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In health and in sickness
In peace and in war
I shall forever love…
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It had been a marriage purely of necessity. Strictly political in the way each clause of the marriage contract was negotiated; unfeelingly pragmatic and entirely based on the fact that they were both the only two members of the council willing to tolerate each other without bloodshed. Sylvanas never thought she’d be married again, much less to the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras; much less for war. They had little choice.
The Alliance and Horde had joined hands and forces to defeat a greater evil — to ensure that Azeroth was not torn asunder by the rise of the Naga Queen.
The marriage had come on tenuous peace; each faction eyeing the other still, each encounter met with the animosity of a creature unwilling to die. She did not expect things to adjust as quickly as it did, but for all of her bite and bluster, Jaina Proudmoore wasn’t an unpleasant wife. Distant and cold, yes, but Sylvanas was much the same.
But in time, in the quiet moments of their shared chambers, Jaina was...soft. Quiet and bookish and far less quick to temper than the early days of their marriage. Their goals for the new kingdom were much the same, and Sylvanas had a newfound respect for Jaina’s drive for perfection in her work. Over the months, Sylvanas found herself seeking out the company of her wife; at first, only for talks of treaties and appeals, then simply for inquiries about her day.
Despite the ugliest histories and the darkest pasts, Sylvanas and Jaina endured. The Lord Admiral was fire where Sylvanas was ice; impassioned and driven when speaking of council matters while Sylvanas offered support with cold facts and cutting reminders of the inherent flaws in their previous kingdoms.
They worked well together, even if it was just in a political setting.
Though they shared a bed, Sylvanas and Jaina did not touch. Short of the respectful rest of her hand on the small of Jaina’s back or offering her arm when they addressed the public, Sylvanas kept her distance from the Lord Admiral. She had her moments of weakness, though. At times, when she was most sentimental, Sylvanas allowed their fingers to brush when they shared reports; allowed her hand to linger at Jaina’s back before they separated.
If Jaina thought anything of it, she didn’t say.
At times, Sylvanas thought she felt her wife pressing into her touches. There were flashes of shy glances and coy looks when she touched Jaina’s arm, or leaned down to murmur into her ear. Jaina was quicker to smile and laugh at her dry humour, and oftentimes seemed just as reluctant as the Warchief to part ways when they were pulled away to attend meetings.
Slowly, but surely, the marriage bloomed into something not quite as loveless as it began.
They had been married for little more than a year when the first reports came. Azshara had come, and she had her sights on drowning them all with her.
The first wave of attacks came, and Sylvanas was sure it would be the last war they would fight.
For however much they had prepared, the swarms of naga swept across the land like the plague of madness they were. They struck Kul Tiras and Gilneas first, and Sylvanas had expected as much. Their combined forces and artillery had all been stationed along the borders, but even the powerhouse of Kul Tiras’ naval forces couldn’t keep the masses of naga at bay for long.
Reports came of an unseen creature swallowing ships whole into the abyss, pulling them in with writhing scales and tentacles.
The stricken look on Jaina’s face when the reports of her mother’s ship came was enough for Sylvanas to gather their forces south. Katherine Proudmoore was alive, and Sylvanas intended on keeping her that way.
They dove headfirst into the chaos. Jaina’s powers came to life with a wild flurry of arcane that swept across the land before their portal had even settled. They tore the battlefield asunder together, striking the naga where they stood and pushing their forces back towards the shore. Jaina was a force to be reckoned with; powering through the frontlines of naga while Sylvanas flanked with her wild volley of arrows and blades. It was a seamless thing despite the short span of time they’d grown together — Jaina’s shields and waves of frost and fury moved in time with the deadly precision of Sylvanas’ bow. Her prowess and strength blotted out the sun across the battlefield between them and the naga, keeping the swarm far back enough for Jaina’s next wave of frost shards and hale.
They moved as one — as mighty and consuming as the building storm.
The roar of battle sang in her blood like the crawling pulse of arcane in her veins, pulling Sylvanas into the timeless dance of blood and steel and death. This was what they were made for; this was what they had forged those bonds and treaties for through the months.
This was war, and it was a game they played well.
But pride was an ugly thing, and it was a deadly thing to have on the battlefield. So consumed was the Banshee Queen in slaughtering her way through the naga that she did not notice the naga soldier winding back his throwing arm, spear dripping maliciously in the fading light of the day —
The cry from Jaina broke through the haze of bloodlust in Sylvanas’ mind. She whirled at the sound, gauntlets slick with naga blood and Deathwhisper still hissing with power. Her eyes widened at the sight of Jaina bent double, bracing herself on a knee and one hand curled into the soil. The Lord Admiral’s other hand was pressed to her side, and from between gloved fingers, Sylvanas could see blood spilling onto the earth; the spear lodged into the ground behind her and the naga impaled upon an ice shard, twitching still.
