Illidan meets Zul'vii: part one

[moonshadows]

            In the darkness of his cell, Illidan waited. It had been a long time – oh, so very long – since his Warden had bothered to visit her prisoner and throw him a crust of bread, and the emptiness filled him, gnawed at him, sang to him of cold, lifeless winds. He would not die, the runes inscribed on his chest and arms would see to that. The magic of the Well he’d created fed him even here, underground, even as other arcane runes gave his skin the protection of hardened leather armor and bound his warglaives to him. Behind the ragged strip of cloth that had once been his tunic, his eyelids closed on heatless balls of fel-green flame. He would sleep, and what of it? What else was there to do but wait?

Wait, and think, and wish he still had any faith that the Goddess of his people cared at all about one miserable demon hunter who had sacrificed his eyes, trading the great destiny they promised for the power to ensure that he and his people survived.

The hunger grew, the void becoming a vast emptiness that threatened to swallow all that he was and would ever be. Footsteps approached his cell, and bound eyes turned towards them. The glow of life-energy shone like the moon in the night sky, promising heat that would fend off the coldness inside him. Weakly he reached for the light, so different from Maiev’s sullen red glow, and the light reached back. A hand held his, the warmth of skin against his skin a luxury he hadn’t felt in centuries. The other hand spread hesitantly across his chest, the glow of life a feeble flame against the void that consumed him.

Consume…

Somewhere in his chilled mind, Illidan understood that the void was a hole where his life-energy should be, and that here was life-energy that could fill it. The instinct to survive filled his mind, a fire that burned all other thoughts and he lunged, free hand grabbing for her head. He pulled it to one side and sank his teeth into her neck, greedily swallowing the hot blood that spurted into his mouth and wanting more as the heat of it found the void of his belly. Her body seemed eager to comply, filling his mouth again and again with the liquid that teemed with life-energy. Again and again he swallowed eagerly, feeling the chill void fill and warm, until he was satisfied, his belly taut with the lifeblood he’d drunk from…

From…

The realization of what he’d done hit him suddenly, hot, rich blood curdling in his belly as he rolled over, scrambling to all fours before his stomach rebelled, spewing still-warm blood all over the limp body he was suddenly, desperately grateful he couldn’t see.

“Get a tub! Get out of the way!”

“What have you done to him, troll?”

“What is this stuff?”

The voices came thinly to his ears, as though from a long way off. Yes…a long way and a long time. The eons dropped away, piece by piece, until he remembered Kael, and Vashj, and Akama, and the human who reeked of death. As more pieces fell away, he became aware that he was not supporting himself, he was being held by strong, scaled hands. A pity the rest wasn’t a part of the nightmare, he thought as his stomach wrenched yet again, seemingly trying to turn inside-out. He brought up another mouthful of something he didn’t want to think about, and tried to spit it out without tasting it.

“I just filled him with the same energy I always use…”

The new voice was female, confused and afraid, and he remembered the glow of life-energy filling the void inside him. The sweet taste of her hallucinatory blood followed hard on the heels of that memory, and his stomach roiled again, but as much as he retched, nothing came out.

“Rinse his mouth,” a cold, sinuous voice commanded, and a stream of cold water shot against his tongue. Reflexively, he tried to spit it out but the stream continued until he couldn’t taste whatever foulness he’d vomited up.

The hands lowered him gently down until he lay on his back, wings uncomfortably folded beneath him. The cold void that gnawed at him – he remembered it now, the arc of Frostmourne’s path before the blade bit into his belly. He could still feel it, beneath the false heat of foreign life-energy: the hole where his life had been sucked out by the sword, the wound that had nearly killed him. He wanted to sit up, to focus the magical constructs that served as his eyes and see who the confused voice belonged to, but the most he could manage was a miserable-sounding groan as he panted, trembling and in pain from his exertions and his wound.

“Healers,” snapped a male voice, and the sounds of rustling cloth and scurrying feet filled the air before a different, impersonal warmth started penetrating his chilled limbs.

