TWENTY-FIVE

Thrall was surprised at the level of involvement and effort it took to prepare for the vision quest. He understood now Geyah’s comment about Drek’Thar’s doing his best as one of the last shaman the orcs then had. It would seem that a “proper” vision quest involved nearly the entire community.

Someone came to measure him for a ritual robe. Someone else offered the herbs for the rite. A third orc came to volunteer to lead the drumming and chanting circles, and six more offered their drums and voices. Thrall was surprised and moved. At one point he said to Aggra, “I do not wish for any favors to be done to me because of my position.”

She gave him a slight smirk. “Go’el, it is because you are in need of a vision quest, not because you are the leader of the Horde. You do not need to worry about any favors.”

It both relieved him and embarrassed him, and he wondered, not for the first time, how it was that Aggra was so adept at getting under his skin. Maybe it was a gift from the elements, he mused drily as he watched her stride off, head high.

He chafed at the delay, but there was little he could do about it. And there was a part of him, a not insignificant part, that anticipated the ritual eagerly. So much had been lost to the orcs in the years before he became a shaman himself. His own experience of such communal rites was lacking, he knew.

At last, three days later, all was prepared. Torches were lit at dusk. Thrall waited at Garadar to be escorted to the prepared ceremonial site. Aggra came to get him, and he did a double take at her.

Her long, thick, reddish-brown hair was braided with feathers. She wore a leather vest and kilt embroidered with feathers and beads, and symbols in white and green paint decorated her face and elsewhere where her brown skin was revealed. She stood tall and straight and proud, the tan of the leather setting off the dark brown of her skin to perfection. In her arms, she bore a bundle of cloth as brown as her skin.

“These are for you, Go’el,” she said. “They are plain and simple. Initiate’s robes for an initiation.”

“I understand,” Thrall said, reaching out to take the bundle from her.

She did not surrender it to him. “I am not certain that you do. I admit, you are a gifted and powerful shaman. But there is much you still do not know about it. 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.”

Thrall listened intently and nodded respectfully. Still, she did not give him the robes, not yet. “You will also find a necklace of prayer beads. This will help you reconnect with your inner self, so you may touch them as you feel called.”

Now, finally, she extended the bundle to him. He accepted it. “I will return shortly,” she said, and left.

Thrall regarded the plain brown garment, then slowly and respectfully put it on. He felt … naked. He was used to wearing the distinctive black plate armor that had once belonged to Orgrim Doomhammer. He wore it nearly every waking moment and had grown accustomed to its weight. This garment was light. He slipped the prayer beads around his neck, rolling them between his fingers, thinking hard on what Aggra had said. He was to be reborn, she had told him.

As what? And as who?

“Well,” said Aggra, startling him out of his reverie, “it would seem initiate’s robes suit you after all.”

“I am ready,” Thrall said quietly.

“Not quite yet. You are not painted.”

She stepped forward, with her usual brusque manner, to a small chest nestled against the hide wall, rummaged about, and emerged with three small pots of colored clay. “You are too tall. Sit.”

Somewhat amused, Thrall did so. She stepped toward him, opened one of the jars, dabbed some clay on her finger, and began applying it to his face. Her touch was deft, strangely gentle for someone Thrall had known to be so forceful, the clay cool; and this close to her, Thrall could smell the sweet, light scent of the oil with which she had anointed herself. She frowned slightly at him.

“What is wrong?”

“These colors do not look the same on green skin.”

“I fear I cannot change that, Aggra, no matter how much studying with you I do,” he said, his voice and expression utterly sincere and concerned.

She looked him right in the eye for a long moment, irritation furrowing her brow. And then she smiled. A hearty chuckle rumbled from her.

“Ancestors know, that is true,” she said. “It seems as though it is I who must change the colors of the paint, then.”

They both smiled, looking at one another, then Aggra dropped her gaze. “Perhaps blue and yellow instead,” she said and retrieved the appropriate jars. She continued painting his face in silence. Finally she nodded her approval, then frowned again. “Your hair … one moment.”

She wiped her hands. Long, clever brown fingers undid the two long braids that Thrall usually wore, and she quickly braided feathers into the hair. “Now. Now you are ready, Go’el.”

Aggra fetched a polished sheet of metal that would serve as a mirror.

Thrall almost did not recognize himself.

His green skin was now adorned with dots and swirls of yellow and blue, as if he wore a mask. His hair, braided with bright feathers from the windroc, fell about his shoulders in a thick mass. Normally he was contained, controlled. Now, he realized he looked …

“… wild,” he said quietly.

“Like the elements,” she said. “There is little that is calm and orderly about them, Go’el. You now begin your vision quest kin to them. Come. They are waiting.”

