A Walk Through Ashenvale

by Sarlinia-Grace-Starstriker

Sarlin Starstriker, a Blood Elf hunter, is a soldier in Ashenvale. While she is loyal to the Horde, she has no agreements with its Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream. Despising his blood-hungry tactics, she wants to prove to him she's more than just another soldier. So when a Night Elf soldier is poisoned and dying, what else is there left to do but give her something to hold onto?

Sarlin Grace Starstriker looked no different from her Blood Elven kin. Long, jet black hair tied in a side plait, honey coloured skin, bright green eyes. Her side fringe was streaked with grey. Perhaps she'd seen too much. She was lithe and strong and was rarely seen without her bow in her hands and her quiver hanging off her shoulder. There was a constant heir of vigilance about her. Her eyes were always bright, her lips contorted in concentration, her knees always slightly bent, as though ready to break into a run at the slightest noise. Defiance ran in her blood. She was diligent, carefree and adventurous, like she had no master, like nobody could ever tell her which direction to walk in.

Sarlin didn't bother too much with armour. She wore her tough leather hide vest, a fur jacket, leather shorts and soft hunting boots, complete with a thick, red cloak she'd received from Sylvanas not too long before. Around her neck was a dark jewel with the letters "LS" engraved in solid gold in the middle, hanging off a silver chain. This belonged to her mother. On her left wrist (her sword arm) was a golden charm; a knocked bow with the engravings "HD". This belonged to her father.

She was walking through Ashenvale quietly, with no particular destination to reach. She felt she needed to clear her head. Ashenvale was dangerous, but then again, so was she. She had an arrow knocked on her bow in case she ran into a Night Elf or some vicious animal, but she wasn't really worried about it. Ashenvale had a nice feel to it. The trees were high, the flowers were colourful and the sky was hidden almost completely by the leaves. Sarlin didn't think returning to Ashenvale after all those years would be of any use to her and might, in fact, knock her slightly off grind, but she wasn't as grievous towards it as she thought she'd be. It made her think of the times she was younger and her parents were still alive with her. These memories were often tear-wrenching, but for once, she was able to smile about it.

Her adoptive mother, Lydia Starstriker, was a Night Elf. She came across Sarlin when she was poaching illegally in Quel'Thalas. Sarlin was completely alone, leaning against the stump of a tree that had long since died and slowly starving to death. Her ribs were easily countable pressed against her fragile skin and she was probably old enough to stand, but wasn't able to, nor was she able to speak. Her parents were more than likely killed by the Scourge, as Sarlin wasn't far from the Dead Scar that was ripped through Quel'Thalas. Lydia brought her back to Teldrassil secretly and mothered her lovingly. She begged the High Priestess Tyrande to let her stay, but sadly, the Blood Elf was not welcome in Teldrassil, put down to inciting a rebellion of both the Alliance and Horde. Lydia understood that giving up the child would mean killing her and so she returned to Quel'Thalas on Sarlin's behalf and fell in love with Sarlin's adoptive father, Halis Dawnrunner, one of the Farstriders. Eventually, she left the Alliance with her new family, left behind her old family and friends, the soldiers she grew up fighting for, and just for the little girl she found dying by a tree stump. Sarlin Grace.

Naturally, Sarlin grew to love Lydia and Halis. Even if not by blood, they were her mother and father. Sarlin knew how heartbroken Lydia must have felt when she was fighting to win Ashenvale for the Horde when her family wanted it for the Alliance, but she fought down to the last minute anyhow and Halis fought with her. Although they insisted Sarlin remain in Quel'Thalas (she was still a child at this stage, but Halis taught her to hunt), she tagged along with her parents, not wanting them out of her sight. As they filed into battle, Sarlin tried to slip in with them, but she was ordered to stand back, behind the safety of the gate of the camp. The orcs were friendly enough with her. Even they showed respect towards children. They even assured her they were quite certain Lydia and Halis would return. Then the bomb went off. Lydia and Halis were killed, as well as several other Horde soldiers. The explosion carried its way back to the camp and killed several more, including the orcs that were taking care of Sarlin. There was nothing of them to bury but ash and dust.

Miraculously, little Sarlin survived, with nothing but a long, deep cut etched into the left side of her face. The scar was to be imprinted on the elf's face forever. And so it was.

