Pelerin
11-29-2007, 02:45 PM
Cortland looked to his right, out the make-shift window of the small tent he had been living in for the past few weeks. Only two more days. The heat of the day hung in the air, hazing the view. The Barrens could be torture to the eyes: beautiful in the late afternoon, when the most magnificent sunsets in all of Kalimdor dazzled, painful for the rest of the day, as the drab browns and unremarkable landscape made time itself slow to a crawl. He supposed the anguish could be just as bad to one’s psyche if allowed to set in.
He had been here, in what had turned out to be the most difficult position in all the Chapel’s missionary outreach; the program designed by his superiors to do the Light’s work amongst those most in need. The station… a generous name for what amounted to worn Kodo hides stretched over wooden bracings that had been placed in a rough triangle… was in The Barrens, in the hills just outside Crossroads. What better place to tend to the suffering than one the most notorious and crime-ridden towns in all of Hordedom?
Cortland’s mind wandered, refusing to focus on the task he must face in the far-too-near-future. The life of a priest is a burden one takes expecting fame, fortune, and luxury. Anyone knows that. But why couldn’t it be one of relative ease, at least once in a while? Who deserves such strife…
“No” he angrily muttered to himself. That kind of lack of discipline was exactly why Big Green had sent him here in the first place.
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“One does not often show such a degree of disdain to ones superiors in our chosen profession, young Cortland” the old orc said as his one remaining good eye cast a harsh glare. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sat in silence, obviously waiting... and perhaps testing?
“Not disdain, your eminence. It is merely displeasure that my request to forgo this exercise and return to school has not been granted.” Cortland stood rigid before his old teacher, unwilling to show submission; his long ears shifted back ever-so-slightly and a blank look of Sin’dorei reserve masked his face. He had learned early on, many years ago, in his time in Orgrimmar as a youth, to tread lightly when it came to matters of honor and respect when dealing with green skins. Though largely likeable and certainly able warriors, they did value self-pride to the point of annoyance; when dealing with an orc, you should always give off an air of superiority… it allows them to respect you as an equal, rather than as just another peon.
At these words, the orc merely took a deep breath and allowed the faintest whisper of a sigh to escape. Finally, after a nearly-uncomfortable span of time had passed, he began to speak in a softer tone:
“Cortland, my boy… please… do not be difficult.” He motioned for the blood elf to sit at the feet of his chair, a piece of furniture even more ancient than the orc that had held the position of High Friar of Orgrimmar ever since anyone could remember. The young priest accepted the offer, his manner softening at the more informal, loving pitch of his mentor’s words. The two of them looked out across the Lake of Spirits, the sun brilliantly reflecting off the shallow waters and giving the Valley its unique glow. Xan'tish could be seen (and heard) haggling with a tauren over a prospective serpent purchase… you have not lived until you’ve been a spectator to such a financial battle of the wills, however short it may be. The cow was clearly out of his league when it came to the art of the bargain; he exchanged a small pouch (undoubtedly filled with more copper than the purchase was worth) for a scrawny green snake and walked away with a dejected look upon his face.
“I really must speak to Xan’tish. If he persists in fleecing customers, I will have to bring the matter to the attention of Saurfang and have him removed from the city limits.” The old orc unhappily sighed at this prospect. The pair sat in silence for some time after this, merely watching the sun set over the great stone walls of the Valley. Finally, the elder priest turned and placed a creased hand upon the elf’s shoulder, saying “You know I have never had anything but the best of intentions for you.”
Cortland nodded slowly… almost painfully… knowing the unintentional fatherly guilt would soon slam into him with a greater force than anything an enemy could muster.
“And you know that I only ask of you that which I am confident you can handle.” His voice resonated with a touch of the sagely wisdom gleaned from countless trials and long life.
Again, the student nodded. Here it comes, he thought…
The High Friar lowered his voice, speaking slightly above a whisper: “And you know that despite what the Light teaches about universal love, I treasure you above all others. You are the son that my long-deceased mate could not give me.” A tear welled and then trickled down the craggy slope of his cheek at the mention of his beloved; she had been taken from this plane in one of the many skirmishes the Horde fought against the kaldorei of Ashenvale Forest. Details were fuzzy at best for Cortland, since the old orc had only related the tale once, ages ago, in a moment that combined emotional weakness and a growler of honeyed mead… a duo capable of spilling the deepest secrets and sincerest regrets.
The elf reflected on and turned at this idea. Big Green, a name he had given as a child because of the unfamiliarity of the orcish tongue, was not going to guilt him into the task at hand… it was merely a reminder to Cortland of the nature of their relationship. He placed a hand, soft and pale, on the large green one that rested on his shoulder. The dichotomy of his mentor always amazed him; that a body built for brute strength and war contained a heart so caring and mind so insightful. He, brimming with loyalty, looked into the eyes of the closest thing to family he’d known since the incident on Fenris and merely said “What do you ask of me, BG?”
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So Cortland had made the long journey from the capital of the Horde to Crossroads, ministering to all that would lend an ear in the ways of the Holy order. It wasn’t an attempt to convert the masses to the priesthood… that is a practice strictly and morally prohibited in a society of shamans, druids, and assorted troll beliefs… rather, it was a way to let the disenfranchised know that despite whatever plight might beset them, the Light was always there to provide comfort and guidance.
It was by no means an easy trek; thieving harpies in Razorwind Canyon, addled quilboar of Razormane Grounds, and the various murderous feline denizens of the plains of The Barrens required constant vigilance. After many days (and quite a few scrapes and bruises), the young priest reached the outskirts of the central trading hub of Kalimdor. At any given time, a wide assortment of goods passed through Crossroads along the Gold Road, itself having been named for the money generated by the trading caravans of the shifty goblins. Because of the prospect of such fortune, a seedy criminal element had dug its heels into the town and had yet to be shaken loose. And that is where Light’s Hope came in; supposedly Thrall himself asked for the establishment of a local chapter of the Church, in the hopes that spiritual healing would help curb the tide of illicit behavior before the last straw of declaring martial law became a necessary evil.
Cortland had been sent to relieve a close friend of the duty post, her “shift” having been extended for far longer than originally promised due to a severe shortage of dedicated priests on this side of the Dark Portal. Aurelia Car’men had been in the priesthood for only a few months, but had been committed on a near-fanatical level to seeing the Scourge undone; she had never explained the precise reason for her intense desire, but is an explanation ever truly needed for a sin’dorei? The racial bond had been an unspoken and immediate connection between the two soon after she had come to the Order. For weeks they had studied together in the Library of Light, trading far too much whispered small talk for far too little actual reading. When the time came for her first trial though, Aurelia had passed with flying colors. Lotheolan himself had requested her for the difficult Barrens assignment, announcing to all that such a radiant light was being wasted within the confines of the Sunfury Spire. Personally, many believed it had been the secret desire of the High Priest to remove the young girl to an area where the more charitable aspects of the Light could be practiced, rather than feed the shadowy, not-quite-hidden hatred she dwelled upon when so near the residents of the Dead Scar.
Cortland wearily strolled into Crossroads around midday… and the sights and smells were something to behold; a gruff orc proudly barked of the high quality meats he had for sale, a solemn tauren shifted delicious-smelling bread in and out of a large oven, and scores of other vendors could be heard hocking their wares to the public. The quality and rarity of goods on display ranged the gamut from poor to quite rare. The young priest strolled through town, politely declining the animated sales pitches, and eventually found the most informed person in town: the innkeeper.
Placing his backpack on the dusty ground and taking a moment to admire the tapestries adorning the walls, Cortland nodded to the orc and said “Pardon me, sir. Do you happen to know where I could find the local chapter of the Light’s Hope Chapel?”
The proprietor turned slowly, looked the blood elf up and down, and mumbled something under his breath, before turning back to sweeping the floor, a daunting task to be sure.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t quite catch that.”
The smallish… well, smallish for an orc, that is… figure turned in thinly-veiled annoyance and said in a growling voice “I said: how great, another thistlehead!” He spit on the ground in a grunt of distaste and spun back around to resume his chore.
Cortland’s face flushed with a mishmash of anger and embarrassment. Certainly this oaf is having some fun with a newcomer or something, he thought; he can’t possibly be suggesting that a messenger of the Light could lack the fortitude necessary to steer clear of blood thistle addiction?
Anyone who had ever spent time in Silvermoon City knew what affect that weed had on people… and it was a weed; a cursed bush imbued with arcane residue that grew naturally in the woods of Eversong. When cured and prepared in a manner unknown to non-users, the plant afforded a magical high that is said to be far greater than the small siphoning of invigorating mana one receives from a tap. Some viewed the drug as a gift, an edge to be used against our enemies. Supporters of that line of thinking stressed that the fast-growing nature of the “herb” cancelled any negative natural impact and careful management of the habit allowed for nearly limitless usage. But if there was one thing to be learned from what Cortland had seen in the special private wing of Silvermoon’s many hospitals, it was that feeding the magic addiction caused by the Sunwell’s destruction was a dark road one could easily lose their way on.
