Warcraft IV: Generations
Disclaimer: You know the drill, I don't own any of this. That's Blizzard's territory
A/N: I won't bother you with the long-winded tale of my travels since last I graced this site. The point is I'm back, and this yarn in particular has been stewing in my creative juices.
Verse III: Burning Bridges
The meditation was growing more difficult with each day. Illidan winced as he felt another probing tentacle of energy from...somewhere, trying to force it's way into his mind. And just as before, the tentacle receded as soon as he tried to ascertain it's origin. These intrusions were unsettling, and their growing strength and frequency even more so. After convincing himself that he'd chased off he mental burglar, Illidan resumed his meditation. He focused on the the memory of the palm, the Guardian's Palm, and what it had held.
******
Illidan sat on the edge of his bunk processing what Midev had just told him. He'd heard stories of Baalrin at the academy, thousands of years ago. The official story was that the Demon Hunter's had been born out of his people's natural place on the fence between this world and the world of magic. That the ritual blindness and tattoos and crescent blades had been introduced by different members of the High Council and the superstitious natures of the early member's of the Order.
But there had always been whispers of another story. One in which an elf had given up his very soul and a portion of the soul's of his disciples to spare Kalimdor from some primordial evil. Baalrin had paid this price,and even succeeded in saving his people. But he was feared for the power he'd received in return. And then he vanished.
Illidan's thoughts were interrupted by Midev.
"I take it I have your agreement then? The blades are the only way to save Azeroth.' the wizard traced the gnarls of his staff with his thumb. He continued, 'However, you must first learn to harness Kil'jaden's energies if you are to succeed. The tauren will not trust anything even remotely demonic, for good reason. If you meditate on what I'm about to show you, you can hide the taint in your blood, and in the process mask yourself somewhat from Ner'zul's spies." The Guardian approached Illidan and stretched out his hand, palm open. The air in the room began to swirl and coalesce in the center of Mediv's hand as Illidan watched in a mix of astonishment and horror. "Don't be afraid Illidan, despite all the doors you've closed, many more paths are opened." The light grew from the wizard's palm, encompassing everything, infecting every synapse of Illidan's mind until finally his wounded psyche could take no more.
*******
Again he felt himself shaken loose by his own soul, unwilling to force the crucial change he'd been striving towards for nearly 4 hours. The Demon Hunter was not fond of being so utterly overpowered, but what the prophet had shown him had shaken him to the core. His leathery wings furled and released over and over again, a nervous habit he'd developed since his...transformation. He settled again, determined to get this right before he addressed his generals. Quieting his mind, Illidan focused on the images Mediv had shown him:
Slowly, the first image formed; it was of him and his brother, conquering Ashara side by side. No evil magicks, no trickery, just his blades and and Malfurion's druidic powers. The Well of Eternity was shattered by the dark empress, but the twins vowed to rebuild, together. Slowly the empire again took form, with the brothers at the helm.
Then he saw the rise of the Scourge, the conquering of Lorderon, and the Alliance's journey East. Illidan convincing Tyrande that the sooner a bond was forged between the newcomers, the better they'd be able to fight the Legion. Without his brother casting him out of the camp near Hyjal, Illidan never fell prey to Arthas' pretty words of power and the Skull of Gul'dan. Tichondrias was crushed by the joint forces of the Horde, Alliance, and Silvermoon, and Archimonde soon followed suit.
Finally, Illidan saw himself and a female night elf, walking side by side through Silvermoon. It wasn't Tyrande, without his rage and madness spawned from many millenia of imprisonment Illidan had been able to move on from his obsession and learn to be genuinely happy for his brother. The girl was Maiv, beautiful and untouched by the same insanity, born from centuries of guarding the Betrayer alone in the dark silence of the Barrows. He was smiling and laughing with her, truly happy.
A life almost lived. If not for his own sins and arrogance, all of that could have been his. The images were beyond mere hindsight or what-could've-beens. They felt like true memories, even down to the smell of Maiv's hair. And then he remembered the prophet's parting words. He may have closed the door on that life, but was it really possible for him to find a new one? To find redemption? Even,dare he hope, happiness? The blades were his one chance to find the answers, and so he locked his powerful mind onto the image of himself and Maiv, held that phantom feeling of joy and contentment with the tenacity of a dragon's jaws. Slowly, he felt his wings begin to draw inward and his horns began to melt back into his skull. Ignoring the intense pain of his body and spirit re-arranging themselves, he clamped down harder on the memories that weren't quite his. He felt the demonic power begin to spiral inward into a small singularity, dense with the force of his rage and his hatred. When he felt it solidify and he could no longer feel the taught expanse of his wings, he forced the devilsh orb of psychic energy deep into his guts. There it would wait, patiently, for whenever he would need it's frightening power and release it again.
Illidan sat still, his heartbeat erratic. He slowly ran a hand up his face and breathed a sigh of relief when he found his forehead smooth and unmarked by horns. He stood slowly, correcting his balance in the absence of his prodigious wingspan.
He gritted his teeth, the grimace slowly twisting into a grin.
"Now for walking."