Harrowheart

Cricket song always made it easier to think. Peaceful and repetitive, invisible yet constant and inescapable, there was something about the sound of those summer bugs that kept hot heads cool even on a warm Westfall night. Looking back, it was hard for Harrowheart to imagine any serious conversation he'd ever had with his sister Anna that didn't feature to the backdrop of the soothing sounds of nature. The ocean breeze dancing in the branches of the orchard, the singing of the seasonal bugs and the calls of the birds unique to each hour of the day and night. But after so many years of drought there were no leaves to rustle or apples to fall with soft pats. The songbirds had fled or passed and their calls grew rarer. The crickets, though, still remained, at least for one more night. One more talk with his sister, the two of them laid out with their backs flat against the roof of the family home, their eyes toward the uncountable stars in the deep and cloudless sky.

It had been so long since they'd seen eye to eye. Literally, in fact. She could hardly bare to look at him for years. Now after just one day – one incredibly long, taxing, magical day, granted – things seemed so strangely normal. It all felt so very much like picking up where everything had been left off. A single day in a far-off place changed everything back home. So maybe it wouldn't be permanent, but only time would tell, and for now – for tonight, under Azeroth's familiar sky and above their family home, things felt like they could be better.

Still, more in Anna's opinion than Harrowheart's, something yet needs to be addressed. She looks to her side at her brother, who looks back in silent expectation. After a heavy sigh and an uncomfortable expression she says, "I told Isidor I'd talk to you about that thing. I kind of liked her, and I don't want to let her down. So..."

"How 'bout we don't and say we did?" Harrowheart suggests, shrugging dismissively. His blasé attitude furrows her brows and she reaches over to shove his shoulder. It used to be that a shove meant he would have to keep from rolling off the roof, but now he is heavy enough and thickly built and she hardly manages to budge his arm. He laughs at her ineffectiveness, which doesn't exactly make her want to take his side in all of this.

"I'm being serious. You should be too," she says. He sighs, but watches her with raised eyebrows. He's willing to listen, or at least present the illusion of it. Still, it's enough for her to continue. "You were... Super rude," she says, and now it's her turn to shrug.

He blinks hard. "Ease me into it, why don't you."

"Well?" she says, her eyes on the sky, "You were. What you said to them about how 'being rich is the worst thing a person can be,' that was... Really awful? It was awful. I wouldn't want to be your friend if I knew you thought about me like that. You probably really hurt their feelings."

He doesn't realize how tightly he's pressed his lips together or how his own brow has lowered as she spoke. He stiffly shrugs as if that might dismiss this conversation. "So? What's the big deal? They go home and wipe their eyes on their billion-pound notes, have a fancy dinner that I can't even describe, put on pajamas made of silk, and go to sleep in a bed that's worth more than our entire property. Then they wake up, forget about everything I said, and go back to their rich-ass lives."

Anna shoves him again and tisks at his flippancy. "Except I guarantee they don't forget about it. Can you not hear yourself right now? What kind of person talks about their friends like that? I mean... Would you forget about it if your friends hated you for being undead?"

Once again he's shrugging. "I'm sure they do. They just don't say it to my face."

Hearing that makes her sit up on one elbow and brings a frown to her face. "You still think like that? That everyone always hates you? That everyone's talking about you behind your back?" The fact that he doesn't answer says it all. She heaves a sigh and lowers herself to her back once more.

"Let's walk through this," she tries, her eyes firmly on the stars, her hands folded on her stomach. "What do you hate about them being rich?"

"Everything!" It's a question he's prepared to pounce on. "Who'd they swindle their gold out of? How do they feel about their servants? And why do they work for 'em anyway? Do they actually think they're better than the rest of the world, or do they know that's ridiculous? What kind of people would they be if they weren't rich?"

This time it's Anna's turn to screw her eyes shut in a high-effort blink. "W-wow. Okay..." That's an awful lot to take in at once. Her mouth shifts side to side as she processes all of this. She nearly asks if he's sure these people are his friends, but she'd hate to be the one to accidentally end the first decent friendships he's had in years. Instead she breathes slowly and eventually begins to nod.

"So you're... Worried that your friends aren't moral people?..."

His brow knits, his glowing eyes narrow. A plume of cold breath escapes his nostrils as fog in the warm night air.

Anna understands that silence, too. "That's kind of hypocritical of you, isn't it?" She waits for a reply, but it doesn't come. "Listen," she says, touching his shoulder softly. "Whether your friends are good people in their lives or not, you can't just... Imagine that they're evil because of that one thing. You're making up answers that you don't like out of nothing just so you can feel better about... I don't even know."

She sits up and looks out at the land around her. It's late and incredibly quiet until the far-off yelping of a pack of coyotes makes her sit a little straighter. She looks down at her brother then, still lying flat on the roof. "I know rich people ruined Westfall. But... Viatorus and Isidor? They aren't those people. They're not even from our world. You can't hold against them every bad thing rich people across the universe have ever done. Let them be themselves. Let them have their own flaws."