And now, for the first time in years, Sarlin Grace Starstriker was back in Ashenvale, where the war still raged and the fires still burned. She would've thought with a new Warchief, the Horde might just surrender Ashenvale to the Kal'dorei. That was before she got to know Garrosh. Ruling and more ruling. Killing and more killing. He knew nothing about holding together an army. Seemed to want nothing but bloodshed, all the things Sarlin hated. She had thoughts about begging the Night Elves to accept her onto the Alliance, perhaps using Lydia as an example of how that could happen, but decided against it. Lydia Starstriker may have left her family but Sarlin had too many she loved to leave behind. She hadn't seen Quel'Thalas in years and longed to return, swearing to herself she would once she was done exploring Ashenvale. And anyway, when would Tyrande Whisperwind ever accept a Blood Elven soldier into her army when she wouldn't accept a dying child? For fear of rebellion, she could understand why Tyrande wouldn't take her into the Alliance. Lydia making it onto the Horde must have surely taken a lot of persuading. Maybe that's why she died so suddenly in Ashenvale. Sarlin had no doubt Lydia could lead the perfect rebellion if she wanted to.

The day was growing old. Orange sunlight was making a feeble attempt to break through the leaves. Sarlin hadn't come across much. She'd seen Night Elf spies, but stayed well away from them. She had no misgivings towards the Kal'dorei and no intention to attack them. Even if Tyrande had refused to accept her, Lydia was a Night Elf and she took her in when she didn't have to. That was a debt Sarlin knew she'd never be able to repay, especially after Lydia died. Thankfully, they didn't seem intent on attacking her either. She'd locked eyes with a few of them, then casually pressed on, as though she'd never seen them.

Drops of thick, hot blood became visible as the sun ignited it. The stuff stained the grass crudely. Sarlin shook her head.

"We're fighting a war against ourselves," she whispered.

She wasn't even sure that the blood was real.

Sighing, she slipped her arrow back into her quiver and hung her bow over her shoulder. She climbed the nearest tree and sat back, sweating and breathing heavily but feeling nonetheless content in her own company. She was to return to the camp at midnight, but who knew what they wanted her to do? It might be a long time before she saw sleep again, and sleep was something she was deprived from too often by the Horde, at least under Hellscream's rule. Sarlin hated dominance, especially from the orcs who, even after all those years, showed little or no trust to the Sin'dorei or the Forsaken.

"We've proven our loyalty to this cause," she would say to her best friend, Havis Waverunner, when they hunted in earlier years. "We've fought so hard to earn the trust that we never seem to get,"

"They are arrogant," he would reply. "But where would we be without them? Whose side would Quel'Thalas be on?"

This angered Sarlin slightly. She wasn't afraid to lose her temper with Havis, who just shook off her rages like raindrops. They both knew Quel'Thalas would always belong to the Sin'dorei, but she still had to agree with what he was saying. Without the Horde, the Blood Elves would be one, with nothing but the burning wastes of the land they once loved. Even so, she hated the battles they had to fight, the loyalties they had prove for the trust they never received.

"One day, I might just rule Azeroth," she sighed, closing her eyes. "And Outland too,"

She never slept, but instead let the gentle breeze of Ashenvale dry the sweat on her face and neck. Her scar stung slightly, but the rest of her body was cool and relax. She rarely felt this kind of peace and knew to savour it. It never lasted, not in Azeroth. Not under Hellscream's rule.

She'd only ever met the Warchief once. Draaka, an orc engineer, discovered a demonic presence in their work base in one of the Ashenvale camps and had run out of weapons and medicine for the soldiers. Frazzled, she begged Sarlin to bring a letter of explanation to Garrosh Hellscream, requesting more weapons and medicinal herbs and spices for the healers and also informing him of the presence she sensed. Sarlin remembered the fear she felt just stepping into Grommash Hold. Warchief Garrosh just as ferocious as they said he did, but without the demon blood, also seemed more natural. The warhammer that seemed constantly at hand was still stained dark red with blood. When she handed him Draaka's letter (knowing better than to say a word) he went what was probably the closest thing to completely mad without actually being it, saying how Draaka was an engineer and should be able to sort out weapons herself, how he had better things to do with his time than worry about petty demons, he'd killed several, how he should just kill Sarlin there and then. Sarlin never dropped her gaze, stared at him coldly. Her eyes got brighter when she was angry. This seemed to impress the Warchief. Somewhat concerned about the demonic presence in Ashenvale that Draaka could sense, he asked Sarlin to hunt it down and end it. If she succeeded, he'd spare her life and maybe offer her some gold to go towards weapons. She found the demonic presence in the mine, which turned out to be an orc traitor in disguise. With a few arrows to the heart, she killed him and returned to Garrosh with the gold ring that was on the demon's finger as proof she succeeded. He gave her some gold, telling her strictly to only spend it on weapons. Sarlin knew she was being risky, that Garrosh sparing her life was really more than she could ask for, but she bought medicinal herbs instead.

