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He allowed himself a small smile when he spotted her a short distance away, approaching the main gates. Even with her hair hidden beneath her hood, he recognized her easily, almost immediately, nevermind the fact that Sin’dorei did not frequent Lordaeron, and the individual before him was unlikely to be a stranger. Yet the flash of recognition stirred pleasantly in his unbeating heart, and anticipation lifted his spirits.
Soranar had not seen his little sister in months, and though the passage of time was rendered somewhat irrelevant, for both of them, he could still feel it keenly enough that he had begun to miss her in her absence, that he thought of her frequently, when nothing else occupied his hours, and he was glad to see her made manifest now, on this dreary summer morning in Tirisfal, with mist in the air and scarcely a break in the clouds.
Ahellia must have missed him as well; her letter expressed that much, a few weeks ago, when she suggested a visit, which he hesitantly, yet enthusiastically, accepted. Forsaken lands did not make for great vacation spots, and many of the living found it too uncomfortable, whether it be the weather, or the grim sights or the ghastly smells, but certainly it had been done many times before and would be done again, and if she offered to make the trip, he would not deny her.
She had already been to Undercity a handful of times before, mostly in times of strife or war, to aid the Forsaken efforts, and to keep the Horde strong, though this particular visit was one of leisure, born of a simple desire to connect, despite the unpleasant environment and ill-suited accommodations. She could handle them to see him. It would be well worth it.
Soranar appreciated that. Knowing that his sister still cared for him after all these years, after what he had become, and that she still wanted to see him, or occasionally spend time at his side was a relief. He knew not all Forsaken were so lucky in their ties, that many had relations in this world they would never have the pleasure of sitting next to again, or even speaking to, and that the weight of banishment wore on their weary bones, the way the prospect of such a thing had worn on his in the early days. He was relieved to be spared such pain, that he still could salvage a part of his former life and the joy of it.
Though he supposed it was a relief for her as well; they had no other relatives, living or undead, and though Ahellia was amicable, and could navigate conversation easily, and made her way through the world steadfastly, she was not a budding socialite. She rarely found herself surrounded by friends or occupied by companions, and though such a thing did not bother her on the whole (nor did it bother him) there were times when the silence could be…stifling.
Perhaps loneliness had caught up with her, made more apparent by a lapse in action or responsibility; without a significant war campaign at the moment, he could imagine her getting… antsy, and seeking to reconnect. He’d had to journey northward a year or two ago for that very reason, though she seemed to be much more at peace since, so the discomfort he suffered travelling to Quel’thalas then was easily forgiven.
Either way he was glad to offer a remedy now, to take a few days to see her shining face and hear her voice, to know that she was alive and well and (hopefully) making the most of her life.
Her head was raised when she drew close, her lips turned up in a small smile, which only grew, in response to his own. Ahellia dropped her heavy travel bag and set her bow to the side, and looked up at him expectantly. He held out a hand, which she accepted, and he grasped hers firmly.
“Sister,” Soranar greeted.
“Brother,” she replied, pleased by the familiar musical lilt in his tone, hardly diminished by the rasp his voice had adopted since his undeath.
His hands were cold, but she had grown used to that after all these years, and she did not shirk from his touch. He was still her Soranar, and always would be. His face was gaunt, pale, and his piercing red eyes, as always shrouded by dark shadows, would be unsettling to a stranger, yet the echo of gentle blue which once inhabited them still seemed clear to her. His posture remained impeccable, and he donned his armor proudly. The creep of decay had not marred his pleasant features any further with the passage of time.
And she, as always, was utterly familiar to him. Her fair skin was somewhat tanned, he could easily see despite the cloudy day. Perhaps she had spent more time than usual in the open air, now that summer must have been blooming in Quel’thalas. Her hair still fell in graceful curls down her shoulders, the golden strands peeking out beneath her hood, kept out of the elements, and the glint of ambition in her eye had not dulled in the months since he’d last seen her. He could still see the memory of youth on her visage, could still recognize the little girl who once trailed behind him, despite being a grown woman for many years already.
