Once, as a child, Derek took her to the Midsummer Fire Festival, carrying her six year old self on his shoulders while their harried mother stayed home with a fussy Tandred. She'd given Derek enough pocket money to entertain them for the whole afternoon. Jaina was thrilled at having her brother all to herself, or so she'd thought. At fourteen, Derek's attention was split between keeping her happy with sweets and fried dough, and trying to catch the eye of Lorena Blackwood.
Disappointed, Jaina had wandered off at some point, drawn to a colorful tent draped with beaded fringe and pieces of sea glass and shiny metals that chimed in the wind. A beautiful dark haired elf stood at the awning asking to read the palms of any passers-by. Jaina had stood watching shyly in a shadowed alleyway until the woman called her over with a curled finger and a promise to tell her fortune. She'd happily complied, swinging her legs on the seat and staring in the crystal ball until a very frightened Derek had yanked her from her perch and dragged her home, crying.
She can no longer remember what the soothsayer had said to her about her future but if she had told her that, at some point in her middle age she would be in a prison cell, in another world, with her hand clasped between those of the Horde's Warchief, begging for more contact, well, she would have laughed herself sick, even then at six. She'd be laughing now at the ridiculousness of this entire situation if it didn't feel so good, but oh, Tidemother, it does .
When Sylvanas, voice sunk into husky dual-tone, had told her to take what she wanted, she did. She pulled and like a thread of liquid lightning, the arcane flowed through the Banshee's body, pouring into the emptiness that's left her feeling hollow since they'd arrived. Sylvanas had closed her eyes, an ecstatic smile on her face, and pushed until she was full, the energy spilling over a sparking halo around their joined hands.
" Anar'alah , let go before you burst." Sylvanas had managed to move one of her hands to grasp her forearm over her shirt trying to push her away, but her own hands still clutch at the other between them. "Jaina! Let go!"
She fights her for a moment, frost crackling from her hands up the elf's arms to the elbow before she realizes exactly what's happening. She yanks her hands back, groaning at the sharp severing of their connection, and her eyes jump up to Sylvanas's, taking in the concerned red. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting it to be like that."
Sylvanas just shakes her head, dismissing her apology. "I almost lost myself as well. At least we know it works though." She flexes her fist and thin pieces of ice fall to the table. "Can you cast anything now that we're no longer touching?"
The arcane energy still hums inside her, not as strongly as before, but it's enough to make something. She holds out her hand and concentrates, the blue-white arcane twists and spins into a miniature blizzard, complete with swirling clouds and blowing snow, wholly contained in her palm. A child's trick that should have taken little to no effort leaves her feeling drained; she is hollow and wanting once again.
"That took everything." She sighs and winces at the obvious despondency in the exhale. Sylvanas makes a sound almost like a chuckle and when she jerks her head up, expecting to see the typical mocking smirk, she's surprised to see a genuine smile. It changes the elf's face completely; Jaina had heard that the former Ranger General was quite the charmer when she still lived in Quel'thalas. Vereesa had once complained that when the boys made mischief and then turned their sweet faces and doleful eyes to her, she couldn't do a thing to punish them- they were just like Sylvanas. Jaina had never before been able to reconcile Ranger General Sylvanas or Vereesa's sister Sylvanas to the merciless Banshee Queen until now. The burn of those eyes softened to warmth and lips turned up in a smile instead of twisted in a sneer.
"Oh." She blurts out before thinking, still basking in the arcane afterglow. "You're so pretty."
She curses herself when the smile vanishes, and Sylvanas stands so abruptly from the chair that it tips backwards, crashing to the ground.
"That's not what I meant, I'm sorry." She rises as well, hands waving as she scrabbles for the right thing to say, "Wait, no, I meant you were pretty, I'm just sorry-"
"Stop talking before you say something else you'll regret." It's a low growl, but Jaina swears she can hear it gilded with hurt.
She shuts up.
