Chapter Text
--???--
“You know you’re going to have to stop abandoning your duties to grace me with your presence?”
A perk of long ears as the elf attached to them slipped into a certain apprentice’s quarters in Dalaran.
“Now, why would I leave such a lovely woman by her lonesome?” Came her trilling purr.
“This lovely woman would appreciate it if you didn’t risk your honor-driven reputation by skipping your meetings with the king and prince.” Was the sighing response.
“You would really have me suffer another of Kael’Thas’ ranting complaints about whether or not his golden necklaces are elegant enough, dalah’surfal?” Sylvanas pouted, watching the blonde woman across from her chuckle after a grimace of sympathy.
“You are the Ranger General, Sylv. It’s kind of your job.”
The elf gave a dramatic sigh and unceremoniously draped herself across the mage’s bed, nearly breaking from her act when Jaina snorted in amusement.
“Belore, I thought you loved me.”
“And I thought the Ranger General was up for any challenge?”
Sylvanas turned her face from the sheets to glare at the human playfully. “That’s low, Proudmoore.”
“You’ve no idea, Windrunner.”
--Present Day--
The spire was like every place she went, lacking in warm laughter and bright grins. Everywhere was grey in a sense, it’d been what? Months? And yet it still felt like spring hadn’t come to Quel’Thalas.
The winter had fallen and yet the cold remained, chilling the air around Sylvanas with the memory of her.
Golden hair and eyes.
The most vibrant blue eyes.
Full of life, full of hope, full of joy.
An anchor pendant.
Promises of a future that seemed so bright.
Her jaw quivered before it clenched, hands crushing themselves into fists.
It had seemed so so bright until that day.
That one day.
Why hadn’t she run?
Why?
“General?”
She blinked, finding Anya looking at her with concerned eyes, ears drooping.
With a tightening of her fist and a blink, her face set into a neutral frown; she would not be seen as weak, not now, not ever.
“I’m fine, Anya. Dismissed.”
The elf opened her mouth to protest, only for it to shut at the glare Sylvanas shot her.
“Understood.”
And she was gone.
Just like that.
Like her.
Sylvanas blinked away heat that would’ve escalated to tears, she couldn’t cry now. She wouldn’t cry now. She had a man to hunt down, her people to avenge, her heart to be remembered.
She wouldn’t fail this time.
--
“You’ll run yourself into the grave looking for him.”
A thud resounded as she struck the target at its center, her arrow protruding from the dummy. Her ears fell slightly, annoyance clear in their position; she already knew that voice, the enunciation in their mother tongue made it simple to discern.
“This doesn’t concern you, Alleria.”
A dry laugh but still she did not turn to her elder sister.
“Sylvanas, look at me.” A hand on her shoulder guided her from her attention on her bow and right to a pair of eyes slightly lighter than her own blueish ones. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing.”
“You’ve been here for three hours--”
“--practice makes--”
“Sylvanas.”
“Alleria.”
Her sister fixed her with an even glare, both hands resting on her shoulders while she kept her still.
“He doesn’t want to be found, we have scouts and patrols at every corner of our borders and he’s not there, alright?” Came that gentle Thalassian that would’ve calmed her, if it hadn’t mentioned him.
“So what? I just let him get away with it all? The death of some of our rangers, our people, her?” She seethed, glaring right back at Alleria despite the shakiness in her voice. “It shouldn’t have been her, Alleria. It shouldn’t have been her.” She choked out, not having the energy to fight her sister when she enveloped her in a hug.
The older woman didn’t say anything for a time, just swayed lightly with Sylvanas wrapped tightly in her embrace. Sylvanas dug her fingers into the leathers of her sister’s uniform, face buried in her shoulder whilst she fought not to weep.
“We’ll get him, Lady Moon.”
She nodded weakly back, it was all she could do at this point.
“We’ll get him.”
--
They did not get him.
He sat just out of their reach, the ends of their sea borders; Grand Admiral Proudmoore took it upon himself to search for the scoundrel that’d murdered his beloved starlight, searching the seas Quel’Thalas could not hope to reach with their semi-decent navy.
Sylvanas would wait for letters, hoping to receive one from the man. Hoping to get word that they’d caught him, that they were bringing him for her to finally slit his throat--that last bit was a hope if anything, Daelin Proudmoore was sure to slaughter the man himself.
Yet, she received no letter. She received no word that they’d found him.
It was like he vanished.
Like he disappeared.
Sylvanas clenched at the broken anchor around her neck tightly.
A memory, a fickle sweet thing; she was beautiful, in robes of purple and white. Blonde hair catching in the warm spring winds of Silvermoon, vibrant blue eyes gleaming with mirth.
‘Keep up, Windrunner! Aren’t you the Ranger General?’
She swallowed softly.
“I don’t feel like it.” She admitted softly.
The words fell on deaf ears.
The anchor was cold in her hand, unbearably cold.
Sylvanas suspected because it wasn’t in the possession of its owner but even then… it’d never been below freezing before. The broken tips were covered in a barely perceptible layer of frost.
