Hallow’s End.
For some, it meant liberation, a defiant smearing of the ashes of yesterday across grim and determined faces. For others, the Wickerman represented a physical manifestation of their fears and uncertainty, prepared to burn in symbolic sacrifice.
Celentia Dawnflare had waited until the still hours of twilight to steal away to the festival site that the straw behemoth stood at, a dark cloak draped over her shoulders with its’ hood pulled low over her face. Naught but ruby-painted lips shown beneath the shadow of the hood, and while she was nearly certain that she would not be recognized because of it she nonetheless searched every face she passed. Few faces were recognizable, with many citizens likely asleep at such an hour, and the sin’dorei was thankful for that.
The need for secrecy, for quickness, was especially important. Had it been within Lordaeron, among the ruins and Forsaken, the matter would have been simple. But Celentia Dawnflare never committed to simple.
She cursed herself gently for that as she stood in front of the gates of Stormwind.
Her steps were measured and dignified, or as dignified as they could be with one prosthetic leg, as she stood before the great straw construct. As though drawn to its’ side by some great guiding hand, Celentia slowly ascended the steps of the staging platform, gathering her dress in one hand to pull the draping away from her feet. In true melodramatic fashion, the former Inquisitor had laced and buttoned herself into an appropriately dark gown with yards of fabric that spread into a cathedral-esque train behind her, giving onlookers the illusion of this wraith-like woman gliding upon waves of darkness. At the very least, that was what Celentia wanted to give the impression of; After all, she was nothing if not theatrical.
The site lay eerily bare, only the standing torches casting dim light and wavering shadows upon the festival grounds. It was in this silence that the cloaked woman pressed one hand to her chest, letting her eyes fall closed and allowing, for just a moment, a year’s worth of pain and regret surface.
Whispered intentions, urges not my own, a parasitic presence coursing through my blood.
Washing the blood from my hands during moments where I am myself, wishing that I could cry because it would mean I regained some amount of humanity.
Watching her hold hands with another, oblivious to the danger that was so very close and wore the skin of her best friend.
Throwing myself from cliff after cliff, breaking my bones upon the stones and rocks because deep within me I know that the longer I take to repair the better their chances are of escape.
Being returned to my own mind, my own body, only to find myself branded a traitor.
Being alone. I cannot so much as share a brief kiss, should someone find me less than repulsive, without fear of dooming them as I was.
Each thought stung Celentia like a brand to her psyche, to the walls she had built for herself to keep out others and to protect what fragments of herself she could still hold dear. On some level, she didn’t quite understand why she put herself through such an ordeal; Was it not better to ignore such things? To let them pass?
Scarred skin grows back thicker. I shan’t ignore them, but instead find strength in knowing I will bare my teeth at the days to come. I have lived so far, and I intend to continue.
Straightening her back, the young Lady Dawnflare gripped her kindling torch tight in one pale, withered hand and opened her eyes to stare at the ground.
“With my turmoil as tender,” she murmured, fingers clutching hard enough that her nails pressed painful half-moons into her palm. “Let this Wickerman blaze. May it temper me to what tomorrow brings. Let these flames fly.”
With reverent movements, Celentia slowly pressed the torch into the Wickerman effigy, harder and deeper into its’ core until the flame settled at its’ heart. She watched as tendrils of fire began to snake through the dry hay, until finally it blazed like her own internal resolve.
“Hallow’s End is upon us.”
