Richard A. Knaak - Stormrage

There were rumblings among the druids. Fandral waved for silence. Frowning, he asked, “What ‘dread truth,’ High Priestess?”

Tyrande swallowed, the only sign that the news touched her especially. “Malfurion is dying …”

“Impossible! We have kept his barrow den secure and your own priestesses minister to his body daily. There is no reason for such a dire circumstance—”

“Nevertheless, there is,” she returned. “His situation has changed. Malfurion is dying and we must act with all possible haste.”

Before Fandral could respond, Broll found himself uttering, “And what shall we do, High Priestess?”

Tyrande’s voice was edged with steel. “First, we must journey to the Moonglade.”

The pain tore through him again and again…

He felt his body continuing its slow, horrific twisting. His arms had long contorted about his head and his fingers splayed and stretched in various directions. Of his legs, there was nothing but a thick trunk, the two appendages having merged what seemed more than a lifetime ago.

How long had he been standing here, rigid and unmoving? How long since he had fallen prisoner to the Nightmare Lord? What was happening on the mortal plane?

What had happened to Tyrande ?

As he had done so many times already, Malfurion Stormrage fought against the agony. He would have cried out from the terrible effort — if he still had a mouth. Only his eyes remained untouched by his monstrous captor, for the fiend desired him to see his own transformation, to see the hopelessness of his fate.

Gone was Malfurion the night elf. In his place was a macabre, skeletal tree, an ash. Leaves with sharp thorns already grew from what had once been the arms and fingers and were now branches.

The trunk bent at awkward angles where once the torso had met the hips. The feet had splayed out into what were now crooked roots.

Trying to tear his mind from his agony, Malfurion pictured Tyrande’s face, recalling that moment when the two of them had silently realized their love, when she had chosen him over his ambitious brother, Illidan. He had secretly thought she preferred his twin, for, though reckless, Illidan had made great leaps in his learning of sorcery. More than that, his efforts in the struggle against the Burning Legion had shown him to be something of a savior — at least in the hearts of many night elves, and sometimes in that of Malfurion himself. But Tyrande, by then an apprentice of Elune, had apparently seen something greater in the fledgling druid, something special. What it was, he still did not know.

Malfurion found himself drawing some strength from his vision, but tremendous guilt also accompanied thoughts of Tyrande. It had been by his decision that she had been left alone to guard Azeroth for so many centuries while he and the druids walked the Emerald Dream. It mattered not that his choice had been for the sake of their world and had proven the correct one to make. He had still abandoned her.

The archdruid suddenly wanted to howl. The thoughts and emotions were his own, but were they influenced by his captor? It would not be the first time. The insidious presence had infiltrated his mind many times already, playing havoc with the night elf’s memories and thoughts. This, as opposed to the horrific transformation, was the more subtle part of his torture.

There should have been no pain. After all, this was the Emerald Dream and he had entered it in his dreamform, not his physical one. Pain such as this should have been impossible under those conditions.

As if to disprove that fact, his body wrenched further. Again, he could not release his agony by screaming.

Malfurion?

The voice cut through his pain. He seized onto its existence as if a lifeline. It was distant… barely a whisper… but it sounded like… sounded so very much like —

Malfurion? It… Tyrande… you are…

Tyrande! If his call would have been audible, he felt certain that it would have been heard miles away. Tyrande!

Malfurion? The voice grew stronger. Malfurion felt his hopes leap. For ten thousand years and more he had known her and for ten thousand years and more he had loved her. She should have hated him for all the absences that he had taken in quest of his calling, but always she had been there in the end. Now… now once again, Tyrande had proven that nothing would stand between them.

Malfurion? Her call was more solid, more imminent. Almost as if she were actually near —

A shadowy form coalesced ahead of him. All sense of pain had now fled his dreamform. The archdruid felt as though he might weep as he peered at her approaching silhouette.

The glow around Tyrande marked her as different from he or any druid traveler, for it was a subtle yet powerful silver that marked the power of Elune. Malfurion would have smiled, had he had a mouth. How she had come here, he did not know… but she was here .

Tyrande spoke, but the words took a moment to reach his mind.

Malfurion? Is that… is that you?

He started to reply, but Tyrande’s next reaction left him stunned.

She pulled back in clear revulsion.

How… disgusting! the archdruid heard.

Tyrande retreated farther. She shook her head.

Tyrande… Tyrande… But his calls to her went unheeded, as if she no longer could hear him. Instead, the high priestess put out a hand as if trying to ward him off.

No… she finally blurted. I expected better of you…

The archdruid was confused. However, before he could again attempt to speak to her, a second form materialized behind her.

I warned you, my love, the second, larger figure rumbled. I warned you that he was not what you hoped…

Malfurion was speechless. He knew that voice. Dreaded that voice. It reminded him of yet another great failure, perhaps the greatest.

Illidan came into focus, yet it was not Illidan as Malfurion’s twin and brother, but rather as the monstrosity that he had become.

Illidan Stormrage was a demon. Atop his head were huge, curled horns like those of some gigantic ram and massive, leathery wings that sprouted from near his shoulder blades. Illidan’s countenance was now a distortion of its former self, the jaw more pronounced and the mouth full of sharp teeth. The cheekbones were higher. A mass of wild, midnight blue hair draped the face.

A band covered where once Illidan’s mortal eyes had been.

Eyes that had been burned out by the Dark Titan Sargeras during the War of the Ancients — a mark of Illidan’s loyalty to the master of the Burning Legion. In their place, a searing green glow that marked demon fire enabled Malfurion’s brother to see not only the world around him, but all the mystical energies inherent in it.

Illidan, Tyrande murmured with affection. Her gaze still upon Malfurion — and no less revolted — she added, Illidan, just look at him…

The demon tromped forward on heavy hooves. He was much larger than he had been as a night elf. His chest was broad, indeed, broader than it should have been. Illidan’s upper torso was naked save for arcane tattoos that also glowed green with power.

His only garment was a pair of ragged pants, a remnant of his mortal past.

Calm yourself, my love, Illidan responded, his lips moving out of sync, too. To Malfurion’s horror, his twin draped a muscular arm across Tyrande’s shoulder, cupping it with a hand that tapered into twisted talons.

And to the archdruid’s greater horror, Tyrande took comfort in Illidan’s embrace.