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A Pact of Earth and Life	By : wanderingaddict Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 2223 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own WoW and I don't make any money off of this.

Chapter List
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Summary:
Keeper Antelarion, Wildlord of the Ruuan Weald, has made a pact to make Blade's Edge prosperous. For many years, he's managed to keep it a secret... but all truths win out eventually.

A decade had passed since the reopening of the Dark Portal, and adventurers had poured through to the shattered world of Draenor - or as it was more appropriately known in the decades since its destruction, Outlands. In that time, Antelarion had progressed from a mere Keeper of the Grove to the Wildlord of the Ruuan Weald, forested home of Evergrove and the greatest bastion of druidic power in all of the Blade’s Edge mountains. It was home to the largest concentration of Cenarius’s Children outside of Azeroth, and site of the first touch of the Emerald Dream on a world that had never before known the presence of that vital, life-giving realm.
He and his sisters had first come to Blade’s Edge to right the wrongs committed by the gronn, by the minions of the Burning Legion. They had stayed for the beauty of the land, its great, barren gorges, shelved with tiered forests wherever water still ran, and the unbelievable colors of the sky above. In all honesty, their work could be accomplished just as easily from anywhere in Outlands, whether it was the verdant plains of Nagrand or the burned-out husk of Hellfire Peninsula. Blade’s Edge was special. For more than just its natural beauty.
Antelarion turned his head to look down at his son, a fawnling, who had already set hoof upon the long path towards mastery of primal nature.
His second child. Impossibly different from the first, given that Natasha was a human girl who had fallen from the sky, while this one was a son, a future Keeper, like himself. Maybe, one day, even more than that. The future Keeper Nightshade was the first of Cenarius’s children to be born outside of Azeroth, with a mate from a race that - to his knowledge - no cenarion had ever taken. When the boy grew quickly, with sure command of all six limbs and a tough hide no thorn could scrape, Antelarion wasn’t surprised. When his son’s purple coloring moved towards a deep, purple-gray, he still wasn’t surprised, and while the fawnling’s leafy hair was a rich, dark red - a hue so dark as to be almost black - Antelarion had thought his son fairly normal for a keeper, if perhaps particularly gifted.
Still, he’d never seen a cenarion, keeper or dryad, conjure that.
“Tell me, Shade,” he began, after his momentary loss for words. “Did you mean to use the earth around it?”
On the ground beside him, his son furrowed his brow. “Mm,” the fawn debated, “Yes.” His nod was final, with all the authority a seven-year-old could muster.
The Wildlord - looking like any noble, powerfully-built night elf male from the waist up - placed his right hand on his son’s back to reassure himself that the boy was wholly real. Then, with his left hand, twisted by the forces of nature into something more plant than flesh, he reached out to tap the little creature. It jolted at his touch, quivering unsteadily, but he could sense no hostility. He breathed a slight sigh of relief.
“Okay, well let’s try releasing it. Like this.” Antelarion gestured at his own creation, a rudimentary lasher created from a weed he’d pulled from the dirt. With a swirl of green particles, the spirit he’d woven into the creature returned to the dream, and plant rooted itself once more. “Can you do that?”
His son, watching attentively, though he had seen it done a thousand times before, scrunched his face in concentration. The little clump of earth he’d conjured shook, then sloughed apart, the magic gone. In its place was the weed Antelarion had asked him to animate.
Nightshade, not nearly as concerned as his father, rose to all fours while he pursued an itch in his hindquarters. Having some assurance that his precocious child had not lost control of his powers, Antelarion was far more confident in forging ahead. He filled his voice with warmth - not hard, given how proud he actually was. Most keepers were twice his age before they were able to pull from the spirits of the Dream. “Good job! Now let’s try it again.”
Perhaps Antelarion might have once hesitated in instructing his son so early, but his concerns had long ago fallen to the wayside in light of the fawn’s natural ability. Even as a little sprout, barely able to walk, Antelarion had sensed the potential in him. A potential that had only grown during the past two years, as his son began to demonstrate a remarkably refined attunement to the earth; it had started with small rocks being thrown during a surprisingly intense tantrum, following a bad tumble from a nasty set of roots outside the village.
The tree was fine, and his son even moreso once he realized it was him that had thrown the rocks. Now it wasn’t uncommon to see him directing small clumps of dirt and pebbles with the same ease his aunts or father showed with plants and trees.
The only real option was to just embrace it. Not that he was particularly surprised, given his son’s lineage. Antelarion directed Nightshade’s attention back to the two little green weeds before them. “Alright, this time I want you to watch me. See how I pull threads from the Dream, and weave them into the roots? Why am I doing that?”
“To give it legs.” His son, sharp as ever. Antelarion pulled at the plant, making its roots step out of the dirt and haul itself up.
“Exactly!” he confirmed, placing a hand on the back of his son’s dark red hair, filled with leaves like any cenarion. “Now, I want you close your eyes, and reach inside of yourself. Pull from the Dream, that green place where all your aunts and uncles live. Where you came from. Can you feel it?” Antelarion waited, waiting for confirmation. When the boy nodded, the Wildlord leaned close. “Good, now push the green place - only the green place, nothing else - out and into the flower. Only the flower, Shade,” he murmured, directing his own energies around the fawn, guiding and stabilizing the forces he drew from.
The weed shook, its little stalk of purple flowers trembling as it twisted and dug into the dirt. Its narrow leaves scooped up handfuls of soil, which extended out into tiny, wiggling arms. Then the creature hauled itself free, its arms turning into legs, while something with the barest resemblance of a face manifested on the fat dirt-clump of its body.
Antelarion was silent, puzzled more than anything else. He had felt his son pull from the Dream. There was no reason for Shade to have failed. “The earth is still there.” It was more of a question than an observation, but the fawn just reached out and scooped the little creature up. It wiggled in his hands, swaying, but remaining upright. “Did you mean for that to happen?” Antelarion finally asked.
“Mm,” Shade debated again, poking the creature with hands yet-untwisted by primal magics. “Yes.” This was just as definitive as the first time.
“Why?”