The young priest flashed out an arm, twirled the innkeeper back around, stepped forward, and looked the surprised orc squarely in the eyes. He said “You do not realize to whom you speak, little one. I have come to this Light-forsaken place to cleanse it of spiritual impurity, on the orders of Warchief Thrall, he who is Liberator of the Orcs, Ruler of Durotar, and Leader of the Horde. You will show me proper respect or your blood shall stain these floors!”
Needless to say, the blood elf was bluffing. Priests are strictly forbidden from acts of aggression, having been taught to use logic and words to achieve their goals and to only resort to violence in self-defense.
However, the orc didn’t know that bit of trivia.
He stepped backward with a look of horror on his face. He tripped over the broom he had dropped in fright, and landed with a loud thump on his backside. The commotion woke a dozing patron, who turned a bleary, tusked face toward the noise. Cortland shot the rogue a fearsome look and the gift of sleep suddenly re-embraced the troll; keeping to one’s own business is a valued trait this far from civilization. The priest turned back to the startled orc and offered a hand and a smile, internally thankful for the orcish social lessons he’d learned long-ago.
“Now why don’t we try this again, shall we? I am looking for the missionary post of the Light’s Hope Chapel. Do you know where that is?”
The orc grasped the proffered hand and began to hoist himself up. It took every bit of strength Cortland had to hold his own body upright; showing weakness now would only put the conversation back to square one and regaining dominance would prove to be difficult.
The innkeeper, now on his feet, brushed off his apron and pointed to the west. In a mollified voice, he said “it’s not a chapel or nuthin… it’s a big tent just out the west gate.”
The priest took the orc’s hand in his, subtly slipped him a few copper for the information, picked up his backpack, and walked out of the inn.
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Raucous laughter, carried by the ever-present and stiff breeze, could be heard coming from the low hillside a few hundred paces from the western gate of Crossroads. An odd shiver of… something… crawled up Cortland’s spine upon hearing the noise. Joviality wasn’t something he often associated with the Light’s work; at least, not this brand of it. He was not one to harp on quiet piety, instead preferring and suggesting one to live their life as they see fit (provided it harms no other). But outright laughter...? He couldn’t recall ever hearing that in a chapel.
As the tent drew closer, the sounds grew more curious… it sounded more like a pub than a mission. A scattering of voices seemed to bandy for dominance: several male and a few female. It was a near-chaotic cacophony as he opened the gate of the flimsy perimeter fence. The rusty hinges creaked in protest as they were swung inward. Cortland stopped in mid-stride in disbelief. Before him, in the meager “front yard” of the post, was a sight startlingly to the priestly eye: clumps of ragged sticks, devoid of leaves, great amounts of various-sized empty bottles, and a few mangled books were strewn about. He kneeled down to examine one of the latter. Turning the dusty tome over, he was surprised to see it was a hand-transcribed copy of Rise of the Blood Elves, a book whose original can only be found in one of the Scourge strongholds in the Plaguelands. The priest opened the cover, hoping to not see what he knew was there… his signature. This was the book. The one he had scrounged and scrimped for, for Aurelia, as a going-away present when she’d been picked to come out here. The pages, rubbed with dirt and twisted with water damage, fell off the worn binding and into Cortland’s lap. He brushed them aside quietly and stood with an angry look in his eyes. Something… bad… had happened to Aurelia… someone(s?) had commandeered the mission for their drunken games… that had to be… why else would his friend’s treasured belongings litter the ground?
Cortland drew his wand from his belt and summoned the inner fortitude to face the current denizens of Crossroad’s Chapel. He squared his shoulders and loudly challenged: “who dares to defile this sacred place? In the name of the Light, I demand you show yourselves!”
The laughter was replaced by hushed whispers for a few tense moments, and then a female voice quieted them. A delicate, pink hand emerged to pull aside the tent flap and a figure in a scantily-cut, silken red robe stepped out. Cortland had nearly begun to channel the wand’s arcane energies, when he stopped…
“Aurelia?” he said in a puzzled voice.
“Cortyyyy!” she squealed chipperly, as she ran toward him with arms spread wide. She grabbed him and squeezed hard, nearly taking the air from his lungs. She continued to chatter on: “what’re you doing here!? I’ve missed you so much! It’s so great to see a friendly face!” and on and on.
Cortland still stood in amazement. Something still wasn’t right…
“What’s going on here, Aure?”
She released the dire bear hug at this, and stepped back a pace (though non-friends would’ve found her proximity still a tad unsettling). She looked up at him with tear-filled, joyful eyes, but ones that masked… something else… and said “what ever do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” He leaned down and picked up the discarded, crumbling book. “It seems as though you’ve cast aside everything you own, everything you care about.”
She seemed in a daze for a beat, and then playfully punched him in the arm. “Oh, come on! Weren’t you the one always sayin ‘material things don’t have import when compared to the Light’?” She grabbed the book from Cortland’s hand, spun it around her fingertips, and flung the battered tome into the underbrush.
His blood ran a bit cold at this act. Icily, he said “so exactly when did you become my biographer, apprentice, and/or hyacinth macaw?” Aurelia was very nearly the last person he’d of expected to behave so rudely.
Before she could answer, two waifish sin’dorei males came stumbling out of the tent, followed by an older orc female and a young tauren (whose lack of beard length hinted at the possibility of being too young for alcoholic spirits) that seemed to need each other for upright support. The elves bumbled and bobbled their way toward the priests, coming to a stop on either side of her; they seemed to act as one… perhaps twins? Aurelia turned toward the one to her left and began a whispered exchange while the other merely eyed Cortland up and down.
The young priest returned the glare. “You seem to be rather inebriated, sir. Might I suggest a loaf of bread and a flagon of water?”
The elf to the right shot a harsh eye at Cortland, saying “he don’t need hee-elp or suggestions of nuthin’ from the likes of you.”
His “twin” merely (loudly) said “too right!” and continued the staring contest.
Aurelia draped her arms across the shoulders of the two elves on either side, saying, with a giggly quality to her voice, “This, my most honorable and noble friends, is Cortland. He is near and dear to me.” She looked left, then right, giving an overly thorough nod, as if the two sin’dorei needed visual confirmation of her words. She continued “and these, Corty, are the Lat’neum brothers: Janic and Geminus. Were it not for them, Crossroads would have driven me mad long ago.” She laughed at the joke and her companions joined in. “And back there is Pak’nar…” The orc waved sloppily. “… and he’s Giles.” The cow attempted to bow at mention of his name, but tumbled forward. The female tried to lift him up and the two ended up collapsed in a tangle of bodies, chortling away.
Janic (the more talkative and agitated of the two, it seemed) stuck out a hand and said “If you’re a friend to Aurey, you’re a friend to me bruther and me!”
Geminus merely (less loudly) said “too right!” and gave up on the staring contest.
“A pleasure” Cortland said, casting a brief eye toward the proffered hand, and then looked hard at his friend. “Might I have a word with you, in private?”
“Awww… what’s this about? Tellin stories behind our backs? Gem and I don’t take kindly to that, do we?”
“Too right!” The cold stare returned.
Aurelia stepped forward a bit, then turned to face the brothers. “It’s alright boys; there’s no need to get huffy. We’re just gonna go have a little girl chat. I’ll be back before you miss me.”
Cortland bristled unnoticeably at this. Girl talk? She’d never been so crass before; the feeling of quiet dread returned…
The drunken duo moved away, Janic rallying the others to return back into the tent for another go at whatever mischievous liquors still lurked. Aurelia swayed a bit, unsteady on her feet. A whiff of something… strangely familiar… came off her clothes. She glanced sideways at the tent (was that an almost-pained flicker behind her eyes?) to confirm that they were alone.
“So what was so important I had to offend my friends?”
Cortland reached out and took her hand in his. He breathed deeply, unconsciously dreading the next line of questioning. “Aure… friends? Really? Because the girl I knew in seminary wouldn’t have given those… people… as second glance. Knowing her all-encompassing fire for the priesthood, she probably wouldn’t have noticed them in the first place if she passed them in the street.”
She pulled her hand roughly out of his. Her face became a mask of anger. “What do you know about me? What do you even care? Three months out here; do I even get a letter from you or any of my other friends? The mail does work in Crossroads, you know. It’s about the only thing that does in this Light-forsaken backwater.”
Cortland felt sheepish; he had forgotten his promise of weekly letters. “Things came up, Aure. I got accepted into Silvermoon University… I nearly got killed by a wraith… I met a girl… I got tossed into prison… and so much more. For all that, I apologize.” The shadowy side of him rose. “Though I must tell you that I believe I shouldn’t have to ask forgiveness for living my life.”
