And She Danced

Author's note: It's been a while, hasn't it? My last story was called Addiction, if you have not read it, please feel free to do so. It seems I've been bitten by the cross-faction bug again. Enjoy!

The moon that night was brighter than the sun in the heat of midday, full and brazen and luminous, flinging teasing petals of light from the heavens to flirt coyly over the hills and trees. Her sisters the stars twinkled behind and betwixt her as if laughing over her giddy joy with the sky. Far, far below, farther than the moon could imagine was the earth, the oceans – shining her light back up at her and hiding their deep blue depths.

The ocean stirred, and from it issued one pale, blue skinned hand, pausing for a moment as if to capture the moonbeams themselves before sliding under to propel her to the surface.

She was not a warrior, hunter, nor priest, nor mage she, oh no. She was one of the earth, the sun, the sky, the moon and the trees and the grass and everything between. And she rose from the water, silent and slippery and as naked as the day she’d been born, stepping with fluid grace to the sandy banks of the beach with a small, secret smile.

And she danced.

One foot before the other, one hip jut just so, hands sliding over skin to stretch to the sky, shifting, twirling, a pause, a sigh, a smile. To the music of the earth, to the music of the wind and stars, she danced. Eyes closed, softly breathing, in the quiet and the private of her sanctuary, she danced.

He was not a gentle man, never loving, never giving – no, he’d been down that road, and it bore the bitter fruit of one who’d had all torn from him, abruptly and without mercy. She had been a beauty, they’d wed in Darnassus at the temple, and she’d born him a beautiful, gentle baby girl who’d never lent herself to crying. They’d lived in Ashenvale after that, in a small house he’d built himself.

For her, he was gentle. For her, he was kind. For the both of them, he was husband, and father, and the light of their lives. Until the Legion came – sudden and swift, without warning.

It wasn’t their screams that haunted him – it was the silence after, the deafening silence that marked the absence of life. And he cradled their bodies close, and he’d cried, painful, wracking sobs.

It was the last time he’d ever cried.

With the absence of them, there was nothing left to live for. And so he gave his life over in service to his people, took up the blade, took up the shield, took up defending what was left. Many called him foolish – but never to his face. Still more said nothing, merely following his strides with the sad, quiet eyes that bespoke pity. There walks a man lost everything, they said. There walks a man who has nothing left, nothing at all.

It was unbearable. And when new orders to patrol Ashenvale’s borders came in, he was the first to demand them. In the Barrens, there were no trees, no shade. There was only unforgiving heat, brambles and the cries of the desert. No forgiveness.

It suited him.

When confronted with a lone orc traveling the roads, he would bellow, charging in to the fight – the bellow was not so much to startle, as to warn them he was coming. A fight was not a fight unless the other party was engaged. He wanted them aware. He wanted them angry. He wanted to see their faces snarling, fangs twisted into brutal sneers as he killed them.

And oh, his blood boiled with each battle, an inner fire searing his heart.

That day, oh, that day, he’d killed three – two orcs and a troll, all three crying out in surprise at his approach and rushing him with the steadfast brutality that he’d come to expect from their race. One orc fell, his face contorted into a fierce echo of the fire the warrior felt, the second watching his friend fall and leaping with grim determination only to be met with the warrior’s sword. The troll, for his part, held back as the others fought, watching the warrior with sly, wicked eyes, observing his every movement, waiting, watching…

It was the troll that had given him the best fight – he’d found the warriors weaknesses and used them to his advantage, ducking low as the sword came high, lashing out with a kick that sent the warrior flying. With a guttural laugh, the troll closed in – only to be met with a kick of his own. It was with grim satisfaction that the warrior rose, the glitter in his eyes almost…joyful as he raised his arms high. The troll stared up at him in defiance as if daring him to finish it – and the warrior did.

Filthy, disgusting beasts. They did not deserve to live. And he stabbed, over, and over, and over again, a bloody wreck of a warrior standing amidst three bloody wrecks of what used to be living creatures.

He stood, and he breathed, and he snarled, and his heart burned. His eyes rose to the oceans, his hand absently wiped the gore from his cheek, and he strode purposefully towards the ocean’s shore with the intent of cleaning himself.

And she danced.

Side to side, eyes closed, humming a song of the wind, a song of rain and thunder, a song of nature’s grace, hips swaying, turning, turning…she danced, and the grass along the shore swayed to the rhythm of her heartbeat. Her hair now dry, a wild mane of deep indigo jutting fiercely to the sky, she danced.

His breath caught in his throat – the smell of the creature caught him before he reached the beach. Four kills today, lucky, lucky him, and he crept to the shore, wondering if this one were troll, or orc, or one of the filthy tauren that ran the Barrens so freely.

And she danced.

His breath quickened as he crested the first hill, eyes scanning for places in which he could hide, the fire in his heart quickening at the sight of a jutting rock face in which he could conceal himself. Quietly, carefully, he crept his way to the rocks, lifting his sword at the ready.

And she danced.

Cruel was his smile, tongue flicking over the teeth much like a predator, the troll’s scent strong in his nose, and he leaned oh-so-quietly over the rock’s face, preparing to shout, to startle, to surprise.

And she danced.

And from behind the rocks, a pair of eyes widened, then narrowed, the shout lost somewhere in the depths of his throat.

For she danced. And as she danced, as her body swayed and moved, blue skin kissed by moonlight, the sword lowered to the ground, softly, quietly, the warrior for once pausing in his bloodthirsty crusade simply to stare with awestruck wonder at the beauty before him.

For she danced, and the world danced with her, and the moon and the stars lit the beach like a stage, twilight and darkness kissing her toes, the wind teasing her nipples to stand proud upon her dusky breasts, her eyes closed.

And he watched, and he considered, and the moon waited with baited breath to see what next he would do.