[WoW fic] Holding On
Finally the one I've been working on :P. Still Syrce, still Azeroth-not-Norrath, but with a new cast of characters this time, some of whom belong to my friends :P. In the process of writing this, I have come to the realization that I write sex as a means to romantic love. So yeah, this is NSFW. Definitely :P. This isn't the end of Syrce's story, most likely, just the end of what I've got right now :).
It hadn't stopped raining for days. In Zangarmarsh, the towering mushrooms that performed the same function as trees were wilting, dragged down by the constant stream of water. I watched Kezra's ears, blue-black furred in his cat form, twitch and flatten in the misty air. It seemed they might never perk up again.
“You know,” Silvermorn pointed out, quiet enough that I could ignore it if I chose, “we never used to see so much rain. Before, I mean.”
I clenched my teeth silently and kept my eyes ahead. It was useless to argue with Silvermorn on this. I had made it no secret that I felt responsible for the near-constant rain. Khanaun took a long look at both Silvermorn and I before turning his eyes back to the trail before us. Kezra shook his head, serving the dual purposes of disagreeing with Silvermorn's statement and throwing off some of the moisture clinging to his fur. Or perhaps I was just being wishful about the former.
But still, “It'll stop eventually, Silver,” he said. “It always does.”
“Yes, but after almost a week I'm ready to take a vacation to Tanaris. At least my clothes aren't constantly damp when it storms there,” Silvermorn complained.
“You know, I really don't have to be here,” I said through clenched teeth. “I'd be more than happy to go on my way and let the three of you handle the bog lords.”
“She's not saying that, Syrce,” Khanaun said quickly.
“We know it's not your fault,” Kezra added.
“Of course it's my fault,” I said, stopping in the middle of the path. The others came to a halt a little ahead of me. “I made a mistake years and years ago and now I pay for it every damned day. How long can a semi-immortal being hold a grudge?” I asked rhetorically, throwing up my hands. “I figure at least halfway to forever.”
I stepped closer to Silvermorn, eyes narrowed and expression hard. “You think I'm not tired of the feel of soggy clothes, of a constant chill in my bones? You think I wouldn't stop this if I could?”
“Have you tried?” Silvermorn shot back. Obviously she'd given it some thought. “You bear it like a burden, but almost to spite the one who did it to you. Like you're enduring it, but he still hasn't beaten you. You're too proud by far, Syrce.”
“Pride has nothing to do with this,” I scoffed.
“Says the woman who swears a storm god sends rain to shadow her every movement? If that's not hubris, I don't know what is,” Silvermorn replied, shaking her head.
I bristled at that. It was far too true. My anger took hold at that point and I turned my head skyward, into the pouring rain that fell coolly on my face. “You win!” I shouted to the heavens. “You've beaten me and I concede that defeat! Do what you will, but I won't struggle against you anymore.”
I turned back to Silvermorn and blinked the rain out of my eyes. “Happy?” I sneered.
“Ecstatic. Can we go now?” she replied, deadpan. “I'd like to try to see a few battles in Warsong Gulch today if we have the time.”
Talk settled into the rhythms of things we would all rather speak about and if the rains gradually drew to a close, no one mentioned it. At least no one within my hearing.
***
Three weeks later I hadn't seen a single raindrop, no hint of a snowstorm, and I'd spent nearly a solid week in Tanaris without a sandstorm to mar the desert calm. It was eerie and disconcerting. I had left my friends to their own adventures, traveling all over Outland and Azeroth both by myself in search of something I had never had to seek out before: rain. There was none to be had, at least not for me. Traders and innkeeps and farmers alike told me that rain continued to fall, just not when I was around. It felt like I was being avoided by a relatively natural phenomenon and such things rarely bode well.
I found myself more and more drawn to the ocean. Even if it held the tang of salt, the smell of water did something to calm me. I examined my words again from the day I had admitted defeat to the clouds. I had been angry, upset that Silvermorn had hit too close to something I had never wanted to admit to, not even to myself. But now, the weight of depression was settling over me and I had no choice but to come to terms with myself.
I had enjoyed feeling like I was important enough to hold the attentions of an immortal with extraordinary powers. For all my complaining about the rain, I felt like it was a mark of my higher place within the world. It was also a connection, a connection to the former life I almost didn't remember, written down in an old, faded journal that I kept hidden on my person at all times.
The more I accepted these things, the darker the spinning thoughts in my head became. Some part of me needed those reassurances that I was important somewhere, a key piece of a greater puzzle. Eventually the calming effect of the sea gave way to greater sadness. And the locals were starting to complain about the dry spell.
So I retreated to a place where it never rains, where the scent of water is burned from the air and where I could, for the first time in my life, find a draught to silence my fears.
No one ever talks about the heat of Ironforge, just the huge numbers of people they can squeeze into such a relatively small place. The dwarves are clever with such things, though. Flying in by bird, I could feel the nearly suffocating heat in the heights. But once I landed, the warmth was more bearable, like sitting near a fireplace rather than in a forge.
I walked rather than riding, savoring the prickle of heat against my skin and trying not to imagine that the sweat building at my brow was some other moisture. I wandered through the Mystic Ward, but one look at the shining pool in the middle was enough to send me into the darkness of The Forlorn Cavern beyond. There was a naturally occurring pond there, but it was dark enough not to really see it, especially if I didn't turn in that direction. The heat seemed less here, but it was no less dry.
There was a tavern to the left. I entered, sat down at the bar. The dwarf behind it was swarthy, the fine tracery of scars on his leathery face broken up only by the smooth black eyepatch he wore over his right eye. His night-black beard was long and scruffy, his gaze hard even with just one eye.
I ordered a drink and he gave it to me wordlessly. He continued to watch me as I brought it to my lips.
