corpses buzz with anticipation, the generals standing with interest. They all realized the military applications of such a breakthrough. No longer did they have to worry that their Val’kyr could not raise all races. The Forsaken army would be stronger, more durable – and very much like the Scourge.

“The days of the Forsaken scrapping and fighting for our survival are over,” Aloyseus boomed. “We must now work together to project our strength across Azeroth. In three days time, we will have a practical demonstration of this power, and once you have seen with your own eyes, I am sure you will come to understand the power at our command. And once we have your support, we can work towards convincing the upper levels of command that this is the way forward for our people. No longer will we worry about the hour of the Forsaken, for all days forward will be for us to bend to our very whims.”

The crowd burst into applause, an applause that made the blood drain from Araneon’s face. This was no mere science project, no grand plan for magical research. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but Araneon could not have fathomed that he had a hand in advancing what sounded like a Forsaken bid for domination. Politics were never an interest he could claim to have, but even he could see how dangerous it would be to have the Forsaken playing inside ball with all of the major powers in the Horde and Alliance. He looked at Malthaes, who clapped twice and then met his gaze.

“Ambitious, yes?” he said over the applause.

“Dangerous,” Araneon responded.

“Undoubtedly,” Malthaes responded, his eyes glittering with enthusiastic malice.

“Why would you help them do this?”

“It is a means to an end, my friend,” Malthaes responded. “Sometimes, we have to resort to unsavory tactics to get what we want. You understood that once, as the Spider.”

Araneon wrinkled his nose with disgust.

“What could you possibly want that this would help you achieve?”

“You’ll see.”

“Anya was right. I was a fool to do this.”

“You’d be a fool not to,” Malthaes said. “You’ll reap your rewards for your participation. But you would be a fool to turn away after that. You’re on the ground floor of something grand. I can ensure that you gain power beyond your wildest dreams. No one would even think of trying to hold you accountable for being the Spider. You could indulge your every whim. No restraints of morality. No controlling your urges, your impulses. Why deny them if you have them? Why should you not claim what you desire, if you have the strength and will to take it?”

Araneon did not respond. It disgusted him how much what Malthaes said appealed to the darker side of him. How many women could he have had if he did not have to worry about Anya constantly dissecting his every move? He wouldn’t have to hide from anyone’s gaze. There would be no need to hide his arm, hide his identity. Araneon admitted that he longed for the kind of release that Malthaes offered to him.

But he’s evil, Araneon thought. Anya had told him all about Malthaes, how he devised to destroy the Sunwell and replace it with a Voidwell. How he tried to kill Anya, his own sister, in the process. He was repulsive, he was evil, he tried to kill Anya, he did not ascribe to any sort of morality. Vile, twisted, evil –

But free, Araneon thought as well. He found himself twisted into knots, knots that did not exist prior to coming to the cold, wet, desolate land of plagued Gilneas. These were the kinds of complications that informed his days since renouncing his past as The Spider. It was impossible to be free from the torment of what was right, what was wrong, should he do this, he shouldn’t do that. They were questions far above him.

“Give it some thought,” Malthaes said, patting him on the shoulder. He walked away, leaving Araneon to gaze at Aloyseus, now fielding questions from the crowd. What he needed now was some isolation – some time to take everyone else’s voice and remove it from the equation. He turned to leave, and he found himself making eye contact with Finnaeus. The troll’s gaze burned into him, and the tattoo brand on his arm seared as if Finnaeus had caused it. Araneon hesitated, and then turned away, lost in his own thoughts, his hand idly rubbing the tattoo to make the pain go away.

(This is so meticulously plotted and beautifully realized. If your literary ideas also dispensed wine and peanuts I'd never leave my house.)

10/07/2014 09:48 PMPosted by Liore

(This is so meticulously plotted and beautifully realized. If your literary ideas also dispensed wine and peanuts I'd never leave my house.)

((YOU ARE TOO KIND! Also, now I feel like a failure for not supplying wine and peanuts. I am ashamed.))

