#xe'ra tag tbd.

[warwaged-archive]

Alleria had always been good at pushing aside unwanted feelings.

It wasn’t comfortable, no, but easy enough to do while moving forward towards she who had been her tormentor for so long. Leave her dead; leave her buried in rubble never to be found again. It is what she deserves. What leaves her lips is much more softspoken, heart poured out in spite of her hesitance to do so; there is no word against the Light Mother, no offered offense regardless of how many come to mind. No sense of retribution to see her shattered, no gloating, no satisfaction; but there is fear, and there is vulnerability, and there is the silent begging for him to see her reason, to see her side, to see her pain.

And what then? I was locked in a cell for delving into the Void against her wishes. Will she make me a prisoner again? Or worse?

He would have tried to soothe her at the very least, in the past. This time there is no offered comfort; there is nothing but nearly disinterested certainty that surely it shall be fine, surely Xe’Ra would see the reason, surely she would do Alleria no harm.

But she has already done. Alleria has the scars to prove it.

Hurt that hits her then is not of so visible sort; only in her heart, after all, and that she can hide easily enough. Not comfortable, but easy. She knew Turalyon trusted her; she knew the Army of the Light fought for the future the prime naaru had foreseen. They think it is the only way to save the universe from the Legion, of course bringing her back is important. Somewhere deep down, she can almost hear the echoes of disagreement.

(Weren’t you important for him? Didn’t he care? You gave your heart and body and soul in a way so complete and honest and whole, in a way you never had before; you gave yourself to the wrong person. He doesn’t care. You abandoned the Light, and he no longer cares. He cannot love someone who dwells in the Shadows. But he can love a being of Light even if it is a tyrant, even if it is a torturer.)

They are not loud enough she cannot silence them. The bleeding is not severe enough she cannot ignore it.

Alleria underestimates how hard it would be to see Xe’Ra again.

Indeed, apprehension gripped at her heart at the mere suggestion of restoring the Light Mother, but she had since steeled herself to the inevitability of it; or so she thought. The Windrunner had never been the submissive sort, never one to be forcibly controlled; one who valued her freedom too much to ever submit to chains, never had, not other than those that would lead her to Azeroth again. Alleria could have escaped, even if she could not have fought; could have returned to the Void, to her displeased teacher, could even have wandered the Twisting Nether again until she found path to Azeroth by herself — but the Xenedar was where she had to be, reliable path to the future she had seen that Light and Void were both blind to. The future where they won.

It wasn’t enough to make her fond of her cage, but it was enough to make it tolerable.

The bars were made of Light, as pure and bright as the Light that composed Xe’Ra herself. Alleria could not touch them, of course; a way to guarantee she could not reach beyond it, to make her as little threat as possible. More often than not, she had been left alone to reconsider her path and forsake the Shadows; not always. Sometimes the Light Mother would reach to her in sickeningly sweet tone, elated in listing all that she would lose forever were she to stay with the shadows, before offering her a path to the Light once more. Unbeknownst to Xe’Ra, perhaps, those were the days she got to Alleria the most, heart tight at the idea of losing her sisters, her homeland, her lover, her son. Yet it was for them, too, she chose the path she walked; and it was holding on to this knowledge that Alleria kept herself calm enough not to give away any reaction, nothing but constant denial.

Other times, it was Light forced on her physically, or the attempt to. She remembered thinking of Lothraxion, of Fel being cleansed by Light, of how much it must have hurt for the Nathrezim; she remembered thinking Xe’Ra underestimated the Shadows and Alleria’s own will both, if she believed to cleanse her as easily as Fel. The Void would not surrender one who had so willingly given herself to it; and whenever she was at her limit, Alleria saw Xe’Ra give up, made aware the mortal would break before bending, and knowing she needed her alive for the future she had seen to come into being.

Well, at least until she decided Alleria needed another push, a more direct interference from the Light to set her once more on the right path.

Seeing her may have brought memory of such instances to her mind, but it does not make Alleria fear. She finds it hard to fear, then, in spite of being haunted by it not long ago. Seeing Xe’Ra again makes her rage. A quiet, contained sort of rage, to be sure, but one that burns intensely, one that she had not felt so strongly in so many years. Had she the power to destroy the Prime Naaru, Xe’Ra would be in pieces again already. The thought comes with a certainty that does not let her deny its truth even to herself; Alleria doesn’t try to. She does not shun the anger, either; it is justified, and she has kept it long enough. Let it be felt. Let it bleed out if it must. There has been silence and submission for too long.

