Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

21

They turned weary heads to him expectantly. He looked at them each in turn. “It might not work, but I think—I believe it’s worth a try,” he said. “This may sound—well, I simply ask that you hear me out.”

“My friend, of course we will,” Kalec said. “And I hope with all my being you have some option for us.”

“I … may. We have four Aspects gathered here now: the Life-Binder, the Awakened Dreamer, the Steward of Magic, the Guardian of Time. You are only missing one … and that one happens to be the Earth-Warder. I am a shaman. I work with the elements. I could do nothing to aid you if it were any one of you who were missing. I could not step into the role that any of you four occupy.

“But you’re not missing magic, or time guardianship, or the power of life, or the knowledge of the Dream of Creation. You are missing Earth. And that … I know how to work with.”

He hoped they would not be angry with his presumption. He, a simple shaman, was offering to stand in the place of a Dragon Aspect.

Ysera brightened noticeably. Nozdormu eyed him speculatively, and Alexstrasza looked uncertainly at Kalecgos.

“I knew you would be important,” Ysera said happily. “I just didn’t know how.”

“Please do not be offended, my friend,” said Kalec, “but … you are not even a dragon, let alone an Aspect.”

“I know,” Thrall said. “But I have spent years working with the elements. And I have learned much over the course of my journey.” He looked to Nozdormu. “You know this to be the truth.”

The Timeless One nodded slowly. “You have been given insight you did not have before,” he said, “the sssort of insight that calms a ssspirit, and does not agitate it. There is no harm in attempting such a thing.”

“But how would you aid us, Thrall?” asked Alexstrasza. “You cannot fight alongside us.”

“I sssay again, Life-Binder, this is not about individual acts in battle,” Nozdormu said. “This is about combining our essences. Obviously Thrall cannot attack with us. But he can possibly offer us with his ssspirit what another Aspect could. I tell you truly, there is no hope otherwise. None. Each Aspect alone will fall, and it will be the end, first of the dragonflights, and then of Azeroth. I … have seen that end.”

So had Ysera, who had told them of it. Nozdormu’s voice was heavy and somber, and Thrall felt a shiver run down his spine.

Yet, strangely, Thrall did not second-guess his impulse. It felt right in his heart in a way he could not properly describe. It seemed ages ago that he had been so distracted and unfocused that he had faltered during the Earthen Ring’s effort to calm the distraught elements. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that now he could hold in himself the peace, the solidity, to do what he needed to. His strengthened connection with the Spirit of Life made working with all the elements easier—even more joyful. The earth held life; it nourished the seeds and the roots that animals in turn fed upon. The Spirit of Earth and the Spirit of Life would welcome him back now; they would trust him to hold and gently direct and contain the Spirit of Earth, even while working with four Dragon Aspects. The earth was enormous; its spirit was great; and in his humility to accept that, Thrall knew he could, conversely, succeed with it.

“Let me try, at least,” he said.

“My flight has done what we once thought impossible,” Kalecgos said. “We have chosen a new Aspect. From what I have seen, in Thrall, in Chromatus, in my own flight, I believe this has a chance of working. I say, let us attempt it.”

“Yes,” said Ysera at once. “Thrall still has a role to play here. The puzzle pieces have not quite fit exactly in my head.”

Alexstrasza regarded him kindly. “You have helped me open my heart when I thought it shattered beyond repair. If you think you can do this thing, then I, too, am more than willing to try. But please … let us hurry!”

“It is an old and formal ritual,” Thrall said. He slipped off from Torastrasza’s broad back. “I will go as quickly as I may. If the four of you could take your humanoid forms?”

Quickly they responded. Thrall looked at the high elven, half-elven, and night elven faces. Three he had already seen in these forms, but not Nozdormu, whose appearance was much different. The others had all selected shapes of beauty and physical grace, some opting to keep their horns, some not. Not so with the Timeless One. While he had a slender but strong, somewhat elven body, sand seemed to be drifting off it in a gentle fall. He wore simple white linen, and while he kept his golden horns and his eyes remained large, brilliant, and gemlike, his face was that of an owl—wise and calm.

“I have participated in circles similar to this,” Thrall began, focusing now on the approaching ritual and not Nozdormu’s startling appearance. “But never with such powerful participants.”

“We trust you,” said the Life-Binder, and she smiled. Thrall found himself deeply moved. He thought of Aggra, and smiled a little to himself. She certainly could not accuse him of lacking humility in his heart at this particular moment.

