Christie Golden - War Crimes

Go’el clenched his jaw. Beside him, cradling Durak, Aggra inhaled swiftly. “From what I knew of her, I would have thought better of this elven priestess,” she said to her mate. Her voice was quiet but angry. “It would appear that if the orcs hate the night elves, the feeling is indeed mutual.”

“We do not know what she intends.” As he spoke them, he knew the words were as much for himself as for Aggra.

“I think we can make a good guess,” Aggra replied.

Go’el didn’t answer. He watched Velen, alien and unspeakably ancient, who had once shown kindness to a youngling named Durotan, stride with grace and dignity to sit in the witness chair. He was bigger even than the tallest draenei Go’el had seen in person, but seemed somewhat slighter than those massively muscular beings. He wore no armor, only a relatively simple garment of soft, swirling, white-and-purple robes that seemed to float of their own accord as he moved. His eyes glowed a soothing shade of blue, framed by deeply etched wrinkles. Short tendrils banded with gold protruded through Velen’s beard. The white length fell almost to Velen’s waist, and reminded Go’el of the crest of a mighty wave.

Baine, too, was watching Velen carefully, and Go’el knew the tauren well enough to see that his muscles were gathered in anticipation of movement.

Go’el himself had once written down the history of his forebearers. It had been a piecemeal documentation of the events, as so few remaining orcs remembered them clearly. Demonic blood had flowed through their veins, fueling their hatred while making clear thought difficult. When Velen had reemerged in Azeroth, his people—unsurprisingly, Go’el thought with a stab of sorrow and bitterness—had chosen to bond with the Alliance. Until the day that true peace and trust came to Azeroth, Go’el would never have the chance to sit down and ask Velen questions, as his father had done. And he knew that while the Alliance and Horde had banded together to take down Garrosh, that orc had likely rendered any such a future impossible.

“Prophet Velen,” began Tyrande formally. “Truth only in this place, truth ever in this place. This is the charge of the Pandaren ancestors, whose law we follow, seeking balance.”

“Whose law we honor ,” prompted Taran Zhu, gently.

Tyrande colored slightly and corrected herself. “Apologies, Fa’shua Taran Zhu. Whose law we honor, seeking balance. Do you give your word?”

“I do give my word,” Velen answered immediately. His voice was resonant, but warm and kind even in those few words. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at Tyrande expectantly.

“Prophet, I am sure everyone in this court today recognizes you as one who has been witness to atrocities ere now,” Tyrande began.

And there it is , thought Go’el. She will now proceed to paint us all black—or red, with the stains of blood spilled in years gone by .

Baine sprang to his hooves. “With respect, I protest,” he called out. “Fa’shua, we are here to judge the actions of one orc, not all of them.”

“With respect, Lord Zhu,” replied Tyrande, “the Defender spoke earlier of Garrosh’s great love of his people. It is my desire to acquaint the jury with the history of these people. The celestials know much, but they do not know of Draenor, and their understanding of the orcish mind and history will be vital to any decision we can expect them to render.”

“I agree with the Accuser,” Taran Zhu replied, and Baine, his ears flattening slightly, inclined his head in acceptance of the ruling and took his seat.

“Thank you,” said Tyrande, and continued. “Prophet, will you briefly identify yourself?”

“I am Velen, and I have led my people to the best of my ability for millennia. We fled from our homeworld of Argus to escape the demonic Burning Legion. We arrived in Draenor centuries ago, and made it our new home. From there, as I am certain you all know, we came here, to Azeroth.”

“Were you made welcome in Draenor?” Tyrande asked.

“We were not unwelcome,” Velen said. “The orcs and the draenei coexisted peacefully for a long time.”

“Would it be accurate to say that you and the orcs lived alongside one another in Draenor for centuries with only a little interaction, trading peaceably, each race respecting the other?”

“Yes, that would be accurate.”

The high priestess looked over at Chromie, who nodded and slipped from her chair. Kairoz remained seated, watching alertly. “May it please the court, I wish to present the first Vision of Velen.”

Chromie hopped up onto the table, the limitations of her chosen height making it impossible for her to reach the Vision of Time otherwise. No one, however, dared laugh at a dragon, even if that dragon looked pleasant and cheerful. Chromie moved her small hands with the deftness of the gnomish race she liked to emulate.

The eyes of the carved dragon coiled about the top bulb snapped open.

A soft, startled murmur rippled through the chamber. The dragon lifted its head, shook itself as if awakening from slumber, and moved its foreclaws to grasp the bulb below it. The sands within the top bulb began to emit a golden illumination that matched the dragon’s eyes. Sand trickled down into the waiting bulb below, its guardian still immobile, still made of lifeless bronze.

With Chromie’s own eyes glowing as she used the magic unique to her flight, she splayed a small hand. A misty tendril the hue of the sand emanated from it, twisting its way to the center of the great amphitheater and twining in on itself like a snake, shaping and reshaping until forms could clearly be distinguished. Color began to bleed across the forms, the radiant bronze tones shifting to paint the larger-than-life figures in realistic hues.

Two young orcs stood, their brown skins covered with sweat and dust. Their mouths were slightly open and their eyes wide as they stared up at a draenei warrior clad in gleaming metal plate armor. He looked concerned, and the boys wore expressions of shock, but not fear.

Go’el knew who these youths had to be.

Memories crowded on him: the wonder and pride when he first learned of his true heritage from Drek’Thar. The joy of “meeting” his parents in one of the alternate histories of a malfunctioning timeway, and the heart-cracking anguish of being forced to watch them die. Now, as a parent himself, his gaze roved hungrily upon the boyish features of his father. And as he turned to reach out to hold his own son close, he saw that Aggra was already moving to place Durak in his arms. Their eyes met and locked in a moment of wordless love and understanding; then Go’el, cradling Durak, looked back at the tableau.

“Prophet,” said Tyrande, “can you tell the court what we are seeing here?”

Velen sighed, and his shoulders stooped slightly. “I can,” he said in a melancholy tone. “Though I did not witness this moment myself, I recognize all three.”

“And who are they?”

“The draenei was a dear friend—Restalaan, the captain of the Telmor guards. The young orcs are Orgrim, later known as Doomhammer, and Durotan, son of Garad.”

“Were such interactions common?”

Velen shook his head, his tendrils moving with the gesture. “No. This was a first. We traded with the orcs, but had never met their young ones.”

“And what happened to lead up to this?”

“The boys were fleeing from an ogre, and a group of draenei came to their aid. My captain of the guards, Restalaan, was impressed that they were from different clans, yet were friends. We knew enough of their ways to know this was unusual. It was too late for them to travel home safely, so Restalaan sent runners to notify their clans and invited them to stay as our guests until morning. He thought I might be interested in meeting these two. I was. I had dinner with the young orcs, and found them to be intelligent and of good character.”