Separate Ways

I suppose that come Aiur's reclamation, you will command a spear rather than a shield.

The thoughtstream Selendis sent Artanis was for him, and him alone. The Khala nourished all upon the Shield of Aiur, but even in its warmth, the protoss were not without privacy. The self still remained, even if part of the greater whole. And yet, as the executor had contacted him with a mere touch of her mind, the hierarch responded in turn.

Better that we come to this world with a shield rather than a spear.

We are here for the protection of our people. The shield may remain in place, a spear is still thrust from behind it.

Artanis's eyes dimmed. Do you regret coming to this world?

I am simply not as hopeful as you as to the outcome of this meeting.

Truth of the matter was, Artanis wasn't either. But he kept such thoughts to himself. The protoss had endured a lack of hope for the last six cycles. As hierarch of the Daelaam, he knew better than to chip away at its foundations.

He sent a thought to the mothership's helmsman to take the mothership to Argus's L1 point. If the Daelaam had come here in war, this might have been seen as a hostile action, but the Daelaam had contacted the draenei well ahead of time. Had they been an invading force, they would have been met with technology that rivalled their own, and countless lives would be lost on both sides. He had not become hierarch by a willingness to throw Firstborn lives away, and Velen had not become triumvir through similar willingness.

And yet I will be directing my own to die regardless.

"Hailing frequency," said a Nerazim, his thoughts "spoken" rather than sent through the telepathic connection all Khalai shared. "Transmission from the Vindicaar."

"Put it through."

A holographic image appeared before them. A creature of turquoise skin, shining golden eyes, white hair, and two elegant horns. She was clad in gold and black armour that on the surface appeared primitive, but was as advanced as any protoss power suit. Her markings designated her as a member of the Army of the Light, and as a member of the so-called Lightforged draenei.

Like the protoss, the draenei were not above dividing themselves. Like the protoss, they remained unified.

"This is Captain Fareeya of the Vindicaar," said the draenei. "Please identify yourself."

"This is Hierarch Artanis, commander of the Shield of Aiur, and leader of the Daelaam. I am here to entreat with your leader."

The draenei frowned. "I understood that the Prophet had given his answer."

"He did. Yet I have come to make my case all the same."

Fareeya silenced the screen and whispered something to another of her kind. Like so many species, the draenei communicated through verbal orifices – through sound, rather than thought. With no means of hearing such sounds, or to link his mind with Maraad's, Artanis had no means of understanding what he was saying.

Unexpected…allies…exceptions, Selendis told him through their mental link. Yes…Velen knows…exceptions…Aiur…

You read their lips? Artanis asked.

One must know the language of friend and foe alike.

The draenei are only one of those things, Selendis.

For now. But we both know that alliances are as shifting as sand.

Perhaps it was unintentional, but a mental image of a Nerazim filled Artanis's mind. Under a different moon, he might have been willing to guide the executor down the path of unity he had striven to create these past six years, even as the Hierarchy squandered it at every turn. Reclaiming Aiur made sense, he knew that, but he couldn't deny that it was the one thing that every protoss of the council agreed upon. The one thing that every Khalai and Nerazim held dear to their hearts.

After that? Well, he had over seven centuries left to find out.

"Velen shall see you," said Fareeya eventually.

"I think you, vindicator. I shall set down with a-"

"You, and only you," the draenei continued.

Artanis's eyes flashed. Through the Khala, he could sense similar agitation, nay, suspicion from Selendis, and concern from many of his Templar. As always, the thoughts of the Nerazim were closed to him, but he didn't doubt they too were wary of such a request.

"Captain," Artanis began, "surely this is unnecessary. The protoss and draenei have been allies in ages past and-"

"Then you shall have no qualms in meeting with the Prophet directly," Fareeya said. "I have sent the coordinates. Be there in ten rhals. Dioniss aca, Hierarch."

The transmission was cut. For a moment, silence lingered on the mothership's bridge, broken naught by the constant hum of its engines, and of its platforms, as Khalai Caste workers went from one terminal to another atop floating platforms. No protoss spoke, but their unease filled the Khala.

"Executor Selendis shall take command," Artanis said eventually "Until then, I am in the hands of our allies."

Allies? Selendis asked through the telepathic link. They bid you come down alone. This is like lombad walking into an omhara's den!

