The Promised Land

Of course, Fentulk protested the generosity of Ronjaty, but she waved him to silence and told him to go to bed. 'Duh Horde be family, Fentulk. Family look after its own,' she'd said. For the first time, it really sunk in for him. All these days of running, trying to get home to his real family, and along the way, he was aided by a surrogate family that embraced him and gave of itself at every turn. It didn't matter that he had a different skin color or aligned himself to a different faction. While he considered the Alliance assistance to be sheer luck and a great deal to do with Joanne's persuasion, the Horde Orcs' reactions made his heart swell.

They helped him. They ignored his skin, saw him as a fellow Orc in dire straits, and they helped him. In spite of the company he kept, the obvious choice he'd made, they helped him. And now he was a breath away from home.

He sighed deeply in the darkness, staring at the ceiling of the inn. He could hear quiet footsteps as folk retired at all hours to left and right. Beside him, he could hear Joanne's soft breaths as she slept, yet he could not find rest.

His body still ached. The stubble of hair beginning to grow back on his head, face, and body had begun to itch. Until now, he hadn't had a bath for so long he could barely stand it. How had Joanne borne his company? He grunted a laugh. Though she'd made no comment, her own state clearly bothered her, particularly when the leader of the Cenarion Expedition, Ysiel Windsinger, stopped by as they were settling in. The luminous Night Elf intimidated him instantly, not because her race had a long-standing grudge against his, but rather because she towered over him by at least a foot. He was tall as Mag'har reckoned it, but this woman was taller still. She also ignored him completely, addressing her conversation entirely to Joanne as if Fentulk wasn't there.

"Are you well?" Ysiel had asked. "I am told you have endured many hardships. How fare you?"

"I... I am fine," Joanne replied nervously. "Thank you."

"Are your needs attended to? Is there anything further you require?"

"No," Joanne answered, shaking her head. Then she seemed to think better of it, and said timidly, "Might I... that is... would there be... someplace I could... bathe?"

The Night Elf smiled kindly. "Come with me. I shall see to it."

"And... my friend also?"

Carefully avoiding eye contact or even subtle acknowledgement of Fentulk, Ysiel Windsinger nodded and replied, "Of course."

It was such a relief to scrape and scrub away the accumulated grime and sweat of weeks. Fentulk now itched for a different reason, his raw abraded skin further irritated by unaccustomed clean clothing also bought and given by Ronjaty. He added her to his rising debt, determined to repay every kindness whether the provider wanted paying or not.

Glancing once more at her, he smiled. Joanne clearly felt more confident and at her best after bathing, and seemed less worried about meeting his people, his parents. Yet he knew come morning, when they were mounted on the wyvern and sailing beyond the border of Zangarmarsh into the beauteous land of his people, she would worry anew.

He worried for her as well. The Mag'har weren't very open to outsiders. While not particularly racist, they hadn't exactly been exposed to very many races not associated with the Horde. At least not many that did not wish them harm.

Yet things must have changed in the last decade of his absence. Thrall's work with the Earthen Ring, already a fixture in the area, must surely have brought more Shamans to Garadar for its proximity to the Throne of the Elements. Shamans could be found in most races of Azeroth; Fentulk hoped his folk would be more receptive to Joanne if they had any contact with the less hostile members of the Alliance.

On the other hand, there was his mother to consider. Kashka had been a proud and fierce warrior in her younger days. She had defended Garadar against the Ogres, the Broken, and even the odd Alliance member venturing into the Mag'har territory bent on vengeance for some perceived wrong. Likely following the same sort of orders that saw those fools attacking Mag'har Post in Hellfire Peninsula. Regardless, his ma always spoke of him taking a mate from among the Mag'har, as though it was the way of things and a foregone conclusion. When he informed her of his decision to visit Azeroth, she reminded him of the purity of Mag'har blood, and told him not to sully the line of his fathers by taking a 'tainted' Orc as a mate.

Well, he could at least say Joanne wasn't one of those.

As for his father, he never knew quite where he stood with the man. Tagdish was even more reserved than Fentulk, rarely speaking more than a few words when pressed, and keeping a thoughtful silence most of the time. The most vivid contrast he could recall was when he received the wound from the elekk. His ma bellowed and thrashed madly over his carelessness, admonishing him for trying to best a bull alone with so little experience and only an equally untrained windroc at his side. Putting himself in a precarious position that ended with Shaman dragging his body back to the village covered in blood and his ma worrying that he had lost too much to survive. He barely recalled a word Kashka said to him, so close to death had he come. Yet when her tirade was spent, she collapsed upon him and wept and begged the ancestors to spare his life, if only so she might beat sense into him.

