On the second day at sea there was a second sunset in the east.
It was barely perceptible until the real sun had set properly, then the rim of the night sky smoldered like the embers in a fireplace late in the evening. Sylvanas stood rigid and unmoving by the reeling and watched it. She had been standing there for hours and it was unlikely that anything would be different the next hour. Still, she wouldn’t take her eyes off it. She didn’t deserve to.
She should be out there, not hiding herself at sea far away. She should be in the thick of it and not let Kalira and the others risk themselves alone. She should have come up with a better plan. She should never have ordered the burning of an entire forest.
If there ever really was any sliver of the Ranger-General left inside her, that was her funeral pyre.
And it was just as well, Sylvanas thought with a contemptuous grimace at herself. Good riddance to that part of her! In the end, when it had truly mattered, she hadn’t been good enough. She had held the most crucial of positions and she had failed. Lireesa Windrunner would not, had the Amani not got to her during the Second War. Alleria would not have failed either, had she not refused the position as Ranger-General. Lor’themar Theron could have stepped up, or perhaps even Halduron Brightwing. Maybe even Vereesa. Anyone but Sylvanas.
Sylvanas the inadequate.
Sylvanas the failure.
Sylvanas the banshee, who rose to terrorize the city and the people she had sworn to defend.
She took on as much work as she could possibly find time for and then some. Anya had not been wrong about that when she came to drag Sylvanas out from her desk. Sylvanas was aware of the fact that she punished herself just as much as she gave the not-enough she had to better the existences of the Forsaken. How could she do otherwise? She saw her debts day and night in the eyes of every dark ranger. She could never repay them. She could never make it right again.
Was there a point of even trying?
She questioned what she was now. What was left of Sylvanas Windrunner, what was the banshee queen? Only what Arthas made her into, in the end?
To Sylvanas’ knowledge Forsaken did not sleep or dream, but that was not to say they were at peace or anything remotely close. Sylvanas was no exception. Her thoughts turned to the blackest abyss more often now than a few weeks earlier. Waking nightmares, stubbornly clinging to the back of her mind even as she tried to shake them off. Visions of herself as Arthas’ unwitting pawn, of her leading the Forsaken to ruin or to renewed slavery under the Lich King. Visions of herself torching forests, cities, kingdoms along a dark path without escape. Would she take the first step onto it tomorrow? Or, more likely, had she already taken that step a long time ago?
Was there no real hope for them at all?
Sylvanas was so deep in thought that she had not heard the quiet steps next to her. Unacceptably sloppy.
”What do you see out there?” Anyas voice was quiet and gentle.
Sylvanas should dismiss the question. Deflect it. Answer something witty. Counter with a question of how the rangers were doing learning the basics of sailing to assist the crew.
But the thought of doing any of those things to Anya disgusted her beyond description now. Before the deep red of her eyes Sylvanas found herself, or more precisely the armour that was the Dark Lady, crumbling to nothing.
”Our ruin.”
”You have sharp eyes.” Anya said after a while. ”To me it is still rather misty.”
They said nothing for a moment. Then, to Sylvanas astonishment, Anya began to sing. She had a low, smooth singing voice with the ethereal echo of a banshee nearly unnoticeable.
”Shadows to the right of me
Shadows to the left of me
Dancing flame, withered tree
Death ahead of me
Sword and shackle wait for me
Guarding shadows shelter me
In the darkness I am free
Death ahead of me
Shadows calling back for me
Shadows lie ahead of me
What they hide I can not see
Death ahead of me”
To another pair of ears the words might have sounded morbid and depressing but the more Sylvanas thought of it the less sure she was about that. The shadows were their element now, their home ground to hide in. And death was not the end for an undead; on the contrary, the way Anya sang it was more as a second chance or a new life ahead of them to experience.
”How can you still hope, Anya?”
”How can you?”
”Who says I do?
”Would any of us be here now if you did not think there was a small piece of hope left for us?”
How could someone so deadly as Anya have such a gentle voice?
”Hope fails.”
”Hope fails. Dark Ladies rise again. So as long as I have my Dark Lady I’ll still think we have a chance.”
A weak, thoughtless part of Sylvanas wanted her to close her eyes and just lose herself in that voice and never think a single thought again. It was a dangerous part of her.
