Asterius' spirit soared.
He was in the form of a red-tailed hawk, massive in size and muscle yet retaining a lithe and graceful appearance. His wings stretched across the sky, covered in golden and bronze plumes, powerfully muscled to fight the pull of the land and keep him aloft. His visage was both fierce and noble, with a piercing gaze and a wickedly hooked beak that seemed locked in an eternal grin.
He was far above the ground, so high that even his magnificent wingspan might seem like only a speck to an observer on the ground. He floated, suspended almost motionlessly, as he rode thermals of warm air that billowed in currents from the vibrant earth below. The slow, lazy beating of his wings caught the updrafts and sent him spiraling even higher, to dizzying altitudes so far above the soil that he felt like he could reach out and caress the Sun. It was raw, unalterable joy that flowed through him, stemming from the absolute freedom of flight.
There was no greater sense of exhilaration than that of racing through the clouds, removing oneself from the burden of the planet to embrace the heavens above. Asterius was awash in a happiness that he had not experienced for an eternity. And yet...
"No," he said, giving words to his thoughts. The jet black raven keeping pace to his side made a most unhappy chirp and the world melted away.
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Asterius' spirit hunted.
Nearly eight feet long and over five hundred pounds, he was the epitome of a fearsome lion patriarch. Lean, weather toughened muscles rippled underneath tawny fur that blended instantly with the backdrop of the savannah grasses. A fiery red mane spread out from around his scowling muzzle like a halo. He was armed with lethally sharp claws and bone-crushing fangs, along with the speed and strength to make full use of them.
He crept forward, an inch at a time, barely even seeming to breathe. Every step was carefully measured, every sound muted. He was effectively invisible, hidden as he was in the brush of the plains, not twenty feet from an entire herd of fat, careless gazelle. Every sense was incredibly attuned; he could see every grain of dirt, feel every blade of grass, hear even the heartbeats of the distant prey. The lazy beasts had let down their guard and it was the perfect opportunity. He struck, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he leapt toward his victim, taking down the grazer in one sudden movement. His heart raced as he tasted the life blood flowing out of the unfortunate animal caught in his unyielding jaws, whose struggles rapidly ceased beneath his might.
The thrill of the hunt burned through him, a far cry from the exhilaration of flight. This wasn't the joy of freedom, this was the sheer confidence of strength. There was no greater sense of satisfaction than to outmatch any possible opponents, whether they be physical or fate. Asterius was engulfed in a sense of self-conviction that he had long been denied. And yet...
"No," he repeated, shaking his feline head. The midnight colored panther beside him hissed and again the world shifted.
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Asterius' spirit rested.
His eyes were serenely closed, his wrinkled expression completely calm. His arms reached toward the sky, embracing the nourishing glow of the Sun. Brilliant green leaves sprouted from his branching fingers, swaying gently in the warm midsummer's breeze. He stood upright, stretching upward with his mahogany colored body, wrapped in a soothing moss that covered him in patches along his rough, aged bark.
He was, quite literally, rooted to the ground, unmoving. All around him stood his brethren, trees with bright, healthy foliage that mirrored his own. An endless forest surrounded him, untouched and even unseen by the thoughts of other, more violent races. The rich, loamy soil below offered its sustenance and the clear blue sky above offered its essential light. This was a land that knew nothing but peace, unchanging for all time. He did not know how long he had stood there, encased in such splendor. Indeed, such thoughts were beyond him. He did not think in any sense of the word. To form a coherent thought would imply some more complex form of being. He merely was.
This was utter tranquility. It wasn't a feeling of joy so much as it was a lack of feeling at all; to be completely removed from all of the cares one had in the world, and instead be in complete harmony with life. There was no greater sense of self-peace than this serenity, and it was a peace of mind that Asterius could not even remember having known. And yet...
