The Curse, the Magister, and the Nightingale

Part 5: Gone But Not Forgotten

Nightingale reappeared, broken twigs and machinery snapping beneath his light feet. Shadows swathed around him, lingering behind like a dark purple mist. He allowed the madness to simply sweep off his elven frame as he strode forward, observing his surroundings.

He did not like the Ghostlands, but they reminded him of himself. Once an eternal forest of beauty, now a devastated and forgotten battlefield.

The Ghostlands was the half of Quel'thalas Arthas and his Scourge completely destroyed. The earth was black and charred, and reeked of death and decay. Bones scattered the ground, soot and dust blanketing the once healthy land. There were broken ballistae used by the Quel'dorei, everything a shattered memory.

The Ren'dorei continued to tread forward, hidden in his purple cloak. His pale eyes glowed eerily beneath the cowl, flickering left and right with silent regret. He knew these woods like the back of his hand. Now, nothing remained of their glory but a husk. However, he was not here to mourn the destruction of Quel'thalas.

He continued to walk forward, memories plaguing him with every step closer to where he grew up. He knew the village where he was born was now destroyed by the Scourge, living as ruins within the Ghostlands. It pained him to know of its outcome, but there was nothing left there he wanted to cherish. All of it was forgotten, not only by himself, but by everyone.

Nightingale's thoughts still drifted toward why the necromancer wanted him. He hadn't known for a long while, not even after returning to Telogrus with Umbric. But he uncovered something about himself he had never truly understood. The distorted realm he had entered upon searching for the source of his curse was called the Shadowlands. It was where he was destined to live as his afterlife, but for some reason he was still able to enter it. . .

. . . and come back out.

He could warp himself and reality, yank his spirit back into his destined realm and disappear from this world. He continued to experiment with it, and learned that it had to be the reason why the necromancer wanted him. It was the realm of the dead, the most dangerous of the dead. The undead man wanted the ability Nightingale had, the unknown connection.

Nightingale was glad it was in his power. It meant nobody would try to use it or abuse it so long as it remained a secret with him. Only Umbric knew as of now, and he intended to keep it a secret as to not attract attention to his Ren'dorei. He promised himself he would only use it for emergencies, if it were a life or death scenario that demanded his terrifying control.

Eventually, Nightingale came to a stop. He stared down at the ground for a moment, a sense of longing falling over his shoulders like a cloak. A burden of despair and anguish. He knew what lie beneath. They were graves.

The graves of his family.

There was no trace, no evidence of disturbed soil. Nothing but the scarred earth. He knew though, and he was thankful. Someone still had a heart. Someone still had the decency to bury his family, to not let them rot in the hands of many who would use their bodies against him. He knew people were cruel enough to do just that. To get at him, people were capable of doing so much harm and destruction.

Carefully, Nightingale removed four items from his satchel. He knelt against the ground, undisturbed by the soot that now stained his trousers. He allowed the faint sunlight to reflect off of the four creations resting in his palm, their metallic faces warm from Nightingale's touch. Tenderly, Nightingale placed each silver engraving on the ground, aligned from one another.

Each of the medals were a bird. There was a swan, a sparrow, a dove, and a falcon. The falcon and dove were larger than the other two, which was exactly what Nightingale intended. He traced the intricate detail forged into each of them, rubbing his thumb over the small but meaningful tributes. They weren't much, he knew. But they held all of his emotions, and that was what mattered.

He remained on his knees in silence, eyes closed. After a lingering moment, he rose to his feet and turned. He walked away from the graves, from his family. From his past, his childhood, his joy and innocence. From a memory he thought was only a dream. From four people that deserved more than just a simply made bird to represent their personalities.

But this time, Nightingale knew he could walk away from them without worrying. He could walk away from them with hope.

For Swan and Sparrow.