Thrall pauses by the jousting practice area and turns as though watching the champions running drills. Garrosh comes to an impatient stop and stands there, fidgeting irritably. I take a position on Garrosh's other side with Golthak looming protectively behind me while our assorted escorts arrange themselves and prepare to not-hear whatever my brother is about to say.
"Garrosh," he says in a quiet growl, "I expect you to control yourself here. I do not want a repeat of the Violet Citadel." One hand on the haft of the Doomhammer lends emphasis to the point.
"That was a show of strength," Garrosh replies sullenly.
He doesn't actually believe Thrall would raise a weapon to the son of his honor-brother, but he doesn't want to test that belief. He's like an overgrown puppy yapping at the heels of a bigger dog – ironic, because he is actually a few years older than Thrall.
"I only regret that I did not kill that human before the mage interfered."
"Not all problems can be solved with an axe," I say tartly.
"An axe was good enough for my father," he snaps back.
On Garrosh's other side, I can see Thrall flinch.
"Grom did not survive his victory. I do not call that solving the problem, and I wish that he had not chosen that particular 'solution'. He was a good friend and a good advisor when the bloodlust was not controlling him." Thrall's voice is low, tight with the pain of losing his second friend. After a steadying breath, he continues, "We are guests here, Garrosh, and you will conduct yourself honorably."
"Pah. What honor is there in thrashing about with blunted sticks? This is a waste of time."
The son of Hellscream crosses his arms and glowers, blustering for all he's worth. I can see some of our escort peering at him out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for Thrall's reaction. For a long minute, Thrall just draws himself up to his full height – a head taller than our brown-skinned loudmouth – and stares until Garrosh is forced to lower his eyes.
"Were you so gifted as a child that you never practiced with a wooden weapon?"
Garrosh shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot like a child being scolded. After another minute, Thrall abruptly turns and resumes his steady pace towards the entrance to the arena, where our host Highlord Fordring awaits us. In the general confusion of our escorts sorting themselves out, I slip up next to my brother.
"Tari," he murmurs, "If Wrynn is there, I will have my hands full keeping Garrosh in line."
"I'll handle Varian," I reply quietly before he can ask. His hand is too big for me to squeeze reassuringly, but I lay my hand on his wrist for a moment and then fall back to walk a step behind Garrosh.
As we approach the corner, a woman's voice answers something that has just been said, and a few steps reveal that Tirion is not waiting alone.
"Ah, Warchief Thrall! …Overlord Garrosh," he adds, nodding at the still-sullen son of Hellscream. "Welcome to the tournament. And who is this lovely lady?" Tirion smiles at me, but I can tell he did not expect me and does not like the position Thrall has put him in.
"Thank you for your invitation." Thrall raps his fist sharply against his chest in an orcish salute, then bows slightly in the human style. "Lord Fordring, my sister: Taretha Foxton, late of Durnholde."
I dip a respectful curtsy, and receive a gallant bow in return.
"Taretha was my liaison with Thrall's Horde during the Battle of Mount Hyjal," Jaina says before Tirion can form a diplomatic protest to my presence.
At her words, the reluctance vanishes from his expression like morning mist burned away by the light of the sun. "Welcome, Lady Foxton. I hope you will enjoy the show."
"Indeed, we all look forward to observing these games," Thrall says, but Garrosh snorts derisively.
Tirion casts a disapproving eye over the leader of the Mag'har. "I trust you will see the merit of these events in time, Garrosh. Speaking of time, our final guest should be here any minute."
As though summoned, Varian strides around the corner in the same armor he wore the other day – only now, it has been cleaned and freshly oiled and is covered with a fine surcoat bearing the Alliance lion in gold thread. His escort eyes ours warily while ours stand at rigid attention, determined not to dishonor their Warchief. Or, more likely, unwilling to be called out for a private sparring match should they act in any way Thrall deems less than honorable. Varian's lip curls as his eyes pass over Garrosh and my brother on their way to our host.
"Tirion," he says with a nod of acknowledgment, then notices who else is present. "Jaina, why are you here?"
Well, if that isn't a tone I'd heard one too many times coming from the late, unlamented lord of Durnholde Keep. Jaina's eyes flash and she opens her mouth to reply, but another beats her to it.
"I invited her, King Varian," Tirion says sharply, the mocking emphasis a subtle reminder that on this ground, no one outranks the Highlord of the Argent Crusade.
"Lady Proudmoore, it is a pleasure to see you again," Thrall says smoothly, giving her a bow to match the one Tirion gave me.
"Warchief Thrall, the pleasure is all mine." Jaina holds out her hand and Thrall takes it delicately, brushes his lips against the back, and straightens with it still perched on his.
"Well then, if you'll all follow me?" Tirion turns and leads the way to the gates of the arena, not bothering to wait for a response.
"Lady Proudmoore, may I escort you to your seat?" Thrall manages to keep a straight face, but Jaina's eyes are dancing.
"I would be honored, Warchief Thrall."
