My fifth Fan Fiction from the World of Warcraft forums:
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
“Translation: A little night music.
This week I wanted to challenge everyone to write a short (500 word) vignette as inspired by the zone preview music for Warlords of Draenor. Please make sure you indicate which piece you use in your post.”
As the Iron Horde burned their way across the continent, branding it with their mark the way a farmer branded livestock, the land and its people were crushed beneath the weight of their single-minded purpose.
He must have been hallucinating as he lay there in the grass, his body broken beyond measure, and bleeding his life into the soil he’d vowed to protect, because despite everything all he could smell was her. Her floral scent floated on the smoke-laden wind.
His armor was rent and crumpled against his chest, and his short gasps had him choking on the blood that ran from his nose. The world slipped out of focus, but through the embers that spiraled on the breeze and haze, the amaranth of the sky lay beyond. Clean, and untouched by the ravages around him, but rimmed by the glow of fires in a promise of events to come if they did not succeed.
“Rise, my love,” she said, voice soft as the lightest touch on a harp string. As the world darkened around him, he stood on the precipice between life and death, and it was there he saw her.
The thin tendrils from behind her delicate ears brushed her shoulders, and her soft hair, the brown of leaves in late fall, was held back by a jeweled headband he’d given her as a gift. The gems matched the lavender of her skin and horns, which curved behind her head like the gentle bend of a river.
In the pale blue glow of her eyes there was love and sadness, but also determination. Her mouth twitched in the slightest of smiles, but she was a woman not easily deterred from her purpose—even after death.
“You must fight, dear one,” she continued, and a ghostly touch trailed down his cheek.
“The fighting…it never ends,” he replied, his voice hoarse from battle shouts, yelling commands, and the emotional torment that unfettered destruction wages on the soul.
“Because our reasons never end, either,” she countered, “not even in the life after. You must save us, husband, or the Iron Horde will have our souls—and the power that comes with them.” Her visage began to fade and he reached up, as though to caress her face the way she had with him moments before.
“There’s one alive over here!” he heard someone shout, and a breath later the chant of a priest’s healing prayer drowned out all else.
Magic surged through his limbs, healing everything in its path that was damaged, save for his heart.
“Commander, we thought you slain! We’ve driven them back for now, but they will surely return.”
They sat him up and helped him from his now useless armor, but all throughout the process his gaze remained fixed on a barely discernable structure in the distance.
“What is it, sir?” the priest asked.
“The Auchindoun,” he said, but never turned, “we must go there before all falls to ruin.”