Credence's blog

She says they are just the usual ghosts tonight. I say nothing.

She says they are not new nightmares. I say nothing.

She says they are just the same old memories. I say nothing.

I see everything.

I know.

And there are no magic words.

I see where she hurts, and how she twists.

And there is nothing I can say.

As she sleeps, I do not. I am not tired. I have not been tired lately, since she started driving herself again. Perhaps it is something in me which senses the strife she seeks out, and feeds me so I need not rest. More likely, it is something far less dark and twisted. She is busy, I am not. There is not so much to clean anymore, after all.

I smell the blood under her fingernails.

I wish there was a magic which I could work that would wipe away the past and let her smile again. I have seen the smile that could have been.

When one doubts their course, it is wise to return to the root of one's being and remember whence you came.  In my youth, this was the library, the stacks towering above me by what seemed miles, ladders moving of their own accord as sprites fetched proper research materiel for the subject at hand, whatever it was.  In the library, I could always find the answers, given enough time.  My family would always give me enough time.

"Across the sands!  Rider!  Rider on the Sands of Nasam!"

I keep my head low as Iuvo's hooves churn the dead gray sands, once rock, now equal parts dead stone, dead man, and dead insect.  She flies.

"Fordring's Banner!  Let him through!  Raise the gate!"

My side burns.  Jormungar acid eats at it below holed armor.  Iuvo knows, Light bless.  She keeps pounding forward.

"It's Black!  Cannon!  Ready...Aim..."

The talbuk slides sideways at the last second.  I hadn't noticed the Scarab Tyrant behind me.  How far gone was I?  Cannon roar.

"Lady Black!  Welcome home, your room is ready, all is prepared..."

The package.  The letters from tourney.  I just have to deliver them.

"You're not staying?  Surely you must be..."

Only long enough to cleanse the toxin from my skin.  Surely the paladin doesn't have these problems.

There is much in simple human interaction that is taken simply for granted and not given a second thought by many.

Every time an echo bounces back, it loses a little of itself.  That is what she told me, and it is true, in every aspect; not only does the phenomenon of the echo peel off a little bit of itself on each surface that it hits, adding to the patina of ages and the memory of sound, but so has she peeled off parts of herself as she went, leaving a scrap here, a thread there, until what is left is threadbare and frayed.

I did not ever see myself going back.  Although it had smarted at first, I had quickly come to realize the wisdom of the doctor's orders.  I had done not only enough, but more than enough, and the Alliance did not need either my sword arm at the front, or my body swelling the ranks of dead Alliance heroes.  Let me join the ranks of the salvaged, the battered, the weary, the retired.  It had taken me several months to find my stride in civilian life, but now, I cannot imagine no longer being a part of it.

Dear Echo.

It has been truly, deeply difficult to choose the words which I am placing in the trust of this simple piece of paper.  There is so very much I want to say, so much that I fear it would indeed strain the boundaries of the postal system and run my poor landlady out of ink if I were to put them down.  Yet, even more than the risk of overwhelming you with the rusted confessions of a heart long unused to feeling, I choose my words carefully for their own sake.

Echo,

More than the spring day, your words warm my heart.  I am spending more and more time by the docks and around the garrison, speaking to soldiers, culling the wheat from the chaff of the reports from the front.  I am pleasantly surprised that the High Command is being so very honest with the people, reporting defeats and victories alike, but perhaps it is because this war is so absurdly non-traditional.  Admittedly, the actions against the Horde are yet reported with the usual slant; our virtue and strength of arms prevails over the bestial savages and their foul calumny and treacherous tactics, but the movements against the scourge are reported with accuracy, if not honesty.  It is, however, not troop movements I am interested in, so much as I am listening for news of you and yours, and wondering where you will be in the action.

Echo:

There is so much that I want to squeeze into these few sheets of paper, and I know how difficult it would be if I sent you a book to read, even if said book was in my handwriting.  I want to send you page upon page of my thoughts, but I can't put them down properly.  I want to send you a token of my appreciation and gratitude, but do not yet know you well enough to know what to send, at least not what to send that would fit at the Ramparts.  Having spent plenty of time recently traveling light, I know how restricting it is to carry all you own with you, and do not wish to overload you.  At the same time, I don't know if you would like something to carry those possessions.  I could buy you a motorbike, but I don't know if you would drive one.

Echo:

Thank you for the cheese.  Though it isn't precisely the kind of fine cuisine I would expect of someone feeling the need to send cheese through the post, it brought a smile to my face, and not just at the thought of the poor courier carrying it, wondering what in the world that particular pungency was.  That's the interesting thing about hard cheese, after all, how very different the smell and the taste is.  Add to that the fact that it is something of substance, and though far from a royal feast, you can find an intriguing meal in even the oddest of circumstances: a midshipman's mess.

