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Her fingers tightened around her bow enough for the grip to protest, in a dull, uncomfortable sound which made her ears prickle in the quiet yard. It still felt foreign, heavy in her grasp, and the mild sun glancing off of the gilded edges, illuminating the crimson scales amidst the rich, brown wood painted a picture of luxury and pride, which was no longer echoed amongst the formerly gleaming white towers of Silvermoon.
The city which had been her home her entire life, which shone as a beacon of elvish culture, a mecca of singular comfort and ingenuity, a place of learning, trade and indulgence for many, now bore a significant scar, carved into the very land, into the very heart of Quel’thalas, and the warmth of the Sunwell, a fount of peace and plenty, had been ripped away.
The fount stood to the north, assaulted, decimated, and the pathway leading towards it was trampled, stained with the stench of decay, a horror which nature could not contend with, that extended for miles and miles, like freshly tilled earth, though this earth would bear no fruit. It bore only suffering, disgust, and a harrowing reminder that the strength of Quel’thalas had failed, had been infinitesimal in the face of the Lich King, and his Scourge. Arthas had taken what he wanted and moved on, but what he left behind seemed so much more impactful, in all the wrong ways.
There were still undead lingering, shambling mindlessly in the woods, or lurking around the dilapidated buildings in Silvermoon stricken by the corruption of the Sunwell, led only by a hunger for violence, or flesh; it was difficult to tell which. The Farstriders were stretched thin, the army as well. Between clearing the corpses, both of the adversaries and beloved acquaintances, fighting off the ongoing surges of Scourge, and attempting to manage the immeasurable grief spread throughout elvish lands, it was difficult to find a moment to breathe.
The air felt heavy, oppressive; the sweet breezes of Eversong Woods carried only rot. The days seemed darker, the wildlife quieter, withdrawn from the unnatural intrusion and reluctant to venture beyond their delves, and the music which once filled the city, the laughter and excitement, had been swiftly silenced, as if by a killing blow to the head. A blow to the heart was perhaps the more apt description, felt within each individual, young or old, and it would be felt for many years yet.
Ahellia regarded her bow with scrutiny, through tired, darkened eyes. She had not slept in two days, and weariness was beginning to settle in her bones, which she vehemently fought against. The training yard was strangely silent; those who frequently inhabited it were split between constant patrols or sore attempts at rest, endlessly pressed by duty and urgency, since the gates fell and the army of the undead attacked.
She should have been resting now, tending to the ache in her joints, the stinging blisters on her drawing hand, but she could not bring herself to. So here she was, attempting to train with the instrument which had only been hers to play for a very short while, which seemed to grow heavier with each knock of an arrow, each ounce of tension placed against its frame.
She’d missed her last shot. The arrow was still sticking out of the dirt a few feet behind the target, an offensive pylon, resolute in its mockery, wedged so deep in the earth that a breeze did little more than ruffle its feathers.
Missing, in any capacity, was almost unheard of for her. Despite her young age, she had impeccable aim, was frequently commended for it, and prided herself on her prowess. Ahellia’s aim had not failed her on the battlefield, as she and rows of other Rangers provided cover for fleeing civilians, regrouping troops, as they desperately attempted to fend off the onslaught of horror beating down their gates. But her aim had failed her now, after the fact, when the worst of the storm had passed and its survivors slowly attempted to pick up the pieces, and she had time and privacy to truly inspect her weapon, bestowed upon her by her brother, who she would, apparently, never see again.
It had been Soranar’s bow until that very day. Or at least, he had wielded it for years. Shara’s Bite had been crafted by their grandmother, decades ago, and had been entrusted to him when he completed his farstrider training, mere months before their father passed. It suited him, tall and rigid yet undeniably beautiful, elegant and precise, in the right hands. She had admired it often, the twang of the bowstring, the way it rested on his shoulder when he carried it, but she had never imagined it belonging to her, never thought to claim it for herself one day, and certainly not a day so soon.
But it had come to her anyway, when the air was thick with dread, with inescapable tension, as the first reports of marching death arrived from the borders of southern Quel’thalas, and divisions of capable warriors set forth from Silvermoon, intent on defending their homeland.
“Take this,” Soranar had ordered her, thrusting the bow into her hands. “Use it well.”
“This is yours,” Ahellia had protested, attempting to hand it back. “I cannot take it. You need it.”
“Take it,” he repeated, a sharp edge in his voice. His eyes scanned their surroundings, taking in the passing troops, the orders shouted in the distance. His division was moving out in mere minutes, intent on replenishing ranks in Tranquilien, and it was clear from his demeanor, that he expected the worst.
“Hold the line, Ahellia,” he said, his musical voice hard, urgent. “If we should fail in the south, if those monsters make it here, the gates must not fall.”
If we should fail. The thought made her chest twist painfully tight, in a way she hadn’t experienced before, not even at their mother’s burial, who’s will to live diminished with the loss of her husband, her true love. She could hardly breathe with the intensity her insides seemed to constrict, as her elder brother regarded her with pleading eyes, which longed to say more. But words of vulnerability were hardly uttered between them, even on best days, and so she could do little more than swallow hard and accept his gift, tighten her fingers around the bow which now, seemingly, belonged to her.