“It won’t move otherwise. It’s easier. Your way is hard.”
The innocence of it drew a puff of laughter from the elder keeper. “Yes, it is hard. Not many your age can manage even this much.” A thought occurred to him. “Can you do it without the flower? Can you do it with only the earth?”
His son was silent unitl Antelarion placed his hand on his back. “Mm.” His brow furrowed in thought. “No.” He stuck two fingers into what might have been the little elemental’s gut, forcing it to right itself in his palm. “The earth is grumpy and won’t move. I have to trick it.” The fawn shifted, splaying his right side out and rolling most of the weight of his lower body into his father’s. “Does it listen to you?”
“No. It never has,” Antelarion answered readily. He could count the number of cenarions able to pull at the elements alone on one hand. He grappled his son in a bear hug, squeezing him until the boy started laughing. “This is something only you can do, sprout.”
His concentration broken, Shade let the creature crumble apart as he squirmed free. He managed to do so only by getting all four hoofs underneath himself and hauling sideways, though the moment he was free he jumped on Antelarion’s back and tried his best at a bear hug of his own. The Wildlord was game for it until the kid started bouncing up and down on his spine, whereupon his normally handsome night-elf features twisted into the same expression of pain all parents everywhere experienced at some point and he simply reached back and lifted his son up over his head. Then he turned him upside-down for good measure.
Hoofs kicking, Shade chortled and squirmed until his night-elf portion had slid back to the ground, where he got his legs between himself and his father and the elder keeper was forced to let go or risk more blows from his son’s legs. Way too willing to kick, Antelarion thought to himself, wincing where a blow had landed. Far too strong for a fawnling his age, too. His kid was going to be a monster of a keeper.
That put a smile on Antelarion’s face, but it was Shade flipping over and sinking his whole body into the Wildlord’s breast for a hug that made the keeper’s heart melt like butter. He clasped the boy with a squeeze so tight part of him hoped it would never break.
Fawns were rarely so patient, though, and all too soon Shade was squirming free again. Antelarion let him go, patting the boy’s dark coat. Shade was looking off at the horizon, however, where the red-orange sky of the Blade’s Edge shown between the trees.
“Papa, is Mosswood still coming?” he asked suddenly.
The ancient, one of the last native treants of Outlands, was due for a return to Evergrove soon. One of the night elves in the village had already reported speaking to him at the edge of the Weald the day before. “Either this day or the next. Are you excited?”
“Yes!” Shade’s face lit up. “He said,” the fawnling bounced on his hoofs, “He said he is going to take me and ‘Tasha to find scorpid nests!”
Antelarion frowned. Maybe he should explain to the treant that some creatures affected humans differently than plants. His son he wasn’t worried about - cenarions were largely immune to most natural venoms. His adopted daughter, on the other hand… had an unhealthy fascination with the furry little rodent-like insects. And was likely to do whatever she wanted, regardless of whether the treant was there.
Maybe it’d be best if he just made sure she had antivenom with her. Or a scroll of cleanse or something. Antelarion frowned. “That’s great,” he murmured, only half-paying attention to Shade’s excited rambles about scorpids and what they ate.
Stretching, the Wildlord twisted his bare night-elf half from side to side then stood, continuing the twists through his stag-body as well. He paused, communing with the life-giving energies of the Dream, for a moment, before he glanced at the red-orange sky peeking through the terrokar trees surrounding them. It was heading towards late afternoon. He would have to get his son back soon if he hoped to be in the Raven’s Wood by this evening.
“How about we head back to see if he’s arrived?” he interjected. His son was immediately side-tracked.
“Do you think he’s already there?” Shade squealed, and darted past his father. “Do you think ‘Tasha is back from hunting? We could even take him to the cave we found last week!”
“Hey! Get back here!” the elder cenarion called, lifting their mooncloth wrappings. His fawn could barely stand still long enough for Antelarion to do more than drape the green and brown cloth over him, quivering with excitement. Antelarion let him go, moving more sedately, fixing the wrap that marked his status as a Keeper about his shoulders, tightly enough that the sheer mooncloth trailed almost like a cloak over his hindquarters.
Shade bounded ahead of him, but the Wildlord was unconcerned. His Ruuan Sisters - as the dryad coterie that came with him called themselves now - patrolled the Weald frequently, and with the destruction of the arakkoa in Veil Ruuan years earlier, there were few threats in the Weald proper. Oddly enough, the alien forest on this once dying world was safer than the home he’d left behind in Ashenvale.
After cresting one of the few low hills in the Ruuan Weald, Evergrove came into sight; the same smattering of low, night-elf houses clustered around a moonwell that it had been for the past ten years. A sleepy little village seemingly worlds away from anything that mattered.
Some Outlands settlements had prospered. In nearby Zangarmarsh, the Dead Mire had flooded with life-giving water. Distant Shadowmoon Valley’s quakes had settled, where the earth no longer strained against the corrosive touch of demonic hordes. Shattrath, he had been told, was nearing something of the jewel it had once been a century before, combining the beauty of both the blood elves and the draenei, and creating something wholly new in the process.
Not that much of any of it affected the solitary Cenarion Expedition outpost in far-flung Evergrove. The surge of mighty adventurers pouring through the Dark Portal ten years prior had ebbed, faded, then stopped almost entirely once the portals of the Burning Legion, along with its greatest leaders, had been destroyed. In the Blade’s Edge, the mighty Forge Camps that supplied the Legion had been decimated by three-pronged assaults from the Horde, Alliance, and Expedition champions. With the deaths of the legendary Gruul and his sons, a tentative peace had settled over the mountains… and without the influx of adventurers, greatly limited further expansion of its hermetic communities.
To his knowledge, the night elf tree-village of Sylvanaar had not seen any growth since his sister Daranelle had convinced their cousin to immigrate there from Ashenvale. The Mok’Nathal had remained reclusive as ever, with only the champion Rexxar ever making contact, and even then it was most often a scout chancing upon him passing through the Weald. The orcs of Thunderlord Stronghold had continued on as they had for centuries, fighting ogres and attempting to tame the ornery wolves of Blade Tooth Canyon, two activities that had very high mortality rates.
