"I won't do it," she tells the young man, again, trying not to sigh and let the guilt show at the hopeful, imploring way he tried—and failed—to regard her with, and folds her arms over her chest. So please, if you know what's good for you, let it go.
Umi has to stop herself from rolling her eyes when the King of Stormwind blinks at her in much the same way Hikaru does when her and Fuu come across something new and mysterious: so childlike and completely unaware of what's going to happen next. "What? But why? I saw the way you fought! The Alliance could use someone like you with your skills."
"I appreciate the offer, sir, but my friend and I are just passing through the area—on an important Quest, if I say so myself! Besides, even if we weren't traveling it wouldn't havedone us—or rather, the kingdom-any good if we kept going andsomething happened to you. So of course we stepped in. Why wouldn't we?"
"Well I'm glad you both did, Miss...I'm sorry, where are my manners? I don't believe I ever got your name."
"It's Ryuuzaki Umi, Your Majesty. But you can call me Umi, as it's my given name. This is Occator, my man-at-arms."
The night elf inclines his head. "...Hello," he says in a raspy baritone.
They should be—and have been—thanking their lucky stars they happened upon them when they were still in the area. Assassins sent by the Horde's Warchief, and right in broad daylight just as Boralus was recovering from Ashvane's assault. King Anduin Wrynn had come in from Stormwind to meet the lady knight (Taelia, Umi tells herself, remembering her as the one who helped the Lord Admiral and Lady Jaina evacuate the citizens to safety) who lead a small strike force to push through the streets and slay the monster that had been summoned from the deeps that threatened to overwhelm the city. She had been going from one town to another, her and Occator, moving south from where she had awoken in Stormsong Valley, sitting in bars and taverns to gather the lay of the land, of this strange new world that was far different than Cephiro: so much more diverse and grounded than she could have imagined.
And yet….
Azeroth was hurting, is still hurting from the sword stuck deep in its side. Its blood seeped across the globe and crystallized into the mineral the Alliance and the Horde, its superpowers, were harvesting to make weapons of mass destruction and use them on one another. A great battle against what she surmised to be an evil god had unfolded before they were brought here—her and Hikaru and Fuu—that had ended with the sword in the world, and the Warchief had committed terrible crimes against the night elves in the land of Kalimdor that ignited the fury of their allies in a war that Umi knew, from the look on the King's face, isn't going to let up anytime soon. Not as long as the Horde was led by Sylvanas Windrunner, Banshee Queen and Dark Lady that she is.
All this she heard and paid heed to, wandering through the damp streets out of the Crosswind Commons into Upton Borough with an open ear, eyes sweeping for Hikaru's striking red hair and Fuu's bespectacled face among the crowds. She had little coin to spare for a gryphon or a ferry even after performing the odd job during her travels, but Umi was content to go on foot from the Seekers' Vista, where she had been housed and fed among Kojo and his tortollan brethren, down the roads that wound away from Stormsong Valley's farmlands to Tiragarde Sound's copses and salt marshes. No one could give her the answers she craved; they had never seen girls that fit the descriptions she gave them.
That meant Hikaru and Fuu were either in Drustvar, to the west, or they were across the ocean, in the land of Zandalar, the Horde's base of operations. They could be anywhere.
They might not even be on Azeroth at all. It hadn't been the first time the thought had crossed her mind.
She had beat Occator to it before he could speak: Do you suppose there might be someone I could ask among the Alliance that would know where they could be? Would they have any departments that deal with lost or missing persons?
We couldn't say, miss, they would tell her, but only one way to find out. Follow the road out of Brennadam and take it all the way south to Boralus. The Alliance are stationed there, with a big warship docked in the harbor. You can't miss it.
That was where she went, Occatar beside her, and it was in Unity Square Umi saw the tall creatures with spotted blue-green skin and curled tusks hiding in the shadows, knives in the hand.
The smoke bombs had gone off before she could call out to them.
Umi appraises King Anduin once more. It's thanks to him and the Light magic he pushed the clouds away, for if he hadn't they wouldn't have seen the Zandalari assassin make a beeline for the back of his neck.
There were no prisoners to be had. The wolf man, King Genn Greymane of Gilneas, had his Greyguard take the bodies of those they could find away from the harbor. Not even secrets are safe in death, Tata told her, once upon a time. Remember: where there's a will, there's always a way. Nothing is sacred.
She resists the shiver crawling down her spine. If it shows, at least she can say later on it was the breeze. She plays off the initial tremors with a roll of her shoulders.
