The Zealot grabbed her again, pulling her towards the Protoss structures. She no longer struggled but allowed herself to be dragged, sinking quickly into her inner mind as she was handed off to the Khalai she had been working with.

Around her, the Zerg were being mopped up. She didn't care. All that mattered was that her father was gone. Xarral, her love, her friend, her father, her mentor, her teacher. Gone. Dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead… she curled up in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind, sobbing. But her body did nothing; she was walked to a room and sat down, and then the Khalai ran off back to his duties. Her body sat there, and her mind built walls around walls around walls around a maze so no one would touch her, no one would come near her.

Zeratul came over after the battle ended but this time he could not bring her back. Judicator Aldaris came much later and crouched in front of her and told her that the Zerg Cerebrates were destroyed; Kerrigan had showed up and they were bringing her back to the Citadel. Was she controlling the Matriarch now?

That question pulled her out of her reverie a little bit, and she actually saw the Protoss in front of her. She nodded slightly, and Aldaris swept away with a swirl of his cloak. Azalel's head dropped again and her mind dove into the recess once more.

A Healer came by and brought her to a bath; her hands went through the movements of washing herself but she did not feel it; did not think of washing. She was woken a little by the chill of ice-cold water dumped over her head, but quickly went back. Her minor wounds were repaired, and the Healer, who was adept at mind-healing as well, called her back—but only for a few seconds. Azalel's eyes focused on the Healer's, and she whispered "Father" before slipping under again.

After two weeks of intense pulling and teasing her out, she was able to stay in her body for a time without falling back. But something inside of her had broken; she did not cry and she did not vent. Inside her mind her safe place was not the cottage anymore; it had grown enormous spines from its walls and weeds had crept up the sides. The normally smooth metal walls were crumbling stone and black mold. Pools of water formed on the floor and water dripped from the walls and ceiling. It was a dungeon.

After three weeks someone came into her room. Seeing her thin body—she had lost considerable weight in those three weeks—curled up at the head of her bed, her breathing shallow, mind distant, that someone picked her up and carried her away. There was a brief argument from the Healer, and a familiar voice stated firmly that there was no way she was staying here. Then hot burning air met her face, and she opened her eyes.

"Tolar?" she asked.

Be still, Azalel, he said, his voice gentle. You are going home.

"Tolar," she said brokenly, "Tolar… Father… my Father… he's, he's…"

I know, he said, as helpless as she. I know. I'm sorry, Azalel. I'm so sorry.

"Are we walking?"

He looked at her, worried. Yes, we are.

"No… I mean… are we walking there?"

No. I have found a willing Scout; he will take us to the gate site.

"I don't want to go through it."

We are going home.

"No, we're not; we're going to go through and end up at the wrong end… I want to go home…"

Hush, var'ha. Hush.

Var'ha? Wasn't that Protoss for "beloved?" Father had called her that sometimes… she sank into oblivion as Tolar carried her onto a ship and they lifted off…

She awoke again when the heat hit her as they stepped outside; heat and blinding light made her stir in Tolar's lean but muscular arms. "Tolar?" And then the familiar hum hit her ears and she began to struggle. "Tolar—no! Don't go in!" She squirmed as he neared the warp gate. "Don't!"

He held her tighter, restricting her movement. Stop, Azalel! There is nothing to be afraid of!

"We'll end up—"

Home, var'ha. We're going home.

"No Tol—" he stepped into the opening and the crushing nonexistent weight of the doorway suffocated the rest of the sentence. She cried out—going through was uncomfortable when you were well and hell when you were not ready for it, which she certainly wasn't. Once more they sped through space and time, the overwhelming blinding light smothering her choked cries and Tolar's soothing murmurs.

Then they were through and Azalel squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see the place that they had come out of.

Azalel, look. Open your eyes and look around.

No… Azalel turned away from the open air, pressing her face into Tolar's juvenile robe.

