Richard Knaak: Wolfheart

Through the corridors of stone and living wood they rushed. Some of the priestesses they saw quickly offered assistance, but the archdruid understood that only his beloved would have the power to help Jarod’s mate at this point.

Her personal guard came to attention as Malfurion and his companions neared the sanctum she utilized in her role as high priestess. One of the guards wordlessly opened the way. Malfurion noted how every set of eyes focused first on Jarod before taking in Shalasyr. Everyone had long assumed that Jarod Shadowsong had perished at some point during the past millennia, else why would he not have returned to his people during some of their most desperate moments?

They were not even through the entrance before Tyrande met them. Jarod started to speak, but the high priestess shook her head. She directed them to take Shalasyr to a long, sloping couch next to her, then bade the attendants without to close the doors.

Her expression grave, the high priestess went down on one knee next to the other female. Tyrande began murmuring a prayer under her breath, and her hands continuously passed over Shalasyr’s body.

The light spread from the high priestess to Shalasyr. Jarod let out a hopeful gasp. The two males watched with anticipation as the soft silver light settled down over the stricken figure.

Without warning, the light faded.

Tyrande pulled back. A sound escaped her, one that Malfurion recognized from times in the past.

“Jarod,” Tyrande said in a low voice as she rose and turned. “Jarod . . . I am sorry. . . .”

“No!” He shoved past the archdruid. “I told her she could get help here! I told her you or Malfurion could save her! Why will you not save her?”

Tyrande halted his lunge toward Shalasyr with a simple touch of her hands against his shoulders. Eyes more hollow, tears beginning to stream, the former guard captain from lost Suramar stared into the high priestess’s sympathetic gaze.

“She had already slipped away. There was nothing that could be done.”

He looked aghast. “No . . . I brought her as soon as I could! I pushed for us to reach here—” His own gaze veered toward Shalasyr. “I did it, then! I pushed her too hard! She would be alive if I had not—”

Tyrande shook her head. “You know that is not true. Her fate was cast. She knows that you did all that anyone could have done. It was simply meant to be—”

“Shalasyr!” Jarod dropped down next to his mate. He clutched her face to his shoulder.

Malfurion quietly joined his own mate. They watched in solemn respect as Jarod rocked back and forth and whispered to his lost wife.

Finally, Jarod looked back to his hosts. Tears still slid down his cheeks and into his beard, but his voice sounded stronger now, more resigned to the truth. “We both feared that she would not make it, but we both agreed that it was best. Yet . . . I remember from her tone at times . . . now that I look back on it . . . she knew the truth. She did this more for me than for her own life. She wanted me to come back here to be with others, not be alone when she . . . she passed.”

“You called her ‘Shalasyr,’” Tyrande replied soothingly. “I thought I recognized her. She was a novice here for a time. We all assumed she had wandered away from the old city and that some accident had subsequently befallen her, even though searchers found no body. No one knew that she and you were together, though the timing of your mutual disappearances should have spoken volumes to us. . . . Yet we never made the connection. . . .”

“We kept our love secret . . . mainly out of concern on my part. I had already considered leaving everything . . . long before. I had grown disenchanted with the polarization of our society. Your druids—forgive me, Malfurion—your druids had been becoming more and more remote, spending most of their time away or in the Emerald Dream rather than sharing in the responsibilities of keeping our people safe and secure. . . .”

The archdruid said nothing. He had heard this from others, including Tyrande. The guilt for all those centuries of abandonment still remained with him.

Jarod exhaled. “And though I loved her with all my heart, I hoped that she would see the folly of being with me. I believed that if and when I chose to depart, I would save her from having to answer questions about my choice.”

“Jarod . . . ,” Malfurion began, but the other male continued as if hearing nothing.

“Instead, she proved determined to follow my path, wherever it might lead. She always tried to do what I wanted, even when I tried my best to see to her happiness. . . . ” Jarod kissed Shalasyr’s forehead. “Little fool . . . first she wastes her life following me into the wilderness . . . and then she sacrifices what strength she has to ensure I return here so that I will not be . . . alone. . . .”

Softly placing a hand on his shoulder, Tyrande said, “You are always welcome among us. She knew that. She also seems to have savored her life with you, or else she would not have stayed with you all these centuries.”

“We did have many moments of joy. She loved the wilderness, I admit. In some ways, more than I did, even.”

“I shall see to arrangements for her. She will receive proper rites.”

He looked up at her, then down at Shalasyr again. “She is dead.” Still holding his beloved, Jarod rose. He accepted no assistance as, with tender care, he adjusted Shalasyr’s position on the couch. To all appearances, she was sleeping. “It barely seems any time since the illness touched her.”

The high priestess and the archdruid looked at each other. With the loss of their immortality, the night elves as a race had begun to experience afflictions that they had only witnessed in others. There had been a few other deaths, and Shalasyr’s showed that there would be more and more as time went on, deaths that could not be avoided.

“I had heard rumors,” Jarod went on, straightening. “It is all true, then. We are mortal, are we not?” After Malfurion nodded, the former guard captain grunted. “Meaning no offense, but I think that a good thing, even with this happening.” His hands curled into fists as he looked at Shalasyr. “We were so damned complacent about our great station in the world and our endless, jaded lives, and that is why the Legion nearly slaughtered us all.”

A different darkness spread across his weathered face, one that Tyrande and her mate recalled from the far past. Malfurion quickly stepped over to Jarod and deftly guided him from Shalasyr. “You are exhausted. You need food and drink, also—”

“How can I sleep or eat?”

“Shalasyr would want you to take care of yourself,” Tyrande added from Jarod’s other side. “And I promise you that I will spare no effort for her.”

“I should stay—”

The archdruid shook his head. “No. Give yourself the time you need to be able to better honor her. I know where to find some healthy fare and perhaps how to bring some calm to your heart. Once you have recuperated, you can return and help oversee the final arrangements.”

To his relief, Jarod acquiesced. However, he looked back at his mate one last time. “I would like a moment alone with her, if I may. . . .”

“Of course.”

They watched him kneel beside Shalasyr once more. Jarod took her hands in his, leaned close, and whispered. Malfurion and Tyrande stepped out of the chamber. There they took the opportunity to briefly discuss another matter.

“Varian is coming to the summit,” Tyrande quietly informed her husband. “So Shandris’s contacts say. It worries me, though, that we still have no official confirmation from Stormwind.”

“We both know that if Shandris trusts her information, it is generally true. Good. One way or another, the news will filter to the other kingdoms. If Stormwind is attending, the remaining holdouts will rush to join.” He frowned. “As to whether he is coming to ensure the success of the summit or to condemn it . . . we will have to wait and see.”