Ralerian, Aendron, and Zalyen have made camp on the mountain just below Therai's home. What would be a few hours journey for most travelers, will take most of tomorrow for the elves to reach. A fire burns near a medium-sized travel tent, clearly visible from atop the mountain. Ralerian perches himself beside Aendron by the fire, his viridian eyes flicking over the more gaunt elf's features. His hand looks to grasp his brother's, in the same way it had all throughout their childhood. Their hands were much bonier and more brittle now, but the grasp was just as firm.
Aendron watched the fire quietly, his gaze unmoving as he gently gripped Ralerian's hand. He sat propped against a few cushions to keep himself from falling over. After a short while he looked to his brother without a word, no sign of his usual scowl plastered on his face. His expression was oddly soft to anyone not used to dealing with him.
Ralerian, who's face was always trapped in some porcelain indifference, hints briefly at a smile. He looks to the fire after a moment, then lets his eyes fall closed. The Shadow washes over him, beckoning his brother into another world.
Aendron looked back to the fire, dropping his shoulders. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he focused on Ralerian.
Up from two bodies rises two spirits, hands joined as they rocket up into the air, their free hands at their sides as they fly over glistening treetops and rivers. In complete silence, they travel back along the path whence their bodies came, back into ravaged woods, back in time.
Silvermoon, the capitol city Quel'thalas of gleams with unnatural yet beautiful light on the dark horizon, but their journey takes them west, deep into a long-burnt woods, the woods they called their home. The brothers touch down in their home, restored in all it's splendor, just for their arrival.
Trimmed hedges, topiary, fountains, and flowers mark the spaces between their family homes, the smell of roses and orchids and the cool seabreeze. The sound of a young wife with her harp at the top of the tower before them, her sweet voice lingering between plucks of the strings. Versions of their younger selves running amuck, laughing and dancing with flower-wreaths atop their heads.
The sound of the patriarch arguing the semantics of religion with his arrogant heir off in the distance, with a haggard old elven woman with wild hair chiming in to call them both daft twits.
The eldest daughter lies amongst a bed of roses with no thorns, sleeping gently and with a smile. She murmurs in her sleep of a love and a lover, her schoolwork scattered to the wind.
Ralerian lowers his head, as if in reverence for those lost, as a procession of arcanists, each one with their own name forever engrained in his mind, passes through the middle courtyard.
Aendron looks to his old home, a faint frown on his face. He looked over to the side and watched the youths playing. His lips thinned before looking forward once more, taking in the entirety of his family. He kept his gaze forward as a young dark haired elf, no older than ten struggled to drag a simple plank of wood across the ground. Trailing behind was a much older elf scorning the younger about being unable to work properly like the others. Aendron let out a sharp yet silent sigh as the two passed, his brow knitting together in apparent annoyance.
A short moment passed and the dark haired elf returned, playing a game with a much younger redheaded elf. They sat in the grass, laughing and playing with a few toys. They exchanged words before moving quickly to go find flowers to pick. The redhead moved much faster than the dark haired, even though the dark haired was clearly older.
_
The scene changes slightly, an ominous darkness exudes from the looming trees, clouding their vision.
They stand in a tall room with many shelves, incense burning all around. A familiar crimson haired boy lies in a bed of silks, a blood elven woman of what could only be described as beauty in the throes of death as she utters her final words in prayer for the boy.
He rises from the bed to see her fall, screaming as loud as he can. His screams echo out of the chambers upon the sides of the tower, screaming from a place where previously, only beautiful music came. The dark haired, frail boy rushes into the room as fast as his thin legs could take him, consoling his brother.
Their hands clasp, both hands, as they begin to pray together, raising their joined fists in a resurrection spell neither of them knew all the chant to. Light whips up into the chamber, shredding books and lashing in violent whips at the glowing emblazonment on the ceiling. The Light fades, crystalline glass falling all around them.
What was once a burning sun shatters, leaving only a faint blue circle in its place.
The dark haired one looked around, an air of anger about him that was never once present prior. He began speaking highly spiteful words to no one in the room, but to the Light he and his brother had summoned. He gripped at his face before falling to his knees, shaking his head as he continued his hateful words.
The crimson haired brother kept praying, praying as hard as his weak body could, kicking his feet in a tantrum, his fists pounding the side of his bed.