What she really wants to do, though, is tell her that it wasn't a mistake and that she'd never before seen Sylvanas unguarded and smiling; that she is beautiful like the gathering of stormclouds on the horizon or the iridescence of a carrion crow in the sun. Beauty hidden in dark, tumultuous danger.
She also wants to ask Sylvanas to touch her again.
It's shameful to want something so badly, especially if nothing bad comes to her for the want of it. She thinks for a moment of the Nightborne, and her curiosity and research into arcane addiction. First she'd questioned Kalec who steered her to Stellagosa who hesitantly recounted the stories she had from her lover's time as Nightfallen. Valtrois, hunched and drawn, trembling from starvation and from the fear of becoming mindless withered. Healed now, Stellagosa told her that Valtrois and the other Nightfallen still suffered from nightmares and anxiety from their trauma. She feels too guilty to ask Sylvanas now. She can suffer simple discontent when others suffered so much more.
She needs to apologize for something, or this guilt will swallow her whole. Shame for wanting what she doesn't need, for using her enemy to get it, and for snatching contentment from a woman who doesn't seem to have known happiness in decades. If Sylvanas shuts her down again, so be it, at least this time she knows to be more articulate.
She gets up and walks along the table to pick up the fallen chair, when Sylvanas's engraved drawing on the table's surface catches her eye. A perfect snowflake. Delicate, multi-branched fractals, indelibly pressed into the wood. She runs her fingers across their texture as she rights the chair and pushes it under the table. Sylvanas, back in her corner again, doesn't bother to look up. First the collection of wooden feathers, now the snowflake. Jaina wonders what other talents the Warchief has.
"I didn't know you were an artist." Something, anything to break the silence, no matter if it puts her back in the line of fire of Sylvanas's sniping. She wants to see the Banshee drop her mask again, to catch another glimpse of the ephemeral smile and contentment.
"Why would you?" Sylvanas is back to mocking, but she refuses to let that tone have its intended effect. Instead, she steps closer and doesn't flinch at the scowl her proximity brings.
"One would think SI:7 might have noted that in your file."
Sylvanas smirks, "They obviously didn't think to note the fact that I don't need arcane anymore either. Perhaps The Shiv is losing his touch. Such a shame. Do tell, Lord Admiral, what does SI:7 say about me?"
She is getting used to Sylvanas's ability to switch tones, from petulant to purring, in a single breath. It no longer makes her head spin and she has learned not to bother with trying to match her. She mimics counting on her fingers as she recites what she can remember from the Banshee Queen's file. "That you're vain, self-serving, ruthless, and mercurial. That your faction leaders don't trust you but your Rangers would follow you into true death. That you're compassionless. Hot-headed at your best and murderous at your worst."
As she speaks Sylvanas's smirk grows, flashing fangs by the time she reaches the end to take a breath. She is saving the best for last though, absolutely certain it will return that delighted smirk back to a scowl. The beginning of the file was put together by Renzik, and while he is a talented spy, he possessed mostly surface thoughts about the Warchief. She's also sure he let his latent misogyny and anti-undead stance taint his observations. The rest of her file was completed by Valeera Sanguinar, at Jaina's request, curious if the unaligned rogue would see things differently. She did.
"But," This time, Jaina flashes her own smirk, lifting her eyebrows in challenge, "Further research found fault in some initial characterizations in the dossier. The Warchief is empathetic and caring towards the Forsaken and Sin'dorei, valuing input from advisors of those factions. She provided support and allies to the Shal'dorei after they were shunned by their Kaldorei cousins and has taken the counsel of the First Arcanist. She is close to her rangers, especially Nathanos Blightcaller and Ranger Captain Velonara." She'll save what she knows about Sylvanas and her sisters for another time.
The scowl that she was certain would mar Sylvanas's delicate features is surprisingly absent. Instead, her red gaze glows with what might be begrudging respect. "The cub sent someone different after Renzik, did he? Perhaps he is more his father's son than I thought."
"At my suggestion."
