((As with any of my blogs about Anka, she wasn't warned beforehand. As always, if there's anything she doesn't approve of, it will be remedied. And, as you should know by now, I have no artistic skill and so big thanks to Lorith/Echo, for drawing me a picture while I beat my computer with a hammer))
The coat wasn't glamorous or fine. It was sewn by the wife of a local shepherd and lined with the gray fur of an Elwynn wolf that poked its nose too close to his flock. The shepherd had traded it to Elrin in exchange for the removal of some Defias members who had poked their noses too close to Stormwind.
Anka had given her last winter coat to a man on the streets of Old Town. There wasn't any doubt she'd give this one away too. But for now she wore it loose around her auburn hair and waved from the steps as he crossed the canal bridge.
He knew she'd turn soon; standing until he was out of sight wasn't in her nature. Nor was sitting by a window, pining for his return. She would turn, draw the coat tight against the wind, and walk to the orphanage. There she would sit until the sun set, mending clothes and chiding the little anklebiters against too much horseplay
In the evening she would finish packing the vials of healing potions and tug the hood over her head before visiting the infirmary. She would stay there until the moon reached its zenith, using the time to mend wounds and distribute the potions.
All around Stormwind in times of war there are posters, reminders to the civilians, that what they do is every bit as important as what the soldiers do. And, there certainly was no denying that.
But he knew what she did was more important. He needed the beacon to guide him home. Because when the red light filled his eyes and he howled and cursed, maimed and stomped, it was always her that pulled him back.
Sometimes he screamed and thrashed. He fought her smile, her smell. His rage was power, intoxicating, exhilarating and anyone could easily lose themselves in the rush. The smell of herbs and wool could be replaced with blood and sweat. The painful tug of love could be replaced with the overwhelming rush of life-ending power.
He once tore the heart from a Vyrkul King and ate it in front of their largest village, his eyes blind with the red haze. But the smell of ale from the old rag around his arm sucked the hate from his body and the glint of the inscribed pocket-watch tore him back to his senses.
Nothing and no one had pierced the haze before. His boots were stained with the blood of all those who had resisted his strength. But it took only her small hand on his shoulder, a single memory or a few words to drag him back to her, no matter how he struggled and clung to the red light in his eyes.
He shifted on Sophia as he crossed the bridge and turned back for another look. Anka waved, wreathed by the coat, spotted with snow, hair disheveled and blowing. He would remember her the next time fire flowed in his veins and the red light clouded his eyes
His Venus in furs.