A/N: Although this is a prequel of sorts to my stories 'Four Nights in Gorgrond' and 'You, Me & Us,' it can be read on its own as a standalone tale. For those who only know about Warcraft from the online roleplaying game launched in 2004, this story takes place in the five year (in game lore) gap between the end of the strategy game Warcraft 3 (released in 2002, but in the story the gap was five years not two) and the launch of the online game.
A quick summary so you don't have to spend more time checking Wowpedia: the night elves were a third separate faction in W3, and actually fought against the Alliance just as they did the Horde until all three united to defeat Archimonde. The nelves joined the Alliance some time between the two games, but that was never explained (or logically justified) by Blizzard. This story takes place during that time, before the night elves joined the Alliance. The humans retreated to Dustwallow, the Horde retreated to Durotar and Mulgore and the nelves were left in shock, their 10,000 year old society irreversibly changed as they lost their isolation and immortality, and would grow old and die like the outlanders they now had to deal with.
Hope that clarifies things for those who never knew the old school games. Enjoy!
Purple and green. All around, purple and green.
Dark brown filled the space in between.
Light blue twinkled in his eye.
Pitch black filled the gaps in the sky.
So was the attempt to think of a poem. One of many attempts to describe the surroundings to nobody.
The ground was covered in grass, unlike the forest floor in wooded areas across the ocean. There were occasional patches of dirt here and there, especially close to bodies of water. But the forest floor was, for the most part, an endless rolling sea of dark green grass.
The tree trunks were thick, wider around at the bases than buildings. There were smaller trees growing in a few scattered areas such as near riverbanks and such, but for the most part, trees that dwarfed redwoods comprised this forest. Even if they didn't grow close together, they dominated the landscape so completely that what lied beyond the forest couldn't be seen. For hundreds of miles, nothing but the dark brown trunks of the purplewoods filled in the blackness of the forest air, so far that the eye could not see beyond them. Every single gap was inevitably filled by another tree trunk just beyond the others; the flatness of that particular expanse made no difference.
Rising, towering, arcing toward the sky, the trunks filled even the space above. Reaching heights of fifty, sixty, eighty and even a hundred feet for a few, the tree trunks stood as they had for eons; unmoving, unchanging, untarnished. The thick branches began further up, a few of them wide enough to safely traverse on horseback - were any horse capable of climbing that high into a tree.
Covering it all was the canopy. Dark purple overwhelmed his vision as he craned his neck up, though on cloudy nights when the stars were covered, the darkness took over and the canopy wasn't even visible. Dark green occasionally interspersed the dark purple, creating a mosaic that moved and shifted the further in to the forest he walked. It was impossible to tell so far down, but many of the leaves appeared to be as wide as a king sized bed. The spatial distortion at such a distance insinuated that some of those leaves might be even larger. He felt like an ant, or like a magician had cast a shrinking spell and sent him into a normal sized forest where everything now appeared intimidatingly large.
Faintly, very faintly, a bit of light broke through. So little of the night sky could be seen that one might almost forget it was there, and even the brightness of the stars was barely visible. So rarely could it be seen when traveling that those little moments where the silver light broke through were cherished memories, never growing old. The light of the forest spirits had proven more than sufficient. All along the high branches above, protected from predators and intruders below, they hovered. Never touching a solid surface, the pale blue beings of pure light wove intricate patterns as they rotated and circled around the branches. Their slow dances were hypnotic, and hours could be spent watching and observing as they repeated the same movements over and over again, lighting up the areas whenever they passed through. On those lucky, treasured nights, pairs of them would even approach each other, hovering and shimmering in an ethereal speech as the lights actually appeared to communicate with each other. The sounds of the spirits' voices were like wind chimes more beautiful than any instrument mortals could fashion.
A light breeze blew above. It was difficult to hear, but living alone in the woods led one to focus just a little bit more on the sense of hearing. Sound became just as important as vision, if not more so. The branches didn't sway one inch under the wind; were even a hurricane to strike, it wasn't likely that the massive purplewoods would have budged. The forest was mighty, strong, imposing and inspiring all at the same time. The little pink spec roving far, far below the leafy roof could only stand in awe of it all, disbelieving that he'd made it there.
Long ago had he given away his leather riding gloves; he wouldn't need them anymore. His horse's reins felt a bit rough on his hands after all the riding he'd done, but leading the Westfall warmblood on foot made things a little easier. As if knowing what its former rider intended, the warmblood followed quietly and loyally despite the short amount of time the two had spent together. Onward they both walked through the dark forest, making their way to a point where the warmblood would have a mostly straight line. The trunks of the enormous trees made it impossible to see that line, but memory would serve them both well. Off any sort of road or even beaten path, far away from any land settled by any race of people, the two of them walked toward the place of their inevitable parting.
