Warcraft: Assassin - Part 4

[the__ivorytower]

Bleh, I am the sick. Here's another part for you, and includes a very familiar scene. Enjoy!

Title: Assassin
Part: 4/?
Word Count: 7015
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

Orgrimmar sweltered in the height of summer. Heat rose off of the newly carved streets in waves, and Thrall could not help but think of Jaina's reaction to the heat when ground had been broken, all those weeks ago. That had been at the beginning of the season, and they were edging into Late Summer now.

It's later, but it's certainly not any cooler, Thrall thought ruefully. Most of the work had been done, now it was in the details of the city: building up the smaller buildings and then the walls. Some places were still rather pathetically bare, but with so many working, it was only a matter of time before Orgrimmar stood whole.

It was too hot to wear armour, or much of anything. Thrall wore a thin shirt, plastered by sweat to his chest and the lightest pair of trousers he could find, along with leather sandals. On days like this he would tour the city, looking over what had been accomplished and what still waited to be completed. People stopped their work to smile, to bow, to wave, and sometimes to press things into his hands. Sometimes, the little gifts were spare bolts or pieces of metal left over from the construction of their homes, which Thrall would then pass on to those in need of them. Other times the gifts were a bit of food or a gourd of water. Thrall was grateful for all of it, for the generosity of his people. I must remember to give back. Always, I must give back.

Everywhere he went, his city - his people's city - was growing, fresh and new. He could smell new metal and wood, baked clay and stone. He could feel the hard-packed dirt and the elementals - mostly fire and earth, but air and water too - adapting to so many people, to the taming of a portion of wide, wild Kalimdor.

We will take what we need, and give back. His mind drifted, thinking of his conversations with Garona, her stories of a very different homeland. No one will ever believe demons are helpful again.

An angry shout split the air, and Thrall's gaze snapped towards the sound. Not far from the smithy, two orcs were yelling and shouting at one another. It's so hot, tempers are fraying, Thrall thought, and hurried towards them. “Stop this! Stop!”

The orcs, both female, looked at him with surprise, fists upraised but still. “Warchief,” one said. “What troubles you?”

“Sumi,” Thrall began, “and Tumi.” They both nodded. “You're sisters, why are you fighting?”

“We were disagreeing with one another,” Sumi said, giving him an uncomprehending look. “Sisters do that, Warchief.”

“There are better ways to end disputes,” Thrall insisted. “I've given in and fought duels before, but it's not necessary now. Please.”

The women looked to one another, and gave him a curt nod. Thrall sighed with relief and nodded to both of them, resuming his circuit.

“They weren't going to hurt each other very much,” Garona observed as Thrall turned a corner. He managed to avoid jumping as Garona melted out of the shadows, and gestured him over. He crossed over to her, and sat on one of the benches. Garona remained standing, leaning against the building.

“Aren't you hot in that?” he asked, gesturing towards her dark leathers. She offered him a flask of water. He took it with murmured thanks and drank gratefully. “I'm hot in this.”

“I've been to worse places,” Garona said. “They were arguing about which method to use to work the metal in the forge.”

“Not something worth coming to blows over,” Thrall said pointedly, and splashed the water over himself with a sigh. “Which places have you been that were worse?”

“Blackrock Mountain,” Garona replied. “The Infernal Forges in Shadowmoon Valley.”

“You were talking about how you explored it last time we spoke,” Thrall said. “And meeting... Ner'zhul.”

“Yes,” Garona said. “I made it back to the temple. It was less exhausting, and I'd learned to be cautious of sudden storms, but I was still very tired.” She looked over at the smithy. “While I was at the village, I took the time to watch the blacksmiths there, and when I returned, I decided I wanted blades of my own.” With a smooth, deft motion, she brought out one of her knives, offering it to Thrall.

When he took it, it felt cool to the touch, and the metal shimmered blue-grey. “I've never seen anything quite like this.”

“I doubt you will,” Garona said. “I add a personal touch to each blade. These are relatively new, I replace my blades when they get old, and I break the ones I discard so they can't be used by others.” Thrall handed the knife back. It disappeared the moment it was in her hand. “It's dangerous to leave a signature weapon where just anyone can take it.”

“I can imagine,” Thrall said. “What... happened next? Did you confront Gul'dan?”

“No,” Garona replied shortly, and then made a soft, whispering sound: a sigh. “He was impressed I'd returned relatively intact. He bid me to make more trips outside the temple, to the Dragonmaw this time. Eventually I would complete the map he'd shown me in detail, sometimes showing him things that the clans didn't want him to see. I wasn't a particularly welcome visitor.”

