Disclaimer: Blizzard still not mine.
Redemption: Chapter 3
*****
Illidan awoke in the middle of the night, slightly amused at his inconsistent sleeping schedule as he fixed the blindfold over his eyes. The girl by his side drew breath slowly, her chest rising and falling almost rhythmically. He cringed, remembering her reaction the last time she woke next to him, instantly mourning the loss of her warmth as he moved to his own bed.
What was her name? He felt foolish always thinking of her as 'the elf girl' when he could simply ask what she was called.
But then again, she never spoke. Should he try healing her throat? He didn't really have the expertise necessary to work on such a vital part of her anatomy. For all he knew, she just chose to remain silent.
He shuffled his pile of straw closer to hers. The poor girl had endured so much -- and her odd behavior lately worried him. Why would she abuse herself so? The little voice in the back of his mind told him what he was afraid to think: she had been raped. And that probably explained her fear of him as she woke next to him. But he couldn't help her if she didn't speak.
She shifted in her sleep and her hair fell into her face. Illidan reached out to tuck it behind her ear, wondering if the ear would ever grow back.
They looked rather charming, really. Not as awkwardly upright as the high elves' ears, but shorter and more manageable than those of the night elves. And the half-ear was strangely cute, taking the edge off her almost intimidating beauty.
But sleep returned to claim its right on Illidan's consciousness, pulling his mind to the colorful and mystical world of dreams.
*****
She remembered feeling puzzled even before she woke. And as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she couldn't help but smile at the sight before them.
Illidan was sprawled out over the floor, one hand stretched towards her, his other limbs distributed at random. The look on his face was rather like a child's, deceptively innocent and peaceful.
He lacked the majestic beard most male night elves wore. Perhaps the hair would never grow back. Did he even have one to begin with? Maybe he shaved it to represent his banishment, his exile from his people.
She, too, was an exile, but not by anyone's decree or her own behavior -- no, the unlucky mix of races in her blood branded her an outcast of both nations in her heritage.
The Darkspear trolls welcomed her family to their islands with open arms, happily accepting any help with the murlocs. And when the baby girl was born, the new parents never found themselves in want of help or advice.
And then the orcs came, bringing the trolls and her family to safety, settling them in a small village in Durotar.
When she came of age, teachers of every art mastered by both orcs and trolls stepped forward to train her. While she gave every one an honest chance, the opportunity to work with the spirits could not be passed up, and the daughter of a high elf mage and a kaldorei hunter became a shaman.
A damned good shaman, according to her teachers.
But she had led that get to her head, traveling to Outland before she was truly ready, and look where it got her. Beaten, abused, and trapped, finally having to depend on Illidan himself for her survival.
Right on cue, he stirred awake and she pretended to sleep.
"Hey there, little elf." He patted her cheek, then fixed the cloak over her, all the while thinking out loud about small, insignificant things. He left, returning after a while with a warm drink that smelled of cinnamon and herbs, and she'd tasted it before but couldn't identify it.
His heavy hand patted her shoulder softly. She moaned, pretending to just wake up. He felt her forehead, the pulled back her robe to examine the scab on her shoulder. It oozed slightly, so he grabbed a bowl of warm water and gently washed it, no longer trusting her to wash herself.
Then he gave her the drink, and it reminded her so much of home with the trolls and the orcs that she nearly cried. She couldn't finish it.
Illidan's brow furrowed. Why such a reaction to this drink? Few elves ever tried it since it was more a favorite of the tauren, though she might have had it if she hung out with druids.
Perhaps she simply didn't like it. He took it from her, preparing something a bit more typical of the night elves.
She cringed at the taste, reaching for the first drink and cradling it in her hands, looking so sad it almost brought tears to his eyes. The girl was so complicated!
"What's your name?"
She fidgeted with the earthenware mug. Perhaps she didn't know Darnassian? He asked again in Thalassian.
