Muse: A Writer's Passion

Chapter 1

News from the North

 

“Aeli! Aeli, is it true? There’s been rumors about members of the horde, and alliance as well … coming back from the clutches of the Scourge!”

 

Aelisaria Silverbough turned to see her dear friend, Chandrian Greenmantle rush through the door of Aelisaria’s simple cottage, her charger, Sage, left untethered at the front. “You heard true, Chandi.”

 

“It is also true that these … these death knights are known as Knights of the Ebon Blade?”

 

“Jubnar, no,” Aelisaria scolded as her imp attempted to steal a pastry from a cookie jar. The imp grumbled in protest, but went back to his place by the window. “Yes, they are our risen warriors broken free from the Lich King’s grasp by the intervention of Lord Tirion Fordring … and something else. Someone says the Light brought forth the souls of our men and women.”

 

“Have you heard anything from … heard anything of ….”

 

The name hung between them, unspoken. Ari. Aelisaria shook her head, flame-red tresses bouncing in the late morning sunlight that filtered through the Eversong Woods. “I’ve heard of no knights named Aristotle Silverbough, though my heart tears at the thought of either outcome. To see my beloved brother again after so many years would bring me joy, but I do not know if he would be who he was when the Scourge came and we went off to war.”

 

Chandrian sighed softly. “I understand your feelings, Aeli. I miss Ari with an aching so painful that it sneaks on me sometimes and leaves me on my bedroom floor weeping like a child who’s lost everything she knows. But if the light somehow saw fit to return him to us, I don’t give a damn what he was as long as he’s no longer under that traitor Arthas’ command.”

 

Aelisaria smiled at her dearest friend. Chandrian was nearly Ari’s opposite. Where he had been fair of complexion and flaxen of hair, Chandi sported coal-black locks cut into a practical bob and skin darkened red by the hours of practice in the sun. “If he were to be one of those freed, what would you do?”

 

Chandrian winked. “Make up for over six years of lost time.”

 

Aelisaria needed Chandrian’s humor every so often. She too had lost many people close to her, but together they had survived. “You plan to smother him in kisses?”

 

“In the least,” she said with a laugh. “Not a day goes by that he’s not in my thoughts, Aeli. By the Light, I miss him.”

 

“We all do, but if he turns up in this throng of Death Knights who find themselves freed, we will find him. How goes the new recruit regiment?”

 

Chandrian ran her hand over her face to show her exasperation. “Light knows they’re eager enough, but their discipline is … laughable. They try to out-do each other so hard, and it’s not like it was when Ari and I were in training. These young ones today, they don’t comprehend the full magnitude of what happened to us. They were too young to remember the invasion. They seek glory and riches. It’s no wonder so many of them were blinded by Kael’s pretty words. Now that he’s gone, the talk is of the lineage. Who will rule as prince? Will the council continue as they have in his absence? Will Lor’themar be named prince, or will he remain as a regent? Kael was the last Sunstrider. Lady Jaina Proudmoore must have seen in him the darkness that was growing there. Did she see it in Prince Arthas as well? I think she would do well with Warchief Thrall if it didn’t shock so many of the humans.”

 

“You are scandalous, Chandi,” said Aeli with a laugh.

 

“I’m serious,” said the paladin softly. “Thrall is a thoughtful, intelligent and strong Warchief. Why should people let appearances dictate their actions? Why should the sins of the fathers be paid by their children? Are we monsters because Kael made bargains with nagas and demons to try and find an alternative source to the Sunwell? Are we monsters because the magic that pervades us is demonic in origin? We should be judged by our own actions and words. I wield powers once stolen from a naaru, but now given freely. Am I a monster? You keep demons as companions. Are you a monster? Thrall is no more a monster than we. It was his father who spoke out against Ner’zhul. It was he who died trying to save the orcs from their destructive path, and it is his son who brought them salvation. If cooler heads prevailed more often, Azeroth would be the better for it. That is why I respect Jaina and Thrall so much.”

 

Aelisaria smiled and nodded. “You are indeed every inch of the woman I see before me, Chandrian Greenmantle. Ari would be as proud as I am to see you now.”

 

“Thank you, Aeli. And what about you? Ari and Londriel were in the same area … there’s a chance—”

 

Aelisaria smiled wryly. “I do dream about him, and I would, like you, have my love no matter the changes in him.”

 

“Why did he go away?”

 

Aelisaria remembered back to that fateful day so long ago.

 

“Londriel, please!” she cried. “Wait!”

 

Londriel turned around, the sunlight cascading off his pitch black hair. His face was beautiful and her breath caught again as she gazed on him. “Aelis, you’re going mad with not knowing about your brother. Chandrian is beside herself as well. I’m going to venture south into Lordaeron and see if I can find any news of Aristotle, and perhaps see if I can lend a hand while I’m there. Medics are in demand, priests even more so.”

 

Aelisaria ran to his side and flung her arms around his neck. “You had better come back to me, Londriel Elistan Goldleaf, or I’ll never forgive you!” There were tears running down her cheeks as she pulled back, and her lovely eyes were rimmed with red.

 

“Don’t cry, my love. I will be back before you know it. Southern Lordaeron is not so far away. Now, be brave and await my return. I have a very important question to ask you when I get back.”

