Warcraft: Assassin - Part 9
Ooh, I don't think 'done by the end of the month' is happening, but I'm definitely going to keep trying. Here is more Assassin for your weekend.
Title: Assassin
Part: 9/?
Word Count: 6482
Includes: Angst, sap, adorableness. A story told in flashbacks, there will be one-sided crushes and meaningful stares.
Pairings: Technically, none.
Summary: The founding of Durotar, and lessons in history from the mouth of one who has been a part of it: Garona Halforcen.
Previous: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Garona awoke abruptly to a sound like fingers brushing against her window. It had been weeks since the riddle. Khadgar had recovered from his illness by simply sleeping and eating properly, and once he had, Medivh had unlocked the next floor of his tower.
If Khadgar and Garona had been overwhelmed - and somewhat dismayed - by the state of the first three libraries they'd encountered, it was nothing to this one. It was an entire grand chamber of books, sitting on shelves or stacked on the floor. It wasn't particularly dusty, not here, but there was a sense of disorganization. They had been given no instructions to clean these books or repair them. The shelves seemed sturdy enough to hold their great loads, but it was as though someone had come through to use the library and no one bothered to put anything back.
By silent, mutual agreement, Khadgar and Garona had begun to clean the new library, sorting things out and marking the shelves. As Garona's ability to read and write improved, she began to understand why Khadgar was constantly excited by the library.
“I have copies of every book in Dalaran,” Medivh had told her during their lessons. “Though Dalaran has 'restricted' and 'forbidden' sections, whereas I...” He shrugged. “If you can find it, you can read it.”
“Are you not afraid of what we might do with it?” Garona asked of him. “You've been hiding them away.”
“No more than I hide anything else,” Medivh had replied ruefully. “You're both adults, you can make decisions about what you do with the knowledge you have on your own, by your own judgement. Also, everything in that forbidden section isn't nearly as bad as what's not in Dalaran's libraries at all.”
“What do you mean?” Garona asked, curious. Medivh chuckled.
“There's always a danger of students breaking into the forbidden sections of the library... they welcome it. It shows a certain amount of initiative. Many of the things in the forbidden section are beyond the abilities of mere mage apprentices and they're all magically tracked,” Medivh explained. “If there's something that's truly, genuinely dangerous, it isn't kept in Dalaran at all, or if it is, it's only there briefly for study. The dangerous books and artifacts are kept off-site.”
“Do you know where?” Garona pressed, and Medivh raised an eyebrow.
“Thinking of stealing one, are you?” As Garona stuttered her denial, he continued. “The storage centre is in Quel'thalas, beneath the home of its curator, an archivist by the name of Farathir Spellchaser. He and his wife maintain a set of truly impressive wards, protecting relics taken from rogue mages and demonic cults.”
“The elves know of demons?” Garona asked, and glanced over her shoulder. Khadgar was absorbed utterly in his book, and she dismissed him. When her gaze turned back to Medivh, she realized he had looked over at Khadgar as well.
“The elves, the humans, any archmage of note has had an encounter with the infernalists, as we call them, though warlock does have a nice ring to it,” Medivh replied. “Azeroth caught the attention of the demons long, long ago, and they...”
“They..?” Garona prompted, watching his expression closely. There was sadness to it, resignation, but it cleared as he smiled.
“Once a world has attracted the attention of the demons, it does not shake it until that world is a husk, claimed for the Burning Legion.”
“What is this Legion?” Garona asked, even as the words sent a shiver through her spine. And the orcs have the demons' attention.
“It is a vast, infinite army of demons and their recruited mortal slaves,” Medivh said. “Led by great demonic sorcerers, who may also be warlocks now that I think of it, and led by the great demon-Titan, Sargeras. They want nothing less than to dominate the whole of the known universe, one burning world at a time.”
Garona shuddered. “Why have they not come to Draenor? The demons know we are there.”
“What makes you think they haven't?” Medivh asked, and as she shook off sleep, she still could not remember her answer.
Garona let the memories go, and concentrated on what was going on outside her window. She slipped from under the covers and padded across the floor, finding it cool but not as cold as Khadgar claimed sometimes. Outside, something was striking against the glass panes. At first, Garona thought them to be feathers, but they were too tiny, and too irregularly shaped. As she watched, some of the feathery white motes stuck against the glass and melted, while others landed on the sill to cover it with a thin film of soft, colourless cotton.
What... what is this? Garona wondered, and realized that the knowledge was at her fingertips. She glanced around, looking for a long set of shadows. Khadgar never asked what she was learning from Medivh, and she didn't ask what he was learning from the Guardian either, though they conferred regularly about their shared lessons, of which there were many. This was because she would never be an archmage, and Khadgar would never be what she was. Shadowwalker.
She took a step into the shadows and disappeared into darkness.
She could hear wind howling around her, grasping and tugging at at her sleeping clothes. It was cold here, but she pushed past it. You must protect your core, your soul self, Garona reminded herself, recalling Medivh's words. Your father's magic and your mother's gift mix as one within you. You are part of each of them, but you can only be yourself.
I am only myself, Garona thought, and began to walk. It was not a long journey from her room to Khadgar's, one she could easily make by walking normally, but Medivh had urged her to practice whenever she could. You will not always have time to shadow walk when you are awake and well rested. Sometimes you will wake suddenly and urgently need to move. Sometimes you will be so exhausted you don't want to stand. Sometimes, you may even be hurt. Practice when you can.
She concentrated on Khadgar's room, a place she knew well outside of the shadows: she knew where he kept his piles of clothes, the stacks of books, and the way he drew the shades tightly to block out the sun that rose on his side of the tower. This created many shadows, more than large enough for her to step through.
The realm of shadow whispered to her, but she ignored the voices, indistinct as they were, and landed on the other side. She tugged the curtains open a little, confirming that this side of the tower too was being struck by the strange, soft substance. She pulled the curtains the rest of the way open, and the light fell on Khadgar's face.
“Mmargh,” her fellow apprentice protested, and attempted to turn his face away from the inexorable light. Garona approached him, casting a shadow over him before taking him by the arm and shaking him roughly.
“Get up, lazy,” Garona said. “I have a question for you.”
“It's half past the wrong time of day to be awake,” Khadgar mumbled, though he lacked the coherency to speak the whole of the sentence. Garona, however, was good at translating his tired ramblings.
“It's well past dawn,” Garona said. “It moves later and later anyway.”
“That's planetary movement for you,” Khadgar yawned, pressing his hand to his mouth. “How did you..?”
“Not important,” Garona said. “Tell me what's going on outside.”
“Daybreak,” Khadgar replied. “Accursed daybreak. Go away.” He turned his back to her, and moved one of his pillows on top of his face to block out the light.
“For some reason, I trusted an idiot with an idiot beard to help me,” Garona grumbled, and plucked the pillow from his hands. He made a sad noise in protest. “Come to the window and look.”
“It's growing in just fine,” Khadgar grumbled. “Alright, alright. Turn away, or something.”
“Why?” Garona asked. “It's not as if I haven't seen you wandering around in bed clothes before.”
“I'm not wearing anything,” Khadgar said, a flush creeping along his neck suddenly. “I wasn't expecting an early morning visitor.”
Garona resisted the urge to sniff him curiously. Does he think I don't know what people do in bed alone? “Very well, but no going back to sleep.”
Khadgar grunted in reply, and Garona went to the window, looking out. There was more white outside now, blowing about noisily. She could hear the wind howling even with the walls and glass to protect them, and she watched the whorls of colourlessness eagerly.
“That's snow,” Khadgar said after a few moments, joining her at the window. “We're well into Winter, it's not surprising. You didn't notice, how it was getting dark sooner, and getting colder?”
“I get up at the same time whether or not there's light,” Garona pointed out. “Unlike some people. I also don't feel the cold much.”
“Explains some things,” Khadgar muttered, and winced as she punched his shoulder. “Is there no snow on Draenor?”
“There might be in the distant clans' lands, the ones that never go to Oshu'gun because it's too far,” Garona replied. “I’ve never been anywhere where there was snow before. What is it made of?”
