#wowfic

Death Knights. In the Sentinels! It became viler the longer Tyrande dwelled on it. For them to be so desperate as to allow such abominations, though few, into their ranks…it was sneaky, and so unbecoming of not just Shandris, but all the soldiers and rangers at work. The Risen walked, with extreme scrutiny and monitor, in the streets of Darnassus for basic business, and had frequently been dismissed (and at a time, banned entirely) from the Temple of the Moon. That was more than enough pass for the undead on Teldrassil. It was almost too generous. Now they were enlisting? In her army? And under their own unique unit, no less?!

Tyrande pressed her knuckles to her lips and breathed, clenching her teeth. She was in her chambers above the temple, Dori’thur watching her with interest as the beautiful spirit owl sat perched and glittering upon a post of her bed. They’re not your Sentinels, Tyrande reminded herself. Not anymore. She had approached their commander and general in the hopes of fresh ideas and…she had certainly gotten one.

Tyrande was torn on the topic, and even after concluding the discussion with Shandris, the general didn’t seem particularly confident either. Yes, these undead were, still, kaldorei. Yes, the Sentinels needed more units to help reclaim their lands and repair the damage. But this was against every conceivable value of the night elves. Tyrande and Shandris had stood against these risen in the Third War as the Burning Legion and their lich allies poured down Mount Hyjal!

And their unit name…Night Warriors. Blasphemy. It was a staple in their religion that Elune, their patron goddess of the moon and war, took the spirits of those great warriors who fell in battle and brought them into her veil of night. Under her waxing lunar glow, among the stars, they rode on as her warriors…and these undead did not deserve such a title.

She wanted them to be unsuccessful. She hated to admit it, but she did. She would let Shandris try, to assemble what minimal number of these Death Knights that had crept into the smaller Sentinel stations that had proven themselves, and make this “Night Warrior” unit. Put them to a task…and then have them fail. Miserably, so that Tyrande could order them all to the sword and be done with the entire, disgusting premise. But that would mean that Shandris would fail as well…and for the general’s sake, for her beloved friend and daughter’s sake, she did not want to see her lose so spectacularly as to condemn her.

“Elune, forgive us, and send your stars to guide her,” Tyrande whispered as she sat upon her bed, silken sheets folding beneath her. “Please, oh please, let this be the change that does not bury her…and does not bury me…”

Dori’thur was released into the heart of the Temple of the Moon, where the great, translucent owl fluttered diligently around the chamber, casting ethereal glimmers on the grassy floor below as the light from the stained roof above rippled through its wings. Tyrande descended the stone ramp, brows knit, almost marching as her jewelry jingled and chimed and the veiled and layered cloth of her white robe swayed around her.

The Senintels, and practising priests and priestesses in the Temple, bowed their heads to her as she passed. They were all kaldorei, nary another race visiting or paying their respects to the moon goddess save a single draenei minding a rounded corner of the temple. Their eyes were closed, entranced by the calm and serenity of the large Moonwell’s glow and the sparkling water that poured from the Haidene statue in its center. The draenei was probably asleep…they were there to mind the summon and dismissal of the portal to the Exodar on Azuremyst Isle and little else, and not many people were coming and going from that far-off “city” these days—not to Darnassus, anyway.

It actually seemed much emptier than usual, now that Tyrande looked it all over. She’d ordered for the reduction of guards on-duty in the temple and capital now that the siege was complete, to give the hard-working women a reprieve. They had been stationed and pushed to such great limits to patrol and guard that she was noticing the cobwebs of fatigue in their dim eyes. There were less of them around now, hopefully getting the rest they deserved, and hopefully to the relief of Darnassus’ patrons and visitors. Tyrande hoped that this might make the capital feel a bit more “welcoming”.

Muttered, quiet arguing and squabble was the very first true sound to “grace” her ears as she approached the Moonwell. She frowned, resisting the urge to pivot around and return to the higher levels of the temple as two Highborne men stood and bickered in hushed voices near the bright water. Their argument presented a good opportunity to dismiss them from the temple—Tyrande did not like the Highborne near the Moonwell. Even after their time back in Darnassian society and the rules they were to abide to, she still caught some of them…staring, at the pure waters, no doubt recalling the Well of Eternity.

When she approached them (a guard now instinctively shadowing her steps) the two men grew silent and bowed cordially.