 

“Ask your question of me now, or take me with you, Lond.” Aelisaria would do anything to keep him from going.

 

“No, beloved. I must go alone. The ride will be faster, and the faster I find news of your brother, the faster I can return home for your answer to my question. Chandrian needs you as well, to keep her motivated and to keep her heart strong. If you do this for me, I will never ask again for you to stay behind when I go anywhere. I promise.”

 

Aelisaria leaned her cheek against his chest, savoring his woodsy-musk scent. “Be careful, Londriel, please. To lose you and to have lost Aristotle as well would kill me.”

 

He took her face between his hands and kissed her tenderly, her salty tears on his lips. “I will come home to you. I promise.”

 

But he hadn’t returned. Neither had Aristotle. Nor did their loss kill her. Word had come later that many of the dead from the regiment that Ari had belonged to had been gathered by the Scourge. Aelisaria knew that Ari was lost to them. Then when the news of the death knight rebellion started to spread, hope rose in her breast. More death knights were abandoning the Lich King and swelling the ranks of the Knights of the Ebon Blade. Who better to fight the former prince of Lordaeron than those who were once his champions?

 

“Aeli? Why did Londriel leave?”

 

“Sorry. I was gathering wool. Londriel went south into Lordaeron in hopes of finding Aristotle, or at least his remains. He sacrificed his own safety to help soothe the worries of the two people he cared for most. He promised to come home, but some promises can’t be kept. Fate has a funny way of seeing to that.”

 

“Oh, Aeli … I never knew he went there to find Ari. I’m … I’m sorry. You’ve carried that burden alone for nearly the past seven years and I only carried the loss of Ari. You carried it twofold.”

 

Aelisaria laughed softly. “They say that which does not kill us makes us stronger. Strong yes, but empty inside. I’ve done things I never thought I’d do, and things which I think Londriel would find shameful. I make no apologies for being what I am. I fight against those who would seek to cause this world harm, or to profit from the suffering of others, and those Alliance scum who would seek to kill denizens of the horde for no reason. I’m not the woman I was of years past. I’m stronger, more resolute. I will bring down fire and shadow on whomever seeks to bar my way, oppress those weaker than they or align themselves with the powers of darkness and evil.”

 

Chandrian took Aelisaria’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “None of us are the same. I do need to get back to my charges and knock some sense into some of them. That Eldion Woodlark is as thick as a slab of stone, but young Maitas Dawnbringer is every inch the studious young paladin. Ari’s disappearance hit him hard, and he’s trying his very best to be like his mentor.”

 

The thought that her little brother had made such an indelible impact on an orphan like Maitas swelled her heart with pride. “When he is old enough, I shall gift Maitas with Ari’s acolyte armor. I think Ari would want that.”

 

“And I think Maitas would be overwhelmed by the generosity of your gesture. You and Ari were his family … you still are, in his eyes. The only family he has left. For a boy so young to have lost everything he knew and held dear is just the worst kind of tragedy.”

 

“Every race on Azeroth has lost so much. This world needs to heal.” Aelisaria smiled gently. “Can you stay for a light lunch?”

Chandrian shook her head. “I’d love to, but I have to get back. I’m taking the trainees down to the dead scar to have them fight the lesser Scourge there as a training exercise. I’ll stop by again soon, but send me word if you should hear anything, please?”

 

Aelisaria smiled. “Of course. Now off with you.”

 

Jubnar, Aelisaria’s imp, came to where she was standing and teleported up to her shoulder. While most warlocks treated their demon minions as slaves, she had chosen to befriend them instead. The results were remarkable, at least with her crew. Even Thooghun, her burly felguard, was most protective of her. “Mistress misses Master Ari and Master Lond,” Jubnar stated.

 

“Yes, Mistress does.” She gazed out towards the west, to where the shattered ruins of Silvermoon lay. “Ari, Londriel ... come home. If you’re out there … come home.”

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Winds of the North

 

Death. Death and decay lie around him as far as the eye could see. Much of it was his own handiwork against the legions of the Scourge, but far more were the handicrafts of the man who had once been Arthas Menethil, now the dreaded Lich King. The cold wind blew against his bare cheeks aboard the airship Orgrim’s Hammer, but he did not feel it with flesh long dead. His heart knew only vengeance. He longed for the day when the Lich King’s dismembered corpse burned in the fires of the Ebon Blade.

 

“Aristotle Silverbough?”

 

He had been that person once and he turned to acknowledge the orc guard who had come up beside him. “I am he,” he uttered in crisp tones. “What is it?”

 

“Koltira Deathweaver has requested your presence in the control room, sir.”

 

Koltira, once a blood elf paladin like himself, was one of the high-ranking Ebon Knights and Ari was honor bound to answer his call. Koltira was also a good friend, as far as death knight friends could go. He’d trust Koltira to save his skin, and Koltira knew Aristotle would save his. He had done so once already. He gave a quick nod to the guard, then spun on his heels and strode to where his commander stood waiting. “You asked for me, sir?”