Tears began to trickle from her eyes. “Living your life? What about my life!? Do you really think I wanted to be here for this long? That I wouldn’t figure out the Chapel basically left me to rot out here?” Deep sobs came. “That I might like a touch of home, if it was only on a scrap of useless parchment!?” She ran a furious swipe of the hand across her face, smearing tears and… makeup?
Why would a priestess be tarted up and carousing with undesirables? Could the crime and corruption of this place really champion a messenger of the Light?
It dawned on Cortland. He know had a name (or at least a hypothesis) for the nagging feeling he’d had since he stepped foot inside the teetering gate. The pieces all fit: the mounds of discarded branches and twigs, the laissez-faire attitude toward personal belongings, the general drunken mannerisms, and the mood swings…
The weed of Eversong…
The wretched blossom…
Umquam Cruor Carduus, in old Common…
Bloodthistle.
The priest shook his head; it couldn’t be. Very few sin’dorei could claim to be as passionate and fiery as Aurelia Car’men, someone so possessed with life that something as base as weed addiction having affected her seemed ludicrous. Thistleheads, as they are known commonly, were outcasts, people that had deserted society to pursue the sole goal of getting their next high. They knew nothing but the drug… and eventually, after prolonged use and final submission to the magical addiction that curses all of blood elf kind, become the shambling husks of elves known as Wretched. That’s not the girl Cortland knew… but the signs were there… and loneliness can play havoc on the will.
He took a step toward her, trying his best to bring a compassionate, caring look to his face. “Aure, you know you’re my closest friend, right? One of a handful of people in this world I consider family…” She nodded, her rage seemingly dissipated; she seemed almost serene at hearing his change in tone. He continued, “I want to ask you a difficult question, and please know it pains me far more to ask it than you could imagine.” He inhaled, breathing in the nearly-arid air of a desolate place. “Please tell me the truth: have you been using Bloodthistle?”
Aurelia’s attitude change was abrupt and scathing; her words filled with a venom normally reserved for only the vilest of enemies. She claimed offense. She swore innocence. And she made vows of hatred and revenge, both professionally (as making a false addiction claim could lead to expulsion from the Order) and personally (those threats are best left unsaid). Cortland simply stood there and weathered the abuse… the first step, he had learned, was accepting what the victim had to say and not taking any of it to heart.
After a few minutes, her tirade became to ebb. After venting her emotions dry, she ended up just gathering her party and storming away toward Crossroads.
The young priest remained standing there for some time, watching the sun trace its path downward to the horizon. No laughter remained at the mission, save for the distant cackling bark of the hyenas.
This isn’t the end, he assured himself. This, unfortunately, is only the beginning.
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Weeks passed in the blink of an eye. Cortland had done the Light’s work to the best of his ability: he’d settled farmer disputes, tended to the sick that were unable to afford a real doctor (not that there was one here; quacks and conmen thrived in Crossroads), counseled a youngish orc named Mankrik on acceptance of the death of a cherished mate, and gave advice to all those seeking it. It had been rough at times, especially during the first few days after the water shipment was hijacked by Alliance Outrunners; mediation over the problem had required a trip to Ratchet and a “generous” donation to Gazlowe’s coffers. All in all, his assignment to the mission, a punishment at first glance, had been deeply rewarding… in the spiritual sense.
One supremely nagging thing lingered however; what to do about Aurelia? The priest had run into her a few times (it was hard not to in a town so compact) and, at best, the meetings were icy. For the most part, the group she followed lived in a state of relaxed inebriation and didn’t have the wherewithal or attention span to concern themselves with Cortland’s presence. The questions on how to re-broach the addiction subject with her began to haunt him. It had become so bad as to encroach on his sleep, plaguing him with nightmares of the priestess wandering the Ruins of Silvermoon, the cannon fodder of up-and-coming sin’dorei. He would awaken with a startled yell at these dreams, hoping to drive them away, and lay awake until morning dwelling on the task. One part of his mind, the part lurking deep in the shadows of his psyche, suggested washing his hands of the problem… an idea his rational and Light-oriented side quickly vetoed. But then, what to do?
The answer came days later, in a flash of obviousness. Cortland had been called into town at the behest of a family concerned for their son. It seemed the young orc had taken a shine to the wares of Brewmaster Drohn, heir of the famous Stormstout recipe, and had spent a considerable sum of the family’s meager savings on the brew. They wanted a neutral third party present when they confronted him, to lend a kind word or piece of sagely advice (not that the priest had been feeling particularly wise, having been unable to solve his own dilemma).
During the odd intervention, Cortland made careful mental notes of the proceedings, though wasn’t sure of what use tactics such as “me club your head in” or “you smash me cart, me get to smash your face” were. Through it all, he learned to appreciate the “tough love” style the orcs employed. It seemed to work… their son made a blood oath to never again touch alcohol… though the priest had to wonder who wouldn’t make a similar pledge under penalty of a mob of furious orcish family members. Sitting in the back of the room, he watched the group share a crushing hug (and quite a few tears, though he’d never admit to seeing those in the light of day) and formulated a plan.
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Cortland sat in the small tent, gazing out on the landscape, and reflected on the past few weeks. In a few days, he’d be back home and out of this heat. His mind danced around, doing its best to avoid lingering on the task at hand for any period of time. A small internal voice began to pester him, bemoaning the lack of fame and fortune other classes seemed to have in spades. He quashed that thinking immediately; lack of priestly discipline was exactly what his mentor (and de-facto father) had sent him out here to root out.
Cortland hadn’t known it at the time of their meeting, but he now assumed Big Green had somehow gotten wind of Aurelia’s transgressions and selected the person he most thought could help her. Why else would he be here?
A noise, soft footfalls crunching loose stone, snapped him back to attention. The sound stopped near the tent flap and a soft cough was heard; a knock on the door the mission didn’t have. Cortland took a few deep breaths, steeling himself for what was to come, then simply said, “Enter”.
A shaft of too-warm sunlight filled the room, was blocked by a dark shape for a split-second, and was then swallowed by the welcomed, cooling shade as the entrance was closed again. Aurelia stood just in front of the “doorway” on a ragged piece of centaur hide (a gift from a thankful troll for healing his daughter) opposite of the priest, a squat table separating them. She was wearing a modest brown robe with matching cloak that shadowed all but the bottom of her chin. The pair said nothing for a few, tense moments before Cortland gestured for her to sit.
“We need to talk.”
She started to turn away, as if attempting to leave. Remaining seated, he repeated his request in a more serious tone of voice.
“Please, sit down. It’s just a talk.” He gulped noiselessly; this was far harder than he’d thought it would be.
The priestess stayed her hand from the tent flap, hesitated, and then slowly lowered herself to the floor. Her once-vibrantly pink, now-paler hands slid from too-long sleeves and slipped under the cowl on either side of her head and pushed it back. A polite smile formed on her purplish lips as Cortland saw her in daylight for the first time since the confrontation weeks ago. The addiction had taken hold: her hair had faded from brilliant, nearly-white gold to a dull silvery shade… the irises of her eyes had darkened considerably, becoming nearly the color grave moss… her face, like her hands, had lightened considerably from its former rosy glow. Seeing her like this gave the priest a mild shock; he’d known what would happen but had never seen it in person. In his daze, all he could manage to do was stare at his friend; subconsciously, he hoped his gazing was more courteous than he imagined it actually was.
Aurelia’s face gave no indication of insult, just one of mild shame. She raised a hand to her ear, brushing back a wisp of hair, and cast her eyes down and to her right. Her fingertips played along the ridge of her ear, a nervous tic Cortland had seen before only once, when she’d be called to the High Friar of Silvermoon’s office.
The priest felt a wave of shame at this thought; he was no one of consequence. Who was he to judge this girl? He turned his head to the right, catching a glance out the window while considering the right combination of words to use and fighting off the inner voice that loudly wondered why he’d even bothered. He shook the latter off and focused. There, he thought, those should do…
“Aurelia.”
Her head slowly curved upward at the sound of her name. Their eyes met, and he knew deep down that this intervention was the right choice.
“You know that I care very deeply for you; you are the closest thing I think I shall ever have to a sister, since mine are long gone. I want to help you Aure. I do. It’s my sincerest wish to get you better.”
Her eyes began to mist. She lowered her head and closed her eyes.
“As your friend, I want you to know that addiction never ends well… and we both know what you’ve been doing. But I didn’t ask you to come here for a lecture. I’m not Big Green. I asked you to come here to let you know that everything I want and do for you is for the best.”
A choked sob escaped and was quickly silenced. She brought both hands up to her face and trembled slightly.
“I know this is hard, Aure. But I love you. And I’d never ask you to do something that wasn’t in your best interest.”
She gave a few nods of her head and raised her tear-streaked face.
