Author's Note: See previous chapters for disclaimers.
Also, I'm kind of having to shift gears a bit, because what the hell, Sylvanas?
#
"Please, Champion Blightcaller, we need to see the Warchief. There's been an emergency," Wellington explained quietly. They were standing just outside of the entrance to the Royal Quarter, him in front and Jof and Phogrim a few steps behind him. They were facing the Forsaken ranger, who appeared wholly uninterested.
"She's in a meeting."
"It's important."
"Look, why don't you just give me a message, and I'll decide how important it is," he snapped, causing the little orc on Wellington's shoulder to grab his ear again in a vice grip. The Tauren winced slightly.
Before he could reply, however, Phogrim spoke up, his voice tired. "It's . . . It's not something that should be talked about where anyone in Undercity can hear, sir."
"Half of these people are missing ears. I'm sure it's fine," Nathanos snorted. When the small group just stared back at him with blank expressions, he rolled his eyes. "Fine. Don't expect me to try to spare you from her wrath if she does not want to talk to you."
They entered the corridor and walked in silence past the guards. Well, silence until Atas bent down and spoke in Wellington's ear. "Who's that?"
"The Warchief's champion," the priest replied, glancing up.
"He's mean. I don't like him."
"Shhh," the Tauren replied as they got to the entrance. There was a heated discussion going on just inside the door.
"We need supplies, Warchief," a male voice said. Orc, by the accent. "So much of Orgrimmar's population is off fighting the war against the Legion, we don't have enough to tend the crops. I have a city to run. Can you just please talk to him?"
"Why don't you talk to Theron yourself, Saurfang? It is not my job to make sure you all play together nicely."
"I sent him a letter a week ago. I never got a response. Look, the region around Silvermoon was spared most of the Legion's attacks. It's the best farming land we have."
Well, it seemed that Saurfang never was going to get a response.
The door swung open and the two stopped their conversation, instead turning to look at the newcomers. The Warchief sighed and rolled her eyes. "What now, Nathanos? I'm busy."
"These idiots have some sort of news for you from Quel'thalas," he said, jerking a thumb in their direction. When they did not step forward, he growled and pushed Wellington's shoulder. Of course, he did not have near enough strength to move him, but the priest felt it best if he walked inside anyway. The other two followed silently.
"Oh, good. Maybe we can settle this little dispute over crops," Sylvanas said, disinterested.
Wellington glanced over at the High Overlord, who was watching them. The old orc was obviously much more adept at reading expressions, because his curiosity quickly turned to concern. Still, he did not speak. Oh, how Wellington wished he would say something. Instead, he glanced back at the Warchief.
After standing in silence for a few more seconds, a voice came from behind Wellington. It was Phogrim. "Warchief . . . I'm sorry. It's gone."
"What's gone?" she asked, frowning at him.
The young shaman stood there for a second and swallowed, then continued. "Everything. Everything in Quel'thalas. Silvermoon, the villages. It's . . . It's all been destroyed."
A dead, awful silence fell over the room as all three commanders stared at the soldiers. It seemed to linger in the air until an ear piercing screech came from Sylvanas.
"What?"
Wellington stepped back a moment, pressing his ears to his head to block out the sound. The other two stumbled back as well, covering their ears, as well as the little boy. Still, he managed to speak. "It . . It appears to have been a mana bomb. I'm so sorry. We took a portal there, to look for someone who was AWOL and everything was gone. We found Atas here." He gestured with his head to the boy on his shoulder. "He was near the explosion when it happened."
She stopped her approach and simply glared at the group, but Wellington thought that he saw a deep pain in her expression. He glanced over at Saurfang and Blightcaller, who were standing behind the Warchief. Saurfang's expression hardened and he stepped forward. "I will gather the others, Warchief, and bring them here," he said without prompting. She simply nodded in return, not looking at him. He quickly left the room as the three parted to give him room.
They stared at each other for an uncomfortably long period of time until Sylvanas straightened. When she spoke, her voice was cold. "That little boy can tell me what happened?"
Oh, poor Atas, Wellington thought, but nodded. He reached up and gently extricated the boy from where he had wrapped his arms around the tauren's horn. He picked him up and set him down on the ground in front of the Warchief. The boy quickly thumped himself on the chest in a proper orcish salute. He had practiced with Phogrim for nearly an hour.
Sylvanas put her hands on her knees and bent down, forcing a weak smile for the boy. "Hello. What is your name?" When she got a blank stare in reply, she switched to orcish and repeated the question.
"Atas."
"Atas. Can you tell your Warchief what happened?"
"I was fishing with Miss Belidora. Someone blew up where we were. A demon, I think. It looked like a demon. Like Mr. Champion."