She looked well.
He did not relinquish her hand. Instead, he pulled on it lightly, so lightly that she could easily break away if she pleased, but intentionally enough that his desire was clear: he wanted to embrace her. He needed to really, to express, as always without words, his gratitude for her affection, for her acceptance. As the years drew on since their reconciliation, they had indeed fallen more easily into old patterns, especially where touch was considered, so he did not expect her to deny his whim now, and happily, she did not.
Ahellia allowed herself to be drawn into his arms. His body was cold against hers, the chainmail of his armor somewhat frigid despite the mild temperature, but it offered comfort enough regardless, enough to allow unconscious tension to slip from her shoulders, the exertion of travel making itself known. One arm bent around the small of her back, beneath her quiver, and the other drew her hood down, a gentle hand smoothing over her luxurious hair, swept through it with care, and the ease of memory. She closed her eyes, sank into his touch as she had when they were children, her brows knit at the scent of decay lingering beneath his pleasant cloud of incense, though not unpleasant enough to sour this sweet moment.
Soranar did not let her go for some time. Some of the guardsmen were watching a few yards away, he knew, but it did not matter. He took in the heat of her living flesh, the way she embraced him so readily, unashamed, with no apparent disgust, and for a moment, he could pretend that they were still the same, that when he closed his eyes, the world was still warm and new and peaceful, and they were younger, and more innocent, and unburdened. He held her firmly, affectionately, not standing tall, for the moment, as a Dark Ranger, but simply as her elder brother. They were cut from the same cloth, always had been, despite all that happened, but in these short moments, it was easy to pretend his cloth was not moth-bitten and spoiled, and although almost three decades had passed, and they had both seen and experienced much, nothing had changed at all.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly, playing with her hair. He remembered when his own was so smooth, when it never seemed to tangle, and shone in the sun like spun silk. Now, it was so much more ghostly, dull, and even as he brushed it, maintained it, there were a few strands which always proved unruly.
“Well enough,” Ahellia replied, slowly drawing back so she could regard him. “Nothing to complain about,” she offered, tilting her head a little in place of a shrug. She did not push his hand away.
“Nothing to complain about? That hardly sounds like you,” Soranar replied, somewhat teasingly, though sincerely, letting his fingers slip through her curls one more time before dropping. She would not have come all this way without reason, even if she did not want to reveal it so soon.
“I’ve not been here five minutes, and you’re already ragging on me,” Ahellia sighed wearily, looking at their boots. “Not much of a warm welcome.” She knit her brows, adjusted her cloak.
“Ah, a complaint. I’m satisfied,” Soranar said, nodding curtly. “Though ‘warm’ may be a difficult wish to fulfill, when it comes to greetings here.” He gestured to the nearly-empty front gate.
Ahellia glanced around them, and did indeed mark the relative silence, compared to the bustle of Silvermoon. Was it always this desolate here, she wondered? Or was it simply a quiet summer day she happened to come here? Either way, she did not mind it; sometimes the crowded streets of Silvermoon were too overwhelming, and she often found herself seeking refuge elsewhere.
“I came to see you, and you have greeted me. As warmly as you’re able to,” she said. “That’s enough for me.”
Soranar nodded once more, somewhat graciously. His face remained grim. “Hold on to that feeling the next few days, ‘Lia. I can’t imagine the quarters here to be more comfortable than back home.”
“This is not my first visit,” she reminded him, huffing a little, and bending to sweep her bag off the ground. She slung it over her shoulder, careful so it did not jostle her quiver, and grasped her bow next. She held her head high. “And I have endured plenty of more unpleasant accommodations.”
He knew she meant what she said. He’d heard a handful of stories regarding her involvement in the Legion campaign, and the struggles and horrors she had faced there. Any war offered discomfort, and Ahellia had seen as many as he had. But still, he could not help but feel somewhat self-conscious, whenever she came to the Undercity. Perhaps it was the decades of foul whispers and belligerence Forsaken had suffered, outside of Lordaeron, that made it difficult to see outsiders in Lordaeron. Though insults frequently rolled off of his back, the echoes of them remained difficult to banish. Such a thing was worsened by the mere fact that Ahellia was his sister, and that he wanted least of all to disappoint her in some way, or drive her away.
