Jaina had expected anger. The raw, unending rage that consumed her people and all their thoughts of her. She could take the jeers and shouts that rained upon her as she was escorted (not lead, that way a very clear distinction her “guards” had made clear) to the keep. She could take the disappointment and sadness her mother showed as they were at last reunited after nearly thirty years.
What she had not expected was to be led straight into the keep.
Her mother had simply stepped out, murmured something to one of the guards, and then stepped back inside. Jaina couldn’t help the look of confusion that crossed her face as her chains were undone and her staff returned.
Hesitantly she made her way into her home, not that it felt much of one anymore. Her mother had paused halfway down the great hall to speak with someone around a corner that Jaina could not see; she was clearly unhappy with the situation if the enraged waving of her arms and heated swearing that reached her ears was anything to go by. Jaina had a brief moment where she considered stepping closer to hear the conversation but quickly thought it to be a poor idea; she was standing on fragile enough ground as it was, being caught snooping in on what was clearly a private conversation would not help her position. Instead, she let her eyes wander, gazing upon the different decorations that lined the hall.
Her gaze wandered the blue and green walls, occasionally feigning interest in a particular set of armour or a painting that happened to catch her eye. It was easy enough to believe that most of Kul Tiras' significant historical artifacts were here: her great great great great grandfather's coat, a sword and handgun from the first war, a Troll's tusk from the second. The sort of things that, once upon a time, may have made her stomach role with disgust. In Theramore she had been sure to decorate the various administrative buildings with unifying accoutrements, various bobble from both the Horde and the Alliance, in hopes that they would help everyone feel at ease within her walls. But Theramore was gone now, not but ruins and mana infused elementals, and she herself was just as shattered. Perhaps that is why they had chosen to spare her, because in a way, being left alive was more torturous than if they had simply split her head from her shoulders. To make her life that much longer so that the weight of her failures could continue to press down around her, squeezing and crushing until even the few unified remnants of her soul were scattered to the wind.
Then again, she didn't need Kul Tiras for that to happen.
By this point, she had wandered off a fair distance from where her mother had left her, the angry swearing and violent movements lost to the general hum and noise of the keep as she continued her little trip down memory lane. More armour lined the halls and even more paintings of long-dead family members, one of Darek had her pause mid-step. His short blond hair was windswept to the side as his kind eyes and gentle figure cut quite a casual frame. He had always been handsome (or at least so the other girls had told her in her youth), and at that moment she could finally see the appeal. He was a simple man with simple dreams, he wanted his kingdom to prosper and his family cared for. It had been Darek who had contacted the Kirin Tor when Jaina presented her magical abilities, it had been Darek who came to visit her in Dalaran when their parents were either to busy or too tired, it was Darek who she knew would always be there for her, at least until he wasn't. She wondered what he might think of her now: an old, angry, bitter woman who had been thoroughly chewed up and spat out by the world. Would he have yelled at her when she stepped off the dock? Would he have cried? Would he have grabbed her by the neck and throttled her? Or, more realistically, would he have just stood there? Watched as their mother passed judgement while he silently passed his own. She wasn't entirely certain she wanted to know.
Besides the quality of the painting itself, it had also been meticulously cared for. Its golden frame was polished and shiny and its canvas free from any dust or dirt, compared to some of the other paintings (most of which had been left unloved for generations at this point beyond the basic maintenance needed to make sure they didn't fall prey to the ravages of time), it looked practically new even though it had to be at least forty years old at this point. She took note of the desk in front of it, a small pitcher of flowers and a few handwritten notes. She considered opening one of them, but her hand froze as she reached forward before slowly pulling back. Eventually, she managed to tear herself away, forcing herself to take each step even as her head turned back to stare longingly at the portrait.
She continued onward, taking note of any significant figures or objects he passed. More armour, more paintings, she seemed to have reached the latter half of her family line as fewer and fewer Proudmoores lined the walls. After a few more minutes of wandering, she reached a dead end, the walls converging together to hold the seemingly last painting. It was an old one for sure, hidden away in a corner and coated with a thick layer of dust, clearly either placed here to be forgotten or simply lost to time. At first, she nearly didn't recognize it. Standing roughly four feet tall by two and a half feet wide, it had a large hole over one of the faces, looking as though someone had ripped part of it out by hand. Stepping closer Jaina gently brought her gauntlet covered hand up to the other face and carefully brushed away the dust. A gasp escaped her lips as she startled back, her eyes wide and handshaking as she beheld the gaze of Sylvanas Windrunner.