It was dark in the lab, save for the glow of the blue runes containing Shan’Daon, and the green rune that illuminated his jail cell. Finnaeus crouched in the corner, trying to cover himself in the shadows. His eyes burned with weariness, and his entire body sagged with the weight of exhaustion. He sighed, pressing fingers into his eyes, trying to get some relief. But there was none to be had, no comfort to cling to. Instead, he turned his baleful gaze towards the bars of his prison. The sight of Aloyseus walking towards him would have inspired anger before, possibly betrayal. But it only made him more tired. His Forsaken brother pulled a stool to the cage, and then sat down on it.

“I imagine this cell is not very comfortable,” Aloyseus said.

“The food was less than palatable too,” Finnaeus said with a wry smile. Aloyseus gave a soft chuckle.

“Such is the burden of no longer eating,” Aloyseus said. “We’re out of touch with the finer points of cuisine.” A silence fell between them. Finnaeus leaned his head back against the stone wall. His legs opened underneath him, and for the first time in a long time, he simply sat, letting the wall and ground fully support his weight.

“That won’t be a problem for long,” Finnaeus said, turning his gaze to Shan’Daon. “You seem to have it all figured out.”

Aloyseus folded his arms in front of him.

“I take it you’re not pleased with this development.”

“That’s an astute observation,” Finnaeus said, closing his eyes. He couldn’t even drum up the energy to be angry at him for being obtuse.

Finnaeus turned to his brother, and for once decided to take a good long look at him. It was easier to avert his eyes, or to take quick glances. But he took it all in. The gash in his cheek, where the flesh was completely missing. The way his straw-like black hair fell lifelessly below his ears. And that jaw, so mismatched with the rest of his face. And yet despite the pieces of missing flesh, the grey pallor to his face, there was still that hint of Aloyseus there. Just a faint glimmer of it.

“What our parents would think if they could see us now,” Finnaeus said. “You a corpse and me a troll.”

“Our father would be very disappointed.”

“In me, maybe,” Finnaeus said. “I think he always expected you to die early.”

“I was never much in his estimation,” Aloyseus said with a wry smile. “Perhaps my death was the one time I did not disappoint him.”

“He was always right in the end,” Finnaeus said. “Except when he said we would be the most esteemed generation of the Peverley family. I think on that he was spectacularly wrong.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Aloyseus said. “We’ve both done some grand things.”

Finnaeus let out a chuckle. It gave him no humor, however. It simply made him more tired.

“Grand,” Finnaeus repeated. “Of that I’m not so sure.”

“Don’t be so modest,” Aloyseus said. “And the best may be yet to come.”

Finnaeus looked at him, a sad smile drifting onto his face.

“You always do look to the future,” Finnaeus said.

“Of course,” Aloyseus said. “The past is useless.”

“But it is so very powerful,” Finnaeus said. He stared at his brother, forcing himself to really confront the undead face. His mind grafted the image of his living face onto it, matching it up and seeing if it could fit. But the image never really stuck. The undeath overpowered it. “When I looked for you, before I knew that you had died, I thought you were going to be my second chance. A kind of redemption, for what happened with the rest of my family. I spent so much time. And when I found your locket in Stratholme, opened and broken, I thought that was it. That I was the last person left in our family, and that I had failed you all.”

Aloyseus did not respond. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his arms with interest. Except it’s not his chin, Finnaeus thought to himself. He didn’t know why that particular detail stuck in his brain, like a mental splinter he couldn’t remove. Every time he thought he could grow accustomed to his brother’s condition, the jaw drew his attention and derailed the train of thought. Was it because it wasn’t his? Or perhaps because that was how he died, with his jaw and throat ripped from his body?

“But you were angry when I revealed myself to you,” Aloyseus prompted him.

“I was,” Finnaeus said. “Am, actually.”

“But you got the second chance you wanted.”

“Precisely,” Finnaeus said.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” Finnaeus closed his eyes again. He was tired, so very tired. If the cell offered even the smallest modicum of comfort, he probably could have slept for weeks. Instead, however, he had cold stone and acrid green light from the rune on the floor. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I thought that would be self-evident at this point,” Aloyseus said.

