Disclaimer: I don't own Warcraft or any other Blizzard related material. Except my World of Warcraft account…Well, technically that belongs to Blizzard, since the GMs can close it at any time. But I own the characters, they are all mine…well the idea of them anyway. Should the account be closed, I no longer have them. Hmmm. I own the now-useless pre-paid game card. Nor do I claim credit for any quotes that may be found from actual Blizzard published novels. They are my source of inspiration, but nothing more.
As I've been reading several fics on this site, I've noticed how Varian seems to be taking most of the blame for the war between the Horde and the Alliance that has risen recently. I've read stories where he's being portrayed as worse than Garithos and cares nothing for the other races in the Alliance other than humans, which I think is a gross parody of him. I am a Horde-shipper, but I don't think this war is based solely on revengeful kings and stupid humans who can't let old hatreds go. I don't think the Horde is evil, nor will I ever, but I think it has its fair share of internal problems that has contributed to this war and I'm trying to present some of them here. Hope you'll enjoy.
"Thrall… The bloodhaze has lifted. The demon's fire has burnt out in my veins. I – have freed myself."
No, old friend. You've freed us all."
How simple it had been back then. How simple it had been to lead only on hope and faith. How simple it had been in Felwood, to fight the Scourge and demonkin shoulder to shoulder with the humans. Now – all lay in ruins. Now he could no longer reprimand his warriors for butchering townsfolk. No longer could he condemn those who set fire to crops and factories. In open war there was no longer a peace treaty to violate.
And everything Hellscream had died for, Hellscream was recklessly destroying.
"They call you a monster,… But they're the monsters, not you. Farewell, Thrall."
Even now he could hear his sister's voice and now more than ever, he needed her compassionate embrace. His memories wandered to the past, back to where it all began.
Back to when he was little more than a small child, a young, adolescent boy let out of a cage into a world that seemed to have no limits or boundaries. A horizon not blocked by gargantuan walls, meant to imprison those within and exclude those without. Trees that weren't pictures in a book, but venerable giants, which majestic splendour was without equal. He remembered the first time he could see whole mountains, such a simple thing that looked so marvellous to one whom before could only see their snow-clad peaks rise above the walls.
He thought of Taretha, so tender and fragile, her words compassionate and never false. Any of his grunts would honour her with songs and praise her name for her legacy, pass on her story to their children and shamelessly speak of the human whose lack of physical strength was surpassed by a brave heart rivalling that of Grommash Hellscream himself.
Should those very same grunts scout ahead of an army, should they come upon a village and spot a young human woman, blonde hair and lithe limbs, they would think her frail and weak and worthless. But without Taretha's counsel, Thrall would never have found the will to escape Blackmoore and his shackles. Without her support he would've been truly alone in Durnholde throughout his life. Without her letters he would surely have turned into the submissive pet Blackmoore wanted. In his entire life there had only been two people the warchief had valued high enough to consider siblings. Only one of them was an orc. Tari had been anything but weak and worthless.
He thought of Doomhammer, his mentor and friend. He thought back to the towering giant in black plate and mail, a majestic marvel whose brutality in combat was matched only by his wisdom and honour. His looming shadow never excluded Thrall from the sun's warmth like the walls of a dungeon, but shielded his eyes from its burning sting. He had been an inspiration to all orcs, the last remnant of their glorious past, the only one who could lead them from slavery to pinkskins and their inner demons, to freedom and glory. If only not for the coward's lance that ended his life.
Loathe as he was to admit it, it wasn't their counsel he needed now, only their comforting presence. If anything, their counsel was probably the last thing he needed. Taretha Foxton was warm and gentle, her words of wisdom would wash away his grief, take away all the evils that plagued his mind, drive off his inner demons with a voice like the sweetest honey and shut them out forever with her unparalleled love and compassion. Orgrim Doomhammer was a teacher and a mentor, and rather than tell Thrall what to do he would goad his successor to discover the answers he already had within himself and realize his true potential.
The red-haired, barrel-chested man Thrall had only ever known as Sergeant was simply practical. Though his words were never filled with contempt or hate, he never softened them either. He would tell his orcish student just what he was doing wrong and what he needed to improve to recover. With Sergeant there had only been the truth, the cold and hard facts and that was just the sort of counsel Thrall needed in this, his hour of despair.
