Harvest - 10.1 - J,T,D (Patreon)

"This is quite irregular." The herald said, his moustache quivering while he read over their invitations. Several other members of the palace's staff surreptitiously worked nearby, carefully cleaning portraits and wall hangings that needed no such attention; all seeking the latest gossip, most likely. "But this is indeed His Highness' signature, and there is no present conflict with the Admiralty of Kul Tiras." He stared stonily at Modera, who stared forward disinterestedly. Her gaze fixated deeper into the palace, the hall where the New Year's celebration was ongoing.

"In the interest of renewing ties with our older cousins on the continent I was glad to accept Prince Liam's invitation," Jaina said with a false smile. She had never met Prince Liam in her life, never known the young royal like she had Arthas... just thinking about him stung. Left an aching hole in her heart wondering where everything went so wrong. "Gilneas and Kul Tiras share a long history and need not be enemies."

"Quite." The herald said, his eyes narrowing. "Well, there is precedent for late arrivals in the past. Please, I bid you welcome to the inauguration ball of the Order of Amber at this turning of the year. May you find the celebrations to your liking." Returning their invitations, which Jaina slipped away, he adjusted his hat and knocked once on the doors.

Modera wasted no time at all in striding into the hall, not hesitating a moment to let the man's voice ring out and announce their presence.

"Announcing the late arrivals, Lady Jaina Proudmore, Heir to the Admiralty of Kul Tiras, Sorceress of the Kirin Tor, Representative of the Council of Six! And her guest, Modera Fischer, Archmage of the Kirin Tor!"

The near-empty hall, where small groups spoke amongst themselves, all turned to stare at the pair as they entered. Amongst them Jaina spotted the queen but not the king, nor the prince or princess. There was a brief moment of silence before the tittering of conversation began again; their entrance down the grand staircase only made more dramatic by the flaring of Modera's magic as she led the way.

Gilneas was so familiar and yet so different a place. The pageantry reminded her painfully of Lordaeron, her time in the capital during that spring and summer where she and Arthas had found love. When he had chosen to follow her back to Dalaran to 'study' and continue their courtship. And yet it was so starkly different that she couldn't lose herself in happier times, kept being tripped up and being surprised. The Wendwater Palace was no fortress like those present in the capital city, it was no castle, no bastion to shelter the king and his family.

It was luxurious and warm, the walls panelled with wood rather than built of stone, and non-magical lights burned in glass bulbs that banished the shadows. Even the great chandelier, which would have sported hundreds of candles, burned with the same flames.

"Modera, what a surprise it is to see you here." Arugal said, approaching them slowly. "I had not thought Genn would invite any others from Dalaran after the... difficulties we have been having. Of your making, no less."

"Prince Liam was kind enough to send an invitation to me, archmage." Jaina interjected over the insult, dearly wishing she didn't have to lie. Everyone always told her she wore her heart on her sleeve. Especially Mother and Father, who both adored it and despaired over it. "I was granted permission to bring a guest with me."

Modera nodded distractedly, her eyes scanning the room. "Given the chance, I would mend bridges that were burned."

"A noble aspiration." Mia said without a hint the words were anything but sincere. "One must always be willing to acknowledge their mistakes and grow from them. Most of all in matters of diplomacy, lest things come to worse. One fears what might have occurred if Dalaran had continued their forceful invasion of Gilneas half a year past."

A flurry of murmurs broke out across the hall, noblemen and noblewomen whispering to one another. The sound carried well enough that their topic was plain; Modera's last visit to the nation.

Where she flouted their quarantine, disrespected the king by avoiding his soldiers, only came to the capital to meet with him after searching the nation for weeks, and delayed her departure until she was escorted to the border after she was ordered to leave. Jaina had enough insight into the workings of the Council of Six from her mentor, Antonidas, and her friendship with Prince Kael'thas, to know that Modera's failure had been considered almost as bad as Antonidas' in expelling their prophet to begin with.

If war had broken out with Gilneas, or the few Kirin Tor members who lived in the kingdom were expelled, it would have been worse. But fortunately, it had not come to that.

The queen's insult was pressing against how close it had come.

"It was never my intent to do so. Merely to seek out someone–"

"Of vital importance to Gilneas." Queen Mia spoke over Modera. "A sweet young girl who has done more for our kingdom than Dalaran has in centuries, a prized inventor whose first creation my son treasures dearly."

