DISCLAIMER
The following story contains references to various content from the game World of Warcraft, owned by Blizzard Entertainment. We claim credit for the story, but not anything in the story that originally belonged to Blizzard Entertainment.
Rated M for strong language.
Trigger warning: contains depictions of suicide.
"The poor bastard took a direct hit, leg came clean off."
"The healers couldn't save it?"
"Healers couldn't do shit, I heard he's already on his way home."
"Wife'll be happy to see him at least."
"Maybe, but you know how orcs are."
"True." The goblin took a drink from his beer, shaking his head. "Poor bastard."
Galvur rolled his eyes, continuing past the conversing pair as he strolled through Lor'danel in his easy, relaxed gait.
It felt… strange to be here. The night elven forests were so alive in every corner, with wildlife and plants and wildlife in plants, that he found himself missing the Undercity, just because he felt so hideously out of place here. The soldiers sitting around campfires were chatting, laughing, drinking, some of them were even kissing, while he walked through uneasily. This wasn't a place for a corpse like him.
"Oh, there he is. Hey, hey you! Uh, what's your name… Galbur, right?"
The forsaken stopped, sighing to himself and looking around until he saw a small group looking at him - a blood elf, troll and an orc. "Galvur."
"That's what I said. Hey, c'mere a sec."
Galvur shrugged, not having anything better to do, and walked over, lowering himself to sit on the grass beside the troll.
"What's a bony little cunt like you doing, moping around the camp and bumming everyone out, huh? I mean c'mon, I saw you all around Darkshore killing those Alliance pricks left and right, you were amazing!" The blood elf was grinning ear to ear as he took another swig from his bottle of wine and started to lean over to offer some, before he seemed to think better of it and awkwardly sat back down.
Galvur raised a brow, not so much at the failed gesture as at the enthusiasm the man displayed after such a bloody fight. "What was I supposed to do, leave?"
"Well no, but c'mon, where's your sense of pride? Really, it was incredible." Another swig. Galvur wondered how many other bottles he'd already emptied. "That last bit where you teleported onto that ship and killed that one bitch, the one with the arrows, and then just blinked back onto the shore and kept going? It was awesome! I mean, not that it seemed that hard or anything, she was so inaccurate with those things I don't think she could've hit the water if she'd tried!" He took another swig and cackled uproariously.
"Have you no respect for the enemy, Fel?" That was the orc, her slanted eyebrows narrowing angrily.
"Don't call me that." Another swig. "But not this enemy, nope! Alliance has it coming." He went to take another swig, only to discover the bottle was empty. He scowled and set it on the ground, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "
Galvur spoke up, finding himself rapidly tiring of the blood elf's tirade. "You're Galara, aren't you?"
The orc nodded, shifting in place to rest her chin on one knee, as said blood elf stood up and walked away. "Mhm. Galara Axespite. It's my pleasure, archmage." She smiled somewhat hesitantly, but respectfully, and extended a hand.
"Galvur's fine." The forsaken accepted the handshake, choosing not to smile back - his jaw was entirely bone by now, no smile looked good on him anymore. "I saw you on the field, you fought well."
She smiled again, more genuinely this time, and nodded gratefully. Her asymmetrical face covered with tattoos and red war paint suited a smile surprisingly well. "Thank you, sir. I tried my best."
"No sir is necessary, I have no authority over you."
"Don't let her trick you, Galvur. She wouldn't be here if she had a choice." The blood elf was back, holding another bottle.
"You know damn well that isn't what I fucking said, Fel!" Galara's expression switched on a whim, glaring at him with all the heat of Durotar in her eyes.
"I said not to call me that!" The elf yelled back, his hand visibly clenching around his bottle.
"Then what is your name?"
'Fel' glanced back over at Galvur, rapidly simmering down. "Felaris." His frown slowly faded, holding his bottle more loosely now. "Felaris Nimbleforce."
"Felaris, then. Not too hard a name, no reason to shorten it when he doesn't want you to right?" A quick glance at the offending orc seemed to get the message across, although her lips were still a thin, frustrated line.
"Yeah, exactly. But hey, Galvur, get a load of this, you won't believe it. Galara here, the strong proud orcish warrior, isn't actually very much of a warrior after all. She told me, herself, just a few minutes ago, to my face, that she didn't see the purpose in pushing so far into tree elven land besides pointless aggression. Get a load of that!"