“Frozen rain,” Khadgar said, stealing a glance at her as she pressed her face to the glass to watch the white fragments flutter down. “If you go up high enough, where the clouds are, it's quite cold. The rain falls down and is frozen. Depending on how cold it is, it changes the snowflakes. Some are small, and like little balls, others are those big flakes you see, wet and they melt easily. Other weather conditions and combinations of wind and temperature create sleet or hail or freezing rain. A lot of snow is called a blizzard, a very little is called a flurry. Sometimes it lasts for hours and hours, other times only for a short time. This is our first snowfall here.”
“And it doesn't... hurt?” Garona asked softly. “The rain doesn't hurt here, but does this snow?”
“Not exactly, no,” Khadgar said. “It doesn't burn like your rains, but it can sting your skin if it's not protected, and the cold nips at you. If we bundle up, we should be able to go outside.”
“Can we? Go outside, I mean,” Garona asked, and looked over at him. His eyes widened suddenly, and he swallowed hard. “What?”
“Nothing,” Khadgar said hastily. “Absolutely nothing. Are you sure you want to go out before breakfast?”
“We'll be sent to work after breakfast,” Garona pointed out. “This may be our only free time before the snow stops. I want to see it and feel it. Don't you?”
“Well...” Khadgar began, and swallowed again. “Certainly. Let's see what the servants can give us. I didn't bring anything much to go outside in, and I know you won't have anything proper to wear.”
Garona nodded and pushed away from the window, considering her own clothing. “I'll go dress. What should I pick?”
“Clothes,” Khadgar uttered, and she scowled at him. “Something that you think will keep you warm, and covers your arms and legs.”
“That would be all of the clothing I own,” Garona replied with a snort. “I'll see you downstairs.”
“Downstairs,” Khadgar repeated faintly, and she headed towards the doorway. Only at the last moment did she notice that his neck was flushed again.
I wonder what's got him all worked up? Garona thought, opening the door and striding down the hall, the fabric of her light underthings flowing as she walked. She could feel the first hints of cold creeping along the bare length of her legs, thighs, and arms. He can be so odd at times.
~ * ~
“I can't remember the first time I saw snow,” Thrall commented quietly. “Though I must have been quite young. It would pile up in Durnholde's courtyard, knee-high to most of the soldiers and servants, and they'd have to dig out paths from building to building, like tunnels. Sometimes they'd go right over my head.”
“There was never that much, only a hand's span before it would blow away or melt. Most of Azeroth never had snow at all, it was too warm. The swamp never got it at all, and with the expanding corruption, it only ever grew warmer,” Garona replied. “Still, it was new to me, and fascinating. The Old Man allowed us to spend the day outside, exploring and playing in the snow. Khadgar caught me unawares with a snowball and I shoved snow into his robes until he begged for mercy.”
Thrall chuckled. “I wasn't permitted to play with anyone other than Tari as a child, but we built snowmen and made snow dresses when the snow wasn't quite so deep. I tried to make a little snow cabin against the wall of the house but it wouldn't stay up.” He sighed wistfully, then glanced over at Garona. “You called Medivh the 'Old Man'.”
“It was our nickname for him,” Garona replied. “Once we were more comfortable with him. He... seemed so much older than we were. Wiser, sadder. At the time, I thought it was the fact that he was living a double life, but I didn't quite understand, not then. Khadgar...”
“He cared for you,” Thrall murmured, and Garona gave him a sharp look. “The way you describe it, even if you didn't realize it then, he was looking at you with interest.”
“May you always be this perceptive in matters of the heart,” Garona grumbled. “May I continue?”
“Of course,” Thrall said, smiling. As if I have that to worry about.
~ * ~
“I don't see what we're going to find to give the Guardian of Tirisfal at a local shop,” Khadgar complained, leaning against the low wall. The shop's proprietor, a squat man with thinning grey hair, glared at him. Khadgar held up his hands briefly before crossing them over his chest. “No offense meant, of course.”
“It's not as if we can travel to Stormwind and go shopping,” Garona pointed out, moving from one shelf to the other. She was wearing a long, covering coat, though it wasn't as thick as Khadgar's. She still didn't feel the cold as keenly, but it was uncomfortable to be wet when the snow, half rain, started up again. “We're just going to have to accept that and work with what we have.”
“Beggin' both your pardons, but Old Man of the Tower has never complained about my wares,” grumbled the man. “You just have to look for the right things.”
“Your pardon, Master Senturus,” Khadgar said, and rolled his eyes slightly as the man bustled out from behind the counter. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“We have a fine selection of books,” Master Senturus said in reply. “Or-- Duncan!” From around the side came a young boy, perhaps only eleven or twelve, carrying a crate. The boy's face was a younger, longer version of his father's, his hair thicker and darker, and he had a youthful gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, Da?” Duncan called back. He went up on his toes to heft the crate onto the counter and pulled aside the hay that was packed around the cloth-wrapped contents. “Ah, custom.”
“They're lookin' for a gift for the Old Man,” Master Senturus said. “Tell them what we've got.”
“Uh. Books?” Duncan suggested, frowning thoughtfully, picking hay out of his grey tunic, and brushing it from his brown trousers. “He likes books.”
“There are more books in Karazhan than there are fish in the sea,” Khadgar muttered. “I would know, I've dusted them all.”
Duncan squinted at him. “Bit surly for a maid, ain'tcha?”
“Khadgar,” Garona said warningly as he unfolded himself from the wall. “We're concerned that because Medivh has so many books that we won't find him anything new or unique to put in his collection.”
“If he's that picky, he should just write the books himself,” Duncan sniffed. “Some people hardly get more than one or two.”
“Some people are--” Khadgar began, but Garona held up a hand, eyes wide. “What? What is it?”
“Do you have empty books?” Garona asked, her gaze focused on the boy. Duncan squirmed. “Something big and thick, for writing down recipes, perhaps?”
“Uh, yeah, we have a few books for herbals. I'll be back,” Duncan replied, scooting off to retrieve an appropriate volume. Garona grinned broadly, and Khadgar gave her an appreciative look.
“You can never have too many notebooks,” Khadgar recited. “We always learned that in Dalaran. Smart, very smart.”
“Thank you,” Garona replied, smiling at him. “Once we pay for this, we just need to do our other Winterveil shopping.”
“Right,” Khadgar agreed. “We should split up for that, I think.”
Garona raised an eyebrow. “Do you think we're going to keep things a surprise?”
“Well, I'd like to,” Khadgar replied, spreading his hands. “We just have to agree to it. We won't spy on each other.”
“Hmph,” Garona said, but nodded. “I'll abide by the ground rules.” Master Senturus muttered under his breath about a pair of bloody great fools, and they both ignored him. Moments later, Duncan returned, hauling a book as thick as a fist, its cover ornate and bound in red-brown leather.
“Does that book have a buckle on it?” Khadgar murmured, looking it over. “That seems ridiculous.”
“Why?” Duncan asked, curious. “Don't wizards need to keep their books safe and locked up?”
“If a mage wants to secure their knowledge, they'd use a spell to seal the book,” Khadgar replied. “Or they'd scramble the letters so only they could read it. You use belts for trousers and robes, not books.”
“Huh,” Duncan said, and scratched his head. “I guess I'll never understand wizards.”
“Don't worry, most people don't,” Garona said, and produced a handful of coins. Khadgar muttered about 'show offs' and matched her coin for coin. Then it was a matter of Master Senturus counting out the money given to make sure it was enough.
“Wrap it for you?” Duncan asked, his eyes lighting on the coins. “Only a little more.”
“We'll manage for now,” Garona said, and tucked the book into her satchel. “Happy Winterveil.”
~ * ~
It was snowing again on Winterveil, and Garona could hear the snow falling. She spent the first few moments of the morning listening to the soft, gentle flakes landing. The previous weeks had been warm, then cold, then warm again, and she and Khadgar had bet coin on whether or not there would be white for the holiday. It would seem she had won, but that felt less important than the day.
Orcs did not often exchange gifts, and the ones they did give were laden with meaning. When she had listened in on conversations between women in the clans, they spoke of weaving blankets in clan colours for young children, or for their beds that they shared with their mates. Fathers and mothers spoke of giving their growing children their first weapons, made with their own hands. There were courting gifts, wrapped bundles of food passed between siblings, hand-me-down clothes.
