Warnings: Mostly the same as the previous chapter, adding up psychological drama, mild haunting elements, hallucinations, and psychosis.


Darnassian:

Quel / Quel'dorei: Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

Dorei: Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

Sar'thera: A pejorative, meant for someone who's considered irritating or exasperating. Slang: Sart(e).

Ishnu-alah: "Good fortune to you."


Stormrage

He merely affords himself some time to pat Rak'shareh between her ears as an act of appreciation before dropping unceremoniously from her saddle and before The Thirsty Magister's doors with Mylenne in his arms. It gets to be a very difficult task, nearly impossible with the way she thrashes and squirms, but Illidan manages to place her feverish self atop her unmade bed, upstairs in her—more like permanent—rented room.

Vanthir and Oculeth are instantly assisting him from the very first moment he stormed inside the bar, the former pulling out damp rags and some herbs looking like belonging to a neat first aid kit. "I need you to keep her as still as you can," Vanthir doesn't look at Illidan while working on cleaning her flushed face, apparently trusting him to oblige right away, four hands doing their best to hold her in place.

His heart races in sheer apprehension with the way Mylenne's silver eyes roll backwards from time to time, wanting to curl in on herself or bat their hands away in the next moment, the room filling with her incomprehensible mumbling. "This looks very grim… what happened, lad?" Oculeth tries to assist with holding her by the ankles, a mix of whines and sharp breaths falling from her then very pale lips.

"We've been helping Silgryn to retrieve one of her sister's possessions. A shard, more precisely," Illidan manages to untie the knot holding her cloak in place with one hand, shooing her gently when she tries to squirm away from his hold, "When Mylenne came close to that thing, she… I don't know how to say it, but it wasn't her anymore. Didn't even sound like her," He shoots a serious look at their bald companion, cobalt brows knitting when Oculeth doesn't appear worried or concerned in the slightest.

A set of 'No' and 'Stop' and 'Please' is all they can figure out from Mylenne's constant mumbling, returning to her squirming when Vanthir manages to run a cold damp rag over her forehead. "Ah, so you have already found Aedriel's shard? That is indeed remarkable!" Oculeth looks just as excited as if he just had been told they discovered a new arcane spell, "I'd very much like to see it again, think about everything we can extract from it!" His odd enthusiasm is muffled by Mylenne's hissing as Vanthir holds an open flask filled with herbs close to her nose, trying to make her smell it. "Does Silgryn still have it?"

Illidan's not sure how he manages to keep himself from snapping back at Oculeth, annoyance still showing on his face, however. "Yes, but can we please focus on stabilizing her?" He drops a hard glare he was about to throw at the bald man when Mylenne grasps one of his hands all in a sudden, prompting his attention back on her, frowning harder in concern as her inner magical aura flares to life, if for a fleeting moment. "Silgryn said you can do something with whatever's happening with her magic,"

Thankfully, Oculeth snaps out of his reverie quick enough. "Ah, yes, yes, you're right," Kneeling next to his friend, Oculeth's palms begin glowing slightly in bright purple shades, running them across Mylenne's chest yet not touching her, merely scanning. "It's nothing to be worried about, Mylie's body is just repelling the remnants of her mother's grasp on her," He says more nonchalantly for Illidan's liking, golden eyes blowing wide with how deeply concerning that actually sounds. Oculeth just clicks his tongue in dismissal, "Think of it as a virus! I'll do my best with purging whatever's left of Aedriel's influence. You just hold her still,"

Illidan can't help with gritting his teeth, lips pursing tight when Mylenne clutches his wrist harder. However, he feels more uncomfortable with the strongly alluring scent of her magic as it flares to life once more, rather than the manageable pain that comes with Mylenne's sharp nails digging into his skin. It's incredibly troubling as much as something he thought he'd been handling decently—a strong thirst taking hold of his throat all in a sudden—but as it comes back again to get a grip of his rational senses, he can't assure that feeling, that… need will ever get tolerable somehow.

This is most definitely not the time to focus of that, Stormrage. Get a grip on yourself, now.

Returning his thoughts to more pressing matters, he recalls both Silgryn and Oculeth have already spoken of Mylenne's mother as an existent presence—if anything, not as a figure from the past. "I don't understand a single bit of this," Illidan growls, nose scrunching in both irritation and his running contemplations, but more rather displeased with being left out of the picture; something his female friend and her uncle tend to do more often than not, a quite offensive manner he most dislikes when it comes from them. "Isn't Conjurer Stareye supposed to be dead?"

His two current companions don't get to reply before the elder dorei in Mylenne's very odd family storms inside, his dark violet mane quite a mess yet not pegging down his usual haughty persona by an inch, Shadowsong right on toe. "And do you honestly think the very first Arcanist Suramar ever had is that easy to be brought down?" Silgryn scoffs, his throat still covered with dark bruises, barely showing although easy to catch Illidan's eye. "I thought you had a brain behind those pretty eyes of yours, lad. Do you ever use it?"

