Providence

Part Two

Chapter Four

The sun was shining in when Hanzar woke. In the night they had shifted: he had slung one leg over hers and she was comfortably trapped there; one of his hands gripped her thigh while hers were curled at her chest, and her head was wedged between his neck and shoulder.

When he saw that the pier was visible and the ocean was calm beyond, he jerked up. The elf was startled out of sleep and, confused, she made a whimpering sound when he launched out of the bed and hastily began putting on his clothes.

"Haanz--?" her word was interrupted by a yawn. The boats were tied at the dock, and he knew if he didn't hurry he would easily miss his only chance until either the next week or the next storm that created a delay once more. He pulled on his shirt and he growled when it caught on his tusk; he pulled it, too lazy to adjust it, and it ripped. With a curse he sat on the bed and pulled on his boots. The troll jerked when he felt lips on his neck and hands on his hips. "No," she said in Orcish. She pointed to the door.

"Leave," he said, "I have to leave."

"No leave," she said again. Hanzar shrugged her off, having tied his first boot, and set to the second one. When he was finished he turned and looked at the beautiful creature sitting on the bed behind him. Her expression was unreadable, but her lips were twisted in an unhappy expression.

"Sorry girl," he told her, touching her cheek with his knuckles. She narrowed her eyes. "Time for me to go." He pointed to the window.

Garoul drew back and looked away. The troll sighed. He knew there was a reason he didn't stay the night. But considering their last three days together, the thought did seem rather cold—but trolls weren't known for giving a shit if they were cold or not. He stood up then and stretched for a moment.

The night elf was standing as well. Hanzar's eyes traveled down her smooth body, from her strong shoulders and rather muscular arms to her slim waist and powerful-looking thighs. Her hands were straight at her sides and she looked to be waging some sort of inner war. Suddenly she advanced on him, grabbing his tusks in her hands, and kissed him. He issued a muffled objection against her lips but she was... too strong? She grabbed his forearms in her hands and squeezed so hard he knew he would bruise. When he was about to push her away she stood back and in one fluid motion, she socked him in the face.

Hanzar stood in complete shock. His hand held his face and he was sure he could feel blood in his mouth. Pain seared through his jaw and when he stared at her with anger and surprise, she pointed to the door. Her stance was aggressive and her toe tapped impatiently.

"Get out," she said in Common. "When I see you again..." she drew one finger across her throat. "I'll kill you."

What had set her off he didn't know—he hadn't promised to stay, and hell, it was lucky for her he remained for the night as he had. With a scowl he turned and replied in Orcish, "And I'll return the favor!"

Neither had understood one another, but the message was clear. The troll slammed the door behind him and, still nursing his jaw, he stalked down the hall to his own room. There he threw his things together—they were not very numerous—and left to the stairs. He paid his tab and when the surprised-looking goblin offered him some ice for his searing red face, he only snarled and left.

"What right does she have?" Hanzar demanded from no one in particular. Snow still covered most of Booty Bay, but the boats had been covered with tarps during the storm and looked no worse for the wear. He put his turtle-shell shield on his back and tightened it, then patted his sword sheath.

The troll jumped when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned around to see Banik watching him with curious eyes. "What?" Hanzar demanded.

The arms warrior shook his head. "Looking for you. Boats boarding soon." Banik stuck his massive hands in his pockets. "Where elfie?"

Unintentionally the troll looked up at the window he knew overlooked the harbor, and his eyes bugged when he saw her sitting on the window sill, naked, her arms wrapped around her knees. He knew no one would see her unless they specifically looked, but her boldness astounded him.

And the idea of anyone else looking at her gave him a twinge of anger. Banik followed his eyes and murmured, "Strange elfie." Hanzar glared at his friend. "But pretty."

True to Banik's word the pair found themselves on the boat half an hour later, pulling away from the dock. Hanzar found a room for the trip in the massive underbelly of the ship, and he shoved his things beneath the bed. The tauren had remained on deck to watch the city as they left. The cold permeated everything, and Hanzar shrugged on his cloak—when he remembered just who had made it.

He sighed. "What made her...?" he murmured confusedly. He was still angry, but couldn't fathom what made her lash out the way she did. Surely she didn't...

Of course. Women were always clinging, the troll thought with chagrin. She must have thought he was going to stay, for some bizarre reason. Not only was it completely inappropriate considering they were from opposite factions, but they were lucky to not be noticed together at the inn as it was. It was a fling and an enjoyable one, admittedly, but Hanzar couldn't begin to understand why she would think they could stay together as they were.

"Besides," he said out loud, "I didn't lead her on at all, and neither did she of me." So he was puzzled—and he would probably never know the answer. Instead he sat back on the bunk and nursed the steady pain in his jaw.

--

Garoul sat on the sill, lost in thought. It was silly and stupid, but it offended her elvish nature. In her society one never simply left after establishing even a minor friendship—the one departing offered some sort of compensation, as a token of their acquaintance. Something to remember them by, maybe, or merely a closing gesture, but one never simply left. It was rude and distasteful. She thought of it as spitting on the rather enjoyable time they had spent together.