Thrall had been through a great deal in his life. He had been taught to fight while still a child, had learned about friendship and hardship in the same formative years. He had liberated his people and fought demons. And yet now, as he followed Aggra outside to the prepared site next to the lake, he found that he was nervous.

The drumming started as soon as he appeared. Aggra straightened. She lost both her lightness and her aggressiveness, and for a moment she seemed to him to be a younger version of Geyah. She moved with a graceful, solemn step, and he slowed his own pace to match hers. It seemed the entire population of Garadar had turned out, standing to form a line on either side of the path. The torches kept the darkness at bay for a few feet, but after that the shadows waited. Up ahead, standing waiting for him, propped up on a staff, was Geyah. She looked beautiful, if fragile, and her wrinkled face was luminous and smiling. He drew up to her, then bowed deeply.

“Welcome, Go’el, son of Durotan, who was son of Garad.” Thrall’s eyes widened slightly. Of course—he should have realized it earlier. Garad was his grandfather, and he now stood in Garadar, a place named after him. “Child of and chosen of the elements. Not so far from this site, the Furies watch over us. They will behold the ceremony held this night.”

Thrall glanced out over the black water. He could see only one of the Furies—Incineratus, the Fury of Fire, moving slowly about. But he knew the others were there.

“It is well,” he said, as he had been instructed. “I offer my body, mind, and spirit to this vision quest.”

Aggra took his hand, led him forward to the center of the pile of skins that had been placed on the ground, and brought him down with her.

“When you embark upon this quest,” she said, “your soul leaves your body. Know that while you journey in the world of spirit, your people will keep careful watch over your physical form. Here. Take this draft. Drink it down swiftly.”

She handed him a cup of a vile-smelling liquid. Thrall accepted it, his fingers brushing hers as he did so. He gulped the liquid down as quickly as possible, then swallowed again, hard, to keep the unpleasant concoction in his stomach. Even as he handed the cup back to Aggra, he began to feel light-headed. He did not protest as she reached for him and settled his head on her lap. It was an oddly tender gesture, coming from one who had previously been so curt, but he accepted it.

His head spun, and the drumming seemed to throb through his veins, as if it were not heard so much as felt. As if the sound were merging with his own heartbeat.

Cool fingers caressed his hair. Again, unusual for Aggra. Her voice—deep, soft, kind—came to him as if from far, far away.

“Go within yourself and outside yourself, Go’el. Nothing shall harm you here, though you may be afraid of what you see.”

Thrall opened his eyes.

A shimmering, misty figure stood before him. It had luminous eyes, four legs, sharp teeth, and a tail. It was a spirit wolf, and he knew, without understanding how he knew, that it was Aggra.

“You will lead me?” he asked the wolf, confused. “I thought Grandmother—”

“I was chosen to guide you. Come,” said Aggra, her voice husky and somehow suited to issuing from a wolf’s muzzle. “It is time. Follow me!”

And suddenly Thrall, too, was a wolf. The world changed in front of him, some things becoming insubstantial, other things taking on a new, strange solidity. He shook himself, feeling lighter than air, part of the nothingness that was everything, and followed her into the swirling mist.

They emerged into the bright light of a noonday sun, in an arena. Thrall, in spirit wolf form, blinked in confusion.

He was looking at himself.

“What …” the now-Thrall said, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. “I thought I was to meet the elements and—”

“Silence!” Aggra’s reprimand was a harsh, short bark, and Thrall obeyed. “Observe only. Do not try to interact. No one here can see or hear you. This is your vision quest, Go’el. It will show you exactly what you need to know.”

Now-Thrall nodded and watched.

Younger Thrall was clad in a few pieces of armor. His body was fit and toned, sweat gleaming on green skin, and he was armed with a sword in one hand and a mace in the other. Now-Thrall knew where he was—he was in the arena at Durnholde Keep. The sounds of both cheers and boos were thunderous, and he knew that somewhere up there, eating fruit and drinking wine, was the hated Aedelas Blackmoore. The man who had taken him as an infant and turned him into a gladiator. Anger burned in him, even as he watched his younger self fighting a huge bear.

“Fire,” Aggra said. “It was the first of the elements to choose you, Go’el. It gave you the anger, the outrage, to fight fiercely. It gave you the passion to fight well, for the right causes, as soon as you could do so. It burns deep within you, sustaining you even in your dark moments.”

Thrall listened, watching himself, surprised at just how strong and graceful and, yes, impassioned he was when he was in the ring. Knowing that he had taken those skills and used them to free his people, to protect them.

This was not what he had expected to see, but he nodded to Aggra’s words. Fire had indeed come to him as a youth, and he thought back to the concern that burned high in him even now to aid his world. He smiled, with perhaps just a touch of understandable pride, as his younger self defeated his opponents and raised his arms in victory.

