#* dynamics: alleria windrunner & lirath windrunner / THE WORLD LOST SOME OF ITS LIGHT WITHOUT HIM IN IT.

[diguerra-moved]

Windrunner spire was far too quiet. It was normally so full of life and laughter but now the only sound came from the birds as they scavenged upon the bodies left behind. Among them were Allerias friends and family. She would no longer get to laugh with or hug them again. And in the middle of the spire was a familiar head of blonde hair. She would turn him so she could say goodbye to her brother, only to find the face looking at her that of her son. She was too late. Again.

UNPROMPTED ASKS // always accepting.

It is a dream (a nightmare) she has had many times before, too many to not be aware of what it is, what is going to follow. In her experience, dreams are seldom controllable things, however, and so she treads quietly the path she has walked a thousand times before, path she knows where it will lead, suffering through the eerily quiet that leaves no room to doubt something is fundamentally wrong. Attentive to any sound, ears twitch upon picking up the sound of wings (of sharp beaks digging into the flesh of faces she recognizes with horror — dead, dead, dead, like a thousand times before, like she knew they would be, but the distressed gasp escapes her lips all the same, and she feels the revulsion and heartbreak and sorrow she has felt a thousand times before, once again renewed as if unexpected and fresh).

It isn’t enough to stop her for more than a moment. The nightmare demands to be concluded, and she knows where this too will lead, dreads it perhaps even more so (don’t go, wake up, it’s just a stupid dream; but a dream that has hold over her, a dream from which she does not manage to escape, a dream she must watch until the end, as helplessly as she had been upon witnessing the real aftermath of the carnage).

And like each time before (like it had in that fateful day in the Spire), heart skips a beat upon setting sight in blonde hair, color of sunlit gold much akin to her own — and careful steps become desperate run, as if he had not yet fallen, as if she could reach him in time if she went fast enough (but he was gone, dead before she ever laid eyes on his corpse, and when finally kneeling beside his body, she hesitates). 

Alleria can see her hand shaking as it reaches out to him, to see his face one last time, to face whichever ruin may have befallen it because she wasn’t there, because she wasn’t fast enough, because she left to fight a war besides others instead of standing with own kin. Half-conscious part of her is torn between numbness of reliving it and dread of what will come next; and yet when she turns him, lifeless eyes that stare at her (accuse her — why were you not here, you failed me, you left me, you were too late) are the wrong color, gold instead of blue, features less symmetrical, a hint of heritage beyond elven.

Arator.

No.

No, no, no, no, it couldn’t be, not him, not like this, not again! Not him, not—

She sits straight up, heart thundering within her chest; it is dark, and she is far away from Quel’thalas and Windrunner Spire, and the bed beneath her is soft, yet Alleria takes minutes to return completely to here, realize she is not there, that Lirath has been dead for years, that Arator had not met the same end. And she knows, knows it is illogical, knows he is safe, but stands up all the same, barefoot (a grounding feeling she appreciates, the coldness of the stone against her skin) steps taking her towards the door of his room, gently pushed open only enough so that she can see he is still there, still asleep, still safe, before closing it again.

Sleep will not find her, she knows; there is little point in trying. So she chooses to go back and dress herself for the day, then polish Thas’dorah with utmost care, even beyond usual reverence, coping mechanism that it had become after following family’s death (one she is content to be able to indulge in again, bow returned to her possession as it had been). Most of all, she feels grateful (relieved) to have her son so near, to be able to quiet her heart with the sight of him instead of tormenting herself with lingering worries. The ghosts of her dreams will not leave her soon (never leave her completely), but she is here, and Arator is here, and he is safe — and it is more than she had for years, this certainty.

And it is enough. 

[diguerra-moved]

Arator, or Lirath. (for my dear sister...)

SEND TWO THINGS AND MY MUSE WILL HAVE TO CHOOSE ONE! // accepting.

