Warcraft: Assassin - Part 11
Hi! Guess what's done?! IT'S ASSASSIN AAAAA!! I'm so excited! I will be posting Assassin as it is finished being edited by my lovely, wonderful beta-hamster, and this is what I've got for you today. Enjoy!
Title: Assassin
Part: 11/14+Epilogue
Word Count: 5106
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 9 10
'...and then the Great Sands and Whirlwind clans were absorbed into the Stonefist clan, giving Blackhand several thousand warriors along with three times the number of crafters and farmers, as well as granting him control of the northern portion of the lands near the Devouring Sea.'
Garona paused, blowing gently on the glistening ink. Once he had learned that Garona could read and write in the local human tongue, Llane had asked her to record what she knew of orc history as well as simply telling the story aloud.
There's a different rhythm to it, Garona mused. She shifted in her seat, pulling the long, tight braid of hair out from between her back and the wooden seat, and pushed it off to the side. Humans wore their hair like this, and she had copied it. Khadgar had said it suited her. It was different from an orcish braid, meant less as decoration and more to keep her hair from her face. Unfortunately, wisps tended to escape from it and catch instead on the clasps of her tunic, or cracks in the wood of chairs.
The tunic itself was human-made, like the one Medivh had given her during Winter Veil, but was otherwise as different as could be. The fallen Guardian had brought her measurements to the tailors of Tower's Shadow Village and they had made her clothing for her in rich browns, greens, and greys. These clothes were given to her from the Keep's spares based on best fit, stark white and bright blue, embroidered with gold. She would have found the clothes a nuisance had they been her own.
It is kindness, Garona insisted to herself as she adjusted the tunic again, and smoothed her trousers. Human kindness. They are at war, there is little time for custom-made clothing. She stretched briefly, and considered her work. I will go for a walk, I think, to clear my thoughts and perhaps see Khadgar.
She had scarcely seen her friend and fellow apprentice over the months she had been residing in Stormwind's keep. Once he had recovered, he had sought out the mages of the Goldenspire Academy to query them about magical teachings outside of Dalaran, and since then he had been constantly busy, trying to cram years’ worth of the academic study of magic that was both like and unlike his own education into only a dozen weeks.
I'm searching for some way to deal with Medivh, Khadgar had told her, when he had not been too busy to speak to her. His father was Stormwind's court conjurer until he died, and he was the first to do battle with Sargeras, or so I’ve deduced from Abbey's records. He must have done something, managed somehow to keep the demon at bay. He must have finally lost control that day.
She had only nodded and agreed. Even now, only Llane knew the truth, Llane and Medivh both. He was working with Gul'dan all along. Without his intervention, we would be starving and dying. All it cost was the lives of more and more warriors, theirs and ours. Still, she hoped that Khadgar was right, that somewhere there was a key to defeating Medivh.
Garona capped the inkwell, both so similar and very different from the pots of paint that orcs used to write, and dipped the quill into a dish of water, waving it from side to side to clean it before drawing it out again, shaking it briefly, and then drying it on a soft, ink-stained cloth. Everything about the human process of writing was fascinating to her, even the cleaning, and though being hunched over day after day as she recorded what she knew for the human king made her back ache, her fingers curl, and stained her sleeves and fingers if she was incautious, she still looked forward to it.
I will be a teller of tales, Garona decided. Instead of gathering people by the fire, I will put pen to paper and let the stories travel for me. When I run out of stories to tell about the orcs, I will travel this world and gather the stories of humans and dwarves, gnomes and elves, goblins and trolls. I won't need to lift my blade at anyone's command.
Carrying that in her heart, she left the sunlit room she had been granted to do her writing and began to walk. Like the orcs, humans carried their prestige with them, on tabards and shields bearing the coats-of-arms of noble families instead of the rune-inscribed banners of clans. While orcs wove their heritage into blankets and worked it into leather, humans created huge tapestries depicting old battles. Garona paused at the foot of one of them, looking over a stylized depiction of Adamant Wrynn's rise to power and the death of the last Baewynn king.
My talent is with blades instead of needles, but after the war is over, I can commission someone to record the great battles and the moment of peace. Garona tried to focus on that idea, that moment of peace, and found it harder than imagining her own future. There are too many fools in the Horde, too many to dig and claw through. If they didn't need to follow that idiot Blackhand, or--
"Who goes-- oh. It's you."
Garona spun to face the voice, daggers loose in their sheaths and ready to be drawn at any moment. Behind her stood two guards, dressed in the blue-and-gold lion livery of Azeroth. With the suddenness of her movement, the guards dropped their hands to their swords. Suspicion to recognition to anger flashed across the humans' faces, all in an instant. The moment stretched on.
"Don't... sneak up on me," Garona said slowly, forcing herself to relax. "I'm easily startled."
"Your pardon, Miss Garona," one of the guards said, moving his hand from the hilt of his sword. "We weren't expecting to see you."
"You're very quiet," added the second. "Like a sneak thief or--"
An assassin, Garona thought as the first guard elbowed the other. "I'm just taking a walk. I intend to visit Magister Khadgar, and the prince. I've promised him another story."
A look of disbelief flashed on the guards' faces at the mention of Varian, but it disappeared just as Garona noticed it. Anger at their doubt stirred in her heart, and she forced it back, to nod to the guards. She passed by them, securing her arm sheaths as she walked. Her pace was not quite swift enough to take her out of hearing range of the guards' muttered conversation:
"Can't believe the king's letting one of them into the city."
"I keep expecting to see half a dozen more. Can't trust 'em."
If you had seen what I have seen, you wouldn't doubt me, Garona thought, seething. At least Varian understands. She tried to focus on the young prince, letting it calm her. Varian was always eager to hear what she had to say, and the one bedtime story she had promised him had become a dozen, though she was careful to keep the stories to what his parents believed he could handle. I don't want to speak of our plagues either, or of the abandoned. That's not something a child needs to hear.
No longer interested in confronting other humans, she turned to a shadowy alcove and stepped into it, letting herself melt utterly into darkness. It took little time for her to emerge in the courtyard of Goldenspire Academy.
Stormwind City boasted only a single great mage tower whereas from what Khadgar had told her, Dalaran had a great citadel. Dalaran, he noted, had been founded first and foremost for mages, whereas Azeroth was a refuge of sorts for all kinds, many of them unsavoury. Instead of drawing from the tried and true methods of the Kirin Tor, the Goldenspire mages used unconventional methods of teaching, heavily emphasizing conjuring above transmutation, and direct elemental manipulation instead of enchantment.
