Chapter 3 - Part Three - The Purpose of Dawn


Illimael stood above the city at the highest point she could find, the roof of the Stormwind cathedral. At that elevation, the wind roared and rushed about her, tossing the thick mass of her dark hair about her face and shoulders. Standing where she was, teetering on the edge of the old roof, the push and pull of the wind forced a dangerous sway into her body with each gust. Tears, both fresh and drying, moistened her cheeks, chin and neck, and an opened, but untouched jug of rum hung limply from her fingers, threatening to tumble to the ground with each gusting of the wind. Behind her, invisible and silent, Nagimra paced restlessly along the crest of the roof.  

The rush of the precarious balance and the danger of a fall was a thrill, like that of combat, which she could enjoy without fear that a weak moment would give The Curse control and allow the Prophecy a chance to take root. She snorted derisively at the thought. She had been lucky so far, but how much longer could that last? The encounter earlier that day, no, she corrected herself with a glance to the faintest brightening of the horizon, yesterday. It was almost dawn and she had spent most of the night in the park, waiting. The mage did not show, and all the anxious eagerness crumbled into despair, just as everything positive always did. It was all she could do in the wake of that disappointment to find some virile young man to exchange hand jobs with before searching out the rum.

She lifted the bottle listlessly and stared at it. The curse was manageable without the drinking, but it was growing less and less bearable without a good pint to take the edge off. She licked her lips and the bottle shifted upward. It was habit, and she often suspected that The Curse had a hand in helping with this particular tick. With an exclamation of rage, she interrupted the reflex of drinking and hefted the jug of rum out across the city. She almost followed the bottle down. The lunge that catapulted the vessel from the cathedral roof threw her dangerously off balance and she wheeled her arms in an attempt to maintain her footing. The moment she began to tilt past her balance point, a lightning fast hand with an iron grip closed over her belt, and Nagimra tugged her back onto the roof. Illimael issued another roar of rage in the demon’s direction.

“Fuck you.” She spat at the succubus. “You can’t just fucking let me fall?” New tears and emotion flooded her face and she staggered back to the ledge, but remained safely balanced there, looking out over the city; although, she did sway as she stood there.

“If you really wanted to kill yourself, mistress, you would have dismissed me already.” Oblivious to the warlock’s feelings, the observation was a sarcastic jab as cutting as the whip the demon used in combat. Illimael did not even register the jibe. She slumped onto the narrow ledge. Long, black sheets of hair concealed her lowered face, but the shaking of her shoulders and soft mewling noises she made indicated she was sobbing heavily.

Then, suddenly, the proud, black robed figure of the pale mage was there, appearing out of thin air amidst an imperceptible dusting of residual mana. Nagimra snapped her head to bore a disdainful glare at the human, muttering derogatory insults in a fel tongue. The chilly stare which was returned by the Kirin Tor spoke volumes, and the demon chose silence for the moment, fading quickly from view as she drew down her own invisibility spell. The silent exchange went unnoticed by the crying warlock, and the mage turned her now soft, blue eyes upon the kneeling woman.

“It is not easy carrying around a secret so heavy it could shake the world,” she began quietly, speaking to the dusky woman’s back, “when no one else can help you bear the burden.” She refrained from moving closer, hoping the other woman did not decide to try and jump or fall again. Whether the sound of her voice soothed the warlock or not was impossible to tell, but the sniffles appeared to quiet and the shaking of her shoulders stilled. “Until it gets so heavy you are sure it will drag you over the edge and into a place that will swallow you up and take you away.” Illimael did not realize that the mage was speaking about herself, nor could Filorna know how appropriate her self-assessment was to the warlock’s plight.

“What would a beautiful, confident, powerful mage like you know about it?” Illimael did not look up. Her voice, still constricted from crying, drifted out from under the tangled mass of black hair. Filorna noted that there was no bitterness or accusation in the compliments, just a bone weary sadness thick with tears.

“I…,” she paused a moment, unsure how, or if she should continue, her pale face turned from the crumpled warlock to the city spread out below them, her eyes flitting from rooftop to rooftop as she revisited memories of a troubled past, “I have jumped from here before.”

Illimael raised her head slowly, her dark eyes barely visible behind the stray cascades of hair dangling across the now upturned face as she stared at the pale woman before her. Filorna glanced back at the motion and could barely discern in the pre-dawn gloom, the swollen puffiness around those midnight windows to the troubled soul. The warlock appeared uncomprehending, as if the mage had suddenly uttered something in a foreign tongue. Her full lips attempted to work, but nothing verbal managed to escape. Filorna searched the troubled face for a long moment before continuing.

