#sighs deeply... tira....

[noroalia]

going through art folders because hey girls. why are you guys in my streamer fanart folder

[raffinit]

legacy; sylvaina rg au kid fic

“Sylvanas.”

“Mmph.” She snuggled deeper into the blankets, tucking her face into the pillow. The prodding at her shoulder persisted gently.

Jaina’s voice was warm and low with amusement. “Sylvanas, you need to wake up.”

“‘s it a craving?” she mumbled, rolling onto her back sleepily, throwing an arm across her eyes. “I had a long day, sweetheart, sorry. C’n it wait till t’morrow?”

Jaina laughed softly then and Sylvanas twitched at the kiss pressed to her cheek. “It’s not a craving, dalah’surfal.” A hand came up to shake her gently on the shoulder again. “I’m in labour.”

Sylvanas hummed, sucking in a heavy breath. “That’s nice, dear.” She sank back into bed for a moment longer. Just as she was settled in comfortably, the muscles in her shoulders locked and her eyes snapped wide open.

“Wait, wh—”

She bolted upright so quickly she almost caught Jaina in the chin with her forehead. “What?!”

Jaina reeled back slightly, reaching out and grasping Sylvanas’ arm to balance herself as she tipped slightly under the weight of her belly. “It’s alright, I’m okay —”

Sylvanas scrambled out of bed, tossing the sheets aside and staggering to her feet, fumbling for her clothes. “How long have you been in labour?! Are you dilated?! Has your water broken??” She yanked on her tunic, one ear bent awkwardly as it caught between the front lacing. “Oh, gods —” She reached down to yank up her breeches, hobbling on one leg as she went. “Where’s your bag?! I need —”

There was a muffled shredding noise as her breeches split down the middle at the seam before she fell forward on her face with a loud thud.

“Sylvanas!” Jaina cried, leaning over the end of the bed worriedly. “Are you alright??”

The tunic appeared upright, a disembodied ear poking through the collar. Sylvanas’ voice came muffled through the fabric as one eye appeared through the front lacing gaps. “We need to call your mother!”

Jaina shook her head fondly, smiling down at Sylvanas despite the slight wince she made as she pushed herself to her feet with effort. “I’m fine,” she soothed, reaching out to help the elf up. She gentled the tunic over Sylvanas’ ears and smoothed it over her wife’s shoulders. “My water hasn’t broken yet. It’s just contractions.”

“We have to go to the healers,” Sylvanas insisted, reaching down to caress the swell of Jaina’s belly worriedly. The swollen globe of her wife’s stomach was usually supple and warm; instead now it was stiff, rippling. Her eyes widened as she stared down at it, stroking her hands anxiously over the top of it. “Anar’alah, Jaina. It feels like they’re ready to crawl out of you.”

Jaina gave her a nervous smile. “Will you help me with my slippers? I sent along a little message to my mother before I woke you. She should be on her way here with a healer.”

--------

Sylvanas could still remember the moment the twins were born. It came to her as fresh as the first kiss of sunlight in the morning; imprinted behind her eyes.

Cradling their small, delicate bodies in her arms and marvelling at the fact that she could see so much of Jaina in their faces. She held in her embrace, not just the legacy of two of the most powerful houses of Azeroth, but proof of the unwavering love that was shared between them. She cooed at them and purred low in her throat, calling to them as their beautiful pointed ears twitched and shuddered at the new noise and their yet-hairless brows lifted in surprise.

Hearing their first snuffling, shuddering breaths and watching their milky eyes open for the first time. The mincing blink they gave her almost as one — their son and daughter.

Windrunners.

Proudmoores.

Nestled against the plushest pillows money and magic could provide, Jaina watched them with a tired, beaming smile. Her beautiful golden hair loose around her shoulders, sweat-damp from the exertion known only to mothers. Weary and wan, but her freckles were as bright as ever on her face, her brilliant blue eyes glowing.

Sylvanas had never felt so in love.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispered. “Perfect.”

Jaina smiled radiantly at her again. “They’re ours.”

------

“They’re mine!”

“No, They’re mine!”

“Mine’s the one with the anchor!”

“Is not! Yours are the ones with the stag and crown!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

Sighing deeply, Jaina lowered her report with a loud thud onto the table. Before her were her children — the apples of her eye, the heirs of Silvermoon and Kul Tiras combined, the darlings of the capital. Deeply beloved, deeply cherished—

—and deeply infuriating.

“Children, please,” she said sternly, levelling them with a hard glare. “My ears are ringing. Linaria, stop chewing on your brother. Darion — put her down.”

Dangling upside down by a leg and mid-throttle by her brother, Linaria Windrunner-Proudmoore —born exactly two minutes older than her twin and endlessly proud of the fact — grumbled. Around her mouthful of said brother’s arm, she said, “He started it.”

“It doesn’t matter who started it,” Jaina sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose tightly. “Just stop it. Darion —”

Rolling his eyes and heaving a much put-upon sigh, Darion Windrunner-Proudmoore proceeded to drop Linaria headfirst onto the floor. “You know that the anchor-hilted daggers are mine,” he said hotly, folding his arms. Two minutes younger but two heads taller, he stood at matching height with his minn’da. Short of his freckles, there was precious little Proudmoore blood that came through except for in his personality.

Staggering to her feet, Linaria glared back at her brother. Squaring her shoulders and thrusting out her chin, she was all Proudmoore with longer ears and brows. “You can’t even use them, you suck at aiming.”

“I am not!”

“Do not start this again,” Jaina barked, weaving an impatient rune into the air. She snapped her fingers and in the next instant her children were on either ends of the room, facing opposite ends of the wall.

Linaria writhed against the binding rune viciously. “Mum!”

“You do realise we’re adults, Mum?” Darion huffed, trembling slightly from effort as he braced against the charm. “You can’t just put us in the corner.”

“I can if you’re going to act like children,” Jaina replied testily, rounding the desk and levelling them both with an impatient glare. “What on earth are you arguing about? Anchors? Stags?”

“My good hunting knives,” Linaria said. “Minn’da and I were supposed to go hunting together. Darion took them.”

“I did not,” Darion protested. “Gran gave me the anchor-hilted ones, you know she did.”

Jaina sighed and willed herself to calm. Bad for her blood pressure. Bad for her sanity. “Haven’t I warned you before about keeping your things?” she said, pinching the ridge of her nose.

“I did keep them,” Darion insisted. “Lin stole them.”

“Lies and slander,” Linaria gasped, wriggling until she could face her brother — if only just to stick out her tongue. “I didn’t steal, I took it back —”

Waving her hand sharply, Jaina shook her head in defeat. “Enough. We’re settling this now.” She marched over to them, grabbing Linaria by the collar before hauling the girl over to Darion to do the same. Grasping both children firmly in hand, she opened a portal and shoved them through before stepping in.

Stepping over the crumpled pile that was her children, Jaina marched towards the figure perched behind the overbearingly large desk in the middle of the room. Gesturing irritably, she said, “Address your children before I teleport them to the Twisting Nether somewhere.”

Sylvanas lowered the parchment in hand slowly, arching a brow. She darted a look behind Jaina at the twins and then back at her wife. Calmly, she asked, “What have they done now?”

Linaria and Darion scrambled upright, shoving each other along the way before turning to their mothers. “Darion took my knives!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Jaina’s eyes flashed and she jabbed a finger behind her as she stared at Sylvanas incredulously. “Listen to them, Sylvanas —”

“Alright, alright,” Sylvanas sighed, raising a hand peaceably. Rising to her feet, she braced both hands on the desk and levelled the twins with a low look. “Dalahn’dorei.”

Linaria stiffened at the words, mouth snapping shut in an audible click as she turned to Sylvanas warily. “Minn’da.”

“Do you care to explain why you’re squabbling like children?”

Darion pointed at his sister. “Rinn’da took my daggers!”

“I did not!” Linaria sputtered. “Mine are the anchor-hilted ones. You know this, minn’da!”

Sylvanas peered between them, rounding the table to place herself by Jaina’s side. Cocking her hip and leaning it against the edge of the desk, she folded her arms and frowned curiously. Tilting her head, she asked, “And why, as trained rangers, are you misplacing your daggers?”

Darion swallowed, straightening upright slightly. “We didn’t lose them,” he said. “She thinks mine are hers.”

“Because they are mine.”

Sylvanas wrinkled her nose slightly. “Didn’t your grandmother give you one of each?”

“No,” Linaria said quickly. “She gave me the anchor ones. Darion the crests.”

Arching a brow, Sylvanas peered at her dubiously. “I distinctly remember her giving you both a matching pair.”

“Linaria…” Jaina sighed.

Linaria darted a look at Darion nervously, giving her mother a sheepish grin when Sylvanas levelled her with an expectant, pointed look. “Uh...maybe?”

“...Linaria.”

The girl threw up her hands in defense. “Maybe I swapped them before Darion could see, okay?? I liked the anchor ones.”

Darion jabbed a finger at his sister accusingly. “I knew it!”

It was Sylvanas’ turn to huff indignantly. “What's wrong with the royal crest?”

"It's boring,” Linaria whined. “We see it everywhere.” She gestured towards the hanging tapestry behind Sylvanas’ desk in emphasis. “Everything anyone ever gives us has the crest on it. Especially from anyone on the sin’dorei side.”

“The Windrunners represent a legacy of heroes in the history of Silvermoon, darling,” Jaina said patiently. “You can’t run away from your legacy, but that doesn’t mean you have to abide by it. It also doesn’t mean you get to steal from your brother.”

Linaria folded her arms, grumbling quietly. “Stags and crowns are boring,” she reiterated.

“It's your family crest, Linaria. You'll have to see it for a fair bit longer,” Sylvanas replied mildly, gesturing between the two of them. “Now give Darion back his dagger. Fair is fair and your grandmother gave you one of each for a reason.”

Ears swivelling with annoyance, Linaria rolled her eyes petulantly. “Yes, mother.”

Sylvanas waved them away. “Now go before I decide something should be done about this insubordinate behaviour of yours. You’re almost adults and you’re still bickering like children,” she chided them.

“Can’t blame them all that much,” Jaina muttered. “Given how you and your sisters —”

“Go,” Sylvanas said, squinting at Jaina. Linaria and Darion took their leave, snickering slightly behind their hands as they left the room. She watched as they departed, shoving each other as they went.

Sighing, Jaina reached up to pinch at the bridge of her once more. Glaring sidelong at Sylvanas, she said, “This is your doing, you know. This is your genetics at play.”

Sylvanas’ brows lifted high on her forehead. “My genetics? Have you forgotten which of us carried them, my love? The one who refused to believe she was in labour until Linaria was all but crowning?”

“I’m not the one who stubbornly refuses to use anything but her own bow and arrows to hunt, simply because they’re hers and anything else is lesser.”

Sylvanas sniffed haughtily. “We’re each allowed our preferences.”

“Exactly,” Jaina drawled, jerking her head at the door. “Where do you think she got that from?”

They stared at each other for a moment before the Ranger-General broke into a fond grin, chuckling quietly as she drifted closer to Jaina. She slipped her hand along her wife’s waist, pulling them hip-to-hip. Leaning down to press a kiss into her wife’s hair, she said, “They’re absolute devils, but I wouldn’t have them any other way. Or with anybody else.”

Sighing, Jaina leaned into Sylvanas’ embrace, tilting her head up until she could feel the warmth of lips pressing to her cheek. Smiling despite herself, she said, “Well, at least they’re a lot more mature about sharing now. Mostly.”

“I hope you realise that elves mature far differently than humans,” Sylvanas murmured, grinning against Jaina’s cheek. “They’re half-elves, but I’m quite sure they’re still going through puberty.”

Jaina paled slightly with horror. “Gods, how much longer with them like this?”

“Who knows? Half a decade or so, at least.”

“Shit.”

[sylaesschasewind]

A Little Piece

That laugh.

A shiver ran up her spine, twisting her shoulders with its violence. 

Memory,  dream, or hallucination? What a bitter game. 

It seemed to echo in her mind. It really wasn't so hollow here to allow an echo; in fact it was too loud all around. The clatter of dishes. Wooden toys being scraped across the floor. Crashed together gently. The hum of casual, meaningless conversation.  It sparked too much thought in her already strained mind. She knew it. Fleeting concern melted against the analytical side of thought. 

Puzzles were a crux of hers. 

So went the evening. She chased away the fog of memory with... What even was this? Some kind of brandy? Sylaess stared at the rim of the carved wooden cup, letting the flitting shallow thought pull her from the darkness.

Maybe. It burned all the same. She savoured it. Let her eyes half-close.

“Oh. Is it bad? Crap--let me get that.” His hand reached out for the cup before she knew what he was talking about. Caught her blinking in surprise. But she released her fingers around it, offering no resistance to its removal. “Huh. No, it wasn’t.”

Syl pulled her hand out of his reach, shaking her head slightly. The boy’s brow was knit again, big brown eyes flickering from each of hers in an attempt to read what she knew very well was a neutral face. Oh. Perhaps he was owed a small explanation? He fumbled with the cup a moment, pouring more brandy into it. Making his hands busy. Embarrassed? Perhaps.

“I was... lost in thought. My apologies.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He looked chastised. Shit. She tugged her lips up in an attempt at a bemused smile. It worked enough to lessen his hurt. Loosen the tension in his shoulders just enough that he didn’t look afraid of being hit. Not that she had ever threatened such a thing, but she could understand that undeath carried a certain... reputation. 

He shrugged helplessly, grinning back at her. That smile just a bit too bright as he put the cup down before her, and poured a sliver of drink for himself. 

Dax. Sandy brown hair, bright hazel eyes glinting in the lamplight and a sharp nose. Well. It’d been broken before, judging by the lump on the bridge. Maybe it was never straight to begin with. But she suspected it had been.

Guilt. It attacked so carefully, like a shadow sweeping through. Sylaess cast her eyes away, down. 