Garona understood that humans would do these things sometimes, but they also had many specific occasions for gift-giving. Birth days were celebrated each year with desserts and candles and gifts. Whole days were reserved for giving gifts between lovers, others between family and friends. Sometimes, the days themselves were sacrificed to celebrate the turning of the seasons or the welcoming of ships back into harbour.
Humans have so many holidays, Garona thought as she watched the snowflakes. Orcs only truly have one, the gathering at Oshu'gun. Less to celebrate, perhaps, or maybe they just only consider learning how many have survived another journey around the sun to be an important thing to celebrate.
Garona sighed, and pushed herself up out of bed, throwing on a robe, trying not to let the thoughts darken her mood. Last night, after Medivh had retired for the evening, she and Khadgar had placed their gifts beneath the small tree that had been given to them by the servants. A much larger tree could be found in the grand ballroom, and Garona had admired its lavish decorations. Their tree was plain, though they'd folded some paper into flowers and birds to place between the branches, not even attempting to copy the great tree’s grandeur.
I hope Medivh will like it, Garona thought as she shuffled down the hall. There was no true sitting room, only a library with the tables tucked aside and some chairs brought in, but it suited them. They'd converged in a library, after all. It only seemed right and fair that they celebrated in one.
Garona opened the door and tugged it open, caught by a sudden yawn, so her eyes were closed when she stepped in and the door clicked shut behind her. When she opened them again, she gasped in amazement at the sight.
Instead of their meagre attempts at decorating, the tree was gilded with long, trailing bits of silver that Garona vaguely recalled were referred to as tinsel. A set of red, green, and gold spheres hung at odd intervals around it, and a red velvet piece of cloth was tucked around the tree, though hardly visible behind the boxes of gifts. There were a pile of matching cushions on the floor, and the one great chair was draped with gold garlands.
Is this... am I dreaming? Garona wondered, approaching slowly, testing each new thing with her finger, poking and prodding to test softness and reality. This was how Khadgar found her.
“Great Adaraxiel's Ghost,” Khadgar exclaimed between yawns. “Did you do this?”
“No, I found things this way,” Garona said, turning to face him. “You can see this too? I'm not dreaming?” She reached to clutch at his wrist.
“No, I see it,” Khadgar agreed. “I didn't think the servants were allowed up here, how did--”
“It would seem that Father Winterveil has answered the wishes of children to have a very festive time,” Medivh said lightly. “Please, sit down. I believe we have presents to open.”
“Only idiots believe in Father Winterveil past childhood,” Khadgar complained, even as he sat on one of the cushions. Garona shoved him lightly and sat next to him, legs crossed as she looked at the pile eagerly.
“Are you calling me an idiot?” Medivh asked lightly, raising an eyebrow. “What's to say I haven't visited his workshop in Northrend and asked for his help?”
“Every rule of common sense and also good taste,” Khadgar replied, meeting his gaze, and Garona shoved him again. “Hey!”
“It doesn't matter why, only that it happened,” Garona said. “And we have gifts to open.”
“Some mage apprentice you are,” Khadgar grumbled, and so they began.
Most of the gifts were in boxes, or wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Garona received the most, or so it felt like as she revealed new tunics and trousers, fresh underthings and warm socks, a pair of gloves of soft leather lined with wool and a quilted coat to keep her warm. All were in the human style, in hues of dark green and brown and black, and none bore clan markings. Garona held each to her chest, embracing them tightly.
Khadgar's gifts were different since he needed fewer new clothes; instead he received a wealth of books, rare volumes that he had admired from Medivh's collection, boxes of supplies for more complicated spellcasting, special tools, his own telescope, much smaller than the one in Karazhan's observatory but in just as fine a quality.
Both of them were given food, baked goods in the shape of balls and trees and snowmen, iced in white, green, and red, and jars of hard candy, sealed with a festive piece of cloth and a bit of ribbon. Each received one small box of chocolates filled with caramel and fruit jam.
Then it was time for the gifts Khadgar and Garona had bought. After some debate the day before, they agreed to present Medivh with his tome together, placing it into his lap. He looked pleased, though unsurprised, and Garona thought, ruefully, that it wasn't a surprise that he had been the one to surprise them and not the other way around.
Khadgar's gift from Garona was a knife, the edge long and slender, meant for arcane work rather than fighting or stabbing, the metal blueish silver. Garona had worked on it in secret, going out to the village to work at the forges. The hilt was wrapped with tooled leather and the pommel marked with the arcane eye of Dalaran, since Khadgar had no clan and no family arms. His expression had been worth the effort and the secrecy, lighting up like a candle on Winterveil morning.
“This is yours,” Khadgar said, pushing a box at her, and she gave him a curious look. She untied the ribbon holding it closed and lifted the lid. She made a soft noise at the sight. Resting on a handkerchief that had been carefully folded up to give the box padding was a silver necklace, the pendant a flat, silver disk. She picked it up, running the flat of her thumb over the surface, and then turned it over.
Garona's,
from Khadgar
“There wasn't room for much more,” Khadgar said quietly. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Garona replied softly. “Help me put it on?”
Khadgar nodded, and she lifted her hair, pushing it to the side so he could clasp it around her neck. Realistically, she shouldn't be wearing anything that would catch light if she wanted to keep to the darkness. If she wore it, she would have to hide it, keep it secret. She looked down at the disk again.
Maybe... I don't need to, she thought, though the idea was futile. Maybe I can live outside the shadows. The feeling of fingers brushing her neck startled her out of her thoughts, and she glanced at Khadgar, who was retreating back to his own cushion.
“Happy Winterveil, children,” Medivh said, and they smiled back at him, for once not protesting that they were adults.
“Happy Winterveil, Old Man,” they chorused. Medivh produced a book, though it was a thin one, and handed it to Garona. Immediately, Garona took it and opened it.
“You may begin at the first page,” he said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Garona eyed him, but began to read.
“A long, long time ago, when all the continents were one, and the mists of dawn had not yet been burned away by the rising of the sun, there lived the first races: trolls and tauren, dwarves and giants, and some even claim the dragons. They worshipped the gods of earth and sky, of sea and fire, of the sun and the moons above and the burning hells below.
“The great goddess of the earth, known as the Mother for her ability to grant comfort to all of her children, watched endlessly over the world, though she was not tireless, for she did tire. When her great eyes, one gold and one silver, closed, the sea would try to claim the earth, the fires would burst up from below and rage over all, and the air would grow thick and heavy, choking her children and so she would force her eyes open again so that beneath her stern gaze, all would behave as it should.
“One day, she grew so tired that she feared she might fall asleep forever. Her children were fraught with despair, fearing for all that they might lose. The trolls, the Amani and the Drakkari, the Zandalari and the Hakkari and the mysterious Kaldari all began to chant, urging her to wakefulness. They engaged in revelry until they themselves fell asleep, and they woke later to do the same thing again until the very spirits of the dead joined in. This did not make the Mother wakeful. Instead, she longed to lay asleep as they did.
“The tauren wept for the Mother, for they believed that they loved her best. They shed tears, weeping and wailing as they banged on their great drums, calling out all that would be lost if she failed to stay awake. They mourned until they were exhausted, falling asleep even as they stood, wavering like reeds in the wind, and they woke to weep once more until the very darkness beneath the world crept up and touched them with anger instead of sorrow, to change the sound of their wailing. This did not make the Mother wakeful. Instead, she longed to hold them in her arms and comfort them.
“The giants howled their anger, punching and kicking at the ground, creating mountains and crevasses, canyons and mesas. They threatened her, demanding that she keep awake, lest they come and chew off her fingers and toes, puncture her eyes and snarl up her hair. They raged out of fear, and were fearful because they were angry and they could not stop themselves, could not find a greater reason for the Mother not to forsake them. This did not make the Mother wakeful, and instead she lectured them sternly and reminded them that anger caused more problems than it solved.
“Finally, the dwarves, her truest children, stirred in the earth and came to her, their hands outstretched with kindness and generosity. They brought her baubles of gold and branches of green. They lit candles of white with red flames, their procession consisting of every dwarf that could walk. She was astounded to see them, but they did not weep or beg or rage. Instead, they carried between them the greatest, whitest cloak she'd ever seen, of the softest, most plush velvet and wool they could find.
