Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

1

Thrall, former warchief of the great and mighty Horde, now a shaman no greater than any of those with whom he currently stood, squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to stay on his feet. Beneath them, the earth bucked, a pathetically small piece of land jutting upward from an ocean roiling furiously around it, shaking and shivering in its pain.

Not long ago, an insane Dragon Aspect had torn his way into Azeroth, rending the world profoundly. The mad Deathwing was once again loose upon this world, and the violence of his return had left Azeroth with a gaping wound. To those whose minds were not beyond hope, Azeroth was not beyond healing, but it would never be what it once was.

In the heart of the world, a place called the Maelstrom, longburied earth had been shoved violently to the surface. And it was here that those who were trying desperately to mend the broken lands had assembled.

They were shaman, each one powerful, members of the Earthen Ring who had left behind other serious duties and responsibilities to gather here. One alone could do little. Many, especially as highly trained and as wise as each one was, could do more.

There were dozens of them, standing alone, or in pairs or small groups on the slippery skerries, trying to stay on their feet on the bucking, shuddering earth. Their arms were lifted in gestures of both command and pleading. Though not linked physically, they were joined on a spiritual level, eyes shut, deep in the working of a healing spell.

The shaman were attempting to soothe the elements of the earth, as well as encouraging them to help heal themselves. True, it was the elements who were harmed, and the shaman who were not, but the elements had more power than the shaman. If the earth could be calmed long enough to remember this, it would be able to draw upon its own vast power. But the earth, the stones and the soil and the very bones of Azeroth, also wrestled with another wound: betrayal. For the black Dragon Aspect, Deathwing, once known as Neltharion, had been the Earth-Warder. He had been charged with protecting it and keeping its secrets. Now he cared nothing for the earth, casually and insanely ripping it to pieces, heedless of the havoc he wrought and the pain he caused it.

The earth mourned, and heaved violently.

“Stand straight and true!” cried a voice, somehow audible in Thrall’s ears even over the rumbling of the earth as it quivered beneath them and the crashing of angry waves that sought to dislodge them from their precarious perches. The voice belonged to Nobundo, the first among his kind, the Broken, to become a shaman. This time it was his turn to lead the ritual, and so far he had done it masterfully.

“Open to your brothers and sisters! Sense them, feel them, see the Spirit of Life gleaming brightly inside them like a glorious flame!”

Standing with Thrall on one of the larger of the newly formed skerries was Aggra, a Mag’har and descendant of the Frostwolf clan Thrall had met in Nagrand and grown to love. Brown-skinned, her reddish-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail from an otherwise shaved head, she had strength in her hand as it grasped Thrall’s own tightly. This was no gentle, subtle working they were doing now: this was triage.

They stood, daringly, close to the edge of sheer cliffs. Wind whipped up the ocean below them, sending the waves crashing to boom hollowly against jagged stone. All needed to calm before the healing could begin, but it was a risky choice.

Thrall felt his muscles lock, trying to hold him in place. It was much to juggle: staying upright on the wild earth, not toppling forward to the hungry ocean and sharp stones, and still trying to find the center of peace within that would enable him to connect on a deep and profound level with his fellow shaman. This was the space where, if the shaman was skilled and properly prepared, the Spirit of Life could enter—that energy that enabled the shaman to reach the elements, to interact with them, and to unite with others who were doing the same.

He could feel them reaching out to him, their essences an oasis of calm in the chaos, and he struggled to drop deep into his own inner core. With an effort, Thrall gained control of his breathing, refusing to surrender to the quick, shallow breaths that would only cause his body to taste worry and apprehension, instead forcing his lungs to inhale and exhale the damp salt air.

In through the nose … out through the mouth … extend from the soles of the feet into the earth, reach out with the heart. Hold tightly to Aggra, but do not cling. Close the eyes, open the inner spirit. Find the center and, in the center, find peace. Take the peace found there and link it to the others.