“The Scourge taint is gone!” one surprised voice exclaimed.

Strength poured back into Illidan, mending the weak spots in his life-energy until the trembling eased and the pain faded to a dull ache. Somehow, he knew that the other energy – his stomach roiled unhappily at the memory but subsided – had acted as a bridge to allow Kael’s blood elves to perform their usual healing magic on him.

“That’s it,” one elf announced. “The wound is closed.”

“He’s healed, then?” Kael asked. Surprised agreement was the consensus, and the blood elf said, “You can go, troll.”

In that instant, Illidan knew the confused voice and the warm life-energy belonged to that troll and that if she left, the void would consume him. “No.”

“Lord Illidan!”

Gingerly, Illidan sat up. He forced his eyelids open and focused what passed for his eyes, ignoring both of his lieutenants while he searched the dimly-lit tent until he found what must be the troll. She was frozen in the act of reaching for the tent-flap, like a startled doe glimpsed in the moment before she flees. Pale amber eyes met his as though drawn to them.

“No,” he said again. “She stays.” Confusion and hope chased each other across her fine, green features. Pride and rage, his two trusty tools for fighting his way through life, leaped to protect him in his vulnerable state. His lips peeled back in a feral sneer and he snarled, “Her job is not yet done.” Guilt twitched briefly at the hurt that flashed in her eyes and was covered by sullen indignation.

“But Lord Illidan, my priests-”

One hand sporting wicked talons cut Kael’thas off. “They cannot heal the void left by Frostmourne.”

The elven prince bowed, gesturing for his priests to leave the tent. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“Will you require anything more from my naga, Lord Illidan?” Vashj half-purred.

“Food.”

All eyes turned to the troll, who flinched.

“The healing must have been quite taxing on her, my lord,” Vashj said soothingly.

“Of course.” Illidan began to lower himself into a more comfortable position.

“Not for me,” the troll blurted out again. “He…needs to eat,” she half-pleaded to the leader of the naga.

“Bring food for the troll,” Illidan commanded as though she hadn’t spoken.

The naga myrmidons slithered from the tent.

“You need to eat,” the troll insisted.

“If you cannot hold your tongue, whelp, I will rip it from your head!” One clawed hand fisted while Illidan struggled to rein his temper in. “You are both dismissed.” He glared at the girl, who glared back, until two naga returned bearing a tray of bread and sliced meat, and a jug of water. Once they had bowed their way back out, he nodded at it. “Eat.”

“I don’t need to. You do.”

“You dare tell me what to do?”

Her chin jutted out stubbornly, and two tiny tusks peeked out past her lips. “I’m the healer here, not you. You need to eat.”

“Ignorant whelp,” he spat. “Insignificant little insect. I have not needed to eat in centuries.”

“You haven’t been stabbed with a soul-sucking sword in centuries, either!” she retorted with equal heat.

“I don’t trust you. Where did you come from? What are you?” Illidan’s eyes flared with his anger.

“I’m the one who kept you from dying, and I’ve been with your people since before you came to this frozen wasteland!”

“You didn’t answer my question, insolent worm!” The Lord of Outland was certain that by this point, even whatever guards Kael or Vashj had left behind had fled the area around the tent. Centuries of empty frustration and futile raging at Maiev had not helped his temper, and it had only taken one incident of ripping off a head with his bare hands for his forces to learn that their master’s temper was not to be trifled with. The echoes of his furious bellow left rippling silence in their wake.

The troll’s eyes dropped and she fingered her hair in a nervous gesture. The color was an unflattering brown, Illidan noticed.

“My mother was a spirit healer who took mortal form,” she said quietly.