Tagdish, he remembered, had been stone-faced yet clenched his jaw. He stood silent and immobile in the background as the Shaman healed Fentulk and Kashka advised them they were not doing enough and certainly not quickly enough to suit her. When Fentulk was conscious again and able to sit up, Tagdish only gripped his shoulder and said, 'Don't do that again, boy.' And Fentulk didn't.

The morning was slightly lighter than night in the marsh. The only difference seemed to be in the level of activity as the sleepers awakened and the inn began bustling with activity. Joanne stretched and yawned. She reasoned she must have been exhausted to sleep so soundly, for she hadn't felt nearly so safe and well-guarded as she had in Thrallmar. There, Fentulk had purposefully joined their beds and placed himself between her and everyone else. Here, he'd discretely kept himself aloof. Perhaps the presence of so many Alliance members kept him from calling attention to their association. Did he think they would try to take her away from him?

Let them try, she thought fiercely as she sat up and pulled her shoes on.

"You sleep all right?" Fentulk asked as he pulled his own boots on.

She looked at his face closely, then sighed. "A good deal better than you did. What worries you?"

Chuckling and ducking his head, he replied, "You're gettin' to know me well, eh?"

"You have a most expressive face," she smiled. "And you look terrible."

He threw back his head and laughed. She hadn't seen him do that once since he was brought to the tower. There just never seemed to be a moment... But it was good to see it now. Her own heart's burdens lightened hearing him laugh.

Taking his hands in hers, she said gently, "We are almost home."

His laughter died down and he sighed. "You ain't worried 'bout that, are you? About meetin' my parents?"

"Of course I am," she replied softly, and she was certain her own face betrayed just how worried she was. "I... I am no Orc woman, Fentulk. Surely this will... disappoint your... your mother."

Swallowing nervously, he said, "Maybe for a bit. Just has to get to know yuh, and she won't mind so much." He seemed breathlessly hanging on every word. "Joanne... you and me... we're... more'n friends, then. Is that what you mean?"

She squeezed his large brown hands. "Yes. More than... friends."

He sighed and smiled, yet asked no more. Once again, she felt a surge of gratitude. Even here, so close to his home, he still made no demands upon her, and implied no debt owed him. He had given her as much freedom as their circumstances allowed. She felt confident that, if she didn't desire him so, if she didn't love him so, he would accept her rejection without question. It amused her that by releasing her, he had effectively bound her to him. She wanted no other man but him, and would accept no other. It was a strangely liberating feeling.

Perhaps because she'd ridden a wyvern on their arrival in Hellfire Peninsula and in so doing discovered and dealt with her fear of heights, Joanne felt few misgivings as the wyvern Ronjaty secured for them took wing and soared over the mushroom canopy. Even here, above the broad crowns, there was little sunlight; the land seemed perpetually in twilight.

As the beast glided easily on its route, Joanne found herself leaning comfortably against Fentulk's chest, her head resting on his shoulder. His rough cheek tickled her temple. She barely remembered his braided beard, hanging a foot long from his chin. While he'd bathed, he hadn't shaved, and his jaw bristled with new hair. She smiled and rubbed her cheek against his, listening to the rasping sound and his amused chuckle.

"It's growin' back in," he murmured in her ear. "Gonna be a rough few months."

"I've gotten quite used to you without hair," she said. "I shan't know what to do when it returns."

"Maybe not be so embarrassed about me," he grumbled without heat. "Look like the Warchief. He went and shaved his head. Looks a bit stupid, you ask me. Don't do bald so well. And them tattoos of his..."

Joanne smiled mischievously. "Come now. Say no bad thing of another's markings. You have a fair few yourself."

Blushing hotly, he muttered, "You weren't supposed to see that. One'uh those things you... you only show to... someone you got an understandin' with. 'S'why you put'em there."

"I think we... understand one another well enough," she said shyly. "Things being... what they were... I could not very well help seeing, could I?"

"Just don't tell my ma," Fentulk chuckled. "She'll think I was a bad boy."

"Should the subject come up," Joanne vowed, "I shall swear upon my honor that you were nothing of the sort." Poorly stifling a giggle, she added, "I do not think I could describe it very well in any case. I did not get a good look."

"Cause you're a lady," he teased.

I should like another peek, though, Joanne inwardly confessed. Does that make me less of a 'lady'? All she could recall was the symmetry of the designs on each of his flanks, stretching to the front of his hip bones. They were brown, a bit darker than the rest of his skin, and nearly overlooked for how well they blended. She'd been too embarrassed by her own interest to acknowledge having seen them.

"Tell me what they are for," she said. "What they represent."