In some ways, the isolation - the seeming slowing of time - was something of a balm. Compared to the turmoil of the last few years in Ashenvale, with the material death of Cenarius, the invasion of the orcs, of demons, of undead and the awakening of unholy powers that had long been dormant…
Antelarion watched his son race ahead of him, a contented smile on his face - a smile he had noticed coming far more frequently than it ever had before. He took a deep breath, centering himself with the cool air of the Weald, so at odds with the baked heat of the canyons outside the forest’s canopy. The realm he had created here - that he and his sisters had created - felt like a piece of that ancient, sacred forest that had burned when the Legion invaded Hyjal.
“Papa! Mosswood is here!” His son’s excited cry interrupted his reverie. The boy patted his father’s flanks, bounded around to the other side and patted them again before he raced ahead, mooncloth wrappings flapping wildly.
The ancient’s head could indeed be seen over the roofs at the far end of the village. It looked as though all of the town’s mortal population had turned out to see the ancient, several dozen night elves and tauren who had long ago pledged to the Cenarion Circle.
His Ruuan sisters had yet to be seen, though he guessed from the lack of his adopted daughter’s presence they hadn’t returned from their journey to Blade’s Gulch. For the moment, it appeared that his friend, Faradrella, was the only other cenarion present.
As always, Mosswood’s visits drew the bulk of Evergrove’s attention. Since every permanent resident of the village had dedicated their lives to the protection of the wilds - and the restoration of those lands in Outlands - the treant’s work on restoring his long-dead forest in the region called Skald was a source of inspiration and hope for many of them. And, of course, he was the only source of news regarding the far north of the mountains. The Broken Wilds, as the land that lay between the Weald and Skald was called, was full of phenomenally toxic creatures; scorpids and winged snakes, even raptors and felboars that all possessed some degree of venom or toxicity. A dangerous trek for any mortal creature, far less so for the hulking treant and his leaf-covered hide.
Shade hovered at the edge of the crowd, waiting for him to catch up. Antelarion’s presence was noted quickly, and the other Expedition members parted with murmurs of “Wildlord.” Used to the keeper’s wishes, the mortals fell back to the village proper, allowing Mosswood and Antelarion a moment apart.
The ancient - clad in the same dark, olive-colored leaves of the terrokar trees that made up most of the Blade’s Edge forests - creaked and groaned as he stood up, his massive wooden body demonstrating every bit of its great age. Still, the Draenor treant made a point of bowing as Antelarion approached.
“Mosswood,” the keeper greeted, performing an artful half-bow in return. “It is good to see you again.”
“It is always an honor, Wildlord. My forest would not be, were it not for your work here.” The ancient had repeated the same words many times before, so Antelarion merely inclined his head in acknowledgment.
He smiled up at the ancient, ignoring the fawn slinking up along his right flank. “I imagine you must have heard much from the villagers already.”
Mosswood croaked, a noise Antelarion had come to realize was the way treants expressed humor. The ancient gestured towards the village with one giant hand. “I am not used to such… busy-ness. It takes me back to just a few years ago, when there were so many mortals around.” It had actually been almost a decade prior, but most plants tended to view time differently. Again, the treant peered down at the keeper. “Do you expect to see more again?”
“Hopefully not. To see so many again would require great chaos to be unleashed on the Outlands.” Antelarion offered a kind smile. “Mortals, for as much chaos as they cause, are usually quite good at dealing with it.”
A great croak echoed from somewhere inside the treant, and he patted his leafy beard. “I have noticed that myself, Wildlord.” Mosswood regained his composure and continued with, “Then I am content with this slow growth of these young races in these lands. Even if not all of your kind are.”
The slight inflection made it clear he was talking about another cenarion. The Wildlord had a good idea as to who. “I take it Faradrella has been speaking with you.” Too serious to join the frivolous antics of the Ruuan sisters, too dedicated to extending the Dream to Outlands to pause her work… the dryad - a descendant of the great keeper Ordanus - badly needed an outlet outside of the village.
“Her work is fascinating. But she seems to chafe. She asked that I accompany her to the southern parts of the mountains. I am told there is another treant, one of your world. Deeproot.”
Antelarion looked at the ancient, his leaf-green brows creased. “Aside from Treebole, I have not known you to be particularly sociable with others of your kind.”
Croaking his amusement, Mossbeard combed his fingers through his beard, dislodging a number of dried leaves. “Ho ho, my kind are slow. Their brains are made of lichen and dust. I prefer mortal company.”
“She could not entice you then.” Part of the keeper was disappointed for the dryad. A trip to Sylvanaar - and the handsome, eligible night elves there - might have served as a fine distraction for her. At least one that would get her to stop pacing about the village most of the day.
Mosswood considered. “Perhaps in a few years, when my trees are not so small and fearful of my absence.” He shook himself, straightening slightly, and leaning to peer over Antelarion’s shoulder. “Speaking of, where is your own little seedling?”
The Wildlord’s son, whom Antelarion knew was both drawn to and intimidated by the great ancient, peaked out from his father’s foreleg. “I’m here,” he announced.
Mosswood crouched down, loud popping noises sounding from his legs. “You, little one, grow much faster than my saplings.” His voice was warm. “How many rings have you now?”
Suddenly shy, Shade looked down at his hoofs. “Seven.”
The great tree inclined his head, the dark, olive-colored leaves of his beard rustling. “A fine age for any sapling. You have grown well. Have you started weaving Life, as your father?”
Still looking down, the fawn nodded. He pointed at the ground, his red brows furrowed in concentration, and with a little swirl of green energy a tiny little creature made of earth popped out. It had a dandelion growing out of its head. It seemed confused, and its legs - far too thin to support its body - could barely keep it upright. But, it was a success, especially for one so young.
Mosswood leaned close, his great wooden face practically level with the two cenarions, and scrunched his eyes as he peered at the earthen creature. “Impressive,” he said, “You could only manage flinging pebbles at me a year ago.”
Shade flushed, dropping to his knees to play with his little creation. Sensing the young one’s withdrawal, Mosswood turned to speak to Antelarion.
