"You honor Feathermoon Stronghold by your visitation."
The customs officer standing beneath the official banner of the Sentinel faction repeated the greeting to any passengers of the ship who appeared lost or disoriented. Despite the more reclusive nature of the night elves, quite a few of the people who disembarked from the carved Kaldorei ship were either foreign or had simply never traveled that far south before. Traders from almost every nation of the world were mingling about the passenger docks, most likely confused by how quiet, orderly and subdued the night elven port was compared to those of the orcs or humans. A security presence higher than that among the other factions kept everyone in line and in check, a stark reminder that even several centuries after they'd lost their immortality, the night elves were still a militaristic society lead by warrior women who liked their men buff and bearded and preferred to shout their warnings to rule breakers while staring down the shaft of an arrow.
Even many of the night elves from other regions looked a little overwhelmed, though due to the opposite effect. Although the Sentinels claimed all of Kalimdor as their own except Durotar, the Barrens and Mulgore, the bulk of their population still lived mostly in the very north of the continent. Few among them, especially the more numerous younger generations, had ever ventured so far south or seen such a bustling trading hub. Even Rut'theran City at the foot of Teldrassil didn't see the amount of foreign mercantile traffic that Feathermoon did.
For Sharimara, to set foot on dry land and step into a relatively orderly, quiet atmosphere was just what she'd needed. After a week of waiting at Balrissa, she'd boarded a Sentinel clipper designed to carry smaller groups of passengers at double the usual knots considered safe. She'd paid quite a bit for the ticket, but the boat sailed from the southernmost piece of dry land in the world to nearly halfway up Kalimdor in only nine days, aided in part by a captain who was also a druidess and propelled the clipper nonstop with a cyclone spell. Several hundred gold bought her the reassurance that after the horrible, traumatic incident she'd caused, she would have the opportunity to make things right with Centrius less than three weeks later in total. Better yet, she also knew that he would have arrived to his home island only a single week before she did; hopefully, he wouldn't have done anything drastic in such a short amount of time like moved away again, took another dangerous job, joined a silly colosseum fight club or...found...someone...
Visibly shuddering at the thought, Sharimara forced herself not to speculate even if such force caused her to experience yet another heart palpitation (she'd have to get that checked out once she was done). The week in Balrissa had given her plenty of time to practice all the things she would say and absorb all the various criticisms from Dilly. Support was certainly not something she lacked: in addition to the confidence coaching by the goblin, Swansong had performed acupuncture and cupping on Sharimara before she'd left, Mao Mao had shared some of the secrets of dealing with various types of men based on experience even greater than that of Sharimara herself despite the vast age difference, and Lashka had...well, Lashka at least stopped gossiping so much for the last week.
During the nine day voyage, Sharimara had reviewed every single letter that Centrius had written to her, all three versions of the apology speech she'd authored, and tried to imagine every single way the final meeting could possibly go right in order to keep herself in a positive mood.
But she was still a nervous wreck. Even when she passed customs and was officially on Sentinel soil, she found her anxiety eating at her.
"What brings you here?"
"Huh?"
Caught in her own daydreams, Sharimara hadn't noticed when she'd walked a little too closely to a sentry guarding a restricted area. Ever calm, the blue haired woman who looked like she could very well have been kin to the Nightshade family had she not been a pureblooded Kaldorei stood at attention and didn't display any outward suspicion of sternness as she blocked Sharimara's path. Of course, those looks could be deceiving; police brutality was perhaps worse among the Sentinels than any other factions, and the ponytail wearing guards bouncing on their toes didn't need to be pushed hard in order to become violent.
Raising her hands to show she was simply an absentminded traveler, Sharimara then brought her palms together and bowed properly. "Greetings, huntress," she said politely while removing her sunglasses to reveal eyes that glowed green but not from fel corruption.
Realizing just what type of person Sharimara was, the sentry relaxed her shoulders. "I am honored, warden," the stoic woman replied.
Unable to gauge the woman's age - which was usually the first thing most night elves tried to do when meeting each other, even before asking about hometowns - Sharimara tried to use neutral, unspecific language, though it was difficult considering how rusty her Darnassian had become. "Sister, I have come to visit an old companion of mine. She trains nightsabres for riding alongside her mate."
The sentry's long eyebrows waggled in amusement. "At least three dozen citizens on this island fit such a description. Do you know of their address?"
"I don't, unfortunately, but I know their names. My friend is Mahavira Nightshade, and her mate is Zendithir. I'll go rent a room first, but afterward I'd like to see her."
