Spoilers ahead for Shadows Rising.
There seems to be some confusion about how the Night Elves treat the Undead Night Elves that were raised by the Val’kyr at Darkshore. Short of it is, over all, the Night Elves do not forsake them, not even the ones that stayed loyal to Sylvanas even after she abandoned the Horde.
Even more unexpected, Maiev of all people does not want Tyrande consumed by vengeance and does not want Tyrande to end up the way Maiev was herself before.
“I wish I could have done more to protect you,” Tyrande said, cold. “But some natures prove too evil to curb. Too ambitious to abide. Sylvanas has such a nature, and I will not forget that. You are her servant now, Sira, I have not forgotten that, either.”
She drew the long, curved sword at her side, letting Sira see it plainly.
“Tyrande.” Shandris’s voice was gentle as silk, as if Tyrande might startle and do something they would all regret. “Think. Look.”
“I see a sad and defeated thing that has chosen a path,” Tyrande replied. “Nothing more.”
“I chose nothing!” Sira shrieked, and Maiev stepped forward, so close her shoulder brushed Tyrande’s. “I did not choose to return. I would never choose to return. Everything inside me is ugliness and rage, and the only thing that quiets the scream is death. For what was done to me, I will see a hundredfold done upon this cursed realm!”
Maiev’s hand fell on Tyrande’s forearm, but the Night Warrior shrugged it off. Her wrist twitched, the blade shimmered.
“I knew you once to find a fawn with two snapped legs,” Maiev whispered. “A fawn everyone, even I, claimed was beyond healing, beyond help. Many offered to end its suffering, but you saw inside of it a spark of life. A hidden light.”
“It died,” Tyrande murmured, squinting down at Sira. “I could not save it.”
“How long did you try?” Maiev asked. “And would you try again? If you continue down this path, Tyrande, you will find yourself no better than Sira. She is in pain, can you not see it? She is in agony. The only relief comes from spilling blood. Is this what you want? To find your only comfort in the suffering of others?”
“And so I should do nothing?” Tyrande seethed.
“That is not what I suggest and you know it. Listen, Tyrande.” Maiev went to stand beside Sira, a warden she had considered more than a friend. A sister. “I have lived as one consumed, and though there is no great love between us, Tyrande, I would not see you become what I was. What Sira is now. You are more than just rage and vengeance, you are more than simply the Night Warrior: you are a priestess and a leader. Can you not, as a priestess, take pity on this creature?”
Tyrande raised the blade again, considering it.
The corrupted, undead warden flattened herself against the wall, then hissed. “You will not,” Sira spat. “You lack the—”
A single strike, swift and true, cut an opening in Sira’s neck, but shallow, no deeper than the width of a fingernail. There would be no blood, for she had none to shed. Sira grabbed for her neck, sure it was the blow of death.
Tyrande raised the weapon again, a shudder passing through her body. She had thought to feel nothing, to know nothing but perfect rage. She was the Night Warrior, revenge made flesh, but now with that one shallow cut, she felt suddenly, horribly alive again.
“Mercy,” Shandris murmured, taking the blade easily from Tyrande’s hand. “Mercy for that little hidden light.”
“Mercy,” Maiev added, “for a sad, defeated thing.”
Tyrande simply nodded, no longer armed. Shandris and Maiev had more things to ask, but the Night Warrior was finished. She had seen what she needed to see. Turning to go, she paused at the door, opening and closing her fist around the blade that was no longer there. “Alas, Sira, I do possess the courage,” she said. “And that is what frightens me. That is what should frighten us all.”