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The invitations had been unexpected, the ornate envelopes more fine than usual, even among the Silvermoon nobility; stranger still, the addressees, for who would know to send for Zhonyadormi here? And of those, who would send a letter by post?
“Are you quite sure it's safe to open?” He'd asked, suspicion laced with concern through his tone.
She'd smiled at him, in a way that only much later did he realise was all too knowing. “Oh, yes. Go on, you first,” she’d urged, holding her own envelope as if it were a fan held close to her chest.
And that was how Cail and Zonya were invited to Medivh’s party.
Their carriage had wound its way through Deadwind Pass, the ambient noise outside rising as they approached Medivh’s old tower, and soon it had pulled to a shuddering stop outside the tower. The old inn had been cleared away to make room for a somewhat makeshift drop-off point, and behind them several other carriages and a few on horseback and hawkstrider waited their turn. Cail looked up at Karazhan. And up, and up.
“It's bigger than I thought it would be,” he says, as behind him Zonya exits the carriage, her honey-gold hair held up in an ornate hairstyle she insists is about to be in fashion. Somehow she makes walking look easy, despite the heels and clingy, sparkling dress she's picked for the occasion. Cail, for one, has no complaints about how she looks. For himself, he’d chosen a well-fitted red and gold suit, over a vest - all the better to free his arms should, if luck would have it, a brawl breaks out.
“Isn't that my line, honey?” She teases him, stepping close and slipping her arm around his. “Come. Let's go inside, it'll be warmer.”
The tower is imposing. Cail, not having been worth the notice of a Guardian, or any Mage but his sister before now, has only heard stories. “I heard there's dragons inside. Bound to the tower, to protect it and those who live there,” he says conversationally.
“You'll be fine. Your dragon will keep you safe,” Zonya retorts, all warm amusement.
Ahead of them in line, a somewhat gaunt looking steward was waving through a quartet of paladins, judging by the bulky, polished plate. Clearly he was good at his job, given that he didn’t even crack a smile when all four tried to pass through the entry door at the same time. Cail was not so restrained at the sight of a self-instigated upturned cart of paladin, chuckling as he stepped forward, Zonya holding out the invitations.
“Ahh yes, announced visitors,” the steward mused. “Enjoy your evening, Zhonyadormi,” he said with a courteous nod. “And Zhonyadormi’s guest.”
“Her guest? I-”
“Come, Cail,” she said with her own laugh, tugging him by his arm over the tangled pile of holy defenders. “It’s fine.”
He let himself be pulled inside, cheered by the mess he walked over to do so. “I know I’m not the most important person, but- Oh, forget it.”
“I thought it was funny.”
He glanced across at her, and was quiet a moment. “Well, if it was funny, ” he says with a smile. “Those are… impressive stairs.”
Zonya smiles back at him as they begin the ascent. “Don’t let Karazhan intimidate you. Medivh always liked things a little theatrical. And he liked to know everything.”
“Isn’t that your job? Yours, and your family’s?”
“Yes.” She glances at him. “He was charming, but insufferable.”
“I can beat him at both of those.”
“Do try for the first and not the second tonight, dear.” She pats his arm fondly as they reach the ballroom at the top of the staircase.
The effect is like that of a parted curtain; what had been a quiet entry was now very obviously a noisy, busy party. People from all manner of times and places milled about pleasantly.
“What kind of music is this?” Zonya asked.
Cail considered. “Cheesy, but something to dance to,” he answers with a shrug.
“Works for me. Shall we look around?” Zonya gently guides him forward. “We’re blocking the way, and I’d hate to be trampled by a Paladin stampede.”
They make their way around the ballroom. Some danced, some played chess, some gathered around tables on the periphery and laughed uproariously; most were people Cail did not recognise, and Horde and Alliance commingled comfortably. Zonya nodded towards the stairwell that lead up the tower, glancing at Cail questioningly; he made a noise of agreement, and they moved to the upper floor.
Here there was a bit of a crowd, centered around a far table. When they were able to get close enough to see, it was obvious why so much attention was directed this way; a young Khadgar stood astride the table, like some drunk colossus, bottle in hand and belting out a song that appeared to be called ‘My Garona’ to the best of his not entirely inconsiderable ability. In the crowd, a more seasoned Khadgar stood - looking like the posters Cail had seen recently - aghast, stunned and clearly embarrassed. Next to him stood a Garona, grinning like the biggest fool, hands on her hips and and clearly having fun at the Archmage’s expense.
Zonya giggled, and leaned close to be heard over the din. “It’ll be good for him in the morning. He can use the reminder he’s only mortal.”
