Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

16

Thrall did not feel either. What he did feel was an impact far softer than stone that slowed but did not stop his fall. An instant later, when he finally did come to a stop, he realized that a cold wetness enveloped him. He could not see, could barely breathe. And then he understood: he had fallen not on rock but on snow, which had broken his fall. He was alive. His body was shaken, rattled, and his lungs were laboring … but he was alive.

He closed his eyes against the reality.

The image that filled his mind was that of him sitting atop a stone peak next to a beautiful, broken form. Alexstrasza looked at him, her body radiating a violent grief and dull despair.

You do not see, she had told him.

What don’t I see, Alexstrasza?

It doesn’t matter. None of it. It doesn’t matter if everything is interconnected. It doesn’t matter how long this has been going on. It doesn’t even matter if we can stop it.

The children are dead. Korialstrasz is dead. I am dead in all ways but one, and that will soon happen. There is no hope. There is nothing. Nothing matters.

He had not seen, not then. He had been filled with hope after freeing Nozdormu. Kalec, too, with his cheerful optimism and great heart, had encouraged Thrall to keep fighting, to keep struggling, to stand against the encroaching twilight.

But Alexstrasza was right. None of it mattered.

Kalecgos had likely been defeated by the appalling creature, which had managed to repel the blues’ attack as if it were the sting of so many angry insects. The Twilight’s Hammer cultists would prevail. They would first enslave and then destroy.

What did it matter, if he continued to draw breath? What did it matter, all the hard work and concern and study that the Earthen Ring was putting into its understanding of how to heal the world? It was for nothing.

Except…

The delicate face of the shattered Life-Binder gave way in his mind’s eye to that of another. It was a harsher, more angular face, with tusks and dark skin. But his heart suddenly began to beat in a painful fashion, as if it were waking up.

Maybe the world would be destroyed by the cult. Maybe the shaman of the Earthen Ring were indeed fooling themselves, trying to heal a land, only to witness its doom.

But in the desolation, in the despair and darkness, Thrall knew one thing. Thrall knew one thing.

Korialstrasz is dead, Alexstrasza had said. She would never again behold her mate, her companion and friend and champion, never touch his face in love, never see his smile.

But Aggra was not dead. Nor, surprisingly, after his fall, was Thrall.

He gasped with the pain of returning feelings. His chilled lips moved to whisper her name. “Aggra…”

She had encouraged him to go—the blunt encouragement of practically ordering him, admittedly, but with a depth of love behind that “order” that he only now could fully appreciate. It had not been for her own sake that she had wanted Thrall to leave. She had wanted him to go for himself, and for his world, not merely for her. He recalled how irritated she had made him, with her quick wit and sharp tongue. She spoke what she thought and felt, when she thought and felt it. He remembered the unlooked-for tenderness of her protection and guidance on his vision quest, and the sweet combination of gentleness and wildness in their joinings.

He wanted to see her again. Before the end of all things.

And unlike Alexstrasza, broken and alone in Desolace, surrounding herself with an ashy emptiness reflective of her own devastated heart… he could see his beloved again.

He was cold, his body rapidly growing numb, but the thought of being with Aggra—so vibrant and alive and warm and real—began to push that lethargy aside. Thrall forced his lungs to work, to breathe the frigid air as deeply as he could, and tried to tap into the Spirit of Life that he felt was now dormant inside him.

This was what gave the shaman his connection to the elements, to others, and to himself. All beings had this; shaman, though, understood it and could work with it. For a moment Thrall was terrified of failure. This was the part he could not work with before, back at the Maelstrom. This was where he had failed the other members of the Earthen Ring: he had been too distracted to focus, to drop deeply into himself and bring forth that deep, rich knowing.

But this time he was not scattered or unfocused. He held Aggra’s face before him, like a torch in the darkness of the unknown future. With his eyes closed, he saw her, smiling with a hint of playfulness in her gold eyes, holding out her hand.

This strong hand in yours—

Oh, how he wanted that. How right that seemed to him now. A little thing, yet greater in his heart now than any fear of death or destruction could be.

And even as he opened his heart to both her and the Spirit of Life within him, another vision came to him.

This vision was not of Aggra, nor of his own life. Like a scene in a stage play, it unfolded in his mind: hero, villain, a shocking twist, tragedy, and misunderstanding. His heart, full with wanting and missing Aggra, now ached not with sympathy but with the empathy of sharing an experience.

This knowledge… Alexstrasza…

“She must know,” he whispered. “I must find her and tell her.” In the end, these connections were what mattered most. In the end, they were truly all that mattered. They were what inspired songs and art, what drove those in battle to fight: love of country, or culture, an ideal, or an individual. It was this feeling that kept hearts beating, that moved mountains, that shaped the world. And Thrall knew, through both visions, that he and another who also grieved were loved truly and deeply—loved for who they were, not what they could do. Not what title or power they wielded.

Aggra loved Thrall for who he was at his core, and he loved her the same way.