“…I can’t make that choice.” Ears flatten against her head, eyes narrowed, more than clear enough indication of how the mere idea of having to choose torments her. It is not simply denial borne of unwillingness to choose, but a deep, true inability to. She cannot find in her heart more love towards one than the other; were her feelings to be measured, one would not find a mere inch of difference in her love, or in her unwillingness to let go of either of them. 

Lirath had been the favorite amidst her siblings. As much as Alleria loved her sisters, it was with him she found deeper kinship, and him who she most dearly sought to protect. They had been the two suns of their family, alike well beyond golden hair. Nothing had broken her as deeply as his death, an everlasting wound, a hole left within her heart. Alleria had hurt watching Quel’thalas burn, it was true, had grieved her mother and the countless others that had been lost upon the Horde’s attack on their homeland; but it was Lirath’s death that truly damaged her beyond repair.

And when Lirath’s death had seemed too much, as if he truly had been the sun and the world had been made dark following his death, Arator brought light to it again. He had become the one most precious thing in her world, and she loved him fiercely; that her choices led her away from him for so long had diminished her love in nothing. Her people had not looked kindly upon children of mixed heritage, many would have chosen not to have the child or to abandon her with the other parent, but such thoughts never even crossed her mind. Arator was hers, and he was perfect. There was nothing in her heart but pride and love and regret to not have been as close to him as she had wanted to.

It is an impossible choice, the sort that she would undoubtedly have failed in doing even if one forced her hand. If she had to save only one or the other, she would have tried to save both all the same (would have lost both due to it, perhaps, and blamed herself endlessly, but she could not choose, she could never choose). “There is not one more important than the other, one I love more. Arator is everything to me… and so was my brother. I refuse to make that choice.”

[diguerra-moved]

tag drop: alleria windrunner

[diguerra-moved]

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Send me a number 1 thru 50 for a word that I’ll use to write either a headcanon, drabble, or starter. Send 🌀 for a random number instead.

37 - Gone

She had been told before she had seen it. Amidst dragons setting the woods aflame and chaotic bloodshed of battle, there was no doubt Quel’thalas had suffered plenty of losses. No one had had the full dimension of it until after the battle, however; but as rain reduced the fire to ashes and washed the blood of attackers and defenders into the earth, the landscape spoke only of ruin and loss. Bodies of all sorts littered the ground: grotesque green skinned orc warriors, the tall figures of trolls, humans who had lived but a fraction of her own life, elves who still sported the determined gaze of those intent on defending their land. Occasionally, one of those may be found clinging to life, breathing difficultly, bleeding too much for their survival to be likely; most were already dead, heart and lungs long ceased to work. For the fallen elves, her people, her heart was heavy with sorrow. For the humans, she held both gratitude and respect, unlikely defenders of Quel’thalas as they were. Yet each time her gaze touched the loathsome forms or Horde warriors, less positive feelings filled her; a dark satisfaction at seeing the corpses of their enemies in such great number — a satisfaction that would not compare to that of bloody revenge, after she had been made to see the entire aftermath of the attack.

She had been told before she had seen it. Alleria had shed tears for her land, beloved and beautiful, not ever before in her life destroyed so atrociously. Such tears paled in comparison to those that followed the news, shed before she even laid eyes on Windrunner Spire. Yes, they had come to her to bring the grim news, even tried to prevent her of running straight to the village, yet she had been unconcerned with who was in the way or what she was to find there. Yet even having been told before, even having had shed tears for the state of her land and fallen comrades, no words in this world could have prepared her to witness the utter ruin of her home. 

Quel’thalas was her home. Eversong Forest was one of the places she felt most at home in. Nevertheless, the Spire was truly home: where she had been born and raised, where she had grown up and played with her sisters, where she had danced to her little brother’s music, where she had practiced archery until her fingers hurt so she would honor the expectations placed upon the eldest Windrunner daughter. Although the buildings themselves were not as damaged, blood stained stone walls that had never before been touched by crimson red. Much before her steps carried her to the center of it, her gaze found the first bodies, victims of the carnage caused by the orcs. People she had known her entire life. Her stomach churned, skin turning deathly pale; Alleria was no stranger to death, but to see it so close, to see so much of it, to see it in familiar faces, it filled her with a sense of dread greater than any she had experienced before. Even as pale blue eyes scoured the scene in spite of her recoiling in face of it, she was overwhelmed with terror; seeking for what she knew she was bound to find, terrified of finding that which she sought.