If anxiety or anger occupy her, neither finds reciprocation in the dreaded Light Mother. Xe’Ra does not care, she realizes; and there is no shock in this, not truly, not for her who knows the naaru to only have cared for her perfect vision of the future for years, but to see it extended to Turalyon as well is new and unexpected — as is his loyalty to her, so blatantly offered, so unblemished. He kneels as if faced by most sacred being, and it is the truth of it, Alleria realizes, the truth of it in his eyes at least. There is adoration in his gaze, devotion in his voice, relief to see Xe’Ra restored.

It is enough to subdue the flames of her resent, ice cold aching in her heart substituting it. It is neither comfortable nor easy, then, to push aside unwanted feelings. It is hard, and it hurts; oh, if baring her feelings to be met with disregard had been bruising as being punched in the gut, this hurts as being trespassed by blade instead. Part of her wants to cry out betrayal, that he would so devote himself to this thing who had tried to rob her of choice, who did rob her of freedom, who hurt her as it saw fit and branded her wrong for having a mind of her own. Part of her thinks the betrayer to have been herself, venturing in the Shadow out of own volition. It hurts all the same. Duty she could understand; this wasn’t it. This was care and concern Turalyon had not shown to her, even when he had last seen her behind bars made of pure Light; it was commitment he had not shown her when she spoke of her worry and hesitated to aid one who had only done her harm.

Keeping herself impassive is stilling breath with same focus she had been taught once, so many years ago, when learning to tread amidst Eversong trees quiet as a shadow. It is clenching teeth and digging her nails in the flesh of her palm so strongly it hurts, but it is a welcome hurt, grounding, simple enough to deal with. It is forcing herself not to feel, impossible as it is — making herself ignore it, as if that was someone else’s lover, someone she did not know.

Did she know him at all, as it was?

Alleria had always been good at pushing aside unwanted feelings, and she succeeds, even when it is arduous effort. All eyes remain on the naaru, on the demon hunter that steps up to speak to it; all eyes, even her own. She feels what will happen before she processes it; heartbeat racing and body taut as a bowstring ready to snap. True understanding only comes to her, clear as crystal, when Illidan refuses Xe’Ra. She knows, and how could she not? It is watching her tale reenacted with different characters. It is seeing yet another fall prey to a monster who cloaks herself in good intentions, who makes use of righteousness to blind others on her tyranny.

She isn’t sure she can stomach to see it, yet green eyes do not dare look away, barely even blink. It is only when Illidan forcefully frees himself of binding light that Alleria releases breath she hadn’t realize she had been holding, a quiet gasp made soundless by deafening noise; only then gaze is forcefully torn away, the coalescing forces much too blinding to withstand.

There is barely a moment of quiet, briefest second in which she can feel how deeply Illidan’s words resounds with her, how deeply she feels it, from life that was not Xe’Ra’s to take to destiny that is his own, just as hers was, is, will always be. The moment ends too soon. All too quickly, it is brought to an end by a different voice loudly asserting his rage over Illidan’s actions, more vicious and angry and passionate than she remembered seeing in a long time.

When had he last acted like that? The rage upon seeing Lothar fall, perhaps. Turalyon had never been prone to outbursts of anger, seldom allowing himself to act on rage or resent. Lothar… Lothar had been his mentor, closer than even just his commander. There was connection between them, it is secret to no one; a bond, truly. And if any had been deserving of it, Anduin Lothar most certainly had; yet even drawing out such comparison thinking similar feelings would be attached to Xe’Ra sickens her (breaks her heart).

Breaks her further. Both relief and cathartic sense of justice done, found in seeing one pushed into a situation so similar to what Alleria herself had lived through destroy her tormentor, fade all too soon; feelings she had not even had the time to fully feel, truly, barely acknowledged at all amidst surprise and shock and rush of each turn of events. It is too much, too sudden, and amidst the overwhelming sea of feelings she experiences, she does not even know what is it she feels.

And then and there, for the first time in so long she does not remember when it happened last, Alleria feels like falling apart.

She doesn’t. Many years of shutting feelings tight within, burying them within own chest until they cannot hurt (until they hurt all the same, just as deep, just as truly, but all of it is securely beneath the skin) do not fail her then. Alleria barely acknowledges what happens, if focus is entirely on the scene before her; the words are lost in the haze, but she can see Turalyon’s sword (Lothar’s), half metal and half Light, and although she cannot see the wound, she can see Fel blood dripping to the floor, clawed hand holding sword in place even as it carves his flesh. Something Illidan says must have gotten to him, for eventually Turalyon withdraws, and eventually the demon hunter is left to brood in a corner, and eventually the paladin returns to the bridge, perhaps unsure how to go on about his duties then.