Thrall felt his hands sweating. His weight shifted and, for an instant, he slipped. Quickly he caught himself and tried to start breathing deeply again, to begin the centering ritual. But it was as if his body had a mind of its own and would not listen to Thrall’s instructions. It wanted to fight, to do something, not stand and breathe and be calm. He—

A sudden light, so bright the orc could see it even with his lids tightly closed, flashed. A terrible crack shattered their ears as the lightning struck far, far too close. There was a deep rumble, and the earth quivered even more violently. Thrall opened his eyes in time to see a huge hunk of earth, scorched from the lightning strike only a few yards away, crumble beneath the feet of a goblin and a dwarf. They cried out in surprise, clinging to each other and the shaman on either side, swaying over the crashing waves and jagged rocks.

“Hang on!” shouted the tauren who had a death grip on the goblin’s hand. He braced his hooves and pulled. The draenei clutching the dwarf did likewise. Gasping, the two shaman were dragged to safety.

“Pull back, pull back!” cried Nobundo. “To the shelters—quickly!” The gathered shaman needed no urging as a nearby skerry crumbled to pieces. Orc and tauren, troll and goblin, dwarf and draenei, all raced for their mounts, clambering atop the shivering beasts and urging them back to the shelters on one of the larger skerries as the skies cracked open and hurled stinging, fat raindrops upon the shaman’s skins. Thrall hesitated long enough to make sure Aggra had climbed atop her winged mount, then he urged his own wyvern skyward.

The shelters were little more than makeshift huts, located as far inland as possible and protected by warding spells. Each individual and mated pair had their own. The huts were arranged in a circle around a larger, open ritual area. The warding spells protected the shaman from smaller manifestations of angry elements such as lightning, though the earth might open up beneath. But such was always a threat, no matter where the shaman were.

Thrall reached the shelter first, holding up the bearskin flap long enough for Aggra to charge inside, then dropping it and tying it closed. The rain pounded angrily on the skins as if demanding entrance, and the structures trembled slightly from the onslaught of the wind. But they would hold.

Thrall quickly began to remove his drenched robe, shivering slightly. Aggra did likewise in silence; the wet clothing would kill them more surely than a random strike of lightning, if not as swiftly. They dried their wet skins, one green, one brown, and then donned fresh, dry robes from a chest. Thrall set about lighting a small brazier.

He felt Aggra’s eyes upon him, and the air in the tent was heavy with unsaid words. Finally she broke the silence.

“Go’el,” she began. Her voice, deep and husky, was laden with concern.

“Say nothing,” Thrall said, and busied himself heating water for hot beverages for them both.

He saw her scowl at him, then roll her eyes and almost visibly choke back her words. He disliked speaking to her so, but he was in no mood to discuss what had happened.

The spell had failed, and Thrall knew it was because of him.

They sat silently and awkwardly as the storm broke about them and the earth continued to rumble. At last, almost like a child that had cried itself to sleep, the earth seemed to subside. Thrall could feel that it was not at peace and far from healed, but it was still.

Until the next time.

Almost immediately Thrall heard voices outside their shelter. He and Aggra emerged into the gray day, the ground wet beneath their bare feet as they walked. Others were assembling in the main area, their faces reflecting grave concern, weariness, and determination.

Nobundo turned to Thrall and Aggra as they approached. He was a former draenei. His form was not proud and strong and tall, but bent, almost deformed, caused by exposure to fel energies. Many Broken were dark and corrupted, but Nobundo was not. Indeed, he had been blessed, his great heart opening to the shamanic powers, and it was he who had brought these powers to his people. Beside him were several draenei, their blue forms undamaged, sleek, clean. Yet, to Thrall and many others, Nobundo outshone them all because of who he was.

When the high shaman’s gaze fell upon Thrall, the orc wanted to look away. This being—indeed, all the other shaman gathered here—was someone Thrall respected deeply, and had never wished to disappoint. And yet, he had.

Nobundo beckoned Thrall to him with an oversized hand. “Come, my friend,” he said quietly, regarding the orc kindly.

Many were not so charitably minded, and Thrall felt angry gazes being cast his way as he approached Nobundo. Others came silently to join in this informal gathering.

“You know the spell we were attempting to work,” Nobundo said, his voice still calm. “It was to soothe and comfort the earth. It is admittedly a difficult working, but one that all of us here know how to do. Can you tell us why you—?”

