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‘Is this truly for the good of Azeroth?’

Anduin Wrynn looks sideways at Jaina, shifting his eyes from the expanse of Stormwind out of the window to her. He sighs. In his simpler priest robes he looks all the more like a boy, to Jaina.

She gives him a tiny shrug. ‘In a sense, everything I strive to do is for the good of Azeroth. ‘Tis why I took up the mantle of Lord Admiral when my mother offered it.’

Averting her eyes from the young king to the towers outside, she too sighs. ‘ But this, this is… first and foremost for the good of Sylvanas and me.’

Telling Anduin had been a cumbersome experience, so far. She didn’t truly know what to tell him and what to keep a secret. He had been concerned, mostly. Now, at the mention of her wife’s name, he tenses again, stiffening his shoulders. While Jaina vastly prefers his quiet disapproval above Tyrande’s yelling, it still hurts her to see the mistrust.

Eventually he slowly shakes his head, turning to her with a meek attempt at laughing. ‘So it's like a honeymoon of sorts?’

Jaina laughs. ‘It would be the most difficult, dangerous and harsh honeymoon two lovers have ever embarked upon,’ she says.

With views of dragons and a high chance of your lover being burnt to a pile of ash, she thinks, but goes on to clarify for Anduin’s sake: ‘To put it into a bigger perspective: if Sylvanas and me succeed, it would vastly improve the relationship between horde and alliance.’

If… if I can fulfill my promise to her.

The confidence that she bore in the morning, gained from a lengthy night of sleep on top of Sylvanas’ body and that kiss , has mostly faded to a heavy, foreboding weight in her chest. If she breaks her promise of restoring Sylvanas to a lifelike state, there is no telling how the undead elf could react. Jaina doesn’t know what she fears more, an explosion of rage, heartbreaking sadness or a complete shutdown, with Sylvanas hiding herself behind her impassive facade once more. Or perhaps worst of all, her death, should their quest go terribly wrong.

Perhaps Anduin can sense the growing sense of dread that cloaks her, as he does with his abilities as a priest. Maybe he just sees her face sour. Whatever the case, he lays a comforting hand on her underarm, prompting her to take a deep breath.

‘You may make it public tomorrow morning. Sylvanas and me will have sailed by then.’

‘The Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras and the Warchief of the Horde have departed for a quest to lands unknown, but they assured me that it is, ultimately, for the good of Azeroth,’ Anduin says. ‘Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds, Jaina? The Night Warrior will have my head.’

‘Mine, sooner than yours.’ Jaina winces and thinks back to Tyrande’s impromptu visit to Proudmoore Keep. Who knows how that would have gone sideways if the Warden hadn’t intervened, she thinks.  

‘Well they just have to accept it… we won’t be away for longer than a month. I have talked with my mother about overseeing my lands. And I assume that Sylvanas has put someone in charge of hers, too.’

Anduin gravely nods. As Jaina looks at him, she can nearly see the responsibilities weigh on him, creasing his brow and hardening his face. He is starting to look a lot like his father, sans the scarring.

After they have stood by the windows for some time, with Anduin silently frowning, deeply in thought and Jaina steadily breathing her worries away, he agrees to inform the rest of the Alliance Leaders on the next morning. Adding that he will rephrase the exact information slightly to avoid suffering too many murderous glares.

‘As long as you do not imply that Sylvanas and me are going on some pleasant trip together, I am fine with it,’ Jaina says. ‘Please clarify the grave nature of our quest. And make sure no one travels to Boralus’ harbour in the middle of the night, lest they see us sneak out of the city.’

She turns to the young king. ‘And thank you… for receiving me in your chambers, instead of in the great hall with all the clangour that that always entails. I’m grateful, truly.’

‘Well, Lady Alleria already said to me that you needed to disclose something covertly-’

‘Tides, that woman is in ten places at once isn’t she?’ Jaina laughingly says.

Anduin snickers lightly. ‘I could say the same about you. Especially when I was younger.’

‘Honestly, I tried my best to keep up. Sometimes though, all I wanted was to have some alone time for once.’

‘To study?’

