Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  “Anyone else?” Faol inquired. There were none. “Excellent. When I call your name, please step forward to me. You’ll be joined by your loved one, and you may then roam the field together freely.”

  He unrolled a parchment and read.

  “Emma Felstone!”

  Emma’s heart surged. To Osric, she queried in a shaking voice, “Is it time for me to see them now? After so long?”

  “If you like,” said the priestess. “If you don’t, you can return to the keep.”

  Emma shook her head. “Oh, no. No, no. I won’t disappoint them like those other folks.” Osric patted her hand reassuringly; and Emma pulled away, straightened, and made her way unaided to where Faol stood.

  “Jem, Jack, and Jake Felstone,” the archbishop called.

  Three tall Forsaken stepped forward from their own line, advancing hesitantly. Emma stared at them as they approached. They had all been so large and fit in life. Such strong young men. How confident they had been, how proud to serve Lordaeron. Now they were but skin and bones and limp clotted hair. It took her a moment to read their expressions.

  Her sons, once laughing and confident, looked…frightened.

  They are more afraid here, in front of me, than on a battlefield, Emma realized. And then all the differences between her and them suddenly didn’t matter.

  She started to weep even though she felt her mouth curve in an enormous smile.

  “My boys,” she said. “Oh, my boys!”

  “Mama!” Jack said, lurching toward her.

  “We’ve missed you so much!” Jem said. And Jake simply bowed his head, overcome with the moment. Then, all three of the Forsaken bent to embrace their mother.

  * * *

  —

  Thank you, Calia said to the Light as she watched the matriarch of the reunited family shed tears of joy. Thank you for this.

  She listened, smiling, as other names were called. They stepped forward, hesitant or joyful. Some simply shook their heads and, unable to take the final steps now that the moment had come, returned in silence, leaving their Forsaken loved ones standing alone until they, too, turned away and went back to the wall. Calia prayed for them: the ones who had refused and the ones who had been rebuffed. All were hurting. All needed the Light’s blessing.

  But there were surprisingly few of them. Most of the reunions were cautious at first: stilted, awkward. But that was all right, too.

  “Philia Fintallas,” read the archbishop. Philia was in the very forefront, and she had spotted her father, Parqual, already. At the sound of her name, she ran right up to him, shouting, “Papa!”

  These two needed no urging or mediating. They hastened to each other, stopping just short of touching, and both wore smiles as large as Calia’s heart felt. “It’s really you,” Philia said, putting so much into the single word.

  After the first few reintroductions, things flowed much more smoothly and swiftly. Not all the reunions were as joyful and easy as others, but they were talking. Forsaken and human were talking. Who could ever have believed this moment would happen? One man—one king—had.

  And if this could happen, perhaps more could, too. More events that should have happened but that Arthas had so tragically destroyed.

  There is such a thing as a new beginning, she thought. For all of us.

  Faol stepped beside her. “These eyes have seen so much pain. How delightful, after everything that has happened, that they can still behold this.”

  “Do you think there will be another gathering?” Calia asked.

  “I hope so, but that rests entirely with Sylvanas. Perhaps even she will find she still has a heart, just as these people have.”

  “We can hope,” Calia said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Faol replied. “We can always hope.”

  Sylvanas Windrunner stood on the top of the ancient wall. Nathanos, as always, was beside her. Her gaze was fixed on the scene unfolding in the distance.

  “It seems to be going without incident,” Sylvanas said. “Any reason to believe it is not?”

  “None that I have learned, my queen,” Nathanos said.

  “Although I see that some of the humans have scorned interaction with those whose hopes they had raised,” she said. “That was cruel of them.”

  “It was,” Nathanos agreed. He offered nothing more.

  “I was reluctant to agree to this gathering, but perhaps this is a good thing. Now my Forsaken begin to understand how they are perceived even by those who once claimed to love them.”

