Malfurion's words were a spark to dry tinder, instantly igniting the banked fury of ten thousand years of imprisonment within Illidan. "What right do you have to judge me!" he snarled, his voice a low growl. "We once stood shoulder to shoulder against the demons! Have you conveniently forgotten that?"
Foolish little brother, Malfurion thought, a weariness settling upon him. If it weren't for the blood you shed fighting the Legion, do you truly believe Tyrande and I could have shielded you from the people's wrath back then?
"But you should not have secretly created a second Well of Eternity!" Malfurion retorted, his voice sharp with accusation. "And you should never have turned your blade against your own people! That is the ultimate betrayal!"
Seeing the volatile argument escalating, Tyrande stepped between them, her hands outstretched in a placating gesture. "Enough, you two! Let the shadows of the past remain where they belong. My love," she said, turning to Malfurion, her voice softening, "with Illidan's strength, we will once again drive back the demonic tide and safeguard this land we cherish!"
"Hmph!" Illidan scoffed, turning his head away, his gaze refusing to meet his brother's.
Malfurion cast a long, searching look at Tyrande. He knew the Watchers' unwavering nature. Tyrande had not released Illidan through any conventional means. Returning from the tranquil embrace of the Emerald Dream, he now faced not only Archimonde, a terrifying specter from millennia past, but also the festering discord within his own ranks. He was caught in a thorny thicket of conflicting loyalties. In that moment, a pang of envy struck him for Galen's secluded existence, guarding Eldre'Thalas, wielding influence among the night elves without bearing the crushing weight of leadership.
"Have you truly considered the cost, Tyrande?" Malfurion questioned, his voice heavy with concern. "Perhaps the end of days has not yet arrived, and this traitor will be the one to usher it in! I vehemently oppose Illidan's return to Mount Hyjal!"
"Then I offer my sincere gratitude for your... magnanimity," Illidan sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Rest assured, I have no intention of returning to that sanctimonious place called Mount Hyjal. I will resolve the demon problem in my own way. Just you wait and see!" With a final, defiant glare, Illidan turned and vanished into the emerald depths of Ashenvale with a few powerful leaps.
"My love, I..." Tyrande began, her voice laced with regret.
"Say nothing, Tyrande," Malfurion interrupted, his gaze resolute. "Whatever comes, we will face it together. Let us return to Mount Hyjal. The armies of our eastern allies have already reached the foothills. Archimonde's arrival is imminent, and time is a luxury we no longer possess."
(Whos the greater Simp? Simpillidan or Simpfurion?)
Malfurion departed with Tyrande and the accompanying druids, unaware that their entire exchange had been witnessed by an unseen owl perched high in the branches above. As the last of them disappeared into the forest, the owl shed its illusion, revealing itself and soaring towards the deeper woods, landing gracefully upon the waiting shoulder of Maiev Shadowsong. A silent exchange, a whisper carried on the wind, and Maiev knew the details of the tense confrontation.
"Just as you suspected," Maiev murmured, her voice low and grim. "Malfurion chose to turn a blind eye, unwilling to intervene in Illidan's escape."
"Living beings are governed by emotion," Galen replied, his tone philosophical. "And with emotion comes both closeness and distance. Malfurion is a creature of sentiment. He was torn between his beloved wife and his own brother. His choices were always going to be limited." He recalled the original timeline, where Maiev had swallowed her fury after Tyrande's brutal actions against the remaining Watchers, only to be later blamed by Malfurion for failing to save Tyrande when she was in danger. She had been a doormat. Fortunately, he thought, I prevented that particular injustice by restoring her sisters. Otherwise, the suppressed rage would have festered within her, a slow, internal poison.
"Very well, Maiev," Galen continued, his voice regaining its practical edge. "Some things are immutable for now, but that does not preclude future adjustments. With the Burning Legion's invasion upon us, securing Mount Hyjal remains our paramount concern."
"I understand," Maiev affirmed, her gaze resolute.
"Two high-ranking demons, Tichondrius and Mannoroth, are lurking within Ashenvale and Felwood. Have your sisters located them yet?" Galen inquired.
"Heh! Child's play!" Maiev's lips curled into a confident smirk. Though the Watchers numbered only a few hundred, each was an elite operative, a master of assassination and reconnaissance. They were the unseen guardians of the night elves, their missions spanning the globe.
