Notes1: So I told myself I'd take, like, a week's break from writing any more Warcraft stories, that there are other things I need to focus on. Then work happened and whoops, my mind went on overdrive; and whoops, I thought about Sylvanas and her role in BfA. This particular story doesn't go too deep with spoilers outside of allusions to the Horde War Campaign; however, there are very minor callbacks to the end of the Before the Storm novel that Amazon accidentally leaked in nearly its entirety as a preview. I believe this has been pulled down once they realized what happened and how much people were talking about it, so for those that didn't catch (or abstained from reading it, as I did) you didn't really miss much. The implications are there.
I have way too much to say about Sylvanas. I'm simply waiting for a time and place for when I can pull no punches and go into the depths of writerly talent. But that time has not yet come, and so I will sit back and wait until that day comes. My notes on her would probably be longer than the story itself, if I were to really go in-depth with her. But not yet. It is much too soon.
This is for the best. This is what matters the most.
It is something she has told herself (time and again, once the Forsaken finally fell in step behind her and she turned her attention toward Teldrassil), and it is something she will tell herself again when the Horde has pushed deeper into Kul Tiras.
To be happy is to be something they are not. It's a betrayal waiting to happen, a crushing blow of disappointment that renders all expectations invalid. Hopes and dreams are built from the sands of a future they hope will happen, after all.
So where there is disappointment, there is the grief that comes with rejection. The anger that stems from the facts they deny and refuse to accept as reality. The constant questioning of their state of being, of the living that spurned them, that would descend into either a litany of furious Gutterspeak curses or a breakdown that shed dust and ashes instead of water and saline.
They had to accept it; they heard what the Alliance had done to their friends and family when the summit was underway. What the Alliance had tried to do in the midst of all that confusion, and how the Dark Lady managed to bring back a semblance of order when the first of the survivors straggled back to Undercity.
They don't have to know what she did to those that didn't come back right away. Sweeter words will be like music to their ears compared to the bitterness that would spill from her lips—words they are not meant to hear. It will be bitter, it will be heavy on the heart and a storm upon their heads; but it shall uplift them, raise them above the lightning and the thunder, and they will turn their gaze west across the ocean and south past their shadow-touched lands. They will see red, they will bleed red. They will bleed the lion and the wolf dry and leave their corpses to rot, cast the moon and the stars into shadow and tear off the wings of the gryphons and break the bolts that hold their precious machines together.
They would dash the Light of creation from Azeroth until all that is left to give them a sprinkling of solace is the azerite that will be in her grasp.
They would rip the Shadow from its moorings and obliterate it from their sight, for the Forsaken were the first to clothe themselves in darkness, the first to embrace it willingly, wholeheartedly, and with no regret. They will not be the last; there is no intention. They have complete control over it. They are too broken, too desolate, to give into temptation.
The love for anyone other than the Dark Lady would be the nectar that will lead them on the road of madness and despair. It would lead them to the end they dread above all: a darkness blacker than black, where Light and the cold, putrid comfort of undeath will even die.
(It's the same darkness Alleria and her merry band of fools will go to.
Nothing accompanies that thought when it comes and goes.
That doesn't surprise her.)
So the Forsaken will accept it. They are going to, and they will have plunged fully and willingly into the fire and war the Horde will have sent scattering between Kul Tiras and Zandalar many months from now, when the reports on azerite go from deposits to seams and their frequency increases from once every week to once every day, every hour on the hour. They will clash with the Alliance that seek to reclaim their Light-given lands that were lost in years past on the Kingdoms, and they will push and rail against them on the islands where they seek to wrest the blue-gold minerals and its liquid form for their own purposes.
If they want to survive, they will fight for the Horde. For her. There is no greater love than for themselves and for her: their Warchief and Banshee Queen.
And they will do so.
They are such good little soldiers. Cold, relentless, and utterly devoted, and though Sylvanas will never admit it out loud each death brings a small pang ache in her chest. Even as Nathanos leaves with her Champion to Kul Tiras she bids him farewell. The thought of him and the Horde's most illustrious hero falling to the Alliance, or sacrificing themselves in the name of the greater good, stings her; and even so, the mere feeling would be nothing more than how a living person would feel having been bit by a mosquito.
