BLOOD LEPRECHAUN by J Cae

TYRANDE'S INTERLUDE

(ASHENVALE, 11 NIGHTS AFTER TIANITHAN WAS BORN)

The Black Warden's poison was a mixture of seven hibiscus plants, its recipe a secret known only to those bound by the Code of the Warden. Rue Wyena Shadowsong, the former mentor of Maiev and one of the Elders of the Wardens' Council agreed to give Illidan an antidote as requested by the Shan'do. However she was greatly shaken by the tale of a renegade among their Code--the Black Warden.

The old elf had spent months bemoaning the passing of her favourite student. "It was my fault I did not stop Maiev from becoming a warden," she was often heard sighing. "So many years ago, I could already see that her impulsive rage would destroy her. Why had I helped her acquire the means? Why had I accepted her into the Code? She would not have died if she had not pledged herself to hunt down Illidan!"

With the return of the Betrayer, she could not describe how her rage boiled. There were so many questions regarding Maiev's fate she needed to ask of him, yet all he gave her in reply was but cries of pain. She did not doubt his howls were genuine--what he had done to her student should cause him far worse pain.

"How does he fare?"

Soft light from the gentle torch fell upon the soft features of a visitor, and the old warden shifted her gaze upon the face. Long had she exchanged the attractiveness of girlhood for the true beauty of maturity, yet Wyena could not but be stunned by her delicacy every time she laid her eyes upon her. She marvelled at the way the dark velvety hair cascaded down to the priestess's well-curved body, and the way white starlight shone in her sympathetic eyes enough to warm even a heart that had already gone cold.

"Illidan is asleep," Wyena said with a sigh. "But he should heal well."

She placed a consoling hand on the old warden's shoulder, seeming to understand the emotional turmoil raging within her--the hand that was the salvation of Kalimdor, a hand that was powerful and strong, yet stained with innocent blood. Wyena was unsure whether she should accept her comfort.

The visitor took a pewter carafe filled with scented water and pushed the half-opened metal gate to enter a room. She knelt beside the former demon hunter who was still in his sedated sleep. His breathing seemed easy and deep. Untying her kerchief from her waist, she began to bathe his face with scented water.

Barely conscious of what she was doing, she fingered through his dark hair. Twigs and leaves were still caught in it--he had been sleeping in the forest, it seemed. The wounds on his chest and arm stopped bleeding a while ago, but the one through his right wrist still burnt to the touch.

She took his hand gently in hers and examined the wound--not an ordinary wound. She had seen enough injuries in the past few years to know which ones would heal and which ones would not. This would be one of those scars he had to live with probably for the rest of his life. She wondered it if hurt.

Pressing her lips against the back of his hand, she closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to her Goddess.

Elune, you had not prevented Maiev from becoming a Warden. You have allowed Illidan to betray us, and yet You preserved him in Your Hands. I am certain You have Your reasons, impossible for our humble comprehension.

But why had you not stopped me from becoming a priestess when You knew I could not but fall?

Shaking her head, she allowed herself a moment to clear her mind. She thought about giving Illidan a kiss on the cheek--not the sign of a lover's affection but mere sisterly concern. Illidan was like her brother, even though she must confess she had not always loved him well. Breathing a sigh, she picked up the moistened kerchief and resumed dabbing that feverish face.

Illidan began to wake from his drugged sleep. Though his eyes were sightless, he knew at once who was sitting beside his bed, "Tyrande."

"How did you know it was me?" she asked softly. He never failed to surprise her even after so many years, "I have not said a word."

"It is the scent in your hair," he replied, a smile spreading across his lips. "You always wash your hair with lavender water."

Somehow, his seemingly innocent comment brought tears to her eyes. Lavender water--oh, such an insignificant detail! But she held her emotions in check the way she was so accustomed to doing.

While she hesitated, he spoke again, giving her no chance to deal with her feelings, "Am I in prison again?"

"Surely not," she assured him, pulling the blanket up to his chin. "We have too much to talk about to simply lock you up."

To her surprise, he chuckled, "You have a bad sense of humour."

"It was not meant to be funny," Tyrande snapped quietly. "You took a shadow strike. We had to take you to the wardens. If you came here a few hours late, you could have died." She caught herself. Why should she care? Had she not rather he stayed dead? But had she not been overjoyed to learn that he was alive? "When you are better, Furion would like to speak with you about...the baby you brought here."

"I can't feel better than this," his voice suddenly dropped low to a whisper, "with you here beside me."

Tyrande stiffened uncomfortably. Although she convinced herself she was not at fault for choosing his brother, she could never be impassive to how much he still loved her. It would be cruel to deprive him of her presence, yet it would be unkindness to herself had she stayed against her own will. She did not wish to lead him on--as if there was still anything left between them to misunderstand, "Well, until you are better."

Wordlessly, she gently wiped his face again.