“Ishnu’alah, my lady,” the more simply-dressed of the two said. He wore trim, fine, but largely understated and under-decorated, scholarly robes, much like Vestia and the Highborne under Estulan’s tutelage.

As far as Tyrande was concerned, there were two types of present-day Highborne: the first were those such as Daros Moonlance before her, who were more cautious with their manners and presentation They wished to practice magic with knowledge learned from the mistakes of the past, and find, restore, archive and research all manner of history, for preservation of kaldorei and Kalimdor’s rich lore. While their dress still differed from the usual kaldorei fare, it was, at least, “acceptable”—their robes and blouses were muted in colour, concealing and free-flowing.

…and then there were the Highborne like Magister Tarelvir beside Daros, the more…repugnant, of the niche. The tall Highborne man’s entire image was a nuisance to Tyrande’s eyes. Too much time had been spent trimming his beard, smoothing his brows, and choosing his rings and jewelry. His robes blazed with bright blues and reds, with layers of intricate, textured fabrics and gold trim, rippling trains and sleeves, a high pointed collar and matching pauldrons. His long, elegant cloak seemed to hover of its own accord over the grass of the temple, perhaps to keep it from becoming dirty.

“Ishnu’alah, Daros…Tarelvir,” Tyrande replied, caution in her voice as she nodded at their bows. “What troubles you so, to be arguing under Haidene’s watchful eyes in the temple?”

Daros glanced up at the statue in the center of the Moonwell thoughtfully, then sighed. “I was just explaining to the magister, how pleased I am to see our exemplary guards-woman of Darnassus receive some rest. It brings fresh air into the capital, relieves the former tension, especially for those who practice the arcane—with care of course, my lady.”

“I did not give the guards reprieve so the High...so our mages, could practice their sorcery with more peace of mind,” Tyrande replied curtly.

“Of course my lady. I did not mean to sound selfish. I truly do appreciate our Sentinels’ presence in Darnassus. They work diligently for the good of us all.”

“However,” Tarelvir suddenly cut in, making a point of speaking more loudly than the gentle-voiced Daros, “it should be noted that many enemies to us still roam beyond the shroud of Teldrassil’s branches.”

“I am well aware, Tarelvir. I did not leave the capital without appropriate guard, I have simply lessened their burden in this time of peace,” Tyrande replied.

“And in these peace times, is when the traitor warden may re-appear from the shadows with her sympathizers, and attempt to finish the work she began,” Tarelvir said, placing his glowing magus staff firmly into the floor of the temple.

“Maiev Shadowsong has not been seen nor heard from since her flight,” Tyrande said, coldly. “Our Sentinels have always been, and always will be, on high alert for her and her followers until she is brought to justice. She is a threat to anyone she determines her enemy, and considering the previous state of her mind, that could well be anyone, not just your kind.”

“But,” Tarelvir began, “the Highborne in Darnassus think—”

“Highborne? What Highborne? The ancient caste of wealth and nobility drowned in the Maelstrom, I should hope any survivors, in their various forms, are not in Darnassus, and that you are not speaking for all of them,” Tyrande snorted. “The only thing that remains of the Highborne is their magic, their knowledge, and their pompous attitude. You are no more or less important than any citizen in this capital and you will be protected.”

Tarelvir tightened his lips into a shaking, furious frown, but kept his composure and conceded to bow to Tyrande and thank her, and excused himself from the temple. Daros watched the magus and his flamboyant robes flutter out the entrance way, and turned a raised brow to the priestess.

“This is the first time I've heard you do away with the term 'Highborne',” Daros said. “You and the citizens in Darnassus say it with contempt...are we finally among you?”

“I am taking away the last ripples of social status these returning mages think they have,” Tyrande replied curtly. “If they wish to dress as they do, talk as they do, act as they do—if it is lawful then they are permitted. But they will not use the term 'Highborne' as an indicator of a privilege they do not, and never will, have again, to lord over others. And I will resolve to never use it in contempt against you again. I would do away with the term entirely.”

Daros raised his brows, turning his eyes to the ground. Tyrande couldn't tell if he was in agreement, or felt belittled. Surely, he felt something like both, but she did not care. It was one issue in Darnassus quickly solved...or slowly building to a bigger problem. She needed to work on the capital's trade and commerce returning to a suitable peak with the rest of the Alliance right now, though. These “Highborne” matters were trivial.

