How do you heal someone whose only wound is in their mind?
Nuri held the table tightly while Emilea sobbed. The other girls constant rambling was a comfort, to herself and to the prone woman on the table, but Nuri couldn’t force words from her lips. Where once warmth resided, there was only emptiness. She was so used to the Light being just at her fingertips, glowing just below the skin… but tonight, the sun in her was turned off, and she was alone.
Who could do this to… to Suni? For the Light, the woman was a saint. There wasn’t a sweeter face in Stormwind. She was all goodness and friendliness and integrity. They were the same age, but still, the woman felt so much wiser, stronger than Nuri ever could.
Suni turned and wretched, nearly hitting the crowd around the table. Turning her face away from her friends suffering, Nuri saw the silent man, another in her guild that she didn’t know well enough to have learned his name, starting to clean the floor. Turning her eyes skyward, Nuri tanked the Light. Her life had purpose again.
Awkwardly moving to his side, she helped him rid the floor of her expursions, silently assisting Suni in the only way she could. Her fingers wrapped around the cloth of her cloak as she wipes away the vomit. The acrid odor was mixed with such normalness- bread, wine, things for lunch. A world away from the hidden rooms in the Cathedral where her heart was shuddering and shaking on a table.
Light above. She didn’t have the words. A life on the farm had her immune to death, to pain—animals lived, died, were eaten. But torture was worlds away from the simplistic needs of living. How could someone do this—to another person? Her fingers tightened on the cloth and she bit back rage, hot like fire and brighter than the blacksmiths half-formed sword.
One person could. Ardam.
The name was like thistles in her mouth, spiny and sharp. She wanted to spit it out, but she wouldn’t startle Suni, couldn’t make her suffer the sounds of his being. So Nuri chewed on them, until all their bitterness was in her veins and her blood. Ardam. Ardam. Ardam. She hated it, the sound, the sense of it, and it scared her because she didn’t mind hating it. Hating didn’t come naturally to her, but this was as normal as breathing, as drinking sweet cream and sighing in sunlight. Her name was Nurianara Analis Fallmore, she was fat and short and liked sweets, she was a paladin and she hated Ardam so much her insides coiled like icy, slithering snakes.
Finally, she understood the gleam in her brothers eyes when they hunted Arthas, when they looked at her and hoped she would never comprehend. She did comprehend now, finally, and understood why in the Fallmores, Paladins did not often wield shields.
Nuri held the table tightly while Emilea sobbed. The other girls constant rambling was a comfort, to herself and to the prone woman on the table, but Nuri couldn’t force words from her lips. Where once warmth resided, there was only emptiness. She was so used to the Light being just at her fingertips, glowing just below the skin… but tonight, the sun in her was turned off, and she was alone.
Who could do this to… to Suni? For the Light, the woman was a saint. There wasn’t a sweeter face in Stormwind. She was all goodness and friendliness and integrity. They were the same age, but still, the woman felt so much wiser, stronger than Nuri ever could.
Suni turned and wretched, nearly hitting the crowd around the table. Turning her face away from her friends suffering, Nuri saw the silent man, another in her guild that she didn’t know well enough to have learned his name, starting to clean the floor. Turning her eyes skyward, Nuri tanked the Light. Her life had purpose again.
Awkwardly moving to his side, she helped him rid the floor of her expursions, silently assisting Suni in the only way she could. Her fingers wrapped around the cloth of her cloak as she wipes away the vomit. The acrid odor was mixed with such normalness- bread, wine, things for lunch. A world away from the hidden rooms in the Cathedral where her heart was shuddering and shaking on a table.
Light above. She didn’t have the words. A life on the farm had her immune to death, to pain—animals lived, died, were eaten. But torture was worlds away from the simplistic needs of living. How could someone do this—to another person? Her fingers tightened on the cloth and she bit back rage, hot like fire and brighter than the blacksmiths half-formed sword.
One person could. Ardam.
The name was like thistles in her mouth, spiny and sharp. She wanted to spit it out, but she wouldn’t startle Suni, couldn’t make her suffer the sounds of his being. So Nuri chewed on them, until all their bitterness was in her veins and her blood. Ardam. Ardam. Ardam. She hated it, the sound, the sense of it, and it scared her because she didn’t mind hating it. Hating didn’t come naturally to her, but this was as normal as breathing, as drinking sweet cream and sighing in sunlight. Her name was Nurianara Analis Fallmore, she was fat and short and liked sweets, she was a paladin and she hated Ardam so much her insides coiled like icy, slithering snakes.
Finally, she understood the gleam in her brothers eyes when they hunted Arthas, when they looked at her and hoped she would never comprehend. She did comprehend now, finally, and understood why in the Fallmores, Paladins did not often wield shields.