“And from the falls in front of the city,” the fine boned hand motioned vaguely toward the South Western corner of the city. Her gaze drifted away from the warlock again as she spoke, “For a time, I was on a crusade to get myself killed. I travelled the world seeking terrible monsters to pit myself against. At the time, I told myself it was all in the name of championing the weak and saving the helpless, but I had a death wish.” She gazed out over the city, talking to herself as much as the warlock.

“And every time I got within a breath of getting that wish,” the delicate, pale fingers closed in a pinching motion to emphasize the statement, “the fact that I was alive because someone else had died came back to me, and I would do all that I could to not let it happen to me.” Tears began to stream down her face. “From a simple feather fall spell to interrupt the most blatant of suicide attempts to drawing on my most powerful reserves to shield me from a killing blow, the need to live on for that doomed soul won out over my selfish want to escape a guilt which was not actually mine to bear.” Tears continued to spill down her cheeks, and Illimael knew that they were for that doomed soul who had died in the mage’s place somehow.

It was not long before the sky blue eyes fluttered, blinking away further tears, and with a stifled sniffle, a small hand darted from beneath the folds of the night-black robes to wipe away the salty streams already there. The flash of those pale eyes and wordless working of the delicate lips impressed upon the warlock a silent apology for the show of emotion.

Illimael could only imagine what her current appearance was like. The mage’s moment of weakness was a teardrop in a rainstorm next to her screwed up life. She wiped at her own face with the back of an arm, and some of the fire came back to her eyes as she flicked long, black curtains of hair over her shoulders in annoyance. Pulling herself to her feet, the warlock moved closer to the mage, but the saunter was missing, the sway of the hips, and the jut of the breasts. The Curse was buried beneath a world of emotion counter to its purpose, and each step was precise, careful, as if the woman was now very concerned about slipping and inadvertently falling from the roof. She halted barely an arm’s length from the regal mage and regarded her with a tangled expression, as her brain struggled to codify the iconic figure she had encountered in the street the previous day with the emotional human standing before her now.

“Who are you?” The warlock asked with earnest curiosity, her voice had started to return to normal and her demeanor had begun to relax. A smile, delightful in its embarrassment, spread across the mages features in response to the question, and Illimael’s heart surged as the first fluttering of butterflies tickled her guts.  Bathed in the warm glow of the ripening dawn, it was possibly the most beautiful thing the warlock had ever seen, and she realized there was a blush blooming in the pale cheeks, for the normally proper lady had completely forgotten the most basic of politeness: introductions.

“I am Filorna.” She extended an elegant hand to the warlock, and added matter-of-factly, as if to explain the lack of a surname, “Of the tower.”

Illimael took the hand eagerly, but with a great tenderness, as if it was ephemeral in its paleness and her own fingers might drift right through it. The instant their skin contacted, a jolt of warm excitement like the sparks from the previous day raced back to the pit of her stomach and stirred up the butterflies which had up to then been barely flittering. She reveled in the softness of the digits, her thumb exploring the texture of the knuckles, and it took an effort for her to make her vocal chords work.

“Illimael,” she responded, her eyes rising from the hand to the exquisite features of Filorna’s face.

“It is good to finally, formally, meet you, Illimael.” Filorna’s smile had lost none of its warmth, even if the extent of it had subsided following the rectification of the etiquette slip that had inflated it, and the warlock suspected that the proper mage did not smile openly or easily, not in public, anyway. Sky blue eyes shifted past the warlock, focusing in the distance, and the mage inclined her head, silently inviting Illimael to do the same. When the dusky woman turned, she was forced to squint as the first rays of dawn lanced through the remnants of night.

“Alahni lo Andu,” Filorna stated reverently, her refined voice wrapping perfectly about the delicate words. Illimael angled her head slightly, and listened intently to the strange saying, but she did not turn from the triumphant rise of the sun, amazed at how much significance such a daily occurrence could have at that moment.

“You are so beautiful when you speak,” Illimael observed quietly. “Is that Darnassian?” She asked. “What does it mean?”

“It is Darnassian,” Filorna confirmed in little more than a whisper, watching the warlock pointedly as she translated, “It means: Purpose of dawn, and we commonly equate the concept to Hope.” Illimael digested the words immediately, her mind blessedly clear and free of alcohol, and she quickly recognized the timing of the mage’s appearance on the roof.

