The Death of Val'thalore
Age was a foe that was always fearless, constantly bombarding the mortals of the universe; some say that even those that were there at the beginning of time will someday kneel in defeat if they have not already become a weakened vassal.
The Elves of Azeroth darted around the vicious stabs of time for many years, in a sense becoming immortal - but even they would soon know of the drowning tides that would swallow generations.
Of the Elves the Sin’dorei were born, immortal not by their strong defense against mortality but by their strong affiliations to the forging of history. Mass pillars reaches for the sky, building defied gravity and hovered far off the ground, cities that would rival all the capitol of the world combined. The Sin’dorei would live forever in the threads of history.
Or at least they were arrogant enough to believe.
Val’thalore sat in his favorite chair, posted on the border of his balcony near the edge so that he could view the whole of Quel’thalas - a land restored to rightful power just as he had envisioned in his youth. The rebellious mane, once painted in the shadow, was now pliable to snow that never fell upon Eversong. His toned body, while still covered in an army of scars, was now weak and thinned. His face removed from the childish ambition and youthful ignorance, now graced with aged wisdom and satisfactory.
In his hand he cupped the base of a wine glass, Eversong Wine warmed by his grip sat patiently inside; grapes grown in Quel’thalas, picked by Sin’dorei, and aged in Sin’dorian barrels. The sun had just began to sink behind him, the sleepy rays slashing across the sky to create a dusk-time show of colors that painted the clouds.
Behind him as well approached his Son, ambition made his presence known. Val’thalore knew what he was here for, in way he was proud that Alerion was able to achieve the vigor that he only was able to grasp too late. Val’thalore did not greet him as he stood quiet just a few steps behind his chair; he only raised his glass and finished the sweetened alcohol, placing the bare glass on the table at his side.
Val’thalore smiled as his lungs filled to the brim with the fresh, free, and glorious air of Quel’thalas only to have it ripped away.
The Blood Father remembered the face of his daughter, pouting thoroughly as she was forced into another dress by her Mother.
He remembered squeezing his palm after slitting the flesh deep, cleansing Tuathal of his sin and guilt just before being embraced in a tight hug.
He remembered returning home after years of service, walking into his own room to be greeted by three little Guards, all trying to lift the same heavy sword as they attempted to protect their Mother.
He remembered his wife becoming tangled up in the blankets of his bed and falling off as she attempted to be ‘sexy’.
He remembered engaging Alaerya, forging her into the last great sword of Quel’thalas - a slayer that would carve a path to victory for Quel’thalas even in the most disturbing of odds.
Val’thalore sat still as the blood mimicked the rivers of Eversong, trailing down his torso and onto his lap. The congealed mass began to form in his lungs; forcing him to cough violently until the crimson rose up his throat and ran past his lips. The Blood Father’s hear slowed, pounding like a distant drum traveling further and further until not even an echo was heard.
The Blood Father blinked his eyes, once, and then twice; his eye lids becoming heavy as the strong desire of slumber swept over him. Val’thalore gave in, tired of fighting, he closed his eyes and released the sweet air of a restored Quel’thalas, for the last time.
