A/N
This is a sort of spoiler fic I guess. It was actually based on a guess as to how Illidan's arc in Legion would end, and from what I can tell, I was partially on the money. Key word on "partially" though, so consider most of this creative licence.
The Long Way Home
Argus was a wasteland.
Illidan had visited many wastelands before. Not seen, in the manner of most mortals, but over his 15,000 years of life, he had come to understand much of the nature of the world. Southern Kalimdor was a wasteland, a realm of searing heat radiating upon desolate sands. Northrend was a frozen wasteland, a place where the wind carried death, and the snow carried the blood of the living. Outland was a wasteland, a piece of rock floating through the Great Dark, serving as a warning to the power of the Burning Legion. It had been Ner'zhul who had torn the world apart, but only through the power of fel portals. He had done to his homeworld what the Legion had done to worlds beyond count. Argus had been among the first, but was by no means the only. And now, upon his throne, Illidan found himself reminded of Outland. Both worlds were saturated in fel magic. Both were ruined husks. And both of them were his domain.
Or they had been. Outland had been his domain, before misguided fools from Azeroth mistook him for the real threat. He could have ended the Legion long ago if not for their interference. Technically speaking, he still hadn't ended the Legion. He'd cut off the head of the serpent, but while it writhed, it could still strike at those around it. But, not on Argus. Azeroth would ever be the jewel of the cosmos. A cosmos that had been blackened by hordes of demons, but still, a jewel. His homeworld. A world that he would never return to. He-
"Trespasser."
He remained seated, but he could tell that he was no longer alone. No living being now crawled over this flying boulder, but that could change. The path between Azeroth and Argus was still open. The Army of the Light had returned to the only world that could now give them solace. Free from the Legion, they could go back to killing each other in their eternal petty squabbles. And yet, one of their number was here.
"Fifteen thousand years," Illidan said, still seated. He picked up a skull of a demon – one of many that surrounded his throne. "That is how long I have walked this universe. Not as long as you, perhaps, but what have you accomplished in your long years?" He tossed the skull aside, hearing the heard the sound of bone landing on bone. "You enter my domain? Well, I assume you are prepared, but with your eyes, behold the spoils of war. Look well, before you speak…Velen."
He knew. He knew from the moment he heard the draenei approach his throne. An edifice of rock in one of Argus's ruined cities. The sound of his hooves, the smell of his beard, the melody of his very breath. He'd never seen Velen, but he knew him. He almost respected him. But now, pitied him.
"Illidan," the draenei said.
"Tough times then?" Illidan sneered. "Still alive, with no enemy to fight. How does it feel to live in the post-climax of your life?"
"There are always enemies to fight."
"I suppose so. Tell me, have my former allies gone back to killing each other yet? Has some new calamity arisen to threaten Azeroth? Or have the cries of war finally fallen silent?"
Velen remained silent, and Illidan frowned. "I'm blind, not deaf. Speak."
"You command me?"
"You're alone, and since you fled your entire life from the Legion, I cannot call you overconfident. Though, is arrogance the word to use? You enter my domain, and assume I'll allow you to leave."
"Argus is not your world."
Illidan snorted. There it was. The heart of the matter. The beating heart that beat even slower than that of the decrepit fool in front of him. He could see where this was going. Velen was over 10,000 years his senior, but the prophet was walking proof that age was no guarantee of wisdom.
"I am the victor," Illidan said. "I led your armies and defeated the Legion. I believe even the draenei understand that to the victor goes the spoils."
"Argus is not your world," Velen repeated.
"It's a big world, you can do what you want on it. Or try to. Does your precious Light allow you to restore an entire world to life? Is Azeroth so vibrant that you can come here? Or does it wither on the vine, leaving you no recourse but to search for scraps amongst the Great Dark."
"Argus is not your world."
Oh you senile old fool. "Begone," Illidan said. "Your sheep call for their shepherd."
"I speak for them. They demand you remove yourself. Argus is the home of the draenei. You are half that of what forced us out."
"Draenei," Illidan spat. He rose to his feet. "Exiled ones, in your own tongue, no? Well, call my tongue barbed, but while you prattle on, remember this – I defeated the Legion. I slew more demons in a few years than you did your entire lifetime. I have given everything so that your sheep may never fear what lies beyond the fence. So, remember this, Prophet – the Legion is gone. Your people can call themselves eredar again, or un-exiled, or whatever title you seek. But this world is mine. My own. My domain. And I will suffer your prattling no longer."
He sat back down on his throne. One of his hands formed into a fist, his claws digging into his flesh. He'd had enough of this. Enough of all of them. Liars and hypocrites all, from the draenei to the naaru, to his own people. He could break this prophet's neck with his bare hands before he even raised his staff. Though he couldn't see Velen, he could hear his breathing shift. Could hear how he carried himself differently. Could hear it all, above the wind that blew over a broken world.
"Is this it?" Velen asked eventually. "Is this what you want?"
"What?"
"What you want," Velen repeated. "You, living on a broken world alone, surrounded by the bones of your enemies."
"I happen to take a lot of joy in knowing that the bodies of my foes are at my feet." He barred his teeth. "Should I add you to the pile?"
"Argus, even as a ruined world, means far more to my people than it ever could to you."
"A bold claim."
"But one spoken in truth. They may not even come here. But the idea of you claiming our homeworld as your own…" Velen took a step forward. "Again, I ask, is this what you want? A lifetime of solitude on this broken rock? This planet that isn't even your home?"
"It is my home," Illidan said. "As Outland was before it." He threw out his arms, to the ruins of a long gone civilization. Of the grave marker of the draenei, and the Legion that had ousted them. "Look upon my kingdom, oh mighty, and rejoice that your adopted world is spared it."
"Azeroth is your home. Surely you could find something there."
"No."
"Or someone."
"No," Illidan repeated, more forcefully this time."
"Your brother and his-"
Illidan roared. He got to his feet. Cloven hooves rent the stone they stood upon, and his wings outstretched like a harbinger of the Void. Through his eyes, he could see the streams of fel energy surround him. Through his ears, he could hear Velen step back. Through his nostrils, he could taste the draenei's sweat. The prophet was afraid, as he should be.
"Begone," he hissed. "Begone, and never return."
"Illidan-"
"This is my world now," he said. "It's taken me 15,000 years, but I'm home. It is where I've been going. All my life. The lifespans of more mortals than you or I could count, but I'm home. Atop the bodies of my enemies, victorious amid desolation. What better realm than the so-called traitor to his people?" He spat. "Betrayer. Well, let my people call me what they want. But they will live in the knowledge that they owe the luxury of hypocrisy to the one they curse. And that, Velen, is my victory." He sat back down in his throne. "Now go."
In silence, they both stood. Those who had defied the Legion. The warrior and the prophet. Once allies, now…enemies, Illidan wondered?
"I take my leave."
Perhaps. Perhaps not. He heard Velen turn away and depart. He decided to let him. Draenei could come. They might even kill him eventually. But he would take no joy in it. He had the spoils of war. Leaning over, he picked up another demon skull. A fel guard, by the feel of it. A butcher, now butchered it turn. Never to return. Never to plague the cosmos with its stench. He would rule, and laugh at the howling dark. Alone. Unloved. But victorious.
The skull crumbled in his hand, and he tossed it aside. Among the bones. Among the blood and ashes.
His kingdom.