Please — let it be a mistake. Let them be wrong. He couldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have there. Lirath had to be safe, it had to be a mistake. Her little brother was a young one; not even of age to be a ranger yet, though he already claimed his intent to follow the path of his sisters, a casual cheerful confidence always coloring his words whenever he spoke of it. There was always an inherent warmth to her brother’s demeanor, capable of illuminating everything around him. He was special like few people in all of the world would ever be; special to her more than he was to anyone else. 

Little sun… you have to be well. Wishful thinking did not make her heart lighter, nor did it dissolve the lump on her throat, neither did it dry her tears. He hadn’t been mentioned by name, the most hopeful parts of her whispered; the Spire had been attacked and many had fallen, but her brother had not been named as one of the casualties. But as her footsteps echoed, loud as only the sole sound amidst deafening silence can be, part of her knew there was no way he could have survived when everything else surrounding their home was dead or dying, the landscape eerily grim. 

Moonlight provided more than enough illumination for her elven eyes to see everything clearly; it gave the scene a ghostly tone, pale light reflecting on it and leaving all bathed in silver-blue shades. Even his hair, pure sunlit gold as her own, shone more akin to Sylvanas’ pale blond, night robbing it of its sunshine — night or death, she thought, even as a sob escaped her lips, grief and sorrow and despair felt tenfold. The turmoil raged within her chest, overflowing in tears as she ran towards his body; lying in a pool of blood, blood that could only be his own, blood that drenched her clothes and stained her shaky hands as they touched his face. Her little brother still wore the terrified expression he had died with, making it impossible that she even pretended he was merely asleep, that unconsciousness wasn’t now a permanent state. His chest, torn open by an orcish axe, was a gruesome sight, exposing parts of the body that should never have been on display; against one like her brother, not yet a warrior, this wasn’t even consequence of battle, simply plain butchery the monsters had delighted in doing. 

Oh Lirath — I am so sorry, so sorry, I should have been here, if I had been here they would never have gotten to you, I should have protected you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Even the grizzly wound and protruding bones were not enough to tear her away from him, copious crying shaking her body for minutes or hours or days before any would find her there, still kneeling close to his mutilated corpse; time no longer made sense to her. It could have been one second or one century, and it would have felt just the same.

She carries the ruin of his body herself, careful as if he were made of glass, gentle as if merely a brusque movement might disturb his rest; set him carefully where he would be prepared for a funeral alongside the others (she understood the words, acknowledged what was being said to her, made decisions when so requested, and yet the very concept of it made no sense within her mind, as if in spite of her sorrow and what had been made of her brother, she still did not understand the concept of death). 

He was gone, forever, well beyond this world; and yet how could he be, when his absence would make the world dark and grim and bleak and senseless? Gone; as if someone like him could ever truly be gone, him who gave the world light and meaning and joy. She had seen what happened to him with her own eyes, his blood still staining her attire and her skin, yet it didn’t matter. He could not be gone, not truly. A world devoid of the Little Sun wasn’t a world worthy of surviving in; and the world seemed much the same. How could the moon glow in the sky above, to bring light to a world her brother no longer lived in? How could rivers run and plants grow and animals live, unaffected, if he truly lived no longer? The world did not share of her sorrow; surely, then, she could only have been mistaken. Surely it was not forever, not permanent. Surely he could not be gone.