Anduin nods, though the crestfallen look doesn't go away. "Thank you, Umi, Occatar, for your assistance. However, please understand that due to these circumstances I cannot leave either of you unattended. The Warchief, and the Horde, will soon hear of this."
"He speaks the truth, milady," King Greymane says, stepping forward. "Just because we haven't left any survivors doesn't mean they have given up the fight. You can bet Sylvanas will retaliate, and when that happens there will be no guarantee you and your retainer will be able to remain in relative safety as you have before."
Umi offers him a little, humorless smile. "Either that or you're really confident their gods won't strike me down the moment I stop talking, yeah? As king of a nation you should know that better than anyone else than to be standing out in the open, no matter how many guards and how much magic you have protecting you. You're really asking for it."
The worgen lord's brows furrow, and he opens his mouth to protest. King Anduin cuts him short, hand upraised to still him. "We've had security reinforced all over Boralus since the incident. Sylvanas is smart, but she would be foolish to consider testing her luck and risk losing more soldiers that could be put to better use elsewhere."
"She'll move whether or not you've got every inch of Kul Tiras covered. For all you know she could be keeping tabs on Stormwind right now while you're here. If anything, Your Majesty, I'd be more worried about you than I would be about me."
"The day the Banshee Queen lays a hand on the King is the day the Horde becomes a memory best left forgotten!" King Genn spits harshly.
"That will not happen, Genn," Anduin reassures him. "So long as you, the Lord Admiral, and the Alliance are at my back, I will ensure the Horde won't push any farther than they already have into the mainland. Still," he adds, regarding Umi, "I'd prefer keeping you under our protection. At the very least you'll be safe here and have access to food and shelter, and repairs to be made on your weapons. That's not so much to ask, is it?"
"Indeed not, Your Majesty," the night elf man standing next to her adds. "It is a most generous offer."
Umi chances a glance at him from her periphery. He cuts a dashing figure: twice her height and bulk but slim enough to be almost an Adonis, shoulders squared and posture straight. Arms ropy with sinew and wider than her head fold over his chest, hands cased in large, storm silver gauntlets tipped with monelite-sharpened claws. The stormsteel clings to him like a carapace, segmented plate molded in the image of a samurai (much to the best effort the blacksmiths in the Deadwash could afford to imitate) over a ragged, barnacle-encrusted tidespray linen tunic that belies the strength underneath his skin. A chokuto is slung across his back, long as he is tall, with a blue and gold tassel wrapped around the handle. A pair of wakizashi is clipped to his deep green sash.
Everyone has given him a wide berth, including King Greymane, who had been throwing surreptitious glances the night elf's way ever since the bombs went off and they all but charged into the fray. Even now, they're more closer to Umi than to him. But they're not stupid enough to leave all eyes unaccounted for; unlike Cephiro, Azeroth is positively steeped in magic. So much is in the air, free and barely contained that Umi almost feels like drowning in it. The sensation of there being over a hundred thousand eyes on the back of her head hasn't left her since waking up in Stormsong Valley. Just the thought of the SI:7, or the Storm's Wake water elementals, or even the falcons from the Greystone Relief and the small detachment of Army of the Black Moon watching from all corners of the land amplifies that feeling even more.
(Would they know where Hikaru and Fuu are? Would they trust her to give her that information?)
She takes in a deep breath through her nostrils, slowly lets it out. Bad enough she sticks out like a sore thumb in her school uniform rather than the knightly garb she was in not a short while ago. If she were a spy, that would definitely get a few alarm bells going. Had she lacked the magical aptitude to understand and speak Common from Japanese to the Cephiroan equivalent of English, she'd probably be sitting below decks on the Wind's Redemption, having her mind picked apart by the Grand Lector and her priests, whose holy Light irritated her skin with an unnatural heat unlike the soothing compress King Anduin's felt as it mended her wounds.
Umi breathes again. Focus, she tells herself, keeping her gaze on the High King. Focus. Don't give them any ideas. "Yes," she says gratefully. "I'd be more than happy to have us rest our feet and get our marbles together while we figure out where to go from here."
"So soon?" he asks, blinking incredulously, and Umi nods. Out of the corner of her eye she catches the night elf working a kink out of his neck. Chainmail shifts and jingles with the flex of his muscles.
"We have places to be, my friend and I, and Horde or no Horde we intend to get there no matter what's thrown at us. The Warchief can come after us personally and I still won't stop for her. Simple enough."
Greymane issues a rough laugh that's part growling and part humming. "You'd really take her on? My dear, I'll have you know she's a force to be reckoned with!"
"I've dealt with much worse, sir, if you can believe it," Umi says somberly.
