[Story] Penance

[Solivar]

Little voices. So many little voices. Do you hear them?

The infusion's base required a quadruple measure of dried marigold petals, ground to a fine powder and heated slowly in sweet-nut oil, until that oil had taken on the rich dark hue and fragrance of the flowers themselves. For the strongest possible result, the process required repetition, straining out the old herbs in favor of fresh and reusing the same oil to achieve a more concentrated final product.

Fresh flowers would have been better, of course, but the season was wrong. Aerith Primrose told him as much, apologetically, when he asked her about the matter. Fortunately, she had had a considerable quantity of the dried flowers, still neatly tied in bouquets, among her stock. He bought them all, blossoms still stubbornly bright and with the ghost of their spicy-sharp perfume still clinging to them, and carefully dismembered each in turn, heating the oil over the cook-table coals in the Filthy Animal's common room.

In the end, his flask of oil had the consistency and darkest amber hue of wildflower honey, its scent richly spicy, bitter-sweet. It made his little corner of the Animal smell of dusty late summer afternoons in the hills of eastern Lordaeron, where the flowers had once grown wild in the edges of the fields, along the roads, in the window-boxes of peasants and nobles alike.

So many. Can you hear them?

The spirit candles required purified, enchanted beeswax infused with the marigold oil which, in turn, resulted in a lengthy series of errands for the Moorehead sisters in exchange. Their business -- the creation and sale of reagents of all varieties -- required a prodigious quantity of raw materials and while they had standing trade arrangements for those that could be acquired in bulk, there were always one or two rare substances best obtained through one on one conversations involving blades and killing magic. And they were, fortunately, willing to trade work for work. A half-moon spent in the lightless depths of Azjol-Nerub yielded all the assorted undead spider-bits they required for their manufactory and he was entirely satisfied with their efforts on his behalf: a dozen fragrant, golden tapers, the wax deeply incised with the runic script he had provided, each wrapped in its own sheath of protective vellum to preserve them from abrasion or breakage in transit.

So many...

He discovered the Wonder Works entirely by accident late one night when, bored almost out of his mind and at loose ends, he took to wandering the streets of Dalaran for something, anything to do that required no thought. He heard the rhythmic clatter of tiny metal wheels on tiny metal tracks from a block away and had followed the sound to its source, the snug little shop with shelf upon shelf of childish delights, and had felt something well up inside him, not quite a memory, that made his eyes burn with the wish for tears. The gnomish tinker who ran the place greeted him warily and watched him closely the whole time he was there, but did not scruple against taking his gold and blessedly asked no questions when he returned, late in the night, when there was no chance of meeting any of Dalaran's many children, to make more purchases.

Do you hear them?

New Avalon had been abundantly supplied with children. Humans bred like rodents at the best of times and in the midst of catastrophe they seemed to do so even more, the consequences of the urge to affirm life in the face of undying horror manifesting some months later. At the time, it had seemed like there were at least three children for every adult, from suckling babes to crack-voiced adolescents -- and while a handful had been killed in the assault, the people of New Avalon had warded their offspring better than they had protected themselves in many a case. The best part of a hundred of them cowered together in the root cellar of the hovel where their parents had herded them, hoping to keep them from unmerciful, undead eyes, with only the faintest hope of success. The hunting-geists had sniffed them out, of course, and the ghouls had prevented any chance of escape, one of their number shuffling over to paw at his leg and whine for his attention.

"What do you think we should do with them?" Radiance had asked, as they stood gazing down into a dozen pale, upturned faces, the oldest children armed with farming implements, prepared to make a heroic last stand. "That's a lot of living flesh and bone and blood down there. Surely someone had a use for it?"

It had taken years to train Radiance to tame his bloodlust in situations such as this, to think of the utilitarian aspects of the living and the occasional necessity of keeping them alive longer than it took to unsheathe a weapon. Years. Under any other circumstance, he might have taken some small amount of pride in his lieutenant's restraint and willingness to think.

But then, at that moment, he could not -- he could barely think himself around the bright, throbbing pain filling his skull, miserable nonphysical ache that nothing he tried could abate much less banish.

"Mercy?" Concern. There was something almost like concern in his voice. Radiance knew, of course -- it was impossible to hide it, not when he had crawled back to Acherus barely undead, needing time to recuperate in mind and body and only truly achieving the one.

He snarled and Radiance backed a gratifying arm's length away. "The Harvester hates trying to make something of the little ones and Noth has all the materials he needs." The hovel's small plot was scattered with the detritus of life, of the living: the rapidly withering vegetable garden, a watering-can and trowel, the beds of crushed flowers, a child's ball, red and white leather scraps sewn together and rubbed dirty by the passage of many hands. He picked it up, rolled it in his hands, squeezing it hard between his palms and trying to focus enough for clarity around the brightness, the brilliance trying to fill him, trying to move his tongue. Take them to the road...the road that leads to Tyr's Hand...let them go...let them go...