Khadgar can go on for hours about it, Garona thought with no small amount of fondness. If he's not careful, he's going to wind up eternally being a student instead of moving on to Archmage.
The Academy itself was far from Stormwind Keep, closer to Stormwind Harbour. When she had asked about it, and the security concerns, she had been told that the mages were strong enough to protect themselves, but there was a faint hint of apprehension that something might go wrong. Since the destruction of Karazhan and the village that surrounded it during a battle between two of the world’s most powerful mages, Garona couldn’t quite fault them.
Instead of a village, Goldenspire sat amidst a garden overshadowing a handful of decorative trees. Garona stopped to touch one briefly, its leaves waxy, though she had been assured the tree was ‘real’ -- and then been surprised by the existence of false trees at all -- by the gardeners that tended them, ignoring the occasional floating candle.
Like Karazhan, the Academy was located inside a tower that had expanded upwards rather than outwards, its gold trimmed white walls gleaming in the sunlight. There were several entrances on the bottom floor, everything from the grand doors to greet guests to the small, discreet doors meant for cleaning staff and gardeners. After a brief moment’s hesitation, she went in one of the smaller doors, wanting no fuss made about her arrival. From experience, she knew the grand entrance had a huge set of stairs, meant to impress guests and intimidate younglings, and neatly carried new arrivals over the hub of servant activity. Some claimed that other mages, like the elves and the mages of Dalaran, had magical servants, but here they were real, solid humans, sent to mop floors and dust bookshelves.
Medivh had some servants, but only for the parts of his tower that guests saw, Garona reflected as she moved past some servants armed with brooms and dustpans. He left the care of laboratories and libraries to us.
Considering the volume of students within the Academy, this might have been impractical. Equally, it seemed impractical for bright-eyed, fresh-faced teenagers to clean the dozen-odd classrooms they were marched in and out from, each assigned to a different teacher. There were no private lessons in shadow walking here, no quiet evenings curled up by the fire asking questions. Instead there were organized classrooms, homework assignments, and practices.
There are no such evenings in Karazhan either, Garona thought briefly, and pushed the thought aside as hurt swelled within her. Above the classrooms were the laboratories: special rooms warded with magic to contain experimentation. As she peeked in while she walked by the rooms, one lab had a dozen mage students, directed by a teacher, practicing conjuration. In another, two senior students were drawing a great summoning circle, and at a glance Garona could tell they intended to summon a water elemental from the Abyssal Depths to serve them.
I wonder if the orcs could learn this way, Garona mused. We have no schools either. Teaching is most often done by parents, or elders if their parents are busy or absent. A faint hint of apprehension prickled across her. Not that I would want this many to learn what I learned, or how!
Above the laboratories was the library. It was huge, filling multiple floors of the already large tower, and there were staircases within it to reach all of the books. Rather than separating out books into different categories, all the books were here, organized not only by title or author, but also by subject. Each topic was proclaimed in carved brass and marked by a pair of letters from the Common tongue, which corresponded to a specific subject marked in a great catalogue.
We definitely could use a catalogue, Garona thought wistfully. There’s a reason why ‘I have forgotten more than you’ll ever know’ is a saying, but it shouldn’t be so! Knowledge should be remembered, not forgotten, not buried. If people knew… She sighed. But the warlocks thrive on the ignorance of others, and so do the rest of us.
Adjoining the library were study rooms. Like the laboratories, these rooms were warded, but against sound rather than misfired spells. Here, young mages or old could find a place to read undisturbed by the chatter of others, or avoid bothering others with same. Garona looked between each room, finding a trio of students in one, dressed as student mages: a human boy, his red hair gleaming, gesturing enthusiastically, in the midst of telling some manner of story or another. A second human boy was sitting slumped against the table, chin cupped in one hand as his black hair fell over green eyes, and he pushed it away, impatient, revealing an odd-shaped scar.
Did someone strike him? Garona wondered with a frown. The final student, a human girl with brown hair that seemed to surround her hair in a halo, rolled up a piece of paper and smacked each of the boys with it, and even without sound, Garona could hear her order them to concentrate. Garona shook her head slightly. Humans are odd.
The next two rooms were empty, but not the third. It was there she found Khadgar, a number of books stacked around him. He was hunched over a thick tome, not looking at the notebook as he scribbled in it. At his other elbow was a mug of tea that, at a glance, seemed stone cold. Silent as she was, Khadgar failed to notice her approach, and the candlelight only flickered as she stood behind him.
"...and that means..." Khadgar muttered to himself.
"What does it mean?" Garona asked, curious. Khadgar started, his elbow smacking firmly into the mug. Garona caught it in an instant, and set it on the table. "Hello, Khadgar."
"Garona," the human mage replied, surprise quickly giving way to pleasure. "I didn't hear you come in."
"No, you were lost in a book," Garona observed, not bothering to point out that he wouldn't have heard her anyway. "Did you find anything?"
"I may, I may," Khadgar said. "I've been doing some reading."
"You don't say," Garona murmured, though she retrieved a chair to sit next to him, scooting in close.
Khadgar blinked, and his cheeks reddened before he cleared his throat. “There aren’t many records about Medivh,” he began. “The obvious is here, that the Guardian Aegwynn bore him to Court Conjurer Nielas Aran and left him in Stormwind, while she went to do Guardian… things.” Garona frowned, the flashes of the battle still vivid in her mind, but gestured for Khadgar to continue. “Nielas trained Medivh personally, outside the confines of the Academy, and well out of reach of the Kirin Tor and the Order of Tirisfal. He wasn’t actually aware of the Order at all until Medivh reached the age of fourteen.”
“That seems unlikely and foolish,” Garona protested. “How could they not have known?”
“The Guardian and the Order were secret,” Khadgar said. “Nielas had no true idea of who Aegwynn was before they, ah, coupled.”
“It seems foolish to mate with someone you don’t know,” Garona muttered. “Unless you have no other choice.”
“I think the time to question either of them about their personal choices has unfortunately passed,” Khadgar said. He tapped the book’s pages lightly. “When Medivh turned fourteen, his Guardian powers awoke with his nascent manhood--”
“His what?” Garona asked in disbelief, and Khadgar flushed. “That sounds like something from one of those books you read.”
“It just means… the process of moving from child to adult--” Khadgar broke off. “How did you know about those?”
“How do you think?” Garona asked, raising a brow. Khadgar cleared his throat, and continued.
