Illidan Stormrage stared at his reflection in the framed mirror before him, expression twisted with all-consuming anger. It burned through him like Sargeras had burned through his amber eyes, leaving nothing but the hollow sockets beneath.

Much to his surprise, he was also . . . disappointed. The second emotion lay not with his physical appearance; what were his amber eyes but a curse, a burden he'd always had to bear?

No, the disappointment spiraled within him.

He'd been pulled along by Archimonde, Varo'then, by Azshara—the Light of all Lights. Pulled into schemes that affected so many—the world even—by the Queen who had betrayed them all, contorted by her lust for power and recognition, to be fawned over by more than just her own people.

Pulled into these games like a pawn.

Disgust marred his features, and he reached up to yank the gilded mirror from the wall. His fingers curled around the cool, metal frame—a frame he could not truly see. At least, not with his eyes, but with the fel energy that swirled around him.

He gripped the frame so hard, he could hear his skin tightening over the metal. It was a sound he would have never been able to pick up before, not with all his senses operating as they should have. Now, with his eyesight gone, he was able to hear more than he'd ever thought possible. Feel more than he ever had before. The frame was cool against his palms, the breeze swirling the curtains across the room with a caress as brisk as the fall.

While magical energy swirled before him in bright, flaring colors, the rest of the world only formed shape when those magical energies rebounded off of physical surfaces. It was . . . disorienting; his mind fought to understand how his new sight worked. He supposed it was better than being completely blind.

As his mind wandered, his anger ebbed. Letting go of the frame, he leaned back, inspecting his reflection once more. Something tickled at his mind's perimeter, like a thought he'd meant to recall but couldn't. Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear the fog, he backed away from the mirror, inspecting his surroundings instead.

He'd been brought to a different room than his previous quarters. Whether this was the closest room the servants thought to bring him so that he wouldn't violently lash out at anyone nearby, or whether it was his new quarters, he wasn't certain.

Slowly, he circled the room, fingers tracing vague outlines of things within. A bottle on a table, here; an errant book on a shelf, there. The room seemed to be lived in, and so he presumed it belonged to someone else.

That same tickle from before nagged at his thoughts again, and he furrowed his brows in irritation. Perhaps he needed more rest? Perhaps the strain of . . . the changes in his body were taxing him too much?

The thought of being weak caused anger to flare within Illidan again, and he swiped a vase off the nearest end table. When he heard the glass shatter, the sound pulled him from his fugue and he stared down at his hands in contempt.

As he studied the smooth lines intersecting his palms, the faintest whisper drifted across his mind. Oh Illidan . . . what have you done?

The words layered over one another, calling out to him like the songs of Elune—but in a voice more cherished than that of any one Priestess. Reeling back, he pressed his fingers against his temple. He knew without a doubt that Eliana was not here with him in the room, let alone even in the palace. She was interminably far, well out of his reach.

It was the echoes of her voice that called to him now.

Exhaustion swept over him and he swayed on his feet, catching himself on the bedpost before he keeled over. With a groan, he relented, gingerly laying down on the soft bed in the center of the room. If the servants had brought him here to rest, it was likely acceptable for him to remain for the time-being. Should the Queen or Varo'then need him, they'd likely come and claim him.

For now . . . he would simply close his eyes . . .

When he woke next, the calm, dark embrace of the night had faded. In its place, the sun beat down on him from its apex in the pale blue sky. He knew this because when he looked up at the warmth emanating from above, a massive void rested in the center of his vision. Ribbons of ebony snaked out from the orb, searing into his sockets like the "gift" that had burned its way into his body the day before.

Illidan turned away from the offensive sight, frustration welling within him when he moved to close his eyes and found he could not.

This will take some . . . getting used to . . .

He rose from the comfort of the bed, sliding his legs over the edge and brushing his fingers along his jaw as he collected his thoughts. Slowly, he rose to his feet before shuffling towards the door. He was beyond finding any more rest in the confines of this soft, privileged room, and thought some practice in using his new senses would be of better use.

As he stepped out into the deserted hall, he gently closed the door behind him. Discretion was not necessary, but he wished to do this on his own time, without watchful eyes. If he made too much noise, it was likely one of the palace guards or felguard would come to investigate.

The plush carpet beneath his feet cushioned his steps; wispy tendrils of thread tickled at the soles of his feet, and he could feel them depressing as his weight pushed against them. Absentmindedly, he wandered, tracing his fingers along the wall for guidance as he tried to focus on the energy around him rather than forcing his eyes to see what was physically before him.