Soranar paused, a grim line on his brow, and the way he looked down at her made Ahellia feel tiny, as if she were still a child, with a plaything in her hands, instead of a coveted family heirloom, and trustworthy weapon.
She didn’t trust herself to speak, yet she couldn’t pull away, knowing that perhaps when she did, she would not get the opportunity to stand before him again, to see her face echoed in his features, to find comfort in his familiar presence. He was the only family she had left, and he was marching to war now, and so was she, and only the Light knew what would happen from here.
Soranar seemed to come to the same conclusion. She wondered what he was thinking, how he was feeling. Was his heart beating wildly in his chest too? Were his fingers itching to tremble, to find purchase on something for safety, for a swift end to the dread, which was unavoidable? She wasn’t sure. But a moment later, he was surging forward, enveloping her in his arms. His golden hair shrouded her face, hid her from the swiftly collapsing world around them, and she held tightly to him with one arm, the other holding their bow aloft.
“You are Silvermoon’s Finest, little ‘Lia,” he said softly. “And I carry your strength with me. I’ll see you soon,” he promised, squeezing her tightly.
“Al diel shala*, Shana,” she managed to reply, and then he was drawing back, slipping away from her arms and joining his fellow rangers, handed a new bow by a stalwart friend, to protect and serve him against the wrathful forces to come.
She had not seen him again.
Two days had passed, and truly meagre amounts of survivors had returned to Silvermoon from the south. Soranar was not one of them. He was not one of them. Ahellia did not know what to do, or what to think, in the face of these distressing circumstances, in the uncertainty that surrounded the fate of her dear brother.
A small part of her clung to hope; he was simply delayed, or stayed behind to dispatch the remnants of the Scourge, as she and her companions were doing here, around the edges of what the rangers had taken to calling The Dead Scar. He was safe, acting on his innate bravery, his devotion to duty, refusing to rest until the filth of the Lich King was washed away. Surely, he was alright. Maybe tired, or injured, but alright, she told herself.
But a greater part of her, a louder voice in her head told her the worst, that he had fallen, or joined the ranks of the undead; it hadn’t just been the unfortunate of Lordaeron condemned to necromantic enslavement. More than one farstrider, or soldier, had bolstered the ranks of the Scourge by the time they tore through Silvermoon, and survivors from the frontmost divisions were beyond unlikely.
Ahellia had not stopped to look at the dead elves during the battle, to inspect the blood-stained, carnage-ridden faces as they passed. She only glanced long enough to find a target and shoot. But now that she had withdrawn, now that she was away from the battlefield and left to her devices, a creeping sense of dread was spreading up her limbs.
Could Soranar have been one of those cursed corpses she dispatched? Had he been cut down by someone else? Had her brother been killed, and had she in turn killed him, unknowingly, his visage marred beyond recognition in the heat of the moment? Did he still linger on instead, a rotting carcass held aloft by dark magic, a wayward soul which knew only torment, and the tormenting of others?
Maybe he had not suffered so bad a fate. Maybe he was still alive. Or maybe at least, he had been granted a swift, permanent death, was not forced to join the ranks of the adversary, to lay waste to his home. Maybe he was at peace, his soul passed on, his body unspoiled, given the honor of lying undisturbed where he had been murdered. Could he have been granted that kindness?
The fact that it was a kindness to think so made her feel terribly bitter.
Why had tragedy befallen her people? Why were they forced to endure this? What or who had sent this evil to them, to lay waste to their home, to corrupt, defile, their beloved Sunwell? The repercussions of it had not truly hit any of them yet either. With the flow of pure magic from the Sunwell stemmed, the Quel’dorei had lost their power. It would leave them gradually, to be sure, but it would leave them. Arcane was all around, employed by their grand mages, weaved throughout the web of Silvermoon, inherent to many parts of their lives. How would they carry on without it?
How drastically would their lives change with the transformation of the Sunwell?
More pressingly, the corruption within the hallowed fount would begin to spread, they knew, like a creeping disease, and taint them all. Would it kill them? Choke them slowly, painfully over time, inflict weakness, sickness, or worse? Would it transfix them under the same dark power the Lich King had brought down on them? No one knew for sure, but whispers were slowly rising in the timid voices of the surviving, and action would have to be taken soon to stave off whatever darkness was to follow.
Ahellia could not consider all of that right now. Right now, all she could think of was how suddenly loneliness had stricken her, as her eyes passed over the bow in her hand once more, and her brother’s promise of return rang in her ears. She wanted him to fulfill his promise. She hoped he would fulfill his promise. But… truthfully, she did not think he would.
A lump gathered in her throat.
She glanced around, made sure she was alone. It was not like her to show vulnerability, and she regularly squashed it down in the company of others. But the training yard was blessingly empty, and she could not seem to fight the constricting feeling in her body. A strained breath or two, and then her eyes began to sting with tears, and her breath caught, despite herself.