“We’re never on the same page,” Finnaeus said.

“You are, of course, the only person that proves what we intend to do is possible,” Aloyseus said. “Which will be of vital importance when we pursue funding and staffing from the Apothecary Society. Or, perhaps, the funding will come from the military itself. At any rate, you are the proof of possible success.”

“Ah,” Finnaeus said.

“Of course, that only has limited value,” Aloyseus said. “I have a far more grand vision for your future.”

“You always did,” he responded.

“I want to restore you to your old body. I have no use for you as a troll, and quite frankly I think it would do your psyche some good to be back in your old body.”

Finnaeus looked at his brother.

“What’s the trade off?”

“You will lead the project on the Alliance side,” Aloyseus responded. “Who better than someone who excels at espionage and subterfuge? You know the Alliance as it is currently comprised. You have a network of contacts. With your skill and resources, you can be the entry point for those of us who have new Alliance bodies. You’ll be able to meet with me to discuss developments. You’ll be given plenty of money to live, of course, and live comfortably. And perhaps, with any luck, you’ll be able to work your way deep enough into the political sphere of the Alliance where you can assist in helping to shape the politics away from reclaiming Lordaeron.”

Finnaeus did not respond. He was reminded of the times when he would be in the fields, and Aloyseus would ask him to play a game. Or to go into town with him and father so they could watch him banter and discuss Gilnean politics with the townsfolk. Aloyseus could never understand why Finnaeus would want to work in the hot sun planting seeds, or caring for the apple tree that he planted just outside of his farm house. Ambition was not something that Finnaeus ever had, and he had no illusions toward feigning such ambition. There weren’t a lot of things in his entire life that Finnaeus ever admitted to wanting. But of the few, he knew he wanted very strongly.

“Did Malthaes draw up this plan for you?” Finnaeus asked.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Aloyseus said. “Malthaes Shadowbough has wanted you dead since he first heard that I knew of your whereabouts. He has resisted attempting to take your life at my command.”

“Your command?” Finnaeus asked, smirking. “It’s not like Malthaes to take commands.”

“No,” Aloyseus agreed. “But like anyone he is subject to his own whims and desires, and in knowing them I am afforded a certain measure of leverage. He expects that you will be defiant, and that he’ll finally be able to kill you. I am hoping to prove him wrong.”

“So what’s he looking for?”

“Those details are inconsequential to the conversation at hand,” Aloyseus said. “You would have no further contact with him once you take back your old body and begin your work.”

“Great,” Finnaeus said.

“I believe it is a job that is custom made to your skillset,” Aloyseus continued. “As I’ve previously stated, I would be very disappointed to have them simply kill you for being obstructionist. This is the best way forward. You will have everything you wanted. A purpose. Your old body back. It meets all of your demands.”

Finnaeus did not respond. In the silence that followed he cast his mind around to different memories in the past. When Aloyseus broke his arm trying to ride one of the horses, obviously against their father’s wishes. Finnaeus mended the arm and kept his silence. Or when Aloyseus disappeared for two days in an effort to run away. Finnaeus disappeared with him, only Aloyseus never knew. He had to kill two wolves that tried to eat his brother at night. They both got the screaming lectures of their father when they returned, though their mother thanked him after for keeping an eye on Aloyseus. Always the idealist, always standing on principle.

“I’ve failed you,” Finnaeus said simply.

“How so?” Aloyseus responded.

“I was supposed to keep you safe,” he said, his voice hoarse and tired. “For the longest time I kicked myself for not trying harder to keep you from leaving for Lordaeron when we got back from the war. I was so preoccupied with getting home myself that I didn’t try hard enough.”

“You always did do what Father wanted you to do,” Aloyseus said fairly.

“But it wasn’t to him that I made the promise,” Finnaeus said, closing his eyes again. He was trying to keep his composure. The words came out, as if he was finally unlocking the key to the prison that kept his memories at bay. Ugly realizations, dark remembrances – they stayed captive, and therefore hidden. But it was foolish to deny it any longer. “I promised our mother before she died, that I would keep you safe. I didn’t.”

