Yzabel / August 25, 2006

[Since I haven’t been posting much lately–that’s the least we can say, hmmm?–here’s a little “fan-fiction” story. It’s nothing original in itself, and far from being my best, but it kept me writing in English all the same.

For the record, it’s set in the Warcraft universe, more precisely after WC III: Frozen Throne (I happen to like this world somehow, even though it’s quite a simple and basic one). The human kingdoms of the North have been plagued by a strange disease called “the Scourge”, turning them into mindless undead drones, and only a small fraction of them, the Forsaken, has been able to return to their “sanity” – while still remaining undead, that is. Of course, normal humans now consider them all enemies. As for Brill, it’s a Forsaken-controlled village.]

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The stranger sitting near the fireplace in the old tavern of Brill looks from afar like any other Forsaken, but the inner fire reflected in his eyes and the way he holds the harp on his knees give him an air that is hard to forget. Through a tale or a ballad, he might be ready to once again earn his drink tonight, and as his gaze wanders over the assembly, a crooked smile twists his mangled jaws.

“A tale you want to hear, is that right?” he says, to no one in particular, but almost immediately, a dozen of glaring eyes turn to him. “A tale of glory, of fierce battles and mighty warriors, perhaps? No… No, I know what we’re looking for, mangy dogs that we are all. Sorrow and woe is what will fit our ilk tonight. Sorrow and woe is what you will get, adventurers. Let’s hope that you all remember what preceded our unlife, for you’ll soon see that the fate of Theophana Constantine, beloved mother and wife, isn’t much better than our own.”

He places his bony fingers on his harp, tugging at the strings in the beginning of a slow melody, and the patrons in the inn suddenly fall silent, listening with intent to the first notes of Theophana’s story…

Once upon a time, in a shiny city that many people used to call a jewel of Lordaeron, lived a young couple. Simple was their existence, a soldier true and a mother kind, but to themselves as to everyone else, Theophana and Joshua Constantine were the very image of happiness. Joshua served in the guard, proud of his duties; Phana the herbalist, kind and smiling, took care of her apothicary store, and of their daughter Moira. Who would have thought how fast such feelings could ever be shattered? Who would have thought what trials would hit this quiet family?

The walls of Stratholme held them safe and sound, as rumors of the world started to pour inside and make the inhabitants slowly wonder and fear. Rumors of a strange illness, rumors of deaths in the North, and of even more approaching deaths. On that fateful day that would mark the end of their life, young Moira fell sick, and as Theophana tucked her in bed to better take care of her, little did she know that bedridden would her daughter remain. These were the first signs of the dreadful disease, the first signs of the plague, for no potions nor priests could help Moira regain her full health. In the arms of her parents the little girl died, and on a cold, misty morning, she was put in a small grave in Stratholme’s graveyard, under a sky the color of lead, under heavy raindrops and tears of grief.

Had Joshua and Theophana thought they were devastated? This wasn’t enough, my Forsaken friends, this wasn’t enough. A few nights later, scratching at their door with palid and rotting fingers, came back Moira, her teeth bared, her hair dishevelled and dirty with fresh soil, starving with a desire for flesh that only the feast of her own parents could extinguish. On duty in the evening watch, Joshua wasn’t home, and should he have been, perhaps things would have been much more different. At the end of that long night, the young soldier came back to find his wife in tears, prostrated on the floor of the kitchen, her hands bloody and her dress torn, the mutilated corpse of her daughter in her arms, as on the day Moira had died for the first time.

Did young Phana kill her? Was she forced to throw that knife in her chest and stab, stab, again and again, until the reborn little girl would fall limp to the ground forever, the way she should have remained in first place? Who can tell what horrible and painful thoughts crossed the mind of this exemplary mother, as she had to choose between her own life and the ghoulish existence that was now to curse her child under the influence of the Lich King? Do not tell me that you would have acted in a different way, travellers! At that time, we were human like her, and not even the Dark Lady could tell how each of us would have reacted!

Alas, their woes were far from being over. On the very next day, mighty paladins entered Stratholme, an army of Light and Glory, led by fierce and proud Prince Arthas. He gathered his knights, he gathered his officers, and as the citizens cheered and praised the Light for his arrival, believeing themselves saved from the Plague, the Prince ignored the instructions of Sir Uther, and commanded that any living being of Stratholme be slain, to prevent the Scourge that already was in them to spread even further and claim more mindless slaves. Panic arose, blood was shed, and in the turmoil of cries and wails, Joshua stood up to protect the remnants of his torn family, this young woman with hair now whitened, sobbing in the wake of her crime. Joshua stood up, and fell lifeless under the blades, and from that day on, what happened to Theophana remained unknown to most.

Does the story end here, you ask me? Hah! Can a story like this ever end? Would you ask me why the sword at my waist is rusty, my buckler eaten by the worms? It would be too easy, you pigs! Too easy! The Scourge has left its scars on all of us, and on many of the living as well, never doubt that. In the quagmire of dead and dying, in this mud of trashed hopes and glories, the young herbalist was left for dead as well. Why wouldn’t she have, after all? She wouldn’t budge nor react, still under the shock of what had happened, of what she had done, of what she now was witnessing, of losing her beloved after having lost her daughter twice. This, my rotting friends, is where her trace is lost, for a time at least, as a beautiful and talented Archmage, roaming the mass grave that Stratholme had become, managed to gather the survivors, and to lead them out, to promised lands by the Plague untouched, far from Arthas’ betrayal. Her name was Jaina; surely it isn’t unknown to you?

And what of Theophana? Do you think I have secret sources, mayhaps? It is a story, you fools, a story! Phana is said to have poised between life and death for a long, long time, nursed back to health and to her will of living by an old Priestess who later on took her to Stormwind. It is there, under the high stony roof of the Cathedral of Light, that the heartbroken wife and mother vowed to serve the Light, and soothe the world and its inhabitants as much as she could. Thoughts of revenge did she have, but revenge to her tasted like ashes, and if she still keeps this part of shadow within herself today, her Light is growing stronger, now that her body and her mind have recovered. An herbalist she was, an herbalist she remains, combining both her new powers and her old knowledge to bring healing to those who need it.

Yes, laugh you can, you mangy bunch, laugh you can, at her naive beliefs of a better world. ‘Tis not naivety, but a lack of hope, that led her to this, and only her future would tell of what is doomed to happen next. Is she still alive, you ask? Why, maybe she is, and maybe not. Remember – it’s a tale, the tale of a night without an end, of a woman without a hope, of a soul that got lost, then brought back to the sun. And as in every tale, who can say what the part of truth is?

On these last words, the harpist stops playing, and gets up from his chair, throwing his old weathered cloak over his rotting shoulders. Nobody makes a move, nobody makes a sound, their glowing eyes on him. With a shrug, the undead bard turns his back on them, heading for the door, and under the heavy rain, under the dark skies of Tirisfal Glades, the man who was once known as Joshua Constantine simply disappears from sight, taking with him his nostalgic tale.