Vanthir sends a hard glare at Silgryn while he stops at the feet of his niece's bed. "Don't be that rude with the boy, Sil. He just asked a question," Comes his scolding, not looking intimidated by the considerably worrisome annoyance the elder Stareye has plastered all over his face. Even Shadowsong takes the wise approach to give Silgryn some space—appearing quite gloomy as he leans his side against the window, yet keeping silent as he has been for the entire evening.

Luckily for all of them and before Silgryn can get on a dense rant, Oculeth's glowing palms begin fading, his sort of confinement spell finishing. "There it is, her aura is contained as usual," It takes a heavy sigh from Mylenne for her feverish mumblings to ease down considerably, falling onto what it seems a much-needed slumber, "Should be taking a night or two for that fever to pass, though," Oculeth adds with a flick of an index finger, looking satisfied with his work before turning to face Silgryn, "I'm taking you brought my shard, Sil? I can begin examinations at once, just give the word,"

For that matter, Silgryn looks way too irritated by the mere mention of that thing. "It's downstairs. Go, have at it, whatever," He says through clenched teeth, not bothering to dart his eyes away from his niece as he takes Oculeth's place at the side of her bed, "And shield that fucking thing, pretty please," He sends a bark at their bald companion before he has the chance to saunter outside the nearly full room, the motion of tucking her niece under some blankets not appearing to help in keeping some composure. "Bah! You can drop that look on me, Illidan. I know you're dying to interrogate me,"

Figuring out he'd probably been staring him down for too much, Illidan manages to keep himself from sending a nasty snarl his way. "You're aware these magical objects are supposed to be scanned and more likely stored within academies such as Nar'thalas, Mennar, or the Moon Guard Stronghold, right?" Illidan can't help with remarking the obvious, briefly wondering how long the Stareyes have had such a powerful item on their grasp. "And this shard actually belongs to Oculeth?"

"Oculeth built it for Silgryn's sister, when she became an Advisor on Elisande's Court," Vanthir clicks his tongue, running a dry rag for the last time over Mylenne's forehead, slightly shimmering with a mix of sweat and Vanthir's rejuvenating waters he'd been washing her with—probably coming from a nearby Moonwell. "Just as how you see him, humble and funny and solitaire, Oculeth actually had been the first apprentice under Arcanist Lylandre's wing, many centuries ago," A soft smile shows on the bartender's face, always patient and willing enough to enlighten everyone who wants to listen, "That's how you two met, isn't it, Sil?"

"Ah, that bitch of Lylandre, my first marriage arrangement. Such an adorable Lady…" Silgryn's voice is laced with sheer sarcasm, putting up a disgusted face as if to prove his point, if only briefly, "Thankfully, yes, I did meet Oculeth through her. Drie requested him to build that shard when she was still lucid enough to think of a failsafe. I'm glad it still works, in some way,"

His comment prompts Illidan to wince a little, "What—? Hold on a second," Incited by his mere instincts, his fingers lace with Mylenne's—her hand still holding his, even in her slumber—bringing her hand close to his chest and away from Silgryn in a protective manner, "Are you trying to say the very Aedriel Stareye is… is… inside that shard!?" He tries to keep his voice low, yet he doesn't make a good job of it, shooting an incredulous look at the dorei on the opposite side of the bed.

Silgryn returns the same look back at him, locking gazes for a good minute, the room shrouding in silence… only to be cut off by a very abrupt fit of laughter. "Ha! Of course not!" He guffaws, nearly in an exaggerated manner, Illidan's cobalt brows quirking up in suspicion, "… But a good part is, yeah." Silgryn then deadpans out of the blue, his cackles stopping all in a sudden, "A piece of her soul, most precisely,"

An evident shudder runs through Shadowsong while he takes Vanthir's place at the head of the bed, the latter quite useless already to help with anything else, ready to take his leave. "And each time you said it, it sounds exactly as creepy as the first," Mylenne's friend declares, although Illidan notices the inquisitive look he throws at his and Mylenne's linked hands, a silver eyebrow twitching ever so briefly.

However, Illidan has definitely more important matters to ponder about rather than having to care about whatever Shadowsong may be thinking—and it's not like he'd ever cared, anyways, very much less so with the man's long periods of absence while tending to his work. "But answering your first question: No, Drie's not alive," Silgryn recalls his full attention way too easily, "Although she isn't technically dead, either. Powerful women like her are very hard to kill, but sarte like her are also a pain in the ass to keep jailed or contained as well," He has the decency of mentioning, not really looking like wanting to explain further.

Shadowsong shakes his head in noticeable disagreement, "You're aware you're talking about your sister, right? Also Myl's mother, here," He remarks the obvious, nodding at the only female in the room.

His comment brings Silgryn to send a cold glare his way, "You, of all dorei, know when she stopped being so, Jarod," Illidan is already aware Silgryn tends to get pretty much serious and somber when he starts calling people by their real names instead of the mocking ones he makes for them, "Don't try to lecture me, I have every right to call Aedriel however the fuck I want," He snarls, getting in a defensive posture as he crosses his arms over his chest, chin held straight.

