Ruby Knight

A song that I felt really reminded me of Kamaia, as she prepares to battle Xanamir.

The song


The world seems not the same,
Though I know nothing has changed.
It's all my state of mind,
I can't leave it all behind.
Have to stand up to be stronger.

Have to try to break free
From the thoughts in my mind.
Use the time that I have,
I can't say goodbye,
Have to make it right.
Have to fight, cause I know
In the end it's worthwhile,
That the pain that I feel slowly fades away.
It will be alright.

I know, should realize
Time is precious, it is worthwhile.
Despite how I feel inside,
Have to trust it'll be all right.
Have to stand up to be stronger.

I have to try to break free
From the thoughts in my mind.
Use the time that I have,
I can't say goodbye,
Have to make it right.
Have to fight, cause I know
In the end it's worthwhile,
That the pain that I feel slowly fades away.
It will be all right.

Oh, this night is too long.
Have no strength to go on.
No more pain, I'm floating away.
Through the mist see the face
Of an angel, who calls my name.
I remember you're the reason I have to stay.

Have to try to break free
From the thoughts in my mind.
Use the time that I have,
I can't say goodbye,
Have to make it right.
Have to fight, cause I know
In the end it's worthwhile,
That the pain that I feel slowly fades away.
It will be alright.

She dreamed of golden light and soft warmth, and with a happy sigh, she realized he was there, holding her close.

Loving her, even in death, and although she could not move her arms or legs, could not focus her eyes on his face or make her mouth work to whisper the important words, to tell him, to show him, how much she loved him back... it did not matter.

He was with her and that was enough. No, more than that.

It was everything.

She leaned against him and slid her arms around his waist. She gently grabbed him by the wrists and guided his hands onto her body, his touch warm and delicious against her skin.

She stood up on her tip-toes and nuzzled his neck with her lips. She kissed it gently and breathed against his skin, her breath soft and warm. He bent his head and his lips found hers and he returned the kiss, his eyes squeezed shut in a brilliant, happy expression.

"I like living in the whole world with you," he whispered to her.

She was quiet for a moment as she kissed him back, long, deep, and tender.

"You make the world worth living in," she said in return.

He smiled at her, and she wasn't sure who it was that guided them down against the soft hillside, but as she sank back against the grass and reached up to stroke his face, she found that it really didn't matter.

Nothing did at that moment, except for him.

(Posted here because Aniesa no longer has her own page and I can't find a suitable name for the journal yet.)

She stands outside the doorway, now a wall, the tears in her eyes fresh and cold and unhappy. Confusion and despair gnaw at her mind and heart in equal measure, all of it exacerbated by the horrible uncertainty, the confusion, the simple fact that she has no idea what she did wrong, what she did to deserve this.

She replays the events in the room a thousand times, each syllable, each word, each inflection of his voice. Nothing.

She steps forward and put her hands against the wall, feeling the cold surface beneath her delicate palms. And then, in silence, she leans forward and kissed the wall, staining it with her tears.

Turning away from the doorway to Theyn's home is the single most difficult moment of her life and each footstep away from the door is hesitant, uncertain. More than once, she glances over her shoulder, hoping to see him, hoping to see a crack in the wall or a break in the illusion. Hoping for something to show her, to prove to her that she wasn't being shut out. That she wasn't being abandoned.

The streets of Silvermoon are unkind and empty as she returns to her familiar inn and checks into her old room. Neither innkeeper nor priestess exchange anything beyond the bare minimum of mumbled pleasantries.

By the time she climbs the familiar stairs leading up to her old room, she has begun to wonder if she was worth waking up. Maybe it would have been better if she'd stayed away, stayed so far away in her tiny little dream.

By the time she reaches the curtain over her old bed, she wonders if she will ever seen Theyn again. If he'll ever want to see her again. If he still loves her. She thinks that he does, she can't imagine why he wouldn't, but she also doesn't understand why she was banished so abruptly.

As she falls asleep, her thoughts linger first on her missing mage and she mourns in silence. Perhaps tomorrow will bring him back. She hopes so. It's really all she has to go on, now.

But as others who came before her learned, sometimes hope is enough.

And then, as darkness slips over her mind and guides her into her next dream, a single, fleeting moment of dark anger towards the thing that calls itself Avakir.

There were dreams.

She dreamed of a happy place that did not exist. Isarim was there and he was smiling. His Panda cub was there, too, playing in a field of long grass with a tiny dragonling that she did not recognize. She took a step forward, still wearing the pretty black dress that the Draenei had given her, though now it was torn and streaked red with her own blood. Her shoulder felt hot and sticky and she realized that her neck was still bleeding, but it was rapidly slowing and it did not hurt.

