Chapter Text
“I must say, Sylvanas.” Lireesa takes a delicate sup of her tea, and a less dainty slurp from her hip flask. “You’re taking this with far more calm than I thought you would.”
Her daughter hums, crossing one leg over the other and tearing a strip of hawkstrider jerky off the plate between them. “Jaina is quite the calming influence when she wants to be,” she says, and takes a bite to chew slowly, eyes closed. The midday sun sets her hair agleam. One hand rests against her abdomen, her index finger tapping an idle beat on her tummy. “More so than Liadrin.”
“I believe Liadrin was just a little… taken aback, dalah.”
“She wasn’t the only one.” Sylvanas opens her eyes, regards Lireesa calmly. Too calmly. “I take offence to her questioning of my wife’s intelligence.”
“Liadrin just assumed that maybe, at some point, during Jaina’s doubtless exhaustive studies with the brightest and most brilliant scholars of Azeroth, or perhaps as part of one of those terrifying study sessions within Silvermoon’s archives- who knew Dalaran’s garden gnomes could autonomously instigate guerrilla warfare?- just possibly… she might have picked up the basics of child-bearing.”
“I meant to follow up on the gnomes.”
“And I tried to scrub it from my memory, but alas, I shall never look at garden ornaments the same again.” Lireesa takes another quick gulp from the flask. “Surely there’s a Kul Tiran ditty regarding pregnancy? They seem to have a song for everything, don’t they?”
“There are many for the step before the pregnancy. Jaina sang one to Kael’thas once. Seventeen lines of the lyrics are now banned in Quel’Thalas.” Sylvanas shrugs, leaning back. “It is unimportant now. We will adapt, and we will weather this squall as we have every other, and continue with our duties until… circumstances-”
“Until you are the size of a Lordaeron sow and fit only to slumber in the rocking chair,” Lireesa supplies.
“Yes, minn’da.” Sylvanas opens one eye to glare at her. “Tactful and delicate as ever.”
“I produced you, I can’t be that delicate.”
For a moment, they sit in silence, and Lireesa swallows the last mouthful of her tea and drops her gaze to the gentle swell of Sylvanas’s body. Lets herself wallow, just for a moment, in the memory of little arms tugging at her breeches, of high-pitched cries begging for another strider-back ride from their minn’da, the warm weight of a contented child in her arms as she lowered them into the cot bed by the window…
“Speaking of my offspring, where is Alleria? I would have thought you’d be keen for… a word, with her.”
“Oh, Jaina and I left her tied up in the potting shed.”
“SYLVANAS!” Lireesa’s already scrambling out of her chair and bolting for the shed. “THAT’S NAUGHTY!”
“It’s fine, I’m pregnant,” Sylvanas calls behind her.
“HOW DOES THAT MAKE IT FINE?”
“Pregnant.”
-0-0-
“Welcome home, my darling!” Jaina’s enveloped in an enormous greatcoat-clad hug the moment her feet touch Kul Tiran soil; she manages half an answering squeak past the wax-polished cloth before her mother has dropped her unceremoniously to the ground and rushed past. “And here she is!” A yelp from one side announces that it’s Sylvanas’s turn. “Oh, my dear girl, don’t you look glorious. No waddling around in baggy linen monstrosities for you! Doesn’t she look lovely, Daelin?”
“Jaina always did have the best luck with the catch,” Derek chuckles. “Mind you, she’s using some fine bait.”
Jaina slaps him on the arm. “Finer than yours, briny-buttocks. And what is that scrubby thing on your chin?”
“A bad idea, apparently. Twice now I’ve been mistaken for the kitchen broom.”
Beaming from ear to ear, Katherine gently lowers Sylvanas back down to the ground. “Well,” she says matter-of-factly, though her grin betrays her. “You seem to have taken this in your stride.”
“I’m not sure Alleria would agree with you,” Sylvanas says, rearranging her cloak to dangle rakishly over one shoulder.
