Chapter Text
I.
Dark tendrils seeped from opened pores, the shadows licking at a piloted corpse as Sylvanas Windrunner struggled to hold her corporeal form. The banshee bled shadows from her mouth, her eyes, the wound in the center of her chest that had ended her mortal life all those years ago, before she was able to reign it in and keep it locked within the body she had always known. The afterlife ached to separate her from the comfort of her mortal form however, the darkness knowing that she should have belonged to this place long ago.
Truthfully, Sylvanas despised it here— escaping her destiny as yet another tortured victim of the Maw was the entire damned reason she had begun to walk this path, and yet by some cruel twist of fate it had brought her here, in the place where it all began, her desperation for change causing her to finally tear down the sky, rip open the world, and attempt to obliterate an archaic afterlife system that had chosen to condemn her for actions regardless of choice. It sickened Sylvanas to be here, to watch the brutal and never-ending torture of the worst beings in their world, in every world, as it only furthered the rage and devastation and confusion that had seeded itself beneath her ribcage ever since she had first escaped this place that wondered why her, why here, why, why…?
Because you deserve it. Perhaps you did not then, but now… oh, but now…
Sylvanas hissed through her fangs, shoving everything back inside of her as the shadowed tendrils that had briefly escaped once more retreated back inside her body. Her head lulled back as she closed her eyes, rolling her neck as Sylvanas willed herself to ignore her intrusive thoughts; voices that seemed to whisper through the winds of the Maw, reminding her of her worst fears. Although Sylvanas could not breathe, she mimicked the movements as she could still remember the sense of calm it had instilled in her when she was alive. It was a placebo effect and Sylvanas knew it, and yet it still worked, and in the end that was all that mattered; whatever kept her sanity in this blasted realm, after all.
“This place is unraveling you, sister. We cannot linger here long.”
Sylvanas slowly opened her crimson eyes, her gaze settling on one of her val’kyr. Despite the battle maiden’s eyes being shielded by her helmet, the banshee could see in Signe’s expression that she was concerned as the val’kyr placed herself directly between her mistress and the entrance to the Tower of the Damned, her large wingspan shielding Sylvanas from the horrors within as though that alone could save her from them. From inside the intricate, ever-changing dungeon, the screams of its inhabitants were swept away by the howling winds of the realm. Sylvanas pulled her hood up further, her dull, colorless hair whipping across hollow cheeks that were beginning to resemble ash the longer she stayed in this place. She felt as though she were being sucked dry, and it encouraged a sense of urgency inside of her that she had never truly felt before as high elves had all the time in the world, and the dead even more so.
“I have little choice,” Sylvanas reminded her, voice much calmer than she truly felt. When she was in the mortal realm, it had been far easier for her to strip herself of emotion, to allow it to die inside of her the day of her sister’s betrayal when she vowed never to love, never to trust, never to feel again as she became the dead, heartless being the world assumed the Forsaken were. But here, in a realm that threatened to gut her from the inside out, Sylvanas had a hard enough time keeping her goddamn body tethered to her banshee form, let alone keeping her ridiculous emotions in check.
Priorities— Unfortunate, but necessary.
“You are right though. This place… eats away at me,” Sylvanas admitted, voicing her weakness to one of the few beings who would not use that information to hurt her, as to hurt her would only hurt themselves. Their bond was not necessarily based on trust as there was no longer anyone that Sylvanas truly trusted, but her val’kyr were the closest things Sylvanas had to family now, and what tied them together turned out to be far stronger than blood had proven to be.
Signe’s large wings beat against the violent winds of the Maw, and the creature allowed the tether that bound their souls together to become momentarily visible; a reminder, a promise. “We are here.”
We are with you.
The tether faded from view, but Sylvanas could still feel it. She could always feel it. “I know.” Her gaze wandered upward, past Signe as she took in the massive tower before her, knowing her destination lay somewhere on the sixth floor. “But hopefully, we will not have to be for long. My patience is waning and my trust fragile; it’s time to form a contingency plan— see if there is a way we can expedite our aims so that we may rid ourselves of this place forever.”
The val’kyr did not respond, but she did respect her mistress’ words as she faded from view, watching over Sylvanas from the shadows like her remaining sisters. There was a part of her that still ached from the loss of the other six; a lingering pain as those who were tethered to her soul were either cut down or sacrificed. Sometimes, Sylvanas swore she could still feel them— like phantom limbs, long removed yet never forgotten. Technically, her lost val’kyr were a means to an end and had served their intended purpose, but no amount of logic would allow Sylvanas to objectively view the loss of a literal part of her resurrected soul as something entirely separate, no matter how often she tried to convince herself that it was.
