Wolfheart

3 Jarod Shadowsong

“She is dying . . . my Shalasyr is dying!” the male night elf blurted to the archdruid. Jarod Shadowsong’s face was lined like no night elf’s that Malfurion had ever seen. While some of those lines had probably been the result of Jarod’s life away from his people, others were clearly more recent and likely had to do with the unmoving female so carefully held in his arms.

Jarod’s hair and beard had silvered, a stark change from how Malfurion recalled him. Jarod had been younger than Malfurion when they had first met—more than a thousand years, in fact—but the silvering and the lines made him look that much older than the archdruid. Malfurion wondered what the night elf before him had lived through since their last meeting.

“Jarod . . . ” It felt so strange to Malfurion to say the name, the two not having seen one another in nearly ten thousand years.

“It has been a long time since we last met,” the former commander and still-legendary hero from the War of the Ancients murmured, his eyes hollow. “Forgive me for coming to you like this. . . .”

Malfurion waved aside Jarod’s apology. Looking over Shalasyr, he saw how grave her condition was. “I could try to heal her, but I think it best if we bring her straight to Tyrande so that we have all options available to us! Quickly, now!”

Jarod looked hesitant to surrender any part of his hold on his companion, but at last he let the archdruid aid him. As the throng watched in absolute silence, the pair carried Shalasyr toward the temple.

The two Sentinels at the entrance moved respectfully aside as the archdruid neared. One gaped at the sight of Jarod; even with the cropped beard and long, loose mane—both utterly silvered now—there was something in his weathered face that remained absolutely recognizable to any who had seen him in the past.

“She will save you,” Malfurion heard the onetime captain murmur to the still female. “Tyrande will save you. . . . She will speak with Elune. . . .”

Malfurion hid his frown. Shalasyr felt extremely limp, and from the position by which he held her the archdruid could not tell if she breathed. She was beyond his power at this point, which only left Elune. Yet, how much would even the moon goddess do in such a drastic case?

Through the corridors of stone and living wood they rushed. Some of the priestesses they saw quickly offered assistance, but the archdruid understood that only his beloved would have the power to help Jarod’s mate at this point.

Her personal guard came to attention as Malfurion and his companions neared the sanctum she utilized in her role as high priestess. One of the guards wordlessly opened the way. Malfurion noted how every set of eyes focused first on Jarod before taking in Shalasyr. Everyone had long assumed that Jarod Shadowsong had perished at some point during the past millennia, else why would he not have returned to his people during some of their most desperate moments?

They were not even through the entrance before Tyrande met them. Jarod started to speak, but the high priestess shook her head. She directed them to take Shalasyr to a long, sloping couch next to her, then bade the attendants without to close the doors.

Her expression grave, the high priestess went down on one knee next to the other female. Tyrande began murmuring a prayer under her breath, and her hands continuously passed over Shalasyr’s body.

The light spread from the high priestess to Shalasyr. Jarod let out a hopeful gasp. The two males watched with anticipation as the soft silver light settled down over the stricken figure.

Without warning, the light faded.

Tyrande pulled back. A sound escaped her, one that Malfurion recognized from times in the past.

“Jarod,” Tyrande said in a low voice as she rose and turned. “Jarod . . . I am sorry. . . .”

“No!” He shoved past the archdruid. “I told her she could get help here! I told her you or Malfurion could save her! Why will you not save her?”

Tyrande halted his lunge toward Shalasyr with a simple touch of her hands against his shoulders. Eyes more hollow, tears beginning to stream, the former guard captain from lost Suramar stared into the high priestess’s sympathetic gaze.

“She had already slipped away. There was nothing that could be done.”

He looked aghast. “No . . . I brought her as soon as I could! I pushed for us to reach here—” His own gaze veered toward Shalasyr. “I did it, then! I pushed her too hard! She would be alive if I had not—”

Tyrande shook her head. “You know that is not true. Her fate was cast. She knows that you did all that anyone could have done. It was simply meant to be—”

“Shalasyr!” Jarod dropped down next to his mate. He clutched her face to his shoulder.