“--causing a massive discharge of power that killed his father and left him in a coma for well over a decade.”
“I can’t imagine losing that much time in what must seem like an instant,” Garona murmured, and calming, Khadgar nodded.
“Neither can I, I hope no such thing ever happens to either of us,” he said feelingly. “Medivh was brought to Northshire Abbey and tended to by the clerics there until he awoke, fully in control of his power.”
“Northshire Abbey was destroyed recently, wasn’t it? By the… Horde?” Garona asked, though she knew it to be true. Gul’dan had told her as much, bragged about it to Medivh, who had said nothing, not reacted to his sanctuary being destroyed.
“It was, but some records were passed on before then.” Khadgar shook his head slightly. “I’m not much one for religion, but those archives… such a pity, and of course, the people who were displaced. I found some testimonies of those watching over Medivh. They claim they saw things, a hovering image with a smouldering beard.”
Sargeras, Garona thought, and her stomach clenched. “Could they have been mistaken?”
“We can ask one of the witnesses,” Khadgar said. “Sir Lothar did his vigil there, they were friends in childhood. Not with the king, though. He would have been too young to remember him properly.”
“Will this help?” Garona demanded. “Does seeing it happen help free him?”
“Not directly,” Khadgar said, shaking his head. He set the book aside and pulled another towards him. “But whatever Nielas did clearly contained Sargeras’ power for a time, allowing Medivh to grow up relatively normally, become the Guardian, and move to Karazhan. I believe Nielas’ specialties tied into it, and if I can master those, I can contain the demon once more until it can be extracted. I have some theories, but of course, they’d only be good if tested.”
“...and if you’re wrong?” Garona asked softly. “If you’re mistaken about this?”
“...then we’ll need something to pray to, because I don’t know if we can kill him,” Khadgar murmured softly, and Garona’s stomach turned to ice.
“We should… take this to the-- King,” Garona said. “We can’t go alone.”
“No, of course not,” Khadgar said. “Let’s go.”
~ * ~
Llane listened gravely as Khadgar explained his findings. At his side, Anduin Lothar’s expression grew stormy, as it had the first time Garona had explained what had happened to Medivh.
“I did see it, Llane,” he noted. “The visage. I’d no notion of what it was when I saw it. Thought I was hallucinating.”
“I don’t blame you, mages are always odd,” Llane replied. “But this…”
“I think I can contain him,” Khadgar said, and Garona noticed he accepted the supposed oddity of mages with nary a blink. “We would need to travel back to Karazhan, of course, and it could be quite risky, but if we can save Medivh--”
“Is he still in contact with Gul’dan?” Llane asked, looking to Garona. She swallowed and nodded.
“That seems likely, Your Majesty. They have maintained steady contact for at least ten years, closer to fifteen now, I believe. Gul’dan would want to be kept informed and make his plans based on that information.”
Anduin and Llane exchanged a look, and Garona could all but see the calculations being done in their minds: Sargeras may have contacted Gul’dan while Medivh was still sleeping. If they believe there is no hope, no possibility that Medivh can be freed--
“It will be difficult to sneak up on him, then,” Anduin said finally, focusing on Khadgar. “How close in would you be able to get a force, and how big a force?”
“Well,” Khadgar began, considering. “Medivh is very powerful, as the Guardian, though many of Karazhan’s natural defenses were destroyed in battle, though given time he could have repaired them--”
“Vague answers won’t carry an army, boy,” Lothar snarled, and Khadgar drew back briefly. Garona stiffened, and Llane shook his head at her slightly. “Sure you aren’t just looking for an excuse to go back?”
“What? No!” Khadgar cried, balling his hands into fists, looking absurd and small next to the mountainous Lion of Azeroth. “I was there when I saw Sargeras manifest. I know what kind of damage he’s done!”
“But you’re trying to save him, boy. Soft and coddlesome!”
“We may not be able to kill him!” Khadgar’s chest heaved, his eyes glittering with anger and hurt. “Some mages are like that, they have special spells that protect them from death. You have to strip them away, and that takes time. Someone would have to distract him so that it could be done!”
“But you’d kill him? You’d kill him to save Azeroth?” Lothar demanded. Khadgar hesitated briefly. “You’re no good if you can’t commit!”
“Khadgar’s never killed anyone before,” Garona interjected, putting her hand on Khadgar’s arm. “You can’t ask him such a question. If it comes down to it, I will. I’ll do it.”
“Garona…” Khadgar murmured softly, and she shook her head. Anduin’s gaze shifted to her, and she met it steadily. As great and strong as the human was, he did not have a spark of madness in his eye, greed or lust for power.
“We need to be certain of Khadgar because he will be the one to go with Anduin’s force to Karazhan,” Llane remarked after the silence stretched. “You will not be going with him.”
“What?!” Garona cried, with Khadgar expressing his disbelief a moment later. “Why not?”
“You’re needed here,” Llane said, his voice gentle. “You recall the messengers, do you not?”
Garona was silent for a long moment before nodding. He’s looking for me, Garona thought. If Sargeras is talking to him again, he’ll know I’m here. Now he’s trying to find me. “You haven’t had as much time to work on the translation spells, or teaching people written Orcish.”
“No, which is why you must stay here. We could miss important information by the simple fault of not being able to read. If they bring verbal messages, and our defenses don’t kill them, you’ll need to translate what they’re saying. We need you here, Garona, in Stormwind.” The human king looked her over, and his expression was kind. “And Varian will miss you.”
Garona looked away, fighting her disappointment. “I understand.”
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Khadgar promised. “We’ll see each other again soon.”
Garona nodded numbly. If you don’t fall where I can’t see you, she thought, fearful.
“Speaking of Varian, would you go visit with him?” Llane asked, keeping his voice light. “We have matters we wish to discuss, and I believe he wanted you to observe his practice.”
“Very well.” Garona bowed, as humans did, and left the throne room.
~ * ~
Stormwind Keep had two courtyards: an outer courtyard available to the citizenry, meant for picnics and revelry during happier times, and a beautiful inner courtyard, protected by high, white stone walls, meant only for the royal family and their guests. It was in the latter location that Garona found her targets, the Prince of Stormwind, his best friend, and his best friend’s mother.
Mara Fordragon was barking orders, calling out an attack rhythm with a steady cadence. Varian, not quite a year younger than his friend, was on the offense, the wooden sword in his hand rising and falling. Bolvar, with bigger muscles, was defending with a shield, letting the inexperienced blows slide over his shield.