Which was bullshit, frankly. It would be so much easier to not care.
It mattered very little, though; should Sylvanas achieve her ends, neither her val’kyr nor herself would have to fear death any longer, and so with a hardened resolve the Banshee Queen entered the tower of Torghast, her sights set on the most powerful prisoner that resided deep within its torturous chambers.
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Jaina Proudmoore could feel her body weakening. This fight had been endless; a torturous loop that she could not find a way to break. It was a well-choreographed dance, every step decided well in advance of the last as Jaina was forced to follow along to a rhythm of another’s creation. A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of her nose, the sweltering heat from the blazing demon she battled causing her clothing to cling to her as she sidestepped another ball of fire, the base of her staff hitting the stone stage she was forced to perform on as she conjured another ice barrier.
Her mana reserves were nearly depleted, and the toll it was having on her body was making Jaina feel sluggish and weak. Her heart beat heavily in her chest, the rhythm much too slow for the amount of adrenaline she should have had. How long had this fight gone on? When had it started? How long had she been here? Minutes bled into hours and hours bled into days as Jaina struggled to inhale her next breath, the pain as sharp as the point on her next conjured icicle as she tried desperately to keep the demon at bay. In the end though, all it did was deplete her mana even further and achieve absolutely nothing, as magics seemed to only absorb into her foe and make it stronger. Jaina knew she needed to conserve her strength and yet her body acted without thought, a frostbolt building from the last of her reserves before she released it, her stomach sinking in her gut as she realized she was going to kill herself doing this before the demon could even touch her.
“Enough of this!” Jaina bellowed to the one who pulled at her strings. To her, her voice had been loud and commanding, but in reality it was small and weak, her knees beginning to buckle from under her as she tried desperately to reach for something that was no longer there. Her heart was slowing, her eyes growing heavy; she needed to rest, she needed to rebuild that which she had expelled, but she had pushed herself too far, fought too long, and without the mana feeding her life force Jaina’s world blurred as the demon loomed over her, ready for its grand finale.
It descended on her, the heat from its searing coals beginning to burn the flesh from her bones before it even touched her. Jaina’s mouth opened in an agonizing scream, the darkness beginning to consume as she begged for the pain to end, for her to be set free, for it all to just stop.
The screaming ceased, the silence deafening in its infinity.
Jaina opened her eyes, the strength having returned to her body as she found herself on her marker, ready to begin the performance all over again. She looked at the demon in the center of the stage, her chest heaving as her fingers tightened around the staff in her hand, beginning the steps of their intricate and never-ending dance as she moved in the very same way as she had last time, and the time before that, and the time before—
But something had changed. A sound, and then a shift in the air; a presence that had not been there before as curious eyes watched her from a distance. Come out, Jaina wanted to demand. Come out and face me as well, you coward. But that was not in her script, was it? It was not a part of her routine and so Jaina pressed onward, advancing on the demon as though she actually believed she had a hope, a prayer, a chance of winning this endless game. But this time, instead of following the script they had been given, her fate bared down on her, letting out a tremendous roar as it burst into violent flames that caused Jaina to frantically blink away in order to escape the unbearable heat, her chest compressing in disbelief as she watched the demon suddenly be consumed by its own power as it disintegrated into a large pile of smoldering ash before her.
Jaina stopped. Jaina could stop, her feet planting somewhere they never had before, her breathing labored and uneven as the sudden realization that she had bodily autonomy unexpectedly gripped her. She immediately whipped around, knowing that she was not alone. The shadows moved, two red eyes peering at her from the darkness, and a fierce anger settled itself in the center of the Lord Admiral’s chest as she recognized who they belonged to.
The former Warchief of the Horde fell into a mess of shadows and tendrils as she billowed onto the stage that Jaina had been chosen to perform on, her corporeal form looking as though it might have had difficulty reforming, as it took longer than Jaina remembered when she had seen the elf shift between banshee and walking corpse on the battlefield. Truthfully, Sylvanas Windrunner used to encompass something firmly in the middle of the two, but as the woman reformed before her, the shadows retreating from whence they came, Jaina could not help but notice that the woman looked much more dead than she ever had before. Sylvanas’ coloring, while it had always been rather unnatural, had paled to near ash, her skin looking more weathered and worn than it had when she had walked within the mortal realm.
