The Mirror

When Vynlarion stood before the Mirror, he knew that what he had planned was madness. In his arms he held the limp, lifeless form of his beloved wife. Her crimson hair fell downward in waves toward the ground, while her flowing crimson gown, topped with long feathers around the bust, sat lifelessly on her still body. Her skin was a lifeless white and her makeup looked ill-placed. He held her close, his hands shaking weakly around her midsection, where a grizzly hole existed in her person.

Behind him stood two figures, one clad in black leathers and the other in flowing ebon robes. One was Adrynar, his son, and the other was Tal’theran, his personal aide. Vynlarion looked back at the two, his face hollowed and grim, and spoke in a forceful, but bereaved, tone and commanded simply: “Do it.”

The magister hesitated for a moment, looking to his darkly clad compatriot, who did not meet his gaze, and instead remained defiantly focused on his father. “Now,” urged the old knight. Finally, after a long moment, Tal’theran stepped forward and hovered his hands before him and began to weave an unseen arcane web. The air before him rippled and undulated before taking on a distinctly azure hue.

While still spell-crafting, the mage steps forward and placed his hands against the huge mirror which loomed before them in the stone room. The surface undulated like the air once before him before settling to an eerie stillness. The mage, whose face had been obscured by his cowl, lowered the garment and revealed his face, wane with a weary heart.

Tal’theran procured a small hourglass from his long robes. Sand spilled toward the middle and simply disappeared in the narrowest part of the glass tube. It was delicate in its construction, and the magister seemed loathed for what he had to do next. He released a breath he had not realised he had been holding to once more look for support in Adrynar.

The younger Highcrest, however, was of no support today. He simply stared at his father, his eyes as hollow as those of his father. A great many tragedies had occurred in the last few weeks and he had lost too much to known what was right and wrong. Vynlarion, for his part, stared blankly back at himself in the mirror’s reflection, watching the still corpse of his fallen wife. It was up to Tal’theran to determine what was right.

With a heavy heart, the mage shattered the small hourglass against the mirror’s surface. The fragments of glass dissipated into the air while the sand was drawn into the mirror. The mirrored metal began to change into a bronze hue, tinting their reflections into a sickly distortion.

The transformation continued as eddies began to form in the surface thereupon. They drew further inward, forming a vortex of their distorted likeness. After some time after that, all that could be seen was a silent vortex of bronze sand.

“It is done,” the mage said with dismay.

Vynlarion pushed passed him and nodded once, “Good.” He took a deep breath and offered unto the mirror the still body in his arms. An unheard pull tugged at the dead elf’s hair and dress before floating her off the knight’s hands into its roiling surface. “If I am successful,” he said, looking to his son and aide, “This will never have happened.”

He stepped ever closer to the sands of time and turned, “Goodbye, my sons.”

With that, he disappeared into lands unknown.

~*~

When she fell through the mirror, she was dead. When she emerged on the other side, she was not. Her body shook as her heart abruptly began to pump again. Her lungs greedily suck in a long overdue breath and her groggy eyes opened. Her ears rung painfully, and she could hear muffled shouting and the clash of weapons, as well as unsettlingly familiar guttural sounds.

Her sight had not yet returned fully, and when she looked to the side, she only saw blurry shapes of what she assumed must have been people. Her lips parted, but no words. It was then that a figure swooped down to a knee over her. Silver and blond hair spilt out over her as the figure examined her. The figure’s mouth moved widely, indicating he was shouting. She felt a cold metal hand against her face and flinched away from it, only to find it firmly grasp her jaw and shout something again.

Another figure now hovered over her, this one hooded, though its hidden face glowed with arcane power. The two figures exchanged words before the second person raised his hand and magic surged through her body. Her ears abruptly stopped ringing and her sight returned to her. Her sense of touch was sharper now, and she felt the filthy, trampled ground below her. Her head throbbed agonisingly with a piercing headache, but she did her best to avoid it.

It was then that she startled, and gasped sharply as she recognised the figures looming over her. The hooded figure, for she could see his face, was a younger looking Tal’theran, whose eyes did not yet have in them the horrors of the new Azeroth their people now face.