"At your age? You can't be much older than King Anduin!"
One corner of her lips tips up in a mirthless smile. "Fifteen. And yeah, I get that a lot."
"Hmph. Fifteen, you say…And you say you've fought much worse than the Warchief?"
"You'd be surprised at what I had to do. Then again, it's not like I had much of a choice. Didn't have much of one, come to think of it—at least in the beginning. But then I decided to fight, and despite what happened I still do because it's the right thing to do. I have the obligation to choose my battles as I please. Sometimes it all comes down to do or die. Don't you think so?"
Greymane nods. "Aye. I do think so, but this is one fight we can't afford to run from. I don't know who you've fought, Miss Umi, but Sylvanas is more than just a mere person. She has been a constant reminder of the darkness that has lurked within the Horde for years. The one who preceded her was a troll named Vol'jin, different from the Zandalari you have just seen. He was respected among his tribe and all the races gathered berneath the Horde's banner. Not over a year ago did he fall by a demon's blade in the midst of a great battle, and with his dying breath"—and here his snout crinkles, and Umi swallows back the gasp at the black gums and teeth that are as long and thick as her fingers—"bequeathed the mantle unto her. The moment he had done so all her crimes against Azeroth have been put to the forefront...and growing at magnitudes by the day. So long as she remains in power, we will never know peace."
"You haven't seen her at alll? Not in Kul Tiras or in Zandalar?"
"No. Not yet," Anduin interjects quietly. "But she's out there, and sooner or later one of us is going to have to make our move. It could be here. It could be in Zandalar. It could be anywhere out on the seas, where the islands are rife with azerite. Wherever we go, she's almost certain to follow."
"Like a shadow, come forth into the light," the night elf rumbles. He looks at the young king, face impassive.
Anduin reacts with a slight start, but recomposes himself and has to tilt his head back to meet the man's gaze. "Of course, Blademaster. Like a shadow."
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I do not mean to speak in riddles. 'Tis commonplace when I am with young Umi."
"Oh, no, that's alright, Occator. I'm accustomed to that kind of vernacular."
Occator nods. "That is good. My ward is but a child, learning all that the world has to offer her. But as I understand it, my liege, so are you; you are not much older than her. Prithee, sir, speak truly to me: what do you intend to do when enough blood has been shed, and the Horde is made to kneel before you? What will become of those who lash in defiance, those who have the noose tied loose round their necks by the hands that hold them?"
"Isn't it obvious? They will face justice!" Greymane cries. "For Teldrassil! For Gilneas, they will p—"
"You are not High King," says the blademaster, pointing a claw at him. "Let the boy speak for himself instead of through a puppet who thinks he holds the strings."
"A puppet!? How dare you—!"
Umi shoots the elf a look of alarm. "H-Hey now—!"
"Enough!" Anduin hisses, and shoots up a hand: both to stop the wolf man from advancing and to still his tongue. They work, and Genn Greymane deflates, hackles bristling. When he sees neither he nor Occator won't pursue it, Anduin drops his arm and focuses his attention on the night elf once more, who waits for him, patiently and intently, to continue. "You're right. In a way, compared to everyone else, I'm still a child, and I have done little fighting prior to my ascension to the throne. In fact, if I had to be honest with myself, I would rather prefer not fight at all. Except those circumstances aren't within the realm of possibility anymore, and I can't keep standing back not doing anything while others stronger than I fall in battle.
"I have to fight. I've got to. It's as Lord Greymane says, as many others before him have. Someone needs to stop Sylvanas; it doesn't matter if it's here in the Alliance...or those among the Horde who are more noble and honorable than her. That is why I won't dismantle the Horde. I will give them peace and I will help heal them of all the damages she has wrought-onto the land and onto them, as well. Not everyone among her is evil; there's still hope to be had."
Umi nods. "Of course. Right or wrong, everyone has a reason for doing what they do."
"It would make sense were Sylvanas a rational person. But know this, Miss Ryuuzaki: genocide, much less eternal damnation, should never be considered a measure to be taken," Genn sneers. "I will have you know that this has happened once before—not to this scale, mind you, but we were close! We were oh so very close to having fel rain on earth because one person among that 'honorable' Horde wished to burgeon his thirst for power, and it had only happened because another such 'honorable' person made him leader when he could not bring himself to take responsibility for the changes being wrought among his kind! Fear, anger, hatred: those are the tools of a Warchief. It matters not who wields them. Why should it? They scarcely bother to keep each other in check without any kind of intervention whatsoever! Nothing short of death will ever stop them!"