Jaina’s teeth grit as her hand tightened around her staff, keeping herself propped up despite the mental exhaustion of her never-ending torture. “Enjoying the show?”
“I don’t enjoy repeat performances,” Sylvanas responded, her words holding a lingering amusement. She cocked her head, peering at the younger woman curiously. “Do you enjoy giving them?”
Jaina practically growled with contempt. She wished she could just tear into her, bury an ice lance deep into that already frozen heart of hers and shatter it, but Jaina was not stupid. Sylvanas would not have come here if she was not already protected from potential backlash and besides, Jaina was not overly eager to return to the maddening dance she had been forced to replicate an infinite number of times. If she could stay the return of that, even for a moment, perhaps she could save the lingering remnants of her sanity.
“What do you want?”
Sylvanas circled her, falling into the tired routine of predator and prey as she replicated the most overused villain trope. Jaina didn’t even bother hiding the roll of her eyes; of course a former high elf would have a flair for dramatic clichés. “Would you believe me if I told you I’ve just come to talk?”
“Original,” Jaina deadpanned, making a point to not even bother following the banshee with her eyes. Sylvanas Windrunner just had this presence that commanded attention, which was precisely why Jaina refused to give her it. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re just terribly misunderstood, and that perhaps we don’t have to be on opposite sides of this war after all? Because if so, then it seems I’m not the only one forced to recite an overdone script.”
Sylvanas stopped, one of her ears twitching in annoyance at her captive’s tone. “You scoff, and yet you’re closer than you think, Proudmoore.” The elf met her gaze and if Jaina didn’t know any better, Sylvanas looked… tired. Still, it was she who tried to convince Jaina that her desire to keep fighting against the inevitable must be exhausting as she continued, “It drives you mad, doesn’t it— knowing every time how fighting that demon will end, yet being unable to stop it. It must make you feel… very helpless.”
Jaina’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her staff. Although she was certain striking out would lead to disaster, the mage kept her magic hovering close to the surface, just in case. By the hungry look in Sylvanas’ eyes, Jaina wondered if she could feel it. “Helpless is not an adjective I’d use to describe myself, but your concern about my well-being is touching.”
Despite herself, Sylvanas looked almost entertained by her captive’s combativeness. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m concerned about your well-being, Lord Admiral, but truthfully there is little difference between us, in the end.”
Something fierce and angry rose up in Jaina’s chest at those words, the offense and disgust etched into the lines of her expression. “There is every difference between us, you foul, murderous—!”
“And I’m the only one capable of such atrocities, am I?!” Sylvanas snapped, getting dangerously close to a woman whose instincts had taken over. Jaina responded by immediately conjuring five icicles that hovered threateningly over her head and Sylvanas, who had also acted on impulse, looked almost as though she had half-exploded out of her body, six long, black tentacles turned on Jaina as endless shadows poured from her form like billowing mist.
Sylvanas’ glowing red eyes glanced up at the weapons above the other woman’s head and she grinned bitterly. “Choose your next move wisely, because the second you loose an icicle, that demon you’ve become intimately familiar with will return to continue his little games with you.” Blood pumped mercilessly in Jaina’s ears as she refused to back down, although admittedly more out of spite than anything else. Sylvanas’ gaze briefly lingered on the mage’s heaving chest before returning to Jaina’s unnaturally icy eyes, her expression unchanged. “You forget, Proudmoore; the dead have all the time in the world. If you’re not open to speaking with me yet, then I will wait.”
The Banshee Queen took a step back then, reeling back in her shadowed form as she locked the most devastating part of her up in her immortal confines. Jaina still did not shatter her icicles though, allowing them to continue to hang over her head as a warning that she could and absolutely still would loose them on her so long as she was certain that the benefits would outweigh the consequences, even briefly.
“Do you?” Jaina countered, watching a strange expression pass over the elf’s face; it wasn’t quite pained, but it certainly made it seem as though Sylvanas might be struggling with reigning herself back into her body. “Because you look like you’re coming apart at the seams. Time might not be something you have as much of as you might think, Banshee.”
The rest of Sylvanas’ shadowed form finally made its way back into her body, and the corners of her lips curled in bitter amusement. “Your concern for my well-being is touching,” she echoed back to her, and Jaina’s brow quirked in challenge; a promise to Sylvanas that she saw that weakness for what it was, and that she was not going to hesitate using it to her advantage. Which was why Jaina suddenly loosed all of her icicles at once, only half-disappointed that none had actually managed to hit their mark as Sylvanas hissed in fury, falling into the shadows just as they were about to impale her.
