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high-justiciar · 5 months

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requiem;

A cool autumn night at the Dawnbane estate. Siphiah fingered the edge of her cowl, pulling it taut over her scarred cheekbone. She had not returned to Quel’Thalas since her last and gravest disfigurement; no soul, outside of her trusted comrades, had borne witness to her new form. No—her defeat. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tang of anticipated rejection, letting it pass over her tongue and twist her lips now, so that it would not show later. When she gathered herself enough to pass through the gates of her family home, her resolve was steel. A star falling out of the sky could hardly phase her, much less a stray glance or whispered gossip.

Measured steps took her through the courtyard, its bushes bare save for a few late-bloomed roses. She did not stop to admire, and soon found herself before the tall doors leading to the foyer. Inside, a servant took her cloak, though no words were spoken to the rarely seen visitor; they all knew why she was here.

Siphiah paused to lower her cowl, blood-red locks tumbling free from its confines. Her hair was long, longer than ever—she hadn’t cut it since her service in Darkshore, though the meaning behind this fact was unknown to her. Left down, it obscured her mangled ear somewhat, though did little to shield the burnt half of her face: the flesh from her cheek to hairline was roughened, discolored mauve. Her right eye had been spared, its sight narrowed by the surrounding scar tissue. All was healed by now, though no less shocking to behold considering that the Justiciar’s reputation, at one time, centered around her arresting looks.

Now there was no shade for the cruelty beneath.

Her journey into the bowels of the mansion was a relatively short one, though the weight of passing stares doubled its span. Her own gaze remained fixed ahead. Upon her entry into the eastern wing, she turned toward the threshold of the dining room and crossed it before she could hesitate.

At the far end of the banquet table sat her mother, and the children still under her thumb. To her right was Sirena, one twin of a set; then Silas, the eldest and least accommodating. At her left was Simeon, the second-born son who, despite being Siphiah’s elder, posed as much threat as a bastard. Given his poor chances at inheritance, he shrank at their mother’s call and took after their father in the frivolous ceremony that Silas couldn’t be bothered with. To his credit, he was genuine enough that the disdain leveled upon his sister’s approach was overcome by alarm, then pity for what was to come.

Sayana, the matriarch, rose a brow at the sight of her exiled daughter. No remarks were made regarding her appearance, which evidenced a close and recent brush with death; instead, she simply watched as Siphiah sat herself at the opposite head of the table. Silas and Sirena shared a glance that expertly smoothed any surprise they felt under a pretense of indifference.

The family had already dined, but a servant was quick to set a fresh serving before Siphiah: mussels steamed in a dry wine. Her stomach gnawed at the smell alone, but she didn’t think to eat. Instead she picked up a fork and pressed the pad of her thumb into the tines, knowing it was silver by the weight in her hand, how it resonated within her grasp.

Simeon regarded her like a tram careening off its tracks.

“I’m glad you could join us, Siphiah.” Sayana spoke, voice bouncing off the marble columns that fenced the dining room like an arena. Her gaze did not waver. “Late or not. I wouldn’t have called if it was not important.”

Siphiah lifted her chin, inviting elaboration.

“It’s about your sister.” A flat declaration which Sayana let hang in the air. “I understand she wished to follow you, which was well and fine as a fleeting interest. But she has not been home in months. Sirena is not able to reach her, which means her silence is…deliberate.”

Siphiah couldn’t stop her lips from conveying amusement. “You think I know where she is?”

“I think you were the last of us to see her. And to that end, you must have some idea of why she is reluctant to return.”

“That is already known to you.” Siphiah leaned back into her seat, leveling her response, and her gaze, upon Sirena. “Else I would not be here. These are dire stakes, little sister being careless with her reputation. Your reputation.”

Sirena’s expression instantly soured. Her ease to scowl was rivaled only by Siphiah’s own. “Please. I am not in the least affected by what she does.”

“Then you understand that I am not her keeper, either. Truthfully? I haven’t spoken to Simoné any more recently than you have. And if your eyes can’t find her, we are well and truly lost.”

Sayana made something of a wince, though her irritation didn’t reach her eyes. “A shame. Silas will be sent after her, regardless. We’d hoped you could point him in the right direction.”

Siphiah bit back what she wanted to say—no amount of direction could point Silas anywhere but backward. She finally brought her fork to her plate and twisted a mussel open with the flat edge.

“You know what I think? We should be happy that Simoné is developing a sense of self without any interfering influence.”

That was enough to make Sirena rise from her seat, chair legs scraping against the ancient tile floor.

“Damnit Siphiah, might you act your age for once? This is beyond a matter of pride or petty feuds; Simoné is not like you. Do not fault us for making sure she doesn’t end up shamed, or worse—broken.”

