Written for the Blizzard Short Story Contest. Didn't place.
Nothing to do with the movie Twilight.
Death by Twilight
The green proto-drake perched on the edge of the snow-capped ledge. His claws sank into the centuries-deep snow, and his head snaked back and forth restlessly as he looked down upon the battleground that was the region known as Ice Crown.
The drake's orc rider also gazed out across the land, his heavy brow ridge drawn into a solemn and concerned look. His attention was drawn to his left as a gryphon landed beside the restless protodrake.
"Thrall." Highlord Tirion Fordring greeted the orc, dismounting to the snow with a soft 'crunch.'
Thrall grunted in response, looking back out over the valley below. After Tirion made no move to leave, the orc sighed and dismounted as well. "What's troubling you, Tirion?" He sat down on the edge of the cliff, his massive feet hanging down the side.
Tirion, either not so willing to brave the ledge, or overly restless, paced behind him for a moment. "Arthas is dead."
"Indeed."
"What I need to talk to you about now must remain between the two of us," Tirion said. He stopped and looked at Thrall, as if the weight of his stare might force the other man to comply.
Thrall stood and turned toward Tirion, returning his long gaze. "Why discuss it with me, then? Why not one of your advisors?"
"Because I think that this situation may be one you are uniquely suited to answer. And also, you have always been the consummate diplomat."
Thrall walked over to a nearby jagged stone that towered over the precipice like a squatting predator. He reached out and ran his hand down its cool surface before looking back at Tirion. "I'm weary of diplomacy. I'm weary of this war. I'm weary of the cries of children and the lamentations of women."
Tirion sighed. "So am I, Thrall. So am I. But it's not over, simply because Arthas is dead. Despite that fact, however, many people will begin to ask the inevitable questions."
One of Thrall's brows rose into a question mark.
Tirion continued, "What are we to do with the Death Knights now? They are a useful, but savage and brutal tool. Many fear that they will turn on the population. There can be no question that the bulk of them are savage killers at heart." The Highlord walked close to the ledge, spreading his hands in an encompassing gesture. "How long, Thrall… how long can the Horde and the Alliance keep up this infernal battle?"
It was Thrall's turn to sigh. "Until we are all annihilated, I sometimes think." His heavy head dropped until his chin rested on his thick, muscle-bound chest. "Why discuss this with me, Tirion?"
"As I told you, Thrall. You are the consummate diplomat. And furthermore, I know that this is something that you've faced before in your people's long and shadowed history." His eyes were sympathetic, but his voice was firm and detached.
Thrall nodded, a tight, short nod. He knew what Tirion meant. The problem of men and women programmed to kill, when there was no war, was one faced throughout the history of Azeroth. The orcs in particular had faced these issues repeatedly over time—though never for more than a few brief years before war broke out again.
"Perhaps," Tirion continued, "if we can find them some kind of useful and worthy occupation, we can begin a process of repairing relations between our factions."
"Varian will never allow for peace." Thrall's voice betrayed his regret, and the weight of the knowledge.
"Varian can be dealt with through sanctions and political pressures, Thrall. In time, admittedly, but a continual campaign by those predisposed to peace will eventually wear him down."
Thrall shook his head, not as much in dismissal as in defeat. "I hope that you are right, Tirion. I am long since weary of death and strife. I would like to see my people's children laughing in the streets, not marching in mock regiments before they can even hold a real sword."
"This is why you must help me find a way to give the Death Knights and the soldiers a worthy purpose. Only with such a provision in place can the right pressures be applied too Varian to get him to relent for political reasons." At Thrall's dubious look, he continued, "He's not an unreasonable man, Thrall. He is just blinded right now by hatred and misunderstandings."
"Misunderstandings are the sauce of war," Thrall said. He slapped the massive stone he had been standing beside. The slight sting from the cold, solid stone barely registered in the hardened orc's palm. Disappointed that the minor pain in his hand couldn't take his mind off his troubles, Thrall sneered at the massive stone. Then his resentment of the injustice of it all flared, and he slammed his fists into it, an outlet for his fury.
The boulder, clinging to the high ledge only through the slightest of leverage, tipped and rolled off. A thunderous roar split the air as it picked up momentum—and large amounts of snow and debris—and sped down the sheer slope.