“That must have been hard on you,” Thrall said, his voice sympathetic. “Was no one pleased to see you?”

Garona was silent for a moment. “In time, I would find some who at least tolerated me less than grudgingly, but no. I had no friends. I was no more welcoming than others were. I could read the contempt on their faces, their disdain. I saw no reason to give them anything but the same in return. I was weak, small, and fragile. Poison training stunted my growth, and I wasn't to be very large to begin with.”

“Poison training?” Thrall asked. I suppose that I took for granted that I grew quickly as a child. All that porridge. “Why would that stunt your growth?”

Garona's lips curved into a slight, thin smile. “To build up tolerance to certain poisons, you consume them. It makes you very, very sick at first, but you get used to it in time.”

“They were poisoning you too?” Thrall asked, aghast. “Why?”

“To build up tolerance, as I said,” Garona replied. “It's useful. Poisons can cripple a strong foe, bring them low and weak, and they require no muscle to use, only your own brain. Not all that dissimilar to magic, if you really think about it, though orcish magic tends to be a great deal more hands-on.”

“I'd think that would depend on the mage, too,” Thrall said. “Jaina uses a gun.”

“Jaina Proudmoore is the daughter of honest pirates and clever merchants,” Garona said, though she nodded in acknowledgement of his point. “But yes, it does depend on the mage.”

“What did Ner'zhul have you do in the end?” Thrall asked. “You said that he would have a use for you in the future.”

“He did, and it wasn't dissimilar to what Gul'dan was having me do: travelling Draenor, delivering messages and spying on people,” Garona replied. “In time, I would travel all over the clans' territory, and people would know both my name and my face.” Her expression tightened. “And Doomhammer's little nickname.”

Spook, Thrall thought. “You're something of a spirit, moving through the shadows silently, forever with the element of surprise.”

“It becomes less surprising if you're paying attention,” Garona conceded, but she relaxed again. “You asked who welcomed me. The Shadow Wolves.”

“My father's clan.” Thrall's expression lit up, and Garona gave him a slight smile back. “My parents would have been newly mated then.”

“They were,” Garona said. “Durotan was gentle and thoughtful, and Draka was loud and brash. I thought that they were poorly matched. She reminded me of Doomhammer, the younger and older both.”

“You didn't like her?” Thrall asked, frowning. Garona shook her head slightly.

“Not at first. I admired Durotan a great deal. He wasn't much of a warrior. He could hunt, and Terokkar Forest had plenty for his clan and their wolves to kill, but he wasn't particularly fond of fighting. If he'd been born at a different time, he could have gotten away with fully embracing his spiritual side and communing with the spirits. Instead, he defended his home territory well, and it was Draka who ranged.”

“What was my mother like, then?” Thrall asked. Garona looked him over, and nodded to herself slightly.

“It was customary in the orc clans that if a child was sickly or weak, they were to be exposed to the elements. Humans will protect their weak ones, shelter them. Orcs virtually never do, but the Shadow Wolves have made at least two exceptions, perhaps countless more.” Garona gave Thrall another slight nod. “Drek'thar was born blind, and Draka was a small, sick child. Her parents were from a proud, strong line, and they couldn't concede so easily. They lived at the edge of their village to avoid overburdening the others. Drek'thar, for his part, was trained by Mother Kashur. You should ask him about her.”

“I will,” Thrall said. “My mother grew into a warrior, though, if what you've said is true.”

“It is, lying serves no purpose,” Garona noted. “Draka knew that she would never match anyone's bulk, so she devised ways of hunting and fighting that required less brawn and more brains. Sometimes, she went for long, long walks, climbing trees or hiding low against ridges, watching, waiting. Patient. She couldn't afford to bluster on through and rely on strength she didn't have.”

“Walking and climbing requires strength too,” Thrall observed. “It isn't the exact same strength as fighting, but nothing is. The muscles you gain from beating metal with hammers isn't the same kind you get from swinging an axe, or lifting heavy weights.”

“Exactly,” Garona said. “When I met her, she was a warrior. She had proven unquestionably that she was strong, but she never lost that caution or that memory of being weak. I didn't like her at first, but when I learned her story... I admired her. I admired them both.”

Thrall noted the way her posture shifted. Admired, and something else, he thought, but kept it to himself.

“Your parents mistrusted Gul'dan,” Garona continued. “They didn't trust his intentions with sending me to spy on them, but they were kind anyway. There were no necrolytes there, no warlocks. They didn't practice shamanism openly, but they spoke about it. It angered Gul'dan to hear about it when I told him.”