She felt another mind touch hers—someone older, and vaster… and more powerful… Child, look around you.

Her eyes opened as if on her own volition and she turned, gazing at the trees and the cobblestone and the buildings of a blending of both Protoss and Terran design. She felt her eyes widen until they were enormous saucers, and her hand gripped Tolar's wrist. "Home…?"

Yes, Azalel, we are home.

"Can't… we're home…" and she shook her head slightly, shock permeating her senses. Then she turned and looked at the crowd, which had thinned out slightly. "Why are they still here?" Tolar looked down at her in confusion.

You were only gone a few days. When they found out you were coming back, they returned as well to speak with you.

She laughed, a sudden, hoarse, bitter sound that those around her flinched back upon hearing it. "A few days… or six months? Which one? Are you sure it has been a few days, or are you lying? For I distinctly remember sleeping and waking at least two hundred days… or is that one hundred eighty? It certainly hasn't been a few days. It certainly hasn't been a few days."

Azalel, Azalel! Tolar cried, stiffening in horrified alarm. What is wrong with you?

Give her to me, Patriarch Zeratul demanded, reaching out. After a moment's hesitation Tolar allowed her to slide into his arms. Be calm, he added, seeing that Tolar was in complete shock. The time that we found her she has been at Shakuras for six months. He turned to the crowd. Please, leave. There has been much damage to this girl.

People immediately began to disperse, thinning out as if he had the power to control all of them. The only ones left, finally, were the technicians and the rest of Azalel's friends, who had begun to thread their way through to reach her. Worry radiated from them, and George, being smallest, got there first. "Please, Patriarch," he said, "will she be all right?"

That will be entirely up to her, Zeratul replied quietly. He turned and strode quickly away, Z'lirra, Zyram, Tolar and George in his wake. Other Dark Templar they hadn't even been aware of formed ranks around them, creating an arrowhead to pierce through the crowd and keep an eye on Azalel, who had lapsed into her strange, distant silence again. Everyone fell silent, too, until the only sound was their feet marching on the cobblestone of the street. The coldness and stillness of the Dark Templar, even when moving, was terrifying. They seemed to float above the ground, their cloaks swirling behind them as if of living things, and they did not look anywhere but straight in front of them as they walked. The little gang kept looking at Tolar, who gestured that they should simply follow and do as they said. That established, they too became hushed.

Zeratul made a beeline for the nearest infirmary, and the other Dark Templar followed as if they were connected to his mind—and, of course, they were. As soon as they were inside a Protoss Healer walked them to a room, and Zeratul put the drained Azalel onto the bed. He stepped back and looked at the group for the first time. It may be better if you left, he said.

One of us must stay, Zyram replied firmly.

That is true, his twin confirmed.

"Tolar, you stay," George said. "You're the closest to her, and you're the one she'll be calling for when she…" he looked at her. "… when she wakes up." Which felt strange to say, because she was awake, if only technically. Her eyes were open, and she stared off into space, but there was very little recognition or acknowledgement of what was going on around her.

Agreed, Tolar said, and the other three exited. Z'lirra paused at the door, but Zyram put an arm about her shoulders and they walked away. The Dark Templar took up stations around the room and outside in the hall, silent guardians to their beloved Patriarch.

The trust they have in you is admirable, Zeratul said absently, laying a hand on Azalel's forehead. As is the love in your heart for her.

Tolar just looked at the girl he had come to adore. Not so much a girl anymore, but she had grown into a beautiful woman. And "beautiful" to a Protoss meant not the same thing to a Terran, but Tolar did not care. He knew she was beautiful in Terran standards, and that was enough for him. He had come to love her spirit as well as her looks.

Deep in his heart he knew that they would never be compatible—whoever heard of a Protoss with a Terran?—but he still wished, and kept his love a secret. He had, until Zeratul had found out.

I warn you, Zeratul said now, looking up from the girl, you may not like some of the things I do to her to bring her back.

