Author's Notes:
Yep, I'm back.
I think.
At least, for a chapter or so anyway.
That was a long intermission I know. For any of you who have read the previous chapters already, and take the time to read them again to remind yourselves of the plot, I am so terribly sorry and so humbly grateful for your patronage.
Ж
Act II Scene I
Hope and Desperation
Ambryn was outlined against the morning light streaming through the window. It traced his curls with radiant fingers and embraced the shape of his body through the translucent lavender sleeping robe he wore. He looked like spun crystal to Nathiel's eyes, beautiful but so terribly delicate, fragile enough to shatter beneath careless hands. He stared out into the bright morning, his arms wrapped around him.
Stared south.
Nathiel knew the place where his human beloved's thoughts lingered, there in the great, emerald-forested north of Kalimdor, high in the great leafy boughs of shadowed Teldrassil, among the moonlit alabaster marble columns and clear reflecting pools of Darnassus and the fey, ancient, powerful people that dwelt in their midst. He felt a moment's frustration at Fate's fickle caprice, choosing this moment, out of all the centuries he'd lived before it, to intrude on the love he'd finally found and attempt to tear it from his iron grasp.
What tangled threads indeed, woven by destiny's callous hands, threatening to pit his love against his own people. It was the web of some twisted, depraved spider that fed on the ephemeral hopes of the living. This prophecy was an abomination.
Nathiel shook his head. It wasn't like him to mope, and it wasn't good for Ambryn to brood. Justifiable? Probably. Necessary? Not if Nathiel had anything to say about it, and he planned to have an eloquent argument indeed.
Breath-Stealer was locked in a long, flat box in the main room, the two foot-long elementium blade and its mounting waiting only for a haft to be locked into place, the dark, potent enchantments slumbering within still harsh and relentless as ever.
It was that very power that had made him send it away until a moment of dire need arose. He couldn't think of a greater need than now.
"That thing you brought back."
Nathiel blinked, startled out of his thoughts. Ambryn wasn't looking at him. He continued to face the window.
"Do you really plan to use it?" Ambryn's voice was soft, carrying the weight of a world of regrets.
Nathiel got up and pulled Ambryn tenderly back into his arms, holding him close. "Only if I need to. I swear it." His next words were more for Ambryn's benefit than because he truly believed them. "It may not come to that."
"I hope it doesn't have to." The words were a plaintive whisper. "I can feel it. I can sense its terrible power."
Nathiel held the embrace for a moment, trying to think of something else to say. Nothing came to mind. But things to do . . .
He brought his head in close to Ambryn's lovely neck, breathing in the scent of him, touched with just that faint hint of cool mint, mingling with the scent of soap and his own natural smells. It was a reassuring scent. An arousing one.
His lips parted a hair's breadth from that pale skin, and he breathed out.
Ambryn shivered in his arms. Nathiel kissed his skin, lightly, tenderly. This was a magic he could rely on, a spell he needed no magecraft to weave, a primal bond between them. In these small moments, these heartbeats of passion, they spoke more than mere words could convey to each other, a language of touches, caresses, looks, kisses. The words were just an affirmation of this union, however sweet and vindicating their sound.
He might not have the words to soothe all of Ambryn's fears and misgivings, to banish them from the waking world. But this - this he could do.
There would be more. There would be much more. A proper wedding, for one thing. For himself, for Ambryn, but most of all to let the world know that his sweet human lover was spoken for, was irrevocably taken.
He would suffer no rivals, allow no adversaries. Ambryn belonged to him, and him alone, body and soul.
Forever.
Ж
The air felt dry, Annatta thought for the first time in her life since she'd entered Dalaran's walls. This far above the world, there was no rain. Moisture was supplied through inconspicuous magic, discreet, spellcrafted dew that glimmered on leaves and buds day in and day out - a gleaming shimmer under the light of sun and moon and stars and the eldritch luminance of the city's own lights.
It still took her breath away, the memory of a night after a rare sojourn beyond Dalaran's wards and violet roofs, watching from griffon-back as it floated atop a bank of storm clouds, an island on a ghostly, tossing black sea, lightning flickering like harsh, irregular heartbeats, bursts of glaring, blazing, brilliant blue in the dark depths. The neon lights of the city had danced on contrasting snow-white alabaster spires and soaring samite walls, found vivid reflections in polished marble of deep, rich royal purple. She'd thought it impossibly lovely then, inspiring and majestic in its glorious seat in the heavens.
But the rain never crested those walls, never fell among those spires, not any more.
