Eye of the Beholder

Twenty-Seven.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, bathing the landscape below in soft, sheer ribbons of golden light, Eliana felt the weight on her shoulders dissipate. The sigh that escaped her, that served to release the stress and burdens she carried, was not a happy one. The view was far from calming; beneath the guise of nature's gilded touch, corpses were strewn about the battlefield. Empty husks that were once lively Night Elves, and twisted, burnt demon carcasses-as well as Tauren and Dwarven now-littered the ground below. Her heart burned with the knowledge that the other races had finally come to their aid, to join the fight to save Azeroth, and they were now experiencing the immeasurable cost of that decision.

Beneath the early morning sky, awash with rivers of pale pink and streams of light lavender that chased the darkest pockets of night away, there lay only death and dwindling hope. It had been some time since she could say she truly felt happiness. But then, it had been a long time for all her people.

Weeks had passed in what felt like the blink of an eye, each day blurring into the next, filled with nothing but bloodshed and loss. The Legion's assault on their world never relented; the members of the demonic army never tired, never wanted or needed any sustenance save for the blood of the innocent.

More than once in this war she had found herself wondering if there would ever be an end to it all. Would there ever be a day when her people could rebuild? A day when they could return to a place they could feel safe, could call home?

With the ruins of Suramar in the valley below, she knew it likely would never be the grand city it had once been ever again. If her people ever received the chance to rebuild . . . perhaps their next capital would be even a fraction as beautiful, as abundant as Suramar had been.

But that was only if they received the chance. It was just as likely that her people could be wiped out in this war. They'd all fought so hard, but they could only do so for so long. Eventually, they would wear out. One day, she could be too tired to stand, or the soldier beside her could be too famished and weakened to lift his blade.

They were all simply 'one day' away from it being all too much.

Overwhelmed by the veneer of beauty before her, Eliana slowly closed her eyes, unable to think on these morbid thoughts any longer. Behind her, deep in the colossal trees of the forest, Malfurion was working with Cenarius, the demigod he'd trained with oh-so-long ago, in a desperate bid to turn the tides in their favor.

Lord Krasus and Rhonin had returned to the fold days ago, speaking of something they called the Demon Soul. It had something to do with the dragons, a black one in particular. Eliana knew she should have been paying more attention when they'd explained the history of the situation, but . . . she was so tired. More than once, she'd simply stopped hearing their words, stopped focusing on any one thing in her view, simply staring off into the trees as they bickered back and forth about what the plan entailed.

More plans, ever more context . . . and nothing ever changed the war the way they all hoped it would.

From behind her, the crunch of leaves beneath heavy boots pulled her from her meditation. When Cytheas' familiar topknot appeared, a soft smile curled at the corners of her lips.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said in a quiet voice when he was but a few feet away.

"I suppose some things never change," she replied, and he lowered himself beside her with a groan.

One leg was tucked against her chest, while the other was folded underneath. It seemed like so much less work when she could rest her cheek on her knee rather than hold everything up the way she'd tried to hold her people up. Unlike her, Cytheas chose to drape his legs over the hillside, leaning back on his palms.