Quel'Thalas, Realm in Exile
Prologue
Three years Before Landing
"Narra, you cannot possibly be serious."
The voice was full of authority, and carried the weight of many millennia of time, even though the face it showed to the world perhaps never would do so, never could do so. It was a gentle voice, feminine and kind, and yet laced with steel and normally complete confidence. That was the way Tyrande Whisperwind had always been, and it was a rare sight to see her composure crack for any reason.
But today it had, ever so slightly, as certain as gasps rang through the ranks of the Huntresses, young and old. The dismay was full of disapproval, and for good reason. For today, Narra Pureglade, one of Ashenvale's most charismatic and popular Huntress, known for her leadership abilities and Tyrande's own protégé, had decided to leave her home with the Exiles when they depart.
The young night elf felt small and horrified of her own actions, but stood firm - there was only one way open to her, for the alternative would be an eternity of suffering. "Yes, my Lady Tyrande. I have made my decision, and will not change it. That is why-" she choked. It was so hard to say! "-That is why I have decided to leave you, my Sisters. When the Exile Fleet is ready, I will leave with it. For that reason, I can never be a Huntress anymore.
This shook the older elf. Her face went taut for a moment before smoothing over into an impassive mask. Her distraught state came from many sources, the most powerful most certainly being the close relationship she and Narra shared. The other, Narra knew, was that she was the only Huntress to forsake her oaths to Ashenvale when she did not need to.
But there was no other way to it. Oh...Levak...if only she hadn't loved him so much. If only she had seen what friends he had. If only Shando Stormrage had been more lenient towards those who didn't actively follow Dath Remar and his ilk. If only... if only...words that would never help her at all.
It was too late for hesitation. She loved Levak, and he had been ordered into exile. She knew he didn't want her to leave with him - shy Levak, always so attentionate, had been uncharacteristically vehement when he had told her to stay in Ashenvale. However, something had come up...
A Huntress, one which had even less centuries than Narra's own four centuries of time, spoke up, lavender hair flicking as she shook her head violently and snapped "I can't believe you're going to leave us like this, for this...this philosopher!"
Tyrande and several others turned appalled looks at the impolite youth. "Naisha! I will not have this kind of language among us! Restrain yourself or leave this meeting!"
Naisha looked somewhat abashed, but refused to bow her head. "I do not mean to be offensive, Mistress, but I cannot restrain my tongue. Sister Narra is one of our finest. She has already done much to help the Glades and those living within. And all for this...man! This philosopher! He's not a druid; he's not even a warrior! What could he possibly be that would make you go back on your oaths."
"My unborn child's father." she responded icily. It had the desired effect. The younger Huntresses, who had been muttering and whispering, fell silent. A few of the very young blushed. The older ones looked surprised but understanding. Tyrande, for her part, only looked suddenly thoughtful, as if this revelation had opened many interesting avenues. It wasn't on any of them she directed her gaze, however. Her blazing eyes settled on an increasingly uncomfortable Naisha.
"Yes, my child. We did not anticipate it, and for that we are at fault. But a druid has agreed to bind us, and did so some moons before this madness of the Exiles came up. He is my mate, and I will not forsake him. Not for my oaths, not for Ashenvale itself!"
That created a stir. Many of the Huntresses started speaking at once, some arguing for her viewpoint, some adamantly siding against it. Unsurprisingly, most of those who sided with her were females who had a mate. Naisha, barely old enough to even choose one herself, puckered her lips in disdain, but didn't manage to continue her tirade under Narra's icy gaze. The Glade resounded with argument for a while, before Tyrande lost her patience with all of them.
"ENOUGH! I refuse to see you squabbling like children. The decision has been made. Narra has exposed her reason. For my part-" her face lost a bit of its hard edge "-I think her reasons are valid. But Narra, do you not think that it might be best for your child if you stayed in Ashenvale? Away from the World Tree and the Well, who can tell what might happen?"
Narra growled inwardly. It was, nearly word-for-word, the argument Levak had expressed, and she admitted that it had made her pause. The Night Elves had always been kept immortal by the natural strength of the old Well and its surrounding Groves, an effect kept by the combined might of the World Tree and the Well Illidan the Betrayer had created out of greed.
But where the Titans had created the Well, the new Well was only a pale shadow of it, and it was doubted that its powers and that of the World Tree would extend far beyond the continent. Immortality might become mortality. It was a chilling thought to many Night Elves.
But Narra had faced death many times in battle against creatures, which could easily have killed her. She did not fear mortality. She did, however, fear for her child. But even that was greatly dampened by the thought of telling her child she had abandoned its father. That, and the loneliness she would feel, made that impossible. It wasn't even a choice.
So she simply faced her sisters and said. "My destiny was long with Ashenvale. But the moment we mated, my fate was with Levak. If he is forced into exile, then I shall go with him. I cannot do otherwise."
"And what of the future?" an older Huntress asked "What of your future?"
"My past was here. My future...who can say? Only Cenarius might have an idea, and I will never ask his wisdom. Let it be what it shall be."
