Almost slipped my mind, despite several mental reminders, but we are still chugging along, and AT LAST! Wrath content has ended! It is time for the factions to rest and regroup, and prepare themselves for the world on the other side of the shadow of the Lich King! But what madness awaits? I have a ton of great fun ideas lying in wait, and we shall see... Enjoy, and leave a review with your prediction (sometimes i make use of the good ones...) ~F
Chapter 179
Always a Lich King
Nobu'tan seared with untold agony. All around him, warriors and friends lay dead, struck down in an instant by the unmatched power of the Lich King.
He himself had only been saved by his demonic soul, warped and twisted by the utter embracement of the Fel inside him. And so he had fought, like a lion against the oncoming storm of the undead master, his power in the demonic magic staving off the end, all the while wondering if he too would join Draco, Jaina, and the others in death.
But like a ray of hope, Teron had come flying in, raising Voldemort, Bellatrix, and Sylvanas, the only of their allies that were not bound by the rules of mortals, and together they pressed back against the Lich King. But it appeared that he no longer cared about the direct conflict in front of him, and his power washed over them in waves of frigid cold and bone-chilling death.
Turning to address the still frozen Tirion, the Lich King continued gloating his presumed victory, throwing off attacks from the Death Knights, Banshee, Valkyr, and warlock. "You trained them well, Fordring. You delivered the greatest fighting force this world has ever known… right into my hands—exactly as I intended. You shall be rewarded for you unwitting sacrifice."
Nobu'tan knew that he had to stop this, end the Lich King now if he could, and unleashed a torrent of Felfire, allowing his own hatred to burn with the emerald flames.
With a grunt, the Lich King swung his blade wide, throwing all of them backwards toward the edge of the platform, and raised the blade skyward, its magic washing over those who had fallen. "Watch now as I raise them from the dead to become masters of the Scourge. They will shroud this world in chaos and destruction. Azeroth's fall will come at their hands—and you will all be the first to die."
Laughing, his voice echoing around the columns of ice and stone, the Lich King looked at Nobu'tan, "I delight in the irony…"
Hopelessness struck in Nobu'tan's breast. Even with all his power, his armies, even the might he stole from the Burning Legion, he was still no match for this force of death. The Fel could not conquer this foe. Hanging his head, Nobu'tan felt a wave of defeat start to curl his skin.
"Light…" said a voice from the far side of the Lich King, muffled from the thick wall of ice encasing him, "grant me… one final blessing… Give me the strength… TO SHATTER THESE BONDS!"
Nobu'tan's head snapped upward as a surge of pure light magic exploded, destroying the ice encasing Tirion Fordring. The paladin stood tall, his weapon blazing with pure power in his hands, even as he sprinted at the Lich King, who stood locked in his incantations.
"ARTHAS!" Tirion bellowed, leaping with the aid of his power, golden wings blossoming on his back as his blade struck true, striking the Runeblade, and cleaving through it.
"Impossible…" the Lich King said, looking down at the hilt of his shattered weapon, even as the souls consumed by the weapon fled in torrents.
"No more, Arthas!" Tirion demanded, wading back in to strike at the Lich King in righteous fury, "No more lives will be consumed by your hatred!"
Out of the conclave of spirits, the figure of a human man appeared, clad in a crown. "Free at last!" the spirit rejoiced, turning to face the Lich King, "It is over, my son. This is the moment of reckoning.
Magic poured from the ghost, the Light singing in answer. "Rise up, champions of the Light!" the spectral king intoned, and to Nobu'tan's awe his friends and allies surged back to the land of the living.
"The Lich King must fall!" Tirion cried, snapping them all to the reality of their situation. Their enemy was defenseless, and at last justice would be done.
"Now I stand, the lion before the lambs… and they do not fear…" the Lich Knig said, even as they close in around him, weapon and magic rushing to take their piece of revenge upon him. "They cannot fear…"
Without his powerful blade to defend himself, the Lich King fell quickly, dropping to his knees and grunting in pain as his crown-like helm clattered to the stone, revealing the young face with its pure white hair.
The man tried in vain to reach for his helmet, as though desperate for it, and only managed to lose his balance and roll onto his back. The ghost of the man's father, their similar features now visible with the Lich King's face revealed, knelt and cradled the head of his son.
