Chapter II
By Hikako
The Undercity: Two days after Cairne Bloodhoof's death.
In aggravation Sylvanas, Banshee Queen on the Forsaken, nearly shot an arrow through the skull of the Warchief's emissary as he declared that her presence was demanded in Orgrimmar before the week was out. Thrall had grown too proud if he thought he could demand anything of the Dark Lady herself! Still, Sylvanas stayed her hand and spat out an affirmation before the orc hastily left her throne room. She could feel wave after wave of mindless rage assault her mind and will, yet she buried it under the surface in reserve for when she would need it. In her darkest heart of hearts though the Banshee Queen ached with the urge to dig her bony fingers into the soft flesh around the messenger's throat and watch the torrent of warm lifeblood flow from his neck, reveling in the sight of the color drain from his skin and emotion empty from his eyes on the tiled floor beneath her feet.
It took all of Sylvanas' control not to destroy something, nearly six years since the Forsaken had won their freedom from both the Scourge and the Burning Legion's lackeys and it galled her to follow another's orders. Even if they did come from the Warchief of the Horde. Since her un-birth Sylvanas noticed her temper was getting shorter, mostly from the pent-up hostility towards the Lich King, she knew it would go away after his long, slow, and agonizing death at her hands.
There is trouble on the horizon, My Lady.
The inner-voice of Varimathras spoke inside of Sylvanas' mind, his body trapped in a cell under the throne room floor in a magically-induced atrophy. After Sylvanas reclaimed her city, and propped Putress' head in front of the Royal Apothecary's headquarters, she imprisoned the dreadlord fully intent on letting him wither and die. Soon afterwards Sylvanas found she missed Varimathras' advice, which was always pragmatic and sound, and her magic-users crafted powerful spells that allowed telepathic communication between the two. While his body was unable to move, he saw through Sylvanas' eyes, heard through her ears, and spoke only inside of her head. Sylvanas lost a powerful bodyguard but kept her effective majordomo.
Few of her followers knew of Varimathras' presence, and none outside of the Forsaken had an inkling of what happened to the dreadlord. Sylvanas knew that if Thrall or the other rulers found out they would demand his head, but the Banshee Queen was not stupid and she was too proud to let others dictate her actions. Varimathras, when he wasn't plotting her downfall, had been an efficient administrator and pragmatic adviser; everything he did was done to make the Forsaken a true force to be reckoned with. Despite the fact that he was only doing it for the day he would depose Sylvanas and rule the undead, the Dark Lady saw no reason not to let him continue to serve her and the Forsaken as long as his chain was considerable shorter and held tightly in her grip.
You focused on the message and not the messenger. There was hostility there.
There is always hostility; Sylvanas thought to herself and Varimathras, few in the Horde ever truly trusted the Forsaken and after what happened at the Wrath Gate there were now even less. Her people had so many enemies, paladins and crusaders notwithstanding, it often felt as if the whole world was ready to turn on them. If it wasn't the Scourge or the Legion then it was the fence-sitting druids, the weary witch-doctors, or the o-so-in-touch-with-Nature tauren; not to mention the Alliance and all its members bayed for blood every day. Unlike the Blood Knights under Liadrin, the true paladins saw the Forsaken as unredeemable undead tainted with evil and their cursed holy powers were a thorn in Sylvanas' side. Yet, even now Liadrin and her Knights seemed to turn from the Forsaken and begin seeking help from 'The Light.' The list of allies the Forsaken had in the world was growing thinner by the day, even Lor'themar was becoming iffy about the closeness of Silvermoon and the Undercity. Sylvanas didn't know what it was, but she had a feeling it had something to do with the events on the Sunwell Plateau. Her spies, however, couldn't find anything useful, the Blood Elves were playing this close to their chest and the mood between the Banshee Queen and the Regent was becoming chilly to say the least.
This wasn't unease, this bubbled beneath the surface, like a personal insult.