Even among all the enormous, bed-sized leaves in the canopy high above, there were a handful of smaller, star-shape ones falling above. Twirling and drifting through the air as they fell, the crinkled, slightly aged leaves the same shade as the warmblood's bay coat fell silently all around them. It was autumn in that part of the world, though the color of the few leaves that fell was the only indication; no cool breezes could reach that low.
On a long, narrow patch of unbroken land, two silhouettes stood. Horse and rider cast their shadows on one end, the moonlight and starlight both breaking through in a few spots over the stretch of grassy soil leading out before them. It was there that they had initially come from, moving along with the long columns of soldiers from two different armies, destined to join the third that called the lands to the north their home. Three armies once enemies, temporarily united to face a wider threat now defeated; the world would ostensibly return to a peaceful state. Those bearing skin ranging from brown to pink such as the rider marched south, either to their port in the temperate marshlands or back to their own continent across the ocean. Savages who had proven themselves noble settled into the barren wastes before then, and the land immediately south was wide, flat and filled with the types of dangers the more rustic races were comfortable with. Squat people with large jaws and green skin, tall people with long tusks and blue hide, and furry people bearing the snouts and horns of bulls joined up to fight for land against less civilized peoples just as imposing. Those who were originally of this land, those of the forests and mountains, could only retract to lick their wounds and try to salvage what they'd lost, the fact that they'd sacrificed so much more than either of the other two sides largely uncelebrated and unthanked.
All of that was beyond his control and now, beyond his concern. The rider stood at the head of the long stretch that would send the horse back in the direction of the flat, open wastes; a land where, albeit foreign, would be much more suitable for the warmblood than the dark forests of the north. The horse had been born wild, tamed in a rush and juggled from rider to rider; setting it free was the only logical, ethical choice. And it was a choice that would affect him just as much.
His heart pounding in anticipation of finally living up to his promise, the rider removed his to travel packs from the sides of the saddle and laid them on the ground; they would get in the way for the time being. Ever mindful of potential threats to a lone pilgrim in the woods, he removed the rifle only to strap it immediately to his baldric, and removed the ammunition bag only to strap it immediately to his thick utility belt. One could never be too cautious, and even on the war trail where the three armies converged, the dangers of the forest had become apparent; bears, wolves, panthers and spiders as large as any of the above lurked in many hunting grounds; a hungry traveler could never approach a deer without knowing whether or not they were also being stalked.
The tack contained leather and iron; both materials could potentially be reused later. Living on the move would mean that nothing could be thrown away, and as the rider took off the horse's trappings, his pulse throbbed even down into his fingers as he realized he was truly undertaking the task, the beginning of his pilgrimage. Loyal even at the cusp of saying goodbye, the warmblood dipped its head to give the rider an easier job of reaching up and removing its reins. A few moments later, and the horse was as unencumbered as it had been the day whatever wranglers had caught it on their home continent robbed it of its freedom. So loyal had it been that no other end seemed befitting, especially if the rider truly had made up his mind.
For another few moments, the warmblood bent its head down one more time for its chin to be scratched. Fiery but intelligent, the horse recognized that under his care, it had never been abused or overworked, not even in the midst of battle. And there, at the inevitable parting of ways, its eyes shone like glass and the rider knew it felt an emotion as close to sadness as one could describe an animal as feeling. No words were necessary – indeed, the rider hadn't even tested his vocal cords in a week – as the two of them bid each other farewell via body language. Hesitantly at first, the warmblood started south with a trot and eventually a gallop, creating no sound as it bound toward the flat expanses it could remember, its fate as much its own choosing as the rider's.
He stood in place, watching what had become his only friend leave and stood some more to make sure it didn't come back. Proving that animals bore a certain measure of logic beyond what many people held, the warmblood didn't allow sentiment to prevent it from embracing its freedom. As a few more leaves fell and the stars shone brightly, the rider became a wanderer; alone, but by no means lost.
Time passed differently without interaction with other people. Conversation and feedback marked events in the day to day happenings of life, and living in a society based around bending nature to its own will led one to reliance on that society for marking the days and weeks. And it was exactly that type of lifestyle from which he sought to flee; to flee from a way of life that posited nature as a threat.