The second figure wore golden armour accented with crimson felt and a mighty cloak, torn and shredded, billowing in a cold wind. His hair was mostly silver, but had a few streaks of blond left in it. His face was stern and strong, though given the crow’s feet and lines on it, spoke of a life lived in battle. “Soldier! On your feet! The Scourge are an hour away from Silvermoon!” Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth commanded. His tabard spoke of a regiment the fallen women knew to be dissolved. The crest thereupon his tabard depicted a phoenix taking flight over a narrow elven shield. It was the famed Knights of the Realm, elven warriors and protectors of the Thalassian realm. They were led by the indomitable Dragon of Quel’Thalas.

“Lord-Commander, we cannot delay!” A third voice urged angrily. The source was a lightly armed woman bearing the same tabard, “Please, I’ve readied your strider, the Royal Guard has summoned you to the gates!” Vynlarion rose to his feet and dusted off his filthy battered armour. The woman on the ground slowly pushed herself up to a knee before finally to her feet.

She looked down at herself and realised that she was garbed in light leathers and the same tabard. On her side was a dagger and across her back was a golden staff, tipped with a large amethyst. Her hair was still the same brilliant crimson hue, but it was done up in a practical bun, though strands fell out of her face.

Tal’theran looked at her, his hidden eyes narrowing in thought. “State your name, soldier,” he declared. She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by an ear piercing scream as an older elven woman burst out of the nearby treeline and scrambled downward onto the blackened ground of the Dead Scar before collapsing forward with a wicked looking blade buried into her spine.

The woman heard a rumbling from the other side of the Dead Scarturned and almost fell back in surprise as a battalion of mounted elven archers, knights and mages, astride hawkstriders, exploded from the treeline, led by a golden haired, fresh faced elven man with righteous fury in his eyes. He let forth a heartening cry that would be repeated many times that day: “For Quel’Thalas!!” And buried his longsword in an oncoming Scourge warrior before whirling around and smashing the edge of his shield into a Nerubian sorcerer’s midsection, spilling out a sickening mixture of organs and slime.

“Father! Get to the front, we’ll hold them off!” Adrynar Highcrest, heir to the Sin’Redar Province, among other things, shouted to the kingly looking man before the woman.

“Fight with valour, my son. FOR QUEL’THALAS!” He commanded with such ferocity his soldiers startled with surprise. “Come, we’ll away to the front,” he urged his soldiers. The woman found herself coming along and mounting a bloodied hawkstrider, next to the hooded mage and knightly woman. Vynlarion rode ahead.

They moved off the Dead Scar and onto the side. The woman took a minute to look back: to their south was the Elrendar River. Now on slightly higher ground, she could see smoke rising from the mighty Silvermoon City. Before them, scores of dead elves littered the ground, and even more laid, crushed and disfigured, in the Dead Scar. It was a grizzly sight, and one she felt she knew too well.

The smell was what she found the worst. The foul stench of rotted flesh, of the patchwork monstrosities created by Arthas and his master, the Lich King, the decaying rot of their fallen brethren, and of so many more sources she could not accurately ascertain. Tal’theran once more looked to her, “Well, soldier? Your name?”

She froze in her saddle for a moment, unsure of what to say. If she declared who she really was, it would only complicate matters. “Bel’thanal Lightdawn, I only recently joined the Knights of the Realm,” she explained quickly. Tal’theran eyed her for a moment before nodding once, “Tal’theran vi Felo’Aran, I’m the Lord-Commander’s ambassador to the Magistrate. Next to you is one of our Knight-Captains, Sophinda Brightblade. Ahead is Lord-Commander Highcrest, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

They rode blindly fast and the woman who claimed to be Bel’thanal suspected their mounts were being heavily augmented with magic to move with such speed. They sped by hordes of ravaging Scourge monsters, too slow in mind to stop them. Nevertheless, the man at the helm of their little party did not slow in his efforts. He moved his mount down the slope of the Dead Scar and held out his broadsword often, decapitating any unfortunate beings that were in his way.

After what seemed like only minutes, they arrived at the tall walls of Silvermoon. At their base were Nerubians boring into the ground and under the walls. The stress on the fortifications was evident. As their structure was being eroded, huge cracks had formed in the walls. Elven mages stood upon the parapets, casting madly at the endless hordes.

“I would fight them down here!” Vynlarion shouted furiously, his handsome face twisted in hatred for the Scourge, “But I would only be another lost soul… Tal’theran! Get us on the walls.”

“Sir!” The mage responded firmly. He swiped his hand through the air with such speed his wide sleeve snapped with the movement. In a flash of blue, Bel’thanal and her fellows were up on the walls.

