Everything hurts and she is exhausted.
Jaina needs Sylvanas's help for everything and it rankles her to the very core. She's always been fiercely independent; even her recovery from the mana bomb had been a mostly private affair. Now, she can do virtually nothing alone...except cry. She indulged the urge only once since she woke, while Sylvanas had gone hunting, and it served no purpose but to dehydrate her. There was no catharsis; the nagging pain and emptiness weren't eased by her tears. The only thing gleaned was deep disappointment in herself that she'd even let the tears fall.
The sun peeks through the trees, beams of sunlight almost made solid by the curling smoke of their fire. Jaina does not want to move. Her legs and back are stiff and sore from walking without one half of her body helping to balance her stride. Her right shoulder throbs from the reduction, and her left aches from repeatedly catching her weight on her staff to keep from falling. Sleeping on the cold, hard ground didn't help matters. She pushes herself up with a pained groan, and shoves the hair loosened from her braid back out of her face.
"I lied yesterday." Jaina tips her head side to side, trying to stretch out the stiff muscles in her neck. Yawning, she raises up to her knees and shuffles a few feet closer to the fire. "I do want to die. Kill me, raise me. This is misery."
There's no response. Jaina looks around the cluster of trees where they made camp. No Sylvanas and no Deathwhisper. Her stomach drops. Has Sylvanas abandoned her, so insulted by her begged request that she's blown the horn and pulled her troops? Is Jaina just another Broken Shore? If so, she will get her wish and die out here; she can't even get her hair out of her face much less build a fire or walk an unknown distance to where there might be people. She closes her eyes and reaches to her neck to rub the surface of the anchor, the motion slow and smooth to calm her racing thoughts.
She jumps at the thump of the gutted rabbit Sylvanas tosses next to the fire.
"I'd never believe that someone your age would still have a fafa if I didn't see it with my own eyes." Sylvanas's smirk is out in full force.
Jaina's angered at the relief that surges through her at the mocking tone, the emotional whiplash that this woman causes her is as fatiguing as trudging through the snow.
"What are you talking about? What is a…." she trails off, momentarily distracted by the gutted animal next to her. "Wait, that… is not a rabbit."
"I never said it was." Sylvanas sets her bow against a tree and picks up the animal by its back legs.
"Does it have hands?!" Jaina can't keep the revulsion from her voice as she leans forward to get a closer look. She jumps again when Sylvanas stifles what might be a laugh.
"It seems to. Strange little creatures. They seem to have a death wish as well. I think you could convince them to jump right onto the fire to cook themselves for your breakfast."
Sylvanas butchers the animal with her dagger and threads it onto a sharpened stick. Jaina reaches out to take it from her and hold it over the fire. She is pleased that she can be somewhat useful, that this uneasy partnership is at least a 90/10 split. The fat from the animal pops and crackles down onto the wood of the fire, making the flames jump up and smoke. Her stomach grumbles; she hunches down, embarrassed both by the noise and by Sylvanas's snort of laughter.
"If you gave it what it wanted more regularly, it wouldn't do that." Sylvanas isn't looking at her, instead going through her quiver to count the arrows within.
"It's not like I can just go and get it something whenever it wants." Jaina retorts, turning the cooking meat to the other side to finish. Hunting seems to make Sylvanas more amiable than normal. She tips her head up to look at the elf. "What were you talking about earlier? A woman my age wouldn't have a what?"
Red eyes meet hers in amusement, just shy of mocking. If Jaina didn't know better, she would say their glow was almost warm. Sylvanas, practically cordial, is something she's never experienced, and honestly, never thought possible. "A fafa. Like…" Sylvanas pauses a moment, searching, "I don't know what you call them in common. Elven children all have them. Sometimes it's a false nipple, or a doll, or a blanket. When they're upset or in need of comfort, they hold them, or whatever. Most elves call them fafas from the little ones' pronunciation of surfal. Veeresa was hopeless without hers-a blanket my mother had made her. When she was small, she would put it to her nose while she sucked her thumb."