The taste was wretched, like something scooped out of an ooze and bottled up to be sold to the nearest merchant, who I would hope would give me a few coppers for it. Now I was paying good silvers for the privilege of drinking it. I made a face, but I forced the rest of it down. I'd seen how a few drinks could loosen something inside a person, make them feel almost whole again. I needed that, so I paid for another drink. The taste wasn't nearly so bad the second time around and the world was starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges.
“You might want to go slow with that,” a friendly voice from beside me advised. “Especially if you aren't used to it.”
I turned my head, leaving me only a bit dizzy for the action, and looked at the night elf seated next to me at what I had thought was an empty bar. He had dusky purple-gray skin and hair the color of new leaves in spring. His eyes were gold and kindness seemed to radiate from them as well as light. He smiled at me. I asked, “How do you know I'm not used to it?” Partly I was curious and partly I was insulted. I hadn't even started slurring my words or wobbling wildly. I had counted myself ahead of the game.
He shrugged. “You approach the glass like a thing to be conquered rather than enjoyed. If you're trying to get tanked, though, there's not many things that'll do it quicker than this stuff.” He motioned to the dwarf behind the bar for a mug of his own.
“That's exactly what I'm doing. And I think I'll get to it just now,” I said, waving at the dwarf for another round.
Two frothy glasses arrived and though I had intended to put the elf firmly out of my mind, he seemed intent on not allowing me to do so. I had barely brought the tankard to my lips before he asked, “So why is it you want to get so drunk? Something unpleasant going on tonight and you don't want to remember it? Or did your boyfriend break up with you?”
I revised my opinion of him quickly. It wasn't kindness he radiated. It was mischief. I peered at him, scowling. “How do you know someone close to me hasn't just died and I'm mourning their loss?”
“You'd already be crying if it was death you were seeking solace from. The way you're drinking is much too selfish,” he grinned. “So which is it? Trying to avoid something or did you get dumped?”
“Selfish? How am I acting selfish?” I demanded. My beer was only half empty, but it seemed like everything else was sloshing over the edges. Fuzzy was giving way to dizzy very, very quickly.
“You're getting upset at the question, for one,” he took a sip of his beer. “And for another, most people don't slam their drinks back alone and in silence if they're in mourning. You just want to escape from something. I'm trying to figure out what.”
“First proud, now selfish,” I muttered, taking another drink. “Have I any faults left undiscovered?”
“What was that?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I waved the question aside and was quite glad when I didn't fall off the stool with the gesture.
“Is the grill still open?” he turned to the barkeep. “I think we're going to need some food.”
The dwarf grunted and walked into a door to the left of the bar.
“So now you're hungry?” I asked.
“No, but you need something in your stomach to soak up that alcohol or else you'll be sick as a dog come morning,” he reached over and slid the glass away from me. My hands fumbled with his for a moment, but in the end I didn't have the dexterity left to make a grab for the glass. “Tell me what your problem is. Maybe just talking about it will help as much as the alcohol.”
“Nothing will help,” I shook my head and wished I hadn't. The room was spinning and I gripped the edge of the bar tightly. I still would have fallen if it hadn't been for his hands at my shoulders holding me upright. When I was able to raise my head again, he was standing behind me, his body keeping me from falling backwards as his arms kept me from going over the side. “Thank you,” I said.
“You're welcome,” he said, seating himself once he saw I had a good hold of the bar again. “Now talk.”
“I was too proud, then I was stupid, and now I'm all alone,” I said, feeling the first slurring of my words begin.
“So a boyfriend, then? Or girlfriend?”
“No, no,” I said, careful not to shake my head. “If I explain it, you'll think I'm crazy.”
“I already think you're a little crazy to be coming to this place to get drunk in the middle of the night. I doubt you could improve on my opinion.” He smiled at me and I found myself smiling back a bit.
“The rain follows me,” I said, watching his face intently for signs that he didn't believe me. He didn't scoff at the notion, so I continued. “I came to Azeroth from... another place. It was different there. There were beings with great power who pretended to be gods. And one of them... well I insulted him. Sort of. Thought he was a she. So it was like he sent the rain was everywhere I was and it wouldn't stop. I thought it was punishment, but I sort of liked the attention, too. And it followed me when I came here. Still always raining on me. Then Silver said that I was too proud and I told that god that he had won and now he's stopped raining on me. Ever.” I sniffled. There were wet spots on my hands and for a moment my heart leaped: rain! But no, just tears. Stupid, melancholy tears that did nothing to help me.
“Shhhhh,” he reached for me, drawing me closer, into his arms. It was a welcome closeness and I relaxed against him. “You aren't alone and it'll rain again for you. I promise. It can't rain all the time, but it can't stay dry forever, either.” I hadn't seen the dwarf come back from the kitchen, but I heard the sound of two plates hitting the bar beside us. I'd have jumped if I could have moved that fast.
He paid for the food and then settled me back on my stool. “Eat,” he said, “then I'll take you outside and show you something.”
I nodded, wiping my nose on the edge of my cloak. The meal was surprisingly good, chopped beef in a tangy sauce with potatoes fried with onions and peppers. Scraping the plate clean, I had to admit that I felt better.
The elf was watching me as I looked up. “What?” I asked.
“Do you always wear your hood indoors?”
I fingered the edge of it nervously. “I feel better with it on. Sort of a defense from the rain.” A pang of longing ripped through me as I realized what I'd said. I took a deep breath and looked away, determined to keep from crying again.
“Come outside with me,” he said, standing. He took hold of my arm as if to lead me. I had no choice but to follow, my legs less wobbly than I had expected. “I'm a druid,” he explained as we went down the stone steps. “I know a thing or two about weather magic. And I also know something you don't.”
I shook my head, not feeling nearly so dizzy now that I'd been fed. “And what is that?”