“Your sprout commands the earth. I was lead to believe that was not a capability of your kind.”
“It is not.” In truth, Antelarion had a very good idea as to where that power came from, but he had avoided sharing it for long enough that he felt no need to disclose his thoughts now. Instead, he noted his other concern. “But he is the first of my kind to be born on a world so far from the Emerald Dream. Even I, born in that realm, can feel its distance.”
The treat’s wooden quirked. “Ah, yes, this Dream.” He turned thoughtful, rising back to his full height and turning to look out over the Weald. Antelarion waited, stroking his son’s leafy hair. Eventually, Mosswood seemed to decide on what he wanted to say, for he turned back and gestured expansively towards the wilds. “There was a time, once, many years ago. Creatures not unlike your kind walked the lands, bringing life, healing, to the scars the mortals created. Scars the elements created. Once I thought it was they that kept this world whole.”
Antelarion had suspected as much. Felt hints at another presence, though it was only ever in passing. But something in the Draenor ancient’s voice caught his attention. “Once?”
“The Primals, as we called them then, were not the only ancient forces at work. Creatures of stone, of wastelands, of dust and dirt fought them at every turn. I myself once battled them, back when the gronn obeyed their call. We called them the Breakers. I thought they were evil, wanting the world to be dust and stone, but now... ” A great sigh resounded from the ancient. Antelarion could not help but interpret it as one of sorrow. “Both Primals and Breakers have vanished with the Shattering. In their absence, I can’t help but think of all the life that spawned in the wake of their great conflict.”
Strange, that this bit of lore would emerge, in light of the keeper’s comments about the mortal races earlier. Still, he was grateful for both the treant’s revelations, and his understanding. “This world has suffered grievous harm at the hands of mortal folly.” The loss of those guardians of the natural forces… no wonder the world had shattered.
“Yes.” Mosswood’s agreement was short. Curt. “Yes.” Then he was silent for another long while. Long enough for several of the small, brown birds native to the Weald to land on the ancient and chirp at one another.
“But it has experienced healing too.” The continuation of his thoughts was so sudden that Antelarion glanced at him in surprise. Mosswood turned, looking down at him, and the keeper gestured for him to continue. The ancient shifted his gaze to his blackened fists, fire-scarred from centuries of battling elementals, demons, and terrible magics. His fingers curled, then, with another sigh, a lighter one, they released.
“For nearly a century, after my forest burned, I could think of nothing but rage. Of the inevitable destruction of this world. But now look - I see the growth of new trees, and my forgotten forest blooms with life once again. Perhaps the spirits of my lost kin will find their way back to the ironroot trees I have planted, and achieve sentience once more.
“I did not have hope that this land could heal. Not without the Primals, the Breakers. Not without their conflict.” He paused, working sap through his mouth, then waved at an open hand at the keeper. “When I see you, however, so like them - like the ones that guided us… when I hear you talk about the beauty of the Dream, I wonder if there might be room for new life yet.”
Mosswood bent, laying an open hand before Shade, who still occupied himself with his little creature - though Antelarion suspected the fawn had taken in more than he let on. His son looked up at the treant in surprise, but grinned and directed his wobbling summoning into Mosswood’s great palm, where it looked like little more than a pebble. The treant lifted the creature to his face, studying it as intently as the trembling creation seemed to study him. He nodded, lowering his hand to Shade, returning the summoning. “And when I see your seedling,” he continued, “born of my world, commanding both stone and plant, weaving them together…” The ancient’s mouth hung open, and no words came out.
Antelarion waited. When Mosswood finally spoke, it was with a lightness to his voice that the keeper had only heard once before, when the ancient had reclaimed the Skald. “My leaves tingle, my wood swells, and it is as though I can feel the rain drenching the woodlands of my youth once again.” A sigh, sounding not unlike the wind over the tops of the terrokar trees, escaped the treant. Mosswood turned his face back towards the keeper while gesturing at Shade. “Powers such as his might be what sees this world restored to its great beauty.”
Powerful words. Kind words, considering Antelarion’s deepest fears about his son’s abilities, and how far this realm lay from the Dream. Fears he never gave voice to, but ones that still lurked, on occasion, in the back of his head. He retreated from then, focusing on the present moment instead.
A healed Draenor was a wonderful thought. One that the Wildlord would not have expected from the battle-scarred ancient. He reached out and touched Mosswoodt’s arm - with his wooden hand, not his flesh. “I hope to see that beauty, some day, as well.”
Through his vine-twined fingers - at this point more like claws than a hand - he could feel the pulse of the spirit that dwelled within treant, so like the spirits of Azeroth and yet so much… more. Whatever Draenor had been, its spirits - at their peak - must have been remarkable.
And perceptive. “That is your purpose here. Is it not?” Mosswood asked, though it was obvious it wasn’t a question. He nodded towards the small, druidic village, houses built around a moonwell, their walls made of living wood, from plants native to the Outlands. “To study this broken world. To see if it can be salvaged.”
For a moment, Antelarion considered telling him the truth; the ancient had been a long-time friend to Evergrove, and the Cenarion Circle inhabitants. Telling him that their purpose was manifold, and that ‘salvaging’ Outlands might mean many different things.
Instead, he went with what he hoped was his better judgement. “You are wise, Mosswood. You see much.” Certainly more than most, particularly what mortal adventurers remained, Horde and Alliance alike. “Many assume we’re just a band of ‘strange druids,’ flitting about because of a love of nature.” The keeper let his tone convey his thoughts on the matter. “But yes, the fate of this world is why we have stayed, why the Expedition has stayed. Despite the turmoil on our homeworld.”
“Then you, too, must have hope. You must also see the changes that have been wrought.” Mosswood peered at him intently, eyes searching.