“And you would have told him,” Thrall murmured. “You wanted him to praise you, to see what a good job you were doing.”

“Yes,” Garona said softly. “For all the nothing it was worth. I was his upraised fist, the threat of his reach. His judgement, but not his justice. He knew nothing of justice.”

“How old would you have been?” Thrall asked, and Garona glanced at him.

“I was thirteen.”

~ * ~

“Someone at this meeting will die,” Gul'dan uttered as Gorefiend helped him drape his robes around himself. Garona watched the shadows, as she always did. He was not speaking to her, not directly, but it was expected that she would hear everything and use that information appropriately.

“Is that a prediction or a threat?” Gorefiend asked as Gul'dan tightened his sash. “It won't be surprising if it happens, but it might be distracting.”

“It is a promise,” Gul'dan said, his voice low and sounding quite pleased with himself. “There will be dissenters, and they will pay for their lack of faith.”

“So that's how it is,” Teron muttered, and glanced over at Garona. She gave no sign of acknowledgement, merely staring at him until he looked away again. “Who will it be?”

She wore cut down, resized black leathers like those of Kurd Shadowbreaker, and it had taken her time to find the best places to strap her personally crafted knives so that they didn't dig into her skin or show through the slightly baggy tunic. She was quite pleased with the result.

“If I were a wagering sort,” Gul'dan began, taking up his staff. “I'd say it will be Durotan.”

This made Garona look over sharply, and as fast as a snake, Gul'dan struck out at her. She turned with it, avoiding bruising, but the chastisement was received nonetheless. She went back to staring at the shadows, but she shook.

That's why I'm here, she thought. To kill...

The idea sickened her. Kurd had been her first kill, but it had not been her last. There had been troublemakers over the years. Threats to Gul'dan. Some from within the clan, but most from without. Those that challenged Gul'dan in secret and in return received a knife in the darkness.

'Gul'dan's Fist,' they called her openly. 'Halfbreed Spook,' they called her when they whispered into the uncertain safety of the darkness.

Durotan of the Shadow Wolf clan had called her Garona the Halforcen, as politely as anyone had ever addressed her. Durotan was young for a chieftain, but wise and very handsome. He had a faraway, dreamy look in his eyes more often than not, thinking of a better future for his people. He had a strong mate at his side, and Draka was swift enough with her spear that she could catch anyone sneaking up on him.

Draka called her 'child' or 'little Garona', and she didn't mean either unkindly. Garona would never be tall, never be thick-set and strong, but being little didn't make her less capable in Draka's eyes. Draka remembered what it was like to be little, and that's why Garona could not resent Draka as she once did. She admired the warrior, just as she admired Durotan. No, admire was the wrong word.

She was in love with Durotan and it hurt.

“--will never tolerate it,” Gul'dan was saying, and she forced herself to focus on his voice. She used the pain to sharpen her senses, to become more aware. There was a soft breeze outside, bringing in the scents of fire and cooking meat.

“What if Durotan doesn't rise to the bait?” Gorefiend asked. “He's a dreamer, he still believes in honour and compassion. He could even agree with you.”

I doubt it, Garona thought sourly, but held her tongue. He's a good person.

“There will still be blood,” Gul'dan said. “The demons have spoken.”

“Ah,” Teron replied, and that was the end of it. He held the edge of the tent flap out of the way so Gul'dan could sweep out of the tent, Garona on his heels. Many of the other chieftains were there, those without serious issues to deal with on their own lands.

Durotan was there, speaking quietly to Orgrim, son of Telkar Doomhammer. Her gaze lingered on him as he spoke and then moved on to the others. There was Blackhand, Chieftain of the Stonefist Clan. Garona thought him stupid and brutish, and his sons, both Durotan's age, were equally stupid and brutish. Their sister, Griselda, was smarter, but very soft and frequently frightened. Whenever her father's hand was upraised, she flinched.

He curses at her and beats her, like Gul'dan does to me, Garona thought, sympathy flickering within her chest. But he teaches her nothing to go along with it. Nothing aside from fear. She will not make a good mate unless she can find someone not to be frightened of.

There was Fan'gor of the Great Sands, a blustery chieftain that led his clan through great promises. They lived far to the north, where the only two paths were over sea or through the Blade's Edge Mountains, an anarchic land of ogres and Gronn that only the bravest ventured into. The Whirlwind chieftain was here, looking sourly at Durotan, who did not see it. Bleeding Hollow, Shattered Hand and Spinebreaker, Laughing Skull and Shadowfist. Over a dozen clans, though not the Shadowmoon Clan, and not the Warsong. Fenris Wolfbrother, Chieftain of the Thunderlord Clan, those that actually lived in the Blade's Edge Mountains, had come along with his Champion, Telkar.