"That will not happen, Greymane," Anduin says, authority tinged in his voice. "Death should not be a recourse we should dole out so lightly."
"The Alliance kills to preserve the peace that's been fraying at the threads ever since the Dark Portal opened. The Horde kills because it is in their nature. The only language they speak is death, and if we don't respond in kind the war will never end!"
"We have had this discussion before—"
"And it will always be the same answer until you change; you have said so yourself that Sylvanas Windrunner is beyond saving. What don't you understand? We could've cut the head off the snake right there and then at Capital City if you hadn't given the order to withhold fire. And don't forget the lack of hazard protection from the blight that almost damn well killed us if it weren't for Jaina's timely arrival." Greymane's mouth works, black lips pressing and folding together, and Umi watches, enraptured by their expressions. Anduin, whose stone-faced veneer is gradually crumbling toward weariness and chagrin and a boyish sort of vain hope; and Greymane, furrowed brows and scowl quivering between outrage and grief that makes the silver fur along his whiskers whiter than they have any right to be.
Umi's throat seizes at his eyes: shining bright, like the stars in Cephiro's sky on those cloudless nights. Before the clouds blocked them out and thunder silenced the birdsong and the wind's sweet whispers, the trundling of water from the secret places of the earth.
Here's a man that would burn down the world if he had the chance.
Here's a man that's lost everything.
Just like—
"Gentlemen," Occator says, with a clear of his throat. Their attention is reluctant. "If you will pardon my intrusion, I ask that—"
"Wait," Umi intercepts. "Your Majesties," she adds, and the command in her tone gets them to turn their attention to her. "If I may speak?"
Anduin and Greymane exchange curious glances at one another. Then: "You may," Anduin says, gesturing her to continue.
Occator's eyes are cool and heavy on the back of her head. Umi tunes them out, hones her focus away from the lull of the sea and the quiet churning of the land. The salted air is in her nostrils, sighing in her eyes, wisps of nimbus floating high above Boralus. The two kings watch her.
It would be so easy to draw up on the magic within her, call upon the One-Upon-Three and let the dragon-light embrace her. To cow them into submission and make them set aside their grievances. She need only a single word to have them do her bidding.
She stands, tall, and allows the world in: the sea-made-round, the land-made-flat, the sky-made-full. Harmony among Chaos. "I didn't say I'm condoning what Sylvanas or the Horde have done...but as King Wrynn said, I can't—won't—generalize all of them as 'evil' or 'irredeemable'. If he says there are good people that disagree with her actions and intending to rebel against her, then I'll take his word for it."
Greymane's snout crinkles, ears folding back against his skull. "Just like that?" he growls.
She nods. "Yeah. Just like that. I don't need a reason."
"Hmph! You say you've fought worse than the Warchief, fought them because you were doing what you felt was right. Did I hear that right, dear?"
"You did."
"Then explain to me what your enemies have done that is worse than killing people and forcing them to serve her even after death. Tell me what they have done that is worse than setting the world-tree of the night elves and those of my people with shamanic fire and wiping out every man, woman, child down to the bare minimum, where they have to swallow both tongue and pride so as to get a decent meal and a roof over their heads."
He leans forward, weaving away from Anduin's outstretched arm ("Genn!"), and looms over her. Lupine eyes glittering still, but its veneer sharp and vicious. Calculating. Hackles rising above the collar of his coat.
"Tell me."
Umi doesn't move. Her feet on the ground, steadied by land, wind through her hair, sea salt in her nostrils. "Nothing is worse than that, milord. Nothing can ever top the loss of life. Fighting shouldn't be a competition."
"Then for your sake, know your place—"
"Except one thing."
Ears flickered. "And that is…?"
"Love."
Silence. Greymane recoils from her as if physically struck.
Anduin stares at her, bewildered. "...Love?"
"Yeah. Love."
It comes as a soft sound at first, quiet as to be on the edge of hearing. Then it builds in crescendo, harsh and sudden and high. Greymane laughs, head thrown back toward the sky. Teeth bared, chest shaking beneath thick paws large enough to crush her head like an aluminum can. He has as much of a smile on his face that his worgen form will allow him.
"Love?" he echoes, between gasps of air. "You...You mean to tell me that Sylvanas Windrunner, Warchief of the Horde, Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, was motivated to kill and defile...out of love?"
"Well, I don't know about love, but you don't just wake up one day and decide you're going to commit mass murder for the hell of it. Not unless you're that kind of person."
"Then why even bring it up?" he snarls, his voice edging on a whine. "You don't know Sylvanas! You have not seen the things she has done that I have!"