Illidan sighs in sheer frustration, reaching the end of his patience and utterly tired of everyone not speaking straight, "Care to stop leaving me out?" He snaps, sending a heated glare at both of them. "Start talking, or else…" A sharp tilt of his head signals them their way to the door, the meaning more than clear as he leans further onto his side of Mylenne's bed.

Shadowsong only stares back at him, confusion narrowing his face. "You didn't know? I thought Silgryn or Myl—" A sharp and single shake of Silgryn's head is what he gets as a reply, a gleam of understanding dawning on the former's gaze afterwards. A moment of silence goes by with the two men before Illidan sharing a serious look, yet luckily he doesn't need to bark anything back at them as Shadowsong straightens and rises from his spot on the head of the bed.

As he's apparently reluctant to begin speaking, Illidan's lips purse tight so to keep himself from making any noise, a certain sense of apprehension pooling around his gut as Shadowsong paces from the bed to the window and back. "I guess we all can say Aedriel was already sick quite long ago, before all this," He looks like wanting to remark, a deep breath following, silver eyes glancing gloomily across the window, "But the first sign of her arcane madness showed fifteen hundred years ago as she did the unthinkable, and murdered her two closest friends in cold blood, leaving anything but lifeless husks in their stead,"

No matter where Illidan really stands with Mylenne's friend, his heart can't help but skip a beat when the boy's silver gaze locks with his golden one—for the tiniest of moments, not sure if he still wants to know furthermore. "Those were Illydreas and Yara Shadowsong… mine and Maiev's parents,"

Sheer silence washes over the three of them like a heavy cloak, Illidan's breath hitching at the revelation, lots of pieces of the intricate puzzle that regards House Stareye in its entirety starting to fit inside his mind. As his eyes drift to the sleeping form of Mylenne beside him, Illidan realizes how clear everything is right away; from Mylenne and the Shadowsong siblings' hatred and prejudices towards Sorcerers to their reluctance and wariness to all things arcane.

His chest feels heavy, for he doesn't know how to handle with that new information. Not right then, very much less so when—and being honest with himself, at the very least—a very symbol of his order such as the former Conjurer Aedriel Stareye had been quite a role model to Illidan for centuries.

Powerful, beautiful, grandiose, influential, with a name that inspired both admiration and respect. Everything a magic born such as Illidan and half the Empire has ever aspired to become, that woman had it all… and for what?

"I'd been on my travels at that time, searching for a cure, anything that could stop the whispers nagging at Aedriel's mind," Silgryn brings him out of his reverie as he speaks—somber, apparently overcome with a certain melancholy, and very unlike the dorei he knows as Mylenne's uncle, "I found out what she did at the same time her husband did, though. That's when I came back to Suramar as fast as I could. For that matter, I already knew how late I was to try keeping her in check either way…"

"You're talking about the time when she attempted to murder Desdel and Mylenne as well, isn't it?" Illidan can't help but ask, recalling what he'd read about the former Conjurer some years back at Izal-Shurah.

Silgryn snorts in dismissal, "Pfft, you shouldn't believe everything that's written about her. That's far from what happened that evening," There's a slightly offended tone in the elder Stareye's voice, yet he doesn't look like bringing up his personal opinions at the current moment. "In fact, that evening was when Desdel did the only good deed in his life, and tried to bring Aedriel down for all our sakes,"

His statement prompts Illidan's shoulders down as well as his long ears, a sense of confusion mixed up with some surprise plastered all over his face. "But he didn't… What happened, then?"

"Myl happened," Shadowsong—no, Jarod—continues, casting a sad glance at the bed where she lies, "The truth is, Lord Desdel wasn't the only one Aedriel had under her charms. All of us were under her spell by then," Illidan can't say for sure if the man thoroughly understands the real meanings of what a charm actually is or if he's just phrasing it vaguely, yet he doesn't have the chance of making a remark as Jarod crouches on the opposite side of Mylenne's bed, silver eyes fixing on him. "What you saw today at the vault, Illidan… it's not the first time Aedriel possessed her own child,"

Illidan can't help with casting an incredulous look at the young dorei before him. A… controlling spell? Does that even exist? There's close to nothing regarding such a complex incantation as that from the Conjurer's scrolls, or anyone, for that matter. Perhaps the boy is still talking about a certain charming spell? How could it be possible, then?