Hardly a day went by without Sylvanas dreading the moment when Scarlet or Scourge armies would come for them in earnest and casualties would mount, but the thought of losing Anya or Areiel secretly terrified her. They were not useful, although both were among the very best, they were needed. Sylvanas despised herself for it but she needed both her captain and her own lieutenant for purely selfish reasons these days. She could no longer imagine herself leading the Forsaken without Areiel standing steady at her side or without Anyas calming presence around her. Anya who always seemed to know what she was thinking without having to ask. Anya who she knew secretly would like nothing better than to just be Sylvanas’ ranging partner like before, when the worst thing Sylvanas had to worry about was getting Anya to safety before she bled out from a troll spear in her leg.
Anya who drew her a bath from nothing but a pile of rubble and, of all things, boiled soap just to give Sylvanas a moment of comfort. And Sylvanas had just… Belore, what a shameful way to repay Anyas efforts.
She wanted so much to find the right words, to put shape and form to the cloud of unease and regret that formed up inside. But it seemed that her ways with words were a thing of the past as well.
”For what it’s worth I am…sorry for walking out on you before the way I did.” Sylvanas whispered hoarsely. ”I am not the Dark Lady you deserve.”
Sylvanas stood stiffly and almost expected Anya to scoff at her completely pathetic attempt at apology. Maybe laugh coldly at her and walk away.
She did not expect Anya to smile.
She did absolutely not expect Anya to twine her fingers with Sylvanas’, terrible clawed gauntlets and all, and squeeze them.
”I don’t want the Dark Lady I deserve. I want the one I have. I want my Sylvanas Windrunner.”
Sylvanas slumped and closed her eyes. What in all the world had she done to deserve that? But here was her incomparable and irreplaceable lieutenant anyway.
Well. So long as Sylvanas had Anya Eversong by her side perhaps there would still be a chance for her to make things right.
One small chance.
One last chance.
***
Ever since she became Ranger-General of Silvermoon, Sylvanas made it a point to keep everything around and about her in immaculate and precise order to the best of her ability. And the table now before her was anything but that. It was a travesty, a cluttered, disordered heresy against every tenet of elven military professionalism.
After a couple of weeks of preparation and planning, the captains cabin – now turned into the Dark Ladys temporary headquarters – was drowning in sketches, notes and above all a dangerously overloaded table where Forsaken and enemy formations battled for control of a rough depiction of the terrain south of Brill. With the state of strategic planning accessories being what it was, the thick-headed enemy was using wooden pegs while the sharp Forsaken were represented by iron nails, all promptly requisitioned from the ships carpenters supplies.
”Yes, this should work. I think we’ve nailed it now, Dark Lady.”
And yes, Areiel was still being Areiel.
And thanks to, well, Areiel being Areiel in the other ways than her crass excuse for humour, they had a workable idea for how to conduct a set battle in the field. It had been a long-winded exercise in forcing them to rid themselves of elven military doctrine and at least partially embrace the clumsy human ways of doing things. The Forsaken as a whole were much more human than elven and instead of ranks of nimble archers supported by swift mounted units Sylvanas would now have to work with mainly heavy infantry with very few mounted or ranged troops.
Their new kind of strength was having the numbers to form long and deep lines capable of standing their ground, at least relatively, but doing so would also result in massive losses over time and the tricky question was how to prevent those. The dark rangers would open the battle as they always had, picking off enemy skirmishers and hiding the Forsaken dispositions. The would then melt away into the infantry lines and hurry to one wing with her best units, currently deathguards and abominations, where they would swing around the enemy flank along with the banshees and concentrate all ranged power in one spot at a time. The Forsaken other wing would meanwhile step back to buy itself some time before the enemy devoured it. If Sylvanas could win on her strong side before the foe won on her weak one, she could roll up the enemy front before the weaker Forsaken were grinded down.
There were many unknown variables, not least how to prevent massed enemy cavalry from delaying her missile troops too much or overwhelming the weaker wing completely, but so far it would have to do. She had some ideas of concentrating those Forsaken adept with halberds and similar weapons at those spots, or adopting square or column formations to take the edge off a cavalry charge.
As usual after a long session of tactical planning and war games, they were moving on to more everyday matters.
Areiel produced a list.
”To start with today, we are currently diverting key resources to gathering supplies – scavenging the ruins, gathering herbs and other ingredients, even a few mining operations. This is generally carried out by our civilians with an escort of deathguards or rangers. That, in my opinion, needs to cease sooner or later, preferably sooner.”
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
”Oh? Would you have them go without escort?”
Sylvanas was honestly surprised. It wasn’t like Areiel to risk lives if there was the slimmest of chances to avoid it.