Harrowheart rolls over onto his side with his back to his sister. "You make it sound like bein' rich is an accident or somethin'. It's a choice, you know? They could choose not to be rich. That's what I always come back to. Every time I think I'm over it that's all I can think about. There's folks on their world with nothin' at all, pickin' through the dirt for crumbs while Isidor and Viatorus live in a mansion and throw away food 'cause they don't feel like eatin' it. I can't get over that. How could I?"

Anna shakes her head sadly. She's hesitant to say it, but somehow can't stop herself. "There are horrible things about you that were choices too..."

Harrowheart turns to see his sister but something else catches his eye. His brother Lawrence pokes his head through the window with an exhausted and disappointed expression. "Okay, you two, enough," he grumbles. "It's a hot night and some of us are trying to sleep with the window open without listening to your bullshit hick philosophies. Harrowheart? Anna is right, be nice to your friends because they're your friends, end of story. Anna? Harrowheart is right, the rich are the soulless scum of the universe. And anyway we all know you're only trying to defend them because you want them to buy you expensive things."

Anna opens her mouth to protest but Lawrence sweeps his hand left and right to dispel her argument before it even begins. "Don't even. You're the fakest person on the planet and everyone knows it. Now, both of you, shut up and go to bed, because some of us have to wake up at sunrise to bust our asses tomorrow."

Lawrence ducks back into the bedroom and Anna and Harrowheart are left watching each other, each with their own expressions of guilt and worry. The conversation doesn't feel over, and neither of them is satisfied, but neither of them is prepared for the difficulty of this subject. Something is coming between them again, and more than anything they'd both like to forget it. For now, it seems, it might be better to let the silence between them be filled by the rhythmic chirping of the crickets that crawl through Westfall's dust.

 Now that spring has officially sprung and the wonderful dastardly winter spirit has been vanquished, the streets of the Nexus are once again packed with warmbloods and breathers. Which is alright by Harrowheart; it makes it easier to invite friends to a pleasant afternoon out. He'd contacted Viatorus already and convinced him to meet for a chat on culture in an arboretum in the Wilds. It's a pleasant little area of split wood fences, gravel trails, and fantastical trees, each labeled with little brass plaques that tell of their world and the culture that surrounds them. 

While he waits he arranges a place to sit: A blanket on the ground to keep the dirt off of Viatorus' expensive clothes, books on the history and mythology of Azeroth tactically placed at the four corners to keep the wind from blowing the cloth away, and a picnic basket right there in the middle. He's dressed vibrantly in the same gaudy Hawaiian shirt he wore to the birthday party in the aquarium while he sits, casually listening to music from his phone as he gazes up at the lavender leaves of a weeping willow that's budding some kind of perfectly round, silver fruit. 

Days have passed since the last time he saw Viatorus, and when they'd parted it was on such unfortunate terms. He'd threatened violence against a family member, threatened violence against Viatorus's body. His meeting with Doctor Hill had been a difficult if enlightening experience. Confessing all of the things he'd done wrong, explaining out loud the way he'd mistreated his friend, coming to conclusions about himself, his own flaws... It was difficult, emotional work, but somehow he felt better for it all. More pure, more honest. But explaining himself to a psychologist and apologizing to his friend were two entirely different matters.

And Viatorus is his friend. Or so he hopes. He needs to know, but more importantly, he needs to try to set things right. 

As impersonal as it feels, he starts with a text.

[Viatorus. I know you may not want to see a message from me but I want to talk to you about everything that happened. I want to say what is on my mind but most importantly I want you to have a chance to say what is on yours.]

[You are a man and you have the right as a man to say you do not want to meet me and I respect that. But if you do want to meet I will be on the steps of the downtown library with the gryphon statues outside all day. If you don't want to reply and don't show up I will understand what that means.]

And, just as he said, he's waiting on the steps of the library. Now and then he checks his phone, but otherwise he seems content to watch the crowds and feed the strange variety of birds with bits of bread he'd brought along. 

Harrowheart sits with his phone in his hands debating how to start this. He'd gotten Viatorus's number, and he fully intended to text him, but it wasn't easy. Everyone seemed to like Viatorus so much. They all vouched for him and insisted on his better qualities, but Harrow had been so rude when last they'd met, and he was certain the kid was some kind of anti-undead racist. Most of this felt pointless, but he had to try, if not for himself then for his friends.

It took him far too long to send his eventual text:

Viatorus this is Harrowheart. I looked up you're number. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot last time. Would you like to meet and try again?

He follows it up with a text of his current location. An authentic little Earth diner transplanted into the Nexus, a humble and half-clean place by the name of McDonald's. Flaccid fries and soggy burgers are universal – nay, interdimensional – and fast food joints are only appropriate for the meeting of two magical minds. Plus, there's a big playground.