 

Koltira, tall even for a highborne, nodded. “You’ve done well here, Aristotle. Your way with words and how you carry yourself, even in the midst of slaughter of the Scourge, have brought your reputation to the ears of Highlord Mograine himself and earned you much respect with Lord Fordring and the Argent Crusade. You deal well with all the races, even those opposed to your faction. You are ordered to return to Silvermoon City to update the ruling council and also to champion warriors to our cause – the end of the Scourge. It may do you well to return home.”

 

His commander’s words churned through Ari’s head. Home. He hadn’t been home since that fateful day when he had stormed out of his sister’s home in anger. She hadn’t wanted him to go fight the Scourge; said he was too young and inexperienced. But Ari had been a new paladin, fresh out of training and he felt he needed to prove himself. The battle in the Plaguelands had been bloody and fierce, every battle won gained two in defeat, it seemed. It wasn’t six months into the campaign, under Arthas Menethil’s resolute command, that disaster struck and many of his faithful paladins had been struck down by Kel’thuzad’s forces. Ari had died in that ill-fated battle. From the time he lay rotting in the soil until the time he was brought into the Lich King’s army as a Death Knight initiate, Ari had no memory. He could still hear the echoes of the Lich King’s soulless voice in his head. All life must perish. Finish it. You belong to the Scourge. You will be my weapon of vengeance. Your will is not your own. Hah to the last echo. He was the Lich King’s slave no longer.

 

“Surely there are others more suited, sir?”

 

Koltira shook his head. “It is to be you. Mograine wants you at Silvermoon. You are to proceed to Dalaran, then on to Silvermoon City as soon as you are ready. Word has been sent to the council of your arrival.”

 

Aristotle nodded, saluted and when dismissed, went below deck to collect his gryphon, Bleakheart. Bleakheart was his first risen creature, one of the Scarlet Crusade’s own gryphons. Though the beast had continued to rot until there was nothing left but bones, it stayed animated and affectionate towards him. His deathcharger was a little more fleshed, but that was because the steed was wrested from an Archerus rider that Ari had slain as part of his training as a death knight initiate. Riders of Archerus were far more trained in calling forth the undead than he had been. Only later did he realize the beast had once been his own mount, Fury. For the first time in many years – since watching the unending wave of undead that crashed over him and his regiment, stealing his life and humanity – Ari felt the flutterings of fear in his breast. Though no longer enslaved to the Scourge, his dealings with the living had been met with decidedly jaded consequences. He remembered the fear and hatred as he and his fellow Knights of the Ebon Blade had pledged themselves to the Warchief Thrall and to the horde. To many, he was still Scourge and still a hated adversary. He rarely wore his helm, except in battle, to show people he was not a faceless monster, but to far too many, he remained a monster. He had been spit on, had rotten foodstuffs thrown at him and nearly been hanged on more than one occasion. Even the forsaken had gathered children and scurried them far away from him. Glowing, luminescent blue eyes marked him as one of Arthas’ terrible creations.

Bleakheart nudged Aristotle’s arm and cocked his head, gazing expectantly at his master with the same luminous blue eyes that all higher undead raised by the Lich King possessed. The gryphon made a trilling purr in its throat and nudged Aristotle again. “Can’t fool you, can I?”

 

The beast had found the tidbit of dried fish in his master’s ration bag and persisted in his nudging until Aristotle pulled out the fish and tossed it in the air. Bleakheart caught it in his mouth and though the morsel fell through the skeletal throat, he seemed satisfied, the memory of how the fish had tasted enough to satisfy his desire.

 

“If I was only so lucky,” Aristotle mused to himself as he bent over to retrieve the dried fish. When he had at last checked every strap on Bleakheart’s saddle, he mounted and urged the bone gryphon off the airship and into the Valley of Lost Hope. He knew he couldn’t hope to make it to Dalaran before nightfall, when the inns all filled up, so he made his way towards the barracks at the Crusader’s Pinnacle. Many of the crusaders cheered him as he brought his aerial mount to land on the snowy ledge. They, at least, respected him as a colleague in the fight against the forces of darkness. Aristotle was surprised to see none other than Tirion Fordring out on the ledge, surveying the seething undead mess that was Scourgeholme. He waved Aristotle over as he dismounted.

 

“Evening, death knight. You’re one of Darion’s knights?”

 

Aristotle nodded. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Good, good. Light be praised that so many of your forces have abandoned Arthas and begun to swell the ranks of those who seek an end to the Lich King.”

 

“Sir … I … I wanted to thank you … for freeing us.”

 

Tirion turned and looked fully at Aristotle. “Every being deserves freedom if they walk the path of the Light. I learned that lesson a time ago. Though at times it may seem that the Light has abandoned you, it is in those times that the Light is guarding your back, so all you see before you is your own shadow. I can see it in you, boy. You were once a paladin … you were one of Arthas’ regiment. That’s why you were selected and raised. He knew your prowess. He knew you. That’s what made his betrayal so much more bitter … and made you drift close enough to the Light to break free of his tyranny. Hope, that is what the Light gives us.”

 

Aristotle nodded. Did he have hope? Flashes of memories had surfaced when he was doing the Lich King’s bidding, but were quickly repressed. Then they came more frequently and he began to remember who he was, what he had been, and what had happened to him. He’d thought there was no reason to resist until Darion Mograine commanded them to stand down. Their great commander had bowed in defeat to an even greater power – he wouldn’t risk those under his command and he acted selflessly when the Lich King had tried to rip Fordring apart, purifying the Ashbringer with his act of courage.

