The last three priestesses of Elune in Teldrassil prayed. They did not ask for healing or for rescue.
They asked for mercy.
And their goddess heard them as Astarii began to sing.
By the moons’ glow, listen. Beside the river, listen. Holding those you love, listen. To the cries of the dying, To the whisper of the wind over the silent dead….
Sleep brushed Astarri’s mind, feather soft, honey sweet. The pain disappeared. She let out a sigh. All around her, she heard similar sounds.
The fire was relentless. The smoke would kill them, and the flames would devour their flesh and even their bones. Only ash would remain. But they would feel nothing.
There would be no pain in the lady’s light, in the lady’s love. Mother and child both slept, breathing gently despite the smoke. Her duty faithfully discharged, Astarrii allowed her own eyelids to flutter closed.
There will be justice one day, but eyes other than ours will behold it.
The last thing she heard was a cracking sound as she slipped into slumber.
Tyrande closed her eyes. "I said the three would not be..." Her voice broke. She opened her eyes and looked at the child she held in her arms, covered with soot, but whole. Healthy. Alive. Tears slipped slowly down her cheeks. "What is her name?" she asked softly.
Mia shook her head weakly, "I don't know."
"Then, little one, I shall name you Finel. 'The last.' For you are the last Kaldorei to escape with your life."
The World Tree was more than a city. It was an entire land, home to countless innocents. How many night elves were elsewhere in Azeroth? Far too few. Now, they were all who remained of their people.
His eyes met Tyrande's over the baby's head. Finel whimpered, and Tyrande cradled her close. Then, so softly that Anduin could barely hear her, the high priestess of the night elves began to sing.
O little last one, listen To the song my broken heart will ever sing, Of the story of the Tree of the World, And the death of all the dreams, It once cradled in its mighty boughs.
In purity, all things are born.
The eldest tree was once a tender sapling,
And even the stars were young.
O Lady Elune,
Weep tears so sweet
At the thought of the innocence
That once was ours.
The huntress' horn has sounded!
To battle, it calls us now,
To the defense of all we hold dear:
This well of the moon,
This soft song of the evening breeze.
it calls us,
And we answer.
The first have fallen,
The vanguard of this battle,
To the realm of wisps and shadows.
We yet have blood to shed.
It is the price
For time to save our shining city
Cradled in a tree of dreams and starlight.
The jewel of our city
Lies within their craven grasp.
One last time, we shall stand.
One final act, we shall perform
By the light of the moons,
By the flash of our blades,
By the song of our arrows,
We shall triumph--
Or we shall fall.
The tree has fire for leaves
And skeletons for branches
And its roots feed only upon
The ashes of the dead.
The winds that sigh through it now are the cries of the dying
And this son,
For horrors unspeakable,
For cruelty unimaginable,
For this life and the beauty and the grace that once were
And shall never be again.
By the moons' glow, listen.
Beside the river, listen.
Holding those you live, listen:
To the cries of the dying,
To the whisper of the wind over the silent dead,
To the song my broken heart will ever sing
Of the story of the Tree of the World
And the death of all the dreams
It once cradled in its mighty boughs.