She had not cried yet. There hadn’t been any time, mainly because she did not allow herself any. Crying, mourning, bore a sense of finality, a sense of defeat, an acknowledgement of a reality that she desperately wished to be nothing but an illusion. So she had joined patrol after patrol, ignored the call for rest, and, above all, she had not set foot in her home since the morning she and Soranar had left it together. How could she? How could she return to her soft bed, the familiar walls which had cradled them their entire lives, when her brother was not there to enjoy their comfort? How could she walk through the halls in solitude, knowing she was the sole survivor of her family, the last of a legacy which deserved to be honored and carry on beyond her lifetime? What was she to do now, without his companionship, his guidance? How could she ever live up to him?
Ahellia had fought against the overwhelming tide as long as she could, but with so many questions, so many impossible feats ahead of her, her strength waned, and tears began to flow.
She had always hated crying. She hated being red-faced, with irritated eyes. She hated the way her chest wracked with sobs she had difficulty swallowing, and how her hands would tremble, and she hated that horrible squeezing feeling, like a vice around her soul, which, in the moment, felt insurmountable. The panic began to surge up in her as tears slid down her cheeks against her will, and hundreds of horrible thoughts filled her head, each worse than the last, left her feeling cold and dizzy, and she clung to her bow, Soranar’s bow.
The grieving elf could no longer keep up pretenses, for unlikely passerbys. The weight of the situation seemed to bear down on her shoulders, and she slid to her knees, drew them tight to her chest, the bow pressed to her heart, fists clenched tight enough around it to hurt.
She cried. She cried and cried and cried, as she had never done before. She had not cried when nightmares plagued her childhood, monsters in the dark keeping her awake, or when she sliced her calf with a hunting dagger as an adolescent, which took ages to heal. She had not even cried like this when father, who she adored, met his end, or when mother followed him to a quiet grave, under the eaves of a great tree. She had handled all of that, with stoic grace, with strength, but felt utterly weak in the face of this. She felt…helpless, for the first time.
What was she to do?
How was she to carry on now, without knowing the truth of Soranar’s demise, without knowing what he had suffered, what the true depth of his sacrifice had been? She did not even have a body to bury, would have no opportunity to see his face again, to lay him to rest gently, with as much love and care as she could muster.
She did not know what became of his body, or his spirit, if he was dead or undead, and she wasn’t sure she ever would. But Ahellia wasn’t alone in that fact. So many in Quel’thalas were facing the same grief, the same seething, stinging loss, facing an unknown future with fewer loved ones, with missing siblings and lovers and neighbors, and perhaps the knowledge of such widespread suffering should have been a balm, should have awakened a sense of kinship within her, but it did not. It only made her feel more alone.
She felt alone. Cradling a weapon in her hands like a doll, her golden hair hiding her staunch tears from the outside world, she felt alone.
At some point, the flow of tears began to ebb. Her head hurt, and her limbs felt heavy as lead. The bow had left an uncomfortable imprint against her exposed skin, and her fingers were cramped from clutching it so tightly when she began to relax, when the intense grief passed just enough to return to herself.
With great effort, she stood once more, and gathered her bearings, wiped her wet cheeks. She took a deep breath, and pulled an arrow from the quiver on her back. Taking her time, she knocked it, and slowly raised her bow.
“Focus,” Ahellia whispered to herself.
The gates had fallen. The Sunwell had been violated. She had failed in the task her brother had assigned her, had been unable to truly protect their home from devastation. But Silvermoon still stood, and there was still work to be done; there were people alive and breathing to protect, despite all the loss, all the pain, despite her beloved brother’s absence. This grand bow, which now belonged to her, still had a purpose to fulfill, and she would not do so by missing simple shots, or allowing her emotions to swallow her. Her aim, and her heart, had to be true.
‘I carry your strength with me,’ Soranar had said, the last time they embraced. She told herself the same thing now, told herself that her brother’s spirit would be with her as she faced the new world, as she endeavored to serve their community, their people, as diligently and selflessly as he had, and to look beyond her failures.
She did not know if she could live up to him. He had always been a guiding light for her, an example of grace and strength who impressed her more than any other. Could she carry on his work well enough? Could she be worthy of his memory? She was not sure. It was a daunting prospect; he had always been well loved, lauded for his dedication, the love of duty and home he bore. He had cared for little else, always put protecting his community above everything. She liked to think she had the same conviction, that she could rise through the ranks and shine the way he had. But could she really? She was unsure, but she would dedicate each day to trying.
Ahellia took a slow, preparatory breath, her tear-swollen eyes fixed on the center of the target across the yard. Her arm was trembling with exhaustion as she drew back, put her strength into lining up the shot, but she ignored it. Her will was unyielding, and would serve her in the years and wars to come, in the advent of easy childhood, the soft summer days which would now pass into memory. Whatever happened next, she was a new woman; she could never again return to the way things were, and she had to accept that, and quickly, if she hoped to honor her brother, if she hoped to survive the unpleasant days, weeks, months to come.
The elf raised her chin, willed herself to feel pride, and to be filled with fierce love for her people. “Selama ashal’anore*,” she whispered, like a hiss carried on the wind.
She steeled herself, narrowed her eyes, and let her arrow fly.
It pierced the bullseye of the target hard enough to rattle the wooden frame.
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*Safe travels
*Justice for our people