It was their wedding portrait (mangled and ruined now but recognizable all the same), with Jaina in her Dalaran robes and Sylvanas her Ranger leathers, painted just after they had come to Kul Tiras to have their human wedding. Jaina had a small delicate smile on her face, her hands folded in her lap as she sat on a small stool, Sylvanas face was dead neutral, tinged with a slight frustration only someone who truly knew her would be able to detect. Jaina couldn't help but rest a hand on the ruined and moulded frame; Sylvanas, her Sylvanas, so beautiful, so different. Not the Banshee Queen, not even the Ranger General, just her Sylv…
“I had almost forgotten we had that. I thought we had burned it after your father’s death.”
Jaina jumped at her mother's voice, her hand snapping back from the painting as she spun around to face her. The woman that greeted her was hardly what she would call maternal. Now her mother had never been the most touchy-feely person, no one in their family had been, but she had never been cold, not like this. Her mother's eyes, so similar to her own yet oh so different, cut like knives as she glared down the bridge of her nose. It didn't take much to presume that it had been her mother who had ripped her face from the painting. An act of rage made when the news of her actions in Theramore reached Kul Tiras. Jaina could almost see it, her mother falling into broken sobs and raging tears as she stormed across her sitting room, it was even less difficult to imagine the poisonous words she would have screamed as she ripped the painting from its pedestal. Once having hung there as one of her favourites now nothing more than a reminder of how far her daughter had fallen.
“But you didn’t.” Jaina responded once she had gathered herself.
“A mistake born of forgetfulness, not a choice, I assure you."
Yet, to spite those cutting words and the way it had been attacked; to spite the hatred her mother seemed to hold for her, it still hung. Albeit far, far away, where no one would ever hope to see it, it still hung. That had to mean something anyway, even if it was as inconsequential as not wanting to waste the frame, it was something.
“Now come, our...guest...wishes to speak with you.” Her mother ordered
Jaina was thrown by that, she had not seen any other foreign ships in the dock when they landed, perhaps a member of one of the noble families? She thought she had seen Ashvane working her way in the background of her arrival. But her mother didn’t give her the chance to ask questions, nor any indicators of whom Jaina could expect, simply turning on her heels and marching back down the hallway. Leaving Jaina with little to no choice but to follow, lest she wishes to find herself abandoned and lost within the keep.
They walked (more of a march, really) at a brisk pace for what felt like forever before they finally reached their destination. Once they reached the main hall it became rather obvious where they were going, the dining hall. An intimidating space for sure, it had been built to loom over all those unfamiliar with it, decorated with various Kul Tiran weapons and War Trophies. The long table was nearly twenty feet long and built to host any number of foreign dignitaries and diplomats; it had been carved from the finest Kul Tiran wood and enchanted by a Tide Sage to guarantee a perfect finish. Her mother stopped only for a moment to say something to one of the guards before turning to finally fully face Jaina.
“She said she wished for a few moments to speak to you alone, do try not to kill her, I know you struggle with betraying your family.” Her mother told her as she held the door open.
Jaina looked between her mother and the door for a moment before taking a breath and stepping through. It took a moment for her eyes to adapt to the low light offered by the few lit candles dotting the room, but the sight that greeted her once her eyes adapted made her wish she had just been sent to the gallows. Sitting at the head of the table, a self-satisfied smirk on her cold lips and her legs perch languidly on the table, was Sylvanas Windrunner. The Warchief of the Horde looked practically cat-like, with her ears twitching and her glowing red eyes. Upon noticing Jaina's presence she seemed to light up with delight, if she had a tail Jaina could almost imagine it flicking about with amusement.
“Hello dearest one, do have a seat, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Sylvanas told her as one of the guards pulled out a chair.
So stunned was Jaina by the sight of her un-dead wife just sitting there, that she did. Fumbling for a moment as she more or less just collapsed into the cautioned seat, her eyes never leaving Sylvanas’ own.