A short distance away stood a contingent of powerful individuals. High Priest Vandellor held his staff high in the air in one hand, while his other hand tensed and twitched as he let forth a flurry of spells on the ground troops below, who madly tried to slow the burrowing Nerubians. Next to him was a priestess of growing repute, Liadrin.

A short distance down the wall was Grand Magister Belo’vir Salonar. The man unleashed a flurry of hellish spells on their enemies from above. Fireballs mixed with lances made of ice and arcane lighting, furiously ripping apart the endless hordes of Scourge.

The noise was unimaginable. Behind them, civilians scrambled, terrified as the walls groaned worryingly. Before them, the noise of the Scourge was a cacophony of evil. Over it, Vynlarion shouted to one of many farstriders loosing arrows upon their enemies, “Where is Ranger-General Windrunner!?”

The farstrider only looked aside for a moment before shouting back, “Dead, my lord!” Her words struck the Lord-Commander deeply, for his eyes shot wide with shock and grief. “Ranger-Captain Lor’themar Theron has taken over, he’s down the wall!” She gestured vaguely down the wall where the aforementioned man was running up and down the parapets with his bow. With the man was the Ranger-Captain Halduron Brightwing, the two working in perfect unison.

“Get to work!” Vynlarion ordered his ranged knights, “The fate of our people is in the balance! If this wall falls, our people die tonight!” Bel’thanal needed no urging and moved to the walls with Tal’theran. She formed a fireball in her hands, compressing it so tightly it grew white hot before sending it down. It exploded with such ferocity when it struck the nearest Nerubian, five others simply wicked out of existence with them.

The hole, however, was quickly filled with more endless undead. Tal’theran held his hands before him, finger scurled like claws, as he brought down endless bolts of arcane lightning, destroying scores of Scourge beings.

Not one to be out done, Bel’thanal waved her arm out before her, letting go a mighty eagle made of fire, which swooped low through the crowd, lighting countless beings aflame before exploding in the centre, sending many ruined corpses into the air before crashing down lifelessly.

“Orders from the High King!” A runner shouted breathlessly as he ran to Vynlarion and then onto the commanders of the front lines, “We are to hold this line until the wall falls, and then retreat to the Isle of Quel’Danas! His Majesty has set up our last line of defense personally!”

Belo’vir abruptly called out, “Get away, get away!” As a huge groan from the wall sounded. Cracks appeared in every conceivable area and the entire structure listed dangerously backward. Bel’thanal stumbled back, and found footing on the back of the parapets. Though, it was of little use. With one final, bone chilling crack, the wall fell loose and back onto the waiting city below.

She clenched her eyes and summoned the arcane, disappearing from her current place and reappearing fifty feet back. It appeared that most magically inclined elves had done the same. Overhead, huge bats circled and regularly swooped downward, grabbing frantic elves and dropping them from on high.

“Fall back! Fall back!” the Grand Magister commanded. The harried crowd of soldiers and civilians heeded the most senior elf’s commands and fled north through the city. All around them, Nerubians burst from the ground and bats threw themselves into the ground to thrash unsuspecting men, women and children.

Bel’thanal once more found herself at the side of Vynlarion and Tal’theran, though Sophinda Brightblade was gone. The Lord-Commander was merciless as he went: his huge crimson broadsword slashed through Nerubians and bats alike. Tal’theran for his part looked haggard and weak and did not cast. Bel’thanal, picked up the slack, and as they wound their way through the centre of the city, loosed fireballs with such ferocity that her enemies were left with gaping holes where her magic had passed.

All around them, elves moved with such a pace that it was undoubtedly the product of magic. Realising this, Bel’thanal summoned her own arcane powers and spread them around, further augmenting the magical matrix that was speeding her people along. She spared a look over her shoulder to find an enormous horde of undead quickly after them, and at the head of a grey-skinned figure with white hair and a wicked blade, Frostmorne, in his hands.

Arthas Menethil, Death Knight of the Lich King, was coming for them. In his wake, the great city of Silvermoon, which had stood for six thousand years without ever being marred by enemy hands, collapsed. Spires toppled onto nearby houses, walls caved in as the Nerubians dissolved the city from belowground, leaving nothing but a flat ruin in their wake.

“Sunfury!” Vynlarion cried out with misery. Ahead, the massive spire that was the king’s residence flitted with arcane as its supporting magic failed. The huge structure groaned miserably before crashing down over the western side of the city, sending a dust cloud roaring across the entire city.