“I know you… the real you. That defiant priestess that could take on all of Azeroth with one hand tied behind her back. That girl doesn’t need a crutch like this…” Cortland tossed the crumpled remains of Bloodthistle he’d found onto the low table. He grimaced a bit at the look of desire in her eyes upon sight of the weed. He said a silent prayer to the Light that he could reach her through the fog of obsession, that she would hear his words.
“You don’t know what it’s like, Corty.” The sound of her words lacked its usual strength, further evidence of the desperate hold the thistle had taken. “It feels so good…”
He interrupts, saying “It’s a false pleasure. An empty thing.”
“And how would you know? Huh!? Have you ever experienced it? Do you know what it can do!?” She had raised her voice now, taking a challenging tone with him.
Keeping an even timber, a check on his emotions, he calmly replied “One doesn’t need to face Sargeras to know he is a demon.”
“Save your fancy analogies for someone who gives a damn, Cortland Qui’Minas! I’m sick and tired of your holier-than-thou attitude when it comes to something you don’t like. Big deal… I’ve tried Bloodthistle!” She scooped up some of the scattered leaves and tossed them at the priest. “There! Are you happy now? Does it tickle you to know you’ve busted me? That’ll you’ll probably get a nice little pat on the back from BG for exposing the filthy thistlehead!?”
“Stop right there, Aurelia.” Cortland had retained his composure for now, but it had been a tenuous hold. He continued, sternly, as she seethed. “You know, in your heart of hearts, that is not why I was sent here. I came to relieve you of duty. Only that, and nothing more. It wasn’t an investigation, an inquisition, or anything even remotely similar. Did the High Friar know about your… problem? I don’t know. All I do know is what I’m told, which was to come to Crossroads and hold down the proverbial fort for a few weeks.”
The priestess just sat there, blood boiling and anger barely contained. Before she could lash out again Cortland asked the question he’d dreaded knowing the answer to, the final choice that only she could make:
“Aurelia. Please. Listen to me carefully and think hard before deciding. You know there’s only two ways this sickness can end. One, you can continue down this road until you lose every last part of yourself. Or two, you could break from that group of destructive people you’ve been following and re-embrace the Light.”
The young sin’dorei didn’t reflect. She reached inside her robe, pulled out a package, tossed it on the table, and was gone. The sound of heavy footfalls crunching loose stone was all Cortland heard as he picked up the bundle before him. He knew what it was. He tore off the brown paper to reveal, as he’d assumed, a wrinkled tabard bearing the insignia of the Light’s Hope Chapel.
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The next forty-eight hours came and went without incident. The post’s replacement, a brash Forsaken who didn’t bother to give his name, arrived on the second day and gave off an immediate and distinct vibe of unpleasantness. Cortland politely excused himself and set off down the Gold Road, bound for Orgrimmar. Passing out of Crossroad’s north gate, he said a silent prayer for the city’s inhabitants and their new, seemingly-cantankerous “spiritual leader”.
After a week or so of traveling, sticking to the unbeaten path (he didn’t feel up to the lofty priestly expectations of people he might meet) he spotted the red spires of the orcish capital. He passed over the Southfury Bridge and made his way into the Valley of Spirits. He found his mentor sitting in the same hut… had the old orc even moved in the weeks since Cortland had last been here? He approached softly, as BG was meditating, and kneeled before the well-worn chair.
One green eyelid parted, and a large hazel eye regarded the blood elf before him. “How do you like that? Gone for weeks and doesn’t even have the common courtesy to give my withered bones a hug?”
Cortland raised his head and smiled playfully. “And get brained by your mace, once again, for ‘unnecessary interuptions’?”
The old orc chuckled at that and lazily swiped at the young priest. The two quickly stood and embraced, with firm pats on the back and welcoming sentiments exchanged. They stepped away from each other and the younger’s face quickly drooped, the façade of happiness broken in the company of his oldest friend and mentor.
BG wordlessly motioned toward the rugs sprawled across the floor and took a seat. Cortland’s head dropped as he sat down, his eyes clamped tight to fight back the tears of frustration that had been building with each step he’d taken since leaving Crossroads.
“Say not a word, my son. I know…” A firm green hand reached out and lovingly gripped a quivering shoulder, as if to give strength to one that had lost so much of it. He allowed the elf to grieve for a few minutes before continuing. “In fact, I knew before you went the path she had been following.”
Cortland, eyes slick and nose a dull red, looked up at this. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me before I left?” His voice was completely devoid of the anger the old orc had braced for… a telling sign of the lesson learned.
“Two reasons, my lad.” He withdrew his hand, intertwined the large fingers together, and secured them back inside the folds of his robe. “First, as you know, this mission work was to be a lesson for you. What you weren’t aware of was that it was also to be a test.” He cocked his head slightly to one side, to allow his non-cataract eye full view of the elf’s face, and scanned for any signs of surprise. None came… tell-tale sign the second. “Several of us in the upper echelon of the Church, Lotheolan included, Light grace him, know the dangers of sending those with character flaws into the field so early in their training. Unfortunately, the High Friar of Silvermoon chose to overlook the less-than-noble aspects in the case of Miss Car’men.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice “Between you and I, the motivations of my counterpart there are suspect… he seems a tad more preoccupied with vengeance against the Scourge than I think healthy.” Cortland nodded subtly, having noticed first-hand the fanaticism that lurked within that city’s golden walls. “Having heard through various sources of Aurelia’s plight… no, perhaps that is not the best word to use; it would imply she had been forced into the thistle-using lifestyle. We shall call it what it is: addiction. Regardless, I knew what had to be done. That is why I summoned you.
“But why? Why send me? Why not just recall and punish her?”
“Because deep in this time-weary heart of mine…” he removed a hand from his robe and tapped a finger against his chest… “is the soul of a healer. I wanted to help the young lady. The best way to do that was with you, her friend.” Cortland turned his head slightly away, gazing at the floor, lost in thought. The old orc went on, “It’s easier to attract a jumbling with Dark Iron Ale than it is with rotten eggs.” He reached forward and gently thumped Cortland on the forehead, making him look up. “And you, my boy, were my beer. I had hoped your presence would shift the young lady back onto the virtuous path.” Now it was BG’s turn to cast a downward gaze. “Alas, I failed.” He looked upward at the young priest and managed a slight smile. “I rest easy knowing that I did my best, having had complete faith in and sending you. You should lay this burden aside as well.”
Cortland’s eyes welled up again, his voice raspy “But I failed! She abandoned the Light… abandoned me.”
The orc inched toward the young priest and took him in his arms, stroking the back of his head. He comforted him in low tones. Reassuringly, he said, “I love you as my son, dear boy. And I would never lie to you. You know this.” Cortland managed a slight nod between choked sobs and tears. “So hear me now: you succeeded. You exceeded even my lofty expectations.” He pushed the younger’s shoulders up a bit and touched his forehead upon the elf’s. “You were sent to confront a demon, and his name was temptation. Had you failed, as you say, you’d of allowed yourself to join Aurelia on the road to damnation. Instead, you made paramount effort to bring her back into the fold.”
Cortland closed his eyes and reflected on the words of his mentor. He took a deep breath. “It’s all very close for now… but I think I see what you are saying.”
“That is all a teacher can ask, to be understood.”
“So… what is the other reason?”
The older priest winked at him. A third sign of the lesson learned. “Your memory always was sharp. Reason two… and it’s a hard one to grasp: in this world, some tears are unavoidable. Cortland, you could not have saved your friend from her fate any more than you could, alone, withstand the wrath of Archimonde. She had choices of her own making. No matter your actions, though I’m certain they were logical and true, Aurelia Car’men would do one of two things: she was going to immediately admitted to everything she’d done upon seeing you, or she was going to make excuses in the vein of ‘not being the same person you knew’. Sadly, it’s as predictable as that.” Cortland nodded slowly, his head dancing with a rush of thoughts and feelings. After a few minutes of sitting there, BG broke the silence, “I think it’s best you get some rest, my son. You’ll have plenty of time to reflect on the way back to school.” With that, the orc stood, his old bones giving a hushed creaking, and made to walk the younger priest to the cots in the rear of the Chapel.
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A few hours later, Cortland lay in a too-small berth aboard the Lordaeron-bound Goblin air transport. The past month blurred by in his mind. Despite BG’s words, doubt still creeped in… that ugly, little inner voice that couldn’t seem to be ever fully silenced. If that was what was going to happen, if Aure was doomed to failure, why had he bothered to go at all? Where had he gone wrong? He’d lost a friend and now the only thing that remained of her in his life was bitterness. He’d of done anything… run off those people that’d corrupted her… taken a harder stance on the criminal element that caused her sorrow… stayed up with her through the night, if only to talk away the pain she felt.
All for naught, he thought sullenly.