Noted the way his mother, thought she was minding the young girl that was toddling about with wooden toys had an eye on her. Wary as a cat, but with a friendly smile that didn’t touch her eyes. His father whittled at a block of wood. Concentrated, but in a relaxed manner. One that suggested he, too, was not all that relaxed. But it was still better than the first time they had caught up. 

A deep sigh filtered through her nose.

Damn. Damn it. Why had she come back? This was a horrible mistake. The headache settled in on her like a crown. The slow, heavy thump of her own heartbeat reverberating distractingly. They were becoming too common. Nearly daily. Sometimes enough that she needed to take a step back, take a moment to collect herself.

That wouldn’t do on the battlefield. No. She shouldn’t think of dinner as a battlefield, either.

This was a dangerous distraction.

“Hey... If you don’t want to stay, I’m not holding you here. I know it's uncomfortable.”

She blinked again, putting away the baggage. 

“Its not..” A deep sigh. “Hm.” She shook her head, stuffing a hand into the loose hairs at the top of her head. Tugging absently. “I didn’t intend to be so maudlin. Forgive me.” Softly spoken.

Two apologies in one night.

Daxius gave her a warm chuckle. “I guess so. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, how’s Stormwind? Everyone settling in alright?”

His mother was cutting her concerned looks from the counter. Shooting them when she thought no one would catch her. Brow knit, lips thinned, eyes tight with worry. Smart woman, honestly. Sylaess could empathize. 

“I suppose. Lots of refugees still.”

It was the third time she’d tentatively taken the invitation to dinner with his family. Just as awkward as the first time. She’d stay just long enough not to be overtly rude. Just enough that he’d lose his worries and stop looking for her. 

“Pay the price.”

It froze her like a knife to the throat. The slithering whisper.

Sylaess grunted softly, finishing the drink. Rising from her seat nearly silently. A ripple of concern and then the acceptance of departure peripherally on the parents’ faces released a lot of that hidden tension around her. 

No, she needed to leave. She’d been here too long. Too many times. 

“You going already?” Daxius, mild disappointment dampening his bright eyes. He hoped to glean something from her. Experience? Fighting tips? Something. It was silly, naive, and utterly innocent. Did he actually look up to her? Oh, what a mistake that was. Far past time she should have left. Like a sword hanging above her head, the threat was real, and imagined all in one. Tricky.

A quick half-bow, and she slunk out the door like a shadow. No need for words. They’d only take more time. Felt the silent sighs of relief from his parents. The fleeting curiosity from his little sister. The honest and mildly smothered hope from Dax. She knew she hadn’t succeeded in pushing him off. Not like this. There was a certain art to it, but she’d missed the mark heavily tonight. Shut the door on it carefully. Felt like closing a book. Wished bitterly it was that easy.

Brandy still flavoured her mouth as she stepped smartly away. Not rushing, but not dawdling. Away. Putting distance between the tiny little hamlet and herself. The warmth of the windows fading.

The sense of danger doesn’t fade.

Sylaess grimaces in the starlight to no one but herself. Breathes out a soft sigh, collecting herself. Pulling that warrior calm on again and again. A worn out garment if ever there was one.

No. There isn’t an escape from this.

“I call upon its radiance to expunge the evils that have gripped this elf!”

The struggle is worse than the fight in the surf. No blades needed. Hands slipping, losing grip faster than they can catch anything. Hair. Clothes. Armor. Flesh. The leather of her gauntlets creaks under the pressure, but the salt water seems to laugh in a burble, causing enough pressure to peel her fingers off like a handful of sand. It’s impossible to catch, but that doesn’t dull her efforts to hold it. The very same reason she didn’t make it as a mage.

The Knight doesn’t budge. Much. Some subconscious part of her witnesses her hands shaking with the effort of just standing in the cascade of Light. Her heart thumps wildly, the threads of power are--

Can she see them? Is this just her imagination to make sense of the calamity? It seems so surreal. Disconnected, somehow.

It isn’t her body anymore.

Is it?

She can hear Argonas continuing his chant. The words sonorously pouring from him  just as burning as the conviction he holds in his heart. He fully believes. No--he knows the Light can save her. It's not a question. His devotion. His determination.

Sylaess wanted to scream. It wasn’t true! It couldn’t be true. The darkness at the edge of her eyes, seeping through the fiber of her being... The very ties to her unlife itself. All of it in shadow. All of it some form of...

Dark threads folded around her, unbothered by the absolute storm of Light. Reflexively, she clenched her hands as if holding them.

No; pieces fell away. Her face burned. Eyes felt blinded. But she could hear the calmness of that whispering voice in her shadows. The conviction of the Vindicator. The love he held.

Her damnation.

No; Argonas would be the best prize she could offer. More than enough in payment for the trivial gifts she asked for. She could see how it could end up. What path to take. What words to say. She wanted to laugh. Scream. Cry. 

Surrender.

It would be so easy to fall back into the darkness. Let the shadow defend this... corpse. Let loose the weapon. Let go.

“Enough--!”

The sound of her own voice jerked her back to the present roughly. Heart thumping a wild rhythm in her chest, she hissed out a slow breath between clenched teeth and hurried on. It irked her on some level how choked she had sounded. How small.

The cobbles were always damp near the ocean. The smell of rotting seaweed and damp wood all bombarded her. Sounds of the city. Usually so unobtrusive. Not so much right now.

She had made it to the bridge into Kul Tiras. Guards eyed her with a mix of curiosity and alarm.

Couldn’t blame them.

The Acherian stepped it out, long legs eating up the distance. To where, though? Where could she run to? 

She shook her head violently. It didn’t work to remove the feeling of the hooks in her skin. Paused on the bridge, looking out at the reflecting lamp lights on the waters. Rubbed her arms harshly. Maybe not warding off a chill, but the sensation brought some form of reality back to her. Comfort, if fleeting.

To say she missed Argonas deeply was a sad understatement. 

It hurt. Vividly. But it had been necessary. Had his child been born? Was he still recovering from her betrayal? A quietly reverent hope pled that he had forgotten her, but she knew it likely wasn’t so.

She couldn’t stomach the threat to him. The last piece of a life she barely remembered, stoically friendly despite the odds. Wouldn’t. Refused it.

[roman-writing]

Increments of Longing (1/4)

Fandom: Warcraft III / World of Warcraft

Pairing: Sylvanas Windrunner / Jaina Proudmoore

Rating: T 

Wordcount: 12,337

Summary: The Zandalari trolls have joined forces with the Amani trolls, and Prince Kael’thas seeks a new military alliance with the seafaring nation of Kul Tiras by arranging a marriage between the Ranger-General of Silvermoon and the sole Heir to the Kul Tiran Admiralty.

Author’s Note: shoutout to @raffinit for being a champ and reading over this for me

read it below or read it here on AO3

“So this is how the sea starts: increments of longing,

Mostly in half darkness

Then a white light as waves rush through.”

— Meena Alexander, from “Nocturne”

Jaina had read once that teleportation could provoke a feeling of nausea not unlike seasickness. At the time, she had counted it as something that only ever happened to other people. She was the last daughter of a long line of sailors, and magic came to her as reliably as the tides came in to Kul Tiras. She had never known her stomach to roll on the deck of a ship or when stepping through a portal, and had expected that she never would. Until today.

Today, Jaina stepped through a portal from the deck of her mother’s flagship to the spires of elven Quel’Thalas, her insides churning all the way. The uniform of the admiralty was heavier than she was accustomed to, her usual robes left behind in Dalaran in favour of something more befitting the situation. It cinched too tight around her waist and forced her shoulders back, the greatcoat pinned and buttoned in more ways than she could count, and she cursed every bit of thread holding the outfit together in the near-tropical heat of the elven city.

She could taste the magic in the air here, magic that she was most familiar with in the way it radiated off the Kirin Tor high elves she studied under, like the warmth of the sun on a summer’s day. In Dalaran it was like resting by a brazier; here it was like standing next to a bonfire, and the magic only added to the cloying heat her uniform and nausea travelling provoked.

It was just nausea, she was certain.

She glanced back, but Katherine Proudmoore was already delivering orders to her admiralty staff and the captain of the fleet. Jaina opened her mouth to say something, but the portal was obscured by Proudmoore guardsmen. They stepped through beside her, and the portal winked shut behind them, leaving her alone. These were her mother’s men, not her own. They were not the people she could confide in, and this was not a place to confide in them.

Elven guards were upon them immediately, royal Spellbreakers with formal uniforms and flared shields, ready to escort them, to escort her to Prince Kael’thas without delay.

“Lady Proudmoore, thank you for coming so directly,” the leading guard said in a lilting accent, bowing deeply.

Jaina had to fight the urge to wring her hands. Instead, she returned the bow and greeted the guard in practiced Thalassian. “Anar-alah belore. The pleasure is mine.”

He straightened, and replied in Common. “Prince Kael’thas sends his most sincere apologies he could not be here to greet you himself. Unfortunately, his duties have detained him elsewhere for a time. I am to escort you to a courtyard to wait for the prince and your betrothed, the Ranger-General. If you would follow me, my Lady.”

Was her broken Thalassian so bad he felt the need to speak in Common? Or was he just being polite? Jaina never could tell. The high elves in Dalaran had never looked at her twice -- until recently, for reasons she paled to think of -- and when they did, it was always with a distinct air of disdain. As though she had muddied the hems of their elegant silk robes just by walking near them.

Or perhaps that was simply what all elves were like. This guard, while polite to the letter, certainly gave a haughty impression without even trying. His casual mention of why she was here at all made her stomach swoop down past her knees.

An engagement between the sole heir of Kul Tiras and the leader of the high elven armies. A military alliance in all its finery. Today was the day Jaina would be meeting the Ranger-General, and she felt sick just at the thought. She swallowed past the panic that bubbled up her throat.

The elven guard turned to stride away, and Jaina followed. Her own Kul Tiran guards trailed behind her, two-abreast. Far from appearing official, Jaina felt they looked drab in contrast to the sparkling minarets, lush scarlet banners, and golden-branched trees -- herself included.

Especially herself. She smoothed her hands down the front of her ceremonial greatcoat, feeling sillier than ever. She would melt before the day was over.

Quickening her step, Jaina caught up to the elven guard who had addressed her before. “Your city is very beautiful,” she said in Thalassian, determined to not let her few practiced phrases go to waste.

One of his long ears twitched. Surprise? Aversion? Maybe her accent was particularly grating. Regardless, he replied once again in Common. “Thank you, Lady Proudmoore.”

Jaina may not have been particularly adept at social situations, but she knew a rebuff when she saw one. Flushing, she fell back a step and let herself be led in silence.

They passed by an opulent water fountain in the centre of a square. Jaina paused to admire it before hurrying along with the elven guards, who had stopped the moment they noticed she had done so. She did not stop again, much as she wished to take a diversion down a street that led to a glimpse of a marketplace bustling with life. She craned her neck as they passed, but kept her feet moving. With a grimace she shrugged against another uncomfortable prickle of heat, feeling a drop of sweat sliding down her spine.

The guards led her beneath an intricately carved archway and through a series of open colonnades. At last, they came upon a private courtyard, empty save for a few guardsmen flanking the entryway.

The lead elven guard bowed to her again. “If you require anything, do not hesitate to let one of us know.”

He turned to leave, but stopped when Jaina said, “Um?”

“Yes?” he asked.

She hesitated, before asking, “I’m sorry to impose, but could I please have some water brought out? It’s awfully warm.”

“Of course.”

He murmured something in his native tongue to one of the other guardsmen, and the group of them left without another word, so that Jaina was alone with her own Kul Tiran guards, who had already begun to fan out along the perimeter of the surrounding colonnade. At a loss for what to do, Jaina lingered at the edge of the courtyard. If she could even call it that. It seemed more accurate to call it a private garden. A large tree shaded a stone bench with its golden leaves, and a small stream winded its way through the centre of the space, feeding a bank of artful wildflowers that bloomed with vibrant reds and oranges. She crossed over to the tree in the hopes that its shade would provide a cooler atmosphere than the sun-warmed stones of the colonnade pathway.

No sooner had she sat down on the bench, than two of the elven guards returned. Jaina immediately jumped to her feet once more, anxiously looking over their shoulders to see if anyone else was accompanying them. As it turned out, they were only delivering the water she had asked for.

She thanked them as they placed the fluted crystal pitcher and goblet set on the ground beside the bench, and received only a bow in return. They then returned to their posts, leaving her alone in the centre of the courtyard. Gratefully, Jaina sat and poured herself a glass, but wrinkled her nose when she took a sip.

Tides help her. Even the water in Quel’Thalas was served warm.

With a sigh, she took another begrudging sip before placing the goblet aside. She leaned her head back and looked up at the sky. A breeze sloughed through the canopy. A pair of birds winged overhead in a flit and dip of vivid yellow. The clouds were streaked with vibrant colours -- blues and warm peach tones that would eventually fade to a dusky purple come the evening.

Soon driven to boredom, Jaina was making a tendril of water from the nearby stream weave patterns in the air with one finger, when the elven guards suddenly snapped to attention. Their shields slammed smartly against the ground, and Jaina jerked in surprise. The water she had been manipulating with magic dropped to the earth and scattered along the wildflowers. Someone new entered the courtyard.

Again, Jaina shot to her feet. She kept her arms stiffly at her side to resist the temptation to fiddle with her own fingers. The newcomer -- an elven woman with silver-gold hair, wearing opulent armour -- stopped at the edge of the garden. She exchanged a few sharp words with the guards that Jaina could not hear from this distance. Whatever reply they gave seemed to satisfy her, for she tucked her hands behind her back in an officious pose and strode directly towards Jaina, her footsteps lithe as a cat’s.

Or, perhaps not a cat. Something more deadly than a mere housecat. A panther or sabre. The closer she drew, the more Jaina realised just how tall she was. High elves naturally stood a bit taller than average humans, but Jaina’s family was known for their height, and she was used to standing taller than most. As the woman stopped and stood before her however, Jaina could already tell she was no longer the tallest one here.

“Lady Proudmoore?” the woman asked.