"They call you a monster,… But they're the monsters, not you. Farewell, Thrall."
Again his sister's voice echoed inside the depths of his mindscape, and his thoughts returned to the present. Has she seen the Horde now, what would she think? If she had seen the Warsong orcs chant their songs with axes made from more blood than metal, would she still say that orcs were not monsters? She had never looked upon him and seen a monster, but would she say the same today?
He tried not to ponder on such thoughts; they never did him any good. And yet, for each letter Saurfang sent him of young Hellscream's "conquests", the more those very thoughts dug deeper, sinking their talons of doubt into his heart and threatening to shatter it.
And with those thoughts would follow guilt. His heart was almost breaking at mere images, lies of his own lack of confidence, and yet somehow Saurfang seemed able to get on with his life after having lost his son, his very own flesh and blood and the last of his line. When Varok died, the Saurfang line would end. How the venerable overlord could act so casual astounded Thrall.
An elder shaman had once tried to explain to him, of the old ways that Saurfang represented. The shaman had said that unlike humans;… "who wallow in their grief and let themselves grow weak and helpless to sorrow, we do not mourn our dead, but celebrate their lives. Knowing his son died bravely and with honour for a righteous cause of justice doesn't break his heart, but makes it strong with pride."
Thrall wasn't sure he'd ever be able to do that. The memory of Taretha's severed head, thrown off the battlements of Durnholde and bounce across the muddy road to stop at his feet, blue and innocent eyes staring up at him and blonde strands of hair soiled with blood still made his knees buckle and turned his vision to a hazy blur. Try as he might, Thrall could never erase his upbringing. Though more than half his life had been spent in freedom with his people, the other half were the most important years of his character, the years that had shaped him. And those years he had spent only with the humans. He would see half-orcs in the shadows of Orgrimmar, glares of disgust and contempt coming their way, and despite their human features on the outside, the warchief sometimes couldn't help but wonder who was the most human.
A breeze whispering past his head, tickling the skin with its gentle passing brought him fully out of his thoughts and back to reality. He looked up and opened his eyes. His throne room was dark, dimly lit only by braziers that offered no warmth. The breeze had come from the opened door as one Kor'kron guard arrived to relieve another of its duty. The lumbering giant walked solemnly with heavy steps, brass clad boots making contact with the floor, a metallic chime echoing silently in his stride. As soon as the massive colossal found its post, it turned around and froze like a statue. It never ceased to unnerve Thrall how living, breathing beings could turn so utterly motionless. In but a second, it had become like a statue, a gargoyle and he imagined to that member of his bodyguard, the other Kor'kron must appear just the same. Strong and ferocious when needed, efficient and without mercy in the kill, but disciplined and never out of control, they made the perfect warriors. Much like his own war machine, the Horde.
And it was a war machine; it was naïve to assume anything else. From its birth, the Horde had been created with the intent of never-ending conquest where those who fell were weaklings who the Horde could do without. For all he had done, Thrall knew the Horde was still the same in many ways. The way his grunts were trained and organized were offensive and brutal, not at all suited for defensive strategies. He had introduced certain tactics which the Alliance had used to halt the sea of orcs in the Second War, but they found them confusing and complicated.
They understood how a shield wall could potentially resist a bulldozing charge of Bonechewer berserkers, but it didn't allow them the space to wield their heavy axes in the brutal chopping motion they had grown accustomed to and found the disadvantage too serious. Their upbringing and favoured weapons of choice didn't allow for a defence other than counter-attacks. The best defence was a good offence in their eyes.
The Horde had generated new laws, new morals, new norms and traditions, all which are some of the hardest values to pry from a people. Somehow Gul'dan had managed it in a matter of years, whereas Thrall had maybe months before it was too late, before war with the Alliance or some form of coup from Neeru Fireblade destroyed everything his father and his sister and most of his friends had died for.
