As the sun peeked over the horizon, bathing the landscape below in soft, sheer ribbons of golden light, Eliana felt the weight on her shoulders dissipate. The sigh that escaped her, that served to release the stress and burdens she carried, was not a happy one. The view was far from calming; beneath the guise of nature's gilded touch, corpses were strewn about the battlefield. Empty husks that were once lively Night Elves, and twisted, burnt demon carcasses-as well as Tauren and Dwarven now-littered the ground below. Her heart burned with the knowledge that the other races had finally come to their aid, to join the fight to save Azeroth, and they were now experiencing the immeasurable cost of that decision.

Beneath the early morning sky, awash with rivers of pale pink and streams of light lavender that chased the darkest pockets of night away, there lay only death and dwindling hope. It had been some time since she could say she truly felt happiness. But then, it had been a long time for all her people.

Weeks had passed in what felt like the blink of an eye, each day blurring into the next, filled with nothing but bloodshed and loss. The Legion's assault on their world never relented; the members of the demonic army never tired, never wanted or needed any sustenance save for the blood of the innocent.

More than once in this war she had found herself wondering if there would ever be an end to it all. Would there ever be a day when her people could rebuild? A day when they could return to a place they could feel safe, could call home?

With the ruins of Suramar in the valley below, she knew it likely would never be the grand city it had once been ever again. If her people ever received the chance to rebuild . . . perhaps their next capital would be even a fraction as beautiful, as abundant as Suramar had been.

But that was only if they received the chance. It was just as likely that her people could be wiped out in this war. They'd all fought so hard, but they could only do so for so long. Eventually, they would wear out. One day, she could be too tired to stand, or the soldier beside her could be too famished and weakened to lift his blade.

They were all simply 'one day' away from it being all too much.

Overwhelmed by the veneer of beauty before her, Eliana slowly closed her eyes, unable to think on these morbid thoughts any longer. Behind her, deep in the colossal trees of the forest, Malfurion was working with Cenarius, the demigod he'd trained with oh-so-long ago, in a desperate bid to turn the tides in their favor.

Lord Krasus and Rhonin had returned to the fold days ago, speaking of something they called the Demon Soul. It had something to do with the dragons, a black one in particular. Eliana knew she should have been paying more attention when they'd explained the history of the situation, but . . . she was so tired. More than once, she'd simply stopped hearing their words, stopped focusing on any one thing in her view, simply staring off into the trees as they bickered back and forth about what the plan entailed.

More plans, ever more context . . . and nothing ever changed the war the way they all hoped it would.

From behind her, the crunch of leaves beneath heavy boots pulled her from her meditation. When Cytheas' familiar topknot appeared, a soft smile curled at the corners of her lips.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said in a quiet voice when he was but a few feet away.

"I suppose some things never change," she replied, and he lowered himself beside her with a groan.

One leg was tucked against her chest, while the other was folded underneath. It seemed like so much less work when she could rest her cheek on her knee rather than hold everything up the way she'd tried to hold her people up. Unlike her, Cytheas chose to drape his legs over the hillside, leaning back on his palms.

Together, they watched the sun continue its journey up into the sky. When the final bands of night disappeared from above them, Cytheas spoke. "How are you feeling?"

The tiniest bit of irritation lanced through her. "I am fine, Cytheas, I have told you this numerous times."

"I know you have. But what you say and what you truly feel are usually different things."

Another sigh left her, though this one was short and had little to do with expelling burdens. Straightening and clenching her jaw, she finally met his gaze. "Please, Cytheas. I've said that I do not wish to speak of it. I wish you would respect that decision."

He visibly gritted his teeth before looking away from her, his eyes focused on the ruins of Suramar below. Now that she could see him clearly, she regretted letting anger color her words.

Exhaustion was visible in every line of his face. The skin under his eyes was mottled with deep purple, and the creases near his mouth were more prominent than she'd ever seen them. His shoulders were drawn tight, despite his attempt to appear relaxed around her.