Draaka was impressed with her nerve and grinded the liquid out of the herbs into a sweet-smelling ointment. She hated Warchief Garrosh as much as Sarlin did, unlike the majority of the orcs in Durotar.

"I don't see how he expects us to win this war," she confided in Sarlin as she mashed the herbs. "We're all slowly turning. It won't be long before the system collapses altogether,"

"Some system it's become," Sarlin replied. "The Darkspear were always against him, the Forsaken and the Sin'dorei have never abided by his orders, Bloodhoof hates him…really, it's only your kind left, Draaka,"

"And even we're losing faith. I know I am," she said, staring despairingly ahead into the distance. "Thrall's rule was much more tranquil than this,"

"But Thrall's not here," Sarlin sighed sadly. "And let's face it, Draaka. In the end, we'll be fighting alongside our enemies to bring him down. If that's what it takes…Gods, I'll do it,"

Many days, as Sarlin mindlessly slaved away for the leaders of the Horde, she wondered if it was still worth fighting for, if her allies really were her allies, if choosing her own path in life was the only way to succeed against both the Alliance and the Horde. Then she thought of Lor'Themar Theron, Regent Lord of Quel'Thalas, his struggles to revive Silvermoon from the damage it suffered under the invasion of Arthas and the Scourge, his pain after the deaths of Dath'Remar Sunstrider and Sylvanas Windrunner, his pain after the betrayal of Kael'Thas. Silvermoon wouldn't be what it was today without him. She thought of Vol'jin, Chieftain of the Darkspear, and how he avenged his father by bringing down the banshee naga Zar'Jira, how he lead the Darkspear trolls into a new Hold after Garrosh was made Warchief, hating his dyer hunger for bloodshed. She thought of Sylvanas Windrunner, Queen of the Forsaken, the first High Elven banshee. She was tortured and killed by Arthas, who put her through terrible months of Undeath, yet she still had a place in her heart for Quel'Thalas and still had hope for her people. And now Sarlin thought of it, Sylvanas really was the reason Thrall accepted the Blood Elves onto the Horde in the first place. Where would the Sin'dorei be without her? She thought of Baine Bloodhoof, whose father died at the hands of Hellscream's son. She overheard him talk of revenge once, in conversation with Vol'jin. She didn't really have much time for the Trade Prince but allied with the goblins when she needed to, yet as all this went through her head, withdrawing from the Horde would only end in trouble. Garrosh Hellscream ruled the Horde, but Quel'Thalas was now part of it. And leaving Quel'Thalas forever would mean leaving Lor'Themar, Halduron, Rommath, Havis. Betraying Havis would be unimaginable. She'd never convinced herself she was in love with him before…and Lydia Starstriker sacrificed so much for Sarlin's wellbeing, left her friends and family for her…

"Give it time," she whispered to herself. "He can't reign forever. Not like this,"

While she didn't want to start her own rebellion, she still wanted to show Garrosh…no, not Garrosh. She wanted to show herself more than anybody that she wasn't part of his army. That she followed orders in her own way, that she'd speak to whoever spoke to her civilly, that she wouldn't kill those who didn't have to die…just some way that she could prove she was still herself. Sarlin Grace Starstriker, daughter of Priestess Lydia Starstriker and Farstrider Havis Dawnrunner. A way to be like her parents, Lydia in particular, even if it meant taking in a young human girl who was dying slowly and painfully by a tree stump and raising her like a daughter.

She let these thoughts fade into the breeze and fell asleep with her bow still in her hand.

The crack of a twig tore Sarlin back to reality. In her sudden shock, she tilted a little too far to the left and fell from the tree, landing on her arm.

