Lifeblood

Even now, Anduin had never got used to the smell of blood.

Blood usually smelt the same, regardless of species. Most blood was red, and had a metallic smell – apparently it was due to the level of iron in the blood. He'd spilt more blood in the last few months than he had his entire life. He'd likewise seen more blood spilt by others in those months than he'd seen in his entire life. This war between the Alliance and Horde was yet another war of a world that had seen too many, and in comparison to what the Burning Legion had intended for their world less than a year ago, a mere skirmish. Their combined efforts had saved the world, and now the survivors were trying to finish what the Legion had attempted. What Sargeras had failed to do three times, the Alliance and Horde might accomplish…he blinked. He'd lost count.

But blood still smelt of blood. He could smell blood whenever Shalamayne spilt it. He'd smelt it every time the steel of his foes broke through his armour and found his flesh. Just as it had been at the Capital City, when the Alliance had recovered the ancestral seat of House Menethil, restoring their control over nearly the entire eastern continent of Azeroth. Here in Silithus, as the Alliance pushed against the Horde to secure the azerite that Sargeras's sword had uncovered. Here, in his tent, as priests and healers attended to the dying. He held the hand of a draenei, the light fading from her eyes, her lips barely moving, speaking in words he couldn't understand. Her blood, unlike that of most races, was blue. Her blood smelt different from red blood. Yet, he noticed, it flowed just as well, from the gaping wound in her abdomen. Blue blood stained his hands just as readily as red blood. If he could, he would save her. He would save the hundreds who had fallen in battle this day. But the Light was beyond his reach – he was exhausted. All he could do was hold the hand of one of his warriors, adding more blood to his hands, and wait for death to take her. To take all of them.

"Pheta thones gamera," the draenei whispered. "Aar-don'sha, ki khal'dos."

Anduin didn't know what the words meant. A farewell, a prayer, a curse, he couldn't say. But as the light left her eyes, as her grip loosened, as one more body was added to the butcher's bill…it didn't matter. She was dead. She, and hundreds more. All for a failed assault. Perhaps the last assault, given that the Alliance had been pushed back to its landing site on Silithus's west coast. For while the Eastern Kingdoms were in their hand, Kalimdor belonged to the Horde now – all but its northernmost regions. The wrong side of the continent to get azerite. He turned away and wiped the sweat from his hair, placing blood in its stead. The Alliance would expect word from him. A plan from him. Something from him. What that something would be, he couldn't say. But now…

Now he walked outside the tent, onto the desert sands. It was evening, and a westerly breeze blew onto the land, carrying the smell of salt. The battle had been fought at noon, blood of many species staining the sands. He looked out onto the sea and sighed – anything to leave this place, he thought. Anything for the war to end.

"King Anduin."

He spun around – 'king.' He'd finally got used to that title. Not so much the role, but at least when people said it, he didn't have to mentally remind himself that he was now the ruler of the Kingdom of Stormwind, and by proxy, High King of the Alliance. A role he had little love for when surrounded by people who knew far more about war and strategy than he ever could. People like Tyrande Whisperwind.

"Lady Tyrande."

She nodded – she was tall, Anduin reflected. Over a head taller. Also still clad in armour, still stained in blood, all of it red. Ergo, not her own.

"Lord Greymane requests you in the war tent," she said. "We are to push forward on the morrow."

"Push forward?" Anduin asked. "Our backs are to the sea, our blood is on the sands, and he asks us to push forward?"

"If we do not push, our bodies will be in the sea."

Her words were harsh and blunt. Bereft of the melody that had once existed in her voice. Anduin met the priestess's eyes – deep silver, and hard. She'd lost Darnassus. She'd lost her people their home. He would have offered comfort, if he did not fear that Tyrande's desire for vengeance was spurring her to push this assault on Silithus, an assault that was costing the Alliance hundreds of lives for little in return. He'd seen what had happened to Jaina at Theramore, but at least she was helping him open a new front in the South Seas, bringing Kul Tiras into the fight. Anduin knew that his grasp of strategy was developing, but bringing in the world's most powerful navy into the fold was still a boon.

"Very well," he said. "Let's see what Genn has to say."

The two began walking – Tyrande walked faster, her longer legs carrying her across the sands far quicker than Anduin did. As they walked, his eyes drifted to the banners that had sprouted across the shore – lions, wolves, shields, arrows – the banners of various members of the Alliance, drawn her to die together in the shadow of a sword. The sword that his eyes drifted to in turn – the sword of Sargeras. The sword he had plunged into Azeroth in a final desperate attempt to destroy the world, as if stabbing from the depths of Hell himself. He sighed – not Hell. Heaven. The sword had come from the sky. The sword had brought azerite into the world, as Azeroth literally bled. Bled, and have its children come to sterilize the wound by taking the azerite for themselves and killing each other to do it. He-

"Oof."

He stumbled into the sand. Tyrande turned and looked down at him which such a withering gaze that if there had been any grass here, it would have withered and died. Frankly, he was surprised he didn't die then and there. Part of him would have even welcomed it.

"Sorry," he murmured, getting to his feet.

Tyrande said nothing and continued walking. Anduin started to follow her, but stopped. Stopped, glanced out to the sea, and said, "does it bother you?"

She turned around again. Her gaze wasn't withering. It was…nothing.

"Does it bother you?" he repeated.

"Does what bother me?" she asked.

"Does it…" He trailed off – he had been going to ask her about Ahsenvale, and the loss of Darnassus, but that wouldn't do him any good – of course it bothered her. "Does it bother you that so soon after fighting the Legion we're fighting each other again?"

"No," she said.

Anduin blinked. "No?"

"No."

"But-"

"King Anduin, I've devoted more of my life to war than you have walked this world. I fought the Burning Legion when they invaded this world ten-thousand years ago. I killed demons as surely as they killed those close to me. For ten thousand years after that, I devoted my life to defeating the enemies of the kaldorei. Enemies that were born of this world." She took a step towards him. "Should I have shirked from my duty then, Anduin?"

"No, but…"

"Then there is nothing to discuss. War is war. War was war long before I drew breath, and shall be war long after both of us are nothing but footnotes in the annals of history. And if history has taught me anything, the only way to end war is to win."

"Or negotiate peace," Anduin said.

The withering looked returned, but before Tyrande could speak, Anduin beat her to it. "Does it bother you that we're spilling blood over the actual blood of Azeroth? That the world is wounded, and we add to those wounds?"

"Wounds heal," Tyrande said.

Do they? Anduin wondered. Do yours?

He didn't know. The wounds of his father had finally healed, after losing his homeland in the First War. But it seemed that so many people in this world stayed wounded once wounded. Jaina had never recovered from Theramore. Tyrande might never recover from Darnassus. More and more, people like Moira Bronzebeard and the other dwarves of the Council of Three Hammers seemed like the exception rather than the rule. And how many wounds could a people take before their bodies died? Or at least their spirits.

"Come," Tyrande said. "Genn is waiting."

Anduin followed her. Genn Greymane. Another wounded soul. Another who drew blood every time he took worgen form. A man who was pushing for even more blood to be split. As they walked, he cast one last look at the sword of Sargeras.

Is this what you wanted? He wondered. Wound the world, so that others might finish the job?

He doubted it. But as he entered the tent, as he saw Genn cleaning his hands with a damp cloth, blood pouring into a bucket of water on the ground, he was reminded of but one thing.

Blood still smelt the same.