Because of the Horde, generations had relied on fighting each other for survival. Now those generations had children of their own, depending on their wisdom and knowledge to survive. And their children would be raised as they had been, on a devastated world where strife and conflict was necessary to survive and where you could only prove yourself through bullying your way to the top, preferably with fists. The parents had good intentions, but they raised their young through their own traditions, which had been founded by a generation of death. When he had first assumed command, he thought that the Horde was nothing more than unity and comradery under an old name. That without the demons there would be no reason for them to desire battle. The Horde was based on aggression and he was trying to rule it through measures of peace. Like trying to chop wood with a spear.
And when these children grew up, there would a time to prove themselves, against other children and friends through feats of strength. Like one day they would face their trial of adulthood through a hunt. Most likely the prey would be quillboar or centaur or…human. In silent desperation, Thrall contemplated the possibility of increasing the quillboar population, and then discarded the idea for its foolishness.
How simple it had been in the past, to lead his people on hope and faith alone. With promises of a land without humans, free of their insufferable presence forever. And when that turned out to be impossible, mount Hyjal presented them with the opportunity to fight beside them instead of against them. For the first time, Thrall really believed that peace was possible, even plausible. And neither the passing years, nor their current situation could convince him otherwise. He knew there was a way. Only now he didn't know how. It had been the foolish dream of a young warchief, with a too heavy burden put on his shoulders that lead him to try.
Looking back again, Warchief Thrall thought his younger self so naïve and unprepared. True, Mannoroth was dead. True, Grom had freed them from the curse that drove his people to murder for the sake of murder itself. But his people and the humans were not the same. Not even the trolls, whom he had witnessed himself could be very cruel with their prisoners, enjoyed killing on the same level that orcs did.
And they did enjoy it. He would not deny it, especially not to himself. He knew the near orgasmic ecstasy of battle; he knew the sheer joy of being pushed back and forth while bringing doom to his enemies. He knew all too well how tempting it was to release himself to his inner instincts, relinquish control and become one with the battle, a pleasure he had maybe indulged himself in once or twice, but no more.
Like all orcs, he knew the joy of fighting and the thrill of killing. But only as long as he knew he killed with honour, with the righteous cause of justice. He considered himself fortunate that he, as a Frostwolf, had never hungered for death and conquest, but he had many times howled his exhilaration to the heavens after battle, covered head to toe in the remains of his enemies and feeling the adrenaline boil in his veins, like all orcs had for hundreds of generations before the Burning Legion's interference.
No, his people were certainly not peaceful by human standards. Killing had always been in their blood. It was murder, tainted and vile, that the Burning Legion taught them. And murder they did, whole generations knew nothing but it. Tribes and clans vanished, lost to their own demonic bloodlust and created the stereotype for which all life would henceforth judge them.
A stereotype that was rapidly re-emerging. His despair was swiftly replaced with frustration as yet another face formed in his mind. Everything Hellscream had died for, Hellscream was recklessly destroying indeed. He could remember still, almost two years ago, the elation he felt when reports came from Outland of orcs with brown skin who had never felt the taint of demon's blood. It came like a wave of reassurance, washing over him and removed all doubt and fear for the future. The Mag'har were hailed as saviours, celebrated as heroes, even Thrall was caught in the sensation.
Nobody remembered that there's nothing as hard as learning from the mistakes of others. Or maybe they did, but didn't want to realize that dark and sinister truth. The really ancient shamans, those who had been adults before the draenei wars and had turned to the magic of warlocks, those more than any others wanted to forget. Even if the spirits were able to show understanding and forgiveness, the –once again– shamans never could.
And their pain only increased, knowing that if they forgot their crimes, they would have nothing to tell the younger generations, nothing to motivate them to make different choices.
If they forgot, nobody would recognize the signs of the Legion's agents in the future and so their responsibilities doomed them to live with their shame. Thrall dreaded at the thought and at the same time admired them for their endurance.
But the Mag'har had never committed those same acts of cruelty, committed the same crimes, butchered as many women and children or set fire to as many cities. They had no corruption to learn from and so they were now repeating the very same mistakes of their greenskinned kindred.
The irony was not lost to the warchief. It was the tainted elders who had murdered children, torched cities and raised goblets of human and dwarven blood to their lips that fought for the old days, while the pure-blooded Mag'har, proud and brave, those who had never known corruption were behaving like Blackhand and his ilk, thus gaining the popularity of young orcs throughout the entire Horde.