Jaina nodded. “Yes?”

The woman’s eyes, glowing a soft blue like many of her kin, swept appraisingly over her. Jaina squirmed somewhat beneath that intense scrutiny, before realising what she was doing and lifting her chin to meet the woman’s gaze head on. At that, the woman cocked her head, and introduced herself, “Sylvanas Windrunner. You must forgive the tardiness. I’m afraid everyone in Silvermoon is bogged down with work these days.”

“I hear war will do that,” Jaina quipped, trying and failing to make light of the situation.

Still, it earned her a smile. A fleeting, tight-lipped smile, but a smile nonetheless. It was more than Jaina had managed in Quel’Thalas so far. Beneath her gilded pauldrons, Sylvanas’ shoulders were rigid, her posture impeccably militant.

Clearing her throat, Jaina pointed to Sylvanas’ armour. “So, you’re a Ranger, then? You must know the Ranger-General.”

For some reason, that simple observation caused Sylvanas’ eyebrows to rise, her long ears canting up in surprise. Jaina was still wondering what sort of offense she must have accidentally caused, when Sylvanas answered slowly, “I am. And I do.”

When Sylvanas offered no more information than that, Jaina said, “Well, I appreciate him sending you along to keep me company. Though I understand it must be an imposition on your time, what with -- you know -” she waved her hands towards the walls around them, “- the Trolls combining forces and threatening to take over both our lands, and all that.”

“It is no trouble,” Sylvanas replied coolly. After an awkward pause, she added, “This is, after all, meant to be a union to solve that particular problem. Or so I’m told.”

The dryness of her tone made the corner of Jaina’s mouth curl up in spite of herself. “Yes, I remember getting that talk as well. What was it my mother said? ‘A military trade by less than military means’?”

Sylvanas hummed a quiet laugh, and fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. She did not look old, but Jaina never could tell with elves. As far as she knew, Sylvanas could have been a thousand years old, and she would be none the wiser.

“Your mother is an excellent leader,” Sylvanas said, and for the first time she seemed to relax, more in her element as the conversation continued. “I have admired her strategies for some time. I hope our people can learn much from one another.”

“That’s very liberal of you,” Jaina replied before her head could catch up with her mouth. Her eyes widened when she heard what she had said. “I mean -! I just -!”

“- Know that my people are notoriously xenophobic?” Sylvanas finished for her, amused at Jaina’s stammering. “Yes, I am well aware.”

“Well, I -” Jaina couldn’t help but wring her hands now. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“And what would you say?”

Jaina fumbled for the right turn of phrase. “‘Parsimonious with your cultural heritage?’”

At that, Sylvanas laughed and the sound was infectious enough that Jaina could not help but smile in turn. Mostly, she was relieved that Sylvanas found it funny rather insulting, and that she had avoided some sort of potentially disastrous diplomatic incident.

Sylvanas’ gaze gleamed when she stopped laughing. “You have a way with words, Lady Proudmoore.”

A flush that had very little to do with the heat crept across Jaina’s face. “I can’t say that’s the impression most people have of me, but I’ll take it.”

“Yes, I’d heard something about you being the bookish sort.”

“News travels fast even in Quel’Thalas, it seems.”

“Don’t you know?” Sylvanas tsked when Jaina gave her a quizzical look. “I was sure you would have read about it in those dusty old history books. Elves invented gossip, you know.”

“Bullshit,” Jaina said before she could censor herself. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but Sylvanas was grinning at her again.

Now, Sylvanas appeared positively impish, and she teased, “A wordsmith in more ways than one, I see.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Jaina warned. “I'm supposed to be on my best behaviour.”

Sylvanas mimed locking her lips with an invisible key. “I wouldn’t dare.”

If any of the guardsmen -- elven or human -- were eavesdropping on their conversation, they didn’t show it. Jaina tried to look past the elven guards to see if anyone was coming. The elven guards exchanged glances, a flicker of their eyes beneath their winged helms. Sylvanas followed Jaina’s gaze, turning towards the elven guards as well. Whatever they saw on her face had them standing up straighter, as if they’d stepped on a lightning ward.

Sylvanas turned back to her and said, “The Prince shouldn’t be much longer.”

“The Ranger-General -” Jaina began. She cleared her throat and tugged at the high collar of her cravat. “- what’s he like?”

A long silence followed her question. Sylvanas was watching her very carefully. “Do you want my honest opinion?”

“Would you give me anything else?”

Sylvanas gave a huff of laughter. “In that case,” she paused before continuing, “The Ranger-General has a bit of a temper, is incredibly vain and meddlesome, and -- quite frankly -- needs a long holiday.”

Blinking in shock, Jaina replied, “That’s - Well, that’s quite honest of you.”

That officious tone came back when Sylvanas answered, “Candour is strongly encouraged among the ranks of the Rangers. It fosters camaraderie.”

“Yes, but -” Jaina shook her head. “He can’t really be that bad.”

Sylvanas shrugged, the plates of her pauldrons sliding together with the motion. “I suppose it depends on who you ask.”

“Well, shit,” Jaina sighed. This time she didn’t even bother trying to stop herself from swearing. She merely tugged at her cravat again, reaching up to wipe at a bead of sweat that darkened the hair at her temples.

Tilting her head to one side, Sylvanas said, “If you’re too warm, you should just take that coat off.”

“I would, but I need to -” Jaina motioned towards herself and her attire. “- look the part. Something about all ceremony and etiquette before the prince.”

“The prince won’t care,” Sylvanas said. Then added, “Well, he will -- I’ve never met a man more concerned about appearances in my life -- but that doesn’t mean you should die of heat stroke before he arrives.”

Jaina rolled her eyes. “Well, thanks. Now I feel a lot better.”

“No, but you will once you take off that gaudy thing.”

Eyebrows rising, Jaina gave Sylvanas’ own attire a pointed look. “Where I’m from, we have a saying: that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

Sylvanas flashed her a grin, and for the first time Jaina noticed that she had fangs that were surprisingly long and sharp. “But, Lady Proudmoore, how would you be able to recognise I was a high elf, if I didn’t look unbearably snobbish?”

The wayward stroke of humour was far more self-deprecating than Jaina had been expecting from a person who looked so serious. In spite of herself, Jaina let loose a snort of graceless laughter. Sylvanas continued to smile at her, warm if still a bit stiff. As if on her guard. As if someone important could walk into the courtyard at any moment.  

“Thank you,” Jaina said.

Sylvanas frowned. “For what?”

“Making me laugh.” Jaina started tugging at the many buttons and buckles of her greatcoat, loosening it one latch at a time. “Tides, but I needed a good laugh.”

With an inscrutable expression, Sylvanas remained silent while Jaina shrugged off her greatcoat. Flinging it onto a nearby bench, Jaina tugged at her white shirt, pulling it away from where it stuck to her sweaty skin, and scrunching up her nose in distaste at the ruffles spilling from the cravat tightly bound at her neck.

“Ugh,” she muttered, sinking down onto the bench as well. “I miss my robes.”

Sylvanas did not join her on the bench, standing a decorous distance from her. “I’d heard you were training to become a member of the Kirin Tor?”

“I’m surprised a Ranger would know that.”

Sylvanas shrugged. “I like to be kept well-informed.”

Jaina sighed, fiddling with the end of a ruffle. "I honestly wish this whole marriage of convenience thing wasn't so...inconvenient."

Sylvanas raised a brow at that. "Oh?"

"I was looking forward to continuing my studies at Dalaran," Jaina admitted. "It took me so long to get Antonidas to even think about training me, and now it's -"

She cut herself off with a shrug.

Sylvanas looked at her for a moment, the tip of an ear flicking as she pointed out slowly, "There are many fine mages in Silvermoon. If they're not up to your high standards, I'm sure we can arrange for wards to portal you back to Dalaran whenever you require."

“Why would they go out of their way like that for me?”

Sylvanas gave her an odd look, bordering on incredulous. “Do you not realise the privileged position to which you are being elevated here in Quel’Thalas?”

“Trust me, I know privilege. This?” Jaina pointed to the lush courtyard sprawling around them. “Feels like a cage.”

At that, Sylvanas went rigid, her posture more martial than even when she first entered the courtyard. “If you don’t wish to go through with the engagement, you needn’t do so. Nobody will force you into this, least of all -”

Before she could finish, she cut herself off with a clench of teeth, her mouth twisting to one side.

“You’re very kind,” Jaina said. “But really, it’s fine.”

Sylvanas took a step forward. Her eyes, which had previously glowed a soft blue, were suddenly very intense. The change was startling enough that Jaina leaned back in her seat. “If you have reservations, you must confide them.”

“In who?” Jaina asked.

“Somebody.” Sylvanas insisted. “Anybody.”

“I -” Jaina started to speak, but paused. Pressure pushed down on her shoulder, on her sternum and throat, until she felt like she was going to cave in upon herself. She swallowed thickly, staring down at her hands. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is. I assure you: it is.”

When Jaina neither replied nor looked up, Sylvanas sighed. For a brief moment, Jaina thought Sylvanas was going to be angry with her, that she was going to storm off and do something brash. Instead, she shocked Jaina even more by walking over and gently moving the greatcoat in order to sit beside her on the stone bench. Sylvanas leaned her elbows on her knees, and when Jaina snuck a hesitant peek, it was to find her staring down at her clasped hands in much the same fashion.

Sylvanas’ voice was soft when she spoke, “If you want, I can make this whole situation go away. You need only say the word, and I promise I will do everything in my power to make it so.”

Jaina stared at her. Sylvanas looked up and met her eye, and Jaina had no doubt that she could make good on such a promise.

Finally, Jaina shook her head. “No.”

“You’re certain?” Sylvanas pressed.

“Yes.” Jaina took a deep breath. “It’s not my first choice -- by any stretch of the imagination -- but it is my choice.”

For a moment, Sylvanas said nothing in reply. Then, she surprised Jaina yet again with faint laughter. “And now it is my turn to thank you.”

Jaina blinked in confusion. “Why?”

“For setting my mind at ease,” she said, and this time her smile was gentle enough to make Jaina’s breath catch.

Footsteps approached, rapid and quickly approaching. Jaina could hear the faint strains of male voices talking, and Sylvanas’ ears twitched. Abruptly, Sylvanas stood and motioned for Jaina to do the same. Jaina followed suit. She reached for her greatcoat, but stopped when Sylvanas shook her head.

Before Jaina could do anything more, Prince Kael’thas entered the courtyard, accompanied by the lead elven guard that had led Jaina from the portal. All of the guards -- human and elven alike -- stood at attention, but Kael’thas took no notice of them, as if they were mere fixtures along the walls.

He shooed the lead elven guard away with an irritable wave of his hand. “Yes, you were right, Ithedis. No need to be so smug about it.”

Far from appearing smug, Ithedis bowed low at the waist as Kael’thas continued to cross the garden courtyard alone. A friendly smile bloomed across Kael’thas’ face as he strode towards them, and Jaina felt more than saw Sylvanas stiffen beside her.

“Ah, Sylvanas! I was searching for you in the Walk of Elders, but here you are, keeping our esteemed guest company. Been getting to know one another?”

Sylvanas made a smart gesture, clasping her fist over her chest in what appeared to be a salute. “We have.”

“Excellent.” He turned his attention upon Jaina. When he opened his arms, Jaina was half afraid he was going to offer her a hug -- she hadn’t known high elves to be liberal with physical displays of affection -- but he only indicated their surroundings. “Lady Proudmoore, it is very good to see you again. You are most welcome in Silvermoon.”

Jaina bowed. “You are generous to receive me, Prince Kael’thas. It is my sincere hope this is the start of a long and robust alliance between our two nations.”

When she straightened, he was positively beaming with satisfaction. “Then our visions are aligned. Come!” He turned heel and started to walk back the way he came, not pausing to see if they followed. “Grab your coat and let us repair to someplace more suited to these kinds of formal discussions. Now that we’re all here, we can -”

“Uhm -?” Jaina interrupted. “Excuse me?”

Stopping in his tracks, Kael’thas blinked and turned, momentarily flummoxed at being interrupted. “Yes, Lady Proudmoore?”

Pointing between the three of them, Jaina said, “Aren’t we missing someone?”

Kael’thas glanced between Jaina and Sylvanas in puzzlement. Then, he smiled at Sylvanas as if she had intentionally left him out on some sort of inside joke. He turned back to Jaina apologetically, “I’m afraid I do not follow.”

“The Ranger-General?” Jaina prompted, a little testily.

Slowly, incredulously, Kael’thas aimed his full attention back upon Sylvanas. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Tell me what?” Jaina looked at Sylvanas, but Sylvanas was studiously avoiding her eye. Something stirred at the back of Jaina’s mind, suspicion floundering at the edge of outright understanding.

Sylvanas’ voice was strained. “It never quite came up.”

Oh. Oh, no.

“Well, then. Allow me to be the one to properly introduce you two.” Kael’thas gestured first to Jaina then to Sylvanas, like an officiant presiding over a ceremony, his blood-red robes sweeping with every motion. “Lady Jaina Proudmoore, Heir to the Kul Tiran Admiralty, Scion of the Fleet. And Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, of Quel’Thalas, and of the Farstriders.”

Jaina’s stomach sank, like an anchor plummeting to a rocky seabed. The sun burned in the sky, but ice squeezed Jaina’s chest in a vice-like grip. Sylvanas stood tall, straight-backed, and stony-faced. She glanced sidelong in her direction, and this time when their eyes met, Jaina felt like she’d been plunged into an icy lake.

Sylvanas bowed to Jaina, her every movement rigid, and murmured, “A pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Lady Proudmoore.”

The negotiations took weeks and weeks. Partly because Kael’thas insisted that Jaina be seen around Silvermoon City for what he called ‘a sufficient duration of time’ in order for her and the citizens of Quel’Thalas to acclimate to the idea that she would be marrying their Ranger-General. Mostly though, it was because it took so long to get everyone in the same room together. Meetings were pushed back or cancelled. Katherine Proudmoore couldn’t make it one week due to Zandalari activity to the southern seas. Kael’thas couldn’t make it the next week due to a meeting with the Council of Elders. Even Sylvanas had to extend her apologies, when a skirmish with the Amani trolls called her away to the borders.