What? Jaina looked at the queen in puzzlement, they were looking for a mage – a wielder of magic, not some tinkerer. "I believe there has been a misunderstanding." Jaina said placatingly. "We hope to meet with a lost apprentice, one who was wrongfully expelled, not–"

"They are one and the same." A woman who wore a cloak of raven feathers like the Prophet said, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "My niece wants nothing to do with you, Modera. I don't take kindly to you harassing my husband neither."

"Celestine, I presume." Modera said, taking the woman in. "My student's old teacher. I protest that I harassed–"

"Modera." A guttural growl came, both mages turning to seek the source.

A group of five approached, one she recognised from the portraits in the hallways as Liam Greymane, another as the young Princess Tess – who was sneaking along behind the others – while the other three she didn't know. But, despite that, she could tell in an instant that of the three that approached one of the girls was the one.

The girl who had predicted the Plague, the Scourge, Stratholme, Arthas going to Northrend... all of it. Who had seen the future and tried to warn them. Gwyneth Arevin would to an untrained eye be unassuming, a short girl of brown hair that was tied up in a great ponytail that fell to her knees, wearing a long layered dress that lifted and exposed her chest and clung tightly to her waist. Her voluminous skirts were entirely impractical for all they looked graceful.

She looked young. She didn't look at all like one who might tell the future, someone who might carry such dangerous and vital knowledge.

But as Jaina's skin turned to gooseflesh and the feeling of magic filled the air with her approach, it was clear she had to be the one. None of the others had the bearing of one experienced in using magic, who expressed it with enough force to press down on the world.

"Gwyneth," Modera said with relief, "you've grown."

"And you've come to rub my failure in my face!" Gwyneth snapped, her face contorting into a rictus of rage. "How long has Arthas been gone? Six months? Too bloody long! If you'd actually listened to me there might've been time! If you hadn't thrown me out–!" She bit herself off as her dark-haired companion grabbed her shoulder and started cursing under her breath.

The words hit like a hammer, Jaina reminded of the day Modera had revealed that she'd known. That Antonidas had thrown out the one who could have saved them so much hardship, so much suffering, all because... because he thought Arthas might take offence.

"Lady Jaina," Liam coughed over the tittering of the nobles who were watching the sudden dramatics, "I must say, it is a pleasure to see you here today. Stories of the Daughter of the Sea do not do you justice, you are far more magnificent in person." He took her hand and lightly pressed his lips to the back of it. "I had feared that you had chosen not to attend."

"We were... delayed." Jaina said distractedly, watching as the red-haired and dark-haired girls whispered carefully to Gwyneth. "We set off from Dalaran in good time, accepting the week's delay at the wall despite the end of the plague, but our entrance to the city was fraught and we were challenged at the bridge to the palace despite our invitations."

Modera had been recognised. Jaina might have been able to come alone swifter, make better time, but...

Why had Gwyneth said Modera threw her out?

The young mage's eyes fixated on Jaina, her anger turning into something else. A strange longing, regret, and... something else before she quickly returned to anger once more.

"You even brought Jaina." Gwyneth growled, glaring fiercely at Modera. "To taunt me. Why are you even here, archmage?" She spoke it like an insult.

"Perhaps we should take this to a private room." The dark-haired woman said, her hand on Gwyneth's shoulder tightening until the shorter girl winced. "Moods are clearly fraught and we are disturbing the ball."

Mia watched them for a moment. "Yes, I do think that is for the best. I had thought Speaker Aderic's attire would be the gossip that continued into the new year, but it has been surpassed."

"He'll be disappointed." Celestine snorted, not taking her eyes off of Modera for a moment.

"You don't have to, Gwen." The red-haired girl said quietly, not quite a whisper as she squeezed Gwyneth's hand reassuringly.

Gwyneth's glare didn't abate but after a moment she shuddered, her face pulling itself into a severe frown rather than the incandescent fury she had worn. "Yes I do, Vivi. I have to try. Even if she doesn't deserve it, others do." Her eyes flicked to Jaina and softened again, the admiration plain to Jaina's eyes this time. "Jaina does, at least. Prince Liam, if we could bother you to lead the way?"

The prince to his mother, who nodded. "Before your father returns, Liam. We shall speak on this later." She told him before walking away regally.

As they followed the prince all was quiet amongst them, only the gossip of onlooking nobles and distant celebrating filling the air. The two girls followed Gwyneth closely, standing protectively between her and Modera. Never taking their eyes off of the archmage or Jaina. It was painful to be treated with such distrust, a pain that Modera clearly shared, as her attempts to speak were cut off with glares and glowers.

She had spoken fondly of Gwyneth to Jaina while they waited in Gilneas' quarantine, of a student she considered brilliant, someone Jaina might consider a peer. And Jaina had hoped to find common ground and maybe friendship with the girl.

