Chapter Text
It was the night after the mak'gora, while the Horde celebrated the return of Thrall as Warchief, that an Old God entered from a violet portal onto the lands of Durotar, wearing Azshara like a coat.
It looked around, senses attuned for anyone who had detected its arrival. Nothing stirred. The barren rocks and sands of Durotar lay empty as they stretched on to the left; the wall of Orgrimmar, to the right, muffled the detested sounds of Azerothian life celebrating within.
In Azshara’s hand, a curved dagger vibrated, as if talking.
“Hush,” the Old God said to the dagger in Azshara’s voice. “Once this twilight’s work is done, you may take this body to do as you will.”
Azshara’s body slithered across the ground, then looked down. “Ugh. This is inefficient.” A hand gestured, and it’s serpentine form altered in a dull purple glow, forming legs and feet.
The dagger made a sound, like movement through rushes.
“This isn’t the ocean, fool. A bipedal form is better suited to this task. Now quiet.” The thing wearing Azshara cast its gaze about, then strode westward. “This way,” it said.
The Old God’s search went undisturbed as the night wore on. The nature of the terrain, with its rocky boulders punctuating the otherwise flat earth, made the search difficult. It was near the stroke of midnight when it found the quarry it sought.
Sylvanas’ physical body had been left here when the animating spirit, defeated and thwarted, had tried to flee. The Old God held out the curved dagger, and scratched an elaborate rune into the dirt of Durotar, centered on the previous Warchief.
“Here, at last, is the prize I have sought,” it rumbled as it drew lines in the dirt. “Stop complaining, Xal’atath. I am not monologuing. Know your place. Serve.” A wave of reluctant acquiescence pulsed from the blade.
The rune completed to its satisfaction, it closed Azshara’s eyes and extended its will. The bars of its cage resisted, shifted to counter its efforts even as it wielded this proxy form, but they were so, so weak. It could almost taste its freedom, after countless millennia in chains.
In the centre, Sylvanas’ body gently rose, tugged by thick purple tentacles of force, until it stood in a rough approximation of upright. Azshara’s form stepped into the circle, and regarded the fallen banshee elf. Mostly intact, it concluded. It would serve.
The thing in Azshara turned its back to Sylvanas’s form, then backed up towards it until the two bodies were touching. It turned to address the curved dagger one last time. “Remember our bargain,” Azshara’s voice trilled. “Serve in this matter, and Azshara is yours.”
The blade gave the distinct impression of anticipatory hunger, and agreement.
Azshara’s hand reversed its grip on the blade’s handle, then guided the tip to rest over Azshara’s heart. With a final, guttural utterance of the black speech, it drove Xal’atath through both Azshara’s and Sylvanas’ hearts.
The blade flashed black and purple, and a dull crack sounded in the otherwise empty desert. The dagger spilled from Azshara’s hands, and clattered to the ground.
The Old God opened Sylvanas’ eyes, and laughed.