Dalaran, Crystalsong Forest, Northrend (Year 27 ADP)
Miona gazed out the window of the apartment she shared with Bralla, high up in a tower of the Violet Citadel, and hugged herself against the chill. She watched a blue dragon circle lazily about the slender trunk of an impossibly crystallized tree, its canopy nearly tall enough to brush the underside of the floating city.
Not long after Dalaran was restored to its former glory in the Hillsbrad Foothills, the need arose to uproot the city and transport it to where the might of the Kirin Tor was sorely needed: Northrend. Bitterly, Miona recalled the fruitless battles against the Scourge in the Plaguelands, and the many brave men and women who fell. How it seemed no decisive push was made, beyond the Argent Dawn's own diligence. So long as the threat was contained within a land already lost and beyond reclamation, the leaders of the Horde and the Alliance were content to pursue their own petty grievances, sending only a handful now and then to give the appearance of support.
Such was the status quo, until the Scourge dared to attack Orgrimmar and Stormwind directly. Only then did the leaders mobilize their forces and resolve to take the fight to Northrend where the Lich King reigned.
But by then, it was too late. So many souls lost, their ashes drifting endlessly upon the winds of the Plaguelands, if they were lucky enough to be collected and burned. Not all were so fortunate.
Bowing her head, Miona fought against a grief that gripped her often these last few years. One soul in particular took her heart with him into death, and ever after, she felt as though she were a lifeless shell, feeling nothing save remorse for a lifetime of moments, lost forever. The terrible necropolis of Naxxramas that now hovered over the land south of Crystalsong Forest loomed like a hateful reminder, for it was in battle against the forces of that monstrosity that her love was taken from her. Twisting the knife further, few of the fallen could be reclaimed, for the citadel disappeared from the Plaguelands without a trace. Miona had no certainty of when Dukhor perished, or what fate befell his body. She didn't want to know.
Her thoughts were broken when the sitting room door opened, but she didn't turn.
"I think this is the last of them," Bralla announced. The soft rustling of parchment that seemed to accompany the gnome mage everywhere could be heard. "Are you ready?"
"Of course," Miona replied, leaving the window and joining her employer and friend at a large table piled high with scrolls and letters. Bralla flitted on a magical current from one end of the room to the other, gathering up more scrolls. These she somehow fitted in amongst the piles on the table. Miona seated herself and pulled a blank sheet of parchment close. She uncorked the inkwell and dipped the quill in preparation.
"Now then," Bralla began briskly. "These are all the members of the Argent Dawn, the Knights of the Ebon Blade, and the Knights of the Silver Hand. Maybe the Ebon Blade doesn't quite consider itself part of the Argent Crusade, but what Mograine doesn't know about my bookkeeping won't hurt him." She winked at Miona hopefully, and was rewarded with a wan smile. "I want a master list of all our members: names, homelands, factional affiliation, race, gender, specialization, and... well, to be frank, next of kin. Not all of these documents have that last bit; I'll ask for that information when they stop through on their way to one battlefront or another."
Miona nodded her understanding, and noted the headings on the parchment. Then she pulled the first scroll to her and began to skim for names. Thankfully, the recruitment officer in Ironforge provided a neat list of the ten Dwarves who shipped out for Borean Tundra a month ago. Relaxing, Miona began to write.
Bralla sorted the parchments and scrolls into neat piles, smoothing out bent corners, and occasionally clucking her tongue at the poor spelling or obscuring smudges left by some of the writers. Miona soon settled into the routine, pausing only long enough for lunch.
As an administrative officer of the newly formed Argent Crusade, it was Bralla's responsibility to know each member of the order, and to coordinate travel from one outpost to another. Frequently, those travel arrangements included accommodations in Dalaran itself. In spite of the Argent Crusade's neutral stance, and its complement of soldiers from all over Azeroth, the members' categorization by race to one faction or the other was still respected. It would not do to book a room in A Hero's Welcome for an Orc, for instance.
