The Well of Eternity

8

The Ritual of the High Moon had been completed and now Tyrande had time for herself. Elune expected dedication from her priestesses, but she did not demand that they give to her every waking moment. The Mother Moon was a kind, loving mistress, which had been what first drew the young night elf to her temple. In joining, Tyrande found some peace to her apprehension, to her inner conflicts.

But one conflict would not leave her heart. Times had altered matters between her, Malfurion, and Illidan. They were no longer youthful companions. The simplicities of their childhoods had given way to the complexities of adult relationships.

Her feelings for both of them had changed and she knew that they, too, felt differently about her. The competition between the brothers had always been a friendly one, but of late it had intensified in a manner Tyrande did not appreciate. Now it seemed that they battled each other, as if vying for some prize.

Tyrande understood—even if they did not—that she was the prize.

While the novice priestess felt flattered, she did not want either of them hurt. Yet, Tyrande would be the one who would hurt at least one brother, for she knew in her heart that when it came time to choose her life mate, it would be either Illidan or Malfurion.

Dressed in the silver, hooded gown of a novice priestess, Tyrande hurried silently through the high, marble halls of the temple. Above her, a magical fresco illustrated the heavens. A casual visitor might have even thought that no roof stood here, so perfect was the illusion. But only the grand chamber, where the rituals took place, was truly open to the sky. There, Elune visited in the form of moonbeams, gloriously touching her faithful as a mother did her beloved children.

Past the looming, sculpted images of the goddess’s earthly incarnations—those who had served in the past as high priestess—Tyrande finally strode across the vast marble floor of the foyer. Here, in intricate mosaic work, the formation of the world by Elune and the other gods was depicted, the Mother Moon of course illustrated most dominantly. With few exceptions, the gods were vague forms with shadowed faces, no mere flesh creature worthy of envisioning their true images. Only the demigods, children and assistants to their superiors, had definite visages. One of those, of course, was Cenarius, said by many to be perhaps the child of the Moon and the Sun. Cenarius, of course, said nothing one way or another, but Tyrande liked to think that story the truth.

Outside, the cool night air soothed her some. Tyrande descended the white alabaster steps and joined the throngs. Many bowed their heads in deference to her position while others politely made a path for her. There were advantages to being even an initiate of Elune, but at the moment Tyrande wished that she could have simply been herself to the world.

Suramar was not so glorious as Zin-Azshari, but it had a presence all its own. Bright, flashy colors filled her gaze as she entered the main square, where merchants of all status plied their wares on the population. Dignitaries in rich, diamond-sequined robes of sun red and fiery orange, their noses upward and their eyes only on the path ahead, walked alongside low-caste elves in more plain garments of green, yellow, blue, or some mix of the colors. In the market, everyone made an appearance in order to show themselves off as best they could.

Even the buildings acted as displays for their inhabitants, every color of the rainbow represented in the view Tyrande had. Some businesses had been painted in as many as seven shades and most had dramatic images splashed across every side. Torchlight illuminated most, the dancing flames considered a lively accent.

The few non-night elves whom the novice priestess had met during her short life seemed to find her people garish, even daring to say that Tyrande’s race must be color-blind. While her own tastes tended to be more conservative, albeit not so much as Malfurion’s, Tyrande felt that night elves simply appreciated better the variety of patterns and shades that existed in the world.

Near the center of the square, she noted a crowd gathered. Most gestured and pointed, some making comments either of disgust or mockery. Curious, Tyrande went to see what could be of such interest.

At first, the onlookers did not even notice her presence, certainly a sign that whatever they watched must be a rare marvel. She politely touched the nearest figure, who upon recognition immediately stepped aside for her. By this method, she managed to wend her way deep into the throng.

A cage just slightly shorter than her stood in the midst of it all. Made of good strong iron bars, it evidently held a beast of some strength, for it rattled harshly and now and then an animalistic growl set the audience to renewed murmurs.

Those directly in front of her would not move, not even when they discovered who had tapped them on the shoulder. Frustrated and curious, the slim night elf shifted position, attempting to see between one pair.

What she beheld made her gasp.

“What is it?” Tyrande blurted.