Jaina watches as the glow of her red eyes grows distant. "She's carried it for centuries. The last time I saw it, not too long ago, it was just a scrap of silk she kept tucked in her belt pouch."
"When was that?" Jaina can't stop herself, fully entranced by the tale. Vereesa rarely ever talked about her childhood. Jaina tries to imagine her friend, a tow-headed toddler, curled in her older sister's lap. The soft glow immediately leaves Sylvanas's eyes and when she looks at Jaina, she's the Banshee Queen again.
"At Garrosh's trial." Her response is clipped and she rises abruptly, strapping her quiver to her back and grabbing her bow. "Are you ready?"
Whiplash again. Jaina is confused more by the thread of hurt that runs through her than she is by Sylvanas's sudden shift in mood. For a moment, Jaina had forgotten she was talking to the Warchief of the Horde, to the Banshee Queen, to her sworn enemy. She'd let down her guard around the most dangerous woman in Azeroth. Two days of pain and no magic and Jaina is ready to swap secrets like a teenager at a sleepover, desperate for any kind of connection. Next thing, they'll be braiding each others' hair. Oh shit, no.
"Almost?" Jaina mutters. She does not want to ask for anything else, but she cannot go another day with her hair in her face. "Co-...could you…" She ducks and flips her head to flick her hair out of her face. Sylvanas looks at her blankly.
She can feel the heat flood her cheeks, whether from embarrassment or shame, she doesn't know. She carefully places the stick with her breakfast between her knees and pushes her hair back with her hand. "I can't take another day like this, I'm sorry."
Jaina watches it click and the smirk rise to the banshee's lips. She just sighs. Sylvanas is nothing if not insufferable. Whatever connection she had made before is lost between them. "You can be smug later. For now, I have a comb, so could you cut the thread first?"
Sylvanas says nothing, just drops to a knee next to her. She then pulls that wicked dagger from her belt and takes the end of Jaina's ragged braid in her hand. With surprising care, she uses the tip of the dagger to cut the thread holding the plait together. Jaina drags her fingers through the braid to separate it, digs in the pouch on her belt for her comb, then pulls it through her hair as best she can. Sylvanas watches silently, arms resting on her thigh, toying with the dagger in one hand.
"At this rate, you should just use that blade and cut this all off. I can't manage it alone." Frustration and impatience cloud her words as the comb snags on a tangle and she drops it for the third time. She wants to just throw the comb, stomp her feet, and scream and it must be evident on her face because the corners of Sylvanas's mouth tug upwards.
"That would be a great loss." Sylvanas sheathes her dagger and holds her hand out for the comb. "May I?" Jaina, befuddled by what is possibly a compliment, just nods dumbly.
She hands it over, then sits still as Sylvanas works the comb through her hair. It is strangely intimate, just as Jaina feared, but Sylvanas isn't mocking her to distance them. She simply returns the comb and quickly re-braids her hair, pulling all the loose pieces back into the plait. Jaina hands her the small spool of thread and needle that are always tucked in with the comb. The elf deftly stitches the end of the braid tight enough to hold for the day and hands everything back to her.
"Alright, let's go."
Jaina holds her hand out for her staff, still pressing the stick between her knees. She needs to check again for the calling from Solas. She thought she'd have met him again when she slept last night, but her pockets of sleep were dreamless. Sylvanas had woken her every couple hours to have her warm by the fire. She hopes they are closer, that they can get there before nightfall.
When it is in her hand, she closes her eyes and reaches deep inside herself to the place that usually swirls with bright light. Her focus is singular now; in Azeroth she could let her thoughts flit as she casted, this magic is different. It dances just out of her reach, like words caught on the tip of her tongue. She can see Solas's call through the darker swirls, a trail of flickering yellow light, like fireflies moving in the direction they need to go.
She collects the two things she can manage and leaves the rest for Sylvanas to grab and they both strike out into the snow.
s§s
Travelling today was far easier than yesterday. Once they made their way out of the valley and onto the path Solas had highlighted, they made up for lost time. Sylvanas didn't need to path-break and Jaina didn't rely as much on her staff because the snow where they're walking was worn away by footprints of the people who arrived before them.