"Oops," Thrall said, his rage forgotten.
"'Oops'?" Tirion repeated. "Understatement?"
They exchanged looks and then both laughed. "Perhaps a bit," Thrall allowed.
With a gesture, Thrall called the protodrake to him. "Let me think on this matter, Tirion," he said as he leapt onto the beast's back.
Then the proto-drake dropped from the ledge, falling a few feet before catching a thermal and gliding off towards Dalaran. Tirion watched until it disappeared. Then he sighed and mounted, winging towards Dalaran as well. Thrall was right; riding back this way cleared the head and strengthened the heart.
Little did he know that in the days to come, he would need that strength.
In the distant city of Silvermoon, while great men talked of peace, a single orc slipped stealthily through an inner doorway of the apartment he was staying in. The shaman's dagger gleamed dully in the light filtering in from the street torches outside. Tense and wary, he eased through the doorway and attempted to fit his massive bulk behind an armoire.
When the attack he expected came, it was from behind him. The perpetrator grabbed his head, and Golmor whirled, thrusting blindly with the dagger. He felt it slide home with no resistance, and a feral grin lit his face. His attacker wasn't even wearing magically enhanced armor.
Then, he looked into the face of his attacker and his heart slammed down to his shoes. "Cindrelle!" In an unusually resonant tone even for an orc, the name tore from his lips in a desperate cry as his love collapsed forward into his arms.
"Came home early," she whispered in an equally resonant but fainter voice. "Wanted to surprise you." She was clad only in the barest bit of cloth, his favorite of her nightwear. His heart, were it possible, plummeted even further.
With a wrench, he pulled the dagger out, muttering an incantation and flickering his fingers. The healing washed over her, and she gasped and jerked slightly in his arms. Her eyes, an uncanny, unnatural blue, gleamed at him in the darkness.
They both recognized how close he had come to killing her for the final time. With her armor to protect her, she was a force to be reckoned with. Without it, she was a vulnerable—and if he did say so himself—beautiful blood elf woman.
Fear still clung to him, and the shock of seeing his own dagger, in his own hand, embedded in her body struggled against the now rising lust. She grinned, and pushed the dagger way. The hunger won, and he lifted her, now fully healed, and carried her into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.
The next morning, he woke to find her lying across his chest, looking at him. Her blue eyes still gleamed, as did her lustrous red hair. Light filtered in through the window.
"Arthas is dead," she said to him. Her face was solemn as she looked at him.
He marveled again that he had won her love, but pushed the thoughts aside. "Yes. So whatever shall we do with ourselves now?" He grinned at her, his suggestion obvious.
She smiled, but returned to solemnity. "I'd like to have a house." She rolled over and looked at the ceiling. "Maybe we can retire from the wars and raise an orphan or two."
"Raise orphans? Is my big bad death knight going soft in her old age?"
She grinned at him then. "You know I don't age."
He smirked back at her. "Oh yeah, I know it."
She chuckled and pushed his hand away. "I really do mean it, Golmor. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of death. I know it will always call to me, but I'm weary of it. I've been the war machine I was created to be long enough. Now I want to be a woman."
He almost made a joke about her being obviously all woman, but he could tell she was baring more than a simple request for house and home to him. She was baring her secret, hidden heart.
"Why do you want an orphan, Cindrelle?" He couldn't resist the question; because it had burned at him since the first time she'd brought it up.
She rolled back, looking up at the soft red cloth that draped the round bed. "I sometimes look at them, and I wonder if I created them. I wonder if I killed his mother, or took her father with the edge of my blade." Silence entered the room then, tiptoeing on soundless breaths. A moment passed, and then she said, "I could feel it even then. The certainty that what I was doing was the worst sort of madness. But his voice compelled me, and I obeyed because I knew nothing else when he spoke inside my mind."
Her eyes closed in a pain he knew he could never take from her. "I often left the children screaming in my wake. In that place of insanity, in that moral abyss, I thought I was doing them a favor, letting them live. But when I see their tears and hear their sorrows when we pass through Orgrimmar in the Spring, I can't help but know that living a life without parents is no kind of life at all. I don't know if I did right or wrong in letting them live. But I know I'm doing wrong by letting them live on without parents."