"You're right, I haven't. I don't know what you went through, but I hear it all the same—and I'm sorry you had to experience that! But I've seen what happens to people when they strive to get what they want." Umi inhales deeply, holds it in, wills her racing heart to settle and the images of the anger, despair, and tired acceptance on his face as his dark Machine, his False God, consumed by Holy Light that appears in the Spokes between the Wheel of Creation. All that pain and destruction, all the ways he could find to tear Cephiro apart code by code until the Central Operating System crashed, and the Illusion of Time-Made-Manifest ceased to be, and all the memory etched into the stars would close the gaps and truly become Void—all to curtail the Doom prophesied upon his head and within his heart and the strength of his soul. It makes her chest ache in that old, familiar, gut-turning way she felt when they had been returned to Tokyo Tower, world-weary and learned and aching as soldiers of wars long past would feel when the fighting has finally stopped and the drumbeat of blood and war-song ends to reveal the sound of the wind that makes the world turn one day at a time. Their Task done, their Quest fulfilled, only to leave the land rent asunder and the stars torn from their heavenly moorings from that love in their wake.
Cephiro has regrown since then, free of the Pillar System that had grown to become the cancer Mokona had been displeased with from the early days of the Old Earth. No one person is beholden to shoulder all the pain, stress, and temptations that come with the power of magic, and that same magic is now spread across the cosmos—not as rife as Azeroth or the other worlds Umi has only heard about in hushed voices, but gradually spilling forth from a portcullis that had not been open since time immemorial. Everyone—Chizeta and Autozam and Fahren—had converged on Cephiro for the Pillar System for their own reasons but with one common theme that bound them together.
Had Zagato not despaired, had channeled his frustration and sorrow towards something less damning and self-destructive, perhaps he would've uncovered the means to look beyond the System's firewalls that shielded Cephiro from the Roads.
He would have traded the Pillar to any of them for Emeraude.
Emeraude would have wanted that, if it meant she would escape the System's shackles and spend the rest of her days with Zagato, living as herself without restraint.
They would have loved, either way.
It hurts to think about them. What she and Hikaru and Fuu had to do to give it to them. It still does.
Umi swallows back the lump that dares to form in her throat and keeps her gaze steady on Greymane. "I know what it can do," she forces out, "when you have it. But I also know what it can do when you don't. Having one or the other is a thin line to balance. With all due respect, Your Majesty, if you're not careful, having too much or too little love results in the same thing." She frowns at him, neither unkindly nor untoward, and doesn't waver when the far-away shock present on his face blooms into mounting fury. "I can see it in you, too, Greymane. You'll end up just like her if you let it consume you. You and everyone that goes after her."
His teeth are fully bared at her. She can see the fine film of spittle on them, the gloss on his lips. The rumble rising up from the pit of his chest low, like a diesel motorcycle engine that will roar with all the force of a gunshot going off with the pull of the trigger.
He's fast, faster than Umi would've expected from a man his age. But he had proved her wrong when she saw him leap from the smoke and pounce on one unlucky Zandalari man who made an attempt to reach the King of Stormwind. And his claws ripped and tore through him, one-two-three, and the final, crossing slash sent his head flying from his shoulders, a bloody geyser shooting from the stump of his neck. He cannot be any older than his sixties. He has seen more than enough in his lifetime, much more than her.
Umi wraps her fingers tightly around the pommel of her sword. The wind is heavy, curiosity weighed down by inflections of disbelief, contempt, suspicion. Proudmoore sentinels on the walls above them lining the Keep, SI:7 spies concealed in the shadows, two pairs of Greyguard—men and women—lingering within reach of their lord and the High King: all eyes fall on her.
Please don't, she tells Greymane's face. Please don't dare.
He could. He would.
"Genn," Anduin's voice, and he sounds strangled. He looks strangled, horrified and awestruck. "Genn," he says, insistent, reaches out and takes him by the elbow. "Greymane, that's enough—"
Greymane tosses him off. His nape is a bush full of spikes. His pupils are shrunk.
His claws are unsheathed.
Footsteps behind her. Greymane looks up, and so does Anduin.
Umi doesn't turn around. She breathes in, counts to three ("the ol' Mississippi way, my dear," her father would tell her, when she practiced what she learned from her fencing lessons, when she was not so sworn by the sword), and exhales, and inhales again when Occator's shadow stretches long and cold and dark over her.
Anduin's jaw drops just as he closes it shut and stares, no longer scared but wide-eyed as a child that has seen his first shooting star and doesn't know what to make of it. So does Greymane's, and his nape loses its sharpness to collapses.