Still, it was hardly that. Some angry, distasteful part of her didn't want to let him walk away, knowing it was unlikely she would see his face again. Once she let go, it was gone. What she held on to she didn't know: what was there for her to see? The instinct in her held, with disregard for anything but the feeling in her bones when he touched her, spoke to her, and her heart beat much too fast.

The elf rubbed her knuckles again. They hurt and were already turning an angry red. She wouldn't tell Reich what had happened—she wouldn't tell anyone. She could already hear the lie in her head. "He kissed me and said, 'Goodbye, maybe we will meet again.'" Reasonable, she thought, and went to get dressed.

--

Winter in the Barrens was non-existent. The dead ground burned and the sun was as merciless as any other time of year; though the climate change had been gradual during their trip, Hanzar was still sweating when they reached the center of commerce in the great cursed land: the Crossroads.

He had mostly managed to push his escapade with the little night elf out of his mind after their two-week-long journey across the ocean. Ah, magical boats, he thought to himself. Hanzar and Banik were to set out for the Morshan Rampart for a recruit call when they were accosted on the streets of the Crossroads.

A female tauren, white and black in color, had nearly frightened Banik—which was a very difficult feat, Hanzar admitted—when she grabbed him roughly by the wrist and jerked him around. She had clearly been much stronger and her leafy shoulders and wolf mask showed off either her wealth or her adventurousness. The latter was far more likely, considering her gruffness and the scars that covered her bare arms.

The two had begun to speak loudly in Taurahe, and what the troll had thought was becoming a very hostile argument suddenly degenerated when his friend grabbed the tauren woman and hugged her.

Hanzar's jaw dropped. Banik looked at him and said, "Meet me later," and, grabbing the woman by the arm, they disappeared. Where they went, the troll didn't know—but so shocked was he that it took a moment to register what had been said before he stalked off to the tavern for a drink.

What he had thought was a random encounter proved to be quite more. Banik never really talked about himself, or anything for that matter, and now Hanzar knew why. The strange tauren had been his wife, a druid of considerable skill and fame, and the two had not seen one another for over a year. When they rendezvoused at the bar, the troll was stunned to learn that Banik had decided to go home with the powerful woman to their home in Mulgore. She had suffered an injury to her leg and was leaving her duty to the Horde unless they absolutely needed to, and her husband felt it was his duty to care for her and keep her company.

Hanzar found himself walking alone and hunched over—more than usual—to the desolate land of the Thousand Needles. He stopped often to examine the land around him, mine veins of silver and gold, or work on one of the many contraptions he carried unfinished in a large sack at his side. His life had suddenly degenerated into a boring, useless existence. He felt no need to do the chores the Darkspear assigned to him or report to Thrall as he had been asked to do—he wanted nothing more than to descend into the dangerous valley of the needles and look for gold.

He knew a battle was brewing, but he had no desire to participate. It was a conflict of rather epic proportions he thought poetically. The night elves of Ashenvale had long known of the Horde logging operation there, but had not had the resources to combat it. The camp had remained within its limits and exercised caution in its management, to avoid the disintegration of the rather beautiful Nightsong Woods. In recent months, Hanzar had heard, they had been forced to expand operations due to outrunner attacks on the camp and a lack of actual resources in the marked land.

Naturally, the night elves had not liked this, and Alliance forces were gathering in Darkshore and in the entire area from the Zoram Strand to Astranaar. Already the Horde outpost of Zoram'gar was routinely attacked, and their guards there were at a loss, with their numbers diminishing and the attacks becoming more frequent and severe. They were calling on all warriors—and anyone with battle experience in general—to report to Morshan, where an attack would be launched on the city of Astranaar.

Hanzar told himself he didn't want to get involved because he sided with the elves on this one, or he was too burned out to defend his kinsmen.

But he knew it was really because he feared seeing her there, on the other side of the battle field, wanting to kill and needing to be killed herself.

So the troll spent the next five months roving the dead lands. He was a hermit and a recluse; no one approached him and he kept to himself. By the time he saw a frantic troll messenger pass by him on the road into Durotar, he could do no more to avoid it.

Everyone was being recruited now. He had heard rumors passing through Camp Taurajo of soldiers spilling out of Orgrimmar and creating mobs in the mountains near Morshan. There were vagrant camps and still, it wasn't enough—the Alliance had mobilized just as quickly and possibly in greater numbers, if scout numbers were correct.

Alone and angry, Hanzar signed up for the first raid he saw and was greeted with a miserable sight: everyone was there. Teenagers, untrained grunts, decorated commanders, and skilled adventurers like himself. They departed the capital by mounts, for there were as many undead on their death steeds as there were raptors or kodo; those who didn't have one were fitted with one they would have to leave behind once they reached the rampart.

They reached their destination in one day of hard riding. Other raids were waiting there, while an immense field of white tents extended up the hill and onto the mountains above. Curious, the troll tapped the shoulder of a orc woman riding beside him as they approached.

"What are those?"

"Medical tents," she replied. "For the injured."

Neither of them would add, or the dead.