Yet that seemed so distant now, some deep anger bubbling towards Modera. For her expulsion, for her failings – for Jaina's failings in stopping Arthas from taking the path she did – from being ignored.

"Here." Prince Liam said, opening a door into an empty parlour. "Redding, Fisher, ensure no one eavesdrops." He ordered their guard escort, who saluted smartly.

Gwyneth practically threw herself onto one of the couches as soon as she was inside, sitting mulishly and warring with something inside herself as her expression changed rapidly. Her companions sat at her sides, the redhead putting an arm around her.

"Well? Why are you here, Modera?" She snapped. "Come to hear me tell you I told you so?"

"Liam, would you mind giving us privacy?" The dark-haired woman asked.

He looked between them for a moment, then shook his head. "No, Lorna. I believe you... I believe you need a mediator lest powerful mages come to blows in my Father's palace."

Gwyneth snorted at that. "Tempting. Liam is... fine." She looked to the door, where the princess was lurking. "We've got eavesdroppers anyway. Not like I didn't already blurt it out either. Like an idiot."

None of them seemed inclined to remove the princess, only Liam making any move to do so.

"Why are you angry with me?" Modera asked calmly, her voice carefully restrained.

"You threw me out!" Gwyneth jumped to her feet, slammed her hands down on the low table between them, and shouted. "All because– You didn't like what I was saying, so you threw me out! Got rid of me! And for what?! To come crawling back and ask me to tell you all over again?! Why are you here, Modera?!"

Jaina watched as the wood of the table around Gwyneth's fingers sprouted, growing twisted and knotted branches that were soon covered in budding leaves. In the depths of her grief over Arthas after learning his fate in Northrend she had frozen the air around her, but watching another suffer such a lapse of control was fascinating.

"I did not." Modera denied after a moment, shaking her head firmly. "I did not expel you. I only learned that you had left the city–"

"I did not leave." Gwyneth hissed.

"Gwen." Lorna said flatly, putting a hand on her shoulder again. "Don't make Liam right about you needing a minder. You are better than this."

"Fine." With crossed arms she fell back into the seat, leaving the flowering table to sit as a testament to her fury. "I did not leave Dalaran. I was expelled. Thrown out. Given no time to even say goodbye." She said through gritted teeth.

"It was my mentor, Archmage Antonidas, that expelled you from the city." Jaina said. He would likely reprimand her for revealing his status as a member of the Council of Six, but his membership was the worst kept secret in Dalaran so it would be perfunctory. And she did not care. "He... my return to Dalaran, alongside... Arthas... was days after your expulsion. He did not wish for Arthas or his guards to take offence at your words."

"I only learned you were gone after Midsummer's end." Modera said, looking Gwyneth in the eye. "I was not informed. Antonidas stole my apprentice from me."

"I refused that." Gwyneth dismissed, but she was scowling – and not at Modera. "Antonidas. Antonidas did it. Not you? All this bloody time, and it was Antonidas?" She laughed bitterly, keeping it up for almost a minute and driving herself to tears. "How ironic." She muttered, much of her anger missing from her voice – her posture deflated and tired. "You still haven't answered my question. Why are you here?"

"To seek your assistance, your knowledge, to prevent tragedy." Modera said. "To have you return with us to Dalaran so that you can answer our questions and give us a fighting chance."

Prince Liam looked up from where he had been arguing with the princess to watch them, a frown clear on his face. "I thought there was news of the undead being defeated? You said so yourself, Lady Jaina."

Jaina shook her head. "No, though that is how it appears, what many believe, it is a ruse." She folded her hands in her lap, the memories of the experiments she had aided Antonidas with, the research she had done to combat the threat, over the last few months were not pleasant. "The plague and undead are quiescent at this moment. While three months ago all undead activity ceased, the magic which animates them is not gone, they remain undead and it would take the barest whisper of magic to awaken them. An army of hundreds of thousands waiting only for a general to order them to fight."

And King Terenas wouldn't listen. He believed in Arthas, just as Jaina wished to, but she had seen the proof that he hadn't won. Not truly.

"Worse, His Majesty ordered that our efforts at cremation were to be stopped. The Church of the Holy Light is furious with our 'unnecessary' desecration of the dead. We cannot even work to destroy them without starting a war." Jaina looked at the prince. "It is good you still have your quarantine. As frustrating as it was, it is still necessary."

"Father refused to end it despite the rumours of the plague ending." Lorna said, receiving a confused look from Gwyneth. "You didn't need the distraction, and Father thought it an obvious ploy."