Whatever she felt for him, be it friendship or some type of love that would never have been approved of regardless of how platonic it was, is as dead as the woman that fell with Quel'Thalas in her darkest hour. It is no different—and would be no different—for the hero she has come to hold in regards higher than him (and this, too, she will keep to herself, for she has seen the way Nathanos looks at them), who has done more for the Horde and for Azeroth than he ever will.
Sylvanas of House Windrunner is dead.
There is only Sylvanas, the Forsaken.
This is the family she has now. Her people that once were enemy (if only allies of convenience, she thinks, staring across the water where Dazar'alor's gold spires rise above the fog-wreathed mountains) and once her kin, for neither has she or ever will be one of them again, are the only company she needs.
A company of soldiers and bodies to be raised, over and over again, until the Alliance falls to its knees and their lion-bound flags are razed from every home, town, and battlement throughout the world. There will be no rest, no solace, until the Horde rises above them. It will be at that moment Sylvanas will stand tall over all: King Anduin and Genn Greymane and everyone who dares oppose her.
Even her own family, should the need arise again.
But they are already know that; that's why Saurfang stayed behind, even when the opportunity was there for him to go back. It's no secret she has always been sulking the shadows, waiting and plotting for just the right moment to strike.
And the time to wait has already passed. Vol'jin did tell her to step out of the shadows and lead, and lead them she will. It will be more than whatever it was he lived through before the fel poison consumed him. If it wasn't one mistake Thrall made, then it had to be another.
Had this been a year ago she would have complained...but times change, and so do people. So does she. It doesn't matter anymore.
All that matters...is now., and how to make that fated future bear fruit and become reality.
Except when it comes to the end, the very end of it all, Sylvanas still hasn't decided which Alliance leader she'll save for last. Any one of them can die between then and now.
Genn? Yes, he deserved it. Him and everyone that had his back when he smashed the lantern and set Eyir free. That was a future he gleefully took from her as she took his son away from him, despite the daughter he has left behind in all the destruction his vengeance has left in his wake.
Anduin? He is the son of the man who had stood for everything she opposed, who had lead the charge against Undercity after Wrathgate, and was indirectly involved in every operation that's seen Forsaken and living Horde soldier die by a human's blade, a dwarf's gunshot, or a worgen's claws. Yet he is also the son of the man who gave the Horde a second chance when Garrosh had been overthrown, the man who cooperated with them when the Legion assailed the Broken Shore and made sly, passing remarks to her when they had flanked Krosus. Varian had been her adversary...but he was worthy of that title. For all his flaws and everything he had done against her, Varian had her respect. But Anduin...after what happened at the summit, after what she saw….even the sun has to give way to the darkness eventually. What a shame it must be, for her to have to deal the finishing blow; he had the potential, but not the brains for it. He was still so very young, but time has a way of killing all it holds dear, including the students it teaches.
(But not me, she tells herself. Never me.)
None of the others are as important to her; they're simply another obstacle to be overcome.
But Alleria...oh, Alleria. Just the name alone makes her think of Vereesa—Vereesa, and the way she twisted that proverbial knife between her ribs. The bitter honey that dripped from her lips when she mentioned the twins. How high a pedestal she put them on, and how high they stood next to her, their aunt. The invisible, dark messiah she could have been, had she not let herself waver.
What was she if not a walking, waking memory?
What was Alleria if not the same, but without the double standard?
(Sylvanas paces back and forth across the deck, a look in her eye that makes the troops on board give her a wider berth than they have already given her.
(Alleria has no right to complain. She has no right, no obligation, to feel broken and desolate. She's alive. She has family. She has hope. She has the will to overcome the pain and hardship that has surely found her and the Ren'dorei judging by the rest of that holy, lawful, self-righteous lot they belong to now.
(She has something Sylvanas will never want or have again, and that thing is called love.
(Sylvanas spins briskly on her heel, all smoldering red eyes and an ugly, twisting scowl. She can pinpoint the exact second Alleria looked at her for the very first time since before she left with Turalyon and the Sons of Lothar to the Dark Portal, can recall the way the very life in her footsteps and in her eyes drained when they held her...and stared.
(Her fists clench.
(No one should look at her like that. No one. So maybe she will take her eyes.
(No one should speak to her with that soft, disbelieving tone. No one. So maybe she will carve that throat out with her knife.
