Cenarion Circle Story Archive

Sijol crouched in the dark cellar, holding a little girl on his lap. Other children pressed in all around him; some were shaking, some sobbing softly, others just staring around in rapt fear.

He patted the girl’s head and turned his thoughts inward. He was angry. He wanted to be on the surface, waiting on the battlements or in the towers or down in the nooks of the forest. He wanted to  fight. He was almost old enough–almost–but still, Jasa refused.

Stay with the children, his mother had commanded him. Make sure they keep safe.

But I want to fight! Alongside you and the rest of the family! he had protested.

No, said Jasa. We all need to fulfill our duty during this dangerous time. Your duty is in keeping the little ones safe. You are the oldest. You will have command over them.

 

Sijol was the oldest of all the children, and it gnawed at him.  Even Sythael was allowed to fight, and he was only a few years older than Sijol!

Somewhere in the cramped cellar, a child began to cry. Sijol sighed to himself, wading through small bodies to find the little boy. The boy gasped as he came near; Sijol spoke something reassuring and reached out to pull the boy into a hug. The boy continued to sob, but then relaxed, as Sijol stroked his hair.

The night elf pricked his ears, straining to hear what was going on outside. There was no sound, not even the wind whispered among the tree leaves. The demons must not have come yet. Sijol sighed, and very softly, began to sing. A few more children pressed close to him for comfort, and he wrapped his arms around them.

How he wished he could be up there! This waiting was awful.

*****

Kildrad checked over his armor one last time. Every buckle was in place, every strap tightened, his mail coat gleamed. Then he turned his eyes out towards the horizon. The mountain was quiet, way too quiet, and huffing and rustlings of his contigent around him jarred in the silence.

“Steady, men,” Kildrad said softly. “Soon you will have more than enough fighting to do.”

“I’m ready, Father!” Sythael cried out eagerly near him, and Kildrad turned to offer him a quick smile and hush him.

“More than enough fighting,” Kildrad repeated quietly to himself as he turned back to the empy glade before him. “More than enough.”

*****

Jasa was on the other side of the mountain slope, the trail that lead all the way to the tip-top and the demons’ goal–the World Tree. Her armor was polished and oiled too, but she somehow doubted she’d use it. She was assigned with the priestesses, as a sort of honor guard, as the wielders of Light magic brought fury down on their enemies from afar. If only she had been assigned with the other priest group, or the druids, or even her brother’s troop of archers. They would be fighting in the field, the druids and priests tending to the wounded even as they fell.

Jasa sighed and settled in to wait. She cast a glance over her shoulder, at her mother smoothing her war robes and adjusting her circlet. The circlet’s green gems glowed; they were magical, and added power to the priestess’s chants and spells. Jasa sighed again and turned back towards the direction the demons were supposedly coming from. All the war tactitions claimed this battle would be a massacre, but even so, Jasa just wished it would start.

*****

The start of the battle was like a thunderclap, loud and jarring. As if being rained down from the sky, the demons and their undead allies flowed up the slopes in the hundreds. Kildrad shouted a few commands, and then focused himself on the fighting, renocking his bow again and again, not noticing if he ever landed a hit, except when one demon came barreling towards him and he shot it down with an arrow in the eye.

Everywhere was screaming, yelling, roaring, and the gurgling of undead and wounded. Kildrad shut it all out, focused on a cone in front of him–the enemies he could reach, and any that might decide to attack him.

The battle stretched on, on. Kildrad’s arms and back and fingers hurt from shooting his bow, his throat was hoarse and sore from shouting commands, his ears pounding from the constant noise. Oh, if only he could stop to sit down and have a drink….but the demons kept coming and coming. And killing…

*****

Jasa crouched in the bushes, her knees and legs aching from remaining in the same position too long. Behind her, the priestess’ chants intertwined and harmonized with each other, almost until Jasa was caught up in the songs of prayer. She shook her head fiercely. She was here for a reason, not to listen to singing! She had to protect the priestesses. Even if they were on a ledge, far above the main part of the battle….something could still get through…

*****

Someone screamed, quite close to Kildrad. Which wasn’t that unusual, and it took him a few seconds to notice–he knew that scream!

His concentration broken, he cast around the glade he was posted in. There was his contigent of archers; the melee fighters were out in the field, being slowly overwhelmed by the rushing demons. He couldn’t see much of them–only the flash of a glaive or pause of a section of demons when one of their kind fell mortally wounded.

Then, like slowly in a dream, the demon forces parted a little, and he saw his son.

