Notes1: Okay, so wow, this ended up turning into 'Less Funny, More Philosophical Introspection: The Fanfic' than what I had intended. This was supposed to be about Alleria teasing Locus-Walker about being made the object of interest/admiration by the high elf wayfarers and blood elf scholars in the Telogrus Rift, but then it became a study on Alleria herself through Locus-Walker's perspective and how she's parallel (or at least, similar) to Illidan Stormrage, i.e. her journey in Void versus to his journey in Fel, as well taking note on Lor'themar rejecting her offer to rejoin the Alliance (an opportunity that's well and truly gone) and exiling her in lieu of the Netherguard ambush, and a brief mention of Vereesa's possibly manipulating her sister by relating the missing years with an Alliance bias. You can tell from the very beginning where I switched gears and adapted with the abruptness of tonal change.

Speaking of which, I think out of all the things that were missed opportunities (I was all for seeing just what it would have been like had Illidan accepted Xe'ra's gift, even though that would have gone against his character...and I'm more than convinced Blizzard caved to fan outrage from the Light's Heart questline...again), Alleria and Illidan not establishing some sort of friendship/alliance of convenience was the biggest; this is the BroTP I yearn for. Aside from a few details and wielding opposing magics, they really aren't so different from one another. It's wishful thinking, but given that Illidan is currently sealed away with Sargeras inside the Seat of the Pantheon (and indeed, Locus-Walker's comments on it are my own), it is only a matter of time until they are needed again for when N'Zoth and the Void Lords press closer and closer to Azeroth...a battle that will see Alleria and the Ren'dorei front and center, just as Illidan and the Illidari that came before them in the war against the Burning Legion.

Notes2: Locus-Walker is an interesting character, not so much amoral when he is neutral and watches from the sidelines unless the needs align with his own. I've read posts where people have compared him to Luke Skywalker from the 2010's Star Wars trilogy, but that's not something I can say so lightly since I have never seen them outside of the original trilogy and the prequels. I doubt Locus-Walker would give much of a damn about Illidan, but since fel is the result of a mutual clashing between Light and Void at the beginning of time, I think, maybe (as slim of a chance that may be), he could have taken some slight interest in him, were circumstances not so dire on Argus. If the Light sees only truth (and therefore disregards all others as lies) and the Void shows only half-truths but also seeks every possible path and considers them true, what might the Fel see?

"It's kind of cute, you know," Alleria says, and she couldn't have looked any prouder if she could.

Locus-Walker hums and gives her the ethereal equivalent of a sideways glance. "What's that?" There's a warmth in her eyes and in her smile that's missing from Telogrus; it's the one thing, other than the lack of discipline the void elves and their kith are still trying to temper, they're complaining about. It's not so much cold as it's exhibiting the sensation of coldness, like being deep underwater where the light can't reach and only the pervasive dark exists for comfort. Not even a basic campfire or simple fire spells are enough, but it's as good as they're going to get while they excavate the secrets from this old, angry husk of a world.

It's a reassuring thing, to see that this woman has confidence in her students—her people—to grip the Void by the reins and assert the control that's rightfully theirs.

It's also a trap he knows full well he's walking into, judging by the mischievous glint that brightens her expression even more. "You don't know?"

He makes a show of humming thoughtfully. "No. What don't I know?"

"You have a fan club, and with each and every number its numbers continue to grow. Look." She points out the group of elves seated around Instructor Duskwalker, listening with rapt attention as he goes over meditation techniques to calm the mind, the heart, and how to harness it under times of duress.

How ironic it must be for her that she could manage to recruit more of her estranged cousins into the Alliance's fold. No one knows how much it hurt, to not have been able to convince Lor'themar Theron to leave the Horde and rejoin his friends and family where they belong—have them go back to the place where their people (his people now, Locus-Walker thinks) had mingled with the allies who had helped her and her kin in the time of the Troll Wars. She had offered them her hand, and in return they slapped it away and told her where to go.

Away from the holy, arcane light of the Sunwell.

Away from the tall, marble spires, that had once been blue and now was red, of Silvermoon.

Away from the burbling rivers, the rolling yellow hills, and the scarlet trees of the Eversong Woods.

Away from home.

You and your magic are a danger to us all.