Her eyes opened and met his. Sorrow shone from them, blue and gleaming in the gathering dark of dusk. He stroked her cheek and longed for something to say. But what good, he wondered, was an orc in moments such as these?
"We'll do it," he told her, his voice roughed and gruff with her suffering. "The war is over, though sometimes we might join in the fight against the Alliance. I doubt they'll ever give up, and I certainly won't yield to them. None of us will."
She nodded, "Of course." Then she laid her hand on his cheek. "Do you mean it?"
He pulled her close. "Of course I do."
Hours later, when her even breathing told him that she slept, he remained awake, staring at the ceiling. In the dark recesses of his own mind, the memory of the screams of terrified children played back for him, as well.
What orphans had he created in his own days? He looked at the woman beside him, and he felt heaviness settle into his chest. It was the weight of the years they'd spent together. Already, they had much history between them. Tears, fights, laughter.
How he had come to gain the love of such a fantastic creature, he had no idea. That she was his amazed him every day. Yet he also knew that a deep, abiding darkness resided within her. She was deadly, and she often killed without remorse.
What remorse she did feel, seemed to be kept for those who didn't deserve to die. If she felt they did deserve to die, she was even casual in her dismissal of their lives. Sometimes he was troubled by these responses from her. But more often it felt as if they were one of a kind. A pair of broken souls, coming together in some strange way to create a nearly whole one.
And in hearing her speak his own heart, by admitting that she was as haunted by the cries of the children as he, he knew in his deepest being that he would never again love another woman. It was not uncommon for orcs to mate once, and only once.
Like High Overlord Saurfang, Golmor had given his heart to one woman—and to her alone. For the rest of his days, he would raise orphans with her, if it would quiet the cries in her memory. And he would spend the rest of his life surviving so that when he went into his grave, it would be at her side.
The sun beat down on the group of dignitaries, politicians, leaders, and dragons. Its fierce glare, gleaming off of the snow, did nothing to abate the unrelenting cold of Dragonblight's frigid weather.
Small shards of ice, not quite snow, not quite hail; swirled on the thick air, and a chill wind gusted about them, nipping at noses, cheeks, and ears with the ferocity of worg pups at play. Unrepentant and indifferent, the cold bit at round and pointed ears alike with equal impunity.
At the Cardinal point of West stood four wizards, dressed in robes that showed them to be representative of Dalaran. They faced a golden orb that glowed in the center of the group. At each Cardinal direction, another group stood, aligned to the four points within their own grouping. From the glowing orbs, a great bubble arose, surrounding all those within in a magic dampening zone much like that found in Dalaran itself.
Dignitaries of the Alliance stood to the East. Dignitaries of the Horde stood to the West. Around these uneasy groups, some of whom openly glared at each other with hatred on their faces, were other figures standing silent and uncannily still in the blowing cold.
In the midst of it stood Highlord Tirion Fordring and Jaina Proudmoore, speaking softly, his head tilted down to hear what she was saying.
"How much longer must I suffer the presence of these animals?" burst out King Varian after much time had passed. "I will not be kept waiting, even by Alexstrasza. I have urgent business, and no interest in trafficking with beasts."
Garrosh Hellscream, standing beside High Overlord Saurfang, bristled and reached for his great axe. "I will slay you like a beast," he snarled, taking a step towards the other man.
Saurfang's hand reached out to stay him. "Now is not the time for rash action, Garrosh. Ever one to rush in where dragons fear to tread, you are!"
"They come!" said a soft, smooth voice. Kalec pointed as the others turned towards him. His half-elven form dwarfed many of those present, for he was, of course, Kalecgos the blue dragon.
The group turned as one to see two red specs, which fast approached them. As they loomed nearer, they showed themselves to be two miniature, distant dragons. With incredible speed, they drew yet nearer, until at last the thunder of their now-massive wings filled the air.
First to arrive was Korialstrasz, whose massive form coalesced into his human form, Krasus, falling some distance to land comfortably on the ground. He turned to watch his Queen as she curved in to land nearer to the gathering than he.
