The naaru was expecting her, as it always did. It hovered over her, a crystalline entity limned with luminous purple, and emitted a faint, ceaseless exquisite music. Saa’ra spoke sometimes in words that all could hear and sometimes directly and privately to someone’s heart and head, as it did now.
Dear one. I am so sorry the dream has troubled you once more.
Calia nodded, sinking down in front of Saa’ra and twisting her fingers awkwardly. “I keep thinking that they will stop at some point.”
They will, the gentle being assured her. Once you are ready for them to stop.
“So you’ve said. But why can’t I be ready now?” She laughed a little, hearing the petulance in her own voice.
There are things you must do before that peace will be granted to you. Things that you must understand, that you must integrate into yourself. People who need your help. What one needs in order to heal will always come one’s way, but sometimes it is hard to recognize it. Sometimes the most beautiful and important gifts come wrapped in pain and blood.
“That’s not making me feel better,” Calia said.
It might when you realize that all that has happened to you hides a gift within it.
Calia closed her eyes. “Forgive me, but it’s hard to think that way.” The corruption of her beloved brother and the murder of her father, of so many of the people of Lordaeron…her flight, her terror…the loss of her husband and child, the loss of everything—
No. Not everything. What we participate in, we can benefit from. For every fever you have cured, bone you have mended, life you have improved…that, and the joy that has come from that, is now as much a part of you as your pain. Honor them both, dear child of the Light. I would say trust that there is a purpose, but you already know there is. You have seen the fruits of your labor. Do not ignore them or belittle them. Taste them. Savor them. They are yours as much as anyone else’s.
Her tight chest eased as peace stole into her heart. Calia realized she’d been clenching her hands, and as she unfolded them, she saw small red crescents where her nails had dug into the flesh of her palm. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
This time she did not see the horrors of her escape. Or, more difficult to endure, the sight of her daughter at play. She saw only darkness, tender and soft. It gentled what was too harsh to bear in the full radiance of light. It provided safety for wild creatures and privacy for those who wanted to create, just for a time, a world with only two.
Calia felt Saa’ra’s warmth brush her like the stroke of a feather.
Sleep now, brave one. No more battles, no more horrors for you. Only peace and rest.
“Thank you,” Calia said, bowing her head. And as she padded back to her room, a hand on her arm, its flesh cool and unnaturally soft, made her pause. It was Elinor, one of the Forsaken priestesses. “Calia?” she said.
Calia wanted nothing more than to sleep. But she had vowed to always be there for those who needed her, and Elinor looked troubled. Her glowing eyes darted about, and her voice was pitched low.
“What is it, Elinor? Is something wrong?”
Elinor shook her head. “No. In fact, something might be going right for the first time in a long, long while. May we speak in private?”
“Of course,” Calia responded. She brought Elinor into her little alcove, and the two sat down on the bed. Once they were alone, Elinor needed no further urging to speak. The words tumbled from her leathery lips so quickly that Calia had to ask more than once for the Forsaken priestess to repeat herself.
Calia’s eyes widened as she listened, and her mind went back to what the naaru had told her: There are things you must do before that peace will be granted to you. Things that you must understand, that you must integrate into yourself. People who need your help. What one needs in order to heal will always come one’s way, but sometimes it is hard to recognize it.
Calia’s eyes filled with tears, and she hugged her friend gently. Her heart felt full and hopeful for the first time since Lordaeron fell. She now had a purpose.
Healing had come her way.
GALLYWIX PLEASURE PALACE, AZSHARA
There were many places in Azeroth where Sylvanas Windrunner would prefer not to be. Gallywix’s disgustingly named Pleasure Palace was not at the top of the list, but it was close.
Once Azshara had been a beautiful land, full of open spaces and autumnal hues and opening out to the ocean. Then the goblins had joined the Horde under Garrosh, and they had defaced the region with their trademark garishness. The “palace” where she now sat in an overstuffed chair next to Jastor Gallywix had been hewn from a mountainside. The escarpment of the mountain had been turned into a literal “face” so that Gallywix’s grotesque mien leered over the wreckage of the land below.
The palace itself was even uglier, in Sylvanas’s opinion. Outside was a vast green lawn with a course for some sort of game involving a small white ball, a huge pool with a heated area, and bartenders and waitresses currently standing idle save for those who attended to Gallywix. Inside was not much better. Tables groaned with food, much of which would never be eaten, and huge barrels served for decor. Upstairs was the trade prince’s bedroom. Sylvanas heard it said that he slept on piles of money, and she was in no hurry to find out if those rumors were true.
He’d been pleased to receive her message and kept offering drinks. She declined each time. While he indulged, she told him of the meeting at Thunder Bluff, omitting the delicate threat she had given Baine, of course. She would give Gallywix only the information he needed to know.
“I trust that their efforts to heal the world will not damage your efforts to gather Azerite,” she finished.
Gallywix laughed, ginormous belly jiggling, and sipped his frothy, fruity beverage. “Nah, nah,” he assured her, waving a big green hand. “They can have their little ceremonies. My operation is far too vast at this point to be impacted. And hey, if it keeps them happy, that’s the point, am I right?”
