Notes1: This story didn't have a concrete title at first. Rather, the title was at first going to be a more retrospective look at the seven kingdoms comprising the Alliance of Lordaeron from the original Warcraft games. This title, among many others, were written on three scraps of paper while I was at work in the past month, and there came a point where I was going to scrap the title and use it for an original story in which I would explore the concept of a post-scarcity utopian human society against the backdrop of a medieval fantasy often romanticized in tales of chivalry and fairy tales. This never got off the ground other than a passing fancy (although it's something I may return to someday, even if it becomes something that deviates from that kind of whimsy), so I kept the title as is and decided to center it on the Arathi Highlands warfront that's currently live on the servers. (And once again, Alleria and the Ren'dorei plus Sylvanas snuck into the story, but I think those are factors that are going to play into future expansions, with themes that deal with guilt and redemption and the prominence of Death making itself known throughout both factions' storylines, so such these things are more likely to be unavoidable.)

Like Saurfang, I'm ambivalent to Danath. Both are simply characters that, for me, are just there (meme magic isn't enough to make me like Saurfang). They don't resonate to me as certain others do (but on the other hand, I'm an unashamed elf turbo nerd, preferably of the high elf variety, but I do try not to let that favoritism get in the way too much). However, the idea of who canonically wins Arathi (which I believe will go to the Alliance, if the end goal is to consolidate all of the EK to them as Kalimdor will be to the Horde), and what it means for someone like Danath, shows a little more promise than whatever is in store for Saurfang (barring fears among the community that the Horde will have a repeat of the Siege of Orgrimmar, which I find to be not only absurd but unfounded). There's an idea I'd like to touch on regarding Thoras Trollbane, Danath's father who was recently resurrected as a death knight and now one of Bolvar's Four Horsemen, and what his thoughts on Stromgarde's return are that someone on the Story Forums brought up (I know, I'm just as shocked as you are that something good came out of there!), but I wanted this to focus on just Danath and Turalyon. There was going to be mention of the dwarves and gnomes, as they were and still are allies of both Alliances, but this was left out.

A couple minor notes, for clarification:

When Danath mentions Lordaeron, he means the subcontinent that consists of the eponymous kingdom (including what is now the Plaguelands), the Hinterlands, and the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas. I always found it odd that the Eastern Kingdoms is referred to as such even though in past games it was known interchangeably as "the Kingdom of Azeroth" or simply "the Old World" when the world itself is called Azeroth, but this is just a personal nitpick of mine than anything else substantial.

The Lord-Admiral referenced here is Jaina, which places this story after The Pride of Kul Tiras questline and the Alliance's War Campaign in 8.0.

One thing that's stood out to me is that while Kul Tiras and Stromgarde are making a return, the matter of what become of Isiden Perenolde has not been made clear. I like to think not everyone in Alterac sided with Aliden (Aiden Perenolde's son) and the Syndicate, but as of this story there's no indication it'll be brought up in the future (as is Cyrus Crestfall, yet there are rumors of Crestfall and Zul'Dare as playable zones in the next patch). It would be interesting if something does come out of it, as is the case of Taelia.

"It's all coming back together again," Danath says, and turns back around to look up past the stairs they had just climbed down. "One day at a time."

"Do you think so?" Turalyon asks, blinking sunlight as he raises a hand to shield his eyes. "With everything going on?"

"It's only a matter of time." Danath takes in a deep breath, holds it, and reins in the myriad of emotions roiling through him. It's a cocktail comprised mostly of relief, to be finally away from pushing papers and sharpening pencils with his combat knife at the desk in Honor Hold after so many years. Oh, Khadgar had come from time to time to alleviate some of the stress—mostly with bottled, filtered water delivered from the Firefly Tavern in Zangamarsh to slake the thirst of his troops (after all, a person's health was still the most thing to maintain next to pressuring the enemy), but sometimes with the occasional silverwine and ethermead from the Lower City. He would bring tales of events that were transpiring beyond Hellfire Peninsula (Tanaan Jungle, his mind brings up, but Tanaan is now just a memory, a phantom of a world that has all but breathed its last), but the Burning Legion had been unrelenting in its pursuit to spread its influence across Outland: of Illidan scheming from the shadows deep within the Black Temple, of Kael'thas throwing off the last yoke of sanity to sip from the tainted cup Kil'jaeden offered him to ease the pangs his thirst for mana brought him and his ilk, and many more.