Looking back, perhaps that was also part of the problem. The young generations had been fed on stories of Grom Hellscream and his heroic sacrifice ever since the death of the Pit Lord. They had gone to sleep listening to their mothers speak of wars and great battles, scenes where brave men clashed in a bizarre harmony of blood and death and many an elderly grandfather would often tell of the legendary Orgrim Doomhammer. Other stories would be about the Lion of Stormwind, whom the veterans would argue was possibly Doomhammer's equal and the only worthy enemy the Horde had ever known. These children would be eager to reach adulthood, if only to go into battle with the Alliance in search of a worthy nemesis.
Those who had known a few early years of bloodlust also knew the joy of being rid of it and were now fresh recruits in the grunt ranks and were proud to represent what they had been told were the new –peaceful– orcs. Peaceful, the word tasted rancid on his tongue now. Where before it had meant hope it only reminded Thrall of the naïve choices of his past.
Yes, the young were certainly trying to be peaceful, but by Thrall's standards, human standards, to please their warchief. Despite how much he enjoyed the passion of killing, he could never escape his sister's morals. And for a people like the orcs, whose current lifestyle valued strength and battle prowess above all, such a peace was doomed to fail from the start. The young had tried, but now all their bottled up energies cried out for release and in Garrosh, they had found it.
Again the door opened and a metallic chime rang silently from the iron-shod boots of this newcomer. But this new arrival sounded both bigger and more determined than any of his Kor'kron and Thrall didn't need to look up to know that it was indeed Garrosh who stood before him.
Thrall let out a deep sigh and rose from his seat, black plate and mail clanking together with every bit of movement.
He had not been looking forward to this.
The Warsong chieftain had risen to his full height, drawing his massive shoulders back and crossing his arms across his chest, his shadow seemingly engulfing the entire wall behind him. And with his chin raised proudly, he locked his gaze with Thrall's as one might do to antagonize a hound.
"Lok-tar, Warchief!" He hailed –mockingly– and nodded his head.
His tone did not go unnoticed, not by anyone. Leaning against the door from the other side in the first hall, trolls and blood elves were eavesdropping and whispering everything that happened. Soon all of Orgrimmar would know. Particularly the Kor'kron stirred noticeably from their gargoyle-like silence and flexed their fingers on their axes. One word from their warchief and the Warsong would need a new chieftain. But Thrall didn't give such an order, as it would surely bring the Horde into a vicious civil war it could not afford.
"What do you want, Garrosh?" He asked and frowned at the weakness in his own voice. He was more tired than he had realized.
"This alliance was sworn in blood!" Thrall shouted and shook his fists angrily. "And you're telling us to break it?"
A war-table had been put between them, littered with maps and small banners representing troop formations and small settlement figurines. In this situation however, they were mostly decoration as the two orcs circled each other warily around the table.
"That wretched isle is all that stands between us, and complete domination of Kalimdor."
"Why would we want complete domination of Kalimdor? We didn't choose Durotar for its surplus or because it looks pretty." Thrall said. "We chose it because it's small, because it's harsh and because it's contested by quillboar and centaur. So that our young can grow to become strong, enduring warriors. You would give them the world and watch them grow weak on indulgence?" Thrall hoped dearly Garrosh would rise to the bait, but in vain.
"And what of you? The Alliance is the only force that has ever resisted the Horde's might, and you wish to deny our warriors the glory of fighting them? You're starving them on pigmen and half-ponies."
"I am keeping our children alive!" Thrall growled and smashed his fist into the war-table so it almost broke.
"You are poisoning them on weakness!" Garrosh returned and stomped his foot against the stone floor to emphasize the seriousness of his statement. All around them, the Kor'kron held their axes ready. If they had any fear, they weren't showing it, but they did not look eager for a combat.
Thrall's breath was ragged and his chest plate compressed painfully against his rising chest every time he inhaled. The sweat trickling down his forehead did nothing to improve the situation and the war-table groaned under the weight of the two orcs leaning their fists against it.
He could still remember the last time he had this conversation.
"The humans occupy the harshest land on Kalimdor, and precious little of it. Jaina's people-"
"'Jaina'?" His former second in command had sneered.