Echo:

I am deeply sorry to hear of your wounding, though we both are well aware that danger is the soldier's constant bedfellow.  It strikes me, however, that a rest can only do your body good, and, more than likely, your spirit.  Although it saddens me that you have been removed from where you prefer to be, I think that, in time, you will realize the value of rest.  I know I am starting to.  It is difficult, of course, but I do feel some tensions releasing, even as others are realized.

Miss Echo,

It seems odd to address you as "miss", rather than "marksman", but there is no way under this sun or any other that I can thank you in a professional manner for your thoughtfulness.  I enjoyed the melons, and the grapes from Telaar have been a delight to eat while sunbathing.  The sunbathing also seems odd, but it was recommended by your man Bek.  It took him a few moments to warm up to me - something that I did not help at first, but I was assisting the innkeeper in making some ice cream.

Yes, I know, that sounds odd, but the Kurenai suggested that I use some of my abilities to assist, and while none of the frost channeling attacks have anything resembling a constructive use, the ability to chill the air around me proved helpful, if disconcerting.  It hasn't been enough use for me to be permanently installed in the coldroom, mind.  I'm rather glad for that.

Marksman Echo:

I have decided to take my leave of Stormwind for a brief while, and desired to leave you a forwarding address.  For the next few weeks, at least, I will be residing in the town of Telaar, on the plains of Nagrand.  The greenery will do me good, and I admit to feeling some kindred with the Broken who inhabit it.

I was going to compliment you on your use of color in your sketch.  It took me some time to look away from it and realize that you had only used charcoal.  That was what made me decide that I needed time away, far away, worlds away from this conflict.  The Citadel yet has a hold over me, a rapt fascination of sorts.  A pull to return.

Marksman Echo;

I have lit off a green rocket twice a day these last few, ten minutes after moonset and ten minutes after sunset.  I hope the thought of the rocketburst over the skyline brings you a smile.  Regardless, the walk to the launcher has become a bit of a calming ritual for me.  The walk from the harbor to the park is a good length, for one not trying to think of anything in particular.

Thinking, however, I have done.  I owe you a little more than the curt and clipped response I offered previously.  Please, forgive my rudeness.  You asked a question which I read more into than you probably intended, and I replied in kind.  Allow me to offer a small token of peace.

Marksman Echo,

Marksman Echo,

I truly must apologise for the delay in my reply.  It took the innkeep some time to realize that I had recieved mail, and took myself some more time to acquire the pen and paper for a response.  It is not often that I recieve letters, after all, and less often that they are worth the response.

I watch the broadsheets with interest these days, keeping up with the news secondhand.  The firsthand sources are so involved, after all, though scarecely a day passes without at least one ship full of the wounded returning to the harbor.  My room has an excellent view of the docks, so I see them all, and that tells me everything I need to know about the matter.

I have long been fond of polearms.  So close to the staff I once called to hand in form, they are, and useful for so much more than the inelegant chopping and thrusting and bludgeoning of axes, swords, hammers and maces.  Right this instant, mine is slammed deep into the ice beneath my feet as I hold it fast, my other hand grasping the plated arm of Orug Thunderheart as he plummets past.  I wince, closing my eyes (but not before his meet mine, and the flash of gratefulness in the icy blue of the orc's eyes tells me all I need to know).  This is going to hurt.

A photograph left by my feet reminds me of times once left behind
a distance, a well-worn fact, these things left to pass but I feel that
I've seen to many complications
Never going to waste my time
You might find out
Never will doubt
Harder to pretend

Idle hands, they say, are the Devil's workshop.  Perhaps this is true, but the Devil has had his way with me already.  Nevertheless, I prefer to keep myself occupied, latching on to whatever obsession comes my way.

While there are benefits to my special-case condition among the Ebon Blade (not unique, sadly (or thankfully, depending on your viewpoint)), there are days when I wish I were actually dead.  Thassarian and Vadu (I'm sorry, Stefan Vadu, he does insist on his full name at all times) neither have excessive needs of rest or of sustenance.  Certainly they need both, but with such scarcity that one might think it only happened once a week.

"We cannot!"  Even then, her voice broke with the strain of her emotions, the young archmage with raven hair.  Among the youngest to lay claim to the title, the Lady of the Names uncharacteristically did not attempt to hide anything at that moment.  "We cannot hide, we cannot retreat, we cannot rest and rebuild while any of those fiends are out there!"  Her brow furrowed, deepening already-creased lines between formerly perfectly-kept eyebrows.