Author’s note: Warning, rather disturbing imagery ahead!

Chapter three, Pieces in a Puzzle

He knew, when darkness fell over the landscape on the fourth day.

The spirits hummed, but they did not tell him per se – their murmur was more of a confirmation of his instincts. Dor’ash went outside at that darkening hour to fetch water from the well for Grema to rinse the dishes in, and stood for a moment gazing into the deepening night. Bonfires marked the distant watch towers, blazing patches of orange, and some light spilled from the smoke holes and still open windows of the nearby houses. Apart from that, only a few stars and the moons rising, dampened by a sheet of thin clouds.

It wasn’t silent. The wind whispered, and some animal howled in a distance. He could hear Grey growl sleepily in reply, but the great wolf was satisfied where he slouched beside the porch of the house, not at all in the mood to go hunt.

All the elements were strong here, but so were the shadows.

Come on then, if you’ve finally decided, Dor’ash thought, squaring his jaw.

He went inside, and told Grema and Karg. They simply nodded, faces serious – though there was a flash of recognition in Karg’s eyes. He had heard it, too.

All three of them went to sleep as if something was wrong, but Dor’ash knew that he wasn’t the only one slumbering lightly, if at all. Still, when he felt it, there was not a trace of sleepiness in his body.

She could be silent as a mouse when she wanted to, but there was one thing about her person which she never could do anything about. The stench of dry decay was always there.

Dor’ash got out of bed, hearing Grema stir as his hand grasped his war hammer. She did not speak, however, and remained where she was. In any other fight she would have joined him, but neither of them knew if this would be a fight. Either way it was far too private.

On naked feet, Dor’ash descended the stair to the first floor, holding his hammer tightly. Armed, but the night chill brushed over his bare chest. No armor and no totems. He did not know what to expect, the spirits had given him no clue and Karg had not been able to divine anything except what he had said yesterday.

Only the dull, red glow from the fireplace, and the meager, clouded moonlight through the smoke hole in the wall offered any shred of light. Not much to work with, even with an orc’s sharp eyesight.

None of the shadows moved. It didn’t matter. He could smell her, and faced one of the dark corners without hesitating.

Silence.

A night bird hooted outside, in a distance, and the wind gently rattled the leaves of the vegetable garden. Dor’ash stood still, watching the same patch of darkness.

“What will it be?” the shadows finally said. “The hammer? Frost shock?”

He refused to be unnerved by her dull, emotionless challenge.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

No reply at first. He waited, not hearing a sound from above. Grema and Karg were both listening, holding their breath.

“Here and there,” eventually came from the darkness.

“Where, Sarah?” he asked, much sharper than before.

There was a joyless, short chuckle.

“Nowhere near Theramore. I haven’t even tried. Go ask your pet paladin, he’ll tell you that little Simon is just fine.” Another chuckle, even dryer. “Unless he’s killed himself, now. I suppose seeing dead family members walking around is a bit traumatizing.”

The muscles in Dor’ash’s neck and shoulders relaxed just a fraction. She might be lying, but he felt that she wasn’t. Still…

“Would you have just let him drown?” he asked.

No reply.

“He said that you tugged at his hand.”

For a moment, it seemed as if this would not receive a reply either. Then Sarah slowly spoke.

“Maybe I did. I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

It wasn’t meant to be a challenge, he wasn’t sure what he meant it to be. But she let out a bitter laugh and the shadows moved as she pushed herself up to standing.

“Oh, you high and mighty shaman of the Frostwolf clan…”

There was another tone in her voice now, seething with contempt. He remained unmoving as she stepped forwards, as unpleasant a sight as she was. The little light did not allow for details, but his mind filled in the blanks.

Only rags remained of her robe, torn apart and burned, and her body was in no better condition. Strips of flesh dangled precariously from her limbs and sagging, dried up breasts. One cheek had been ripped open, showing two rows of blackened teeth, and her leather mask was lost once again.

Dry blood which could not be hers flaked from old splatters all over her body, crowning the horrific image.

“There was no reason for you to not help him,” Dor’ash said, as steadily as he could.

“Preach! Preach a little more!” she snapped, torn skin and flesh flapping when she cleaved the air with one hand. “Maybe you’ll even save my poor little damned soul!”

She laughed again, hard and cold.

“No, let me set you straight. I already killed one of my brothers, and I would kill him again and again!”