I understand—though if you hurt her, I—

I know. I am simply warning you. There was the barest of sound, and a Dark Templar was standing just behind Tolar. He understood, though he didn't like it—the warrior would restrain him if necessary.

Zeratul bent over Azalel, pulling her hair out of the way, examining her pale skin and her dull, lifeless eyes. Then he gripped her with both hands on either side of her face and closed his eyes.

Tolar felt him dive into Azalel's mind and sat back to wait.

Azalel was a different story. Physically, she did nothing, though her entire mind shuddered and she screamed internally at the invasion. Get out! She howled; Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout!

Zeratul found himself standing at a metal wall, as smooth as seamless as a Templar's perfect mental barrier. But she was only Terran, and though he had not been able to help her five hundred years ago he had learned much more since then—the quest for knowledge was never-ending. He broke the barrier down, and was faced with another, stronger one. He broke that one down and found another. That took a little longer to break—about twenty seconds more—but it crumbled nevertheless.

Now he was faced with a maze. Spines grew from the sides and floor and ceiling; vines grew between the gaps of the openings that were left. She really didn't want to be disturbed, and that fact was the voice echoing from the mental cavern—Get out!

It would have been impossible for a Terran, however powerful, to get through the maze. Perhaps a lesser Protoss. But this was Zeratul, Patriarch of the Dark Templar and even older than the last Matriarch had been when she had died. His power was almost unlimited, and he refused to play this pathetic game. He cut through the vines and spines and maze, dissolved it with a touch, and headed straight for the cavern that used to be the cottage at the far end.

Azalel was there, huddled against the wall and protected by barbs that reached out for him when he came near. He waved them away and crouched to get a good look at her. Her mental state was just like her body—she was pale, her skin stretched tightly over her bones, and her brown eyes were dull as she stared at him. "What are you doing here?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I told you to get out."

I have come to bring you back, he said flatly.

"What if I don't want to come back?"

You will. Do you wish to stay here your entire life, watching the lives of others pass; as they are happy without you? He asked. She flinched and he knew he had struck a nerve. For that is what will happen. When you are old, and wrinkled as Terrans become when they get old, you will watch your friends' children pass you and watch them as they are happy, and you are still stuck in your own misery.

"What does it matter? Father's dead."

It matters, he said ruthlessly. It matters because I have gone through the same. I have watched my friend, brother, and companion Tassadar die. I have seen my other Terran brother, James Raynor, waste away after he killed his once-lover Sarah Kerrigan, after she murdered his friend. I killed my own Matriarch with my bare hands. There are ones who have suffered more than you, whether you want to see it or not.

"Leave me—"

Not until you see the truth, he said, and returned to his own body. Turning, he strode over to an emergency cabinet and opened it. Inside were the tools Healers and Medics used when there was no time to worry about hurting their patient—there were knives there, and prongs, and needles. Zeratul selected a long, whisper-thin knife and came back to Azalel.

What are you doing? Tolar yelped, alarmed. Ignoring him, Zeratul brought the knife up and slashed it across Azalel's bare arm. The physical pain awoke her before she could sink back into nothingness, and she stared at the cut in confusion. Bright red blood welled up and dripped down her arm.

Come back, Azalel, the Patriarch said in a monotone.

She shook her head—a tiny movement, but he saw it. He slashed her again, a little higher than the first cut, and she jumped.

Stop, Tolar cried, leaping forward. The Dark Templar behind him grasped him by the shoulders and held him fast no matter how much he struggled.

Zeratul cut her once more, this time across her other arm. Azalel whimpered, squirming away from the threatening surgical knife. Zeratul followed her and slashed her a fourth time on her cheek bone much deeper than the first three—deep enough to scrape her bone. Tolar doubled his efforts, not caring that this was precisely what Zeratul had meant. Azalel let out a cry and lifted her arms to avoid another cut to the face, tears streaming down her cheeks and mingling with the blood. "Stop it," she cried—"stop it! Leave me alone!"