She left Daros, and exited the temple, a Sentinel trailing a few feet behind her. There were not many kaldorei on the arching roads of Darnassus, and no other races of the Alliance. Most of the worgen had holed up in the Howling Oak on the far other side of the city, and even more of them had left for Stormwind and the reclaimed Gilneas in the Eastern Kingdoms. Regardless of the gratitude they swore to the night elves and the unfortunate connection between the two races, the worgen interests were always in the east, never on Kalimdor. Tyrande wasn't sure if she should be glad the wolfish men and women were largely gone from the capital, or if she felt slighted by their leaving. Had it been her people though, estranged on the Eastern Kingdoms and given the chance to fight and re-establish and reclaim their lands in Kalimdor though...the night elves would have done the same. Regardless of what she felt, she knew she could not blame them.

There was a lone pandaren woman, hovering just over the glittering moat and a sloped patch of emerald grass. Her legs were crossed, foreign symbols and sigils of energy appearing and disappearing around her as she sat in the air, in a disciplined and meditative pose. She'd acted as a Tushui Pandaren emissary and monk trainer for those kaldorei interested in the southern arts, but she did not seem to be practising often these days. Why did she remain in Darnassus with hardly a soul paying her mind?

The pandaren seemed to noticed, in her trance, that Tyrande's eyes had fallen on her, and slowly her body lowered itself upon the grass, the glowing around her large frame disappearing. The pandaren woman stood with a serene expression and smoothed down her fitted leathers, and glanced to Tyrande with a respectful, interested smile.

“...hail, pandaren,” Tyrande called, from where she stood upon a bridge, looking down at the monk. She could feel her Darnassian accent churning bits of the Common syllables.

“High Priestess,” the woman replied, bowing low, her black bangs tumbling in front of her bearish face.

Suddenly, from her lowered posture, she sprung, without a sound, pushing from the ground and vaulting into the air. Despite her weight she arced and spun her body with the grace and silence of a leaf in the breeze, and landed poised, some feet away from Tyrande, on the narrow railing of the bridge.

“...was that necessary?” Tyrande asked haughtily, narrowing her eyes at the pandaren.

“Perhaps not, but harmless flare helps to warrant attention,” the pandaren replied with a smile, pressing her clawed hands together in a half-bow to the priestess. “You don't oft walk the roads of Darnassus without a small entourage of guards, if walk outside the temple at all.”

“Am I not allowed, to walk the streets of my own capital when I want, pandaren?” Tyrande asked, coldly.

“Please, call me Lanfen,” the pandaren responded with a sweet smile. Either Tyrande's bitter question had flown right over her head, or the monk was being wise enough to ignore it and let it pass by as quickly as possible.

“Do you need something, Lanfen?”

“Oh no, Darnassus has been a lovely place to spend my days abroad from Pandaria. A beautiful night sky and serene canopy of coloured leaves, over marble bridges and glittering, amethyst waters...I would dream of such places in my youth, as a fantasy,” Lanfen said. “Excellent kimchi as well.”

She squinted, and pinched her claws. “The portions could be a smidge larger, though...”

“You must want something of me if you've approached me like this,” Tyrande sighed.

“I simply wish to talk, in passing,” Lanfen explained. “The kaldorei have much knowledge of old and interesting things to say. It is just unfortunate, that there are some that do not wish to speak, and more who do not wish to listen.”

“Yes...a shame, for the latter.” Tyrande twisted her lips, and her narrowed a stare on Lanfen turned to an impatient glare.

“...you are busy, my apologies,” Lanfen said, inclining her head. “Or perhaps you have more pressing matters on your mind. I understand.”

“You will have to forgive me, Lanfen, but I have a lot of work to do within this capital, to bring it...back to a certain standard, in the Alliance,” Tyrande said.

“You say that with reluctance. Maybe even...bitterness?” Lanfen steepled the tips of her clawed together gently, staring wide-eyed at Tyrande.

“It is not your concern.”

“You know, Pandaria culture and knowledge, and even the pandaren, still receive a discerning reception among the Alliance,” Lanfen began. “It was sealed away in the mists for so long that the world passed it by, perfectly preserved...and yet when the modern world finally came upon it, it was forced to change—adapt, quickly and painfully, to new wars, enemies, circumstance...”