"Your future will change soon." Tyrande reminded her gently "Malfurion" was there a touch of bitterness in the great elven priestess' voice as she told the name of her beloved? "Has almost completed the fleet of ships, as you well know."
She did. For the last year, ever single craft Ashenvale had had been rebuilt and refurbished, and cargo embarked to move a great population. It was an immense assemblage, and only showed the frightening fracture in elven society that Dath Remar and Shando Stormrage had stubbornly refused to mend. Many Night Elves would become Exiles - some only because they had been sympathetic to their cause.
She smothered a flash of resentment at the two males who had callously allowed their way to interpret life to sunder their race. But there was no way to prevent it now. No one could, not even Cenarius. Neither elves would budge, and they were both far too powerful in their factions.
This was only heightening the pain. She decided to cut it, lest her emotions break her composure. A lump formed in her throat as she said. "Anen Talla San, Sisters. Don't forget me."
"Anen Talla San, Daughter. We will not." Tyrande's voice trembled ever so slightly. "We will never forget."
This was enough. To hear it from Tyrande this way meant a lot to her. After her parents had been killed, Tyrande had almost raised her, and to hear her give her unofficial blessings was almost more than she could bear. Her eyes filled with tears as her grief, carefully kept in check, came to the surface.
And so, it was with tears streaming down her face, but with her head held high that Narra left the Glade of the Hunt, leaving her oaths and her heritage behind her, and strode boldly towards the unknown future every Exile would soon have to face.
* * * * * * * * * *
Five months later...
Dehire Riverwing swooped through the lush, pleasant jungles of Ashenvale in his stormcrow form. The beat of his wings, once casual, was now pressing, impatient, not at all in keeping with the methodical appearance he so often gave. Today, the Druid of the Talon, Patriarch of the Seventh Starfeather, was taut with intent as he swept through the trees and greenery he had fully accepted as his home.
If his friends and colleagues could see him, he though wryly, some might well have died from the shock of seeing him so driven. Even when, as a very young elf, he'd fought against the Burning Legion besides so many heroes, he'd given a disinterested facade, as if what he was doing was trivial. He had later found that it gave him a certain reputation of being untouchable but also calm and even, and so he had let this facade - which he'd first created to hide his own fears - become an integral part of him.
But this had been before recent events. Before Dath Remar, a passionate individual, if misguided, had reawakened the need for using the ancient magics. Before he and his followers had begun to gain power and followers. Before the magical storm and Malfurion Stormrage's plan. The event had forced him into a more offensive position, and that was why he flew towards the heart of Ashenvale and the source of the Night Elves' powers and immortality: The World Tree, and the Well of Eternity.
He flew over a group of night elves out hunting, and screeched. They recognized him immediately, and the hunters - mostly females, unsurprisingly - looked towards him and waved respectfully. He continued onward, until he reached the lush, towering surface of Mount Hyjal. On its peak towered the immense Tree of Life, a sight so immense and so very beautiful he couldn't help the familiar awe from surfacing, as well as his doubts.
What was he doing? Did he truly think that his plan would work? He greatly doubted it. But he couldn't help himself - he had to try, if only for his own conscience, his own ability to live with himself. Elune knew it was hard enough recently.
He finally reached as near the top that he could, and transformed, the elements he had clutched in his claws coming to rest in his hands as he resumed his elven form. He heaved a sigh. Although he was accustomed to its effects, he always felt transforming to be draining. But it was necessary that he come this way, from the other side of the Well, where few Night Elf ever went. He stepped down the ridge and gracefully hopped until he fell on one of the Tree's gigantic roots.
He looked around briefly, and then opened a crystal vial, plunging it into waters of a deep blue. He felt and smelled the power of its immense magics, and quickly filled his vial. Touching the Well too much might be nefarious to his health. He carefully sealed the vial, and slipped it into a pouch he had come with. Then he turned towards the Tree of Life itself, and, gently, communed with it, slowly feeling himself be filled by ancient powers, ancient thoughts, amidst this he made his query, and begged the Tree, holding out his hand.
The communion lasted both instants and an eternity, as it was often the case when one dealt with nature's primary forces. As it ended, he held his breath. If the Tree refused his plea, if its power denied what he asked - then all of planning was for naught.
It was when he had almost given up hope, that he'd been about to close his hand and sadly let go of his project, that something dropped in his hand.
Seeds. Three large, silvery seeds were in his hand, given to him by the Tree of Life. It had understood and accepted his plea!
"Thank you, Great Giver." he said earnestly, bowing. He stayed bowing long moments, then straightened and opened a new vial. This wasn't empty. Instead it was filled with a fluid he had created himself, distilled from juices, herbs and carefully selected seve from many trees. It should, he had surmised, hold the great energies of the seeds until they were needed. Or so he fervently hoped.
It was then that Dehire felt a presence behind him - one he knew well. He was turning towards it even as he heard the ancient voice. "I have witnessed any things, my friend, but I never thought you would succeed here."