"Then let them serve their purpose! Inform Grand Crusader Galen of Mannoroth's location. As per our agreement, he and his allies will deal with the pit lord. Tichondrius, however, is mine to claim!"
Maiev turned to Galen, a flicker of concern in her usually stoic eyes. "Galen, Tichondrius is a demigod, possessing immense power and cunning. He may not be as easily dispatched as you believe. I will send Na'sha to liaise with the Alliance. I will accompany you to hunt Tichondrius."
"No," Galen demurred, a sly glint in his eyes. "I won't dirty my own hands. Did you see Illidan's dramatic exit? I have a far more… entertaining… plan. I intend to orchestrate a reunion between Illidan and Tichondrius. Those two have accumulated a considerable amount of animosity over the past ten thousand years. I anticipate the encounter will be amusing."
"In that case," Maiev conceded, a hint of apprehension in her voice, "please exercise caution! May the moon goddess watch over you, Galen."
"And you, Maiev!" Galen replied, a hint of a smile touching his lips.
The hunt had begun.
Galen's form shimmered, dissolving into a swirling white mist before solidifying into the sleek silhouette of a hawk. With powerful wingbeats, he ascended, following the emerald green trail that marked Illidan's passage into the depths of Ashenvale.
After what seemed like an eternity of flight, Galen finally spotted his quarry – a distinct flash of emerald green against the forest canopy. It was the telltale hue of the Warglaives of Azzinoth, the infamous Demon Blades that Illidan had claimed from a Doom Guard officer named Azzinoth during the War of the Ancients. Those two wickedly curved, emerald moon blades were strapped across Illidan's back. Their perfect arcs and razor-sharp barbs held a morbid fascination for Galen, a silent invitation to plunder.
"Come out, Illidan," Galen called out, his voice echoing through the trees. "I've been expecting you."
Illidan sat cross-legged by a small campfire, his back to Galen, a withered little yellow flower held delicately in his hand… My God… Galen thought with a silent shake of his head. Your infatuation is truly beyond words.
Galen landed silently in the small clearing, his avian form dissolving back into his familiar night elf guise. "Long time no see, Illidan."
Illidan turned, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before his expression settled into a guarded neutrality. "I assumed it was those tiresome Watchers on my trail," he said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. "I did not anticipate it would be you, Galen." Illidan's gaze was intense, a silent assessment of the power radiating from Galen. The scrutiny felt like a physical touch, a subtle prickling sensation.
"Actually, you were partially correct," Galen admitted, strolling casually towards the fire. "Maiev is practically salivating at the prospect of personally ending your existence. However, I managed to… dissuade her." He found a clean patch of ground and settled down, crossing his legs comfortably.
Illidan's body tensed as Galen approached, every muscle coiled and ready to spring, like a predator anticipating a threat. He dared not underestimate Galen. The memory of Galen's effortless dispatch of Azshara's formidable guard captain ten thousand years ago remained vivid.
Galen, however, exuded an air of nonchalant confidence. He was, after all, practically a walking armory of life-saving enchantments. As long as he wasn't obliterated instantaneously, he was confident in his ability to retaliate. He glanced at the meager pile of wild fruits Illidan had gathered, a look of mild disgust flickering across his face. Rummaging through his seemingly bottomless magic bag, he retrieved several plump strider wings from the Golden Plains, setting them to roast over the crackling flames.
"You certainly don't behave like a typical druid," Illidan observed, watching Galen's decidedly un-druidic actions. The tension in his posture eased slightly.
"Druid?" Galen chuckled, flicking the gleaming blade of Quel'Serrar at his waist. "Before I dabbled in all that leafy nonsense, I was a warrior. See this?" He patted the ancient, dragon-forged sword. "How am I supposed to heft this magnificent weapon and cleave through enemies on an empty stomach?"
Ding! Ding! A faint, almost indignant chime emanated from Quel'Serrar, as if protesting its master's insinuation of its weight.
Illidan's attention was drawn to the now-artifact blade. He glanced at it, then back at the sizzling strider wings, a flicker of something akin to agreement in his emerald eyes. Without a word, he snatched half of the roasting wings from Galen's hand and began grilling them himself.