“I will cast the circle and acknowledge the elements,” he said. “It sounds as if our task is to open to one another. Your hearts and minds, everything that makes you you—and makes you an Aspect. This is not a time for secrets, or even self-protection. I am honored you trust me. But you must also trust yourselves, and each other. Take one another’s hands, to strengthen that connection. Are you ready?”

They looked at one another and nodded, doing as he requested. Thrall took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, letting himself drop into a peaceful place. He began facing the east, long connected with the element of air.

“Blessed east,” Thrall said, his voice strong and steady. “New beginnings, where the sun rises. The home of Air, who inspires, and rules the mind and thought. I honor and—”

“They come!”

The anguished cry filled the air. Thrall’s eyes snapped open, his concentration shattered. Sure enough, he heard the familiar thrum of hundreds of leathery wings beating the air. The twilight dragons had come back for another round. And this time, they would win. Weakened as the Aspects were, once the revitalized Chromatus entered the fray, nothing they could do as separate beings could stop him.

Thrall tasted bitter despair. He had been so convinced it would work—so hopeful, and they had been so close. And now there was no time to complete the ritual.

Something flashed into his mind.

There is time, he remembered.

Pictures suddenly filled his mind’s eye: the sun rising, strong and life-giving. The joy that came with new ideas, lively conversation, breakthroughs and achievements and beginnings.

To his surprise, he saw the Aspects glancing at one another, nodding and smiling, and knew that somehow, through him, they could see the pictographs too.

And this had all transpired in the time it took the eye to blink.

Now the pictures in his mind were of campfires, the jungle climate of Stranglethorn, the baking lands of Durotar. This was Fire, whose home was the south, who gave all living beings the passion to achieve their goals and dreams.

Dimly, Thrall could hear the sounds of dragon fighting dragon all around him: the cries of anger, the bellows of pain. He could smell burning flesh. He kept his eyes tightly shut. In a moment they could help.

In a moment—

Swiftly came the images of the west: the realm of the Spirit of Water, oceans, tears in this place of the heart, of deep emotions.

And then the north, realm of Earth. Thrall saw mountains, and caverns, and the sleepy, calm veil of winter upon the land.

In the dancing pictures in their shared vision, they were no longer seated on cold stone on the top of a mountain at the roof of the world. He saw each of the Aspects, but not as they appeared now, clasping hands; not even as they appeared in their draconic forms.

Thrall saw not just what they were but who they were, and their beauty was almost overwhelming.

Gentle Ysera, a glowing green mist, the very essence of creation, shifting and pulsing. You are bound to the waking Dream of Creation. Nature is your realm, and all things have caught glimpses of the Emerald Dream when they sleep. You see them all, Ysera. And they see you, though they may not know it. Like the Life-Binder, you touch all living beings, and sing to them the songs of creation and interconnectedness.

The Aspects gasped softly, and Thrall understood that, somehow, he was hearing what one of the titans had said to Ysera so long ago, during that moment when she had received her powers. The voice in his head died away, but not the sense of awe and wonder it left in its wake.

Noble Kalec, a shard of gleaming ice, as beautiful as any gem, shimmering with the quintessence of arcane magic, the magic of power and spells and runes, even of the Sunwell, the magic of thought, of appreciation, of connection.

I believe that you will find that my gift to you is not just a profound duty—which it is—but also a delight—which it is! Magic must be regulated, managed, and controlled. But it must also be appreciated and valued and not hoarded. Such is the contradiction you must deal with. May you be dutiful … and joyous both.

The battle continued raging overhead. Thrall’s heart ached, but he shut out the sounds, shut out the desire to shout his battle cry and join in the fight. There would be time for that when—

Time—

The sands of time trickled up, and down, and in all directions—past and future and this precious moment.

Unto you is charged the great task of keeping the purity of time. Know that there is only one true timeline, though there are those who would have it otherwise. You must protect it. Without the truth of time as it is meant to unfold, more will be lost than you can possibly imagine. The fabric of reality will unravel. It is a heavy task—the base of all tasks of this world, for nothing can transpire without time.

And Alexstrasza—

Thrall loved her. How could he not? How could anyone, any thing, not love this fiery, tender essence of pure heart energy? She was a brazier on a cold night, the life contained in a seed, or an egg, all things growing and bright and beautiful. No wonder flights of all colors adored her; no wonder she had been the last thought of Korialstrasz as he took action that would destroy so much, but preserve more.

