Pakanistrasz, Part 3: Stages of Grief

“I welcome you as a Brother of the Church of the Light, Pakani Redstone.”

And now it’s official. Or is it just official ‘again’? How long do I wear it this time?

Does it matter?

This is who I am.

---

“And here’s your room key, sir. Could you sign your- er. Sorry. I’ll write your name down in the guestbook for you. It’s just for the ledgers.”

He smiled and laughed a little at the innkeeper. “It’s Pakani.”

“And last name, sir?”

“Oh. Ah. It’s…”

And realization rolled over him. Like a key in a lock, it was a perfect fit.

“Redstone.”

“Welcome and have a wonderful rest, Mr. Redstone.”

Yeah. It had a nice ring to it. He could get used to this one.

---

There was nothing of Bragden to inter. Pakani had to bring the news, empty-handed, to the dwarf’s clan at Aerie Peak. Nothing to burn, nothing to bury, nothing in the hands of a nothing himself.

His fault. His failure. One person to protect, one charge to serve, one dwarf dead on his useless, stupid watch. He should have known better. Who was he trying to kid? Of course someone would die if they relied on a blind failure to watch over them.

I was an idiot trying to prove I still had a point in being here. You were an idiot for giving me the chance to let you down, and you paid the biggest price for it. I couldn’t even bring your body back to your family. Useless, stupid, nothing.

The dwarves thanked him anyway. They told him Bragden had always said good things about Pakani in the letters home. Pakani recoiled at the words like a slap to the face. They were idiots to thank him.

He wouldn’t say so. No need to hang his chain of self-pity around their necks too. He suffered through the funeral, and departed with all haste afterward. He didn’t care where he went. It didn’t matter. He just had to get out, get away, get walking and never stop.

---

He fled until he couldn’t, fled until he smelled fresh pine sap and heard the hiss of a brook. He crashed through whipping spruce and collapsed on the earth. Every muscle burned. His thoughts leapt like rabbits, quick as his breath, he couldn’t pin them down - oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.

That didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. What went wrong? What happened? He sensed them, right? Too many. Casters he couldn’t reach - or elite knights - he didn’t even know - or was it just a horde, just too many, just bad luck, just the wind turning the wrong way and they got over the rise downwind - Seconds replayed again, and again, and again, and the screaming - it couldn’t be real, that couldn’t have happened, it couldn’t be real.

Pakani heaved his exhausted body against a tree and slid to the forest floor, wishing so desperately to wake up he wanted to scream.

I have to go back, go save him - No. No, it’s too late - should have turned back hours ago - No, no, no, too late then, too late as soon as I heard - but the body, I have to get the body, I can’t let him turn into one of those things.

Too late for that, too. Too late. Too late. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. It can’t happen. Not to us, not to him. How many did we kill so far, and then they just -

The thin crack of a twig froze him solid. It occurred to him how vulnerable he’d become without the warrior.

The breeze shifted. He smelled deer.

He breathed out in shaky relief. The shaking wouldn’t stop - not for a long while. Not until he stopped hearing the screams.

He fell asleep eventually, hidden as best he could manage, before rising on unsteady legs. The ground was springy with needles, moist with morning dew. Thin, damp air smelled of resin, birds, and lumber. Intermittent saw blades purred in the distance. There was running water between him and them.

Pakani wandered the steep hills, the forest trees serving both as obstacles and support. He would often go rigid, deer-like, to refocus his senses. He knew as many unfriendlies as allies had outposts in this region. Couldn’t take chances.

What about when he ran into friendlies, then? What would he tell them? As little as possible, ideally.

He had to get out of here. Find a way out of Northrend. Find a way to Aerie Peak. He just needed enough of a story and a pseudonym to make it that far. After that, he had no plans. Maybe a running jump off a cliff. No, dammit, not this again.

Hours of hiking dulled the horrors of the night before. Chill air misted his shaking breaths and numbed his throat. His shivering, screaming thoughts shook down to one cold truth, one bitter acknowledgment: He was done adventuring, done pretending to be heroic, done with his vindictive pursuit of confidence.

No one else deserved to die like Bragden Bluestone.