Sylvanas ignored the comment. “Your operation thus far has not yielded much that I can use,” she reminded him.
“Relax,” he said, “I got—”
“People on it. Yes, I know.”
“No, seriously. I got the best minds I know of in a little place in Tanaris. Gave them a generous dollop of the golden goop. Told ’em to go nuts.” He took another swig and smacked his lips.
“And?”
“And they’re working on it.” His gaze slid to the side.
“What exactly are they working on?”
“I, ah…told ’em they could do whatever they want. But you know scientists. They’ll think of things you and I could never imagine. Best way to operate.”
“I want weapons, Gallywix.”
He downed his drink and waved for another. “Sure, sure, they’ll have weapons for us.”
“I want them to focus on weapons. Or else I will send in every Forsaken, blood elf, tauren, troll, orc, and pandaren I can find and take over your ‘operation.’ Are we clear?”
Sullenly, the trade prince nodded. Doubtless he knew she’d send her own people around to take the weapons that were made, whereas his scientists could craft other items he could sell on the side to make a tidy profit.
A distraction for Gallywix came in the form of a hobgoblin who lumbered into the room and babbled something only his boss understood. “Of course, idiot,” the goblin said. “Show Champion Blightcaller in at once!”
Sylvanas thought she was almost as relieved as Gallywix at the interruption. Nathanos entered, gave Gallywix the barest minimum of a nod, and bowed to his queen.
“My lady,” he said, “forgive the intrusion, but I thought it best to bring you this missive immediately.” He knelt before her and held out a scroll. It was sealed with blue wax and stamped with the head of a lion.
“Oho! I k
now that seal!” Gallywix exclaimed, then sipped his banana cocktail. Sylvanas knew it, too. She tore her gaze from the scroll and impaled the goblin with a cold stare.
“You will excuse us,” she said.
He waited for a moment. When she continued to sit, raising a pale blonde eyebrow, Gallywix made a face and heaved himself out of his chair. “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be in the hot tub if you want to join me when you’re done with this fella.” He waggled his eyebrows, then trundled out. “Heya, honeybunny, bring me a pineapple punch, will ya?”
“Sure, boss!” a squeaky goblin female voice replied.
Nathanos’s red eyes were fixed on the trade prince’s retreating form. “I will kill him,” he said.
“Oh, no. That pleasure will be all mine.”
Sylvanas got to her feet and gazed down at the scroll he held. “So. This is from Varian’s whelp? Given to you at the Undercity?”
Nathanos’s face was unreadable. “Yes. Hand delivered to me by Archbishop Faol. He’s now a Forsaken.”
Sylvanas let out a short, sharp bark of laughter at that. “His Light works in strange ways.”
“So it would seem.”
Sylvanas broke the seal and read.
Unto Queen Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady of the Forsaken and Warchief of the Horde, King Anduin Llane Wrynn gives respectful greetings.
I write to you with a proposition that has nothing to do with armies, territories, or goods, but it is one that I believe will serve both the Horde and the Alliance.
I will cut directly to the heart of the matter. When you approached the Alliance, seeking a home for your people, you were refused. We were still reeling in terror from what Arthas had done to Lordaeron and couldn’t understand that your Forsaken were truly different.
I have spoken recently with a Forsaken who was greatly respected in life and have learned that despite all he has endured, he still follows the Light. His name is Alonsus Faol, and he was once archbishop of Lordaeron. He has agreed to be a go-between in the interest of helping both the living and the undead.
This missive is about families. Families that were torn apart not by Horde and Alliance but by Arthas, who rained despair and devastation upon all of us. Spouses, children, parents—so many separated, divided first by death, then by fear and anger. Perhaps, if we can work together, those driven apart can at last be reunited.
Sylvanas stiffened. Oh, yes. She, more than anyone, understood about divided families. Slain loved ones. She had lost everything because of Arthas: her friends, her family, her beloved Quel’Thalas. Her life. Her ability to care, truly care, truly feel any emotion save hate and anger about those things.
And she had attempted a reunion. Had accepted her older sister’s offer to call what Arthas Menethil had left of her family together, to reclaim Windrunner Spire and purge it of the dark things that dwelled in it. And perhaps to purge themselves of their own darknesses by harking back to a time when there were no shadows within them.
But it had been a futile endeavor. Suns and moons they had been when they were young. Bright Alleria, with her gleaming golden tresses, and laughing young Lirath. Sylvanas had been Lady Moon, and Vereesa, the youngest of the three sisters, had been Little Moon.
Vereesa was bowed and sullied with grief for a lost love. The death of her husband, Rhonin, in Theramore, one of so many victims of Garrosh Hellscream’s mana bomb, had shattered her. Shattered her so completely that for one lost, lonely, lovely moment, she had turned to her shadow sister, Sylvanas, and they had plotted together. Vereesa had come so close to joining Sylvanas in the Undercity.
So close to joining her in undeath.