It felt as though the sky should have been pouring out its grief along with hers, sharing in her loss, gray veils thick with chill rain masking sun and moon and stars from sight, dimming the lights, cloaking the streets in fog, cloistering its inhabitants in misty, cold solemnity appropriate to the gravity of the circumstances.
But there was no rain, not at such an altitude.
The best she'd managed to find was one of the fountains in the public squares, not too gaily lit. A young elven girl half-knelt, looking as though she'd stumbled, perhaps half-fallen, the ewer in her slender, delicate hands half-tipped, its bottom braced against one bent knee, her features fixed in never-ending dismay as she watched water tumble endlessly from its mouth.
If Annatta held her head just right, she'd didn't see the staring stone turtles and one extremely and very apparently shocked pheasant under the fall of water. She could ignore the bear cub sitting on its rump and looking very cute and mildly alarmed to the elf-maid's left. From where she was standing she could pretend the three platypi poking their duck-billed faces curiously out of a cleverly-carved screen of reeds were just very, very detailed and uniformly-shaped rocks.
It took rather more effort on the part of her imagination than she'd have liked, but she was making do as best she could to pretend that the scene was at least mostly depressing.
Damn these witty human artists, she thought harshly to herself, finally giving up. There had to be at least one depressing monument or fountain around here somewhere. The city had been sacked by demons for pity's sake! Twice!
Of course, a small part of her pointed out as she turned away from the fountain and stalked off in a dissatisfied huff, crimson skirts clutched in her hands, maybe that was exactly what they were trying to avoid thinking about. Really, when she considered it in that light, she supposed she couldn't honestly blame them.
Still, she wished it would rain, even if only to dull the edges of the world around her, soften it, take away a little of the light and color so that it didn't feel quite so sharp.
So that its purity and brilliance didn't remind her quite so much of sweet, wounded Ambryn.
Annatta had to stop and unclench her fists at the thought. She looked down at her palms, studying the livid red marks against her pale, golden, lovely skin, soft and smooth. She wondered at how those hands couldn't reflect the blackness of her deceit. There wasn't a smudge or even the slightest fleck of dirt, no blemish but those she'd made, and those would fade quickly enough. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
Rending her garments like in the old tales and wailing wouldn't do much good. Not only would people look at her strangely, but self-flagellation had an inherent sort of insincerity to it. It certainly wouldn't make things better between them. Ambryn might take pity on her. He might feel even worse.
She cut off that train of thought and took another deep, calming breath.
Nathiel would guard him, protect him, see him safe – of that she had no doubt.
Only she wanted to be there herself, let her distantly-related dusk-colored kin know that golden fire waited to eagerly devour any who wished Ambryn ill. She wanted to protect Ambryn, make him smile when his face grew too sad, hold his hand and reassure him when he was afraid, listen to the rich sound of his laugh, and bask in the warmth of his blessed soul. She wanted it so much that it hurt.
She wanted, more than anything else, to tell him that she was sorry.
Something sparked in her memory then, a recollection of jasmine and rose and lilac and lavender and a dozen others, flower petals still sweet with faint, ancient scents, a well-worn binding and smooth, aged paper. Sweet, silly, simple poetry that romanticized not the magic of this place, but the mundane things of ordinary, everyday life. It was a mad idea, but it felt right.
Maybe she couldn't tell him herself that she was sorry, not this time, but she could at least apologize to someone else, someone who had touched her soul, even if only briefly.
Much like the Kal'dorei of Kalimdor who were their ancestors and even the humans, the Quel'Dorei held a certain veneration for the departed, believing that one's ancestors continued to watch over their descendants, that their sacrifices should be honored and remembered, their mortal remains treated with dignity and respect.
The Kirin Tor were no different in this belief, only radically different in their handling of it.
The memory of the Scourge was yet fresh in the memory of Dalaran and her people. Battles were fought not just for the sake of the living, but over the very remains of the dead. The Kirin Tor, scarred by their battles with the very Burning Legion itself, had taken steps that some might consider extreme.
Annatta thought it only very appropriate as she stopped and purchased a small candle of incense, then made her way to the Last Tower.
One might have thought it a fortress by the name, a last redoubt, and in a sense, that was true. It was where every member of the Kirin Tor came eventually to rest in eternal peace, surrounded by spells and magics in death as they had been in life, a realm not physically present on the mortal plane, but a space shaped of magic itself, the powers that guarded it ensuring that no necromantic craft, no corruption, would ever take root within.
There had been no graveyards left behind in Alterac. The Kirin Tor had brought their beloved dead with them. They would always be with them, and there was a very real comfort in that.
