A War of the Thorns AU

The world around him had no more screams, but only burned in silence.

Khadgar stepped from his portal to face the ashes of Astranaar. The remains of Kaldorei homes, once a lovely purple against the blue woods, now stood as a mass of cinders and soot. In them, ownerless possessions curled to blackened shapes, and along the cobblestone path, the charred bones of some unlucky persons lay dead. The forest around was silent; no animals stirred, no light shivered save the flames. It lay in shock, unable to even tremble in fear anymore.

Above him, a mass of blue specs swirled, discordant and erratic. The Archmage frowned, squinting, then felt his stomach roll over and his throat expand as if to heave out. Hundreds of wisps, the souls of the slaughtered dead, whisked about, frightened and haphazard. Without anyone to calm them, anyone to guide them, they whirled about madly, in a perpetual limbo. Khadgar shook his head slowly, eyes pained, looking up among them all. He had known a few of them–there was a child among the Astranaar population who had a knack for getting sick. The Archmage had been one of many to contribute aid in healing her… again. And now, she was up there, mindless and scared.

No one would come for them. Not for a long time, if ever. The woods were silent after the battle. They were a forgotten massacre, without record or graves.

The Archmage shook his head again, turning away, a shiver wracking his body. How many dead in only one town–how many towns burned along the way?

How far along had the armies of the Horde burned?

How far had they gone against the Kaldorei forces?

How many Night Elves survived?

His face paled, and he summoned another portal hurriedly, murmuring a sorrowful parting for the deceased, hurrying through–

Up the shore, the edge of Darkshore, the first town dipping into Ashenvale, a beautiful little inn held by Orendil Broadleaf. He had taken Perry there on one of their anniversaries–and, as was his luck, it had rained most of the time. That proved to be quite nice, however, it had given him a reason to hold her close. “Warmth,” he had said, and she had raised an eyebrow with that lovely, small grin–

She had come to fight alongside her people against the armies.

How many survived?

He portaled up Darkshore. The Grove of the Ancients–

He let out a cry of horror, covering his mouth.

The Ancients, Ents of infinite patience, wisdom, stories of old times forgotten by book-keepers, were husks of fire now. Behind their kind eyes, orange crackled and tore; along their manes of leaves, embers danced and nibbled their way through. The ground crunched with their bones, and next to them, Goblins had set up large, oily shredding machines, sawblades ready to carve through and dissect them for war-fuel.

The Archmage stumbled back, looking up the path in fear. Above him, dark clouds gathered, and thunder rolled low in the distance.

He took a breath, murmuring the arcane words again, summoning another portal–

Lor’danel. The last hope before Teldrassil itself, the home of the Kaldorei–

He stepped out of the portal into a blazing building.

He yelped, quickly dashing outside, a heavy wooden beam crashing down onto the spot he had once stood. His eyes widened as he looked back; the once-proud inn caved in as its skeleton broke. He looked around slowly, face drained as white as his hair.

Bodies lay in terrible abandon along the streets of the small town. The names came to Khadgar’s mind, and his breath left him in a sob, tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked them back; there would be time to grieve the dead. He gulped, looking around, a few unlucky Gilneans and even one or two Gnomes scattered about too. For as many civilians as there were, there were three or more of the once-mighty Sentinel army of the Kaldorei.

There had been a time when he had thought those warrior women were unbeatable. That time was over, now.

Which meant–

His heart quickened like a sick drum, and he turned around the town frantically, looking for her. She couldn’t be among the dead, strewn about like an abandoned stuffed animal. Perry must have survived–

He paused, looking across the waters to Teldrassil, mouth falling open.

The giant tree, one of the most beautiful places in all of Azeroth, was an inferno in the night.

He tried to speak, to say anything to break the silence, but nothing came. How many memories of that place he had, he did not know, but the tower of smoke and fire was absolute. There would be no more. It was dead.

Tears slowly stained his cheeks, and he leaned against his staff heavily, shutting his eyes. His shoulders fell, and every thought vanished from his mind.

Everything except…

Except–

Perry.

He looked around the shore again, trembling then taking a sharp breath in and squaring his jaw. She was a fighter, his Perry, and he knew she would have fought bravely. And, he knew, she was smart; if the battle was over, she– she must’ve fallen back; must have found a portal– away. If she wasn’t among the dead, then he knew he could find her again. He would. She had found him, so long ago; there was nothing, nothing, NOTHING! that would keep him from her!

