Heresy

“Dance you shall,” said he, “dance in your red shoes till you are pale and cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a skeleton! Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and wicked children live you shall knock, so that they may hear you and fear you! Dance you shall, dance—!”
‘The Red Shoes’, Hans Christian Andersen

Why, why
What you hanging up for?
What you doing that for?
What you breaking up for?
Why, hushabye? - “Hushabye”, Korn (played while writing this. I love this song!)

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“He’s back.”

“He.”

“The frost-wielder.”

“The General?”

“Yes.”

“That fool hasn’t died yet? He was such a weak creature! Even with her psychosis, she knew it. Had to spoon-feed him her own blood, just to watch him kneel. It was disgusting, the way he groveled. Weak vessels disgust me. “

“As do they all of us.”

“So…where was he all this time then?”

“He was North.”

“North..and he’s survived? Not ideal.”

“No.”

“Has he seen her?”

“Yes. They were spotted together in the City of Light.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking, from what I could tell.”

“ Well, she was stronger than him before, she will be again. It’s not going to be a problem - is it?”

“It…..might be.”

“Might be?? Unacceptable answer. Why?”

“Her strength is precisely what is causing the problem. When she fights, she becomes much clearer; she’s nearly stable.”

“You said the effects would never last more than an hour or two afterwards.”

“That’s been my experience.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“The problem is…….she’s always fighting.”

“Then let the useless little b.i.tch fight! But make her fight every moment of her pathetic half-life, until she cannot walk, until she cannot crawl, make her fight until her hands twist up into bleeding lumps of flesh, until her legs buckle beneath her, until her mindless, drooling corpse is nothing more than a husk on the battlefield! She is of no use to us now. If she cannot die, make her wish she could.”

“Yes, Milord.”

“Don’t let her stop long enough to think about it afterwards.”

“Yes, Milord.”

“And Cattwyn..”

“Yes?”

“Don’t fail this time. If I see my daughter’s face again, you wretched whore, I’ll melt yours into oblivion.”


Beaming. She felt her face a moment, confused by its warmth, even inside the Hall of Legends, stuffed with Gladiators and battle-hardened veterans alike, the braziers roaring nearby as the warm smell of sweat and orc, dirt, blood, death and tauren fur filled the air.

Xelius hugged her so hard that she felt the pain of it, blinking with confusion.

“Superb!” he shouted, grinning at her from underneath his shadowed hood. “Nearly undefeated tonight..excellent, my dear!”

Shocked, she leaned back at him slightly, eyes wide as saucers…and suddenly a tiny smile formed on her lips.

“Was …good.”

“Yes!”

“And you ate the shaman, that was REALLY good!”

“I was hungry!”

She clapped delightedly as he grinned at her. Blood still stained his cheeks and robe from the impromptu meal.

“Was good…good good!” She said, uncertainly, as if tasting the word. “We won…over..and over..”

Xelius nodded eagerly as Fireflower’s mind spun madly around itself, gaining momentum, like a ball rolling down a hill.

“AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN!” shrieking, she broke away from the grasp and leapt over the railing, running in circles around him as well as the others gathered in the small building.

“OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND AGAIN!”

Xelius laughed. “And we’ll get even better, with time…”

She stopped and looked back at him, slightly out of breath, grinning, a pale little undead face beaming out from underneath the horns that protruded from her crimson hood, pointing her staff at him playfully.

“MORE, Xelius!”

“We sleep now.” He said, finally, walking over towards her. “We can do more soon.”

She sighed, slightly disappointed and nodded.

“Allright…sleepy-sleep..sleepy! Bye!” She began casting herself back to Shattrath, to her temporary home among the unwilling Aldor.

The shadowpriest laughed and winking, mimicked her gesture.

Hours later Fireflower had soared over Shattrath, gliding near the Scryer’s Tier when she happened to glance down at a figure hunched on the wall.

She slowed her nameless windrider down to glide closer to the balcony; and blinked, frowning slightly.

“That’s not true, that’s brain lies….’cos he’s gone.”, she muttered.

Brain Lies. That’s what Catt called them, when she didn’t see things she saw.

She summoned Mazzy, never taking her eyes off the hunched-over figure nearby.

But..it looked like him, anyway. All those dark robes and that funny red staff…and the hair as blue as a
naga’s skin, sitting with his legs bent in front of him, leaning against a wall, throwing small stones off
the side.

She veered down to the surface of the ledge and reined her mount to a halt, watching him silently.

He lifted his head and looked back at her.

There was no doubt it was him, no brain lie would explain it.

Her eyes narrowed as Mazzy wandered up, sniffing her hand before grunting softly at the nearby man.

Pathways.

For a moment longer, the clear focus of survival in battle overrides everything she feels still; and somehow this is her moment of clarity, her only moment where things might fire off those fragile chaotic synapses and reach her consciousness.

For a moment, anyway.


“Hello.” He said, quietly.

She scratched her neck, and peered at him a moment longer before simply nodding at him.

“I wondered if I’d run into you.”

She looked back at him and sat down in front of him, idly reaching out to scratch Mazzy’s neck in an unconscious gesture of affection; there would surely be no conscious ones.

“You’re back now, Misterzik?”

“It appears so.”

“Where were you?”

“North.”

“North? Winterspring?”

“Northrend.”

“I don’t know it. Whaddaya do there?”

“I trained..for awhile. But its cold there. I came back.” He shrugged.

“You learn stuff?”