Her massive form dwarfed even his. As the Aspect of Life, she was gargantuan in her draconic form. The gathered were unaware of the awe registered on their faces as she landed just outside the barrier. Her great body swirled and shimmered, becoming a red mist before she had even touched the ground.
When the red mist reformed, it was as a strikingly beautiful woman. Humanoid, yes, but very obviously not human. She was comely, and unlike the others, not dressed for the cold. Bits of winter's teeth nipped at her skin, with no reaction whatsoever from her.
Without a pause between landing and walking, she strode towards them. Krasus followed her, apparently equally unconcerned by the frigid air and the bite of icy snow.
"I've never quite perfected that entrance," Kalec said musingly.
Everyone else ignored him, greeting Alexstrasza with bows or salutes. They watched her as she entered the barrier and strode to the center, Tirion and Jaina moving aside to leave her this position of honor.
Alexstrasza began to speak, "We have all come to believe that the war was over. Arthas is dead, and the world is wounded. Many have died, and even now, more die to clear away the remaining detritus of his rule on this continent."
She paused for a moment. Time stretched out, until someone coughed lightly. She sighed and continued, "The dragonflights are weak and vulnerable. We have been trying desperately to recover. With the war over, we had hoped the opportunity had at last come to us, that we might be able to restore ourselves to at least some semblance of a future.
"But someone, through skills or magic unknown to us, has infiltrated the Sanctuary where my eggs were incubating. It is the most scared of our places, the space where new dragon life begins." She paused, and in a rare gesture for dragonkind, Krasus took her hand in his, squeezing before letting it drop.
"You are all my children. Every one of you precious. These, too, more directly, are my children. The Sanctuary has not just been violated, but many eggs destroyed. The…" She stopped, her throat working. The horns she had not banished upon the shift gleamed in the weak light of the clouded sun. After a moment, she drew a deep breath and continued, "The devastation was terrible. A great many of my children were lost."
Silence fell then as she ceased speaking. The stunned hush held for what seemed an eternal moment, before sheer pandemonium broke out. It seemed as if every voice spoke at once, though Nozdormu and Ysera spoke not a word. As Aspects themselves, they were less impulsive than the younger dragons.
Alexstrasza held up her hand to silence them all. When the verbal pandemonium subsided, she spoke once again, "Something must be done. The remaining flights are all that stand between the world and chaos. It is not just we who suffer from this loss—"
"What can we do? All of our forces are committed still to destroying the remainder of the legions of Arthas' minions. We are overtaxed as it is, plus continued incursion by the Horde must be rebuffed at all times—" King Varian's diatribe was interrupted midstream.
"We? Incursions into your lands?" Garrosh's voice was contemptuous, dismissive. "If you would but leave our people alone, we would turn back to focusing on the Scourge. But you are determined to give us no rest or quarter—"
This time it was Varian's turn to interrupt. "You are an abomination! All of you! Savages, without any conscience or moral—"
"Silence!" The bellow came from Zaladormu, who despite the dampening field around them, managed perhaps by nonmagical means to amplify his voice into a borderline draconic roar. Some showed surprise that he had left his eternal vigil in the Caverns of Time, though they realized he must have been Nozdormu's representative. "Can you not cease your petty bickering for even a moment? You are worse than children. Keeping grudges and fighting since the beginning of your history. There may well be terrible things afoot. But all you can do is bicker about who is right and who is wrong. It is my business to live in the past, but it is it really yours to do so?"
Scowls and rage greeted this pronouncement, but it was Ysera's soothing, dreamlike voice that broke the stalemate. "The dreams of the races have been troubled. I believe something deep, something catastrophic lurks in the shadows. If the dreams of mortals and immortals alike are anything to go by—and I believe they are—then we may be on the brink of catastrophe."
"We have investigated to the best of our ability," Alexstrasza said slowly. "We can do no more. We need the assistance of the mortal races once more."
"If I may," said Kalec, "I would also mention that there have been rumors of black dragonflight in Azshara."
"We cannot chase rumors," High Overlord Saurfang said, his voice tired. "We have barely the resources to pursue even the Scourge." He turned and faced Alexstrasza; "I will appeal on your behalf to Thrall. I'm certain that he will do everything he can to aid you, Great Lady." He bowed deep, deeper than any orc was known to bow to any but the most revered of personages. "Please accept the condolences of the Horde for your terrible losses."
