Thrall could never really understand, on mornings like these, how Blackmoore could continue to drink throughout the day. All he ever wanted to do when he awoke was ingest an endless amount of water, anything to rid himself of that awful dryness in his mouth and in his bones.
He cracked open his eyes, noting the bright shade of the sunlight on the sparse walls of his quarters, and groaned. Damn it. He had probably skipped the first of his appointments for today, so late was the hour. Thrall willed himself up, tossing his sleeping furs aside to sit on the edge of his bed, his bare feet touching the cool stone floor. He rubbed the corners of his eyes, to remove them of the sleep that had accumulated there over the night, and looked around his room.
How drunk had he been? His armor, the black and copper Doomplate, usually so painstakingly stored, had been haphazardly removed, left to sit where he had dropped the pieces. His gaze moved to his right to find the Doomhammer standing cockeyed on its head in the middle of the floor, as if it wasn't the most important thing he owned.
He sighed, a bit disappointed in himself. It would take twice as long to put all of it on now.
Thrall made his way over to the washbasin in the corner and splashed his face to wake himself. He gave himself a sobering look in the reflection of the water's surface, the droplets of water falling from his face and rippling the image.
'You need to stop fooling yourself. Even if she did return those feelings, what would either of you do about it? Ruin her political career? Ruin yours?'
He dried his face with a rough square of linen, and turned to gather his armor.
'It does you no good to pine over her; it brings you nothing but heartache and dissatisfaction. Every woman you meet, you compare to her. Is that fair to every honest and proud orc female that finds their way into your company? Is it fair that they should come into a relationship with so many unknown expectations hanging above their heads? That you think about another woman when you lie with them?
He roughly shoved his feet into his boots, reaching down to buckle the shin plates into place.
He scowled to himself as he dons the rest of his armor. This was precisely why he did not drink on a regular basis. Not only did it make him painfully aware of facets of his subconscious, those realizations paired with a constant sharp pain stabbing into his skull put him into a foul mood; some of which he aims at himself, some of which was probably inflicted upon his staff, though none of them, not even Vol'jin, made mention of it.
He sighed, halfway through securing the armor to his right leg. The worst part about the situation was that he couldn't convince himself otherwise. As hard as he tried, and despite the countless lies and reassurances he told himself, he could not rid himself of the part of himself that cared so very deeply about the human archmage. There was a level of understanding that they shared that he could reach with few others. So much history. So many shared memories and battles won.
They were equals.
…And perhaps that was the root of the problem.
He paused, mulling that thought over for a moment. It was true that he always felt a stitch of doubt when a woman of his own race took interest in him. The question would endlessly turn in his mind: Had they fallen for him, or their idea of him? He had found it was most often the latter; they thought him a charismatic conqueror, a warrior and shaman unparalleled. And while he was those things- though he preferred more humble words- he usually found his day to day work to be consumed by meetings and paperwork. It was less the glory of battle and more about determining taxes and how to conserve water, reading reports from the nearest to the farthest of the Horde's outposts and letters, so many letters. It was never what they expected, and it was why, in the end, that they left.
He could try to act like he gave them all an honest chance, and he sorely wished he could have, but in the end he did not have the time. The mantle of Warchief is not an easy one to bear, and though he could delegate many of those duties to appointed committees, there was no honor in that. He wasn't given those responsibilities so that he could take only passive interest in his people. Just as Orgrim had done, so would he: personally, or as much as was possible.
It is a daunting amount of work that leaves time for little else, and as such, his personal life was put furthest from the fire of things that needed doing, despite how much it needed to be done. The fact that his feelings were elsewhere only served to worsen the matter.
He locked his breastplate into place and began to attach the spiked pauldrons to his shoulders.
'It is funny', he thought bitterly to himself, 'that you should hide behind the excuse of duties for the women who courted you. For though there is a lot of truth to the statement, it rings quite hollow when you would drop everything should the rune you wear around your neck begin to glow. Your concern for her trumps all but your deepest of loyalties, does it not?'
He sighed, picked himself up from his bed and reached for the Doomhammer.