No, not quite true; Big Green had been right. There was a lesson to be learned from all of this. And Cortland would be damned… quite literally… if he wasn’t going to learn from it.
((inspiration taken from a friend, premise based on a song by The Fray))
((oh, and be gentle; I'm a TNG virgin poster))
He had been here, in what had turned out to be the most difficult position in all the Chapel’s missionary outreach; the program designed by his superiors to do the Light’s work amongst those most in need. The station… a generous name for what amounted to worn Kodo hides stretched over wooden bracings that had been placed in a rough triangle… was in The Barrens, in the hills just outside Crossroads. What better place to tend to the suffering than one the most notorious and crime-ridden towns in all of Hordedom?
Cortland’s mind wandered, refusing to focus on the task he must face in the far-too-near-future. The life of a priest is a burden one takes expecting fame, fortune, and luxury. Anyone knows that. But why couldn’t it be one of relative ease, at least once in a while? Who deserves such strife…
“No” he angrily muttered to himself. That kind of lack of discipline was exactly why Big Green had sent him here in the first place.
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“One does not often show such a degree of disdain to ones superiors in our chosen profession, young Cortland” the old orc said as his one remaining good eye cast a harsh glare. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sat in silence, obviously waiting... and perhaps testing?
“Not disdain, your eminence. It is merely displeasure that my request to forgo this exercise and return to school has not been granted.” Cortland stood rigid before his old teacher, unwilling to show submission; his long ears shifted back ever-so-slightly and a blank look of Sin’dorei reserve masked his face. He had learned early on, many years ago, in his time in Orgrimmar as a youth, to tread lightly when it came to matters of honor and respect when dealing with green skins. Though largely likeable and certainly able warriors, they did value self-pride to the point of annoyance; when dealing with an orc, you should always give off an air of superiority… it allows them to respect you as an equal, rather than as just another peon.
At these words, the orc merely took a deep breath and allowed the faintest whisper of a sigh to escape. Finally, after a nearly-uncomfortable span of time had passed, he began to speak in a softer tone:
“Cortland, my boy… please… do not be difficult.” He motioned for the blood elf to sit at the feet of his chair, a piece of furniture even more ancient than the orc that had held the position of High Friar of Orgrimmar ever since anyone could remember. The young priest accepted the offer, his manner softening at the more informal, loving pitch of his mentor’s words. The two of them looked out across the Lake of Spirits, the sun brilliantly reflecting off the shallow waters and giving the Valley its unique glow. Xan'tish could be seen (and heard) haggling with a tauren over a prospective serpent purchase… you have not lived until you’ve been a spectator to such a financial battle of the wills, however short it may be. The cow was clearly out of his league when it came to the art of the bargain; he exchanged a small pouch (undoubtedly filled with more copper than the purchase was worth) for a scrawny green snake and walked away with a dejected look upon his face.
“I really must speak to Xan’tish. If he persists in fleecing customers, I will have to bring the matter to the attention of Saurfang and have him removed from the city limits.” The old orc unhappily sighed at this prospect. The pair sat in silence for some time after this, merely watching the sun set over the great stone walls of the Valley. Finally, the elder priest turned and placed a creased hand upon the elf’s shoulder, saying “You know I have never had anything but the best of intentions for you.”
Cortland nodded slowly… almost painfully… knowing the unintentional fatherly guilt would soon slam into him with a greater force than anything an enemy could muster.
“And you know that I only ask of you that which I am confident you can handle.” His voice resonated with a touch of the sagely wisdom gleaned from countless trials and long life.
Again, the student nodded. Here it comes, he thought…
The High Friar lowered his voice, speaking slightly above a whisper: “And you know that despite what the Light teaches about universal love, I treasure you above all others. You are the son that my long-deceased mate could not give me.” A tear welled and then trickled down the craggy slope of his cheek at the mention of his beloved; she had been taken from this plane in one of the many skirmishes the Horde fought against the kaldorei of Ashenvale Forest. Details were fuzzy at best for Cortland, since the old orc had only related the tale once, ages ago, in a moment that combined emotional weakness and a growler of honeyed mead… a duo capable of spilling the deepest secrets and sincerest regrets.
The elf reflected on and turned at this idea. Big Green, a name he had given as a child because of the unfamiliarity of the orcish tongue, was not going to guilt him into the task at hand… it was merely a reminder to Cortland of the nature of their relationship. He placed a hand, soft and pale, on the large green one that rested on his shoulder. The dichotomy of his mentor always amazed him; that a body built for brute strength and war contained a heart so caring and mind so insightful. He, brimming with loyalty, looked into the eyes of the closest thing to family he’d known since the incident on Fenris and merely said “What do you ask of me, BG?”
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So Cortland had made the long journey from the capital of the Horde to Crossroads, ministering to all that would lend an ear in the ways of the Holy order. It wasn’t an attempt to convert the masses to the priesthood… that is a practice strictly and morally prohibited in a society of shamans, druids, and assorted troll beliefs… rather, it was a way to let the disenfranchised know that despite whatever plight might beset them, the Light was always there to provide comfort and guidance.
It was by no means an easy trek; thieving harpies in Razorwind Canyon, addled quilboar of Razormane Grounds, and the various murderous feline denizens of the plains of The Barrens required constant vigilance. After many days (and quite a few scrapes and bruises), the young priest reached the outskirts of the central trading hub of Kalimdor. At any given time, a wide assortment of goods passed through Crossroads along the Gold Road, itself having been named for the money generated by the trading caravans of the shifty goblins. Because of the prospect of such fortune, a seedy criminal element had dug its heels into the town and had yet to be shaken loose. And that is where Light’s Hope came in; supposedly Thrall himself asked for the establishment of a local chapter of the Church, in the hopes that spiritual healing would help curb the tide of illicit behavior before the last straw of declaring martial law became a necessary evil.
Cortland had been sent to relieve a close friend of the duty post, her “shift” having been extended for far longer than originally promised due to a severe shortage of dedicated priests on this side of the Dark Portal. Aurelia Car’men had been in the priesthood for only a few months, but had been committed on a near-fanatical level to seeing the Scourge undone; she had never explained the precise reason for her intense desire, but is an explanation ever truly needed for a sin’dorei? The racial bond had been an unspoken and immediate connection between the two soon after she had come to the Order. For weeks they had studied together in the Library of Light, trading far too much whispered small talk for far too little actual reading. When the time came for her first trial though, Aurelia had passed with flying colors. Lotheolan himself had requested her for the difficult Barrens assignment, announcing to all that such a radiant light was being wasted within the confines of the Sunfury Spire. Personally, many believed it had been the secret desire of the High Priest to remove the young girl to an area where the more charitable aspects of the Light could be practiced, rather than feed the shadowy, not-quite-hidden hatred she dwelled upon when so near the residents of the Dead Scar.
Cortland wearily strolled into Crossroads around midday… and the sights and smells were something to behold; a gruff orc proudly barked of the high quality meats he had for sale, a solemn tauren shifted delicious-smelling bread in and out of a large oven, and scores of other vendors could be heard hocking their wares to the public. The quality and rarity of goods on display ranged the gamut from poor to quite rare. The young priest strolled through town, politely declining the animated sales pitches, and eventually found the most informed person in town: the innkeeper.
Placing his backpack on the dusty ground and taking a moment to admire the tapestries adorning the walls, Cortland nodded to the orc and said “Pardon me, sir. Do you happen to know where I could find the local chapter of the Light’s Hope Chapel?”
The proprietor turned slowly, looked the blood elf up and down, and mumbled something under his breath, before turning back to sweeping the floor, a daunting task to be sure.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t quite catch that.”
The smallish… well, smallish for an orc, that is… figure turned in thinly-veiled annoyance and said in a growling voice “I said: how great, another thistlehead!” He spit on the ground in a grunt of distaste and spun back around to resume his chore.
Cortland’s face flushed with a mishmash of anger and embarrassment. Certainly this oaf is having some fun with a newcomer or something, he thought; he can’t possibly be suggesting that a messenger of the Light could lack the fortitude necessary to steer clear of blood thistle addiction?
Anyone who had ever spent time in Silvermoon City knew what affect that weed had on people… and it was a weed; a cursed bush imbued with arcane residue that grew naturally in the woods of Eversong. When cured and prepared in a manner unknown to non-users, the plant afforded a magical high that is said to be far greater than the small siphoning of invigorating mana one receives from a tap. Some viewed the drug as a gift, an edge to be used against our enemies. Supporters of that line of thinking stressed that the fast-growing nature of the “herb” cancelled any negative natural impact and careful management of the habit allowed for nearly limitless usage. But if there was one thing to be learned from what Cortland had seen in the special private wing of Silvermoon’s many hospitals, it was that feeding the magic addiction caused by the Sunwell’s destruction was a dark road one could easily lose their way on.