And yet, even an omhara tends its young, and Velen has age as well as experience. Artanis's eyes twinkled as he headed for one of the mothership's teleportation suites. You command this mothership now, Selendis. Try not to lose this one.

In the microsecond before Artanis's constituent atoms were disassembled, he wondered if he should have tempered his thoughts. Selendis had lost the Guiding Star at Haven, true, but she had been his confidante since the Brood War. Fought alongside him on numerous worlds, and for all their differences, a Templar he hoped he could call friend. A Firstborn's skin was thick, but their hearts still bled.

The microsecond after being reassembled in a teleportation bay in Argus's capital city of Antorus, the Templar's thoughts returned to the here and now. A pair of draenei technicians were at a console, both of whom refused to meet his gaze. Two times their number, vindicators, approached him, their weapons shouldered, but their eyes narrowed.

"Your gauntlets," one of them grunted.

Artanis looked at his psi-blade gauntlets. "You suspect me?"

"If you come in peace, you have nothing to fear."

Oh, you have little idea of what I fear in this universe. Nevertheless, he took the bracers off, and handed them to the vindicator. He noted that each of them wore a psi-screen – if it came to it, his psionic powers could be used to keep him alive, but bringing harm to his potential captors would be trickier.

But then, Artanis reminded himself, the draenei were not his captors. They were allies of the protoss. Allies that had drifted apart over the centuries, especially since the draenei had lost their homeworld and only reclaimed it in the last five decades, but allies all the same.

"Follow me," said the vindicator.

Artanis obliged. The entourage led him out of the teleportation room, and into the great city of Eredath. Jewel of Argus, Crown of the Stars, seat of power of the Triumvirate, until the draenei were wrecked by civil war.

Artanis's eyes shone as he looked upon the splendour of Eredath. Giant crystal structures dotted the skyline, illuminated by a perpetual golden glow. In the sky, he could see ships even larger still, floating in silent guard. Draenei men and women walked the streets, rode on talbuks, even on strange, wheeled vehicles he did not recognize.

Yet the scars of war remained. The physical, his sky-blue eyes could easily behold. Buildings that remained damaged. Here and there, fissures rent the landscape, as if Argus itself had been wounded. And more than anything, he could sense the thoughts of the draenei around him. Out of courtesy, he did not read them directly, but he was a being for whom telepathy was as natural as breathing, and he could not avoid the sense of wariness. Dread. The deep wounds that ran through each of their souls.

The draenei had got their homeworld back from usurpers. And while in many ways they were inferior to the protoss, be it in technology or physique, even a Firstborn was lucky to reach a thousand cycles. A draenei could live up to thirteen times that number. And even at a mere 268 years old, Artanis knew that with age came sorrow.

The universe was sorrowful indeed. And much more sorrow would be endured before joy returned to his people's hearts.

The vindicators led him to the structure at the city's centre – the Seat of the Triumvurate, the heart of draenei civilization since even before the protoss had returned to the stars after their kinstrife. Vindicators stood on guard, bearing all manner of weapons from spears to hammer, all forged through the draenei's mastery of crystal technology. There was a grandiosity to them, a raw power that Artanis could appreciate. Like the protoss, the draenei preferred to engage their enemies through close-quarters combat, using their strength and speed to close the gap.

"Hold," said the vindicator. "I shall commune with the prophet."

If he is a prophet, does he not sense my coming? Artanis wondered. Still, he kept such thoughts to himself. The protoss had no shortage of prophets, and as Khas had demonstrated, prophets served their people better by creating a future rather than merely foreseeing it.

Artanis stood. Artanis waited. He did both, long enough for him to glance up at the twinkling sky. Few stars danced in the heavens, for like Aiur, Argus was on the galactic fringe. Their light seemed ever dimmer, in a galaxy that grew colder by the day.

"Hierarch Artanis. Welcome!"

But there was still warmth to be found as Artanis beheld Prophet Velen emerging from the palace gates, arms open, as if to greet an old friend. Despite having never met Velen directly, Artanis nevertheless fell to one knee.

"Get up, please. I am prophet, not king. I do not demand that any kneel before me."