“What is this?” she asked, touching it. Even running her fingers along the length made her tired.
“It is your blanket,” the dwarves said. “So that you can sleep in comfort.”
“But I must not sleep,” the Mother said, tears in her eyes. “You will all suffer. My children will beg and weep and rage, and my brothers and sisters will ruin and destroy without my eyes upon them.”
“It is not your sleep that causes the suffering but the fact that they must be watched,” the dwarves replied. “So we have an idea. Dancing and singing will not keep us safe if it is not their purpose to protect. Tears will not keep us safe if they are not wept while working hard. Rage will not protect us if it is shouted at the air. Only innovation will protect us. Only invention and intelligence.”
“All true, all true,” the Mother said. “Please, what is your idea?”
“Create a guardian against your brothers and sisters,” the dwarves replied. “One who will protect this world while you cover yourself in white and sleep. Because that guardian will not be you, they will need to work much harder in a shorter time, so they will need to rest more, but even one fourth of a year will be better than none.”
“Yes, yes,” the Mother said. “I have an idea. He will be the Father of my children, my husband and partner as I don this veil of winter. He will sleep when I wake, and no harm will come to any of my children. What should he look like, my husband? Should he be a giant, strong and bold, or a tauren, sad and solemn, or a troll, gay and cheerful at all times?”
“He should be as you want him to be, to show that you have made the best choice that you could,” replied the dwarves, as humbly as they could.
“Then he shall be a dwarf, because you are the wisest of all my children,” the Mother said, and blessed each of them.
“From the earth, the Mother created the Father of Winter, vigilant of the Veil, and he was a dwarf, though large and stout and with a fine beard. His eyes burned like coals, twinkling as he watched over children and sibling alike, and his skin was nut-brown and wrinkled as he smiled or frowned or shouted. He smoothed the Mother's veil, and the soft velvet blew up and around, spreading far and wide. Twice a year the Father and Mother would join hands, as one would sleep and the other would wake.
“The End.”
“What did you think?” Medivh asked as Garona slowly closed the book, holding it in her hands and staring at the cover. Khadgar snorted softly, and Medivh glanced over at him sharply.
“It reminds me of the ancestral tales from Oshu'gun,” Garona said, running the tips of her fingers along the pressed-in title. “Where the world is shaped by elements and the ancestors. The different people represent different elements, or in the case of this story, different emotions. This is a story written by dwarves?”
“It is,” Medivh said. “There are different versions based on who is doing the telling, and the elves have a completely different story, celebrating the fact that Quel'thalas is eternally bound in a cycle of spring and summer.”
“People never tell stories where others are the key to solving a problem,” Khadgar said, unable to contain it any longer. “So of course the dwarves were wise and the giants and trolls were foolish, and these 'tauren'. As if crying ever helped with anything.”
“You don't believe in Father Winterveil?” Medivh asked, tone arch. Khadgar scowled at him.
“There is no proof that seasons have to do with anything but the rotation of the planet and its orbit around the sun,” Khadgar replied. “Just as the tides are affected by the moons above. We have evidence of the elemental planes and the effects of their denizens on the world as an anomaly, not as a starting point. The notion of a Titan-based creation myth is an dwarven interpretation of the writings they found within Khaz Modan.”
“You must be a delight at clan gatherings,” Garona muttered, before recalling that humans didn't have clans. Khadgar ignored her anyway.
“You're discounting archeological evidence?”
“I'm discounting superstitious nonsense,” Khadgar huffed. “There are no greater powers at work. The hierarchy of beings has already been catalogued and measured. Anything that seems unexplained can be tied directly to something else that has been. That's the end of it.”
“I see,” Medivh said, and something flickered over his face. Garona thought briefly it was disappointment, but he also seemed slightly pleased. All at once, the room seemed cold. “Why don't you make a study of that superstitious nonsense?”
“What, now?” Khadgar asked, confused. “But it's--”
“Just like any other day of the year, isn't it?” Medivh asked quietly. “You can't have it both ways, I fear. You can honour the traditions and rest on a holy day, or you can treat it like any other day, which means returning to your studies.”
Khadgar stared at him a moment longer, his expression mulish. Medivh met his gaze easily, and finally, the younger mage stood, straightened his robe, and strode out, leaving his gifts where they lay. Garona watched him stalk out, and then rose a moment later.
“I'll retrieve my gifts later, I--”
“You won't be joining him,” Medivh said, stopping her cold. “You'll be coming with me.”
Here it comes, Garona thought, and fear flooded into her. “What will we be doing?”
“Not here,” he said, shaking his head slightly, and rose from his chair. He indicated for her to follow as he strode out of the room, listening for Khadgar before continuing to walk down the hall. Garona kept pace easily, and they stopped at the end of the hallway. She looked at the painting on the wall. She had seen it a number of times, and had admired the abstract, swirling green colours, the spheres half-hidden in shadows and the speckles of light in the darkness. She looked at it again now, and in doing so, missed Medivh's sharp gesture, but could not miss how the wall shifted and parted.
“How... I checked,” Garona said softly. “The wall isn't hollow.”
“More often than not, you can't trust what your senses tell you unquestioningly,” Medivh said, prying the door open, and gesturing for her to follow. “Especially not in a world of magic and illusion.”
“Where not everything is categorized and notated?” Garona guessed and he nodded slightly. Behind the wall was a passageway, grimy though lifeless. Medivh snapped his fingers, and as they walked, the torches set into sconces on the wall flickered to life and then back to darkness. Behind her, the wall slid closed.
It was cold within the passageway, the torches providing only light and no warmth. Garona looked around, probing at the shadows and sensing for anything unusual. When nothing returned, she made a soft noise of frustration.
“The enchantments are stronger than your gifts,” Medivh told her. “Stronger than Khadgar's magic. Only a Guardian can push past these wards.”
“And you're the only Guardian,” Garona noted, and he shook his head slightly, but said nothing more. “What are we doing here?”
“Fulfilling a bargain,” Medivh said, and Garona's eyes widened in sudden realization. Medivh caught her sleeve and tugged her after him.
Is there anywhere for me to run? Garona wondered as she followed him. If the wards are that strong, am I trapped here forever? A ghost, to wander. Khadgar will never know, he'll think I've abandoned him. Distress gnawed in her stomach, feeding on the candy she'd eaten while opening presents. I don't want him to think that of me.
Medivh reached another door, this one entirely mundane, and opened it. Here, there were no torches, but instead glowing red runes on the walls, filling the corridor with an almost infernal light. Behind the walls, cages were set, holding... things. Creatures, even, darkness and fire blended together into a whole that made Garona's eyes hurt to look at them. Here and there, Garona spotted books, thick tomes, untitled and sealed with magic, locks, and even a buckle, which reminded her of Khadgar's assertion that mages didn't need to use physical locks. She shuddered and hurried along.
Finally, here were Medivh's personal chambers. They held a huge bed, draped with a thick canopy, a small sitting room, not unlike the library they had met in, and a work chamber. The work chamber was dark, and Medivh lit a candle by hand, light flickering in a well of deep red wax, casting the whole place in a sinister light. Garona could see the vague, shadowed shapes of bookshelves and countertops, and in the centre of the room, next to a large, padded chair, was a curved shape, draped in cloth. Medivh put a hand on her shoulder.
“Come with me,” Medivh said, and his voice filled the quiet room. They moved forward together, Medivh taking the chair and Garona kneeling down. Medivh drew back the covering, revealing a crystal that seemed to fill her gaze, ensnaring her until Medivh cleared his throat. He waved a hand, and the orb began to glow. “As requested, I have brought her.” He nodded to Garona. “Put your hand on it, child, like mine.”
Fingers trembling, Garona put her hand on the orb. Immediately, an image filled her mind, and it seemed as large as it had when she was a child, when she had made that first mistake. In the dim light, Garona thought she caught Medivh giving her a sympathetic look, but it was nothing to the sound of the speaker's voice. His voice.
“Garona?” Gul'dan demanded. “Where have you been? Report to me, tell me what you have learned.”