Khadgar would spend the next several years going to and from Outland to give the people of Azeroth his assistance. Much has happened in the time he's been away, short of the world nearly coming to an end with each year that passes. It has been rocked—torn asunder—with Deathwing's emergence from Deepholm, and new allies have been found and forged from beyond the mists of the seas that have scuttled plenty of ships venturing down that way. Gilneas has returned to the Alliance (once the worgen curse claimed Genn and his people, and Duskhaven sank beneath the sea), the Horde has become a multi-faceted conglomerate of the downtrodden, the lost, the broken and the damned, and King Varian is dead.

That did not hurt as much as finding out Stromgarde had fallen and then crumbled in his absence—first by Galen, and then by the Scourge. Light forgive him, but nothing would hurt worse than that (and if bureaucracy hadn't gotten in the way and he was a less sensible man, Danath would have marched right through the Dark Portal, through the throng of demons whose numbers reached an outrageous uptick prior to their most recent invasion, and cut a swath of rage and grief north to the Highlands; so vast and wide it would make the Dead Scar look like a scratch in the dirt).

But duty must what duty must. Khadgar had his: he had ultimately left Shattrath almost—three years ago now, was it?—to rejoin his colleagues at Dalaran just shortly before the bomb went off at Theramore and set the Alliance ablaze with a fury that had gone unmatched since the day Gul'dan (our Gul'dan, not the alternate one, and his head ached at the possible implications—implications which he pushed away) and Orgim Doomhammer led their people to pull their roots from Draenor and set them forever upon Azeroth. He's gone now; the person he had been in contact with throughout the Broken Isles campaign and on Argus (and there had been many who came and went when Khadgar needed them) had told him. The old mage couldn't bear to raise a hand against either Alliance or Horde, not after all they had done to stop the Legion, and departed for Karazhan to peruse Medivh's old texts for answers that would help heal the sleeping Azeroth (who is a Titan, living and breathing, and oh, what a shock that had been!) of her wounds that were spreading and cropping up as crystalline splinters all over the world.

No one has heard from him since, not even Modera and the Council of Six.

But duty must what duty must. Sometimes life was simply like that, as it is now.

Standing here, no longer feeling alone amidst company in a shattered world. Now he is here, twenty-five years older and lucky to live long enough to come back to the place he had called home in one piece. This land which had defined his boyhood and witnessed his transition to manhood.

Rebuilt, at long last, and with his old friend and companion finally at his side.

Danath swallows around a throat that suddenly feels too thick and tight. "Yes," he says, rough but steady, nodding. "Yes," he says again, more resolutely, and stands a little straighter. "This will last. I'll make it so."

"You mean we will," Turalyon corrects kindly, and looks back up at the red and white banners of House Trollbane hanging from the parapets of the Tower of Arathor. "It's been so long," he says, far away and wistful. "Hasn't it?"

"Better late than never, I suppose," Danath agrees, and sighs. "I just wish it had been sooner." Much sooner, he wants to add, but he's pretty sure Turalyon is thinking the same thing. He can't even begin to imagine how utterly long, how utterly drawn out one thousand years in the Twisting Nether must have felt. How tiring it had to be, to be constantly fighting across the stars, across dimensions, year after year after year until everything blended together and there were no days or weeks or even hours—it simply was.

"It's as you said. We simply have to take it one day at a time. Stromgarde is only just now getting back on its feet. Eventually we will be able to bring Kul Tiras into the fold and procure the resources necessary to bolster the capital and the surrounding area, including the waters past Faldir's Cove. It's almost a certainty the Zandalari will attempt to flank us while we have our sights set on pushing the Horde out of Ar'gorok and back north past the Wall."

"Of course," Danath says, and turns around to face Turalyon. "Arathi is mine. It always has been, all the way back to when my forefather Ignaeus joined arms with Lords Thoradin and Lordain against the Amani Empire. My people may have suffered and languished, but they were never one to give up without a fight or due cause. I assure you it has not been the case then and it will not be the case now, not while I draw breath to safeguard it and the Alliance is at my back to see that Stromgarde returns to its rightful place in Lordaeron."

"I offer only the finest soldiers the Silver Hand to your cause, as well as any lightforged who would be willing and able to bolster your defenses in the interim."

"Whatever helps, I'd greatly appreciate it, as well as anyone King Anduin can spare from Boralus." Danath grows quiet, musters his thought, and says a little solemnly, "I understand Genn is attempting to push west through Hillsbrad and reclaim Gilneas."