(No one should have to feel that way toward her. No one. So maybe she will take her heart, rip it from her chest and crush it in her hands so when those eyes finally close they will be the last thing Alleria sees. What Vereesa will see. What Arator will see. What the Ren'dorei and everyone they have ever known and loved will see. Then they will be reminded, then they will remember, and it shall never forsake them ever again.)
Sylvanas stops. Loosens her hands and raises them to her face. Congealed blood pools where her nails bit through the leather. Without magic, they will scab over. The flies will be drawn to her and never leave her alone.
It hurts...but they're nothing but scratches. Nothing a little magic and perseverance can't fix.
She stares at them. Stares until only her hands fills her vision and the gentle susurrus of the sea fills her head.
(Didn't Alleria use to bandage them when they were girls? Yes, that was all her, wasn't it? When Mother was out of the house on an errand or, for longer periods of time, on a patrol or mission with her Farstriders. They always played rough, those two, when they got carried away. They had to tone it down when Vereesa was old enough to join them, but even then she'd get it into her head and lose herself to their antics. But the past? That was all them, just her and Ally. It'd start out innocent enough: climbing trees, skipping rocks across the pond to see who'd go the farthest, hide and seek, whacking each other with wooden toy swords and bows as an excuse to 'practice' when Mother knew better—and would know better later on, much to her chagrin—than to give them those and start them out that young. Then one thing would lead to another. They would get excited in the heat of the moment. Maybe one of them would say something stupid that would rankle them and spur the other into action to prove herself 'better'. Either way, they would forego whatever challenge they imposed upon their games and wrestle. Butt heads, pinch skin, and throw them to the ground and get dirty, or roll down the hill, or even fall into the water; and they would snarl and growl and laugh until they tired themselves out and dragged themselves back home for a proper bath. Or a scolding, if they were unlucky enough to catch Mother's eye; Father knew when to step away when she was involved. Sylvanas didn't know until she was older that, for him, it was the daughters who were the mother's greatest concern, their biggest fear, and their most wonderful joy. One was enough, he'd say. Two was more than a handful. And three? Well, three is quite the laundry basket you're lugging, m'dear. And Mother would always roll her eyes and say it was more than enough for her to carry, she'd slung around bows and quivers full of arrows and, when worse came to worse, injured elves and corpses. How much trouble could three little girls and one little boy get into?
(More than enough, Father would probably think, and so did Vereesa when common sense won out temptation.
(So did Alleria and Sylvanas, but what did they know? And why should they have cared? They were kids, and Eversong was the pearl in the mouth of the oyster.
(You wanna go again? Alleria would ask every night, just before they turned in for bed. And how could Sylvanas say no to that, especially with the way her eyes sparkled and her grin took up half her face?
(Yeah! Sylvanas tell her, draw it out with a squeaky, girlish growl that tried too hard to sound deep and cool like Mother when she wanted to show off in front of her kids. Who in the hell wouldn't want to go out again and see how far they'd go before dinner? Or even better, before it got dark and the guards told them to hurry on home before they got their hides tanned worse than a leatherworker's station? She'd always show Alleria her hands, wrapped in linen bandages that soaked up all the blood and made the scratches scab over and, once picked, leave them to scar. They were her trophies, from battles won and battles lost, and someday she was going to do great things with these hands. Some bad things, too, but they would all be good in the end. They would be just like Mother's.)
Sylvanas blinks back into the present and looks at her hands. Beneath the gloves the scars have long since faded, except for two: one on her midriff from when Arthas ran her through with Frostmourne, and one on the back of her head from when Godfrey shot her.
(No one, not even Nathanos and the Champion, can know there's a third one where her heart should be. It doesn't exist, she wants to say. She will swear up and down until the end of time that there is no scar and will pretend it's not there.
(But it's there. It hurts far worse and far more than a Forsaken soldier dying, a Horde soldier dying, far more than the thought of Nathanos and the Champion dying. And it throbs, throbs so hard she thinks she can almost feel that cold, dark, empty space struggle to beat.
(What a futile struggle it is! What a foul, wretched thing a heart must be!)
She grinds her teeth hard to elicit pain, scoffs and flicks her wrists hard enough for the drops to fly and splatter across the boards. Turns her face toward Zuldazar.
(Alleria's been away for a thousand years. She can afford to wait a little longer.
(And when the time comes, she will know.
(They will both know.
(On her word as the Banshee Queen.)