Pamela's Doll

It was dusk.

It was always dusk in the Plaguelands. The air sifted in sepia shadows, the dying trees cast orange and brown shadows crisscrossing in a chaotic moire and the sun beyond nothing but a lighter smudge in the dusty sky above. She had to stop, to rub her eyes, teeth clenching, fingernails digging into her palms, anything to stop her hands from shaking.

It was a doll.

It was just a doll.

It was just a broken, moon-cursed and raggedy, old, falling apart little girl's doll.

The Sindorei sat upon the forgotten porch, the house behind her empty save for spirits restless. Its faded boards let in as much light as the shattered windows, pale gray strands of illumination, barely enough to cast a shadow. Long ago, this place had been known as Darrowshire. Once, she supposed, it had been a bright and noisy place, where the human-kin played in the streets and beneath it's trees, laughing in their strange and alien games. But then the Scourge came, and the Scourge didn't care if you had mundane blood or elven.

In her hands were needle and thread. Her own embroidery was fitting for any elven court. The finest stitching, the flash of gold and silver thread upon crimson samite; her own robes were not just woven of silk and shimmering netherweave but her own sun blessed magics. So this, this should have been such a simple task.

She tried again, to stitch the torn doll back together. But the dust, it must have been in her eyes, for all was blurred.

She never had a doll, herself. Oh no, that was too fine for Mother. Her daughter was going to be a knight, a stalwart and cruel and unwavering paladin. There was no room for such soft play in her world, for such simple and so domestic pleasures. Nobles of the Court didn’t have time ‘tween lessons and social engagements for such frivolities.

Green eyes closed, a touch of steel framing to the young women’s expression. It didn’t mean she ever wished. It didn’t mean that a day didn’t go by that she wouldn’t have traded the glittering façade of appearances and affections … just for one day running in the streets, playing hopscotch upon a chalk marked court. Or even, to sit on a bench with a cloth companion.

Maybe one just like this.

Wincing, hard, her eyes opened to narrow slits. It didn’t take much imagination to feel the sting, for her memory far too good. To once again know the sharpness that was her Mother's backhand discipline, if Mother ever found out her daughter was stitching up some girl's doll. Let alone a human child's doll.

Mother would be the first to remind her, that the only thing Humankind ever taught the Sindorei was the meaning of betrayal.

There was a shift in the light, like a mist passing before a candle. She started, suddenly alert. A breath held. And then, when the village's silence was again heavy enough, she let that breath out and relaxed. The Scourge had been here - Kel'Thuzad's legions of twisted abominations - and the ghosts they left behind were not just some minstrel's myth. They were real.

Shaking her head, trying to see straight, the blood elf once again attempted to focus at the bits of cloth and straw in her lap. Button eyes, faded yarn hair, a doll's simple sack dress. Obviously crafted to look like one worn by a little girl.

A little girl who didn't deserve this. All the betrayals in the world, and the blood lost between Sindorei and Humankind didn't, couldn't, wouldn't make any of this right. Just a little girl, and little girls should be playing beneath these trees, their biggest care how many daisies it takes to make a circlet for her hair, whether or not her doll took one acorn or two in her imaginary teacup.

But then the Scourge came, and the Scourge didn't care.

A little girl should have a chance. Just a chance, to play all the games of hide and seek and imaginary tea the older Sindorei never had.

A little girl shouldn't have to haunt until the dying of the final night, the last of the days, hurting forever because she lost her doll and not understanding at all that she was no longer alive.

It took a long press of her forearm to her eyes to clear them. To realize that there was no dust in her eyes.

Only tears.

Damn you, Kel'Thuzad ... for making me hurt for a human child.

The blood elf slowly, so slowly stitched Pamela's doll back together. It was the only thing she could do for the dead.

Why couldn't she stop crying.

Damn you, Kel'Thuzad ... for teaching me compassion.