Warcraft 1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I obviously do not own any bit of Blizzard. If I did, I might have a better understanding of the Warcraft lore and where the hell they plan to go with their characters.

Redemption: Prologue

*****

_Tap tap tap tap_

Water drained from the sky. The cool, misty serenity of Terokkar broke with the shock of red hair and panicked strides of the young elf.

_Tap tap -- splat!_

She tripped over a root and landed in one of the many sand pits, cringing as the small bits of glass and stone scraped her arms and face. A fireball seared her back and she cried out in pain.

Heavy footfalls closed in on her from all sides. She was trapped.

A foot collided with her jaw, sending her careening backwards, her shield flying off her back into the brush. Blood mixed with bile in her mouth. A hand grabbed her throat and she felt what little mana remained in her body drain into her assailant's.

She cried out in agony. The man laughed, throwing her to the ground and pinning her there with his foot. The others took their time to kick her, cracking her ribs and bruising her flesh. After what seemed like hours, the beating stopped, but any hope of release she could have found was quashed as they began removing her armor.

*****

She awoke with a terrible ache in her stomach and back. Once her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized she was in a bare stone room. A thin bright glow outlined what must be a door. And she was alone.

Before she could decide whether that was a good or a bad thing, the door swung open, blinding her with the sudden rush of light. A blood elf stunned her, knocking her over the head and dragging her by her hair into the hall. She tried to struggle but her muscles refused to obey. Instead, she trailed, helpless, after her captor.

He threw her into a rough wooden box, and as she held her throbbing head in her hands, she was once more bathed in darkness. All she knew was a steady shaking until the box lurched, tilting unsteadily, and she suddenly felt weightless -- until the sudden stop.

Her bruised body cried out immediately at the pain. The force of what must have been a fall had managed to break her box and probably a few more ribs.

But as a taloned hand pulled back a piece of the wood, she wished she was already dead. Yellow eyes met her spring green ones, the red face breaking into a cruel, feral grin.

She had been deposited in the middle of a fel orc camp.

As he dragged her from the box, sinking his teeth into her shoulder, calling over his companions, the pressure in her chest built and built and finally burst.

She screamed.

*****

He walked along the forest floor, resting his tired wings, trusting that after so many days of torrential downpours, few inhabitants of this forest would dare venture out of their warm, dry homes to see him.

Even as his body had badly withered with the removal of the Eye of Sargeras and the Skull of Gul'dan from his form, his strength also waned with the lack of a suitably potent magic source. The fel orc warlocks, once his allies, proved sufficient for his basic survival, but their demonic energies felt strangely foreign, sickening to his stomach, and he wondered whether they did him more harm than good.

It was with such distracted introspection that he stumbled over the bloodied, unrecognizable form of some humanoid creature. Either an elf or a troll, as he noticed the long, tapered ears. Or at least, one was long and tapered. The other was missing quite a bit of its tip.

The creature's hair was long and bright red, though he couldn't tell if the color was natural or from all the blood.

He knelt down, carefully lifting the still form and carrying it to the river. At the very least he could clean some of the wounds and leave the thing somewhere near a healer.

A quick washing of its face revealed the exotic facial markings of a night elf and the sharp, achingly beautiful bone structure of a high elf.

She was some kind of crossbreed.

She must have been an outcast, much like he was now, thanks to that bitch Maiev. He felt a flare of anger at her attackers -- how dare they harm someone who obviously must have already endured such pain! -- but it melted away and left nothing but a strange sympathy for the poor girl.

He lifted her from the water, drying her with a patch of his cloak, then wrapping her in it completely when he realized she wore no clothes. Pushing his little remaining strength into his wings, he flew her up to his makeshift hope, setting her softly on the straw bed the arakkoa left behind when they moved out, no doubt due to the growing mass of fel orcs to the east.

The girl's breathing was labored, and thus not very conducive to healing. He frowned, struggling to remember the healing energies he had learned at the start of his failed druidic training, willing them to his fingertips, touching her shoulder lightly -- and the wound there seemed slightly shallower. He moved his hands down her sides, calming when her breathing evened out.

But his addiction to magic fed on his mana as he expended it, leaving him dry and trembling, and the girl still in a rather damaged state. He sighed, curling up inthe corner as he drifted off to sleep. Once he had the strength, he would hunt something for them both to eat.

She was still asleep when he woke.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Still don't own Blizzard, but it would be lovely fun to work for them some day, wouldn't it?

Redemption: Chapter 1

*****

The ache in her ribs seemed like nothing next to the pain in her shoulder. She opened her eyes and studied her surroundings. Light filtered in through cracks in the walls. The air smelled strangely sweet. Or maybe it was the oversized cloak draped over her otherwise naked body. She had managed to escape. Had someone picked her up and healed her?

She found that her only memories were of biting, slicing, snarling pain. No savior. So maybe the fel orcs were saving her for some future use.

The scabs on her skin prickled. She had to escape.

Panting, she heaved herself from the straw and crawled her way along the wall, dropping the cloak on the floor. The doorway taunted her from across the room. Maybe the fel orcs thought she couldn't leave in her state. They wouldn't be far from the truth.

Her arms gave out and her shoulder hit the wood planks, hard. A sob escaped her lips and she trembled, hardly able to move. But still, she pulled her weak form forward, only to meet with the sheer drop at the end of the floorboards.

There was no need for a door. She was utterly trapped, the news hitting her with a blow to her already bruised gut, knocking the wind from her. She couldn't even cry.

Her shoulder began oozing, blood and some sickly, pungent yellowish fluid. She let it flow, strangely indifferent. What did an injury matter in the first place if she was to die anyway?

And then a dark shadow fell over her and she looked up, eyes widening in panic as she recognized the wings and the runic tattoos from stories braver adventurers told her in hushed, fearful whispers. This was much worse than fel orcs. Illidan Stormrage himself stood over her, casually holding the carcass of some unfortunate creature over his shoulder, blood spattered over his bare chest.

She hissed in fear, struggling backwards, reaching out to strike at his foot as he dropped the animal with a sickening _thud_ and advanced on her, then finally curling up on herself and wondering once more what it would be like to die.