“I see many changes.” The keeper shifted his weight, waving his flesh-hand towards vast plateau that separated Blade’s Edge from what had once been Farahlon. “The storms from Netherstorm have faded. The lands to the east no longer buck or sway. The demons that corrupted these mountains have been banished, and life flourishes.” Sure, it had taken a veritable army of powerful adventurers, but the land had been cleansed nonetheless. Antelarion spread his warped hand, conjuring forth a flare from the ley-line that now thrummed from the healed wilds. “To the north, a new forest grows, one with the nascent beauty of growth, no different than after that of a wildfire,” he explained, passing his free hand through the green flames, the dry heat of the Skald rippling outwards. The tall cenarion paused, looking up at the Draenor ancient. He let the spell fade. “And I see an old, tired treant shake the empty nests from his beard, I see him peer at the world with eyes that contain a spark of the sapling he once was, before the Shattering.”
The great treant was silent, after he finished. Though he could sense something within the ancient stirring, Antelarion again chose to wait, part of him wondering if Mosswood had been aware of the difference he’d seen in the ancient.
When he finally spoke, it was with the weight and wisdom of all his kind, and with words that seemed to come from a train of thought that had been long in the making. “Perhaps, if our world had had the wisdom of your kind, these things would not need to be said.”
Antelarion inclined his antlered head, lower this time than before, acknowledging the place from which those words came. Still, he demurred with, “My world has the wisdom of many races. Surely you can see that, with the change that has come to Outlands. Cenarions, the kaldorei. The tauren, the trolls. The humans.” Shade came around from wherever he’d occupied himself and rubbed along the Wildlord’s flank, so he reached down to stroke his son’s leafy red head. “And the guidance of dragons,” he added, reflectively.
The ancient puffed, another croak, though much smaller than the others. “And now, my world has all those races. Even dragons.”
“Even dragons,” Antelarion echoed. He looked back up at the treant, hesitant. “Do you encounter many of Sabellion’s brood?”
“Occasionally. The drakes find easy prey in the low trees of the Skald. I do not speak with them.” He spoke dismissively, and the Wildlord could imagine his disinterest. The paranoid, reclusive black flight and the Draenor ancient likely had very little in common. Especially with how rude the young drakes of the flight could be. Compared to the nobility of the Red dragonflight or the mystic wisdom of the Green, the Black dragonflight of Draenor - while blessedly sane, Antelarion hoped - did not exactly live up to the guardian legacy they came from.
“Treebole speaks highly of them, however.” The interjection made Antelarion glance up sharply. Mosswood shrugged and elaborated with, “He appreciates their devouring the Grishnath, and the fact that they have no interest in him or his leafbeards.”
Antelarion stroked his clean-shaven chin. “In my homeland, they were monsters.” He considered the treant’s words; Treebole was reserved, as all the Blade’s Edge ancients were, and measured in his praise to say the least. Still, it was heartening to hear that the forces of the wilds were at least tolerant, if not particularly fond, of the young black dragonflight in Outlands. Seeing Mosswood’s silent inquiry, the Wildlord gestured at the mountains in the distance. “Here, they devour cultists. Kill gronn.” The cenarion keeper shook his head, the leaves threaded through his hair rustling. “It is strange, these twists of fate.”
“Perhaps there is hope for them, too, then.” The genuine warmth in the treant’s voice had Antelarion’s head snapping back up towards him. The great tree gestured widely. “Change - good change - is on the wind, Wildlord.”
The keeper stared at him, uncertain, but wanting to believe. “I am surprised, Mosswood,” he said finally. “I’ve never known you to view the future as being so bright.”
“Well.” Mosswood shrugged, turning away. “It is hard to lose oneself in rage when there’s nothing to fight, and an entire forest of saplings to care for.”
The momentary grin on Antelarion’s face was real, honest, and perhaps a part of him just wanted desperately to believe, but hearing the ancient’s thoughts was a validation he had been seeking for some time. The keeper quickly schooled his features, however, his handsome, kaldorei features returning to his customary neutrality. He was about to speak again when one of the bright orange monarchs that frequently accompanied his Ruuan Weald sisters fluttered by.
“Papa,” Shade urged, pushing at his flank. “Papa, they’re back!”
Unable to contain himself, the fawnling galloped off down the trail leading out of the village. Mosswood looked at Antelarion, inquiring. The Wildlord smiled. “My sisters have returned.”
Indeed, almost as soon as he said it a flurry of butterflies and bouncing dryads appeared at the far end of the trail, laughing and chatting and waving wildly at anyone who approached them. Shade was swept right up in hugs from every single one of his Ruuan Weald aunts, who all possessed the inexplicable and probably magical ability to each find something to pick at or groom on him.
“I have always meant to ask,” Mosswood stated, interrupting Antelarion’s amusement at his son’s struggles, “Why are they colored so differently.” The keeper looked up at the treant in confusion. Mosswood gestured at the brilliantly colored Weald sisters, all autumn reds with skin of emerald green, then at Antelarion’s own muted, dusky purple skin and green-leaf hair. “Are their seasons simply at odds with yours?”
“Ho, no.” The keeper shook his head. “They are of my cousin, Keeper Marandis’s descent. They come from a wild land, a red land of rock and desert and sun-baked cliffs. With needle-like trees that rarely bear fruit.” That last bit was added for the treant’s benefit.
Mosswood indicated his understanding. “Then these mountains must feel like home to them.”
Watching his son - colored the same as the land he was born to, with red hair so dark it was almost black and dusky skin that matched rock not found on Azeroth - Antelarion felt the ancient’s words hit deeper than he could ever know. “Home,” he mused. "Maybe more than to any other cenarion.”
Unsettled by what that could mean, the Wildlord moved aside from Mosswood, a slight shift in stance that made it clear to the returning sisters that the time for privacy was over. Cenarions, butterflies, and one sixteen year-old human girl all rushed up to them, baskets bulging with spoils from Blade’s Gulch and all of them chattering excitedly. Antelarion let most of them stream past him to greet Mosswood, save for the human girl. Her, he snatched at and rolled into a one-armed hug. “Natasha.”
She struggled, as embarrassed as any teenager to be seen with a parent. “Father! Mossbeard is here!”
Antelarion’s mouth quirked. “I can see that. Before I let you pull him into the Weald, however, I remind you…”
“Yeah, I know! I’m watching Shade tonight!”
