Chapter 7
The night was clear, the rains of the day having passed onto the coast, giving the often arid soil of southern Kalimdor a good soaking and doubtlessly miring at least one traveler's wagon. There was the clean smell of ozone blowing with the gentle sea wind, and the glass-still puddle of water that still clung to the streets reflected the bright half-moon and the winking stars above. Below the streets, in the tunnels burrowed by the dwarves who had built Theramore and had been then abandoned, in a small cell barely able to fit her, a long-limbed, reclining figure twitched. Golonda tossed about on her rough wooden cot, the screams of the dying echoing in her mind as she was once again forced to view the macabre parade of images that composed her nightmares, burned irrevocably into her mind by their traumatic origins.
She was always one who understood the difference in power. You had it or you did not. Power over life and death danced long the edge of a keen blade, in the muscles of two combatants locked in a struggle, in the fortitude needed to overcome a magical assault. It was the abuse of power that made criminals, and it was the side of justice that would always have to remain strong lest it too fall prey to the lawless. She became a warden to punish the wrongdoer, to once again reinforce the laws that bound her society together. She also found, in the course of her training all those millennia ago, that she was a superbly capable warrior, truly the proper tool of justice to be used against dangerous law-breakers. Her vision and her skills earned her a prized position alongside Maeiv Shadowsong, who was in charge of guarding the Barrow Prison, a subterranean jail that housed the most ruthless and dangerous criminals that Kaldorei society had ever seen.
At first she was honored by the position, able to focus on keeping the worst of the worst away from the rest of the world, and working beside the capable and focused Warden Shadowsong. However, as the centuries passed, the shine dulled from the prize that was her post, but her dedication never wavered. This was who she was, what she was. If she could not guard the likes of Illidan, who could?
Things started to occur to the then young Golonda. Things like most of the others present in the prison were usually lacking in the discipline that she herself demonstrated. A century was nothing to a night elf, yet after such a sort span of time others started to become sloppy, threatening to compromise the security of their facility. Golonda spoke to Maeiv and the senior warden agreed that some action would have to be taken. The Under-warden then began a rigorous series of tests and training regimes, in the end tightening security, but also earning her the ire of those beneath her. Golonda was stung by their lack of enthusiasm and jokes circulating behind her back, finding the fruit of her labors far less sweet than she had hoped. She began to resent her subordinates, withdrawing from them until she was as unapproachable as the head warden herself, even though she was supposed to be the link between the warden and the guards. The changes were subtle and slow, forming as decades turned to centuries, and then millennia, but were all the stronger because of it.
Golonda despised them for their revelry, their time spend in idle games and distractions. She continued to push herself harder and harder, seeking the perfection that she knew she was capable of in the martial field while her fellows indulged in gossip and what carnal pleasures could be found with the druidic males all asleep in dens scattered across Ashenvale. Shadowsong rebuked those who were lax in their duties, but she rebuked Golonda too, for she had become too hard-bitten, and was walking a path that could only lead to a mental collapse. She was ordered to curb her personal training and too use her off-duty time tending the barrow gardens. Doing so under protest she nevertheless submitted to the order, a sullen Under-warden Silvernight tending small shrubs while she should have been stalking the prison's many halls, watching for intruders or escapees.
It was in these forced forays to the gardens, however, that lead to that meeting between Golonda and Aweldessa. If Golonda was the brutal right hand of justice, then Aweldessa was the gentle left, healing and forgiving the wounds of the past. She was a warrior, like they all were, yet bore such a gentle spirit that Golonda found it impossible to conceive of Awel taking a life. Her lush green hair and caring eyes drew the Under-warden in a gentle trap against which her combat training availed her nothing. Perhaps there was something to this balance of duty and life. Perhaps Golonda had pushed herself and others too hard. Together, they knew nothing but contentment and peace, the once harsh Under-warden mellowed by her gentle companion and finding pleasure in life again.
But those countless nights of bliss and love came to an end when Tyrande Whisperwind broke into the prison. There was chaos as reports flooded in that they were under attack by their own people, that some demonic madness had seized their brethren who now came underground to release their fellow miscreants. It was surrounded by the sounds of running feet, of distant screams, and shouted orders that Golonda and Aweldessa parted ways for the last time. Golonda wanted to crush her lover against her breast and never let her go, to keep her safe, but she hadn't worked so hard and endured so much to throw away her duty now, and so they went their separate ways.
The fight was valiant, but in vain. Tyrande actually freed hardened criminals from their rightful place behind iron bars to aid her in slaying their jailors, all in the name of releasing one elf who she believed would aid them against the Burning Legion. And to think there were some who later called Golonda mad….
