Thought-Full Meeting

Elwynn Forest was locked into a dry, dark, and bitterly cold winter moon-less night. Even the most manic of pyromancers would struggle to keep warm, and Alia was no different as she sat huddled in front of her desk with a thick blanket draped over her shoulders, writing in her journal like a woman possessed with only a candle to help her see. Sleep had proven elusive thanks to the thousands of wriggling, writhing, anxious thoughts that had been swimming in her head for days, and now were driving her forward with an unnatural adrenaline-like fever. Her grip on the quill was both weak and iron tight, and any prose or flow her writing normally had was thrown out the window for speed. The speed needed to keep up with the whirlwind of thoughts, fears, and mistakes that berated her while the pitch black of a starless night closed around her. 

The war is over. Supposedly, anyway.

Walking around the city, you’d think that it wasn’t, so many and so great the outstanding debts between the Horde and Alliance that it’s almost a reluctant peace. Unsurprisingly, the Kaldorei and Gilnean people still cry out for revenge, and they won’t begin to be satisfied until Sylvanas’s head has been removed from her neck. In a way, they were in luck; Pixisticks told me the basics of what happened at the gates of Orgrimmar, being there to check off “Twice-Traitor”off the bucket list. Sylvanas Windrunner was challenged to a duel - Mak'gora, as it is called by the orcs- and while she won against High-Overlord Saurfang, who had raised a sizable army in rebellion against her alongside a majority of the other Horde leaders, she inadvertently revealed a truth that we had suspected for a long time. The Horde, indeed all of Azeroth, were only ever arrows in her quiver, fit only to be used then thrown away. Regardless, they are without a Warchief (again) and missing one of its founding pillars with the High-Overlords death.

Pixi’s also been kind enough to inform me that the Horde has chosen a council to lead them moving forward, rather than to elect a Warchief. Something along the lines of “We are not at war, we don’t need a War-chief.” While on principle I agree, I fear that the sentiment won’t last long. Sylvanas is still alive, and she still has those fanatical enough to follow her cause. As long as she lives, can there really be peace? This isn’t a new question in Azeroth’s history. The Burning of Teldrassil, the ancient World Tree, home and capital of the Night Elves at the Banshee Queens will be just another atrocity to add to the list of reasons we have to kill each other. There are probably children in Zandalar at that very moment, scrounging for every scrap of food and clothing they could muster because their parents were slaughtered during the Battle of Dazaralor. The death of King Varian at the Broken Shore, the Destruction of Theramore, the Theft of the Divine Bell, the Conquering of Gilneas, the Betrayal at the Wrathgate...the list goes on, and on, and on. To settle every score, slight, and atrocity committed would almost certainly mean the mutual destruction of not only us but the world. The Dark Titan Sargeras’s sword is still plunged into the heart of our home, Azerite is still being coveted and fought over for its power, and our world can still blow up at any moment. 

Justice should be found for the victims, yes. But revenge is not justice. Every act of retaliation only breeds further resentment. What was the point of fighting for “peace” and “the future of our children” if there is no guarantee that the fighting will ever stop? The children left behind by these calamities will come of age, and their first order of business will be to exact revenge, only setting up the generation after to pay for their actions by the new victims they leave behind. Do the sins of the parents always have to be visited upon the children? Is it such a hopeless, naïve dream to work to stop the bloodshed and horror for the future, if not the present? I want a world where all children, not just those born under the blue lion, will not have to be orphans like I was, and instead of trembling in the closest at every shadow, can play safely among the bones of horrors long since vanquished. Yet is it living to be hopping from one battle, war, or world-ending threat to another? We can't stop every crisis, true. There are things out there in the Great Dark that would make the Burning Legion look like a traveling carnival. But at the very least we can stop the ones born from our own hatred and greed.

Perhaps it is too much to ask. This choking sorrow and despair lumped like a cancerous growth in my throat, it tells me that maybe I really am a fool for trying. For still believing in a golden future of peace and prosperity. Jon tried, once upon a time. He was rewarded for his effort by the obliteration of everything he held dear. Even with the most recent conflict over, he has refused to let go, still taking jobs and missions, coming home with daggers covered in what I can only assume is Horde blood. If she kept pushing for peace, was this to be her fate as well? Would she be met with her own Theramore, and have to battle a similar darkness in her soul? She had experienced loss, sure, but something on that caliber? Never. 

___

Alia returned the quill to its inkwell before lowering her head onto the desk and taking intermittent deep breaths. “Why me, Jon? You had your pick of women much more attractive and skilled and..and… just better. Better suited to standing by your side than me.” She could almost hear him in her mind's eye, sulking behind her as he sighed exasperatedly at his wife.

 “Mia corazón, you're doing it again.”

 “Doing what?”

 “You know what, querida. You're comparing yourself to her. To Kestril.”

   "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I? She's essentially your badass first love who died during the most tragic part of your life and I'm...me. Complicated relations with Proudmoore, avoided conflict most of my life, Horde-friendly, absent-minded, naive...me."

"Farting Fel-stalkers, Beloved. I said my vows at Northshire Abbey, did I not? Even after reading your Kirin Tor record, learning about how you put yourself at risk for strangers I would have killed, based solely on the courage of your convictions, being labeled a traitor and hunted in the process, did I leave? I followed you into a Light-forsaken desert and a crumbling realm of the void, and you still doubt my love for you?"