“Ah now, Sylvanas. Do not judge yourself for turning to your siblings in your time of need. Daelin runs away from his emotions all the time, it’s practically the only exercise he ever takes-”
“I locked her in a hawkstrider cage and threw stinging nettles at her until she admitted to mixing the names up during the aranel’dorei.” Sylvanas smiles coldly. “It was not a protracted investigation.”
In the silence that follows, Tandred slowly steps behind Jaina.
“Sisters!” Katherine chirps, tugging another greatcoat from her satchel and wrapping it about Sylvanas’s Thalassian-gilded shoulders, ignoring her protests. “Your dear wife used to take revenge on her brothers by casting illusions on the hallways leading to their bedrooms. I found Derek on the roof once, convinced he was being chased by a tapestry. And there was the time she made their sweets taste like sprouts. And the time she animated the dining table and- well, I shall tell you more when we are out of the cold.” She reaches to stroke a lock of hair off one high-boned cheek, a softer smile now on her lips. “I expect you will hear it too many times to count, Lady Windrunner, but… you glow. You truly glow. Does she not, Daelin?”
Stood beside the carriage, his gaze on Sylvanas, Daelin nods jerkily. “Aye,” he croaks.
“I’ve already sourced some bolts of Kul Tiras’s finest cotton. Softer than a puppy’s arse! Daelin was building a perambulator, I stopped him after the healer billed us for the first three nailed thumbs, but he has done a grand job of organising the five-gun salute for the child’s birth, haven’t you, dear? And he’s got a spot ready on the family tapestry for- Daelin, are you crying?”
“No,” Daelin sobs.
“Oh, Father!” Jaina rushes to envelop him in a hug. “You daft old mudsnapper! Everything is just fine. Well, a little skew-whiff, but fine.” His head comes to rest against her neck, and she feels him draw in a long, shuddering breath. “I think a cup of tea must be in order,” she murmurs, and gives his back a firm rub before she releases him and steps back to thread her fingers through Sylvanas’s. “Well, shall we?” And she gently tugs her wife towards the carriage.
But their path is blocked when Daelin steps forwards, fiddling with his gilded cuffs. “Lady Sylvanas,” he falters, in a voice that trembles almost as much as his wax-twirled moustache, “as the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras and the patriarch of House Proudmoore, I would like to offer you my most sincere congratulations on your wonderful news.” He swallows. Draws in a long breath. “And… and as Grandpa Dae, I…” Breaks into a soft, hopeful smile, and quickly wipes a glittering trail from his cheek. “May I please say hello to her?”
Jaina’s throat swells with tears.
“As the Ranger-General of Silvermoon and the Second Scion of House Windrunner, I offer the Lord Admiral my deepest gratitude for his kind wishes.” Sylvanas’s stilted, formal words are at odds with the little grin Jaina can see tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her thumb strokes the back of Jaina’s palm. “And as Sylvanas, the tree-waif Jaina brought home, I must insist she meets her gai’ann’da with all due haste.”
Stiffly, tears now running freely down his face, Daelin bows to her and drops to one knee. Leans a little closer, and- waiting for Sylvanas’s nod- touches the tip of one calloused finger to the cloth covering her belly.
“Hello, starlight,” he whispers.
And far quicker than he bent down, he leaps to his feet, jumps on the carriage and snaps the reins to send the horses snorting and bucking down the road.
“We’ll walk then, shall we?” Katherine yells after him.
-0-0-
“Come on in, Alleria.” Without looking up from the piles of scrolls on her desk, Lireesa motions her into her study. “Take a seat. How is the rash?”
“Oh, you know Sylvanas. She’s very thorough about her punishments.” Scratching at her back, Alleria drops into the chair opposite her mother. “Does a wonderful job of it.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Lai’belore. She couldn’t hit the skin covered by your clothing.”
“Which is why she snuck into the launderette and added a pouch of itching powder to my laundry. Minn’da, it burns.” Her ears twitch at the hastily-stifled noise from her mother. “Are you laughing?”