He positioned me in front of him, then took a few steps back. Smiling, he said, “It can rain in Ironforge.” Then he lifted his hands above his head and chanted. Within seconds, a dark cloud began to form above us. I watched, fascinated, as it twisted and roiled, growing in size.
A solitary drop landed on my forehead and I laughed. Seconds later, it was raining on me for the first time in weeks. I pushed back my hood, elation taking hold. Even if the rain was magical, it lightened my heart. I turned my face into the shower, reveling in the feel of falling water on my skin, in the beloved smell of fresh rain clinging to me, in the feeling of connection, strong again after weeks of absence. I held out my hands to cup the water, sipping it from them and laughing all the while. The feeling was glorious and renewing. I hadn't realized how strongly I missed it, even with my melancholy, until I felt it again. I stood in the middle of it all, dancing in a circle, laughing.
The storm dissipated all too quickly, but I knew I couldn't expect it to last long. My inhibitions lowered by the brew and my heart soaring again from the rain, I threw myself at the druid, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I chanted.
He held me close, mindless of my wet clothes, stroking my back and said, “Of course.”
When I pulled away, he was already moving toward the pond. “I want to show you something else. The real rain in Ironforge is a slower kind.”
“Alright,” I said, following him, willing to follow him just about anyplace at this point. I ought to be glowing, I felt so good.
We waded into the pond, which never came up over our knees, and in the dimness near the back, he conjured a wisp of light and held it above us. “There,” he pointed, “is Ironforge’s true rain.” I could see the slope of the ceiling, the rock curving down to meet the floor. Small stalactites held tight to the ceiling, scattered all about, and water droplets fell at irregular intervals from their tips into the pond. “The mountain may be full of molten rock,” he said, “but the land above still needs water. The water is stored in the rock, but it bleeds through. And so we have rain. There is always rain somewhere.” He stepped closer to me, my eyes moving from the droplets to his face. I was being studied, so carefully and closely, like something precious. It took my breath away just to see it. “You must only look for it.”
He leaned close, the golden glow of his eyes dimmed by something else, passion or excitement, something I couldn't name. I reached up, placed a hand on his shoulder and stood on tip toe to meet him. Our lips met and the wisp light flickered away. He tasted of lightning and spring storms, cool rain on the grass and I could not get enough of him. I wound my arms around his neck as he pulled me close. His lips moved over mine and it seemed that sparks should shoot between us, so fierce and passionate we were.
He pulled away and I followed, unable to leave that connection undone. “A bed,” he said against my lips. “Inside.” I leaned back slowly, panting, and nodded. “Not long,” he promised, breathing just as heavily as I was.
We returned to the bar and I didn't question his knowledge that it would have rooms to rent above it. He paid quickly, probably overmuch but I don't think either of us cared at that point.
I slammed the door shut behind us and he held me pinned against it, our lips meeting again in that primal dance. One of his hands held my wrists above my head, the other threw the latch on the door, locking us away from all others.
At the insistence of his tongue, I parted my lips to him, and he immediately captured my mouth, taking me as his willing prisoner. His tongue wound round mine, slick and soft, as though he was trying to taste every part of me, imprint me in his mind forever. I cannot say I was not trying to do the same. A free hand glided along my hip, up my stomach before reaching the slope of my breast. He cupped it delicately, his thumb playing with my nipple to make me gasp into his mouth. His chuckle was possessive and dark, a very male sound that set sensitive parts of me to quivering. When he took my mouth again, he let go of my hands, which fell immediately around his neck and brushed up into his hair. The green locks were soft and damp, sliding easily through my fingers. I gripped them near the base of his skull and pulled, receiving a low moan for my pains. His other hand was already tracing a path low on my body.
“Bed,” I reminded him with a grin. “You wanted the bed.”
“But you would look so good up against the wall,” he replied, matching my smirk with one of equal ferocity. I writhed both at his words and at the soft press of his fingers against the juncture of my thighs. Only my robe kept his questing fingers at bay now, and it was still too much.
“Clothes,” I choked out and he leaned forward to kiss me again, this one short and sweet.
“As you wish,” he said, stepping back. I shivered as he did so, suddenly realizing how hot my skin felt. I reached for him, but he pressed a hand to my chest, holding me back. His lips curled in a maddening smile. “Clothes first,” he told me.
I growled and began pulling at the strings tying my robe closed, fumbling with the buttons at my neck. He seemed in no better shape, shimmying out of his shirt at speed and tearing at the fastenings of his pants. I giggled as he almost tripped out of his pants onto the bed.
His eyes were warm as the summer sun when he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to him. I straddled his waist, looking down on him hungrily. The dusty purple of his skin faded beneath his clothes to a light gray. He had few scars beyond the telltale marks of a druid at his shoulders, hips, and heart. I traced the glowing tattoo of a cat's paw then swept my fingers over the image of the beak and eyes of a moonkin over his heart.
“So you do have a greater connection to the weather,” I said softly, watching the shimmering glow of the tattoo beat in rhythm to his heart.
“Always have,” he whispered. “Even without the feathers.”
I smiled at him and leaned close to kiss him. It wasn't as fierce, but just as intense. The taste of cool rain ran over my tongue as I ran my hands over his chest, his arms, over his stomach and down. I hesitated at his straining cock, but his hips jerked then and I could do nothing but take hold.
He was firm and smooth in my hands, an iron bar in a velvet sheath. I stroked him carefully, running my fingers over the tip of him to smear through the fluid leaking forth. He gasped into my mouth and I smiled, stroked him again. The reaction was similar, but the gasp was followed with a growl. He grabbed my arms and pulled me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. It was my turn to gasp and arch into him. My stroking hand stuttered in its movements, halted almost entirely when he slid a finger between the delicate folds of my core.
I felt crazed, mad with the need to be with him, to draw him into me and never let him go. The warm fuzziness of the alcohol was contributing, but there was something inside me that resonated with him, a connection I could feel like a warm glow in my chest.