‘To sit by a warm fireplace with a good book and sweet tea!’

~~~~~

After portalling back to Boralus, Jaina spends the remainder of her day packing for the journey and studying maps. The waters around the Broken Shore are fickle to say the least. Naturally, the presence of the Maelstrom makes the entire sea much more capricious and prone to sudden changes in the weather. For one of the big ships of the Proudmoore fleet it wouldn’t be a very big hazard. Her smaller sailboat however could get into trouble much more quickly.

Caught up in her studies as she is, she does not hear the knocks on her doors at first. Only when it’s accompanied by a “Jaina, are you in here?”, she hastily runs to the door, recognizing the voice.

‘Sylvanas! Glad you’re here so early!’

‘I tried my best to come well on time,’ the Banshee Queen says as she steps into the room, hauling a large leather duffle bag with her. As she lays it onto the couch, she says: ‘I believe I have packed everything for our quest. Are you readied as well?’

‘I stuffed my luggage under the bed so no one could accidentally stumble upon it. Compass, clothing, some food, waterskins, it should all be there. In the boat there’s a tarp and tent pegs, should we need them. And you, are you trying to impersonate a Warden?’ Jaina says, pointing at the body-covering, long red cape that her wife is wearing.

The nerves have made her giddy, and she is afraid that Sylvanas will take it as an offensive comment for a moment. Then the elf shakes her head and puts her hands on her hips, lifting the cape away from her legs and opening it so Jaina can see her from the waist down.

Sylvanas is clad in different armor than she usually wears. It looks like her standard wine red leather garb, but simpler, without the silvery swirls and skulls. The boots are largely the same, minus the prominent knee pieces. She has swapped the chainmail trousers for sturdy leather ones and the somewhat gaudy pauldrons for a more travel-suited set of spaulders. Her color scheme of dark browns and reds is still intact, but it looks more modest in comparison to her Warchief armor.

‘Are you done with admiring me? I thought dressing in simpler gear would stop you from gawking,’ Sylvanas quips.

Jaina breaks into a laugh, tension finally evaporating in her breathy chuckles. ‘Nothing will stop me from looking at my wife,’ she declares, jutting out her chin. ‘Now come here, you silly elf.’

With a flick of her hand and a spark of arcane, she closes the door behind Sylvanas and closes the distance between them with a swift step. As she grasps the velvety fabric of the Warchief’s long cape, she feels the gauntleted hands come to rest in the small of her back. Swiftly, Jaina hops up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to Sylvanas’. The elf responds near hungrily, chasing Jaina’s lips and soft exhales. She still flinches when Jaina cups the underside of her jaw, but this time she stays in place and does not move away.

When Jaina retreats to rest her head against the cool leather of Sylvanas’ cuirass, she spies the tip of a grey tongue darting out between her lips. A small smile graces her wife’s face.

‘Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…’ she begins, letting go of the Warchief’s cape and grabbing her hand instead. A glimmer next to the brassy clasp of the cape catches her eye. When she removes a few strands of Sylvanas’ silver blonde hair, a large blue gem is uncovered, hanging from a plain necklace around the elf’s slender throat. A soft oh comes from Jaina as she strokes the smooth surface of the sapphire. ‘I have never seen you wear this before…’

Sylvanas brings one gloved hand to the necklace. She lifts it so the sparse evening light reflects on the tiny swirls of the silver it’s set in. A clearly elvish design. ‘It’s from Alleria,’ she near whispers. ‘Given to me many years ago.’

For a moment it seems as if she will give more details about the jewel, but her next words are: ‘Am I growing soft, Jaina?’

Chuckling, Jaina shakes her head. ‘Softer,’ she corrects while letting go of the Warchief’s hand. ‘Let me get ready for traveling too.’

Okay, she thinks by herself, face heating up in sudden embarrassment as she walks into the bedroom. That might have been an impulsive and dumb move but there is improvement. She doesn’t scurry off by physical contact anymore, kissing is a thing we do now. Rambling to herself in her thoughts helps easing her raging nerves. We’re going to get her alive again, everything will be…

Even her thought process halts at the word. Fine… yes, it will be fine.

Jaina gets her blue and white coat, black trousers and quickly puts them on. Instead of her usual cloth gloves, she opts for a pair of leather, fingerless ones which will come in handy while sailing. She grabs her own waterproof bags from underneath the bed and drags them into the living room. Sylvanas is looking at the darkening sky outside.

‘Have you had dinner, Jaina?’ she asks.

‘I’ve had a light meal, yes. Mustn’t eat anything too heavy when we’re leaving in the dead of night.’

When she has set her luggage next to Sylvanas’ on one corner of the couch she joins her wife by the window. From their high vantage point, she can see the sailboat they will be using in the harbour. For now the horizon is clear of storm clouds and the ropes on the boats only wave marginally in the wind.

‘Have you settled everything for when we have departed?’ Sylvanas speaks up as she lifts a single eyebrow at Jaina.

The mage, who had zoned out briefly by running calculations about the wind and what that would entail for the first leg of their journey, hastily nods.

‘Yes. My mother has agreed to take over most of the Lord Admiral’s duties for the time being… Tandred will assist her should she need it. And you? Who have you left in charge?’

‘I have arranged it to be a joint effort between Saurfang and Lilian Voss. He will oversee most of my duties as Warchief, and make sure that Gallywix doesn’t get his hands all over the new, carefully planned trade routes. My role as Forsaken leader will briefly be fulfilled by Voss.’

‘Not Blightcaller?’ Jaina asks.

‘Too brash, too impulsive,’ Sylvanas answers, shaking her head. ‘- and unfit for the more conflict-free tasks of a Warchief. The pact where we married for is supposed to preserve the peace so we do not rip Azeroth apart with the lasting fighting, after all. I cannot have him ruin it.’

‘Well, I do not disagree.’

Jaina is glad that Sylvanas seems to have left that most unpleasant man out of the position of power. Though she is careful with tacking on to it too much. However, the subtle smile playing around the corners of the elf’s mouth tells her enough. With a soft sigh, she rubs the corner of her left eye. Next to her, Sylvanas shifts on her feet, her breathless body now turned to Jaina.

‘You ought to rest,’ she states without much emotion.

‘We only have an hour or four before we leave. There is no time to sleep right now.’

Despite her denial, Jaina feels tiredness nagging at her mind. The quiet, but unmoving and knowing stare she receives from Sylvanas causes her eventually concede. ‘Alright, I’ll take a nap. A quick one. On the couch.’

‘So you do know what’s good for you?’ Sylvanas teases as she follows Jaina to the couch. It only makes Jaina roll her eyes before she pulls off her boots and lies down, head on the armrest.

‘Such a team, aren’t we? I’m causing you to crave some life again and you make sure I don’t work myself to death.’

‘I was told that couples complement each other's’ weaknesses, when I was a greenling ranger.’ Seemingly disinterested, Sylvanas walks to one of the tall bookshelves in the room, back turned to Jaina. She picks a book and sits down on the smaller table near the window. ‘Or so I thought.’

‘How do I complement your overdose of cynicism? Sometimes it seems as if I’m only amplifying it,’ Jaina mumbles as she shifts to find a comfortable position.

Saying nothing more, the elf merely flips a page. Her sharp silhouette, face hidden in the shadows, leaves Jaina guessing at her exact feelings. Her mind does not give her the chance to ponder for long. Sleep washes over her rather quickly, dreamless and undisturbed. Until the couch shifts underneath her. Out of instinct, Jaina does not open her eyes immediately, pretending to be asleep still. A length of something is draped over her body, and she feels the velvet of Sylvanas’ cape brush against her bare face before the cold weight of her wife’s body settles besides her.

The rifling of pages continues above her, as Sylvanas reads the hours away. Still Jaina does not open her eyes, only inching slightly closer to her, cupping her body in the curve of her own. As she jerks her head to get rid of the cape tickling in her nose, a heavy hand descends onto her hair. Freezing, Jaina cannot stop a rush of breath from quickly exiting her lungs. But Sylvanas merely scratches the top of her head, huffing lowly and murmuring something Jaina can’t quite hear. It sounds nearly like “lie still and don’t say such foolish things”, but she is sure that she is only pretending to her the fond tone in Sylvanas’ voice.

A tap to her cheek shakes her out of the sleep she had unknowingly slipped back into. Blinking her eyes open, she stares blearily into the Warchief’s two red ones. As she comes to her senses, Sylvanas’ upside down face disappears from her vision and she hears the elf retreat to put away her book in the shelf.

‘Two hours ‘till first light,’ she says.

Jaina removes a stray hair from her mouth and rights herself up. After rubbing over her forehead and shaking off the dizziness from having woken up, she sighs. The room slowly comes into focus. Both of her bags, Sylvanas’ luggage and the hard leather cylinders in which she stores her maps are neatly set besides the doors. Sylvanas is fully ready to leave, waiting for Jaina to join her.

After grabbing her staff, the mage does so. As quietly as possible, she opens the doors. Then she slings one bag over her shoulder and fixates the maps beneath her left arm. Sylvanas picks up her own luggage and takes Jaina’s second rucksack before the mage can grab it. With her undead strength, she easily shoulders it and motions for Jaina to lead the way. The Lord Admiral guides her through hidden passages and secret corridors in the Keep, all the while circumventing guardsmen and avoiding tripping any runic spells. Out of habit, Jaina traces the cool walls of the Keep with her right hand, checking for any ripple in the wards that could give them away. Sylvanas follows near soundlessly behind her. As unnerving as it is, she is glad that the elf is the most quiet of them. As for herself, Jaina supposes that, if it’s true what Sylvanas said about married couples, she complements her natural sneaking abilities with her constant missteps, nearly falling over her own feet in anxiety and breathing too loudly for her own ears.

After about fifteen tense minutes, two instances of nearly falling down a flight of stairs and one dropped leather bag, which had clattered onto the floor so loudly that even Sylvanas had cursed silently in Thalassian, they stand in front of one of the outer walls. The grey bricks give away nothing. Above them, on the gallery on top of the walls, the footsteps of a guard sound. Jaina holds her breath until he has passed over their heads. Next to her, Sylvanas stands as impassive as a statue, waiting all the same.

Then Jaina kneels down at the bottom of the wall, touching along the stones. With her casting hand, she feels the ripple in the wards the moment she touches the brick. Like a scratch on a smooth marble table. A weakness she had sensed months earlier during one check up of the Keep’s magic protection. Due to all her duties she hadn’t immediately fixed it, since it was but a small imperfection. She has left a note on her mother’s desk, telling her to seek a magus who can repair it when she’s on her journey. After casting a quick look up to Sylvanas, who is scanning the perimeter of the gallery above them for any more guards, she turns her attention back to the stones.

Carefully, she forces a wedge into the ward. Too slowly for the moment, her magic chips away at the existing spell. Once a single brick is free of arcane energy flowing through it, she moves it aside with a simple spell. Then another, and with a terrifying creaking noise, a third.

‘ Anar’alah, can’t you be any louder?’ Sylvanas hisses.

‘I’m doing my best down here in the clammy mud,’ Jaina whispers back.

She shifts brick after brick, until the cool night air hits her in the face and a view of Boralus’ city lights is revealed in a gap between the stones. Once it’s large enough, she squeezes herself through it, getting stuck with her coat and falling inelegantly onto her face in the wet grass outside the wall. Sylvanas follows quietly, almost mocking Jaina in her perfect, noiseless movements.

They pick up their luggage and resume their journey to the harbour. As Jaina leads Sylvanas to the sailboat, she casts one look back at the castle. Proudmoore Keep looms over the nightly city, imposing and intimidating in it’s grandness. She hears Sylvanas grunt something like a laugh behind her.

‘What?’ she asks the elf.

Sylvanas points one disapproving finger at the boat by the pier they’re standing next to. ‘That name. It is horrible.’

‘I was a stupid child when I got this boat, alright? No insulting is allowed, because Carefree was a beautiful name to me then,’ Jaina huffs as she loads the bags onto the sailboat.

It wobbles in the waters of the harbour when she places the bags onto the deck and unfurls the sail. Her lover eyes the boat with apprehension, not jumping onto it until Jaina beckons her. Water splashes against the stones of the quay with such noise that they both cringe.

Before Sylvanas is settled properly on deck, Jaina unhooks the rope from the pier and turns the sail into the sparse wind. It billows, filling with the breeze and she grabs the helm. Feeling the wood under her fingers assures her greatly, and she is filled with new determination as she steers the sailboat slowly out of the harbour. The mechanics of the helm make all the little clicking noises she knows so well, and she is glad that she owns a boat that’s a tad larger than the common smaller ones in the harbour. Just large enough to have a sturdy helm instead of an easily breakable rudder.

When sailing out of Boralus harbour and onto the open sea, she squares her shoulders and takes in a deep breath of salty fresh air. Meanwhile Sylvanas is still sitting by the railing, not having moved since she boarded.

‘Can you keep an eye on the city and tell me when it’s properly out of sight?’ Jaina asks her.

‘Yes. I will,’ Sylvanas answers, voice sounding strangely stiff.

Blaming it on the stress that their journey puts on the both of them, Jaina pays no further mind to the odd tone in her voice. Instead, she focuses on the steady glide of the ship’s bow through the water. After some time, Sylvanas notifies her that the city lights are not visible anymore, and Jaina fixes the helm in place. After jumping down, skipping the stairs to the deck as she is used to, she loosens the rope keeping the sail taut so it does not catch wind anymore. When the boat has ceased moving, she walks to the front of the boat and prepares for casting.

Arcane surges through her body as she swipes her right arm through the air. Ripping into the sky, she opens a portal. The fresh smell of ozone fills her nostrils. Once she is back behind the helm of the Carefree, she steers it through the portal. Behind the rip is sea, like before it. But as she closes the portal, she notes differences. The water is greener. There is more wind, from a slightly different direction. The sun is just peeking above the horizon, casting its light over the sea around them. Unbothered, even assured by the soft rocking of the boat, Jaina makes her way to the sail to ready it for traveling further.

‘Are you alright, Sylvanas?’ she asks when she sees her lover, still seated by the railing.

The elf curtly nods, not averting her eyes from her boots. ‘I am fine, Jaina.’

‘Alright, but if there’s anything wrong, you must tell me.’

Sylvanas nods again, lips pressed into a tight line.

Sailing on, Jaina keeps an eye on her. Her wife’s face twitches sometimes. She bares her teeth marginally, hissing quietly while shivering. Something is wrong, though Jaina cannot quite put her finger on what. After looking at her compass and adjusting their position slightly, Jaina steadily sails northwest. The sun rises, the wind rustles her braided hair. She feels peaceful, at sea.

‘Don’t you need to put the luggage in the hold? It makes the ship… move,’ Sylvanas mumbles some time later.

‘Unless the waves get too high, there’s no need. Besides, the boat moves anyways, no matter where I put the bags.’ Jaina frowns at her from behind the helm.

Then something dawns on her. “The boat moves”. Sylvanas has stared at her boots since they’ve sailed form Boralus. She stabilizes the helm and walks to her wife’s side, kneeling down. ‘Look at me, Sylvanas, please.’

As the elf lifts her head to meet Jaina’s blue eyes, her ears swivel further towards her neck. Her long eyebrows droop and her shoulders sag. She pulls her knees more towards her, nearly hiding her face in between them. The sorry sight makes Jaina think of a very uncomfortable wet cat.

‘Are you seasick, Sylvanas?’ she asks with concern lacing her voice.

‘How could you think that? I - urgh- ’

When the elf jerks her head towards Jaina and tries to swiftly stand up, she falls to her knees instead, holding her waist tightly with one arm. ‘ - I do not get seasick!’

‘Sure you are.’

Smiling empathetically, Jaina pats Sylvanas on the shoulder. ‘Apologies, I had briefly forgotten about… seasickness. But I mean, I grew up on ships-’

‘Jaina, I am not seasick!’ Sylvanas frustratedly exclaims, flicking the hand off her shoulder.

‘Alright then.’ The mage shrugs. ‘Then you can help me with putting the bags into the hold!’ Cheerily, she gives the stubborn elf one more hearty pat on her arm before standing up. Then she grabs the handle of her own leather bag and unlocks the trapdoor to the small hold.