Soon, the brothers calm, reaching for each others hands. Crawling through the shards of crystal, the boys reach each other, joining bloodied hands. Whispered words, a creed. Forever protect.
Aendron watched the fire quietly, his gaze unmoving as he gently gripped Ralerian's hand. He sat propped against a few cushions to keep himself from falling over. After a short while he looked to his brother without a word, no sign of his usual scowl plastered on his face. His expression was oddly soft to anyone not used to dealing with him.
Ralerian, who's face was always trapped in some porcelain indifference, hints briefly at a smile. He looks to the fire after a moment, then lets his eyes fall closed. The Shadow washes over him, beckoning his brother into another world.
Aendron looked back to the fire, dropping his shoulders. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he focused on Ralerian.
Up from two bodies rises two spirits, hands joined as they rocket up into the air, their free hands at their sides as they fly over glistening treetops and rivers. In complete silence, they travel back along the path whence their bodies came, back into ravaged woods, back in time.
Silvermoon, the capitol city Quel'thalas of gleams with unnatural yet beautiful light on the dark horizon, but their journey takes them west, deep into a long-burnt woods, the woods they called their home. The brothers touch down in their home, restored in all it's splendor, just for their arrival.
Trimmed hedges, topiary, fountains, and flowers mark the spaces between their family homes, the smell of roses and orchids and the cool seabreeze. The sound of a young wife with her harp at the top of the tower before them, her sweet voice lingering between plucks of the strings. Versions of their younger selves running amuck, laughing and dancing with flower-wreaths atop their heads.
The sound of the patriarch arguing the semantics of religion with his arrogant heir off in the distance, with a haggard old elven woman with wild hair chiming in to call them both daft twits.
The eldest daughter lies amongst a bed of roses with no thorns, sleeping gently and with a smile. She murmurs in her sleep of a love and a lover, her schoolwork scattered to the wind.
Ralerian lowers his head, as if in reverence for those lost, as a procession of arcanists, each one with their own name forever engrained in his mind, passes through the middle courtyard.
Aendron looks to his old home, a faint frown on his face. He looked over to the side and watched the youths playing. His lips thinned before looking forward once more, taking in the entirety of his family. He kept his gaze forward as a young dark haired elf, no older than ten struggled to drag a simple plank of wood across the ground. Trailing behind was a much older elf scorning the younger about being unable to work properly like the others. Aendron let out a sharp yet silent sigh as the two passed, his brow knitting together in apparent annoyance.
A short moment passed and the dark haired elf returned, playing a game with a much younger redheaded elf. They sat in the grass, laughing and playing with a few toys. They exchanged words before moving quickly to go find flowers to pick. The redhead moved much faster than the dark haired, even though the dark haired was clearly older.
_
The scene changes slightly, an ominous darkness exudes from the looming trees, clouding their vision.
They stand in a tall room with many shelves, incense burning all around. A familiar crimson haired boy lies in a bed of silks, a blood elven woman of what could only be described as beauty in the throes of death as she utters her final words in prayer for the boy.
He rises from the bed to see her fall, screaming as loud as he can. His screams echo out of the chambers upon the sides of the tower, screaming from a place where previously, only beautiful music came. The dark haired, frail boy rushes into the room as fast as his thin legs could take him, consoling his brother.
Their hands clasp, both hands, as they begin to pray together, raising their joined fists in a resurrection spell neither of them knew all the chant to. Light whips up into the chamber, shredding books and lashing in violent whips at the glowing emblazonment on the ceiling. The Light fades, crystalline glass falling all around them.
What was once a burning sun shatters, leaving only a faint blue circle in its place.
The dark haired one looked around, an air of anger about him that was never once present prior. He began speaking highly spiteful words to no one in the room, but to the Light he and his brother had summoned. He gripped at his face before falling to his knees, shaking his head as he continued his hateful words.
The crimson haired brother kept praying, praying as hard as his weak body could, kicking his feet in a tantrum, his fists pounding the side of his bed.
Soon, the brothers calm, reaching for each others hands. Crawling through the shards of crystal, the boys reach each other, joining bloodied hands. Whispered words, a creed. Forever protect.
The words shock the men into reality where they sit, both hands clasped and raised with one another just as they had so many years ago.