The young priest flashed out an arm, twirled the innkeeper back around, stepped forward, and looked the surprised orc squarely in the eyes. He said “You do not realize to whom you speak, little one. I have come to this Light-forsaken place to cleanse it of spiritual impurity, on the orders of Warchief Thrall, he who is Liberator of the Orcs, Ruler of Durotar, and Leader of the Horde. You will show me proper respect or your blood shall stain these floors!”
Needless to say, the blood elf was bluffing. Priests are strictly forbidden from acts of aggression, having been taught to use logic and words to achieve their goals and to only resort to violence in self-defense.
However, the orc didn’t know that bit of trivia.
He stepped backward with a look of horror on his face. He tripped over the broom he had dropped in fright, and landed with a loud thump on his backside. The commotion woke a dozing patron, who turned a bleary, tusked face toward the noise. Cortland shot the rogue a fearsome look and the gift of sleep suddenly re-embraced the troll; keeping to one’s own business is a valued trait this far from civilization. The priest turned back to the startled orc and offered a hand and a smile, internally thankful for the orcish social lessons he’d learned long-ago.
“Now why don’t we try this again, shall we? I am looking for the missionary post of the Light’s Hope Chapel. Do you know where that is?”
The orc grasped the proffered hand and began to hoist himself up. It took every bit of strength Cortland had to hold his own body upright; showing weakness now would only put the conversation back to square one and regaining dominance would prove to be difficult.
The innkeeper, now on his feet, brushed off his apron and pointed to the west. In a mollified voice, he said “it’s not a chapel or nuthin… it’s a big tent just out the west gate.”
The priest took the orc’s hand in his, subtly slipped him a few copper for the information, picked up his backpack, and walked out of the inn.
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Raucous laughter, carried by the ever-present and stiff breeze, could be heard coming from the low hillside a few hundred paces from the western gate of Crossroads. An odd shiver of… something… crawled up Cortland’s spine upon hearing the noise. Joviality wasn’t something he often associated with the Light’s work; at least, not this brand of it. He was not one to harp on quiet piety, instead preferring and suggesting one to live their life as they see fit (provided it harms no other). But outright laughter...? He couldn’t recall ever hearing that in a chapel.
As the tent drew closer, the sounds grew more curious… it sounded more like a pub than a mission. A scattering of voices seemed to bandy for dominance: several male and a few female. It was a near-chaotic cacophony as he opened the gate of the flimsy perimeter fence. The rusty hinges creaked in protest as they were swung inward. Cortland stopped in mid-stride in disbelief. Before him, in the meager “front yard” of the post, was a sight startlingly to the priestly eye: clumps of ragged sticks, devoid of leaves, great amounts of various-sized empty bottles, and a few mangled books were strewn about. He kneeled down to examine one of the latter. Turning the dusty tome over, he was surprised to see it was a hand-transcribed copy of Rise of the Blood Elves, a book whose original can only be found in one of the Scourge strongholds in the Plaguelands. The priest opened the cover, hoping to not see what he knew was there… his signature. This was the book. The one he had scrounged and scrimped for, for Aurelia, as a going-away present when she’d been picked to come out here. The pages, rubbed with dirt and twisted with water damage, fell off the worn binding and into Cortland’s lap. He brushed them aside quietly and stood with an angry look in his eyes. Something… bad… had happened to Aurelia… someone(s?) had commandeered the mission for their drunken games… that had to be… why else would his friend’s treasured belongings litter the ground?
Cortland drew his wand from his belt and summoned the inner fortitude to face the current denizens of Crossroad’s Chapel. He squared his shoulders and loudly challenged: “who dares to defile this sacred place? In the name of the Light, I demand you show yourselves!”
The laughter was replaced by hushed whispers for a few tense moments, and then a female voice quieted them. A delicate, pink hand emerged to pull aside the tent flap and a figure in a scantily-cut, silken red robe stepped out. Cortland had nearly begun to channel the wand’s arcane energies, when he stopped…
“Aurelia?” he said in a puzzled voice.
“Cortyyyy!” she squealed chipperly, as she ran toward him with arms spread wide. She grabbed him and squeezed hard, nearly taking the air from his lungs. She continued to chatter on: “what’re you doing here!? I’ve missed you so much! It’s so great to see a friendly face!” and on and on.
Cortland still stood in amazement. Something still wasn’t right…
“What’s going on here, Aure?”
She released the dire bear hug at this, and stepped back a pace (though non-friends would’ve found her proximity still a tad unsettling). She looked up at him with tear-filled, joyful eyes, but ones that masked… something else… and said “what ever do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” He leaned down and picked up the discarded, crumbling book. “It seems as though you’ve cast aside everything you own, everything you care about.”
She seemed in a daze for a beat, and then playfully punched him in the arm. “Oh, come on! Weren’t you the one always sayin ‘material things don’t have import when compared to the Light’?” She grabbed the book from Cortland’s hand, spun it around her fingertips, and flung the battered tome into the underbrush.
His blood ran a bit cold at this act. Icily, he said “so exactly when did you become my biographer, apprentice, and/or hyacinth macaw?” Aurelia was very nearly the last person he’d of expected to behave so rudely.
Before she could answer, two waifish sin’dorei males came stumbling out of the tent, followed by an older orc female and a young tauren (whose lack of beard length hinted at the possibility of being too young for alcoholic spirits) that seemed to need each other for upright support. The elves bumbled and bobbled their way toward the priests, coming to a stop on either side of her; they seemed to act as one… perhaps twins? Aurelia turned toward the one to her left and began a whispered exchange while the other merely eyed Cortland up and down.
The young priest returned the glare. “You seem to be rather inebriated, sir. Might I suggest a loaf of bread and a flagon of water?”
The elf to the right shot a harsh eye at Cortland, saying “he don’t need hee-elp or suggestions of nuthin’ from the likes of you.”
His “twin” merely (loudly) said “too right!” and continued the staring contest.
Aurelia draped her arms across the shoulders of the two elves on either side, saying, with a giggly quality to her voice, “This, my most honorable and noble friends, is Cortland. He is near and dear to me.” She looked left, then right, giving an overly thorough nod, as if the two sin’dorei needed visual confirmation of her words. She continued “and these, Corty, are the Lat’neum brothers: Janic and Geminus. Were it not for them, Crossroads would have driven me mad long ago.” She laughed at the joke and her companions joined in. “And back there is Pak’nar…” The orc waved sloppily. “… and he’s Giles.” The cow attempted to bow at mention of his name, but tumbled forward. The female tried to lift him up and the two ended up collapsed in a tangle of bodies, chortling away.
Janic (the more talkative and agitated of the two, it seemed) stuck out a hand and said “If you’re a friend to Aurey, you’re a friend to me bruther and me!”
Geminus merely (less loudly) said “too right!” and gave up on the staring contest.
“A pleasure” Cortland said, casting a brief eye toward the proffered hand, and then looked hard at his friend. “Might I have a word with you, in private?”
“Awww… what’s this about? Tellin stories behind our backs? Gem and I don’t take kindly to that, do we?”
“Too right!” The cold stare returned.
Aurelia stepped forward a bit, then turned to face the brothers. “It’s alright boys; there’s no need to get huffy. We’re just gonna go have a little girl chat. I’ll be back before you miss me.”
Cortland bristled unnoticeably at this. Girl talk? She’d never been so crass before; the feeling of quiet dread returned…
The drunken duo moved away, Janic rallying the others to return back into the tent for another go at whatever mischievous liquors still lurked. Aurelia swayed a bit, unsteady on her feet. A whiff of something… strangely familiar… came off her clothes. She glanced sideways at the tent (was that an almost-pained flicker behind her eyes?) to confirm that they were alone.
“So what was so important I had to offend my friends?”
Cortland reached out and took her hand in his. He breathed deeply, unconsciously dreading the next line of questioning. “Aure… friends? Really? Because the girl I knew in seminary wouldn’t have given those… people… as second glance. Knowing her all-encompassing fire for the priesthood, she probably wouldn’t have noticed them in the first place if she passed them in the street.”
She pulled her hand roughly out of his. Her face became a mask of anger. “What do you know about me? What do you even care? Three months out here; do I even get a letter from you or any of my other friends? The mail does work in Crossroads, you know. It’s about the only thing that does in this Light-forsaken backwater.”
Cortland felt sheepish; he had forgotten his promise of weekly letters. “Things came up, Aure. I got accepted into Silvermoon University… I nearly got killed by a wraith… I met a girl… I got tossed into prison… and so much more. For all that, I apologize.” The shadowy side of him rose. “Though I must tell you that I believe I shouldn’t have to ask forgiveness for living my life.”
Tears began to trickle from her eyes. “Living your life? What about my life!? Do you really think I wanted to be here for this long? That I wouldn’t figure out the Chapel basically left me to rot out here?” Deep sobs came. “That I might like a touch of home, if it was only on a scrap of useless parchment!?” She ran a furious swipe of the hand across her face, smearing tears and… makeup?