"Isarim," she asked and the rogue smiled happily. "Am I dead?"

"Not yet," he answered happily. "You're just dreaming."

She thought about this for a moment. "Will I wake up? I think I got cut back there."

"I hope so!" he said with a laugh. Then he indicated to the picnic he had laid out in the field for them. "For until you awaken," he explained.

"Okay," the paladin said as she sat down, covered in blood and wearing a torn, skimpy dress, but her face quickly grew concerned. "Will you be there when I wake up?"

The rogue's face grew dark and serious, and despite the intensity of the serpentine glint in his warm eyes, she felt better, because she knew it was anger raised in her defense. She reached out with her uninjured hand, with he gently took and held in his own.

"I hope so," he said quietly.

"Okay, then," she said softly as she pulled close to him and rested her head on his shoulder. "I can live with that."

The day started out badly.

There's something cold and dark and sickening about awakening to an empty bed that you expected to be filled. It wasn't as bad as before, when she went to sleep alone, secure in the knowledge that she was alone. There was something of a cold comfort in knowing what the morning would bring, and that the broken dreams would fade with the dawn. Certainly, they weren't supposed to be broken by the dawn and the morning revelation that what came before was nothing more than a single fleeting moment of happiness, a bubble lost in the swirls of time.

It hurt more this time though, because she really let herself believe that it was going to be different. She really believed in the warm rogue who did not act like a rogue or swagger like a rogue or try to charm her like a rogue. That was what made him different than the others, than the many Wolfs who'd made their unsuccessful attempts. It was that difference that made her believe that he would be there in the morning when she woke up.

It hurt very much to be so wrong.

The day started out badly. It got worse.

Did some part of her agree to help Wolf out of selfishness and hurt, because she knew just how much Isarim did not like Wolf? Certainly. There was, of course, the need to help another person, to come to the aid of a fellow Sin'Dorei in his time of need, but she would be lying if she said altruism was her only reason for going back to the dark house. And she didn't lie, not to herself, not now, not ever.

So, yes, it was pettiness and spite. She hoped Isarim found out that she went back to the house with Wolf and she hoped that he would be upset about it, because then he'd know how it would feel to have somebody do something that upset you and made your insides twist up in cold little knots that make you sick to your stomach. Cold, yes. Petty, absolutely. Justified, maybe not; maybe it was her fault that she let herself feel so hurt upon awakening to an empty bed. Certainly, other women wouldn't have minded as much. They would have been content with a good night and a happy, if somewhat fuzzy, memory. Aniesa probably wouldn't have cared that much.

But it mattered to her and it hurt her to awaken alone.

So she let her spite cloud her judgment.

And what a mistake that turned out to be.

She'd taken the Avenger with her, the sacred blue-fire sword that sliced through the dark and foul creatures of the world as cleanly as the sharpest razor blade. And it would provide light in the darkness, something to keep the shadows at bay, because she could remember how frightening it was to face those shadows alone, without the light for comfort and strength. She knew what she was getting herself into. She knew it was going to test her resolve and possibly terrify her; it took her days to stop jumping at shadows after the first time. But she was certain that this time, she would be ready.

She could not have been more wrong.

Unconsciousness was not kind to her. Half-formed visions swam in and out of her mind; broken memories of burning Silvermoon, the stench of the undead as they swarmed around her, and the bone-deep, gut wrenching fear that they would do worse than kill her, that she would awaken and be one of them, like Ranger-General Sylvanas, like so many others who'd fallen before her.

Distantly, she felt herself being carried and knew without knowing how that she hadn't been rescued. She wasn't being saved.

She was being taken.

She felt a very real, very deep sense of panic and willed herself to move, to fight, to flee. But she was unconscious and her limbs did not feel like responding and her eyes chose not to open. She was dreaming and she was alone and she was being taken away.

Her last thought as the dream ended and nothingness resumed was a deep, longing wish that she would never wake up.

That would have been better.

For a long while, she lay very still with her head on his chest, listening to him breathe.

There was an undeniable fog in her thoughts, the product of too much port too quickly, but beneath that haze was a very warm, very certain feeling that this was right. It wasn't just the alcohol that led up to this moment. She knew that. She was certain of that, just as she was certain it would be better this time.

He was warm. And kind. And safe.

It would be better this time.

Of that much, she was certain. There would be other questions later, questions about her sister and how he knew her. But those would come later, and later wasn't any time soon.

Her sheathed blade was somewhere underneath the bed, far out of reach, and for the first time since Wolf's house, she didn't care.

She shifted somewhat, but with enough care to not disturb him. A few minutes later, her breathing slowed and she drifted back to sleep. Unlike her little sister, she did not dream.

She rarely did.