Every time he tried to focus his sight, a sharp lance of pain would stab through the base of his skull. But when he pulled back, letting his mind's eye soar and see all, the pain faded and shapes began to form around him.

The world was not infused with color as his vision had been. Everything was a muted, sickly green, the same shade as the noxious waves of energy that rolled across the wasteland of the ruins surrounding the palace. Ebony shadows deepened the visual where there was physically nothing there. As he swiped his hand in front of him, swimming through the ocean of black, it was met with no resistance.

Setting that knowledge aside, he finally let go of the wall and staggered down the hallway. Once he was out of the residential wing, he made his way towards the grandiose staircase that curved into the palace's foyer. His hand slid along the smooth, opulent banister that he knew from memory was gold, but that his eyes could no longer see.

A vibrant swirl of midnight blue energy awaited him at the bottom of the steps, and as he moved closer, it gradually solidified into the shape of a male Night Elf. One of the Queen's guards, then.

Though Illidan's steps were soft, his feet bare against the extravagant rug that lined the steps, the guard turned and watched Illidan's approach. When he stepped off the last stair, the guard cleared his throat. "Sorcerer, may I inquire as to where you are headed?"

As Illidan tried to focus on the guard's face, seeing nothing but vague swirls that outlined the bridge of the elf's nose, he let out a frustrated grunt. Pain pulsed through his skull again, and his irritation grew. "The dungeons. I wish to speak to one of the prisoners."

The guard was silent, and Illidan tried to determine whether he was frowning or simply thinking—it was so hard to tell with his head pounding.

After a few more seconds of silence, the echo of wood scraping against stone came to him, followed by the slightest kiss of cool air against his cheek. The guard had bid him passage, then. With a grunt, Illidan shouldered past him, stumbling onto the first step of his descent.

As he moved lower into the dungeons, the air around him noticeably dropped in temperature. His bare feet scuffed against the stone, and he wasn't sure how he felt about the change from the opulent palace above.

Odd, that. It had only been a few weeks since he'd left his people and already he'd adjusted to finding splendor and riches the norm—or had it been nearly two months now? The passage of time was ever flowing, ebbing like the rivulets of strong river currents. For most Night Elves, one or two months were mere stolen moments in a lifetime—so short, they were barely remembered. But since he'd "joined" Queen Azshara and her Highborne, it felt like the days stretched on with no end in sight.

I need to do this, he thought with a grimace, hand tracing along the cracks in the wall beside him as he headed ever lower. If this is how I can best help my people, then so be it. Here is where I must be.

Once he was on flat ground again, he ambled forward, pulling from memory that Tyrande's cell had been on the right towards the end of the hall. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to focus on the faint swirls of energy that twined around the cell bars and pooled in the corners of the room. His head pounded in response, but he couldn't simply wander. He had to focus, improve his mastery of his new sight if he was to survive.

Leaning against the wall as he fought to catch his breath, he expanded his awareness, testing the boundaries of his sight. Here and there in offset cells, dwindling energy signatures swirled, contained within darker outlines—elves inside the cells, most likely. In the hallway, though, there was no one else. Illidan was alone.

Between guard shifts, then, he mused, glancing back the way he'd come. The doorway to the dungeons was high enough that he couldn't sense the guard atop the stairs.

When he faced forward again, a glaringly bright, silver light shone at the end of the hall. He'd found Tyrande.

Pushing away from the stone, he continued forward. When he stepped up to the bars of Tyrande's cell, he saw her shift on the ground, facing him. A soft gasp escaped her. "Illidan? Is that you?"

More rustling could be heard as she stood, padding over to stand across from him within her cell. "What have they done to you?"

The shadow of her figure moved, and he surmised that she'd covered her mouth with her hand. He supposed it was somewhat validating to hear that he looked as terrible as he'd felt. A low, dry chuckle left him, and he replied, "I suppose it must be pretty obvious what they've done."

"Your eyes . . ."

"Gone, yes."

"I don't und—You seem rather calm for someone who has just . . . They're so ragged, Illidan. You must be in immense pain."

He offered a shrug. "No more than I have felt before."

It was a lie, but one he was willing to give since he knew she would see through it. There was no point in explaining just how much pain he was in, when there was nothing that would bring back his eyes. Perhaps he was better off this way.