She stared at him, insane sneer anticipating damnation, demanding to be tossed aside so that nothing but hatred would remain. Her hands spread, awaiting his judgment with demented pleasure. The bitter words she would mock him with were already at the back of her throat, those words that would end everything. Not knowing that he already knew, and had made up his mind.

It was more than a mental image, almost a vision, of her standing in the palm of his hand above a sea of putrid darkness.

Am I truly so important to you?

“Patrick,” he said, his voice even.

Sarah froze, then staggered backwards as if stricken. Her back brushed the wall, but outside the moons had emerged behind the clouds and the cold rays coming through the smoke hole ate up the shadows. They no longer hid her small, stick thin form.

“You did know he was your brother when you killed him, didn’t you?” Dor’ash asked, laying his war hammer on the table. He knew that too, already. But he wanted to hear her say it, even more than he had wanted Jonathan’s confirmation of the fact.

Her chipped teeth showed in a snarl, but she looked away. Knowing she had lost.

“Yes!” she snapped, twisting her face back towards him. “And what do your family values say about that?”

He just shook his head with a calm that must have driven her half insane judging by the hiss. But he ignored it and looked upwards, towards the second floor.

“Do you have an extra dress to spare, Grema?” he said. “Hers is all torn up.”

The hissing faltered.

“One moment,” Grema calmly replied from above, and he heard her shuffle through something. Bless her soul.

A shadow fluttered above, and he reached up to catch the falling cloth. Only then, when he held it, did he turn back to Sarah. She still stood by the wall, gaping at him.

All the buttons of the dress were undone, so he spread it out in his grip and stepped closer to Sarah, wrapping the cloth around her tiny shoulders. Grema was so much bigger than her, naturally the dress dwarfed the undead. It hung around her like a blanket, and her empty eye sockets stared up at him.

“You’re a mess,” he said. “Sit down, I’ll heal you.”

She tumbled forwards, weakly punching at his chest a couple of times. He hardly felt it despite the lack of armor, and she slumped against him after a moment, as lukewarm as the air. Not crying, just whispering broken curses at him. For a little while he let her feebly rage, then patted her back. It was an unusually fond touch, but she wasn’t acting much like herself – it wasn’t a very pleasant thing to do either, considering what a state her body was in. He did it anyway.

“Stop that before you realize you have to kill all of us for seeing you like this,” he said.

“Yeah, well…” she took in a hissing breath, fists pressed against him, “enjoy the show, because it’s one of a kind.”

“I hope so, because I’ll crush your head like a watermelon if you ever, ever do anything that stupid again.”

She snorted, but it ended abruptly when he placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. The look on her face was guarded, grey-green lips pressed tightly together.

“Now, why don’t you tell me why you reacted like that back in Ratchet?” he said.

At first Sarah recoiled half a step, but she stopped and looked away. In the silence, he heard her swallow hard and realizing that she had actually done so sent his fleshy eyebrows upwards. One of her hands flew to her throat, underlining what she had just done.

It was a natural thing, a sign of simple anxiety. But it was a reaction of the living.

“I remember.”

She whispered the two words, hand falling and shoulders slumping. Dor’ash stared down at her, as she slowly shook her head.

“Not everything,” she continued, muttering uneasily, grasping her upper arm. “Bits. Details. Patrick didn’t do a thing for me when I first met him, not like this.” She looked up at him again, biting her lower lip. Broken and dirty teeth delicately, nervously catching that grey-green flap of flesh and holding it there, bizarrely flimsy. Realizing that too, she slapped a hand to her mouth and groaned. “See?”

“Huh.” Dor’ash scratched his head, stumped on how to handle this change of character. Then he pulled himself together. “And that made you want to claw Simon’s eyes out?”

“You try having mental images and emotions you had no idea about suddenly pound into your head,” she snapped, but there was still a frail edge to it. “It’s rather… overwhelming.” She looked down. “It hurt, like hell, and all I knew was that it was his fault. And you were in the way.”

She shook her head again, more forcefully this time.

“I felt as if that person I used to be would rise up and start screaming,” she growled. “She wouldn’t stand a chance. The Lich King would swallow her whole with a word.” She rapped her fist against the back of her head, then looked at him with a sneer. “You can’t understand, can you? He never, ever shuts up. Well… the voices in your head don’t try to tell you that you’re better off staggering around mumbling about brains.”

