Providence

Part One

Chapter Four

Garoul had long been too busy to think of her chance encounter. She was on the hunt for money, armor, and weapons. When the Horde captured her, they had taken everything; she had spent the last few months putting her life back into order, and the few items stored in her bank had not been enough to keep her in working order. Reich had given her a few silver to keep food in her belly, but she needed funds if she was going to replace her nearly priceless sword, the Cruel Barb used by only the highest-ranking of the Defias.

That day she found herself walking to Ironforge, loaded down with heavy leather skins and cured hides to sell at the greatest auction house in the Eastern Kingdoms—even if it was the only one. The biting cold of Dun Morogh would have proved to be far too much for her if it weren't for the protective hides she wore tied around her neck. She had been hunting for nearly a month, storing her finds in a cave, tanning them on the slopes of the Redridge Mountains and sewing fine clothes with the few supplies she still had. Before leaving she wrote a letter to Reich of her progress, and asked him to meet her in the dwarven capital. He promised her gifts—she always liked those.

So it was that surprise nearly stopped her heart when a hand gripped her wrist, and another clamped over her mouth to muffle her cry. Her hides dropped to the ground and she cried again against the palm restraining her as she was dragged off the main path and into a cave just below. The darkness was no stranger to a night elf, but even she had difficulty seeing where they were going: her eyes lit only a short path ahead, and having no idea of her captor, all she could do was dangle helplessly. One hand gripped her tightly around the middle while the other, still muffling her, kept her head facing forward.

They suddenly turned a corner, and the light of a small fire filled the room. Slowly she was set on her feet and only with great care was she allowed to turn and face her kidnapper. If only she had her sword, she thought. If only she had some money, she wouldn't be in this situation—not again.

Her eyes traveled from the immense, two-toed feet up muscled legs, a slender waist, and a toned, broad chest. His face didn't surprise her in the least.

She remembered his name.

"Hanzar," she said, but this time her voice was filled with disgust. He smiled wickedly at her. But Garoul had no time for these games, as ridiculous as they were—her months of labor lay out on the thoroughfare, free money for anyone with half a mind to take them. This could not be tolerated.

"You stupid troll! Take me back! I don't know what you're doing here or why, but damn it all, kill me or let me go!" She stomped one foot and abruptly walked to him, pressing her index finger into his chest. "When I get my weapons, you'll be the first one I kill!"

The troll only watched her with a bemused expression, and when she jabbed him for a reply he grabbed her strongly by the wrist, drawing her up close to him. Garoul's breath hitched in her throat and she resisted drawing back when he leaned down to look at her. She was immediately reminded of their previous encounter and she felt the badge where she had sown it into her jerkin. In the blistering cold cave, his breath was warm on her face, and the night elf did nothing but stare when his grip on her wrist softened and his other hand moved to her waist. In one quick movement Hanzar pulled her against him and his lips connected with hers.

There was a flurry in Garoul's brain. She was seized with a sudden fear, the apprehension of the unknown; yet it was the strangeness of it that quickly seduced her. It was ridiculous and wild, and where he touched her skin it tingled and burned.

She was a deviant. The forbidden touched her; the bizarre soothed her; the unfamiliar stirred her deep inside her bones. She knew that whatever experiences this strange troll had in store for her, she would remember them.

Still, she really had no time for his antics and she remembered the jagged leathercutting knife in her pocket.

--

Hanzar had caught the elf's trail when he stalked through the wilds of the human lands. He had received persistent messages from Banik, but ignored them; he had one purpose, and one only. The troll had followed her into the mountains, but he was always one step behind: he smelled her on a shoe she had tried to sow but the heel came out reversed; he followed her trail, until she stopped in a small dwarven village at the edges of Dun Morogh. He set up camp on a fairly high-traffic road in a cave he had found full of scar-faced troggs. After killing them and disposing of their stunted corpses, he set up a pleasant fire and merely waited for his night elf to come along.

She looked as miserable now as she had when he watched her flee Sun Rock Retreat all those months ago. She was mostly unarmored and her weapon was a rather useless dagger strapped to her thigh. Hanzar felt some pity for her, penniless as she appeared. But emotions faded when he held her small, elven body so close to his he could feel her muscles. All he felt was his blood rushing hot when Garoul returned the kiss, her hands flexing against his grip as if looking for something more to touch. He obliged her by releasing her wrists and instead used both hands to pull her hips against him, a feat he accomplished with relative ease considering her insignificant weight.

He could have drowned in those lips.

She was as soft and pliable as his best fur coat. Hanzar didn't expect the sudden pain in his side when she drew away from his lips. He looked down to see the short, jagged knife she held buried an inch into his ribs. He sputtered for a moment, looking at his idle, deadly sword that lie across the cave, and then back down when she pulled the weapon out once more.

Overcome completely by a reddening rage, Hanzar moved to grab her, but she had already disappeared into the shadows; he saw her move, but she was too quick and the blood from his side had begun to gush. She raced from the cave and seeing a small caravan of dwarven merchants approaching, the troll knew at once he wouldn't be able to touch her, not here. He carefully remained in the shadows, fury overcoming him as he watched her sheathe the bloody dagger and remove the pelts she had dropped from the road. After he had come all this way, she had the nerve to stab him? Hanzar felt himself shaking—but whether it was from rage or the cold, he wasn't quite sure.

