Disclaimer: All other characters not of Blizzard's creation are my own. The rest...well, you get the idea.
Chapter 3: A Dangerous Viewpoint
Sunset, Northern shore, Theramore Isle
Every resident on Theramore Isle - whether it were Jaina or Daelin Proudmoore who led them there in the first place - made it a point to attend the funeral ceremony that sunset; everyone, of all professions imaginable, knew how important it was to honor one of the leaders, if not both of them, for their 'sacrifice' during the Orcish assault on the island, and by the time the ceremony was ready to begin a crowd of Humans had already gathered, surrounding the procession area in an impermeable sea of men and women. For whatever reasons the individual men and women decided to attend, however, the mood was nevertheless solemn; none in the crowd dared speak, all courteous enough, if nothing else, to keep any comments to themselves.
The only voice that could be heard at that moment was that of the mourner Priest, standing inside a cleared area near the shore and beach, head raised and voice humble as he incanted the prayers to the deceased; two rows of Footmen and Knights, dressed in the most professional of clothing and the best of Human armor, stood unmovingly to each side of the priest, while behind the priest a row of higher-ranked officers in ceremonial best stood likewise, facing the sea. To the priest's right, further away, a row of seven Dwarven Riflemen waited at the ready, their finely-made rifles held to their breast and upwards, while around the clearing torches and braziers commemorating the Light had been lit, blazing brightly against the setting sun; behind the officers and built within a tall grass hill were the doors to a recently-constructed crypt, made of the most resilient of stone and steel, the perfect place to lay heroes to rest.
And, surrounded by the Knights in the center of the entire procession, two glass sarcophaguses lay peacefully on the sand beneath them, the center of attention and the meaning of the entire procession. In one of the sarcophaguses, to the priest's left, lay the large, wisened-yet-fierce-looking body of Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, decked in perfectly-made red noble's armor and holding a warhammer - the one he had died with - to himself in his death's grip. All the terrible wounds inflicted by the Orcs in the battle only two days past had been mended and healed in a bid to make the Admiral as presentable as possible, and no blood stained the armor, no visible maims and wounds could be seen on him. The healers had prepared the Admiral too well, and the ones in command now saw to that.
The other sarcophagus, to the priest's right, held the lifeless form of Lady Jaina Proudmoore herself, peacefully resting and, like her father, in perfectly presentable condition. The healers had obviously done their best preparing Jaina's body for the ceremony, as well; of the grievous wounds that Jaina had been said to have bore from the blades of the Orcs, there were no sign, and for all one could normally tell Jaina might as well have had perished of natural causes. Side by side, she now lay beside her father, honored likewise as the hero she was.
Both were now heroes; both were martyrs. The long brown-haired, sharp red-eyed and square-chinned Paladin known as Albin Bridget wished simply that there wasn't a second truth to that fact.
"...And may the Light's grace guide your humble servants to your side, where they shall rest in glory for all eternity. By the Light, may they be honored."
"May they be honored." Albin repeated, as did the officers next to him, and as he placed a fist to his heart Albin bowed in reverence to the Admiral he served loyally. Wearing silver-plated armor with red clothes bearing the gold-weaved insignias of Kul Tiras, Albin had indeed belonged to the later group of settlers in Theramore Isle; He, like so many others on Theramore now, was led from the plague-infested lands of Lordaeron only to find a nation of savage Orcs awaiting them on Kalimdor, and when the Admiral had issued his plans for war against Durotar, Albin Bridget simply hadn't hesitated to answer Daelin Proudmoore's summons. The Light would agree with the Admiral, Albin remembered thinking then, and the Orcs were demons and savages, no matter what they were trying to pull, how civilized they claimed to be. The Orcs must be destroyed for the good of the world.
The result, obviously, wasn't supposed to involve the Admiral being slain and trampled underneath Orcish blades and feet - and it didn't help Albin's acceptance any that it was the Admiral's own daughter that ended up interfering with everything. Albin sneered in anger, so quietly that nobody else can hear it, as he straightened himself again; they weren't supposed to lose, and Jaina was supposed to have been on her father's side. For some reason, she wasn't, and yet here she was, honored likewise.
Jaina Proudmoore had it easy.
"We beseech you, Light of everything good and noble, that you shall remember their actions..."
She had been found an hour after the battle, Albin mused, lifeless and bloodied, wounded badly in numerous places and with brutal, surprising efficiency that could only belong to the savages; The official word, therefore, had been that Jaina had been slain by the blades of the Orcs after her father was murdered, fighting them off to no avail, having not even the time to conjure the spells she had been famous for possessing. Maintaining his straight posture as the Priest droned on, Albin resisted the urge to shake his head sardonically at that. With the way Jaina had been found, how could it had been anything else? For that matter, who would care if it had been anything else?