That was good to know, but still, Artanis lingered. Velen was…old, he realized. So old that the word did not do him justice. Unlike the vindicators, Velen did not wear a psi-screen, and his thoughts were open to Artanis. If the thoughts of most creatures, even protoss, were like a river, some serene and some raging, then the mind of Velen was like an ocean. Deep, unfathomable, yet tempting in the knowledge it offered.

Artanis almost answered the ocean's call. But he was not here to ply the mind of the prophet, he was here to plead for aid.

"Come."

Artanis followed Velen into the heart of the citadel. Great crystal walls, shining golden lights. Music itself infused the air, bringing solace to the hierarch's wounded soul. While the protoss were masters of crystal technology, including Argus crystal itself, they mere used crystals to various ends, infusing them into their architecture. For the draenei, it was hard to say where the crystals ended and their own technology began.

More draenei soldiers were here – the Hand of Argus, if Artanis recalled correctly. Soldiers in shining platinum armour who looked at the hierarch as if he was an unwelcome kwah-kai. He had hoped for better reception, but then, what reception would the Conclave, even the Hierarchy have given a draenei if they came to Aiur or Shakuras? Even now, the alliance between the Khalai and Nerazim was fraying at the seams, introducing an alien species into their midst could ignite the fire that had sundered the protoss a millennium prior.

They entered a room at the heart of the citadel – triangular in shape, in the centre of which was a triangular crystal table. Three thrones were in place, but two of them had been scarred. The crystal itself rent, protrusions jutting from their spines and seats. The third was the humblest of the three, lacking the same ornamentation, but it was at least able to be sat in.

"Three thrones for three triumvirs," Velen said, as if doing some mind-reading of his own. "Now only one throne remains."

"But aren't there three?"

"Two thrones forever cursed. One throne for one ruler – simple in design, in the shadow of those who betrayed us. A reminder to any who would lead our people."

Artanis remained silent as Velen took the throne. He knew that thousands of years ago, the draenei had been ruled by the Triumvirate. Three draenei by the names of Tichondrius, Kil'jaeden, and Velen. That in those days, they were not known as draenei but as eredar.

He did not know the full details. He doubted even the highest echelons of the Judicator or Templar Castes did. All he knew was that centuries ago, the eredar had fallen into civil war, the bulk of their species siding with Tichondrius and Kil'jaeden, the remainder siding with Velen. The draenei had been forced to flee their homeworld, and while the Dae'Uhl of the protoss had offered them protection, its dictates prevented the protoss from taking an active hand in the conflict. The draenei had drifted from world to world for centuries, the eredar in pursuit, before finally reclaiming their homeworld.

The protoss hadn't been there at the final battle. The Dae'Uhl was a shield, not a sword. There were those among the Templar who had championed the draenei's cause, but the Conclave had remained resolute in its non-interference. But even if the protoss had not been at that fateful battle, Artanis was glad to see Argus restored all the same.

"I must admit, I am surprised to see you here," Velen said. "Our scouts inform me that you are preparing to reclaim Aiur."

"That is correct," Artanis said, slightly disappointed that the Golden Armada's preparation had not been as covert as he'd preferred. "The zerg have departed the Koprulu sector, and my people-"

"I am also aware that you contacted me many sunrises ago, entreating my aid," Velen continued, his eyes slightly narrower, his voice slightly lower. "I believe I wished you well in this endeavour, but made it clear that no draenei could be spared in the reclamation of your homeworld."

"You did," Artanis said. "And yet, here I am, kneeling before you."

He did just that, and Velen smiled. "Are all protoss so eager to kneel before so-called lesser species?"

"I am young and naïve, Velen, but I do not believe there is any such thing as 'lesser species.'"

"Indeed? Because that is not what your people told me when I petitioned aid from the Conclave." Artanis rose his gaze, and saw a quiver in the prophet's lips. "They would offer me shelter, but as the draenei were among the lesser species of the galaxy, and that our conflict was internecine, no aid could be spared. Even when we had marched against threats like the tagal and vrykol, we were apparently still your lessers."

"So said the Conclave," Artanis murmured. "They are gone now."

"Indeed." Velen's frown turned into a wry smile. "Perhaps I should be grateful for the lack of aid. I recall that the last time the protoss came to the aid of a sapient species, your 'aid' was to incinerate their worlds."

