Tyrande Murmevent : son rôle dans la guerre des épines

”I would not bet against you, King Greymane.” Tyrande turned her glowing gaze to Anduin. “You are right, King Anduin. Things are escalating. When I received your last missive, I sent orders to General Feathermoon to be prepared to receive soldiers. If we are all in agreement on this, I stand ready to dispatch them immediately. They can reach Silithus before the Horde does.

My love,

Although I miss you and the scents, sights, and sounds of our beloved city, my time in Stormwind is well spent.

For the first time in what seems too long, we are in perfect accord with our fellow members of the Alliance as to how to proceed. Azerite is too precious, and our world too valuable, for us to hesitate at any chance to defend it. What horrors might Sylvanas and her Forsaken create? What dire weapons might the goblins craft or the orcs and trolls devise? I am glad that the last shipment of defenders has departed for Feralas and that our army stands ready to act the instant it must.

Although I deeply respected the late king Varian, I must confess I had my concerns about young Anduin. I am pleased to report that he is proving every day to be a worthy successor to his father. He is so terribly young—but then, so very many are to us, are they not? And yet, he is either wise himself or willing to listen to wisdom, which is perhaps more important. It is wondrous to think that our people, the humans, the Draenei, an the dwarves all have priests in leadership positions.

Yet Anduin speaks of hope for a lasting peace even as we prepare for war. The loss of innocence is always bitter, but it is only with our eyes fully open that we can lead.

I am glad to be here to teach him what I may, and I am glad that he is listening.

Until next we embrace, my Malfurion.

The guard caught his breath, but when he spoke, it was not to his king. “Lady Tyrande—there’s been an attack—evacuations—beginning. Refugees—coming through portals.”

Tyrande went very still. For a moment, she looked like a statue, even more beautiful that Haidene in the Temple of the Moon. Only the vein beating rapidly at her throat broke the illusion. Then: “Take me to them.”

There were already a dozen refugees gathered by the time the four leaders reached the Wizard’s Sanctum.

Now, though, as if watching a transformation subtler but every bit as significant as that of Genn turning into his morgen form, he beheld the change in the Kaldorei leader from priestess to warrior.

She lifted her head, and when she spoke, her voice was calm and steady. “The Horde is attacking Ashenvale.”

”King Anduin?” It was the Sentinel—Eriadnar, Anduin thought her name was. “This is only the beginning. Shando Malfurion has issued orders for a complete evacuation—not only of the city but of the surrounding area of Darkshore.”

Then he believes there is no hope. No one said it, but he could see that everyone present shared his thoughts.

Tyrande slipped an arm around a mother carrying an infant. When she spoke, her voice trembled for the first time since this horrifying ordeal had begun. “I long to return and fight beside my husband. But my people need to know that someone is here for them when they come through. And so…I will stay.”

Her eyes flashed. “For now.”

The high priestess slowly lifted her head. “Malfurion Stormrage has made his farewells.”

The refugees who heard her gasped. A few began to weep. Velen and Genn looked stunned, and Anduin couldn’t breathe.

Tyrande continued, still speaking with eerie composure while the girl clung to her. “The Horde attacked him and his soldiers from behind, and the wisps are scattered. Now, my beloved goes to face Sylvanas Windrunner, to hold the line while more Kaldorei escape a city that will soon become a prison.” She rose, stiffly, “ Go to join him.”

“Tyrande, you can’t,” Anduin said.

Tyrande seemed to come to life all at once, whipping her head around to stare at him. The girl, startled, drew back and stepped aside.

“Are you sure you wish to say that to me?” Tyrande asked, her voice shaking.

Calmly, he replied, “You would leave your people without a leader, at a time when they need one more than ever.” He pointed to the hundreds of night elves huddled in the cathedral, “Genn and Velen and I have already pledged to help the Kaldorei recover the World Tree. Die now, and you buy them a few hours. Live, and you will buy them a future.”

For answer, Tyrande simply stood straighter and remained silent.

The high priestess bent to listen to her [Mia’s] words. “We hear that the Horde has destroyed the wisps, that the Sentinels are all dead, and that the Horde approaches with arcane fire to burn the World Tree.”

“None of those are true,” Tyrande said. “But…the Horde is coming.” She paused, wishing she need not utter the awful words. “And they will take Darnassus.”

Mia took a sharp breath, then squared her shoulders and nodded. “Are you here to help with the evacuations?”

“I cannot,” and Tyrande’s voice broke as her eyes swept the scene. “Malfurion goes to fight Sylvanas. I must aid him. If he wins that battle, the Horde will suffer a severe blow to their morale. They could even become disorganized for a time, which could allow more of our citizens to escape.

It was night. From atop her hippogryph, Tyrande beheld the grim sight of hundreds of night elves fleeing towards Darnassus from other parts of the World Tree, surging into the city and covering every inch of the pale white stone of its streets and the green of its grasses. And as the feathered wings of the great creature beat steadily, Tyrande’s heart broke even further.