“Just so.” Antelarion released her, nodding towards Mosswood. His daughter dashed over to the ancient, older, but still not old enough to resist flinging herself against the treant’s leg and wrapping her arms about it.
“Oh!” Mosswood exclaimed, swinging his upper body with the care of a being long-used smaller, easily crushable creatures scampering around it. He plucked her up by her leather pack, setting her down by her brother. “Hello, little huntress. Are you going to show me the secrets of the Weald today?”
“It’s been over a year, Mossbeard! So much is different!” Natasha began. “There was an avalanche over in the west. That stream with the small blue fish drops into the canyon now! It’s so green down by the pool there!” The human flung her single braid back and started listing the changes on her fingers. “Sixteen raptors started lairing near the Blade’s Gulch trail, and Samia says that she’s seen Wyrmcult cultists start collecting their eggs -”
“No Wyrmcult,” Antelarion interjected firmly.
“I wasn’t-!” the human protested, her young face tightening.
“No helping Samia with the Wyrmcult either,” he added, trusting neither his daughter nor the shifty ‘human’ that she hung about with.
Natasha shot him a dark look that he held firm against. She proved just as stubborn as he, lasting until he raised one leaf-green brow. “I wasn’t going to help Samia,” she muttered, mustering the aplomb to continue her list. “There was a fire, and tiny silkwings have nested all around it, and we even found a secret lair!”
“We’re going to show you the Cave,” Nightshade intoned, breaking his silence with something that sounded surprisingly ominous for all that it was actually little more than a two-room indentation in the cliffs to the east.
“Oh, you are coming with us, sprout?” Mosswood asked, looking to Antelarion.
Mouth twisting, the Wildlord indicated Natasha and Nightshade. “Alas, I have duties I must attend to this evening. My children will have to suffice until my return on the morrow.”
The Draenor ancient laughed. It was a kind laugh, gentle, rich with amusement. “As if I did not have enough saplings at home.” He gestured for them to lead the way. “Come little ones, show this tired old treant what new marvels you have found.”
The two young ones dashed off, attracting the attention of some Ruuan sisters in the process. Seeing their distraction, Mosswood paused to say goodbye to the keeper. “I thank you again, Wildlord.” His voice was low. “This time for your words, in addition to your deeds.”
“And I thank you, Ancient of Skald, for your friendship.”
They bowed their heads in parting, Antelarion’s son bouncing around his sister with the boundless energy only a fawn could possess and already yelling for Mossbeard to hurry, brave now that there was the promise of adventure.
He watched them trundle out of sight, picking up a couple of dryads along the way. Good. While his Ruuan sisters could be flighty, they were dedicated aunts to both the human and the fawn.
Adjusting his wrappings, the Wildlord noticed another of his sisters, waiting with a patience uncommon to Marandis’ bloodline. But then, she was of far different stock than the dryads of Stonetalon.
“Faradrella,” he greeted. “Mosswood said he had spoken with you.”
The dryad hesitated, brushing one of the small blue and purple butterflies flitting about her hair away. “Wildlord,” she greeted, “... Yes.” Antelarion watched her move closer, the one other cenarion in Evergrove clad in the purple skin and green-leaf hair of Ashenvale. She fiddled with the vines that twined about her arms. “He has not been to Sylvanaar. I’d hoped he might take interest in the work the kaldorei have done there.”
“And an interest in Deeproot.”
Faradrella grimaced. “I don’t understand why the ancients here shy away from the ones of Azeroth. We could learn so much if they would just - gah!” She threw up her hands, exasperated.
“It is frustrating, isn’t it.” Antelarion shrugged in commiseration and moved to one of the open-walled pavilions at the edge of the moonwell’s plaza. He settled, sideways, on a low divan and motioned for her to join him. “But their ways are different. Deeproot respects their seclusion. Perhaps in a few decades they will feel different.”
“And it’s already been one decade. ‘What’s one or two more?’” she mimicked, sullenly settling beside him to look out over the village.
With the excitement of Mosswood gone - and probably worn out by the little bit of social interaction - most of the hermetic villagers had retired to their homes. His remaining Weald sisters laughed and cavorted about the moonwell, taking jugs from the sacred spring and bathing each other in the water’s restoring properties, an act that once had garnered the attention of any adventuring male (along with quite a few women) for miles, but now just served as entertainment to some fat birds that sat on the moonwell’s spirit-gate. Sadly, the birds didn’t seem all that interested.
A rare breeze picked up. What passed for summer in this broken world was nearing its end. Antelarion could taste the season’s shift in the air. So could the druidic community of Evergrove, it seemed, for many of them had taken to picking and drying whatever sweet summer crops they could get their hands on. When the living-wood houses, with their dark-tiled roofs, lit by the soft blue glow of kaldorei lanterns, and the brilliant red-orange sky - separated from the village only by tall, spindly terrokar trees - were taken as a whole, the home the Cenarion Expedition had built in Blade’s Edge was picturesque. Peaceful. Almost something out of a kaldorei fairy tale.
And Antelarion could understand how one might find it terribly dull to live in every day. “Our work is terribly slow, isn’t it,” he offered.
Faradrella made a sad noise of agreement. “Without the Legion, it’s hard to fill all that time I used to spend slaying demons. On Azeroth, if I were not tending to Bough Shadow, I would be fighting satyrs in Xavian. Satyrnaar. Healing Ashenvale. Not…”
“Sitting idle, waiting for a connection to take root?” A bitter pill for one of the most gifted students of Keeper Ordanus - the only keeper to master the arcane - to swallow.
The dryad dug her fingers through her long, ivy locks - dislodging the butterflies again. She scowled. “The work is an honor. I am the only one, aside from my grandfather, or maybe Ysera herself, that might see it bear fruit.” Her scowl faded, and her eyes - softly glowing, like all of Elune’s descendants - turned distant. “But that fruit is a long time coming, and Evergrove has none of the excitement of Ashenvale.”
“Excitement.” That was certainly a word one could use to describe the constant battles against demons, orcs, the felspawn that plagued Ashenvale. Antelarion’s mouth turned stern. “I tired of the war long ago.”