Why would a priestess be tarted up and carousing with undesirables? Could the crime and corruption of this place really champion a messenger of the Light?
It dawned on Cortland. He know had a name (or at least a hypothesis) for the nagging feeling he’d had since he stepped foot inside the teetering gate. The pieces all fit: the mounds of discarded branches and twigs, the laissez-faire attitude toward personal belongings, the general drunken mannerisms, and the mood swings…
The weed of Eversong…
The wretched blossom…
Umquam Cruor Carduus, in old Common…
Bloodthistle.
The priest shook his head; it couldn’t be. Very few sin’dorei could claim to be as passionate and fiery as Aurelia Car’men, someone so possessed with life that something as base as weed addiction having affected her seemed ludicrous. Thistleheads, as they are known commonly, were outcasts, people that had deserted society to pursue the sole goal of getting their next high. They knew nothing but the drug… and eventually, after prolonged use and final submission to the magical addiction that curses all of blood elf kind, become the shambling husks of elves known as Wretched. That’s not the girl Cortland knew… but the signs were there… and loneliness can play havoc on the will.
He took a step toward her, trying his best to bring a compassionate, caring look to his face. “Aure, you know you’re my closest friend, right? One of a handful of people in this world I consider family…” She nodded, her rage seemingly dissipated; she seemed almost serene at hearing his change in tone. He continued, “I want to ask you a difficult question, and please know it pains me far more to ask it than you could imagine.” He inhaled, breathing in the nearly-arid air of a desolate place. “Please tell me the truth: have you been using Bloodthistle?”
Aurelia’s attitude change was abrupt and scathing; her words filled with a venom normally reserved for only the vilest of enemies. She claimed offense. She swore innocence. And she made vows of hatred and revenge, both professionally (as making a false addiction claim could lead to expulsion from the Order) and personally (those threats are best left unsaid). Cortland simply stood there and weathered the abuse… the first step, he had learned, was accepting what the victim had to say and not taking any of it to heart.
After a few minutes, her tirade became to ebb. After venting her emotions dry, she ended up just gathering her party and storming away toward Crossroads.
The young priest remained standing there for some time, watching the sun trace its path downward to the horizon. No laughter remained at the mission, save for the distant cackling bark of the hyenas.
This isn’t the end, he assured himself. This, unfortunately, is only the beginning.
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Weeks passed in the blink of an eye. Cortland had done the Light’s work to the best of his ability: he’d settled farmer disputes, tended to the sick that were unable to afford a real doctor (not that there was one here; quacks and conmen thrived in Crossroads), counseled a youngish orc named Mankrik on acceptance of the death of a cherished mate, and gave advice to all those seeking it. It had been rough at times, especially during the first few days after the water shipment was hijacked by Alliance Outrunners; mediation over the problem had required a trip to Ratchet and a “generous” donation to Gazlowe’s coffers. All in all, his assignment to the mission, a punishment at first glance, had been deeply rewarding… in the spiritual sense.
One supremely nagging thing lingered however; what to do about Aurelia? The priest had run into her a few times (it was hard not to in a town so compact) and, at best, the meetings were icy. For the most part, the group she followed lived in a state of relaxed inebriation and didn’t have the wherewithal or attention span to concern themselves with Cortland’s presence. The questions on how to re-broach the addiction subject with her began to haunt him. It had become so bad as to encroach on his sleep, plaguing him with nightmares of the priestess wandering the Ruins of Silvermoon, the cannon fodder of up-and-coming sin’dorei. He would awaken with a startled yell at these dreams, hoping to drive them away, and lay awake until morning dwelling on the task. One part of his mind, the part lurking deep in the shadows of his psyche, suggested washing his hands of the problem… an idea his rational and Light-oriented side quickly vetoed. But then, what to do?
The answer came days later, in a flash of obviousness. Cortland had been called into town at the behest of a family concerned for their son. It seemed the young orc had taken a shine to the wares of Brewmaster Drohn, heir of the famous Stormstout recipe, and had spent a considerable sum of the family’s meager savings on the brew. They wanted a neutral third party present when they confronted him, to lend a kind word or piece of sagely advice (not that the priest had been feeling particularly wise, having been unable to solve his own dilemma).
During the odd intervention, Cortland made careful mental notes of the proceedings, though wasn’t sure of what use tactics such as “me club your head in” or “you smash me cart, me get to smash your face” were. Through it all, he learned to appreciate the “tough love” style the orcs employed. It seemed to work… their son made a blood oath to never again touch alcohol… though the priest had to wonder who wouldn’t make a similar pledge under penalty of a mob of furious orcish family members. Sitting in the back of the room, he watched the group share a crushing hug (and quite a few tears, though he’d never admit to seeing those in the light of day) and formulated a plan.
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Cortland sat in the small tent, gazing out on the landscape, and reflected on the past few weeks. In a few days, he’d be back home and out of this heat. His mind danced around, doing its best to avoid lingering on the task at hand for any period of time. A small internal voice began to pester him, bemoaning the lack of fame and fortune other classes seemed to have in spades. He quashed that thinking immediately; lack of priestly discipline was exactly what his mentor (and de-facto father) had sent him out here to root out.
Cortland hadn’t known it at the time of their meeting, but he now assumed Big Green had somehow gotten wind of Aurelia’s transgressions and selected the person he most thought could help her. Why else would he be here?
A noise, soft footfalls crunching loose stone, snapped him back to attention. The sound stopped near the tent flap and a soft cough was heard; a knock on the door the mission didn’t have. Cortland took a few deep breaths, steeling himself for what was to come, then simply said, “Enter”.
A shaft of too-warm sunlight filled the room, was blocked by a dark shape for a split-second, and was then swallowed by the welcomed, cooling shade as the entrance was closed again. Aurelia stood just in front of the “doorway” on a ragged piece of centaur hide (a gift from a thankful troll for healing his daughter) opposite of the priest, a squat table separating them. She was wearing a modest brown robe with matching cloak that shadowed all but the bottom of her chin. The pair said nothing for a few, tense moments before Cortland gestured for her to sit.
“We need to talk.”
She started to turn away, as if attempting to leave. Remaining seated, he repeated his request in a more serious tone of voice.
“Please, sit down. It’s just a talk.” He gulped noiselessly; this was far harder than he’d thought it would be.
The priestess stayed her hand from the tent flap, hesitated, and then slowly lowered herself to the floor. Her once-vibrantly pink, now-paler hands slid from too-long sleeves and slipped under the cowl on either side of her head and pushed it back. A polite smile formed on her purplish lips as Cortland saw her in daylight for the first time since the confrontation weeks ago. The addiction had taken hold: her hair had faded from brilliant, nearly-white gold to a dull silvery shade… the irises of her eyes had darkened considerably, becoming nearly the color grave moss… her face, like her hands, had lightened considerably from its former rosy glow. Seeing her like this gave the priest a mild shock; he’d known what would happen but had never seen it in person. In his daze, all he could manage to do was stare at his friend; subconsciously, he hoped his gazing was more courteous than he imagined it actually was.
Aurelia’s face gave no indication of insult, just one of mild shame. She raised a hand to her ear, brushing back a wisp of hair, and cast her eyes down and to her right. Her fingertips played along the ridge of her ear, a nervous tic Cortland had seen before only once, when she’d be called to the High Friar of Silvermoon’s office.
The priest felt a wave of shame at this thought; he was no one of consequence. Who was he to judge this girl? He turned his head to the right, catching a glance out the window while considering the right combination of words to use and fighting off the inner voice that loudly wondered why he’d even bothered. He shook the latter off and focused. There, he thought, those should do…
“Aurelia.”
Her head slowly curved upward at the sound of her name. Their eyes met, and he knew deep down that this intervention was the right choice.
“You know that I care very deeply for you; you are the closest thing I think I shall ever have to a sister, since mine are long gone. I want to help you Aure. I do. It’s my sincerest wish to get you better.”
Her eyes began to mist. She lowered her head and closed her eyes.
“As your friend, I want you to know that addiction never ends well… and we both know what you’ve been doing. But I didn’t ask you to come here for a lecture. I’m not Big Green. I asked you to come here to let you know that everything I want and do for you is for the best.”
A choked sob escaped and was quickly silenced. She brought both hands up to her face and trembled slightly.
“I know this is hard, Aure. But I love you. And I’d never ask you to do something that wasn’t in your best interest.”
She gave a few nods of her head and raised her tear-streaked face.
“I know you… the real you. That defiant priestess that could take on all of Azeroth with one hand tied behind her back. That girl doesn’t need a crutch like this…” Cortland tossed the crumpled remains of Bloodthistle he’d found onto the low table. He grimaced a bit at the look of desire in her eyes upon sight of the weed. He said a silent prayer to the Light that he could reach her through the fog of obsession, that she would hear his words.
