Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

5

It was a long and arduous journey from the Maelstrom to Feralas. Thrall had emerged, as he had promised, to give Ysera his answer, only to find no sign of the green Dragon Aspect. He was at first bemused and irritated, then ashamed of his reaction: Ysera doubtless had many vital duties other than waiting on a simple shaman’s answer. He was charged with this duty, had accepted it, and would see it through—though he could have wished Ysera had thought to leave one of her great green dragons behind to speed the journey. She had not, so he did the best he could with wyvern, ship, and wolf.

Ysera had told him that Dreamer’s Rest was nestled against one of the great Twin Colossals. He rode along the overgrown road on his beloved, loyal frost wolf Snowsong, feeling the moist heat—so different from the temperate climes of Lordaeron where he had reached adulthood, and the dry heat of Orgrimmar—leach away at his energy.

He smelled and then saw the smoke from a long distance away, and urged his wolf on to greater speeds. The acrid stench was sharply at odds with the usual heavy, leafy scent of Feralas.

As he drew closer, Thrall felt his resentment and irritations at the task Ysera had given him melt away. These people, these druids, were in trouble. They needed help. And for whatever reasons the green Dragon Aspect had, she had wanted him to be the one to help them.

And so he would.

He rounded a turn, and the camp was suddenly there in front of him. Thrall came to an abrupt halt at what he beheld.

Carvings of owls … old ruins … a moonwell. …

“Night elves,” he muttered aloud. Ysera had only mentioned “druids.” She had apparently forgotten the small detail that this “Dreamer’s Rest” was not composed of tauren druids, but possibly—probably—hostile night elves. Was this some sort of a trap? He had been imprisoned by the Alliance before, hauled off as “cargo” and saved only by the unlikeliest of rescuers. He would not permit himself to be so used again.

Thrall dismounted and with a hand signal instructed Snowsong to wait. Slowly, carefully, he moved forward to get a better look. As Ysera had told him, Dreamer’s Rest was small indeed. It seemed to be deserted; perhaps the inhabitants were all off fighting the fire.

Ancestors knew, it was coming close enough. He could see several trees toward the far end of the camp, past a few dark-purple travel pavilions that had been erected. And again, as the Awakened had assured him, it was a small fringe of what looked to Thrall like a very old-growth grove indeed.

He could definitely sense the anger and anxiety in the elements here. It was almost buffeting, and his eyes watered at the smoke. If something wasn’t done soon …

He felt something sharp and hard on the back of his neck and stood completely still.

“Speak slowly, orc, and tell us why you have come to trouble the Druids of the Talon.” The voice was female, hard, and brooked no argument.

Thrall cursed himself. He had been too distracted by the elements’ pain, and he had been incautious. At least the elf was letting him speak.

“I was sent here to help you,” he said. “I am a shaman. Search my bag if you like; you will find my totems.”

A snort. “An orc, come to help night elves?”

“A shaman, come to help heal and calm an angry land,” he said. “I work with the Earthen Ring. Both Horde and Alliance are trying to find a way to save this world. Druids have a similar organization in the Cenarion Circle. In my pack, I have a pouch that carries my totems. Search if you like. All I ask is that you let me help.”

The hard pointed object was removed from pressing at his back, but Thrall was not foolish enough to strike. The elf would not be alone. He tensed as the Doomhammer, strapped to his back, was removed, but held himself in check. Hands rummaged through his pack and removed the pouch.

“Those are indeed totems,” said a male voice. “And he wears prayer beads. Turn around, orc.”

Thrall did, slowly. Two night elves regarded him. One was a Sentinel with green hair and violet skin. The other was male, clean-shaven, his green hair worn in a topknot. His skin was a rich, dark shade of purple and his eyes glowed a golden hue. Both were sweaty and soot-covered, obviously from trying to fight the blaze. Others now approached, looking cautious but curious.

The female was searching Thrall’s face, and then recognition came to her.

“Thrall,” she said, disbelieving. She looked at the Doomhammer lying on the earth, then back at him.