"Be very careful, Burx. Lady Proudmoore –Jaina– has earned my respect. You on the other hand are rapidly losing it."
"I'm sorry, warchief, but you gotta understand, you were raised with them. It can sometimes blind you to what's obvious to the rest of us."
He had been blind, blind to the corruption and hate standing right in front of him, like it did now.
"Who can say how humans think." Burx had said it what was no doubt a rhetorical question.
"I can. As you were so quick to point out, I was raised with humans. And I can tell you now that, while there are most definitely humans who would do this, Jaina Proudmoore is not one of them."
That had been a debate about something as trivial as lumber and going to war over it. He had those same arguments with Garrosh now. Almost word for word, but with harsher language and more hostility, like two Stranglethorn apes engaged in combat.
"You would have us break our word, our oaths to the citizens of Theramore, oaths that were sworn in blood! The humans need to know that the orcs won't break their promise to sleep peacefully."
"And that trust gives us the perfect opportunity to take them by surprise." Thrall wasn't sure he had heard right and narrowed his eyes in a dangerous scowl, but Garrosh didn't seem to notice or he just didn't care. "They will think themselves safe; their sentries will be lacking in their duty and before they know we are there, the Alliance will be severed from Kalimdor. In only a matter of weeks we can overrun the forests of Ashenvale, crush the remaining draenei and isolate the night elves within their little tree fort. It requires only a little bit of backbone from the warchief!"
"I repeat; you would have us, the orcs, break our word to the humans!" Thrall did nothing to hide the outrage in his voice which came out in an animalistic growl.
"You cannot think that the humans will uphold their end of the bargain. I have battled the humans for decades, ever since our world stopped convulsing in its death throes and they emerged from their strongholds in Terokkar and Hellfire Peninsula and the only thing I have learned from them is that they have no honour." The massive chieftain spoke the four last words in a menacing whisper.
"There are a thousand orcs who will disagree with your statement Garrosh and many more who will oppose your mad ambitions. They remember the soldiers who gave their lives in the wars to protect their families from the orcs. Like they remember the soldiers who gave their lives to protect the orcs' families from demons. And they will remember Jaina, who would rather betray her father than break her oath to the orcs and risk open war."
At first Garrosh didn't speak, but his response was much worse, for it was a grin stretching from ear to ear and looked hideous to Thrall, though it was no different from any orcish smile.
But it wasn't the grin itself that made it hideous, but the pleasure that had brought it forth. A dark laughter resonated from deep within the orc's gullet, and when Garrosh spoke, it was with a cruel chuckle.
"You speak highly of this female, Warchief Thrall, son of Durotan." In a sudden flash of movement, faster than Thrall thought possible for the hulking warrior before him, Garrosh had leaned across the war-table and sneered viciously in the warchief's face, so close that Thrall could feel his breath upon his skin. "But you have just proven your misplaced trust in her. You claim she can be trusted, that this human will honour her word, one who betrays her own blood."
It was true, in orcish culture betraying a blood kin was worse than cowardice. Family was sacred; more so than clan honour and a blood-bond was stronger than any oath.
No outside force could break the bond of two brothers, which meant that it would have to be ruined from within and such a heinous treason disgusted the orcs more than anything the Burning Legion had done to them.
Even the Blackhand brothers, infamous for their deceit had never betrayed each other.
But while the comment caught Thrall off guard, it did nothing to dissuade him. "You are correct in everything, except your claim that my trust is misplaced. It is true that Jaina went against her father to help his enemies, but their bond had already been broken by her father when he seized control of her city and used it to attack her allies. In this crime, Jaina was the offended part and no orc who knows the truth would judge her actions differently."
Garrosh stomped his foot on the floor and opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his lips. The gesture that usually emphasized an orc's displeasure suddenly became much more similar to a human pup throwing a tantrum with nothing left to say and Thrall was not the only one to see it.
Already whispers and snickers could be heard from the other hall and Garrosh visibly tensed with outrage and embarrassment. For a long time he didn't move and Thrall grew worried that the young chieftain might lash out with his axes instead of words.