“I did. I thought about you too though, sometimes.”

“What for?” she tilted her head.

“Because I was fond of you.”

She frowned slightly, trying to understand. “Fond, what is fond?”

“When you like something.”

Her frown grew deeper, as if trying very hard to concentrate on something. She looked at the mage a moment, then over to Mazzy.

“I….like Mazzy!” she said, thinking as the felhunter sniffed her hand disinterestedly.

Zik nodded.

“So.. I am..fond..of..Mazzy.” She spoke the words very slowly, trying to piece the reasoning together.

He smiled. “Yes.”

“FOND!” She shrieked, as the felhunter moved slightly, shocked by the sudden volume as she stroked
his oily coat, falling off into silence for a few moments.

“So…” she finally said, “You still a vessel?”

“He’s still there, if that’s what you mean. But we reached a ..truce.”

“Troos?”

“A truce, yes. An agreement, a sort of balance. And now, I have my free will.”

“Free will?” she looked back at him with a start. “That’s what Heresy always talked about! Free will and fighting for this and blah blah so important yappity-yap..you got that?”|

“I do.”

“How do you get it?”

“You have it when you can be what you want, and live how you want and make your own choices.”

“I do that now!”

“Then..you have free will.”

“HAHA! And Heresy worked YEARS for hers! HA HA HA HA!!! I got mine anyway! AND…I’m a warlock!”
she beamed back at the mage, supremely enjoying the fact that she’d beaten the silly rogue, at least in her own mind.

Zik smiled slightly, but said nothing.

The conversation carried on for awhile, as he tried to explain arcane magic to her (with very little success) , and who Arthas was (with equal success). But finally as the day began to wane into night, the mage stood and brushed off his robes.

Fire by now had began to fade into less coherence, occasionally staring into space and frowning at soulshards in her pouch, pulling out one, sniffing it and returning it as he tried to talk to her.

“Elzebeth?” he finally said, smiling slightly. “I should go. I need to sleep. But before I do, there’s something I’d like to get for my strength…”
“You want potions again? You said you had a troose, misterzik! Blood’ll upset the balance an’ stuff…but..if you want, I guess.”

She seemed annoyed and pulled out the tiny knife she kept in her satchel, and began digging for vials and herbs, muttering. “I can make other stuff now, using frozen water, its very strong you know!”

“Does it taste good?”

“I dunno, I drink different ones made from like..moldy stuff.” She shrugged, pointing out the patch of lichen in her bag.

“I didn’t actually mean potions though. I don’t want your blood.”

“No?” she seemed surprised.

“Just one thing to send me to my rest.”

“Yes yes, rest ..rest is best! Best to rest, misterzik!”

The sing-song repetition was back; her mind had began to twist up again into a blind little knot of thoughts without direction or focus. He was running out of time.

“Best best best! No blood for the TROOSE…”

The mage walked up to her and looked at her directly a moment.

“A minute longer.” He said, simply, staring back at her. “One more.”

She stared back, neck extending slightly outward, as if she was peering into an aquarium.

“One…...more.” she said, frowning with extreme focus before she stopped suddenly to grin at him.

“Okey-doke! I’m glad you’re back, we can go kill stuff now.”

She nodded, breaking into a little smile as he agreed with her.

“Yes….. I will on one condition.”

“Whassat?” Her face grew immediately suspicious.

“I get a goodbye kiss.”

“Why do you want THAT?” her frown twisting into a grimace, the pathways began to tighten inside her mind and twist, pulling at themselves, fracturing. Feel, don’t feel, understand, no understanding. Starts to hurt now, starts to confuse and anger her.

“WHAT FOR?”

He remained calm. “For my strength, and because I’m fond of you.”

“FOND FOND FOND…FOND IS LIKE! LIKE IS FOND!”

“Fireflower..”

“HUH?”

“One more minute.”

She sighed, her shoulders heaved with exasperation, exhausted by the effort of concentrating on what he said, and what she’d learned.

But she stepped forward and raising up on her slippered toes, kissed the mage lightly on the cheek.

She brought her hand to her lips and rested upon them a moment, annoyed at the sensation.

“Ok OK??!? Sheesh, you’re different now, Misterzik. All different. Weird like livin’ stuff! AND THAT’S STUPID!”

Zik said nothing, but smiled. The smile was tired, and for a moment it made him look old. He bowed to her just as a massive armoured Netherdrake descended nearby.

Fireflower’s mouth hung open, bowing almost subconsciously in return, watching it land beside him, wings as wide as roads folding gracefully as he climbed aboard.

“Goodnight, Elzebeth. You’re stronger…I see that. You’ve come a long way. Its time now, isn’t it. Trust me, we will fight together…soon.”

“YEP! FIGHT!!” she flexed her thin arms and shrieked, already lost to the pathways again, staring absentmindedly into space as the mage disappeared into the night.

“Trust?” She pouted, letting the word fly into her consciousness like an unwise sparrow.

It landed softly, utterly absorbed and muted by the chaos within her, as if it had never been spoken at all;
it simply disappeared into the maelstrom of her mind.

And as the little warlock shrugged carelessly, and bounced off to bed, already having forgotten most of the conversation, a succubus watched her go, thoughtfully, and in silence, a delicate frown lingering on her crimson painted lips.

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"I wrote the story myself. It's about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it." - Mae West
Fireflower's Words of Wisdom: http://i200.photobucket.com/albums/a...ompilation.jpg