It would be rude to interrupt, Garona thought, and walked over to the only observer. This boy was older, closer to her age than theirs, and his expression was grave as he watched, though he flinched at each impact’s sound.
“They aren’t hurting each other,” Garona began. The boy jerked and looked over at her. His hair was brown, cropped short at the sides and longer at the top, and he wore plain white robes. His hazel eyes widened at the sight of her, and then he made room on the bench so that she could sit. “Lady Mara has things well in hand, Uther.”
The young priest nodded once. “I know. I’ve been watching Lady Mara get in practice since Bolvar was only a tiny baby. I used to watch him.” He smiled slightly. “He’s grown up a lot. Varian too.”
“War makes adults of us all,” Garona murmured. Uther’s smile turned to a deep frown. “What is it?”
“Is there really a need for war?” Uther asked. “My teacher, Archbishop Faol, says there isn’t, not ever. Mara’s always insisted there is. They… well, they fight over it.”
“Still?” Garona asked. “Or only more recently?”
“For as long as I’ve known her,” Uther confessed. “Violence is forbidden at the Abbey. He would never let her teach any of the other students how to fight. I… don’t think I’m very good at it. I built my strength up from doing chores. She says they’re all wrong without serious training.”
“Let’s see,” Garona said, and Uther brought an arm up to flex briefly. “No, those are not warrior’s muscles. A fisher’s perhaps, or a farmer’s.” Uther sighed. “You aren’t trained, don’t be ashamed.”
“I know,” Uther said. “That’s what Lady Mara tells me too. When the King -- he was the Prince then -- and Lady Mara were both at the Abbey, he told me that not everyone had to fight. That warriors and knights protect those who can’t.”
“That’s very lucky if there are always warriors about,” Garona noted, considering. “But there aren’t always, especially if you won’t keep them or train them.”
“That’s what Lady Mara says,” Uther replied. “She said that we must stand up for ourselves and protect others. It’s our duty, anyone who can pick up a sword. You can’t just constantly give ground, she said.”
“She’s not wrong,” Garona pointed out. “Not all of the strong protect the weak. Sometimes they turn on them, they’re cruel. They leave bruises and broken bones as lessons.”
Uther bowed his head. “I know. Trust me, I know.” Garona raised an eyebrow. “But the Archbishop says…” He paused, and she watched tension shiver over him as Mara called for the boys to switch positions, and now Varian took up the shield, defending against a stronger foe. “He says people use violence too much and too often to solve problems. That if they couldn’t just fall back to frightening people, they’d use their words, they’d think up peaceful solutions to problems. That the people you kill during war deserve to live too.”
Garona thought of Draenor, of the harshness of the land, and the harshness of the warriors that it raised. She thought of her mother. Walk in the Light, my daughter. She pushed it aside. “He’s not wrong, there are those who are too stupid to do anything but lift a blade. Do you think that’s so in the Lady’s case?” She tilted her head towards Mara. She held one hand behind her back, while she lifted the other, using motions to set the pace of their exercise.
“No,” Uther whispered. “I know that the Archbishop believes all problems can be solved without violence, but Lady Mara is right that we all have a right to live. And just because we think we should solve problems without violence, doesn’t mean everyone will just agree with us and throw down their swords instead of fighting. We have to protect ourselves. To do anything else is negligent.”
“Is that what Lady Mara says?” Garona asked, looking over at the human woman curiously. Uther shook his head.
“That’s what the Prince said. It’s because he has to rule a kingdom. Archbishop Faol can stay in the Abbey and teach people. Lady Mara can go out on a battlefield to fight people. He has to make decisions that touch all kinds of lives, the warriors and the priests.” Uther sighed. “It’s hard to know what to do.”
Garona considered. “Azeroth’s history has been very violent in the past. I’ve read lots of histories.”
“I know,” Uther said, miserable. “And the old religion condemned or blessed people. The Archbishop is trying to change people’s minds. He is trying to teach people that no good person condemns another to Hell.”
“Hell is where demons live,” Garona muttered, and Uther looked at her sharply. “Never mind. Draenor is a very different place from Azeroth. We’ve always had fighting, even from the earliest days of the shamans and first clans to the day we left for Azeroth. There are no places where children are kept from fighting. We all have to learn, regardless of how. Our warriors aren’t the only ones taught how to fight, only those who fight exclusively. Our hunters and farmers can fight too, but their arms are not as good, and they rarely have armour that isn’t made of hide and skins. Many orcs think the humans are soft because they can’t fight, because you have civilians.”
“So, you think the Archbishop is wrong, then?” Uther asked, looking over at her. Garona shook her head.
“Azeroth is a soft world, but that doesn’t make it a bad one. Your water doesn’t burn, your land doesn’t shrivel under your touch. You have the luxury of making the decision to fight or not fight. You can send your children to Abbeys to study new religions or train them for battle. Orcs don’t have that luxury, and we never had. We would die.”
“Do you think humans are weak?” Uther pressed. “Because we have luxury and you orcs don’t?”
I’m not an orc, Garona thought, irritated, and pushed it back. Just as she’d always known orcs would never consider her one of them, she knew humans could not see the way she was different from the orcs they fought. “No. As I said, orcs are all capable of fighting, and may be stronger of arm than humans, but it doesn’t make humans weak. Orcs had no choice. They fought or they died. Humans have many choices, including the choice of peace. A life without choices isn’t much of a life at all. It’s only survival.”
Uther nodded, and looked back towards the boys, watching for a time. Varian’s face, young as it was, was hard and determined. Mara watched him with satisfaction, more than Garona had ever been given by her teachers. So absorbed was Garona by this, that she missed Uther’s question.
“What, sorry?” Garona muttered, looking back at the human again.
“I said, do you think we have a choice now?” Uther indicated the boys. “Do you think they have any choice but to learn to fight, because the orcs have come? Do I?”
Garona paused, looking from each face. “I’m not sure.”
~ * ~
“I don’t think anyone quite understands how much of a luxury not needing to fight to survive is,” Thrall commented. Garona looked at him sharply. “I hadn’t had a name for it, but that’s a future I want for my people. The choice not to fight. The choice to spend time in a shaman circle meditating on the elements instead of worrying when the next battle will come.”
“Do you truly think that day will come?” Garona asked. “You’re naive.”
“No more so than Uther was, ancestors guard his soul, for all he was an enemy of my people,” Thrall said softly. “Or you, for that matter. You believed there would be an end to it.”