"I am not at liberty to access the home addresses of private citizens, but places of work are public knowledge. Please, follow me," the sentry said while beckoning the warden alongside her. The two of them walked out of the eastern harbor (the island now sported four separate ports) and toward a huntress lodge situated on a grassy area between the end of the harbor and the edge of the city walls. "Our sisters at the lodge keep records of all our suppliers for sabres, armor and provisions at each lodge. I'm sure we can access the registry there."
Grateful that the pulling of rank via her warden's eyes had worked so easily, Sharimara hummed happily. "It's I who should be honored, then," she said as the two of them left the paved moonstone path and walked across the grass.
The two of them continued on their way and walked inside, passing by to other sentries as they entered. The two other women glanced at Sharimara curiously at first, but then nodded deferently when they noticed the green glow. Though wardens certainly weren't priestesses, they still held a certain amount of respect in the society due to the skills they possessed. Even without her armor, most sentinels and druids tended to react in the same way, often surprised to see someone of such a class outside of jails or conflict zones. It didn't mean that Sharimara held any sort of official rank; just that her eyes proved fascinating enough for the usually vigilant night elves to let their guards down.
Inside the lodge, the blue haired sentry led her over to the records section. "I don't know what your plans are with your friend, but there is a free hammock in the upper south wing. Our newer recruits would most likely appreciate the stories you could tell, and you wouldn't need to rent at an inn alongside all the outlanders." The woman's tone was extremely informal by the standards of her people; the perceived connection overrode even the obvious fact that Sharimara was visibly of mixed racial descent.
"You are...so generous," Sharimara replied quietly. She took no issue with renting at an inn, but staying in a lodge for free where her suitcase was guaranteed to be safe was definitely preferable.
"Don't mention it, big sister," the sentry replied just as they reached the counter in the unlit records office. A clerk, a younger male sentinel, turned and bowed out of respect. "The warden needs to visit her compatriot Mahavira Nightshade. Please check the registry of sabre trainers."
"Right away, ma'am," the young man replied whole diligently disappearing among the wooden shelves of parchment enchanted such that the records would never biodegrade. He only needed a few seconds to locate the requested information. "I've found it...she works at the Hollow Oak stable over in Willow Park, past fifth street. It's just under half an hour walking distance."
"Thank you. As you were," the blue haired sentry told her younger counterpart as she turned and nodded for Sharimara to follow her back into the great hall. "Currently most of us are on duty; the outlanders tend to settle down past midnight, and which point a number of us return here to rest. I don't suppose you'd be able to visit with us some night during your stay?"
"I'm honored that you're willing to grand me quarter for more than one night."
The sentry smiled as warmly as a stoic warrior of the night could. "We couldn't accept you visiting without us hosting you; please, consider the upper southern wing your home here in Feathermoon. Though, of course...we would very much appreciate it if you would be willing to share what you've seen of the world with our youngbloods."
"Elune witnesses that I won't leave until I've satisfied their curiosity to the best of my ability," Sharimara replied. The benefits of being a warden in night elf country, she though to herself as the sentry showed her toward the hammock without even having asked her name.
Although it wasn't planned, the impromptu hour long session of random questions from the handful of other sentries at the lodge turned out to be a rather pleasant experience. None of the younger sentinels had ever ventured outside of their faction's territory, and one of them had never even spoken to a non night elf previously, not even with one of the various foreign merchants on the island. What counted as run of the mill war stories for Sharimara turned out to be incredible anecdotes that left them all hungering for more. Only when the blue haired sentry noticed the moon rising and chastised her youngers for smothering their special guest did the other sentries relent, agreeing to let the warden be until she'd made contact with her companion.
None of them knew, of course, who she was actually referring to when she mentioned said companion. As Sharimara set out for the place known as Willow Park, she thought of how exactly she'd approach Centrius' daughter in order to convince the woman to help her woo the man back again.
She didn't have a lot of information to go on. What she knew is that Mahavira was three quarters jungle troll and only one quarter night elf, but had married a pureblooded night elf and was a member of the Sentinels, so was probably a Kaldorei culturally. If she was lucky, that meant the woman might listen to reason rather than tensing up into a berserk ball of rage upon seeing the woman who disrespected her father.
Sharimara also knew that Mahavira had been the one who tracked down the rest of the Hearthglen family and was probably the one who encouraged Centrius to write that initial letter to her in the first place. And if she refused to allow the man to live away from her, that likely meant she was quite the doting daughter now that they'd been reunited after a long period apart. If there was a key to Centrius' heart, it was probably to be found by earning the trust of his progeny.
