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Alastor would be lying if he said that a small part of him did not feel pity for the man once known as Marcus Grave.
The man had stumbled upon Chaos and allowed himself to be drawn in by its pull.
He had been caught—and rightfully punished for his reckless actions. Yet even as he was beginning to recover and get back on his feet, what ultimately pushed him over the edge was not Chaos itself…
…but mortal greed and ambition.
Watching his home burn, along with his family, had been more than enough for him to give everything he was and would become to Chaos, the very moment it extended its insidious hand at him.
In a way, it showed how Chaos truly operated—and why it was so dangerous.
Chaos did not always need to act through grand destruction to achieve its goals.
Sometimes, all it needed to do was give slight nudges.
And Sometimes….....nothing at all.
Why would it act, when the world—and humanity itself—was already doing its work for it?
Yet that was where Alastor's sympathy ended.
Malak's actions leading up to the present had long crossed the line of forgiveness or understanding.
He'd killed, sacrificed, and destroyed countless lives in pursuit of his so-called revenge—seeking to plunge Azeroth into becoming a Daemon World, all for his and his fellow cultists' twisted vision of "enlightenment."
Lordaeron was shattered.
Alterac was all but gone.
The world itself was in chaos, and its people lived each day in fear and uncertainty as the war dragged on.
And then…
There was the most personal reason of all.
Malak had killed his father.
The man who'd took him in and raised him as his own son despite sharing no blood with him.
All for "revenge"?
For a justified act taken against him?
In Alastor's eyes, Malak was far beyond forgiveness or mercy—and neither would he be shown any when he finally got his hands on that miserable fool!
Alastor exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm down as he glanced at Tyrande beside him.
"It's what comes after that occupies my mind. When we finally lay down our blades and weapons….."
"Lands must be reclaimed. Food must be secured. Supplies distributed and settlements rebuilt."
"There'll be much work to be done—especially with the geopolitical landscape of the North in Arda. With Lordaeron shattered and Alterac nearly gone, only a fraction of their populations managed to escape south."
"Actions must be taken to ensure a power vacuum does not form—even if the balance of power has already been broken."
Tyrande studied him for a moment before speaking calmly.
"Spoken like a true king."
Alastor frowned immediately, as though the very word offended him.
"If you're looking for a king, you have the wrong Wrynn. I'm sure you—or your Sentinels—can easily find Varian. He's the King of Stormwind."
Tyrande frowned slightly, though her voice remained composed.
"You are far wiser than most mortals could ever hope to be. Don't pretend you don't understand who I'm referring to."
"Don't." Alastor's tone hardened. "I've never entertained such ambitions, much less it being something I want."
"You know you can't always run from it. Why are you so averse to the prospect? Most would leap at even the smallest chance to become something greater than they were."
Alastor turned his gaze back to the horizon before answering.
"Most people are too short-sighted to realize that power and prestige almost never come without a corresponding cost—and responsibility."
"And when that cost isn't paid? the consequences rarely fall on them alone… but on countless others who had no part in it—much less any say."
Tyrande inclined her head slightly, conceding the point.
Too many sought power.
Too few considered the burden that came with it.
"How about a deal?" she said after a moment. "Or, if you prefer, a trade."
Alastor glanced at her curiously, then nodded—indicating he was listening.
"You answer one of my questions truthfully, and in return, I'll answer one of yours just as honestly."
Alastor regarded her with a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
He had not known Tyrande and her fellow Night Elf Sentinels for long.
But the facts remained.
He owed her—for his mother still being alive, even if she was currently in a comatose state.
Not to mention he was grateful for the valuable advice and support she had offered since they'd left Stormwind City.
He was not a man who forgot his debts—especially when the other party had done nothing but help him and his companions.
It was not merely his knightly code.
It was a principle he lived by.
Taking his silence as agreement, Tyrande continued.
"Why are you so averse to the prospect of kingship?"
Alastor fell silent, gathering his thoughts.
"I'm not opposed to leadership per se. Even now, I'm leading our coalition—coordinating with everyone for a swift victory against the fel forces."
"It's just…"
He hesitated.
"If I had to give it a name It's….."
"I'm afraid."
For the first time, Tyrande looked genuinely surprised.
Of all the answers she had expected—
That was not one of them.
Alastor looked down at his gauntleted hands and clenched them.
"I've always had… insight, you could say—from the very moment I opened my eyes as an infant."
