Tyrande's Indulgence

Princess Kael’thas Sunstrider languished, long-suffering, in one of multiple semi-secret Silvermoon apartments of the Sunstrider dynasty, high above Silvermoon City. Having cast herself upon a blood red chaise longue, at once artfully, gracefully, but also with a grand helping of performative distress, she looked out onto eternal summer, the millennia-old home of her people, and of her family. In all of Quel’thalas, there was not a single, suitable someone, no one of equal or greater power, equal or greater accomplishment, whom she could submit herself to. Not a soul as well-equipped as she desired, and even if there were but a dwindling handful of such people, they were not of the requisite pedigree and status. Of course, she was confined to the apartment, more or less. So she had been given to understand. As such, unless one of the precious few worthies came up and knocked on the door, was let in and allowed to see her, it was more or less irrelevant.

With a grand, audible sigh, a thing acted out so as to impress upon her guards how dutiful and yet anguished she was, Kael’thas rolled upon the chaise to lie on her back. A supporting pillow at the small of her back, and behind her head. Caught the scent not just of the summer and its myriad dry, clean, sunbaked smells, but also of opportunity. Metaphorical, of course.

The kaldorei diplomatic delegation ought to have arrived already, and with them, they brought excitement. A possibility of change, of experiencing something new. They brought the brash and forward and impetuous and terribly handsome High Priestess – presumably. It was possible that someone else, perhaps their sentinel general, would have been chosen to represent the night elves, but it seemed unlikely. The last time the kaldorei had come to Quel’thalas to reaffirm ancient, amicable ties, the High Priestess and Kael’thas had shared several long and not entirely chaste looks, at least, so Kael’thas told herself.

Whether that was mere imagination or a truth that the intervening two decades had merely dulled in her mind would be proven soon enough. Tyrande would, presumably with delegation in tow, attend noble society in Silvermoon for a few weeks, reinforcing quiet bonds made during the Troll Wars, maintained ever since. Kael’thas’ father had spoken of the tacit agreement, the quel’dorei guarding the eastern continent, while the kaldorei, the night elves, stood guard over the western. Kalimdor.

In truth, though she cared for her people and the upkeep of their alliances, Kael’thas cared little for the grand and seemingly rarely invoked mission that diplomatic ties between high and night elves kept alive. There had been no grand crisis for a very, very long time. Far more important, then, that the High Priestess, who seemed not to have wanted to move on Kael’thas at the last meeting, a combination of a sleeping mate back on kalimdor and Kael’s rather young age, at the time, might do so now that Kael’thas had grown into full adulthood. In her head, in thoughts that alternatively crystallized into extremely graphic, specific scenes, and then fell over into pleasant but vague, warm, comfortable emotions, she and the High Priestess spent a few wonderful weeks together, before the kaldorei had to journey home again.

A powerful, impressive woman, Tyrande, and, as far as Kael’thas could recall, one possessed of exactly the right talents to be a worthy partner – to be a worthy superior, even. It was fortunate and unfortunate both that the kaldorei visited Quel’thalas so seldom – fortunate because it meant that a tryst would have few, if any, long-lasting social consequences, unfortunate for precisely the same reason, in reverse. No chance of anything long-lasting.

She breathed out a long sigh, lazily drawing a circle into the loose, cushioning material of the chaise, standing up little bulging waves in the fabric as her finger moved. A pointless, endless circle, ever appearing to move, getting nowhere. Seemingly a fine representation of her life in Silvermoon, in Quel’thalas. Only, at last, someone had appeared and dropped an unexpected stone into the pond of her life, disturbing the surface, causing some excitement. Surely, the kaldorei would arrive soon. Kael’thas gazed out across, down upon, the city, from the balcony upon which the chaise had been placed by eager, muted servants who bled away the instant they sensed their presence becoming an affront.

Kael’thas became aware, then, of a presence at the periphery of her senses. An insistent one, someone either not of her staff, or someone with an unpleasant mission, who dared disturb her in her most self-indulgently contemplative moments. She wrinkled her nose just so, deigning not even to roll and turn her head, not even to try to look at whoever had turned up, instead merely raising her left hand, a languid gesture suggesting that she acknowledged whoever’s presence.

“Princess,” a woman’s voice said.

Obsequious. Another flunky, another boot-licking sycophant. Someone of worth would not only understand to carry themselves better, but would also not immediately invite wrath for doing so. It was ever difficult to maintain royal pride, and yet look for someone who might sate her ever-growing need for a worthy partner to assert their place, their rightful place, above her. If only for a few hours. Or, in the case of the kaldorei, perhaps a few nights. Kael’thas gestured again, eyes focused on the middle distance, on some indistinct point floating in the air above the city’s red, domed roofs, only half listening.

“Your grace,” the woman went on. A servant. “I carry a message from your father, who wishes that you be informed that, this time, you will not be present at diplomatic talks with the kaldorei. Who will not be staying in Silvermoon. They have instead chosen their own camp, in southern Eversong.”

Kael’thas allowed a moment to pass, the pleasant, warm dullness, the lack of any feeling at all save comfort, dispelled as the words welled out of the servant-girl’s mouth. A cold lump rose, materialized in her chest, and her eyebrows lowered. Eyes hardened. Still, she did not turn, did not look at the woman whose unfortunate task it was to bring her bad news.

“The Princess’ interest in the High Priestess has been judged too personal and distracting a matter for her to best take care of the interests of Quel’thalas. In meetings with the kaldorei, at least,” the servant said. Voice wavering just so, falling back on not interpreting the royal words, but rather reading them more directly. Recitation.

Another long moment passed, Kael’thas slowly raising herself upon the chaise, first with her right hand supporting her against it, then seating herself properly on its edge, still facing away from the servant. Her chest rose, and fell, and all it seemed to do was pour more shards of ice on the pile already manifest within her, rather than calm it.

“You may go,” Kael’thas said, at long last.

She straightened herself, not because it helped, not even for the sake of the servant not seeing her dejected reaction to the message, only for her. Because, for a brief moment, it felt as if she took control of something, herself, when control of the thing she had surreptitiously dreamed of for the last few decades had been taken away.