The story of Ceteacie, Rogue of the Alliance

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“Retirement agrees with you.”

“I took up a research position, I didn’t retreat to a hermitage.” She moved into the small chamber to make room for him. “Tea? I have Thistle.”

“You still make Thistle Tea?” He padded silently into the chamber, his eyes darting. It was meticulously kept. Her books all neatly arranged, her bed tucked so tightly he knew soldiers that would have envied it. The staff he remembered from long ago leaning in a corner, long since abandoned but kept. He’d seen that staff channel frozen fury so intense that Winterax Trolls simply keeled over dead at its touch. The memory of the expression on their faces forced a smile, and he was glad for the cloth covering his face.

“I even drink it, from time to time. Got a taste for it. I was keeping bad company.” She smiled and he felt it like a blow to the back of the head. Her hair was still up in those tails, as pink as the candy he’d bought for her in Dalaran. He took a seat in the small space next to her hearth and watched as she set the kettle. “So, what brings you to my door?”

“I was… reporting back. To Mekkatorque.” He took a breath, remembering. “I was in Silithus.”

“Why on Azeroth would you be there?” She handed him the tea. He drank it. He knew by the way she asked that she knew full well why he was there — likely part of her ‘retirement’ was advising Mekkatorque, but he’d never asked for details. Hadn’t dared to, really. The acrid tang of the tea brought with it a rush, like fae fire on his skin.

“I was hoping it would all be over. After this…” He looked at her, took a breath, and decided to just say it. “After we killed that dead bastard up there, I thought it would be over. What else would we even do? And then the dragon, and then the Horde and that idiot Orc who thought with his axe… did you ever get to Pandaria? Ever get to see it?”

“I did.” She had her own mug of tea, was sipping from it. “Gelbin wanted a study on the Sha corruption. I told him after, it’s not going to be an easy fix.”

“It’s never an easy fix.”

“Ceteacie.” She always pronounced it correctly. Never Ceetahycee, never dragged it out. He hadn’t heard his name spoken with the proper Gnomish accent outside of Mekkatorque in years. The Elves never said it right, the Dwarves tried, but… and Humans? Trust a Human to shorten it down to sounding like initials. The Draenei always seemed to try the hardest. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. Her hand slid across to touch his and he fought back a shiver. “I haven’t seen you in what, three years?”

“Maybe more.”

“So why now?”

“Envy?” He met her eyes. Huge, with those eyelashes he’d noticed the very first time they’d met, all those years ago in Coldridge Valley. The home he was sitting in now hadn’t even been built yet. Outside the window he could see the Gnomish structures dotting New Gnomeregan, as they dug deeper into the ground trying to reclaim their old home. He’d always felt like it was useless. You couldn’t get back what you lost. “You stopped. After the dragon, you got out, and…”

“I couldn’t do it anymore, Ceteacie. It wasn’t because of you.” They both knew he’d taken it that way. They’d never spoken about it. Wasn’t that the way of it? There were a great many things he hadn’t said to her, or to anyone, really. She stood up and turned back to the hearth, lifted the kettle and set about brewing them more tea. He contrasted them both. She looked much the same as she had back then — hair in those wild ponytails streaming behind her as she ran, throwing ice or fire and complaining about having to change the kind of magic she used as they fought the fire monsters of Blackrock Mountain. Back then he’d used swords, and very rarely bothered to use the shadows he now spent most of his life living in.

He hadn’t used a sword in months. By his side, two daggers, assassin’s weapons. Long gone the jovial Gnome who threw himself into combat with flair and verve, now he skulked and poisoned and slaughtered and didn’t even know if he did it for his own reasons or because Gelbin Mekkatorque needed someone who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

He watched how fluidly Ardrette moved and wondered at it. His own motions had lost that. He was still fast. Faster than he had been when they’d been young Gnomes in the snow hunting wolves and planning for the future, far deadlier than he’d been when they’d gone to Outland together. But the flexibility of youth was gone, replaced by cold pragmatism. No more sword flourishes, you waited for the exact right moment and you buried the dagger in their back. No more smiles, you covered your face so all they knew before they died was that a nameless Gnome had struck them down.

“I guess I just wanted to see you again.”

“Well, here I am.” She handed him another mug of tea. This time, he sipped at it. “Thinking of settling down? New Gnomeregan could use a man like you.”

“New Gnomeregan would do well to avoid men like me.” He shook his head. It was a fantasy. Ardrette could ‘retire’ to her ‘research position’ and do as much good as she ever did hurling ice at trolls, telling Mekkatorque how to deal with things that beggared the credulity — all her experience could be put to use like that. But him? No. He was a killer, and killers don’t retire.

But the tea was warm in his hand and the hearth put out a nice cherry red glow, and Ardrette had a line around the edge of her mouth when she frowned at him that made him remember when they’d brought a black dragon’s head all the way back to Stormwind and handed it over to a shocked Bolvar Fordragon, rest him. How she’d laughed at the flabbergasted Humans.

It didn’t fix anything. But it was something. He was still a killer, but he could remember being something more.

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