Annatta looked up at the Last Tower as she approached it, surrounded by its ring of arches and the quiet cloisters reserved for the grieving, to the only domed top among Dalaran's spires that was white rather than the traditional rich violet purple, and felt a little of the burden on her heart ease at last.
She walked forward into the opaque mists, feeling spells brush against her thoughts, sensing the one for whom she sought. That too, was part of the magic of this place. Only those who came in reverence, with no thoughts of defilement, would ever find what they were looking for.
Marianne Dellani's sarcophagus floated on the other side of the small circle that had cleared in the pearl gray fog, and Annatta stopped, struck for a moment by just the sight of the life-like carvings in the polished white marble. It was easy to see that she'd been a remarkably beautiful woman. She would have stood out even among elf-kind. The reliefs of her hair were wavy, curly locks, her features delicate yet possessed of a certain strength, cheekbones prominent without being too solid, brow gracious. She had a small, faint smile on her lips. One stone hand clasped the shape of a book to her bosom. The fingers of the other were curved gently around what looked to have been a plush lion.
Tears came to Annatta's eyes, and she knelt, setting the candle before the sarcophagus, lighting it with a single, quick wisp of conjured flame. The flicker of the flame and the way it danced on the pale stone almost lent the still features a semblance of life, awakening a soft gleam that eased the cold hardness of the sculpted marble.
"You . . . might not know me," she began after a moment. "But I know Ambryn . . . and I'm sure you're very proud of him. He . . . he has such a good heart. I imagine he's a lot like you in that way." She looked up into those faintly smiling features, studying them, seeing little resemblances – the lines of the eyes, the slant of the nose, the shape of the lips.
"I came here . . ." Annatta paused, took a deep breath, and felt tears slide down her cheeks. "I came here to say I'm sorry, truly sorry, for what I almost did to him. I realize that it'd probably be awfully hard for you to forgive me. If you can't, I understand. I just . . . I got so tangled up in what I wanted – what I thought I needed. I lost my way. I knew why I was doing it, but I'm not sure it was the right "why" if that even makes any sense." She brushed the tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand, imagined that maybe, just maybe through the blurriness, those stone features softened a little. She sniffled. "So, I'm sorry. I know you'll watch out for Ambryn. You have a wonderful son. I'm grateful for the time that I got to know him, to share with him, to have with him as his friend. He was very good to me. I . . . I wish I'd been a better friend to him."
For a moment, Annatta just sat back on her heels. She felt drained, empty, tired, but it was a good tiredness, as if the last of a poison had drawn from a wound. She out one last, long, shuddering breath and closed her eyes, trying to reclaim her composure.
"Always beaten to the punch." Hector's tone was rueful, and it was really rather sad.
Her surprise lasted for a mere heartbeat before her rage consumed it in a flash of ire. Annatta leaped to her feet, dashing tears angrily from her face. "What are you doing here!?" Her voice was a threatening hiss, promising dire retribution.
For a long moment, Hector just looked at her. She studied him back. In truth, he looked rather the worse for wear, as though he hadn't slept in days, hair mussed, blue eyes bloodshot, stubble on his jaw, wearing armor that looked to have more than a little of the dust of the road still on it.
He half-shrugged, holding up the candle in one hand, expression worn. "I came here for the same thing you did – to say sorry." He shook his head, and stepped forward, limping slightly. "If there's anyone who's ever been forgiving in that family, it's Marianne."
Annatta continued to eye him mistrustfully, though in truth she did feel the slightest bit guilty for immediately assuming he was up to no good. "Are you hurt?"
Irritation crossed his handsome, chiseled features. "Took a fall getting off my horse. It's nothing." He stopped next to her, and then paused. He held out his candle after a moment, expression returning to more of its previous hangdog look. "Help me out?"
Mostly compelled by propriety, but also remembering when the man had taken pity on her, and feeling just the tiniest bit of pity in turn, she lit the candle for him, a blaze blooming between her fingertips, brightening as the wick caught.
Hector didn't immediately set the candle down, just looked down at it for a moment, and then up at the sarcophagus, brow slightly furrowed. "I knew her, back when I was a boy. Sweetest woman I ever knew. The Ambassador – he says she was the hardest woman he ever met, scared the daylights out of him. It's a little hard to believe, you know?" He was silent for a moment. His voice grew quiet. "But I can almost see it in her face now, the way Ambryn looked at me . . . so cold . . ."
"Watch your mouth!" The snarled words were past Annatta's lips and hanging on the air before she'd thought better of them.
Hector looked over at her, startled, almost as though he'd forgotten she was still present. He shook his head, got down awkwardly on his knees with a grimace, and set the candle next to hers.