She was silent for a moment. The not-Jon was right. The cold metal on her finger was proof that at least something he saw in her was worthwhile. It was a simple little thing; a gold band with a gemstone at most the size of a pea set in the center, surrounded by even smaller gems in various positions around it. Real diamonds too, or at least, that was what Pixi claimed after being placated about being left out of the loop. Perhaps it was supposed to resemble a flower and some vined leaves, but the design was so delicate it was difficult to tell even in the best light. It was a promise now fulfilled, made in uncertain times by a man certain to do right by her. With another deep, but now easy, breath, she picked up her quill and returned to her journal.

___

You know, it’s funny. Until Jon, my family was the books in the lower levels I’d sneak out of my room to read. Then came Rorik and Pixi, two close friends that have been like surrogate siblings to me. Me and Pixi's relationship certainly mirrors a sibling one. I still remember the loud mouth Bilgewater goblin roommate, looking to master the arcane arts and incorporate it into her already extensive collection of self-taught engineering knowledge going at it with a younger me. In those early months, we bickered often over why she couldn't put her oil-leaking do-dad on the desk next to the hundred-year-old texts I had "borrowed" from the archives. The constant, close proximity eroded the initial mistrust, and...well we know what happened after that. And of course, there was the heroic rescue of an injured dragon at the hands of a mere apprentice. It still seems like a dream, though I guess one's first real adventure always does. I haven’t seen him since that after that dinner with Xan-

___

Xanhedren Dawnsinger. The thought of the Ren’dori scoundrel made Alia’s blood flash-boil with irritation, and she had to stop herself from breaking the quill in her hand, fatigue be damned. Xan fashioned himself as a notorious outlaw. In reality, he was a prankster that had a habit of going too, too often, and accidentally happened to be a decent shot with a bow. He thought he was witty and a ladies man when really his true gift was to cause strife for his own entertainment, and maybe, even his own punishment. He could be kind, and considerate of others, but Alia could never be sure if he was giving the coin to street rats and beggars, or if that was another tall tale to make him look better in her eyes. Xan was an ass and a child, more than actual children, and had a self-sacrificing streak that would make masochists blush. Honestly, it was a wonder Alia and Xan ever managed to carry a conversation, much less form something of a working friendship with each other for as long as they did.

As did quite a lot of things, something changed when Jon entered the picture. Even before she and Jon started seeing each other romantically, when they were just friends, Xanhedren’s actions had been problematic, dare she say underhanded betrayal. Every word and action became some sort of jab that ate away at Alia’s trust and confidence, becoming nearly insufferable after she and Jon had eloped before traveling to that wretched pit called Nazjatar. After their departure, Xan broke in through the chimney and passed out after being injected with some manner of non-lethal poison trap Jon had set up around the place for extra security. Rorik, bless his heart, managed to cover it up for all of about five months, but he could only do so much before Xan’s ego demanded one last size-measuring competition of the male anatomy. The last time anyone had seen the void elf was when a dinner party spiraled into a disaster due to the aforementioned oversized ego. 

___

I haven’t seen him since that dinner with Xan. Rorik, who was always down for a good prank, was so afraid about what Xan’s little break in could mean it nearly broke him, or at least I would say that if I was in the mood to give that pompous blueberry any credit, which I am not. I can’t blame the lizard though. He’s never struck me like your typical dragon, but then again, how many dragons have I met? Not many. Maybe they all go through this, like an adolescent phase. He’s a guardian of life, and he wants to be a part of the people he’s Titan-bound to defend. But what is he to do when those people turn on each other? What side does he, a nae-immortal being just in his infancy, pick? He’s picked up the Chess name at Jon’s encouragement, I guess. I know I didn’t say anything, but he wanders around the local area, calling himself ‘Rori Chess”, Jon’s little brother. Gave some of Jon’s associates a bit of an eyebrow raise, all of us being orphans with no known living relatives and all. Regardless, I regret not correcting Xan before it got this far. I wish I could give some explanation, to myself if not anyone else, as to why I did nothing but offer mild reprimand. Perhaps I was silently trying to discover the real reason behind it all, or wanting to help someone that clearly needs a friend… or maybe all I was really doing was burying my head in the proverbial sand. A terrible lapse in judgment, either way. I will not make that same mistake twice, for everyone's sake… I’m tired of bloodshed.

___

The candlelight dimmed, before sputtering out completely, leaving Alia in darkness. She got up, briefly to relight it before thinking better of it. The drive was gone, the withdrawals of the adrenaline setting in at long last, so much so that her hands began to shake. “I was done writing anyway!”, she joked to the silence, and with a hand in front of her to stop from hitting the wall, she made her way one shuffling step at a time back to the room. When she reached for the door-handle, she found nothing but empty space, and looking up, saw Jon, standing in the open-doorway silent as a shadow. Of course, he’d be awake waiting for her. He had likely been waiting for her to come back all night, both as an expression of concern and the hardline paranoia that runs through his veins like an iron vein in Ironforge from his training days in Ravenholdt.

“I trust your meeting with Ms.Atherton was productive, Mrs.Chess?”

Alia smiled softly, nodding tiredly as she led them back into bed, letting him get comfortable before molding herself to his side with the help of his arms pulling her into his chest. “Yes, yes it was.” 

He made a noise, seemingly pleased. There was a slight pressure against her head where Jon kissed her temple. “Good. I missed my wife.”

For once, Alia didn’t have a comeback. She was too busy sleeping.