Marble statue

[moonshadows]

She sits on a marble bench, surrounded by grass and flowers fed from the light that enters through the round opening in the domed roof. I drop down gently, not wanting to alarm her or hurt the grass.

“High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind.” I bow slightly.

She frowns. “Who are you?”

She likely would have called for the guards if I had not first suggested that here, in the sanctum of her power, she could easily deal with one lone intruder.

“I am Jentessa, daughter of Ryxl Ironheart, Champion to the Warchief of the Horde.”

“You don’t look much like an orc, but I don’t know of anyone foolish enough to claim false kinship with that one. What do you want?”

Well now, isn’t she just full of sunshine and happiness?

“I have followed in my mother’s footsteps and chosen one to champion. One who you once cared for. He wishes to meet with you.” You know, it’s really not so hard to be polite in the face of near-hostility with my soul drawn in like a shell. I think I’m getting the hang of this.

Now she looks angry. “Then why is he not here himself?” she demands. “If I cared for him, why would he fear to meet me enough to send you?”

“Because he is like me.” I lift my wings slightly for emphasis. “Half-demon.”

Her eyes widen, one hand creeping up to her heart. “Illidan…”

…well now. There’s revulsion and horror for what he is now, but it doesn’t do a very good job of covering up regret…and compassion…and sorrow laced with self-recrimination. And under that…yes, she does still care. But suddenly her mind fills with fire and jagged steel, and I withdraw barely before it closes like a trap.

“Maiev said she killed him,” she hisses, eyes narrowed.

Interesting that she jumped to the conclusion that she’d been lied to, where her mate had not questioned the news.

“She did.”

The priestess looks at me, anger momentarily stalled. “Explain.”

“Nathrezim, even half-bloods, are creatures of spirit as well as flesh. In order to kill the second, the first must also perish.”

And the fires go out…

“Why did he not tell us? It’s been eighteen years! Why did he not send word?”

Revulsion seems forgotten under that surge of caring…and she seems completely unaware of there being any reason to avoid her and her mate.

“He was too hurt,” I say simply. “He was hurt for a very long time, and he was afraid that if he came back, he’d only be hurt again.”

Her eyebrows draw in. “What do you mean? Hurt how?”

“Here.” I tap my own chest, then my temple. “And here.”

Oh, that second one brought horror with it.

“Goddess…” she breathes, eyes wide. “I thought that with quiet isolation, his mind would heal…”

Not with that damage, it wouldn’t. Not even over ten thousand years.

“If he’d had quiet isolation, it might have. But instead, he had a keeper who begrudged him every breath he took.”

“Maiev…” Oh, the fire’s back.

I nudge her gently; as much as I like the thought of my Kal’shan’s warden getting what she deserves, I still have a duty.

She suddenly breaks off her angry brooding and looks at me expectantly. “Where is he? Elune healed his mind once, I-”

I shake my head. “It’s not needed, High Priestess. My Kal’shan’s mind is whole once again, or he would not seek to meet with you.”

The relief and joy my words bring are elbowed harshly aside and she pounces on what I called him.

“Honored Star? What, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?”

Interesting that there’s protectiveness in that wary hostility.

“It’s a Kaldorei term for a Nathrezim concept,” I say evenly, meeting her eyes. “With it, I indicate that I devote myself to him, heart and mind, and that he has accepted my pledge of devotion. I seek to be his mate, and until he decides if I am worthy or not, he is the star around which my world revolves.”

Her eyes judge me, her mind unreadable as the reflection of the moon on a still pond.

“How did Illidan’s mind come to be healed?” she asks at last, demanding the information.

“I put it back together.” She’s way too sharp to bother hiding something like this. “Shard by shard, piecing together slivers and fragments over many months.”

“Does he know?”

Yikes. She’s nearly as terrifying as my mother. The love in my Kal’shan’s mind didn’t quite obscure the memories of her will, but nothing in those memories prepared me for this.

I nod. “When I finished putting him back together, I showed him everything I’d done. Every time I influenced his thoughts. Every time I moved his memories. And I waited for his judgement of my actions.”

