Not for the first time, Tyrande finds herself running hands glowing with radiant moonlight across Rognak’s torso, her face screwed up in concentration as she makes sure that every last bit of the damage, both inside and out, has been healed. In this she has Elune’s full support. Through her connection with the Goddess of the Moon, the Night Elven High Priestess can make sure that there is no lingering demonic corruption from the blows Rognak took, nor from his proximity to flames of fel magic. He’s clean.

He's also completely healed, of course. But it’s hard to accept that when the orc druid is still unconscious days after the Battle for Mount Hyjal. They’d won that battle, even though they’d lost so much, and Rognak had been instrumental in carrying the day. Was it any wonder that Tyrande found herself here, by his side?

A hand of branches falls upon her shoulder, causing the High Priestess to let out a slow breath. She’d felt Cenarius’ approach from a good distance away of course, so she’s not startled. Even still, her eyes do not leave Rognak’s sleeping visage.

“High Priestess. Your vigil, while appreciated, is unnecessary. The young druid is doing quite well thanks to our efforts. He merely needs time to rest now that we’ve healed what physically ailed him.”

Tyrande frowns at that, not liking it, truth be told.

“Then why does he not wake? Even Staghelm has woken up at this point.”

By all rights, Tyrande should be assigning just as much credit to the Archdruid as she is to Rognak. Indeed, they’d all played their parts in defeating Archimonde and the Burning Legion and they’d played them well. And Fandral, much like Tyrande and the rest of their people, had sacrificed more than Rognak and their allies had. Nordrassil was gone, destroyed in the same explosion that destroyed Archimonde. Their immortality was lost. After over ten thousand years, they would age and die like mortal beings once more.

Of course, there were already murmurings of a new World Tree. A chance to regain their immortality. Tyrande wasn’t sure how she felt about that… but a part of her didn’t like it. It felt… premature.

“The Chieftain’s bond to Nature is strong. He counts many among the Wild Gods as his patrons, including myself.”

Tyrande’s eyes snap open at that confession, her gaze finally leaving Rognak to look to Cenarius. The Lord of the Forest is speaking rather candidly at the moment.

“… During the battle, he reached for all that he could. And we did not deny him. He wanted our power for his own use, but we, his patrons, deemed his cause in this instance to be Just and Righteous. And so… we gave him what he was asking for.”

A small smile curls across Cenarius’ face and the Demigod chuckles softly.

“I’m not entirely sure he even knew what he was doing. He only knew that he wasn’t strong enough, that he needed more. Unfortunately… his mortal form was not made for so much power. If he’d held onto it for much longer, he would have suffered severe consequences.”

Cenarius’ voice is grave, sending a shiver down Tyrande’s spine as she looks back to the young orc laid out before them. She doesn’t like the sound of that, but thankfully it was only a matter of ‘if’. The worst had not come to pass.

“As it is, he requires more time than most to recover as a result. Still, I think he will awaken soon. A day more, at most.”

Tyrande slowly nods, accepting this as she stares at Rognak some more. Her daughter’s lover and the bridge between her people and the Horde. Without him, Tyrande has a feeling that everything would have turned out far worse. Her insight tells her that Rognak was a blessing for her people, that his mere existence has served to put them on the path to a better future.

And yet… Tyrande’s eyes drift over to Rognak’s weapon, the axe Wolfsong. Retrieved from the battle, it had suffered some damage that Cenarius had already restored. Marshalling herself, Tyrande lets out an explosive breath and finally asks the question at the forefront of her mind.

“Is he to be my beloved’s replacement then?”

The Lord of the Forest startles at her side, causing Tyrande to look at him knowingly.

“Will he be your new protégé, Lord Cenarius? Your next student?”

Cenarius does not meet her gaze, which is answer enough. But Tyrande still waits him out, until at long last he speaks.

“… The young one represents a great opportunity, Tyrande. The future of our world will be a brighter place with him in it.”

The corner of Tyrande’s mouth quirks up as Cenarius unknowingly mirrors her previous thoughts with his words. But the Forest Demigod isn’t done yet.

“However… know that Malfurion’s fate weighs heavily on me. I cannot claim parity with your loss… but if given the choice, I do not know if I would trade young Rognak for a change in Malfurion’s fate.”