Gasping in the shock of the fall, she forced herself to stay calm. Her arm throbbed and she could have sworn she heard a bone crack, but since she'd broken bones in the past that felt like a hot sword jamming its way through her flesh and singing the insides of her body, she decided that the crack she heard was more than likely just a twig snapping. Hauling herself up, she reached for her bow with her right arm. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and clicked it onto the string of the bow. Her left arm was slightly skinned but, as soon as it had started, the throbbing had ceased.

She shook herself out of her daze and back to reality. How had the branch snapped? The breeze in Ashenvale couldn't have done it. It was too soft. She prayed it wasn't a Night Elf. The last thing she wanted was to kill one of Lydia's kin. It could have been a lurker (Gods, she hated those) or a wild fox of some sort. While she wasn't particularly worried, she still stood, like a statue, with her bow at the ready. She felt a tingling in the back of her neck, like somebody was watching her, but she didn't dare turn. She tried to listen for breathing, but her own breath was too rapid and her chest too tight to inhale without wheezing. She closed her eyes, ready to deflect the knife that was sure to be pressed into her throat.

Then the spider pounced.

Sarlin screamed in shock as it leapt from one of the trees in front of her. As she screamed, the arrow flung itself from the bow and jammed itself into the tree. The shock had caused her to let go. It was a bloody massive creature, twice the size of her at least! She tried to reach for another arrow but, still shaking from the shock, she staggered backwards and fell. Shivering, she closed her eyes and waited for the thing to slash its razor sharp fangs through her flesh.

Huh, she thought. Who knew lurkers had rogue trainers?

The pain she was expecting never came. That didn't seem right. She'd come into bloodthirsty overgrown spiders before and unless they were tamed (like they were in Hillsbrad Foothills), they wouldn't back down from a fight for fresh meat until (or unless) they were killed. Was this her chance to get up and run? Or was she already dead and she just didn't know it?

Then she heard a high-pitched, agonized cry from behind her.

Scrambling up, she saw the reason the lurker never attacked her. It had found other prey. As Sarlin looked closer, her heart melted as she saw it was a Night Elf. She'd been right about the tingling in her neck. She knew she should have taken this opportunity to run, but as she saw the spider attack the soldier, as she saw the blood drench the grass, as she heard the screams of an utterly defenceless hero, she let her impulse get the better of her.

"I'll be so screwed if anyone finds out," she muttered to herself as she knocked her bow. She let the arrow fly into the spiders back. The thing twitched, as though concerned, then turned around. Its many eyes stared right into Sarlin's. She stared back threateningly, reaching for another arrow. Her bright green eyes could've frozen the entire forest in one place. Then, as the lurker began to creep forward, she knocked her bow again, waiting for it to pounce, knowing she'd have a better chance at hitting its heart if it was airborne. Continuing to stare, she was vaguely aware of the spider's prey writhing on the ground, more so of the painful gasps and moans. The thing was moving way too slowly, as though suspecting her plan. She shuddered. I hate it when they do that, she thought to herself. Eventually, she just stepped one foot forward and, sure enough, it leapt into the air, ready to devour her as it would have done the Night Elf. She let the arrow fly. It hit the lurker squarely in the heart. Jumping backwards, she watched the monster die and mentally congratulated herself on such a clean shot.

This was definitely the time to run back to the base camp. It was probably way past midnight. She knew she was taking risks in killing that spider when it had another opponent and was, if anything, a bit afraid of what would happen if anyone found out that she'd attempted to aid a soldier of the Alliance. But what did it matter? That soldier was as good as dead.

She crossed the Night Elf's body to make her way back and was surprised when the elf grabbed her ankle. Wincing as though in pain, Sarlin turned her head and gasped as she saw the damage the lurker had done. Up close, she could see it was a woman…or even a girl. She didn't look that old. At least, no older than Sarlin looked. Behind the blood, she probably looked even younger. Her hair just reached her shoulders, navy blue and madly tangled, matted with blood and moss. What skin wasn't covered in blood or slashed open and oozing infection was snow white and drenched in sweat. Her ice-like eyes were bright with fear and pain and she continued to gasp and wheeze. No doubt she was one of the Night Elves fighting for Ashenvale for the Alliance, but how small and broken she looked now. The spider had etched five deep wounds into her, two in the face, two in the stomach and one particularly deep one in the neck. There was not a chance she'd make it. Sarlin recalled a time where a Tauren hunter was attacked by one of the lurkers, one with poisoned spines on its legs. The healers did all they could to draw out the poison, but he died just three hours later.