Locus-Walker doesn't harrumph; it would ruin the mood. After all that, stopping Durzaan and the Netherguard from getting too close to the Sunwell, this is the thanks she gets…although the reaction is to be expected. The Void has been nothing but a source of temptation and corruption, of madness and honey-dipped whispers of hopes and dreams that can be realized (and are much too good to be true). It has touched and claimed more lives than the near decimation of the Quel'dorei race a hundred thousand times over, and the darkness that has tainted their precious forests into the Ghostlands they are today is nothing compared to the shadows that stretch long and thinly from the dim, white sun.

Who could blame the blood elves for protecting the Light? They had been lost in shadows, once, when their prince lead them away from the warmth of the sun. He had grown mad with hunger, desperate for more of that sweet, overripe fruit the Legion was keeping all to themselves, and when he could take it no more he dragged those whom suffered as much as he into the depths of depravity, caved to the false joy and comfort that set their hearts to racing and pumped their veins, their brains, full of a manic rush that escalated them to a pseudo state of godhood. Alleria may as well be a relic of history that time forgot, and when she finally came back it was to show Azeroth how much she had changed. How different she was from the world that moved on without her and the man whose faith was balancing closer to the knife's edge.

How much she stayed the same, stubborn in her old ways despite the talk of carving her own path. All that dust was now being blown away, but still the cracks remained. Still the seeds that fitted in between the crevices and took hold as roots would not budge. The woman was a traitor to her kindred for thinking to take a bite of the forbidden fruit. She wields now the knowledge that can make or break her (Fester within her as a weed unending and have her choke on it, Locus-Walker muses curiously, reflecting of the incident she recited to him, of the way she had edged closer, closer, to the Sunwell, ignorant of the warnings). She wields now the knowledge that could build the stepping stones that will lead the peoples of Azeroth closer to playing the Void Lords at their game…or plunge the world into a total blackness that can never be banished, not by all the light in the stars or in the Light itself.

Ah, but who could blame her? Most everyone was ignorant: the night elves, the high elves, the blood elves, the nightborne, and the rest of the sorry lot they were consorting with. They didn't think the Void could be forced into submission, didn't dip their toes far enough in the pool to get their feet wet and go all the way. That was what separated the Ren'dorei from the shadow priests and their disciplined colleagues. They knew what they had to do to harness the shadows. They knew the risks of what would happen if they let the grip on their emotional tether slip. Even anchors were bound to fall, crack, and break under pressure.

There is only so much strength love for nations, for people, for family could give.

And yet, there is only so much the Void could do to try to comprehend it in its entirety and in its totality.

Ah, balance. You are a fickle mistress: you want what you can't have, and yet you have it at the same time. It can't work both ways, can it? Oh, but was it not Alleria who told him that without the Light there was no Shadow? That one could not exist without the other?

Yet what is the zero-sum of Light, with its vast mountains of crystals and the sinking, drowning quiet of waking, blinding, sleepless peace?

What is the zero-sum of Shadow, with its mountain ranges and sheer, bottomless cliffs one could wander in their bumbling, childish confusion and fly as they had never flown before?

What is the zero-sum of Fel, which is Light and Shadow and the summation of all lies and truths?

What a curious conundrum. Not for the first time, Locus-Walker wonders how things would have been had Illidan not remained on the Seat of the Pantheon. What answers could he have gleaned from him, from the visions he received from the Dark Titan when his eyes were seared from his head? How much did Illidan Stormrage know of Sargeras's Crusade across the cosmos, across reality, that it would end not with the destruction of Azeroth but all existence, so that the Void could not gain a single foothold?

What would he have said, upon seeing an elven woman utilize the same dark arts Sargeras had pledged his life, his Legion, to war against?

What opportunities there could have been! Locus-Walker laments. Alas, unless Alleria had been secretly confiding in Illidan without his knowledge, that time has come and gone…Maybe. Rarely does the prospect of being purposely sealed away for eternity ever last forever. To be up there in that lonely sky with only the Titan Pantheon and his prodigal student, his shining star, for company….

How much will Illidan Stormrage learn?

More than enough, Locus-Walker thinks, and regards Alleria with an aura of expectation she clearly mistakes for tired resignation. More than you will ever know and will ever want to. You have all the time in the world. Your destiny will come, one way or another. "A fan club, eh?" he says, trying not to sound too bored. "It's a bit too small to be called that, don't you think?"