But he simply scooped her up into his arms, laying her on the straw, covering her body with the cloak once more. He brushed her hair from her face, muttering soft reassurances. She knew the words, but her pained head couldn't make sense of them. He frowned at her shoulder. He even tried healing it, persisting even through her pained whimper as the flesh slowly mended. And her fate began to sink in, she was completely under his power, she was completely trapped. She trembled, unable to control herself any more than she could control her future.

Illidan frowned once more. He expected her to try to run, but he expected her to wait until she was healthy enough to walk in the first place -- right now, she could barely crawl. She could barely move. And as he unhappily watched her tremble, he wished he could somehow calm her. His presence seemed far from comforting.

But even her small attempt at an escape exhausted her, and her eyes closed, body limp against the straw. Stroking her hair one last time, he set out to clean and prepare the meat, certain the young elf would need the protein to regenerate her lost blood.

*****

When she next awoke, she found Illidan crouched at her side with a bowl of some kind of meat stew. She turned away from it, but her stomach betrayed her hunter, growling fiercely. Illidan gently tilted her face towards his, concern etched in his features -- why did he even care in the first place? -- as he held a spoon of the tantalizing food before her mouth.

She still refused to eat. He sighed, patting her head softly, patronizingly. The bowl passed from his hands to hers as he turned and dropped out of the house. She stared at the stew. It certainly looked good. But what if he had poisoned it? She bit her lip. Would death really be such a bad thing?

Illidan returned to a sleeping elf and an empty bowl. The girl looked decidedly less pale, and while he was somewhat satisfied with this progress, he frowned at the work yet to be done.

He tucked her hair behind her ear and away from her shoulder. Now that she was clean and dry, he noticed the slight curl at the tips of the long, thick strands. And her face felt abnormally warm, prompting his worry that she had a fever.

The job of caretaker never afforded any rest, he mused, ambushing a drunk mage for a mana emerald. He drew on its power to feed both his addiction and his healing. But the lack of progress and the sticky ooze seeping through the scabbed flesh indicated some kind of fel infection.

He knew of only one way to cleanse it. He could remove it himself. He didn't know if he still could -- he had sworn off all forms of direct feeding, a decision made easier by the loss of his demonic cravings, but a situation like this had never occurred to his hypothetical thinking.

Perhaps he should just wait.

*****

The next morning, her shoulder glistened with the yellow fel ooze as sweat coated her entire body. She shook uncontrollably, eyes darting around, hazy and unfocused. Illidan tried explaining to her what he was about to do, but she seemed wholly incapable of understanding him.

So he simply pulled her to him, wiped the fel ooze from her skin, and bit down.

She moaned and cried and screamed as he drew the fel taint from her. This was agony and ecstasy and relief like she had never known, coursing through her body and out her shoulder to the man who used to be a night elf.

Once the taint was gone and he began to taste her natural energies, he pulled back, retching out the door as the demonic energy twisted his stomach. Staggering, he jumped from the room, choosing to exorcise this in private, leaving the young elf weak and weary on the bed. She collapsed on the straw, too tired to hold up her own body.

*****

It wasn't too hard for Illidan to find a feeble minion of the Burning Legion and kidnap it, forcing the demonic energy into the sinister creature, then snapping its neck.

He ran his tongue over his fangs. Her taste... it was unlike night elf or high elf or blood elf he had ever fed on. She was delicious. Strong and savory, not as sharp as a mage, but not as earthy as a druid. While he was still a demon, he would have held her and drained her for all she was worth, then shut her in a prison until she recovered only to drain her again.

But it might just be that her own powers seemed so refreshingly pure after the fel energies he had tapped for so long.

Either way, she roused within him a primal craving, a need for magic that until now had been effectively muffled by the fel orc warlocks. And he couldn't return home until that craving had been sated.

So he hunted.

*****

She really should have known he would do it, that she would end up being a plaything, a toy for him, of only a slightly different kind than she had been, briefly, for the blood elves.

But for all she knew, she might end up being _that,_ too.

She pondered trying to heal herself. Would he try to break her? Maybe she should just leave her injuries the way they were. Less for him to damage. Less for her to endure before he finally killed her.

Except he had to have healed her himself. She couldn't figure out how. While he was a night elf, he had been something akin to a mage, and they had no command over the healing energies of the earth or the light or the elements.

Maybe his tapping method caused a sort of euphoric high in the victim, a sense of false hope that they might be alright before he crushed them -- and her head throbbed with the effort of maintaining that thought. Maybe he simply mixed a potion in with the stew he fed her.

Her stomach began to ache with hunger, and she began to hope, against all rational thought, that he would return soon, and with something to eat.

*****

He snuck up behind the oblivious draenei, reaching out and absorbing some of his victim's strength. The draenei sagged against the tree, scolding herself about the perils of overexertion, and Illidan slipped away, completely unnoticed, moving on to stalk his next prey.

*****

Her stomach cried, growled, so painfully empty! She trembled, pulling herself from the straw. She needed food, even if she had to injure herself further to get it.

The room spun as she crawled forward. Illidan had been gone for days, apparently having left her to die. Maybe he found something else to occupy his time, aware that in her current state, she was more work than she could possibly be worth.

Her entire body ached. She tried chewing on the straw, but her dry mouth could hardly produce enough saliva, and what pieces she managed to break apart slid down her throat about as smoothly as swallowing a jagged bit of glass.

And she completely lacked the strength to move.

So this was it. She wouldn't die an honorable death battling the Burning Legion, or of old age after many years of respectable service to the elements and the Light. No, she would die of hunger and dehydration in some abandoned arakkoa nest, the last action of her life being sapped by Illidan himself.

The world faded from view and all she knew was darkness -- then nothing.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: ZOMG still don't own Blizzard *sobsob* But I know a guy whose dad knows the president of the company, if that means anything?

Also, this story was written as a continuous block, shifting perspectives a lot, yes, but without any real planned chapter breaks. And it's very, very much a 'what if' situation. Enjoy it all with a dash of salt.

Redemption: Chapter 2

*****

Illidan flew back to his home, fully sated as he hadn't been in so many months. And it was with the happy knowledge of his growing strength that he happened upon the still form of the elf on his floor, face down.

Oh, no. How long had he been gone? In his desperation to feed, he had completely forgotten about his ward.

He crouched by her side, listening to see if she still drew breath, feeling her throat for a pulse -- and she was alive, but only faintly. He lifted her to the bed, covering her with the cloak -- he really needed to find her some clothes -- before he left to fetch her something to drink.

