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In early spring, as the djaradin are gradually expelled from the citadel, they recover the tapestry.
It is one of a set, tracking the genealogy of their flight. This one is the most important. There is no name at the top, only a title in bold draconic text: Earth-Warder, First Aspect of the Black. Below are listed Neltharion’s consorts, and their children, and so on. Sabellian’s own name is near the top, and grief rises in his throat at the sight. His is surrounded by names no longer spoken, dead and dishonoured.
Heat pricks at the corners of his eyes, and he grasps desperately for a distraction. It would not do for their flight’s leader to be seen in a moment of weakness. “Ebyssian,” he says, “you said your egg was found in the lair in Highmountain?”
“Yes, shortly after the War of the Ancients.” His brother has observed the tapestry in silence, absorbing every detail; he has never seen it before, after all, or met the people it chronicles. At Sabellian’s words, he turns curious tauren eyes on him. “I know little else, unfortunately.”
“I cannot make any guarantees, but,” Sabellian traces the carefully embroidered kin-lines. The grief is overwhelming, but there is pride, too. This is their family. This is their legacy. “Of our father’s consorts, Irixia was the most fond of Highmountain. She preferred to nest there.”
Ebyssian says nothing, but there is gratitude in the look he gives Sabellian before turning back to the tapestry, to his mother. It soothes some of the ache in Sabellian’s heart. He turns to his other side, and says, “What of you, Wrathion? Do you know your heritage?”
In truth, Sabellian expects bluster and deflection. Very few of their flight are (were) actually direct descendants of Neltharion; it is a fact, not a fault, but the self-styled Black Prince ought to learn that his claims will no longer go unchallenged. Sabellian suspects he is a distant relation at most. Until he left for Outland, Sabellian always kept track of his siblings and their progeny, and the boy is too grown to be younger than that.
Instead of prevarication and grand proclamations, though, his brow is furrowed, his expression pensive. “This is a red dragon’s name,” he says, hand hovering a hair’s breadth from the tapestry’s surface, as though he is afraid to touch it.
A small smile tugs at Sabellian’s lips despite himself. He knows without looking which name the boy refers to. “Indeed. Our father was not well-pleased when my little sister chose a mate outside the flight, but Nyxondra was a stubborn one. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I wonder…”
“She’s dead,” Wrathion says dispassionately. It is not meant to be cruel, and Sabellian swallows back a biting retort. Of course she’s dead. They all are. “She and her… mate. They were a love match?”
Irritation itches at Sabellian’s temple. They are meant to be learning about their flight’s noble history, and the whelp is focused instead on the star-crossed lovers. But Ebyssian stands expectant at his other side, and Sabellian forces himself to calm, tries to remember what it was like to be a drake, obsessed with romance and – ahem – other such matters. “Yes, they were. Though in truth I know little of their courtship. But what of your heritage? Surely, one of your parents must be here.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath, the sound of sudden realisation. “Rheastrasza,” Ebyssian reads, peering past Sabellian’s shoulder. “Was she…?”
“Yes.” Wrathion steps back from the tapestry, hand falling to his side. He turns his head, the barest acknowledgement of Sabellian’s presence, but his gaze is distant. “My mother was Nyxondra. She was forced to bear eggs by the red dragon Rheastrasza, who conducted experiments on the eggs and the whelps inside until she succeeded in freeing one from corruption.”
Sabellian is…
… he doesn’t know what to say.
“I would have known,” is what comes out, stunned and also – judging by Ebyssian’s disapproving look – just a bit accusatory. “If Nyxondra was – I would have known, I would have –”
“It was long after you had settled in Outland.” Wrathion smiles, but it is a ghastly imitation of his usual smug grin. “I grew quickly; a side effect of the life magic, perhaps. Nevertheless. Nyxondra was killed after the egg was purified, and Rheastrasza sacrificed herself to protect it soon after. An anticlimactic conclusion, really.”
Though he would never show it, Sabellian has struggled since his return to the Waking Shore. Outland was never truly home, but nor is Azeroth the one he remembers. Too much has changed. Nothing is certain anymore.
This, however, he knows:
“She would have loved you.”
Before the corruption, Nyxondra was impetuous and headstrong. She and Rhea were a ferocious duo. They never had whelps of their own, never wanted them. But Sabellian knows without a shadow of a doubt, she would have loved her son. They both would have.
Wrathion blinks, too heavily, and turns away. “I hope so,” he murmurs, and retreats.
Nyxondra circles the skies above the Ruins of Kargath. She rages, spitting fire and fury, madness drowned in mourning.
In front of her mortal agents, Rhea is unmoved. She is benevolent and ruthless, sympathetic to the black queen’s plight even as she orders her death.
Alone in her cave, the future of Azeroth cradled in a makeshift nest, she breaks.
She howls and sobs, screams and curses every entity she can think to blame. The Old Gods, for their ceaseless cruelty. The Titans, for placing this burden on the shoulders of the black dragons. Neltharion, for faltering under it.
Eventually, there are no tears left to cry. She finds herself curled around the egg, the one she has sacrificed the last of her heart for, and she aches for it. In another life, this egg might have been hers. This whelp might have grown up safe and happy and loved. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
In the distance, Nyxondra’s voice falls silent.