Though their bodies had not been too far apart, she only sees her lady mother when her corpse if placed besides her brother’s, her father on the other side. She knows it must be her father, both because he has the right build and because he’s so carefully laid beside her mother — but she cannot recognize his face, crushed with such strength there was nothing left of his strong jaw or high cheekbones, of his gentle smile. Her mother has multiple wounds, none as gruesome as her husband and son. The Ranger General still has about her that familiar air of strength and determination, and it is as if she will rise any minute to scold her firstborn for such blatant disregard in how she presented herself, before stern tone was laced in something gentler. Gone. Alleria had never had the chance of saying goodbye to her, departing to heed the Alliance’s call for help against the Ranger General’s wishes. Father and Lirath had received goodbyes, had been ensured of her love for them just before she went to war; but she could not have done so without the Ranger General stopping her of leaving, and so she had not done it at all. Now she would never have the chance again, her lady mother well beyond her reach in any meaningful manner; all of her family gone, in the blink of an eye, except for herself and her sisters.

“She wanted you to have it, I’m certain you know.” Alleria had known Lorveth practically her entire life, yet even her mother’s second-in-command felt like an otherworldly presence to her then. Grief should have been enough to bridge that gap, perhaps, but her grief was not of the gentle sort, did not seek kinship in one who would mourn the same losses she did. Her gaze fell to the bow offered to her, face blank; she did not reach out to it even though it was offered to her so. Thas’dorah was always meant to fall to her, eventually — everyone, even beyond her family, was well aware of that. 

The Legacy of the Windrunners had been passed down through generations ever since its creation, the legendary weapon of the very first Ranger General of Quel’thalas. Perhaps, to others, it seemed merely a bow — it was not. It didn’t have any inherent magical qualities, except for those pertaining the materials it was made of, invulnerable to time and weather, as well as a particular affinity to the enchanted woods of Eversong. A finely crafted weapon, still, near unmatched. 

Alleria had seen her mother wield it many times before, was already familiar with the bow’s curves. When she had been but a little girl, already gifted in archery but far from mastering it, Lireesa had taken the time to sit with her and tell her the story of Thas’Dorah, what it meant, what it was beyond a simple bow. Alleria had listened intently, held the bow in awe when her mother allowed so, infinitely careful in her reverence for it. Eventually, when she had proven herself both skilled and cautious enough, mother had rewarded her with letting her shoot with it. Thas’Dorah had always filled her with intense adoration and equally measured dread. It was the legacy of her family taken physical shape; and that she was to be its bearer weighted heavily on her shoulders from the moment she first learned it was to be so.

Alleria didn’t want it. She would have traded all legendary bows in the world, all history and all family’s renown, her very skills as a ranger, if only it would bring those she had lost back.

But they were gone, and there was no undoing it. 

There is nothing shaky about her hands as her grip finally closes around the bow, only the certain determination to do well by what is being offered to her now. Her gaze does not look back at Lorveth, and she cannot bring herself to even remember thanking him, then. He does not press; once the Windrunner heir secures the bow firmly, he steps back, allowing her room to dwell in her thoughts. I will wield it proudly, mother. It is a promise she intends to fulfill; and Alleria vowed to herself to put it to the best use possible: by ridding this world of the beasts who even caused her mother not to be here to wield it herself any longer. Her family would have justice, no matter what; and it seemed only fitting that she would bring it by wielding the legacy of the Windrunners. 

In the back of her mind, Alleria knew there other worries to deal with. Her sisters would not see the Spire in the state she had seen it, but neither did she want them to see what had been made of their brother and father (Sylvanas would have been strong enough to deal with it, perhaps, but Vereesa, sensitive as she was, would be devastated by the grisly sight). Moreover, her mother’s bow was not all Lireesa had meant for her to inherit. Lorveth’s words may well have been about the mantle of Ranger General itself; mother had raised her for it, always intended for her to become the General after herself, as tradition would have it. Alleria flinched at the thought, unable to guard her reactions in the state she was in. She never wanted to be Ranger General. Her skills were best employed as they were, in the field, than commanding the Farstriders. 

And beholden by leadership, she would not be able to fulfill the promise of vengeance she had just made to herself. 

There were others who would want the position, though — one other, more specifically, came to mind immediately, in spite of all that felt odd and distant and wrong in her current state. She had sought it as nothing else in the world; and Alleria knew her to have the skill for it, if temper and willfulness got the best of her at times. Willa wanted nothing more than that mantle Alleria was so unwilling to carry. She would have been a good option, if she had the wrong last name; yet that she had the wrong last name made all difference in the world then and there. Lireesa had intended for Alleria to become General, even though, skilled as the eldest was, Sylvanas was the one best suited to commanding. She had valued tradition greatly, had tried to teach her eldest daughter to do the same, if Alleria’s wildness had often clashed with even her own attempts to comply. 

