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Perception slid from black to gray and the rocky coast of Northrend shimmered into visibility. He floated over the Scourge legions, briefly drawing the attention of the lich Kel'thuzad marshaling its forces outside Warsong Hold before passing through the walls of the fortress.
"So the Alliance is offended by the slaughter at the Wrathgate? They wish battle?" Garrosh bellowed, raising meaty fists over his head. "Lok-Narash! The pink skins will taste our steel, and their blood!"
I know you recognize the blood-crazed look in the young orc's eyes, Saurfang. Though his father freed the orcs from the rage of Mannoroth's blood curse, his generation has found a new excuse for its violence.
"Our spies outside Valiance Keep tell us de gnomes be addin' some kind of weapons to de outer walls," reported a troll swathed in black leather and shadow.
"There are similar reports across Northrend," Magistrix Kaelana replied, deigning to give the troll a distasteful look. "Scrying has revealed that the Horde has launched attacks against the Alliance from Agmar's Hammer." The elf studied a lock of blond hair. "The Kirin Tor, of course, object to these fool-hardy and short-sighted attacks."
Garrosh hefted his axes, clashing them together with a resounding shock. "Hah! I permit the prissy mages to object—but we will fight!" Laughing, he turned to gather his commanders.
"The mages are right, young Hellscream," Saurfang said, his tone bringing Garrosh to a halt. "These battles do nothing to further our war against the Lich King."
When I brought your son to you in Orgrimmar, in those chaotic months following the re-opening of the Dark Portal, you'd thought you found a younger, better version of yourself. One who was able to grow up without your mistakes and atrocities. But better never lasts, and now you're left with Grom's son who is more like you than your own son ever was. Do you wonder if he's the son you deserved?
"Thrall has kept us in check too long!" Garrosh roared, turning on Saurfang. "We are the Horde! We do not scout or discuss or contemplate. We battle as warriors, not sniveling diplomats."
You've grown old, Varok, with no magic to sustain you. You fought in every war against the humans and experienced so much horror on Draenor under the Old Horde. Why do you continue to struggle? You've well-earned your rest.
"Enough!" Saurfang's voice was level, but it had enough force to still the troops rousing to follow Garrosh. He pointed at one of the Kor'kron. "You! Fly to the Dragonblight and order Agmar to restrain his forces. He is only to battle the Alliance if they attack the outpost itself. If he argues, remind him that I am High Overlord and I will address his disobedience personally." Around Garrosh's throne room, Kor'kron and other envoys to the Horde looked back and forth uncertainly, caught between Garrosh's battlelust and Saurfang's implacable command.
"You're a fool, Saurfang," Garrosh grated at last. But he did not leave.
*
"My lady, I must protest these...these intrusions!"
Faranell paced before Sylvanas' dais, his apothecary robes conspicuously lacking in stains or caustic burns. Beside her, the orc Bloodfist watched the apothecary suspiciously.
"While none of the members of the Royal Apothecary Society—well, none of the members left alive—doubt the necessity of Horde supervision to prevent further mishaps—"
"Mishaps?" Bloodfist harrumphed. "Your fellows destroyed the Warchief's truce with the Alliance and set back our operations against the Lich King. And your Queen was unable to defend her own city. We are here to ensure the Forsaken's continued usefulness to the Horde."
Wheels within wheels, once-elf. Do you believe the depths of your machinations are hidden from me?
"Master Apothecary," Sylvanas began, immediately captivating the undead's attention, "I too chafe at the intrusion into our domain, but it must be endured. Continue your work as best you are able. Do not give the orcs cause to doubt us further."
Faranell made a deep bow, scraping the stone floor with the bony tips of his fingers. "Yes, my lady. It will be as you command."
"Of course," she replied evenly.
Varimathras was never an ally, merely a tool of convenience. His aid was invaluable in the founding years of the Forsaken, and his cunning allowed you to make great strides in securing Lorderon for your people. Putress provided you with a powerful weapon in the form of the plague, but both had their own agendas. What could you do, with an apothecary who didn't share your longer view and a Dreadlord who would inevitably betray you?
"My queen? I would speak to you in confidence." Sylvanas gazed down to where Ambassador Sunsorrow awaited her attention. She raised one long eyebrow at Bloodfist.