His other hand threaded into my short hair and he tightened his fingers, pulling my head back. He nibbled his way up my neck then whispered, his voice dark and breathless in my ear, “So short. Not many women wear it like this.”
I flushed, not sure if he was displeased, hoping that he wasn't. “I-I've always liked it this way,” I said quietly. “I used not to have... it was a long time ago.” I turned away, suddenly afraid of what he might think. The whole encounter felt so surreal all of a sudden.
He pulled back immediately, golden eyes staring at my face intently. “What is it? I like your hair.” He stroked my head gently. “Tell me.”
Not meeting his eyes, I said, “Where I came from, I had no hair. It wasn't like it was shaved or something, my people just didn't have hair on our heads. And when I came here it had already grown out some. It was hard to deal with, so I kept it short.”
He leaned up and nuzzled my temple, placed a small kiss there. “I like your short hair,” he said quietly. “I have an unobscured view of your face, the slope of your neck. It makes you look sleek. It fits you.” He kissed me gently, lips grazing mine and lifting away several times.
I leaned into him. “I don't know how you don't think I'm crazy.”
He grinned. “I've heard worse. Lived through it, too.”
“And it’s just coincidence that you found me tonight?”
“Fate can be kind,” his hand in my hair pulled me close and his lips sealed against mine.
The taste of lightning was back, tingling along my tongue. His hands guided my hips and when he pulled me down, I felt the head of him pressing at my entrance. I moaned and he gobbled it up greedily as I sank further, the way slick and ready for him. He fell back and I leaned over him, raising and lowering myself slowly. His eyes became unfocused as I rocked my hips. He hissed out an assent, an encouragement, and I straightened, rising and falling quickly as his hands took to my breasts again, fondling them lightly, almost teasingly as I moved. A shivery feeling stole over me, like the calm before a storm. And I was the lightning rod. The thought made me shudder, clenching my thighs - and other, lower things - tighter around him. And then he was pulling me toward him, rolling us over, and he began moving above me. His hair fell about us, the soft light of his eyes illuminating his handsome face. Sun gone behind the clouds and the only light was soft and intimate. His hips rolled and mine came up to meet him, the pleasure spiraling between us.
“Need you,” I panted, bringing a hand up to cup his face while the other one curled around his shoulder, holding him close.
“Together. Soon,” he replied, the rhythm of his strokes breaking even as the speed increased.
The air around us felt close and charged, like lightning would strike at any moment. I couldn’t bring myself to care. He fit within me perfectly, touched me in all the right places, made me feel safe and right in ways I hadn’t felt in longer than I could remember.
When he came, it was with a roar like rolling thunder crashing over me. Moments later I followed with another sound, an echo of his own. He collapsed atop me, falling to the side so I could breathe. I was flushed and sweaty, but the fuzziness from the alcohol had left me. I was sated, tired in body and spirit, and it felt completely natural to turn into his embrace when he pulled me there, my head pillowed on his arm and our legs twined together. He pulled the blanket up over us and I closed my eyes, content to sleep.
“Sweet dreams, Syrce,” he murmured into my hair.
My response slipped out, slurred by fatigue instead of alcohol, “You too, Karana.”
And we slept.
***
If I had journeyed to Darnassus or perhaps my home of Stormwind, I might have been woken by the soft light of dawn or the sound of birds chirping outside my window. Instead, I was in Ironforge and my sleep was abruptly ended by the dwarf pounding on the door to my room, bellowing, “It’s halfway to noon! Get out.”
I sat up in bed quite suddenly, clutching the blanket about me in case he barged in. But he seemed satisfied with the extent of his hospitality and left me in peace. Alone in peace, for my lover had departed at some point while I was still asleep. The pleasant ache between my legs was the only proof that I hadn’t imagined the encounter in a drunken haze.
I was disappointed, though, and I felt not unduly. It seemed to me that the two of us had made a connection, certainly one that almost required more of a goodbye than this. But I didn’t cry. I am a grown woman, well enough able to handle my own emotional investments. It was only one night, I told myself with greater sincerity than I felt. His departure was only proof that the two of us were not compatible on a deeper level. I could leave it at that. And he had brought me rain, broken my personal drought, as it were. I had no business being angry with someone who had done something that helped me so much. Best to forget him and be gone.
I gathered my clothes, fastening them about me again, noting where buttons had been pulled loose and seams had been stretched so I could make mention of it to the tailors when I brought them in for repair. Only when my hood was pulled up over my head again did I notice the tiny window in the room was still open. Something had caught on the jam and was fluttering in the slight breeze.
My fingers did not shake as I pulled the tiny piece of parchment from the hook where it had been fixed. I unfolded it and stared at the words written there. ‘You and I are of the rain,’ it said, along with, ‘Watch for me,’ and other things that are for me alone. The signature at the bottom read, Karana, a name he had never told me, though I had known it. The same was true for me, for though I had never given him my name, it had still been on his lips. Warmth and promise curled within me, a sense of connection springing to life once again, a tiny plant fed and nurtured by the soft rains of spring.
I opened my worn journal and pressed the parchment between its pages. Pages that tell me the name of the storm god, over and over and always: Karana.
***
I see him occasionally. The frequency is never something that worries me. When I feel the pull to find him, it begins to rain and soon he is with me. Sometimes we make love to the sound of gentle raindrops on the roof. Others we sit close under blankets and do nothing but talk, childish and innocent, while thunderstorms rage above us. Twice we have sat beneath heavy rain in heavy silence, neither willing nor able to share the weight on our hearts with the other. Just the companionship was enough.
And the rains have returned to my life. Rain does not always herald him, but it always makes me think of him. I can no longer resent the rain, the storms that have dogged my steps for longer than I can remember. They are a reminder of a connection that I share with a man I love more than I can put into words. He said it that first time, our first encounter, ‘Fate can be kind.’ I find fate has been kinder to me than I deserve. There is a place in my heart that vibrates with the feel of him, always, and that is more than most can say. I am not alone and I never will be again.
