CHAPTER TWO: KALDOREI SECRETS
His journey, his desire for youth, took him deep into Ashenvale, guided by one of its mysterious protectors. It was said that the Night Elves had the secret of immortality, one that even the Quel'dorei, the High Elves, did not possess in full, in fact being the original authors. And he had come seeking it, hoping for it to become bestowed upon him, perhaps a mere human to their eyes, but one afire with a need that surely exceeded all others.
To his frustration, he had spoken to many denizens, learned much, but still the true answers seemed to elude him. However, he had asked a priestess, who had spoken of the druids, who were able to obtain answers to such deep things. The Night Elves had their solution it was true – once – but it was a solution that only the Night Elves could have, and even that was no longer. The Night Elves themselves had lost their immortality, or so they believed, and this had struck Andregas a very deep blow, although not removing all hope.
He had followed the path she had given, until he found a druid. The druid, smiling, apparently at ease with the fate of Night Elves, also did not seem perturbed by the strange being that accosted it angrily. Instead, the druid provided what he promised, a path, and an assurance that a guide would find him.
Andregas followed the path until this occurred.
A creature that appeared to his eyes like a beautiful young woman almost, although the skull was surmounted and slightly altered by deer-like horns, and the skin, would should have been bare and shamelessly naked, seemed more pelt-like, although it conformed to feminine curves. As if the pelt clothed her in a way that didn't make sense, and he wondered at what god or goddess had seen fit to protect the vanity of the magical creature, or if it was some spell they themselves weaved – a craft of their kind.
And below that, was where the humanity ended, and she became some type of deer, he supposed. Such magical creatures were not unheard of, perhaps there was some ancient commonality that explained it, but even in Dalaran he did not remember learning it.
He found his magics faltered a little around her, and he had difficulty keeping the trail.
"You're a little confused, aren't you, human?" she said with bright eyes.
He nodded sadly. "A little mad, probably," he admitted.
"Ah. A problem with sorcerors I'm told. But there is no ailment, especially of the mind, that cannot be straightened and refreshed in our forests. It is a place of healing, the place where Cenarius walked, and where Malfurion his student walks still."
"And how likely am I to see this Malfurion?"
"Not likely," she admitted in turn. "But his work, you may. You may be one with it, and in so doing, you will have seen him and he will have seen you."
Mystifying, but certainly intriguing.
They stopped after a short while, as he kept pace with the unflagging fawn, trying not to curse or feel foolish tripping over his robes. She simply halted suddenly and without warning, turning toward him, and it was a remarkable feat that he did not bump into her.
"We are here. The forests are everywhere, but you must find the places where you are there, too. This is yours."
It seemed tangled over, thicketed in a way you could not imagine until seeing with your own eyes, as if some manner of witch-craft had turned the laws of growth into something monstrous and upside-down.
"How do you know this?" he asked.
"It is my job," she said, in an oddly human manner. "Go within. You'll find what you seek. I shall be here when you return, to guide you home."
She dipped suddenly in an odd bow. "May the dream of Cenarius find you."
And then, like an enchantment, she bounded off into the wood and was gone, his mind stirring, confused trying to separate her from the animal.
(*)
There were several ancient things here. He could sense it. Eyes.
And even deeper – there was a light, not of the sky or any natural source – but one of the mind, which he instantly recognised, shocking him with its familiarity in an unfamiliar way. A mind where no mind should be. Inside his own.
He followed the silent ushering, and discovered it waiting for him. The tree-like sentinel moved and twisted, espying him as he approached, of course knowing exactly where and when he was. He came before it and stared up at the vast being, instantly struck, questions in his mind, but the power of the moment robbed him of the speech, knowing his words were being stolen even before he spoke them.
Responding to this knowledge, the being he recognised as an Ancient of the Night Elves (the relationship not being clear to him), spoke, answering not just his thoughts, but his heart.
"I have no wisdom to offer," the ancient guardian said, groaning through somewhere deep in its trunk, whistling through whorled wood. "But only intuition, sensory knowledge, intelligence. All these things you require for sorcery, not things of the past."
It paused as if ruminating, and still Andregas said nothing, because nothing was demanded of him.
"See these roots? I never know where they go. But I know that they do grow, and that where they grow they feed me. This is like the mind, for I am a mind. All that I am, is simply the bark in which my thoughts take form."
Andregas had seen one of the other ancients, seemingly similar, staring at him with golden, deep eyes that glowed with the moon, but it had said nothing to him that was not in that gaze. He did not understand why this one was different from that one. Perhaps it was not, but merely a lost member of its kind. But it seemed willing to speak to him, and that alone made it strange and interesting.
"Can you help me?" Andregas asked finally, hearing a silence into which he must speak. "I seek the solution of the Night Elves in curing my condition."
"Your condition?"
"Yes. My condition is that I will die, and I cannot prevent it."
"Why is it that you're looking for a cure to death, but not a cure to madness first?"
He didn't know the answer to that. Probably because he'd die sooner than losing his mind. There was another silence, vast and deep, but still he could feel it in his mind. Not just words, but the sum of its being, like a mass, as if it truly had spread its roots, immaterially, into the foment of his brain. It was as if he was becoming more foolish, because the act of intellect was being bypassed, yet he knew it was important.
"I shall be your teacher. I am that which is ancient of knowledge, for I am older than the stars, in my eyes. I am ancient, yet I am ever newborn. Listen," It told him.
And Andregas spent many days, weeks, there – longer than he could count. And yet he never grew hungry, nor thirsted.
