Virtues in Marble - A Calia Fanfic

[Super Dickmann]

Almost exactly two years ago I made a grim vow.

It won't be the last major patch, I have seen it, maybe in a dream, maybe in my common sense. If it is I'll write pro-Calia fanfiction.

Promises made, promises kept, eventually. Given the subject matter, here were my ground rules:

• Structure-wise it must be a Cata/TWW-style leader focus story.
• Calia must be the PoV character
• No bottom-up rewrite for Calia. I must maintain the design, background, gimmick (sole holy undead raised by naaru and buddies with the Alliance, etc.) without contradiction. If she did or expressed some kind of position, I must hold to it, barring some reframing where the story didn't get into it.
• The story must focus her in her position as a Forsaken/Horde character. Calia must actually engage with their themes in some way. No deporting her, Delaryn, Derek et al back to Stormwind.
• I must generally abide by all expansion, story, etc. that takes place before where the story does (i.e end of DF). BTS, BFA, Shadowlands, etc. all apply. Caveat here: If it's in the Exploring books or one of those other compendiums, and this isn't summarized in warcraft wiki, it's out of luck. So if Calia becomes a pole dancer in one of these, that's sadly lost.
• I must not contradict any bit that has taken place after (i.e up to the end of TWW as of now), which is just as well as the Forsaken don't feature there anyway and they look to be shit out of luck in Midnight's launch content too.
• I'm not allowed to introduce any new characters or clarify the identity of characters that are ambiguous in story (i.e who Calia's family are).
• I must abide by the general state of things in those stories, world peace, optimism and so forth, no wars kicking off.

This thread will contain the story, though I'll likely post it on the more usual and legible sites for this when I can be assed to better justify the time investment. Case in point, I've put up the full story on fanfiction.net here, as well as on Archive of Our Own, over here.

With that preamble out of the way, here's Virtues in Marble, set a little while after the Gilneas quests in DF and centering around everyone's favorite character returning to handle some unfinished business with Tess. In the process Calia engages with her faith, the afterlife, her leadership, and the Forsaken both in the past and future.

Virtues in Marble




“And it leaves no mark?”

“None, my Queen. As painless as it is humane.” The Master Apothecary had affixed his metallic jaw, yet the long tongue, purple and pock-marked with the chemicals of his work, still picked at his mouth. There was laughter in his eyes as he continued: “Like a good night’s sleep. Dull, perhaps, but fitting, I think, for what you’ve in mind.”

“And what do you think I have in mind, Faranell?”

His hands came up defensively, the shadows of his waving limbs reflected by the green flame and playing on the sides of the field tent he had taken as his domain.

“Far be it from me to presume the whims of royalty, whatever catches your fancy. Though I have a specialist in mind, of course.” He didn’t demur, per se, he never did. In those little retreats of his, in the sops of faux deference to her as monarch, the Light revealed to Calia not the brilliant, cruel apothecary, but the man he’d been. Slight of frame, features sharp, eyes wary should anyone lift a fist in threat. That man needed the assurance still, though she had learned better than to offer it. Besides, she had sought him out, hadn’t she? She was the one who needed the help.

“You do surprise me though, your Majesty. What brought this on?”

That had been the question then. She knew the answer, or an answer at least. She hadn’t offered it, perhaps to not grant him the satisfaction, perhaps because she wished to give herself more time as well. As the carriage wheels rumbled on the cobblestone path of Gilneas, she still awaited a sign.

- - - Updated - - -

I. Justice

Though Calia tried, she could not find much reason to love the land. As a princess, she had little cause to visit Gilneas. Genn Greymane made a frightening figure to her, and her father made no more than a token attempt to have her meet young Liam. As a traveler, she remembered the tall walls, both in their strength and when the gate had already fallen, neither offering refuge. Not from the Scourge, not from the beasts or bandits.

And not from her people. The unbidden thought came, Southshore in the mind’s eye.

Now it was difficult to look past the ruin of it. Gilneas had not been leveled as Lordaeron had, but war had taken its slow toll all the same. There was not a house that did not show the marks of battle. Those still standing shuddered at the foundation, having traded hands from King to rebel, from worgen to Forsaken, and then from the suffocating grasp of the plague to the embrace of the red flame.

For all that the land itself could evoke little in Calia except pity, the people of it were another story. She could feel them even now, little candles in each building her carriage passed. Their worry, their relief, their sorrow, and above it all their disbelief. That the impossible had happened, that they were home again. That feeling was all too familiar, and it brought them together.

She did not wait for the new Queen’s invitation to minister to them. No sooner was the battle over than families had to move back in, buildings rebuilt, dead laid to rest. Every moment she had outside of her councils and prayers, Calia spent with them. When first she appeared, there was awe and confusion in equal measure. Here was the Light’s golden exemplar’s healing touch granted for such little things like a cold, the lifted weight of the divine used to fix beams and cleanse water. There were issues, of course, most silly enough that they only made her smile. An older gentleman refused help, lest she sully her robes by stepping in the muck to apply the bandage or waste her time on those who passed. A youth pledged himself to her on the spot, saying that he had been right to refuse the worgen curse, for all his life he had waited for a sign from the Light, and here she was. Girls argued if she could float, to the point where, if not for the calming nudge of the divine, Calia felt they were sure to come to a very ugly fight.

Not all hurdles were so simple, of course. Here too was the weed of suspicion laid back when they’d first heard of her, the accusation that she was an impostor. A beautiful mask over the cracked one that had come before, submission to the Forsaken won by deceit. She could soothe this caution well, and no one who held it and locked eyes with her believed it for long. By her presence alone had she swayed them, but her people had not that presence, and to trust in it alone could not bridge their kingdoms. Then again, perhaps she aimed too high. How was she to bring together Gilneas and Lordaeron when her people were still divided, their bloody civil war coming even here?

What gnawed on her most were the funerals. Not those who refused to be ministered to, of course. She knew that despite the cathedral there were those in Gilneas who had a faith near like that of the elves, of woodland ghosts and harvest cycles. She had no grievance with them, much as she hoped they would find their way. It was those true to the Light that struck her, for she knew well what awaited them, and this was no place to speak of it. Just tonight it would have been a memorial to the vanguard of the reclamation. It would be right for her to speak there, try as she might though, she could not bring herself to do it. She would take time for herself instead, before she faced Queen Tess. Sowing false hope was not what the Light had charged her with.

-

Their spirits grasped wildly, and through the inchoate murmur of the vortex, she could hear them.

“I love you.”

“Took six of you bastards for one of me.”

“Don’t go, please, don’t go, don’t leave me alone, don’t leave me alone, don’t don’t don-“

Through the cyan curtain of light she felt them too. The want of a man on his deathbed, desperate in those few moments left to him to could glimpse his family. He was proud to see their faces. The defiant joy of a warrior who had met his end, a man of stone facing overwhelming odds, laughing even as the spears ran through his chest.

They were not all hands nor faces, some gave the impression of the kinds of creatures in the picture books Arthas would show to try and scare her, their last moments incomprehensible. She felt the desperation of a creature far from this world, speaking in glyphs and gestures, yet its thoughts painfully human as it cradled its brood, watching their features peel and scorch, emerald flame blooming in the cracks of their carapace. It was fortunate, as it breathed its last before the fire could reach it.

And she felt countless more.

Whoever they were before, In this current they were all made the same, and after a brief surfacing, she saw the undertow take them, plunged forevermore into the terrible engine that lay far below. Before them all stood the symbol of the meaning of it all. Two serpents entwined, eating each other’s tails. This, she had been told, was the summation of the Purpose. Another set of palms pierced the vortex.

“Mind your step, be careful.”

She felt the slack horror of a mother, as a stray comment to her child is met by a rockslide, that it grasps her in its current as well almost a comfort.

Calia thought of blonde curls on a daughter’s face, of her husband’s jovial eyes. She looked away. Though she had no tears left, fury made a rare substitute.

A lifetime ago, sat enraptured by Bishop Voss’s lecture, she’d not have believed it. Now, carrying the Light’s charge with her wherever she went, all of Calia’s initial awe at the majesty of it had faded. Her rebirth had nestled in her a sense for the world and the people she met, for good or ill, a clarity and connection kinder and grander than the dreams endured in the years before the arrow struck her chest. Each champion who passed by, the warriors of the realms of this other world, her friends, whatever they showed, they had hearts and burdens, and to feel them was to know how to help lift them. Not a day passed by she was not grateful for this gift.

Lordaeron was so terrible to set foot in because of the memories, the echoes of all that had happened. Her people had the spark of their souls in them yet, whatever spite clouded it. Oribos was silent. From the whole of this place she felt nothing. She was certain, even as she saw the breadth of the spectral river that gathered the souls from her home and all the worlds beyond, that she was still only glimpsing some approximation. She had heard it said death was cold, but this place was not a blizzard. It was cold as metal, what it showed was what it was. It was a city in name only, closer to some great machine, where the echoes of all who lived and died, passing through that great funnel, left not the faintest impression.

When she first felt it, it was disorienting. Now it was loathsome.

“Are you well, mortal?” The attendant addressed her before the Queen could gather her thoughts, its vacant blue glow echoing past the visor. They were differentiated only by their color and crest, not beings in their own right, only functions of the superstructure, aspects of the inert god that lay at its center, this Arbiter. “The one called Proudmoore has asked for you. She is concerned if you are well.”

The topic, as dryly as the automaton brought it up, could only shame Calia. It was Jaina who had been in that hell below, caught by the Banshee and her constructs. Calia need only look at her to feel the pain and weariness. Still, she pressed on. Calia had taken no part in the field of battle. She had stayed here, learning, waiting for a sign. Terrible as this machine was, she was only an observer of it.

Another part of her, however, could only disagree. Yes, Jaina and the others had gone through things she never had. Every sojourner in the field had. When they saw this place, what did they see? The strangeness of it, to be sure, but they missed the terrible weight of it.

“I will visit her, thank you for letting me know.” Calia’s smile held and by instinct, the Light passed over the attendant, its warmth fading on the cracks.

“Do you need aid, mortal?” the creature pressed. “The Protectors have noticed your soul suffers from an ailment. Iff you wish to have it tended to, I am sure the Eternal City could help you.”

It took her a moment to follow. The warmth in her chest, the love of the Light. Yes, to such a place it must be an ailment.

“No, thank you, it is a part of me. I am glad to carry that weight.” All the same, her curiosity got the better of her, the same sort of curiosity that had her, so much younger then, asking Archbishop Faol what it was like to be dead. “Have you seen those like me before?”