 

“What brings you to the pinnacle, Knight –”

 

“Silverbough, sir.”

 

“Knight Silverbough.”

 

“I seek refuge for the night before I travel to Dalaran in the morning. I’ve been ordered by Highlord Mograine to inform our regent Lor’themar Theron of the situation here in Icecrown, and to recruit adventurers to the cause.”

 

Tirion rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, ruffling the whiskers of his neatly trimmed beard. “You may perhaps catch two birds with one net, if you would be willing, Silverbough.”

 

“I will listen … for now.”

 

The older man laughed. “Well spoken. I just ask that you send your recruits to see us as well. The Argent Crusade needs adventurers to aid us as well as the Ebon Blade.”

 

Aristotle nodded. “I don’t see how it can hurt to let people know their options in fight the Lich King. I will pass your message on to who I meet.”

 

“That pleases me, Knight Silverbough. Stop by the quartermaster and have her give you a nice bowl of soup. I insist. Light be with you, lad.”

 

Aristotle nodded, saluted and went towards the barracks. Inside, two high-ranking officers were bickering. One was an orc, the other a human. Petty bickering, Aristotle noted. Alliance and Horde fighting each other only aided the Lich King. Couldn’t those fools see that? Sighing, he moved to an upper level of the building, trying to put some distance between himself and those two rivals. He found a bunk near the top of the spire and settled down to rest for the night. As he sit in the bunk, he peeled off his outer armor and set it aside. He checked the progress of the healing of a wound he’d received about ten days prior when a frostwyrm broodling had charged him from behind as he was fighting some Cult of the Damned followers and a few Vyrkul vargols – fallen Vyrkul warriors who had been turned into lesser Scourge for their defeat. It looked much better than it had three days past. Had he not been a death knight, the wound may have been fatal. As higher Scourge, it was an annoyance … and not much more of an annoyance than the grumblings from below.

As he lay in his bunk, Aristotle remembered back to the day he’d left without his sister’s blessings.

 

The early spring day was unusually warm as Aristotle packed up his charger, Fury, and began to mount. Aelisaria came rushing out the door, startling both rider and mount.

 

“Aristotle! What do you think you’re doing?”

 

“I’m going off to south Lordaeron with the Knights of the Silver Hand to fight against the undead. We received the call for volunteers yesterday.”

 

“You’re needed here, Ari. I know the patrols don’t pay as well, but I still need your help! Father can’t take care of the farm alone, and Mother is ill. You know that!”

 

Aristotle glared at his sister. “You just don’t think I’m man enough to go to war! That’s what this is about! I don’t care what you say, Aelisarqia. They need paladins to fight the Scourge and I’m going to help the humans. If we don’t stop the Scourge while we can, they’re going to be at our doorstep. I’m of age, I’m a paladin and I’m going, like it or not!”

 

“Aristotle!”

 

Angrily, he had swung up into the saddle and kicked Fury much harder than he normally would have done. The horse reared and started off down the road which would take him to Tranquillien, where the Quel’dorei forces would be gathering. His thoughts were heated as he barreled down the road. He’d show her! He’d kill so many Scourge they’d sing ballads about him and girls would swoon whenever he walked past.

 

Too late, he realized he’d not said good-bye to his girl, Chandrian, but resolved to post a letter to her from Tranquillien. But when he’d arrived in the small town just north of the Thalassian Pass, the activity was so great, and the urgency so dire, that he never got the chance to post Chandrian. At every town they stopped at with a mailbox, he attempted to post, but something or another had taken up his time and he never saw his task accomplished. After they arrived in Lordaeron, a flurry of training, skirmishes and battles began, as well as attempting to rescue those who had not been decimated by the plague or the Scourge had occupied his time, up until the fateful battle that had ended his life as a paladin … as a mortal. As he lay dying, the forces of the Scourge moving closer, he realized what an arrogant fool he’d been. He prayed to the Light to rectify his mistakes … somehow. When he had come to realize he – Aristotle – was no longer dead, he was rescuing Koltira from the Scarlet Crusade’s barracks in New Avalon. It was if seeing the bloodied and tortured death knight had shocked his memories into view. He gained more and more of himself as the days went by, and although he now felt remorse at the Crusaders he slay, he knew it was a necessary evil until he could bide time to escape. The zealots who flocked to the ranks of the Scarlet Crusade were no less dangerous than the zealots who called themselves the Cult of the Damned. When they lost their charge at Light’s Hope Chapel, though defeated, the words of Tirion Fordring gave him cause for hope. Hope was his … could he repair the bridges he’d burned?

 

“Now’s your chance to try,” he told himself. His apprehension was dissolving into the prospect of resolution and he was now glad that he’d been chosen for this task. There was much he had to explain and many apologies he had to make. Though he had little need of it, his eyes closed and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

 

Unbeknownst to him, a shadowy figure landed on the roof above him. The being made no attempts to go inside and secure a bunk, contenting himself to sit atop the roof in silent vigil. The relentless wind and cold meant little to him as he, like his quarry, had long since stopped needing the creature comforts of the living. His voice, like a whisper of dry leaves across the vales of his far distant homeland, was marked with a sense of satisfaction, “I’ve finally found you.”