  “You were wise to have permitted it, my queen. Let them see for themselves what the situation is. If it is painful to them, they will not wish to repeat the experience. If it is joyful to them, you have something to hold over them to keep them obedient. Not,” he added, “that there was ever much to fear from this group.”

  “It was good for me to witness this. I have learned much from it.”

  “Will you repeat it?”

  Sylvanas squinted up at the sun. “The day is young yet. I am not done observing. Nor will I relax my vigilance. Varian’s whelp likes to appear as though he is utterly without guile, but he may be shrewder than we give him credit for. He could have planned an attack on his own people with an eye to blaming us for it. Then he would be seen as a strong leader to declare war on us. The ultimate protector of the helpless.”

  “It is possible, my queen.”

  She gave him one of her rare, wry smiles. “But you think otherwise.”

  “With respect, such a thing sounds more like a strategy you would employ,” he said.

  “It does,” she said. “But not today. We are not prepared for a war.” She glanced at the rangers she had positioned atop the wall. Their quivers were full, their bows strapped to their backs within easy reach.

  They would attack the instant she told them to.

  Sylvanas smiled.

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS FIELD

  Parqual and Philia had wandered over to the Forsaken exchange table. Elsie watched them happily as Parqual pointed at an old, tattered teddy bear, and tears streamed down the girl’s face.

  “I want to hold Brownie,” Elsie heard her say. “I want to hold you, Papa.”

  “Oh, my little one, or not so little one,” he chuckled, “Brownie is off limits till your king says it’s safe. And as for me, my skin can’t handle those bear hugs I remember.”

  Philia wiped her face. “Can I hold your hand if I do it gently?”

  People thought that because Forsaken flesh was dead, it was limited in what it could communicate. Nothing could be further from the truth. A myriad of expressions crossed Parqual’s face: joy, love, fear, hope.

  “If you like, child,” he said.

  Forsaken came in all stages of death: freshly slain, partially rotting, almost mummified. Parqual was the last of these even though he’d been so determined to have a sachet tucked in his pocket, and Elsie wanted to hug them both as he extended his withered, parchment-fragile hand and placed it in his daughter’s smooth, living one.

  Elsie wanted to linger with Parqual and Philia to savor the reunion of parent and child. But there were others, who found themselves at a loss for words or didn’t know how to react and might appreciate someone to help. These two would be all right. They had come with love and trepidation in their hearts. But they also had come with something else: hope.

  “Mother?” The voice belonged to Jem, the oldest of the Felstone boys. He sounded upset. Elsie looked around for him. She found him with Jack and Jake, forming a ring around their tiny mother; then one of them stepped aside, looking around for aid.

  Elsie saw that their mother, Emma, was ashen and seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “Priestess!” one of them cried, his sepulchral voice tinged with fear. “Please, help her!”

  The cloaked woman hastened over and
lifted a hand. The Light came to her, called down as if from the sun itself, and she sent it toward the mother. The older woman gasped softly. Her pale face warmed to a humanly healthy pink hue, and she blinked, looking around for the woman who had healed her. Their eyes met, and the priestess smiled.

  “Thank you so much,” Elsie said.

  “It’s an honor to be here,” the priestess replied. “Pardon me, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re standing alone. Did your meeting not go well?” Her face was largely in shadow, but Elsie saw that her smile was kind.

  “Oh, my dear, you’re so sweet,” Elsie said. “I’m fine. I’m just here to share my council’s joy.”

  The priestess gasped softly, and she moved toward Elsie. “You must be Prime Governor Benton,” she said. She reached for the Forsaken woman’s hands. “I heard about Wyll. I’m so sorry.”

  Elsie started to draw back, then paused. Surely someone Faol trusted to assist him would not find Elsie’s leathery, cold appendages horrifying. The priestess took them in hers very carefully, already aware, as brave young Philia was just discovering, that one had to be gentle with the Forsaken. Their flesh was so very fragile. And yet, as Elsie had observed, most of them seemed starved for physical contact.

  The priestess’s hands were soft and warm. The touch felt so pleasant. Then she released Elsie’s hands but stayed near.

