The soft ripple of water lapped against the worn wood of the pier. The early evening Pandarian mist clung low to the surface, blurring the world into shades of silver and gray. Church sat at the end of the dock, still and silent, a silhouette of black and violet robes draped around a frame that had once marched through a thousand battlefields.
The fishing pole in his skeletal hand quivered slightly, the line vanishing into the still water. He didn’t expect to catch anything. It wasn’t really about that.
It never was.
The faint clink of his armor—worn, dented, and long since stripped of any heraldry—broke the silence as he shifted slightly. The air smelled of damp earth and lotus blossoms, and somewhere behind him, he could hear the faint laughter of children.
“Uncle Scarecrow!” one of them had called him earlier that day. The name had stuck months ago - born of fear, softened into affection. He’d taken to wearing the wide-brimmed hat and facial wraps to shield their eyes from the horror of what lay beneath.
He tugged at the brim, watching a small dragonfly skim over the surface of the water.
“Peace,” he muttered, the word strange on his tongue. Even the whispers of the void, ever-present at the edges of his mind, seemed to be silent out of respect for this moment.
He remembered Pandaria before—all color and calm and quiet wisdom. He’d come here as an emissary once, to build trust for the Forsaken and the Horde. Haohan Mudclaw had met him with wary eyes and cautious words. Nana, with stubborn kindness. He had eventually won favor with their Emperor, and with the people themselves. He felt a form of kinship with the Pandaren, with their teachings of self-empowerment. A similar philosophy of his Cult of Shadows.
And slowly, against all reason, this land had softened him. He had learned to plant. To fish. To breathe again, though his lungs no longer worked.
Now, it was all he had left.
A soft breeze stirred the water, and for an instant, the reflection staring back at him wasn’t his own. Silver hair. Crimson eyes. Pale, purple skin.
Sylvanas.
He blinked, and the image dissolved.
He could still remember her last glance. No words, no grand gesture. Just that look - a recognition between two weary souls bound by blood and ash before she disappeared into the Maw. He had followed her into damnation itself. Into madness. And yet, when she faced judgment, she had gone alone.
“Perhaps… that’s what I deserved.” he whispered into the mist.
The fishing pole trembled. A bite. He reeled it in slowly, carefully - pulling from the depths a small, glimmering carp. Its scales caught the faint light, a shimmer of gold and pink. Life, simple and unbroken.
He studied it for a moment before gently releasing it back into the water.
Footsteps approached on the soft dirt behind him. Haohan’s familiar rumble of a voice broke through the quiet before he sat down next to him on the dock.
“Evenin’. Nana says dinner’s ready. She made those dumplings you like.”
Church didn’t turn. It was a months-long joke that Haohan never seemed to tire of. “She knows I can’t eat.”
“Yeah,” Haohan chuckled. “But she says it’s rude not to sit at the table anyway.”
“She’s far too kind to a thing like me.” He turned. “And you for letting me close to your family.”
He waved off the comment. “She’s kind to everyone.” Haohan said, staring out into the water. “That’s her way. Besides, you’ve more than earned a seat at our table.”
A long silence passed as the two old warriors sat on the pier. Church felt guilt - sitting by the water with a friend, while Sylvanas faced untold horrors in the Maw. He did not make her decisions, but he was guilty of the same crimes.
And the Forsaken. He abandoned them after Sylvanas jumped. He couldn’t stay. He could barely look at the “new” Forsaken, risen by Sylvanas. And he certainly didn’t like what he was hearing about a Menethil taking charge.
Haohan nodded and stood up. “Don’t wallow. It’s clear that something terrible happened, but don’t let it consume you.” Before he vanished into the fog, he called over his shoulder, “You keep starin’ into that lake too long, you’ll start seein’ ghosts.”
Church looked back at the still water. The reflection there was only his own this time.
“I already do,” he murmured.
After some time, he turned and walked up the dirt path toward the Mudclaw farm, the faint glow of lanterns cutting through the mist. The laughter of children met him halfway, warm and real and impossibly alive.
And for the first time in a very long while, the shadow priest allowed himself to feel something close to peace.
Though deep in his hollow chest, the ache of her absence never truly faded.
Not even in Pandaria.
Not even beneath the hat of Uncle Scarecrow.