“No, they don’t. Now…”

Dor’ash breathed in, then tapped her shoulder. Though snorting softly, Sarah sunk down to sit on the floor and he followed her. Raising both hands he muttered a prayer for the spirits to heal. Immediately a warm glow rose up around his fingers, further illuminating how ragged Sarah’s fighting had left her. From the cuts, burns and scratches he could guess that she had at least spent some time with quilboars, but there were some marks he couldn’t quite identify and didn’t feel like dwelling on.

As the glow from his hands flowed into her body in a steady stream, drawing the dangling strips of skin and flesh back in place, Sarah’s head sunk with relief. That was a good sign, but not enough – Dor’ash knew he had to keep disentangling this mess for both their sakes.

“Looking back at the way you and Patrick talked to each other in Azshara, I actually guessed that he was your husband,” he said.

“Lothar’s toenails, that’s disgusting. I’d rather have rushed towards Kel’thuzad, yelling ‘take me, take me’.” She thought for a moment. “Alright, maybe not.”

The morbid joke was weak, yet she did speak it with a sneer. Dor’ash allowed himself to relax at least a fraction, but then she visibly tensed.

“About Ratchet, when I got out of the water…” Sarah started, fists clenching.

“Never mind that.”

He cut her off, shaking his head firmly. Even if she did not finish it, he knew it was an apology and that was enough. As he had not told Grema and Karg what Sarah called him back there, it would not be good if they found out now.

She watched him for a second, then turned around at the sound of footsteps. Grema came down the stair, loose night clothing sagging around her, and her son followed. They both made themselves comfortable on the floor, all illuminated by the light around Dor’ash’s hands.

“Look, I know I’m like the family dog who ran into the woods and just found her way back,” Sarah muttered, sneering, while Karg settled down. “You don’t have to rub it in my face.”

“You had us worried,” Grema said.

“Oh shove it.”

It was a dull mumble, though. Sarah pulled up her knees, hugging them beneath the mending glow of Dor’ash’s hands. Looking strangely vulnerable.

“Simon said you hated having to kill chickens,” Dor’ash murmured. It was a random point, but he had to start again somewhere.

A neigh-hysterical giggle escaped Sarah’s throat and she pressed a hand to her mouth. That was all, though, and she didn’t move otherwise.

“Yes,” she finally said. “Pathetic.” After a moment of silence she straightened up a little. “Patrick would have just loved to drill it all back into my brain,” she continued, shaking her head in disgust. “Arthas, I was so scared, of everything. Of soldiers and wild animals and big, sappy green teddy bears.”

Karg opened his mouth, supposedly to ask why the living Sarah would have had to fear soldiers of her own kind. However, something seemed to click and he settled back, squaring his jaw. When he glanced at his mother, she pursed her lips. That let the boy know that his guess was correct.

In the silence, while mother and son exchanged glances, Dor’ash moved his hand in a stroking motion through the air, above Sarah’s head and back. He didn’t really have to do it, as far as the magic was concerned.

For a moment the shaman wished that Jonathan had been there. With someone able to share this, the unnatural pain of remembering life from the other side of the grave, it may have been a lighter burden for her to bear. But then again, perhaps it would have only made it harder for everyone. Jonathan may not have had any empathy to offer, when it got down to it – Forsaken were difficult to predict.

Yet, Dor’ash could not even really tell if Sarah was suffering. Still curled up on herself, but her tone went from annoyed to dull to solemn and back. Confused may be the only right word. At least she had regained control of herself, now.

She drew in breath to speak again.

“I was… eighteen, I think. Suppose our parents wanted me to get married to the boy next door soon.” She shrugged, turning her face towards them with a sneer just when Dor’ash almost lost control of the healing spell, his throat clenching. “No, I’m not sad. You bunch are much more amusing.”

In the silence, one could hear that night bird cry somewhere outside again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sarah finally said, straightening up a little more. “I don’t miss it. I was bored and weak and stuck where I was. What did I lose?”

“And you’re going to hate yourself in the morning,” Grema pointed out. She reached forwards and tucked a cobwebby strand of hair behind the scraps of Sarah’s left ear, lightly rapping her fingers against the sunken cheek. In this somber air, the small woman didn’t recoil from the motherly touch.

Not until Grema slowly pulled back.

“Bah.”

Sarah dunked her forehead onto her knees.

“I already do,” she grumbled, rather late.