When Gul'dan exited his tent, all conversation ceased, and they looked on him. Garona crouched at his side, his right hand resting on her left shoulder. She could feel him ready to push her forward at any time, to strike at his enemies and make them bleed and die.

“Friends. Warriors,” Gul'dan began, his voice as slick as fel iron steps wet with new blood. “Over the past years, the ancestors have granted me visions. They have not forgotten us, despite what some... others have said. It has been too long since the orcs have worked together. Instead... we have fought. We have declared war on each other, torn at each others' throats.”

He was speaking of Ner'zhul, Garona realized. She had made more than one trip to Shadowmoon Village, both at Gul'dan's behest and Ner'zhul's, and the elder orc frequently spoke bitterly of the ancestors, rather than with the soft reverence that most orcs used to speak of the ancient, wise dead.

“We are warriors, we don't suffer fools,” Fan'gor barked out.

Garona found it amusing, though she gave no sign of it. Try looking in a reflecting piece of steel, she thought with contempt. You might change your tune.

“If you expect us to act like milking cattle--”

“No,” Gul'dan cut in smoothly, and he squeezed her shoulder. Wait, it seemed to say. Wait and be patient.

“I expect us to all act like warriors,” Gul'dan continued, and Garona watched Fan'gor bristle, the implication - the insult - plain. The other chieftain growled low in his throat, but Garona saw he would not challenge Gul'dan. He was all bark and no bite, like wolves that howl in the distance.

“What do you have to say, Gul'dan?” asked Kilrogg Deadeye, the Chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow. His clan was large, perhaps the largest of all of those who had come to the gathering, and others turned to him as he spoke. Deadeye was influential but not ambitious despite the size of his clan. Instead, he was confident and set in his ways. His eyes, one black and deep-set, the other scarred over and dead, looked over Gul'dan unflinchingly.

Deadeye was also a former shaman and now a warlock, but where Garona had seen other warlocks as volatile and bitter, Kilrogg remained as steady and even-tempered as a copse of very old trees or an ancient rockface. If anyone here were to make wagers regarding who would challenge Gul'dan, Deadeye's odds would be so low as to be astronomical. Even Gul'dan knew it, and Garona watched his posture shift slightly, so that he was speaking as an equal and not to an inferior. Deadeye responded to it, the effect subtle, and some of the other chieftains did too.

They could tell quite easily who had Gul'dan's respect and who adamantly did not.

“Draenor is dying,” Gul'dan began, gesturing around him. “It is rejecting us as a wound rejects infection. We need to find a new place to live, to raise our children.”

In the old legends, Draenor was depicted as a woman, the source of water and earth, and her husband, Draenor's sun, the air and fire. Draenor's moon, large and red, hung low in the sky, as if never wanting to be too far from his mother, was called the Red Son.

Gul'dan's gaze had fallen on Durotan, the youngest of the chieftains, and the only one without children of his own. Durotan's expression was stony, recognizing the challenge for what it was. Does he acknowledge me only to insult Durotan? Her heart sank, but Durotan said nothing. He was safe, for now.

"I, however, have seen our salvation. In my dreams, I went walking through the Twisting Nether, the aether that holds our world and cradles it here. In my wandering, I found another being that will help us. Together, we have opened a portal between Draenor and his world, which he calls Azeroth, and he invites us to see it. He claims there are vast fields of green, skies of blue... water that does not burn to touch or drink. There are trees, and... there are beings there. Soft, pink-skinned beings he calls humans. He says they are weak, fat and poor fighters."

Garona watched each face as Gul'dan spoke. Some lit up at the prospect of better, healthier lands. Others looked deeply sceptical, as though the idea of blue skies and safe water were some kind of fantastical creation of a hopeful mind. Still others grew angry and disgusted at the mention of soft, pink humans, their egos stung.

One of the so-called warriors - Telkar Doomhammer - stood, his expression one of open disgust and anger. She saw his son look to him with stupid-faced surprise, and Garona resisted the urge to give Orgrim a sour look. Telkar pointed at Gul'dan accusingly. "Where is the warrior challenge in that?" Telkar demanded. "You claim that we must speak as warriors, and now you want us to fight what... things that are weaker even than the Draenei? You know nothingof being a warrior."