Alexstrasza nodded, her voice unusually deep as if roughened by tears, "Thank you, Lord Saurfang. I am grateful."
"We will do what we can, as well," Varian said. He bowed as well, sweeping his helm off as he did so. "We also deeply regret the terrible loss of life that you faced, Lady."
"Thank you, Varian," Alexstrasza said. "Please report any findings to myself or Krasus at the Temple. That is all for now."
"But—" Kalec objected.
She fixed him with a direct look, and he subsided. "We must use our resources wisely, Kalec. I know the blue flight is suffering, but so are we all in this terrible time. Perhaps when this has been settled, some may find their way to you to help verify these rumors of incursion. But the black flight has been decimated even more than have yours and mine. We must keep our priorities at this time."
It was clear from the look on his half elven face that the younger dragon wanted to rebel. But he subsided and nodded, swallowing his disappointment audibly. Little did anyone know in that moment, that had they chosen to investigate immediately, all might have turned out differently in the years that followed.
It was a perfect morning for staying in bed, but just as Golmor leaned in for a kiss, the front door banged. He sighed, and Cindrelle pulled him close until her breath whispered on his lips as she said, "Ignore it."
The banging started again, more insistent this time. He grunted and leaned towards her again. Another, yet more persistent banging interrupted.
With an oath, he climbed from the bed, jerking on clothes with a roaring bellow, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" The statement ended with another, much louder oath, proclaiming the dubious ancestral heritage of the offending party.
Stomping to the bedroom door, he looked back at the lounging death knight. "This isn't over yet," he promised her with a mock leer. She laughed and threw a pillow at him.
Arriving at the front door, he yanked it open, snarling, "What in the pits of Molten Core do you want?"
The goblin courier in front of him paled. "I'm to deliver this to you, sir. No delay, no excuses." He pushed forth a small parchment. "Sign please." At Golmor's scowl, the goblin shook his head. "Not my fault you ignored the standard summons, sir. Not my fault!"
When Golmor was done, the goblin fairly scampered away, attempting in vain to maintain both his dignity and his speed.
Opening the scroll, Golmor found a preemptory summons inside to go to Orgrimmar immediately and present himself to Warchief Thrall. He sighed and crumpled it up. He had a terrible feeling that his house would have to wait.
"Cindrelle!" he shouted. The summons had included her.
She appeared in the doorway. "What was that all about?"
"We're off to Orgrimmar." Her moue of disappointment nearly made him throw it in the trash and ignore it—if only for another hour or two. But of course, they couldn't.
"Alright. Let's get on the road, then." She blew him a kiss, and then went into the living room of their apartment. Within moments, with some help from him, she was fully buckled into her defensive armor. Its black gleam grinned malevolently at him, and he shuddered as he always did.
In this gear, she was a lethal predator. She could take tremendous amounts of punishment, while dishing out nearly as good as she got. She had both magical knowledge, and incredible physical prowess, all enhanced by the properties of her dark armor.
It was difficult to reconcile her, eyes glittering between the slits of her helm, with the beautiful, pliant, soft woman who had just spoken of homemaking and raising orphans.
But her hands, as she helped him dress, were gentle and deft. When he was fully clothed, they both pulled small, enchanted stones out of their packs. Whispering incantations, they both gestured and swirled with magic for a few moments. Then they emerged, blinking, into the halls of Dalaran with its hustle and bustle and noisy streets.
Moments later, through a means of magical portals, they were in Orgrimmar. After requesting an audience with Thrall, they were ushered into his throne room immediately.
Ever reverent of his leader, Golmor knelt before the massive Warchief. Cindrelle followed suit, and knelt as well.
"Rise, old friend," Thrall said. "We have work yet to do. You and your fellow heroes did well in slaying the Lich King, but I have had disturbing reports."
Golmor managed not to ask why it couldn't be handled by someone else, but only barely.
Thrall, however, must have read his mind. "I've sent others to look into it, and they have not returned. There were those in the party who could have called their souls back in all but the worst of circumstances."
Golmor's attention was caught now. To lose the soul was to die forever. If the soul was taken, or parted from the body for too long, it could not be called back. Even the undead knights, once slaves to the Lich King's power, had souls. There had been hopes that the enchantment that kept their souls in perpetual darkness would have faded with Arthas' death, but such had not been the case.