"Whatever Tybalt may have said about you, whoever you were before I knew you . . ." Hector looked up at Marianne and shook his head. "It doesn't matter now. I know who you were. I knew you as a mother, and I respect you for it. I did wrong by you and Ambryn both. I was blinded by my need for him. I couldn't see that it wasn't me he needed in return, not in the way I wanted him to. I'm sorry, Marianne, and I should have known better. I promise you, this time I'll make you proud. This time, I'll look to his happiness before looking for my own at his expense, Light as my witness."
The last words sent a wave of unease washing over Annatta, not for herself this time, but for Ambryn, because she didn't like the sound of that final part. She turned and stalked out of the Last Tower.
She couldn't defile that sacred space with violence, so Hector was safe for now at least. There was one thing, though, that she could do. Before she'd more than half-realized her own intentions, her steps had turned towards Ambryn's apartment building.
Her resolve carried her as far as the broad white paving stones of the street just outside before it failed her.
She knew full well that Ambryn would be home. Unless Nathiel coaxed him out, then he was, to be honest, something of a homebody. In the beginning she'd found that useful because it meant she had less competition for his attention, and really, her only main competitor then had been the very male she had hoped Ambryn would ensnare.
But the more she'd gotten to know him, the more she'd come to treasure the time they spent together, the moments that were just between the two of them, the friendship carefully nurtured in that kitchen where they'd cooked and talked and laughed, until she didn't want to share him, didn't want him to go anywhere else. She'd kept him safely cocooned there, like a secret, sparkling jewel in a velvet box. He'd been her own secret paradise, his apartment a hidden sanctuary where she found her soul calmed and warmed and reinvigorated.
Then Hector had come.
Ambryn had fallen well and truly in love.
Nathiel, the man who'd stolen the very heart Annatta had begun covet for herself, had become a constant presence.
Even then, the kitchen had been their place. Nathiel had even seemed to respect that, had never violated the boundaries of that sacred precinct in her presence without being bidden. He had respected their bond.
Before the hunters from Darnassus.
Before she'd ruined everything.
Annatta looked up at the tall bulk of the apartment building, windows gleaming in the late afternoon sun, and realized that she was trembling.
Fear was only part of it, embarrassment less than a shadow – the worst was the shame and the guilt, so deep in her she wondered if she'd ever be free of it, wondered if the darkness could ever be cleansed from her immortal soul. How could she possibly make amends? Where did she even begin to make a start?
You can start by trying.
For one stark, startled moment as the thought hit, it felt . . . not quite alien, but as though it almost belonged to someone else.
Annatta closed her eyes, centering herself around that quicksilver inspiration, the first light in what felt like a long year of darkness though in truth it had been only days. She could do it. She could make it right. She could be the friend she'd pretended to be, and then wanted to be. That she still wanted to be.
The words came back to her suddenly, only flush with new meaning, rich with a life they'd seemed to lack before.
I am Quel'dorei.
I am a descendant of King Dath'Remar Sunstrider.
I will feed upon nothing but the sun.
I will feed upon only purity.
I will not be corrupted.
Fire woke in her heart, golden flames that seemed to burn away the shadows that had clouded her thoughts. With a strange, distant sense of incredulity, she thought that now, more than ever, she'd found the true meaning in the mantra she'd clung to for five long years. She'd lost her way, but at long last, before it was too late, she'd found it. The corruption of the last line wasn't merely the dependence upon fel magic that plagued her people – it was the corruption of her own heart.
Determination was a heady drug racing through her veins, quickening her step. Head held high, chin up, clear blue eyes fixed on her destination, she strode briskly toward the doors of Ambryn's apartment building.
The waters of the Well of Eternity might never be hers, might be forever beyond her grasp, but if the price was Ambryn's affection, then it was a price that wasn't worth paying.
Her steps brought her to Ambryn's door far quicker than she would have thought, as though she didn't already know every step, as if she could have somehow forgotten the way the carpet met her shoes with that same soft whisper after months of walking it.
She paused in front of his door, feeling a mixture of apprehension and a strange sort of reverence rise up to mingle with the determination that still burned within.
Whatever happened after this, she had made her decision.
She would not abandon Ambryn. He was her friend, and as long as they lived, she would stand by his side, through whatever storms and danger might crest the horizon, through darkness and sadness, no matter what stood in their path.
Annatta took a deep, bracing breath, and knocked on the polished wood, feeling as much as hearing the soft echo of each knock, as though she timidly sought entry at the door of her own soul.
Perhaps, in a very real way, she did.
A moment tiptoed by, and she felt a brief moment of chagrin. Maybe he was out with Nathiel. Should she wait here? Downstairs? Maybe leave a note for-
The door opened.