“Some seek to start anew. Some reclaim what was lost.” His companion shrugged, saying no more. The keeper, surprised by - and reminded of - the dryad’s keen intellect, watched her for a moment.
Since coming to Outlands, he had admired her drive. Like most of their sisters, she was fearless in battle, and zealous in pursuit of a goal. The Ashenvale dryad was also far more solitary than even most cenarions, however, even for one of Ordanus’s descent. It was her utter lack of interest in any leadership role that had placed him as Wildlord of the Ruuan Weald, on top of the magic-intensive duty of renewing frayed leylines. Faradrella caught him studying her. She flushed. “It was just a thought, brother.“
Antelarion shook his head. “No, Fara, you’re right. I had not thought of it in such terms, but my love for this land is no doubt driven, in large part, by a head unburdened by memory. There are no ruins of fallen empires here. No demon-infested wilds. Blade’s Edge is… pure.” He shrugged. “For lack of a better term. And the Weald has become… more of a home than Ashenvale.” The cenarion fell silent after that. Admitting it aloud gave him pause. His mouth worked a moment before swung his antlered head back to the dryad. “What would you grow, if you were to start anew?”
She picked at the leaves covering her breasts, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t know,” the dryad muttered, sighing. “What would you have grown, if not for your children?”
A puff of air escaped his lips. “A tough question. An alliance, I imagine.” At her inquiring look, he elaborated with, “Between the black dragonflight and the rest of Blade’s Edge. Thunderlord Stronghold and Sylvanaar. The mok’nathal and the gnomes.” No small task, but the gronn had seen them united before. The keeper had no doubt they could unite again, especially if it meant a healing of the land. Between the black dragons, orc shamans and kaldorei druids, they likely could have managed something in the way of restoring what had once been Gorgorond.
In reflection, however, he realized he had no regrets about focusing on Evergrove, on Natasha and Nightshade. The human girl - fallen from the sky, tossed from the strange bird he had seen in the distance - was an effervescent light, flickering wildly, but reminding him of his own distant youth millennia ago. As much as he wished she would learn even a single spell, he was proud that she had chosen to forge her own path as a ranger, following the Weald sisters in their hunt.
His son, of course, was another matter. He liked to think that raising an abandoned human had prepared him for the new, for the foreign, but Shade was… something so much more than he had ever dreamed. Not his first child, but the first where the other parent was of another race entirely. The first he had raised himself, instead of leaving in the care of those in the Dream.
Both new experiences. Both made his chest swell with pride. And Evergrove… Evergrove had gone from makeshift camp to permanent home.
He said as much, to the Ashenvale dryad, partly for her sake and to some degree his own. “As much as I might have accomplished, I think it is still important to keep in mind that time is one thing we have in abundance, here in Outlands.” Antelarion gestured with his vine-twined hands. “This isn’t Azeroth. There are no Old Gods buried beneath our feet. There are no portals for the Legion to access. There is no great destruction we are constantly fighting against. There is… only what we have to make of it.”
Antelarion looked to her for a reaction, but the dryad merely seemed lost in thought. Fortunately, she did seem to be considering his words, if nothing else. The Wildlord noted the deepening reds of the sky, and rose to his hoofs. “Ah, time passes. I must go.”
“To the Raven’s Wood?” Antelarion nodded, trotting away. The dryad leapt up, following beside him. “I’ll accompany you.”
He paused, twisting at the waist to eye the shorter cenarion. “Only so far as the canyon.” His tone made it clear that there could be no argument.
“Of course, brother.” The dryad was immediately demur, folding her hands behind her back and dipping her head. Antelarion slowly turned away, his gaze lingering warily, before he continued walking. Faradrella gave him a respectful lead, for a moment, before she quickly bounded back up beside him. “Though perhaps you might finally reveal the purpose of your sojourns in the Wood?”
Having studiously avoiding piquing much interest in his travels to the Wood for the past ten years, Antelarion refused to take the bait. “That bored, sister?” he merely asked, instead.
Knowing she was caught, Faradrella flashed him a grin. “Is there aught else for me to do?” She waved dismissively to the north. “The ancients have the woods to the north well in hand. Or limb or whatever.” The Wildlord’s mouth cracked slightly at that. “Commander Skyshadow and Twoclaws do well in fighting the ogres to the south. Since the last death of Terokk, the arakkoa are scattered, and the Legion’s touch on this land is but the passing of an oily breeze.”
“In short, there is no battle, no bloodsport, and the tentative growth of the Dream is slow,” the keeper concluded for her.
“By Cenarius it is!” Faradrella flounced, tossing the wild mane of green and ivy on her head. Her butterflies, long used to her sudden movements, fluttered back down without pause.
“A whole new world to explore, one where we can see, first-hand, its restoration from the Legion’s corruption, and you’re bored already.” Her scowl made him chuckle. “Is it only battle that satisfies you, Fara? When did the years start to weigh so heavily that only the rush of adrenaline can perk you up?”
“Stop, you make me sound worse than my grandfather.” That actually got him to laugh; no cenarion liked battle so much as Ordanus. “But…” He looked at her. She sighed. “I’ll admit that… perhaps the past few years have felt longer than others.”
That was all Antelarion needed to confirm something he had been suspecting for quite some time. “Perhaps you mean since the Treewarden left, then.” The slight color in her cheeks filled in the rest. The keeper cocked his head. “I had not thought you cared so much for his company.”
“It wasn’t his company I liked,” she muttered, almost low enough, but not so low the keeper’s sharp ears didn’t catch it. He smirked.
“It wasn’t his company that a lot of the other sisters liked either.”
The flush - and its almost immediate fade into laughter - appeared to unblock something that had been long-stoppered in the dryad. Her face transformed from stern beauty to something far more relaxed, even youthful. The Wildlord realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her so open.
Whatever it was, the dryad practically glowed, her eyes dancing as she gushed about Chawn. “Tauren are soooo big, Antelarion! They feel so good and can satisfy you in a way no visit to Sylvanaar can mirror!” She flushed, looking sideways at him. “I mean, they’re no keeper, but where would anyone find another cenarion out here.”