Their easier passage doesn't mean she's still not thoroughly drained. Her shoulder has mostly stopped aching, but the throbbing in her wrist hasn't changed much. When jarred, it still roils her stomach and leaves a faint sense of nausea for hours. The break was bad; Jaina isn't sure if she'll regain full motion once it heals. Hopefully there will be healers where they're headed.
"I can see it." Sylvanas's voice is low, called back over her shoulder from her position further up on the trail. The incline has increased dramatically, so Jaina leans harder on her staff. "We're almost there."
She's not prepared for what appears in front of her when she reaches the crest of the hill. Between its massive bridge spanning cliffs and towering stone walls, the fortress makes up the peak of the neighboring mountain. "Tides, that is impressive."
"It reeks of their magic." Sylvanas wrinkles her nose and looks over at Jaina, "Can you feel it?"
Jaina stops to take inventory. Yes, she can feel it. It's not the snowbright, sharp tang of arcane that she's used to, instead it's darker, feral, but not threatening. She wants to run her fingers through it, curious to see if the shadows are as smooth as they look. "Yes, I can. I can't touch it, though I want to."
When she opens her eyes, she sees Sylvanas looking at her, face clouded and brooding.
"What?" As if she cares why Sylvanas Windrunner is staring daggers at her. Jaina doesn't fear her anymore, not after the past two days. Sylvanas is too pragmatic, and her penchant for self-preservation render her relatively predictable as well. As long as Jaina is useful, she's safe… at least she hopes.
The storm drops off of Sylvanas's fine features at her question, and instead she meets Jaina's eyes with a smirk and raised eyebrow. As the elf strides away, Jaina huffs and drops her hand from her necklace.
With the fortress in sight, they continue with purpose so the distance between them and the enormous, arching bridge closes rapidly. Sylvanas slows as they begin the crossing, dropping back to hover in front of Jaina. She's irritated at first, it's hard to find a place to put her staff with feet moving directly before her. Her stomach jumps when Sylvanas tells her to stay low. Now Jaina understands her proximity, her intention to become a pincushion of arrows if this all goes sideways. Noble, but useless, as Jaina would get maybe two steps before they'd down her as well.
"Maybe I should go first?" Jaina wonders if the mage of a bound demon would lead in this world, "Since you're supposed to be bound and all."
Sylvanas growls. "An intelligent mage would send their pet ahead to keep themselves out of danger."
Jaina just shrugs as she walks, miffed at the obvious dig. "Whatever you'd like, pet."
Like an angry cat, the Warchief makes a low, hissing sound in her throat at her response, and Jaina smothers a smirk. She's got fangs of her own that Sylvanas would be wise to avoid. She sees the fortress in greater detail now, its light, earthy colors stark against the snowy white landscape that surrounds it.
As they get closer, she can see and hear the refugees Solas spoke of through the fortress's grand entrance. Haggard and thin, they cluster together in what she assumes is the central courtyard. The entrance itself is guarded by a dozen or so armored individuals on whose chests an insignia of a sword blazes.
Before Jaina can get a word out, one of them spots her, and instantly draws his blade. "Halt! Who are you and what business have you here?" His voice is loud and harsh, roughened by fear and mistrust. "And—Maker's breath, what is that?"
The commotion catches the attention of the other guards, and they approach with swords drawn. Jaina swallows thickly, and hears Sylvanas hiss behind her. She spares a glance at the Warchief, and sees her hand twitching towards her bow, ears pinned back and teeth bared in a snarl. "I warned you, Proudmoore."
It's now or never. "Wait!" she cries letting her staff clatter to the ground as she raises her good arm in surrender. She steps forward, pulling up even with Sylvanas. "We mean no harm! We've come seeking aid."
Their eyes flick from her to Sylvanas, whose hand is still inching towards Deathwhisper. She looks desperately at the elf, giving a little shake of her head. The hand stops, but doesn't move away. "And she's no threat to you."
"And why should we let you and your… abomination in?"