Sythael was down on one knee, blood covering his armor, gushing from…somewhere. Some wound Kildrad couldn’t see. And standing above him, glowing green halberd raised, was a gigantic doomguard.

Kildrad forgot his training, his discipline, his orders to stay here and watch over the archers. He flung himself into the roiling hordes of demons and undead, dropping his bow and slashing out with his swords, sometimes biting, kicking, clawing. He barely noticed how horrid the enemy’s blood tasted, all that mattered was his son in front of him, about to be struck down….

The gap between Kildrad and Sythael closed with a snap. Kildrad bowled into several gigantic infernals. He barely noticed their fiercely blazing green fire, the burns he acquired, the many close encounters he had with being stepped on or kicked down the side of the mountain. All that mattered was getting to Sythael…but the infernals kept blocking his way.

He heard another scream, a death scream, and he knew it was too late.

*****

Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Surely the demons would have found their little alcove on the side of the cliff, and sent a group of gargoyles to deal with the priestesses. Jasa leaned forward, squinting at the battlefield. But so far, no enemy seemed to notice or figure out where the holy star shards were being conjured from.

Jasa knew she made a mistake where she heard a cry of surprise, then a scream, then the prayers being broken off mid-sentence in cacophony. She swung around, picking up her pike. A group of demons had ambushed them from behind. The Sentinel honor guards shouted at each other and priestesses, trying to get the Sisters of Elune back up against the edge of the cliff and the Sentinels out like a shield between them and the demons. Jasa ignored her orders and plunged straight into combat, dodging her mother and another priestess, and sticking her pike straight into the bowels of something, big, ugly, and smelly.

It wasn’t a demon. It had four arms and stumpy little legs like an ogre, and it’s guts were hanging out a gaping wound that neither Jasa nor any of the other night elves on the ledge had made. Jasa pulled out her pike and stuck again, straight into those sickly intestines, not being able to stop gagging  as the smell of rot and who knows what else flowed over her.

The abomination didn’t seem to notice, or stop. It reached ungainly over her spear with it’s four hands, three wielding weapons and the other empty. Jasa let go of her pike with one hand, grasping at her waste for her sword and swinging wildly to block the attacks. Parry, parry, parry, dodge, counterattack. She cut off one of the bulbous hands and it fell to the ground. The stump didn’t even bleed.

“Jasa! Felassa uso ost caelanda!” warned some night elf, and Jasa turned on her heel. She had been too engaged in fighting the abomination–a few ghouls had leaked past the blockade of Sentinels and were creating havoc among the priestess ranks.

Jasa turned back to the abomination with a snarl. with all her strength she plunged the pike in further, deeper, deeper, until the abomination tipped and fell on its back, all six limbs flailing like some bloated beetle trying to get to its feet. Jasa pushed further, feeling the grind of the rocky ground on the other side. Then something knocked up against the back of her silver helmet, and she turned.

Half the Sentinels were dead; the other half, being driven away from the priestesses. The Sisters of Elune were back up against the cliff edge, the back row struggling not to fall off in the press, the front trying to hold their own against the horrible undead. Jasa saw in an instant their plan.

They weren’t trying to kill the priestesses with claws or swords, instead they would just push them off the edge.

Jasa yelled and blindly charged, hacking and slashing with abandon. She often hit something–she didn’t always know what–but it didn’t seem to make any difference to the enemy. Then, one ghoul turned around and swiped at her face. Its claws caught, leaving two big scars down her face, and she was flung to the ground.

Jasa pushed herself up again, but the ghoul was on her. She swung awkwardly with her sword–the ghoul was too close to get a good hit in–then she punched, clawed, bit, anything to keep it away from her.

A burst of holy magic and all that was left of the ghoul was a pile of smoking ash. Jasa leaped to her feet to thank whichever priestess had cast the spell.

But the priestesses were gone–including her mother; some of the undead had toppled with them. Jasa forgot the remaining undead still up on the cliff and ran to the edge. She saw nothing but pointy fir trees, like so many spears raised up in a final salute.

The sounds of gurgling and screaming filtered back to her. She turned. The battle was not over yet. Which suited Jasa just fine–someone was going to pay for the night elf lives lost tonight.

*****

The underground cellar rocked and shook with each blast of magic. Sijol was afraid the roof would come down. No child spoke or cried now; everyone was listening in undivided attention to the battle above, hoping perhaps they could make out the voice of their father, or mother, or some other relative in the great cacophony. Sijol realized, as dust trickled from the ceiling from a particularly large blast, that maybe being down here instead of up there was all right after all.