“I’m sorry, dalah. That really is quite inventive. And to think that soon there will be two of them, no elf will be safe.” Wiping her eyes, Lireesa drops her quill and leans back in her chair to regard her daughter, hands steepled over her abdomen. “No need to look so serious. I only tease you. Did you wish to speak of matters beyond Sylvanas’s new hobby?”
“If you think there is any novelty in Sylvanas torturing me, then think again.” Alleria draws in a breath. Runs a hand through her hair, and forces herself to keep talking. “But… is she not justified? It was my error of speech that put her in this position-”
“An error any elf could have made,” Lireesa interrupts. “Had I conducted the ceremony, it could have been my tongue that faltered. You have known Sylvanas for hundreds of years. Jaina, a scant handful. Of course her name comes easiest to you; she is your sister, you held her as a newborn, and when your Minn’da was away, it was your bed she crawled into after a nightmare and your arms she sheltered in during a thunderstorm.” Pulling herself forwards, she reaches over the desk to lay her hand over Alleria’s. “You’re shaking! I will tell her to leave you alone. Soon her mind will be occupied by a thousand other matters. She will want you to prepare for the child’s coming just as much as she will want Vereesa and Lirath there, and the Proudmoores by her side-”
“Elves die in childbirth.”
In the silence that follows, even the air in Alleria’s lungs feels too heavy to breathe.
Lireesa swallows. Her fingers twitch on Alleria’s. “Yes,” she says, evenly. “It is extremely rare, and your sister, whose health is excellent, will be tended by the finest healers Silvermoon can offer. Please do not tell me you have been dwelling on such a morbid vision, when we have a tiny half-elf getting ready to meet her family.”
“I would, but it would be a lie.” Her chest aches with the effort of holding back her tears. “And if such a scenario did come to pass it- it would be my- I saw it, Minn’da. In a dream. A nightmare. Where she stood abandoned in the tulip fields to the south, and she fell to the muddy ground where the spectre of Death stood above her with sword drawn and she screamed through mouthfuls of blood, and her final moments were agony, and Jaina clutched her ashen corpse in desperation and shrieked that I had killed her and-”
“My dear Lai’belore, you must stop eating dwarven cheese before bed.” She didn’t hear Lireesa creeping out of her chair, yet strong arms encircle her and a hand rubs up and down her spine in long, soothing strokes. “As frightened as you doubtless were, and as sick as you doubtless felt to see such a tragedy befall your beloved sister- it was naught but a night terror. Your own mind playing tricks on you. Do you remember Sylvanas used to have a nightmare every Noblegarden, of mutant rabbits chasing her through the Spire?”
Alleria hiccups, swiping furiously at the tears on her cheeks. Her mother’s warmth and strength is so intensely reassuring that she can feel the stiffness and anxiety draining from her muscles. “How Lor’themar regretted dressing up as the Noblegarden mascot. And yet he never learned. Year after year of eggy beatings.” Her eyes meet Lireesa’s. “But… yes. It was a night terror. Just a night terror,” she repeats, a little louder. “Sylvanas is too sensible to venture to the tulip fields without her Rangers. And if she pulls back from active duty, as you are so keen for her to do, she would have no reason to be out there at all.”
“Indeed. So the scenario is baseless. Your sister is too clever and too damned stubborn to let anything happen to her, Alleria.” Gentle lips press a kiss to her forehead. “Turn your energy from worrying to something more productive. I would have thought such an elaborate and uncomfortable prank constituted grounds for some serious payback upon Sylvanas’s return to Quel’Thalas.”
“Ah, Minn’da. How could I be so cruel, to prank my poor afflicted sister so?”
“How indeed.”
“… Do you know where the Noblegarden decorations are?”
“I shall fetch them out immediately.”
-0-0-
“Tell me about your plans,” Katherine says. Her eyes never leave the greatcoat striding up and down the battlement of Proudmoore Keep, two pointy ears sticking out of the top of it. “I trust you have taken your time in thinking this through?”