"The honor is all mine, Lady Proudmoore," my brother says as he leads Jaina after our host.
Garrosh scowls and stalks after them while Varian glares holes in his brown back. I can't help but smile; you'd never know, watching their careful formality, that there were more than a few late-night strategy sessions that went on far into the night after the generals had all left. Beside me, Varian has finally noticed me now that I am not hidden behind walls of orcish flesh.
"Taretha…"
He sounds like a child that got caught sneaking sweets before dinner. I raise one eyebrow and wait to see if he continues with '…I can explain!'. Instead, he straightens his posture and puts on his best face. The scars prevent it from looking much better, but at least he's trying.
"What an unexpected pleasure," he says, and he sounds like he actually means it. "May I have the honor of escorting you?"
One armored arm is presented gallantly. I suppose he realized from my expression that I wasn't going to offer him my hand.
"You may," I tell him coolly, my fingertips just barely resting on his arm. I can almost feel Golthak's amusement as he follows us up to the gate.
Tirion is waiting for us at the gate, but there is no sign of Garrosh, Jaina, or my brother and their assorted escorts.
"The Lady Proudmoore asked me to tell you that she's switching places with you," he says, giving me a cautiously suspicious look. "She said you wouldn't mind."
"I don't mind at all," I say, but I am verbally trampled.
"What? Why is she sitting with that-" Varian breaks off and looks at me as though remembering my presence.
Tirion clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Shall I show you to your seats, then?"
"That would be most gracious of you, Lord Fordring." I give him a charming smile and dip a small curtsy, and he nods back.
Varian is silent while we are led through narrow wooden stairwells and hallways to a viewing box directly across the arena from what I can only assume is the Horde viewing box, to judge by the red-and-black banners. Tirion gives us a brisk nod and leaves, presumably for the viewing box draped with the Argent Crusade banner. The Alliance guards arrange themselves two inside, two outside, and many uncertain glances are thrown around as Golthak calmly takes his usual place against the wall next to them.
"Why is he here?"
Golthak returns Varian's glare impassively. "I go where Taretha goes."
"You think I'm going to let you stand behind me? How do I know you're not here to assassinate me?"
My expression chills further, but Golthak smiles. "Would be stupid to try. Your guards would kill me."
"I'm sure that wouldn't bother a twisted monster like you, as long as you managed to take me down first." He's got his scarred face right up in Golthak's now.
"Not here to kill you," my escort grunts. "Here to protect Taretha."
"You expect me to believe that?" The king of Stormwind is practically growling now. "Why should I believe that you're so devoted to a human?"
Golthak looks angry now. The inside guards seem uncomfortable with the exchange, while the outside guards are peering surreptitiously around the doorframe. As much as I don't mind letting Jaina and Thrall have some time together, I'm regretting the decision to take her place in the Alliance box.
"Before we came to your world," Golthak says in a slow, menacing voice, "the warlocks changed us with their dark power. Took what they wanted. One of them took my sister. I was just a pup, couldn't protect her. She killed herself to escape him. When I got bigger, I killed him, but it didn't bring her back." He jerks his chin in my direction and Varian backs up a step to avoid the motion of his tusks. "Warchief asked for one to guard her when we took Durnholde. She had the same look my sister had before she died. I swore on my sister's spirit that I would die before I let any harm come to Taretha."
Clearly startled by this, Varian tosses a glance my way and I raise my chin slightly, daring him to object. I can almost see his hackles lowering. With a visible shift, he straightens and gives my faithful shadow a crisp nod, then turns to me as though nothing has happened. My displeasure hits him like a physical blow, to judge by how he winces - but if it is a blow, then his martial training lets him take it in stoic silence. Before he can recover, I seat myself in silent rebuke. After a moment, he takes the other seat.
Across the arena, I can see Jaina lean over and say something to Thrall, who laughs while Garrosh looks torn between amusement and anger. Tirion glances back and forth between the two viewing boxes, then turns to an older orc in Argent colors that I recognize after a moment as Eitrigg. A quiet comment, and Tirion steps forward to begin the opening ceremony.
"You shouldn't have had to see that," Varian says under the cover of Argent trumpets announcing the first combatants.
"Because I shouldn't have been here, or because you shouldn't have said it?" I ask tartly.
He flinches again, but does not answer for several minutes.
"I'm not making a very good impression, am I?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him staring rigidly ahead.
"If I wanted to witness acts of unwarranted aggression, I would have stayed with Blackmoore."
"Harshly said, my lady."
"Have you been a better example, my lord?" His attempt at lighthearted banter is neatly skewered upon the point of my scathing disdain.
He winces. "I deserved that."
In silence, we watch the first few matches. When the voice of a human woman rings out to congratulate the Horde combatants, Varian's eyebrows go up.
"I didn't realize Jaina spoke orcish."
"Not a lot," I say offhandedly, "but her accent's better than yours."
