Warcraft: Assassin - Epilogue
Title: Assassin
Part: Epilogue/14+Epilogue
Word Count: 1412, total work: 83,808
Includes: Spoilers for the Bonus Orc Campaign, character death, even more foreshadowing.
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 11 12 13 14
The wind blew through the open courtyard of Theramore Keep, carrying the drifting smoke and the scent of spilled blood. Distantly, there was a sound of booming cannons as ships still exchanged fire. Word had not passed to every ship in the Tiran Fleet, so some still fought. Some still believed their leader, their Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, fought on against the orcish Horde he had found in Kalimdor.
Thrall stood off to one side, watching as his ally, his friend, Jaina Proudmoore, cradled her father’s broken, bleeding body in her arms. She gave little heed to the fact she was soaking wet, between blood and salt water and her own tears. Her hood had been torn loose, and even her blonde hair seemed dull.
Rexxar stood across from Thrall, eyes fixed on the pistol by the human admiral’s trembling right hand, ready to strike him again if he attempted to attack. Thrall shook his head slightly, and Rexxar’s chin set stubbornly. At his side stood Rokhan, the troll shadowhunter. His keen eyes were not observing Daelin Proudmoore as a potential threat, but instead watching for the inevitable severing of soul from body in death. Shadow Hunters, Thrall had been taught, were as much responsible for the passage of the dead into the arms of Bwonsamedi, the troll god of death, as the priests and shamans.
Cairne Bloodhoof and Chen Stormstout stood together. Both seemed deeply regretful and sorrowful, watching Jaina as she shook with grief. Thrall could pick out Garona easily amongst his honour guard, and what he could see of her face, concealed by a black and gold helmet, betrayed no emotion.
We spoke of regrets before this started, Thrall thought, even as his heart clenched. I regret it came to this, but not that my people are safe. I regret… Jaina should not have had to pick a side.
Daelin Proudmoore shuddered as the last of his life force left him, and took with it the final words he would ever hear. “Da, why?” Jaina whispered, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” He did not, could not answer.
“Jaina…” Thrall said softly. She didn’t seem to hear, shaking with grief. “Sorceress,” he began again, firming his voice around the formality. “The Horde will leave Theramore now, leaving you to clean up your dead, to rebuild. We will never return again. You need never fear invasion. It’s over.”
Jaina said nothing, simply fussing with her father, trying to grant him some final dignity. Silently, Thrall turned and left, and one by one, his people trailed after him.
I wish I could comfort her, Thrall thought. She consoled me after Grom died, for all they were enemies… but Grom died to a demon. Her father died because of us.
“Warchief,” Garona said, and Thrall’s shoulders stiffened. He knew what was coming. “Do you plan on leaving the Tirans alive?”
“Of course,” Thrall snapped. Garona isn’t wrong, she is very unpleasant at times. “They have lost. It benefits us little to act the barbarians they believe we are.”
“His lieutenants will take up the war banners, and strike again,” Garona warned. “They will resent Lady Proudmoore’s actions and they will see her as a traitor.”
“I will not pursue another war,” Thrall growled. “Not while the blood is still wet. Is it not enough that this war has destroyed the fragile trust we once had? We’ll never… never live together. We must go home and repair what we can.”
“Very well, Warchief,” Garona replied evenly. Thrall ground his teeth. “Why didn’t you allow me to assassinate Daelin Proudmoore?”
It had occurred to him. It had occurred to him that every enemy he had would learn to fear him if he had the greatest assassin who had ever lived at his beck and call. Even as he acknowledged the possibility, he had also understood where that would lead. “I would have regretted it more than the war,” Thrall said finally.
Garona said nothing, and Thrall looked over his shoulder. Jaina closed her father’s eyes, and set his hat over his chest. Thrall’s heart clenched, but he turned back, continuing to walk away.
~ * ~
Jaina Proudmoore stood at the end of the dock. It was raining, as it did three days in ten, and she had welcomed it. There was so much blood to be washed from Theramore’s streets. Crews worked, even in the driving rain, to haul the shells of ships away to be broken down and dried out for firewood.
There’s no point in creating even more useless waste, she thought. There was a ship in front of her, this one whole, flying a Theran flag at half-mast. A casket hung over one side, draped with a Tiran flag. Sheltered by temporary awnings, a handful of pipers played a dirge.
”Every body must be burned,” she insisted. “The Scourge necromancers can bring back the infected or the pure with ease. It’s possible the Legion has not fully retreated from Kalimdor, even after their defeat.”
“You have little need to worry,” Thrall said, his voice warm and reassuring. “We orcs have always burned our dead. This will be of little hardship.”
“The tauren do the same,” said Cairne, his deep voice steady. “Though perhaps slightly differently than the orcs.”
“M’people won’ like it,” Vol’jin said. “We be havin’ our own traditions… but it be dangerous ta follow tradition when tha Scourge be callin’. We be doin’ it.”