"Gentlemen," he growls, and Umi continues to breathe. Allows herself to be swallowed up by the shift of cadence in his voice, like the undercurrents churning beneath ancient ice. "I believe there is room and board waiting for us. Please show us the way." There is the sound of steel being drawn; from the slit of her lowered eyelids, she catches the slant of sunlight glinting off the chokuto.
Anduin gasps and jumps with a slight start, as if shaken from a dream. He blinks wildly at Occator, then at Umi, then at someplace that might be Occator's sword or shadow or even the man's eyes peeking beneath the fall of wavy blue hair, and then back at him. He nods vigorously. "Y-Yes, of course! Please, forgive my manners. It's been, um. Well. You know—"
"I understand," his voice back to its normal raspiness. "I apologize for my persistence; my ward's well-being is of utmost importance."
"Very well." Anduin raises a fist, clears his throat. "I will speak with the Lord Admiral and see that she can arrange you a room in the Snug Harbor Inn. Once you're settled in, we can discuss matters further and where to go from there."
"You have my thanks, Your Majesty. We are in your debt. We shall not disappoint." He places the flat of his hand below his breast and gives Anduin and Greymane a short bow. "Come, Lady Umi," he says to her, placing that hand on her shoulder.
She makes no move to go, and Occator doesn't urge her. She nods and loosens her grip on the sword, finger by finger. It doesn't cross her mind if they see it or not. They shift when they notice her straighten up, brow furrowed. "I just want to say," she says, gently, and doesn't miss the way the weight of Occator's hand vanishes when she bows deeply at the pair of kings, "I'm sorry for causing any trouble. But I stand by what I said. That's all. Thank you for the hospitality." She regards the night elf. "Let's go, Occator."
"At your side," he murmurs. They go—Umi and Occator, Anduin and Wrynn, one walking north away from Unity Square, the other toward Proudmoore Keep.
Greymane is like static clinging to her clothing when he brushes shoulders with her, whiskers scraping over her cheek and breath warm on her ear. "You are young yet, girl," he whispers. "You will learn. There are lines you cannot cross. Remember these words. Remember me."
Umi says nothing. She bites her tongue and, when there's enough distance between them, sends a discreet look over her shoulder. Smoke and magic—magic singing with the life-chorus of earth and wind and rain and something dark and dreamlike—pours out of Genn Greymane, and from it walks not a wolf but a man with cropped silver hair and a brown, weathered coat.
His back is to her, his gait dignified and quiet.
Umi turns away.
It hurts too much to remember.
Morning waxes to late afternoon, and it finds Umi and Occator situated in a two-bedroom suite on the second floor of the Snug Harbor Inn. There's a balcony that overlooks the Tradewinds Market and the harbor where the Wind's Redemption is docked, and the breeze that blows in is rife with the tang of salt, charbroiled meat, and smoke from the nearby smithy a walk away. Gulls issue lusty cries as they sail over the ocean in search of fish, or sing as they perch on the mast of the battleship and along the rooftops. Buskers hawk their wares across the port: pandaren with colorful carts stacked with a variety of ramen dishes, animal skins that offer the warmest protection in the upper reaches, alchemical potions that will give any eager adventurer the edge they need as they travel abroad.
Umi pushes aside the doors leading out to the platform and leans her arms against the railing, inhaling the air. Crisp and cool. Not quite as clean as Cephiro's with the stink of smelting metal, oil, and whatever rubber just got burned on the lower level, but the echo of the sea resonates through the layers, like sunlight puncturing an overcast sky. It is calm, unmoving, wintry as only the animals that secret themselves away for the long months of hibernation would know.
Her thoughts are the most relaxed they have been since leaving Seekers' Vista.
It's wonderful.
"This is great!" Umi exclaims. "You can even see the Monastery from here! Hey, let's go get something to eat before the night owls come out, I'm starving! How do you feel about katsudon?"
"Mmm...maybe," Occator rumbles, from his place on the bed. His pieces of armor hang on a rack, glistening dangerously from the meager sunlight that pours into the room. His wakizashi are on an end table with what looks like the Azerothian version of a Coleman lantern, etched finely with the twin moons of kaldorei iconography: Elune, the White Lady, on the black sheathe of the larger blade, and the Blue Child on the smaller white one. He sits, barefoot, on the edge. One leg dangles off the mattress, the other pulled up against his chest, and the muscles of his arm flex as he sharpens the chokuto propped up over his lap with a whetstone. "I may have the faculties for it but I have no real need for nourishment. It serves no purpose."