She felt his smile against her cheek. "One'uh them rites of passage. Redwalkers do it; not many others. Old tradition. When I killed that clefthoof calf. Gettin' the tattoos is part of a ceremony to mark that yer grown to manhood."

"Did they hurt? When you received them?"

"Fuck, yeah," he grunted. "Hurt worse'n gettin' rammed by the clefthoof. Can't show it, though. That's part of it, too. Gotta just... grit yer teeth and bear it."

"You bravely kept silent, I expect?" she smiled.

"Aye," he nodded, swelling with pride.

"What do they mean?" she asked. "I do not recall the symbols specifically."

"Just... kinduh meant to be the clefthoof," he shrugged. "You can sortuh see the shape of the beast 'round each... uh... just there and all. S'posed to give me, uh, a clefthoof's strength and... um... virility or somesuch." His voice tapered off into embarrassed muttering. "It's just tradition. Don't mean nothin'."

Her smile broadening, she patted his leg. "Traditions have meaning and purpose. I am certain this one is no different."

Again, his mind flashed up the image of Joanne heavy with his child, and he thought he might burst with longing. A slight spasm marred his thoughts, however. He'd promised the naming of his first son as payment for the wolf slain by the Draenei; he hadn't ridden it for long, and so hadn't formed any lasting bond, yet it still saddened him to lose the animal. As a younger man, before he left home, he'd had a riding wolf of his own. Reddish-furred and bold, more curious than was good for it just like he was then. He'd called the beast Thursha, for it was a female.

He'd had to leave Thursha behind when he left Draenor. One of the few letters he'd received from his ma told him of the wolf's passing, how it was shot by the Broken that attacked the village years ago. Not many things back in those days could bring Fentulk to tears, but he wept bitterly over that letter, and still carried it with him. Or he had done, until SI:7 saw fit to relieve him of everything he had.

Gorkan's wolf wasn't the same as Thursha. No wolf ever would be.

After a few minutes of quiet thought, Joanne ventured, "Is there... a similar rite for women in your clan?"

Setting aside thoughts of his long-dead wolf, Fentulk replied, "Yeah. Ain't never seen what they get, of course. Asked once, and my ma told me I'd find out when the ancestors was good and ready to show it to me." He chuckled and shook his head. "Still ain't gonna know, am I?"

"What must a woman of your clan do?" she asked quietly. "To earn such marks?"

"You... you want'em?" he said with surprise.

"It is no matter," she quickly demured. "I don't think I... I could not slay a beast such as your clefthoof, calf or no." Sighing, she wilted against Fentulk's chest. "I shall never be what your mother wishes for you, shall I?"

That she was worried about what his mother would think of her spoke volumes, and he smiled. "Don't you worry about my ma. Don't matter to me what she thinks. She don't know you yet; not like I do." He held her closer, revelling in how she seemed to fit so perfectly in his arms. "Yuh know, I heard a woman's tattoos look like a talbuk. Ain't for sure that's it, but I've heard things."

"I've never heard of a talbuk," Joanne murmured, once more feeling woefully ignorant of his home, his ways, his world.

"Well," he explained softly, "they're real gentle-like. You can almost walk up to one grazin' and it'll let you get close. Ain't much afraid'uh you, not in the attackin' or runnin' off kind'uh way. But you corner'em, or you threaten their young, and they turn on yuh. Make a mess of yuh."

"And your girls... must kill one? To be considered a woman?"

He shook his head. "It ain't about killin', it's about... about servin' the clan. My clefthoof fed a lot of folks. The hide... well, I gave that to my ma, but she made some warm clothes and bedding out of it. The bones we used for tools and weapons. Boiled the fat for lamp oil. Ain't no part that don't go for somethin' useful."

"What must a woman do, then?"

"I don't know," Fentulk shrugged. "Never had a sister. The women keep a lot of secrets 'bout stuff like that. Ain't a man's concern, they'll say." Grinning, he added, "Makes'em more interestin', my da says."

You're like a talbuk, he thought fondly. You're soft and gentle til you get cornered, then you come out fightin'. And I love you for it.

Gazing ahead, his heart clenched in his chest and he straightened. "Joanne, look," he said, pointing.

Looking up, she saw that ahead of them, perhaps another few minutes' flight away, the midnight blue darkness of Zangarmarsh gave way to clear, cerulean sky, green grass and real trees.

"Oh my goodness," she breathed, awestruck by the beauty of the land they approached.

"That's Nagrand," Fentulk said, his voice unsteady, a lump in his throat. "We're home."

The wyvern ducked under the last of the mushroom trees and burst into brightly shining sunlight.