”They can escort themselves.” Seeing Sylvanas’ curious look Areiel continued to explain. ”I see you haven’t been out in town much lately, my lady. There is a surge of eager volunteers arming themselves with whatever they can get their hands on and lining up to train. These new mighty champions won’t do much of an impression against anything regular in the field but I’m sure they can handle the odd disgruntled zombie around Brill.”
It was actually…not a bad decision. The Forsakens current lack of raw materials and functional workshops, and lack of need for food, made it hard to utilise the surplus of craftsmen and farmers in defense of the Undercity. Most were engaged in excavating and improving the catacombs and sewers but there was a limit to how many could effectively work an area at the same time and with their few tools, and such tasks were also not for everybody. But…
”Can you imagine what this is going to look like? Scores of amateurs running around the citys outskirts hacking at feral ghouls with a rusty shovel and a – what, a grocery list of alchemical ingredients in their left hand?”
”Precisely!” Areiel grinned.
”Belore, so long as I don’t have to watch it myself…”
”Well, as Dark Lady you could delegate more menial tasks after all. And I think I know just the right person to keep track of all our new prodigies and their errands. I am sure that Varimathras will be up to the job and eager to do his part for his fine city.”
Sylvanas almost laughed.
”I see you have given this some thought, Areiel. Approved!” she smiled appreciatively. ”And ’quests’, I think.”
Areiel raised an eyebrow.
”Call it ’quests’ rather than ’errands’. That should instill a sense of importance and motivate these newbies.”
Areiel grinned and nodded. Then she grew more serious.
”I have heard an especially ugly rumour that I believe you should know about. It’s nothing I have had opportunity or time to corroborate but the mere rumour is bad enough.”
Sylvanas braced herself. The Forsaken talked and gossiped like any other people, barring the Scourge of course, even though their subjects tended towards the grim and morbid.
”There are whispers among some of the newcomers, at least I think that’s where they’ve originated, about some of them having had contact with the Scarlets and…cut deals.”
Sylvanas flinched.
”What sort of deals?” she asked, tense as a bowstring.
”The sort you are thinking about. Information. Trading someone else's safety for their own. Perhaps someone else's existence. And if that is true and Scarlets somehow have their hooks into some of ours in the city, of course spying and sabotage too.”
Sylvanas wanted to close her eyes and just scream in frustration. To Wail. She could feel the banshee inside her boiling under the surface and forced her down with what felt like a monumental effort. Of all illogical things, would the rabid fanatics of the Scarlet Crusade be capable of putting their blinding hatred aside long enough to truly undermine the Forsaken? Well, of course they would, because why would they be spared that or any other rotten filth that the world tossed at them? Was she naive not to have expected something like this? Well, evidently so. Foolish enough to give in to wishful thinking that free will could come without the downsides of all peoples dishonesty and capacity for betrayal.
Areiel waited for Sylvanas to gather herself.
”We have no way of knowing what is true or not when we are so blind outside the immediate vicinity of the Undercity. But the whispers are spreading and they will work their mischief on us regardless unless we find something to counter with. I will investigate this as best I can when we get back.”
Sylvanas nodded and they moved on to the next item and the next. But she wasn’t quite there. As hard as she tried to focus on the present and the issue at hand there was a sense of urgency that had taken root inside of her. Her thoughts ran in circles, only to return time and again to the festering, vague feeling that she was running out of time much faster than she had hoped.
She had to make this expedition worth it, and then get back home as fast as they possibly could.
***
Jaina put down her latest half-written letter and stretched her arms, stifling a yawn. It was well past her bedtime, she thought ironically. Tides, she was still embarrassed by how she had fallen asleep with Pained left to sit alone in the dark beside her. The fact that Pained waved away all her attempted apologies and excuses only made it ten times worse. So now Jaina had delved into the subject of alchemy – never her best one – and more specifically the brewing of sleeping potions. She had a shelf of recommended mixes waiting to be tested that she still hesitated to use, dreading the disappointed look that Jaina knew she could count on receiving from Pained once she found out what they were. Or once she stopped pretending not ot have found out, which was perhaps just as likely.
But Jaina saw no other option for the moment. She couldn’t keep grabbing at random night elves to play at being her mother, for Tides’ sake! Not ot mention falling asleep at meetings so that random gnomes had act her father and send her to bed while covering for her. How enormously stupid of her. She was supposed to be a grown woman practically in charge of a city!
Some ruler she was, too.
Lover to a mass murderer whom she failed to stop or reason with.
Patricide by her own inaction, and not even with shame enough to truly regret her choice.
Disowned by her own homeland and family.