But once more she had made the decision to come here, had suggested it even, so he did his best to squash the creeping sense of shame gathering in the soles of his boots. He straightened, and gestured for her to walk forward once ready, so they may enter the city.
Ahellia had always found it fascinating here; the Forsaken themselves, of course, offered plenty of interest, but really it was the ghost of the old human kingdom which piqued her curiosity, the reliefs carved into stone walls and emblems which had lost their importance over the years, had become part of the lingering shadows of Tirisfal. She had always wanted to see the Capital City when she was younger, and curious, and had never set foot outside of Quel’thalas yet. Although it was much changed now, she supposed the wish had been fulfilled after all. The Forsaken had made minimal changes to the surface level of the city, had even attempted to restore what they could, now after war had ravaged the landscape. Though the denizens had changed, and times had changed, the spirit of a noble city remained.
She and many others had come to offer their aid after the Battle for Lordaeron, to help clear the Blight, and to clear the debris of war. It was a lengthy and difficult process, mostly undertaken by the Forsaken themselves, but she had done her part. To see the city restored since, to see it begin to thrive, especially with the newer leadership, was satisfying.
Soranar led her through winding streets, and down towards the lower levels. The level of activity, and consequently the noise, increased in the inner walls, and the signs of life were heartening to see, even if they were not as boisterous as one of the other major cities in the Eastern Kingdoms.
Soranar’s quarters were barely below ground; he’d requested as much, so many years ago, when he and the other dark rangers laid claim to the city. Being unable to ever see daylight, if only through a few small slats which served as windows, would have driven him mad. He much rather made long walks to the War Quarter and back for briefings and meetings if it meant he could see the sun more easily. Ahellia always stayed with him too, as opposed to an inn here, when she visited, which was another reason he appreciated the windows. Any way to mitigate the permeant stench of undeath was welcome for her sensitive nose (even if she never complained).
His bed was large and rarely used, really, as Forsaken did not sleep, and Soranar did not have idle hands, so he had no trouble sharing it with her for a few nights. Once or twice as children she’d come to share his bed too, on the rare occasion she had a nightmare, or could not sleep, and did not want to disturb their parents. The sheets were fresh and soft; he’d had them imported recently specifically for her visit, though he did not announce as such, and they were inviting enough.
Ahellia made herself comfortable in his room easily enough, placing her bow and quiver alongside his by the door, dropping her bag in the corner, and taking in the stacks of books and half-melted candles spread around. It was modest, not particularly spacious, but well-kept. Some fabrics were draped along the walls, almost a facsimile of Thalassian décor, though the sturdy desk and chair and wardrobe along one of the walls were of human make. There were a few drawings framed and hung here and there, in simple ink, yet each crafted with skill and incredible detail, in a few different styles, and most, she did not recognize. He must have acquired them recently.
Ahellia inspected one of these drawings, an impressive vista which she readily recognized: the street their home in Silvermoon stood on.
She said nothing for a few moments, taking in the details, so painstakingly recreated that the artist must have been there in person to capture it all: the cracks in the curb, the budding flowers in the topiaries, the missing shingle on the neighbor’s roof. The door to their manor was clear, at the end of the street, to the right, not the central figure of the composition, but easily drawing the eye towards it nonetheless. It was a sunny day, when this was drawn, with only a wispy could or two in the sky, and even though there was no color to be found here, the rich hues of Silvermoon seemed to shine through the linework anyway.
Ahellia wondered how long ago it had been done. She tried to think back, if she had seen anyone in recent weeks or months on the street, making artwork, especially such a beautiful illustration, but could not recall such a thing. Then again, she was usually quite busy, and did not pay very close attention to familiar streets when traversing them.
