westwhere | [ CLOSED ] These are my confessions

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[ CLOSED ] These are my confessions

WHO: Wrathion, Wei Wuxian, Marcos, Anduin
WHEN: Early March, Mid March, and toward the end!
WHERE: Ke-Waihu Burial Grounds & Wrathion's farmhouse accommodation
WHAT: Curse breaking, Healing
WARNINGS: Talk of death, grieving, some discussion of fantasy-esque-wounds. Depression Vibes. More TBC, there's plenty of places this nonsense could go

Atonement is something that had been on Wrathion's mind well before they arrived in Ke-Waihu.

He has, after all, much to atone for: Wrathion is not unaware of his own sins. He wears them like heavy chains around his neck, visible to all who know him.

A black dragon. A betrayer, someone who turned on the only friend he had. A schemer. A risk.

Reputations like that are hard to wash away, yet Wrathion has tried.

Everything he has done has been to atone. For his actions, for his family's actions, for his actions toward his family.

For the damage that cannot be undone.

Now, on top of that, he has been asked to atone for others.

Frustration crawls under his skin, a tingling desire to do something about this. To protest it, to reject the additional burden --

Yet it seems rejection is not an option, not if they wish to continue on with this little group. Not if they wish to follow it until it reveals the path home.

Wrathion is not a dragon used to humbling himself on behalf of others, he's still new to do it himself. He can try, though.

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Burial grounds are not, exactly, traditional for dragons -- not in this way. Most of his kin return home to die, but there are no formal engravings, no people coming to pay respects.

He's been learning a lot about how people see these things, in an attempt at research. Wrathion is familiar with this concept, but he's never... taken part. Never attended a funeral, formally paid his respects in the human tradition.

It's the middle of the afternoon, and the dragon is stood as still as a statue staring at a group of graves. He's managed to at least visually put some things right. To tidy and straighten things enough that it looks more put together.

The energy in the area still makes him feel uneasy, but that's nothing new. The energy of the whole village feels wrong, in some subtle way. It may be his overactive imagination, his unease over how out of control things seem to be, but it also might not be.

He's so absorbed in his own thoughts that he startles to attention sharply at sensation of someone else nearby. Red eyes pinpoint Wei Wuxian, then the tension eases out of him little by little.

Ah. Yes, Lan Wanji's... companion of some sort. He realises, belatedly, he doesn't know as much as he'd like about the man. Laid back attitude, the patience of a saint no doubt considering who he visits.

"Come to pay your respects?" Wrathion prompts, curious. Perhaps he has a curse to handle here too, or is looking for someone else who does?

Or, he supposes, he just enjoys walking around burial grounds.

Edited 2022-04-04 00:03 (UTC)

The burial grounds have become a place Wrathion goes to think. He never would have expected to do so, but the quiet is... peaceful. Being near to Anduin has been difficult lately, although Anduin does not seem to have noticed. In fact, the priest has on occasion simply invited himself over. Wrathion cannot tell if the man's tone has become sharper, or if Wrathion himself is just inviting it more often by becoming more difficult than usual.

It doesn't matter, he supposes. In the end he will outlive all these people, and he will be alone. If they don't leave him before that point, of course. He's well aware he tests their tolerance regularly with his behaviour. Perhaps the time of his solitude will be sooner than anticipated.

His circle here is small, just as it was back home. All those dragons he had killed, and for what? If he'd only looked at things the right way sooner, he might have more than Ebyssian on his side.

Nobody will remember their dead. Nobody places memorials for dead dragons, instead pieces of them are hung up like trophies. Nobody asks how they became so mad. Nobody asks how Wrathion came to be cleansed, or why he spent so long running when he was so young.

The cool night air is helping him calm the heat of his emotions, at least.

He adjusts the offerings he's placed absently, trying to pull himself together. Lan Wanji had told him to learn about the dead, to personalise things, but scale is difficult for him. He's left some food this time, and had planned to stay overnight watching the burial grounds. That is, after all, what the person who he is atoning for failed to do.