“It was my fault that there wasn’t,” Garona whispered, and bowed her head. Thrall curled his fingers back, rather than touch her where she might not wish it.
“Tell me.”
[ Chapter 12]
Title: Assassin
Part: 11/14+Epilogue
Word Count: 5106
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 9 10
'...and then the Great Sands and Whirlwind clans were absorbed into the Stonefist clan, giving Blackhand several thousand warriors along with three times the number of crafters and farmers, as well as granting him control of the northern portion of the lands near the Devouring Sea.'
Garona paused, blowing gently on the glistening ink. Once he had learned that Garona could read and write in the local human tongue, Llane had asked her to record what she knew of orc history as well as simply telling the story aloud.
There's a different rhythm to it, Garona mused. She shifted in her seat, pulling the long, tight braid of hair out from between her back and the wooden seat, and pushed it off to the side. Humans wore their hair like this, and she had copied it. Khadgar had said it suited her. It was different from an orcish braid, meant less as decoration and more to keep her hair from her face. Unfortunately, wisps tended to escape from it and catch instead on the clasps of her tunic, or cracks in the wood of chairs.
The tunic itself was human-made, like the one Medivh had given her during Winter Veil, but was otherwise as different as could be. The fallen Guardian had brought her measurements to the tailors of Tower's Shadow Village and they had made her clothing for her in rich browns, greens, and greys. These clothes were given to her from the Keep's spares based on best fit, stark white and bright blue, embroidered with gold. She would have found the clothes a nuisance had they been her own.
It is kindness, Garona insisted to herself as she adjusted the tunic again, and smoothed her trousers. Human kindness. They are at war, there is little time for custom-made clothing. She stretched briefly, and considered her work. I will go for a walk, I think, to clear my thoughts and perhaps see Khadgar.
She had scarcely seen her friend and fellow apprentice over the months she had been residing in Stormwind's keep. Once he had recovered, he had sought out the mages of the Goldenspire Academy to query them about magical teachings outside of Dalaran, and since then he had been constantly busy, trying to cram years’ worth of the academic study of magic that was both like and unlike his own education into only a dozen weeks.
I'm searching for some way to deal with Medivh, Khadgar had told her, when he had not been too busy to speak to her. His father was Stormwind's court conjurer until he died, and he was the first to do battle with Sargeras, or so I’ve deduced from Abbey's records. He must have done something, managed somehow to keep the demon at bay. He must have finally lost control that day.
She had only nodded and agreed. Even now, only Llane knew the truth, Llane and Medivh both. He was working with Gul'dan all along. Without his intervention, we would be starving and dying. All it cost was the lives of more and more warriors, theirs and ours. Still, she hoped that Khadgar was right, that somewhere there was a key to defeating Medivh.
Garona capped the inkwell, both so similar and very different from the pots of paint that orcs used to write, and dipped the quill into a dish of water, waving it from side to side to clean it before drawing it out again, shaking it briefly, and then drying it on a soft, ink-stained cloth. Everything about the human process of writing was fascinating to her, even the cleaning, and though being hunched over day after day as she recorded what she knew for the human king made her back ache, her fingers curl, and stained her sleeves and fingers if she was incautious, she still looked forward to it.
I will be a teller of tales, Garona decided. Instead of gathering people by the fire, I will put pen to paper and let the stories travel for me. When I run out of stories to tell about the orcs, I will travel this world and gather the stories of humans and dwarves, gnomes and elves, goblins and trolls. I won't need to lift my blade at anyone's command.
Carrying that in her heart, she left the sunlit room she had been granted to do her writing and began to walk. Like the orcs, humans carried their prestige with them, on tabards and shields bearing the coats-of-arms of noble families instead of the rune-inscribed banners of clans. While orcs wove their heritage into blankets and worked it into leather, humans created huge tapestries depicting old battles. Garona paused at the foot of one of them, looking over a stylized depiction of Adamant Wrynn's rise to power and the death of the last Baewynn king.
My talent is with blades instead of needles, but after the war is over, I can commission someone to record the great battles and the moment of peace. Garona tried to focus on that idea, that moment of peace, and found it harder than imagining her own future. There are too many fools in the Horde, too many to dig and claw through. If they didn't need to follow that idiot Blackhand, or--
"Who goes-- oh. It's you."
Garona spun to face the voice, daggers loose in their sheaths and ready to be drawn at any moment. Behind her stood two guards, dressed in the blue-and-gold lion livery of Azeroth. With the suddenness of her movement, the guards dropped their hands to their swords. Suspicion to recognition to anger flashed across the humans' faces, all in an instant. The moment stretched on.
"Don't... sneak up on me," Garona said slowly, forcing herself to relax. "I'm easily startled."
"Your pardon, Miss Garona," one of the guards said, moving his hand from the hilt of his sword. "We weren't expecting to see you."
"You're very quiet," added the second. "Like a sneak thief or--"
An assassin, Garona thought as the first guard elbowed the other. "I'm just taking a walk. I intend to visit Magister Khadgar, and the prince. I've promised him another story."
A look of disbelief flashed on the guards' faces at the mention of Varian, but it disappeared just as Garona noticed it. Anger at their doubt stirred in her heart, and she forced it back, to nod to the guards. She passed by them, securing her arm sheaths as she walked. Her pace was not quite swift enough to take her out of hearing range of the guards' muttered conversation:
"Can't believe the king's letting one of them into the city."
"I keep expecting to see half a dozen more. Can't trust 'em."
If you had seen what I have seen, you wouldn't doubt me, Garona thought, seething. At least Varian understands. She tried to focus on the young prince, letting it calm her. Varian was always eager to hear what she had to say, and the one bedtime story she had promised him had become a dozen, though she was careful to keep the stories to what his parents believed he could handle. I don't want to speak of our plagues either, or of the abandoned. That's not something a child needs to hear.
No longer interested in confronting other humans, she turned to a shadowy alcove and stepped into it, letting herself melt utterly into darkness. It took little time for her to emerge in the courtyard of Goldenspire Academy.
Stormwind City boasted only a single great mage tower whereas from what Khadgar had told her, Dalaran had a great citadel. Dalaran, he noted, had been founded first and foremost for mages, whereas Azeroth was a refuge of sorts for all kinds, many of them unsavoury. Instead of drawing from the tried and true methods of the Kirin Tor, the Goldenspire mages used unconventional methods of teaching, heavily emphasizing conjuring above transmutation, and direct elemental manipulation instead of enchantment.