“It is very unlike you to get sentimental,” Aloyseus said, shifting on his seat.

“If we can’t be honest with each other now, then there will never be the chance.”

Aloyseus’s jaw went rigid, as if he could see what was coming.

“And why, precisely, is that?”

“We both have changed,” Finnaeus said. “But you are so far from what you were that I barely recognize you. In what world could you possibly think that I could support stealing the bodies of other people to further your agenda?”

Aloyseus sat rigid, his hands folded politely in his lap. Finnaeus could see the formality sliding over him, that well-organized presentation that always shrouded what was truly going on in his mind. But it was too late to hide that clearly his brother was disappointed and, in all probability, extremely angry.

“I’m not sure I understand your protest,” Aloyseus said. “On what basis are you rejecting this offer?”

“That you even have to ask that question only shows how far removed you are from the Al that I used to know,” Finnaeus said. “What basis? You’re talking about stealing the bodies of other people so that you can further some political agenda. Or because you’re afraid of dying.”

Aloyseus sniffed.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” he responded. “After all, I am the only one of us who has actually done so.”

“Then why would you ever inflict that on others?”

“Why should I concern myself with their loss?” Aloyseus said. “And since when have you fettered yourself with concerns of morality? I watched you slay a Night Elf friend of yours back in Krasarang just to maintain your own life. A life that you’ve entirely taken for granted ever since the Cataclysm.”

“Her name was Alyana Springbough,” Finnaeus said. “I fought with her against the Horde in Ashenvale. And when I took her life, to protect my own, I also saved her from the humiliation of being used a toy for the Horde.”

“Your rationalizations only soothe your conscience,” Aloyseus said. “They do not change the facts. You killed her.”

“And I carry the weight of her death with me every day,” Finnaeus said.

“Noble. And yet your guilt also does not change the facts. She is still dead, and you are still here. It does not matter if you killed her with a heavy heart, or you slayed her in a blood frenzy. Or even if you thoroughly enjoyed running her through with her own sword. You killed her, and she is dead, and you cannot take it back.”

“Or we could just raise her from the grave,” Finnaeus said. “After all, why should there be consequences to our lives? Why end any life? Let’s find her body in Krasarang and use magic to make her limbs move again. Sure her spirit and identity would be completely and irrevocably altered, and it would be an insult to everything that she stood for in life, but let’s make that decision for her, because we can.”

Aloyseus stood, his face twisted into anger.

“The hypocrisy coming from you is unfathomable,” Aloyseus said. “You who walked away from an entire Alliance in life just to get back to your own selfish desires, who simply did things because he was told, is now lecturing on what we should or should not do?”

“We can be hypocrites together,” Finnaeus said. He could not find it in himself to rise to that level of anger. His body was heavy with exhaustion. “You’re turning on the very Alliance you once fought to maintain. You’ve abandoned your grand principles of justice, fairness, community.”

Aloyseus’s jaw curled into a snarl.

“All of which you never believed in before,” he snapped. “Since when did you get so idealistic?”

“Probably around the same time you turned into a cold, unfeeling monster,” Finnaeus shrugged.

“Monster,” Aloyseus repeated. “I never asked, Finnaeus, for my jaw and throat to be ripped apart. I did not ask to bleed out, the entire time knowing that I was going to die and nothing, nothing I could do would stop it. Not justice, not fairness, not some Alliance. Not even the Light saved me. None of it was my choice. Not the playing puppet to the Lich King, not the break from his control. I didn’t ask anyone to graft a jaw to my face. I was given a choice. Forsaken, or death. What would you have me do? Throw myself onto the bonfire because this undeath, this unliving, is an affront to those in this world that have not had to suffer the indignity of dying, and being used as a tool? You’ve been just as miserable in life as anyone that could possibly exist, and yet you haven’t found it in you to end it. You keep living. How can you ask of me what you will not do for yourself?”

“You said life is precious, and should be valued,” Aloyseus continued. “This is what I have for life, such as it is. And though this jaw bone was not mine, it is mine now, and I will be damned if anyone takes it away from me. The Forsaken are here, as a result of forces far beyond our control. We cannot go back and undo what was done to us. But we can, however, ensure that no one makes the choice on our future for us.”