*****

She woke to a gentle hand stroking her cheek. Was this some kind of afterlife? A strong arm lifted her to a sitting position, and her aches returned. She realized with dismay that she was still alive, and unless someone had managed to remove her from his prison, she was still under Illidan's thumb.

A soothing voice filtered through her ears as she opened her eyes. She couldn't focus. The hand on her cheek moved to her chin, tilting it upwards as a skin of water met her lips.

She drank. She would have taken the entire thing in one gulp, but clearly her caretaker intended her to drink slowly. She coughed as her hasty attempts to swallow water not yet in her mouth did not agree with her throat. The voice murmured calming, reassuring words as the man -- it had to be a man, no woman would ever have a voice that deep -- rubbed her back. And she knew she knew what he said, but for the life of her she simply couldn't understand.

And the world spun from her already hazy eyes.

Illidan felt a pang of guilt as the poor girl fell limp once more. This wasn't like taking care of an injured animal. She was a sentient being, consciously aware of his neglect, probably twisting her already wary attitude towards him into outright hate.

And he deserved it, didn't he?

Now that she was on her way back to being hydrated, he felt secure in leaving her, only briefly, to find clothes.

He stole them from a sleeping vendor. A silk robe, probably too big for her, some undergarments, and a pair of sandals. While she slept, he dressed her, and everything fit well enough.

She woke again, briefly, and he tucked the cloak around her, patting her cheek and shushing her back to sleep.

*****

The scent of something delicious tickled her nose. She stirred and realized she actually wore clothes -- whoever had her now respected her modesty enough to dress her. The soft voice cooed, and he lifted a spoon to her mouth. She smelled some kind of vegetable soup and opened her mouth. The taste was not quite as good as the smell, but it was food, precious food. She tried to lift her arms, but her muscles trembled, barely able to move.

And she cried.

Her soft sobs stabbed even more guilt into a conscience Illidan wasn't even aware he had. What could he do to calm her? He set the bowl on the floor, patting her shoulder, but she only cried harder. He pulled back, puzzled. For most of his life, he had been the last person anyone would turn to for comfort.

Well, Malfurion always hugged Tyrande.

Tentatively, he reached out to her once more, sighing in relief as she leaned into his embrace. She held her hands over her face, making it slightly uncomfortable for him, but after all he had done to her, he could allow that.

Once her tears ran dry -- it didn't take long, considering she was still fairly dehydrated -- she calmed, staring up at him, eyes unfocused, and he set her back on the straw, fetching the bowl of soup and feeding the rest of it to her.

The storm blew in as she slept, nearly tossing the house out of the trees -- and she shook, the cold drafts whipping away any warmth on her pale skin. Illidan mused that he should have stolen a blanket as well, but he'd rather sit shirtless than take his cloak from the young elf.

She shivered, though, so she obviously felt the cold as acutely as he did. And what could he do but crawl under the cloak with her? Surely his body would provide enough warmth to keep her from catching a cold. He wrapped a wing around her, guarding her from the cruel wind, and drifted off to sleep.

*****

She woke with a start to the warm body by her side and a smooth wing draped over her -- Illidan. Her heart panicked as she realized she had been with him all along, that she hadn't been rescued at all, oh no, far from it. And he stirred softly, his face a serene mask of contentment.

What should she possibly make of this? This was not the same Illidan she heard stories of. That Illidan had horns and hooves and looked rather like the eredar -- but this one seemed much too peaceful, much too tired. And he seemed to care for her when he was around. Even his face held none of the demonic malice for which he gained his infamous reputation. Instead he wore the lines of one who had seen too much and now wanted to rest.

She still could hardly focus, barely noticing his eyes open and stare into her frightened face.

"You're awake?"

She stiffened, hardly relaxing even as he left the bed to do -- something. Preparing food, probably. That was all he ever seemed to do while she was awake. He handed her a skin of water, watching with concern and vague amusement as she sniffed it, tasted it warily, then decided that it was safe enough to drink, finishing it off nearly instantly.

The odd change in her behavior baffled him. Was it because he shared the bed with her? But that would be no reason for her to check the water for poison. Did she only just realize who he was?

Her hazy eyes followed him about the room, then out the door as he flew around, looking for something to hunt.

He dove after the talbuk -- had he really flown all the way to Nagrand? -- and snapped the creature's neck, carrying it back to his home, preparing it before the flesh even had a chance to cool.

The young elf's ears perked up as she heard his soft footfalls. He had returned with some kind of meat stew, similar to what he had made for her when she first found herself in this creaky little house. He chewed a piece of meat from it as if to prove her that it was safe, and her cheeks flamed, embarrassed that he had seen her study the water. She ate the stew.

And as she felt her eyes droop once more -- why did she sleep so much? -- Illidan reached out to pat her cheek and tuck the cloak around her.

Illidan gathered the bowl and spoon and washed them in the river, taking the opportunity to fill the water skins. He relieved himself behind a bush, then wondered if the elf girl needed to do so as well.

And it wouldn't hurt to clean her shoulder again.

She he returned to his home with a warm, damp cloth, pulling her robe down and softly patting her skin. She whimpered in her sleep, prompting him to try healing her wound, frowning at such weak progress, but still somewhat pleased that his spell could cause any kind of progress at all.

He pulled her robe back up over her shoulder, then woke her, scooping her into his arms and flying her to the ground. He explained that he was allowing her privacy to take care of personal needs as he set her behind a bush and walked far enough away that he could still hear her but afford her a sense of seclusion. When she finished, he took her back to the run-down home, laying her on the straw, wishing he had his own bed again. The stormy night he spent by her side proved to him that a bare wood floor was a vastly inferior sleeping space.

But her reaction had hardly been encouraging. She instantly lost a good deal of trust in him, examining everything he gave her, expecting it to contain something harmful.

Maybe one of these other abandoned houses would have enough straw in them for a bed. He never really gave it any thought until now.

He managed to gather a small pile, not as big and comfortable as his former bed, but adequate.

*****

His sleep was broken by tiny hands clawing at his arms. The elf girl shook as tears ran down her face. Some kind of nightmare? He propped himself up on his elbows. She made no sound other than soft whimpers, how could he know how to help her?

At any rate, all this crying would leave her rather dehydrated, so he handed her a skin of water. It didn't seem to soothe her very much. He sighed. The hug worked last time...