Mouth dry, Garona nodded, more to herself than anyone else, and began to speak.
[Part 10]
Title: Assassin
Part: 9/?
Word Count: 6482
Includes: Angst, sap, adorableness. A story told in flashbacks, there will be one-sided crushes and meaningful stares.
Pairings: Technically, none.
Summary: The founding of Durotar, and lessons in history from the mouth of one who has been a part of it: Garona Halforcen.
Previous: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Garona awoke abruptly to a sound like fingers brushing against her window. It had been weeks since the riddle. Khadgar had recovered from his illness by simply sleeping and eating properly, and once he had, Medivh had unlocked the next floor of his tower.
If Khadgar and Garona had been overwhelmed - and somewhat dismayed - by the state of the first three libraries they'd encountered, it was nothing to this one. It was an entire grand chamber of books, sitting on shelves or stacked on the floor. It wasn't particularly dusty, not here, but there was a sense of disorganization. They had been given no instructions to clean these books or repair them. The shelves seemed sturdy enough to hold their great loads, but it was as though someone had come through to use the library and no one bothered to put anything back.
By silent, mutual agreement, Khadgar and Garona had begun to clean the new library, sorting things out and marking the shelves. As Garona's ability to read and write improved, she began to understand why Khadgar was constantly excited by the library.
“I have copies of every book in Dalaran,” Medivh had told her during their lessons. “Though Dalaran has 'restricted' and 'forbidden' sections, whereas I...” He shrugged. “If you can find it, you can read it.”
“Are you not afraid of what we might do with it?” Garona asked of him. “You've been hiding them away.”
“No more than I hide anything else,” Medivh had replied ruefully. “You're both adults, you can make decisions about what you do with the knowledge you have on your own, by your own judgement. Also, everything in that forbidden section isn't nearly as bad as what's not in Dalaran's libraries at all.”
“What do you mean?” Garona asked, curious. Medivh chuckled.
“There's always a danger of students breaking into the forbidden sections of the library... they welcome it. It shows a certain amount of initiative. Many of the things in the forbidden section are beyond the abilities of mere mage apprentices and they're all magically tracked,” Medivh explained. “If there's something that's truly, genuinely dangerous, it isn't kept in Dalaran at all, or if it is, it's only there briefly for study. The dangerous books and artifacts are kept off-site.”
“Do you know where?” Garona pressed, and Medivh raised an eyebrow.
“Thinking of stealing one, are you?” As Garona stuttered her denial, he continued. “The storage centre is in Quel'thalas, beneath the home of its curator, an archivist by the name of Farathir Spellchaser. He and his wife maintain a set of truly impressive wards, protecting relics taken from rogue mages and demonic cults.”
“The elves know of demons?” Garona asked, and glanced over her shoulder. Khadgar was absorbed utterly in his book, and she dismissed him. When her gaze turned back to Medivh, she realized he had looked over at Khadgar as well.
“The elves, the humans, any archmage of note has had an encounter with the infernalists, as we call them, though warlock does have a nice ring to it,” Medivh replied. “Azeroth caught the attention of the demons long, long ago, and they...”
“They..?” Garona prompted, watching his expression closely. There was sadness to it, resignation, but it cleared as he smiled.
“Once a world has attracted the attention of the demons, it does not shake it until that world is a husk, claimed for the Burning Legion.”
“What is this Legion?” Garona asked, even as the words sent a shiver through her spine. And the orcs have the demons' attention.
“It is a vast, infinite army of demons and their recruited mortal slaves,” Medivh said. “Led by great demonic sorcerers, who may also be warlocks now that I think of it, and led by the great demon-Titan, Sargeras. They want nothing less than to dominate the whole of the known universe, one burning world at a time.”
Garona shuddered. “Why have they not come to Draenor? The demons know we are there.”
“What makes you think they haven't?” Medivh asked, and as she shook off sleep, she still could not remember her answer.
Garona let the memories go, and concentrated on what was going on outside her window. She slipped from under the covers and padded across the floor, finding it cool but not as cold as Khadgar claimed sometimes. Outside, something was striking against the glass panes. At first, Garona thought them to be feathers, but they were too tiny, and too irregularly shaped. As she watched, some of the feathery white motes stuck against the glass and melted, while others landed on the sill to cover it with a thin film of soft, colourless cotton.
What... what is this? Garona wondered, and realized that the knowledge was at her fingertips. She glanced around, looking for a long set of shadows. Khadgar never asked what she was learning from Medivh, and she didn't ask what he was learning from the Guardian either, though they conferred regularly about their shared lessons, of which there were many. This was because she would never be an archmage, and Khadgar would never be what she was. Shadowwalker.
She took a step into the shadows and disappeared into darkness.
She could hear wind howling around her, grasping and tugging at at her sleeping clothes. It was cold here, but she pushed past it. You must protect your core, your soul self, Garona reminded herself, recalling Medivh's words. Your father's magic and your mother's gift mix as one within you. You are part of each of them, but you can only be yourself.
I am only myself, Garona thought, and began to walk. It was not a long journey from her room to Khadgar's, one she could easily make by walking normally, but Medivh had urged her to practice whenever she could. You will not always have time to shadow walk when you are awake and well rested. Sometimes you will wake suddenly and urgently need to move. Sometimes you will be so exhausted you don't want to stand. Sometimes, you may even be hurt. Practice when you can.
She concentrated on Khadgar's room, a place she knew well outside of the shadows: she knew where he kept his piles of clothes, the stacks of books, and the way he drew the shades tightly to block out the sun that rose on his side of the tower. This created many shadows, more than large enough for her to step through.
The realm of shadow whispered to her, but she ignored the voices, indistinct as they were, and landed on the other side. She tugged the curtains open a little, confirming that this side of the tower too was being struck by the strange, soft substance. She pulled the curtains the rest of the way open, and the light fell on Khadgar's face.
“Mmargh,” her fellow apprentice protested, and attempted to turn his face away from the inexorable light. Garona approached him, casting a shadow over him before taking him by the arm and shaking him roughly.
“Get up, lazy,” Garona said. “I have a question for you.”
“It's half past the wrong time of day to be awake,” Khadgar mumbled, though he lacked the coherency to speak the whole of the sentence. Garona, however, was good at translating his tired ramblings.
“It's well past dawn,” Garona said. “It moves later and later anyway.”
“That's planetary movement for you,” Khadgar yawned, pressing his hand to his mouth. “How did you..?”
“Not important,” Garona said. “Tell me what's going on outside.”
“Daybreak,” Khadgar replied. “Accursed daybreak. Go away.” He turned his back to her, and moved one of his pillows on top of his face to block out the light.
“For some reason, I trusted an idiot with an idiot beard to help me,” Garona grumbled, and plucked the pillow from his hands. He made a sad noise in protest. “Come to the window and look.”
“It's growing in just fine,” Khadgar grumbled. “Alright, alright. Turn away, or something.”
“Why?” Garona asked. “It's not as if I haven't seen you wandering around in bed clothes before.”
“I'm not wearing anything,” Khadgar said, a flush creeping along his neck suddenly. “I wasn't expecting an early morning visitor.”
Garona resisted the urge to sniff him curiously. Does he think I don't know what people do in bed alone? “Very well, but no going back to sleep.”
Khadgar grunted in reply, and Garona went to the window, looking out. There was more white outside now, blowing about noisily. She could hear the wind howling even with the walls and glass to protect them, and she watched the whorls of colourlessness eagerly.
“That's snow,” Khadgar said after a few moments, joining her at the window. “We're well into Winter, it's not surprising. You didn't notice, how it was getting dark sooner, and getting colder?”
“I get up at the same time whether or not there's light,” Garona pointed out. “Unlike some people. I also don't feel the cold much.”
“Explains some things,” Khadgar muttered, and winced as she punched his shoulder. “Is there no snow on Draenor?”
“There might be in the distant clans' lands, the ones that never go to Oshu'gun because it's too far,” Garona replied. “I’ve never been anywhere where there was snow before. What is it made of?”