"Aila Shadowfox." She spoke with a strange accent he couldn't identify. It certainly wasn't Darnassian or Thalassian. Maybe she wasn't raised by her parents.
She didn't seem willing to talk, though. Illidan force back the questions that bubbled up his throat at the discovery that she did have a voice. A rather exotic voice.
He'd never heard the name 'Shadowfox' before. Perhaps it was new, a sort of title given to one who embodied everything the name meant, like all night elf names began. But what could this meek creature have done to earn the name?
Aila fidgeted. Her look of discomfort prompted Illidan to fly her to the ground to relieve herself.
It was then that she pulled strength and magic from the elements themselves, healing her body completely.
A shaman.
He'd never heard of a shamanistic elf. Maybe she studied with the draenei? That might explain the strange accent.
Illidan's stare sent chills down Aila's spine. Sometimes, night elves were truly creepy. She'd hoped, now that she was healed, he'd let her go. But one look at his face and her hope was thoroughly quashed. He didn't even seem to consider it. Instead, he flew her back up to the straw beds and left her there.
He had to get away. Her blatant use of magic in his presence stimulated his addiction. Shamans had the most intoxicating flavor, and he would have drained her until she died.
In his distance from civilization, his self-control must have slipped. A lot.
He fed savagely on the ethereals within Auchindoun, happily sating his hunger with something other than fel magic. It wouldn't do for him to retch all over the beds.
So, she was still trapped. At least the spirits embraced her again, curling around her protectively, comforting and soothing her pain. But they couldn't save her completely. Or could they?
Aila called to the wind, asking for help, asking for rescue, asking for a safe flight to Shattrath City. The wind complied, howling around the small structure, whispering to her, telling her to trust, to stand, to fly.
And she flew to Shattrath.
Illidan began to panic as he flew back to his home, sensing the elemental magic centered around the small house. And as the winds picked up around him, moving towards it, he raced after them. Was Aila in trouble?
And the wind whirled, picking up his ward and carrying her away.
She left. She left of her own will, without so much as a backwards glance, even after all he had done for her.
Every old arakkoa building, save for his own, exploded. He and Malfurion certainly lived up to their last name.
All Aila left for him was her scent on his cloak. His fingers burned as he prepped a fireball, but he couldn't bring himself to destroy the thing. Instead, he curled up in the corner, hugging it to himself, trying to sleep.
*****
Apparently the wind had a flair for the dramatic, bringing her to the Terrace of Light, depositing her before A'dal himself. Several people stared. A shaman smiled at her.
A'dal's chiming sounded rather amused. To her relief, he spoke to her the same was she communicated with the spirits.
So, young one, you come to Shattrath seeking shelter?
Well, more like guidance...
Ah, but your motivation to come here was a need to escape, not to learn.
She convinced herself she would stay in Shattrath to seek guidance. That seemed to satisfy the naaru, and he embraced her, then sent her on her way to speak to the Grand Anchorite. Almonen smiled and treated her much like a daughter, sharing with her his understanding of the Light and handing her some gold with the suggestion that she could use a new set of armor. An orc hunter happily filled that need, crafting her a fine set for a very reasonable price.
Stalking around Lower City, she chatted with some trolls she had been acquainted with in her home village. A shaman she had trained with launched his furry ghost wolf self at her, yipping in excitement as she transformed into a translucent fox. They scuffled for a bit, then returned to their normal selves. He pulled her into a nearly crushing hug, laughing.
"Aila! It's so good to see you! I didn't think you'd be in Outland yet."
"Good to see you, too, Brody." She squirmed in his arms, but the tauren was relentless.
"No escaping!" He nuzzled her head despite her protests. "Someone has to be your big brother and make you hate affection of any kind, right?"
Her reply made him roar in laughter. But his smile faded as he saw the sad, weary expression on her face. With his arm around her shoulder, he led her to his tent, fixing her a warm, creamy mug of something delicious, then softly asking what had happened.
With a sob, she began her story of how blood elves kidnapped her in Terokkar.