Jaina nodded, and the ropes lowered as the dirge played. I know what I said, but it’s tradition. From the Ocean Our Mother we are born, and to Her we return. So it has been for every Proudmoore since Rhiannon herself, and so it must always be.
Jaina’s eyes hurt, and were it not for the rain, her face would be dry. She had cried for hours on and off for the past three days. Her chest still felt as though it would burst from grief and anger. Over and over, she had turned the events of the past week over in her mind and found nothing more she could have done. Just like with Arthas and Stratholme… no one believes me when they need to… no one but Thrall.
The orc Warchief’s name warmed her briefly, and then she was subsumed with guilt. I miss him so much, but I can’t contact him, not… now. Not with all of this. His words as he had departed had chilled her, reassuring her and leaving her cold all at once. What we have is so fragile, stretched beyond reckoning. He won’t want to see me, not for some time. I need to rebuild.
Jaina brought a hand up, saluting the water, and then turned, marching back from the docks. Under her feet, she could feel the rune of protection she’d traced out carefully before a single home had been built, swirling around the tower she had built at Theramore’s heart, its anchor and its origin. It had served to protect many of the Theran homes, but it had not prevented the invasion.
“It’s not strong enough,” Jaina said to the figure following her. “I need to be able to control it directly. If I use a spell, I can tie it to myself, to my own life force--”
“I don’t think that’s wise, Lady Proudmoore,” said the figure. Jaina turned and craned her neck up. Chen Stormstout, the Pandaren Brewmaster who had lingered when the Horde had gone, looked down at her, and held out an umbrella to protect her from the rain. “It’s a dangerous measure, and if something should happen to either you or the protections, Theramore would be vulnerable. You could die.”
“My father was willing to give his life for his people,” Jaina said, her voice only quavering slightly. “I must be willing to give my life for mine.”
“I still don’t believe you should do it,” Chen said, his deep voice pitched with concern. Jaina looked away. He placed one great hand on her shoulder, and she glanced at it. “But I will stay for now, until you are done.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Jaina said, smiling. “Though you’ll be gone with the tide, won’t you?”
“I do wander,” Chen agreed, and his muzzle crinkled into a smile. “But if I do leave, we will see each other again, and perhaps one day, you will find Pandaria and visit me.”
“I’d like that,” Jaina said. She looked over her shoulder, peering through the rain. Is someone watching me? She shrugged, and turned around, letting Chen escort her back to her tower.
In the shadows, someone moved, and turned away.
End
Part: Epilogue/14+Epilogue
Word Count: 1412, total work: 83,808
Includes: Spoilers for the Bonus Orc Campaign, character death, even more foreshadowing.
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 11 12 13 14
The wind blew through the open courtyard of Theramore Keep, carrying the drifting smoke and the scent of spilled blood. Distantly, there was a sound of booming cannons as ships still exchanged fire. Word had not passed to every ship in the Tiran Fleet, so some still fought. Some still believed their leader, their Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, fought on against the orcish Horde he had found in Kalimdor.
Thrall stood off to one side, watching as his ally, his friend, Jaina Proudmoore, cradled her father’s broken, bleeding body in her arms. She gave little heed to the fact she was soaking wet, between blood and salt water and her own tears. Her hood had been torn loose, and even her blonde hair seemed dull.
Rexxar stood across from Thrall, eyes fixed on the pistol by the human admiral’s trembling right hand, ready to strike him again if he attempted to attack. Thrall shook his head slightly, and Rexxar’s chin set stubbornly. At his side stood Rokhan, the troll shadowhunter. His keen eyes were not observing Daelin Proudmoore as a potential threat, but instead watching for the inevitable severing of soul from body in death. Shadow Hunters, Thrall had been taught, were as much responsible for the passage of the dead into the arms of Bwonsamedi, the troll god of death, as the priests and shamans.
Cairne Bloodhoof and Chen Stormstout stood together. Both seemed deeply regretful and sorrowful, watching Jaina as she shook with grief. Thrall could pick out Garona easily amongst his honour guard, and what he could see of her face, concealed by a black and gold helmet, betrayed no emotion.
We spoke of regrets before this started, Thrall thought, even as his heart clenched. I regret it came to this, but not that my people are safe. I regret… Jaina should not have had to pick a side.
Daelin Proudmoore shuddered as the last of his life force left him, and took with it the final words he would ever hear. “Da, why?” Jaina whispered, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” He did not, could not answer.
“Jaina…” Thrall said softly. She didn’t seem to hear, shaking with grief. “Sorceress,” he began again, firming his voice around the formality. “The Horde will leave Theramore now, leaving you to clean up your dead, to rebuild. We will never return again. You need never fear invasion. It’s over.”
Jaina said nothing, simply fussing with her father, trying to grant him some final dignity. Silently, Thrall turned and left, and one by one, his people trailed after him.