Jaina looked up at her, chest heaving with each breath she took. Her beautiful face pale and damp with sweat as eerie veins of purple and black began to crawl over her skin. Her mouth moved, soundless, and her eyes rolled back into her head.
Sylvanas felt the world go cold around her.
“JAINA! ”
She could feel the Wail building inside her, the heavy pull of darkness bubbling forth from deep within her cavernous being. Black mist and tendrils rose from her body like the undulating, writhing bodies of the cursed beasts around them, and Sylvanas felt the fire within her scorching across her skin. With a snarl that shook the earth, she surged forward in an enveloping roil of shadows. The Wail exploded from the depths of her chest like the call of Death itself, and the world around her pulsed from the sheer force of it as she threw herself into the foray around Jaina.
The Rangers would tell stories of that day — of the massacre the Banshee Queen left in her wake for the sake of her wife.
When Sylvanas came back to herself, there were bodies of naga sprawled around them in a mangled mass; hollowed shells that reeked of salt and the sea and death. She heaved a shuddering breath, tasting only ash. She turned her gaze back to the battlefield and saw nothing but bodies.
In the distance, she heard the guttural spew of Nazja as the naga ranks closest to them turned tail and fled.
Cowards.
Shadows still consumed her form when she dropped to her knees beside Jaina, bundling the Lord Admiral into her arms with the frantic beat of something like fear curdling in her chest. She pressed her hand against the torn edge of her wife’s corset, red blooming dark and precious over virginal white. The wound seemed superficial at best, nothing more than a graze from the spear, but Sylvanas knew from the way blood spilt freely still from her wife and the ugly blackened veins consuming Jaina’s fair skin that it was no regular wound.
She reached down and cupped Jaina’s cheek, stroking her thumb across the smear of mud and blood caught there. Her voice came low and urgent, echoing still with the remnant of her Banshee Wail. “Jaina. Open your eyes. Jaina —” Blood ran warm and thick against her armour, soaking it and Jaina’s cloak, and she pressed her hand against the wound to staunch the flow.
Pale lashes fluttered, and Jaina’s brows furrowed as a soft groan emanated from her lips. The colour had bled from her skin with each pulse of the wound seeping against the leather of Sylvanas’ gloves, and when Jaina’s eyes peeled open for an instant, she saw only pain.
The veins had begun to spread from her neck up into her cheeks, pulsing in time with the weak thrum of her heart. Jaina’s blue eyes were glazed and unseeing, darting about them in a panic before finally settling on her face. “S-Sylvanas…”
“I have you,” she soothed. “I’m here with you.”
A trembling hand reached up. Bloodied fingers touched her cheek, and Sylvanas forced back a twitch at the sharp smell of copper cut through with the bitterness of a poisoned wound.
She reached up and laid her hand over Jaina’s, uncaring at the way her cheek came away streaked in precious red. “Stay with me,” she murmured, eyes searching as she squeezed gently.
The corner of Jaina’s lips struggled into an upward tick, listless and wan. A moment later her lungs gave a heave, and Sylvanas scrambled to brace her as she lurched into a wheezing cough, spattering blood onto Forsaken purple.
Sylvanas hissed out a curse under her breath and yanked her bloodied cloak off her shoulders, bundling Jaina into it carefully before manoeuvring the Lord Admiral into her arms. She rose to her feet in a surge, her wife clutched tight, and she caught the eye of the closest Dark Ranger.
“Fall back and secure the line!” she snapped, murder in her eyes. “Where is that cursed healer?!”
The Rangers dispersed around her in an outward-facing shield of arrows and blades. Sylvanas wasted no time in sweeping back through their ranks, her long-legged strides barely touching the ground for how swiftly she moved. Around her, the battle continued, but Sylvanas could only think of the weight of Jaina in her arms; the low and ragged breaths that puffed warm and damp against her neck.
“Keep breathing,” she murmured, quickening her step. “Just keep breathing.”
From within the safety of their base camp, Sylvanas tore open the flap of their tent, snarling over her shoulder, “Summon Lady Liadrin, now !” She did not look back to check for obedience, only swept the covers off the cot with an arm to carefully lay Jaina down onto it. She murmured quietly as the Lord Admiral squirmed and fought weakly, her body writhing against the pain of whatever it was that had tipped the spear.