Alexstrasza was loved so, and she needed to be reminded of it. Thrall knew, knew deep in his bones and blood, that he was the only one who could let her know that.

The Spirit of Life opened to him. It flowed through him, warming and soothing and strong. Energy surged through nearly frozen limbs, and he began to claw his way upward through the snow that had caved in upon him. He worked with the rhythm of his own breath, resting upon inhaling, moving snow with his exhalation. He was calm, clear, focused as he had never been, his heart full with the new revelations that needed to be shared.

It was not easy, but the Spirit of Life buoyed him. Its energy was strong but gentle, and at last he pulled himself out of the hole and sat, catching his breath. Slowly he got to his feet and began to think about his next move.

His robes were soaked. He needed warmth, a fire, and to remove his saturated clothing before it killed him—and in this weather, it would, and quickly. He looked about for any dragons who might be searching for him, but saw nothing in the skies save clouds and the occasional bird. He did not know how long he had been unconscious; the battle was clearly over—one way or another.

Shelter first, then fire. He looked about for any likely spot. Over there—there seemed to be a cave or at least a hollow in the stone, a darker smudge against the gray.

And it was his focus, his clarity, not his senses, that a heartbeat later saved his life.

He whirled, the Doomhammer at the ready, and was barely in time to block the blow from the shadow that had been haunting him for so long.

Blackmoore!

Wearing pieces of plate that Thrall now completely recognized, swinging the massive, glowing broadsword that was almost bigger than the one who wielded it, Blackmoore pushed the attack with what seemed like more than human strength.

But it wasn’t.

The first time the dark assassin had sprung out of the shadows, to attack so completely unexpectedly and slice Desharin’s head from his body, Thrall had been taken by surprise. When Blackmoore had followed him through the timeway, manifesting with his brutal solution of slaying the infant Thrall, the orc had been unsettled. And when he had discovered the mysterious assassin’s true identity, he had been dismayed.

The fact that Blackmoore had not only lived but grown to such power had shaken Thrall’s faith in everything he had done. It had cast shadows on the inevitability of who Thrall was, all he had achieved, become.

But now Thrall set his jaw, refusing to let fear weaken him. His body was healed but still deeply chilled, and he knew his movements would be too slow to defend himself without aid.

Spirit of Life, help me, that I may defeat this foe who should not live and that I may carry your visions to those who must know of them!

Warmth flooded through him, gentle yet powerful, granting vigor and suppleness to his limbs. Dimly, Thrall was aware that even his clothing had somehow dried. Energy, sharp and soothing both, strengthened him. He did not question, merely accepted gratefully. Thrall attacked without even needing to think about it, letting years of battle guide his hand and landing blow after blow on the purloined armor Blackmoore dared wear. The human was startled and sprang back, crouching into a defensive stance, mammoth sword at the ready.

“I see why I wanted to train you,” Blackmoore sneered, and now Thrall recognized the voice even though Blackmoore wore his helm. “You’re very good… for a greenskin.”

“Your decision to train me was your death once before, Aedelas Blackmoore, and will be again. You cannot outwit destiny.”

Blackmoore laughed, a loud boom of genuine mirth. “You fell from a nearly impossible height, orc. You’re wounded and barely alive. I think it’s your destiny to die here in the frozen north, not mine to be slain by you. Though your spirit is admirable. I’d have enjoyed crushing it, but I fear I have other business to attend to. Fleshrender hasn’t claimed a life for a while. I’ll make it quick.”

He emphasized the name, as if to strike fear into Thrall’s heart. Instead, the orc laughed. Blackmoore frowned. “What amuses you at the moment of your death?”

“You do,” Thrall said. “The name you have chosen for your sword makes me laugh.”

“Makes you laugh? You should not. It has indeed rent the flesh of the corpses I make!”

“Oh, of course,” Thrall said. “But it’s so blunt—so brutal and unsophisticated. Just like you are, at your core. Just like you tried so hard not to be.”

Blackmoore’s frown deepened as he growled, “I am a king, orc. Remember that.”

“Only of a stolen kingdom. And you will make no corpse of me!”

Furious, Blackmoore again charged, and again Thrall, despite his injuries and near-death fall, parried and went on the offensive.

Blackmoore had said, at the moment of his death, that Thrall was what he, Blackmoore, had made him. It was a statement that had sickened the orc—to think that anything of this man was a part of him was appalling. Drek’Thar had helped put some of it into perspective, but now, as weapons clanged together and struck sparks, Thrall realized that he had never truly shaken Blackmoore’s vile grip on his spirit.

The man before him, swinging the broadsword with powerful arms and a deadly determination, was his shadow side. Under him, at one point, Thrall had tasted utter powerlessness, and he had spent most of his life determined to never again feel so helpless. Too, Thrall realized, with the clarity and insight that still lingered from the twin visions, that Blackmoore represented everything Thrall was fighting against—in himself.