 

 

 

Chapter 3

The Journey Truly Begins

 

 

Morning broke with the sounds of bickering below and the howling of the wind outside. Thick, heavy snow billowed and drifted around the Argent Crusade camp, making aerial travel extremely dangerous, if not impossible. With a sigh, he accepted a meal of warm porridge, knowing the day would be filled with slow travel by foot. He would be lucky to make through the breech and to the Argent Vanguard on the other side by the time darkness fell. He was taking a last bite of the thin oatmeal concoction when something sailed across the room and hit him resoundingly in the shoulder. He slowly turned around and glanced down at the object that had struck him. A dented plate greave lay there where its owner had flung it, though whether by intent or accident, Aristotle could not know. He turned around and stalked to where the two injured men lay, glaring down orc and human alike. “Get over yourselves, you petty, arrogant asses! You think your sworn hatred of each other does either of you any good? No! As you engage in your foolish rivalry, your glorious battles against one another, you only swell the ranks of the Lich King’s army! I was of Alliance and I was of Horde … now I am of the Ebon Blade … a death knight from the ranks of the Lich King’s own military might standing to fight against him. You, human, do your kingdom no good battling against the Horde. And you, orc, only enable our true enemy to grow stronger and stronger. You should harness your hatred and make it useful against him!” Aristotle ended his scolding with a finger pointed to Icecrown Citadel and the frozen throne which had once contained the consciousness of the depraved Ner’zhul. “You fools have lost nothing compared to the likes of us.”

 

Saying no more, he gathered his gear and stalked out of the barracks. With a sigh, he went outside and summoned Fury. The deathcharger was a grisly companion, but in death, as he had been in life, the beast was stalwart and unfaltering. Though the cold wind didn’t bother him, Aristotle wrapped his cloak tightly around him, trying to prevent the billowing snow from finding its way into his armor. He wasn’t having much luck. Nor was Fury having much luck plodding his way through the drifting snow. Sighing, Aristotle dismounted, unclipped a pair of snowshoes from Fury’s pack and sent the death charger back to the demon plane. What normally would have taken him a few hours by gryphon-back now led him dangerously close to being out in the elements of the storm when darkness fell on that blighted, unforgiving realm.

 

Wind whipped at him, blinding him to all sense of direction and time. Even for the undead, the journey was perilous. Frustrated and growing weary, he spotted an outcropping of rock and tried his best to shelter himself there hoping that the storm may subside and he could continue on to the Argent Vanguard. The wind blew so strongly it sucked at his breath, and as he hunkered down beneath his cloak, he began to wonder if starting out this day had been a fool’s errand.

 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, the frigid gusts turning his already azure skin a deeper blue, but suddenly, over the din of the storm, he heard something which startled him, giving him fear, but also the tinge of hope … a mammoth’s bugle.

Through the haze of the blinding snow, he could make out a ponderous shape in the distance, and again, the trumpeting call. It could be a wild mammoth – normally docile in their own right – but if it was a bull, he could find himself trampled to death or worse. He sat half-hidden in the little nook until the beast was nearly on him. In a heartbeat, he was face to face with a great cat with a rack of even greater horns peering at him.

 

“Uku chi ni tawa wa ichnee’awa?” it asked him.

 

Aristotle slipped easily into his native tongue without even realizing he was doing so. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand you.” What the cat being heard was, “Dor terro o talah shar’adore osa.”

 

“Orcish then, because my Thalassian is mighty rusty,” she said. “From what I understood, you wanted to buy my chicken.” She chuckled then, a deep, throaty sound that made Aristotle feel more at ease. “I am Lomani-Washte Aloaki’shne … but in orcish, the words would be Gentlebreeze Windstrider.”

 

Before his eyes, the cat shifted into a female tauren of white pelt. Her gentle blue eyes regarded him with some concern. “I see you as many things, sir. Your harmonies are discordant. Nature and demon energies fight within you, but it is plain to see that nature, the Earth Mother, has the upper hand. I see Sin’dorei and I see Scourge. By the fires that burn in your eyes, I’d say much more of the former than the latter. So I say to you, do you need assistance, friend?”

 

Aristotle looked at the large, outstretched hand, then clasped it firmly. He was astonished by this giant being’s kindness. “Forgive me for being so rude, Lady Windstrider. My name is Aristotle Silverbough, lately of Quel’thalas. Much has escaped me in my years under Scourge control.”

 

“I’m no high lady, just a simple druid healing and nurturing where I can. Where are you headed? I can give you a ride there. Maoka can carry two just as easily as one.”

 

“I’m going as far as the Argent Vanguard, but I wouldn’t put you out of your way.”

 

“That is my destination. I can’t fly myself in this weather. To rise above the storms would leave even me gasping for air thick enough to breathe. Maoka is a sweet girl who is at home in these elements as much as my Taunka cousins and travels the wastes easily. Please, climb aboard.”