Khadgar can go on for hours about it, Garona thought with no small amount of fondness. If he's not careful, he's going to wind up eternally being a student instead of moving on to Archmage.
The Academy itself was far from Stormwind Keep, closer to Stormwind Harbour. When she had asked about it, and the security concerns, she had been told that the mages were strong enough to protect themselves, but there was a faint hint of apprehension that something might go wrong. Since the destruction of Karazhan and the village that surrounded it during a battle between two of the world’s most powerful mages, Garona couldn’t quite fault them.
Instead of a village, Goldenspire sat amidst a garden overshadowing a handful of decorative trees. Garona stopped to touch one briefly, its leaves waxy, though she had been assured the tree was ‘real’ -- and then been surprised by the existence of false trees at all -- by the gardeners that tended them, ignoring the occasional floating candle.
Like Karazhan, the Academy was located inside a tower that had expanded upwards rather than outwards, its gold trimmed white walls gleaming in the sunlight. There were several entrances on the bottom floor, everything from the grand doors to greet guests to the small, discreet doors meant for cleaning staff and gardeners. After a brief moment’s hesitation, she went in one of the smaller doors, wanting no fuss made about her arrival. From experience, she knew the grand entrance had a huge set of stairs, meant to impress guests and intimidate younglings, and neatly carried new arrivals over the hub of servant activity. Some claimed that other mages, like the elves and the mages of Dalaran, had magical servants, but here they were real, solid humans, sent to mop floors and dust bookshelves.
Medivh had some servants, but only for the parts of his tower that guests saw, Garona reflected as she moved past some servants armed with brooms and dustpans. He left the care of laboratories and libraries to us.
Considering the volume of students within the Academy, this might have been impractical. Equally, it seemed impractical for bright-eyed, fresh-faced teenagers to clean the dozen-odd classrooms they were marched in and out from, each assigned to a different teacher. There were no private lessons in shadow walking here, no quiet evenings curled up by the fire asking questions. Instead there were organized classrooms, homework assignments, and practices.
There are no such evenings in Karazhan either, Garona thought briefly, and pushed the thought aside as hurt swelled within her. Above the classrooms were the laboratories: special rooms warded with magic to contain experimentation. As she peeked in while she walked by the rooms, one lab had a dozen mage students, directed by a teacher, practicing conjuration. In another, two senior students were drawing a great summoning circle, and at a glance Garona could tell they intended to summon a water elemental from the Abyssal Depths to serve them.
I wonder if the orcs could learn this way, Garona mused. We have no schools either. Teaching is most often done by parents, or elders if their parents are busy or absent. A faint hint of apprehension prickled across her. Not that I would want this many to learn what I learned, or how!
Above the laboratories was the library. It was huge, filling multiple floors of the already large tower, and there were staircases within it to reach all of the books. Rather than separating out books into different categories, all the books were here, organized not only by title or author, but also by subject. Each topic was proclaimed in carved brass and marked by a pair of letters from the Common tongue, which corresponded to a specific subject marked in a great catalogue.
We definitely could use a catalogue, Garona thought wistfully. There’s a reason why ‘I have forgotten more than you’ll ever know’ is a saying, but it shouldn’t be so! Knowledge should be remembered, not forgotten, not buried. If people knew… She sighed. But the warlocks thrive on the ignorance of others, and so do the rest of us.
Adjoining the library were study rooms. Like the laboratories, these rooms were warded, but against sound rather than misfired spells. Here, young mages or old could find a place to read undisturbed by the chatter of others, or avoid bothering others with same. Garona looked between each room, finding a trio of students in one, dressed as student mages: a human boy, his red hair gleaming, gesturing enthusiastically, in the midst of telling some manner of story or another. A second human boy was sitting slumped against the table, chin cupped in one hand as his black hair fell over green eyes, and he pushed it away, impatient, revealing an odd-shaped scar.
Did someone strike him? Garona wondered with a frown. The final student, a human girl with brown hair that seemed to surround her hair in a halo, rolled up a piece of paper and smacked each of the boys with it, and even without sound, Garona could hear her order them to concentrate. Garona shook her head slightly. Humans are odd.
The next two rooms were empty, but not the third. It was there she found Khadgar, a number of books stacked around him. He was hunched over a thick tome, not looking at the notebook as he scribbled in it. At his other elbow was a mug of tea that, at a glance, seemed stone cold. Silent as she was, Khadgar failed to notice her approach, and the candlelight only flickered as she stood behind him.
"...and that means..." Khadgar muttered to himself.
"What does it mean?" Garona asked, curious. Khadgar started, his elbow smacking firmly into the mug. Garona caught it in an instant, and set it on the table. "Hello, Khadgar."
"Garona," the human mage replied, surprise quickly giving way to pleasure. "I didn't hear you come in."
"No, you were lost in a book," Garona observed, not bothering to point out that he wouldn't have heard her anyway. "Did you find anything?"
"I may, I may," Khadgar said. "I've been doing some reading."
"You don't say," Garona murmured, though she retrieved a chair to sit next to him, scooting in close.
Khadgar blinked, and his cheeks reddened before he cleared his throat. “There aren’t many records about Medivh,” he began. “The obvious is here, that the Guardian Aegwynn bore him to Court Conjurer Nielas Aran and left him in Stormwind, while she went to do Guardian… things.” Garona frowned, the flashes of the battle still vivid in her mind, but gestured for Khadgar to continue. “Nielas trained Medivh personally, outside the confines of the Academy, and well out of reach of the Kirin Tor and the Order of Tirisfal. He wasn’t actually aware of the Order at all until Medivh reached the age of fourteen.”
“That seems unlikely and foolish,” Garona protested. “How could they not have known?”
“The Guardian and the Order were secret,” Khadgar said. “Nielas had no true idea of who Aegwynn was before they, ah, coupled.”
“It seems foolish to mate with someone you don’t know,” Garona muttered. “Unless you have no other choice.”
“I think the time to question either of them about their personal choices has unfortunately passed,” Khadgar said. He tapped the book’s pages lightly. “When Medivh turned fourteen, his Guardian powers awoke with his nascent manhood--”
“His what?” Garona asked in disbelief, and Khadgar flushed. “That sounds like something from one of those books you read.”
“It just means… the process of moving from child to adult--” Khadgar broke off. “How did you know about those?”
“How do you think?” Garona asked, raising a brow. Khadgar cleared his throat, and continued.
“--causing a massive discharge of power that killed his father and left him in a coma for well over a decade.”
“I can’t imagine losing that much time in what must seem like an instant,” Garona murmured, and calming, Khadgar nodded.