He turned towards the rich, ancient voice with a tired look and a sad smile. "I almost wish it hadn't, Cenarius. It would have made things simpler. Now that I have these elements, however, my path is sealed."
The great demigod trotted down the ridge, followed by two Dryads, which was unsurprising. As Cenarius, the upper half of their bodies appeared elven, and the lower half that of animals of the woods, such as fawns and wild horses. The two gratified him with a saddened look, while Cenarius himself looked solemn. It was naturally impossible to hide anything from him. Even Malfurion could not.
"Then the rumours of the wind are true." he said calmly "You will be leaving with the Exiles."
"Yes." there was no need to add more words. But the Guardian of Ashenvale was not quite finished.
"Why?"
An easy question. But it did not have a simple answer. There were many reasons - some sentimental, some exaggerated. Some, indeed, angry explanations. He finally decided upon the one that struck close to the mark. "I suppose I feel a sort of moral obligation to go with them."
The Dryads stared at him in confusion, but their patriarch was thoughtful. "A moral obligation. You imply there is wrong in these events."
"Nothing is right in this situation." Dehire replied, then quickly added "Not that I lay the blame on Malfurion. Not all of it, assuredly. Dath Remar himself was a cocksure elf, an arrogant individual whose insolence I find most distasteful. I know that Furion had no intention of killing or exiling any elf, but after Dath Remar's folly, many endorsed exile angrily, beyond his will."
"What bothers me is that he made the threat at all. Even worse, many people who would never have been exiled normally will be. This is dreadful. This is an unforgivable sin on our part, whether we wanted this or not." he finished, and a cloud crossed the Dryads' pretty faces.
"So many friends are going away." one said, and Cenarius nodded, his brow furrowed and concerned, his tail twitching.
"And where will they go? What is on the other side of the Maelstrom? Whatever happens, there will be much death, dearth and bitterness. Druids were there to help when the Continent was sundered. One at least should be there for the Exiles.
The Guardian of Ashenvale looked at Dehire stonily, then a smile bloomed. "I am glad to see that some will look beyond the differences yet today. I understand why the Tree granted your wish, for your intent, although unknown in its detail, is certainly noble in its end. Go then, friend Dehire, and good luck."
"I thank you, Cenarius. Now I must prepare for my journey. Perhaps we will meet again, who can say?"
And Dehire transformed to a stormcrow once again, taking flight with the two precious vials that could well one day represent the future of a people.
He looked upon lush Ashenvale. Yes, it grieved him to go. But he was a man or morals. His path was set. He would not allow himself to fail the innocents these disputes were callously throwing away into the unknown.
* * * * * * * * * *
Seven months later...
The day had come. The day he had dreaded. The day he had helped prepare. He knew that he should be there, instead of lurking in the woods, looking on from a discreet vantage point. He found, to his sorrow, that he was unable to do more than this. He couldn't face them, couldn't meet these people - these elves - in the eye. There would be accusation in too many, and his shame would only be increased manifold.
After all, Malfurion Stormrage, Archdruid, Shando of the Night Elves and Master of Ashenvale, had given the offer which ended today in sending nearly sixty thousand brethren to an unknown fate. To a man who had tried to preach peace and understanding, it was an unbearable failure.
Still he looked, beholding a sight as beautiful as it was heartbreaking.
Fifty great ships, crafted from the immense trees deep within Wintersping Vale, had been crafted through druidic means. Each of these were immense, majestic affairs, able to support a crew of many hundreds for nearly three years, its hold filled to capacity with food and tools. These, he knew, would be needed by the inhabitants to forge themselves a new life. Those that survived the trek, at the very least...
He remembered when some hardliners amongst the druids had rankled at the expense and the work involved in readying such a massive fleet in so little time. Some had argued for the fleet to be reduced, the holds made smaller, or of giving away less tool to those they considered dangerous heathens. He had been furious at the mere suggestion, and had made his position clear to all.
"The Exile must continue, to our shame." he'd said " But we will not be sending these people - OUR people - into danger without resources. They are elves, and I will not listen to other elves argue about giving them less chances for survival. I will not hear of this again. Am I being clear?" he had glared to all the druids, and none - not even the worst of them - had dared speak up on the subject again. The building of the Exile Fleet had continued as it had been scheduled.
Tyrande and Cenarius would never have forgiven him if he'd done anything less. Ever since the final decision had been made, the Guardian of Ashenvale had been colder towards him. As for Tyrande, she still refused to even talk to him. Knowing that he deserved every bit of contempt he received hadn't helped matters in the slightest. He knew that they would forgive him eventually. But it would always remain between them.
But he could live with loneliness. It was nothing next to what those people might suffer. He looked at the throng of people - forager, hunters and huntresses, druidic initiates, and people of ordinary vocations, all these had been swept away by the sheer purge that he had never wanted at all. He saw families huddling together, saw little toddler protectively held in the arms of their parents. How many would live? How many would die? His mind didn't even try to gauge the possibilities, lest the grief kill him outright.