“Stop dancing around the subject,” growled Rehgar. He was a massive orc, battle-scarred and hulking. One would not look at him and think “spiritual,” but whoever made that assumption would be very wrong. Rehgar’s life journey had thus far taken him from gladiator to slave owner to loyal friend and advisor to Thrall, and that journey was far from over. Now, though, a lesser orc than the former warchief of the Horde might have quailed before his anger. “Thrall … what the fel was going on with you? We could all feel it! You weren’t focusing!”

Thrall felt his hands curl into fists and forced them to relax. “Only because you are my friend will I permit you to speak so to me, Rehgar,” Thrall said quietly, but with an edge to his voice.

“Rehgar is right, Thrall,” Muln Earthfury said in his deep, rumbling voice. “The working is hard, but not impossible—not even unfamiliar. You are a shaman, one who has been through all his people’s true rites. Drek’Thar hailed you as the savior of his people because the elements spoke to you when they had been silent for many years. You are no inexperienced child, to be coddled and sympathized with. You are a member of this Ring—an honored and strong one, or else you would not be here. And yet you crumbled at a crucial moment. We could have silenced the quakes, but you shattered the working. You need to tell us what is distracting you so that we may aid you.”

“Muln—” Aggra began, but Thrall lifted a hand.

“It is nothing,” he said to Muln. “The work is demanding and wearying, and I have a great deal on my mind. Nothing more than that.”

Rehgar uttered an oath. “You have a great deal on your mind,” he spat. “Well, the rest of us do as well. Trivial things like saving our world from ripping itself apart!”

For a second, everything went red in Thrall’s vision. Muln spoke before Thrall could. “Thrall was leader of the Horde, Rehgar, not you. You cannot know what burdens he bore and perhaps still does bear. And as one who until recently owned slaves, you cannot sit in moral judgment upon him!”

He turned to Thrall. “I am not attacking you, Thrall. I am merely seeking to see how we can aid you, that you can better aid us.”

“I know what you are doing,” Thrall said, his voice close to a snarl. “And I do not like it.”

“Perhaps,” Muln said, striving for diplomacy, “you are in need of some rest for a while. Our work is very demanding, and even the strongest must tire.”

Thrall did not even grace the other shaman with a verbal reply; he merely nodded curtly and stalked off to his shelter.

He was angrier than he had been in some time. And the person he was most angry with was himself.

He knew he had been the weak link in the chain, had failed to put forth the ultimate concentration at the moment when it was most desperately needed. He could not yet drop deep into himself, touch the Spirit of Life within, which was what had been required of him. He didn’t know if he would ever be capable of doing so. And because he could not do this thing, the effort had failed.

He was unhappy with himself, with the working, with the petty arguments—with everything. And he realized with a start that this unhappiness had been with him for a long time.

A few months ago, he had made a difficult decision: he had chosen to leave the rank of warchief of the Horde in order to come here, to the Maelstrom, to follow the path of shaman rather than leader. He had thought at first that it would be temporary. He had relinquished command to Garrosh Hellscream, son of the late Grom Hellscream, in order to travel to Nagrand to study with his grandmother, Greatmother Geyah. This was before the great Cataclysm that had shaken Azeroth; Thrall had sensed the uneasy elements and had hoped to be able to do something to calm them and prevent what had eventually transpired.

There, he had studied and learned with a beautiful but often irritating and frustrating shaman named Aggra. She had pushed him, forcing him to dig deep for answers, and the two had fallen in love. He had returned to Azeroth and, once the Cataclysm had struck, decided to continue on to the Maelstrom to serve with his beloved.

It had sounded like the right thing to do—the hard choice, the best choice. To leave something familiar and loved, to work for the greater good. But now he was having doubts.

While Thrall had been traveling in Nagrand, Garrosh had killed Thrall’s dear friend, the tauren chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof, in ritual combat. Thrall had later learned that Garrosh had been tricked by Magatha Grimtotem, a longtime rival of Cairne’s, into fighting Cairne with a poisoned blade. Thrall could not shake the thought that had he not left Azeroth, Cairne would never have felt the need to rebuke Garrosh’s leadership and would still be alive.

With Aggra, he had anticipated … he did not know what. A different sort of relationship from the one they had, at any rate. He had initially been put off by her bluntness and rough edges, then had grown to appreciate and love them. Now, though, it felt as if, instead of a steady companion to support and encourage him, he had found only another person to criticize him.