"No," he sighed, letting his arms lower to the ground like a withering plant. Again, the feeling came for him, nagging at the back of his consciousness. The tree directly in front of him, perhaps a willow, gave him a sad look. Asterius waved his leafy hand and the reality around him cracked like stained glass, and then shattered as easily as a window might.
He was again in his tauren form, though he knew it was only an illusion devised by his mind in order to give boundaries to this place, surrounded by utter blackness. The only being besides himself was the winged woman in the dark dress, the one who had visited the druid shortly before his death, who looked at him with uncontained confusion. Her form was oddly without edges in this place, and seemed to blur before Asterius' eyes.
Why?
In response, Asterius pointed out into the endless dark. In the distance was a glowing orb, with dimensions beyond comprehension. It was a green sphere that rotated ever so slowly, with a trail of uncountable numbers of multicolored lights that flowed toward the center like a river. Each light was the soul of a being, and the central orb that dwarfed them all was the soul of the planet, itself. This was the realm of the dead, those that had already passed on and whose life force was returning to rejoin that of the planet from which they came. Asterius was not, however, pointing directly at the planet's soul. Instead, his finger drifted toward the river of individuals' souls that rushed onward through the vast expanse of nothingness like a flood.
"How can I rest? They are dying," he said simply. "Lives from all over the face of this earth are being extinguished like nothing, and in numbers far greater than ever before."
The dark lady was silent, but Asterius continued on, "You know as well as I do that there is a balance. A soul dies, a soul is reborn. One death for one life. This... war, this foolishness, is upsetting a balance that was already in jeopardy. If it isn't stopped, if those guilty of this madness continue with their slaughter, then the very life of the planet is in danger!"
A silence passed then, stretched to an eternity before Asterius could finish his heart-wrenching words, "I can't join you yet, Krys... I'm sorry."
In response, the winged woman fades from view completely, leaving the druid in the darkness. Asterius' last glimpse was of her sorrowful gaze; not for her loneliness, but for his fate. Her image may have disappeared, but her voice remained.
What do you desire?
Her voice echoed in his mind, filled with a weary acceptance that was still vaguely hopeful, as if he might change his mind. He answered, his own voice booming through the core of the world and its river of souls, a desperate plea from the bottom of his heart, "Another chance!"
That is beyond my power here
"But not beyond mine," Asterius replied and was rewarded by a sense of surprise, a feeling he knew was echoing from the winged ghost's mind. He floated through the sea of black with its myriads of lights, each one of which had once been a living, breathing being. He again addressed the sorrowful specter, but this time raised his voice louder, so that it might carry to the life force of the departed, "I am Asterius, druid of the Living Path, protector of the Balance. I need to make things right by restoring the natural order and bringing an end to the bloodbath that is covering the world..."
"I'm not about to let death stand in my way." Defiance was adamant in his voice, along with a confidence despite knowing the difficulty of what he was about to attempt. First, he would have to remove the barriers that defined him from the masses of souls streaming about, so that he could follow their trail back into a higher realm. The danger to this was that if he should lose control, he would become just another of the sparkling orbs seeking to rejoin with the life energy of mother earth, his very being lost forever and his energy destined to be reused in a cycle of life that had been active since before the dawn of time.
He began to focus, opening his mind to the vastness of the reality around him, becoming one with the afterlife while attempting to retain his sense of self through sheer willpower. He felt the life of the planet surging about him, so much pure energy that it scalded his very essence to simply be aware of it. His soul within him burned, straining to be free of the boundary of his mind, its struggles to escape like waves of fire. His voice called out again, defiance remaining as strong as before although it was mixed with the stresses of keeping his mental identity long after he should have lost his memories, personality, and everything that made him himself. Though he heard himself screaming, he wasn't sure whether it a cry for help, a plea for mercy, or a challenging roar. Whatever the case, he felt the soothing presence of the winged angel appearing at his side. He felt Krysalia's helping hand guiding his path. He felt his long dead mate's gentle caress farewell as Asterius began to fade away.