“Which one?” he asked her back.
Zonya laughed. “Yes.” She nodded towards a table in the back. “How about there? We can look in at the opera after a while.” He nods an easy agreement, and they wend their way amongst the throng to stake their claim, Cail hanging his coat over the back of the chair. “I’ll get us a drink.”
“Get me something yellow,” she says as she drapes herself across a chair, looking entirely too comfortable.
He makes his way to what passes for a bar - it’s got the bench and the barkeep, but a portal behind him serves as access to the cellars - and waits his turn. A blindfolded man appears to be arguing with the staff, and he tries to listen in, curious.
“You don’t understand, I need to fill these-” The blind elf holds up three flasks and jingles them for emphasis. “-from the punch bowl, and make my own Bowl of Alcohol at my table!” Apparently the blindfolded man simply cannot bear the great suffering of going without immediate access to booze. Cail snorts quietly, and the the blindfolded man suddenly turns his head his way, before looking back at the barkeep. Right. Blind, not deaf.
“Suffering this is too great to bear,” he rasps, pulling his flasks to his chest and storming off in a rage. Cail shakes his head, amused at how close he called it, before stepping to up order a good beer for himself and a fancy amber looking drink for Zonya. The Barkeep - well, the floating quill beside him - takes his order, and assures him it will appear at his table in a few moments.
Cail wends his way through the crowd, trying to find their table. It appears to have moved somehow, and he shrugs - this place being what it is, maybe that’s normal? - as where he thought they were, there now sits two Jaina Proudmoores, one with a streak of white through her hair, engaged in very animated discussion.
“-you see that it needed to be done? Light, I was so blind then, to not have seen-”
“-don’t know how you could possibly have let go of hope for the future-”
“-the things they’ve taken from me, from us , that they’ll take from you-”
“- nothing is worth giving up on the inherent goodness of individual people-”
“-How can you possibly still be optimistic? After what I’ve told you, warned you-”
“-How can you possibly be so cold? After all we’ve fought for, believed in-”
Finally, the two chorus at each other, incredulous in stereo.
“-It’s like I don’t even know you!”
They look at each other a moment, their twinned expressions appalled at each other - at themselves, and then they suddenly notice the blood elf standing there.
“Uh, Hi,” Cail says with what he hopes is a disarming grin. “My table appears to have moved…”
“It’s a standard sixth-dimensional progression. Try closer to the Opera,” the blonde one suggests, while the other Jaina looks at him in a way that encourages moving on.
As he moves off, he can hear one of them fading into the background noise. “I still have faith in people. Even in me. In you. You can…”
He finds their table, and as promised the drinks are already here, Zonya sucking on a straw provocatively when she sees him, smiling as he sits down with her.
“Oh, you did that on purpose,” he accuses her, amused.
“Of course,” she confesses, her smile deepening.
“You told me to behave earlier,” he reminds her.
“Hmmm.” She drains some more of her drink. “Yes. I did.” Her smile, impish before, turns positively radiant.
“And I thought I was the troublemaker.”
“You were. Are. Will be again.”
He makes a rude face at her, and Zonya laughs, leaning close to kiss him softly. He quickly forgets his complaints.
They spend some time together, chatting and looking at the events going on, the scenery changing in flashes as their table moves from place to place, until it eventually settles in the Opera House. A hush descends as if by mutual agreement, and a vaguely transparent figure walks onstage before the curtain.
“Ladies, Gentleman, and others… Welcome. Tonight, we have a very special presentation. A tale of intrigue, romance, high drama and wanton desire!” The apparition pauses for effect, and the audience does not disappoint in playing along with the dramatics. “But enough from me. On with the show! ”
The curtains pull back, and Cail finishes his drink - just to find it refilled, almost certainly by magic. On stage, he recognises a retelling of recent events - mostly concerning the Broken Isles campaign. He doesn't remember it being this funny, though. Laughter from the audience abounds, though sometimes at different jokes - seems some people don't like to make light of the Alliance’s late king. In fact, that might be Varian over there himself, scowling at the stage. Cail, at least, can see the amusement in how Sylvanas is presented - he's positive she wears more than that usually, and hasn't seen anyone lean provocatively at every occasion so assiduously since that time Zonya made him watch himself.
He's also pretty sure she didn't perform an elaborate musical number about “getting the ol’ Blightcaller dick back”, but he'd been busy lately. Maybe he'd missed it. And the actress playing Sylvanas looked like she was having a very fun time riding up there while the fireworks went off, by his judgement.
All too soon the show ended, the curtain closed, and the lights came back up. Zonya gave him a sly look, and leaned in to talk against his ear. “Let's go up,” she said, taking his hand in hers and tugging him up from the table, as the cast performed their curtain call.