"There is much afoot which must be investigated. And we have so little resources left since Arthas' war." Thrall paced restlessly.
As the silence lengthened, he finally shook himself, as if waking from a deep sleep. "You will go to the Wyrmrest Temple. Help them. There have been intrusions into their realm, and I fear that they may well be extinguished entirely."
Golmor felt Cindrelle's hand clutch his, even as his own blood ran cold, pulsing through his veins in a sick stab of visceral fear.
Thrall nodded. "Go. The hope of the dragons of Azeroth may well rest on your success."
They turned, and though they walked out slowly, it seemed as if they fled. Within hours, they had stocked for the journey, and whatever might come of it. Not long after that, they had assembled a team.
Before the week was out, they were stepping into the portal that transported them into the sheltered realm in which the Ruby Dragonflight protected their offspring. It was an eerily beautiful wasteland.
Each and every step of the way, they were assaulted. The struggle was intense, all the more so because so much hinged upon it. It was a life or death struggle. Everyone in Golmor's band was aware of the immensity of the task they faced. Still they fought on.
At last, they had destroyed the intruders. An eerie quiet hung across the now empty space. They stood or sat, ragged and exhausted. Rations were consumed, and bodies restored, but hearts and spirits were heavy. The devastation was immense. Hundreds of eggs were destroyed or desecrated. It was a haunting place, once full of life and the promise of a future—now bereft and barren.
Golmor sat beside Cindrelle and gripped her hand in his. He looked at it, so small and delicate in his. "The tidings we bear are wretched," he said. His voice was a pale echo of itself, and in her wan and fragile face, he saw a reflection of his own sorrow and regret.
"Yes, I fear—" her words were cut off.
A shimmer cut the air, and then he was there. They'd been told they must kill him, but believed he had fled. But no. The massive Twilight dragon, Halion, emerged into the decimated sanctuary. The Black Dragonflight had arrived.
Despite being prepared for the unexpected, none of them were really prepared to face this great behemoth. Physically they were ready, of course. But their hearts were already heavy and tired.
Little did it matter to the mighty Halion…
"Your world teeters on the brink of annihilation. You will all bare witness to the coming of a new age of destruction!" he shouted.
And so the real battle began.
Golmor dodged the incoming fireball, smelling the acrid scent of burning hair as one of the braids of his beard was singed, and felt the heat on his hide. Stopping but briefly, he fired off another burst of magic, which leapt from person to person, healing each in turn.
Wounds knit as the magic dodged from one to another, and Golmor ignored the burning in his side as he once more scrambled out of the way of a falling meteor of fire. He was already physically exhausted, but he persevered for one reason and one reason only: He was building a future for his family, and no cursed black dragon was going to get in his way!
Ferocious anger reared up in him as it always did when he saw some monster beating on the woman he loved. It fueled his magic in some way, he was certain. His spells seemed to fly faster, his voice and mind working more clearly when he was in this mental state.
As the battle raged it was becoming increasingly clear that it was shifting to the Horde's favor. Realizing this, Halion opened a portal into the Twilight Realm and fled into it. Golmor raced after the beast into the portal. There would be no escape for the vicious creature, even in a realm controlled by the twilight dragonflight!
"Cutter's coming!" grunted his friend Farnik from Golmor's left.
It was what they called the Thread of Magic that this demonic, monstrous dragon summoned. A beam of snaking energy emerged from an orb hovering in the air, circling around. It prowled among the combatants like some malevolent worm ready to suck life away.
Scrambling backwards, Golmor barely managed to avoid being trampled by an elf—a hunter, he thought, but wasn't sure.
"Watch it!" he snapped. He ignored the responding swear, and focused on healing the offending party. They were, after all, on the same side—even if the guy probably needed to be taken down a notch or two later.
Expended, the cutter vanished—for the moment. The respite would be short, he knew.
He kept a watchful eye on Cindrelle, despite the fact that she was someone else's responsibility for the moment, in the most technical sense. Twice she drew so near death that Golmor nearly panicked. There were times when he felt his heart really couldn't take more scares like this.
