I have heard tales of Argus, of what our homeworld was. I have heard of the shining streets of Mac'Aree and the shimmering waters which flowed through the mountains. Elders wove their memories into our imagination, until I believed that I might never see such wonder, such magnificence, with my own eyes. But I have.

At the crown of this world, beyond the plagued lowlands, the green forests, the citadel of the Death Prince, there rises in the snow little temples, then paved roads, then grander towers and squares and high reaches, windblown and veiled by the drifts. The dwarves sought further, seeking their own history and that of this world. They opened doors. We followed.

And now we fight in Ulduar.

The stones in this place seem older than this world, the metals finer than any mithril or gold. We do not fight creatures of flesh, or even of bone; the Scourge does not touch this place. Everything is larger, greater, stronger, than any enemy I have imagined. Every encounter is another challenge; I set my hooves against these ancient cobbles and set my rifle to my shoulder. What do my bullets leave but shards behind? Will they ever break through the guardians here to reach what lies beneath, our final goal?

I fear it will kill us all. I fear we will never reach it.

One year ago, we were broken, Shar and I - only one of these Azeroth years passed. I remember the festival fires then, how warm and inviting they were, and how she encouraged me to dance again, when all I had known for months was crippling pain. Dancing felt like freedom then, like a great victory, to move my legs and feet and back and hips, to feel my body respond, awkward and clumsy and unfit as it was... Dancing, now, is a luxury, too often forgotten for other tasks, as other tasks have become more necessary, more apt to test our strength when we have it, more of a challenge to overcome, more of a victory.

For Ulduar, I have become whole again. For Ulduar, Light and Shadow, strength and quickness, all I have ever been, I have forced through me. No longer does my back twist with the injuries I suffered in Netherstorm. No longer do I drag my left leg, and it now stands as sturdy and strong as my right. Once I feared my arms would not be strong enough to hold her -“They are strong enough,” she told me - but now I lift and swing the great poleaxe across my back. Now I am whole again, stronger, faster, keener of sight and mind than ever I was on Dreanor, than ever I was in Zangarmarsh, when we ran together through moss and fen.

But will it be enough, I wonder, as my fingers slip over her hair, as she lies sleeping, exhausted, after a night in that deep and fearful place. Will it be enough... my eyes light her skin and Light drops in dripping golden motes from my fingertips to soothe her bruises. We are whole now, my love, my Shar, my shad'are-mishunor. We are whole now, heart-sister. But still I fear. Still I fear.

Long ago, we were told stories, tales of the old world, the temples, the cities. Tales of mountains high and rivers strong, tales of worlds left broken behind us in our constant quest to find peace. With every breaking, we learn to survive again. With every breaking, we become stronger. I lay myself beside her, my figure fit to hers. I touch my lips to her shoulder and breathe, let the sigil shine above my eyes, let it dance between us. In this moment I know what cannot be felt with the waking mind, what cannot be touched by fear: There is greatness in stone and metal, greatness in the ancient sources of this world – but they break like so much rubble, and do not rise again. We will rise, however; yes, we will rise, and delve deeper, and move farther, and grow stronger, should this world break beneath us, or should the Light shine on us once again.