~~~~~

As soon as Sylvanas stands, the deck of the ship rolls beneath her feet. Dropping back to her knees, she feels as if she is about to hurl onto the wooden planks. In the back of her mind, she knows that’s impossible because of her undead state. It still feels as such. Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, she feels the sickening rocking of the boat stir her dead stomach even more.

Jaina’s hand returns to her shoulder, pushing her backwards and propping her soundly against the railing. The blue eyes of the Daughter of the Sea provide some much needed stability. ‘Look at the horizon,’ she advises. ‘I’ll shove the bags into the hold, don’t worry.’

Sylvanas rests her glowing gaze on Jaina’s blonde streak of hair and follows it as she descends into the hold. After some rustling noises, Jaina’s head pops up through the trapdoor opening. ‘I said look at the horizon, not at me!’

Slowly the world stops spinning. The sun has fully risen and Sylvanas silently wishes she could feel its warmth on her skin. Every so often, she glances at her wife, hauling bags across the deck. Her stomach protests with another roil every time. She also wishes that it was completely dead like her lungs, so she would be spared the feeling of seasickness. But clearly that is another joy she is not allowed to have.

Tired and still weary, she slides her feet over the deck until her legs are stretched in front of her. Sitting and not moving seems to be the position to remain in, for now. There is no one here but Jaina, she thinks to herself. At least this embarrassment will remain limited to acting up in front of only her.

‘Why do I have no problem with airships, but the second I set foot on a sailboat, I feel like I’m about the throw up?’ she laments aloud.

‘Airships are very stable. You don’t feel the waves when you’re aboard one,’ Jaina says as she secures some ropes by the sail.

Sylvanas sighs. Or rather, she tries to, but her chest cramps and no air will leave her lungs. Thus she limits herself to an airless hiss through clenched teeth. Despite reading up on the Zandalari navy a night prior, she has no newfound appreciation for being on a ship herself. Time passes as she stares at the horizon. When her legs feel strong enough to stand on without shaking uncontrollably, she joins Jaina by the helm.

‘Ah, you’ve found your sea legs, I see,’ the Daughter of the Sea greets her.

Wordlessly, Sylvanas looks at her. How her eyes are trained on the horizon, concentrated as her best archers’ gaze. How the wind plays with her braid. How the freckles that dust her cheeks seem to glow in the sunlight. And as she follows Jaina’s look, she can see a semblance of the beauty that her wife sees in the seas. Sharply, the bow of their sailboat cuts through the water, parting the waves with a white froth. Jaina taps on her compass, checking their direction, steering the boat slightly more to the north. ‘We are due to arrive at the Broken Shore in the late afternoon.’

‘Good. The sooner I feel solid ground under my feet, the better.’  

‘So you are seasick?’ Jaina teases, giving the helm just a little swing so the boat swerves ever so slightly.

‘Minx,’ Sylvanas grumbles. ‘I feel better, thank you for being so concerned.’

‘’Tis nothing, my wife. Now, would you be so polite, and nice, to grab me some food from my bag?’

Rolling her eyes, the elf nods. ‘Alright. Anything else My Lady wishes?’

‘Why yes!’ Jaina carefully lets go of the helm. She unbuttons her greatcoat and shrugs out of it. ‘You can shove this into the hold too.’

She isn’t wearing a tunic, or the long-sleeved shirt Sylvanas thought she had put on. No, the undead gets a full view of her muscled arms in her short sleeves. If she had the blood to blush, she would have. Instead, she takes a long look at how the sunlight accents the hard edge of Jaina’s biceps, before making her way down to the hold.

The rocking of the ship is more obvious here, and Sylvanas feels her stomach protest. She briefly closes her eyes until her body does not want to vomit anymore. Riding a hawkstrider is easier than this , she thinks by herself. Jaina has distributed the bags evenly in the small space. Its ceiling is low enough that the tall elf has to stoop down and even then her ears brush against the wood above. She spies the tarp and what she recognizes as an extra sail, neatly folded in a corner. Opening Jaina’s leather pack, she takes out a square package, wrapped in cheesecloth. As she had assumed, it’s the food. A few slices of bread, with cheese and cured ham respectively. Bringing it up to her nose, she inhales the savory smell and silently wishes that she could taste it.

Hopefully, one day, she thinks. But hope is a dangerous emotion for her. The somewhat fond look on her face is twisted into a snarl as she remembers Summermoon. While giving her back to the night elves had been part of the High Priestess’ demands should the pact of peace be signed, she still feels the loss of the good archer. If she killed hope herself, who resurrected it. Jaina? The little lion? The murky dilemma weighs more on her mind than Sylvanas is willing to admit to herself. Luckily, she is able to shift her expression back to neutral as she brings Jaina her food. Her beloved must not get worried, not now they’re on a quest together.

As she contemplates hope, and that the Ranger-General was sometimes called “Silvermoon’s valour, hope and dauntlessness” in her native tongue, Jaina eats and steers their boat. Then she suddenly sucks in a quick breath.

‘Tides, that’s not good.’

Sylvanas looks up. The mage’s eyes are trained on the horizon, her face slowly souring.

‘Storm clouds along the horizon. Gods , I cannot circumvent that. It’s spanning the entire length form north to west.’

Alarmed, Sylvanas looks where she is pointing. A dark mass of coagulated clouds looms above the sea. Below them, she can already spy the streaks that signify a heavy rainfall. The wind picks up and the ropes of the sail start flappering against the railing. ‘ Belore ,’ Sylvanas says.

‘Shit,’ Jaina corrects her.

Something shifts in her expression. From concerned to determined. She plants her feet firmer onto the deck, posture changing, broadening her shoulders and gripping the helm more tightly. This is the Lord Admiral, not Jaina Proudmoore, Sylvanas realizes.

‘Sylvanas, close the trapdoor to the hold. Get rid of your cape. And make sure that there’s nothing on deck that can become a projectile when the wind decides it wants to kill me,’ she commands with all the regalness befitting her rank. Even on this small sailboat, the captain in her shines through. And so the elf does, removing what small bits of extra rope and tools there were on the boatdeck. Chucking it all into the hold with her cape, she closes the trapdoor tightly.

When she faces Jaina again, the sea has gained foam on its waves. As the boat is lifted slightly higher with each passing minute it sails into the storm, the waters turn dark as the sky. Jaina still stands firm behind the helm, steering the boat forward without faltering. Then the wind picks up.

The hull of the boat suddenly slams down onto the waves. The entire sailboat hitches and bucks, nearly throwing Sylvanas off her feet. Jaina curses loudly and jerks the helm to stay on course. The elf looks at her, watching as the mage’s eyes suddenly go wide.

‘Sylvanas! Railing!’ she roars, barely hearable over the wind.

The Warchief looks in the direction her wife is frantically nodding at. A wall of seawater rears up from the sea. She dives for the railing and hangs on as it crashes over the boat. In an instant she is entirely soaked. Despite the fact that she does not feel the cold on her skin, she can sense how frigid the salt water is as it drenches her clothing. A sharp thwack to her left makes her jolt. The rope of the sail, clanging against the metal railing. She feels like a greenling ranger in her first battle, frightened and deeply aware of the unknown dangers around her. This is battle she does not know how to fight.