After just over half an hour and a few stops to ask for directions from random sentries, Sharimara found herself in front of a nightsabre stable with a naturally grown wooden sign reading 'Hollow Oak' hanging from the branches of a tree high above. The moon had just risen, though there didn't appear to be customers walking in and out to rent mounts; the need on a single island without bridges would be very little for that. Instead, at least one night elven teenager and a young furbolg tended to young sabres in a yard fenced in by brambles, and the open door of the front office revealed a rather bored looking furbolg wearing a Sentinel tabard and sitting behind a desk.
The furry female (at least, it seemed female) didn't notice Sharimara at first, and the warden had to clear her throat. "Oh, yes?" the bear woman asked in rough, heavily accented Darnassian.
Feeling her heart rate accelerate for a few seconds, Sharimara tried her best to remain calm. "Yes, hello...I'm looking for Maha; I'm a friend of her father's. Is she in right now?"
The furbolg didn't appear to know anything was awry, which was a good sign; at least Mahavira hadn't shouted from the rooftops about the woman who'd mistreated her father. "She didn't talk about meetings...but I'll tell her about you," the furbolg said while squeezing out from behind the desk and walking toward a ramp leading to the second floor of the front office. "One minute, please."
"Of course."
While alone downstairs, Sharimara surveyed the interior. Training nightsabres wasn't exactly an uncommon job for a night elf city; in order to succeed, they'd obviously need to distinguish themselves. A few awards for excellence lined one wall, and photographs - a technology many night elves had opposed on religious grounds at first - displayed what appeared to be a relatively tall woman standing at attention to various military officials.
That photo in particular, sitting directly across from her, had been blocked by the furbolg. Leaning forward, Sharimara tried to get a better look. Perhaps that was the woman in question herself...the shine of the glass in the frame made it difficult to tell, but she could detect the same shade of medium blue as Centrius' hair, only of a more trollish texture...maybe-
"Betraying bitch!"
Oops.
Sharimara turned around just in time to be tackled to the floor by a whir of medium blue dreadlocks and sky blue hide. Hands that were relatively big for a woman's though still not like a man's tried to grab her by the blouse, seeking a good pair of handles on the garment. A weight equal to her own pressed onto her, and she was impressed by the surprise - Sharimara was tall even among full blooded trolls, and wasn't used to another woman matching her size. Unfortunately for her attacker, she was also in shape, while that attacker was sort of weak for her size.
"Let! Go! Of! Me!" Mahavira screeched as Sharimara easily grabbed the younger woman by the wrists and flipped her over.
Squirming and kicking helplessly, Mahavira spat and cursed as she tried to wiggle out of the warden's grasp. More annoyed than actually angry, Sharimara retained her grip on Mahavira's wrists as she stood up, shoving the uncoordinated woman back into the reception desk and then pressing the backs of the woman's shoulder blades on top of the counter. Pinned down and unable to move, Mahavira settled for screaming her rage.
"I hate you! I hate you, you stupid harpy I hate you!" Mahavira screamed, her eyes wide with almost psychotic anger that seemed to increase when the younger woman realized that she was pinned down on top of the desk and unable to move. "May you rot in the worst part of hell after dying of cancer!"
As much as Sharimara understood why a daddy's girl would be so protective of her father, she instinctively sneered anyway. "Maha, calm down-"
"No, don't call me that! You have absolutely no right whatsoever to talk like you know me, don't you ever talk to me like that!"
"Calm down."
"Let go let go let go of me or so help me goddess I will feed you to the sabres!" Mahavira screamed again, only failing to attract attention to the isolated park via some strange miracle. "How dare you set foot in our town!"
"Please listen, I'm here to apologize!"
"You can't come near my dad again, I won't let you!"
Losing her patience despite logically understanding the emotive outburst, Sharimara tried to talk some sense into the thrashing woman. "I'm sorry, more than you could ever believe-"
"No, no shut up no!" Mahavira screamed, no longer speaking in logical sentences.
"I'll set things right, I promise-"
"Get off so I can throttle you, you demoness! You destroyed him inside you stupid bitch, how could you! YOU HURT HIM MORE THAN ANYBODY IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, you evil, cold hearted harpy witch!"
Staring down at the spiteful, tooth gnashing maniac, Sharimara found herself almost turning numb for a moment. Even when she grabbed Mahavira by the tusks and clamped the woman's mouth shut, all she could do was watch the nasty, foul mouthed monster writhing beneath her. Was this...was this what she looked like in Centrius' eyes that night? A psychotic, sputtering mess of a mortal being experiencing an arcane meltdown?