Jaina had been a promising mage of all categories but frost and water magic had been her first. Even so, this frost didn’t feel like Jaina’s. Jaina’s felt cool but in the right ways like a touch of winter--this felt like a dreadful ice age, clawing and feeding on the warm emulating from her like a parasite.
She slipped it off from her neck and shoved it into a pouch hanging from her belt.
She still felt it through the bag.
--
It’d happened late one night.
The pendant had been cold but a bearable cold so she wore it around her neck. She’d gone to bed with fluttering eyes and a hopeful idea of a dream.
She was in a field of grass.
A forest, perhaps. She looked around and found homes suspiciously like the ones in--
‘Jaina!’
--Fairbreeze.
She hurried over, calling for fellow elves, someone, anyone. No calls were heeded or answered.
She ran back to the field and found nothing but--frost.
Frost growing from the blades of grass.
Frost seeping onto her boots and up her legs.
Frost at her fingertips.
She rubbed her hands together to warm them and she grew colder; her breath was fogging.
‘Keep up, Windrunner!’
She gasped softly, turning and catching a glimpse of blonde hair running through the field. Her feet couldn’t take her towards the familiar sight fast enough, she ran with energy she hadn’t felt in weeks. Her cold, her hurt, the frost--all forgotten.
“Jaina!”
She paused at the apex of the field. She was back where she started, with the same frosted grasses and the same village homes. She blinked in confusion, breath beginning to fog and mist once more. “J-Jaina?” She shivered.
‘Keep up, Windrunner!’
The same sight.
Sylvanas hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment.
“Proudmoore! Slow down!” She exclaimed, running after the brief glimpse of the blonde only to find it gone within a few moments; she stood at the same field. She looked around, ears perked at attention.
‘Keep up, Windrunner!’
She swallowed. “What is this?”
‘Keep up, Windrunner!’
“Stop it…”
‘Keep up, Windrunner!’
“Stop it!”
‘Aren’t you--’
She felt a mind numbing chill behind her, shooting around and immediately stumbling back.
Blonde hair--not sunny--that seemed almost dead… bleached of all color.
Torn-apart robes and frost-bitten feet.
An uncomfortable amount of arcane oozing around them.
Its head lifted and cold, dull, blue eyes stared at her.
His eyes.
Those were his eyes.
‘Aren’t you the Ranger General?’
Its chest leaked crimson while a blade--glowing blue and freezing hate--slotted through its chest. Through Jaina’s chest.
Sylvanas screamed herself awake.
--
She’d taken the anchor off the minute she’d awoken and hadn’t worn it in days. Her dreams weren’t as troubled when it was off. Her dreams weren’t about Jaina dying before her when it was off. Her life spiraled into endless meetings and patrols about Quel’Thalas’ borders as of the royal family’s recent interceptions of letters from their Kul Tiran ally. She’d read them the minute they were intercepted, of course, being Ranger General still had perks. It was clear from the sailors’ words.
Arthas was moving in.
Not at sea but the crew wrote of a cold, an unbearable cold and a stench.
A rotten stench of flesh and bone.
They’d written that it lingered the closer they sailed to Quel’Thalas’ part of the shallows.
They’d written how he’d be marching on them soon if they weren’t careful.
King Anasterian and Prince Kael’thas had immediately ordered any able-bodied troop forward, to guard their people and their kingdom. Sylvanas was among them, her shift would soon begin.
She felt a sense of dread wherever the murderer was mentioned.
He hadn’t hesitated to kill half their troops previously.
He hadn’t hesitated to plunge that cursed blade of his through Jaina’s heart.
He’d done it.
So easily.
So why wouldn’t he just slaughter them all?
So easily?
He’d made it clear from his first attempt that he wanted the Sunwell.
Belore knows why but he did.
Whatever the reason for Arthas’ ambush couldn’t be good.
She swallowed, grabbing her bow and quiver and heading to her post.
She’d hope that she’d never need to know what would occur--
‘Jaina!’
--should he succeed.
-???-
She felt a burning sensation in her chest.
It was cold, endlessly cold.
She recalled faint words between a silver-tongued elf and a blonde.
She couldn’t recall their faces, however.
She couldn’t recall their names.
Frostwitch
She was cold.
Endlessly cold.
March forth.
Her legs creaked under the strain of ice and rotting bone.
She was tired.
So tired.
Claim this for me. Claim what should be mine.
Her steps followed armored soldiers that could plague the dreams of nearly any person.
She watched them march with purpose and felt numb.
Numb as she looked over their shambling movements, over their formation, over their bones.
A pristine gleam.
A shimmering city.
A blessed city.
A good city.
An elven city.
Understand what you will do for me.
An elven city.
Elven?
Frostwitch.
Elven.
Obey.
She recalled…
Claim the Sunwell.
A silver-tongued elf and a blonde girl.
Obey your King.
Silver-tongued…
We march.
Silver--
Frostwitch.
--moon.