The half-demon recoiled, noticing that as he did, the half-troll flinched. That certainly explained how she could pour so much life-energy into him and still be able to talk back to him. Tales of spirit healers who entered the mortal realm were more rare than incidents of twins among the Kal’dorei, but the stories all agreed on one thing: In order to remain in the mortal realm, the celestial being had to bond to a mortal. Supposedly, the ones so bonded were sickeningly happy together for the rest of their lives, but at the cost of their independence. If something happened to one of the pair, the stories said, the other would slip into madness and death. Illidan had enough to worry at his sanity between Malfurion’s unreasoning hatred of him, and the scars left by ten thousand years of imprisonment and neglect. He did not want this…this…whelp worming her way past his defenses, stealing the devotion that by rights belonged to Tyrande, but the stories were vague on how the bonding came about, and the void in his belly would kill him if he sent her away.

Behind the cloth that bound them, Illidan’s eyes narrowed. “You said was.”

“She and my father died a few years back, trying to kill a pit lord.”

“Magtheridon.”

“I survived by helping some of the Broken, until you and your forces came through. I followed along because, well, I had nowhere else to go. After my mother died, I discovered that I had a natural talent for healing. I helped out some of Kael’thas’s priests, healing them when their energies ran dry.”

She has no idea what she is, Illidan realized. The balance of power was still in his clawed hands, despite the fact that he would be utterly dependent on her until the horrible void within him was filled. His lips peeled back in a half-leer. “I’m going to sleep,” he said lazily. “It’s been a…long…day.”

“But you need to eat!” she protested.

“I don’t let whelps in diapers tell me what to do.” Illidan carefully lowered himself to a more comfortable reclining position.

The troll flushed, her cheeks going from a light, leafy green to something more like jade. “I’m nearly twenty,” she raged. “I’m not a whelp in diapers!”

“When I was your age, I was battling demons.” Illidan yawned widely and gave her a cruel smirk. “I’m over ten thousand years old, ignorant brat. Now be silent and let me sleep.”

“You. Need. To. Eat.” Each word was hissed out between clenched teeth, her fists trembling with frustrated rage.

One black eyebrow arched. “No.”

“You’ll eat, or I’ll make you eat!”

Illidan laughed. When a fistful of meat was crammed into his mouth, the humor died. He clawed at her wrists, but she didn’t scream and pull them back and with his mouth full, he couldn’t bite her fingers. Fury set his mind on fire and he roared, the sound smothered in sliced meat and met by the troll’s angry screech. Somehow, he forced his body to obey his commands and wound up pinning her to the floor of the tent, his hands around her neck, spitting bits of meat out and snarling incoherently. Undaunted by a lack of easy breathing, the troll glared at him and picked up the bits, shoving them back at his mouth while he snapped at her fingers. When she started gasping, he grinned wider – right up until her knee found a very sensitive place to impact. When he could think again, he found himself on his back while the troll straddled his chest, stuffing bits of meat into his mouth while he swallowed them whole in attempts to clear his airways again. As soon as his mind cleared, he snarled and hurled her blindly away. A crack hinted that her spine had found the tent’s central support pole. While she shook her head, he climbed to his hooves and hefted her into the air by the throat – with effort. Half-troll she may have been, but she was easily six feet and not light. He pinned her to the support pole before his trembling arm betrayed him.

“Do not do that again,” he said with icy calm.

“Or what?” she croaked out.

“Or we will find out if your blood bestows the same healing properties on me if I drink it.” His jaws clenched to hide a near-gag at the thought of enacting his nightmare, but the bluff worked.

The troll paled. “Okay,” she gasped.

Illidan let go; the troll collapsed on the floor of the tent, coughing. A glance at the tray the naga had brought showed only bread. “Eat that,” he snarled, pointing. “Don’t make me return your gentle bedside manner.”

The troll choked down a few bites of bread while Illidan watched. Convinced that he’d won the confrontation, he lay back down on the bedroll and stifled a groan for his abused muscles.

“I trust this incident will not be repeated,” he threatened idly.

“Not if you eat,” the troll croaked thickly.

Despite himself, Illidan laughed. “You first.”