She cried into his chest, her tears leaving sticky trails down his skin as he gently held her. All this comforting business wore him out. How could people do this and still have the energy to move?

Her face felt even stickier than his chest and her entire body was coated in sweat. Once she calmed, he flew to the small storage space he had created in the tree, grabbing a bowl and a cloth, and set it in front of her, pouring some warm water into the bowl and leaving her to her privacy.

Besides, he enjoyed sitting in the trees.

She scrubbed and scrubbed her skin but she still felt dirty, a crawling, festering sensation in her flesh, but maybe if she scrubbed hard enough, it would go away.

And she shuddered at her dream, the vivid vision of the blood elves, taking her two at a time and sometimes more, as she lay motionless in the sand. But it wasn't her fault, wasn't her fault, even though she couldn't help thinking that if only her hair wasn't so bright, if only she had an effective shadowmeld, if only, maybe she could have escaped.

Her arms began to bleed and she moved to a new patch of skin, frustrated at her inability to become clean. The water swirled, discolored with sweat and blood. Still, she scrubbed, punishing her body for allowing itself to be used like that, and then daring to remind her of it.

Illidan knocked on the door frame, intending to alert her to his presence and allow her time to dress, but the sound fell on oblivious ears. He peeked in and his eyes widened at the distraught elf. Rushing to her side, he tore the cloth from her grasp, wrapped the cloak around her naked form, and held her tightly, restraining her as she thrashed about, biting and scratching until she gave up, sagging in his arms and bursting once more into heavy sobs.

She cried herself out, then curled up, falling asleep in his arms. He moved her to the bed, healing her skin and stroking her hair as he drifted off to claim the rest of his interrupted sleep.


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Blizzard still not mine.

Redemption: Chapter 3

*****

Illidan awoke in the middle of the night, slightly amused at his inconsistent sleeping schedule as he fixed the blindfold over his eyes. The girl by his side drew breath slowly, her chest rising and falling almost rhythmically. He cringed, remembering her reaction the last time she woke next to him, instantly mourning the loss of her warmth as he moved to his own bed.

What was her name? He felt foolish always thinking of her as 'the elf girl' when he could simply ask what she was called.

But then again, she never spoke. Should he try healing her throat? He didn't really have the expertise necessary to work on such a vital part of her anatomy. For all he knew, she just chose to remain silent.

He shuffled his pile of straw closer to hers. The poor girl had endured so much -- and her odd behavior lately worried him. Why would she abuse herself so? The little voice in the back of his mind told him what he was afraid to think: she had been raped. And that probably explained her fear of him as she woke next to him. But he couldn't help her if she didn't speak.

She shifted in her sleep and her hair fell into her face. Illidan reached out to tuck it behind her ear, wondering if the ear would ever grow back.

They looked rather charming, really. Not as awkwardly upright as the high elves' ears, but shorter and more manageable than those of the night elves. And the half-ear was strangely cute, taking the edge off her almost intimidating beauty.

But sleep returned to claim its right on Illidan's consciousness, pulling his mind to the colorful and mystical world of dreams.

*****

She remembered feeling puzzled even before she woke. And as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she couldn't help but smile at the sight before them.

Illidan was sprawled out over the floor, one hand stretched towards her, his other limbs distributed at random. The look on his face was rather like a child's, deceptively innocent and peaceful.

He lacked the majestic beard most male night elves wore. Perhaps the hair would never grow back. Did he even have one to begin with? Maybe he shaved it to represent his banishment, his exile from his people.

She, too, was an exile, but not by anyone's decree or her own behavior -- no, the unlucky mix of races in her blood branded her an outcast of both nations in her heritage.

The Darkspear trolls welcomed her family to their islands with open arms, happily accepting any help with the murlocs. And when the baby girl was born, the new parents never found themselves in want of help or advice.

And then the orcs came, bringing the trolls and her family to safety, settling them in a small village in Durotar.

When she came of age, teachers of every art mastered by both orcs and trolls stepped forward to train her. While she gave every one an honest chance, the opportunity to work with the spirits could not be passed up, and the daughter of a high elf mage and a kaldorei hunter became a shaman.

A damned good shaman, according to her teachers.

But she had led that get to her head, traveling to Outland before she was truly ready, and look where it got her. Beaten, abused, and trapped, finally having to depend on Illidan himself for her survival.

Right on cue, he stirred awake and she pretended to sleep.

"Hey there, little elf." He patted her cheek, then fixed the cloak over her, all the while thinking out loud about small, insignificant things. He left, returning after a while with a warm drink that smelled of cinnamon and herbs, and she'd tasted it before but couldn't identify it.

His heavy hand patted her shoulder softly. She moaned, pretending to just wake up. He felt her forehead, the pulled back her robe to examine the scab on her shoulder. It oozed slightly, so he grabbed a bowl of warm water and gently washed it, no longer trusting her to wash herself.

Then he gave her the drink, and it reminded her so much of home with the trolls and the orcs that she nearly cried. She couldn't finish it.

Illidan's brow furrowed. Why such a reaction to this drink? Few elves ever tried it since it was more a favorite of the tauren, though she might have had it if she hung out with druids.

Perhaps she simply didn't like it. He took it from her, preparing something a bit more typical of the night elves.

She cringed at the taste, reaching for the first drink and cradling it in her hands, looking so sad it almost brought tears to his eyes. The girl was so complicated!

"What's your name?"

She fidgeted with the earthenware mug. Perhaps she didn't know Darnassian? He asked again in Thalassian.

"Aila Shadowfox." She spoke with a strange accent he couldn't identify. It certainly wasn't Darnassian or Thalassian. Maybe she wasn't raised by her parents.

She didn't seem willing to talk, though. Illidan force back the questions that bubbled up his throat at the discovery that she did have a voice. A rather exotic voice.

He'd never heard the name 'Shadowfox' before. Perhaps it was new, a sort of title given to one who embodied everything the name meant, like all night elf names began. But what could this meek creature have done to earn the name?

Aila fidgeted. Her look of discomfort prompted Illidan to fly her to the ground to relieve herself.

It was then that she pulled strength and magic from the elements themselves, healing her body completely.

A shaman.

He'd never heard of a shamanistic elf. Maybe she studied with the draenei? That might explain the strange accent.