This is my gift: compassion for all living things. A drive to protect and nurture them. And the ability to heal that which others cannot, birth what others may not, and love even the unlovable—who surely need such grace more than any other souls.

And himself—

He felt rooted, solid, deeply wise. Thrall well knew that it was not his own knowledge that he was experiencing but the knowledge of the earth. This was where the ancients dug their roots; this was where bones, over time, turned into stone. He felt bigger than he had ever been, expansive, for all this world was his to mind.

My blessing upon you will seem humble compared to those which have been bestowed upon the others: the managing of time, of life, of dreams and magic. I offer you the earth. The soil, the ground, the deep places. But know that the earth is the basis of all things. It is where we are rooted. Where you must come from, if you are to go to. Here is whence true strength comes. From deep places … within the world, and within oneself.

The blessing had not been intended for his ears originally. But it was now.

The energies of five Aspects stood together, as they had not done for millennia.

And then it happened.

The images that the Aspects and Thrall had become in this spiritual realm exploded. Not violently, or angrily, but as if the joy could no longer be contained in anything resembling structure or form. Like fireworks, the essence of who and what each Aspect truly was soared forth.

They met, hues of each one, bronze and green and blue and red and black, and twined about each other, weaving the colors together.

Like strands of thread on a loom.

… To unravel part of the piece, all you need to do is pull on a single loose thread.

No, Thrall suddenly thought as the words of Medivh, spoken to him in the timeways, rushed back to him. Not weaving. Threads could be pulled, or broken. They must not interweave; they must blend. …

Thrall visualized his color, a pure, peaceful black hue, merging with the other dancing plumes of the Aspects. They understood at once, and each yielded its boundaries. The colors began to blend, turning a single uniform hue of—

“He comes!”

The voices of the lookouts shattered the moment. Thrall struggled to stay in the sacred space, to detach calmly, but there was too much urgency. Even before he had opened his eyes, the four Aspects had all leaped upward, shifting back into their true forms and climbing skyward. For a moment, as the dragons sprang upward, wings beating fiercely, Thrall thought he would be left behind. An instant later he was snatched up by a giant paw. He craned his neck to see Tick, who swiftly placed the orc on her shoulder.

Sure enough, the rotting chromatic dragon was flying full-tilt toward his adversaries. “Did you really think we would not come for you?” called a voice that did not belong to Chromatus. Thrall peered, straining to see in the moonlight, and realized there was a small figure perched on Chromatus’s gigantic back.

It had to be the Twilight Father.

What cultists were left after Torastrasza’s razing of their ranks had also climbed on dragonback. They wielded weapons Thrall could see glinting in the dim light, and doubtless others knew spells and would be even more dangerous foes at a distance. He realized that they intended this to be the final confrontation, and the Twilight Father was clearly prepared to lose what he must in order to ensure victory.

Thrall took precious minutes attempting to firmly ground himself in the present moment. He had no way of knowing if the ceremony he had just led had done what it was supposed to have done. He had wanted more time—time for the Aspects to fully integrate, to blend, and to settle into this new way of being, before turning their full attention toward Chromatus and the cult. But such thought was not being truly in the moment, as he had learned. He had done what he could in the time he had, and there was a curious peace in his soul at the thought.

From what he could see, the Aspects had recovered faster than he had, even though they had been unfamiliar with the sort of ritual he had taken them through. Thrall dared hope it was because they were doing what was right, what was needed—what they were supposed to have been doing all along. They moved swiftly and with grim purpose toward Chromatus, who paused and hovered in the air, flapping his strangely jointed wings before opening the mouths of all five heads. Flame, ice, sickly green energy, sand, and a terrible black cloud buffeted the Aspects simultaneously. All four were knocked backward, pummeled by the force of five striking spells.

“No!” Thrall shouted, but no sooner had the cry left his lips than the Aspects had recovered. They halted their tumble and, graceful and unified as they had been before, renewed the attack.

It took Thrall a moment to realize that he could see them more clearly than he ought to be able to. And he suddenly realized that each form, while its color remained unchanged, was limned with golden-white light. Even as he watched, the illumination seemed to crackle and pulse. Their poses seemed … calm, somehow. Focused, yes, but not urgent. They had a purpose, a goal, and were approaching it as a single unit, not four individuals.