Tyrande scoffed, and Illidan knew she was on to him. When she didn't say anything else, he slowly nodded. "You are wondering why I came down here."

"To be quite honest . . . yes. I thought you'd gotten as much as you could from me through all the interrogations we've done thus far."

"If that were true, you would no longer be a prisoner of worth, Tyrande. They would have killed you by now."

Tyrande shuddered. "Then I suppose I should consider myself lucky."

"Lucky?" It was his turn to scoff. "I do not know if that is the right word. If that were true, I'm 'lucky' to have been gifted with new sight."

"Perhaps you are right," she murmured. The swirls of energy moved around the cell bars, and the silver light grew brighter around them. "And how is your plan going?"

"My eyes have been burned out so I suppose you could say . . . well."

"This is your plan going well? How?"

"They're trusting me with more of their power. If Sargeras is paying enough attention to me in order to give me this . . . sight of his, then it must mean we are making progress." He crossed his arms, glancing off to the side. Under his breath, he muttered, "It has to."

A beat passed. Quietly, she asked, "And what if it doesn't?"

Eliana's face—the purity of her soul, the strength of her determination, the unerring resolution of her faith—flashed through his mind. "Then I suppose . . . it was all for naught. If our people were to perish anyway, be wiped off the face of Azeroth by the Legion . . . then at least I tried something more."

"Is that what this is? 'Something more'?"

"Well, our leaders weren't accomplishing much, were they?" He slashed an arm through the air. "From skirmish to skirmish, massacre to massacre. What have they gained but more of our people dead?"

Tyrande fell silent, and he knew from years of studying her behavior, hanging on her every word, that she was trying to find the right phrase. Finally, she said, "They are trying, Illidan. We all are."

A scoff escaped him. "Trying and failing, clearly. I am merely taking matters into my own hands."

"I am sure that many believe you've defected."

Illidan frowned. "Then they never knew me at all."

"Never? What of your brother, or Eliana? What do you believe they think has happened? That you simply left, forming some intricate plan to outmaneuver the demons?"

"I have to believe they know me well enough to know that whatever I do, it is in the hopes that we can win this war."

"And when they see you now? Do you truly believe they will not think you've abandoned them in pursuit of power?"

He broke eye contact—though he supposed he couldn't call it that anymore—chewing the inside of his lip as he mulled over her words. It was true that he had never shied away from power, from strengthening his own arcane knowledge and prowess. But to throw his own people at the feet of the demons that only wanted to see them all eradicated?

If that was truly what Malfurion and Eliana thought of him, then perhaps they had never truly known him.

Though he'd never seen eye-to-eye with his brother, they would always have a connection that none other could surpass. When they were young, their thoughts had been so in sync, it appeared to others that they could sense what the other twin would do before they did it. That synchronicity had faded somewhat as they aged, but they would forever be connected on a level beyond any other.

Anyone, that is, except for Eliana.

He could not explain in eloquent terms what it was he felt for her, but it was . . . beyond anything he'd experienced before—even with Tyrande. When it came to Tyrande, his emotions had been more similar to vying for an esteemed trophy of sorts. There had always been inexplicable competition between him and Malfurion, and it seemed as if Tyrande became another object to "win" from his twin.

He'd certainly confused it for love—or at least lust—in the beginning, and he supposed many would have done the same. It wasn't until he met Eliana, and they slowly grew to know one another more and more, that he began to question the validity of his feelings for Tyrande. When he last saw Eliana . . . By Elune, it had been incredible.

And then he'd left her, all in the name of saving their people.

He wouldn't blame her for hating him, and if she truly felt the way Tyrande implied she might . . . it would burn him from the inside out, much like the charred edges of his now-empty eye sockets. However, he could not fault her.

He didn't think he could ever fault her—for anything.

Finally, he met Tyrande's gaze again as best he could. "I do not know but . . . all I can do is hope they will understand."

Tyrande shook her head, and the mass of shadow around her that he knew was her silken mane of navy and silver, barely swayed. The once fine strands of her hair must be irreparably tangled. "Even I do not know what is the truth, Illidan."

The tiniest pang of something stabbed through his heart at her words. "I cannot say that surprises me," he admitted quietly, before backing away from her cell. "I must return, they'll wonder what's taken me so long down here. I hope you . . . Be safe, Tyrande."

Her silver light flared, and he knew that she offered the tiniest of nods. "I will, Illidan. As much as I can. You would do well to heed your own advice in this grand scheme of yours. For all our sakes, I hope it works."