“No one knows, sister,” replied what turned out to be a sentry standing duty. He wore the breast plate and robes of one of Suramar’s Watch. “The Moon Guard had to spellcast it at least three times to bring it down.”

Tyrande instinctively glanced around for one of the hooded, green-robed wizards, but saw none. Likely they had ensorcelled the cage, then left the secured creature in the hands of the Watch while they went to discuss what to do with it.

But what had they left?

It was no dwarf, although in some ways its build reminded her of one. Had it stood straight, it would have been about a foot shorter than a night elf, but at least twice as broad. Clearly the beast was a creature of brute strength, for never had she seen such musculature. It amazed Tyrande that even with spells cast upon the cage the prisoner had not simply bent the bars aside and escaped.

A high-caste onlooker suddenly prodded the stooped figure with his golden staff…which caused renewed fury within. The night elf barely pulled his stick out of reach of the thick, meaty paws. The creature’s squat, round-jawed face contorted as it snarled its anger. It likely would have managed to snag the staff if not for the thick chains around its wrists, ankles, and neck. The heavy chains were not only the reason it stayed stooped, but also why it could never deal with the bars, even supposing it had the strength and resolve.

From horror and disgust, Tyrande’s emotions shifted to pity. Both the temple and Cenarius had taught her respect for life, even that which seemed at first only monstrous. The green-hided creature wore primitive garments, which meant that it—or he, in most probability—had some semblance of intelligence. It was not right, then, that he be set up for show like some animal.

Two empty brown bowls indicated that the prisoner had at least been given some sustenance, but from his massive frame, the novice priestess suspected it was not nearly enough. She turned to the sentry. “He needs more food and water.”

“I’ve been given no orders for such, sister,” the sentry respectfully replied, his eyes ever on the crowd.

“That shouldn’t require orders.”

Tyrande was rewarded with a slight shrug. “The elders haven’t decided what to do with it yet. Maybe they don’t think it’ll need any more food or drink, sister.”

His suggestion repulsed her. Night elf justice could be very draconian. “If I bring some sustenance for him, will you attempt to stop me?”

Now the soldier looked uncomfortable. “You really shouldn’t, sister. That beast’s just as liable to tear your arm off and gnaw on that instead of whatever fare you bring. You would be wise to leave it alone.”

“I shall take my chances.”

“Sister—”

But before he could try to talk her out of it, Tyrande had already turned away. She headed directly for the nearest food merchant, seeking a jug of water and a bowl of soup. The creature in the cage looked fairly carnivorous, so she also decided upon a bit of fresh meat. The proprietor refused to charge her, a benefit of her calling, so she gave him the blessing she knew he wanted, then thanked him and returned to the square.

Apparently already bored, much of the crowd had dissipated by the time Tyrande reached the center. That, at least, made it easier for her to confront the prisoner. He glanced up as the novice priestess approached, at first clearly marking her as just one more jaded gawker. Only when he saw what Tyrande held did he take more interest.

He sat up as best he could considering to be his chains, deep-set eyes warily watching her under the thick, bushy brow. Tyrande judged him to be toward the latter half of his life, for his hair had grayed and his brutish visage bore the many marks and scars of a harsh existence.

Just beyond what she calculated to be his reach, the young night elf hesitated. Out of the corner of her eye, Tyrande noted the sentry taking cautious interest in her actions. She understood that he would use his spear to gut the creature if it made any attempt to harm her. Tyrande hoped it would not come to that. It would be the most terrible of ironies if her intent to aid a suffering being led to its death.

With grace and care, she knelt before the bars. “Do you understand me?”

He grunted, then finally nodded.

“I’ve brought you something.” She held out the bowl of soup first.

The wary eyes, so different from her own, fixed upon the bowl. She could read the calculation in them. Once they flickered ever so briefly in the direction of the nearest guard. The right hand closed, then opened again.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he stretched forth the hand. As it neared her own, Tyrande saw how huge and thick it really was, massive enough to envelop both of hers without difficulty. She pictured the strength inherent in it and almost pulled the offering back.

Then with a gentleness that surprised her, the prisoner took the bowl from her grasp, placing it securely in front of him and eyeing her expectantly.