Malfurion quietly joined his own mate. They watched in solemn respect as Jarod rocked back and forth and whispered to his lost wife.

Finally, Jarod looked back to his hosts. Tears still slid down his cheeks and into his beard, but his voice sounded stronger now, more resigned to the truth. “We both feared that she would not make it, but we both agreed that it was best. Yet . . . I remember from her tone at times . . . now that I look back on it . . . she knew the truth. She did this more for me than for her own life. She wanted me to come back here to be with others, not be alone when she . . . she passed.”

“You called her ‘Shalasyr,’” Tyrande replied soothingly. “I thought I recognized her. She was a novice here for a time. We all assumed she had wandered away from the old city and that some accident had subsequently befallen her, even though searchers found no body. No one knew that she and you were together, though the timing of your mutual disappearances should have spoken volumes to us. . . . Yet we never made the connection. . . .”

“We kept our love secret . . . mainly out of concern on my part. I had already considered leaving everything . . . long before. I had grown disenchanted with the polarization of our society. Your druids—forgive me, Malfurion—your druids had been becoming more and more remote, spending most of their time away or in the Emerald Dream rather than sharing in the responsibilities of keeping our people safe and secure. . . .”

The archdruid said nothing. He had heard this from others, including Tyrande. The guilt for all those centuries of abandonment still remained with him.

Jarod exhaled. “And though I loved her with all my heart, I hoped that she would see the folly of being with me. I believed that if and when I chose to depart, I would save her from having to answer questions about my choice.”

“Jarod . . . ,” Malfurion began, but the other male continued as if hearing nothing.

“Instead, she proved determined to follow my path, wherever it might lead. She always tried to do what I wanted, even when I tried my best to see to her happiness. . . . ” Jarod kissed Shalasyr’s forehead. “Little fool . . . first she wastes her life following me into the wilderness . . . and then she sacrifices what strength she has to ensure I return here so that I will not be . . . alone. . . .”

Softly placing a hand on his shoulder, Tyrande said, “You are always welcome among us. She knew that. She also seems to have savored her life with you, or else she would not have stayed with you all these centuries.”

“We did have many moments of joy. She loved the wilderness, I admit. In some ways, more than I did, even.”

“I shall see to arrangements for her. She will receive proper rites.”

He looked up at her, then down at Shalasyr again. “She is dead.” Still holding his beloved, Jarod rose. He accepted no assistance as, with tender care, he adjusted Shalasyr’s position on the couch. To all appearances, she was sleeping. “It barely seems any time since the illness touched her.”

The high priestess and the archdruid looked at each other. With the loss of their immortality, the night elves as a race had begun to experience afflictions that they had only witnessed in others. There had been a few other deaths, and Shalasyr’s showed that there would be more and more as time went on, deaths that could not be avoided.

“I had heard rumors,” Jarod went on, straightening. “It is all true, then. We are mortal, are we not?” After Malfurion nodded, the former guard captain grunted. “Meaning no offense, but I think that a good thing, even with this happening.” His hands curled into fists as he looked at Shalasyr. “We were so damned complacent about our great station in the world and our endless, jaded lives, and that is why the Legion nearly slaughtered us all.”

A different darkness spread across his weathered face, one that Tyrande and her mate recalled from the far past. Malfurion quickly stepped over to Jarod and deftly guided him from Shalasyr. “You are exhausted. You need food and drink, also—”

“How can I sleep or eat?”

“Shalasyr would want you to take care of yourself,” Tyrande added from Jarod’s other side. “And I promise you that I will spare no effort for her.”

“I should stay—”

The archdruid shook his head. “No. Give yourself the time you need to be able to better honor her. I know where to find some healthy fare and perhaps how to bring some calm to your heart. Once you have recuperated, you can return and help oversee the final arrangements.”

To his relief, Jarod acquiesced. However, he looked back at his mate one last time. “I would like a moment alone with her, if I may. . . .”

