“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.”
TWENTY-SIX
Thrall was surprised that the Throne of the Elements was so easily accessible, and so close to Garadar. It was but a short run across Skysong Lake to a small island nestled against the mountains. As they drew closer, he saw moss-covered standing stones arranged in a pattern.
“Why are the Furies so close?” he asked Aggra as they ran.
She gave him a wry smile, but her eyes had more mischief than anger in them as she replied, “If you were a giant embodiment of an elemental force, would you be worried by anyone disturbing you?”
Caught off guard, Thrall laughed, a short, amused bark. Aggra’s smile widened. “There are members of the Earthen Ring there who make certain that the Furies are not bothered by trivialities. Only those who have need of their wisdom or who are sincere in offering their aid may speak with them. Even so, it is just a courtesy. The Furies can certainly handle themselves.”
They left the lake, and their feet now trod upon marshy soil.
And suddenly, there they were.
Four mammoth beings, resembling the smaller incarnations of the elements with which Thrall had worked for so long, moved slowly about. They were tempestuous, wild, and powerful. Even at a distance he could sense their tremendous strength. No, these beings certainly did not have to be concerned if anyone irritated them.
Speaking in a soft, reverent voice, Aggra identified each one. “Gordawg, Fury of Earth. Aborius, Fury of Water. Incineratus, Fury of Fire. And Kalandrios, Fury of Air. If anyone or anything in this land can help you, Go’el,” said Aggra, her voice quietly sincere, “it is these beings. Go. Introduce yourself. Ask them your questions.”
For a moment Thrall was catapulted back in time to his first encounter with the elements. One by one, the spirits of each element had come to him, spoken in his mind and heart. Now, in a similar fashion, they might do so again. Which to approach first? He chose Kalandrios, Fury of Air, and began moving forward.
Almost immediately he felt that being’s power buffet him. He stumbled, the intense wind nearly knocking him off his feet, but pressed onward, lowering his head against the whirling air.
The great Fury looked to him like a living cyclone with strong arms and glowing red eyes. At first Kalandrios ignored him, and then Thrall planted himself against the wind, heavy with sand and leaves that threatened to scour his skin, closed his eyes, and reached out with his mind, as he had been taught.
Kalandrios, Fury of Air … I have come a long way to ask your aid. I come from a land that is deeply troubled, but I know not why it suffers. I ask for its aid, and it does not reply to me. On my vision quest, I saw myself unable to save my land. You, who hear the cries of Air here in Outland—can you aid me? Is this vision true and unalterable?
Kalandrios turned his red eyes upon him, and Thrall felt the power of that direct gaze. He spoke, but in Thrall’s mind.
What care I for the trials of Air in another land? My own essences suffer here. Air rules the power of thought, Go’el, known as Thrall, son of Durotan and Draka. You are a powerful shaman, for me to even hear your plea. The best I can offer you is to think, and listen. Think on what you saw on your quest. More, I cannot give.
And Kalandrios moved off again, unable to give him any insight. Thrall felt disappointment well up inside him but tamped it down. It would not serve him to grow angry at the Furies. If Kalandrios could have helped, Thrall believed that he would have. Still, he could not shake the notion that there was a flaw in Kalandrios’s argument.
He glanced back over at Aggra and shook his head. The Furies were speaking only in his heart; she had not heard Kalandrios. Once, she would have smirked at his failure, he knew. Now he saw her strong face fill with consternation. He moved on to the next Fury.
This was Incineratus, Fury of Fire, and as Thrall approached, the heat roiled off the mighty being with such intensity that Thrall was forced to turn his head and shield his face with his arms. How was he to approach such a being, if doing so would burn the flesh from his bones?
The knowledge came to him gently. Ignoring the painful heat of the Fury’s fire, he reached for calmness within himself—from the element of the Spirit of Life he carried inside. He calmed himself, soothed his roiling thoughts, and visualized his skin whole, cool, able to withstand even the mighty Fury’s heat. He turned around to face Incineratus, opened his eyes … and the heat abated. Now Thrall could
move forward and did so, kneeling before the Fury of Fire and repeating his request.
Incineratus turned his full attention upon the orc, and even with his newfound stability, Thrall was forced to close his eyes against the heat the being radiated as he moved to but a few feet in front of him. His throat felt seared as he inhaled, but he did not move away. He was strong enough to speak with this being; he would not be harmed.
I am angry for what you say to me, the Fury of Fire said in his mind. I am angry that my own kindlings suffer here, and I regret more than you can possibly comprehend that I cannot aid you. Without some essence of Fire from this place, how can I speak with the fires that burn there? How can I know why they suffer and leap in torment, shaman? It is your land, your observations. I feel your passion for your cause, and I grant you my own—the passion to do whatever is necessary so that your world may heal. More, I cannot do.
A small flicker detached itself and dove down Thrall’s throat. He cried out, feeling it burn as it settled into him and seemed to wrap around his heart. It scorched, painfully, but he knew this was no actual, literal flame. He clapped a hand to his chest, over his heart, and fell forward, leaning on his other hand.
Aggra was there, her touch cool and comforting on his shoulder. “Go’el, did he harm you?”
Thrall shook his head. The pain was receding. “No,” he said. “Not … not physically.”
Her eyes searched his, then she regarded Incineratus. The great Elemental Fury was already moving off, having dismissed Thrall. She reached in her bag for a flask of water, but he placed a hand on her arm and shook his head.
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