  “Thank you,” Elsie said. “The archbishop has been so kind to us. We’re grateful that you and he are here with all of us today.”

  “I am happier to be here than you know,” the human woman assured her. “I wanted to make sure I found you to thank you for being so willing to work with us. Know that King Anduin deeply regrets that he can’t thank you in person.”

  Elsie waved a dismissive hand. “This isn’t a safe place for a human king to be. He’s got to think about his people. I owe him a debt I can never repay. He was with my Wyll as he passed, when I couldn’t be. And I will tell you, Wyll loved those Wrynn boys like they were his own.”

  The two women stood together, watching the event continue to unfold. Here and there they heard the sound of laughter. They smiled at each other.

  “This is a good thing,” Elsie said. “A very good thing.”

  “His Majesty hopes that if all goes well today, your warchief might be agreeable to another such meeting at a later time.”

  Elsie’s smile faded slightly. “I do not believe that will happen,” the Prime Governor said. “But then again, I never believed it would happen at all. So it shows you what I know, I suppose.” She chuckled.

  “If there is a second Gathering,” the priestess continued, “King Anduin wants to meet you.”

  “Oh, my, wouldn’t that be lovely!” Elsie glanced back toward the keep. It was far enough away that she couldn’t distinguish faces, but it would appear that the young king was not shy about letting himself be seen. He stood wearing his distinctive armor draped with a blue tabard bearing the golden lion of Stormwind. The bright shafts of sunlight seemed to seek him out, to catch the gleam of his armor and his golden hair.

  “Queen Tiffin was such a beauty. And so kind,” Elsie mused. “Anduin has her hair. ‘A boy of sunshine,’ Wyll called him. No one knew then, back when I still breathed, that the boy of sunshine would one day be a king of the Light!”

  As they watched, another stepped up beside the king of Stormwind: tall, powerfully built, with white hair. “Who’s that gentleman?” Elsie asked.

  For a moment, a deeper shadow passed over the priestess’s face. “That’s King Genn Greymane of Gilneas,” she said.

  “Oh, dear,” Elsie said. “I imagine he’s not too happy about all this.”

  “He may not be,” the priestess replied. “But he’s standing beside his king, and he’s watching us.”

  She lifted her arm. “You might not be able to meet King Anduin, but you can wave to him,” she told Elsie.

  Hesitantly, Elsie imitated her. At first, her movements were small and shy, but when Anduin saw them and returned the gesture, pleasure rushed through her and she waved more vigorously. Unsurprisingly, Greymane did not join in. But that was all right. He was there. Perhaps he would see something today that would move him.

  “Imagine me, Elsie Benton, waving hello to a king!” she murmured. And when Anduin bowed to her, the Prime Governor of the Desolate Council laughed brightly in surprise.

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS, THORADIN’S WALL

  Sylvanas made a point of speaking with each of the council members who had returned, angry and disillusioned, to the wall. She was both sorrowful and satisfied as she spoke to them. “I feared this very thing would happen,” she told them. “You understand now, do you not?”

  They did. The gulf between human and Forsaken could not be bridged. Sylvanas felt particularly vindicated when Annie Lansing, who had labored to create sachets and scarves to make the Forsaken more appealing to the humans, trudged slowly back.

  “You went to so much effort to please them,” Sylvanas said.

  “I thought if they weren’t distracted by what we looked like…what we smelled like…they could truly see us,” Annie replied sadly. “Truly see me.”

  “Who was it?”

  There was a pause. “My mother.”

  “A mother’s love is supposed to be unconditional,” Sylvanas said.

  “Apparently it isn’t,” Annie said bitterly. She unwound the scarf, and Sylvanas gazed unflinchingly into her maimed face. “We should have listened to you, Dark Lady. We were terribly wrong.”

  The words were sweet as honey. Sweet as victory. The council would be divided, and the conflict among its members would destroy it. And Sylvanas hadn’t had to do a thing.