Illidan's stare sent chills down Aila's spine. Sometimes, night elves were truly creepy. She'd hoped, now that she was healed, he'd let her go. But one look at his face and her hope was thoroughly quashed. He didn't even seem to consider it. Instead, he flew her back up to the straw beds and left her there.

He had to get away. Her blatant use of magic in his presence stimulated his addiction. Shamans had the most intoxicating flavor, and he would have drained her until she died.

In his distance from civilization, his self-control must have slipped. A lot.

He fed savagely on the ethereals within Auchindoun, happily sating his hunger with something other than fel magic. It wouldn't do for him to retch all over the beds.

So, she was still trapped. At least the spirits embraced her again, curling around her protectively, comforting and soothing her pain. But they couldn't save her completely. Or could they?

Aila called to the wind, asking for help, asking for rescue, asking for a safe flight to Shattrath City. The wind complied, howling around the small structure, whispering to her, telling her to trust, to stand, to fly.

And she flew to Shattrath.

Illidan began to panic as he flew back to his home, sensing the elemental magic centered around the small house. And as the winds picked up around him, moving towards it, he raced after them. Was Aila in trouble?

And the wind whirled, picking up his ward and carrying her away.

She left. She left of her own will, without so much as a backwards glance, even after all he had done for her.

Every old arakkoa building, save for his own, exploded. He and Malfurion certainly lived up to their last name.

All Aila left for him was her scent on his cloak. His fingers burned as he prepped a fireball, but he couldn't bring himself to destroy the thing. Instead, he curled up in the corner, hugging it to himself, trying to sleep.

*****

Apparently the wind had a flair for the dramatic, bringing her to the Terrace of Light, depositing her before A'dal himself. Several people stared. A shaman smiled at her.

A'dal's chiming sounded rather amused. To her relief, he spoke to her the same was she communicated with the spirits.

_So, young one, you come to Shattrath seeking shelter?_

Well, more like guidance...

_Ah, but your motivation to come here was a need to escape, not to learn._

She convinced herself she would stay in Shattrath to seek guidance. That seemed to satisfy the naaru, and he embraced her, then sent her on her way to speak to the Grand Anchorite. Almonen smiled and treated her much like a daughter, sharing with her his understanding of the Light and handing her some gold with the suggestion that she could use a new set of armor. An orc hunter happily filled that need, crafting her a fine set for a very reasonable price.

Stalking around Lower City, she chatted with some trolls she had been acquainted with in her home village. A shaman she had trained with launched his furry ghost wolf self at her, yipping in excitement as she transformed into a translucent fox. They scuffled for a bit, then returned to their normal selves. He pulled her into a nearly crushing hug, laughing.

"Aila! It's so good to see you! I didn't think you'd be in Outland yet."

"Good to see you, too, Brody." She squirmed in his arms, but the tauren was relentless.

"No escaping!" He nuzzled her head despite her protests. "Someone has to be your big brother and make you hate affection of any kind, right?"

Her reply made him roar in laughter. But his smile faded as he saw the sad, weary expression on her face. With his arm around her shoulder, he led her to his tent, fixing her a warm, creamy mug of something delicious, then softly asking what had happened.

With a sob, she began her story of how blood elves kidnapped her in Terokkar.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer. I can has Blizzard plzkthx? Or how about just World of Warcraft? No? Okays...

I type up every chapter in a different font. Keeps things interesting.

Redemption: Chapter 4

*****

_-One month later-_

Ilidan's wings fell off one rather morbid morning, and he had to blink to the ground, starting his search for a new home. The runic tattoos faded a few days later, leaving him looking like a rather tall night elf. With a blindfold. And no night elves were mages anymore.

Just like none had ever been a shaman.

His chest constricted as Aila flitted through his mind. Her scent had long dissipated from his cloak, but he still pulled it around his shoulders a bit tighter.

So far, he'd managed to make a cave in Nagrand into a temporary home, but he suspected that it would eventually become permanent. He really had nowhere else to go.

In a small stroke of luck, he happened across Hemet Nesingwary, and the crazy dwarf was more than happy to outfit the strange night elf with a spare bed roll, explaining with an amused smile that many young adventurers tried to buy their way into his favor with presents such as that. So if the night elf needed anything else, he had only to ask.

Thus began a happy business relationship, with Illidan selling Nesingwary's unwanted supplies and using the profit to buy ammunition and spare parts for the expedition, keeping a small cut for himself, squirreling it away to save for some quality mage robes.

And in all his years playing politics with the highborne, he never felt as full and rewarded as he did selling tent frames and blankets for a dwarf who didn't even know his name.

This left him to wonder -- if he had been born a normal night elf, where would he be now? Happily settled with his lifemate? Would he have had children? Maybe he would be a merchant.

Maybe the night elves would still live on Mount Hyjal.

That depressing thought was interrupted by a young male tauren pawing at the bed rolls.

"How much are these?" To Illidan's shock, the tauren -- who was clearly not a druid -- spoke Darnassian rather well.

He quoted the price and the tauren bought two of them, throwing in an extra gold, telling the night elf to take some time off for himself. Then he bowed and left, smiling all the way down the path.

Illidan smiled, too, grateful to see another being enjoying life so much.

*****

To Aila's immense relief, Brody refused to judge her, even though she called herself a fool for coming to Outland before she was ready. Instead, he shared in her pain, cradling her in his arms as she cried.

But to her immense surprise, he scolded her for leaving Illidan without a word like that. His actions clearly didn't square with those of the demonic persuasion, and shouldn't she tell A'dal about this? So it was with nervous anticipation that she approached the naaru once more, opening her mind and showing him Illidan's actions. And with the mental connection bathing her in soothing, comforting light, she saw for the first time how unreasonable she had been.

_Do not fear, child. Not even some of the wisest followers of the LIght would have held up as well as you did._

She sighed and nodded, thanking A'dal for his acceptance. He gave her his blessing, encouraging her to travel through Outland, as that had been her original intent when she stepped through the portal.

Brody loved the idea. He always enjoyed exploring, and within the hour he had given his sleeping bag to a grateful refugee and his tent to a large family that needed the space. He explained to Aila that part of the thrill of travel was helping the local merchants -- and if it was something the two of them would use, might as well wait to carry it until it was needed.

