Several months later, and the news of Koltira's disappearance has reached Thassarian. Author's Notes: For the purposes of this story, this is actually after the Alliance officially lost Andorhal. Sorry about the shortness of this slow-to-come chapter! I've been furiously writing the story, rest assured, but it's been a very piecemeal process. Chapters will likely be short like this from now on but will come out faster :) Thanks for reading and please R/R! Oh and also, if you would be so kind, please let me know if I have/haven't gotten all of their military ranks right! It's been driving me crazy!

CHAPTER 2: Refusal

Thassarian strode purposefully across the practice yard, forcing himself not to break into a flat sprint and draw attention. Alliance soldiers sparred haphazardly in the warm light of midmorning, and one pair of young recruits in particular was becoming wildly overzealous, shouting and laughing as they drove one another across wide swaths of the field with slow, clumsy overhand blows. One of the two, a sandy-haired, blue-eyed scrawny fellow, lost his footing in a dip in the ground and fell sprawling across Thassarian's path, laughing as he went. One glance at the look in Thassarian's burning eyes brought the boy scrambling to his feet, terrified, and both recruits sprang to attention, saluting and apologizing profusely. Scowling, Thassarian swept past them into the Hearthglen keep.

Tirion Fordring was holed up alone in the upstairs war room, poring over a map of the Plaguelands. His appearance suggested sleepless nights: his eyes were ringed with dark circles, and his normally smooth silver hair was tangled and greasy. He scribbled notes with a quill in a ledger as his fingers traced the map, muttering to himself as he wrote. Thassarian, though impatient, stood with respectful silence in the doorway until the Highlord looked up, perhaps having sensed the death knight's unholy presence through an attunement born of long years fighting Scourge.

"General Thassarian." He acknowledged him with a curt nod, and bent his head back over the map.

Taking it as permission to speak, Thassarian hurriedly stepped inside, standing at attention. "Highlord, sir, I've just received word that Sylvanas has—"

"I know," Tirion cut him off. "And I know why you're here."

Thassarian opened his mouth without speaking, taken aback.

"Drink?" Tirion asked, tossing the quill aside. Settling himself in one of the rough wooden chairs behind the huge table, he reached for a decanter of rich amber liqueur. He poured two generous portions into tarnished brass goblets, took his up, and drank deeply, gesturing at an empty chair across from him. Thassarian ignored the offers and started again.

"Then will you, sir? Allow me to lead an attack—"

"No, General. I'm sorry," Tirion looked up at him, and his look was sympathetic-knowing, somehow. "You know I can't spare anywhere near enough troops right now for a venture, nor would I allow our tenuous peace-" he paused and corrected himself, "tolerance to be turned to war, even for such a valuable, proven soldier as Commander Deathweaver."

Thassarian felt what little hope he had had crush itself into ash; dust of bone. Anger at this easy dismissal rose in him like bile, and he struggled to maintain an even, respectful tone, even as his voice shook.

"Sir…I'm not sure you understand what's happening here. Now that we've lost Andorhal, the Banshee stands to capture all of the Plaguelands. And now…now she's using Val'kyr, whom Koltira was sure, before he was…" Thassarian's words caught in his throat, "…taken, she was using as the Lich King once did. Highlord, if we don't stop her…I have no doubt that we'll see a second spread of the Scourge."

As he finished, he felt suddenly breathless and panicky upon noting that Tirion did not look as panicked, nor, indeed, concerned at all.

Tirion sighed and drummed his fingers on the map. "I know all this, General." The look of pity in his eyes was infuriating to Thassarian now.

"Then why do you do nothing?" Thassarian snarled, furious at Tirion's calm demeanor while he felt ready to storm to the Undercity himself, alone, ready to die with the bodies of his enemies piled at his feet. Any semblance of restraint and deference were gone with his hope.

Tirion's eyes narrowed, and he set down his goblet sharply. "I do not nothing," he said, and there was a dangerous, warning edge to his voice. "Our forces are already few, thanks to King Wrynn's myriad other campaigns, and we are all but actively losing our foothold here, as you well know. The loss of Andorhal was devastating." The reminder of Thassarian's crushing defeat stung like a whip-weal. "It would sound a death-knell for the Alliance in the Western Plagues if we rashly marched to the Undercity, and we would die, all for a single blood elf."

"Not only for him!" Thassarian insisted, but Tirion silenced him again with a raised hand.

"Believe me, General Thassarian, I know how you feel," Tirion said earnestly, and then his voice was businesslike and calm again. He took up his quill, turning his attention back to the map. "We will send emissaries to speak with outriders of the Undercity, and perhaps with some time and negotiating we can—"

Thassarian did not wait for him to finish. Jaw clenched, expressionless, he saluted Fordring stiffly, turned on his heel, and swept from the keep.

As he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, he nearly collided with a night elf woman who had been making her way down from the battlement. He recognized her as one of the priest emissaries charged with peacekeeping in Hearthglen, as well as spiritually maintaining the tower in which Tirion's son had been killed. Her name escaped him. He apologized curtly, and then looked at her sharply, suddenly noticing her shifty expression. She murmured an apology before scurrying away, back the way she had come, and he had the distinct impression before hurrying off himself that she might have been listening at the war room door.