"Father?" the man, Arthas, said, "Is it… over?"
"At long last," the spirit replied, "No King rules forever, my son."
"I see… only darkness… before me…" the Lich King said, almost pitifully, even as his eyes rolled back and his passed into the true grasp of death.
Tirion approached, seemingly wishing to speak with the ghost, probably a figure familiar to the old paladin. The ghost lowered the Lich King's body to the ground and turned to look at the paladin. "Without its master's command," the ghost stated flatly, "the restless Scourge will become an even greater threat to this world."
Tirion halted, and the air itself seemed to freeze anew with the ghost's next words, "Control must be maintained… There must always be… a Lich King…"
In a flash, the ghost vanished, leaving them with naught but the chilling words. As one, the eleven individuals turned to look upon the crown of the Lich King, still lying by the body of its former owner, and the grim destiny that lay implied with whosoever had to take up that mantle.
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Sylvanas made no movement toward the Helm of Domination. Her eyes were locked upon the fallen form of Arthas Menethil. The long awaited time of vengeance had come, and she had played a part in the destruction of the Forsaken's most hated enemy.
And yet… she felt nothing.
There was no joy, no freeing wash of relief that the murderer of her people lay dead at her feet. Her mind rang with hollow emptiness, and with it, her soul mourned. There would be no rest for her or the Forsaken, even with Arthas gone.
She was pulled from her ruminations as Tirion bent down to take up the deathly crown. "The weight of such a burden… It must be mine, for there is no other to…"
Whatever he might have said was interrupted at that moment, when a flash of silver flew past, and the helm was ripped from his hands. The winged form of the Val'kyr, the servant of the Dark Horde's pet Death Knight, alighted to the pinnacle of the Frozen Throne, where her master already sat, waiting.
"That is a grim destiny you speak of, paladin," the Death Knight said, clasping the helm as his attendance removed the cloth covering his desiccated head, "A pity is it not yours to own."
"Voldemort," Nobu'tan declared, stepping forward, "What do you think you're doing?"
"What none of you have the ambition to do," the Death Knight countered, "I alone hold the strength of will to reel back the tide of the undead, and perhaps forge them into something that will protect this world, rather than consume it…"
Before another word could be said, the Death Knight hefted the helm over his head, and settled it into place. For a moment, there was silence and stillness, before the whole chamber shook violently. The Death Knight opened his eyes, the crimson red of his freedom pulsing with the added magic of the crown, as its blue gem shifted color and hue to match. A new Lich King sat before them, crowned.
In moments, frost and ice was already forming around the new Lich King, freezing him in place atop his throne. "GO NOW," the echoing voice of the Death Knight, mixed with the former thunder of the Lich King, rang, "LEAVE THIS PLACE—AND NEVER RETURN."
The Val'kyr servant drifted up to float behind the Frozen Throne, now a silent sentinel over her master, even as the others departed to rejoin their forces waiting below in the Citadel. Vereesa was there, likely waiting to try and resuming mending the rift that had formed between sisters when their homeland was shattered, and Sylvanas turned into the horrific monster that had served the Scourge for so long.
The very idea of what was to come after this day sickened her. For too long she had dreamed only of this day of vengeance, an end to the rage that burned inside her. And while that day finally had come, the rage burned still.
She waited. The others disappeared into the magic circle that took them down to their waiting armies, but she would not be joining them. Her purpose was complete, and there was only one thought left within her. It was a flash of a whisper of a memory, of purest bliss in a sea of blackness before her soul was dragged back screaming into the world by Arthas' cruelty.
Slowly, she crunched her way to the ragged edge of the icy platform. A thousand feet below, shrouded by the clouds, lay a forest of shattered spikes. The fall alone could not kill her: her animated flesh was nigh indestructible. However, the spikes, the hardened blood of an Old God, would tear not only the body apart but would obliterate her soul as well. She longed for it.
A return to peace.
She lifted her bow from her shoulder and cast it aside. It clattered against the uneven ice. Then she removed her quiver. Arrows spilled from it, cascading down the side of Icecrown Citadel, disappearing one by one into the fog. The empty quiver dropped quietly to the ground at her feet.