Sylvanas raises an eyebrow. "Well now, aren't you full of surprises? Reznik hates me for tolerating Gallywix, and for being undead, but most of all for not being born with a dick. I knew his intel would be slanted. Leave it to another woman to figure that out. "
Jaina smiles, accepting the compliment with a demure tilt of her head. "Can I sit here?" When she points at the ground across from her, which would put her next to Sylvanas, the other woman just shrugs.
"We need to talk about before. Like adults." Jaina folds herself down near the neatly piled wooden feathers on the dirty floor. Neither of them have been offered an opportunity to bathe or wash their clothes; Jaina regrets wearing so much white. Sylvanas looks much more kempt in her dark colors and for a moment she ponders what she, herself, would look like in burgundy. She shakes her head to clear it; she's never worn anything but Dalaran purple, Alliance blue, and white. When she looks up, the look Sylvanas is giving her is just like Tandred's you're-being-a-bossy-cow glare that she almost laughs. It must be universal to anyone with an older sister. "And not adults of enemy factions. Also, before you remind me, no we don't have to be friends to talk civilly."
She sees Sylvanas's lips press tightly in a line, but she thinks it's to stop a reluctant smile rather than in anger. She doubts the Warchief has her own words flung back at her on a regular basis. Despite Sylvanas's disdain and rigid authority, Jaina thinks the other woman enjoys the challenge of verbal sparring, if her quiverful of pithy one-liners is any indication.
"If there's anything I learned in Dalaran, it's that mastery comes from practice." She takes a deep breath, suddenly unsure as to how to ask Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen and Warchief of the Horde, to hold her hands, as they both balance on a razor's edge of heady pleasure. It's intimate in a way that Jaina cannot describe and the thought of practicing something like that leaves her at a loss for words.
"So you're proposing that we practice holding hands?" Sylvanas drawls, smirk rising on her lips.
"No, I'm proposing we practice what we did so that we can figure out how it works so I can get us back to Azeroth where we can go back to killing each other."
This time Sylvanas can't stop the outright grin, all glinting fangs. "Ah, Lord Admiral, now you're speaking my language. Tal anu'men'o nah."
She just shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Even if Sylvanas is speaking in jest, she can't stop the bitterness that flows out of her. "Death to all who oppose you, eh? I suppose that's how it's been for the past couple of years, I mean why change now? It's not like you found out that some members of the Alliance aren't horrible and deserve to live in peace."
"One. One member of the Alliance isn't so horrible. If only that one member was representative of their whole faction." She can feel the burn of Sylvanas's ember eyes against her skin, so she takes a deep breath to swallow the anger that flared at her words. She will be calm, she will not let Sylvanas puppet her through her emotions.
"Don't you dare say we haven't tried." She keeps her voice low and controlled, despite the running loop of Teldrassil's ashes, Saurfang's limp body, the gazes of betrayed Forsaken behind her eyes.
"It's always been all or nothing with the Alliance."
Jaina's gaze darts up at the reply. Sylvanas's voice has gone completely flat, no sneer, no purr, nothing. The fiery burn from earlier is snuffed out; her eyes look hollow and haunted - mournful. Then she realizes Jaina is looking at her and her face drops back into impassivity once more.
She files the moment away for later. "I need a lot of mana to make a portal. So we're going to have to start off with little things first, just to get control over-" She loses her words for a minute, unable to explain exactly what it is she needs to control. The distracting pleasure, the aching want? She can feel Sylvanas's eyes searching her face as she struggles to finish her thought.
"-the overwhelmingness of it all." She finishes lamely.
The look Sylvanas gives her is completely inscrutable. She only nods and holds out her hand. "We should try just one hand for now. It might be easier."
Jaina reaches out slowly, bracing herself for the onslaught of power. She gently touches the pads of her fingers to Sylvanas's cool, callused ones. She tries imagining a wall between the two of them, door shut, blocking anything that wanted in. She realizes it's working when Sylvanas's eyes jump to her in surprise. There is still a pleasure here, but it is subtle - muted - a promise of what will be when she opens the door.