“You needn't lecture me on such things,” Tyrande said angrily.

“I know! Pandaren and kaldorei, share similar situations, if one has the mind to look at them in that way,” Lanfen said. “But! In the end...I truly believe, that despite the hardship, the changes...being a part of Azeroth as a whole again, is good not just for the pandaren, but for all of Pandaria.”

“How can you say that, after war and destruction ruined your precious continent?” Tyrande barked, taking a few steps closer to the monk, fangs bared. Wars and battles, and forests that no longer stood, flashed behind her glowing eyes as Lanfen looked to her, patiently. “How could it be good? Change is neither good nor bad, it is what it is, and my people have only seen the worst of it.”

“Change can be good, or bad, but it is always necessary, if the world keeps turning,” Lanfen said, slowly, keeping her tone fair so as not to belittle Tyrande. “No matter what a new day brings, it is how one adapts to the circumstances that determine their mettle and their outcome. How one balances the situation. I believe you know this.”

Lanfen gestured, with a sweeping paw, to the landscape of Darnassus around them. “I found that, when many outsiders of Pandaria, came to our continent, they were sceptical at first,” the monk said. “But with open arms, and an eagerness to show them what our lands were and were about, many, many of these outsiders became engrossed in it. Our history, our arts, our lands and our, well, food and ale.” Lanfen chuckled lightly.

“And yes, many did come and dislike it. Took advantage of it, destroyed it...but to those who had come to love Pandaria so, and hold it dear, they fought to protect it. When I first came to Darnassus, I think I felt the same way, about this capital, this tree, and the kaldorei and their lands.”

Lanfen bowed her head, and her body, but kept her eyes trained up at Tyrande, never losing contact with the priestess.

“You must invite the Alliance to this city, to Kalimdor—do not demand it, do not expect it, invite them,” Lanfen said. “Show them the beauty and rich history of Kalimdor, of Darnassus, and of its people. Do not hide it away, do not turn the Alliance from you. You have seen the worst of it, now let them explore it, let them love it...and they will seek to protect it. Do not make it seem locked away from them.”

“...and if something ill, becomes of this 'invitation'?” Tyrande asked.

Lanfen hesitated, and offered Tyrande a sad shrug. “I do not know, High Priestess,” she said. “I only know that Pandaria never had a choice, but you do.”

With this, and another cordially bow, Lanfen turned on the heel of her paws and left, walking down the length of the bridge, arms swaying slowly at her sides. Tyrande watched the pandaren leave, slowly grinding her teeth...and waved her Sentinel guard to her.

Placing her hands over the still, still heart of the Lady, she closed her eyes and began to pour the very essence of her spirit into her benefactor. 

It hurt, at first. She was afraid, at first. But fear as soon replaced by warm serenity. She would go, in the end, to the Great Halls. She would see her Lady and her sisters again someday beneath the great arch of its ceiling.

As she felt herself begin to slip away, cool hands closed over her own. Held. Lifted.

Agathe's eyes fluttered open and she met the ruby-sunset gaze of the Lady.

Sylvanas Windrunner--Ranger General, Banshee Queen, their shelter and refuge--spoke in a soft, tired, wry voice.

"Agathe Freyrsdottir. What are you doing? I did not give you leave to end your own existence. I did not take you into my fold only to lose you. You are not to destroy yourself for my sake. Do you understand?"

"You were dying--" Tears welled up in  Agathe's eyes; she turned away, ashamed.

"I am dead already, and it will take much more than one fool with a blunderbuss to destroy me."

"I was afraid."

"Afraid to lose me?"

"...Yes. Afraid to lose you. Afraid to lose our home."

Sylvanas sat up, one hand to her head. Agathe winced; that must hurt terribly, even if the wound was healed.

"Even if my body should be destroyed, Agathe, my spirit will persist. That is what it means to be a Banshee, after all. You needn't fear--and you certainly needn't annihilate yourself. Indeed, I forbid you to do so from this point on. Do I make myself clear?"

"...Yes, my Lady." Agathe bowed her head and closed her eyes.

"Agathe," said the Lady, "look at me."

Agathe did. Sylvanas held out her arms.

"Agathe, come here."

Agathe did. Of course, Arturia piled onto them both after like an excitable puppy, and Daschla moved to keep them all from toppling over and flattening the poor Queen under them.