The barb was well placed, but the soft spot Sirena sought was no more. Siphiah ate and did not speak until she had finished chewing, her back straight, a bitter display of etiquette.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to track her down, sister. You will find that she has outgrown you, in both priority and ability, if you can believe.”

Sirena’s stunned look soon hardened. She whirled and stormed out of the dining room, signaling the end of their expectedly short-lived gathering. Simeon peered down at his empty plate, whilst Silas worked on burning a hole between Siphiah’s eyes. Sayana merely sighed, adjusting the ornamental comb that held her hair in place.

“Have it your way. I only ask that, if Simoné does reach out…let her know her absence is felt.”

Sayana rose then, with more grace than her daughter, leaving her remaining brood positioned in a foreboding triangle. The tension at either side of the table quickly overwhelmed Simeon, who excused himself to seek out more wine.

Silas spoke the moment their brother disappeared, in a biting tone. “I will not forgive you for this. For dishonoring our family so. For leading another astray.”

“You give me more credit than I am due, brother. I had no part in matchmaking. Trust, running off with a human was done on her own accord.”

“Though not so far from the example you have set. Light, we’d all be better off if the bastard who did that to you had tried a bit harder.”

Despite her preparation, she had no retort for Silas, staring blankly as he threw back his glass of wine and pushed up from the table. Still, nothing touched her heart. She waited until the sound of his heavy footfalls faded down the hallway outside, then enjoyed her dinner in the silence she was used to, and much preferred.

***

[tw: self-harm]

On her way out of the city, Siphiah stopped at the graveyard set by the Scar. Her mother’s missive provided an excuse for her journey here, though it was not her only purpose, nor her true objective: something else was gnawing at her heart, quite literally.

Her late fiancée had been one of few afforded a proper burial following Arthas’ raze of Quel’Thalas, one that Siphiah assured would not be disturbed by undeath. Still, her bones did not rest easy—not when steeped in the blood of so many kinsmen. This fact became apparent the last time Siphiah visited the Scar, during her ascension to a true Knight of the Grave. Sybil’s spirit latched itself to her own during the ritual, an unintended consequence. She had shouldered this burden for years now, secretly relishing in their connection, despite its inconsistency and imbalance.

It was a weakness. A remnant of her past that warranted release.

Siphiah could not call Sybil at will; her spirit was weak, evoked only by dire circumstance. Most reliably, when Siphiah was close to death—when the veil between them was thin. She last felt her essence during the encounter that had marred her so, when a great enemy struck her helm and sheared the plate like tin foil. Sybil’s spirit flamed to life, keeping Siphiah bound to her corporeal form whilst unconsciousness claimed her—else, she may have been tempted to let go. She trusted that there was a reason for her survival, though could no longer bear Sybil’s promise of security in good conscience.

Siphiah unsheathed the shortblade at her side, an exemplar of elven craftsmanship. It was the first weapon she took part in forging, guided by her father’s steady hand and ancestral knowledge. She’d taken a whetstone to it recently, ensuring the edge was primed and sharp.

She breathed deep, low to her diaphragm. The tip was set between her fourth and fifth rib, angled upwards. How many times had she aimed for the heart? She found it easily now, how heavy it weighed in her chest, a throbbing mass of stone. The blade pierced through her linen undershirt without effort. Once the cool metal drew blood, she gasped aloud.

Something inside her lurched.

“Sybil.” Her lips ached around that sound, that name. “You must part from me. I am nothing you know, anymore. I am no home for you.”

She hated the words as she spoke them. The blade sunk deeper as punishment, wedging into protective cartilage. The pain was blinding, but she stood firm.

The spirit didn’t communicate in any verbal fashion, though it buzzed with alarm. The further she pushed, the closer Sybil came to the surface, until Siphiah was able to grab her slippery essence. It was so cold as to feel hot—or was it the reverse?

Her blade dropped to the grave. Thirsty for blood, the earth quickly swallowed what covered it, and what dripped from her wound. She pulled Sybil's essence with great effort, her clenched fist trembling all the while. There sounded a hiss like a steaming kettle, then a snap like over-strained fishing line; when Sybil exited her, so did her breath. She kneeled and pushed her flat palms into the earth, smothering their glow. Only once the spell had finished—when she had forced Sybil to rest—was she able to gasp an inhale.

Her hand shook as she brought it to her chest, applying pressure. The wound needed prompt attention, though she lacked any urgency. Her gaze zeroed on the headstone, on the name etched into it, then the epitaph afforded to victims of the Third War. She hadn’t had the stomach to orchestrate more personal words, nor did Sybil’s family; too cowardly to face reality, the lot of them. She waited, willing tears to come.

Is it true? Are you still a coward?

A minute passed by. No tears fell.

#the justiciar #wow rp #tw: self-harm

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