War Crimes

32

The courtroom was silent when Tyrande returned to her seat. Jaina could almost feel the intensity with which everyone regarded Garrosh Hellscream. So many lives. So much pain. So much destruction—all by one orc. One! Was it possible for an individual to do more damage than his entire race?

One—who was sitting right here. One clean sword strike, one perfectly aimed fireball, and it would be over. Garrosh Hellscream would never harm anyone ever again.

Her fingers itched to perform the motions of such a spell.

After a moment, Baine Bloodhoof rose. The sound of his hooves was very loud in the still chamber. Jaina felt a rush of pity for the tauren and his impossible task.

He stood, gathering his thoughts as he addressed the solemn, attentive celestials. “I know that you are expecting a passionate plea for mercy, an appeal to your wisdom and compassion. I may still make such a plea; I have not decided yet. What I wish to share with you now is not about Garrosh Hellscream. It is about me.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and began a slow walk of the circumference of the arena floor. “When I was asked to defend Garrosh, I very definitely had no desire to do so. I envied Chu’shao Whisperwind, for not only was she more likely to win, but I wanted the chance to do what she has done.” He stopped in front of Tyrande’s desk. She looked at him, curious but wary. Baine picked up the second stone—the one from the mak’gora arena. It had, Jaina was certain now, spatters of blood on it, which was probably the precise reason Tyrande had selected it. It could very likely be Cairne’s blood.

Tyrande narrowed her eyes, but did not stop him. Baine continued his ambling.

“What a satisfying thing it must have been, to collect these stones. To permit herself to think about what had happened in these places, and how tragic and needless those events were.” His hand closed tenderly around the small rock. “To sit with Chromie, and peer through time itself to find evidence of each count, and say to the jury and the spectators, ‘Here, see this! See it; feel it! This—this is what Garrosh Hellscream has done!’ ”

What is he doing? Jaina wondered. Is he just giving up? Admitting that defending Garrosh was a hopeless task from the beginning?

“So I went to Thunder Bluff. To the home my father and Warchief Thrall had founded for my people. I went to breathe its air, and sit on its red stone, and ask my father, what do I do?” Baine gestured to Kador Cloudsong, seated in the stands. “I asked for a vision. And it came.”

Now, Baine’s voice trembled slightly, and his hand tightened around the stone that possibly bore spatters of his father’s lifeblood.

“My father knew I could not indulge in my hatred, and my pain, and still hold my head high. He knew that I needed to say yes, to truly defend Garrosh to the best of my ability, no matter what the outcome, or there would be no peace. He knew this because he knew me—and also, because my father, who died at Garrosh’s hand, would have done the same had he yet lived.

“And so I agreed to represent Garrosh. I spent many hours with Kairoz, researching events, as Tyrande has done. And I found that there is no way to truly defend Garrosh Hellscream. There simply isn’t. The only ‘defense’ is to go beyond the events and into what truly matters.”

Baine looked again at the rock nestled in his large palm. “Tyrande has gone to great lengths to find these stones for her closing argument. I do not belittle that, or the pain I am certain she felt as she gathered them and thought about what they signified. But I must tell you, poignant as her presentation was, it was exactly that. A presentation. A show, just like the Visions of Time were, and in a way, just like the Darkmoon Faire—to which this trial has been unfavorably compared—most certainly is.”

Looking right at the jury, he crushed the small rock with his powerful fingers.

“It means nothing.”

Jaina felt a rush of anger, of offense—how could he do this? Destroy so callously what should have been a precious memory of his father? Other ripples of displeasure surged through the room. Taran Zhu picked up his mallet, and the murmurs quieted.

Baine, unperturbed by the reaction, opened his hand and let the dust trickle to the floor. “In the end, this is what all becomes. We are all dust. Rocks, trees, creatures of field and forest, tauren, night elf, orc—this is what we become. And it does not matter. It does not matter that we die. What matters is that we lived.”

He looked about the arena, slightly challenging now. “It is only when there is life that things can change. Only while we live can we comfort a friend, or raise little ones, or build a city. My father lived, and did so fully and well. He taught me many lessons.”

Now Baine looked straight at Jaina and Anduin. “He once said destruction is easy. But creating something that lasts—that, my father said, was a challenge.”