At last, Garrosh looked at Thrall, but this time his eyes weren't blazing with defiance. Instead there was coldness in them, a reluctant acknowledgement of defeat and Thrall finally allowed himself to relax, though he didn't allow his weary muscles the same comfort. In the presence of orcs, especially other chieftains, such an indulgence would instantly be interpreted as a sign of weakness, which would throw the entire affair back into Garrosh' favour.
Without voicing his farewells, the chieftain turned on his heels and left the throne room, still managing to keep his stride proud and dignified and daring anyone to defy him. As soon as the metallic chime of his boots had vanished, Thrall went back to his throne, but rather than taking his seat he reached behind and when he pulled his hand back it held a small crystal.
Before the crystal would shine often, bathing Thrall in its silvery brilliance, but in the last months such events had become scarce. Of all the things this war was trying to take from him, his meetings with Jaina was the one thing he couldn't bear to lose and he held the crystal close to his heart. At first it seemed nothing would happen and he grew concerned until it finally responded with a silvery light that lit up the warchief's face.
A few hours later, far too many for his taste, he could see Razor Hill from his zeppelin and the butte where he had agreed to meet Jaina. As it came to a halt, he could see the young sorceress had already arrived and he made no hesitation to climb down the rope-ladder as soon as the zeppelin came to a stop right over the butte.
What he saw sent a shiver down his spine. Jaina looked just as weary as he did, possibly even more. He couldn't tell if she was holding her staff or leaning herself against it.
She was worn out, that was the best description he could make of her. Her eyes looked like they were under immense strain and her hair was a mess compared to last time they had spoken. It couldn't have been washed or combed for days. But as soon as his feet made contact with the ground her face lit up and Thrall sighed with relief.
It was almost as if they had entered another world, free from all their troubles and the thought didn't seem so silly to him. These moments with Jaina, whether they were long or short always rejuvenated him, as if whatever burden might be pushing him down in his throne-room simply evaporated. He hoped his presence brought her the same comfort.
"Thrall." She said. "I came as soon I could. Is there something wrong?"
"No," He grunted and sat down on the ground. "I just needed a relief."
In his mindscape he hoped she wouldn't be angry with him, that he hadn't robbed her away from something more important that demanded her immediate attention. She had never done so before, but the fear remained as vivid every time.
Instead she lowered herself next to him and put her staff on the ground where it vanished with a brilliant flash that stung his eyes for a second. "Garrosh?" She inquired and now it was her eyes that were concerned for him.
"Hrrm," He grunted in return. "Yes. He's pestering me about launching an assault on Theramore. In vain of course." He added.
Jaina folded her hands on her lap and looked up at him. "I would never believe anything else."
They sat like that for a while in their own little world, shielded from the troubles no more than a portal-stone away. There was no specific topic to their conversation only that it didn't involve the war or any major chain of events that had led to it.
In one of their previous encounters they had even turned to watching cloud formations to distract them from their troubles. While a childish act for two adults, leaders none the less, Jaina welcomed any distraction and Thrall didn't mind letting her. In all his life, she had turned out to be his best friend, and he was determined not to lose her like he had lost so many others.
But he could also see that she needed help. It was clear as day that she wasn't as healthy as she tried to appear. Her cyan eyes were turning red, her hair stiff and salty and despite her admirable efforts she hadn't managed to hide a single yawn, and there had been many. She looked almost like a banshee, so tired did she look in his eyes.
"You look horrible, Jaina. I apologize for saying so, but it needed to be done." He said, regretfully voicing the troubles they'd been trying to escape.
"Don't worry." She said and pulled her hair under her cowl. "Aegwynn keeps reminding me. If not for her relentless stubbornness, I fear I might forget to eat." Thrall felt a chill as cold as the grave race down his spine.
"You are eating then?" He said and whispered his gratitude to the spirits when she nodded.
"When I find the time. I'm literally drowning in paperwork and treaties and contracts. I'm not sure how much longer I can last. Aegwynn helps me with some of it, but she is as tired of politics as I am, if not even more. Some wants me to break all contact with you, some wants me to launch naval attacks upon the Echo Isles while others don't ask me to do anything. In fact they won't include Theramore in their little raids at all, not to repair their vessels at our harbour or rest their soldiers at our taverns."
