Chapter Two time!

x

x

Where have You Gone?

The warmth of the sun was comforting on Nar'grin's back. His wrinkled face folded further as he smiled at the little plants fighting to grow in Durotar's harsh soil. The garden had been Ahnka's idea, and while she had always tended it well, she was powerless to make the bed better for her plants. Nar'grin, however, could. As a shaman, he could ask the spirits to help the little plants grow strong.

Brother earth; these plants provide my granddaughter and I with needed food. Will you help them to grow, that they may serve a purpose?

Nar'grin was not sure how one could feel a smile, but he did as the Spirit of Earth made its rumbling reply.

Every living thing must eat, the earth boomed. You and yours are no different. I will help these plants to grow.

Thank you, Brother, Nar'grin thought, smiling again.

Often, Nar'grin would ask the other elements for their aid, but the sun was already shining warmly, the breeze gentle, and he had sought Water's aid only yesterday. Even though Orgrimmar was not the ideal place for vegetables and fruits to grow, water every other day was sufficient, with the help of the other elements.

Humming an old troll tune under his breath, Nar'grin wrapped his bony hands around the few scraggly weeds that had managed to grow amongst Ahnka's beloved garden, and ripped them up, setting them in a pile to be turned to compost later. Using clippers, he pruned the leaves of the wolf peach* plant, and inspected the fruits for ripeness. Some were turning orange already, but most were undersized and green yet, so he left them. Several of the berries Ahnka had planted were ripe, and Nar'grin cheerfully popped one of the bright red clusters into his mouth, chewing and smiling at the pleasant taste. He picked the rest, piling them into a little woven basket he'd brought out with him.

A few of the other plants needed care, as well. Ahnka had planted several vegetables, as well as gourds and herbs, in the years before she'd gone away, and Nar'grin looked to them now. The gourds were starting to wrap around the tender stalk of a bean plant, so he carefully unwound the tendril, and set it on the earth so that it could grip the ground instead. Several of the bean pods were ready, and he plucked them, too, setting them in the basket with the berries. Even some of the fickle, night-blooming dragon fruit was ripe. By the time he was ready to go back inside, the basket was heavy with produce.

Nar'grin's old joints creaked and cracked as he stood, pulling himself up with his trusted staff. For a moment, he stared down at Ahnka's garden, missing his girl, then turned and shuffled back into the hut.

Inside, he set the basket of fruits and vegetables on the counter, and then arranged his receding hair into its usual half-tied back style. Most orcs wore their hair somewhat more elaborate, especially shamans - beads, braids, feathers and the like - but Nar'grin's hands were not that deft anymore. Indeed, it was getting difficult to twist his beard into a simple, single braid. Rheumatism had left its mark.

Every day he had gone down to Grommash Hold in the Valley of Strength to hear any word of the efforts in Northrend. Every day was a bit excessive, he knew, but his only family was up there, somewhere in that frozen hell, fighting monsters that should not be. He had to know of any change.

A twinge beneath his ribcage caused Nar'grin to suck in a breath. One gnarled hand rose, trembling, to press against his chest, and he dropped heavily into the nearest chair in the little kitchen. He grumbled to himself, annoyed at his weakness. Years ago, this would only have happened one time; he'd have already healed himself, but now, so worn down by his age, it was simply more than he could manage. He gasped a quiet plea for help to the elements, and took a long pull from the vial that Ahnka had insisted he carry. It was filled with the oil of some plant called hedgethorn**, and the healers had told Ahnka it would help her grandfather.

After a time, the pain faded; his chest loosened, and he could breathe again. His hands stopped shaking, and, leaning on his staff, Nar'grin left for the Hold.

By the time he made it to Grommash Hold - on the far side of Orgrimmar from the hut he shared with Ahnka - Nar'grin was out of breath and shaking. The breathlessness on its own was commonplace; he was old, and long walks winded him, but his Ahnka meant more. It was the shaking, coupled with a returning pressure beneath his sternum, that gave him pause. He would drink more of the medicine once he returned to the hut.

Almost a year it had been since his granddaughter had gone off to war. Almost a year of walking the road from his hut to the Valley of Strength. So much had happened, and Ahnka - his Ahnka - had played a vital role in all of it. She had helped bring the tuskarr - whatever those were - and the taunka into the Horde, and she had gained the favor of the dragonflights.

She, like many others, had become a hero up in that distant land, and Nar'grin could not have been more proud of her. All the news thus far had been good, but he still worried. Ahnka had managed to write to him a handful of times, and her latest missive had regarded an impending attack on Icecrown Citadel itself, at Angrathar, the Wrathgate. He could only pray that the luck which had brought her safely through all the other trials Northrend had would be enough to get her through again.

