The tiny warlock sat at the desk in her room, frowning at the open book in front of her. She had started over on the second page, but was quickly growing apprehensive - again - about having her thoughts written down on paper. Her quill was poised to continue, but as it touched the parchment her hand jerked almost involuntarily to one side, creating an angry line through some of the words she had just written.
It was enough. Acherontia dipped the pen over and over again, scribbling and scratching out her words until the page itself was almost in tatters and every word was completely illegible. She sighed softly as she rose from the table, closing the book and stuffing it deep into the inner pocket of her robe that she had hung on a peg near her bed. A tiny chime issued from the clock over her desk - past midnight. Where had all her time gone?
A rhetorical question, of course - she knew. Hours spent in the lair of the Pit Lord, learning his strengths and weaknesses, being cut down over and over again by his blades. Still more hours spent by the oases of the Barrens, collecting enough fish to feed an army and still needing more. A chilling afternoon spent in the halls of the Scholomance - not enough penance, not nearly enough could she do to make up for everything. The ghostly woman outside had finally handed her a small trinket - was that accusation in her eyes? The spirit of a man walking with his wife - did they look at the warlock and lay the blame on her shoulders? Acherontia had only watched them briefly with the aid of Eva's gift, but fled from Caer Darrow shortly thereafter - still unable to face them. Soon, she would go back - but she was exhausted.
Acherontia stoppered the bottle of ink that sat on her desk near a vase containing a single rose, not yet beginning to wilt. She blew out the candle and climbed into her bed, closing her eyelids over the gaping sockets that no longer could see. Soon, the warlock was asleep, and she dreamed.
Jana stood with folded arms in front of the small flower garden she had been nurturing for the past few months. Blue cornflowers fought with the childlike daisies for supremacy, tulips nodded here, and there drooped lazy chrysanthemums. In the center of her garden, though, stood a rich green bush with nary a single flower blooming.
She heard her husband approaching before he spoke - which he rarely did, but no matter - and felt his arms go around her waist. She leaned back against him with a sigh. "Nothing," she said softly. Simon pressed his lips to her silver-white hair and nodded. He felt her tension in every muscle - even when she was happy, she always seemed to be looking towards the next thing and worrying about it. He knew she didn't see the rest of her garden, only the rosebush that never bloomed.
"It'll come," he assured her. "We're goin' to Stratholme next week - we'll see if there's a body there who knows what can be done." He gave her a final squeeze and she smiled softly. "There was somethin' waitin' for you in town - I brought it and set it inside." He turned back to the fields and Jana felt the smile leave her face, her brows knotting as she took a last look at the rosebush and went inside the farmhouse.
He was right - on the tiny table in the corner of the room was a small wooden box addressed to "Acherontia". Not my name now, but soon, she thought to herself as she lifted the lid.
Inside was a single red rose, a perfect bloom, laid on top of a note.
Here's a little something to remind you to stop and smell the roses!
The Plains of Mulgore are beautiful even in the day. Thanks for reminding me of that.
-Pugg
Jana's mouth twitched as she tried not to smile. Mulgore...where was that? Of course she knew Pugg. He was a priest of the Grim.
The Grim...what was that?
She closed her blue eyes and brought the flower to her face, inhaling its heady scent, smiling sadly. It's coming soon.
And indeed, as in all her dreams, she felt clawed fingers begin to dig into her skull, prying her eyes loose from their sockets. Her brilliant hair blackened and thinned, her stomach swelled with child and then emptied suddenly - she heard the single scream of her babe, felt the gnawing of her flesh, heard the hoofbeats over her husband yelling at her to flee, heard her own voice screaming in terror, her own voice chanting a spell, her own voice...
Acherontia whimpered, a sleeper's scream. In the darkness of the room, the woman unconsciously stretched her hand out for someone to help her ride through the nightmare, but as always, there was no one there to take it.