While this sounded like good news to Thrall, this seemed to anger Jaina more than the rest and he urged her to continue.
"Indeed they don't ask anything of us. They want us to remain passive while they make deals with local pirates and mercenaries to do their work for them. They pay the pirates good gold and supplies and don't even possess the brainpower to see that they're only strengthening the pirates against everybody; the orcs, the goblin trade princes, their allies and themselves."
"The Alliance generals?" Thrall asked. The Alliance had some of the greatest generals of this time and such short-sighted decisions certainly didn't reflect their wisdom and strategic skills. Jaina shook her head.
"The nobles. Pompous men who never lift their backside from their ridiculously large cushions and have never seen their own blood and would die from the sight of a paper cut. Women heiresses who make rash decisions to prove that they are just as capable of ruling their house as their male counterparts. If they're acting on the decisions of the male nobility they're certainly doing it flawlessly. Gender equality in sheer stupidity is what I call it." When she had finished speaking, she breathed heavily through clenched teeth. Thrall had never seen her this angry, but his shock was overwhelmed by his concern for her and it must've shown, for as she looked into his worried eyes she calmed down instantly.
"If you need my help," He offered gently. "I'll gladly lend my assistance. No matter what troubles you, you need only ask." He said.
Jaina looked at him and wiped her eyes with her fingertips. "Thanks. I would like that."
"Is there much prejudice from Stormwind?" He asked, trying to keep his voice low.
"Not from the court itself, though apparently being a 'Theramore' has become synonymous with 'orclover' in the cities and villages."
"Your citizens are being harassed when they venture across the ocean?"
"Depending on their views on orcs." She sighed. "But not only people from Theramore. From what I've been able to discern it's not necessary to have ever been to Kalimdor to be a 'Theramore'. It's a matter of your opinion, not where you live."
Thrall rumbled understandingly. His people had given the humans many reasons to hate them in past wars. Old hatreds died hard and to all too many humans, such hatreds stayed with good reason.
"This is common throughout the entire kingdom?" He asked.
"To an extent." She paused and remained silent for a very few seconds that seemed to last forever. "It's worst in Redridge. The people there have been harassed by orcs almost as long as anyone can remember. First in the First War and since then by frequent skirmishes and night raids pouring from Blackrock Mountain. When you live your entire life under attack from orcs it hardly matters which Horde."
Thrall nodded solemnly and looked at her. "Nor can it be easy to comprehend why anyone would want anything else than our complete eradication." This time Jaina didn't answer, but her lips twisted in a nervous grimace that told Thrall he was right.
"They use exquisite liquor and enticing bar maidens to lure the truth out of weary travellers. Apparently more than one bard with a positive song about orcs has left Redridge with fewer teeth than when he arrived the night before." She spoke at last in a single breath as if she'd been holding the words back. Thrall could do little more than stare at her, obviously confused.
"I'm sorry, but the extent some of them will go to." She hissed and shook her hands over her head, spreading her fingers wide in frustration.
"It is little better in the Horde. Many orcs are eager about the opportunity to fight the Alliance. I'm beginning to believe many of them have been hiding these emotions for years because they were afraid of displeasing their warchief. Now there's no longer a peace treaty, so they're able to roam wherever they want without needing permission to attack." Jaina shuddered visibly at the thought. A mob was a mob, regardless of race, completely uncontrollable and dangerously unpredictable. But with orcs such mobs were strong, vicious and armed to the teeth with the finest steel, garbed in hardened leather and iron mail. They were the dread of Alliance farmers and Horde commanders alike, for their recklessness meant disaster for both.
"The veterans are able to keep most of them in line though." He added, patting her reassuringly on the back and trying to smile when she lifted her gaze. "The presence of scarred warriors like Saurfang and Nazgrel are often intimidating enough to keep them calm." He said and nodded when he saw her mood lighten a bit. Jaina remembered both of them very well. Nazgrel had never liked her from what she understood and was never hesitant to shed human blood when given permission. But he was loyal to his warchief and the Horde and respected Thrall's decisions.