“Not I, however the Arbiter has seen all souls. Each unique, of course. Still, we, who have the honor of scribing her wisdom, do notice patterns. Do not worry, you will be judged fairly.” The creature was near self-effacing, and it was these moments where they chanced humanity that put Calia off-guard the most. It welled up her sympathy, only to find her senses touching a blank surface.

“With respect, I have been judged already. I was given a task.” The assurance put her in a more defensive mood than she liked.

“Oh, such things are manipulations.” The attendant’s blank certainty recurred. “A way to pull your soul out of the Great Cycle and corrode it before it can join the Purpose.”

“And what is the Purpose?”

“The Purpose reveals itself. Only the First Ones may truly know.”

There was a girlish instinct to challenge the creature, to answer that echo of a pride, a pride she associated not with this lone drifting being but with the city itself, with this temple to nothing. She turned to meet the winding corridors of the Eternal City instead, always seeming close to where she meant to go, only to hear the creak of wheels and feel a spite in the air.

Before Calia was one of the odd reminders of the eccentricity of this realm. A tall carriage, pulled by a muddy goblin-like creature, its wheels sliding across the alien surface of Oribos as though it belonged, the steeds horses of spectral red light that swayed slightly away from her, feeling some inkling of the Light in her.

Exposed on the carriage’s back, rows upon rows of containers of what she could only liken to clay, a red flicker to them. It was only when they came closer, the attendant clearing the path for the procession, that she felt them, reeling, for what they were. The aura of death from them was overwhelming, condensed, famished and far from empty. They were more alive than even the vortex, the foulest of emotions lashing at her: the pride of those felled, their greed and wrath. Unbidden, she retched, though only the motion was left to her.

She dimly heard the wheels grind her by, the driver spewing a string of insults as the attendant slid before her. “Mortal?” it asked with concern.

“Those were fallen, weren’t they?” She managed.

“Oh, yes, those were the containers of anima of those who fought in Revendreth, the realm of penance. Do not fear, these are the bodies of enemies, boding victory over the treacherous Sire Denathrius, who reneged on the Purpose.”

Past the jargon, a thought occurred to Calia. “Their anima? What of them, will they return?”

The thought sparked an odd measure of hope in her. One, not far from the Forsaken’s own apothecaries, an agent of the Undying Army, from a land even talk of which would have turned her stomach in life, had told her that those in his army would always return. Thus they battled ceaselessly in a great colosseum. Only glory and power were at stake.

“No. Their path has ended.”

“Like that? In battle, like… like me,” the thought’s conclusion went. Like anyone alive. A path lived on, finding redemption in the afterlife, only to be snuffed out by chance.

“Do not grieve for them. Their anima will return, and from their passing the Shadowlands will be maintained and others will be sustained by their loss. Like in your part of the Great Cycle.” The creature swept to her, struck by inspiration, and it was all she could do to raise a barrier in answer. “When a beast dies in your land, its component parts go into the soil and newborn life is nourished by it. So it is with all things. It is all a cycle in harmony, a reflection of the Purpose.”

The ichor in her veins burned with the Light’s flame, but her face was as stoic as ever.

“And the Undying Army, they return because the Purpose requires it?”

“Indeed, they must ever stand to defend the Shadowlands. For their souls to fade would be against the Purpose. Forgive me, I am a mere archivist. If you wish I can direct you to where your questions might be more ably answered-”

“No, I think I know enough.” The bitterness was odd, even refreshing. No, she truly could not help herself. “May you walk in the Light.”

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II. Compassion

Calia could not say she was weary of leadership. In truth, exhaustion was an acquaintance she was fast forgetting. She no longer needed to sleep, and while at the start she’d placed herself in a trance, for confusion of her own condition, it had been a year since she’d taken that step. She had more time than any of the living after all, and it was a shame not to make the most of it. She liked reading most of all, and had once told Anduin, what felt like a lifetime ago, that she knew nothing of ruling, but could learn it. She could not say that the records of kings had impressed much statecraft upon her, enjoyable though they were by candlelight. Poring over her materials, in any case, had done little to prepare her for her meeting come tomorrow.

The phantom of her childhood tutor seemed to look over her disapprovingly whenever she skimped on her reading. Tonight she could not focus at all. Her father had always taken her side in these things, of course, only because he thought she didn’t need to know it all. He’d tell her to trust in her upbringing. She knew she’d be speaking to the Queen of Gilneas, a routine thing for the Queen of Lordaeron, of course, but she was not quite the Queen.

Fresh air had become her one lingering habit. Back when she needed to draw breath, she enjoyed the freshness of the night because it banished the scent stuffy rooms of the castle, or the stench of the ditches full of rotting dead. Now, looking out over the balcony of the stately home, less damaged by the wars than most, surveying the streets of Gilneas, she felt the tepid hope of those below. The wind and rain were pleasant in their way, though they never seemed to mar her bearing. There were candle lights and gas lamps in each home lit by the moon above, but it was the hearts of those within that were like beacons, reminding her that, past everything else, there were so many here worth her love.

She couldn’t sense the bomb under the floorboards that night. She did, however, sense the disappointment, the rueful, confused wave that passed over the conspirators when it didn’t go off, and the hasty rush to find any kind of way to make up for that failure.

It came by way of a gunshot, fired haphazardly from the rooftop, no war cry to go with it, caution thrown to the wind. A mad hope, and then a guilt to it from the marksman. The bullet halted by her, the Light was ever her shield. The assassin’s disappointment and relief passed her even as the anger took hold and he leapt from the roof at her, a dagger drawn instead.

“For Lordaeron!” The yell came, rousing the streets, blade raised, the leathers and soot on the face hiding what would once have been a white-and-red tabard.

As he landed on the windowsill, Calia didn’t move. She knew, of course, what would follow. She felt it. The look of shock as he beheld her for the first time, the hesitation in his blade hand. The fear, the fleeting sense of opportunity, and the shame as his fellows fled from the floors below, cutting their losses.

The one before couldn’t know that, of course. He was barely more than a boy, beard just beginning to shade his cheeks, his sword heavy in hands too young to hold it. The weapon was laced with holy water, the gun holstered at his hip after the shot. Calia took the step back and watched, with the same overriding pity as the sword swung, and in every motion, she felt the would-be killer. The zeal of someone eager to cut the serpent’s head, the fear of a man pushed beyond his ability, and the growing regret as he swung at an icon of the Light. She gave him a half dozen swings before he gave up, recalling the lessons of battle in the books and what Lilian had told her of the motions of the body.

As she watched her assassin do his best with a sense of odd detachment, Calia considered how new this was to her still. Father had, of course, told her to take care. She was never supposed to move without protection. Yet in all the stories the princess always made it, and besides, as she had been told until she was full to bursting, it was her role for her hand to go to another. No one wished for a corpse bride. Even Daval, as terrible in her recollection as he was enchanting in the moment, never wished her dead. So it was that no one had made any attempt on her life as princess. And after…

Well, she was as much in danger as anyone else when the Scourge fell upon Lordaeron. She’d learned ever since she first started meeting the love of her life that there were ways to keep a low profile, and that telling her apart as a princess when she wasn’t dressed for it was actually a bit of trouble. There was risk and death, things she wished she didn’t see, both before and after she took Faol’s hand and rushed to safety. Someone after her personally, who truly hated her? Never. Not until the wall. And even then she knew who sent the arrow, and with the benefit of clarity, what fate had in mind.

It was only after she fell that she had her first meeting with assassins, and they were people of Lordaeron. Not the Forsaken, the Banshee had been too proud to think her arrow was anything but lethal. Barely a year ago, she met the other side of her people as one of the undead for the first time. The assassin had been a learned veteran then, yet much like this one, he didn’t know what to expect. Calia could scarcely so much as try and talk before Belmont was upon him, goring the man with a ferocity and relish that made her half think it was a signal to her by those like the Deathstalker more than anything else.

Her would-be killer was firmer of will than she had expected. It took ten swings, all as hopeless as the first, before he backed off by the windowsill, winded, and watched as if struck by revelation.

“You’re real.”

“Lower your arms, no one will hurt you.” Calia spoke softly. She felt the way even her very voice, the sepulchral reverb of death, mingled with the Light’s kindness, threw the would-be killer off-guard. At times, she considered the way her nature affected others. Here, pretending she didn’t feel the echo of anticipation from another figure not far from here, she let herself welcome this power. For it meant saving a life.

She remembered as if from a dream a time in the secret temple, a man repentant, an old Bishop in red robes and others still, before the naaru. She was just Calia then, though already Saa’ra’s dreams rang in her mind each night, though she hadn’t had her courage. When she asked him of Lordaeron she knew now she was only fishing for an excuse, to hear Lordaeron would recover, or at least to see in this man a demon like those she’d heard led the Scarlets. Instead, with haunted eyes, the man had told her that he regretted it all, for the Light had abandoned their cause and Lordaeron was done. If it hadn’t, why then would their king be the monster who brought it low and their queen gone. Faol was kinder to her than she knew she deserved now, for he urged her not to linger. How many of her kinsmen were swallowed by the machine because of it?

“You really are Calia Menethil.” The boy coughed out, voice cracking with awe and shame, his knees buckling. She watched him, wishing others had done the same instead of being ended by Forsaken blades. Then she saw how bloodshot his hazel eyes were, so much like another's, how ferociously his hands balled into fists.

“Why weren’t you there?”

The challenge came suddenly, cutting sharper than the blade could hope to.

Every answer she could give was not worth the words. She had only one assurance to give. “I’m sorry. I let you all down.”

She felt the second light go out and the darkness turned closer, rearing for her house. She hadn’t long. “I’m going to protect you, you have my word as your Queen, but you have to put that weapon down. Please.” She held her gift back. Try as she might, she needed to know if words, if sincerity, could at least find a bit of purchase. To her relief they did, at least for a moment.

“Tomorrow I’ll speak to Queen Tess, I know that fighting is all you’ve known. I’m here to put things right. We’ll rebuild our home together.” Try as she might she couldn’t fully withhold her blessing. She prayed that when the assassin stepped away from the windowsill and pressed a hand to his heart it was because her faith had moved him, that despite surely being born after the kingdom’s fall, he wished more than ruin and that there could be forgiveness for him, and for the others besides.

“You know Lordaeron City is beautiful, and you all can come back there. There are scars, but the flowers are beautiful this spring.”

Just like they were when Arthas came home, blade hungering.

The boy broke into tears. “My Queen-” He began, hand to his chest. She heard a sound like the tug of a rope. Then the dagger flew through the window and through his neck, splashing the floor with blood, hand falling limp. Calia had scarcely time for disbelief, so quick was she to rush.