Soranar stood still by the door, gauging her reaction as she admired the artwork, wondering if she thought it strange or pathetic to have such a thing. After all, he could technically return to Silvermoon whenever he wished, and see their home in person. But travelling northward always made him uncomfortable, always became too difficult to bear. It was easier to recount distant happy memories, to glimpse them through a safe lens, than to risk marring them with new, unpleasant realities. He had changed so much. The world had changed so much. Attempting to change with it often proved difficult.
Ahellia did not tease him, ultimately. She did gesture to the drawing though, turned to look at him. “Who made this one?” she asked.
“A friend of a friend,” Soranar said, taking a few steps forward. He regarded the drawing fondly, thinking back to receiving it a few months ago. “It was a birthday gift.”
“From Linnorei?” Ahellia surmised, glancing up at him. Though her brother was by no means unfriendly, he did not keep many social companions, and certainly not many who would know his birthday. Not all Forsaken even celebrated them; many chose to celebrate their death days instead, if they were content with their new lives, with their new beginnings. Soranar preferred the former.
“From Linnorei,” he confirmed.
“Hm,” she said, crossing her arms. “Certainly a little more appealing than my last one.”
“On the contrary,” he replied. “Look closely.”
Soranar leaned forward, and swept his hair over his shoulder, so she could see his cloak pin. Imprinted, somewhat crudely on the little silver pin was the image of a Peacebloom plant, which grew all over Quel’thalas. She had imprinted it herself, instead of allowing the metalsmith to do it; although her silverwork could use improvement, the effort she went through to handcraft his gift made it that much more meaningful.
Ahellia’s heart squeezed looking at it, knowing he wore it every day. The familial love between them was no secret, but such a palpable reminder that he did care for her, and appreciate her, and perhaps thought of her every day, the way she found herself thinking about him, was heartening. She did not know what to say; a simple ‘hm’ spoke for her.
He understood. They were never adept at candidly expressing emotions, but were plenty able to read each other. This skill only seemed to develop further with time. Though he did attempt to express himself more, as the years went on. But Soranar had always had an aversion to wearing his heart on his sleeve. Careful consideration and patience still guided his tongue.
He turned from the illustration, crossed the room to his nightstand and lifted the top book from his neatly placed stack. Soranar brushed fingers over the embossed leather binding. “How are things at home?” he found himself asking.
Ahellia sunk into the chair by his desk, thinking, as her fingertips fell into a counting rhythm as they had many times before. She took a moment before replying, “Peaceful.”
Soranar considered that. It was a relief to hear, to think, that after so much war, Quel’thalas could be enjoying a true, palpable peace, like it had for so many years before the Scourge. He wanted to ask more, for details, for descriptions. Did the sun still reflect on the winding stairwell in the manor? Did Farstrider Square still smell of freshly carved wood and hay-filled targets? Did musicians still play in the afternoons in The Bazaar?
But he did not need to ask. Ahellia did not leave him wondering.
“We’ve had sunshine almost every day the last three weeks. The fountains have all been cleaned and repaired and you can hear them babbling all hours of the day. New food vendors have made themselves at home, with recipes from far away, even some from the Alliance. There was a grand wedding in the Court of the Sun last week. I did not receive an invitation but the revelry could be heard halfway across the city,” she recalled. She made herself more comfortable, turned her eyes to the ceiling as she thought of what to share.
“The shop Mother used to buy tea from still stands. I don’t think the owner will ever retire. And naturally, the nobles have started their summer celebrations. Pretty ladies are squabbling over the latest gowns and jewelry. Not entirely my thing, but I have seen some truly beautiful garments in shop displays, the beadwork and silks glistening in the sun, and in such beautiful colors...”
Soranar listened with rapt attention; he set his book back in its place and sat on the edge of his bed, looking at her expectantly as she recounted various happenings in Silvermoon, stopping a second or two here or there, finding more to tell, and allowing painted words to carry them a few hundred miles northward, to the heart of Eversong Woods.