Now I pray for rain.
It hadn't stopped raining for days. In Zangarmarsh, the towering mushrooms that performed the same function as trees were wilting, dragged down by the constant stream of water. I watched Kezra's ears, blue-black furred in his cat form, twitch and flatten in the misty air. It seemed they might never perk up again.
“You know,” Silvermorn pointed out, quiet enough that I could ignore it if I chose, “we never used to see so much rain. Before, I mean.”
I clenched my teeth silently and kept my eyes ahead. It was useless to argue with Silvermorn on this. I had made it no secret that I felt responsible for the near-constant rain. Khanaun took a long look at both Silvermorn and I before turning his eyes back to the trail before us. Kezra shook his head, serving the dual purposes of disagreeing with Silvermorn's statement and throwing off some of the moisture clinging to his fur. Or perhaps I was just being wishful about the former.
But still, “It'll stop eventually, Silver,” he said. “It always does.”
“Yes, but after almost a week I'm ready to take a vacation to Tanaris. At least my clothes aren't constantly damp when it storms there,” Silvermorn complained.
“You know, I really don't have to be here,” I said through clenched teeth. “I'd be more than happy to go on my way and let the three of you handle the bog lords.”
“She's not saying that, Syrce,” Khanaun said quickly.
“We know it's not your fault,” Kezra added.
“Of course it's my fault,” I said, stopping in the middle of the path. The others came to a halt a little ahead of me. “I made a mistake years and years ago and now I pay for it every damned day. How long can a semi-immortal being hold a grudge?” I asked rhetorically, throwing up my hands. “I figure at least halfway to forever.”
I stepped closer to Silvermorn, eyes narrowed and expression hard. “You think I'm not tired of the feel of soggy clothes, of a constant chill in my bones? You think I wouldn't stop this if I could?”
“Have you tried?” Silvermorn shot back. Obviously she'd given it some thought. “You bear it like a burden, but almost to spite the one who did it to you. Like you're enduring it, but he still hasn't beaten you. You're too proud by far, Syrce.”
“Pride has nothing to do with this,” I scoffed.
“Says the woman who swears a storm god sends rain to shadow her every movement? If that's not hubris, I don't know what is,” Silvermorn replied, shaking her head.
I bristled at that. It was far too true. My anger took hold at that point and I turned my head skyward, into the pouring rain that fell coolly on my face. “You win!” I shouted to the heavens. “You've beaten me and I concede that defeat! Do what you will, but I won't struggle against you anymore.”
I turned back to Silvermorn and blinked the rain out of my eyes. “Happy?” I sneered.
“Ecstatic. Can we go now?” she replied, deadpan. “I'd like to try to see a few battles in Warsong Gulch today if we have the time.”
Talk settled into the rhythms of things we would all rather speak about and if the rains gradually drew to a close, no one mentioned it. At least no one within my hearing.
***
Three weeks later I hadn't seen a single raindrop, no hint of a snowstorm, and I'd spent nearly a solid week in Tanaris without a sandstorm to mar the desert calm. It was eerie and disconcerting. I had left my friends to their own adventures, traveling all over Outland and Azeroth both by myself in search of something I had never had to seek out before: rain. There was none to be had, at least not for me. Traders and innkeeps and farmers alike told me that rain continued to fall, just not when I was around. It felt like I was being avoided by a relatively natural phenomenon and such things rarely bode well.
I found myself more and more drawn to the ocean. Even if it held the tang of salt, the smell of water did something to calm me. I examined my words again from the day I had admitted defeat to the clouds. I had been angry, upset that Silvermorn had hit too close to something I had never wanted to admit to, not even to myself. But now, the weight of depression was settling over me and I had no choice but to come to terms with myself.
I had enjoyed feeling like I was important enough to hold the attentions of an immortal with extraordinary powers. For all my complaining about the rain, I felt like it was a mark of my higher place within the world. It was also a connection, a connection to the former life I almost didn't remember, written down in an old, faded journal that I kept hidden on my person at all times.
The more I accepted these things, the darker the spinning thoughts in my head became. Some part of me needed those reassurances that I was important somewhere, a key piece of a greater puzzle. Eventually the calming effect of the sea gave way to greater sadness. And the locals were starting to complain about the dry spell.
So I retreated to a place where it never rains, where the scent of water is burned from the air and where I could, for the first time in my life, find a draught to silence my fears.
No one ever talks about the heat of Ironforge, just the huge numbers of people they can squeeze into such a relatively small place. The dwarves are clever with such things, though. Flying in by bird, I could feel the nearly suffocating heat in the heights. But once I landed, the warmth was more bearable, like sitting near a fireplace rather than in a forge.
I walked rather than riding, savoring the prickle of heat against my skin and trying not to imagine that the sweat building at my brow was some other moisture. I wandered through the Mystic Ward, but one look at the shining pool in the middle was enough to send me into the darkness of The Forlorn Cavern beyond. There was a naturally occurring pond there, but it was dark enough not to really see it, especially if I didn't turn in that direction. The heat seemed less here, but it was no less dry.
There was a tavern to the left. I entered, sat down at the bar. The dwarf behind it was swarthy, the fine tracery of scars on his leathery face broken up only by the smooth black eyepatch he wore over his right eye. His night-black beard was long and scruffy, his gaze hard even with just one eye.
I ordered a drink and he gave it to me wordlessly. He continued to watch me as I brought it to my lips.
The taste was wretched, like something scooped out of an ooze and bottled up to be sold to the nearest merchant, who I would hope would give me a few coppers for it. Now I was paying good silvers for the privilege of drinking it. I made a face, but I forced the rest of it down. I'd seen how a few drinks could loosen something inside a person, make them feel almost whole again. I needed that, so I paid for another drink. The taste wasn't nearly so bad the second time around and the world was starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges.