Annatta froze with the suddenness of it, her heart in her throat, blood suddenly pounding loud in her ears, because Ambryn was right there, inches away, and his green eyes were startled in his pale face. Then his arms were around her, so blessedly tight, his flesh warm, and she hugged him back with fierce strength, feeling tears rolling down her cheeks, except that they weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of joy, and she felt as though her heart might burst with the radiance that swelled within it.
She was back.
Back where she belonged.
Ж
Feeling relaxed after a long nap with Nathiel, muscles loose, but knowing that the worst was still to come, Ambryn went to answer the door with more of a sense of resignation than anything else. Nathiel was out, but not for very long. He seldom left for more than a few minutes at a time, and Ambryn was selfishly grateful for that. He was the only thing that made this bearable.
He was the reason that Ambryn hadn't quietly traveled to Kalimdor already.
Of course, Nathiel didn't knock either.
Cautious curiosity came to the fore. Reiyad perhaps?
Ambryn hesitated.
Could it be someone else entirely?
He shook his head. Even the idea was stupid. His father almost assuredly had more eyes on the place than was reasonable. It was highly unlikely anyone would get in that wasn't supposed to. Almost irritated with himself, he marched forward, turned the handle, pulled the door open, and looked right into Annatta's wide blue eyes.
For a moment he couldn't believe what he was seeing, because he thought he'd likely never see her again. He'd believed her gone in his heart. Another loss he'd never truly get over. Another memory he'd look back on and regret in whatever time was left to him.
He couldn't help himself.
His arms were around her, and hers were around him, and they were crying, or laughing, maybe both, probably both, and his heart was racing with relief, and shameful gratitude, and he thought it might gallop right out of his chest it was thundering so hard.
He hesitated to let her go, but stepped back, suddenly afraid he'd overstepped the bounds of the remnants of their friendship, that this wasn't all he'd made it out to be, except that he looked into her eyes and saw the same reluctance to be apart just yet, so he relaxed his embrace, and smiled tremulously at her, wiping his cheek with his sleeve.
"I – won't you please come in?" he asked. Pleaded almost.
She nodded, eyes wet.
They spent the first couple of minutes just sitting at his table, drying their eyes, waiting for the sniffles to subside, sharing a box of green tissues and just smiling at each other. It felt somehow unreal, almost too good to be true, as if by either one of them moving too suddenly in the wrong direction they might shatter the moment. He took a deep breath, and braced himself.
"I'm sorry-"
"Don't." Annatta's voice came out sharp, expression turning fierce. "Don't you dare apologize, Ambryn. Not a word." She reached out and took his hand in hers, clasping his fingers tight. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. I was a coward. I was afraid, and I was . . . willing to do what I thought I had to. But I realized that I couldn't. So I'm here, because I want to be here. I am going to stay by you. You're my friend. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise."
Ambryn let out an unlovely hiccup, covering his mouth with a blush. "You don't have to."
"I do. I do, Ambryn. For you and me both. No matter what happens, I am not leaving you." She got up, and he found himself wrapped in another tight hug. She let him go after a moment, and sat back down. Then, with a rueful smile, she handed him another bright green tissue, and took one for herself so she could blow her nose.
Ж
Something was cooking. Nathiel could smell it on the air the moment he walked in, subtle and rich, just the odor mouthwatering. In the kitchen someone laughed, and he had to stop and take a deep breath, because his vision wanted to turn red at the edges at the sound of her voice.
He'd understood why she left. Understanding why she was back now was something else altogether. He hadn't forgiven her for the way she'd made Ambryn bleed, wasn't sure he ever would or even could. He took another deep, silent breath and unclenched his fists one knuckle at a time, waiting for the anger to subside.
And then there it was - a giggle - no more than a heartbeat, but the sound of Ambryn's joy soothed him, and Nathiel managed to rein in his temper, because it was genuinely happy. He padded soundlessly to the kitchen doorway.
"No really, I swear – he does this amazing thing with his tongue, and it's absolutely mind-blowing," Ambryn said enthusiastically, gesturing with the wooden spoon in one hand, expression earnest. "It's like he-"
Ambryn stopped in mid-word, because he'd turned and caught sight of Nathiel's smug, masculine grin of pure, undisguised self-satisfaction, and his face turned brilliant scarlet, and then blanched dead white. Annatta turned slowly, features just as pale, but her teeth were gritted, sky-blue eyes wide and fixed, as though she were preparing to ride out a hurricane in a rowboat.
"I didn't hear you come in," Ambryn said quietly.