She reached out to place her hand over his, before hesitating and drawing it back. "Cytheas, I . . . I am sorry, I should not have snapped at you. I know you only ask because you care."

For a moment, he didn't respond, and she worried that she'd made him angrier than she originally thought. Eventually, though, he let out a long exhale and looked over at her again as he leaned forward. "I know, Eli. I'm sorry I keep pressing you. I know that you'll talk to me when you're ready, but I-I see how much his absence bothers you, and I only wish that I could do something to help."

"It is not just his absence, it is . . . everything. This war has changed me, changed us all. First it was my father, then Tyrande, now Illidan . . . I do not know how much more I can lose before I, too, am lost."

He was silent for a moment, his thoughts seemingly far away. When he finally spoke, he said, "Do you remember, Eli, when we were young ones still . . . Your new kitten, Whiskers, ran into the forest behind your home?"

Surprised, her eyes widened. "I do. We were . . . not even ten winters yet. Why do you bring that up? It was so long ago."

"Your father was immensely worried about you. It had been nigh on four hours since you chased Whiskers into the trees, and you were still nowhere to be found. He was so close to sending the Sentinels after you, concerned you'd been eaten by a stray saber or errant spider from the caverns in the mountains.

"I thought, at the ripe old age of eight, 'Those Sentinels have no hope of finding her! They don't know her like I do!' So without telling Ardrias, I ran into the forest after you."

"You were the one to find me, I remember. I was hiding under a tree root, trying to find shelter."

"You and Whiskers, both. Much to my surprise, you'd actually found her. Then, of course, you got lost for hours on end."

A laugh escaped her at the memory of being so carefree, so young. What she wouldn't give to be back there again. "But you did find me in the end. I suppose I have to thank you for that, I do not think I ever did."

Cytheas reached over then, grasping her hand tightly in his own. With a squeeze so tight that it bordered on painful, he said, "Don't you see, Eliana? I will always be here to find you. If Elune's blessings cannot protect you entirely, and even now that I know you are trained and capable of protecting yourself, I will be here. If anyone will make it through this war, it is you. I will make sure of it."

At his words, the dull throb in her chest that had been present since Illidan left eased just a bit. She suspected the pain would never completely disappear, but knowing that Cytheas would never abandon her in the same way brought her some semblance of comfort.

With a smile, she squeezed his hand back. "Then I promise the same."

It was dangerous, promising something like that to Cytheas. Since he'd confessed how he felt about her, so many moons ago when things seemed so simple and this war hadn't destroyed everything they held dear, they hadn't spoken of it since. She knew that he still struggled with her feelings for Illidan, and recent events had only made that more complicated. It was selfish and unfair for her to still lean on Cytheas so much when she had offered nothing in return, but she hadn't been lying just then.

With no one else that she cared about beside her, losing Cytheas as well would break her.

The tiniest of smiles graced his face, easing the tension and softening the harsh lines around his mouth. Another moment of peace and quiet passed as they continued to stare into each other's eyes. Cytheas leaned forward, ever so slightly, and it was the subconscious movement on his part that had Eliana quickly rising to her feet. He immediately drew his hand back, following suit as he cleared his throat. Before he could speak, however, the sound of footsteps had them both turning towards the base of the hill.

The world has impeccable timing, as always, she thought with a slight grimace.

Rhonin hurried up the slope, his robes billowing as he ran. His great, fiery mane of hair was in disarray, appearing as if he'd shoved his fingers through it multiple times. Eliana noted the human mage's appearance with caution; if the mage was worried, Malfurion's plan may have gone awry.

When he reached them, he leaned down, bracing himself on his knees. With little pretense, he said, "Malfurion's returned."

Immediately, Cytheas straightened. "And? How did it go? Did the demigod offer any advice?"

"Better," Rhonin said, gesturing for them to follow him as he turned around. Together, the group headed down the hill. No more than ten steps later, he glanced over his shoulder and spoke again.