"Oh come on! Surely you have some kind of enchantment you can use that'll allow you to experience taste! Live a little!"
"I would only be putting on airs, Lady Umi. It has been many an age since I have last indulged in sustenance."
"Katsudon tastes good, though!"
"I'm sure it does."
"Then try it! We don't even have to get katsudon. They might have curry or tonkotsu ramen." She gasps, thunderstruck, and whirls around. "Hey, they might even have whale! You like whale, don't you? A big guy like you can't pass up anything that considers itself a king of the World-Girdle, yeah? I bet they do. A little bit of that with their own version of a MOS Burger on the side and a bucket of Häagen-Dazs for desert makes for a fine meal! After all, you said so yourself: you have to put on airs. Otherwise everyone's gonna think the big, scary night elf eats by breathing air!"
"Ah, so photosynthesis, then." He pauses. "I suppose I will give it a shot," he adds, resuming his ministrations. "I do not believe it will have any effect on my form in any way whatsoever. Maybe I will enjoy it."
"That's the spirit! See, it's not so hard living like a normal person! A little bit of give, a little bit of take; simple as that!" Umi pushes off the rail and begins to dig around in the tidespray linen bag cinched to her waist. It's lighter than it ought to be, containing only a detailed map of Kul Tiras's roads, some flint and tinder for the few times she's had to use for when they camped out under the stars, and some coin she acquired along the way. "I should have enough for a plate each, but after that we're going to have to start looking for work tomorrow. Maybe King Anduin will be nice enough to give us some change as a head start."
"That would be most wise," says Occator.
Umi lets the coins—silver and copper and one gold piece—slide back into the bag, and rests a hip against the rail, folding her arms across her chest. For a while, as the footsteps come and go outside below them and the sun dips lower, she watches Occator sharpen his sword from edge to shoulder with measured, languid strokes. Its tassel is a bright yellow. On the blade a Chinese dragon loops its way to just below the point, arms outstretched and whiskered jaws agape in a toothy grin. It catches the light and disappears with each pass of the whetstone.
"You know, you almost gave yourself away," Umi says. "I appreciate the save back there, but be more careful next time, okay? We don't want to have to cause an incident and bring the Horde down on our heads because you took Greymane's head off."
"Justified though it may be, his raison d'etre means little next to you." His face hardens. The whetstone strikes harder, heavier. "The Wolf King shall not lay a hand on you. No one will. You are my Fated One, bound through trial and heart. Alliance, Horde—their war will be but a smattering of ashes if they tear that from me."
Umi's eyes widen, breath stuck in her throat, cheeks warming. Not for the first time, not since he'd pledged his allegiance to her once she had proved herself to him upon the completion of her Task and the fulfilling of the Quest. Not since Tata and Tarta captured them and she had waited alone in her cell and learned he was alive and still operating at peak conditions, and insisted she learn more about his past and the past of Cephiro and the realms that lay beyond the curtains of the Roads shielded by the Pillar's firewalls. Not the last. "You mean…?"
"I mean it so, Umi. I need only call upon my executable function and turn their own magic against them, given time and diligent research. But I will not. I cannot, even if the temptation were there. The world's programs may not pertain to me, but it is not my domain to command. It would be irredeemably cruel to condemn the many for the actions of a few. And," he stops whetting the sword, sets it down, and looks at Umi with a shadow of worry, "you would be...very angry with me. I would...miss talking to you very much. So I will keep this guise on for you and maintain my status as your man-at-arms. It is...much more preferable than assuming my mantle, where worldly matters stand right now. I will react faster that way if something happens to you."
Her face is red. It feels red. It has to be. (It's probably not a very nice thing to think, but Umi is glad Hikaru and Fuu aren't here to see this. Well, Hikaru might be star-struck that rigid, gung-ho Ryuuzaki Umi would be poleaxed by declarations of chivalry so easily, but Fuu—sly, opportunistic Fuu—she'd be right on it like Mokona does to anything and everything that catches his interest to bounce off all that godly energy. She would never let it go.)
Umi smiles, red-faced and with a tightness in her throat that isn't uncomfortable at all, and the sight of him regarding her now with childlike curiosity makes her bust out laughing and clap her hands together. "You're such a charmer!" she exclaims.
He tilts his head. "I...am?"
"Why of course! And on top of that you're a very good swordsman—at least for someone who's not used to a human form!"
"It was eons ago, when Time was made Manifest and Cephiro young. I still feel...stiff. But I thank you, Umi. I will continue to adjust."