Her ragged, dark cloak, freed from her discarded armaments, began to whip around her neck in the bitter wind. She could feel no cold, only a dull ache. She would feel nothing soon. She already felt her spirit reaching a place of calm for the first time in almost a decade. Her weight shifted toward the edge of the drop.
She closed her eyes.
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Sirius forced himself to speed up to keep up with the procession of the Dark Horde leaders, even as they rallied and followed behind Nobu'tan down to the outer parapets. Commander Brigitte Abbendis, the remaining leader of the Scarlet Onslaught, gravitated toward him, falling into step as they started from the central teleporter.
"So, what are you commands for the Scarlet Onslaught, Highlord," she asked, looking at him with something that the former prankster say was clearly awe and adoration.
He decided that it would be best to shut down whatever hero worship developed in the heat of the moment before it got out of hand, "I am not taking command of your organization," he said calmly, "I came across the Twisting Nether to protect my godson, and I am journeying with him wherever his destiny leads. I suspect greatly that your people would not mesh well with his Dark Horde…"
The woman paused for a half moment. Then most annoyingly, she just smiled, "Then it will help us find out who is truly open to the new direction of the Scarlet Movement."
Sirius sighed. He did not want to be drawn into the political moves of a completely fanatical organization, even if swaying them to help him would give him a force to help protect his godson.
"Not now…" he said, stepping faster to catch up with the Dark Horde leaders. Nobu'tan was just stepping out to the overlook, where the Kalimdor Horde and Alliance gunships waited, along with a host of drakes to escort them down to the ground.
"Bannok, Teron, see to it that our forces withdraw to Bloodmoon Island. From there they can take portals back to our strongholds and rest. We will also need to establish an embassy with our allies in Zul'Drak."
He nodded at the Frost Troll Warlord, "I trust we shall have more formal acquaintances, now that the threats harassing your people and ours have at last been silenced."
The leaders of the other factions boarded their ships, and they pulled away from the dreaded fortress. For a moment, Sirius wondered how they would depart, before a casual wave of Nobu'tan's jeweled scepter tore open nether portals for them, revealing a various dispersion of locations.
A few of these led elsewhere, clearly the Dark Horde staging grounds, and the Ogre Mage as well as the Frost troll took them, to shepherd their other forces back to their outpost, but the rest took them to the base level of the Citadel, where their army rallied around to listen. Whatever it was that they were told did not matter to Sirius however, as he spotted familiar figures among them, or at least familiar magic. The illusions were nearly perfect, unless you knew what to look for.
The older orc warlock that met with Nobu'tan was well known to Sirius, as he had crossed wands with him many times in a bygone era. "Lucius…" he hissed, stepping forward, although he did not even itch his hand toward his sword.
Knowing that the old Death Eater was still here was not close to the worst that he had encountered, but the recognition in the false orcish eyes was something of a pleasure. "Black…" the grave voice said, "something of a surprise that you stubbornly continue to live. Do we need to start looking over our shoulders for others of your ragtag group to be appearing?"
"Not here," Nobu'tan countered, overriding the retort that Sirius had planned for the blond git. It was wise, as they were beginning to draw stares from the others around them, even as the Orc paladin and the Death Knight started rallying the others to march.
"There is much still to discuss, and plan… Lord Nobu'tan," Malfoy continued, "The Blightbringer Clan has deserted us. They abandoned the fight as the Scourge settled and disappeared into the Citadel…"
"No surprise, but later, when there are fewer ears itching for news," Nobu'tan replied, "Return to Stormwind with Lady Parkinson and her band, I will summon you at a later date to give you all the information you wish. There is much that I need to mull over, but suffice to say, the day is ours, and we have all earned a very long rest."
"As you wish," Malfoy said, but his eyes, even behind the illusion, couldn't hide the disbelief at the words of Nobu'tan. Sirius smirked. Apparently, the old pureblood had had his godson's best interests at heart all along, and his momentary concern was nothing.
"Black, I have no answers for you right now, and I suspect that you would hound me until the end of my days if I do not allow you to follow me at some point." Nobu'tan said, turning on him next, and offering a runestone to him, "Take care of this business of the Scarlet Onslaught, and then use this hearthstone to come to me in Blackrock Mountain. Hopefully by then I will have the time and mental preparation to decide what is to be done with you and your insistence of lingering on my heels like a whining pup."