As if the draenei have been so challenging of late when you've nearly wiped them out, Garona thought, contempt creeping through her mind, but kept it from her face. They are scattered and dying. Killing them is no contest for you and yet you treat it as though you've climbed to the top of the Windy Peaks each time you can lay more dead children at your feet.

“Peace, Doomhammer,” Fenris Wolfbrother murmured, trying to soothe his champion. The great, brown wolf at his side growled, and Garona calculated how much force it would take to drive one of her knives into its neck if it came to it. It would be unpleasant, but she could do it. "Still, he makes a good point, Gul'dan. If they are weak, it makes for poor fighting."

Do you think of nothing but how much violence you can inflict? Garona wondered with disgust, and her left shoulder itched with the memory of the poison rains falling on it, of the agony she'd endured. You pull life from the land and give nothing back.

"They are not all weak," Gul'dan said, nettled. His gambit had been to play on desperation and laziness, and in turn he'd stung warriors straight in their pride. "There are warriors enough to slake your thirst."

Warriors of silver and steel, mounted on metal beasts. Warlocks that use ice and fire instead of shadow and corruption. A fortress of white stone with blue flags waving in the light of an alien sun, Garona recalled. The visions were real, that much she knew, as was Gul'dan's contact. A traitor to his kind, someone never to be fully trusted.

"What would a warlock know of weakness?" Telkar was asking now, and Garona found the question entirely stupid. "How do we know that this being you've communicated with isn't simply lying, leading us into a trap? You claim the ancestors speak to you, but you're no shaman."

Gul'dan stiffened, and his hand squeezed her shoulder painfully. She said nothing, did nothing to indicate discomfort. "Shamans are--"

"The shamans once worked to protect the orcs and their lands," Telkar replied, cutting Gul'dan off, and Garona knew who she would kill today. Gul'dan's pride would not suffer this for much longer. "What can you claim to have done?"

"I am trying--"

"What does Ner'zhul think of this?" Telkar asked, cutting Gul'dan off again. He drew his signature weapon, the Doomhammer and in the firelight, the black, spiked length of crude metal seemed less like a bludgeon and more like a dark promise. He pointed it at Gul'dan. "Your own mentor was a shaman, Gul'dan, and where is he now? Does he sit on his hands while you declare his kind to be anathema?"

You make a mistake in thinking Ner'zhul cares about what Gul'dan claims about shamans, Garona thought. Do your stars and your wolves not tell you how much he hates the ancestors, that it is through him that the elements are fully quit from the orcs? You need better, less archaic spies.

"You overstep yourself, Telkar," Fenris said, holding up a hand in warning. "Don't--"

"Ner'zhul has left this in my hands," Gul'dan replied, his whole body rigid with anger and tension. "He remains in Shadowmoon with his clan, doing his duty, unlike you, Thunderlord."

Garona watched the insult strike Telkar Doomhammer like a fist, and she could feel nothing but contempt for the older warrior. See if a clan name is an insult to the clanless, fool. You're playing right into his games. A weapon in your hand makes your mind dribble out your nose holes.

"You're a treacherous dog, Gul'dan," Telkar snarled, his posture aggressive and challenging. Garona thought she could scent him from where she remained crouched. "If you claim to know so much about the ways of warriors, meet me in a challenge on the battlefield."

There it was, the promised challenge. Garona's focus shifted to Telkar, taking in the details of his stance immediately. Tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, he was not on guard at all. He was loose, made arrogant by great muscles and a powerful weapon. A bludgeon to match a blunderer.

Gul'dan too was relaxed and arrogant, but for an entirely different reason. "A warrior uses whatever weapon is on hand. Challenge accepted." He lifted his hand from her shoulder, releasing her to do his will, to be his Fist. "Garona."

You will bleed and fall, Garona thought, and propelled herself forward, wasting no time as she went from a crouch to a run straight for her target. Telkar did not shift to guard himself, instead he seemed about to laugh. Don't laugh at me, she seethed. Don't laugh at the pain and suffering that has brought me here. She drew her knife and struck with it in one blow, cutting along one of Telkar's arms. Now he bellowed, now he was alarmed and wary, too late for that knowledge to do him any good.

Gul'dan had ordered her to use no poisons, so her blade was clean. All would see Telkar fall to a child. He struck out at her, swinging his great weapon and she dodged away easily, following the line of his arm. Now behind him, she stabbed him in the back. His armour, black and edged with gold, absorbed the blow, but she hadn't expected to kill him then. He bellowed and tried to face her, but she only circled, staying just out of his reach. Every twitch called out to her, every movement to be countered with her own. She had spent half her life training for moments like these, and she would not be found wanting.