"We will grow," Alleria assures him. "Slowly but surely, we will grow. Each day brings us a couple more elves to learn what society insisted they could not." Her face hardens; it's very subtle, almost unnoticeable, but the mortal body can only hide so much emotion. The disappointment leaks from her as a water dripping from a faucet that hasn't been closed all the way; it rolls off her in a slow, steady, narrow trickle. "Blood elves, high elves…it doesn't matter who comes. I will take them in and I will show them the power that's been denied them. I will support them where their families and friends could not."

She lets her gaze roam slowly across the area, and Locus-Walker follows it. The Rift is still quiet, still empty…but not as empty as it used to be. It's as she said: little by little there are elves coming from all across the world, seeking to dissect the secrets of Dar'Khan's writings and learn from the hero their people had venerated throughout the intervening years. A Light-given miracle, they say, and Brought back from the dead, emerged from the Shadows. They come also to see for themselves the ethereal that had gifted her the fruit of darkness, wanted to seek his guidance as much as they sought Alleria's.

She voices the same thought that's going through his mind at this moment: "It's funny. I couldn't get the blood elves to come back…but yet, here they are. Joined hand in hand together…with people who are no different than they are." Alleria glances at her upraised hand, studies the way the shadows flit and swirl and dissipate in the air. "I don't understand. We look the same, we bleed the same, but we are still so divided."

"Politics were never meant to be fair," Locus-Walker states. "To say they are would be a product of childish wish fulfillment."

"Is it wrong to think they're making a mistake? Should I not express my concern for their well-being?" Alleria asks with a soft, underlying heat warming the edge of her voice. "They're in the Horde, Locus-Walker. This is the very same group that nearly brought my people to their knees. They're being lead astray; Vereesa told me so. I just want to do the right thing."

Vereesa, huh? Ah, her youngest sister. The one who sees only one truth—the truth of heartache, grief, and betrayal wrapped in a bloody, compact ball—and disregards all other truths—the truth equally mired in heartache, grief, and betrayal, nicked and scorched and bloodied in a copper-plated coin. How deliciously ironic…but Locus-Walker has no interest in starting a war of words and systematic breakdown of psychologies, philosophies, and the corruption of malleable hearts when the dust has been swept away, so he ignores the temptation and nods knowingly. "This is a fair compromise, yes? It's not all the blood elves, but at least you have some blood elves. And look at them! They speak with their high elf cousins as though they were never ideological enemies to begin with. It's a most wondrous thing, setting aside differences to work together for a common goal…and against a common foe."

Alleria is quiet for a moment. Then, softly, "There could be more. So much more."

"Oh, but then it won't be a fan club anymore," Locus-Walker says with a little cheek. "It'll become…a cult."

"I am not a fanatic," Alleria drawls, and turns to him with a roll of her eyes, "and the Ren'dorei are not dumb, blind sheep. Sheep have feelings, too."

"You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink it."

"I'm more than sure my people will know right from wrong." She regards the listening initiates with a look of maternal fondness. "I believe in them."

"As do I," says Locus-Walker. "Make no mistake, Alleria: Whatever you may think of me, I have hope for the Ren'dorei. They have given me much to ponder. I wish to stay a while and see the fruits of their labor, the germs of their thought. Theirs is a destiny that will shape the future of Azeroth in the days to come. It is only right I see what it is you have to offer…and what will become of it."

"Do you think it'll be enough?" Alleria asks.

Locus-Walker can't help but chuckle: low and soft. He laughs at all the truths and lies about her he has discerned from peering into the Void, all the unfortunate, terrible fates and sudden anti-climatic ends she may endure, those that are manipulated from beyond her ken where the light cannot reach and those that she forces with the pull of the leash and mantles upon herself. He laughs at the tangled web her widowed sister has ensnared her in and all the ways it will come undone and how slow, how fast it will unravel, how much blood and tears will spill from the threads in waterfalls, cascades, torrents, a flood no longer repressed. Most of all, he laughs at the simplicity of her question and all the parallels and differences that coincide and contrast with Illidan Stormrage…and the Warchief she has yet to truly understand. "We won't know until we try," he tells her, and this is the truth: Alleria Windrunner will try and try and try until she gets it right, through felfire and brimstone, or be smote into ashes.

And oh! What a ride it will be!