Tyrande blinks at that. It is a… heavy confession. And a terrible thought. If she had the choice, between Rognak’s life and Malfurion’s… what would she choose? She hates that Cenarius even put the thought in her head. It helps though, that she knows what Malfurion would say were he here. He would decry such a choice. He would never want them to sacrifice anyone for him, let alone a promising young druid on the cusp of greatness.

And yet, those are the words that Cenarius leaves Tyrande with. He does not speak again, merely standing beside her quietly for a few moments more before silently taking his leave of her. Tyrande remains by Rognak’s side, and after a moment she returns to her healing vigil, never touching the slumbering orc but running glowing hands over his body all the same.

Immediately after the battle, she and Cenarius had indeed worked together to heal Rognak’s numerous injuries. They were many and varied, with broken ribs and internal bleeding being some of the worst of it. He had very nearly been on the verge of death, but in the end his orcish constitution combined with their quick work had resulted in him pulling through.

It was… the least Tyrande felt she could do. Rognak and his kind had risked everything to give them the time they needed. And in the end, they’d succeeded. All of the races of Kalimdor and some from far away had come together in the Battle for Mount Hyjal. Night Elves had fought alongside Tauren and Trolls for the first time in millennia, to say nothing of the foreign humans or the even more foreign orcs who had come to their shores.

In spite of their differences, they had done it. Against all odds, they had proven victorious. Heh, Archimonde hadn’t known what hit him. The Defiler had been so confident in the end there. Even charred and bleeding from Thrall and Rognak’s respective attacks, the Demon Lord had believed his conquest unopposed. Indeed, the tenacity and ferocity of their young orc allies had probably been what convinced him that there was no trap, in the end.

And ultimately… he’d walked right into it. And died. A vicious sense of satisfaction fills Tyrande even now as she thinks about it. The end of Archimonde. The destruction of the Defiler. However, that satisfaction is overshadowed a moment later by thoughts of the future.

Rognak and his fellow orc druids are… so young. So very mortal. But then, with the death of Nordrassil, she and her people are mortal now too. Perhaps it’s better that way. Perhaps with time, the Night Elves and the Orcish Horde can become closer than ever before.

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Tyrande isn’t unobservant, after all. She’s well aware that there are relationships cropping up between the two races outside of what Shandris and the young Warsong Chieftain have going on. Some of her Sentinels have taken to Rognak’s neophyte druids quite eagerly. Indeed, a handful of her Priestesses had come to her already, to ask what they should do about it.

Nothing, she’d told them. She would not condemn such couplings. She would not drive away their young allies and turn victory into ash in their mouths. The Night Elves had lost much when her beloved mate and many of their druids had died to the Scourge. If they were going to ever recover, they needed to forge stronger ties with their new neighbors, not push them away.

It would not be easy. There would be missteps. There would be stumbles. There would be challenges. But Tyrande fully believed they would be able to overcome them all… together.

“Oh! High Priestess, I didn’t expect to find you here…”

Blinking, pulled from her thoughts, Tyrande yanks her glowing hands back from Rognak’s chest as though burned. She’s not sure why she’s embarrassed to have been caught healing the perfectly healthy orc druid by her adoptive daughter, but as Shandris pushes into the tent, Tyrande finds herself a little flushed, coughing delicately.

“Shandris. I was merely looking after our… ally while he rested. I know his own people watch over him, but I wanted to make sure none of the Fel could take root.”

Her excuse sounds weak, even to her own ears. Why is that? Tyrande shifts from side to side, even as Shandris nods and comes to kneel beside her, gaze locked on Rognak’s sleeping face.

“… Thank you, Mother. For helping him.”

Tyrande smiles softly, and when Shandris reaches out and takes hold of her hand, she intertwines her fingers with the other Night Elf’s, giving Shandris a solid squeeze.

“It is my pleasure, Daughter. He has done much for our people. To toss him aside now would be the height of dishonor. To say nothing of what he means to you.”

And like that, with one single sentence spoken in a teasing tone, Tyrande is treated to the sight of Shandris blushing and sputtering a little bit. However, she does not deny it. She does not try to claim that she and the Warsong Chieftain are merely… friends. As Shandris falls quiet, Tyrande sighs and looks down at the other Night Elf’s hand in her own.