He transformed into a sleek black raven, soaring upwards, looking over the battlefield.

Hundreds lay dead, and the fertile ground ran red with their blood. The massacre was indiscriminate, and Khadgar had a sickening pleasure fill him to note that there were attackers as well among the dead. He pushed the thought aside; he would not take sides in this idiotic bloodshed; he was neutral to the petty squabbling of these– genocides–

How could anyone be neutral in a world like this?..

He shook his head. Focus. Find Perry. Even if those questions haunt you, even if you cannot sleep, you can at least sleep easier with her curled close–or, at least, not here among the dead on the battlefield.

She was not there.

Khadgar landed, shifting back to human, breathing hard. Rain started to fall against his brow, and he let out a small chuckle. It built, and finally a laugh escaped him, strong and crippling, one without mirth or even the faintest trace of happiness, one that turned to bitter sorrow for the dead as the rain covered his tears. They would not be buried for so long, if ever. They might never find rest.

The Archmage gulped, letting out his breath again and shivering in the cold rain, glancing around the miserable shoreline. There were catapults strewn about, facing the great, burning tree. They had done their job; their owners were off celebrating.

Khadgar paused.

His heart sank.

Along the shore, further down, there was one more body.

He gulped, chest pounding. He took a step, then stopped, shutting his eyes. He gulped again.

“It can’t be her,” he mumbled. “It won’t be her.”

He shifted to the raven form, flying closer, quick. Mid-flight, he jerked back, wings flapping wildly, and shifted to human mid-air, crashing to the muddy ground and stumbling forward in a desperate sprint.

There was her white hair. Her pink skin. Her blue armor.

Her blue armor, pierced with the arrows of the Banshee Queen.

Her blood, dark, stained and pooled and dried along the ground.

Her eyes, which had once held him in joy, which he had revered above every star in the night sky, open and dull.

Empty.

He sank on his knees before her, gasping for breath, eyes wild. He reached out to take her away from all this, hands hitting the wooden shafts of the arrows and trembling, stopping. He looked down at them slowly as if registering them for the first time, then slowly looked back to her face.

“Perry?..”

Rain fell, and wild tears blurred his vision. He brushed them away frantically, taking her arms, squeezing tight then trembling and loosening his grip, not wanting to hurt her.

“Perry. Perry?”

He shook her lightly, and her head fell limply to one side before rolling forward entirely.

“Perry?!”

He sobbed, shaking her firmly. Her body spasmed with his force then fell silent again. Lightning cracked overhead, and thunder rolled, overpowering, futile to fight against.

Khadgar shook, putting a hand under her chin, tilting her head up again slowly. Her eyes were dull, and yet a vague mixture of deep sorrow and terror still ran over her features. Her last emotion.

She had died afraid, and he had not been there.

He crumbled.

The storm raged on, his yell lost to the winds. How long he raged, the sky alone knew, but the beach exploded around him with arcane, tearing away the sands, overturning the fields of grass and mud, boiling the waters.

He fell silent again.

The storm died down to a calm, quiet rain. The same kind he had listened to on his wedding night after Perry had fallen asleep in his arms, their love consummated, their lives pledged in full to the other. Without shame, without secrets, without a second thought, he had been hers, body and soul. And she had been his.

And she was gone.

In silence, not daring to break the stillness of the battlefield, Archmage Khadgar slowly collected his wife in his arms one last time. He passed a hand over her face, shutting her eyes. It came to rest on her cold cheek, and he pressed his lips softly to hers. There was so much passion in gentleness. It was over far too soon.

“Wait for me,” he murmured softly, a single final tear moving down his numb face, falling onto hers. “Wait for me, please, my love. I don’t know how much longer I shall be, here. I cannot bear to be away from you. But I must be, until this is done or I die trying to fix things, and either way, please wait for me. Losing you now is indescribable–if I must be without you after this life as well, I do not think I should ever find joy again.”

He kissed her cold forehead and lifted her up. Her head fell against his breast, and he murmured the words to one last portal. It opened, and he took the one corpse he’d never wished to find off the battlefield, back to Karazhan, their home, to bury it properly.