Having just heard his praises sung with such obvious and oblivious enthusiasm, Nathiel was a little more inclined to leniency than he might have ordinarily been. He swaggered forward, clasping Ambryn's hips with his hands, looking down into those wide green eyes, and kissed him.
He took his time plundering Ambryn's mouth, and when he was done, Ambryn leaning weak-kneed against him, he glanced over to find Annatta looking at the floor, hands clasped in front of her, complexion turned a delicate shade of pink.
"Dinner smells good," he said generously, now in an altogether much better mood.
"We - Ambryn thought you might enjoy pasta with carabini. Lobster, crab, scallops, shrimp, some spices." Annatta managed to raise her eyes to meet his at last.
"Staying for dinner?" He knew she heard the real question, saw the flash of it in her eyes, and a little to his surprise, her jaw firmed, and she nodded crisply. She met his gaze full-on now.
Nathiel nodded. "Glad to have you, then."
He pretended not to notice the twin not-quite-silent sighs of relief as he prowled back out into the living room, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his lips. The pale-skinned highborn spawn was a bitch, but she was a bitch with backbone, and he could respect that. Appreciate it even, since she made Ambryn happy.
Nathiel relaxed onto the couch and stretched out his long legs. When Ambryn was happy, he was happy.
He was still planning on putting her out the door right after dinner though. Standards had to be upheld after all, and after that kiss, he was damn horny.
Actually, when it came to Ambryn he was pretty much always horny.
Nathiel leaned back, reached down to adjust himself, and smiled.
Ж
Ypsis licked her lips, tasting the remnants of fel fire in the dark fluid. There was something primal about feeding in this way, something powerful and visceral in the tearing of flesh, the drinking of blood. There was something darkly glorious in the hunt, the kill, the feast.
She sat back on her knees, heedless of the blood that dribbled down her bare breasts, glided, cooling, over her flat belly toward the apex of her slim thighs. Her rootlets rose, gnawing at the ravaged corpse, jagged teeth in dragon-headed vines snapping, consuming all but the clean-picked bones, cracking them open to devour the marrow, teething them even as they withdrew into the earth, leaving broken white ivory markers half-submerged in their wake.
This one had tried to run.
She had allowed it, had given chase, taking the shape of a wolf, her howls echoing through the lightless night forest, become a panther, growling from the boughs overhead, stalking body half-seen in the flickering light of his torch, its light dancing briefly in the gold of her eyes, become a great raven, buffeting him with her obsidian wings, feathers glinting.
She'd driven him, haunted him, hunted him, tormented him, until at last, he stumbled into the clearing where she waited, the glow of his torch barely more than a smolder. He'd fallen to his knees, saying something in his coarse tongue, pleading perhaps, exhausted and quaking with fear and weariness.
Ypsis had studied him. These orcs, as they were called, were relatively new to her. No such creature of her recollection had existed during the War of the Ancients that had birthed her. The satyrs, the imps, the demons – all these and so many more, she hunted as she had of old. The trolls she knew. The barbarian Tauren, the goblins – even the pale-skinned elfkin, surely another new shape of satyr by the fel taint they held, corruptions of her own people, she devoured without pause.
But these orcs – they had a strange flavor beneath the demons' charnel taste, a hint of something truly alien beyond even the demonic.
It was intriguing to her.
He'd started to lurch to his feet – perhaps to attack, perhaps to attempt to flee once more. The light had left his wide, staring eyes as her hand withdrew from his chest, holding his heart as it let out one last feeble quiver.
Demon thralls, these, almost certainly, but not from any of the worlds she knew.
It was all purely academic of course. She would not err from her purpose. She had been created for a reason.
She would devour every trace of Sargeras's minions, every tainted spark of unholy energy, drive them from every shadow and refuge. She would cleanse the dark night of the forest until only she remained to guard it.
She would hunt until every last one of her prey had been brought to bay and utterly consumed.
Ypsis took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.
There was something glorious about the hunt.
Ж
Tyrande Whisperwind stood alone on a balcony atop the Temple of the Moon, listening to the sigh of the trees, listening to the whispers the wind brought to her in the moonlight. She knew every sound, every birdcall, every rippling brook, every sussurruss of dancing grass.
And yet it was still new to her. This place, this refuge, this home – it was still so new to her people, and already it was scarred by their battles. She could feel it like a ghostly ache, the missing piece of Teldrassil, the immortal life that should have infused it absent.
Darnassus should have been their new beginning.
It felt more like the place where her people would dwindle into twilight.
Her gaze went to the north, and she wondered if this human child, barely a babe in the eyes of her people, might bring one or the other.
Ж
"You're sure?"