It was the truth. Should she call upon him for aid, there was not much that would keep him from answering the call and he chided himself on his hypocrisy.
He was about to leave his room when he heard a feathery beating of wings at his window.
It was a hawk, gold and red in its coloring, and attached to its leg was a roll of parchment bearing the green Seal of Theramore. When she did bother to send letters she often used this medium, for if intercepted it appeared as official business- formal letters and the like. He untied the scroll from the bird's leg and broke the seal with the black nail of his thumb.
It was the invitation to the Theramore Founding Festival. Why she didn't just give it to him in person was beyond him; it's not as if they weren't completely shitfaced together just hours ago.
Delivering it by hand defeated the formal gesture, he supposed, and though their yearly routine was well practiced, it would be kind of awkward to refuse to her face. Make no mistake; he wanted to go- the political fiasco alone would be a great story to laugh over for years to come- but he couldn't do that to her people. They still, and will always, remember the death of Daelin Proudmoore, and as such he knew he was unwelcome. Still, though, he wanted to have her back when she needed help- and not the military or formal kind. She was unhappy that she was being courted by bothersome nobles that did not interest her in the slightest. They were sure to bestow upon her lavish gifts that she neither wanted nor needed.
He wondered if any of them could work up the balls to sing her their ridiculous praises if he was standing next to her. He probably wouldn't need to talk, or frown even. They way she talked of them, they had to be men of little substance, having lived lives of comfort and ease, all the while she had studied the painstaking art of the arcane, and, on occasion, rose up to save the world. None of them understood the magnitude of her efforts, except perhaps Varian Wrynn
And that was a problem that he desperately wished he could do something about.
He knew Jaina. She would never accept the hand of any of the Stormwind nobles that came to pester her into marriage. They had nothing to offer her. She was ruler of her own nation, and no amount of wealth alone could sway her. But Varian Wrynn was King, and with that came political ramifications he could not ignore.
The various human kingdoms, what was left of them anyway, did not recognize Theramore's sovereign. Kul'Tiras, the nation of her birth, viewed the city-state as a colony over which they held rule, due to Jaina's royal blood. This was not the case, and its independence was won with the regrettable, but inevitable, death of the Admiral Proudmoore.
Stormwind, as the main seat of the Alliance's power, treats Theramore as its subject, though it is careful not to say so outright. As a far larger nation, it has the capital to influence the laws and policies of the rest of the Alliance, but Jaina is far too stubborn to allow their dominion over her people. They are part of the Alliance, of that there is no question, but their laws are not the same laws of Stormwind; when the Alliance calls for arms her people volunteer of their own accord, not because an official from across the sea went door to door rallying boys and fathers from their mothers and wives. They are not taxed under Stormwind's flag, each child is offered an education if they choose to take it and women have many of the rights afforded to men. And though it is settled in a backwater swamp, it is the Alliance's most important trade hub on Kalimdor.
Politically, it made perfect sense why Varian would want to merge the two nations, but Thrall's biggest concern lay not in the political agenda of Stormwind, but the personal one of its king.
She always spoke glowingly of the once boy-king, Anduin. She had helped shape him into what he hoped would one day be a great and peaceful ruler. Her concern for him was almost like a mother's, and out of the kindness of her heart, she helped to merge the broken soul of their lost king, not just for his benefit, but also for the sake of Stormwind's people. It was simply a matter of time until Varian would begin to see her as more than a colleague, even though his clumsy advances were wholly unwanted.
What aggravated Thrall the most was that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Even putting his own feelings aside, he worried that Jaina would settle for someone she did not love in return simply for the stability of a tie with Stormwind would provide. Or, conversely, would he pursue her so ardently she would rebuff him in a way that would jeopardize Theramore's already fragile sovereignty? They could take the port city by force without so much as a pittance of effort. And, if that event were to happen, would he be able to come to her aid knowing that such an action would undoubtedly throw the world into war?
Such was the enigma of his relationship with Jaina Proudmoore. So many worries would need not be had if only he could quell the troublesome flame he harbored in his heart.
He fed the hawk a bit of yesterday's meat he had left sit out to break his fast and turned to leave. He would write her a reply on the morrow.