There were, of course, a number of things that pointed away from that conclusion - namely that a closer examination of the remains would not have turned up a single wound that was inflicted by Orcish axes - but the shock had been so great, the noncomprehension so absurd to Theramore that they were easy to miss...or blatantly ignore. Who would care that it possibly hadn't been the Orcs who killed her?
If they only knew the truth, but they never will now, Albin frowned, because he knew better - and agreed with it. The Light, he knew, would agree with him as well. Jaina Proudmoore brought this on herself, and had sent herself to her own end by siding with the Orcs, with that Slave of Durnholde who dared call himself Warchief. I loathe to say it for the Admiral's sake, bless his departed soul, Albin bit his lip, anger rising in his bowels but restrained out of courtesy and ceremony, But Jaina deserved her death, betrayed and murdered by one of her own...
But that is over with now. We shall begin anew.
The first round of gunfire from the riflemen, signalling the beginnings to the final salute, stopped Albin Bridget's thoughts, and his vision moved intently back to the leaders' resting places once more. The Priest lowered his head reverently at the same time twelve of the Footmen marched out from the rows towards the sarcophaguses; at the second volley the Footmen reached down, and at the third and final volley, heard by all in Theramore Isle, the Footmen lifted the sarcophaguses up into their arms and steadily began moving them - and both Admiral and Lady with them - towards the doors to the crypt. The officers parted, moving aside; Maintaining his stance, Albin watched the Footmen perform their grim, solemn task, and saluted his Admiral one last time as the sarcophaguses passed by him and disappeared into the crypt altogether.
And that was when a sudden round of terrified screams from behind the crowd caught everyone's attention.
The first and most obvious reaction those who attended the funeral had upon seeing Thrall's impressive frame was outright terror; With the savagery and brutal efficiency of the Orcs still fresh in much of the populace's mind after the most recent attack on Theramore Isle, none hesitated at once to break into a panic at the sight of the mighty Warchief and, inevitably, back away towards the rest of the crowd, pushing at some others who in turn continued the cycle. This, in turn, had the effect of clearing an area around him and Tashiroth, all knowing that should Thrall attack them there was no way they would survive.
Although the reactions pained Thrall - it had indeed been too long since he had been feared so in the sight of Humans - he forcefully ignored them, striding forward purposefully and with steady steps towards the shore where the funeral was held. He was not here for them, Thrall understood, and could not blame them for their reactions. His mighty warhammer was lowered, still in his hand, in a gesture of nonhostility; the only raised blade was Tashiroth's, held to his chest as a precaution, glancing hurriedly around the Warchief in readiness.
Letting the crowd clear away from them, Thrall continued forward. He narrowed his eyes; he was so close to what he was here to do now, but the most difficult was yet to come. But Thrall would not turn back now; there was only moving forward, towards the funeral and Jaina.
He forced himself to suppress any doubts that rose lest he become swayed from this now.
After what seemed to be a tense, unnerving eternity, the crowd eventually cleared Thrall's way onto the shore itself - and into the sight of more than forty armed Human warriors and officers. Professionally trained and more angry than terrified at the Orcs' efficient victory two days past, the soldiers of Theramore and Kul Tiras that attended the funeral now, Thrall realized to his chagrin as he forced himself to remain impassive, was not going to be nearly as easily swayed as the peasants around them. If they attacked, Thrall was certainly going to die here, and yet even now he was perfectly calm and rational.
Tashiroth was less so as he glanced warningly at the Human warriors, but had resolved not to back away now. He had pledged that to the Warchief earlier and will not shirk out of it.
For a moment, Thrall bit his jaw, it seemed as if the worst case scenario was indeed going to happen; upon sight of the Warchief, the Footmen and Knights lined up before now drew swords and lances, raised towards him, while the officers and Paladins lifted their warhammers and swords likewise. The priest shuffled hurriedly behind the growing circle of knights forming around Thrall, preparing a spell with the few Archmages in the rank of officers; Albin sneered in pure hatred, stepping forward and awaiting Thrall's first attack with his Paladins' Hammer held tightly in both hands, while behind him the rank of Dwarven Riflemen finished reloading and had their rifles trained in Thrall's direction should their support be needed.