“Of course, Lord Admiral.” Bending to stare down over the twenty-foot drop to her right, Sylvanas hums, seemingly oblivious to Katherine’s sharp intake of breath. “At the very least, I would install some spiked wire on these walls that stand vulnerable to being climbed-” Sylvanas straightens back up, and Katherine lets out an anxious huff- “and it would also be optimal to have mana-wells up here. Think of the damage a well-fuelled Tidesage could do from these spots.”
“As effective as that may be, that’s not what I-”
“It would be too easy to infiltrate the Keep through these slit windows. Not bodily. Well, not unless you were under siege from gnomes. They make for terrifying foes.” Sylvanas tilts her head to one side, a finger tapping her chin. “But these openings stand prone to magical attacks, or harmful gas, or at the very least subterfuge. Some poison ivy would be preferable to risking your security so openly.”
“Sylvanas, I hear what you’re-”
“Perhaps a partial moat. Belore knows Kul Tiras is- soggy- enough to consistently maintain such a construction.” And Katherine’s heart leaps into her throat as Sylvanas rises onto her tiptoes and peers over the battlements. “I would encourage you to station some of your Guard closer to the ramp down there-”
“Sylvanas!” Katherine hauls her back, ignoring her hiss. “Tidemother’s arse cheeks would you get back on solid ground, I am talking about your plans for the birth!”
“I know!” Sylvanas shouts. “That’s why I am avoiding the subject!”
“And at what point would you like to address it? In four months’ time? Five? Six? Perhaps when the child is crowning! You can make do with a very simple plan at that point: push.”
Scowling, Sylvanas tugs at the collar of the greatcoat until only her narrowed eyes and proud nose are visible. It gives her the impression of a particularly grumpy tortollan. “Neither myself nor my minn’da have spoken of the… birthing process, yet. We are far better versed in military processes than biological ones,” she mutters into the waxcloth, and fumbles for the chest pocket and a piece of tightly-folded parchment. “Here. Jaina began working on it on the way in to Boralus. I haven’t dared look yet.”
Brow furrowed, Katherine takes it to unfold, squinting down at her daughter’s spidery handwriting. “Research methods of enchanting hand to be impervious to pain. After the birth, if baby is screaming, step 1: pat firmly on back. (This is also applicable to Sylvanas.) If Sylvanas is screaming, step 1: Hook Point porter. (This is not applicable to the baby.) By the Tides, is this all she’s thought of so far?”
“I will have to have a stern word with her.”
“You will indeed.”
“I mean, Hook Point porter? Jaina knows I would accept nothing less than Whitegrove blanc. My finely-nurtured elven palate is insulted today.” Sylvanas sniffs, glaring up at the sky. “And to add to my grievances, your delightful island is about to rain on my head.”
“You were given an umbrella when you arrived.”
That earns her an unimpressed look. “I would sooner be sodden to the bone than lug one of those infernal sticks around with me.”
“You trapped your ears in it again, didn’t you?”
“Yes and it hurt.”
Katherine simply shoves the solid wooden door to her right wide open, motioning for Sylvanas to walk on ahead of her. “My study should be umbrella-free enough to suit your tastes. I will talk you through what you must know, and we will have a proper, workable, solid plan to present to Jaina by dinner, how does that sound?”
But Sylvanas’s steps pause at that, glancing sideways at Katherine. Her ears are canted at that half-wilt that Katherine has learnt to mean uncertainty. “You will find me a frustrating student,” she says, quietly, and clasps her hands behind her back. “If you wish to delegate this back to my own mother, and return the subject to something less intimate, I am more than content to-”
“None of that daftness, you silly mudsnapper. And though I love her for as long as stars do shine, there’s a part of me that is glad I’m not doing this with Jaina… she does so analyse everything.” Katherine shudders. “When she became a young woman, Daelin thought to have the talk with her. By the time I got home, Derek was day-drinking, Tandred had a bag packed to run away and Daelin was organising a six-week voyage to Tel Abim to ‘become one with the local produce’. And the cat didn’t come back for months. So! Where shall we start?”