Still, Jaina had achieved what she meant to, and that was the important thing.
“Fine, if that is how you wish to play it,” Sylvanas’ disembodied voice echoed through the chamber while the pile of ash in the center of the room immediately reformed into the large fire demon, it’s body being set ablaze with a scorching heat that caused Jaina to back up a few steps, but not of her own accord.
The dance had begun once more.
It would be a steep price to pay, but if being in the Maw for extended periods of time was weakening Sylvanas to some degree, perhaps it would be better to prolong whatever the woman’s endgame was as best she could. It was a dangerous game of chicken, as Jaina put her literal sanity on the line for this theory, but as Sylvanas seemed to have taken an interest in her for whatever reason, the mage knew she would be back. This visit was not just to taunt her— Sylvanas had something to say and Jaina had yet to let her voice it, and by the utter look of frustration on the banshee’s face as she reformed near the entrance of the chamber, Jaina knew this was not how Sylvanas planned for this meeting to go, which only made the mage feel oddly victorious despite her current position, as she had at least succeeded in making one thing difficult for Sylvanas.
“Let’s see if another hundred or so rounds with your inescapable fate makes you change your tune.”
The fire demon howled, Jaina conjured an ice barrier she knew in the end would not protect her, and Sylvanas’ bitter laugh echoed off the chamber walls as the mage was forced to look up at the very thing that might very well break her sanity.
Fuck.
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As it turned out, Sylvanas’ threat was an idle one.
Not that she wished to drive Proudmoore to insanity; the mage was powerful, which meant she was useful, and that usefulness would diminish should the woman’s mental capacity become compromised by being forced to repeat the last couple hours of her life over and over again. Not that the Jailer understood her worth though— his sights were firmly set on the Boy King, and if that was his prerogative then fine, but Sylvanas did not plan to allow something as powerful as Jaina Proudmoore to slip between her fingers just because her partner did not see the mage’s potential.
Besides, it would not hurt to have an alternative should everything fall to pieces, like it so often seemed to. Either way, Proudmoore could be molded into an asset, and to not take advantage of that when she had the chance felt like a grave tactical error. The mage oozed power— it curled off of her like smoke and just to breathe it in reminded Sylvanas of when she was alive and standing near the Sunwell, which was both intoxicating and incredibly dangerous, and meant that Proudmoore's fate had to either be for her to be recruited to the cause… or eradicated so that she would not become a threat to it.
And truthfully, Sylvanas detested wasting potential.
Especially potential that was not just powerful, but intelligent. Sylvanas had come back to the chamber that held the mage a few days later instead of the week that she had threatened, mostly so that she could manipulate Proudmoore into believing she was paying her a kindness by staying the Jailer’s torment of her for at least a couple hours. Unfortunately, when she used the orb outside of the room in order to see what was waiting for her inside, it seemed the mage had already figured out how the chamber actually worked, and was currently seated in the center of the room, her staff laying across her lap with her eyes closed.
Sylvanas pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring as she closed the orb’s connection, watching the image dim back to black. Around her, the shadows continued to whisper and pull at her, but Sylvanas found it lessened significantly while in the tower, although perhaps only because the torment of this place was not meant for her.
Yet.
“Impressive,” Sylvanas begrudgingly admitted. Not many were able to work out how Torghast operated, as each chamber was tailored to take advantage of its prisoners’ weaknesses, which many have a blind spot to.
“Dangerous,” Brynhildr corrected her, and Sylvanas glanced back at one of her val’kyr who hovered a few feet behind her. She knew Brynhildr had meant it as a warning, but in truth this only made Proudmoore more intriguing, which was a goddamn difficult feat to achieve; after nearly a thousand years of life before undeath, Sylvanas had felt as though she had seen most things in the world, but Proudmoore? She felt… different. She felt like something new.
Sylvanas’ tongue pressed against the point of one of her fangs as she grinned wickedly. “The most impressive things always are.”
The heavy door was pushed open with purpose then, the val’kyr fading from view behind her as they allowed Sylvanas to appear alone. “No, don’t get up,” she instructed Proudmoore as she held up her hand to halt the other woman’s movements, the opening of the chamber doors having alerted the mage that she was no longer alone. “You and I both know you would never make it to the door in time unless you used the one thing that would trap you once again in that maddening cycle.”