“And your choice is, Aloyseus, to do others exactly what was done to you,” Finnaeus said. “You’ll inflict death and worse on others to ensure that your life is intact.”

“It is self-preservation,” Aloyseus said.

“And there are more important things than the self,” Finnaeus said. “You’re living in the service of a self-centered evil.”

“You’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Aloyseus fumed. “You’re just a damned fool. All of those years of “see things as they are” were just platitudes. You never had love for the Alliance. You never had love for anyone that wasn’t immediately in your small, personal bubble. I’m giving you an opportunity to have what you’ve been missing. Purpose, a mission, your body. And you’re going to say no over some false sentimental notion of justice? Morality?”

“Only an irreparably damaged person would make a checklist of conditions and have that constitute any sort of satisfaction in life,” Finnaeus responded. “I don’t know where I stand on all the grand questions, but I do trust my instincts. What you’re doing is just wrong.”

“Says who?” Aloyseus said. “Who gets to decide if it’s wrong, and then dictate to the rest of us? You accuse me of arrogance, but you’re displaying an astounding level of your own.”

“We get to decide for ourselves,” Finnaeus said. “What you’re doing is wrong, Aloyseus. I want no part of it.”

Aloyseus’s nose flared, and the stool he was sitting on flung itself at the wall and exploded in a shower of splinters. He raised a bony finger and pointed at him.

“This is not a game, Finnaeus. They will kill you if you do not do this.”

“I accept that fate,” Finnaeus said, looking up at his brother.

Aloyseus folded his arms, as if he wanted to yell some more but couldn’t come up with another way of phrasing what he wanted to say. The moment had finally come when perhaps both of them had finally given up on each other. Aloyseus smoothed the front of his robes.

“I see,” he responded. “Perhaps you’ve just grown too distant from who you were before. You are not in a place where I can convince you.”

“No,” Finnaeus agreed.

“Then perhaps I should remind of you of who you once were,” Aloyseus said, holding his right hand out. Finnaeus watched as the hand dissolved into darkness, and a thin tendril of shadow magic sprouted from where his hand used to be.

“What are you doing?” Finnaeus asked, his heart suddenly pounding.

“You were once a man of action, Finnaeus. Of pragmatism. You could see the world clearly in a way that others usually could not. You learned how to see things as they are. You’ve forgotten how to do that. So let me remind you of who you were.”

“There’s no use,” Finnaeus said, shrinking into the corner, watching as the tendril of shadow slipped through the prison bars and approaching his face.

“But there is,” Aloyseus said. “I will not watch you destroy yourself over something as valueless as a misplaced loyalty to ideals. Life is precious, as you said. You’ve lost yourself along the way, Finnaeus. So I’m going to put your mind back in the past, back in a time when you could do what needed to be done, no matter what the cost.”

“No,” Finnaeus breathed. “No you can’t.”

“I can,” Aloyseus said. “The memory will replay for you, over and over, until the lesson really sinks in. Until you can finally see things as they are.”

“Al, please,” Finnaeus said, recoiling in horror. But even in undeath, once Aloyseus set his mind on something, there was no convincing him otherwise. The wisp of shadow slithered against Finn’s forehead, and then burrowed under his skin. The pain was excruciating, and Finn couldn’t help but scream.

“The pain is temporary,” Aloyseus said, his voice sounding far away. “You’ll feel it for but a moment.”

Deeper the shadow buried itself, the pain excruciating, and then -

“Father, have you seen Barkley?”

Finnaeus turned, sweat beaded on his brow. His young daughter Lydia stared up at him. The sun was setting behind her, framing her small body in a gold hue. She looked like a cherub.

“I haven’t,” he responded. “Why are you out here so late?”

“I can’t find Barkley. He’s a good hider, and I love playing hide and seek, but I do miss him. I wish he wouldn’t hide so well.”