High Overlord Varok Saurfang was an elder, evident by his gray hairs and his arms that grew slightly thinner with his age. However, he was also living proof of the old orcish saying;… "An orc is never old until he can no longer lift his axe." He had earned himself quite a reputation in Sillithus and many Alliance commanders had gained a reluctant respect for him there. According to his (in)famous legacy he could stop Horde-riots and Alliance raids alike with a single stare and though Jaina had never had the misfortune of being under that deadly gaze herself she felt inclined to believe it from the few times she had seen the mammoth warrior as well as the pale skinned witnesses from said raids.
"Thank the stars for Saurfang if he manages to hold Garrosh on a tight leash. No offense." She quickly added.
"None taken," Thrall murmured in agreement and an awkward silence ensued. Before such a silence would simply give them time to enjoy each others' company instead of conversations, but lately, with everything that was going on, it marked the end of their meeting.
Their farewells always ended in silence now and left them both depressed and sad, having to re-enter the world which held only misery at the time. He hadn't seen her smile since she announced Varian's return to the throne. The news that had filled them both with hope, now only left regret in its memory. With a regretful sigh Jaina looked away and got to her feet, her staff appearing instantly in her hands with a brief flash.
Thrall had already turned around when he heard the arcane incantations behind him and he reached for the rope ladder to his zeppelin. Unwilling to end their brief time together already, he said the first thing he could think of. "Thank the stars?"
Jaina looked over her shoulder, ending the portal spell she had nearly finished. "What?"
"Sorry, I'm just unaccustomed to the phrase. In all my time among humans, I have never heard them praise anything but the Light."
Lowering her palm, which only seconds earlier had been radiating with a sapphire brilliance she held it to her heart and let her gaze scour the horizon laid across the ocean before she looked at him. "Oh. It's only an expression really. Nothing important." She lifted her cowl over her head and repeated the incantations to her portal.
"If it's a part of you that I don't know, it's important to me." He said and placed a large hand gently on her shoulder.
Jaina blushed at the compliment, but Thrall made no indication that he had noticed for which she sighed in gratitude. "Thank the stars. I suppose it's not so strange you haven't heard it. It isn't very common outside of Kul Tiras."
Thrall grunted, urging her to continue.
"I've never done any research on it, though I'm not sure any scholar has ever found anything of interest regarding the subject. But from what I can recall, it's old. Before the founding of Kul Tiras." She sat down once more as Thrall knelt down by her side.
"On stormy nights, fishermen and trade vessels would have only the heavens to guide them across the sea and back home. When the high waves threatened to claim the ships they would pray to the gods or the Light or their ancestors that the stars would shine only a little brighter so that they could find their way to the shore and when," She paused. "-if the ships returned safely, the wives who had been waiting anxiously for their return would voice their gratitude to the stars."
"And if they didn't?" Thrall inquired.
"If the ships didn't return the wives and the rest of the family would mourn in sorrow, but nobody has ever cursed or blamed the stars." Silence followed and she only looked towards the sea, but Thrall didn't need to ask why. It was no secret that her brother Derek had died at sea fighting the Dragonmaw clan in the Second War.
"In any case, since the most common cause of death was to be lost at sea it became a custom for weary travellers to thank the stars for guiding them to safe shores, even if the voyage hadn't encountered any troubles."
"Like when we thank the spirits for victory in battle, whether it was hard fought or easily won?"
"I suppose. I've never heard that comparison before, but I suppose it's similar. Though after battles it was more common to thank the Light for preserving their souls. The stars helped them navigate, but offered no blessing in combat"
"I see," He said and looked out towards the ocean. "In that case I believe I owe the stars my gratitude."
"What?" She said and looked at him.
"I thank the stars, for getting me safely across the ocean," He paused briefly and looked her in the eyes. "To new land and new friends."
And for the first time in months he could finally see her smile again and its radiance was as bright and warm as the sun. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Writer's Note: I have no idea if that's the actual story behind the expression "Thank the stars". I only heard Admiral Daelin Proudmoore use it in the Bonus campaign of WarcraftIII The Frozen Throne and I thought this sounded like a reasonable explanation.
Edit: The correct phrase is Bless the stars, not Thank the stars. I won't change it though since I can't figure out how to rewrite Thrall's last sentence.