“I feared you once,” Thrall grunted. He held the Doomhammer in one strong green hand, lifted the other, and spread his fingers. He opened his mouth, and a cry of righteous anger ripped through the frigid air. A whirlwind came to his call, swirling and picking up frozen snow like a cyclone made of ice. With a swift, precise motion, it descended upon Blackmoore. It lifted him up, higher and higher, then with another hand motion Thrall hurled the human down. He lay where he had fallen, one arm curled up to his chest, and swiftly Thrall closed the distance between them.

He stared at the limp form, his eyes narrowing. As he spoke, he slowly lifted the Doomhammer over his head in preparation for the killing blow.

“You were everything I hate… weakness lucky enough to be in a position of power. You made me see myself in a way I loathed, in a way—”

Blackmoore surged upward onto his knees, thrusting Fleshrender toward Thrall’s exposed torso. Thrall threw himself backward, but the very tip struck home. Thrall hissed as two inches of steel pierced his belly and he fell into the snow.

“Say whatever makes you feel better, orc,” said Blackmoore, “but you are still about to join your ancestors.”

The voice was slightly fainter, and the blow was weaker than earlier ones had been. Thrall must have wounded Blackmoore more than he had initially thought.

Thrall snarled and swung the Doomhammer, targeting his adversary’s legs. Blackmoore had been expecting him to struggle to rise, not attack from a fallen position, and cried out as the Doomhammer slammed into him. The armor took much of the impact, but the blow was powerful enough to knock Blackmoore completely off his feet.

This was no giant among men. Just as Taretha had still been her true self even in the corrupted timeway, so was Blackmoore. He might not have succumbed to drinking, or misspent his energy leaning on another’s strengths. But he was still Aedelas Blackmoore—a small-spirited man, a bully who thrived on treachery and manipulation.

And Thrall was still who he was.

Blackmoore might have intimidated Thrall as a youth, might have unnerved him when he reappeared as a seemingly stronger individual. But although Thrall wore only robes, he had new armor; though he wielded the familiar Doomhammer, he had new weapons. He felt his love for Aggra burning within his soul. It was not a distraction but a steady, calming ember, constant and true—truer than the hatred offered by the man who thrashed frantically in the snow, trying to rise on two wounded legs, wielding a sword with an arm that was weakened and rapidly becoming useless. Aggra’s love was like armor and weapon both, protecting him, shielding him, enabling him to bring the very best of who he was to this battle, which was as much about spirit as it was about the body.

Thrall understood, in a way he had never known before, that those moments when Blackmoore had won, when he had intimidated Thrall and undercut his resolve and made him feel less than who he was—those moments were in the past.

And that made them powerless over him. Thrall was in

this moment, and in this moment he was unafraid.

In this moment Blackmoore would not win.

It was time to end this. To send Blackmoore to his destined fate: death at Thrall’s hands. To send all those doubts and insecurities and fears where they belonged: truly, forever, in the past.

His wound was bleeding freely, the warmth of his own red-black blood saturating his robes. The pain helped him to focus. Thrall began to swing the Doomhammer like the master of weapons he truly was as Blackmoore somehow managed to get unsteadily to his feet. The hammer knocked Fleshrender aside, Blackmoore’s weakened arm unable to effectively wield a two-handed sword. In the same movement, following through on the swing of the great weapon, Thrall lifted one hand from the shaft and up to the skies. There was a sudden cracking sound.

A huge icicle had broken free from its place beneath a rock overhang. It flew, like a dagger hurled by a skilled hand, toward Blackmoore. It was only frozen water; it could not pierce armor.

But it could—and did—knock the human down like a giant fist. A cry of pain and alarm escaped Blackmoore as he fell to his knees in the snow. Weaponless, nearly knocked unconscious, Blackmoore raised his hands imploringly to Thrall.

“Please…” The voice was rasping and faint, but on the clear air Thrall could hear him. “Please, spare me. …”

Thrall was not without compassion. But greater than compassion in his heart was the need for balance and justice—both in the twisted timeway that had birthed this Aedelas Blackmoore, and in Thrall’s own timeway, where the human did not belong.

Thrall raised the weapon, lifting it high above his head. His gaze was caught and held not by the begging gesture but by the gleam of plate armor that Orgrim Doomhammer had once worn. That he, Thrall, had once worn and since had reverently discarded.

The snake shedding its skin. The spirit growing ever purer and stronger. It would seem that such a discarding of one’s old self was a lifelong process. Now Thrall was prepared to discard any lingering remnants of power this human held over him.

He shook his head. His heart felt calm. It was not joy or vengeance that filled it, for there was no delight in the act. But there was a sense of freedom, of release.

“No,” Thrall said. “You should not be here, Blackmoore. You should not be anywhere. With this blow, I make things right.”

He brought the Doomhammer crashing down. It crushed the metal helm and the head inside it. Blackmoore fell beneath it, dead from the first instant.

Thrall had slain his shadow.