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Illidan Stormrage lay in his cell, as he had done for the last…hours? Days? Months? Time had no meaning in his personal hell. All that mattered was the cold ache of loneliness that gnawed at him like a void in the pit of his stomach. When the footsteps of his Warden approached, he couldn’t even muster the energy to look at her. Then the first warm hints of vibrant energy caressed his skin, waking a hunger such as he hadn’t felt since he first looked at Tyrande and saw her as a woman rather than a girl. He reached out for-

With a snarl that somehow came out a moan, Illidan shook off the imagery of the dream and looked around for the troll. Still fighting the confused urgings of his body, he reached for her, but she was already awake. Her green hands took his gnarled and taloned one and sweet life-energy poured into him, easing the gnawing void inside him. He lay back, fighting the rush of gratitude that accompanied the flood of energy filling him until he felt as though he’d just eaten the best meal ever prepared and sated every lustful thought he’d ever had. He sighed with contentment, eyelids sliding down behind the blindfold that covered them, and did not protest when a morsel of food was brushed against his lips. Lazily, he parted them and accepted whatever it was, chewing idly and swallowing, lost in the pleasant haze. After several more mouthfuls silently fed to him, someone with a gratingly familiar voice said, “So this is how we gotta do it, hmm?”

Suddenly, the pleasure evaporated and he became aware of what was happening. The troll had filled the void – temporarily – and was taking advantage of his vulnerable state to force him to eat. He stopped chewing and spit the mouthful into her face. “Go back to sleep before I tear your throat out, troll,” he growled, rolling over.

Presented with his winged back, the half-troll healer crossed her arms and scowled. “I got a name, you know,” she shot back.

“So?”

“Zul’vii. My name is Zul’vii. Not ‘troll’.”

“Your point, whelp?”

“Augh! Don’t call me that! I’m not a whelp!”

“Ten thousand, whelp.” Illidan grinned, knowing she couldn’t see it.

“I don’t care, you overgrown bat! My name is Zul’vii!”

“I heard you the first time, troll.”

“Then use it!”

Illidan yawned, feeling the irresistible tug of sleep resume its pull now that his needs had been seen to. “No.”

“Then maybe I won’t heal you next time, how about that?”

A soft snore was her only answer. Disgusted, she curled up under an abandoned blanket and glared at him until she, too, fell asleep.

=================================================================

“What are your orders, Lord Illidan?” Kael’thas asked carefully.

The half-demon blinked. He hadn’t expected to lose the battle with the undead and remain alive; victory or death were the only outcomes he’d allowed himself to contemplate. Lok’tar ogar, as the memories from Gul’dan informed him the orcs said. Returning to Outland to lick his metaphoric wounds and prepare for Kil’jarden’s wrath would be best, but his lieutenants and their forces lacked the magical ability to create a portal to the ruined planet, and the hungry void in his gut meant he dare not expend that much magic. They had to find a place to stay until he was fully healed, one that could support an army and was not inhabited. One where the Burning Legion would not think to look for him.

But Malfurion had banished him.

Tyrande, though. Surely Tyrande would intercede on his behalf, if approached correctly. His forces could make themselves useful, perhaps by combing the demons out of Felwood.

“Young Kael, you have met High Priestess Tyrande, have you not?”

“I have,” the prince replied warily.

“Excellent. We will march for the sea – surely someone has to live in this land, and they will have boats – and sail for Kalimdor. Vashj, your naga can guide the ships, can they not?”

“They can, my lord,” she assured him.

“We will sail for Kalimdor, and you will precede us. You will seek out Tyrande and ask her for sanctuary on our behalf. I will give you a letter. You will leave as soon as you are able, taking whichever of your people you wish. Vashj will provide you with naga to guide your ship, when you find one, to night elf lands.”

The blood elf looked relieved. “As you command, Lord Illidan.”

The chill void gnawed at him from the pit of his belly. “You are both dismissed. Send in the troll as you leave.”

Zul’vii hurried in as soon as the other two had left, both hands deliciously on his chest. Illidan lay quietly, eyes closed, reveling in the life-energy that filled him. When a soft bit of bread teased his lips, however, his hand shot out to grab her wrist and he cracked one eye open enough to glare at her. She batted her pale amber eyes at him, somehow looking both innocent and smug as she popped a bite of bread into her own mouth and chewed.