He wasn’t even succeeding at helping the Earthen Ring calm the elements, if today’s debacle was any indication. He had put aside the mantle of warchief and endured the murder of a beloved friend in order to come assist the Ring. And this, too, wasn’t working.

Nothing was working; nothing was going the way it was supposed to; and Thrall—erstwhile warchief of the Horde, warrior, shaman—felt as if nothing he could possibly do could make any of it work.

It was not a sensation he was accustomed to. He had led the Horde, and led it well, for many years. He understood battleground tactics as well as diplomacy, knew when it was time for a leader to listen, when to speak, and when to act. This strange, belly-knotting feeling of uncertainty … this was new and alien, and he despised it.

He heard the sound of the bearskin being drawn back, but did not turn around.

“I would box Rehgar’s ears for what he said to you,” came Aggra’s voice, husky and strong, “if I did not wish I had said it earlier.”

Thrall growled softly. “You have a fine way of supporting,” he said. “That helped tremendously. Now I shall go outside and be able to drop into my deepest self with no problem. Perhaps it is you who should have led the Horde all these years, instead of me. No doubt we would see a union of Horde and Alliance, with children of all races frolicking in Orgrimmar and Stormwind.”

She chuckled, and her voice was warm, as was her hand when she placed it on his shoulder. He fought the urge to shrug it off angrily, but he did not soften, either. He stood in harsh silence, not moving. She squeezed his shoulder, then released it and moved around to face him.

“I have watched you since we met, Go’el,” she said, her eyes searching his. “At first out of resentment, and then later out of love and concern. It is with love and concern that I watch you now. And my heart is troubled by what I see.”

He did not reply, but he was listening. Her hand stroked his strong face gently, running along the furrows in his green forehead as she spoke.

“Despite all you have endured, these lines I now touch were not there when we met. These eyes—blue as the sky, blue as the sea—were not sad. This heart”—she placed her hand on his broad chest—“was not so heavy. Whatever is going on inside you, it is causing you harm. But because it is no external threat, you do not understand how to confront this enemy.”

His eyes narrowed in slight confusion. “Go on,” he said.

“You waste away … not your body—you are still strong and powerful—but your spirit. It is as if part of you is borne away with each gust of the wind, or washed away with the stinging rain. There is a hurt here that will destroy you if you let it. And I,” she said, suddenly fierce, her light-brown eyes snapping, “will not allow that.”

He grunted and turned away, but she pursued him. “This is a sickness of the soul, not the body. You have buried yourself so deep in the day-to-day running of the Horde that when you left, you left yourself behind with it.”

“I do not think I care to hear anything more,” Thrall said, his voice a warning.

She ignored him utterly. “Of course you do not,” she said. “You do not like criticism. We must all listen to you, and if we disagree, we must do so respectfully. Yours must be the last word, Warchief.”

There was no sarcasm in her voice, but the words stung. “What do you mean, I do not take criticism? I surround myself with differing voices. I invite challenges to my plans. I have even reached out to the enemy if it is in the best interest of my people!”

“I did not say those things were untruths,” Aggra continued, unruffled. “But that still does not mean you take criticism well. How did you react to Cairne when he came to you in the shadow of Mannoroth’s armor and told you he thought you were wrong?”

Thrall jerked. Cairne … His mind flashed back to the last time he had seen his dear friend alive. Cairne had come to him after Thrall had sent word to the old bull that Garrosh would lead the Horde while he was gone. He had stated, bluntly, with nothing to soften the words, that he thought Thrall was making a grave mistake.

I—need you with me on this, Cairne. I need your support, not your disapproval, Thrall had said.

You ask me for wisdom and common sense. I have but one answer for you. Do not give Garrosh this power. … That is my wisdom, Thrall, Cairne had replied.

Then we have nothing more to say to one another.

And Thrall had walked away.

He had never seen Cairne alive again.

“You were not there,” Thrall said, his voice rough with the pain of remembering. “You do not understand. I had to—”

“Paugh!” Aggra said, waving away his excuses with her hand as if they were flies buzzing around her. “The conversation itself does not matter. You may indeed have been right, and at this moment I care not if you were or were not. But you did not listen. You closed him out, like drawing the skins tight against a rainstorm. You might never have convinced him, but can you tell me you listened?”

Thrall did not reply.