“Next week the worthy Farstrider recruits have their ceremonies. Halduron agonized over the banquet details,” Ahellia said, a breath of laughter punctuating her words.
“Halduron? Planning the banquet himself?” Soranar wondered, raising a brow. He did not expect to hear such a development.
“The last overseer retired a few weeks ago, and he was too busy to vet a new one. Many of us insisted he delegate the responsibility to someone else, but he was stubborn.”
“Hm. A fault which lies in us all, I’m afraid.”
“Our pride can certainly speak for itself,” Ahellia agreed, smiling a little. It was true. Elves were proud and stalwart, and ambitious to boot, when it served them. It could be a virtue, but it could also be cause for misfortune, great and small.
“Nonetheless, I’m certain the proceedings will be impressive,” Soranar said, thinking back to his own initiation ceremony. It had actually rained, the day he became a proper Ranger, but the weather had not diminished the pride of accomplishment, or the expanse of food and drink and the respect of his superiors, and his companions. He doubted he could ever forget it.
“One can only hope. The last I saw him, he looked very close to tossing an inkwell at an attendant’s head.”
Soranar laughed softly at that, like a breeze twisting through the trees, and it made Ahellia’s smile grow. It was good to hear him laugh, to see him joyful. Some may think it was merely to be polite, or that he was only a little amused, given the low volume of his laughter, but she knew better. He was only outwardly reserved. He very much enjoyed this anecdote, which pleased her in turn.
She drew a leg up on the seat of her chair, wrapped an arm around her knee. “I’m certain he sorted it out. I cannot think of a time the Ranger-General disappointed us.”
“That is not true,” her brother protested, picking lint from his cloak, feeling quite relaxed, more relaxed than he had in some time really. His rigid posture softened marginally. “Not three years ago you were ready to curse his name for sending you away. And a few years before that, I was certain you would use his portrait for target practice.”
“Well that,” she bristled, “is different. He deserved my ire, for such pig-headed decisions.”
“Time has not tamed your tongue, I see. It’s a wonder you keep your rank.”
“My archery speaks for itself,” Ahellia said with a shrug. She tilted her head a little, and her golden hair swept over her shoulder.
Soranar found it amusing. She never had difficulty defending herself, in any instance. It was good to see her regular petulance though, instead of seeing her demure, and weighed down by her emotions, as he had found her in past times.
“It certainly does,” he agreed.
A silence fell over them, though it was not awkward. It was all too familiar, really. Ahellia could recall many such silences, little moments of peace and quiet simply being in each other’s presence, out in the woods, or avoiding other guests at parties, or even in the training yard.
It was a relief to share this silence with him now. Silences spent on her own were well enough, but she did find herself yearning for companionship in the idle hours. Patrols were uneventful, and training drills were wasted on her. Without a war to focus on, there were simply too many hours, which she struggled to fill. She spent much of it in the forest, gathering herbs for the local apothecary, occasionally hunting or foraging or begging the Ranger-General for more assignments, which were often denied. Her neighbors were kind enough to invite her to dinners occasionally, which she accepted, and she wandered the city for amusements, but the revelry always felt short-lived.
Sometimes she considered travelling to far away places, but her taste for adventure had begun to wear off, and the same affinity for home that had gripped Soranar in his youth had begun to take hold in her as well. There were certainly still things, still people, that drew her away from Quel’thalas, but she felt truly, that she did belong there after all, even if the days were too long.
Yet nonetheless, sometimes the quiet, empty air in the manor could be stifling, especially with the memories of childhood imprinted on every wall, every bit of furniture. She could not bring herself to part with any of it. Even their parents’ room was left untouched, despite their passing so long ago. Sure, Ahellia had amassed new collections, new items of interest of the years, and transformed her own large bedroom over time, but the spirit of the house was very much unchanged, which made the absence of her family more keenly felt, when she thought too long on it.
But she didn’t need to think about that right now. She was here, with Soranar, for at least a few days, and surely would make the most of it.
“…Do you remember the little bow Grandmother gave me?” she asked after a while, glancing at their bows resting side by side by the door, thinking of years long since passed.