Meanwhile, Jaina remained in Silvermoon, restlessness and boredom building under her skin like the sweltering heat of Quel'Thalas.

Rather than staying cooped up in the quarters given to her in the Court of the Sun, she had taken to walking around the city, accompanied by her omnipresent mix of personal Kul Tiran guards and elven Spellbreakers. In the first week, this had sparked a flurry of Thalassian whispers and stares when she had walked through the marketplace. Ithedis, who had been permanently assigned to Jaina’s protection detail by Kael’thas, had informed her that most foreign dignitaries were strongly encouraged to remain in the boundaries of the Court of the Sun during their brief visits.

Jaina wasn’t sure about being a ‘dignitary.’ She certainly didn’t feel particularly dignified with so many people gawking at her. She also wasn’t sure that rule applied to her.

“Didn’t the prince say that the whole point of my stay here was for me to be seen?” Jaina pointed out to Ithedis, when she continued to roam the city in the second week.

“He did, Lady Proudmoore,” Ithedis conceded in his usual stiff monotone. His expression was difficult to read behind the ornate flanges of his helm.

She ignored the way people gave her a wide berth on the streets, preferring to instead admire the fluted architecture of Farstrider Square. “Then, are you -” she stopped to peer into an open-plan building. “- ‘strongly encouraging’ me to remain in my quarters? Does this shop sell anything?”

Ithedis blinked at her in confusion, glancing between her and the building. “Weapons, Lady Proudmoore. And I would not presume to tell you anything that was against your best interests.”

Patting him on the shoulder, Jaina said, “And I thank you for that, Ithedis. Would you like to accompany me into the shop while the others remain outside?”

If anything, he seemed even more puzzled than before. His head flinched back, as if she had struck him.

Jaina quickly withdrew her hand, eyes wide. “Oh! I’m - I’m very sorry! If I overstepped -!”

“It is fine, my Lady,” he insisted, even as he glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had noticed. “I would be happy to accompany you inside, if you so wish.”

Right. No touching. Was it an elf thing, Jaina wondered, or a station thing? She didn’t have the courage to ask him. Or, more appropriately, she didn’t want to put him on the spot even more than she already had done.

Jaina told her Kul Tiran guards to remain outside the shop, while Ithedis murmured the same in Thalassian to his own men. As the two of them stepping through the arched entryway, Ithedis removed his helm and tucked it under one arm. He was of a height with her, which seemed off-putting to him, for one of his ears gave a near imperceptible flick when he glanced at the top of her head.

The owner was speaking to an elven customer, and their voices dropped the moment Jaina walked inside. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Jaina instead tried offering what she hoped was a welcoming smile, which they did not return. Ithedis remained completely silent and stony, dutifully trailing after Jaina while she ambled round the perimeter of the shop, admiring the wares on display.

Jaina circled a stand of armour. The red lacquered plates had been polished to a shine, so that she could see her own shadow drifting in reflection across the surface. Not looking at Ithedis, she asked, “How well do you know Sylvanas?”

As usual, Ithedis expression gave away nothing. “The Ranger-General is an excellent military leader, just like her mother before her. Cunning. Shrewd. A staunch defender of our people.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jaina sighed.

He did not ask for clarification, and Jaina took that to mean he did not want to know what she had meant. Either that, or he knew what she meant and had no answer that could help her. Eventually he managed to say, “Lady Windrunner -” he smoothed his thumb across the edge of his helm. “- is an accomplished huntress.”

Well, that was something at least. Drawing in a deep breath, Jaina pointed to a lavishly chased war axe hung upon the wall, its heavy blade stylised in the shape of an eagle’s beak. “Do you think she’d like that?”

Ithedis stared at her as if Jaina had just asked him to jump into a fountain. “You wish to buy the Ranger-General a war glaive?” he asked slowly.

“I wish to buy my betrothed a gift,” she corrected. “Is that inappropriate? Where I’m from, that would be considered quite a common thing to do, so please tell me if I’ve blundered.”

He seemed to relax, if only a fraction. “Ah. I understand. That is acceptable.”

“But not the axe?”

He did not answer.

Sighing, Jaina moved on and pointed to a sword. “This?”

Again, Ithedis did not answer, but his jaw tightened slightly, as if he were clenching his teeth.

“I’m going to take that as another ‘no.’”

Jaina continued walking, taking note of the many exquisite pieces of craftsmanship. She passed by a tower shield not unlike Ithedis’ own -- somehow Sylvanas did not strike her as the type to use a shield. A spear caught her attention, but Jaina paused at the bow beside it.

“You mentioned she was a huntress?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Reaching up to trace the bow’s curved limb with her fingers, Jaina turned away. A wall adjacent her was layered with shelves that bore all manner of smaller items. Knives and quivers. Arrows and tinderboxes. Leather travel pouches, belts, and spare links of chain mail for repairing armour in the field.

She approached, immediately turning over an assortment of different sized and shaped arrowheads, as well as a wickedly sharp skinning knife that gleamed with oil when she revealed a finger-breadth of damascus steel from its sheath. When her eye fell upon a narrow little box however, Jaina placed the knife aside in favour of the box. It had been expertly carved from pale ivory and inlaid with golden ceremonial Thalassian script all around the edge.

Jaina held it up to Ithedis. “What does this say?”

He leaned forward. “It is an idiom, my Lady. ‘Prey hung is prey skinned.’ It means -” Pausing for a moment to think, he explained, “It means that there are often alternative solutions to a single problem.”

Humming a contemplative note under her breath, Jaina carefully opened the box. It was lined in red velvet, and nestled within was a dark slab of rock. A whetstone.

Jaina closed the box once more, and waggled it at Ithedis. “Yes?” she asked.

Again, Ithedis did not answer, but this time he gave a tiny nod that Jaina would have missed had she not been looking for it.

She bought the box, enjoying the shop owner’s open surprise that she was purchasing anything at all, and that she had picked what seemed to be the most practical and least gaudy item in the room. It was small enough to fit into her pocket when she walked back out onto the street with Ithedis shadowing her every footstep.

He placed his helm back over his head and remained as formal as ever, but for the remainder of the day he would answer her in Thalassian when she boldly tried to practice a few phrases on him. And as the sun began to slip towards the horizon, and they strolled back in the direction of the Court of the Sun, the little box was a welcome weight in Jaina’s pocket.

By the fifth week of her stay, people no longer stared and muttered as she passed, and Jaina had long since taken to wearing more simple Kul Tiran clothing. By the sixth week of her stay, Jaina had explored every street of Silvermoon City. At least, all the ones Ithedis would allow her to walk down. Some, he advised, were ‘ill-suited to the Lady’s disposition’ which Jaina took to mean ‘unsafe.’ By the seventh week, Jaina was just about ready to drag her mother, Kael’thas, and Sylvanas into the same room by the scruff of their necks. Luckily -- for all of their sakes -- they managed to finally arrange a day to settle the negotiations.

Most of the paperwork, Jaina knew, had already been drawn up; she had paled at the sight of stacks and stacks of documents in an official looking room of Sunfury Spire. Her wrist was already aching at the thought of signing those pages.

At least then it would be done. Better to get this over with than have it hang over her like a sword dangling by a silk thread.

Another otherwise uneventful morning found Jaina finishing up a light breakfast, attended as she always was by Ithedis and her Kul Tiran guards. She was seated upon a secluded bench in the corner of the bazaar and people-watching, when Kael’thas found her. She looked up in bemusement when she heard a murmur extend through the marketplace, half convinced that it was due to something she had unwittingly done. Seeing royal guards, she wrapped her half eaten meal in the cloth she had bought it in, and set it aside. She was standing and brushing crumbs from her breeches just as Kael’thas approached.

“You’re a difficult woman to find, Lady Proudmoore,” Kael’thas greeted her with a smile. He nodded to both sets of guards, who all walked a ways off to give the two of them space to speak in private. All except Ithedis, who continued to stand at Jaina’s elbow.

“My apologies,” Jaina said. “I thought I had until the afternoon before the meeting began?”

“Oh, you do. You do. I simply wanted to have a quick chat before the final negotiations. Check in on you, so to speak.”

“Thank you,” she said slowly. “I’m doing very well.”

Kael’thas smiled. “I have no doubt,” he replied. Without turning, he waved a dismissive hand at Ithedis and said, “A moment, please.”

Ithedis did not move.

For a moment, Kael’thas stared at Ithedis in confusion, then growing anger, his brow darkening as Ithedis remained staunchly by Jaina’s side. Kael’thas’ mouth opened, but before he could speak, Jaina murmured to Ithedis, “Thank you.”

Immediately, Ithedis bowed and strode exactly five paces away, watching. Kael’thas scowled after him, then glanced at Jaina thoughtfully as if adding numbers together.

Jaina cleared her throat. “You wanted to speak to me about something?”

“Yes,” Kael’thas muttered. In an instant, his veneer of false cheeriness returned, and his words were buoyant. “Yes, I did. You seem to be acclimating admirably. You’ve been the talk of the town ever since you arrived.”

“Oh - well, that’s -” she fidgeted with the ends of her sleeves before realising what she was doing and putting her hands firmly at her sides. “Good?”

His voice lowered and he assured her. “It’s excellent. I only bring it up because I also hear you and the Ranger-General have not taken the time to -- how shall I put it? -- grow better acquainted.”

Jaina opened her mouth, but no sound came out. It was true; she and Sylvanas had barely exchanged more than a few passing pleasantries since their first encounter in the garden courtyard. The one evening Sylvanas had found the time to join Jaina for dinner in a public venue, a breathless Ranger had raced up to their table and whispered something in Sylvanas’ ear that had her standing and apologising for the need to cut their meal so short.

Jaina had stayed to finish eating alone, and discovered upon leaving that Sylvanas had already taken care of any payment.

Kael’thas was still talking. “I understand -- believe me, I understand -- that our beloved Lady Windrunner can be a polarising personality. If she is not to your liking, then it is best we have that discussion before any official proceedings.”

“I don’t - I mean - she’s not -” Jaina floundered for exactly what to say, but Kael’thas continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“If I’m to be perfectly honest, the Ranger-General was not my first choice for this union. Your mother was adamant however, that the alliance be military in nature. Both literally and symbolically. What with the Ranger-General answering solely to the Council of Elders, that military angle was of utmost importance. And while there are many fine Captains who could have taken my place -”

“Your place -?” Jaina’s eyes widened when she realised exactly what he was implying.

“- It did not seem befitting a lady of your station to marry at a level so beneath you. That and the fact the Ranger-General is known to be a -”

“Prince Kael’thas,” she interrupted, voice firm enough that she could get a word in edgewise. “While I appreciate your concern, I think any drastic changes this late in the negotiations would be unwise.”

At that, he appeared confused. As if she had snubbed an offering that he had spent a long time choosing just for her. His answering smile felt more forced than usual. “Quite right, Lady Proudmoore. Quite right.” Kael’thas offered her his arm. “Shall we head for the Spire? I know it’s early yet, but best to get everyone together before another disaster strikes.”

She hesitated for but a moment before placing her hand on his arm and allowing herself to be led from the bazaar. Ithedis fell in close behind them, followed by their combined unit of guards, until Jaina felt like she was leading a small cohort of armed soldiers that clanked with every step. Kael’thas talked the entire way to Sunfury Spire. All Jaina had to do was make noises of interest, and he seemed more than satisfied with the conversation.

Jaina used crossing the threshold of the Spire as an excuse to remove her hand. Kael’thas made no comment, though he did pause before continuing to lead her to the meeting room. More guards flanked the doors. They snapped to attention upon their monarch’s approach. As she passed by, Jaina gave them a weak smile that neither returned.

Someone cleared their throat behind her, and she turned in the entryway. Ithedis stood just outside, giving Jaina a meaningful look, as if waiting to be either invited inside or dismissed.

“Oh! Uhm -” Jaina winced sympathetically, “It’s probably best you wait outside for this.”

Without a word or the faintest flicker in his expression, Ithedis bowed and joined the rest of the guards outside the room.

When Jaina turned back around, it was to find that Kael’thas had been accosted by a steward. They spoke in rapid Thalassian. She had trouble following, only picking out words here and there among the fluid syllables.

Then, Kael’thas offered Jaina a respectful nod. “Excuse me. I must attend to something momentarily.”

“Another disaster?” Jaina quipped.

He grimaced. “Of the paperwork variety.”

“My condolences, Your Majesty.”

He chuckled, waggling a finger at her as though she were a small child caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. “You’re funny! They didn’t tell me you were funny!”

And with that he swept past her, followed by the steward. Jaina watched him go in slight bewilderment. Shaking her head, she stepped further into the room. A large oval table was perched in the very centre, spread with a ruby-coloured cloth and stacked with papers. Her mother stood near the head of the table, deep in conversation with her second-in-command. Based on the furrow in Katherine's brow, Jaina could tell the conversation was not going well. Best to steer clear.

On the far side of the room, open windows streamed with late morning light. Sylvanas was silhouetted against the glass, and beside her stood another elven woman Jaina had never seen before. They spoke quietly yet sharply, and they fell silent when they noticed Jaina rounding the table to join them. As they turned towards her, Jaina was struck by the resemblance of the two women, although the other elven woman was shorter by far and with hair so pale it appeared a shade shy of silver.

“Lady Proudmoore,” Sylvanas greeted with a respectful nod. She gestured towards the other woman and said, “Allow me to introduce my little sister, Vereesa.”

Without thinking, Jaina stuck out her hand. “It's lovely to meet you.”

Rather than bow, Vereesa grasped her hand without hesitation. “Likewise. I'm only sorry I couldn't do so earlier. Sylvanas has kept me busy in the field. I barely managed to escape the front lines. She'd have me working through her own wedding, if she could.”