So it was off to Garadar in Nagrand, a home away from home for both of them. Aila visited Halaa on one of its peaceful days, enchanted by its secluded nature. They both swam to the Throne of the Elements, eager to assist the Furies in any possible way. Gordawg, the Fury of Earth, solemnly gave them their tasks, sending them out through Nagrand to ease the suffering of the earth elementals.

The smile never left Brody's face. The tauren conveniently happened upon a night elf selling bed rolls for a very reasonable price, and returned to their camp with one for each of them.

But they slept fitfully, the tormented cries of Nagrand's spirits trailing through their minds in ways no other class could experience or understand.

*****

Illidan woke early in the morning, securing his bag of coins about his waist and beginning the trek to Telaar. Today he would buy mage robes, and in his mind he prepared some kind of story to ease the suspicions of the tailors.

And he happily found a gnome mage advertising her wares. He explained to her that he had finally heeded the call of the nether and been promptly disowned by his family and friends, and these coins were all he had to his name, and he'd be much obliged if she would craft for him a set of mage robes. He realized, with a small smile, that his story seemed more truth than lie.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," she cooed -- or tried to, it was more of a squeak. She made for him one of the finest robes he'd ever worn, and with the spare netherweave cloth made him gloves as well. Free of charge for those, she insisted, as he added a few coins to their agreed price. He bowed and thanked her, and she smiled, happy to help a free-spirited mage on his journey.

He picked up the case of bullets from the ammunition vendor, handing him his due coins, and began the trip to Nesingwary's safari outpost.

A burst of bright red hair flitted through his peripheral vision and he dropped to his knees, catching her scent on the wind.

Aila.

The realization hit him like a blow to the head -- she was in Nagrand. She was close.

*****

Deft fingers picked over the rubble of the slain earth spirit, picking up a Mote of Earth, but finding nothing that would interest Gordawg.

Brody smiled at the young elf as she stood, but it faded as he saw the distant look in her eyes. She was probably thinking of home -- and she should _return_ home, she wasn't ready for this world at all, she needed to finish her training.

He didn't mind carrying her through all their battles and errands. She was a sister to him. But she had bitten off way more than she could chew, and he worried about her.

She said a quick prayer to the spirits for the one they had just killed. And as Brody put his arm around her shoulders, she had to consciously steel herself against tensing.

Aila knew he could tell. He pulled her closer and wrapped her in his arms, holding her there for several minutes until he spoke.

"Aila, is there something that happened to you that you never told me?"

She hadn't told him everything the blood elves had done, only that they had kidnapped her and drained her before they tossed her to the fel orcs. And her chest burned -- she hated keeping secrets but she couldn't bring herself to speak of it, it hurt too much. And he could sense her pain, she was sure of it, but she just couldn't say it out loud.

The spirits curled around her, comforting her, encouraging her to talk, to share her pain, to release her burdens, but she kept her mouth tightly shut.

Brody felt it, too, and as he stroked her hair a sob escaped her lips, strangled and pained. Then the tears flowed.

*****

Illidan really couldn't deny it -- nature was calling out to him, and the call was much stronger than he remembered. He also couldn't deny that his mage powers grew weaker with every passing day, threatening to leave him helpless in this harsh land. It didn't help that his vision seemed to be failing him as well.

Logically he should return to Azeroth and train in something new. His sense of self-preservation tore him in two directions: stay here, lose powers, get killed, or go home, piss off the night elves by breaking the agreement he made when he was banished, get killed.

Not many options for him.

His thoughts slipped to a red-haired elf, and he rolled over on his bed, willing his mind to rest on something, anything else.

So it focused on Tyrande.

Illidan threw a rock at the wall of the cave. Traitorous mind!

But to his vast surprise, the thought of her no longer roused the longing ache in his heart. No, now he recalled her with a fond smile and a certain amount of brotherly affection.

Was he going crazy?

No, he had been crazy for about the last ten thousand years. Now he was sane -- and he realized just how foolish he had been.

His thoughts flitted to Malfurion. He plucked at their link, the special connection they shared, wondering if he would get a reply. But after a long hour waiting, the link still remained silent.

He had heard that his twin was lost in the Emerald Dream, too far gone to wake on his own. His heart twisted, a pang of sympathy for Tyrande. What must it be like to know your beloved teetered on the brink of being lost forever?

Rather like finding Aila nearly dead in the small wooden house?

Illidan roared and shattered a rock against the cave. Why couldn't he get the damned girl out of his mind?

He needed to leave this place. Sure, returning to Azeroth would spell almost certain death for him, but at least he could apologize to Tyrande and have her pass that on to his brother if he ever woke.

*****

Aila pranced around in her fox form, crawling all over Brody as he slept, rousing him from his dream.

"Aila, stop!" he laughed as she licked his face.

Soon, a fluffy wolf pinned her to the ground. She yelped and scampered out of the tent, leading a playful chase over the wide grasslands. They rolled in the dusty roads, climbed trees, stalked grasshoppers. For the first time since leaving Azeroth, Aila felt pure joy.

The young tauren, unable to keep up with the foxy bundle of energy, shifted out of his ghost wolf form and leaned against a rock, laughing. The translucent fox did the same, resting on her friend's arm. They sat like that for several hours, reminiscing about life back on Azeroth. Brody shyly admitted to having rather strong feelings for one of the tauren druids he'd met in Zangarmarsh. Aila smiled.

"How about you, Aila? Any young elves catch your eye?"

Well, her sole experience with blood elves resulted in her abuse, and the only night elf she spent any time with was Illidan, and he didn't count since he was ancient and she wasn't even sure if he was still considered a demon.

"No, not really."

She sighed, resting her chin on her knees.

The prickling sensation on the back of her neck pulled her out of her introspection. Brody felt it, too, tilting his head and listening for the spirits. Aila tried, but heard only soft, scared whispers.

"Something's wrong," Brody cried, hardly able to keep his voice from faltering.

The roar behind them confirmed it.

Durn -- the demon stood at least as tall as the tallest building Aila had ever seen -- closed in on them, snarling hungrily.

"Run!" she screamed.


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own Blizzard.

...

Didn't see that one coming, did you, eh? No, I don't really own it. Did you honestly believe me?

Nagrand is my favorite zone in Outland. If you've got a flying mount, fly straight upwards from the Nesingwary Expedition and you'll find my favorite little floaty islands.

