Richard Knaak: The Well of Eternity

“You have learned well, young night elf,” a voice like a bear’s rumbled. “Better than even I could have expected…”

Sweat poured down Malfurion’s violet countenance. His patron had insisted that he attempt this next monumental step at the height of day, his people’s weakest point of time. Had it been at night, Malfurion felt certain that he would have been stronger, but as Cenarius pointed out again and again, that would have defeated the purpose. What his mentor taught him was not the sorcery of the night elves, but almost its exact opposite.

And in so many ways, Malfurion had already become the opposite of his people. Despite their tendencies toward flamboyant garments, for instance, Malfurion’s own were very subdued. A cloth tunic, a simple leather jerkin and pants, knee-high boots…his parents, had they not perished by accident years before, would have surely died of shame.

His shoulder-length, dark green hair surrounded a narrow visage akin to a wolf’s. Malfurion had become something of an outcast among his kind. He asked questions, suggested that old traditions were not necessarily the best, and even dared once mention that beloved Queen Azshara might not always have the concerns of her subjects foremost on her thoughts. Such actions left him with few associates and even fewer friends.

In fact, in Malfurion’s mind, he could truly only count three as friends. First and foremost had to be his own twin, the equally troublesome Illidan. While Illidan did not shy away from the traditions and sorcery of the night elves as much as he, he had a tendency to question the governing authority of the elders, also a great crime.

“What did you see?” his brother, seated beside him on the grass, asked eagerly. Illidan would have been identical to Malfurion if not for his midnight blue hair and amber eyes. Children of the moon, nearly all night elves had eyes of silver. Those very few born with ones of amber were seen as destined for greatness.

But if greatness was to be Illidan’s, he first had to curb both his temper and his impatience. He had come with his twin to study this new path that used the power of nature—their mentor termed it “druidism”—believing he would be the quicker student. Instead, he often miscast spells and failed to concentrate enough to maintain most trances. That he was fairly adept at traditional sorcery did not assuage Illidan. He had wanted to learn the ways of druidism because such unique skills would mark him as different, as nearing that potential everyone had spoken about since his birth.

“I saw…” How to explain it even to his brother? Malfurion’s brow wrinkled. “I saw into the hearts of the trees, the souls. Not simply theirs, either. I saw…I think I saw into the souls of the entire forest!”

“How wonderful!” gasped a female voice at his other side.

Malfurion fought to keep his cheeks from darkening to black, the night elf equivalent of embarrassment. Of late, he had been finding himself more and more uncomfortable around his other companion…and yet he could not think of himself far from her, either.

With the brothers had come Tyrande Whisperwind, their greatest friend since childhood. They had grown up together, the three, inseparable in every way until the last year, when she had taken the robes of a novice priestess in the temple of Elune, the moon goddess. There she learned to become attuned to the spirit of the goddess, learned to use the gifts all priestesses were granted in order to let them spread the word of their mistress. She it had been who had encouraged Malfurion when he had chosen to turn from the sorcery of the night elves to another, earthier power. Tyrande saw druidism as a kindred force to the abilities her deity would grant her once she completed her own training.

But from a thin pale child who had more than once bested both brothers in races and hunting, Tyrande had become, since joining the temple, a slim yet well-curved beauty, her smooth skin now a soft, light violet and her dusky blue hair streaked with silver. The mousy face had grown fuller, much more feminine and appealing.

Perhaps too appealing.

“Hmmph!” added Illidan, not so impressed. “Was that all? ”

“It is a good start,” rumbled their tutor. The great shadow fell over all three young night elves, stifling even Illidan’s rampant mouth.

Although over seven feet tall themselves, the trio were dwarfed by Cenarius, who stood well above ten. His upper torso was akin to that of Malfurion’s race, although a hint of the emerald forest colored his dark skin and he had a much broader, more muscular build than either of his male students. Beyond the upper body any similarity ended. Cenarius was no simple night elf, after all. He was not even mortal.

Cenarius was a demigod.

His origins were known only to him, but he was as much a part of the great forest as it was of him. When the first night elves had appeared, Cenarius had already long existed. He claimed kinship with them, but never had he said in what way.

Those few who came to him for guidance left ever touched, ever changed. Others did not even leave, becoming so transformed by their teachings that they chose instead to join the demigod in the protection of his realm. Those were no longer elves, but woodland guardians physically altered forever.

A thick, moss-green mane flowing from his head, Cenarius eyed his pupils fondly with orbs of pure gold. He patted Malfurion gently on the shoulder with hands that ended in talons of gnarled, aged wood—talons still capable of ripping the night elf to shreds without effort—then backed away…on four strong legs.

The upper torso of the demigod might have resembled that of a night elf, but the lower portion was that of a huge, magnificent stag. Cenarius moved about effortlessly, as swift and nimble as any of the three. He had the speed of the wind, the strength of the trees. In him was reflected the life and health of the land. He was its child and father all in one.

And like a stag, he also had antlers—giant, glorious antlers that shaded his stern yet fatherly visage. Matched in prominence only by his lengthy, rich beard, the antlers were the final reminder that any blood link between demigod and night elf existed far, far in the past.

“You have all done well,” he added in the voice that ever sounded of thunder. Leaves and twigs literally growing in his beard, his hair shook whenever the deity spoke. “Go now. Be among your own again for a time. It will do you some good.”

All three rose, but Malfurion hesitated. Looking at his companions, he said, “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the trail’s end. I need to talk with Cenarius.”

“We could wait,” Tyrande replied.

“There’s no need. I won’t be long.”

“Then, by all means,” Illidan quickly interjected, taking Tyrande’s arm. “We should let him be. Come, Tyrande.”

She gave Malfurion one last lingering glance that made him turn away to conceal his emotions. He waited for the two to depart, then turned again to the demigod.

The descending sun created shadows in the forest that seemed to dance for the pleasure of Cenarius. The demigod smiled at the dancing shadows, the trees and other plants moving in time with them.

Malfurion went down on one knee, his gaze to the earth. “My shan’do,” he began, calling Cenarius by the title that meant in the old tongue “honored teacher.” “Forgive me for asking—”

“You should not act so before me, young one. Arise…”

The night elf reluctantly obeyed, but he kept his gaze down.

This made the demigod chuckle, a sound accented by the sudden lively chirping of songbirds. Whenever Cenarius reacted, the world reacted in concert with him.

“You pay me even more homage than those who claim to preach in my name. Your brother does not bend to me and for all her respect of my power, Tyrande Whisperwind gives herself only to Elune.”