Nearly as if he'd just read his mind, Silgryn continues. "It's not as unbelievable as it sounds. Aedriel and Mylie always had a powerful bond, as powerful as one between a mother and a daughter could be," He elaborates, apparently with his turn for doing a nervous pace across the room, "It didn't take long for Drie's tainted mind to figure out how to take the best from that,"

"When Desdel found out he'd been charmed for centuries, and then the truth about Mylie's lack of magic of her own, he retaliated against his wife… and quite rightfully so." Silgryn shrugs slightly in a sense of admission, a hard cinch of his violet brows following. "But before he even had the chance of giving his final blow, Aedriel forced Mylie to attack her father, buying herself a chance to escape from her husband's wrath. I barely had some time to drop little Jarod and Maiev with good old Vanthir downstairs before going on a final hunt for my sister. I've been lucky, though; Desdel managed to injure her enough to slow her down, so my chase was pretty short,"

Illidan had already heard many comments regarding Mylenne's apparent lack of magic—blatant lies or evident ignorance, if someone asked him—although even when Silgryn's near unnoticeable remark prompts his curiosity, he keeps himself from going through that line of conversation for the current moment. "Where did you find her? How did you bring her down?" Illidan wonders instead, as calm and composed as he can allow himself to be, quite unlike the other men in the room still pacing around.

"By the shores of Sashj'tar, on her way to Vashj'ir," Silgryn replies somberly, glancing across the small window yet looking lost in his memories, if his unmovable gaze means anything to go by, "I used one of her own spells against her, one she specifically taught me should the inevitable came to happen. It… severed her soul from her body, leaving nothing of the sister she once was to me, merely a husk in her stead," His dull silver eyes find Illidan's, a miserable gleam showing on them—morose and gloomy, making Illidan purse his lips in an act of reflex. "I… won't bore you with more details, lad. There's nothing else you need to know, for that matter,"

Not like you needed to know all this in the first place, Stormrage, the voice of his conscience makes their snarky remark, knowing how much—or even better than himself—all this new information will take a toll on him sooner rather than later. Even with, then, finally understanding why the Shadowsongs and the Stareyes always acted so skeptical towards his inherited abilities and natural affinity for the arcane, and as much as he appreciates not being left out of the picture for once, Illidan can't help but admit that sometimes some things are better left unsaid.

Better left buried and forgotten… just like all the wrongs and mistakes you once made.

Silgryn appears quite overwhelmed to continue their conversation, leaning tiredly against the window frame and a heavy sigh leaving his lilac lips. However, Illidan only has eyes for the dorei lying on the only bed in the bedroom—so very still and in a peaceful slumber, far away from the all the tragedies that had struck and still keep leaving scars and echoes upon the ones around her, even many centuries later.

While he brushes a strand of bright violet hair away from her pale face, Illidan finds himself not daring to make a single noise, losing into his thoughts as well as the rest of the men around. A never-ending stream of ponderings crosses his troubled mind, questions upon questions, yet he's somehow hesitant to know the answers.

And still, what does Mylenne really see when she looks at him? Does she see the proud, honored man Illidan near desperately wants to become? Does she see his tiresome efforts made night after night to carve a real name for himself? Or does she merely see an echo of her long-gone mother, a glimpse of what he could end up becoming if left unchecked and free to develop the might of his own arcane talent?

A big part of him—the one that has grown fond and deeply attached to her after all these years—wants to believe Mylenne wouldn't ever hold him accountable or even compare him to her mother's past deeds. She has already supported him in front of her loved ones, and more than once even stood against her own principles; apparently seeing something inherently good within him, believing in him when no one, not even himself, did so.

"That's… A lot of beliefs for someone who's losing their faith,"

"I may be, yeah, you're right. But, if anything, I have faith in you."

On the other hand and in an attempt to look at the big picture, Illidan finds himself partially struggling with coming to terms with the knowledge of Silgryn murdering his own sister. Sure thing, he wants to believe he's not really a stranger to the act of making a sacrifice for the greater good—or to spare a life to save dozens—although it's not that easy to just imagine the incredibly heavy weight the elder Stareye had been willingly wearing upon his shoulders for so long.

Do you honestly believe that, Stormrage? Or are you just choosing to turn a blind eye to Silgryn's pretty much evident selfishness?

In all honesty, he does, and actually can't bring himself to feel disgusted with Silgryn; for sometimes, nobody can really avoid where the hand of fate may bring someone. And for that matter, how he can possibly blame him for what he's done if, at the end of the night, a great part of his actions had so obviously been to keep Mylenne away from the twisted schemes of both her parents? How can he blame Silgryn if without him, perhaps he wouldn't have met Mylenne at all?

Have you just forgotten how Silgryn dragged you all to the wolf's den to save his lover's ass from getting beaten to death? That never was about Mylie, don't you lie to yourself…

A hard frown narrows Illidan's face, slowly yet steadily starting to feel inclined to agree with the rational voice of his conscience. However, his current line of thought is brushed away all in a sudden as the bedroom door opens once again, two concerned males striding in and joining on Mylenne's bed without bothering to greet the group inside.

Hargo'then and Arluin. The Stareye's lovers.

Do you see it now, Stormrage? Do you see now how you so pointlessly try to find some excuse to their actions when, at the very end, everyone's entitled to their choices?

Illidan has to make an enormous effort to keep his face straight as Hargo'then glances at him from the opposite side of the bed, the Officer's young face a perfect picture of stoicism—so collected, so composed, so at ease and so insufferably annoying. Even when he can't forget the fact that Hargo hasn't been at the Manor and, therefore, can't possibly know what really happened, his mere presence is all it takes for Illidan to begin fuming.