“You might want to go slow with that,” a friendly voice from beside me advised. “Especially if you aren't used to it.”
I turned my head, leaving me only a bit dizzy for the action, and looked at the night elf seated next to me at what I had thought was an empty bar. He had dusky purple-gray skin and hair the color of new leaves in spring. His eyes were gold and kindness seemed to radiate from them as well as light. He smiled at me. I asked, “How do you know I'm not used to it?” Partly I was curious and partly I was insulted. I hadn't even started slurring my words or wobbling wildly. I had counted myself ahead of the game.
He shrugged. “You approach the glass like a thing to be conquered rather than enjoyed. If you're trying to get tanked, though, there's not many things that'll do it quicker than this stuff.” He motioned to the dwarf behind the bar for a mug of his own.
“That's exactly what I'm doing. And I think I'll get to it just now,” I said, waving at the dwarf for another round.
Two frothy glasses arrived and though I had intended to put the elf firmly out of my mind, he seemed intent on not allowing me to do so. I had barely brought the tankard to my lips before he asked, “So why is it you want to get so drunk? Something unpleasant going on tonight and you don't want to remember it? Or did your boyfriend break up with you?”
I revised my opinion of him quickly. It wasn't kindness he radiated. It was mischief. I peered at him, scowling. “How do you know someone close to me hasn't just died and I'm mourning their loss?”
“You'd already be crying if it was death you were seeking solace from. The way you're drinking is much too selfish,” he grinned. “So which is it? Trying to avoid something or did you get dumped?”
“Selfish? How am I acting selfish?” I demanded. My beer was only half empty, but it seemed like everything else was sloshing over the edges. Fuzzy was giving way to dizzy very, very quickly.
“You're getting upset at the question, for one,” he took a sip of his beer. “And for another, most people don't slam their drinks back alone and in silence if they're in mourning. You just want to escape from something. I'm trying to figure out what.”
“First proud, now selfish,” I muttered, taking another drink. “Have I any faults left undiscovered?”
“What was that?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I waved the question aside and was quite glad when I didn't fall off the stool with the gesture.
“Is the grill still open?” he turned to the barkeep. “I think we're going to need some food.”
The dwarf grunted and walked into a door to the left of the bar.
“So now you're hungry?” I asked.
“No, but you need something in your stomach to soak up that alcohol or else you'll be sick as a dog come morning,” he reached over and slid the glass away from me. My hands fumbled with his for a moment, but in the end I didn't have the dexterity left to make a grab for the glass. “Tell me what your problem is. Maybe just talking about it will help as much as the alcohol.”
“Nothing will help,” I shook my head and wished I hadn't. The room was spinning and I gripped the edge of the bar tightly. I still would have fallen if it hadn't been for his hands at my shoulders holding me upright. When I was able to raise my head again, he was standing behind me, his body keeping me from falling backwards as his arms kept me from going over the side. “Thank you,” I said.
“You're welcome,” he said, seating himself once he saw I had a good hold of the bar again. “Now talk.”
“I was too proud, then I was stupid, and now I'm all alone,” I said, feeling the first slurring of my words begin.
“So a boyfriend, then? Or girlfriend?”
“No, no,” I said, careful not to shake my head. “If I explain it, you'll think I'm crazy.”
“I already think you're a little crazy to be coming to this place to get drunk in the middle of the night. I doubt you could improve on my opinion.” He smiled at me and I found myself smiling back a bit.
“The rain follows me,” I said, watching his face intently for signs that he didn't believe me. He didn't scoff at the notion, so I continued. “I came to Azeroth from... another place. It was different there. There were beings with great power who pretended to be gods. And one of them... well I insulted him. Sort of. Thought he was a she. So it was like he sent the rain was everywhere I was and it wouldn't stop. I thought it was punishment, but I sort of liked the attention, too. And it followed me when I came here. Still always raining on me. Then Silver said that I was too proud and I told that god that he had won and now he's stopped raining on me. Ever.” I sniffled. There were wet spots on my hands and for a moment my heart leaped: rain! But no, just tears. Stupid, melancholy tears that did nothing to help me.
“Shhhhh,” he reached for me, drawing me closer, into his arms. It was a welcome closeness and I relaxed against him. “You aren't alone and it'll rain again for you. I promise. It can't rain all the time, but it can't stay dry forever, either.” I hadn't seen the dwarf come back from the kitchen, but I heard the sound of two plates hitting the bar beside us. I'd have jumped if I could have moved that fast.
He paid for the food and then settled me back on my stool. “Eat,” he said, “then I'll take you outside and show you something.”
I nodded, wiping my nose on the edge of my cloak. The meal was surprisingly good, chopped beef in a tangy sauce with potatoes fried with onions and peppers. Scraping the plate clean, I had to admit that I felt better.
The elf was watching me as I looked up. “What?” I asked.
“Do you always wear your hood indoors?”
I fingered the edge of it nervously. “I feel better with it on. Sort of a defense from the rain.” A pang of longing ripped through me as I realized what I'd said. I took a deep breath and looked away, determined to keep from crying again.
“Come outside with me,” he said, standing. He took hold of my arm as if to lead me. I had no choice but to follow, my legs less wobbly than I had expected. “I'm a druid,” he explained as we went down the stone steps. “I know a thing or two about weather magic. And I also know something you don't.”
I shook my head, not feeling nearly so dizzy now that I'd been fed. “And what is that?”
He positioned me in front of him, then took a few steps back. Smiling, he said, “It can rain in Ironforge.” Then he lifted his hands above his head and chanted. Within seconds, a dark cloud began to form above us. I watched, fascinated, as it twisted and roiled, growing in size.