“Frozen rain,” Khadgar said, stealing a glance at her as she pressed her face to the glass to watch the white fragments flutter down. “If you go up high enough, where the clouds are, it's quite cold. The rain falls down and is frozen. Depending on how cold it is, it changes the snowflakes. Some are small, and like little balls, others are those big flakes you see, wet and they melt easily. Other weather conditions and combinations of wind and temperature create sleet or hail or freezing rain. A lot of snow is called a blizzard, a very little is called a flurry. Sometimes it lasts for hours and hours, other times only for a short time. This is our first snowfall here.”
“And it doesn't... hurt?” Garona asked softly. “The rain doesn't hurt here, but does this snow?”
“Not exactly, no,” Khadgar said. “It doesn't burn like your rains, but it can sting your skin if it's not protected, and the cold nips at you. If we bundle up, we should be able to go outside.”
“Can we? Go outside, I mean,” Garona asked, and looked over at him. His eyes widened suddenly, and he swallowed hard. “What?”
“Nothing,” Khadgar said hastily. “Absolutely nothing. Are you sure you want to go out before breakfast?”
“We'll be sent to work after breakfast,” Garona pointed out. “This may be our only free time before the snow stops. I want to see it and feel it. Don't you?”
“Well...” Khadgar began, and swallowed again. “Certainly. Let's see what the servants can give us. I didn't bring anything much to go outside in, and I know you won't have anything proper to wear.”
Garona nodded and pushed away from the window, considering her own clothing. “I'll go dress. What should I pick?”
“Clothes,” Khadgar uttered, and she scowled at him. “Something that you think will keep you warm, and covers your arms and legs.”
“That would be all of the clothing I own,” Garona replied with a snort. “I'll see you downstairs.”
“Downstairs,” Khadgar repeated faintly, and she headed towards the doorway. Only at the last moment did she notice that his neck was flushed again.
I wonder what's got him all worked up? Garona thought, opening the door and striding down the hall, the fabric of her light underthings flowing as she walked. She could feel the first hints of cold creeping along the bare length of her legs, thighs, and arms. He can be so odd at times.
~ * ~
“I can't remember the first time I saw snow,” Thrall commented quietly. “Though I must have been quite young. It would pile up in Durnholde's courtyard, knee-high to most of the soldiers and servants, and they'd have to dig out paths from building to building, like tunnels. Sometimes they'd go right over my head.”
“There was never that much, only a hand's span before it would blow away or melt. Most of Azeroth never had snow at all, it was too warm. The swamp never got it at all, and with the expanding corruption, it only ever grew warmer,” Garona replied. “Still, it was new to me, and fascinating. The Old Man allowed us to spend the day outside, exploring and playing in the snow. Khadgar caught me unawares with a snowball and I shoved snow into his robes until he begged for mercy.”
Thrall chuckled. “I wasn't permitted to play with anyone other than Tari as a child, but we built snowmen and made snow dresses when the snow wasn't quite so deep. I tried to make a little snow cabin against the wall of the house but it wouldn't stay up.” He sighed wistfully, then glanced over at Garona. “You called Medivh the 'Old Man'.”
“It was our nickname for him,” Garona replied. “Once we were more comfortable with him. He... seemed so much older than we were. Wiser, sadder. At the time, I thought it was the fact that he was living a double life, but I didn't quite understand, not then. Khadgar...”
“He cared for you,” Thrall murmured, and Garona gave him a sharp look. “The way you describe it, even if you didn't realize it then, he was looking at you with interest.”
“May you always be this perceptive in matters of the heart,” Garona grumbled. “May I continue?”
“Of course,” Thrall said, smiling. As if I have that to worry about.
~ * ~
“I don't see what we're going to find to give the Guardian of Tirisfal at a local shop,” Khadgar complained, leaning against the low wall. The shop's proprietor, a squat man with thinning grey hair, glared at him. Khadgar held up his hands briefly before crossing them over his chest. “No offense meant, of course.”
“It's not as if we can travel to Stormwind and go shopping,” Garona pointed out, moving from one shelf to the other. She was wearing a long, covering coat, though it wasn't as thick as Khadgar's. She still didn't feel the cold as keenly, but it was uncomfortable to be wet when the snow, half rain, started up again. “We're just going to have to accept that and work with what we have.”
“Beggin' both your pardons, but Old Man of the Tower has never complained about my wares,” grumbled the man. “You just have to look for the right things.”
“Your pardon, Master Senturus,” Khadgar said, and rolled his eyes slightly as the man bustled out from behind the counter. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“We have a fine selection of books,” Master Senturus said in reply. “Or-- Duncan!” From around the side came a young boy, perhaps only eleven or twelve, carrying a crate. The boy's face was a younger, longer version of his father's, his hair thicker and darker, and he had a youthful gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, Da?” Duncan called back. He went up on his toes to heft the crate onto the counter and pulled aside the hay that was packed around the cloth-wrapped contents. “Ah, custom.”
“They're lookin' for a gift for the Old Man,” Master Senturus said. “Tell them what we've got.”
“Uh. Books?” Duncan suggested, frowning thoughtfully, picking hay out of his grey tunic, and brushing it from his brown trousers. “He likes books.”
“There are more books in Karazhan than there are fish in the sea,” Khadgar muttered. “I would know, I've dusted them all.”
Duncan squinted at him. “Bit surly for a maid, ain'tcha?”
“Khadgar,” Garona said warningly as he unfolded himself from the wall. “We're concerned that because Medivh has so many books that we won't find him anything new or unique to put in his collection.”
“If he's that picky, he should just write the books himself,” Duncan sniffed. “Some people hardly get more than one or two.”
“Some people are--” Khadgar began, but Garona held up a hand, eyes wide. “What? What is it?”
“Do you have empty books?” Garona asked, her gaze focused on the boy. Duncan squirmed. “Something big and thick, for writing down recipes, perhaps?”
“Uh, yeah, we have a few books for herbals. I'll be back,” Duncan replied, scooting off to retrieve an appropriate volume. Garona grinned broadly, and Khadgar gave her an appreciative look.
“You can never have too many notebooks,” Khadgar recited. “We always learned that in Dalaran. Smart, very smart.”
“Thank you,” Garona replied, smiling at him. “Once we pay for this, we just need to do our other Winterveil shopping.”
“Right,” Khadgar agreed. “We should split up for that, I think.”
Garona raised an eyebrow. “Do you think we're going to keep things a surprise?”
“Well, I'd like to,” Khadgar replied, spreading his hands. “We just have to agree to it. We won't spy on each other.”
“Hmph,” Garona said, but nodded. “I'll abide by the ground rules.” Master Senturus muttered under his breath about a pair of bloody great fools, and they both ignored him. Moments later, Duncan returned, hauling a book as thick as a fist, its cover ornate and bound in red-brown leather.
“Does that book have a buckle on it?” Khadgar murmured, looking it over. “That seems ridiculous.”
“Why?” Duncan asked, curious. “Don't wizards need to keep their books safe and locked up?”
“If a mage wants to secure their knowledge, they'd use a spell to seal the book,” Khadgar replied. “Or they'd scramble the letters so only they could read it. You use belts for trousers and robes, not books.”
“Huh,” Duncan said, and scratched his head. “I guess I'll never understand wizards.”
“Don't worry, most people don't,” Garona said, and produced a handful of coins. Khadgar muttered about 'show offs' and matched her coin for coin. Then it was a matter of Master Senturus counting out the money given to make sure it was enough.
“Wrap it for you?” Duncan asked, his eyes lighting on the coins. “Only a little more.”
“We'll manage for now,” Garona said, and tucked the book into her satchel. “Happy Winterveil.”
~ * ~
It was snowing again on Winterveil, and Garona could hear the snow falling. She spent the first few moments of the morning listening to the soft, gentle flakes landing. The previous weeks had been warm, then cold, then warm again, and she and Khadgar had bet coin on whether or not there would be white for the holiday. It would seem she had won, but that felt less important than the day.
Orcs did not often exchange gifts, and the ones they did give were laden with meaning. When she had listened in on conversations between women in the clans, they spoke of weaving blankets in clan colours for young children, or for their beds that they shared with their mates. Fathers and mothers spoke of giving their growing children their first weapons, made with their own hands. There were courting gifts, wrapped bundles of food passed between siblings, hand-me-down clothes.