He shoved the thought out of his head indignantly. An Al’sharen, thinking such cowardly thoughts! But the indignation was swept away, too, as something big and heavy boomed over their roof. Sijol eyed the concealed door of the cellar. Would they be found? Would the roof cave in on them? Would they be the only ones left after the demons had finished with the carnage above?

Days, months, years seemed to pass. Sijol noticed he was getting thirsty, but didn’t have the will to quench himself. Some little child pulled on his shirt sleeve and said he was hungry, and in a daze Sijol manuevered through the horde and pulled down a sack of dried fruit. Immediately the children swarmed around him, and Sijol had to snap at them not to shout or fight or take more than one piece. The children quickly fell into subdued silence, curling into corners or against each other to eat their share.

Sijol took a few raisins to chew on and sat down near the edge, still listening to up above. The sounds were getting fainter, but more heavy footfalls shook the narrow little cave they were in. The battle had passed this point. They were behind enemy lines now. Sijol looked down at the unseen floor–the light was dim–and tried not to think too much about the future.

Then there was what sounded like a great horn blast, and Sijol could even hear it echo against the other mountains. All the night elven children sat up, and so did Sijol. He felt something pulling at him from deep inside, like tugging on his soul, but it passed in an instant. He heard something else–like wolf howling, or wind, or trees groaning. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as something swept by above. Lots of somethings.

The demons raised up a howl of their own, and then quieted. There was a deadly silence, and then there was a blast that shook the entire cellar like no other blast before it had.

*****

Kildrad was dazedly aware that the battle was over. He was alive.

He pulled himself up from where he had fallen, and in a rush all the wounds he had sustained clamoured out at him for attention. Kildrad grit his teeth against the pain, trying to sort out the wounds that were superficial, and the others that went deeper, or those that were mortal.

Well, he wouldn’t die, he decided. He ripped off a piece of cloth from his shirt that was a bit cleaner than the rest–everything was drenched in blood, but at least this was his blood, not demons’–and bound up the more worse wounds. Then he looked around for the first time, and tears sprung to his eyes.

Everything was desolation and death. Thousands upon thousands of bodies all lay in gigantic web, entangled with each other, locked to each other by spears or swords and giant claws. There were even dead animals–hunting cats and wolves, hawks, owls, horses, kodo. Everything was deadly silent, although Kildrad spotted other survivors picking among the carrion, looking for friends or family or just wandering, blindly.

Kildrad struggled with himself. He was tired, oddly tired, like he had never felt before in his immortal life. But there was still something he had to do. Duty to his family called, and the night elf picked up a broken spear and used it as a walking stick to climb to the top of the mountain.

He stopped, again, in awe and in horror. The top of the mountainside was blasted, blackened, the trees lying on their sides as if an avalanche had swept over them. And worst of all, Nordrassil, the world tree, was now only a smoking skeleton.

Kildrad could only stare. What happened? Elder Al’sharen had said something about a plan, the last resort should everything go wrong and they fail to stop the demons march. Surely, surely this couldn’t be it? To destroy the World Tree altogether? Maybe they had lost…maybe the demons had done it. Surely the elders couldn’t have been stupid enough to–

Somewhere inside of him, logic argued that if the demons were responsible, he would be dead. Dazedly Kildrad picked through the corpses, climbing up and up.

He stopped, suddenly remembering. He rushed back down the mountainside to a certain spot, where lay a dead doomguard and…

There was no night elven bodies around it. Strange. The ground was blood-soaked, but it was blood-soaked everywhere. Kildrad stuck his spear under the huge demon and tried using it as a lever. Perhaps it had fallen on his son. He was still under there, still alive…maybe…

But there was no body.

Kildrad wildly searched a radius around the corpse. His son–what had happened to his son?

There was another horn call from somewhere up above. It wasn’t as loud as the one Malfurion had used to call the wisps; it sounded weary and sad to Kildrad. Kildrad squweezed his eyes shut. Duty called, and he dejectedly climbed his way up the mountain again.

*****

No one spoke for days afterward, as they sorted the corpses of the dead and tended to the wounded. In everyone’s eyes was sadness, horror, emptiness. No one spoke to each other, unless they had to. No one sang of victory. Even the meetings between the generals, Malfurion, Thrall and Jaina were mostly silent.

Sijol walked to and fro from the healer tents to a still-pure well, carrying water for those who needed it. He sometimes looked at the wounded lying in their beds to see if he found a face he recognized, but not often. Elder Al’sharen had counted the number of dead, including many of the House soldiers, Uncle Kildrad’s son, and his own mate.