The ravenous shadow sprang from the window, the dagger already in its hand again, its twin poised, a torrent of swallowing darkness that extinguished the chandelier and against which even her Light flickered. It extended for her, then bowed.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Lilian rasped out, the blood already evaporating from her armor, swallowed by the fires of the darkness. “There were two more, and a third in one of the old watchtowers, tried to get Tess too. Don’t worry, I got them all.” The stitched lips turned upward with all too much relish.

The blood pooled at her feet, splashing her robes. She dreamed a flicker of life in the boy and turned, only for Lilian to dart in, quicker than a breath, a run through the heart that was only this merciful because Calia was in audience. The Light sizzled in her.

“He was surrendering!”

Lilian gave her a look as pitying as it was hurt, the look haunted no matter if Calia felt the young, tortured girl or saw the Forsaken veteran. Her hand plucked at the man’s chest and ripped something out, revealing a bloodied vial, the blade of Lilian’s dagger holding it shut. “Dragon’s Breath. Others had it too. Weapon of last resort. It cremates the body of the faithful, you see, so they never rise as monsters.” Lilian’s grin was sour. “I trust you’d have made it, my lady, the house less so.”

“He wasn’t going to do it, I was getting through to him.” She was sure of it. Calia knew it, she had felt fear, yes, not zeal, hesitation. She didn’t know what he was doing of course, she didn’t know all Lilian knew, but the heart didn’t lie.

“He was playing you. It’s what they do. All puffed up and strong on the field, the Light with them, until they’re weak. Then they beg for their lives, say that now, oh, now they’ve seen the error of their ways. Now we’re actually people, their sons, their daughters.” The venom burned bright and again, the killer before her and the girl she was were as one to Calia. She knew there had been a way, that Lilian was wrong about this. The words dried up on her tongue.

Lilian put a hand on her shoulder, rasp turning assuring, even apologetic. “I’m sorry if I was too grisly.” She reached for her body before Calia cut in.

“Wait, maybe I can-” What, bring him back? She’d been brought back, of course, the Light swelled in her, the certainty of her charge, as clear as the dreams. She turned to the body and for a second, Calia felt the tether of the spirit yet there.

Could she do it on her own, not as Saa’ra and Anduin had, to save the boy, life unlived, from the machine herself? The Light blazed with her sorrow and fury and she willed it to move. Lilian stood back as the flame of the divine kindled the man’s heart, the body smoldering, the golden glow rising as his eyes melted in their sockets. For a heartbeat she thought she had him, until what stared back was only a husk lit by borrowed fire. There was life of a sort, but no soul. With a shudder of exertion, she severed the tether. She couldn’t do it, not yet, not alone, not like this.

“Kind of you to offer a second chance.” Lilian spoke, and there was a caution in her rasp and a relief, perhaps, at Calia’s failure, a faint bitter note she rarely heard from the assassin. “A lot of better folk don’t get one either.”

Calia could only nod. Close as she was to Lilian, grateful as she was, she knew she had no hope of bridging this gap, not while her fury was fresh. She offered a smile. “I needed to try.” She confessed, surprised by how little her voice cracked, how calm she was once more, and that at least put Lilian at ease.

“I’ll get rid of this, don’t want to cause trouble tomorrow with Tess.” The assassin flung the body on her shoulder and leapt to the windowsill, grin returned, as if the slaughter and all this tonight was a mild diversion, only to, before the leap, turn serious again.

“It’s not your fault, Calia, you couldn’t have known.”

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III. Retribution

Come the morrow, there would be two things Calia needed from Queen Tess. One was to bring home the people of Lordaeron still far from home and to lay the groundwork to safeguard their souls. This was what she had begun with, what mattered to her most. She had prayed to the Light for wisdom, and it would guide her true on this.

The other matter, already waiting on Tess’s desk in a parcel bearing Calia’s mark, was more fraught. The liberation of Gilneas and its return to its rightful people after an unconscionable invasion. She had pushed for it since the Desolate Council had come together, when Gilneas was yet held and now, at last, it was being seen through.

To her surprise, in the Council itself there was little opposition, Velonara and Lilian were supportive. Belmont, a veteran, had been the one who opposed it on principle, but it was a close-run thing, his cool reasoning prevailing to not overstretch. Faranell, never too sentimental, took Calia aback by proposing putting the plague-eaters to work clearing it out and, as they discussed in private, using it as a reservation for the returning living of Lordaeron, a plan Calia could not support for it would leave the Gilneans homeless. Still, preparations moved forward, and she suspected that was what stirred the sleeping giant.

When she’d first met her people in undeath on the fields of Arathi, few things had made so strong or so repulsive an impression on Calia as the state she’d found them in. It was the listlessness in them, people whose joy and life was denied to them, huddling in the dark, directionless except for an overriding command.

To Calia, Lordaeron had been a place built by families, faith and traditions, of the wisdom of people like her father and the joy and laughter of children like hers. Historians, musicians, soldiers, yes, defenders, not conquerors. Of all that, she felt that the Banshee Queen had made a grotesque monument to her own vanity, filling the void in the hearts of a people made miserable with itself. It was that disgust that had almost brought her to take up the fight herself during the Fourth War and it was one she felt all the more strongly when she first stepped foot in Tirisfal. The charnel pit Arthas had made of her home only added to, her people scattered and defeated, finally worn down to their end.

Looking back, that impression still burned, as she knew she had both been too quick to judge and had grossly underestimated the extent of it. What she didn’t know then but knew all too well now was that those she’d met and indeed, even the Council and the common folk of Lordaeron existing as close to life as they could were almost a vestigial appendage of what the Forsaken state actually was. To her relief, her people were not corralled or held in deliberate misery, if only because in so far she could follow, the usurper did not care what they did so long as they did not oppose. For a people besieged as they were, at all times survival was the order of the day, and from this, the military came to the fore, taking control of every aspect from war to governance. These were the Executors, and the will they were executing was Sylvanas’s own, all power and decision-making flowing directly down from her to them and all of this dedicated to bringing Arthas to justice. For a time.

Loosed from its restrictions by the Lich King’s fall and the use of necromancy, this beast turned outward. What would motivate it was devotion to Sylvanas and with it a love for Lordaeron, of home and of the continuity of life and death and in that respect Calia saw its honor, but beyond it was something altogether different. The Lordaeron that Sylvanas’s Executors expanded took as its heritage much more than her father. Theirs had been the only kingdom not subdued by Arathor by battle but by an acceptance of the superiority of Lordaeron’s ways. Lordaeron had been the kingdom who had bested the Orcish Horde and from them that the Light first flowed. It stood to reason the new order would flow from Lordaeron as well, undeath filling the part of Mereldar’s Light to unite the human kingdoms under a single banner once more.

To see that end needed mobilization, and so the army was at all times the priority. What happened in the Undercity a trifle, of so little importance to war that the Desolate Council could be formed spontaneously in Sylvanas’s absence and the Banshee Queen could go years without hearing of it. This hungering leviathan moved still inexorably through the bruising of successive wars, and even the destruction of Lordaeron City, until it met its match in Darkshore and the Banshee fled.

In the wake of these defeats was the desolation Calia saw in Tirisfal when first she came, and the sky sundered so soon after that she had hardly the chance to find her footing. It was only when she had already understood her purpose past the Veil and sought her people once more that she learned that while it’d lost its head with Sylvanas’s departure, the beast, Forsaken through and through, had made do without one.

No sooner had she grown aware of the power wielded by the Executors than she became wary of them. It was all the more to her surprise that few were quicker to speak in her support than they. The appointment of the Council brought her letters from families she dimly recalled from her father’s armies, so too from names that meant nothing to her. The first and most imposing was from an Executor Darthalia of Hillsbrad, who signed herself as a lady and a knight of the kingdom. In it, she called for Calia to be a queen in truth, to guide and save them, an eternal Menethil befitting an eternal Lordaeron.

For all her father had kept statecraft from her, Calia knew not to trust flattery. It did not take Belmont’s mockery or Lilian’s warning for her to know that such effusive praise, usually accompanied by demands to use her appeal abroad to push for rearmament, meant they wished to make her a puppet. No sooner did she focus on matters of culture and restoration or deepening ties with the Argent Crusade in the Eastweald than the praise dried up, and she saw their true face.

Some, like Anselm, a stoic veteran of the north and famous mercenary in Lordaeron, were at once kind and condescending in a way she felt, and the Light assured her, would have been the same had they both still drawn breath. He would hear her out, follow her guidance when it suited him, ignore it when it did not, in a way she was sure he would never have dared with either her father or the Banshee. Others, like Mortuus, a bizarre man elevated from mine foreman to Grand Executor by dint of organizational skill, refused to meet at all, leaving only a note that he preferred not to be bewitched by her but looked forward to working with her for as long as she lasted. Others still made her wish that she truly had the power ascribed to her.

To be sure she had known that her people had the readiness to be cruel, that some were twisted by undeath into what they weren’t and she prided herself in seeing the good in them that lay beneath the surface. Whatever they were now, when she saw Belmont she saw the traveler, when she met Faranell, the scholar. Those twisted before and after, those she could say little for. Executor Wroth, recalled from a backwater post in Northrend by the Council, was in death a man of impressive stature and heavy steel, who carried a branding iron as others might a quill. What roiled her was what she felt of who he had been in life, an ever-grinning phantom at the edge of her father’s court, overjoyed to be given the traitors of Alterac. Death had disciplined him, while making the depths of his viciousness greater. Calia knew him to be a man who had masterminded the indiscriminate deaths of crusaders, as well as of Forsaken, for no more reason than their capture.

He regretted none of it, he told her dismissively, save perhaps that he trusted an elf. It would be his honor to serve a Menethil once more, and he knew that she would exceed even her father and great Lordain. Calia did not know whether the man himself or the grim task of having to accept his pledge, to have someone in power in the military on her side, left a worse taste in her mouth. So it was with others. Those who simply mourned the Banshee, like Anselm, were difficult. Those who turned the quickest were worse, for it stripped away the excuse. If Sylvanas had not made them do what they did, then why? None exemplified this more than the writer of the very first letter, Executor Darthalia.

Calia knew that she had to return to Hillsbrad at some point. It was the land where her husband taught her to fish, where her daughter first handed her tulips she’d picked, because they reminded her of her mother’s hair. It was here that the Alliance was pressured most strongly in the Fourth War, to pry free Southshore and to make of Durnholde an advance post, every effort made to push the Forsaken out. It, like Tirisfal, was a land of despair, but unlike Tirisfal it had been spared the Scourge. No, the Foothills were where the new order the Executors were to bring about was most fully realized.