You never allow yourself to be out of control, and sometimes the most reliable control is to allow others to act in their own inevitable, predictable ways.
"By your leave, Captain?" The orc nodded, and Sylvanas descended. At a gesture, a section of wall retreated, revealing one of the innumerable secret passages built into the Undercity. Sylvanas preceded the sin'dorei down to her personal chambers.
Do you guess at the reciprocity between the Forsaken and the Horde? We give you a foundation from which to reap your revenge, yes. But you and yours serve us, as well.
"Thank you, my queen," Sunsorrow began. "Regent-Lord Theron sends his thanks for your Deathstalker's intelligence into the movements of Ebon Hold's death knights. Though they are nominally allied with us, we fee—" The elf stopped abruptly at a flash of silver in Sylvanas' eyes. He gasped in shock, freezing as her charmed gaze locked him in place.
"Better." Turning from him, Sylvanas placed her bow on the hooks waiting on the wall, then hung the quiver below it. Glancing over her shoulder, she uttered, "Kneel." The blood elf dropped immediately, and she turned to him. "Am I beautiful?"
All your bile, all your venom and malice are a lightening rod. Your obsession with Arthas blights your souls, and from that your very existence is a warning to those in the Horde who would see us return to the old ways.
"Of course, my queen!" Sunsorrow replied immediately, daring to stroke the leather of Sylvanas' boot.
Cautiously, she unfastened the straps of her macabre shoulderpads and loosed her cape. The artificial worship in Sunsorrow's eyes did not waver and, emboldened, Sylvanas stripped off her gloves, revealing hands and wrists as rotted as any of the other Forsaken.
"My lady, I thought you...I thought you untouched by the plague."
"Does that change me in your estimation?" Sylvanas demanded.
How long will you continue to plot? And after Arthas falls, as he must, what will you need to satisfy yourself?
"Never, never." Sunsorrow reached up for Sylvanas' hand, to touch the bare bone. She flinched, then extended her hand to him.
"You may."
*
"Thrall?"
The orc's eyes snapped to focus on the blond woman before him. She smiled and leaned down to kiss his broad forehead. "You looked like you were a thousand miles away."
Thrall rose to his feet. "Jaina. I didn't realize you were in Orgrimmar. Does anyone else...?"
The mage laughed, pulling a large pillow out from under her favorite chair and seating herself. The soft cushion was out of place against the rough, unfinished metal of the seat, but Jaina had made clear long ago that she didn't consider comfortable furniture to be optional. The pillow was their compromise. "Oh, Vol'jin knows I'm here. Still haven't figured out how he tracks my teleporting, but I don't understand his voodoo. Yet."
We're not that different, you and I. Each trying to better our peoples, despite the antipathy on both sides.
Kneeling next to her chair, Thrall took Jaina's small hand between his massive fingers. "It's good to see you, Jaina. What news from the Alliance?"
"Wrynn is set on war," Jaina replied. "Velen and Mekkatorque are arguing as we are, that hostilities between the Alliance and the Horde only benefits Arthas...the Lich King." She shook her head. "He doesn't care. All he's needed is an excuse, and your Forsaken gave it to him at the Wrathgate."
Now our tasks are so much harder, perhaps impossible. Can our finer world ever exist?
"I cannot prevent my troops from defending themselves," Thrall said heavily.
"I wouldn't ask that," Jaina replied hastily. "But we're not out of hope; Fordring is trying to use the operations of the Argent Crusade to refocus everyone's attention on the battle against the Lich King. Give everyone something else to kill."
Thrall nodded solemnly. "The leadership of the Horde will support any initiative that brings the fight back to Icecrown, but some of our commanders remember only the defeat we suffered at the end of the Second War..."
Why do we try so hard to bring mortal enemies together when the attempts only result in bloodshed?
"Look, I'd better go," Jaina rose and carefully hid her pillow. "Vol'jin can keep a secret, but it won't be long until someone needs their Warchief."
"When will I see you again?"
"There's a war on, Thrall," Jaina stroked the orc's cheek, a wan smile on her face. "I'm happy to get whatever I can."
Thrall returned her smile as Jaina murmured her incantations and disappeared. The smile faded as she did, and he resumed his meditative pose. There were affairs in the Alliance and Theramore that required his attention. A Warchief always had more to see.