A/N, from 10/22/2019:
This idea came to me a couple days ago as I was at work, although, like most of said ideas, this originated on a whim than any actual, predetermined plan ahead of time when I'm off my shift or can make the time to sit down and write on a day off.
Inspired by Malfurion's Bearmantle skin in Heroes of the Storm, this story takes place in a slightly alternate continuity (with the rest of canon otherwise staying intact) where Broll died in the Battle of Mount Hyjal and Anessa, his daughter from the comics, survived the events from the War of the Ancients. Tyrande has already become the Night Warrior off-screen so as to align parallel with the events that occur during the questline starting from "On Whispered Winds".
Although Broll has been shown to fight against the Horde (see: the Battle for the Undercity in WotLK, Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War), I think that, given how dire the situation is with Sargeras's sword (which, I believe, may be Gorribal, but I don't think that was ever confirmed to be so?) causing Azeroth so much pain, he would forego pursuing vengeance for the Burning of Teldrassil and assist everyone at Silithus in the healing process. At least, this much I can say for certain; as he wasn't present with the likes of other minor night elf characters such as Jarod Shadowsong, Thisalee Crow, Maiev and her Wardens and many more during the Darkshore campaign, it will be interesting to see where Broll stands with the Blood War's end and the aftermath of the raid on Nya'lotha.
(I'd have also preferred a more vicious!Malfurion, but he wasn't having it up until the very end of the fic. He's more or less close to his canon portrayal, so there's that.)
"I think about him sometimes, you know," Anessa says, in a quiet voice that only Malfurion hears. He gives her a sideways glance, mindful of the way he turns his head so his antlers don't hit her. She looks straight ahead, eyes hard and face like stone, heedless—or perhaps uncaring—of his gaze upon her. "I think how he would feel, if he knew this was going to happen."
"I do not know," Malfurion tells her, "but I knew your father well enough to know he would do the right thing. He—"
"Would fight. Wouldn't he?" From this angle, he sees the thin line between her brows become more pronounced. The skin at the corner of her lips dented as they press together and dip in a ghostly frown. "His home burned down. His people, slaughtered. All that hard work for nothing, destroyed in a matter of minutes." She looks at him, eyes shining, and continues just as he opens his mouth to speak. "What good has peace ever done for us?"
The silence is deafening, hangs heavy in the air even as their footsteps resound as drumbeats up the beaten path leading out of what had once been Astranaar and up north toward the ruins of Orendil's Retreat and the Zoram Strand. There are no torches to light the way; Malfurion forbade it. The Horde will see them from their outpost, but for once he doesn't mind.
Malfurion chews on the inside of one cheek. Behind him, around him, he can feel the weight of everyone's hatred, everyone's grief, everyone's anger on his back and settling upon his shoulders. He remembers just as they do how lenient he was to the Horde in the past. How forgiving, offering them lumber, food, water—resources that would quench their thirst and hunger that had turned into a constant ache with the Shattering of the world that saw Durotar and the Barrens choke on the heat the Destroyer left in his wake. People all over were suffering: financially, physically, mentally, spiritually. If there was ever a time to set aside hostilities and mend the wounds that were tearing Azeroth apart, it had been then.
(There is never a good time for anything. Not anymore.)
She watches him, doesn't turn away to watch where she's going even though her pace still matches his and the army has, for the most part, not deviated from their course. She could trip and fall, but her gaze won't waver. It will stay on him until he speaks or the world comes to an end.
(He had a lot of anger in his heart, her father. Frustration accumulated in his youth for being unable to fully tap into the druidic power that lay within him since birth—power that did not fully manifest until the War of the Ancients, when Malfurion had heard tell the story of how he unleashed the full fury of his might upon Azgalor when he had assumed Anessa had died trying to protect him and the Idol of Remulos he always carried with him. Yet she lived, both lived throughout these past ten thousand years, safeguarding Azeroth and healing her of all the damages the kaldorei and the Highborne had wrought in the Sundering, from the murlocs and the naga and the Legion all the way up to Grom's Horde.
(But Broll Bearmantle was a busy man: he was just as much a child of nature as much as he was a son of Elune, pushing himself to restore the natural balance beyond his abilities until he dropped from exhaustion, or fell into sickness and had to be tended to by the Cenarion Circle or, at worst, his daughter and their cousin Telandria, to which the two of them would rant his ears off until he slipped into dreams where their voices still persisted. Then, when he was hale and no longer feverish, Broll would set off again, continuing where he left off as if nothing ill of the sort had ever happened to him.
It's hard to look at Anessa now. Not always, but when Malfurion does, as he does now, he can see it in her. That same reckless drive that gave Broll so much energy and pain against his better judgment.
Those same eyes, that know only hunger.
Beneath his old friend's hood, he sees his own reflection staring back at him.)
