A/N: Hello, dear readers! Welcome to what is a combination of tragedy, romance and friendship all rolled in to one. This story ties in to the three chapter Before Summer's End as the two stories cross over at some point, and also serves as a prequel of sorts to the 44 chapter You, Me & Us and - though distantly - volume two of Taming the Beast. For the very first time, I am publishing this story as it comes to me; for all my other stories, even the longer ones, I don't post a single chapter until the whole thing is finished and saved on my hard drive. This is an experiment: I have the beginning and I know the ending, but I will merely write the middle as I go along and see where that takes us.
For dates, refer to the Wowpedia unofficial Warcraft timeline as a rough guide. The first and last chapter start and finish in the year 55 if the First War (and the game Warcraft I) count as year 1, which is consistent even with the official timeline. Considering that the online game World of Warcraft was launched in the year 25 and Warlords of Draenor is considered the year 31 - when the rest of this story takes place - then the rest of the continuum of If You Could Only See should hopefully be clear.
If not, please feel free to PM me and I will try to adjust as needed for clarification. As always, I don't own Warcraft, Draenor or Reshaad - just my stories and characters. Enjoy!
Ratchet, the Barrens, year 55
All of what you are about to read, my dear friend, is real. Considering the oddities one typically finds on Azeroth, none of the details herein should come off as particularly strange. However, I always feel comfortable adding such a disclaimer before I recount the more personal of my tales. My journalistic pieces are much easier to compose and require much less in the way of formal introductions. For stories in which I played an active role, though, such reminders are often of benefit to both you and I.
Perhaps a bit of explanation is needed, though I won't ramble - you will come to formulate your own judgments over my character and persona as you read through the lines and the inherent bias all writers possess. Hopefully, a small introduction will aid you as you sift through which details you choose to accept as truth and which you prefer to leave off as my own subconscious insertions.
I am Valmar of the Forsaken - freelance journalist, armchair historian and one of two warrior trainers in Ratchet these days. I was patched together by a scientist one could accurately describe as 'mad,' and my psyche is comprised by the memories of at least four human males, a high elf male and a human female through means I may never comprehend. My swordsmanship and durable body imply that I was intended as a bodyguard, and my somewhat haphazardly formed appearance implies that I was somewhere between a typical Forsaken undead and an abomination, but my intellect and knowledge of high culture belie a perhaps unintended consequence of the six skill sets I was bequethed at the time of my 'creation.' Make of all that what you will, and feel free to interpret my words through any lens you see fit; a true writer writes not only for themselves but for their audience, an audience of mature adult beings who are capable of drawing their own conclusions.
Tiondel Hearthglen, the youngest son of my fellow warrior trainer here and my personal protege in both fencing and history, will soon be arriving from a visit to his relatives up north in Ashenvale, and it is my hope that I will have the first draft of this manuscript ready before he arrives. An advantage of such an apt pupil as he is that he not only learns quickly, but also provides proofreading and editing services free of charge.
My apologies, dear reader - I claimed above that I wouldn't ramble yet it seems I've subjected you to three paragraphs of exactly that. Let's move on.
It was the beginning of summer in the year 31 when I first met her. Mioda Lightwhisperer was her name, though obviously I wasn't aware of that at the time of our most unfortunate crossing of paths. I had ended up stranded on Draenor as I tried to find a new place in the world after my years of imprisonment on entirely false charges (which I would detail to you here were it nor for my fear of rambling again). The campaign against the Iron Horde on an alternate version of the planet was in full swing at that point, with the strong support of both major factions on Azeroth as well as a number of smaller, neutral organizations doing their part for the war effort through copious logistics and materiel contracts provided from government coffers. Like others finding their way in the world, I enlisted as an irregular and marched through a reopened portal to Ashran after the initial destruction of the Iron Horde's Dark Portal. The merenary contractors of the real Horde provided me with weapons, some cash, extra clothing and a bunk to sleep on if only for a fixed amount of time. Once there, I was sure I could work my way to self sufficiency given the sheer volume of quests, odd jobs and raids to participate in.
From Ashran I caught a ship to Gorgrond, and traveled on foot to Talador and…well, here I go rambling again. This is more the story of Mioda and Anerial than of myself, Zhenya or Reshaad. I'm sure, dear reader, you're more interested in how an idealistic if naive young blood elf, through no fault of her own, was separated from her fiance and turned into a living bomb by a cult of avian fanatics on the alternate version of a different planet.
Fate often works without malice or mercy, and it just so happened to guide me to the Spires of Arak on that…well, fateful afternoon. No pun intended.