They have not been able to touch for many years now, but it is the first time Alleria is glad of it.

Even standing close to him feels like too much; but the mask does not slip, and neither him nor Vereesa nor Arator, not a single person in the multitude of faces within the Vindicaar, seems concerned when she offers some poor excuse of something to do, steps taking her away (away, away, even if she does not know where), aimless until she finds what she was looking for without conscious thought: a distant corner, empty and lonely and dark. Like she is. Where she belongs.

No strength is enough to keep herself together then.

The tears are quiet, if only because she does not dare making noise and drawing attention to herself — it’s not what she wants. Alleria does not resent that none of them noticed her distress; she has never been comfortable with exposing such feelings to others (lie; she had been comfortable enough once, with him, and the thought only causes her to cry more). If the sounds do not escape her, body still shakes with the soundless sobs, heartfelt, hurting, broken.

Xe’Ra is dead! Xe’Ra is dead. Gone, truly and completely this time. Why is it not enough? Why does it still hurt, even when she knows she is glad the Light Mother will never harm her or anyone else in attempt to force her will on them? Why does it hurt, when loathed dreading she had felt upon realizing what Illidan was going to suffer had turned to overwhelming relief, honest joy even, to see such fate averted and Xe’Ra dealt with? Why does it hurt regardless?

(How long have you been silent? How much have you ignored, set aside, pretended not to see? And now that she’s dead, what? Now you pretend and ignore and set aside and stay silent forever, because Xe’Ra is dead and it doesn’t matter anymore.)

Whatever she had suffered, it does not matter; not anymore. Her pain does not matter; this is as much justice as she will ever receive.

Her pain does not matter. And thoughts return to Turalyon, then, Turalyon who had once gone through lengths she expected none to go in order to help her; to offer her a hand she refused time and again, to do whatever he needed do to allow her to heal. Turalyon who shrugged off her concerns in favor of believing in Xe’Ra’s goodwill. Turalyon who knelt in front of Xe’Ra, who offered her respect and adoration he had not spared his so called wife. Turalyon who so eagerly threw himself at Xe’Ra’s killer, in blind rage that was not stopped by the logical thought he could not defeat Illidan, not truly, not when his own power would not have been enough to defeat the Prime Naaru.

Alleria had never resented the lack of further action when she was imprisoned. Turalyon stood with her then, between herself and Xe’Ra even, when he pleaded for her life. It was all she could have asked for; neither of them could defeat her, much less the entire Army of the Light. Alleria never meant to make them enemies, either. It was her path home, to accept Xe’Ra’s sentence; it was how she would reach Azeroth again (how she would see Arator again) — and Turalyon had done what he could. Had done enough.

Had done so much as he was willing to do, she thought now. He could have acted then how he acted now, could have known it was an impossible victory but raised his sword all the same. His lack of action was not because he knew it would be futile; he hadn’t done more because he hadn’t cared enough to do it.

He surely seemed to have a tremendous amount of care for the thing that kept her captive, however.

Arms wrap around her knees, attempt to make herself quieter, to give herself comfort (no; to make herself smaller, perhaps, as if she continued to shrink in her shadowy corner, she might disappear completely). It wouldn’t matter, would it? Arator had an aunt who would always be better mother figure than she could hope to be. He and Vereesa and Sylvanas had all believed her gone for so long; they didn’t need her (Sylvanas is the name that gives her pause; she hadn’t had the chance to meet her, hadn’t seen her in so long… but perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps it would be easier if she had not met any of them at all. At the very least, Sylvanas could be spared the disappointment.)

The Locus-Walker had taught her the Void would play her feelings to their purpose, and it never fails to prove true; her shadow companions, voices without bodies, whisper to fan the flames of her resent, to deepen her sorrow, to offer her comfort. It is barely effective at all; she is drowning in feelings all her own, sinking each time she briefly thinks she might swim again.

There is but one certainty for her, then and there; she does belong to the shadows, in the shadows, irreversibly, irrevocably. It is in the silent darkness she finds as much solace as she could find anywhere; and the cold nothingness of the Void does not feel like such terrible option after all.