“Wait a moment, you’re only two years older than me?” Karg said, grinning toothily as her head snapped up.

Seeing Sarah’s lips move soundlessly, Dor’ash laughed so hard, relieved, that he did lose focus and the magic faded. Darkness fell over the room until he managed to rekindle the spell. When the light returned, Sarah had her finger pointed at Karg’s nose.

“For the record, kid, I’m hardly three years old because that’s when I woke up a Forsaken and you better show some respect or you’ll be bleating until dawn.”

“When you’ll hate yourself for real,” he said, still grinning although his eyes nearly crossed trying to look at her fingertip.

“Hah! But not for having turned you into raptor chow.”

“Mother or Dor’ash would turn me back, anyway,” he said.

“Not if I push you through a portal before they can react.”

Chuckling throatily, Grema tossed a handful of sticks onto the fireplace and dug around in the embers with one of them until the fire flared up. It chased away the darkness much better than Dor’ash’s magic could, even if it wouldn’t last long.

The laughter slowly ebbed, at an even pace. Dor’ash started with the cuts in Sarah’s face, the rest of her body mended by now. He was glad for that, the late hour and the long healing, coupled with the simmering tension of the last days, took its toll.

“Can you hear the Lich King talking now, you said?” Grema suddenly said in a low voice.

Dor’ash gave her a sharp look, which she ignored.

“Ah,” Sarah muttered. “The trick is to keep ignoring him. I think it’s all over the moment you start listening.”

“It’s not something one should dwell on, I think,” Dor’ash said, shaking his head. “It can’t be good for your head.” He tapped a finger against Sarah’s skull, but looked at Grema with some concern for her curiosity.

She calmly looked back.

“I remember the blood haze, Dor’ash,” she said, still speaking unusually low and soft. “You never felt it.” She met the no-gaze from Sarah’s eye sockets and pursed her mouth. “But I didn’t hear any voice. It was just a fury that knew no end.”

“Hm.”

Sarah’s lips twisted into a smirk.

“You guys could still get ideas of your own. They apparently decided that that was a bad tactic.” Her mouth relaxed, then the lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t remember anything from that time though.” She slumped a bit again. “I don’t remember any ‘last’ thing either. It’s all a jumble.”

“How does it make you feel now?” Dor’ash asked.

She smirked again, seemingly shaking off the unease.

“I won’t freak out on you again, I promise, even if I recall more and more,” she said. “I just need to sort this out.”

“Then that’s fine.”

He didn’t say anything about Simon. He would certainly write the poor man, but further meetings between the siblings would probably be best avoided. Everyone involved could agree on that.

Sarah slowly nodded, humming. It sounded almost grateful.

A few moments later, Dor’ash let the magic fade from his fingers. There was nothing left to heal.

“Thanks.” She stood up suddenly, shaking her head. “By Arthas. I have to find Jonathan.”

“He said he would keep looking for you,” Dor’ash said, getting to his feet as well.

“Good enough.” As she headed to the door and pushed it open, she briefly looked over her shoulder and managed a smirk. “I’ll be back.”

“You better.”

He returned the smirk and with that, everything was fine between them again.

She dove into the night, gathering up the force of her drained mind to instantly bring her out of the village. In truth her mind soared and she felt as if she could fly, but the practical truth of the matter was that she had pressed herself to her very limits for days.

With a soft tinkling sound she flashed out of existence and reappeared several yards away from the outmost fence. From there she hurried on towards a not too distant hill. By the time she reached it, she’d used up all the extra energy which Dor’ash’s healing had granted her, and she staggered.

Just needed a high point and some rest…

A thin shadow stood atop the hill, offering her a skeletal hand.

“Ah,” Sarah commented, somewhat sheepishly. Even as she grasped Jonathan’s hand and let him support her the last couple of steps, she realized the fact that she actually was able to feel sheepish. She hoped that it was a passing phase.

He didn’t reply. The yellow light from his eyes shone over half his face, but left the eroding mouth in shadow.

They stood in silence, the cool wind pushing at their hair and clothes. An owl suspiciously watched them from a nearby tree.

“I’ll buy you a new robe,” Sarah finally said.

He slowly nodded.

“Your breathing brother doesn’t approve of me, I think,” he said.

“Neither did my other one.”

Turning around, she let go of his hand and motioned towards the sleeping village.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anybody that Dor’ash has friends here,” she said.