He glowers. "I apologize if my accent insults your delicate ears, my lady. I did not have the luxury of learning in more formal surroundings. Instead, I was forced to learn-"
"-in the gladiator ring. Yes, I know. My lord." I steal a glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. "Thrall dismantled them, you know."
"Too little, too late," he says bitterly.
"You certainly think rather highly of yourself, don't you?" I ask archly.
Varian fights to keep from scowling at me. "What makes you say that?"
"He didn't do it for you. He did it because he hates slavery."
"What would he know about slavery? He was never in the camps."
The casual dismissal makes me so angry that my blood turns to ice. "You really don't know anything about him, do you, my lord?" I want to pierce him with my frosty gaze, but I keep my eyes locked onto the Horde banners across the way.
"So enlighten me, my lady." The growl is more fitting of the gladiator called Lo'gosh than the king of Stormwind.
"Forgive me for thinking you were actually listening to me the other day." My hands are white-knuckled fists in my lap. "I won't make the same mistake again. My lord."
"I really wish you would stop saying that like it's an insult."
"Then maybe you should act in such a way that when applied to you, it wouldn't be."
The sound Varian utters is pure primal frustration, but he takes a breath and forcibly calms himself. "I beg your forgiveness." Each word is ground out past clenched teeth. "Clearly, I was too dazzled by your beauty and the sound of your melodic voice. I pray you, correct my ignorance."
"Very prettily said, but flattery will get you nowhere." I can see his scarred face twitch at my sharp tone. "Blackmoore raised him as a slave. You had loving parents; Thrall had a cruel master. You had a childhood; Thrall had an underground cell. You had a bed and toys; Thrall had straw and stone. You lost your freedom for more than half a year; Thrall lost it for more than half of his life."
He is silent for long enough that I know he is not going to say anything.
"You have a name," I say quietly.
"I had all of those things," he replies with an equally firm tone. "The Horde took them all from me."
"Except your name."
Varian shifts uncomfortably. "Yes."
"And yet, you managed to rebuild your home." He nods stiffly. "Why, then, do you object to the Horde doing the same? Especially when we did not take the rich farmland we were slaves on for so long."
He opens his mouth to object to that use of 'we', but my withering glare makes the words die in his throat. A few seconds longer and the temper dies, as well. At least he remembers that I, too, suffered a lack of freedom under Blackmoore's hand. His mouth closes with a snap and he stares down at the latest combatants, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
"Will you bite my head off if I change the subject to something more pleasant?" he asks dryly. "Say, the upcoming battle to preserve life as we know it in the face of the Scourge threat?"
My retort dies on my lips as he gives me a look that can only be called pleading.
"Please, my lady, be merciful in your victory."
There is no hostility in his words. Were I to press the attack, I would be no better than he. A miniscule nod, and he smiles with relief and genuine warmth. The change leaves me feeling unbalanced.
"I have already seen the power of Taretha Foxton the weapon of diplomacy," he says casually, throwing me a smile that would be more charming if there were fewer scars on his face. "What I would love to hear about is Taretha Foxton the woman. What activities do you enjoy? Aside from verbally flaying bullheaded kings, I mean."
The easy smile, even marred as it is, startles me with its charm. I can see why his people love him if this is the side of himself that he shows them.
"I just 'verbally flayed' you, and you want to get to know me?"
My disbelief makes him shrug. "I'm intrigued by you." He flushes slightly. "It's not often that an attractive woman tells me off."
If anything, my expression growing chillier only makes his smile warmer.
"You're crazy."
Varian laughs at my flat declaration. It's a very nice laugh, warm and rich. I feel my face redden.
"I'm a warrior, my lady, and a cunning strategist. And you – you are the most exciting opponent to enter this field of combat with me in a long, long time. Do you play Hawks and Hares?"
"I do."
"Would you grace the Alliance pavilion with your presence tomorrow for a match with me? Say, for lunch?"
"Absolutely not."
He actually looks disappointed. "Why?"
I favor him with a cool look. "What kind of opponent would give a cunning strategist the opportunity to take her measure between battles?"
"Well said, my lady. Would you care to suggest a time and place for our next battle, then?"
"I am no warrior, my lord, to so eagerly seek out combat."
My rebuke drives the pleasure from his face, leaving him serious and almost….sad?
"Please, Taretha. How can I prove myself to you if you don't give me a chance to do it?"
I almost tell him that the burden falls on him, that I don't care if he ever convinces me of that, but his eyes beg me to relent.
"If you can free your schedule, I will allow you call on me in the first hour past sunrise."
"An early bird?" The lift of his eyebrows conveys surprise where his tone does not.
"Blackmoore was in the habit of sleeping in, particularly after drinking to excess. I got in the habit of rising with the sun."
The unsubtle reminder is a poisoned dart that hits its mark; the warrior-king's good humor sickens and dies.
"When I do sleep in," he says as though challenging Blackmoore's ghost to single combat, "it is a conscious decision made after I wake at first light. I will see you an hour past dawn, my lady."