“You don’t know what it’s like, Corty.” The sound of her words lacked its usual strength, further evidence of the desperate hold the thistle had taken. “It feels so good…”
He interrupts, saying “It’s a false pleasure. An empty thing.”
“And how would you know? Huh!? Have you ever experienced it? Do you know what it can do!?” She had raised her voice now, taking a challenging tone with him.
Keeping an even timber, a check on his emotions, he calmly replied “One doesn’t need to face Sargeras to know he is a demon.”
“Save your fancy analogies for someone who gives a damn, Cortland Qui’Minas! I’m sick and tired of your holier-than-thou attitude when it comes to something you don’t like. Big deal… I’ve tried Bloodthistle!” She scooped up some of the scattered leaves and tossed them at the priest. “There! Are you happy now? Does it tickle you to know you’ve busted me? That’ll you’ll probably get a nice little pat on the back from BG for exposing the filthy thistlehead!?”
“Stop right there, Aurelia.” Cortland had retained his composure for now, but it had been a tenuous hold. He continued, sternly, as she seethed. “You know, in your heart of hearts, that is not why I was sent here. I came to relieve you of duty. Only that, and nothing more. It wasn’t an investigation, an inquisition, or anything even remotely similar. Did the High Friar know about your… problem? I don’t know. All I do know is what I’m told, which was to come to Crossroads and hold down the proverbial fort for a few weeks.”
The priestess just sat there, blood boiling and anger barely contained. Before she could lash out again Cortland asked the question he’d dreaded knowing the answer to, the final choice that only she could make:
“Aurelia. Please. Listen to me carefully and think hard before deciding. You know there’s only two ways this sickness can end. One, you can continue down this road until you lose every last part of yourself. Or two, you could break from that group of destructive people you’ve been following and re-embrace the Light.”
The young sin’dorei didn’t reflect. She reached inside her robe, pulled out a package, tossed it on the table, and was gone. The sound of heavy footfalls crunching loose stone was all Cortland heard as he picked up the bundle before him. He knew what it was. He tore off the brown paper to reveal, as he’d assumed, a wrinkled tabard bearing the insignia of the Light’s Hope Chapel.
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The next forty-eight hours came and went without incident. The post’s replacement, a brash Forsaken who didn’t bother to give his name, arrived on the second day and gave off an immediate and distinct vibe of unpleasantness. Cortland politely excused himself and set off down the Gold Road, bound for Orgrimmar. Passing out of Crossroad’s north gate, he said a silent prayer for the city’s inhabitants and their new, seemingly-cantankerous “spiritual leader”.
After a week or so of traveling, sticking to the unbeaten path (he didn’t feel up to the lofty priestly expectations of people he might meet) he spotted the red spires of the orcish capital. He passed over the Southfury Bridge and made his way into the Valley of Spirits. He found his mentor sitting in the same hut… had the old orc even moved in the weeks since Cortland had last been here? He approached softly, as BG was meditating, and kneeled before the well-worn chair.
One green eyelid parted, and a large hazel eye regarded the blood elf before him. “How do you like that? Gone for weeks and doesn’t even have the common courtesy to give my withered bones a hug?”
Cortland raised his head and smiled playfully. “And get brained by your mace, once again, for ‘unnecessary interuptions’?”
The old orc chuckled at that and lazily swiped at the young priest. The two quickly stood and embraced, with firm pats on the back and welcoming sentiments exchanged. They stepped away from each other and the younger’s face quickly drooped, the façade of happiness broken in the company of his oldest friend and mentor.
BG wordlessly motioned toward the rugs sprawled across the floor and took a seat. Cortland’s head dropped as he sat down, his eyes clamped tight to fight back the tears of frustration that had been building with each step he’d taken since leaving Crossroads.
“Say not a word, my son. I know…” A firm green hand reached out and lovingly gripped a quivering shoulder, as if to give strength to one that had lost so much of it. He allowed the elf to grieve for a few minutes before continuing. “In fact, I knew before you went the path she had been following.”
Cortland, eyes slick and nose a dull red, looked up at this. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me before I left?” His voice was completely devoid of the anger the old orc had braced for… a telling sign of the lesson learned.
“Two reasons, my lad.” He withdrew his hand, intertwined the large fingers together, and secured them back inside the folds of his robe. “First, as you know, this mission work was to be a lesson for you. What you weren’t aware of was that it was also to be a test.” He cocked his head slightly to one side, to allow his non-cataract eye full view of the elf’s face, and scanned for any signs of surprise. None came… tell-tale sign the second. “Several of us in the upper echelon of the Church, Lotheolan included, Light grace him, know the dangers of sending those with character flaws into the field so early in their training. Unfortunately, the High Friar of Silvermoon chose to overlook the less-than-noble aspects in the case of Miss Car’men.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice “Between you and I, the motivations of my counterpart there are suspect… he seems a tad more preoccupied with vengeance against the Scourge than I think healthy.” Cortland nodded subtly, having noticed first-hand the fanaticism that lurked within that city’s golden walls. “Having heard through various sources of Aurelia’s plight… no, perhaps that is not the best word to use; it would imply she had been forced into the thistle-using lifestyle. We shall call it what it is: addiction. Regardless, I knew what had to be done. That is why I summoned you.
“But why? Why send me? Why not just recall and punish her?”
“Because deep in this time-weary heart of mine…” he removed a hand from his robe and tapped a finger against his chest… “is the soul of a healer. I wanted to help the young lady. The best way to do that was with you, her friend.” Cortland turned his head slightly away, gazing at the floor, lost in thought. The old orc went on, “It’s easier to attract a jumbling with Dark Iron Ale than it is with rotten eggs.” He reached forward and gently thumped Cortland on the forehead, making him look up. “And you, my boy, were my beer. I had hoped your presence would shift the young lady back onto the virtuous path.” Now it was BG’s turn to cast a downward gaze. “Alas, I failed.” He looked upward at the young priest and managed a slight smile. “I rest easy knowing that I did my best, having had complete faith in and sending you. You should lay this burden aside as well.”
Cortland’s eyes welled up again, his voice raspy “But I failed! She abandoned the Light… abandoned me.”
The orc inched toward the young priest and took him in his arms, stroking the back of his head. He comforted him in low tones. Reassuringly, he said, “I love you as my son, dear boy. And I would never lie to you. You know this.” Cortland managed a slight nod between choked sobs and tears. “So hear me now: you succeeded. You exceeded even my lofty expectations.” He pushed the younger’s shoulders up a bit and touched his forehead upon the elf’s. “You were sent to confront a demon, and his name was temptation. Had you failed, as you say, you’d of allowed yourself to join Aurelia on the road to damnation. Instead, you made paramount effort to bring her back into the fold.”
Cortland closed his eyes and reflected on the words of his mentor. He took a deep breath. “It’s all very close for now… but I think I see what you are saying.”
“That is all a teacher can ask, to be understood.”
“So… what is the other reason?”
The older priest winked at him. A third sign of the lesson learned. “Your memory always was sharp. Reason two… and it’s a hard one to grasp: in this world, some tears are unavoidable. Cortland, you could not have saved your friend from her fate any more than you could, alone, withstand the wrath of Archimonde. She had choices of her own making. No matter your actions, though I’m certain they were logical and true, Aurelia Car’men would do one of two things: she was going to immediately admitted to everything she’d done upon seeing you, or she was going to make excuses in the vein of ‘not being the same person you knew’. Sadly, it’s as predictable as that.” Cortland nodded slowly, his head dancing with a rush of thoughts and feelings. After a few minutes of sitting there, BG broke the silence, “I think it’s best you get some rest, my son. You’ll have plenty of time to reflect on the way back to school.” With that, the orc stood, his old bones giving a hushed creaking, and made to walk the younger priest to the cots in the rear of the Chapel.
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A few hours later, Cortland lay in a too-small berth aboard the Lordaeron-bound Goblin air transport. The past month blurred by in his mind. Despite BG’s words, doubt still creeped in… that ugly, little inner voice that couldn’t seem to be ever fully silenced. If that was what was going to happen, if Aure was doomed to failure, why had he bothered to go at all? Where had he gone wrong? He’d lost a friend and now the only thing that remained of her in his life was bitterness. He’d of done anything… run off those people that’d corrupted her… taken a harder stance on the criminal element that caused her sorrow… stayed up with her through the night, if only to talk away the pain she felt.
All for naught, he thought sullenly.
No, not quite true; Big Green had been right. There was a lesson to be learned from all of this. And Cortland would be damned… quite literally… if he wasn’t going to learn from it.
((inspiration taken from a friend, premise based on a song by The Fray))
((oh, and be gentle; I'm a TNG virgin poster))