((A Hallow’s End treat for you all! A little early as I expect the holiday to keep me busy with my family. Enjoy!))
The reading room was small but luxuriously appointed. Ezma preferred to visit it for it was much quieter than the bigger library Dalaran boasted. She could spend the long, dark hours of the night quietly reading, catching up on her inscription work or writing in her quickly filling journal. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed full of books and antique tables and chairs made up a large portion of the floor space. Most of it was scattered in small conversational groupings except for one lone rocking chair placed in a corner. The ancient rosewood chair was finely carved and over the centuries the wood had been polished to a smooth sheen. It was a lovely piece and Ezma avoided it, opting instead to sit in an armchair across the room. Even though it appeared empty, the rocking chair was always occupied.
Night after night, a human woman rocked her infant in the chair. Night after night, Ezma listened to her sing in an exceptional alto. The words were in a language she did not understand but the tune was familiar. Her song shared the same soothing cadence all lullabies possessed, expressing a maternal love as old as the mountains and as deep as the sea. The minor key was haunting, leaving a chill along Ezma’s spine.
The departed often did not care to be disturbed and it was second nature to Ezma to ignore the presence of mother and child. Past experience had taught her that lost spirits usually saw only what they wished and it was best to leave them be. Weeks went by and she watched from the corner of her eye. One night, in search of a book, Ezma wandered closer than she usually did. As the rocking stopped and silence descended, Ezma was almost afraid to look. Half turning, Ezma glanced towards the corner. The woman was staring straight at her, her baby protectively cradled gently against her breast. Unsure what else to do, Ezma apologized.
“Pardon me, I did not mean to disturb you.”
The ghost nodded and returned to rocking, though her song did not start up again for a while. Ezma, having retreated back to her area of the room, breathed a sigh of relief when it did. The spirit was not inclined to turn wrathful, it seemed. Already she appeared lost to her endless routine. Ezma decided to stay away for a bit to allow the woman to truly settle.
A few nights later, upon returning to the room, Ezma was surprised to be greeted by the spirit. Just a pause and a nod before she returned to what she was doing. Usually equally ignored by the dead, the death knight was caught off guard. Before she could stop herself, Ezma politely returned her greeting. The lullaby lilted through the air as Ezma set up in her usual place but a new awareness had been formed and ignoring each other was no longer an option. Occasionally, there was conversation, though it was usually an odd thing. Like many spirits, the woman was self absorbed and her awareness would often vacillate between understanding of her situation and the restless belief she was still alive that kept her coming back night after night, repeating these simple actions.
“One day, my son will be Lord.” the woman said, placing a gentle kiss on the unnaturally still infant’s head. Ezma remained silent. She had nothing to say. With a sudden switch in demeanor, the ghost looked her in the eye and said “Do you know why I’m here?”
Unwilling to lie, Ezma said “No.”. The ghost went back to rocking and singing.
Weeks went by and the nights grew longer with the changing of the seasons. Hallow’s End approached and Ezma watched, waiting for the day the woman asked again. The ghost gave her hints in odd statements and little signs. Ezma would be ready. The holiday seemed to bring some strength to the woman. Her form was slightly more corporeal and her awareness slightly less fuzzy. Still, almost every night she was there, rocking her child and singing the lullaby that sounded as old as time.
Hallow’s End passed, the Day of the Dead dawned and the moment Ezma had both anticipated and dreaded came. Her song temporarily silent, she raised her eyes to Ezma’s and asked the question. “Do you know why I’m here?”
Unwilling to lie, Ezma said “Yes.”. The chair stopped rocking and silence descended.
“Tell me…”
Drawing in a shaky breath, Ezma started to speak. She wished she didn’t have to. “You killed your baby. Strangled your son. Even now I can see the marks upon his neck. When you realized what you had done, you killed yourself as well. You took a dagger and ripped open your wrists, bleeding to death.”
A ghostly wail rose through the room, chilling Ezma’s soul. It was primal grief in it’s purest form, horror and pain distilled into an outcry as old as the mountains and as deep as the sea. Terrible loss condensed into one word, chanted over and over. “Why? Why, why, whhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyy?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, Ezma wished she could hold back the tears. She whispered “Because sometimes the dark is bigger than we are. It swallows our soul.”
The echoing sobs of a mother in pain continued for a while, eventually tapering off. Silence descended to soon be replaced by a lullaby singing of a maternal love as old as the mountains and as deep as the sea.
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