Jaina knew, rationally speaking, that she was being neither constructive nor consequent towards herself, and that if she had heard the same judgements directed against someone else she would be sorely tempted to summon a very pointy ice lance against whoever delivered them. But it was one thing to know and another to bring herself to act in accordance with it. So she shut herself inside her office most days while not attending meetings and inspections, maintaining strict professionalism towards the people she thought herself increasingly unfit to lead. She was delegating what she could think of, and sometimes entertained the notion of removing herself completely from Theramoores government. Perhaps that would be for the best after all.
It was just that she didn’t truly want to. Tides be damned, but as low in esteem as she held herself she still liked ruling Theramoore. She did not want to turn into an autocrat, and she could most evidently not do it alone, nor would she ever wish for anyone to be afraid to speak out if she did something wrong. But sometimes she could allow a little bit of herself deep, deep inside to be genuinely proud and happy for what she had managed to do for her little city in the middle of nowhere.
Maybe she just needed a break, going away somewhere for a while. Perhaps she could ask Tyrande if she could visit, and let Pained spend some time with her kin in the process? But there was always so much to do.
A chill ran through Jaina and she rose to peek out of her window left ajar. Even though the summer was brutally hot, both the interior and the coast of Kalimdor had cold periods in abundance and there was definitely a chilly sense to the night. Jaina considered shutting her window completely but settled for wrapping a robe around herself instead. She could use every bit of fresh air in her study after a long days work.
Jaina yawned and sighed. She could give her little city another hour tonight before her eyes would shut themselves and her dreams would be impossible to keep out. She noted how the wind was increasing outside and raindrops were starting to hammer against her towers roof.
There seemed to be a storm coming.
***
The midnight watch was close when they sighted Theramoores faint lights in the distance. The wind was blowing hard from the north and whitecaps would have been visible everywhere were it not for the looming darkness of the sky, black with massive clouds boding ill for any captain foolish enough to be caught under their gaze.
Captain Bonecarver lowered his looking glass and nodded to Sylvanas who had just stepped onto the quarterdeck.
”I reckon we ’ave a quarter-glass or two before we’re about to enter Theramoore Bay south of the town.”
”Very good, captain. Prepare the longboat for me. I will approach as openly and visibly as possible and negotiate safe passage for us into the bay and signal to you when it is safe to approach.”
”Aye, wouldn’t want to find out firsthand if these Alliance fellows have cannons ashore. But ye best hurry, my lady. Whatever business ye’re going to ’ave, that storm isn’t going to wait for it. I want to have us either safe and sound in the bay or well off the coast by then.”
Sylvanas nodded.
”Signal us if the winds grow too strong, with a lantern waved in circles. I will signal back if you can approach or return to the ship.”
The ship carried two boats of which Sylvanas was now taking the largest. Seven ranger were with her, all banshees and fully armed but brushed and polished to their best. It was a shame it was so dark, for it was a rare sight to see that band of brigands look so smart, Sylvanas thought almost fondly.
The waves nearly upturned them as soon as they pushed away from the ships hull and only after altering their course half to the north could they begin to make progress towards the harbour. Every cloak was soaked through in a minute and they were regularly showered every time a new wave crashed into their fore. The light of their lantern looked pitifully small in the night and just as Sylvanas wondered if she should wave it to call attention to them a particularly large wave crashed over them and tore the lantern with it into the churning waters.
Sylvanas could have sworn several times that they were going more backward than forward but at long last the boat slammed into a thick post of Theramoores dock, seemingly half filled with water at this point despite the frantic bailing of the rangers aft of their rowers.
Anya tossed a line to Sylvanas, or a head spring or whatever it was Captain Bonecarver insisted it was called, and after a nearly being swept away by the waves several times they had secured their little vessel. Sylvanas leaned down and helped her rangers climb out, or more like heaved them up on the pier by herself. They had lost a quiver and a couple of bows to the storm, and the strings of the rest were likely unusable despite the oiled leather sleeves that protected them from more normal amounts of rain. As Sylvanas rose from helping Clea up as the last one, clanking steps caught her attention and half a dozen city guards in the typical Alliance mail and plate armour were running up to them.
”Hold it!”
”Stay right there!”
Sylvanas rose to her full height and took an unneeded breath to compose herself. She was unimpressed by the soldiers apparent skittishness but she would not let herself be distracted now.
”Greetings. I am…” Sylvanas began in her clearest Common, almost shouting to be heard over the wind.
”You be a smuggler I reckon, skulking in the night like this!”
”Or a spy, sergeant!”
Sylvanas flinched. What? What were they thinking, that a smuggler would moor at the docks in the middle of a storm and without carrying any goods?”