Hours past noontide, Miona smoothed out a sheet from Orgrimmar; the parchment was wrinkled and battered as though it made the journey in someone's pocket. She copied down one Horde member's name and details, then a second, her thoughts elsewhere. Then suddenly, she froze. Her hand spasmed, snapping the quill in half and flecking the letter with black inkspots.
Dukhor of the Ebon Blade. Male Orc. Clan unknown, origins unknown; Draenor assumed.
She drew a breath, and covered her mouth with one hand to stifle the scream. The beginning of a keening wail escaped, catching Bralla's attention.
"Are you all right? Goodness me, you're pale as a ghost!"
"Huh...," Miona forced out, and all at once, she began to breathe rapidly, gasping for air and clutching her heart. Her eyes welled with too many tears to contain.
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," Bralla babbled as she hurried to her aid's side. "There now. What did you read? What did you see?" Miona could only point a shaky finger at the letter. Her brow furrowed with confused worry, Bralla took the sheet.
"Um... these are Horde members," she murmured, skimming the text. "Ebon Blade, all of them, it looks like. Death knights, of course. Rukalekk, Abu'gar, Dukhor, Hekka... Oh my!"
Hearing his name spoken aloud, Miona collapsed, laying her head upon her folded arms. Her sobs were muffled, but unmistakable. Bralla hastened to fetch a kerchief. Fluttering helplessly, the mage consulted the note once more. "This lot is... well, they're due here any day now. On their way to Zul'drak. I've put them up in the Filthy Animal." A brief, uncomfortable laugh spilled out. "Such an awful name for an inn. Did you... know one of them? In... in life, or... after?"
Miona struggled to compose herself. She thought she'd shed all the tears she had when the broken, defeated soldiers staggered back to the chapel, so many of their number fallen and lost when the citadel simply disappeared. Without a body to bury, she could only pray to the Light that he found rest, and was not raised by those despicable necromancers of the Scourge. Now it seemed that her prayers were ignored, or they were answered in the worst possible way. Had he returned to her as he'd promised, but only as a mockery of the man she knew?
"Yes," she whispered weakly. "Dukhor." It was all she could manage to say, but it was enough. Bralla pulled a chair close and stood upon it, then embraced her distraught friend.
"I am so sorry," the mage said. "Now I remember. You were so sad after what happened in the Plaguelands. It was him, wasn't it? He didn't come back." Miona shook her head, and fresh tears blurred her vision once more. At a loss for what to do, Bralla tentatively suggested, "Would... would you like to see him? I can arrange something..."
Grief made her reckless and foolhardy. Wiping her tears with sudden hope, she turned to Bralla and nodded. "Yes, please. I want... I need to see him. Please arrange a meeting."
Only now did Bralla seem to see the error in such an offer. "Um... are you quite sure? You do know about... That is to say, he is a death knight. They aren't... living."
"I know what they are," Miona insisted. "I remember when they came to Stormwind months ago, pledging themselves to the king."
"Hundreds of them," Bralla recalled absently. "Standing like statues outside the walls. I didn't envy their spokesman's journey to the keep with Fordring's letter. I imagine it was the same at Orgrimmar." Brow pinched with sympathy, she added, "It says here, 'origins unknown.' I don't think he remembers who he was. He may not remember... who you were."
"He will remember. He made a promise to me. I shan't let him out of it so easily."
"Dear," Bralla ventured reasonably, "a good friend of mine was... turned. Raised. However it's described. She wasn't... the same as the girl I grew up with. Quite different. Rather... dead, actually. Unfeeling, if you understand me."
Her expression hard yet unsuccessfully masking her deep sorrow, Miona hissed, "I want to see him."
Though almost a week passed, Miona stubbornly held to her decision, and Bralla regretfully approached the death knight after his group had settled in the Filthy Animal. Then she informed Miona of the arrangements for later in the day.
"I thought it best if he came here," Bralla said. "Somewhere private and... comfortable."
"I appreciate it," Miona replied sincerely. "I apologize for my rudeness this week. I thought I'd lost him..."