"He's found the Demon Soul."

~~~

Hours later, when the sun was beginning its descent below the mountains, Malfurion, Lord Krasus, and Brox, mounted their respective nightsabers. They packed little, only a few satchels tied to their mounts' saddles. The purpose was to ride hard and fast, and retrieve the Demon Soul.

Neltharion, now known as Deathwing, was the black dragon that had created the infernal disc. His mind had become warped beyond recovery, and he was no longer the earthen protector that he'd once been. According to Lord Krasus, Neltharion would never have struck down his dragon brethren in cold blood-but Deathwing had. All those dragons that had come to their aid in the beginning were gone, extinct due to his twisted, evil agenda.

Deathwing could not know of their presence. They could not be detected. There was no second plan, no other option. They had to succeed.

With a grim nod from Cytheas, and a blessing on Elune's behalf from Eliana, the group sped off into the quickly darkening night.

Rhonin had stayed behind, tasked with buying the trio time and distracting the new Commander, Desdel Stareye. Beside them, the mage cleared his throat. "Well, that's that. We all know the plan, yes?"

Both of the elves nodded, and the human returned the gesture before heading into the sea of tents beyond the makeshift fence. They watched him go, remaining silent until his small frame disappeared from view. Then, Cytheas faced Eliana.

"You should rest as well, Eliana. It would do no good for you to be exhausted at the start of battle."

A wry smile spread across her face. "Do you know how many times you've told me to rest in the past few days, Cytheas? It numbers more than the fingers of one hand."

He chuckled, and the sound lifted her spirits. "I know, I know. I worry as much as a mother would." His expression sobered and he reached out, briefly touching her shoulder. "But it's true. You are important to our people, a symbol of hope that remains bright in even the darkest times. If you are not at your best, then I will worry even more than usual."

Glancing upwards in exasperation, she laid her hand over his. "Fine. I promise I will return to my tent."

"Good. I need to go find Jarod now, so I will . . . hopefully see you again before we return to the fray."

Mention of the never-ending battle before them had Eliana's mood quickly changing. "We will make it so, Cytheas."

His gaze dropped before he closed his eyes. Offering a slow nod, he met her gaze one last time before pivoting on his heel and heading for the soldiers' tents. Like with Rhonin, she watched him depart, feeling ambivalent at the sight. This war had made her far too comfortable with saying goodbye. It seemed like every day, she was potentially watching her loved ones walk away from her for the last time.

If only there were some way to know for certain whether or not she'd see them again . . . but even as High Priestess of Elune, she was not omniscient. If she were, she could do so much, alleviate so much pain. Then again, perhaps the knowledge would only serve to show her that the world as they knew it could end in no more than a fortnight.

When Cytheas was swallowed by the expanse of tents, she finally let her shoulders drop. If Cytheas had picked up on her exhaustion, it was likely that others would as well. Though there were few left that knew her as well as he did, it seemed as if her current state was more obvious than she'd hoped.

She'd promised to rest, but she had lied.

Ever since Illidan's departure, she hadn't been able to sleep. What had been a state of calm, of recuperation, had transformed into restlessness; swirls of emotion that were not her own, and muddled images she did not understand swam through her mind's eye. None of the images were memories, and the sensations were not ones she'd recently experienced-anxiety, pride. In recent days, she'd even begun to hear muffled sounds that resembled voices, though she could not make out the words.

Never before had she been afraid to close her eyes, to let herself fall into oblivion. But now . . . she felt like a child, scared of the unknown, of the dark, of the things she could not see or control. When she had told Cytheas that the war had changed her, that had been the truth.

She only hoped that she could find herself again when all this was over-if it was ever over.

Her body made its way to her tent out of habit alone, as her thoughts drifted all over. One foot stepped in front of the other, and before she realized it, she stood in front of her tent. Interrupted by no one-for once in her life-she exhaled in relief. She wasn't entirely certain she had the mental capacity to speak to anyone else, to answer one more, 'Are you all right?' or 'How are you feeling?'

Before she stepped inside the tent, she instructed the priestess posted outside to wake her in a few hours' time. She could not afford to sleep any longer than that, afraid of both the 'dreams'-or whatever they were-and of being caught unaware in the event of an attack. When the priestess bowed in confirmation, she lifted the flap of her tent and slid inside, her movements more lethargic than she expected.

The sounds of the camp coming to life seemingly faded away, though she knew the thin layer of canvas separating her from the outside world couldn't possibly do that. The army was no longer on a normal night-to-day cycle, their sleep schedules and meals in complete disarray. With the war holding them hostage, and their enemy requiring no sleep nor food, they were simply . . . awake when they needed to be, ate when they had a moment to breathe.

After discarding her armor and placing it in a neat pile beside her bed, Eliana collapsed atop the downy comforter. Metallic clanks of armor, of swords being sheathed and the twang of bowstrings being tested, filled the air outside. The now-familiar sounds lulled her to sleep, and with fear lingering in the back of her mind, the world faded away.