Under the darkness of the canopy, the forests of the northern half of the continent, the world was bathed in endless night. So little light could break through that the hours of day were no brighter than the hours of night. No matter how much the wanderer reminded himself that he wanted this, there was no denying the difficulty of the transition. To live nocturnally was one thing; to truly move through life as a traveler, harming no living thing without reason and leaving no traces of exploitation in one's wake, was entirely different from everything an agrarian society was built upon. Many of those countless days, impossible to measure, passed as the wanderer learned to fend for himself. Life as a forester was quite different knowing you had a cabin in the town to return to; the life of a nomad in forests no less daunting presented much more serious challenges.
The wanderer persevered. Introspection, one of the initial goals of living in solitude, soon proved itself to be the folly of the sedentary. If one no longer needed to wear the trappings of agrarian or urban society, one no longer needed to focus on the self so much; introspection became obsolete. More time passed and even the very definition of the self became blurry. Observation replaced judgment, and withholding judgment even became a source of contentment. To become a part of nature rather than an exploiter of it felt more freeing than any sort of artificial philosophy or grandiose reflection could.
But no seeker of the meaning of life could wander without being tested. And as the wanderer had expected, it was those who had traveled the same path long before who became the test.
Long after he'd set the horse free and said goodbye to the only other living being he'd known interaction with, the wanderer began to feel the eyes upon him. Shadows in the darkness and ghostly figures in the night haunted him, all too closely and too strongly felt to be figments of his imagination. Hidden beings who had fought the hardest against the common foe of the three armies became his silhouette now, trailing him through the woodlands that so many of his own people had desecrated before. Sharp edges and menacing auras danced around him, watching his every move and tracking his every step. His pilgrimage to commune alone with nature was not without the occasional interruptions, and it was only a matter of time before the stories of the savagery of the forest people – even more savage than the denizens of the wastelands to the south – would be proven or disproven.
For the first time since he'd arrived in that enchanted forest, the wind blew. Faint, barely recognizable but very real, it ruffled the wanderer's shaggy blonde hair, giving him a small jump as his senses were assaulted for the first time. All up and down his back, a chill pricked his skin and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was being watched again. The familiar sense of eyes upon him were magnified and to his horror, he realized that the presence that had been following him – almost always a trio of beings – was moving closer to him.
He gripped his rifle instinctively, a sign that his transition to living at one with nature rather than on the outside looking in was not yet complete; ego and the desire for preservation of the self had not yet met their internal deaths. As if knowing the strength of gunpowder, the three unseen but felt beings hung back, ceasing in their approach. What happened next shocked him more than anything they could have done directly.
Wood creaked and soil shifted from below, all moved not by an unseen force but by an internal force. The vegetation itself willed to move and did so as if possessing sentience and locomotion, changing the very landscape in the tiny clearing he'd fashioned as his place to rest during the daylight hours that week. Land that had once been occupied by cypress knees, jutting roots, partially buried stones and tree trunks became cleared out as an oak uprooted itself and crawled away like a giant insect and a stone rolled on its own accord. For the first time in a long time, the wanderer's ears were filled by a cacophony of sound as the grass even slithered away on its shoots, leaving an impossibly long trail in a pathway intentionally opened for him by nature itself.
In spite of all the strange happenings the wanderer had witnessed in the enchanted forest, the sight of the environment moving as if it were intelligent gave him pause. Everything around him responded to the command of the dark beings so feared by those from the outside, and he realized that a simple gun would do nothing to protect him.
And he didn't care.
Then and there, he began to realize how little control he had. If he had remained alive for that long, it was only because the natural denizens of the woods had allowed him to remain so. Just as he had expected, just as he had observed, they were neither malevolent nor gracious; they were entropic. Neutral. Natural. Their only goal would be to protect their home, and they were neither moral nor immoral, but amoral; just like nature, in its brutal honesty and utilitarianism. The lifestyle he had come to learn and emulate.
The trio of beings were aware that he'd detected them; he knew it. And when he let the rifle slip from his hand and set it aside, he knew that for once, he was the one who caught them off guard. The other outlanders had proven their destructive nature by reacting in defensive hostility; he would be a common hypocrite were he to react the same way.
Confused, the beings let themselves become just a little too easy to perceive, and for the first time since they'd been harassing him, testing him, pushing him, the wanderer could pinpoint their exact positions. One stood behind him as he assumed they had been doing up until that point, ready and able to strike him down but restraining herself until it became necessary in their view. Two more stood before him, in perfect position to end him were he to fire a shot at either one. Their prowess during the recent war had demonstrated that he could fire off one shot at those who had been allies temporarily; he would not be fast enough to fire off a second.