“Neither can I, I hope no such thing ever happens to either of us,” he said feelingly. “Medivh was brought to Northshire Abbey and tended to by the clerics there until he awoke, fully in control of his power.”
“Northshire Abbey was destroyed recently, wasn’t it? By the… Horde?” Garona asked, though she knew it to be true. Gul’dan had told her as much, bragged about it to Medivh, who had said nothing, not reacted to his sanctuary being destroyed.
“It was, but some records were passed on before then.” Khadgar shook his head slightly. “I’m not much one for religion, but those archives… such a pity, and of course, the people who were displaced. I found some testimonies of those watching over Medivh. They claim they saw things, a hovering image with a smouldering beard.”
Sargeras, Garona thought, and her stomach clenched. “Could they have been mistaken?”
“We can ask one of the witnesses,” Khadgar said. “Sir Lothar did his vigil there, they were friends in childhood. Not with the king, though. He would have been too young to remember him properly.”
“Will this help?” Garona demanded. “Does seeing it happen help free him?”
“Not directly,” Khadgar said, shaking his head. He set the book aside and pulled another towards him. “But whatever Nielas did clearly contained Sargeras’ power for a time, allowing Medivh to grow up relatively normally, become the Guardian, and move to Karazhan. I believe Nielas’ specialties tied into it, and if I can master those, I can contain the demon once more until it can be extracted. I have some theories, but of course, they’d only be good if tested.”
“...and if you’re wrong?” Garona asked softly. “If you’re mistaken about this?”
“...then we’ll need something to pray to, because I don’t know if we can kill him,” Khadgar murmured softly, and Garona’s stomach turned to ice.
“We should… take this to the-- King,” Garona said. “We can’t go alone.”
“No, of course not,” Khadgar said. “Let’s go.”
~ * ~
Llane listened gravely as Khadgar explained his findings. At his side, Anduin Lothar’s expression grew stormy, as it had the first time Garona had explained what had happened to Medivh.
“I did see it, Llane,” he noted. “The visage. I’d no notion of what it was when I saw it. Thought I was hallucinating.”
“I don’t blame you, mages are always odd,” Llane replied. “But this…”
“I think I can contain him,” Khadgar said, and Garona noticed he accepted the supposed oddity of mages with nary a blink. “We would need to travel back to Karazhan, of course, and it could be quite risky, but if we can save Medivh--”
“Is he still in contact with Gul’dan?” Llane asked, looking to Garona. She swallowed and nodded.
“That seems likely, Your Majesty. They have maintained steady contact for at least ten years, closer to fifteen now, I believe. Gul’dan would want to be kept informed and make his plans based on that information.”
Anduin and Llane exchanged a look, and Garona could all but see the calculations being done in their minds: Sargeras may have contacted Gul’dan while Medivh was still sleeping. If they believe there is no hope, no possibility that Medivh can be freed--
“It will be difficult to sneak up on him, then,” Anduin said finally, focusing on Khadgar. “How close in would you be able to get a force, and how big a force?”
“Well,” Khadgar began, considering. “Medivh is very powerful, as the Guardian, though many of Karazhan’s natural defenses were destroyed in battle, though given time he could have repaired them--”
“Vague answers won’t carry an army, boy,” Lothar snarled, and Khadgar drew back briefly. Garona stiffened, and Llane shook his head at her slightly. “Sure you aren’t just looking for an excuse to go back?”
“What? No!” Khadgar cried, balling his hands into fists, looking absurd and small next to the mountainous Lion of Azeroth. “I was there when I saw Sargeras manifest. I know what kind of damage he’s done!”
“But you’re trying to save him, boy. Soft and coddlesome!”
“We may not be able to kill him!” Khadgar’s chest heaved, his eyes glittering with anger and hurt. “Some mages are like that, they have special spells that protect them from death. You have to strip them away, and that takes time. Someone would have to distract him so that it could be done!”
“But you’d kill him? You’d kill him to save Azeroth?” Lothar demanded. Khadgar hesitated briefly. “You’re no good if you can’t commit!”
“Khadgar’s never killed anyone before,” Garona interjected, putting her hand on Khadgar’s arm. “You can’t ask him such a question. If it comes down to it, I will. I’ll do it.”
“Garona…” Khadgar murmured softly, and she shook her head. Anduin’s gaze shifted to her, and she met it steadily. As great and strong as the human was, he did not have a spark of madness in his eye, greed or lust for power.
“We need to be certain of Khadgar because he will be the one to go with Anduin’s force to Karazhan,” Llane remarked after the silence stretched. “You will not be going with him.”
“What?!” Garona cried, with Khadgar expressing his disbelief a moment later. “Why not?”
“You’re needed here,” Llane said, his voice gentle. “You recall the messengers, do you not?”
Garona was silent for a long moment before nodding. He’s looking for me, Garona thought. If Sargeras is talking to him again, he’ll know I’m here. Now he’s trying to find me. “You haven’t had as much time to work on the translation spells, or teaching people written Orcish.”
“No, which is why you must stay here. We could miss important information by the simple fault of not being able to read. If they bring verbal messages, and our defenses don’t kill them, you’ll need to translate what they’re saying. We need you here, Garona, in Stormwind.” The human king looked her over, and his expression was kind. “And Varian will miss you.”
Garona looked away, fighting her disappointment. “I understand.”
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Khadgar promised. “We’ll see each other again soon.”
Garona nodded numbly. If you don’t fall where I can’t see you, she thought, fearful.
“Speaking of Varian, would you go visit with him?” Llane asked, keeping his voice light. “We have matters we wish to discuss, and I believe he wanted you to observe his practice.”
“Very well.” Garona bowed, as humans did, and left the throne room.
~ * ~
Stormwind Keep had two courtyards: an outer courtyard available to the citizenry, meant for picnics and revelry during happier times, and a beautiful inner courtyard, protected by high, white stone walls, meant only for the royal family and their guests. It was in the latter location that Garona found her targets, the Prince of Stormwind, his best friend, and his best friend’s mother.
Mara Fordragon was barking orders, calling out an attack rhythm with a steady cadence. Varian, not quite a year younger than his friend, was on the offense, the wooden sword in his hand rising and falling. Bolvar, with bigger muscles, was defending with a shield, letting the inexperienced blows slide over his shield.
It would be rude to interrupt, Garona thought, and walked over to the only observer. This boy was older, closer to her age than theirs, and his expression was grave as he watched, though he flinched at each impact’s sound.