Sylvanas’ gaze flicked up towards the ceiling, as if praying for patience. “Who else am I supposed to trust the Rangers with in my absence?”

“Heaven forbid you actually delegate for once in your life,” Vereesa shot back.

“Oh, I see. You'd prefer me to promote Falean?” Sylvanas countered in a tone that was far too sweet.

Vereesa aimed an ugly look at her sister. “Only if you want all your hair to be mysteriously shorn off in the night.”

Sylvanas tsked, and sounded bored when she said, “How rude, sister.”

“Well, I'm glad you did manage to get away,” Jaina said, clasping her hands before her.

“That makes one of us,” Sylvanas drawled.

Elbowing her sister in the flank for that comment, Vereesa smiled at Jaina. “Thank you.”

Sylvanas rubbed at her ribs, but a faint smile played across her face. “I must apologise again for having to abandon our dinner,” she said to Jaina. “I’ll have to make it up to you.”

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for you to think of something,” Jaina replied, then brightened. “Oh! That reminds me!”

As Jaina began digging around in her pockets, Sylvanas and Vereesa exchanged puzzled glances. Vereesa shrugged.

Pulling the ivory box free, Jaina held it out to Sylvanas. “I bought this for you. I know we’re not official or anything, but I figure we’re signing everything today, so -- here.”

Both Sylvanas and Vereesa had gone stock-still. Vereesa was watching her sister’s reaction, and Sylvanas was staring at the box as if Jaina had offered her a live serpent. Slowly, she reached out and took the box from Jaina, moving carefully so that their fingers did not touch. She did not open it.

“I -” Jaina hesitated, confidence wavering. “I thought this was alright? I mean -- I asked Ithedis, and he said it was alright for me to give you something?”

Sylvanas’ brow furrowed. “Ithedis? You mean that stuffy old Spellbreaker?”

Jaina bristled. “Hey! He’s nice to me!”

At that, Sylvanas’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “And he told you that you should give me a gift?”

“Well, no,” Jaina admitted. “I said I wanted to buy you a gift, and he sort of steered me towards something appropriate.”

Pointing at the box now in Sylvanas’ hand, Vereesa asked, “As opposed to -?” she trailed off, waiting for Jaina to tell them.

“A war glaive,” Jaina mumbled.

Sylvanas made a faint choking noise that she covered with a poorly disguised cough. Vereesa looked like she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud.

In the meantime, Jaina could feel heat creeping up her cheeks. She clenched her hands at her side, and her words held more of a snap than she would have liked. “Alright, what? What is it? Is a gift considered bad luck or something?”

Clearing her throat, Sylvanas smoothed her features as best she could, though her eyes still gleamed with amusement. “Forgive me. In my culture people do exchange gifts when they are to be married. However, the gift is supposed to be a sort of representation of the marriage itself. As a general rule, you would avoid any sharp objects. They represent severed ties.”

Slowly, realisation dawned on Jaina. “So, giving a big axe would be like -”

“- announcing to the world that you think the marriage will end in bloodshed,” Vereesa finished for her, unable to keep the grin from her face.

Jaina spluttered wordlessly. When she found her voice, she asked, “What - uhm - what would be a good gift, then?”

Idly tapping the fingertips of one hand against the box, Sylvanas answered, “That depends. Clothing is traditional. A fine steed perhaps? Or -- if you’re feeling adventurous -- a dragonhawk. Though I wouldn’t advise that.”

“Worst wedding reception I’ve ever attended. Dragonhawk got loose,” Veressa added aside.

“Then you’ll be pleased to know this is not a dragonhawk,” Jaina said.

“And thank the stars for that,” Sylvanas chuckled. She looked down at the box. She stroked the ivory grain and traced the elaborate script that scrolled along its edge. With utmost care, Sylvanas opened the box. Some unreadable expression flickered across her face.

“This is -” she started to say, but stopped.

“Perfect,” Vereesa finished, shooting Jaina a covert wink.

Jaina breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank the Tides.”

Sylvanas admired the whetstone for a moment, before placing the lid back on and tucking the box into one of the leather pouches that lined one side of her belt. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”

Something fluttered in Jaina’s chest at the small, warm smile Sylvanas gave her. Before she could say anything foolish, she was saved by the return of Kael’thas and the steward.

“If we could all be seated?” Kael’thas sighed even as he sank down into his seat at one of the heads of the table. The steward followed after him, arms laden with documents and scrolls which he placed on the table before his liege lord. Kael’thas watched with an air of distaste before waving the steward away with an irritable glower.

Sylvanas and Vereesa sat on Kael’thas’ side of the table, though nearer the middle, leaving Jaina to hesitantly make her way over towards her mother. Katherine had dismissed her second-in-command, and was pulling back a chair to sit. “Problem?” she asked.

“Nothing that we can’t handle,” Kael’thas assured her. “A numbering issue on a few minor clauses referenced later in the agreement. Now that it’s fixed, we can -”

When Jaina tugged at the high-backed chair directly opposite Sylvanas, the legs squealed against the marble floor, loud enough that it cut off what the prince had been saying. With a wince and a muttered apology, Jaina sat down.

Clearing his throat, Kael’thas continued, “As I was saying, now that the issue has been fixed, we can settle the last few details, and our happy couple -” he gestured to Sylvanas and Jaina “- can sign everything in front of witnesses.”

“Finally,” Vereesa muttered under her breath in Thalassian. Sylvanas shot her a warning look out of the corner of her eye, and Jaina had to bite her lower lip to keep from grinning.

“You have the pages with the new numbering?” Katherine asked, holding out her hand towards the steward, who stood at attention by the closed door.

Kael’thas nodded. Immediately, the steward moved forward to give Katherine a copy of the pages. She squinted down at the fine print, held it further from her, then gave up and pulled her half-moon spectacles from a pocket of her greatcoat. After settling them on the bridge of her nose, she began to read.

“Your scribes write too small,” Katherine remarked.

“To not waste good parchment,” Kael’thas pointed out. “They have to make duplicates in Thalassian as well, remember?”

Waving him away, Katherine placed her finger on one page. “Yes, yes. This bit here -- trade restrictions. I thought we’d agreed upon a more laissez-faire system.”

“Some consumer protections are a necessity, Lord Admiral. I’m sure you understand. We can’t have bad blood over something as banal as a bad shipment of fruit.”

With a begrudging grunt, Katherine conceded. “And the tariffs? I suppose they’re simply to protect elven agricultural production? I’d hate to think you were attempting to gouge your new allies, Your Majesty.”

“Perish the thought.” If Kael’thas was insulted by his guests’ bluntness, he did not show it. He maintained a presence of calmly smiling poise, while Katherine’s brow darkened.

Tossing down the page, Katherine flipped to another. She glared at him over the top of the parchment and growled, “No tariffs. The consumer protections can stay.”

That sparked a forty minute long debate between the two of them, in which Kael’thas wheedled and pretended to ring his hands, and Katherine grumbled and blustered. Meanwhile, Sylvanas and Vereesa bowed their heads together and spoke in soft tones, leaving Jaina to fiddle with the edge of the tablecloth. Sylvanas did speak, but rarely, and only when the conversation turned to military matters, weighing in on the like of border patrol and merchant protection.

Jaina was trying to catch the steward’s eye in order to ask for a glass of water, when her mother and the prince turned to a fresh page of the documents.

“There is one topic we have avoided during our initial consultations,” Kael’thas said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I mean, of course, the subject of heirs.”

“The Trolls are today’s problem,” Katherine sniffed with a dismissive little flutter of her gloved fingers. “Future heirs are tomorrow’s problem.”

“But we cannot leave the issue undocumented,” Kael’thas pressed.

Katherine’s sharp, pale gaze fixed upon Vereesa across the table. “I have been informed you have children, Lady Windrunner?”

Straightening, Vereesa nodded. “I do. Twin boys.”

“Good.” Katherine turned the page over in her hands and set it atop the growing stack to one side. “Then that side of the bloodline is settled, and Jaina can adopt any one of her host of cousins for an heir.”

Hearing that, Jaina scrunched up her nose.

“What is it?” Katherine sighed.

“Nothing,” Jaina mumbled.

“Don’t mumble, dear.”

Jaina ducked her head. “Sorry.”

“Well, spit it out,” her mother said, watching Jaina with dry amusement. “You have us all rapt.”

Lips pursing, Jaina admitted, “They don’t like me very much. My cousins, I mean.”

Katherine rolled her eyes. “It’s not about ‘like.’ They don’t have to ‘like’ you to be honoured for the opportunity to inherit your titles and carry on our family name.” Her voice gentled when Jaina grimaced at her bluntness. “What about your second cousin?”

“Which one?” Jaina couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her tone, and flushed when her mother shot her a warning look.

“You know which one. The one who was just recently appointed lieutenant aboard the ‘Restoration.’ What was his name?” Katherine frowned and tapped at at her lower lip. “Fitzsimmons?”

“Fitz hates sailing,” Jaina pointed out, and her mother appeared taken aback that any Kul Tiran could hate such a thing as sailing. “He only got the position because of his older brother, who served under dad.”

“Well,” Katherine conceded with a disdainful sniff for Fitz’s character. “Your father’s side of the family has no dearth of nieces and nephews. I’m sure you’ll find someone suitable when the time comes.”

And that seemed to settle that. Kael’thas and Katherine made notes in their separate copies and moved on, leaving Jaina flummoxed. When they moved on to discussions of Jaina’s movements to and from Quel’Thalas, Jaina tried speaking up. Every time she did so however, her mother or Kael’thas would talk over her as if she hadn’t started to form a sentence.

“She needs to be seen to tour around Quel’Thalas with her wife,” Kael’thas insisted.

“And they shouldn’t have to do the same in Kul Tiras?” Katherine countered.

“But what about -?” Jaina began.

“I’m not implying that they’ll never visit Kul Tiras,” Kael’thas continued. “Simply that the first year or two should be spent in Quel’Thalas.”

That earned a derisive sniff from Katherine. “She’s a mage. Frankly, I don’t see why she couldn’t teleport the two of them to and from each nation every month.”

Kael’thas bristled, “Because we need to show some stability. Appearances are everything.”

Rolling her eyes, Katherine leaned back in her seat. “Oh, here we go again.”

Before the two of them could launch into another fully fledged debate, Sylvanas raised her voice, smoothly cutting them off, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear the Lady Proudmoore’s opinion on the matter.”

Silence fell across the table, and every eye turned upon Jaina.

Her first instinct was to slip down further in her seat, but she forced herself to sit upright. Taking a deep breath, Jaina lifted her chin. “The first year or two in Quel’Thalas, but I want to spend at least one day a week continuing my education with the Kirin Tor.”

Both Katherine and Kael’thas mused over that idea. “Your magical education could be well supported here in Silvermoon,” Kael’thas pointed out.

“I’d prefer that to be supplementary to my studies under the Archmage,” Jaina refused to back down. “Studying under Antonidas is not an opportunity I want to pass up.”

“Nor should you have to,” Katherine added.

Fingers drumming against the tabletop, the noise muted by cloth, Kael’thas considered the proposal. Then, he nodded. “Agreed. Shall we put it with the appendices?”

“I think that would be easiest.”

Already they were moving on, and Jaina sighed in relief. She glanced across the table to find Sylvanas watching her, utterly impassive.

‘Thank you,’ Jaina mouthed silently.

In answer, Sylvanas inclined her head.

Through the windows, the sun was beginning its slow descent towards the horizon when Kael’thas and Katherine finally seemed satisfied. Katherine flipped to another page. She adjusted her spectacles with one hand while reading aloud, “We confirm that Lady Jaina Proudmoore, Heir to Kul Tiras, Scion of the Fleet, etc. etc. is of marriageable age. Yes.”

From the other side of the table, Vereesa asked, “Out of curiosity, how old are you exactly?”

“Nineteen,” Jaina answered.

Both Sylvanas and Vereesa went stiff, their ears tilting up in shock. Sylvanas’ eyes were wide, and she was staring at Jaina with a look of horror. A chill of unease walked down Jaina’s spine, settling in her gut and remaining there.

“Oh, good,” Vereesa hissed to her sister. “She’s nineteen.”

“I heard, thank you,” Sylvanas ground out between grit teeth. One of her hands was gripping the tablecloth tight, and she let go, refusing to meet Jaina’s eye across the table now.

“My kids are eight, Sylvanas. Eight.”

Sylvanas’ jaw clenched as she replied to Vereesa, “I am aware.”

Bristling at the way they were talking as if she weren’t right there and could hear them, Jaina asked, “Well, how old are you then?”

Sylvanas still would not look at her. “Older than nineteen.”

“It does seem rather young,” Kael’thas said to Katherine.

Her mother paid them no attention as she continued skimming the page. “It’s a perfectly legal marrying age for humans. This all seems to be in order.” She tossed the page atop the others and gestured to the steward, “We can begin the signing now.”

The steward brought forth two identical quills and inkwells. Jaina scraped back her chair, as did the others, and they rounded the table.

Sylvanas took the place directly to Jaina’s left, the two of them standing side by side before each inkwell. She stood in such a way that she would not accidentally brush against Jaina, even going so far as to pull aside her cloak. She did not look over at Jaina as the steward placed the first page before them. Instead, Sylvanas picked up her quill, tapped a swell of black ink from its nib against the well, and bent down to sign.

Her signature was a spidery scrawl against the pale parchment. When she had finished, Jaina reached over to take the page, but the steward coughed and made an abortive motion forward, as if he were about to swat her hand aside.

Jaina snatched her hand back. “Oh! Sorry!”

The steward pointed to the bottom right corner of the page. “If the Lady Windrunner could please initial here? And here, where amendments have been made.”

Sylvanas sighed, “I see we’re going to be here a while yet.”

Only then did the steward pass the page along to Jaina for her to do the same.

Then the next page.

And the next.

And the next.