His acceptance made her smile, but he did not respond in kind. Slightly more at ease, Tyrande handed him next the meat, then, lastly, the jug of water.

When he had all three safely tucked near, the green-skinned behemoth began to eat. He swallowed the contents of the bowl in one huge gulp, some of the brownish liquid spilling over his jaw. The piece of meat followed, thick, jagged, yellow teeth ripping away at the raw flesh without hesitation. Tyrande swallowed, but did not otherwise show her discomfort at the prisoner’s monstrous manners. Under such conditions, she might have acted little better than he.

A few onlookers watched this activity as they might have a minstrel act, but Tyrande ignored them. She waited patiently as he continued to devour his meal. Away went every bit of meat on the bone, which the creature then broke in two and sucked on the marrow with such gusto that the remainder of the crowd—their fine sensibilities disturbed by the animalistic sight—finally left.

As the last of them departed, he suddenly dropped the bone fragments and, with a startling deep chuckle, reached for the jug. Not once had his eyes strayed from the novice priestess for more than a second.

When the water was gone, he wiped his wide mouth with his arm and grunted, “Good.”

To hear an actual word startled Tyrande even though she had assumed earlier that if he understood, then he could also speak. It made her smile again and even risk leaning against the bars, an act that at first brought anxiety to the sentries.

“Sister!” cried one of the guards. “You shouldn’t be so near! He’ll tear—”

“He’ll do nothing,” she quickly assured them. Glancing at the creature, she added, “Will you?”

He shook his head and drew his hands close to his chest as a sign. The sentries backed away, but remained watchful.

Ignoring them once more, Tyrande asked, “Do you want anything else? More food?”

“No.”

She paused, then said, “My name is Tyrande. I am a priestess of Elune, the Mother Moon.”

The figure in the cage seemed disinclined to continue the conversation, but when he saw that she was determined to wait him out, he finally responded, “Brox…Broxigar. Sworn servant to the Warchief Thrall, ruler of the orcs.”

Tyrande tried to make sense of what he had said. That he was a warrior was obvious by his appearance. He served some leader, this Thrall. A name in some ways more curious than his own, for she understood its meaning and therefore understood the contrary nature of a ruler so titled.

And this Thrall was lord of the orcs, which Tyrande assumed must be what Brox was. The teachings of the temple were thorough, but never had she heard there or anywhere else of a race called the orcs. Certainly, if they were all like Brox, they would have been well remembered by the night elves.

She decided to delve deeper. “Where are you from, Brox? How did you get here?”

Immediately Tyrande realized that she had erred. The orc’s eyes narrowed and he clamped his mouth shut. How foolish of her not to think that the Moon Guard had already questioned him…and without the courtesy that she had shown so far. Now he must have thought that she had been sent to learn by kindness what they had failed to gain by force and magic.

Clearly desiring an end to their meeting, Brox picked up the bowl and held it toward her, his expression dark and un-trusting.

Without warning, a flash of energy coursed into the cage from behind the novice, striking the orc’s hand.

With a savage snarl, Brox seized his burnt fingers, holding them tight. He glared at Tyrande with such a murderous gaze that she could not help but rise and step back. The sentries immediately focused on the cage, their spears keeping Brox pinned to the back bars.

Strong hands seized her by the shoulders and a voice she knew well anxiously whispered, “Are you safe, Tyrande? That foul beast didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“He had no plans to do me any harm!” she blurted, turning to face her supposed rescuer. “Illidan! How could you?”

The handsome night elf frowned, his arresting golden eyes losing some of their light. “I was only fearful for you! That beast is capable of—”

Tyrande cut him off. “In there, he is capable of very little…and he is no beast!”

“No?” Illidan leaned down to inspect Brox. The orc bared his teeth but did nothing that might otherwise antagonize the night elf. Malfurion’s brother snorted in disdain. “Looks like no civilized creature to me…”

“He was merely trying to hand back the bowl. And if there had been any trouble, the guards were already standing by.”

Illidan frowned. “I’m sorry, Tyrande. Maybe I overreacted. You must admit, though, that few others, even among your calling, would have taken the terrible risk you did! You might not know this, but they say that when he woke up, he almost throttled one of the Moon Guard!”