 

With gratitude, he tried to climb aboard the mammoth, but she shied away as he approached. She knew of his kind and wanted no part of him. Gentlebreeze held up a hand, then whispered something to the mammoth in her Taurahe tongue. “You will have no more troubles with my friend. She understands now that you are not the enemy, the destroyer of life. She will let you climb up now.”

 

Sure enough, when he approached the mammoth again, she held out her trunk to give Aristotle some purchase to climb atop her massive, shaggy back. Once Aristotle was settled behind the massive saddle, Gentlebreeze shaped herself again into a cat and leapt deftly onto the back of the beast, returning to her tauren form once more. She reached into one of the great packs slung across the mammoth’s back and pulled out a huge fur blanket, handing it to him. “I don’t know if the cold bothers you much, but this will keep the wind from troubling you, and keep the wet of the snow from your armor. Metal doesn’t breathe like leather does,” she said with a courteous wink. And with a soft word to the mammoth, they were on their way. The mammoth’s great feet spread its weight out like snowshoes and they moved with slow, but steady intent.

 

“What brings you south, Aristotle Silverbough of Quel’thalas?”

 

“I am envoy to the ruling council of Silvermoon with the Knights of the Ebon Blade. I’m going home.”

 

Gentlebreeze gazed at him thoughtfully. “A Knight of the Ebon Blade, you say? You may then know my sister. She once had a coat of purest white, but now she is, as she likes to say, a ‘damned moldy cow with all this blasted green stuff embedded in my coat.’ Her spirit is much alike to yours, two energies battling from within, but the ebbs of nature overpowering the foreign energy of the Scourge.”

 

Aristotle nodded, then smiled as recognition set in. “You must mean Morningdove! To see her, you would never know she had been Scourge, so jovial and free. She is singly the most un-death knight death knight I’ve ever seen.”

 

Gentlebreeze chuckled loudly. “Yes, that is my big sister! Shaman’s training has kept her close to the Earthmother, and it seems that in her benevolent wisdom, the Earthmother kept close to Morningdove as well. But you must have seen her in battle as well, and that is when she becomes something else – something almost primal.”

 

He nodded, remembering seeing the tauren death knight descend upon the Vyrkul combatants in Jotunheim, their village just northwest of the Shadowvault, the Ebon Blade’s base of operations in Icecrown. When presented with the challenge, Morningdove had charged into a group of five or more Vyrkul warriors, spear maidens and vargols. She had sown death and decay, infecting them with her plagues and spreading them virulently from one to another until they dropped dead at her feet. Awesome was the battle-cry that erupted from her throat, and chilling as well. He’d been glad that day she was one of his allies instead of his enemy. “Primal is a good word for it. When striking down the Scourge and those who would call the Lich King their allies, she is single-minded in her purpose.”

 

“Which brings me another question, if I may?”

 

Aristotle nodded. “Of course.”

 

“Are you perhaps related to an Aelisaria Silverbough of Quel’thalas?”

 

“She is my sister. How is it that you know of her?”

 

The tauren gazed at him with a bit of surprise. “Why, your sister is considered kin to the tauren, as well as the other races of the Horde. She is one of Silvermoon’s diplomats and has often brokered friendship, trade pacts and settled disputes which require the use of an arbiter. She has had much time and much void within her to fill, I sense. She spoke of you in fleeting, but beloved, words.”

 

Gentlebreeze’s simple explanation gave him cause to ponder and reflect. His sister lived well and devoted her life to purpose … and to fill a void caused by his rash behavior and the calamity it brought. Of course she would have had no true word that he’d perished, but rumor and circumstance would have lead her to believe no other course. “It pleases me to hear she is doing well,” he said in all honesty. “Though I do not remember much of my time spent under the control of the Lich King, I am aware nearly seven years have passed. I hope my coming home doesn’t give her too great a shock, or my parents.”

 

“I understand. Dove was much the same when she came home the first time. When she rode into our village, her undead warhorse’s hooves flaming with unholy runefire, she was met with much anger and hatred. My people threw rocks and garbage at her, but she only moved forward with purpose, ignoring the threats and animosity, to our village elder, Toronok Stoutoak. She embedded her great runeblade in the ground before him, removed her greathelm and knelt before him and uttered only these words: ‘Please forgive me. My will was not my own.’ Though some of our people didn’t believe her, there were those of us who did. A trial was held and the Earthmother gave her blessings. Morningdove was forgiven for she was not at the root of terrible things that she had done. There are those who still find her someone to be shunned, but many more accept her. Your family will do the same, I’m sure.”

 

Aristotle took in the tauren’s tale with renewed hope in his breast. He was so deep in thought that he did not notice the other mammoth trailing behind them, just at the farthest distance possible. An inhuman voice grumbled against the dark fur of the beast, spitting insult against the cold, the weather and anything else around.

 

“Ferizx Cobblewrench … what have you gotten yourself into?” the goblin hissed.

 

“Be silent,” his passenger warned with a curt wave of his hand. “As much as you’re being paid for this, be happy I don’t just kill you, dump your carcass to the jormundar and take your mammoth as my own. It’d save me money and aggravation.”

 

“No need! No need!” said Ferizx quickly.

 

“Keep your eyes ahead and keep just out of sight of that mammoth. I don’t want them knowing they’re being followed.”