Sijol didn’t want to look at those faces, blood-covered and gaping up at the ceiling as if they could see another world. Most of them had been sedated or silenced to stop the screaming, a few hadn’t, and Sijol quickly delivered water to those ones and fled. The priestesses, druids and foreign shaman worked tirelessly to help heal those that could be healed, or forever silence the ones that could not be. Sijol felt sorry for even the trolls; even the fiercest carried sorrow and pain in their haunted eyes.

“Make way!” yelled a healer, as another wounded was brought in. This one was carried in by a single druid, rather than on a litter with several people supporting it. The druid laid him down on a corner of the floor in the tent–all the cots were taken–and silently worked over his wounds.

Despite his better sense, Sijol creeped over to see who it was. Some night elf, one arm bloody and mangled and almost falling off. Sijol fought down nausea, pouring out a jug of water for the poor person and turning away.

“S-S-Sijol? C-cousin?”

Sijol choked, and turned around again. It was Sythael.

“C-cousin?” Sijol stammered back. “Are you–you’re–are you all right? I mean, of course you’re not but are you going to….you know…die?”

Sythael smiled weakly and shrugged with his good shoulder. The druid smiled softly and patted his forehead.

“He will live, yes.” The druid frowned down at Sythael sternly. “BUt he’ll be missing one arm.”

Both Sythael and Sijol blanched. “N-no, you can’t,” Sythael pleaded, too hurt to manage anything above a whisper.

The druid only shrugged. “It’s not for me to decide, anyway. We’ll let the one of the priestesses have a look at it. But don’t get your hopes up, child.”

Sijol squeezed his eyes shut. Death, pain, suffering, war….he wanted to just get away from it all. The other soldiers of House Al’sharen always made war sound like glory and honor and excitement and fun. BUt now Sijol knew it was none of these…

“Make way!” called one of the healers again. Sijol stood up, stuttering an apology to Sythael and that he had to get water to the other wounded, when the healer called out again. “Make way for Elder Al’sharen!”

Sijol opened his eyes and turned, hopeful. It was Uncle Kildrad and Grandfather! They would keep Sythael’s arm from being amputated! They could do anything…

Sijol swallowed a joyful greeting at the grimness on the elder night elves’ faces. Uncle Kildrad managed a nod in his direction but Elder Al’sharen swept by, looking down at Sythael, frown lines on his forehead.

“I could probably find him a better bed, Elder,” said one of the healers, sounding flustered. “We’re just so crowded and there’s so many wounded that I didn’t have time to–”

The Elder held up a hand and everyone went silent. The druid who had brought in Sythael was looking grim; he stood, bowed to both Kildrad and Elder Al’sharen, and swept out.

“Bring him to a seperate tent; I want privacy,” the Elder finally spoke in a hushed, but stern voice. “I need to talk to him alone.”

A few healers quickly acquiesed and Sythael couldn’t help but scream as they lifted him up. Sijol dodged out of the way, catching Sythael’s hopeful and scared look at the Elder. Sijol felt even more sick than when he had first spotted his cousin’s arm.

“U-Uncle Kildrad? What’s going on?”

Kildrad just shook his head, quickly turning his face away. The Elder frowned at Sijol until Sijol gave him a sloppy salute; and the pair left the healer’s tent.

Sijol quickly set down his bucket of water and ran outside. He found somewhere behind a tree and threw up, then slunk to his cot in his family’s tent to sit and hug his knees. He rocked himself back and forth, until Mother came to tell him to return to his duties.

*****

Sijol was bringing water from the well again. A few weeks had passed, and most of the wounded had been healed by Nature and Light magic, or if they hadn’t, died. There were a few still hanging around in the tents, victims of amputation learning to walk with peglegs or go about their chores with only one arm.

Sijol hadn’t seen Sythael since he had been taken to a private tent, and some part of him was scared his cousin had died. But as he crested the top of the mountain slope, his heavy buckets of water sloshing their contents all over the place, he spied a grouping of night elves with House Al’sharen’s colors gathering by the road.

Sijol put the heavy buckets down and came running. It was Uncle Kildrad and Aunt Delylaa and Jasa and Sythael–Sythael! Sijol called out in happiness, the others started badly, their faces painted with guilt; when Kildrad saw it was only Sijol, he grumpily shushed him and beckoned him closer.

“Cousin Sythael!” Sijol said in a whisper, so only the others would hear him. “You’re looking great! ..well, good. …..well, uh…..what’s wrong?”

Sythael gave him a pained smile, just as Aunt Delylaa clasped him in a hug. Sijol then noticed that the two were crying. Kildrad and Jasa wiped their eyes stubbornly.