Turalyon nods. "He has...to little success. On the other hand, casualties have been minimal. From last I've heard, he has been waiting word from the Lord-Admiral to send him reinforcements. He plans to try again as soon as they arrive and everything has been outfitted and accommodated. 7th Legion scouts have been keeping an eye on the borders to ensure the Forsaken remain entrenched in Silverpine Forest."

"Things would be much easier if we had what's left of the Alteraci loyal. There have to be some who have not been swallowed up by the Syndicate."

"Genn said he hasn't seen nor head from Isiden Perenolde since before the Third War. If he still lives or has children, no one can say. It's...possible he may have died when the Cataclysm hit."

"It could also be possible he may yet live…somewhere out there," Danath adds tentatively.

"That, too. Unfortunately, every search that has been conducted to locate him have turned up empty-handed. For now, Genn has Darius Crowley and his daughter carrying out operations here while he attends to matters in Kul Tiras with the High King."

"What would it be like," the King of Stromgarde muses, "if we could have all seven kingdoms again in their glory." He looks past Turalyon to watch three ranks of cavalry, men and women in armor white as pearl and long halberds trot around the corner down Valorcall Pass that leads out into the Highlands. "Before Aiden's betrayal."

He takes note of the banners that fly behind them before they are out of sight. Back then, Danath would have seen all seven nations flaunting their heralds and their colors: the lion of Stormwind, the two-headed bird of Lordaeron, the Kul Tiran anchor, the eye of Dalaran, the three-pronged crown of Gilneas (although some would say the crown is now a worgen's claws), the hawk of Alterac, and his peoples' gryphon. Today he can only see Stormwind and Gilneas accompanying him; Dalaran has opted to remain out of the fighting, Alterac is gone, and Lordaeron (Undercity, the small voice in the back of his whisper, and he promptly ignores it with vicious, exasperated vehemence) is a wasteland of blight and shambling horrors persistently held at bay by the efforts the Silver Hand, the Earthen Ring, and the Cenarion Circle are putting forth to cleanse the Plaguelands and restore them to what they once were.

He wonders how Antonidas and Terenas would react to seeing Lordaeron now, tainted after all these years, its capital city under the yoke of undeath even now that its Warchief is in exile and orchestrating the chaos that erupted in Plunder Harbor.

(He won't ask Alleria how she feels about Sylvanas not only having the might of the Horde at her command but igniting the spark that has set all of Azeroth ablaze in global war. The look on her face when she arrived in Stormwind—slow-footed, slouched, and face twisted in a bitter, porcelain scowl-tells him everything he needs to know..

(He will not even deign to ask Arator. Bad enough that he, as well as Vereesa's boys, have to endure the whispers and scrutiny sent their way. At the very least, Arator will be too busy keeping himself preoccupied with directing the funnel of supplies from the Eastern Kingdoms and Khaz Modan to notice and worry over. The twins, on the other hand….

(Danath tries not to sigh. The reunion dinner will have to wait—and that's if there's a world left standing after all of this.)

"Those days are long gone," Turalyon says, his expression somber. It's clear to Danath that he's thinking the same thing if not something in a similar vein. "What's come after us will never match the likes of it ever again, just as those days will never match the like of the Arathi Empire and those that walked beside them."

This time Danath does sigh, coming out in a heavy, weary breath. "No," he admits. "No, it won't. Everyone has it rough today. It's a wonder we even have anyone left to fight at all. Year after year after year...you'd think there'd be a break in between all the extinction-level threats."

"So long as Azeroth still stands among the Great Dark and there are people willing to pick up a weapon, we will always be in danger. If not from beyond the Nether where the Void lurks, then from within, whether it comes from the Horde...or the Alliance itself."

"How do you feel?" Danath asks, cautiously. "You worked with Horde soldiers aboard the Vindicaar. Some of their paladins were even aligned with Tirion Fordring long before they merged their orders." He pauses to take a moment to choose his next words carefully. "When you went to Light's Hope, were there…?"

"Any problems?" Turalyon finishes for him, and shakes his head. "No. The Highlord stepped down willingly, saying that Magni needed all the help he could get in repairing the Wound at Silithus. Several others followed after the reinstatement—some Alliance, some Horde. The transition, for the most part, has been amicable." He frowns. "But not everyone agreed. Were it not for the Highlord, it would have been worse."