Do you see the truth?

"It's my fault," she wept. "My fault. I made the Salles die, it was my fault, the Ghosts were after them because they knew about the warp gate—and Doran, Doran, my brother, I forced him and my parents to live life as refugees, as renegades, and Father—my Father—you knew about this!"

In sudden wild fury she launched herself at the looming Protoss, bringing her hand up and over in an arc—from the bracer over her wrist that Tolar had not noticed before a burning blue and gold spear appeared, growing larger and larger until it stood two feet out, and she was stabbing towards Zeratul; she'd pierce him in the heart—

But Zeratul merely shoved that hand away with his own psi-blade, yellow-green and sucking the light out of everywhere else—Azalel's blade cut into the bed and was trapped by his arm. The rest of her body slammed into him, kicking and punching and screaming and sobbing. "You knew this was going to happen, you knew because it had already happened for you! Why didn't you tell us? Why? Father would still be alive and I'd be home and FUCK YOU YOU MISERABLE PROTOSS!"

Tolar stopped struggling in disbelief of the mad rage she generated—though the bravest of their little gang, she had always possessed a stable, though not entirely gentle, spirit. She was the strongest Terran he knew, which was why he loved her, and here she was whaling away at the Patriarch for Adun's sake, howling her despair with blood running down to soak her and his clothes.

Zeratul grabbed her arms. Child, stop, he thundered. I knew this would happen, yes. But do you not understand? It must have happened this way, for it already happened! Had it not meant to be, we would have already known that Kerrigan controlled my Matriarch. And you have answered the question no one ever knew—how did Judicator Aldaris know she was being controlled, because you told him! And do you remember the name of your brother, Victoria Routhe? Doran Routhe, the scientist who transported the renegades to the planets beyond, where the Protoss watched them grow and learn before the Zerg found them! You have made our future, and our present, possible to live in!

Azalel had stopped screaming and was lying, gasping and sobbing, in the Patriarch's arms. His next words were soft and gentle. You are, and have been, the catalyst for so many things, he murmured to her, holding her as she cried. Do you understand now, child?

Slowly she nodded against his cloak, but she couldn't stop weeping. "I still wish," she gasped, "that it had never happened."

I know, he said heavily. Neither do I. I wish none of it had to happen. I wish my friends and I had defeated the Overmind, and the Hybrids, all on our own. But it has not happened, child, and we must make do with what we have now. He held her for a long time, until her sobs stopped shaking her body. Then he pulled away slightly and helped her stand.

She swayed dangerously, gripping the bed, and Tolar immediately moved to assist her, pulling away from the other who held him. Azalel was a mess—blood and tears caked her face and her front, and her limbs trembled. Her brown hair, so alien and so beautiful and so short as Tolar liked to tease her, was matted and tattered. It looked like every time it got long enough to cut it she had—with a psi-blade. Her eyes were huge and dull with pain, both physical and mental. Come, Azalel, he said. We will tend to your wounds and clean you up. He turned to glare at the Patriarch.

I did tell you that you would not like some of the things that I did, Zeratul said quietly. He helped Tolar bring her to a wash-basin and helped wipe the dirt, sweat, tears, and blood off as much as they could. They helped her strip—Tolar didn't care how much she complained; she was not going to stay in that filthy rag any longer, and he didn't care about seeing her naked. Then he gently bandaged her wounds and lifted her up into bed. But she refused to go to sleep until Tolar's hand was captured in her own, clutching at him, afraid he would leave.

Hold her often, the Patriarch told him, his voice a bare murmur in the young Protoss' mind. She feels abandoned.

I will, Tolar replied. You do not need to tell me. I think I will never let her out of my sight again. He smiled sadly as the Patriarch chuckled a little. Patriarch, he added suddenly, as Zeratul prepared to leave, has she decided to live?

Zeratul turned and gazed at him searchingly. Then he gave an abrupt nod.

I believe she has, he said, and left.