The novice priestess glanced at the stone-faced sentry, who reluctantly nodded. He had forgotten to mention that little tidbit to her. Still, Tyrande doubted it would have made a difference. Brox had been mistreated and she had felt the need to come to his aid.

“I appreciate your concern, Illidan, but again I tell you that I wasn’t in any danger.” Her gaze narrowed as she took in the orc’s injury. The fingers were blackened and the pain in Brox’s eyes was obvious, yet the orc did not cry out nor did he ask for any healing.

Abandoning Illidan, Tyrande knelt again by the cage. Without hesitation, she reached through the bars.

Illidan reached for her. “Tyrande!”

“Stay back! All of you!” Meeting the orc’s baleful gaze, she whispered, “I know you didn’t mean me any harm. I can mend that for you. Please. Just let me.”

Brox growled, but in a manner that made her think he was not angry but simply weighing his options. Illidan still stood next to Tyrande, who realized that he would strike the orc again at the slightest hint of something gone awry.

“Illidan…I’m going to have to ask you to turn away for a moment.”

“What? Tyrande—”

“For me, Illidan.”

She could sense his pent-up fury. Nevertheless, he obeyed her request, spinning around and facing one of the buildings surrounding the square.

Tyrande eyed Brox again. His gaze had shifted to Illidan and for the briefest moment she read the satisfaction in them. Then the orc focused on her and gingerly offered up the maimed hand.

Taking it in her own, she studied the wound in shock. The flesh had been burned away in places on two fingers and a third was red and festering.

“What did you do to him?” she asked Illidan.

“Something I learned recently,” was all he would say.

It had certainly not been something he had learned in the forest of Cenarius. This was an example of high night elven sorcery, a spell he had cast with scant concentration. It revealed how skilled Malfurion’s brother could be when the subject excited him. He clearly enjoyed the manipulation of sorcery over that of the more slow-paced druidism.

Tyrande was not so certain she liked his choice.

“Mother Moon, hear my entreaties…” Ignoring the aghast expressions of the guards, she took the orc’s fingers and kissed each ever so gently. Tyrande then whispered to Elune, asking the goddess to grant her the ability to ease Brox’s burden, to render whole what Illidan had, in his rashness, ruined.

“Stretch your hand out as far as you can,” she ordered the prisoner.

Watching the sentries, Brox moved forward, straining to thrust his brutish hand beyond the bars. Tyrande expected some sort of magical resistance, but nothing happened. She supposed that since the orc had done nothing to escape, the cage’s spellwork had not reacted.

The novice priestess looked up into the sky, where the moon hovered just above. “Mother Moon…fill me with your purity, your grace, your love…grant me the power to heal this…”

As Tyrande repeated her plea, she heard a gasp from one of the guards. Illidan started to turn, but then evidently thought better than to possibly upset Tyrande further.

A stream of silver light…Elune’s light…encompassed the young priestess. Tyrande radiated as if she were the Moon herself. She felt the glory of the goddess become a part of her.

Brox almost pulled away, startled by the wondrous display. To his credit, though, he placed his trust in her, letting her draw his hand as best she could into the glow.

And as the moonlight touched his fingers, the burnt flesh healed, the gaps where bone showed through regrew, and the horrific injury that Illidan had caused utterly vanished.

It took but a few scant seconds to complete the task. The orc remained still, eyes as wide as a child’s.

“Thank you, Mother Moon,” Tyrande whispered, releasing Brox’s hand.

The sentries each fell to one knee, bowing their heads to the acolyte. The orc drew his hand close, staring at each finger and waggling them in astonishment. He touched the skin, first tenderly, then with immense satisfaction when no pain jarred him. A grunt of pleasure escaped the brutish figure.

Brox suddenly began contorting his body in the cage. Tyrande feared that he had suffered some other injury only now revealed, but then the orc finished moving.

“I honor you, shaman,” he uttered, now prostrating himself as best as his bonds allowed. “I am in your debt.”

So deep was Brox’s gratitude that Tyrande felt her cheeks darken in embarrassment. She rose and took a step back.

