Zul'vii leaves

[moonshadows]

Illidan ignored the owl infused with Tyrande’s energy; it would seek out Zul’vii. Instead, he focused on the whirl of his warglaives and the sweet burn of exertion. His half-troll was perched in a tree, watching him as he slew imaginary foes in the light of false dawn, her eyes nearly as keen as a kaldorei’s. Months of skirmishes with pockets of demonic forces while Kael and Tyrande and Thrall and Jaina fought on the battlefield of diplomacy with the human king Varian and the Forsaken queen Sylvanas had done nothing to ease the itch of humiliation, and his blood burned for the icy winds of Northrend. For battle against the Scourge. For vengeance against the Lich King. Soon, he hoped. Soon the words would all be said, the armies gathered, and he would once again cross blades with the little human who reeked of death.

He knew something was wrong before Zul’vii even said a word; the bond between them whispered to him of her dismay, and he growled.

“We’re not going to war,” she said in a strangled voice. “Varian and Sylvanas don’t trust each other. Tyrande and Thrall have negotiated with them to enter into a joint war effort with the Cenarian Circle down in Silithus; it looks like the War of the Shifting Sands is about to be re-started. If that goes well, Tyrande says she has high hopes for a campaign in Northrend, but…”

“By then, it will be too late,” snarled Illidan. “Arthas will have consolidated his power and built a new army of undead horrors to throw against us. Where is Kael?”

“He’ll be returning sometime today,” the half-troll said, checking the message.

“I want a meeting with him and Vashj when he arrives. If Kil’jaeden hasn’t come for the Black Temple yet, then he’s not going to. With no campaign in Northrend to plan for, it’s time we started consolidation of our own on Draenor.”

Zul’vii’s forehead creased as she frowned. “We’re not going to join the combined forces in Silithus?”

Glowing fel-green blades sliced the air. “No.”

“But…why not?”

“It is not our fight, ignorant whelp.” Each word sounded bitten off.

“It’s still our world.”

Illidan whirled, glaring at the troll with such heat that she flinched. “It is not. My world abandoned me ten thousand years ago, and you had never set foot on this one until we marched on Icecrown Glacier. The naga forsook the surface eons ago, and the blood elves seek a new homeland to replace the shattered wreck Arthas left them. This is not our world, and I will not promise the blood and lives of those who look to me for leadership in a conflict that does not benefit them! We will return to Draenor, the world we have claimed, and we will make it the home we have all lost.”

“But what if Tyrande needs your help?” Zul’vii wheedled.

Illidan turned back around. “She has Malfurion. She does not need me.”

Zul’vii hopped down from her perch and fearlessly pressed herself against his back, slipping under the wings that shifted out of her way. The half-demon’s muscles were hard and tense, but he wasn’t pulling away, and that was a good sign. “There’s still a lot of work to be done in Felwood,” she said casually.

The muscles in Illidan’s back relaxed slightly. “True. I did pledge that we would purge the demons from the forest. One-quarter of our forces can remain here, and the rest can return to Draenor and begin carving out homes there. I will need to stay here, as the only one able to open the portal, but we will establish regular communication.”

Zul’vii smiled.

 

Months passed. Blood elves and naga cycled from Draenor to Felwood and back. The sourthern end of Felwood was declared demon-free, and a new base established further north. News filtered down from Moonglade, or up from Durotar. The war effort lumbered on, supplies gathered in huge numbers and moved to a Cenarian stronghold in the silithid-infested desert, moving slowly enough that the live humans and the dead ones could become accustomed to each other. Zul’vii made offhand comments every so often about joining the gathering forces, and Illidan brushed them off with noncommittal responses. The Illidari base moved yet again, to another night elf ruin a day’s march from the Moonglade. Illidan slowly became – well, not more cheerful, but significantly more mellow. He still had nightmares, of course, and Zul’vii still found herself held desperately until the big half-demon had wrestled his mind back under control. And sometimes, she woke up caged within his arms with no memory of him having had a nightmare, but he acted as though he were not slowly warming to her, and she was too wise to mention it.

 

“Tyrande’s forces and Thrall’s are meeting up in the Bay of Storms to sail to Silithus. She wants to know if any of ours are joining them.” Zul’vii stole a glance at Illidan, standing on the edge of the roof and watching the Illidari camp below.

“No.”

The half-troll took a deep breath. “Yes.”

Illidan froze, feeling her decision whisper through his heart, birthing fear that transmuted into the more comfortable rage he had felt so many times. “So,” he hissed. “You would defy me, leave my side to go fight in a war that is not yours.” His crossed arms that trembled with the force of his will to hold the pose, to not turn around and clutch his half-troll, to-

“Yes,” she said steadily. “I want to do this, Illidan.”

“You want to abandon me.” He swallowed, but the bitter taste of betrayal still flooded his mouth.

“I’m not abandoning you. I want to help them.”

“You are leaving my side.” Illidan’s claws dug into his own flesh, a silent expression of the pain he would not let himself voice.

“Not forever.” Zul’vii pressed herself against his back, biting her lip at how badly this was hurting him. “I’m not doing anything here. I’ll be able to help them.” She waited, but no response was forthcoming. “You could come with me.”

“We have been over this,” he snapped. “I will not entertain the discussion a second time.”

The lack of casual insults shook her. After two years there wasn’t much heat behind them, but Illidan made a point of using them anyway as part of the pretense that he did not care about her. At least, she hoped it was a pretense. Suddenly, she realized that’s what this was all about: she needed to know if he cared, and separation was the only way she knew to test it.

“Give me a reason not to go,” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t shaking. “One that’s not us being bonded.”

He knew what she was asking. She wanted him to say that he cared for her, that her absence would cause him pain. Ten thousand years of loneliness cried out to embrace her, a hundred centuries of abandonment counseled him to protect his heart with denial, and a lifetime of yearning for Tyrande shrieked that she was unworthy for doubting him, that she was an interloper corrupting him. She is my troll, he thought through the emotional storm. She should know…

“Being bonded, and all that entails, is reason enough,” he snarled.

Zul’vii held her breath, but he did not fling himself away from her; still a good sign. “I will come back to you,” she promised.

“You will,” he agreed darkly, somehow making it sound ominous. “You know where to find me when the separation becomes too much for you.”

There was the ultimatum, the gauntlet thrown down at last. Illidan would permit her to entertain this foolish idea because being away from him would hurt them both, but she would not be able to endure and he would. She wasn’t sure whether to be offended or not.

“I’ll go pack my things,” she said, stepping away from his broad, trembling back.

“Do that,” he snapped.

Before she could say anything else, he launched himself into the air. The implication was clear: the sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll see how much of a mistake you are making and return to me, where you belong. Zul’vii spread her wings and glided gently to the half-ruined building that housed their room.

 

She didn’t take her bedroll.

Illidan stood in the large, airy room he’d appropriated for them, wondering why that was the only thought in his mind. Was she assuring him that she’d be back soon? Declaring that she wanted nothing he’d given her? Night fell slowly, his eyes easily adjusting, and at some point he discovered himself sitting on his bedroll with one hand caressing hers. He knew he should sleep, but the thought of her not being there if he should need her…no. He couldn’t, not yet.

Ten thousand years I slept alone, he thought, and after two with that arrogant whelp I am reduced to a child again?

Resolutely, he lay down and turned his back on the empty bedroll where his troll should be. He waited until birdsong announced the morning’s arrival, but sleep did not come.