Done with her duties of locking down the southern wing of the jail behind massive iron gates she used her warden ability to blink, or teleport short distances, to the other side and hasten to Aweldessa's side. She was supporting Carfax, the Keeper of the Grove who was in charge of growing the prison's food and maintaining the small groves that were the only connection to the wilderness that they all had walked in so long ago. Not even Golonda's mighty stride could carry her to her love's side fast enough, and the battle was long over when the Under-warden finally arrived.
The Keeper lay dead, his mighty centaur body riddled with arrows and oozing cuts. A son of the forest demi-god, his powers were formidable, and he could have continued to tend Ashenvale forever, but now the only purpose he could serve the lands was fertilizing the ground with his corpse. He wasn't the only one dead however, not by far. Night elf bodies littered the area, their blood soaking into the grove's soil, spattered on the delicate flowers that Awel and Golonda had tended together, on the trunks of the trees that had given them the fruit to eat at their meals. It was carnage. Fearing the worst, her breath coming in rapid gasps and mouth agape the Under-warden stumbled amongst the bodies, looking for Aweldessa. Elune, Cenarius, please anyone or anything listening, let her be alive!
Golonda's search ended abruptly, the warden sliding to a stop as she dropped to her knees, dry sobs already racking her body as she reached down and cradled Awel's still, bloody form in her arms. She had died from an arrow through the throat, a white-fletched one, and there was a large patch of burnt flesh around the wound, telling the bereaved elf that it was the moon priestess Tyrande Whisperwind and her enchanted arrows that had slain her love. The solitary night elf wailed, lifting her head up to the dark ceiling above her, trying to see to the very sky above them, to that softly glowing moon that was supposed to be the caretaker and provider to the entire Kaldorei race. As her screams of pain and loss echoed throughout the chamber, something broke inside of Golonda Silvernight, Underwarden to the Barrow Prison. Nothing made sense anymore. The lawful were slain by the lawless, the elves she had dedicated her life and ten millennia beneath the earth away from the sky, the wind and the trees to protect had instead killed her love and freed the most dangerous of them all. It was as if Golonda was a pitcher, and everything good and decent in her had suddenly drained out of her through that hole in her heart. There was no justice, no love, no order in the world anymore, nothing worth working for or worth fighting for.
Hearing the anguished cries the remaining guards hurried to the grove, only to stand dumb-struck by the devastation and the pitiable figure of Golonda still bent over the cold body of her love. As they approached, their hearts rent with pity for the grieving elf, Golonda gently let Awel's body slide from her arms and rose swiftly to her feet. When she wheeled about sharply one of the elves had tried to say something, but whatever it was had been cut short as Golonda's moon glaive sliced through her unarmored neck. The whirring silver disk the weapon had become didn't stop there though, slicing through two others before it began to swing back towards Golonda, summoning it back to her enchanted forearm guard. The guards staggered back as they beheld the twitching bodies of their dead comrades and the mask of pure fury that was fixed on the Under-warden's face. They did not run fast enough. Centuries of training had given her the ultimate edge, while her subordinates, who had merely maintained their current level of skill, fell like tall stalks of grass before her shining blade. The time for screaming was far from over.
Golonda killed any who crossed her path, her expression and blood-soaked body marking her easily as an enemy to those who encountered her. She felt nothing as she cut them down, blinking through their arrows, savagely striking down more with her hands and feet as her blade continued to cut a swathe through their ranks. While a supreme warrior, she cared nothing for her own health, accepting cut, blows and even a few arrows that had caught her off guard. She was a berserker who wouldn't stop until she was dead.
Some time later, while her latest batch of slaughtered comrades lay bleeding out on the stone behind her, a severely injured Golonda staggered drunkenly along the hall, broken arrow stumps protruding from her thigh, shoulder and calf, her clothes rent from blades and her face ashen from blood loss. She was dying, she knew that. Her vision was closing in around her, her own shuffling footsteps sounding so distant to her ears. She would die and never get revenge on Tyrande for her murderous actions. Tears spilled from her blood-shot eyes, mixing with the blood on her face and trailing down her long neck. Ahead, a soft blue blow lit the hall, and Golonda staggered towards it.
A shining beacon stood before her, at the end of the dark tunnel that had become her field of vision. There was Aweldessa, suspended in the air and beckoning her with gentle motions, looking so beautiful, so peaceful. Golonda stumbled but stubbornly got back to her feet, determined to at least die with her love. The Under-warden, her strength finally spent, lurched forward and collapsed with her arm out-stretched, passing through the heavenly image of Awel. Golonda closed her tired eyes and let the darkness take her, knowing that Aweldessa was waiting for her on the other side.