Chromatus, too, seemed to notice. He suddenly rose straight in the air and wheeled about, his body tense and alert. “So,” the black head bellowed, “you think to defeat me by joining against me. I can sense the new unity among you. Know that it will ultimately fail. How precious. But you will never be complete! You are missing someone, or have you forgotten? Deathwing is my patron, and he will see all of you destroyed!”

The voice was louder than it had been, booming and terrifying. Thrall found that, while he wanted desperately to aid his friends in this perhaps final battle, he could not tear his eyes away from the spectacle. He suddenly realized that it was because he, too, was an integral part of it. That was why he was having such trouble becoming just himself again: because part of him was still connected to the Dragon Aspects.

They did not need Deathwing for the ritual. And despite Chromatus’s challenging words, Thrall realized they did not need Deathwing now. They had Earth. They had Thrall, and for this little while, the Spirit of Life had granted him the strength to hold something so strong, so profound, that it had once been granted by the titans themselves.

Just as he had exchanged his armor for robes in order to fight another sort of battle—one to calm and heal the earth—Thrall realized he had exchanged his ability to help as an individual for something far greater. He was not, could never be, an Aspect. But he was what helped bind them together, to do what they needed to.

Tick did not question Thrall’s sudden inaction, but neither did she cease her own fighting. She cast a spell that seemed to freeze several twilight dragons in place, and Thrall realized that for those unfortunate ones, time itself had stopped. Tick now dipped and dove and attacked, raked with her powerful claws and lashed hard with her massive tail. Thrall observed, but his true attention was deeply focused on helping the Aspects maintain this newly discovered unity.

He shook his head, suddenly finding it difficult to concentrate. Why? He had been focusing so clearly a moment ago. His thoughts were jumbled, slipping from his grasp. Sudden fear gripped him. He was the anchor, what helped the … what?

Angrily Thrall clawed at his right arm with his left hand, the pain helping him focus. His thoughts were being twisted, crippled. He looked up and saw the figure astride Chromatus extending his hands toward the orc—and that figure was now shades of purple-blue, an undulating shadow about him. Thrall growled, digging his nails deeper in his arm, and wrenched back his mind.

Chromatus shook his ugly heads. The sickly purple glow that radiated from all ten eyes was a dark imitation of the radiance that enveloped the Aspects as they flew acrobatically around his larger, comparatively squat form. The purple illumination highlighted his misshapen features ghoulishly, and when he drew back and opened his mouths, Thrall felt as though he were again fighting something as dark and evil and unnatural as the Burning Legion itself.

Whereas before, the five heads of the monstrosity attacked as separate entities, now they acted in eerie unison. Each head drew back, inhaling deeply, and then five sets of jaws opened to attack. This time, instead of five separate hues from five separate heads, the flames the creature spewed were dark violet and attacked the shimmering gold-white illumination. More than one of the Aspects bellowed in pain, and Thrall watched as Kalecgos and Ysera faltered for a moment. Their colors darkened as the radiance subsided but then flared to renewed brilliance.

They dove as before, coordinated and elegant, and when they opened their mammoth jaws, white fire exploded forth. It was not the slightly lavender tint of arcane magic, nor did it look like any spell Thrall had ever seen. It was breath in the shape of a flame, the purest white hue Thrall had ever seen. They all aimed for the same place: Chromatus’s chest, exposed as all five necks reared back up to draw a second breath to attack.

Thrall had to shield his eyes, so blinding was the light as it struck. Four streams of brilliant white from each Aspect slammed into the great dragon, sending him tumbling wildly. Chromatus screamed in agony. He fell out of control for a long moment before awkwardly flapping his wings to bring himself back up. His heads, no longer acting in beautiful unison, but jerkily and wildly, again breathed dark flame, but missed their targets widely. In his struggle to bring himself back into the battle, he did nothing but expose his already-blackened chest. Again the Aspects, drawing in breath as one, breathed this strange flame that was not flame upon the chromatic dragon’s heart.

He bucked and spasmed, his heads contorting and screaming curses even as his body convulsed.

“You cannot stop me!” the blue head cried, and then it fell back, eyes closed.

“I know all your secrets,” warned the red before its eyes, too, ceased to glow with life.