As quickly as he noticed it, it was gone: a kind of disappointment, a brief annoyance in his gut. While his muscles seized with anger the troll knew he had to bind his wound if he didn't want it to get infected. His first aid skills were very considerable, so when the traitorous elf disappeared from sight, he retreated into the cave and fetched his heavy silk bandages.

"Traitorous?" he thought out loud then, puzzling. She was a member of the Alliance. It was her duty to do whatever she could to stop him, and it was naive of him to think she wouldn't merely because of their meaningless interactions in Stonetalon. He sighed and cut the end of the bandage, taping it to his slightly paled blue skin.

He wondered how, during all his time hunting for her, why he hadn't thought of how foolish his idea was to begin with. Even unprepared, she was a rogue to be reckoned with, and he should have seen it from the beginning.

But, Hanzar vowed, if he stumbled across her again, it would be different. She wouldn't manage to escape, next time.

Next time, she'd be dead.

--

It was only when Garoul reached Ironforge that evening that she stopped inside the massive gates to regain the breath she had lost hours ago. Her chest heaved with exertion and stress; only now did she let herself think and remember.

Hanzar's wide-eyed shock hovered on the edge of her vision. His lips were slightly parted when he looked down at her, and just before his entire face contorted with rage, he looked almost... hurt. Betrayed.

Her surprise and anger at seeing the troll here, hiding out in Alliance territory, had overwhelmed her in that singular moment. Her lips drew together pensively, and she remembered the electric sensation when he roughly gripped her hips; the surge of boiling blood had come when they kissed—she had felt almost primitive; barbaric.

She had had to do it. While the troll was engrossed in her, she had done what she thought was necessary to escape: she inflicted the most painful, non-lethal wound she could, and fled. But thinking back upon it she felt a strong wave of guilt. Had he followed her all this way? The idea would have scared most anyone else, but Garoul felt a tingling sensation in her throat when she thought of the troll leaned down, feeling out her tracks, smiling a predatory smile. The elf knew her mind well enough that her thoughts would only disintegrate as night came on, so she shouldered her bundle and entered the massive dwarven capital.

It was long after sunset when Garoul reached the inn, holding a small bag of coins from the last of her auctions. She was impressed with the price of leather these days—it boded well for a skinner like herself. The gold she had received for her cured hides and heavier leathers was far more than merely chump change. If she managed to find her friends, who had said they were staying in the city of the Great Forge for at least a week, she would buy them each a beer and then spend the whole next day shopping.

Thus it was hardly a surprise when she saw Reich at the bar, flirting madly with two very eager redheads, who responded ideally to each of his advances. Adelian sat at a table alone, completely engrossed in his jug of hard liquor. His eyes looked dull and his cheeks sunken; Garoul wondered what had befallen the overly emotional druid.

"Adel?" she murmured, sitting down beside him. He seemed hardly surprised when he turned to look at her.

"Ah," was his only reply, and he took another long swig of whatever drink he had. She could smell the buttery flavor from where she sat. Reich seemed to have noticed them and abandoned his audience, moving over to pat Garoul on the head.

"Hey there little girl, you're early. We didn't expect you until tomorrow."

Garoul shrugged, not sure she wished to divulge the day's events in front of the other night elf. He probably wouldn't care anyway, and especially not when completely intoxicated, but she never liked risking it. Reich was the only one she completely trusted. "There was an incident, so I came faster than I had previously intended." She glanced at the empty jugs still sitting at the bar. "I was going to buy you a drink, but it looks like you beat me to it."

The human laughed at her, scratching his dark hair and pulling up a chair beside her. "What happened?" he asked. Garoul looked at Adelian, who had quite suddenly passed out and was now face-down on the table, drooling. The druid had never really lived up to the perception of night elves as graceful and dignified.

"I saw him again." Reich blinked, clearly not knowing who the ambiguous 'he' was. She narrowed her eyes. "The troll."

"Oh." He widened his eyes a little. "Wait, here?"

Garoul nodded her head. "I was walking here when he jumped me." Reich gaped. "I... I stabbed him."

To this, the warrior didn't know how to respond. He was silent for a brief moment as he watched emotion on his friend's face: she looked guilty, but at the same time, he was confused by the vibrant reddish hue to her cheeks. She looked away. "Gari?"

The elf's shoulders tensed. "Oh, I can't stop thinking about it," she said, rubbing one arm and still not making eye contact. "He kissed me and grabbed me and," she swallowed, "I thought something else took over me, until I did it." Garoul paused. "It still burns everywhere. I think about where it could have gone and my head swims."

Had anyone else heard her confession, he would have thought her upset; perhaps angry, or afraid—but Reich knew this side of her. Elves had many secrets, but of the ones he knew, they were very erotic creatures deep inside and his friend was no exception. If anything, she had a heightened awareness of things that affected her sexually, and her tastes were exotic, bizarre and almost frightening. Her whispered recollections of a fantasy were always entertaining in their weirdness.

Had anyone else heard her confession, they would have questioned her sanity. But Reich knew the look in her eyes and the sound of her voice: she had enjoyed it and she wanted more. Garoul was too easy to read.

"Maybe," he said, leaning down to whisper in her ear, "You should find him this time." She stared up and the warrior only smiled. "I dare you."