Danath understands. He knows full well the tensions that have been simmering, especially between the blood elves and Alleria's Ren'dorei, and can only imagine how much more it'll boil over before one or the other come to blows that aren't concentrated on island skirmishes. Whatever love Liadrin had for Silvermoon's hero has soured into distrust and a subtle, superior haughtiness that is often prevalent among the more devoted adherents of the Light. She's not wrong to be suspicious of her—Turalyon relayed to him what happened at the Sunwell—but Alleria's always had an iron will and a stubborn streak to rival the most maniacal goblin sapper. It's going to take a lot more than mad whispers and temptations to accept the dark embrace that awaits them at the end of the drop of that long cliff.

As for the tauren Sunwalkers, there was little complaint. Aponi had nothing but kind words and praise for the Highlord...but she must have known about Stormheim. Genn had told him and Turalyon, once the shock of the news regarding Sargeras's sword wore off and the Alliance was recalling all troops but the bare minimum back home, what Sylvanas intended to do. But if Aponi didn't know then, she would know now—to some extent; even in life, Sylvanas was a cold and calculating commander, the type to omit what she considered unnecessary details and twist her words to fit the agenda that coincided with results arising from performing deeds committed in the name of the greater good. Each and every life was a tool to be sharpened and used, and for every bucket of blood spilled on the ground meant one step forward and one step closer to strengthening the Horde and forcing the Alliance onto its knees.

And when the tool is spent, or lacking in favor of one that is stronger, it will be discarded and replaced. Thus will the cycle continue until there is nothing left...but for Warchief Sylvanas Windrunner, there is no such thing as 'nothing'; the word simply does not exist in her lexicon. So long as the val'kyr continue to exist, all the world is her weapon and the bulwark with which she shields herself with from the wrath of the Lion, the Mother Moon, and the darkness that awaits everyone in the end.

If Aponi or any tauren, anyone, disagreed with her, then their efforts to join Magni and stay out of the war was a lost cause. They will die for nothing, being fools, and they will die with impunity, for they are Horde.

There is no room for fraternization now. If there is even a sliver of a chance of a Horde soldier going AWOL to throw their lot in with the Alliance (if more out of survival than ideological purposes) or declaring neutrality by wearing Magni's colors, they would still be looked down upon for what they once stood for. For what they are—not human, not a true Alliance footman, not an honest man of word and virtue when there is the blood of people with families on their hands.

"And Alleria? How is she now?" Danath asks, wondering—and knowing better-if the answer will be the same.

It is. "Lost," Turalyon says. "Angry. She and Umbric still intend to bring Silvermoon back to the Alliance...where it rightfully belongs, they insist. Vereesa believes the blood elves can be saved from themselves. I don't know about the others, but I imagine they feel the same way."

"But those days are long gone."

Turalyon presses his lips together, a familiar gesture that reminds Danath that the other man is turning his thoughts. He didn't think he'd ever see that again in his lifetime. "Yes," the High Exarch says, after a moment. "I think they are...but I won't tell them that. I won't tell them even the possibility of bringing everyone back—the human kingdoms and the Kingdom of Quel'thalas—far into the future, when we are but dust in the wind, is not a guarantee. But I like to think she knows, or a part of her does, that she already has that kind of unity by having sought out her fellow exiles and accepting those who wish to learn to control the shadows." Now it is Turalyon's term to regard Danath fully, putting his back to the last of the ranks that file out of Valorcall Pass. "I like to think, in time, humanity will find its place among the ruins of this battle-scarred and begin anew. The world is changing, one day at a time."

"It'll never be like the old days," says Danath, and never has that truth resonated so thoroughly and achingly in his head and in his heart.

"No. But if we keep going at this pace, I believe it'll be the start of something most wondrous. High King Anduin seems to have a good head on his shoulders. I have faith he—all of us—will do the right thing." Turalyon smiles, small but boyish and a little hopeful. "You never know."

"Of course." Of course. It won't be something that'll happen over night. Such a grand vision may not even come to its full fruition…but it's been a long time coming. Sooner or later, if there's a chance in hell Azeroth can still be saved and the Horde—Sylvanas—can be put in its place, then something, something, will come together.

It's a chance Danath is going to make damn sure will happen.

Looking at the Keep, his Keep, and all that encompasses it within these walls and outside them, one small measure beauty is all that's going to take.