But at the last minute, love for her living children had eclipsed Little Moon’s grief for her dead husband. And so Vereesa had stayed with the Alliance. And Alleria, thought lost for so long and then miraculously returned, had invited the unfathomable darkness of the Void within her. It granted her powers and strength. But it changed what she looked like as well as who she was—who she was becoming. Sylvanas knew enough of what such powers could do to recognize the mark of cold fingers on Alleria.
As for her own shadows and darkness, Sylvanas knew them well enough not to examine them now.
The boy king’s plan was a foolish one. He still believed that people could change. Oh, they certainly could. Alleria, Sylvanas, and Vereesa were all proof.
But it was not change for the better; at least, Anduin would not see it that way.
Why was she so angry? The pup got under her skin so much more than the Wolf had.
She returned her attention to the letter.
We are not currently at war. But I am not so naive as to believe that means hostilities do not still linger. We have experienced recent tumultuous change to our very world in the form of Azerite—a manifestation of the pain Azeroth herself is feeling. With unity, we could direct our exploration of this substance in ways that can save her. Let us therefore focus on a smaller but no less important gesture of unity as a first step toward a potential future that benefits both the Horde and the Alliance.
I propose what amounts to a single day of a cease-fire. On this day, those families who have been divided by war and death will have a chance to meet with the ones they lost. Participation will be strictly voluntary. All those on the Alliance side will be thoroughly vetted, and no one who I believe would be a danger to the Forsaken will be allowed. I would ask the same of you. We will determine a limited number of participants.
A site suitable for this event is the Arathi Highlands. I will have my people assemble at the ancient fortress of Stromgarde Keep. Thoradin’s Wall is close to a Horde outpost. There, in the open field, with sufficient protection as agreed upon by the two of us as leaders of human and Forsaken, these ruptured families will meet. It will last from dawn until dusk. With your agreement, Archbishop Faol and other priests will facilitate, assist, and offer comfort as needed.
Should any harm befall my people, be certain I will not hesitate to retaliate in kind.
I also understand that should my people harm any Forsaken, you will do likewise.
As a priest, as king of Stormwind, and as the son of Varian Wrynn, I will guarantee safe passage to the Forsaken who choose to be involved. If this cease-fire is successful, it could be repeated.
Do not mistake this for an offer of peace. It is only an offer of a single day’s compassion for people who were cruelly torn apart by a force that was neither the Horde nor the Alliance.
You and I have both lost family, Warchief. Let us not force that upon others who, like us, did not choose it.
Done this day by my hand,
KING ANDUIN LLANE WRYNN
“He is even more foolish than I thought if he believes I do not see right through his trap,” Sylvanas said, crumpling the letter into a ball. “What do you think of this Archbishop Faol who gave you the letter?”
“He is indeed Forsaken. He seems genuine, though when I suggested he pledge fealty to you and the Horde, he demurred. He said he preferred to serve the Light rather than kings or queens.”
“Ha!” Sylvanas said without humor. “I liberated him to be a Forsaken so that he could have free will, and thus am I repaid. No matter. I take it you believe he is harmless.”
“He is powerful, Dark Lady. But he is no enemy. He also brought a letter for the head of the Desolate Council.”
Sylvanas tensed. “I see that the king’s spies are hard at work if Wrynn knows of the council.” Wrynn. For so long it had meant Varian. Strange.
“Possibly. We must remember that many of our number move freely in the Netherlight Temple. Besides, the letter he sent to her did not even mention the council. It turns out that until very recently, Elsie herself was among the number of Forsaken who had living family. Her husband, Wyll Benton, served both Varian and An
duin Wrynn.”
“Elsie?”
“It was the name Wyll had for Vellcinda, and she’s reclaimed it now,” Nathanos explained.
The majority of Forsaken had taken new given names or surnames for themselves. They did so to mark their rebirth as Forsaken, to cast aside their old identities and bind themselves together as a unified group. Sylvanas was surprised to find that her chest ached to hear that Vellcinda had rejected her Forsaken name. “Vellcinda” was a name with dignity, gravitas. “Elsie” was…well, evocative of what the woman had been in life, most likely. Common and ordinary. And human.
Sylvanas focused on the other piece of information her champion had given her. This plan of Anduin’s seemed suddenly much less strategic than personal if he had lost a devoted servant. Which made it much less threatening. Even so—
“Vellcinda likely served the royal family as well.” Sylvanas would not dignify the Prime Governor’s new, offensive name by utilizing it.
“Yes. She worked in the kitchens,” Nathanos continued. “She was saddened to hear of her husband’s passing. This proposition meets with her approval, as she believes that she is far from alone in retaining fond memories of family members.”
Sylvanas shook her head. “This cease-fire is a mistake. It will only lead to pain for my people. They cannot be human, and to dangle this temptation of reunion with loved ones will result in them growing discontented with who they really are—Forsaken. They will deteriorate to heartbroken shells, wanting something they can never have. I have no wish to see them suffer so.” Again, she thought of her own attempt at connection with the living and how all it had done was stir up old ghosts best left resting in peace.
“You could use this to your advantage,” Nathanos said. “Vellcinda said that many Forsaken wish their next death to be their Last Death. They do not wish to keep existing. And one reason commonly cited is that they want to be with those they loved while they lived.”
Before the Storm Page 17