The mist crept back into the scene, swirling about the shouting, victorious younger Thrall until it obscured him completely. Thrall waited, curious as to what other unexpected visions he would see in this strange journey.

The mist cleared. The arena, with its brightness and noise, was gone. In its stead was a forested nightscape, the only sounds the soft ones of wind and insects. Thrall again saw himself, but this time he looked wary. Hunted. He stood before a stone formation that, viewed from the right angle, resembled a dragon standing guard over the woodlands. The younger Thrall turned his head, regarding the dark oval mouth of a nearby cave, and Now-Thrall suddenly knew, with a jolt of deep, old pain and a new spike of torment, what was about to happen.

Nightmares. He had been at war with them. The whole world had.

“Must I watch this?” he asked quietly, knowing the answer even as he voiced the question.

“If you wish to understand, to become a true shaman, then yes,” Aggra said implacably.

Younger Thrall entered the cave, and both incarnations of himself beheld a young human woman named Taretha Foxton. Tari … Blackmoore’s mistress, Thrall’s “sister” of the spirit. Who had risked everything to free him, and who would eventually lose her life for that act. But she was alive, now, alive and vibrant and so beautiful. His nightmare had been about her—about trying, repeatedly, to save her. Again and again he had tried, in the dream coming up with a new idea in which she would live, laugh, love, as she should have. And each time he had failed and been forced to experience her death over and over and over. …

But she was not dying, not now, not here. She leaned against the wall, waiting for him, and when he spoke her name, she gasped, then laughed. Her face was lovely, all the more appealing for the genuine warmth of affection lighting it.

“You startled me! I did not know you moved so quietly!” She moved toward him, stretching out her hands. Slowly, Younger Thrall folded them in his own.

“It still hurts,” Now-Thrall said to Aggra. She did not chide him, not this time, but merely nodded her ghostly wolf’s head.

“That hurting, and the healing of the hurting, is the gift of Water,” she said. “Deep emotion. Love. The heart wide open, to joy and pain both. It is why we weep … water is moving with and through us.”

He listened quietly, remembering the words he and Taretha had shared at this, their first true meeting, as he heard them again. She gave him a map and some supplies, urging him to go find his people—the orcs. They spoke of Blackmoore. Now-Thrall, knowing what was to come, wanted to turn away but found he could not.

“What is happening to your eyes?” Younger Thrall asked.

“Oh, Thrall … these are called tears,” Taretha said quietly, her voice thick as she wiped at her eyes. “They come when we are so sad, so soul sick, that it’s as if our hearts are so full of pain there’s no place else for it to go.”

And even though he was traveling in the spirit world and had no physical body, Now-Thrall felt tears welling in his own eyes.

“Taretha understood,” Aggra said, her own voice soft with understanding. “She knew pain and love both. The heart swells to overflowing, and Water flows forth.”

“She should not have died,” Now-Thrall growled. Unspoken were the words: I should have found a way to stop it.

Aggra’s response staggered him as surely as if she had struck a powerful blow.

“Truly? Shouldn’t she?”

He whirled on her, stunned and furious at her callousness. “Of course not! She had everything to live for. Her death accomplished nothing!”

Aggra’s wolf form regarded him implacably. “How do you know this was not her destiny? That perhaps she had done all she had been born to do? Only she knows. Maybe you would not have been moved to the same action, had she lived. It is arrogance to believe you can know all things. Perhaps you are right. But perhaps you are not.”

Her words left him staring in mute silence. He had been racked with guilt ever since the moment he saw Taretha’s severed head lifted in a ghastly display by Aedelas Blackmoore. The nightmares had only served to hammer him with the message: I should have done something more.

But there truly had been nothing he could have done. And now, for the first time, he was forced to consider the idea that maybe what had happened … had been right. Painful, horrible, racking. But maybe … right.

He would never forget her. Never stop missing her. But that sense of guilt was lifting.

“For you,” Aggra continued as he stood silently trying to understand the shift in his soul, “she was the blessing of Water in your life. This time, this female—this, Go’el, was when the element moved into your being.”

He struggled for words. All that came out was, “Thank you.”

The mist began to swirl at the feet of the figures of the past. Although he initially had not wished to relive this incident, now that it was about to slip away, Now-Thrall wanted to cry out, to beg for a few moments more with Taretha, but he knew better. This had been a bittersweet gift from the elements, along with the insight Aggra had given him.

Farewell, dear Taretha. Your life was a blessing, your death not a waste, and there are not many in this world who can say that. And you will always be remembered. I can let you go with peace in my heart, now.

The elements had more to show him.