“He’ll turn up,” Finnaeus said. He turned back to the low-hanging apple tree, positioned a few feet away from the farmhouse. The harvest from the tree looked to be plentiful, save for this one branch that looked like a gnarled finger. There wasn’t a trace of fruit on it, and when Finnaeus touched the bark, it was brittle. Possibly it was diseased, likely it was dying, but he tried to mend it. He curled his hands around the branch, and he closed his eyes, muttering. His hands glowed green. After a moment he opened his eyes and saw that nothing had changed. Sighing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife.

“Why are you cutting the branch, father?” Lydia asked.

“Because it is sick,” Finnaeus responded. “If the branch stays, the rest of the tree could get sick too. If we cut away the sick branch, then everything else lives.”

That answer seemed to appease her. Before he could get to his work, however, several things happened in rapid succession - Lydia shouted Barkley’s name, a snarl came up in response, and within a second his daughter screamed.

Finnaeus turned, saw the dog, and instantly he realized something was wrong. The old Gilnean hound was snarling at Lydia. She held still, her hand outstretched as if she were about to pet him. Finnaeus dropped from the tree, and in one swift motion he snatched up his daughter and moved quickly towards the front porch. He set her down, turned, and saw that the dog had followed them to the house.

“Keep away from the dog, Lydia,” Finnaeus said, his hand flung out in front of his daughter. The hound snarled, white foam and saliva pouring out of its mouth. White mist curled around the hound’s feet, snaking across the damp, green grass that stretched from the house all the way to the nearby Peverley farmlands. The hound stepped forward, its claws digging into the ground, and it bared its teeth.

“What’s wrong with Barkley?” Lydia asked. Finnaeus looked down, her bright blue eyes wide with horror.

“Stay back, my dear,” he said, keeping his voice smooth and calm. There was no need to frighten the girl further. They stood on the front porch of their house, both of them staring at Barkley as it snapped its jaws with a monstrous, wild bark. Finnaeus spotted a patch of fur missing on hits rear, replaced with a stretch of skin that looked red and irritated: a wound that wouldn’t quite heal, no matter how much attention Finnaeus devoted to mending it.

Finnaeus turned and saw his wife, Claire, standing in the doorway of their house. Her right hand went to her mouth at the sight of Barkley. Her left curled around the long musket that Finnaeus kept in the basement, away from Lydia’s curiosity. Lydia followed her father’s gaze, took one look at the gun, and her eyes widened so far that Finnaeus thought they would pop.

“Father,” she whispered, barely able to get her voice to an audible level. “What are you going to do to Barkley?”

“That isn’t Barkley anymore,” Finnaeus said to her, his voice still firm and calm. He took the musket from his wife.

“Perhaps you should come inside, Lydia,” Claire said, reaching for her daughter. Finnaeus, however, shook his head.

“She should watch,” Finnaeus said, meeting his wife’s gaze. “It is a cruel lesson, but one that must be learned.”

“Isn’t she a bit young for this?” Claire asked.

“We’d only be delaying the inevitable, given the state of things,” Finnaeus responded. It took a moment, but then Claire simply nodded.

“I’ll go put some tea on,” she said. “For afterwards. Perhaps with some lavender.”

Finnaeus watched her disappear into the house. He turned his eyes to Barkley. The hound approached the house, the barking incessant. Finnaeus could see no trace of his familiar, affable look. The ears, once perked and alert, were pinned back behind its head. Even Barkley’s eyes had gone dark, with none of the amiability that made the dog the endearing companion to his daughter Lydia. The Barkley that the Peverley family loved had disappeared, replaced by this feral monstrosity.

Finnaeus took aim. Without a moment’s hesitation he pulled the trigger to the musket. The shot billowed out, the sound prompting a scream from Lydia. The bullet went straight through one of Barkley’s eyes, and the beast fell limp. Blood from the wound oozed over its face and into the damp grass. The moody fog dispersed where Barkley fell, but after a moment, it returned and covered the body.

Lydia was crying, her face hidden in her hands. Her little shoulders sobbed. Finnaeus crouched on one knee and put a consoling hand on her shoulder. She removed her hands from her face, her sad eyes staring at him, and he could see the accusation in her expression before she spoke in her trembling voice.