Using that temporary numbness to her advantage, she yanked on Mahavira's tusks and pulled the woman into a standing position. Her free hand gripped the younger woman's braided hair, and Mahavira wasn't strong enough to escape Sharimara's grip even with both hands free. Able to speak clearly once she'd forcibly shut the woman's mouth, the warden tried to give a speech she hadn't prepared for.
"I hurt your father," Sharimara said while hovering just a few inches from her attacker's face. When she spoke in a low, almost aggressive tone and didn't show her guilt, the younger woman quicky shut up. "I'm sorry, but I hurt him badly. I hurt him because I wasn't in the right frame of mind, and I made the biggest mistake in my life. I reacted out of fear, and I screamed things I didn't mean just because I thought they'd be hurtful."
Paused and wide eyed, Mahavira seemed shocked by the earnestness of the woman who had wounded her father as well as the apt analogy. Sharimara was sure of how she'd appeared in front of Centrius now. And as temperamental as his daughter seemed, she also apparently inherited his intelligence. Her rage didn't subside, but the words more or less got through to her as she calmed down and sufficed herself with panting into Sharimara's hand.
"I hate what I said to him; I hate what I did. Everything you said...I feel it. That's why I'm saying I'm sorry: because I know that what I did was evil. But I know how we can help...I know how to heal the hurt that I caused, because I know your dad. And I can't do it without your support...your dad won't heal until you help him understand that I take it all back, and that I want to tell him that the things I said were lies based on stupidity and fear."
Releasing her grip from Mahavira's mouth but not her braided hair, Sharimara backed up just enough to give the younger woman some semblance of choice and space. "Please...please believe me, I want so badly to make your dad happy again. Will you help me fix this?"
The two of them stared each other down for a moment, suspicion very clear in Mahavira's glowing silver eyes. She didn't actually know Sharimara, and the warden wouldn't exactly be able to blame her if she refused to believe the apology. Defiance bubbled up before fizzling out, however, and after an exchange that had lasted for less than three minutes, the distraught younger woman appeared to be broken. Intimidation had wiped away any thoughts of actually beating Sharimara up, and the tight grip on her dreadlocks reminded her that she wouldn't be able to run away even if she could still choose whether to believe the warden or not. Pain that had almost certainly been shared by both father and daughter briefly wiped across Mahavira's trollish face, and Sharimara internally sighed upon realizing that she might have to use her espionage skills to manipulate the younger woman for her and her father's own good.
"Maha...if Cent goes on thinking that I mean all those terrible things I said, is he going to be able to be a happy person again?"
At first Mahavira snarled, possibly realizing that she was being manipulated but not strong enough to prevent it. "You screwed up his life," she hissed in a much weaker voice than she'd probably intended.
"Can anybody other than me fix it for him, Maha?"
Opening and then closing her mouth, the enraged daughter looked like she couldn't form a coherent response. "How could you ask me to trust you?" she asked, sincere shock in her voice at the prospect. "You...you lure my dad to you just so you could make him feel like you hate him, and now you want me to accept you pushing your way back into his life again? So you can hurt him again?"
"If I just wanted to hurt him again, why would I come to you? If I know you'll feed me to your sabres, why would I beg for your acceptance and even tell you that I'm here?"
Mahavira's posture loosened up noticeably. She didn't seem to agree so much as she seemed to have a rather weak willpower, especially when under duress. Sharimara's oldest sister, Anathil, was a daddy's girl; she recognized it when she saw it, and knew that as volatile as Mahavira seemed, that quality could prove to be what would make the woman easier to convince regarding the issue of her father's pain.
"Maha...help me set things right. Your dad is hurt so much because he and I wanted things to work out so much. This can be fixed...things can go back to the way they were, but you have to help us go back to that point."
Bracing herself on the counter, the woman suddenly looked much sadder than she had before. "You can't even trust yourself," she muttered. "You're crazy and psychotic. He told me...he told me how you acted. You can go in there promising to apologize and just get mad again at any comment."
How ironic, Sharimara thought. "Life is risk, Maha; that's the only way to succeed. Either you leave your dad hurting and wounded like he is, or you choose to try and help him. There is no third way." Finally releasing the woman's braids, Sharimara stepped back to give her space but didn't stop staring at her pleadingly. "What's it going to be, then? Will you let him remain like he is?"
The distraught daughter winced in pain at the accusation that she was the one responsible for her father's pain. The point was obviously debatable, but Sharimara had banked on Mahavira's emotional distress and her disappointment at having been beaten so easily controlling her. Not an ounce of guilt touched the warden about that specific point: if this worked, they'd all be happier in the end.
