How We Despise These Finitudes
Dear Dad,
I'm happy for you and Sid. I'm glad you're having a kid and a real family and all that. All the bells and whistles. Must be nice. That probably sounds sarcastic on paper so I wanted to add that I really mean it.
Sorry I haven't seen you around. I've felt so trapped lately because
Raoul Wheaton set down the pen and leaned back in his chair. He didn't stop until one foot was braced against the desk and he was balancing on the chair's back legs. At some point he would have to accept that there was nowhere to run and hide from his new orders.
Something things just couldn't be changed. The Kirin Tor Investigators had decided he was holding Amavia back in their cases. They decided he wasn't cut out to be an agent. Battlemage, they dictated from their lofty positions, and to be trained as far from Amavia Delaurac as possible.
It wasn't fair. His father being an ex-womanizer with a 'valid' child and a 'legitimate' family on the way wasn't fair either. But at least his father wasn't closing the door on him, far from it. If only his new orders had a similar silver lining.
Outside the window to his left, the moon hanging over Dalaran distracted him from his thoughts.
Similar thoughts were heavy on the Blackbird's mind as she floated across the silver backdrop of the moon. Its beams illuminated an outline around her black and indigo stormcrow feathers. She was a world away from the young man and his unfinished letter, with Stormwind City sprawled out beneath her.
He was on her mind though as she circled around again. He was important to her because Amavia Delaurac was important to her. Together the couple were of great interested to the druid and her ethereal companion.
She pressed her eyes closed in a drawn out blink. In the darkness, with the air brushing through her feathers, she thought she felt infinity. The air was cold and the whistling wind just a constant din that bled into silence.
But when her eyes opened again, she was forced to accept the horizon did not stretch on forever. That she could sail around and around the world without end did not mean the world itself was endless. It only meant that she, and young Raoul, were caged here like all the other people.
Line Darlington was far below her, reflecting on his masks and the people he had worn them for. Their opinions ranged from words of praise to suspicious mutters. Enchanting, strange, upsetting- in the end it all amounted to distracting. Here in his windowless workshop, he hoped this new piece would have the same effect.
He smiled as he continued painting a coat of glaze over his most recent creation. The brush was tiny enough to hold between his thumb and forefinger, minimizing how his maimed hand had affected his art. With every stroke he lost himself a little more in the process.
There was only so much he could do with a family to care for. His wife allowed few slips, none of them even gratifying. None of them were worth the strain of pretending to be someone he wasn't. Sometimes he saw his 'old life' flashing in front of his eyes.
It didn't play out in fever dreams or hallucinations, just vivid memories that arrested any other thought. He knew he was a creature of habit, no matter how he wished to continue playing house (that was all he had ever wished for). At heart he knew he was painting this mask only because the children would wake up if he started howling, no matter how quietly he did so.
Across the bustling city, Tristand Goldreche quietly thumbed through old papers. They were faded with age and weathered by the things they had witnessed. Black stains were smudged around many dirty fingerprints- He remembered breathing heavily as he clawed a hole in the mud with his hands- but he could still make out the words.
Most of his worldly possessions had been taken from him long before the Forsaken invaded- Drenched black hair was falling in his eyes and hounds were barking. They couldn't have been more than twenty-three meters behind him- so for anything at all to have survived was a miracle.
Half of the papers were legal documents, but some of them were correspondence letters from friends and family. Every single one of these pages was important to him, worth risking his life for- Light help him, he couldn't stay there, but Calder said this was the spot! He trusted Calder!
All that remained of the Gilneas he knew was in the room with him now. When he came across one of his old propaganda posters- Finally he found something. A flash of burlap bag. Someone close shouted his name-, Tristand lifted his head and looked to the bauta mask on the dresser.
Times hadn't changed that much, it seemed. Could they ever really change? Was anyone ever really free- The heavy rain washed blood that wasn't his own into the black sludge of the earth. He had little choice- to change their destiny?
"That's enough reminiscing for one night, I think." He muttered as he straightened the stack of papers and tucked them back into the desk.
The heavy sound of the drawer closing was solid, not at all like the rattling metal of a cell door.
It gave him hope.