Jaina hears the low growl from next to her at his words. She begs Sylvanas to be patient in her head. Even with the Banshee's formidable skills, they'd not make it out.
"We were told to come here by one of your own. His name is Solas." She watches as recognition flits across the guard's face.
"The apostate?"
"Er- yes? Him."
The guards share uneasy looks before one of them scampers off deeper into the fortress, for what Jaina presumes is to fetch Solas. "Let me make this clear, mage. I don't trust you, or the elf for that matter, but he's got the Herald's ear and I trust her. So if what you're saying is true, I'll allow you in, but only you." He makes a disgusted face as he glances in Sylvanas's direction. "The abomination has to go. Banish it back to the Fade where it belongs or I'll cut it down myself."
Sylvanas growls. "I'd like to see you try, human." Her hand still hovers near her bow, and the sun still flashes on drawn steel in the guards' hands; the tension in the air so thick Jaina finds it difficult to breathe.
Thick enough, it seems, to draw the attention of another individual as well. "Enough!" a new voice interjects, bold and commanding—the voice of a leader. "What's going on here?"
"Lady Trevelyan! Thank the Maker—I think this is a situation that would be best for you to handle, my lady."
So this is the Herald, Jaina muses. The woman stands tall and broad-shouldered, the battleaxe strapped to her back making her presence even more forbidding. She is beautiful, but her beauty is harsh. Cold and unforgiving, her delicate features seem permanently arranged into a haughty scowl. Jaina can't help but note the similarities between this woman and her traveling companion. "Greetings, my lady. I—"
"You're a mage," the woman cuts her off, giving her a quick once over. Her eyes narrow, flicking back up to meet Jaina's in suspicion. "Weak and unharrowed, but a Mage nonetheless." She mutters something under her breath that Jaina doesn't catch, then crosses her arms, chin held high. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't cut you and your pet demon down where you stand. I won't have any more apostates in my Inquisition than I already do."
"As I said before, my lady, we were told to come here by one of your own—a mage named Solas."
The Herald arched a brow. "Solas told you to come here? Why?"
"Because—"
"I believe that they could be of help to us, Lady Herald," comes Solas' familiar voice, and Jaina exhales in relief. With him around, hopefully these negotiations will go better than they had been. He looks the same as he did in the Fade, dressed in simple lambswool clothes.
"Solas," Trevelyan says, greeting him with a smile that is all teeth and no warmth, "you had not mentioned you invited some … friends of yours."
"We are but passing acquaintances," Solas replies evenly, unfazed. "I met Lady Jaina within the Fade, a few hours before you returned to us. I believe she may have knowledge useful to our cause."
"Like what?"
"Respectfully, that is a discussion best had in a more private location," he responds, eyeing Sylvanas in a sidelong glance. Jaina watches as Syvanas holds his eyes in challenge.
The Herald hums, gaze flicking back to Jaina. "Be that as it may, there is still the issue of her demon. I will not have it roaming about in my castle, bringing terror to my people."
"Sylvanas will not harm anyone, I swear to you, Lady Herald," Jaina assures, hoping the Warchief catches her drift. Mercifully, Sylvanas drops her hands down to her sides, although her ears are still pinned back firmly against her head. "I will make sure of it."
"And how will you do that?"
"She is… bound, to me. She cannot do what I do not permit her to."
"Is that so? Tell me then, Lady Jaina, why exactly do you have a demon bound to you?"
"I… Sylvanas saved my life. I doubt I would be standing before you now were it not for her."
The Herald clicks her tongue, clearly unconvinced.
"If it would comfort you, you could always have them secluded to a section of Skyhold, my lady. It is certainly big enough," Solas offers.
"You are quite adamant about this, Solas. Why?"
"It is as I said before, my lady—I believe they can help us. And to go against a threat like Corypheus, we will need all the help we can get."
"Hmm," she hums again, then relents. "I must discuss this further with my advisors. For now, take them to the cells."
Solas tips his head in deference. "As you wish, Lady." He turns and beckons them to follow.
"Lady Jaina, Sylvanas." He points to the doorway across the courtyard, his face carefully blank. "Welcome to Skyhold."