“Everyone and everything does change, Jaina,” Go’el said quietly. “It’s the nature of things to grow, to become something they were not. The seed becomes the tree, the bud the fruit, the—”
“I know that,” Jaina snapped. “But you know what doesn’t change? Hatred. Hatred and the hunger for power. People get an idea or a plan that works in their favor, and they dig in and won’t let it go. They won’t see what’s right in front of them if it contradicts what they want. And the words of reason, of peace, just don’t seem to be effective against that anymore.”
Go’el raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you are right,” he said noncommittally. “We must all choose our own paths. Maybe there is something else you should focus on.”
She gave him a stunned look. “This world has already been torn apart. Do you truly think I should stop trying to prevent its inhabitants from tearing themselves apart?”
Jaina stopped just short of adding, “Like you have done.” It wasn’t fair. Go’el had hardly been idle. He had indeed been doing much for Azeroth, but still… It was petty of her, but she felt as if he had let her down. She folded her stained cloak about her frame in what she realized was a defensive gesture. Sighing, she deliberately loosened her tight shoulders. Go’el sat quietly beside her on the boulder.
“You must do what you think is best, Jaina,” he said. A slight wind stirred the braids in his beard. He looked off into the distance as he spoke. “I cannot tell you what that is or else I would be just like these others whom you find so frustrating.”
He was right. There had been a time when Jaina had easily discerned what the best thing to do was in a given situation. Even if it was bitterly hard to do it. Choosing not to stand with her own father as he fought the Horde had been such a defining moment for her. So had been walking away from Arthas when he instigated what became known later as the Culling of Stratholme. But now—
“It’s all so uncertain, Go’el. More than it ever has been, I think.”
He nodded. “It is indeed.”
She turned to look at him searchingly. He had changed, in more ways than one. Not just his clothing, or his name, or his demeanor, but—
“So,” she said, “the last time we met, it was to celebrate a happy occasion. How is life with Aggra treating you?”
His blue eyes warmed. “Well indeed,” he said. “She honors me by accepting me.”
“I think you honor her,” Jaina said. “Tell me about her. I didn’t really have much of a chance to talk to her.”
Go’el gave her a speculative glance, as though wondering why she wished to know, then shrugged slightly.
“She is of course a Mag’har, born and raised in Draenor. That is why her skin is brown; she and her people were never tainted by any sort of exposure to demon blood. Azeroth is new to her, but she loves it passionately. She is a shaman, like me, and devotes herself entirely to healing this world. And,” he added quietly, “healing me.”
“Did you… need healing?” Jaina asked.
“We all do, whether we see it or not,” Go’el 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. A gift that restores and renews one daily, and which must be tended carefully. It is a gift that has made me whole—made me understand my purpose and place in the world.”
Gently, he laid a large green hand on her shoulder. “I would wish such a gift and such insights for you, my dear friend. I would see you happy, your life complete, your purpose clear.”
“My life is complete. And I know my purpose.”
He smiled around his tusks. “As I said, only you know what is right for you. But I will say this with certainty: 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.”
Jaina thought with a trace of uncharacteristic bitterness of Kael’thas Sunstrider and Arthas Menethil. Both had once been so bright and beautiful. Both had loved her. One she had respected and admired; the other she had loved deeply in return. Both had fallen to the call of dark powers and the weaker parts of their natures. She smiled without humor.
“I do not think I am very wise at choosing life companions,” she said. She forced down the frustration and unhappiness and uncertainty, and reached to place her small, pale hand on his. “I’m better when it comes to friends.”
They sat together for a long, long time.
4
It began to rain as Jaina paddled back to Theramore after her meeting with Thrall. Though it made her cold and uncomfortable for the moment, she welcomed the inconvenience, as few tended to venture out in such inclement weather. She tied up the little dinghy to the dock, slipping a little on the wet wood, and under cover of the steady downpour, made her way to the magically concealed secret entrance to the tower, unnoticed. Shortly she was in her cozy parlor. Shivering, Jaina lit the fire with a murmured incantation and a flick of a finger, dried her clothes the same way, and put away the cloak.
She brewed some tea and selected a few cookies, set them down on a small table, and settled in by the fire, thinking about what Thrall had said. He seemed so… content. Calm. But how could he be? In a very real sense, he had turned his back on his people and, in handing the reins to Garrosh, had practically guaranteed that war would become inevitable. If only Anduin were older, he would be a valuable ally. But youth was so fleeting; Jaina felt guilty for momentarily wishing Anduin would miss a single day of it.
And Thrall—Go’el (it would take her some time to get used to the new name)—was married now. What would this mean for the Horde?
Might he want his son or daughter to rule after him? Would he take up the mantle of the Horde again if this Aggra gave him a child?
“Save any cookies for me, Lady?” The voice was female, youthful, a little squeaky.
Jaina smiled without turning around. She had been so engrossed in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard the distinctive humming sound of a teleportation spell. “Kinndy, you can always make your own.”
Her apprentice laughed cheerfully, hopping into a chair opposite Jaina beside the blazing fire and reaching for a cup of tea and one of the aforementioned cookies. “But mine are only apprentice cookies. Yours are master cookies. They’re ever so much better.”
“You’ll figure out chocolate bits any day now,” Jaina said, keeping her face deadpan. “Though your apple bars are coming along quite nicely.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Kinndy Sparkshine. She was perky even for a gnome, with a shock of bright pink hair pulled back in pigtails that made her look much younger than her twenty-two years—just a teenager by her people’s reckoning of age. It would be easy to dismiss her as a chipper little thing with as much substance as the spun-candy confection her hair resembled, but those who looked into her wide blue eyes would see a sharp intelligence there that contradicted the innocent face. Jaina had taken her on as an apprentice several months ago. She hadn’t really had much of a choice.
Rhonin, who had led the Kirin Tor through the Nexus War and still guided them, had requested Jaina’s presence shortly after the Cataclysm had struck. He was more somber than she had ever seen him as he met her in the Purple Parlor, a special place accessible, as far as she knew, only by portal. After pouring them each a drink of sparkling Dalaran wine, he sat beside her and regarded her intently.
“Rhonin,” Jaina had asked quietly, not even taking a sip of the delicious beverage, “what is it? What has happened?”
“Well, let’s see,” he replied. “Deathwing is loose; Darkshore has fallen into the sea—”