“Of course.”

They watched him kneel beside Shalasyr once more. Jarod took her hands in his, leaned close, and whispered. Malfurion and Tyrande stepped out of the chamber. There they took the opportunity to briefly discuss another matter.

“Varian is coming to the summit,” Tyrande quietly informed her husband. “So Shandris’s contacts say. It worries me, though, that we still have no official confirmation from Stormwind.”

“We both know that if Shandris trusts her information, it is generally true. Good. One way or another, the news will filter to the other kingdoms. If Stormwind is attending, the remaining holdouts will rush to join.” He frowned. “As to whether he is coming to ensure the success of the summit or to condemn it . . . we will have to wait and see.”

“If we do not hear official word from Stormwind before he arrives, it may be the latter.”

“Unfortunately, too true.” Malfurion’s frown deepened. “But you could have told me all this when you initially contacted me.”

“There is more.” She described Elune’s vision and what it had revealed.

He brooded over the revelation for a breath or two, then asked, “You have faith you could not be mistaken?”

“The Mother Moon made it abundantly clear.”

“It makes sense in great part, and yet not in other ways.” He brooded for a moment. “Leave this matter to me. I will see that somehow things come together . . . if it is indeed Varian Wrynn on whom the Alliance’s future most depends.”

Tyrande accepted his decision to take control of that situation with a nod. Then, also eyeing Jarod, she continued, “We have another, more personal situation here . . . perhaps two. Jarod left behind some unfinished relationships of significance.”

“Those will have to come to their proper conclusions without our efforts. There is so much more at stake. I welcome Jarod back . . . but his life is his own to master, in the long run.”

They glanced back into the chamber. At that moment the newly returned Jarod rose again. Malfurion and Tyrande heard him exhale deeply as he gave his Shalasyr one last kiss.

“Let us hope Shandris and his sister see it that way,” the high priestess wryly returned under her breath as they moved to attend to their old friend. “Though I doubt they will.”

Most night elves of military status utilized the training areas in the Warrior’s Terrace to hone their skills. There they had the use of target ranges and dueling grounds. The night elves were respected by both their allies and enemies as strong and skilled fighters, especially General Shandris Feathermoon’s Sentinels.

But Maiev Shadowsong was no Sentinel and considered herself far more skilled and dedicated than any of them, including their commander. Indeed, in her opinion the Sentinels knew nothing about dedication . . . and sacrifice.

Her face was narrower than many night elves’, and weathered. Scars marked her face—scars from both battle and torture. She had been warrior, jailor, prisoner, executioner. Her eyes held a fatalistic gleam.

Her armor was more elaborate than that of a Sentinel, with a thick breastplate, heavy shoulderguards, and high metal boots, all of a dark silver-gray bordered by a golden bronze. Wicked gauntlets ending in claws covered both hands, and even the draping forest-green cloak was lined with sharp blades that were not merely for show. A face-obscuring helm lay to the side of where she trained, with it a jagged, round blade known as an umbra crescent.

There had been a title for what she had once been—what she still considered herself—though some no longer saw purpose in it. Those were the same people who did not sufficiently understand the dangers facing the night elf race, dangers against which the Sentinels were poorly equipped both physically and mentally. Fortunately, Maiev had found others who still saw as she did and so had begun recruiting and training the best of those to rebuild the elite force wiped out by Malfurion’s brother.

The elite force known as the Watchers.

For some ten millennia, Maiev had been a Watcher. Their leader—the warden, in fact. The Watchers, originally volunteers from the ranks of the Sisters of Elune and later also chosen from those outside the temple, had been charged with the daunting task of acting as jailors for the traitor Illidan Stormrage and, later, other monstrous criminals from not just the night elves but other races as well. As leader, Maiev had made Illidan her utmost priority . . . and utmost focus.

No, in Maiev’s view, the Watchers had been a far more dedicated force than even the Sentinels.