She frowned and glanced up at the adults. Wellington sighed. "It looks like Nathanos. Humans, probably."
"What exactly did they do, Atas?" Sylvanas asked
"There was a big ship, in the sky. Like a zeppelin without balloons. Miss Belidora saw it and grabbed my hand and we tried to run. There was a big blast. Then, there was a voice. Miss Belidora grabbed onto me like this," he said, making his hands into a hug. "Then . . . I don't remember what happened. I think we got blasted. When I woke up, she was hurt really bad, and the demon was gone. She said she needed my help, and we tried to come here to find you, but they caught us."
"Who's they?"
"Another demon. And some . . . Different elves."
"Night elves," Phogrim volunteered.
Atas continued. "And a . . . A draenei." Well, at least he knew that race. "We tried to get away, but Miss Belidora was hurt and they tied her up. Then we got to a place with a big eagle, and she told me to run, so I did, and I saw Jof and he helped me. But now she's gone."
Sylvanas stood back up and patted the boy gently on the head. "Thank you, Atas," she said, almost shakily. "You are very brave. I'm sure you will make a fine warrior someday."
The boy smiled and looked back up at Wellington proudly, but the tauren just sighed at him before turning his attention back to the Warchief. "Belidora is the girl we were looking for in the first place. We tried to get to her, but they'd forced her onto a gryphon before we could," he said, speaking in common. "As far as we can tell, they went to Stormwind. I'm sorry, the testimony of a child is not as useful, but…"
"It's . . . It's alright. I thank you for informing me of this," she said, her voice still strange. "You're dismissed. Take the boy home. Undercity is no place for children."
"Warchief," Jof said quietly. It was the first time he had spoken in hours. She glanced up at him, and he continued. "We be havin' a request." When she did not stop him, he proceeded. "Belidora . . . She our friend. A good, loyal, brave soldier for da Horde. Could ya please talk to da Alliance, ask for her back, safe an' sound? Dey not be needin' a hostage anymore. She not a threat to them. I'm sure…"
"Do you really think I'm going to talk to the Alliance after this?" she snapped. The anger had returned in full force.
Phogrim spoke up this time. "If you don't think that's wise, Warchief, then please, at least send your Deathstalkers to try and get her out. Please, Warchief, if not for her protecting Atas, then we wouldn't even have the information that we have now."
"I don't even really know this girl," Sylvanas said, but she was at least careful not to yell this time. "I'm not endangering the Deathstalkers to retrieve a common soldier. I'm sorry, but I have the entire Horde to worry about, not just someone based on sentiment."
Wellington sighed and scooped up Atas, putting him on his shoulder. He had talked to the other two about this request long before they had gotten to Undercity and tried to dissuade them from it. He had known the Warchief's answer before they even asked, and had not wanted them to be disappointed. Still…
"Ya know, she looked up to ju," Jof said, his voice angry. Sylvanas turned her attention to him. He continued without prompting, or permission. "When she was little, she idolized ju, idolized da entire ranger corps. And she a good girl now." When Sylvanas frowned and let her shoulders fall slightly, he said something that made Wellington want to smack him and simultaneously fear for his life.
"If ya not try to help a girl like her, den what ya die for in the first place, Warchief?"
Sylvanas's eyes narrowed, and at the same time seemed to glow red more violently. Jof did not shrink away from her this time, instead simply glaring back at her.
"Get out," she said quietly.
Wellington grabbed Jof's arm and started to pull. He felt the troll tense - a stupid proposition, since the tauren was far stronger - then slowly relent and turn around. He moved his grip to his wrist and pulled him hastily out of the room, with Phogrim following close behind. "Are you absolutely insane? She could have killed you!" Wellington snapped.
"I don't care."
"Stop it. Do you think this is what your friend would want? For you to die?" the priest argued. "We are the only people in the Horde who know where she is. She desperately needs for us to stay alive." When the troll still glared at him, he looked over at Phogrim. "Back me up here?"
The orc sighed and shook his head. "Sometimes . . . I think the Warchief needs to hear the truth. Come on. Let's go back to Orgrimmar."
#
What a difference a week made.
Phogrim looked up at the fireworks exploding over the sky of Orgrimmar and frowned slightly. A couple of weeks ago, he would have expected the defeat of the Burning Legion - as unlikely a miracle as that was until it had actually happened - to be a moment of unprecedented elation across Azeroth. Until less than a week ago, it would have been true. Now, though, it was punctuated with grief.