Behind her, the doors swung closed with a loud bang, locking the two women inside. Proudmoore did not listen of course and had pushed herself off the ground, her gaze firmly locked on the intruder as Sylvanas approached her. “How long did it take you?” the older woman asked, the question more conversational than anything. Truthfully, Sylvanas was curious; by Proudmoore’s demeanor, it seemed like she had been without this relentless torment for at least a little while now. Unlike during Sylvanas’ previous visit, the woman was no longer soaked in sweat, nor did it seem like exhaustion had overtaken her. At most Proudmoore looked… well, a little bored.
“Not long,” the mage responded as she swept her long silver and blonde braid over her shoulder, of course choosing to be nonspecific so that Sylvanas could not get a good read on her abilities. Proudmoore stood tall in her victory, and Sylvanas could not help but drag her crimson gaze over the length of her as she assessed who was before her. At least without the constant hum of arcane hovering just beneath the surface, Sylvanas found it easier to be in the mage’s vicinity, because otherwise the woman was… distracting. “I have you to thank, truthfully— your insistence that the second I used my magic would be when the demon reappeared led me to realize that my instinct to protect myself in that way was what triggered the loop. I’m also fairly certain the reason I am unable to open the door even when I’m free from this is because to do so needs magic, which of course coming from me would only cause the cycle to begin all over again.”
Well, well. She was observant, wasn’t she? Yes, this chamber was set up that despite Proudmoore’s victory, she would still be unable to leave. It was, after all, first and foremost, a jail.
“Regardless, I’m sure now that I’ve figured that out you’ll have some other kind of torture in store for me, so I’ve managed to refrain from celebrating.”
Sylvanas quirked one of her long eyebrows. “I’m not here to torture you, Lord Admiral; nor was it I who was doing it before. The Jailer controls this place, not me. I’m simply… visiting.”
Proudmoore scoffed at that answer. “You may not pull the strings yourself, Banshee, but you’re still complicit if you merely stand aside and watch while others suffer.”
Sylvanas shrugged, walking the length in front of her captive. “It’s a gray area,” she insisted, unperturbed. “Besides, I’d play nice if I were you; I may not have the keys to this place, but I can stay the hand that does in order to give you a brief reprieve should I decide I feel giving.” Proudmoore, of course, only rolled her eyes at that, as the very last thing she planned to do was be thankful for anything Sylvanas provided her, but that had been expected. In time, the mage would appreciate what she could give her. “I know you and your merry band of do-gooders like to paint me as some kind of villain, but I assure you, my reasonings for doing this are sound. One day, you may even thank me. From what I’ve heard, you aren’t exactly the purest soul… are you?”
The mage looked at her as though she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to take that assumption, but that she had definitely decided that it was offensive. “I’m fairly certain the quality of my soul is absolutely none of your Tide’s damned business—”
“You’re right,” Sylvanas interrupted, watching the other woman purse her lips into a tight line, her grip tightening around her staff. “It’s not. I’m not here to judge you, Lord Admiral, but someone else here is, and as I’ve recently discovered, judgment is passed on us based on what we are capable of— regardless of whether or not we have yet to commit the acts that have condemned us. Tell me… does that seem fair to you?”
Sylvanas’ voice stretched, her dark gaze meeting the mage’s. Suddenly, a strange tightness had settled in her chest. Someone, someone had to listen to her— someone had to fucking realize that the afterlife was broken, because Sylvanas could not keep shouting into the wind to no avail. She was close, she was here, but the truth of the matter was that Sylvanas did not fully trust the Jailer to hold up his end of the bargain, and she needed someone on her side that was intelligent enough to open their goddamn eyes and see what was really going on.
And while Proudmoore was not her first choice by any means, at this point she seemed to be the only decent choice that Sylvanas had, and that had to be worth taking the chance on her. Besides, from what Sylvanas had heard, Proudmoore wasn’t like most humans— when presented with her brother being turned into one of the Forsaken she didn’t condemn him, cast him out, or treat him as a monster; she welcomed Derek back to her home as family, which meant that regardless of the mage’s dislike of her, at the very least Sylvanas would be judged and no doubt mistrusted based on her actions alone, and not just because she was undead, which was… frankly a very low bar, but at this point Sylvanas was used to starting at the very bottom with her expectations.
It made it far harder for the world to disappoint her.
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Jaina’s frustration with being so close to freedom yet being unable to escape had been mounting at an alarming rate before she had decided to sit down, close her eyes, and just breathe. Perhaps the cruelest torture of all was even allowing her to figure out how to halt her torment while in this chamber, only for the very thing that condemned her to it being needed to open the door. Jaina had yet to figure out how she could feasibly use magic to escape without summoning the demon, and truthfully a part of her doubted it could even be done. Still, that did not mean that she couldn’t use another to do it for her, which was where Sylvanas came in.
