Christie Golden - War Crimes

Baine gave him a contemplative look. “All here tonight know well that the pure, unvarnished truth will not reflect positively on Garrosh. And as my duty is to defend him, whatever my personal opinions, this feels more like a gift to the Accuser than anything else.”

“Come now,” Kairoz replied, smiling. “Don’t give up just yet. Even pure, unvarnished truth can be interpreted differently in certain lights. Your right to ask me to display particular interactions is not limited just to what Garrosh has done and said, you know.”

“An interesting perspective . . . I must say, I am intrigued. Let us return to Thunder Bluff, you and I, and you will tell more on how I might make the best use of this Vision.”

It shouldn’t have felt like a celebration, and Jaina Proudmoore knew it. The eve before a trial where the verdict would surely render an execution, the ending of a life? No, of course it should never feel so.

But it certainly did.

She could tell others shared the sentiment, though no one seated at the table tonight would raise a toast to a death well deserved—at least, not openly. But postures were straighter than they might otherwise have been. Voices were lighter, and there was even laughter—something Jaina had almost forgotten. There was contentment in her heart that had not been there for some time, and she dared to hope that now—finally—the horrors of war were over, at least long enough for her to take a breath, mourn the dead, laugh with the living, and truly begin the gentler tasks of learning about being in a relationship with someone so different from her, yet so true.

The feeling of peace, so tentative for so long, grew in her as she looked at the faces around her, sharing this meal at Violet Rise. Kalec (of course), Varian and Anduin Wrynn, Vereesa Windrunner.

Even as she was grateful for their presence, she felt the absence of the fallen. Attuned to her, Kalec gently squeezed her hand.

“You miss them,” he said softly, and she did not bother to deny it.

“I do,” she said. “They should be here—Pained, and Kinndy, and Tervosh.”

They had spoken quietly, but little escaped elven ears. “Yes, they should,” said Vereesa. “They, and Rhonin, and so many others.”

Anduin looked troubled at the hard tone of Vereesa’s voice. “I feel certain that with the celestials as jury and Taran Zhu as judge, justice will be done.”

“Yes,” said Vereesa. “Baine was an odd choice to defend Garrosh, but one I have no quarrel with.”

“Baine is honorable,” Anduin said, “and there is no doubt in my mind he will endeavor to do the job to the best of his ability, despite how he feels personally.”

“But I do not think it is a task he is relishing,” said Kalec.

“True,” said Varian. “As opposed to Tyrande’s task, which I think everyone in the Alliance coveted.”

“Except you,” Jaina pointed out.

“I’d rather watch this play out,” Varian replied. “If I simply wanted Garrosh dead, all I would have needed to do was stay silent while Go’el swung the Doomhammer.”

Vereesa’s lips thinned, but she said nothing. Jaina couldn’t blame her; she herself had mixed feelings about Varian’s intervention.

“You did the right thing, Father,” said Anduin. “This will be a difficult trial, but who knows what good it may do in the long run? It will put an end to things more firmly than a simple execution—whatever is decided.”

Would it? Jaina wondered. Would it put an end to her nightmares, to the sudden flaring of hurt in her heart when she remembered afresh not only that friends had died, but how ? She thought of Kinndy, crumbling into a pile of violet dust as Jaina touched her. She realized she had been holding a fork so hard her knuckles had turned white, and her fingers ached as she deliberately placed down the utensil. She looked at the meal of roasted fowl, and macabre humor made her smile as she picked up a drumstick and regarded it.

“Wouldn’t it be convenient if Garrosh choked on a bone at dinner tonight, and saved everyone a great deal of trouble?” she said, keeping her voice light. “I hear there is a lovely cake for dessert, if anyone’s saved some room.”

The crowds—and the security for them—were unlike anything Jaina Proudmoore had ever seen. She was grateful for Varian’s guards, who helped clear a path through the milling throng that swirled about the entrances and enabled Jaina, Kalec, Varian, Anduin, and Vereesa to reach their reserved seats.

All the leaders of each Horde race were likewise gathered, their colorful clothing and skins and generally raucous presence a sharp contrast to the almost stoic Alliance seated across from them. The August Celestials had wisely placed members of factions that had no allegiance to either Horde or Alliance in the middle seats, a physical buffer lest things become heated. Jaina was surprised to see in that section a certain elven-looking female, her red tresses crowned with thorns. Her face was lovely, yet etched with an expression of ethereal sorrow. Jaina’s heart ached in sympathy.

“Alexstrasza,” she said softly.

“I would she had not come,” Kalec sighed, easing into a seat beside Jaina. “This can only be painful for her.”

It seemed to Jaina that Alexstrasza, the great Life-Binder and former Dragon Aspect, would be above such things as trials and the younger races’ method of justice. She had always behaved with dignity, courage, grace, and compassion, even when faced with inconceivable horrors and deep personal loss. Her sister, the green dragon Ysera, sat beside her, holding Alexstrasza’s hand and looking about with a childlike air of curiosity and wonder.

“Alexstrasza needs to be here,” said Jaina. “Not for the trial. For herself. Just like I do.”

“Wrathion’s here too,” said Anduin. “I invited him to come, to watch, and listen, and make up his own mind as to what was the best for Azeroth. I’m glad he decided to do so.”

Jaina followed Anduin’s gaze, curious for her first look at the being who often went by the soubriquet of the Black Prince. Few knew of him; fewer still knew of his true identity.

“Well, then,” said Jaina, keeping her voice soft for Anduin’s ears only, “looks like all the flights are represented.”

Wrathion was, as far as anyone knew, the only uncorrupted black dragon in existence.

Sired by Deathwing, he had escaped the vile touch of the Old Gods thanks to intervention while still in the shell. Although he had been fortunate in that respect, Jaina had to admit that his life had not been idyllic. The red dragonflight, under Alexstrasza’s command, had sought a way to purify the black dragons. One red dragon, Rheastrasza, had resorted to extreme measures in an effort to fulfill that charge. Rheastrasza had kidnapped a female black dragon and forced her to lay eggs. With the cooperation of a gnome inventor, Rheastrasza had managed to purge a single egg of the madness that had tormented the entire flight. Deathwing had not been pleased and had destroyed the egg—or so he thought. Anticipating this, Rheastrasza had swapped the purified black dragon egg for another, sacrificing not only her own life but that of her unhatched child.

Wrathion, though still in the shell, had been fully sentient and keenly aware of what was transpiring, aware also that he would be raised and closely watched by the red dragonflight for perhaps his entire life. His “liberty” came when his egg was stolen by rogues, and he hatched and remained free of red dragon influence. How he had escaped his captors was a mystery, but here he was, alive and quite sane.

Anduin and Wrathion had met and become friends of a sort in Pandaria, though, as Anduin admitted, that friendship was mainly focused on how different their outlooks were. Wrathion’s “age” was hard to define. If it was judged by actual years of life, then he was a toddler of two. But as he was a dragon, he was possessed of an innate intelligence and wisdom, and his appearance was that of a youth approximately Anduin’s age.