“As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

They watched each other.

“What?” she finally asked, gruffly. “You shouldn’t have chased after me if you didn’t want to get burned back there.”

Shaking his head he raised one hand and tilted her chin upwards with two sharp, claw-like fingertips.

“I got the idea that you were seeing somebody in life,” he said, voice even.

She would have blinked, if she’d had eyelids.

“Oh, for the love of- you’re not jealous,” she snorted.

“No, no. Of course not,” he said, and the moonlight ran across his chipped teeth as he smirked. “I just want to know if he’s dead or if I can brutally murder him.”

“Mmh…” With a hoarse little chuckle, Sarah slid up against his scrawny chest. A heavy stench of old beer added to his already eye-watering smell, but she hardly felt it anyway. “That’s just so dreamy.”

Bone scraped against bone as Jonathan wrapped her into an embrace.

“Well. I’m a romantic at heart, after all,” he said.

“You have a heart?” She pulled at a cut in his throat, craning her neck as if trying to peer down into the darkness of his chest.

“Not sure. Does it matter?” His voice came out wheezing until she pushed the flap of skin back in place and smoothed it with her fingertips. “So… are you going to protect him or tell me his name?”

“Silly.” She finished patching up his throat and leant her forehead against the spot. “Adam Hartwell, and it would be a wonder if he survived.”

Jonathan was silent for a moment. A sound not unlike a lazily rattled tambourine rose from where he stroke her neck.

“Patrick took on that last name in Azshara,” he finally said. “He was one twisted son of a lich.”

“Quite.”

For a moment, they were both silent. Finally, Sarah shrugged and shook her head, maybe a little too lightly.

“I don’t remember…” she paused, shook her head again. “I can’t say if his choice of pseudonym meant anything.”

“Mmh. Either way, he’s gone.” Normally, they mostly just played pretend when it came to anything affectionate. Such emotions were slow and too much of a bother to the Forsaken. Being angry was so much easier. Yet now, Jonathan pulled Sarah closer with something that was very close to a heartfelt wish to offer shelter.

He figured she would know for sure eventually, if there was anything to know. He’d been there too, when walking stiffly through Silvermoon City, gritting his teeth and moving on because standing still was unbearable – while memories flared up from the merciful mist inside his mind. Days and weeks and months and years, piece by piece, muddled and strung together by the memory of… boredom.

And then chaos, tumbling, roaring jaws and fangs and a choking stench of decay and- nothing.

That hurt, hurt so bad he had to leave and find a spot in the Ghostlands where he could just scream and scream his rage.

It was, however, surprisingly easy to shake off. But like he had once told Dor’ash, Jonathan had no plans to ever, ever go back to Silvermoon.

He mentally shook himself out of it and gazed down at Sarah’s meager threads of dirty hair.

“And now, you’ll be bitter and hateful towards everything that breathes.” Jonathan let hear a loud, sharp sigh.

“Hah. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” she grunted, smirking.

“Yes, because there’s nothing more sensual than the way you rip the entrails out of a screaming beast. I followed you around these last days, you know.”

“Stalker. And you want to kill my ex, too. That’s horrible.” Saying so, she nuzzled his partly exposed collar bone.

“I’m sure I was more handsome than him, though.”

“No doubt. How old were you, anyway?”

It had never really occurred to her to ask, before. Now that she had some recollections of her own life, though, she found herself curious.

“Oh.” He thought for a moment, but she didn’t think twice about it. Her memory was fuzzy, and she could not know how much he actually remembered. “Youngish.”

“Youngish,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“Mid twenty-ish? I was eighteen, you know.”

“Well, that’s not too bad a match in age.”

She snorted, but accepted this reply as a yes. Not like it really mattered, anyway.

Although, in truth Jonathan thought it very vital indeed, to not reveal that one had to multiply twenty several times before getting close to his age when he died.

Whoever she may have loved in life he really didn’t give a damn about – but Jonathan could feel certain that he had been far more handsome (or rather, pretty) than any human man Sarah had held dear. And if she ever found out about that, it would be his entrails which she not-so-sensually ripped out.

He felt uneasy enough about that to opt for a distraction. Luckily, he had one handy.

“By the way, luv, that moss on my ribs is growing pretty well,” he said, pulling his robe open to let her see. “Wanna cut it off now?”

Her soft cackle sent at least three small, nightly critters scurrying for cover.

The End.