Another blazing gust of wind strikes the boat. Jaina yells something she cannot discern.

‘What!?’ she bellows at the mage.

‘Get the fucking rope out of the- aah!’ Jaina sharply shrieks in pain as it whips against her bared neck.

Sylvanas runs up to her, frantic. A deep purple bruise adorns the Lord Admiral’s shoulder. Her fists are clenched white around the sports of the helm.

‘I was serious when I said the wind might want to kill me,’ she pants.

All around them, the sea is churning. Rain beats onto the deck unrelentingly. Sylvanas’ ears swivel downwards in horror as she sees another wave form, ready to crash onto the boat. As a seasoned sailor, Jaina has seen in before the elf can even point it out. She steers the boat so it meets the wave diagonally, avoiding the worst of the waterfall. For a moment, Sylvanas has the stability beneath her feet necessary to look at her. The shirt sticks to her skin with water, outlining every curve and muscle. Her hair is coming out of its braid, wild and messy. The bright blue eyes find the glowing red ones.

‘Grab the outhaul slide line! Keep the sail from flappering too much!’ Jaina commands.

While absolutely willing to follow up on whatever the experienced sailor says, Sylvanas has no clue what that is. ‘Grab the what?’ she asks in slight stupor.

Jaina flicks wet hair out of her face with a sharp jerk of her head, keeping both hands on the helm. ‘Rope that hangs from the sail, the short one. Come stand here and just… pull with all your weight behind it!’

‘Ah, the one that struck you?’ the elf is already on her way, slipping over the wet wooden planks as she reaches for the wildly flappering rope.

‘Exactly!’

It whips against her fingers when the Banshee Queen tries to take hold of it. While it does not hurt her, but she feels the wind’s terrible power. As she keeps the sail as taut as she can, hanging onto the rope and leaning back on her heels to stay put, Jaina turns to her, breathing heavily.

‘Take the helm from me. Just keep it as still as you can. I’ll tie the rope down,’ she says.

‘How do I-’

‘Like you’re firing an arrow. Firm footstance, don’t let your concentration wane.’

Jaina practically shoves Sylvanas closer to the helm. The elf takes it, hands shaking slightly. As soon as she has both hands on the helm, she suddenly understands why Jaina is called the Daughter of the Sea. The wood is nearly wrenched out her hands by the roiling waves. She slips on the wet deck and the helm turns a good thirty degrees. Immediately the boat swerves wildly. A big wave lifts it upwards and everything seems to defy gravity as it crashes down. Water batters the sailboat, flooding everything in Sylvanas’ sight. It is so forceful that one of her hands is wrenched off the helm. With the right one, she hangs onto the sports, unable to steer the boat or even lift her head against the torrent.

When she does manage to look around her she can only see the next wave rise above the mast. A desperate Thalassian prayer slips from between her lips as it bears down onto her. This time she grabs the helm with both hands and leans forward, fixating her feet on the deck. She spots a flurry of white and blue next to her as Jaina rushes to help her. Then the water crashes down and she is swept away.

‘Jaina!’ Sylvanas shrieks. ‘No!’

A muted grunt of pain is all she hears when the waterfall drenches her again. She knows she cannot let go of the helm, lest the boat be upturned completely. But the Lord Admiral does not answer her cry.

When the foaming sea does not batter the boat for a moment, she can make out Jaina’s shape against the railing. She has curled up into a ball, back against the metal.

‘I knew I shouldn’t have given you the damn helm!’ she curses as she gets up.

Hastily she takes over. Sylvanas stumbles backwards, still unable to comprehend how her wife navigates in between the waves instead of letting them tumble down onto the sailboat. Grabbing the railing, she hangs on as best as she can while watching how Jaina steers the boat. Her back looks completely bruised, with scratches of red showing in the pale skin. A plume of guilt blooms in Sylvanas’ chest. She wishes she had been able to stabilize the boat better. But battling a storm is seemingly not something that elves are cut out for.

Jaina seems to take no further note of her own injuries, using all her strength to keep the helm in her control. She lets go with her casting hand for a split second to summon a purple shield that surrounds the hull and lifts the boat over a particularly hazardous wave. Then she taps on the compass, built into the helm, and adjust their position ever so slightly. Yet in due time, Sylvanas can see her tire. Her arms are trembling, her sailors’ muscles souring and slowly weakening under the beating rain and howling wind.

‘Sylvanas! I see the coastline!’ she yells, voice hoarse and worn out.

They are closer than Sylvanas had expected. The dark clouds had obscured the Broken Isles until they were less than a few miles away. Miraculously, Jaina navitages the sailboat in between the jagged rocks that lurk beneath the surface. Even Sylvanas knows how dangerous these waters are, since the legends surrounding the Isles were told even in Silvermoon. Using her arcane shields, Jaina brings the boat to a stop a few feet from a pebbled beach. She unties the rope and brings the sail down quicker than Sylvanas can comprehend.

In their bay, they are a bit secluded form the storm. The mage jumps into the water next to the boat. It reaches a little past her knees, but soaked as she is, she does not seem to care. Sylvanas moves from her position by the railing. As she walks to the bow of the ship, Jaina tells her to get the tarp from the hold. She sounds exhausted, and Sylvanas sees her shaking on her feet as she makes her way up the beach.

Miraculously, the hold is still dry. Only a tiny amount of water has dripped into the space, and the luggage isn’t damaged. It is in slight disarray, scattered in the hold, but the bags are still closed.

When Sylvanas has waded towards the shore as well, she spots Jaina standing besides a high, jagged rock formation. ‘We can set up the tarp here,’ she says. Her bruised arm hangs limply by her side, she shivers as a gust of wind chills her in her wet clothing. ‘I’ll put up some wards.’

‘Is it not wiser to rest?’ Sylvanas asks. ‘This is the most undetectable place you could think of, you said it yourself. I’d rather not risk detection… but you seem too tired to cast.’ As she hears the worry bleed into her voice, she wonders again if she has gone soft. But as Jaina drops to her knees and shuffles closer to the rock, she sees the misery in her hunched posture and does not question her own words.

The tarp is set up quickly enough, fastened with long pegs into the beach. It provides a large enough shelter from the rain for the both of them to sit comfortably. As Sylvanas stands up from the pebbles and wipes her hands on her armour, the ground under her feet starts to roll again.

‘It can take a bit to get used to solid earth again,’ Jaina warns her. ‘You were seasick, after all.’ She has seated herself and is removing her soaked boots. ‘Go rinse your mouth with seawater. I swear it helps. And it’ll be even better for you, since you cannot taste it.’

~~~~~

After watching Sylvanas stumble to the shoreline and peeling the wet socks off her own feet, Jaina leans back against the rock. She hears the raindrops fall onto the canvas above her. Vaguely, she also hears Sylvanas spit a mouthful of salt water into the sea. It is an old trick that her father taught her, and she is glad that the elf does not question her advice. Sylvanas seems to have grown out of her spite a bit. Or perhaps she just recognized Jaina’s expertise. The mage is not sure, and most certainly does not care at that moment. The Warchief’s boots crunch in the sand besides her.

‘I’m sorry… about the storm. I should have been prepared for it,’ she sighs to her wife.

‘How can one be prepared for such a violent bout of storm?’ Sylvanas inquires. ‘You did all you could.’

Yes, and you most certainly didn’t help, nearly sinking the boat with your stumbling about, Jaina thinks, but does not voice it. A slow burn spreads through her shoulder, pulsing in the bruised flesh. She twinges, drawing up her knees and letting the exhaustion wash over her, ready to pass out until Sylvanas speaks up again.

‘Have you packed potions? Healing herbs?’

‘Yeah…’ Jaina sighs. ‘Potions. Smaller bag, in the front pocket.’

Rustling noises follow as her wife rifles through the rucksack. Wordlessly, she works Jaina into a more relaxed sitting position, sliding the shirt off her injured shoulder and arm. ‘Pour over the wound or drink?’ she asks.

The Lord Admiral is barely able to slur: “Give me the purple one, pour the red over the bruises,’ before she shivers and groans as she jars her shoulder further by the movement.

Sylvanas puts the first bottle to her lips. The sour, oddly warm liquid is slightly viscous in her throat, but soon enough, Jaina feels it start to take effect. The pulsing, burning pain is replaced with a prickling sensation as the bruises discolor and slowly fade. Instead of upending the other flask, Sylvanas pours it onto a washcloth from the backpack and rubs the soft fabric over Jaina’s shoulder. The surprisingly tender gesture makes the mage sigh in relief. After the elf hands her a blanket to wrap around her shivering frame, she casts a fire in the sand underneath the tarp. The little bit of mana she must use for it is enough to send her head spinning. But she isn’t finished yet, there is one thing she must do.

After discarding her gloves, Jaina cups her hands. The fire is already warming her pleasantly, and she thinks she might just be able to pull of the right spell. Whispering an incantation, she feels the air solidify in her hands. Three small, sweet-smelling, steaming buns rest in the her palms. Sylvanas curiously sits down next to her.

‘Mana buns? I did not take your for the type to learn how to summon those,’ she quips.

‘Once upon a time, a little dumb mage wanted to conjure sweets without having to move her ass from her study,’ Jaina pointedly says before taking a big bite. ‘So I learnt.’

The judging hmm she hears next to her tells her exactly what the seasoned former Ranger-General thinks of her laziness.

Glaze from the buns sticks to the corners of her mouth. It makes her smack louder than she intended to. Having finished one bun rather quickly, she starts munching on the second. Slowly the exhaustion lessens, the sugar in the pastries doing its work.

‘How do they taste? Can you describe it?’

At first, Jaina thinks she imagines hearing the words. But as she looks to her left and spots the telltale embarrassed look on her elvish partner’s face, she knows Sylvanas most certainly spoke.

Laughing with her mouth full, Jaina obliges: ‘Describe them? Gods, Sylvanas. Alright…’

She swallows and wipes the sugary glaze out of the corners of her mouth before thinking deeply for a few moments. Then she squeezes the half-eaten second bun. ‘Look, they’re soft. The dough is really fluffy, if you have perfected the spell.’

Very tentatively, Sylvanas reaches out and presses a finger into the side of the rolled-up pastry. The sheer hesitation and near repugnance on her face causes Jaina to break into a fit of laughing, almost dropping the third bun. With a satisfied hum, she tosses the chunk into her mouth, tasting and searching for the words she needs.

‘They taste sweet, but not overly so. It’s the glaze that makes them sweet, actually. In the buns themselves… there is barely sugar in them, if I recall correctly. You do have these little pieces of nut in them. Little crunchy treats in the soft dough. It took me months until I got the spell just right for them.’

Sylvanas’ ears perk up curiously. Her mouth twitches in that odd way, the way that means she’s trying to smile, Jaina has learnt. ‘Do go on,’ the elf says, clearly interested.

‘Oh, they contain cinnamon too. It makes the buns spicy, and complements the softness of the buttery dough well…’ Jaina takes a big bite out of the third pastry. ‘And, they’re warm. Warm, fluffy and a little spicy - oops - I shouldn’t eat with my mouth full. ‘M sorry.’

‘No one can see us here…’ the Warchief says. Then Jaina sees one of her ears swivel to the side. Her long eyebrows sink into a frown. ‘Stay here,’ she whispers.