She made quick work of unfastening Jaina’s spaulder and cloak, spreading out the cloth over the bed and gently unwinding the armour from around her shoulders. Her side was nearly swallowed in red, edged in pink that had run into the threads of her clothes, and Sylvanas swallowed back the bitter taste of worry in her throat.
The tent flap split open, and she looked up sharply.
Liadrin’s green eyes honed in on Jaina immediately and then darted to Sylvanas. “What happened?” She swept into the tent, staff in hand as she bent a knee beside the cot as well.
“Naga spear. Poisoned.” Sylvanas eyed the way Liadrin brushed her hand against Jaina’s hair, and rose quickly away to gather a bowl of cold water and a rag. “Fast-acting, from what I saw. She was on her feet one moment, and down the next.”
Pursing her lips, Liadrin glanced at Sylvanas grimly. “She’s feverish already. Whatever it was had to be powerful; Jaina’s no average mage.”
Sylvanas soaked the rag in the water and wrung it so tight her bones cracked. “I am aware,” she said coldly, reaching out to tilt Jaina’s face towards her and dabbing delicately at the build of sweat along her wife’s hairline. “Will you be capable of healing her?”
At the touch of the cool cloth, Jaina moaned, lashes fluttering as Sylvanas moved the rag from one end of her forehead to the other, dabbing along her cheek. She flinched slightly, a shiver climbing up her body, and Sylvanas hushed her softly.
Liadrin peered between them for a moment and summoned her magic into the tips of her fingers. Sylvanas watched closely as the priestess laid her touch over Jaina’s wound, bristling mildly at the whimper that came from her wife’s throat at the contact.
Jaina’s fingers twitched against the cot mattress, curling tight into the spread of cloak beneath her.
Sylvanas glanced down at her hand and felt an overwhelming urge to take it into her own.
Liadrin seemed to notice the same. “Hold her,” she urged, moving her own hands steadily across Jaina’s trembling form. “I can stop the bleeding for now, but I will need my supplies. This will move faster if you hold her.”
“You haven’t even told me what this is.”
“Poison, certainly. I’ve only seen some cases of it before, but those assessments were done...posthumously.”
Sylvanas pursed her lips and glared. “What is it ?” she demanded.
Liadrin sighed. “Something the naga use from the venom of a sea-dwelling creature in the depths. It paralyses its prey from the inside. Organ failure follows. Collapsed lungs.”
The cold hand of fear gripped at her spine. Sylvanas shifted closer to the cot, sliding the rag away from Jaina’s forehead. “You must know the cure.”
“I do.” The Blood Knight looked down at Jaina with a considering frown. “It will take some time to prepare, but not many have survived long enough for it to be administered. The fact that Jaina is still breathing as we speak is a good sign.” She gave Sylvanas a furtive look. “The Lord Admiral is strong. She will endure.”
The reassurance both grated and relieved her nerves, and Sylvanas gave Liadrin a hard look as the Blood Knight began to unravel the torn pieces of Jaina’s corset. With great reluctance, she rose to her feet, looking away as Liadrin exposed the marred torso of her wife; pale skin consumed by ugly, blackened veins. “I should leave you to attend to her. I must speak with Kalira about our position.”
Liadrin’s ears pricked upright and her brows rose in surprise. “You would leave your wife like this?”
Gritting her teeth, Sylvanas growled, “I am useless to her when she’s like this. What would I be but an obstacle in your path?”
“Don’t you remember this?” Liadrin said, exasperation in her words. “When you were nothing more than a greenling; that awful bite you took from that brute of a spider?”
Sylvanas’ ears flattened closer to her skull and she looked away.
Liadrin pressed her further. “Don’t you remember what it was like when Alleria held your hand through it? The comfort of her touch?”
“The Lord Admiral will not find comfort in mine,” she said coldly. “Of that, I am sure.”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” Liadrin snapped, gesturing to where Jaina’s trembling form was rapidly losing more colour. “Sit with your wife. Hold her.” She pressed her lips together and glared at the Warchief. “Unless you want her to die.”
Sylvanas gave her a vicious glare. “If you fail at healing her —”
A wheezing sound came from the bed, and Jaina’s body convulsed in a cough. Blood spattered out from between her lips, each breath sounding like a lifetime of agony in her lungs, and Sylvanas felt her own lungs wrench in sympathy.
