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You take a long drag out of your cigar, the lit end glowing, the only source of light in the confines of your room. You’re lost in thought. You blow out the smoke, watch as it adds to the light haze permeating the place. A stray memory crosses your mind.
A blood elf mage wanders into the inn. He approaches as you enjoy your cigar, every bit the fop, and snidely comments that cigars are not meant to be smoked like that. “Little puffs,” he instructs in a patronizing manner. He looks at you with an air of superiority that irritates you. You blow smoke in his face, and he waves at the air like it is somehow attacking him. Pathetic. “I should have known better than trying to teach class to rabble such as yourself.” You finish the rest of your cigar in a single drag, just to prove a point, and put the butt out on his chest, burning his pristine robes and possibly searing the skin underneath, before returning your attention to your drink. Let the idiot conjure some ice for it when he’s done crying like a little bitch. You hope it scars.
A smirk tugs at your lips, but your amusement fades quickly. You had been in a mood for the past couple of days. Vera had come (of course), asking what was wrong, if something had happened, offering to help (of course). Her gentle voice, the concern on her features - you grit your teeth even now as you think about it. You had gotten angry. You were angry because you didn’t know. You didn’t know what was wrong. You didn’t know what had happened. You didn’t know how she could help. Not that you’d accept help from her, from anyone. You wouldn’t know how to ask for it anyway. You certainly didn’t deserve it.
So you had fallen back into old habits - they were so reliable, weren’t they - and thrown her onto your bed. You fucked her. Hard, fast, relentlessly. You glance at your side. She’s still passed out. Her breathing is even, just as gentle as everything else about her. Her expression is peaceful, and she looks perfectly content, oblivious to all the turmoil on your side of the bed.
You hated thinking as much as you hated inscription. Neither suited you. You scowl in the darkness at the little voice in your head that claimed you didn’t hate inscription so much as you hated that it didn’t fit your image of yourself. Whatever. You hated thinking. Thinking never got you anywhere. So far, for the past couple of days, you had thought of a few things.
One, your past. Not that there was much to think about. You don’t remember most of it. Servitude to the Lich King, that rotten bastard. Never again. You would never be a slave, you would never bow down, never serve anyone, ever again. Nothing and no one would hold you prisoner in any way, shape, or form. You would rather die, and even so you would die standing, not on your knees. Even the thought of ever owing anyone anything made you angry. You’re strong. If you want something, it’s yours for the taking. It’s not your problem if others are weak.
Two, your present. Again, not much to think about. You have all the pussy you can fuck, all the booze you can drink, all the cigars you can smoke, all the meat you can eat, all the enemies you can butcher. And why wouldn’t you? You’re fucking great. Still... So much excess, yet it never seems to fill the void inside. You wish you could get drunk, but not even alcohol can take you down. You’re fucking awesome. You’re a fucking mess. You wonder if your bloodlust is really just a glorified way of seeking death.
Three, and this is where it gets truly depressing, your future. What is there to look forward to? Your life has been - since your freedom - pussy, booze, cigars, meat, killing. Well, if you’re honest, it was not too different even before your freedom, at least the parts you remember. And this is why you hated thinking. Because the more you thought, the more it seemed to you like you were no better than some wild beast, aimlessly following instincts. And that would be fucking great, except for all this thinking, which prompted stupid questions such as, “What about a meaning to life?”
You carelessly put out the butt of your cigar without looking where exactly you’re doing so. You flick it away. The room smells of smoke and sex. You like it. You realize you’re unwittingly playing with Vera’s hair. If it had been any of the sluts you usually fuck, you would have kicked her out as soon as you were done, but for some reason, you wouldn’t... ok, couldn’t... do that to Vera. Worse still was the fact that her presence didn’t bother you at all. Even when she cuddled up to you like this, like the two of you are some sort of vomit inducing couple. Even when your fingers seem to have a mind of their own, caressing her with gentleness that no one would ever associate with you. Especially yourself.
You force yourself to pull your hand away, but your decision is as short lived as anyone who crosses blades with you. You realize you’re doing it again after another bout of introspection regarding this emptiness that threatens to swallow you whole. You roll your eyes at the rather dramatic thought, and have to bite back a scoff. You don’t pull away again. You watch your fingers in her hair for a few minutes or a few hours, you’re not sure. Another memory crosses your mind.
You’re angry at her lack of self-preservation. She could stand to learn from you instead of wasting time with worthless assholes, sticking up for them. “Why the fuck do you even care? Don’t you get hurt?”
She looks at you, frowning, and tilts her head. Her eyes are child-like in their innocence. Softly, as if genuinely curious and not at all aware of how poignant her question is, she prompts, “Don’t you?”
You hated how naked her question had made you feel then, and you hate how naked it still makes you feel now. You wonder if you were asking about the people she was trying to help at the time or if you just meant yourself. You wonder if she knew of your pain. The pain you rarely acknowledge, but that when you do, you try so very hard to conceal. Your weakness.
She has been the only constant in your life, outside of your vices. She had started out like one of the sluts you used and abused and discarded, but there was something different about her. Perhaps her stubborn belief in the goodness of others. In your own. For the first time, you wish you could see yourself through her eyes. Maybe even catch a glimpse of the rest of the world. You knew, of course, that she had a pain, a sadness, of her own. You recognized it well enough. It was always there, never quite on the forefront except for rare occasions, but there regardless. She still smiled through it. It was rare for you to concern yourself with others, but you find yourself curious. She had never once brought it up.
You wonder if she had talked about it, about herself, to others. Your thoughts turn to that stupid Goat and that ridiculous Night Elf Freak, and you purse your lips. You only realize you’re holding her too tightly to yourself when she stirs a little, and you immediately relax your arm so that you don’t wake her. It’s understandable that others would be drawn to her, but it didn’t mean you had to like it. You found her first. She’s supposed to be yours. You never did like to share.
Vera.
You watch her openly. She’s not going to be up any time soon. And in the darkness of your room, safe from her curious eyes, and with surprising honesty, you tentatively caress her face. Your touch is fleeting, almost fearful, but genuine. Her lips twitch into an equally fleeting smile, even in her sleep, and she snuggles further into you. Feeling a little braver, you rest your hand on her cheek. Her skin is so soft. Not for the first time, you marvel at how beautiful she is, but this time, it is your heart that swells instead of your balls.
You weren’t a kisser. You don’t think you have ever kissed Vera herself, let alone any of the sluts you fucked day in, day out. But you find yourself inching closer. You hate the nervousness you feel. You’re Kyriona. You could take on an army or fuck a whole brothel without breaking a sweat. You lick your lips as you look down at her. Timidly - motherfucking pussy - you touch your lips to hers, and immediately pull back, and - what the fuck, your ears are burning. You scowl. You look at her lips again, like you’re sizing up the enemy. And this time, you don’t hesitate, though you are just as gentle. You brush your lips against hers, and they are so soft, so inviting. You sigh against them, a shuddered breath. You rest your forehead against hers for several moments, eyes closed, hand still on her face. For once, you allow yourself to connect.
Vera.
She nuzzles you, and in her sleep she murmurs a soft word that may well be the gospel that might save you.
“Kyri.”
The hollowness in your chest recedes.