He pushes to his feet, intending to move a few stones over to continue examining things, when he catches motion out of the corner of his eye.

Wrathion's eyes settle on Marcos, and he glances around to try and judge the time before tilting his head at the man.

"Were you asked to leave, or did you do so under your own power?"

He assumes that is what has happened here, after all. Wrathion would have likely been either leaving with him, or entertaining a guest at the farmhouse were he not here instead.

The trips to and from the graveyard are peaceful, even if the solitude does start to eat at Wrathion. At some point during the process, he can tell Anduin has changed. His burdens start to ease, which is... good. It's good that he has one last thing to worry about.

The cuts on Wrathion, however, deepen. He binds himself under his clothing, hoping to hold them closed somewhat and to lessen the way they seep through layers of clothing. They're still sore. He's never... had an incurable wound before, never had anything really that lasted longer than a day or two.

The constant lack of control grates. He feels exhausted, tense, as if his whole body is betraying him. He's become weak, useless. The last of the black dragons, brought low by some human concocted curse. Dying in some remote realm, who knows how far from Azeroth. From Dragonblight.

No doubt his passing would be a relief to many, if they even found out.

He'd slept poorly again that night, and it's only now mid-morning that he's sitting up -- dragging off his sleep shirt and unbinding himself to check how they're progressing. He sits in the muddle of bed linen feeling down his back and sides, then slides to his feet to check himself in the mirror.

At the bottom of his back, a few of the cuts have started to scab. That, so far as he's aware, is part of the healing process. Does it mean anything? Or nothing at all?

He digs for his locket, hesitates before sending a message:

Do you have time? If so, meet me at the farmhouse.

Edited 2022-04-04 00:07 (UTC)

Wei Wuxian tips his head to the side, considering the area. He's been in haunted burial grounds, places of spilled blood and restlessness and horror that has steeped so deeply into the ground, stained so thoroughly, that life cannot exist without slow, tremulous purchase at purified, commanding hands. This is no Yiling Burial Mound, but retains a flavour of it, and he studies what it is these people indicate as mourning, because he learns from it as well.

"No reason to pay disrespects," he says, smiling in an easy, wry way to Wrathion, those red eyes like too many things he's seen in years past, rendered familiar, physical. Easier, when they're attached to a being who is firmly alive in the given moment. Not to false xuanwu's, or to the resentful spirits of the dead. "Given as much as we don't know about the local traditions, understanding some of how they tend their dead seemed wise. Besides, it tells us some history... and that the burial grounds aren't the most restless in this area is mildly enlightening."

Very mildly, he supposed.

"What about yourself?"

It's been difficult for Anduin not to hover, now that he's broken his own curse. Without the indifference that had been forced upon him before, he can see quite plainly just how difficult this is for Wrathion. He understands equally that his hovering would probably not help anyone, and indeed likely only make Wrathion's tense discomfort worse.

Still...

He worries. He has been worried. Not knowing when the Beastmaster might be approaching, and not knowing how they might possibly be able to face such a threat, Anduin has not been sleeping very well himself.

As such, he's only blearily sitting down with some tea when Wrathion's message comes. Taking a few sips, he taps out his reply before downing the rest and readying himself for the journey across the village:

Of course. I'm on my way.

Unlike Wrathion, Anduin does not have to climb his way in through the window for his visit, a thought which amuses him each time he has it. Making his way up to the front door of the farmhouse, he thinks about pulling out his locket to message Wrathion about his arrival before deciding to simply knock instead.

An interesting take, and one he doesn't disagree with. It was why he researched via asking other members of their party, after all. Something to compare to, but additionally it taught him a lot about their beliefs and how they might behave. Some are more irreverent, some more traditional.

Wrathion nods, eyes flitting thoughtfully out over the burial ground.

"My... assignment. The ancestor I was given to atone for allowed these burial grounds to be defiled."