Maiev practiced her skills, not in the Warrior’s Terrace, but out in the forest beyond. There, she could unleash the energy ever pent-up inside her. This day she practiced with smaller blades—daggers—striking out at preselected targets while bounding through the area. One after another, the daggers sank deep into the centers of their targets, no matter at what angle Maiev threw them.

It was not by skill alone that her aim was so perfect, though. Incentive pushed her as much. In her mind, each target bore the visage of a male night elf whose eyes were covered by cloth, as if he were blind. Sometimes the details of the face changed, but it was ever recognizable in her thoughts. She knew that face better than her own, having stared at it so much. In fact, her current exercise was also a futile attempt to eradicate the memory.

But still she tried, slaying him again and again. That she had done so in truth did not matter. Whether as a cunning prisoner in the barrows or a demon seeking power over the world, Illidan Stormrage would forever be burned into Maiev’s very soul.

Drawing the last dagger, Maiev lunged under a branch. Alighting onto a lower one, she brought her hand back for throwing, then spun around to face the intruder she had felt coming up behind her. At the same time Maiev tossed the dagger up, catching it by the hilt as it came down.

The tip ended up touching the throat of another female. To her credit, the newcomer flinched only slightly. Maiev nodded her approval; Neva was her best student.

“Forgive this interruption,” Neva said calmly, eyes never going to the hand that held the dagger under her chin. “I would not have disobeyed your command if it were not important.”

Maiev removed the dagger. “I trust your judgment. You know me better than anyone.”

This straightforward comment elicited a brief but odd look from Neva.

Maiev’s brow arched. “Why are you here?”

“I was crossing through from the Temple Gardens when I saw the gathering. The archdruid Malfurion Stormrage was there.”

“Was he?” Maiev’s memories coursed back to much younger days, when she had been a senior priestess of Elune. There again she saw Illidan Stormrage, though as a younger, handsome, but haughty figure, next to his twin brother, the future archdruid.

“Yes . . . the archdruid had evidently arrived just a moment before I had. He stood only a few feet from where I did. He was staring at a male in a travel cloak. The male was carrying another, a female. She looked to be dying. . . .”

“Get to the point.”

The other female gave a slight nod. “The archdruid recognized the male. He whispered the name, which I was just barely able to hear.” Neva hesitated, then concluded, “It was your brother’s name.”

Maiev revealed no reaction. She simply stood there as still as a statue. After several seconds, she finally blinked; then, with deft ease, she spun and threw the blade at the final target. The strike was perfect.

“Jarod . . . ,” Maiev muttered.

“I am not mistaken, Warden.”

“I did not think you were. So my brother has come back.”

Neva bowed her head. “I had thought him long dead.”

“We were both mistaken, then.” Maiev retrieved her helmet. “He will be in or near the temple—probably in it.”

“You are going to visit him?”

“Not at the moment. I need to think—” Maiev suddenly paused. Her eyes swept over the trees to the region to her right. Neva followed her gaze but saw nothing.

“Never mind,” Maiev ordered her companion as the senior Watcher put the helmet on. “Let us go. I must see my dear long-lost sibling.”

“But you said you were not going to visit—”

Jarod’s sister looked at her companion with narrowed eyes. “I said I must see him.”

Neva nodded her understanding.

Without another word, Maiev bounded down through the branches toward Darnassus. The younger night elf leapt after. Despite millennia separating their ages, Neva found herself hard-pressed to keep up with her instructor.

He watched the night elves leap gracefully out of sight, moving with an inborn skill that few other races could match but which made him sniff in contempt. He had not meant to cross their path, but perhaps it had been for the best. While the news of which they had spoken did not outwardly seem of import, anything that in the least concerned Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage would be of interest to his own master. Information was always valuable, especially in these times.

With a slight growl, the figure leapt in the opposite direction. He moved through the foliage with as much skill and grace as the slimmer but taller night elves had. Perhaps more, even.

After all, they did not have long, long claws with which to better grasp a tree branch . . . or rend a foe, when necessary.