Unfortunately, Jaina was well-aware that the likelihood of getting a jump on the Banshee Queen was very low, as was defeating her in combat when the other woman had access to her banshee abilities and Jaina was left relatively defenseless, as she was unable to use her magic and her hand-to-hand skills were, well… fairly sub-par.
Still, the fact that Sylvanas felt the need to check up on her meant that she wanted something, and that gave Jaina leverage. All she needed to find out now was how best to use her advantage, and that unfortunately meant actually listening to what Sylvanas seemed eager to explain to her, even though the strange reverb of her voice was endlessly annoying. Jaina was fairly certain she was only throwing her voice like that to sound more foreboding, unless the woman’s vocal cords were really that damaged in undeath.
Somehow, Jaina doubted it.
She wasn’t foolish enough to label Sylvanas as desperate though, despite there being an edge to the woman’s tone that could not go ignored and so Jaina indulged her, albeit tentatively— the last thing she wanted to be on the receiving end of was a well-rehearsed manipulation, after all. Her gaze connected with Sylvanas’, her eyes narrowing as she requested elaboration. “What are you talking about?”
Sylvanas’ brow quirked. “I’m talking about all those innocents you would have slaughtered, Lord Admiral, should you have only gone through with your assault on Orgrimmar.”
Jaina sucked in a sharp breath at that, the unexpected answer feeling as though it punched her in the gut. But before she could say anything in response, Sylvanas was already continuing.
“I’m talking about the Purge of Dalaran, and the attempted genocide of the Sunreavers—”
“Genocide?!” Jaina shouted, that word causing her blood to run cold when used in connection to her own actions. Her breathing shallowed, her stomach pulling violently in her gut as she refused to believe that was the reality of it. Sylvanas was twisting it, trying to make it sound far worse than it was, despite the whole thing being a rather bloody affair. “How dare you; you weren’t there— I never meant for anyone to die, but they resisted their exile, they—!”
Sylvanas waved her off, looking wholly unconcerned. “I’m not interested in your excuses— we’ve all done cruel things to achieve our ends, and I am already acutely aware that I am the very last person who could ever judge you for it.”
Well that was fucking true.
Jaina’s chest heaved in anger, but no words came; frankly, it was hard to form a thought. The mage’s hand clenched into a fist, her fingernails digging into her palm as she willed herself to calm down, because Sylvanas was probably her only Tide’s damned chance of getting out of this place.
“My point was that you are capable of genocide, Lord Admiral; not just in that ‘we’re all capable of doing anything’ type of way, but in a very real, soul darkening way. However, you chose not to flood Orgrimmar after all. Your intentions were not for bloodshed in Dalaran. But what if I told you that. Does. Not. Matter?” Sylvanas hissed, accentuating each word in order to drive her point home. The banshee’s crimson gaze searched the other woman’s as she got far too close for comfort. Jaina stood her ground though, refusing to give an inch of space as she stared Sylvanas down, her brow furrowing in anger and confusion.
“What do you mean, that doesn’t matter? Our choices are all that matter—”
“Wrong,” Sylvanas firmly interrupted, bearing her fangs as she attempted to keep her temper in check over the apparent injustice of this system. “When we die, we are not judged on our actions in life, but on our capabilities, which means that pleasant, cozy afterlife you’re looking forward to? It is not meant for someone like you. It’s not meant for someone who has the capability of murdering thousands— innocents, children… even if, in the end, you did not do so. To the Arbiter, it is important only that you hold that kind of darkness inside of you, and regardless of your actions in life you can and will be condemned for that darkness… but not if you help me stop it.”
Jaina’s first instinct was to scoff, and so that was what she did as she stared at the woman in front of her like she had to be insane to truly believe that was how the world worked. But that was the thing, wasn’t it— it very well could work like that. How would Jaina know, really? Though they had their assumptions, no one on Azeroth really knew the inner workings of the system.
It seemed absurd though, to judge people on what they were capable of, rather than what they had done. Truthfully, Jaina was apt to believe that all of this was just bullshit.
Still, Jaina stared at the woman in front of her, realizing there must be more to this story and… despite her better judgment, found herself curious. So, in the interest of trying to get some insight on what the hell Sylvanas and the Jailer were really planning, and in an attempt to get the other woman to trust her so that she may finally have an opening for escape, Jaina kept all of her comments to herself for the time being as she exhaled a long, resigned breath.
“I’m listening.”
TBC…