This is understandable given my final words to him. Despite the advantages it was easier when Varimathras was in the room before and she could make him shut up. The dreadlord was sometimes like a dog chewing on a bone, wouldn't let the matter drop ever. Still, Sylvanas couldn't shake the feeling that there was something there, something she didn't pay attention too at the time. Leaving her throne room with a flair of her cape Sylvanas walked the halls towards her private chambers. Unlike when she was mortal the Dark Lady didn't need to sleep but sometimes she needed to escape the stench of other undead and enjoy some privacy.
What if something was going on in the Horde plans to get rid of the Forsaken or expel them from the Horde? These and even more disturbing thoughts clouded her mind as she moved swiftly through the macabre halls of the Undercity. Sylvanas hated admitting it to herself but they needed the Horde, without their support Forsaken holdings would dwindle back to the Undercity and the immediate area. The Banshee Queen's hold on Lordaeron would weaken and break, maybe even disappear all together and then Kel'Thuzad would advance from the Plaguelands. The Alliance might be a bigger threat to the Scourge than the mere Forsaken but Kel'Thuzad would revel in the glory of presenting Sylvanas' head to the Lich King. Sylvanas would rather relive her un-birth a thousand times than be a trophy for Arthas. She felt the rage begin to build inside of her once more.
Finally Sylvanas arrived at her chambers, which were quite unlike any other room in the Undercity, and a small piece of her mortal life left for the middle Windrunner sister to enjoy. Dark and dreary gothic design was replaced with bright and elegant lines, like her room in the Windrunners' home in Silvermoon the walls were white marble and curved upwards to make a dome above her head. Yellow and red gold lined the walls and furniture, while handcrafted bookcases along the walls were filled with books on every subject. The Dark Lady felt Varimathras' revulsion at her décor and he pulled his mind from hers into the recesses of his own. Completely alone now, Sylvanas undid the buckles that held her light armor to her body and carelessly dropped it on a chair as she moved gracefully and silently across the room to the bookcase next to the light producing crystals. Unlike the current Silvermoon there were no green crystals or anything resembling fel magic here, this was a moment frozen in time during the glory days of Quel'thalas, and Sylvanas enjoyed all her time here. Here she was finally at peace in her undead life.
But it was not to be; all too soon the Banshee Queen had to return to her rotting kingdom, to once again take up the mantle of master and savior of the Forsaken. Yet for just a moment, here in this place, she was Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, once again.
***
Silvermoon, Sunfury Spire: One day before the meeting in Orgrimmar
Lor'themar Theron's right eye scanned the gathering in front of him, the patriarchs or matrons of every surviving noble house was there in the meeting hall of Sunfury Spire. Each was as petty and ruthless as the next, but each did what they thought was right for the future of the Sin'dorei. Just a few moments ago a unanimous vote was cast to separate forever from Kael'thas and the House of Sunstrider. Following that referendum was the vote to reinstitute the Convocation of Silvermoon as the rulers of Quel'thalas.
The nobles began to slowly and solemnly file out of the chamber, leaving the newly elected Convocation to its work. None of them knew what abandoning the Sunstriders meant for their people, their race, or even Silvermoon itself, but that mantle had passed from them to the six elves that stayed behind. Each noble knew, however, that enormous changes were coming to their world once again.
Lor'themar stood in the center of the chamber and looked at each member of the Convocation as they stared back at him awaiting the start of the new era. Underneath Lor'themar's cool exterior a sea of doubt and worry seethed, he had never expected such events like the past few months to ever happen nor did he expect to be the source of hope for a new way for the High Elves now the Blood Elves.
Whatever else was decided, Lor'themar vowed to himself, that moniker was going. His people couldn't shackle themselves to grief and anger anymore, they had to let go of the past and move on. Hate, anger, and fury only brought more destruction down on those who followed that path, the forest trolls were prime examples of that. So dedicated to retaking so-called sacred lands and vowing blood feuds against both High Elf and human the trolls fought to the bitter end, and it was very bitter. Now his people hurtled towards a similar end, and it was up to the Ranger-General of Silvermoon and those assembled before him to set a new course.
