moonshadows

Vashj didn’t need to hear the giggle to know that the demon-child was in her private section of the pavilion that housed her retinue. For a moment, she considered calling the child out, but discarded the idea. Lord Illidan favored the girl, and his temper was much more manageable when her antics pleased him. Instead, she found a pretense to move past the child’s hiding place, the tip of her tail twitching in an enticing fashion as she passed. The bait was well-taken; the child leaped out of hiding and pounced on the serpentine appendage, gnawing fiercely but harmlessly, muffled growls marking every breath.

“Oh goodness,” the ancient naga matron said with false dismay. “There appears to be something wrong with my tail.” Vigorous shaking only resulted in more gleeful bites, and an enthusiastic attempt to wrestle it into submission. After a minute, Vashj settled onto her favorite cushion and let the tail go limp. “There, you’ve killed it. Now then, does Lord Illidan know you’re here?”

One tiny hand patted the end of Vashj’s tail in apology, and the child shook her head.

Well, at least she wasn’t feral, or under the demon’s control. “Ember, you know Lord Illidan doesn’t like it when you sneak off.”

“Story,” the girl announced in her piping voice. Then, bashfully, “Please?”

Vashj wondered how many weeks Illidan had spent teaching her to ask nicely. “What did you overhear that you want to hear a story about?” she asked with the slightest hint of resignation. This wasn’t the first time in the last handful of months that Ember had demanded a ‘story’ from her, and she suspected this was the way the girl was gathering information without attracting the demon’s attention. Perhaps another would have dismissed Ember’s oddly specific curiosities, but Vashj hadn’t maintained her position as Azshara’s handmaiden by dismissing possibilities.

Ember crouched by the edge of the large, round cushion. “Eyes.”

Eyes. Not much to go on, but there would be few eyes the child would be interested in. “You want to know why your eyes are different?” Tousled blue hair bounced as the small head nodded vigorously, and Vashj gathered her thoughts. “The Kal’dorei are called the Children of the Stars,” she began. “Most believe that each child is born with a specific destiny, a path laid before the child the same way the stars slowly move across the night sky.” She paused, but her small audience nodded once to show understanding; more proof that the child knew far more than a child her age should. “You know how some stars shine brighter than others?” Another pause; another nod. “To be born with golden eyes means that you are one of the stars that shine brightest. Your destiny will be great indeed, and many will follow in your footsteps.”

Thoughtfully, Ember considered this before tilting her head and asking, “Others?”

“There have been others with golden eyes,” Vashj confirmed. “My queen, Azshara. Yes, little one, we naga were once night elves. When the world was Sundered, we followed our queen even as her palace sank into the depths of the ocean, and we became creatures of water.”

Again, a one-word question: “Daddy?”

Dangerous ground; Vashj picked her words carefully. “Yes. Your father has golden eyes, and many people follow him. When he was younger, he looked very much like you.”

Excited, the girl stood up and leaned forward as though seeking knowledge with her nose. “Now?”

“Now, no, he does not. It would take a minute of looking carefully at your face, and his, to know that you are his daughter.”

Ember wiggled like an eager nightsaber cub and threw her tiny body at one of the naga’s arms, hugging it before dashing off. Vashj watched her go, curling her tail up comfortably. If she hadn’t seen the child eat, she would think Ember was being starved to still be so tiny, but no – the girl ate more than enough, even if it was all meat.

Illidan Stormrage heard the faint scrape as he laid a quill and parchment on the stone block that served as a low table, and flung one wing out. Caught mid-leap, Ember tumbled through the air and skidded to a stop with her back against the wall before charging back in. The big half-demon grinned as she gnawed fiercely on the outermost bone before wriggling into his lap.

“And where have you been, little one?” he asked, smiling as she chewed the fingers of one hand before nuzzling it.

“Story!” One little hand crept up to finger the skin around her eyes, then that finger prodded his chest lightly and she looked up at him, waiting for an answer.

“Words,” he chided gently.

Ember wilted slightly. “Eyes? Yours? Like Ember?”

She was asking if he’d had golden eyes. The topic would have been painful if he hadn’t been discussing them with Kael earlier. Illidan bent his head and kissed her forehead. “Try again. One more time. What do you want to ask me?”

The little face screwed up in concentration. He knew it wasn’t easy for her to reclaim fragments of civilized behavior from Archimonde, but she could do it and he wasn’t going to let her get away with developing lazy habits.