”Sergeant! They’re undead!”
”They undead! The undead are here!”
”To arms!”
No…
”I wish to speak to Lady Jaina Proudmoore!” Sylvanas declaimed, more and more desperate to retain a semblance of control over the situation. ”I assure you we have no hostile intentions against Theramoore!” She stretched her arms along her sides and sprawled her fingers to indicate that she was unarmed.
”They’re undead assassins, sergeant!” one voice called out, frantic and apparently panicking.
”You will stand down and surrender your weapons immediately!” the one that was apparently a Theramoorian sergeant barked. Sylvanas did not miss the trembling of his voice that he tried to hide. ”Prepare to be taken into custody!”
What?!
As if on cue, every dark ranger drew a blade and spread out to protect Sylvanas. It was in every way the right thing of them to do. And in every way the wrong thing. Sylvanas’ vision narrowed, darkness closed in from all around, darkness that boiled and bubbled and wanted her to let go of herself and be one with it, one with her limitless wrath over each and every thing done to her, to the elves, to the Forsaken. Her pent-up frustration tore at its mental shackles, her anguish of being made into a monster and a murderer, of watching helplessly as her envoys were killed without question and her rangers walked away to seek their deaths, of listening to the frightened whispers of Forsaken families hunted like vermin by a world united by only its hatred of them.
Sylvanas could hear faint voices and shouts. Time had slowed to a crawl, every second seeming like an hour.
”…call for support…”
”Back off!”
”…we need mages!”
Sylvanas clenched and unclenched her fists. She tried to breathe, to focus her thoughts on anything at all. But the more she tried, the more they flooded freely.
It was an ambush. Was this the plan all along of the Alliance? To starve her of allies until she became desperate enough to risk herself, depriving the Forsaken of their leader? Would the rest of them be hunted and taken down following her death here?
The guards were shouting, there was a commotion now.
They would lose it all. They had lost it all. They had lost. She had lost. She felt herself falling down into a hole of darkness, darkness in which waited the mocking laughter of the Lich King to welcome back his murderous banshee into the fold. Was that her fate, cruel and inescapable? Was freedom of choice but an illusion for the dead?
She could hear more calling, differently now. There was a flash at the periphery and a new voice rang out, loud and clear and most evidently upset.
”What in the Tides’ name is going on here?!”
Sylvanas could practically taste the arcane magic in the air. Was this their plan then, waiting for their mages to come and finish them? She could agree that it was a sensible tactic.
She was falling deeper into the darkness. There would be no escape.
Not for Sylvanas.
Not for her rangers that she had led here.
Not for Clea, who would never admit how uncomfortable she was on water and would sail to the worlds end for her, but who clung to her arm for dear life when she dragged her onto the quay.
Not for Anya.
Her vision turned red and all the world burned before her.
And Sylvanas Wailed.
She could see flashes and the shimmering outline of something that a part of her mind knew was a mages shield, but it was a thought that the rest of her could not hear over the anguished and furious scream that rang in her unnatural being.
Boiling darkness formed into tendrils around Sylvanas, smoking and writhing like flames. She closed her eyes and willed them back inside her, falling to her knees and curling into herself as if that would contain her banshee self.
Eventually the last echo of her Wail died down and only the wind and the waves thundered in the night.
She looked up, only to see a lone mage swaying and falling into the ground, hitting her head against the uneven timber of the quay. A human woman in a nightrobe. She did not rise or open her eyes.
Sylvanas senses returned, rapidly now. Her rangers were still there. There was no sign of the Theramoore soldiers. The mage was injured for sure, having lost consciousness from the fall if not from the sheer power of the Wail. How was she even alive?
She heard her rangers cry out and turned around to see the agreed upon signal on the ship far out in the storm. In fact there were three signals, her captain taking no chances. Sylvanas could feel the wind rising even further. What of the mage? They had to leave, there would be no time to seek out the humans of the city, let alone hand her over in a safe way. She hadn't attacked them, she had arrived late and only shielded the soldiers, saving them from Sylvanas’ Wail. Saving Sylvanas from having even more blood on her hands.
She could leave her here. To die from a wound or injury yet undiscovered or contract pneumonia, if she was lucky enough not to be blown straight into the sea!
She could not do that. Somewhere deep inside her rotten black banshee soul Sylvanas refused to do that.
She bent down and scooped up the mage, carefully cradling the woman's head against her shoulder and holding her tight. Her neck seemed whole at least, but she was bleeding from a head wound, smearing the tangled trusses of hair that hung over her face.
”Take your banshee forms! Fly to the ship!”