"Tell me what part of that sentence made you think that I wouldn't be here if I had a choice."
"Ok fine, so maybe I exaggerated a little bit, who cares." He turned his attention away from the conversation for a brief moment to focus it on his wine instead, twisting and yanking off the cork and immediately taking a quick swig. "Ahh… that's better. Anyway, you're still clearly not getting the point of this war."
"Enlighten me." Galara's face was no longer glaring, but she still didn't seem very impressed.
"Well, you said that you didn't see why we're here besides pointless aggression, right? But that's just it! Aggression is the point! Galvur, back me up on this. How aggressive were the Alliance towards you lot when you tried to join, hm?"
Galvur's eyes would probably have been twitching if he were still alive. "I don't think you know what you're talking about, Felaris."
"Sure I do! I read a book about it once. You sent over emissaries and they sent back exterminators."
"No, actually, they didn't." The archmage's words were spoken slowly, with as much patience as he could summon. "They killed the emissaries, but they didn't 'exterminate' us. What was the name of that book you read, exactly?"
"Oh I don't know, I just skimmed it."
"Ha!" Galara's booming laugh dominated the conversation immediately, the orc grinning around her tusks. "He was right about you Felaris, you don't have any idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, shut up." Felaris didn't seem quite so amused. "Hey, you, how come you haven't said anything?"
"I talk when I 'af sometin' worth sayin'." It was the first time the troll had spoken up, Galvur realized. Her accent was a lot thicker than either Galara's or Felaris' were, her bright eyes staring at the elf like twin amethysts. "Ya should try et."
Felaris scowled, taking another swig and standing from the campfire. "Whatever. If you don't want to kill Alliance, why the fuck are you here anyway?" He took one last swig, glaring at the two women bitterly before walking away, muttering something under his breath. Galvur watched him go, surprisingly happy to be rid of the man.
"I'm sorry about him, I have no idea what his problem is."
Galvur raised an eyebrow again. "Why are you apologizing? They were his words, not your's." The orc shrugged, not seeming to have a response to that. "Although I am curious what you would say your opinion is on what we're doing?"
She sighed and glanced at the troll, who remained silent. "I just think that aggression for the sake of it isn't the way of the Horde. Ashenvale has an enormous supply of wood that we don't have in Durotar or the Barrens, and the night elves have been stingy in allowing anyone to log it, so our best option was to take it by force, that makes sense. But…" Galara paused for a moment, looking around her at the night elven town they sat within. "Why are we here? Pushing so far into Darkshore, all the way to Teldrassil, and forcing them all out of their home?" She shifted in place again, crossing her legs underneath her and resting her elbows on her legs, staring into the flickering embers of their fire. "It doesn't sit well with me."
"De spirits 'af been troubled. Dey seem… 'esitant." The troll woman reached out, putting her hands on either side of the whimpering fire. "Et desturbs me."
Galvur pursed his lips, nodding silently. "I understand the logic, if not the sentiment. Sylvanas gave us a home. She protected us when nobody else wanted to give us a chance." He turned his head to stare out into the lands of Darkshore, where the Banshee Queen likely roamed. "I have faith in her."
Galara nodded in turn, bringing one hand up to fiddle with one of her piercings. "I get that. I'm definitely not going to defect, sir." Her eyes flickered up to meet his, seeming suddenly panicked at the thought.
"Again, no sir is necessary, and I didn't think that at all." Galvur risked a smile, which seemed to put her at ease.
"I appreciate it, s– I mean… Galvur. May I call you that?"
The undead realized he was still smiling, not on purpose anymore. "Yes, Galvur is fine."
"Galvur, then." Galara grunted as she folded her legs out from underneath her, releasing a guttural groan as she stood and stretched her stiff muscles. "Well then, Galvur, it was nice to meet you. I think I may head to bed for the night though, since the fire seems well and truly dead." It did seem dead, even more dead than he was, with only the faintest of glows cracking through the burned wood. "Tirezi, are you coming?"
"I am, yes." The troll woman stood as well, offering a hand to the archmage, who graciously accepted as she helped the bony man to his feet. "'Af a good night, Galvur." It was mildly difficult to understand her with such a thick accent, but he liked it. He nodded familiarly to them as they walked away, leaving him standing alone by the suffering fire.