~~~~~

The slightest sound. A rustle in between the battering of rain on the canvas above their heads. Sylvanas stands up. Her bow is in her luggage, neatly unstrung. The closest weapon she can grab is one of her hooked swords, bound to the top of the pack. Jaina is frozen in place as she carefully slips it out of its leather sheath.

Sneaking low and quietly over the pebbled beach, the former Ranger-General peeks around the rock formation where they have set up the tarp.

There, she hears it again. A rustle amongst the shrubbery that lines the coast.

‘Show yourself! We mean no harm to Horde or Alliance!’ she calls out into the storm.

A swooshing sound behind her. The heavy beat of wings, yet faltering and accompanied by a shrieking growl. Sylvanas whirls around to the sight of two fel green eyes coming at her. One slash of her blade nearly separates the creature in two at the waist. With a heavy thud it falls onto the beach.

‘What in Tides’ name was that sound?’ Jaina rounds the rock formation too, alarmed. Her slightly bloodied shirt hangs loose around her injured shoulder and she looks rather tired. Still, she walks up to Sylvanas, who looks at the corpse on the ground.

‘Some leftover demon… from the attack we know all too well,’ the Banshee Queen morosely says. ‘I am going to scan the area for more. We do not want to have anything this foul sneaky up on us tonight.’

Her wife nods. ‘Be careful, Sylvanas. We… we still have a long way to go. The promise and such…’

‘Yes. I am aware.’

Darkly, the elf turns towards the night sky. As she surveys the line of battered vegetation that lines the shore and the low hillside beyond it, she feels her banshee’s bloodlust stir in her veins. Red light bleeds from her eyes over her cheeks and she bares her fangs in a low, rattling hiss. Lifting her blade, she steps out of the circle of light cast by their campfire, and faces what lurks in the darkness beyond it. Whatever it might be, it should be afraid. For she knows the dark better.

As she suspected, there are others. Malformed, wretched leftovers from the Legion that weren’t slaughtered before. One has but a single arm and wing. Its efforts are pathetic, Sylvanas thinks as she impales it on her sword and rips the other wing off for good measure. Another jumps at her, its claws just raking her leather armor. As it lunges anew, she fades to smoke, spreading the noxious shadows around her, choking her assailant within them. She turns to the sky, shrieking her banshee’s cry so violently that it kills several of the weakened demons closest to her.

In a rage, she tears from one side of the coastline to the other, slaughtering everything that she comes across. Demonic beings, wildlife, all that is in her path. The smell of their blood drives her raging soul to more anger. Eventually she comes to a stop near the black cliffside. As the red haze disappears from her vision, she can see the little spot of light of the campfire down by the water.

Her armor and sword are covered with blood and gore, as Jaina points out when she arrives at the tarp. Somewhat awkwardly, the Banshee Queen sits down besides her and takes off most of the armor. She starts cleaning it, while explaining that the shoreline should be free of malicious creatures now. Jaina is still eating the last of those mana buns. While the rain dims the sweet fragrance of it, she recalls the mage’s description all too well. Sweet but not overly so, spicy, soft and warm. If her mouth could water, it would. Sylvanas feels like a dumb child as she thinks to herself: one day I’ll taste those too. One day, soon. The sparks of hope in her heart feel alien, down there in the cold confines of her unmoving ribcage. While her hands don’t falter in cleaning the gore off her armor, her face turns increasingly sad.

Looking next to her, she sees that Jaina has dozed off. The blanket Sylvanas handed her is slowly slipping off her shoulders.

‘ Dalah’surfal ?’ she softly attempts to wake her.  

‘ Hrrmm, heard that,’ Jaina mumbles as she opens her eyes.

Sylvanas sighs. The Thalassian endearment will simply not leave her mouth ever since she accidentally let it slip past her lips in Kul Tiras. The mage yawns loudly, shivering in the aftermath of the storm and clutching the blanket. The elf pulls it up to her neckline again, but Jaina opens her arms in an inviting gesture.

‘Aren’t you going to look for warmth this time?’

‘You will get cold,’ Sylvanas curtly says. If her lover is shivering in the frigid night, she cannot afford to get close with her cold body, is her reasoning. Yet Jaina has other plans. She insistedly tugs on the Warchief’s arm until she caves and shuffles closer to the enticing warmth. No sooner has she seated herself next to Jaina or the mage wraps her arms, plus blanket, very tightly around her. It is bordering on uncomfortable, since Sylvanas cannot move her arms well, in this position. But as she hears Jaina’s happy hum against her shoulder and feels the heat from her body slowly seeping into her cold flesh, she does not move.

‘Rest, Jaina,’ she says, more fondly than she wanted to. ‘You will need it for tomorrow.’

‘True,’ Jaina murmurs into Sylvanas’ neck. Her breath ghosts over the undead’s skin, prompting a shiver of her own. The yearning to feel air rush inside her own lungs blooms front and center in her mind.

But all sad longing is wiped from her thoughts as Jaina presses her lips against the elf’s neck in a quick kiss. Sylvanas near jumps.

‘ Anar’alah, you damned mage! You know that you have incapacitated me, constraining me with your body and that stupid blanket. I am in no position to- gaah!’

‘What?’ Jaina innocently asks, pressing another quick few kisses against the bared grey skin. She might linger a bit longer than is truly comfortable, with her injured shoulder.

Sylvanas catches her head in between the crook of her neck and her shoulder. Pressing a kiss of her own against the crown, she says into the mage’s hair: ‘You know very well what, you insufferable tease.’

Jaina opens her mouth to say something, sucking in a quick breath in her restrained position. ‘But my pr-’  

‘How much does this really have to do with your promise? How much is it just you somehow wanting to feel my cold hide underneath your lips?’ Truthfully, Sylvanas cannot fathom why Jaina wants that. But there are intentions, that Jaina is hiding behind her so-called promise.

Or are there? Is it just an affectionate touch? , Sylvanas thinks. Never before has she doubted both her own words and her partner’s this quickly. A slow rise of dread builds in her chest as she releases Jaina’s head from her hold. Immediately it’s laid down on her shoulder, and Jaina snuggles even closer to her. The elf’s dead heart twinges at the feeling of the warm skin against her own. Her love’s hand creeps up to her stomach, settling there.

For as long as Jaina sleeps against her, Sylvanas is left alone with her longing, the slow burn of desire in her chest. It turns painful, seeming to press outwards against the confines her frigid body.  

Once more, as in Kul Tiras, before their fight, she tries to breathe. Something so easily done when she was alive is a process of torturous movements now. While she can flex her stomach muscles, no air will expel from her lungs. Again, she tries. First coughing, as to feel the movement she needs her body to make. Then the reverse, the inhale. And as before, the muscles in her chest convulse and cramp, making her gag and fling her head back against the rock in frustration. She tries again, drawing her shoulders back, her chest forward, to try and force air into her dead body. But then, something spasms inside her lungs. A muted nhhg of pain is forced out of her mouth as a stab of an unseen dagger seems to pierce her chest.