Don't struggle against your real feelings. Stop taking everybody's shit and start realizing what's in front of your very eyes, once and for all.

It's as Hargo tenderly grabs Mylenne's free hand in his when Illidan takes it as his cue to take his leave, standing rather abruptly and placing as much distance from the man as he can before coming to regret it. He feels the dark voice within him beginning to take a firm hold of his conscience; uncontrollable, overwhelming, clouding his mind and rational thoughts.

She chose that sart instead of you, just face it! She only relies on you when he's not around. And you will never be fine until you realize you're merely her last resort, a second option… a nobody.

He's not sure how he manages to do it while being literally assaulted with the darkest of thoughts, yet before seeing himself out, Illidan summons a dusk lily with a flick of his fingers; the glowing flower floating softly to rest on the small bedside table, close to Mylenne's sleeping form.

While he's positive everybody will consider that a mere kind gesture from his part, it's as Illidan nearly slams the door close and strides out of the bar when he hopes Mylenne will take it for what it really is.

A reminder.


Six weeks later

He runs after her for what it feels like hours, crying Mylenne's name from the bottom of his lungs—his voice and thoughts, the only thing from him he can have some control of—not finding the will to stop doing so, even when not a single sound comes from his lips in his attempts.

Not a breath, not a pant, not even his steps are heard, and the sheer silence only works for his unease to run deeper through him.

What's the point of this if there's nothing I can do against it? What's the meaning? Is this only meant to torture me?

Many miles after, the girl stops running, past the forest and before the sea shores, giving him some sense of relief as he's finally able to approach her. A spectral hand travels to one of her bare shoulders, hesitating at first, considering his options.

Is it wise to touch her? Nothing good ever comes to happen when he does so…

Regardless of his ponderings, his hand stops midway after a swift gust of wind rushes through them both, her slender form shifting, changing all in a sudden and before his eyes. As like the most delicate opening of a flower, wind, mane, and clothes wave past and aside, revealing an adult woman within the next blink of his eyes. He dares coming closer, looking to meet her face, but he's left half-astonished and half-confused after glancing at one single detail not according to the woman he knows as Mylenne.

Her eyes are adorned with her ever so elegant violet markings, still big and bright as the very Moon… gleaming in delicate shades of gold.

He steps closer and to her personal space, opting to brush aside the knowledge of Mylenne staring at the sea and through his translucent form, coming with a crushing need to touch her, cradle her beautiful face, just stroke her skin. Her panting breath fans between his collarbones and for a very long moment, there's nothing he'd want more than for her to just see him.

It's nearly overwhelming to see her like that; her glossy golden eyes so fitting, her markings bright and beautiful as they're caressed by the moonlight, her violet mane waving high, with such grace, so grandiose.

Mylenne looks so real and his heart aches for her.

Why can't you see me?

Once more, the only thing he feels is a gust of wind rushing as the woman walks through his form, his hands grasping only air as her gaze keeps transfixed at the sea before them. Her voice is soft as always yet distant and muffled, heard as if she's talking from many miles away. "Min'da, please…" She only whispers, voice trembling.

His breath hitches as he turns around, words and thoughts alike caught in his throat, unable to do anything but stare at what Mylenne's facing.

An ethereal figure stares back from the middle of the sea, ghostly and delicate feet nearly touching the water, mists of dark purple and azure shaping and giving them a form. Mylenne doesn't seem to have eyes for anyone else but them as she approaches, her sobbing more loudly, her face narrowed by despair as she keeps chanting the same plea over and over. "Min'da, don't go! Min'da, please…"

He walks beside her and closer to the shore, searching for a face among the twisted shadows surrounding the figure, floating softly above the water and so very still—impassive, emotionless, their form haloed by the huge Moon dangling over the horizon. Mylenne's cries don't seem to have an effect on them, two azure orbs that could pass for eyes idly looking around at everything and nothing in particular.

Until that azure gaze lays directly on him.

He flinches back in an act of reflex, a cold shiver running down his spine as the figure's eyes gleam heatedly at him, mists and shadows shifting and contorting until the enraged face of Aedriel Stareye take form. She never speaks a word—doesn't seem willing to and doesn't seem to have a voice at all—but as her fangs are shown, a deep growl resonates around them, the surroundings booming and shaking violently, winds changing their course.

Could that be for Mylenne's despairing state or for his presence in this realm, he can't really guess. Still, and despite all his doubts, he's completely sure the ghost of Conjurer Stareye it's not pleased with the sight of him in the slightest.

Yet, somehow, it's been the only one who could really figure his presence in there.

And at the same time when Mylenne falls to her knees, arms outstretching to the ghostly form before her, realization falls on him as heavy as a rock. She is the only one around with a voice of her own, with a body, with a face that looks as real as in the mortal plane—with bright golden eyes just as fitting, perhaps even more than the woman he knows and cares deeply for.