"If only King Terenas agreed." Modera said bitterly. "Gwyneth, please, if we are to prepare for Arthas' return and the second rise of the Scourge we need all that you know."

"It's too late by now. Maybe you can stop Arthas killing his father." Gwyneth looked down at her lap, where her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles had turned white. "It's too bloody late. But I have to try, don't I?"

She looked up again, at Jaina, that strange mix of admiration, longing, and regret present once more. "I'm not doing it for you, Modera. I'm still angry with you. But I always planned on helping Lady Jaina Proudmoore as best I could. I'll need to get my notebooks from home – and the book I prepared for you." Rising to her feet she took Vivi with her and walked out onto the parlour's balcony, standing in the gently falling snow and staring out into the night at the city across the river.

Jaina had many questions, and so did Prince Liam by his expression, but there would be no more explanations tonight. Modera sat quietly even as Jaina started up a conversation with Lorna, the daughter of Lord Crowley who ruled Ambermill.

Eventually fireworks began to fire, lighting up the sky, and Jaina wondered if she would ever learn why the young mage looked at her as she did.

-oOoOo-

As the sun began to rise upon a new year, Thrall stood atop a hill and listened to the wind. It blew merrily out to sea, calling them to follow; a good omen if there was ever to be one. Soon his people, the Horde, would have finished loading the ships and they would be gone from this land. Perhaps, far from humanity at last, they could find peace.

Those few that had died in the storming of Southshore were regrettable, but he would not mourn humans who had abused his people with their camps. Who would never grant them peace. Not long ago the military base near here had captured Grom and had to be razed.

No, he would not mourn them. They had chosen their fates when they stood against the Horde.

"Warchief!" Kegan saluted, a fist slamming into his chest over his heart. "These humans were hoarding supplies. What should be done with them?"

Thrall looked at the human woman and her child, tied up in ropes and pulled along but the grunt. He knew there was no true resemblance there to Taretha, the woman was too old, her face too different, and her stance defiant, but her blonde hair tickled his memories of his sister. "Take the supplies and place them aboard the ships. The woman... is not to be harmed. We do not murder mothers nor their children, Kegan."

"Instead you mean for us to starve slowly as you empty the granaries and leave us no ships with which to fish." The woman said, despite their words having been in the Orcish tongue. A hand on her young daughter holding the child still behind her, shielded by her own body. "A slow death unlike the swift one you granted my husband."

Kegan was slow to respond, but growled as he translated what she had said. "Show Warchief respect!" He barked in heavily accented Common, yanking on her rope and staggering her.

"No, Kegan." Thrall said in Orcish, placing a hand on the young grunt's shoulder. "My orders were not to harm her." He looked down at the now bawling child and the woman who stared up at him defiantly, choosing to speak in Common. "Your kingdoms will send aid and you will not starve. We, however, require the supplies to cross the sea. To never see a human again. Tell that to your kings, your queens, your lords and ladies that think us little more than animals. We merely desire peace and shall never find it here, so we leave."

"Small comfort to the children that will die because of your actions." The woman said, her voice still unnaturally calm. If she was surprised he spoke common as fluently as any human she did not show it. "And yet I must wish you farewell. May you never return."

"Take her away, Kegan." Thrall said, shaking his head. The humans would never grant them peace, no matter that they were slaves to the demons no longer. "If the supplies can be carried swiftly, bring them aboard. Otherwise, leave them."

With that, Thrall headed down to the ships. Soon they would be gone and with it an end to this ceaseless war, an end to the cycle of hatred that plagues his people, an escape from the darkness the prophet foretold to fall upon these lands. Perhaps with the people of Southshore to speak of the mercy of the Horde the humans would let them go.

A faint hope, but one he would hold in Taretha, Tari's, memory. His friend, his milk-sister; the human that taught him the meaning of tears.

-oOoOo-

Taking a ponderous breath of the ash-filled air of the burnt-out husk of Stratholme, the fires still burning from the pyromancer's efforts months ago, Detheroc grinned toothily; after so long masquerading and hiding amongst the pathetic mortals it was good to return to his true form. To indulge in some light pleasure as he crushed a skull under his foot. The cracking of bones was nothing compared to the screams the child had made before she died, but it was still satisfying.