You first.

“Arrogant whelp,” he growled, but there was no heat behind the words. Pride struggled, but he had no real desire to push his body with another wrestling match – and she seemed to have accepted his authority.

He opened his mouth and waited.

Zul’vii blinked, not entirely trusting his display of cooperation, then hesitantly pressed the bread past his lips. He half-lunged, snapping at her fingers, then chuckled darkly as he chewed and swallowed.

“Why do you have to fight what’s good for you, you stupid moldy old bat-winged ram?”

“Because I don’t need to eat, you impetuous, ignorant grub.”

“Yeah, you mind explaining that?” Zul’vii asked sarcastically. “Because everything eats.”

“I feed on energy, you twit.” One clawed finger traced a whorl of arcane-imprinted flesh on his chest. “I did this to myself long ago so that I could fuel my body directly on the magic of the Well.” Fangs snapped shut on the memory of centuries underground, abandoned. By the last thousand years, he hadn’t even bothered eating the stale scraps Maiev threw him sporadically. “Until you embarked on your foolish crusade to waste food, I hadn’t eaten in the greater part of an eon.”

The troll looked horrified. “That means you…with my energy…”

…belly taut with the lifeblood he’d…

Lips peeled back off of fangs in a grimace he turned into a cruel grin. “All magical healing is just the body assimilating the energy fed into it. I merely went the extra step of fueling my body entirely on that energy.”

Pale amber eyes narrowed. “You’re just making it harder on yourself by not eating.”

“How are you so sure my body even remembers what to do with food?” he countered. “My physiology has been significantly altered since I last ate more than a few bites of anything. Are you confident that my half-demon stomach can digest what you want me to put in it?”

The troll looked uncertain, then rallied. “Are you confident that you’re not delaying your recovery by not eating?”

He wasn’t. Not that he would let her see that, of course. “I have more important things to do than argue my hypothetical nutritional needs with an arrogant troll whelp. Assemble whatever meal you wish me to consume by nightfall, and make sure you are well-rested.” Illidan grinned nastily. “Should the meal disagree with me, you will be responsible for dealing with the…outcome.” He pointed to the tent flap as she opened her mouth. “Now leave.”

Back stiff, Zul’vii stalked out.

Illidan stretched carefully, checking himself thoroughly and taking stock of whatever aches and complaints lingered. It had only been two days since he faced the Lich King’s champion in single combat, after all. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would test himself – if the void didn’t devour the troll’s energy before his body could assimilate it. Now, however…

Reluctantly, he rummaged in a trunk until he had parchment, ink, and quill, then knelt at the low table. The blank parchment stared at him and he stared back, stomach fluttering in a way that had nothing to do with the void or the troll’s energy filling it. His mouth went dry. Finally, he dipped the quill into the ink and began to write.

Tyrande,

He stopped, trembling. This was every bit as bad as facing her in person, but at least here he could pick his words and burn the ones that came out wrong.

If you are reading this, then young Kael’thas has found you. He has allied with me, along with many of his people, as has Lady Vashj and her naga. We attempted to end the threat of the undead by assaulting their base in Icecrown, but

Several deep breaths were required to calm the trembling in his hand.

we were unsuccessful. An unlucky stroke lost the battle, and only by a miracle did I live to regret it.

Illidan swallowed, imagining Tyrande’s sweet face, brows wrinkling her smooth skin as they drew together, frowning at the parchment she held in her strong, elegant hands.

I am wounded, Tyrande, and I cannot open a portal so that my forces can return to the ruined world of Draenor. I ask only that they be allowed to establish a base in the demon-tainted Felwood until I am recovered, and then we shall leave peaceably. If my presence there should violate the banishment Malfurion saw fit to impose upon me, I will find somewhere else to go until I am able to open a portal of that magnitude again.