The remaining sin'dorei - almost all of them soldiers who had been fighting away from home - had had invitations from Saurfang, Bloodhoof, and Windrunner to settle in their cities. They would work to find them free housing and make it as much as a home as radically different cities could be. They were still sons and daughters of the Horde, after all, and family did not abandon one another. The Council of Six in Dalaran had likewise offered them some housing there, if they were more comfortable. It was unlikely that the Silver Covenant would raise as much outrage about it as usual - it had been their homes and families that were destroyed too.
He sighed and continued walking until he got to his mother's hut. He stepped inside and blinked to adjust his eyes to the light coming from the fire.
His sister was sitting in front of it, holding her baby, whom she and her mate had named Sungu. The little orcling was babbling and grabbing at her hair while she spoke to him quietly. Finally, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "Phogrim!"
"Hello, Seneda," he said, forcing a smile. "How are you? And how's my nephew?"
She stood up and handed the baby over without prompting. "Krish is getting strong. Soon he'll be as strong as you. I'll give him a few more months, tops."
He rolled his eyes at her and smiled at the baby, who was now trying to grab at Phogrim's much more substantial tusks. Suddenly, someone wrapped their arms around him from behind, and he turned to see his mother. "You're back!"
"Yes," he said slowly, turning to hug her with one arm while still holding the baby. "I am."
"Did you help strike down the dark titan? Tell me about it, brother," Seneda said.
"I, um, was not there for the final assault," he said slowly, extricating himself and sitting down on the stool by the fire. "I was in Undercity at the time."
The women's facial expressions fell slightly. "Doing what?" Seneda asked.
"Speaking to the Warchief. Jof, Wellington, and I had taken a portal to Silvermoon after Belidora overstayed her leave," he started.
His mother covered her mouth and walked over quickly, hugging him. "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry," she said quietly, her voice cracking.
"Stop, stop," he said quickly, but his voice was still a little strained. He looked at the two crestfallen orcs. "She's still alive, as far as I know. We saw her."
"Then where is she?" Seneda asked.
"Stormwind," he said, looking back down at the baby, who was still trying to grab his tusks. "We found her in Aerie Peak. Jof tried to get to her, but before he could, they'd already forced her into a cage that the gryphon was carrying," he said, then growled slightly, utterly confusing the baby. "He said she was burned pretty badly, I guess from the bomb."
"How do you know she was going to Stormwind?" his mother asked.
"A little orcling orphan that was with her and managed to run told us that's what the Alliance said."
"But why?" Seneda blurted out. "She's not anyone who's high ranking. She has no family where she could be influential. She's just a common soldier. Why would they take her?"
"A hostage until they can get safely away? I don't know. None of us do," he said helplessly, then sighed. "Poor Jof is beside himself. He won't sleep and barely eats. He keeps thinking there was something he could have done to get to her before they left." Phogrim frowned. "I might be somewhat to blame for that."
"Did you tell the Warchief?" his mother asked.
"Yes."
"And?"
"What Seneda said. She's no one important," he sighed, frowning.
#
The waves crashed slowly onto the beach of the Echo Isles, and the stars shone in the sky. Jof flopped onto his back in the sand and stared at them for a few minutes. It was a beautiful night out, and the celebratory bonfire and laughter echoed through the air. Still, the lack of sleep and food was starting to get to him, although he was sure that he probably could not work up an appetite if he tried. So, not wanting to ruin anyone else's fun, he decided to go off by himself for awhile.
He finally sat up and picked up the bow that he had hooked onto his belt. It was Belidora's. He had picked it up when they had found it in Eversong Woods and he had thought - perhaps foolishly - that he could return it to her when they found her. Then, of course, he screwed that up. He sighed and examined it in the moonlight. It was dark, rustic looking wood, and had a long crack through one of the ends. He was fairly sure that if he pulled the string back, it would snap in two. Which meant she never was able to draw it back, either.
He sighed. It was an ugly thing - one of the "rewards" from the Horde for the Broken Shore debacle. The armorer had replaced their weapons that they had lost when they had been taken prisoner in Stormheim. There were, after all, plenty of extras that were never handed out.
"Ya know, if ju want to learn da bow, ya can use a regular size one. No need for a grown troll ta be usin' a trainin' bow," a voice behind him said.
Jof turned his head and saw a troll with long, gray braids standing behind him. Sorun, an elder shaman of the Darkspears, and his mentor. The older troll smiled around his tusks and limped forward, using his cane to get along. It had been many years, perhaps over a century, since Jorun had gone to battle. Jof was not entirely sure how old he was.
Jof tried to return the smile, but his heart was not in it. He sighed. "It not belong ta me, sir. Friend of mine. Little elf. Dat why it be small."