With the first few pages, Jaina’s hand had trembled from nervousness. Halfway through however, her wrist and lower back had begun to ache. By the time they’d finished, both their signatures had grown sloppy, but still legible enough to satisfy the steward’s exacting eye. At every other page, Vereesa had to step between Sylvanas and Jaina to sign as the official witness, which only made everything take even longer.

The moment Jaina and Sylvanas finished, setting their quills back into their inkwells, the steward stepped between them and the documents, all but herding them aside so they could get out of the way and let him work. Jaina blinked, startled, and stepped back. Sylvanas was already turning to walk away, her stride stiff. Vereesa fell in beside her, and the two were speaking in rapid hushed Thalassian once more, heading towards the exit, while Jaina stared after them.

“My blessings to the happy couple,” Kael’thas smiled warmly at Jaina. He brushed a hand across his robes and said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend another meeting. Until I see you all at the ceremony.”

He nodded to Jaina and Katherine before sweeping from the room.

Jaina started when her mother grasped her gently by the shoulder. “Well done, my dear. You were very poised during the negotiations. I’m afraid duty calls for me as well. The Fleet experienced another casualty yesterday, and a portal is waiting to ferry me back to the flagship.”

Jaina opened her mouth to protest that she hadn’t done anything during the negotiations, but fell silent when her mother pressed a kiss to her cheek and murmured, “Be well. And get some rest. You deserve it.”

And then she, too, was leaving, until Jaina was alone with only the steward for company. Her words caught in her throat as she blinked at the open door through which everyone else had disappeared. The steward began to unceremoniously shuffle all the pages together and prepare to take them away. He eyed Jaina askance, then offered a bow before leaving as well.

Jaina was still standing there, dazed, when Ithedis entered the room looking for her. Removing his helm, he crossed over to her just as she pulled out a chair and dropped into it feeling winded, as if she had just sprinted a nautical mile.

Ithedis hesitated. “Are you well, my Lady?”

“Yes,” Jaina breathed, rubbing tiredly at the lightheadedness building in her temples. “Just married, I guess.”

He stood beside her chair, gripping his shield. For a moment he said nothing, and then he murmured, “Congratulations, Lady Proudmoore.”

Jaina nodded faintly. “Yes. Thank you.”

The wedding ceremony itself was intentionally set in the Court of the Sun, with invitations dispersed to every inhabitant of the city. Jaina should not have felt so nervous about acting out a symbolic ritual of something that was already set in stone. They were fully legally married. She knew for a fact that the militaries of both nations had already begun to redeploy according to the union, and that the borders had been tentatively opened.

Moreover, when he wasn’t shadowing her every footstep, Ithedis had taken to overseeing the transference of Jaina’s personal items from her diplomatic quarters in Sunfury Spire to an estate southwest of Silvermoon City, which would be her new home. It was not, she had been told, the old Windrunner family estate, which lay further to the southern border of Quel’Thalas. Rather, Sylvanas had dusted off an estate purchased by her family generations ago and left uninhabited but for the rainy season, when they would venture further north to be nearer the city and -- more importantly -- the Sunwell.

Jaina had visited the estate just once after the papers were all signed, and even then it had only been for Sylvanas to walk her briefly around the spire manor and its grounds. They would not reside there together until after the ceremony.

Which, as it turned out, Jaina was dreading for reasons unknown.

The roiling of her stomach from when she first arrived in Quel’Thalas had returned in full force. It had happened very suddenly. One day she was exploring the library of Silvermoon, perfectly content to sit and read for hours while Ithedis stood at her side or carried books for her. The next day, she was getting fitted for a wedding dress and trying not to be ill.

Like a wave rushing back to shore it would periodically wash over her, the feeling. When Vereesa was mischievously sneaking Jaina down those side alleys Ithedis had refused to let her wander for an ill-advised midnight jaunt. When Jaina was at lunch with Sylvanas in a public garden, watching the languid gestures of Sylvanas’ fingers, the expressive movements of her long ears. When she lay awake at night atop the sheets, unable to sleep in the sweltering heat. Whenever she checked the time and realised the ceremony was quickly, steadily approaching.

And then without fail she was being bustled into a room by a group of elven attendants so they could prepare her for the day ahead. It took far too long. She had to fight the urge to fidget and bite her fingernails ragged. They squeezed her into a white dress fit for a traditional Kul Tiran wedding but for its more elegant elven cut and understated silver brocade. They applied kohl around Jaina’s eyes. They gossiped about the upcoming ceremony, who would be attending, where they would be sitting, how odd the clash of cultural touches appeared in the grand courtyard of their homeland.  

Jaina was standing, her feet already beginning to ache, when the two hairdressers -- Jaina still did not know why she required two hairdressers -- got into a very polite argument in Thalassian about whether Jaina’s hair should be worn up or down. Jaina listened with half an ear. She could not understand every word, but the gist of the argument was apparent.

After the passive-aggressive bickering went on for a good five minutes, Jaina said in Thalassian, “Hair down?”

The hairdressers and all of the other attendants as well froze. They went stiff and still with shock at the idea that she had understood their conversation, and that they had not been curbing their tongues in her presence for the entirety of that morning.

“I agree,” said a voice from the doorway. “Down.”

All of the attendants straightened at the sight of Sylvanas standing at the entrance. Sylvanas crossed the room and stopped in front of Jaina, who felt her mouth drop before she could close it. She had only ever seen Sylvanas in various sets of armour, but today she moved just as gracefully in a dress. Whereas Jaina was clad all in white, Sylvanas was resplendent in red. Her arms and shoulders were bare, her skin golden against the crimson of her dress. The train of her sleek gown trailed in her wake like a streak of blood across the marble floor.

“May I speak with you in private?” Sylvanas asked.

Jaina tried to speak, but could only nod.

With a sidelong glance, Sylvanas sent the attendants scurrying from the room. The door shut behind them, and they were alone. Sylvanas stood as she always did, straight-backed, tall, hands clasped officiously behind her.

When Jaina finally found her voice, it was to blurt out, “It’s bad luck to see each other before the wedding.”

Sylvanas frowned. “That seems like a silly superstition. Do you want me to leave?”

Shaking her head, Jaina stammered, “No. It’s - It’s fine. You’re fine. In fact, you’re -” she bit back whatever foolish thing she had been about to say, cleared her throat, and asked, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Sylvanas tilted her head, and a lock of her pale gold hair curled against the dip of her collarbone. “Last we spoke, you seemed out of sorts.”

“I’m -” Jaina breathed in deeply. “I’m fine. Really. It’s nothing.”

Sylvanas was watching her very keenly. “In every legal sense, we are already married. If you do not want this -- being paraded around before a gawking crowd -- I will personally escort every last snooping busybody from the premises.”

With a huff of wry laughter, Jaina said, “Yes, because I imagine that will go down so well.”

A lofty shrug lifted one shoulder, and Sylvanas replied, “No, but when has that ever stopped me? At this point, it’s almost expected I’ll do something brash.”

“And here I thought I had dibs on ruining the ceremony.”

Jaina tried to sound lighthearted, but something must have shown on her face, because Sylvanas’ impeccable posture gentled somewhat. “You’re going to be fine. You look beautiful, Lady Proudmoore.”

A laugh verging on the hysterical bubbled up in Jaina’s throat. The idea that she could have looked anything but drab next to Sylvanas, who burned like a torch in the noonday sun, was enough to make her stomach lurch again. Placing a settling hand over her abdomen, Jaina said, “Please, just call me ‘Jaina.’ We might as well start with first names now.”

“As you like,” Sylvanas murmured. She moved her hands, and Jaina noticed that she had been holding something the whole time. “I have a gift for you as well, if you’ll have it.”

A necklace slithered between her hands, a small pale stone with a blue sheen like a shard of ice strung from a simple golden chain. As it turned in the light, dangling from where she held it forth, Sylvanas explained, “It is said to have once belonged to the great sorceress, Aegwynn. Whatever power it once held has long since dwindled, but it is a piece of history all the same.”

Sylvanas held up the pendant, strung between her fingers. “May I?”

Jaina blinked, as if broken from a trance. “Oh! Yes, of course.”

As Jaina turned around, she gathered her hair over one shoulder. Sylvanas stepped up behind her, reaching around to settle the stone at Jaina’s throat and fix the clasp. Jaina touched the stone where it rested atop her sternum, savouring the chill radiating from it. She could not mask a shiver when Sylvanas’ fingers brushed the nape of her neck, a fleeting graze of warm skin before the clasp was shut and Sylvanas stepped away once more.

Turning to face her, Jaina said, “Thank you. It’s -” She peered down at the pendant. “I’ve always admired Aegwynn. How on earth did you find a relic like this?”

“I have my ways,” Sylvanas drawled with a cryptic smile. She crossed the room, pausing with her hand on the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Until later, Jaina.”

Now, the sickening feel returned tenfold. Her stomach boiled. Despite the pervasive heat of Quel’Thalas, Jaina desperately wanted to soothe her nerves with a cup of tea. When she had tried the tea of Silvermoon City a few weeks ago however, the bitter herbal concoction steeped in sunlight had put Jaina right off the idea of elven tea entirely.

Soon, two of the attendants were lifting the train of her dress so she could walk through the door. Soon, another was pressing a bouquet of blood red flowers bound with a white silk ribbon between her fingers. Soon, Jaina was being led towards the Court of the Sun as the sun itself glared directly overhead, painting the land in light.

She could hear the buzz of the crowd the moment she stepped outside. Jaina fidgeted with the ribbon tied around the bouquet, worrying the silk between her fingers. She wished she had a veil to cover her, something to hide her when she walked down the aisle, but veils were only worn to elven funerals and had therefore been deemed unsuitable for the occasion.

Her mother met Jaina at the entrance to the Court of the Sun, stately in her Admiral’s finery. She smiled at Jaina, taking one of her hands and leaning close to kiss her cheek.

“You look radiant, my dear,” Katherine whispered in her ear, before pulling back and offering Jaina her arm. Jaina took it, gripping her mother’s sleeve tight.

“Ready?” Katherine asked.

Jaina could only nod. And then they were striding in time towards Sunfury Spire. Their footsteps were muffled by a long length of rich red cloth stretching all the way to the opposite end of the Court, where a bower had been erected atop the steps leading to the Spire. The walkway had been festooned with alternating Kul Tiran and elven banners. Waves of guests rose to their feet as Jaina passed. Mages had woven an enchantment into the air so that small white blossoms drifted from the sky like snow.

Jaina hardly noticed any of it. She was focused instead on her breathing. How stifling it felt, the heat, the dress, the moment. She walked and did her best not to trip.

Sylvanas already stood beneath the bower, which had been strung with cloth and vines that grew all along its frame. She waited until Jaina and Katherine approached, then stretched out her hand. Katherine passed Jaina over to Sylvanas, who took Jaina’s hand. She leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of it before drawing Jaina up the steps to stand beside her.

Jaina’s palms were sweaty and her fingers trembled. Sylvanas caught her eye and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then released her. And in that brief moment, the roiling of Jaina’s gut hitched, like a skipped heartbeat. It did not completely quiet her nerves, but for the remainder of the ceremony Jaina felt she could at last breathe.

Katherine moved to stand beside Kael’thas at the front of the ceremony, where he was acting as the officiant, the two leaders of their respective nations symbolically heading the union. A brazier burned before them. Jaina could feel the heat from tongues of flame that shimmered the air.

When Kael’thas began to speak, lifting his voice with a magnifying spell to address the crowd, Jaina hardly heard the words. For all that the time leading up to this moment had seemed to drag on for an eternity, now that it was actually here time seemed to spin out of control. It was all she could do to focus on saying the right words at the right time, and not on the way her hems brushed against Sylvanas’ gown in a silent whisper of silk.

Then Katherine was sprinkling three handfuls of dried grain into the brazier, and Jaina and Sylvanas held their hands over the flames while they burned. Kael’thas waited for the grain to reduce to ash, then with a flourish extinguished the brazier. Two attendants -- one elven, and one human -- moved forward from the wings. They gathered the ash in golden cups and carefully sprinkled the ash in a tight circle around where Sylvanas and Jaina stood together.

A breeze stirred the banners. The entire congregation seemed to hold its collective breath as the attendants joined the circle of ash on the ground, until Jaina and Sylvanas were enclosed in a dark ring that still drifted with tendrils of smoke.

Once more, Sylvanas took Jaina by the hand, turning to face one another. This time, it was Jaina who squeezed Sylvanas’ hand, and Sylvanas traced the ridge of Jaina’s knuckles with her thumb. Jaina’s breath caught in her chest when Sylvanas reached up with her free hand to tilt Jaina’s chin up. Sylvanas leaned down. Instead of kissing Jaina as she was supposed to, she hesitated, as if some small uncertainty were holding her back.

Something unfathomable flickered in Sylvanas’ eyes. They were close enough that Jaina could see the trace of an old scar that sliced across one cheek, so faint that she would have missed it had they been any further apart. Standing up on her toes, Jaina closed that distance and pressed their mouths together.

The kiss was brief and warm and soft. Long enough for Jaina to angle her head and grasp Sylvanas by her bare shoulder. Short enough that when they pulled apart, Jaina was left chasing after the feeling.

For a moment, Sylvanas remained motionless but for the steady rise and fall of her chest. She leaned back. She grasped Jaina’s hand more tightly. Then, Sylvanas pulled up the long hem of her dress just enough that she could kick open a break in the circle of ash that surrounded them on the ground. The ashes scattered in a dark narrow streak, and together they walked back down the aisle to the roar of thunderous applause.

[the-redmane-family]

Pale Spring

I

“As for you, my sister… Bash’a no falor talah!”

Melinda Redmane spoke only passable Thalassian, having encountered enough of the children of Quel’Thalas in her travels, but she knew the meaning of those particular words as the ren’dorei priestess seated on the other side of the table from her uttered them: Taste the chill of true death.

