Lor'themar Theron sat in his office, signing more official documents. He had been doing this since early in the morning. It was a never-ending stream of laws, bills, affidavits, procurements for supplies and arms, requests for audiences with him. Tedious did not even come close to describing the task.

Then he came upon it; another demand for forces from the Warchief, Sylvanas. He picked it up, speed read it then let it fall from his hand. It sashayed its way through the air, just like its author. It floated out over the edge of the desk and drifted to a halt on the floor. He looked at it, anger brimming at the unrealistic expectations of the woman.

He had never forgiven her for her part in the fall of Quel'thalas. Although it was widely speculated that she had been under the influence of Arthas, as Banshee Queen, her more recent behaviours caused the seed of suspicion and doubt to multiply tenfold in Lor'themar's mind.

She had shown utter disregard for the Sind'orei's depleted numbers when the land was still bleeding from the scourge attacks after the Third War. The soldiers had been truly battle-wearied and exhausted, trying to maintain some order from the chaos. But, still, she demanded they were sent to Northrend, reminding Lor'themar they were, after all, part of the Horde and Arthas' attack was aimed directly at their people.

There was no love lost between them, never had been, even as far back as his Farstrider days. Yes, she had him promoted, twice, but still, she enjoyed the fact she was General, and he was only Ranger Lord.

He had shown her the respect her position warranted, but as an individual, he loathed her and her arrogant approach. Politics was a dirty business anyway, but she had a knack of making it as foul as the plague itself.

https://youtu.be/057wzPkGwzs

He flopped back in his chair and dropped his quill on the desk, a small spattering of ink forming across the desktop where it landed. He leaned on the chair arm, toying with his goatee, lost in thoughts which he could not even collate in any particular format.

The door opened, and Grand Magister Rommath strode into the room, followed by a maid who carried a tea tray. He motioned for the maid to place the tray on the side table next to the window as there was no room on Lor'themar's desk with the seemingly self-multiplying stacks of documents covering the surface. He nodded thanks and waited for her to leave. The door closed quietly behind her.

Rommath looked at his friend. "You look tired," he said, pouring tea for them both.

Lor'themar sighed heavily, rubbing his eye. "I am." He gestured to the piles of paper on his desk. "This is a thankless task."

Rommath chuckled a little. "But one which needs doing I'm afraid."

"Hmm," Lor'themar mumbled as he pushed himself up out of the chair and crossed to the Grand Magister. He thanked him for his cup of tea but refused a slice of the lovingly crafted carrot cake.

Rommath moved to take a seat in front of Lor'themar's desk. Placing his cup on the only available space on the surface, he noticed the letter on the floor and bent to pick it up. Lor'themar was not alone in his suppositions of the Warchief, Rommath also detested the Forsaken bitch.

He sneered at the document and placed it on the desk amid the many other letters. "Sylvanas wants more, I see," he said to the Regent Lord.

Lor'themar sipped his tea, then replaced the cup on its saucer. "Yes - as always."

Rommath cleared his throat before proceeding. "You know if she used necromancy..."

The Regent Lord shot him a dark look. "Do not even think that! If she ever uses that foul magic on my men, I swear I will kill her myself - Warchief or no!"

Rommath was duly chastised, although he had known what the response would be. The Warchief's constant demands were starting to impact on numbers again, and as the Regent Lord's adviser, Rommath had to put the consideration forward. He was, however, inwardly relieved Lor'themar was still strongly opposed to the notion. He quietly sipped his tea and took a bite of cake.

The red and gold voiles at the windows buffeted quite unexpectedly. Wind, although warm and light, whistled through the room, stirring the edges of some of the papers on the Regent Lord's desk. Thankfully, he had the sense to put some weights on the various piles, so they did not take flight nor fall over unexpectedly.

Rommath looked out the open glass doors to the balcony. The sky looked unsettled, clouds roiling and racing past his line of vision. "Unusual for this time of year," he commented.

Lor'themar, still bristling a little from Rommath's last comment turned to look out the windows. The Grand Magister was not mistaken. The clouds were scuttling, their colours like a sunset - for all it was early afternoon.

He placed his cup, absentmindedly, on the side table and crossed to the balcony.

Rommath was asking him what was wrong, but Lor'themar didn't answer, his attention fixed on the sky.

The Grand Magister just shook his head, assuming the Regent Lord was in need of some fresh air having been stuck inside doing administrative duties all morning. He laid down his cup and quietly left the room, allowing Lor'themar some solitude.

The silver-haired leader of the Sin'dorei rested his hands on the wall of the stone balcony and searched the expanse of clouds. His heart was inexplicably racing, a sense of sweet anticipation coursing through his very soul.

Something to his right caught his eye. There on the wall, under a brightly painted butterfly carved of wood, was a single piece of paper. He looked at it quizzically, then crossed to pick it up.

A voice from far away floated towards him on the air. Look to the skies brother, and one day I will be there.

He clasped the little wooden carving to his chest and read the note.

My Dearest Lor'themar, brother

My time has come. I am now free to be with Camnath.

Weep not, brother. I am happy, blissfully happy. My body is in the meadow, where we released my beloved husband's ashes.

I love you. Be strong, be proud and just.

And please, look after my butterfly.

Your loving sister

Tiene

Lor'themar's breath hitched. Transfixed, he looked over the sea towards Quel'Danas, where once the Sunwell thrived. There over the spires, the clouds parted and gave way to a dazzling brightness over the isle.

Tiene's voice drifted to him. "We are reunited, Lor'themar. See us now."

Lor'themar had not wept since the day he lost his family, the Firefurys, in the Third War. Now, his green orb brimmed as he saw their faces in front of him, wavering, shimmering in the sky. Yathas, Duthan, Inaris; they all smiled at him.

He faltered, momentarily lowering his gaze, swallowing back emotions he had not felt in years. After a moment, he raised his head again. From behind the Firefury men came Tiene and Camnath, the love they felt for one another, tangible.

Lor'themar managed a quivering smile as he heard Tiene's voice once more.

"Ash' nal Sin'dorei, anu belore daela'na. Shar rila, athfiore.* Ash' a riom."**

        ANU ARSHAZ**

  ***THE END

* We are Children of the Blood, the sun guides us. Have faith, brother.

** We love you...

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Thank you so much if you have managed to stay the course and reach anu arshaz. This has been a real labour of love, and it is with sadness I say farewell to Tiene and all the other characters in this story.

Two phenomenal influences for this story having evolved, have been my friends and exceptional authors, @Finychan, whose two O/C's Fyn Godwin and Louvel Nottley helped enrich the storyline and @ea_carter, whose continual support, kind words and love of Azeroth, good wine and hot, hot alphas has made this one heck of an emotional journey.

Thank you also to all followers, old and new, who have taken time to go on this journey with me. Love you all....

All comments, advice and suggestions are most welcome. Should you like this chapter, please be kind enough to vote, it would be most appreciated.