She lead him through the crowds, and along the outer rim of the Opera House, wending through until she found stairs leading up each time. He's not sure where she's taking him, until she pulls him to an unremarked upon door, on the highest level. Surely, he thinks, a private guest room lurks beyond.
Zonya laughs at his evident disappointment when beyond is an empty corridor, desperately in need of cleaning. “Not yet, darling,” she says, eyes twinkling,
She tells him of this place as she leads him further in - decayed and left to crumble, guarded by the ghosts of servants long past. He wonders why this wasn't cleaned up for the party; she admits that they're not exactly meant to be back here.
So, it's that kind of adventure, he realises with a grin.
Soon they reach an enormous chamber, with an elaborate arcane sentry who sternly informs them that entry is for guests only; Zonya gamely argues for their entry, while Cail tries not to think about having fought similar constructs in the past. He’s pulled out of his reminisces when Zonya takes his hand, pulls his other to her hip, and dances them down the empty hallway, and right into an overloaded bookshelf at the end. They laugh as several books fall around them, cut off suddenly by a voice further ahead calling out.
“Who's that? Who’s there?”
They follow the voice further in, entering a large, elaborate library. Standing there, a book in hand and looking stern, is a middle-aged man in a carefully tailored robe.
“It’s just us,” answers Cail, answering nothing. “Who are you? A performer from the stage downstairs?” he guesses.
The man looks affronted. “I am not some simple jester!” he booms. “I am- oh, never mind. This library is restricted,” he concludes suspiciously.
Zonya cuts in. “It’s fine, he’s with me.” She gives the man a steady look, which he returns for a moment, before nodding in assent.
“Actually, you might be able to help me,” he adds. “I’ve been looking for a book, The Chrono-cles of Azeroth , and maybe you could-”
“If I may,” Zonya interjects, having chosen precisely the right moment to break in, “there may be something else you should be looking for.” She points a delicate finger towards an alcove across the expansive room. The scholarly man looks over, confused.
There, a tall human woman stands, silver-blonde hair carefully brushed out of her face as she cradles an ancient-looking tome. Her spare hand supports a hovering ball of arcane light, positioned to assist in reading.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh…. No. It couldn’t…” He looks back to Zonya, wonderingly, who nods confirmation.
“And I think she might be very happy to see you,” she adds, but he’s already making a beeline towards the alcove.
Bemused, she and Cail watch as he approaches her cautiously, her obvious recognition of him as she slams the book shut - it promptly vanishes in a puff of purple smoke - and hugs him close.
“Come on,” says Zonya to Cail, satisfied. “I’m not done with you yet.” She flashes him a brilliant smile, which he finds himself returning, as she pulls him towards the upward-spiralling path through Medivh’s library.
Zonya points out where Netherspite used to reside, and Cail notes the secret door mechanisms further along with interest when she shows him how they work. They pass a table where Khadgar - a Khadgar, anyway - sits, in quiet, subdued discussion with a statuesque blood elf. She looks like she may be sad more often than not, somehow, but appears to be enjoying his company. A hand of cards is discarded on the table. She notices as Cail and Zonya come near, but waves them onward without a word.
Soon enough, they reach a large, ornate set of doors. Grinning impishly, Zonya pushes it open and gestures for Cail to step inside.
A large room awaits, with square tiles in the floor and lifelike statues on the grid. Chess, he recognises, right before he notices that he and Zonya aren’t alone in the room.
Medivh is here.
His brow was furrowed with thought as he examined the game layout, but he looks up as the two enter. “Welcome, Zhonyadormi. And Zhonyadormi’s guest.” Cail automatically opens his mouth to object, but Medivh suddenly grins, and the expression is so unexpected that he forgets to complain.
“Medivh,” Zonya says warmly in greeting. “It’s a lovely party you’re throwing here. Again.”
“Ahh, but it’s the guests who make the party,” Medivh allows. “You honour me by attending.” He looks across to Cail. “You all do. Even you.”
It’s safe to say that Cail was not expecting to meet the Master of Karazhan while he was here.
“If I may… Chess?” he asks.
Medivh smiles, his tone shifting to that of a familiar lecture. “It’s a complex game. Many moving pieces, different rules for each. Good for keeping the mind sharp. But you know that, of course. Ask what you want to know.”
Cail swallows, glancing at Zonya. “He always did love to educate,” she says wryly. “Go on, he won’t bite.”
“Alright,” he allows, turning back to Medivh. “Why throw the party, then come up here to play Chess? Alone? Why throw the party at all?”