"Good. None of you are late." Tichondrius said, appearing in a flash of fire from the Twisting Nether. The runes, scrawled in blood by a woman of this wretched world before her death in the hope of saving her child, burnt out with his arrival. "The prince has fallen utterly and is on his way home. All in the north is proceeding according to plan and it will not be long until Lord Archimonde is amongst us once more." The Lord of the Nathrezim's eyes turned dark, burning with Fel and danger. "And yet I have heard there have been... setbacks. Explain yourselves."

"The foolish mages of Dalaran have proven more insightful than expected." Balnazzar explained hurriedly. "They set about burning the victims of the plague, not just their flesh and blood but the bones as well, until they were ash. It seems they have discovered our ploy. I have however worked to stymie their efforts, infiltrating and directing the detestable church into an uproar over..." He grinned, displaying all of his fangs alongside his mirth. "the desecration of their dead."

Detheroc laughed, his brother was ever the one for irony. "The nobles of this kingdom," as if there could be any kingdom worthy of the name that did not bow to the Dark Titan, "have also been made to turn against Dalaran. Lynchings are such... amusing affairs. After all, it was magic that brought about the scourge, and here the mages want access to those who died to do it all over again."

The mortals' weak wills were no match for his own, and they did as he bid. The Barovs had been most useful in that regard, acquiring several disposable mages of that city to be puppeted and cause an uproar.

"I cannot speak to the efficacy of my brother's efforts, but the king will meet with Arthas as planned, Lord Tichondrius." Varimathras said placatingly, bowing his head in submission. "The king has heeded Dalaran's warnings in part, accepting a guard and an archmage to be present when he greets his son after his triumphant return. However it is clear he does not believe them, merely placating their fears, and will meet with his son in private as soon as he is able. Murder in the throne room itself may not work as planned, but it is not so much as to be called a setback."

About to question his brother's confidence, the absurdity of their possible defeat, Detheroc was interrupted as Tichondrius grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against a wall; the house shaking and its roof collapsing into burning rubble behind him.

"I do not care for excuses. You have stymied the efforts of the mages? They should have made no effort at all!" Tichondrius growled, his talons biting into Detheroc's flesh. "It was your task to see to the infiltration of the kingdoms and they were to be unprepared. How many tens of thousands of bodies has your incompetence cost us? I will not suffer Archimonde's displeasure alone."

Choking, Detheroc struggled to free himself, only to be dropped to the ground. His temper flared and his eyes burned, but his brothers made no move to assist him. This was not a fight he could win alone – and the punishment for disrupting The Defiler's plans would be severe. "We cannot easily see into Dalaran. They are warded against us." He choked out, spitting blood into the fires which turned them green for an instant.

"Kathra'Natir's fault, not ours. The mages are fools but they do not forget quickly." Varimathras supplied. "That does not mean we are blind. Rumours of a prophet who foretold the rising of the Scourge are plentiful in the Silverpine Forest, and all but a few point towards Gilneas."

Tichondrius turned to Varimathras, running his bloodied claws along his cheek. "And what else did this prophet see? What secrets did they uncover and reveal to the world?"

Varimathras hesitated, pausing for a brief moment before bowing his head in submission once more. "I do not know, Lord Tichondrius. The prophet has not been located and remains free."

"Then find them." Tichondrius ordered, pointing a dripping claw at Detheroc. "With this... Kalimdor Expedition, this prophet, the missing bodies, there is too much gone awry to be coincidence. There are agents working against us and you have failed."

"But no magic can find them! We have tried!" Detheroc protested.

"Then use the Cult of the Damned! That is what they are for!" Tichondrius hissed. "Rectify the matter or face the consequences." With a flap of his wings and a burst of fire, the Lord of the Nathrezim vanished.

"I wish you luck with your new task, brother." Balnazzar said with a smirk. "I shall take over your duties in Lordaeron while you are gone."

He too vanished, leaving Detheroc alone with Varimathras.

"Gilneas is an opportunity. While you are there, reclaim some of our lost numbers from them and I am sure Lord Archimonde shall be forgiving."

Detheroc's claws dug deep into the stone as his last brother vanished. He was the leader of their infiltration, of the dreadlords who were tasked with manipulating the field to make it fertile for the arrival of the Scourge and Legion. And despite that, he never got any respect. Not even from his own brothers. Hefting his immense bulk he looked to the corpse of the woman who had bled to summon Tichondrius back into this world, who still wore the horror and anger from the moment he had ended her child's life in front of her.

Biting off the head of her corpse and eating it gave him some small comfort, but he needed something sweeter to work off this anger. Finding others who tried to eke out a living in this ruin of a city, who tried to make it a home again... well, they would not be missed. Stratholme was a cursed place after all.

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Thanks to Trestira for beta reading this chapter.