"Don't push this time, no matter what I say." She peers at the other woman through half-lidded eyes. Sylvanas nods once, and curls her fingers inward, tucking Jaina's within her own. She smiles appreciatively, and Sylvanas nods again, face solemn and unreadable. She takes a deep breath and opens the door in her mind just a sliver, the sudden stream of arcane making her exhale shaky. Sylvanas's fingers tighten around her own, but there is no surge of power with it.
"I'm going to - to pull." She struggles to control her voice while fighting the urge to shove the door wide open and beg Sylvanas to push everything at her. Sylvanas squeezes her fingers once, and she remembers their wordless communication from when she was sick. Yes . Pull . So she does. She pushes open the door in her mind, expecting a flood of arcane to rush into her like before, but there is nothing. She tries pulling at the thin thread that connects them, but nothing happens. Her eyes fly open at Sylvanas's gasp and groan. The tendons in the elf's neck are pulled taut and her teeth are bared in a grimace, red gaze burning. Jaina tries to let go of her hand; it's obvious that Sylvanas is experiencing this differently than last time, but when she does, Sylvanas shakes her head and holds her fingers tighter, moving their hands into the same position as last time - palm to palm, fingers clasped around wrists.
"Wait." Sylvanas gasps out, panting although she has no need to breathe. "I was trying to see if I could stop you from taking it. Don't pull again for a minute. Do what you did at the start to stop the automatic rush."
She nods at the request, firming up her imagined wall and closing the door between them. Sylvanas tightens her fingers around her wrist, signaling her to start again. She cracks the door, arcane sliding through the opening like sunshine. She basks in it for a moment, closing her eyes but mindful of the tension in Sylvanas's grip. "Stop holding it, let me pull."
Sylvanas squeezes again and sighs, blissful. Jaina suddenly feels the full flow of arcane try to pour through the small crack that she's holding open. She takes a deep breath and catches her lip between her teeth, then pushes open the barrier that blocks most of the stream. It floods into her and she delights again in the raw power. This time she has the awareness to cast immediately, and at the strong draw she makes on the thread to do so, Sylvanas stifles a moan. Mirror image is simple and harmless enough. She opens her eyes and sees Sylvanas looking between her and the two mute clones of her sitting across from them. The red in her eyes shrunken to pinpoints, she grins in the pleasure of their connection and Jaina's success.
Regretfully, she stops pulling and closes off the flow in her mind. As she loosens her grip and pulls her hand away, she lets her fingers lightly slide along Sylvanas's palm. While the sharp bite of arcane is comforting, there is something to be said about the touch of another person, even if the other person is Sylvanas Windrunner.
"If I would have known that this practice would end with me having to share a cell with three Jaina Proudmoores, I would never have agreed to it." Sylvanas's eyes still glow like banked embers but her words don't carry their usual bite.
Jaina doesn't answer. She's sure the illusions will disappear in a moment; she's not putting in any effort or wasting the residual arcane in keeping them here. Instead, she focuses her attention on her hands and the pattern she'd traced on the table. With the last bit of mana humming through her, she pulls whatever water she can from the air and forms a crystalline copy of the snowflake Sylvanas had carved in the tabletop. It will melt if she holds it much longer, maring the fine details, so she hands it to Sylvanas with a genuine smile.
"Thank you." She hopes her sincerity shines through, because she is truly grateful - for figuring out a mana source, for taking care of her when she needed it, for letting her see the pieces of Sylvanas that the other woman hides behind the Banshee Queen and Warchief. They will need hours of practice before Jaina will be able to cast an effective offensive spell, much less a portal. A simple spell like mirror image took almost everything she had, but even that was more than the mini-blizzard from before. Already she is able to do more, better, stronger. She lays down on the pallet with a smile; Sylvanas humming quietly from the corner as she drifts off.