  Sylvanas ascended the wall with quick, lithe steps and pulled out her spyglass. With any luck, she would see more newly enlightened Forsaken returning back where they belonged. Where was the Prime Governor in the midst of all this? Was she shaken by the attrition?

  Sylvanas found her. And all her satisfaction evaporated.

  Vellcinda stood easily and comfortably next to the cloaked and hooded priestess Faol had brought with him. The Prime Governor looked toward the keep, upward, to someone atop it. And then she waved.

  Quickly Sylvanas moved the spyglass, the images it revealed to her veering about madly until they lit upon the figure of Stormwind’s king.

  Anduin, smiling, was waving back. As Sylvanas watched, fury boiling inside her, he put his hand on his heart and bowed.

  Bowed.

  To Vellcinda Benton, the Prime Governor of the Desolate Council.

  Sylvanas opened her mouth to order the retreat. But no. Not yet. This was not enough to convict Vellcinda in the eyes of the council. Sylvanas needed to tread carefully.

  To Nathanos she said, “I want someone watching Vellcinda at all times. And,” she added, “I want that priestess watched, too.”

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS FIELD

  She laughs like a little girl.

  Almost like a living thing.

  Calia’s heart was full, so full. She tried to burn this moment into her mind so that she would remember it when she woke with achingly empty arms from the nightmares that still haunted her dreams. When she would hear ugly words uttered by both sides of Azeroth’s seemingly endless war between Horde and Alliance. She would remember standing in this field while the grown boy of sunshine waved to the woman whose husband had tended him his whole life. She would remember this day and all its gifts, as the day when everything began to change.

  “I did bring something for him to give to Wyll wherever they buried him.”

  Elsie patted her chest, touching a simple golden ring that hung from a chain around her neck. “I want to wear it until the last possible moment, and then I’ll put it on the table. It’s my wedding ring. I wore it till the day I died…and after, too,
until I just couldn’t.” She indicated her bony fingers. “It becomes hard to keep rings on. Or fingers, for that matter. But I kept this. I’d be so grateful if you made sure it reaches the king.”

  The priestess stared at the ring and thought of her family. Of her child, whom she imagined as having grown up to be like Philia: brave and loyal and kind. Of her own husband, who had kept her secret and loved her for who she was. Of all the people of Lordaeron, who didn’t deserve what had happened to them and who had struggled on bravely. Of every one of those on the field today, brave enough to look past outer ugliness to an inner beauty, or, conversely, brave enough to overcome their fear of rejection and see loved ones again as such, not as the enemy. Of Philia, who wanted to hug her father. Of Emma and her sons, reunited in a mother’s twilight years. Of the untold numbers of people just like them, on both sides, yearning to be united.

  Of her brother, who was responsible for all the pain, all the loss.

  A Menethil had done this.

  A Menethil would have to fix it.

  For several long moments Anduin stood watching, a smile playing about his lips. He recalled his first experience with the Conclave, how it felt to be walking into a place of complete safety, to see races that might otherwise be slitting one another’s throats laughing together, or discussing philosophies, or researching, or simply sitting side by side in quiet, joyful coexistence.

  And now similar scenes were unfolding beneath him, but ones of possibly even greater import to the future of Azeroth. He watched Calia, who had hidden in a ditch for two days while enraged mindless creatures swarmed and searched above her, move about the crowd, speaking to small groups and blessing them. He’d watched her heal Emma, whose reunion with not one but all three of her sons had been almost more than she could handle. He’d watched Parqual and Philia respond joyfully and freely to each other, as if death had not separated them at all.

  Calia was too far away for Anduin to make out her expression, but she lifted her arm and waved. Standing beside the priestess was a Forsaken woman who appeared not to have an Alliance family member. Glancing at Calia, she, too, lifted her arm and waved to the king of Stormwind. This had to be the Prime Governor, Elsie Benton. Anduin couldn’t suppress a grin as he waved back and impulsively gave a quick bow.