Garona understood that humans would do these things sometimes, but they also had many specific occasions for gift-giving. Birth days were celebrated each year with desserts and candles and gifts. Whole days were reserved for giving gifts between lovers, others between family and friends. Sometimes, the days themselves were sacrificed to celebrate the turning of the seasons or the welcoming of ships back into harbour.
Humans have so many holidays, Garona thought as she watched the snowflakes. Orcs only truly have one, the gathering at Oshu'gun. Less to celebrate, perhaps, or maybe they just only consider learning how many have survived another journey around the sun to be an important thing to celebrate.
Garona sighed, and pushed herself up out of bed, throwing on a robe, trying not to let the thoughts darken her mood. Last night, after Medivh had retired for the evening, she and Khadgar had placed their gifts beneath the small tree that had been given to them by the servants. A much larger tree could be found in the grand ballroom, and Garona had admired its lavish decorations. Their tree was plain, though they'd folded some paper into flowers and birds to place between the branches, not even attempting to copy the great tree’s grandeur.
I hope Medivh will like it, Garona thought as she shuffled down the hall. There was no true sitting room, only a library with the tables tucked aside and some chairs brought in, but it suited them. They'd converged in a library, after all. It only seemed right and fair that they celebrated in one.
Garona opened the door and tugged it open, caught by a sudden yawn, so her eyes were closed when she stepped in and the door clicked shut behind her. When she opened them again, she gasped in amazement at the sight.
Instead of their meagre attempts at decorating, the tree was gilded with long, trailing bits of silver that Garona vaguely recalled were referred to as tinsel. A set of red, green, and gold spheres hung at odd intervals around it, and a red velvet piece of cloth was tucked around the tree, though hardly visible behind the boxes of gifts. There were a pile of matching cushions on the floor, and the one great chair was draped with gold garlands.
Is this... am I dreaming? Garona wondered, approaching slowly, testing each new thing with her finger, poking and prodding to test softness and reality. This was how Khadgar found her.
“Great Adaraxiel's Ghost,” Khadgar exclaimed between yawns. “Did you do this?”
“No, I found things this way,” Garona said, turning to face him. “You can see this too? I'm not dreaming?” She reached to clutch at his wrist.
“No, I see it,” Khadgar agreed. “I didn't think the servants were allowed up here, how did--”
“It would seem that Father Winterveil has answered the wishes of children to have a very festive time,” Medivh said lightly. “Please, sit down. I believe we have presents to open.”
“Only idiots believe in Father Winterveil past childhood,” Khadgar complained, even as he sat on one of the cushions. Garona shoved him lightly and sat next to him, legs crossed as she looked at the pile eagerly.
“Are you calling me an idiot?” Medivh asked lightly, raising an eyebrow. “What's to say I haven't visited his workshop in Northrend and asked for his help?”
“Every rule of common sense and also good taste,” Khadgar replied, meeting his gaze, and Garona shoved him again. “Hey!”
“It doesn't matter why, only that it happened,” Garona said. “And we have gifts to open.”
“Some mage apprentice you are,” Khadgar grumbled, and so they began.
Most of the gifts were in boxes, or wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Garona received the most, or so it felt like as she revealed new tunics and trousers, fresh underthings and warm socks, a pair of gloves of soft leather lined with wool and a quilted coat to keep her warm. All were in the human style, in hues of dark green and brown and black, and none bore clan markings. Garona held each to her chest, embracing them tightly.
Khadgar's gifts were different since he needed fewer new clothes; instead he received a wealth of books, rare volumes that he had admired from Medivh's collection, boxes of supplies for more complicated spellcasting, special tools, his own telescope, much smaller than the one in Karazhan's observatory but in just as fine a quality.
Both of them were given food, baked goods in the shape of balls and trees and snowmen, iced in white, green, and red, and jars of hard candy, sealed with a festive piece of cloth and a bit of ribbon. Each received one small box of chocolates filled with caramel and fruit jam.
Then it was time for the gifts Khadgar and Garona had bought. After some debate the day before, they agreed to present Medivh with his tome together, placing it into his lap. He looked pleased, though unsurprised, and Garona thought, ruefully, that it wasn't a surprise that he had been the one to surprise them and not the other way around.
Khadgar's gift from Garona was a knife, the edge long and slender, meant for arcane work rather than fighting or stabbing, the metal blueish silver. Garona had worked on it in secret, going out to the village to work at the forges. The hilt was wrapped with tooled leather and the pommel marked with the arcane eye of Dalaran, since Khadgar had no clan and no family arms. His expression had been worth the effort and the secrecy, lighting up like a candle on Winterveil morning.
“This is yours,” Khadgar said, pushing a box at her, and she gave him a curious look. She untied the ribbon holding it closed and lifted the lid. She made a soft noise at the sight. Resting on a handkerchief that had been carefully folded up to give the box padding was a silver necklace, the pendant a flat, silver disk. She picked it up, running the flat of her thumb over the surface, and then turned it over.
Garona's,
from Khadgar
“There wasn't room for much more,” Khadgar said quietly. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Garona replied softly. “Help me put it on?”
Khadgar nodded, and she lifted her hair, pushing it to the side so he could clasp it around her neck. Realistically, she shouldn't be wearing anything that would catch light if she wanted to keep to the darkness. If she wore it, she would have to hide it, keep it secret. She looked down at the disk again.
Maybe... I don't need to, she thought, though the idea was futile. Maybe I can live outside the shadows. The feeling of fingers brushing her neck startled her out of her thoughts, and she glanced at Khadgar, who was retreating back to his own cushion.
“Happy Winterveil, children,” Medivh said, and they smiled back at him, for once not protesting that they were adults.
“Happy Winterveil, Old Man,” they chorused. Medivh produced a book, though it was a thin one, and handed it to Garona. Immediately, Garona took it and opened it.
“You may begin at the first page,” he said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Garona eyed him, but began to read.
“A long, long time ago, when all the continents were one, and the mists of dawn had not yet been burned away by the rising of the sun, there lived the first races: trolls and tauren, dwarves and giants, and some even claim the dragons. They worshipped the gods of earth and sky, of sea and fire, of the sun and the moons above and the burning hells below.
“The great goddess of the earth, known as the Mother for her ability to grant comfort to all of her children, watched endlessly over the world, though she was not tireless, for she did tire. When her great eyes, one gold and one silver, closed, the sea would try to claim the earth, the fires would burst up from below and rage over all, and the air would grow thick and heavy, choking her children and so she would force her eyes open again so that beneath her stern gaze, all would behave as it should.
“One day, she grew so tired that she feared she might fall asleep forever. Her children were fraught with despair, fearing for all that they might lose. The trolls, the Amani and the Drakkari, the Zandalari and the Hakkari and the mysterious Kaldari all began to chant, urging her to wakefulness. They engaged in revelry until they themselves fell asleep, and they woke later to do the same thing again until the very spirits of the dead joined in. This did not make the Mother wakeful. Instead, she longed to lay asleep as they did.
“The tauren wept for the Mother, for they believed that they loved her best. They shed tears, weeping and wailing as they banged on their great drums, calling out all that would be lost if she failed to stay awake. They mourned until they were exhausted, falling asleep even as they stood, wavering like reeds in the wind, and they woke to weep once more until the very darkness beneath the world crept up and touched them with anger instead of sorrow, to change the sound of their wailing. This did not make the Mother wakeful. Instead, she longed to hold them in her arms and comfort them.
“The giants howled their anger, punching and kicking at the ground, creating mountains and crevasses, canyons and mesas. They threatened her, demanding that she keep awake, lest they come and chew off her fingers and toes, puncture her eyes and snarl up her hair. They raged out of fear, and were fearful because they were angry and they could not stop themselves, could not find a greater reason for the Mother not to forsake them. This did not make the Mother wakeful, and instead she lectured them sternly and reminded them that anger caused more problems than it solved.
“Finally, the dwarves, her truest children, stirred in the earth and came to her, their hands outstretched with kindness and generosity. They brought her baubles of gold and branches of green. They lit candles of white with red flames, their procession consisting of every dwarf that could walk. She was astounded to see them, but they did not weep or beg or rage. Instead, they carried between them the greatest, whitest cloak she'd ever seen, of the softest, most plush velvet and wool they could find.