"Garona, finish it," Gul'dan commanded. Her face pulled into a tight, thin smile, though she did not cry her triumph. Silence was her weapon. Silence and speed. She struck low at one of Telkar's calves, then the other. He screamed in agony and fell to his knees. His blood spilled onto the hard-packed dirt as his mace fell from his hands, unblooded.

"No!" Orgrim rose from his seat, lunging towards Telkar. Garona saw Durotan grab for his friend's arm, his expression angry and upset, and from his other side, Fenris grabbed Orgrim's other arm. He remained there, helpless. "Father!"

The anguish in his voice shook Garona to her core. In her mind's eye, she saw her mother, so strong and brave, fall to Gul'dan, begging her to follow the Light's path. Her eyes were on Orgrim, feeling and tasting his anguish.

"Garona," Gul'dan said again. Her name was an order, an expectation. Telkar thrashed, suffering.

There is no path in the Light for me, Mother, Garona thought, her expression hardening. She spun the blade in her hand and drove it into the back of Telkar's neck. His blood - pure, orcish black -- spurted over her hand and wrist. He shuddered once, twice, and then died.

Despair turned to disbelief, and then, all-consuming rage. A warrior had fallen to a child. A fool had fallen to an assassin. Gul'dan has laid out the path that we must all walk.

"Come," Gul'dan ordered, and Garona rose, returning swiftly to his side. With one practised, smooth motion, she wiped her blade clean and returned it to its sheath, and she was pleased with its blooding.

Orgrim finally tore away from his friends and ran to his father. Hec knelt down, touching over his Telkar’s cooling remains, his expression twisting between anger and despair. Garona saw Orgrim look from the body to the Doomhammer, and he reached for it.

"Take it," Garona said, her voice a low growl. She found herself startled at her boldness, but could feel how pleased Gul'dan was. Orgrim was looking at the blade, not the one who wielded it. "Take it and challenge me, Thunderlord. I won't fail. I don't ever fail."

"I only have one name for the likes of you to call me, spook," Orgrim spat, and took up the bludgeon. "I am Doomhammer."

"Don't use that stupid nickname," Garona replied sharply. "I--"

"Enough," Gul'dan ordered, and she fell silent, hardly daring to breathe. He gave Orgrim a look of pity and triumph, and smoothed his voice to something conciliatory. Someone will die today, he'd promised. He had promised because he had caused it to happen, as easily as one speared a piece of jerky to eat. "Your father's death is unfortunate, but he did challenge me, and my weapons are well-honed." He squeezed Garona's shoulder, and she felt a burst of pride. "Now, then. Shall we discuss my Great Portal without... interference?"

~ * ~

“You killed Orgrim's father,” Thrall said. It was a statement, not a question. Somehow, the hammering of metal on metal seemed quieter, more subdued. “You killed Orgrim's father, and you speak of him with such contempt.”

Garona did not reply, and the moment stretched until finally, for the first time during their conversations, Thrall was the one to stand and to walk away, taking the long, hot, winding path through the city back to Grommash Hold. It was quiet this day, being too hot for most to concentrate.

Orgrim was my friend and mentor, and she hurt him, Thrall thought, letting his thought rise to the surface like heat-shimmer on a flat stretch of earth. She speaks with anger and loathing of great warriors. She was the servant of warlocks, the great enemy. She speaks of their lessons as though they had something worth teaching. I can't, I--

Something jarred against his shoulder, and Thrall looked up, seeing Naz'grel. The other orc was a little older than himself, born on Azeroth rather than Draenor. Divested of his armour, he was still tall and muscular, and scars crisscrossed along his arms and back. Some of them were thin, fine blade cuts, while others were jagged rents in bright green flesh.

“Your pardon, Warchief,” Naz'grel said. “I was just on my way out to meet with Garuka. She's just seeing her brother off.”

“Her brother?” Thrall said. He remembered Garuka, one of the scouts from Hyjal that had ridden far and fast to deliver news between camps, but he hadn't recalled that she had a brother. “Is he quite young? I don't think I've met him.”

Naz'grel chuckled, and slapped his arm. “Oh, you have. He's older than she is and sour.”

Not another one, Thrall thought. “Sour about what?”

All at once, Naz'grel's good humour drained out of him. “It's not something to concern yourself with. Logrosh is rarely ever in Durotar, much less Orgrimmar.”

Thrall frowned. “Unless this meeting is supposed to be private, I'd like to talk to Garuka and ask about it.”