Sylvanas gives up her efforts for the night, instead trying to find comfort of the softly moving body of Jaina. Miraculously, she hasn’t been awoken by the tremor going through Sylvanas’ corpse of a body. The pain slowly fades, leaving only the quiet in the Banshee Queen’s cold flesh.

Yet her mind will not still. A fear she had chosen to ignore from the moment Jaina suggested going to Alexstrasza now rises in her thoughts. She remembers the moment when the Lich King’s newest pet Sindragosa had breathed her frozen flames over the wastelands. Now, she was to return to that very place. And what would the former Red Aspect have to say? If her sister had been with her, she was bound to know. About Teldrassil, about Lordaeron.

Dragons. They had cleansed the battlefield on the day the Lich King had been slain. Only that day had she bore witness to their power. She had seen the red dragonflight in their truest forms.

Is that to be my fate? Sylvanas thinks. To face the Dragon Queen, besides my lover. Coming to her as a beggar, pleading for life?

It is unbefitting of a Warchief. Sylvanas knows it. Yet the desire to breathe, the pain her earlier attempt caused her, and the soft noises Jaina’s sleeping form makes as she rests alongside her threaten to overpower Sylvanas’ prejudices. She is torn between waking her lover to tell her and letting the mage rest for the final leg of their journey.

Eventually, she chooses the latter. Despite the looming fear of being refuted by the dragon, she clings on to a scrap of hope that Jaina has instilled into her heart. Because even in between the howling wind, battering rain and churning waters of the Broken Shore, she still remembers the kiss they shared. And the promise it entails.

~~~~~

‘We should send the Carefree back to Boralus. It would be a waste to destroy it here.’

Jaina is well rested. After a quick but frigid wash in the sea and a good breakfast with the last scraps of food that she had packed, she feels refreshed. Sylvanas had let her sleep, so that she only woke in the early afternoon. Both the storm and the numerous magical efforts had exhausted her more than she had accounted for. Channeling the arcane is easier with her staff anyhow, and it had taken its toll the previous day.  

‘Create a portal to Wyrmrest Temple first. I do not - we do not need you collapsing again,’ Sylvanas curtly replies.

The elf dismissively waves at the sailboat. ‘Who knows what awaits us there? Shouldn’t you at least ensure that we get there unharmed?’

‘You’re right,’ Jaina admits. ‘The last thing we need at this moment is a faulty portal.’

As she prepares to cast, she feels nerves boil up in her chest. Focusing her arcane takes a bit longer than usual. She’s jittery, shuffling her feet in the pebbles of the beach and shaking the tension out of her arms to get a good grip on her spell.

Sylvanas, who is apprehensively staring at her from a bit lower down the beach, has her own kind of anxiety that Jaina recognizes all too well now. Stiff posture, lips haughtily pressed together to give away none of the thoughts that play in her mind, hands resignedly on her back. All the signs of her hidden, silent unease are there. Jaina takes special note of her ears, stiffly upright alongside her head. The merest touch would make them jump. The mage allows a nervous chuckle to slip past her lips at the thought.

She represses a shiver, filling her body with arcane. Her staff surges, blue ribbons of energy swirling around Jaina’s entire figure. Wyrmrest temple is a long distance away, making it harder to focus on the location. Yet as she breathes in deeply and reaches out with her mind, she feels a gust of icy cold air from Northrend fill her lungs. The sky rips open under her powers. Jaina steps back from the portal, leaning slightly on her staff and shaking her head to clear her mind of the haze that such difficult spells bring.   

Walking up over the beach, Sylvanas approaches the portal. In a kind of trance, she feels along the edges of the spell, quickly retreating when she feels the frigid air that emanates from it. ‘Good work,’ she says. Her voice is oddly tight, which Jaina blames on the nerves they both share.

‘Yes, I do hope I got the location right. The Temple was far away, nearly too far for my mind to reach. Now… shall I displace the boat to Boralus, so we can leave?’

The Warchief nods curtly, still peering into the shimmer of the portal. The Mage thinks to know the reason behind her sudden reclusiveness. Perhaps the prospect of returning close to the icy fortress where she spend so long in torturous pain is numbing her mind. Jaina knows all too well how the fortress looks, and how the cold always threatened to swallow her whole while she was inside it. She reaches for Sylvanas’ gloved hand and squeezes it softly. Assuring words briefly fail her, as she stands in front of the portal with her lover. The elf’s smouldering eyes find hers, her face twisted into something resembling both a snarl and a saddened grimace.

‘It - it’s alright, truly,’ Jaina stammers. Empty words , her mind echoes. Her breath runs shaky as Sylvanas jerks her head in a sort of nod.

The dread settling in her chest remains there, even after she has successfully whisked the sailboat away with another spell. She can only hope it ended up in the harbour of Boralus, and not on top of another boat at that. Still Sylvanas stands impassively before the portal, one leather travelling bag on her back, a smaller one in her left hand. She left only one for Jaina to carry, wordlessly, in her own kind of generosity.

As they enter the portal, the frigid air seems to close around Jaina and suck the breath from her lungs. The first thing she notices is that they are decidedly not on the steps of Wyrmrest Temple. While the frost-covered mountainscape around them is undoubtedly the Great Dragonblight, the Temple itself is nowhere to be seen. Jaina is glad that she packed warm clothing and a fur-trimmed cape, since the snow is falling lightly and every breath she takes seems to briefly freeze her airways.

Her thick blue coat has a layer of wool on the inside, insulating her body. She pulls the hood of her cape over her head and flexes her hands inside her heavy gloves. Sylvanas doesn’t look to be having trouble, in her leather armor.

‘Jaina…’ she begins, before the mage promptly cuts her off.

‘Yes, I know we’re not where we are supposed to be. I’m trying to find out how we got here and where in Tides’ name we actually are.’

Sylvanas huffs, only irritating Jaina further. But, determined to not let her nerves sour her temper anymore, she begins casting some basic detection spells. Soon enough, she feels a disruption. To her left, where the mountains rise as impressively as to the right, the air waves under her spellwork. A ward. As she feels along the edge of it, she slowly starts to form a mental picture of the protective spell. It is more akin to a wall than a dome like she has set up around Proudmoore Keep. A massive wall at that, spanning as far as she can feel with her arcane senses. Yet it does not bear any aggressive spells, none that she can trigger. So she reaches out, hand passing harmlessly through the ward. While the magic presses against her skin, it does not harm her. The more contact she makes with it, the more powerful it feels. Ancient dragon magic, she is sure of it.

Slowly, foot by foot, Sylvanas follows her as they both shuffle through the unseen ward.

‘We are bound to have been noticed by whatever manages this spellwork,’ Jaina comments. ‘But that wasn’t avoidable anyways. Let us hope that they are benevolent.’

‘How do you know that the Temple is in this direction?’ Sylvanas asks, voice dripping with mistrust.

‘I feel it.’ Jaina takes a deep breath and waves her hand in the direction of the mountains in front of them to illustrate. ‘This… this force, this power… The ward separates it from the rest of the Dragonblight, but the air here is saturated with ancient magic. I feel it… tingling on my skin, almost.’   

She cannot ban the enthusiasm from her voice. It is the energy that surrounds the dragons and their buildings. She felt it in Kalec, many years ago. Yet that was a meek, weak version of the thumming power she feels in the air here. It seems to lessen the cold, nearly providing a sense of comfort in the snow.

At Sylvanas’ urging, they trudge on through the frozen land. The elf walks swiftly, like she can smell the end of their journey. Lagging behind slightly, Jaina is taken in awe by the immense power currents in the air around them. Sylvanas, less attuned to magic as she is, doesn’t seem to feel it. At least, not consciously. Jaina wonders if Alleria was attracted to the source of this power. Or perhaps the void inside her was, seeking it out and dragging the helpless elf with it.

‘There, I see the Temple,’ Sylvanas suddenly states, snapping Jaina out of her morose thoughts.

The multi-layered building rises up massively from its surroundings. Yet something is off about it. In illustrations that Jaina had seen, a warm light seemed to emanate from the building. But the huge structure looks abandoned, without welcoming lights or dragons flying about above its spires. The only dragon in sight is a skeleton, sticking out from the snow close to the Temple’s steps.

No words are spoken between the pair as they walk up the broad staircase. Jaina can feel them going through ward after ward, but none of them are harmful. She keeps scanning the stone steps, walls and dragonesque statues for more spells, but the Aspect’s magic seems to have waned strangely, leaving only the defensive wards. Still, they are much too strong for her to even prod with her own magic, repelling the slightest touches.

They pass through the open gate unharmed. Sylvanas hisses as they enter the halls of the Temple. ‘Nothing moves here, we aren’t attacked, no trace of the Life-Binder. It all feels wrong.’

She turns to Jaina. ‘Any helpful verdicts, Proudmoore?’

