I'm about ten years too late to this party, but when the bug bites, I listen. I hope that someone out there is still interested in this!

The orcs' camp nestled against the mouth of a cave cut into the mountainside. Jaina, perched atop a nearby cliff, watched them from above, alone. Bonfires raged in the night, and even the thunderous drums couldn't drown out the primitive chants spilling from the greenskins' tongues, resulting in a cacophony that might still be audible from miles away where Jaina's people camped. There was only one orcish word she recognized, and each time it sounded, the earth trembled under the conviction of it speakers:

Grommash.

The past week had been nothing but unending strife and turmoil. She'd hoped the oracle could light their way, but in that damned cave, she found only the same prophet that had left her restless at night for the past month. Coward, her dreams whispered to her. You should have stopped Arthas. Even joining him would be better than fleeing your homeland. And now, this prophet asks you to join the orcs? Would you sail your men straight into the Maelstrom, if he asked? Not just join the orcs, but today, fight with the orcs against the orcs. Her men had to stare orcish betrayal right in the face, then turn around and believe her when she told them that this was the Burning Legion's corruption-that the orcs were their allies, really.

But in the aftermath, things felt so much more real. Humanity had won its first battle fighting alongside the greenskins. Jaina should have been happy, but how could she, because now she knew demons weren't just the mad raving of a crazed old man. She'd watched one of those horrendous red brutes swing its green-burning sword and bury ten men with fiery hellstone from above. She'd watched blazing meteors fall from the sky, then walk like shambling hulks and set the earth ablaze wherever they trod. She'd watched the axe-wielding savage that had cleaved through her soldiers weep with regret after she purged the taint from his body. She saw the ever-composed Thrall blister with rage...

Two orcs walked into that valley, but only one walked out. The demon Mannoroth had fallen, but this was only the beginning.

The heavy steps of some beast approaching her had her clutching her staff and spinning on the rock, half-expecting a thunder lizard or centaur to come bounding her way. Instead, she saw only the glaring fangs of an oversized wolf with the orcish warchief seated on its back.

She was on her feet in an instant, clutching her staff in one hand while arcane energy danced on her fingertips in the other. Alliance be damned, an orc approaching her alone in the night made every inch of her scream to hurl fireballs at the damn thing.

"Warchief," she said. She sucked in a breath to calm herself. "I shouldn't be spying. I'll leave."

The warchief was lacking his hammer. The heavy, black-and-bronze armor was missing; he wore only short-sleeved cloth that left his skin bare to the air. Barrens dust kicked up from the rock beneath his feet when his boots crashed down with the weight of two or three humans. The moonlight cast terrifying shadows over his scarred face, but his voice was soft and gentle. "Today, my people celebrate their freedom."

Below, the drums reached a climax, then stopped, and only the sound of a hundred orcish voices thrummed in the air. It reminded Jaina of the unison chants that echoed in the cathedrals of the Light, so hauntingly pretty. But the church's prayers spoke of penitence and worship, and she wagered even this orcish song was of bloodlust and war.

Thrall continued. "We remember all too well what it is like to be slaves, to man and demon both, but tonight, we sing and dance like fools, and no living creature can stop us."

The orcs' camp below was a ruckus. She could just barely discern a circle of trolls dancing and weaving as the song continued. Uncivilized, her people would call it. Barbaric, perhaps, or foolish, but none of those words felt quite right. She'd seen orcs sweat and bleed tonight like any human, and thinking of them as savages wasn't so easy anymore.

"Your people handle it better than ours," Jaina said.

Thrall took a step closer and she fought the urge to shrink back from his gargantuan silhouette. She didn't want to show weakness to him—not to any orc, and especially not to their leader. A green hand larger than both of hers combined gestured to the red rock below in invitation, and he sat. She followed, keeping a foot between them. "The spirits told me you were watching," he said. "My people will be forever in your gratitude for the role you played in tonight's triumph, Miss Proudmoore."

Thrall was so astonishingly articulate, and though his deep, gentle rumble would have been soothing had it come from an old human reverend, it felt wrong coming from an enormous green brute. She'd stood close to Thrall before, but it was to do business: they talked of war, of plans on who should build their base where, and of how to work the enchantment on the gem. Sitting at peace beside an orc would take some getting used to, and her nerves took a moment to settle in his company.

"I frighten you," Thrall said.