She’s like a statue of silver and snowy marble, cloaked in the aura of her goddess.

“And?”

The memory of that fear…anxiety, doubt clawing at me…and then the warmth of his love flooding through my mind as he embraced me. I lay the memory at the edge of her mind like an offering, see her pick it up and examine it from all angles.

“Blessings of Mother Moon be upon you,” is all that she says, but her eyes glow with satisfied approval. “I will meet with your Kal’shan.”

 

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She launches herself at him with a glad cry as soon as he lands and, startled, he holds perfectly still as Tyrande embraces him. Before he can recover she retreats again with the air of a woman who has suddenly remembered that she is pushing the boundaries of propriety.

“Illidan…” she searches his face uncertainly. “Are you…?”

He smiles gently. “Tyrande. I had thought I would never see you again.” The smile falters at her expression. “My appearance disturbs you. I’m sorry. If you want me to leave-”

“No.” Hands on his emphasize the word she’d used to cut him off. “Illidan…it is you. She spoke truly. Oh, Illidan, I feared you wouldn’t – but you’re back. After ten thousand years, my oldest friend has returned.” Her fingers grip his tightly as she half-whispers, “I missed you.”

He smiles sadly. “And I have missed you. But I can see that you are not comfortable with my appearance. I can cover myself with an illusion if you would prefer.”

Tyrande winces with guilt at having flinched away from her long-lost friend, and her heart bleeds that even after all he’s done and endured, he would still lay everything that he is at her feet. “Elune has the power to restore you,” she says softly, silver eyes searching his face. “She can give you back the body you lost. She can give you back your eyes.”

For one wrenching moment, she thinks he’s rejecting her as he gently reclaims his hands from her and turns around – but no, he is merely regarding the statue of the Goddess that sits in the center of the moonwell behind him. For several minutes he stands in silence, clawed hands occasionally clenching as his blindfolded face stares into white marble eyes. She notices that the cloth tied around his head is not the ragged scrap it had been when last she saw him, but a length of charcoal silk elaborately embroidered to resemble a stormy sky.

“For all the pain and loathing this form has caused me to endure,” he says quietly, turning around at last, “it allowed me to save you from the river and the Scourge. It may not be how I was born, but it represents the choices I made and the path I took, and to return to what I had been would be saying that those choices, that path, were mistakes. I have done some things I am not proud of, but I do not feel that I was mistaken in doing the things I did.” A smile, gentle and full of pain, flashes across his face. “After ten thousand years underground, the freedom of the skies is hard to relinquish.” His expression softens. “And it would be terribly cruel of me to repay my Champion’s kindness by taking away the very features she admires most. She was the first one who did not turn from me in horror or disgust, and she…likes my eyes.” The last words are uttered in a tone of hushed awe.

Tyrande frowns, fighting back her own guilt in order to test her friend’s connection to the demon girl. “Surely she would not be so shallow as to turn away from you if you no longer bore the scars of your experiences.”

“She would never abandon me, no matter what I do.” One clawed hand casually waves away the entire possibility as being irrelevant. “No, that is not the only reason that I am declining the offer of Elune’s generosity.”

“You are sure you want to remain the way you are?” she asks softly, once more taking his hands in hers.

“As strange as it seems, the greatest happiness I have known since the demons first came has been experienced as I am now: a half-demon.” Illidan frees one hand and slowly caresses her cheek with one gentle finger. “Besides, you are even more beautiful when seen through these cursed eyes. Your soul shines like the White Lady herself.”

“Illidan…you know I chose Furion.” She braces herself for any kind of reaction, unafraid that he would hurt her but fearing that she has hurt him. The sad smile he gives her hits harder than she thought it would.

“I know. And as long as you are happy, I will hold my peace.”

That, more than anything, convinces the priestess that Ironheart’s half-demon daughter has truly restored Illidan’s sanity. A labor of love, if she is to be believed. Regardless, she has given Tyrande back a friend she feared lost forever to his madness, and that’s worth withholding judgment until she can see the girl in action for herself.