Rather than allow himself to be insulted, Sirius took the stone and the promise, feeling the magic of transport within it and accepting the trust he was given. There would be no escaping this irritation with the fanatics, that was true, but he could sense that Harry wanted time alone, to process what had just happened.
Only when the Dark Horde's Grand Warlock vanished through a quickly torn gateway did the full impact of what had actually occurred dawn upon Sirius. He, and all those who had fought against the Lich King, bar Nobu'tan, had perished, their souls momentarily ripped from them by the cursed blade, now shattered at the top of the spire of stone and ice.
Sirius had, in the rush of adrenaline heralding the defeat of the Lich King, forgotten that fact, and truth be told, hadn't felt too concerned about it, as his soul had been Lightforged years ago in the trials of the Army of the Light. His being was bound to the Light, and no evil blade could truly destroy him in that manner. But, Nobu'tan had not experienced that, he had only seen all those who were alongside him slaughtered in a flash, and he had been powerless to stop it.
The weight of what his godson was going through crashed upon Sirius, and he sat upon the stone steps in front of the Citadel heavily.
He sensed the presence of the Scarlet Commander, still waiting by him as though duty bound to attend to him. Sighing, Sirius allowed himself pulled from the horrific thoughts and speak to her, "Tell me where the main stronghold of the Onslaught is, so we may go there and root out the corruption that is controlling it…"
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Jaina found a secluded spot on the Skybreaker, after reporting in that all Alliance forces were accounted for to Varian Wrynn, who apparently had come to reinforce their ground defenses. Whether the King of Stormwind noticed her distant expression, he did not show it and and was able to slip away without questions.
The icy chill of the skies of Northrend felt empty to her, even as Jaina sat in a secluded cabin on the lower deck of the ship, lost in thought and memory of what she had witnessed atop the Frozen Throne.
Arthas was dead.
The thought made her shudder. Seeing his body, withered in undeath and weakly grasping for the crown of his own damnation, like an addict to the power it held, had horrified her. Add to that the fact that they had all technically died, their souls shortly ripped from their bodies and pulled into the cursed blade of Frostmourne.
If not for Tirion's quick action… they'd have all be raised as undead, bound to Arthas forever…
If she had known, all those years ago at Stratholme, what direction the young Prince of Lordaeron would take… she shuddered to think what she might have done to try and stop him, what depths she would have sank to prevent all this tragedy…
"Jaina?"
She nearly failed to notice as Draco entered the cabin, so lost in her personal darkness. "I failed him," she admitted, feeling the grief and the guilt threaten to spill over anew, as it had repeatedly since Stratholme.
"From what tales I heard, Arthas was a proud, just man who would stop at nothing to protect his people…" Draco said, kneeling to take her hands in his, "that is what you must remember. Not how he fell, nor what was left atop Icecrown…"
Jaina heard the echo of her own words from when Draco's first love, Pansy Parkinson, was buried. It felt like ages ago, when it was not even two years previous that that rainy, grief-filled day in Stormwind had occurred.
"You still carry too much of the world's burdens upon your shoulders…" he said. She smiled, feeling a tiny flame in the midst of her grief. It gave her the strength to stand once again, and think of what she wanted to do next.
"I will be returning to Theramore. It's been too long since I was among my people, and a rest, however short it may be, would be welcome." She said, gathering magic to open a portal for herself.
"I think that would be wise… we all need a rest after the ordeal of this campaign…" Draco agreed.
"Will you come and visit us soon?" Jaina asked, turning to look at him, "Anduin might want to come, and it would be good for both of us, to escape the memories for a time…"
"I'd love to," Draco replied, stepping back as she opened the gateway, and departed for her own room in the tower of Theramore.
The desire for sleep hounded her mind, but before she allowed herself to slip into the shadows of rest, she had to pen a letter. She knew that it would likely be a fruitless gesture, but she hoped that she could receive some advice from a source she thought closed off forever.
She would write home, to her mother in Kul Tiras.
