Thrall Twilight of the Aspects

by Christie Golden

  The smoke that had formed Deathwing’s image lost its solidity, becoming swirling black mist again. Slowly it settled to the floor, then coalesced into a black sphere. A moment later, even the darkness had disappeared. It was now, once again, a small, crystal-like orb. Frowning, the Twilight Father tucked it away and rose.

  “You thought it would be so easy,” came a clear female voice. “You and your huge, overly complicated plans. And now, as your master says, you are running out of time to undo this Thrall. The currents are shifting, Twilight Father, and your beard is gray. You are fooling yourself. You won’t last long serving him. You will not win.”

  He turned to the enslaved dragoness and closed the distance between them. She gazed up at him defiantly while he regarded her for a long moment.

  “Foolish little wyrm,” he said at last. “You know but a small portion of my plans. Thrall is a flea that will soon be smashed more fittingly than you can imagine. Come,” he said, and took her chain. “I have something to show you, and then we will see if I am fooling myself … or if you are the one being fooled.”

  He led her to the edge of the circular floor, and pointed. The mysterious sled had reached the foot of Wyrmrest Temple. Now that their services in hauling the vast vehicle were no longer needed, the snowfall elk had all been turned loose to feed the wolves. The hungry predators had done their job well: little was left now save bones. The acolytes were peering up, awaiting the signal from their adored Father. He lifted his hand, and with a flourish, the dark-robed cultists yanked off the fabric that had concealed what the wagon bore.

  Kirygosa gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.

  Stretched out on the giant wagon was the corpse of a dragon. But just not any dragon: this body was enormous, far larger than even a Dragon Aspect. And it was misshapen, its dull scales the color of an ugly purple bruise on pale skin. And the most obscene, most horrific thing was that it did not have one head.

  It had five. Even in the dim light with her human eyes, she could see that each head was a different color—red, black, gold, green, and blue.

  Kirygosa knew exactly what it was.

  “A chromatic dragon,” she said in a choked voice.

  Chromatic dragons were an abomination, a violation against everything natural. The monstrosities had been created by Deathwing’s son, Nefarian. A mighty black dragon almost as evil as his father, Nefarian had tried to create a new dragonflight that would combine the powers of all five of the other flights—a dragonflight that could conceivably destroy all the others. The experiments were considered failures. Many whelps had died before hatching. Most of those that had survived long enough to hatch were unstable, volatile, and deformed in many ways. Only a few had reached adulthood, artificially aged by twisted magical processes.

  The one before them now was definitely a mature dragon. Yet he did not stir.

  “I thought they seldom survived to adulthood. Still … he too, is dead. Why should I fear a corpse?”

  “Oh, Chromatus is quite dead,” the Twilight Father said airily. “Technically. For the moment. But he will live. He was Nefarian’s final experiment. There had been many failures, as I am certain you know. But that is how one learns, is it not? By trying and failing?”

  His beard parted in an avuncular smile as she continued to stare sickly at him.

  “Chromatus exemplified the pinnacle of all Nefarian had learned through his various experiments,” the Twilight Father continued. “Nefarian was, tragically, slain before he could give Chromatus the spark of life.”

  “A better deed was never done than the killing of Nefarian, that monster,” muttered Kirygosa.

  The Twilight Father gave her an amused look. “You might be surprised to know that just as the creation before you shall soon taste life, his creator does already. Yes—Nefarian has returned … in a manner of speaking. He is undead, but quite definitely active. For Chromatus … I have other plans.”

  Kirygosa could not tear her eyes away. “So this … thing … was the reason for everything you’ve done?” Her voice broke. “Bringing to life a monster who had no right to exist in the first place?”

  “Come, now, Kirygosa!” chided the Twilight Father mockingly. “You should show more respect. You might prove to be very important in this task.”

  Her eyes widened. “No … no more experiments. …”

  He leaned closer to her, handing over the chain to the troll acolyte who hastened up. “You see, my dear,” he said gently, “the only one running out of time … is you.”

  FIVE

  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.”