Liadrin picked up the rag and dabbed at her mouth, eyeing Sylvanas reproachfully still.
Jaina turned her head away from Liadrin’s touch, brows furrowing tight with pain as her cloudy blue eyes cracked open blearily. They searched the room until finally resting on Sylvanas, recognition and relief cutting through the haze of pain. Her fingers twitched again, and with no small amount of effort, reached out with a trembling hand.
Sylvanas yanked her gloves off and dropped back to her knees in an instant. She took hold of Jaina’s hand between hers gently, giving it a squeeze when she felt the Lord Admiral’s fingers flexing. “I’m here,” she murmured, stroking her thumb over the wedding band on Jaina’s finger.
“I believe the Lord Admiral has made the decision for you, Warchief.”
Sylvanas ignored her, focusing instead of unclasping the weight of the pauldrons from her shoulders. Shrugging the armour off carelessly, she glanced down at herself and took in the bloodied streaks soaking into her leathers. The cot and their combined cloaks were already beyond salvaging; there was no point for her to care now. Pursing her lips, she climbed carefully into the cot with Jaina, wrapping her arms around her wife’s shoulders and gentle manoeuvring them until Jaina was comfortably held in her embrace.
The tremors that wracked the Lord Admiral seemed to calm, and the tight furrow of her brow began to smooth. Her trembling hands clung to Sylvanas’ leathers, anchoring her close, and the Warchief held her that much tighter. Jaina’s head lolled onto her bare shoulder, clammy and pale still, but her breaths came steady and warm.
Sylvanas reached down and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. From the corner of her eye, she caught the coy look Liadrin gave her before the Blood Knight turned away.
“Why does this help?” she demanded. “I don’t understand how my touching her could possibly heal her in any way.”
Liadrin shrugged, moving towards the entrance of the tent and summoning a soldier. “We all need a reason to live.”
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The Warchief stayed with her wife from the waning hours of dusk and deep into the early rays of dawn; keeping a constant vigil by candlelight. She dabbed a cool cloth on Jaina’s cheeks and moistened her lips in intervals, holding her through it all. None were allowed entry into the private tent of the Warchief and the Lord Admiral, and none rightly dared to intrude.
They had won the battle, but still the war loomed overhead.
Sylvanas thought little of it, only cared for the way Jaina shivered and twitched and slept restlessly through fever dreams. Liadrin worked tirelessly through the night at the table, amidst strewn maps and notes of battle strategies. The sharp smell of sickness and blood and potions filled the tent in a heady cloud that made even the Warchief’s nose wrinkle.
Through it all, Jaina clung to Sylvanas without fail. No matter how weak and bloodless; she held on.
In the cresting light of dawn, Liadrin murmured from the table, her back turned to the cot still, “You’re going to have to tell her eventually.” One green eye peered over her shoulder at Sylvanas. “Sooner rather than later, at this point.”
“Are you implying that there is no hope to heal her?”
“I’m implying that you should maybe talk to your wife about your feelings.”
Ears flattening irritably, Sylvanas ignored her, staring off into the dim space of the tent. In her arms and half-sprawled across her chest, Jaina slept. Her breaths were wheezing and strained, but her chest rose and fell steadily against Sylvanas’ unmoving one, the beat of her heart thrumming even through layers of clothing.
“It’s not a sin to feel things.”
“I assure you that I feel. At this moment, I am feeling quite a number of things.”
“Is ‘love’ one of them?”
“...Impatience and ire.” Sylvanas stroked her fingers through Jaina’s hair calmly, her face blank with rage. “And a vicious thirst for vengeance.”
“But still ‘love’?”
Through gritted teeth, Sylvanas said, “Your attention should be focused on curing her.” Her voice took on a deadly coldness, her banshee form echoing sharply behind each word. “If she dies because of your senseless need for gossip...you will wish for the sweet embrace of death when I’m through with you.”
Sighing, Liadrin finally turned to them, armed with a bowl of something that glowed and smelled faintly of things Sylvanas couldn’t name. “I have it.” She moved towards the cot and paused at Jaina’s side, jerking her head slightly. “Hold her upright. I need to put this on her wound, and she’ll need to drink it.”
“You are certain this will help?” Sylvanas eyed the bowl warily still.
“Is this really a time to doubt me, Warchief?”
Carefully, she eased Jaina into her arms, pulling the Lord Admiral upright gently. Jaina moaned and clung tighter to her, entirely unwilling to detach from her side, but Sylvanas soothed her with a low croon of Thalassian in her ear. She steadfastly ignored the look Liadrin was giving her and peeled back the rust-coloured rags from Jaina’s side.