He reached for another stone—the one from Theramore, where he, Jaina, and Anduin had talked about so many things. “I could smash Garrosh Hellscream’s skull with this rock. Or . . . I could use it to build a city. I could grind corn upon it, or heat it for cooking. I could cover it with bright paint, and use it in a ceremony to honor the Earth Mother. Whatever we do or do not do with this stone, it will become dust one day. All that matters is what we do with it while we live. And I believe that if we truly look into our hearts, past the fear and wounds that guard them, we know this to be true.

“We have all done things we are ashamed of. We have all done things we wish we could take back. We all carry within us the potential to become our own versions of Garrosh Hellscream. As I watched the Vision of Time display events in this trial, I began to see this. I saw it in Durotan, who attacked Telmor, but who later was exiled by his own people for his beliefs. In Gakkorg, who left an envied position as a member of the Kor’kron because he was so sickened by what he was ordered to do to innocent younglings. King Varian”—and here Baine pointed—“you once held a sword to the throat of a woman clad only in a nightgown, who had no defenses. And now, the two of you are friends and allies. Alexstrasza, so terribly abused—she forgives as deeply as she suffered, because she knows, as all of us should know, it is the only way.”

He looked at Jaina again, and his eyes were full of compassion. “The lady of Theramore, which is no more, has suffered loss and betrayal. She is no Aspect, imbued with extraordinary patience and purpose to sustain her, and we have seen and heard her grief and her fury. But even she understands. She does not wish to be like Garrosh.”

Baine turned back to the celestials, who watched him intently. “Tyrande speaks of true justice. I believe that you know what it is. And I believe that we here today will see it done. Thank you.”

Baine had perhaps not won everyone over, but he had said many things that struck home, for Jaina, at least. So much was going through her head and heart as she left for the two-hour respite. Kalec had asked if she wanted to have a meal together, but she gently declined. “I . . . I need to think about things,” she said, and he nodded, his eyes sad even as he smiled.

Jaina bought a bowl of noodles and found an out-of-the way area outside to eat, perched beneath a cherry blossom tree. She was fond of noodles and the view was splendid, but she ignored both as she mechanically placed food in her mouth and chewed.

She did not envy the celestials their task. She thought about what she had heard, and seen, and been forced to say. She thought about Kinndy, her perkiness sharply at odds with the seriousness with which she took things and her steadfast, vital will. She thought about Kalec, and the choice that he was wrestling with. That he loved her, she had no doubt. But his heart—better, stronger, kinder than hers, she understood with a flash of bitterness—could not bear the virulence of her rancor. It wounded him, she realized. He could stay and remain wounded, or leave and be whole.

Some choice, she thought. But Baine was right about one thing. She didn’t want to be like Garrosh. And if their roles were reversed—what would Garrosh choose to do to her?

“Lady Jaina?” It was Jia Ji, one of the court couriers. He bowed low. “Forgive my intrusion on your solitude. I have a message for you.”

He extended a scroll. Frowning, Jaina took it, and paled when she saw the seal. In the red wax was the unmistakable mark of the Horde.

A thousand thoughts tumbled through her head, all horrible, as she broke the wax with shaking fingers, unrolled the scroll, and read:

She reread it several times, and then slowly smiled. “Do you wish me to convey a response, Lady Jaina?” asked Jia.

“Yes,” she said. “Please tell the warchief that I thank him for his understanding.”

“Of course, my lady.” Jia bowed low and turned to bear her message. Jaina watched him go, the smile still on her face, warming her. From her vantage point, she looked at the milling throng below. Only one among them had blue-black hair. He was talking with Varian and Anduin, and as she watched, he shook hands with both of them and started to walk away, looking downcast.

He’s leaving.

Clutching the missive from Vol’jin, Jaina began to run.

“Kalec!” she shouted, heedless of the heads turning in her direction. “Kalec!”

Her feet flew over the path, and she jumped nimbly over a root here, a missing step there. The crowd parted at her approach. She didn’t notice or care. Her gaze was fixed on Kalecgos, and she said a quick prayer to the Light that he wouldn’t get swallowed up by the crowd.

“Kalec!”

His steps slowed, then stopped. He cocked his head as if listening, then turned, his gaze scanning the sea of people. Their eyes met, and his face lit up like the sun. Her heart surged with gladness. She closed the space between them and flung herself into his outstretched arms.

Right there, in front of all eyes, they kissed, joyfully and longingly, and Jaina was fiercely grateful.

Garrosh Hellscream had taken enough.

He would not take this; he would not take her.