Naz'grel considered and then shrugged. “If you wish, Warchief.” He continued on his way, and Thrall fell into step by his side. He made no further conversation, letting his thoughts swirl, chasing one another around like horned lizards in a dust pool.

Their path took them to what had been designated the Talon Gate, the entrance by the Southfury River that ran through Durotar, marking it as separate from the rest of the barren lands. Lounging in the shadows was a younger orc woman, dressed in a sleeveless grey-white tunic and leather trousers. She looked up with first pleasure, then surprise, when she saw them.

“Warchief Thrall, it is an honour.” She rose smoothly to salute him, fist to chest. “I was only expecting Naz.”

Thrall suddenly felt acutely self-conscious, and realized that he was in fact intruding on something that was likely very private. “Scout Trueshot, I won't be here long. I simply had a question for you.”

“Of course,” Garuka replied. “Please, sit down.” She smiled crookedly. “In your own city.”

“It's our city,” Thrall reminded her and sat in the shade. Naz'grel stood, taking the time to inspect the work being done on the gate. “Naz'grel told me that you were seeing your brother off, but where was he going?”

Garuka sighed slightly. “He's said he's not comfortable staying in the city, so he's ranging south, towards the great marsh. Supposedly, there are ogres and he wants to gauge their level of cooperativeness. Orcs and ogres haven't been allies since the days of Doomhammer and the Mok'nathal, but it's worth a shot, I suppose.”

“Orgrim told me he convinced the ogres to help through his friendship with the Mok'nathal,” Thrall recalled, and then frowned. “Why is Logrosh so uncomfortable here?”

“He's very peculiar,” Garuka said vaguely. “But he's very loyal and productively serving the Horde.”

“Then why does he isolate himself?” Thrall pressed. “You like it here, don't you?”

“Yes, for all it's very hot,” Garuka said. “Better hot than cold. I doubt this place gets snow. Not like Lordaeron.”

“I remember how much snow Lordaeron used to get,” Thrall said ruefully. “Feet and feet of it until you could get lost in it trying to get from one place to the other.”

“We were mostly moving it,” Garuka put in, and at Thrall's look, added, “The Camps aren't a good place for snow. It just gets in the way, and we'd stamp it down or be given shovels to clear it away. Mostly it was wet and cold, and some would get sick.”

“I only would have seen them later in life, but you... grew up there, didn't you?” Thrall's voice was soft and sympathetic. “I'm sorry.”

“We did, yes. I know that you're sorry, that's why I tell him--” She stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”

“Please,” Thrall said, putting all of his persuasiveness into his tone. “Tell me, I want to understand.”

“Very well,” Garuka said, and her gaze found Naz'grel, giving her something to focus on as she spoke. Even in the shadows, a different kind of darkness flickered over her expression. “I was only a baby when my family was captured and taken to the camps. I don't remember anything of the earliest years, not the way Logrosh does. He was six. Old enough to remember, but not truly old enough to remember clearly.”

“What does he remember?” Thrall asked quietly. Garuka glanced at him briefly, and then back to Naz'grel.

“He remembers the day we were taken in great cages. The three of us - my mother, my brother and I - chained together and guarded, and my father separate. He was dangerous, he had been a warrior when we were still at war with the humans. When he was being transported by guards, they had many weapons, as though one orc were a threat to their whole kingdom.”

“The right orc can be,” Thrall noted. “Not one that's chained up, though.”

“While being transported,” Garuka continued, as though he hadn't spoken, “he saw another orc, a free one. He was very young, only my brother's age, but he was being assailed by a much larger and older human and given only a flimsy piece of steel to defend himself. He threw caution to the wind to cause a distraction, and urged the boy to run.”

This sounds almost like--

“The boy didn't move. He told him over and over again to run, that he would protect the boy and to flee the humans. The boy didn't understand. Instead he stood there, and my father was hacked to pieces by the human guards.” Garuka reached up, brushing at her eye. “He died in front of my mother and my brother. Logrosh says he'll never forget the sound she made until the day he joins the ancestors.”

“I didn't know,” Thrall said numbly. “I didn't speak orcish. I had never even seen another orc before that day.”

“I know,” Garuka replied. “Or at least, I suspected that to be the case. I've told him that I don't believe you deliberately tried to get our father killed, that you were a victim of the humans that held you captive, just the way we were. It wasn't your fault what happened to our mother.”

“...what happened to your mother?” Thrall asked, dreading the answer. Garuka shook her head slightly.

“You saw the effects of the Lethargy. She had been fighting it for her family, just as my father had been, and when he died, she stopped. I was two when she died. She went to bed at night and just didn't wake up the next morning. My brother cared for me on his own, hating humans, hating the boy who didn't run, hating everything.” She smiled a little. “He didn't hate me, at least.”