The first, and oldest, member of the Convocation was the universally revered priestess Marfa Dawnwatcher. Bent with age, Marfa was still striking with piercing gray eyes that seemed to see into Lor'themar's own soul and her soft and wrinkled face was framed with silver-white hair. In her uncountable years the Dawnwatcher matron had seen the reign of Arathor fall, spoken to refugees from Azeroth as they arrived in Lordaeron, fought alongside the Alliance in the Second War, and survived the destruction of Silvermoon and the razing of Quel'thalas.
Standing behind the priestess was a elven man of short stature and almost frail form, yet none who saw the powerful mage wield spells in battle could ever deny his power. His pale blonde hair was short-cropped and his icy blue eyes stared at Lor'themar, Alanassor Skytreader was similar in his veracity and stubbornness to Kael'thas Sunstrider. Yet underneath his arrogance and overconfidence was a deep well of common sense that the prince sorely lacked.
Off to the side of the priestess and mage, trying to blend into what little shadow there was in the room and obviously uncomfortable in the open air, was the leader of Silvermoon's spies and one of the most skilled rogues on Azeroth: Anariel Windspeaker. Of the five that Anariel was the only one that Lor'themar had a history with, she had served under him in the defense of Silvermoon was the Dark Prince Arthas razed in to the ground. Anariel had done her best to report the undead's movements but even she didn't realize Arthas' sheer numbers as several columns advanced on the High Elven city. Since that day Anariel had lead the guerrilla forces in the Ghostlands barring reentry to all. Lor'themar knew Anariel wouldn't like it but she would be the public face for the rogues who watched from the shadows.
Lady Liadrin, leader of the Blood Knights, stood to Lor'themar's right. Tall and proud like an oak tree Lor'themar doubted she was anything else than the holy warrior whose legend grew daily in Quel'thalas. What few facts had been discovered about Prince Kael'thas and the events on the Sunwell Plateau only enhanced her legend, and Lor'themar knew she would do the right thing no matter what.
On Liadrin's right was a youth, seemingly too young to be a capable commander and a patriarch of a noble house in his own right, Athaniar Lightseeker towered over the other elves. Nearly a full head taller than any other elf, Athaniar seemed to be a pale-skinned Night Elf, more at home in the wilds fighting and hunting than in his fine livery at the top of Sunfury Spire. His was the only unit to survive intact from Arthas' invasion.
"The first order of business High Convocate," the soft but firm voice of Marfa Dawnwatcher said, "is to decide upon you successor for Ranger-General."
High Convocate, a title Lor'themar never thought he would hold nor was he entirely sure that he was worthy. Marfa was right, however, a new commander of the Ranger Corps. needed to be selected. Lor'themar straighted and looked at the frail priestess.
"Agreed." He said as authoritatively as he could without sounding arrogant, "Any suggestions, good priestess?" Truthfully he didn't even need her to answer the question, the one who should lead the Corps. was in the very room. Marfa gave Lor'themar a small smile with her thin lips and cleared her throat before saying, "I believe Athaniar would be a good replacement."
Athaniar, for all his youth, kept his surprise off his face relatively well, he didn't even stutter when he spoke up. "Surely High Convocate, Priestess Dawnwatcher, someone more experienced and capable can be found!"
"Nonsense, boy!" Alanassor said, and Lor'themar held back a laugh at Alanassor's obliviousness to his and Athaniar's similar age. "You are intelligent and capable strategist, and you are already loved by the warriors under your command. A more fitting Ranger-General there hasn't been since the days of Windrunner!"
"And a more fitting transition to other business than that there hasn't been." Anariel spoke up, her unease at politics not showing for a moment, "It also begs the question about our allies and others we have been associated with." Though noone said anything the same thought ran through everyone's minds: Sylvanas the Banshee Queen.