This isn't my dream, it's hers. I'm just an observer.

He can't help but drop himself down next to Mylenne, his heart clenching and aching so very bad with the miserable sight of her, hurting and longing to make his presence known in some way. He wishes so much to make her know he's there, that she doesn't have to walk alone in that dreadful realm; needs so much to comfort her, to hold her in his arms until she awakes once more.

"Min'da, don't go, I beg you!" Mylenne keeps crying but the figure doesn't seem to care, an incensed roar coming from the forest, from the sea, from everywhere and nowhere in particular. If anything, the figure's face contorts deeper, their azure gaze boring and utterly engrossed on him, not acknowledging nor sparing a glance to the woman next to him—the only real and tangible one.

When their ghostly feet come in contact with the sea, the once calm waters start shaking violently, disturbing waves taking form—the twisted figure slowly seeming to melt and become one with the sea. Poisoning mists and shadows in shades of purple and azure spread among the expanse of the sea, tainting the waters as if being thick ink.

He can't help with holding Mylenne's shoulders as she screams in sheer despair, deep down knowing there's no use for it and she still can't feel his presence. Yet is all he can do, whispering soothing nonsense close to her ear, holding her as best as he can as she buries her knees and hands in the sand, tears streaming down her cheeks like a flooding river.

Tears thick and gleaming in shades of azure, mirroring the expanse of sea before them, staining her beautiful pale face and tainting all they touch. Polluting, contaminating, cursing…

A wailing scream is what Illidan hears next, coming straight from the bottom of his throat as his eyes drift open; then, the unmistakable noise of glass exploding in a hundred pieces. Feeling his heart near hammering its way out of his chest, his first quick thought is to pat his surroundings, his senses still dull and blinking forcefully so to adjust his sights.

The sight of a shattered half-empty bottle of Cider seems mocking at first, what was left of its contents staining the wooden floor of his living room, sending him groaning in sheer displeasure—whether that be for the mess he just did or his recurrent torturing nightmares, Illidan can't really tell. Out of attempting to brush away the twisted images still lingering on his mind, he busies himself with dressing up in a rush, opting to take care of the cleaning in another time.

The pale moonlight coming from across the window makes him figure the time of night, prompting Illidan to hurry as he downs a glass of water, forcibly not minding the headache growing on his temples while grabbing a traveling cloak, striding outside his house in a moment's notice.

A mix of surprise and annoyance narrows his face as, on the other side of his front door, he finds Malfurion Stormrage facing straight back, his familiar silver gaze gleaming in sheer worry.

"Are you alright, brother?" He seems hesitant to speak at first, looking to be making a big effort of voicing his thoughts, approaching Illidan somehow sheepishly. "Something's troubling you deeply and I… I'm just worried, that's all,"

It takes a whole minute for Illidan to realize how and what his twin means—for Malfurion is precisely that, his twin brother, and still sometimes it's easy to forget their natural bond and how his brother would be feeling his own pain. Pretty much easily so as their late years have found them walking different paths in life, sharing next than nothing of their personal dealings with the other.

He runs a worried hand through his cobalt mane, trying to soothe his annoying headache in the process. "It's… actually hard to explain, Mal," He just settles to reply. In fact and no matter how much he tries to brush it away, Illidan just can't forget his late grudges with Malfurion. Nonetheless, he also has to admit to himself how tiresome having hard feelings with his relative and some more people around him is happening to become.

In truth, his nightmares—and consequently—the growing war within him have already started to take a toll on him, both physically and mentally. The fact of having his brother approaching him with the subject can only work as a dangerous reminder of how evident his weariness must be starting to show.

However, ever so patient and pretty much unlike his twin, Malfurion only shrugs nonchalantly. "Try me, then. I'm sure I'll get it somehow," Illidan's golden gaze travels to his face, genuinely considering the idea. But what is there to say? Or even worse, how can he really voice what's going on without sounding like an utter madman?

'Ah, yeah, I've been having horrible nightmares the past few years, murdering people I care about over and over as well as feeling kind of haunted when I'm awake. Eh, nothing important, all in a night's business, right? Oh, and now it seems I'm also having someone else's nightmares…'

A deep sigh follows, trying to sort out where to begin. "I'm, uh… running late to pick up Sylenna," An excuse drops off his mouth before he can take it back, wincing a little with his poor choice of words.

Luckily—or rather more obliging with his usual demeanor—Malfurion doesn't push the topic further, although he stops in his tracks. "Well, I admit I was also on my way to meet the Sisters. But they're not at the Temple, actually," Malfurion makes a quick remark after apparently figuring out where Illidan is attempting to head on, signaling the opposite road with a tilt of his green-haired head, "The Suramari Sentinels have returned from their training initiation. They're gathering with the rest of the Sisters at the outskirts of Tel'anor and naming a new bunch of Priestesses as we speak,"

He doesn't give it too much thought as his brother joins in on his travel, their walk together more silent than usual, but for some reason not as uncomfortable or upsetting as Illidan would have thought at first—merely bringing up some pointless topics like the current nice weather, both appearing to be deeply careful with their choice of words. For the matter, he doesn't have to endure a conversation with his brother for much longer as the Sister's gathering comes into view, a considerably big bunch of women hanging out and around.