Bel’thanal raised her arm, erecting a shield to protect them from its blinding properties.

Ahead, the city had been torn open by the fall of the stately central building, leaving a clear shot to the ocean. “Faster!” Tal’theran shouted weakly, his face looking evermore hollow. Bel’thanal looked around to see if there were any other mages supporting the magic that kept them running so fast, and found only herself and the mage. So this was his power, untapped. To be able to augment what she counted to be two hundred elves was unthinkable.

She felt only emboldened by his selflessness, and as a column of Scourge moved in from the West, she screamed with fury: “Back, you mindless wretches!” And let forth a ten foot tall wave of fire, ruining their ranks and leaving their fleeing column free to reach the edge of the city.

There stood a contingent of mages upon the beach and an Orb of Translocation. “Hurry!” One shouted, terrified, “They’re right behind you!” Their column of refugees slammed into the orb with such fury that the magical matrix almost buckled at the amount of people passing through it. Bel’thanal and Tal’theran waited until the very last elves were through before, with the magisters that had created it, went through, and destroyed it as they fled.

A sense of vertigo took the crimson haired magister as she passed through, and she stumbled forward into a plated figure as she reached their destination. “All civilians are to evacuate to Dawnstar Village!” A voice commanded. It was that of High Priest Vandellor.

Bel’thanal took stock of where they were. They stood upon the southern tip of the Isle of Quel’Danas. Ahead, a huge Path of Frost was forming on the ocean, leading toward them. The last battalions of High Elves had formed, and at their head was High King Anasterian Sunstrider. Withered by age, he looked haggard and tired, but his azure eyes burned with such fury that the magister never doubted his absolute loyalty to his people.

She took her place in their ranks and found herself surrounded by tired, over-taxed elves. Many were badly wounded, many were too old or too young to fight, while others trembled where they stood. A few sobbed quietly, but she would not. She looked at the elves around her, taking stock of an exhausted Tal’theran, a determined Vynlarion Highcrest, a resolute Vandellor and Belo’vir, and as well a magister she knew well: Erythis Firestorm.

At the head of their defenses, the High King turned to address the last defenders of their people. “Citizens of Quel’Thalas, hear me!” His voice echoed over the island. All those gathered to fight immediately pressed their fists over their hearts and clacked their heels together. “Today, we fight for our very existence! Death has come to our lands!” His words loomed darkly over those before him, but he did not seem concerned.

“Many of us will die, facing this enemy!” He began, “But the Thalassian peoples will never die! We are the sons and daughters of the Sunwell! And as long as the blessed well shines her magic upon us, we shall be unconquerable!” He raised Felo’melorn into the air, the mighty blade of his family shimmering with fiery magic. “And so I say… Glory to Quel’Thalas! Long live the Quel’dorei!”

Those around her, Bel’thanal included, cheered and shouted back their own charges, many tear-stricken with righteous fury as they readied themselves.

Battle came more quickly than the magister had expected, for abruptly, all around, her, were the undead. Many of her fellow elves simply fell dead as spells and swords brutalised them without regard for the honour of battle.

Bel’thanal let out torrents of magic and scorched the ground near and far as she unleashed everything she had against the enemy. The sounds of dying elves cried aloud all around her, and she knew in her heart they would lose this battle. She moved closer to the front of the now ruined column, using her staff, alight with fire magicks, to beat back the enemy like a halberd.

At the head of the column she found an awe-inspiring sight. High King Anasterian and the Death Knight Arthas battled furiously. The fallen paladin was grotesque in his likeness, with grey skin and eyes burning with undead magicks atop his undead steed, Invincible. His opponent, the king, looked immaculate in golden armour and with his mighty blade, Felo’melorn.

The king swept forward, slashing Invincible’s forelegs and sending the rider crashing downward. Arthas righted himself and readied for battle on foot. However, despite his advanced age, the High King did not tire and instead warped behind the fallen prince and went to decapitate him.

And then it happened.

As he moved to slay Arthas, Anasterian was caught in a blast of howling ice. Felo’melorn and Frostmourne clashed, and to Bel’thanal’s horror, the former shattered in two on collision. The elven king cried out in pain as he buckled down, burying his broken blade in Arthas’s thigh, before Frostmourne slashed down into the king’s shoulder and deep into his chest, killing him instantly.

