Work Text:
He had healed from his injuries in Stranglethorn and, given time, he had made his way to Dalaran in time for spring to begin to thaw. Streamers and ribbons and hearts both elegant and garish decorated the city's streets. On a notice board hung many a note, affixed with pins of all sorts - wooden to metal, adorned to plain - and soon, one more joined their number. The penmanship was simple, though the words have longer spaces than one might usually find in a handwritten letter. A lot of thought went into these words, and they're written with a slow deliberacy.
I think I remember you.
I remember being happy.
But I think I remember that you died. And I think I remember what happened to you after you died. And what you wanted to do to me.
And if you are what I think you are, and if you even exist, I'm sorry.
Because I have to tell you that if you ever find me, I'll kill you.
I think I loved you once.
Let death end that like it should have.
If you're even there.
-Tanglewood
A sharpened arrow shaft held the letter to the board, no arrowhead wasted just to hold paper in place. And an elf, green with nausea, walked away from the board hoping that the note did nothing more than rot.