Christie Golden: Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

He felt Aggra’s eyes upon him, and the air in the tent was heavy with unsaid words. Finally she broke the silence.

“Go’el,” she began. Her voice, deep and husky, was laden with concern.

“Say nothing,” Thrall said, and busied himself heating water for hot beverages for them both.

He saw her scowl at him, then roll her eyes and almost visibly choke back her words. He disliked speaking to her so, but he was in no mood to discuss what had happened.

The spell had failed, and Thrall knew it was because of him.

They sat silently and awkwardly as the storm broke about them and the earth continued to rumble. At last, almost like a child that had cried itself to sleep, the earth seemed to subside. Thrall could feel that it was not at peace and far from healed, but it was still.

Until the next time.

Almost immediately Thrall heard voices outside their shelter. He and Aggra emerged into the gray day, the ground wet beneath their bare feet as they walked. Others were assembling in the main area, their faces reflecting grave concern, weariness, and determination.

Nobundo turned to Thrall and Aggra as they approached. He was a former draenei. His form was not proud and strong and tall, but bent, almost deformed, caused by exposure to fel energies. Many Broken were dark and corrupted, but Nobundo was not. Indeed, he had been blessed, his great heart opening to the shamanic powers, and it was he who had brought these powers to his people. Beside him were several draenei, their blue forms undamaged, sleek, clean. Yet, to Thrall and many others, Nobundo outshone them all because of who he was.

When the high shaman’s gaze fell upon Thrall, the orc wanted to look away. This being—indeed, all the other shaman gathered here—was someone Thrall respected deeply, and had never wished to disappoint. And yet, he had.

Nobundo beckoned Thrall to him with an oversized hand. “Come, my friend,” he said quietly, regarding the orc kindly.

Many were not so charitably minded, and Thrall felt angry gazes being cast his way as he approached Nobundo. Others came silently to join in this informal gathering.

“You know the spell we were attempting to work,” Nobundo said, his voice still calm. “It was to soothe and comfort the earth. It is admittedly a difficult working, but one that all of us here know how to do. Can you tell us why you—?”

“Stop dancing around the subject,” growled Rehgar. He was a massive orc, battle-scarred and hulking. One would not look at him and think “spiritual,” but whoever made that assumption would be very wrong. Rehgar’s life journey had thus far taken him from gladiator to slave owner to loyal friend and advisor to Thrall, and that journey was far from over. Now, though, a lesser orc than the former warchief of the Horde might have quailed before his anger. “Thrall … what the fel was going on with you? We could all feel it! You weren’t focusing!”

Thrall felt his hands curl into fists and forced them to relax. “Only because you are my friend will I permit you to speak so to me, Rehgar,” Thrall said quietly, but with an edge to his voice.

“Rehgar is right, Thrall,” Muln Earthfury said in his deep, rumbling voice. “The working is hard, but not impossible—not even unfamiliar. You are a shaman, one who has been through all his people’s true rites. Drek’Thar hailed you as the savior of his people because the elements spoke to you when they had been silent for many years. You are no inexperienced child, to be coddled and sympathized with. You are a member of this Ring—an honored and strong one, or else you would not be here. And yet you crumbled at a crucial moment. We could have silenced the quakes, but you shattered the working. You need to tell us what is distracting you so that we may aid you.”

“Muln—” Aggra began, but Thrall lifted a hand.

“It is nothing,” he said to Muln. “The work is demanding and wearying, and I have a great deal on my mind. Nothing more than that.”

Rehgar uttered an oath. “You have a great deal on your mind,” he spat. “Well, the rest of us do as well. Trivial things like saving our world from ripping itself apart !”

For a second, everything went red in Thrall’s vision. Muln spoke before Thrall could. “Thrall was leader of the Horde, Rehgar, not you. You cannot know what burdens he bore and perhaps still does bear. And as one who until recently owned slaves, you cannot sit in moral judgment upon him!”

He turned to Thrall. “I am not attacking you, Thrall. I am merely seeking to see how we can aid you, that you can better aid us.”

“I know what you are doing,” Thrall said, his voice close to a snarl. “And I do not like it.”

“Perhaps,” Muln said, striving for diplomacy, “you are in need of some rest for a while. Our work is very demanding, and even the strongest must tire.”

Thrall did not even grace the other shaman with a verbal reply; he merely nodded curtly and stalked off to his shelter.

He was angrier than he had been in some time. And the person he was most angry with was himself.

He knew he had been the weak link in the chain, had failed to put forth the ultimate concentration at the moment when it was most desperately needed. He could not yet drop deep into himself, touch the Spirit of Life within, which was what had been required of him. He didn’t know if he would ever be capable of doing so. And because he could not do this thing, the effort had failed.

He was unhappy with himself, with the working, with the petty arguments—with everything. And he realized with a start that this unhappiness had been with him for a long time.

A few months ago, he had made a difficult decision: he had chosen to leave the rank of warchief of the Horde in order to come here, to the Maelstrom, to follow the path of shaman rather than leader. He had thought at first that it would be temporary. He had relinquished command to Garrosh Hellscream, son of the late Grom Hellscream, in order to travel to Nagrand to study with his grandmother, Greatmother Geyah. This was before the great Cataclysm that had shaken Azeroth; Thrall had sensed the uneasy elements and had hoped to be able to do something to calm them and prevent what had eventually transpired.

There, he had studied and learned with a beautiful but often irritating and frustrating shaman named Aggra. She had pushed him, forcing him to dig deep for answers, and the two had fallen in love. He had returned to Azeroth and, once the Cataclysm had struck, decided to continue on to the Maelstrom to serve with his beloved.

It had sounded like the right thing to do—the hard choice, the best choice. To leave something familiar and loved, to work for the greater good. But now he was having doubts.

While Thrall had been traveling in Nagrand, Garrosh had killed Thrall’s dear friend, the tauren chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof, in ritual combat. Thrall had later learned that Garrosh had been tricked by Magatha Grimtotem, a longtime rival of Cairne’s, into fighting Cairne with a poisoned blade. Thrall could not shake the thought that had he not left Azeroth, Cairne would never have felt the need to rebuke Garrosh’s leadership and would still be alive.

With Aggra, he had anticipated … he did not know what. A different sort of relationship from the one they had, at any rate. He had initially been put off by her bluntness and rough edges, then had grown to appreciate and love them. Now, though, it felt as if, instead of a steady companion to support and encourage him, he had found only another person to criticize him.

He wasn’t even succeeding at helping the Earthen Ring calm the elements, if today’s debacle was any indication. He had put aside the mantle of warchief and endured the murder of a beloved friend in order to come assist the Ring. And this, too, wasn’t working.