...Until Thrall's unmoving, passive-looking posture turned some of the warriors' anger into pure confusion. Albin blinked, his hammer wavering slightly, and at the same time the circle of knights began easing backwards slowly around Thrall; What in the Light is this Orc thinking! Has he come to die? Does he even know that he will die? Albin bit his lip derisively, trying to keep his mind from reeling in this confusion too much; whatever Thrall was doing here, he didn't like it. Or is this another trick from that Warchief?
Albin realized that there was only one way to find out. He took a step forward boldly. "You are trespassing upon the Human lands of Theramore and intruding upon its sanctity once again," Albin spat bitterly, trying to maintain his cool enough. "Speak your purpose here, foul beast, and it had better be good, or you shall be run through where you stand."
Foul beast. Thrall restrained the urge to glare back defiantly at Albin - remembering Jaina, Thrall knew that this wasn't the time for that - but made a good mental note to himself to despise the Paladin. Whoever this Paladin was, he seemed little different than the Admiral himself, or even those in charge back at Durnholde when Thrall was still a slave, but at least he wasn't jumping into killing him.
Thrall took a deep breath and gave the reply a professional effort. "I am Thrall, son of Durotan, and Warchief of the nation of Durotar. Who among you is in charge here?"
Albin blinked in twofold surprise; Thrall's fluent knowledge of the Human tongue wasn't something Albin had expected - he had heard of Thrall's human upbringing at Durnholde, of course, but all in all Albin never thought Thrall would be able to speak so perfectly, that had Thrall not been an Orc he would fit right in with the Humans with that tongue - but neither was the fact that this impressive Orc was the Warchief of Durotar himself, in the flesh! Albin tried even harder to give this some thought; while the thought of finishing the Warchief himself off once and for all was tempting, Albin knew it wouldn't be wise. Thrall probably had some contingency planned. The Paladin frowned. "I am," Albin piped up, despite some of the officers beginning their protest. Maintaining his calm, Albin decided to see what Thrall wanted. "What can Theramore Isle do for you, Warchief of the Horde?"
"Nothing," Thrall answered directly, blue eyes trailing over to the open crypt to his right. Tashiroth glared deathly at the Paladin, as if determined that should Albin become aggressive, the Paladin will be the first to fall. "I have come as a mourner to honor Jaina Proudmoore."
Murmurs and gasps of surprise began rising all around Thrall and Albin; even Albin himself gawked blankly at Thrall, but the Warchief only glared back sternly to let the others know he meant what he said. It was Albin that broke the surprise moments later. "I see." Albin paused, crossing his arms with his hammer planted into the sand, thinking carefully of his next words. "But why should we let you, after all that you've already done?"
Thrall sighed. Albin was still right. "I will not be here long, Paladin; All I want is to mourn her, to see her again-"
"Absolutely not!" Albin snapped, and at once the circle tightened once more. Tashiroth jumped, blade raised and pointed at Albin; Thrall looked once around the crowd of warriors and knights, but forced himself - as experience returned - to remain impassive, unmoving. Anger filled Albin once more at Thrall's words; how dare this savage even ask of this? "As if sacking this city wasn't enough for you, now you have to go and desecrate the Admiral and Lady Proudmoore's graves as well! Powerful as you are, we will never-"
"That is not my intention, nor will I ever sink so low even against my enemies!" Thrall snapped angrily; In turn, Thrall found himself growing more mirthless and bitter at Albin's words, for his temper and view of Thrall angered him. For Albin to think of him as a savage, nothing more than a grave-robber or barbarian, was already an insult; worse, however, was Albin's accusations that Thrall intended to pillage Jaina's grave and desecrate her body, to further spurn his friend. Thrall knew he never intended that, and Albin implying that Thrall could sink that low was unacceptable. "I have not come to destroy anything! Jaina Proudmoore is my friend, and I wish-"
"And it is an insult for you to call her a friend of yours," As it is her shame for even having a friend such as you, unfortunately, Albin neglected to add, as it would ruin Jaina's image that was being built-up by this ceremony. She was to die as a hero, not as a publicly shamed fool! "You have no right to be in her presence."
Tashiroth only glared. Albin glared back with a daring look as if taunting the Blademaster to strike him down.
"I swear by my blood and my family's honor that to honor and mourn Jaina is my only intention this day." This was going nowhere, Thrall almost despairingly realized, but he had to persist here - and that the Humans hadn't attacked him yet was still something for him to keep hope on. He continued to stand firm, warhammer lowered, unmoving and without backing off an inch, but his bitterness was being suppressed once more, remembering how Humans tended to work. "I do not expect you to forgive me for her death and her father's, but you must trust me on my honor that I will not desecrate her as you accuse me of intending."