“Be quick about it,” she snapped.
“I’m going to excuse that temper of yours as concern for your wife,” Liadrin muttered, plucking a clean rag from the pile on the table beside the cot and soaking it into the bowl. Wringing it out, she gave Sylvanas a look. “This may sting a little.”
The Warchief’s arm curled around Jaina tighter.
The first touch of the cloth to her side made Jaina flinch violently. A ragged whimper pulled from her lips, and Sylvanas forced back a growl in her throat when Liadrin continued without pause. With another whine and whimper, she hissed, “I thought healers were known for their bedside manner.”
“I’m a Blood Knight; we’re not known for our bedside manner,” Liadrin replied steadily.
Jaina winced again, faintly this time, and Sylvanas peered down her body to see the wound slowly sealing shut. The blackened veins festering around it were not so obvious then; faded and grey like the rest of the veins beneath her skin that kept the Lord Admiral alive. It did not seal in entirety, but the split of skin wove itself back together in a jagged, scabbed line, no longer weeping blood and pus.
Sylvanas frowned. “It’s still raw.”
“The rest of it will heal from the inside,” Liadrin assured her, gently reapplying the bandages around Jaina’s waist. “The longer it stays on her skin, the better the potion will work with fusing the wound together. In the meantime —” she held out bowl to Sylvanas, gesturing slightly with it. “See if you can get her to finish this. I doubt you’d appreciate watching me force this down your wife’s throat.”
“I hardly think force is necessary,” Sylvanas muttered darkly, but took hold of the bowl as Liadrin stepped back. Shifting them upright further on the bed, she nudged the bowl gently against Jaina’s pale lips, murmuring at her softly. “Jaina, you have to drink this.”
Moaning weakly, Jaina hid her face further into Sylvanas’ neck.
“I know,” she soothed, lips brushing gently against Jaina’s ear, ghosting the shell of it. “But you must. It will help. This will make the pain stop.” She coaxed the bowl back to her wife’s lips. “Just a swallow first.”
Jaina pursed her lips and frowned, her eyes pressed shut against the spreading sunlight into the tent.
“Dalah’surfal,” Sylvanas whispered, and ignored the choked sound that came from Liadrin. “For me. Please.”
Slowly, Jaina opened her eyes, barely peeling them open enough to see through her lashes. She lifted her head a fraction of an inch from Sylvanas’ shoulder and looked up, their gazes meeting and holding for a long moment. Wordlessly, she opened her mouth, placing her lips at the edge of the bowl.
Sylvanas crooned at her, whispering low praises as she watched Jaina swallow once, and then again. Jaina’s eyes slid shut once more, and she found herself caught in the way her wife’s throat moved with each swallow. Colour began to return to Jaina’s skin; building low from her neckline and rising up into her cheeks, until the pallid hue was once more replaced with a healthy glow.
Soon, the bowl was drained, and when Jaina opened her eyes again, they were as bright as the sea at the peak of midday.
The burden of worry on Sylvanas’ shoulders lifted like the rising sun outside. “There you are,” she whispered, abandoning the bowl to cup Jaina’s cheek. Her eyes softened as she stroked her thumb over a faint spread of freckles, relishing the life she could feel thrumming beneath her wife’s skin once more. “You gave us all quite a scare.”
Jaina leaned into her touch, lashes fluttering slightly as her eyes slid shut with a sigh. “I felt it,” she murmured, in a voice that was hoarse and thick from disuse. “But I’m here now.”
“You are,” Sylvanas said, sliding her hand down to wind their fingers together. “And I’m never letting you go again.”
It was a moment — a spark within an instant, their eyes that met and held and spoke a thousand things that Sylvanas could never say. Didn’t need to say. She looked at Jaina and knew. In the next moment, she thought of only the press of Jaina’s lips to hers; the taste of blood and the elixir on her lips, the curve of her mouth and the sharp inhale of breath through her nose.
They kissed, and all of the world could have come crumbling down around them, and Sylvanas would not have cared.
Sylvanas pulled away first, and Jaina chased her lips with a faint whimper. “Rest,” she whispered, lifting their twined hands and kissing the back of Jaina’s. “I’ll be here with you wake.”
With another kiss — chaste and sweet, and perhaps a little shy —, Jaina slept. As the sun rose up into the sky and the battlefield dried, Sylvanas held her wife close, and did not let go until the sun had set over the horizon.