The Toad in the Pot

[ImagenAshyun]

(IC post for Arnaldo, separate from Red Glove story threads.)

Spoiler:

              He could barely write. His hands were shaking as the finger bones struggled to grip onto the quill as he dipped it into the ink well. Above him, the roof was partially caved in. Rain water collected at the corners, and now, they are dripping along the grooves and grout of the floor above him. Some managed to drip onto the parchment on which he wrote. He has no more paper at the moment, however. He hoped she didn't mind.

              Dear Annabelle,

              It's been a while, has it? Forgive me for not writing back to you as often as I would have. I pray you, your husband, and your child is all right. I'm not sure if he or she is born yet, but if so, I pray your little one is healthy and happy.

              It's been almost a year since we've first met. I still remember how it went. I was assigned with The Salamander to capture Dr. Dino, and though we were thwarted in our original goal, we managed to catch you. For the brief time you were held captive, you somehow managed to bring strength and courage into my soul; if it weren't for you, I'd probably be permanently dead serving the Glove--or someplace worse.

              Though I have managed to remain a double agent, my defection was found out. It was simply a matter of time. A mission occurred in which a loyalty check was mingled with insurance fraud and supposed kidnapping; as a result of no returns from the Glove, my betrayal is seen through. The Glove currently either expects me to return so they could kill me or will actively seek my permanent termination. I cannot, however, hide within the confides of the Argent Crusade.

              I know, for a fact, that I cannot hide from the Glove.... but there is someone else, some other group I cannot hide from either--The Black Harvest.

              I've met Executor Jared Richter about four times--once in Silverpine, twice in Hearthglen, and once in the remains of Lordaeron City. Each time I would encounter him, he'd tell me of a destiny and duty in which I owe Lordaeron and the Dark Lady. I denied him three times, for I am not a Lordaeronian, but a Stormwinder--Varian Wrynn was my King, not Terenas Menethil. Yet again and again, he'd tell me of my destiny, of a power I am granted that the living do not. Of the path that is before me, one I cannot stray from. I kept my walls up, I stayed my tongue and my heart. But he managed to whittle me down with a promise that, should peace be regained after the Harvest assists the Dark Lady's armies over Southshore, I may be able to find my son.

              I decided to cave in and join the Harvest. I pray you are not angry with me. Please know, Annabelle, that my intentions in joining has nothing to do with their Dark Lady or Lordaeron. I did it to protect myself. I did it to gain access to dozens of other eyes that could search for my son. I fear for something else, though... something beyond the Harvest or even the Glove.

              Have you heard about the parable of the Toad and the Pot? If you haven't, it goes a little something like this: One time, a man wishes to eat a toad, so he boiled some water and tried to dump the toad in it; by doing so, however, it leaped out. Deciding to try again, he placed a toad into some cold water; the toad was content. Slowly, but surely, the man would boil the pot, making sure the temperature was gradual in its change. In doing so, the toad became comfortable, and as long as the change was slow, it eventually heated up and boiled alive. The parable was shared to me during a Sunday school service when I was a boy... it was meant to teach that we shouldn't let ourselves be influenced by evil and wickedness that'll wear us down and consume us in time.

              I'm tired of the Toad metaphors I've been identified by all my life, Annabelle. I know I look like a toad... act like one..... sound like one.... was even given the Toad as a code name in the Glove. But I am not a toad. I'm a person. A human being. Even with my skin falling off, I still value human life.

              I don't want to lose that value, Annabelle. If by any chance we are to be enemies in the field... do not hesitate to blast me with the warmth of the Holy Light. Perhaps, then, I will get the rest that has been denied me for nine years. I don't care about finding my son anymore, Annabelle. Even with the hope that he is alive, I am already losing hope. I fear I'm already in that boiling water and cannot get out.

              I cannot keep running and hiding anymore. I'm writing to you in hopes I can maintain clarity before the water gets too hot. I know, by being here, I will lose myself--the man you met and knew last year. I thought about just writing a diary and reading it over and over to make sure my identity will be maintained... but I fear the Harvest will find it and do something about it. So instead.... instead, I trust my memories to you. My loves, my hopes, my dreams. You are not at all obligated to write back; in fact, I'd prefer you not, for your sake and mine. You can read my letters, you can burn them, if you wish. I only pray for ears to hear my voice and eyes to see my soul before both are lost in the void that is the Shadow.