Tandira glanced up from her packing to meet Mishai's pale, rose-colored eyes, the soft pink radiance a compliment to the peach tones of her complexion. She managed a small smile, not because she thought the other priestess would truly be fooled, but because she needed to, because Mishai needed to see it.
"I am."
"You fear that the druids mean to move without consultation."
"Some among them, yes. Or their allies among the warrior clans, or the shadow-walkers. It would be a result we could ill afford, were their efforts to go awry." Tandira let the smile go, the little gesture having served what miniscule good it was capable of. "Our political minds fear war. I look to the dark side of the vision that Elune has granted us, to our counterparts in the Druidic Orders, and I see the possibility of something far worse. If we believe this prophecy will bear only evil fruit, then it may very well be a dark harvest indeed, and what we reap could be the very destruction we fear."
She set aside the silk blouse she held and took Mishai's right hand in her own. "In these times, when the evil seems nebulous, not fully understood, when it is not threat, but the fear of threat that may spell doom, now is just as important a time to trust in the will of the Goddess as in any crisis. If we walk by her light, then she will not fail us. She showed us the depth of love this human was capable of. Perhaps it is this very love that we must protect and cultivate. Perhaps it is by opening our own hearts that we shall secure his."
Mishai nodded after a moment. "You are very brave, sister." Her words were quiet.
"I have hope." Tandira let her own expression reflect the desperation she felt inside. "I must hope. I'm not sure what else to do. I don't know how to bring about one future and not the other. I'm not entirely certain it is the goddess' will that we do so. But I must hope in her. I must believe that this can end well."
"Then I too, shall hope." Mishai hugged her abruptly close. "It will not be the same without you here. Vaelomi is always lost in her oracles and her signs."
"I wouldn't say lost, sister." Vaelomi's tone was mildly irritable as she entered Tandira's bedchamber, arms folded. "Occupied perhaps. Intent on our work, certainly."
"Oblivious to the sound of the tea kettle, beyond all doubt." Mishai's sudden smile was impish.
Vaelomi's eyebrows rose ever so slightly. "My attention is meant for weighty affairs, and I'd remind you, sister, I'm not the only one who's let that tea kettle boil dry."
Tandira couldn't help but smile, clasping their hands in hers. "I shall miss you, sisters. It has been long since we were parted more than a space of hours."
"Well if we don't help you finish packing, that parting may be put off a while longer since you'll miss the tide." Vaelomi's tone was wry. She pulled one of Tandira's shirts from a drawer. "I have not been idle. You will have plentiful aid on your journey, and we will see you safely returned to Darnassus." Her gaze turned distant. "Indeed, it is here where the darkness begins to deepen in my auguries. Hurry back with the human child. I've no wish to face such darkness with our strength divided."
Tandira felt a foreboding chill. The tone was offhand, but the words were dire, the warning behind them only deepening her apprehension. "Here is where we are strongest, sister."
"So we are. In Teldrassil's boughs rests the greater part of our people. I have to hope, as you do, that this mortal child with eyes full of terrible love is meant to part that darkness, and not seal us beneath it."
It was with those words still murmuring in her ears and troubling her heart that Tandira left the Temple of the Moon, ghosting through the starlit shadows and among the alabaster pillars of Darnassus, moving quickly across the silver-drenched bridges, passing the sentinels who watched over this still-new refuge of an ancient people.
It was not a joyful hope that she had spoken of, there in the Temple chambers. Indeed, there was little of joy to be found in it. It was a hope born of desperation. It was not a hope that the light might triumph, might banish the darkness. It was a hope that the darkness at least might be borne, that by Elune's grace, the Kal'dorei people might pass through it. She had not even such hope as Vaelomi, to wish for victory.
Tandira hoped merely for her people's survival, because in spite of her own words, fear grew in her, coiled its black tendrils fast about her heart.
She threaded the narrow path through the roots of the Tree of Passage and emerged outside of Rut'theran. The moon hung high and full, the vicar of Elune shining her light full and brilliant on the waves of the ocean, turning it to luminous silver.
Tandira's steps quickened.
At the end of the dock, the Ne'Aluina rode at anchor, lithe shapes at work in the rigging, her kal'dorei crew making last-minute preparations for her northward voyage. Tandira ran, cloak fluttering behind her, the pack with her belongings over one shoulder, ignoring the questioning calls of those who saw her pass, because she was desperate, and afraid.
If this human child brought any hope at all, she didn't want to lose him.
"We've a few minutes yet before we depart, Priestess," one of the sailors said with a nod as she stepped off the gangplank. "I can show you to the guest cabins if you'd like."