Artanis rose to his feet – that was the least of it, as Tassadar's name was on the tip of his mind. But he did not rise to the bait. Tassadar was gone. The Conclave was gone. The greater whole of the protoss species was gone, consumed by the ever-ravenous Swarm. All that mattered now was the future.

"We wandered the stars," Velen continued. "Seeking refuge on one world after another. Niskara. Draenor. Azeroth. Always with the eredar in pursuit of we who refused to serve their patron lord. Draenei, we called ourselves. Exiled ones."

"And yet you reclaimed your homeworld," Artanis pointed out. "The usurpers are dead, and their patron with them."

Or so he believed. The truth was, the protoss didn't know the details of the draenei's reclamation of Argus, and the Conclave had never seen fit to inquire as to why. One species's civil war was as relevant as any other, they told the Templar Caste.

"We did reclaim our homeworld," Velen said. "With the aid of an alliance of so-called 'lesser races.' Terrans too, among our ranks. Those who fled the hand of their Confederacy, who found shelter with us when none were to be found. Good warriors, if a little temperamental. Fine members of the Army of the Light, and indeed, our exarch is one of their number."

"And so you see the worth of alliances," Artanis said. "You found allies to reclaim your homeworld. Now we need allies to reclaim ours."

"Indeed? And where are these allies?" Velen asked sharply. "You have come with humility, hierarch, that I will grant you. Yet other allies you spurn."

"I do not think-"

"If we could stomach working alongside terrans, why can't you?"

There were many answers Artanis could provide to that question. The first was that the terrans had all suffered under the wrath of the zerg – the Dominion had lost its emperor, and the Kel-Morians and Umojans most of their military. The second was that there was no reason for the terrans to help an alien species whose first appearance in their midst had been the destruction of Chau Sara, and many more worlds beyond that. But the third, and most damming, was that there were few among the protoss who would be willing to ask for aid, not least those in the Hierarchy. They had been content to look only to their own borders when the Queen of Blades had returned after four years of slumber, they had been content to see the terran world of Korhal fall, they were content to see only to their own affairs.

Artanis knew he had to put his people first. But in so doing, there was still damnation of sorts.

"My answer is final," Velen said, his voice weary, his eyes wearier. "I am sorry, Artanis. If there had been more like you centuries ago, if we had been given aid then and there, then perhaps I would answer the call to wall. But our ways have long since separated. We draenei are too few to march to war, we can only rely on heroes few and far between. I must serve my people, as you must yours."

That, Artanis realized, was the end of it. But no words were sent from his mind to Velen as a door opened. As the Templar's eyes dimmed in puzzlement was a terran walked in. Golden-haired, fair-eyed, almost like a younger version of the emperor who had taken control of the Dominion.

"Anduin will see you to the teleporter," Velen said.

"Anduin?"

"Anduin Wrynn," said the terran. "A fine young man, and my student."

Anduin looked the human up and down. His hair was grey, though had streaks of blonde. Like all humans, he paled in size and strength compared to a protoss. Artanis would need only a single strike from his claws to slay the terran if he so chose.

Still, there was a…radiance, Artanis supposed, in the young man. He knew that the draenei worshipped something they called the Light. His tutors had known little about it, cared little about, and only said that it was roughly akin to the Khala – a guiding principle for the draenei, as the Khala was to its own disciples. Artanis didn't know if there was any truth to the idea of the Light being a literal force, but the boy was swimming in it.

That, or something else, and certainly not psionics. The boy's psionic potential was a candle compared to a protoss's flame. But that feeling of radiance was still there.

"Farewell, Artanis," said Velen. "And good luck."

Artanis bowed. "Peace be with you, Velen. Perhaps under a different sunrise, we may look to a brighter future for both our peoples."

"So I hope."

The terran led Artanis out of the citadel, back into the streets of Eredath. Many glances came their way, but Artanis had the sense that the draenei were more perturbed about his own presence than Anduin's.

"You are the prophet's disciple?" the hierarch asked eventually

It was a wasted question, in a sense. Soon he would be back aboard the Shield of Aiur, and he would likely never see this terran again. A century from now, less, the man wouldn't even be alive, unless the draenei had means to extend his life. And yet…

"I am. I was once a man of Azeroth, but the prophet showed me the ways of the Light."