Herded along by Katherine’s arm in hers, Sylvanas glances mournfully down to her stomach. “The Hook Point porter is starting to sound ever more appealing,” she mumbles in mournful Thalassian. “You had better be worth it.”
-0-0-
“It looks like a ship,” Jaina says.
Crouched beside the bow of the perambulator, Dorian Atwater offers her a gimlet-eyed glare. “Aye,” she grunts. “I’m a shipwright. Don’t do babies. Do ships.”
“I can see that.” Doubtfully, Jaina runs a hand over the smooth bend of the planks forming the bed. “The shape is a little… nautical, but I commend you for your attention to detail. Not a splinter in sight.”
Though her nostrils pinch disdainfully, Dorian’s chest puffs out, just a little. “’Tis a matter of pride,” she mutters. “No rough planks or sharp scuffs on my vessels. Nothing for little fingers to poke and prod and trap themselves in. Or big burly sailors. Tides know how much they’ll whinge, even for a little parchment cut.” She turns, squinting at Jaina. “And since I was all but harried off my farm to come salvage your father’s pet project, may I enquire when yer little bosun is due?”
Rubbing the lace sun-shield between two fingers, Jaina feels her lips curl into a soft smile. “This is very luxurious lace for a pet project, Dorian… in the late summertime. It’s possible she will arrive with the autumn. A little Harvest Festival present.”
Dorian’s eyes don’t leave the lace when she answers. “Well, my heartiest commiserations to you both. You must let me know what you call her. I’ve a handsome galleon in construction without a name.”
Jaina’s smile widens. “Thank you, Dorian, I shall- if you tell us when the launch is.” She eases herself upright, running her fingers over the perambulator’s carved oak handles. “I know the sum my father agreed upon for payment, and it will be doubled. May you have a pleasant journey home to-”
“Have you got a cot?”
Jaina stops short. “A cot?”
“Them things babies sleep in. I thought your mother said you were clever.”
“Perhaps I should be concerned,” Jaina grumbles. “Uh. No, actually, but I’m sure we can-”
“SAL!”
The door to the parlour flies open and Sal Atwater pokes his wizened head round, an indulgent smile on his lips. “Yes, my dearest?”
“We’ll be needing more oakwood. And lacquer. Tell ‘em if they dare try to palm me off with anything less than Fernwood’s finest, I’ll put leaks in their dinghies for the rest of their soggy little lives. Love you, treacle pie.”
“Love you too, my apple tart.” Sal takes a hearty slurp from his teacup, offers Jaina a toothy grin, and reaches for his boots as the door swings shut again.
Clearing her throat, Dorian clasps her hands behind her back. “Well then, Lady Proudmoore, if everything’s in order-”
“NO NO NO NO NO!” There’s a thud and a yelp from Sal as the parlour doors crash open again and a wild-eyed Sylvanas sprints past and leaps through the open window to vanish into the maze. “I DON’T WANT IT TO DO THAT!”
“I’m sorry, Jaina,” her mother’s voice pants; Jaina swerves back to the sight of a ruddy-faced Katherine picking a tea-sodden Sal up off the rug. “I thought she was coping quite well, until we began to broach the biological side of it…”
With a long, gusting sigh, Jaina digs a hand into the pouch hanging from her belt and brings out a slightly squished bag of Thalassian honey cakes. “Do we have any soured cream?”
Katherine’s face scrunches up. “Yes, but that’s just wrong.”
“If you want to be the one to argue it with her, Mother, you be my guest.” Setting her shoulders, Jaina waves a quick hand to dry Sal’s shirt and marches through into the kitchens to rifle through the fridge for the pot of soured cream. “If we’re not back by dusk, put Tandred on the roof and tell him to make his bird noises.”
“Is that some Farstrider thing that I’m too sensible to understand?”
“No, we just follow the laughter.” And, snacks in hand, she nudges the rear door open with her shoulder and strides along into the maze.