Amongst them, a visible minority - and yet just a minority, he noticed bleakly - were the full-blooded Quel'Norei and their descendants. All of them looked smug, triumphant, well dressed in intricate robes, lording over the rest of the Exiles, looking at the Sentinel guards in contempt. Amongst them, dressed in a robe of gold and silver, stood Dath Remar, as charismatic as ever. He stood on a pedestal and gestured as if he would speak.
Malfurion couldn't contain a surge of ire at the sight. The insolent fool would remain insolent 'till the end, it seemed. He gave a look of innocence to all he did, yet had been the one who had convinced many of the Quel'Norei to attack Felwood with a magical storm that killed many and wounded many more. It had created such anger that the Archdruid's threats - which he had no intention of carrying out - had become law before he could do anything about it.
Dath had betrayed these people, had doomed them, and yet was too blinded by his own self-importance to see it. For the first time, Malfurion felt an inkling of pity towards the leader of the Quel'Norei.
Finally, after most had stopped muttering, wailing or talking, the elven rebel leader began to talk, his rich, measured voice carrying far, even to Furion's ears. "My people," he began, and Furion bristled at the smug conceit "Today the druids and the priestesses have decided that our place no longer belongs in Ashenvale. Our views are unwanted, our rights in this land denied. We have tried to make them see reason, but they are blinded by their own preconceptions." mutters came from some, mainly those who had left the Sentinels and the druidic orders. Furion spotted Dehire in that throng, looking bored as always, and felt another pang of remorse. So many good people lost.
Dath was no fool. He felt the irritation coming from some of 'his' people, and moved to head it off. "I am not saying that these preconceptions are irrational. Most come from a time of fear and war, and it tainted their judgement. We cannot condemn it for that." he paused theatrically, and Furion once again admitted that the Quel'Norei had presence. "But whatever the reasons, we are here, forced to leave."
Many people muttered, others sobbed, and children wailed, and Dath nodded sadly, as if he felt the individual loss of each individual. "We cannot forget that we are rejected here. We cannot forget that we are unwanted here. That is why I must tell you this, ere we embark for our new home."
Another pause for effect. He had the attention of all now, and revelled in it. He squared his shoulder. "People of the Exile fleet, we are Night Elves, Kaldorei. And we shall remain known as such until we leave these shores. But the moment Ashenvale is lost to us, that it's few fades away from our sight and our journey begins, that name will also be sundered. From that moment on, we shall become known as the High Elves."
Furion had expected it, but it still came as a blow.
The High Elves. A pompous title. But, he was certain, the one the people would adopt over their exile.
Suddenly he saw the break as surely as an arrow can pierce a target. These people, although elves, were no longer his own. Although some had been followers once, the Exile and the suffering they would face would make them angry with Ashenvale. As the years passed, they would break away from everything, and construct the magical realm Kalimdor once was, in all its corruption. Dath and his followers would see to that.
And he no longer had any right to interfere.
"By Elune, by all the spirits, what have I done?!?" he thought in agony, and even the forest seemed to condemn him, as its spirits did not comfort him this time as they had done so many times before. He grieved for these people. He grieved for their future. He dearly wished he could go back and change things, make them right, find a compromise.
But it was the ramblings of a fool. He saw that, even as the people began to embark the ships. There were so many, it would take all day, even though dawn had barely broken the night. But they were embarking. They would no longer listen. He felt the bitterness in many of them and understood it. Parents held their children closer, knowing they might lose them during the course of the voyage. Others, warriors, went grimly, clutching what weapons they had. For each elf, there was a reaction. Few were pleased, none happy. Even Dath Remar looked somewhat sober.
And then he locked gazes with Tyrande's wayward protégé, Narra. She stood ready to embark, swelled belly showing signs of her pregnancy apparent, and had somehow seen him. A very slender elf, looking lost, held her arm. Her posture wasn't one of despair. It was one of accusation, of defiance, of determination. The eyes of one no more than a child to him, and yet her strength surprised him at that moment.
And then she broke eye contact, and followed her mate into one of the ships.
He looked away this time. He could bear no more. No wonder Tyrande and Cenarius had been unable to come. These people were heading to their deaths, very likely.
And yet... he saw Narra's eyes. And yet...they might survive. He hoped so. Turning towards the exile once more, he bowed his head. "May you find a home. And thrive."
And then he ran away from the sight, his heart heavy.
* * * * * * * * * *
And so the Exiles left Kalimdor in fifty ships of living wood. Many deserved their fate, many more did not. The shame would become a taboo on Kalimdor, where the Druids would work to erase all traces of the Exiles.
As for the small splinter group, its journey had begun. A journey wrought with conflict and despair, and hopes and glory. A conflict that would bring them to prosper, and to build in a land they would make theirs.
To all of you who would read these pages, sit and take heed to these tales, as the years roll by towards the infinite.
Take heed to the story of the Exiled Realm of the High Elves, Quel'Thalas...