A thousand different questions filtered through her mind at once. Why was Sylvanas here? What did she hope to gain? Why did she wish a moment alone? It had to be some form of trick, a haunting image summoned expressly to unsettle her before the real culprit appeared. Yet no one else stepped into the room, no trap sprung, Sylvanas simply sat there, waiting for Jaina to go through the motions of her shock.
“You're thinking too hard, if you were a gnomish machine I’d almost believe there to be smoke coming from your ears.”
That pulled Jaina from her thoughts as she cast a withering glare to the woman sitting across her. There would be time for answers later, when she was on more even footing, as it stood Sylvanas obviously held some form of political weight in their current position. The fact that she was ordering Proudmoore family guards around as if they were her own was evidence enough.
“What are you doing here, Warcheif?” Jaina finally spits out, her voice low and threatening, yet unable to sustain their silent eye contact.
Sylvanas let an exaggerated scoff escape her as she brought a hand up to her chest in a dramatic motion. “How rude wife, to not even refer to me by name." She said, her voice echoing dripping with self-righteous indignity, but when Jaina didn't rise to the bait the act dropped. Her arms dropping back to her side as she struck up her relaxed pose once more. "If you really must know I was invited.” She continued.
Now it was Jaina’s turn to scoff.
“And you expect me to believe that my mother, the single woman on this earth who could possibly hold a candle to Tyranda's hatred of the Horde, invited you into the home of her own free will?. No. No Kul Tiran worth their sea legs would invite a member of the Horde into their home, let alone there leader.”
Sylvanas smirk sharpened at that, going from playful to devious in mere seconds as she moved to stand from her chair.
“You’re quite right there. I must admit that I was quite surprised when the invitation arrived in Orgrimmar. Yet, I suppose it makes sense; technically speaking I am Kul Tiran, even if it is through a most unorthodox fashion.” Sylvanas told her as she rounded the table, stopping only once she was close enough for Jaina to feel the dark magic writhing beneath her skin.
“You see, according to Kul Tiran law, you and I are still married.”
Jaina’s mind froze at those words, her right hand instinctively moving to cover her left where her wedding band still rested upon her finger. Sylvanas noticed the movement (because of course, she did) but said nothing, choosing instead to take a few steps back and seating herself directly upon the table.
“Some sort of technicality with how Kul Tiras recognizes the dead, if I understand it correctly, which means that, legally, my name is Sylvanas Proudmoore. So, to spite how much they may hate you, to spite how much they despise the Horde, I am a member of their ruling family, your family, and directly in line to the Admiralty. Whether they like it or not.”
This had to be a nightmare, there was no world in which this could truly be happening.
“And with your dearest younger brother and the fleet missing in action, the line of succession falls onto me.”
She refused to believe it, refuted every part of it, like a poorly written story or a tragic fable.
“You’re lying.” Jaina finally said as she recovered her wits. “This is some Banshee trick!”
“As much as I’m sure you and Ashvane would love that, I’m not so sorry to say that it is the absolute truth.”
Jaina could feel herself deflate at that. She could use any number of spells to make sure, to check for the truth, but deep down she knew. Knew that if she did the results would only side with Sylvanas, corroborate her story and legitimize the reality of Jaina’s situation.
To spite the despair, confusion, and crushing failure weighing Jaina down, Sylvanas continued; her voice echoing with self-satisfaction and confidence.
“So when I heard that they planned to execute my dearest wife, I knew I had to intervene. To spite how much they may hate you, you are still of noble birth, it wouldn’t stand to have you down with all the other common folk. It's far better for you to stay up here with the rest of us, for your safety of course.”
That, Jaina had no problem dissecting. Sylvanas wanted her trapped in the keep and unable to speak with her crew or contact the Alliance to inform them of what had occurred. If Jaina was trapped then that meant Sylvanas had a legitimate chance of forcing Kul Tiras into the Horde upon her mother in laws passing. A death which Jaina was certain would be more than untimely if nothing was done.
“You won’t get away with this!” Jaina hissed.
Sylvanas looked exactly like a cat who had gotten her cream. “Oh, but that’s the best part..." She said as she maneuvered herself into the chair at the head of the table.
"I already have.”