The mist swirled, obscuring his vision, and then once again he was beholding a younger version of himself. It was winter, and he was with the Frostwolves. He and Drek’Thar were seated by the fire, reaching their hands out to it. Drek’Thar was certainly not young at this time, but his mind was still sharp, and Now-Thrall knew sadness as he watched his friend and tutor. His younger self listened raptly to Drek’Thar as he spoke with deep eloquence about the bond between the shaman and the elements. Snow fell softly. Now-Thrall, even merely watching, felt still and centered, felt the heartache of the recent vision of Taretha ease ever so slightly.

“Grounded,” he said, understanding for the first time where the word came from. “Like the earth. This is Earth’s gift, isn’t it?”

The wolf that was Aggra nodded, and with a hint of her old acerbicness added, “You only now are discovering this? No wonder you are having difficulties.”

This time Thrall found that he was not irritated, only amused. Perhaps, he thought, it was the calmness and steadiness of Earth moving through him. All too soon, it seemed to Now-Thrall, the mists inexorably rose up again, hiding the scene. Thrall understood, though, that Earth was within him now. He could go to this place of peace inside anytime he needed to … and he smiled … ground himself.

There was one element left. He understood by this point that the vision quest was supposed to show him how the elements were already integrated in him, living with and through him. He understood the fiery passion of battle, the loving nature of Water, and the calmness and steadfastness of Earth. But he was curious as to how Air would manifest.

The mist formed, and cleared, and he saw himself in Grommash Hold. It was again late at night, but braziers, torches, and oil lamps provided more than enough illumination and warmth. He stood in front of a table spread with maps and rolled-up scrolls, and beside him stood his old, dear friend Cairne Bloodhoof.

He could not pinpoint this moment, as he had all the others, because this scene had happened in various ways over the last several years. He smiled, watching as his other self and Cairne spoke animatedly about negotiations, land rights, treaties. How they worked through problems, and found solutions. The scene shifted quickly, and he was standing with Jaina, as he had also done many times, and together they spoke of peace and how to achieve it.

There was no deep emotion, other than concern for the safety of the people he led. No great sense of rootedness, or burning passion for an outcome. With Jaina and with Cairne at these moments, Thrall used his head rather than his powerful body or emotions. This was rational, intellectual conversation—talk of new beginnings. Of hope.

Now-Thrall nodded, understanding it all. Of course. Air—the element of clarity of thought, of inspiration, insight, and fresh starts. He had begun again with Cairne when the orcs had arrived on Kalimdor, and had forged a tentative peace with Jaina Proudmoore. All with words, and careful thought. Attributes that some did not expect to find in orcs, but which Thrall had cultivated all his life—from his youngest days devouring books to this moment, where he had made a difficult decision to leave his world and come here, to Outland, to Nagrand.

He smiled a little, and as the scene began to fade, he let it go easily. Because he knew that with Air, there would always be something new to come, to challenge and inspire him.

He stayed, in the strange being-not-being place, with Aggra in spirit wolf form, waiting either for the fifth element, the elusive spark that enabled the shaman to connect with the other elements, to manifest, or for some sign to be given that would aid him. The time passed, but nothing happened. Thrall began to feel agitated. Finally he turned to Aggra, confused. His voice echoed in the not-place. “Will I be able to save Azeroth? The Horde?”

The mist cleared suddenly. Thrall saw himself wearing the black armor that Orgrim Doomhammer had bequeathed him as leader of the Horde. He carried that late orc’s great weapon, looking every inch the warrior. But there was fear on his green face—fear, and a terrible sense of loss. The Doomhammer split into several chunks, each piece hurtling away as if it had been fired from a gun. The armor cracked and fell off, and Thrall fell to his knees, clad only in what he wore now—the simple brown robe of an initiate.

“No,” Thrall breathed. And that quickly, he was awake. He found himself staring up into a dark-skinned orcish face bending over his, with gorgeous paint, kind eyes, and wide, smiling lips curving over two small, sharp tusks. He reached and gripped her arm.

“Aggra, I failed! Or, rather, I’m going to! They showed—”

“Shh,” she soothed, shaking her head, calm in the face of his panic. “They showed you an image. It is up to you to decide what it means.”

He started to get to his feet, then caught himself, dizzy. Gently she eased him into a sitting position. “It seemed clear enough to me.”

“I saw it, too,” she said. “And trust me when I say that the clearest visions are often the most confusing. But—there is a way to find clarity. I think you are ready to see the Furies. You have completed the vision quest. You realize that you have integrated the elements within you now. You are ready.”

“They will help me understand the vision at the end?”

She shrugged. “Maybe not. It certainly couldn’t hurt, now, could it?”

He found himself smiling. Her tongue-in-cheek brusqueness was exactly what he needed.

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Aggra said. “Tomorrow.”