Christie Golden: Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

Nothing was working; nothing was going the way it was supposed to; and Thrall—erstwhile warchief of the Horde, warrior, shaman—felt as if nothing he could possibly do could make any of it work.

It was not a sensation he was accustomed to. He had led the Horde, and led it well, for many years. He understood battleground tactics as well as diplomacy, knew when it was time for a leader to listen, when to speak, and when to act. This strange, belly-knotting feeling of uncertainty … this was new and alien, and he despised it.

He heard the sound of the bearskin being drawn back, but did not turn around.

“I would box Rehgar’s ears for what he said to you,” came Aggra’s voice, husky and strong, “if I did not wish I had said it earlier.”

Thrall growled softly. “You have a fine way of supporting,” he said. “That helped tremendously . Now I shall go outside and be able to drop into my deepest self with no problem. Perhaps it is you who should have led the Horde all these years, instead of me. No doubt we would see a union of Horde and Alliance, with children of all races frolicking in Orgrimmar and Stormwind.”

She chuckled, and her voice was warm, as was her hand when she placed it on his shoulder. He fought the urge to shrug it off angrily, but he did not soften, either. He stood in harsh silence, not moving. She squeezed his shoulder, then released it and moved around to face him.

“I have watched you since we met, Go’el,” she said, her eyes searching his. “At first out of resentment, and then later out of love and concern. It is with love and concern that I watch you now. And my heart is troubled by what I see.”

He did not reply, but he was listening. Her hand stroked his strong face gently, running along the furrows in his green forehead as she spoke.

“Despite all you have endured, these lines I now touch were not there when we met. These eyes—blue as the sky, blue as the sea—were not sad. This heart”—she placed her hand on his broad chest—“was not so heavy. Whatever is going on inside you, it is causing you harm. But because it is no external threat, you do not understand how to confront this enemy.”

His eyes narrowed in slight confusion. “Go on,” he said.

“You waste away … not your body—you are still strong and powerful—but your spirit. It is as if part of you is borne away with each gust of the wind, or washed away with the stinging rain. There is a hurt here that will destroy you if you let it. And I,” she said, suddenly fierce, her light-brown eyes snapping, “will not allow that.”

He grunted and turned away, but she pursued him. “This is a sickness of the soul, not the body. You have buried yourself so deep in the day-to-day running of the Horde that when you left, you left yourself behind with it.”

“I do not think I care to hear anything more,” Thrall said, his voice a warning.

She ignored him utterly. “Of course you do not,” she said. “You do not like criticism. We must all listen to you, and if we disagree, we must do so respectfully. Yours must be the last word, Warchief.”

There was no sarcasm in her voice, but the words stung. “What do you mean, I do not take criticism? I surround myself with differing voices. I invite challenges to my plans. I have even reached out to the enemy if it is in the best interest of my people!”

“I did not say those things were untruths,” Aggra continued, unruffled. “But that still does not mean you take criticism well. How did you react to Cairne when he came to you in the shadow of Mannoroth’s armor and told you he thought you were wrong?”

Thrall jerked. Cairne … His mind flashed back to the last time he had seen his dear friend alive. Cairne had come to him after Thrall had sent word to the old bull that Garrosh would lead the Horde while he was gone. He had stated, bluntly, with nothing to soften the words, that he thought Thrall was making a grave mistake.

I—need you with me on this, Cairne. I need your support, not your disapproval, Thrall had said.

You ask me for wisdom and common sense. I have but one answer for you. Do not give Garrosh this power. … That is my wisdom, Thrall, Cairne had replied.

Then we have nothing more to say to one another.

And Thrall had walked away.

He had never seen Cairne alive again.

“You were not there,” Thrall said, his voice rough with the pain of remembering. “You do not understand. I had to—”

“Paugh!” Aggra said, waving away his excuses with her hand as if they were flies buzzing around her. “The conversation itself does not matter. You may indeed have been right, and at this moment I care not if you were or were not. But you did not listen. You closed him out, like drawing the skins tight against a rainstorm. You might never have convinced him, but can you tell me you listened?”

Thrall did not reply.

“You did not listen to an old friend. Perhaps Cairne might not have felt the need to challenge Garrosh, had he felt heard by you. You will never know. And now he is dead, and you cannot ever again give him the chance to be listened to.”

Had she struck him, Thrall could not have been more shocked. He literally took a step backward, reeling from her words. It was something he had never voiced but something he had secretly wondered, late at night when sleep would not come. He knew in his heart that he had had to go to Nagrand and that he had made the best decision he could, given the situation. But … had he stayed and talked more with Cairne … what would have happened? Aggra was right … but he did not want her to be.

“I have always been able to listen when others do not agree. Look at the meetings I have with Jaina! She doesn’t always agree with me, and she does not curb her tongue.”

Aggra snorted. “A human female. What does she know about telling harsh things to an orc? Jaina Proudmoore is no threat, no challenge to you.” She frowned, looking thoughtful. “Neither was your Taretha.”

“Of course she was no challenge. She was my friend!” Thrall was starting to become angrier now that she had dragged Taretha Foxton into this strange fight she seemed determined to have with him. A human girl, Taretha had befriended him when she was a mere child; as an adult, she had found a way to help him escape his life as a gladiator, a slave of the human Lord Aedelas Blackmoore. She had paid for that deed with her life. “Few in this world have sacrificed as much for me, and she was a human!”

“Perhaps that is your problem, Go’el, and a problem others have with you. The most important females in your life have been human.”

His eyes narrowed. “You will hold your tongue.”

“Ah, and yet again you show me the truth of what I say: you will not hear disagreement. You would silence me rather than listen to me!”

There was truth in the statement, and it stung. With difficulty, Thrall took a deep breath and tried to rein in his anger.

“Then tell me: What do you mean?”

“I have only been in Azeroth a short while, and already I have heard the rumors. They outrage me to my core, and surely they should outrage you as well. Gossip pairs you and Jaina, or even you and Taretha, depending on the brew on tap, it seems.” Her voice dripped anger and disgust—at him or at the rumors, Thrall wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

“You tread on dangerous ground, Aggra,” he growled. “Jaina Proudmoore is a strong, brave, intelligent woman who has risked her life to help me. Taretha Foxton was the same—only she lost her life. I will not stand by and hear your bigoted slurs against them simply because they were not born orcs!”

He had advanced on her now, his face only inches from hers. She did not flinch, merely raised an eyebrow.