Notes1: I remember stating a while back in a couple of the First Impressions chapters that I desired to do some Warcraft fanfics, and while work mostly gets in the way of that, what better way to start it off (No More Retries doesn't count; it's a crossover) than a little drabble based around the opening cinematic to Battle for Azeroth? Even better, I get to write another interpretation of Sylvanas that doesn't involve her being a rebellious, conniving, smartass twat with tsundere tendencies and a female harem vying for her attention.
Notes2: Since the Before the Storm novel won't be out for a while, I'm keeping the events of the drabble ambiguous so that way if I should describe something and it turns out wrong it won't suddenly veer into AU territory (e.g. see my Saki fanfics). This also means no Sylvanas/Anduin, which has somehow gained traction...? I don't ship it in any way because...well, people already joke about Sylvanas having a sex dungeon and making Koltira her bitch pre-Legion, and while her being paired with Nathanos is more or less cemented in canon, I can't ship that, either, because it just brings the mind the implications of how he gained the title of Ranger-Lord. I mean, either way, that's not going to stop me shipping her with other people (or not at all).
Notes3: The title comes from a particular line that's referenced in one of the trailers for Tales of Berseria (can't recall the exact one).
He's got a long way to go before he can amount to anything like his father.
He's gotten bigger since the last time she saw him—three years ago, when the Alliance and the Horde surged through Orgrimmar and deposed Garrosh of his mantle, his throne, and the Old God heart clutched to his breast. Varian had towered over him then, outfitted in blue-gold armor and one hand clasped around Shalamayne's pommel as he gave one stern warning to Vol'jin before he departed: Uphold your honor; fail to do so, and we will end you.
This boy, Anduin…he had been a child even as he was on the cusp of adulthood, and even now, across the battlefield that is reasserting control in front of Undercity's gates and is about to lose control once more, he still is. Age and racial discrepancies aside, the white-gold armor, a stark contrast to the darkness Varian embraced within himself, is much too big on his slight frame. He's lost his grip on Shalamayne and his bright blonde hair flies freely, the lion-carved helmet abandoned. There is sweat and blood on his face, dirt and soot caked across his cheeks and smeared on his forehead, but his eyes shine with tears, and he lets them flow; they cut through the stains, as if they are reminding him the battle has not been ended, that there is still hope for his people, his kingdom, his friends and family born on earth and delivered from the stars to earn their peace, cling onto it, and never let go.
He gives unto them as any noble king of high bearing and romanticism would do, as the Light, his desires, spills from his hand into their battered, broken bodies, giving them the strength to rise from the ground and bear their weapons with renewed discourse. They raise them and let cry their bloodlust, their oaths to kith and kin and those who had fallen when Teldrassil burned, burned so brightly it seemed as though the flames themselves were begging release from the heavens themselves. Most of all, they pledge their loyalty to their king, Anduin Wrynn, the High King of the Alliance, a stripling of a man who's about to get the full taste of politics and warfare—and with Varian dead, it'll be from Greymane who's going to help him force it down and make it stay there, because the world doesn't care how prepared you are. Somehow, by providence or by pure dumb, bad luck, life will find a way to surprise you and force you onto the stage to confront it, front and center.
Just like me, she thinks, and meets Anduin's gaze—afraid, but no longer wavering; conflicted, but buried beneath a tide of adrenaline, assurance, and resolution. I did not ask to be Warchief. I did not want to be Warchief. All I have ever done on this sundered earth was fight and rage against the fates that say I should not exist. That the Forsaken should not exist. Everything I have done, from one life to the next, I have done for myself and for my people.
And yet, here you are, a voice whispers, and it sounds disquietingly like her own. Gaze upon them, Warchief. Gaze, and know that the Horde is more than just the Forsaken. They are the Sindo'rei, your family. They are the orcs and the trolls, your adversaries. They are the tauren, the goblins, the pandaren, your allies found far and between.
They are the Horde—your Horde, and like it or not, this is what Vol'jin has left behind. This is what he has given you and what you must now protect.
What will you do with them, Sylvanas Windrunner?
The answer was so obvious, wasn't it? Even now, staring unflinchingly at the boy-king and his oversized, flea-bitten mongrel who robbed her the chance to secure her future and that of the Forsaken (—for you have taken mine, Banshee Queen; now, I have taken yours—), she knows it well.
Do you really?
Of course I do, she tells the voice. She's going to take up her bow, lead the charge, and fight the Alliance, fight Genn Greymane and his worgen and everyone that wear the colors of the lion and the colors of their nations at his back.
She's going to fight Anduin, son of Varian, and force his eyes wide open. If she can't make the kid see that the retreat at the Broken Shore was a necessary evil, that sometimes the needs of the many must outweigh the needs of the few, then she is going to make him see that there are some battles that must be fought and cannot be run away from.
Perhaps he will, as he snatches Shalamayne from Greymane's waiting paws, points it at the gates, at her, and cries: "FOR THE ALLIANCE!"
Sylvanas lets a slow, predatory smile cross her lips.
Yes, he will learn. He's going to, just as Varian did before him.
And if he doesn't? Then he will die, the Alliance will fall, and the Horde will lay claim to this dying, fractured world of Azeroth as their own.
Azeroth, their home.
But you won't, young lion, she thinks, and recalls with a pang, somewhere in that cold, dead heart of hers, the moment she heard tell of the High King's death at Gul'dan's hand. The pang of knowing that if she had stayed behind, perhaps together they could have possibly, vainly, stopped the Legion then and there…but that is well and past. The old lion has fallen, his cub has taken up sword and crown. He has become her enemy, and it is with this thought that she stands tall—as Banshee Queen, as Warchief—and knocks an arrow with his name on it directly onto the drawstring. You won't fall so easily. You have his blood.
You are going to fight.
And so will I.