It was the king’s private prison, they had told Garona. It was not a place of torture. There were even windows to the outside and above. The moon shone down, silvering the room, and Garona’s heart cracked to see it. It was still a cage, and she was still not free.
It was small, and it was barred on three sides. There was something called a “cot” that was intended for sleeping. It was covered with cloths that were strange to her, and she saw no sleeping furs at all. In the corner was a small pot, for what she did not know. There was a table and a pitcher of water along with a uselessly small receptacle. They had left food for her, also alien, but she had eaten every bite to keep her strength up. Now, she lifted the pitcher and drank the cool water.
As she placed it down and wiped her mouth, she said to the shadow in the room, “I see you.”
The one they had addressed as the Guardian stood there, his arms folded, his eyes, bright and curious as a bird’s, fastened on her. Now, he stepped forward into the light provided by a few torches, walking around her prison.
“This gate,” he said. “Who showed it to Gul’dan? Who led him to Azeroth?”
He cut straight to the heart of the matter. She liked that. Garona debated answering, then said, “Gul’dan called him a demon.”
The Guardian—“Medivh” someone had said at one point—did not react. “Did you see it?”
It was a memory Garona did not want to revisit. She was quick with languages, but the orc tongue was richer when it came to some things, and she struggled to put the experience into human words. “Not the face. Just the voice. Like…” Her eyes fell on the flickering torchlight. “Like fire and ash.” It did not describe the sound. It described what one felt upon hearing the sound. Very orcish.
He ceased his pacing and turned to her, regarding her with eyes that seemed to stare straight into her heart. “How old are you—”
The creak of the metal, barred door to the room interrupted him. Garona turned briefly to look at it. A rustling sound, like a bird’s wings, brought her attention back to Medivh—but he was gone. A prickling sensation, as of eyes upon her, caused her to look up. A raven perched on the barred widow, silhouetted against the full moon, then flew off.
Shaman, she thought.
Garona took a deep breath and turned to see who else had come to visit her. It was the one called “Lothar,” who had had killed the Frostwolf to protect her, but who later had threatened her. With him was the lone female who had been present during her interrogation earlier. She was so thin and fragile, like a woman made of twigs. Her eyes were large and brown and soft, like a talbuk’s. She bore a piece of thin wood that held one of the small vessels and another vessel Garona could not identify. Steam escaped from them. Behind her trailed a servant girl, who was even smaller than she, bearing a thick pile of furs.
Lothar put a hand on the female’s narrow shoulder. “I’m nearby if you need me,” he told her, then shot Garona a warning look. The female nodded, stepping back as the guard entered the main area and stepped briskly to Garona’s cell.
“Stand back,” he ordered the orc. She didn’t move for just long enough, then did as he had said, lifting her chin as the female entered. The guard closed the iron-bar door, then retreated back into the shadows, watching.
“Your mate,” Garona said. “I could kill you before he even reaches me.”
The woman looked confused. She followed Garona’s gaze then laughed. “Lothar? He’s my brother! The king is my… mate.”
The king. The leader. Llane. “You are a chieftain’s wife, then?”
The dark, delicate brows rose at the wording. “I suppose so.”
Garona stepped closer, towering over her. “Then killing you would bring me even greater honor.” Garona watched the female’s reaction. She was so frail-seeming, Garona wondered if the words would frighten her. They were certainly true.
But the female simply shook her head. “Not among my kind.” She nodded to the girl, who walked past Garona and placed the furs on the bed. “It’s a cold night. I thought you could use these.”
The girl smelled of fear, but not the cheiftain’s wife. She moved forward in her long robes, the fabric rustling, and set the items she bore on the table, filling the cup with a hot liquid. She held it out to Garona, who eyed it.
“It will warm you,” the female said. The beverage smelled clean and herbal, and Garona found herself welcoming the warmth as her hand closed around the ceramic. “It’s my favorite. Peacebloom.” Garona took a cautious sip, then, finding it delicious, drank it down despite its heat.
“More of our villages burn tonight,” the female said as Garona drank. “One is the village of my birth.” She gnawed her lower lip, then continued. “I see your wounds—old ones. Scars. I cannot imagine what horrors you have been through, Garona, but this doesn’t need to happen. We have had peace in these lands for many years. Peace between races from all over the world.”
Peacebloom, Garona thought. She wondered if the female had selected the drink intentionally, or if it was a simple coincidence. She turned away and picked up a cloak that had been placed atop the furs. The motion made her chains rattle and the manacle about her neck rub.
The female extended an uncallused hand, reaching to touch Garona’s throat, saying, “I can have it removed—”
The orc jerked back, spilling the tea, instantly alert. The cheiftain’s mate drew her hand back, and her face was unspeakably kind. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” She took a deep breath. “There’s a life with us here, Garona. If you want it.”
Only once before had anyone even attempted to touch her with kindness. Another female—Draka, the mate of Durotan. Draka had worn a similar look to Taria’s—compassion, and anger at what Garona had been forced to endure.
She had fled even from Durotan, in order to escape her life in the Horde. Garona well knew what she had been running from. Was this what she had been running to?
The pebble bounced harmlessly off Durotan’s skull. He turned to the orc beside him, raising an eyebrow, to see his second in command looking unconvingly innocent. Durotan tried to scowl, but he couldn’t keep up the pretense, and started laughing. Orgrim joined him. They chuckled like children for a while.
“It is good to see trees again,” Orgrim said. He and his chieftain were sitting on a rise. Below them was the grunt work going on near the portal and the ugliness of cages filled with human slaves. But above that, in the distance, lay a scene that almost… almost… reminded Durotan of home. The trees were different, but they still grew straight and tall. They still bore fruit, or smelled fresh and clean.
“And the snow,” Durotan said, wistfulness creeping into his voice. “Even from a distance.”
Orgrim scratched idly at his healing wounds. “When the humans are beaten, we can journey to the mountains. Feel the cold on our skin.” He spoke eagerly, and Durotan understood the yearning. Ever since they had left the north of Draenor, he had felt the pang of missing snow.
But Durotan had not asked his second-in-command to join him so they might gaze upon a snow-covered mountain together, beautiful though it was. He had brought Orgrim here to remind him what life looked like. Durotan could not find that reminder below, with the cries of the sick, starving humans and their children, and the grueling labor of hauling and carving stones. He rubbed his neck, not relishing the task before him, but there were things that needed to be said.
“Remember when we would track clefthooves through the Frostwind dunes? Whole herds of them, everywhere. And when there were no clefthooves, there were talbuks. There was always meat. Always life. We would dance in the meadows at Midsummer, and even in winter, we never hungered.”