I remain,

Illidan Stormrage

He took the parchment carefully and blew on it. Once the ink was dry, he rolled it up and murmured a quiet incantation. The letter, now magically sealed, would open only for her. Writing that had been more draining than he had expected. He set it aside for Kael and stretched out on the bedroll. If he was right about his stomach, tonight would be less than pleasant. If he was wrong, well, he was sure things would still be unpleasant.

============================================================

“I hope you’re hungry, you musty overgrown bat,” Zul’vii said with vicious satisfaction. “Got a nice, healthy meal for you.”

“I hope you remembered the tub,” he sneered, covering apprehension with false bravado.

“Not gonna need it,” the troll replied confidently. “You just lay back and let Zul’vii do all the work.”

He glared at her, but lay on the bedroll and stifled a sigh as her warm energy filled him, relaxing almost against his will. When the first morsel brushed his lips he ate it without complaint, hardly tasting it. Grimly he allowed her to feed him cheese and bread and – where had she gotten fruit? – trying not to think about his still-sore abdominal muscles. When no more followed the last bite, he rolled over and pretended to sleep. She sat there for a few minutes, whether glaring or smirking, and then retreated to the abandoned blanket she’d claimed. At least she wasn’t saying anything; either she was not as confident as she’d sounded, or she didn’t want to risk another confrontation. Either one was fine with him. Surreptitiously, he ran one hand over his midsection. How much had she fed him? Was his stomach bulging, or was it his imagination? He didn’t feel bad…yet…but that didn’t mean anything. Anxious thoughts flitted in and out as he dozed, waking out of phantom nausea to disorienting contentment, until he dropped into blessed darkness.

Illidan Stormrage lay in his cell, both hands on his writhing stomach. The cold body of his Warden lay just out of reach, her blood a sacrifice to the void in his belly. He’d drunk every hot drop, trying to fill the gnawing coldness with its heat, but it rotted inside him and he knew that it was only a matter of time before his body demanded its violent expulsion. He knew this was a mistake, that she had been wrong, that he shouldn’t have eaten-

He groaned aloud, feeling the first tentative convulsions in his gut. “Troll,” he gasped, swallowing. There was no reaction. He rolled carefully over, searching the darkness for her blindingly white energy. “Whelp,” he growled. She didn’t move. He swallowed again, teeth clenched. Where was that tub? There, to the side of her. He swallowed again and heaved himself to hands and knees. “Zul’vii!”

His stomach took the contractions caused by shouting her name as its cue; half-digested fruit and mangled bits of cheese splattered troll and blanket as Illidan threw himself at the tub, the metal resonating with the force of his semiliquid regurgitation. Taloned hands gripped the edge hard enough to dent the metal as his stomach cheerfully turned itself inside-out. When nothing more came up he released the abused metal and let himself fall over, trembling and panting, his entire torso feeling like it was on fire. He barely noticed the hands gently wiping his face with a blanket, sopping up sweat and vomit. Slowly, the ringing in his ears resolved into the troll blathering guilty apologies. He didn’t care. At least, not until that sweet warmth flowed into him and eased every aching muscle, filled the hungry void and soothed his angry belly. Sleep took him.

===============================================================

“Lord Illidan! What-?” Kael’s startled concern shattered the oblivion that had cradled the Lord of Outland.

Crankily, Illidan opened one eye. “The letter is on the table. I trust there is nothing further you need from me at this time.”

“My lord, what has that filthy troll done? I will have her-”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Illidan snapped. “You will gather what forces you feel adequate and seek out Tyrande. I will deal with the whelp myself.”

The prince jerked as if struck. “As you command, Lord Illidan.”

The half-demon’s eye slipped shut again. Rustling suggested that Kael’thas had found the letter and left, but Illidan didn’t care. He was warm and content, floating in a pale sea of light.

When that comforting sea retreated once again, Illidan found his head cushioned on the troll’s thighs, her hands gently stroking his hair. His belly was deliciously full of pure white energy and something in the tent smelled rank – probably the remains of his dinner.