"We are entering a new era," Lor'themar said keeping his eye scanning the others' faces. "Yet we cannot truly begin until we shed the trappings of the past." Tension gripped the room, each knew what might be coming next, and each was aware of the consequences of it. "As we all know," Lor'themar continued, "the past isn't something we can simply shake off like a stray pet. It can even give us a clue to a better direction."
The members of the Convocate gave Theron their full attention, though spoken diplomatically it was clear Theron had a plan for disposing of the Forsaken and Horde and joining the Alliance.
"To put it simply my friends," the High Convocate went on, "consider the Ghostlands and our staging area of Tranquilien. While communications with us are infrequent at best, the Banshee Queen seems to maintain a strong link to the town. If we attacked it or turned against our Forsaken allies we would lose our one and only beachhead in the Ghostlands."
Theron paused to let this information be mulled over, he knew it would take some hand-holding to lead this group down the path he needed them to take.
"Consider, as well, the abandoned villages that lie just south of the border and could be turned into strongholds easily. Not only those, but the small camps of Night elven spies stationed inside of the Ghostlands. As well as Shalandis Isle, a sea port connected to Darnassus."
Understanding seeped into the faces of the Convocate as Lor'themar tentatively explained his plan. "In the coming weeks, I propose we distance ourselves from the Forsaken, and by extension the Horde. We all know that Tyrande and Staghelm don't trust us, for our magic as well as Prince Kael'thas, but don't forget that Tyrande helped the prince before he consorted with demons."
"If we enlist aid from her," The High Convocate continued, not noticing his voice getting lower and the others gathering closer to him, "we can push the undead back and use our magic to reseal the Outer Elfgate."
The other members began to become ill at ease with this plan, and Lor'themar knew what was running through their minds. "It took the full might of the Scourge, with Arthas at its head to smash through it the first time, and we will reinforce it with divine magic from the blood knights. With Night elven druids, also, we can renew the Eversong Forest to it former glory!"
The Convocate, without knowing it, had begun to slightly nod their heads in agreement, they could see the value in this plan despite the massive risks involved with seperating themselves from the only allies they had left.
"The undead will not see it coming, they are still reeling from Dar'Khan's death." Marfa agreed.
"It's aggressive," Alanassor said barely containing his excitement, "but if it works…"
"We will regain our homeland, free of bargains struck with primitive orcs and demonic creatures." Athaniar said, giving his consent.
"Once again Quel'thalas will be in the hands of the Quel'dorei." Anariel said, her emotionless façade falling away.
"No." Liadrin said, in a voice that brokered no argument.
It was if the time had stopped in the room, none dare move their head it be taken as a sign of support for either side. The members of the Convocate could almost feel the tension that suddenly gripped the air, if Liadrin and her knights didn't join the others they didn't stand a chance. Moreover, if Liadrin and her knights turned against the others the civil war would end Silvermoon forever.
It was like the whole of existence stood upon the edge of a blade, threatening war and chaos with the slightest movement. The elves stood still as statues, barely breathing, and no one made the slightest sound. The cool hand of death crept up their spines once more, gripping them in the fear they felt as Silvermoon burned to the ground. Finally, Liadrin spoke up, her voice breaking across the silence like a stone through glass.
"The arcane powers of the Quel'dorei are gone," the leader of the blood knights said, "the unceasing rage and hate of the Sin'dorei is passing. We must fight for a different kind of people, a different kind of Quel'thalas, and a new world. No longer will the past have a hold on us, no longer seeking to restore faded glory and feed an addiction of our own making."
A strange feeling began to grow in the Convocate, something none of them understood but all felt compelled to obey.
Lor'themar was the first to speak, "No longer High elves, no longer Blood elves, we are a new people. Devoted to bringing Light and Order to our land, people of the light, Ala'dorei."
"Now," Liadrin said, "we can take back our homes."
AN: Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review and add criticisms or complaints.