“Warchief of the Horde?” said another voice.

“No, not anymore, at least not according to rumor,” the female said. “We have heard that he disappeared—left his rank as warchief. Where he went, the Sentinels have not been told. I am Erina Willowborn, a Sentinel, and this is Desharin Greensong, one of the Druids of the Talon. I was part of a diplomatic entourage to Orgrimmar once.” Erina had been holding her glaive in a defensive posture; now she lowered it. “You are a very important personage, to come to our little camp. Who sent you?”

Thrall sighed inwardly. He had hoped to avoid mentioning the specifics of his task. “The rumors are true. I did leave, to help heal the damage caused to Azeroth by the Cataclysm. At the Maelstrom, working with other members of the Earthen Ring, I was found by Ysera the Awakened,” he said. “She told me of the plight of Dreamer’s Rest. That you had no shaman to help intercede with the troubled elements, and that you needed help.”

“You expect me to believe that?” said Erina.

“I do,” said Desharin. Erina looked at him, surprised. “Thrall was ever known as a moderate, even as warchief. And now that he serves the Earthen Ring, perhaps he was indeed sent here.”

“By a dragon,” said Erina sarcastically. “Excuse me … not just any dragon, but Ysera of the Emerald Dream. And carrying the Doomhammer.”

“Who would wish to help druids more?” Desharin said. “And the Doomhammer is his, is it not? He may bear it wherever he wishes.” The Sentinel had no response to that, and turned to another who had approached. He, too, had long green hair that hung unbound, but also sported a short beard. His face looked weathered and wise, and he regarded Thrall thoughtfully.

“This is your camp, Telaron,” Erina said respectfully. “Tell us what you want us to do. He is an orc, and our enemy.”

“He is also a shaman, and therefore friend to the elements,” Telaron replied. “And the elements are so troubled that we cannot afford to deny them friends. We will put you to the test, Thrall of the Earthen Ring. Come.”

Thrall followed as Telaron led him up the sloping hills closer to the blazing fire. The trees near the camp had mercifully not yet caught, and Thrall could see that they had been doused liberally with water. All the smaller scrub bushes had been cleared; only the old growth remained.

His heart ached to behold it.

Many of the great trees were already too badly burned to rescue. Others were just igniting, but the fires, angry and raw, were now spreading rapidly. Thrall recalled the blaze that had swept through Orgrimmar, and swiftly took out his fire totem from his pouch. He stepped forward, pressing his bare feet firmly into the good earth, lifting his hands skyward. He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind and heart.

Spirits of fire, what troubles you? Let me help. Let me take you away from where you harm things old and rare and irreplaceable, and bring you to where you can warm and comfort living, breathing beings.

There was a strange grimness to the essence of one elemental as it responded. It was similar to the dark anger of the spark that had threatened to destroy Orgrimmar some moons past, but there was something resolute in this one’s nature.

I am doing what must be done. Fire purges. You know this. Fire burns away what is impure, so that it may be returned to the earth, and the cycle begun anew. It is my duty, shaman!

His eyes still closed, Thrall jerked as if struck. Your duty? Surely you choose your duty, spirit of fire. And what has happened to these old trees, that you feel they need to be purged? Are they ill? Plagued? Cursed?

None of these things, admitted the fire elemental, speaking in Thrall’s heart.

Then why? Tell me. I would understand this, if I can.

The fire did not answer at once, burning suddenly hotter and brighter for a moment. Thrall had to turn his face away from the inferno.

They are … confused. Something is wrong with them. They do not know what they know. They must be destroyed!

Thrall himself was confused by that response. He was well aware that all things had a spirit. Even stones, which were not truly “living” beings; even fire, which was “speaking” in his head and heart. But he could make no sense of this.

What do they know? Thrall asked of the spirit of fire.

What is wrong!

“Wrong” as in unnatural, or “wrong” as in incorrect?

Incorrect.

Thrall thought frantically. Could they learn what is correct?