A solitary drop landed on my forehead and I laughed. Seconds later, it was raining on me for the first time in weeks. I pushed back my hood, elation taking hold. Even if the rain was magical, it lightened my heart. I turned my face into the shower, reveling in the feel of falling water on my skin, in the beloved smell of fresh rain clinging to me, in the feeling of connection, strong again after weeks of absence. I held out my hands to cup the water, sipping it from them and laughing all the while. The feeling was glorious and renewing. I hadn't realized how strongly I missed it, even with my melancholy, until I felt it again. I stood in the middle of it all, dancing in a circle, laughing.
The storm dissipated all too quickly, but I knew I couldn't expect it to last long. My inhibitions lowered by the brew and my heart soaring again from the rain, I threw myself at the druid, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I chanted.
He held me close, mindless of my wet clothes, stroking my back and said, “Of course.”
When I pulled away, he was already moving toward the pond. “I want to show you something else. The real rain in Ironforge is a slower kind.”
“Alright,” I said, following him, willing to follow him just about anyplace at this point. I ought to be glowing, I felt so good.
We waded into the pond, which never came up over our knees, and in the dimness near the back, he conjured a wisp of light and held it above us. “There,” he pointed, “is Ironforge’s true rain.” I could see the slope of the ceiling, the rock curving down to meet the floor. Small stalactites held tight to the ceiling, scattered all about, and water droplets fell at irregular intervals from their tips into the pond. “The mountain may be full of molten rock,” he said, “but the land above still needs water. The water is stored in the rock, but it bleeds through. And so we have rain. There is always rain somewhere.” He stepped closer to me, my eyes moving from the droplets to his face. I was being studied, so carefully and closely, like something precious. It took my breath away just to see it. “You must only look for it.”
He leaned close, the golden glow of his eyes dimmed by something else, passion or excitement, something I couldn't name. I reached up, placed a hand on his shoulder and stood on tip toe to meet him. Our lips met and the wisp light flickered away. He tasted of lightning and spring storms, cool rain on the grass and I could not get enough of him. I wound my arms around his neck as he pulled me close. His lips moved over mine and it seemed that sparks should shoot between us, so fierce and passionate we were.
He pulled away and I followed, unable to leave that connection undone. “A bed,” he said against my lips. “Inside.” I leaned back slowly, panting, and nodded. “Not long,” he promised, breathing just as heavily as I was.
We returned to the bar and I didn't question his knowledge that it would have rooms to rent above it. He paid quickly, probably overmuch but I don't think either of us cared at that point.
I slammed the door shut behind us and he held me pinned against it, our lips meeting again in that primal dance. One of his hands held my wrists above my head, the other threw the latch on the door, locking us away from all others.
At the insistence of his tongue, I parted my lips to him, and he immediately captured my mouth, taking me as his willing prisoner. His tongue wound round mine, slick and soft, as though he was trying to taste every part of me, imprint me in his mind forever. I cannot say I was not trying to do the same. A free hand glided along my hip, up my stomach before reaching the slope of my breast. He cupped it delicately, his thumb playing with my nipple to make me gasp into his mouth. His chuckle was possessive and dark, a very male sound that set sensitive parts of me to quivering. When he took my mouth again, he let go of my hands, which fell immediately around his neck and brushed up into his hair. The green locks were soft and damp, sliding easily through my fingers. I gripped them near the base of his skull and pulled, receiving a low moan for my pains. His other hand was already tracing a path low on my body.
“Bed,” I reminded him with a grin. “You wanted the bed.”
“But you would look so good up against the wall,” he replied, matching my smirk with one of equal ferocity. I writhed both at his words and at the soft press of his fingers against the juncture of my thighs. Only my robe kept his questing fingers at bay now, and it was still too much.
“Clothes,” I choked out and he leaned forward to kiss me again, this one short and sweet.
“As you wish,” he said, stepping back. I shivered as he did so, suddenly realizing how hot my skin felt. I reached for him, but he pressed a hand to my chest, holding me back. His lips curled in a maddening smile. “Clothes first,” he told me.
I growled and began pulling at the strings tying my robe closed, fumbling with the buttons at my neck. He seemed in no better shape, shimmying out of his shirt at speed and tearing at the fastenings of his pants. I giggled as he almost tripped out of his pants onto the bed.
His eyes were warm as the summer sun when he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to him. I straddled his waist, looking down on him hungrily. The dusty purple of his skin faded beneath his clothes to a light gray. He had few scars beyond the telltale marks of a druid at his shoulders, hips, and heart. I traced the glowing tattoo of a cat's paw then swept my fingers over the image of the beak and eyes of a moonkin over his heart.
“So you do have a greater connection to the weather,” I said softly, watching the shimmering glow of the tattoo beat in rhythm to his heart.
“Always have,” he whispered. “Even without the feathers.”
I smiled at him and leaned close to kiss him. It wasn't as fierce, but just as intense. The taste of cool rain ran over my tongue as I ran my hands over his chest, his arms, over his stomach and down. I hesitated at his straining cock, but his hips jerked then and I could do nothing but take hold.
He was firm and smooth in my hands, an iron bar in a velvet sheath. I stroked him carefully, running my fingers over the tip of him to smear through the fluid leaking forth. He gasped into my mouth and I smiled, stroked him again. The reaction was similar, but the gasp was followed with a growl. He grabbed my arms and pulled me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. It was my turn to gasp and arch into him. My stroking hand stuttered in its movements, halted almost entirely when he slid a finger between the delicate folds of my core.
I felt crazed, mad with the need to be with him, to draw him into me and never let him go. The warm fuzziness of the alcohol was contributing, but there was something inside me that resonated with him, a connection I could feel like a warm glow in my chest.
His other hand threaded into my short hair and he tightened his fingers, pulling my head back. He nibbled his way up my neck then whispered, his voice dark and breathless in my ear, “So short. Not many women wear it like this.”