“How could you?”

“My dear Lyddie,” he said, his voice soft and tender. “Barkley was sick. If we let him live, he may have hurt Mum. Or me. Or worse, you. If he bit other animals, they would have gotten sick too. That which is sick must be removed so that those that are healthy, and young, and alive, can live.”

“But we could have fixed him!” she said, stamping one of her feet. Her naivete struck a chord of sadness in him.

“There was no cure for what ailed him,” he responded. “It wasn’t Barkley anymore from the moment he was infected. We did him a service in ending his misery, and we did our duty to protect those who are still safe. It’s hard, my dear, but it is just.”

“Like the tree?”

“Just like the tree.”

Lydia sobbed, and she rushed forward and hugged her father. He put a hand on her back, and he turned his head to the dead dog.

“Go inside now with Mum, she’ll give you some tea. Try not to think on it.”

He watched as his young daughter disappeared inside the house. With a sigh he approached the dog. It was not the first animal to be put down due to the infection. Finnaeus crouched, making sure the dog was dead, and then picked up the hound. Its limp body weighed heavily in his hands. He would bury the dog out back, careful not to disturb the already fragile soil that he worked so hard to maintain. Every crop was precious these days, and while Barkley was part of the family, he could not have a grave and cursed blood threatening the harvest. It was too important.

When he returned from burying the dog, covered in dirt and sweat, Claire greeted him at the door with a cup of tea.

“She’s upstairs,” Claire said. “Poor thing cried herself to sleep.”

“I do not blame her,” Finnaeus said. “It was odd seeing Barkley like that. Mind was completely gone.”

“And was it…”

“Undoubtedly it was a worgen bite,” Finnaeus said, following her train of thought. “The bite was on its rear. Half-hearted at that – Barkley was tough, he must have gotten away. Perhaps it was the bite of someone not quite yet through with the transformation.”

“I’m not sure I like your implication,” Claire said.

“Nor do I,” Finnaeus responded. “But you must accept the truth. I’ve seen the tracks across our lands. I’ve had to put down a horse and one of the sheep. You know how precious our resources are. We’ve let this go on long enough. What everyone will think when we realize we’ve let a worgen run loose on our lands without us acting. They’ll put us to pyre.”

“But we don’t know that,” Claire said. “We don’t know if it’s him or not.”

“I’m putting out the traps tonight,” Finnaeus said finally. “I will not let that monster run wild and possibly harm our family. It is our duty to protect our lands.”

“But the monster you are talking about killing is family,” Claire said, her normally calm expression now fiery.

“He’s been bitten,” Finnaeus said. “We knew it when we saw it. We foolishly thought I could cure it. I’m no miracle worker. He’s done enough damage. We need to end it.”

“But Finn,” Claire said. “Your own father?”

“He is not my father anymore,” Finnaeus said, his stare resolutely fixed on Claire. “He is worgen. Nothing but a beast. He exists only to satisfy his own feral instincts now.”

“But he lingers around our house, our farm!” Claire said. “If he was nothing but a brute, why would he linger here? Perhaps he has some memory.”

“Claire –”

“Perhaps there will be a cure someday,” Claire continued. “If we could only hold out long enough for someone to fix it!”

“You sound like Lydia.”

“Is there truly no room for hope?”

Finnaeus had no answer. He looked around and realized that the sun had completely set. Darkness settled. They were still outside.

“Claire, you go inside. I’ll set the traps. Let’s not argue this anymore. Animal instincts take him to his territory. He has no choice but to obey them. I’ll deal with this tonight. By morning we’ll be shut of it, and we’ll have done our duty to ourselves and our neighbors.”

“Indeed,” Claire said. She approached him, gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her eyes met his, and he could see a cool distance in her eyes. Undoubtedly she did not approve, but she would stand resolute with him. Their bond was strong enough to survive a disagreement. “Stay safe tonight, Finnaeus.”

He watched her go into the house. He turned and saw that the darkness had utterly consumed his farm. Fog slithered across the ground, circling around his feet. Perfect cover for traps. And for monsters.

***