              If you would rather my letters not get in the way of the happiness you have with your husband and child, then I have one simple request: to bury my memories and words in Stormwind. I was born there, I was raised there, and by the Light, I should have died there. I made one big mistake to come to Lordaeron City, and that mistake will haunt me forever.

              Light's blessings and a thousand thank yous. I will remember you as long as I can, to forever and beyond if the Light and Shadow will let it. Thank you for everything.


              Your friend,

              Arnaldo Durante Gallo.

              Much to Arnaldo's chagrin, some of the water dripped onto the ink. It bled a little. He tried to save the letter, but it was no use. He sent it as it is. It looked like as if he was crying... except he didn't. The dead don't cry. After four meetings with the Executor, Arnaldo was finally convinced so.

[c0rzilla]

              The intended recipient, Annabelle Greene-Bronco, received the letter in due time. No small wonder, considering the growing drums of war in the north, the hollow clang beaten on drums of Forsaken plague. She still received her less-than-patriotic mail via the Argent Crusade, few questions asked about any letter bearing the small stamp of the fist over the silver star.

              At first, she was filled with warm joy at finally hearing from her strange, sad friend. The envelope was quickly sliced open with a pointed letter opener, the paper tugged out, unfolded. She padded a bit towards the hearth of her home in Elwynn, though--her smile faded. At first, she had been ready to happily flop into the armchair before the fire. Instead, she sank into it, knuckles of her free hand gently touching her lips.

              ...The Black Harvest. She was not unfamiliar with them, not by any means. Not since she served on Hearthglen's council. Jared Richter. A man she knew little of, but whom she was close to in such strange ways. First by one Edgar Barlton, a Forsaken mage--and unknown to her, one of the Executor's closest friends. He had passed some months ago into true death. And now a new connection, Arnaldo Gallo.

              Thank the Light that it was unknown to the Executor, both of these men had grown to love her. She had only hints of their feelings, both men hiding it. Almost completely.

              She was not angry with him for joining under the Executor, for it was true. He would be safest there. She remembered when they first met: she had taken Arnaldo to a healer in the chapel of the Forgotten Shadow in Hearthglen's larger cathedral complex. She had assured him, that of all people, besides herself, Jared Richter would be the last to harm him.

              Perhaps this was inevitable.

              The parable he mentioned of the toad, she knew it. She knew how it applied to poor Arnaldo so well, but still--she had seen past that. For it was a small toad that had ended up being such a lion when she was trapped by the Glove. She knew when she first truly saw him, that he did not want to be there. And so, she did what so few had--she had treated him like the person he was. Just through that small gesture, he was able to find the strength to get out.

              But had he got himself into a darker fire, now that he leapt out of that pan. Perhaps he had. But, at the same time, perhaps he had attained a brighter light inside. She hoped so.

              The request to end him, should they meet on the field. She did not think she would go to war, having an infant to tend to. But, she gave a small nod. This would not be the first such request given to her.

              The light that she had sparked, she would keep it safe in the form of his letters and memories. She would--

              From upstairs the sniffling cry of a two-week old infant sounded. The kind of cry that had no true want behind it, only just brushing the edges of self-awareness as she woke up. Annabelle glanced upwards, thumbs pressing a bit harder on the edges of the letter. Fluidly she stood, folding the paper once as she made her way up to check on her Roseanna. She had named her daughter after her own mother.

              Quietly rounding the corner to the child's small room, she cooed a quiet 'Shhh'. A few pads of her feet to the side of the crib, and she reached out the hand holding the letter so that the infant's tiny grip could hold hers. A blink--she had meant to reach out the empty hand. Didn't she? Before she could retract it, Roseanna's baby-fat soft fingers gripped onto the letter. This new feeling of paper amused her, tiny fingertips pressing about. A soft sigh from Annabelle as her free hand moved to settle on her infant's crown, and the barely-there shock of brown hair. Just like her father's.

              She paused in thought. Blinked. Then a slow smile of realization drew across her lips.

              "My sweet, what do you think, when you have a new brother--what do you think of the name Geraldino Arnaldo Bronco?"

              I will keep your memories, your lights my friend. Close to my heart, as they've always been.

[ImagenAshyun]

Though this was written seemingly a long time ago, the paper has been folded and slipped through a broken window pane of a dilapidated home. The wind and rain has run the ink and aged the paper, and moths seemed to have eaten at the edges. It is still readable, however.

Velio? Are you home? Please write back to me if you are. I miss you and I want to say I'm sorry.

If you find this, I'm around here in the remains of Lordaeron. Please come back to me.

--Papa