The girl's grip around Sarlin's ankle just got tighter. No doubt she was still in shock and unable to speak, but Sarlin knew she wanted her to stay. It seemed impossible, though. What if someone was watching her? How would this end for her? She thought of her one meeting with Garrosh. He threatened to kill her for passing on a message to him, like she had anything to do with the shortage of weapons and the demon hiding in the mines. How would he react to this, a devoted soldier of the Horde staying by a Night Elf while she died? Death surely wouldn't be the answer for him this time. Imprisonment didn't come into it either. It was sure to be slow and painful…

But, still hesitating, Sarlin thought again of what she was thinking before she drifted off to sleep in that tree; how she wanted to prove to not only Garrosh, but to herself, that she followed rules in her own way. Maybe this was the time to prove it. Garrosh Hellscream wanted nothing but war, and Sarlin Starstriker wanted nothing but to end it. And this was the time to at least prove that to herself, even if the Warchief never found out.

She gently pulled her ankle out of the Night Elf's grip and knelt down behind her. Softly she pulled the girl's head onto her knee and tore off the red cloak, throwing it over her like a blanket. The Night Elf reached up her hand and Sarlin didn't hesitate to take it, gripping it tightly and stroking the cold, clammy fingers with her thumb. With her free hand, she softly stroked the girl's navy hair. Her breath was beginning to slow down and the flow of blood from her neck was easing.

"You're fine," Sarlin whispered quietly. "I'm here,"

She began to take slow, deep breaths, hoping the elf would pick up the pattern. She was desperate to hear her speak. The Night Elves were meant to have really soft, soothing voices. At least, Lydia did. She'd never met any others that weren't in battle with her. Strange, she'd never thought of that before. There was so little she really knew about the Alliance, so little she remembered of her brief few months in Teldrassil, when nobody knew she was there. All she knew was that she had no right on their land, and that she was at war with them, for land in particular. After all, she stood by Sylvanas in the final battle for Gilneas, she watched as Godfrey brutally shot her in the back and killed her, she saw Sylvanas's val'kyr, Agatha, Arthura and Daschla, give up their lives for Sylvanas to escape the eternal agony she'd endure in the afterlife…and yet, how different was this? Lordaeron belonged to the Forsaken…she honestly didn't understand why the Alliance wanted it so much. What could they gain from the ruins of a castle they once loved, the chill that ran through the dark Undercity, the trees that had either died or long since lost their colour…but maybe, just maybe, Ashenvale really did belong to the Kal'dorei. And what irony this was, Sarlin Grace Starstriker comforting the dying soldier she was meant to kill. She hung onto every breath the Night Elf breathed, waiting for her to speak. She hoped she would. The Kal'dorei were meant to have really soft, gentle voices. At least, Lydia did. Sarlin began to wonder if, by any chance this girl would speak, she would sound like Lydia, or she would sound like Sarlin did the day Lydia found her dying by the tree stump, not able to speak but softly whimpering for someone to stand by her as the life passed from her body.

The elf's breathing was now manual. The flow of blood from her wounds had ceased completely, but she'd already lost a great deal and the wounds were infected. Even if Sarlin tried, she couldn't do anything more for this girl. She was, however, relieved that she'd calmed down. It was a sign that some of the pain must have stopped. She had a very tight grip on Sarlin's hand. Sarlin wondered if this girl had any intentions to attack her, but, as Sarlin's eyes moved to her waist, she saw that her sword was sheathed.

The Night Elf gently raised her free hand to Sarlin's face, tilting her head slightly upwards. She was shaking with the effort of it and Sarlin used her own free hand to help her, gripping the wrist as the girl gently touched the scar on her face. She smiled slightly.

"War hero, huh?" she whispered.

So Sarlin was wrong, as usual. She sounded nothing like someone who was dying. Her voice definitely had the same, gentle touch that Lydia's had, but was nowhere near as deep. It sounded somewhat like Sarlin's in pitch. But knowing that she was dying and knowing that she sounded nothing like it…she just sounded like someone who was very, very tired. And maybe she was. How was Sarlin to know?

She smiled at the girl. "You could say that," she said.

"How did you get it?" the girl said softly. "Where?"

Sarlin gently took the girl's hand away from her face and crossed it over her stomach. She didn't let go.