“Your brother hates me, and I didn't even know his name before today,” Thrall said quietly. “I'm sorry. I don't know how to make up for your loss.”

“If I may, Warchief, there's nothing you can do,” Garuka replied. She patted his hand a little awkwardly. “You couldn't have done anything then, and you can't truly do anything now. I think even my brother understands, deep down, that it wasn't your fault, but he has so many years of anger and hate built up inside him. He deals with it by being alone with his own thoughts.”

“I see,” Thrall said unhappily. “When next you see him, please tell him how sorry I am, and that I wish him every happiness. There's been too much misery in both of your lives.”

“Oh, my life is pretty good, usually.” Thrall followed the scout's gaze to where Naz'grel was bending and flexing. “It still hurts to think that I never truly knew my parents, but there isn't any point in holding onto hate. The guards that killed him and the guards that hurt us are dead now. They are with their own ancestors, being lectured on how prisoners are to be treated. I want my life to move forward.”

“I think I understand,” Thrall said. “I've kept you long enough. Enjoy your time with your mate.”

“Oh, it isn't that formal, not yet,” Garuka said. “We're just going for a nice, long walk by the river.”

“Watch out for crocolisks, I hear they're vicious,” Thrall said as she stood. Garuka waved him off, and Thrall watched her converse with Naz'grel for a few moments, and then they went through the gate. Thrall sighed. “I'm sorry.”

“I was a very angry child,” Garona said, taking Garuka's place beside him. “I hated those who mocked me. I hated the man who had murdered my mother and beat me. I hated the way emphasizing strength left all of the weak behind.”

“Orgrim and Grom, and others, have always spoken of how important our strength was,” Thrall said. “But they're warriors, they didn't understand, did they?”

“No, they didn't,” Garona agreed. “When you place the heaviest emphasis on warrior culture, you stand on top of the shoulders of others while pushing them down into the mud. The farmers were mocked for being too weak to hunt and fight, for being soft, when each season they tended to and killed more animals than the hunters killed. They risked injury and infection from dealing with boars. They harvested the vegetables that allowed us to keep living. You can't survive on meat alone, especially when nothing grows naturally to feed the animals you eat, or feed the animals that feed the other animals. Those who were sick or crippled at birth, like Draka or Drek'thar, were left out to die because it was easier to claim they would never grow stronger than it was to take the time and effort to make sure that they did.”

“But Telkar--”

“Telkar was going to crush a frail thirteen year old halfbreed girl and laugh while doing it. He looked at Gul'dan's choice of weapon and thought he was an idiot. He didn't take me seriously. He didn't take Gul'dan seriously.”

“Orgrim... hated you for it,” Thrall said, unhappy again. “He saw it as murder.”

“It was a disproportionate response, but it was what Gul'dan wanted, and I didn't disobey him. This was the reason I existed.” Garona looked up at him. “Did Blackmoore make you kill in the arena?”

“Sometimes,” Thrall admitted, frowning. “Some gladiators were too popular, too well-liked to die to a mere orc, but others were criminals, or desperate enough that they wouldn’t stop unless put down. Sometimes… the crowd wanted blood.”

“Would you have killed those popular ones for him if he asked you to? When you were young and still believed he could love you?” Garona asked, her voice soft. Slowly, Thrall nodded. “I killed for Gul'dan because I believed, one day, that he would love me. That he would value me for who I was and not what.”

“Would you have killed Telkar of your own volition? Because you hated warriors and how they mocked the weak?” Thrall asked. Garona was quiet for a moment, and then shook her head.

“I kill for two reasons. The first is survival and the second is because that's where my blade has been pointed. I'm no paladin to sentence people. I resented the way the warriors treated others, but it wasn't my job to judge and punish them.”

“So anyone who directed you would need to show good judgement,” Thrall said, and looked down at his hands. “Someone who doesn't make mistakes.”

“No,” Garona said, shaking her head slightly. “We all make mistakes. Especially when we're young. Gul'dan believed he was always right, that he had no flaws. He was rigid and instead of bending, he broke totally.”

“That reminds me of something Sergeant once told me,” Thrall said. “You can be sorry all you want, but that doesn't actually mean you understand what you've done wrong, just that you're sorrowful.”

“Wisdom from humans,” Garona said, and while her expression didn't change much, Thrall gained the impression she was smiling. “What should you say instead then?”

“I recognize my error and I will strive to correct it.”

[Part 5]