The black clad man turned back to thoughts once more. Eight years I’ve hunted you and I’ll be damned if I lose you now.

 

Aelisaria stood before the ruling council. Lor’themar Theron was the acting prince and leader of Silvermoon. Halduron Brightwing was leader of the rangers, the elite archery corps that were Silvermoon’s first line of defense. The third member of the council was the mage known only as Rommath to most. Aelisaria knew his true name, but it was not her place to reveal it, so she never had. She curtseyed before the three men, all perfect examples of the fine Sin’dorei lineage that was lucky enough to survive the attack and the subsequent explosion of the Sunwell.

 

“Ah, Warlock Silverbough. Thank you for answering the summons so expediently.”

 

It was Lor’themar who had first spoken. “As you commanded, Lord Theron. It is my duty and my honor to offer my services to you.”

 

Rommath chuckled lightly. “At ease, Lady Aelisaria. You have no need for such formalities.”

 

“Indeed,” agreed Halduron. “We are but sons and daughters of Quel’thalas.”

 

Aelisaria let loose the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “If I may, my Lords, why have you called me here?”

 

Again, it was Lor’themar who spoke. “Word has been sent to me from Highlord Darion Mograine that he is sending one of his best men here for an audience with us. As well you know, the Knights of the Ebon Blade are the death knights who broke free from Arthas Menethil’s grasp, and in being death knights, they are undead. Since you have had much interaction between yourself and the denizens of the Undercity, it would please us greatly if you would agree to lodge the knight when he or she arrives.”

 

Aelisaria had advanced her studies of demonic warlock magic under the tutelage of one of Sylvanas’ warlock trainers and had been named a diplomat of the Sin’dorei because of her close-knit ties with all races of the Horde. “It would be my honor, sir.”

 

Rommath nodded knowingly. “If there is any among us who can make even the most wretched being feel accepted and respected, it’s Lady Silverbough.” He was a few years her superior, but he’d watched her open her heart to all kinds of beings, making allies of everyone she met. When he’d had the occasion to talk to her, she’d even spoken of her indentured demons as her companions rather than servants, and had seen her handiwork in them. Perhaps the fates had chosen for her the perfect demons, or she had called them herself, but whatever the cause, the effect was stunning. Early on, she’d even tried to help the Wretched, those of their kind who had so been addicted to the arcane magic of the Sunwell that they had found withdrawal unbearable and had, instead, turned to whatever impure arcane energy they could find. The results had twisted the once beautiful Sin’dorei into terrifying, pitiable creatures who were monstrosities. Even their once beloved Kael’thas had begun his transformation into a Wretched before his death in the Magister’s Terrace, imbedding fel-corrupted arcane crystals into his chest, like some demented fel orc. He admired the young woman, for all her sacrifice, she remained a true champion.

 

“Your kind words are too much, Lord Rommeth.”

 

“Nonsense,” offered Halduron. “You are far too modest in my opinion. Had you not shown aptitude in your calling, perhaps I would have had your skills of diplomacy in my own arsenal. The Rangers could definitely use someone with your calming skills.”

 

Aelisaria blushed as red as her hair, a gift from her father, now long gone. “You flatter me, Lord Brightwing. I showed less aptitude for shooting a bow than I did conjuring ice or healing wounded knees. None the less, I shall endeavor to show our guests the utmost courtesy and hospitality that Silvermoon and the Sin’dorei have to offer.”

 

“I would expect nothing less from the daughter of dear friend and colleague.”

 

Aelisaria nodded. “Father was fond of you all, your wisdom and judgment. He would have been proud of you taking control of the monarchy when Kael’thas betrayed us all.”

 

The three men shook their heads. “No, we only did what was required of us. We took our roles as Kael had given them, but in his madness, his pact with Illidan the betrayer and those filthy naga … we had to do what we could do.”

 

“When is this emissary expected to arrive?”

 

Lor’themar shook his head. “This week perhaps. We’re unsure because he’s coming from Northrend and the weather is unpredictable this time of year, so we have heard. We will send word when he arrives though.”

 

Aelisaria felt honor at being asked to act as host for this emissary. “I will ready his chambers … or her chambers and wait for word of the arrival. Will there be anything else, my lords?”

 

“Nothing further, Lady Aelisaria. Thank you again for coming so quickly.”

 

Bowing her head in respect, Aelisaria left the chamber with thoughts running rampant through her head. She had much to do before the emissary arrived. She started tallying a mental checklist of the things she needed to do that she didn’t realize where she was going and she ran headlong into a solid form. Judging by the grunt as they both hit the ground, she knew it was a man.

 

“A copper for your thoughts?” said a voice. “You seem mighty deep in them.”

 

Aelisaria gazed up and blushed furiously. “Bother, Aldrian, my apologies! I’m just a bit scatter-brained today.”