Some families are also joining the crowd, surely to greet or congratulate the new proclaimed Priestesses, also making Illidan figure out he'd actually showed up late. Far up north, he finds Syrana chatting eagerly with Shalasyr, a grinning Nyellus looking evidently delighted with having his daughters around—and Illidan can absolutely tell about the Starweave patriarch's bursting happiness, for he's quite aware Syrana's family doesn't have the chance to get together that often.

"Oh, there she is!" From his periphery, he notices Malfurion's face brightening with a wide smile clinging to his lips, striding ahead and—with some obliviousness from his part—not waiting for his brother to join him.

Illidan doesn't have much time to figure out who are they meeting—even when deep down he already knows so—before and all in a sudden, a small hand pulls him down by the neck, wrapping him in a hug.

"I'm so glad you could come, Illy!" He winces internally with how the woman names him, although she doesn't seem to notice his growing discomfort as she hugs him tighter. "For a moment I thought you wouldn't make it,"

He pats Sylenna's long silver mane a tad bit awkwardly. "You should thank my brother instead. I was actually on my way to the Temple," He remarks a little more bitterly than intended, disentangling himself from Sylenna's embrace as gently and elegantly as he can.

Illidan's current lover doesn't appear to mind his sour mood, yet even when it's clear as the sky above how uncomfortable he's starting to get with her attentions, Sylenna still pulls him down once again a moment later, kissing him fully and eagerly. Out of sheer modesty, he manages not to flinch back or growl in annoyance, but Illidan can't keep his breath from hitching when something else captures his attention, through the corner of his half-lidded eyes. Sadly, Sylenna seems to be taking that as a cue to kiss him more deeply, a hum of approval escaping her as a dark-skinned arm travels half teasingly to encircle his waist, attempting to pull him closer.

He's in a very bad position to deal with Sylenna's usual insecurities and needs, but for some reason, he finally obliges and kisses her back—if very briefly—straightening and keeping her at arm's length afterwards. A few meters ahead, his brother looks hesitant of stepping into what clearly looks like a heated discussion between Tyrande and Jarod Shadowsong's sister, their voices joining onto the copious amount of idle chattering between groups of families and Sisters.

However, no matter how crowded Tel'anor outskirts are, Illidan can see Mylenne just as easily and just as clearly as the night sky above—the very Moon appearing to be signaling him in her direction, bright moonlight falling upon her small figure as if the Goddess had just come down from the heavens to wrap her in Her arms.

How does she really do it—looking like an embodiment of pure beauty, even in her worst of states? And most of all, how Mylenne always manages to draw him to her whenever she comes to be around?

As if his feet suddenly found a life of its own, Illidan finds himself slowly walking towards her, past Malfurion and Sylenna, even across Tyrande and Shadowsong's sister still arguing heatedly; the sight of a miserable Mylenne nearly about to burst into tears, all that his eyes can see. It's thanks to her downcast state that Illidan can figure out what just happened right away, opting not to ask about it as he kneels beside her, brushing a messy violet braid away from her shoulder, leaving it to fall down her back.

Her silver eyes are glossy, yet bright and big as two beautiful moons as they find his face, her lower lip trembling ever so slightly. Out of courtesy, Illidan searches his pockets, giving her a handkerchief. "If it helps, you never struck me as a Priestess either way. Remember when we first met? You seemed so… far away from your fellow Sisters," All alone and left to your own devices, hiding what you always had been from everyone else, is the rest of his sentence, although he keeps that to himself. "Years later, you still are, in some way. But Mylie, both of us know you never belonged to the Temple," Instead he says softly, resting a hand on her bare knee.

Mylenne can't hold his gaze for much longer as some tears fall down her cheeks after a blink, her long lashes getting wet. "I know," She whispers back, not appearing to find her voice properly.

"You always hated being in that place, now you got rid of it. Why are you crying, then?" He genuinely wonders, tilting his head in curiosity. "Mylie, you have everything within reach to become anything you want, to walk any path you may fancy. You're a beautiful woman, skilled and good in many arts, with a privileged name even. We both know if, should you want it, you can settle on Eldre'Thalas and leave every single shit happening in here behind." A brief frown crosses Illidan's face, hoping she wouldn't really consider that particular idea.

"I know," She repeats, "And you're right. I suppose sometimes I forget the small blessings I have," A slight shrug follows, brushing the back of his hand in an unconscious manner, "I'm more aware than what I tend to show of how privileged I am. I have a name, I'm healthy, wealthy, I even have a good bunch of wonderful friends such as you. I'm also inclined to believe I'm considerably fair for a woman as well," A fleeting look of complicity crosses her silver gaze, yet Illidan knows it's not the proper time to make a remark on that, "But then… what's the point of all that, honestly? If nothing I have is truly mine,"

He's ready to say something back and his mouth slightly opens to do so, but with Mylenne's last words, Illidan suddenly feels lost for his own—whatever answer he had, dying on his lips within the next second. What can he possibly say, after all?

