The Book of Twyla

Twyla stood on the deck of the ship, looking out at the dark, slate colored waves tipped with white froth. They had been at sea nearly a week, the first few days of which she had spent almost exclusively in the small cabin that had been given to her use. Paladin though she was, there was little enough the Light could do for sea sickness. She had never been at sea before, and had not expected the rocking motion of the ship to cause her stomach such unrest, but, thankfully, it was now over with, her body having grown accustomed to the motion of the ship upon the sea.



During the first horrible days when her bones seemed made of jelly and her stomach was in constant turmoil, she had barely left her cabin, and had been grateful indeed for the privacy it afforded her. She had expected to bunk with the rest of the men, and had done so without thought before, having grown used to it over the years spent out on one campaign or another; but as she was the only woman aboard, Prince Arthas had ordered a place affording more privacy than a simple hammock be made available for her. It was small, but it had a proper bed instead of a hammock, with a few shelves above and drawers below for storage of clothing and other personal items. There was even a small desk where she could sit and write in the battered journal she always carried, and a chest to store her heavy plate armor, as she would not need to wear it during the voyage.



Yet as she stood on the deck, buffeted by the cold winds and hit by the freezing sea spray, a part of her wished she had worn it, as it would offer a bit more warmth than her current garb. When not in armor, Twyla almost always wore the same style of clothing, unless circumstance dictated something different than her preferred garb. A simple white swashbuckler’s shirt, azure silk pants, a crimson silk belt, and knee high soft soled linen boots, all lovingly made for her by her future mother in law. The outfit was simple, yet had an air of elegance about it that was amplified by her almost regal bearing. It also left quite a few of the men looking at her longingly, but they knew better than to do anything more than look.



There was one man aboard, however, who looked at her most intently, though he took care so others did not see.



As Twyla looked out over the sea, another gust of wind buffeted her slight form, and she shivered, drawing her cloak more tightly about her, huddling in it for warmth, even though she knew it was futile. They were still at least three weeks from Northrend, and already the weather was most chill. Not that she had felt warm since Stratholme.



Stratholme.



The mere thought of the city and the events that had transpired there caused her stomach to clench, and she was afraid she would be ill again. She rested her hands on the railing, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath of the crisp sea air, the cold stinging the inside of her nose and seeming to burn the inside of her lungs, but it was enough to calm her somewhat, the pounding roar of waves and whistling of the wind enough to keep her ears from hearing the phantom sounds of screams.



It did not calm her enough, however, to keep from nearly jumping three feet in the air in surprise when a warm, heavy hand came to rest comfortingly on her shoulder.



“I did not mean to startle you, Twyla.” Arthas chuckled, looking her over. She managed a faint, almost sickly smile.



“Forgive me, my lord. I was… Not altogether here.” She admitted.



He studied her face for a moment, and her smile faded at his intense scrutiny.



“You were thinking on Stratholme.” He said finally. It was no a question, but a statement. She looked away, back out at the sea.



“You read me well, my lord.” She admitted quietly. “I was.” She wanted to admit to him that her mind went back to Stratholme often, that nightmares of it kept her awake in her bed at night. She had not had a decent nights sleep in what felt like years, though it had only been a scant few weeks. The days leading up to what they referred to as the Cleansing or merely Stratholme (when they had to refer to the event at all) had not been restful ones for those who followed Arthas, they had all been embroiled in bitter combat that had seemed unending at the time. There had been no time to rest then, and now that there was the time, few had the ability to do so. Certainly Twyla didn’t.



“It had to be done.” He said firmly, yet almost a little desperately, almost as if he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince her. Not that she needed convincing. “My course was the correct one, the only way to save those people.”



“I know.” She said softly, looking back up at him. “I know and I agree wholeheartedly. Better to be cleansed than to suffer for even a moment as one of the scourge. Yet even though both my heart and my mind know that as fact… It was difficult.” Even as she admitted that, she could see Gareth’s shining blue eyes and sweet, charming smile. Her stomach clenched again, and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from sobbing out her grief.



Arthas gave her shoulder a squeeze before releasing her. “After the evening meal I would speak to you privately.” He said suddenly, almost gruffly, looking out at the sea. “I will expect you to come to my cabin no later than two hours after the meal is served.”



Twyla looked to him, trying not to show her puzzlement. “As you command, my prince.” She said softly, wondering what he wished to speak to her on. She wondered if perhaps he needed someone to confide in, someone who would not judge him as weak for needing to do so. Or perhaps he wished the company of another paladin to pray to the Light with, or to speak on tactics and strategy.



He nodded once, before turning, striding away to his cabin, not sparing her another glance. Twyla watched him a moment, before she turned her attention back to the sea.