“Cousin? U-uncle? What’s going on?”

Delylaa stepped back, blowing her nose into a handkerchief, and Sijol saw that Sythael’s arm had not fully healed; bound to his chest with a few strips of white cloth. On his good shoulder was a bulky backpack, and his sword was strapped around his waist.

Sythael answered before Jasa could. “I’m leaving, cousin.”

“What? Why? You’re still hurt! The head priestess would throw a fit if–”

Sythael shook his head, choking up and turning away to hide his tears. Sijol looked up at the others uncertainly; Delylaa and Jasa were crying openly, while Kildrad stubbornly kept his face turned away.

It was Kildrad that spoke next. His voice was oddly hollow and empty–it scared Sijol a little; Kildrad was usually full of warmth and love.

“He has dishonored the family. He’s been…banished.”

It took a little while for the news to filter through Sijol‘s brain. Finally he whispered, “Why?”

Jasa answered. “He was struck down by a doomguard, and saved from certain death by a druid.”

A druid. The words echoed in Sijol‘s ears. Elder Al’sharen hated druids, was always trying to prove he was better than them…

Jasa was still speaking. “His arm is…he’s a cripple. He can’t fight anymore. He would only be a burd–”

“Stop!” cried Aunt Delylaa. “Enough, please. Sythael…”

Sythael turned back around, his face dry. He was shaking his head. “I can’t, Mother. You heard Aunt Jasa. I’d only be a burden. I…I can’t do that to you, to the family…” The young night elf swallowed heavily, looking back to his father, Kildrad, who refused to look at him. “I’m going out into the world. I’m going to find glory. I’ll bring honor to you, to you all! And to Grandfather.” Sythael shook his head more. “I’m not coming back until then. There’s just no use. The priestesses can’t heal my arm and–” he stopped, choking.

“Cousin…” began Sijol. Aunt Delylaa made another move as if to hug her son, but Sythael quickkly backed away.

“You can’t be seen with me. You should go. I’ll be fine. Really. I’ll be fine.” Sythael looked like he was about to break into tears himself. “Good-goodbye.”

Sythael turned and hobbled down the mountain trail. Aunt Delylaa sob bed audibly and Kildrad finally made a move, reaching out to his mate and wrapping her in a hug.

Jasa rubbed at her eyes and turned on Kildrad. “It’s all your stupid fault! All your stupid father’s fault! Why don’t you ever stand up to him, huh?”

Kildrad looked away as his sister stamped off. Sijol stared at the ground.

“You’d better get back to your chores,” Kildrad said softly to him. Then, still holding Aunt Delylaa close, he trudged back in the direction of the night elven camp.

*****

Jasa rifled through the piles of books angrily. It had been a month or two after the Battle, and she was in the library of the Temple of the Moon. She was supposed to be on duty, but she didn’t care. She didn’t feel very much like following her father’s orders anymore.

“Damn it. Fel, fel, fel. Don’t tell me they’re all in the druid’s–”

“Looking for something, Sister?”

Jasa started, almost falling over as she whipped around to face the priestess. The priestess eyed her with concern, but no surprise. She must not know Jasa wasn’t supposed to be here.

Jasa wiped her forehead, feeling it damp with sweat. “I’m, um, running an errand,” she finally said. “My brother’s Shan’do has…misplaced a book. The one about the beginning spells druids learn.”

The priestess nodded, her silver eyes still showing no suspicion. Jasa breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

“Yes that,” said the priestess. “You were in the right section, but it’s up a little higher.” She pointed. “See that brown book? With the bark binding?”

Jasa quickly thanked her and pulled down the book. She dipped a curtsey to the priestess and walked as fast as she could out of the Temple without breaking into a run.

Outside of the Temple’s grounds, Jasa looked behind her, checking that she hadn’t been followed. Then she dug a little nook under the big roots of one tree, nestling in the alcove until she wouldn’t be visible unless someone loked in the right place. Jasa opened the book, pushing it towards the light so she could see.

“Wrath….Moonfire…Healing Touch…” Jasa ran her fingers down the list of spells. “Let’s try that one, first. ‘Put your hands together and call on Cenarius…’ ”

A few minutes later, the surrounding are was dappled with scorch marks from Jasa’s first attempts at the druidic spells. She smiled with pleasure to herself and blushed, then churned through the pages looking for something that would regrow the plants. She couldn’t let anyone know what she was doing, not yet.

“If Father thinks it’s a dishonor to be saved by a druid,” Jasa murmured to herself as she found the right page, “Let’s see what he thinks of one of his family being a druid!”