~~~

Pain, searing and all-consuming in its intensity, permeated Eliana's body. It crippled her, spreading outwards from what felt like the center of her skull down to her toes. If she had been able to, she would have cried out, seeking release from the pressure, from the unexpected ferocity. Never before in her life had she experienced pain so acute, and she suspected if she ever felt it in reality, that she may not survive.

Whoever she shadowed in her dreams, whoever was feeling this torment, was stronger than she could have imagined.

Cordons of light swam before her eyes. Like every other dream before this one, the strands were faded, unfocused, almost as if she were viewing them through a translucent sheet of fabric. They flared up almost achingly bright, before disappearing completely, like someone had extinguished a candle.

Murmurs surrounded her, muted voices that sounded like whispers or voices heard from afar. They ebbed in and out, and she felt her body floating, bobbing along as if she were being carried. But it wasn't her body, she knew that, despite being locked in this dream-state. However, that knowledge only left her with one question: whose body was it, then?

Next, she-or whoever this body belonged to-was unceremoniously dumped on top of a soft cloud. It must have been a bed of some sort. Heavy footsteps left the room, and the slamming of a door followed. A groan of pain came next, louder than any other sound before it-clearer, too, as if it came from nearby.

Why was it so clear when the rest of the world was not?

Again, the groan came, followed by a fresh wave of nauseating pain. The faintest sensation of hands fluttering about her face was next, and she tried to swat them away, forgetting that it would do nothing. These weren't her feelings, they weren't touching her face. Still, reflex was hard to control.

Eventually, the feeling disappeared. Around her, she could hear the distant sound of rustling, then more footsteps, before the thudding of a door closing once more.

Where am I? she wondered, not for the first time.

Despair and uncertainty flooded through her, and she recoiled from the unexpected sensation of experiencing someone else's emotions. It made her feel . . . out of control, which she supposed she was. She was merely a ghost, following someone else through the motions of their life. Only, in this dream, she was feeling everything they were. It was unnerving, wrong . . . too personal. It was more than she'd received in her dreams over the past few days.

Her chest rumbled, a grunt escaping her as she-they-moved to sit up. Their fingers traced the lines of their face, following the rigid line of a strong jaw, the raised ridge of an aquiline nose. When they hesitated near their eyes, Eliana wondered why. The hesitation seemed to stem from . . . not fear but . . . apprehension, a brief flare of regret.

Why regret?

When their fingertips touched the soft skin underneath their eyes, their fingers probed deeper, sparking nerve endings and sending flashes of pain radiating through their skull. The higher up they felt, the more the skin seemed . . . singed, burnt at the edges, raw.

Together, she and this person stumbled off the bed, crawling a few steps before rising to their feet, their balance askew. They shuffled their way towards the wall opposite the bed and as they neared, Eliana realized they were heading for a gilded mirror. Why, she had no idea.