“Of course,” he replied, his red eyes distant, as if envisioning its shape, its color, in his mind. “It was very much like mine. I offered mine to you when I outgrew playthings but you wanted your own.”
“I did,” Ahellia said. “I loved that little thing. A bow of my very own.”
“I think you tried to take it to school once or twice,” he recalled, leaning back more comfortably on his bed, some of his stiff posture dissipating as the comfort of childhood memories took hold.
“I was furious when Mother took it away. I uprooted the roses on the balcony.”
“Ah, I remember that!” Soranar replied, straightening once more. He smiled softly, as the memory seemed to play out in his mind, as if drawn from a dusty cabinet and displayed. He remembered her red-faced and eyes full of tears, yet brimming with irritation, and how she stomped through the house when her little bow was taken from her hands. And moreso, he remembered the heat in their mother’s gaze, the way she had shouted when she discovered the ruined flowers, and reprimanded Ahellia for her vehemence. It had been a little jarring, he remembered. He was glad to have stayed out of the situation.
“I do believe that is the worst you ever misbehaved,” he mused.
“I was on punishment for two weeks,” Ahellia confirmed, thinking back to those unpleasant few days. “No trips, no playing outside of the house. Straight to school and straight home. And then chores.”
Though it was less the death of the roses which called for punishment, but the ensuing argument, in which she refused to accept their mother’s judgment, and raised her voice defiantly. Ahellia was normally quite selective with her obstinance, only employing it where she knew she could get results, but in that instance, emotion had overshadowed logic. It had done so once or twice in her adult life as well, though she never could bring herself to regret such instances.
“Be glad you were so young,” Soranar said, sobering a little. “A few years older and your chores would have been much more substantial.”
He rarely crossed his parents as a youth. He did not want to risk their ire, or spend his afternoons with unpleasant work, which he knew, undoubtedly, there was plenty to be undertaken in a household. They held a meager staff in those days, a cook, and a maid or two, and he never envied their early mornings and late nights tending to the manor. After the fall of the Sunwell they sought their luck elsewhere, he had found out; with only Ahellia residing in the manor, there was not much work to do that she could not see to on her own.
He wondered briefly how they were doing these days, if they had found peace or comfort in their lives. Were they safe? Were they happy? Or had tragedy struck them along the way, as it had reached nearly every denizen in Azeroth at one point or another? He did not attempt to find out for certain, and nor did he try to spend much time thinking on it. He did not want to pry, and, more importantly, he did not want to be disappointed, if indeed misfortune had struck. He had plenty of that to remember.
Ahellia could not disagree with his assessment when he made it; the chores she did have had been enough, and the mere memory of them made her feel a little irritated. She frowned a little, at first, thinking on the anger she felt so long ago as a child, but it quickly faded into fond remembrance, and she rolled her eyes at her own foolishness.
“Either way, I learned my lesson,” she replied, and stood from her seat, the restlessness in her legs driving her to movement once more.
“Did you?” Soranar raised a skeptical brow. He watched her pace in a slow circle in the empty space before him as he sat still, feet firmly planted and his straight back indicating his singular attention.
She brushed her hair over her shoulder as she walked, ignoring the feeling of his eyes on her. “Well enough.”
He hummed. “I doubt you could ever learn it fully.”
“Should I?” Ahellia protested. It was her very refusal to learn, to set aside her own judgment, her own emotions, which had kept her from making grave mistakes in the past. She trusted those around her, mostly, but sometimes, her own instinct proved superior, and she would not hesitate to defend her opinions when the need arose, regardless of the consequences. Her strong will had carried her far; she did not expect it to fail her now.
Nor did Soranar expect her to forsake it. But he could not help but tease her a little, only to see the flame of ambition shine in her vibrant eyes once more. Her sense of vitality warmed him, nowadays more than ever. Glimpsing her enthusiasm, knowing that she had not lost it over the years always made him happy. He was certain it showed in his eyes, the hardness of undeath in them softened by affection, not even restrained by the dark, unsettling circles beneath his lashes.