He wanted to say it. The words were on the tip of his tongue, the order that would spare them, save their lives --

"Well, Mercy?" The voice was cold, sibilant, far, far too close: Virtue. He had been too lost in himself to hear her approach and he cursed himself inwardly for the weakness, the hesitation. She was not his, not as Radiance and the others were, and if there was any in the King's Fist measuring his back for the blade it was most assuredly her. "What shall we do with them?"

He held up the ball, the bright pain inside him washing his vision white, and sang his summons, a half-hundred ghouls and a handful of geists shuffling-slinking to his side, groveling at his feet, trying to twine themselves around each other and him. He tossed the ball from hand to hand, watched their dull, hungry eyes follow it as though it was a tasty morsel, gathering them all -- and threw it into the cellar. They flowed away after it in a rotting wave and, below, the first of the screams began as Radiance kicked the doors shut and dropped the heavy bar across to prevent any chance escapes. "Sometimes one must give the ghouls a bit of a treat, do you not think?"

Virtue's eyes narrowed to gleaming slits in the face of his serene smile and he felt her gaze boring into his back as he walked away.

Oh, yes, he heard those voices.

New Avalon's ruins had been long since abandoned by even the most mindlessly unbiddable ghoul and were shunned entirely by the living, the remnant of the Scarlet Crusade that still clung to Tyr's Hand, who had, after all, abandoned their unfortunate fellows to die. Nearly everything useful had been stripped from it, as well, when they had pulled back to Acherus in preparation for the assault on Light's Hope, but a few odds and ends of no particular utility to the undead still remained. Simple wooden candlesticks, little more than hollowed-out dowels painted red or white, were everywhere. The old stable was a wealth of burlap feed sacks, farm tools, bits of leather, a usable broom. The lumber mill yielded a hammer, nails, wood.

He knew they were watching him as he went about his work: gathering up the piles of skulls and the burnt-out remains of the candles covering the town square's fountain; sweeping away the flinders of bone and stone and wood scattered everywhere; repairing what he could of the lesser damage, knowing there was nothing he could do for most of the masonry. Occasionally, if he held very still, he could catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of his eyes: a flicker of bouncing translucent golden curls, dark eyes regarding him suspiciously from the shadows, gone when he tried to focus on them despite all his skills in that regard.

What's he doing?

A small voice, a little-girl voice, sweet and pure, was the first of them that he heard, quickly silenced by the softer murmurs of elder children.

He made certain that the chimneys were clear and laid fires in each hearth, set the candles in their sticks and put a handful in each house. He put together the train tracks in fanciful loops and hooked the cars together, made certain that the engines were adequately supplied with mana crystals to power their mechanisms. He assembled one of the paper zeppelins in order to show them how to do it, and left a dozen others, and pots of fingerpaints to decorate them with, on one of the tables. In one house he spread blankets from wall to wall and set out a half-dozen tea party sets, complete with tiny, perfect portions of make-believe food, and dozens of dolls of all shapes and sizes, from simple multicolored twists of rag and yarn to painted porcelain confections that would not look out of place in a nobleman's house. Beneath the tent he erected on the village green, he set out the racing cars, the leather playing-balls, the painted tuskarr kites. He felt them moving about him as he made a circuit among the houses, igniting the fires and building them up, lighting the candles, whose fragrant golden light spilt into the shadowed place between life and death where the child-ghosts of New Avalon dwelt, lending them warmth, solidity, the ability to touch the world and be touched by it. As he watched, they faded into view: babes wrapped in swaddling clothes, cradled in the arms of their elder brothers and sisters, bouncing curls and skinned knees, hostile, untrusting eyes in hollowed, bloodless faces, wary, keeping the youngest away from him as he crossed the green to the village fountain.

Bellie, It was the little girl voice again, high-pitched with delight, Look at all the dollies!

Hush, An older girl whispered in reply.

"The candles will burn for a day," His throat, when he spoke, was intensely, unbearably dry. "I will bring more when I am able. These things...they are yours. Do with them as you wish."

He called Moonshadow and swung into the saddle -- and paused, as a small, cold hand rested on his hand as he took up the reins. One of the elder children, a boy he had last seen staring up at him with a face full of sick fear and hopeless defiance, a pitchfork in his hands. Their eyes met and, for an instant, he felt it again: that sharp, bright pain.

Why? The boy asked, simply, no more and no less.

"Because I must," Solivar replied, and kicked Moonshadow to a gallop.

It was a long ride to Silvermoon.