Malfurion could be truthful. He could tell her Peace is what you make of it, we are more than the sum of our sins. Peace is not a dream but a reality that must be realized. If we are to see it come to fruition, we must be willing to remove ourselves from this cycle of warfare and rinse our hands of the blood we have bathed in. Only then may we able to hold not our weapons but tools and amend the bridges we have burned and broken time and again.
"Shan'do," Anessa says. The silence thickens, broken only by the huffs and snarls of the nightsabers among them.
"Not much," Malfurion admits. "Not much at all."
"We never seem to learn our lesson, do we?" she presses. "Too lenient. Too forgiving. What do we get in return, for all our kindness?"
(The ashes in his nostrils.
The screams in his ears.
The searing agony of his back as Tyrande's hands move over him, changing out bandages drenched in blood.
The glossy, faraway stare on his people's faces, the sluggishness in their steps as they walk, bow-backed, up and down Stormwind's streets, or huddled along the canals or in the fields of the Wollerton Stead , peering into their campfires in a dream world only they could see .)
His nostrils flare. The grip on Broll's staff goes knuckle-white. "Nothing," he growls.
"Then why bother trying again? No," Anessa says, shaking her head. "In fact, why bother at all? It's in the name, Shan'do—Horde. Warchief. So long as they exist, the kaldorei will never be at peace."
"Peace will be realized," Malfurion says. "Peace—"
"Is what you make of it," Anessa finishes bitterly. "Turn the other cheek. Pick up a tool, not a weapon, and rebuild. Get on your knees and ask Elune to grant them forgiveness."
The butt of the staff smacks against the ground. "Not this time, my child," he rumbles, and their march slows. Ears swivel and heads turn; even the cats cease their warning rumbles. Everything feels quieter now, as if the very land itself is holding its breath. "This time, there will no such penance. If there shall be any atonement to be had in the days to come, it will be found only in the death of the Banshee Queen and all that stand behind her."
"We'll get it back," Anessa trills, and grants him a smile that's full of teeth and ferocity. Ferocity, he recalls with a deeper twist of his lips, that has been missing from the kaldorei for what feels like a long, long time. "Ashenvale. Darkshore." She licks her lips, sucks in a breath that catches in her throat and, when she speaks, comes out high and strangled. "Teldrassil. We're going to get it all back, Shan'do. One way or another."
"Yes," Malfurion answers with a nod, and turns back to focus on the road ahead of them. "One way or another. We shall set things right...with or without the King."
Murmurs in the back, and grumbling, cursing the boy-king and his incompetence, his good and softly heart. Anessa hisses an epitaph, one that, under normal circumstances, Malfurion would have chided her for; it is not the kind of thing a person should say about anyone, let alone the leader of the Alliance.
Anduin may be Varian's son, but he himself is not Varian. His hasty decision to fly directly to the Undercity, without any sort of preparations to counter the blight, has cost the night elves more of their people that have joined him in his assault to reclaim a land steeped in damnation. His heritage, one would say, but Anduin has never witnessed firsthand the destruction of his home and all that he has loved the same way they have. In that regard, at least, Malfurion is grateful for the contingent of troops King Greymane has loaned, even if his blood runs hot at the thought of the Banshee Queen lingering off the coast of Zandalar, always within sight of Dazar'alor but ever evading the drones and the snipers that fire warning shots at the Zandalari skiffs.
Anduin plays a game of politics and kingship he is not prepared for. What few night elves that refused to answer Tyrande's summons and went with SI:7 overseas will learn eventually, should they live through his petty war.
Would you fight, my friend? Would you be at your daughter's side? Malfurion asks Broll's memory, and immediately kicks himself for raising such a question.
For all his love for the kaldorei and the family he created, no force on Azeroth and in the Twisting Nether was more strong and sure than Broll's love for nature and the duty he swore to uphold. He would be at Silithus right now with Magni, trying to help the Circle and the Earthen Ring heal the Wound the sword gouged in the world and stem the flow of azerite that refused to stop enraging the elementals deep beneath the earth .
What point would there be to living if the planet they lived on suffered as a result of all their warmongering?
What point would there be to living if the Banshee Queen escapes justice? Malfurion asks him, and stops.
In the distance, the tower of the Zoram'gar Outpost appear, rising between the trees.
A small, cold smile spreads across Malfurion's face.
The wind rustles through the leaves. The earth groans.
The spirits cry out.
Anessa pauses beside him, lips drawn tight, gaze hot. The soldiers march pass them, transitioning from a walk to a sprint on silent feet that is barely heard even with strained ears into the thickets. The nightsabers snarl, low like an avalanche ready to tip over; their riders guide them toward the shadows, drawing swords, umbral crescents, bolas, bows and arrows.
A horn sounds, frantic and piercing.
"They see us," Anessa says.
"Good," Malfurion replies. Lunar magic gathers in his hand, and at his feet vines and roots emerge from an undergrowth that is quickly spreading north, in the direction of the open gates. "Let them. Tonight, we will make them understand.
"Tonight, we will not let them forget."