So, here he is. Atoning. Somewhat bitterly, but he's trying -- surely that is better than nothing?

Wrathion does, at least, tidy himself while waiting. He washes up, combs and re-tries his hair back and rebinds his chest before slipping on a clean shirt. His room still has the faintly dingy air of something too-lived-in, but he's taken the edge off himself.

When Anduin knocks, he pads to the door bare foot -- lets the priest in and tilts his head back toward his room.

"I'd like your opinion," he prompts softly. Mostly to keep the conversation private as they move. He waits for Anduin to join him in his room, pushes the door closed and considers his wording. "My condition has... changed. A few of the wounds look as if they have begun to scab over."

Anduin would be better placed to know if they are, indeed, healing or if it's something else -- something less pleasant. He spends far more time looking at injuries than Wrathion, who rarely gets anything so deep.

Wrathion still looks tired, and the introduction he makes upon Anduin's arrival at the farmhouse is cryptic. As they wander their way through the hall toward Wrathion's own room, Anduin's mind is racing in hundreds of directions as to where this might be going. He follows Wrathion inside, raising his eyebrows in question as the door shuts behind them.

And then they rise further as his explanation continues.

"Will you show me?" Anduin asks. He suddenly realizes why they are meeting here, in private -- realizes that he is effectively asking Wrathion to disrobe. But, if they are scabbing over...

That means that they are healing.

He nods in acceptance, slipping the shirt off and setting it aside. Wrathion's fingers reach for the end of the strip of cloth loosely fastened in place and he begins to unwind it once more, gathering it into a loop around his arm. Underneath, some of the scratches have begun to seep in various degrees of intensity -- the hot, lava-like blood having already soaked through the bandage in places.

In patches, however, one or two do appear to be doing... something.

Wrathion glances back at Anduin mutely, lofting an eyebrow, then moves to sit himself on the edge of the low bed. That way, Anduin can stand over him or sit as he likes.

"I've been keeping them clean, so I'm hoping it's not infection."

That's the last thing he needs, at this point. It's hard enough to sleep already.

It wasn’t hard to identify Wrathion, even at a distance. They’ve been around each other enough to learn their routines, if only to get some sense of normalcy in a world that never allows anyone to get comfortable. In that way, it isn’t so different from home, where he'd only been able to steal moments to pretend that they can have a life of their own that isn't constantly being threatened. Early in their stay, he found that in common with Wrathion; having someone around to provide a sense of stability when nothing else would.

So it’s not a surprise that Wrathion knew where he came from, but this isn’t where they typically cross paths. He hadn’t meant to intrude when he watched him leave offerings for the dead, and he waited until he noticed him to approach.

“I managed to keep the peace this time.” He smiles, like that hasn’t come close to happening several times by now. Lorna hasn’t made as big of a deal about the curfew as he expected she would have, but he’s at least tried to be reasonable. This time he'd actually left because he needed to.

"Just thought I’d take the long way home to stretch my legs." He knows that the curse probably has something to do with his stiff muscles, but he’d like to pretend that exercise can help slow it down until he figures out how to get rid of it.

"I didn’t expect to find you here." He glances at the grave he was just visiting, but doesn’t linger too long on his offering. He’s curious if someone asked him to come, and even more who the grave belongs to, but he’s not going to intrude. They’ll see each other at the house if he needs his privacy. "If I’m interrupting…"

Anduin winces again at the sight of the scratches themselves. As the curse had progressed, he had watched them slowly evolve from the angry welts Wrathion had first shown him, to the gashes splayed across the skin of Wrathion's back now. Honestly, it hurts just to look at, and Anduin knows he has to be careful where he might touch, lest he burn himself on Wrathion's blood itself.

Stepping forward, he moves to sit behind him, laying a cool, careful hand against Wrathion's shoulder and gently turning him toward the light so that he can get a better view at the spot in question. It certainly doesn't look comfortable, but.