And, most chillingly of all, the black head cried, “It took all of you to even attempt to destroy me! Think you Deathwing will be easier? He will rip this world apart to crush you for what you do! And I will be there with—”

There was one final spasm, a hoarse croak from the black head, and then Chromatus fell.

The Twilight Father clung desperately to Chromatus as the two of them hurtled earthward. His mind was numb with horror. He barely had enough wits about him to cast a protective shield about himself. Moments ago, after the first strange breath that had so harmed the dragon, the Twilight Father’s mind had reeled with questions. What had happened to the Aspects? Where had they gotten this newfound ability? What was it? How could this possibly be happening? Chromatus was invincible!

And then all those questions vanished before the frantic terror of clinging to a dead dragon as he fell toward jagged rocks and snow.

He closed his eyes. The great body landed with a huge thump, and the Twilight Father cried out as he slid into a pile of snow. Shivering, frantic, he clawed his way out of the powder, grateful to have somehow survived, terrified of the repercussions of failure. He reached out to Chromatus, trying to sense any signs of life.

There were none. And yet … the dragon was not dead, or undead. No breath, no movement, no heartbeat, but neither was there the emptiness of a shell of a body. He was in some sort of in-between state. He lacked the spark of life, but the Twilight Father knew that if there was another way, the body could be reanimated. It was something. If Chromatus had been completely destroyed, the Twilight Father knew he would rather have died in battle. It would have been sweet and painless compared to what Deathwing would have done to him. Might still do to him.

His robes were soaked and clung to him, threatening an ignoble death from freezing as he picked his way through snow and over rocks, past the fallen body, to a small overhang. The small orb he used to speak with Deathwing was still intact; it would take more even than so great a fall to damage this artifact. With numb fingers he removed it from a pouch at his waist and regarded it for a moment. He debated simply trying to vanish—but how? He was alone, in the middle of nowhere, with red, green, bronze, and blue dragons everywhere the eye could see—not to mention four Aspects who had somehow managed to tap into more power than he could ever have believed.

No. Deathwing had invested much time and effort in the making of the Twilight Father. He would not destroy such effort on a whim. Chromatus was not alive—but he was not dead, either. That might be enough.

Huddled beneath the pathetic shelter, the Twilight Father placed the orb in the snow and knelt before it, shivering violently. The clear globe filled with an inky blackness, relieved only by the orange-yellow gleam of an eye. An instant later the orb cracked open. Thick black smoke wafted up, filling the limited space. The image of the monstrous black dragon was contained, but the terror he inspired was in no manner lessened.

“They are not destroyed,” Deathwing said without preamble. “I would have felt it.”

“I know, my m-master,” stuttered the Twilight Father. “They did … something, and they d-d-defeated your champion. He lies without life, but not in death.”

There was a long, terrible moment. “Abysmal failure, then.”

The cold words were worse than a bellow of anger. The Twilight Father cringed. “Nay, Chromatus cannot be slain! He is defeated, but only for the moment.”

He heard the sound of wings above him and peered upward. His eyes widened and he crouched back in his poor shelter. “My lord, I would continue doing your work in this world. But I will not be able to do so for much longer. They are searching for me, and—and it seems as though the twilight d-dragonflight is fleeing. …” He tried and failed to keep the panic out of his voice.

“You are a serious disappointment,” rumbled Deathwing. “We had certain victory within our grasp. Yet the Aspects live; Chromatus is … damaged; and the cult has been dealt a severe blow. Why should I not throw you to my enemies?”

“I—I know much that is still of use!” the Twilight Father cried, clutching the orb as if he were clutching a master’s hand. “I have those who trust me—you know I do. Let me return to them. Let me lead them eventually to you. The cult is all over this world; even if the dragonflights destroy it here, they will not destroy it entirely! Think how much time you would waste putting someone else in my position!”

“Humans are pathetically greedy and easy to manipulate,” growled Deathwing. “And yet you speak sense. We have already lost enough time. I do not need another setback. Come, then. Surrender to the smoke,” he said, letting his image, formed of the dark, silky smoke the orb had emitted, dissolve. Shadow tendrils reached out and caressed the Twilight Father, and even he shivered. “The portal will take you home. There, you may continue betraying the trust of those who honor you, and work my will again when next I ask it of you.”

The Twilight Father cast off his cowl and embraced the transporting shadow-smoke, clad in his more familiar, traditional clerical robes.

“Thank you, my lord,” whispered Archbishop Benedictus. “Thank you!”