And then he felt no more.
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Hastily constructed tents and makeshift shanty buildings sprawled about the valley near the immense gates of the wrecked dwarven capital. Civilians wrapped tightly in heavy clothing scurried about in huge numbers in near chaos, scrambling to finish their temporary homes to get out of the harsh weather. It seemed that only one area in the mountainous region was peaceful, where the displaced dwarves and gnomes would not go near.
Leesha'las'Lightkeeper, High Priestess of the Shattered Heart medical corps and First Officer of the brigade of healers within the Warwalker ranks, slouched in knee-deep snow, staring at the large mound of soil and slush with a deadened gaze. The mountain wind howled around her with a biting chill, leaving her pale skin blue where it touched, but she ignored the gusts without even bothering to pull her shawl tighter around her.
It was shock, a far off corner of her mind deduced with an uncaring academic gaze. She knew quite well how it could affect soldiers; she had treated many such patients with her own hands. Lightkeeper was one of the best and brightest that the elven nation could offer, and the young age with which she inherited her current position was a testament to her skill. It hadn't even been half a year that she had spent in the company of the Warwalkers, walking through fires that would have destroyed a lesser being, yet they had only served to forge her into an even stronger person.
Maybe that was it, she thought idly. Maybe she was reaching her limits, just as the buried General before her had apparently reached his own. Leesha would have never believed it had she not seen the proof with her own eyes. During their campaign, Asterius had always seemed to her as an endless fountain of energy, a bright light that could be relied on never to be extinguished. She had seen the druid lead from the front line through countless clashes, pull the unit out of the clutches of defeat by the barest of margins, only to prepare for the next assault. Even when she had been close to dropping, when the sleepless nights seemed endless and the cries of the dying shook her exhausted body to the core, the General would be there. Side by side they would work, drawing upon each other's strength to save lives and stitch the wounded back into fighting form, only for her tauren mentor to be called away to the front for yet another charge, but she knew once the battle was over that he would be back. He always came back, or so Leesha had thought.
The grave at her feet was a cruel reminder of how wrong she had been. With her thoughts buried in sadness and her head buried in her cloak, Lightkeeper didn't even notice the arrival of the undead soldiers before they spoke.
"Priestess," "Priestess," "Priestess," she turned in surprise, her mind suddenly returning to the present at the sound of the harsh voices speaking in unison. Three of the Forsaken troops, two in rusted chainmail and another in blood red robes covered in runed symbols, stood at attention before her, giving a respectful bow simultaneously. It unnerved the blood elven priestess that her breath came out in puffs in the cold air, whereas the undead didn't seem to breathe at all.
Their features were so similar that should couldn't differentiate between them, but Leesha had long since given up trying to tell the undead family apart. Instead, she addressed them in the same manner as the rest of the Warwalkers, "Sergeants Kahna, why have you disturbed my meditation?"
She eyed the robed undead with her menacing fel-green stare, grief pushing her to lash out at anything around her, though with his empty eye sockets she wasn't sure whether he stared back. It was the lightly armored soldier on the left, with an aqua blue cape and battered shield strapped to his side, that stepped forward and replied, pointing with a fleshless finger at her skin that was tinged with the ashen color of the onset of frostbite.
"Our bodies no longer have need to fear the cold. The living are not so lucky. The Priestess should remain indoors."
"You want me to leave this place? Is your kind truly soulless, then? Abominations such as yourselves may not know sorrow, but I do." Her words were full of loathing, as well as a deep seated pain, "He died... and for what? Those sickening vermin? They aren't worth such a sacrifice."
"An odd statement from a healer."
"We thought she saved lives, not judged them."
"It's the company she keeps. The Priestess should leave the dead well enough alone."
Leesha pointed with a shivering hand to the disturbed earth, "That's our General down there, buried alone in this horrid place for all eternity! Why should I leave him in silence?"