"I was far more aware than my peers. Even as a child, I could see things… deeper than the surface level—things others only begin to understand years into adulthood."
"My father was a king—a damn good one. My brother, Varian, is a king, and I know he'll surpass even our father."
He shook his head slightly.
"But I never envied them for their title."
"For one, I refuse to entertain even the thought of coveting my brother's birthright. The throne of Stormwind is his—by blood and by right."
"But the main reason was always fear."
His voice grew quieter.
"I saw the burdens kings and leaders carry. I remember how my father had to deliberate over every decision—because each one affected countless lives."
"Decisions that make it all soo easy to forget that what we call 'statistics'… are living, breathing people."
"Decisions my brother now has to make."
"Decisions I'm expected to make—as the leader of the Southern Alliance."
He exhaled slowly.
"And the worst part is knowing that, at the end of the day, any death, any tragedy, any accident that comes as a direct consequence of those decisions—even if it was the best possible choice—will still fall on you."
"One way or another."
Tyrande frowned slightly, though her expression soon softened.
"You have a rather heavy way of looking at it."
Alastor let out a quiet, humorless chuckle.
"Let me tell you a lesson my mother taught me about leadership."
"The first rule of leadership: everything is your fault."
Taria Wrynn had been a loving mother and a beloved queen—but she was also the more ruthless of Stormwind's rulers, the one who handled politics and power plays beside her husband.
And she'd made sure both her sons understood her lessons well.
That despite their kindness and honor they were never to be taken or translated into weakness.
(Trivia Fact: Both Alastor and Varian love their mom but they also have a healthy amount of fear for her compared to their father, who would normally let his sons off with a metaphorical light slap on the wrist if they did something wrong.)
Alastor's gaze hardened slightly.
"The idea that I could have so much blood on my hands without ever raising a blade….."
"It's chilling."
He paused.
"It terrified me to take that first step of my own will…"
"And yet you still did," Tyrande said, her tone firmer now.
"Even if your brother named you Supreme Commander of Stormwind's forces—you still stepped up."
"And what of Magni and Kurdan?"
"They are kings of their own kingdoms. They had no obligation to follow you—much less place their armies under your command. Yet they did so without protest."
"And not just them what about Dalaran? Gilneas?"
"Your mentor leads Dalaran. Genn Greymane rules one of the most isolationist kingdoms in existence—yet both have chosen to follow you."
She met his gaze.
"And why wouldn't they?"
"Time and time again, you've delivered results. You have proven yourself worthy of loyalty—worthy of respect."
"From your departure from Stormwind to now, you've led your forces across many battles. And now, we stand on the brink of reaching Hammerfall—to unite with the Northern Alliance."
"You have the support of three human kingdoms, the dwarven realms, the Night Elves through me—and several renowned heroes."
And it was true.
If they emerged victorious from this war, Alastor's name would echo through generations—remembered as a legendary hero, rivaling even Emperor Thoradin.
More than that…
To anyone with even a hint of sense, it was obvious:
Alastor had all the makings of a great and wise king.
Almost everyone could see it.
Everyone… except him.
Tyrande came to a quiet realization.
For all his power, all his accomplishments—this human, who stood on the edge of becoming something greater—did not truly see his own worth.
He had learned to accept praise over the years, yes.
But there was still a part of him that underestimated himself.
And nowhere was that more apparent than in the idea of kingship.
(A/N: One of my inspiration's for Alastor was Ciaphas Cain. A so called coward of a Commissar who saw himself as a fraud due to his Inferiority complex. despite his numerous heroic achievements and deeds. A very capable and caring Commissar and genuinely heroic man admired and loved by many people. I loved the fact that unlike other characters they actually showed how under all that "greatness" the man was human in the end and had his own fears and insecurities he grappled with as he grew.)
But perhaps there was another reason Alastor resisted the idea of becoming a king.
Not just for himself—
But for Azeroth.
"I don't think you understand what it would mean for Azeroth… if someone like me stood at the helm," Alastor said quietly, his expression darkening.
Before this entire fiasco began, Alastor had been adamant about keeping Azeroth out of the galactic stage.
From what little foreknowledge he possessed, he knew that great—and terrible—forces were converging at the dawn of a new age.
He had even gone so far as to consider desperate measures.
If necessary, he would find any way to bypass Azeroth's world ring and leave the planet behind entirely.
Even if the Emperor eventually found him, Alastor would keep silent about Azeroth's existence—and establish as many safeguards as possible to ensure that knowledge of it remained hidden.