I flushed, not sure if he was displeased, hoping that he wasn't. “I-I've always liked it this way,” I said quietly. “I used not to have... it was a long time ago.” I turned away, suddenly afraid of what he might think. The whole encounter felt so surreal all of a sudden.
He pulled back immediately, golden eyes staring at my face intently. “What is it? I like your hair.” He stroked my head gently. “Tell me.”
Not meeting his eyes, I said, “Where I came from, I had no hair. It wasn't like it was shaved or something, my people just didn't have hair on our heads. And when I came here it had already grown out some. It was hard to deal with, so I kept it short.”
He leaned up and nuzzled my temple, placed a small kiss there. “I like your short hair,” he said quietly. “I have an unobscured view of your face, the slope of your neck. It makes you look sleek. It fits you.” He kissed me gently, lips grazing mine and lifting away several times.
I leaned into him. “I don't know how you don't think I'm crazy.”
He grinned. “I've heard worse. Lived through it, too.”
“And it’s just coincidence that you found me tonight?”
“Fate can be kind,” his hand in my hair pulled me close and his lips sealed against mine.
The taste of lightning was back, tingling along my tongue. His hands guided my hips and when he pulled me down, I felt the head of him pressing at my entrance. I moaned and he gobbled it up greedily as I sank further, the way slick and ready for him. He fell back and I leaned over him, raising and lowering myself slowly. His eyes became unfocused as I rocked my hips. He hissed out an assent, an encouragement, and I straightened, rising and falling quickly as his hands took to my breasts again, fondling them lightly, almost teasingly as I moved. A shivery feeling stole over me, like the calm before a storm. And I was the lightning rod. The thought made me shudder, clenching my thighs - and other, lower things - tighter around him. And then he was pulling me toward him, rolling us over, and he began moving above me. His hair fell about us, the soft light of his eyes illuminating his handsome face. Sun gone behind the clouds and the only light was soft and intimate. His hips rolled and mine came up to meet him, the pleasure spiraling between us.
“Need you,” I panted, bringing a hand up to cup his face while the other one curled around his shoulder, holding him close.
“Together. Soon,” he replied, the rhythm of his strokes breaking even as the speed increased.
The air around us felt close and charged, like lightning would strike at any moment. I couldn’t bring myself to care. He fit within me perfectly, touched me in all the right places, made me feel safe and right in ways I hadn’t felt in longer than I could remember.
When he came, it was with a roar like rolling thunder crashing over me. Moments later I followed with another sound, an echo of his own. He collapsed atop me, falling to the side so I could breathe. I was flushed and sweaty, but the fuzziness from the alcohol had left me. I was sated, tired in body and spirit, and it felt completely natural to turn into his embrace when he pulled me there, my head pillowed on his arm and our legs twined together. He pulled the blanket up over us and I closed my eyes, content to sleep.
“Sweet dreams, Syrce,” he murmured into my hair.
My response slipped out, slurred by fatigue instead of alcohol, “You too, Karana.”
And we slept.
***
If I had journeyed to Darnassus or perhaps my home of Stormwind, I might have been woken by the soft light of dawn or the sound of birds chirping outside my window. Instead, I was in Ironforge and my sleep was abruptly ended by the dwarf pounding on the door to my room, bellowing, “It’s halfway to noon! Get out.”
I sat up in bed quite suddenly, clutching the blanket about me in case he barged in. But he seemed satisfied with the extent of his hospitality and left me in peace. Alone in peace, for my lover had departed at some point while I was still asleep. The pleasant ache between my legs was the only proof that I hadn’t imagined the encounter in a drunken haze.
I was disappointed, though, and I felt not unduly. It seemed to me that the two of us had made a connection, certainly one that almost required more of a goodbye than this. But I didn’t cry. I am a grown woman, well enough able to handle my own emotional investments. It was only one night, I told myself with greater sincerity than I felt. His departure was only proof that the two of us were not compatible on a deeper level. I could leave it at that. And he had brought me rain, broken my personal drought, as it were. I had no business being angry with someone who had done something that helped me so much. Best to forget him and be gone.
I gathered my clothes, fastening them about me again, noting where buttons had been pulled loose and seams had been stretched so I could make mention of it to the tailors when I brought them in for repair. Only when my hood was pulled up over my head again did I notice the tiny window in the room was still open. Something had caught on the jam and was fluttering in the slight breeze.
My fingers did not shake as I pulled the tiny piece of parchment from the hook where it had been fixed. I unfolded it and stared at the words written there. ‘You and I are of the rain,’ it said, along with, ‘Watch for me,’ and other things that are for me alone. The signature at the bottom read, Karana, a name he had never told me, though I had known it. The same was true for me, for though I had never given him my name, it had still been on his lips. Warmth and promise curled within me, a sense of connection springing to life once again, a tiny plant fed and nurtured by the soft rains of spring.
I opened my worn journal and pressed the parchment between its pages. Pages that tell me the name of the storm god, over and over and always: Karana.
***
I see him occasionally. The frequency is never something that worries me. When I feel the pull to find him, it begins to rain and soon he is with me. Sometimes we make love to the sound of gentle raindrops on the roof. Others we sit close under blankets and do nothing but talk, childish and innocent, while thunderstorms rage above us. Twice we have sat beneath heavy rain in heavy silence, neither willing nor able to share the weight on our hearts with the other. Just the companionship was enough.
And the rains have returned to my life. Rain does not always herald him, but it always makes me think of him. I can no longer resent the rain, the storms that have dogged my steps for longer than I can remember. They are a reminder of a connection that I share with a man I love more than I can put into words. He said it that first time, our first encounter, ‘Fate can be kind.’ I find fate has been kinder to me than I deserve. There is a place in my heart that vibrates with the feel of him, always, and that is more than most can say. I am not alone and I never will be again.
Now I pray for rain.