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Garrosh sat stiffly on Ogrim's Hammer's lower deck. He had much to mull over, and the surrounding was not the best for thinking about pleasant things.
He had come here specifically, to honor a fallen warrior, and to renew his oath that he would be more aware of what was around him, and the influences within and without that were trying to manipulate him.
"Honor… no matter the battle… at any cost," he repeated, recalling the words that Saurfang the Elder had said to him over the very body that he now observed. Dranosh rested, nearly peaceful on a brier that would bear them back to Orgrimmar.
"Those are the words that Ogrim Doomhammer burned into my mind before he gave over the mantle of Warchief to me…" said a voice from the entrance of the hold.
"Warchief," Garrosh said, turning and inclining his head to Thrall as the Shaman strode into the hold.
"It is fitting, that they are handed over to you, if you are to become the next Warchief," Thrall said, and the younger Mag'har furrowed his brow.
"You defeated me in the ring of honor, before this campaign in Northrend started, for the right to rule the Horde," Thrall said, "it would be dishonorable for me to ignore it now that the crisis is ended…"
"It was dishonorable for me to issue the challenge in the first place," Garrosh said, feeling the threatening weight of what his brashness so long ago had led to. "I will not take up that mantle, I am not ready for it."
"With proper guidance, you will be, in time…" Thrall said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "And the Horde needs a proud, young warrior as their Warchief. One who will take the decisive action when the need is most dire, rather than wait and see, as I feel that I have done too often."
Garrosh grasped the hand on his shoulder, feeling more like it was a lifeline than anything else, "If you will it to be so, Warchief, then I will train to be your successor…" he said softly.
Whether his change in attitude shocked Thrall, he was not sure, but the grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment. "You will have the best of advisors, and I will never be far. I will not leave you without the best and most capable of hands to guide you."
"We are not to different," Thrall continued, after a pause, "When I was younger. Headstrong, eager for justice, and to see the unfairness done to our people repaid tenfold. It was your father that guided my hand in securing our people's freedom, and if not for guidance to depart the Eastern Kingdoms altogether, we would have continued the fight until all the Horde was reunited."
"Why didn't you stay?" Garrosh asked, a question he had wondered for a long time, but never had the right situation to ask without sounding accusatory.
"That, young Garrosh, is a long and winding tale, which I suspect we will just about have enough time for, on our voyage home." Thrall said, releasing Garrosh as he too took a seat, and began explaining the visions he had started seeing, shortly after ascending to Warchief of the newly freed Horde.
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Nobu'tan stepped back into Blackrock Mountain, exhausted spiritually and mentally, as well as heavily fatigued physically. Unfortunately, for him there was no end to things he needed to accomplish before his armies returned, so rest was still a long ways off. That was fine by him, as the torments of what he had experienced demanded that he suffer through them rather than sleep and dream of them unfiltered.
With the Lich King defeated, even though they had lost the Blightbringer Clan completely, the Dark Horde still stood with the most powerful military force on the continent, if not the world, and Nobu'tan had to make sure that they were carefully guarding all of their holdings and assets, calculating what forces needed to be where.
Additionally, there was the need to fill the vacancy left by the fall of Warchief Nek'rosh. As he had promised the chieftains of the various clans, his eyes were upon them all, and he had been impressed by many that displayed their loyalty and talents toward the betterment of the Dark Horde.
Ultimately, it was down to three contenders, primarily because the predominantly orc-filled Dark Horde would follow none other, and of those non orcs Nobu'tan couldn't name one that would want the position. He could follow with tradition and name the current chieftain of the Blackrock Clan, General Thorg'izog, as Warchief, as the Blackrocks had stepped up to show their stability as the backbone of the orcish ranks time and again.
Or, following the new tradition, and to honor Nek'rosh, Nobu'tan could select the Chieftain of the reformed Dragonmaw Clan, Zuluhed the Whacked. It would be a bold move, and the Dragonmaw would approve heavily, as their air support had been key to many Dark Horde victories.