 

“We all are on one day or another,” he said with a hearty chuckle. Aldrian, a trained priest and once-boon companion of her beloved Londriel, smiled at Aelisaria. He was not a typical example of the blood elf race, being a tad shorter, stockier and not inherently delicately featured. He was half-human, but nobody would be so rude as to say anything of it to him. When the Scourge first struck Lordaeron, he’d offered his aid. When Aristotle’s regiment had been lost, Aldrian had been the one to send word. When the Scourge had struck the very heart of Quel’thalas, he had risked his life and soul to save the wounded and prevent the dying from being reborn as undead. He’d been scarred then, his face slashed by the clawed hands of a ghoul and his left arm mangled so that there was nothing left to do but remove it. He wasn’t horribly disfigured, but since then he’d given himself more to the Light and his cleric’s duties, spending much time helping the wounded in the lands he traveled. The mages who had survived the destruction of the Sunwell had managed to craft for him an enchanted arm, but he only used it when he needed both limbs for a task. Mostly he’d let his empty sleeve dangle as an honor mark for those he could not save. Today he wore the prosthetic. They had remained friends through all the trails they’d been through and Aelisaria had been happy for his strength. “What has you in such a dither?” he asked, offering his hand to help Aelisaria to her feet.

 

“I am to host an emissary from the Knights of the Ebon Blade.”

 

“Death knights? Here?” he asked, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

 

Aelisaria nodded. “Some of them have found their way back to the Light.”

 

The priest nodded thoughtfully. “That is most fortuitous news. If his own army is beginning to abandon him, perhaps the Lich King’s power is waning. Unlikely, but a nice thought none the less.” He offered his arm to her, secretly grateful when she took it. For as long as he could remember, he’d held the warlock in his affections. Though she never gave him any purchase to believe she thought of him any more affectionately than as a friend, he held her in his heart as a lover. Had he thought it worthy of her, he would have groveled at her feet. But he knew this beauteous woman had loved his dearest friend, Londriel and even though they assumed his priestly brother lost to them and taken to the light, he would not impose on the memories they shared. If one day, Aelisaria confided in him that she had similar feelings, he would embrace her like no other. If it was not meant to be, then Aldrian would be happy in the knowledge that she found comfort in his companionship, however platonic it may be. “What have you heard so far about these new, unlikely allies?”

 

Aelisaria shook her head. “Truth be told, not much. I know that they were soldiers – Death Knights – for the Lich King and that at a battle for the Light’s Hope Chapel, when they surrendered in defeat, something severed the link between them and the monster, Arthas. Some say it was their own indelible wills … others say it was the Light and the holiness of the land, the very hallowed ground upon which they fought, and yet some say it was the spirits of the defenders slain that rose up and blocked the Lich King’s dreadful whispers of mayhem. Whatever the cause, the result was that these knights rose up against the Lich King, commandeered the floating fortress Acherus and have been fighting against the Scourge ever since. I don’t know when the emissary arrives, I don’t even know if the emissary will be male or female, troll, orc, blood elf, tauren or forsaken. I know only that I will be summoned when the knight arrives. I need to go air out my bro – I need to air out the unused rooms and shake the dust from the rugs.”

 

Aldrian stopped, turned to her and bowed in the elegance of a Thalassian courtier. “I am free of all obligations this fine afternoon, and gladly offer my humble services to you.”

 

Aelisaria giggled at his flamboyant bow. Aldrian had been a blessing to her, and though she knew he was more than friendly in his thoughts to her, he had never given a hint that he was in love with her. His devotion and kindness were unwavering. “Are you sure you wish to invoke the wrath of a thousand and one dust bunnies?”

 

“I shall slay their heinous masses with my Broom of the Light!”

 

His studious, sometimes stern visage was completely out of place with his raucous and boyish behavior, and more than once, that sense of humor had gotten him fierce and disapproving scowls from his masters. However, his aptitude at embellishing the Light’s holy powers for healing were undeniable and if his whimsy was not approved, it was tolerated. “Your assistance will prove most valuable then! I see you’ve worn your prosthesis.”

 

Aldrian looked down at the artificial limb, flexing its fingers without thought. “Yes. New initiates always should be given the best impression, so says Lady Belestra. Although, one-armed priests are not the common example of the class, are they?”

 

His smile reassured her that he was, in fact, teasing. “Perhaps she’s afraid the initiates will think it’s a prerequisite.”

 

To her joke, Aldrian threw back his head and laughed. “By the Light, I’m glad I was Lond’s friend if for no other reason than to have met you, Aeli. Most of our people, and others, look on me in pity, but never you. You never once would let me fall into self-pitying moods.”

 

“You gave of yourself so much, as did Lond. Pity doesn’t suit you.”

 

He sighed gently. “I only wish I could have done more. That’s my only regret.”

 

“You did the best anyone could expect under the dire circumstances in which we found ourselves. I’m grateful we were spared. I’m grateful you helped me through my grief and I’m glad I could be there when you needed me as well.”

 

Indeed, it was when he’d lost his arm that Aelisaria threw herself into nursing him back to health. He had been against her chosen livelihood – consorting with demons and their ilk – but as he got to know her, he knew that she was a bastion of light against the dark forces which she wielded. He had often been called to use the darkness of the shadow priesthood and knew the finite balance between light and darkness. She was not careless with her spells and used them only when negotiation and diplomacy failed. It was then that he fell in love with her so deeply, so hopelessly that he knew he would never love another as he did her. So long as she was happy, he too, would be contented. “Lead the way to your horde of horrid dust bunnies.”