"Azeroth?"

"A distant world under the light of two moons, where many species live. We fought, we hated, we loved, we lived. I was among those who accompanied the draenei back to Argus. Who cast down the false eredar, and who saw Sargeras imprisoned for eternity."

"I don't know who-"

"A similar being has his eye on you," Anduin said, his eyes meeting the hierarch's. "Beware, Artanis, beware. That which unites you may yet become chains."

"…and if chains are broken?"

Artanis had no idea what he was talking about. And yet the question had been answered.

"Freedom or damnation," Anduin said. "Both, perhaps."

And so, the question was answered as any a prophet might. Perhaps the reason the terrans had thus endured the hazards of the galactic rim was because of a lack of prophets, not a surplus of them.

And yet, Artanis sensed neither contempt nor deceit from the man. A rare trait in terrans to be sure – he had allied with humans once, in orbit above Char, but he trusted Emperor Mengsk and Admiral DuGalle scarce further than his own arm. A child of humanity had become queen of the zerg, and had led the Swarm with as much ferocity as the Overmind of old. Only one terran had ever proven himself worthy of Artanis's respect, and the fate of James Raynor was unknown to him.

Perhaps one day, the universe would provide its answers. But not today, as he returned to the teleportation room. As his gauntlets were returned to him at last.

"Fare thee well, hierarch, child of the stars."

"I am a child of Aiur. The stars are above me."

"For now," Anduin said. "But if you are forced to ply your way, cut off from many a world?"

Artanis had no answer to that.

Nor, as he was returned to the Shield of Aiur, the means to reply.

"A wasted trip then."

Selendis broadcasted her thoughts for all on the bridge to hear, Khalai and Nerazim alike. She had to see the way Artanis's eyes blazed with icy fire. Be reminded that he was still her superior, the leader of the Daelaam, and that his will would not be questioned.

"Indeed. But we know now where our allies are," Artanis said. "Where their loyalties lie."

He did not even have to link his mind with hers to get the point across. With a thought, she directed the helmsman to prepare to warp back to Shakuras. The Shield of Aiur would reunite with the Golden Armada, and be Artanis's flagship upon return to the world of the mothership's namesake. Then, they would bring swift fire to the zerg that infested their homeworld, and with luck, retrieve the most powerful warship the Firstborn had ever produced.

Simple, Artanis told himself. Though if the last six years had taught him anything, it was that the universe was anything but, and that more could transpire in six years than in sixty.

He walked over to one of the crystal-glass windows that surrounded the bridge, keeping his eyes on Argus. The world looked ill, he reflected. The scars of war remained, sickly green scars visible even from space. The draenei might heal as a people, it remained to be seen if Argus could.

Perhaps Azeroth could shield them.

What?

Selendis had joined him in mind and body. Neither were links that he welcomed right now, but he made no move to dismiss her presence, even if he shielded his mind. For now, he wanted his thoughts to be his own.

"Did you really think the draenei would aid us?" she asked. "They are under the protection of the Dae'Uhl. They are not allies in any real sense."

"And what allies do we have?" Artanis asked. "Who would aid the Firstborn?"

"We require no allies besides ourselves. Because we are the Firstborn," Selendis said.

"Older, if not wiser protoss have said similar things as you," Artanis warned. "Where now do they tread?"

"They do not tread, they are buried on the homeworld. The one we shall reclaim." Selendis paused, before adding, "under your leadership, of course. In honour of Adun, of Tassadar, of all warriors of the Templar."

Artanis had no answer. Honour was dear to him, but the lives of his people dearer still. Without the draenei, more protoss rather than less would perish in their reclamation of their homeworld. Their legacy might be naught but broken glass. But the Daelaam demanded conquest, and he could not silence their cries.

"We head home," Selendis said. "And prepare to take another."

Indeed, thought Hierarch Artanis to himself. Indeed.

A/N

The idea for this came from an interview I watched with Kevin Dong. That historically, the StarCraft and Warcraft series have traditionally had the same playerbase, as they both started off as RTS games. Of course, that's unlikely to be the case now, since Warcraft is now primarily an MMO (and with many players having been introduced with said MMO), and StarCraft still an RTS, and a dormant IP at that. Gave me the idea to drabble this up.