As he neared the Hold, Nar'grin's ears, still keen despite advanced age, picked up shouting and wailing from the place. There was a throng of people, and they were all greatly agitated. Up close, the elderly shaman could see male orcs stamping their feet, females sobbing and clutching little ones. In front of the Hold's entrance stood the warchief, in his black-and-copper plate armor, looking grim.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Citizens of Orgrimmar," the warchief was saying as Nar'grin approached, "this tragedy must not overcome us. Though many of our young, proud fighters were slain, we cannot succumb. In order to avenge their deaths, we must stand strong! If we fall to our despair, and let the Lich King triumph, then their deaths will be for nothing."

Nar'grin's heart began to race dangerously, and he felt a band of iron wrap around his chest.

Please, ancestors, no... Let it not be her...

The warchief continued on, speaking of the bravery of the Horde fighters who had gone to Northrend, all their accomplishments, and why the must not be forgotten. Nar'grin listened desperately, praying there would be something to suggest that Ahnka had been nowhere near whatever this horror had been.

"The betrayal of Grand Apothecary Putress will be punished!" the armored leader boomed. "For his unforgivable actions, and for the coup within the Undercity, he will suffer. The fallen of the Wrathgate battle will be avenged!"

Nar'grin hardly heard the furious cheers that erupted. 'The fallen of the Wrathgate battle will be avenged!' The fallen... dead...

Pain exploded in his chest, and he crumpled, his vision fading first to gray, then to black, as his breath left him in a rush. He saw the blurred face of an orcish healer for an instant, then everything fell away.

Sensation was slow in returning to him, at first. The very first thing was the pain. It was far less intense than it had been outside of Grommash Hold, but it still left him gasping. He tried to move, and it only increased.

His strangled groans must have been heard, for a young orc female was bending over him. For one shining, hopeful moment, he thought it might be Ahnka, come to take him to walk alongside the ancestors with her, but the hair was too light, the face too angular, and the muscles far smaller. This was a healer, not his little rogue.

"You must not speak," the healer murmured, pressing a cup of some liquid to his lips. His throat was dry as Durotar's deserts, and he drank greedily. He began to splutter, choking on the water, and the cup was removed. "Slowly," the healer admonished, before returning the cup to his thirsty mouth.

His mind was cloudy - hadn't he seen Ahnka, or thought he had, just a moment ago? Was he still in the hold, or had some kind soul brought him home to die? For that matter, was he even dying? Why would he be? Thoughts that had been clear a minute ago fogged over, and though he fought against it, a tide of darkness swept over him, and pulled Nar'grin under.

It was days before Nar'grin had the strength to stay awake for very long. The female healer from the first day continued to care for him. On occasion there were others, but she was constant.

He did not bother to learn her name. Under any other circumstances, he would have, but this was different. The fighters at the Wrathgate had been killed - betrayed by Putress and the Forsaken. Poisoned by a plague virus meant to kill living and undead alike. He would welcome death, now.

But death escaped him. For two weeks, Nar'grin slowly regained his strength. He supposed he had to see the proof, before he could accept it, because if there was even the slightest chance that she had survived...

"What happened at the Wrathgate?" he demanded one day as the female healer worked her magic on him.

The orc woman did not speak for a long moment. She looked as though she was not sure she wanted to say anything, but eventually, she sighed.

"I do not know everything," the female began. "The Forsaken Grand Apothecary, Putress, has turned traitor. He and his supporters in Northrend tricked many of the adventurers who went to join the fighting into helping him make the new plague... which he unleashed upon the Horde and Alliance armies at the Wrathgate..."

The female's face suddenly filled with pain, and Nar'grin realized that she must have lost someone to that disaster, as well.

"It is rumored that none survived..." she finished in a sad, quiet whisper.

Nar'grin grit his teeth. It could not be true - it couldn't be true! Somehow, someway, it could not be. He waited until the healer had left the room he was in - it was the city's infirmary, he'd learned - and then he closed his eyes. Marshalling his strength, Nar'grin opened himself to the Spirit of Life, and sent his thoughts outward, seeking for Ahnka's presence.

For a long while, he felt nothing. He could not connect to her portion of the Spirit of Life, and his world began to crumble again. And suddenly, there it was; a tiny flicker, like a single candle in the dark, but still present.

She was alive.

Ahnka was alive!

Drained, he sank back against the pillows. She was alive, yes, but she was in trouble. When he'd connected momentarily to her spirit, he'd felt fear, felt trapped. She was being held somewhere in Northrend; held by the Lich King's servants. She would need rescue.

"Ancestors, thank you," he muttered, smiling weakly. "Spirit of Life, my thanks..."

I am within all, brother. Rest now, know that I accept your gratitude, and I shall give you strength.

Nodding obediently, Nar'grin closed his eyes, already feeling energy coursing through his limbs.

He was recovered and out of bed two days later. That very day, he sought, and was granted, an audience with the warchief.

The stone throne room in Grommash Hold was pleasantly cool - for most people. For Nar'grin, it was freezing, and he had to give a conscious effort to keep from shivering.