“You did not listen to an old friend. Perhaps Cairne might not have felt the need to challenge Garrosh, had he felt heard by you. You will never know. And now he is dead, and you cannot ever again give him the chance to be listened to.”

Had she struck him, Thrall could not have been more shocked. He literally took a step backward, reeling from her words. It was something he had never voiced but something he had secretly wondered, late at night when sleep would not come. He knew in his heart that he had had to go to Nagrand and that he had made the best decision he could, given the situation. But … had he stayed and talked more with Cairne … what would have happened? Aggra was right … but he did not want her to be.

“I have always been able to listen when others do not agree. Look at the meetings I have with Jaina! She doesn’t always agree with me, and she does not curb her tongue.”

Aggra snorted. “A human female. What does she know about telling harsh things to an orc? Jaina Proudmoore is no threat, no challenge to you.” She frowned, looking thoughtful. “Neither was your Taretha.”

“Of course she was no challenge. She was my friend!” Thrall was starting to become angrier now that she had dragged Taretha Foxton into this strange fight she seemed determined to have with him. A human girl, Taretha had befriended him when she was a mere child; as an adult, she had found a way to help him escape his life as a gladiator, a slave of the human Lord Aedelas Blackmoore. She had paid for that deed with her life. “Few in this world have sacrificed as much for me, and she was a human!”

“Perhaps that is your problem, Go’el, and a problem others have with you. The most important females in your life have been human.”

His eyes narrowed. “You will hold your tongue.”

“Ah, and yet again you show me the truth of what I say: you will not hear disagreement. You would silence me rather than listen to me!”

There was truth in the statement, and it stung. With difficulty, Thrall took a deep breath and tried to rein in his anger.

“Then tell me: What do you mean?”

“I have only been in Azeroth a short while, and already I have heard the rumors. They outrage me to my core, and surely they should outrage you as well. Gossip pairs you and Jaina, or even you and Taretha, depending on the brew on tap, it seems.” Her voice dripped anger and disgust—at him or at the rumors, Thrall wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

“You tread on dangerous ground, Aggra,” he growled. “Jaina Proudmoore is a strong, brave, intelligent woman who has risked her life to help me. Taretha Foxton was the same—only she lost her life. I will not stand by and hear your bigoted slurs against them simply because they were not born orcs!”

He had advanced on her now, his face only inches from hers. She did not flinch, merely raised an eyebrow.

“You do not listen well, Go’el. I repeated rumors. I did not say I believed them. Nor did I say anything against either female other than they did not know how to criticize an orc. If anything, they have shown me that humans are capable of inspiring respect. But they are not orcs, Thrall, and you are not a human, and you do not know how to handle being challenged by a female of your own race. Or perhaps by anyone.”

“I cannot believe I am hearing this!”

“I cannot, either, because until this moment, you have not listened!” Both their voices were rising, and Thrall knew that the little shelters offered no barriers to others’ ability to hear their argument. Still Aggra pressed on.

“You have been able to hide behind the mantle of warchief. And that is why you are finding it so hard to free yourself of it now.” She pressed her face even closer to his and hissed, “You bear the name of a slave, because you are a thrall to the Horde. A slave to what you think is duty. And you use that duty as a shield—a barrier between you and the dark places, between you and guilt, and fear, and second-guessing. And truly belonging to yourself—or to anyone else. You always plan ahead, and you do not take time to think about how far you have come, the amazing gift that your life has been. You strategize for tomorrow, but what about now? This moment … the little things …?”

She softened, her eyes growing kind instead of angry, and with surprising gentleness reached for his hand. “What about this strong hand in yours?”

Irritated, Thrall yanked his hand away. He had had enough of this. First from the Earthen Ring, now from Aggra, who was supposed to stand by him and support him. He turned his back on her, heading for the entranceway.

Aggra’s words followed him.

“You do not know who you are without the Horde, Go’el,” she said. As always, she used the name his parents had given him—a name he himself had never used, given to him by a family he had never known. Suddenly, although she had used it a thousand times before, this time the name made him angry.

“I am not Go’el!” he growled. “How many times must I tell you to not call me that?”

She didn’t flinch. “You see?” she said, and her voice was sad. “If you do not know who you are, how can you know what to do?”

He did not reply.