"You likely have, still," the gnome insisted urgently. "I only told him a woman wanted to meet with him. Someone he knew in life. He said he knows nothing from before he was raised. I think he suspects... from what he said, he likely thinks that he did you harm. That you seek vengeance."
Miona's brow furrowed. "Vengeance? Why in the world...?"
"You're human, Miona, and he's an Orc," Bralla explained. "All he knows is that your races are at war. If you want to see him, it can only be because he committed some grievous act against you or your family. I'm afraid many death knights must face these sorts of confrontations each day. The acts of cruelty, butchery, and... cold malice, no matter what power compelled them, will follow them into true death. They will never be forgiven."
Closing her eyes, Miona steeled herself. "Nevertheless, I know him. He would never forsake honor. It was not in his nature. And he will remember. Of that, I am certain."
Bralla sighed, and looked at the stubborn woman sadly. "I'm sure you're right. I'll just... prepare the sitting room for... you both. I'll call for you when he arrives." She paused at the door on her way out. "Do you want me to... to stay with you? When you meet him?"
Miona blinked with surprise. "That won't be necessary. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," the mage replied quickly. "I'll just be downstairs." Then she left. It was several minutes before Miona realized that preparing a room for a private meeting was one of her duties, not the mage's.
Miona stared at the handle of the sitting room door for a full minute before she was able to grasp it.
"I can tell him you changed your mind," Bralla suggested hopefully. In answer, Miona turned the handle purposefully, and the door swung open. The diminutive form of the mage hastened into the room ahead of Miona.
Standing at rigid attention in the center of the richly appointed sitting room stood the hulking figure of an Orc in full battle plate. As soon as Miona stepped into the room, she felt the chill radiating from his body, and the hairs on her arms prickled. The cloying stench of undeath hung in the air, and she faltered. He was facing her, yet his helm was closed, obscuring the face she knew so well.
"Here is the lady who wanted to see you, Dukhor," Bralla said nervously, gesturing toward Miona. The Orc inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. "I'll be, erm, in the next room, if you need anything. Tea. Scones. Anything at all." Excusing herself awkwardly, Bralla hurried out of the room and closed the door behind her.
Miona couldn't speak for several moments; she could only stare at the silent figure before her. He made no attempt to break the silence. No sound came from him at all, not even the occasional breath. She found herself hoping that he wasn't the same Orc, that her Orc died cleanly and completely years ago. If she never saw his face, she might be able to convince herself that it was true. But she had to be certain.
Swallowing hard, she forced breath from her lungs. "Your helmet. Remove it, if you please."
His movements were slow and measured, automatic. He raised his gauntleted hands and lifted the helmet from his head, then tucked it under one arm. Miona's eyes filled swiftly.
There was no mistaking him. Yet instead of the warm brown eyes she'd last seen so full of light and life, his eyes were a cold, solid blue, glowing like icy flames. His once richly green skin, bright as emeralds, was a dull grey, leeched of all color. His impassive face showed no recognition, no emotion, nothing at all. He simply stared at her, unmoving and unmoved.
"You're him," she whispered shakily. "Dukhor. By the Light, it's you."
Nodding once, he replied in a harshly echoing, metallic-sounding voice, "Yes. So I was told."
Miona stumbled to the divan, her knees gone weak. "Do you remember me?" she asked. "Do you know me?"
Dukhor's face seemed to have gone rigid in death. Very little movement of muscle beneath the taut flesh betrayed his thoughts. Yet she could just see a slight pinching of his heavy brow, and his head tilting a bit to one side as he looked on her intently through his horrifying eyes. She felt herself cringing beneath that stare.
"Your face," he finally said, "stirs...something. Shadows. Sensations." Slowly, his free hand rose and pressed to his chest, as if guided by a memory, not by his will. "They are strong, but... I cannot name them. I cannot... quite... touch them." He looked away, and stared unblinking into space. "It is not a memory of blood." Then he turned sharply to her once more. "I did not harm you." There was no note of relief in the statement; he simply spoke a truth.
"No, no you didn't," she assured him. "Try to remember. It was... it was a good memory."