Prologue
Three years Before Landing
"Narra, you cannot possibly be serious."
The voice was full of authority, and carried the weight of many millennia of time, even though the face it showed to the world perhaps never would do so, never could do so. It was a gentle voice, feminine and kind, and yet laced with steel and normally complete confidence. That was the way Tyrande Whisperwind had always been, and it was a rare sight to see her composure crack for any reason.
But today it had, ever so slightly, as certain as gasps rang through the ranks of the Huntresses, young and old. The dismay was full of disapproval, and for good reason. For today, Narra Pureglade, one of Ashenvale's most charismatic and popular Huntress, known for her leadership abilities and Tyrande's own protégé, had decided to leave her home with the Exiles when they depart.
The young night elf felt small and horrified of her own actions, but stood firm - there was only one way open to her, for the alternative would be an eternity of suffering. "Yes, my Lady Tyrande. I have made my decision, and will not change it. That is why-" she choked. It was so hard to say! "-That is why I have decided to leave you, my Sisters. When the Exile Fleet is ready, I will leave with it. For that reason, I can never be a Huntress anymore.
This shook the older elf. Her face went taut for a moment before smoothing over into an impassive mask. Her distraught state came from many sources, the most powerful most certainly being the close relationship she and Narra shared. The other, Narra knew, was that she was the only Huntress to forsake her oaths to Ashenvale when she did not need to.
But there was no other way to it. Oh...Levak...if only she hadn't loved him so much. If only she had seen what friends he had. If only Shando Stormrage had been more lenient towards those who didn't actively follow Dath Remar and his ilk. If only... if only...words that would never help her at all.
It was too late for hesitation. She loved Levak, and he had been ordered into exile. She knew he didn't want her to leave with him - shy Levak, always so attentionate, had been uncharacteristically vehement when he had told her to stay in Ashenvale. However, something had come up...
A Huntress, one which had even less centuries than Narra's own four centuries of time, spoke up, lavender hair flicking as she shook her head violently and snapped "I can't believe you're going to leave us like this, for this...this philosopher!"
Tyrande and several others turned appalled looks at the impolite youth. "Naisha! I will not have this kind of language among us! Restrain yourself or leave this meeting!"
Naisha looked somewhat abashed, but refused to bow her head. "I do not mean to be offensive, Mistress, but I cannot restrain my tongue. Sister Narra is one of our finest. She has already done much to help the Glades and those living within. And all for this...man! This philosopher! He's not a druid; he's not even a warrior! What could he possibly be that would make you go back on your oaths."
"My unborn child's father." she responded icily. It had the desired effect. The younger Huntresses, who had been muttering and whispering, fell silent. A few of the very young blushed. The older ones looked surprised but understanding. Tyrande, for her part, only looked suddenly thoughtful, as if this revelation had opened many interesting avenues. It wasn't on any of them she directed her gaze, however. Her blazing eyes settled on an increasingly uncomfortable Naisha.
"Yes, my child. We did not anticipate it, and for that we are at fault. But a druid has agreed to bind us, and did so some moons before this madness of the Exiles came up. He is my mate, and I will not forsake him. Not for my oaths, not for Ashenvale itself!"
That created a stir. Many of the Huntresses started speaking at once, some arguing for her viewpoint, some adamantly siding against it. Unsurprisingly, most of those who sided with her were females who had a mate. Naisha, barely old enough to even choose one herself, puckered her lips in disdain, but didn't manage to continue her tirade under Narra's icy gaze. The Glade resounded with argument for a while, before Tyrande lost her patience with all of them.
"ENOUGH! I refuse to see you squabbling like children. The decision has been made. Narra has exposed her reason. For my part-" her face lost a bit of its hard edge "-I think her reasons are valid. But Narra, do you not think that it might be best for your child if you stayed in Ashenvale? Away from the World Tree and the Well, who can tell what might happen?"
Narra growled inwardly. It was, nearly word-for-word, the argument Levak had expressed, and she admitted that it had made her pause. The Night Elves had always been kept immortal by the natural strength of the old Well and its surrounding Groves, an effect kept by the combined might of the World Tree and the Well Illidan the Betrayer had created out of greed.
But where the Titans had created the Well, the new Well was only a pale shadow of it, and it was doubted that its powers and that of the World Tree would extend far beyond the continent. Immortality might become mortality. It was a chilling thought to many Night Elves.
But Narra had faced death many times in battle against creatures, which could easily have killed her. She did not fear mortality. She did, however, fear for her child. But even that was greatly dampened by the thought of telling her child she had abandoned its father. That, and the loneliness she would feel, made that impossible. It wasn't even a choice.
So she simply faced her sisters and said. "My destiny was long with Ashenvale. But the moment we mated, my fate was with Levak. If he is forced into exile, then I shall go with him. I cannot do otherwise."
"And what of the future?" an older Huntress asked "What of your future?"
"My past was here. My future...who can say? Only Cenarius might have an idea, and I will never ask his wisdom. Let it be what it shall be."