"Yes, thank you." Tandira glanced around her, heart racing in her chest. "Is this a fast ship?"
"Quite fast. Fast enough to outrun those lumbering orc hack-jobs easily. She'll move like smoke over the water. We'll reach Northrend in good time, I can assure you."
Tandira closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Somehow it was easier here, under the full brilliant light of the moon, out on the water, feeling the ship beneath her feet, knowing that the power of her goddess was all about her. The fear eased.
Mother Moon, she prayed. Let us cross the world with your speed, for we have such need of it. Shelter us in your light, and guide us. The night is dark.
Ж
K'dzok could hear Nabniath, singing to herself. The undead sorceress couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with the lid welded shut and a gnomish minstrel trapped inside, the notes all off-key, discordant and jangling, chaotic and with no meter he could discern. Like nails grating on bone, her breathy voice seemed to scratch at the edges of the mind. She clung to the rigging with one hand, gray flesh tight across her emaciated shape but for her sagging bosom, rags fluttering about her bony body, awash in cold moonlight, leaning out perilously over the edge of the zeppelin, crooning to the wind.
It howled back, as if in answer, and the zeppelin shuddered in its punishing embrace.
Nabniath seemed unperturbed by the quivering convulsions, song rising and falling, the glowing red embers of her eyes fixed on the north, her free hand clawing at the night air with stick-thin, knob-knuckled digits.
She was utterly free, K'dzok thought as he squatted in the lee of the aft deck. She was utterly free, and utterly mad, and it was impossible to say which had caused the other, or if they were simply two sides of the same coin. She was a circle with no beginning, no ending, spinning unhindered, a ring of unadulterated entropy, the very stuff that creation itself was formed from.
She simply was.
He admired that about her.
K'dzok took another long pull from the bottle tightly clutched in one hand and felt powerful alcohol burn its path anew down to his belly. His other hand was knotted in the rope webbing that held the cargo to the deck. He was drunk, probably more than he should be, but at a point where it didn't matter any more.
For some reason he'd thought the other forsaken onboard would flock to her, bask in her shadow, but they avoided her even more zealously than the living, gazes wary, scuttling from her sight whenever she cast her burning ruby gaze upon them. He found it exceedingly curious, their reaction, as though she carried a plague, an illness of some sort that they imagined would melt the last of their tattered flesh from their scabrous bones and devour even the time-scoured ivory of their putrid frames.
The wind kicked up again, shrieking like a thing gone mad, slamming into the side of the zeppelin, smashing it sideways across the sky. The deck tilted, and above the keen of the wind, K'dzok could hear Nabniath laughing, saw her clinging by one hand to the rigging, arms and legs spread, the wisps of her dead white hair a glowing cloud obscuring her face.
Goblins and forsaken shouted, hung on to whatever they could reach as the deck canted further, and K'dzok's head turned at the sound of wood giving way, the world sliding blearily and beautifully past. An orc female clung to an iron stanchion at the rail, body heavy and burdened with child. The wood around it was rotted, and as he watched, it began to splinter. Another orc, a male and probably her mate, was working his way desperately along the rail, hand over hand, clearly trying to reach her before the handhold gave entirely.
He was too slow. With a last creak and a groan, the stanchion broke free of its sockets in the rail, and K'dzok watched the female's swollen, engorged shape thump and tumble across the wooden planking. K'dzok started to laugh – it had been a long time since he'd seen anything so comical as her ungainly tumble, ending with a bounce that jounced her out into the open air, her eyes widening in her battered and bloodied face, lips parted in a last, hopeless cry, perhaps even a prayer.
She was dead and she knew it.
K'dzok heard a bellow from up the deck, drained the last of his bottle, and let it go, watching the glass glint and shimmer like a jewel in the moonlight as it spun toward the world far below. His free hand caught the orc male by the back of his belt before he could plunge to the same death as his mate and unborn spawn.
K'dzok looked into those lost, grief-stricken eyes and roared with mirth at the expression on the orc's features. Then he pulled him close and his tusks dug furrows in the green flesh of his captive's face as he crushed their mouths together, tasting the salt of tears and blood as his tongue snaked inward, teeth biting.
He wasn't normally all that partial to orcs, but tonight - tonight K'dzok was drunk enough that he'd do just about anything.
Ж
Author's Postscript Notes:
As always, I leave you with a request for constructive criticism. If you see typos, grammar errors, awkward lines, or something just plain sucks or doesn't fit, please let me know that in the reviews! Help me be a better writer, and I'll give you better stuff to read! Comments and questions are always welcome too!
Thanks goes to those of you who've been kind enough to leave reviews thus far.