She had been given explanations by rank and file soldiers, who loved her a great deal more than did their leaders, that the Alliance had treated them from the first day as monsters, that they’d struck at the Forsaken refugees at Hillsbrad first and to meet death with death was proportionate. Calia wished to believe it and struggled the farther she stepped. The township of Hillsbrad, once her kingdom’s breadbasket, now reeked of rot. For people who no longer needed food, it had been made into a fortified complex for the fungi and weeds necessary to stave away the degradation of the dead and power the toxins used in war. So its proprietor Lydon, a man with all of Faranell’s brilliance and far more of the spite and fear, had told her of the Sludge Fields.

She had already learned from Argent Crusade that before that it had been an open-air prison, where the living were treated worse than the orcs had in captivity, worked to death and beyond, a practice only stopped because none were left. It was no surprise that the cracked mask still peeked through here or that the cross-armed salute and the Forsaken farewell which had been wrung from the rest of the land were common here.

From mines to towers, she saw the echo of the Forsaken army, a state that could raise armies and fortresses, but regarded the joy of the living with naked contempt. Southshore had been that force at its most wasteful, only sludge left of her home, its reclamation by the Alliance at the time little more than a flag over the remains. For the first time since Oribos, a sight had brought her despair and fury in equal measure, ones she took with her to Tarren Mill.

There resided High Executor Darthalia, the woman tasked with solving what in the archives Calia read had been called the human infestation in the Foothills. The closest she could confront to her family’s killer.

Darthalia, decrepit in armor and flesh, met her in a crumbling office. She treated Calia to aged cheese, mushroom broth, and a taunting smile and the Queen prepared herself for what excuses there could be.

“Regret? What? Not a thing, my queen, you might’ve had the luxury to hide in some hole while all the war passed you by. We had to get them before they got us. They used to tear out our hearts and burn them in braziers, and that’s if we were lucky. They’d set the pretty Light that you’re so full of on us and make us scream an’ dance, ‘cause they knew that’s what hurt the most, that when they died they went up then. When we died for good we were damned. A bit like they did with the orcs they had in the camps. Dad was on watch by one of them camps, not Durnholde though, one just over by the mountains. When I came to visit, right, they made them fight to the death, gladiators, just fists and tusks. Could hear the screams from my bed. Real humane, your old man’s camps were.”

A dismissive smile straining the parchment-like skin.

“If anything, we were too kind. Any tough enough went Scarlet. The rest? Lost causes. Scourge or worgen would’ve got them anyway. They’d never bring your dear brother to justice. Not one apothecary crawled out of Hillsbrad township. When they found a man worth something, they strung him up. Like they did Helcular. Of course, it’s not all their fault, fighting, sure, just everything else. Too many chains. Eat. Sleep. Drink. Till the land. Age. Die. No time to excel. That’s the living for you.”

A sip of the rancid mushroom broth, a line dripping down the exposed bone of her chin.

“Don’t look at me like that. It hurts, being us. Curse picks us apart, strips the joys. But it leaves us free. An‘ once you’re free, you can’t look away. Can’t stomach em anymore. That’s what makes us better. Some will whine, like your last Council whined, but deep down, it’s not really a curse. If you believed that you’d leap off some cliff an‘ end it. You? You’re even better than us. I see you shifting now, angry, but you know it. You’re not like them anymore. Never will be. You’ll get sick of them like I did. But you’re not quite there yet, your Majesty. So dig! Put those pretty hands through the sludge an’ let those you feel so bad about see for themselves. They might even end up shiny like you.”

A bite of the moldy cheddar, back from when the farms yet lived, when Ray passed by Southshore and her daughter beamed and passed him tulips too, because you should give gifts back too, shouldn’t you?

Throughout, past words exchanged and questioned asked, through every motion, Calia sought desperately for a sign. A sign that there was more to it than that, that there was a flicker of doubt in the cadaverous features of her counterpart. Finding none, the Queen of Lordaeron permitted herself the fury of her Forsaken.

Calia had fought, not oft, but enough, and she’d seen how Turalyon and his Lightforged did battle as well, beams from the sky and thunder. However, the strength of her gift from the Light was in vulnerability and understanding, in sharing burdens, to mend, not slay. She conjured no chains, no celestial flame, instead, she allowed herself for a moment to be what they accused her of being, to extend the Light that suffused her soul past her shell and let Darthalia share in her radiant spirit. Every nerve ignited with fresh life, so she might feel the maggots crawling underneath, the rotting of the bone and the ichor in her eye sockets.

Even as the murderer thrashed before her, that was mere prelude. At times, Calia’s memories were a haze, her life before the Fall of Lordaeron and after blurring together, but the emotions of Southshore she could still remember. She poured that into the woman before her, let her feel the pull and need of each one she’d met, and then the horror as they were ripped away, the weight of meeting her refuge again as a blasted ruin, the impression of loss in the land itself from the farmers buried six feet deep, ripped apart for material. Calia pressed upon the High Executor the weight of all lives ruined and watched this veteran crumple from her seat, gasping for breath she did not have, scratching at wounds that would not mend.

“Please… end it…” came the croak, all the pride gone, the broth splashing over her features, the smirk forgotten. There, at last, peeling past the cruel High Executor and the jaded soldier, in that desperate plea for true death, Calia found what she sought. That flicker of emotion. The young girl who could only cry as, just over the river, slaves beat each other to death while the soldiers made their bets.

Calia felt for her even through her repentance. Darthalia had lost so much of her spirit, strayed so far. Yet no matter how far she went, that spark of humanity remained, as it remained in all her people, living or undead. That’s why none deserved the machine, not the High Executor, not her brother, not even the Banshee. In that at least, Darthalia had been right, only someone who knew both the love of the Light and had passed through death could understand it, that was her burden.

“Thank you,” Calia told her earnestly. Then she left Darthalia to writhe, humbled. Mereldar had named compassion a virtue of the Light, but so too was retribution.

-

Someone like Darthalia could not be left in a place of power, not until she was redeemed and Calia, moved heavens and earth to make sure of that. Leaning on her ties abroad, promising Southshore’s restoration, pledging that Hillsbrad would be shared by living and dead, backing her words with the honor of the Horde and the authority of Regent Turalyon, himself a noble of Lordaeron. To contradict such pressure would brand one an enemy of the armistice and a loyalist.

Knowing she could not rely only on the outside, she turned to the apothecaries, who put their plague-eaters to use in making the coast habitable once more. Wroth, who was quick to praise Calia for how well she wielded the lash, a far important tool for Lordaeron’s queen than any gift, would take Darthalia’s commission, in practice if not in document, and his troops would make sure there were no challenges.

With victory came the consequences. Few things were seen with as much hatred among her people than the Light’s cleansing touch on one of their own. To have one Forsaken invoke it upon another was near as close as taking away their will, a dire crime. They had called her the Pallid Lady before, rarely, and sometimes even as a term of affection from those who could not quite bring themselves to cast Sylvanas aside. Now it was a double-edged sword. It reminded them that there was steel under the marble perfection and that, much like the Banshee, Calia would not suffer every slight. She was left to try and rebuild magistrates, bond with the common folk, and allay their worries as best she could. It meant she could do no more than watch and fight when the Scarlet Crusade returned, diplomacy never an option and the means of war near out of her hands.

Gilneas was to be her way back, a place where her initiative mattered. Even that was mired in compromise. Executors like Crenshaw, veterans of the invasion and bitter ever since the wall came up, had insisted on prosecuting the war for over a decade, refusing retreat no matter the cost. Genn was an implacable opponent, unwilling to stand for compromise so long as the Forsaken still ventured into his land. The Scarlets, in this respect, were her unwitting saviors. More than once upon her return, seeing Belmont’s knowing stare, she wondered if it had been the Deathstalker who allowed the Crusade their foothold. To pen them in, make them another’s problem, and cement the treaty in their blood.

Whatever the reason, the way things had went, with Tess now at the helm of a reclaimed Gilneas, gave Calia an opportunity. She reminded, repeatedly, that Tess was perhaps the strongest voice for abandoning warfare in her kingdom, and so managed to get a compromise-ridden letter out of the Council, consenting to the demilitarization up to Pyrewood. In exchange, however, for the abandonment of the wall. It was this paper she’d sent and had to defend, gambling that it would be more acceptable to Tess than it would her father, making promises she hoped the army would keep.

Bitter as it had all been, sobering as her encounter with her people’s darker face was, it took only the sight of a few faint tufts of grass, the wind blowing over the first tulips daring to face the Hillsbrad sun, to remind her that it had all been worth it. The foundations of a new Southshore were there, and with them the spark of hope she would carry to Gilneas.

- - - Updated - - -

IV. Holiness

“…and don’t worry, this won’t repeat itself. We’re redoubling lookouts, the Greyguard are on their trail. Oh, and don’t look so surprised, of course I knew, Lilian’s not the only one keeping tabs.”

Tess, Queen Tess, Calia reminded herself now, spoke with that particular mix of haste, a front of confidence and none too hidden tension that Calia knew all too well. Favoring dull shades of gray and gold, the tabard slung on and the pin on her short cloak were the only reminders of her status. Despite having all the beauty of youth, Calia saw in Tess a bit of how she used to be when she snuck out, proudly unostentatious, just another face in the crowd. The choice of abode only added to it.

While Calia had been looking forward to a long scenic journey to the famous castle of Gilneas, she found soon after arriving that the new Queen had left it to her parents. Instead, she took for herself a military tower overlooking the Cathedral and prison. The fierce worgen sentries and flowing banners that flanked the corridors were the only reminders that this was the seat of a queen. In all other respects, the former storehouse, dingy and freshly crammed with items of interest, was scarcely the stuff of royalty. Calia suspected that the basement of this tower just so happened to lead through the sewers and slip into places of import, large and small, in the capital.

With everything else she made herself someone of the people. If her citizens were just building up and had to make do, then she would be with them every step of the way. If they had to rest in moldy quarters, with the rain leaking through the roof, then so would she. Genn had fought with them and was willing to die with his people. His successor, Calia felt, wanted to show she was ready to live with them.

Genn’s abdication had come to a surprise to all it seemed. To Calia it made a certain sense, Tess had been helping for years, in the ways allowed her, and in recognition the old wolf had honored the young. Perhaps because in her youth she’d fantasized more than once that her own father would have done the same. Maybe Terenas had done so already, in his own way, beyond the grave. The years had made that innocent fantasy bitter. For both their thrones were earned in blood, the brave Liam she’d heard so much about was gone, and Arthas…

Had both their brothers taken their thrones and ruled wisely and well, as she knew at their best they could have, they would never meet now as queens, and many more of both their kingdoms would walk the earth. She’d have traded her place now for that in a heartbeat, were it not for the Light’s burden. Seeing her now she knew that Tess would do much the same.