"It doesn't look like it's infected," Anduin observes, slowly. He reaches out a tentative finger to trace along the edge of one of the areas. Although it's hot to the touch, it is no more so than any other part of Wrathion's skin. And there is no discoloring either. "Did this happen overnight?" he asks, careful not to sound too hopeful in his line of questioning, lest the curse not have broken yet after all.

"... Defiled in which manner?"

Wei Wuxian lifted his brow, studying Wrathion, keeping his sense of the area and what energies it might have as a background awareness, for any shifts in their flow. Usually areas of the dead, rather than areas of death, aren't even so responsive, but that's neither here nor there in this village.

Wrathion twitches at the touch to his shoulder, tense but allowing himself to be turned. He twitches again at the light trace of fingers around the edges of his scratches, a shiver crawling over his skin.

"Yes," he says finally, "as far as I am aware."

He cannot be entirely sure of himself, given it's on a part of his body he cannot easily see, but it had seemed that way to Wrathion. That, after his uncomfortable attempt at sleeping, some of it had been different on waking.

"Ah," Wrathion says, "no."

He glances back around at the graves, frowning thoughtfully.

"My... atonement involves these burial grounds. I am not accustomed to such places, most of the people I know who died had no ceremony. Yet, I have found them strangely peaceful."

Death is not something he associates with peace, in truth. Death follows a violent, sometimes long struggle. Death is often not the end, a body risen unwilling to a mockery of life once more.

Did Neltharion the Earth Warder wander the afterlife now? Or was his soul destroyed completely, on being dragged back to life and destroyed again? Did any of his family find peace, in the end?

Something he'd never considered before, but that now nags at him distantly.

"Some of the dead were unearthed, and their corpses partially consumed."

Not a terribly unusual circumstance to Wrathion, where forsaken are allowed their own city and place on the Horde council, but his affiliations being what they are he can fully agree this is bad behaviour, and not something to be encouraged.

In general, it is much preferable if the dead stay dead and nobody goes around either eating them or raising them.

"Mmm," Anduin hums in response. The change had happened overnight, much as the curse itself had come on.

He inspects the edges of the wounds for a moment longer before he moves his hand away, gently laying his hand on Wrathion's shoulder once more to indicate he has finished.

"It would seem that the curse may have broken," Anduin remarks. "At least, it certainly looks as though these wounds have started to scab themselves over."

He squeezes Wrathion's shoulder slightly. "Perhaps we might be able to... Perform a test?"

He flinches as the hand lands back on his shoulder, then again as it squeezes gently.

"If you think it worthwhile. I'd certainly be glad to be free of these."

Anduin is the one spending the energy, in the end. If he truly believes it might work, it's his choice to try -- Wrathion isn't about to stop him. He shifts his weight, resting one hand on the sheets and curling his fingers into them ready to brace against the burn. After all, he has a lot of cuts to sear closed now if this works. Some of them on... thinner, more sensitive skin.

Anduin removes his hand from Wrathion's shoulder and back entirely, wincing apologetically. He supposes that any touch just now would be uncomfortable, with the skin of his back as it is. Not to mention the scratches elsewhere. Anduin has only gotten a proper look at the injuries to Wrathion's back, but if they are in a similar state, he cannot imagine the discomfort he is in.

He takes in a breath, letting it out slowly. The last time he had tried this, it had not worked. Even if the curse-scratches are healing, he cannot say whether it will work for them now. He should not get his hopes up or feel guilty if this does not work. And yet...

"If nothing else, I have to try," Anduin replies, softly. He watches as Wrathion shifts, fingers curling into the sheets to brace himself, and gives them both a moment's preparation -- before murmuring a prayer to the Light. A brilliant glow fills the room, the Light's Radiance warming him from with in as he calls it forth, into himself and out through his hand toward the skin of Wrathion's back in the form of a healing spell.

"... Hmm. Certainly, guarding the area can prevent that particular recurrence... do you have the names of the families that were effected by this?"

