Christie Golden - Jaina Proudmoore - Tides of War

Like a sword, she had been tempered, ruthlessly and efficiently—plunged into the coldness of hatred and revenge from the fire of anguish and back again, reshaped, remade, reforged. But now, like steel, she would withstand much. She would not break or shatter, not from grief or pain or rage. Not anymore.

She arrived in Theramore not by teleporting, and not alone, but on the broad back of a great blue dragon. Kalec landed outside the city limits, on the beach where once they had walked and talked, hand in hand. He crouched low to enable her to slip more easily to the earth.

Shifting into his half-elven shape, he stepped beside her. “Jaina,” he said, “it’s not too late to change your mind.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m all right, Kalec. I just… need to see. With my own eyes—clearer now.”

They were indeed clearer, both literally and figuratively. The arcane energy that had so poisoned her had faded. Her hair was still white with a single gold streak; that damage would not ever be undone. But the strange white glow was gone from her eyes. The arcane residue, too, had dissipated from Theramore. It was safe—physically, at least—for Jaina to return to the blasted city.

They walked up the slight hill to the path. There were no bodies here; there had been time before the bomb had fallen to gather Wymor and the others who had so gallantly defended the city by the sea, if not yet to bury them. The Horde, too, it seemed, had come for its dead. Though the glowing arcane energy had faded, the skies were still rent. Here and there, twisting ribbons of magic, glimpses into other worlds, could be seen, even in daylight. Jaina stared first at the wounded sky, then at the open gate, swallowing hard.

A warm hand slipped into hers. Kalec’s grasp was tentative; he would pull back if she wished him to. But she didn’t. They walked, slowly, into the city of the dead.

Having seen the destruction once before, Jaina was at least somewhat prepared for the sight. Though familiar, it remained horrifically tragic, and her heart was ripped in twain again and again as she beheld the fallen. The buildings still listed, deformed or broken by the arcane. But at least the earth was starting to heal; she no longer felt the wrongness pressing up against the soles of her feet.

She shivered as a cold wind brushed past her. Curiously, she turned to Kalec, who had created it; then she understood and felt a rush of sorrowful gratitude. Both the coldness and the vigor of the wind kept the stench of so many corpses from becoming overwhelming.

“They c-can’t just lie here,” Jaina said, aware that her voice shook.

“They won’t,” Kalec said, reassuring her swiftly. “Now that it is safe, we can give them a proper farewell.” He didn’t say “burial.” Not all the fallen had bodies left to bury. Those who had been peculiarly levitated had succumbed to gravity and now lay, more naturally, on the earth.

The items she had noticed on her first visit, which had been scattered with strange abandon, had mostly been scavenged. She felt a rush of anger but quickly damped it. The Horde had been defeated for now. Garrosh had been dealt a devastating and shameful blow. She wasn’t here to rage and hate. She was here to observe and mourn.

Her foot slipped, twisting slightly as she stepped on something partially buried. The sunlight glinted on a silver, metallic shape. Jaina bent to work the weapon free from the earth, and as she did so, astonishment and something akin to awe filled her. She lifted it up, and the dirt simply fell away from the beautiful, ancient weapon, as if nothing so base could sully it. It looked as new as the day it had been forged. She held it reverently, but it did not glow at her touch, as it had done for first a human prince and then a tauren chieftain.

“Fearbreaker,” she murmured, shaking her head in wonder. “I can’t believe it.”

“It is lovely,” Kalec said as he regarded the mace. “It looks to be of dwarven make, if I am not mistaken.”

“You aren’t,” Jaina replied. “Magni Bronzebeard gave it to Anduin, and he in turn gave it to—to Baine Bloodhoof.”

Kalec raised a blue eyebrow. “How that came about is a story I should like to hear one day.”

“One day,” Jaina said in agreement, but did not add, But not today . “How odd that I should come across this now.”

“Not odd at all,” said Kalec. “It is clearly a magical weapon. It wanted you to find it.”

“So that I could return it to Anduin,” she said, and felt sad at how events had played out. Such hope the three of them had had, once. Hope that had been dashed to pieces, like a ship against rocks in a storm, by Garrosh Hellscream and the stark horror of the mana bomb. “It will give me an excuse to speak to him. To—apologize. I was very harsh, the last time we spoke. I regret that. I regret… much.” She fastened the beautiful mace securely to her belt and nodded to Kalec that she was ready to continue.

They walked on, hand in hand, silent and respectful, and then Jaina’s heart was wrenched yet again. Here was Pained’s body, where Jaina had found it before. And Aubrey, and Marcus…

“Their bodies,” she said. “They look…”

“Unchanged,” Kalec said. “The arcane energy has faded from them.” He said no more; he didn’t have to. Jaina realized that if she were to gently stroke Pained’s dark blue hair, it would not shatter like spun glass. Not this time.

A sudden grief seized her. “Oh, Kalec… If I hadn’t touched Kinndy…”

“We will gather what remains of her, Jaina, gently and with love,” Kalec said, forestalling her self-recrimination. “From what I hear, her parents have already found a sweeter way to honor her memory.”

Jaina shattered. A sharp sound of grief, of helplessness, broke from her, and before she realized it Kalecgos had gathered her in his arms.

They closed about her, warm and strong, and she pressed her cheek against his chest and sobbed. He rocked her, soothingly, as one might a child, and as her grief went from agonized sobs to subdued weeping, she realized she could hear two things: Kalec’s heart beating steadily against her ear, and his voice, soft and low… singing.

Jaina couldn’t understand the language, but she didn’t have to. Sweet and sad, it was an elegy of some sort—a song to mourn the fallen, a song that had likely existed since before Kalecgos was born, perhaps before the Aspects had even been created. For as certain as there was always a new day dawning, that new day would eventually die in the west. Nothing was older than death… save life.

Kalec’s voice was as beautiful as the rest of him, and the song wound its way into her soul, quieting it. She felt his lips press against her white hair. The kiss was loving yet gentle, a gesture of comfort that asked for nothing in return. Even so, and even in this tragic place, Jaina felt her heart stir. After what had seemed like an eternity—when it had lain, hard and cold, a sullen diamond in her chest—it was awakening. Now, like a seed in springtime, it was struggling toward light and warmth through the ice of winter.

Held safely and sweetly, Jaina thought of the last conversation she and Thrall had had as friends.

Did you… need healing? Jaina had asked.

We all do, whether we see it or not, Thrall had replied. We bear the wounds of simply living in this life even if we never have a physical scar. A mate who can see one for who one is, truly and completely—ah, that is a gift, Jaina Proudmoore… Whatever journey you are on, whatever your path may lead to—I, at least, have found it to be sweeter by far with a life companion at my side.

Kalec had helped her to heal, from more than just the wounds of simply living this life. He had seen her at her best and at her worst, had enabled her to find her true self when she was lost in a maze of anguish and fury. Would he become her life companion, as Aggra had become Thrall’s? There was no way to know for certain. One thing Jaina knew now: nothing was for certain. The winds of change would blow as they willed.