"Your honor isn't worth much to me in this case, Warchief." Albin retorted bluntly.
"I...understand that. But I wanted you to know."
Thrall's demeanor was admittedly beginning to surprise even Albin Bridget, and the anger he felt before was dying down once more at Thrall's forcedly gentle explanations; a typical Orc would've thundered into the bloodlust and rage his Admiral had seen too many times during the Second War, but even with the odds against him and Tashiroth threatening to skin him alive, Thrall was restraining himself, negotiating this through. The Paladin didn't know what to make of this restraint, but if Thrall wasn't going to fight them this day, all the more better for everyone.
Besides, Albin noted quickly, Jaina did befriend him. She's already shamed herself. How much more shame can Thrall put her through now? Albin nodded. "That I do. But I am still not convinced of your intent, Warchief."
"I realize that, but I give you my word that all I intend to do is pay my respects to Jaina." Thrall continued; Albin stopped himself from wincing, without success, at how Thrall was referring to the Lady so casually, as if addressing a friendly equal. Would Jaina do the same for him? "After I have seen her again and made my mourning, I will leave peacefully and without trouble. I give you my word that I will not damage the crypt, Jaina's casket or even the Admiral's."
Albin sneered, crossing his arms and turning away. Tashiroth growled menacingly, causing the warriors to waver slightly; the Blademaster almost wished the Humans would just attack them rather than wait this long, as waiting like this made him uneasy, and at least that would bring matters to an end. But nevertheless, Tashiroth hated waiting, and Thrall didn't seem he would leave anytime soon without catching his final glimpse of Jaina Proudmoore, anyway.
"What assurances do we have that you will honor your part of the bargain?"
"I cannot give you any. That will be up to you. But I do not intend to leave until I have properly honored her." Thrall answered firmly. "I would truly appreciate being able to do this small bit for Jaina, at least."
For awhile, there was more tense silence, Thrall waiting for the reply and hoping that they would agree on their own accord, Albin thinking this through - he knew he had to be extra cautious here and, whether or not they give in to Thrall's request, the important thing was to make sure Thrall doesn't ruin the funeral - and Tashiroth generally being cautious while the Humans around them plotted and schemed around the Warchief. Nobody dared move, the knights without orders. There was no clear answer right away.
Finally, it was not Albin, but someone else who broke the silence: "Let him see Lady Proudmoore, Brother Bridget."
The voice was from further behind the ring of warriors surrounding Thrall and, hearing it, surprise overtook much of the Human knights once more; the majority of them turned back towards the source of the voice, male, somewhat older and softer, but still with enough edge to it to sound authoritative. To the very least, Thrall and Tashiroth realized, it had enough steel to make even Albin Bridget turn around, blink blankly for a moment, and then recompose himself into a stern, unrelenting look.
"You don't speak for all of us, Sir Leonid."
When eventually the ring of warriors opened wide enough to allow Albin Bridget and Leonid Korlend a clear sight of each other, Tashiroth and Thrall narrowed their eyes in unison at the speaker, an old, grey balding-haired, sharp double-chinned and wizened elderly man seemingly no less than in his late fifties, wearing elaborate blue Archmage's robes. Leonid Korlend, in contrast to Albin, had been one of the most senior of officers who Jaina brought to the shores of Kalimdor, and had played a good part in Theramore's existence; as such, while Albin remained ignorant and at best skeptical of what Thrall was doing here, Leonid understood - and perfectly.
He, as did Jaina, understood Thrall's motives and knew them to be genuine - and knew there was no reason to deny Thrall that one request. "What could it hurt, divine Brother?" Leonid simply replied in a naturally courteous, yet audible enough so that Albin can hear his reasons very, very well, voice. "I trust the Warchief, as did Lady Jaina, that he is genuine and that he is a...being of honor. If he says that he intends only to honor the Lady, I am confident that he will not do anything else."
"You can trust him, Sir Leonid, but the remainder of us cannot."
"Then what harm, praytell, can two single Orcs be to the entire party here in your command, Brother Bridget?"
There was steel again in Leonid's question that silenced Albin; If Thrall was here to kill, the Paladin derisively knew Leonid to also be implying, you would've been the first to die and dead already. "Then," Albin snapped back, his voice somewhere between sarcasm and outright anger to let Leonid know that he was very, very displeased with this debacle. "What do you suggest we do, Sir Leonid?"