Redemption: Chapter 5

*****

Hemet Nesingwary was deeply saddened to see his favorite merchant leave. He insisted on giving him a finely crafted staff, explaining with a sad smile that it was really better suited to a druid, but surely the young mage could put it to use?

They shook hands, promising to keep in touch if at all possible, then parted ways.

Illidan kicked a stone in the path. He was going blind, his demon eyes losing their sight as his power waned. At least he no longer craved magic. Maybe the less he used it, the less he needed it.

He reached out to the earth. Surely it could guide him home?

But the earth told him no, he had one last thing to do before he could go. And he followed its promptings. What choice did he have?

*****

The wolf stumbled over a ditch, losing precious space between himself and the demon. Aila skidded to a halt, shifting into her elf body and standing over her friend.

"Run, Brody."

He didn't move.

"I said run! I'm buying you time, don't waste it!" She kicked him into motion, staring after her briefly as her totems appeared, then drawing her sword and shield. The spirits swirled around her, embraced her, creating a mad whirlwind of power.

She would not go down easily.

Illidan sensed the vast vortex of energy before him, asking the earth what it brought him here to do.

And then he felt it. That savory taste of power he'd once known flooded his senses even as it battled with a demon. His heart clenched. Aila, that crazy little shaman, was fighting Durn the Hungerer.

Something grew within him, something strange -- and as he felt her falter, felt Durn rip into her, the full force of Nature's wrath exploded from his hands, tearing apart the foul demon once and for all.

And she lay motionless, sprawled out on the blood-soaked grass.

He tried to heal her, he tried, but the blood flowed too quickly, he couldn't make it stop, he needed help -- and he cried out to the wild, to Nature, to the earth.

"Bring me to Tyrande!"

*****

Rarely had the priestess felt the full force of Nature and all its fury. So as a storm of power brewed in the Temple of the Moon, she prayed to Elune for safety and wisdom. She was sure she would need it.

And then the storm vanished.

"Tyrande! Tyrande Whisperwind!"

The color drained from her face.

"Illidan Stormrage!" She jumped from her balcony. "Are you really so foolish as to show --"

Nothing could have prepared her for this sight. Illidan knelt before her in the withered body of a night elf as he placed a bloody, mangled girl at her feet, tears running down his cheeks.

"Save her, please," he cried, "I can't heal her fast enough. Do what you will with me, but take care of her first."

He stepped back and encased himself in ice, one of the few spells he could still perform, trying to prove to her that he would do nothing but sit and remain harmless. The priestess set to work, mending torn flesh and broken bones with expert ease. Illidan monitored the flow of power, no longer able to see at all.

"Is she healed?" he asked as the energies waned.

"Can't you see?" Tyrande snapped. She wanted to smack herself in the head. This man brought out the worst in her.

"I'm blind, Tyrande."

He heard her sharp intake of breath. Yes, the last of his demonic strength had gone, no longer powering his eyesight. He began his apology for all his foolishness, but stopped as a young night elf skidded into the temple, alarm and elation thick in the air.

"Lady Tyrande! Malfurion has awakened!"

*****

Aila opened her eyes in the middle of an empty temple. She had been to Darnassus once before and fortunately knew how to escape. She shouldn't be here, she should be in Garadar, finding Brody and telling him that she was alive.

She was alive! The realization finally hit her. She should be dead. Sure, she had put up quite a fight against the demon, but he had overpowered her in the end. How did she get to Darnassus?

The spirits whispered excitedly. Their language was complex and confusing, but one word stuck out to her: Illidan. And as she embraced that word, the rest of the story came into focus -- that Illidan had slain the demon with a sharp blast of druidic energy, and that the earth itself had teleported them here, to Darnassus, to Tyrande.

And Malfurion had awakened.

As lovely a thought as all this was, she really didn't want to stick around for either the celebration or the political infighting. From what she'd heard, she doubted the current archdruid would want to hand power back to Malfurion.

The trip back to Garadar was quick and uneventful. Brody nearly fainted when he saw her, then burst into joyful tears, hugging her close. He cried apology after apology, certain that she had been killed, never able to forgive himself. And she pulled him into a private room to tell him the story of how Illidan had saved her once more.

"And," she added with a sly smile, "Malfurion is awake. Now if I were you, I wouldn't miss the part in the Cenarion Refuge for the world, especially not if I was trying to win the affections of a certain druid."

The next day, they left Garadar for the Zangarmarsh, and Brody could only wonder at the change his spiritual sister had undergone. She was assured, powerful, no longer a flighty little sprite needing his protection.

And he smiled.

*****

Tyrande had somehow managed to bring Illidan and many other druids to Malfurion's barrow before any of them could blink. Malfurion sat on his bed, rubbing his eyes.

"Malfurion!"

"Tyrande?"

She practically leaped into his arms, knocking him on his back.

"Oh, Tyrande, my beloved -- Ack! Light! Ugh, I forgot how bright it is."

"You never were a morning person," Illidan laughed. Malfurion froze, then slowly turned his head over his shoulder, staring at the man who most certainly has not a demon. And he looked a bit different than when he was a night elf, too -- much slimmer, with deep blue hair instead of black. He still wore the blindfold over his eyes, but they no longer glowed.

And he wasn't looking straight at his brother. Instead, he seemed to fix his gaze at a point just above his head.

"Illidan, look at me."

His brother shook his head, and Malfurion noted absently that he wore his hair down, not tied back like he had for all his life.

"I'm blind. I cannot see you, but I can sort of sense where you are."

Blind? But even the tiniest bit of demonic power would have given him enough vision to see his brother, even if it was a vague and blurry image. Was Illidan completely free of his demon?

Tyrande pulled him closer and whispered into his ear about how nature itself had brought Illidan to Darnassus with a young girl who had been near fatally injured. And he seemed fully prepared to die for breaking the bounds of his exile, if only Tyrande would heal her.

"Tyrande," Malfurion whispered, "just before I left the Emerald Dream, Cenarius told me it was time for me to wake, that something significant was happening, something good. Maybe... this?"

They looked over to the former demon, his head tilted towards the roof of the barrow den.

"Illidan?"

"There's a bird up there. In a tree, with her eggs."

Malfurion furrowed his brow. Could his brother see through rock but not air?

"You could see her, too, and you, Tyrande. The earth has eyes. Let Nature do the seeing for you."

And those words sent the great archdruid's world spinning.

