Led by two Keepers of the Grove, Tyrande made her way cautiously along a cleansed tunnel into the heart of the Nightmare. To either side, beyond the reassuring glow of healthy green, the Emerald Dream's corruption pulsated, the blackened trees twisting in agony, a red viscous fluid seeping from their bark. Tyrande wrinkled her nose, the fluid's scent was complex, a combination of rotting mageroyal, over-ripe peaches and something else, something foul. Ah, yes, that was it, the stink of a satyr's den. She shuddered and hurried on, grateful she did not have fight her way in.

Ahead, soft green light, welcoming and warm filtered from the end of the tunnel. The Keepers lowered their heads, so their antlers would not entangle in the overhanging growth. She followed them down the rocky slope into a protected glade. In its centre, Malfurion stood with his back to her, keeping vigil over Cenarius, who lay limp upon a bed of flowers and sweet grasses. Dryads and treants surrounded the fallen Lord of the Forest, channelling a multitude of healing spells into him.

Tyrande approached Malfurion quietly, not wishing to distract him from his work. A rejuvenation spell, his most powerful one. Cenarius didn't respond. Tyrande arched an eyebrow, astonished. Malfurion staggered back, exhaustion etching his rugged features. She moved aside, stepping on a twig. He glanced up, sharp, irritated; his expression softening when he realised who had disturbed him. He held out his hand to her.

"My love, you came to me. I could use your assistance, now more than ever."

Riding out a surge of guilt, Tyrande took his hand and joined him. She looked at Cenarius, her heart aching. The demi-god lay limp, his massive body, half-stag, half night elf sprawled sideways. He should never have come to such a state. Cenarius was so good, so wise. So kind. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked them back, and forced herself to watch the labours of the others.

Life energy continued to pour into Cenarius from the dryads and treants, but despite the enormous amount of healing--enough to revive a dragon--he remained the same. She delved into his spirit, searching for the reason. She drew back, shuddering. He was on the brink of death. He barely breathed. She turned to Malfurion, who waited, watching her.

She shook her head. "He needs more than healing. He needs hope. Without it, all you can do is keep him from death. But for how long-"

Malfurion turned away. He crossed the glade to a small crystalline pool. Little golden wisps danced across its surface. He stood, his arms folded across his chest, staring into the distance, his lips pressed together. She followed him, and touched his arm.

"Malfurion?"

He didn't look at her. "You did not come into the Nightmare to support me, did you? Even after everything I have endured, I still nurtured the hope you might put me first, for once. What a fool I am," he scoffed, kicking a stone into the pool. "It has always been about you, hasn't it? Just as when Xavius captured me, instead of helping me, you chose to protect your precious Temple instead. Do you have any idea how it felt to see you turn and ride away? I went into the Nightmare with your rejection as my last memory."

Tyrande drew back. His bitterness was palpable. But she had had no choice when he had been taken. How she had longed to follow him, but she had to fulfill her sworn duty to Elune first. They had lost Ysera that day, when Tyrande had had to kill the corrupted Dragon Aspect herself. So much had gone wrong since the Legion's return, and now this, her own consort turning against her. She drew breath, there was no point in delaying.

"I came to tell you I must go away . . . there is a chance I may never come back."

Malfurion turned, his heavy brows lowering. "I forbid you to enter the Nightmare, it will consume you. Even after having disappointing me so much, I could not lose you too."

She bristled at his authoritarian tone, at his arrogant assumption he knew her intentions. He had always been so, though in the last years she had found her patience with this trait of his wearing thin. She concentrated on watching the fish darting back and forth in the clear waters of the pool. She would not let him provoke her. They could not quarrel, not now when so much was at stake.

"Not the Nightmare. The Twisting Nether."

He stared at her as though she had lost her mind. "How?"

Tyrande opened her mouth to answer but he shook his head. He held up his hand, stopping her. "No, that is not the important question. If you are here, then you have managed to find a way. The real question is why. Tell me this, because I have a suspicion, and by all the Aspects, I hope I am wrong."

"Illidan is--"

He exhaled, angry, his expression turning rigid. "I knew it. While I was in the Nightmare I saw Gul'dan pulling pieces of Illidan's soul to him from the Nether." Malfurion met her eyes, his menacing, dangerous. "But why you, Tyrande?"

Tyrande fought for calm, this was going much worse than even her darkest expectations. The Nightmare had changed Malfurion, he might have escaped when Xavius was killed, but something remained, a darkness she had never seen in Malfurion before. She chose her next words with care. "Illidan contacted me from within the Nether. His call was strong enough to attract my spirit to his in a dream."

Malfurion actually rolled his eyes. Tyrande had never seen him do that before. He laughed, sharp, bitter. "So one request from The Betrayer, and you drop everything to run to him--even to the risk of your eternal soul."

Uncertain, Tyrande reached out to Malfurion, he stepped back, out of her reach, his eyes veiled. She dropped her hand, his rejection cutting her deep. "No. It is not like that. It would mean much to me if you could try to understand, please, hear me out. He called to me because he needs the Light of Elune to help him fight against Gul'dan until his body can be retrieved from the Chamber of the Eye--"