Into the Light

16 | LOSS

Malfurion stared, panting, at the suddenly, impossibly empty bed. His sight had returned the moment the portal closed. He reached out and touched the blankets, disbelieving. It had happened so fast. She was gone. Taken by Gul'dan himself, into the Tomb of Sargeras.

Within the portal he had seen a creature hanging suspended in fel tethers watching them, intent. Illidan . . . or, at least what used to be Illidan. Only the body looked the same as the one stolen from the Vault. Its eyes, though, were another matter altogether. No longer blindfolded, its eyes burned with orange light, blazing with fire. The eyes of a god--or a titan. Malfurion shuddered. And now, it had her. Despite all his careful precautions, Malfurion had lost Tyrande to the most dangerous being in Azeroth.

The other druids gathered around him, quiet, their expressions sombre. Three had died attempting to follow Tyrande through the portal. Malfurion knelt beside the fallen ones, and closed their eyes. Whispering his thanks for their valour, he commended their souls to Elune. His heart empty, he watched the druids collect the dead and depart back up the tunnel. Their footsteps retreated. Silence fell.

He sat down on the bed, the broken vials of perfumed Moonwell water crunched under the pads of his feral feet. He stared at shattered pieces, numb. How would he ever get her back? He had scoffed when she told him they needed to retrieve Illidan's body from the Chamber of the Eye, had even said it was impossible.

Malfurion shook his head. He couldn't think straight. He felt shock taking hold of him, soothing him, comforting him, filling him with denial. He looked around the ruined room, sceptical. None of this was real. It was a trick of his mind, residue from the Nightmare that still clung to him, his fears for Tyrande were preying on him.

He patted the bed. Yes. Tyrande was still safe in the Den. He was just having a bad dream. Soon, he would wake up. He waited, staring at the opposite wall, where a misfired bolt of Moonfire had left a gaping hole. That looked real enough. A clod of hard-packed soil slipped free and tumbled onto the floor with a dull thud. It broke into pieces; a few rolled away. He watched them come to a halt against the broken furniture or ricochet down the holes in the floor. Silence fell again. Numb, he stared at nothing.

He lifted his head, sensing the actinic stink of fel taint. It had begun to seep from every surface, a faint mist of foul green coated the den. It crept, sinister up the bed, and across his lap. He stood up, alarmed, brushing at his legs. The fel mist slid to the floor, and pooled at his feet. He shuddered. He wasn't dreaming after all. Just by being there Gul'dan's presence had corrupted the sanctity of the Den. The mist spread toward the door, insidious. He cursed, anger filling him. Was it not enough Gul'dan had taken Tyrande, did he have to corrupt Moonglade's most sacred Den as well?

He looked at the empty bed, slithering with greasy fel tendrils. He rubbed the back of his forearm over his eyes. He was so tired. His brief respite with Tyrande had revived him, but since she had gone, the fatigue he had suffered since escaping the Nightmare had returned with a vengeance. Exhaustion dragged on him, leaving him angry, pessimistic and irritable. He forced himself to recall the room on the other side of the portal; perhaps there would be something useful he could remember, a detail, anything.

A thought struck him, offering him a sliver of hope. As far as he knew no one still living had seen inside the Chamber of the Eye since Illidan buried the Tomb of Sargeras under a pile of rocks millennia ago. Malfurion's brief glimpse of its interior might present an advantage, even if only a small one. It was better than nothing.

Malfurion longed to leave the fel-tainted space, but his rational mind told him the connection to the Chamber was strongest in Tyrande's den. If he left, would he remember as much? He forced himself to stay, despite ripples of revulsion snaking up his spine. Tyrande's life was at stake, nothing else mattered. Ignoring the eddies of yellow-green mist drifting over his feet and wrapping around his ankles, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

The Chamber had been circular, its walls constructed of enormous ashlars of stone, black as night, reeking of a great age, long lost to Azeroth's history. Above, the ceiling had been cloaked in shadow, but there had been a sensation of height. So, it must be deep underground. He shrugged his shoulders, sensing the fel mist had begun to curl around his neck. It fell away, only to begin its climb anew. He suppressed a shudder.

Perhaps there could be another way in, from the sea? He shook his head. There would be time enough for strategy later. He needed to hurry, he still had to find Keepers to cleanse Tyrande's room before the taint spread into the dens of other helpless, sleeping druids. He furrowed his brow, focussing.

In what appeared to be the Chamber's centre, a large circle of fel runes had glowed on the stone floor, lurid green. He had been able to see another series of fel runes rising up the side of one of the walls beside Illidan's captive body.

Could that have been the edge of the portal to the Twisting Nether? He couldn't be certain, but if he could remember the series of runes, it might help. He committed them to memory, safe for later use. Someone, somewhere might be able to use this information.

He continued to search for other details but apart from Illidan's body hanging suspended in the air by fel tethers attached to a frame of fel, nothing more came to mind. The placement of Gul'dan's portal into Tyrande's den had shown no exit from the Chamber. The portal must have been facing away from the Chamber's exit. Malfurion opened his eyes, the layout of the room fixing itself in his mind's eye. If the runes on the wall were for the portal, it meant the portal to the Twisting Nether should face the entrance to the room, across the circle of runes. It would have to be enough.

He shook off the tendrils of mist, fighting a fresh wave of despair. Ever since the Nightmare, bleak feelings of desolation plagued him, robbing him of even the smallest measures of peace, and now with Tyrande gone . . . He touched the indentation left on the pillow by her head, and brushed the tainted mist away.

No. He would not give up. Never before had he had to fight despair, but now it seemed this was his additional burden. No one left the Nightmare unscathed, and he had remained there far longer than any. The others had gone mad. Helpless, he had watched them.

He went to the door, and left the ruined, poisoned room behind. He hurried up into the central chamber and on through the twisting tunnels until he reached the fresh, clear air of Moonglade. He gestured to two Keepers to join him. They listened to his description of the encroaching taint, their expressions cold. They nodded, grim. They would cleanse the Lady Tyrande's den, no trace of the foul necromancer's presence would be left behind, they would ensure it.

They departed, calling for help as they entered the Barrow, four dryads hurried to join them, the usually ebullient females came forward wringing their hands, fearful; two of them were crying. Malfurion clenched his jaw, and bit back an oath. The whole of Moonglade would know by now that Tyrande had been taken.

It had been hard enough on her people to learn what she had decided to do--but this--this would crush their spirits. His own already sagged under the weight of his additional responsibility, everyone looked to him now that Tyrande was gone. She had done so much, a steward of the people and a shepherd of their souls. He felt so inadequate in her stead. He realised he had spent far too much time walking the Emerald Dream. He might have gained much as a druid, but he had lost more as Tyrande's consort. He had failed her all his life. He rode out another crashing wave of despair. He would not fail Tyrande anymore. He would prove he was worthy of her.