For the life of me, I cannot recall the specifics of the inane quest I had accepted; what little I can remember related to giant bat wings and plucked feathers from the airborne, xenophobic, rabidly hostile variety of the native bird people. Due to the toughness of the skin I was gifted with at the time of my creation, I've never found much use for armor; it's heavy, restricting and inflexible anyway. With nothing but my clothes, rapier and mask - my face is unsettling to the living, and I consider first impressions to be of the utmost importance - I was able to travel rapidly, running through the wilderness as I collected whatever seemingly nonsensical ingrediants Reshaad, a man of some respect among the arakkoa, had sent me on. Were it not for my immense respect and admiration for the old buzzard (pun intended this time) who behaved as though he was everyone's uncle and grandpa simultaneously, I would never have bothered.
Yet I am glad that I did; what happened beyond that point led to friendships I shall cherish until the hollowness takes me and a series of events I shall ensure become known to the world.
I had arrived at the correct location in the early morning - that much I remember. Though I can't remember the exact goal of the quest, I do remember that it required me to leave the main road in the area and I had spent quite some time hiking through the wilderness. Though much of the province consisted of exactly what it was named for - spires - I had found myself in a particularly flat, open expanse where my vision was only obscured by all the briar trees. While culling such a large number of bats in their sleep did pose a moral quandary, the creatures were mostly sleeping in the day time. That made the task much easier; without having to look them in the eyes, I was able to justify my actions internally by repeating to myself that it was likely for a good cause, and I simply cut the jugular veins of most of the bats before they even had a chance to wake up.
When it came to the airborn bird people, though, all sense of moral illegitimacy disappeared. The creatures were horrendous and abhorrent - perhaps every such adjective functioning as a synonym for those two terms could be applied to them. The flightless bird people such as Reshaad, who seemed filled with so much sincere, if cautious, kindness toward the Azerothian heroes fighting the Iron Horde were relentlessly persecuted by their flying cousins, and more than a handful of members of the Horde and the Alliance fell to the fliers' talons and spears. The killings were inevitably gruesome and ritualized, with many of the victims' internal organs being strewn across the landscape as a sort of terror tactic and warning to any who would oppose their will. The problem was that their will was erratic and illogical, and avoiding conflict was impossible.
Not that this was a problem for me - their talons weren't quite thick enough to pierce all the way through my patched up skin, and my manufactured body was more powerful than that of the humans and orcs around my height. Like any other sentient, they could fall under a sword wielded in skilled hands. It was just my luck that two of my male brains belonged to former enlisted soldiers, and muscle memory seemed to reside within my limbs as well.
It was only a few hours after the noon time when I first heard her pitiful cries. They were not cries for help or mercy, but rather the weak, exhausted cries of a fellow feeling, sentient being who had given up. Cries so heartwrenching that even without knowing the crier, I felt an intense sympathy for her tugging at my very core. The protective instincts of my five male brains and the empathic urges of my single female brain drove me further into a patch of tall brambles as I seached for the source.
The wicked trees were imposingly tall, though since they lacked leaves my visibility through the patch wasn't entirely impeded. Taking care to avoid any sharp branches which might snag by clothes - my dark green v-neck shirt was particularly expensive - I grasped wood and rock as I lowered myself down what appeared to be an old sinkhole that had since been filled with dozens of the twisted trees.
As I approached, the cries became more audible though not any louder, and the woman - whom I guessed to be in her late twenties - spoke no words. Crouching low, I listened for signs of anyone else prowling the area lest I fall into some sort of ambush. Sensing nothing, I sought to make my presence known; with a visage like mine, you quickly learn that surprising people can often ruin potential friendships and business relations.
"Ma'am," I called out in Common in a low voice so as not to attract anyone else's attention. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"
For a moment there was no answer, and I assumed that I had frightened whatever traumatized person it was that was crying. Both my curiosity and my sympathy piqued, I took another step further and attempted to call out again, but was interrupted by the voice of a living elf whose throat was parched and whose spirit was broken.
"Get back," the young lady attempted to exclaim, though it came out more as a whimper. I could tell that tears were still flowing, but she was likely too exhausted to sob anymore. "Please go away…I'll hurt you…"
"You don't sound capable of hurting anyone right now, my friend," I said in the calmest voice I could muster. "But you do sound hurt yourself. Are you alone?"
Confirming my suspicions that the voice belonged to someone slightly disturbed, the woman broke down and gurgled what sounded like 'always' as a response. Determination fueled my efforts and I ensured that my steps could be heard as I approached. There was more gurgling followed by a short sob, and I could hear weak limbs scrabbling in the dirt. Descending even further, I tried one last time to reassure the person speaking before I revealed myself.
"As two travelers from the same planet - as nobody from Draenor speaks Common so fluently - I have an obligation to help," I explained as soothingly as possible. Along with the lucidity of my mind, the clarity of my voice is another characteristic preserved in my undeath that I am endlessly thankful for. However, it only seemed to cause the woman further distress.
"Please…I don't want to cause any more pain in the world…" she cried shrilly though quietly. "Please, just leave me to die. Nobody was supposed to find me…"
But find her I did. And when I peeked out from behind an exceptionally large patch of briar bushes, I saw what is to this day - excluding the trials I have witnessed from my fellow Forsaken - one of the saddest things I ever did see.