This was not the brother he knew, trusting only the arcane, insecurely casting away his inner strength in favor of the outwardly powerful. This was not the brother who lacked the patience to truly excel as a druid.

This was a man with great potential.

"Are you still a sorcerer?"

"I can barely cast. Malfurion, I hardly know what's going on. I slayed a demon -- it was like Nature's full power rose up in me and burst out of my hands." He looked down at them in wonder, then clasped them behind his back. "I know I've broken the pact we made, the exile I'm under. I'll understand if you need to kill me. I've accepted it. You do not need to feel any guilt. I just want to apologize for my foolishness as a youth, and now Aila is healthy, and those two things are all I came to ensure."

Malfurion looked down at his own hands, then sighed. He could not kill this man. His brother no longer deserved death. He supposed that Illidan had finally grown up -- and Cenarius would be quite interested to hear of this newfound druidic power.

"You are... no longer 'Illidan the Betrayer.' One might say you are 'Illidan the Redeemed.'"

Illidan chuckled as the brothers embraced.

"So what will you do now that you're no longer condemned to death?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll open a shop. Sell fruit and drinks and food -- the humans call that kind of thing a 'café.'"

Malfurion slung his arm around his brother's shoulder, and the two of them chatted about this strange kind of food shop, ignoring the astonished whispers of the other druids.

*****

Hemet Nesingwary happily opened a letter from his favorite night elf, only to drop it in abject shock. He passed the parchment to each of his companions, nodding as their eyes widened.

"Ya never would o' thought it, him bein' so humble an' all."

*****

Aila and Brody arrived in the Cenarion Refuge to find a party in full swing, with dancing and alcohol running rampant.

"Wow, who knew the druids could dance so well?" Aila smiled. "Now go find your tauren, Brody."

Within the hour, he introduced her to Lyssa, a gentle, motherly type who cooed at such bright red hair, insisting on weaving vines of white flowers into the long strands. She was the perfect balance to Brody's boyish, charming energy.

After a brief bit of dancing with the night elves -- who could only smile at her strange, exotic movements -- Aila sat down with a group of druids who handed her a drink and raised theirs in a toast.

"To Illidan!"

She nearly dropped her mug, then asked the tauren to her left why they celebrated him.

"Haven't you heard the story?"

She shook her head, sheer amazement on her features, and the druids happily launched into their tale.

Well, she really should have expected it. She had seen part of his transformation firsthand, and to have it confirmed like this? Amazing. A soft smile spread across her face, a smile Brody knew as the kind he wore when he thought of Lyssa. He nuzzled against his beloved druid.

"Expect some interesting things from that one," he said. Lyssa smiled.

"An elf shaman? Could her future be anything _but_ interesting?"

"No," he chuckled, "especially not if her past is any indication."


	7. Epilogue

Disclaimer: I still down own Blizzard or Warcraft or anything.

So sad and yet so excited to see the last chapter of this story. I've never actually finished one before, and while I'm sure I could stretch this into novel length, sometimes it's better to just be done with it.

That novel bit might still be an option during the summer while I have more time. Who knows?

Redemption: Epilogue

*****

_-Several decades later-_

Under the tutelage of his brother, Illidan grew into a respectable druid in his own right, aiding the battles against the Lich King, but when peace fell on Azeroth once more, he finally could serve his people as he wished -- with warm drinks and savory meals. He'd traveled all over, moving his little café from place to place before finally finding a lovely, secluded cluster of trees in Ferelas. Nature blessed his tiny shop and gave him wood with which to fashion a table and a couple chairs, encouraging visitors to sit and listen to his tales of different worlds and the beauty of the earth.

Aila had heard of his shop. She truly intended to visit but always felt like she would be an uninvited guest. That is, until he wrote her that letter.

She nearly trembled as she opened it, heart beating out of her chest. Some of the words came across looking a bit mangled, and he apologized for his blindness. Then she read the rest of the letter and nearly fell to the floor.

He wanted to see her, to thank her for all she had done for him, for being the catalyst to his personal redemption and allowing him to see without eyes and find his true path in life. She had brought him to his knees and now he wanted to lift her up, and to see her again in such a new way.

His language flowed so beautifully that her heart clenched. Why hadn't she gone to see him before?

Lyssa happily braided a fluffy white flower into Aila's hair.

*****

She never really liked Ferelas before, always preferring open plains to the dense jungle. But now the place held her in awe of its beauty. Lush ferns and tall trees lined the path until she came upon a gap. Maybe this was the entrance.

Tree branches had knotted together rather curiously over the smiling night elf and his cooking fire. His ears twitched at the sound of footsteps. He stood and bowed.

"May I help you?"

He had certainly changed since she first met him, but there was no denying that voice. Or the blindfold over his eyes.

"Illidan?"

His jaw dropped slightly as he caught her scent and focused. Nature's spirits -- and those of the elements --- danced around her, and as she smiled, he knew he had never seen anything so beautiful.

He walked towards her, reaching out and touching her shoulder. The scar was still there. His hand trailed upwards to her ear, half of which was still missing. He brushed the flower, leaning in to smell it, smiling.

He could see that she still carried scars inside of her from her experiences in Outland, but with time those would fade.

And then his hands found hers, rubbing small circles on them with his thumbs as he tried to organize his thoughts.

"I really should thank you for saving my life," she began, but his laugh silenced her.

"You saved mine, too, you know," he nearly whispered, pulling her into his warm embrace. After several long minutes, they parted. Illidan toyed with Aila's hair.

"Colors are still difficult. Nature sees things in such richer, deeper tones than we can imagine. But I can see your red just fine." His hand cupped her chin and he ran his thumb over her lips.

It sent chills down her spine like she had never felt before, and she knew he could see what that simple touch did to her with his strange connection to Nature's eyes. She wetted her lips as he tilted her face upwards, eyes fluttering shut as he brushed his lips to hers.

And he pulled back, smiling, as he returned to the fire.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Aila sat down at the little table.

"The one that's kind of spicy, with the cinnamon and herbs. The tauren like it. How much is that one?"

"It's on the house," he laughed. He rummaged through small boxes and bags, pulling out the herbs and the cinnamon sticks, tossing them into a kettle and hanging it on a hook above the fire. "You don't mind if this one takes a bit longer to brew, do you?" He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. She leaned into his touch.

"I have all the time in the world."


End file.