Finally, there was the newly formed, Light-oriented Dawn's Hammer Clan, and their chieftain Bannok Grimaxe. A former Blackrock orc, the Paladin was one of the strongest supporters of Nobu'tan in trying to make peace with the other factions, but it was highly irregular to name such a small clan as leaders of the Horde…
Nobu'tan had his candidate in mind, but would withhold naming him until every clan in the Dark Horde was in attendance to witness and show their approval, or disapproval, of Nobu'tan's selection. Fortunately, with their portal magic that would not take long, hence why Nobu'tan had to hurry and secure the logistics of their territory. At the least the regions once held by the Blightbringer clan had to be reclaimed by another to take their place.
Kharazhan was an important location, and magically powerful. To let it slip from their hands would be a terrible loss.
"It's about time you returned," Garona said as he entered the main war room.
"The campaigned is ended, and our troops are returning home," Nobu'tan said quickly, "I need to know where we have secured, and where we can funnel fresh and recovering soldiers to solidify everything."
"Right table," the half orc said, scooping up a pile of other missives as Nobu'tan rustled through the maps and charts covering the Dark Horde's occupied territory, "these will also need your attention, particularly the missive from the Kalimdor Warchief."
Nobu'tan frowned, and reached for the indicated letter, folded in rough parchment and emblazoned with the symbol of the Kalimdor Horde.
From the scent of storms around the letter, it was clearly from Thrall, and skimming it quickly, Nobu'tan sighed to himself. Just what he needed—one more thing to add to his already immense list of duties, with the business of Northrend concluded.
"Well, what does Thrall wish of you?" Garona asked, already gathering more maps and papers to help Nobu'tan with his logistics work for their returning forces.
"To meet, in private, outside either of our held territory, alongside the Bloodhoof chieftain, and discuss the future of the Hordes…"
"Unusual, but not necessarily unwarranted…" Garona said, which caused Nobu'tan to pause.
"You think I should go?" he asked, glancing at her incredulously.
"It couldn't hurt, so long as you are convinced it is not a trap…" she said, eyeing him, "Do you believe that the Shaman is capable of such guile?"
"If he had a mind to it, perhaps," Nobu'tan said, thinking of the handful of times he had been near Thrall, "he certainly has enough advisors that would be more than willing to try something like that…"
"But to do so in such an obvious manner?" Garona replied, "with the Tauren Chieftain, who would not tolerate any subterfuge with his involvement…"
As much as Nobu'tan didn't want to agree on this matter, he couldn't envision the old bull, whom he had met only once, really possessing the temperament to lay such a clear and obvious trap.
"I will draft a reply and accept their offer to meet, but not for a short while. I need to rest after we allocate the troop movements." Nobu'tan said, relenting his edginess of the matter.
"You should rest now, Pup," Garona said, refusing to hand over the maps and scrolls, "I can tally the locations and where our forces will be needed, and when you are refreshed you can finalize the decisions."
Nobu'tan didn't like it, but he knew that once Garona had made up her mind, it would be easier to move the entire mountain before making her change course. "You are right, as always…" he finally admitted. "I would also like to check in with your son, see how he has been since we were away…"
"Later, later, he's had more than enough attention with all the trainers and old warriors fawning over him… You'll see, he's growing into a proper war-shaman with the rigor that they're putting him through." She said, pride breaking through the icy mask that Nobu'tan had known very well.
Nodding briefly, Nobu'tan took his leave, retreating to the private sanctuary he had claimed in the uppermost floors of the mountain. Setting aside those items he had worn in battle no more than a day before, a sudden wash of the emotion frozen in his heart came surging through him.
Rage at the battle, the betrayals, the fighting, and the loss of life. Anguish at the slaughters he had witnessed, the cruelty of the creatures of the Scourge. Horror suppressed at the terrible abominations he witnessed and the destruction of the entire assault group as they fought with the Lich King proper. Finally, relief washed over him at their fortune to have survived.
However, at the same time, the embers of shame and disgust ate away at him. He had not been strong enough; they had not, in order to protect their world. It had taken the overconfidence of their enemy, and luck given to them by the virtue of a single Paladin.
Huddling on the bedclothes that were cold and slightly dusty with disuse, Nobu'tan left the embers of his hatred roll over him—hatred for himself. He needed the power to protect his people, to protect them all if such a calamity rose up again. And he did not for a second believe that there wouldn't be another, and another, until either all of Azeroth was conquered and made safe, or else he and his people would be wrung dry with the fighting against all that came for them.