Illidan immediately turned and held her arm as if to steady her. “Are you all right?”

“I am…it…” How to explain what she felt when touched by Elune? “It is done,” she finished, unable to respond properly.

The guards finally rose, their respect for her magnified. The foremost one reverently approached her. “Sister, might I have your blessing?”

“Of course!” The blessings of Elune were given freely, for the teachings of Mother Moon said that the more who were touched by her, the more who would understand the love and unity she represented and spread that understanding to others.

With her open palm, Tyrande touched each sentry on the heart, then the forehead, indicating the symbolic unity of thought and spirit. Each thanked her profusely.

Illidan took her arm again. “You need some recuperation, Tyrande. Come! I know a place—”

From the cage came Brox’s gruff voice. “Shaman, may this lowly one, too, have your blessing?”

The guards started, but said nothing. If even a beast so politely requested a blessing by one of Elune’s chosen, how could they argue?

They could not, but Illidan could. “You’ve done enough for that creature. You’re practically wavering! Come—”

But she would not deny the orc. Pulling free from Illidan’s grasp, Tyrande knelt again before Brox. She reached in without hesitation, touching the coarse, hairy hide and hard, deep-browed head.

“May Elune watch over you and yours…” the novice priestess whispered.

“May your ax arm be strong,” he returned.

His peculiar response made her frown, but then she recalled what sort of life he must have lived. His wish for her was, in its own odd way, a wish for life and health.

“Thank you,” she responded, smiling.

As Tyrande rose, Illidan once more interjected himself into the situation. “Now can we—”

All at once she felt weary. It was a good weariness, though, as if Tyrande had worked long and hard for her mistress and accomplished much in her name. She recalled suddenly how long it had been since she had slept. More than a day. Certainly the wisdom of Mother Moon dictated that she return to the temple and go to her bed.

“Please forgive me, Illidan,” Tyrande murmured. “I find myself tired. I would like to return to my sisters. You understand, don’t you?”

His eyes narrowed momentarily, then calmed. “Yes, that would probably be best. Shall I escort you back?”

“There’s no need. I’d like to walk alone, anyway.”

Illidan said nothing, only bowing slightly in deference to her decision.

She gave Brox one last smile. The orc nodded. Tyrande departed, feeling oddly refreshed in her mind despite her physical exhaustion. When it was possible, she would speak with the high priestess about Brox. Surely the temple would be able to do something for the outcast.

Moonlight shone on the novice priestess as she walked. More and more Tyrande felt as if she had experienced something this night that would forever change her. Surely her interaction with the orc had been the design of Elune.

She could hardly wait to talk to the high priestess…

Illidan watched Tyrande walk away without so much as a second glance at him. He knew her mind well enough to understand that she still dwelled in the moment of her service for her goddess. That drowned out any other influence, including him.

“Tyrande…” He had hoped to speak with her of his feelings, but that chance had been ruined. Illidan had waited for hours, watching the temple surreptitiously for her appearance. Knowing that it would not look good for him if he joined her the moment she stepped out, he had waited in the background, intent on pretending to just happen by.

Then she had discovered the creature the Moon Guard had captured and all his well-thought plans went awry. Now, not only had he lost his opportunity, but he had embarrassed himself in front of her, been made to look the villain…and all because of athing like that!

Before he could stop himself, words tumbled silently out of his mouth and his right hand flexed tightly.

There was a shout from the direction of the cage. He quickly glanced toward it.

The cage flared brightly, but not with the silver light of the moon. Instead, a furious red aura surrounded the cell, as if trying to devour it…and its occupant.

The foul creature inside roared in obvious pain. The guards, meanwhile, moved about in clear confusion.

Illidan quickly muttered the counter words.

The aura faded away. The prisoner ceased his cries.

With no one watching him, the young night elf swiftly vanished from the scene. He had let his anger get the best of him and lashed out at the most obvious target. Illidan was grateful that the guards had not realized the truth, and that Tyrande had already left the square, missing his moment of rage.

He was also thankful for those of the Moon Guard who had cast the magical barriers surrounding the cage…for it was only those protective spells that had prevented the creature inside from being slain.