Knowing there was nothing else to say, he headed back towards the stairs. A soft prayer could be heard from Tyrande as he shuffled closer to the dungeon's exit, but he did not turn back.

He could not turn back.

When he reached the first step, the clinking of iron shackles against the rough stone floor came from behind him. He paused, his now-heightened sense of hearing telling him that it was too close to be Tyrande. In truth, he'd paid little attention to the other prisoners every time he'd passed by, and wasn't even certain if there'd been one in the cell he'd just walked past.

Turning, he stared at the bars of the cell directly behind him. The faintest of energy signatures hovered within; the flame-like tendrils glowed a dull, sickly shade of green, not unsimilar to the Legion's own trademark shade. It wasn't quite as sinister, though, and it reminded him of the naturistic energy Malfurion often channeled.

Intrigued by that knowledge, Illidan slowly approached the tiny cell, searching ahead with his mind. His head throbbed again with the effort, but he had to know who—or what—awaited on the other side of the bars.

Another round of clinking, and then the rustling of fabric. The flames flared a bit, and then the faint outline of a body formed in his vision. From the broad set of the shoulders, hunched though they were, he could tell it was a male. The elongated slope of the ears indicated a fellow elf, and that fact did not surprise Illidan, though it was discouraging to see more of his people imprisoned.

As the figure shuffled closer to the bars, Illidan chose to remain where he stood in the middle of the hall. He did not know who this was, or what they were capable of—though they did appear rather weak.

"Sorcerer . . . A moment of your time, if you could?" The voice was rough with disuse, and likely from past torture. As he moved closer still, Illidan could see that his gait was uneven, and it was possible the demons had resorted to physical torture as well if they could not glean what they wanted from the elf's mind.

"A moment, nothing more."

Dry, chafed hands gripped the bars—a fact Illidan knew by the sound of skin dragging against metal. "You've come from the Night Elven army, correct? The mass of our forces?"

'Our.' Hm. "I have."

"If you are here . . . is it safe to assume you've left our people behind and joined the Legion?"

Illidan grunted in irritation. He owed no one else the answer to this question, and he wasn't about to give it again after his conversation with Tyrande mere moments ago. "Your moment is growing ever-shorter. I suggest you use the remainder of it wisely and ask me what you truly wish to know."

"Forgive me. My treatment since I've arrived here has been short of welcoming. You-You are one of the Stormrage brothers, are you not? I feel as if I recognize you."

A moment of silence passed before Illidan responded. "I am."

"Ah," the male murmured, gripping the bars even tighter than before. "Not Malfurion, though."

"You know my brother?"

The male was quiet, almost pensive, if the aura whirling around him was anything to go by. When he did not respond, Illidan repeated himself. "You know Malfurion?"

The other elf chuckled, his shadow fading as he stepped back from the bars. "I did. I admit, before I asked who you were, I knew you were not Malfurion. I know his energy well, having trained with him before all this went up in flames." His shadow flailed, and Illidan guessed the elf was waving his arms around, gesturing to the walls surrounding them. "That can only mean you are the other Stormrage."

At that, Illidan frowned. He'd only heard of one other elf training with Malfurion and Cenarius; the demigod was reclusive and not overly generous with his lessons of druidic powers. However, that meant this elf was . . . No, he had to hear the man say it. "It can't be. We thought you dead."

"Despite their best efforts, here I still stand." After a brief pause, he quietly said, "You are Illidan Stormrage."

Illidan's arms dropped to his sides, laden with the same disbelief now marring his features. "And you . . . You are Ardrias Starhelm, Eliana's father."

A/N:

Hehe...uh...hello everyone. 'Tis I, I am indeed alive. I'm so, so sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I've had the draft in the works since the spring - probably March or so - and just haven't had the mental capacity or free time to really work on it. It's been 500 words here, 500 words there, and even then, the chapter is much shorter than most. I know it's not terribly eventful, but I hope y'all enjoy it nevertheless.

We're moving into the slower part of the year for work and I'm hoping to have the next chapter out before the end of the year. I know, I know, I say that all the time but I really do try, I swear :') I can at least promise that I won't abandon this story, it's just going to take...awhile to finish. It was originally planned to be a trilogy and bring us up to current WoW lore but I just don't know if I have it in me to do that. We'll finish this part for sure, but I can't make any promises for the rest ;~;

*hides* i'msosorryihopeyouguysstilllikethechapter.