Emerald Dreams

Emerald Dreams Once he was an anathema to her and at times, she still considered him to be so. In a sense he was the embodiment of nostalgia and humility, of the tides of time and that of the natural world. Being a night elf and seeing one of your own kind represent such things was…well, intriguing to say the least and raised certain possibilities-was such an individual and exception to the norm? Or a manifestation of what the kaldorei were capable of? Obviously not all the children of Elune would warrant such consideration. Queen Aszhara would never step out beyond the walls of her palace, let alone beyond the city of Zin’Azhari and into the natural world, unmarred by the touch of civilisation. Lord Xavius wouldn’t know nostalgia and humility if it bit him in the arse, his only contact with such things being the latter, expecting his lower quel’dorei to show it whenever in his presence, to remind themselves of his superiority. There was a saying that a drive to explore the unknown was what came from sentience… if that was the case, then perhaps sentience should have never been given to the children of the stars, considering what occurred from such a drive. At least it would have been better if the quel’dorei didn’t possess it, considering where that had led them. Still, such a drive had been pretty much a given in all night elves before the time of the Sundering and not to possess it would be an exception to the norm. Sitting on the edge of her bed in Darnassus, gazing at the first rays of the rising sun, Tyrande Whisperwind knew that if this was ten thousand years ago, she would be one of those rare exceptions, although in such a way that she’d be willing to guess was different from most, a way that, if it ever got out, would probably never ensure that High Priestess Dejahna off her back. True, she had her curiosity, just a type that centred on a single druid, specifically one that currently resided in the Emerald Dream. Apart from this, Tyrande knew little else. True, tidbits of information had been revealed about the state of her love, of how a malignant force was spreading through the ethereal realm, a force that had made its mark on the Green Dragonflight, but if any solid information was known to those of the waking world, Tyrande had not come across it. Sighing, Tyrande averted her gaze from the rising sun-perhaps years ago she may have watched it for longer, considering that its majesty was second only to that of Elune’s orb, but times had changed, prompting earlier rest. It was something that the priestess had come to welcome, seeing the cycle of day and night as a reminder that as insane as the world had become in recent years, what with the emergence of old foes and the sentient races being at each others throats for no discernable reason, there was still a degree of order to the world. It was the break of day that the High Priestess had found herself looking forward to over the past five years, as it was under the sun’s gaze that her kind would abandon the waking world, leaving themselves open to whatever time’s slumber cared to cast their way.

Hope was a feeling that Tyrande always carried with her before letting sleep take her, knowing that slumber was the closest that she could get to the Emerald Dream and those found within it… …such as the one who occupied her thoughts even when she was awake. A fool’s hope as it was and Tyrande knew it. That would never stop her from trying though…

Tyrande could tell that she was dreaming as soon as she saw her new surroundings. After all, one did not fall asleep in a lush bed in Darnassus and wake up in a silent forest, the sky tinged with a faint green, mist permeating the air as if it were sentient. Of course, there was the slight possibility that she wasn’t dreaming, that she’d been transported back in time or some equally fanciful explanation, but as insane as Azeroth had become in recent times, Tyrande decided to go with the first option. Yet the term “dream” hardly did the experience justice. Dreams tended to be a series of images or a progression of a scene over which the dreamer had no control, bound to experience whatever was being presented until he/she woke up. This dream, if it truly was such a thing, was different in that Tyrande could tell that she was fully in control of herself, that she was as aware of her surroundings as she would have been in the waking world. Or perhaps I’m still in it, the night elf thought, taking a leaf from one of the trees, feeling its texture along her skin. No dream could provide something this real. Not even the-… Tyrande’s train of thought came to a stop faster than the fuse of a faulty goblin bomb. This was for two reasons. The first was due to the sudden feeling of realization that people experienced when presented with an unbelievable yet undeniable truth. The emerald sky, the silence of the forest, the eeriness of the mist…none of this was natural, yet was as real as could be. Elune’s daughter remained silent, unable to comprehend what had occurred. One did not simply enter the Emerald Dream by falling asleep. One did not have full control of themself in a dream. One did not, after five years of false hope, view what was the second reason for their silence and behold a night elf with antlers reminiscent of that of a stag, a long cloak that of the colour of the earth, bright amber eyes and flowing dark green hair which looked both serene and wild. One did not simply stumble into the Emerald Dream and see Malfurion Stormrage smiling at you. “I’m impressed,” Furion said eventually.