Soon, he was forced to leave her, returning to the world of Life, while she remained in the portal with the spectral double of the dragon. Barely avoiding the cutter, he stepped out of the portal, blinking in the light. Immediately, he began to throw magic once more.
He tried to focus on the job at hand, but part of him was always attuned to her. And there was one moment where he nearly leaped back into the twilight realm to save her, but knew that to abandon his duties here would be suicide.
So he stayed, and trusted another to watch over her.
The fight was long, yet it seemed all too short suddenly… it was nearly over. The signs were all there—the dragon was nearing the end of his life. He was drained and desperate. Golmor's forces were winning, despite several people having been laid low.
The dragon stumbled once. Then twice. Then the unthinkable happened. Chaos, infinite and eternal, broke loose. The priest whose job it was to heal Cindrelle fell to the brutal magic of the cutter… and to Golmor's horror, he felt her life drain away as well—too quickly for him to get to her. Too quickly for him to help.
In that instant, the fight turned desperate, and everyone scrambled to survive, just a moment longer than Halion.
"This world will burn with the master's return!" Halion shouted, lunging for Golmor.
The world narrowed down to that moment, even as he fruitlessly cast a heal on himself. He took no time to think of it, simply shouted. "Lok'tar Ogar!"—Victory or death! He would meet death with honor.
Raising his dagger, he faced Halion down. The black dragon loomed over him, and he lashed out, prepared for the inevitable. He would die; he would be with his beloved in whatever afterlife there was. He was content. Life without her was no life at all, anyway.
Death never came. The mighty dragon collapsed at Golmor's feet; nose inches from the boots that encased his feet.
His voice weak, Halion said, "Relish this victory, mortals, for it will be your last." A single great breath stirred Golmor's cloak, and then there was silence.
Dizzy with relief, Golmor found himself laughing. "Honor and Glory!" he shouted, lifting his dagger towards the sky.
The shout was repeated by the ragged remains of the party who had set out with him. Nervous laughter and strained congratulations started around him, as the portals vanished and those who had traveled to the twilight realm were dropped unceremoniously back into the world of the living.
But with them came Halion's spirit. Slain now, it held only a smoky form. "This is not over," the shade told them. "You have slain me, but I will have my revenge!"
To Golmor's stunned horror, he watched Halion's shade reach out and pluck the very soul from Cindrelle's body. He held her soul for a moment, watching her struggle in torments. Silent shrieks were torn from her as he opened his shadow maw wide and swallowed her soul whole, as he might have done to her body when she was alive.
"No!" Golmor heard the shout. He knew it was his. He knew he was running forward, reaching for her. It didn't matter, though. All he knew was that he had to save her. He had to get her back.
Then he turned, and spoke to her body. Wrapping himself in magic, he buried himself into it. All of his heart and soul went into the call… the call to draw her soul back to her body. To anchor her to Life…
Halion's sinister laugh washed over him, and then the shade turned slowly into mist.
"She is mine now, mortal. You can never get her back." The last word lingered in the air as the leviathan vanished into a final wisp of black smoke. "Never."
The spell completed. Golmor held his breath. Then he pleaded. "Come back to me, Cindrelle! Find a way, come back!" He cast again. And again.
A hand touched his shoulder. A voice, sympathetic and soft said to him, "Golly, man. She's gone. I'm sorry."
He shrugged the hand away, and cast again. He cast until he could cast no more.
Stumbling, he moved over to her body, and picked her up. Holding her against him, he rocked her back and forth. "Come back, baby, come back. Just one more time. Just this last time. Never again after this." He was begging. He was demanding. He was bargaining.
Silence was the only answer. Throwing back his head, he roared his fury to the heavens. He roared his rage to the uncaring world.
Finally, he carried her back through the portal and out into the frozen land of Dragonblight. He carried her body up to the top of the mighty edifice, and he carried her to the feet of the Dragonqueen.
Voice thick with emotion, he said to Alexstrasza, "You are the Aspect of Life. Bring her back. She died for your children. She died for us all. Bring her back!" He was begging again. And demanding. And pleading.
Alexstrasza knelt beside him. "I cannot, Champion. Her soul cannot be found, even in the Aether."
