The Clash of Cunning

Three days passed in this back-and-forth, and no one knew how the Horde warriors led by Illidan and the Night Elf warriors led by Garrosh had managed to hold on. When Gul'dan and Archimonde arrived at the combined Horde and Night Elf camp with the Undead and demons, they found corpses strewn everywhere. Every survivor was wounded, and quite a few had lost limbs.

Illidan and Garrosh had brought the last remnants of their forces to the foot of Nordrassil. Perhaps beneath the towering trunk and vast, sun-blocking canopy, Illidan and Garrosh and their warriors, each resolved to die, were waiting for the final moment to come.

They might have not a single uninjured patch of skin left, or might have lost a part of their bodies, but they weren't afraid. They might lose themselves in thoughts of the family and friends they missed, and feel despondent as they dreamed of the lives they might have lived. But they would never despair because they were trapped in a hopeless situation, even knowing that death awaited them.

For the first time, Illidan came over to Garrosh of his own accord. Looking at the handsome young man, he felt he could picture the face beneath the mask of the woman who had always worn one in his memories. Perhaps, deep in his memories, Illidan also remembered meeting Maiev before she put on her mask.

"Kid, stick with me. As long as I, Illidan, have a breath left in me, I won't let you die."

Illidan was quite a bit taller than Garrosh, so Garrosh had to tilt his face up to speak with him. Hearing Illidan's words, Garrosh lifted his chin slightly and looked Illidan in the eyes.

"I'm not afraid of death. Perhaps death is a demon's destined end. I just