"Here," she said. "I don't know how. But here, definitely,"

"And the fault belongs to whom?" the elf said with a mischievous smile.

Sarlin laughed. She didn't even know why. Perhaps she was just so emotionally drained and not expecting so many questions that she wasn't thinking straight.

"I don't know. Mine, I guess. I shouldn't have been here," she said.

The girl's face softened slightly. "Me neither,"

Sarlin let go of the girl's right hand and began to run her thumb over her shoulders instead. Her left hand was still in the elf's, gripped so tightly she could barely feel it, but her thumb was still moving slowly over her cold fingers.

"What's your name?" she whispered to the girl softly.

She had a small moment's silence, as if hesitating whether or not to tell her. "Atriss," she replied after a few seconds.

Sarlin smiled. "Sounds like 'waitress'," she said.

"Everyone says that. It's a flower. A red one," Atriss said.

"I know what it is," Sarlin said reassuringly.

She did, too. An atriss was almost a miracle to come across these days. There were thousands in Quel'Thalas before the Scourge invasion, so they said, but the plague killed the majority of them off. Sarlin had seen a couple in her lifetime, one hiding in a bed of daisies in Quel'Thalas and one just behind the camp in Ashenvale. She wanted to pluck that one, but decided against it. It was a tiny thing, but was a brilliant shade of red. You couldn't miss it. And it gave off the beautiful scent of raspberries. But the irony was she saw the atriss only the day before, before she decided to set out and explore Ashenvale more. And now here it was again, dying in her arms, the red still bright and brilliant but no longer smelling of raspberries, instead smelling of fresh, infected blood.

"I'm Sarlin Grace," Sarlin said. "Nobody ever says 'Grace' though. Just Sarlin,"

Atriss smiled again. "There's a girl back at home called Sarlina. Funny,"

"Yeah," Sarlin said, sighing. "Hilarious,"

"Does 'Sarlin Grace' mean anything?" Atriss asked.

Sarlin pondered. "I don't know. I never asked Ly-I never asked my mother before she died,"

Atriss's face immediately fell. Tears seemed to pool in her ice-like eyes. It was hard to tell though.

"And your father?" she whispered.

Sarlin swallowed, remembering the explosion that etched the scar into her flesh. "He died with my mother. Here, in Ashenvale,"

"Oh," Atriss said sadly. "You lost both your parents here,"

"Yes," Sarlin said, her voice cracking. "That's why I'm here now. Because I knew I'd have to come back. And I thought it'd be worse. Only…" she stopped.

"You want to go home?" Atriss said, as though reading her mind.

"Yes. Really, I do," Sarlin said. "But it's no use thinking of that, now. I have to be here,"

"No, you don't," Atriss whispered. "You can go home. You have a choice,"

Sarlin bit her lip. Atriss was right. She could go back to Quel'Thalas. Atriss could never home.

"I'm sorry, Atriss," Sarlin whispered. "I didn't realize how far you were from Teldrassil,"

Atriss weakly jerked her shoulders. Sarlin presumed it was a shrug.

"This is the closest place to home I'll ever be now, Sarlin Grace," she whispered. "Thank you,"

Sarlin moved her right hand to Atriss's hair again. She pulled a small, fishtail braid that she hadn't noticed before.

"For what?" she whispered.

She was right about the tears. They slid sideways down Atriss's face, yet her face was completely straight, completely free of emotion.

"For staying here. You didn't need to. And you're breaking the rules," she whispered.

Sarlin sighed. "I wouldn't be the first, Atriss. But if they find me out, I'm as good as dead. But what does it matter? This war is pointless,"

"Maybe, but I wouldn't want you to get in trouble for it," Atriss replied.

"Why? I shouldn't be here. You said it yourself," Sarlin said in an agitated voice.

"But you are, and for me, that's enough. Your people aren't as self-obsessed as I thought,"

Sarlin's mind vaguely wandered to Havis Waverunner. Was he missing her right now? Surely he must be.

"Maybe I'm just one of a kind, Atriss. But…I'm not. So…" Sarlin cut herself off, knowing there was little more she could say.

"You're like my brother," Atriss whispered. "He was a healer. He'd heal anybody who was injured, and if there was nothing else he could do for them…" her voice broke and Sarlin was almost certain this brother of hers was dead, though she knew it wasn't a good time to ask.