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Draco disembarked from the Skybreaker with a satisfied smile to be back in Stormwind.
It was curious to see the flying vessel landed in the harbor, as though it were merely a boat with strange propellers instead of sails, but he would be far happier with sturdy wood and stone underfoot rather than the moving deck of the ship.
His presence was requested in the Keep, but there was one pressing matter that surpassed all else. Draco had to go home, to report his survival to his mother, and see his little sister.
"My son," Narcissa said, her joy nearly spilling over as she embraced him on the doorstep of their small home, "you have returned, safe and sound to me."
"Yes Mother," Draco replied, holding her close and relishing the feeling of home, something that he briefly recognized that had never been present in the manor of their old world.
"Aurora is sleeping, but I suspect you will be back by early evening to share the meal with us." She said, looking into his eyes. "You will be coming back, yes?"
"Of course, Mother," Draco replied. He had strict orders from Nobu'tan to stand by his family for the time being, and continue in his relations between the Dark Horde and the Alliance. They had to keep a finger on the pulse of what was going on.
"Father will return soon as well, once the rest of the Dark Horde is settled back in their lands." He explained, even as they moved from the entryway to the warmth of the sitting room.
"And we will finally have time to rest of all this war…" Narcissa replied, and the relief in her voice broke past her normally regal and stoic demeanor. If anything, Draco found that his mother had blossomed more beautiful in this land, without the trappings of pure blood etiquette and duty, and the ability to truly be herself, proud and strong.
"Jaina has also invited me to spend some time with her in Theramore…" he added, knowing that that would delight his mother to know.
"We should all go, make a family trip of it, Aurora would love the sea…" Narcissa said, and Draco could do nothing but agree. His little sister had seen nothing outside Stormwind her whole life so far, and it would be good for her to see more of the world before she formed hard opinions of things.
"As much as I would love to stay all afternoon, I do need to get back to the Keep, report to King Varian, and check in on Anduin." Draco said, gingerly fingering the chair that he favored when he had opportunity to be home.
"Then you must go quickly, and return. I will have tea and food waiting for you, and your father…" Narcissa said.
They embraced again. Draco lingered a few extra moments, letting his mother knew without words how much he had missed her, before finally pulling away and making for the door.
Making his way through the busy streets of Stormwind, Draco could feel the great sigh of relief that flooded the city, even as with his own mother, families were reunited, or at the least given closure of the loss of sons and fathers.
It was hard to let the sorrow of those mourning really settle in, however, as the joy of those reunited swung its way from every tavern, every shop, and every cheerful face that moved through the Trade District. Even Draco could not repress a grin of merriment as he exited the far side to the canals and made his way around the outside of Old Town towards the Keep.
The outer guards nodded to him as Draco passed, his presence so routine that they hardly bothered to stop him unless they wanted to ask how his mother was faring. Even the dour sergeant-at-arms was in a more cheerful mood.
Everything seems bright and better in the world, that Draco was suddenly caught off guard when he heard raised voices through the grand double doors to the throne room. The guard at the door seemed on edge, and on seeing Draco he tapped softly on the door, which parted until it was a slim line for him to slide through without disturbing what was going on inside.
The thick accent of dwarves became clearer as Draco found himself on the outer circle of a small crowd of the nobles and leaders of Stormwind, as yet another delegation from Ironforge, comprised primarily of Dark Iron Dwarves, was fiercely arguing their case for retribution against the Dark Horde and their infighting prior to the campaign of Northrend.
"With the threat of the Lich King at last dealt with," the representative was saying, "It is past time to finally address old wrongs committed against the Alliance, and to demand the rights to the lands once owned by the Dark Iron Dwarves as payment of the blood debt over the years."
Sighing to himself, Draco started to slowly circle the room, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but still wishing to get to the small reserved area behind the throne so that he had access to Anduin and Varien when he was inevitable sought for.
Personally, he knew that the Dark Irons cared nothing for the Alliance. They were merely hoping for a chance at revenge against losing their precious mountain, and king, in a fairly fought, and lost war against the Dark Horde.
Apparently, they were not the sort that understood the concept of the word 'No.'