Summery: After losing her mate and three dearest friends in battle, a heartbroken Druid must learn to cope with her grieving spirit and heal her rapidly-unraveling life, with the help of a reclusive Hunter. As tensions mount between the Horde and the Alliance, and new plots make themselves known to both, will they succeed, or will the weight of their burdens be too much to bear?
Chapter 1
And So My Heart Burns...
The smell of burning flesh wreaked havoc on her sensitive nostrils, but it was the knowing that truly unraveled her sanity. Upon a crude pyre, surrounded by two Orcs, a Blood Elf, a Tauren, and a Troll, all relaxed and cooking their evening meal without a care as to the extra seasoning their meal would have, burned her three closest friends and her lover, Trysal. The glassy eyed stare of the last met the druid's without the usual loving, mellow golden light that they had held only two hours before as his fingers stroked through her long hair. His last words before the group of Horde had attacked was that she worried too much, that everything would be as it should be.
But Saeberia had a difficult time believing that this was as it should be. He should not be burning, nor should Rhys, Isidon, or Bantal. She should not be alive still, at the very least burning with them, if asking for their lives back was too much.
They had fought well and hard, but the group of enemies they came against had fought harder, were stronger than anything they had dealt with before. Having never met a foe that they could not beat, it had been a rude awakening from the moment the first had fallen; the priest, Rhys. She had taken several wounds from the arcane fire that flew so effortlessly from the Blood Elf's hands, her white silk armor scorched and her hood askew, the fatal blow coming from a half-molten stone of hale, which crashed mercilessly into her skull. Bantal, seeing his sister collapse to the ground, had run to her, the Paladin trying to revive the tiny Draenei female, only to find himself impaled upon one of the Orc's swords. Next Isidon, felled by the arrows sent his way after killing the Troll's black feline. And Trysal…sweet Trysal who had loved her for so many years, and so unconditionally…He had looked at her then, and told her to run, to get away.
Saeberia had never run from a battle; rather, she had always stayed to the end to finish, even if she knew that there was no chance in making it out. His urgency almost made her do it, but it was the look in the eyes of the Orc Warrior that set her feet to moving. If she didn't run, she would meet death, not until they were tired of her, and she did not relish the thought of becoming the plaything to the murderers of her nomadic family. He had screamed at her to run and so she did, her lithe form changing to that of the spotted, golden leopard as she dashed away.
Trysal's pained scream had met her ears, echoing there like a curse that was doomed to repeat over and over again. She stumbled, losing her footing, and crashed into the violet-tinged flora, her heavy feline body laying where she had fallen. Her grief overtook her, pathetic mewls of anguish straining past her throat, scattering countless birds to the skies and squirrels and rabbits to their dens in fear. Had she been closer to a road, she was sure that a passerby might have come looking for her to see what had wounded the cat so direly that it was screaming so loudly its displeasure.
She knew she would have to calm herself; no doubt they would be after her to finish the job, and Trysal's life, the way he had turned to protect her retreating form, blocking her from their view, would have been in vain. Eventually she quieted, her breath still coming and leaving in heavy gasps. But nobody found her, nobody followed. She was alone.
She crept back to where the battle had taken place, and there she had been staying, cloaked from sight in the shadows, watching the goings on before her. Hatred boiled within her as she looked at her enemies; they seemed so peaceful, so unaware and uncaring at what they had done. Did they even feel? Did they understand that they had taken everything from her so completely? Of course not. All they had seen was a group of Alliance scum to take care of, more honor for when they returned home to their Elune-forsaken desert city.