For half a heartbeat, she wanted nothing more than to bring the hippogryph down, to die fighting alongside these courageous Kaldorei who knew the best they could do was take the enemy down with them as they fell. But Anduin was rightL she could not leave her people leaderless. She and Malfurion were needed more than ever.

“Forgive me,” she whispered to the Kaldorei soldiers, shivering from more than the bite of the night air. “But know you will be remembered.”

Tyrande cried out and sprang from the hippogryph. Elune’s light, blazing and bright and white, flooded the area. His back to her, Saurfang froze where he stood, gripped by her spell as if turned to stone. As Tyrande’s feet touched the ground, she shoved one hand forward hard. The orc was lifted up and flung to the side. He struck the earth heavily but was still alive.

Tyrande stood over her beloved as Saurfang looked up at her. The light she had summoned had re-formed into radiant, deadly spikes of illumination that hung over the orc’s white head. He squinted in the brightness, panting, but made no move to attack.

I can strike him down with a thought. And yet he meets my eyes and does not plead for mercy.

…

The lethal points of Elune’s light responded to her rage, becoming terribly, deathly, still. Their sharp tips pointed at his through. She longed to release them. But she did not. Tyrande had seen little enough honor from the Horde, and she believed Saurfang was ashamed. How long had he stood there, not striking the death blow—he, the high overload, a warrior who had shed blood a thousand times over?

The Horde would take Darnassus. When they did, a general who believed in honor, and who had received mercy, might in turn show mercy to the Kaldorei prisoners.

Still his axe did not move.

And then, very suddenly, she could not move at all.

Bright light enveloped Saurfang, paralyzing him, making it impossible to twitch a muscle. A nightly blow slammed into his head, throwing him five paces away. He hit the ground hard. The wind left his lungs in a single rush as he tumbled to a painful stop. When he looked up he saw the light of Elune, in all its fury and beauty.

Tyrande Whisperwind.

She stood above her mate, arms raised, white dress rippling in the soft breeze. A dozen points of Elune’s light hovered over Saurfang’s head, poised for a final blow.

The orc did not move. His head was ringing. Those daggers of light trembled above him.

Struck down by the powers of justice? It felt appropriate.

Smoke was coming through the portals, and Tyrande Whisperwind despaired.

Now, at last, the semblance of calm shattered., Panic was on the faces of the night elves; they raced through the portals into the Wizard’s Sanctum, trying to escape a fire that had inexplicably broken out in Darnassus—

“Clear the area! We need to make room, now!” Anduin shouted.

The Stormwind guards were quick to obey, picking up night elf children and rushing alongside their parents down the ramp and out into the open.

But more room would not make a difference. The fire was too much, too fast, and it was no ordinary flame. It reeked of magic bent to a task so cruel, so utterly devoid of even a scrap of compassion, Tyrande could scarcely wrap her mind around it. Have I tempted fate with my arrogance, Elune? Is Sylvanas Windrunner beyond even your light, that she was burn Darnassus?

Heat buffeted Tyrande’s face, evaporating tears she hadn’t realized had fallen. Against all her instincts, she pulled back, letting someone take her place, and forced calm on herself. In this moment, when seconds counted, she could assist in a better way.

Elune…please let me help them…

And all around her, there was an intake of welcome breath as damaged lungs were healed.

The last three priestesses of Elune in Teldrassil prayed. They did not ask for healing or for rescue.

They asked for mercy.

And their goddess heard them as Astarii began to sing.

By the moons’ glow, listen. Beside the river, listen. Holding those you love, listen. To the cries of the dying, To the whisper of the wind over the silent dead….

Sleep brushed Astarri’s mind, feather soft, honey sweet. The pain disappeared. She let out a sigh. All around her, she heard similar sounds.

The fire was relentless. The smoke would kill them, and the flames would devour their flesh and even their bones. Only ash would remain. But they would feel nothing.

He looked up at Tyrande, and the utter bleakness of his expression spoke more clearly than words the depth of what had happened.

“The tree is burning,” he said. His voice was hard and laced with pain.

“You mean Darnassus?” Tyrande asked, her words catching in her through.

“The tree,” Genn repeated. “I’m sorry, High Priestess. The Horde has burned the World Tree.” His eyes, bloodshot from the smoke, narrowed. “They will pay for this. I swear to you—they will pay!”

Tyrande closed her eyes. “I said the tree would not be…” Her voice broke, She opened her eyes and looked at the child she held in her arms, covered with soot, but whole. Healthy. Alive. Tears slipped slowly down her cheeks. “What is her name?” She asked softly.

Mia shook her head weakly. “I don’t know.”

“Then, little one, I shall name you Finel. ‘The last.’ For you are the last Kaldorei to escape with your life.”

Then, so softly that Anduin could barely hear her, the high priestess of the night elves began to sing.

O little last one, listen
To the song my broken heart will ever sing
Of the story of the Tree of the World
And the death of all the dreams
It once cradled in its mighty boughs.