“Light, bringing hope from the darkness…” she murmured quietly, thoughtful, and the mage smiled behind her with more than a touch of pride. Illimael studied the sunrise a moment longer, lost in thought, then observed matter-of-factly, “You’ve been watching me all night. You wanted me to see this.”

There was a whisper of robes behind her, and Filorna’s body pressed against her from behind, the delicate arms wound about her waist, brushing the bottoms of her heavy breasts as elegant fingers spread along each side of her ribs. The fine boned chin settled on her shoulder and one perfect cheek pressed lightly against her left ear. It was all the dusky woman could do not to moan in sheer bliss. Her own hands clasped tentatively at those of the mage, her eyes fluttered closed and her head drifted back to touch Filorna’s shoulder. The motion shifted the gold trimmed hood from the mage’s head, and Illimael could smell the exotic herbs and sweet soaps lingering in the blonde hairs. When Filorna’s enticing voice drifted whisper quiet again, Illimael could feel the warm breath upon her cheek, and it ignited an inferno inside the warlock.

“There is hope for all of us in the Purpose,” Filorna whispered. Her head shifted against the dusky skinned cheek as she spoke, and the warlock felt the brush of delicate, shapely lips against her skin. It was almost too much and she barely registered the comment, for The Curse was fully awake, and the warlock’s breathing quickened, her pulse raced and her more intimate regions buzzed with anticipation as the warmth of the mage’s body slowly suffused the night chilled areas of her scantily attired form. It took an effort for Illimael to remain still and savor the embrace. She had to focus to register the comment properly.

“In the Purpose?” She asked breathlessly, intrigued enough by the implications of the statement to subdue the worst of the cravings coursing through her, but by the Light, she wanted those delicate hands in more places than just nuzzling her ribs; however, all things considered, she was in heaven at that moment.

“Friends and allies of mine,” the enchanting voice explained ever so briefly, “But that can wait until morning. I think the important points have been made for now.”

Illimael nodded in agreement, and when Filorna turned her head and ever so gently placed a kiss on the warlock’s neck, just below the ear, the dark lips parted and a she surrendered, releasing a moan from sheer bliss. Her hands tightened around the wrists of the mage, urging them upward, but Filorna did not intend to bed the dusky beauty on a Stormwind rooftop and interrupted the attempts to induce fondling by lightly biting the lobe of Illimael’s ear. A shudder passed through the warlock, and a gasp interrupted her heavy, rhythmic breathing. Filorna’s voice followed, the enchanting sound puffed directly into the same ear.

“Have you been with a woman before?”

“No,” the warlock admitted, but before Filorna could respond, she clarified sheepishly, “Not that I remember anyway.” She turned her head slightly to gauge the mage’s reaction.

Filorna returned a reassuring smile and nodded, loosening her arms about the other woman slightly and angling her head to place a kiss tenderly upon her lips. Illimael returned the gesture in kind, her hands shifting to escalate the encounter, but a delicate finger placed across her full, dark lips and a whispered command arrested the intended actions.

“Not here,” the mage stated with promise in her pale eyes, and she reluctantly separated from the dusky, crimson clad body with a gesture imploring patience. Illimael complied, standing where she was, her fingers idly tracing the spots where Filorna’s lips had touched her.

The black robes billowed and mana surged through the air. Focus and concentration defined the pale features of Filorna’s face as she wove mana and gesture and syllable into a net of power, then directed it through reality to open a portal to someplace else. Illimael watched in rapt curiosity, the spell weaving feat bolstering her desire for the delicate mage, and as the black robes shifted about the woman’s frame, the warlock had a strange realization, for it occurred to her she had seen very little of Filorna, in fact, nothing more than her face and hands, but she also knew that this did not matter for many reasons that had nothing to do with The Curse. Looking over her shoulder, she squinted away the harshest of the newly risen sun’s rays, that enchanting voice echoing in her head, “There is hope for all of us…”

A swift silence engulfed the roof, and Illimael turned from the dawn to the smiling face of Filorna. The mage held one hand out to the warlock, the other offering an invitation to enter the glowing, magical portal hovering over the cathedral roof. Within the translucent shimmer of mystical energy, a large, finely appointed study with polished cherry furniture and a library of books and scrolls could be seen. Filorna took Illimael by the hand and preceded her through the portal. For the first time in her recent memory, Illimael followed with no reservations, doubts or worries troubling her soul. She reached the boundary of the portal magic, and felt the powerful incantations binding the mana. In her bones, a magical thrumming was faintly vibrating, and as the portal magic rose up around her, she gave a silent command, a discharging gesture, and Nagimra was dismissed from service for the day.
 