What was feeding on those bodies exhumed by someone he's never met and isn't about to mourn that he won't? The person himself, or their own beginning legion of deathless? Considering the lands they stood within now, there's a certain sad jest in that.

"To see their spirits settled, if they're not. We could investigate that, in addition to your graveyard watch."

The spell burns over his skin.

The heat of a fire is familiar to Wrathion, but this is different and his skin is... soft and human. Sensitive.

It's not quite so resilient in this manner, and not at all resistant to the burn of the Light. It sears over his injuries, and Wrathion goes tense. The sensation is impossible to describe, it catches his breath in his chest and whites out his thoughts. There's nothing but the sharp burst of pain, and then --

Warmth, adrenaline rushing through his veins. The low buzz in his ears, and some indecipherable sensation of contentment. His skin is tingling. His muscles are still locked tense, he thinks, but as he slowly unfurls his fingers he finds all the unease and frustration has been washed from him. It's difficult to hold on to any thought at all.

One hand reaches up and round to feel down an expanse of his back, and the skin is smooth under his fingers.

No raised scratches, no seeping blood.

"It seems you still have a talent for that," Wrathion says, and no doubt Anduin is as relieved as he feels.

Anduin cannot help but feel somewhat breathless himself, as he watches the wounds on Wrathion's back fade away. Burned away into nothing by the healing Light of his spell. The tug of the mana he has spent is nothing to the rush of adrenaline he feels, the excitement, for at last, at last--

As soon as the spell has broken Anduin is reaching forward himself, to run his own cool hand along the smooth skin of Wrathion's back, feeling for blemishes he knows no longer are there. Feeling almost as though he might laugh out loud at how ridiculous this all feels, to be so relieved that he -- a healer -- had managed to close a few scratches?

Though he supposes it's not just the scratches they are celebrating.

"It worked," he says, stupidly, feeling himself break into an almost stupidly wide grin. "It worked! Wrathion--!!"

In his elation he does not give the dragon another warning to brace himself as he murmurs one more prayer to swiftly call the Light once more and heal whatever other hurts Wrathion may have left. The scratches on his thighs he had mentioned before, and -- perhaps there are others he does not know about? It may be a little overboard.

The hand smoothing along his back is a little more contact than he's ready for, but he doesn't say anything. A flicker of tension, perhaps, but he's busy wallowing in the relief of his back no longer hurting, in the thrum of adrenaline after the burn of the spell.

"Yes," he's starting to say, "I --"

Then he feels the spell hit again.

Wrathion's mouth snaps shut, and his fingers reach out to curl hard into the blankets. He's glad he's sitting down, because he's quite sure the burn of the Light spell over his legs would have rendered him unable to stand briefly.

Anduin realizes a moment too late that he has been perhaps a little overzealous in his second application of the spell. While Wrathion might have expected and thus been prepared for the first, he can see this second hit him like a punch in the stomach. Or, a white-hot poker across the thighs, as the case may be.

The spell is at least mercifully quick, Anduin reaching a quick hand forward to steady him once it is.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes, the words spilling from his mouth as he does. "I am so -- are you alright?"

It's hard to even feel cross about it, with the wave of warmth and contentment the spell forces on him.

"Still in one piece," Wrathion manages, and he leans a little into Anduin's touch. "Thank you."

Since, despite being unprepared for it, he does recognise Anduin was healing him. Being healed is better than keeping the injuries or waiting for them to complete the slow process of a natural healing.

Does he have the names? Wrathion quirks an eyebrow, then gestures to several of the graves in front of him. Yes, as a matter of fact he does.

"Your husband gave extensive advice on this, unprompted." A pause, as Wrathion considers how diplomatic to be. "He is not a well practiced teacher."

He's just saying, Wangji's method could use some work.

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[ CLOSED ] These are my confessions

Wei Wuxian -- Early March

Marcos -- Mid March

Anduin Wrynn -- Late March

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