“You were right,” she said miserably as he blinked. “I’m sorry. I really am an arrogant whelp. I tried to help and only made things worse. I-”

“Shut up, whelp,” he growled. He was surprised to discover that he was disappointed when she obeyed. “There will be no more food wasted in your misguided attempts to feed me. We do not have the resources to waste any humoring your preposterous notions of nutrition. If this slows my recovery, so be it. You will continue providing me with healing energy as you have been, and consuming whatever rations you require to keep up with the demands of my wound. There will be no further argument on this subject, is that understood?”

The hands on his temples froze. “Perfectly,” she said, voice sounding strained. “Are- how do you feel?”

“Less like murdering you,” he said shortly. The realization that he was quite comfortable where he was and had no desire to move turned his blood to ice and he shoved himself roughly to his hooves, glaring at the startled half-troll. “Clean that up,” he snapped, waving at the tub and fouled blanket. “If you have any possessions, bring them here. Find a bedroll if you do not possess one. I will not tolerate having to wait for you to be fetched should my wound need tending in the middle of the night.”

Zul’vii scowled. “Stop treating me like I’m your slave.”

“If you were my slave,” Illidan said icily, “I would have your tongue removed. You are a servant, useful to me for the time being. Nothing more.”

The troll slammed both hands against the floor of the tent and shot to her feet, face averted. She stalked out without a word, and Illidan wondered with a pang of guilt if he’d hurt her. With a scowl of his own, he flexed his wings. He had greater responsibilities, he could not afford to waste time catering to the bruised feelings of a half-breed celestial – particularly not if he wanted to avoid being the one she bonded to. The camp had to move; he would not tempt fate further by remaining on the Lich King’s doorstep. The blood elves could not tolerate the cold much longer in any case, even if the naga were comfortable with it. Clawed fingers scratched idly at his scalp. Time to talk to Vashj – he needed to be updated on the status of the move, and he needed a bath, and the thought of one of the naga’s geothermal hot pools was very enticing. Even with the troll’s energy temporarily bolstering him, he wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week.

Resolutely, Illidan left the tent.

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“Young Kael was quite put out that you didn’t let him deal with the troll,” Vashj said in her throaty voice.

“I noticed. Does he have something against her personally?”

“His people were at war with hers for centuries.”

Illidan grunted. The naga siren working the tense muscles of his back with her four hands paused, then resumed. “He is not to touch her; no one is. She is far too valuable.”

“Ah, yes. Her odd healing ability. I don’t recall her kind having magic of that sort.”

“That’s because you’re not remembering the old stories.” The half-demon grinned slightly. “Or did the Highborne not bother with legends?”

“Which legends, my lord?” Vashj asked, suddenly apprehensive.

“Her mother was a spirit healer.”

The siren gasped, then ducked her head and renewed her massaging. For several minutes, there was silence. Illidan trusted that his reputation would keep the siren silent, but even if she gossiped, it would only lessen the chance of Zul’vii being harmed. Vashj searched her memory for the old tales, trying to guess which parts were truth and which were fancy.

“Do you intend to bond with her, then?”

Illidan snorted. “Hardly. But Frostmourne did far more damage to my spirit than it did to my body; without her healing energy, I will still die.”

Vashj looked startled and a little afraid. “I had no idea.”

“That is why we are slinking away and hiding in the tainted Felwood rather than returning to the Black Temple,” he said bitterly. “I doubt I can perform any magic more strenuous than summoning my weapons. We are throwing ourselves upon Tyrande’s mercy because I have failed you all.”

“She…was not very fond of my kind, even before the change,” Vashj said hesitantly. “Have the years softened her? What kind of welcome can we expect?”

The Lord of Outland smiled gently, thoughts of the High Priestess dancing before his bound eyes. “No, she is still as hard and sharp as ever. However…some of your naga were instrumental in my rescuing her from the undead, and I doubt she will forget such a debt. How warmly she welcomes us remains to be seen, but I do not believe she will simply turn us away.”

“The presence of your troll healer should make her hesitate, if nothing else,” the ancient naga suggested.

Illidan scowled. “She’s not my troll.”

“She’s your healer.”

He had no answer for that.