“What is this?” she asked, touching it. Even running her fingers along the length made her tired.
“It is your blanket,” the dwarves said. “So that you can sleep in comfort.”
“But I must not sleep,” the Mother said, tears in her eyes. “You will all suffer. My children will beg and weep and rage, and my brothers and sisters will ruin and destroy without my eyes upon them.”
“It is not your sleep that causes the suffering but the fact that they must be watched,” the dwarves replied. “So we have an idea. Dancing and singing will not keep us safe if it is not their purpose to protect. Tears will not keep us safe if they are not wept while working hard. Rage will not protect us if it is shouted at the air. Only innovation will protect us. Only invention and intelligence.”
“All true, all true,” the Mother said. “Please, what is your idea?”
“Create a guardian against your brothers and sisters,” the dwarves replied. “One who will protect this world while you cover yourself in white and sleep. Because that guardian will not be you, they will need to work much harder in a shorter time, so they will need to rest more, but even one fourth of a year will be better than none.”
“Yes, yes,” the Mother said. “I have an idea. He will be the Father of my children, my husband and partner as I don this veil of winter. He will sleep when I wake, and no harm will come to any of my children. What should he look like, my husband? Should he be a giant, strong and bold, or a tauren, sad and solemn, or a troll, gay and cheerful at all times?”
“He should be as you want him to be, to show that you have made the best choice that you could,” replied the dwarves, as humbly as they could.
“Then he shall be a dwarf, because you are the wisest of all my children,” the Mother said, and blessed each of them.
“From the earth, the Mother created the Father of Winter, vigilant of the Veil, and he was a dwarf, though large and stout and with a fine beard. His eyes burned like coals, twinkling as he watched over children and sibling alike, and his skin was nut-brown and wrinkled as he smiled or frowned or shouted. He smoothed the Mother's veil, and the soft velvet blew up and around, spreading far and wide. Twice a year the Father and Mother would join hands, as one would sleep and the other would wake.
“The End.”
“What did you think?” Medivh asked as Garona slowly closed the book, holding it in her hands and staring at the cover. Khadgar snorted softly, and Medivh glanced over at him sharply.
“It reminds me of the ancestral tales from Oshu'gun,” Garona said, running the tips of her fingers along the pressed-in title. “Where the world is shaped by elements and the ancestors. The different people represent different elements, or in the case of this story, different emotions. This is a story written by dwarves?”
“It is,” Medivh said. “There are different versions based on who is doing the telling, and the elves have a completely different story, celebrating the fact that Quel'thalas is eternally bound in a cycle of spring and summer.”
“People never tell stories where others are the key to solving a problem,” Khadgar said, unable to contain it any longer. “So of course the dwarves were wise and the giants and trolls were foolish, and these 'tauren'. As if crying ever helped with anything.”
“You don't believe in Father Winterveil?” Medivh asked, tone arch. Khadgar scowled at him.
“There is no proof that seasons have to do with anything but the rotation of the planet and its orbit around the sun,” Khadgar replied. “Just as the tides are affected by the moons above. We have evidence of the elemental planes and the effects of their denizens on the world as an anomaly, not as a starting point. The notion of a Titan-based creation myth is an dwarven interpretation of the writings they found within Khaz Modan.”
“You must be a delight at clan gatherings,” Garona muttered, before recalling that humans didn't have clans. Khadgar ignored her anyway.
“You're discounting archeological evidence?”
“I'm discounting superstitious nonsense,” Khadgar huffed. “There are no greater powers at work. The hierarchy of beings has already been catalogued and measured. Anything that seems unexplained can be tied directly to something else that has been. That's the end of it.”
“I see,” Medivh said, and something flickered over his face. Garona thought briefly it was disappointment, but he also seemed slightly pleased. All at once, the room seemed cold. “Why don't you make a study of that superstitious nonsense?”
“What, now?” Khadgar asked, confused. “But it's--”
“Just like any other day of the year, isn't it?” Medivh asked quietly. “You can't have it both ways, I fear. You can honour the traditions and rest on a holy day, or you can treat it like any other day, which means returning to your studies.”
Khadgar stared at him a moment longer, his expression mulish. Medivh met his gaze easily, and finally, the younger mage stood, straightened his robe, and strode out, leaving his gifts where they lay. Garona watched him stalk out, and then rose a moment later.
“I'll retrieve my gifts later, I--”
“You won't be joining him,” Medivh said, stopping her cold. “You'll be coming with me.”
Here it comes, Garona thought, and fear flooded into her. “What will we be doing?”
“Not here,” he said, shaking his head slightly, and rose from his chair. He indicated for her to follow as he strode out of the room, listening for Khadgar before continuing to walk down the hall. Garona kept pace easily, and they stopped at the end of the hallway. She looked at the painting on the wall. She had seen it a number of times, and had admired the abstract, swirling green colours, the spheres half-hidden in shadows and the speckles of light in the darkness. She looked at it again now, and in doing so, missed Medivh's sharp gesture, but could not miss how the wall shifted and parted.
“How... I checked,” Garona said softly. “The wall isn't hollow.”
“More often than not, you can't trust what your senses tell you unquestioningly,” Medivh said, prying the door open, and gesturing for her to follow. “Especially not in a world of magic and illusion.”
“Where not everything is categorized and notated?” Garona guessed and he nodded slightly. Behind the wall was a passageway, grimy though lifeless. Medivh snapped his fingers, and as they walked, the torches set into sconces on the wall flickered to life and then back to darkness. Behind her, the wall slid closed.
It was cold within the passageway, the torches providing only light and no warmth. Garona looked around, probing at the shadows and sensing for anything unusual. When nothing returned, she made a soft noise of frustration.
“The enchantments are stronger than your gifts,” Medivh told her. “Stronger than Khadgar's magic. Only a Guardian can push past these wards.”
“And you're the only Guardian,” Garona noted, and he shook his head slightly, but said nothing more. “What are we doing here?”
“Fulfilling a bargain,” Medivh said, and Garona's eyes widened in sudden realization. Medivh caught her sleeve and tugged her after him.
Is there anywhere for me to run? Garona wondered as she followed him. If the wards are that strong, am I trapped here forever? A ghost, to wander. Khadgar will never know, he'll think I've abandoned him. Distress gnawed in her stomach, feeding on the candy she'd eaten while opening presents. I don't want him to think that of me.
Medivh reached another door, this one entirely mundane, and opened it. Here, there were no torches, but instead glowing red runes on the walls, filling the corridor with an almost infernal light. Behind the walls, cages were set, holding... things. Creatures, even, darkness and fire blended together into a whole that made Garona's eyes hurt to look at them. Here and there, Garona spotted books, thick tomes, untitled and sealed with magic, locks, and even a buckle, which reminded her of Khadgar's assertion that mages didn't need to use physical locks. She shuddered and hurried along.
Finally, here were Medivh's personal chambers. They held a huge bed, draped with a thick canopy, a small sitting room, not unlike the library they had met in, and a work chamber. The work chamber was dark, and Medivh lit a candle by hand, light flickering in a well of deep red wax, casting the whole place in a sinister light. Garona could see the vague, shadowed shapes of bookshelves and countertops, and in the centre of the room, next to a large, padded chair, was a curved shape, draped in cloth. Medivh put a hand on her shoulder.
“Come with me,” Medivh said, and his voice filled the quiet room. They moved forward together, Medivh taking the chair and Garona kneeling down. Medivh drew back the covering, revealing a crystal that seemed to fill her gaze, ensnaring her until Medivh cleared his throat. He waved a hand, and the orb began to glow. “As requested, I have brought her.” He nodded to Garona. “Put your hand on it, child, like mine.”
Fingers trembling, Garona put her hand on the orb. Immediately, an image filled her mind, and it seemed as large as it had when she was a child, when she had made that first mistake. In the dim light, Garona thought she caught Medivh giving her a sympathetic look, but it was nothing to the sound of the speaker's voice. His voice.
“Garona?” Gul'dan demanded. “Where have you been? Report to me, tell me what you have learned.”
Mouth dry, Garona nodded, more to herself than anyone else, and began to speak.
[Part 10]