But he made no move to do so; he had no desire. And that, more than anything, seemed to confuse them.
One of them approached again, slightly off to his side. The wind blew against him once more, pushing down through the pathway that the very environment around him had formed to usher him out of their sacred woodland. A huge defender of the forest, female like all of them but so tall that his face was almost at her waistline, cautiously crept toward him, as slow and purposeful as they always were. They had never moved that close to him before; he would have sensed them. His heart jumped into his throat as the true test of what he desired presented itself. Fear of the giantess stepping closer and closer gripped his soul; he had always fought at a distance during the war, and this was the closest he'd physically been to a potentially hostile target.
Towering over him, the dark being's two eyes became visible even as her shape and outline remained transparent; the scenery behind her became distorted and stretched ever so slightly, signaling only to the most perceptive that someone was even standing there. But the eyes, glaring and resentful, became more visible than perhaps the being even realized. The others continued to watch as it leaned down, and the wanderer's throat constricted.
In a voice that sounded like the wind blowing where it never blew, the haunting, otherworldly voice spoke, and its words, as simple as they were, entered his ears and scared him.Go away, it spoke in his language. The voice bore an accent, was barely audible and was difficult to understand due to poor pronunciation, but he understood, loud and clear. The being continued to hover over the wanderer, so close that her hair would have brushed against him had it not been tied back; so close did it stand that he could actually tell.
A feeling of being wronged bubbled up within the wanderer. Fear swirled around as well as he realized this could be the end, and his attempts to reach out and emulate a lifestyle he found more natural than his own would miserably fail, leaving him alone, anonymous and unmourned in a continent far from what very few living yet distant family members he had remaining. But in defiance of the logical sense to be afraid, his indignant sense of oppression won over. He had done no wrong; he had not harmed their enchanted forest. And because of that, he felt he had the right to talk back.
No. A short, simple phrase but effective nonetheless. And when he said it, he used their language.
Displaying their uncanny speed but also a sense of shock uncharacteristic for the ancient defenders of the wood, the huge being stepped back, and the wanderer could sense the two others bristle as an outlander spoke in their sacred tongue. Their necks craned around to look at one another so quickly that he could almost see the distorted movement, surprised himself at how much effect his word bore. The larger of the three beings looked upon him in a mixture of shock and anger, remaining invisible yet clearly seen to him; their eyes could be see when up close.
Rustling rang out from behind him as the third of the trio moved. Had she wanted to kill him then and there, it would have been the best time. But the wanderer was ready; part of nature was an acceptance that one could not control all things. Perhaps it was that acquiescence to whatever may come that led the being from behind to move beyond him, joining the others as they retreated. The dark dwellers of the forest were masters of deception and stealth, yet the bushes and lower branches visibly rustled as they hurried away, so great was their disturbance at having been exposed. The cacophony of nature rang out once more as the trees, shrubs and even stones shifted once more, moving back into the exact same position as the path out of the enchanted forest disappeared; the environment no longer saw him as a threat, throwing its three protectors into disarray.
Hushed tones of their sacred tongue reached his ears, and the wanderer realized that they thought he couldn't hear them. Curiosity got the better of him and he tried to listen, holding absolutely still so as not to startle them into acting rashly – they already appeared more agitated than he'd witnessed before with their cover blown.
Their exchange of harsh words ended too quickly, but he heard enough – the most significant part. Two of the dark figures, including the tall, hostile one, disappeared into the woods, moving out of sight easily given their transparent nature. The first one, the shortest one, far shorter than any of the natives he'd seen at the great war, remained behind after having ushered the two others away.
For the longest time, she stood and watched. Neither of them moved, the tension too great at first. Time passed by as they stared and the tension turned to something else…something the wanderer didn't quite understand. As those two ancient, observant, understanding eyes looked at him, revelation dawned upon him like the light of the moon itself on a dark night out in the open. Somehow, some way, he could sense her…he could sense that she knew he was looking at her. The warriors of the night who had protected their sacred wood for so long, who had fought the first two armies at first before joining forces only to disappear after their sacrifice, valued secrecy so much; they did not like to be seen.
Yet there she stood, very clearly aware that he could see her. Her body remained transparent, but her outline was there, and expressive eyes that could no longer be hidden read into his own.
She stared at him for a long time before leaving. Fear would continue to grip him when the dark beings shadowed him, but never the way it had before; of that, he felt sure. For the first time since he began his self-imposed isolation from the world outside, the wanderer saw a glimmer of tolerance for his presence from one of the inhabitants of the forest.