Sorun did not reply to him until he got close and painfully sat down next to him with a grunt. "Ya fatha' told me that ju lost a friend, da blood elf dat was with you in Stormheim. I be sorry ta hear that, cub. But, he said she may still be alive. Dere still be hope," the old shaman said. "Either way, ya not be helpin' her by poutin' on the beach."
Jof frowned slightly and stared off into the ocean. If his father had been talking to the old shaman, he was afraid of what else he might have said.
As if reading his mind, Sorun continued. "Ya might feel bettah if ju let old Sorun listen ta what's on your mind. Helped after the Broken Shore and Stormheim, ya?"
"This all my fault," Jof blurted out. "I coulda stopped dem. I froze, and now who knows what dey be puttin' her through." He narrowed his eyes. "I shoulda done somethin'. I'm a coward."
"It would not have helped da girl for ya to be captured too."
"At least she would not be facin' dem alone. Ju know what dey did to us," Jof said, turning to look at him.
The old troll sighed. "I was not there when ya friend was taken. I don't know what ju coulda done, if dere be anyt'ing. There be nothin' to gain from torturin' yourself over it, though. Da only thing ya can do now is try to get her back."
Jof turned away and stared off at the sea again, pulling his long legs closer to his chest and clutching the bow tighter. After several moments, Sorun put his hand on his shoulder, causing the younger shaman to jump slightly. He was so tense he was not sure he could move.
"See, dis why ya not ready ta learn all da healin' arts," Sorun said, seemingly out of the blue.
Jof looked over at him, confused at the apparent change of topic. Sorun continued. "Ya always been such a tendah-hearted pup, ever since I started teachin' ju. Dat why ya nevah made much of a healer, when ya communication wit' da elements otherwise been so skilled."
Jof frowned at his apparent insult. "I thought bein' 'empathetic' made ju a bettah one."
"It does, ta a point, but ya 'ave ta ask da water spirit nicely. She be a sensitive one, an' if ju panic and get short wit' her, she not be doin' what ju want her to do," Sorun explained. "Da fact is, when ju be a good shaman, da hardest t'ing there is is to heal da wounded. It easy to call down fire and bolts of lightnin' on ya enemies, or ta command the earth itself ta tremble for ju. It be much harder ta deal wit' a young warrior whose blood be spillin' out an' needs ya ta save dem. It can be hard ta look dem in da eyes when they be scared an' in pain. It not dat da spells be harder. It's ya love for ya friends dat makes it hard. Ya don't want dem ta suffer or die."
Jof sat and watched him silently until Sorun got back up. "If ya failed ta act, or ya found dat da spirits not listenin' ta ya when ya tried, dat was why, pup. It not be cowardice, but love. Love nevah be anyt'ing ta be ashamed of."
The younger shaman sat up and sighed. When he did not say anything, Sorun continued. "Go get some food in ya belly. It make you better. Ya fought against the Burning Legion and we won, child. The others want to thank you. It be good for you to see that there's still a lot of good out there, after all ya seen."
Jof figured that Sorun was not going to leave, so he acquiesced and stood up slowly, walking over to the bonfire. He stayed along the outskirts, however, and watched the dancing and laughing continue in the middle of the group. Zamja shoved a partial rack of pork ribs into his hand, and when Jof reached towards the pouch on his belt to pay him, the cook laughed. "Ya be a hero of the Broken Isles and Argus. It on the house."
Somehow that made the troll feel a little bit worse. He started eating it, tossing the bones into the fire as he went, when another troll whom he used to spar with as a boy plopped down next to where he was sitting with two mugs of frog venom brew. "Hey! I haven't seen ya since da rebellion!" Xejan laughed. "I see ya got some new scars. Been fightin' demons, eh?"
Jof glanced down and thought about telling him where they really came from, but he had had enough deep conversation for the night. Instead, he took a large gulp of the brew and nodded. A mistake - his lack of food caused it to hit his system almost instantly and he had to shake his head to clear his vision.
"Well, I thank ya for ya service," Xejan cackled, slapping him hard on the shoulder, causing him to spill his drink slightly. The other troll was obviously already quite drunk. "I been havin' to watch over the villages, make sure the supply side of da Horde is still healthy and strong. It not bad work, just not a lot of glory, ya know?"
Jof started to respond to him with a large, heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He glanced up to see a large male orc staring down at him. It was a herald from Orgrimmar. "Got a message for you, Jofkalzkal," the man said, handing him a scroll. Jof frowned and took it. He hated that name, and none of his friends even knew it. The only place it was on record was with the Horde military.
"What the fel kind of name is that?" Xejan laughed, but the shaman ignored him. He was turning the scroll around in his hand and when he saw the seal, he froze.
It was the seal of the Dark Lady.