But He Doesn't Write Me Poetry

Lena’s cheeks flushed as she dashed through the streets of Stormwind.  Her high color could be attributed to the wine, but it was really both the wine – and the attention from one Doctor Charles Hawtrey, a fellow mage and long time friend from the order of the Infallible.

She gathered the skirts of her dress in her hands as her hooves clattered along the stones.  This dress was a ridiculous choice, she berated herself, her heart pounding in her throat, her heavy breaths pushing at the elementium collar around her neck.  She had heard him shout in surprise as she jumped up and ran, and he followed her out of the tavern, but lost sight of her when she muttered a frantic incantation and cast an invisibility spell around herself and continued through the thinning late night crowds.

He was a lovely specimen of human being, if Lena could say such a thing.  He was a warrior mage on the battlefield, confident, sure, and pushed himself hard.  But as she got to know him, she found him incredibly graceful, kind, gentle… and sweet.  He was a poet at heart, and he had already shared with her some of his works.  When she found his journal, she resisted for a while, but ended up reading a few pages, and her own heart broke at it’s beauty.  Before she gave it back, she noted the letter in a sealed envelope, with a scripted L on the front.  She didn’t open it.

They were in the tavern, celebrating the new order, and she teased him, prodding him for poetry on the spot.  They drank wine together and plotted working together in the future.  And then he noticed the collar.  At the same moment, she realized what was happening.

She stopped her flurried escape, breathing hard and casting a teleportation spell that landed her inside her Stormwind City home.  She leapt at the door, locking it with shaking hands, drawing all the curtains, and finally collapsing in tears on the plush, oversized couch in the sitting room.  She clawed uselessly at the collar locked around her neck, whimpering in frustration.

Krastos loved her.  Krastos owned her.  She loved him.  She belonged to him.  She belonged with him.  Thousands of years of dedication to him and a human poet would undo her?

Aside from her note to him, she didn’t leave her house for two days.

“But he doesn’t write me poetry…”

She heard the knocking on the door, and knew it was the Doctor.  He must have gotten the note.  She had managed to somewhat pull herself together in her time locked away.

Was he going to unravel all of that again?