In the center of that round, carved oak table sat a dark glass orb that the red-haired human rogue had come to despise in a very short span of time. It was nearly identical to the one that she had grown up watching her mother—Patricia Redmane, the Westfall-born witch—peer into, and even the memories of her mother’s behavior, the trances, the visions, the whispers, the seizures, the beatings, turned her stomach. Even now, she could hear faint whispers as the thing’s power was invoked.

The human and the ren’dorei were not alone in the dimly lit, single-room dwelling on the outskirts of the deep forest. At the table also sat the Night’s Watchman, Quincey Holmwood, the serious yet kind-hearted man who had revealed few details about his past in the days since they left Duskwood, journeying first through Darkshire and then making their way to book passage on a seabound ship which took them here, to the mountainous Kul Tiran region of Drustvar.

“Is that it, then?” a gruff voice spoke from across the room where a fourth sat, hunched forward and seated in one of two chairs at a small dining table.

This was their host, the man who had welcomed them upon their arrival. His fiery red hair and full beard sported an impressive amount of silver and grey hairs as well, and although his rugged face was lined with age and evidence of one who had seen their fair share of combat, his eyes were kind, and his question was posed in a cautious, hesitant tone as if he did not wish to break the ren’dorei’s concentration.

For several seconds, the ren’dorei held her hand over the dark globe, her fingers curled slightly as if guiding some spellwork. Melinda watched her face intently as the priestess’s silvery eyes remained closed in intense concentration. Then the woman leaned back, and slowly the whispers in the air dissipated. Melinda was glad for it.

“Yes, Ciarán,” Vizjerei Duskmourn replied, her calm, commanding voice belying a hint of the exhaustion that came from focusing such potent magic. “It’s done.”

Quincey let out a slow sigh through his mouth that was barely audible, as if his entire being had been taut with concentration and was only now relaxing. “So, what happens now? Is your sister and her allies—are they dead?”

Vizjerei shook her head grimly. “I do not know. My sister is nothing if not persistent. She has survived worse.”

Melinda reached across the table, taking the priestess’s delicate and yet dexterous elven hands in her own. It was almost an impulse that seized her; and yet, despite the uncertain fear she felt at this woman’s presence, there was an inexplicable sense of comfort, of wanting to be near her.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Vizjerei looked back into Melinda’s eyes. Although the ren’dorei did not smile, her words were spoken softly, as if she could detect the need for reassurance. “I am fine, Melinda. Get some rest.”

“If they’re not dead, they’ll be looking for us. We’ll need to prepare for that. You’re not worried Terquine will lead them back here?” Quincey’s spoke confidently, but the unease in his question was palpable. “I swore an oath to protect you from the Forsaken. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

“The forest won’t tolerate their presence,” the man named Ciarán said as he stood and moved toward the small countertop that passed as a stove. He was a large man, just over six feet and a few inches tall, clad in the fur-lined garments commonly worn by the mysterious order of druids that Melinda knew inhabited these woods.

“Life and death are a cycle. They’re balanced. The undead… are not a part of that cycle.” As he spoke, Ciarán peered out of the small window over the countertop and rubbed his left arm thoughtfully, as if remembering old wounds. “I suppose I’m fated to meet that sister of yours again. I don’t look forward to it.”

The elven priestess remained seated at the table, peering at the black orb silently for a moment. Then she declared, “Such considerations can wait until morning. The Scarlet Lion will want to bring the full might of his mercenary company to begin the work of helping to Alliance cleanse the Horde from Drustvar. We must aid him.”

Then Vizjerei stood, her eyes traveling between the three humans in the room with her. “But for now, let us rest.”

II

Overhead, a sea of stars hung like a heavy tapestry woven into the sky. The chilly, frosty air cut deeply and to the bone even in the early days of spring, and Melinda shivered as she stood clad in several jackets and wrapped in one of the thick blankets that Ciarán had offered her. As she stood peering upward, her breath visible, she wondered if her mother was looking back. She wondered where her mother was, if her mother was anywhere at all—if anything happened to the dead, or if without interference, they simply ceased to be anything more than the ghosts that haunted every backroad of her troubled memories.

Behind her the door to the small cottage opened, and she could hear heavy boots falling upon the wooden planks of the porch. A moment later, Ciarán spoke.

“Thought you might like some tea,” he offered, and as the older Kul Tiran man stepped out and alongside her, Melinda was glad to see steam rising from the mug that was being extended toward her. She smiled half-heartedly as she accepted it.

“Thanks, Mister Ashgrove,” she said, but she felt as if her words rang hollow. Her entire being was consumed with doubt over why she had come.

“Please. Ciarán.” The taller man stood next to her, looking up at the star-spotted night. “The nights are always the most beautiful this time of year.”

“Yeah?” Melinda’s Westfall accent was a stark contrast to Ciarán’s lilting, seaside Kul Tiran way of speaking.

“It’s the last days of winter, and the first days of spring. Death passes to life. The whole land is preparing to wake up. There’s nothing more beautiful to me than seeing life renewed, and remembering that with every death, there’s also a life. But without death to remind us, we’d forget the true beauty of life.” Ciarán kept his eyes upturned, slowly raising the mug of tea to his mouth to take a careful sip.

Melinda gave him a quizzical look as she cupped her own tea between her pale hands. “You’re too much of a poet to have ever been a soldier,” she muttered.

Ciarán laughed as he sipped. “So soldiers can’t be poets as well?”

The red-haired rogue rolled her eyes even as she smiled. “I haven’t met many who were both, that’s all.”

“Then you haven’t met enough,” he quipped.

For several seconds, the two stood in silence as they watched the stars. Melinda’s thoughts turned again to her mother. To her death. What had she felt at the end? Had she ever felt any remorse for her actions? How could there be any beauty in her death, except that the world was finally rid of her?

I will show you the reason why her death haunts you. Vizjerei’s words to her echoed in her mind, and Melinda shifted uncomfortably at the recollection. 

“I don’t know why I came here,” she blurted out abruptly.

Ciarán looked down at her. “Because you chose to,” the Kul Tiran replied simply.

Melinda shook her head. “I needed to give Miss Duskmourn her… that thing back. That thing that my mother stole. I needed it away from me, forever. If I’d’ve left it there, in Westfall, it would’ve always been a part of me—sitting there in the farmstead I grew up in. I knew if I left it there, I’d never be rid of her.”

“So you chose to bring it back.”

“It didn’t feel like much of a choice.”

“Neither do many things. And yet still, we choose to do them. Why?” He chuckled, looking up at the sky. “Because some things need to be done.”

Both fell silent for a moment. Then Melinda breathed in slowly and exhaled, letting the breath pass through her nostrils. “I’ve never much cared for what needed to be done except what I needed to do to survive.”

Ciarán looked over at her. “You don’t think this has anything to do with that?”

“What’s it got to do with that? This is Miss Duskmourn and her sister. Terquine and his vendetta. This doesn’t concern me. She dragged you into it, too—and Quincey, and—”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with me?” Ciarán returned. “With Quincey? Miss Redmane—Melinda—it’s got everything to do with all of us.”

Melinda raised an eyebrow at him.

“Some battles need to be fought.” His kind face was set in a very serious expression. “I remember what it was like to fight in the Third War. To fight the Lich King. Kul Tiras hadn’t been invaded yet, only Lordaeron. But we were prepared to die in that war if we needed to. Because if we didn’t die on the battlefield, at sea, fighting the undead, we would’ve died eventually. Arthas and his master weren’t going to stop with Lordaeron. They wanted the whole world to burn.”

Melinda cupped her tea in front of her, still staring up at the stars as Ciarán spoke. She knew his point even before he made it; and yet, even in the truth she knew the man was speaking, she couldn’t help but wonder if someone else had once spoken words like these to her mother to convince her to follow the teachings she did. Conviction, above all things, impressed and terrified the woman.

“This is just a microcosm,” Ciarán continued. “These battles. This war will be fought on all fronts. No matter where we go, we have to oppose her.” The man’s tone darkened as his words turned to the Horde’s warchief. “Because if Sylvanas and her minions win, that’s it. No more winter, no more spring. No more rebirth… only undeath.”

The pair fell silent. Melinda did not answer, and standing on the frost-touched ground at the edge of the deep forest where Ciarán’s kin the Thornspeakers made their dwelling, Melinda attempted to find what little solace she could in the hot mug of tea in her hands and the reassuring flintlock pistol at her side.

[alittlepieceofwarcraft]

Heart Versus Head

Year 33

Katherine Proudmoore was a regal woman in all respects. Her military garb wasn’t a mere costume: it encompassed everything about the Lord Admiral from the sleek material complimenting her sharp mind to the pair of sturdy sea boots personifying her stoic expression. She was not dressing as a naval leader: she very clearly was a naval leader. An impressive feat for a widower and mother of three in the trying times of power struggles and corruption. An elven companion did not seem a likely choice for her. While she demonstrated the sea fairing, smooth clock-work fashion her fleets worked in at a single glance, Mywin was possibly the opposite. Shoulder length pine hair was twisted into elaborate elven braids whereas Katherine’s silver locks were tightly plaited into a practical style. The druid wore far more basic attire, practically indistinguishable from all common folk, a white tunic shirt and brown leggings. The only remarkable thing she bore was the gnarled staff strapped behind her, encrested with chunks of sparkling crystal. Katherine inclined her head in the direction of the elf and nodded in acknowledgement. She’d been scratching on a parchment, a large feather quill tightly gripped in a gloved hand, sombrely scribbling across the scroll with a sense of great sincerity.

“I am pleased you have arrived Ambassador.” Katherine propped the quill on its stand and swivelled around in her armchair.

“I am pleased you called, Lord Admiral,” the elf replied. She stood straight, arms formally crossed behind her back, legs apart in a ceremonial stance.

“Katherine, please. What may I call you?”

“My people called me Mywin, ma’am.” Katherine mused for a minute, coxing her head slightly as if learning foreign word. She leaned back in her seat and gave a long sigh. The Kul Tiran leader was clearly exhausted after the events that had proceeded her: the prosecution of her only daughter, the dangers lurking in her nation, the betrayal of an old friend. Though she gave a warm smile, her eyes appeared drained, almost lost.

“That is a not Common name yet you speak the language with articulacy. What is your native tongue?” The elf didn’t respond at once, a little surprised at the turn of conversation. After a moment or two, she cleared her throat.

“Thank you, ma’am... Darnassian, ma’am.” Katherine stroked her chin, deep in thought.

“Interesting. The world is wide and full of many different peoples. Mine travelled the sea for ages, yet we did not know how to interact with others. Until my daughter...”. Her eyes flashed, a darkness striking through a fatigued gaze with a memory she most likely wanted to forget. Mywin was familiar with the life of Lady Jaina and her estrangement to her family that still strongly festered throughout the years. A long pause followed her words until she turned, giving another affectionate but inquisitive expression towards the elf. “Your mother. Do you ever feel she doesn’t support you if you choose different?” The elf this time responded without pause.

“My mother is dead, ma’am.”

Katherine’s heart nearly missed a beat and felt the strongest urge to kick herself. Mywin’s face remained calm, neutral. The question did not seem the phase her, however the randomness of it appeared to place her on edge. Her silver eyes scanned from one side of room to another, awkwardly hoping the conversation to end. Katherine leaned forward, both hands tightly clasped together upon her knees.

“Forgive me. I did not intend to cause you upset.” Mywin shook her head.

“It was many years ago and I was much younger. She died a hero’s death. She was a mighty Sentinel and fought to protect my people.” Katherine wasn’t sure what a Sentinel was but didn’t press the matter. Instead, she closed her eyes a and nodded solemnly, conveying the respect she believed this night elf must deserve. “Are you asking for Jaina?” Katherine’s head jerked up, clearly a little embarrassed her masked enquiries had been so easy to see through. She let out a small laugh, leaning back into her chair.

“I was not discrete enough it appears... I must confess. Priscilla’s treachery has left me with must distrust and hopelessness for my nation. I don’t know who to rely on, who I can count on. King Greymane is imploring me to free Jaina from her judgement. I don’t know what to do as a leader. I don’t know what to do as a mother.” Another silence strained as Mywin realised that she was being asked to provide advice to the ageing woman. Advice about her only daughter.

“Lady Jaina is a strong warrior,” She began, “passionate and loving. She gave great aid to my people when my birthplace was under siege from the demon threat and my shan’do speaks well of her.”

“Shan’do?” Katherine extended.

“Malfurion,” Mywin explained before continuing on, “My Priestess also. She specially assigned our warrior Pained to guard her. She rarely left your daughter’s side until she met her end at Theramore, to which the lady mourned her loss bitterly.” Katherine pursed her lips. Jaina had come to Kul Tiras following the city’s destruction begging for aid in revenge and she’d been turned away. Clearly agonised by her people’s obliteration, hungry for what she saw as justice. It was plain she deeply cared about them. Katherine nodded as the elf spoke, taking in each word in serious consideration.

“Jaina has always been a sensitive soul. But what about strategy and honour? Has she displayed these qualities in battle? Can she be trusted to lead a force?” Mywin wanted to wince at the Admiral’s words. A deep conflict was running within the Kul Tiran leader, that was obvious: a deep love for her daughter and a need to justify to her people why she would be pardoned. Why she had been forgiven.

“May I speak freely, ma’am?”

“Katherine,” she repeated and gestured to a chair opposite, sensing the conversation would be more intense than planned. Mywin nodded gratefully and approached to sit herself before the Admiral.

“Katherine. My people have a saying: ‘Andu-falah-do’: it means, ‘let the balance be restored’. A wide rift has severed your family for too long and the choices of the past haunt you both. Jaina is a strong and loving leader who follows her heart. You are equal in power and steadfast in the laws of your people, using your mind. You and her compliment each other like night and day and should she prevail and live, the things you could impart upon her would result in a balanced leader... and a balanced family.” Katherine allowed the elf to speak, talking in every word and point carefully. When she had finished, Mywin thought she may have seen a welling up of tears in the corner of her eyes, but Katherine had turned her head and poised herself.

“You are indeed wise for one so young.” Mywin chuckled.