"No!" he shouted at her. "You bring her back, damn you! Bring her back!"
The look on her face was his undoing. The compassion, the sorrow, the understanding in the usually cold draconic eyes told him everything. Cindrelle was gone.
"Bring her back," he pleaded. "You have to bring her back. How am I to live without her?"
"I cannot," Alexstrasza repeated in a whisper. "She is gone."
He drew Cindrelle to him and wept into her hair. Unabashed, unashamed, he wept for all that he had lost. For all that would never be. The gentle touch on his shoulder went unnoticed as he grieved.
Dimly, distantly, he heard someone telling the Dragonqueen all that had transpired. But he was lost, circling deeper and deeper into his grief.
"Golmor. We must go to Orgrimmar. Thrall must know what has happened here."
Gathering himself up, Golmor picked up his love, and walked towards the portal the mage had summoned. He turned one more time towards Alexstrasza. She shook her head, and he felt the sorrow surge again. He turned without a word and stepped through the portal.
Included in the meeting months later were Warchief Thrall, High Overlord Saurfang, Garrosh Hellscream, and the dragon Kalec; the latter of whom stood before them in his half-elven guise. They awarded Golmor for his bravery, for the honor and courage with which he had faced down the mighty Halion. All who had gone with him were awarded for their own parts in the battle, as well.
Cindrelle was awarded, and Golmor accepted the award for her. He stood stoic and silent, grunting in response to the award, though he clutched it more dearly than his own. If Thrall and Saurfang recognized his mood far too well, they were too courteous to mention it.
When the others had been dismissed, Thrall asked Golmor to stay. He stood before his Warchief in silence.
"Golmor, it's been months. Are you ready to take up your duties?" Thrall sighed when Golmor's head shook in the negative. "I will have to compel you soon, Golmor. Don't make it come to that."
"Then don't do it," Golmor responded, his bestial face contorted with barely concealed pain. "I've bought a house, like she wanted. Leave me alone to live in it. I don't want to see more dying."
"We need every man and woman of able body. You know this, Golmor." Thrall's voice had taken on a stern edge now, using the force of his personality to drag the other man from his grieving stupor.
"And this task may well be to your very great liking," Garrosh said, some degree of smugness entering his own voice; a strange counter-point to Thrall's firmness of tone.
"There are rumors of black dragonflight encroaching on Azshara," Thrall said. "I've promised Kalec that I would—"
"Black dragons? I'm willing to kill some black dragons," Golmor said. For the first time in months, his eyes looked clear. And if it seemed he stood straighter, it was no one's imagination.
"Good, it's settled, then," Thrall said. "You will go and look into these rumors." He turned to Kalec then, "Is that satisfactory?"
Kalec bowed elegantly, "It is all I could ask, Thrall. Thank you."
At Thrall's nod, Golmor turned to leave the room. He stopped, and looked back. "And when I've killed every black dragon on the face of Azeroth, I'm going to adopt an orphan."
When he was gone, Garrosh looked at Thrall, "An orphan?"
Saurfang put his hand on Garrosh's shoulder. "It's the cries of the swine at slaughter."
Garrosh looked after the disappearing shaman. Then, he looked at Saurfang and nodded once. They both recognized that he finally understood what Saurfang had been trying to say.
The cries of the dying children and the cries of the swine were too much alike. And maybe, just maybe, not everything was fair in war. And in love, it seemed that nothing was fair.
"I will help him in any way I can," Kalec told Thrall.
"Thank you, Kalec," Thrall said. "We can only hope that the rumors are unfounded. For I fear that Deathwing is once more afoot in this world."
At the mention of the dreaded Deathwing, the group had fallen silent. Quietly, Kalec said, "I fear you may be right."
Silently, Thrall admitted to himself that he also feared he would soon be telling Tirion that the Death Knights would have a definite purpose in the years to come. The same purpose they were already serving: war.
For his part, Golmor left Orgrimmar later that day, riding directly for Azshara. He had also found a purpose in life: revenge. He vowed, even as he rode, that he would wipe the black dragonflight from existence once and for all.
In the depths of his sleep, Deathwing stirred, as if he had felt that promise.
And so it was that without fanfare, in the absence of pomp and circumstance, the Cataclysm had begun.