Her head jerked away. She'd been staring at him: at the twin thick braids that fell down across his chest, at the ugly, brutal tusks that jutted from his mouth, and the obscene size of every damn part of his body. He was no more pleasant than the gnolls and ogres who stalked the woods, but she'd hired and fought alongside them just the same. "Demons and the undead frighten me," she said, resigning to avoid his gaze. "This just... takes some getting used to."

"Spirits let this peace continue so that we have an eternity to do it."

"Agreed." It wasn't going to happen. Humans and orcs warred as surely as the sun rose at dawn, but by the Light, she prayed this alliance lived long enough to fell the demons.

She watched him watch his people. Did the orcs even appreciate sympathy? Did they even mourn the dead, or did they just beat their drums and sing their chants? Maybe that was their way of mourning. Jaina didn't know. She couldn't know. The orcs were as foreign to her as the demons, and no book in all of old Dalaran could have helped her, because this was new not just to her, but to all of humanity... and that weight wore heavy.

"The... pain of losing someone dear," she started. "It's something we've all felt. Human or orc. I know what your people are going through."

Thrall's brow furrowed, and for a moment, Jaina worried she might have done something wrong. But the warchief sighed, and if she'd crossed a line, he didn't acknowledge it. "Grom died a hero. It is the best any orc could hope for."

"He seemed a fearsome warrior," Jaina said. She weighed how much prying was too much. "How did you know each other?"

It took Thrall a few moments to speak, but his eyes never left the sight of his camp. "Grommash taught me what it means to be an orc. He taught me the tongue of my people. I owe all to him. Today was a great loss, but Grom would not want us to grieve. He..." In the faint moonlight, she could see a slight dampness beneath his eyes.

For a moment, Jaina forgot Thrall was an orc. Her hand lifted and moved towards his shoulder to offer a comforting touch, but as soon as Thrall noticed her approaching digits, the motion died in midair. Jaina resigned her hand to rest back against her side.

"I'm sorry," she said.

The warchief didn't wipe away his tears; he wore them without shame, and when he spoke, his deep voice was steadfast. "I've shed tears only twice in my life, Miss Proudmoore. That is what Grommash meant to me."

Both hands gripped her staff so she didn't try to reach out to him again. "Is there anything I can do?"

He faced her now. He was ugly-maybe not ugly, but certainly not pretty. Thick black stubble, thick black hair, green skin dampened with sweat and peppered with the ever-present orange of barrens-dust. "I know you can't understand our songs. If you wish, I could tell you what they sing."

Jaina squinted at him.

"It would calm me," he said.

She set her staff down against the rocks, and for the first time since his approach, she let herself relax. Below, the drums once more picked up their thunderous rhythm, and a new chant began. "I'd like that."

"Let me think of how to translate." The warchief rubbed at his chin, and a few moments later, he spoke. The song she'd heard when Thrall came, with the pounding drums and shouting, had been written just earlier in the day by one of their elders to commemorate the sacrifice of Grommash Hellscream. The second one, the unison chant, was an old tune in mourning of the orcs who had been tempted by the taint of the Burning Legion. It spoke of the families destroyed, the blood shed in dishonorable conflicts, and the pain of those good men who still remembered the temptation of the demons' call. This one, now, was an old victory anthem: the last time he'd heard it, Thrall said, was when he'd freed his clan from the tyranny of the human concentration camps.

"We're an oral people," he finished. "Our elders keep our history and tell it by the bonfire, and the musicians weave their stories into song. In battle, the rhythm of our drums reminds our people why they fight."

She'd pulled her knees up close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She almost wished he would keep going; his voice was so soothing after the chaos of battle. "Fascinating. I appreciate you being willing to share, Thrall. I suppose I'm the first human ever to hear any of it." She let out a breathy laugh.

"I'd imagine so."

Jaina hummed. "Why aren't you down there with them, celebrating?"

"You're pleasant company, and don't you think you deserve my attention, after tonight?"

"I don't know," Jaina said. "This is going to take some getting used to, but... you know, after all the hell I've been through lately, it feels good just to sit here and talk. To listen to you. Even if you are an orc."

Thrall's response was a low rumble of acknowledgment. "We both could use it." He sat up straight, then tilted his head towards her. "Would you consider us friends?"

That was a question she hadn't expected, and she must have made a face because Thrall grimaced. "Forgive me," he said. "I assume too much."

"No, no," she said. "I'm just not sure what you mean by that. It's an odd question-not really one my people ask."