"Your future will change soon." Tyrande reminded her gently "Malfurion" was there a touch of bitterness in the great elven priestess' voice as she told the name of her beloved? "Has almost completed the fleet of ships, as you well know."
She did. For the last year, ever single craft Ashenvale had had been rebuilt and refurbished, and cargo embarked to move a great population. It was an immense assemblage, and only showed the frightening fracture in elven society that Dath Remar and Shando Stormrage had stubbornly refused to mend. Many Night Elves would become Exiles - some only because they had been sympathetic to their cause.
She smothered a flash of resentment at the two males who had callously allowed their way to interpret life to sunder their race. But there was no way to prevent it now. No one could, not even Cenarius. Neither elves would budge, and they were both far too powerful in their factions.
This was only heightening the pain. She decided to cut it, lest her emotions break her composure. A lump formed in her throat as she said. "Anen Talla San, Sisters. Don't forget me."
"Anen Talla San, Daughter. We will not." Tyrande's voice trembled ever so slightly. "We will never forget."
This was enough. To hear it from Tyrande this way meant a lot to her. After her parents had been killed, Tyrande had almost raised her, and to hear her give her unofficial blessings was almost more than she could bear. Her eyes filled with tears as her grief, carefully kept in check, came to the surface.
And so, it was with tears streaming down her face, but with her head held high that Narra left the Glade of the Hunt, leaving her oaths and her heritage behind her, and strode boldly towards the unknown future every Exile would soon have to face.
* * * * * * * * * *
Five months later...
Dehire Riverwing swooped through the lush, pleasant jungles of Ashenvale in his stormcrow form. The beat of his wings, once casual, was now pressing, impatient, not at all in keeping with the methodical appearance he so often gave. Today, the Druid of the Talon, Patriarch of the Seventh Starfeather, was taut with intent as he swept through the trees and greenery he had fully accepted as his home.
If his friends and colleagues could see him, he though wryly, some might well have died from the shock of seeing him so driven. Even when, as a very young elf, he'd fought against the Burning Legion besides so many heroes, he'd given a disinterested facade, as if what he was doing was trivial. He had later found that it gave him a certain reputation of being untouchable but also calm and even, and so he had let this facade - which he'd first created to hide his own fears - become an integral part of him.
But this had been before recent events. Before Dath Remar, a passionate individual, if misguided, had reawakened the need for using the ancient magics. Before he and his followers had begun to gain power and followers. Before the magical storm and Malfurion Stormrage's plan. The event had forced him into a more offensive position, and that was why he flew towards the heart of Ashenvale and the source of the Night Elves' powers and immortality: The World Tree, and the Well of Eternity.
He flew over a group of night elves out hunting, and screeched. They recognized him immediately, and the hunters - mostly females, unsurprisingly - looked towards him and waved respectfully. He continued onward, until he reached the lush, towering surface of Mount Hyjal. On its peak towered the immense Tree of Life, a sight so immense and so very beautiful he couldn't help the familiar awe from surfacing, as well as his doubts.
What was he doing? Did he truly think that his plan would work? He greatly doubted it. But he couldn't help himself - he had to try, if only for his own conscience, his own ability to live with himself. Elune knew it was hard enough recently.
He finally reached as near the top that he could, and transformed, the elements he had clutched in his claws coming to rest in his hands as he resumed his elven form. He heaved a sigh. Although he was accustomed to its effects, he always felt transforming to be draining. But it was necessary that he come this way, from the other side of the Well, where few Night Elf ever went. He stepped down the ridge and gracefully hopped until he fell on one of the Tree's gigantic roots.
He looked around briefly, and then opened a crystal vial, plunging it into waters of a deep blue. He felt and smelled the power of its immense magics, and quickly filled his vial. Touching the Well too much might be nefarious to his health. He carefully sealed the vial, and slipped it into a pouch he had come with. Then he turned towards the Tree of Life itself, and, gently, communed with it, slowly feeling himself be filled by ancient powers, ancient thoughts, amidst this he made his query, and begged the Tree, holding out his hand.
The communion lasted both instants and an eternity, as it was often the case when one dealt with nature's primary forces. As it ended, he held his breath. If the Tree refused his plea, if its power denied what he asked - then all of planning was for naught.
It was when he had almost given up hope, that he'd been about to close his hand and sadly let go of his project, that something dropped in his hand.
Seeds. Three large, silvery seeds were in his hand, given to him by the Tree of Life. It had understood and accepted his plea!
"Thank you, Great Giver." he said earnestly, bowing. He stayed bowing long moments, then straightened and opened a new vial. This wasn't empty. Instead it was filled with a fluid he had created himself, distilled from juices, herbs and carefully selected seve from many trees. It should, he had surmised, hold the great energies of the seeds until they were needed. Or so he fervently hoped.
It was then that Dehire felt a presence behind him - one he knew well. He was turning towards it even as he heard the ancient voice. "I have witnessed any things, my friend, but I never thought you would succeed here."
