The candle – once so tall – now had only a couple of inches of brightness left to give. Recently melted wax, pouring constantly down the candle’s shaft, hardened again much lower – on the candelabra’s oval saucer. A hill of glossy yellowness that threatened to spill off the metallic, rounded edges.
Two tanned digits tipped with nails painted in red pinched the candleholder by its small metallic handle – made warm by the little churning flame above it – and dragged it several inches away. Until it no longer threatened to drip onto the pages she was inking.
A tired, grumble of a sigh left the Blood elf’s mostly pursed lips. Her eyes, so heavy they made her head dip every now and then, continued to occasionally shut, and for far longer than a blink.
The Blood elf’s other hand continued to hold the pheasant-feathered quill above the ledger. This time her hand had delayed for so long, the quill produced little more than a scratch of ink, so faded it was hardly even there. A small shadow between the fibres of the slightly coarse paper.
Lyrena dipped the quill in its pot, its tip coated and dripping again. Her index finger tapped the quill’s shaft a few times to rid it of excess ink – missing once. The elf’s hand, sore from combat training and writing, shifted somewhat, her digits renewing and bettering their hold on the quill.
The aggravating process made the elf peer to a nearby cabinet, atop which a box – long, short, and finely carved – sat so invitingly. Lady Silmariel’s generosity. The comfy bed of a much better quill Lyrena had put to use today already, during longer paragraphs and trickier sentences. The Dame Commander looked longingly at the box for a moment longer, then made peace with the tool already in her hand.
Three more names.
Then, she flipped the page. For the last time tonight, she hoped. Once more, she referenced the more crudely done reports a little ways left – loose papers where the order’s losses had been informally scribbled very shortly after the battle’s end.
Two names remained. A promising Corporal like by all, Lyrena had been told, and a Private - a recruit so fresh, the man had hardly memorized his patrol routes before his untimely demise at the battle. Two brave men amongst twenty-one other Guardians who had fallen on that day. Brave warriors the Blood elf had fought alongside with on that day. Men and women who did not live to witness her unexpected promotion - a promotion that elevated her above them all. Yet it was they who had sacrificed so much more. Everything. The elf suspected the customary letters to their next of kin, detailing the final heroisms of their loved ones - and padded with some gold - will unfortunately do little to ease their mourning.
Done and done.
The Dame Commander sighed, and prepared to close the ledger. As her fingers pinched the bindings' edge, her golden eyes lingered on the Corporal's surname. Had she spelled it right?
She went to reference the loose papers again, where the Corporal's surname had been written. Krysta? Krysla?
Inconclusive. The Blood elf set her gaze on the bookcase on the other side of the room, which contained the records of most Guardians, current and former.
As she rose to stand, though, her armored elbow knocked the ledger off the table and onto the floor.
The Blood elf closed her eyes and huffed through her nose. Patiently, she reached down to pick the book off the floor, and place it back in front of her, flipping back to the latest page. 219.
Before she stood from her chair to walk to the bookcase, her peripheral gaze caught glimpse of something on the pages...
Time stopped. The candle's dying flame seemed to no longer make noise with its crackles. The crickets outside had stopped their droning songs.
The Blood elf's tired eyes blinked. Again. Again. It was still there.
Her heart began to pound madly. Punching against her chestguard.
A shiver began to overtake her. She could hardly draw breath as her shaky fingers reached to flip the page. Flipped it she did, so hard the paper nearly ripped right off.
Nothing changed. Frantically, she continued to turn the pages.
The words changed.
They stared right back at her. They judged.
The elf's panting became painful. Stretching and ripping at her lungs.
Her hands continued to push away.
The pages filled with blood. Each one redder and slimier than the last, until they began to stick together - melting, chunks ripping.
Finally, the Blood elf picked up the book, and in a panic, threw it against the bookcase. She stood up from the ornate chair, quickly and hurriedly. Her mug, halfway full of water, tipped and spilled onto the desk. The candle's flame ceased.
Darkness.
Her long ears caught the sound of breathing. Behind her.
A stench of the grave huffing coldly through rotted teeth.
Her sabatons had all but welded to the floor. Her feet did not budge an inch. Nor did the rest of her.
She felt the presence leaning in. Its teeth - long, jagged, vicious - closed in.
****
Lyrena briefly thrashed in the moments after she woke up. Still at her desk. Still at night.
Her chest was pounding, and her face felt wet with a cold sweat.
The elf brought a hand to rub at her eyes, and huffed a long, long sigh. She stayed that way for a while. Her elbow on the desk, her face leaned against her eyes. She felt the cool, refreshing breeze again. Heard the crickets' song.
Finally, she looked at the ledger again. Corporal Oswyn Krysta. Private Leowald Tanner.
The Blood elf stood up, and calmly closed the book. She leaned in to blow and extinguish the candle. She gathered her things, and locked the office for the night. So far, she had returned to the home King Malekith had so generously gifted her with. Tonight, Lyrena walked up the spiralling stairs towards the bunk beds, where her fellow Guardians had long been asleep. Quietly, the elf laid herself on one of the small mattresses, and fell asleep beside her new comrades not long after.