Proudmoore, it had been some time since Jaina heard that sneer.

‘Indeed, it looks abandoned here. Let’s proceed as far as we can, so at least we will know for certain that we have… come for naught, perhaps.’ Anxiety and dread sinks further in Jaina’s chest.

With a huff, Sylvanas marches on into the corridors of the temple. ‘Fine. Lest we find some half-frozen dragonkin here who can tell us that the great Dragon Queen has disappeared for good.’

‘Alleria told me that we ought to go here. Don’t you trust her advice? She can’t have lied to us, right?’

‘’T was not long ago that Alleria seemed to wish me dead as fervently as my entire family,’ Sylvanas sneers. ‘I don’t see why she wouldn’t betray us-’

‘Gods, Sylvanas! Look where we have ended up!’ Jaina gasps as she sees a light illuminate the room at the end of the corridor they are walking through. ‘I- I thought that this was closed for mere mortals.’

Openmouthedly, she looks around her. Great dragon statues line the walls. Five waygates, each with a set of dragon figures, protecting the sanctums that lie behind them. The gigantic domed roof is held up by red sandstone pillars. Their footsteps echo loudly in the eerily silent space. The only sources of light are the shimmering barriers closing the sanctums’ waygates.

Sylvanas’ voice cuts through the silence, making Jaina jump in fright. ‘What in Belore’s name… the Chamber of the Aspects, open and vulnerable for all to attack? Has the Queen lost her mind? Has she forsaken this entire place?’

‘Sylvanas! Those kind of accusations… not here, please,’ Jaina hastily says, breath quickening.  

Now enraged, the Banshee Queen turns to her, eyes blazing. ‘No one lives here, Jaina! This place is abandoned. Forsaken. To be taken by the frost. And I swear, when I speak to that traitorous sister of mine, I-’

‘You will do what, to Alleria?’

Sylvanas whirls around, expression shifting from anger to a kind of fright. I told you! Jaina wants to scream, but she holds her tongue as a tall figure steps out of the shadows.

Wreathed in gold and red, with leather armor and cloth wrought in the shape of flames, curling in layers around her arms and torso. A long, heavily embroidered sash is wrapped around her waist, the loose end swiping just above her knee as she walks up to the pair with heavy steps. As her head emerges from the shadows, a pair of orange glowing eyes regards them, almost curiously. The only bare skin Jaina spies is by the collar of her jacket, where she can see a pale scar on the bronzed skin of the Life-Binder’s throat.

The Dragon Queen’s four horns are adorned with golden bands, red and green gems glinting in the low light. Her legs are clad in the same heavy, dark red fabric that her sleeves are made out of. The fabric bunches at the top of her shin-height boots, which have golden flames engraved into the leather.

(Art by elrojocapucha @ Tumblr!) 

Sylvanas flinches back, away from the Life-Binder’s towering stature. Yes, she is a good two feet taller than the already lengthy elf.  

‘Warm greetings, most gracious Life-Binder, Queen of the Red Dragonflight, former Red Aspect,’ Jaina says, nearly stumbling over her words. Her heart beats wildly in her chest. ‘My apologies, my deepest, most sincere apologies for my… partner’s words! Please, she does not mean it.’

Alexstrasza cocks her head at Jaina, who nearly cowers as the dragon’s burning eyes are set upon her.

‘Whether she meant it or not, she has spoken,’ the Queen says in a deep voice that seems to reverberate in the Chamber of Aspects. ‘Lord Admiral Jaina Proudmoore, Warchief.’

She pauses thoughtfully, yet her eyes, like two molten pools of bronze, leave neither of them. ‘I felt you pass through my wards. Your attempts at feeling, and understanding their nature were… admirable.’ She nods at Jaina. ‘And I was informed of your coming, so I let you pass. Do state your cause, for I have been told that your journey was quite hazardous. There was a relay in the messages sent to me, and I read about the vicious storm scourging the Broken Isles, a night ago.’  

Her immense posture relaxes, but her expression remains vigilant, resting on Sylvanas for a moment longer than on Jaina.

The Banshee Queen sharply nods at Jaina, forcing her to do what the Life-Binder implored. And so, she steps forward, though her legs are slightly shaky underneath her. She must tilt her head and nearly crane her neck up to look into Alexstrasza’s eyes. From closer by, the woman seems to exude a kind of warmth. It calms her racing breath down a tad, and Jaina speaks:

‘We are honored to be in your presence, oh Life-Binder. Indeed, for nearly two days, we have travelled from Boralus to Wyrmrest Temple to seek your guidance.’

She looks at Sylvanas, who does not start talking about her cause, nor speaks at all. The elf just motions with her hand for Jaina to go on.

‘My wife and me have… stumbled upon a hindrance, for her. You see, gracious Queen, she has… found herself…’

Again, Jaina looks at her partner, who as averted her eyes from the Life-Binder’s burning stare. Her face is snarly, nearing anger.

‘She has found herself yearning for life… a life unlike her state of undeath. And, with Alleria’s advice… we thought that you may be able to grant her that desire.’

The Dragon Queen quirks her eyebrow at Jaina’s words. She shifts her gaze to Sylvanas and narrows her eyes dangerously. ‘Is that so?’

Jerking her head in a nod, Sylvanas confirms. Still, she does not look into the Life-Binder’s eyes. Jaina wonders if it is out of fear, anxiety or anger.

‘You, who has burnt innocents. You, who killed your way across Northrend years ago? And now you come here to ask for life, of all things.’

The Dragon Queen steps past Jaina to stand nearly chest to chest with the stressed elf. Though her voice doesn’t betray anger, the gold-embroidered ridges on her clothing flare with glowing flames. ‘Life, Sylvanas Windrunner, is not something to be careless with. One should not kill without thinking, nor should one ask for life’s blessings without considering if they deserve them.’

Jaina holds her breath tightly as Alexstrasza tilts her horned head even closer to Sylvanas’ and breathes out slowly, perhaps deliberately so. Her voice sinks lower, nearing the tone where Jaina can feel it more than she hears her words:   

‘Are you, Banshee Queen, worthy of life’s blessings?’

‘Isn’t that why we are here?’ Sylvanas snaps. ‘Is that not what Alleria whispered all around you and my wife?’ She clenches her fists, one around the leather-bound hilt of the blade at her belt. Jaina wants, quite frantically so, to ask her to please, let go of the weapon. Lest the Life-Binder sees it as a threat. But the Queen stands exactly in her path, singling out Sylvanas.

‘Alleria said naught considering whether you deserved this favour of mine. She merely notified me of your coming.’

‘Well then, am I? Does the great dragon consider me worthy of living a true life? Or did Jaina drag me through the storm and this godforsaken frozen wasteland for nothing?’ Sylvanas’ eyes flare to match the Life-Binder’s. Shadows swirl around her feet, twisting and turning to her banshee’s powers.

Once more, Jaina wants to interfere and is close to begging for Alexstrasza to listen to her instead. Yet, miraculously, the former aspect remains fairly calm, even when Sylvanas snarls at her.

‘That is not for me to decide yet. So far, all I have heard are the stories about your crimes. And your refusal to cooperate beyond the strict necessities, even under the pact sealed between Horde and Alliance with your marriage to Lady Proudmoore,’ she says. ‘Thus far, you have done nothing to seem worthy.’  

‘Then we have come here for nothing.’ Sylvanas darkly looks at Jaina, who is just about ready to sink onto her knees.

She feels sweat break out underneath her warm winter clothing, and brings up one trembling hand to raise a point. ‘C-couldn’t you show her how you long for-’

The shadows rush around Sylvanas as she steps through them, to stand nose to nose with Jaina in the blink of and eye. ‘That ought to be made obvious by the two of us coming here! No, she would rather see me suffer for the past than attempt to start a new life . It was useless to undertake this journey. Let us go back to Orgrimmar to contemplate my crimes and wallow in the past once more,’ she snarls, fangs bared and glinting in the low light.

Then she turns to the Life-Binder, furious. ‘I cannot fathom why my sister chose for you. Oh, perhaps because you are just as callous towards those under the undead curse as she is. Is the void really so much different? Because it leaves its victims alive, so you can still mother over them and-’

‘Leave Alleria out of this, Banshee,’ Alexstrasza growls. A sudden pulse of ancient magic seems to emanate from her body, shaking the air in the chamber.

‘I am so utterly sorry for my partner’s behavior! Please, Dragon Queen, please forgive her for-’ Jaina stutters, as she feels the arcane in her body rock under the pressure of the Life-Binder’s draconic magic.

‘Enough, Jaina!’ Sylvanas shouts. Enraged, her body begins to unravel into black smoke, as she continued to shout at the Dragon Queen, voice rising, turning into a banshee’s shrieking cry.

‘I have been told that you are so merciful! Yet this is not mercy, it is just prolonging my torture in this cold, dead corpse that I need to call a body!’

Jaina is afraid that she will lash out, knowing that one wrong move could have her lover turned into splatters on the walls of the Chamber of the Aspects. But Sylvanas ceases her rant, finishing with: ‘If only I had the power , the privilege, to breathe heavily now! If only you would grant me it!’