Suddenly, he found himself alone with his thoughts. Most other soldiers had gone to sleep or were just about to, the only ones left standing around being deathguards. Forsaken were always left to stand watch at night, an important task which shouldn't be interrupted. Galvur sat back down by the fire, now only embers and a line of wispy smoke. Silence fell over Lor'danel, leaving the archmage to wait until morning. Wordlessly, thoughtlessly. He'd forgotten to bring any books, after all.
Sylvanas hadn't had a peaceful moment to sit and think for a long time. At least, one where she wasn't planning for the future. The peaceful gloom of Darkshore reminded her of home, both homes she had known in her extensive life and prolonged unlife. As she sat upon a branch, staring out at the moon and the dark sea, and Teldrassil dominating the skyline, she felt nothing. It was an empty sight to her, only of passing interest to her heart. She felt her thoughts slipping into idle daydreams of happier times.
"My lady!" Sylvanas was thrown back to reality as she heard a voice below her, one she recognized in an instant. Soon she pushed off the branch and fell to the forest floor, nearly silent as she landed next to Nathanos. "All preparations are complete, my lady. The val'kyr is standing by for your command."
"Good." Without another word, the Warchief turned and walked with purpose eastward.
Nathanos followed behind her, his face expressionless and eyes kept forward. "I hope your solitude was pleasant."
"It was quiet. That is all it needed to be."
"Of course." The only sound besides their hollow voices was the gentle footfalls of their boots against leaves. "Perhaps you might grant your loyal champion time off as well to accompany you?"
Sylvanas could only roll her eyes. The urge to smile flickered for a brief moment before dying pitifully. "You may have time to yourself when this war is won." Her tone had lightened, a strange ease settling over her, and one that she was painfully familiar with.
"As you wish, my lady. Simply keep the lash firm in hand, yes?"
"Continue your remarks and you'll wish it were so~."
"Oh, I always do–"
"Silence." Her ease faded in an instant, replaced by cold calculation.
They had arrived at a clearing in the trees. In a pit dug in the centre was a pile of bodies, some half-rotten, others fresh. All elves. Flanking either side were two dark rangers, Anya and Denasya, two of Sylvanas's most trusted servants. Floating above was a cold being, with wings as wide as the clearing. Brynja, one of the four Val'kyr under Sylvanas's command, awaited the word from her queen to begin.
A single nod was all the order she needed. As the moon reached its apex, Brynja's ritual started. Icy mist fell from her hands, spreading over the bodies of the kaldorei. "Rise, fallen warriors. Breathe deep of the new life granted to you." Her voice carried darkness and promises of eternity.
A cold howling wind blew through the forest, forcing leaves to rustle as trees cried out against the horror. The mist seeped into each body, into their hearts, minds, and what remained of their souls. Eyes, forced closed from death, opened once again. Their familiar silver glow was gone, replaced entirely by burning red orbs, confused and hate-filled.
Each body writhed as control returned to cold bones and stiff muscle, spurred by foul magics. "Arise, fallen ones! Arise for your Queen and celebrate your second chance! Your second life and second purpose. Arise!"
As the fallen kaldorei found their footing on unfeeling legs, Sylvanas stepped closer to the pit, staring down at them with understanding, empathy. Pity. "Sentinels, you fought for your honor, for your homeland, and for your people." The crowd's eyes locked onto the Banshee Queen, a mixture of shock, malice, and fear on every face. Anya and Denasya readied their bows, arrows nocked and at the ready.
Sylvanas matched their stares with her own. Her voice grew impassioned, banshee magics carrying it farther through the darkened, empty woods. "Your sacrifice has seen your people to safety. By all rights you have earned your rest, but I offer something great–"
A shrill scream pierced the air as one sentinel leapt at the warchief, fury on her features. It was silenced by an arrow piercing straight through her heart, immediately followed by a second in her skull. There was only quiet as the elf died her second death, collapsing to the ground in a heap and skidding to a halt in the dirt, limp and lifeless once again.
"...Your sister made her decision. Her rest shall continue for eternity." Anya lowered her bow, her own sister Denasya following the motion.
Said sister was the next to speak. "You will all have the chance to choose for yourselves." Silence pervaded the clearing, not a single shift or movement daring to disturb the night. Even the winds had stilled, seemingly to allow the sentinels to think.