“… When you first spoke of him, I could hear in your voice that your… engagement was more than just the physical affair you might have claimed it to be, Shandris. I wonder, have you come to understand what feelings you might have for Rognak any better after all of this?”

Blush intensifying, Shandris does not immediately answer. But eventually, she straightens her back, squares her shoulders… and nods.

“I have, Mother.”

Feeling rather at home in playing the teasing mother, Tyrande’s eyes twinkle as she fiddles with their joined hands.

“And?”

Gazing towards Rognak’s slumbering form once more, Shandris sighs.

“… You’re right. I do feel more for him than I initially anticipated. I have become… attached. At first, I’d thought us too far apart for there to be anything but… sex between us. He is only mortal, after all. But now…”

Tyrande smiles, nodding along with her adoptive daughter. She’s pleased that Shandris has come to the same conclusion that she did. The destruction of Nordrassil, while a terrible loss to their people, might just be a blessing in disguise.

“So are we now, Shandris. Many of our people are over ten thousand years old. But no longer. No longer can we expect immortality. No longer can we let the years pass us by without reaching out and seizing what happiness we can wherever we can find it. I tell you this now, not as your High Priestess, nor even necessarily as your Mother… but as one woman to another, you must take hold of this opportunity and never let it go. Hold tight and keep him close, no matter what.”

If a tinge of bitter sorrow enters Tyrande’s voice by the end of her speech, Shandris at least has the good grace not to mention it. Instead, the younger Night Elf lets out a low, shuddering breath as she continues to stare at Rognak for a moment more. Then, at long last she nods and turns her gaze to Tyrande.

“I will. I promise.”

Smiling now, Tyrande pulls Shandris in for a warm embrace. The two of them hug tightly, basking in one another’s presence and the physical contact of a loved one for a good, long while. And then, Shandris pulls away, ending the embrace. Tyrande looks at her as the Sentinel Captain bites her lower lip, hesitating for only a moment before speaking.

“And what of you, Priestess? What of your happiness?”

Tyrande freezes at the question. She would think Shandris would know better than to ask such a thing. In a very short amount of time, Tyrande has lost quite a lot. Forcing a smile onto her face, the Priestess of Elune places a hand on Shandris’ shoulder.

“I will be fine, Shandris. You do not have to worry about me. Your happiness… your happiness will be my happiness. Seeing you find love after all this time; it fills me with joy enough as it is. I do not need anything more than what I already have. My duty to our people… and my love for you. That will be enough for me.”

Shandris frowns at that, looking displeased with Tyrande’s answer. But truth be told, she doesn’t know what else to say to the younger Night Elf. Malfurion is gone. Perhaps not dead just yet, not completely… but he is lost to her. And Tyrande will just have to live with that. Luckily, she will not have to live with it for eternity or she thinks she might just have gone mad from the endlessness of it all. But one mortal life lived in pursuit of a future for her people, even after she’s gone? That Tyrande can do. That is a purpose she can get behind.

But apparently, that’s not enough for Shandris. Her gaze flickers over to the slumbering orc druid in their midst again, and after a moment Shandris speaks.

“My happiness could be more than just your happiness in spirit, mother.”

What? What is Shandris saying?

Shifting from side to side, looking ten-thousand years younger and like she’d just done something incredibly naughty, Shandris nevertheless holds her head high and finds the courage to meet Tyrande’s eyes.

“I have already accepted that I will be sharing my mate with the human mage, Jaina Proudmoore.”

Tyrande blinks, causing Shandris to give her a crooked smile.

“In fact, I’m the one who brought them together. He’s a bit much for me to handle on my own, you see. Orc men are… very beastly, High Priestess.”

It slowly begins to dawn on Tyrande, what exactly Shandris is implying. But then Shandris goes beyond simply implying.

“What I’m saying is-!”

Before she can finish that sentence, Tyrande abruptly pulls away, standing up and cutting Shandris off.

“A-Apologies… I must… I have sat in vigil for much too long. I need to find food, and perhaps a bath. And I am sure my responsibilities to our people are already piling up. I leave the vigil in your capable hands, Sentinel Captain.”

Shandris’ eyes widen, and she opens her mouth to speak, but Tyrande is already fleeing the tent, something in her chest twisting into knots at Shandris’ insinuation.

Surely… surely she just misunderstood. Best to put it out of her mind. Best not to think about it… ever again.