For a long moment he thought he had lost the attention of the spirit. It was agitated, erratic, distraught. If it would not listen—

They did know, once. They could learn again.

Then, spirit of fire, do not destroy. I urge you to pull back. If you must burn, burn as torches to illuminate the darkness, or as hearthfires, to cook meals and warm chilled bodies. Harm these trees no further, lest you forever destroy their ability to one day learn what is correct!

Thrall waited, muscles taut. He desperately hoped he was on the right track. The only way he would know would be if the fire obeyed him. For a long moment, nothing happened. The fire crackled and burned, and heat roiled off the consumed trees as they blackened.

Then: Agreed. They must learn again what is true. Someone must teach them. If not, then burn they shall. Burn they must.

And the fire slowly faded away to nothing. Thrall stumbled forward, his eyes flying open, suddenly exhausted by the working. Strong hands caught him as cheers went up.

“Well done, shaman,” said Telaron, smiling approvingly. “Well done! You have our gratitude. Please—stay with us tonight. We would treat you as the honored guest that you are.”

Weary from the journey and the intense working, as were the elves who would have normally been slumbering during daylight hours, Thrall accepted. That night, he found himself shaking his head in quiet amazement as he sat, accompanied by Snowsong, and ate and drank and laughed with night elf druids and Sentinels. He recalled the meeting not so long ago in which ten druids—five night elves, five tauren—had met to peacefully negotiate trade routes. They had been ambushed and slaughtered, the tauren archdruid Hamuul Runetotem the only survivor. The action had inflamed both the Alliance and the Horde. It was rumored that Garrosh Hellscream had sent the attackers, but such a thing was never proven, and despite Garrosh’s hot temper, Thrall did not believe the rumors.

If that meeting had been successful, Thrall mused sadly, perhaps nights like this—singing songs and telling tales—would not be so uncommon between the two factions. Perhaps there would be more unity, and thus more healing of the world that both shared.

Thrall went to sleep while his night elf hosts were still singing songs to the stars, the sounds of the wilderness music to his ears, wrapped in sleeping furs with only his hand for his pillow.

He slept very soundly for what seemed like the first time in a long while.

Thrall was awakened at dawn by a gentle shaking.

“Thrall,” came the musical voice of a kaldorei. “It is Desharin. Wake up. I have something to show you.”

After so many years in battle, Thrall was not unused to waking swiftly and fully alert. He rose quietly and followed the elf, stepping carefully around and over drowsing night elf bodies. They moved past the moonwell and pavilions deeper into the old-growth fringe.

“Wait here, and be still,” Desharin whispered. “Listen.”

The trees, those that had been spared the worst of the blaze, moved and sighed, their branches creaking, their leaves murmuring. Thrall waited for a moment longer, then turned to his companion, shaking his head.

“I hear nothing.”

Desharin smiled. “Thrall,” he said quietly, “there is no wind.”

And suddenly Thrall realized that the kaldorei was right. The trees were moving as if in a gentle wind—but the air was still.

“Look at them,” Desharin said. “Carefully.”

Thrall did, focusing intently. The knots and gnarls on the tree trunks … the spiky branches …

His eyes widened, and he suddenly understood what—who?—he was beholding. He had heard of them before, of course, but he had never seen one.

“These are ancients,” he breathed. Desharin nodded. Thrall gazed in awe, wondering how it was that he had not seen this before. He shook his head slowly. “And here I thought I was coming only to save a forest. They seemed … just like trees.”

“They were sleeping. You awakened them.”

“I did? How?” Thrall didn’t want to tear his eyes from the ancients. These were old, old beings, many of them keepers of wisdom from aeons past. They moved, and creaked, and appeared to be … talking?

Thrall strained to understand, and after a moment, he realized he could decipher the deep, softly spoken words.

“Dreaming, we were. Confused dreams that held us in our uncertainty. And so we did not awaken when the fire came. It was only when we heard the ancient ritual, of shaman to element, that we were awakened. By your actions, you saved us.”