He turned towards the rich, ancient voice with a tired look and a sad smile. "I almost wish it hadn't, Cenarius. It would have made things simpler. Now that I have these elements, however, my path is sealed."
The great demigod trotted down the ridge, followed by two Dryads, which was unsurprising. As Cenarius, the upper half of their bodies appeared elven, and the lower half that of animals of the woods, such as fawns and wild horses. The two gratified him with a saddened look, while Cenarius himself looked solemn. It was naturally impossible to hide anything from him. Even Malfurion could not.
"Then the rumours of the wind are true." he said calmly "You will be leaving with the Exiles."
"Yes." there was no need to add more words. But the Guardian of Ashenvale was not quite finished.
"Why?"
An easy question. But it did not have a simple answer. There were many reasons - some sentimental, some exaggerated. Some, indeed, angry explanations. He finally decided upon the one that struck close to the mark. "I suppose I feel a sort of moral obligation to go with them."
The Dryads stared at him in confusion, but their patriarch was thoughtful. "A moral obligation. You imply there is wrong in these events."
"Nothing is right in this situation." Dehire replied, then quickly added "Not that I lay the blame on Malfurion. Not all of it, assuredly. Dath Remar himself was a cocksure elf, an arrogant individual whose insolence I find most distasteful. I know that Furion had no intention of killing or exiling any elf, but after Dath Remar's folly, many endorsed exile angrily, beyond his will."
"What bothers me is that he made the threat at all. Even worse, many people who would never have been exiled normally will be. This is dreadful. This is an unforgivable sin on our part, whether we wanted this or not." he finished, and a cloud crossed the Dryads' pretty faces.
"So many friends are going away." one said, and Cenarius nodded, his brow furrowed and concerned, his tail twitching.
"And where will they go? What is on the other side of the Maelstrom? Whatever happens, there will be much death, dearth and bitterness. Druids were there to help when the Continent was sundered. One at least should be there for the Exiles.
The Guardian of Ashenvale looked at Dehire stonily, then a smile bloomed. "I am glad to see that some will look beyond the differences yet today. I understand why the Tree granted your wish, for your intent, although unknown in its detail, is certainly noble in its end. Go then, friend Dehire, and good luck."
"I thank you, Cenarius. Now I must prepare for my journey. Perhaps we will meet again, who can say?"
And Dehire transformed to a stormcrow once again, taking flight with the two precious vials that could well one day represent the future of a people.
He looked upon lush Ashenvale. Yes, it grieved him to go. But he was a man or morals. His path was set. He would not allow himself to fail the innocents these disputes were callously throwing away into the unknown.
* * * * * * * * * *
Seven months later...
The day had come. The day he had dreaded. The day he had helped prepare. He knew that he should be there, instead of lurking in the woods, looking on from a discreet vantage point. He found, to his sorrow, that he was unable to do more than this. He couldn't face them, couldn't meet these people - these elves - in the eye. There would be accusation in too many, and his shame would only be increased manifold.
After all, Malfurion Stormrage, Archdruid, Shando of the Night Elves and Master of Ashenvale, had given the offer which ended today in sending nearly sixty thousand brethren to an unknown fate. To a man who had tried to preach peace and understanding, it was an unbearable failure.
Still he looked, beholding a sight as beautiful as it was heartbreaking.
Fifty great ships, crafted from the immense trees deep within Wintersping Vale, had been crafted through druidic means. Each of these were immense, majestic affairs, able to support a crew of many hundreds for nearly three years, its hold filled to capacity with food and tools. These, he knew, would be needed by the inhabitants to forge themselves a new life. Those that survived the trek, at the very least...
He remembered when some hardliners amongst the druids had rankled at the expense and the work involved in readying such a massive fleet in so little time. Some had argued for the fleet to be reduced, the holds made smaller, or of giving away less tool to those they considered dangerous heathens. He had been furious at the mere suggestion, and had made his position clear to all.
"The Exile must continue, to our shame." he'd said " But we will not be sending these people - OUR people - into danger without resources. They are elves, and I will not listen to other elves argue about giving them less chances for survival. I will not hear of this again. Am I being clear?" he had glared to all the druids, and none - not even the worst of them - had dared speak up on the subject again. The building of the Exile Fleet had continued as it had been scheduled.
Tyrande and Cenarius would never have forgiven him if he'd done anything less. Ever since the final decision had been made, the Guardian of Ashenvale had been colder towards him. As for Tyrande, she still refused to even talk to him. Knowing that he deserved every bit of contempt he received hadn't helped matters in the slightest. He knew that they would forgive him eventually. But it would always remain between them.
But he could live with loneliness. It was nothing next to what those people might suffer. He looked at the throng of people - forager, hunters and huntresses, druidic initiates, and people of ordinary vocations, all these had been swept away by the sheer purge that he had never wanted at all. He saw families huddling together, saw little toddler protectively held in the arms of their parents. How many would live? How many would die? His mind didn't even try to gauge the possibilities, lest the grief kill him outright.