“You should not,” he said, shaking his head a little. “Better to keep your own mind. Following blindly leads to...unpleasant things. I am one to know.” The dark ranger could not stop a hint of regret from marring his tone.
Ahellia did not miss it. She glanced at him sidelong, her footsteps slowing to a halt. Merely a beat, and then she sat down at his side, and after a moment of thought, reached for his hand.
His fingers were so cold, almost uncomfortably so, but that did not deter her from grasping them firmly, comfortingly, as if they felt no different than her own. He did not pull away from her comforting touch, from the sudden heat, but could not bring himself to look at her, and she, thankfully, did not look at him.
They both stared at the floor, the air suddenly seeming a little thicker than before, as they reflected on the past, on the things they had both seen and experienced, and the unpleasant memories surging in the backs of their minds.
“…We have all made mistakes,” Ahellia said finally, sighing softly. “The right path is not always immediately clear.”
That was true enough. It was easy to be ignorant, to ignore signs and warnings, to become comfortable with an established rhythm without questioning it. Many had fallen to the siren call, to allow a superior to make hard decisions, to follow orders easily, even at the expense of morality, only because it was easier to stay quiet, to stay complacent, than to speak one’s mind and act on it. But many had freed themselves from such deliberate inaction as well, had taken responsibility for their mistakes, for the pains they had inflicted. Soranar counted himself among them, at least, as best he could. And Ahellia did too. They had both atoned for past mistakes, and would not be defined by them.
They seemed to say as much to each other, with Soranar offering a curt nod in place of words.
Ahellia glanced at him, at his silent agreement, and shook his hand a little to shake away any more negative thoughts he might have harbored, and consequently, to keep herself from thinking any of her own. “I do believe you taught me that,” she said, hoping he would enjoy the compliment, but meaning it quite emphatically.
“I did,” he replied, turning to regard her once more. He sighed softly, the rasp in his lungs making him sound weary, but his eyes emphasized his sincerity, and the quiet pride he carried. “And I was glad to.”
He meant it; whatever wisdom he could impart on her, he had always given freely, happily. If he knew any way to make her life more comfortable, happier, he would always do so, as he had done their entire lives.
The reminder of that brought a smile to her face; it was good to know he cared, to know that she would always have her older brother looking out for her, doing his best to protect her, even if physical protection was the last thing she required. She only hoped that he got something out of it in return, that he felt he could rely on her, the way she could rely on him.
She knew his life was not easy; Soranar had suffered more than she could imagine, for his family, for his kingdom, and remained stalwart, always offering his service to those in need. He had always been diligent, devoted to his duty, but certainly, he must have felt a terrible loneliness, at least some of the time, as she did. So far from home, so…changed. He seemed content enough, and had accepted his new life graciously over time, but she was certain he still missed much of his old life, the life that was stolen from him. The illustration hanging on the wall was testament to that.
She had come here initially because she missed him, because she was lonely, but now, perhaps she had a quest to complete here, in assuring him of her gratitude, her affection, and to banish any sense of solitude for him, at least for a little while. Surely, he had pleasant exchanges with his recruits, and cohorts, and distant friends such as Linnorei, but she was his sister, and that meant a little more, she liked to think.
Ahellia squeezed his hand for good measure, then released it, to inspect his cloak pin once more, brush a thumb over the grooves in the little metal flower fondly, still impressed at his dedication to donning it.
“So, what activities has dear Shana prepared for us in the coming days?” she asked, eager to change the subject to something more enjoyable.
“I’m certain you can guess,” he replied, amused by the inquiry, by the use of his childhood nickname.
She met his eyes then, a flash of delight shining in hers. “A hunt?”
“Among other things,” Soranar confirmed, unwilling to reveal much more than that.
She could not help but smile properly then, offering much needed sunshine which was missing on this misty day. “Then consider me content.”
Soranar regarded her fondly, much more fondly than he had regarded anything else in recent weeks, and he was content as well.