All this came together to make a strong impression on Calia, an immediate fondness from the moment they met in person before her first voyage for the reclamation of Gilneas, and one that was only stronger now. That fondness too had a chilly note to it, for Calia knew that for all her vigor, the young queen was vulnerable the way she had been in life. Though Genn wanted it and Calia thought they’d make a wonderful pair, Tess had never wed Anduin before he disappeared and now bore the crown alone. Calia had known love, a husband’s warmth, a daughter’s laughter, memories that steadied her still. Tess was on her own, carrying only a duty she pictured with difficulty, and the cracks it left were easy to see. To have what she came here for, she needed to press at those cracks.

For all of her martial flair, Calia found on Tess little in the way of the scarring that even her own husband had carried with a smirk those years ago. She was tense and ready, yes, as a fox might be, better to seem fierce than to run away. In their human forms, the guards carried the lupine ferocity of the wild in their gaze, Tess lacked the curse, and there was more trepidation than caution in her hazel eyes. The girl was young and she would learn, experience, Calia was sure, would make of her a fine ruler. But at day’s end, Tess Greymane was human, where she was far more.

“I am grateful to you for your hospitality, my lady, and for your protection.” Calia took a seat. For respect of her condition, Tess had served neither herself nor Calia in the way of drink and indeed, preamble was not Tess’s way.

“You’d be more grateful had we done our part.” Tess grinned. “In some of the groups Lilian and I were in, I’d be in a lot of trouble if I let something like that happen on my watch.”

Calia merely smiled. “It is no trouble at all. It was the people I was worried for, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. You deserve better than to have your return home jeopardized like this. For people of Lordaeron to die waging such ugly attacks on your soil dishonors us.”

Calia felt the resonance her first words of care had on her counterpart, then the suddenness and severity, the reminder that Tess must be a politician here, not meeting for pleasantries. “They are not your people though, are they? If they were, you wouldn’t have fought them.”

“They threatened your kingdom. We did what we had to and no more. Even those who fell were too many. If there was a way to negotiate-“

“Did you try?”

At one time, Calia might have been thrown off by the question. Sometimes she wondered if she’d come to the Crusade as a princess in hiding, she might have swayed them from their path, made the war for Lordaeron’s return something noble. A foolish dream. Had she revealed herself, human as she was, a priestess of middling strength at her best, she would have been prey for the dreadlords, turned into a ghastly symbol for war.

Now, as Queen, the Scarlets had been told that she was some demonic trick, a last mockery by the undead. Her own were the main impediment, where captives were taken, there were ever excuses for her not to meet them. From army to civilian to her Council, even Lilian, she had rarely seen more united a front than to hold her from making any attempt to sway or spare the crusaders. Thus in Tirisfal and Gilneas, veterans of Lordaeron and the youth born under the flag of the red flame fed the soil, while she stood by.

“No, not truly. This is why I am here, on behalf of the Council of Lordaeron. There are captives of war who are our kinsmen, and there are fallen who’s remains are far from home. I request them both, so that bygones may be bygones and we can move forward together.”

“The Desolate Council of the Forsaken.” Tess corrected. It was a frail rejoinder. By all rights, Tess should loathe the undead, but she was sheltered for the invasion, her brother’s death put at the Banshee’s feet. Now it was the Scarlets she’d fought for Gilneas and that battle the Forsaken waged together with her, as Tess herself had alongside undead before. Try as she might, she couldn’t hate. This Calia’s gift from Saa’ra soothed and nurtured, subtly, with every word and motion.

“I can’t do it, Calia. Even having you involved was a challenge, I saw an opportunity to let things go because the Crusade were all our enemies.” There was a flicker of guilt and pride there, for a trick for the greater good. “My people, Crowley, Bloodfang, none would stand if I passed captives to the undead. They tolerate you here because of who you are, to give even our common foes to the Forsaken, that would be an outrage.”

“You knew better than those who’s anger you’d bring on. You know that we are people, just like the people of Gilneas.”

“Those people tried to take our kingdom from us.” Tess pressed on quickly, as if afraid her hesitation might show. “Human captives sent to undead gallows, bodies sent to necromancers, Gilneas’s gates open. This is your offer, however finely you dress it.”

The sudden sharpness of the words surprised, but it was as the Gilnean queen brandished papers bearing Calia’s own signature and went on that she gave Calia pause. “That’s what’s in these too. ‘Instrument for the territorial settlement of Lordaeron’. A disarmament of the wall, a joint garrison in Pyrewood, Forsaken in Gilneas City. Do you stand by them?”

“Yes, I would not put my signature on words I don’t believe.”

“But you would on words you didn’t write.” Tess commented with a wry smile. “If we’re going to talk, then I need to know whose they are.“

There was a bit of the father’s steel in Tess, which were it directed at another would have made Calia proud. Here, forced to defend her paper blessing, even her enthusiasm was muted.

“They are the words of the Council and the people of Lordaeron. I am not the Queen.”

“It’s not a Deathstalker sitting opposite me is it?” Tess chided. “Do you know where I was last night, while Lilian was lurking? Scarlet flags came down easy enough. Do you know how many stocks your Forsaken had right under our feet, Calia?”

“You know I-“

“No, of course you wouldn’t!” Tess snapped, the flash of guilt at her outburst too brief for Calia’s gift to latch onto. She leapt to her feet, pointing outside the window, where rain pattered over the prison yard. “You wouldn’t know what was in them either. Right there, in that prison, was where your new friends stocked their materials. Worgen can’t be raised as undead, but they can be cut up for parts.”

No sooner had Calia opened her mouth did the girl cut her off. She was reminded suddenly she was surrounded by Tess’s sentries as they moved, expectant.

“They stitched the pieces of our people into some monster, brought it back with an electric current and locked it up. In the fighting, it broke free. We had to blow the weapon stores on it before it clawed its way out, begging for its end out of ten different mouths.” Tess’s false cheer faltered, fury taking its place. “Do you know how many I told? Of the bones of slaves still stirring in Emberstone? Of how much grain will ever grow in land your people plagued? Not a soul outside this room. Because I am the Queen, and I took responsibility. Who will take responsibility for what the people of Lordaeron did to our land?”

“The people of Lordaeron are not responsible for the Banshee’s deeds.” Even as she said it, Calia knew she’d misstepped, her protectiveness getting the better of her.

“The game you’re playing is real convenient, isn’t it?” Cool mockery little suited Tess Greymane as she indulged all the same. “You aren’t responsible, of course. She killed you. Faranell led the apothecaries who made monsters of our people. Belmont was the knife of the invasion. What about the soldiers? Are they not responsible? Did the Banshee trick them all?”

“You reached out to us, my lady, we helped you reclaim your home.” Calia reminded.

“Against your enemy. Then we’d thank you for the magnanimity and forget who destroyed Gilneas in the first place!”

“There’s nothing I can do to turn back time. All we can do is move forward. The people of Lordaeron don’t tire. Ask and we will help you rebuild.“

Calia could feel the ferocity in the Greyguard, closing in. Did they believe that the order would be given? That they’d change and leap upon her? Did their own bestial senses not reveal to them the glass beneath the steel of their monarch?

“Us, father and brother and all of us, we fought for our home against you, whatever I do, we can’t forget that.”

But she had not fought, had she? The Greyguard, seeing their leader back off, showed as much in their piercing gaze. This Calia knew well from Belmont’s papers. This very lack of veterancy made Tess, unique among all of Gilneas’s leaders, someone who could yield in this. Yet the Light suggested to her otherwise. All of Tess’s senses told Calia she had fought, and yet that recollection was tinged with doubt and shame.

“You speak for your army because they don’t dare speak for themselves. If those bastards came here, they’d have grins on their rotten faces. They’re waiting until the worgen are gone and we’re exposed. You and Lilian came and helped and I appreciate it, but things aren’t so simple. Paper amends can never make up for what happened!“

Righteous fury, gratitude, regret and shame. They swirled inside Gilneas’s young queen, more real to Calia’s senses than the room they were in. Yet never hate.

If she had Tess’s vigor at that age could she have dissuaded Arthas? Stopped the cult? Or would her insecurity, her mortality, be as obvious to others as Tess’s was to Calia?

“And what will? Blood?” Calia offered forlornly. A somber face, a low tone of assurance, the warmth of the Light blessing her words. She sensed how shame began to smother fury.

“That’s not what I meant…“ Tess sputtered. Opportunity.

“You told me of the past, your Majesty. Let me tell you what I saw yesterday. I saw boys who weren’t even born when our kingdom fell, who lived and died knowing Lordaeron only as a scorched ruin and their kinsmen only as cursed foes. A girl who deserved to live a life in peace gutting them, feeling nothing save satisfaction. You’re right, you took responsibility, I didn’t. An entire generation was lost while I was gone. I will not lose another.”

Because I am the Queen of Lordaeron. The words nearly sprang from her lips and why she bit them down even she knew not. The Light sang in her bones and suffused her words. As in that rancid office in Tarren Mill, she allowed herself to share her radiant grace. Success was close enough to taste.

“We will never lack excuses for war. Our fathers had their issues too, but when the orcs invaded, they joined hands, through gritted teeth, yes, but they did it. Because of that, I grew up, and you were born. It was when the wall went up, when we divided, that the undead swallowed us. Honoring the past means holding to the best of it. Why do you think I wear this crest?” Calia permitted herself a wan smile, the L of Lordaeron bright on her lapel, pristine and gold, to the desired effect.

She felt how close the blade had come before the barrier had raised. It was astounding how quickly they changed shape.

“Not a word more!” The transformed Greyguard at the Gilnean monarch’s side snarled. She recalled too late, what Baine had once told her, that the worgen were the folk of Mu’sha, the moon, like the tauren and humans were the people of An’she, the sun. For all that her gift had soothed Tess, it did the opposite to the worgen. By pushing too far, she’d inflamed them. She had erred. But so had they.

“What are you doing?!” Tess leapt. “This is a dignitary!”

“Queen Tess, don’t listen to her! This entire time, she’s trying to bewitch you! I can smell her foul magic! Instead of conquering Gilneas, she would have you hand it over and be glad for it! She would have you throw your father’s legacy in the dirt!”

The last words had done it. Sympathy did not allow Calia to appreciate her victory. She had her answer now. The worgen felt the glass under the surface too. Now they would try to save her from herself. As Terenas had tried to protect Calia, as now her own subjects, even Lilian, tried to bar her from the steps she knew she had to take. She saw how Tess’s lips quivered, how there wasn’t just fury, but a true hurt.

“Lay down your arms! Down! Now!” Tess bellowed with a vigor that might have impressed old Genn. The Gilnean was deceptively quick with the draw of her pistol, a reminder more than a threat. That unlike what her guards thought, she wasn’t harmless.