“Indeed?” Tyrande asked stiffly, subconsciously reaching for her bow…or at least where it would have been had she been equipped in her usual armour. Despite the change of setting, the woman’s attire had not changed from the night dress that she had fallen asleep in, namely one that, especially in these circumstances, was more transparent than she cared for. She continued to look at Furion. “And what are you impressed with exactly?” Furion’s smile faded slightly but apart from that, remained much the same as he always did-tall and imposing. “At your dedication,” the druid said. “To what?” Tyrande asked stiffly, sub-consciously clenching her fist. “Ruling over our people wisely and justly, maintaining peace between the mortal races, dealing with the overflow of the Emerald Nightmare, going out-…” “Yes, you’d know all about that wouldn’t you?” Tyrande snarled. “I suppose the Emerald Dream provides a perfect vantage point to watch over Azeroth, doesn’t it!?” The forest was no longer serene at this point. “Tyrande, what’s wrong?” Furion asked eventually. “What’s wrong?” the priestess asked, smiling bitterly while fighting back tears. “Don’t tell me the great Shan’do Stormrage is not as wise as he’s made out to be?” “I’ve never put myself above humility Tyrande,” said Furion sternly, a faint breeze whispering through the trees. “I thought that you of all people would know that.” “Well I don’t,” spat the priestess. “How would I know anything about you Furion? When have you ever given me the opportunity to know anything about you!?” “Tyrande, I-…” “Four ten-thousand years!” Tyrande shouted, her tears giving way. “Four tenthousand years is how long I lived without you while you lived in the Emerald Dream! I killed the ancient protectors so I could retrieve the Horn of Cenarius so we could defeat the Burning Legion, not to mention that I actually wanted to see you again! And after this, after everything we fought for, you decide to take yet another nap!” It was at this point that Tyrande let out an unmuffled sob, facing the ground. “How long will it be before I see you again Furion?” she asked softly. “Your spirit was why I chose you over your brother, but that alone is not sufficient to face life alone when we’re separated by different planes of reality.” She cleared her throat. “Why did you bring me here?”

The priestess was not aware that Furion had shifted position at all until she felt his hand cup her chin, lifting her face up to his, sorrow filled amber eyes gazing into tear stained silver ones. “I brought you here...” the druid said slowly. “Because I wanted to see you again. In person.” “And you assumed that I felt the same?” Tyrande asked, freeing her chin but not averting her gaze. “You assumed that I had not moved on?” Furion sighed. “Perhaps…” He shook his head. “But that is irrelevant.” “And what is relevant?” The druid shrugged. “I know my own answer to that.” “And mine?” Tyrande asked softly. Furion gazed down on her. “That’s for you to decide Tyrande. All I can suggest is that you find something more substantial than a dream to focus your attention on.” Moving quickly, Furion stepped forward, Tyrande barely feeling the light kiss he planted on her forehead. By the time it had registered the druid was simply standing there, as if nothing had happened. “What was that for?” the priestess asked. “An overdue apology,” said Furion, sorrow evident in his voice as well as his eyes. “One that I should have prevented from ever becoming necessary.” With that, Furion began to walk off. He’d barely taken a step however before he felt Tyrande grasp his wrist-tightly, but not painfully. He turned to face her, the priestess looking more composed than she had been a moment ago. “Tyrande?” “You said that that was an apology, correct?” the priestess asked softly, her eyes shining with something other than tears. “You said it was overdue?” “Yes,” said Furion, not liking being reminded of that unpleasant fact, but feeling that he deserved. “Why?” By way of answer Tyrande darted forward, equally as fast as Furion had done when giving his apology. Unlike the apology, it lasted much longer on another part of the face entirely. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, but was really only the time it took for Tyrande to wrap her arms around the druid, the priestess drew off, smiling faintly. “Apology accepted.”