responsibility as much as Garrosh's, and, in the end, all that could be proven was that the youth had done nothing worse than accept a challenge and up the consequences. He would not force the Horde to watch him and Garrosh struggle over that.
"I never told you this before. I wish I had. Do you know," he continued quietly, "that to my mind, you always held the heart of the Horde, Cairne? You, and the tauren. When many others in the Horde hungered for war and darker paths, you listened to the wisdom of your Earth Mother, and counseled us to try other ways, other ideas. You reminded us of forgiveness and compassion. You were our heart, our true spiritual center."
Thrall knew, as he clumsily formed the words, that it was time he trusted his own heart. It was leading him away from Orgrimmar, from the Horde, to a fierce and passionate young shaman named Aggra and the proud orcish ways she represented.
And it was leading him to the very heart of the world.
He closed his eyes in pain. He did not want this decision to be the right one. It was too hard; it would cause too much upheaval, hurt too many people. There were many reasons he should stay, all sound and logical, all important and vital. And there was only one reason he should go, and that reason was mystical and mysterious and far from clear to him.
But it was the right choice. It was the only choice. A wind came, tugging at his hair gently, tugging at his soul more firmly. His skin prickled. And he realized that his choice had already been made.
He had been shown, very clearly, what to do. If he continued to walk the path of warchief, he would fail. There was only one way he could save the Horde—and his world.
He knew what to do.
Slowly Thrall rose. The setting sun—An'she, to the tauren people—in its riot of color bathed the black plate. Then, slowly, Thrall began divesting himself of it. First he unfastened and then slipped off the shoulders. They fell to the soft, green grass with a musical, clanking sound. Next, he began unfastening the breastplate. It had once been dented by the blow that had cost Doomhammer his life. That blow had been a cowardly one—it had come from behind, a spear strike that had shattered the back plate and dented the breastplate from the inside. Thrall had ordered it repaired, so that it could be worn again.
Piece by piece, the armor of Orgrim Doomhammer, the armor of the warchief of the Horde, was removed and placed with reverence on a growing pile. Thrall reached into his pack and pulled out a simple brown robe, pulling it over his head, and then draped the string of prayer beads about his neck. Aggra's words came back to him: We do not wear armor in our initiations. An initiation is a rebirth, not a battle. Like the snake, we shed the skins of who we were before. We need to approach it without those burdens, without the narrow thoughts and notions that we have held. We need to be simple, clean, ready to understand and connect with the elements, and let them write their wisdom on our souls.
He removed the boots and rose, his bare, green feet on the good, solid earth, his arms outspread, his head tilted back, his blue eyes closed. He greeted the arrival of twilight not as the warchief in ceremonial garb. It was not who he was, not anymore. They had shown him, the elements. But he had perhaps acted in time—he was choosing to shed the armor and the title of warchief rather than having it torn from him. The choice was in his hands—and he made it freely, calmly.
Thrall was a shaman. His responsibility no longer lay only with the Horde, it lay with Azeroth itself, and the elements that cried out to him for aid, to save them from the dreadful catastrophe that loomed ahead, or to heal them if it turned out he was not in time. The wind, still warm and gentle, picked up, as if caressing him in approval.
He lowered his head and opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon the body of his friend one last time. As An'she set in the west, making a striking silhouette of Thunder Bluff, a final ray seemed to fall upon the body. Arranged atop Cairne's broad chest were all the ritual adornments he had worn in life—feathers, beads, bones. And something else. Pieces of wood, broken, with blood and carvings to adorn them.
Thrall realized that he was looking at pieces of the legendary Bloodhoof runespear that Gorehowl had shattered when Garrosh dealt the killing blow.
And with the realization came a wave of loss, fresh and raw, and Thrall understood that the pain he had felt up until this moment was a pale shadow. And he had a lifetime left to endure without his old friend's kindness, wisdom, and humor.
Impulsively Thrall leaped gracefully onto the pyre. The poles used to create it swayed a bit but held beneath his weight. Thrall reached out a hand and placed it on Cairne's brow, then, gently, reverently, picked up the smallest piece of the broken runespear. He turned it in his hand, and a shiver went through him.
The piece he had selected bore the single rune: Healing. He would keep this, to remember Cairne by. To always be in touch with his heart.
Thrall jumped lightly to the earth and began to walk slowly toward the setting sun. He did not look back.
The wind was slightly chill after the sun had gone, Thrall reflected. There was much that yet needed to be discussed with Baine, much planning that still needed to be done. Yet before that Thrall desired a little time to sit with Aggra in this peaceful land. She had never been here, but like him had responded to the gentleness and tranquility of the place. She—
A continent away, Drek'Thar, who had been dozing, bolted upright. A scream was torn from his throat.
"The oceans will boil!"
The ocean bed cracked open, and miles away, the tide drew back from Stormwind Harbor like a curtain. Ships were suddenly grounded, and citizens of that city out for a pleasant afternoon stroll along the beautiful stone harbor paused, shielded their eyes against the light of the setting sun, and murmured to one another, idly curious.
The ocean drew in upon itself for but a moment. Then what had pulled back began to return, with a lethal intensity. A towering wave bore down upon the harbor. The great vessels that had sailed to such exotic, faraway places as Auberdine and Valiance Keep were smashed to so much kindling, like toy ships beneath an angry child's foot. Debris and bodies now crashed into the docks, destroying them just as easily and quickly, sweeping away the now - screaming pedestrians as the water rushed implacably forward. The water rose, drowning engines of war and crates of medical supplies with equal ruthlessness.
It did not stop there. It continued to climb, until even the mighty stone lions that stood watch over the harbor were completely submerged. Only then did it seem to halt.
Miles to the south, a crack in the earth off the coastline of Westfall had created a huge sinkhole. The ocean was angry, and frightened, and it vented its terror upon the land, and the land responded in despair.
Drek’Thar clung to Palkar, shaking him, shouting, "The land will weep, and the world will break!"
The earth split beneath Thrall.
He leaped aside, landing and rolling and getting swiftly to his feet only to be knocked off them again. The ground beneath him surged upward as if he were riding the back of a great creature, lifting him up and up. He clung to it, unable to rise and flee, and even if he did flee, to where?
Earth, soil, and stone, I ask of you calmness. Share with me what it is you fear, name it, and I will—