#████ ꜰʀɢᴍɴᴛs; ᴜɴꜰʀɢᴛᴛɴ // drabbles.

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          it was as if the world had gone white, the first time she had seen Vereesa walk in with Arator. Her sister had given her a sympathetic and slightly wistful expression upon seeing their three faces—hers, Arator’s and Turalyon’s—so shocked, mouths hanging open, eyes wide. She didn’t know what to do other than try to stammer out some sort of nonsense, as if words meant anything right now.

          He was a young man, now. Tall, strong, pointed ears shorter than an elf’s but with features as finely carved as one. Her heart was so full of love and pain at having not seen him in so long, it felt like it anchored her down where she stood. She barely even registered movement until she felt arms wrap around her shoulders, very nearly lifted her off her feet. Tears welling up in her eyes, Alleria kissed her son on the cheek, and then hugged him so tightly that he could not have let go of her if he had wanted to. Then, another pair of strong arms enveloped them both, and Turalyon was there, and this time he really did pick them both up off of the ground, laughing and crying on both sides. A family. 

          ( She could see Vereesa smiling at them over her husband’s shoulder, and there was a twinge of pain in her little sister’s eyes that she couldn’t place—a sort of melancholy envy, and a faraway look. )

          Certainly there would be talk when this was over. Certainly there would be questions and pain and reconciliation to make after so much lost time. But for now—just this moment, she was determined to be happy. Happy. Together. With her family.

          And for the first time in a long time, the world was quiet.

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          Alleria draws back her bowstring. Her head roars with a cacophony of shrieks and jeers, a thousand voices clambering over one another to be heard among a roiling storm of emotion; anger, fear, disgust, anxiety. She feels like her skull was full of flies, each buzzing drone becoming part of one collective chorus. 

                 ( KI͢LL—̀                 —̕UP̷O̴N ̷T̵H͏E ̶ŞEA̵T ̵OF KI̴N͝GS— ͏                                              ̛ ̛ DANG͠E͘RǪUS͠,͏ DAN͟G͞ER͘OUS͡ ̀— M̡URDĘR͢S͜ AND RUIN͜ȨD̵ L̕IV͏ES,͘                   ̕ ̶ ARE ͘YOU ̀     A̶FRAÍD͜?̷ ARE YO͡U͞ ͜ ͘ ͟ ͞ ̧ ͜ ́ ҉ ̸ ͞ ҉ ̵      YO̸U̴ ́WI͝LL͟ ̡BE AT ̛F̨AU҉L͝T ͝IF͘ ỲO͟U̡ DO NOT ͟ACT҉,                     ͟ ̡Y͟OUR͏               G͝R͟A̢V̢E ̕B̕ENEAT̛H͠ ҉TH͞ȨSE ͜STO̕N͏ES̶ ͠WĮLL N͝EVE̛R͏ BE̢ REMEMBER͢ED,                               ̨ ҉ ̀ ͜ ͘ ̕ ̷ ̡ ͘ ͝ ͘ ͢ D̡Ǫ YOU ̢F͘ANCY̡ ̵Y͞OUR̶ŞEL̶F ̨ TH̡E W̴OL҉F ?̨                                                                              ͡ÒR T́HE͝ ͢DE̶ER ? )

          One shot. That’s all it would take, she watches as Anduin confronts her sister. Jaina, Anduin, Genn, herself — certainly Sylvanas has lost this battle. Her forces are pushed back, her land broken open like a cheap safe. Nevertheless, her voice and stride are confident, with no hint of surrender in her. 

          Alleria can imagine her like this before the Lich King. Proud, confident, unwavering. She did not know the might of the Scourge army, she had not been there— but she can picture the ranger-general with her bow in one hand and her chin held high, fearless before the most fearsome thing any elf has ever seen. This she can picture; the unmovable pride and courage of the Windrunner family. She can hear her mother’s voice: This is your legacy; we will die before we will kneel.

           ( S̵H́EWILL͡S͘A͘LT͢T͟H͢ISÈÀRTH͢BEF͟ORE                SH͟ÉWI͘LLL͘EA̢VE̸ITT͏OB҉ETAKE̴N )

         She does not heed the void lightly. Secrets and futures from the shadow are hard-won, but she tilts her eyes to the ceiling. It’s right. There is no backup here, she can sense no other presence. The Horde has evacuated. Sylvanas is facing down four powerful leaders — Alleria or Jaina alone would be at least an even match for her — with no assistance, not even her pet ranger. Something is wrong. 

          Alleria tightens her grip on her bowstring. She can hear Locus-Walker, see him leaning towards her, saying, it takes no special skill to banish the dead back to the Shadowlands, if you would like to learn... She could end this here, kill her before she could give an order and then flee. She closes her eyes, breathes in—

          Unbidden, an image quiets the screaming crowd inside her head like a hush falling over a theater at the start of a performance; she remembers holding an infant. Her sister. Chubby hands clutch at her hair, marveling at the colorful hawk feathers that she’s tied into her braid. Their mother is gone out for work, and Alleria is thinking about how much responsibility this child will have someday. Their family, and the expectations that come with it, fall heavy on her own shoulders. In innocence, she makes a promise that she will fail to keep: You will be okay, you know. I will never let anything harm you. I swear it. 

          When Alleria opens her eyes again, Sylvanas is gone, and she knows it. She expects it. If she had fired at all, the point of her arrow would not have found its mark, but the wall behind. From when she had pulled back her string, she had known it.

          Murmurs begin in the back of her head, and she follows the other leaders mechanically, but she doesn’t hear them. Her lungs are burning and there is a pricking sensation in her head and limbs, like needles under her skin. She looks up; the others feel it too, as the room floods with poison. 

          They will be afraid, angry; afraid to die, angry at their losses or their only-partial-victory. Alleria is neither. She cannot be afraid. She won’t die here; doubtless Sylvanas would bring her back, not wanting to waste her in such a way, and she would not waste a second chance. In her heart, she cannot find space to be angry; or even sad, or disappointed. She feels numb. Even as Jaina proclaims hold on, with a low, furious confidence, she doesn’t feel anything. 

          Alleria, the eldest of the three Windrunner sisters, holds her head high as the twinge of Arcane brings them upon the floating ship. She takes an unsteady step forward, her breathing heavy as pain seeps out of her limbs with the fresh air. Across the ruined battlefield, the Horde retreats on their airship, their parting glares only a hint at what was to come.

          A thousand years, she thinks, to herself, and was it worth it?