"I...I...I don't know-"
"So be it, then. I will pray that Elune one day opens your heart to accepting the necessary risk to help your poor dad-"
"Stop!" Mahavira blurted out, almost covering her mouth with her hands in horror. "Stop, just stop! I'll take you to him...only for him, not for you." She narrowed her eyes at the end, trying and failing to give a stone cold stare.
"I sailed across the ocean only for him, and not for me," Sharimara replied, only halfway facing the woman as if threatening to walk out. It was a ridiculous bluff that probably wouldn't have worked on most other people over two hundred years old like Mahavira. "I need you if we're going to fix this. Cent needs you."
For a split second Mahavira almost snarled at the sound of Sharimara calling him by his nickname, but she was already a beaten woman. "I-I swear, if you hurt him again, I will kill you," she threatened, her entire demeanor lacking any confidence at all.
"Fair enough," Sharimara replied, forcing herself not to smirk at the empty threat. It was the last source of humor she'd feel in a while and she knew it; what they were about to do would very rapidly kill any joy she felt at so easily getting what she'd wanted out of the younger woman.
Stepping away and toward the door, Sharimara turned back and waited impatiently. "Point the way...the sooner I can see him, the sooner I can explain to him how sorry I am."
Crestfallen and defeated, Mahavira walked past her and led her out of the front office silently. Feathermoon Stronghold itself was a very cramped city by elven standards, but Willow Park was almost rural and sparsely populated. The high trees blocked the surrounding neighborhoods from view granting a thankfully quieter aura to that part of the city. Neither of them spoke on the way to wherever Centrius lived, and the handful of neighbors they passed thankfully did no more than bow.
All the way at the other end, the two of them reached the place he'd once described to her: a five floor, modern yet elven looking building of communal apartments. The man named Zendithir apparently owned it and rented it out, thus granting Centrius a free dwelling to live out his years of partial retirement from work. The building wasn't too wide and probably only contained a single apartment and common area on each floor, but was surrounded by a naturally raised stone wall and pine trees for shading nonetheless.
Mahavira didn't need to explain what it was when she stopped just outside the open gate. Gazing upward with a melancholy expression, the younger woman's ears drooped. "Fourth floor...that's his," she sighed. When she turned to face Sharimara directly, there was fear and a silent plea that had remained hidden before. "Please...Elune guide you...don't hurt him again, I'm begging you."
No longer in need of the mind games, Sharimara let her facade recede. "I swear to the goddess, I never will again. Okay?" She reached forward and cupped the back of Mahavira's head the way she used to do with her own daughter. "Be my witness before the White Lady for what I've said."
Even if she was almost as old as Sharimara and Centrius themselves, Mahavira pouted like a youngling. "Okay..."
Releasing her, Sharimara walked into the building and didn't look back. The door was made of vines that, upon sensing her approach, automatically peeled away on their own and moved to cover the entrance again once she was inside the building.
The place was dark, though most night elven buildings were - there was no need for internal lighting for a nocturnal race. Sure enough, there was only one dwelling per floor, which at least meant that there would be no neighbors to eavesdrop on what was sure to be a difficult discussion.
That knowledge didn't quell her anxiety, however. On the night that she'd panicked over a simple comment from a Balrissa inn receptionist, what she'd felt was the sort of anxiety before assaulting the final boss in a raid; but as she walked up the ramp leading to the fourth floor, what she felt was more akin to the sort of anxiety when hanging off the edge of a cliff with only the root of a sapling growing on that edge to told on to. There was no antagonist, no opponent; just the fear of the inevitable. Every step she took upward was agony, crushing her chest cavity as her heart raced and her mind reeled.
Everything she'd feared boiled up into her esophagus and stung her physically, psychologically and even spiritually. The notion that it was over, that she really had ruined things, that she really had pushed away the only person on Azeroth and Outland who, across three hundred years, could understand her and still didn't run away screaming. And she deserved it; she deserved to bear that anxiety and she knew it.
Once upon the fourth floor, she found herself in a small common area with some windows, a couch and plants growing out of the wooden walls. Sounds of a single person roaming about escaped from the crack beneath the door, but aside from that, all was silent. This was it; it was time. Nausea threatened to ruin everything in one fell swoop as she dragged her dead weight over to the door, and when she knocked without any sort of rhythm at all she grimaced.
A pause punctuated the silence followed by slow, hesitant footsteps approaching the door. For a few seconds Sharimara's breathing hitched in her throat, refusing to respond to her nervous system as she waited. At a snail's pace, the vines forming the door rustled and Centrius pulled the vegetative door open.