While he was flattered, his preferences had been no secret for centuries. He let it pass without comment, directing the conversation back to her. “Our Ruuan sisters seem content with the company there.”
“Our Ruuan sisters spend their time cavorting in the Weald or in the Dream, without a care for anything else.” She sniffed. “They would be content with kaldorei.”
Her disdain made him smirk. “They lack your… sophisticated tastes, you’re saying.”
“Antelarion, on Azeroth, my home was Bough Shadow. Who do you think gave Phantim and Dreamstalker their taste for cenarion flesh?”
The two guardian drakes of the Dream Portal in Bough Shadow had long been known for their lascivious interests. The running joke for almost two hundred years now was that - even if all other green dragons were to perish - those two could see the flight repopulated in just a few decades. Still, he had to chuckle at her claim. “So you’re the one to blame for their reputations?” In truth, he could readily imagine the reclusive dryad being the catalyst for their cenarion lust. Still waters run deep, after all. He could hardly claim to be any different.
“I may have had… some help.” The flush in her cheeks had crept down to her neck at this point, making her light-purple skin almost violet. “But it must be really obvious if you could guess so easily. When did you notice? I thought I’d been discreet with Chawn.”
“You know as well as I that our sisters are terrible gossips.” “But they only speculated. I just happened to put a connection together.” “You know it’s not the work that bores you, Fara. I don’t even think it’s Evergrove. I think it’s something else you miss.”
“Something big, thick, and can make me squeal?”
He refused to be phased. “Am I wrong?”
She didn’t respond for some time. It wasn’t until the terrokar trees started to thin, pulled into odd shapes by the winds at the edge of the canyon, that she spoke. “Do you not get lonely?” Seeing Antelarion draw breath, she quickly added, “I mean, I know you have your children, but... “ she trailed off. “At least for the physical, if nothing else?”
His response was simple, though not unkind. “My needs get met, Fara.”
“When!” The dryads quick steps started clicking loudly as she trotted beside him. Faradrella scowled at him. “And don’t tell me in the Dream, because we both know that barely counts when we’re so far out here.”
Unfortunately, the dryad was right about the Dream; where normally any cenarion might be able to find a path to the Emerald Dream in their sleep - and meet with others of their kind, even to just chat if nothing else - finding that route from Outlands was difficult, to say the least. Like fighting through layers of cobwebs and roots. Even after arriving, the glory of the Dream - where colors were brighter, fruit sweeter, the natural world still existed in a primordial state - was muted. Distant. Removing it was the reason Faradrella had come on the decades-long mission.
The friendship they had formed over the past decade, while deep, and certainly unique, was still not even to see Antelarion open up that much. “My path through the Raven’s Wood sees to it, for one.” His words were cryptic intentionally. He had no interest in anyone discovering what happened when he was alone in the Wood. Seeing her disatisfaction, the keeper continued quickly. “But we all see our needs met in our own ways.”
“If you wish, I could ask the Ruuan sisters to take over your duties while you travel elsewhere. They’re due for more responsibility, while Rexxar might know one among the Mok’Nathal who might be…” The keeper gestured to their cervine hindquarters. “So inclined.” The legendary hunter might himself be, Antelarion added silently.
They reached the landbridge that spanned Daggermaw Canyon, the only overland means of reaching Raven’s Wood. The massive span of dusty, pale, sun-baked rock arched, over nearly a mile drop, to the narrow crevasse on the far side that would take him into the shadowy silence of the Wood. Antelarion turned, placing a hand on the leaves covering the dryad’s shoulder. “I mean it. Take some time off.”
“I’d have to train them.” Her mouth scrunched up into a very pretty little moue. “And even then, I don’t think they’ll be able to do much more than keep the leylines from fraying. But perhaps you’re right.” The dryad held out a moment longer, but finally released a heavy sigh, unfolding her arms. “I’ll… I’ll see to it, Wildlord.”
“Our time in Evergrove is only just beginning, Fara.” Antelarion reached out, through the distant Dream-realm, to brush a handful of Life energy over her. The dryad - startled at first - realized what had happened and let out a chuckle as innervating mana filled her. This time her sigh was not from frustration. “I would see you happy here. Do something for yourself tonight.”
“I said I will see to it, Wildlord,” Faradrella asserted, though there was a good-natured spark in her eyes. She bowed, so, nodding his dismissal, the keeper strode across the Daggermaw Span - heading for darkened boughs of the Raven’s Wood on the other side of the canyon.
The dryad didn’t leave immediately, though. Instead, she watched him trot across the bridge, her gaze squarely on his powerful haunches.
Like any keeper, the Wildlord’s hind-end was that of a massive stag, brown-dappled, muscular buttocks crowned with the brilliant tuft of a white tail. Like any cenarion, he gave no thought to dressing his hindquarters - and from behind, much of what made the keeper a male was on display. Faradrella had long been used to the sight - but, from time to time, whenever her blood was particularly stirring - she would need a moment or two to settle down. The dryad bit her lip, one hand pressing down on her doe-hindquarters, as if the pressure alone could provide release.
By Cenarius, she… needed release. Nothing in the village would help her. Fara thought back to Antelarion’s words earlier, pursing her mouth in thought. She chewed her lip.
Maybe...

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Notes:
Lore bits:
Keepers and Dryads are the male/female members of a race called "Cenarius's Children." I use the term "cenarions" for short.
Cenarions have extremely high nature resistance, and descend from the demigod Cenarius, the progenitor of their race.
Wildlord Antelarion, Faradrella, Natasha, and Mosswood are NPCs of Evergrove. Hemathion is a rarespawn black dragon in Blade's Edge.
In Frozen Throne, Illidan seals all Burning Legion portals to the Outlands. My headcannon is that he did not "randomly go crazy" and those portals are still sealed. Outlands is a pretty nice place as a result of slaying Kil'jaedan.
A/N: So yeah I haven't posted here in years but figured I'd add this to the WoW fandom here and see if there's any life left in WoW m/m. Let me know if adding more is of interest to anyone.
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A Pact of Earth and Life