Then she turns into a cloud of black smoke and zips out of the room at breakneck speed. Through the corridor, out of Wyrmrest Temple. Alexstrasza's glowing eyes follow her as she flies past the dragon statues, out of sight. She raises her voice, not shifting her tone, merely making it echoe to reach the furious banshee as she presumably went to the frosty outside to quell her rage. ‘You have nearly an eternity to change my mind, Windrunner, for your curse binds you to this world until your Val’kyr have perished. Show me that there is still something of the Ranger-General, which your sister told me about, worth saving left within you. Only then will I grant you life.’

A wordless shriek of anger and anguish is all that Sylvanas answers with, the last traces of her vanishing from view.

‘If I may speak, my Queen… we- Sylvanas and I have shared… moments of happiness before,’ Jaina hesitatingly says.

Alexstrasza regards her with curiosity, anger fading from her stature as she inclines her head. ‘Do tell, Daughter of the Sea. I am no malevolent being, in fact, I am rather inquisitive as to what you have experienced.’

‘Well…’ Jaina starts, breath still racing. She had been sure that their quest had been ruined just a few seconds ago. ‘I’ve cooked for her, in Kul Tiras. Then I let her possess me to share the meal and-’ she looks down to her shoes, feeling rather ashamed.

‘Please continue, Lord Admiral. It sounds like a noble deed,’ Alexstrasza says in a soft tone. She steps closer to Jaina, inclining her head. With a sigh, she flicks a look at the entrance to the chamber. ‘She really did go outside,’ she muses. ‘I felt her pass through the wards again.’

‘Oh… perhaps I should leave too, as she is my partner, after all.’ Jaina feels increasingly crestfallen. But Alexstrasza stops her with a surprisingly soft yet heavy hand on her shoulder. The immense warmth coming from her touch eases Jaina’s worry. And strangely, it does not make her feel more uncomfortable, underneath her already hot winter clothing.

‘I think that all Windrunners must quell their anger sometimes. The sisters we are most familiar with, at least,’ she says. ‘Speaking from experience, naturally. Though I am very much interested in hearing more about your experiences. Cooking, sharing a meal via possession, you said? It sounds like something only a very compassionate lover would do.’

Then she walks back to the stairs by the waygate of the Ruby Sanctum and beckons Jaina. ‘Come and sit, Lord Admiral.’

Even whilst sitting, Alexstrasza’s horns come up to Jaina’s chest. As she puts down her bag and staff, sits down besides the Life-Binder and sighs deeply, she says: ‘Sylvanas had no hand in her fate, gracious Life-Binder. Becoming an undead… it's not on her to blame.’

‘Truthfully. Perhaps I should have mentioned that I was not berating her for what she did under the Lich King’s command. Rather, I was referring to the actions that were… all her own.’

‘Teldrassil… she did it not only to deal a heavy blow to the Alliance. Since the night elves never helped their brethren in the third war, it felt like treason. And treason demands revenge, in her eyes… Sylvanas thinks that the entire disaster could have been averted with their aid. I doubt that Arthas would have stopped… but that is besides the point now.’ Jaina relaxes, stretching her arms and recalling the happenings in Grommash Hold. It brings a small, fond smile to her face. Even as she feels the Life-Binder’s glowing eyes on her, she chuckles lightly.

‘Sylvanas expressed the full extend of her yearning for life, twice. Once in rage, in our shared chambers in Proudmoore Keep, once in Orgrimmar. It was foolish of me not to notice her distress, over the course of more than a week after we had cooked. In her anger, she said that I made her feel things she had forgotten. Breathing, a heartbeat, the warmth in living flesh. She could not stay in a bed with me, just because she felt my body alongside her own. And it made her long for what was taken from her in undeath.’

‘I think I am starting to understand,’ Alexstrasza warmly says. ‘And so you went to Alleria, I presume?’

‘Yes!’ Jaina now fully smiles, feeling warmed and assured by the dragon’s understanding. ‘Alleria said that, since you healed her from her void madness, perhaps you would be able to help Sylvanas as well.’

The former aspect nods. The golden rings on her heavy pairs of horns tinkle as she does so. Jaina’s eyes are inexplicably drawn to them, and she glimpses green gems set amongst the red. One of the rings even seems to bear an inscription in Thalassian. Jaina then clears her throat and says:

‘And so I went to Orgrimmar to convince her to travel here. We traversed half of Azeroth to ask you to… resurrect her? In a way?

‘The lengths you are willing to go for her. It is extraordinary, given her nature.’ The Life-Binder tilts her head upwards, gazing at the gigantic domed ceiling for a brief moment. ‘We shall talk further in the sanctum. You may even stay for as many nights as are necessary, ‘till we reach an accord suiting both the Warchief and me. Perhaps you could even show me how the two of you went about the possession, and the shared dinner?,’ she announces. ‘Now, you best go and retrieve your wife, Lady Proudmoore.’

‘Just Jaina, please,’ the mage says, blushing as Alexstrasza offers her hand to help her up. Weightlessly, the dragon pulls her to her feet. ‘May I ask what convinced you?’

‘The Banshee Queen guards her feelings well, Jaina. Yet you were able to make me see her perilous soul, buried underneath that frigid attitude of hers. If I may show you, to better explain the kind of pain I recognize, how I helped her sister?’

A wreath of shimmering magic curls around her arm, and at Jaina’s nod, she casts a rune on the ground in front of them. Lines of arcane spread in the grooves of the stone floor, and vision envelops Jaina.

Shivering, the void elf curls herself up against the walls of the Chamber of Aspects. She does not know how she got there, wandering through Wyrmrest Temple until her battered body gave out. Her hands are bleeding, palms raw, open flesh. The dark tendrils of void course through her body, alighting her skin in wicked shades of blue. A tortured scream rips from her throat, blood quickly following sound as she coughs it onto the stone beneath her. Curling up into a ball, despite the gash that crosses her back from shoulder blade downwards, she groans in broken sounds of pain. Until her voice stops, and she falls unmoving onto the cold floor.

As the Dragon Queen approaches, not apprehensive, yet vigilant, she sees the elf’s pain. Her once golden hair, cluttered and discolored by the void. She touches the cold, slack arms of the high elf, murmuring soft, assuring words. Immediately, the poor creature recoils. She tries to crawl away from the Life-Binder’s careful touches. But the blood, soaking her tattered clothing, is a clear giveaway of her grave injuries. She is in no state to move, let alone flee. The Dragon Queen lifts a hand to her face. The void surging through her flesh retreats at her touch, showing a speck of deathly pale skin.

‘C-cold…’ the elf gasps. She squirms away from the touch, allowing the void to take over what little the Life-Binder had vanquished. ‘It's s-so… cold,’ she stammers from between her split lips. A thin stream of blood trickles out of the corner of her mouth. Her breath comes out in strained, short bursts. Then it falters, and she goes slack as a corpse against the wall.

Thus, Alexstrasza gathers the elf in her arms, and carries her up the steps to the waygate of the Red Sanctum.

Jaina stumbles back as the vision wanes. She breathes heavily, shaking her head in disbelief. Next to her, the Life-Binder stands undisturbed, a concerned look gracing her fine features. ‘The mental pain your lover suffers is the same as mine was in. Physically, they both had to experience enough anguish, too,’ she says, dispelling the last traces of the memory projection.

‘I shall go to her, immediately,’ Jaina quickly stammers. Alleria’s frightened eyes and the dark red soaking her ranger’s clothes are haunting to her, even in a memory. ‘B-because… there are enough tortured souls in Azeroth already.’

Alexstrasza lifts a curious eyebrow. ‘There are, indeed.’

As Jaina speeds out of the chamber, she blushes and thinks back to the moment she first heard the snarled advice of Warden Shadowsong. And the night elf had been right, despite her gruffness. Still slightly horrified from the vision, Jaina arrives at the entrance of the temple. As she had hoped, Sylvanas is still moping around. The elf has reverted back to her normal form, a dark red silhouette starkly contrasting with the white snow.

‘You really should come inside, it’s getting late.’ Jaina lifts her arm to gently grasp Sylvanas’ shoulder.

‘Leave me be, Jaina,’ the banshee grits, and sharply shrugs Jaina’s hand off. She looks at the ragged cliffs of their surroundings. ‘Our last chance, evaporated before our very eyes. I’ll never be able to convince her, I’ve burnt too many souls for that. She… I’ve taken too many of her oh so valued lives.’

‘Quite the contrary, actually,’ Jaina calmly says. ‘She has offered us a place to stay for the night and is… considering our proposal.’

‘I don’t-’

‘Sleep, I know. Perhaps it’s good to do so, though. She asked for an example of what I have been trying to do for you, the last few months.’

‘I suppose. How did you convince her?’ Sylvanas asks.

Jaina tsks her tongue. ‘By speaking to her, not yelling. And by simply telling her the truth about our endeavors.’

With visible reluctance, stiff shoulders and upright ears, Sylvanas follows her back into the temple. Again, they traverse the corridors to the Chamber of Aspects. Sometimes, she halts her step, staring at the figures engraved into the wars, until Jaina turns around and beckons her to follow. Nearly dragging her heels, the elf walks with her to the chamber.

Alexstrasza is still awaiting the pair there. She turns to the waygate, and the two dragon statues guarding it. With a wave of her arms, she summons them to lift their energy streams, so the waygate is accessible. The Life-Binder beckons Jaina and Sylvanas. As they approach her through the chamber, she takes them into the Ruby Sanctum.