He hated that plan.
By the Light, he despised it.
The mere thought of abandoning his home—his people, his life—was unbearable.
But if that was what it took to keep them safe…
Then so be it.
Yet there was one thing he'd assumed he would have.
Time.
Alastor had believed he still had time. While he lacked a precise understanding of where he stood in the timeline, he estimated—with reasonable confidence—that he was in the early days of the Great Crusade, or perhaps even before its official beginning.
From what he knew of that era, Chaos was not yet overtly active. It would only begin to reveal itself much later even if the exact details were a mystery to him.
That assumption had given him hope.
A window of opportunity.
Even if traces of Chaos existed on Azeroth—such as the Black Mages—they would not pose a significant threat against the strength of Azeroth's people.
After all, Azeroth had its own advantages:
The Holy Light.
A mature and well-developed system of magic.
A culture that actively fostered warriors and champions.
All of these would serve as natural counters and deterrents to Chaos.
Or so he had believed.
He never imagined that the Chaos Gods would become so "obsessed" with him.
That they would launch a coordinated incursion—not only to claim him, but to turn Azeroth itself into a Daemon World.
So much for hope.
Once again, Chaos had ruined everything.
With their gaze now fixed upon Azeroth, it was only a matter of time before others would follow.
Azeroth could no longer remain hidden from the wider galaxy.
And among those who would inevitably notice…
Was his "father."
The Emperor of Mankind.
"You'll find that I know far more than you might expect, Alastor Wrynn. I may well be the most knowledgeable person on Azeroth when it comes to your fears."
Tyrande's voice cut through his thoughts.
"And for someone meant to inspire others, you are being rather pessimistic. Though I suppose that is understandable, given everything you are dealing with at once."
She gestured toward the vast army marching below.
"But tell me this—have you considered what those who follow you think?"
Her gaze lingered on the soldiers of many kingdoms, marching together as one.
"From the most common soldier to kings and heroes alike—their reasons may differ, but their trust in you does not."
"And why wouldn't they? Haven't you proven your skill, your resolve, and your honor time and time again."
"They trust that you will lead them to victory, no matter the circumstances."
"And even if they fall—they believe they will do so with purpose. That the one they follow will honor their sacrifice… and give meaning to their deaths."
She turned back to him, her eyes steady—piercing.
"That alone is more than most warriors could ever hope for."
Tyrande held his gaze, as if willing her words to reach the very core of his being.
"They trust you—even when you do not trust yourself."
"So at the very least, for the sake of those you have sworn to protect… do not insult them by doubting yourself."
"Especially not their resolve—to fight for you, and to follow you… even into the depths of hell and back."
Alastor found himself momentarily speechless.
At some point, he had overlooked the resolve of his companions—of his people.
He had been so focused on the looming threats… on the horrors yet to come… that he had forgotten there was more to the situation than despair.
Yes, Azeroth was under siege by the forces of Chaos.
Yes, his world would now be drawn into a wider galactic conflict.
But was it the end? NO!
Even at their worst and lowest, The Azerothians, his people remained defiant!
Man and woman alike stood their ground—fighting against horrors beyond imagination, refusing to yield despite the fear and destruction surrounding them.
And now…
The tide was beginning to turn.
The southern lands of Arda had been consolidated under allied control.
Every siege and assault behind the frontlines at Hammerfall at the Alliance Kingdoms had been broken.
Garrisons had been established. Supply lines secured.
And once the Southern Alliance joined with the Northern Alliance…
They would finally take the fight to the enemy.
And eventually end this Light-forsaken war.
Alastor felt the turmoil within him begin to settle.
"Didn't think I'd be getting a pep talk from an elf of all people," he muttered. "Still… thank you."
Tyrande allowed herself a faint smile.
"You would be surprised by the intricacies of my people. Even if you are betrothed to one of our kin, you still have much to learn about us—and the many branches of our kind."
She paused before adding,
"And now, I believe it is your turn to ask a question. As I said, I will answer truthfully."
Alastor frowned slightly.
"Are you sure? It might be… sensitive."
"I am," she replied calmly. "I offered a fair exchange. You honored your end—so I will honor mine. Besides, ensuring you are in your best state benefits us all."
Alastor was silent for a moment.
"…Alright. Then my question is simple."
He took a deep breath, then looked at her with a steady, serious gaze.
"Who are you really?"
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