“My Queen-”

“Get out, now! All of you! Count yourselves lucky I don’t have you caned!”

She brooked no argument. To Calia’s slight surprise, the worgen did obey, shrinking before Genn’s daughter. Calia remained, almost forgotten, watching Tess shudder with tension once they were alone.

How many times had Calia stood in her place and faltered? How many council meetings had she wished to leap into, only to sit meekly back? How many times had her nerves failed until that field in the Highlands? She admired Tess Greymane. She pitied her too, for in that moment’s weakness, in the suggestion of tears in her eyes, the contours of her soul lay bare before Lordaeron’s queen.

-
She was a little girl at the windowsill, hoping the light in the rain was her father returning safe from war, praying the rebels didn’t hurt him, wondering why they had to fight.
-
Older now, holding up flowers and earning his smile, knowing why it didn’t fully reach Genn Greymane’s eyes, that the answer was down the hall, in Liam’s empty room.
-
Her mother’s leg hurt, why didn’t it move? She nudged and pulled. She just didn’t have the strength. Her father was there, a hulking beast in white, slavering jaws and bared claws, but the eyes, the eyes smiled then, and he picked the two of them up as gently as when she was small. Why wasn’t she strong? Like Liam, like father, like…
-
She raced through the woods of Gilneas, through the failing fields, bringing her claws against the dead! It was a dream, such a sweet one! The blood boiled in her! She cut into one of the damnable Forsaken and ichor gushed over her chest and landed on her tongue! This is what it was to live!
-
She’d failed! Liam was dead and she’d saw him die this time, even in her dreams, she was weak! The curse wasn’t the answer, it wasn’t what made her who she was. It couldn’t be, for if it was, if anything could be done for Liam and she hadn’t done it…
-

Calia wished to see no more. She could guess the rest. She let her radiance soothe the tears that would come. Too much was familiar.

“Tess, I’m sorry, I should go, it was unfair of me, to come at such a time…”

“No.” Tess cut her off sharply. “Don’t apologize. Not for being right. Father built the wall and cut us off. He meant it well and he was wrong. He knew he was wrong too, and he trusted me to do what he couldn’t. I can’t fight his battles.”

As quickly as she pulled out the pistol, Tess produced the quill and inkwell, Calia’s documents already set before her. Lordaeron’s queen moved to speak. Of course, she knew Tess wouldn’t let her.

“The wall won’t be manned. I can’t drag it down, but I won’t enforce it and so help me, we’ll work together. No undead in the city though, and Pyrewood will be guarded by Gilneans. It is Crowley’s home. Father took it and cut our kingdom apart, I’ll bring us together.”

“And Shadowfang?”

“There you can have your joint force, if any volunteer.”

“A sensible decision. I will pass it to the Council.” Calia smiled in pride, then demurred for a moment before the thrust of it. “And what of my people? Do I have your blessing in reuniting us? Living or dead, our people are those of Lordaeron. Much like, cursed or not, you are the people of Gilneas. It’s time for the bloodshed to end.”

Despite it all, despite the pull of the Light, Tess still held out a fraction. Perhaps there was more steel there than she'd thought.

“I can’t. Even if it was right… some of these people have already sought refuge in Stormwind. Listen, Calia, I would never think they’d suffer like they did under the Banshee, but you saw what happened in this room. Do you swear on the Light that they’ll be treated fairly?”

“I trust my people. Ours is not the realm of the Banshee, any of our magistrates would judge any who’ve done crimes fairly.” Calia assured her, knowing Tess wouldn’t understand another answer. “But I understand. I won’t ask more of you. Then return to us the fallen, the prisoners you’ve kept, and any who volunteer.”

“I don’t think you’ll find many volunteers.” Tess remarked dryly.

“Then they’ll come in time, still... any you find in Gilneas, please, send them to us. I can’t bear to have what happened yesterday repeat itself.”

Despite herself, Gilneas’s Queen nodded, almost self-consciously realizing she’d yet to return to her seat.

“Lordaeron will be whole, I’m sure of it, one step at a time if need be, much like Gilneas. And much like our friendship. Shall we join hands?”

“Let’s. Not through gritted teeth either.” Tess allowed herself a small smile as she accepted the handshake.

“To a better tomorrow.” Calia smiled back. And a better eternity.

- - - Updated - - -

V. Protection

Despite the storm, despite the years, despite war and heartbreak and the howl of wolves, the flag of Lordaeron rose high below. Her volunteers flew it, those who loved her best of all, wearing the battered uniforms of her kingdom with the dignity of any knight her father had named. Beside them were her people too, in carts and caskets, yes, at last coming home.

It could only be like this. To bring living and dead alike out of Gilneas was already a concession that would cost Tess, much as Calia’s stand in Hillsbrad had cost her. To fly the cracked mask or the new skull, to let Deathguard march under nods of approval, that would be too much. Better this way. Those other signs were empty things. That flag was her symbol.

Lightning sang above the Queen’s head, and when the torrent came, the white and gold L billowed through it, much as every drop of rain skirted around her, the Light sweeping it aside. Looking down from atop the Greymane Wall, it was like one of those military parades, the homecoming of those long lost. All that was missing was music. There had always been music when King Terenas rallied.

But if she allowed her eyes to close she heard it clear enough. Not the beat of a drum or the sound of a trumpet. It was Saa’ra’s song, a melody who’s every note was grace.

The horn rang out, as it had then, this time it was to be the first of three.

“We should go, Calia.” The voice interrupted her, steel and severity.

The Queen couldn’t help but feel that hint of trepidation, despite herself. Like grim gargoyles, unmoved even as the downpour seeped into their sable garb, black arrows nocked in a manner that would snap any living archer’s arm, the Dark Rangers stood watch. Light willing, their final watch here.

She had not wanted Velonara here and Tess had not either, none of the Council would leave this wholly in Calia’s hands once they were past the border. In a hint of the naivete she’d tried to shed, it did not immediately occur to Calia why it was the Gilneans had permitted this. They had every ground to hate the grim elves looking down on their kingdom. Did they not fear that the rangers would fire?

“That’s what they want.” In her mind, such observations always seemed to become Belmont’s chiding rasp. “The howls are bait. Kill one wolf and the pack descends. ‘The Forsaken have broken the armistice’ the shout would go, and all those you were just so nice to would come down, rip you and your ‘volunteers’ limb from limb. The Alliance too. Crowley’s salivating just imagining it. Those below are Bloodfang beasts anyway, he won’t miss them.”

If so, it was for naught. The howls gnawed at her men below, their caution edging into fear, yet from the fallen elves came only cold spite. They had always been harder to reach. Their thoughts were different, the scope of time other, emotions slower and sharper all at once.

Calia abruptly realized she had been staring. Velonara’s harsh, unblinking red eyes gave nothing away as she repeated herself.

“Yes, let’s go home now.” Calia gave her the warm smile she was used to. Lilian had always brightened at the word home. Velonara showed nothing. The Light revealed her tension, words left unsaid, little else.

“Are you troubled?”

Calia’s smile could only steady at that, only to turn a little sheepish. Her parade was almost under the wall now, there was nothing left to see, the billowing banner warming her heart one more time before it’d be tucked under the crumbling stone of Genn’s folly.

“No. I’m certain, actually. I am walking the path the Light set for me. It’s exhilarating. It’s fearsome too.” She confessed, seeking in Velonara understanding, finding only accusation.

Had those been Sylvanas’s eyes? Calia had only ever actually seen the Banshee Queen once following her rebirth, when Lordaeron’s usurper had been humbled already. She was a distant figure then, blue and black and downcast, shoulders bent, stare cast down. What would it have been like to reach out then, what would the Light reveal to her of her murderer?

That memory was always tinted by the cold, by injustice, by the touch of grace stirring her heart as ferociously as it had on that Arathi field. For the attendants’ broken, constructed god was replaced by then. The one rendering the verdict, radiant and gold, a beatific face speaking of compassion was every idea of what a holy judge should be, but this Arbiter was as sterile and cold to her gift as was its domain. Judgment had been reduced to a committee’s choice, the condemned choosing to be judged by mortals as flawed as any other deciding the fate of souls eternal. That’s when she knew, truly knew, what she was there for, and she thanked the Light even as she stood motionless in her helpless fury.

The horn blew a second time.

“We must go, Calia. You’ve done your deed.” Velonara insisted.

Calia realized she had been distracted again. The sky poured while Velonara and her sentinels waited, ready to descend. She took a shaky step and forced a smile, ready to apologize, though the song still thrummed in her soul. Then she saw that red spite again and, in that lapse of her concentration, at that remembered frustration, at being at the threshold of her destiny to be met only by a shaky, unspoken accusation, Calia felt the rain on her skin and snapped.

“Why are you still here?” The words came out harsher than she meant, the Light behind them searing. Velonara’s mask cracked. Beneath it lay her spirit.

-
Barely risen and aching and confused, looking up at the walls of Lordaeron, wondering how this could ever be a refuge, how the skulking, rotten human shapes could be her kin. But there her General was, red eyes oddly comforting. “Come, sister. Our home awaits.”
-
The red eyes again, the horns and drums of the Alliance echoing outside, judgment close by. “Are the charges set, Ranger?” they asked without passion. No, there was a passion there, a zeal so alien and deep that it could freeze Velonara’s heart. Her fingers toyed with the Blight, an eruption to choke out the home they’d made in their curse. “Yes, my Queen.” She choked out. She could not hold the question.

“Dark Lady, we don’t need-” The eyes tested her, then looked away with disappointment, even sorrow. Another who did not understand. The dismissal was cold and final. “Return to your post. Nathanos will handle the rest.”
-
Regret seized Calia like a vice. It had been a cruel question, unworthy of her and unfair to her counterpart. Too late.

“Because the Forsaken, whoever they were in life, are my people and this place is our home. For as long as I stand, I will watch over them.” Against you, was the unspoken continuation, a glare in her gaze. Yes, the resemblance was there.

“Lordaeron is all our home.”

“We are not from Lordaeron, there are more people who were your brothers’ victims than that.”

“Forgive me if I caused offense, I did not mean to trouble you.” Calia swallowed the low blow with grace, stinging as it did.

“You are full of empty kindnesses, Menethil.” Velonara spat her family name like a curse. “There’s nothing else in you and that’s why you don’t understand what you’re doing.”

Calia did not interject. She knew she couldn’t. Some things needed to be said. It lifted a weight from the spirit.

“You look at us and only see the kingdom you didn’t get to rule. That just because all those people came from Lordaeron, they’re now all family, that with homilies and magic you can bind it all together. Those down there didn’t see kin. They saw monsters. Undead.”