“On the contrary ma’am, I am just over a century.” Katherine’s eyebrows raised in amazement yet she snapped out of it quickly.

“Well then, my young-old Ambassador. You shall tell me more of your fascinating people as we attempt to track down my daughter.”

*Shando: “honoured teacher”.

[sarahdrawsstuff]

Trust | Anduin Wrynn x OC

This one shot has been stuck in my head for a while now, so I thought why not post it. Hope you like it!

It was a bright summer day in Stormwind when Melanie Murrick first woke up. The sun was shining onto the purple roofs of the mage quarter, a small breeze drifting from street to street and the sound of morning chatter echoing through its small corridors.

Normally this could have been a fantastic morning, but today was not that kind of day.

Melanie sighed as she made her way to the kitchen and started cutting up some fruit. She and Anduin had gotten into a fight yesterday, a big one. Usually that wouldn’t be so bad, every couple has their fights every once in a while, but last night they both went to bed angry and upset.

She doesn’t even understand why he had been so angry with her in the first place. Melanie always goes on missions like these. Kul Tiras is no exception. So why was he so adamant on her staying in Stormwind? Was it concern? Protectiveness? Anduin’s anger had baffled the druid, angered her even, but it confused her most of all. They have had their fair share of fights, but he has never been so short with her. So angry.

“You’re going to cut yourself if you’re not careful.” She could hear Anduin say, his voice coming from the stairwell.

Oh, he’s awake.

She smiled a little, unsure of what to do otherwise, as she looked at the breakfast she had been preparing. “Me? Cutting myself while cooking? That sounds more like you, your highness.”

“That’s fair, Murrick.” Melanie could hear him chuckle as he entered the kitchen. Her eyes were still focusing on the plate in front of her, trying to avoid the eye contact he was trying to make. She was still confused as to were they stood after last night, because they couldn’t just forget about the whole thing. It was too important for that. They needed to talk, but it seemed like neither of them really knew how to start that conversation.

It were Anduin’s arms wrapping around her waist that snapped Melanie out of her train of thoughts. She froze, the tension filled air thick around them, as he put his head in the crook of her neck and kissed it.

“I’m sorry.” The prince mumbled, holding her closer, “I shouldn’t have acted that way.”

“No, no you shouldn’t have.” Melanie said, her breakfast long forgotten, as she turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Why did you? Why now?”

It was a simple question with a simple answer, but Anduin stilled nonetheless.

“I just-“ He began, but didn’t continue. For a moment the king was silent, pondering his words, before he picked Melanie up slowly and put her on the kitchen table, shoving the cut up fruit to the side, so they were eye-to-eye. He looked at her, his blue eyes meeting her hazel ones, as he continued. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re never going to lose me.” She said, softly, and put her hands on his cheeks. “Kul Tiras may be a more unfamiliar environment, but we’ve been through worse. You know that. Besides, I’ve been on so many more dangerous missions than this. I’ll be back before you know it. ”

“You know that’s exactly what my father said before he left for the Broken Shore?” He blurted out. His eyes were cast down, his hands tightening around her waist.

Melanie’s eyes softened. She knew that Anduin still had trouble with talking about his father. She could see it in his eyes when someone mentions him, the posture he takes on whenever he has to talk about him or even the way he avoids the subject in general. He just hasn’t had any time to mourn him properly, with being the King and all, and she could see it has been taking its toll on him.

“Anduin-“ She began, but got cut off.

“No just let me explain this, please.” He said and took her hands in his. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes, you know that?” He mumbled, staring deeply into her eyes. “And just the thought of you leaving me like my father did terrifies me. I know Kul Tiras isn’t the same thing, it’s a diplomatic mission, but I’m still scared that something might happen to you.” The King continued, letting out a sigh. “That’s why I had been acting so strange yesterday, because I’m getting paranoid. I know I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry for that.”

Her heart melted hearing that and she put a hand on his cheek, forcing him took look back to her, and kissed him. It was a slow, loving kiss, one that she put all of her love into. He wrapped his hands around her waist and, as the kiss ended, pulled her in for a hug.

“I forgive you.” Melanie began whispering into his ear. “And I’m sorry for me not wanting to listen to you. I should have, because I do get it know. I have never experienced this kind of love before either and, I’m not going to lie, it scares me too sometimes. I can’t make any promises as to what will happen, you never know with the world we live in today, but I just want us to trust each other to always come back.” She said, determined, as she caressed his cheek ” I have and will always worry about you and, now that you’re king, I am more terrified then ever for you, but I trust you enough to always come back to me no matter what. I need you to do the same.”

Anduin looked at her with a certain sense of pride. He had never thought about the fact that she might be scared for him too. He was the king, many kings die, but the fact that she trusts him to always come back to her warms his heart more than she knows. As king he doesn’t really have a lot of people who trust him and just the way she does so unconditionally makes him want to do the same for her.

“I do trust you. I always did. I just want you to be careful, always.”

She smiled at that, her beautiful beautiful smile and kissed him on the cheek. “I always am.”

[zexxcandell]

♦- Who would you most like to go on a two month roadtrip with?

Zexx smoked gently on his pipe as he stared across the hold at the gently swaying pine box, feet planted firmly to feel the sway of the ship beneath them.  A hand reached up to rub at the bridge of his nose as he blew out a stream of silver smoke, with a loud sigh to accompany the motion, the actions of a weary man with more than just a physical tiredness to him.  The weeks at sea had done him well, salty air and hard work bringing him back into focus from the questionable work he'd been doing in the ports in Kul Tiras the last few months.  But now this.

Erlain Candell sat within that box, his grandfather he supposed.

He'd heard rumors and word of a knight by his name in Stormwind when he'd been working for the vineyard, but did his best to avoid the Cathedral District and possibly running into the man.  It would be awkward enough just to see a familiar face you'd only ever heard about, let alone explain why you are related and how the other got there.

The starboard bulkhead thumped softly thanks to his head as he leaned back against it from his stool, a slight scowl of pain coming to his face more out of instinct than actual pain.  It sent a dull thud echoing in his head before sticking the pipe back in his mouth to suck upon, the hot smoke filtering up into his mouth and out his lips as he puffed thoughtfully.

"I don't think he's going anywhere," the soft voice muttered beside him, causing Zexx start at how oblivious he'd been of his surroundings.

"I beg your pardon?"  Zexx coughed now as his start had cause the smoke to drift to far into his lungs, spitting to the side as he cleared his breath.  A heavy strong hand came to pat him hard on the back as he wretched for a breath.

"Easy there, no need to get too choked up, he was loved but also old," came the snarky words again as Zexx looked into a pair of eyes similiar to his single on a broad but strong face.  The woman standing above him was thick with muscles of hard work and did not look like she was trying to hide her profession or lifestyle as thick black hair was pulled back in a tight topknot.  She smiled sadly at him as she stood back up to her full height bearing many of the notes of a Kul Tiran but for the dark hair and eyes were definitely from the east.

The same as him.

Zexx gaped a bit as he looked up at her, her eyebrow shifting into an arch with a laugh as she thrust a hand out to him.  "Sarasam, you?"

"Zexx."  The swordsman took the hand and gave a firm shake back to her own strong grip.

"Odd name, where you from?"  Sarasam asked with that same arched brow, her hands coming to fold across her chest as she leaned back against the bulkhead as well.

"East side," Zexx replied as he continued to watch the woman. "Lordaeron to be exact."

"Sorry to hear that," she said back as she let her eyes come to rest on the pine box as well.

Zexx nodded against he chomped his pipe realizing he had been staring her as he looked back to the box, speaking again after a puff and offering the pipe to her.  "So who was he?"

The bulky woman took up the pipe and puffed on it with practiced ease, her eyes still on the coffin as she spoke.  "A good man for sure.  Maybe not the best, but from when I knew him he was good.  Taught me a lot and was open to learning what I had to teach him.  Spent a lot of time with him."

"Sounds pretty close."

Sarasam shrugged softly as she handed back the pipe.  "To an extent, I wish I had gotten to learn more about him or gotten to tell him more about myself but we found most comfort in the work."

"And that is?"

She looked at him skeptically as she held up her hands that revealed very clearly her line of work with scars, cuts, and bits off them.  The sarcasm thick as she answered, "Baker of course."

Zexx let out a chuckle as he grew more comfortable with the woman, "You'd be surprised with those ovens and flour."

"Oh yeah, and I suppose you're an accountant."  Sarasam waved for another pull of the pipe as her companion obviously wasn't going to any time soon.

The hero let another chuckle forth as he offered it back to her again.  "Guilty."

A quiet began to descend on them again as they both watched the casket again, a dull ache of the finality of death sobering the moment as they sat within the hold of the G'nash.

Zexx leaned forward now to rest his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands in the apprehension of opening the box of this Pandoran situation.  Coughing again he broke the silence with the question that would only cause more problems than he thought he was ready for.  "What was his name?"

"Candell," Sarasam spoke softly again, blowing a stream of smoke from her nose.  "Lain Candell, he was my grandfather."

Zexx breathed in deeply through his nose as he looked down at the old planks of the ship beneath him, the words rebounding within his head and heart.  Grandfather.  He'd only ever heard of Erlain Candell from when he was a boy, his father entertaining him with tales of their time in the Wars.  Escaping Stormwind, fighting the orcs, settling in the north, and eventually journeying beyond the Dark Portal never to be seen again.

And he wasn't, at least in Zexx's world.

The universe was infinite as he had learned and there were other worlds than these for sure.  That was where he was truly from, another world where things had gone slightly different than how they were handled in this one.  It was all the same and yet wasn't the same.  Zexx knew he wasn't supposed to know, but he did know.  His family everything to him and they had been stripped away from in the face of a dark tidal wave that had literally consumed his world.  Now he was living with his prize, as he hoped others were as well.  Oplisca had made that possibility all to real for him in the last year or so of his imprisonment, tortured him really with some far-fetched hope of a place where they all still lived.  Maybe that was why he had chosen to live.

But now there was the old man of his bed time stories, dead and gone before he could have even had a chance to talk to him.  To get to know him.  To ask him questions.  To let him know he was alive.

"You alright?"  The smith asked as she poked his arm with the pipe, the wood digging into his arm with a sharpness.

Zexx reached up to rub at his arm and take the pipe from her with a nod.  "I'm fine, just have a hard time with death some times.  Especially with family, it's not easy to lose them."

Sarasam nodded softly as she leaned back against the bulkhead again, her eyes on the coffin as Zexx's were.  His words said a lot more than she expected to find from some random sailor on a grim trip such as this, but it was also terrifying to think that maybe this was more than just a random occurrence.  That there was a deeper and more obvious meaning behind his sentiments.  Sara spoke steadily, though a strain was clear in her voice as she danced from the real questions.  "I've lost a few here and there, but I've also gained a few as well.  It's never easy though."

The hero for hire nodded again as he puffed on his pipe, beginning to taste more ash than pipeweed as he blew out a darker smoke.

A few moments more passed as the waves outside gently splashed and rushed the wood of the ship, the pair watching the coffin in an awkward but surprisingly comfortable silence.

A hand would come to rest on the hero for hire's shoulder, squeezing softly as Zexx's own hand reached up to the smith's to squeeze back.  

They both knew and they were ok with that.

@dardillien-ward

Mentions: @erlaincandell ; Sarasam Styrnlock @gatesofthetroupe

[mahoganysunset]

Mahogany Sunset (Chapter 2, Page 3)

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. We got away, but q-speed knocks you out if you aren’t ready for it.” Suraya opened her eyes to see the old woman looking at her deeply, analysing her, and the boy standing to the side, tossing around some kind of electronic device. They were all inside a spacious room, with soft read seats and exits in front, and either side of her. Suraya responded, 

“Really? We’re safe?” The woman smiled.  

“Yes, we are, lass. Ol’ Tira never lets a customer down. Without any trouble we’ll be at Crescent within two days. So welcome to the Rattlesnake!” She paused. “Why are you in such a hurry anyway? There aren’t many customers who would be willing to fly with furries right behind us.” Tira looked worried for her, as much as an old woman with a leather jacket and jeans could, with a wrinkled face but strong, deep blue eyes. Before Suraya could talk, the boy spoke up. 

“As long as you're willing to say, miss. Tira’s quite blunt when it comes to certain things.” Tira looked back at the boy and scowled. 

“Zephyn, you know that in this business I have to. She could be a murderess for all we know!” Zephyn muttered something about ‘ironic’ under his breath, but Suraya laughed gently, and said to them, 

“My name is Suraya Fox. I’m not a criminal, just running from my father.” Tira went and slouched onto the chair opposite.  

“Seems to me that everyone is runnin from something. Zephyn here is-”  

“Can you not?” Zephyn interrupted. “She’s only going to be here for a few days. Anyway girl, maybe you woulda been best staying with you father, whatever he did. All you’re going to find in Crescent is poverty, unless you’ve got someone waiting for you.” Suraya stopped and looked down, the reality of her situation pouring over like a second q-jump. 

“I... don’t know actually. I didn’t plan that far.” Tira and Zephyn both looked at each other sadly, but before more could be said, the lights above the doorways started blinking green. 

“Aight, looks like we’re gonna be dropping outa q-speed pretty soon. Buckle up, I'll get ready. Zephyn, give Fox the shot.” And with that, Tira disappeared into the cockpit. Suraya’s jaw dropped, and she shrieked, 

“No! What shot?” Zephyn approached her, with a small syringe. He stopped, surprised, and said. 

“Just a little somethin’ to calm ya down, so you don’t get knocked out again.”  

“No! You will not stick anything into me!” Zephyn sighed.  

“If you’re sure. Quickly though, I gotta get strapped down too.” Suraya just glared at him, so Zephyn shrugged, and sat down in his seat. He pressed a button on the armrest, and motioned for Suraya to do the same. Suraya looked down, and upon pressing it, the strong restraints quickly reappeared, just in time for everything to slow down, until her heart beat once an eternity. In this pause her mind moved frantically, until it became too much for body, and her sight faded, as the stars reappeared out the window.