“Now,” Tyrande went on, “we ask that the Mother Moon guide our sister Shalasyr on her sacred journey and that her ancestors and loved ones who have gone before her will make her welcome. . . .”
Jarod heard nothing after that. He saw only his life with Shalasyr and all the mistakes that he had made during it. He was grateful that she had put up with him despite all those mistakes when, had she remained behind, she could have been a revered priestess of the Mother Moon.
Tyrande raised her arms, reaching toward the moonlight. Jarod broke out of his reverie for a moment, then lost interest again.
He looked up a moment later as a silver aura suddenly radiated from Shalasyr’s body.
No one else seemed to notice . . . or at least no one reacted. Jarod stared at the soft, comforting glow as it rose over his beloved. It took on the vague shape of a figure and slowly separated from the still form.
“Shalasyr . . . ,” Jarod murmured.
The shape paused and, to his mind, looked in his direction for the space of a single breath. Suddenly he recalled other tender moments in his time with his mate, in some cases moments he had not remembered in centuries. Jarod relived each as if it had happened only yesterday.
Shalasyr’s spirit shrank in upon itself, becoming a tiny, glowing ball. It hovered a moment more, then moved as if drawn by the moonlight.
As the sphere swept into the moonlight, it dissipated . . . and Jarod felt Shalasyr’s presence vanish at the same time.
Jarod let out a gasp, but, fortunately, no one paid him any mind. At some point Tyrande had lowered her arms, and from her expression it appeared that the ceremony was nearly finished.
Indeed, all that remained was for her and Jarod to lead the bier and a procession of mourners out of the temple, through the gardens, and into an area beyond the city. There a small party of druids, led by Malfurion, greeted them.
Tyrande spoke to all. “As Shalasyr’s spirit has departed her mortal vessel, let that vessel now return its strength to the world. . . .”
The druids took up the body. With reverence, they set it into a soft patch of grass and small bushes. Two female druids lovingly adjusted Shalasyr so that she again looked as if she were only dreaming.
“Teldrassil welcomes this child,” Malfurion intoned. “The world welcomes this child back.”
The archdruid raised his staff. A soft wind swept through the area. The treetops gently swayed.
Around Shalasyr’s body, shoots grew, then bloomed into white and golden flowers. At first they simply outlined Jarod’s mate, but then their numbers grew so great that they began to drape over her. More and more flowers blossomed, quickly spilling over her. The effect was a beautiful draping of the female night elf, and Jarod could not help thinking how fitting the sight was.
Her serene face was the last part to be covered by the foliage. The flowers continued to sprout, rising into a tremendous cornucopia of color. A rich, wondrous scent wafted past Jarod’s nose, a scent that reminded him so much of Shalasyr.
Those who had come now paid their respects to him, then left. Soon there remained only a handful of observers, including Malfurion and Tyrande.
“This went as well as it could have,” the archdruid offered.
“There will be more and more of these ceremonies as mortality catches up with us,” Jarod returned, before Tyrande could say so herself. “I am honored that Shalasyr was one of the first. It made her . . . her departure a little easier to take, I admit.” He bowed his head to the high priestess. “I must confess I was especially touched when you made it seem as if Shalasyr’s spirit had risen up to join the Mother Moon. . . .”
Tyrande looked puzzled. “I planned no such thing. I would have been very afraid of offending you, Jarod.” She gazed deep into his eyes. “You saw that happen?”
“Yes, but—”
“Elune favors you! I would envy your moment, save that I respect that she made it one between you and Shalasyr only.”
“It . . . was not you?”
“No.”
Jarod’s eyes widened, but he quickly recovered. He glanced at the lingering attendees. “I was hoping Maiev would come.”
Tyrande cleared her throat. “You should not take it personally. Your sister has been through much; there was a time when she and I could not face one another—”
The former guard captain frowned. “I know of it, High Priestess. She related part of it to me earlier. The rest I was told by some of those who knew my sister and me when we were young or who were privy to events.”
“But only Malfurion and I, or Maiev herself, could tell you about what truly happened. . . .”
“I—I know that she was Illidan’s jailor and that at some point she was his prisoner . . . and that he tortured her.”
The high priestess looked sad. “I blame myself for so much that happened to Maiev. I should never have left her for so long in charge of Illidan’s imprisonment.”
“I should have realized more than you, my love,” the archdruid countered. “He was my brother. My twin.” To Jarod, he explained, “When Illidan was liberated—after so many millennia—it was as if her entire life had been for nothing. Her greatest purpose had become keeping him imprisoned. Maiev was all but shattered.”
“Yes, that would be how my sister would react. There was never a greater love for her than her duty.”
Tyrande took control of the story once more. “She was determined to hunt him down. It went from duty to obsession. Unfortunately, circumstances were not so simple; events happened that led to disaster for all of us. I tried to stop a threat and nearly lost my life to it. Rather than come to my aid, Maiev chose to pursue Illidan—”
“Just say that she chose to sacrifice you!” Malfurion blurted with revived anger.
“Mal! Remember yourself!” Tyrande’s eyes went from her mate to Jarod.
The archdruid bowed his head to Maiev’s brother. “Forgive me, Jarod. I should not put your sister in such a light, especially at this time. . . .”
“I care only for the truth . . . however terrible it might be.”
“The truth is,” the high priestess muttered with much sympathy, “that she convinced others, including Malfurion, that I was dead—swept away in a raging river—and that his brother was to blame. Nothing mattered but that Illidan be caught and finally made to pay for all his crimes.”
She nearly succeeded, Jarod learned. But when Malfurion had seen the horror in Illidan’s face when he had learned of what had happened to Tyrande, the plan had fallen apart. Through the confession of the mage Kael’thas—who would later become the guiding force behind the creation of the magic-addicted blood elves—they had then learned of Maiev’s falsehood. The archdruid had kept Maiev rooted where she was while he and Illidan had gone on to rescue Tyrande. Afterward, Malfurion, feeling that he owed his twin for that, had been instrumental in seeing to Illidan’s flight and exile into the otherworldly realm called Outland.
What felt like a chill wind coursed over Maiev’s brother, making him briefly shiver. Jarod found it strange that neither the archdruid nor the high priestess noticed the cold. Then he realized the chill had actually come from within, from becoming more aware as to how his sister’s sense of duty had relentlessly driven her on.
“I know what happens next. My sister would not give up even then,” Jarod remarked dourly. “She followed, and the rest of what I learned came to be. The pursuit through Outland, her capture and torture, and finally her part, alongside others, in the slaying of—pardon, Archdruid—of your brother.”
Malfurion shook his head. “You have no reason to apologize. This is all knowledge you should have—if not from us, then from Maiev.”
“For a time, we thought her dead . . . as we had thought you, Jarod.” The high priestess looked down. “Her Watchers had all but perished due to her obsession. When Maiev did return, there were bitter feelings and mistrust. Her mind had been ravaged, yet she endured. Her resilience is one reason we were able to make amends, Jarod. There is much to admire about your sister and much we owe her despite all that happened.” Tyrande put a comforting hand on his arm.