There were so many unknowns in this dream-world. All she wished for were answers.

When they stood before the mirror, their legs gave out, the pain too great. It felt like her skull was going to implode, and she reached up, pulling on her own hair in frustration, in an attempt to escape this agony that did not belong to her. When they straightened, their frame entering the reflective glass. It was a male-wide shoulders, dark hair tied back in a high ponytail.

Lines of glowing green traced the male's violet skin-a Night Elf, then, one of her people. The patterns swirled with life, though it felt . . . wrong, violent, twisted. Belatedly, she realized it felt like the fel energy of the Burning Legion.

That knowledge had her reeling back, recoiling from their reflection. When the male finally raised their head, so slowly that she worried the anticipation might be her end, she gasped. Dread, so bitter and harsh, made it feel like her heart had fallen into her stomach.

It was Illidan. But he was . . . irrevocably changed.

His broad shoulders and the wide expanse of his exposed chest was completely covered with the fel, unnatural whirls of green, tracing the muscles of his arms until they were out of sight in the mirror. Worse than that sight was that of his eyes. Gone was the unique, beautiful shade of amber, only to be replaced by cavernous, burned out holes. He no longer had eyes. In their place were wisps of the same neon green, pulsing in tandem with the arcane tattoos on his body.

The 'flames', if you could call them that, were collected in an orb-like shape, but in no way did they resemble the glowing amber eyes that had been there before.

Though the pain still radiated throughout their body, Illidan reached up, touching his reflection before resting his fingers on the high ridge of his cheekbones once more. When regret flared within him yet again, followed by a swift spark of anger, Eliana recoiled even further, for once afraid of the intensity of his emotions.

She wanted to separate her consciousness from his, wake from this dream and pray that what she saw was not the truth; that the Illidan she loved had not disappeared. That what he had done was not real, that he could come back and be the male she had known him to be. That he had not become what the Legion, of all things, had twisted him into.

Oh, Illidan. What have you done?

~~~

Author's Note:

*screams* I'm so sorry it took so long to get this chapter out!! The move was A Time ™, and then work was hectic, and then it was the holidays, and suddenly we're at the end of the first week of 2019.

That aside, I wanted to clarify some things about this chapter (and my own mistakes, whoops).

First note: according to some research (message if you want links), Night Elves reach adulthood anywhere from 110-300 years old. However, those who were alive before/during the War of the Ancients kind of defy that rule. I went for pretty young in reference to the story Cytheas tells. The number they throw out is meant to mirror that in their years, but honestly, is kind of a guess whether it's eight actual years, or really like 28... *shrug*

Next, in the novel, Malfurion and Tyrande have this moment of mental connection when she calls out to him for help, right? I wanted something similar for Eliana and Illidan, to show the depth of their connection, despite how crazy things are between them right now (what with Illidan, uh, up and leaving and all). The end scene kind of sets that up, and this way they'll still be able to communicate during the time he's gone from the Night Elves - because it will be some time until she sees him again. They've obviously got STUFF to talk about, heh.

Last thing ... I apparently forgot to ever mention Deathwing ... this chapter is also kind of my attempt to bring important details to the surface, but choosing not to focus on them exclusively. I, personally, am sick of writing battle scenes and things about the war. I had to kind of sit on this chapter and think about the reasons I started writing this fic in the first place: Eliana and Illidan's relationship. When I remembered that the fic was supposed to, essentially, be an emotional piece that was more about the characters and how they evolved throughout the war, versus a play-by-play of the war itself, this second draft of the chapter kind of came to be. I'm more happy with this draft than the first, and will likely try to shift the remainder of the fic down this more personal, emotion-driven path. For anyone who's not happy with that, I'm sorry this fic turned out not to be what you expected. Otherwise, I'm excited to (someday) make it to the end with the rest of my readers :3

As always, thanks to Arenoptara for beta-reading on insanely short notice. I have literally no regular writing schedule, y'all. It's probably torture.

Thanks for stickin' around :3