"The Priestess would join him, then?" The speaking Forsaken soldier's rotting jaw hung open at an angle. Perhaps it had made a joke and was laughing. Perhaps not. "We believe that to be a foolish decision."
"You believe what you want. I believe that I shall stay where I am," she turned away, adding sullenly, "and if I freeze in this light-forsaken weather, it's only fitting."
The soldier on the right, with a worn silver shortsword and forest-green cloak, spoke up this time, though his voice was an exact echo of the last, "We understand but don't comprehend."
"Well I'm glad we made that distinction," Leesha muttered in reply.
"She punishes herself, but the reason is wrong," said the red robed corpse in the middle.
"The Priestess perceives failure when none is apparent," the blue soldier stated. Leesha whirled around and flung a handful of snow at him in reply, though the makeshift missile had little effect on upsetting the undead or appeasing her anger.
"Apparent?! I think it's pretty damn well apparent!" Again, she gestured to the grave, her voice rising higher, "Asterius is dead, and it's my fault!"
Guilt was obviously a foreign concept to the undead, or at least an ideal that they had long forgotten, as was the talent of reassurance. The three Forsaken blinked in unison, and then began speaking one after another, rambling on in jumbled sentences.
"The Priestess admitted to..."
"...killing the General..."
"...in cold blood."
"A traitor in our midst," "A disturbing turn of events,"
"Should be brought to the commanders' attention."
"We ask that the Priestess surrenders herself now..."
"...before she stabs more people..."
"...and her trial will go easier."
Leesha buried her face in her palms in frustration, speaking through gritted teeth, "That's not what I meant... I didn't stab anybody!"
The brothers were silent for a long moment. Red robes finally broke the silence, "Then it's not her fault. The Priestess didn't kill the General."
"I didn't save him, either," the blood elf seemed to shrink into her cloak as the anger bled out of her, giving voice to what had been repeating constantly in her mind. "If I had been there just a few minutes faster, if I was just a little bit stronger, he'd still be alive."
"She would let these thoughts destroy herself?"
"What else would you have me do?"
"Learn." "Live."
"Focus on that which can be changed, not on that which has passed; something we are quite knowledgeable about." She flinched away from their eyeless gaze, but could not escape their words. "To continue on in such a way is a waste. Think not of her past failure but instead on how she can next succeed."
"Leesha, mon!" Vanfi called from the Ironforge entrance, still partially obstructed by snow and Syreen bodies. "Leda be calling a meeting in da throne room, ya should get your pasty hide inside!"
Leda. She had been gravely hurt in the avalanche, Leesha recalled suddenly. Another commander of hers that she was failing. This time, though, perhaps she wouldn't be too late. Lightkeeper regarded the silent grave for only a moment longer before turning to walk into the city.
"Grow and move on," the red robed Forsaken spoke as she passed, "or falter and fall. We hope her decision is the right one. We shall be watching to see how she chooses."
Lightkeeper didn't acknowledge whether or not she heard him, but continued on to join her shadowhuntress friend, leaving the three undead behind. Her steps seemed a little more steady, though, and her shoulders less hunched. Somewhere inside her, she had found that fountain of strength once again.
The Kahna brothers remained by the grave, alone by themselves. "It was a shame about the General."
"He fought well."
"His orders were excellent."
"He remembered our names." Silence again descended on the trio. They turned to offer their own respects to their deceased commander, saluting simultaneously before heading back into the ravaged city. The red robed Kahna wizard chuckled, more like a wheezing cough when one's lungs no longer function, as they walked inside.
"That was an odd sight."
"He always did have..."
"...a trick up his sleeve."
"This will be interesting."
A single flower had sprouted and was rapidly growing on the mound, completely unaffected by the frozen environment surrounding it. Its bleached white petals were recognizable to the undead brothers as the peacebloom that the druid Iyotanka had placed into the grave. Beneath the earth, something began to move.