"Thrall hall, Warchief," he intoned, saluting and bowing low.

"Please, elder," the warchief said kindly. "I am given to understand you have had a troublesome ordeal of late. Be at ease. What is it you wish of me?"

Nar'grin hesitated only a moment.

"I would ask when an expedition to look for survivors of the Wrathgate will be sent to Northrend, Warchief," he requested. "And if so, I would be a part of that expedition."

The warchief regarded him sadly for a long moment.

"I wish I could assure you there would be such an expedition, elder," he sighed, "but reports from Angmar's Hammer insist that none could have survived. I understand it is hard to lose family, but I cannot endanger any more of my people in an effort to locate the dead."

Nar'grin shook his head.

"But, surely someone must have survived, Warchief" he insisted. "How else was word spread so quickly of the attempt's failure?"

"Scouts saw the dragons come," the warchief said sadly. "In order to keep our honored dead from rising as our enemies, they burned every body as they flew over. There was nothing left, elder. My apologies."

Nar'grin felt frustraition, more than despair. He knew what he'd found when he tapped into the Spirit of Life. Ahnka was alive in Northrend, held captive by the Scourge, and he would rescue her. Nevermind age, nevermind health; he would not suffer her imprisonment. She needed him, and he would go to her.

Leaving the Hold, Nar'grin took the path home quicker than usual. He was wheezing by the time he reached his hut, and he took only a minute to rest. Ahnka did not have forever. If he wanted to save her, he would have to get moving.

The warchief might not be sending more ships to examine what had happened at the Wrathgate, the elderly shaman knew full well that zeppelins left Orgrimmar for Warsong Hold and Vengeance Landing almost daily. He would buy passage on one of the zeppelins.

As soon as he had his breath back, Nar'grin went to his bedroom at the back of the hut, and packed a few items of clothing. He stuffed a couple large loaves of bread into his pack, and set out for the zeppelin towers. Under an arm, he clutched his cloak.

The zeppelins were atop the rise above the Drag, and the only way up to them was by the lifts. On occasion, the motion of the lifts made Nar'grin sick to his stomach, but he was so focused on his mission this time, that he did not notice.

As he stepped off one lift, a grunt acknowledged him.

"Where do you go, elder?" the younger male asked conversationally, offering Nar'grin his assistance on the stairs from the lift to the surface of the rise.

"To Northrend," Nar'grin replied, ignoring the shock on the other orc's face.

"With all do respect, elder," the grunt warned. "Northrend is a dangerous place. Even the Horde's best fighters have trouble surviving in that harsh land."

Nar'grin shook his head. "I must go," he explained. "My granddaughter is a survivor of the Wrathgate, held captive by the Scourge."

The grunt looked at him with such a startled, worried look on his face, as though he thought Nar'grin's mind had gone.

"There were no survivors of the Wrathgate, elder," the younger one said quietly. "The dragons..."

Nar'grin waved off the orc's now restraining hold.

"I know about the dragons, pup," he grunted. "But I am going to Northrend. My granddaughter lives, held prisoner by the Scourge, and I go to rescue her."

Before the stunned grunt could do anything to stop him, Nar'grin walked away, disappearing into the base of the southern zeppelin tower. Shaking his head at what he perceived as incredible senility, the grunt went back to his post.

Inside the zeppelin tower, Nar'grin took the stairs slowly. They were steep, and narrow, and his legs did not have the strength to take them quicker. Once he reached the top, he stopped to regain his breathing. When it had calmed from heaving gulps to quiet panting, he made his way to the Borean Tundra zeppelin platform, where the goblin zeppelin master stood.

"Yeah, whatcha want?" the goblin sneered, looking the old orc over. Nar'grin frowned.

"I need passage on the next zeppelin to Warsong hold," he requested, fishing in his pocket for his coins.

"Ten gold," the shady little critter demanded, holding out his hand expectantly. There was a nasty grin on his face, as though he knew the cost was too high, and that Nar'grin was likely unable to pay.

He was wrong.

The shaman calmly counted out the worth of ten gold from his few gold and handful of silver, and passed it over to the goblin. A horn blasted from their right, and the two turned to see a small, single-level zeppelin pull up to the platform.

"You're in luck, pal," the goblin grinned. "Here's the zeppelin now!"

Nar'grin's face took on a determined set, and without another word to the goblin, he moved onto the zeppelin, ready for Northrend; ready to find his granddaughter.

*; 'wolf peach' is an old European name for tomatoes, because of its similar look to deadly nightshade, which was believed to summon werewolves. I thought this name might fit with the orc culture better than 'tomato,' considering the close relationship orcs tend to have with wolves.

**; hedgethorn is another name for hawthorn. I decided to go with hedgethorn because it seemed to fit a bit better, as the plant is described as a thorny hedge. It is a herb that really helps the heart and blood circulation.

x

x

And that's it for this chapter. Hope everyone liked it. Review, please!