She could not help it. She screamed in horror. Horror of the prince killing the beloved king. Horror of seeing it all so vividly. Horror of being so powerless. Horror of the blade, which had for so long represented the might of their people, sundered in two. She collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she realised the hopelessness of it all.

Arthas barely stopped after killing the king, mortally Belo’vir, who was quickly joined by Vandellor and Liadrin, the former being slaughtered like his dear friend by the evil prince. As his last act, Belo’vir spirited Liadrin away.

Bel’thanal looked around as she kneeled there in the blood soaked ground, and saw nothing but death. Her heart ached in her chest with the unimaginable loss of life. Magic surged through her as she summoned every last bit of it she could and charged at the fallen prince, Arthas. She was met by a thick wall of Scourge, but fought valiantly to reach the murderer of so many innocent people.

Ahead, she saw the still form of Vynlarion Highcrest sprawled across the ground, a runed Scourge broadsword sticking out of his chest. At his side was Tal’theran, his face contorted in a mixture of rage and sorrow, as he shouted hopelessly at the dying lord.

Adrynar hurried toward his father at that moment, his face wet with blood and tears, and his expression one of shock and horrible loss. Vynlarion offered his son a faint smile, and with a shaking, weak hand, raised his hand in a defiant fist into the air, before letting it fall back.

A piercing pain erupted in her side, and she looked down to find an elven blade buried in her kidney. Looking up, she found an undead High Elf, freshly raised, staring lifelessly back at her. Her life force began to fade, and with it her magic. “No,” she declared weakly, clenching her fists, “NO!” She screamed, before igniting her very form, suffused with an unparalleled amount of arcane, with fire magic.

The world around her went blindly bright as she detonated herself, and all was white.

~*~

“What you did,” said a disembodied voice, “Was very brave indeed.” She could not see anything but white, and she could not feel her body. The voice was familiar, but her mind once again felt sluggish.

She looked around, though still saw nothing but white. “I did what I thought was right,” she said simply. The voice laughed lightly, evidently agreeing.

“Yes, you did.” It paused for a long moment. “Do you know why the Mirror brought us here?”

Had she a body, she would shake her head. “I do not. Why did it?”

“Because it was then that we sacrificed most for each other. At that moment, it did not matter where one was born or what life they led…” The voice paused as a figure materialised before her.

Clad in white robes and with the silver hair she knew, it was Vynlarion Highcrest. “In that moment, we were one. Brothers and sisters in arms.” He looked at her, though she still could not feel her body. “I think the Mirror wanted us to remember that… For just as our people came together in that hour, you and I must come together now…”

He reached toward her, though there was nothing to indicate she was really there. Strangely, she felt the warmth of his palm in hers. To her surprise, her hand slowly began to materialise. Then, her arm. Her chest came next, then her feet, and finally her head.

The two stood there in the blank whiteness, one hand placed gently in the one. She looked down to find she too wore white, saintly robes. “You and I must face this great enemy that lurks in our futures.” Vynlarion looked away for a moment, “I am admittedly nervous.”

He shook his head, “But I am confident that, with you at my side and I at yours, we will conquer this foe.”

The woman nodded, “I agree… Can we go back, then?”

He raised an eyebrow, “Do you wish to?”

She nodded once after a long pause. “I do. Let us finish what we started.” Her answer evidently brought the knight a great deal of joy, for he clasped her hand in what she found to be a protective grasp.

“Then let us go.”

~*~

She awoke with such a start that her upper body shot out from under the covers and into the damp air of the dark room around them. Next to her, a figure stirred. Bleary eyed and confused, he smoothed out his long silver hair. “Is everything alright?”

She nodded, “Yes, I had a very strange dream…” She shook her head, “It’s nothing, really. Go back to bed, I’m sorry for waking you.”

The man readily obliged and dropped his head back onto the pillow, “You’ll have to tell me all about it in the morning,” he said with a cunning in his voice. “Sometimes dreams are more than mere fiction.”

She blinked, looking over at his form, though he had slyly rolled onto his side to face away from her. Did it really happen? Was the Mirror really transformed into a portal and what she experienced on the other side factually true? The woman shook her head of it all, thoroughly baffled. Despite her confusion, her body cried out for sleep, and she slowly laid back down.

Looking to her right, she said to Vynlarion’s back, “Goodnight, my love.”

After a long pause, the man mumbled through his pillow, “Goodnight, Erythis…”