Amongst them, a visible minority - and yet just a minority, he noticed bleakly - were the full-blooded Quel'Norei and their descendants. All of them looked smug, triumphant, well dressed in intricate robes, lording over the rest of the Exiles, looking at the Sentinel guards in contempt. Amongst them, dressed in a robe of gold and silver, stood Dath Remar, as charismatic as ever. He stood on a pedestal and gestured as if he would speak.
Malfurion couldn't contain a surge of ire at the sight. The insolent fool would remain insolent 'till the end, it seemed. He gave a look of innocence to all he did, yet had been the one who had convinced many of the Quel'Norei to attack Felwood with a magical storm that killed many and wounded many more. It had created such anger that the Archdruid's threats - which he had no intention of carrying out - had become law before he could do anything about it.
Dath had betrayed these people, had doomed them, and yet was too blinded by his own self-importance to see it. For the first time, Malfurion felt an inkling of pity towards the leader of the Quel'Norei.
Finally, after most had stopped muttering, wailing or talking, the elven rebel leader began to talk, his rich, measured voice carrying far, even to Furion's ears. "My people," he began, and Furion bristled at the smug conceit "Today the druids and the priestesses have decided that our place no longer belongs in Ashenvale. Our views are unwanted, our rights in this land denied. We have tried to make them see reason, but they are blinded by their own preconceptions." mutters came from some, mainly those who had left the Sentinels and the druidic orders. Furion spotted Dehire in that throng, looking bored as always, and felt another pang of remorse. So many good people lost.
Dath was no fool. He felt the irritation coming from some of 'his' people, and moved to head it off. "I am not saying that these preconceptions are irrational. Most come from a time of fear and war, and it tainted their judgement. We cannot condemn it for that." he paused theatrically, and Furion once again admitted that the Quel'Norei had presence. "But whatever the reasons, we are here, forced to leave."
Many people muttered, others sobbed, and children wailed, and Dath nodded sadly, as if he felt the individual loss of each individual. "We cannot forget that we are rejected here. We cannot forget that we are unwanted here. That is why I must tell you this, ere we embark for our new home."
Another pause for effect. He had the attention of all now, and revelled in it. He squared his shoulder. "People of the Exile fleet, we are Night Elves, Kaldorei. And we shall remain known as such until we leave these shores. But the moment Ashenvale is lost to us, that it's few fades away from our sight and our journey begins, that name will also be sundered. From that moment on, we shall become known as the High Elves."
Furion had expected it, but it still came as a blow.
The High Elves. A pompous title. But, he was certain, the one the people would adopt over their exile.
Suddenly he saw the break as surely as an arrow can pierce a target. These people, although elves, were no longer his own. Although some had been followers once, the Exile and the suffering they would face would make them angry with Ashenvale. As the years passed, they would break away from everything, and construct the magical realm Kalimdor once was, in all its corruption. Dath and his followers would see to that.
And he no longer had any right to interfere.
"By Elune, by all the spirits, what have I done?!?" he thought in agony, and even the forest seemed to condemn him, as its spirits did not comfort him this time as they had done so many times before. He grieved for these people. He grieved for their future. He dearly wished he could go back and change things, make them right, find a compromise.
But it was the ramblings of a fool. He saw that, even as the people began to embark the ships. There were so many, it would take all day, even though dawn had barely broken the night. But they were embarking. They would no longer listen. He felt the bitterness in many of them and understood it. Parents held their children closer, knowing they might lose them during the course of the voyage. Others, warriors, went grimly, clutching what weapons they had. For each elf, there was a reaction. Few were pleased, none happy. Even Dath Remar looked somewhat sober.
And then he locked gazes with Tyrande's wayward protégé, Narra. She stood ready to embark, swelled belly showing signs of her pregnancy apparent, and had somehow seen him. A very slender elf, looking lost, held her arm. Her posture wasn't one of despair. It was one of accusation, of defiance, of determination. The eyes of one no more than a child to him, and yet her strength surprised him at that moment.
And then she broke eye contact, and followed her mate into one of the ships.
He looked away this time. He could bear no more. No wonder Tyrande and Cenarius had been unable to come. These people were heading to their deaths, very likely.
And yet... he saw Narra's eyes. And yet...they might survive. He hoped so. Turning towards the exile once more, he bowed his head. "May you find a home. And thrive."
And then he ran away from the sight, his heart heavy.
* * * * * * * * * *
And so the Exiles left Kalimdor in fifty ships of living wood. Many deserved their fate, many more did not. The shame would become a taboo on Kalimdor, where the Druids would work to erase all traces of the Exiles.
As for the small splinter group, its journey had begun. A journey wrought with conflict and despair, and hopes and glory. A conflict that would bring them to prosper, and to build in a land they would make theirs.
To all of you who would read these pages, sit and take heed to these tales, as the years roll by towards the infinite.
Take heed to the story of the Exiled Realm of the High Elves, Quel'Thalas...