I wish I could comfort her, Thrall thought. She consoled me after Grom died, for all they were enemies… but Grom died to a demon. Her father died because of us.
“Warchief,” Garona said, and Thrall’s shoulders stiffened. He knew what was coming. “Do you plan on leaving the Tirans alive?”
“Of course,” Thrall snapped. Garona isn’t wrong, she is very unpleasant at times. “They have lost. It benefits us little to act the barbarians they believe we are.”
“His lieutenants will take up the war banners, and strike again,” Garona warned. “They will resent Lady Proudmoore’s actions and they will see her as a traitor.”
“I will not pursue another war,” Thrall growled. “Not while the blood is still wet. Is it not enough that this war has destroyed the fragile trust we once had? We’ll never… never live together. We must go home and repair what we can.”
“Very well, Warchief,” Garona replied evenly. Thrall ground his teeth. “Why didn’t you allow me to assassinate Daelin Proudmoore?”
It had occurred to him. It had occurred to him that every enemy he had would learn to fear him if he had the greatest assassin who had ever lived at his beck and call. Even as he acknowledged the possibility, he had also understood where that would lead. “I would have regretted it more than the war,” Thrall said finally.
Garona said nothing, and Thrall looked over his shoulder. Jaina closed her father’s eyes, and set his hat over his chest. Thrall’s heart clenched, but he turned back, continuing to walk away.
~ * ~
Jaina Proudmoore stood at the end of the dock. It was raining, as it did three days in ten, and she had welcomed it. There was so much blood to be washed from Theramore’s streets. Crews worked, even in the driving rain, to haul the shells of ships away to be broken down and dried out for firewood.
There’s no point in creating even more useless waste, she thought. There was a ship in front of her, this one whole, flying a Theran flag at half-mast. A casket hung over one side, draped with a Tiran flag. Sheltered by temporary awnings, a handful of pipers played a dirge.
”Every body must be burned,” she insisted. “The Scourge necromancers can bring back the infected or the pure with ease. It’s possible the Legion has not fully retreated from Kalimdor, even after their defeat.”
“You have little need to worry,” Thrall said, his voice warm and reassuring. “We orcs have always burned our dead. This will be of little hardship.”
“The tauren do the same,” said Cairne, his deep voice steady. “Though perhaps slightly differently than the orcs.”
“M’people won’ like it,” Vol’jin said. “We be havin’ our own traditions… but it be dangerous ta follow tradition when tha Scourge be callin’. We be doin’ it.”
Jaina nodded, and the ropes lowered as the dirge played. I know what I said, but it’s tradition. From the Ocean Our Mother we are born, and to Her we return. So it has been for every Proudmoore since Rhiannon herself, and so it must always be.
Jaina’s eyes hurt, and were it not for the rain, her face would be dry. She had cried for hours on and off for the past three days. Her chest still felt as though it would burst from grief and anger. Over and over, she had turned the events of the past week over in her mind and found nothing more she could have done. Just like with Arthas and Stratholme… no one believes me when they need to… no one but Thrall.
The orc Warchief’s name warmed her briefly, and then she was subsumed with guilt. I miss him so much, but I can’t contact him, not… now. Not with all of this. His words as he had departed had chilled her, reassuring her and leaving her cold all at once. What we have is so fragile, stretched beyond reckoning. He won’t want to see me, not for some time. I need to rebuild.
Jaina brought a hand up, saluting the water, and then turned, marching back from the docks. Under her feet, she could feel the rune of protection she’d traced out carefully before a single home had been built, swirling around the tower she had built at Theramore’s heart, its anchor and its origin. It had served to protect many of the Theran homes, but it had not prevented the invasion.
“It’s not strong enough,” Jaina said to the figure following her. “I need to be able to control it directly. If I use a spell, I can tie it to myself, to my own life force--”
“I don’t think that’s wise, Lady Proudmoore,” said the figure. Jaina turned and craned her neck up. Chen Stormstout, the Pandaren Brewmaster who had lingered when the Horde had gone, looked down at her, and held out an umbrella to protect her from the rain. “It’s a dangerous measure, and if something should happen to either you or the protections, Theramore would be vulnerable. You could die.”
“My father was willing to give his life for his people,” Jaina said, her voice only quavering slightly. “I must be willing to give my life for mine.”
“I still don’t believe you should do it,” Chen said, his deep voice pitched with concern. Jaina looked away. He placed one great hand on her shoulder, and she glanced at it. “But I will stay for now, until you are done.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Jaina said, smiling. “Though you’ll be gone with the tide, won’t you?”
“I do wander,” Chen agreed, and his muzzle crinkled into a smile. “But if I do leave, we will see each other again, and perhaps one day, you will find Pandaria and visit me.”
“I’d like that,” Jaina said. She looked over her shoulder, peering through the rain. Is someone watching me? She shrugged, and turned around, letting Chen escort her back to her tower.
In the shadows, someone moved, and turned away.
End