“They aren’t hurting each other,” Garona began. The boy jerked and looked over at her. His hair was brown, cropped short at the sides and longer at the top, and he wore plain white robes. His hazel eyes widened at the sight of her, and then he made room on the bench so that she could sit. “Lady Mara has things well in hand, Uther.”
The young priest nodded once. “I know. I’ve been watching Lady Mara get in practice since Bolvar was only a tiny baby. I used to watch him.” He smiled slightly. “He’s grown up a lot. Varian too.”
“War makes adults of us all,” Garona murmured. Uther’s smile turned to a deep frown. “What is it?”
“Is there really a need for war?” Uther asked. “My teacher, Archbishop Faol, says there isn’t, not ever. Mara’s always insisted there is. They… well, they fight over it.”
“Still?” Garona asked. “Or only more recently?”
“For as long as I’ve known her,” Uther confessed. “Violence is forbidden at the Abbey. He would never let her teach any of the other students how to fight. I… don’t think I’m very good at it. I built my strength up from doing chores. She says they’re all wrong without serious training.”
“Let’s see,” Garona said, and Uther brought an arm up to flex briefly. “No, those are not warrior’s muscles. A fisher’s perhaps, or a farmer’s.” Uther sighed. “You aren’t trained, don’t be ashamed.”
“I know,” Uther said. “That’s what Lady Mara tells me too. When the King -- he was the Prince then -- and Lady Mara were both at the Abbey, he told me that not everyone had to fight. That warriors and knights protect those who can’t.”
“That’s very lucky if there are always warriors about,” Garona noted, considering. “But there aren’t always, especially if you won’t keep them or train them.”
“That’s what Lady Mara says,” Uther replied. “She said that we must stand up for ourselves and protect others. It’s our duty, anyone who can pick up a sword. You can’t just constantly give ground, she said.”
“She’s not wrong,” Garona pointed out. “Not all of the strong protect the weak. Sometimes they turn on them, they’re cruel. They leave bruises and broken bones as lessons.”
Uther bowed his head. “I know. Trust me, I know.” Garona raised an eyebrow. “But the Archbishop says…” He paused, and she watched tension shiver over him as Mara called for the boys to switch positions, and now Varian took up the shield, defending against a stronger foe. “He says people use violence too much and too often to solve problems. That if they couldn’t just fall back to frightening people, they’d use their words, they’d think up peaceful solutions to problems. That the people you kill during war deserve to live too.”
Garona thought of Draenor, of the harshness of the land, and the harshness of the warriors that it raised. She thought of her mother. Walk in the Light, my daughter. She pushed it aside. “He’s not wrong, there are those who are too stupid to do anything but lift a blade. Do you think that’s so in the Lady’s case?” She tilted her head towards Mara. She held one hand behind her back, while she lifted the other, using motions to set the pace of their exercise.
“No,” Uther whispered. “I know that the Archbishop believes all problems can be solved without violence, but Lady Mara is right that we all have a right to live. And just because we think we should solve problems without violence, doesn’t mean everyone will just agree with us and throw down their swords instead of fighting. We have to protect ourselves. To do anything else is negligent.”
“Is that what Lady Mara says?” Garona asked, looking over at the human woman curiously. Uther shook his head.
“That’s what the Prince said. It’s because he has to rule a kingdom. Archbishop Faol can stay in the Abbey and teach people. Lady Mara can go out on a battlefield to fight people. He has to make decisions that touch all kinds of lives, the warriors and the priests.” Uther sighed. “It’s hard to know what to do.”
Garona considered. “Azeroth’s history has been very violent in the past. I’ve read lots of histories.”
“I know,” Uther said, miserable. “And the old religion condemned or blessed people. The Archbishop is trying to change people’s minds. He is trying to teach people that no good person condemns another to Hell.”
“Hell is where demons live,” Garona muttered, and Uther looked at her sharply. “Never mind. Draenor is a very different place from Azeroth. We’ve always had fighting, even from the earliest days of the shamans and first clans to the day we left for Azeroth. There are no places where children are kept from fighting. We all have to learn, regardless of how. Our warriors aren’t the only ones taught how to fight, only those who fight exclusively. Our hunters and farmers can fight too, but their arms are not as good, and they rarely have armour that isn’t made of hide and skins. Many orcs think the humans are soft because they can’t fight, because you have civilians.”
“So, you think the Archbishop is wrong, then?” Uther asked, looking over at her. Garona shook her head.
“Azeroth is a soft world, but that doesn’t make it a bad one. Your water doesn’t burn, your land doesn’t shrivel under your touch. You have the luxury of making the decision to fight or not fight. You can send your children to Abbeys to study new religions or train them for battle. Orcs don’t have that luxury, and we never had. We would die.”
“Do you think humans are weak?” Uther pressed. “Because we have luxury and you orcs don’t?”
I’m not an orc, Garona thought, irritated, and pushed it back. Just as she’d always known orcs would never consider her one of them, she knew humans could not see the way she was different from the orcs they fought. “No. As I said, orcs are all capable of fighting, and may be stronger of arm than humans, but it doesn’t make humans weak. Orcs had no choice. They fought or they died. Humans have many choices, including the choice of peace. A life without choices isn’t much of a life at all. It’s only survival.”
Uther nodded, and looked back towards the boys, watching for a time. Varian’s face, young as it was, was hard and determined. Mara watched him with satisfaction, more than Garona had ever been given by her teachers. So absorbed was Garona by this, that she missed Uther’s question.
“What, sorry?” Garona muttered, looking back at the human again.
“I said, do you think we have a choice now?” Uther indicated the boys. “Do you think they have any choice but to learn to fight, because the orcs have come? Do I?”
Garona paused, looking from each face. “I’m not sure.”
~ * ~
“I don’t think anyone quite understands how much of a luxury not needing to fight to survive is,” Thrall commented. Garona looked at him sharply. “I hadn’t had a name for it, but that’s a future I want for my people. The choice not to fight. The choice to spend time in a shaman circle meditating on the elements instead of worrying when the next battle will come.”
“Do you truly think that day will come?” Garona asked. “You’re naive.”
“No more so than Uther was, ancestors guard his soul, for all he was an enemy of my people,” Thrall said softly. “Or you, for that matter. You believed there would be an end to it.”
“It was my fault that there wasn’t,” Garona whispered, and bowed her head. Thrall curled his fingers back, rather than touch her where she might not wish it.
“Tell me.”
[ Chapter 12]