Her magic was all but gone, barely recovered from the spells she had been casting earlier. Her rations, the drink that would replenish it, the imbued potion that glowed a soft blue with its energies, all of it was sitting in the torn pack at the Blood Elf's feet, who was currently rifling through it impersonally. His almost feminine, sun-kissed hands brushed over the leather-bound journal that she kept, and she had to stop herself from snarling at the unrepentant invasion to her private thoughts as he busted the lock with the hilt of her own dagger so that he could turn the pages. The Orc that had killed Bantal was putting Trysal's helm on his own head, the chainmail coif sitting lopsided upon his too-large head as he let out a guttural laugh, speaking in his native tongue as he nudged the elf with his elbow. The mage sniffed distastefully at him and went back to the journal, tongue darting out to wet a finger so that the next page turned easier. The Troll was concentrating on his dead pet, hands glowing a brilliant green as he attempted to revive it. The only sign of regret was in the Tauren Shaman, who had collected numerous items that Saeberia recognized from the bodies of her friends to create a crude alter, complete with an incense that the druid recognized was meant to help carry the spirits of the dead to the world beyond. The bovine creature pulled a sort of relic from one of his many pockets, placing it at the center before bowing his head, thick lips murmuring a silent prayer in Taurahe.
It was then that the druid made her choice, when the blood elf's arrogant laughter cut through the otherwise silent wood at something he read, speaking in smooth orcish to the green behemoth next to him. She was going to kill them all, or die trying. It was more likely that she would perish in the attempt, but her fevered rage and her lust to avenge those on the pyre screamed far louder than her common sense. Her ever-present connection to the earth of Azeroth seemed to diminish, as if it couldn't condone such dark emotion in its sister, abandoning her to the fast-closing cloak of revenge and self-annihilation shrouding her mind's eye.
Elune curse her and cast her away, but she couldn't stop herself. It was as if the blood of her father, a Troll that her mother bedded during the time of peace in the wake of the Battle of Mount Hyjal, had taken her over, reducing her to a more primal, grudging creature who could not recognize the merits of simply running the short distance to Astranaar to report the trespass to the Sentinels. Remaining cloaked in the form of a large violet cat, she started forward. The Troll nonchalantly leaned towards his comrades, speaking in a low baritone something that she couldn't understand.
Immediately, the two Orcs and the mage rose, the Tauren still lost in his silent prayers. They drew their weapons and Saeberia cursed herself; the Troll was a hunter, and she had known enough Hunters in her time to know that they could sense animals, whether they be true animals or not. No doubt, he had sensed her watching them the entire time, her element of surprise ruined by her thoughtless, grief-stricken mind. How could she have been so stupid?
Shifting to her natural form, she let out a battle cry, her voice betraying her shattered heart all too obviously. Her staff was in reach; she could see its glowing green length laying alongside the group, forgotten or ignored. Catching it with her foot, she kicked it into the air and rolled, her hands closing around the intricately gilt silver. She swung, bashing the elf in the head soundly, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. In a second, they would be on her like flies. Raising her arms above her head, her staff perched horizontally in her hands, she called forth the power of storms, clouds forming and swirling over her head, thundering a rage that mirrored her own as it grew. Bolts of lightning struck, bearing down on her enemies as they closed the distance between herself and them, their respective weapons poised to cut her down.
The Orc that killed Ryse was the first to reach her, his mace connecting with her head, knocking her to the ground. The pain was sickening and she nearly retched, too stunned to so much as move out of the way as a sword split through her side, drawing a banshee's scream of agony from her lips. It was better this way, she thought vaguely, feeling the darkness that she associated with death begin to overtake her. Her life as she saw it now, whatever future Elune might have had planned for her, would be nothing without the man that had loved her since they were children despite the glaring resentment she was often met with because of what she was and what she represented. She might not have born any resemblance to her father save for the sharper nose and the slightly more heavily lidded eyes, but word had traveled fast enough; Enayla's tainted bastard, sired by a nameless Darkspear Rogue in the wilds of Feralas. Even as a child she had been viewed with suspicion, until she met Trysal. The two of them had been inseparable.
Tears leaked from the Druid's eyes as she stared once more at her deceased mate, the tiniest of tired smiles quirking her lips. She would be with him soon.
~oO0Oo~
Author's Note: Just so you know, the phrase Ande'thoras-ethil means 'May your troubles be diminished', in case you were curious. This is my first Warcraft fanfiction, so let me know how you like it! Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoy what is to come.