Thrall sighed. "I know we haven't talked much. I hope to change that. Tonight, I lost a great friend, and I'm reminded to cherish what I have while it lasts."

Jaina pursed her lips. She liked him, and she never would have expected that. It was an innocent enough question from Thrall, and the answer should have been an immediate yes. But...

She took a moment to get her words right. "I'm... not going to lie to you, Thrall. This still all makes me uncomfortable, and believe me, it has nothing to do with you. You are... wonderful. I'd never imagine an orc to be anything like this. But after what I've been through..." She thought of Arthas standing over Stratholme, ordering the murder of his own citizens. Her people didn't talk about that, and Thrall still didn't know. "It's hard for me to trust anyone again. And after seeing Grom like that..." Her fingers had gripped hold of her staff again, squeezing uncomfortably hard.

Thrall watched her. "I understand," he said, sadly. "I hope you can come to trust me, but I won't push you on it."

"I just need some time. I trust you as a leader and on the battlefield more than anyone, but..."

"You still have your doubts. Do you worry I could become a servant of the demons?"

Jaina couldn't tell him what she was thinking. Thrall was a fearless leader, and she had nothing but admiration for him. He was charming, pleasant, and so astonishingly committed to being gentle around her, even as war made him passionate and hot-headed. He violated every preconceived notion she'd had about the orcs in a way that was almost uncomfortably perfect. She liked him. She really did.

But Arthas had been fearless and admirable, too. He'd been charming and pleasant. He'd been gentle when he touched her, but ruthless when he swung his hammer. Then he'd went and swung it into the skulls of his own women and children.

"I just need some time," she said. "It's a personal problem, and I won't let it get in the way. ...maybe I can explain to you, someday. But not tonight." She had to change the topic. She'd been shrinking down under the weight of those memories, but she sat tall now and met Thrall's eyes.

"Hey, Thrall? Your Common is so impressive. I've been meaning to ask… you said Grom taught you Orcish?" She paused. "You were raised in the internment camps, weren't you? Speaking our language?"

Thrall seemed to consider for a moment if he should answer, but he conceded to let the topic shift. "I was raised a personal slave from birth. Not in the camps, but by a despicable man." Jaina frowned, but he continued. "I don't blame you for the evils of your race, Miss Proudmoore."

"Jaina."

He smiled, and for a moment, he didn't look so ugly. "Jaina," he corrected. Their eyes met, and she maintained eye contact with an orc for the first time in her life.

She was the first to look away. "You hear the same from everyone," she said. "Orcs raised as slaves or kept in the camps. Every human grew up with someone who's now dead by orcish hands."

"This alliance won't be easy."

"There will be blood," she said. "Our people will fight."

"Yes." His head crept in a little closer, and his voice dropped. "But we must remain strong. Our people have faith in us. They will listen."

"It's..." Don't say it. Don't show weakness to the warchief of the horde. "It's hard," she finally said. "I'm not a leader. I'm a sorceress; I belong in a tower squinting at some old book, not on a battlefield telling my footmen when to raise their shields."

"Nonsense," Thrall said. "Your people have faith in you, and so do I. Together, we'll do what we must."

She wanted to ask him how it was so easy for him, how he could be raised a slave and wear the name like a damn badge of honor while he spoke so gently to an enemy he could electrocute with a single word. But she knew the answer. It was no coincidence that tonight, the night they vanquished the demon taint, was the first night they really spoke.

This wasn't easy for Thrall, either; more than that, it was necessary. She thought of the villagers in Lordaeron, reduced to shambling zombies by the horrific plague. She thought of the red-skinned orcs, reduced to battle-hungry servants of the foul Legion. She knew the barely-restrained rage in Thrall's eyes well: she'd seen the same thing in Arthas back in Lordaeron.

"You're right," she said. Jaina stretched her legs out and slowly stood up straight. "I should get back before my captains miss me." She still wasn't sure what to think of the orc, but she knew there was one thing she should say. "Thank you. For all of this."

Thrall rose, and again she fought the urge to step back from his tremendous figure. "May the spirits watch over you, Jaina Proudmoore."

"If you need anything—a spell, an ear, an opinion—I'm here. Run a letter to my camp, and I'll come."

Thrall smiled at her. His oversized arms seemed uncomfortable by his side, and she wondered if this might be where he'd embrace a fellow orc. "I appreciate that."

"Rest well, Thrall."

It wasn't until she blinked down the face of the cliff that she realized it might be weeks before they got the chance to meet again in private.