He nodded, and continued to assess her. His memories must be deeply buried indeed. Bralla had said he'd assumed the worst of this meeting. Might he have turned his back on the past if he believed it was as ugly before his death as it became afterward? His stiff brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed.
"Your face," Dukhor murmured again, then paused. He blinked once. "Was I your mate?" Miona clutched her heart. Before she could answer, he added, "Your grief is profound, though our people are at war. I do not understand."
"You might have been, had... had you... returned," she struggled to say.
"Tell me more," he insisted, his brow furrowing. "Was I... honorable? Did I...?" He closed his eyes, and for a moment, Miona felt relief to be spared the cold intensity of his gaze. She chastised herself for such thoughts. "Was I a man you could... respect?"
"You were," she breathed, a lump forming in her throat. "From the very first moment we met."
"How did we meet?" Dukhor pressed, his eyes opening once more.
With halting words, Miona described that day when Moonbrook fell. As she spoke, his eyes widened. "I expected death at your hands, but you spared us. Do you remember?"
His arm slackened, and the heavy plate helm slipped from his grip to land with a thunk on the carpeted floor. He sank into the chair opposite her. For a moment, it seemed the icy fire in his eyes flared brighter, and Miona drew back in alarm. No breath had escaped his lips since she walked into the sitting room, yet now he exhaled, but whether from habit or need, she couldn't be sure.
"Miona," he choked.
"You remember me," she sighed, relieved. "I knew you would."
His face held an expression of shock, and he stared into the middle distance for such a long time, Miona wondered if he'd suffered a collapse. "Dukhor?" she ventured cautiously.
"I am Dukhor, son of Gardal," he murmured. His hand reached for his back, coming up empty. The hammer he'd wielded at their last meeting was long gone. Instead, twin scabbards hung from his belt; his swords were taken on entering the citadel. Dukhor closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Lost." After a moment, he seemed to recall where he was, and slowly looked up at her. "I failed you."
"No." Miona shook her head emphatically. "No, you didn't. Not at all."
"Perhaps the promise I made was only to myself, but..." He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I would have..." Looking up at her again, he left the statement unfinished.
"What... what would you have done?" she prompted, though she felt she knew the answer. She'd known it for years. But he only shook his head.
"I am not the man you knew," he said quietly. "You have only given me back the memory of my life. No one has the power to..." He paused as a small sound of grief escaped Miona. "I am grateful for it. I once embraced honor. I was merciful. I was... worthy. When I was freed, my purpose was to destroy the Lich King, to take vengeance upon him for his betrayal. Now, he will pay a thousandfold for the life he took, and the monster he made of me. For what might have been." His hand strayed to his tabard, where she once tied a ribbon as a reminder. Nothing was there. The brilliant sun of the Argent Dawn emblem was replaced by a black tabard bearing the purple blade of his order.
"And then what will you do?" Miona breathed shakily.
"Atone," Dukhor replied. "My soul is damned. Forgiveness for the atrocities I committed will never come. Regardless, I was once a... a good Orc. I will strive to be so again, for what it's worth. Perhaps I may aid the Horde in some way. I don't know."
"Let me help you!" she cried. "Promise you will look for me when the Lich King is vanquished, and... somehow, I will assist you."
"I can make no more promises to you than I have already made, and broken." Dukhor rose from the chair, and retrieved his helmet.
"Please," Miona begged. She leapt to her feet and grabbed his arm. "I forgive you. For all you have done, I forgive you. Please let me help you atone! You promised to return to me! I won't let you forsake your promise!"
The ghost of a smile twitched his mouth. "Miona is fierce." He gently released her grip. "You are a living woman. You must go on living. Be well, Miona."
Fitting his helm upon his head, Dukhor turned away. He walked to the door and let himself out. The latch closed with a dull click.
Miona stared at the door for several minutes. As if stepping through a portal, Bralla appeared next to her. The gnome's expression betrayed full awareness of all that was said. She took Miona's hand in both of hers and held tightly.
When it finally sunk in that she would never lay eyes on her Orc again, Miona collapsed upon the divan and wept.