"I know you will. You've got this in the bag! And...thank you, Selece. I'm glad you're here with me. I'd hate to have to navigate political alliances and wartime shenanigans alone. This world...it's nothing like Cephiro. I can already tell peaceful negotiations at the dinner table aren't going to be enough. They'll tear me apart if I misplay my hand. But with you by my side I won't nearly be as afraid of what comes next. I can only hope Rayearth and Windham are with Hikaru and Fuu, too."
"If I am here, then they should be in company with the young masters as well. My brothers shall protect them as your sisters will protect them. We are beholden to you. We are unbreakable. Do not fear."
Umi grins. "You're right. I really oughta know better! They're probably playing the same game we are now, wherever they are, and most likely under different names. I don't know how long we can keep up the charade so you're going to have to keep playing Occator the wandering night elf spellsword until then."
"And you shall play the role of a girl who walks as a shadow, come forth into the light," Selece says, his smile small and knowing.
"I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe they'll find out eventually, and maybe some of them will try to take advantage of it, but right now we're strangers in a strange land. We've gotta do what we can to get by and not cause too much trouble." Umi turns around, emerges onto the balcony once more, and crosses one arm over the other atop the railing. The breeze is light now, akin to fingers carding soft and ephemeral through her hair, and she tips her head up toward it, taking it in.
She inhales, holds it, exhales. Opens her eyes.
"We're gonna find them, Selece," Umi tells him. "Everything's gonna be alright." She wonders where they are now, wonders what guises Rayearth and Windham have assumed to walk among mortalkind, wonders what Hikaru and Fuu are doing and if they're also planning their next course of action just as she is.
She wonders if they are thinking about her, as well.
"It will be," Selece assures her, coming to stand behind her, shadow falling over her. There is the weight of his hand on her shoulder, and this time she lets it stay. Keeps her steady even as her thoughts reach far and wide across the South Seas, across Azeroth.
"We've got this," Umi says, resolute, voice soft at the edges, and bangs a half-formed fist against the rail just like so. "We've got this."
(In the back of her mind, unbidden yet present like a specter, is Greymane's silhouette, the hollow click of his boots on the cobblestones and the mana that clings to him even as the lupine darkness trails behind him with every step he takes. His grief is palpable, his anger a bitter aftertaste.
Here is a man who won't forget, a man who won't forgive, and a man with nothing to left lose, whether he was right or wrong.
Dangerous, Umi will think later on that night, and unpredictable. Those were the kinds of opponents you had to keep an eye on and can't take off for too long; this was a lesson everyone on Cephiro imparted on them at the onset of their Quest, and it was a lesson put to great task when the three realms invaded and Debonair and Nova pressed their advantage. She knew this, but so did Greymane. His age and experience will have taught him to know better than to ignore her and Selece completely. The feeling of eyes, and the sensation of armed weapons, trained on the back of her head never left her thereafter.
But not tonight. Tonight she would rest, be free of the what-ifs that kept gnawing at her gut and in the germ of her thought. Rayearth and Windham would keep Hikaru and Fuu safe, as Selece will for her.
Tomorrow is a brand new day, and the start of something new. Their liar's game.)
A/N (from 03/27/2021):
So this got much bigger than intended. But then again, that's par for the course for a GP fic lol :V
I'm particularly fond of MKR, but one thing I've noticed is that every time I mess around with it I have to make the worldbuilding as wild, political, and esoteric as The Elder Scrolls. Now that could be because I was playing Morrowind around the time I was watching Season 1 and read the manga adaptation, but I've always found the world of MKR to be rife with potential that could be tapped into beyond just two seasons, an OVA, a canon divergent Sega Saturn game, and a crossover with Super Robot Wars. Then again I haven't read any other CLAMP manga except the first couple chapters of Cardcaptor Sakura and Legal Drug and AFAIK Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicles makes the CLAMP Multiverse about as convoluted (or somewhere around thereabouts) as Kingdom Hearts's, so eh, no skin off my nose. That's what creative liberties are for.
And naturally, that's where this story comes in. I like the idea of throwing [insert anime/manga/Japanese game here] into the WoW universe, but I also like the idea of Umi having a standoff with Greymane over discussing the Horde as they've been during the MoP-Legion era and, of course, everyone's most loving and hateful favorite Banshee Queen on top of that even more. With this premise and the intention of worldbuilding malleability in mind, liar's game was born.
The first draft of the first section had Taelia and Jaina join in on the conversation that takes up a good chunk of the fic, but all they were doing was spit one-liners that could easily be said and filled the gaps in by Anduin and Greymane. That pissed me off as well as annoyed me, so they were excluded from the final version. They'll have their chance in another story.