A silent moment goes by, Mylenne's weeping gaze glancing past his shoulder, "Have I ever told you why I like to sing?" She says softly, not looking at him when he shakes his head in reply. "Because only when I sing it's when someone hears my voice. Downstage, though… it seems nobody cares to hear what I have to say,"

Out of curiosity rather than anything else, Illidan follows her gaze, finding Tyrande and Shadowsong's sister still engaged in that never-ending argue. "You can already see for yourself, you only need to take a look at them," There's an evident bitterness in Mylenne's voice, the reason of the Priestesses' discussion dawning on him easily enough without even needing to hear what they're saying. "Is it always going to be like this? I tire of being handled as if a stupid ragdoll, Illidan. I tire of not having a voice in what I really want for my life…"

His lips purse for a moment, understanding wholeheartedly what she means, "And what do you really want?" Illidan asks her then, prompting her attention back to him.

"I want to make choices of my own, to make mistakes and learn from them," Mylenne speaks as if she had just told the same thing many times over—tiredly, near annoyingly—but he listens intently anyways, "I want to be the only one who gets to decide who I really want to be, or which path I want to take in my life. Is that really too hard to understand?"

He shakes his head once again in negative. "Sorry, I'm rephrasing it. What you really want right now?" As it's been happening for the entire course of the evening, it merely takes a fleeting glance from her part to her frostsaber far up ahead for Illidan to get it, "Sounds good, let's get out of here, then!" With an eager clap of his hands, he straightens right away, outstretching a hand for Mylenne to help her do the same, "Weather's nice tonight; we can take a ride very far away from here and don't look back… if you want me around, that is,"

Luckily, his sudden hesitation gets brushed away as a sheepish smile crosses Mylenne's lips. "Yeah, I'd very much like that," She admits, her miserable mood definitely looking like improving, "But what about—?"

He cuts off whatever attempt of a protest with placing an index finger over her lilac lips. "I also get to make a choice, you know?" Illidan remarks with a quirk of an eyebrow, unable to keep himself from brushing off a rebel tear falling down her cheeks, ever so delicately, "Has anyone ever tell you how gorgeous your eyes are? Mostly when you scowl so ferociously at a compliment?" A teasing smirk crosses his lips a moment later, feeling content with merely making her smile. "Come on; let's have a ride now, just the two of us… and Rak, of course,"

With an apparent newfound energy, she eagerly takes the lead, their hands linked tightly as they meet Rak'shareh under the nearest tree, the beast stretching her paws lazily in a sort of greeting. However, they don't get that far before someone else storms their way to them.

"Mylenne! Wha—where are you going?" Shadowsong's sister barks at her, looking true to her usual temper, sharp silver eyes glaring heatedly, "We're having a situation in here, and you're just leaving me to deal with Tyrande and Alathea on my own?" Illidan can't really help it with groaning in annoyance, hopping in on Rak'shareh's saddle without bothering to spare a single glance the Priestess' way. "What's—how is it that he can mount Rak!?"

Fortunately, Mylenne's resolve seems already set, patting his knee in a signal to give her some space before mounting as well, taking the front, "And did you ever ask for my opinion in that situation you're dealing with, Maiev?" She replies coldly, jaw visibly clenching as she finally stares back at her Sentinel friend, "In any case, he did," She adds with a thumb pointing to her back and in Illidan's general direction, "I'll leave you to think about it. Ishnu-alah."

Illidan doesn't even try hiding the utterly pleased smile that clings to his face when Maiev gapes at her friend, near slack-mouthed, looking as if she'd just been punched straight in the nose, and can't help it as well with giving her a mocking once-over before taking their leave.

As they head out Tel'anor, he can certainly feel the Priestess' gaze on his back—definitely like trying to throw daggers with her eyes only—but his smile never falters, savoring it like a victory. "Where are we heading, then?" He wonders nonchalantly, resting his chin on the top of Mylenne's violet mane.

"Mmh, I'm thinking, Azsuna?" She merely shrugs, not sounding like genuinely caring for a real destination, looking more than willing to let Rak'shareh set their course as she leans her weight against his chest. "I know I don't say this as often as I should, but… I'm so grateful to have such an incredible friend as you in my life. You're a wonderful man, Illidan."

He snorts in reply. "I know that," He points out in a playful tone, close to her lavender ear.

"Aaaaand with an insufferable ego bigger than my Manor, but nobody's perfect, right?"


A-N: Once again, I'm truuuuuuuuuly sorry for bringing up another insufferably long chapter T_T But this came up faster than the last one, right? Right!? (Please, don't kill me! ._.)
Oh, and you can find Illidan's full dream sequence on Starsurge - Dreams of Azure: dear Lie.