Pain, fury, frustration, all those shone in Velonara’s heart. It opened like a flower and the Light showed Calia her hurt.
-
A dank, rotting cell. The body inside, bleeding from above and below, had the golden curls Velonara knew she’d have once seen in the mirror. Even now, even risen, she couldn’t bring herself to look for long.
-
“You stood by while Lordaeron died, so here’s your chance. If you want to see your mother again, you’ll come here and tell me tell me everything. alone – V.” If she’d read the letter when she yet lived she was sure it’d reek. It had taken moments after Lordaeron fell for such monsters to take root.

The high elf statue was just a few halls down. Around her, the garrison was slaughtered, the Dark Lady’s war cry rose. Victory for Sylvanas! Victory for Sylvanas! The statue seemed like to nod, were its namesake risen. “Ranger-Captain of the Scarlet Crusade.” It vowed. Did the Captain end like her mother did?
-
“It’s the curse that they hate, the curse that makes us Forsaken, no matter where we come from. You might not know it, because you’ve always had it easy, but every Forsaken does. When they see those men you’ve brought home, if you really let them decide, even your beloved magistrates, those men will hang. All of the Crusade. All of them! They won’t care for their excuses, they’ll remember-”

It was then that Velonara’s own red eyes truly met Calia’s and realization struck.

“You know that.” The anger faded. Bafflement filled Velonara’s face, her voice gone slight.

“Let us return home, Lady Velonara.” Calia smiled as she approached the stairs down to her destiny.

“Why?” It was genuine confusion and fear, yes, fear. Calia’s radiance had returned, the rain peeled off her, leaving her in silhouette, divine. It was a weak question, what followed less so.

“Why did you leave?”

Calia remembered the ashen, grim earth of Tirisfal, the desolation, the charred scar that Anduin had left. She didn’t see them for long then, only the risen night elves, eyes full of need, Lilian’s too. She could not turn them down. From there…

“I couldn’t do it.” Calia confessed softly. “I wanted to help all of you, but when I came back, I felt like-“The words left her. It was as if she was alive again. Not the Pallid Lady, the Light’s instrument, just Calia again. “Have you ever served hospice, my lady?”

She had done similar, in the Second War. Belmont’s record said as much. The look was enough for Calia to know.

“I wanted to help my people, to help you, really I did. When I came to all that ruin, with all of you falling apart, all that sorrow and loss, I didn’t know what to say. I knew what to tell the night elves, because they had a home and a faith that loved them, but not for you.” Calia confessed, regret gripping her heart. “False hope is the cruelest thing there is, Lady Velonara. I couldn’t look my people in the eye after so long away and tell them to keep going when I thought it wasn’t going to get better. There were people I tended to in Southshore, wounds festering from your- our Blight and I had to tell them they’d get better, to soothe them, knowing they’d rot away and it tore me apart. In Lordaeron, that was everyone.”

Velonara stumbled. “Then why did you come back? Why not stay with your Derek?”

-
She was a blushing maiden then, though a ranger too and that’s what would see her called to her end. Her betrothed bright and kind, though the face, she ached to realize, was now a blur. They’d never say their vows, she’d died before she could live. Life was wasted on the living.
-

Derek had needed her, yes, those sad eyes, that sloped posture, the fear to face his family even as they longed to embrace him despite his affliction. She helped him, she cared, she saw in him the brave man he had been and might yet be. Love though, the way Velonara imagined? The only man she had ever loved so was her husband, and that could not change. To know this, too, was part of her enlightenment.

“Because when I crossed that broken sky, where your Dark Lady had gone, I finally understood. Why I was brought back as I was. What lies in death is terrible and unjust and those like us are the bulwark against it.”

The Dark Ranger’s shoulders folded. By chance or design, the rattling wind settled the hood, loosing brittle pale hair. Disbelief clouded her features. “A dark abyss. That’s what the Dark Lady said, where no choice we made mattered.”

“The abyss isn’t the fault.” Calia said, even as she unwillingly recalled what had waited for her in those moments when the arrow struck her chest. A descent into shadow, a cruel spectre, a score of chains and many more knives, white-hot and peeling, the eternity Sylvanas had in mind for her.

“It isn’t choice either, it is the height of arrogance to think our choice should decide our eternity. It is the machine itself. This soulless, cold grind. The machine would strip you of the Light, even if you were its greatest champion, tear you away from those you love forevermore, from true grace, and in its cruelest trick, it would make you think you were getting what you deserve. Compassion without holiness, retribution without justice. A golden mask over an empty hole, and all of it just to perpetuate itself, the serpent eating its own tail.”

The Light roared around her again. She felt it now in full, drops of rain evaporating, the resonance thrumming in her soul. Velonara’s tension sharpened in her awareness, but the relief of speaking truly was too great to stop.

“You are not damned, Lady Velonara. The machine keeps you, keeps every soul, away from their deserved bliss. The curse is our salvation in suffering, reminding you always of the Light’s absence, of love and laughter and all the good things in life. It does not allow us to forget what we’d lost and, if we are true, what we must protect.”

Calia’s stare smoldered into Velonara. She felt the fear that gripped the Dark Ranger, a deeper fear, flickering behind the outrage Calia knew she inspired, the fear that some part of her wanted to believe it.

“That is why the Light brought me back. So that as we rebuild Lordaeron, we’ll make a place where its people can build homes and families and live their lives to the fullest. Then when their time comes and they’ve done their part nobly, we won’t blindly push them into the machine, but keep them close to us, and they’ll return the favor for as long as it takes, defending the generations to come. And if they err, if they hurt those they should protect, they’ll find redemption in their watch too. Returned, they’ll tirelessly strive to protect the living. Together, until we are past the machine and they can lay down their arms and in the Light, be one with us all.”

The hand was on Velonara’s bow now, black arrow at the ready, red glare fierce. “What do you know of suffering, Menethil? Do you even understand what you mean to inflict?”

“I am not my brother, Lady Velonara. What we do won’t be what he did to you,” Calia said softly, allowing the Light to recede, leaving only the gentle promise. Though if he hadn’t, all of them would be lost to the machine.

“It wasn’t your brother who brought me back, Menethil. It was the Dark Lady.” Velonara enjoyed the faint flicker of surprise on Calia’s face. “She had that same look in her eyes when she told us of the abyss she’d wrested us from. I don’t remember an abyss. I remember peace.”

“A trick played on you, Lady Velonara. A false hope without grace.” Calia kept her reprimand kind, undeterred.

“How much of that suffering you praise are you going to bear this time, Menethil? As much as you did in that cottage with Derek? Hiding with the archbishop? As much as you are right now, chosen of the Light? When the living come down on your dream and none of your excuses work, why should any Forsaken believe you won’t lose your nerve and let someone else pay the price, as you have every time before?”

An elf, an invader, an agent of the Banshee, reprimanding the Queen of Lordaeron. A base anger rose in Calia. She let it die. That was the hurt of the human girl left outside council meetings, not what she was now. No, she would not shrink from the truth in Velonara’s words. Light be witness to her confession.

“Yes, I faltered. I failed. I left my people to suffer, and others paid the price for my weakness.” The Light did not let her tremble in her vow. “No more. I will never abandon Lordaeron again. I swear it. I will stand with you to the end, because this is the path the Light set for me.”

The black arrow rose.

“Because you are my people, and I love you all.”

It did not waver.

“Because you will hold me to it.”

She barely heard the third horn blow, barely saw Velonara’s hand, slowly, reluctantly, withdraw from the bowstring, lips threatening a smirk. “Yes, I will. Now move, Calia Menethil.”

She couldn’t loose on Calia. Of course, even if she tried, if Calia had no defenses, the Queen knew it would make no difference. The ranger’s hands would shake as though palsied, or the wind would make the arrow go astray, or a wall would catch it. Destiny would not allow interruptions. No more than it had at Thoradin's Wall.

- - - Updated - - -

“Eat. The undead will pass soon. You must not find the scum on an empty stomach.” The gruel was disgusting, but his father was nodding through it and the wind was cold and biting and there was nothing else. The scarlet flame was crumpled on his father’s chest, as it was on his own, and he talked again, always of Lordaeron. He would see it again and his children would inherit it. Lordaeron used to be beautiful this time of year, when the flowers grew, bright as gold. That is where he will be.
-
“Let the Light purge this one of its impurity and char away the damned!” His hand was shaky, holding the wretched heart over the flame. He remembered retching as he ripped it out, the undead convoy barely armed, so confident were they. The smell of incense, the haze of the alchemical mixture, all of it filled his senses. One with the Light, this Is what he wished. That faith is what he will carry.
-
“Victory for Sylvanas!” Not a distracted convoy, instead an army, sleek and terrible, flying the cracked mask. Behind him, some wept, some stayed defiant, the sisters screamed. He put his shield first. To protect, this is what he will do.
-
He’d made it, the last of many. Not Lordaeron, instead this muddy hole, the enemy the dead again and beasts. But why at their helm someone so bright, shining and true? This is who he will follow.
-
Fields of spun gold, his family and kin, an eternal kingdom, grace and bliss. This will be his reward.
-
The crusader passed away, descending to the floor as gently as a feather, visage reflected in the stained glass of the chapel. With an artist’s flourish, the Master Apothecary spun away, syringe emptied.

“Wonderful! Record speed! Just a suggestion from a lowly man of science like myself, your Majesty, but perhaps if you processed some more of them at a time, this could go faster. No need for a congregation, perhaps just two or three to start?”

The genuine joy, the hint of mockery, the glee of the dead man and the interest of the scholar mixed as he jotted down his notes. So mighty was the divine in her when shared that even through his protective mask and past the saronite-reinforced clothing, Calia could still feel the Councilman’s discomfort at the Light. Her own discomfort was a different sort. The necromancer, of course, felt nothing, secure in his bubble.

“Every soul has a path to walk to the Light, Faranell. I will not dishonor their lives by treating them as a commodity.” Then, with a glare that surprised even her, she added. “And I did not ask the Master Apothecary of Lordaeron to participate each time. If you have more pressing things to do with your time-”

“Me? Miss seeing you melt the wits of these mongrels? Never, your Majesty, you are a natural at the craft, you should have introduced yourself with it, we got off on entirely the wrong foot. Ah, the way the pupils dilate, how happy they look right as they pass! Oh, my mixture is unworthy. Perhaps a dollop of felweed, to stir their imagination, enhance their experience, or briarthorn for-”

“This is their path to redemption, Master Apothecary, show their due respect.” Calia pressed, a flare of reprimand to her, the gas-masked man tilting his head. Neither her reprimand nor the Light could still his joy, nor another false demurral.

He checked his satchel and shook his head in mock regret. “A shame, your Majesty. It appears I’m all out after all. Just stay right here, I’ll top up and be right back for the next one, time enough for you two to redeem our future friend here. I’ll ask Wroth to prepare the next batch.”