“Your eyes like Ember?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “When I was young, my eyes were gold, like yours.”

She looked at him solemnly. “Not now. Why?”

He closed them, acutely aware of the ancient scarring although he’d never seen it. “No, little Ember, that is not a story I will tell you.” Blindly, he hugged her to his chest.

“No?” she asked in a small voice.

“No,” he repeated firmly. “My eyes are…different. Special. But it was not a happy thing, and it hurts to talk about. I still love you, little Ember, but I will not tell you that story.”

“Love Daddy,” Ember said, arms around his neck.

For a moment, Illidan was confused. When had they switched to discussing Malfurion? Then his blood ran cold. No…surely she didn’t mean…

“Love you, Daddy.”

The Lord of Outland opened his eyes and gently pulled Ember away until he could look sternly into her face. “No. I am not your father.”

Golden eyes filled with confused tears. “No?”

“Ember, little Ember…” Gently, he held her face between his clawed hands. “I am your uncle, the brother of your father. Not your father.”

“Love Mommy?”

“Of course I love your mother.”

“Love Ember?”

“As though you were my own.”

She stared at him for a long minute, fearful and somehow defiant at the same time. “Larian says Daddy visits,” she said clearly.

This was a more coherent sentence than he’d yet heard out of her; Illidan checked her aura, but Archimonde was not the one in charge. “Larian,” he said slowly. “Is that your brother?”

She nodded.

“And your father visits?”

“Dreams,” she said, nodding.

Well, that explained it. For a druid, visiting the dreams of his sleeping son would be simplicity. “But he has never visited yours?”

Ember shook her head.

“And because of this, you think Malfurion is not your father.” His heart sank into his stomach, crying out, Tyrande! “Little one, don’t you see, the demon wants your body all to himself. He tries to hurt you, to make you go away, and part of that is that he hides you away so that your father can’t find your dreams to visit them.”

She looked unconvinced. “Daddy eyes, Ember eyes.”

“Your father has gold eyes like you, yes.”

“Illidan eyes.”

“Ember…” Illidan swallowed, his voice and hands shaking. Slowly, holding her gaze, he untied the blindfold and lowered it until he saw her expression change. “See? My eyes are no longer gold. Your father has gold eyes. I don’t. I am not your father.”

Her lower lip trembled, and he quickly re-tied the strip of cloth as she burst into tears. “Want Illidan,” she wailed, and he held her close while she cried herself out. Once she had subsided into a hiccupping drowse, he reached for the bottle of ink and lifted the cork with a twist of magic.

Tyrande,

Regarding the demon, I have entered negotiations to have an expert weigh in on the situation. My next report after that will contain the results of the meeting; hopefully, there will be good news. Your daughter’s grasp of language is much better than her vocabulary lets on, and she is capable of using full sentences. She remains in good health, but I am severely concerned about the consequences of her remaining out of contact with you, and especially with her father. I beg you – if you can reach him, send him to visit.

I remain,

Illidan Stormrage

Magic rolled and sealed the parchment; magic sent it on its way. Illidan Stormrage, heart-sick, laid Ember on his bed and watched her sleep, waiting for the reply he hoped would come. A handful of hours before dawn, an owl with a silvery-green shimmer swooped into the ruined building and hopped to a stop on the stone block. Ember awoke with a gasp, wide-eyed and trembling, and he beckoned her over even as he took the parchment it held and unrolled it.

“Come see, little one,” he said softly. “This owl belongs to your mother.”

Ember crept into his lap, one hand tentatively outstretched, and the owl gravely dipped its head for pettings.

Illidan,

Thank you for your reports. Malfurion remains in the Dream; I haven’t seen him in mine in months. I will be in Moonglade for midsummer. Tell my daughter I love her, and that I miss her.

Tyrande

Midsummer; three months away. “Your mother sent us a letter,” Illidan said softly, trying to keep his voice steady. This brief note, the first reply he’d gotten, said more through what it didn’t say: the High Priestess was overworked, her penmanship hasty. Whatever else was going on, she was under a great deal of stress. “She says she loves and misses you, and next season we’re going to go see her in Moonglade. Would you like that, little one?”

Ember promptly forgot the owl she’d been clumsily petting. “Mommy! Want Mommy.”

“I know, little one. We’ll see her soon.”

Message delivered, the owl hooted softly and flew on silent wings back into the night.