This was the moment to truly convince them. Not all, but enough to make it worth it. Sylvanas broke the silence. "I offer the chance for a second life. A new people and a new purpose. If you accept, you need only carry yourselves higher to stand with us. Your place will be yours to take."
Nathanos stepped forward next to his warchief, arms clasped behind his back as he scanned the faces of their potential allies. It took no effort to tell that many would sit in the pit until their nightmare ended. Disdain filled him at the thought, only to be quickly buried as the first sentinel stepped forward.
She climbed the edge of the hole they'd been left in to rot, scaling the edge to stand up, taller than any other. A deep, cold breath filled her lungs, but she felt nothing. Just emptiness, and yet it intrigued her. Sylvanas turned her gaze upon the new Forsaken, a smile finally forming. "What is your name?"
"...Kaedya."
"Your choice was wise, Kaedya."
They both turned to the pit, watching as more began to follow her example. Men and women choosing a new life. Choosing undeath of their own volition. However, many more did not walk. Most curled up in a ball, awaiting their true end, or simply sobbed where they stood. Denasya winced almost imperceptibly to herself as she watched one of the men pull out the knife from his belt and plunge it into his neck with a shaking hand, and collapsed back into the freshly disturbed dirt.
"Anya, Denasya, Nathanos." The rangers' attention went to their queen immediately. "Make preparations for a burial." The three nodded and busied themselves immediately, as Sylvanas herself departed into the forest again.
The wind howled through the empty, destroyed buildings of Auberdine, as if the people that died here in the cataclysm were still wailing their fury.
Saurfang took a deep breath of the crisp night air, gazing at the desolation around him. It had been almost entirely overtaken by nature, weeds and trees and bushes and flowers creeping from every available patch of dirt. Some of it had been disturbed from a few soldiers re-entering the place during the fighting for cover or refuge, but the night elves had almost entirely avoided the ruined town.
"I've heard some spirits truly do still linger here," commented Sylvanas, as she took a seat on a fallen wooden support.
"Spirits linger everywhere," he replied.
"A bleak outlook indeed, High Overlord."
The orc sighed and glanced towards Teldrassil, the tree still silently dominating the horizon. "How many do you think remained in Darnassus?"
"Not enough. The Dark Rangers can weed them out, and the tree will be our's."
"The tree is already our's." There was no response to that. "How close is their fleet to the Exodar?"
"Too close for us to do anything about. How many casualties?"
"Too many."
"That's not a number, Saurfang."
"Two thousand, six hundred, and ninety-four."
"Wounded?"
"About the same half again."
Sylvanas sat in silence for a long moment, gazing at the massive town hall in the centre of what was once Auberdine, now entirely collapsed. "Will we be able to take the Exodar?"
Saurfang sighed. "Unlikely. The draenei and night elven armies will be fortified on the island. Perhaps it would be easier if there was a land route, but with only ships, they'll be prepared. We would take heavy losses."
The Warchief of the Horde muttered something under her breath. "How many other Alliance towns or forts are there on Kalimdor?"
"Two dozen, give or take. Only five could be well defended, the others are all civilians."
"Let them evacuate, the Alliance can have them."
"You don't plan to slaughter them again like in Astranaar?"
The pause before Sylvanas answered felt like it lasted weeks. "That was necessary."
"You consider genocide necessary?!" Saurfang turned around to look at her, his fist clenched by his side. "They were innocents!"
"If they were allowed to flee they would have warned the night elven forces."
"They were warned anyway!"
"And look how many casualties we sustained because of that. Would you truly save an enemy town and condemn hundreds more of our own men and women to die?"
"They signed up to die." The emotionlessness in the undead elf's voice infuriated him almost as much as her words, but not near as much as her actions.
"They signed up to fight," the banshee corrected. "Very few truly wish for death, war kills them all anyway. You, of all men, should know that."
"War didn't kill them, you killed them."
"Yes, and I will do it again if it ensures victory."
Saurfang narrowed his eyes as the Banshee Queen stared back at him, her expression unreadable and her glowing red eyes unknowable.
He had no idea how long they remained like that before Sylvanas stood. "Have the Alliance towns evacuated and any of their forts destroyed. Unless you take issue with that as well?" The elf turned on her heel, not waiting for a response as she walked back into the forest, before stopping at the edge of Auberdine and turning back to look at the orc, a smirk seeming to play at her lips.
"For the Horde, of course."
