Christie Golden - Thrall - Twilight of the Aspects

Thrall was almost overcome. He took a moment, struggling for composure.

“While I am grateful for the gift of a scale from each of your flights, truly, I ask only your friendship,” he said to them all. “And”—he smiled a little—“a way to return to my beloved.”

Thrall mused wryly that he was becoming used to traveling on dragonback. Particularly the back of this dragon. He and Tick had grown to become friends over the last several weeks of traveling and fighting together, and Thrall knew he would miss her. Thrall had been curious when Tick had offered to return him, concerned that the flight from the continents to the Maelstrom would be too far for an ordinary dragon to travel. Tick had chuckled.

“We have the ability to slow or speed up time, remember?” she told Thrall. “I will speed it up for us … and will therefore fly much faster and farther.” Thrall was, again, astonished and humbled by even the abilities of so-called ordinary dragons. And sure enough, after only what felt like a few moments, they were flying over the Maelstrom. Thrall felt the bronze inhale swiftly as she beheld the churning, angry whirlpool.

“So this is where Deathwing entered our world,” Tick muttered. “It is no wonder the earth is still in so much torment.”

“You sound like one of my tauren friends grieving for the Earth Mother.”

The great creature craned her neck to regard Thrall closely. “Who is to say they are wrong?”

Thrall laughed. “Not I,” he said. “Never I.”

There was a stable-looking spot some distance away from the main settlement. Carefully, mindful that the earth was unhappy, Tick made a gentle landing. Thrall slipped off the bronze’s back and regarded her for a long moment.

“You have earned the gratitude of our flights,” Tick said soberly. “You have the scales. Use them if you are in need of our aid, and you shall have it. I can only hope that this wounded Azeroth can benefit as much from your care and focus as we have.”

“You embarrass me, my friend. I only did what I could.”

A wry, amused expression crossed the scaly face. “You would be surprised at how few even attempt to do that much. You are home now, Thrall. I must return. The Hour of Twilight is still to come one day, and I must be ready to stand with my lord, Nozdormu, when that time comes. Thank you again … for helping us find ourselves and one another.”

She bent her head low, only a few short feet from the ground, in what Thrall knew to be a deep obeisance. He felt his cheeks grow hot and nodded, then watched as Tick gathered herself and leaped skyward. Squinting against the brightness of the sun, Thrall watched until the mighty dragon dwindled to the size of a bird, then an insect, and then vanished altogether.

Then, a solitary figure, he closed his eyes and, sending a whisper on the wind, called a wyvern to him. Patting the creature, Thrall climbed atop him and headed for the encampment.

Guards spotted him, and by the time Thrall reached the Earthen Ring encampment, many shaman were already gathered there.

“Welcome home,” rumbled Muln Earthfury, striding forward to grasp the orc’s shoulders. “Long have you been gone, but at last you are returned to us.”

Thrall smiled up at the tauren. “Sometimes lessons take time to learn,” he said quietly. “I think you will find that I have settled my own … demons, and return to you with knowledge and information that will benefit our workings—and our world.”

“I am even better pleased to hear that,” Muln replied. “Not just for the benefit it will bring to us, but from what I can sense from you, my friend. You are”—he cocked his horned head, searching for the right words—“settled. Calmer.”

Thrall nodded. “Indeed I am.”

“You have returned!” It was Nobundo, who approached and squeezed Thrall’s shoulder affectionately. The Broken smiled warmly, his homely face alight with pleasure.

“Welcome back,” Nobundo said. “I overheard some of what you told Muln. And I am so pleased to hear of this. Are you hungry? Your journey must have been arduous, and there is meat roasting on the fire even as we speak.”

“Thank you all,” Thrall said. “And while it is good to see you, there is one here I do not see. Excuse me, I must find her.”

He bowed to his colleagues.

Aggra was not here; she would have come out if she had been. He suspected he knew where she was.

There was a small rise that seemed less harmed than most places in this area. Certain herbs grew here, struggling but surviving, and Aggra often came here to harvest carefully and, Thrall knew, simply sit and meditate.

She was there now, sitting calmly on the rise, legs crossed, eyes closed.

For a moment Thrall permitted himself to watch her while he remained unseen. For so long he had dreamed of this moment: returning to this amazing, inspiring female, who filled his heart and soul with a love so bright and strong he could barely contain it. This was the face—brown, strong-boned, tusked—that had kept him from surrendering to the cold. This was the body, muscular and curvaceous and powerful, he wanted to hold in his arms for the rest of his life. Her laughter was the music of the universe to him; her smile his sun, moons, and stars.

“Aggra,” he said, and his voice broke on the word. He was not ashamed.

She opened her eyes, and they crinkled around the edges in a smile. “You have returned,” she said quietly, though joy hummed in the words. “Welcome home.”

Thrall crossed the space between them in two huge steps and before she could say a word, he had swept her up into his arms and held her tightly to his chest.

She laughed in pleased surprise, and her arms encircled him. Her head was nestled on his shoulder, where it fit perfectly. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, rapid with excitement and delight.

For a long, long time he held her thus. He didn’t ever want to release her. She, too, clung to him and didn’t protest as the moment lasted.

Finally, though, he moved away slightly and cupped her face in his large green hands.

“You were right,” he said without preamble.

She raised an eyebrow, indicating he should continue.

“I was hiding behind the mantle of warchief. A thrall to the Horde, to what I thought was my duty. And that kept me from having to look deeply at myself, and seeing things I did not like. And if I didn’t do that, I couldn’t change them. I couldn’t become better.”

He stepped back, reaching for her brown hand. He entwined his fingers with hers, fully present, seeing as if for the first time the nicks and scars on both their skins, green and brown, feeling the rough textures rub against one another. He then lifted her hand and touched it to his forehead before lowering it and looking deep into her eyes.

“I couldn’t truly appreciate either the great things or the little things. Like this strong hand in mine.”

Her eyes were bright; were they glittering with tears? But she was smiling broadly, remembering the moment as he was.

“I do appreciate these things now, Aggra. Every raindrop, every shaft of sunlight, every breath that fills my lungs, every beat of my heart. There is peril and there is pain, but here is also quiet, constant joy, if we just remember and know it is there.

“I did not know who I was, or who Thrall would become, after leaving all I had built. But I do now. I know who I am. I know what I must do. I know… who I want.”

Her smile grew, but she stayed silent, listening.

“And I know in my heart that when the time is right, I will be able to do what is necessary.”

“Tell me,” she said quietly.

And standing there, their arms wrapped around each other, he did. He told her of the ancients, and of Desharin. Of the killer who turned out to be an old, old enemy made new and thrust into the rightful timeway. Of the pain of choosing not to interfere with his parents’ murder, mixed with the joy of reassuring Durotan that his child would live.