“The fire told me that it was trying to cleanse you. That it felt you were … impure,” Thrall said, trying to recall exactly what it was the fire elemental had communicated to him. “It said you were confused. You did not know what you knew, and what you knew was incorrect. I asked if you could learn what was correct, and the spirit of fire thought you could. That was why it agreed to cease burning you.”

Thrall realized, now that the fire was no longer a threat, that some of the ancients had small creatures nesting in their branches. They looked like tiny dragons with delicate, vibrantly colored wings like a butterfly’s and feathery antennae adorning their bright-eyed heads. One of them flew out from the branches, fluttered about, and landed on Desharin’s shoulder, nuzzling him fondly.

“They are called sprite darters,” Desharin said, petting the small creature. “They are not dragons, but they are magical protectors and defenders of the Emerald Dream.”

And suddenly Thrall understood. He looked at the ancients, at their little magical protector, at Desharin’s green hair.

“You are a green dragon,” he said quietly. It was a statement, not a question.

Desharin nodded. “My task was to watch you.”

Thrall frowned, the old irritation returning. “Watch me? Was I being tested? Did I perform to Ysera’s expectations?”

“Not quite like that,” he said. “It was not an evaluation of your skills. I was to watch and see what was in your heart as you aided us, how you approached the task. You have a journey to make, Thrall, son of Durotan and Draka. We needed to see if you were ready to undertake it.”

The ancients began to speak again in their strange, creaking language. “Long have we kept the memories of this world. Long have we tended knowledge that others have forgotten. But the spirit of fire was right. Something is amiss. The memories we bear are becoming hazy, confused … lost. Something has gone awry with time itself.”

They must learn again what is true. Someone must teach them. If not, then burn they shall. Burn they must.

“That is what the spirit of fire was trying to say,” Thrall said. “It knew that their memories were wrong, incorrect. But it thought they could learn the correct memories again. That means there’s hope.”

Desharin nodded, thinking aloud. “Something is wrong with the memories of the ancients. They are not as we are; their memories cannot be altered unless the things they remember themselves were altered. That means that time itself has been interfered with.” He turned to Thrall, solemn and excited both. “This, then, is your journey. You must travel to the Caverns of Time. You must find out what has happened and help set the timeways right.”

Thrall looked at him, stunned. “The timeways … so they do exist. I had suspected—”

“They exist. Nozdormu and the rest of the bronze dragonflight manage them. And he is the one you must go to with this information.”

“I? Why would he talk to me? Wouldn’t a fellow dragon be a better choice?” It was an almost overwhelming thought: to travel back in time, to alter or adjust history. He felt out of his depth. What had initially seemed like a trivial errand had now taken on dire significance.

“I will accompany you if you like,” Desharin offered. “But the Aspect was adamant that you were important somehow. Do not take offense, but I am as puzzled as you are as to why she thought so.” He gave a sudden grin that made him look much younger than he doubtless was. “At least your skin is green.”

Thrall started to bridle, then found himself chuckling instead. “I would welcome any aid and illumination you care to give, and I am honored that Ysera regards me in such a light. I will do my utmost to help.” He turned to the ancients. “Help all of you, if I can.”

The ancients rustled, and Thrall heard the gentle sound of something dropping on the earth. It rolled down the slight incline and came to a stop at Thrall’s feet.

“That is a gift for you,” Desharin said.

Thrall stooped and picked it up. It was an acorn, looking to his eyes much like any other one. But he knew it was so much more, and felt a shiver as he closed his hand around it protectively for a moment before carefully putting it in his pouch.

“Take good care of it,” Desharin said with sudden solemnity. “That acorn holds all the knowledge of its parent tree, and all the knowledge of that parent’s parent tree … and on and on, back toward the beginning of all things. You are to plant it where it seems right for it to grow.”

Thrall nodded, his throat closing up at the gift and the duty.

“I will do so,” he assured the ancients.

“And now, friend orc,” Desharin said, looking up at the lightening sky, “we head to the Caverns of Time.”