"He'd give them something to hold onto while they were dying," she finished.

"Yes. I wonder if I'll meet him in the Nether…" Atriss said.

"You will," Sarlin replied. "And if you see my mother, tell her I said 'hello'. She's called Lydia. Lydia Starstriker,"

Knowing better than to tell Atriss that Lydia was, in fact, a Night Elf, she just accepted her hand squeeze and cut off the words that were about to roll off her tongue.

"Thank you, Sarlin," Atriss whispered. Her voice was getting weaker, which told Sarlin it was getting an effort for her even to talk. "If there were more like you…Azeroth would be much more pleasant to live on,"

Sarlin swallowed, suddenly willing herself not to cry. She was beginning to wish that Atriss wasn't dying. She knew they'd be good friends, if only they'd had more time to get better acquainted. And even then, while there was still life left in the Night Elf, she knew Atriss would never speak again. She began to hum a soft, sweet melody. It meant nothing to her and sure as hell no more to Atriss, but it was relaxing and pretty all the same. As she hummed, Atriss's eyes fluttered shut and, after some time, the grip she had on Sarlin's left hand loosened. Sarlin still maintained an iron grip on it, all the same.

Eventually, Atriss stopped breathing. Her head rested on Sarlin's knee as though it was on a pillow. At least, now, Sarlin was able to release the tears that were lodged in her throat without anybody seeing. She knelt there, watching them drip steadily onto Atriss's pale, lifeless face. What did it matter that Atriss was dead? Things would just be difficult if she'd somehow survived the savage attack. But, in the short time Sarlin had with Atriss, was there something that sparked the wick of their relationship? Was there something in Sarlin that wanted Atriss to live? There must have been. Because here she was, mourning her death.

Sarlin slowly untangled Atriss's fingers from hers. She took the cloak off her body and threw it back over her shoulders. She also decided to take Atriss's sword, knowing full well there was no value of it to her. Then, slowly and gently, she bent on head down and pressed her lips against Atriss's forehead. "Goodbye," she whispered.

She wiped her eyes, stood up and pressed on. She didn't even have an arrow knocked, but walked carelessly through the forest. So, if this was found out, some sort of rebellion would have been sparked, because of Sarlin's impulsiveness. Of course, it wouldn't be, but for some reason, Sarlin wished Garrosh Hellscream was watching every second of what Sarlin had just endured. She even mentally argued telling him herself. He was no master to her. And if he was meant to be her only master, she had no master. And here she'd just proved it. To herself, more than to Garrosh, and to Lydia Starstriker and Halis Dawnrunner.

In another virtual world, Sarlin was torn back to her senses when she tripped on a tree root. Cursing under her breath, she pulled herself up. And then she spotted it.

A tiny, red flower, a beautiful raspberry scent.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she gently plucked the atriss to find it had a very long stem, and attached to the stem were several more little red petals. The stem could easily fit around her head…

Without thinking, she began to braid the atriss into her hair, leaving the bright, red head at the front, the smaller petals attached to the stem around the side and the back. She didn't normally have her hair down; it was nearly always in a tight, side plait. But this was something she like, the crown braid around her head and the rest of her long, black hair floating past her shoulders in a curtain of waves.

She paid no attention to her footsteps, walked as though her eyes were closed. She felt vengeful, even though Atriss's death was a complete accident and had nothing to do with the war, just petty nature and its vast cruelty. But was her death something to avenge, or would it not have happened if Garrosh Hellscream had not finally surrendered Ashenvale to the Alliance?

"I hope he's watching me," she said, as loudly as she dared. "I hope he saw that,"

As impulsive as Sarlin Grace was, what she did know was that Atriss didn't have to die. She'd already killed the lurker, so her death was as good as paid for. But, as Atriss lay dying in Sarlin's arms, gripping her hand as though she couldn't bear to let it go, something snapped in Sarlin. As freely as she walked, there would be no end to this war if the Horde's leaders didn't think rationally, didn't surrender what land they didn't need…and somebody had to fix that.

"He'll pay for this," she said, even louder. "He will pay for this!"

Then, as though in rage, she tore her bow off her shoulder, knocked it and fired an arrow straight through the heart of a tree. And, as though it never happened, she threw the bow back over her shoulders, attached Atriss's knife to her waist and made her way back to the camp, getting as far away from today as possible.