When she awoke sometime later to the sounds of footsteps on stone, she was not cradled in the arms of her beloved, but still face-down on the gritty floor of the underground prison. "She's still alive!" someone exclaimed, and the footsteps increased their pace, until they came to a shuffling stop around her. Someone gingerly rolled her onto her back, a collective gasp resounding at her condition. Golonda's murderous rage had long fled her, leaving her with only with a cold emptiness and a bitter sense of being cheated. As her eyes focused on her fellow elves and upon Warden Shadowsong's visage she realized that they did not know who had slain all of those other elves, most likely believing it to be Tyrande and her traitorous retinue.
"Elune smiles on you this day, Under-warden," Maeiv said as Golonda was helped to her feet, " you managed to get close enough to the fountain of healing to prevent yourself from dying. From the looks of things you certainly gave the intruders hell. I would expect no less of you."
If only she knew the irony of her words, Golonda thought, standing under her own power. The soothing light she had seen was not that of Awel's aura, but the glow of the enchanted spring which greatly accelerated a living creature's ability to mend. She stumbled towards death, only to fall firmly back into the hands of life. A bittersweet smile crossed her blood-caked features.
"There's still time then, time for…" she said, holding up her hand and slowly curling it into a fist.
"For justice, yes. We will hunt down the traitors Illidan and Tyrande, and bring them both to singularly brutal justice." Warden Shadowsong agreed, with the night elves around her nodding grimly.
Golonda looked to her superior, the word 'revenge' was the one she was about to use, but she let it pass. Let them think her still an ally for now, even though she found she detested even the sight of them. All the better to slip free from the last of her constraints and seek her vengeance without interruption. This was not how it would work out for her though. Skilled as she was Tyrande was too well-guarded for Golonda to seek out and destroy by herself, so she entered a devil's bargain with the Shadow Council. She would serve their needs, and they would open a path to Tyrande for her.
There was a noise, a small noise, a light crunch of limestone under a booted foot just outside her door. It was such a tiny amount of sound, yet her sweeping ears heard it clearly. Acting out of reflex her moon glaive launched from her forearm with a whipping motion of her arm, sending the deadly weapon into the rough wooden planks that made up her door, the entire rickety structure shuddering violently from the forceful impact. Fully awake now, Golonda realized once again where she was, so caught up in her memories has she been. That human worm Muirdo had come to summon her for another task, and had that door not been there….
Muirdo was in some respects a brave man. He stood before all sorts of summoned demons and undead specters in the past, holding to the belief that his willingness to serve them would keep him safe. This strange, psychotic woman, however, chilled him like no demon could. She cared as little for his life as she did an ant crossing her path, and always seemed a hair's breadth of control away from killing everyone around her. When he had been bid by Master Dracol to bring her before him for her next murder, he did so only because if he hadn't, his usefulness would have surely expired in Dracol's eyes, an equally dangerous proposition. Walking up to the door and about to knock, the wooden door suddenly shook, an inch-and-a-half of curving silver metal sticking through one of the planks in perfect line with his forehead. Shuddering from the brush with death the robed man staggered back and fell, then scrambled to his feet and scurried off to the relative safety of his master's side. The message had been delivered. May the gods help whomever she was sent after tonight.
"Oh, you'll enjoy this one, my dear assassin. Consider it a dress rehearsal for your inevitable bloody revenge against the moon-witch Tyrande." Suul Dracol purred, his fingers steepled before his pale, angular face. Golonda remained impassive, still as a statue.
"A Kaldorei diplomat and his guards have recently arrived in Theramore. Kill as many of them as you like, but be sure to kill the druid and leave a message as you have in the past. As for what I require from him, " he explained, reaching behind him and producing a small glass bottle that shone a reddish hue in the light. The top was tipped with what looked like a metal bee's stinger, sharp and sinister in its unassuming form.
" Kill the druid and stick the needle within him. The item will do the rest. Three more murders, night elf, and you are on your way back to Ashenvale, your duties to me fulfilled."
Dracol lightly tossed the bottle to Golonda, who caught it effortlessly and swallowed it up under her cloak. Three more deaths, and she could finally return to her life's work, bringing justice back to the unjust, exacting measure for measure, a life for a life. Sleep well, Tyrande, Golonda thought to herself as she turned and strode from the chamber. These are the last nights of peaceful sleep you will ever know.