Medivh nods knowingly. “The party isn’t for me, Cailendan. You’ve come a long way from the ground floor, through my tower this evening. Tell me, what have you seen?”
Cail goes to answer, stops. Thinks. Then tries answering again.
“I saw people from all over Azeroth - from all through the Twisting Nether - coming together and interacting with each other. I saw a woman argue with herself about the best course of action. I saw some realise what was coming and what might be done to avoid it. And I saw a dangerously risque Sylvanas impersonation.”
Medivh chuckles. “Not an impersonator. The ranger Sylvanas is surprisingly game for sending herself up. Was, I suppose, from your perspective.” The scholarly tone returns. “You’ve gotten the tail of it. An opportunity for people to mingle - but you’d know about that yourself, of course. Though who would turn down an invitation from Medivh? After all, I throw amazing parties. And I can, shall we say, bend time a little to allow for it.”
Beside Cail, Zonya makes a soft growling noise. Medivh affects ignorance.
“Perspective, Cailendan. Perspective is invaluable. And for one night only, here, in Karazhan, you can meet anyone , from anytime. Leaders like Sylvanas and Varian get an idea of the actual costs of their actions. Some puffed up Knights of the Silver Hand realise that pride - and marching abreast - goes before the fall. A mage is reminded of her youthful optimism. A lonely man gets to see the woman he may have, had things gone differently, loved all their life, one more time.” Medivh smiles sadly.
“And… why am I here?” Cail asked.
“Because Zhonyadormi brought a guest.” Medivh pats him on the shoulder, taking the sting out of it.
“It’s true that most of the people here tonight won’t remember much in the morning. The consequences of tearing the fabric of time apart like that would be catastrophic. But isn’t it often true, that the day after the party, you only remember vague impressions? And who’s to say that a person, when presented with an important choice, shouldn’t recall a vague impression from tonight of what they learnt?”
Zonya coughs. “That would be me, actually.” She gives Medivh an even look.
Medivh smiles. “And have you seen anything tonight that requires the intervention of the Bronze Dragonflight? If so, we can haggle. I’d hate to have to fight.”
Zonya makes a show of considering. “Nothing that’s substantial enough for us to intervene.” She smiles at the mage. “So far. There’s still our little matter.”
Medivh smiles. “Of course. Don’t let me detain you any longer. The rooms are through and to the left. And I have a cake to jump out of.” He waves a hand, and the sound of a teleport heralds his departure.
Cail looks sideways at Zonya. “What…. was that all about?” he asks.
“You talked to Medivh, the Last Guardian, and didn’t make a fool of yourself?”
“No, the- well, yes, but, the part about rooms.”
“Ahh. That’s for us. Come on.” Zonya leads Cail one last time, through the chessboard and to the left, as instructed. Reaching another doorway, she gently opens the door, peeking inside before Cail can enter. Pulling back, she looks at Cail and grins wickedly.
“Go on, go in,” she encourages him. Wary of what he may find, Cail enters the room.
It’s a bedchamber, alright. Just like he expected half a tower ago. But standing there, in an entirely different dress, is… Zonya.
Cail, confused turns back around and looks outside. Zonya is standing there, grinning, back in her original dress. He looks back inside. She’s there, changed again, and looking almost nervous. He steps towards her. “What are you-”
Behind him, Zonya steps into the room, closing the door.
Cail looks back and forth. Two Zonyas.
The new one looks Cail over. “So, this is the blood elf I’m going to meet?” she says, to the Zonya who, having entered the room, takes Cail’s arm in her own.
“Oh, yes,” Zonya says. “And the expression on your face just now was priceless, dear,” she says to Cail.
“You… there’s…” Cail, for once, is at a loss for words.
“Cail, dear, this is me,” Zonya explains. “Well, it’s me, about a month before we met?” She looks at Zonya the younger for confirmation, who nods.
“I was interested in finding out about you, since it seems we’re in for quite the adventure soon enough. You didn’t tell me he was handsome,” she says, her nervousness gone, stepping closer to examine the mortal in the room.
“Well, some things should be a surprise, and how often are we surprised?” Zonya asks rhetorically, reaching with a hand to turn Cail to face her, then kissing him softly on the lips. “Surprise,” she says softly.
“There are two of you,” Cail says dumbly.
“Don’t pretend you’ve never thought about it,” the Zonyas chorused seductively.
“Well, yes, alright, but-”
“It’s a party,” Zonya breathed against his ear, as younger Zonya stepped towards Cail, taking his hands in hers. “I thought we should all have some fun.”
In Medivh’s chambers, for one night in Karazhan, no one slept a wink.