She owed it to her mother to pass it on to who would surely have been next in line in her eyes. She owed it to her sister not to deny her of it, when not only was she more than skilled enough, she would thrive in the position. Sylvanas would carry that burden with more ease than Alleria could have ever done. She would not deny it if it was offered to her — she would make their mother proud in a way the eldest knew she would not. She was meant to have it, regardless of Willa’s ambitions; and it wouldn’t be right to take that away from her before Sylvanas had the chance to decide what she wanted to do with it. 

Alleria didn’t think her heart could break more, yet she felt even its pieces further shattering, knowing precisely what it would mean to pass the title on to Sylvanas. Willa would hate her. What they had, whatever it was, could not weather this. Swallowing back her tears before they begun falling once again, she braced herself for what she had to do. Even if Willa hated her, she couldn’t do it to Sylvanas — she couldn’t do it to her mother, when she already robbed Lireesa of the outcome she would have wanted. It was the least there was to be done, to give her mother peace, to let her know, wherever she was, that the Windrunner legacy was carried on as she would have wanted it to; the only compromise she could find with her mother’s spirit that would allow them both what they would have preferred, or at least the closest thing to it. 

—————————————————————————————-

Her ashen haired counterpart had been there when the Ranger Lords approached her, still lost in sorrow unprocessed, to officially give her the position. She had been there to see Alleria lower her gaze and brace herself before meeting their gaze and refusing to uphold tradition, she had been there to stare intently at the blonde, enough so that Alleria could feel the eyes upon her as if their touch had been of the physical sort. She wondered if Willa had been able to see the apology evident in the her eyes, when the Windrunner glanced at her; if she would have understood it. If Willa had understood her demeanor to be apologetic, she had given no such acknowledgement. Throughout the war they had only pushed each other away, grown more distant than ever before. Perhaps it was for the best; perhaps it would make it simpler to live with her absence, having been offered distancing in smaller dose. 

“While it would have been the Ranger General’s wishes, I do not intend to accept it.” Silent shock had been the prevalent reaction, but even without looking at her, Alleria could see the glimpse of hope in Willa’s blue eyes only through imagining it. It did not make it simpler to finish speaking her part. The blonde breathed, deep, swallowing hard, hands closed in fists, strongly enough that nails digging her palms caused discomfort. “My skills are best employed elsewhere… and my sister Sylvanas is better suited to oversee Quel’thalas’ defenses than I am.”

“Sylvanas is the next Ranger General, not me.” Before she had even properly finished speaking, furious footsteps walked away from the scene. Alleria forced herself to stare firmly towards the Ranger Lord in front of her, though she wouldn’t have been able to even name who this one was, looking without seeing; she needn’t turn to know who had departed so enraged. Voicing a decision she so entirely believed in should not have been so hard; should not feel so wrong, make her want to apologize for it even if she would not take it back. It was the right choice. The only choice. Even if Willa hated her. 

It still made her feel in the wrong; and refuse to face it as she did, deep down Alleria knew exactly the why. There was more than friendly affection in her where Willa was concerned, more than even physical desire they often had indulged in, only to push away afterwards. She didn’t want to hurt her; she didn’t want to lose her, in spite of Willa not being hers to lose. She knew what this meant to Willa; becoming Ranger General was everything she truly wanted, and robbing her of it, regardless of reasoning, would not be forgiven. If her walking away enraged had led her only meters away or to the other side of the world, it didn’t matter. Even should they stand face to face, Willa would have acknowledged her presence no more than as a nuisance. Apologies would fall in deaf ears. Living and breathing she would be, but just as out of her reach as all those Alleria had lost to death.

Gone, like everyone else. 

It would be the last memory Alleria would have of her for a thousand years.