“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I am here now, and glad to be, and I hope to continue to be with you, whatever comes. I want to help, Jaina, but you seem to like this dark place where your heart has landed. I watch you in court each day, and I see someone who is filled more with hatred than with love. Garrosh might have put you there. But you’re staying in that place of your own free will.”
She stepped back, staring at him. “You think I like this? That I like having nightmares, and feeling so angry I am about to explode? Don’t you believe I have a right to be satisfied—no, no, downright ecstatic—that someone who did such horrible things is getting what he deserves?”
“I don’t think you like it, and I do believe you have a right to your feelings. What worries me is that those feelings won’t end with this trial.”
A vein throbbed in her temple, and she placed a hand to it. “What makes you think they won’t?”
“Remembering how eager you were to have Varian dismantle the Horde.”
“I can’t believe you—”
“Hear me out, please,” he implored. “Think for a moment how you would feel if Varian did what Garrosh has done. Let’s say he decided that the Alliance should consist solely of humans. He decrees that the draenei should only be allowed in Stormwind if they live in slums. He orders that Tyrande be murdered if she doesn’t agree to create a legion of satyrs to fight in his army. The gnomes and the dwarves are tolerated merely as a labor force. He hears that some artifact is located in the most beautiful place in Azeroth, a place of great sacredness. He destroys it to get what he wants. He—”
“Enough,” said Jaina. She was trembling, but couldn’t identify the emotion. “You’ve made your point.”
He fell silent.
“I didn’t destroy Orgrimmar. And I could have. So easily,” she said.
“I know.”
“Do you remember when you told me you would stay and fight in the Battle of Theramore?” He bit his lower lip and nodded. “I was frustrated with the generals for their hatred of the Horde. And you asked me if I thought that hatred would make them unreliable commanders in battle.”
“I do remember,” he replied. “You also said that it didn’t matter how you and they felt. And I said it did matter, a great deal—but defending the city was the most important thing at that moment. Just like defeating Garrosh was, when all of us—Alliance and Horde—were trying to take him down.”
“So . . . you’re telling me that now that we have, that he’s standing trial . . . the differences between—between us . . . they matter again.”
He whispered, “Yes.”
Tears stung her eyes. “How much?” she said in a faint voice.
“I don’t know yet. I won’t until I see who we are at the end of all this. If you keep hanging on to this hatred, Jaina . . . it will devour you. And I couldn’t bear to watch . . . to lose you to that. I don’t want to lose you, Jaina!”
Then don’t leave me, her heart cried, but she didn’t voice it. She knew what he meant by the words, and they went far beyond a simple physical parting. This wasn’t a lover’s quarrel over something foolish. This was about who they were, at their very cores. And whether or not they could continue to be together if what their hearts most needed was in conflict.
And so Jaina didn’t argue. She didn’t promise to change, nor did she threaten to leave. She simply arched up, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him with her whole heart. With a soft little sound of pain and love commingled, Kalecgos pulled her tightly to him, clinging to her as if he would never let go.
It was a beautiful evening in Silvermoon City. Thalen Songweaver, informally clad in stockings, breeches, and a linen shirt open at the throat, had the windows flung wide to let in the night air, and the gossamer curtains swelled and billowed softly. Faint sounds wafted up to his luxurious apartments in the Royal Exchange. He lay on his bed, smoking a hookah of black lotus and dreaming glory. The normally relaxing combination was failing him tonight. While his senses were dulled, the agitation remained, and his white brows drew together as he brooded upon the current situation.
Not so long ago, his position was one to be envied. He had provided aid in more than a single capacity to his warchief, Garrosh Hellscream: first, by pretending to be a devoted and trustworthy member of the Kirin Tor while reporting faithfully back to Garrosh, and second . . . well. Suffice it to say that history would forever remember Theramore not for how it was founded, or evolved, but for how it had been obliterated.
The thought made the blood elf smile as he idly fiddled with a miniature toy mana bomb, a small-scale replica of the one he had created. He’d given them out as a little thank-you to those of the Horde who had freed him from his Theramore prison. It was, he knew, in exquisitely poor taste, but was still vastly amusing.
Yet even reflecting on that moment of glory did not make him feel comfortable this evening. He sighed, rising and walking to the window. He leaned on the sill, peering out. While the auction house was open at all hours, the streets were quiet this time of night. Unlike their kaldorei cousins, civilized elves conducted most of their business with the sun smiling down upon them. If he’d wanted to see lively activity at night, he’d have taken quarters above Murder Row.
It had been going so very well. And then everyone had turned on Garrosh. Thalen’s aquiline nostrils flared. Even his own leader, Lor’themar Theron, had refused to aid the warchief. Weaklings, all of them. Now Garrosh’s fate was being decided by a bunch of talking bears and some glowing sort of . . . spirit beings, or whatever they were. Absolute madness.
He glanced back fondly at his lavish quarters. He suspected that soon wisdom would dictate that he vacate them. Theron had been too busy overthrowing the rightfully appointed warchief to bother with a lone archmage, but once they had all decided what to do about Garrosh, no doubt the sin’dorei leader would recall that little incident in Theramore, and elves like Songweaver—elves actually loyal to the Horde, imagine such a thing!—would become persona non grata. Who knew—if Theron kept cozying up to the Alliance, he might even call for executions.
Thalen’s hand went to his slender throat, stroking it thoughtfully. He rather liked his head right where it was.
Such melancholy thoughts. Perhaps a drink at the Silvermoon City Inn would help ease him into slumber. He was just about to pull the windows closed, then paused as he saw two huge black wolves riding into the exchange. For a moment, he thought nothing of it, assuming the cloaked orcs were adventurers seeking to unload their most recent spoils at the auction house. But they rode past both the house and the bank, halting directly below his window. He saw now they were both females. One had the hood of her cloak down and was looking about guardedly. The other’s hood hid the rider’s features.
Unease warred with curiosity—his bane, Thalen mused sourly. Ah well, bravado to the last . . .
“Hail, friends or foes,” he called down in a bright voice. “I am not quite sure which. Either you have come to arrest me, or you are my rescuers from that unpleasant imprisonment in Theramore come to visit me, as I invited you to do.”
The hooded rider lifted her face. The sight was intended for his eyes only, and it was the proud visage of a gray-skinned orcish female. “Neither, but a friend nonetheless. We have come seeking your assistance in a matter most urgent and full of glory.”
Zaela, the leader of the Dragonmaw clan, grinned fiercely up at him.
“Well, well,” he said, “I thought you were—”
“I am alive and well, and I am pleased that you are also.” His heart leaped at her next words. “As you said—someone rescued you once, when you languished in captivity. I think you might be the sort of person who would care to return that favor.”