Ay, Waukin O

[Phileas]

Simmer's a pleasant time:
Flowers of every colour,
The water rins owre the heugh,
And I long for my true lover.


Phileas sat in the Arathi Highlands, on a patch of land he had hoped one day to own, and watched the raptors prowl among the rocks in search of food. He took another swig of burnwine and wondered why exactly he’d decided to come here in the first place. Being here, with the light falling just so, he could almost imagine her there, just as she was the last time he’d visited this piece of earth. Sunlight glinting off the ring, and joy and surprise in her eyes…

An autumn breeze ruffled up his hair and chilled the back of his neck, making him shiver. As the rogue turned up the collar of his leathers, his hand brushed the hump in his armor made by the stack of papers he’d put in his pocket. Phileas stifled a sob and hastily scrubbed a hand over his face, determined not to cry here – the local predators would sense that weakness easily enough, and he didn’t want Sky to have to take on a pack of hungry lizards to protect him.

As he shifted to pull the papers out again, the crossbred wolfhound looked up at him hopefully, tail thumping briefly on the heather. Sky didn’t truly understand what was going on…but she knew something wasn’t right. When she saw no further indications that her master intended to leave, she put her head back down on her paws with a patient sigh.

Phileas flipped through the stack of papers, the top one folded as neatly as it had been when it arrived in its envelope, the remainder of them wrinkled and creased, having been unwadded and carefully collected. He knew he probably should have thrown the tear-stained drafts of his response to Aelflaed’s letter away – but it was against his nature to leave evidence behind, especially evidence of his heartbreak. Though he’d scoured the sheets a thousand times, he forced himself to read over them one more time, both her letter and all the ones he didn’t send. It had taken him quite a while to compose himself enough to even begin writing that night, and it showed on those pages. There were drafts written in anger, in despair, drafts that begged and pleaded to change her mind. In the end, he’d realized that if she wanted her freedom enough to write him and ask for it – there was nothing he could do but give it to her, no matter how it made him feel. So he’d dashed off a brief note, almost detached and formal, and sent it back.

The rogue shook himself out of his reverie and looked around. The shadows were lengthening, the early-evening sunlight painting the Arathi Highlands with molten gold. Gathering himself up, Phileas stuck the stack of letters back in his breast pocket, whistled for his dog, and began to trudge towards Refuge Pointe.


When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk I'm eerie,
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking on my dearie.


The Pig and Whistle had a small collection of bunks in the basement, intended for the Wildfire Riders to use if they needed a place to sleep and had no other recourse. Phileas sank into the bunk in the corner and drew his cloak around himself. He probably shouldn’t have come here, at least, not at this hour, with the great likelihood of running into one Rider or another in the Pig’s taproom. So he’d ducked through the service entrance in the back, startling Elly Langston half to death with his sudden appearance. He hadn’t said anything to her, but the appraising look she’d given him told the rogue that the Langstons, at least, already knew.

For Phileas, at least, it was a very long night. He’d close his eyes and begin to drift, and then the sound of laughter would drift down from the taproom, and one certain note in the noise would jolt him awake, rolling over to face the door in the hope that he’d heard what he thought he’d heard, that she’d be there, she’d smile at him, and the nightmare would be over. Inevitably, the doorway remained empty, and the rogue would sigh, turn back over to face the wall, and try once more to sleep. When he did finally sleep, he found himself dreaming – he was in the basement of the Silver Shield, or in a small farmhouse, or in Dalaran, and there was a beloved, comforting warmth beside him, and he was safe, he was home – and then he’d wake, the dream evaporating like mist, and find himself staring at the stone wall of the basement of the Pig and Whistle. He stared at the stones, too drained to even come up with sufficient profanity to express himself, and lay there for the rest of the night in an exhausted haze. He was roused by the insistent poking of Sky’s cold nose under his ear, letting him know that she needed to go out. Numbly, Phileas dragged himself out of the bunk and tended to the dog. He wondered if he’d even have bothered to get up some days if it wasn’t for Sky, and found himself doubting that he would. Once the wolfhound was walked and fed, Phileas curled back up in the bunk, only a glimpse of his red hair to tell an observer he was even there.

He left early the next morning, as quietly as he’d arrived, traveling back North to throw himself back into the endeavors of the Frostborn and the Argent Crusade at the Tourney. As he carried out the half-dozen tasks he’d been given, Phileas wondered why he was even bothering – not like there was a point in amassing a stake to start a farm and a family at this point. As he drove his daggers into Iron Dwarves and shadow cultists alike, he felt sparks of anger at the red-headed paladin begin to rise. How could she do this to him…and like that? Not even bothering to tell him face-to-face? The sparks were quickly extinguished by the niggling voice in the back of his head that reminded him that really, he had nobody to blame for this but himself…it really was completely his fault. If I’d been more attentive, more efficient…more anything, I suppose. She takes on Old Gods and comes back unscathed. How could I ever have hoped to match up to that?


Lanely night comes on,
A' the lave are sleepin,
I think on my bonie lass,
And I bleer my een wi' greetin.


Stormwind again, and a canopy of stars across the night sky. It was a challenge to find a quiet place in the city to think – but an easier task than finding a quiet spot in Dalaran, The City That Never Bloody Slept. Phileas and Sky walked the lamplit streets, not taking any particular route. He’d paused at the porch of The Gilded Rose, leaning against the post that had supported him when they had talked of fear and marriage as they waited for Naiara to make her entrance into the world. He’d ambled through the mages’ district and Cathedral Square, pausing for several minutes outside the great church. As he gazed up at it, he fought the prickling behind his eyes, shoving his grief as far away from him as he could.

Suddenly, Stormwind felt too small – everywhere he turned, there was a reminder of her, of the time they’d spent and of how, of course, The Great Phileas Lynch had managed to muck it up again…and this time, to muck up beyond repair the best thing that had ever happened to him. Fumbling for his hearthstone, Phileas let its magic carry him back to Dalaran. His vision blurred, and half-blinded, the rogue headed for the Underbelly as soon as the floating city solidified around him. A few coins got him a room in the sewers, more of a bolt-hole in every sense of the word than a proper room. Bracing the door shut behind him, Phileas dropped onto the cot in the corner and gave in to the stomach-twisting, blinding hurt he’d been nursing since he’d checked his mail and gotten that letter.

When the storm of tears had passed, the rogue lay sprawled across the cot, too drained to move. So…what happens now? What do I do now?

It doesn’t matter.


Waukin still and weary:
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking on my dearie.
Ay waukin , O.




“Ay, Waukin O” from The World Burns Club ( http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/tra ... ukin_o.htm )