Leonid's answer was simple, and Thrall was grateful for it. He nodded to Leonid in thanks.
"Let him be alone with the Lady. He has just as much right to that as you do."
The warriors murmured. "But Sir-"
"How can you assure us of the Warchief's good intent on this, Sir Leonid?" Albin demanded.
"If I even move one thing out of place in the tomb," Thrall piped up, and all were silenced: "...You can slay me where I stand."
Now it was Tashiroth's turn. "But Warchief-"
Thrall's raised arm silenced the Blademaster and the murmurs around them. He gave another nod.
"You have my word."
Thrall lowered his arm. Silence persisted.
"And I can vouch for the Warchief's word." Leonid piped up. He definitely did understand.
Albin didn't. "Leonid Korlend!" Albin sneered. "Are you well aware of what you are vouching for here?"
Both Thrall and Leonid nodded in acknowledgement.
"I am."
It would be deserving of me if I did perish here, Thrall concluded to himself.
At that, Albin resigned himself, and lowered his own hammer as he struggled with the decision. Could he really let Thrall into the tomb? Won't the damage already be done? The Paladin's eyes closed for a moment; I guess it couldn't hurt, and if the Warchief is a friend of Jaina Proudmoore he won't try anything, not when all of us are outside waiting for him. If he does, there's no other way out of the crypt, and not even he can fight through all of us.
Can he?
Albin Bridget moved and parted from between Thrall and the crypt that held Admiral Daelin Proudmoore and Jaina Proudmoore, and knowing very well what was going on by that gesture the ring of knights and warriors began to gradually loosen, and finally depart away from Thrall and Tashiroth. Thrall sighed, relief and gratitude flooding his being and lowering his guard a little; even Tashiroth realized the of-yet-silent agreement and lowered his blade from Albin's head. The Dwarven Riflemen lifted their rifles to their shoulders once more in perfect formation, no longer seeing a need to use their guns for the moment. A small smile appeared on Leonid's lips at that and, finally, was a word spoken.
"Very well, Warchief of Durotar, I grant you permission to pay your respects to Lady Proudmoore, alone. Remember your words and honor them." Albin finally granted, and stepped aside completely. "By the Light, may your honor hold true."
Thrall said nothing, but the softer look in his eyes towards Albin Bridget said it all.
My honor shall hold true, for Jaina alone if no one else.
"Tashiroth, wait for me here."
"Warchief, are you sure-" Then Tashiroth remembered, and he bowed in respect to his Warchief at that. "I shall do as you ordered of me."
With permission that Thrall admittedly didn't expect to gain this well and a newfound purpose and vigor in his step, Thrall then nodded to everyone once, began moving forward and headed for the crypt ahead of him. As the prospect of what he was about to do and thoughts of the person he journeyed such a far distance from filled his head once more, his mighty form sagged a little in humility; he had come as a friend and mourner, and Thrall will remember his place no matter how obnoxious the Humans may be.
No matter how bitter Albin Bridget may be towards him.
Soon, he disappeared beyond the crypt doors, leaving Tashiroth and Albin staring at each other with new realizations and old rivalries. The ring of warriors tightened around the Blademaster again; Tashiroth crossed his arms and stood in the center fearlessly, glaring at the Paladin who was likewise staring bitterly back at him. Their eyes met. Albin and Tashiroth sneered in unison.
"It shall not be this day and this hour, in the Admiral Proudmoore's name, but mark my words," Albin spat angrily. "With the Light as my witness one day, Blademaster, I shall slay you and banish you back to the Hells from whence your entire race came. I shall do so in combat nobly, and without qualms even from the memory of Lady Proudmoore."
Tashiroth grinned. He expected nothing less, but today indeed would be different.
"Then be prepared to exert yourself for my head, for I shall part with it willingly only if the Warchief asks of me to provide it." Was the cold reply. "On the barrens of Kalimdor, if next we meet, I shall likewise give you no quarter. Until then, Paladin."
And seeing the irony while likewise waiting for the Warchief of the Horde to mourn the former Ruler of Theramore Isle, Albin Bridget began grinning as well. There would always be time for a war after the ceremony, and only too much time for Albin Bridget and Tashiroth to meet in combat, as promised. Albin can wait a day and, the new realization sudden and the smile widening due to it, if indulging Thrall would mean that the mighty Warchief would have no regrets later when Theramore and Durotar eventually did go to war - Albin believed that it was only a matter of time now, and there was nothing Leonid Korlend can do to stop that - the Paladin was a fool to have ever thought of denying the Warchief his heartfelt request...