Calia was relieved by the time the door shut.

“He wastes his time, the soul matters, the mind and body are trifling in comparison.” Helcular scoffed, calm. Again, a double image, both necromancers, one a wizened man, old before his time, the red marks around his neck. The other the creature before her, floating off the ground, near a lich, rich robes infused by dark magic, skeletal spiked ribs jutting out, grim power in the rod in his grip. In life and in death someone who enjoyed his explanations.

“When one dies with their soul stained in violence, that one wakes wild and needs taming. If he dies at peace, that’s different. Those raised in graves are more pliant than those from the field.” Helcular explained as if to a student, voice flat, rod whirling idly as the runework relit across the ground. “Nothing will be as good as binding, but I understand you have more compunctions on that than even the Dark Lady.”

A sharp look ended that line of thought, only to give way to another, the rod rose, the spell nearly ready.

“You’ve chosen rightly, to focus on the moment of death. If the subject dies with a soul full of righteous purpose, then that will be the imprint on the spirit, and when that spirit comes back, that will stay too, even with the curse. Your method is effective, however you devised it. With it, we might raise even worg-”

Calia closed her eyes, filtered away the talk. With all else set aside, she focused and found the song still there, still beautiful. With relief, she let the tension pass her.

She even managed not to sound irritated.

“Thank you, learned Helcular. Now, by your leave, get on with it, before that moment passes.”

With a smirk from the lich-to-be, the wave of the rod and the torrent of necromancy, another valiant soul was saved from the machine and opened the sickly eyes of his new existence to greet his Queen, illuminated by her warmth in his rebirth as it had escorted him to his death.

[VladlTutushkin]

Well done, very well done. Not overly saccharine, with a right amount of balance between themes, nice twist and in general good plot ideas. Better then Blizzard writing, but the bar there is so low almost anything would fit the bill. So you arent a complete sack of vitriolic hate, who could have thought, i am shocked. Pleasantly so but still.

[Nymrohd]

Damn, this matches my admitted obsession with "The Light has struck a bargain with the enemy of all" focused on Calia so well.

[Super Dickmann]

Well done, very well done. Not overly saccharine, with a right amount of balance between themes, nice twist and in general good plot ideas. Better then Blizzard writing, but the bar there is so low almost anything would fit the bill. So you arent a complete sack of vitriolic hate, who could have thought, i am shocked. Pleasantly so but still.

Cheers, if you're happy with it then I know I've hit the beats I've wanted. After ragging on about this character for so long, following up on the bet with anything except playing it completely straight would've been a cop out on my part. In particular in respect to tone, it was kind of a balancing act, since the actual Gilneas conclusion is about as saccharine as it gets, but it also explains so little that I didn't want to turn it cynical while fleshing it out, especially given the ending I had in mind. I doubt I'd surprise you by saying that a main thing I was pondering about was how much to dip into night elves given our shared bugbear in respect to Delaryn, hence the bit of sleight of hand in flipping Calia being the one to 'fix' them in that BFA epilogue quest to them serving as an indirect prompt for her.

- - - Updated - - -

Damn, this matches my admitted obsession with "The Light has struck a bargain with the enemy of all" focused on Calia so well.

Yeah, we've talked it out before and even way back when BTS came out, but I don't think the holy bones or Saa'ra basically railroading Calia into ending up where she did are bad ideas on their own. This is mostly a repository of my take on those plot beats given how Blizzard has sawed off those parts from Calia, making her both palatable and yet really passive and boring, whereas they went an entirely different direction with Anduin in SL without actually addressing his faith in a meaningful way.

[VladlTutushkin]

Cheers, if you're happy with it then I know I've hit the beats I've wanted. After ragging on about this character for so long, following up on the bet with anything except playing it completely straight would've been a cop out on my part. In particular in respect to tone, it was kind of a balancing act, since the actual Gilneas conclusion is about as saccharine as it gets, but it also explains so little that I didn't want to turn it cynical while fleshing it out, especially given the ending I had in mind. I doubt I'd surprise you by saying that a main thing I was pondering about was how much to dip into night elves given our shared bugbear in respect to Delaryn, hence the bit of sleight of hand in flipping Calia being the one to 'fix' them in that BFA epilogue quest to them serving as an indirect prompt for her.

- - - Updated - - -



Yeah, we've talked it out before and even way back when BTS came out, but I don't think the holy bones or Saa'ra basically railroading Calia into ending up where she did are bad ideas on their own. This is mostly a repository of my take on those plot beats given how Blizzard has sawed off those parts from Calia, making her both palatable and yet really passive and boring, whereas they went an entirely different direction with Anduin in SL without actually addressing his faith in a meaningful way.

Well i mean it wouldnt have taken much to make actual post-BfA plots more palatable and help Alliance wash the taste of putrid dick from its mouth and Horde to stop being either entirely defanged or completely villainsed , but Blizz cant do even that little. Aside from one weird pivot with blood elves suddenly being extremely touchy about Alliance in their city, despite actually needing Alliance forces... Whatever.

But enough of that, if that was how Blizz wrapped up Gilneas and BfA that would be a good step towards actually making a story that respects both factions and does them justice, instead of shredding whats left of Alliance playerbase engagement (aside from actual masochists who enjoyed BfA) and making Horde into morons.

Also tbh i understand how it feels to be constantly put on the spot for liking a faction cause i support Imperium in Warhammer 40K and people think that if you like it than you must be a closeted nazi or some shit.

[Jackstraw]

Also tbh i understand how it feels to be constantly put on the spot for liking a faction cause i support Imperium in Warhammer 40K and people think that if you like it than you must be a closeted nazi or some shit.

Preach.

If anything at its peak Imperium material I find it's a great commentary on autocracy and the folly of the single powerful man in command.

[Super Dickmann]

Preach.

If anything at its peak Imperium material I find it's a great commentary on autocracy and the folly of the single powerful man in command.

Sure, but it's also just plain cool and being more overtly self-conscious would kill the vibe. Most of the time, the material trusts you to be able to interpret that something is shit while still letting it exist in its own context.

That kind of ties into what @VladlTutushkin mentioned up top, but fandom discourse on what liking whichever fictional group says about you is what it is, but the worst effect is in how stories are written. There's a prevailing trend that if you depict an ethos or a group that doesn't mesh with what would be broadly acceptable to the general public if applied to their everyday, and it is inhabited by people who actually believe and follow this expectation, then you are endorsing it. WoW is a galling but standard example in its gradual but certain pivot from just showing you an orc, or a zombie or an elf and trusting their perspective and actions to be telling enough and appealing enough to interact with into wanting to make very, very sure, that everyone involved is a nice cosmopolitan and that every race and creed is at the end of the day cosmetic.

Thus your werewolf story is about how you shouldn't be a werewolf and your zombie story is about how being a zombie doesn't change you in any way and you're still basically just a nice regular dude. Focusing on how someone raised in a certain faith might have it actually inform his decisions in a way the audience wouldn't as they're not in that context, or how say undeath would make someone fundamentally different from a living person won't fly. That's also because you need a certain security in your worldview and group to play around with other views, which is a massive difference from now relative to the 90s when much of this stuff was prepared, but that's veering into more direct politics.

[VladlTutushkin]

Sure, but it's also just plain cool and being more overtly self-conscious would kill the vibe. Most of the time, the material trusts you to be able to interpret that something is shit while still letting it exist in its own context.

That kind of ties into what @VladlTutushkin mentioned up top, but fandom discourse on what liking whichever fictional group says about you is what it is, but the worst effect is in how stories are written. There's a prevailing trend that if you depict an ethos or a group that doesn't mesh with what would be broadly acceptable to the general public if applied to their everyday, and it is inhabited by people who actually believe and follow this expectation, then you are endorsing it. WoW is a galling but standard example in its gradual but certain pivot from just showing you an orc, or a zombie or an elf and trusting their perspective and actions to be telling enough and appealing enough to interact with into wanting to make very, very sure, that everyone involved is a nice cosmopolitan and that every race and creed is at the end of the day cosmetic.

Thus your werewolf story is about how you shouldn't be a werewolf and your zombie story is about how being a zombie doesn't change you in any way and you're still basically just a nice regular dude. Focusing on how someone raised in a certain faith might have it actually inform his decisions in a way the audience wouldn't as they're not in that context, or how say undeath would make someone fundamentally different from a living person won't fly. That's also because you need a certain security in your worldview and group to play around with other views, which is a massive difference from now relative to the 90s when much of this stuff was prepared, but that's veering into more direct politics.

Plus tbh i find Tau fans who call Imperium fans fascists and actually imply that if you dont say “its all satire i dont actually like Imperium” every ten seconds than you are probably also hiding an SS uniform in your bedroom and participating in torchbearing marches… ahem… so i find such Tau fans to be MORE annoying than Imperium fans who just like their faction and dont go annoying other players.

No i dont, i actually like Imperium because its a super unique take on space human empire and how its both grand and gritty , elevated and squalid. Its so unique there is no other such faction in sci-fi media recently and etc, etc.

Imperium is what it is due to historical circumstances and its development, and tbh i can see how we could come to such point quite easily. Ahem ahem not pointing fingers at IRL zealotry and radicalisation of modern conflicts.

Imperium works as it is because it is as removed from our reality as Medieval was removed from it. Its ITS OWN thing, and cannot be judged by modern standards. Its methods should not be applied to our days, but also our judgement should be cast sparingly on it cause they just live in a different world than us. I dare say even more so different than WoW in many ways.

[Jackstraw]

To both your great points, I think Warhammer is the closest I ever felt while reading as I've felt the first time I visited the main cathedral of Milano, the Duomo, as a kid. That was before it got properly cleaned and all, we're talking about 30ish years ago or so. It was so beautiful and still so greyed out by smog, cluttered by the city noises around me with the occasional prayer coming out of the noise. It was so bizarre and so majestic and so mundane, this great reminder of something far above me mantained enough for it to not be crumbled to dust and still left in such a state.

Nowadays it's all shiny and cleaned and all, the surroundings stayed mostly the cacophonic same they've always been, but that very first image fits Warhammer as a whole to a T, to me.

And yes it's also great fun and campy in a way only Warhammer really can be.

[Skildar]

I'm not done reading it but already impressed. As english is not my native tongue, it's a bit overwhelming at times to focus but sure is a good exercise (yeah I should try reading more serious work).

I've got to say I'm happy you've put so much passion into this bet and your talents could be wasted working at Blizzard's. I don't know if you have other fictional work I could read next because even halfway through I feel hooked. Which is quite the surprise considering how I despise Calia in World of Warcraft.